Do not be deceived by her innocent face, the angelic smile, or suffer my fate you will. No, the girl carries within her an awesome power, one capable of destroying the resolve of even the most steadfast grandparent.

The encounter was mercifully brief. She wheeled up to me, running over my toe without an ounce of remorse, and uttered a single word. “Papa.”

My heart lurched. That black hoody, those piercing eyes. I cringed at her unmistakable authority—to persuade, to demand, to break the strictest of rules without fear of punishment.

She looked up, her eyes shaded beneath the dark cowl. Her four teeth glistened in a terrible grimace as she pointed a chubby finger at me. “Give me cake,” she demanded. “And ice cream.”

There was no compromise here, no chance of negotiation, only an undeniable ultimatum: serve dessert, or suffer her awesome wrath.

In the end, she knew she’d won. I would give her cake and ice cream, just as soon as her mother went shopping. And then, we would watch Dora the Explorer together, ignoring her parents’ instructions. I was beaten.

Mounting her pink tricycle, she yawned once, whispered “Bye, bye,” and rode away. It was nap time.

I'm Mr. Ass

Like most boys, I’ve always wanted to be a firefighter. Who wouldn’t? All that gear: the shiny metal axes, clanking oxygen tanks, rubber boots and yellow helmets and facemasks made of high-temperature thermoplastic. And never mind the pumper trucks with their shrieking sirens, the water gushing from high-pressure hoses, vehicles so huge they take two burly men to drive. Wow.

Over the years I’ve started some fires (it was an accident), and I’ve burned away most of my facial hair a few times (lighting the grill), but that’s as close as I ever came to the dragon. Until now.

I was on my way home from Basha’s when I saw it. The smoke. Forty-five minutes earlier, the Nordic Warrior Queen had closed the refrigerator door and announced we needed milk, eggs, bread, mustard, and broccoli. Devoted husband that I am, I quickly volunteered to go grocery shopping.

I hate broccoli, so this way I could tell her they’d sold out, and get cauliflower instead. And maybe stop for a beer on the way back.

Driving home, the groceries safely secured in the back seat, I noticed the air was hazy and dark. The mountains stood in the distance, barely visible through the gloom. I rolled the window down and immediately smelled burning. What was going on?

Ten minutes later, I was watching the TV news. SPECIAL REPORT scrolled across the bottom of the screen. My stomach dropped. There were wildfires throughout Arizona, the closest less than an hour away, in Sunflower, just south of Payson. “Zero percent containment,” said the grim-faced reporter.

Something had to be done, but what?

It was obvious they needed help. But what could I do? I’m just one man. “Better a small help now than a big help later,” I thought to myself. Bilbo Baggins said that. I think. Or it might have been Frodo. But truer words were never said, so I buckled on my heaviest jeans, applied a generous layer of sunscreen, grabbed a shovel and a baseball hat from the garage, and headed to Sunflower. Time to shake the dragon’s tail.

Fifty minutes later, I was at the scene. The command center stood off to my left. Pumpers and engines were everywhere, forming a loose semicircle at the base of a burned-out clearing. Brush trucks carted men and supplies back and forth to the fire, just over the next hill. Watertankers and Slurry Bombers roared overhead, and the air was dense with steam and smoke. The fire bellowed defiantly.

It was complete pandemonium.

There was no sense in announcing myself. Everyone was obviously busy. Besides, I was ready to go. I parked my yellow truck near the edge, grabbed the shovel from the back, and headed for danger.

I sprinted up the hill past less capable firefighters, ignoring their shouts of indignation, a one-man strike team going into the black, alone. Within minutes, I could feel the awesome heat, see the flicker, hear the crackle of destruction. I knew this was where I was always meant to be: standing in the mouth of the dragon.

Wielding my shovel, I immediately began laying down a suppression trench, and from there I would expand my safety zone. I didn’t have much time. The fire was getting closer, a hungry beast, intent on my destruction. I laughed in defiance. I was John Wayne in Hellfighters, I was Red Adair, I was…

“Hey you! Just what in the Sam Hell do you think you’re doing?”

