Eat Shit, Old Man Winter

We did it! We stood in front of Old Man Winter (real name: Ronald Dinklin), cocked our collective fist back and punched him right in his stupid, wrinkled, gray-eyed face. When he hit the ground we pointed at him and chortled. Someone may have spit on him. Billy Axelrod then dropped the hammer and curb-stomped him. And we laughed. Oh how we laughed.

We probably shouldn't have though . . . because he's going to get up and he's going to punch us back - maybe as early as tomorrow. Kathy, and every other meteorologist within this state's borders, say the temperature will plunge 30 degrees in the next 12 hours with a decent likelihood of rain, snow or the two mixed together.

So what. It was worth it. Four consecutive days of temperatures at or above 65 degrees in the middle of January is on par with moderate to good sex (not that I am capable of either) - it makes you feel confident, happy and alive. And hell, a high of 40 tomorrow is still probably going to be better than what 54 percent of the nation will experience. It was a run for the ages and forever shall be referred to as "The January Sixties (Aught) Nine."

Lastly, kudos to Ms. Sabine for correctly predicting 71 and a record on Wednesday. Spot on, you frail little minx. But I shouldn't be surprised. She's not bad at predicting when precipitation is not involved. She should move to San Diego.