The Story So Far

It was getting late. The frost on the inside of the car was battling for cold-nuisance supremacy with the ice chunks on the outside of the car. I started 'er up, the transmission reluctantly clunking into gear. I checked my watch, which the cold had now fused to my wrist. There was still time.

I had to get moving. I eased into traffic as best I could, avoiding a quartet of penguins and a lone polar bear, all of whom looked quite at home on 60th Street. I made a mental note to check with the zoo about this. Using my new razor-sharp Arctic driving skills, I rode the clutch and slipped the car forward at funny angles to combat the awful traction. So far so good.

By the time I reached the freeway, traffic had slowed to a crawl, probably because of the igloos that had mysteriously appeared on the on-ramp. I made a mental note to check local zoning ordinances, and carefully eased the car past an Inupiat family hanging out its laundry.

Traffic got better until around 37th street, where again we stalled due to the 5:45 trans-Siberian train crossing. I made a mental note to find out how this city finally acquired rail transit and checked the car's temperature gauge. It just laughed at me.

I made up a little time from there, despite being relentlessly passed by aggressive sled-dog teams and their mushers, all clad in six or seven layers of Gore-Tex.

Home was now close. I reached my parking spot and shut everything down. It was now just a quick walk across a patch of frozen tundra and I'd be able to...BAM! I had been run down by the Packers's kick-coverage team. They apparently mistook me for the guy they were actually supposed to tackle. I made a mental note to find out how many times that had happened this season, and tried to make my now-numb fingers work the key enough to open the lock, losing precious time in doing so. I stumbled through the door, tracking snow all over the place, and checked the clock. Too late.

I was not going to get my picks in on time.

So what's your story?

It had to happen sometime. After 11 years, I didn't get my picks in until the despised Thursday night game was well underway. I docked myself the requisite 16, and that, as they say, was that.

Congratulations to Dan Franklin, who had no such issues and wins the weekly jackpot in the second-to-last week of our season. As for the rest of us, Radar indicates there might be more snow on the way.

Crap.

More on Wednesday.