Some say old Amos has gone out of his tree. To that I say, "scroat"! Yessiree bob. The days they do pass quicker and quicker as the horrid summer weather encroaches. Old Amos here doesn't like summer too much, nope, nope, nope. Old Amose knows the moose well; he knows that the moose travels north in the summer to flee the encroaching heat wave that wraps itself around this part o' the country every twelve months or so... Oh, the moose is an intelligent creature, far more intelligent than old Amos here. If Amos know what was good for him, he'd pack up his bags every May 30th, and get the hell out of this sweltering hell hole before summer lays her heavy hand upon us. But oh no, old Amos stays in Churchill every goddamned year, swilling beer in the off-season, and singing drunken sailor's tunes with good old Sethy boy. When will I learn... Ah! But what can I do? Everyone knows that you only ride mooses in the winter, the sweet caresses of their loving backside that make the rider feel like it's they're birthday and they just got that brand-new firetruck they were hoping for... You know, nothing compares with moose-hide. It's kind of like a cross between satin and 120-grade sandpaper -- impossibe to describe accurately unless you've felt it for yourself. But that won't be happening any time soon; probably no sooner than October, actually. Oh boys, I dare not think how much booze it'll take to keep me sane through the summer months... I'll get back to you after the mooses return -- or else it's "scroat" for old Amos!