A huge troll of a man stood not ten feet away, an axe in one hand, a bullhorn in the other. Beneath his grimy helmet, his face was as red as the fire. “Who are you?” he shouted.

Despite his obvious anger, I was undeterred; I was in the zone, a firefighting machine, and no one would stand in my way. “I…uh. I’m Kip. Kip Hanson. I’m fighting the fire.” Duh. Wasn’t it obvious what I was doing? “Who…who are you?”

For a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. “I’m Captain Roy Marshal. I’m in command here. Show me your Red Card,” he demanded.

Uh oh. “Umm…what’s a Red Card?”

“Alright, get in the truck. Now.”

As we headed back down the trail, he cussed me out using colorful language I’d never imagined, even after twenty years of working in a machine shop. Finally, he fell quiet, and looked over at me, huddled against the door. “You could have been killed, you know that?”

“I just wanted to help.” A single tear escaped, coursing down my dirty face.

He turned away in disgust. Three minutes later, he stopped next to one of the pumpers and pulled me out with a hand the size of a picnic ham. He pointed at the road. “Get home.”

Dragging my shovel through the dirt, I walked to my truck, now covered in ash. I was utterly defeated. He watched me unlock the door before finally turning away.

“Mr. Marshal? Roy?” I called.

Roy shouted over his shoulder. “What is it now?”

“Can I sound the siren? On the pumper?”

He turned around and gave me a strange look. “Let me guess. You always wanted to be a firefighter.”

I nodded.

There was a small grin on his face as he answered. “NO! Now get the hell out of here.” He climbed back in his truck and sped off towards the fire. Prick.

I got in my truck and drove away, watching the fire recede in my rearview mirror. By the time I arrived home, the news was reporting that the fire was now 5% contained. Thanks to me.

I took a shower and went to bed.

I'm Mr. Ass

I think that I did never need

my Mom’s advice, I did not heed:

“Brush your teeth” and “Tie your shoe”

and “Wash your hands after the loo!”

These cautious words meant naught to me

except to give me cause to flee.

 “Look both ways, clean up your room!”

or she might whack you with a broom.

And yet, today, I finally see

how much she really did love me.

I picked my nose and ate it too,

and held my breath ‘til I was blue.

 “Don’t stay up late—you’ll miss the bus!”

“Beware of strangers,” Oh, why this fuss?

Her good advice it went unheard,

meant nothing but some grownup words.

 “Finish your carrots” and “Eat your meat”

“Look both ways when you cross the street!”

Trying sometimes, her words I did find—

“Don’t play with it, you might go blind!”

Yet since she told me what to do,

I close my mouth now when I chew,

I don’t read in the dark, it hurts your eyes,

and like George Washington, I tell no lies.

I’m a grown-up now, she got me here;

nothing more is there to fear.

But through it all, her patience tried,

she gave her love, kept me by her side.

Of Mother’s advice, you should be glad,

so listen to Mom, yes…

but especially Dad.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

I'm Mr. Ass

When Captain13 quit playing, I felt completely lost.

We’d played together for years, sometimes six, eight times a day. But we were always discreet about it, keeping the frequency of our games a secret from even our wives. Together, we’d learned the rules of this gentle contest, the strategy and tactics, the give and take.

And now after all this time, he was gone.

There was no text message to explain his absence, no phone call to say his app was broken. He just stopped, with no explanation. After all the maneuvering, the sacrifice…I was alone.

This wasn’t some Gilbert O’Sullivan alone: no whining over an empty altar for me, no leaping from a tower to ease my pain. I was utterly bereft. All I had left were the cold words “Waiting for moves” on a frozen iPhone screen.

Who was I supposed to play with now?

True, we’d both tried to control the center. He would advance his rook, and I would counter with a gentle thrust of my bishop. But we always took turns in our attacks. At times, he would be the aggressor, and I would lie passive; the next day, we would reverse roles. We always played fair, I swear.

