Imma go with a blast from the past post for this Tuesday morning. It’s eight hundred pounds worth of sick puppy humor. Culled from the whine cellar of a blog whose mission statement was inspired by the late, great Robin Williams. “If they can’t take a fuck, joke ’em!”.
Monday February 4, 2008 will forever after be known as Black Monday to New England Patriots fans, following their stunning defeat at the hands of the New York Giants; a loss that prevented the Pats from going 19-0.
Also of note . . . Illinois Senator Barack Obama had taken the early lead in the democratic primaries heading into Super Tuesday. Many prognosticators at the time felt this was where Hilary was going to close the deficit and set the pace for the rest of primary season . . The stock market was struggling to steady itself after cratering to news of a possible recession . . and Iran fired a rocket into space. Shockingly, Salman Rushdie was not on board.
With all that news going on, I went with a YouTube video titled “Bird Poops in Mouth”. Because sometimes you find the story, and sometimes the story finds you. Sit back and enjoy this twenty second tutorial on what not to do when bird watching. The original title I affixed to this post was Birdie Bukakke Theater.
Classy.
Some thoughts on the matter:
Why didn’t this ever happen to Geraldo?
They don’t call it “Action News” for nothing.
NEVER open your mouth when looking up to find the bird that left a deposit on you.
The Canadian Brown Finch . . . Canada’s Answer To An Air Force.
Being a bird means never having to apologize for coming in someone’s mouth.
If I were this reporter, I’d turn down the mall shooting stories.
Finally, an answer to Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light” lyrics! It goes …blinded by my mike, wrapped up in a deuce, you better feed me with a sprite! . . .
Hey, whatever happened to Manfred Mann?
And his hat?
This kind of thing never would’ve happened to Manfred . . . cause of the hat.
In Thailand, American businessmen pay top dollar to have this done to them. I’ve heard stories . . .
If that had been Ryan Seacrest, he wouldn’t have missed a beat.
You just know this guy’s nickname in the newsroom is going to be Walter Windshield.
If this guy would’ve needed CPR, he would’ve been screwed.
The worst part? That wasn’t a brown finch in that tree. Al Gore was bird watching.
“The award for best performance by a supporting actor goes to,” all those guys on the crew who didn’t crack up.
Left unsaid: Canadian Brown Finch tastes exactly like chicken shit.
In the news, Hawaii is looking to pass legislation that will ban smoking for anyone under the age of 100. Fake ID’s are about to get a hell of a lot more interesting on that island, tell you what. Meanwhile, football season has come to an end . . . until this weekend when the Alliance of American Football kicks off its inaugural season. Eight teams, and nary a major market. It’s a league worth rooting for since the Patriots won’t be involved. And in the weather . . . Mama Nature is playing the North East like a street corner hustler doubling down after losing time in the clink.
And there was a State of the Union speech this week which I never got around to watching on account of my binge watching Mr. Robot. But I see where Nancy stole the show until Bernie tried to steal it back. Those crazy kids.
Without further ado, my top five heroes ‘o the week!
Shine On, Crazy Diamond- One of the greatest downhill skiers in the history of the sport is calling it quits. And it’s just not going to be the same without her. The thirty four year old out of St Paul, Minnesota made her World Cup debut in 2000. After which she got down to the business of crushing slopes and winning. Much. Her trophy case includes four World Cup overalls, eight World Cup season titles and three Olympic medals. She became the first American woman to win gold in the downhill at the 2010 games in British Columbia.
She crashed hard during a Super G run on Tuesday and still got back up after being attended to. And finished the race. It was a testament to her courage and tenacity that she wouldn’t let the mountain send her out from the ground.
Her retirement is the right move for an athlete who’s endured an insane amount of punishment over her career. From Mantle to Koufax, and Sayers to Seles to Vonn, sometimes it’s the body making the decision even if the talent still has miles to go. The memories Vonn leaves behind are better than gold. They are priceless.
Patriots Fan Brings It Home- Meir Kay is a Patriots fan, but don’t hold that against him. Because while we all have to pick a team to root for, Kay is really all about bringing hope to the desperate places. And not for nothing, but the man knows how to throw a kick ass Super Bowl party. He’s been doing it for a few years now, and the video which accompanies this post is from two years ago when the Pats played the Falcons.
