“Lobster lovers feeling the pinch of high prices”
“Feel the pinch!” I get it! Because lobsters have pincers. Ha! That’s a good one! I am laughing out loud. But as far as the craving for lobster, count me out. I lost my taste for them a few years ago when it occurred to me — while I was elbow deep in crustacean guts — that in order to eat a lobster, you basically have to perform an autopsy on it. That just ain’t right, yo.

Odeur de mort
So, the sweltering heat early in the week was compounded at my place by an elusive dead thing that stank plenty but which otherwise refused to reveal itself. You know you ain’t living right when you find yourself crawling around in 94-degree weather, a bandana plastered to your face while you search every nook and cranny on the property for the reeking corpse of God knows what. Usually, I’d just follow the flies to locate something like this, but this one was so stinky, even the flies were gagging. There. Still craving lobster?

Kim Kardashian wishes happy birthday to Kanye
Boy, I want to say there’s nothing I care about less than the matter of what a Kardashian is doing, but there is: Meghan Markle and anything SHE is or is not doing. Given the choice between reading about Meghan Markle or crawling around looking for dead stuff, I’ll take the dead stuff every time.

Vexed is the reporter who receives an email response from a source who has written in ALL CAPITAL LETTERS! The reporter wants to simply copy and paste that text to ensure perfect accuracy, but, nope. When it’s all caps, it has to be rewritten and Lord knows we can’t have that. I have just discovered, through my geek sorcerer wife, that there is a way to instantly transform ALL CAPS into lower case with just a couple clicks on the keyboard. Shift+F3, specifically. It’s like magic from another dimension! And yes, I get that there are probably 8-year-olds who have already figured this out, but never mind those nerds. I just discovered the trick so I’m gonna gloat.

Browntail moths invade!
I’m only now getting caught up on news of this latest pestilence, but seriously, is anybody surprised by anything anymore? If it is revealed in a day or two that the moths are actually fuzzy miniature government drones sent out to monitor the backyard behavior of the restless proletariat, I’d nod solemnly, yawn and then flip back to the funny pages, where it’s safe. I wonder what those government spooks thought of me crawling around under the car port all week.

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