My Kingdom for a Waterskiing Squirrel

Well now, THAT was grueling. Do me a favor, gentle reader: next time I yammer on (and on) about how splendiferous my vacation is going, someone shoot me an email and tell me to shut the &$#@% up! I think the suits read it and decided to bring me back down to Earth with a week of concentrated servitude. Barely-there storm damage, annexation stand-offs, teacher sex stings ... where’s the fluff? It’s not like I'm unqualified. Give me thirty minutes at a sparsely attended band camp and I’ll bring you back a piece of television that’ll make you want to sell your remote control! Normally, the bosses wholeheartedly endorse my mastery of pabulum, but this week I’ve been relegated to the front, shipped off in a battered live truck with reporter in tow and made to turn lead stories on all sorts of unseemly fare. Sure, it’s the kind of stuff most photogs crank out without thinking twice (you poor, magnificent bastards), but I’m Special! Just ask my Mom! Anyway, Hell Week is over - but with the July book in full swing, a number of other photogs on vacation and the sweltering stick of a Carolina summer truly upon us, the next thirty days ain’t lookin’ good. There is however, one upside: I’m so full of angst and career dissatisfaction that I’m bound to write something worth your time. Either that, or I’ll finally man up and get that lobotomy I’ve been eyeing all these years. Whatever happens, know that I’m newly committed to getting it all over ya, for while I can’t fully explain it, nothing brings me more joy than running my mouth on-line. See, I told you I was special...