One of my favorite photos of my sister Betsy, with one of the many dogs she rescued and loved deeply.
My closest friend is my wife Michele. We’ve been married for 37 years. She is my rock, my partner, a patient and involved mother to our two daughters, and someone who has put up with my lame, sophomoric humor far longer than anyone should have to endure. Everybody tells her she must be a saint to still be married to me (either that or a masochist).
But for most of my life, my second best friend has been my sister, Betsy. She was born three years after me. Tragically, in 2021, amid a mounting toll of increasingly unrelenting physical and mental health challenges, she finally lost her battle fighting lifelong depression. She died of suicide.
A day does not go by that I don’t think about my sister. But with each passing month, my deep grief has slowly made room for happier memories of the many wonderful adventures (and misadventures) we had together. I once wrote a serious piece called Twelve Teachers, in which I shared my observations about twelve people who have most powerfully impacted my life for the better. Betsy was at the top of that list.
We were the two youngest of five children. As a result, we spent more time together than with our three elder siblings. Betsy became the historian of my childhood, years later remembering minute details about things and people about which I had long since forgotten.
I have always been a bit risk averse. That was never Betsy’s constraint. She never minded making a complete fool of herself if it would bring laughter to someone else. She relished pushing the envelope to try new things.
One time, the two of us, along with a friend, went to an amusement park. Betsy saw that they had a bungee jump attraction. You wear a harness and are then hoisted up by a cable until you are dangling some 200 feet above the ground before being jettisoned into the open air below.. You’ have to be insane to attempt this – or be Betsy. She did it, while my friend and I looked on in near terror, and she kept laughing riotously as she bounced up and down.
Betsy and me (yes, that’s me with a beard) after our almost disastrous misadventure skydiving. It was all Betsy’s idea.
When we were both at Ohio State (me for graduate school and Betsy for undergraduate), she begged me unrelentingly to join her in taking a one-day skydiving course. I will never forget the churning emotions I felt as I watched my younger sister voluntarily jump out of a plane at 5,000 feet– only to do the same myself moments later. That was Betsy – always pushing herself – and me – beyond our comfort zones just to have a new story to tell.
When we were both in our twenties, Betsy persuaded me to join her backpacking through Europe. We hopped on trains, sometimes without a clear plan for where our next destination would be. Over two months, we explored France, Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Ireland, and more. It is because of Betsy that to this day, I have a love of traveling the world.
Betsy continued to travel on her own or with friends in the decades to follow. Like me, she had her own Grumpy teddy bear that she would take with her. We would compete for who could take our Grumpy to more exotic destinations, me taking a photo of my Grumpy in China, Betsy matching me with a photo of her Grumpy atop Machu Picchu. This went on for decades.
Betsy after her appearance on NBC’s TODAY SHOW, With Katie Couric and Betsy’s twins, Kevin and Tyler.
Betsy had twins in 1990, and nine years later, on their 9th birthday on 9-9-99, she found a way to get on NBC’s The Today Show because of it. It involved a mishap caused by my overly aggressive driving (no one was hurt). Only Betsy could find a way to get on national TV for having twins. But she did. If you’re curious as to the backstory, you can read my article here.
Betsy found joy and laughter in everyday life – baking cookies for new neighbors, babysitting a neighbor’s dog for them if they were out of town. She had a contagious laugh that is impossible to describe. But when she broke out in hysterical laughter – sometimes when she had made a deeply embarrassing mistake – it was impossible not to join her for the ride and get caught up in her exuberant fit of laughter.
More than anyone I ever knew, Betsy could find ways to create joyful chaos and silliness in the most unexpected situations. One time, we were at a water park, at the top of one of the water slides. Just as the park employee told Betsy it was safe for her to push off, Betsy looked back at me and shouted to me – loud enough for the employee to hear – “Tim, I have to tell you something. I want to break up” – right before she disappeared down the chute. The employee no doubt must have been mortified by someone “breaking up” in this seemingly cruel, insensitive manner. But that was Betsy’s wacky sense of humor.
