Did you hear the one about—aw, never mind. I can’t remember a joke. Two minutes after someone tells me a joke, it’s gone. Every time I venture out thinking I’ve got this one nailed, I screw it up. My friend Bill in NY once told me a joke that was so funny I almost peed myself laughing. Several of us were swapping jokes at lunch the other day and I ventured out, started telling this gut-buster from Bill, and sure enough I lost it. Being a resourceful kinda guy, I called Bill and had him repeat it then and there. Everyone thought my calling Bill was funnier than the joke.

Keep ’em laughing, it makes it hard to shoot straight.

Happy New Year!

Don’t forget the advertisers!

Thanks to all who came out for our first-ever Foolish Times humor reading on December 11. A great time was had by All. A lot of other people, too, judging from the feedback we’ve received. Clint Eastwood, Doris Day, and John Cleese were among the many celebrities who did not attend. Keep an eye out for our next one, to be scheduled for sometime in early 2010. We’ll let you know once we find out if Café 316 will let us come back due to the police incident involving the fire juggler, etc. (long story). Meanwhile, have fun reading the first issue of the new year, and enjoy your dried prunes, or plums, or whatever they are. We wouldn’t touch one, personally.

Across the top of my refrigerator, tiny ski tracks zigzagged down slopes of dust. Whoa, Nellie! As a renowned wildlife expert, I quickly deduced this was not the usual hippo infestation we endure each winter in the Midwest. While migrating around the Great Lakes, these Velveeta-loving giants wiggle through crevices and into our homes. This is quite rough on vinyl siding. Worse, when dinner is repeatedly ruined by hippos cavorting in the attic, many of us fall off the wagon and resume bowling.

To my trained eye, the tracks came from a non-hippoic species, namely, rodents. The kind who dug winter sports. Espousing nonviolence, I rigged up toy mice in the following scenarios to scare the real beasties from the house.

Predator—next to “Reptile Crossing” sign, a Mickey doll hung skewered on the fangs of a stuffed rattlesnake.

Drowning—chipmunks Simon, Theodore, and Alvin lay at the bottom of the fish tank, wearing cement boots and scanty Speedos.

Electrocution—Minnie, dressed in sequined orange jumpsuit from my Prison Barbie collection, strapped in miniature chair. Hershey’s Kiss “helmet” wired to car battery.

Suicide—generic toy mouse hung from the candy jar, leaving a maudlin note written on a Reese’s Cup wrapper.

But my efforts came to naught. The rodential rascals ignored the death scenes and kept skiing. They also built a lodge, two chairlifts, and yodeled through the night. So I caved in and set traps baited with cheap peanut butter. The next morning, I found the traps sprung but empty. My keen eye searched for a trail and…hey, where’d all the chocolate jimmies come from?!?

The trail led straight to my gingerbread house. I know, Christmas is over. But the house was a multi-holiday centerpiece, and added elegance to the mantel of my cardboard fireplace. The house’s front view was decorated for Christmas, with candy cane archways and gumdrop snowmen; on the Easter side, marshmallow chicks lounged on a jelly bean deck. The Halloween view had candy corn coffins filled with gummy worms. And the fourth? Valentine’s Day. Yes, built of cinnamon hearts and condoms.

Well, the mice had trashed the house, and I mourned over beheaded chicks, missing condoms, and snowmen doing unspeakable things with candy corn. Such wanton debauchery shocked me speechless. At last, I found my voice and whimpered, “They partied WITHOUT me?!?”

The war was on. I switched to glue pads, baited with pastel mini-marshmallows. Well, the beasties again took the bait and somehow escaped the glue! But, my dear Watson, on each trap they left behind a strip of belly fur and a pile of…are those…PASTEL jimmies!?!?

As humanoids, we have a duty to cull the weak and stupid from any species that annoys us. However, the clever trap evasions indicated intelligent beings—sore bellies and pastel poop notwithstanding. Well, tough bananas, muchachos! The little Einsteins still had to go.

Then, eureka! I discovered the old-fashioned boot trick. How it works: Cats stare at hall closet. Shoo cats away. Pull on boots. Stomp foot for better fit. Remove foot, smooth out sock wrinkles. Jam foot into boot. Repeat. Curse ill-fitting boot. Stomp harder. Pause. Think. Withdraw foot, tip boot, and shake. Scream at soaring, bug-eyed mouse. Run for weapons! Renew oath to nonviolence. Put down chainsaw. Grab plastic yogurt container—almost empty. Chase away dimwitted cats. Slam container over mouse. Miss and curse. Repeat. Again. Once more. When caught, slide hand—No!! Are you crazy?? Slide LID underneath. Fling mouse into driveway. Bargain with God to keep it (a) outside; and (b) celibate. Mop up yogurt throughout house.

Clearly, the issue needs further study, and I’ve received a federal grant to monitor rodent patterns. Experimenting with various tracking methods, I’ve discovered useful data: (1) Leg-banding herds of mice will cause carpal tunnel syndrome; (2) The tiny branding irons get (owie owie) HOT!! and (3) When macraméing the radio collars, use unwaxed dental floss. Mint.

Copyright©2010 by Mary Tompsett

* * *

Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

Adam and Eve said, “Lord, when we were in the garden, you walked with us every day. Now we do not see you any more. We are lonesome here, and it is difficult for us to remember how much you love us.”

And God said, “I will create a companion for you that will be with you and who will be a reflection of my love for you, so that you will love me even when you cannot see me. Regardless of how selfish or childish or unlovable you may be, this new companion will accept you as you are and will love you as I do, in spite of yourselves.”

And God created a new animal to be a companion for Adam and Eve. And it was a good animal, and God was pleased.

And the new animal was pleased to be with Adam and Eve and he wagged his tail.

And Adam said, “Lord, I have already named all the animals in the Kingdom and I cannot think of a name for this new animal.”

And God said, “I have created this new animal to be a reflection of my love for you. His name will be a reflection of my own name, and you will call him DOG.”

And Dog lived with Adam and Eve and was a companion to them and loved them.

And they were comforted.

And God was pleased.

And Dog was content and wagged his tail.

After a while, it came to pass that an angel came to the Lord and said, “Lord, Adam and Eve have become filled with pride. They strut and preen like peacocks and they believe they are worthy of adoration. Dog has indeed taught them that they are loved, but perhaps too well.”

