I Have Cupcakes! You Can't Have Any!

I have cupcakes. How many cupcakes do you have? No cupcakes! Hahahahahahahaha! They're mine. MIIIIINE!

It's not my birthday. Or a graduation. Or a baby shower. It's not for any reason at all, except: Cupcakes! Me having them and you wanting them.

But don't look at me. I'm not sharing. All six of these chocolatey (and one lemon) cupcakes are for my personal use only. And they will sit right here, where you might see them on your way to the copy machine, until I go home at 5 PM today. Unless I choose to eat some before then. Maybe just this one.

There you sit at your desk, talking on your telephone. "Blah, blah, blah, schedules and agendas." Here I sit at my desk typing away furiously on this memo to you, giggling merrily about the bakery box sitting on my lap. I hope the sounds of my laughter aren't distracting you. Are they? Maybe if I fill my mouth with another cupcake, it will stifle the noise a bit. Mmmm...oh, cupcake, you're so good to me.

You sure look hungry over there. What did you bring for lunch today? Is that a turkey sandwich? Did your mom make that for you in 1986? And grapes? Grapes are for babies and old people! You know what aren't? CUPCAKES! These ones over here in my hands.

Ring! Ring! Oh, there goes my phone! I wonder who that could be.

Hello? Oh, hiiiiiiiii, famous person my cubicle neighbor is a fan of! How nice of you to call. Yes, as a matter of fact, I DO have cupcakes. Of course you can have one! Free backstage passes?! That is just so nice of you! Wow, and I would LOVE to come to your birthday party. You're nice. I'm so glad we're best friends.

Okay, I'd better go. Talk to you later.

Oh, that? Nothing. Just a friend who likes cupcakes too. I'm totally sharing with her because she's so nice.

I just ate another one. Did you see me? I was making a lot of noises to let you know how yummy it was. Like, "Oooooooh. Mmmmm....Yeah, that's right. Oh, cupcake. Don't stop."

The cupcake didn't say anything. It just got into my belly where it would be safe from prospective cupcake thieves like you.

Wow, I'm sure full of cupcakes. That was too many for just one little person like me. Maybe I should rub these last ones in my armpit to make them inedible for anyone else.

Ah, that's better.

Those were sure good cupcakes.

My Hopes of Saturday Writing Are Dashed

I just got back from a Turtle run. And it was all terribly ironic. Firstly, because Turtles (neither the reptile nor the chocolate) can run, and secondly, because I can run, and my Turtle run surely broke some kind of speed record.

I had big plans today. I was going to swim laps this morning, come home around 11, have a coffee, and get to work on my writing. But, of course, when you make plans like that, inevitably, something will happen to mess it all up. For me, that something was polka music.

I live across the street from a beer garden. Today is the first day of their annual Oktoberfest. So, at noon today, when I sat down to my computer, I was rudely interrupted by accordians and drunk people shouting, "WOO!"

So it's now 8 PM, I haven't written a thing, and now, for some inexplicable reason, they are playing "Hava Nagila." We are a multi-cultured neighborhood, so all are welcome at Oktoberkhe. (Except during the time it took me to study enough Yiddish as to come up with an amusing new Jewish name for Oktoberfest, they've started to play "Ole Ole.")

In addition to all the nuttiness taking place across the street, I have that kind of PMS that requires chocolate coated Midol every hour. Hence, my need to make a Turtle run. Since beginning this blog post, I've had six of them.

Basically, I've given up trying to write anything at this point. If you need me, I'll be here in bed with the rest of my chocolates.

My Blue Period Continues

This morning I found a bag under my eye. Just the right one. Apparently the left eye is getting plenty of rest.

This worries me a little because I can't recall missing any sleep. I haven't stayed up past 11 PM at all this week, and while I get up fairly early, it's not so painfully early that it would cause remarkably visible distortion to the area below my right eye.

So, I'm forced to conclude that the dark circles under my eyes can only be blamed on witchcraft.

Witches are clearly entering my bedchamber between the hours of midnight and 5 AM, turning me into a cashier, and forcing me to work behind the counter of their 24-hour Evil Bodega. Or something.

You know what's hard? Trying to maintain your funny blog when you aren't in the mood to be funny. I spent all day yesterday working on a blog post about possibly being allergic to my work chair. (It gives me a rash on the backs of my legs.) I concluded that bathing the rash in my own tears made the itchiness less intense at least temporarily. Then, I ate an entire bag of jelly beans and took a nap.

