GOING GREEN

I am a lean, green bicyling machine. For the past year and a half I have been riding a bicycle from Grand Central Station to West 57th Street and back each day. I purchased a used two-wheeler from Craigslist for $30, and a brand new 3/4-inch lock and chain for $60. Surely criminals with even a rudimentary understanding of math will see the folly of ruining a perfectly good lock to get to a rusty bicycle.

The bike has 18-speeds, but I only use one of them: Slow. So slow that the Polish sausage mascot at the Milwaukee Brewers game could easily beat me. But afterwards I would be in New York and he would have to return to Milwaukee, so who is the real winner??

I pass by a lot of hot New York women every day on my $30 bike and I want to look cool. There is nothing less impressive to the ladies than a guy who obviously cannot afford a car, or cab fare. Or a Metrocard. A guy on a scooter is the only thing lower on the food chain.

I thought some accessories might make me look more like an athlete; maybe a pair of those padded shorts that give you that sexy "bee sting ass." Or one of those streamlined helmets that make you look like a hooded merganser. A duck can fly or swim anywhere it has to go and does not need to ride a bike. However, the helmets are carefully designed to improve wind resistance, which could take up to 4 seconds off my time while protecting my head from hooded mergansers. A messenger bag might make me look more formidable, since bicycle messengers are known to stop at NOTHING to deliver their messages to important clients who do not know how to use email. Whenever one of those schmucks almost runs me over I think of the phrase, "Don't shoot the messenger!" So I try to stab him to death but they are hard to catch.

In the end I picked up a mirror and a bell. The mirror comes in handy all the time because after 2 or 3 blocks my hair looks like crap and needs some TLC. The bell is pretty useless, because whenever I ring it people just try to answer their phones. It's much more effective to yell, "Look out- one of my balls just fell off!" Which clears the area like a concussion grenade.

Pedestrians are unpredictable and often badly dressed. Tourists are the worst, because since they don't read English, they cannot understand a flashing red picture of a hand, the international symbol for: "STOP, idiot!"

The other day I almost hit a Hello Kitty, one of those frightening, pedophile panhandlers who dress up in costumes and threaten you in a South American language if you don't give them a tip for taking their picture. That is an awful thing I just said- I should not automatically assume that these people are panhandlers. What do you tip Hello Kitty for taking its picture, anyway? 15 percent, I guess, but of what? They can't have much overhead- the costume is probably a couple hundred bucks, plus cat litter. Hello Kitty did not look very clean, as if it hadn't said "Hello Dry Cleaner" in quite a while.

Car doors are another hazard. I was passing a stopped limo on the right (a no-no) when a lady opened her car door without looking (another no-no) and I landed in her purse. She let out a loud, piercing shriek as if one of my balls fell off. I have settled into an understanding with cars: everyone who drives a car anywhere near me is an A-hole. And when I am driving a car, everyone who is riding a bicycle is a dipshit. I am thinking of joining a group like Critical Mass and becoming an activist. I doubt that I will, since the very word "activist" implies that I might have to do something.

The weather is always an X factor. I usually don't ride if it's raining, except one time when I held my umbrella with one hand and steered my handlebars with the other. I looked so much like a weird Mary Poppins that I never tried it again. That really happened, so don't try to picture it.

It rained so hard I had to take the subway, but being next to all those people bummed me out. People are so annoying. I sat down for ONE second and somebody piped up: "Hey, everybody, I'm real sorry to disturb you, but I'm a homeless veteran. I served our country during Viet Nam and then lost my house in a hurricane. Then I lost my job in a different hurricane, and if everybody could just-" "HEY HEY HEY WAIT A SECOND!" I interrupted. "I slipped and fell in the parking lot and had to have shoulder surgery. I couldn't play tennis for THREE AND A HALF MONTHS, had to eat with chopsticks LEFT-HANDED, and I am STILL unable to play the piano, although in fairness I never could. PS: I ALSO served my country during the Viet Nam War when I worked at McDonalds." I did not get a whole lot of sympathy but I did get four dollars.



