The Absolutely True Story of the World’s Most Evil Veterinarian

I shamelessly stole this story from a friend who I will refer to for the purposes of this column as “Bo.”  This is because his true, accurate and legal name is Bo Mackey.  Bo told me this story in confidence, so please, whatever you do, keep it to yourself.  It is now my favorite story.  It has replaced my previous favorite story about my friend Chris Linn, and Chris finding himself in third world bathroom sans any toilet paper, and concludes with him walking out of said bathroom, sans his socks.  (Don’t worry, Chris.  You’re still hanging in solidly at #2 – for your #2).

Bo swears this story is true.  After hearing it, I felt a duty (a moral obligation, actually) to share it with you, my loyal subscribers.

A friend of Bo’s has a veterinarian who is a “mobile vet” – one of those veterinarians who works out of a van.  Bo’s friend schedules this vet to stop by and see one of his dogs.  I’m not sure what the dog’s problem was, but suffice it to say, I’m sure it was for a reason that most cheapskate pet owners (me) would never consider calling a vet for.

So the vet stops by and puts a Band-Aid on the paw of this dog, or whatever service he uses his seven years of higher education to perform.  Then he hops back in his van, and while he’s backing out of the guy’s driveway, he accidentally runs over the guy’s other dog.  And it’s not a pretty situation.  Apparently, he really nailed him.  Practically spit the thing in two.

But here’s where it gets really gross.  The dog is still alive.

Luckily for the dog, a veterinarian was immediately available.  The vet jumps into action.  He grabs one of those “go to doggy heaven” syringes, and dispatches the poor soul to his maker.

Now, any normal person would figure this is where the story ends.  But no.

Within a day or two, a bouquet of flowers arrives at the dog owner’s home with a heartfelt condolence card.  But no.  This is NOT where the story ends.

At the end of the month, the owner walks out to his mailbox, and what does he find?  A BILL for the cost of euthanizing the dog that the veterinarian ran over.

But NO, this is STILL NOT where the story ends.  Here is the end of the story–

The guy PAID THE BILL!

Maybe I should have titled this column, The World’s Best Veterinarian Customer.

_______

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Despite Every Effort, The Cat Moved In

We used to have a cat, but we gave it away.  We had a good reason.  It turned out after we got it, that it was A Cat.  As a result, we have been cat-less.

Recently, however, our cat-less life came to a screeching halt.  It began with a phone call from my wife –

“There’s a cat on the porch.  It’s meowing really loud, and it won’t leave.  Come home right now!” The tone of her voice imbued the mild concern of, say, a DEFCON 1 emergency.

By the time I got home, the cat had breached the front door and was sitting in the foyer meowing as if he were Lassie trying to alert us that Timmy had fallen down the well (again).

I want to say ahead of time that I’m not proud of what I did next.  But I did it out of loyalty to my wonderful wife.  So let’s be clear, I am embarrassed to admit what I am about to tell you, but I would do it again if my wife asked (ordered).

My wife developed the theory that the cat might live in a Victorian home two blocks away.  Why, you ask?  Because we live in a Victorian, and she surmised that the cat might have confused the two houses.  It was already 10 o’clock at night, and my initial inclination was to launch headlong into a lecture about how I doubted that this cat was versed in Western European architecture.  Instead, I grabbed my coat.

Off we marched down the street, the cat dutifully following us toward the Victorian.  When we arrived, the cat showed about has much interest in the place as an aardvark being shown a violin.  I even marched up the walkway (like an idiot) trying to interest the cat in following me, but he remained on the sidewalk with a feline expression of sour disinterest.

After it was obvious the cat had no interest in this house, my wife suggested we walk around the neighborhood to see if the cat recognized any of the houses.

Eight butt-cheek freezing blocks later, we arrived back at our house.  The cat was still following us.  When we got to our walkway, he couldn’t race up the walkway fast enough.

We resigned ourselves to the cat spending the night.

The next morning, I made my next critical error.  We didn’t have any cat food, so I looked around the pantry.  I spotted a can of tuna.  As my good friend, who for the purposes of this column I will refer to as “John,” because his name is John Kim, later explained to me, ‘Jack, what were you thinking?  No cat moves from a tuna house, back to a non-tuna house!’

