Good morning, Stroock's Books reader(s) and happy Monday.
Ack, we got gout, in our left big toe. Serves us right. Too much whisky last night and it wasn't even Irish Whisky; The Matsui, 4/5.
A heat wave is a'coming. Despite our brand new HVAC we wait for the heat wave with [Don't say it-Ed] great fear and trepidation.
We're seeing the urologist on Thursday for our MRI follow up. The internet says we've a 10-20 percent chance of having prostate cancer, which is a damn sight better than the 50-70 percent chance before the MRI. They will almost certainly want a biopsy.
We're trying to remain positive. But the fact remains that we've felt great fear and trepidation about
New York remains unsafe for Jews. Arial Plashkin writes, 'I am addressing you, Jews of New York, in the same way the Jews of my grandparents' extended family addressed relatives in Europe in the 1930s. Berlin? New York? Who can tell the difference?' Quite right. We maintain vigilance. While we wear an Israel hat out, and Israel themed T-shirts to the gym, we've not flown our Star of David flag since October 7th. Stabby lives in Chindia too.
Israel terminates, terminates with extreme prejudice, yet another perpetrator of the October 7th genocide. If one is on camera within Israel on October 7th, celebrating the capture, rape, and murder of Israelis, then one will never again start a car without breaking a sweat.
What we got this week? We should finish the rough-rough draft of World War 1990: Ireland, up to the Battle for Dublin. We must needs figure out how we're getting the Irish Ranger Wing from Letterkenny to Dublin...ah, there we go.
We'll tidy up a few nuke novel stories and maybe start the Dew Line.
Cubans in Angola ain't a bad idea, not a bad idea at all.
This post is ending on a better note than in began.
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