J. Thorn in 1993

On September 26th, 2011, Patrick Borally drove his catering van from a Cleveland suburb to Niagara Falls.  He crossed the border heading north, deeper into Canada.  On October 2nd, 2011, near Fork Lake in McVittie Township, Ontario, a passerby saw a rubber hose running from the exhaust pipe to the van’s window and called the police.  This was Borally’s third attempt at suicide since he disappeared from Richmond Heights.  The family attorney addressed the media, calling off the regional search conducted by hundreds of volunteers and law enforcement officials.  “His doctor told me that Pat has a serious brain disorder that could be related to his spinal meningitis that he had as a child,” his wife, Kathy Borally, said. “He is getting help. Thank God he doesn’t remember anything, and he seems positive now. And he’s ready to get home to us, and God was with him through all of this.”  God made it through the border crossing without his birth certificate or passport, apparently.

I think I have the same brain disorder as Patrick Borally.  The last flare-up occurred in 1993 when I worked as a defense contractor going by the nickname “D-Fens.”  All I wanted was breakfast from Jack-in-the-Box.  I remember saying to my wife, “I’ve passed the point of no return. Do you know what that is, Beth? That’s the point in a journey where it’s longer to go back to the beginning. It’s like when those astronauts got in trouble. I don’t know, somebody messed up, and they had to get them back to Earth. But they had passed the point of no return. They were on the other side of the moon and were out of contact for like hours. Everybody waited to see if a bunch of dead guys in a can would pop out the other side. Well, that’s me. I’m on the other side of the moon now and everybody is going to have to wait until I pop out.”  And then she told me that the police were there.

There’s a pretty good chance I’ll die in the latter stages of a zombie apocalypse.  Being a vegetarian, I’m worried about what the other zombies are going to think when I turn my undead nose up at raw human flesh.  But then again, there’s also a good chance I’ll implode, bursting into a flaming ball of hair, obscenities, and dead Canadians.  Why Canadians, you ask?  Because some mornings I have to drag myself out of bed and resist the urge to go Borally.  I have to convince myself that driving to Canada and detonating a car bomb along with some Mounties as collateral damage isn’t easier than dealing with my mortgage, debt, mid-life crisis, and the end of Judas Priest.

I dedicate this post to my new digital friend, Jason, the long-lost third McKenzie brother.  If you got here from his blog, help yourself to Preta’s Realm for only $0.99 (for a limited time).

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