Blog 473                                          April 2, 2026

 

Hey, I have a question for you.  Do you lie?  Of course you don’t.  I would never suggest that you lie.  But do you exaggerate – maybe a little?  I have made a study of the most common topics of exaggeration.

 

First Exaggeration: Have you seen my grandson hit a golf ball?  Yesterday, on the 11^th hole, my Jacob hit a ball, I guarantee it was 300 yards if it was a nickel.

Truth:  Jacob is seven and the farthest he has ever hit a ball is 42 yards – into a hot-dog cart.

 

Second Exaggeration:  My daughter’s boyfriend just got a new job.  He’s the CFO of a new start-up that’s all over the world.  I can’t tell you exactly what they do, but they’re huge.  He’s doing very well. 

Truth:  He quit his job as a Bar-Mitzvah disc jockey and is selling a line of pizza ovens in Rapid City.

 

Third Exaggeration:  I’m going to a new neurologist.  He’s one of the top doctors.  Top!  He’s the foremost expert in the world on the kind of disease I have.  He graduated first in his class.

Truth:  Dr. Patel Rajmiri was the only one in his class at the Karachi School of Incantations and Pita Making.  His office is in the back of a Lebanese deli.

 

Fourth Exaggeration: I’ve got a great new sleeping thing for you.  You place a pecan under your pillow.  It works great.

Truth: I haven’t slept since the Bush administration.  No, the old one.  And I have tried every pill, powder, lotion, potion, salve, inhaler, concoction and Haitian Voodoo ritual known to man or beast.  The pecan doesn’t work either.

 

You absolutely know someone who is guilty of one or all of the above. Maybe even you.  Hi there and welcome back to Limerick Oyster where nobody’s going to lie to you.  A little capricious hyberbole perhaps, but it’s all in fun.  I hope you’re well and I’m glad you’re back.  I’m back too, recovering from my surgery.  I thought Shakespeare would have been more enthusiastic to see me, but he was a little leery of the walker.  At first, he thought it was his AI replacement, Cat-GPT, but now I think he likes it.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again (King John).  I’m so happy Pops is home.  He even brought me a new friend.  It has two legs and two wheels.  I call him Rolleo.  Where’d he go?  Rolleo, Rolleo, whereart thou.  Purr.

 

I still have a few hospital observations for you.  I did not see a calendar in my room.  A clock, yes, but no calendar.  Even a prisoner gets a calendar.  Are they afraid you’ll be counting the days until your co-pay runs out?  I also noticed that when the Physical Therapist person would take me on a walk, we would never pass a mirror.  Oy, God forbid I should see myself unshaven, hair unwashed; I probably looked like Quasimodo.

 

But now I’m home:

 

·        Without one appendix.  I never read the appendix anyway.

·        With some additional scars.  No big deal; I’ve got plenty.

·        With an addition of approximately 75 new members to the once-exclusive club of people who have seen my butt.

Who designed those hospital gowns?  And why is just your butt exposed?  Expose everything.  There is no privacy in a hospital.  I loved it when the nurse team would come in and ask whether I wanted the door closed while 60 people examined my naked body.

 

Yes, I’m home, and very lucky to have a lovely, caring and efficient nurse to take care of me.  Carol is doing a wonderful job, doing almost everything for me, but sometimes, it’s a little aggravating.

 

Where’s your toothbrush, she asked.  I told her.

What kind of ratty, gangrenous, antediluvian piece of garbage is this?  She threw it away and got a new one.

Ok, where’s your toothpaste?  I pointed.

What kind of arboreal moron keeps his toothpaste in a drawer that far away from his toothbrush?

 

There’s no place like home!  Let’s do arboreal as our Weekly Word.  It means living in trees.

 

I have admitted many of my faults and failings to you over the past years.  Here’s another.  I’m just not into highbrow stuff -- art, symphony, opera.  I must not have been around when they handed out the gene for high-class sophistication and good taste.  Except, of course, my taste in women.  But you know that already.

 

I like realism in art, but not Modern art.  I was once in a museum in Bentonville, Arkansas looking at a painting that was completely black.  I found a nearby docent and asked, “Can you explain to me what there is in that painting that is supposed to stimulate my admiration?”  He replied, “Damned if I know.”  And the symphony?  I like some classical music, but I must admit I grew up on three-minute songs that started with Take out the papers and the trash or I heard about the fella you been dancin’ with.  Three minutes is a good length for a song.  Twenty minutes or sixty minutes – I’ve already forgotten where I am.  And opera is four hours!  In Italian!

