If it worked for Gilligan, it will work for me
Did I tell you? Apparently I’m not going to be allowed a fire pole in the new downtown newsroom. Skinflints. But hey, no sweat. I’ll simply move on to my next expense account item: Jet pack!

It’s all in the hips
Last week I told you about my embarrassing spill on a muddy embankment in my own backyard. My shame is great. In the interest of balance, I should point out that this week, in a different location, I managed to NOT wipe out in spite of a loooong slide down another sloppy embankment that felt like it went on for 30 gravity-defying minutes. You should have seen me out there: eyes big as saucers, arms pinwheeling like a — I dunno, a pinwheel or something — feet shooting out a spray of mud as I made the long, almost graceful descent to the bottom of a hummock. Sadly, it appears that nobody witnessed this glorious feat, but trust me. I was as graceful as a swan out there.

Street Santa
I seem to be seeing more people wearing Santa hats out and about this year. It’s good to see folks in the Christmas spirit. The weird thing is, I see this mostly in areas not particularly known for glad tidings and such. The other day in downtown Lewiston, I saw a guy in a Santa hat handing over what I can only assume was a bag of scag to another dude. As a marketing ploy, I guess it’s pretty smart. With a Santa hat, you express an air of generosity while also imparting that you know when the other guy is sleeping and when he’s awake. Pay up on time, punk, or those won’t be dreams of sugarplums dancing on your head.

Cold war (or possibly ‘Oh, Canada!’)
For the life of me, I don’t understand why we haven’t gone to war with Canada yet over their abusive exportation of winter year after year. I mean, I’ve been really enjoying these 50-degree December days, but just check out this forecast: “Temperatures are expected to become more December-like over the next few days as cold air works its way down from Canada.” !!$#@! Canada! Where can I enlist?

Welcome to . . . Deadwood
That’s right, fellas. I’m watching “Deadwood” for the third (or possibly fourth) time. It’s going to be awfully $#@!!$! hard to curb the profanity while I’m in the middle of it, too. If you’ve seen the show, you’ll understand — the fine folks of Deadwood have elevated cursing to an art form. Why, it’s almost @#!!#@ poetry!

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