There, their, they’re, thare
So, an astute reader called me out for mixing up “their” and “they’re” last week in this very column space. My shame is great. It’s a hideous irony, too, because the “there, they’re, their” rules are not ones I have any problem with, typically. This was a mistake borne of haste. Nonetheless, I must endure my standard self-flagellation ritual as punishment for making this embarrassing error. Fortunately, I self-flagellate with a No. 2 pencil so it doesn’t hurt very much. In fact, it feels kind of nice. Say, maybe that’s why I make these occasional mistakes in the first place.
Putting my money where my mouth is
Twice this week — TWICE! — I’ve arrived at a grocery store and/or gas station only to discover that I’ve forgotten my wallet. Twice! In one week! Oh, how the self hatred consumes me when I do this. Unfortunately, this means I’ll have to endure my standard punishment for this particular transgression. It involves spending an entire afternoon with my wallet crammed into my mouth. This one doesn’t feel so nice, but I DO like the taste of leather, so it all works out.
Undress for success
I’m pleased to relate that spring has advanced so nicely that I experienced my first bee freak-out of the season on Monday. A swarm of honey bees, as it happens, were setting up shop next to my barbecue grill, which happens to be close to the area where I park my motorcycle. When I discovered the little buzzers darting around my head, I had to remove my helmet, goggles, shirt and pants in a span of 2.7 seconds, screeching all the while, to make sure none of those sting-happy insects had flown in there. The good news is that I broke last year’s denuding record of 3.2 seconds. It’s gonna be a good spring.
The age of rage with a cherry on top
We’re in sad times, my friends, when a place as pleasant as the Dairy Joy in Lewiston has to take to social media to remind people not to scream at, curse at, or generally mistreat employees serving up soft serve and parfaits at the window. I mean, seriously, boneheads. How mad can you possibly get when you’re ordering ice cream? Things are pretty grim when an ice cream joint has to consider hiring a security team. The people who cause these problems ought to be forced to eat frogurt. I don’t really know what that is, but it sounds just awful.
Does my nose look longer to you?
I’m not clear on what gelato is, either. Until very recently, I thought it was the name of Pinocchio’s father. Now I realize that Pinocchio’s father was actually Guacamole, so I’ve got that all cleared up.
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