Comfortably numb
So, some young lady claims she was ordered by an airline to flush her comfort hamster down an airport toilet. That’s sad. It reminds me of the time years ago when I was forced to flush my comfort Pabst under similar circumstances. Broke my heart to do it.
Tsunami!
Nope. Sorry. False alarm. I don’t know what that was about, but for about three intoxicating minutes last week, I was actually excited to write a REAL weather story for a change. Instead, I got to write about those dramatic six inches of snow that fell fluffily during the most boring storm ever. A blahzzard. A yawneaster. Very snow hum.
Dunkin’ to discontinue foam cups
As long as they don’t discontinue the lids with the little sippy hole. My health and well-being depends on that little sippy hole.
Boiling 0ver
So a big deal was made about a new lobster emoji being unleashed upon the annoying, emoji-using public. I can’t help but notice that the lobster featured in this emoji is bright red, a color that occurs only when a lobster is dunked head-first into a boiling pot of water to suffer a slow excruciating death. Boy, that’s fun for the whole family, ain’t it?
He who shall not be named
Got a really nice letter from a fellow or possibly a lady who also included a New Yorker magazine cover that illustrates my disdain for January. I wanted to look up the letter writer so I could say thanks, but the signature is very doctor-y. The best I can make it out, this excellent letter was sent by either Thisb Kehegr or Nisl Le Hagar. Whether you be Thisb or Nisl, my friend, I thank you for this note.
All rise
Another awesome letter writer named Marianne suggested that I will someday be canonized. I don’t know what that is, my new friend, but I like the sound of it. I’ll see you at the ceremony and/or canon firing.
Walgreen gobbling up Rite-Aids
Not sure how I should feel about this. I mean, it’s not like it’s a Hooters or Chainsaws-R-Us. It’s another drug store. Ah, well. As long as I can continue to get that cream and tiny comb, I’ll be fine.
Bean’s return policy
I swear to God, I knew a couple years ago who used to troll the river banks along the Androscoggin in search of tattered backpacks, mud-filled boots, mangled flashlights, fragments of winter caps and pretty much anything made of chamois in hopes of returning it to L.L. Bean’s for cash money. It was like a weird combination of hiking and dumpster diving.
Don’t forget!
Valentine’s Day is next week. You’re lucky to have such a thoughtful and attentive sort like myself to remind you of these things.
I’m out!
A very nice and possible psychotic fellow responded to a Sun Journal questionnaire this week by suggesting that I could have been a writer for the Seinfeld show. I already have two columns about nothing, what more do you want from me, nice and possibly psychotic letter writer? But while we’re on the subject, what’s the deal with those little plastics nibs they put on the end of pens these days? Why does a pen need this kind of prophylactic? (Editors: Place Seinfeld theme music here and then cut me a check.)
Send questions/comments to the editors.