 

I guess that I’m just not aesthetic

I think modern art is pathetic

And Mozart and Bach

Are pretty much schlock

And opera requires anesthetic.

 

What can I say?  Call me a boor, call me low-class, call me Ishmael.  And anyway, should I care what other people think?  You’ll worry less about what people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.

 

By the way, those two songs I mentioned above:

 

Take out the papers and the trash – Yakety Yak, The Coasters (1958) written by Leiber and Stoller. 

 

 I heard about the fella you been dancin’ with - Shake a Tail Feather, The Five Du-Tones (1963) written by Andre Williams.

 

I have to stop now.  I can’t write while I’m shakin’ my tail feather.  Plus, my doctor says I shouldn’t.  I love that song, though.  C’mon, do it with me – shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it Baby.  You can still do it.  Don’t hurt yourself.  See you next week.  Stay well, count your blessings and Rock n Roll.  And thank you all for your wonderful outpourings of love and concern.  They mean a lot.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog # 472                               March 26, 2026

 

My oh my, what a week.  A couple of weeks ago, I made you wait for a blog because I was travelling on a cruise.   You were patient.  Then last week, I made you wait for 36 hours because I was in the hospital having my innards deconstructed (a cooking term.)  You were completely understanding and effervescent with your prayers and wishes.  Thank you so much.

 

But now, I hear you scream, get over that health thing, put on some big-boy pants and do the thing you’re supposed to be doing.  Make us laugh.  Your High School Quip was Punctuality is the Politeness of Kings.  But where are you now?  Ok, chill out!

 

It all started over the weekend with some abdominal pains (belly aches for those of you who thought Dr. Zorba was a real doctor.)  When the pains reached the level of HOOOOOOOOLY SHIT, I called 9-11.  You realize, of course, that for a man to submit to the stigma and hand-wrenching ignominy of absolute surrender to the Gods of Mortality, well, it’s humiliating and completely frightening.  Hey, at least they didn’t chop out all my big words.

 

Word of the Week:  Stigma: A mark of disgrace .

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well, even if I’m not.  It’s a lovely spring day here in St. Louis, perfect for sitting in the ICU.

Let me start by making it clear that every hospital worker I came in contact with; from those two wonderful Ambulance drivers who chauffered me and to all the nurses in Missouri Baptist Hospital– every one was professional, warm, caring, concerned, and I am loyally indebted to them.

 

 

 

The operation started out as a routine appendectomy – a little laparoscopic slice, clip, snip, bye-bye.  The surgeon quickly discovered That Plan A was not going to work, so they opened me up like Grannie’s turkey and started looking for the gizzards.  They removed the appendix and a couple of small pieces of colon.  And here I am, recovering.  But am I just sitting around and moaning and complaining; do I demand attention and complete servitude?  No, I can do that at home.  No, what I do is observe.

 

Observation #1: They wanted to see if my stomach could hold any food and they brought me a platter of scraps.   They actually expect me to make a poop out of this?  You could throw in a pair Lizzo’s boots on top, and it still wouldn’t have made a meal.

 

Observation #2:  Being under anesthesia can whack you out!  For days after surgery, I had strange hallucinations and dreams that were pretty realistic.  One reminded me of a time we were visiting friends in Florida, and one night ten of us were sitting in a rented condo with an unfamiliar TV and two remotes.  The ensuing hour was funny enough to be its own sit-com.  We’ll call it My Friend Clicka or something.  Can you just imagine ten old people trying to figure out something that the best Japanese engineers have devoted their entire careers to making complicated?  It is their revenge for Hiroshima, you know.  What goes around comes around.  “You vaporized two of our cities, so now each year we’ll cause 50,000 of you to die of apoplexy trying to record Jeopardy and Dancing with the Stars while watching The View all at the same time.”  At one point we actually got a Saudi Arabian sit-com on the TV.  It was called Oil in the Family. 

 

Observation #3:  I have uncountable tubes in me to make sure nothing gets in or out unmeasured.  No food or liquid by mouth; that goes directly through a tube into the stomach.  Oxygen goes into my nose.  Fluid from my abdominal cavity drains out into something or other.  And then there was another tube; It looked sinister, a long slimy gray wormish thing.  I inquired.

 

                                      I see those big tubes over there

                                      They’re for food and for water and air.

