Wednesday, December 10, 2003

I thought of you yesterday evening, dear reader, as I walked briskly to the entrance of my apartment complex. The setting was a dreary, rainy night, the kind that is quickly becoming the trend du jour for fair Evanston. One of the fellows sitting in the park nearby held forth emphatically–to himself and to any other passersby–about something. While I didn’t catch his conclusion, I did manage to catch a few snippets: “Bill Clinton,” “f*ckers,” “f*ck,” and “f*cking” all made grand (and often repeated) entrances in his park bench monologue.

Faithful readers will quickly point out similarities between this fellow and the Wolley Mammoth. I appreciate the astute connection, I really do, but this was a whole different animal, one that I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole taped to another ten-foot pole. So where do you come in, gentle reader? It’s quite simple, you know. The park bench reminded me of you. Whom else do I rest upon as I dispense nugget after nugget of wisdom, the likes of which are unavailable anywhere else?

With that in mind, I will give you a sage piece of holiday advice. If you’re ever hankering for that divine blend of internal bleeding, driving, whiffle balls, and whiplash, check out this sport. Part of our office holiday party consisted of rousing 5-on-5 matches. I failed to score a single point, though I managed on several occasions to ram into the wall at full speed. This is new for me because I usually walk into walls at full speed. Bruises aside, the very sight of my colleagues shrieking wildly and ramming each other savagely for the ball warmed the cockles of my corporate heart.

Speaking of holiday cheer, I need to make a cheery confession. Santa Claus actually was real. From what my cleaning staff tells me, the jolly pip apparently mistook our trash chute for a chimney during one of his recent test-runs. This trash chute leads straight to our trash compactor, so I apologize to children the world over for the ho ho holdup.