Well here it is after 1am on my big day, and as usual I can’t sleep. Just knowing those bastard tophats are going to smoke me out in another few hours…it’s burned into my DNA, like a sheep cowers and pees under the passing shadow of a DC-10 far overhead, genetic memory of pterosaur attacks of old.
To my unicycling friends, I wish you as always a Happy Groundhog Day. Pedal on, regardless of the weather.
Aspen Mike, I wish I could tell you what to expect for the rest of your ski season, but that’s still a few hours off. Normally I check in after the Big Prediction, but I’m so damn tired and strung out this year, I’m heading for the deep sleep as soon as my handlers let me go and turn their attention to puffing themselves for the local media. And the international media, I should add. Amazingly, Sweden sends reporters to cover my day each year. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen how choked up a middle-aged-fat-assed-scrapple-eating-never-been-out-of-Pennsylvania tophat gets when confronted with a simple question from a Goddess in human form, microphone in hand.
With any luck, She’ll ask if She can pet the groundhog. I live for those rare occassions. Only that, and my 100% prognostication success rate, keep me going in an existence otherwise filled with tedium.
PPhil
