"Who, me, sir ? Mr. thickie Black thickie Adder thickie ?"

I locked my keys in my car. My running car. My running car with the lights on. My running car, with the lights on, and Stephen Fry's audiobook version of Moab Is My Washpot blasting through the stereo speakers.

And the only person who can bring me my spare key is my mother. Who is sick in bed with the flu -- the full-out, knock-down, once-every-decade flu. And bringing me the spare key means that she will have to drive half an hour. In a snow storm. On a Tuesday, when the deck is already stacked against Humanity by virtue of the "Tues."








Christ, I'm a crummy human being.