There is a reason why Barbara Stanwyck spent "Christmas in Connecticut" rather than Easter. Easter in Connecticut looks like Christmas... except without the snow... or the lights... or the trees... strike that: Easter in Connecticut looks rather dull and grey. Fortunately, time spent visiting family and friends can help remove the dull, grey outlook and make it feel as if we're in Majorca. Seriously.
Ok, no so seriously.
Somewhat like Majorca with a little less sun.
And beach.
And friendly natives. (BTW, Connecticut's Department of Tourism Affairs [the renamed DMV] will be announcing any day now that the state motto is changing to "Connecticut: Not QUITE like Majorca but kinda sorta if you squint in the general direction of Rhode Island...")
At any rate, native Nutmeggers, praying off snow flurries that might impede the Easter Bunny, are accepting the cold and wind with the alacrity of a French boarder guard repelling a German invasion.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Too Long Gone
Not only have we been too long from this blog, we have spent much too much time apart this weekend. Nebraska holds no charm for either of us at this point, after Pete's four days missing from my side here in VA--all for a homeschooling group in Nebraska.
I hope they appreciated his presence. I would have appreciated it too.
How odd that we have been married for 1 1/2 years already and it is harder for us to be apart now than it was before we were married. I am hoping this is a good sign.
I am hoping my attitude will be somewhat improved over his next trip.
I hope they appreciated his presence. I would have appreciated it too.
How odd that we have been married for 1 1/2 years already and it is harder for us to be apart now than it was before we were married. I am hoping this is a good sign.
I am hoping my attitude will be somewhat improved over his next trip.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Comparative Analysis
On consecutive evenings I have watched, in no particular order
The Hunt for Red October
Intolerable Cruelty
McLintock
A Life Less Ordinary
Fievel Goes West
Fearlessly cutting through the reams of research necessary to compose a 4L paper with the daring-do of Alec Baldwin, the charm of George Clooney, the belly-up to danger attitude of John Wayne, the European suavity of Ewan MacGregor, and the overpowering physique of a two-dimensional rodent, Pete charges through the evening sans caffeine.
On threat of percolation, the adorable female of the species cutely, but sternly, questions “To stay up late tonight or get up early tomorrow morning?”
The male, sensing insubordination and logic within the ranks, quickly returns fire:
‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!’
The male, sensing self-stupidity, buttresses his position by quickly putting on his headphones and looking down at his computer.
Darn you George Clooney. The standard is too high.
The Hunt for Red October
Intolerable Cruelty
McLintock
A Life Less Ordinary
Fievel Goes West
Fearlessly cutting through the reams of research necessary to compose a 4L paper with the daring-do of Alec Baldwin, the charm of George Clooney, the belly-up to danger attitude of John Wayne, the European suavity of Ewan MacGregor, and the overpowering physique of a two-dimensional rodent, Pete charges through the evening sans caffeine.
On threat of percolation, the adorable female of the species cutely, but sternly, questions “To stay up late tonight or get up early tomorrow morning?”
The male, sensing insubordination and logic within the ranks, quickly returns fire:
‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice!’
The male, sensing self-stupidity, buttresses his position by quickly putting on his headphones and looking down at his computer.
Darn you George Clooney. The standard is too high.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Benefit of the Pout
(Or my way of dealing with stupid policies)
Not being certain of what rouses you from deep and holy recesses of slumber is annoying. Realizing that (a) one’s alarm clock failed to peal forth glorious salutations of a new day and (b) had one known how awful one would have felt one would have entrenched oneself further into the safe recesses of one’s bed does not extend the already short list of reasons to rouse oneself to “urgent” or even “half-way convincing” status, and does nothing to light a fire under one’s tuckus.
