Blog #177

Sing in me muse and through me tell the story.  Yes, another story.  You liked last week’s, so we’ll try another.  The above quote, by the way, is the opening line of The Odyssey.  Only me, right?  The fluorescent bulb in the bathroom went out.  Not a tragedy to most people, but to me it was an event that brought on more trepidation than if I had found a grizzly bear in my kitchen.  You see, I am not handy.  My cat, who is missing a leg, is handier than me.  A toothpick is too hi-tech for me.  I have, more than once, broken a light fixture while trying to install a bulb. But, in this Covid Universe, you can’t just have your son-in-law come over and do it.  So I decided to take out the old bulb, full of a pungent foreboding of disaster.  I turned it, the prongs slid out and it was free.  Ok, a good start.  Everything was going to be all right.

I took a picture of the bulb and went to Ace Hardware, purchased a replacement and went back home.  The harbinger of impending doom hovered nearby as I opened the box and slid out the new bulb.  No problem there.  I felt confident.  But then I tried to install it.  Where were the two prongs?  This bulb didn’t have any metal prongs; it had a plastic cross.  It didn’t fit.  It wouldn’t fit.  I had failed.  Carol, lending her unique form of encouragement, said, “Why didn’t you ask the guy for instructions?”  But I knew it wasn’t the fault of the helpful hardware folks at Ace.  It was my fault.  I took the old and new bulbs back to Ace.  I showed the man the old bulb with the two metal prongs and the new bulb with the plastic cross.  It doesn’t fit, I told him.  He pinched the plastic cross and pulled it off, revealing the metal prongs it had been protecting.  I felt as stupid as a skydiver who had forgotten his parachute.  I apologized for being as incompetent as Donald Trump’s humility coach and went home, where I installed the bulb with ease.  I was as happy as an ant on a Twinkie.  Do you think God had this much trouble doing the Let there be light thing?  If so, all he had to say was, Let there be Helpful Hardware Folks.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and getting the respect you deserve.  I don’t get no respect.  That’s the way the late Rodney Dangerfield said it.  Did you know his real name was Jack Roy?  Well, although my grammar is certainly better, I feel just like old Rodney.  I don’t even get respect from machines.  I asked Siri the other today for the address of the nearest Dairy Queen.  She replied, I’m not telling you. Have a carrot.  When I went to bed, I told Siri to set my alarm for 7:00 am.  She said, You only have 9,612 steps. Get your lazy ass out of bed and walk to the kitchen three times.  Then today, I asked her for the phone number of Ace Hardware.  Oy, she said, did you screw up that light bulb again?  I don’t get no respect.

On a serious note, Major League Baseball (MLB) has decided to stencil Black Lives Matter (BLM) on all the pitching mounds.  I’m very disappointed.  Sports should be about the entertainment of the game.  It should not be a platform for political statements.  Have you noticed that MLB is BLM backwards?  Or maybe it’s the other way around, but then backwards is the other way around, I suppose.

I know one sign that will never be etched into the pitching mound – TAX THE RICH.  That’s because all the players are millionaires and afraid of the Progressives’ taking all their money.

Progressives just have something missin’

They talk but they never do listen

It’s really a sin

‘Cause if you vote them in

You won’t have a pot you can piss in

Centuries ago, farm people were so poor that they sold their urine to leather-makers to use for tanning.  The whole family would urinate in the pot and, at the end of the week, sell the urine.  They were called piss poor.  Even poorer were the families who could not even afford a pot.  They didn’t have a pot to piss in.  Interesting?

Every day, I exercise Shakespeare.  Here’s how that works.  We sit at one end of the hall and I roll a ping-pong ball down to the other end.  He either chases it or he doesn’t.  Either way, I have to go to the other end, pick up the ball and roll it back.  He either chases it or he doesn’t.  Sometimes he’s really into it and runs his fur off.  Other times he just sits and watches the old man going up and down the hall.

Message from Shakespeare:  I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise (Hamlet).  I do love my Pops, but he is a ridiculous old fool.  I have him trained now to run up and down the hall chasing a ball.  Can you imagine?  He’s such a good boy.

A burglar entered an empty house.  As he walked in the dark, he heard a voice say, Jesus is watching you.  The burglar was freaked out and frantically shone his flashlight around the room until he found a parrot in its cage. 

