It wasn’t me, it was some other guy

The Sun Journal now has a drone, and with that acquisition, so ends my ability to sneak onto the newspaper roof in order to take naps, drink cocoa and do other things that I’m not free to discuss. If the paper doesn’t have a basement of some kind, my life is about to get really dull.

It’s a gas, gas, gas

Have you ever glided into a gas station parking lot and stood out in the cold for five minutes with a dead pump nozzle in your hand before realizing that the station was not only closed for the night, but closed for good? No? Me neither. And I especially didn’t do this at that now dark Mobil station on Lisbon Street in Lewiston.

I’m triggered

There’s a flashing Christmas display on East Avenue in Lewiston, near the high school, that’s so intense I keep thinking I took a wrong turn and somehow ended up at Palace Playland. It’s very traumatic for me, because of that horrible thing that happened on the Tea Cups.

Cover up so you don’t burn

We’ve reached that point of the season where it’s so confounded cold that 35 degrees feels like beach weather. It isn’t beach weather. Ask me how I know.

It’s like breakfast for the lungs

If you see me walking down the street with a goofy, happy, rapturous look on my face, it’s because I’ve discovered Cinnamon Toast Cereal vape juice. Probably that’s what it is.

You think you hate it now, but wait ’til you drive it

On Tuesday, a caller reported to police that a car they had just purchased from a dealership had broken down on the ride home. You could practically hear the dying screams of that guy’s holiday cheer. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Never buy a car from a guy who looks like Eugene Levy.

Caw!

People are always trying to get me to go outside to look at huge flocks of crows in the skies over Lewiston. “Go outside,” they insist, “and look up!” Yeah, no thanks. I’m not falling for that for a fifth time. I went through an entire case of wet napkins last winter alone.

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