I just chopped my way through three quarters of a ton of ice. No, not shoveled. Chopped. The palm of my right hand feels like it’s been tenderized by a fallen anvil.
The layer of ice on the sidewalks was damn near an inch thick and was adhered to that concrete as if it was part of it since the day it was poured.
Mind you, I’m not whining. I’m simply stating facts. I mean, I don’t want to come off as whining about the weather. No need being taken for one of those left-leaning whine-o-sexuals.
Speaking of pouring, I stayed up all night playing Civilizations VI while listening to the police scanner. And that had to be the single most boring scanner event I have ever partaken of. Save for a few medic calls and the back-and-forth banter of the plow drivers, it was one threadbare night. So I’m left to believe that the weather keeps the crime rate artificially low in most of northern Canada as well as Alaska. And probably both of the Falkland Islands. I guess.
I was out of the modest adobe early Tuesday morning as I made my way to Junedale. For those of you that rarely leave the valley, Junedale is an aged coal patch of a place that sits between Beaver Meadows and Tresckow. You know, down south of Hazleton. In lower Luzerne County. Oh, buy a map already, will you? Or one of those newfangled Tom Toms, if you’re really that completely lame. Tom Tom for the Puss Puss.
Anyway, down that away, the roads were snow covered and the sleet was coming down so hard that my windshield wipers kept freezing up. And when it got to the point where I was counter-steering the counter-steering, practically zigzagging my way, I decided to break off the route and make it back to Wilkes-Barre while I still could. That is, one jackknifed rig on 309 and one jackknifed rig on I-81 and Markie is reduced to fending off the lot lizards while the sleet continues to pile. Not!
Now, for those of you who failed your random drug tests and lost your city jobs, the roads in Wilkes-Barre were in far better shape than anywhere else I spied with four eyes yesterday morning. So there’s really no need to call WILK this afternoon and demand that Mayor Tom Leighton be beheaded immediately after his impeachment.
Once I got back here to the city, I realized that I was woefully short on emergency supplies and whatnot. So, going into survivalist mode, I made my way to Corba’s Beverage and stocked up. Let’s see: secondary source of heat? Check. Ammo? Check. Flashlight? Come on, I am the frickin’ termite guy, for Allah‘s sake. Alcohol? Double, triple, er, quadruple check. And as you can see, and despite the severe angst it causes you, I did survive the Great Genesee Storm of ‘11.
And to the person who sent the tough-talking email my way, please, spare me. I made a promise to Wifey many moons ago, and I ain’t beat the tar out of anybody since. Well, not that she knows of.
Trust me, Gort is a big boy and he doesn’t need anonymous defenders emerging from the electronic pond scum. And I reserve the right to type whatever may be necessary to finally shock him out of his self-imposed premature retirement.
Besides, I meant boob in a playful way.
Gort is a goober.
How's that? Better?