Delay Letter

So, I am sick as shit right now. Today I just gradually got this terrible fever and cold symptoms. But I also signed up to potentially be an extra in the new Clint Eastwood movie, which means we're not too far off from the future-classic rom-com-musica-western, The Good, the Bad, and the Shoresy. I can smell the movie theatre lobby corn dogs already.

So, my upload service for twinshore is down this weekend, so you won't see a new Kyle and Vlad until monday, which is just as well, because I feel awful. I am medicated with Tylenol and Robutussin, but it doesn't help everything. I think this is because my system is so hardcore about everything, that when a virus shows up, it isn't some motherfucking pussy cold; it's the bitch monster from planet influenza, packing a hard-on for the destruction of my immunities. Much like the single shot needed to destroy the Death Star, only a well-timed, elegantly fired virus will send me reeling. This virus must have been designed by the finest of German scientists, packed in a romantic box with Lisa Frank stickers and a note reading "donkey punch photos inside". Its irresistibility was undeniable, but to be fair, I should have been more cautious, what with all the disease-ridden freshmen running around. Balls of energy to be sure, they caper and cavort around Chapin like sexually charged electrons in a particle accelerator, one with the words "touch by butthole" painted on the side. I feel for them; I truly do. They don't know what the hell they're doing, and it's charming in a retarded kind of way. I try my best to guide them on their monkey exploits, but in the same way that you can't catch lightning, I don't wish to touch any of them