March madness


On St. Paddy’s day, It always leaves me a little green.

March:  The redheaded stepchild of months.   Somebody PLEASE give it a decent name.

When March comes my way, I can’t even dream right.

What else can you say about waking up at 1 in the morning to a could-be-tenor/could-be-alto voice yelling out, “Somebody help me!”

Well, I looked to the left, I looked to the right, and neither the Fat White Dog nor Dingo Mutt were talking.

Could I go back to sleep.  Of course not.

So here I sit, typing on a keyboard that contains more hair than the cat who likes to lay on it.

Time is supposed to march on, but the month of March is the leftover winter that people are sick of eating.  It’s time to push this turkey to the back of the fridge and let it morph into George Carlin’s famous meat-cake.