Had I pushed too hard?

I’d tried not to corner him. I’d offered favorable exchanges, and sometimes allowed him to attack my flanks so he could attain a comfortable position. Occasionally I even went so far as to pull my pawn out early, to give him room to advance.

And oh…the suffering of our pieces. How we abused them, just to gain a square or two, to push a few inches deeper into the battleground of our pride.

I admit now that I’d looked for new techniques. When I knew it was safe, that I had the upper-hand for a moment, I would steal a quick glance at chess.com, or Google “Ten Best Chess Openings.” But it was only to make things more challenging, to deepen the pleasure of the game. I never meant to hurt him. Through it all, I always tried to be gentle, especially when I was on top.

And now, he was gone.

I questioned myself. Was I too aggressive? Was he tired of it all? Should we have tried new positions?

And then I grew angry. Impatient. What was I supposed to do—wait on him forever? So I did the unspeakable. I found a new partner.

It was an online service, promising an endless variety of games and players. Random opponents with strange names like DeepBlue, Blitzkrieg97, EndGame11, and Kasparov’s_Bitch.

I hid my indiscretion, playing in the bathroom, or in bed after my wife was asleep. I never told anyone. But after a while I had to ask myself: who were these strangers I was spending so much time with?

I never saw them, never knew their real names, what they looked like or what sort of beer they drank. All I knew was their hunger to win. There was no give and take here, no friendly competition, only an endless urge to conquer and move on to the next sucker.

All of them were more experienced than I. Before I knew it, the game would be over and I was off searching for the next opponent. None of them would stay with me as Captain13 had done for all those years. No. It was a game or two at most and then they were gone. Wham, bam, checkmate, and on to the next game. That’s how these people played.

These were meaningless exchanges.

After a few days, I couldn’t do it anymore; I simply couldn’t play with people like this. Complete and total competitors. It made me feel so…dirty. And in the end, defeated.

Take me back, Captain13. It didn’t mean anything, really. You have to believe me. I promise I’ll never stray again.

Please. Just take your turn.

I'm Mr. Ass

I got an email a few days ago from this ad agency, based in Sweden of all places. They wanted me to go to Chile, to do a write up on a gold mine there. Chile? As in the country?

True, I’d done work for them before, but why me? She said the regular guy couldn’t go, and they liked the last story I did, the one on the  bicycle manufacturer in North Carolina. If I could do it, they’d send me down with the camera crew on Friday, spend the weekend, and I’d interview the mine manager on Monday. I’d be home by Wednesday morning. She said the reason I had to go down so early was the altitude—acclimating to the thin air or something.

The mine was in the Andes.

Always prudent, I gave them a definite maybe and asked for the specifics: pay rate, article length, due date. All that professional stuff. And I reminded her that the flight was 16 hours in each direction—I don’t mind traveling, but I wasn’t about to spend the better part of two days in an airplane without getting paid for it, at least enough to cover a few movie downloads for my iPad, and maybe a new book to read during the flight.

They offered me $3000.

So let me get this straight: you want me to fly to Chile, travel to a gold mine in the Andes, write a 1500-word story about it, and you’re going to pay me three grand? And cover all my expenses? Meals, hotel, and especially bar tab?

“When does the plane leave?” I said.

The Nordic Warrior Queen scowled at me, unhappy about the situation. She was concerned about my safety, time away from home, and whether I’d get paid or not. “They were slow payers last time, remember? And what if you get Dengue fever?”

“What?”

“Dengue fever. It’s very common there.”

I looked it up. She was right about the Dengue fever, and oh-by-the-way, reports of the Hanta virus, not to mention occasional revolutions. But didn’t Thomas Jefferson say a little revolution now and then is a good thing? Or was it rebellion? Who cares? Life is all one big gamble anyway.

In the end, she supported me, as always.

