house of kerchoo
We have, since the first day of this month, been a sick house. With the congregation of Mozilla’s worldwide posse upon the shores of San Francisco Bay, there came upon us a force so evil and full of froth that it disabled, at last count, eight employees of Damon’s staff and half of Ford’s kindergarten class, for its part. When I had blamed New Zealand for the wretched influenza, there came evidence in the form of a carbon copy paper in Ford’s backpack, on Wednesday of this week: Your child may have come into contact with one or more of the following contagious illnesses: Streptococcus A and Chickenpox. Whether the bug came from overseas or Cupertino, at this point I don’t care. My birthday came and went as far as Thursday was concerned, and here we are on Saturday night, watching old movies, still in bed for the most part: I have managed to stay uncontaminated so far, but now that I have typed this, I am watching my chronograph tick until I sneeze.
