Four Ways From Sunday

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Response: I'm as Cold as Hell & I'm Not Going to Take It Anymore!

Jack Frost should be relegated to that spot of obscurity where all the fat 6th grade boys attending their first party (in a purple Polo t-shirt, pink & white striped shorts [vertical stripes: they're slimming], and Cole Hahns without socks) reside. We're but 13 hours into the 3rd Storm of the Century in as many years and Monsieur Frost has already worn out his welcome.

It's not completely his fault. Much of the blame lies with Big Meteorology and their powerful lobby. Rick Mitchell is more excited to promote bad weather than Van Wilder with a keg of Roofie Light at a Wellesley party. Okies are notoriously easy to whip into a frosty frenzy at the first sign of inclement weather. We're all too eager, present company included, to stock up on the exact kinds of food that will spoil once the power goes out, only to swear out loud in this realization, drawing scornful looks from a passing grandmother, as I'm pushing the grocery cart to my car.

Well I, for one, have had enough. I have decided to take a stand against Jack Frost and his Frostofascist ideals. No longer will the US and A be held hostage by Osama bin Frostin's threats of sleet and countless extra minutes of inconvenienced travel. No longer will low-pressure systems restrict the exercise of my freedom to take the trash out shirtless, in shorts, and sporting black socks with my Birkies. I have decided to meet Mr. Frost head on, armed with my magnesium chloride and salt mixture of justice. This is our Centennial, dammit, and if Oklahoma is kept from rising, then the terrorists have won.

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posted by Guy Gadbois @ 8:02 PM,

1 Comments:

At Thursday, January 18, 2007 3:33:00 PM, Blogger Adjective Queen said...

Welcome, Guy! Glad we finally have 4 authors at last.

 

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St. Fiacre

The Saint is the defacto admin of this project because it was his hare-brained idea in the first place. So blame him. If you take nothing else from this blog, please remember that jazz is the last refuge of the untalented.

Adjective Queen

AQ has an aversion to styrofoam, chalk, and squeaky markers. She considers herself lucky to have a handful of friends who tolerate her quirky ways. She spends her days cataloging and her evenings shuttling her boys around. At night, she dreams of doing something truly crazy. Any suggestions?

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International playboy Guy Gadbois joins our stable of writers. He's likely to remain enigmatic. As he says, "I would, of course, tell you more but it would be safer for you if I did not."

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