The woman from the ad agency sent me a health questionnaire. Illnesses? Current medications? Known heart conditions? Blood pressure? Height and weight? “It’s the altitude at the mine. They want to make sure you can handle it.”

I assured her that I’m in top physical condition. I’ve climbed to the top of the Superstition Mountains twice, and take stairways two, sometimes three steps at a time. Hell, I was even jogging last summer, until I fell into that gopher hole and twisted my ankle. Damned gophers.

She called me back a couple hours later. “Umm, Mr. Kip. There’s a problem.”

“Okay. What’s that?” I was in a great mood. In two days I’d be on my way to the Andes, the highest mountain range in the Western Hemisphere. I’d get to meet new people, visit a gold mine, and rack up enough frequent flier miles for a free ticket. And they were going to pay me to do it!

“Your BMI. It can’t be over 25,” she said.

“BMI? What’s that?”

“Body Mass Index. Your BMI is 33.”

“So what? I told you, I’m in great shape.”

“But the mine, Mr. Kip. It’s over 15,000 feet high. The manager won’t let you in.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Why not?”

She hesitated before answering. “He says you’re too fat. You’ll have a heart attack from the thin air.”

I thanked her and said goodbye, then hung up the phone. Afterwards, I wanted to protest. “I have big bones,” but I never think of the right things to say until it’s too late.

I didn’t really want to go to Chile anyway. I could have caught Dengue fever.

I'm Mr. Ass

“Umm…I’d like to return these condoms.”

The clerk behind the counter of the ABC store was the size of a volcano. He stood six-ten at least, went four, maybe four-hundred fifty pounds, and spanned nearly the entire width of the cigarette rack behind him, from Benson and Hedges to Winston. I figured this guy could eat the entire pig at the luau.

He stared down at me for several long moments before speaking, and in a delicate singsong voice, fluted, “What seems to be the problem, sir?”

I tried to read his name badge. Damnit, I’d left my glasses back in the hotel room. Near as I could tell, it said:

Aloha, my name is

ALEKANEKELO

“Listen, umm, A-kee-locky-ca-no, I just want to…”

He interrupted me. “A-le-ka-ne-ke-lo.”

“What’s that?”

“A-le-ka-ne-ke-lo. That’s my name.” He seemed a bit upset.

“Okay, ah, a-lay-ka-no-naka-ko…no, I mean a-mee-kola-kee-no..ah-nee-ho-lo…” His massive face was turning red. “I’m sorry,” I said. “What was your name again?”

“Just call me Al. Okay?”

“Okay, great. Let’s start over.” I pushed the box of condoms towards him like a peace offering. “I’d like to return these, Al.”

He caressed the top of the box with an index finger the size of a tree branch. “Sir,” he said in his disturbingly woman-like voice. “The box is open.”

“Yeah, but…I only used one.”

“The box is open,” he repeated. “I can’t take them back.” He seemed embarrassed.

“But…they’re no good. Can’t you just sell the rest of them as singles?” I turned to point at the shelf where they sold the single packs of condoms, but there were two customers standing in line behind me, blocking my way.

Al was getting frustrated. “Sir, I…what’s wrong with the condoms?”

Hawaii must have 8,000 ABC stores; why did I have to pick this one? I hadn’t even bought the damned condoms here, but I didn’t want to return them to the place where I got them two days earlier because the girl behind the counter had started laughing when I left the store.

“Al, please. Just take them back. They’re…they’re too tight,” I blurted.

He looked down at me from the ceiling. “Too tight? Really?” He appeared doubtful.

I leaned in close to the counter. “I think they must make them for all the Japanese people here,” I said in a conspiratorial whisper.

A dark cloud appeared on Al’s immense forehead. “I doubt that, Sir. I’m half Japanese, and they fit me just fine.” Al parted his lips in a tight grin, revealing bright white teeth. Behind me, the line was backing up. Someone coughed.

I stammered. “Yeah, okay, but the color, Al. They glow in the dark. My wife screamed when she saw it. She said it looked like a huge green snake coming at her.”

