So, the other day, my wife, Michele, was on her laptop making the rounds stop when I heard a loud and rather excited, “OH MY GOD!”  Not being in the same room, I thought that one of the cats must have dropped a major hairball in her Coke Zero or something.  I was wrong.  I went racing in wondering what was going on when she told me that her old boyfriend, Billy Lyons,  wanted to be ‘friends’ with her on Facebook. “Sweetheart, was that really worthy of a glass-shattering ‘Oh My God?’ What’s the big deal,” I asked.  “Oh my God, he was such a hunk!  I could have just eaten him up,” she said.  “Whoo… re-phrase, please!”

 I was about ready to tell her that if my math was correct, when ‘ol heartthrob Billy was courting her, Ronald Reagan was spilling jellybeans all over the White House and the creator of Betamax was six! I managed, however, to take a deep breath, compose myself and respond like the mature adult I am by saying, “I BETCHA HE’S A POOPY HEAD AND WETS HIS BED!”I quickly realized I really should have taken an extra minute.

I was actually willing to let the whole thing go until she said, “WE WERE ENGAGED!”  I shot back with, “YOU WERE 16! WHAT DID HE GIVE YOU, HIS CAPTAIN MARVELOUS SECRET DECODER RING?” Hang on…need a beer, be right back.  How long have we been married and this is the first I’m even hearing about this guy to say nothing of you apparently swapping copious amounts of bodily fluids with him?”  She did go on to make one minor correction: she told me that they were almost engaged. The word ‘almost’ makes a big difference to me here.

After seeing his picture, I wondered what he has that I didn’t.  not.  Okay,  so he probably makes more money, has a full head of hair, and seems to be fairly well adjusted, but other than that, what are we talking about here?”

As it turns out Michele’s father never did like him because apparently, he drove a VW van with a cot in the back and he had hair that practically covered his ears!  The shame!  Truth be told, her father didn’t like me very much at first, either. After all, I played rock & roll on the radio and, early on insulted his favorite food, Broccoli Rabe, saying I’d rather eat a Brillo pad.

So, Michele, is there anything else you’d like to tell me at this time?  Perhaps you augmented your college funds by servicing sailors? Former Russian spy? Advisor to Steve Bannon?  Please, you can come clean. It’s okay, really it is.

By the way, honey, two can play this game:  I was never the star of my college wrestling team. I was in charge of carrying the bucket they threw up in. Ha-Ha. So there!


Eileen, a close friend of ours, made an errant turn while playing Twister and after a six-day wait in the emergency room, it was determined that she had, indeed, broken her foot. Eileen would like to remind everyone to exercise extreme caution while playing Twister, especially while naked… and alone.

She is now wearing what they call a walking air boot which comes with its own odometer. The first five miles she walks are free and after that, it’s ten dollars a mile. But the health care system in this country is not broken. Nothing to worry about.

Eileen learned something about this walking air boot: it draws wimpy men out of their pathetic little shells. She now believes a broken bone is far better than walking a puppy in the park when it comes to grabbing the attention of the opposite sex and it probably even surpasses winning a zillion dollars in the lottery. She swears she can’t go anywhere without men offering to help her. At Stop N’ Shop, they’re falling all over themselves to put food in her cart. Interestingly enough, these are the same disingenuous guys who wouldn’t give her the time of day before the Twister fiasco. Now, they’re asking her out to movies, dinner, and happy hours. Heck, she went to Home Depot to buy a door knob and one drooling construction worker started chatting her up and volunteered to build her a deck! Guys, please…take a cold shower. Pretend you’re sitting next to a naked Mitch McConnell in the sauna or if that doesn’t cool you off, imagine you’re getting a lap dance from Nancy Pelosi. Jeez! 

