When constructing a sentence, it’s important to pay attention to proper spelling and punctuation. Take the simple declarative sentence, “Let’s eat, Grandma!” Oh, what a profound difference a missing comma can make. And that’s the point of today’s rant. The next time I hear someone say, “It may be a blessing in the skies,” I just might lose it.No! It’s “a blessing in disguise.” The only blessing in the skies is that your middle school English teacher isn’t alive to hear you say that. We need to talk. Actually, I need to talk. You need to listen.
Sometimes I worry about our educational system. Actually, scratch that – I lie awake in a cold sweat panic about it. Every day, I browse social media or read emails where someone has catastrophically misspelled a commonly used word, completely butchered a classic truism, or otherwise treated English grammer like a rental car – which, by the way, is spelled grammar. I threw that in there to see if your eyes would gloss right over it like a golden retriever blankly staring at a calculus textbook.
My theory is that about thirty percent of Americans slept through middle school English, or spent that time practicing spitball trajectories, doodling heavy metal band logos, or seeing how long they could balance a ruler on their upper lip. (And by the way, it’s slept, not slepped.)
Recently a guy wrote to me that he’s traveling to Antarctica next Febuary. I told him, “No, you’re not.” Because there isn’t any month named Febuary in the Gregorian calendar. There are two R’s in February. Apparently one of them entered the Federal Witness Protection Program sometime during the Reagan Administration and has never been heard from since.
Likewise, you can’t order an expresso at Starbucks. Well… technically you can. But be prepared for the 19-year-old barista who actually knows the proper pronunciation of the word espresso to give you a judgmental (not judgemental) look.
I realize that you probably take for granite that you’ve mastered your mother tongue. But have you really? If so, how is it that you didn’t even notice that my use of “take for granite” should have read “take for granted”? Unless you are a geologist discussing a countertop, you need to pay closer attention.
Then there’s the person who proudly announces, “Me and Larry saw the funniest movie.” Nope. “Larry and I” did. “Me” is an object. You know… like the grammar textbook you apparently used as a pillow during class. While we’re reviewing elementary school material, you mispelled “misspelled.” And “cat” is still spelled C-A-T. I checked. Nothing has changed.
I realize that, for all intensive purposes, I’m probably talking to a brick wall. A wall that didn’t even blink at the fact that the phrase is actually “for all intents and purposes.”
Last week someone told me her seven-year-old son had told a bold-faced lie. Unless he somehow lied in 18-point Helvetica Black, the word she was looking for was bald-faced. As in bare, naked, and completely uncovered. Like her lack of vocabulary. Leave typography out of this.
And for the record… It is not a doggy-dog world. It’s dog-eat-dog. Nobody wants you to be their escape goat. A scapegoat is a sacrificial lamb of blame; an escape goat is just a farm animal that figured out how to unlatch the pasture gate. And please don’t nip it in the butt. That sounds less like good advice and more like a criminal charge. The expression is nip it in the bud.
Your 9th grade English teacher probably did not tell you your essay passed mustard. Unless she was grading hot dogs. It’s passed muster. One belongs in a sentence. The other belongs on a bratwurst.
Then there are my personal favorites. You don’t loose your wallet. You lose your wallet. Loose is how your pants fit after six months on Ozempic. You’re not balling your eyes out. Unless you’re draining three-pointers while sobbing uncontrollably, you’re bawling. You don’t wait with baited breath unless someone has attached worms to your face. You wait with bated breath.
And if you’re weary of your neighbor’s barking dog, that’s because you’re tired of hearing it. If you’re wary of your neighbor, it’s because he owns seventeen lawn gnomes and keeps inviting you to cryptocurrency seminars. There’s a difference.
And while we’re cleaning house… It’s could have. Not could of. Somewhere along the line, “could’ve” got mugged in a dark alley and woke up as “could of.”
A word about the annoying overuse of apostrophes… If you’re selling three tomato’s for a dollar, your vegetables don’t own anything. They don’t need an apostrophe. Neither do DVD’s, taco’s, banana’s, or emoji’s. Stop sprinkling apostrophes around like you’re seasoning French fries.