Al looked me up and down, a slow grin spreading across his face. “A HUGE green snake, sir? Really?” I heard someone laugh.

What was this pineapple-eating asshole saying? “Okay, Al. Maybe it wasn’t a huge snake. Maybe it was just a common Garter Snake, or an average-sized Corn Snake. Will you just take them back? Please?” The line was ten deep by now, and growing restless.

“Sir, store policy prohibits…”

“But, Al…” Why, oh why did I ever buy an entire box of these cursed things?

“Sir, I…fine.” Al took a deep breath. “I’ll buy them myself.”

YES! “Thanks, Al. I really appreciate it.” Someone in the line applauded.

“Five bucks.” Al wore a smile like Buddha.

What? “Five bucks? But…I paid fifteen!”

“What’s that show they have in the States, sir? The one with Regis Philbin?”

“Excuse me?”

Someone at the back of the line shouted, “Who wants to be a Millionaire?”

Al grinned, sharklike. “Oh yeah, right. Final offer.”

I tried to correct him. “I think you mean ‘Final answer’ Al,” but just then the guy fifth in line started chanting, “No DEAL, no DEAL, no DEAL,” and pretty soon all twenty-seven patrons of the ABC Convenience Store on Kalakaua Avenue in Honolulu, Oahu were shouting, “No DEAL! No DEAL!”

I shoved the rubbers towards Al, snapped up my five bucks, and ran for the door.

“Mahalo, sir,” called Al. “Have a nice day.”

I'm Mr. Ass

I’m a big fan of child safety. No, seriously. Plastic drawer catches, anti-tip TV straps, coffee table edge protectors, toilet seat locks and door knob covers; all are important components of any infant’s living space—yes, even those damn irritating electrical outlet plugs that have to be pried out of the wall with a butterknife every time the slightest amount of AC power is required.

This attitude is not a result of an infant Mr. Ass tumbling down the stairs in his walker one day and smacking his head on the concrete at the bottom of the stairwell. That event might explain a number of other things, but not his interest in child safety. And besides, when one’s older brother leaves the door open—some say intentionally—accidents such as these are bound to happen, no matter how large the investment in safety devices.

My interest is explained simply: I now have a granddaughter, whom I love very much. It’s important that she is kept safe. Despite this, I have to say something here: some people carry child safety just a bit too far.

Take the Captain, for instance. Ever since he realized that his daughter—my granddaughter—had inherited a disproportionately large percentage of her mother’s genetic material and was therefore not only physically perfect (no lumpy elbows or irregularly shaped heads here) but would be an early walker, talker, and possible troublemaker, this guy has taken home childproofing to a new level.

As such, their home in San Diego has more monitoring devices, drawer latches, door locks, and safety gates than any ten KinderCares or Bright Horizons. But it’s this last safety device—the gate—that caused the problem last week.

The Nordic Warrior Queen and I were upstairs packing for our big Hawaiian vacation. We’d stopped in San Diego for a few days, intending to fly from there to Los Angeles and then on to Oahu. In order to avoid paying baggage fees to those greedy, price-gouging-bastard airlines, we crammed as much as possible into our overhead-sized suitcases. They looked like, and weighed as much as, two huge, overstuffed bricks.

I was shoving a few last minute items into my computer bag. She had just dragged the lighter of the two suitcases down the stairs. I picked up my suitcase and bag and was following her downstairs when I heard a strange thump, followed by laughter.

“Are you okay,” I called.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just tripped over the gate is all.” It was the Captain who was laughing. He’s like that sometimes.

When I reached the bottom, there stood my wife, rubbing her knee, a small grimace on her lovely face. My son-in-law sat on the couch, tears of laughter pouring from his eyes. I scowled at him and lifted my suitcase over the gate, setting it on the far side. Computer bag in hand, I stepped over, not bothering to unlatch the gate and swing it out of the way.