And God said, “I will create for them a companion who will be with them and who will see them as they are. The companion will remind them of their limitations, so they will know that they are not always worthy of adoration.”

And God created CAT to be a companion to Adam and Eve.

And Cat would not obey them. And when Adam and Eve gazed into Cat’s eyes, they were reminded that they were not the supreme beings.

And Adam and Eve learned humility.

And they were greatly improved.

And God was pleased . . .

And Dog was happy. . .

And Cat didn’t give a damn one way or the other. . .

I was visiting a co-worker at her home, and I was leery of her five-year-old boy, a blonde little boy, because I knew he had a reputation for being difficult. I’d even heard him scream in the past, though from a distance.

I was talking with my host. The kid came up and demanded that his step-dad stop talking to me and do something for him, find one of his toys. The step-dad evidently didn’t move quick enough.

The blonde cherub made an evil scowl like Damien in one of those devil movies. He sucked in air. His fat little face exploded in a scream, an unearthly, piercing, horrendous yell.

It loses a lot on the printed page, but the scream sounded something like, “Urrrrrrghemorppfhhhhhhllllact!” Then, for effect, the little blonde boy wound up like a steam engine, huffed, puffed, and shrieked a series of banshee wails.

His mother came running from the kitchen, begging the child not to misbehave. “That’s not nice, Joey,” she said nervously. “Look at what a spectacle you’re making of yourself. Didn’t you promise you’d be nice to company? Do you want to see your mother sad?”

The kid hollered louder. The windows rattled.

I knew the child was fond of model airplanes, because the toys were scattered in nooks about the living room. I rose from the sofa, reached for one of the diminutive aircraft, and knelt down next to the youngster, intending to quiet him with my charm.

I leaned close to the boy.

“I had a great uncle who flew one of these in the First World War,” I said, smiling. “Let me tell you about the time I ……….”

The kid clenched a fist, reached back, and hit me right in the mouth.

“That isn’t nice, Joey.” The step-dad smiled, chuckled, as though half-teasing, like it was all just good-natured fun. “For that, no bedtime Nintendo.”

“Spirited boy,” I said, rising, rubbing my lip.

In that moment, I envisioned going for a field goal with the little bastard. I pictured his chubby little blonde body, curled up, turning end over end, as it soared between the uprights, 60 yards away.

It’s not nice to think such thoughts. I felt bad thinking them. Nevertheless, I also felt my lip throb.

Before I left, I decided to accidentally step on one of the kid’s models.

I don’t want to be anywhere in the same state when that punk turns into a teenager.

Copyright 2010 Sammonsays.com

The Blonde

A blonde walks into a bank in New York City and asks for the loan officer. She says she’s going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000. The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for the loan, so the blonde hands over the keys to a new Rolls Royce.

The car is parked on the street in front of the bank; she has the title, and everything checks out. The bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan.

The bank’s president and its officers all enjoy a good laugh at the blonde for using a $250,000 Rolls as collateral against a $5,000 loan. An employee of the bank then drives the Rolls into the bank’s underground garage and parks it there.

Two weeks later, the blonde returns and repays the $5,000 and the interest, which comes to $15.41. The loan officer says, “Miss, we are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely; but we are a little puzzled. We checked you out and found that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is—why would you bother to borrow $5,000?”

The blonde replies: “Where else in New York City can I park my car for two weeks for only $15.41 and expect it to be there when I return?”

All About Frank

A man walks out to the street and catches a taxi just going by. He gets into the taxi, and the cabbie says, “Perfect timing. You’re just like Frank.”

Passenger: “Who?”

Cabbie: “Frank Feldman. He’s a guy who did everything right all the time. Like my coming along when you needed a cab, things happened like that to Frank Feldman every single time.”

Passenger: “There are always a few clouds over everybody.”

Cabbie: “Not Frank Feldman. He was a terrific athlete. He could have won the Grand Slam at tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an opera baritone and danced like a Broadway star and you should have heard him play the piano. He was an amazing guy.”

Passenger: “Sounds like he was something really special.”

Cabbie: “There’s more… He had a memory like a computer. He remembered everybody’s birthday. He knew all about wine, which foods to order and which fork to eat them with. He could fix anything. Not like me. I change a fuse, and the whole street blacks out. But Frank Feldman, he could do everything right.”

Passenger: “Wow, some guy, then.”

Cabbie: “He always knew the quickest way to go in traffic and avoid traffic jams. Not like me, I always seem to get stuck in them. But Frank, he never made a mistake, and he really knew how to treat a woman and make her feel good. He would never answer her back even if she was in the wrong; and his clothing was always immaculate, shoes highly polished too. He was the perfect man! He never made a mistake. No one could ever measure up to Frank Feldman.”

Passenger: “An amazing fellow. How did you meet him?”

Cabbie: “Well, I never actually met Frank, he died. I married his widow.”

The Painter

There was a painter by the name of Jacques, who was very interested in making a penny where he could, so he often would thin his paint to make it go further.

As it happened, he got away with this for some time, but eventually the Church decided to do a big restoration job that involved the painting of one of its biggest churches. Jacques put in a bid, and because his price was so low, he got the job.

He went about erecting the trestles and setting up the planks, and buying the paint and, yes, thinning it down with the turpentine. Jacques was up on the scaffolding, painting away with the job nearly completed, when suddenly there was a horrendous clap of thunder, and the sky opened.

The torrential rain washed the thinned paint off the church and knocked Jacques off the scaffold and onto the lawn, among the gravestones, surrounded by tell-tale puddles of the thinned and useless paint.

Jacques was no fool. He knew this was a judgment from the Almighty, so he got on his knees and cried: “Oh, God! Forgive me! What should I do?”

And from the thunder, a mighty voice spoke:

“Repaint! Repaint! And thin no more!”

It’s January. Once again, time to prepare for that blessed event known as the Super Bowl. I can remember when we watched the Super Bowl in January, not prepped for it. I guess now the powers that be need those extra two weeks to line up the inexpensive commercials and understated halftime shows.

Actually, I can remember the first Super Bowl, along with the Ice Bowl on the Frozen Tundra of Lambeau Field that led up to it. I can still see Bart Starr’s quarterback sneak, and I can remember Dandy Don Meredith uttering that he was going to “eat that dat-gumbed ball.” (Spell check, please.)

