Well, last Sunday and Monday were sort of awesome. Old Man Winter looked like he was going to finally take the red hot poker from our asses, and then he decided to jam it in there one more time … really, really deep. Getting a snow day in late March is like getting a handy at the “Convention of People with No Arms.” I mean that shit just doesn’t happen. I initially thought I’d spend the day playing video games and drinking Beam and Coke, but that was just not meant to be.
Once it became obvious that shit wasn’t going to melt, I had to go out shoveling. It’s my own fault. I’ve bragged several times that I haven’t shoveled in two years and look what happened. It didn’t make me feel more comfortable when some guy on the news said that this was “heart attack snow” because it was so heavy. I generally start out with grandiose plans of shoveling every paved surface on the property, and then eventually make a point of egress that is about three inches wider than the car.
Also, while I appreciate that crews are out cleaning the roads, I’d sincerely prefer it if they didn’t come by every two hours and plow my goddamned driveway closed again. It makes it very hard for me to relax and drink a bottle of Scotch if I’m afraid I’ll have to go out and do more shoveling. Hopefully that’s the last of that shit. Let’s get it on.
AWWW … BUT SERIOUSLY, AWWW (scenes from the kennel)
I know it’s personal, but I checked out my dog, Lou’s, diary. He’s got a bum wheel and was unable to play in the snow last weekend. He seems distressed.
So I’ve got what may or may not be a partially torn ACL and rather than just fix it my jackass owner and his goddamned vet decided I needed to rest for two weeks. Yeah, rest, two weeks of no running and no jumping. Do you have any idea how hard something like that is for me on a regular day? Then on Sunday it snows like a bastard and I have to go out on a leash. The best goddamned running and jumping day of the year and I have to go out alone and come back in as soon as I’ve peed and crapped.
It fucking sucked. My brothers were out playing for hours at a time with a fucking stick. Well let me tell you, that fucking stick was all they could talk about once they got back in. “Ooh, we played tug of war with the stick” and “And then one time Lucky had the stick and I chased him and then he chased me.” Well good for fucking you boys, I suppose. While you were out there I sat in my cage and whined. My leg felt totally fine and I would have totally dominated that game of stick. By the time I get back out it’s going to be nothing but mud right up to my empty nutsack. Screw this whole freaking winter.
THE WEATHER OUTSIDE WAS ABOUT TO BE FRIGHTFUL; INSIDE THE WEATHER WAS JUST DRUNK
Last Saturday evening, before that snow shit hit the crap fan, we went over to our friend’s house and had some margaritas. Our mixologist for the evening, let’s call him Matt, brought his “A” game, not only to the drink, but some other things as well. For my part, I stopped and got some chips and salsa, for no other reason than I am totally obvious when it comes to food and drink pairings.
Aside: I always get that Herdez salsa because I think it’s the shit. My folks used to bring it back from Texas for me back in the day, but now you can buy it here. It used to come in tiny little cans. It was very cute, but not handy, as I could eat about seven of those little cans.
Anyway, I was sort of joking when I said we had a mixologist, let’s still call him Matt either way, because he doesn’t care for that title. He prefers to simply be called The Guy Who Makes the World’s Most Heartbreaking Margaritas. You can’t go wrong with good tequila, Cointreau, fresh lemon and limes, and a guy who knows his way around a juicer … um, so to speak. He somehow managed to make them in a way where each glass tasted wonderful, yet had the wallop of a bottle of Everclear. Seriously, I was squirrelly after three sips.
After the 2nd glass, when nouns became verbs and most language was not understandable, our mixologist decided to make wedge salads. Yeah, I know, but it didn’t seem all that weird at the time. He only had enough fixings for two, which was fine with me. I generally like to eat wedges of things, things like cheese or potatoes, but I’m not a big fan of the salad in general, so that shit was out. The other wife and I opted for the frozen pizza, which took far less time to make and wasn’t a salad in any way.
By the time the salad frenzy was over, there was no tequila or lettuce left, everyone was ripped to the tits, my wife was eating directly from a jar of Nutella she’d found in their cupboard, and it was all of 10:30 in the evening. In about three hours we’d managed to have what was essentially a 3-course meal and get loaded. We are nothing if not efficient. There’s really nothing else to do after that except go home and try to keep the bed from spinning.
VIDEO OF THE WEEK
This is just fantastic. Seriously, just magical.
This coming Monday is Opening. We will be doing our 2nd Annual Start Drinking at 9am and Try to be Drunk When the Games Start at 11am Day. We will then continue to get drunk until somebody starts crying, usually around 2pm. My Cardinals don’t play until 9 that night. It could be a long day … filled with crying.
My new favorite thing to do, if you’re going out to eat, ask the other person if they like Wendy’s. If they say yes, then respond, “Well you’re really gonna like it wen dees nuts hit you in the face.” Clever and awesome. You can’t lose.
I feel I might sleep better if it weren’t for all the coughing and blowing my nose.
Buona sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.