We Bring Ye Ancient Tidings Of Frog Tongues

Saturday. The Friday night shlock fest hangover.

Not literally, of course. Terms of my parole don't allow me within eighty-five miles of alcohol or aluminum bats at any given time. I told them repeatedly I didn't think it would work in reality, but I was told to shut up, collect my things and hit the road.

It's snowing. Since I do like to take the occasional bath/shower and drink water, this is a good thing. However, driving in the stuff is a bad deal. If it gets nasty, I'm not going anywhere. Monturf will just have to wear potato bags this week.

Everyone do themselves a favor. Run out and get Twisted Sister's "A Twisted Christmas" CD. Sweet stuff. Much better than ManwichheimlichenssteinmanueverRoller whatever they call themselves.