Then come the championship contenders… The people who confuse your and you’re. Or there, their, and they’re. Every time I see someone write, “Your an idiot,” a tiny part of my soul packs its bags and moves to Canada.
And don’t even get me started on people who end every sentence with three exclamation points!!! One exclamation point says you’re excited. Three says you’ve just spotted Bigfoot riding a unicycle while being chased by Elvis. Use them sparingly. Please!!!
Now, I realize I may sound like an insufferable know-it-all. That’s fair. I’ve earned it. Some of you are probably grinding your teeth right now while muttering, “I could care less what this pretentious jerk thinks” – that’s, of course, assuming you knew the meaning of the word pretentious.
Once again…your, er, I mean, you’re wrong. It’s I couldn’t care less. If you could care less, then you still care at least a little – which, frankly, gives me hope. Because maybe – just maybe – you’ll remember one thing from this column. Probably not.
But perhaps, somewhere out there, someone who was about to order an expresso in Febuary while telling his friend that he had passed mustard will pause, take a deep breath … and decide to remain silent.
If this article saves just one innocent apostrophe from a life of abuse, prevents one escape goat from being dragged into another clichéd conversation about this doggy-dog world, or keeps one unsuspecting flower from being nipped in the butt…well, then my work here is done. To be honest, I really could care less.
In the meantime, go open a dictionary.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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When I was a child, my favorite shows were Looney Tunes cartoons. I had no idea I was learning to tolerate gratuitous violence, sexually predatory behavior, and adult nudity in front of young impressionable ducks – until my extremely woke adult daughter set me straight. Sigh…
The living room was quiet, except for the heavy, disappointed sigh vibrating from my thirty-year-old daughter, Naomi. I had foolishly suggested she spend an hour with me, watching classic Looney Tunes on YouTube, fondly remembering the Saturday mornings of my youth wrapped in a blanket, eating sugary cereal, and laughing until my ribs ached. I genuinely thought we’d bond over it.
I was wrong. After what could only be described as “enduring” a dozen Looney Tunes cartoons, Naomi glared at me as if her father should be brought up before a Senate sub-committee to interrogate people charged with deep moral failings and profound insensitivity to woke culture.
“Dad,” Naomi began, her voice dripping with the solemnity of a UN human rights investigator. “We need to talk about your childhood. I am literally shaking right now. How did you survive growing up bombarded by such deeply problematic, toxic, and violent media?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, adjusting my reading glasses. “It’s just Bugs Bunny. It’s funny.”
“Funny?” Naomi gasped, clutching her ethically sourced oat-milk latte to her chest. “Dad, let’s start with the most glaringly obvious offender, Pepe Le Pew. He is a textbook serial predator. He completely disregards boundaries, corners a clearly non-consenting feline who has accidentally been painted with a white stripe, and uses psychological warfare to pressure her into physical intimacy. He is a French caricature of rape culture, Dad!”
“He’s a skunk, Naomi,” I offered weakly. “The joke is that he smells horrible, but he thinks he’s the sexiest man alive.”
“No, Dad, he’s a womanizer who perpetuates a dangerous culture of harassment,” she corrected, waving her finger. “But honestly, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I noticed a systemic, disturbing trend of public indecency. Look at Donald Duck.”
“Donald Duck is Disney, sweetie, not Warner Brothers, but go on…”
“It doesn’t matter! The societally ignored trauma is the same!” she cried. “Donald Duck walks around all day with absolutely nothing on from the waist down! He is literally exposing himself to his three young, impressionable nephews! Huey, Dewey, and Louie are being subjected to a toxic environment of familial exhibitionism. Where is Child Protective Services in Duckburg, Dad? Where?!”
This is a scene from the 1957 Looney Tunes feature film What’s Opera, Doc? In this scene, Elmer Fudd is digging a hole, attempting to find the “wabbit” as Bugs stands watching him toil in vain. As usual, Elmer is trying to kill Bugs. But he’ll fail miserably, like always. I find this hilarious. My adult daughter thinks I need serious therapy.
I stared at her, trying to recall if I had ever looked at Donald Duck and thought about his missing trousers before. “He wears a sailor shirt,” I muttered. “I always figured his feathers covered the rest.”
