It's a Crime

        Okay, I’ve been thinking about criminals again. They fascinate most of us, which is why there are so many detective movies and TV shows. Who would have the guts to do the things they do, right?

          You might recall this post some time ago, about the various crimes that could have explained what I found in my bathtub.

          But today I’m thinking about how deftly criminals seem to escape the odds.

          For example, in big urban areas where there are muggings, how come a mugger never gets mugged? A pickpocket never loses his latest treasure to another pickpocket, either. How do they beat these odds?

          Let’s say a burglar breaks into your home. I have never once heard of him finding another burglar already there.  “Sorry, Mate,” he says—I’ve made him British—“Didn’t see your name on the calendar.”

          “No worries,” the fellow replies. “Can you help me lift this TV?”

          Crazed killers never run into other crazed killers, either. I imagine it would be a buzz-saw showdown, but no. They somehow manage to skirt around the other lunatic’s territory.

          Which brings me to my theory that this is why it’s called Organized Crime. They have secret calendars (online of course) where they “dibs” certain days, times, and addresses. An old criminal with bad knees coordinates the entire enterprise, and gets a cut of the proceeds.

          And that is how they never overlap. You’re welcome.

You might want to stack a bunch of my books near your TV, for them to get engrossed reading, and then you can catch them.

Over What Hill? I Didn't See Any Hill

           Done anything stupid lately? No? Then here—you can share mine. A couple of weeks ago St. Bob and I were invited to a friend’s birthday party.

           While selecting a card, we found one we thought was pretty cute—it teased the birthday guy about being old, then inside took it back by saying, “Ok, you’re not that old…”

          But there was a misprint inside the one we were reading. Part of the O in Ok was missing:

                                                Jk

          So we looked at the others in the stack. The same misprint was on every one!

          But, not to be thwarted, we figured we could just take a fine tip Sharpie and complete the O at home.

          So I was looking for said pen in the kitchen when our daughter, Nicole walked in.

          “Oh, hey,” I said. “Look at this card. They didn’t complete the O in Okay.”

          Nicole read the card and then just stared at us. “You guys are so old,” she muttered.

          WHAT? Vivacious, energetic, youthful, fun us?

          “It says JK.  It means Just Kidding.”

          Oh.  And now you know how to communicate with young people. Jk.

Aha—but I’m not kidding about visiting my website and buying my books! Check ‘em out!

Bob's Brain

           St. Bob has a juke box in his brain. It doesn’t even require coins—it just works Around the Clock (another song) and spills out into my world. Maybe it’s called a Juke Bob.

          Either way, I am treated to random songs every morning.  Most often they’re tunes I have never heard in my life.  But he knows every word, who sang it, and what year.

          See if you have tapped into this same amazing service. Do you know the following songs?

          I’ll Be Down to Getcha in a Taxi, Honey

          Put Your Shoes on, Lucy, Don’t You Know You’re in the City?

          Somebody Done Changed the Lock on My Door

          Caldonia

          Mississippi Mud

          Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone

          Surfer Bird

          She Got the Gold Mine and I Got the Shaft

          Short, Fat Fanny

          I Got Chicken on my Brain

          Here’s a quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)

          Way Out on the Windswept Desert

          Kaw-Liga

          You Can’t Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

          If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, it’s Me

          How Could You Believe Me When I Said I Love You When You Know I’ve Been a Liar All My Life? (This, Bob says, was from The Royal Wedding with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers)

          The list is much longer, of course. But I have to go put my shoes on and buy some chicken.

Speaking of buying, check out the amazingly low price of my books!

Some Say Tomato

           You already know that St. Bob and I went to Europe for Thanksgiving. But I now have the low-down on why so many cathedrals have scaffolding around them: If you have scaffolding you don’t have to pay taxes.

This could be the entire explanation for why the huge Sagrada Familia in Barcelona hasn’t been finished for 150 years, and will take another hundred, so they say. 

While there, I bought a mouse pad featuring the mosaic work of the famous artist, Gaudi. 

But that can’t be the end of the story, can it? Nope. Our eldest, Richie, came over and asked why I had a mouse pad on my mouse pad. Okay, it's small so it’s atop another one, in case I roll off it.

And you can be sure I said, “That’s Gaudi, by the way” to which Richie said, “I think it’s pronounced Gawdy.”

“No, Gaudi,” I said.

          Our son was smiling. “It was a joke,” he explained.

 I picked up the mouse pad and smacked him over the head with it. “Now it’s a weapon,” I said.

When you order my books, which you must, do not use them as weapons. You might hurt the books.

Seriously?

           Okay. For years you have been reading about my antics, misfortunes, and embarrassments. You’ve seen me in car crashes, jabbering away while on sleep meds, being frisked, stumbling and bumbling, bald from cancer chemo, getting hosed, correcting graffiti, getting kicked off jury duty, and falling over every kind of furniture in existence.

          But this one is the topper. Due to the risk of lymphedema, I have now been fitted with the following chic ensemble, modeled by an anonymous but undoubtedly highly paid model (not Joni):

          I know I joke a lot, but this is no joke. It’s a Flexi-Touch wearable pump that fills with air to massage your lymph system. Yes, for one hour every day I shall now resemble the fashion icon, Michelin Man:

          He actually has a name. It’s Bib, short for Bibendum. Below you can seem him in 1904, looking almost identical to the Flexi-Touch woman (although she seems to be falling off the sofa).

          Good ol’ Bib has also been a food critic

and there’s a restaurant in Paris with two Michelin stars and a picture of him on the wall:

But, hey, ingenious technology is valued for its performance, not for its appearance. So, if it works, I shall bravely don the costume.

But if you pop by and want a photo, there’ll be a small fee (see my other blog about fees right here.)

And, for heaven’s sake, buy my books!