“Winter lies too long in country towns; hangs on until it is stale and shabby, old and sullen. “

Willa Cather wrote that and I couldn’t tell you who Willa Cather is if you promised me a tureen full of bourbon, a rack of prime rib, and videos of PK getting attacked with a weed whacker. Nor do I fucking care.

Because winter sucks a big, hairy, stinky, cling-on infested ass. And before we really dig in, all of you fucks in warm climates can take your witty posts and shove them deep down your dickhole. Congrats, you live in a nice warm place. I’m tougher than you because I have survived a blizzard and stayed indoors with my family for a week.

There is no refining quality about winter. The days are short as fuck and you get that hard, diamond blue sky that has no warmth to it. It’s a sky made for Stukas to scream out of, turning innocent civilians into bloody mounds of twitching meat and tendons. Or you get the slate-grey-where’s-the-fucking-gun skies that feel as if they are pressing down on your skull.

And waking up in a cold room each morning – sweet fucking Jesus on an elephant, end my life now. If ISIS caught me and then put me in a cold room and asked, “Okay Fozz, where’s America’s supply of bourbon hidden?” I’d give up that location in a flat second. I would also kick those dudes in the balls before they took me out.

The bone rattling cold might be one annoyance, but let’s talk about the fucking weather. In Maryland, when the weather turns “bad”, shit goes fucking sideways in about 10 seconds. Please note: “bad” could mean anything from two or three drops of rain to four or five flakes of snow. The weathermen in this area would make Goebbels jealous with rage, the way they influence the prols.

First, everyone drives out to the grocery store and loads up like they’re going to stop making food tomorrow. We stock up on milk and toilet paper. I always order my wife to purchase soup bones, so we can host a “Dahmer Party Picnic.” (In early January, I conduct a highly detailed inventory of our family’s provisions. And by provisions, I mean bourbon, cigars, beer, and a hollowed-out space in the basement where I can hunker down so that none of the maniacs I live with can find me.)

Once the shit hits the ground, everyone drives like crack addled Alzheimers sufferers. Driving down a snowy road at 50 miles an hour isn’t a good idea, dicksmack. Remember that snow and ice halted the German Army at Stalingrad. Yes, it kept panzers that weighed more than several tons on off the roads. SO YOUR GODDAMN FANCY SUV CAN’T DRIVE ON ICE EITHER YOU SILLY STUPID GREEDHEAD.

Daytime lasts about two hours in the winter, and then it’s dark. It’s as dark and cold and stony as Roger Goodell’s “heart.” Hope dies in the winter. The body slows down because it thinks that it must. That’s some shit in our collective DNA that I wish we could eliminate. I’ll mention this the next time I’m with my wife’s Christian family, who believe every word in the bible is true and that evolution is evil and that Kirk Cameron makes good movies.

So fuck you winter, I want to slip a knife between your frost rimed ribs, and I may call Ray Ray to see if he’s free and needs a little money. You’ll crush my soul for a few months, and your time will be up. The only thing good that you bring is women in yoga pants. Otherwise, I welcome you like the local chapter of the NAACP would welcome Riley Cooper to one of its ‘Man of the Year’ banquets.

To all my brothers – and one or two sisters – at DFO, a happy, healthy Christmas, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Boxing Day, Marmot Strangling Day, or whatever you celebrate at the butt end of December. Your wit and humor and gleeful stupidity make me laugh all the goddamn time.

Thanks to the saints who run this freak show and get paid nothing. You are doing the Lord’s work, that is if the Lord was a gin soaked crank barricaded in his mom’s basement and obsessed with football, boobies, and liquor.

Thing That Made Me Happy
My oldest, who has the biggest heart of any person I know, was driving with me the other day. I was bummed, stressed, and just not happy. So he took my iPhone, opened up Spotify, and started playing Springsteen songs. It’s getting a little dusty in here as I write this.