It can be very confusing to write for a weekly newspaper, even at the best of times.

A number of words are quite useless at a weekly, words like “yesterday” and “tomorrow,” for example. This is obviously because any appearance of these words in print will almost certainly confuse any poor soul who thinks that “yesterday” means the day before this one, which is an idea that simply cannot be communicated in a weekly paper that remains on the newsstands until the next edition arrives.

The bizarre time-warp nature of the paper has had other interesting consequences. Once upon a time and long ago when the dear old Courier came out three times a week, people used to joke about our presenting “yesterday’s news in tomorrow’s paper tonight.” This was largely because the Tuesday edition appeared Mondays, the Thursday edition on Wednesdays, and the Saturday edition on Fridays.

I only mention all of this because, due to the absurd but unavoidable necessity of allowing news staff to take something resembling a holiday over Christmas season, the piece of weekly nonsense you appear to be reading at this very moment was in fact written before last week’s nonsense had even appeared.

As a direct result of this chronological madness, there is no point in my even referring vaguely to what will happen on Christmas Day in the concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street, where I am forced to live. This is because, although as of the time of writing Christmas was still five days away, by the time this is published, it will be over and gone, forgotten like a piece of stale fish.

It’s like watching your life slip away before you have even lived it, or something to that effect. It’s like trying to think of next week as though it were already over. So if next week is already gone, where am I today? (This is why we never write the “today” word., remember?)

I hope all this is clear to you, dearest reader. It completely confuses me.

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As I was driving back to the concrete towers from distant Owls Head the other Saturday, I passed the school and saw work going on for the new addition long after sunset. A backhoe was digging around, lit up by floodlights.

Possibly this was Santa’s elves trying to retrieve their stash before construction buried it forever.

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I will not try to explain which particular “last Saturday night” this was, for the reasons already explained above.

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According to the Canadian news media, certain towns up there in the Frozen Northlands have been using a mixture of brine and beet juice to de-ice their highways and byways.

I suspect we could do something similar, and use all that crustacean mix in which we boil a half-million lobsters each August. In fact, we could go one better, and use some mixture involving seewater which, being rich in salt, does not freeze the same way landlubber water does.

The only problem I can foresee with my brilliant plan is locating a sufficient amount of seawater. If only there were someplace where we could get an unlimited supply of the stuff at almost no cost. Oh well, it was just a pipe dream.

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A rash of yellow signs has sprung up on utility poles around the South End recently, offering fast cash to people who want to sell their houses.

Somebody must have smelled an opportunity to rake in the big dough, cashing in on the hot-as-pepper real estate market around here. A neighbor of mine recently sold a bird feeder with a view of the ocean for $59 million, as just one example. And he was paid in cash. I just hope nobody tries to sell these towers out from under me. You know it is bound to happen one day, he sighed.

If I remember the last fast-cash project that was being touted in Rockland, it was somebody last summer who wanted to buy all the Andy Warhol art in town. I’d love to know what became of that idea. I imagine it was just some stunt.

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So, we have enjoyed a year’s worth of the manifold blessings bestowed upon a grateful nation by Lord Prez Trumpleton, who has been running things in Washington; a glorious year of welcome stability, financial responsibility and great statesmanship.

Earlier in his presidency, he seemed to need more of my advice than he does these days, but I certainly enjoyed those little visits he paid to me in my towers, flying in on the Presidential Hang Glider. I think what has happened is that he now gets all the advice he needs just by staring into the Magic Looking Glass that I gave him for his birthday.

Certain of my friends have become positively rabid where Trumpleton is concerned, posting all sorts of vile things on Facebook that involve many other words that cannot be printed in a newspaper. Despite his many brilliant political successes, the poor fellow is still being treated as the Rodney Dangerfield of American politics. Under the circumstances, I think he is handling the pressure rather well. Best president ever.

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Well, if you think this week’s nonsense is rather short on material, just wait until next week’s comes out. That stuff will also be written before this week’s rubbish appears, again due to the holiday next week (or is that last week?) which had also not yet happened at the time of writing. My brain already hurts just trying to calculate it.

Normally at this time of year, when genuine news is a bit thin on the ground, papers fill up a lot of space by reminding readers of all the news they read during the 12 months just gone by. Really cheap readers might want to consider simply buying the year-end news in review edition, and get a whole 52 weeks of highlights for the price of one paper.

Probably I will be reduced to reporting on the number of wrinkles on a walnut shell.

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Anyway, Happy New Year to all! (Or was that supposed to appear in last week’s edition … or next week’s…?) Oh well, Happy Fourth of July, and be done with it.