July 2016: One of my happiest days ever with Betsy: a perfect sunny day on a ferry boat ride to Friday Harbor, San Juan Islands.
If you want to understand where I learned how to be juvenile, silly, and completely willing to embarrass myself in front of others, now you know the source: Betsy. One of the reasons I love to make people laugh is because of how effortlessly my sister demonstrated this talent throughout her life. Even when she was struggling with bouts of depression or anxiety, she could still find the humor in an otherwise difficult situation and make me laugh uncontrollably.
Betsy was also a teacher – one who deeply loved her students. For several years she taught English as a foreign language to adult immigrants. She went to extraordinary lengths to find creative ways to make her classes fun and engaging. This should not come as any surprise, but many of her students became long-term friends with her as a result, with many routinely inviting Betsy into their homes for meals.
Through her example, Betsy made me want to be a more caring, selfless person. Despite living a very modest life, always on the financial precipice, she was one of the most generous people I ever knew. She always thought about the needs of the people around her before herself. It was just how she was wired. In early 2021, less than two months before my sister’s passing, I came up with the idea of trying to get 100 people from all over the country to send our mom 100 birthday cards to celebrate her 100th birthday. My part was the easy part. Promote the idea on Facebook and in emails. But all the cards were mailed to Betsy to sort through and organize.
Betsy received over 400 birthday cards for our mom. She opened up every card and assembled several dozen posters displaying the overwhelming outpouring of kindness to our mom. But the incredible part was when I later learned that Betsy had taken the time to send most of these people a personal, handwritten thank-you letter for sending our mom a card. She wrote hundreds of thank you letters – most of them to complete strangers. Who does such a thing? My sister, that’s who.
My all-time favorite photo of me with Betsy, with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. Nobody could make me laugh like she could. Nobody.
Betsy taught me the importance of expressing appreciation for the people who help us along the way. Nobody I’ve ever known had more friends than my sister. The only things she loved as much as the people in her life were her many cats and dogs she rescued over the years.
I learned so many life lessons from my sister: the importance of having close friendships, showing gratitude, giving to others without expecting anything in return, and finding laughter and joy in the most mundane or unexpected situations.
I am far from perfect. I have many flaws. Just ask my kids or anyone who knows me well. But I know this for a certainty: I am a better person because of the powerful formative role my sister Betsy played in shaping the man I am today. And I will always be grateful to her for that gift.
Sis, you will forever be in my heart.
[Note: If you, a loved one, or a friend is struggling with depression, anxiety, or other form of mental illness, a wonderful resource – and one our family has personally worked with – is NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. – TEJ ]
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I’ve never been able to pull off the bearded look. I just look goofy… and old… and crazy. I once misplaced my razor for seven months. People tended to avoid me. On the plus side, I got a few Santa gigs at kids’ Xmas parties.
There have been thousands, perhaps millions, of men throughout history who looked good in a beard. I am not one of them. Over the years, I’ve tried growing a beard several times, but after a few weeks, I always gave up. Because I didn’t like the way it looked on me – not to mention how it felt. Having all those scratchy whiskers on my face drove me crazy.
There are several reasons my face and a beard can’t peacefully co-exist. When I experimented with my very first beard, during my freshman year of college, it came in shockingly salt and peppery, with a freakish amount of white, grey, and even red whiskers. I had not yet had my first college date and already my beard looked like that of a senior citizen. Not a hopeful beginning to my journey into the world of college dating.
I also quickly realized I had developed a nervous tick in that I was constantly, compulsively checking my beard for food remnants any time I ate even so much as a cookie. I’d find myself stroking the whiskers around my mouth fifty times a day, half expecting to discover a piece of fried chicken or a gummy bear mysteriously embedded into my beard. It drove me bonkers.
The few times I’ve stuck with a beard longer than two weeks, the results were always discouraging, Staring back at me in the mirror was what appeared to be a homeless man. Whenever I approached a stranger, say, to ask for directions, I always had this uncomfortable sense they were trying to avoid eye contact, no doubt so they wouldn’t have to give me their spare change.
