Hey kids, guess what day it is! Could it be . . .

. . . Friday?

Wait, is it Friday? Well who cares. Any excuse for a chupacabra, that’s my motto.

Today I had to work and the former mayoral candidate of my fair city dropped in to sell me a bank account. I did not remind him that I’ve seen him naked at the gym in case that had the effect of throwing off his pitch, but if it had been the governor I so totally would have went there. The current governor, that is; if I had ever seen William Donald Schaefer naked I doubt I would have enough sanity left today to bring you the chupacabras you deserve. He’s like that creature on the old “Star Trek” who lived in a box and when you looked directly at it you would go mad or blind or something, and then Mr. Spock accidentally looked at it and we found out that he had nictitating alien eyelids to go along with his pointy ears.

Last night, Rob and I saw a play at Center Stage that had a lot of heart. It was about four women who worked in a radium factory and started to glow and then got cancer and died. I got the impression that the audience was supposed to care about this but no one did. As we escaped into the night, someone came out on stage and invited us to stay for a Meaningful Discussion with the cast. “Oh god, now they want to talk about it!” one old woman moaned. Maybe some people stayed, I don’t know. We stopped for four-dollar cocktails on the way home and discussed why Hillary Clinton just needs to Go Away, but today she started comparing herself to RFK so I don’t quite know where she is going or when or how. The video above may give us some clues. She’s the one with the fingernails.