I’m not one to make fun of another person’s misfortune. (Except when the misfortune is simply too funny to pass up, like when a bull gores a hole in some idiot every year in Pamplona. Even my local newscasters snicker at that one. Besides, if you’re willing to pay thousands of dollars and endure an eight-hour, trans-Atlantic flight just to run away from a herd of stampeding, horned animals, then you’re probably used to people laughing at you and calling you names by now. Hey, Hemingway, do yourself a favor: try Six Flags next year, okay? You might get a little dizzy, but nothing there will make you bleed rectally. Unless you count the ticket prices).

But I digress. I was talking about how I’m sensitive to the pain of others …