While attending the Brattleboro Literary Festival last October, I was reintroduced to the joys of skipping.
My wife was less than supportive about my newfound joy, but I heard from at handful of readers who had taken my advice and tried skipping again after many years of non-skipping.
All reported it to be an unexpectedly joyous act.
So just when I thought that skipping could possess mainstream appeal, along comes The Skipper, a man destined to ruin skipping forever by making skipping look like the most ridiculous form of locomotion on the planet.
I hate when zealots destroy a perfectly wonderful thing with their complete lack of restraint.
