Not so fast there, fella.

Just trying to keep up.

Save your energy, we have 35 miles to go.

The March of the Penguins.

Since my column last week lamenting on the recent cold snap I’ve been invited to study the penguin.

Apparently, I’m viewed as some kind of authority on cold weather. 

But who knows cold better than penguins? I argued.

Consider it, then, a meeting of the minds, I was instructed.

I joined the march of the penguins in their trek to the breeding grounds, which I understand is somewhere near open water.

I took their word for it. Who am I to argue with a penguin, especially one sexually frustrated?

They were all obsessed with sex, I discovered.

Still, there was time to talk of American Idol and Dancing with the Stars, the penguins’ favorite TV shows.

Born comedians, penguins would rather sing and dance.

I felt like I had a role in the movie the Farce of the Penguin

Actually, the 70-mile sojourn across the Antarctic on foot with penguins isn’t much different than traveling across North Dakota with family. Most everything is black and white, days turn into nights, nights turn into days and we all wait anxiously for the next weather broadcast.

“Are we there yet?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

The quiet penguins are listening to ESPN, music and books on tape.

The bored penguins are always talking Penguinspeak.

“Is that a dead skunk in the middle of the road?”

“No, silly, it’s one of us.”

“Life’s a bitch.”

“Life’s not fair.”

“We never said this was going to be easy.”

Al Gore has often been invited to walk with the penguins. He’d change his mind on Global Warnings, the penguins are convinced.

Al-baby, the penguins tell me, has turned down all invites.

Never said to be fast on their feet, the penguin moves along at a slow but steady pace.

I found the penguin largely dysfunctional. They’re forever trying to hook up.

“Hey, honey.’

“Who you calling honey?”

“Not you, Brokeback penguin.”

“Want to go for a walk?”

“We’ve been walking for 35 miles.”

“Take a cold shower, bud.”

There’s the  belief that penguins mate for a lifetime. Not necessarily true, I’m told. It’s generally for a year.

“I’ll settle for a long weekend,” said one penguin.

The health of the traveling troop is always a concern.

“Is there a doctor in the house?”

“Chiropractor here.”

“We don’t need a chiropractor. We have webbed feet and flippers, remember.”

Many of the penguins joining the jaunt to the breeding grounds have extra baggage, if you know what I mean.

The response to the disruptive and disturbed penguins: “Where was Planned Parenthood when we needed it?”

I have to admit I tired quickly, not of the conversation, but from the cross-country hike.

“You’ll have to pick up the pace there, fella.”

Can we at least stop for a beer?

“Life’s a bitch, ain’t it.”

Onward and upward.