The Little Slobster. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of dirt, crud, rust, paint, grease, crumbs, shit and spackle.

Good afternoon, dear readers, and a deliriously happy Wednesday to you and yours! Because I’ve got several million unique and moderately interesting news items to share with you today I’d better begin immediately or else I’ll fall asleep. Thank you for putting up with me.

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First, a cardiology recap! I had an appointment with my cardiologist yesterday morning and I’m happy as hell to report that everything is truly swell. My heart rate was 78, my blood pressure was 122/76 and Dr. Singh said my lungs were perfectly clear, which is great news for a heart patient like yours truly with atrial fibrillation because it means I’m not dealing with fluid in the lungs or congestive heart failure. Dr. Singh wants to start me on a low dose of Lasix — a diuretic for patients with kidney disease, high blood pressure and edema (I have all three) — to help with my occasional shortness of breath. I’m not totally sold on this, however, since all my others meds are finally working together nicely with few (if any) side effects, AND I DON’T WANT LASIX TO FUCK ME UP. When Sam picks up my prescription tomorrow I told him to refuse it if it costs more than Wal-Mart’s standard charge for a generic ($6) because I don’t want to feel guilty throwing it in the garbage if I get any side effects. (I always like to plan ahead.)

Incidentally, even though my appointment with Dr. Singh went really well — and he says my vitals and lab results are all peachy-keen — transporting me to and from the clinic was NOT GREAT yesterday in any way whatsoever. The hyper-sensitive skin issue on the back of my thighs was almost unbearable and more than once I actually felt like SCREAMING. Once we finally got to the clinic I had to jump up every 10 minutes to reposition myself in the wheelchair. And it’s also horrible getting in and out of the car because I have to pivot my body on the seat to get my legs out the door, and the pants fabric rubbing against my skin feels like barbed wire. So I just ordered A SNAZZY PADDED LAZY SUSAN FOR MY ASS! It’s a “tush turntable” for the car ... a mobility aid from RehabMart.com that will hopefully solve at least one of my problems. (Cross your fingers.) It’s worth a shot and only cost about $35 with shipping.

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Hey, boys and girls, it’s time to shop for outrageously overpriced home office shit from Ballard Designs, where delusional customers apparently spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on furniture without the benefit of ever seeing it in person until a truck pulls up in front of their house offering “threshold” delivery. (Threshold delivery is defined as a nice dude with a hat dragging six tons of unassembled furniture into your garage and driving away.) The “Tuscan” collection pictured below is a classic example of “outrageously overpriced.” That prissy little desk and one 26-inch wide bookcase will run you $3,500; the leather chair is $1,000. I’d be afraid to sit on that goddamn thing. Jesus H. Christ on a soda cracker.

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Just for the hell of it I thought y’all might enjoy this video compilation of President Obama’s funniest remarks and comebacks. When he finishes his second term he could definitely have a career in standup comedy.

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Our handyman Gary — known here at Howdygram headquarters as The Little Slobster — dropped in yesterday to reinforce the towel rings he installed in our master bathroom back in August. Gary’s nickname, incidentally, was a no-brainer. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of dirt, crud, rust, paint, grease, crumbs, shit and spackle. And I don’t think he’s laundered those overalls since 1987.

So yesterday Gary shows up an hour late without calling, just as Sam is ready to leave for work. I’m asleep on the chaise in the family room, not feeling well, so Sam tells Slobster what needs to be done and waves goodbye. About half an hour later I wake up to Slobster’s voice RIGHT NEXT TO ME. “These are really big coffee cups.” I open one eye. “What?”

Slobster repeats himself, assuming that I didn’t hear him when, in fact, I was IGNORING the little asshole for standing so close to me while I’m sound asleep. “THESE ARE REALLY BIG COFFEE CUPS!” “Gary, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“THESE!” And he’s clutching a mug that he lifted off the decorative shelves in our kitchen.

“Those are SOUP MUGS, Gary, not coffee cups. And don’t forget to lock the front door on your way out.” I was asleep again before I heard the door close, except I was already so creeped out that I started hallucinating about Gary coming back into the house to stand next to me and watch me sleep. Holy shit, what was he doing in the kitchen? AND WHY THE FUCK WAS HE FONDLING OUR MUGS?!

For future reference, a handyman is allowed into our home to fix things, NOT to wander into other rooms, leave a trail of crud, fondle our kitchenware, wake up the homeowner or be a creepy little jerk. Do not make me tell you twice.

Thank you for reading this.