I have six minutes to get upstairs for Countdown communion with Keith Olbermann. I’m juggling balls in my head representing deliverables and diagnoses and have nothing at all to write about. Oh, sure, an obligatory snide recap about the futility of NFL pretenders being shredded by the merciless Patriots is just filler in the void. I want to know the drugs will help and dance lessons remain a possibility. Do turkeys get nervous? Times up.
You are strange.