We took the cat to the vet down the street to see if he had an identification chip under his skin.  We learned three things: 1. He didn’t have a chip; 2. He had never been neutered; and, 3. While he didn’t have fleas (that they could find at the time), he did have “flea dandruff.”  (This was new to me, I didn’t think fleas had dandruff.)

Our wonderful local animal shelter helped us look for his owner.  But, alas, no one came forward.

Finally, my daughter’s boyfriend summed it up: “Somebody dumped the cat.”

My wife snapped into action.  Amazon boxes began filling our house.  UPS trucks began getting into UPS truck traffic jams in our driveway.

Here’s a taste –

A ceremonial “scratching post” to remind Rocky (his new name) to scratch our custom upholstered living room chairs.

An automated litter box built to handle a herd (three) of cats.

Enough cat toys to start a cat-themed amusement park.

“Gourmet” cat food.  (The cat’s eating better than I am.)

And, of course, a bed to perch on his favorite end of the family room couch.

In short, here is our situation –

The bad news is, we are no longer cat-less.

The good news is, (so far), the cat has allowed us to stay in his home.


WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Millennials take a break from coifing their man-buns to begin another irritating trend

There is a recent trend among millennials.  They have taken a break from coifing their man-buns and drinking “locally roasted” “small batch” coffee, to start a new irritating trend.  They’re buying record players.  I first noticed this when my millennial daughter bought one.  Then my millennial nephew.  It’s an epidemic.  But here’s the rub –

Millennials (primarily, male millennials) are defending their purchase of these record players by claiming they produce better sound.  Female millennials are quick to admit they are buying them because they’re cool, but male millennials can’t bring themselves to admit this.  So they’ve invented this excuse.  Of course, there is only one reason they could think people will believe this – They’ve wound their man-buns too tight.

My millennial friends and relatives:  Please take it from the hundreds of millions of us around the globe that have lived in both the vinyl and digital music world.  Your claim that vinyl records produce better sound is FAKE NEWS!

Listen up –

  1. Dust. That cardboard sleeve records are sold in is called a “dust jacket.” Any speck of dust on the record causes an irritating little “pop” when the needle hits it. Dust jackets help keep the dust off, but unless you’re planning on playing your records inside the “clean room” at MIT’s Nanotechnology Department, it’s always an issue.
  2. Scratching. Vinyl records scratch easily. True, this is only a problem if you want to actually play your record. And even then, it’s only a problem during each rotation.  Let’s put it this way – The sound of the needle hitting a scratch makes you long for the comparatively melodic “pop” of the needle hitting a speck of dust.
  3. Warping. Vinyl records warp. If a vinyl record even thinks you are going to take it outside, or heaven help you, you leave it in your car for thirty seconds when the temperature is above freezing, it’s going heat up and warp.  See how much better it sounds than digital after that.

And the Granddaddy reason of them all that confirms, beyond even the wildest millennial speculation, that digital music sounds better than vinyl…

  1. Digital music has practically wiped out musicians’ profits. They have to go on the road and sell concert tickets to make any real money. That wasn’t the case when they sold vinyl.  If musicians thought for a moment that they could convince their fans that records sounded better, they would be promoting that fact 24/7.  They’d never shut up about it.  You would see an endless stream of commercials on television and radio promoting vinyl records.  There is nothing easier to bootleg than digital music.

But, my millennial friends, setting these minor issues aside, yeah.  You’re probably right – I’m sure vinyl sounds better.

___

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Who Are These People With Balls Hanging Off Their Trucks?

I was stuck behind a pickup recently. I’m not sure why, but this truck
seemed incredibly masculine. I thought that perhaps it was the style
of the bumper. But on closer inspection, the bumper seemed quite ordinary —

Then, I thought it might be the license plate. But what’s more
gender-neutral than a Hawaiian license plate? It’s got a rainbow on it
for goodness sake. Take a look —

So that wasn’t the reason.

I just couldn’t figure it out. I was baffled.

Then it struck me! Somebody had hung a pair of balls on it !

BALLS!

BALLS on their truck!

Let’s pause for a moment and consider this. Someone —

A. Decided that hanging a pair of balls on their truck would make an appealing statement about himself.

B. Invested the  time to find AND BUY a pair of balls. (Where would you even shop?) Does Amazon carry truck balls? Would Amazon ever even consider marketing such a crass and tasteless product? OF COURSE IT WOULD!  Here is but a small sample of the plethora of truck balls available RIGHT NOW on Amazon.com—

(And, as you can see, they are surprisingly affordable.)

