Halfway through August, I came down with a head cold and unable, or unwilling, to write about anything, I ended up writing about the head cold. An editor on vacation and prescription cough syrup led to some details that were not, shall we say, gastronomically soothing. At least one reader took offense, writing me that the next time I sneeze half an IHOP menu into my hands, he’d rather not read about it. Point taken, and gesundheit.
The next week I shared with you my roadside dealings with Officer Darby Colvin of Dooley County, Ga. After Darby purchased the new swing set with some of my $450 speeding ticket money, he had enough left to start a scholarship fund for inbred runaways who hate suburbanites in minivans. Interested applicants can visit “BadOpie.com.”
I’m conflicted on the column about farting restrictions placed on our Marines in Afghanistan. I’m convinced it’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever written, but I keep having this dream where I’m reading my own obituary and the only thing listed under “Lifetime Accomplishments” is “He once started a column with the word ’fart.’”
After the NFL lockout ended, I recalled my first-time experiences playing high school football and the struggles finding a helmet that was big enough. I still have that helmet. It sits on the dining room table, where it holds enough fruit to meet our recommended daily requirements through 2017.
I was supposed to take the next week off, but then I ran into a Snoot-Flute at the grocery store checkout who apparently thought if she got all her stuff on the conveyer belt before I did, she won. Having misplaced my “angry journal” the therapist recommended, I vented in the column instead.
I can report that our beagle, Chowder, whom I referred to as the “Sausage Torpedo,” and whose portly dimensions inspired us (OK, mine, too) to take a drag around the block snorting mailboxes, is back on the couch. Chowder, who is two parts Mother Teresa and one part Gandhi, actually tried to bite me on New Year’s Eve when I suggested she make a resolution to drop a couple this year.
I was honored when the family of Turn Signal asked me to write his obituary. He is in a better place now, or at least someplace else, but the one place he’s not, is Naples.
Though I wrote of the elderly acting childish when the wife and I attended the Steve Miller Band concert, we did not learn our lesson as we are going to see Bob Seger next Thursday. We’re making a second honeymoon out of it with Bingo Night and a shuffleboard tournament in which we’re seeded fifth.
I’m getting tired of waiting on Sean James to send me that boatload of shamrocks he e-mailed and told me I won in the Irish National Lottery, but not nearly as tired as those folks holed up in that camp in Burkino Faso waiting on my check and Social Security Number. Hang in there, Fazilla, I’d bet my leprechaun soap-on-a-rope Sean pays off this week.
Despite my column stating that sporting three days of razor stubble doesn’t mean you’re cool, it means you’re lazy, razor sales continue to plummet, resounding proof, yet again, that my column has absolutely no effect on anybody whatsoever.
At the height of “Tebowmania,” I questioned not whether he could throw a tight spiral or if a search of his cell phone would show an entry for “J. Christ,” but why anyone could, and for what reason, actually hate the guy.
I ended my retrospective on my time as a University of Florida fan writing of Urban Meyer, who recently stated he was bored in retirement since he has two girls who are off in college. This no doubt stung a bit for his younger son Nate, who is not off in college, but perhaps did shed some light on Nate’s curiosity as to why his dad occasionally says to him at the dinner table, “And who are you again?”
I noticed the family wasn’t complaining about it being hard to find me something for Christmas this year, which explains why the Barbie doll I bought for column research now has a closet full of clothes and accessories while I’m still swinging old golf clubs.
I woke up in a cold sweat dreaming of a white Christmas and then had to run the air conditioning on Dec. 25. Festive. After the ride home from Orlando with all the Christmas carols, I told the boys they could play whatever music they wanted when the big day came. We listened to about a nickel’s worth of some guy named “50 Cent” before the microphone was rightfully returned to Nat King Cole.
So that does it for 2011. In 2012, I will finish my book and I will lose 20 pounds. I’m willing to bet all my winnings from the British and Irish lotteries on it. And if I don’t, Fazilla is just going to have to stay at camp a little bit longer.
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Kevin had 40 “Life is Heald” T-shirts printed up, but hurry if you want one. After giving them away to all his friends and family and changing the oil twice, he only has 38 left. Details at LIFEisHEALD.blogspot.com or LIFEisHEALD@yahoo.com.