6:45 a.m. and dark skies greeted me earlier this morning. One considered releasing one’s alarm clock from one’s employ ‘til one, ‘pon checking said device, was made to understand one had set said device (pink slip withdrawn) for 4 post meridian rather than 4 ante meridian. The refreshing wave known as knowledge and enlightenment was only slightly interfered with by the vague sensation of falling. Backwards, that is, into the washing machine to be precise. What brought on my sudden vertigo, I quickly discovered was that a night of hard partying (birthday chili spiced up by The Secret of Life of Walter Mitty and bed at 8:30) in honor of my birthday had left its mark on my nervous system. To put it quite more to the point, I was sick.
I truly do try not to complain about my health. My beloved’s medical history causes my thoroughly good health to quiver in shame at the prospect of admitting sickness. That being said, this morning I do believe I have topped my sick sensations. Kelly and I agreed to give ourselves the morning to get things in order. Having some urgent things to attend to at work (as a newly christened quarter-centenarian, that sounds so promisingly important), I opted to go into work for a few hours and, well, attend to them. After three hours in the office, I packed up shop and headed for home by way of one of the major commercial centers in the bustling metropolis of Purcellville (read Giant grocery store). The object of my pursuit was a bag of chips to accompany dinner.
As I parked and entered the store, I was struck with a sharp pain in my skull that usually accompanies thinking. A brilliant plan had erupted in my brain-thingie! Having many sundry items to transport home from work, and, in light of the fact that that skies released a chilly rain in porous fashion, I elected to purchase two bags of chips and procure two bags from the store. One bag would be utilized for the transportation of the chips, and one for the half dozen now-soaking other items in my car.
After concluding my transaction at the register I collected my pre-bagged now bagged chips and deftly snagged another plastic bag to accomplish my mission. As I prepared to exite the premises, my attention was arrested by a sharp, “Sir!” Trusting my solitude would only be interrupted in a grocery store by, say, having won a life time supply of cupcakes, I was surprised to discover that the origin of my interruption was a bag-lady. Now this bag lady was not importunate, at least not in any way I could, with my Wimsian powers, ascertain. She was however, fitted with that supreme mark of authoritarian sternness that marks all great grocery store bag ladies… she was short.
She continued. “Sir, you can’t take that.” I said nothing. In fact, during the entire exchange following, I said nothing.
Her eyes fell to the extra bag in my hand.
“You… have two bags.”
Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the bag, like a dog whose visual orbs lock onto a tennis ball. I briefly contemplated pitching the bag over my shoulder with the command to “Retrieve, Bruiser, KILL!” but let it lapse.
“If you have under six items you can only have one bag.”
‘Brilliant!’ I thought, ‘I’m going to go find the six largest items I can in the store and try to cram them into the bloody bag, SUING YOU NINCOMPOOPS when I injure myself. But again, I said nothing, reaching the stage of actual disbelief.
“It’s…it’s store policy.”
I looked over my shoulder outdoors, smiling internally that the gods had blessed me with a torrential downpour to provide natural embellishment to any story I could concoct for the necessity of two plastic bags. Need a canoe? Sure, I just have to grab my bags- oh, whoops, store policy forbids it!
My glance returned to the diminutive bag lady as I shifted my substantial bulk, squaring up… or as it were, pearing up <-- PLAY ON WORDS] to her.
Side note: My lovely and non-pear-shaped wife indicates that my above mentioned “Play on words” doesn’t make sense. I would like to remind readers of this post that Peter is writing, and therefore no sense is to be found anywhere. This should not be taken as a slight against dear Kelly, for I now she means well… I just wish that sometimes I had a point and could shoot back with something wittier than… well, this. Sighhh…
I again looked outside. The rain was falling so heavily, I could have sworn I saw a Cadillac float by the window. She tugged the bag from my hand and muttered something about how the “conversation is at an end” and “Don’t ask me why, etc.”
‘Don’t worry, fair maid!’ I nearly called after her, ‘Have no fear, I shall not ask from whose brilliant mental bowels this policy was expunged!’ But alas, I said nothing.
Not being certain of what rouses you from deep and holy recesses of slumber is annoying. Realizing that (a) one’s alarm clock failed to peal forth glorious salutations of a new day and (b) had one known how awful one would have felt one would have entrenched oneself further into the safe recesses of one’s bed does not extend the already short list of reasons to rouse oneself to “urgent” or even “half-way convincing” status, and does nothing to light a fire under one’s tuckus.
