Category Archives: Humor

Why You Should Enlist in the Space Force

I’ve decided to enlist in the Space Force.  Is it for patriotism? No. Is it my duty to my fellow citizen? No. I’m doing it for one reason, and one reason only: Tang. 

If you are under 50, you might not be familiar with Tang.  Tang is a beverage that scientists developed for astronauts in the 1960s.  Using cutting-edge technology, NASA scientists were finally able to overcome the challenging task of combining sugar and orange dye.

Drinking Tang by the gallon is how we kids were able to feel like we were a part of our country’s space program.  And by “feel like we were a part of,” I mean drinking it until we had an intense sugar high and then running around in circles like nuts.

I, for one, long for the days when 95% of my breakfast consisted of liquefied sugar.

‘But, Jack,’ you say, ‘do you mean that if I enlist in the Space Force that I’ll be forced to drink Tang three times a day, my teeth will rot out, and I’ll gain 50 pounds by the end of basic training?’  Don’t be silly, you’ll gain at least 75.  It’s called sacrificing for your country people!  Get over it.  Stop with all the me, me, me! 

There are other benefits to enlisting in the Space Force –

Weightless “slimming” 

When you’re floating in space, those “love handles” that hang on your sides like smoked hams will magically disappear.  Without gravity, your love handles, and any of your other handles, will simply blend into your weightless blob-like shape.  You’ll look great.  Really.  Just because I’m being paid a commission for every Space Force recruit I sign up doesn’t mean I’d lie to you (well, not necessarily). 

Nifty Space Force Uniforms

Have you seen Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan?  ‘Nuff said. 

Look, I’m not saying the Space Force is for everyone. There are plenty of people who wouldn’t fit in.  The Space Force is only for those who are unselfish, love our country, and have decided not to live their lives in a narcissistic manner, void of all true value or meaning.  So if you “bow out,” I understand. 

And just like the Army, the Space Force will have a “buddy program.”  So you can sign up with a friend.  I’m still looking for a buddy, so if you’re interested, let me know.  In the meantime, I’ve already started my conditioning regimen to prepare for boot camp.  I’m sucking down Tang by the gallon. 

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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

Sign the Petition – New Rules for the Kentucky Derby

I was typing away furiously yesterday on a topic I felt would be near and dear to my readers – the San Francisco Poop Map, when a subject even more important (if you can believe that) came bursting into my living room.  It was Maximum Security – the only undefeated horse in the Kentucky Derby.  Maximum Security left the entire field of eating the mud he was kicking up behind him.  However, he got disqualified because some whiny horse owner got his (or her) panties in a bunch because the horses mixed it up (daintily) in the final turn. 

Maximum Security comes blasting across the finish line (to no one’s surprise) and I wife and I (we are horse racing experts for 90 minutes every year) figure that’s the end of it – time to get on with our day.  No.  “OBJECTION” is flashed on the screen.  What? Then we find out that there’s some kind of Marquis of Queensbury Rules that apply to horse racing.  We’re stunned.

My wife turns to me, and says (this is a direct quote), “I thought they left it up to the horses.”

“So did I,” I replied. 

Then we had to sit there and watch some carpet-bagging 65-1 horse with the worst name in horse racing history, Country House, who wasn’t even involved in the infraction (I think he was off getting his nails done) be named the winner. 

It was sickening. 

So, I’m calling on all the Trump Resisters and the MAGA supporters to stop arguing over how orange Donald Trump is for a moment and come together in unity to help insure that this injustice will NEVER repeat itself. 

Please sign my Petition to immediately implement the following new Kentucky Derby policies:

1. Anyone caught whining about the race results is banned from entering a horse for ten years.  No exceptions.  And, the violator must show up every one of those years to muck out the stalls.

2. Once the starting gates swing open, it’s every horse for himself.  Here’s the only rule – first horse’s nose across the line wins – even if he’s just trampled across three other horses to do it.  (We’re crowning a champion here, People!)

3. Jockeys are encouraged to use the techniques made so famous in the old Ben Hur movies – feel free to whip the other guy’s horse – heck, whip the other guy!  Let’s see some action.

Thank you for taking time out of your day (and your critical work either “resisting” on Twitter or “MAGA-ing” on Twitter) to sign my petition. 

Now, I can get back to the important work of finishing my column on the San Francisco Poop Map.

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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

You Know Who Else was a Vegetarian? Hitler

Famous writers use “literary devices” such as metaphors, similes and foreshadowing.  I use literary devices too, the most common one I use is referred to in professional writing circles as – “a lie.”  But when I incorporate a lie into one of my stories, accuracy is very important to me. 

I will not, however, need to use my “go to” literary device in this column.  This is because the fact that Hitler ate a vegetarian diet, especially during his final, and most insane years, is well-established.  (Google it if you don’t believe me.)

But please note this very important point: I’m not saying that if YOU are a vegetarian, that you are necessarily a maniacal, racist, mass murdering cesspool of pure evil.  I just saying you might be.  No.  No. Just kidding!  You’re probably not half as bad as Hitler.  Just kidding again!  You’re probably a vegetarian for a well-meaning reason.  You want to help save the planet, or live a healthy lifestyle, or because animals are “sentient beings,” or possibly because you love Hitler.  But it’s time to stop with all the finger pointing.

I live in a city that, to say the least, is vegetarian and vegan friendly – the People’s Republic of Eugene.   Tofu is to Eugene what steaks are to Omaha.  I would even say tofu is Eugenians’ lifeblood, but it would have to be “Tof-blood” – the Tofurky of blood. 

Faithful subscribers may recall the two months I spent as a vegan.  I dropped out of the vegan club for the same reason many people quit weird diets – a sudden impulse to begin cataloging and counting their “essential protein and mineral” intake.  I had never given two hoots about how many grams of protein I ate per day on my standard diet of fast-food breakfast sandwiches, candy bars and daily pastas.  Not one thought.  I was too busy devouring anything that got within arm’s reach.  HOWEVER, once I had declared I was a vegan, I suddenly began obsessing of over how many grams of protein my body needed per day to be healthy.  As if substituting a green salad for a Sausage McMuffin placed me in extreme dietary danger.  I finally quit that dangerous vegan diet of vegetables and went back to a safer diet of subway sandwiches and pizza.  (Look – What do you think I am, a daredevil?)

In short, in the midst of my vegan “food journey,” I finally saw the light. 

So, here’s the “take-away” from all this:

You can compare me to an overweight sloth.  You can compare me to vertical beluga whale.  But, at least, you cannot compare me to Hitler.

____

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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 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.

_______

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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.


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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.

___

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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.

_________________

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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.

_______

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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.

____

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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”).

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