JANUARY THIRD: Having just re-enacted the dismemberment of Osiris by Set upon the corpus of our stately Christmas tree, I feel safe in observing that the holidays are now drawn to a close.

Our home is at the top of a steep hill, on a street which, inconveniently for us, is a direct shortcut between two major arterials. Savvy Shithead drivers know this, and use the street to drive at manly 60-mile-an-hour speeds between the two in times of traffic congestion, commandingly demonstrating their lack of consideration and generally insignificant penile endowments.

I’m considering making an automated toddler, a doll which waddles slowly across the street when triggered by one of these enemies of humanity barreling down the thoroughfare. Maybe next week. To execute it properly, the obstacle should feature a baby-cam, capturing the drivers’ face and plate number at the moment of impact. Details!

I mention this with regard to our recent snowpocalypse, as said steep hill becomes impassable under less than an inch of snow. Cars carom wildly down it even when inched by the merely ignorant, as opposed to the willfully testosterone addled. When it snows, of course, the arterials back up, and the percentage of bulletheads intent on minimizing their reproductive careers on our street dramatically increases.

Our driveway is set at the crest of this hill, and is deceptively wide – the exact width, in fact, of a real city street. So every year as we harvest the annual crop of imbeciles, the highest-scoring percentile thereof mistakes our driveway for a surefire exit route, only to come to a screeching, tire-smoking halt just before they plunge into our neighbor’s parked car and bedroom.

Today, as I tackled the tree unlimbing, I noticed some of my firewood had been dislodged from it’s pile between two support members of my carport. Looking more closely, I noticed that one of the one-fooot-square concrete anchorpads that form the lightweight foundation of the carport had been physically moved by about three inches, the distance marked by the muddy outline of the former pad locale.

Stepping back, the support member is well off true now. Pondering, I at first thought some wild gust of northwest wind might have lifted the roof and re-set the beam. Then, I noticed the unmistakable evidence: MORON SPOOR!

At mid-thigh level, there is a series of black-rubber impact marks, just where and what one would see if an Escalade reversed hurriedly into the white-painted pole in the middle of the night. Noting this, I recalled a sudden awakening last week followed by flashing headlights departing the drive. The impetus for my reveille was a loud screeching and squalling noise, just the sound of an SUV backing into the pole.