Tonight, as a special treat, we have author Stephen Kozeniewski guest blogging for me because I was lazy...I mean Indy got bit by a snake and I was taking care of him. And I'm milking that excuse for at least another day. And no, I'm not drunk (though I do occasionally partake, despite what some might think) but I think Stephen is.

Eh, at least I get the night off, right?

Ladies and gentlemen...I give you, Stephen Kozeniewski...

Attention followers of Erica Lucke Dean!

I now control the vertical.

I now control the horizontal.

I now control the fluff.

Yes. That’s right. ALL the fluff in China.

Because Indy is sick. So while Erica is taking care of doggy I am spelling her for a day on her blog. I know it’s not normally guest post day (Saturdays, 12:00/11:00 central) but, I mean, come on. Her dog got bit by a Coppertone.

What? Sun tan lotion? Yes I know.

Her dog got bit by an ophidian of some description.

So, for today, one day only, you get a blue light special on me: Snephen Kozanflumflum. (I forget how it’s spelled.)

First of all, I want to point out that I have repeatedly canvassed Erica to change the name of her blog to Shit Out of Lucke. (Clever, no? Not, “Clever: no” but rather the interrogative. But also the first thing.) And every time she has responded, “Did you know Cooper was based on Harry Cargill?”

Yes. Yes, we all know that.

The topic tonight is booze. The reason behind said pre-aforementioned topic is that Erica, as you know, does not and should not drink. However, if Sex and the City has taught me anything (and it hasn’t) it’s that romance people like their booze. And that Baryshnikov is a terrible, terrible lover. So two things, really, that it didn’t teach us.

My poison of choice is bourbon. It’s not very ladylike, which is good, because I’m not. Ladylike. (Except for pedicures. Those are awesome.) And, specificagally, a brand of Old Bourbon called Booze Crow. I’m drinking it right now, in fact. You couldn’t tell. That’s how good I am at wordsmithery.

And why not? But, more importantly, why? Because I’m an author. A scrivener, a la Bartleby. A writesman. And if there’s one thing that everyone knows that they didn’t learn from Sex and the City, it’s that writesmans needs booze.

And why not? But more importantly, why? Take Hemingway. Please. [rimshot] It is a well-known and popular fact that Hemingway drank excessively all his life with no ill effects. (ed – Hemingway shot himself as a result of morbid alcoholism.)

Or, as another example, take Poe. Please. [crickets] Ahem. [clears throat] Poe also drank his whole life, and also, with no ill effects. (ed – Poe also took his own life due to morbid alcoholism.) Or Bukowski! (ed – Bukowski…well, he died of leukemia. But the booze probably didn’t help matters.)

But what is it about bourbon, brownest of the brown liquors, and Old Crow, oldest of the brownest of the brown liquors, that causes me to recommend it so highly? Well, because Old Crow is a classic. My friends, to a tee, make fun of me for this predilection.

“Old Crow is a bottom shelf,” they say, or they would, if they were still talking to me.

“Ahhhh,” I would theoretically reply, “But was it not Dr. James Crow, the eponymous ‘Crow’ of the title, who invented the single batch sour mash process?”

To which nodding all around would be my reward.

So, I guess what I’m saying is: Kids, don’t drink. It’s not cool. Be cool. Like Erica. And feel better, Indy. There, I was nice to a dog. Proof positive of my humanity in these situations.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled flibberjibbetflurmypassthebour

bon…

Blog: http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/outfortune

Until the next time...I'll be enjoying my much deserved night off.

I had to take Indiana Jones, mastiff extraordinaire, to the vet today. For reasons unknown, his leg was horribly swollen, and it was oozing fluid from a small wound. He made deep growling sounds when I touched it, though he let me clean it up and put medicine on it without putting up much of a fuss. Still, my poor doggy was in pain, so off to the vet we went.

After a short wait for the country doctor, we were told Indy had been bitten by a copperhead. Now, I saw no snake, and Indy never cried out or behaved the way one would expect a dog to act when bitten by a snake, yet the vet looked at the symptoms and was quite convinced. The choices were simple. Indy needed antibiotics for infection, and something for pain and swelling. Luckily, the wound was draining, or so said the vet.

Indy narrowed his eyes as the doc approached with a syringe filled with antibiotics, and the doc, smart man that he was, asked me if I would be able to stick the dog if he wasn't able to get close enough.

"Umm...yeah?" I agreed. But I didn't really want to handle the needle in this operation. Instead, I opted to hold the biting end of the dog while the doc stuck him in the butt. No one died during the procedure, and even after a nasty shot, Indy was more than willing to make friends with every dog in the waiting room on the way out.

Indy is expected to make a full recovery, though it will take a while for him to fully heal. All in all, it's been a horrible experience. As for me? I'm never going outside again. There are copperheads in them there woods! And my husb--I mean, the IDP---says I can't have a mongoose. Something about them being illegal in the US.

I say, damn the laws and get me Rikki Tikki Tavi...stat!

Until the next time...I'll be staying indoors.