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.