Flaming Hot Cheetos

"You know what? We never get Flaming Hot Cheetos in the vending machines no more."

"I know."

"One of these days we should jump the guy and ask him why not."

"I know. We should."

"Because they always sold out real fast. It's not like they weren't popular."

"I know."

"I just want to know why they don't have them anymore."

"I know."

"Because I love them. And it's funny because I don't usually like spicy stuff."

"I know. Me neither."

"But I sure like these. For some reason, they're just real good."

"Yeah."

"And I just don't have time to stop at the 'Pump' every morning and pick up a bag."

"I know."

"I just wish the vending machine still had them."

"Me too."

Brrrrr.....

It sure is cold in here. Or so everyone says. Every day. You'd think they'd get tired of having the same conversation every morning. But they don't.

"Is it cold in here?"

"It's freezing!"

"I'm tempted to put my sweater on!"

"Me too!"

"I have goose bumps!"

"So do I!"

It's the same every day. The comparing of goose pimples, the threats of sweaters, the shivering, the chattering of teeth. The temperature's the same, too. In the mornings, it's about 78 degrees (yes, I have a thermometer on my desk). By mid-afternoon it's about 80, sometimes 81.

Brrrrr.

This is me, on my way to Las Vegas. The coconut is full of money.

My vacation officially begins Friday, but I'm already gone. I'm not thinking about that contract I ought to be drafting, or any of a number of trials that I ought to be preparing for. Nope. I'm thinking about laying in the sun by the pool on the roof of the Plaza Hotel sipping martinis brought to me by bikini-clad bimbos with fake boobs. The sweat is stinging my eyes. Vision getting blurry . . .