In this post: Just say NO.
Hey, I’ve got a modern American horror story for you and it has nothing whatsoever to do with ghouls, chainsaws, an alien invasion or Republicans. The subject tonight is DRUGS. Ready? Sam wanted to pick up my new prescription cholesterol medication this afternoon at Wal-Mart so I called ahead to ask about the price, and when the pharmacy assistant told me the co-pay is $274 for a 30-day supply — after I had a nervous breakdown — I calmly replied, “FAT CHANCE! TAKE A HIKE! NO WAY! GOOD LUCK WITH THAT! WHEN HELL FREEZES OVER!” Incidentally, this was my new prescription for Welchol, the medication Dr. M prescribed on Thursday with pills as big as South Dakota (see previous post). I’m assuming they’re made from Black Hills gold or maybe plutonium because nothing else on earth could make a stupid cholesterol drug so insanely expensive. Holy crap.
previous post). You’ll be the first to know how this turns out, okay? Hang in there.
It’s 10:20 Sunday night and Sam and I have been napping, off and on, for the last 12 hours. He’s unconscious in the family room right now, having just slept through Merrily We Live (1938) starring Constance Bennett, Billie Burke and Brian Aherne. This is technically a My Man Godfrey knockoff — the 1936 screwball comedy starring William Powell and Carole Lombard — except I think Merrily We Live is EVEN BETTER due to a totally adorable supporting cast, especially Clarence Kolb (see inset) and Alan Mowbray.