Driver, where you taking us?

The driver of a city bus was admiring my dual sport the other day, to the point where he offered me a deal: He gets to ride my bike, I get to drive his bus. You think I was going to pass that up? Although, I will need some help pushing the bus out of this mud hole. Those things are just horrible off road.

‘The Notebook’ nearly killed me

An ex-Bates College worker is suing the school, claiming that her boss forced her to play tennis, jog and watch cheesy movies with sappy plots, which is apparently the modern-day equivalent of working 16 hours a day in a dark, dusty and dangerous coal mine. If this suit is successful, I’m going to turn around and sue every girlfriend and wife I ever had. You know who you are.

Hillary

Is running for president, which in no way relates to the above item. I never dated Hillary.

Maine’s 207 area code

Is running out of numbers. Maybe we should go back to party lines and share our numbers. Wouldn’t that be keen? Where else are you going to get the opportunity to listen in on the private conversations of friends and strangers? Oh, right. Facebook.

Keen

is a perfectly fine word, as is “swell,” “spiffy,” “jeepers,” “gosh,” “golly” and shouting “hot dog!” to express delight. Also, “holy moly!” “gee whiz,” “neat” and “the bee’s knees.”

Death and taxes

I have a clear memory, from back in the day, of standing near the Lewiston Post Office at the end of Tax Day, April 15, and watching frantic people racing in to mail their forms before the deadline. The post office stayed open late in those days and the closer it got to midnight, the more wild-eyed those late visitors became. They would squeal to stops at the curb and jump out of their cars like their pants were on fire. “What time is it?” they would demand of me as I stood smoking on the sidewalk. “Damn you, what time?” Sometimes I liked to tell them that it was 11:45 p.m. in the year 1920, but did they appreciate the gag? Nossir, they did not.

I want you!

Wait, no I don’t. I’m just reminded of the time that a certain executive editor talked me into dressing up as Uncle Sam on Tax Day and heading over to the steps of the Post Office. The abuse I took over there you just wouldn’t believe. I won’t even tell you where the big hat ended up. Suffice it to say I didn’t get my deposit back on that costume.

My taxes pay your salary!

Is a thing that police officers everywhere just love to hear, so you should totally scream it at them the next time you get pulled over. If this fails to make them laugh, try “Do you know who I AM?” and see how that goes. My guess is that you’ll become besties.

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