Incidentally, in the year 1817, German inventor Karl von Drais first rode his two-wheeled "walking machine." Considered the precursor to the bicycle, it was basically Flintstone- powered by using one's feet to propel it along. It was made entirely of wood, and failed to catch on, possibly because of the possibility of a termite infestation so close to one's crotch.

A DAY AT THE US OPEN

Did you enjoy the U.S. Open tennis tournament this year? I did! I was at the Men's Final, and I saw Somebody Something-or-other versus an entirely different guy whose name I also can't pronounce. Somebody asked me who won and I said, "I couldn't say," and they asked, "You don't know who won?" And I said, "I do, but I just can't say it." I don't want to sit here and make fun of peoples' names, and that is why I am typing this standing up. You may say that the Open needs more prize money, or it needs better chair officiating, or it needs more attention to doubles play, but what it really needs is: MORE VOWELS. Someone should arrive with a truckload of a's, e's, i's, o's, u's and a few y's and distribute them throughout the draw so that we can make usable sounds out of their names. And don't put any heiroglyphics above the vowels to try to confuse us, unless it is a heart or a smiley face over your "i." I thought Li Na was cooperating by having such a short name, but it turns out her first name is actually her last name, so just shoot me.

This year's championship was an epic match that lasted about 20 minutes. I spent most of the time scanning the audience with my binoculars looking for stars. I was there, as every year, with my boss, and I nudged her with my elbow and gave her the field glasses: "Isn't that Abe Vigoda?" I asked. "Abe Vigoda is dead," she replied. "I know, but look closely- that guy looks dead!"

I saw Lindsay Davenport there, but does that really count? It's like going to a fashion show and seeing a model there. Donald Trump was in the crowd, and when they showed him on the JumboTron he was loudly booed, possibly more for his hair than for anything he did or said. Every time I see him his hairdo looks more and more like Liberace's. I think I saw a lot of people from various Vampire shows, but they didn't seem to bite anyone, so I couldn't be sure.

I was sorry for the state of American Men's tennis, since the crowd kept shouting curses and epithets in foreign languages that I didn't understand. One of the players was Japanese I think, because I saw something that looked like his name on a sushi menu once. I distinctly heard cries of, "Ano yarou!" ("That idiot"), "Damare Konoyarou!" ("Shut up you Bastard!"), "Oshiri pen pen!" ("I'm gonna spank your ass!") and "Chikubi, Chichi!" ("Nipples!"). That was countered on the other side by intense shouting to the tune of: "Jebal te bik!" ("The bull will fuck you", although in Croatia this is considered a friendly warning, not really a curse). I also heard a smattering of "Os cornos do teu pai" ("Your father's horns") and "A puta da tua tia!" ("Your aunt is a whore!") from people who thought one of the players was Portugese. I even got into the spirit, repeatedly shouting, "Lambasa!" Which is Fijian for, "No underwear on!"

I quickly tired of this exercise, or it could have been from walking up to level 300. My mind started to wander, due to the lack of oxygen and thoughts. I thought back to some of the crazy things I had witnessed throughout the fortnight. In one match featuring Serena Williams and Kimiko Date-Krumm, a bee flew into the stadium and terrorized both players. A ball boy chased it around for about 10 minutes with a towel, but the bee was not actually wet, so that had little result. The bee ended up cross-pollinating Serena Wiliams with Kimiko Date- Krumm, forming a large short black tennis player with pale skin. I heard Ms. Date-Krumm exclaim, "Chikubi, Chichi!"

I fondly remembered the extremely awkward moment when Martina Navratilova proposed to her girlfriend in between men's semifinal matches. The girlfriend, who barely speaks English, did not seem to understand what was happening. Martina gets down on one knee, pops the question, opens a box with a ring in it, and the girlfriend still hasn't said yes. Martina gets down on the other knee, then an elbow, and still nothing. I thought I heard the girlfriend say, "Oyah dah papakina, yoscho papakina," but I'm too much of a lady to say what that means in Russian. Martina takes it for a "Yes," and they all live happily ever after, I can only assume.

