Forever young

The man was older, probably in his 80s, and he was two spots ahead of me in the checkout line. He fumbled with a checkbook with one hand while jamming a cell phone to his ear with the other. He wasn’t shy about using it, either.

“Ha ha ha!” he bellowed into the phone. “She’d be surprised if I came home without THAT, now wouldn’t she? Ha ha ha!”

The clerk had given him his total, but the old bird just kept on yakking, forcing others to listen in on the prosaic conversation.

“Well, you should know that’s how things go around here. If you don’t get to your lawn while the sun is shining, you might not get another chance for a week. Ha ha ha!”

The rest of us in line stirred uncomfortably and found other things to look at it. I figured it was one of two ways. Either the fellow was employing an if-you-can’t-beat-’em-join-’em kind of response to the irritating people who carry on phone conversations in public places. Or he’d been obnoxious all his life and planned to be obnoxious until his dying day. And if the universe is in balance, the old-timer drove away, stereo blasting, and promptly got stuck behind a 20-year-old bimbo driving 10 mph in the passing lane with her blinker on.

Waste is a terrible thing to waste

For two days in a row, a lot of the chatter on the police scanner involved improper disposal of excrement in downtown Lewiston. You know, I was a lot more excited about this before I deduced that dogs were involved. Excrement is always a fun topic for this column. It’s good for at least three angry letters and two disgusted phone calls.

And speaking of poopie

Thanks to the approximately 80 people who forwarded me news clips involving the Colorado man who was caught hiding in a Port-a-Potty in order to spy on women using the toilet at a yoga festival in Boulder. Folks assume I’m interested in this since I covered a similar case involving a local man caught in such a squishy crouch at a rest area in New Hampshire. Do one story on these potty peepers and you own it for life. My mother is very proud.

If you’re counting…

We’re up to six angry letters and four disgusted phone calls.

Delirium

Word among some apparent drug abusers I know is that there are moths the size of footballs flying all over the place this summer. Really? Huge moths? Frankly, I haven’t seen anything like that since the weekend I went drinking with Ray Milland.

Google it. You know you want to.

Foul-mouthed

And speaking of wildlife, there’s a bird behind my house that’s terrorizing me with its less-than-plaintive cry. Sounds like somebody pulling a rusty nail out of a violin. Phonetically, it’s roughly “SNEEEEE! SNEEEEE! SNEEEEE!” The weird thing is, only I can hear it.

Kidding about that last part. If you can identify this creature, drop me a line.

Happy Fourth

I remain the only person alive who doesn’t like the Fourth of July. To me, it’s a seasonal midlife crisis, summer’s unofficial midway point. All the things you failed to do in the first half, need to be crammed into the second. The days are getting shorter. The pressure is huge.

Plus, I’ve been afraid of sparklers since the incident.