Okay, Baby New Year - you and I gotta talk. You are fucking this year up royally thus far, and we're only 17 days in. If the remaining 348 of your reign are going to suck as hard as the first 17 have (and when I say "suck" I mean "bendy straw in a black hole" magnitude suck power) I am personally going to hunt you down and ram your fudgy little diaper right the fuck down your shitty little throat, you sadistic little twatbag.
So, quick recap of your failures, kiddo: You let Lemmy die. I don't think I need to state Lemmy's full name for you. There was only ONE Lemmy, you know damn right well who he was: the God of motorcycle metal and pure, velvet whiskey.
Then you flushed Angus Scrimm down the mortality toilet, and thank you very much for that, asshole. Not only was Angus Scrimm a horror icon - the Frozen Mortician King of the Phantasm series, the father of Vampire Prince Vladislas and so on and so forth - he was also a beautiful, cultured man, perhaps the last of his kind.
Everything comes in threes, but I have to admit: when I woke up and heard that David Bowie too had been called back to the black stars, I felt like an elephant had just
gored my heart out of my chest with its mighty tusk, stomped on it and
then used it to wipe its ass. How could you even think of forcing the Leper Messiah to succumb to something so plebeian as cancer? David Bowie was no mere human being: he was an ever changing psychedelic chameleon God, a walking kaleidoscope, an interstellar obelisk.
Still reeling at the loss of a living Zeitgeist, I woke up the next morning and learned that Alan Rickman - aka Hans Gruber, aka Severus Snape, aka Metatron, aka Alexander Dane, aka The Blue Caterpillar, aka Colonel Brandon, aka fuck you, you get the idea - had succumbed, at the exact same age to the exact same asshole disease, as Bowie. And at that point, I was just:
I couldn't fucking do it. I could not post one more goddamned obituary on my fucking blog. I was sick to death of death. Me. The Morbid, aging unrepentant Goth and self-appointed Queen of Sorrow and Horror. I was done.
Not that I could have posted anything even if I'd wanted to, because you and your shitty reign of tantrum terror decided to get me sick. ME. I who have worked in a pharmacy for years, exposed to every phlegm-filled cough, every chunky sneeze and every germ-encrusted touch within the greater Providence area. I am supposed to be iron-clad immune by now. Do you even know how virtually impossible it is to call out sick from a workplace where everyone is sick 24/7? I HATE calling out sick. But you left me with no choice, did you? Because god forbid I should suffer with a simple little headcold, sniffly and coughy and stuffy. NoooOOOOOOooo, you had to go and take and give me a nice little GI bug on top of it. For forty eight hours, I puked. I hurled and retched and barfed and spewed, and then did it all over again.
I threw up orange juice and 7Up, water and lemonade. I even threw up my fucking Zofran. Do you know what Zofran is? IT'S A GODDAMNED ANTI-NAUSEA MEDICATION!!! I barfed up my anti-puke pills! You think that's funny? I don't, you little bastard! Off I went to the ER, where the nurse tried four times - and failed each time - to stick a fucking needle in my collapsing veins. On the fifth try, it finally took, but I'd already had one vein blow up and three others roll away like dying earthworms. I knew that the inside of my elbows would look like Sid & Nancyland within 24 hours. And they did. All purple/green/yellow, pretty!
And was that the end of it? No, of course not. No sooner had my bodily fluids been restored and my nausea tamped down when my spinal cord said "Fuck it." I had no more sick time to use, so I hobbled around work like Granny GummyWorm, my coccyx feeling like a precariously balanced plastic tube filled with broken glass. I've got my prednisone now, and my lovely cyclobenzaprine and am well on the road to recovery. But I am still not at all happy with your performance, Baby New Year 2016. You are now officially on probation. If your performance does not improve by Spring, you will be sternly dealt with, up to and including a verbal warning and termination. You are not allowed to let anyone else die, nor are you allowed to let me or any of my friends and/or family members get sick. You will improve your attitude. This write up will be going into your permanent employee file. Get your shit together. This is your final warning.
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