So no sooner do the three boys step out of the minivan on their return from Virginia on Labor Day than they all start barfing. Either a gastric virus or food poisoning contracted at one of the gastronomic shrines on the New Jersey Turnpike. Mem-sahib follows them to the bathroom shortly afterwards. I spend the night emptying pans and changing sheets at hourly intervals.
Tuesday morning, she cancels her business trip and returns to her bed, the young gents miss the first day of school -- and for Primus this was to have been his first day at Middle School -- and the dog gets fleas. I spend the day delivering the saltines and jello and ramen noodles, and manage to cram in a flea shampoo and a dose of Frontline, plus vacuuming every place Leila has lain.
I draw a veil over these distressing domestic events, Gentle Reader, and instead divert you with two jokes that might have made good cartoons if I'd ever developed any skills or style as a cartoonist. One of these is, in my hog-bonking opinion, worthy of The New Yorker. To create unnecessary tension, I shall not reveal which.
A senior manager at an investment bank is passing a sheet of paper to a subordinate, at the end of a performance appraisal: "As you know, Bill," he says, "we're not allowed to pay obscene bonuses this year, but I think you'll find this pleasingly R-rated."
I see. Okay, how about this. A personal banker is making a call to one of her clients: "Good news, Mr. Filstrup -- you officially have too much money for your own good."