And,

C. Fastened them securely to his truck. (I assume that when this
person attaches his balls, he does so securely. I don’t see him taking
a chance that his balls might fall off.)

Where does a person like this work? I don’t want to spread any stereotypes, but I’ll spread a couple of stereotypes. I have a difficult time believing he’s a hairdresser. I also have trouble believing he’s a
florist. But hey, what do I know. Maybe truck balls are a trend in the
hairdressing community.  Maybe there are rows of truck balls lined up in hairdressing parking lots.

I’m pretty sure that everyone who has the misfortune of following a pair of these boys is thinking the same thing.  This truck doesn’t seem fully “intact.”  The [slang word for the famous male body part that starts with the letter “D”] is missing. Please allow me to disabuse you of this notion.  These trucks are 100% fully “intact.”  The D*** is there all right.  He’s driving the truck.

_________________

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

If You Want to Kill Your Friend, Order the Pretzels

My wife and I went to dinner with two other couples last Friday night.  It was a very pleasant evening with one minor exception.  One of the couples, John and Julie, who are the nicest people in the world, tried to kill me.  Don’t get me wrong, I love these people, but one more assassination attempt, and it might negatively affect our relationship.

I should have seen it coming.  Shortly after we sat down, Julie ordered a Bloody Mary.  A Bloody Mary.  But was I paying attention?  Did this place me on alert?  In my defense, I was distracted by how tasty the drink looked.

What method did this lovely couple use to try to kill me?  Poison?  Too pedestrian.  Stiletto?  Passé.  Their plan was far more clever, and if I may say, devious.  They chose Death by Pretzel.  Specifically, Bavarian pretzel.

The plan ingeniously took advantage of the fact that I am an Oregon State University alumni.  In other words, I am a Beaver – a proud member of Beaver Nation.  Here is a description of the deadly appetizer from the menu –

Beaver mustard?  Certainly they knew I could not resist.  I picked up a piece of pretzel and dipped it in the beaver mustard.  Then I enthusiastically bit down.  I immediately noticed its texture.  It was as soft and chewy as a lug wrench.  And, it broke off part of my tooth.  (Talk about a “killer appetizer.”)

Luckily for me, at my dentist’s office, comfort is “Job One.”  No expense is spared.  Here is the view from the dental chair showing the soft, body-sculpted, yet ergo dynamic visitor’s chair –

I hadn’t been to my dentist in some time, and shortly after the assistant had me take a seat in the dental chair, a very serious face swung around to greet me.  At first, I thought it was my dentist, Dr. Larson.  (He has been getting up in age).  But then I realized he couldn’t have changed THAT much.  Here’s the face –

It turned out to be Tucker, a certified “Dental Emotional Support Dog.”  Okay, he might not be officially certified – maybe online or something.

Dr. Larson arrived, and I was amazed at his skill.  Not every dentist can treat a patient while a 150 pound dog is trying to climb on the patient’s lap.  (Tucker takes his job very seriously.)

As a result of this “near miss” on my life, and after deep contemplation, I have reluctantly decided to placed John and Julie on “double secret probation.”  Absolute zero tolerance.  I’m putting my foot down.  One more attempt to take my life, and they will pay the ultimate price.  I’m going to make them come with me to Dr. Larson’s office and sit in that visitor’s chair.

_______

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

Why You Should Cash Out Your 401K and Buy French Bulldogs (Despite All the Farting)

My investment advisor recently told me that the stock market is ripe for a “correction.”  “Correction” is code for, “Hold onto your shorts, your 401K is about to enter a death spiral steeper than an Acapulco cliff diver.”  Luckily, I have stumbled onto a new investment strategy – french bulldogs.

As my loyal readers know, I occasionally dog sit for my daughter’s dog, Milo.  I consider myself a minority shareholder in a kind of “doggy timeshare.”  But my percentage is pretty skimpy, so I started looking for my own dog.

