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Jett Superior laid this on you on || December 22, 2006 || 9:27 pm

Well ho ho ho.

Sam’s been puking for about four hours now, every hour on the hour.

I usually prefer to fuss over a sick youngun and not at him. However, I cannot seem to get through Samuel’s fourteen-year-old enfeebled skull the fact that if he doesn’t stay upstairs in the confines of his room –rather than trailing all over the damned house and hurking in every single handy receptacle– he will make the whole(!) stinking(!) family(!) sick for Christmas.

I caught him on the telephone about thirty minutes ago moaning in nausea and agony to his best friend. Please allow me to remind the lot of you that we are a three-teenager household. The most overworked appliance in this home is the phone. Phones, as you may or may not know, are a very excellent breeding ground for sickstomach germs.

I have a fancypants-let’s-all-wear-our-jammies-and-
drink-lotsa-mimosas-while-being-charming-and-cute brunch to serve to about twenty people on Christmas day. I will kill Sam dead if he pokes one toe downstairs again before he is completely well. Dead.

1 worked it out »

  1. Richard D. Bartlett 12.24.2006

    I read that as “I will poke Sam dead…”; a tortuous way to go, I imagine.


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