I must admit that I am having increasingly hostile thoughts about my left
leg. I am not sure what I've ever done to it that the damn thing would go
out of its way to cause me this much pain, and frankly, I don't care.
It's a leg, it's supposed to do leg stuff, assuming that leg stuff is a medical
category. It is not supposed to make my life miserable, and I just want to say
that I'm going to get even with the bastard if it's the last thing I ever
do. So, while I'm here, let me just say that I'm glad Mrs. Thatcher got
the full state funeral; it gave her one last opportunity to be
"divisive." The usual knuckleheads were out protesting her, and
it goes almost without saying that the usual knuckleheads are the people who
think they are entitled to a free ride on other people's money, plus those
whose bank on the free riders to keep them in beer and pretzels (i.e. liberal
politicians.) The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on. That the caravan
moves on in a way that annoys the dogs even more is just an added bonus.
Not bad for a grocer's daughter, I think.
Labels: Arthritis, ceremonies, death, Margaret Thatcher, pain