The Tube Sock Killer

I was sitting in the back row at the county courthouse scribbling notes for tomorrow’s edition of the Cheshire Catterwall. This would be my first front page story in months; a welcome reprieve after stock reports and obituaries. Pork futures be damned. Reebok Wilson, aka the Tube Sock Killer, was walking.

After only two hours of deliberation, the jury had made a decision. Judge Hanes’ face showed no emotion when the foreman read the verdict: Not guilty. The courtroom erupted into chaos as the families of the victims screamed in outrage and Wilson’s supporters wept with relief.

The Tube Sock Killer started making headlines four years earlier when a college girl was found dead in a field on the outskirts of town. She had been strangled with a tube sock, which was still wrapped around her neck when the cops showed up.

Two weeks later, another tube sock victim was discovered floating in Loom River; white male, mid-thirties. Months passed and the Tube Sock Killer snuffed out twelve more people of varying age, race, gender and whatnot. There were no similarities among the victims except that they were from Cheshire County and murdered by strangulation with a tube sock.

Reebok Wilson was arrested and charged with the killings. It happened just like in the movies. A highway patrolman pulled him over for speeding and noticed several packages of tube socks in the back seat. Let’s just say Wilson’s excuses didn’t hold water, and after a few hours under the lights there was enough evidence to win Wilson a hot date with Old Sparky.

Wilson’s attorney, Kalvin N. Clyne, was once a sleazy, ambulance-chaser; the guy you called when you spilled hot coffee on your lap at Wendy’s or slipped on the ice in front of Wal-Mart. He negotiated settlements quick and easy and never saw the inside of a courtroom. But a few years back he got fed up with civil suits and switched to criminal law, fancying himself the next Perry Mason. Defending the Tube Sock Killer was his first important case and his ego was as big as a Mickey Mouse balloon in a Thanksgiving Day Parade.

The morning after the acquittal, I was at Victoria’s Café for a late breakfast when Clyne sauntered up to the counter and took the stool next to mine.

“Saw your story in the Catterwall today, Harry. Whatever happened to objective reporting?” Clyne’s beady eyes focused on the laminated menu.

“I reported the facts of the case, Clyne. Sorry if the truth hurts.” But I wasn’t. And he knew it.

“You cut me to the quick, Harry. To the absolute quick!”

“I do my best.”

“You left out a few facts, my friend.”

“Indeed.” I sipped my joe and peered at Clyne over the rim. I hoped the look I gave him would send him crawling back under his rock. But no luck. He was more brazen than ever.

“As you know, Dr. Gerald Jawkey swore under oath that Reebok Wilson suffers from chronic acid reflux, which manifests itself randomly and renders him virtually catatonic. We also know that the killer is right-handed. Wilson is left-handed. And, of course, Wilson’s airtight alibis held up under intense scrutiny by the prosecution.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m surprised at you, Harry. Very surprised. Why didn’t you mention those facts in your story?”

“Maybe because the acid reflux defense was proven irrelevant. And Wilson isn’t right-handed. He’s ambidextrous.”

“Semantics.”

“And you know as well as I do those ‘airtight’ alibis leak like a flat tire.”

“That’s not how the jury saw it, did they, my friend?” Clyne smiled, his thick gray mustache danced above a chorus line of straight, white teeth. Teeth I wanted to smash into a million pieces all over Victoria’s shiny linoleum.

I tossed a few bucks on the counter and walked toward the door. “See ya in the funny pages.”

About two a.m. I got a call from my source at the sheriff’s office. It was the scoop of the century, served up sweet with whipped cream and a cherry on top. My exclusive story appeared that morning on the front page of the Catterwall:

Tube Sock Killer Strikes Again! Just after midnight on October 13, Kalvin N. Clyne, Attorney at Law, was found dead in his apartment having been strangled with a tube sock. Red-striped Hanes, extra-large with reinforced toe.

The Egg Movie Channel

The Good, the Bad and the Scrambled

The Egg That Came to Dinner

It Happened at Breakfast

The Egg Man of Alcatraz

Lord of the Yolks

With Six You Get Egg Roll

The Shelling

Yolk of the Baskervilles

The Egg That Wouldn't Die

The Invisible Yolk

Six Degrees of Separation

To Poach With Love

The Eggsorcist

The Big Over Easy

Yolks From the Black Lagoon

Invasion of the Body Poachers

Bride of Quiche

Strawberries to Sinatra

My favorite things that start with the letter “S”:

Strawberries
Shakespeare
San Francisco
“Steppin’ Out With My Baby”
Seattle

Shopping
Screwball comedies
Sunshine
Stephen King
Secret agents

Sinatra
Saucony
Sheep
Showers
“Schindler’s List”

Schubert
Snow
Spaghetti
Seinfeld
Spinach

Spring
Suspense
Secretariat
Symphony
“Singing in the Rain”

Harpo Frizz

A brand new ice cream just arrived on the market. The Harpo Frizz. It's made of the finest quality ingredients. Lemony sherbet with cocoanuts and animal crackers.

Advertising Jingle:

My ice cream has a first name
It's H-A-R-P-O
My ice cream has a second name
It's F-R-I-Z-Z
Oh, I love to eat it every day
And if you ask me why I'll say
Cuz Harpo Frizz will curl your hair
And make you honk 'til people stare

Testimonials:

Scarlett O'Hara:
After a busy day washing Ashley's polo shirts and ironing his jockey shorts, I always look forward to a cool, refreshing Harpo Frizz. The sweet taste brings to mind my halcyon days at Tara before the Yankees burned Atlanta to the ground and forced me to make a dress out of Mama's portieres. As God is my witness, I will never be without a Harpo Frizz again!

