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| Man, Am I Glad That's Over |
Today is March 1, which means that by the grace of God, February has come to an end.
Nothing but smooth sailing from here on out with good ‘ole March on the horizon. March is a
great month, chock-full of good things like the best holiday ever: St. Patrick’s Day. Nothing like
a good excuse to get sauced at 8 a.m. (not that I need one, but it’s a whole lot easier to ignore
my problem if I’m not the only one tailgating in the Kripsy Kreme parking lot). Even better than
St. Patty’s, March means the slow cessation of shitty weather, which leads to the miraculous
event known as Sundress Day.
For those of you not in the know, Sundress Day is the best day of the year. It’s the day when
all the hot girls put away their parkas and snow boots and parade around in sundresses and
sandals. For non-gym-going guys, this is their first glimpse of female leg in months. It’s like
the bird landing on Noah’s Ark after 40 days and 40 nights of God taking a whiz on the planet.
When Sundress Day rolls around, listen closely; I swear you can hear the hallelujah chorus.
But before we all start spending our days staring slack-jawed at scantily-clad young women
basking in the warm glow of spring, let’s take a look back at all the crappy things that
happened in February. Man, I hate February.
To start things off, Arthur Miller kicked the bucket. He was known for banging Marilyn Monroe
and writing The Crucible, a scathing indictment of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s crusade against
intellectuals. He eloquently summed up his argument in a single line, uttered by Rebecca
Nurse right before she is executed for witchcraft: “I have not had my breakfast.” I have not had
my breakfast indeed, Arthur.
Arthur Miller wasn’t the only literary heavyweight to shove off this mortal coil in February.
Gonzo journalist and firearm enthusiast Hunter S. Thompson ironically died at the hands of a
gun. Those things are like pit bulls, cute as all get out but you never know when one’s going
to turn on you. Thompson is survived by his attorney and a cadre of giant lizards.
Death was a common theme throughout February. Famous people weren’t the only ones who
died, either. Plenty of common folk passed away too, like this one guy down in Georgia who
sliced up his kids and then slit his own throat. Before bleeding to death, Clarence Moore
managed to gargle, “I told them not to touch the damn thermo-stat.” Man, that guy is strict. My
parents just put me in time-out and took away my Barbies…I mean, G.I. Joes, yeah, G. I. Joes,
that’s what they took away.
Nothing but smooth sailing from here on out with good ‘ole March on the horizon. March is a
great month, chock-full of good things like the best holiday ever: St. Patrick’s Day. Nothing like
a good excuse to get sauced at 8 a.m. (not that I need one, but it’s a whole lot easier to ignore
my problem if I’m not the only one tailgating in the Kripsy Kreme parking lot). Even better than
St. Patty’s, March means the slow cessation of shitty weather, which leads to the miraculous
event known as Sundress Day.
For those of you not in the know, Sundress Day is the best day of the year. It’s the day when
all the hot girls put away their parkas and snow boots and parade around in sundresses and
sandals. For non-gym-going guys, this is their first glimpse of female leg in months. It’s like
the bird landing on Noah’s Ark after 40 days and 40 nights of God taking a whiz on the planet.
When Sundress Day rolls around, listen closely; I swear you can hear the hallelujah chorus.
But before we all start spending our days staring slack-jawed at scantily-clad young women
basking in the warm glow of spring, let’s take a look back at all the crappy things that
happened in February. Man, I hate February.
To start things off, Arthur Miller kicked the bucket. He was known for banging Marilyn Monroe
and writing The Crucible, a scathing indictment of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s crusade against
intellectuals. He eloquently summed up his argument in a single line, uttered by Rebecca
Nurse right before she is executed for witchcraft: “I have not had my breakfast.” I have not had
my breakfast indeed, Arthur.
Arthur Miller wasn’t the only literary heavyweight to shove off this mortal coil in February.
Gonzo journalist and firearm enthusiast Hunter S. Thompson ironically died at the hands of a
gun. Those things are like pit bulls, cute as all get out but you never know when one’s going
to turn on you. Thompson is survived by his attorney and a cadre of giant lizards.
