It's 1:42 in the afternoon. I am in a house located 150 miles below the Mason-Dixon line, and icicles are hanging from its awnings. It's sleeting and 27 degrees. Jo is asleep in the world's softest chair. Pam is in the back bedroom, Samantha in the front, and both are on blankets snoring their cat asses off.
My legs are tired, so I think I will take the day off.
But it has nothing to do with the weather. I was in my front yard a few minutes ago practicing the Four Magic Moves to Winning Golf. Get out of my way, Tiger. And that goes for your dogs, too (not to mention your blonde-headed bimbo wife and all your fucking Buicks).
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