Whereas most of the country hunkers down at sports bars and house parties for the game, Kay brings the party to the peeps who need it the most. He shuttles around town inviting the homeless to his makeshift crib where he supplies the jerseys, grub and beverages. Not to mention the humanity which society has stripped from them. Now thatis winning. Thank you to Dale for the 411 on this one.
Zero Of The Week- There’s only one zero this week, and it goes to the Democratic Party. With the exception of Nancy Pelosi, who was a one woman photo bomb the other night.
The Dems just cannot get out of their own way. The Big Three of Virginia politics– Governor Ralph Northam, Lt. Governor Justin Fairfax and Attorney General Mark Herring- find themselves in a world of shit. Northam insists it wasn’t him dressed in blackface in his med school yearbook and there ain’t too many peeps buying it. Fairfax also dressed in black face when he was in college, but he’s admitting to it. And then there’s Herring, who is facing sexual assault charges that date back to 2004. Three strikes and Virginia is starting over.
On the national scene, the party is looser than a Craigslist Chevy at Daytona International Speedway. Sloppy, discordant, scandal ridden and running out of time. Because it’s one year to Iowa.
Tin Cup Maestros- PGA golfer Gary Woodland invited Special Olympian Amy Bockerstette to join him for a practice round at the Phoenix Open recently. Woodland has enjoyed a good deal of success in his ten years on the tour, with three wins and over twenty two million in career earnings. Last year, Amy became the first collegiate golfer to compete with Down Syndrome. When they took to the links, they carried on like life long pals.
Amy’s drive off the tee veered left into the bunker. With Woodland and a growing fan base cheering her on, she beat back the sand pit to set herself up beautifully on the green. She finished it off with a stone cold ten foot putt to finish the hole at par three.
My favorite part of this video (supplied courtesy of Frank) is when Amy is walking down the fairway as the crowd roots her on. She turns to Gary and says “They love me!”.
And how.
Don’t Stop Believing- Silvano Columbano became a rock star thanks to a Fox News piece which claimed the NASA scientist stated that alien life has visited our blue planet. Social media’s tentacles did the rest and before you know it, Columbano’s ‘claim’ had gone viral.
Thing is, Columbano only speculated as to the possibility of alien life visiting our crib. His opinion is that we should stop skimming the water on all the unidentified phenomena and perhaps dive in to some serious homework on it. And his “research paper” as Fox News called it, was really just a document that he prepared in order to get feedback from his peers as to how research on the topic might look going forward. The distinguishing characteristic being that a research paper details hard evidence, whereas Columbano’s document simply outlined the hypothetical scenarios.
I don’t want Columbano to become a caricature. He’ll become a checkout line curiosity if we don’t keep his real motivations in the sunlight. Brilliance and vision oftentimes gets vandalized this way. Thanks to lazy reporting and pinball machine facsimiles driven by the techno-cultured noir that passes as real news.
Like Scully, I want to believe in close encounters and phoning home and signs that actually mean something. And if alien life happens to be reading this and not wasting time with Fox News porn, please do me a solid.
They make me want to dabble in communism. They make me feel like the Brits were misunderstood. They make me want to subvert the steeple chase of a nut that Thomas Paine broke bread with once upon a time. The one that made babies with capitalism and stirred up tasty drinks in the form of monthly baby daddy payments to Uncle Sam’s house of rocket fuel.
This ain’t bitterness talking. It’s . . . wait for it . . . common sense.
How do we find ourselves here for the third time in five years? Because the Patriots are more buttoned up than Luca Brasi on a Smith and Wesson bender. While rival clubs engage in trade demands, holdouts and the kind of drama that would make Meryl Streep get all hot and bothered, the Patriots simply are. They are not exciting like the Chiefs, they do not possess the soap opera twists and turns of the Steelers and they are nowhere near as pretty as the Rams. All they’re good at is winning the last game of the year. And to that end, they are really, really good.
I’ll take Marco’s loose thoughts for a dollar, Alex . . .
Tony Romo is a maestro when it comes to calling a football game. And you know why that is? Because the dude is unpretentious, that’s why. He refuses to chime and dime on the dilly of the current template. Where “running north to south” and “going vertical” are downhill slang terms used by the so called experts who feel the need to justify the Armani. Until they’re cut loose for being nickels on a dollar’s worth of investment. Romo is different. He’s bright, he’s real, he’s effusive and he knows what is going down. On a Buffalo Springfield level of expertise.
