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 hog.

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 OLYMPIC SPORT?

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 observations:

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 overwhelmed her.

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.


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