Heck, I can remember when there was no Super Bowl, and the AFL was a new institution and a league all its own. I remember the men for whom the Lamar Hunt, George Halas, and Vince Lombardi trophies are named. In my experience, I don’t know that winning is the only thing, but losing is a lousy substitute; Lombardi knew what he was talking about. Gotta love those Fordham Blocks of Granite.

I remember rumor had it that Bud Grant refused to let his Vikings wear long underwear in Minnesota…before the days of the dreaded dome…ah, when men were men. Fran Tarkenton and tighty-whities notwithstanding, they still lost the Super Bowl four times.

And I remember that the Packers didn’t.

OK; it’s established: I’m an old fan of the pigskin and gridiron. True to my womanhood, I shun “old” in favor of “seasoned.”

As a child of the sixties in Wisconsin, it was mandatory to learn your football basics regardless of gender. I have two brothers, but I recall it was my sister who explained the concept of a first down to me when I was six. She’s nine years my senior, and thereby had a head start on the indoctrination.

Perhaps more frightening than her being my dialect coach, I recall Football-ese making perfect sense to me. I mean, I could have asked why one didn’t get four “ups” versus “downs,” but the question just never entered my mind. Clearly I was born to embrace this game.

Aside from learning the rules, one had to learn proper telecast etiquette. My father was a fairly civilized fan; his major outburst usually came after a fumble or an interception, and consisted of, “Aw, Packers; you fell on your head.” I repeat this at least once per game to honor his memory and strengthen my football core.

My mother was the antithesis of civilized; must have been the Irish and French boiling over when confronted with a sea of green or something. She didn’t break furniture, and always ranted with a Betty Boop-esque flair, but she was hardly demure. Time has failed miserably on the mellowing front; her dismay is as demonstrative as ever. She must be my inspiration: I, too, have yet to break a chair over a failed 3rd-and-long, but it’s probably just a matter of time.

My fancy for football was fed by regular Sunday exposure to the Packers, Bears, Vikings, Lions, and Chiefs. Who could forget Hank Stram at Arrowhead, the GQ Cover Boy of the sidelines, sporting jacket, vest, and tie? It sometimes made me wonder if this was a football field or the Four Seasons, but I must admit Coach Belichick might consider taking a page from Hank’s haute couture playbook.

In addition to the conference games, we were always graced with a double header, and I soon learned the major players on the West Coast: John Hadl, Daryl Lamonica, John Brode, and my hurler of all hurlers, Roman Gabriel. Yes, I did own—and even read—that immortal work, “Great Quarterbacks of the NFL.”

That book listed several, but there was no man for me but Gabriel: tall and lean, No. 18. The smile, that hair…forgive me, Dick Enberg, but “OH MY,” what a crush I had on Roman. John Wayne made a lot of movies with a lot of co-stars, but only “The Undefeated” did I watch ad infinitum.

In fifth grade, I brainwashed some girlfriends into co-conspiracy, and we formed our own little Rams club—each with a fave player: Jack Snow, Lance Rentzel, and…the gray cells abandon me on the last one. Maybe it was Rosie Grier or some other member of the Fearsome Foursome. Probably one that didn’t needlepoint. I know it’s sexist, but we were ten—only four years into our training. Needlepoint probably did for face-masking what ballet did for foot speed and cutting; we just hadn’t learned that yet.

Back to the double-header afternoons.

Without any concern for what it would do to my hair, I even begged for a Rams helmet for my 11th Christmas, and thanks to my mother (who always did the shopping), I actually got one. There I sat the whole next season for each double-header: helmet in place, trying to watch the game and see through the face mask to do my math homework. Forget that he graduated Berkeley; it was at this point that I decided Joe Kapp’s true genius was in donning that single bar.

Let the record show that mine was a bona fide blue-and-white Rams helmet—none of this blue-and-gold business of the New NFL. And these Rams were in Los Angeles, not St. Louis—which will always be the home of the Cardinals to any real fan. (OK, OK…the real fans know the Cardinals actually began in Racine, with sandlot roots as the “Normals” on Chicago’s south side, but let’s not quibble. Bottom line: St. Louis would never have adopted the Rams if some loose cannon hadn’t flown the Cards to Arizona in the middle of the night and upset everything.)

Watch yourselves, you reformist zealots; we purists have you in our sights. I don’t care if the actual city of Atlanta is nowhere near the West coast; the Falcons started in the NFC West, and they should have stayed there. Logic is overrated. I need a geographically correct football conference like my pre-teen daughter needs an anatomically correct Ken Doll.

My love of the game went beyond my grammar school years, and came with me to every high-school contest I attended. Thursday nights, under the lights…it was a beautiful sight. I recall commenting that one kickoff had taken a Wilson High bounce, and overhearing a guy behind me saying, “Holy cow…she really knows her…stuff.” Such incredulity offends me; he probably couldn’t even define the strong side.

In college I chose the season football tickets over the hockey ones every year. Funny that I later worked for a hockey franchise after graduation; maybe if I’d have taken the hockey tickets, I’d have ended up in the NFL’s league office and would still be in New York.

I digress.

The Badgers were somewhat in the cellar my undergraduate years, but the opponents always played decent ball. Besides, it was the overall spectacle that mattered when it came to Big 10 college football. There was a purpose to every aspect of the Badger home game experience:

*The Surefire Hangover Remedy: the Bucky Wagon screeching past your dorm room Saturday morning blaring “On Wisconsin”

*The Surefire Cure for Fear of Heights: getting body-passed among the less-than-lucid crowd, hoping they dropped you to the bleachers before you went over the top of the stadium; injury was preferable to death

*The Ultimate Passing Drill: cup fights between sections O and P (full cups, of course…soda, ice, and anything distilled)

*The Ultimate Footwork Drill: staying ON the bleachers while dancing the polka to “Bud” in the 5th quarter, led by the most entertaining college band ever to grace the hash marks

The Rose Bowl was but a distant dream of Badger fans in those years, but later on, our loyalty was rewarded—times 3! Same can be said for tried-and-true of the Gold and Green. What a joy it was to watch The Pack be back and win another Super Bowl. Again, I threw hair caution to the wind and sported my cheese hat for both contests—a plate of curds beside me for good luck.

I won’t elaborate on the next Super Bowl the Pack lost, except to say that one should NEVER abandon one’s running game; all pass and no run makes your QB a blitz magnet. Even John Elway earned the Super Bowl Loss Hat Trick sans a Terrell Davis behind him. The quick draw, the option, the Sacred Packer Sweep…all of these are the stuff of which history is made.