Sean McVay didn’t lose his smarts overnight. But its funny how a dude twice his age kicked his ass in the biggest game of the year. Convincingly. Will rival executives have an “oh shit!” moment as a result? Because there were a lot of dudes hired because they worked under McVay or they were FB friends with McVay or they rode an elevator with him once. Moral of the story? Winning organizations act. Everyone else reacts.
My silver lining in Sunday night’s shit show was Brian Flores, the brand new head coach of the Miami Dolphins. His defense looked like the ’85 Bears. Now, he goes from a team that does its business the right way to the South Beach Social Club. I believe he’s up for the challenge, but time will tell.
Someone please tell Adam Levine that showing your nipples ain’t worth the price of admission unless you’re Janet Jackson.
Price of admission is Gladys Knight. She is velvet to the senses when her syllables take flight. I remember seeing her in Vegas and marveling at how she turned every single song into Friday night.
Remember back when everybody was bemoaning the lack of defense after that 54-51 game the Rams and Chiefs played earlier in the year? Peeps insisted the game had morphed into the NBA. Welp, the Vegas books put the over under for total points scored in the Super Bowl at 56 points . . to which these offensive juggernauts answered with 16 points. I guess defense still matters, after all.
Tom Brady looked like Mark Sanchez for most of that game. But for a couple passes in the fourth quarter that were bread basket perfect. Some players, such as Jared Goff, find it damn near impossible to face up to the big moment. Brady lives for it.
I dunno if the Saints would have been able to fare any better than the Rams against that suddenly tenacious Patriots defense. But I do know they could have done better than three points. Hell, the Dolphins could have done better than three points.
It’s pretty sad when, up until the fourth quarter the highlight of the game was a punt. I believe it was a record setting one, but I forget and you know why? Because it’s a punt . . .
It almost looked as if the Patriots D knew what was coming before the Rams snapped the ball. Which, if you’re a follower of the NFL, is always going to make you wonder, given the organization’s rap sheet.
Bravo to the Swiss Army Knife known as Julian Edelman for being the MVP not named Brady. Edleman missed the first four games of the season due to a PED suspension. If this were baseball it would have been a major story but in football, it’s an accepted fact.
And my one final thought on the national nightmare that is the New England Patriots.
They’re gonna have to be taken out the way Luca Brasi was taken out. By a band of young turks that wield knives on a doctorate level of Dante. The end of this reign must be certain, swift and surgical. And make no mistake, they will not surrender until the throne is taken from their cold dead hands. The team that slays this dragon is gonna have to do what the Patriots coaches are doing right now, as we speak.
The Chicago Bears will take on the New England Patriots in Atlanta tonight in the . . . oh shit, I’m sorry. I was thinking ahead to next year’s Super Bowl, my bad! This year it’s the Rams, next year the Bears and after that the Federal Regulatory Commission will force Bob Kraft to sell Tom Brady to science, with the rest of the team being sold for parts. Bill Belichick will be extradited to Gondor.
Lots has changed since the last time the Rams and Patriots met in the Super Bowl seventeen years ago. In Super Bowl 36, the St Louis Rams were heavy favorites, had the MVP quarterback and were going for their second title in three seasons. The Patriots had gotten to the big game on a fluke play, their head coach’s job security had been called into question a year prior, and their quarterback was a skinny backup named Brady who scored the starting job after starter Drew (Wally Pipp) Bledsoe went down with an injury.
Fast forward to now, and the Patriots are Team Google while the Rams are back in Los Angeles, even if most Angelenos are probably unaware of this fact. New England is the Vegas pick while the Rams are the new darlings of the dance. And the only reason I’m excited is because we’re gonna be chowing down on Jimmie John’s.
We’ll have a few things to say about those chowdah head fans who ain’t coming to Atlanta, seeing as how they’ve done it every other year for two and a half decades. And we’ll have a few more things to say about the Los Angeles Rams being a misnomer for displaced Lakers fans who got priced out of the Staples Center when LeBron hit town.
Some relatively true facts about the big game ? Why the hell not . . .
1- The Super Bowl was named after a bouncy ball.
2- The Detroit Lions are banned from Super Bowl competition as a result of their proximity to Canada.
3- Tickets to the first Super Bowl between the Green Bay Packers and Oakland Raiders went for $12. The price of a Super Bowl LIII game program goes for $18.
4- The Patriots pushed to seal records proving Tom Brady was a stonemason in medieval times, which would make him 1,543 years old. If the documents were to be released, New England’s titles would be vacated since vampires are only permitted to work for the league office.