And today, I'm not feeling much more enthusiastic. I just spent the last two hours looking at LOLCats with what I can only imagine was a look of utter devastation on my face. So I switched to episodes of Planet Unicorn on YouTube. Nothing. If things don't improve, we're talking Eddie Izzard's Dress to Kill or entire seasons of Kids in the Hall. What is up with the early part of fall? I'm supposed to be jolly like a good wood elf. But instead, I feel like someone killed my puppy.

If you would like to contribute anything amusing to my "Get Happy" fund, please post it in comments or email me at themayorofbethville@gmail.com. In the meantime, I shall continue wallowing in the dank bathwater of sadness behind this shower curtain of misery in the small bathroom of melancholy that is my life.

Today I Have a Heart of Darkness

Sometimes I go through a blue period. I can't write. I can't think. I just sit around and let the little black rain clouds develop over my head. When this happens, I like to close myself off from people. I'm surly and irritable. I'm overly sensitive about things. I just want to sit and watch TV and eat jelly beans with a bag over my head.

And so I like to counter it by being extra dramatic about how I feel. If someone disagrees with me, I say things like, "Fine. We'll see how you like it when I go read Sylvia Plath in my bathtub with an electric pencil sharpener," or "I'm going to go take this entire bottle of calcium supplements." Sometimes I walk down to the East River with my pockets full of heavy things, like encyclopedias.

Or I watch videos like this one.



I'm going to go eat some canned goods that might be past their expiration dates. FAREWELL, cruel world!

The Plight of the Dramatically Cold

There's a strange phenomenon that strikes New York City every September.

Dramatically cold people.

You know the type. It drops down to a brisk 60 degrees overnight, and the next morning the dramatically cold people have on their fur-lined boots and wool sweaters. "Brrrrrr!" say the dramatically cold people when they step outside and feel the nip of 40% humidity in the air. "I think I'll get myself a hot chocolate."

"Thank god for my space heater," the dramatically cold people say when they sit down to their work computers, furiously rubbing their hands together. Later in the afternoon, they are always sure to pop a few vitamin-C tablets. The dramatically cold people can never be too careful several weeks in advance of cold and flu season.

To get to the heart of the dramatically cold phenomenon, I believe we need to travel back to the time of the dramatically cold cave people. While regular cavemen were out hunting for sustenance before the winter snows, the dramatically cold caveman huddled in his fur-lined grotto drinking herbal tea and watching the leaves turn color.

Later in history, the first dramatically cold explorers to the North Pole faced infinite hardship when the sled dogs were prematurely slaughtered just south of Greenland so that the warmth of their entrails could prevent frostbite on dramatically cold fingers.

During the Industrial Revolution, the dramatically cold people rejoiced in improved methods of coal mining. Before that time in history, a single dramatically cold person could fell an entire forest within the brief span of time from September to April in order to heat his or her home. Most deforestation, in fact, can be blamed on the dramatically cold.

In modern times, it's not desperation for warmth but tradition that drives the dramatically cold people to pull out the winter wear prematurely. The gloves, scarves, and parkas of their ancestors call to them from the backs of their closets. Undeterred by the strong stench of mothballs and the trickle of sweat on their brows, they unearth the ancestral garb and wrap themselves tightly in its comfort. And, with that, the dramatically cold breathe the first sigh of relief in months.

Further Attempts to Fit In

Oh, hey, everybody! Look over here! The New Kids on the Block are BACK and better than ever! Look at them dance! Listen to them sing! Smile and nod at their television interviews about how they are all grown up now and ready for that big comeback!

No?

Yeah, me neither.

I can't lie. I was never into the New Kids on the Block. Oh, I tried to be into them. I bought a huge poster of Joey McIntyre and hung it on the wall behind my door. And I would pretend I was totally in love with him. Believe me, I wanted to make out with that poster like I meant it. But all I really felt was friendship and a cold, cold wall.

On more than one occasion, I picked up a cassette of NKOTB's music and walked around the store like I was planning to buy it. But then I would always put it back, unsure if it was worth my entire $10 allowance. So, to this day, I have never actually heard a New Kids on the Block song in its entirety.

I can, however, sing from memory most 1970s Tanya Tucker songs. Not that I would have ever admitted that when I was in sixth grade when NKOTB were at the height of their popularity.

