Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Dear Madame Zoltar
Congratulations to Mr. OrbsCorbs for his twenty-five years of sobriety. In AA, he's now considered an "old-timer" who's supposed to have all the answers. Good luck with that. His answers always provoke more questions. And he's proud of that. I can see that he doesn't understand the basic principle of internet protocol that says, "Enlighten, but stifle." There's room for only so many on the internet.
Where necessary, baseball season will begin with players in snowsuits. "Sliding home" will be given new meaning as players zoom across the plate at 45 mph.
Why don't I ply my trade in the tropics? Too hot, that's why.
Racine has an active commission on "fortune telling." They already know not to mess with me or I'll turn them into frogs. Ribbit.
I love the few flowers that have started to poke their heads through the soil. Meanwhile, we're supposed to get 1-3" of snow tomorrow. Is it spring or not? I guess not. The calendars may say so, but the ice and snow trump any calendar.
Maybe we won't have any spring this year. We'll go directly from winter to summer, which will be cold. The relief from the heat is almost worth the perversion of nature.
Short, sharp sentences. It's the new reporting. Fire one off and then move on. Sorry, baby, but that road is calling me. "Hey, idiot!" it exclaims. The internet has forever changed reporting, just like cable did. Soon advertisers will be bidding for the rights to broadcast on the little screens implanted in our brains at birth. 3-D projections and Incense and Peppermints. Oh my!
I hope that some of this makes sense to somebody out there. I'm baffled by my own bullshit. I've walked by Señor Zanza and I'd swear that he is whispering, "Moo!" But he isn't. 'Cause if he is, . . .
What a mess this is, just like my life. I need to bear down and put my shoulder to the grindstone. Or something like that. I need to get serious.
Or something like that. I need to tell you all how much I love you.
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