March: It sucks big donkey butt

I woke up to a glorious blanket of white this morning. An inch of snow fell overnight, coating the bare trees, the sidewalk the driveway and my yard, giving everything a look of absolute purity and peacefulness.

DAMMIT.

I'll spare you the details of my other thoughts, which would endanger my blog's PG rating and "family friendly" status (though I can't for the life of me understand how Frank the Solitary Jockstrap didn't ruin that status already, but my family friendly button on the left was earned post-Frank). Suffice it to say, my thoughts were little more than a lengthy stream of cuss words. In their midst was this sentence:

C'MON!!! IT'S MARCH ALREADY! THE PREVIOUS SNOW JUST MELTED AND WE JUST HAD A HORRENDOUS WINTER SO GIVE US ALL A *&^%@! BREAK, WILL YOU???!?? As if some fantastical weather creature would hear my cries and feel sympathy, which would lead him to blow on his outstretched hand, thus showering my world with an instant dose of spring.

I hate March. Yes, you may love it for its mid-month drunken holiday (though I for the life of me have no idea how an English saint known for working with the poor would feel much honored by a holiday in which everybody wears green and ends the day's revelry by barfing in the nearest alleyway, but I digress ...). A few of you pro-Republic Romans may celebrate the defeat of tyranny on the 15th, but I consider this month a horrendous tease. A terrible, terrible tease. A leech-like month that feeds on the hopes of poor, innocent human beings.

It dangles a couple of nice days in front of your face, getting you so excited for Spring that you buy your son a new baseball bat and a bucket of balls and has you planning camping trips and picnics. Then it yanks that niceness away from you, plunging you again into the depths of winter with snow and cold and yuckiness.

And lest any of you think that these are just the frustrated writings of an angry, cabin-fever afflicted Minnesotan, you are DEAD WRONG. I lived for years in South Carolina, remember. March sucked butt there, too.

To wit: After a few years there The Wife and I finally lured my eldest sister and her family to the Carolina shore for a visit. They arrived in March, on Spring Break, in the midst of a lengthy drought. Let me emphasize that last point: During that period of time it hardly ever rained. Period.

Until my family visited.

Then it rained the entire time.

And it was cold.

My drought-breaking sister, now known as The Human Cloud Salter, is one of the most even-keeled, unflappable people I know ... until she is deprived of the warm sun she expects. So she spent that entire vacation on an endless search for warmth, going so far as to drive all the way to Northern Florida, to no avail. Needless to say, she was a wee bit cranky.

I have a feeling that she could have driven all the way to the equator and she would still not have found that sun.

If it wouldn't get me in deep trouble with the SPCA, Humane Society, PETA, a few Pennsylvanians and Bob Barker I would invent a time machine, go back six weeks, find Punxsutawney Phil and beat him senseless with the baseball bat I just bought my son just for all of his unrealized promises of spring. It wouldn't make the weather warm but it would make me feel better.

But not nearly as good as if I did that to my local weather forecasting person. And I'd probably get in a lot less trouble, too. Yet no mask has yet been invented that would protect me from the deadly fumes generated when my beating knocks free all of his or her makeup.

So, unable to do anything about this weather, I'm reduced to this whimpering, frustrated blogger you see here.

(DISCLAIMER: No groundhogs were harmed during the writing of this post; in fact, if I actually did that I'd probably find Phil, take one look into his beady, groundhog eyes and start bawling my eyes out; I'm a total wimp. Besides, if I could invent a time machine the last place I'd want to go would be Groundhog Day. Sheesh.)



Go to humor-blogs.com. Hopefully they won't be so cranky.