Farewell to February
The Most Retarded Month of the Year
by Bill Wines
Okay, February's over, and good riddance. What a lame month. At
least it's short. It's hard to believe they can pack so much fun
into the shortest month of the year.
The festivities began, of course, with the Pro Bowl, which
is an asterisk they tack on to the end of the football season to try
to make a few extra bucks and pacify the sponsors who couldn't afford
the ten zillion dollars for a 30-second spot during the Super Bowl.
The Pro Bowl is not a real football game, and if it weren't played in
Hawaii, none of the players would bother showing up for it. All true
football fans know this, and wisely ignore the Pro Bowl.
Following close upon the heels of the Pro Bowl was Ground Hog
Day. Does the ground hog ever NOT see its shadow? Some year
when the little bugger actually DOESN'T see its shadow, it'll
probably drop dead from terminal confusion, and then what will we use
for long-term weather forecasting? It's too late, anyway. I heard
on the news that El Nino caused a typhoon that wiped out the ground
President's Day was the high point of the month for me. I
bought a La-Z-Boy recliner and a camcorder at those deep-discount
President's Day sales. No payments until the Fourth of July.
Actually, who am I kidding? With my credit rating, I couldn't
even get financing for live bait.
At least the wife and I had enough cash to splurge for a romantic
Valentine's Day dinner at White Castle.
February was good for at least one thing, anyway. The Winter
Olympics got its lowest Nielsen rating since 1968, and richly
deserved it. Probably El Nino is to blame for that, too. Now that
they're over, I can go back to channel-surfing without having to
worry about seeing glimpses of dope-crazed snowboarders cavorting in
the icy wastes of Japan.
I was zipping past the CBC station one day and saw something
really weird. It's called "curling." Canadians love this crap, I'm
told. It's practically second to ice hockey in that godforsaken void
they call a nation. I guess curling is okay if you're Canadian. What
else do they have to do up in Moose Country? But curling as an
Anything gets to be an Olympic sport these days. If curling can be
an Olympic sport, why not sweeping the sidewalk in front of the soda
shop? It's the same darn thing, basically.
Listen, I can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Olympic
Games are a fraud and a disgrace. My proof involves two very simple
1. Curling and snowboarding are Olympic sports.
2. Football and bowling are not.
I guess the Olympics aren't completely worthless. At least
there's some point to them. The healthy spirit of competition,
universal brotherhood, and all that rot.
But what the point is of "Fat Tuesday," another wonderful
February event this year, I can't fathom. I kept hearing everyone
around here talking about eating something called "pinch keys" on Fat
Tuesday. I'm not sure what they are, but they look like big globs of
fried lard. What's so special about that? I eat that kind of crap
nearly every day, but I call them "donuts."
I know that Fat Tuesday is the last day before Lent begins, so I
guess you're supposed to really abuse yourself just before swearing
off food, booze, sex, and anything else fun for forty days. But do
you know anyone who abstains from anything during Lent? My mother
used to try to give up smoking for Lent, but she'd go to church on
Ash Wednesday, get smeared on the forehead with ashes, and
then walk around all day smelling those ashes until the cravings
Overall, I'd have to say that February is the most retarded month
of the year. And this time around, we didn't even have any snow on
the ground to give it a semblance of respectability. We have El Nino
to thank for that, I suppose.
With all this talk about bombing Saddam, why hasn't it occurred to
anyone to bomb El Nino? Everyone complains about the weather, as the
old adage goes, but no one ever does anything about it. We are
citizens of the most powerful nation on the face of the planet. I
say we nuke the bastard.
Either that, or drop a six-megaton bag of stale pinch-keys right
on top of him. That oughta do it.