Don Corleone:
I'm an honest man. Would I lie to you? No. I tell the truth. And the truth is that Harpo Frizz is the best ice cream in New York. Did I say, "New York"? No. The best ice cream in America. Did I say "America"? No. The best ice cream in the world. If you don't get Harpo Frizz, I can't guarantee your safety. Accidents happen. I have no control over what other people do. It's an offer you can't refuse.

Rick Blaine:
If you don't get Harpo Frizz, you're gonna regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. And for the rest of your life.

Dirty Harry:
I know what you're thinking. Did he have six Harpo Frizzes or only five? Well, to tell you the truth, in all the excitement I kind of lost track myself. But you've got to ask yourself a question: Do you want another Harpo Frizz? Well, do ya, punk?

Tweety Bird

(A song parody sung to the tune of "Yesterday")

Tweety Bird
Smeared in mustard with a side of curd
Scrump-deli-ishus is the only word
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

Tweety Bird
Singing swinging in a cage pampered
Granny konks me 'til my vision's blurred
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

When that anvil fell on my tail
I screamed in pain
He said, "Now take that
Puddy Tat!"
Then waxed insane

Tweety Bird
Some consider you a harmless nerd
But you're sadistic and a tad absurd
Oh, I must eat that Tweety Bird

Silence of the Eggs

Chester stared at the eggs on his plate. Their soft yolks mocked him, but they wouldn’t get away with it. The eggs were smugly confident, sitting alongside his Smuckers-smeared toast, their whites jostling the bacon for more room.

The woman standing by the stove had her back to him. That was good. Keeping one eye on the woman, he tossed a piece of bacon to the drooling Cocker Spaniel at his feet. Then another. The dog ate fast, swallowing the bacon almost whole. The toast was next.

Now he had the eggs where he wanted them ... alone and defenseless. How he loathed them. Their hideous yellow faces shivered as he gently shook the plate, teasing them. With his fork, he cut off a piece of egg white and impaled it on the tine. His mind heard their agonizing screams and Chester smiled. He flipped the offensive tidbit to the dog and proceeded to hack off another piece, being careful not to touch the yolk.

How he delighted in torturing them. Their cries and moans only increased his joy. He continued cutting off the whites and feeding them to the dog until all that was left were two jellied orbs staring back at him. The end was near and they knew it. To Chester, that was the best part...their awareness of their own fate. And being helpless to do anything about it.

The time had come. He looked again at the woman, who was still busy at the stove. Excellent! He slowly placed his index finger on the egg, hearing it gasp in fear. He giggled to himself, but continued the pressure. NOW! Chester pushed harder and harder until...the yolk splattered! It created a ghastly river of slime on the plate. He immediately punctured the yolk of the other egg and watched in glee as the two yellow streams merged into one.

He had to hurry. The woman would turn around soon and see the devastation. He quickly lowered the plate to the dog and anxiously waited while the evidence disappeared right before his eyes. When the plate had been licked clean, Chester put the dish in its proper place on the table and relaxed. The eggs were gone. Forever.

Time Is On Our Side

Hubby and I went to see “The Lake House” with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. No, it wasn’t a double date.

It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we walked through the doors of the darkened theatre and found seats in the back row. As I looked around, I noticed that most of the people were older couples. Except for a squad of teenage girls that giggled throughout the show. And, of course, there was the lone guy you seen in every movie house in America, sitting dead center with a giant popcorn and large Mountain Dew wearing a “Stupid Is As Stupid Does” t-shirt.

The movie was a romance. A man and woman fall in love ... but an obstacle keeps them from being together. So far, so good.

The obstacle is not what you would expect. One of them dying a slow, painful death from stepping barefoot on a rusty nail? Parents that would rather see their kids joy-riding on the Titanic than to marry? A Park Avenue princess twisting her ankle in the Outback and being captured by renegade armadillos and offered as a sacrifice to a massive stone statue of Sylvester Stallone?

No, the problem is much more severe: Keanu lives in the year 2004 and Sandra lives in the year 2006. Yeah, you heard me right. Time is “not” on their side.

They “meet” at a secluded lake house on the outskirts of Chicago and communicate by writing letters and placing them in the mail box. I didn’t get it, either.

As a woman, I took note of Sandra’s cute outfits and perky hairstyle. She dyed her hair black for this movie. (Is she going gray in real life? Inquiring minds want to know.) She plays the part of a doctor and has virtually no life outside the hospital. I wonder how she manages to find time to flirt with Keanu with all those handwritten letters. It’s the 21st century. Ever heard of email?

Keanu is an architect. Handsome. Sexy. The perfect man. Not a trace of “Bill and Ted” dudism or Matrix mystery. Dressed to kill in L.L. Bean togs, he looks so cool traipsing through the woods in his Acadia hiking boots and multi-pocket cargo jacket with detachable hood and flannel lining … available in camel, chestnut, navy and hunter green.

All the elements for a tear-jerker romance are there: a beautiful, successful, neurotic woman whose loathsome boyfriend is a nerdish, self-absorbed yuppie; a sensitive man with rugged good looks and gentle eyes who was mistreated by his neglectful father; and a lovely house on a lake nestled in a scenic woodland with scurrying squirrels, twittering bluebirds and the unabomber.

The nemesis is time itself. Two people living in the same city in different years. In the end, the lovers meet at the lake house. Don’t ask me how the time thingamajiggy worked out because I don’t know. All that matters is they “lived happily ever after.”

As we left the theatre, hubby and I discussed the film and the concept of time travel. We had this same discussion in 1985 with “Back to the Future” (how in the world did “old” Biff know how to operate the De Lorean time machine, go back to 1955 to give himself the sports almanac, and then fly back to the future? Huh?)