Just ask my friend Claire. This is a woman with whom a Monday morning phone conversation would naturally turn to a critique of Sunday’s games. I recall her going over a Jets/Giants game… “I could have cared less that Brett the Jet didn’t win; Eli (that’s Manning to you neophytes) was working the field so well, I couldn’t help but cheer for him.”

What woman says this but me?? Andrea Kremer? Pam Oliver? My big sister? I had found another kindred football spirit among the females.

It must be in the roots. Though we met in New Jersey, I instantly knew Claire was midwestern when she kept mentioning football and used the word “supper.” Non-midwesterners might recognize “supper” to be a noun, but it doesn’t mean an evening meal; it means “one who sups.” And to the non-football fanatic, “working the field” is something akin to bringing in the sheaves.

This will be my umpteenth Super Bowl, and as I write, I don’t even know who’ll be in it. No matter; I’ll soak it up with all its splendor as I have every year since I was six. Between the football and the ads, it’s a win-win for me: I was a marketing major.

My daughter is likely to be watching it with me, though she’s still learning her basics and honing her love of the game. She is already, though, exhibiting Feminine Football Fanaticism in its purest form: like Claire and her mom who loved the ‘60’s Rams because of their helmets, my daughter is partial to the Jets because their jerseys are just the right shade of green.

That’s my girl.

* * *

Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader who enjoyed ice skating and golf until stricken with Forty-itis. Now she’s working on sainthood as a church choir member and grammar-school volunteer, but her application is still pending. You can contact her at denise.aisling@gmail.com.

Finally, my addiction to the “National Enquirer” has paid off! Because of my avid readership, I won a trivia contest during a seminar on Social Media by answering the following question: “What movie studio did Barry Diller head up in the 80’s?” “Paramount,” I said, my hand held high. “Correct,” hollered the seminar leader and handed me a small paper box, inside of which was something that looked like a weird little toy, or perhaps a large eraser. Turns out, it was a Poken.

What is a Poken, you ask? A “Poken” is a funny-looking 2GB memory gadget with a built-in radio frequency identity device (RFID). When two Pokens are pressed together they light up, indicating that an exchange of information has taken place. The “information” that is transferred has already been set up by the Poken owner on the

Poken website. The Poken is equipped with a USB connector so that when you return home from a party, you can just download all your Poken friends to your computer.

Poken was invented by a Swiss business school grad who was tired of having to keep track of all the business cards he would acquire at various meetings, so he developed a device “where we could customize our identity, choose our networks, and decide what and how much we wanted to share…” At that point in the text, my silly old-fashioned, un-cool self kicked in. Can’t you just share your information in person? Why do you need these funny-looking intermediaries? Leave it to a young male engineer to take the “personal” out of personal interactions.

From the Poken website, I read, “…we want you to spark conversations, and keep them going, in all kinds of ways and in your own personal style. we want you to express yourselves and who you are. we all accessorize our clothes, cars, phones, and even our pets; why not our information?” (please note: most of the text on the website is written in this hip lowercase kind of way.)

Accessorize my information? Customize my identity? Am I the only one who thinks this is funny and/or slightly mad? And, what if you lose your Poken, especially after you’ve acquired customized information from numbers of people? I don’t know about you, but I don’t need one more little physical object to keep track of. And what if Poken is stolen? In a culture where information is king, you just know that roving bands of Poken thieves will soon emerge to lie in wait and pinch your Poken. Then, you’ve compromised not only your precious information, but that of others as well.

Don’t you just want to grab these young engineers by the lapels and shout, “Consequences, my son, these things have consequences!” Anyone with an RFID scanner within twenty feet of you has access to ALL of the info on your Poken. We’re getting into Big Brother thriller territory here, I’m afraid.

To me, the sad part about all of this new “social media” technology is that we have at once too much information at our fingertips and not enough in our hearts. Oh, sure, you might learn the bits and bytes of a potential friend or mate from his Poken, but you’ll never access the heart and soul of him unless the two of you spend considerable in-the-flesh time. How else will you know how his skin feels next to yours, or what kind of aftershave he uses, or how his crooked smile charms you to your core? What used to be the rich fun of walking, talking, and laughing in person has been transmogrified into the faux-intimacy of tweeting, poking, facebooking.

I have to tell you that if I meet you at a party and you ask me if I want to Poken, don’t be surprised if I give you a hug instead.

* * *

Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

[Editor’s note: Kiri Kiri the Limerick Deary absolutely swears that these are her last baseball limericks until at least April (or maybe March...)]

Baseball season has reached its sad end,

and I’d vowed no more limericks to send—

But the Blue blew their chance

for a World Series dance,

and were doomed from the start, I contend.

Village Sky must be terribly flustered

that her Dodgers could not cut the mustard.

Her team dashed her hope

I don’t know how she’ll cope

When the 2010 Giants dust her.

SF Giants have blown chances, too,

when they lost that last game in ’02.

But they’re well on the mend

and I gladly commend

all the Giants fans dogging the Blue.

Let’s go, Giants! We will OWN 2010!

Thanks for tolerating my baseball zeal through the season—and thanks to Gene Gene, Village Sky, and Birdman. (OK, well, maybe not quite as much thanks to Village Sky—but despite her poor choice of team, she IS, I must say, a TRUE FAN.)

There are three things that I’ve long wanted to do in my life, but which seemed unlikely I’d ever achieve: To be a stand-up comedian, to be a radio baseball commentator, and to be able to dance well enough that I could do it in public without embarrassing myself.

I’ve attended many concerts and weddings and various other celebrations where lots of people danced—but I wasn’t among those people.

In high school, I was the consummate wallflower. I’d sit in the bleachers and watch other, cooler students do their adept dance-floor moves. I envied them, these teenagers who had rhythm and self-confidence, who could lose themselves in the music while maintaining an artful and poised comportment. I was “artful” off the dance floor, but I was never poised anywhere, except firmly in the bleachers.

However, I do have a history of dancing during “not-ready-for-prime-time” hours. My mother says she’s observed me dancing in the bathtub in the middle of the night—a behavior she attributed to my propensity for sleepwalking. I’ve always had an active dream life, so I suppose that sleep-dancing in the tub was a subconscious attempt to manifest my dance dreams.

