From the Wayback: Where the Red Fern Grows
The other day I got to thinking that there are a crapton of books from my childhood I barely remember. Countless novels I either napped through as they were read […]
Another dusting of snow, another out of proportion reaction from the DC area. At least this time people stopped short of bartering their women for milk and toilet paper, but, given I was able to clean my car with my coat sleeve, any reaction whatsoever was embarrassing and juvenile. (Also, why do DC residents pretend to drink milk when it’s snowing? 80% of this area’s population consists of raging alcoholics that want nothing more than their horrible workday to end so they can go home and crawl into a bottle, yet I’m to believe that, when confronted with the possibility of a day off, they’re going to sit around and sip cocoa instead of chugging grain alcohol until they urinate blood? Local news crews should set up shop in front of ABC store if they really want to see some action, supermarket be damned.)
Those who know me know that I’m a self-loathing man. There are very, very few things I pride myself on. But not reacting like a chimpanzee smeared in Icy Hot to a few inches of snow on the ground is one of them. (Not peeing on the toilet seat is literally the only other one, come to think of it.) So as long as I have this website, you’re going to get posts about how I should be given dictatorial powers and declared the Emperor of the Frost each time it snows. That’s just how good I am at handling it.
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