Then there was the incredible shot Roger Federer made: his opponent had made a volley that landed outside the baseline, and started walking away from the net. Roger, not realizing the shot was long, raced back and hit an acrobatic between-the-legs stroke that hit the other player square in the ass. This occured much to the delight of Michael Jordan, who was shown applauding in the stands. Jordan is not actually a tennis fan, he just likes seeing people get hit in the ass. I'd hit that ass!

I mused about the weird sounds that come out of women these days when they play tennis. I was watching the Williams Sisters play a doubles match, and trying to yell at my cat at the same time, and my fracas was almost completely drowned out by a player named Elena Vesnina, who every time she struck the ball, yelled "Hi-YAH!" extremely loudly, as if she were breaking a stack of bricks with a karate chop. When I was 13 years old I was a yellow belt in Judo (I possibly became a yellow belt in Judo class after having peed my Judo gi during a "hiza garuma") and I never ONCE said "Hi-YAH," even to myself. I do make a funny sound when I am musing though.

In another startling development, Caroline Wozniacki went to hit a backhand, and didn't notice that her ponytail had gotten caught in her tennis racquet. She almost yanked her whole head off, lost the point as a result, and would have lost it anyway, since you are not allowed to use a tennis racquet with hair in it- her hair is considered a foreign substance since she is from Denmark. This is PRECISELY why you don't see ponies playing a whole lot of tennis, even though they would have two forehands, and four two-hands. Thank god Caroline Wozniacki was not bowling at the time: HEY CAROLINE- get your head out of the gutter!

I recalled the gut-wrenching women's semifinal match where Peng Shuai, suffering from severe heat cramps, crumpled in pain and had to receive treatment in the locker room. She returned about a half hour later, played one point and then keeled over again. The trainers helped her to her seat, but she broke free and crawled back to the baseline to try to serve. The medical staff dragged her away by her feet and she left 10 huge divots on the court from dragging her fingernails across the surface. Finally they shot her with a tranquilizer gun and removed her in a cage.

Wistfully, I realized that I would not hear the word "fortnight" again until next year's U.S. Open.



Incidentally, Jimmy Connors is the only player to win the U.S. Open on three different surfaces. When I read that he won the 1974 tournament on grass I was surprised, because at the time he only seemed drunk.

THIS MORNING

I don't dwell on 9/11 a whole lot, and I've never watched any programs or movies about it. My own memories of that day are more than enough, especially the experience of working in the televison air monitoring studio with more than a score of video monitors, each with its own vivid horror.

I sometimes thank the gods for the gift of musical expression, and 9/12/2001 was one of those times. I composed this song that day, and I finally got around to re-recording it the way it should sound (with the usual exception of my voice).

It has the same effect on me now as it did then.



http://www.reverbnation.com/rickstersbasementtapes



Please listen to it with headphones on, as it is not professionally recorded.

A DRONE LOOKED AT MY WIFE

She was at work, and she opened her shade, and a drone was hovering outside the window looking at her. My wife was not actually happy to see the drone, and said it was frightening and creepy, like the guy from the EHarmony commercials. If the drone was out looking for people with a surprised look on their face going "WHAT THE F***," I bet it found plenty.

There are only three reasons for drones to exist: 1.) to identify enemy targets. 2.) to remotely attack enemy targets. 3.) to try and look under women's skirts.

Really, nothing has ever been invented in America that doesn't either make money or try to look up women's skirts. But there is a fourth reason for drones to exist, besides identifying targets and bombing targets, and that's delivering things from Target. I read that the CEO of Amazon wants to deliver things to my house using drones.

