#17 – The U.S. Mail – Through Rain, or Sleet … or Moles?

I received some sad news this morning. One of my best friends from college, Maryanne Phillips, called to tell me her father had passed. I told her the world had lost one of its great characters; and I meant it too, having spent a few memorable days in his company long ago, and having experienced, firsthand, the brunt of his unique brand of humor.

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#24 – Anything but the Marlboro Man

I hate smoking in general, but I’m especially against marketing tobacco to our youth – Prometheus included. Yesterday morning, a cigarette butt cast aside on my front lawn (courtesy of some unidentified douchebag) proved too tempting a morsel for the young canine. No, he didn’t light up; I have a strict rule against minors playing with matches. However, he did swallow the item whole.

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#33 – Not That There’s Anything Wrong with That

There are those who have a knack for reading other people, easily picking up their verbal and non-verbal signals. Then there’s me. Except for the most obvious indicators – like the silver haired granny who flipped me the bird last week, after I accidentally cut her off on the freeway – I’m usually all but oblivious to subtle cues. Take last night, for instance.

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#45 – Where’s Your Jumping Point?

This morning I saw an example of what may be the most universally applied and versatile parental answer to childhood stupidity, in all its forms. My neighbor caught her eight-year-old son and his friend skateboarding without a helmet. When she yelled at her boy to put one on, he responded with classic child logic, explaining that his friend, Jessica, doesn’t wear a helmet. His mother in turn applied a version of the standard response to such an assertion: “If Jessica jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?”

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#80 – The Gangrene Thumb

My wife’s leaving for a three-day business conference out west. Thankfully, she’s asked her father to tend her plants while she’s away. A sensible move, and not only because Vito Gambino owns the greenest thumb in America (except for his apparent hatred of grass, that is). Sophia doesn’t want a repeat performance of the time I served as floral caretaker.

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