5- After Miami won Super Bowl VII, Coach Don Shula’s watch was stolen by a fan who shook his hand on the field.
6- Even though Chik-fil-A has a restaurant inside Mercedes Benz Stadium, they won’t be open today on account of that other holy day.
7- Seventeen million people will call in sick tomorrow. No word yet as to whether the Trump administration will declare a national emergency.
8- Janet Jackson contemplated putting her famous Super Bowl halftime nipple up for auction at Sotheby’s before deciding against it. Her business manager explained that Jackson wished to hold onto her titular rights.
9- It is estimated that more than thirty percent of the ‘fans’ in attendance at this year’s game will write it off as a corporate expense.
10- More than two billion wings will be consumed during the Super Bowl. And this ain’t even mentioning the fact that the game essentially serves as Black Friday for pizzerias.
Super Bowl Sunday is the one day of the year when Americans can eat whatever the fuck they want, drink copious amounts of alcohol and behave like children. Check that, it’s the one day of the year when all that shit is celebrated. Some peeps even want to petition to make the Monday after the Super Bowl a national holiday. The petition drive never gets very far on account of the fact most of these peeps are alcoholics or degenerate gamblers. In most instances, both.
I don’t have a legit rooting interest seeing as how my Dolphins are conscientious objectors when it comes to the last game of the year. The last time I had a legit rooting interest in the Super Bowl, Budweiser was my beer of choice and I was going to marry my high school sweetheart(s).
Even my cat, Mr Speaker, is at a loss when it comes to the outcome of this year’s game. After correctly predicting the last two champions, we couldn’t get him to pick a winner this time around. Our voting system consists of post it notes and treats, but this year, he wasn’t having it. My daughter says it’s because he thought the system was rigged.
And he’s not even from New Orleans.
BREAKING NEWS . . . . After an impasse last night in which Mr Speaker refused to cast his vote, a special session was convened early this morning. The results of this ‘runoff’ have the Rams defeating the Patriots.
I went for a run yesterday afternoon. It was my first time out since my toe was t-boned by a runaway shelf the other day. I’m thankful that my metatarsals suffered only topical damage, in the form of an indigo colored toenail.
Nothing is less romantic sounding than a broken toe. Think about it, if you break your foot, you’re probably a stuntman; while breaking your ankle elicits pained expressions on a three fingers of bourbon level. Broken ribs provoke theological puns about Eve getting greedy, which is snarky without being demeaning. A broken arm somehow makes us seem athletic. A broken knee cap will have your friends thinking there was some nostra to your cosa.
A broken toe is a punchline. Without the punch. Seriously, if you tell someone you broke your clavicle, they offer to make you dinner for a month. Tell them you broke your toe? You’ve gifted them a running joke that will follow you to your grave.
This was one of the many things I thought about during a particularly brisk run whose Murgatroyd was heavenly. A good run is like watering the soul with Tibetan tap water. Somewhere inside the clipped breathing and rhythmic pounding there exists this wonderfully peaceful dimension in which sight and sound possess a flavor.
And so it happened while I was taking a bite of this glorious run, that mortality became a passing thought. Ditching the tunes invites loose thoughts. As a fifty two year old man who carries an aspirin and his drivers license on these jaunts, thoughts of death are not the preferred in flight movie. Death’s name in this instance, was Jimbo.
I know right?
Jimbo was friends with my pal Big Papi. They began falling out of each other’s loops over the last year and change. This change in temperature came about as Jim got dumber about his health and Big Papi, whose real name is Duane, got sick and tired of lecturing him on it. The last straw came when Jim celebrated a successful heart procedure by going to an all you can eat buffet.
The men both suffered from myriad health problems. But whereas Duane’s are the result of a stroke he suffered as a young man that paralyzed the left side of his body, Jim’s problems were self inflicted.
Truth is, I never liked Jim. He was a caveman whose personality was vanilla ice cream. Jim wore NBA jerseys in public, which I happen to think should be illegal for fat white guys. He drank soda because he didn’t like the taste of alcohol, which was not a sin in and of itself. But judging us for doing so? Was. And the whole Jimbo thing . . I mean, unless you own a bait shop, gun shop or porn shop, there is no fucking way you should allow the bo to caboose your proper name.
