There once was a man from Kent 

So, last week I shared with you all a weird little poem I dreamed up while I was stoned on Nyquil or something. Since that little snippet ran in the paper, I think that means I’m a published poet now! I suppose I’ll have to start wearing an ascot and smoking a pipe. The only problem I have with that is that I have no idea what an ascot is. I thought it was either something you put on a salad or some kind of rodent. Whatever. A poet’s got to do what he’s got to do. Plus, you should probably address me as “Lord” something from now on. I’ll let you choose the something. 

Down in the mouth 

So, the nice people at Maple Way Dental Care in Lewiston, for some reason, went out and got all eight of my books. They want me to come in and sign the books, which is very flattering, but which also presents two major problems for me. One, I’ll have to come up with clever, orthodontal-themed messages to write in those books, and; B. I half suspect that this is all just some sneaky ruse devised to get me into one of their weird chairs for some kind of drilling, ripping or polishing. I shall go back and watch “Marathon Man” one more time to determine my best course of action here. 

Wynkin, Blynkin and Nog 

So at long last, people have stopped sending me photos of snow on their porches after every single storm, even the light dustings. Whew. Glad I survived all that. But now, instead of snow-covered lawn chairs and such, these same people at Christmastime have taken to sending me animated GIFS and photos of their dogs and cats wearing goofy Christmas hats instead. If I see one more Santa Claus with blinking red eyes or a frowning beagle in an elf’s cap, I’m going straight back to the nog. Which isn’t really a big deal, since I was going back to the nog, anyway. But still! Quit it. 

My calendar seems to be broken 

Also, whose stupid idea was it to place Christmas on a Wednesday this year? That’s just dirty business right there. Whomever invented Christmas certainly didn’t mean for us all to have to go back to work the day after it was over. I mean, you survive the mad rush of shopping and last-minute, eye-gouging hysteria at the stores. You endure your weird cousins, drunken uncles and nose-picking nephews on Christmas Eve. You battle your way through Christmas morning, Christmas afternoon and Christmas evening, all without the help of Dunkin’ Donuts, those weenies, who locked their doors just when you needed them the most. All of that Armageddon-level surviving and what do you get for your valor? Just another day of punching the clock at the salt mines where everybody is forced to wear ugly sweaters their handsy Aunt Gloria gave them. 

I apologize

If you work in a salt mine or have an Aunt Gloria you dearly love. To be fair, she was really only handsy that one time.