Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column plagued by twitching breasts.
OK, we’ll admit it: We don’t even have breasts, per se. We’re just being a little sensationalistic, but a daily column’s got to sell newspapers, you know. Got to pay the mortgage on the miner’s cave and got to feed the two-headed kids (they eat twice as much, we’ll remind you).
But we really do have a twitching problem in the pectoral region. We’ve tried to get people to look at it, because you can definitely see it through our Dokken T-shirt. People, however, don’t respond very well when you start pointing at yourself saying, “Look, it’s twitching. Look at it!”
And, no, it’s not because we hooked ourselves up to that electrical ab spasmitator you see being sold on TV. This is all natural. Actually, now that we think about it, we really don’t know if it’s natural; that’s partly why we’re writing about this:
Can anyone tell us exactly where these twitches come from? They’re definitely not your typical cramps – by which we mean painful, the result of overexertion and the kind of thing we’d use as an excuse to take a bucketful of muscle relaxers. They’re sort of like when your eye starts twitching for no reason, except with the twitching-breast thing you don’t have to worry about the woman in the cubicle next to you filing sexual harassment charges because of your “lurid winking” – that is, until you start talking out loud about your twitching breasts, in which case, better hope Johnny Cochran isn’t booked up.
So, if you have a medical degree in crampology, if you’re an expert in twitchcraft or if even if you only just saw a Discovery Channel show on anything related to the human body, let us hear from you at firstname.lastname@example.org, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just turn your head and cough into the voicemail at (970) 668-3998 ext. 237.
Correct us if we’re wrong, but isn’t pate just Spam for rich people?
(Sorry, one of those grocery store revelations we occasionally get and just can’t resist sharing with you all.)
We suppose you could call this a Gender Confusion Alert!!, but we’re not going to make too much noise about it, since it’s on us. The other day we told you the good news that Kim McDonald of Lake Dillon Fire-Rescue completed a national academy for arson investigators. The boo-boo was assuming from the name (the press release we received didn’t have a picture) that Kim is female. You know what they say about assumptions: (They can end up getting you fingered for starting fires even though you were a state away.) No, Kim is a man, a manly man at that. We’re not the first to make this mistake, he told us, and probably won’t be the last. We are, however, probably the first to spend 150 words in a daily column talking about it.
You’d like to believe it’s Wednesday, wouldn’t you? Well it’s not! (Sorry, just practicing a little reverse psychology.) Today’s password is “myopathy.”
We’re out on our way to Grand Junction to convince firefighting parachutists to let us tag along, so give us something to do during the drive at (970) 389-5442 …
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