Good morning! Always a pressure ... pleasure ... to meet with members of the press gang. I didn't know that the proud traditions of American journalism went back that far. Or that it had much to do with recruiting. But you learn something new every day. I do, anyway. Problem is remembering what it was, the next day. That's why I have all these people who follow me around. To help me with things like that.
Now, I had some prepared remarks for you, but sadly, they got over-prepared in an honest misunderstanding regarding the coffee maker and a copy machine. And so, in honor of national ground hog day, I'll share with you my personal, secret recipe for sausage.
What? But this feller here just said it. He said ground hog. I heard him, as clear as I hear anything, which, to be perfectly honest, isn't all that clear. So he might have said pound smog, I suppose. Makes almost as much sense. But to an honest old Ishpeming boy like myself, ground hog means sausage. Period. Except when it's used in the vituperative voice. You know, the one your mother used to get you to stop bothering the hogs.
Groundhog? All one word? Well, why not say so in the first place? Why waste a perfectly good space between 'em? Nothing I hate more than a waste of space, especially in governmental affairs. And I should know. But if we're gonna play by those rules, okay, what's the difference between ground-space-hog and groundhog all-one-word? Sounds like splitting bears, to me.
That, sonny, is a woodchuck. Don't try to pull them fancy Rogers City games on me. If there's one thing I'm at least reasonably certain about, it's wild critter taxonomy. You know what taxonomy is. It's that science thing the Party of Limpkin is always trying to juggle. No, I don't mean Lincoln. He's dead, and he wasn't a bird. Limpkin is a bird, Aramus guarauna, and it's indigenous to parts of our beloved south. I use beloved advisedly, there, in as much as I've been advised against using it at all.
But to bring things back onto the track, looking both ways first like Mom always said, so it's groundhog day? And this is somehow involved with the weather? Phil, did you book me into one of them damn climate denier festivals, again? Those people are nuts. If you want to deny the climate, go somewhere where there is one. This ain't a climate. This is a Fiasco.
Fiasco, smarty pants, is an Eye-talian car. They look nice, can't start worth a damn in the winter, September on through June. And most of 'em are so small, the road commission finds dozens in the snow banks every spring. Still got people in 'em, living a primitive existence, eating woodchuck jerky and fake Eye-talian leather upholstery.
So, enough of this witty repartee, what did you want to ask me about wood hog day, or whatever it is? Hurry it along, too, I got to get back to DC. Missing an impeachment party.
Copyright 2018, J. F. McLuggage