6:45 a.m. and dark skies greeted me earlier this morning. One considered releasing one’s alarm clock from one’s employ ‘til one, ‘pon checking said device, was made to understand one had set said device (pink slip withdrawn) for 4 post meridian rather than 4 ante meridian. The refreshing wave known as knowledge and enlightenment was only slightly interfered with by the vague sensation of falling. Backwards, that is, into the washing machine to be precise. What brought on my sudden vertigo, I quickly discovered was that a night of hard partying (birthday chili spiced up by The Secret of Life of Walter Mitty and bed at 8:30) in honor of my birthday had left its mark on my nervous system. To put it quite more to the point, I was sick.
I truly do try not to complain about my health. My beloved’s medical history causes my thoroughly good health to quiver in shame at the prospect of admitting sickness. That being said, this morning I do believe I have topped my sick sensations. Kelly and I agreed to give ourselves the morning to get things in order. Having some urgent things to attend to at work (as a newly christened quarter-centenarian, that sounds so promisingly important), I opted to go into work for a few hours and, well, attend to them. After three hours in the office, I packed up shop and headed for home by way of one of the major commercial centers in the bustling metropolis of Purcellville (read Giant grocery store). The object of my pursuit was a bag of chips to accompany dinner.
As I parked and entered the store, I was struck with a sharp pain in my skull that usually accompanies thinking. A brilliant plan had erupted in my brain-thingie! Having many sundry items to transport home from work, and, in light of the fact that that skies released a chilly rain in porous fashion, I elected to purchase two bags of chips and procure two bags from the store. One bag would be utilized for the transportation of the chips, and one for the half dozen now-soaking other items in my car.
After concluding my transaction at the register I collected my pre-bagged now bagged chips and deftly snagged another plastic bag to accomplish my mission. As I prepared to exite the premises, my attention was arrested by a sharp, “Sir!” Trusting my solitude would only be interrupted in a grocery store by, say, having won a life time supply of cupcakes, I was surprised to discover that the origin of my interruption was a bag-lady. Now this bag lady was not importunate, at least not in any way I could, with my Wimsian powers, ascertain. She was however, fitted with that supreme mark of authoritarian sternness that marks all great grocery store bag ladies… she was short.
She continued. “Sir, you can’t take that.” I said nothing. In fact, during the entire exchange following, I said nothing.
Her eyes fell to the extra bag in my hand.
“You… have two bags.”
Her eyes remained steadfastly fixed on the bag, like a dog whose visual orbs lock onto a tennis ball. I briefly contemplated pitching the bag over my shoulder with the command to “Retrieve, Bruiser, KILL!” but let it lapse.
“If you have under six items you can only have one bag.”
‘Brilliant!’ I thought, ‘I’m going to go find the six largest items I can in the store and try to cram them into the bloody bag, SUING YOU NINCOMPOOPS when I injure myself. But again, I said nothing, reaching the stage of actual disbelief.
“It’s…it’s store policy.”
I looked over my shoulder outdoors, smiling internally that the gods had blessed me with a torrential downpour to provide natural embellishment to any story I could concoct for the necessity of two plastic bags. Need a canoe? Sure, I just have to grab my bags- oh, whoops, store policy forbids it!
My glance returned to the diminutive bag lady as I shifted my substantial bulk, squaring up… or as it were, pearing up <-- PLAY ON WORDS] to her.
Side note: My lovely and non-pear-shaped wife indicates that my above mentioned “Play on words” doesn’t make sense. I would like to remind readers of this post that Peter is writing, and therefore no sense is to be found anywhere. This should not be taken as a slight against dear Kelly, for I now she means well… I just wish that sometimes I had a point and could shoot back with something wittier than… well, this. Sighhh…
I again looked outside. The rain was falling so heavily, I could have sworn I saw a Cadillac float by the window. She tugged the bag from my hand and muttered something about how the “conversation is at an end” and “Don’t ask me why, etc.”