Have I mentioned that I used to be a huge phony?

The same thing applied when Beverly Hills 90210 gained popularity. We didn't have Fox, so I never watched it. But that didn't stop me from fawning over pictures of Luke Perry in 'Teen magazine and reading interviews wherein Shannen Doherty revealed that she loved U2. It's sad, really.

I had always suspected that I was a bit weird because of the way people reacted when I talked about my dream where my dead cat came back as an angel. Or when I showed up at school wearing giant pink sparkly squid earrings. But it never really occurred to me to try to tone it down a little until I got my secret Santa gift in 6th grade.

It was a copy of 'Teen magazine. At first, I was flattered that someone wanted to give me some new reading material. But it occurred to me later that maybe I was getting subtle eyebrow plucking advice.

And so, I heeded the pages of my new magazine and began to slowly and methodically put away my childhood. I painted the pink walls of my bedroom over with white. I threw away my unicorn posters. I stopped letting my mom do my hair. And I pretended to enjoy the New Kids on the Block. Because that's what girls my age did back then.

It's funny. Even now, I'll catch myself emulating the behaviors of others because I want to avoid ridicule. I think to myself, "What would an adult do right now? Have a cup of tea and watch the news? Ah, yes. That's what I'll do then." I certainly wouldn't make out with my Christian Bale poster...

What? Oh, like you never do it. Shut up.

Football Burns Us, Precious

Here is my impression of football:

Players line up. Whistle! Scramble, scramble, scramble. DOGPILE! And repeat.

Then, once in a while, one guy or another kicks the ball really hard. Sometimes through that big pitchfork at the far end of the field. Sometimes not.

And then, refs come on and say something nonsensical about yards and make some hand gestures. A yellow handkerchief gets thrown around a lot. All the while, the clock ticks away so slowly you begin to wonder if time has ceased to move at all.

I realize that in saying that football makes no sense to me, I'm playing into the old "women just don't get sports" thing. But I get sports. I just don't understand football. Which is not to say that I haven't tried to understand. I've asked several people to explain it to me, men and women. But when I do that, their eyes glaze over, and they start to speak in gibberish.

"You see, there are these things called downs. And you have a certain frame of time to gain some yards. Then, everybody runs in a circle, crawls through a tunnel of fire, and we all eat cotton candy. Make sense?" To which I reply, "Sure, sure."

Also, I have the attention span of a Pop Tart, as I'm sure I've mentioned on numerous occasions, so the fact that the action happens in short spurts means that I always miss it because I am staring at the sky or wondering why everyone around me is jumping up and down. I hear cheering, I look, and by that time, the players are lining up for another go at it. It's nonsense, man. Nonsense...

I actually believe I got that elusive recessive gene that makes it impossible for me to enjoy or absorb any information surrounding the sport of football. My mom can just hear the opening notes of the Monday Night Football song and fall into a deep, deep sleep. Which is why she's not allowed to listen to anything by Hank Williams, Jr. while she's driving or near a hot stove.

My sister, on the other hand, got the dominant football-appreciation gene from my dad. My childhood was punctuated by the sounds of my dad clapping loudly and shouting, "HEY!" when something good happened in one of those end zone thingys. And somehow his enthusiasm got passed down to the rest of my siblings. But not me. Ho hum...

But since it's almost fall now, football is all the rage. And it's not just the professional stuff but college games as well. Your television is never taken over by college baseball, hockey, or fraternity drinking contests. So, what makes college football so special? Anybody?

So, this fall, let's focus on what really matters. Okay? Because we all know what's important during the fall season. Halloween candy. That's right.

No? Okay, you enjoy that game then. I'll just be over here eating peanut butter cups with the Great Pumpkin.

In the Future, There Will Be Fame for Everyone!

When you grow up, little lady, you're gonna be famous. Just like me, just like my momma, and just like her momma before her. Why? Because that's the American way. You'll get to be about twelve years old in a few years. We'll drive you up into town. You'll get all that hair in your personal area waxed off. Then, we'll take you over to old Doc's place, and he'll set you up with your first pair of breasts. Yessiree! We'll have you done up right.

Now, don't you worry about your teeth. We'll get those replaced in the front. I don't want anybody thinking I can't buy my baby nice teeth.

