Where's the anger?

A funny thing happened this weekend. I seem to have misplaced my white-hot rage that was directed at the Glasgow Family Practice. It's not like I was going to firebomb the clinic or anything, I mean, that's so Crazy Christian Conservative, but I was going to write them an angry letter. I suppose that's so wimpy liberal pansy. But cest la vie. (And, yes, there is no middle ground between firebombing clinics and writing angry letters, this is 'Murica Damnit!)

It's not like I'm not angry at the GFP, in fact I hate them and their jerk faces. And I'm certainly not going to visit them next time my nose is sniffly. But the rage has faded to the point where it is no longer hot enough to provoke me to overcome the friction of my laziness and write them that angry letter.

Maybe it's good that I can't maintain an active hatred. I can still hate something if it is brought to my attention, but I just can't spend regular time during the day dwelling in hatred. I can't wrap it around me like a comfortable afghan, or maybe a fleece blanket. I love fleece blankets, especially if they have an Injun pattern on it. You see? Even in a post about hatred I still have to say that I love fleece blankets.

Anyway, I go back to the new docs at Panzer on Wednesday. I wonder if they'll do some cutting. They said they can't decide untill they see the remaining Quasimoledo brigade. Although I guess maybe it should be the Parisian Mob instead of a brigade. Ok, so from now on it's the remaining Quasimoledo Parisian Mob. Damned dirty, cheese eating, surrender monkeys. Melanoma even sounds french. I have no doubts that I'll defeat a french disease.

Alas poor hatred, I knew him Horatio.