“That is a privilege-blind justification,” Naomi snapped, pacing the rug. “And don’t get me started on the insidious ableism and body-shaming. Porky Pig? They took a character with a severe speech impediment and a clear genetic disposition to weight retention, and they made him the butt of the joke! Instead of providing him with speech therapy and an inclusive, body-positive space, they forced him to stutter out the end of every episode for the amusement of the neurotypical masses. It’s disgusting.”
“I always thought Porky was a lovely fellow,” I said, feeling defensive. “He was very polite.”
“He was oppressed, Dad!” Naomi’s voice went up an octave. “But the absolute worst part of these Looney Tunes cartoons is the normalization of psychopathic, homicidal behavior. The sheer level of unmitigated violence is triggering. Sylvester the Cat is locked in a perpetual, toxic cycle of trying to murder and literally eat an innocent, marginalized yellow bird! Tweety is just trying to exist in his cage, and Sylvester is practicing predatory gentrification!”
“Well, cats do eat birds, Naomi. It’s kind of what nature calls them to do.”
“Not on my TikTok feed, they don’t,” she said flatly. “And what about Wile E. Coyote? His vengeful obsession with the Road Runner is terrifying. The Road Runner has done absolutely nothing to deserve this targeted harassment. Wile E. is clearly financing a domestic terrorist cell through the ACME corporation – giant magnets, massive falling boulders, rocket skates! The supply chain accountability alone is a nightmare. He needs a mental health intervention, not a rocket strapped to his back.”
“But the bird never gets hurt,” I pleaded. “The coyote just gets flattened by an anvil. The bird always outsmarts him!”
“It teaches a culture of vengeance!” Naomi yelled, her eyes wide with moral superiority. “And don’t even get me started on the hunter-prey dynamic with Elmer Fudd. He is a cis-gendered white male with toxic masculinity issues, constantly attempting to murder a bunny rabbit with an unregulated firearm. But do you know what the most disturbing part is?”
“When the gun hilariously explodes in his face?” I guessed.
Okay, I will belatedly admit, in the light of today’s social standards that Pepe Le Pew crossed the line egregiously. But surely Yosemite Sam is okay? No? Oh, massive anger management issues. Then how about Foghorn Leghorn? He’s a racist? Hmmm. I missed that part. Thanks for enlightening me, dear daughter.
“No! It’s the blatant predatory gender fluid exploitation!”
“You lost me, dear.”
Naomi let out a scream as she threw her hands in the air. “The moment Bugs Bunny puts on a blonde wig and a dress to outsmart him, Elmer Fudd’s entire demeanor changes. He doesn’t see a rabbit anymore; he sees an object. He immediately shifts from attempted murder to attempted sexual assault! He starts swooning over a cross-dressing rabbit! It completely trivializes the entire trans experience while simultaneously promoting predatory behavior toward anyone wearing a dress!”
I blinked. I had watched that cartoon fifteen times in my youth. My only takeaway as a seven-year-old was that Bugs was so clever and Elmer Fudd was an idiot. I never realized I was unconsciously internalizing a masterclass in patriarchal subjugation.
“Naomi,” I said gently, “it’s just slapstick. The anvil falls, they get flat like a pancake, and then they pop back up. Nobody actually dies. Nobody gets hurt. It’s just… cartoons.”
“That is exactly the kind of passive acceptance that has allowed your Boomer generation to ruin the housing market,” Naomi sighed, looking at me with deep, patronizing pity.
“Come again?”
“You’ve been conditioned to accept violence, public nudity, and predatory skunks as ‘entertainment.’ I think I need to go meditate and decompress. My cortisol levels are spiking through the roof.”
She grabbed her recyclable tote bag, adjusted her blue-light glasses, and marched out of the house to go save the world, one TikTok influencer post at a time.
I sat alone in the quiet living room for a long minute. Then, I picked up the remote, opened YouTube, and pulled up the 1957 Warner Brothers classic What’s Opera, Doc?. As Elmer Fudd began singing “Kill the wabbit,” I took a sip of my distinctly non-organic can of Mountain Dew and laughed until my sides hurt.