But in addition to delivering my package, I just KNOW that damn drone is going to be snooping around, trying to find out things about me so that it can put them into an algorithm and recommend more things that I might want to buy. It's going to casually fly into my house before I get a chance to close the door, and it's going to peek around my house at my stuff. It's going to engage me in small talk while it checks out what's in the fridge. And before I know it it's going to be saying things like, "people who like chicken ALSO like throw pillows, weeping willows, armadillos, minks, skinks, franks, skanks, socket wrenches, park benches, pirate wenches and golden retrievers.

Actually it might be kind of convenient, if the drone can hover over my house while I make sure the damn thing I ordered works first, since it just dropped onto my driveway from 100 feet in the air. And then the drone is going to report back to Amazon, and they are going to try to sell my information. Good luck with that- no one wants my information because I'm too cheap to buy anything! They will end up with an ad on Craig's List:

"FOR SALE: RICKSTER'S INFORMATION" slightly used. Included: 3 tendencies and one proclivity. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! Act now, and we'll DOUBLE IT! That's right, WE'LL DOUBLE THE INFORMATION! (Just pay for shipping and handling.)

If you look up the word "drone" in the dictionary, you can see a picture of my 10th grade geometry teacher. He weighed about 310 pounds, and spoke in such a monotone that you couldn't distinguish the vowels from the consonants without a DNA test. He would have caught me sleeping every single day if he wasn't asleep himself. He was a great geometry teacher because even his weight was educational; he looked like a cross between a circle and an isosceles triangle. If I had to use what I learned in class to calculate his circumference I would guess that he looked like an R squared that ate too much pi.

I asked her what the drone was doing at the time, and she said it was just hovering there, looking at her. I asked what was the expression on its face? Was it looking at her funny? Cause I will kick its droney little ass. Which side of a drone is its ass?

At least it didn't see her naked (I don't think). She told me that Jill Clayburgh once saw her naked, and I asked, "Why was Jill Clayburgh naked?" Turns out they both belonged to the same health club, but Jill Clayburgh wasn't the one that was naked, and in Jill Clayburgh's defense, it was in the women's locker room.

It's possible that it was a small alien space ship- who says they have to be big? It was unidentified, it was flying and my wife objected to it, so there you have it. What if it shot her with a ray gun, miniaturized her and sucked her into the spaceship so that spacemen could bring her back to their planet and perform experiments on her? And what if instead of a scientist in a lab it was a 12 year-old idiot like me with a chemistry set? My chemistry set came with 64 bottles of different reagents, compounds and catalysts. But really, if it wasn't highly flammable, I was not interested in it. How much Bunsen could a Bunsen burner burn? I could have answered that question if only my parents had not taken the chemistry set away. Anyway, I did not want my wife to be lit on fire by a 12 year-old alien dipshit with a chemistry set.

Worse yet, it could have cloned her appearance and sent back an alien that looked exactly like her, but talked like an electronic phone prompt. Would I notice that it wasn't really my wife when it called me to dinner saying, "Please remain there, because our menus have CHANGED." I would know that my wife was an alien the very first time she answered the phone and no one was on the other line. My REAL wife is trained to keep holding the phone to her ear, even though the line is dead, and say, "You don't say!" over and over, then hang up and wait until I ask, "Who was it?" so that she can reply, "I don't know, they didn't say!"

What if my wife was secretly a foreign agent whose whereabouts were being monitored by the government? I decided to give her a pop quiz.
"Quick: what's the capital of North Dakota?" I shot.
"Who cares?" She answered.
"CORRECT. Are you a foreign agent?" I further queried.
"If I was, I would certainly tell you, so I would have a good reason to kill you."
"Also correct."
But there were still many unanswered questions, not the least of which was: where the hell did I put my glasses?



Incidentally, the FAA describes an "unmanned aircraft" as any aircraft "without a flight crew on board." Which essentially means good luck getting drinks. If you are flying an unmanned aircraft for recreational purposes, your flight will be governed by the voluntary rules of the Academy of Model Aeronautics, which administrates the flights of models. If you are flying a supermodel, you are definitely going to need those drinks.

