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Last week, in mooning over the Existentialism Virus, I compared it to a summer cold.  This week I learned that the summer cold does not like to have its name dropped, and if it catches you dropping its name, it will exact a swift and terrible revenge.  “I think I picked up a little cold,” Lloyd said yesterday afternoon.  Now he is just about over it, after a day of little worse than a sore throat, while I am in the throes of it, mouth-breathing, slack-jawed, ten years older than I was when I woke up on Saturday morning.  The worst thing about summer colds to me is that they turn me into a gigantic, tetchy, can’t-cope baby, rather like Baby Huey, only without the sweet disposition.  I drove myself into near paroxysms of rage last night when my wireless connection went down.  I know that in the normal course of wireless activity, connectivity will go down for a few seconds at a time, but over the weekend, particularly in the evening, I would lose connectivity for about 10 minutes at a time.  Lloyd worked his brand of computery magic to add another channel on which I can connect, but whatever is knocking me out knocks me out on all channels.  Last night I lost the connection at 9:30, and it was still down when I went to bed at 11:30.  I have the creeping suspicion that one of our neighbors just got a new cordless phone.  None of this should be earth-shattering; after all, I’ve only been wireless for a month or so, and I can always just plug in the ethernet cable, yes?  No.  Something is seriously munged with my port, and it won’t hold the cable in place long enough to make the connection.  Again, this is the sort of problem you have to have the luxury to have; if this is the biggest problem I have in my life, it’s a good life.  Unfortunately, I was not nearly as philosophical about this last night. I found myself turning into Stewie Griffin from Family Guy, crying “Damn you all!  Burn in hell!” and flailing my arms impotently.

Luckily, I was able to check my stats last night before everything went down, and thus did I find all the lovely nutty things people will type into a search engine:

liquid woolite guest supply. Rest assured, if you are a guest in our house, we have a bountiful supply of liquid Woolite at hand, and you are welcome to use it.

beets turning stools black. Eww, eww, eeeeeeuuuuuuuwwwww!  Go away, go away, go away!  Not to be rude or anything, but go away, go away, go away!

spice that a bartender would just your Brandy Flip with. Now that’s more like it.  Unfortunately, I’ve never made a brandy flip, just or unjust, so I don’t know what spice this would be.  Any bartenders here this morning?  (Oh, that came out seedier than I meant it to.)

nymphette memories. Nothing to see here!  Move away!  Move away!  Move away!

bench understatement fashion show models. Either this is one of those gibberish paragraphs that show up at the end of spam e-mails or “bench understatement” actually means something more interesting than I’d imagined.

meet daddy kept man. Well, the internet has something for everyone, I guess, including guys trolling for sugar daddies.  Too bad that whoever googled this ended up at my post about my late grandfather. Damn you all!  (flail, flail)

is tapioca pudding and tapioca balls the same thing Maybe you should ask the tapioca.  (rimshot) All right, all right, I’m sorry.  That was foul, gross, inappropriate and corny.  Totally wrong of me, I know.  Dear new friend of PTMYB, if you haven’t fled in horror at my general lunacy, I have an answer for you.  Tapioca balls are the pure form of tapioca.  Tapioca pudding is made from milk, sugar, eggs (which are optional), any flavorings you might like, and tapioca balls, which are available in small, large or extra-large (i.e. the ones used in Taiwanese bubble tea) sizes.  Minute Tapioca is parcooked small tapioca balls, made for quick cookery.

home of the girl next door. Could you hold for just a moment, please?  Thank you.  Michael, it’s for you!

shameless cakes. Now you’re talking.