                                      But that thin, snakey one

                                      Doesn’t look like much fun?

                                      You’re going to slide that thing where?

 

Message From Shakespeare, the Three-legged cat:  I miss you more than words can wield the matter (Richard III).  Where’s my Pops?  He’s been gone for days and days.  Moms takes care of me, but I miss my Pops so much.  Please come home soon.  Purr.

 

Observation #4:   As I have said, the staff is just wonderful, but there is so much activity and personnel and equipment and wires and paperwork – it’s an unwieldy monstrous, megalithic maelstrom just begging for someone to whip the whole thing into an efficient speed demon.  Enter my wife.  I can see it now, Opening Soon the new efficiency wing of Missouri Pabtist Hospitals where you can have both hips replaced while getting a manicure and be out in day; where you can have a full-term baby in six months.  Where you can buy your hospital gowns online beforehand.  And what do you think they’ll call this new wing?  The Sisters of Lickety Spit.

 

Carol has already contracted with designer hospital gown makers.  You’ll love them, Darling.

 

·       Oscar de la Tenta                 Bill Ass

·       Hugo Crack                          Christian Back Door

 

Observation #4:  I have given specific instructions to the nurses that during our short walks, we must not pass a mirror or anything that looks like one.  I’ve been nine days in the hospital.  Nine days so far in hospital.  But I’m doing well, and I cannot exaggerate my love and warmth for all of you who have reached out.   Stay well ya’ll and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                  Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog # 470                               March 12, 2026

 

I received a Saliva Collection Kit ordered by Dr. Heart to check my DNA for some genetic something-or-other.  I had to spit into a tube, seal it, place the tube in an enclosed bag, label it and send it to San Francisco.  Most Major League Baseball players are proud if they can disgustingly expectorate three or four feet from their dugout.  My spit is going all the way to San Francisco.

 

The directions to this high-tech exercise were slightly longer than War and Peace and were repeated in English, Spanish, French, Italian, German, Portuguese, Danish, Dutch, Norwegian and Swedish.  I guess if you don’t speak one of those, you’re out of luck.

 

Enclosed is your personal kit

Please send your saliva in it

Except if you speak

Either Polish or Greek

Then, Brother, you ain’t worth a spit.

 

Hi there and welcome back to my world of humor, stories and, at least today, spit.  I hope you’re feeling well and not angry with me for being a day late last week.  Carol and I were on a cruise ship.  It was a lovely vacation with many good friends and new friends.  The one disappointment was that the G’s, who were supposed to join us, could not.  Besides greatly missing their company, we had to rearrange a car trip to the docks in Miami, another from the docks to Naples, Florida, a place to stay for two nights and a subsequent ride to the airport.  But here was the silver lining.  All our friends aboard jumped right in to fill the gaps.  I will not mention all your names, but thank you for the many, many offers of lodging and transportation.  It was a heart-warming display of loyalty and friendship that I truly appreciate.

 

The ship (not boat) on which we cruised was the Wonder of the Seas, and it was the size of Luxembourg, only taller.  To get from your cabin (not room) to the dining area, you had to take an Uber.  It had 18 decks (not floors) and included every diversion, restaurant and entertainment you could imagine and many you couldn’t imagine.  We had a great time, but I just have to mention something, and I know you will agree.  I’m going to have a little talk with God here.  Bear with me.  God, I know You’re omnipotent and omni-everything-else, but You need to create an 11^th Commandment, and I have humbly written it out for You.  It should read: Thou shalt not enter an elevator until the people on it have exited.

 

We would be in a packed elevator and when the doors opened, twelve basketball players, their wives and 42 children started pushing their way in without letting us out.  I’m sure it has happened to you.

 

Want a quiz?  I know you love quizzes.  This one is about State names.  If you remove all the vowels, Mississippi would become MSSSSPP and Colorado would become CLRD.  Here are the names of four states with all the vowels removed:  HW – TH – DH – H.  What are those four states?  Answers later.

 

Things end.  Empires end, love affairs end, Breaking Bad ended, even microwaves end.  Ours ended.  More than that, it committed suicide in a pyrotechnic flash worthy of the Olympic Opening Ceremony.  So, we measured the space and measured again and took our measurements to Best Buy, where we purchased a new microwave that was sure to fit.  We measured, didn’t we?  Any three-year-old baboon can use a tape measure, so it goes to reason that two graduates of Washington University in St. Louis, one with a major in education and the other in mathematics, can be counted upon to use a stupid damned tape measure!  We brought it home and it fit into the opening perfectly.  We were proud.  So, we re-attached the metallic molding around the opening and guess what?

