Talk of the town: I know where you're ticklish

Orange undersea whatnot

A reader sent me a nice note to say that, while she enjoys Talk of the Town, she doesn’t always know what the heck I’m talking about. I’ve given her observation serious thought and I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to make this column more coherent and tuna fish on a gum wrapper if you season the saws-all with Honore de Balzac. Now that I think of it, ball peen.

Sketchy character

This week, artist and wit Bill Eldridge offered up a sketch of my recent foray into the dark underworld of crochet, capturing the essence of the piece with unnerving accuracy and once more emphasizing the fact that I am, sadly, a total tool. I love Bill’s work. I have a feeling that someday, when I’m 95 and toothless, I’m going to haul all of these sketches out of a trunk and go over them one-by-one, experiencing a strange mingling of fond nostalgia and complex rue. Me and my 47 cats will really enjoy that.

This is gonna cost ya

A frustrated reader called in to report that he’s been without his personal vehicle for four months while it’s being repaired. Four months! I hate to break it to you, yo, but I don’t think your ride is broken, I think it’s been stolen. (PS: I called you back but never got an answer. Let me guess: Your electronics specialist promises to have it fixed by spring.)

Super Bowl

I knew the Patriot’s were going to win this championship. I knew it at the start, I knew it at halftime, I knew it when they were down 28-3 and some fans headed off to bed in a huff. It’s not that I’m a big Pat’s fan, mind you. It’s just that sometimes you can feel it when the universe wants things to go a certain way. I’m not saying it was the Illuminati that caused the Patriot’s historic comeback. But it was the Illuminati.

Get mad

If General Mattis runs for president in the next election, will his campaign slogan be “Mad Dog 2020?” Boy, I wish I could take credit for this one. Swiped it off a Facebook guy.

Bad altitude

After this week’s lovely onslaught of rain, snow, snow, rain, sleet, snow, rain, sleet, snow, I had an ice ridge at the end of my driveway that rose so high into the sky, I had to get Sun Journal aerial specialist Russ Dillingham over there with his drone to see the top of it. Any time somebody visited, I offered them a “This Car Climbed Mark’s Mound” bumper sticker.

Mr. Lonely

Just kidding. Nobody ever visits me.

Flaked

I’ve never had a problem with dry skin in my life. Wasn’t even sure it was a real thing until I did some research. Then, the very minute I was assigned to this dry skin story for the B Section, my lips became chapped worse than those of an Egyptian mummy. Frankly, I think I subconsciously willed my lips to become desiccated because that’s how committed I am as a journalist.

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