My subscription to MAD Magazine ran out over 40 years ago, but I still harbor most of those juvenile traits deep in my soul. Sometimes they are so close to the surface that it threatens to give me away to the public. I have followed many scandals in the last few years about authors accused of plagarism, nepotism, cronyism, pedophilia, drunkenness, and other sins. I figured it was time to out myself as a miscreant child. Some of you may have already realized this, but I figured I better clue in both of the other readers before they found out in the news.
I am the guy who walks past the blood drive poster at work and can barely contain the urge to run to my desk, get a Sharpie, and make sure that everyone in the picture has a mustache and horns before I return to work.
I am the guy who can sometimes resist, sometimes not, the urge to write my name in the snow bank in my back yard with leftover tea from my thermos. In letters 2 feet tall. Northerners will understand the joke.
A beloved former pet of mine has a very high credit rating. When I get calls for him I take them quite seriously. I never lie. I am always polite. When they hang up they send me more credit cards. I never knew a sheepdog could be good for 50K in credit. Not once did I lie about anything, they just keep sending cards. He joined AARP last year. Only fair, he was about 153 in dog years. His card is in the corner of the frame that holds his picture.
Telephone solicitors will regularly have me ask them what they are wearing. I do it in my very worst Arabic accent. It upsets them. I speak Arabic a lot on phone, almost always with people who don’t speak Arabic back. It does cut down on return callers. Not one has ever wanted to know how I’m dressed. They always hang up.
I am overly amused by Hellen Keller jokes. Yes, it’s terrible. My wife is a saint.
I am up to level 20 on my current tablet video game. I can shoot up tanks with the best of them. I make KAPOW noises, quietly, while I blow up trucks as well. I do this in bed, lights off, like a 5 year old caught reading books after lights out.
I call your desk phone as you leave to go to the bathroom. I hang up when you get back to your desk, but before you can read the caller identification.
I draw stick figure cartoons.
I enjoy life immensely. And if that makes me 14, 12, 9, or even 5 years old in the eyes of some, I’ll take the hit.
Now, where did I put my whoopie cushion?