 

I know you can guess what happened.  I know for two reasons.  One, it’s probably happened to you before and two, you know how useless I am with intricately difficult machinery like a cloth tape measure.  The actual microwave door was too big to fit through the opening in the molding and we took it back.  We now have Frequent Microwave Mileage at Best Buy.  But every cloud has something or other and Microwave 2.0, though a little small, opens, heats and beeps.  It only took a month.  Where was I when they handed out the Competency Gene?  Probably reciting The Raven.

 

I need a fairy tale to cheer me up.  Once upon a time, in the mythical kingdom of Chesterfield, lived a beautiful Queen named Goldifox.  One night, Goldifox went to an enchanted restaurant, named The Enchanted Restaurant, accompanied by her stalwart protector, Jewishhusband.  When they arrived, the Wicked Witch of the Restaurant seated them at a table.  “This table’s too big,” cried Goldifox, and the witch moved them to a different table.  “This table’s too square,” moaned the Queen.  Suddenly Goldifox spotted her friend, Susie Bayer, standing with her husband, also named Jewishhusband, and their son Yogi.  And Goldifox and the three Bayers found a perfect round table and ate happily ever after.  Sound familiar?

 

Here are the state answers:  HW=Hawaii, TH=Utah, DH=Idaho, H=Ohio.  I know you got them all right.

 

Message from Shakespeare: ‘War gives the right to the conquerors to impose any condition they please upon the vanquished.’ (Julius Caesar).  I’m sad we have a war with Iran.  I have friends who are Persian pussycats.  One is named Mew-hammad.  Purr.  Or should I say Purrsian?

 

I don’t want to get political, but I feel I should say something about the war.  Now I’m not the smartest person in the world, nor am I a naif, but it seems to me that we have been in a tacit war with Russia, China, North Korea and Iran for decades, and learning Esperanto, building windmills and serving sugar-free donuts at the United Nations Breakfast for Peace will not be enough to keep us and the rest of the world safe. 

 

But I want you to be safe, and to stay well and to count your blessings.  Do all that and come back next week.  Remember when I said Things end?  Well, even this wordy schmatta has ended.  Bye!

 

Jewishhusband                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Oops, the Weekly Word.  A naif is a naive person.

                  

 

 

Blog #469                                March 5, 2026

 

It was Ash Wednesday a couple of weeks ago, and I made a note to write to you about it because the Catholic Church has come up with a fantastic idea.  This is the news from a St. Louis suburb:

 

SUNSET HILLS, MO — People are heading to churches this Ash Wednesday to get their markings. If you are a little short on time some churches are making it as convenient as possible to get your ashes.  They're offering a drive-thru service.

 

Now that’s clever!  Drive through services!  Get your divinity in your Infinity.  We’ll get you to heaven in your Porsche Nine-Eleven.  They should have hired me to do their ads:

 

If you’re on the fast-track to Hell

Come drive up and ring the church bell

Just roll down the glass

And we’ll save your ass

And rotate your tires as well.

 

Drive up your Hyundai on next Easter Sunday.  Now that’s what I call a Service station.  I forget the name of the church.  I think it was Our Lady of the Catalytic Converter.  The Catholic Church definitely needs my services (pun intended) to help with their messaging.  Today I passed a cemetery with a sign in front that read: St John’s Cemetery – Non- Sectarian.  Non-sectarian?  St. Johns?  Why don’t they just name it St. Johns Holy Catholic and Papal Cemetery of Jesus Christ, Our Lord – Non-Sectarian? 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Thank you for being patient and waiting until Friday for your Limerick.  It gave me an extra day to write, so this blog should be the best of them all.  I hope you are feeling well.  Do you like Chinese food?  We like to order in Chinese food every once in a while.  It’s delicious.  You know, the Chinese civilization is about 3400 years old.  But the Jews have been around for 5700 years.  That means for 2300 years my People could not order in Chinese food.  I wonder what Egyptian carryout was like.   Probably Egg Foo Camel, Tut Stickers and General Ramses’ Chicken, I guess.  Or Sweet and Sour Sphinx? 

