He was never seen again

We heard over the scanner around mid-week that someone had head butted a construction worker somewhere in Lewiston. Seems like a bad idea for a couple different reasons. One, construction workers typically spend six days a week carrying cinder blocks under one arm and using jackhammers to pick their teeth. Two, don’t they generally wear hard hats? And three, who head butts anymore? What is this, the NHL in 1987? Lewiston, man. Just nuts.

Hot as something . . . something

You ever notice that to adequately describe hot weather, you have to swear? The first two similes that come to mind are completely inappropriate for a family newspaper (whatever that means). The first contains a common swear word and would get me beaten by a handful of editors. The second is . . . well, it’s just disgusting. Let’s take the high road here and just agree that it was pretty darn hot, by gorry.

Fried

A nice lady wrote to wonder whether it really was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, as that old saying goes. In doing so, she asked me – nay, dared me! – to give it a try. I did. Boy, is my neighbor PO’d at me. He’ll come around as soon as he tastes some of my delicious driveway bacon, though.

An apple a day

I’m a fool for little green apples, and this is the time of year for them. Thought I scored big when I discovered a tree over near the Colisee, where the apples are perfectly sized and just the right shade of green. I filled my pockets and scampered away to hunker down with a salt shaker. Pure heaven, right? You couldn’t be any wronger. I don’t know what’s up with the apple tree at the Colisee, but the fruit it bears tastes like the entire Maineiacs team used them to wipe their armpits after a game that went into triple overtime. I mean, blech! If you’ve ever wondered (and who hasn’t?) what downtown Lewiston might taste like, you can either lick a Walnut Street sidewalk or get your buttocks over to the Colisee and try one of those apples.

Shoes, shirt required

I finally made it over to the new Cumberland Farms store on Sabattus Street in Lewiston. Quite palatial. I’ve always thought of the CF as a kind of hood store, with no frills. This one isn’t even close to the hood and it has frills. Lots of frills. It’s like you’ve got to dress up to go there; it’s just that ritzy. By dress up, I mean sweat pants, SpongeBob pajama top and crocs. You know: the Walmart look.

Cleanup in aisle 7

And speaking of Walmart, a nice 80-something lady wrote to tell me how blazing fast she can shop Walmart thanks to a souped-up wheelchair that helps her get around the store in record time. I won’t lie to you: This letter scares me a little bit. I thought I detected some subtle threats in there, as if she was vowing to mow me down like a slow-moving squirrel if I linger too long over my tuna selection. If something weird happens and I end up squished at Walmart, please keep this in mind.

Squished at Walmart

Is also the title of my upcoming autobiography. In it, I reveal that thing we did that time. Our shame is great.


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