Clearly, I’m shitty when it comes to eulogies. Or maybe I’m just no good at dressing things up. But I don’t like that Big Papi had to pretend away the pain since there was nowhere for him to put it now. He’s fifty six years old and he’s going to be borrowing time sooner than later as a result of all the curve balls his body keeps throwing at him.
I attempt to change the subject in my head by assembling a poem on the fly. The cold air is a weep of bricks and the sky feels like a Caravaggio and my run deteriorates from bounding to sodden. The thoughts sometimes, they play for keeps. And death, its real name is time. I’d rather think of nothing at all, but its too late. Barbarians at the gate, the nasty little fuckers. So I push harder now, if only to hurt somewhere else, and it makes me feel as if I have something to lose. I find my rhythm inside the purpose of those twenty minutes.
This week’s news included more investigations, government shutdown stories and football games that peeps take much too seriously. And then there was the Covington High School lesson in viral economics. It was a frightening look at the power of social media.
Yanno . . those survivalists might be onto something.
The Lesson of Old Lady- A pretty special pooch named Old Lady becomes the first canine to make the Heroes edition, and with good reason. After being lost for seventeen days in the woods, in sub-zero temps, the 10 year old St Bernard was rescued. Again.
When it comes to survivors, this lady is a front page headlines super-heroine whose paws are mighty and whose ability to overcome inspiring. Her two and a half week ordeal in the wilderness came on the heels of having been rescued from a puppy mill, where the owners were using her to breed. Her nine lives are not the result of luck, but of an impenetrable will that us two legged peeps could learn from. Because life has been telling her to quit since the day she was born. And she’s here for one simple reason.
She didn’t listen.
Rudy Guiliani- Remember when he was “America’s Mayor”? Holy Fiorello, this guy’s reputation has taken a bigger hit than Sears shares. His disingenuous denials of any Russian collusion with the White House have morphed into a pathetic series of genuflecting gaffes in the new year. Basically, Rudy taunted the press for much of the last two years whenever questioned about discussions between Trump and the Russians. He behaved very much like all those mob lawyers he once took on as Attorney General of New York back in the eighties, when he was busy taking down the mob whilst sewing the seeds for a Mayoral run.
Rudy’s omerta license must’ve expired, because he’s been pretty chatty as of late. He flipped his story into an admission that discussions about a Trump Tower Russia were going on between Trump and the Russians throughout 2016. And then Rudy got more specific, admitting that talks were taking place from the time Trump announced he was running for President all the way up to and after his election night victory. Now Rudy claims all that chatter on his part was purely hypothetical.
It’s sad when you watch a political figure become a trivial pursuit question and a caricature of his former self. It’s even sadder when you realize he chose this path.
Magnum PI- The only reason Roger Goodell is still capo di tutti capi is because he’s been a rainmaker for the league during his tenure. Much like the retired MLB commish Bud Selig, Goodell has preached for the fan’s best interests whilst screwing them royally. From pricing families out of the game to looking the other way in the CTE crisis, the NFL boss has always proven expert at saying one thing and doing the other.
Excepting for now, when it feels as if Rajah has been auditioning for a role in the A Quiet Place sequel. With the white hot noise that has resulted from “Pass Interference-Gate” in New Orleans, and with fans hollering for more replays and even a do-over, the commish remains silent. Excuse me but . . what in the blessed fuck is this guy being paid for if he refuses to get in front of a microphone and address this mess? Goodell pulled in thirty five million last year and is negotiating a new contract in which he is asking for 49 million a year, lifetime use of a private jet and lifetime health insurance for him and his family. You’d think for that money that he might . . yanno, actually show up?
Reactionary Fans- New Orleans made it back from Hurricane Katrina, so I’m fairly certain that a football score ain’t the end of the world. They were robbed? I don’t know about that. Because if you’re going to go back and change the non-call on the Saints last drive, then you’re gonna have to change the non-call on the preceding Rams drive in which Jared Goff was grabbed by the face mask; because that would’ve made it first and goal for the Rams at the one yard line, and that would’ve change the dynamics as well.
Saints fans threaten lawsuits and rail on about how the integrity of the game has been compromised, and I have to wonder. Isn’t this the same organization that once presided over “Bounty-Gate”, in which bounties were awarded for knocking players out of the game? Sorry but, I ain’t taking ethics lessons from that organization or that punk head coach. It was a bad call, but it wasn’t a crime. They’re right about Goodell’s Houdini act, but spare me the Opera.
