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Wednesday, January 26, 2011


I've concluded that winter has an appetite, and it's eating everything in sight -- houses, freeways, automobiles and entire groups of men, women and children. The streets are barren so that's what's got to have happened, as I don't see a human being in sight within the environs of the relentless flakes.

Yes, the ding-snow ate your baby.

Winter 2010/2011 may go down in the record books as one of the snowiest on record, but frankly those of us who are stuck in the midst of this allegedly historic event are sick of the whole damn thing.

We have been shoveling, shoveling, shoveling now for a few weeks -- and the mounds of the stuff are getting larger and larger. There's nowhere to put it, so you sort of move it around in hopes that you can make it possible for mere mortals to maneuver.

Because of parking bans many of us will trudge to assorted public lots in hopes of finding our cars tomorrow morning, a ritual that is easier said than done because what you first find are nothing but mounds under which vehicles lurk. The guy who parked the car next to yours shoveled his auto out of the spot where he parked, but only by throwing the snow that was on his car, yep, right onto yours.

Or somewhere thereabouts.

If I talk to one more person who doesn't live where it's snowing about how romantic the whole thing is I may go postal. If I talk to one more local who thinks all of this shoveling is fine by him or her I may also go postal, or worse, shovel the snow right in front of their car.

This is getting ugly, people, and I'm warning you that those of us who live in the northeast are at breaking point, capable of doing all sorts of things because of all this cold, white cement which is everywhere we go.

It may be time for us to share with those of you who don't have any.

It's possible we might charter a huge airplane, fill the blasted thing with snow, and send it in your direction. No questions asked. We are mad as hell, and we are not going to take it anymore.

Amen, and pass the mustard.

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