Fifteen months ago, the sudden and devastating loss of my beloved budgie Winkles left me banished to my beloved mother Betty Gatto’s basement, where I whiled away my days downing 12-piece buckets of fried chicken and listening to Merle Haggard on vinyl. 
My grief seemed inconsolable. But, after a year of intensive counseling, I finally felt good enough to come upstairs, eat a cup of fruit salad, check the MLB standings, take a giant shit, and reach out to Jarvis. It was an emotional journey that forced us both to grow in unexpected ways, but we managed to come to terms with our differing assessments of Winkles’ intelligence and we’re ready to start blogging again.
You can be damn sure that we’re going to be straightening some shit out with the big-mouthed enemies of Mike Gatto who pounced all over my misfortune and spent the past 15 months running their big, fat, slanderous mouths with no fear of reprisal.
Stay tuned.
(Oh yeah — and neither myself nor my wonderful mother Betty Gatto are related to Mike Gatto in any way. Our common surname is purely a coincidence — and a damn sweet coincidence at that.)