There was a time during our marriage when I tried to grow a beard again, but my wife was not thrilled about my new look. I remember her complaining after three weeks, “When are you going to get rid of that obnoxious beard…and take a shower… and mow the lawn… and get a better-paying job?”
Many great men in history had iconic beards, like Socrates, Shakespeare, Lincoln, Hemingway, and Captain Jack Sparrow. Their beards gave them all a sense of gravitas and dignity. Oh, wait, I’m told that one of these was not a real person. Not sure which. I’m going with Shakespeare.
Here is some beard trivia you probably did not know. I’m actually a distant descendant of a man who played a prominent role in the evolution of facial hair: Ambrose Burnside. Burnside, in addition to being an incompetent Union Civil War general – and my Great-Great-Great Uncle on my father’s side (true) – had a highly unusual way of displaying his hair down the side of his face (see the following image). This style of facial hair, which he made famous, was originally named ‘burnsides’ but at some point the word was reversed to become the ‘sideburns‘ we know today. Now compare how I’d appear with the same look. Who wore it better? Be honest with me.
Left: A distant ancestor of mine (true), the Civil War Union general Ambrose Burnside. Right: Me wearing the same look as my 19th century ancestor. I think we can all agree neither of us could pull off this look. At least I had more hair than the general.
There was a brief period during graduate school when I again tried to grow a beard. I actually persevered with my effort for almost five months. The next photo is the only surviving photo of me sporting a beard during this time period.
This photo was taken when I was 24 years old, right after my sister Betsy had insanely convinced me to go skydiving with her. And I, in an effort to prove once and for all that I have no spine, agreed to her deranged scheme. I almost died when my parachute failed fully to open (not making that up). But that’s a nightmare for another time. If you’re curious what actually happened, just click here or on the photo to read the rest of the story.
It was during this time when I started dating a nice woman named Becky, She had never seen me without a beard. Then about a month into our brief, star-crossed courtship, I decided – without consulting her – to shave it off. Upon seeing me show up at her doorstep totally clean-shaven for the first time, she became the only person in my life ever to utter the following sentence: “Oh my! I just can’t imagine you without a beard.” And then she broke up with me to return to her ex-boyfriend.
I know what you’re thinking: “But Tim, why not do the close-cropped beard?” You mean the Don Johnson look that he made popular in Miami Vice? I know many men – and just about all the male Hollywood celebrities – who don this masculine look. It looks good on them. But the few times I’ve tried the five-day stubble, it just looks like someone getting over a serous bender – which is even more depressing because, as a non-drinker, I don’t even have the fun of getting drunk in the first place.
No one has ever uttered the phrase, “Tim, you should grow a beard.” Actually, that’s not true. I remember this one time one of my racquetball buddies suggested it, but that was just so it would “hide your ugly face.”
You might also be curious about how I’d look with just a mustache instead. Turns out I can’t pull off that look either. I only tried a mustache one time. This is the ONLY PHOTO EVER TAKEN of me with a mustache. It made me look like a character in a 1980’s porn film – not that I would know anything about that, mind you.
With no disrespect intended to my LGBTQ+ friends, a mustache just makes me look extremely gay. It’s just that, as a heterosexual, it is not a look I’ve ever aspired to perfect. Also, my girlfriend at the time hated it. However, several attractive men did ask me for my phone number, so there’s that, I guess.
My point is, don’t expect to see me show up at the pickleball court sporting a beard or a mustache. As I have reflected back on my life, there are several things I’ve long ago accepted I will never master. I’ll never master playing the piano. I’ll never become fluent in a foreign language. I’ll never understand how cryptocurrency works or how to cure my slice in golf. And I’ll never figure out how to pull off a beard. I’ll leave that challenge to George Clooney.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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These nine people all have something in common. They all still have no idea who they’re going to vote for in the upcoming presidential election. I interviewed them to find out what the f*ck’s wrong with them, I mean, what is keeping them from making up their mind.
With only weeks remaining before the 2024 presidential election, the contrast between the two candidates for our nation’s highest office could not be more obvious. On one side is a 59-year-old black / South Asian woman, the child of Indian and Jamaican immigrants, a liberal who smiles relentlessly, talks about joy, and exudes optimism about the future.
