As I sit here trying to think of something to write, it has become obvious that I have nothing to say.
Perhaps there is no space in my heart tonite. Maybe it's because I had a bad week and my mind is fuzzy.
We could engage a foray into steroids in sports. And how Barry Bonds, Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa, etc. enhanced their skills and broke records that were once considered impossible feats.
The above trio not only broke the Babe and Roger Maris records but shattered them.
And I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy this Christmas Season. [ Sorry, the Pond is from the old school and wants to simulate gagging when hearing the term, "Happy Holidays." ] Check the entrance of my trousers via the zipper region for some happy holidays.
Then there's the Condaleeza Rice brouhaha. Seems there's no celebration in having a black and female Secretary of State, because she agrees with George Bush on foreign policy. Go figga, mon trigga.
And I could write about the depressing news heard daily on the radio and t.v. My problems don't amount to a hill of beans when compared to child molesters, car and plane crashes, scandals, wars, pestilence, etc. Damn, I ain't got it so bad after all.
And I'm sure the Vanilla Fudge are playing tonite in a sleepy hamlet somewhere in these United States. They just keep hanging on.
So you can see why the Pond is in the midst of another burnout.
Farewell and adieu, v.c.
P.S. What is there not to like about the food biz, Hootster? A daily dose of passive-aggressivism.
And everyone is an expert in the art of cooking. And they can buy chicken livers at the Piggly Wiggly for 29 cents a pound. And a watermelon for $2.00, er, $5.00. And you stand on your feet all day. And answer the phone....all day. And.....What's not to like?
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