Weekdays at 9 and 10 am, 12 pm, 6 and 6:30 pm et/pt. Weeknights at 11 and 11:30 pm et/pt. Saturdays at 12 and 12:30 pm et/ptIt seems I have ventured out of the house and now find myself accosted by the fierce and untamed heart of nature! Do not fear readers, for I am well prepared to defend myself with an avalanching barrage of insults both devious and acerbic. Though these beasts may be a burden to me, they are no more than an idle distraction and pencil sharpener that will become the unwilling grindstone of my pencil-like wit, sharpening it into a piercing point of painful punishment. Nature, you dare stand in my way as I ramble freely about the country with impunity? I am afraid you are now in for quite the beating. You may surround and overwhelm me, but remember this: I am an Internet writer, and therefore in possession of all the skills necessary to survive any situation. I say to you, Mrs. Nature, BRING IT ON!
Oh, Mr. Goose, it appears that you are pinioned behind a wall of chain! Count your blessings well, for this simple mesh apparatus is all that stands between you and the savage interpretive dance routine my fists will be conducting on your fragile little face! One must wonder what the chalk outline of a goose would look like. I know I am right now!
What's this? My angry yelling has attracted the concern of your wife. Oh, Mrs. Goose, do not fret! Your husband is doing an excellent job of cowering behind this fence like the pathetic fighter, lover, and father he most definitely is!
Oh no, the siren fury of my voice has also brought the kids out, undoubtedly fearing the forthcoming death of Dear Old Dad! Come children, watch your father hide from his manly duties and quack his way out of another test of manhood! P.S., children, I do not wish to destroy your perceptions of truth and good, but this is most definitely not your real father!
But wait, what's this? It appears to be a lousy mound of walking ham caped in mud, insects, and feces. My how aghast I have become! You heathen swine, lying about so lazily in your own filthily rut! I would gladly drive my kicking feet into you if not for the fact I fear my shoes would become untidy and caked in the vast slop wardrobe you have so expertly adorned!
You cursed cask of bacon, do you think burying yourself in filth will save you? Dear Swine, I am writing out a check with your blood, and I am making it out to the funeral parlor responsible for reigning your worthless life in! Looks like it will be a closed casket funeral, because anything more would be indecent and immoral! I must confess that even making a meal out of you would be too rewarding a death, as not even the diligent insects seem to be enjoying the kingdom they have built upon your person!
Ah, it appears to be a bovine! The legendary craftsmen of steak, weaver of leather, and fountain of milk! It is a grave shame such a utilitarian wonder has to be so pitiful and vile! Miss, I must inform you that you picked a rather dangerous day to roam so haphazardly. You now find yourself in my warpath, and this is no laughing matter.
I am above hitting a lady, true, but you are hardly a lady! In this moment of danger I must do what I have to do to survive, and though you are fenced in, you still threaten me and my most precious safety. With a little ingenuity, I could fashion a beating stick capable of reaching you even beyond your metallic mesh fortress. How would you like that, Mrs. Cow? How would you like to see your own fortifications turned into shackles while I whack feverously at you? Be glad I am only threatening you, for I am not a violent man and wish only to go about my day as harmoniously as possible, even if you do stand in my way.
