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Over on Facebook, I mentioned that the chest/throat biznay had so altered the port-swiller vocal chords that I thought I could sing the bass part to this song, even hitting the famous low note.  This provoked some surprise among the commenters that somebody so (impliedly) stuffy as Self would even have heard of the thing.

Oh, ye of little faith!  Regular friends of the decanter ought by now to know that ol’ Robbo’s braim is a veritable Sargasso Sea of random useless tidbits.  One should never be surprised at what might float out of it at any given time.

Giddyup, ba-oom-ba, ba-oom-ba, ba-mow-mow, indeed.

Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Ol’ Robbo was mildly surprised to discover this morning that today is May 31.  For some reason, he had gotten it into his head that May only has 30 days, and was expecting to flip his calendar over to June today.  “Wait. How did that old thing go?” he asked himself, “Lessee, thirty days hath September…..April, something and November……I thought it was May.  Oh, but what about June?  Pooh.”

So I suppose May does have thirty-one days after all.  It still doesn’t seem as if it ought to, but I’ve really not enough energy to make waves about it at the moment.   And anyhoo, this doesn’t seem to be of the same flavor as other I-think-it’s-true-whether-it-really-is-or-not causes that I’ve taken up over the years, such as my insistence on keeping Pluto as one of the nine proper planets,  my belief that robins really do listen for worms and my acceptance of the tradition that the Dook of Wellington originally coined the nickname of “Tommy [Adkins]” for the generic British Army soldier.

One can’t nail one’s flag to every mast.  For one thing, it gets awfully expensive in nails.

Regular friends of the decanter may be interested to know that I hauled myself into the doctor’s yesterday, since the ol’ lungs and throat have not really got any better.  She formally diagnosed bronchitis and put me on a course of antibiotics.   Flipping through my chart, we noted that I seem to be on a four year cycle for this ailment.  The last time I went on antibiotics for the thing was in 2008, and the time before was in 2004.  The doc praised me both for my sparse reliance on said meds, as well as for my waiting a week before coming in for them this time.  Ol’ Robbo left the doc’s office feeling just a slight bit smug over his sense of medical economy.

For all that, I hope the anti-b’s knock this bug for six, and that right eftsoons, because this is going to be a monstrously chock-a-block weekend:  In addition to the usual yardwork chores that, contrary to Mrs. R’s apparent belief, won’t take care of themselves, we’ve got a Nats game and Dierks Bentley¹ concert on Saturday; the formal induction of the middle gel into the National Cathedral Choir of Men and Girls on Sunday: and the eldest gel’s graduation from St. Rita of the Misunderstood Adolescence on Tuesday.  I would prefer not to be hacking and retching my way through any of these activities.

¹ To save the Mothe having to ask, Dierks Bentley is a country singer.  He’s playing Nats Park immediately after the ball game.  The gels like him.

 

 

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