The moral of the story? Never let your highly sensitive, impressionable adult children watch Looney Tunes. The trauma is just too great for them. These subversive videos are strictly for us Baby Boomers, who survived the dark ages of comedy, pantsless ducks, cross-dressing rabbits, and anvil-dropping coyotes, and somehow lived to tell the tale. Th-th-that’s all, folks!
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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Game Show Host: Welcome everybody to another episode of the wildly popular trivia game Who Said What? Tonight’s contestant is Wilbur Deffinear, an 84-year-old retired construction worker from Chugwater, Wyoming. Welcome to the show, Wilbur! Are you excited?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, what did you just say? My hearing isn’t so good these days. I worked a jackhammer for 50 years. Turns out if you hold a tiny earthquake next to your head for half a century, there are consequences.
Host: (Smiling broadly) No worries, Wilbur. The game is simple. I’ll ask you a series of questions. If you answer correctly, you move on and the prize money keeps climbing. Ready to begin?
Wilbur: Begin what?
Host: The game, Wilbur. The game! Here we go. For $125: After what person is the standard unit of electrical power named?
Wilbur: (Leaning in) What?
Host: Correct! A watt — named after Scottish engineer James Watt. Good start!
Host: For $250: When you’re engaged in conversation and the other person appears not to be paying attention, what might the other person say in response to your question?
Wilbur: Huh?
Host: Yes! “Huh?” is absolutely correct! For $500, what rock group composed and performed the famous rock opera Tommy in 1969?
Wilbur: Who said what? Could you repeat the question?
Host: I’m afraid we don’t have time. For $1,000: A man is released from prison because the president has granted him a what?
Wilbur: Pardon me? What did you—
Host:Pardon is correct! Ladies and gentlemen, this guy’s unstoppable!
Wilbur: Not sure I’m at the right place. I was trying to get to my doctor’s office for my proctology exam. I got kind of lost…
Host: For $2,500: What famous, but enigmatic Beatles song from 1969 included the cryptic lyrics, “He got ju-ju eyeball, he one holy roller?”
Wilbur: Come again?
Host: Well, technically, it was Come Together. But the judges say, “Close enough.” Well done. Now, for $5,000, what were Ludwig van Beethoven’s last words?
Wilbur: I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.
Host: EXACTLY. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that.” Because he was deaf. Well done again, Wilbur.
Wilbur: What did you just say? My hearing aid fell off. I can’t find it.
Host: For $10,000: Do you know the name of the first James Bond film villain?
Wilbur: No. Can’t say that I – …
Host:Dr. No! Correct again! This man is a cinema scholar!
Wilbur: I haven’t been to a movie since Reagan was shot.
Host: For $15,000: Can you tell me the first two words of the Four Tops’ smash hit song whose title ends with “Help Myself”?
Wilbur: I can’t… uh… sorry.
Host: “I Can’t!” Correct! The full title is “I Can’t Help Myself.” It topped the Billboard 100 charts for two weeks in 1965. How did you know that, Wilbur?
Wilbur: I have no idea what is happening…
Host: For $25,000: What famous Shakespeare line begins with the words “To be or not to be? That is the – blank?
Wilbur: Um, Question. What did you just – ?
Host: QUESTION. That is correct! From Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1. This is getting really exciting. Now, Wilber, for $50,000: What is the English translation of the French phrase “Je ne sais pas”?
Wilbur: Well, I don’t know. I’ve never been to Fran-…
Host: Wilbur, is there anything you’d like to say at this moment?
Wilbur: Yes. My hearing aid fell out when I first sat down. I haven’t understood a single word you’ve said the entire time. For all I know, I just agreed to join the Navy.
Host: Wilbur, no, much better. You just won $100,000!
Wilbur: I owe a thousand dollars? I don’t have that kind of money on me.
Host: (Handing him a massive, oversized cardboard check) No, you WON $100,000! Here’s your prize!
Wilbur: (Staring at the giant board) What is this?
Host: It’s a check!
Wilbur: A what?
Host: A CHECK!
Wilbur: (Nervously) Czech? No, no… I’m Polish on my mother’s side. I think there’s been a mistake.
