Mr. One-End-Of-The-Eel has been complaining about the lack of posting by the Enlightened-End-Of-The-Eel (me) and I say screw it, that's not right. And I just don't post, because how are you going to post when you don't have time? Rhetorically, I'm asking is all. So here I am after a very busy weekend of successful art-selling, which was nice, let me tell you, and I'm seeing people and art and its all snowy outside in beautiful Amherst, MA, and I feel this pressure - pressure! - to write something witty and snappy like I'm wont to do. That's how I roll.
Oh, I'm sure there will be some measure of saber-rattling between me and the OEOTE, there always is. It'll be the same way it always ends up, with one of us crying; like me losing at darts - which always happens, or chess - and him at wiffle ball (which he might be better at if he didn't try to toss those dumb trick pitches that are never ANYWHERE near the strike zone).
OEOTE, how is your back? Hurting? The W. must have loved what you wrote about her. Best way to your woman's heart, huh?
By the way, it's cold where I'm at. I'm cheap and I don't want to turn up the heat, except here in the blogosphere where I'll be kicking OEOTE's ass and taking names.
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