Horrendously Escalating Bad News

Okay, I was willing to accept that bad news comes in threes and, maybe, sixes and, perhaps, nines, yet I'm down with the tenth -- which means a dang dozen.

First, my cat dies and the Weedwacker works and the air is let out of my chef's hat and Popeye's bye-bye and a turban's AWOL and the broccoli's cockamamie and a sex scandal looms and "wash me" and Damon's a deadbeat.

Now, Kathy blinks!

My pal, Bill, telephones me from Obradoiro Square in Spain, just like last year, and demands I take the couple's photo via a Webcam.

But, c'mon! Work with me! Work with me, people! I'm an artiste!
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