Hubby was quick to point out that there were no car chases, explosions or female nudity. Be we knew this going in. The big question: Did it make sense? The big answer: No. But we liked it anyway.

Later at home as we snuggled on the couch watching the Rockies and the Dodgers game, we came to the conclusion that we are perfectly content sharing the same time dimension. Although, hubby really liked the idea of me living in the future and mailing him scores to baseball games that haven’t been played yet.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game (A Pantoum)

I love baseball
Who's on first
I don't know
Third base

Who's on first
That's what I want to find out
Third base
One base at a time

That's what I want to find out
I mean the fellow's name
One base at a time
All right, what do you want to know

I mean the fellow's name
What's on second
All right, what do you want to know
What's the guy's name on first base

What's on second
That's right
What's the guy's name on first base
Tomorrow's pitching

That's right
Gotta catcher
Tomorrow's pitching
Now you've got it

Gotta catcher
I don't know
Now you've got it
I love baseball

Note to reader: Pantoum is a type of poetry with a distinct style. See this link to learn more:
http://www.newpoetspress.com/pantoum.html

Road Signs

Road sign for the king:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your throne.

Road sign for the skeleton:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your bone.

Road sign for the Betty Crocker:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your scone.

Road sign for Dorothy:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your cyclone.

Road sign for the telemarketer:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your phone.

Road sign for Joe Friday:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your monotone.

Road sign for the ice cream man:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your cone.

Road sign for the environmentalist:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your ozone.

Road sign for the jockey:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your roan.

Road sign for the zombie:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your tombstone.

Road sign for the bee:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your drone.

Road sign for the bimbo:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your silicone.

Road sign for the witch:
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your crone.

Road sign for the corpse.
Drive carefully. The life you save may be your prone.

Shakespeare's Three Little Swine

Shakespeare’s Three Little Swine

Once upon a time there were three little swine, Aragon, Barnardo and Caesar. They set out to seek their fortunes and after journeying for many a day, became weary from their travels, so each determined to build a house.

Aragon, remembering the comfortable barn of his youth, built a house of straw. His brothers mocked him and attempted in vain to dissuade him from this foolhardy endeavor. Aragon resisted their arguments forthwith, saying, “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.”

“O, what swine dare to do!” exclaimed Barnardo to Caesar as they continued on their way.

Barnardo built a house of sticks, certain the jewel of the tree wouldst serve him well. Caesar scoffed at his brother’s efforts, snorting with disdain, “What light through yonder window breaks? Thou shalt catch thy death before the morrow.”

Barnardo’s anger burned in his breast, “Is this a dagger I see before me?” he threatened.

“Cowards die many times before their deaths,” said Caesar, and left Barnardo to his own devices.

Caesar built a house of bricks. And though it was difficult work that required much patience, to Caesar it was a labor of love. After many days, the house was finished and the pig made merry with a feast of apples and pomegranates. But he had too much wine, and in a drunken stupor, climbed to the roof, raised his cloven hoof in arrogance, and shouted, “A plague on both your houses!”

On the morn, Aragon heard a rapping at his door.

“Who is’t?” he asked.

“It is I, Sir Beowulf, Lord of Gretel, Knight of the Red Hood and Duke of Earl. Open this door and let me in!”

“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!”

“Then I’ll huffeth and I’ll puffeth and I’ll bloweth your house in!”

Aragon anxiously paced back and forth, “Now is the winter of our discontent!” he moaned. And before he could say “Beware the ides of March,” Sir Beowulf had blown down the door and gobbled him up.

Barnardo heard a rapping at his door anon.

“Who is’t?” he asked.

“It is I, Sir Beowulf, Lord of Gretel, Knight of the Red Hood and Duke of Earl. Open this door and let me in!”

“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!”

“Then I’ll huffeth and I’ll puffeth and I’ll bloweth your house in!”

Barnardo fell to his knees to beseech his God, “My words fly up, my thoughts remain below; words without thoughts never to heaven go.” And before he could say “Out, out, brief candle,” Sir Beowulf had blown down the door and gobbled him up.

Ere long, Caesar heard a rapping at his door.

“Who is’t?” he asked.

“It is I, Sir Beowulf, Lord of Gretel, Knight of the Red Hood and Duke of Earl. Open this door and let me in!”

“Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!”

“Then I’ll huffeth and I’ll puffeth and I’ll bloweth your house in!”

“Wherefore, thou roguish knave?”

“I’ve come to eat Caesar, not to praise him.”

And with that, Sir Beowulf huffed and puffed … and puffed and huffed … blowing with all his might, but he could not topple the swine’s abode. He thus devised a plot, “Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.”

Inside the house, Caesar heard noises on the roof. Sir Beowulf must be trying to gain entrance through the chimney. So Caesar prepared a fire in the hearth and placed a large kettle on the heat, chanting as he stirred, “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

With a loud splash, Sir Beowulf fell into the steaming kettle, screaming in agony, “This was the unkindest cut of all!” And before Caesar could say “He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf,” the villain was cooked and ready for the dinner table.

It was a bittersweet feast as Caesar recalled the fate of his brothers and wondered, “When shall we three meet again?” Nevertheless, the swine lifted his golden goblet and proclaimed, “All’s well that ends well.”

Go Fish

Wyoming is known for its beautiful sunsets, magnificent wildlife and 100-mph gale-force winds – but hubby and I wouldn’t live anywhere else. We are just two hours away from a scenic mountain lake, where every summer we enjoy trout fishing. Hubby has the edge on me in this department. He’s been fishing since he was in diapers. I’m not kidding. His mother showed me the baby pictures.

We had taken many fishing trips as a family when our kids were small, but all I remember about those times was washing dirty little hands, wiping dirty little faces and threatening dirty little tykes with death by Frank Sinatra all the way home if they didn’t behave.