That gym rat whose best friend is a mirror was way too cool to acknowledge her existence before, all of a sudden is grunting, groaning, and sweating within inches of Eileen now. She can tell he’s just dying to start a meaningful conversation but all he’s been able to muster so far is, “Hey, you’ve got a really nice ra….I mean, um, how’s that tibia healing, anyway?”

What is wrong with you people? Eileen was the ideal date long before she broke her foot. Why did it take a compound fracture for you guys to develop a pulse? Were you intimidated by her? Maybe it’s because you thought (correctly) that she runs ten miles a day all while texting her stockbroker and composing Op-Ed pieces for the NY Times? But now that she’s ‘flawed,’ she’s somehow more approachable? Can you really be that insecure?

How about that overzealous stud at the liquor store? His tongue hanging down to his knees and pushing a shopping cart full of Jim Beam and Jack Daniel’s, he asked her if she needed help carrying her purchase to her car. I’m sure it would have meant more to her if she had bought more than ONE BOTTLE of Merlot!  Guys, control yourself, please. Eileen confided in me that although she thinks you are all acting like pre-pubescent fourth graders, she does kind of like the attention, but was quick to point out that you guys really have to step up your game.

The doctors say the walking boot will come off in two weeks but she’s seriously considering taking a ball peen hammer to her other foot just so she can keep it a little longer. It’s either that or she’ll just buy a puppy.


As we pop the lid on yet another school year, it’s time to show some love for those dedicated and loyal but often underappreciated agents in the educational system…the bus driver.

I will do so with fond memories of Mr. Bedrosian, my high school bus driver in Chicago (It’s near Illinois. You can look it up). Although Mr. B. never achieved a high educational level, he was one knowledgeable and entertaining man.

Mr. B. left school in the sixth grade to cut the heads off chickens on his father’s farm, which, I suppose, would account for the reason that the words ‘thighs’ and ‘breasts’ were the only words not allowed to be uttered on his school bus, or ‘classroom,’ as he called it.

We learned more about life from him than most some of our teachers. He was famous for saying things like, “Study hard, play hard and never leave a ballgame before the 7th inning stretch,” and  “Stand up to the bully. Punch him in the head and then pull his pants down. Nobody looks tough naked.”

We couldn’t wait to get on that bus so we could sit up close and get a good whiff of his freshly lit Camel. We hung on every word he said. Just about every morning he would sit idling his school bus and wait on the corner for Sandy and Steve to come out of her house. “Hey, Mr. B., c’mon, we’re going to be late for homeroom,” we would say. He would take a drag of his cigarette and tell us, “Sandy and Steve are making out in the house. Give ’em a minute. We punish you kids all the time for fighting. We certainly can’t punish you for loving, can we?”

He was a psychologist as well. “Hey Mr. B., I think this guy named Mike is trying to make time with my girlfriend, Sara.” He shook his head and offered, “Wait until gym class and bury his head in the mat.” Sage advice, indeed.

He was an expert on everything.

On the Chicago Cubs: “You kids may even live long enough to see them win four in a row.

On financial matters: “If you have to borrow money, ask your father. He’s only going to spend it on Playboys and Pabst Blue Ribbon anyway.”

On hot cheerleaders: “Look, but don’t touch. They’re either dating a player or too stuck up to mess with.”

He would even quiz us on stuff the day of an exam, just to make sure we were doing our part.

Mr. B. knew every student by name and knew all of our interests.  On a typical morning, he’d open the doors and ask, “Hey Glenn, how’s that curve ball working out for you?” or “Billy, go get ’em tonight at the track meet,” or “Hey, Miller, next time you try and sneak into Wrigley Field, I’m calling the cops.”

Today, of course, Mr. Bedrosian would be arrested for the way he treated kids and maybe that’s where we’ve gone astray. SMOKING ON A SCHOOL BUS? How could he? But that was then, and this is now, yet somehow we all managed to grow up to be responsible citizens…well, everyone except Jimmy Wolinski, who grew up be a White Sox fan. You can lead a horse to water, but…

A kinder, gentler man could not be found and that’s a lot more than we can say about some educational administrators today, who’ve made the wrong kind of headlines for incidents too numerous to name.