          Did you say that, Parrot?

          Yup, I was just warning you that Jesus is watching you.

          What’s your name, Parrot?

          I’m Moses.

          What kind of people would name a parrot Moses?

          The same kind that would name a rottweiler Jesus.

I’ll let you go now.  I mean, there’s only so much you can take.  But first, the Weekly Word.  This week, it’s trepidation, which means fear of the future.  The only fear I have is that you won’t come back to me next week, so while I sit here worrying and quaking and biting my nails – you stay well and count those blessings one more time.

Shakespeare’s pet                              Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog #176

Unclaimed Property!  That’s what they call it in the State of Missouri.  The Office of the State Treasurer accumulates uncashed checks and unclaimed awards and who-knows-what-else through their right of escheat.  No, escheat is not what you did on your 9^th grade geometry test.  It is the right of the government to take unclaimed property.  The Treasurer’s Office periodically publishes a list of the “rightful owners” and waits in ambush for any naïve fool who thinks he or she can wheedle anything out of them.

I was one of those fools once.  My brother died some years ago.  My brother was the original Libertarian.  He had no doctor, no will, no health insurance and no desire to deposit the AT&T dividend checks.  You see, when my grandmother died in 1961, she left a few shares of AT&T stock to me, my sister and my brother. My sister, who was twice voted The Craziest Woman in North America, immediately sold hers and bought cat food.  My brother threw his in the trash.  But AT&T dutifully sent him dividend checks anyway.  The checks also wound up in the trash.  Soon, AT&T became Qwest, Southwestern Bell, Bell South, Verizon and probably Dunkin’ Donuts, and all of them sent him dividends – for 40 years. 

A few years after he died, a friend of mine was looking at the Unclaimed Property list and saw my brother’s name, hundreds of times.  All those uncashed dividend checks had piled up at the Treasurer’s office and were there for the taking.  Well, not so fast.  When my brother died without a will, his meager estate was divided among myself and the two people in the world he hated the most – his father and his sister.  If that news had reached him, wherever the Hell he went, he would have certainly turned over in his grave.  By the time I began this Quixotic quest for Holy Dividends, both my father and sister had died. 

To satisfy the state, I had to prove my brother was dead and died without a will. Then I had to prove my father had died and provide his will (he left everything to me); the same for my sister (she left everything to her cats).  This was an endeavor only slightly less complicated than obtaining a Top- Secret Security Clearance from the Kremlin.  Once I had all of that paperwork teed up, I thought I was home free.  But so did Dorothy when she landed in Munchkin Land.

You see, my brother lived in various places during his adult life and the uncashed checks had been mailed to many addresses.  I had to prove that my brother had lived in those places.  A simple utility bill would suffice, but he had lived in some of those places so long ago, I wasn’t sure utilities had been invented yet.

This whole procedure took me two years after which I received about a thousand dollars for my efforts.  Six months after that, I received an official letter from the Office of the State Treasurer informing me I needed to return all the money because they had, in their calculations, neglected to provide for my sister’s cats.  I am not making any of this up.  By this time, my brother was not only turning over in his grave, he was doing it Gangnam Style.  I threw the letter in the trash and never heard from them again.

Last week, my wife’s cousin noticed her grandfather’s name was on that unclaimed property list.  She asked me to help her locate four generations of legal paperwork, family trees and utility bills.  I sent a note that I had moved to Moscow and become a spy.

That whole story is true and was the subject of an article I recently wrote for a legal website called Probate Stars.com.  It is the place to go to answer all your questions about what to do with Aunt Frieda’s stuff when she dies.  I thought I’d share the article with you.  And yes, I do write for other people.  It sounds so sordid, doesn’t it?  But I never let them see my limerick.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to get all famous on you.  I don’t want to be famous.  I’m in a really good place -- my family loves me; you tolerate me and the IRS has lost my address.  But, as Ishmael said, I try all things. I achieve what I can.  And if you don’t know who Ishmael is, you’re in the wrong blog

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling healthy, wealthy and wise.  I know you’re doing your best to stay healthy in this pandemic.  And I know you’re being wise because you’re reading my blog.  But wealthy?  You know how you can recognize a wealthy person?  To a wealthy person, the word summer is a verb.