When the kids grew up and flew the coop, I realized that hubby and I needed something we could enjoy together ... and so I began to take my avocation as an angler seriously. I wanted to learn everything there was to know. “Fishing For Dummies” became my essential bedtime reading. When I got to the part about “what to wear,” I was thrilled! Now I had an excuse to buy a whole new wardrobe.

My first purchase was a wide-brimmed hat, which served two purposes: to prevent sunburn by shading my face, and to keep water from dripping down my back in the rain. My hat looked like the one Clint Eastwood wore in “Fistful of Dollars” … I even had a poncho. All I needed was a cigar.

I later bought a pair of waders, which I used only once because I was terrified of stepping into a hole and drowning. I remember standing in ice-cold water up to my waist, casting a fly rod and glancing back toward hubby who was on the shore yelling, “Keep going, Sweetcakes! You’re not out far enough!” I wondered if he was trying to get rid of me, but the intense look on his face revealed that all he really wanted was for me to hook a 23-inch brown.

I’ve been fishing for a few years now and have become a pretty good fisherman. I know my strengths and weaknesses. Strengths: not afraid to bait a hook, can identify different fish species, and know the best music to listen to in the car on the drive to the lake. Weaknesses: talking too much, talking too much, and talking too much.

One of our most memorable trips took place last summer. We arrived at the lake and began lugging our supplies (tackle box, fishing rods, and boloney sandwiches) to our favorite spot. Most people fish on the grassy slopes near the campgrounds and picnic tables. Not us. We trek to the other side where boulders jut from the steep bank and where garter snakes, muskrats and killer dragonflies hang out. Indiana Jones territory.

This is our usual routine: Hubby rigs up the tackle for both our lines while I wait patiently, sipping my Perrier. I’m no good with knots and we both know it. Like the Gentleman he is, hubby fixes mine first so I can start fishing. On this particular day we had been fishing for an hour with no luck. Suddenly the feeding frenzy began … for the fish, not me, although I had already consumed a Snicker bar and half a can of Pringles.

I was sitting on a large flat rock singing “Witch Doctor” and when I got to “ting tang walla walla bing bang,” my rod suddenly flew out of my hands and started floating out to sea. I jumped up and grabbed it. “I got a bite!”

But hubby had his own problems. He always uses two rods; one propped on a forked stick jammed into the ground, and the other rigged with a spinner or a fly so he can cast and reel … cast and reel … cast and reel … ad infinitum. The unattended rod was jerking wildly at the same time he got a hit on his fly. He said, “Grab that rod!” But I was too busy trying to reel in Jaws.

I played the fish until he wore himself out, and when he was within a few feet of the bank, I netted him. A four-inch rainbow. I named him Jerry, took his picture and threw him back.

Meanwhile, hubby had set aside the rod with the fly and picked up the other one, which was still jerking. When he reeled it in, there was no fish and the bait was gone. To non-fisher-people that would have been bad news because the fish got away. To us it meant the fish were biting.

Excitement ruled as we quickly baited our hooks with night crawlers and some pink gunk called “power bait,” a horrible-smelling substance that looked very much like play dough. As soon as our lines hit the water we had nibbles.

Hubby: I got a bite!

Me: Me, too!

Hubby: It’s gotta be at least 15 inches!

Me: Mine’s probably 20!

Hubby: Yeah, right. Remember Jerry?

Me: How can I forget.

Hubby: This one’s a fighter! Look at him jump!

Me: Hey, your line’s crossing mine!

Hubby: No, YOUR line’s crossing mine.

Me: How can you tell?

Hubby: Trust me, I know. Duck underneath my line and get on my other side.

Me: (Making my way underneath his line) The rocks are slippery.

Hubby: You’ll be fine. But keep your line tight.

Me: (Stumbling over the rocks and landing on my rear in ice-cold lake water) Jiminy Crickets, that water’s cold!

Hubby: Good job, Sweetcakes. The lines are clear. Now start reeling!

Me: (Struggling to stand up) My fish is gone.

Hubby: There’s plenty more where that came from.

Me: (Snort)

Hubby: Hey! I lost mine, too!

Me: There’s plenty more where that came from.

Hubby: (Snort)

The fish were biting … but we kept losing them. They were teasing us; jumping just fifteen yards from the bank and swimming so close we could count the pinstripes on their Armani suits.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. The waters were calm; the fish had eaten their fill. They were probably gathered at the local underwater saloon boasting in their victory.

We fished a couple more hours with no luck. As we walked back to the car, we greeted other fishermen with stringers full of rainbows, browns and brookies. The only fish we had caught was the tadpole Jerry.

That day, we had battled nature and lost. But there would be other days … other fish … other boloney sandwiches. During the long drive home, we sang along with Frank Sinatra.

Adventures of Sedentary Man!

It was a dark and stormy night in Fester City. Edgar Potts was lounging in his recliner watching “Everybody Loves Raymond” while eating Cheetos out of the bag. His orange-crusted fingers reached for the remote; he’d seen this episode before.

As he flipped through the channels, he was compelled to stop at an infomercial for the “Go-Flex Ab-Master.” A hard-bodied, six-pack-abs, jock was demonstrating how the machine worked. To Edgar, the contraption looked like a medieval torture device. He kept looking for the spotter, whom he was sure would be a 300-pound, six-foot-five-inch, bare-chested goon, adorned in a black hood and brandishing a cat-o-nine tails.

At that exact moment, thunder rolled and lightning flashed. Edgar went to the window, the remote still in his hand. Before he knew what happened, a bolt of lightning broke through the glass and zapped the remote. A stream of blue electricity charged through Edgar’s hand, up his arm and into his brain. Edgar was thrown back into his recliner, unconscious.