So, Mr. B., I know it’s been several years and nary a Christmas card from me, but, trust me, if you were still driving, I’d be the first one on the bus just to hear that next pearl of wisdom fall from your lips. Thanks again for the education and I’m sure you’d agree, “Kids belong ON the bus and IN school…not ON your front lawn!  God bless you. 


I strayed from my usual dinner of Salsa a la Triscuit the other night and had something called Brussel sprouts. I imagined them to be about as tasty as wet cardboard would be if you added a dash of cumin. They also had a negative effect on my digestive system and consequently the environment but that’s not what this is about.

This is about a nightmare I had concerning Jimmy Wolinski the same night I ate the sprouts. Coincidence? Jimmy was a friend of mine when we attended Deerfield High School on the north side of Chicago. Jimmy was a good kid and the first to suggest that we play a game of touch football instead of tackling our biology homework. It should come as no surprise that you will not be reading about Jimmy discovering a cure for cancer or even an ergonomically correct beer glass anytime soon. Jimmy now teaches gym at the very same high school that he attended and I can say with confidence that his students will never have a better mentor on the proper way to climb a rope (an exercise that comes in handy should you ever need to scale a prison wall) or how to serve shuttlecock in badminton and still look cool. However…

In my dream, Jimmy was called into service to teach trigonometry in addition to his torturous gym instructor duties, which include blowing the whistle and carrying a clipboard. Let me be clear: Jimmy MUST NOT teach trigonometry. Jimmy’s highest math class was a paint-by-numbers pre-introduction to junior remedial algebra. I know because I sat right next to him. I would be willing to bet my Cubs footsie pajamas that Jimmy thinks trigonometry is a breathing procedure where a tube is placed in the neck.

I’m painfully aware that the current economy is forcing workers to double and sometimes triple up on duties as a result of lay-offs and as distressing as this is, the thought of Jimmy going anywhere near a classroom where they have actual books and instruments of higher learning is mind-numbing.

Teachers need to stick to what they know and I certainly wouldn’t want a trig teacher telling me how to put someone in a full nelson or how to do backflips. I need Jimmy for that. Here’s what some of his former gym students have said about him.

“His gym shoes were always really white!”.” 

(Steve Kelly)

“Mr. Wolinski taught me one of the most valuable lessons in life; never eat an entire pizza before doing somersaults.”

(David Ives)

“That man could really blow a whistle.”

(Hunter Lessner)

“Thanks Mr. W. for the valuable lesson about the jockstrap and the hockey stick.”

 (Dan “The Soprano” Lindquist)

Jimmy’s a great physical education teacher and the master of the wet towel snap to the buttocks, but teaching trig? 

“Okay, Kids, settle down. My name is Mr. Wolinski and if you don’t behave, I’ll blow my whistle. Today, we’ll be discussing the Pytha…that theory thingamabob that says that 2 sides of a triangle equal…no, wait a minute…I mean when you add up three sides then subtract the short…no, wait. Ah heck, anybody want to go outside and play kickball?”

Hey, dreams can come true and if this one materializes, the kids in Deerfield are in a world of hurt! I’m planning on doing my part. There will be no more Brussel sprouts on my menu, ever again. As much as my mouth salivates for the taste of soggy pizza boxes, I’m giving them up and I suggest you do the same. I say keep Jimmy in the locker room and out of the classroom. Our children deserve at least that.


I was driving to work the other day not feeling that great about myself. I needed to work out the serious funk I was in before my radio program started at 6 AM, but how? I needed a self-help book, and fast! Then I had an ephinany: I would write that self-help book myself. After all, who better to write a self-help book than a person in dire need of self-help?