As a wannabe-dancer-but-much-too-inhibited adult, I developed a habit of dancing and singing in the privacy of my bedroom. I do the singing part very loudly and out of tune, and I do the dancing part with wild abandon and arms flailing. This practice has sometimes frightened the chance spectator who happens into my room.

When I’m surprised by an unsuspecting observer, I feel instantly embarrassed. I immediately cease my song-and-dance routine for the sake of its victim—but in my heart I feel a sadness and regret for the loss of a ritual that is self-integrating and oddly spiritual.

I’ve often watched wistfully from the sidelines as people happily join hands to do the Hora or the Hokey Pokey. Put my left arm in, then my left arm out? That’s a terrifying thought! Knowing me, if I even managed to get my left arm “in,” it would fly so far out in its opposing motion that I’d never again reunite it with the rest of my body parts—much less be able to “shake it all about.”

As far as the “turn yourself around” part, I could probably manage that. But I’d likely turn too many times, get dizzy, and wind up falling flat on my rear end.

So as I sat on the sidelines watching my Tongan relatives dance in public with wild abandon during my Tongan cousin’s wedding reception, it seemed judicious that I seek an inconspicuous corner where I could flail my limbs around from a horizontal position, since I’m clearly more coordinated when I’m lying down.

Just as I was contemplating potential inconspicuous corner opportunities, I glanced across the table at my father, who also doesn’t dance in public. I doubt he has ever danced privately in his bedroom. But he seemed a bit wistful as he watched his Tongan kin celebrate. “He’s old,” I thought. “He may never make it to another wedding. Get brave and go for it,” I told myself. “It really could be now or never for him.”

So I grabbed Dad by the hand and tried to pull him onto the dance floor. He wouldn’t budge. “Better late than never, Dad,” I said, like he had said to me many times in my youth.

“Better never than late,” he replied. I let go of his hand in defeat, his bottom still planted firmly on his chair.

As I looked back at our table, I noticed my mother’s eyes welling with tears. I suspected that Ma’s tears were in empathy for the dance proposition my father had just rejected. I knew that during their forty-eight years of marriage, my mother had also had plenty of dance propositions rejected by my father. I suspect that my mom is a middle-of-the-night bathtub dancer like me. She craves a dance fix, but she’s given up hope that her need for a partner will ever be satisfied by Dad. I realized that was why she was getting moist around the eyes. It was clear that we’d both have to get our dance fixes elsewhere.

“Please, Ma, could I have this next dance?” I asked, extending my hand to her.

“Enchantee,” she said as she stood and curtsied.

We joined our much less inhibited, joyful Tongan in-laws, who welcomed us literally with wide-open and non-flailing arms that embraced us as we embraced the dance floor.

We did dances we’d never heard of, Ma and me. We danced the hiki-tiki, the maka-laka, the mumbo-jumbo, the hula and the Little Black Sambo. We did line dances and the Macarena and yes, the Hokey Pokey. I got my left arm in without incident, though it hit my mom in the face on its way out—but I didn’t worry over it, as the large Tongan man to my right had the same mishap, and gave me a bloody nose. He just laughed, handed me a Kleenex, and told me to hold it to my nose for five minutes. He never stopped dancing. I followed his example, and there was something exhilarating to me about dancing with a tissue tucked up my nostrils.

Ma and I wrapped up the wedding celebration by leading the crowd in the Hora, which, being newly liberated Jews, made us feel very giddy and proud. Dad stood up and clapped to the music with some semblance of rhythm, and applauded wildly with the Tongan in-laws afterward, as Ma and I took a bow.

For Dad, that’s as much of a dance as he’s ever likely to do. As for Ma and me, we’re not going to be wallflowers anymore. I won’t be seeking inconspicuous corners for horizontal solos. We won’t be passing up another opportunity to move our bodies akimbo with the rest of the happily dancing, more coordinated people.

But if you should happen to encounter Ma and me at an event involving dancing, it might be prudent to keep an eye out for flailing arms.

And guard your nose.

And bring Kleenex.

Usually I’m a very nonviolent, peace-loving person, yet I have this habit of fighting with my car.

It’s an older-model Jeep Grand Cherokee that was previously owned. “Previously owned” being the term car salesmen use meaning worn out, used-up, and with more miles on it than the Apollo spacecraft. Actually, I bought a bumper sticker that reads: “Honk If Something Falls Off.”

I’m not exactly sure what kind of engine the car has, but I think it’s called a “Check.” That’s what it says on the dashboard’s instrument panel, anyway—“Check Engine.” I’m not familiar with that type of engine, but it gets better gas mileage than a Sherman tank, so I’m assuming Check is a fairly decent brand of engine.

There is a huge gaping hole in the dashboard that a radio once occupied. Somebody stole the radio before I bought the car. This empty space is useful, though. I can put my purse in there and it keeps it from sliding off the seat and possibly falling through one of the huge holes in the floorboard.

One thing I like about the car is the bucket seats. I do wish there was a way of welding a back onto a bucket, though. It would make the seat a little less likely to turn over when I go around a curve too fast. I always use my seatbelts, though. They help hold me up until I can grab the bucket and turn it upright once more. And the seatbelts are genuine leather. We bought them at the flea market from a leather crafter. We decided on the brown ones to match the rust spots on the outside of the car.

And with the absence of a back seat I can take my dogs with me and they have a huge area in which to romp and play while I’m driving. Although they sometimes fight over which one gets to sit in the passenger-side bucket.

About a month ago the car stopped starting. Something was draining the battery. I figured it must be the headlights that kept running the battery down so I disconnected them. Now like Cinderella I must always go home before dark. Otherwise the car might turn into a pedestrian, or into another car, or a utility pole.

I know it’s getting close to the time to buy a new car, but somehow I have become attached to this one. I have been looking at new cars lately. I noticed something odd, too. It seems that the more a car costs, the uglier it is. Actually, it’s the same way with just about everything, even shoes and purses. If an item is preceded by the word “designer” and is so hideous it looks like something from a Steven King novel, then you can bet your next paycheck it probably cost more than the state of Hawaii.

Which brings up another point. It used to be an insult when someone told a woman she looked cheap. Now we should consider it a compliment.

I hate to part with my old car. We’ve been together for a long time and we’ve developed a warm and friendly relationship. We understand each other. We respect each other, even though we do argue sometimes. I usually take the car’s insults in stride but today it did something that made me really angry. I started the engine and when the instrument panel lit up, there in big red-lighted letters was the word “Air Bag.”

