Becky best consider not coming anywhere near this weather without an umbrella and her favorite rain boots on because we’re talking cats and dogs, especially dogs. Blame it on the rain is right (remember that old prank, Milli Vanilli?) and now we’ve got a full blown windstorm to boot Becky’s rain boots. What’s next? I’m actually sitting here waiting for P.T. Anderson’s frogs to bust through my makeshift office out back in the garage and land right here on the table where I’m waiting for Becky. Wouldn’t that be something? I wouldn’t put it past this windstorm because it’s been like eight days now, and you know what they say about the number eight, don’t you? Eight fucking days is no passing fad, but I’m not going near that one with an eight foot pole, lest I get hit by lightning. Weird science is what I’m saying. Way weird, not like Al Gore sweeping the Oscars and Golden Globes, but some seriously goofy shit. Full chemistry set if you get my drift. Becky knows what I’m talking about, so ask her. I don’t know how else to say it, except that I just put a box on my table where I suspect the frog would land were it to break through the red beams that comprise the eight foot ceiling in here. Same beams that these three little blue/green hummingbirds like that hang around the house. Sound like a buzz saw, the way they flap their wings around every time they come in here. One got trapped in the basement a couple weeks ago and was a bitch to get out. Chased it around with a dead tree branch that came in pretty handy. Don’t know what it was doing down there, but Becky says they’re attracted to the garage because of the color red. Again, goofy, and there won’t be any birds in my business today with it raining like dogs the way it is. Could swear I was in Portland, OR, for God’s sake, dancing on Stumptown espressos all day inside my head. Heard Al Gore ran into a little trouble at The Hotel Lucia up there a while back, speaking of way weird. Exposing himself to a masseuse is the kind of shit that could have lead to his resignation had he still been in office. Don’t these dumbdicks ever learn? Don’t you almost feel like they’re mocking us by being so stupid. It’s like come on, man, just keep it in your pants. Call up room service, order yourself up a big steak dinner with a bottle of wine, jerk off if it helps you relax, and pass out to ESPN already. I mean really, Poor Tipper, but good for her for chopping that fat bastard off at his knees. At least he didn’t pull anything kinkier and do a full Clinton on us. Wonder what Becky ever made of that. Special skills, I bet she’d say, but far be it from me to put words, if not a cigar, in anyone’s mouth.