I was sitting at a red light, pounding the steering wheel, telling myself that I really didn’t suck as much as I thought I did. After a few minutes of just sitting there, watching the light turn green about 10 times, I felt better. My shoulders began to straighten up. My chest puffed out and before the next red light, I realized I was actually smiling! I finally came to the conclusion that I wasn’t the miserable failure I thought I was. My friend, Jim is! Jim’s always smiling and bragging about how his life is going. He beams with pride when he tells you he’s in finance. And, if by ‘finance’ he means selling Covid masks at the train station, yeah, I guess he’s the man.

e says I kept on repeating over and over, at the top of my lungs, “I’m not as bad as dumb old Jim! I’m not as bad as dumb old Jim!” And it worked. By the time I got to the radio station I was fully cognizant of the fact that I was making a complete ass of myself in traffic and could have easily been arrested for disturbing the peace. But I also felt great. Why? Because I was better than dumb old Jim, that’s why? And if I was better than Jim, who knows, maybe I was even better than someone else and from there, hopefully the list would grow like weeds on my freshly planted Pacasandra.

Maybe you have a Jim in your life as well. And, truth be told, you hate him. For example, if you were being honest with yourself, you know without a doubt that you’d derive a great deal of pleasure if he ever tried to photocopy his pockmarked butt in the office and the glass on the copier broke! That would be the highlight of your week and it’s perfectly alright to admit that., Why? Because Jim is an idiot.

Have you truthfully never felt that your life isn’t progressing as you thought it might? Is it taking a little longer to reach your goals? Do you feel that everybody else you talk to is doing better than you? Everybody else seems happier than you? Gosh, from the way some people make it sound, their sheets don’t even wrinkle when they sleep on them. They never drop any toast crumbs on the floor and they can get out of the house every morning in fifteen minutes, completely bathed and sparkling from head to toe. I’m here to tell you that THEY’RE MISERABLE. There, now don’t you feel better?

Yes indeed, I’m writing that book! C’mon, anybody can write a book about how to feel good when they’re already feeling good. What’s the challenge in that? The world needs to hear from someone whose emotional swings are as vast as theirs. 

Here’s a little-known fact about the ‘happy’ people who author books about how to improve yourself. Oh sure, they’re nattily attired and beam confidence on their book jacket covers but the reality is, they’re the ones you’ll find closing piano bars in Manhattan at 4 AM with a stirring rendition of Red River Valley using a swizzle stick as a microphone as the waitresses push them out the door!

So, until my book entitled, Bob’s Self-Help Guide to Self-Help, comes out, keep this important fact in mind: The people who seem the happiest are always the ones who can’t wait to get home, lock the door and play hide and seek with their cat. I’m talking to you…Jim!


I recently ran into my friend Carli, whom I had not seen for several years. If memory serves correctly, it was probably around the time that Donald Trump glided down that escalator and exclaimed, “I’m running for President, homies!” Keeping in touch is not my strong suit.

Carli looked and felt great. She told me that she had dropped a ton of weight during the last couple of years all due to an earthshattering new diet program called ‘Putting the Fork Down. (PFD).

She looked fantastic and told me that she can now jump in a swimming pool without fear of totally emptying it. However, it turns out that she’s also lost several of her thin friends and couldn’t figure out why. Carli, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you but your ‘friends’ have been using you and it stinks! You have my permission right now to go spike their Latte Frappuccino with that stuff that floats when you open a can of broth.

Wouldn’t a staunch friend be thrilled that someone in their circle would be able to accomplish such a feat? Carli, these people are not your friends and they no longer have any use for you because now you look better than they do. What good are you to them now? You’re a threat to all of them. Well, maybe not Bridgette. She’s a walking, talking Barbie Doll. They were using you as an accessory to make them look better, but that accessory no longer works for them. These so-called friends are nothing but disingenuous predators. I told her that I know the type and exactly how they behave because I used to be shallow and insecure once myself. She nodded in agreement and said she remembered. Sometimes Carli can be a real jerk.

