I started to write this whole big entry about me waiting forever to get my truck smogged and how I was living dangerously, driving with expired tags and daring John Law to write my a Fix-It ticket. I was going to call it "Hey Snowman, Got Yer Ears On?" in reference to my fellow outlaw Burt Reynolds. I even had a couple of jokes lined up, one about buying a 1979 black Firebird Trans Am instead of a pussy-ass Mazda, the other about how my truck is in desperate need of a front end alignment and I know this because when I hit 60 it shakes like Muhammed Ali in an earthquake (yeah, going to Hell, thanks).
Then I look over into the living room. And see Lucas squatting like Pudge Rodriguez, grunting and giggling. Grunting because he's taking a massive dump, giggling because Mick the dog has his nose buried firmly in Lucas' crotch.
