Why Westlake sucks

That is the understatement of the century. My twelve year old son, Jeffrey, broke his arm last night, in three places. He was rushed to a hospital in Westlake to have surgery, primarily because it broke through the skin. I stayed there with him last night and today, he’s feeling better.

So, I came home this morning and passed out, cold. Seriously, a marching band could’ve paraded through my bedroom and I would’ve slept through it. I woke up to a voicemail from Jeffrey saying that his dad was about to leave and he wanted to know if I’d come back. And, of course, bring him a cheesburger.

I started my trek to Westlake via I-90W and figured I’d find an ATM or a Burger King on the way to the hospital. I didn’t want to get some BK in Cleveland, then by the time I got there, it’d be cold. Did I find anything in Westlake? No such luck. It was rush hour traffic on a Friday afternoon and my boy was hungry. What to do, what to do. I drove around Westlake thinking I could find a bank or a Burger King somewhere.

I ended up running back to Cleveland anyways, to get him a burger, and by the time I got there, he’d eaten some ravioli that the nurse brought him.

I guess rich people don’t eat fast food or need money. I’ll have to remember that when I’m rich.

Burger King and National City, if you can hear me, there is a huge market for you in Westlake. Hop on it, stat.