Discovery Channel good times

Turns out that Wednesday was the big night for frog sex. Frogs everywhere crawled out of hibernation and hopped all over each other like it was last call at the Frog Rock Cafe. To hear the wildlife people talk, it was a frog orgy out there in the mud. How sad is it that the lowly frog is getting action left and right while you’re still at home pinning all your hopes on match.com? Brother, if you show up at work covered in warts, we’re all going to know what’s up.

Clean up your act
Yes, it’s hand hygiene week again and I know you have this marked down on your calendar. In case you have forgotten the finer points of hand washing, the Lewiston-Auburn Public Health Committee has your back. According to the helpful handout I have before me, for the week of April 6 through April 12, you should wash your hands whenever you handle an animal or animal waste, change a diaper, clean up a kid who has made potty, handle garbage or sneeze into your fist. After the 12th, presumably, you can go back to your disgusting ways. Congratulations. You’ll forgive me if I don’t want to shake your hand.

Only in America
That’s the nature of news reporting, all right. One minute you’re in front of the post office dressed like Uncle Sam, the next you’re at a house fire a mile away.
Unfortunately for me, there was no time for a wardrobe change in between.
It was terrible. At such a serious thing as a fire, I had to try interviewing people as though I wasn’t wearing red and white pants, a flag-colored coat with tails and an ascot, whatever the hell that is. Grown men were making the L sign with their thumb and forefinger. Witnesses were unable to describe what they saw because they were just too distracted by my garish outfit. Here was the nation’s mascot running around with a pen and notebook instead of urging people to sign up for the military. It was a confusing time for everybody. Part of me wanted to hide behind a fire truck, part wanted to stay in character:
“I want you! To get a ladder truck and a pumper.”
“I want you! To get some vent holes cut into the roof.”
“I want you…”
But you get my meaning. I wonder just how many bystanders went off and joined the Navy because they were so moved by my very presence. Sorry about that, fellas. Write me from Guam. 

Police on Facebook, Twitter
I know, man. It’s like they came busting through the woods with flashlights and burst in on the keg party. Suddenly you’re not talking so boisterously about that mind-altered conquest from the night before or showing off photos of yourself at the Eminem concert. Nope. Nothing going on here, occifer. Now, everybody grab your big red cup and run.


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