Vee Speers



I’m down with some kind of bronchial plague, an upper respiratory-inflaming, sinus-bunging, synapse-clogging nightmare of . . . well, I’ll spare you the mucocious particulars. I blame it on vehicle air conditioning, but hey, I’m no physiologist. Suffice it to say, I wake up in the morning feeling like a Mac truck is parked between my eyes and a hound of hell is breathing chili- and jet fuel-fired nastiness at my lung walls, just for fun. Thankfully, crappy TV, the internuts, and chocolate pudding are rallying to rescue me from total mental and physical collapse.

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