When he awoke several hours later, he noticed something strange. His right hand had transformed into a television remote. The muscles in his arms and legs had atrophied, taking on the appearance of limp spaghetti noodles. His belly had grown to the size of a beach ball. Edgar had become . . . Sedentary Man!

He had power to switch channels and control DVD and video viewing on televisions, computer monitors, cell phones and PDAs throughout the world.

With this power he could protect the delicate psyches of teenage-hoodlums by virtually eliminating their ability to watch reruns of “Gilligan’s Island.” Women would no longer be at the mercy of soap operas, sexist TV commercials and Oprah. Of course, as Sedentary Man, Edgar would make sure every man in the universe had access to every sports program in existence 24/7.

Edgar noticed his superhero costume lacked a leotard, a mask, boots and a cape. But he didn’t need them. Instead, his outfit was quite simple: gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that said, “Watch It.”

After all, the clothes make the man.

Everything I Know About Life I Learned From the Marx Brothers

When invited to a dinner party always bring your own silverware. Hide it in your sleeve.

Being the “dummy” in bridge is a good thing.

You’ll get far in life if you know how to sing like Maurice Chevalier.

Wiggling your eyebrows lowers your blood pressure.

Never leave the house without a trench coat, top hat and a bicycle horn.

In the event of war, inspire the troops with a “hey nonny nonny and a ha cha cha.”

Get a leg-up on the competition.

When at the opera, don’t forget to bring popcorn.

Expand your horizons by hiding in closets.

If you want to impress people, speak with an Italian accent. Use this phrase at least once: “Dat’s a-right, boss!”

Never pass up an opportunity to play patty-cake with a gangster.

Don’t be a finicky eater. Flowers, thermometers and saucers are quite nutritious.

Push a doorbell and run.

“Sweet Adeline” sounds best when sung crouched inside a barrel.

Make sure no one’s watching when you cheat at solitaire.

You can always count on your brother to light your cigar with a blowtorch.

Marry for money.

Never stiff the bartender at a speakeasy.

Get Real . . . It's Christmas!

It was 1969. Moon landing. Woodstock. Brady Bunch. A crazy year that inspired such toe-tapping tunes as “A Boy Named Sue,” “Pinball Wizard” and “Jam Up and Jelly Tight.”

“Hair” was on Broadway and the Best Movie of the Year was “Midnight Cowboy.” Literary types were reading “The Godfather,” “Portnoy’s Complaint” and “Slaughterhouse Five.” And the Mets won the World Series. Like I said . . . it was a crazy year.

Christmas of 1969 was a bit crazy for our family, too. It was the first time that we would spend Christmas far away from grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Maybe that’s why we had the “courage” to do what we did.

That year, all the glitz and commercialism of the season had somehow seeped into our psyches and we believed the TV ads that said we were hip. We were cool. We were groovy. No boring old-fashioned Christmas traditions for us. No-Sir-ee. So we did it. We bought an aluminum Christmas tree.

I’ll never forget that day. We had gone to Sears to do some Christmas shopping, each of us with our own agendas. My little brother Steve and I had some cash left over from our allowances to buy gifts, while Mom and Dad were checking out prices in the toy section. As we rounded a corner in the home appliances department we saw . . . IT.

There before us was a six-foot-tall aluminum tree decorated with identical silver glass ball ornaments and a big glittery star on top. We stood in amazement as the tree changed color from yellow, to blue, to green, to red and back to yellow. These brilliant colors were created by a rotating color wheel attached to a large flood lamp on the floor.

A sign next to the tree read: As advertised on TV! Permanent Christmas Tree! Easy to set up! No pesky pine needles! No messy tinsel! No clumpy garland! No strings of tangled lights with burned out bulbs! Lifetime guarantee!

Steve and I looked at each other with huge grins on our faces, but before our pleading whines even began, Dad grabbed one of the boxed trees off the top of the nearby pile and we were on our way to the cashier.

That night while Dad assembled the tree, Mom made some hot cocoa. Steve was ready to plug in the flood lamp at Dad’s command and I was sitting Indian-style on the floor munching on a sugar cookie waiting for the show to start. Perry Como started crooning “There’s No Place Like Home for the Holidays” on the record player, and the scene was complete.

We watched as Dad stuck the individual branches into the tiny holes in the center of the silver-painted pole and before we knew it, the tree was up. Steve plugged in the lamp and the four of us watched our aluminum Christmas tree change color right before our eyes.

Mom made sure it was right in front of the big picture window in the living room. We wondered what it looked like from outside so we all ran out the door and stood on the sidewalk in front of the house. Our faces glowed as we watched the majestic display. Yes, we had the best tree on the block.

We were proud. We were exalted. We were on an ego trip you wouldn’t believe. Mom decided to plan a Christmas party to show off the tree. Steve and I invited the kids in our neighborhood to come over and see the tree. Dad bragged about the tree whenever he had a chance: “Hey, that’s a nice chainsaw you got there, Ed. By the way, have you seen our new Christmas tree?”

A few days later, Steve came home from school with a hand-made Christmas ornament made of construction paper, glue and glitter. It was a brown reindeer with a red button nose and a cotton ball tail. But when he started to put his masterpiece on the tree, we screamed, “No! You’ll ruin it!” Steve was disappointed, but he understood. The tree reigned supreme. His ornament was relegated to the refrigerator door.

One night there was a mechanical problem with the rotating color wheel. It stopped spinning. The tree stayed yellow and wouldn’t change. I sat by the wheel and manually switched out the colors every few seconds. Finally, Dad took it to the garage where he adjusted the whachamacallit and the dinglefrazz-o-meter. Everything was back to normal and we could all rest easy.

