And now, the final installment of the best COW of 2009 and perhaps any other year as well. (Other parts are here and here). Ramon, take back this floor.

Do you know that Elvis impersonators make ten times than me? You know why? Because [redacted] Elvis is dead. Will somebody please do me a [redacted] favor and kill [redacted] Rod Stewart?

- Rod Stewart impersonator Hot Rod at Walsh’s Pub in Hollywood, Fla.

I’m heading east, towards Miami. The weather’s beautiful. A sign says “Next Exit Tampa.” I’m not going that way. Neither is Adrian Peterson. Nor Orton. But Collins, McNabb … I try not to think about it. Soon I’ll be spending Christmas day at the beach. And on Christmas night I’ll be at Walsh’s Pub enjoying this guy and his wonderful band. And everything will be all right.

Back up a bit. I pull into the condo on Christmas Eve. We hit Walsh’s for a couple, then Shenanigans Sports Bar for some Christmas Eve wings and a tuna melt. I take the sandwich back to the condo. I sleep for hours.

Christmas day we sit on the beach. All is right with the world. That night we do the neighborhood Chinese take out. We drive up to Ft. Lauderdale and watch Sean Penn solidify his status as our generation’s Rich Little in “Milk.” We love Josh Brolin. Then we hit Walsh’s for a little Hot Rod Live.

Hot Rod was on the goof. As was his so-called band. Dirk was very proud of his Dean Flying V. George (Rod) managed to offend all races, genders and creeds. Especially offended was Mr. Walsh, who was footing the bill.

Three hours and six songs (only one of which was a Rod Stewart song) later, we headed back to the condo. I was starved. There was a tuna melt in the fridge. My friend said don’t. I did. At 6 in the morning I was lying on the bathroom floor having the most terrifying conversations with Jim Morrison, Aldous Huxley, Bob Allison and Bill Goldsworthy. The latter, btw, had nothing but nice things to say about Brent Burns.

As the quiet Beatle once sang “All things must pass …” and somehow I managed to not lose enough blood to spend the day at the beach. During the holidays Hollywood, Fla., is overrun by French-speaking Canadians. The beach is overrun by jellyfish. Neither Quebecois nor jellyfish care about the Dolphins’ resurgence.

I flew home Saturday, five pounds lighter. After ten minutes walking confused around the Lindbergh Terminal, I realize I’m in the Humphrey terminal. Took the tram to the Lindbergh terminal to make the cab ride cheaper.

The taxi stops at the light on 46th and Nicollet. I look to my left and there’s Rand walking the pug. The pug looks thrilled. Rand does not. I’m still mad he assigned me a COW no less then TEN MINUTES before my trip. I order the cabbie to run him down. Leave the pug, I said. Just clip the reporter. The cabbie asks which paper he works for. I lie, tell him the Pioneer Press. The cabbie refuses.

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