About one second into researching french bulldogs, I discovered their most prominent feature –  They cost their weight in gold-plated, diamond studded platinum.  The puppy above is a bargain at $3,600.  That’s not a typo.  It’s Three Thousand, Six-Hundred Dollars!  And that’s just because it probably has buck teeth, or maybe it’s missing a standard body part.  Here’s one a little farther up the price chain –

To put this in perspective, Milo cost $1.95.  (Or maybe the pound just gave him away.  I’m not sure.)  How did this happen?  A cute dog like Milo is practically free, and a french bulldog, not exactly known for their ravenous beauty, cost the same as a modestly used Hyundai Sonata?

Because I’m a cheapskate, I didn’t want to shell out thousands on an ugly dog.  So I decided to google, “Reasons not to own a french bulldog.”

This article popped up – “10 Reasons to NOT Adopting or Buying a French Bulldog,” by Ignacio Santiago.  Reason #1 was, “Possibly, it is the most flatulent dog of the world.”  Here is his full commentary on reason #1:

“Don´t make a mistake, we are not talking about one or two farts per
week. We are talking about a constant cloud of bad smell around the
french bulldog. Not only that, also they burp after eating. Besides,
don´t think they will cut you off when someone is visiting. Whoever it
is, they will eat a frenchie fart 100% sure.”

French bulldogs are the Gatling gun of canine farters.  But, when considering any investment, the first rule is Do The Math.  Here it is –

Let’s say you buy one of the cheaper, possibly defective, french bulldog’s for $3,600.

French bulldogs live an average of 11 years.

That’s about 4, 015 days.

That’s only about 90 cents a day.

At an average of 10 FPDs (Farts per day), that’s only 9 cents a fart.

That’s not bad.

This is why (all you kids out there, listen up) math is so important.  Because now we know that mathematically speaking french bulldogs are currently a bargain.  But the clock is ticking.

I’m going to cash out my 401K and corner the market.  All you suckers can go ahead and stand firm with the stock market.  But with carefully planning, and the right strategy, as the average FPD increases to 12 cents, or (do I dare to dream?) 15 cents, I’ll be sitting pretty.  Smelly, yes.  But pretty.

____

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

 

Men with Bladders the Size of a Walnut Should Be Banned From the Opera

My wife and I recently attended a performance of The Barber of Seville at the Kennedy Center.  This turned out to be quite a challenge for me because I have a bladder the size of a walnut.  My wife had obtained our tickets at a charity auction, and neither of us had been to the Kennedy Center, or ever attended an opera for that matter.

We arrived early, and my wife kept saying she wanted to visit something called the Russian Lounge.  I pictured a windowless, smoke-filled room where oligarchs sat around discussing who among their adversaries “needed to go” (as in, permanently).  As it turned out, I was precisely correct.  No, no.  Just kidding.  The Russian Lounge in the Kennedy Center’s opera house is where patrons hang out before performances and during intermission (or, as I refer to it, “halftime”).  Here it is –

This picture is clipped pretty hard because the last things these generous rich folks need is a cameo in my smart-alack (yet highly informative) column.  Trust me, they were all dressed to the nines, carried themselves with polished demeanor, and had an average age of 107.  Just kidding, again!  The average age couldn’t have been a day over 91.

The Russian Lounge is where I made my big mistake.  I ordered a bourbon.  Bourbon, as my wife will tell you with a pained look on her face, is my Kryptonite.  I digest bourbon as well as dogs digest chocolate.  It never ends well.

After sliding the last drop of that mistake down my throat, we headed to our seats.  We were thrilled – forth row, center.  I looked back and surveyed the massive audience of 2,700.  Here are the balconies.

I would have included the main floor, but too many people were staring at me when I lifted my camera.  They all look richer and far more sophisticated than me, so I didn’t have the nerve to include them in the photo.

The first half of The Barber of Seville is about 90 minutes.  At 35 minutes, my bladder started to percolate.  At 40 minutes, things were tightening up, and it was dawning on me that I wasn’t going to make it to intermission.  I turned to my wife and told her I had to go.  She shook her head firmly and said, “No.”  She was absolutely correct.  It wasn’t an event where people wandered in and out.  In fact, no one had.

At 45 minutes, I was waiting for a break in the action to make my move.  But Opera singers are like those whales that can take a breath and remain submerged for hours.  Just as their voices would begin to fade, and I would grip my armrests preparing to make my move, their voices would shoot back up and launch into another verse.