‘Don’t worry, fair maid!’ I nearly called after her, ‘Have no fear, I shall not ask from whose brilliant mental bowels this policy was expunged!’ But alas, I said nothing.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Long Overdue
DISCLAIMER: This post is not a reflection of any of our current circumstances or situations. Its purpose is pure drivel and a lot of nonsense. But do enjoy.
Hey guys,
Seeing as how it’s been a while since I wrote a general e-mail to all of you, let me re-introduce how this works.
In the deep recesses of my cavernous (which means BIG but EMPTY) and strikingly addled brain, there dwells a creative force waiting to be released on an unsuspecting public. Unfortunately, I can’t figure out what it is yet. In consequence, I string together random thoughts and hope that there is a commonality in them that could be interpreted as a "Subject". When I stumble across this ‘subject’, I make a mental note to myself to compose a humorous vignette based on it. Of course, most of those mental notes lose their sticky backing, and fall off the mental refrigerator under the mental stove, as it were. There is rests with the mental dust balls and half-eaten mental Oreos until something important falls down behind the mental stove, and I have to pull it out to get to it. Then I am confronted with a pile of mental notes that would fuel Mongolia’s central heating system for a month.
Be fair, a week.
Honestly, a day and not less.
Ok ok, 7 seconds if you add 4 tons of coal, but you get the idea.
Touching on the subject matter at hand, it’s nippy up here. It’s downright cold, actually. This morning it was -5 degrees. Being a crustacean, I natura- …. Crustacean? That’s not right. Crusti- crust of bread, crost crutting measures… Crusty Nutmegger, there’s the soubriquet. Being a crusty Nutmegger, I don’t make it a habit of complaining about the weather though. You should notice, I am NOT complaining. I am merely pontificating my lack of satisfaction, on a purely subjective level, with the present meteorological conditions surrounding my domicile.
But I digress. The reason we don’t make a habit of complaining about the weather is twofold. First, in the summer it’s always hotter in Texas, and Texans (no apologies to the Texas delegation in the peanut gallery) have a perverse satisfaction in finding themselves hotter than 90% of the country. "The only way WE can cool down is by hopping in a freezer chest filled with liquid nitrogen, and sinking it in Lake Baikal Siberia! Shaddup, ya wimpy eastern ponce, before I whack you on the head with an armadillo in spurs!"
Second, in the winter it’s always colder someplace else, like Minnesota. Without going into extraneous details, they’ll tell us wimpy eastern ponces to shut up before they hit us over the head with a moose in a tutu. Incidentally, the way Minnesotans stay warm is by spending their winters in Texas. There are no, I repeat NO Minnesotans who actually live up there in the winter. How many Minnesotans have you actually seen in Minnesota in the winter? How many have you seen in Texas in the winter?
Though this research was not scientific, I think 4 out of 5 dentists would agree with me. There is, I have heard tell, a National Parks ranger who occupies a hunting lodge in southern Minnesota during 2 weeks in January. The only way he stays warm is by ripping the heating element out of his toaster and dipping it in his shorts. When he wakes up, he pops the hood of his pick-up and plays snuggle-bunnies with the engine block.
Anyway, so’s not to complain about the weather, I’ll explain how we wimpy northeastern ponces get through weeks like this. Here's the secret, are you ready?
We shamelessly exploit it in attempts to get sympathy. Remember, northeasterners are liberals, and essentially as narcissistic as… well, we produced Ted Kennedy, Howard Dean, John Kerry and gay civil unions, what more do you want?
To understand the mindset, let me take you through 3 quick, self-aggrandizing ways to make other people feel sorry for your plight.
First, insert the temperature into every conversation. Just make sure it's going to be a cold day, and then, as matter-of-factly as possible, say something like, "Hey Frank, I haven't spoken to you since college! I hear you're joining AARP next month. Say, it's -48 degrees right now!"
