GROUNDHOG SNOW DAY

What happens tomorrow if all the groundhog dens are buried under three hundred cubic feet of snow?

Sure, if he thought ahead to get fresh batteries for his flashlight, he'll see his shadow.  (Candles can be dangerous, especially in underground burrows.)  But what about snow-blindness?  And what if he has  severe macular degeneration?

I believe we're looking at six more weeks of uncertainty.

SEMPER UBI SUB UBI or ALWAYS BE PREPARED

I love watching the news.  Today, there were only two stories: Egypt, 

and Monster Storm a-Brewin'.

Since I can't do anything about the situation in Egypt, I'm preparing for the storm.

That's right.  I bought extra beer and cigarettes.  I also brought all the cattle and horses inside.

Hey, you guys ever seen Hoarders?  The dude with the ga-fucking zillion rats loose in his house was one sick puppy, eh?  Me, I have no obsessive-compulsive-animal-hoarding-psychosis.  I simply enjoy the hijinks of huge, over-ripe mammals cavorting in the snooker room.

So... blow, ye winds, and singe my white beard.  Or whatever it was that Lear said.

And to Hosni Mubarak: too bad, so sad.  (And really, man, this shouldn't come as much of a shock.  You had thirty fucking years to get it right, eh?)

Time for a smoke and a brewski before the snow starts.

WORRISOME TENDENCIES

I'm losing my touch, possibly my entire grip.  Lost two games of chess today then found myself watching  several old episodes of Criminal Minds.  (Hey, it was an A&E marathon.)

Any day now I'll be playing canasta at the old folks' home and watching Lawrence Welk on PBS.

Right now, I feel like donning animal skins and hunting for stuff down by the river.

(Coyote tastes like chicken, right?)

MUSIC HATH ITS CHARMS

Hosni Mubarak has been conducting the orchestra in Egypt for three decades.  The brass section has become moribund.  There is a lack of pizzicato in the strings -- no real pluck, as we say.  In fact, the man's entire repertoire is more than a little repetitive.  (Get fat; torture guys; skim billions out of the treasury; allow the small folk to starve; laugh and fuck; pay the police to masturbate in your silk glove with the iron ribbing; pretend you're respected by the people; rule without actually stooping to lead, etc.)

One hopes these latest events usher in some more... convivial vibes to the national experience.

In other words, Mr. President: I hope your song is kaput.

THE SALACIOUS WIND FARMER

There will be no post this evening.  I simply liked the title.  (It came to me, unbidden, on the drive home.)  

Yes, I'm off my meds.

Yours ever,

F. Armadale

WHAT HAPPENS IN THE UNIVERSE STAYS IN THE UNIVERSE

Let's pretend that you and I dead.  The world doesn't require our presence, after all.  I mean, it's not as though our demise would disrupt the laws of physics.

Now, let's pretend that all the sentient creatures in the universe are extinct.  (Assume: sentient creatures are those who are aware that they are aware.)  If you think about it, that still leaves the universe overstocked with assholes -- mainly certain family members and co-workers ... and fucking insects.

But at least we're no longer here.

And that must be of some comfort, to some creature, somewhere, sentient or not.

See?  It's all good.

SPARE ME YOUR SCRIPTURE

It's a silly-assed world, isn't it?  Churches and 'holy men' dispensing judgements upon the rest of us.  A two-thousand-year-old, highly lucrative business.  Oooh... and nothing excites the bimbos more than holy men with wads of cash.  Especially if those 'holy men' are closeted gays.  (You figure it out.)

This prick is one of all too many phony, self-annointed, money-driven, butt-kissed, coffer-swelling, smarmy smiling, hypocritical assholes.

"I choose to live my life by what I read in the scripture," he says.

Right.

Hey, Joel: eat my shorts.  They're kosher.  And blessed.  And I'll send 'em your way for a hefty donation to my 'church'.  Failure to respond with cash money shall doom thee and thine to gum boils and the Armadale curse.  (Which, like your 'scripture', is pure horse shit.  But if it makes me a buck or two, who gives a rat's ass, eh?  Let us pray.)