Message from Shakespeare:  Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, some in their wealth (Sonnet 91.)  My wealth is having two nice old folks who love me and a warm porch to sleep on.

I used to get my email on Outlook, but this week it crashed.  My daughter Abby set me up to get it on Gmail, so now I have to learn to navigate that.  Gmail places my mail into three categories.  Primary is all the correspondence from friends and loyal readers.  Promotions are things like messages from Kohl’s and Costco and all the nursing homes just slobbering to have me move in. The third category is called Social.  I clicked on it.

Your Social Tab is Empty.  That’s what it said.  I began to cry.  Well, I guess I deserve it.  After all, I’m not on Facebook or Twitter or anything else.  You see, I suffer from – here comes the Weekly Word -- neophobia, the fear of new things that disrupt my 74-year-old routines.  Things like books that you read on a device, flavored water, kale pesto and Alexandria Ocasio Cortez.  But I am the most neophobic about social media.

For Twitter I don’t give a damn

Don’t Facebook and won’t Instagram

Just a lonely old chap

Who does not know WhatsApp

What an old-fashioned loser I am.

I need a hug.  I’ll settle for your coming back next week.  Though I won’t be on Facebook or Twitter, I will be here.  So stay well and count your blessings and check out that Unclaimed Property list.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #175

The Pandemic continues.  Day 4,722 or something like that.  You’ve stayed at home almost the whole time.  Even the trash has gone out more than you.  I bet you’ve been doing a lot of cleaning.  Even if you live alone, I bet you’ve been cleaning. Solitude is no excuse for sloppiness, said Armistead Maupin.  A funny name and a funny author.  Did you ever read his book, Tales of the City?  No?  Well, it’s too late.  The book is about the singles scene (gay, straight, trans) in San Francisco in the 1970s.  It is charming and full of laughs.  The problem is that it is full of 50-year-old references like Dorothy Hamill haircuts and the Bob Newhart Show.  I’m reading it now for the second time.  I’m weird.

So, what have you missed the most during the past four months?  For guys, I’m guessing you missed watching sports.  Some of the guys are now watching a new show about who can lose the most weight on the no-carb diet.  It’s called Starch Madness.

And for girls – shopping.  I know Carol misses it.  She approaches shopping like a lioness stalking a gnu.  (What’s a gnu?  I don’t know, what’s a gnu with you?)  To her, shopping is a two-day event.  Day One is hunting – locate your prey, mark it with your scent, withdraw.  Day Two is gathering – move in for the kill with a vulpine and hungry ferocity, zap it with your credit card, drag it home.  Men don’t have that shopping instinct.  They go to the store, grab the first thing they see and that’s it.  Wham, Bam, you know the rest.

Buying on Amazon just doesn’t satisfy the same sensory longing that a day in the mall provides.  The girls can’t smell the item or feel it or match it with their nail polish.  But Carol has adapted.  She’s found a new way of shopping.  It’s called “Michael, buy this for me”.  It works pretty well for her.  I either buy it online or actually leave the house, not daring to return until I have fulfilled her order.  Sometimes I have to go to more than one place.  The other day, I told her, “You know, I had to go the extra mile for you.”  She replied, “Going the extra mile just means you missed the exit.”  How did she know I missed the exit? 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and wearing your mask.  Are you looking forward to Football Season?  There won’t be any more Washington Redskins.  When I listen to all the protest noise out there, I can’t tell which word is the most insulting, Redskins or Washington.  I hear Colin Kaepernick is forming his own team called the Pittsburgh Kneelers and his own league called the National Protest League.  Other teams forming now are the Louisville Looters, the Rhode Island Rioters, the Vancouver Vandals, the Colorado Cop Haters and the Mobile Mob.  What a world!

The other day, I heard a CNN reporter say, “The Washington football team has decided to change its name from a word which I refuse to pronounce to a less-racially offensive name.”  I’m serious.  I heard her.  Hey, that could be the perfect name – the Washington Not-Racially-Offensives.  Of course, that would just be for half the team.  The other half would be the Not-Racially-Defensives.  Now that we’ve got that solved, all we have to do is get rid of the name Washington.

