Truly outrageous.

More ice

falls from the sky onto Boston this morning, making all the shittiest drivers in town come out to howl. I swear to Jebus, people are like “OK, so in the most tragically comic of driving conditions, i.e. an ice fucking storm, we’re going to double-park as much as possible and on as many blind corners as possible, causing accidents that back traffic up for miles. It just wouldn’t be bad weather without us!”

Fuckers. I want to murder everyone today.

So it’s really happening, Fredders. Yours truly is starting culinary school. Orientation was last night, where I dropped the first massive tuition payment, and picked up all the gear I will likely ever need. As I sat there writing the largest check I’ve ever written from my own bank account, I reflected out loud to the Bursar: “You know, I think this is the largest check I’ve ever written.” She thought for a second and said, “You know, I don’t think *I’ve* ever written a check that big.” Encouraging.

I seriously walked out of that kitchen with 200 pounds of gear, 4 textbooks, 3 chef uniforms and a whole stomach full of “holy fuck, I’m nervous.” Yeah, it’ll be fun. Yeah it’ll be a challenge, and yeah, I’m psyched to do something besides work here in the sneaker factory for the next 50 years.

On a more traditional note, An official TellHimFred goodbye to Eric “Mangina” Mangini. This is a bit of a mixed blessing for us New Englanders, though. We really loved having someone captaining the Jets who we could absolutely straight up despise for his douchery. It made things so much more emotional when we’d kick the piss out of the gremlin-infested Green Machine, to see Mangina’s little pouty bitch-face try to stay straight. Ah, Mangina. We’ll meess you.

Note: if Jeff Jagolinzer ends up coaching the Jets… you’re gonna see a lot of people pop gaskets in this town. There’s a hardcore group of maroon-and-gold cultists who secretly infest this place, like those pterodactyl-creatures did to the weird desert planet in Pitch Black. Jagolinzer coaching the Jets will be like the thousand-year sunset: basically everyone will die in a painful and more or less instantaneous shredding of flesh.

And speaking of superknives, guess who’s gettin’ married this summer! No, it’s not Lindsey Lohan. And stop googling those bikini pictures of her. No, silly, it’s yours-frickin’-truly. And in a fit of insanity, guess who the guys in the wedding party are? Yep. Opposite, Cutty, Barry (remember them?) and my oldest friend, Loki.

Loki and I went to high school together, both went to Boston-area colleges, lived and worked in East Shitcan Texas together, and basically learned everything we know about debauchery from one another. While we’ve both mellowed in our dotage, (he’s engaged as well these days) we are both keenly aware that there’s a time and a place for everything. And by that I mean we’re going to pull out some of the stops that have been in for several years now. And by that I mean we’re going to throw down. Hard.

Well, that’s all for now Fredders. I should probably get back to using inferior glue to attach the soles of these running shoes. It’s exciting work, and when I’m away from it for too long I break out in hives.

PS, a big Fitzy GFY to the ladyboys over at Apples & Moustaches for giving props to our boy Bill Simmons. You know what they say: bad press is still press. Cheers.