October 9th is Leif Erikson Day! I’ve been waiting all year for this one. I’ve been working on my parade float for months. It’s mostly covered with the skulls of my vanquished enemies. Don’t worry, I’ve also got big stew pots for boiling lambs and missionaries, and tubs of barley porridge for everyone!
Well. There’s a reason my Irish friends and I used to call Saint Patrick’s Day “Amateur Hour.” Any day set aside on the calendar to act completely out of character generally ends in tears. I mean, picture “You’re a Rodeo Clown” day, or maybe, “Knife Throwing Can’t Be That Hard de Mayo,” or the “Scuba Diving Just This Once” celebration. That’s basically what Saint Patrick’s Day is to the average person. …
There are these people I read about daily on the Intertunnel. They’re preparing for the apocalypse.
They’re hoarding ammo, of course. Stacks and sacks of MREs in vaults in their bunkers. If you’re not hip to military lingo, MRE stands for Meals Ready to Eat, or more informally, Meals Refused by Ethiopians. Anyway, they’ve got bat caves and safe rooms, generators and survival equipment for every eventuality. They’re ready for a zombie horde.
If I was a betting man, though, and the apocalypse came, and I had to choose who’d survive the longest between the most Omega Man that ever prepped, hunkered in his bunker with stores galore, and this Finnish dude put out in the middle of a frozen lake in nothing but a loin cloth with nothing but a quart of aquavit, I know which way I’d bet. I’d give you odds, too, because it wouldn’t even be close.
(Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along when he awoke from his wassails)
Look at you. Slaving away in your cubicle, day after day, puttin’ cover pages on your TPS reports, trying to put enough pennies in your 401K so you can eat premium catfood when you retire. You’re doing it wrong. Santa just puts on his slippers, made from the fur of endangered animals, so you know it’s warm and comfy, puts his feet up, and has a cadre of helpers like this Christmas tree loader do all the work, 364 days a year. Then Old Saint Nick shows up like an Arctic Donald Trump to cut the ribbon on Christmas Eve and take all the credit. I bet the sleigh’s just for show, too, and Santa subcontracts all his deliveries to this helo pilot. The bastid.
[Thanks to Gerard at American Digest for sending that one along. He forgets to put cover sheets on his TPS reports occasionally, too, but he’s always getting promoted by the consultants anyway]
I don’t know why, but I have a hunch that Billy listens to Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy on a loop. When he’s forty-three, he’s still going to be sitting at the kids table, and neither the kids nor the local gendarmerie are going to be too happy about that. If you invite him over, he’s going to eat the cheese ball like an apple. After Billy leaves, you count the spoons, and there are seven more than you started with.
Keep an eye on Billy.