This morning, I needed to exit the interstate on Seigen Lane. It's a busy street, so the exit ramp for cars turning left is two lanes, and it is often many cars deep. Today, the left turn lane on the right was about 8 cars deep, and the left turn lane on the left was a single car. I looked down the lane to see the reason. A beggar was standing on the side of the street right by where the next car would have to stop.

The standards of decent storytelling require me to start our holiday recap not with Christmas itself and not with the chronological beginning of the season. Instead, I jump out to December 19. It's a dark and cold Sunday night, and we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere, some 30 minutes outside of the spot where Birmingham, Alabama's civilized limit stops.

Meet Hershel. Hershel is a pussy magnet.

You would think that the people in Hong Kong Phuey's city would figure out his true identity.

When I saw that ESPN was going to televise 24 hours of straight live basketball, I thought it might make for a good opportunity to blog. I figured I could work in front of the games, pausing from time to time to make fun of whoever is playing at 2:00 in the morning, tedious overplayed commercials, etc.

The weekend before last, I worked harder than I ever have during a weekend. We went to the Realtors' convention in New Orleans to launch MyTechPurse, which is (if you're listening search engines) the best place to find out how to build and maintain a great web site, integrate social media, and build an internet marketing strategy that works. It's a must for any small business.

I took the dogs for a walk today, and I wasn't the least bit surprised to see Lily poop out a pecan loaf. Last night, when everyone had gone to bed, I flopped down on the couch to watch some bad college football, and I noticed that my two canine sidekicks weren't there with me. I found them outside, shelling and eating a pecan feast.

The two NFL quaterbacks with the most interceptions are Favre and Brees. Not such a surprise for Old Man Favre (and from now on, everyone with a four inch penis should refer to it as "Old Man Favre"), but it's just shocking to see Brees play so poorly. Blame the Madden curse, blame the new baby with the terrible name (Bowen Brees sounds like a too-sweet fruity rum drink that you would order at a horrible all inclusive resort), but whatever it is, it's not so much fun to watch.

The biggest testament to Bob Dylan's songwriting ability might just be that he was able to crank out hits, despite having a voice that would be envied only by a seal with a two-pack-a-day smoking habit.

There's this old picture that used to sit in a frame in our house growing up. I'm about five, my sister two or three. We're in front of Mike the Tiger's cage wearing 70s winter coats that might look stylish again by now, but were certainly ugly while the picture was displayed through the 1980s.

Unlike when I was a student, today's kids set up tailgate parties out amongst the fans and families spread all over campus. It's a little ironic that the kids today don't have a good place to go drink without legal hassle, other than right out in the open next to traffic-directing policemen.

While walking the dogs last night, I made up two haikus. One is based on my real life experience this week, and the other is not. It's funnier to let you decide which is truthful.