 

How about a quiz to test your memory?  Are you ready?  Ok, who lives at:

 

1.     1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

2.     124 Conch St, Bikini Bottom

3.     221B Baker Street

4.     #10 Downing Street

5.     The cupboard under the stairs, 4 Privet Drive

6.     Wayne Manor, Gotham City

7.     446 Bonnie Meadow Rd, New Rochelle

8.     4222 Clinton Way, Los Angeles

It’s March! Change your calendar page.  Do you still have paper calendars with pictures of fuzzy little cats or waterfalls or grandchildren?  Or do you just do all your planning on your smart phone?  If I know my audience, I’m betting on the fuzzy cats.  My calendar has pictures of my grandchildren.  Which brings up a story.  If I’ve told you this before, forgive me.  Who can remember!

 

When Zachary, my first grandchild, was born, my office desk began to accumulate pictures of him sent by my daughter.  Some were in little frames but most were just lying helter-skelter on the desk.  We went to visit Baby Zach in North Carolina and, when I returned, I found something new on my desk.  My partner had taken all the Zachary pictures lying there and had them framed in a lovely collage to hang on my wall.  Wasn’t that nice?  I looked at all the pictures and smiled with pride until I came to one in the bottom row.  “That’s not Zachary,” I said.  “Well, who is it?” my partner queried.  “It was on your desk.”  And that started an intense investigation culminating in the conclusion that the little boy in the bottom row was the display picture that came along with one of the little frames I had.  I still have the collage – 15 pictures of my little boy Zach and one of someone else’s little boy.  I’ll bet his Grandfather loves him.

 

If you have flipped your calendar page, you will notice that March is full of interesting stuff.  First comes  Day, the 14^th of March.  You see, March 14 is otherwise written as 3/14 and since π starts out 3.14, some mathematically inclined and otherwise unoccupied clown decided it would be a good day to celebrate π.  I don’t exactly know how they celebrate, but I’m guessing they eat pecan π and πnapple and all kinds of sπcy foods. 

 

Right after π Day comes the Ides of March, the day when Brutus brutally (see the connection?) stabbed Julius Caesar.  Anyway, on the 15^th of March, watch out for anybody named Brutus.  Then on the 17^th, watch out for little green men.  Yes, the 17^th is St. Patrick’s Day.  So, in the short space of four days, you could get a π in the face, a knife in the back or an Irishman passed out on your couch.  March is a great month!

 

Answers:

1.     The President of the United States

2.     Sponge Bob

3.     Sherlock Holmes

4.     The Prime Minister of Great Britain

5.     Harry Potter

6.     Batman

7.     Rob and Laura Petri

8.     The Brady Bunch

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in’s own house (Hamlet).  My turn.  Who lives in a tree in Wonderland?  Think “cat” now.  That’s right, the Cheshire Cat. Purr.

 

Carol and I just went out to dinner and ran into two couples we knew.  They both read my blog and gave me lovely compliments.  How nice.  One man said, “Take care of Shakespeare and don’t pick on your wife so much.”  I always take care of my little Shakespeare.  He is, as I write, sitting on my desk, making sure I don’t say anything bad about him.  He has sharp teeth.  And my wife?  I didn’t say one thing about her this week.  She has sharp teeth too.  Love you, Honey!

 

Better go now before I get into real trouble.  Oops, I knew it!  Now she’s mad that I didn’t mention her this week.  There’s an old canard that says there are only two ways to deal with a woman – and neither one works.  Stay well, count your blessings and c’mon back next week, when the blog will be back on Thursdays.

 

Oh, the Weekly Word is canard, which means a belief or rumor that isn’t true.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #468                                February 26, 2026

 

My wife went to the symphony with some girlfriends.  The seats were close, but too far to the left and all they could see were the violins, so they moved closer to the woodwinds and . . . well, I never thought the symphony was a visual experience.  I don’t get a thrill from watching a guy blow into a clarinet or a bunch of well-dressed ladies bowing their violas.  It’s the music I go for, not the scenery.  Classical is not actually my favorite kind of music, but I can handle (make that Handel) most of it.  I’m really not a big fan of most art (make that Mozart), so when I go, I just close my eyes and lean back (make that Bach) and relax.  But to Carol and her friends, the visual is everything.  It thrills them more than shopping (make that Chopin).  I’m pretty sure it’s a sexual thing.

 

The trombone goes out and goes in!

The stroking of each violin!

The Conductor’s baton

Turns all the girls on

And the woodwinds are sexy as sin!

