Father Time and His Wound-Healing (sort of) Ways

I've had the better part of a day and-a-half to lick my dastardly wounds from the heretofore unmentioned drubbing. The wife and I have travelled far from the site of said debacle and plan on attending a contest of another sort this evening. It's the sort we like to call hockey. The sport has gone wholly unnoticed on the HoG this season, and, what with my alleged "team" de football sucking six ways from Sunday, it's time to ante up and talk some sticks and pucks.

Naturally, this will thrill the Waveland22s and the Rustoleums of the world. Heck, even the Cecils and the Sevens will be aroused by it. But more on that later. THe wife and I are headed out to maim the weak and the young here in the Louis of Saint. Just wait, though. I've got lots of hockey up my sleeve. Hockey that I'll get to once I'm done with the complete, unabridged "Remove Herman From My Live Forever" thesis. It's coming. And it's a doozy. Read more