If February was a person and I had the chance to kill him I’d do it. I wouldn’t draw it out either. It would be a quick and painful death. Mostly quick though — not because I give a shit about February, but because I hate this month so much I just want it dead.
February is a bullshit month and we should all just stop recognizing it. You fuckers with your skies and your snowboards are all insane. When I’m king you will all be exiled to the tops of mountains where you can bother us sun lovers no more. I’ll build one of those ski lift things, but it will only go up. I’ll make sure you have adequate sustenance, but you’re verboten from ever coming down because cold stuff sucks. And therefore, you do too.
Really, you people who get excited about frozen water falling from the sky so you can strap planks to your feet and barrel at breakneck speed down mountains are beyond my (admittedly dysfunctional) comprehension. You’re all freaks.
There. I feel better.
See, it’s the end of February and I am ready to put another fucked-up winter behind me. February is the worst month too because it’s so close to spring, yet so willing to fuck you over with freak snowstorms and cold temperatures.
Two more days February and you can kiss my ass goodbye for another year.
As a way to break up the cold winter, my wife and I begin planning a warm vacation for May or June. Huddled in the living room cursing the vile snowfall outside, we ponder the pros and cons of vacation spots like Italy, Spain, Greece, the Canaries, or Croatia.
First-world problems, I know. Fuck you.
But it gives the mind something to relax upon as the snow accumulates on the car and I endure another chilly morning commute.
“Cheer up dude, in just three short months you’ll be roasting your buns on a beach somewhere on Malta,” I tell myself.
Vacation planning gives me a glimmer of hope on this shitty frozen tundra (I considered saying TURDdra here, but thought it too high-brow) overrun with psychopaths spouting about fresh-powder and black runs. Again, you are all sick, sick individuals.
But, no vacation planning this year. Nope. Even though we’ve had the vacation time scheduled for months, “Anal Alice, ” aka my wife, can’t decide on where she wants to go.
Is Portugal nice? How about Spain? We loved the Canaries, why not go back there?
“Shit-or-get-off-the-pot” doesn’t even begin to describe my thoughts. I even offered up Hvar, Croatia because, A: None of you have ever heard of it and B: You can totally rent a boat for the day there and that’s level cool 0ne million.
Indulge me for a moment as I take you through our trip to Hvar — We check into our small hotel room, I talk to the clerk to determine how to rent the boat, and then I rent the fucker. The following day, after a good night’s sleep, a European breakfast and a quick shopping trip for beer, we’re launching our little boat into the Adriatic Sea. Drifting about in the ADRIATIC SEA (Take that classmates at Desert Sands Junior High in Phoenix, Ariz., where the evil Tanya tortured me daily) we’ll discover a secluded beach where we will frolic naked as the sun bakes our glistening (albeit middle-aged) bodies and we pound beer, after beer, after glorious life-affirming beer.
All I want is the firm knowledge that, “Yes, we are going someplace where its warm, there’s a body of water and, again, it’s warm.”
We’ve been in Deutschland more than 10 years. I no longer care to visit “Castle Crappenstein” (Would you believe Todd misspelled Crappenstein – “Crapenstien”? Well, he did ~ Editor) built by Baron Krause Von Balllicker. Seen it, took the crappy tour filled with Japanese tourist. It was all cold and drafty.
How about a visit, Todd, to the giant cathedral built entirely out of foreskins by Monsignor Luigi “Come Here Little Boy” Russo in 15-who-gives-a-fuck-0-6? Couldn’t give two shits about it in the winter, and when a beach is nearby and the temperature is over 90 degrees outside, well then, I couldn’t be bothered to give even one shit. Been there, done that. Where’s the beach?
Seriously, there’s lots of “behind the scenes” research that goes into these trips. Plotting the route to the nearest beach is only the tip of the iceberg … wait fuck icebergs … tip of the sand dune.
Where’s the nearest bar? What times does it open? What’s the national beer? Does it suck? How long will I likely have to wait each morning for my first cup of coffee/beer? Where’s the nearest nude beach? Does it have a bar/store, (I’ll let you write your own, “Where do you keep your wallet at a nude beach” joke here. Go ahead, I’ll wait…. Did you write one? Was it funny? I hope you enjoyed it.) and how close to the hotel is that beach?
But even without the specifics of where the hell we’re going, I at least know it’s going to be warm, warm and wonderfully warm. Hot even. Unlike this godforsaken month where the sun rises whenever the fuck it want and sets in time for an afternoon nap.
And yes, that’s it. This is the shittiest ending since Mister Shitty ended his shit with some shit. Yeah, I did that shit. You might be asking yourself, “Did he just start talking about why he hates winter, segue in some bizarre rant about how his wife can’t pick out a vacation spot and then very lazily go back to hating winter in what might be the worst tie-back ever?” Yeah I did, “Fuck you very much.”
Also, when the fuck is it going to get warmer, goddamnit?