It was the weight of the bags that did it, not any athletic failing on my part. That, and the fact that the Captain mounted the damned gate high enough to restrain even Shaquille O’Neal. When I tried to climb over I caught my foot and immediately belly-flopped to the floor. Epic fail. My computer bag went flying one direction, my suitcase the other, while I made a perfect three-point landing on my chin, toe, and belly. Ouch.

This made the Captain’s day. He rolled on the couch, hysterical with laughter, while I rolled on the ground in agony.

“Are you okay?” asked my wife.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Let’s get going.” Ignoring my temporary son-in-law, I limped out to my daughter’s car, dragging the bags behind me. As we pulled away, the Nordic Warrior Queen leaned over to pull some carpet fibers from my bruised chin.

My toe throbbed the entire flight. It wasn’t until we landed in Hawaii and checked in to the hotel, eleven hours later, that I could assess the damage.

It was only ten o’clock in San Diego by then, so I figured I might as well email a picture of my toe to the Captain. Of course he said he felt bad for laughing, but I don’t believe him. In fact, I’m planning my revenge. The Captain’s house might be safe, but he’s not.

Sleep well, Burris. When you least expect it…

I'm Mr. Ass

It was a big problem. What to get the Captain, my son-in –law, for his birthday? A stocking cap perhaps, to keep his Telly Savalas-like head warm in the blisteringly cold San Diego weather? No, the only time he wears a hat is on the boat, and that one’s covered in little red and white flecks of fish goo and squid guts. Yuck.

How about a new fishing pole? No, he already has an entire garage wall and most of one stall devoted to fish-catching apparatus. My daughter told him “one more pole and you’re sleeping in the garage.”

Hmm, let’s see. What do guys like to do most on their birthday? No, no, NO! I don’t mean sex. I don’t even want to think about what that man does to my little girl.

And then I had it. Beer! Of course: a San Diego brewery tour. Not only did it solve the nagging problem of what to buy for the guy who stole your only daughter, but since I couldn’t send him alone, I would have to go along. Just to keep him out of trouble.

So I ordered the tickets and mailed them inside his birthday card. Happy Birthday, Captain.

Weeks later, the big day was finally here. The Nordic Warrior Queen and I arrived in San Diego the night before. We were coming out for our granddaughter Kaylie’s first birthday party next weekend, so the timing was perfect. The brewery tour started on Friday noon, at a small downtown brewpub named The Local.

The Captain and I took the trolley to the launching point downtown. Not only did this avoid the hassle of trying to find parking in San Diego, but the trip back to the Park ‘n Ride afterwards would provide additional time in which to sober up after the brewery tour. Besides, what’s better than making fun of all the funny looking people on the Public Transit System after you’ve had a few beers (or even before, for that matter)?

Sitting at The Local, we waited anxiously for the tour bus to arrive, filling up on complex carbohydrates and iced tea in preparation for an afternoon of drinking. Suddenly the door opened and a gaggle of rowdy women stumbled through the door, sat down, and began hollering for beers. Eric and I looked at one another with a shared feeling of dread. Oh, no. A bachelorette party.

Sure enough, the bus driver arrived a few minutes later. He introduced himself as Mike and gave each of us a blue wrist band to identify ourselves as participants on the beer tour. The girls immediately began calling him Mikey, asked him to take a picture of the group, and ordered more beer.

How was I going to explain to my wife that I’d spent the afternoon out barhopping with six drunk Mexican chicks, a chubby Chinese girl, and a probable cross-dresser named Jackie?

Minutes later, we all piled into a white Ford Econoline van with what looked like the letters SOBERBUS painted on the side. This seemed quite ironic considering the circumstances.

The girls immediately started in:

“That girl is SUCH a biotch,” said Anna.

“God, my ass just gets bigger and bigger,” complained Sue, the Chinese girl.

“Don’t say that, Nicole, or you’ll make me cry,” warned Peggy.

