The deer have been outside my office window all day. They know I can't shoot them — there's a hunting ban on Mt. Desert Island — so they think nothing of loitering about in plain view. No, let me be more specific: maliciously loitering. Like surly teenagers outside a retirement home, this small pack of ruminant ruffians tromp about — on National Park land, no less, land made for you and me! — and destroy it with their "feeding" and "surviving." Every few seconds, they flick up their little white tails, providing a horrific glance at the source of the billions of deer pellets that litter the land like cigarette butts.

Cocky sons of bitches, these deer. Next time I watch Bambi, I'm going to cheer during the forest fire scenes.

Even these hoodlum skinny cows can't keep my mind off the change of season, however. Yesterday was filled with strange rays from a fiery ball in the sky that provided what I'm told is "warmth." It was a strange, exotic feeling, like the way I felt the first time I dreamed of Margaret Thatcher. What's even better: mad scientists called "meteorologists" have told me that this warmth thing is actually just starting. I'm not quite sure what spending all day studying meteors has to do with making the cold go away, but I'm sure it has something to do with the same power that makes Scientologists know so much about science (look at the word: "Scient" + "ology" = "the science of science," and hell people can't just lie about that, can they?).