Talk of the Town Ernie Anderson

Just a little bit longer
So, Dottie Perham-Whittier thinks she’s going to leave her position with the city of Lewiston, does she? I’ve always liked working with Dottie. On top of that, there have been too many changes for my tastes of late so I’m sorry, Ms. Whittier. You can’t retire right now. I’m going to have to ask you to stay on the job and we’ll revisit this whole thing in another 10 years. Appreciate the cooperation.

Like a fine wine
So, I covered a gas leak situation at an old folk’s community the other day, and as always, it was a pleasure being surrounded by the oldsters. The ladies in particular are always nice to me. Why, I got two hugs and one compliment on my beard and that’s before I had fully dismounted my motorcycle. Even the ones who DON’T like me are a delight because they won’t beat about the bush, they’ll tell you outright. “Hey big nose!” one older gal might say. “You’re columns are too long! Why don’t you try shutting your yap now and then?” Actually, now that I give it some thought, that kind of hurts.

Meanwhile, down at the crick
So, it’s smack dab in the middle of summer and you know what I cannot find? Swim trunks. A bathing suit, whatever you want to call them. These things are basically just fancy shorts with built-in mesh underpants, but can I get my hands on a cheap pair? Nossir, I cannot. Walmart had some, but the only size left was 3XL and I don’t feel like sharing my shorts with some other guy, so that’s a no go. It’s troubling, this dearth of men’s beachwear. If you see me out on the beach in a daring two-piece bikini you’ll know the reason. You’ll know one of the reasons, anyway.

The Olympics!
I haven’t been watching the Olympics at all so I have nothing to say about it. I don’t know why you even brought it up.

Missing my period
While I was writing this sure-to-be-award-winning column, the period button on my keyboard stopped working. I didn’t notice it right away so for a while there, it appeared as though everything I’d written was one great big, rambling poem — a poem about old ladies and swim trunks, but a poem nonetheless. It appeared I finally graduated beyond dirty limericks. Now that I’m a bona fide poet and crap, I think I’ll get myself an ascot.

More news on the swim trunks front
I’m despairing so over my lack of trunks that I’m actually considering a variety of household items that can be repurposed as shorts. I honestly think I can make that old tool belt work somehow, so you have that to look forward to next time we run into each other at Range Pond.