“I had my boobs done up in LA. Don’t they look perky? Here, touch them.” This from the cross-dresser

“I was afraid his crazy ass fucking girlfriend was going to shoot me the next day,” said a Mexican girl with a huge, flat nose. She looked like Stitch’s best friend Lilo.

“So, I bought this pimple thong,” whined a skinny girl with a tall forehead and lots of facial hair, “and that asshole went to the beach with his friends anyway.” I had no idea who she was talking about, but looking at the girl, I couldn’t really blame him.

Cries of “what a bastard” and “I was giving him a lap dance and he…” and “you better not puke, girl” and “those big shit nigger bitches” rang through the bus. The air was filled with the cloying reek of Chanel #5 and stale beer, and by the time we got to the third brewery, Jackie the cross-dresser was hitting on Mikey, and Paula and Nicole were discussing pillow fights and wondering how many of them could fit in the hotel shower at the same time.

Lilo pulled out her iPod and plugged it into the Econoline’s factory sound system. “Listen up, you bitches,” she yelled. “We are gonna PAARTYYYY!” The van’s cheap speakers thumped with brief snatches of head-pounding Latino music, intermixed with bits of Shakira, J-Lo, and a heartfelt  but tuneless rendition of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls, just want to have fuh-uhn” by six bridesmaids, a soon-to-be-bride, and a very drunk maid of honor.

When the tour was finally over, we pulled up in front of The Local and the girls spilled out. The last I saw of them, they were stumbling off to the Yard House, or maybe Rock Bottom, singing R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Mike tried to return the twenty bucks I tipped him, saying he was sorry for the whole thing, but I told him not to worry about it. Eric and I shook his hand and headed for the trolley. Forty-five minutes later, we walked through the front door. Jamie and the Nordic Warrior Queen were there waiting for us.

With my newfound understanding of how women really act when they’re together, I could only think of one thing to say. “Howz it going, bitches?”

I'm Mr. Ass

Dear Chase Bank,

The Nordic Warrior Queen broke a molar this week and it cost $580 to fix. Ouch. And then I forgot about the check I mailed a few days ago to the IRS. The Feds must really need the money, because they sure process payments a lot faster than they do refunds. As a result of all this, my checking account balance went negative by $28. Sorry about that, it happens. However, I didn’t receive an email alert on this situation until 3:41 in the morning, at which time I also discovered you guys charged me a $38 NSF fee. Now I have a question: what kind of math are you folks doing over there? You charge your customers NSF fees 1.5 times the amount overdrawn? Is that how it works? Good thing I wasn’t a thousand bucks overdrawn, otherwise we’d be talking some serious money. To add insult to injury, I had plenty of cash in my savings account – at least I did, until I thought about it and then decided you guys can go fuck yourselves and pulled it all out. Considering the .05% APR you pay on savings, I’d rather have it sitting under my mattress than leave it in your greedy hands. Please save this email, for review during your upcoming corporate workshop titled “Why are we losing so many customers?” Thank you,

An ex-customer

P.S. For any potential burglars who might be reading this, I didn’t really put the money under my mattress. That’s just a metaphor.

I'm Mr. Ass

When Mike Wallace got to the Pearly Gates, he found Saint Peter standing out front waiting for him. At the look of confusion on Wallace’s face, Saint Peter reached out a welcoming hand. “It’s okay, Mr. Wallace. You can rest now.”

“No, wait,” Wallace looked around anxiously. “Where, uh…am I dead?”

Saint Peter simply smiled in response.

“Oh. Well, I see. I sort of figured that, you know. That last chest pain was a real motherfucker…oh, sorry.” Wallace seemed embarrassed at what Mary referred to as his newsroom language, but Saint Peter only nodded. “And who are you?” asked Wallace.

“Why, I’m Saint Peter, of course. I would have thought a 93-year old newsman would have heard enough jokes about the Pearly Gates to recognize Heaven when you see it.”

“But, wait, there must be some mistake. I’m Jewish. I should be in Olam Ha-Ba, not Heaven.”