The shallow person will start out by paying you a few obligatory compliments, but before you can say ‘transparent sleazeball’ the conversation immediately turns back to them.


 “Carli, it’s amazing how the sagging skin from your matronly arms doesn’t drag on the ground anymore. OH, MY GAWD, YOU HAVEN’T SEEN MY NAILS! TAKE A LOOK AT THEM! I love the woman who did them and I didn’t pay full price because, it was like, my boyfriend changed the muffler on her father’s car and it was like, OH MY GAWD, for sure, let’s do it. By the way, how do you like MY SHOES?”

Carli’s ‘friends’ didn’t seem to mind when she scored higher on her SAT’S. They also seemed legitimately happy for her when she won that essay contest with a marvelous entry entitled, “Yes, I’m a virgin, but nothing’s permanent.” Why didn’t those accomplishments bother them? Because they’re shallow, that’s why. Things like high scores don’t matter to these people. You can’t see SAT scores. Perfectly applied makeup and no visible tan lines are what matter most to them.

Today, Carli can perform the near-impossible task of waltzing right by the KFC on Main Street without breaking a sweat. I’m rooting for you, girl. Keep me posted on your progress and don’t give in. And if you’re ever in the mood for a little fun, remember these important words: revenge is a dish best served with the fat from chicken broth. 



I’m asking you not to judge, but I made a trade recently.  I traded in my Guy Card for a nifty, made in the U.S.A. exfoliating mitt, and obviously, the two are mutually exclusive.

It all started a few weeks ago when I bought some super-duper self-tanning cream that was supposed to be blotch and streak-free. Except for a few blotches and some hardly noticeable streaks that run down the middle of both of my legs, it worked as advertised.  Maybe I should have read the instructions a little closer. In the microscopic print, (viewed best through a high-powered, NASA-approved telescope) it said to ‘use after exfoliating skin thoroughly.’  Oops…missed that part. Much to my surprise, my wife then presented me with my very own exfoliating mitt (free from Job Lots this week with any $5.00, non-sale item purchase.)

Full disclosure: I had to look up the word ‘exfoliate.’ I knew it had something to do with the skin but, beyond that, no clue. Now, however, after doing some extensive research, I know that it involves rubbing an abrasive, granular substance against one’s skin until the first layer of bone begins to show through.

 Giving up my guy card is not an easy thing for any man to part with so I thought for a quick minute about how I might be able to hang onto it. I figured that if I exfoliated using grade 4 sandpaper in the shower,  the water would wash the blood down the drain.  I think it was right around then that I had a rare moment of clarity.  What was I thinking?  What’s wrong with me? I  suddenly realized that it takes a real man to admit that he exfoliates, damnit!  Truth be told, I did think for a hot minute about searching online to see if there was a 12-step program for men like me. “Hello, my name is Bob and I exfoliate.”  But, now  I’m confident and I’m proud. I feel free. After all,  I’m about to do what very few men would even think of doing, much less talk openly about it. Start the water baby, I’m ready!

As I stepped in the shower and strapped that beautiful mitt to my hand, I rubbed that thing up and down my legs with such passion and purpose, I actually thought that I might be just mere moments away from a mild orgasm and I owe it all to my new handy dandy exfoliating mitt. Seriously, I’d love to exfoliate every minute of every day were it not for my fear of going blind.  Give me back that Guy Card. On second thought, gold plate it first. I’m a man, damnit and I exfoliate! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a mani-pedi to schedule.


There are certain things in life you just don’t do. 

1)  Never change the seating arrangement in your dining room

2)  Never wash and rinse three kitchen utensils at the same time.

3)  Never sleep on your spouse’s side of the bed.

Michele and I spent the weekend at the gorgeous Poetry Ridge Bed and Breakfast in Greenfield, Massachusetts. After getting settled in our room, I did the unthinkable: I fell asleep on HER SIDE OF THE BED! Michele even brought it to my attention before I fell asleep. She tried to warn me. I told her I had no intention of sleeping there, I was just resting. I think my exact words were, “I have no….zzzzzzzzzzz.”

