“If it were a cold night in December, I might just snuggle up to you and force feed you an overheated cup of hot chocolate and we could have ourselves a Good Old-Fashioned Christmas.

In a Good Old-Fashioned Christmas, I would be reading you and your immediate family precious stories from an overly illustrated hardback with psychedelic colors so loud; they made the bald eagle extinct.

I remember that Christmas. My dog, Skippy, died that Christmas.

Funny how it sticks out like a thorn in my memory, ready to latch hold of any thread of thought that comes near enough to pinch.

A cold night in December is a ways away. It is, however, a September to Remember.”

yesterday, i got off work and went to waffle house; where my friend blocko randomly appeared at, as well.

blocko: timmah, do you want my toast?
me: no, no i don’t
blocko: jesus christ, timmah.
me: yes, i am. and you should be proud, i made elephants for you.
blocko: made them in your image?

i know that everyone can rest easy now that robert has been found. and it’s all thanks to you, gumshoes. but, it’s been like 20 years and carmen sandiego is still on the lam, and that’s a damn shame.

ah, but that brings me back memories of last summer’s trip when me and robert embarked on such a tedious journey. of course. that is my excuse for not updating for a year, i was searching for a criminal mastermind that has superior weaponry and brain-deducing powers that she uses in clever ploys to steal remarkable artifacts such as the statue of liberty, the pacific ocean, and half of france (no one cares about france, anyhow). where does she hide it all? i know for a fact her coat (and all that’s within) is NOT that big.

on this world tour of crime prevention, robert and i lodged at a small hostel in germany. i had taken karate and robert carried a pistol, so i felt safe enough to slumber. and slumber we did. that movie was totally wrong.

however, that morning brought about violent fits of PCP-induced rage, and robert junior had stolen a katana from the dojo across the street (hitler’s training facility, no doubt), killing several spirits and a few barn swallows as he foamed at the mouth. i, of course, grabbed him by the neck and snapped his collar on, snuggly. we continued on our search for glory.

after 3 long months empty handed, we were outright forced by the censors to put our on pants again. we then called for reinforcements to aid us. enter, scruff mcgruff.

ol’ scruff was looking a bit winded for his age, the gray hair poking through underneath his bad dye jobs. but he agreed as long as we would cook him a home-cooked meal. and dogs don’t know it’s not bacon. but i was too busy trying to figure out how he was trained to stand on his haunches; robert junior could benefit from that with all the walking he does for me.

and while we’re on the subject, who made a tiny trench coat for him to wear? he looks more damn suspicious than the two bits he locks away. assuming he locks them away. he has no thumbs, and i assume he is unable to operate the locking mechanism.

despite the outstanding nose on officer mcgruff, the weeks tore by like a mercedes in detroit. scruff was beginning to get a bit heavy handed in the alcohol. dipping out more than his fair share of the flavoraid. a drinking problem that was driving us to drink.

that night, we put mcgruff down; old outhouse with a shotgun. he went peacefully, despite the sheer look of horror on his twisted man-dog face. a man-dog face with a mission. and that genetically altered man-dog failed his mission.

and so have we.

wherever the women in the red coat is, she’s not here. but perhaps we were stumbling too far into the rabbit hole just yet. clues come from everywhere, you might think its miss purple with the pipe wrench in the library, but you were just one room off.

you…were just one room off.