Host: That’s all the time we have tonight! Join us next week on Who Said What? where we’ll be introducing a brand-new contestant who is technically legally blind and forgot his glasses.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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I’m the proud owner of an extensive collection of priceless one-of-a-kind heirlooms, some of which I’ve owned since early childhood. Recently I decided to find out what they were worth. No doubt hundreds of thousands of dollars. So, when I heard that Antiques Roadshow was coming to Seattle, I knew this was my chance to determine conclusively just how valuable my rare compilation of artifacts was. The following is a transcript of my conversation with the appraiser on Antiques Roadshow.
Antiques Roadshow (ARS): Welcome to another episode of Antiques Roadshow. Good afternoon, sir. What do we have here?
Tim: Love your show. Big fan. By the way, I recently wrote this book called YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LI-
ARS: We really don’t have time for you to shamelessly plug your book.
Tim: Why not? After all, this is my humor column.
ARS: Pardon me? Okay, what is it you have to show me, sir?
Tim: I have this rare coin my father gave to me when I was five years old. I think it might be early Mesopotamian, probably from the 5th century BC. It appears to be in really good condition. What would you say it’s worth?
ARS: Well, sir. I agree this coin is in excellent condition. However, on closer inspection, it appears that it does not date quite as far back as the 5th century before Christ. I would date it to around 1960.
Tim: Tim: Ah. So, late Mesopotamian.
ARS: It’s a New York City subway token. It says “Good for one fare.”
Tim: In cuneiform? Well, that’s disappointing. Okay, well, how about this item, then? I think it might be a rare impressionist painting. My mom had it posted on our kitchen wall when I was very young. It looks to me like it could be an early Monet or maybe a Van Gogh. Do you recognize the artist?
ARS: Hmmm, I’m sorry to say, I don’t, sir. But look here on the back – there appears to be some sort of signature. I glean the letters “T-I-M-M-Y” scrawled in reddish orange crayon. Does that name mean anything to you?
Tim: That’s funny. That’s my name.
ARS: Intriguing. You don’t think by any chance this might be one of your childhood finger paintings, do you? Perhaps from when you were, say, two or three years old? And below it: “Timmy: B minus for originality. F for effort.”
Tim: Critics were brutal back then. Fair enough. Maybe it is one of my early works. So, what might its worth be, to the nearest thousand dollars, give or take?
ARS: To the nearest thousand dollars, you say?
Tim: Yeah, just spitballing, I mean.
ARS: I see. Well, then, “just spitballing,” I would estimate its value at roughly ZERO thousand dollars – give or take zero.
Tim: Seriously? Well, that sucks.
ARS: We don’t say “sucks” on Antiques Roadshow, sir.
Tim: Sorry about that. Okay, what about this? I am fairly certain it’s a rare Native American hand-woven rug. From my limited research, I would say it’s Navajo. Perhaps traced back to an ancient Anasazi cliff-dwelling tribe from the 11th or 12th century. What do you think are its origins?
ARS: Pier One Imports, sir. But that’s just an educated guess.
Tim: What makes you think that?
ARS: I don’t know, sir. Perhaps the sales tag that says, “Clearance item. 50% off – Pier One Imports.”
Tim: So, you’re telling me it’s not an ancient Navajo rug?
ARS: It’s about as Navajo as the man currently arguing with me.
Tim: I must own SOMETHING in here of historic value. Okay, how about this ancient collectibles box? My mother gave it to me when I was six. I’m thinking it might date back to caveman times, but you’re the expert, doc, so what do you say?
ARS: I’d estimate its worth to be every bit as valuable as that “young Picasso” finger painting you showed me previously. Definitely not prehistoric.
Tim: How can you possibly conclude that so quickly?
ARS: Several clues, actually. First, I’m fairly certain plastic was not invented during the Neanderthal era. Secondly, just because it has an image of the Flintstones painted on the lid doesn’t make it prehistoric. Finally, it’s a lunchbox. With a thermos inside.
Tim: Well, what about this rare photograph of Abraham Lincoln? Again, I’m no expert, but this looks like it might have been taken during his second Inaugural Address.
ARS: This is a movie poster of Daniel Day-Lewis from the film Lincoln.
Tim: But it looks just like him! How can you be so sure it’s not authentic?
