Somebody upstairs has taken umbrage with my snarky mood earlier this morning; about ten minutes ago the darkest clouds this side of Judgement Day blew through the Baltimore/Washington corridor and plastered this little shoebox I work in with an ocean’s worth of water. Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about the four or five open windows in the house (and the fan in my bedroom window, which is still running.)

It’s Dugan, Goddammit. On line this morning at the pharmacy, I was treated to a nice ten minute wait by the two drones behind the counter, who seemed to be sorting out some kind of computer/prescription snafu. When the second drone finally called me up to the counter, I calmly told her I was picking up a prescription for Dugan. She asked for the first name; I gave her my full name. She went immediately to the “D” drawer, found my prescription, and stared at the name blankly for a solid minute until I helpfully offered, “That’s it.” She then cheerfully told me that my insurance company would not pay for the prescription because I hadn’t told them I was getting a script for this medication, and that I needed to call my doctor and have them clear the whole thing with the insurance company. (Isn’t that why I have a goddammned doctor in the first place? So that they can prescribe me medicine I need to get better? Perhaps I should have the insurance company prescribe me medication instead.) I could do that first, or pay the $104.85 up front. Exasperated, I told her I’d pay now. She asked, “How would you like to pay for that, Mr. Dug-in?”

Let me just explain something to you folks: The name is pronounced Doo-gan, like it’s spelled. Not Dug-in. Not Duggin. And it’s not spelled D-o-u-g-a-n. So remember that the next time I pronounce it to you twice and you still insist on saying it wrong, you mouthbreather. It’s not like I’m asking you to say Shalikashvili or Gyllenhaal, is it?

A special note to the Kerry/Edwards team: Reform our useless healthcare-insurance industry when I vote you into office, please.