Being married we wind up doing many things we don't want to do. Mine is the yearly Christmas sleep over at the wife's brothers house. Here in this fine winger establishment we have six grandfather clocks all chiming at different times. Three dogs barking at the same time. The bonus, Fox news and there false information network, blah, blah, blah.
Merry Christmas to the underground and I sure do love my headphones.
Courage, the real holiday is coming. I'm referring, of course, to the Feast of Zover. What is this Feast of Zover, you ask? That's when the last relative is visited, the last of the wrapping paper is relegated to the trash, and you say, "Yippee! It's Zover!"
(Apologies to Merrill Markoe for blatantly stealing her joke.)