After a few years of sitcom work, you'll get your first reality TV show. Just you wait! Why, I remember when I had my first reality show. I lived in a house with nine strangers. And there was only one toaster. Can you imagine that? Oh, the fights we had over that toaster! There was another show that came on later where there was only one instant pizza maker. I'm sure glad I ended up on COAST TO TOAST instead of that one. All of those girls ended up standing in line for their fat reduction down at the free lipo clinic.

Back then, there were only 865 channels on basic cable. If you wanted a reality show, you had to work for it! You had to stand in line and audition. It wasn't like nowadays when you just walk in, lift up your shirt, and let a producer measure your buttocks. We used to have to put on makeup, too. You girls don't know how lucky you are that we do rhinoplasty and cosmetic tattooing at birth. It saves you a lot of time and pain later on when you're trying to get your career going.

But listen to me talk while you're hunched over the toilet throwing up your breakfast. Just know that it's a means to an end, sugar. A means to an end. One day you'll look back on all this and thank me.

Who Wants A Cookie? Cookies All Around!

I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that it's September 11 today. And that seven years ago some extremely horrible things happened.

Unfortunately, it's not in my genetic makeup to write serious tributes to anything. Or make people think really hard about life. Therefore, this is all I've got today. Some Canadians being hilarious.

This Blog Post Makes No Sense

Sometimes I start blog posts that I never finish. They either turn all "unfunny" on me, or I get bored. Or I discover that I started to write it while sleep-deprived and return later, rested, to realize that it's total chaos. So, in an effort to utilize everything, I bring you "This Blog Post Makes No Sense," where I cram my post fragments all together and let you read the result.

A wise Muppet once said, "Gersh gurndy morn-dee burn-dee, burn-dee, flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip-flip." And I have to agree with him. What is this world coming to?

Because what if you're driving along in your wienermobile, on your way to the supermarket to buy breadcrumbs for your pet pterodactyl, and suddenly the earth opens up in front of you? You wreck your wienermobile by driving it into a crevasse. What will you do if you can't get yum-yum insurance? Well, you can't come crying to me. I have a hungry yak to feed.

Furthermore, clowns. Who needs 'em? They should go back to the circus where they came from.

I'm a clownist, and I don't care who knows it. I don't care if you're a rodeo clown, a party clown, or an evil clown who hangs out in sewers and eats children. I don't like you. Get out of my country, clown.

The other day, I was at the party store getting supplies for my big noodle casserole cook-off and committee cat worming, when a clown approached me. He didn't say a word, just honked his nose and squirted me with a flower. I don't think he even spoke English. He just stood there with this stupid painted smile on his face. So like a good, unpainted American would, I carefully explained to him that here in America, we believe in the sanctity of balloon animals.

Carrot Cake. You will eat it, and you will like it.

How to Date: Advice: Does It Have a Point? Do I?

I don't know if you've figured this out by now, but "How to Date" carries about as much actual dating advice as a taco. Really, it's just an opportunity to talk about my own hilarious and sometimes depressing dating hijinx and make fun of people. That way, we can all come together and laugh at our shared crappy experiences later in comments.

However, I do find it amusing to read actual "dating advice," particularly from the likes of Cosmopolitan. Where "real guys" use phrases like "my shaft exploding inside you." Is it a penis or is it a pipe bomb, Cosmo? Time to stop huffing the erotic massage oil perhaps?

Cosmo represents very important misconceptions about people of both sexes. Women are all hell-bent on marrying rich men with hairless chests and a dwarf planet in their pants. And men all talk like Fabio.

Cosmo columns offer advice on reading men, knowing what they like and might be thinking, and what everything they say and do means. That way, if something goes wrong, Cosmo readers are ready for it. Ready to hold on to that man for all it's worth because, if you lose that one, you may never love again. So sayeth the Mighty Fabio. Or what passes for the men on the pages of Cosmo.

One of the quotes I read yesterday in an article entitled "Why Guys Dump Girls They Dig," goes like this, "It was hard. I cared about her and didn't want to hurt her. But I knew that if I stuck around, she'd have been happier at first but miserable later on. After all, she deserved to be with someone who loved her as much as she loved me."

And then I laughed for 10 minutes. I imagined this guy sitting in his dark apartment, fist to mouth, thinking about what he had done to this woman. His chair turned so that he could look out at the skyline and remember the good times. Post break-up life in Cosmo is like a bad 80s music video. How can anyone take "advice" from a magazine so out of touch with reality.

But prepare yourself. I have more quotes.

