Snow. We were promised an inch and a half, and we ended up getting something close to ten. (The ladies in my life have precisely the opposite complaint, come to think of it.)
We’ve been lucky so far, this being the first significant storm of the season. But after the trauma of last year, I don’t give a fuck. I swear by Odin’s icicle-festooned scrotum, I don’t want to see another snowflake for ten years, period, full stop. You know how Caligula ordered his soldiers to attack the water in the English Channel? Well, that’s going to be me; stark raving mad, hacking at snowdrifts with a sword. Or maybe I’ll just run screaming off into the woods, where I’ll become a wendigo and prey on the local hillbillies.
Anyway, I have to hit the road in this mess in a couple hours, so the rest of my day is probably shot. But here’s a story from a few weeks ago to entertain you in the meantime. And if Shanna shows up jeering about how this would barely be considered a flurry up in the frozen tundra of Canuckistan, throw something at her.