As stated last week, column ideas are never my problem; if anything, I entertain too many topics and have to combine with awkward segues. As Dolly Parton famously said, “My cup runneth over.”

How ’bout this weather, eh? Anyone believing global warming to be a hoax obviously wasn’t around last Sunday. I considered printing up T-shirts that read, “I Survived the Great Blizzard of ‘21” and selling them next summer at my planned golf tee repair shop, tentatively named, “Tees to Please – You break ’em; we fix ’em.” Don’t scoff; with Kanye gone, there’s a void that needs fillin’.

Returning to that epic blizzard and mass whiteouts Sunday, I think my fellow, staunch conservatives will agree: “Put that in your eco-friendly pipe and smoke it, Al Gore! Science my patootey!” But that unseasonably early onslaught isn’t the only weather concern ’round these parts. A recent photo showed a couch that had been blown, (literally, which is always fun to add) down a quiet Cody street. It brought to mind my first Enterprise column back in ’92, later expanded into my first book, “Has Anyone Seen My Hood Ornament?”

It was more like a booklet really. I did have about 100 copies printed locally, and it was comically illustrated by a young, local fellow, Chad Schultz. The My Pillow guy and I insist on employing locally. It was written soon after a bad breakup, an even worse perm, and amidst shingling the museum roof during a torturously prolonged, daily wind-carnage that was an existential crisis to my new perm. Literally!

My book, “HASMHO” as we’ll refer to it in the interest of brevity, was loosely based on a true story. I chronicled the six days of God’s creation of the Earth, but focused on what even he considers his one big miscalculation. He declared, “Let there be wind,” and all hell broketh loose. The Pearly Gates in constant disrepair, formerly peaceful animals snarling at one another, his angels engaging in name-calling and slap-fights – it was an unnecessary addition to perfection. A foul wind bloweth in and nothing has changed. Call it “Creator’s Remorse,” but there’s no going back.

Speaking of creation and the predicted rapture, here is where I had planned on launching into my second issue of importance, but that confounding 525-word, crippling limit again forces a Part II. Just for what we call in the biz a “teaser,” I leave you with this PSA: Narcolepsy is real, and nothing to snicker about. I’m pretty sure I have the underrated, debilitating condition, and much of the blame goes to my prostate the size of a car battery.

When an old bachelor already saddled with wildly dysfunctional sleeping patterns is forced to, shall we say “water his duck” frequently at night, there’s no such thing as REM – that deep sleep that refreshes and prevents one’s face from falling into hot soup during lunch. Thusly, one never feels completely rested, with multiple, unplanned naps pretty much inevitable, I suppose.

Well, one such shockingly sudden sleep session caused me to awake in a sweat, fairly certain the rapture had taken place the previous night and I had been “left behind.” As you’ll see next week, it was terrifying. Literally!

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