2 Articles
John Hicks

This is my first post from the newly improved Executive Cowboy Lounge, high atop Coburn Mountain, Alabama.

It is raining, with thunder and lightning. The PC should not even be plugged in. I’ve already lost one hard drive to lightning. (Did I learn my lesson the last time I lost all my data? Do I now take great pains to back everything up? Nope. I’m what mental-health professionals and ex-girlfriends refer to as an idiot. Shoe. Foot. Shoe on foot.)

But this week has been a real doozey, as we say in polite company, and the deadline looms. Yes, I take risks. Because I care, gentle readers. I’m afraid if I don’t show up on time every week, all six of you will forget about me. And, shoot, I’m sworn to fun.

John Hicks

It’s Leap Day, so I better get crackin’ on this stuff. You don’t often get a chance to write a blog post on Leap Day.

Don’t let that train pass you by, friend, or one day you’ll find yourself all alone in a cheap room, toothless, with pee stains on your underwear. Wishing you had written that Leap Day post.

But it will be too late.

And no one can bear that kind of sadness.

See, February 29 only comes around once every four–

Ladies! Gentlemen! Put away your revolvers! Just kidding!

Okay, Leap Day? Leap Year? Bor-ing! Leaping is okay, though.

I’ve done a lot of leaping in my time. I leap whenever I feel like it. Hardly a day goes by when I am not required to leap over Bob Johnson.

(Shot of snoozing Bob Johnson with title: Canis americanus.)