A friend of mine has cancer again. I think this is the 4th time. You would think this wretched disease would have learned it’s lesson by now, but no, it’s looking for another good old-fashioned ass-kicking. This cancer is “Wiley-Coyote” stupid. You know, keep trying over and over, but always ending up with an anvil smashed off your head. This is gonna be bad. I mean a really bad beating like those Richard Pryor used to describe in his stand-up act. Yeah, he’d tell about the “whoopin’s” he’d get from his mom when he did something really bad. He’d go on to describe in hilarious detail how she would lecture him and that the cadence of each word would be accompanied by a good, solid whack…. Same thing here… I can hear it now: “Didn’t…. I….. Tell…. Your…. Sorry…. Cancer… Ass…. Never…. To…. Come…. Back????” It’s gonna be “Rocky,” “Fight-Club,” and “The Thrilla in Manilla” all rolled into one with cancer lying dead in the ring when it’s over. I’m simply amazed that she comes into work, laughs, spits sarcastic humor and has incredibly loud conference calls all while kicking cancer’s ass. My favorite part is when she gets that Eastwood-esque glint in he Irish eyes, and says, “Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya… punk?” Cancer… Dude, give it up. You don’t want any of this.