I’m going to prison
I got the following voicemail Wednesday afternoon. I thought it was a sham, but since they used the word “hence,” it’s got to be real: “This call is from the federal courthouse. The reason we are trying to contact you is because we have identified suspicious activity against your Social Security number. Hence, there is a lawsuit filed against you to know about your case file. Call Social Security Administration.”
A really big prison
Same day, I got another voicemail. Apparently selling my blood and having that yard sale have come back to bite me: “We have just received a notification regarding your tax filings from the headquarters of IRS, which will get expired and next 24 working hours. And once again expired after that you will be taken under custody by the federal law posters. There are four serious allegations pressed on your name at this moment.”
Colorado town legalizes snowball fights
Thank God, because I’m tired of sneaking around in all the underground snowball fight clubs. Which I’m not supposed to talk about. Why, it’s the very first rule of the snowball fight club. So forget I said anything.
What would I do?
So, I recently discovered the crunchy, sweet joy of the Klondike bar and I’ve got to tell you. I’d do some pretty unsavory and possibly illegal things to get my hands on one. This new appetite presents a quandary, though. The bars are nice and cheap at Hannaford in Lewiston, but because of that, they almost never have the peanut butter cup version. What to do? Go somewhere else and pay more? Or buy at Hannaford and settle for something more ordinary, like the Crunch or that awful Heath version? I don’t know why life has to be so hard.
The magi revisited
So, a column I wrote for Wednesday’s paper, about a man trying to lug an appliance down Park Street in Lewiston, received mixed reaction. On one side were people who saw it as a touching and thought-provoking slice-of-life scene from Lewiston’s downtown. On the other side: an angrier group who interpreted the column as an indication that I’m a cold-hearted, do-nothing scoundrel who merely watched as a man struggled in the street. I appreciate both views on this, although in the interest of clarity, I should point out that when I first encountered the man on Park Street, I did offer to help him to lug whatever it was he was so valiantly trying to carry. The fellow advised me, with what I would describe as anatomical specificity, that he had no interest at all in assistance from the likes of some meddling dork on a motorcycle. I’ll always offer to help when I see someone struggling like that, but I tell you, I’m not going to do it against that person’s will. If I had, I suspect I would have ended up wearing that TV/toaster oven as a hat.
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