The night before
Wait, what? It’s Christmas Eve and yet I still have to file one of these stupid columns? Ain’t nobody reading my goofy stuff on Christmas Eve. I hope not, anyway. What a way to kill the holiday buzz you’ve got going — a buzz that has absolutely nothing to do with those airline rum bottles you’ve been knocking back every time your wife leaves the room. And who can blame you? The holidays are stressful. Just be advised that if I see you chopping up the mistletoe on a little mirror, I’m gonna call for a Yuletide intervention.

Winter finds a way
Well, there goes another emotional safe harbor I rely on during winter. That whole “at least it’s not snow” philosophy really messed with us this time, didn’t it? I mean, yeah, it was only rain, but it was a whole ocean of it and it came blowing in on winds shrieking at 50 mph or more. We always say, in our smarmy way, that at least we don’t have to shovel rain, and it’s true. I didn’t have to shovel anything during the early week storm and yet for hours, I found myself in the basement using a shop vac to suck up hundreds of gallons of water that just kept pouring back in as fast as I could remove it. You don’t have to shovel rain, sure, but sometimes you have to vacuum it. Well played, winter. Well played.

Storm turkeys … of death!
So, as the monster rain storm finally started to die down, people all over the place were reporting mysterious birds in the area. I was only half listening when my current wife was telling me about it, but from what I gather, these mystery birds have red-glowing eyes, an ear-piercing squawk and a taste for human flesh. Apparently the storm blew these savage birds straight out of a cove in Hell and now they’re doomed to roam the earth plucking the eyeballs right out of our heads. Or something like that. She just went on and on about them and it was all very confusing.

My apologies to the ornithology community
OK, so my current wife has explained that the mystery birds are actually called Dovekies and they’re just adoooorable. It was an honest mistake. If I should encounter one of these birds, I shall befriend him and apologize directly.

New Year, new me
With Christmas pies in mind, I’m making it a New Year’s resolution to finally learn how to spell tortiere correctly. Totrtear, that is. Torchay? Toochay? On second thought, you know what? I’m just going to call them meat pies forevermore and take the new year off.

But seriously …
The latter part of 2023 has been a terrible time for a lot of people. Here’s to a peaceful Christmas and a better new year for all. Just watch out for the mystery birds.

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