"I can never do anything spontaneous with my girl because she won't leave the house unless she looks perfect. It takes longer for her to get ready for dinner than it does for us to actually go out and eat it. First she asks if I like her outfit. Next she asks how her makeup looks. Then she drops the fun-crusher on me: 'Do I look fat?' I get so aggravated. Don't ask for my opinion if you don't want it. By the time she's ready to leave, the evening is already ruined because I'm in such a pissed-off mood."

I suppose it goes without saying that Cosmo quotes are probably entirely fabricated. Probably by an editor who stays locked in a room with only other copies of Cosmopolitan for company. Or something. Because how else can you explain the generic-ness of the above quote?

When you study writing, one of the first things they teach you is to avoid cliche. And what is more cliche than a woman being all, "Do I look fat in this?"

And finally, this little piece of sex advice:

"Treat oral sex like a vitamin, and give it to him once a day." I don't know about other women, but I really don't have time for such things. You see, I have hobbies. And a job. And self-respect and stuff. I'm really not too much into the idea of being someone's pleasure receptacle, thank you very much.

So, let's talk about the reality that exists outside of Cosmopolitan's Unicorn Valley.

The message that Cosmo puts out there is "Try harder. Do it better. Stay interesting. Get a ring on a finger and a baby in your belly, or you'll shrivel up and no one will look at you ever again. You'll be shamed and sent away. The end."

My advice, in the end of this long and incredibly ramble-y post is this: avoid advice. I'm going to go recover from this aneurism that reading Cosmo gave me. Ta!

School Days are Here Again, Part II

More classmates!

Dog the Bounty Hunter, class of 1972.


















Oprah, class of 1960.


















A diagram of the female reproductive system, class of 1994.


















Senator Palpatine, class of 1968.


















An ostrich, class of 1954.


















A Bratz Doll, class of 1982.


















My cat, class of 2000.


















Renee Zellweger, class of 1970.


















Miss Piggy, class of 1962.


















Troll Doll, class of 1990.


















Have one to share? Email it to me at themayorofbethville@gmail.com, and you might see it in a future post.

School Days Are Here Again!

I always dreaded the start of school. I used to have nightmares starting mid-June about having to get up at 6 AM and wait for the school bus. Truth be told, I STILL have nightmares where they discover I missed out on a particular class and make me come back. It always ends with me screaming, "NO! NO! I have my college degree! See? Here it is! I don't want to go back!" And then I wake up to the comfort of being an adult. Not dreading tests I didn't study for. Not fretting about armpit sweat staining my prom dress. And certainly not wondering how I can eat lunch without anyone noticing that I actually ate anything. The comforting thing is, no matter what you went through in high school, someone out there knows how you feel. Even though you may have felt totally alone at the time, you can look back later and laugh and laugh at how silly it all was.

Anyway, today I discovered the completely hilarious Yearbookyourself.com. Want to see how I spent my day? Do you? Okay.

Abraham Lincoln, class of 1970.


















Darth Vader, class of 1958.


















Elvis Presley, class of 1991.


















Albert Einstein, class of 1990.


















A California Raisin, class of 1974.


















A male lion, class of 1962.


















The Statue of David, class of 1978.


















Skeletor, class of 1982.


















Prince Charles, class of 1960.


















Jaws, class of 1984.


















Keep an eye out for female classmates in the next few days!

Have a yearbook photo to contribute? Email it to me at themayorofbethville@gmail.com. I'll post contributions in the next few weeks.

They Mostly Come at Night. Mostly.

I hate mice. But not in the same way that I hate roaches.

If I see a roach, I have no problem with grabbing a huge shoe and crushing the little shit. If I see a mouse.......UGHHHHHHHHH. *shudder* Somehow the crunch of an exoskeleton is less horrific than the crunch of an endoskeleton. Also, what if it squeaks at me? As if with its dying breath it is saying, "WHYYYYYY MEEEEEE? All I wanted was...........to feed my familyyyyyy."

And this is probably why I have mice nesting under my sink and oven at the moment. I'm squeamish and far too polite.

The other day, I had big plans to go home right after work and make a whole mess of baked goods. I mixed up my highly delicious poppy seed cake batter, coated the inside of my bundt cake pan with butter, cinnamon, and sugar, and poured in the batter. Then, I turned my oven to 350 degrees. Within moments, the kitchen was filled with the fragrance of overheated rodent urine. Or if you are impolite and hate to mince words like I do, "Hot mouse piss." I knew we had a few mice running around, but I had no idea it had gotten to this point. I wanted to curl up in the corner of my kitchen and weep. But instead, I called to scream at my landlord.

