Combine Kafka, Umberto Eco, Garrison Keillor, and gibberish base into a warm, dry bowl.
Beat until smooth.
Season to the occasion.
Wednesday, April 30, 2003
Why is it that Punxatawney Phil, a lowly groundhog, has the luxury of deciding to head back into his nice warm den (and presumably to sleep) while we humans are expected to wake at dawn and deal with rush hour on their way to work?
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