Now that was simply uncalled for. Who does this car think it is, calling me an air bag! I’m really thinking seriously about trading the car for a newer one now, and I told it as much. Right after I slapped both of its headlights into one and called it a “worthless pile of scrap metal.”

The rusted piece of junk. Fatso! Four doors!

I had signed up for an Internet dating service. My dating activities were non-existent; I had tried meeting girls in all the usual places—Costco tire store, the West Coast Hubcap Convention, San Jose Jell-O Wrestling Nights, tool rental yards, and even a hip boot fashion show.

Oh, Rex has had a gal for years. Millie is his true love. Even though with her being an English Sheep dog and ten times as big as he, they make a lovely couple. But me? I am a chronic loser when it comes to women. My last date ended in shambles when I asked her to chip in with the tip at Denny’s. I thought women liked to be independent.

So, I had surveyed the available women on the dating site. One in particular, Sky, seemed to be a real stunner and a romantic. Good job, liked walks on the beach, picnics in the park, the Three Stooges, and rebuilding truck engines. I wondered, if she was such a catch, why hadn’t someone already scooped her up? Maybe she was a double leg amputee, since her photo was from the waist up. Anyway, I connected with her and eventually called her. She seemed nice, intelligent, and had a good sense of humor. Better yet, she had her own truck and tools.

We had agreed on a time and place to meet: 5:55 p.m. in the Denny’s parking lot. (I wanted to scoot in early enough to qualify for the early-bird special.)

I had decided to bring Rex and have him vet her. Rex and I sat in the car playing Paper Scissors Rock as a new Lexus drove in. A woman resembling the photo on the dating site got out. Holy mackerel! My heart almost leapt out of my dirty T-shirt. She came over to the car and introduced herself and then noticed Rex with his feet up on the backseat window, panting as though he had just run a marathon.

“Oh, this must be Rexie! Hi, little guy! Oh, Ted, he’s soooooo cute!!!”

“It’s TOM, not Ted.”

“Whatever. Oh, Rexie, Rexie, Rexie. You’re such a handsome young man!”

I got out of the car. “Well, Sky, let’s go in Denny’s and get to know each . . .”

“Oh! Let me hold Rex. Please? Pretty please?”

“Sure.”

She picked up Rex and nuzzled him and fawned over him.

Damned dog! She gives me a hand to shake, and lets him lick her face!!! He’ll pay for that. I slammed the door shut in his face extra hard to convey my being miffed at him.

Inside, we ordered our meals and she excused herself to go to the ladies room. She had been gone for an extremely long time. I looked out the window and there she was, IN THE PARKING LOT. She had snuck back out and was playing with Rex. She came back in. “Sorry, Tony. He’s just so cute.” As she sat down, Rex popped his head out of her purse. “I hope it’s okay that I brought him in, Ted.”

Oh, he’s going to get it when we get home . . .

I swear to God Rex winked at me. No more Costco pizza for him for a frickin’ YEAR . . .

Our meals came. Sky plowed through her lobster and filet mignon as I quietly munched on my hot dog. Rex would frequently poke his snout out of her purse and slurp up a tidbit from her like a wolf eel sucking up a sardine. I’m gonna chain him to the water pipe for a week. . .

As we finished, I mentioned that maybe it would be fun to take in a movie. They were playing “Silence of the Lambs” on the Costco big-screen TVs. She declined, but begged me to let her take Rex home for the night—she’d bring him home tomorrow.

“But . . . but . . . but, maybe we could . . .”

“Oh, THANK you, Ron. I’ll let him take a bath with me, too. He looks a little dirty. I’ll even give him breakfast in bed—he can have my leftover filet mignon.”

She left with Rex. I went home.

I lay there in bed, seething. Were they done with their little bathie-bathie yet? Was he under the covers, poking his wet warm snout into places where even my dreams dared not? Did he fall asleep with his paw on her hip? Did he lie on the pillow, just watching her breathe? Did he kiss her forehead when he got back in bed from getting up to pee in the middle of the night?

I had been out on an expensive date and she couldn’t even get my name right. My dog . . . MY DOG spends the night with her!!!

In the wee hours of the morning, a quiet resolve came over me. I realized I had been looking for love in all the wrong places. Bring on the slings and arrows of defeat. Hope springs eternal. Next weekend there was a TV Remote Control convention coming to town, AND Denny’s was having a two-for-one special.

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

The Spanish Class

A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine. ‘House’ for instance, is feminine: ‘la casa..’ ‘Pencil,’ however, is masculine: ‘el lapiz.’

A student asked, ‘What gender is ‘computer’?’

Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether computer’ should be a masculine or a feminine noun. Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.

The men’s group decided that ‘computer’ should definitely be of the feminine

gender (‘la computadora’), because:

1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;

2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else;

3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and

4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

The women’s group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine (‘el computador’), because:

1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;

2. They have a lot of data but still can’t think for themselves;

3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and

4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.

The women won.

***

Hillbilly Ten Commandments

Some folks down south have trouble with all those “shalls” and “shall nots” in the Ten Commandments. Folks just aren’t used to talking in those terms. So, some hillbillies got together and translated the “King James” into “Hillbilly” language.

The Hillbilly’s Ten Commandments were posted on the wall at Cross Trails Church in Gainesboro, TN.

(1) Just one God

(2) Honor yer Ma & Pa

(3) No tellin’ tales or gossipin’

(4) Git yourself to Sunday meetin’

(5) Put nothin’ before God

(6) No foolin’ around with another fellow’s gal

(7) No killin’

(8) Watch yer mouth

(9) Don’t take what ain’t yers

(10) Don’t be hankerin’ for yer buddy’s stuff

Now that’s kinda plain an’ simple, don’t ya think?

***

Perks of Being Over the Hill

Ever wish you were young again? Well, here are some reasons why it’s good to be over the hill:

There is nothing left anymore to learn the hard way.

Things that you buy now won’t wear out.

Your supply of brain cells is finally down to a manageable size.

You no longer think of the speed limit as a challenge.

Your investment in health insurance is finally paying off.

You can quit trying to hold in your stomach no matter who walks into the room.

Your secrets are safe with your friends because they can’t remember them anyway.

You can sing along with elevator music.

Your joints are more accurate meteorologists than the guy on the television.