Mom got it into her head that all the gifts should be wrapped in silver paper to match the tree. That way, when the color wheel turned, the gifts would also reflect the light. And although I preferred the pretty red paper with the snowmen and penguins, I knew she was right. The silver packages glowed and filled the room with their glory.

I hate to admit it, but after a couple of weeks I was getting pretty tired of looking at that tin foil tree. We all were. It was two days before Christmas and we had just come home after visiting our neighbors across the street who had invited us over for eggnog and cookies. They had a real tree. It smelled like a forest and the dark green pine needles looked so festive with colorful ornaments hanging from the branches.

As we walked into the house that night, the aluminum tree shimmered in the moonlight from the picture window. Steve, with the excitement of a sloth, turned on the color wheel. We stared in disgust as the tree changed color. We were wrong. Our tree wasn’t the best tree on the block, after all. It was tacky . . . and we knew it.

As our grim faces turned yellow, blue, green, red and back to yellow, Steve went into the kitchen to get his reindeer ornament off the refrigerator. He put it on the tree and stepped back. We all smiled. It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Twilight Zone: I Know Why the Caged Bird Squawks

Narrator: You unlock this door with a key of imagination. Beyond it is another dimension. A dimension of sound. A dimension of sight. A dimension of mind. You’re moving into a land of both shadow and substance, of things and ideas. You’ve just crossed over into . . . the Twilight Zone.

(MYSTERIOUS MUSIC PLAYS IN BACKGROUND)

Narrator: Polly Esterburg lived alone in a small cottage in a small neighborhood in a small town. The only thing she cared about was her parakeet Ronald. But Polly and Ronald would soon be involved in a deadly game . . . a game that would change their lives forever . . . a game that would ultimately lead them into . . . the Twilight Zone.

Polly: Ronald, you haven’t talked to me in hours. What’s wrong?

Ronald: (From inside his cage) Squawk! I’m sick of those peanuts you’re always putting in my food dish. Squawk! For once in my life, I’d like peanuts with the shells.

Polly: I’m sorry, Ronald. I didn’t know you cared. I’ll get you some right away!

Ronald: Squawk! And make it snappy! I don’t have all day!

Polly: Oh, no! We’re all out of peanuts with shells.

Ronald: Figures. Squawk!

Polly: I have an idea. Let’s play a game to get your mind off the peanuts. How about Parcheesi?

Ronald: Squawk! Can I be blue?

Polly: Of course! You can be any color you like. And you can go first.

Narrator: Since Ronald is unable to throw the dice, Polly rolls for him and moves his pieces. Hours pass as Polly and Ronald play Parcheesi late into the evening. Ronald is winning but Polly doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, the way she’s playing, it looks like she’s letting Ronald win. Finally, Ronald’s last piece is in place.

Ronald: Squawk! I win! I win! Suck it up, loser!

Polly: Oh, Ronald … you’re such a wonderful Parcheesi player. I didn’t have a chance. Squawk!

Ronald: What did you say?

Polly: Nothing, Ronald. I didn’t say anything. Squawk!

Ronald: There! You said “Squawk!” I heard it with my own ears!

Polly: I don’t know what’s happening . . . Squawk!

Ronald: Good Lord! You’re turning into a . . . a . . . parakeet!

Polly: No! That can’t be! Squawk! It’s impossible!

Ronald: And I’m becoming a human! Oh no! My beautiful wings! My colorful feathers . . . all gone! Quick, let me out of this cage!

Polly: Squawk! Here, I’ll lift the latch with my . . . beak. (Opens latch) There! Squawk! You’re free!

Ronald: Yes! Yes, I am. Free at last. And you should get into the cage . . . for your own safety, of course. The neighbor’s cat often sneaks in through the window, and you know what that means.

Polly: (Flying into the cage) Squawk!

Ronald: (Sneering) Ah . . . perfect! Now I finally have you where I want you, my precious.

Polly: Squawk! What do you mean, Ronald?

Ronald: I’ve hated you for years . . . your relentless coddling and catering to my every whim. Disgusting!

Polly: Squawk! But I gave you everything you wanted. I treated you like a king!

Ronald: But don’t you see? I didn’t want to be treated like a king! I wanted to be independent! Make my own decisions! Be in control of my own destiny!

Polly: But Ronald! Squawk!

Ronald: You forced me to get my wings clipped! You obsessively shined my mirror four times day! You insisted I eat gourmet bird seed with pieces of corn and sunflower seeds, when what I really wanted was a millet-covered banana!

Polly: Forgive me, Ronald! Squawk! I only wanted the best for you! Squawk!

Ronald: Enough! It’s all over now, my pet. Don’t worry. I won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking. No, I have better ways of exacting my revenge.

Polly: Squawk! You mean . . . No! Not that! Anything but that! Squawk!

Ronald: (Serpentine voice) Polly . . .

Polly: Stop! I beg you! Squawk!

Ronald: Want . . .

Polly: Squawk! Somebody help me!

Ronald: A . . .

Polly: Squawk! No! Don’t say it!

Ronald: CRACKER!

Polly: SQUAAAAAAAAAAAAWK . . .

Narrator: A friendly game of Parcheesi releases supernatural forces resulting in a bizarre transformation. Evil is unleashed while Good is entrapped. Polly Esterburg, so devoted to her pet parakeet, now becomes his slave. Another strange paradox. . .in the Twilight Zone.

A Funny Thing Happened in the Garden of Eden

I'm an actor in a church drama team. We perform comedy sketches during our two morning worship services that relate to the pastor's message and help to get the point across.

