Norway woman robs store with finger
Wasn’t it just a week ago that I complained, in that spleeny way I have, that nobody ever used the cartoonish finger gun to commit robberies anymore? This woman (in Thursday’s Sun Journal) failed miserably, but you have to give her credit for appreciating the classics. Although, if she was really into cartoon tradition, she would have told the store clerk “Reach for the sky! This is a stick-up!” She also would have demanded that the loot be placed into a sack that had a large dollar sign printed on it.
She means nothing to me
It’s been more than a week and not a single one of you has commented on my new phone. It’s a Google Pixel with the Oreo operating system and rocking a ZUI lockscreen and Zizo Bolt phone case in hunter orange. That’s pretty impressive for something that’s going to spend 90 percent of its time deep in my coat pocket and the other 10 percent lost. I don’t care if the phone offers deep muscle massage and access to other dimensions, I refuse to become one of those ambling zombies who spend all of their hours sucking face with a gadget. Ooh, that’s good. I’m going to go post that on Facebook.
And speaking of weird technology
As I was enjoying a nice honey bun vape the other day, a scowling old-timer asked me why I was sucking on my pocket telephone. Oh, the answers I could have given him if I wasn’t the polite sort.
Cat got your tongue?
So, I was out on Pine Street the other night and talking to a stray cat I’d encountered out prowling. It was just small talk, you know: “Hello, cat. How’s it going, cat? Nice night for a walk ain’t it, cat?” It was all perfectly normal until I glanced up and saw – for the first time – that there was a random dude standing in the shadows and watching me. I tell you, when you get caught talking to a street cat downtown, there is no elegant out of the situation. I mumbled some half-assed explanation and then hustled off before I could make a bigger fool out myself. Later on, I told the story to a dog out on Webster Street and he laughed so hard.
One of those extremely loud and exquisitely nasal store people began howling over the intercom at a local big box that a clerk was needed in housewares. She howled it not once, not twice, but thrice, after which you could actually hear the sound of eardrums popping from one end of the store to the other. She was no Eartha Kitt, that one. Almost made me angry she interrupted the “Little Drummer Boy.”
The Breakfast Club
Every week, many of you devoted souls write to ask me where you can find my columns on the new Sun Journal website. Since I have no clue at all about that, how about I grab a newspaper and all three of us go out for breakfast somewhere? It will be fun. We can start a support group or possibly a gang. What to call ourselves? We’ll discuss that at our first meeting.
Breakfast for me is at 8 p.m.