I’m usually unprolific at this time of year because of the Carnival Bubble. That’s not the case today. I feel like the guy in the image from Samuel Fuller’s Underworld USA. I am, however, glad to report that I wasn’t mugged in an alley like that poor bastard.

Here’s what happened. I was hungry after writing the Malaka Of The Week post yesterday. Ordinarily, malakatude inspires disgust not hunger but I hadn’t eaten anything yet.

I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. Then something heavy hit me in the head. Make that collided with my head. Then I felt a brief tugging on my sweatshirt.

I was dazed so I didn’t realize what had happened at first. I looked at the floor, expecting to see a pan or something. Bupkis. Zilch. Nothing.

Then I looked down at my brand new LL Bean sweatshirt and saw a small tear and a clump of gray cat hair. I finally realized that Mr. Mischief DBA Perry Mason must have been sitting atop the refrigerator as in this picture used in catblogging last month:

I don’t know about you, but I don’t usually check for a feline miscreant atop the fridge. I guess I’ll have to start. I feel a song coming on:

Our refrigerator obviously isn’t white, but I love me some Nick Lowe.

It could have been much worse. I didn’t fall over, my glasses didn’t shatter, and there was no gush of blood like when I cut my head after Hurricane Ida.

Shorter Adrastos: There will be no stapling this time. That weird 2021 accident belonged in a movie from another and bloodier Samuel, Peckinpah. It was like the ending of The Wild Bunch, only I survived. I guess that makes me Robert Ryan, not William Holden. I’m down with that: I’m more of a character actor than a leading man.

Let’s get back to 2024.

My self-diagnosis: I have a mild concussion, which has been confirmed by Dr. Google. The only physical manifestation is a wee bump on my noggin. I have, however, had a headache impervious to aspirin and been as sleepy as our old pal Rip Van Winkle. I even slept through the Puppetmaster’s appearance on The Last Word last night. Horrors.

I woke up this morning feeling better but still a little shaky. That’s a roundabout way of saying I’ll be a bit less prolific this week. There will be an already written film noir post later on, but that’s it for today unless I rally.

Who writes a 451 word post explaining why they’re not feeling prolific? In the immortal words of Bob Newhart, “That would be me.”

The last word goes to Elvis Costello & The Attractions: