snow flakes in high springs this morning.
Son, we live in a world where it snows. And that snow has to be removed by men with shovels. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Weinberg?
I have a greater responsibility than you could possibly fathom. You weep for the meteorologist, and you curse the guy that drives the plow. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know. That snow shoveling, while tragic, probably save lives. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives.
You don't want the truth because deep down in places you don't talk about in the summer, you want me on that driveway. You NEED me on that driveway.
We use words like accumulation… sleet… ice. We use these words as the backbone of a life spent shoveling. You use them as a punchline.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who walks his dog on the very sidewalk I just shoveled, and then questions the manner in which I shoveled it.
I would rather you just said 'thank you' and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a shovel, and dig out the mailbox.
Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you are entitled to.