Death was a common theme throughout February. Famous people weren’t the only ones who
died, either. Plenty of common folk passed away too, like this one guy down in Georgia who
sliced up his kids and then slit his own throat. Before bleeding to death, Clarence Moore
managed to gargle, “I told them not to touch the damn thermo-stat.” Man, that guy is strict. My
parents just put me in time-out and took away my Barbies…I mean, G.I. Joes, yeah, G. I. Joes,
that’s what they took away.
| Touch this and get the knife, biatch |
In other news, the state of California is falling apart. I’m hoping the whole thing does a nose-
dive into the Pacific. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who hate California, I
actually love everything about it. The thing is, I own a bunch of property on the Arizona state
line and if that goes beachfront I’ll finally have enough green to train an army of helper
monkeys to remove the month of February from every calendar in the United States.
Don’t get me wrong, February wasn’t all natural disasters and murder/suicides. Some bad
things that happened in February weren’t death and destruction-related. For example, Chris
Rock got hated on for pointing out how no one watches the Oscars. Apparently the Oscar
people didn’t like him making fun of the show he was about to host. Personally, I think his
comments got blown way out of proportion. I mean, pretty much everybody bitches about how
they hate their job. He shouldn’t have to waive his right to complain just because he’s famous
and his job is getting paid obscene amounts of money to host a three-hour awards show.
Hosting the Oscars can’t be that great a job, anyway. There’s all that standing, and if you get
nervous it must be really hard to picture that many people in their underwear. And what if John
Goodman’s there? Nobody wants to see him in his skivvies. If anything, Chris Rock should
get an award. Everybody should be so candid.
Nothing much happened in the political arena in February. On-again, off-again couple George
W. Bush and Vladimir Putin got together and bilaterally agreed that Iran should not be able to
have nuclear weapons. That is stupid. I say let the Iranians have their nukes, and then tell
them Kim Jong Il called their momma a whore. Bada-bing, bada-boom, there goes your Axis of
Evil, now let’s go get a sandwich.
This might not have been the worst February on record, but it was pretty bad. I can’t believe I
made it through. As I exit my bomb shelter for another year, I breathe a sigh of relief. No more
looking over my shoulder, no more sleepless nights spent clutching my hunting knife and trying
to remember not to roll over. Another eleven months of peace. And Sundress Day. It’s
coming. Which reminds me, I think there’s still some dog crap on the bottom of my Tevas I
need to scrape off. Gotta go!
dive into the Pacific. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who hate California, I
actually love everything about it. The thing is, I own a bunch of property on the Arizona state
line and if that goes beachfront I’ll finally have enough green to train an army of helper
monkeys to remove the month of February from every calendar in the United States.
Don’t get me wrong, February wasn’t all natural disasters and murder/suicides. Some bad
things that happened in February weren’t death and destruction-related. For example, Chris
Rock got hated on for pointing out how no one watches the Oscars. Apparently the Oscar
people didn’t like him making fun of the show he was about to host. Personally, I think his
comments got blown way out of proportion. I mean, pretty much everybody bitches about how
they hate their job. He shouldn’t have to waive his right to complain just because he’s famous
and his job is getting paid obscene amounts of money to host a three-hour awards show.
Hosting the Oscars can’t be that great a job, anyway. There’s all that standing, and if you get
nervous it must be really hard to picture that many people in their underwear. And what if John
Goodman’s there? Nobody wants to see him in his skivvies. If anything, Chris Rock should
get an award. Everybody should be so candid.
Nothing much happened in the political arena in February. On-again, off-again couple George
W. Bush and Vladimir Putin got together and bilaterally agreed that Iran should not be able to
have nuclear weapons. That is stupid. I say let the Iranians have their nukes, and then tell
them Kim Jong Il called their momma a whore. Bada-bing, bada-boom, there goes your Axis of
Evil, now let’s go get a sandwich.
This might not have been the worst February on record, but it was pretty bad. I can’t believe I
made it through. As I exit my bomb shelter for another year, I breathe a sigh of relief. No more
looking over my shoulder, no more sleepless nights spent clutching my hunting knife and trying
to remember not to roll over. Another eleven months of peace. And Sundress Day. It’s
coming. Which reminds me, I think there’s still some dog crap on the bottom of my Tevas I
need to scrape off. Gotta go!
Comments? Email me at Admin@SurlyTaco.com
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