A couple of weeks ago, we did an Adam and Eve sketch. I was Eve. We were to go on stage in the middle of the pastor's sermon. But we didn't know our cue to start. We were all backstage, wired for sound, saying things like:

Eve: When do we go on?
Adam: I don't know.
Serpent: What's our cue?
Adam: Is he ready for us yet?
Eve: (peeking out the door) I'm not sure. He's just standing there.
Serpent: Oh, no! Our microphones are on!

Needless to say, everyone in the auditorium heard our backstage banter. I accidentally crashed into a couple of metal folding chairs, making a terrible racket. We finally figured it was time to go on and just went out and did the sketch. Afterwards, everyone said how much they enjoyed it. They thought the backstage bit was part of the sketch!

The second service performance was perfect with no problems. Live and learn.

Secret Lives of the Famous

1) Einstein closed his routine with the joke about the duck and the traveling salesman and got the laughs he expected. He was a regular Monday night stand-up at the Silver Scorpion Casino in downtown Berlin. Albert had started out as a prop-comic in a dingy barroom in Hamburg, but his skill in doing impersonations and his excellent comedic timing soon attracted the attention of theatrical agents. In between sets, he’d solve mathematical equations on cocktail napkins.

2) The sound of the Harley’s roar pounded in Eleanor’s ears as she clung to Winston’s waist for dear life. She knew that Franklin would be upset, but she didn’t care. The obese Prime Minister and the First Lady had been meeting secretly for months to ride Ireland’s scenic byways. On these romantic excursions they always stopped at their favorite roadside diner for fish & chips and cold Heinekens.

3) Kissinger’s pet gorilla rattled his cage again. “For Pete’s sake, be quiet!” Henry was preparing for a meeting with heads of state to discuss U.S. foreign policy in Southeast Asia when Bonzo insisted on eating a banana. The cage was hidden beneath the floorboards in his office and a large area rug covered the spot. Fortunately, Henry had recently purchased a bunch of bananas from Spiro and was able to satiate the ape.

4) “The life of a rocket scientist isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” lamented Marilyn to her handsome escort as they were seated at the bar. Miss Monroe delicately sipped her martini; her tousled blonde hair covered one eye. She then proceeded to expose the contents of her briefcase – her 250-page treatise on projectile motion and vertical trajectory.

5) Fidel was worried. He’d booked too many Tupperware parties during the month of October. How would he fit them all in? He should have known that being a Tupperware representative would seriously interfere with his day job. But he couldn’t resist the free tumbler set and matching mauve pitcher, which had a lifetime guarantee.

Hey, Dude

Trevor: (greeting his friend Josh outside the mall) Dude!

Josh: (flashing Trevor a twisted-hand gesture with pinky and thumb extended) Dude.

Trevor: (puts hands in pockets of his baggy jeans) Duuude.

Josh: (flaps his arms like a chicken) Dude . . .

Trevor: (adjusts volume on his iPod) DUDE!

Josh: (gawks at girl walking by in low-slung jeans and a belly ring) DUUUDE!!!

Trevor: (puts his baseball cap on backwards) dude.

Josh: (counts the change in his pocket) Dude?

Trevor: (flashes his father’s MasterCard) Dude!

Josh: (high-fives Trevor) Duuude!

Josh and Trevor: (enter mall as the girl in low-slung jeans and belly ring walks out) DUUUUUUDDDDE!!!

Ticked Off

I’ll never forget the day I found a tick on my belly.

I was taking a shower and noticed a tiny black spot about two inches to the right of my navel. I picked at it, thinking it was a piece of dirt, but it wouldn’t come off. I looked closer and saw that it had legs and its head was buried in my flesh. I screamed like Janet Leigh in “Psycho.” But I wasn’t being stabbed by Norman Bates in drag. It was worse . . . I was an “all-you-can-eat” buffet for a blood-sucking parasite.

My cries of terror summoned my hubby, who came charging into the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?”

“A tick!”

“Where?”

“On my stomach! Get it off!”

I ran out of the shower and grabbed a towel.

“Let me see,” hubby said. I showed him the spot. “It’s a tick, all right.”

I stared at the disgusting creature on my belly that seemed to expand with each passing minute. The bug, not the belly.

My knowledge of ticks was minimal. I knew what they were (ugly insects) and what they did (sucked your blood). I hoped hubby knew more about ticks than I did and could dislodge the critter without too much fuss.

“I’ll need turpentine and a match,” he said.

“What!?”

“Ticks need to be burned off. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Lie down on the bed while I get my tick First Aid kit.”

I wasn’t very comfortable with this suggestion, but I figured he knew what he was doing. He sounded so confident. While he went for the supplies, I put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and lay down on the bed. He came into the bedroom carrying an old shoebox.

“Okay, sweetcakes. Let me see your tummy.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked nervously. “You’re not actually going to douse me with turpentine and light a match, are you?”

“Not right away,” he said, as he rummaged through the box. “First we’ll try a less invasive technique. Suffocating it with Vaseline.”

As I lay on the bed, watching the tick’s legs wiggle. I started to freak out again.

“Hurry! Do whatever you have to do, but get it off!”

Hubby dipped his stubby index finger into the Vaseline jar and proceeded to cover the tick with the slimy goo. I watched in curious horror; I’d never seen anything like it. The tick was covered in Vaseline and its legs started wiggling faster and faster.

“It can’t breathe,” hubby said.

“Of course it can’t breathe. Its head is buried in my skin.”

“Ticks breathe through their backs.”

“Oh.”

“It should pull its head out any second,” he said.

We watched as the tick continued to squirm. After several minutes, it finally stopped. But nothing happened.

“It’s not coming out!” I screamed. “Get more Vaseline!”

“No,” hubby replied calmly. “That doesn’t seem to be working. Time for Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B? Not the match, I hope.”

“Nail polish.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m lying here with my belly smeared in slime and the tick gets a manicure.”

