Wednesday, December 28, 2005

8852 Cynthia Ave., To-day

I don’t buy it. Not for a minute.

Here’s Larrabee's “steep grade” as spoken of in the paper’s account:

And after the car barrelled down that grade, it would have had to have turned this sharp corner—

To then hit 8852:

--no. I stand by my estimation of 19 December (uh, and of 21 December) wherein I take nursing to task. At the risk of conjuring the ire of the American Nursing Association, I put it to y'all, that Lucille “Registered Nurse” Bianchi’s auto was somehow bewitched by said’s nursing powers. That which can be equated with nursing invariably invokes madness, mayhem and death. Prove me wrong, ANA? Didn’t think so.

Bianchi’s auto. An inanimate object animates itself. That’s hard to do. Under the direction of a nurse, however…

Yeah yeah, leave nurses alone. Nurses see more death than doctors. Hell, nurses see more death than do most Army sergeants. The only gals who see more death than nurses are lady morticians.

(Those of you who, like this humble writer, only date nurses and morticians know that one cannot, under any circumstances, put both in the same room at the same time. Neither oil and water, nor fire and ice, between the two, it’s fire and another kind of fire… but on the Crazy Scale, nurses outstrip morticians 11-5. Trust me on this one.)

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