For my birthday, Moira got me a subscription to American Snowmobiler magazine.

Thing is – I don’t have a snowmobile. I’ve never even ridden a snowmobile. I think people who go careening on frozen precipitation through National Parks with 145-horsepower between their legs, a rebel yell on their lips, and a penchant for disturbing the pristine beauty and silence of the flora and fauna held close to Mother Nature’s bosom, deserve the type of bad karma usually reserved for captains of ships labeled “unsinkable.” I don’t even remotely care for snow.

When I asked Moira about this, she told me that if I thought she was going to pay Publisher’s Clearing House hard-earned money for a subscription to Maxim or Stuff or FHM so that I could “ogle bulimic tarts with bust sizes only slightly larger than their IQs” then I had better pull my head out of my arse and get a hobby. Then she smiled and put on a little number from Victoria’s Secret and gave me my real birthday present.

God I love that woman.


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