Your eyes won’t get too much worse.

Kidnappers are not very interested in you.

You can get into a heated argument about pension plans.

You can eat dinner at 4:00 in the afternoon.

In a hostage situation you are the most likely to be released first.

No one expects you to run—anywhere.

You are no longer viewed as a hypochondriac.

Clash of the Gym Class Titans

Journal entry: April 21, 1986 (age 16)

Great leaders of men are created in the horrific chaos of battlefields, the cutting edge of industry, and the noble arena of public service. Comedians are created in gym class.

One brisk morning in the spring of 1986 brought together two opposing forces on a muddy field at Seton Catholic Central High School. These forces were not the two teams of disinterested high schoolers assembled for a game of softball. They were two men. Well, one man, actually—the gym teacher. For the purposes of anonymity, and the continued sanctity of my “permanent record” at the school, we will refer to the teacher here as “Mr. Jockman.”

The second man was actually a boy, who only weeks before had hit puberty with the tragic force of a train hitting a wall. We will refer to him as me.

Softball was a staple activity in gym class. But this day’s game was different. The mysterious, wonderful creatures known as “junior class girls” were joining us for a rare co-ed class. With prom coming up, and the recent release of Lionel Richie’s romantic anthem “Say You, Say Me,” the stakes were high.

The gym teacher made the unprecedented and rather hotdoggish decision to serve as the pitcher for both teams. Meanwhile, I made the precedented and rather cowardly decision to play right field. Deep right field. In fact, I was so deep that I was able to simultaneously work for tips as a valet in the adjoining parking lot.

As the game progressed, Mr. Jockman laughed and mocked his way through a series of strikeouts by a parade of awkward and embarrassed youths. His relentless offensive was repeatedly interrupted, however, by the sound of laughter coming from the outfield. In the absence of any actual balls to the field, I had taken it upon myself to entertain my fellow outfielders (including the hot girl from my biology class) with a commentary on the game that was both deeply satirical and radically incendiary. It centered on the way Mr. Jockman looked when he threw the ball.

After the umpteenth burst of laughter from the outfield, Mr. Jockman stopped the game. He dropped the ball, threw down his glove, and turned a vengeful eye toward a tiny, pale figure in the far distance. The entire class tensed up, anticipating the monstrous clash that was about to unfold. Mr. Jockman’s face opened like a great cavern of vitriol, his voice swelling with rage. “MOLLEN! Quit laughing out there!!”

Everyone turned with a mixture of hope and dread to see what would be the response from the freckled and gangly cipher in right field. Sensing that the drama was peaking, I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled back, “But Mr. Jockman, it’s SPRINGTIME!!!”

Then I began to skip and frolic around the outfield. As I did so, I hummed the theme from The Smurfs, interspersed with snatches of Vivaldi. As my fellow nonathletes erupted in laughter, and the hot girl from my biology lab looked at her Hello Kitty watch and wondered how long it was till lunch, Mr. Jockman was heard to say, “I hate that kid.”

* * *

Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

January birthdays: Wow, it must be heavy to have a birthday during the bringing in of a new year full of rebirth, resolutions for self-improvement, and new goals, hopes, and dreams. Of course, if your birthday is at the end of the month, forget what I just said.

ARIES (3/21-4/19): An old Scotch tune, “Auld Lang Syne,” literally means Old Long Song. What this means for you is it’s time to stop singing the same old tune, and change your competitive ways this new year. Once in a while, it’s okay if your grandmother wins a hand of Uno.

TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Being of the sign of possessions, don’t resolve to quit smoking or lose weight this new year. Instead, resolve to return all borrowed farm equipment, especially since you don’t own a farm.

GEMINI (5/21-6/21): You hate listening to people complain. So you better invest in some Bose noise reduction headphones and resolve to keep them on for the better part of 2007. Just don’t expect to win Employee of the Year since you do work in the Customer Service department.

CANCER (6/22-7/22): Since you relish tradition, celebrate the new year by eating black-eyed peas and hog jowls with a tall dark-haired man for luck and prosperity. If you’re a vegetarian, kiss your hog-jowl prosperity good-bye.

LEO (7/23-8/22): This year, resolve to let your wacky sense of humor shine more often. If people give you strange looks, just tell them you read Foolish Times. That should explain EVERYTHING.

VIRGO (8/23-9/22): You’ve been too hard on yourself this past year. So, this year, make an easy resolution: vow to put the cap back on the toothpaste. Also vow to take it off to brush your teeth.

LIBRA (9/23-10/22): Early Roman emperors constantly tinkered with the official start date of the new year. To correct the problem, the Julian Calendar was established, but not before the previous year dragged on for 445 days to synchronize the calendar with the sun. The lesson? Be decisive this year, and take those synchronized swimming classes you’ve been talking about for 445 days!

SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): You love magic and mystery, and the new year is full of both. Resolve to visit The Mystery Spot in Santa Cruz, where an Elvis impersonator will give you the winning lottery numbers. But avoid the circus or you will be stalked by a sinister clown.

SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): January 1 has been celebrated as a holiday by Western nations for about the past 400 years, which coincidentally is about how long it’s been since you’ve had a decent vacation. 2010 is your year to travel overseas. Just be sure to watch “National Lampoon’s European Vacation” before you go.

CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): A new year has begun. That’s only 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8,760 hours, 525,600 minutes, and 31,536,000 seconds to work until your next day off.

AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): You know that song about you, “The Dawning of the Age of Asparagus”? Well, this new year is time to resolve to take better care of your health and to eat your veggies, especially asparagus.

PISCES (2/19-3/20): Use the new year as an opportunity to get rid of things that make you unhappy, like commercials, the airline industry, and Fox News.

Our minivan pulled out of the gravel driveway, headlights cutting through early-morning darkness.

My wife and our two little people were going to the grandparents’ house in Texas for four days. The kids, strapped into car seats like fighter pilots, waved as the van cruised past the front of the house and out of sight. My wife was equipped with the cell phone, credit card, cash for tolls, and just enough optimism to actually make the trip.

And me? I was doing what every husband dreams of—staying home alone for four days. Four nap-takin’, sports-watchin’, gas-passin’ days. Sweet.

They had about a 10-hour drive ahead of them. I couldn’t stand the pressure, so I went back to bed.

Fort Scott, Kan., 9 a.m.: “My tummy hurts,” our two-year-old girl said just in time for my wife not to be able to stop her from throwing up all over her shirt.

