It happened on New Year’s Eve
A nice and possibly deranged fellow approached me at Shaw’s on the big night, heartily shook my hand and said, “Put me in the paper, won’t you? Report that Chris Matthews said something weird.” Congratulations, Chris Matthews. That’s a pretty weird thing to say. I usually only experience that kind of weirditude at family gatherings.
Which is not to say I was doing something as mundane as hanging out in a grocery store on New Year’s Eve. Oh, no! I was partying, bruh! Partying hard! Partying like Charlie Sheen on an average Tuesday night. It was all “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” up in here, only instead of having a bad LSD trip in a hotel lobby, I was at Shaw’s buying saltine crackers. Same thing otherwise, though.
You know why I was out buying saltines, bruh? Because I was craving the holiday candy known on the street as Christmas crack. It’s made of saltine crackers, chocolate and a bunch of other stuff that tastes like caramel unicorns in heaven. They don’t call it crack for nothing, yo. Soon as I ran out of that first batch, I was out on Pine Street in the cold, looking to get hooked up with just a few shards of the junk. Just a few shards, you know what I’m saying? I could quit any time I want to.
I will never ever forgive the Maine Police & Fire Alerts Facebook guy for speaking to the TV guys instead of to me. I mean it, friends. That dude is dead to me. From now on, I’ll go elsewhere for reports of demon-spawned elves hijacking UFOs over Kennedy Park.
That’s the latest Hollywood-style, panic-inducing buzz term from the weather people, who want you to know that you’re going to die in explosive cold and there’s nothing you and those flimsy big box earmuffs can do about it. Remember the Polar Vortex a couple years ago? That sucker sounded so extreme, I presumed it was going to swallow us whole and spit us out on the other side of a frigid black hole. Then there’s the always popular “arctic blast” and the “spinning groin punch of icicle doom” to worry about. I just get down on my knees every morning and thank God I have a union suit.
Boy, doesn’t that take you back to the old days? I can’t remember how many times as a boy growing up at Brookside School in Waterville, some muscle-bound lass beat me down and stole my favorite necklace, anklet or nose bead. Those were innocent times. You know: aside from the beat downs and robberies.