Message from Shakespeare: What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet (Romeo and Juliet).  And a Redskin by any other name would still come in last in the NFL East.  Maybe we should call them the Washington Roses.

And then there’s this craziness about statues!  I know you all love me and are probably planning to put up a statue of me when I go to that big McDonald’s in the sky, but I think I’ll pass.

A statue of me when I’m dead?

No no, I’d just stand there in dread

That a thug or De-Funder

Would tear me asunder

And pigeons would poop on my head.

Hey, pigeons, I apologize.  You know that I love animals.  I work at the Zoo because I’m an animal guy.  I love cats.  I love dogs.  They love me.  Rabbits snuggle up to me, turtles call my name, zebras follow me in the street.  So what animal could I possibly dislike?

Canadian Goose  (goosus obnoxifus).  The Canadian Goose is a large, feathered creature the size of a watermelon whose habitat consists of Canada and the little pond in our subdivision.  It is loud, messy and impolite, holding goose concerts at 3:00 in the morning and defecating exclusively on the sidewalks I like to use.  This activity begins in early February and lasts until I can get my hands around their scrawny, ugly necks and squeeze every drop of goose-pooping life out of the messy little bastards.  I’d talk about ducks, but I’d get in trouble with Quack Lives Matter.

Speaking of animals, I turned on National Public Radio in the car.  I know you all love NPR, but I must have bad luck, because every time I turn it on, they’re talking about something totally boring and esoteric*.  Today they were discussing Mandrills in Gabon.  Now if that doesn’t sound like something from Lewis Carroll – Twas brillig and the slithy Mandrills did gyre and gimble in Gabon.  Incomprehensible to be sure, but I, your constant guide to truth and light, shall explain.  A mandrill is a baboon, kind of, and Gabon is a country in West Africa, kind of.  That’s NPR for you.  I know not one person who cares about Gabon baboons (try that one five times).  I personally couldn’t give a Mandrill’s ass.

Weekly Word:  esoteric means understood by only a small number of people with a specialized knowledge or interest.  Kind of like my blogs.  Only very few and very special people can understand my goofiness.  Glad to see you on board.  Will you be here next week?  You know you’d miss me.  See you then.  Stay well and count your blessings.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #174

No birthdays this week, no anniversaries.  No reason to send me congratulatory notes.  Too bad, because I do love your comments. They’re the only way I can tell whether I’m doing a good thing here or “just standing in the rain talking to myself” (Cool Hand Luke).  I hope I make you happy once in a while and never make you sad.

“Miserable it is to be to others cause of misery.”  That’s what Eve said in Paradise Lost right after the little bitch infected us all with original sin by breaking her promise to God.  That was the first pandemic, because Eve actually infected the whole Human Race.  At the time, of course, it was just she and Adam, but it meant that all of their offspring were infected to Eternity, or a Trump second-term, whichever comes first.

What was Eve thinking?  This wasn’t a silly promise like promising your husband you’d go to the Circus with him or promising your friend that her secret was safe with you.  No, this was a promise to GOD, the Big Dog, the one to whom everyone is praying to give them everything they want.  No, not Joe Biden!  Pay attention.  It’s GOD I’m talking about.  The old guy up in the clouds with the white beard and the direct land-line to Joel Osteen.  I guess, technically, that would be a cloud-line.  Is that what they mean when they say all our stuff is in The Cloud?  That GOD has all our personal information?  Well, He already knows who’s naughty and nice anyway.  Or is that Santa Claus? 

I’m fond of Eve, actually, a beautiful woman who got everything she wanted by lying to and manipulating her husband.  Makes me feel right at home.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re all feeling well, using your masks and looking for some entertainment.  You could always go out and play golf.  Carol and I played last Sunday.  I played so horribly that by the 7^th Hole I was being followed by 200 protesters carrying signs that read YOUR GOLF SWING DOES NOT MATTER.

