If 2020 were a drink, it would be colonoscopy prep.

My wife and I got into an argument over a tree branch that had been hanging over the fence line and into our neighbors backyard. She wanted it removed; I said it wasn’t hurting a thing.

Finally, after feeling sufficiently nagged half-to-death about it, I grabbed up my pruning saw and suspension ladder, and stomping my way out to the base of the tree, setting everything up. Did I mention that I was pissed-off at this time?

No? Well, I was.

Climbing up the ladder, I proceed to saw away at the 20-inch thick branch. My wife comes out the back door in the meantime, to look, she says.

I think it’s more to gloat.

“Hun,” she starts, “You really should…”

I interrupt her, “Leave me alone, I’m already doing what you want. Isn’t that enough?”

“Thank you for doing this,” she starts, “but I think…”

“Never mind what you think,” I blurted out.

Jus’ then the branch I was working on cracks, crunches and falls away. With it came the ladder and me.

In my anger, I had hung the ladder on the branch, then proceeded to cut the branch out from under myself. So yes, stupid should hurt.

Nevada, where you can’t get unemployment even after begging and a mail-in election ballot without asking.

Send $500 in cash to yourself through the mail, then tell me how secure you feel that the US post office is handling your ballot.

Get your butt out and vote…if the dead can do it, so can you!

Mike Pence is the first man in history to actually win an argument with a woman.

“Joe Biden is predicted to win,” the Book of Revelation.

When she didn’t answer, Miguel figured she didn’t know.

“Why is she crying,” he thought, not understanding his speaking made her happy.

He also didn’t understand that it had been a fight, this burning. Had he been older, learned to watch the television news, he’d of known what was twisting in his singular mind.

Each side, correct, but they couldn’t see the actual depth of their arguments. The outcome was the same and the outcome was as deadly as either.

A ball of flame was the spinning image in Miguel’s head and all-sides would learn that tomorrow was too late.

The radio played, “The Bones,” a song Miguel had learned to ignore. It had played and played and every time the radio was turned on, it played again.

Only one line held any interest for him: “The house don’t fall when the bones are good.” What it meant, he didn’t know or understand.

He chewed his perfectly buttered and jellied toast, turning the sentence over in his mind. Key words hung in his brain, house, fall, bones, good. An image flashed through his broken brain, the dome melting.

“What’s a supernova?” he asked his surprised Madre.

She couldn’t help crying.

Before I can agree to 2021, I need some terms and conditions first.