It's been a quiet week here in Lake Wobegon.
It snowed some. You may have heard. We got two feet in Brooklyn. Cars were buried. Toddlers were probably lost. It got so bad that someone abandoned a Dodge Caravan pointing the wrong way on our one-way street, with a note expressing the car's dwindling will to live (kidding, it just said that the owners were coming back and listed their cell phone numbers.) Walking to the grocery store felt like The Day After Tomorrow. I fell down a few times, surprising no one.
I also contracted consumption, probably from accidentally ingesting a piece of dessicated fruitcake that I thought was some sort of delightful sprinkled cookie. I have been coughing up my insides for days, only instead of wasting away my pants have stopped buttoning. It must be the five-pounds-of-chocolate chaser I've been taking with my soup.
Jeff and I agree that if I were the eighth dwarf, I would be Phlegmy. Or I could start a band and call it Phlegmy and the Jets, and all we would play would be lame Elton John covers, and maybe Freebird, if requested.
So, yeah, this post is just to make sure you know you're not missing anything. Please resume your regularly scheduled drinking.