Or you could travel to Pamplona, Spain for the Running of the Bulls, an internationally recognized event of power, speed and unrivaled stupidity which has been held this week in July since the 14^th Century.  A dozen 2000-lb. frightened bulls race down an enclosed street on their way to the bull ring where they will fight the Toreador and most-likely be killed.  If they run over someone in the street, they don’t care. They’re just stupid animals.  Which pretty much describes the young men racing in the street as well.  I actually shouldn’t be criticizing these young men’s show of bravery.  After all, the most courageous thing I do is picking out my clothes in the morning.  This year, of course, there will be no running of the bulls.  The event is cancelled because of Covid.  Which means, I suppose, that the annual Festival of the Soup at Don Quixote’s Cantina will be cancelled.

My friend Tim went to Don Quixote’s after the Pamplona Bull Fights in 2005.  There was a huge uproar and singing and music when the waiter brought a man a bowl of soup with two immense matzo-balls.  Tim told his waiter he wanted the same thing.  No, no, Señor.  Those balls are the testicles of the bull who lost the main fight.  Only one person a year can order that dish.  Tim said he wanted it next year.  The waiter said the first available serving would be in 2019.  Every year, for a decade and more, Tim went to Don Quixote’s and watched the Festival of the Soup with the huge balls that once belonged to the losing bull.  Finally, in 2019, he showed up and reminded the waiter it was his turn.  The music started, the songs were boisterously sung, the crowd cheered as the waiter brought Tim the soup.  But when he looked into the bowl, there were only two very small balls.  He called his waiter over and asked where were the testicles of the losing bull.  Unfortunately, Señor, said the waiter, this year it was the Bullfighter who lost.

That’s the joke I promised you last week, and, unlike Eve, I keep my promises.

Message from Shakespeare:  He was ever precise in promise-keeping (Measure for Measure).  I admit my Pops is a goofy old fool, but I’ll give him this – every morning when he leaves, he promises me he’ll come back.  And he always does.

Now it’s time to return to the serious issues of the day.  This country is awash with discussions of racism, and since I am your bastion of calm, sensibility and moderation, I feel it my duty to offer some clarifying remarks.  When I was in the real estate business, we didn’t worry about gender or race or ethnicity or religion.  Black or white didn’t matter.  The only color that mattered was green.  If you could pay the rent, we did business; if you couldn’t, we didn’t.

Of course, being in business for 50 years tends to turn one into a misanthrope* of sorts.  A misanthrope (Weekly Word) is one who hates and mistrusts the human species.  And a misanthrope, by definition, could never discriminate against anyone:

Now racism is a disgrace

To discriminate just has no place

Short, fat, thin or tall

I dislike them all

Regardless of color or race.

The Fourth of July was eerily different this year.  We didn’t go to a big gathering to watch fireworks.  We stayed home and watched the fireworks in New York City on television.  I was particular moved by images of the Statue of Liberty lit by lights below and fireworks above.  When I read the moving words “yearning to breathe free” on the statue, I thought of George Floyd yearning to breathe as he was being choked.  I thought of all of us yearning to breathe without masks and without getting sick.  I thought of people suffocating from poverty and oppression yearning to breathe the clean air of liberty.  Stay well, my friends, count your blessings and pray that next year we will all breathe more freely.  See you next week.  Don’t you dare miss it.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #173

We stopped smoking, we stopped drinking, we exercised, we ate the right foods and put on sunscreen.  We ate only the egg yolks, then only the egg whites, then no eggs at all.  We switched from Coke to Diet Coke to Caffeine-Free Diet Coke to Snapple to water.  We did everything the World Health Organization told us to do in order to become healthy so we could live a longer life.  And what are we doing with those extra years we gained by being such good little Kens and Barbies?  Hiding from Covid and rioters, avoiding being in the same room with our loved ones and wondering where our 401Ks went.  Hardly seems worth it, does it?  But hang in there, my friends.  As Robert Frost said, “Provide, provide.”

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are doing well and feeling young.  Today is my wife’s birthday.  Carol looks fantastic and moves like a teenager.  I won’t tell you how old she is, just that she’s the youngest old woman on Earth.

I had a wonderful joke inserted here, but it was 346 words, so I cut it out so I’d have more room for OUTRAGE.  I’ll try to use it next week.  It’s about bull testicles.  Now I’m sure you’ll be back next week.

Last week, I had a couple of outraged readers excoriate* me for something I said.  Excoriate means to criticize severely, so that’s our Weekly Word.  One was my oldest granddaughter; the other was one of my best friends.  Hey, I can handle it.  As the comedian Steven Wright said, “If you want the rainbow, you got to put up with the rain.”