On the other side is the oldest candidate ever to run for president, a crotchety 78-year-old massively overweight orange man, convicted of sexual assault, who posts dozens of rambling texts every day railing about how horrible everything is and that only he can save America from a terrifying, dystopian future of doom, despair, and imminent collapse into a hopeless hellscape.
One is a former prosecutor. The other, a convicted felon. One is named Donald, the other goes by Kamala – or perhaps it’s Kam-MAL-a or maybe Kamabla – I’m not really sure anymore.
Their differences in policy, ideology, personality, and ability to utter coherent thoughts could not be starker. And yet, incredibly, there remains a handful of people who still claim to be undecided about who to vote for. Who are these people? What the Hell is wrong with them? I mean, why have they still not made up their minds? And what will it take for them to finally pick a candidate?
I recently conducted an informal focus group with a few of the last remaining undecided voters to get some answers. Here is what I learned.
Tim Jones: I understand that you have not yet made up your mind about whether to vote for Kamala Harris or Donald Trump. Why is that?
Undecided Voter Mary: Who was that first person you mentioned?
Tim: Kamala Harris.
Mary: No, can’t say that name rings a bell. Who exactly is he anyway?
Tim: It’s a SHE. And she’s the Democrat in the race. That’s Kamal Har–
Rebecca is a busy mom. She said she plans to read up on the two candidates just as soon as she has some downtime between taking her kids to soccer practice and making everybody dinner. She will get around to picking a candidate by early December at the very latest, she promises.
Mary: Oh, you mean KamABla? Yes, I think I’ve heard of her. Why do you ask?
Tim: She’s running for president. What will it take for you to decide who you’re voting for?
Mary: Well, I’m just waiting until my husband tells me who to vote for.
Tim: Pardon me? And who is your husband planning to vote for?
Mary: He’s not sure yet. He is hoping Gerald Ford might run again this year.
Tim: I hate to break it to your husband but Ford passed away in 2006. You sir. I understand that you have not made up your mind yet about who to vote for in the presidential election.
Undecided Voter Bert: Is there an election this year? Gosh, it feels like there was an election barely four years ago.
Tim: That’s right, sir. Every four years – like’s it’s been done since 1788, when George Washington was elected. May I ask you, why are you still on the fence?
Bert: I’m not on the fence. I’m sitting right here, on this leather couch. Maybe you need to get your eyes checked.
Tim: No, I mean figuratively speaking, why are you on the fence – undecided about who to vote for, for president?
Bert: I don’t like to rush into things. I’m a muller. I’m still unsure about whether or not to take a shower today.
Tim: Just curiously, when’s the last time you took a shower, sir?
Bert: August 2011. Like I said, I’m not one for rushing into things.
Tim: Ma’am, I understand that you too have not made up your mind about this year’s presidential election. Why is that?
Undecided Voter Trixie: There are just so many choices. I just can’t make up my mind.
Tim: So many choices? Not really. There’s the Republican candidate, Donald Trump, and the Democrat candidate, Kamala Harris. Oh, and a third guy named Kennedy running as an independent, but he’s a bit of a wackadoodle. He claims a worm ate part of his brain. And recently he admitted to dumping a dead bear in Central Park. A bit of an odd duck.
This is Lucas. He isn’t really into politics. Besides, none of his friends plan to vote, so why should he? He’d tell us more but he’s in the middle of an intense game of Mortal Kombat 11 with a 9-year-old from Sweden named Lars, who’s pretty good.
Trixie: Oh really? I like Kennedy. I voted for him the last time. I think it was 1960.
Tim: Not the same guy, ma’am.
Trixie: Just curious. How did he kill that bear, anyway? With his bare hands? He sounds very brave.
Tim: Excuse me, sir. Can I ask you a question? What is it going to take for you finally to decide on a candidate for president?
Undecided Voter Richard: Well, I hate to see anybody lose. If it were up to me, I’d vote for both candidates, so they could share the job of president.
