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A Dry Cough And Flash Gordon

 Today I entered the third week of the curse I have named "A Virus Named Fred."  I haven't named my affliction because of friendliness or familiarity. I have named it Fred because Fred is a prick, and the name fits, in honor of all of the pricks named Fred in my past and present life. 

The virus is a shape shifter.  It is like your alcoholic brother in law, who stays with you until the booze runs out, makes a blessed intention to leave, and then decides to come back and finish off the Lysol.  Just when you think he's gone, Fred is horking up on the area rug.

Fred needs to leave. My patience is thinner than the hair on my head!

 

I have passed my sick time streaming serials from the 30s and 40s. Cheesy black and white crime and science fiction flicks, twelve or thirteen parts to each, made back in the day when a night out at the movies was a cartoon, a serial chapter, and the feature, instead of advertisements and CG kabooms.

My current serial is Flash Gordon. Not to be confused with Flesh Gordon, an even cheesier soft core sex romp from the 70s, although I believe the dialog and plot for the latter was robbed from the former.

Weird monsters. Laughable special effects. Buster Crabbe. Rocket ships that buzz like a lawn mower. The 1930s version is a hoot. 

Honestly...

This isn't the fever talking.


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