Hey guys, it’s me, the Jack of Diamonds.

I know it isn’t customary for your average playing card to speak up, but it’s time. I’m tired of getting overlooked by those other fancy face cards and your aces and whatnot. Seriously, if you guys knew what a total a-holes the jokers are, there’s no way you’d be excited to draw them. I feel like saying, “Hey jerks, I’m still a jack! In the medieval hierarchy, I’m like a duke or something!”

Sometimes it sucks to be the Jack of Diamonds. Look at me. Do I look happy to you? No, I look like some effemenate dude in an awful jacket who spent too long brushing my hair. Anyone suppose I’m a happy Jack when I look in the mirror? Anyone care to guess how many times I’ve contemplated plunging this ceremonial sword into my guts?

I suppose I’ve said my part now. I’ll go back to being quiet, unappreciated Jack of Diamonds. I don’t care if nobody gives a crap about me. I’ll show them all what they missed out on. Someday they’ll be sorry they ignored me. I’ll get a hot girlfriend and grow a beard to cover my weak chin and drive a Ford Contour.

Then everyone will say, “Hey, when did the Jack of Diamonds get so cool? I’m going to invent a game where whoever draws the Jack of Diamonds immediately wins.” Then I’ll be happy and my hot girlfriend will agree to wear Princes Leia’s metal bikini from Return of the Jedi.

So here’s your last chance, America. It’s your last chance to buy stock in the Jack of Diamonds before I become awesome and everyboy loves me. If you don’t, you’ll be sorry.

Whose groin do I have to punch to get a Wendy’s Double Stack around here?

I know that it’s 8am, and I know there’s a snowstorm outside, but I’m about to start snapping some femurs if I don’t see a hot Wendy’s Double Stack in front of me pretty soon. I’m serious. In fact, I am totally psychotic about this.

Look, I’m a simple man. I like my pickles spicy and my tickles rough. Is it too much to ask for a delicious, mouth-watering Wendy’s Double Stack every Tuesday before school? Am I the crazy one here?

Here’s the thing about Wendy’s Double Stacks, they’re only 99 cents and they taste like a father’s love. There is nothing better than a Wendy’s Double Stack in the natural world, and that includes Dairy Queen Blizzards and the Grand Canyon.

Let’s bring it back home. If I’m not grinding a Wendy’s Double Stack into my face in the next ten minutes, I’m going to introduce my lead pipe to some skulls. It’s about to get depraved around here.

You know where to find me. As usual, I’ll be spitting obscenities in the third stall of the middle school boy’s bathroom. Be sure to announce yourself before you enter, or you’re likely to end up getting slowly strangled to death.

I love you and only you, Wendy’s Double Stack.

Gather around, children of all ethnicities! Come and see the wonderful gift of North Minneapolis!

It’s a bullet hole in our garage!

Yes, that’s right! On Saturday night, the North Minneapolis Fairy fired a gun near our home and teens (presumably wearing oversized white t-shirts and black do-rags underneath their parkas and stocking caps) went scattering away from the loud party they were attending. It was zany! Then the police came with their sirens and flashing lights and shiny boots and saved the day!

Sunday morning, I saw the bullet hole in my garage! Hooray!

Sunday evening, Brett Favre put a metaphorical bullet into my guts! Everything was terrible on Sunday!

Now children, if all of you say your prayers and eat your vitamins, maybe one of the North Minneapolis Fairies will shoot a bullet into your house or garage too! Then your family will be endangered and anxiety-ridden and the resale value of your property will magically diminish! Perhaps a Hennepin County judge will be lenient on the North Minneapolis Fairy and send him back with his other friends in his enchanted community! This is called the circle of life, and it is what Elton John sang so beautifully about in the mid-90s.

Now all of you children, listen closely. I want you to run around the neighborhood and see if you can find the North Minneapolis Fairy who shot a bullet into my garage. If you spot him, come back as fast as you can and tell me where he is! Then I will run him over with my Hyundai Sonata!

Three cheers for cold-blooded vengeance!

Behold, the insufferable sight that greeted us miserable Minnesotans on this, the mournful morning of October 10th, 2009.

What the hell is this all about? The first snow is a sacred moment that must be reserved for no earlier than election day! A snowfallen morning on October 10th is like a department store selling Christmas items in the heat of August – it’s against the natural laws of the universe, just as forbidden as a committed, long-term relationship between a goat and a gator.

The first snow should be a time when apple-cheeked children rub their eyes and smile in wonderment, a time when coarsened misers throw silver dollars in the air with delight, a time for dogs to hump furniture in ecstacy. When the snow falls this early in the year, none of those things are liable to occur. Instead, we are left to stare vacantly at the sight of the snow-covered ground and absentmindedly extend our middle fingers to the heavens at our plight.

Everything is awful now. Nice job, Joe Nathan.

As you know, the start of school is always a hectic chapter in a young man’s life. It’s a period when free time is limited and stress-related diarrhea is copious. My week has been a frenzied rush of lesson planning, windsprints, and hot-headed recriminations leveled at passersby.

The energy level needed to get through my days intact is such that I’ve had difficulty sleeping. Last night I straddled a fire hydrant and spit at stray dogs until collapsing at 5am. I awoke two hours later naked in my garage. My neighbors are the best.

In addition, I’m chaperoning a middle school retreat on Thursday and Friday, spending a night in a cabin with a bunch of 11 & 12 year olds. This is exactly as fun as it sounds.

On the plus side, KFC is about to release their latest abomination against the natural law, the breadless Double Down Chicken Sandwich.

I’ll see you guys out behind the KFC. I’ll be the guy collecting spare change and muttering swear words.

It’s all over.

A glorious summer lies lifeless in my hands like a wrung-out pelican.

All my summer’s hopes, joys, and anticipations have added up to nothing more than a handful of fallow seeds, blown astray by the winds of mystery into the chafed mouth of Father Time, presumably to be digested in his Stomach of Ages. By September, my enchanted summer will be just one more mound of dried excrement on Father Time’s front porch.

Where did the time pass? It seems like only yesterday it was the middle of June and I was as merry as a child straddling his first scarecrow. Now, teacher workshops begin on Monday and I am a wizened miser gasping for air. Who is left to seal their lips over mine in a vain attempt to resuscitate me? Who will pound on my chest in melodramatic fashion? Who will mournfully zip the coroner’s bag closed over the dead face of my summer?

I think I got lost in a metaphor there somewhere…

At any rate, my summer break is done. On Monday I will dutifully return to my full-time job and spend a week sitting in meetings, hanging meaningless posters, and berating custodial staff. There will be warm hugs of welcome from my co-workers and nods of respectful recognition from imaginary bears. All will appear to be well, but this will not be the case. In my heart, I will secretly be yearning for those long days of July when I sat on my ass all day reading news on the internet and complaining to my wife.

So long, summer. Have fun in hell. Say hi to Seasons 6-11 of Happy Days for me.