Now how did our not-so-subtle caller pin the thermometer at -48 degrees? Is it REALLY -48 degrees? Of course not, but I'll let you guys in on how all this work.
Tomorrow’s high is forecasted as 5 degrees. Veritably tropical. The low is forecasted to be –15, and the wind chill is forecasted at –20 to –40.
Upon hearing news like this, you must start out be sinking the temp 5 to 10 degrees to sound more impressive. For example, had the forecast been a high of 30 degrees, you would naturally say, "Did you hear it’ll be 20 tomorrow?" This in turn sets up that person to subtract another 5 to 10 degrees and so on and so forth, until the word Kelvin conjures images Rio De Janeiro and girls sensuously tangoing with fruit baskets on their heads. As it is, the best we can come up with are images of Finland and polar bears turkey trotting in City Hall.
Second, you must have proper respect to "highs" and "lows". This is simple. Highs project the warmer temperature, and therefore get less sympathy. Thus, you must only speak in terms of low temperatures. If the low is forecasted as 30 degrees, you must say, "Did you hear it’ll be 20 degrees tomorrow?" (remembering to subtract 5-10 degrees from the forecasted temperature of course). Again, this permits the sliding scale to continue until your non-New England family and/or friends naturally presume you’re living on Pluto.
Pluto, incidentally, is thought to be a toasty average of –378 to –396 degrees. NASA isn’t quite 100% sure on that, but hey, their guess is better than mine.
Third, a proper understanding of wind chill or wind chill factor is essential. Wind chill can be basically understood as follows:
Uh, my bad. It can’t be. However, I have, in the place of accurate meteorological theories, composed witty and not-at-all sensible poem:
Thirty days hath December,
Killing two birds I don’t remember.
Or were they pigs, who, when they loft,
Mount on wings of clouds so soft?
At-mos-phere thin, helps lift them boldly
To heights unknown by pigs. So coldly
Then those hams take flight and soar!
"It’s a bird! Or a plane!" No! It’s a boar!
Which brings in mind Bernoulli’s theorem,
Meaning wind must blow. So now I fear ‘em.
Those flying pigs, of course I mean,
Yep, frozen hams (Dr. Suesse's were green!).
So remember that when choosing diets
Stick with protein what gots suet.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of chicken—
Those cold flying pigs just keep on tickin’.
And that’s all you need to know about wind-chill right there. Of course, meteorologists would take issue with that line of reasoning, but then their jobs depend on the lies they weave. So who are you going to believe, some washed up actor with a rug who pretends he knows what he’s talking about or the meteorologist? Remember, 4 out of 5 dentists choose, uh, sixty percent of the lower working classes- er, tax cuts. Or something like that.
So having heard my deft explanations of how seriously we New Englanders take our weather, it come time for me to divulge how I would advise a visitor to deal with it.
If you recall your high school days, ponder for a moment the period known as "The Industrial Revolution". This is when Jesse Jackson and Louis Farrakhan said, "Don’t fire until you see the whites!" Now, during this time, Welsh miners found that when they descended into the coal veins to rip the ore from the bowels of the earth (proving once again that too many adjectives can be a very baaaad thing!) the presence of a canary was advantageous. This was because canaries have a (slightly) lower tolerance of carbon monoxide than do humans. Hence, when the canary shuffled off to Buffalo and tipped the scales towards Blighty the miners would know it was time to make reservations on a higher plane. Namely, get lead out of their knickers and skidaddle up out of the mine.
Likewise, New Englanders have their own sacrificial animal to toss outside during a cold spell. Cats usually suffice, but occasionally a Canadian or pigeon will suffice.
If the sacrificial animal quickly becomes statuesque, the assumption is made that it’s too cold to venture outside for all but the most necessary tasks. These tasks include rushing pregnant women to the hospital, emergency runs to the grocery store for more nachos during March Madness, or sitting outside for 4 hours at a Patriots game (may Indianapolis tap-dance on your spines and consume your jerseys for snacks!).
If you happen to be visiting during a cold spell, please bring your own cat. Or Canadian. Unless you’re from Canada. Then you must provide your own unwanted critter. Vermonters will suffice.
Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go get my monthly head-smacking from a tutu clad moose bearing Minnesotan.
T-t-t-t-toodles,
?ete
Hey guys,
Seeing as how it’s been a while since I wrote a general e-mail to all of you, let me re-introduce how this works.
In the deep recesses of my cavernous (which means BIG but EMPTY) and strikingly addled brain, there dwells a creative force waiting to be released on an unsuspecting public. Unfortunately, I can’t figure out what it is yet. In consequence, I string together random thoughts and hope that there is a commonality in them that could be interpreted as a "Subject". When I stumble across this ‘subject’, I make a mental note to myself to compose a humorous vignette based on it. Of course, most of those mental notes lose their sticky backing, and fall off the mental refrigerator under the mental stove, as it were. There is rests with the mental dust balls and half-eaten mental Oreos until something important falls down behind the mental stove, and I have to pull it out to get to it. Then I am confronted with a pile of mental notes that would fuel Mongolia’s central heating system for a month.
Be fair, a week.
Honestly, a day and not less.
Ok ok, 7 seconds if you add 4 tons of coal, but you get the idea.
Touching on the subject matter at hand, it’s nippy up here. It’s downright cold, actually. This morning it was -5 degrees. Being a crustacean, I natura- …. Crustacean? That’s not right. Crusti- crust of bread, crost crutting measures… Crusty Nutmegger, there’s the soubriquet. Being a crusty Nutmegger, I don’t make it a habit of complaining about the weather though. You should notice, I am NOT complaining. I am merely pontificating my lack of satisfaction, on a purely subjective level, with the present meteorological conditions surrounding my domicile.
But I digress. The reason we don’t make a habit of complaining about the weather is twofold. First, in the summer it’s always hotter in Texas, and Texans (no apologies to the Texas delegation in the peanut gallery) have a perverse satisfaction in finding themselves hotter than 90% of the country. "The only way WE can cool down is by hopping in a freezer chest filled with liquid nitrogen, and sinking it in Lake Baikal Siberia! Shaddup, ya wimpy eastern ponce, before I whack you on the head with an armadillo in spurs!"
Second, in the winter it’s always colder someplace else, like Minnesota. Without going into extraneous details, they’ll tell us wimpy eastern ponces to shut up before they hit us over the head with a moose in a tutu. Incidentally, the way Minnesotans stay warm is by spending their winters in Texas. There are no, I repeat NO Minnesotans who actually live up there in the winter. How many Minnesotans have you actually seen in Minnesota in the winter? How many have you seen in Texas in the winter?
Though this research was not scientific, I think 4 out of 5 dentists would agree with me. There is, I have heard tell, a National Parks ranger who occupies a hunting lodge in southern Minnesota during 2 weeks in January. The only way he stays warm is by ripping the heating element out of his toaster and dipping it in his shorts. When he wakes up, he pops the hood of his pick-up and plays snuggle-bunnies with the engine block.
Anyway, so’s not to complain about the weather, I’ll explain how we wimpy northeastern ponces get through weeks like this. Here's the secret, are you ready?
We shamelessly exploit it in attempts to get sympathy. Remember, northeasterners are liberals, and essentially as narcissistic as… well, we produced Ted Kennedy, Howard Dean, John Kerry and gay civil unions, what more do you want?
To understand the mindset, let me take you through 3 quick, self-aggrandizing ways to make other people feel sorry for your plight.
First, insert the temperature into every conversation. Just make sure it's going to be a cold day, and then, as matter-of-factly as possible, say something like, "Hey Frank, I haven't spoken to you since college! I hear you're joining AARP next month. Say, it's -48 degrees right now!"
Now how did our not-so-subtle caller pin the thermometer at -48 degrees? Is it REALLY -48 degrees? Of course not, but I'll let you guys in on how all this work.
Tomorrow’s high is forecasted as 5 degrees. Veritably tropical. The low is forecasted to be –15, and the wind chill is forecasted at –20 to –40.
