Tracks in the snow? What snow?
For those of you that enjoy late night comedy, here’s a request. The next time there’s a joke about “the cheque is in the mail”, don’t laugh. The scenario is not that funny, if you are a transactional party. That’s all.
As feared, our snow cover is gone. How am I supposed to track sleighs and tiny hooves? We don’t have a chimney (I don’t think we have a chimney), but I calculated that stealth gift givers could be tracked on their way to the doors (those, we have). Now, I’m back to checking for broken blades of grass, and it is far too chilly for me to crawl around with a magnifying glass. Until I get my motion detectors (they are on my want list for this holiday), I am forced to watch out the window. That darkness is working against me.
Yesterday, I learned that the Best Picture award might go to a biopic about Stephen S. Hasn’t he won enough trophes already? The critics are gushing with their praise. Is he famous? I know; sharks and aliess and soldiers and other stuff. I read reviews. Haven’t seen the movie, yet. The cinema is too far to wander.
To the South, the next big mystery is how will the Donald scrore a pardon. He has friends, and they may be stopid from the get-gp. But “help a friend” is hard coded into the political spirit. Just a hint: choose your political deadbeats carefully. They are cunning, and harder to get rid of then lice. Someone who has their own escalator is a sign of something ominous.
