I must have been uber-naughty this year.

For Christmas, Santa gave me bronchitis. As a result, I think Santa is a vicious elfen asshole who should be strung up by his jingle bells. If he'd kept to the usual coal, I'd have been annoyed, but I would have taken my lumps. (Yes, of course, Virginia, the pun was intended.)

I didn't send anyone but my mother and brother Christmas cards. If you were wonderful and sent me a Christmas card and are cursing my name that I didn't send you one, just know that I was coughing green chunks out of my chest and thinking of you. I spent the eve of Christmas Eve sleeping in the recliner in the livingroom because when I laid down in bed, my chest whistled. My doctor said that my chest sounded "like an orchestra." Thus, I didn't listen to Handel's "Messiah" this year because I was doing my own version

I have gifts I didn't ship yet to people. I haven't even mentioned them because I'm still tired and if I say anything, then I have to mail the damned things, so I am simply just shutting up about it. Those of you who were supposed to get stuff, you'll be seeing something for St. Patrick's day.

We're buried in snow. It's been a blizzard here all day. Several of the main highways are closed or have chain requirements. We had one and a half foot drifts in the driveway and driving conditions could be described as "mentally disturbed" because you'd have to be to drive in this slop.

I think Mother Nature and Santa Claus are having a dirty little affair.