Today I discovered the hard way that the neck fat I've been growing over the past year doesn't provide the insulation I had expected when the windchill dropped into single digits. Eleven months of sloth down the shitter.
In unrelated news, apparently you can tell if someone has dementia if he or she doesn't respond to sarcasm. No shit? In the back of my mind, I always kind of knew that I could diagnose dementia. For instance, I once told my grandpa, "I think Steely Dan is the greatest, least-pretentious, most-influential, least-shitty rock and roll band of all-time." He asked "who?" and didn't laugh at all. So then I was like, "Why aren't you laughing, old man? Oh let me guess: you have a severe and debilitating mental condition that prevents you from picking up on the significance of my vocal intonations." Again, no laughter. Ten years later, he began to confuse things. It all made sense. Rest in peace, Basil.
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