 

That’s why one of the woodwinds is called a sexy-phone.  And don’t even get them started about the pipe organ!  And the piano player?  I must admit I’m a bit jealous – must be a case of pianist envy.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  I am never merry when I hear sweet music (The Merchant of Venice).  I don’t like music very (make that Verdi) much.  I like it quiet so I can sleep on Pops’ lap when he reads.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling groovy, as we said in the 1960’s.  ATTENTION!!  Next week’s Limerick Oyster will not arrive on Thursday, but instead, due to travel plans, will arrive on Friday afternoon.  I know some of you will forget and send me nasty and confused emails.  DON’T!

 

How’s your hearing?  What?  HOW’S YOUR HEARING!  Yes, as we get older, as we reach the age where Happy Hour is a nap, some of us are beginning to turn up the TV volume and learning to read lips.  One of my friends just got a new hearing aid.  “I just bought a new hearing aid,” he told me.  “It cost me four thousand dollars, but it's state of the art. Perfect!”  “Really,” I replied. “What kind is it?” “Twelve thirty,” he replied.

 

The Olympics are over now.  I’m getting ready for the 2028 Olympics in Los Angeles.  I’m entering the Chewing Gum While Reciting the Raven event.  I think I have a chance for a medal.

 

I was so busy (make that Bizet) the other day, that for lunch I stopped by a pizza joint for a slice of bacon pizza.  The clerk asked for a telephone number for their computer system.  I replied with the following contumely: “I want a pizza.  Here’s my money.  My phone number is not your business.  If you refuse to sell me the pizza, I will sue you for discrimination.”  The pizza was delicious.  Then I came home and drank four glasses of wine.  Count em – one, two four.  But am I drump?  Nebytz.

 

Of course, you know I’m teasing.  I do not drink any alcohol.  I used to, but not anymore.  And contumely shall be our Weekly Word today.  It means insolent or insulting language.  I try not to use it too often.

 

You all know that Prince was Prince Nelson, Liberace was Wladzju Liberace and Madonna is Madonna Ciccone.  But can you recognize any of the personalities on this list?  Each one is known by a single name.

 

          Cherilyn Sarkisian          Gordon Sumner

          Paul Hewson                  Leslie Harby

          Edison Nascimento         Alecia Moore

          Calvin Broadus, Jr.

 

Last week, I talked a bit about my eccentric brother.  The last 20 years of his life, he lived in a huge, four-story mansion in a very nice neighborhood.  I never knew where he got the money to buy this behemoth, because he never had enough money to keep the house or the surrounding grounds in presentable shape.  The neighbors hated him.  He lived alone in this nine-bedroom beast with a main staircase that went halfway up to the second floor, stopped at a landing, turned around and went up the rest of the way in the other direction.  My brother slept on the landing.  Nine bedrooms, and he slept on a divan on the staircase.  There was another staircase somewhere, which I came across the first time I toured the house with him.  I saw every room, even the fourth floor.  It was pretty spooky.  I never went up to the fourth floor again. Who knows what could be hiding (make that Hayden) up there. And he lived there alone.  Well, almost alone.  There was Cora.  Cora was an elderly woman, dressed in clothes from the 1920s and made of cloth and stuffing.  You see, Cora was a life-sized doll who sat ageless, silent and unmoving in an old, decrepit chair in the front room.  One night, my brother and Cora were at home alone when the doorbell rang.  It was the police.  My brother cordially let the policeman in.  “Sir,” said the officer. “we’ve received some calls saying you have a dead woman in your living room.”  My brother introduced the nice young officer to Cora, made him a cup of coffee, and they parted as friends.  The police never bothered him again.

 

My three daughters loved their Uncle Ricky.  Sometimes they would sleep over at his spooky house, but they never slept in any of the lonely, drafty bedrooms or in the room with Cora.  They slept in sleeping bags on the landing.

 

Ok, here are the answers:  Cherilyn Sarkisian is Cher, Gordon Sumner is Sting, Paul Hewson is Bono, Leslie Harby is Twiggy, Edison Nascimento is Pele, Alecia Moore is Pink, and Calvin Broadus, Jr. is Snoop Dogg.  Well, Snoop Dogg is two words, but who’s counting?  Did you get them all right?  Did you get any right?  That’s ok, you can still come back next week.  I’ll be waiting. Stay well, and remember, you do not need a parachute to skydive.  You only need one to skydive twice.

 

And remember also that next week’s edition will not be on Thursday, but on Friday afternoon.  See you then.  Count your blessings and stay well.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com