Ah! The Icy Hand of Death Is Upon My Throat! Wait, It’s Not.

Last night, in the shower, I happened to look down at my left ankle (yes, smart-ass, ignoring any magnificent organs I might have encountered along the way), and I saw a crop circle shaved into my leg hair—a round bald patch about the size of an Eisenhower dollar. “WTF?” I think, looking more closely, and though I know I’m setting myself up for a Gregory House encounter with any doctor I might speak to about my sudden deforestation (“You’re eating too much cheese. Also, you’re an idiot.”), I wonder WHAT IT MIGHT MEAN.

Then at lunch, as I’m walking to the old Marshall Fields building to buy a tie, I felt a distinct chafing sensation. A chafing brought on by the fuzzy insulation of my nifty, new, warm as toast boots. I stopped and pulled up my pant leg to discover that not only has the baldy dollar expanded, it’s also getting a little red down there. Long socks are in order.

Also, House was right. I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I notice this yesterday? I was probably distracted by the blizzard.

As a Boy I Built Gingerbrick Houses, Because They Were SENSIBLE

So here’s a stupid question, but give me a break, because we never built one in my house when I was growing up. I’m thinking of making one with my wife and son, because it’s fun, and I’m freaking jolly and shit.

After you build a gingerbread house and let it sit around for a few weeks, are you supposed to eat it? Or is it simply intended as a monument to consumerism and folly?


I love my new coffee press. Sorry, I can’t orgasmically discuss its technological aspects, so please don’t “press” me to do so. See what I did there? “Press.”

The note is from wiseacre co-workers who hadn’t seen me for two days because I was hiding in a meeting room proofing a big document—it’s the only way I can get anything done.