You’re Gonna Wanna Get That Ironed

It’s a little late this year, but fervent, almost ardent preparations are underway for this year’s Naked America!, Minneapolis’s yearly, giddy welcome of spring.  Like last year, there will be the parade on downtown and the naming of Miss Nekkid Pucker; the Bus Scramble, known in prior, less enlightened years as the Chinese Firedrill; and, of course, the often amusing half-keg shot-put event, named by Sports Illustrated as “both unsightly and disturbing”.
The first place prize for the most creative use of the words “The Netherlands” in the Haiku contest remains, as last year, a round-trip ticket to JUST ABOUT ANYWHERE ELSE.
The second place prize is a boot to the keester and a lecture from the aunt of your choice.
Am I making this up? 
Absolutely!  And you know why?
Because I can.  And because we just received six inches of snow.
Snow!  As I said to the television screen just last night “What the –“. 
And so winter spits ice into our faces just one last time and I am forced to return to my winter coat, AKA The Sleeping Bag, and my winter boots, affectionately referred to as “Snuggles” and “Butch”.
“Butch” is on the right.
Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you.  Is this what passes for spring in this part of the world?
And what does it say about me that I remain here, knowing this?
And so the voice of my grandma, sweet and country-seasoned, whispers in my ear:  Oh, hush now, you silly girl and run fetch me my recipe box.  We'll warm the kitchen at least...