Besides, everyone is outraged about something.  Well, I’m outraged too.  Did you know that 80% of all Covid deaths are people over 65-years-old?  Did you know that 60% of all Covid deaths are men?  We old men are the forgotten victims here. 

These young whipper-snappers (that in itself shows you how old I am) are going to bars, going to beaches, out in the streets protesting.  It doesn’t affect them much – they’re young.  But then they go home and infect their grandfathers.  They’re killing us.  WRINKLED LIVES MATTER and we want to be in the decision-making process.  I’m telling you folks, if you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.

Those readers, by the way, were angry with me for something to do with people wanting to tear down statues.  In my opinion, if we allowed every interest group to destroy everything they find offensive, there would be nothing and nobody left in this country.  Just think.

Native Americans would get rid of Eskimo Pies, statues of George Custer, and the Washington Redskins.

Blacks would get rid of the Confederate Flag, Mount Rushmore, and Hattie McDaniel.

Jews would eliminate the KKK, statues of Charles Lindbergh, and whoever said we couldn’t eat bacon.

Stutterers would get rid of all images of Porky Pig, King George VI, and Joe Biden.

Hispanics would get rid of The Wall, statues of Christopher Columbus and Speedy Gonzalez cartoons.

Rednecks would get rid of Blacks, Jews and Hispanics.

And just about everybody would get rid of robocalls, mosquitos and Joy Behar.  See my point?  If everyone was allowed to eliminate whatever he or she perceived as offensive, the world would be as empty as Lady Godiva’s closet. 

I’m convinced that we are now experiencing God’s newest wave of Plagues.  Just in the news today, there were stories about locusts and sandstorms and heightened earthquake activity.  Here are the Ten Modern Plagues:

Plague 1 – Trump, easily the most violently despised politician in US history

Plague 2 – Corona Virus.  No argument there

Plague 3 – Economic Recession

Plague 4 – Murder Hornets.  Don’t ask.

Plague 5 – Civil Insurrection

Plague 6 – Locusts in South America.  I’m serious.  Read the news.

Plague 7 – The Killing of Statues

Plague 8 – The Godzilla Dust Cloud from the Sahara

Plague 9 – Earthquake Activity in California.  That’s in the news too.

And what will the 10^th plague be?

Dear Lord, from your plagues we are hidin’

We hope they will soon be subsidin’

But the worst plague, I fear,

Will come early next year

When we’re governed by President Biden.

It’s getting so bad that – well, you know those 200 or 300 miles of Border Wall Trump built?  If it gets any worse, the people climbing the wall will be Americans trying to get into Mexico.  I’ve started eating Chalupas every day and am learning to sing La Cucaracha.  I wonder if Mexico will give us Sanctuary Cities and free Driver’s Licenses.  I know they’re ready for us, because my friend Kitty in Mexico sent me a picture of a sign over there.  It reads:  Welcome to the Fun Side of the Wall!  That’s the truth.

Message from Shakespeare:  A plague on both your houses (Romeo and Juliet).  I’m just a cat, and I don’t know a lot about plagues.  But this Corona thing seems to keep my Pops home a lot so he can scratch me and play with me more.  I like that.  As far as Trump and Biden are concerned, you can turn them both into cat food.  My favorites are Nancy Purr-losi and, of course, Mew-lania.  Now I hear they want to change the name of St. Louis and tear down the statue of St. Louis IX.  I think they should rename it Shakespeare City and put up a statue of me.  They’ll never have to tear my statue down.  With only three legs, it will probably fall down all by itself.

Great, my cat thinks he’s a political pundit.  Shaky, when I need an expert on licking yourself, I’ll call you.  Until then, I’ll handle this.

My blood-pressure cuff tells me it’s time to stop, so I’ll let you get back to deciding which monument you want destroyed.  Stay well and count your blessings and have a good Independence Day.  We’re all Americans under the same flag and the same anthem, and we need to work out our problems together.  I’ll be back next week, if the PC Police let me.  Don’t miss it.  I’m sure to piss somebody off.  Meanwhile, sing with me:  La Cucaracha, La Cucaracha, Ya no puede caminar.

Miguel                                     Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com