WHERE IS THE CAT PEE

Okay I swear to god this realy happened: I went to retrieve my sneakers from the basement. It was dark. It was quiet. I tiptoed over to the light switch. A voice from the shadows said: "STOP. Don't turn on the light." The voice was eerily familiar. A purple laser beam temporarily blinded me. I was paralyzed with fear. I stepped back towards the door. "DON'T WALK THERE," the voice warned. That voice again. I had heard that voice threaten me before. Many times before. I realized it was my wife. What was she doing in the dark with a laser beam? "I'm looking for cat pee," she said. "Have you tried the catbox?" I asked. She said, "Someone is peeing down here, and the only way to find it is with an ultraviolet light."

So she looked all over with the blacklight, and there it was! Eureka! She found a tiny area of carpet in between two couches. This was the only area where there was no cat pee.

Apparently this is a special blacklight made specifically for finding cat pee, so it did not come with a Jimi Hendrix poster or anything (back in the 70s, blacklights were used for finding teeth and dandruff). Seeing the blacklight made me nostalgic for the 70s. All the great songs, like "Chick-a-Boom" and "Sylvia's Mother...." The great hairdos... the great sayings: "GROOVY! FAR OUT! LET'S BOOGIE ON DOWN!" Things that really meant something. I thought about how great it would be to live in a great place like Iran, where I read that people got stoned after they made a video of the song "Happy!" And another person got stoned after saying the word "bieber" in a crowded place. What a fun country!

Anyway, how do we even know it was a cat peeing in our basement? It could have been a mouse, or a bird. Do birds even pee? In all this time I have never seen a bird tinkle, and it's not because they are so modest; I've seen them do a bunch of other disgusting things.

"The cat is simply marking its territory," I observed, and the minute I said it I became terrified. If the cat had already annexed the entire basement, it was only a matter of time before it peed its way upstairs and took over the whole house. I was going to have to file for an easement just to use the stairway.

"I'm going to have to re-mark the territory as ours," I said triumphantly. "I am going to pee our house back! And I'm going to do it NOW!" Only I didn't have to go yet, and my wife made a move towards the phone, so I postponed the re-districting.

"They do this when they are angry with you for something," my wife explained. The cat is literally pissed off. This had me scratching my head. Shit! What if they are angry with me for not scratching their head? A cat could be angry at you for ANYTHING, because they don't share the same values as we do. They might be peeing on my tennis bag because I am not paying enough attention to them? Am I paying too much attention too my tennis bag? I immediately stopped allowing my tennis bag to sit on my lap. Shit- what about my laptop? If they see that thing sitting on my lap all the time they are going to get jealous and pee on it.

"You need to engage the cats more," my wife said. "Play with them once in awhile!" "CatS? We have more than one?" I asked. So I set up a weekly card game. Oxford stud, progressive pot, no limit. I lost about $120 the first two weeks, which made me really angry. I started thinking of ways to get even. I admit that I peed on some of their stuff.

Finally we went outside to escape the pervasive smell of cat pee and breathe the fresh air. "Do you smell something? It smells like cat pee out here, unless the cat peed inside my nose." I exclaimed. "No," my wife said, "that's a boxwood bush- the smell keeps the deer away." Which is probably the only thing that explains why there aren't that many deer in our basement.



Incidentally, ultraviolet light has a shorter wavelength than other colors visible to humans, although it looks taller in person. UV light has long been used in hospitals to disinfect surgical equipment. When the light hits the object it breaks down the germs, causing them to cry. The photochemical reaction renders the germs unable to reproduce. It would have been a great thing to try on the cat.

SOCCER IS BORING

Is it wrong to say that I can't wait until the World Cup is over? Soccer is just SO FRIGGIN BORING I can hardly contain myself. You can waste more than two hours of your life seeing them run back and forth, and at the end of the game the score is still zero-zero. The Brazil World Cup is played on partially natural turf, and the stadiums are brand new, so you can actually compare which of these is more boring: watching the grass grow, watching paint dry or watching soccer.