ARS: I will admit the resemblance is uncanny. But what gives it away for me is the 40-point type to the left of Lincoln’s chin, where it says “LINCOLN – A Steven Spielberg film – Opening November 9th.”
Tim: So, what you’re telling me is that all this stuff I’ve been saving for decades is junk. Even this rare antique Japanese tea set?
ARS: Yes, even your “Hello Kitty” tea set, correct.
Tim: Well, this is really disappointing news. So, there’s nothing here worth anything? Not even this autographed copy of my book, YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LIFE?
ARS: Autographed, you say?
Tim: Yes, absolutely.
ARS: Then, um, no, sir. Not worth the paper it’s printed on, I’m afraid.
Tim: So, I don’t have anything at all of any value? Is that what you’re telling me?
ARS: Well… the subway token is still good for one fare.
Tim: To where?
ARS: Anywhere but back on this show.
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Eye Witness News reports a Nebraska farmer has been spotted terrorizing local NYC citizens by passing them by on the street, saying “Hello” and other unsettling overly friendly expressions.
Anchorman: Good evening and Welcome to Eye Witness News. I’m Sonny Vabich. This just in: A sixty-three-year-old Midwestern man visiting New York City for the first time has been accused of terrorizing New Yorkers on their way to work. From several eye witness accounts, this man, who claims his name is Earl Pickens, has been spotted approaching people minding their own business and saying unsettling things to them like, “Hello” and “Nice weather we’re having today, eh?”
Believed to be a wheat farmer from Nebraska, Mr. Pickens has been seen walking up to complete strangers in several parts of Manhattan, suspiciously asking for directions to places like the Empire State Building and even the Statue of Liberty. In just a matter of hours Pickens has left several New Yorkers traumatized by his repeated attempts to interact with them in a friendly, cheerful manner. We turn to our reporter on the scene, Woody Dewitt. Woody, what can you tell us about this latest incident that’s putting so many New Yorkers on edge?
Reporter Woody Dewitt: Thanks, Sonny. Based on security footage, we’ve determined that Pickens arrived at Penn Station in the heart of Manhattan at approximately 8:57am at the peak of the morning commute. He had boarded the AirTrain rail line from Newark International Airport earlier that morning. He had already attempted to say hi to several airline passengers at the Newark Airport baggage claim – even offering to assist one person in retrieving their luggage from the carousel. But he was quickly told, “Get away from me, you creep,” after which Pickens reportedly quietly left the scene, uttering words to the effect of “I am so sorry. I apologize. Please have a nice day.”
One anxious commuter at Penn Station recalled seeing a tall man in jeans and a plaid shirt later identified as Pickens accosting their co-worker, saying, and I quote, “Pardon me, ma’am. Do you know which way to Times Square?” unquote. He left several worried commuters here unsure why a man they did not know was talking to them, not to mention smiling. [Cut to a local eye witness.]
Local eye witness: He made direct eye contact with me. His face was no more than three feet from mine. And then he said, completely unprovoked by me, mind you, “Good morning.” I was speechless. I thought perhaps he was on drugs and might try to hit me up for money. Or perhaps he wanted to mug me. I had no idea. I was terrified. But something in his tone suggested that this might be a greeting. Thankfully, there were several police officers nearby, so they intervened to rescue me from a situation that could have turned bad, although, now that I think about it, probably not.
Reporter Woody Dewitt: While Pickens was standing in line at a Dunkin Donuts, a SWAT team of six New York City police officers quickly identified him when they overheard him say, “Thank you, Have a nice day,” to the clerk. He was taken into custody to await further questioning. However, he was released a few hours later when it was determined by the Manhattan District Attorney’s office that friendliness towards strangers is not currently considered to be a crime in New York. Outside the station, Pickens issued a brief statement. [Cut to Mr. Pickens reading from a written statement.]
This is actual security camera footage of Mr. Pickens seen accosting an unsuspecting New York commuter and wishing her to “have a nice day.” She immediately called 911 to report the shocking incident.
Earl Pickens: Where I come from in Nebraska, it is okay to greet strangers and tell them to have a nice day. I did not know that such behavior is not tolerated here in New York City. I deeply apologize to anyone I may have offended or to whom I may have caused emotional distress. I did not mean to cause anyone to panic when I carelessly uttered words like “Nice day, eh?” and “Thank you.” Would it be okay for me to go now?
