Do stormtroopers’ uniforms have butt flaps?
Ya know? When I heard that people would be lining up for the new “Star Wars” movie (“Star Wars XVI: Darth goes in for a prostate exam”), I just knew that temperatures would dip down in the teens. Pity Carhartt doesn’t produce a fleece insulated Luke Skywalker outfit, ain’t it? Frankly, I think Princess Leia would be hot in a union suit and trapper hat.
The mayoral run-off in Lewiston was so dramatic, with late-night vote counting and edge-of-your-seat waiting for results, I think they should have issued a puff of white smoke from the City Hall chimneys to announce that a new mayor had been chosen. Of course, while that may work well it Italy, it was around 19 degrees on election night in Lewiston. If one were watching for puffs of chimney smoke to impart the news, one would have been under the impression that 30,000 new mayors had been named to lead us. May they reign in peace.
Wrap it up
Last week we discussed my embarrassing habit of talking to street cats. This week, we shall talk over another habit that’s such a hindrance to my day-to-day duties, I’m considering medication to treat it, if I can find that medication in or around Kennedy Park. This embarrassing new habit? I can’t seem to end a telephone message with any kind of finesse. I’ll have finished the formal part of my message and passed along all pertinent contact details, yet there I am, still flapping at the gums like some teenage girl at the mall. It got so bad in a message I was leaving for a game warden this week, the warden in question had married, raised a family, retired and died peacefully in his bed before I was finished.
Ice, ice baby
So, I got a spiffy new pair of ice cleats to put over my boots when Mom Nature unleashes the kind of hellaciousness she threw at us early last week. Funny thing about ice cleats. I only ever think of using them after I’ve already taken my seasonal spin on the ice-covered driveway. Forget that business about horses leaving the barn. The new expression should be: “That’s like putting on the ice cleats after you’ve already fallen on your keister.” Please try to incorporate this idiom into your daily discourse.
Got a phone message this week from a guy who describes himself as “every bit as crazy as you are.” Should I regard this as flattery? An insult? I’ve asked the wise, two-headed clown who lives in my laundry hamper about it, but he doesn’t have an opinion on the matter.
Ruining your breakfast
For the story on cold-weather gear in this Sunday’s paper, which should be located to your left, my demented editors originally wanted to use a photograph of me in my badly shrunken union suit. Be very thankful, my friends, that this photo did not come to fruition. (What you see to your left is what we call a photo illustration Christmas miracle. ) I am an ungainly sight when wearing my actual bright red onesie. You know that horrifying clown that springs up out of the Jack-in-the-box? I look like that guy, only with spindly legs that resemble those of a cat who has fallen into a tub of bright red ink. Trust me, you would have hurled your scrambled eggs. Send your donations to Photoshop.