I would rather watch curling, women's figure skating, even biathlon. They have a biathlon, a triathlon, a pentathlon and a decathlon, but they have no sexathlon. That would be six events, all related to sex. I can guess what the events would be, although I am too much of a lady to say what they are here. I will say that in this competition, "sticking the dismount" is NOT something to be proud of.

Even car racing is easier to watch, even though it's so dull you're basically just waiting for someone to crash so you can go, "COOL!" Wouldn't it be more interesting if a deer bounded into the middle of the road like in real life? Or if there were a million potholes, or if people insisted on not using their turn signal?

No one can even tell you how long a soccer game is. It's supposed to be 90 minutes, but the referee can just tack on extra minutes to the game based on how long he thinks injuries or penalties took. If someone gets injured during a penalty the referee scratches his head for 5 minutes and you can tack THAT on to the end of the game too.

I saw that a guy was kicked out for biting another player on the shoulder. How stupid is that? How many goals are you going to score with your shoulder? He should have bitten him on the foot, or taken a divot out of his head so the ball goes off in some cockeyed direction. Apparently it was the third time he has done this. Instead of biting three different guys, he should have bitten the same player three times; he could have gnawed off his ankle by now. Thank god they kicked this guy out- he could have finished off an entire team- Cameroon, or even Turkey. I heard they are going to have to put him down. This biting is certainly not something I would do, but only for dietary reasons; is a white soccer player considered red meat or white meat?

And good luck getting his mail- we used to have a chow chow and the UPS guy was so convinced he would get bitten by him that he used to leave our packages 50 feet from our house.

Soccer fights are the fifth stupidest fights anyway. Basketball fights are the best, football fights next, then baseball fights, then hockey fights. A guy who picks a fight in soccer has to run 15 or 20 minutes to get to the guy he wants to fight with, and by that time he is so winded he just stands there hunched over with his hands holding the bottom of his shorts while the other guy pushes him over with his index finger.

Then there is the TV announcer who yells, "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLL!!!" at the top of his lungs. People love him, because compared to the game itself, all that noise seems interesting. I find it supremely annoying, and before I can hit the "mute" button, it sets off my car alarm. I go make a sandwich and when I come back he is still at it. Yes, I admit I used to make the same call on a particularly successful date, but I quickly outgrew that kind of behavior about two years ago.

They even had an opening ceremony for the World Cup with a concert and everything. JLo was up there shaking that big ass of hers at Pitt Bull. It seems like no one can make a song these days without Pitt Bull. I recently recorded a song in my basement, and to save money I used an actual pit bull, but it ate two of my microphones.

At the bar, the fans were rabid (possibly something they caught from Pitt Bull), cheering every time the Americans got close to the goal (742 times) and even louder when they scored (0 times). USA lost the match, but since they did so well scoring NO goals, they let them keep going in the tournament.

The fact that I can't stand soccer doesn't seem unpatriotic to me, since it's called the World Cup and I'm disagreeing with the entire rest of the world. When I put it like that it seems completely normal for me.



Incidentally, players from Chile, Mexico, Bosnia and Herzegovina are banned by team rules from having sex during the World Cup. I don't really know if that means for the whole month of the tournament or just while they are on the field. The rule makes these players definitely NOT players. Americans have no such rule, and can have sex with anybody they want, except for players from Chile, Mexico, Bosnia and Herzegovina. By the way, if it Herzegovina, you're not doing it right.

I LOST MY FRIGGING WALLET

I lost my frigging wallet. Can you believe that? I have never lost my wallet in all my 55 years. Even when I was 6 months old I never lost my wallet. Sure, I have lost everything in it at one time or another. I have certainly lost all my money here and there, mostly there, at the stripper bar, where they nipple-and-dime you to death. I have all these silver dollars that come out of the parking machine at the train station, and you can't believe the dirty looks I get when I drop a few of those down somebody's G-string.

They call them "gentleman's clubs" now. If you don't act like a gentleman there, i.e. asking to see women's vaginas, you will be escorted out, which is another laughable euphemism. If you get escorted out of a stripper bar at least you have the escort.

