Destroying February -- Did I Do Enough?

Dear Friends,

I am given to understand that we are on the verge of a great victory in our interminable month-long struggle to destroy the month of February. Let me be clear, for any who may not understand the gravity of this moment; I don't mean February simply will end for another year; I mean this is literally the end of the calendar as we have known it, as it has included February. That's right. This is the last February any of us will ever see. A major reorganization of time itself will soon be underway!

Understandably, I'm flushed with pride that we undertook this great cause, and now are seeing a successful conclusion to the campaign. As I recall, they literally said, "It won't be done, it can't be done." Please note the emphasis on the words won't and can't. That's rich! I'll savor that a good long time! For the old truth is still good as gold: If you set your heart and mind on something -- and go after it with everything you've got, be you madman, be you fool -- it's as good as done. I've proven the adage.

If there's any doubt that the deed indeed will be done -- and frankly all that's left is the mopping up -- time will tell. I believe we'll get the confirmation tomorrow, on the last day of February for this year ... and ever. I can't tell you how much I'm longing to see everyone's faces -- especially the doubters and haters (as modern lingo puts it) -- I'll probably pee my pants like a little girl with front row seats to a Menudo concert. Or whoever's popular now. There's a lot moments like that I'm going to enjoy!

Talking it over with supporters, they want me to use caution, and not prematurely declare victory. I know, I know, Nervous Nellies are everywhere! Even among my best allies and trusted lieutenants. But look, friends, we've overcome all; what is there to be nervous about? Haven't you seen yourselves the opposition fold like a dime-store napkin? Have you seen even one hint of passion on the other side? If I'd known it'd be so easy, I would've taken out February as a kid. I hated it then, having to hear kids born on Leap Year going, "I'm only four years old!" Sickening stuff.

But what if they have a point? We do have the next few days to celebrate in a big way. There's no reason we have to step on the gas and blow out the pipes today. Save some fun for later. Plus, and this is a little lesson I know from my group dynamics research on humiliating people, for any resistance you get from a ne'er-do-well, an enemy, a hater, it's better to lengthen their discomfort, self-recriminations, and disgrace than let it end too soon. Shame is a nasty concoction you want them to sip ... slowly!

I can just imagine how I'd feel if I thought February might survive this ordeal. Just saying What if? I'd feel terrible, and I'd be kicking myself, asking, "Did I do enough? Just tell me. Is this on me?" What if, instead of taking time out for myself during the struggle I'd been working harder? It's true, I watch Wheel of Fortune like everyone. And I think, Is this smart? What if it all came down to one more blog post, one more poster, one more meeting at the union hall, one more Februarian beaten to a bloody pulp and left in the alley? From one agitator to another, It's you or me, pal.

But I've been going by the domino theory on this deal, and that gives me confidence. You know the domino theory, I hope! (And yes, it's merely a theory; it's never been proven dominoes will fall reliably every time into the future. Until now, though, the domino theory has held up.) You push one over and it has ramifications, consequences. The theory states: "If the next thing, i.e., the domino, or something else that would react as a domino to the prior domino-like thing in a line, is struck by the prior domino-like thing, both will fall." You extrapolate from that, naturally, that the third, fourth items, and on and on, will also fall.

By the way, there's a second Domino theory, which is this: "Pizza from Domino's isn't bad, but there's usually a better local option." Obviously, it depends on where you live, so I'm not happy with the word usually.

Let us all get a good night's sleep tonight, then with the morning's light I believe we'll be looking at mountains of good news. Then, as the clock ticks ... the pendulum swinging back and forth ... or Felix's eyes going back and forth ... the lifeblood of February will be trickling out an open vein, leaving it finally a cold, hopeless, abandoned corpse. Our deliverance, at last, is at hand!

Washington and Lincoln Stand as One for Fired Coach

Usually we live in two separate camps:
The Washington Cherry Hatchets vs. The Lincoln Split Rails,

but not in these days of great trouble...

No more "Our Guy's #1 and Your Guy's 16!" Incredibly, Washington recently put aside the rancor and joined in common cause with Lincoln. They proclaimed, "Today both our guys are #1." Wow! This new sun arose just the other day, right in the bleakest part of the night, as the day first dawned, at the moment nature itself is at its darkest...

