Only 11 shopping days left.

I’m once again doing mop-up duty — my periodic revisit of past columns to tie up loose ends. I only seek to publicize new discoveries, (epiphanies) and forgotten items, (alzheimeries) and of course, that end of the world thing.

There are only 14 days left until Christmas, but technically only 11 shopping days due to the end of the world on the 22nd, according to the Mayans, reputedly an astute bunch adept at crunching numbers. Therefore, I’ll be celebrating Christmas on the 20th this year and ask that any potential gifters respect and honor that date.

The old adage “You can’t take it with you” is just that — an adage backed up by absolutely nothing. It is not Biblical and we do not know for sure.

• The completion of my Dad’s Unofficial Dictionary a few weeks ago was woefully incomplete. I was nonplussed (the direct opposite of being plussed) to realize I had left out two of my favorite “Alfisms.” My late father Alfred only went to the ninth grade, but his skills of expression were far superior to the educated masses.

“… grinds my valves.” If Dad was irritated — for instance, if Smitty’s Auction Barn was closed due to inclement weather, he might bemoan, “Boy, that really grinds my valves.”

“You’re just talking to hear your head sound,” meant my ridiculous excuse for not emptying the ashes was making no sense. If you grinded Dad’s valves, a good “fetching up” might be in order. (Since his disciplinary threats seldom materialized, we just assumed a fetching up was akin to a severe spanking).

Alf, and Mom too for that matter, never yawned when he got sleepy; he “gapped.” He would say, “It’s funny how when I see you gap, it makes me gap.” No one belched at our house either; they “rifted.” It grinded my valves when Dad would rift when I had friends over that I “chummed with.”

• I wonder who will play me in the movie? I was feeling quite ordinary the other day until I looked over at my little dog Trina staring intensely at me. I suddenly realized I’m an intriguing and compelling individual. It’s too bad everyone doesn’t have a dog to assist them in re-evaluating their self-worth.

• I was half asleep on my couch — where I’ve slept nearly every night for the past decade — when I heard the warning on Fox & Friends: “Your couch might be killing you.” I sat bolt upright, turned up the volume and bellowed, “What did you say, Steve Ducie?” He repeated it (which I found odd): “That’s right; your couch might be killing you.”

It seems a chemical used on most couches to prevent inadvertent fires (like anyone intentionally starts their couch on fire) was found to be a major cancer-causing agent. Imagine my raging chagrin. Not only do I sleep on my couch, but when I’m between jobs (frequently), I spend up to another eight waking hours there. I’m a dead man!

Like my chances of living a long life weren’t hurt enough by the alarming new findings that refined sugar and Copenhagen snuff isn’t beneficial to health. What next? Stress? Well, if they quit listing all the ingredients to my premature demise, maybe I wouldn’t be so gall-danged stressed.

• I’m convinced that anyone claiming not to love fast food is fibbing or attempting mind over matter. There’s precious little under those golden arches that isn’t Deeelicious with a capital D, and they keep creating new specialty burgers and shakes that defy human resistance. Admit it: if fast food was proven ultra-healthy (the jury is still out), you’d be stuck in a drive-thru line right this minute.

• Sadly, I’ve seen my glass as half-empty lately and it’s a dribble glass on top of that. But I sure was thankful for the bountiful Thanksgiving meal mostly prepared by my stunning, 30-year-old niece Amber, visiting from Laramie. I love that girl. If not for her, I’d never have known my columns on the Trib website were being attributed to “Doug Bolugh.”

That’s the beautiful thing about holiday meals: It’s like Darryl, who delivers my shingles, excitedly stated one day about the new Chinese buffet: “It’s great. You can eat all you want … until you’re sick even.” Here’s to eating till we rift and puke like there’s no tomorrow. Truth be known, we have 11 of them left.