Michigan Pale

This is the time of the year when the birds return and perch just outside of my bedroom window and squawk that annoying morning squawk they like to do. Morning song, my ass. As far as I’m concerned, they can stay in Florida all year. Traitors.

This is also the time of year where resident Michiganders (or, Michiganians, if you prefer) shed our shroud of seasonal depression and emerge from our defrosted hovels to the bright glowing orange sphere in the sky. It burns our pale skin. I go from translucent white to red quicker than a naughty kids ass.

Speaking of the Michigan Pale, here are some pictures from the Pig. Notice how comfortable we are wearing our pink medal lanyards. Not even a hint of a threat to our naturally ingrained machismo etched on our faces. Sure, when the person handed me the pink medal , I did pause for a moment, wonder if she was confused, consider flexing-talking-about-football-burping all at once so I could get the dark black lanyard with the orange flames which I was sure was back there somewhere before relenting and taking the pink one. I didn’t have the energy to argue. Believe me, if (when) I was sent to the Big House on a ten year arson stretch, I’d be wearing make-up and calling myself Nitmette within 4 hours.

That's my ride home in the background, the show boat Majestic

Of course, me again with the wonderful Mrs. Nitmos.

Photo courtesy of Mike's wife, Fun Guv

I don’t want to steal photos and bring the long arm of the law down on me (see previous Nitmette discussion above) so, if you are really motivated to view more flattering mid-marathon Michigan Pale pictures, enjoy these beauties here (near the half mark) and here(finish) and here(gansta posing).

I forgot to mention the food at the finish. Damn if they didn’t have Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls! Me and Little Debbies have a long storied history. And Swiss Cake Rolls? Puh-leeze, little bundles of heaven. I don’t eat much of that junk anymore though. In fact, the five Swiss Cake Rolls I shoved on my five fingers like little tiny finger muffs – cream oozing out the top - and consumed whole in a manner that would have made the dearly departed Linda Lovelace blush, were probably the only ones I’ll have all year.

The sun is shining, the hell birds are squawking, and the weekend promises to be full of sun. I’ll be busy getting my Michigan Pale off. Hope you will too.

(You know what I mean)

Happy Mother’s Day.