Finally, a song ended, and people began clapping.  It was my big chance.  I turned to my wife and said, “I’ve got to go.”

A look of horror shot across her face, and she silently mouthed, “Don’t go!”

I didn’t have the luxury of time to plead my case.  I simply gazed deep into her despondent eyes and said, “I’m sorry.” Then I turned and dashed up the aisle.

In retrospect, I blame the Kennedy Center for allowing me to attend in the first place.  This is the premier center for the arts in entire United States.  Don’t they have standards?  Even the most rudimentary background check is going to disclose that I am from Alsea.  A team of armed security guards should have been waiting for me at the entry to initiate a full pat-down, water-boarding, and, of course, bladder check.

The next time I go to the opera, I’m going to take the same precautions I do when I  fly in a single engine plane – It’s liquid deprivation for a minimum of six hours preflight (or in this case – “pre-opera”).

_______

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

I Have Never Been Upgraded to First Class But I Have Been Upgraded to Toilet Class

There are three rules to getting upgraded to First Class:  1. Get to the gate early.  2. Dress professionally.  And 3. Own the airline.  Okay, I was just kidding about number 3.  You don’t need to own the airline.  You only need to be Chairman of the Board of the airline.

There is nothing sweeter than being upgraded to First Class.  Or, at least, this is what I’m told.  I myself personally have never been upgraded to First Class, although I have been upgrade to Toilet Class.  You might even say that I am a frequent flyer when it comes to flying Toilet Class.

There are two levels of Toilet Class.  The first is the seats directly in front of the toilets that don’t recline.  Thus, you are not able to “stretch out” and luxuriate in that extra 1½ inches of leg room.  While this is not the highest level of Toilet Class, it still allows you to enjoy having a line of people hovering over you with their legs crossed.  The second, or “Top Tier” Toilet Class (unfortunately, not all plane configurations have this) is the seat directly to the side of the toilet.  From my considerable experience, you sit to the right of the lavatory door.  Here is your view –The exception to this being your view is when someone’s butt is your view.

A bonus to the top-tier Toilet Class seat is inhaling a whiff of that chemical smell every time someone exits.

One of the most memorable flights I have ever had was returning from Hawaii a few years ago sitting on the aisle directly across from the toilet.  Now, the fact that I was sitting by the toilet is not what made this flight memorable.  In fact, that just made it another day in the life – It’s almost my assigned seat.  No, what made this trip memorable was that something was wrong with the door latch.  So each of the 1,005 times someone left the toilet and shut the door, within a moment, the door swung back open in my direction.  I literally spent five and a half hours shutting the toilet door.

My main point is this – If a First Class ticket costs four times as much as a coach ticket, shouldn’t a Toilet Class ticket cost four times less?  Trust me when I say this – The “flying experience” of someone seated mid-cabin is notably better than someone who has to shut the toilet door every five seconds.

Jack, you might ask, “What can I do to increase my chances that I will be upgraded to Toilet Class?”  Three things: 1. Arrive at the gate just as they are preparing to secure the cabin door and the gate agent is wearing that frowny face.  2. Sport a faded Hawaiian shirt and dirty cargo pants.  And 3. Be Chairman of the Board of the “I was running too late to comb my hair society.”  Trust me on this folks – The flight attendant will immediately direct you back to your specially assigned seat.

_______

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

I Can’t Touch My Cellphone But People Can Drive Down the Freeway with Ladies’ Legs Sticking Out the Top of Their Cars?!

Oregon has a new law forbidding the use of cellphones while driving.  It’s extremely strict.  In fact, it’s so strict that even thinking about touching your phone while driving is punishable by death.  Okay, maybe not that strict, but darn close.  The first offense is a big fat fine.  The second offense is a bigger fatter fine, and the third offense (and I am not kidding) is punishable by up to six months in jail.  You read that correctly.  You can get tossed in the slammer for changing the music on your iTunes app.

Potential Future Jail House Conversation –

Meth addict with a picture of Satan tattooed on his forehead, “What’re you in for?”

Me, answering in a quivering voice and slightly peeing myself, “Tapping the Google Maps app on my phone to reroute around a traffic jam.”

