Hee. I was behind a minivan the other day that bore a license plate with some variation of that name on it. Baby Cakes. I snickered. I guffawed. I both snickered and guffawed to the point where I was actually snickuffering. Then I pulled up alongside the van and saw that the dude behind the wheel was actually quite burly and rugged looking. Which only made the license plate funnier, but at that point I stifled the snickaws and guffickering in the interest of self-preservation.
Parallel parking deux
Last week, I bragged about how awesome I was parallel parking my car in front of the courthouse in Auburn. This week, in the very same spot, I did such a lousy job of it, it took roughly 167 independent moves before I was anywhere near what could be called “parked in a parallel fashion.” Worse, there were dozens of people stopped at a light who witnessed this embarrassing display of parking fail. At one point, I considered abandoning the attempt in shame. Then I asked myself: What would Baby Cakes do?
There needs to be a term for people who moved from Maine to Florida and who now delight in posting beach photos on Facebook, while up here in the tundra, we’re getting hammered by the 10th blizzard of the season. I mean, I HAVE a term for them, but I’m not allowed to print or say it anywhere due to profanity laws. May the eggs of a thousand palmetto bugs hatch in your pants!
During that organized snowball fight in Lewiston Wednesday, Sun Journal photographer Russ Dillingham was out flying his creepy drone over the battlefield. The unnerving buzz of the thing distracted the kids from their snow warfare to the point where every one of them turned their attention to trying to knock the drone out of the sky. A couple of them almost had it, too. As a consolation, a couple of the kids took aim and hammered Russ pretty good in a sensitive area so the night wasn’t a total loss.
Heard on the scanner Thursday: “Her neighbors keep their vacuum on at all hours of the day. She is pregnant and unable to get rest.” Is it me? Or does this sound like the beginnings of a really awesome country song? Just add Colt 45, an ex-husband and a hound dog.
One recent evening, while riding around the back roads of Buckfield (as opposed to the boulevards and avenues of Buckfield) I came upon a dead buck at the edge of a field with a bald eagle sitting triumphantly atop it. I tell you, we were just one tobacco-chewing cowboy away from a Coors commercial.