Oh, sure, the days are shorter, but the season itself is flipping endless. Winter drags on for, what? Ten months? Eleven? Okay, five, if you count November, which I certainly do. Hell, I’d count September and October if I could get anyone to cooperate with me, but no. You all want to stick to the traditional calendar — December through March. Baloney.
Winter, in my world, begins on Labor Day. That’s when they close the swimming pools; the saddest day of the year in my opinion. I can’t bear to watch, so I go in the house and close the door. I don’t come back out until Memorial Day — or the thermometer tops 78º, whichever comes first. I’m just not into the survivalist lifestyle, man, which winter absolutely requires.
I’m a sissy, all right? I don’t fare well in polar vortexes or ice storms or heavy snowfalls. I’m not built for that crap, I don’t even have an R-value, for chrissake. I’m cold and miserable and a ghastly shade of blue. Whose bright idea was it to turn the clocks back, anyway? A vampire? Count Chocula? Who?
I want someone somewhere to turn the sunlight back on, dammit. Granted, illuminating a frozen landscape of icicles and snowdrifts doesn’t warm the heart. But rays of sunshine will make a car’s interior nice and toasty. Almost like magic.
Please, join me in putting an end to this craziness. Better yet, let’s put an end to winter altogether. Write your Congressional representative, tell them to get off their asses and ban winter. Make snow illegal. Close the borders to polar vortexes. Something. The lazy boneheads.
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