Tim: That’s not how our democracy works. The voters decide on one person. We don’t let them share the job.
Richard: Well, that sounds selfish. I always tell my kids they need to share their toys. Maybe it’s time we let both candidates share the Oval Office. Can we vote for a dog? My neighbor’s dog, Barkley, is a basset hound. He’s dumb as a brick, but he’d never get us into a war, that’s for sure.
Tim: Um, I’m pretty sure dogs can’t run for office.
Tim: Hmmm. This isn’t going quite the way I had hoped. You, ma’am. Why have you not made up your mind yet?
Undecided Voter Gladys: Well, to be honest, I really don’t like either candidate. On the one hand, Donald Trump is old and grumpy and mean and he seems to be a little, well, weird. On the other hand, Joe Biden looks like he’s about to keel over and die. He’s so old and frail-looking lately.
Tim: Ma’am, sorry to interrupt your coma, but Joe Biden is no longer running. Kamala Harris will be the Democrat choice for president. Does that help you make up your mind?
Gladys: I did not know that. When did that happen? And who’s this Kim-OH-la person?
Norm doesn’t really follow the news much, so he’s not really sure who’s running for president. Norm usually just asks his bartender friend Collin who he’s planning to vote for and follows his lead. So, what’s Collin’s system for choosing a candidate? Simple: Whoever has the most TikTok followers.
Tim: Several weeks ago. And it’s KAM-ah-La. Kamala Harris is his Vice President.
Gladys: Oh right. I think I’ve heard of her. Is she the one who can’t decide whether she’s a black girl or an Indian? Why won’t she just come out and pick a race?
Tim: Because she’s both.
Gladys: I’m not sure that’s possible. And another thing, Fox News says she’s never had kids. I’m not sure I can vote for a woman who hates children.
Tim: She is the stepmother of two kids.
Gladys: Hmm. I’m not sure that’s true. I heard she hates the Jews.
Tim: She does have kids. And her husband, Doug Emhoff, is Jewish.
Gladys: Hmm. I’m not sure about that.
Tim: Arrgh! Well, I’m not sure what conclusions to draw from this small focus group of undecided voters. From what I can tell, they all have one thing in common: They’re all idiots.
Maybe they all should sit out this election. Besides, they appear to have much more pressing decisions to ponder, like what to watch on TV tonight, Cagney & Lacey or Matlock, and in Bert’s case, whether or not to shower.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This man is Joie Henney with his 8-foot-long emotional support alligator named Wally. One of them should be locked away for their own safety and the safety of others. The other one is an alligator.
Recently a quirky small news story caught my attention. It was about an elderly Pennsylvania man named Joie Henney, whose pet named Wally had gone missing. But Wally wasn’t a Schnauzer, a Dachshund, or even one of those annoyingly persnickety Persian cats. You see, Wally is well, a little different. He’s an emotional support reptile. To be more specific, an emotional support ALLIGATOR! I hear you. I didn’t know that was a thing either. Wally is an eight-year-old alligator and, at last count, the last remaining emotional support gator in the world (and I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess he’s also the world’s first).
Mr. Henney did a road trip to Georgia in April 2024, and, as any caring pet owner might do, he decided to bring his pet along for the ride. But while he was visiting a friend, his scaly scallywag escaped from an enclosed pond and has not been seen since. Apparently, before his Great Escape, Wally and Mr. Henney had been inseparable. Mr. Henney took Wally everywhere – to friends’ houses, restaurants, and even minor league baseball games. I don’t know this for a fact, but I feel confident in speculating that Mr. Henney is not married. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t like normal pets – either that or he has extremely poor eyesight and mistook Wally for a hairless, barkless Great Dane.
When asked why he cares so much about this alligator, Mr. Henney insists his menacing-looking companion behaves more like a dog than a reptile – if you can ignore the minor fact that he has scales, a threateningly long tail that look like a dinosaur, and a bite force measured at 2,000 pounds per square inch – enough to crush a human skull like a Styrofoam cup.