When I woke up in the morning, it was too late. The damage had been done. The only thing I could do was hope for the best and that maybe the Gods were forgiving realizing that I made a stupid mistake. Well, guess what? The Gods were not amused. In fact,  they were out to make an example of me.

Within five minutes of awakening, I fell in the shower, pulling the shower curtain down with me. By the way, I’m absolutely positive the guests in the next room were thrilled with the colorful language I summoned up, at full volume, from my days in the Navy.

When I told Errol and Mary, the owners, what I had done their faces became ashen, and they slowly backed away and wished me luck. Actually, I thought breakfast was going quite well, that is until I mistook the cayenne pepper for cinnamon. In fairness, those little plastic bottles look awfully similar and if you can’t read, like me, they can be tough to tell apart. As it turned out we were only getting started.

As the day progressed, I, in the following order, tripped on the carpet and in the process fell on their prized Golden Retriever, Misty. I got a speeding ticket on the turnpike and I suppose I didn’t help my cause by asking him, “Hey, is it the law for you guys to wear sunglasses 24/7?” I spilled a beer at dinner, dropped my wallet in the toilet and was called an ‘ungrateful American’ by a legless veteran wrapped in blankets on the street corner for only giving him a dollar. Why did all this happen? It happened because I threw caution to the wind and fell asleep on my wife’s side of the bed. 

We have since received a phone call from Errol and he gave us some great news.  First of all, the cayenne pepper has been removed from the breakfast table and the best news of all is that they have now put up signs in all the rooms stating, “Please sleep on the side of the bed you are accustomed to sleeping on. Our dog wants to live a long and healthy life. Thank you, The Management.”


Good morning, everyone. Thank you all most for being the truly dedicated professionals that you are.

I find myself forced to bring up an uncomfortable subject, one that I thought would never have to be mentioned ever again to anyone over the age of 10, but, sadly,  I was wrong.

The subject is bathing, and it’s something that we all need to strictly adhere to and stay on top of, especially now that we are all happily back together in our 7AM to 6PM home away from home known as our cubicle farm.

Since our return, I’ve noticed a good portion of your desk plants have wilted and many more look like they’re not far behind.  Some even appear to be trying to wiggle their little pots to the edge of the desks in an apparent attempt to make that long three-foot fall to the hard linoleum floor beneath, thus finding their eternal peace. Nobody wants a mass planticide. The optics are horrible. We’re all adults here so I’m puzzled as to how one is not aware that they’re taking on the aromatic similarity of a well-stocked compost pile?

 It’s also critically important to bring up the inherent danger one puts oneself in when attempting to mask the repugnant aroma caused by what we’ll just call, ‘bathing shyness.’ The pandemic has brought us many hardships but forgetting how to properly cleanse our bodies should not be one of them.  And, please know that anyone, even those with compromised olfactory senses can easily detect when someone tries the old excess deodorant cover-up (E.D.C.).  Not only does this little trick not solve the problem, but it also presents the real possibility of spontaneous combustion. I’m pretty sure I saw that on the Science channel one time.   To make matters worse, you might spontaneously combust before you’ve finished that big proposal you’re working on. Nobody needs that.

For your convenience, posted in both the Lad’s and Lassie’s rooms,  you’ll see a pictorial, frame-by-frame description depicting the proper way to bathe. Feel free to make a copy. I’ve also had what I consider to be an excellent idea of how to make the bathing process more tolerable for you. I ran it by those heartless, unemotional robot bastards in both HR as well as  Legal. As a result of those soul-sucking conversations, I have started drinking again.  However, leaders weren’t made to follow, so, with that, you will oeweverr, if you’ll keep this find a list posted in the breakroom of the employees who are willing to make arrangements to bathe with you if doing so would make you more comfortable. We’re a team here people. Let’s work together.