Home, 9 a.m.: I rolled over.

McDonald’s, Miami, Okla., 11:45 a.m.: “Two Happy Meals, a hamburger, and large coffee,” the teenage cashier repeated to my wife. “That’ll be $11.90.” Our boy stood quietly next to my wife while our girl shook the cardboard Happy Meal toy display like it had taken her money.

My wife looked in her wallet—she’d left the credit card in the car. She paid for lunch the only way she could, with her toll change.

Home, 11:45 a.m.: I got out of bed. Hmm. Steak would be nice for lunch, uh, breakfast, um, whatever.

Tollbooth, McAllister, Okla., 2 p.m.: “We don’t take credit cards,” the booth operator told my wife, and handed her a slip of paper. “Present this at the next tollbooth and pay there.”

“Do they take credit cards?” my wife asked.

“No,” he said. “But there’s an ATM inside the McDonald’s.”

Obviously the tollbooth operator had never herded two children out of a minivan and expected them to go back in quietly without a Happy Meal toy. Or, maybe he had. Jerk.

Home, 2 p.m.: Halftime. Hmm. Time for a beer.

Tollbooth, Hugo, Okla., 3:30 p.m.: “We don’t take credit cards,” the tollbooth operator said, pointing toward a nearby service station. “But there’s an ATM inside McDonald’s.”

Grrr.

Home, 3:30 p.m.: Second game of the day. Hmm, I thought as I cracked open another beer. Some summer sausage would be nice. I briefly considered going to the grocery store and buying some, but that would take 10 whole minutes. So I yawned and scratched my armpit instead.

Side of the road, Arthur, Texas, 4 p.m.: “I gotta go pee,” the boy said.

“But you just went pee,” my wife told him.

He shrugged. “Yeah, but I gotta go again.”

She pulled over to the shoulder and he peed in the grass.

Home, 4 p.m.: I thought about taking a nap.

Side of the road, just outside of Arthur, Texas, 4:05 p.m.: “I gotta go pee,” the girl said.

Home, 4:12 p.m.: I decided it was too late for a nap and had another beer instead.

Grandma and Grandpa’s house, Paris, Texas, 4:30 p.m.: The kids ran into the house, my wife trudging after them.

Home, 4:32 p.m.: The telephone rang and I turned toward it. The crowd roared. Oh great, I missed a touchdown, I thought, setting the beer down and reaching for the phone. This better be good.

“Hi, honey,” my wife said. “We’re here.”

Five minutes later I’d heard everything that happened: the vomit, the money, the tollbooths, buying a Coke at the drive-through window with the credit card just to get cash back so she wouldn’t have to unstrap the kids. Once you get them out of their car seats, they never go back in the same way—it’s a lot like folding a road map.

I missed a blocked punt.

“How was your day?” she asked, exhausted, sounding like she’d just sat through a Congressional hearing.

“Rough, honey,” I said, pulling another beer out of the fridge. “My day was pretty rough.”

* * *

You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at amazon.com.

I always thought jury duty was something you could politely decline. Like fruitcake. But recently, being summoned, I discovered that “jury service is not voluntary but a civic duty imposed upon all citizens pursuant to civil code section 204.”

Desperate, I called my shrink for a note.

“It’s jury duty, Jason. You can’t plead insanity.”

Pursuant to civil code section 204, I called the court and requested a one-time postponement, which the county clerk took personally.

“You’re not happy with the date, Mr. Love? Well, when would this be convenient?”

“How about never? Does never work for you?”

It’s not that I’m unpatriotic; it’s that I HAVE A JOB. Now I’m just spit-ballin’ here, but why not direct some of that 18-digit tax revenue to professional jurors, people who are at home watching Court TV anyway. Certainly they are more qualified than a man who, for a living, writes fart jokes.

Day Of Reckoning

One of the reasons I work at home is that I’m not good at being on time. On jury day I would have been on time—Scout’s Honor—but traffic backed up to my driveway.

I checked in with the county clerk, who seemed to be growing moss from the fluorescent lighting.

“Is there a reason you’re late, Mr. Love?”

“Yes, ma’am. Overpopulation.”

She led me to The Assembly Room, which squirmed with other abductees. Some gossiped over coffee; others read the funny pages, wondering why we don’t call them the “now and then mildly amusing pages.” So it goes.

After Reprogramming, we were free to graze in the courtyard. I traveled my bellybutton with tiny instruments while lawyers passed by in Armani and Hugo Boss. Just as I nodded off, a voice crackled over the intercom: “All jurors report to The Assembly Room. All jurors…”

We filed in cautiously, the way you do before your own execution.

“Cindy Sponzo?”

“Here.”

“Jason Love?”

Silence.

“Jason Love?”

Silence.

“May I remind everyone that if you leave the grounds, you will be re-summoned for a full day of service.”

“Here.”

Hardship

We, The Chosen, sat in Courtroom 21 staring at the defendant, who tried to sober up and look like a puppy. The trumpets sounded and in walked—on my oath—Judge Smiley. He said the trial would take one week despite the fact that the defendant was obviously guilty. The mood was somber, and I, for one, feel that it’s time to bring back the court jester.

Then they got to the part that everyone was waiting for: “Is there any reason why you, the juror, cannot sit on this trial?”

I decided to follow the advice I found in “Playboy” (let this be a lesson to you men who don’t read the articles):

“Your honor, serving on this jury would make it impossible for me to pay my bills.”

Judge Smiley squinted as if he had heard that one before—verbatim. The others pleaded their cases in turn. One woman sobbed that her husband was sick in the hospital. I knew I should have cried.

The judge then huddled with Armani and Hugo Boss while I fiddled with my pen cap. Snap on, snap off, snap on, snap off. Finally, the judge read his verdicts.

“Jason Love … excused for hardship.”

I let out a Robert-Blake-sized gasp and wanted to hug my neighbor. Come on, man—I’ve been acquitted!

I walked out to a setting sun, released by civil code section 204. If all goes well, I will never again be that close to prison.

Children: Don’t take my attitude to heart. I resist jury duty only because there are people in this world who cannot go even one day without fart jokes. American justice is the best in the world, full of checks and balances and county clerks who will grow moss to protect your freedom.

Just remember that jurors are in court all day, so you’ll want to pack a lunch. I might suggest fruitcake.