Anyway, losing the money was the least of my problems. I had all my personal information in there, and someone could easily steal my identity. Can you imagine anything worse? Not for me, but for the poor person who has to assume my identity. Have you taken a good look at my identity recently? Multiple people with multiple personalities? And none of them good? And can you imagine my poor wife?
"Honey, these dishes are in the dishwasher wrong again," I point out, just trying to be helpful.
"Also, could you put the silverware in pointing up?" Says the guy assuming my other identity.
"Sure, and how about at least one of you taking out the garbage?" Says my wife.
"I took it out last week," I say.
"I didn't exist last week, or I would have done it." Says my other identity.
"Do you both have to live HERE?" Asks my wife.
"I would have chosen a four-bedroom," says my other identity.

I have always assumed my identity but I don't actually have any proof.

I really thought that someone would find my wallet and mail it back to me, but it never happened. If I found a wallet I would mail it back to the owner, after subtracting the cost of shipping and handling. I don't want to rip anyone off, so I would handle the wallet accordingly based on how much money was inside.

I had my social security card in my wallet. Everyone says, "You idiot- why did you keep that in your wallet?" I don't know, I just felt socially insecure without it I guess. Besides, if you're not supposed to keep it with you, why do they issue a wallet-sized card? They should have put it on 8 1/2 by 14-inch legal paper.

I also had my car registration in there. Everyone says, "You idiot- why did you keep that in your wallet?" I don't know, I just figured if I lost my car, at least I won't have to replace the registration. Besides, the car already has the registration sticker on it, and my wallet doesn't have any stickers at all.

Not only that but I actually had a check in there made out to my friend Julie, to buy her tennis racquet. Who is going to be the bank teller that gives $234 dollars to a 320-pound black man named Julie so that she can buy a tennis racquet?

I had my health insurance spending account card in there of course. When I went to physical therapy they asked me for my co-payment, and of course I didn't have the new card yet.
"What about a credit card?"
"Hmm... I don't seem to have anything that's what you might call 'payment related.'"
"No problem."
"What is that machine? We've never used that before, have we? That looks like some boarding, and some water? What is that sticker that says 'Guantanamo Bay' on the side??"
I also found out that when they set the electical stimulation machine to "high" it acts as a taser.

I had my license in the wallet, so now there is no proof that I can drive, other than my awesome ability to parallel park. I can parallel park anywhere. I have even parallel parked parallel to a park. "Your rear wheels are the key to parallel parking," I always tell my wife, "you should always put them four inches from the curb." "Shouldn't they remain at the back of the car?" She asks.

But what if I get stopped for a DWI and the cop asks to see my license, proof of insurance and registration?
"Officer, I'll get to you, but first I'd like to report a stolen wallet."
"Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them."
"Would you like to hear the alphabet without several of the letters? Would you like to hear me count backwards from 98 to L? Would you like to see me walk a perfectly straight line half standing and half lying down?"
"I need to see some identification with a picture on it."
"Officer, I have some identification with Benjamin Franklin's picture on it, if you know what I mean."
"What?"
"Actually I don't have that either, since I lost my frigging wallet. The only thing I have replaced so far are some pictures of my cat. But I am in one of them, and that should be a satisfactory form of identification since NO ONE ELSE in the world would have a cat THIS ANNOYING. Would you like to see the photos?"
I was arrested, but on the plus side, so was the cat.



Incidentally, our current system of Social Security is based on the English "Poor Laws" of the 1600s. To me, there are so many poor laws, especially the ones that make it illegal for me to go 50-mph in a 30 -mph zone. Have you ever gone 30 miles per hour, except on the way to get to 50 miles per hour? I would hate to look outside my car after an hour and think, I should be 20 miles farther. It's pathetic. When I was on vacation a lady asked me if I was retired, and I didn't know whether to be flattered because I looked wealthy enough to be retired, or be insulted because I looked old enough to be retired. But it was a moot point- it turned out she asked if I was retarded.