Redbull....Redrum...

4-0 again! Is it me or is it the Red Bull? Here's a clue. My fingers are smashing down the letters as I type and I actually want to do the dishes. I think I left them in the kitchen somewhere.

After the Bird Flu sweeps Mother Earth clean, and only small nomadic tribes of racquetball players are left to wander these lonely lands looking for canned corn and courts, tales of these epic games will be the softly whispered ancient lore. And just as no one remembers King Arthur carried pepper spray and a stun gun around in his chain mail, no one will mention the Bull when my name is softly chanted around the fire.

"And then he did his Dishes!"

"And they were Clean!"

"And it was Good!"