Ode to a Llama

This post was going to be an eloquent treatise on life, death, and everything in between. Full to the brim with mournful prose, W.H. Auden poetry, and quite possibly the MP3 of Seasons in the Sun. There wouldn't be a dry eye in the joint, my e-mail box would overflow with sympathetic notes, and I'd reach legendary blogosphere status for my beautiful words.

Then, while I was in the midst of composing this piece, Llama gave me this informational tidbit: "They arrested the Wendy's Chili Finger Lady," which just brought everything back into perspective for me. To wit: Screw that idea, I'm not nearly drunk enough.

So, I'll leave the epitaphs and soliloquies for my nearest and dearest, and use this space to report on all the rest of it. (Unless, of course, I finish off that bottle of vodka in the cabinet, then all bets are off.)