Fashion police

The following is a real police call, where a dispatcher was passing along the description of a suspect. It’s mostly a real call, anyway. OK, a very small part of it is.

Dispatcher: “Suspect might be wearing white jeans, but it’s possible they’re khaki.”

Cop: “Pleated?”

Dispatcher: “A very nice box pleat that appears to be steamed in.”

Cop: “Cut?”

Dispatcher: “Appears to be a relaxed straight cut, very flattering.”

Cop: “Wrinkle resistant?”

Dispatcher: “I’m afraid not.”

Cop: “I’m going to need backup.”

The Lewiston marathon

Seen on Pine Street: A harried man running at full steam toward Park Street, a screaming woman a short distance behind him. I picture the woman with a rolling pin, but your imagination may vary. Behind the screaming woman is a second screaming woman, who is either after the man or the woman behind him. And behind the second screaming woman is a second man, chasing everybody and loudly voicing his complaints. I think there was a dog in there, too, and a mime on a unicycle. I’m telling you, if the city of Lewiston doesn’t go ahead and pipe in “Yakety Sax” around the clock on Pine Street, they’re missing a real opportunity.

Mini Whitehouse?

The guy who came in to replace hulking and surly Randy Whitehouse in sports seems like a nice fellow. He’s of slight stature and chipper disposition, which makes him the polar opposite of our departed friend. By the way, Whitehouse seems to be thriving in Augusta. He says hello. He also wants to know if you’re going to return his step ladder someday.

Congratulations Scotland

On your spanking new independence. Makes me want to wear a kilt. Of course, what doesn’t?

Wait, what?

I guess I jumped the gun on that one. On Thursday, when I wrote that line, I was utterly optimistic that the Scots would seize the opportunity before them. I guess some people just never want to leave momma’s side.

Freeze warning

Seriously? Below freezing before summer is officially off the books? It ain’t right. The one and only good thing about chilly weather is that it provides the perfect answer when somebody asks “What’s up?” If you don’t know what that answer is, ask yourself: What would Norm Peterson say? If you don’t know who Norm Peterson is, then forget about it. There’s no hope for you. It’s like, I don’t even know who you ARE anymore.

Speaking of cold

We can put a man on the moon, but there’s no way to keep coffee warm overnight? I’ve gone through a plethora – a PLETHORA! – of thermoses, carafes, pump canisters and various insulated gadgets over the past couple weeks and none of them will keep coffee even moderately hot. What’s a brother got to do? Must I hack open the stomach of a dead yak and crawl in there with my fresh-brewed coffee? Because I’ll do it, you know. I hate waiting for coffee to brew in the morning. Talk to me, thermodynamic nerds.

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