Both teams awoke to the same terrible news: "LINCOLN'S BASKETBALL COACH FIRED!" Who took his team to 17-5 last year, including a hard fought victory over those Washington bastards. It was the talk of the town. Gatorade flowed freely in public troughs.

But now everything changed, when, inexplicably, the new Athletic Director at Lincoln, Witt DeMann, instead of a relatively cheap testosterone injection, along with a shadowy cabal of gutless underling principals, including the head principal taking an underling role because his son was grievously overlooked for a letter man's jacket and the ceremonial kiss of the prettiest girl in town -- who is actually homeschooled and thereby assumed to be without the normal diseases -- sacked Coach Mikelson. The whole thing gets complicated, but that's the basic story. They fired him, for no actual stated reason, and said, "Case closed. Move along. Nothing here to see. There's no story."

Until an influential newspaper man, showing the power of the full court press, rallied parents, townspeople, the students of Washington, Lincoln, and this one pretty homeschooler, against the idiotic cabal and their flubber-chinned henchmen on the school board. Not exactly empty suits, if you catch my drift. But were you the head man of a tribe of cannibals, and having them for Thanksgiving, you might want to double check the overall ratio of fat to lean. And if you were from a brain-sucking tribe, lest you end up on the menu yourself, in revenge, you'd want at least to tap into the cranial cavity of one and extrapolate from there. Planning makes perfect.

Anyway, the newspaperman caught the Lincoln AD at his self-congratulatory best, lounging in leisure, who issued chiseled-in-granite comments like, "Under no circumstances whatsoever -- come hell, high water, or Washington victories the next one hundred seasons will I ever accept Lew Mikelson back as our coach." He further put off the newspaper man with a repeated, "There's no story here. Go on, little man, peddle your papers elsewhere!"

It was at this point the Washington team joined forces with their bitterest rival, Lincoln -- and their proud parents, especially those whose children are on the honor roll. The others, who can't be bothered with whether their sons excel -- I'm trying not to diss my own parents too much -- sat out the fray.

Well, it happened that the school board was going to meet that very afternoon. And they were sure surprised when the students, the parents, and a half dozen extras with pitchforks and torches, came into the room. Each stood and in a dignified way offered their considered support for Coach Mikelson. They shook hands congenially with board members. But nothing seemed to sway the board till -- What's this?! -- Till the door opened again, and there stood one scowling woman in a miniskirt, nice-looking, with her homeschooled daughter, yes, the same one. Mom marched with confidence and determination to the blackboard, and said, "I'd like to address this meeting of the---" We'll just cut to the chase...

It turned out she knew all the dirt on each of these dirtbags. Including Bobby Taylor, sitting there, who'd seven times asked her for a date! Mrs. Taylor's mouth dropped open, smelling of ice. The students, each with hidden romantic entanglements of their own, sensed a distinct shift, the tide turning. The school board, the feckless principals, and even AD DeMann, were jiggling their chins and huffing such retorts as, "Well, I never!" and "Be silent, curséd hag!" before immediately voting (without a second) on the motion that they rehire Coach Mikelson, give him double pay for the past week and his inconvenience, and censure their previous handiwork with malice aforethought and the strongest prejudice.

The students erupted in cheers. This meant now, of course, unless they physically catch Mikelson with the entire cheerleading squad and the homeschooled girl, and the homeschooling mother agrees, they can never, not ever, fire him again. He has them -- and especially AD DeMann -- firmly by the nuts today, tomorrow, and henceforth forever. "Squirm, you worm, DeMann! Now, let's talk about that raise." And, "It's been 10 minutes, DeMann, I feel another serious ass-kissing coming on."

The newspaper recounted the joyous event, the historic day when Washington, Lincoln, and the homeschool mother all came together and socked it to the whole bunch of 'em. But they were generous enough to leave out of it the scofflaws' names. An appearance of graciousness that probably has more to do with future access than anything else. "We were just channeling public sentiment, not burning our own bridges, harumph..."

As for the Washington and Lincoln students, it's back to Total All-Out War! No one owes anyone anything! Come Fall, you filthy bastards, it's back on! "Your boat's going down, Washington!" and "Lincoln, how'd you like that play?"