Mr. Henney asks people to look past his intimidating appearance – and that of his alligator. He explains that Wally “is just loveable. He sleeps with me, steals my pillows, steals my blankets.” Sounds adorable, but I’d still caution against trying to spoon with Wally on the sofa – unless you feed him one of his favorite bedtime snacks first. I did some research and learned that gators like Wally love to snack on live snakes, turtles, and the occasional Yorkshire Terrier.
In an effort to help Mr. Henney reunite with his lovable lost lizard, I’ve crafted this helpful LOST PET poster. Please print out copies and circulate them anywhere you think Wally might have wondered off, such as a bowling alley, a Chinese restaurant, or Beaver Creek Elementary School.
Hello. I’m Wally. I’m an Emotional Support Reptile and I’m lost. Will you please help me find my owner?
I was just hanging out in a stranger’s swimming pool, when I decided to climb their ten-foot fence. Then I started on my Walk-About journey. The next thing I knew I was lost. I vaguely recall approaching a crowd of people in a Dairy Queen parking lot, but then they all started sprinting away from me, screaming in terror, before I could ask for directions home.
I am actually very smart and will respond when my name, “WALLY,” is spoken. I also respond to several other commands including Come, Sit, and Let Go of Her. My favorite things to do are snuggling with my owner, lying on the couch watching reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond, and doing an occasional Alligator Death Roll clenching my teeth on a plump, chewy river otter.
If you see me, don’t be afraid. I am very lovable. Honest! It is simply not true that all alligators are dangerous and aggressive. In fact, I am probably more afraid of you than you are of me. The only times I would ever attack a human are if it’s mating season, my territory is being threatened, or I’m feeling a little hangry.
I should be easy to spot. I am eight feet long, have 80 sharp teeth, each averaging two inches in length, and I can run up to 35 mph – so no, you can’t outrun me. Don’t even try. But you won’t have to, because, I won’t hurt you, I promise.
Oh sure, I look pretty much like any other alligator. If you run into one of my cousins, they may not be quite as amiable as I am. Most of them still have an axe to grind about how you humans keep making them into boots, belts, purses, and wallets.
But don’t worry. I’m a friendly gator. You can pat me on the belly or behind the ear – although, I’m not really sure where my ears are located, or even if I have ears, now that I think of it.
Before my disappearance, my owner used to take me to fun places like parks and zoos and, in this photo, the local Subway restaurant. I love going to restaurants because everyone I see looks so tasty. I mean everyTHING I see looks so tasty. I was talking about the menu. Sorry if that was confusing.
Please help me find my owner. He’s even put out a generous reward for my safe return. I’m not exactly sure what his reward will be. I’m hoping a nice, juicy baby panda. Yum!
When you spot me, it will be easy to capture me. Just roll me over with my belly facing up, and I will go totally limp within 15 seconds. I have no idea why that works. But it blows people’s minds. That said, just to be sure, you might also want to have at the ready a tranquilizer dart gun filled with diazepam followed by an administration of succinylcholine chloride, in the remote chance the “roll me on my back” maneuver startles me.
If you spot me, please don’t do any of the following things: 1) try to collar me with that lasso strap thing (it hurts); 2) take a selfie of you riding me bareback (that’s just humiliating); or 3) attempt to dress me up in leather boots and a leather belt. (I get the irony. It’s just not funny.)
Please help me find my owner, won’t you? If you do, I promise to show you my appreciation the best way I know how – by depositing a recently deceased Yorkie on your door step. No need to thank me. It’s the least I could do.
A widower friend of mine recently decided to jump back into the dating pool. He wanted to spruce up his Match.com profile in hopes of receiving a better response from women. He made one small mistake: He came to me for help.
Recently, a longtime widower friend of mine concluded he’d been alone and lonely for too long. He decided to take the plunge and get back into the dating pool. He created his Match.com profile, with several photos and posted them. Alas, he’s not been thrilled with the response he’s received thus far.
He told me he’d seen far too many similar, lame profiles posted by other men seeking female companionship who annoyingly employ the same hackneyed profile lines, like “I enjoy yoga, Pilates, hiking, walks along the beach, a playful French wine, the feel of the salt air in my hair, or whatever else it is you chicks are looking for these days.”
