Now the reader already has internalized the fact, it is hoped, that I am not a mean guy.  Perhaps never to be nominated for sainthood, but a sure bet to enter heaven valedictorially.  If the goddamned place exists.

     So I open doors for strangers, say “good day” to them, receive those puzzled looks.  I can’t say,  “Gimme a pack of smokes.”  Oh no, I gotta confuse everybody and say, “May I please purchase a package of cigarettes?”  Which reminds me.  I hate it when the chick behind the counter asks me, “Hard or soft?”  I really don’t want the hard pack, but you know I just hate to say “soft” to a pretty girl.

     Unless it was to complete a sentence like, “Your mouth is very soft.” 

     Caller I.D. is relatively new to me.  I love it when the number of the girl I want to call me lights up the dial.  I am disappointed when it is any other number.  I am disappointed in myself when I let my machine answer the call of a friend.  I am disappointed when the caller I.D.-capable girl I want to answer my call won’t.  So I blocked my number so people have less opportunity to be rude to me directly.  Let ’em be rude to Mr. No Caller I.D. Available.  That guy’s got a lot thicker skin than me.

     But maybe she really did turn her phone off, right?  Like she said?  And pigs fly.  And Kylie whacks the cows and the chickens off before we whack ’em.

2026 R.M. Reliable Electric