Or Maybe I Am a Lifestyle Blogger
There was a gaggle of young rednecks in the back of the bus, discussing their lives of crime. One of them said, “When the cops stop me, I catch amnesia–I can’t even remember my last name.” I’m guessing officers get that a lot. I remember the story of one gentleman who, when asked his name, looked wildly up at the street sign and said, “John…Barker.” I’m hoping the officer then said, “And your middle name is Mount Vernon?” It’s like the popular saying, “Those drugs aren’t mine.” And I assume you don’t know how they got into your pants, either. This sort of thing doesn’t seem to me to be worth the trouble. But, as the sagacious 911SK noted, “You don’ t choose the thug life–it chooses you.”
The blooming rosebush is gone from the site of the new CVS-to-be. Maybe the construction worker who dug it up took it home and planted it. This is like thinking, “I bet that litter of kittens all got good homes.” I mean, I can’t adopt every cat in the world. I tried it, and it didn’t work.
Sign on cage of pair of ferrets at the Pet Food Center: “CAUTION, WE MIGHT BITE.” Good of the ferrets to let us know. I remember one occurrence, from that very store, where a 12-year-old boy grabbed a ferret, stuffed it into his pants, and ran. Now, no ferret I don’t know is going to get into my pants. But, as noted above, a life of thuggery is not for me. I can see the police report now–“Body identified by scars from ferret bites.”
HOW TO IDENTIFY MY DEAD BODY
In the fullness of time, I would prefer that my dead body not have to be identified by esoteric means. But, because no one knows the day or the hour, I leave the following pointers: [DIGRESSION: DO NOT DIE UNDER AN ELECTRIC BLANKET. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW GROSS YOUR BODY WILL GET. Don’t ask how I know this, although I hasten to assure you that it wasn’t from a ride-along.]
–The cobra tattoo on my left forearm is guaranteed for two weeks after death. A sign on the artist’s wall said so.
–I guess I have to say something about dental records. I have numerous gold teeth, as a result of soft drink addiction that started when I was 4. I suppose suing the soft drink companies is not an option, although it’s an attractive option, because I’ve spent thousands of dollars on dental work. On the other hand, I’m guessing that it, as well, is guaranteed for two weeks after death.
–I have a weird albino spot on my back. It once had a mole in the middle of it, which mysteriously disappeared, and what’s up with that?
–There is a scar on my right knee from falling off my bike onto gravel. I don’t recommend the practice.
–Something even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t figure out–the chronically nicked and roughened skin on my right palm. This is from having a cat who likes to knead with her claws on my hand while she…well, while she nurses on my hand like a kitten. Yes, at any given time while I’m home, I might have a handful of cat spit. I wash my hands as much as a surgeon.
“Gee, World Leader,” they say. “We sure know a lot about you, considering you never talk.” Well, some things are just easier to admit while typing in the dark. Refer to previous paragraph.