Buffoons in space

So, 100 people will vie for chances to be the first on Mars, their existence there to be recorded for cosmic posterity in reality-show format. Somewhere in deep space, a nine-fingered extraterrestrial just slapped his forehead. Instead of a John Glenn, a Magellan or a Ponce de Leon, we’ll have the collective equivalent of Kim Kardashian representing us in the heavens.

Speaking of Kardashian

Is Bruce Jenner a man, a woman or what? Not that I have any issues with his/her chosen lifestyle, I’d just like to know before I eat these Wheaties.

Don’t jump!

The mayor of Boston is asking people of the city to stop jumping out of windows and into the massive snow piles below. In the birthplace of the American Revolution, city leaders are worried that someone might get huuuuurt.

Life After Lewiston

I was pleased as a pickle by the number of people who enjoyed Wednesday’s Street Talk, a poignant and very scientific look at what Lewiston might look like when all of us have blown this clambake. I wish I could tell you some exotic tale about how this column came to be, but nope. I woke up Monday afternoon, stuck my face into a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. What was airing? “Life After People,” of course, and it’s hard to turn away from that show because the narrator has that soothing, omnipotent voice, sort of like that Bob Ross fellow who used to paint obedient mountains and happy trees for his occasionally drug-abusing audience. I tried to write the column in that soft objective style as much as I could, but I kind of blew it when I resorted to writing about pee and poop in a few places. Pee and poop are always trouble, which is why Ross never painted them.

Pleased as a pickle?

Is that even a real thing?

One week . . .

Until we set the clocks ahead – spring forward, if you will. This is a major thrust toward the goal of getting out of the frigid hell that is the Winter of 2015. I’m so stoked for this, I think I’ll set my clock ahead TWO hours just to make a statement. Yeah. So take that, stupid winter.

Although . . .

You realize that instead of reading about pending storms and blowing blizzards, we’ll be inundated until July with news about potential floods. Not to mention mud, rain and the fact that it will be the worst season for mosquitoes in the history of probosci. You know what? I can’t wait.

Probosci?

Is that even a word? Marsha, Google that for me, would you?

All by myself

Sadly, there is no eager assistant named Marsha to tend to my journalistic needs. Someday, man. Someday.