I have one word I want to say to y’all today: nog. As in: Four score and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth onto this continent a new … nog. I got the fever for the flavor of … nog. You can’t handle the … nog! Don’t get mad, get … nog. A tree grows in … nog. A stitch in time saves … nog. Tell ’em Large Marge sent … nog.

I’m sure you get the point. On an iller tip, I vow not to touch (grain) alcohol until next Wednesday, when I will land in Chicago to bid adieu to 2004 with three glorious, beer-infused, Guided By Voices–soaked, pizza-injected, heart-attack-happenin’ afternoons and evenings. I will also eat my veggies until then, unless we’re talking about cornichons. I hate cornichons. I am done here until Monday, when I will reveal the list of everything I received for Christmas. Will I finally get the pregnant hooker I asked for two years ago? Stay tuned!


I have yet to buy a single present.