Hubby patiently wiped the goo off the tick and then pulled out a bottle of “Sunset Mist” nail polish from his magic box. With the intensity of an explosives expert defusing a bomb, he carefully painted the tick, which turned a bright shade of cantaloupe orange.

“That oughta do it,” he said. “This is another method of suffocation, but because the nail polish is toxic, the tick should move out pretty quick.”

Again we watched the tick’s legs wiggle. But the head remained firmly attached beneath my skin.

“What now, Einstein?” I asked.

“Time for the last resort.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to use the turpentine. Just a match.”

“Are you sure you can’t try another smothering technique? Avocado dip? Pepto Bismol? Bacon grease?”

“Relax, sweetcakes. I have everything under control. I’m just going to light the match and gently tap the tick on its back.”

He struck the match and I watched the flame, eyes wide in horror. I was motionless and held my breath. I feared that any sudden movement might cause him to lose his concentration and he would miss the mark.

Slowly and with purpose, he moved the flame closer to the tick.

“Stop it!” I shouted, and blew out the match.

“What did you do that for? Don’t you trust me?”

“No.”

“Okay, what do you suggest?”

“Call my mother. She’s from Oklahoma. She knows all about ticks.”

Hubby didn’t argue with me. He knew I was right. Mom was a tick expert. She also had a Ph.D. in chiggers, black widows and yellow jackets. He picked up the phone and dialed her number.

“Luana has a tick on her belly. How do we get it off . . . tweezers . . . yeah . . . okay.”

He poked around in the shoebox and found the tweezers, holding them like a surgeon brandishing a scalpel.

“Now what . . . grab the tick as close to the head as possible . . . pull firmly, making sure not to leave the head in . . . what happens if the head breaks off . . . infection . . . uh huh . . . antibiotics . . . yeah . . . gangrene . . . amputation . . . right.”

I started to feel faint. I watched as he followed Mom’s directions. He grabbed the tick close to the head and yanked. Before I could say “Lyme disease,” the tick was out, squirming between the tongs of the tweezers.

“I got it!” Hubby beamed like a proud papa. He thanked my mother and hung up the phone.

I sighed with relief. The ordeal was over. But now Hubby was scrutinizing the cantaloupe-colored tick like a deranged entomologist.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked.

“It’s still alive. I wonder if I can use it for fish bait.” Hubby left the room with the tick still in the tweezers.

I got up from the bed and rubbed the spot on my belly where the tick had been feeding. Who would have thought that a little bug could cause such pandemonium. As I reached for my sneakers, I spied a small black dot on my arm. Another tick. His tiny legs squiggled as he made a glutton of himself on my “A” positive. Party’s over, pal.

“Honey,” I yelled. “Get the bacon grease!”

Go Ahead, Make My Day: Your Daily Horoscope

Aries:
Saturn is aligned with Mercury, so it’s a good day to buy a car. Look in the Yellow Pages and call “Yurrah Sap Auto Pix” where you’ll get a deal on a pink Hummer, complete with a peppermint-striped nuclear warhead.

Taurus:
You’re neighbor’s howling beagle has tormented you long enough. Fix the pooch a fat, juicy Nyquil burger one hour before bedtime. Of course, you’ll be sued by his owner for millions of dollars, but isn’t a good night’s sleep worth it?

Gemini:
As Uranus enters the Seventh House, your obsession with fleshly pursuits has completely blocked your psychic channel to the spirit world. Replace your ellipses with colons and periods with semicolons.

Cancer:
The vampire who’s been stalking you will finally make his appearance tonight. Eat lots of garlic to ward him off. Not the store-bought stuff from Safeway. You have to order it special from Transylvania at Vampires R Us Dot Com. Warning: if you order from them, you'll be on their mailing list until hell freezes over, or the Colorado Rockies win the World Series . . . whichever comes first.

Leo:
Do not leave your house today. In fact, do not leave your bedroom. Wait a minute . . . don’t even get out of bed. Oops! Too late. If you’re reading this horoscope, you’re already doomed.

Virgo:
You will finally finish your 512-page thesis “'Who's On First' And Why This Matters In the 21st Century" that’s taken you nine months to complete. Unfortunately, your computer crashes and you have to start over. Send Bill Gates a polite letter of complaint and switch to decaf.

Libra:
Jupiter’s alignment with Goofy . . . I mean Pluto . . . makes this a good time to finish your screenplay “Mickey Mouse: Cross Dresser.” For inspiration watch “Some Like It Hot” in your underwear while nibbling a block of cheddar cheese.

Scorpio:
The Horse is your spirit guide. Go to the track and bet one thousand dollars on Nomad Noodle to place. To prevent an embarrassing outbreak of acne, send your winnings to: Daily Horoscope Writer, 123 Gullible Avenue, Lamebrain, Kansas.

Sagittarius:
Mars aligns with Vulcan causing you to sprout pointy ears. Your close encounter with an alien life-form will create an obsessive desire to sculpt a replica of Devil’s Tower with your mashed potatoes. Resist the urge.

Capricorn:
With Venus about to implode due to a monumental build-up of greenhouse gasses, your love life is taking a turn for the better. Your dream date will be waiting for you at the bus stop reading “Oatmeal For Dummies.”

Aquarius:
Health conscious and robust, your daily workout at the gym is finally paying off. You have buns of steel and six-pack abs. Oh, sorry, that’s not you. My mistake. You’re the one with the cottage cheese butt and beer belly. Never mind.

Pisces:
Your therapist will diagnose you as paranoid schizophrenic. But don’t believe him. He’s lying. In fact, he’s plotting against you and talking about you behind your back. Your only hope is to listen to those voices telling you to strangle him in his sleep.