I'm sitting at my computer watching ESPN, a thing I never do. There's chicken in the oven. If you sniff real close, you can smell it. I'm drinking coke with some scotch in it because my fantasy football team made the playoffs but is currently dying a slow, painful death. If you listen closely, you can hear Tom Brady giving me a 21 shotgun salute, which is where he deflates 21 footballs and then throws them a real long way in my honor. Unlike the chicken, you can put a fork in my fantasy football; it's done.
I thought I had a chance. I made the playoffs, and I don't even know what I'm doing. Who's Rob Gronkowski, and why does everybody want him so bad? He never plays. I know less about this than Donald knows about the presidency. Of course, I'm talking about Donald Knotts, star of the movie The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Oh yeah, there's chicken in the oven. I'll be right back.
It's done. The chicken, I mean. In the knick of time too, cause I'm filling up on scotch.
Dinner was good. I started a new paragraph to let you know that. This is real stream of consciousness tonight. It's Christmas on Saturday. I'll have more about that next week. Let me experience it first, then report back. Hanukkah too. I'm Jewish, so that makes more sense for me to report on. I'll do it, don't worry.