winter, that cruel bitch

Bereft of snow in which to frolic, or poo-sicles to eat, I am left only with the unbearable chilliness of being, which comes with temperatures in the lackluster 30s. Frosty mornings rife with squirrels only comfort for so long before I take to my daybed, utterly exhausted by my own disgust and cravings for pizzles. (By the way, to the uninitiated, pizzles are dried bulls' penises that have been twisted into pleasing braid shapes. You might think I'm joking, but assure you that they're delicious.) On, harsh winter, do your worst. In my lounge chair of leather and lambswool, I laugh at you!

p.s. please send pizzles to get me through March at least.