So, team, let’s all lather up and give it the old rub a Dub dub. Your co-workers as well as the office plants thank you.



There have been a ton of books written on what happens to our beloved pets when they pass on. The bottom line is that all good pets go to Pet Heaven where they chase imaginary flies, fertilize perfectly manicured lawns at will and lick their privates while waiting for us to join them in the afterlife. The bad ones that routinely devoured mailmen, manuscripts and Manolo Blahniks go to a place called Pet Purgatory where they atone for their sins by watching on television the other good departed pets having sex on white, puffy clouds all while being fed grapes by Rin Tin Tin.

If you have ever read any of these fine literary tomes, you’ll easily spot one common thread: all the people giving testimonials on how their late furry friends have given them a sign from the afterlife, all inhale inordinate amounts of Magic Marker fumes.

Michele and I have never been sent anything even resembling a sign that our past brood is all right and loving the great beyond and, for the record, you couldn’t find better pet parents than we were. Little urns, complete with names and dates, cover our mantle and we acknowledge them every morning. Do we get one tiny sign? No, we don’t. Why? Because we clearly don’t sniff enough Magic Markers!

Just how badly do people want to believe that they’re actually getting messages from their deceased pets? Do they want to believe so much that they take any minuscule thing as a sign? I’m a religious viewer of the Animal Planet and, truth be told, I also sport a nifty little ankle tattoo of Flipper, so I think I qualify as an expert.

Here’s what Mary P. had to say about her communications with her recently departed Siamese feline Fluffy.

“I was sitting there all alone, just drinking a jug of wine when all of a sudden, I heard this distant meow. I looked all around and didn’t see anything. Just then, a leaf blew in through the window and I knew it must have been Fluffy telling me that she’s doing well and misses me.” What? A leaf that managed to blow in through the living room window must have been a message from her deceased cat? How much wine did Mary have anyway?

Susan from Olympia, Washington had this to say.

“I cried myself to sleep for months, missing Mr. Fartypants so much. I often called his name hoping he would send me a sign that he was okay. Then, one night while I was taking my bath, the candle by the side of the tub just went out all by itself. I thought for sure it was a message that he was doing fine. Seconds later, I began to pick up what I thought was the scent of his wet fur as I remember it from giving him his semi-annual bath. However, my joy quickly turned to disappointment when I realized that it was only a pile of damp, moldy towels balled up in the corner. Just then, it happened: a sure sign had arrived. A bird came crashing into the window and I’m positive it was Mr. Fartypants telling me that he still loves me. I’m sure of it. He just wanted to tell me that he’s fine and that he’s forgiven me for those rare occasions when I fed him cut up Slim Jim’s telling him instead it was a new Alpo flavor.” It’s hard to dispute the story that Susan tells because, honestly, what could say “I love you,” more from a deceased pet than having a bird come crashing into your bathroom window?  It’s fairly obvious that Susan has cornered the market on Magic Markers but I also wondered aloud if she had been sharing a jug with Mary as well? As I’m sure we all know by now, wine and Magic Markers DO NOT MIX!

Can we be the only ones who have never gotten any kind of sign?  C’mon guys, show us something here. Make the lights flicker or put a little cat head indentation on our pillows, anything. We really want to know that you’re doing well in Pet Heaven. Hey, wait a minute (cue Twilight Zone theme).  I’m hearing something. Is that the faucet dripping? It’s never dripped before. OH MY GOD!!!  Can it be? Yes, I hear it. I love you, too! Thank you. I love you. What’s that? You’re happy because you get to eat delicious heavenly mice and all the grass is really catnip? I’m so happy! I love you guys!  We both miss you so much!  Thanks for the message. We love you!  Wait. You’re starting to fade. I can’t hear…Wait! Please don’t go. Just hang on and let me get a fresh marker!