Our lawmakers were so concerned about the dangers of using a cellphone while driving, that they made the law apply to everyone.  Absolutely everyone.  No exceptions.  Because, as I stated, it is so dangerous.  Oh, wait a minute.  There is ONE exception – police officers.  Yeah.  Big shocker, Oregon’s new law does NOT apply to cops.  Apparently, cops undergo a rigorous training course that teaches them specialized techniques which enable them to safely drive while chatting on the phone with their girlfriends.

So, imagine my shock when my wife and I were heading north on Interstate 5 south of Portland yesterday when I spot a car with what appeared to be a bunch of women’s legs sticking out the top.

I nearly had an accident yelling for my wife to take a picture of it, so that I could report this clear and present danger to you, the driving public.  Even though I knew I was risking bodily death backing traffic up in the fast lane behind me while my wife snapped a picture.  I felt it imperative to bring this disturbing transportational development to your attention.

When I initially spotted the legs, my first impression was that they were all women’s legs.  In retrospect, I think the bright yellow tutu on the right caught my attention.  However, my astute wife, Julie, announced that a number of the legs appeared to be MEN’S legs!  Upon further review, I think she’s right.  Here is Exhibit #1 –Now, I can understand why someone would find it beneficial to drive down the freeway with women’s legs sticking out of the top of their car, but I have to draw the line somewhere.  No one, and I mean no one, should risk a multi-car pile-up over the revulsion of seeing a bunch of gross hairy men’s legs sticking out of the top of a car.  It’s just wrong.

I’m writing a letter to my state representative, and telling her that we need to amend our new cellphone law.  We need to forbid, once and for all, allowing men’s legs to stick out the top of cars.  And the penalty should be stiff.  I suggest a mandatory minimum of six months in the slammer – PER HAIRY LEG!

_______

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

The Secret to Keeping Your Family’s Mitts Off Your Stuff

My beautiful daughter bought me a Hydro Flask for my birthday.  I was touched by her thoughtfulness – for nearly 24 hours.  Then I realized that she had taken the saying, “When you buy a gift, buy something you’d like to have yourself,” a little too far.  It dawned on me that she had IN FACT bought herself a gift because every time I go looking for it, she has it.  (Okay, okay, I can hear her saying, “Not every time!” And yes, I am exaggerating.  It is only 97% of the time.)

At long last I have found a solution.  I’ve named it, the “Not over my dead body” solution, or NOMDB for short.

NOMDB is simple to use.  Here is an example:

I live in a Eugene, Oregon, or more officially, “The People’s Republic of Eugene.”  To put it mildly, Hillary got 105% of the vote here.  Any time there is a march or rally in Eugene, twice as many people show up than actually live in the city.  You know those pink hats that folks started wearing after the last presidential election?  The ones they refer to by that name that starts with a “P” and is a slang term for a popular part of the female anatomy?  A Eugene City Ordinance requires every household to own at least two.  I’m not saying they’d jail you if they discovered you only had one P**** Hat, but it would at least be a hefty fine.

But I digress.  The NOMDB method involves gauging the political climate in your area and then putting a sticker on the item you don’t want borrowed.  For example, it will be a cold day in H-E-double-toothpicks before my daughter borrows a Hydro Flask with an NRA sticker on it.  Or a Trump sticker.  Here is the rule when choosing your sticker: Would your loved one respond, “Not over my dead body”?  Bingo!

You’d like to try NOMDB but don’t have a sticker handy?  Order it on Amazon.  Here’s one for sale right now–You live in Dallas?  No problem.  Just put one of these in your Amazon “cart”–

If you ladies in Texas really want to keep your man’s mitts off your Hydro Flask, one of these stickers is going to do the trick.  Believe me, he’s not going to want to announce to his buddies at the shooting range that–I’m not saying the use of this technique is without risk.  Walking through downtown Eugene with an NRA or MAGA sticker could be extremely dangerous to you bodily health.  Someone with a COEXIST bumper sticker might become enraged and decide to shove it up your uncomfortable place.  But the world belongs to the bold.  “Speak your truth.”

Meanwhile, my daughter’s birthday is coming up.  I’m thinking of getting her something she’d really like.  Something soft and frilly.  Something a teenage girl has always dreamed of having.  I’m thinking of a cordless nail gun.

________________

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

And Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

A three minute vacation for your brain.