As you may or, more likely, may not have noticed, McBone posts have been mysteriously sparse of late. Perhaps you were thinking that your worst fears had been realized, that the McBone well had run dry, that McBone's cutting-edge had finally been blunted against that big, bad granite slab called life.
Fear not, gentle McBoners. McBone's unique blend of social commentary, sports and anti-mayonnism is alive and well.
But even McBone needs a vacation from time to time, and so Alex and I packed our bags and deserted McBone HQ for some much-needed R&R in the Big Apple, where my erstwhile adoring wife assaulted me with a deadly weapon, opening a gash that I fear will forever mar my heretofore handsome visage.
My crime? Ogling eighteen-year-old Clare Tyson (of the New York Tysons).
But what's a little head wound (I should also mention that I got my head cut playing a little Guitar Hero against virtual guitar virtuoso, Aidan Tyson) when you're gallivanting on the grand avenues of the greatest city in the world? After a splash of peroxide, I slapped on a Band-Aid and was good to go. Alex and I gathered up the shattered pieces of our marriage and managed to spend a wonderful week in Manhattan, meeting old friends and stuffing our faces.
Renewed and refreshed, I pledge to bring to you out there in McBone Nation much more of what you have become hopelessly addicted to: that extra special, undiluted, unpasteurized, wholesome, homegrown, olde-tyme, organic, free-range and lactose-free McBone goodness.
Oozing gash compliments of Fiona Tyson, McBone Division of Hair and Makeup.