He knew that as a humor writer, I have a certain way with words. So, perhaps against his better judgment, he asked if I could assist him. Being notoriously generous by nature, I told him I’d be happy to help him out. He thought that I might be able to come up with a few attention-grabbing starter lines to make his profile stand out from the crowd.
My friend went on to explain that Match.com offers starter phrases for you to fill out to paint an appealing picture of you for prospective matches. Below, before the ellipsis dots (…) are actual starter phrases provided by Match.com. My friend (for the moment at least) shared these with me, and I took it from there. After the ellipsis dots are the responses I’ve come up with so far:
I spend my free time…. searching for a cure for cancer. I’m THIS CLOSE. Soon the Nobel Prize will be mine. All mine!
I would never ever… join Al-Qaeda or ISIS. I hope I don’t have to explain why. If you ask me, the reasons should be obvious.
My happy place… is my 7,000 sq. ft. mansion on the shore of Italy’s Lake Como – just as soon as I can convince George Clooney to sell it to me in a swap for my 850 sq. ft. mobile home.
Things I’m thankful for…. include the fact that, to the best of my knowledge, I’m not on ANY major airline’s No Fly List. (I don’t consider Spirit Airlines a major airline.)
The most influential person in my life… is probably my parole officer. He holds my freedom’s fate in the palm of his hand.
A dream I would like to come true… would be to win People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive. Heck, I’d be honored just to make it to one of the top five finalists.
If I am in a bad mood… I know it will usually quickly pass – unless you stole my chocolate chip ice cream, in which case, you are dead to me.
The one thing that always cheers me up… is seeing high school classmates who thought they were better than me get convicted and sent off to prison.
If I need advice, I’m calling… the Psychic Hotline. They have never steered me wrong – if you don’t count that one time they advised me to put all my retirement savings into Blockbuster Video. That one stung, I’m not going to lie.
Something that always makes me laugh… is when a rambunctious cat bats a priceless vase off a table, and it crashes into a thousand pieces – especially if the vase belonged to someone I don’t particularly care for, like my one of my four ex-wives.
An odd habit of mine… is that I sometimes have this uncontrollable urge to press all the buttons for every floor just as I’m exiting the elevator – but I only do that when I’m off my meds.
Five years from now… if everything goes as planned, and I get that raise I’m overdue for at McDonald’s, I will be just six years from paying off the last of my graduate school student loans.
A perfect day for me… starts and ends with a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream while falling asleep on the recliner after having watched the film Caddyshack for the 125th time. (That movie never gets old to me.)
I should do this more often… I’d have to go with remembering to brake for pedestrians in crosswalks. Come to think of it, I probably shouldn’t be driving so much anymore, now that my driver’s license has been revoked – for almost running over pedestrians in crosswalks.
My most unforgettable travel story… was when, as a young child, Somali terrorists kidnapped me while on a family vacation and I was taken to their hideout deep in the Ugandan jungle. My parents debated for two weeks whether to pay the $500 ransom. Now, that was a CA-RAZY vacation!
I spend much of my free time… trying to beat my record time at Rubik’s Cube. My personal best: 5 days, 4 hours, 11 minutes.
I would really like to meet in person… Homer Simpson because everybody keeps telling me he reminds them of me. Or maybe Jesus. But I doubt I’ll ever meet Jesus in my lifetime – unless I can work out the kinks in the time machine I’ve been building in my basement since 2nd grade.
The first thing people often notice about me… is that I’m not wearing pants. Don’t worry. I almost always wear them on the first date – and always at work – unless I’m working from home, which is most of the time now… ever since my employer insisted I stop coming into the office… because I forgot to wear pants.
Well, what do you think? I believe there’s a good chance, thanks to my creative suggestions, that my friend is going to receive more responses than he ever imagined from scores of women. Of course, it’s possible some of those responses might be along the lines of, “Whoever you are, NEVER EVER contact me again.” Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll find the love of his life. The way I see it, it could go either way.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it aLikeorsharing this post on Facebook.
