The cold hands of the South

In 2004, parts of the Florida panhandle were attacked by a blast of Arctic air that drove temperatures down to 25 degrees. It may have happened in years since then—I don’t know. I didn’t bother to look it up. But that’s not the point.

The point is this: How could this happen? I’ll tell you how. It’s called the “Canadian Front." It's not enough that they steal the idea for two of our national flag colors (we picked them first!) and use our northern borders for sculptural masses of geraniums spelling out “Welcome!,” or, if they’re those Kebeckwah (sp?), “Bon Jour!”

Why does Canada do it? Do they want to freeze what’s left of our proud, Carolina parakeets? That's what I hear—that there used to be parakeets on the Eastern Seaboard. Why "seaboard"? Isn't that like a surfboard? Is there a Western Seaboard? I've never heard of it. People in Oregon might start using that now, though. Tell them I thought of it first, and I want my fair share should they begin to include it in their tourist pamphlets and free "local color" maps.

I've only seen parakeets in pet stores, and sometimes in cages in homes of people who burn tires in their fireplaces. But they are also popular with elderly but sprightly old ladies who know enough to put a tea towel over a bird cage at night. And then when the cat sneaks up to the cage in the dark, thinking the parakeet can't see him (because there's a tea towel over the cage, and he thinks, "That stupid bird can't see me!"), he lifts up a corner of the towel and PRANG!—the parakeet hits him over the head with a cast iron frying pan! Because it's difficult to get a frying pan into a bird cage—you know, the bars being close together, and if you don't know what you're doing all you do is clang it horizontally, when you should really be holding it vertically—it's nice to have a stereo console or a phone table nearby to rest it on. And then when the cat comes near, the bird reaches out of his cage for it, and hits the cat! And then more birds appear, surrounded by stars around the cat's head, and tweeting.

Although we are breaking up, I still want to see your dogs

Please box up my bicycle shorts, barbeque tongs, and New Yorkers, and put it all on your doorstep. I’ll come by during the day to pick it up. You’d better not be home. I’ll be looking for your rust-bucket car parked around the corner. I know you that well by now. Also, turn off your neighbor’s surveillance camera. I’ll drop the key in the pool out front. Maybe it’s your turn to rummage around in that muck you call a “fish pond” for a change. And maybe you’ll find something else interesting down there. Maybe something sharp and pointy. And maybe your punctured hand will blow up like a balloon and you won’t be able to install cable boxes for three months. Because maybe it’s high time someone called you “Fatty Hand” for a change.

I have purchased a low-water-content, spiral-cut ham, which should be arriving at your home sometime later this week. I got it online, and it was no bargain. It’s not for you. It’s for the dogs. They know what’s really going on. They’ve heard the arguments and have seen the tears that lasted into the wee morning hours. They put the pieces together, despite your fabrications.

Be sure to tell them the ham is from me.