Saint Peter laughed. “Olam Ha-Ba, Zion, Elysium, Jannat, Canaan…it’s all the same place, Mike. About the only part you guys got wrong was the bit about the 57 virgins. That was wishful thinking on someone’s part.”

“That’s a Muslim, for you,” said Wallace. “They’ve always been optimistic when it comes to tail.”

Saint Peter ignored the comment and continued. “Mr. Wallace, you’ve had a long life and a great career: five decades in journalism, thirty-eight seasons with 60 minutes, interviews with seven US Presidents, as well as leaders from Iran, Panama, Palestine, Israel, China, Libya – you’ve been around, Mike.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“No, our thanks to you, Mike,” said Saint Peter. “You’ve kept us all honest. Aside from the legal thing with General Westmoreland, and that crack you made about low-income Californians, it’s been flawless. Good job.”

“Yeah, I felt bad about that. Any chance I can talk to Westmoreland while I’m here?”

“Sure, he’s here, but I gotta tell you—he barely made it in. And maybe you want to talk to Malcolm X while you’re at it—he’s still kind of pissed off about the Muslim story you did back in ’59. Maybe you can smooth things over some.”

“Oh, okay. Good idea.”

“We have a special wing for you news guys, and even a small lounge in the back for the CBS folk. It’s starting to get a bit crowded though.”

“Yeah, who’s there?”

“Well, we’ve got Walter Kronkite, Ed Bradley, and of course Harry Reasoner.”

“Oh, that’s great,” interrupted Wallace. “I’ve really missed Harry.”

“Yes, well, let’s see…there’s also Don Hewitt, Charles Kuralt, Doug Edwards…oh, wait. I just thought of something.” Saint Peter looked strangely uncomfortable for a saint. “I hate to do this to a new recruit, but I have a small favor to ask: do you suppose you can get Andy Rooney under control? He’s been shooting off his mouth like there’s no tomorrow. And keep him away from Kurt Cobain, whatever you do. He’s been after Rooney since the second he walked through the gates.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Wallace. “I knew it would mean trouble when Andy smarted off about that kid Cobain’s suicide.”

The two walked on in silence for a while, when suddenly Wallace brightened. “Hey, does this mean I can redo some of my interviews? Or maybe even do some new ones?”

Saint Peter rubbed his chin for a moment before answering. “Yeah, okay. Who’d you have in mind?”

“Oh, boy. Where do I start?” Wallace began to tick off his fingers. “How about Reagan? He was starting to slip when I spoke to him last. How’s his Alzheimer’s?”

“He’s right as rain. Who else?”

“Do you think I could finally get the real poop on John F. Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe?” He asked hopefully. “I could tell he was lying his ass off about her.”

Saint Peter shook his head. “Probably not. They’re still pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing.”

“Oh, I know – how about a joint interview with Richard and Pat Nixon. I always regretted not talking to her. And Dick was still uptight about Watergate back then.”

“I don’t think that would be a problem. Is that everyone?”

Wallace got more and more excited as he thought about the possibilities. “Wow. All the famous dead people…Gandhi, Abraham Lincoln, Chairman Mao, Bin Laden, Amelia Earhart, Jim Jones, and I have all eternity to do it. Hell, I could even interview Hitler.”

Saint Peter grimaced, and looked downwards. “Sorry, Mike. A lot of those guys aren’t here.”

“Oh, you mean they’re…down there?” Wallace looked crestfallen. “God Damnit! Oh…sorry, Sir.”

Saint Peter patted him on the back. “It’s okay. We have an exchange program. I’ll see what I can do. Shall we go?”

“Yes, let’s go.” For the first time in years, Wallace was eager to get to work. As they approached the Pearly Gates, he suddenly laughed. “Hey, Saint Pete—did you hear the one about the teacher, the garbage collector, and the lawyer who died and went to heaven?”

Saint Peter smiled, and taking Mike Wallace by the hand, led him inside.

I'm Mr. Ass