Got the horrifying news the other day that my dear friend Tim Blair -- Australian journalist, neo-con scum, truly talented writer -- was sick with a little something known as The Cancer.
To cheer him up, I sent email from the Democratic debate in Las Vegas. "It could be worse," I think I wrote. "You could getting a personal lecture from Hillary Clinton."
Anyway, the Terrible Ass Robots have done their tour of duty within Blair's Bowels, and it turns out he has only one horrible cancer tumor in his guts. If you've spent any time with Tim, this will make a certain amount of sense: No common earthly cancer has much chance against the alcohol-impregnated tissue of Tim Blair.
Tim has terrible surgery ahead of him, and a cruel recovery that may well limit his booze intake. But he may survive, anyway. And he just wrote the funniest stuff about being struck with a potentially fatal disease since Warren Zevon got his death sentence.
Go read it. Watch what happens when the punchline character is someone you completely expect to be there, while not expecting that character to be there at all. Good luck, Tim. You are my evil twin from the wrong side of the planet, and I will not tolerate your early demise. (Also we deposited some money somewhere. Where is that money? Also, that bar filled with heroin addicts and backpacker-hookers at King's Cross .... What happened there?)