Anchorman Sonny Vabich: Woody, what should New Yorkers do if they find themselves approached by an out-of-towner, from, say, Iowa or Minnesota?
Reporter Woody Dewitt: While there is no one response for every possible encounter with an overly friendly visitor, police recommend you avoid making eye contact. If you’re approached by one of these freaks, it’s best to put your headphones on and keep your head down. You have no idea what nice sentiment they may attempt to verbalize with you or one of your family members. And failing that, if someone you don’t recognize confronts you, say, to ask for directions to the Bubba Gump Shrimp company, wishes you a good morning, or otherwise tries to engage you, the best advice is to tell them in a fractured, foreign accent, “No speak-a-duh-Engleeese.” Then walk briskly towards the nearest Starbucks.
Anchorman Sonny Vabich: Sounds like smart advice. Thanks, Woody. And after a quick commercial break, what should you do if an elderly lady with a foreign accent attempts to sit next to you on the subway? More on that next.
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I knew it was a matter of time before this “Tim Jones” fellow would crack. As the lead detective on this case, I had to get to the bottom of how it was so many people were subscribing to his weekly humor blog when clearly the chump had no talent at all. It just didn’t add up.
THE SCENE: Pre-dawn on a rainy Sunday in the disheveled office of Detective Drake Marlboro of the Seattle Police Department, 9th Precinct. For the past 3 hours, Marlboro, a chain-smoking, grizzled, no-nonsense gumshoe has been interrogating a middle-aged man with no fashion sense by the name of Tim Jones.
Jones was picked up on suspicion of maliciously harassing innocent civilians by posting offensive commentary on the web about parenting, politics, and how many cats people should adopt, plus a long list of other lame topics. But something just didn’t add up. Detective Marlboro suspected Jones was holding back the truth. And so our story begins…
It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name (sounded fishy to me) – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be hackneyed writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up. I’ve been a detective for 30 years. I knew it was just a matter of time before he would spill the beans. I was going to crack this case before that snake Lieutenant Jaworski in Homicide could spell “collar.” I was sure I was close.
Jones was fidgeting with his plastic Casio watch – the guy had as much class as a cubic zirconium unicorn. He was looking confused and anxious, wanting desperately to flee the confines of the cold, windowless interrogation room so he could return to the cushy comfort of his suburban living room recliner and watch another episode of The Big Bang Theory he’d recorded on his DVR. Not tonight, fella. Not ‘til I get some answers.
I offered him a cup of coffee. “Thanks, but I don’t drink coffee. Do you happen to have any Diet Mountain Dew?” he asked a little too eagerly. What law-abiding adult in Seattle doesn’t drink coffee – and asks for a teenager’s soft drink instead? Now I knew he was a two-faced liar. I was done playing “good cop,” waiting for his innocent, deer-in-the-headlights façade to crack. This had gone on long enough. It was time to tighten the screws. I lit another smoke.
“So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that thousands of readers from all across the country willingly subscribe to your weekly humor blog? Is that your story? How? I want answers, and I want ‘em NOW,” I barked as I pounded my fist on the one-way mirror, behind which Lt. Jaworski was watching, no doubt taking notes on how he could steal this case from me. What a frickin’ snake, that Jaworski.
“I’m just as confused as you are, Sergeant Marlboro. Have you actually read any of my stuff?
“That’s DETECTIVE Marlboro, fella…”
“Sorry, Detective. I mean, I’m just as mystified as you are as to why anybody would read my weekly rants. Even my wife begged me to stop writing years ago, but I just can’t seem to stop myself. It’s a sickness.”
“Sickness, eh? Well, I’m sick of your lying to me, goddammit.” I glared at him, as he awkwardly shifted his legs on the rusty metal fold-out chair. I took another puff on my Camel filter and blew a charcoal wave of smoke in his face. “Sure. Whatever you say, pal. I got all night.”
Jones pleaded, “What are you charging me with, Marlboro? Is it a crime to write lame humor, officer?”
“The way you write, it sure as Hell is,” I growled back. “And for the last time, it’s Detective, you little weasel.”
