Hide your money and head for the hills

The Bad Ju-Ju has arrived.

England is under seige. A so-called “vomiting bug” has set up camp around Buckingham Palace and is threatening to cover the Big Ben and Parliament (look, kids!) with projectile puke. A London rag reports: “From Scotland to the South Coast, offices and schools have been left half empty as the vicious, airborne stomach infection – characterised by projectile vomiting and diarrhoea – has ‘cut like a knife through butter’.”

On this side of the pond, the wife’s rear passenger tire finally gave up the ghost. My buddy’s work project is tanking. There are evil witches and bitches among us. The city is having a rainy, bad-hair day. And the air around me smells like a high school whore.

There is nothing more scary than world-wide Bad Ju-Ju.

In college, we described it as a massive case of the Red Ass. It’s a phrase that I think I stole from the 1985 movie “Moving Violations.” It’s one of these not-quite-tangible moods. If you accuse a person of having it, they have it by default. They can’t deny it. Denying it only makes it a worse case of the Red Ass.

I’m almost afraid to leave my desk. But I must. More later.