Mailing it in

So, I was trying to pull out of a parking lot onto Ash Street Wednesday at the height of the snowstorm. Problem was, I hadn’t taken the time to brush off the right side of my car because – well, come on. It was way over there on the other side. Unable to see oncoming traffic, I might have froze to death in that parking lot after eating my own foot, but no. Out of all that white sprang a dashing postman who bravely brushed off my window with one gloved hand, freeing me from the white terror that had frozen me to the spot. Of course, he charged me 49 cents for the service, but it was totally worth it.

Wild horses

Whomever left a pretty white Ford Mustang parked in front of the Sun Journal for three days, I regret to inform you that your ride is now buried in snow. Since you don’t seem to care much, if you’d be so kind as to leave the pink slip under the wiper blade, I’d be happy to take that sucker off your hands.

Groundhog Day

Seriously, why is this still a tradition? Every year, the varmint emerges, sees a bunch of reporters towering over him, all blow-dried hair and blindingly white teeth, and flees back into his underground Xanadu. It’s not his shadow he fears, it’s the press. It’s time to put away these silly forecasting rituals and put our faith back where it belongs: with the Farmers’ Almanac.

Pig out

In the town of China, a frantic woman called police because she heard screaming from a house in the nearby woods. Police rushed over. What they found was a farmer who had just put a male pig in a pen with several sows who were in heat. Those screams were of delight. What’s funny about this is that in Lewiston, the opposite happened. A woman called police to report what sounded like a bunch of pigs going at it. What they found . . . But some things are better left to the imagination.

Oh, go on

A very nice lady of unquestionable taste left a message on my phone with such high praise that I blushed a little. She didn’t leave her name at the end of it. Too bad. I would happily hire the woman to write my obituary. I sure as hell don’t want my colleagues doing it. Or any of you people.

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