This Jones fellow was such a loser. After two hours of my dogged interrogation, he refused to answer any more questions until I agreed to give him back his favorite teddy bear Sparkles, to cuddle with. Pathetic. Just pathetic.
By now Jones was nervously twisting his wedding ring, no doubt coming to the realization that his humor writing was nothing short of criminal – or at the very least a misdemeanor. So how was it he got away with writing this crap for the past sixteen years without being shut down by the Feds? I needed to crack this case and fast – Jaworski was ready to pounce.
But what was Jones’ angle? For the money? Hell, no. This dude wasn’t that clever. I could tell from the fact he wore white socks with his Teva sandals. Now, that’s a crime in itself!
Another hour crept by, like a filthy rat creeping around a dank, dark sewer for, well, about an hour. I started in on my second pack of Camels. “Don’t you find it strange that so many people have tried to unsubscribe from your weekly tome only to keep getting your posts week after week?”
“I’m not sure I would call it a ‘tome’, Detective. I’d say it’s more of an ‘essay.’”
“Don’t get smart with me, chum,” I snarled. I wasn’t buying his ‘Mr. Innocent’ routine. So I grabbed a copy of his latest piece and began to read. What I read next confounded me:
“It was another dark and stormy night in Seattle. The clock on the wall read 3:04 am. And there Tim Jones sat – if that’s even his real name – sticking to his story that all he could be guilty of might be bad writing. But there was a problem. The guy’s story just didn’t add up.”
I had this sudden eerie sense of déjà vu. Then I looked back up at the top of this page and saw. He was stealing my story for his blog, the little conniving bastard.
Jones continued to fidget with his Batman secret decoder ring – the one he claimed he got at the dentist last week for having no cavities. “Like I’ve told you five times, Detective Marlboro, I have no idea why you’re keeping me here. I just like to write. Is it my fault that I’m not very good at it? Who am I hurting?”
“Me for one, you little putz,” I shouted. “Reading your crap is like being forced to drink my own urine.”
“Really? That bad, eh?”
“Worse. Ain’t you got no compassion for the innocent kids who might stumble upon your blog?”
“Actually, the expression is, “Have you no compassion. ‘Ain’t you got no’ is not a grammatical – “
That chump owes me a frickin ’apology – for wasting the past five goddamn hours of my life. He kept droning on about his favorite articles. “Stop,” I screamed. “Not another word. Just shut your trap!” This guy was really getting on my nerves. He had to be lying. Nobody could possibly write such inane drivel week after week, year after year and not go insane. And who the freak wears shorts on a rainy night in March? What a loser.
I decided to read a couple of his posts just to be sure I wasn’t missing an important clue. I could barely stomach the first piece called Lessons in Bonding. He was killing me with this stream-of-consciousness bull crap. I looked away from his annoyingly chirpy grin. Dawn was slithering in like… like something that slithers… in the dawn.
The drivel pounding on my brain was as unrelenting as the drizzle pounding on the roof. I looked at his Casio. It blinked 6:47am. We’d been at this for over six hours. But instead of cracking, he just kept on reciting an endless list of his favorite posts – from always lying to your kids, to his sports-impaired wife. I was on my 7th cup of lukewarm Joe, and this goober was still rambling mindlessly on. One of his posts even warned me to not to let my dishwasher destroy my marriage. The guy was a numskull, though on that last one, he had a point.
I finally decided that as criminal as his humor writing was, no one was more a victim of his crimes against humanity than himself. I put out my last Camel, blew the smoke in his face and sneered at this turkey. “Get outta here, ya’ punk. I guess I can’t charge you with anything – yet. And maybe I can’t stop you from writing this crap. But for the love of Pete, please do me one favor.”
“What’s that, Detective?”
“Get yourself a goddamn editor. This week’s piece is way too long!”
I thought that was the end of this story. But the very next week, I got an email inviting me to check out his latest blog piece – called The Interrogation. Sounded fishy. Some twisted fiend must have added me to Jones’ humor blog subscriber list. And I’m pretty sure I know the slime dog who would have signed me up. Goddamn Lieutenant Jaworski. That dirty rotten scoundrel.
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 a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