Upon hearing news like this, you must start out be sinking the temp 5 to 10 degrees to sound more impressive. For example, had the forecast been a high of 30 degrees, you would naturally say, "Did you hear it’ll be 20 tomorrow?" This in turn sets up that person to subtract another 5 to 10 degrees and so on and so forth, until the word Kelvin conjures images Rio De Janeiro and girls sensuously tangoing with fruit baskets on their heads. As it is, the best we can come up with are images of Finland and polar bears turkey trotting in City Hall.
Second, you must have proper respect to "highs" and "lows". This is simple. Highs project the warmer temperature, and therefore get less sympathy. Thus, you must only speak in terms of low temperatures. If the low is forecasted as 30 degrees, you must say, "Did you hear it’ll be 20 degrees tomorrow?" (remembering to subtract 5-10 degrees from the forecasted temperature of course). Again, this permits the sliding scale to continue until your non-New England family and/or friends naturally presume you’re living on Pluto.
Pluto, incidentally, is thought to be a toasty average of –378 to –396 degrees. NASA isn’t quite 100% sure on that, but hey, their guess is better than mine.
Third, a proper understanding of wind chill or wind chill factor is essential. Wind chill can be basically understood as follows:
Uh, my bad. It can’t be. However, I have, in the place of accurate meteorological theories, composed witty and not-at-all sensible poem:
Thirty days hath December,
Killing two birds I don’t remember.
Or were they pigs, who, when they loft,
Mount on wings of clouds so soft?
At-mos-phere thin, helps lift them boldly
To heights unknown by pigs. So coldly
Then those hams take flight and soar!
"It’s a bird! Or a plane!" No! It’s a boar!
Which brings in mind Bernoulli’s theorem,
Meaning wind must blow. So now I fear ‘em.
Those flying pigs, of course I mean,
Yep, frozen hams (Dr. Suesse's were green!).
So remember that when choosing diets
Stick with protein what gots suet.
An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of chicken—
Those cold flying pigs just keep on tickin’.
And that’s all you need to know about wind-chill right there. Of course, meteorologists would take issue with that line of reasoning, but then their jobs depend on the lies they weave. So who are you going to believe, some washed up actor with a rug who pretends he knows what he’s talking about or the meteorologist? Remember, 4 out of 5 dentists choose, uh, sixty percent of the lower working classes- er, tax cuts. Or something like that.
So having heard my deft explanations of how seriously we New Englanders take our weather, it come time for me to divulge how I would advise a visitor to deal with it.
If you recall your high school days, ponder for a moment the period known as "The Industrial Revolution". This is when Jesse Jackson and Louis Farrakhan said, "Don’t fire until you see the whites!" Now, during this time, Welsh miners found that when they descended into the coal veins to rip the ore from the bowels of the earth (proving once again that too many adjectives can be a very baaaad thing!) the presence of a canary was advantageous. This was because canaries have a (slightly) lower tolerance of carbon monoxide than do humans. Hence, when the canary shuffled off to Buffalo and tipped the scales towards Blighty the miners would know it was time to make reservations on a higher plane. Namely, get lead out of their knickers and skidaddle up out of the mine.
Likewise, New Englanders have their own sacrificial animal to toss outside during a cold spell. Cats usually suffice, but occasionally a Canadian or pigeon will suffice.
If the sacrificial animal quickly becomes statuesque, the assumption is made that it’s too cold to venture outside for all but the most necessary tasks. These tasks include rushing pregnant women to the hospital, emergency runs to the grocery store for more nachos during March Madness, or sitting outside for 4 hours at a Patriots game (may Indianapolis tap-dance on your spines and consume your jerseys for snacks!).
If you happen to be visiting during a cold spell, please bring your own cat. Or Canadian. Unless you’re from Canada. Then you must provide your own unwanted critter. Vermonters will suffice.
Now if you’ll all excuse me, I have to go get my monthly head-smacking from a tutu clad moose bearing Minnesotan.
T-t-t-t-toodles,
?ete
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