Paying It Forward: Organized religion has taken a beating thanks to degenerate priests, for profit apostles and a status driven, country club ethos that permeates too many churches. Jesus is a glove-box totem for many; to be used in moments of crisis as well as to proselytize on politics and people.
Pastor Noah Schumacher’s journey to the better places of this world began a few months ago when he learned his mother was suffering from liver failure. He went through a series of tests to see if he might be able to donate a portion of his liver, but he wasn’t a match. The transplant coordinator he worked with informed him he was a perfect match for a dying child who was also in need. After talking with his wife and kids, Schumacher agreed to undergo the six hour surgery. No matter the possible complications or the significant recovery time. He was in.
This story spread like wildfire throughout his community and now neighbors and strangers alike are being tested themselves in order to see if they might be a possible donor for Schumacher’s mother. Turns out, you can win favor and a good name in the sight of higher powers if . . yanno, your faith is this strong.
Schumacher isn’t waiting for Jesus to take the wheel.
I sat down and wrote up a brief letter I was gonna send to the White House, requesting an interview with Trump. Short, concise and pleasant. And then I started filling in all the required information and learned that my email had to be shorter than a tweet. No pun intended, I’m being totally serious. All I was able to write was that I was requesting an interview with Covfefe (I didn’t use that name) before it cut me off at the pass.
Upon careful consideration, I thought it better not to send a request that was going to relegate me to a list which consists of fifth graders and nut jobs. Soooooo . . . the Trump fake interview will happen instead. Unlike the legit interview I would’ve done with Trump . . I get to make up my own rules with this ‘boob job’.
A few more thoughts that zig inside the zag of voices in my head? Sure why not . . .
Never, ever run in frozen winds that whip harder than a Dominatrix with anger issues. I know this rule. I abide by this rule, like almost all the time. Excepting for today, when I ran into the face of an arctic blast that put my face on ice as if it were a button man for the mob. And what’s worse, I ran after having imbibed a couple glasses of water. There I was, a mile out when my nether region was called on to provide a service that wasn’t feeling natural in the least bit. I did an about face, prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joe and went Sun Tzu and Mojave with my thoughts until I arrived back home safe and dry. Moral of the story: Failure to prepare is akin to pissing in the wind (almost).
Four episodes into Mr. Robot and loving every minute of it. Rami Malek plays a hacker with a righteous soul who’s trying not to drown inside an evil world. Dark, dastardly, delightful. Thanks to Frank for the 411 on this show.
My body has returned to it’s regularly scheduled programming (a wind chilled run notwithstanding) after taking on the black diamonds of Blue Mountain last week. I never realized I was taking my life in my hands when I used to do this shit on a regular basis. I gotta say, I felt downright fucking heroic after surviving it. Also stupid, a little stupid. Bourbon is a great peacemaker . . just saying.
I wouldn’t give a penny to this wall. A strong leader doesn’t need a wall, because a strong leader makes the existing policies work where they failed before. A strong leader doesn’t make promises he knows he can’t keep for the sake of political expediency. A strong leader doesn’t blame everyone but himself when shit goes wrong, because he knows where the buck is supposed to stop. I didn’t name names, because I don’t have to.
Besides, a moat would be so much more cost effective. And way cooler. Way . . .
Potato salad always seems like a good idea until I’m eating it.
Bundt cake . . it never disappoints like that.
Tom Brady crying “poor me” just doesn’t work. Feeling sorry for Brady and his team because they’re Vegas underdogs is like feeling sorry for Brad Pitt’s penis . . or Bill Gates’s bank account. Ain’t. Happening.
I never got on the craft beer bandwagon. Craft beers are like sliders, they don’t jibe with my particular opinions on beer and burgers. But . . I do have a few faves as per the former. Rogue Dead Guy Ale is one of ’em. Linds B reminded me about it recently when she told me she picked some up. We are not easy customers, so let’s just say the stuff really is very tasty.
Storms, more winter storms and freezing temps. And not a single Dennis Quaid sighting. I think we’re safe . . .
I want to pet a lion before I die. I mean, not right before I die from being mauled and then eaten by said lion. Like . . I pet the lion, survive . . and then many years later I remember that moment on my death bed. Okay, you know what . . I just like lions. I don’t really need to pet one.
Welp, I could go on. And on. But there’s only so much time in the day, and I have to go in fresh when I see my therapist.