We have an exterminator come in once a month. He pokes around the kitchen and the bathroom. "You see any bugs lately?" he says. I say yes and point to a general location. He squirts that location with the spray. Last time he came over, I said, "We had a mouse there last week," and pointed. He squirted it with the bug spray. "It'll let them know I was here," he said. Apparently it's the newest extermination technique to simply mark your territory. Mice will be all, "What IS that manly stench?" and vacate my bag of cleaning rags out of respect.

Several people have reminded me that I have a cat. "Why doesn't your cat catch the mice?" they say. Put simply, she is too fat and too lazy for mouse hunting. She spies on them from the tops of things where it's safe. But she chooses not to interact. Like a noble nature documentary director, she cannot get involved in the circle of life.

People also say that you should stuff steel wool into the cracks and holes where mice might get in. I tried that once. I got my steel wool and my screwdriver, and I began to poke around in the holes. And suddenly, I felt the screwdriver crunch through something. Turns out, it was the skull of an already dead mouse. NEVER AGAIN.

Mice aren't anything new to me. I grew up on a farm. Our barn was full of mice. I knew that every time I opened the door to the grain bin, a mouse would run out. My dad would step on them. I would scream, and run for my life.

And let's not forget that I used to have a pet mouse, Simon. He was part of my 7th grade science project. He would ride around on my shoulder. And then, he committed suicide, plummeting two feet off my bed onto a dictionary. I always think of him at night, when I hear the rustling noises coming from under the sink. Oh, the laughs we shared.

Perhaps it is my memory of Simon that makes it so hard to put out and throw away traps. Or maybe it's because there's a dead carcass on them. Or a live, still squeaking mouse. But most New York mice are just too smart for the traps anyway. "Whaddaya think, I'm stupid or somethin?" they muse. And then go back to shredding your Kleenex.

The other day, when I was trying to bake, I glanced under my sink and saw a dead mouse on one of the sticky traps the exterminator must have accidentally dropped after lifting his leg against the refrigerator. I've always thought of myself as a semi-brave person. (See my post on bikini waxing for proof.) But I'm pretty sure when I saw that mouse, I said, "I want my mommy." And I did. I wanted my mom, or my dad with his enormous boots, or my grandpa who used to remove mice from the sticky traps with his pliers and then shove them back into his pocket.

Eventually I used my broom handle to maneuver the trap out of the cabinet. I then threw it into the trash, which I hauled outside held away from my body at arm's length. My cat watched the proceedings from the safety of the table. My landlord watched from the safety of New Jersey.

My Love for Dairy Queen Knows No Bounds

It was a dark, dark day when they shut down our Dairy Queen. It was the only one for probably 100 miles. All we were left with was the Pete's Dairy Cream across the street. It was not the same thing, with its soft serve that tasted mysteriously like those orange circus peanuts and mystery meat sandwiches they called "Jiffy Burgers." Eventually, that closed down as well and became a used car dealership with big fake palm trees out front. The old Dairy Queen became a printing place. You can't eat a wedding invitation on a hot summer afternoon, let me tell you. Well...you could, but it would taste terrible, even with a hot dog and a side of fries.

I was probably despondent for days when DQ closed. I loved Dairy Queen. I still do. If I see one, I have to stop. Even if it's 4 AM and it's closed. "We'll just have to wait until it opens, won't we? I don't care if you are in labor." I've eaten two Blizzards in one day before. Heath Bar in the morning, Snickers in the afternoon. It was there. I wanted it. End of story.

I see the majesty of that red shape in the distance. Narrow at both ends, wide in the middle. Like a big red eye, a distant winking siren. I begin to wonder if they make the mint M&M Blizzard there. Should I go in and see? Do they have Nerd Blizzards? If not, do the people who patronize this particular Dairy Queen know what they are missing? Should I have the Heath Blizzard with chocolate or vanilla ice cream?

There aren't any Dairy Queens in New York. I heard tell that there might be a few out in New Jersey. Maybe I'll pack up and head out there one of these days. See if I can't find a little plot of land to call my own. Start up my own Dairy Queen. Live off the fatta the land. Have all the Blizzards I could ever want. Or something. It could happen.