Driving through downtown Ottawa, Kansas this week, I got stuck behind a black Ford Fusion with a license plate that read OLDLUVR.

At every stoplight, this impatient love machine scooted through the red exactly three seconds before his turn. Perhaps he was rushing home to a hot grandmother, blue pills at the ready.

I was in no hurry, but his actions irritated me somehow. Why should he break the law and go unpunished, while I continue to pay my taxes and obey the speed limit?

I decided to do something about it.

The road finally widened enough that I could pull alongside this resolute red-light runner. I rolled down my window. “Hey, knock it off, would you?” I yelled, but he was already gone.

At the next light, it was much the same story, yet I was able at least to observe his tactics. Looking off to the left, OLDLUVR stared up at the green light of the westbound traffic. The instant it went yellow, the old man floored it.

This had now turned into a dangerous situation. What if OLDLUVR pulled in front of a schoolbus, or ran down an insurance adjuster on his way to a tornado claim? OLDLUVR had to be stopped.

I got up on the bumper of the black Ford Fusion, blinking my lights and honking my horn with the fury of a righteous sinner come to smite the wicked hordes on judgment day.

OLDLUVR remained oblivious to my actions, steadfastly rolling through each of the eighty-seven red lights in that small town. He even failed to stop for a blinking crosswalk, nearly running down some hapless farmer headed out to the back forty.

He turned near the end of town, pulling off onto a side street lined with a bucolic assortment of Midwest houses, each painted a different shade of pastel like so many faded Easter eggs.

Of course he didn’t use his blinker. I pulled in behind him and jumped out of my car. “Are you out of your fucking mind, old man?”

OLDLUVR stepped out of his car slowly. I estimated that he’d once weighed in at around 220 pounds and stood six-foot, five inches tall when he and the other members of his platoon invaded Normandy. The old gyrene was still a formidable figure, lean and hard like a weathered oak. “What’d you say, sonny?”

“Umm…you ran all those traffic lights,” I said, pointing an uncertain arm back towards town.

OLDLUVR stopped before me. His eyes were granite as he looked me up and down. “Not sure I recognize you, boy. You from around here?”

“Nuh, nuh, no.” My legs felt weak and I was beginning to regret the second cinnamon roll from the Holiday Inn Express where I was staying.

“Excuse me?”

“No, sir!” I hollered in my best boot camp voice.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

OLDLUVR put an arm around my shoulders and led me over to the rental car. “Since you’re a newcomer here, let me give you some advice.”

I decided it would be best to shut up and listen. His hand on my shoulder was steel.

“Ad astra per aspera,” he said. At the blank look in my face, he explained. “To the stars through difficulties. It’s the Kansas state motto.”

I took a deep breath. “So?”

His grip tightened. “It means don’t fuck with an old man in a hurry to get home and see his wife. Now get in your car, sonny.”

I obeyed the old drill sergeant. He gave a cheerful wave as I drove away. “Have a nice day, asshole!” he called after me, then spun about and marched to his front door.

I’m going to take the back roads to work from now on.  These Kansas drivers are too aggressive for me.

Mr. Ass

After the Dancing with the Stars affair, I had to change restaurants. No more sports bars for me. Those Texas baseball fans are crazy.

There’s a Coco’s close to the hotel where I was staying, but they don’t serve beer. So I went to Chili’s instead. It’s a little farther, but the Nordic Warrior Queen says I can afford to lose a few pounds, and I decided to walk.

It was a beautiful evening for Texas: 100 degrees and 90 percent humidity. I was soon sweating like a pig.

My reader glasses were perched on the top of my head. Sometimes I’ll text and walk, and my readers will be on my nose, but I almost fell down a staircase last week so I don’t do that anymore. Anyway, it was overcast, so I wasn’t too concerned about my hair catching fire like the last time I was outside with readers on my head.

I was approaching the parking lot when I realized I was being watched. No sooner had this thought crossed my brain than I heard a strange whooshing noise from behind and was struck on the head.

“Raawwk.” Some fucking crow tried to take my glasses!

I stood underneath the tree looking up at that black bastard. He didn’t care. With his beady little eyes, he stared right back at me, until I realized the people in the restaurant were looking at me and I left him alone.

He let out a raucous, “Fuck you!” as I walked away.

The next night, I was once again hungry. Coco’s still wasn’t serving beer, so off to Chili’s I went. And for the second time, that damned crow attacked me. This time he even crapped on my shoulder for good measure, then sat triumphant in the tree, laughing at me.

But the third night, I was ready. I crossed the parking lot, my Jedi senses ready for the attack. Just as he was about to strike…WHAM, I reached up and grabbed his spindly little legs.

He fought like a cornered lion. I didn’t care. Grabbing him by the neck, I got that antagonistic avian down on the ground and proceeded to pluck out his tail feathers, one by one.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you? I said.

The now trapped crow gave out a strangled caw.

“You thieving asshole. I’ll teach you why opposable thumbs are better than wings.”

That’s when I heard the voice. “Just what in the tarn hill do you think you’re doing?”

Still clutching the once combative Corvidae, I turned around to see a tall man dressed in green. He looked like an anal-retentive Robin Hood.

“Why aren’t you in San Diego, Ranger Bud?” I said, careful not to loose the grip on my foe.

“Oh,” stammered Bud. “It’s you.” He seemed embarrassed. “ Yeah, well I got tired of all them hippy types and tree huggers out there in southern Californ-eye-ay,” he said defensively. “They drive me nuttier than a two-peckered Billy goat.” He actually said that.

Ranger Bud continued. “Besides, I’ve got me a powerful hankering for line dancing and plump cowgirls. Now, you got a permit to handle that crow, or what?”

“Bud, I was defending myself. He attacked me.”

“Oh, ayuh. That’s what they all say.”

Bud handcuffed me and tossed me in the back of his Texas-issue Chevy Tahoe. It smelled like duck. “What the hell are you keeping in here, Bud?” I protested.

“Road kill, pardner. Now you just keep quiet back there and we’ll rustle us up some Hank Williams tunes.” Bud was taking the whole Texas thing way too seriously.

The misplaced San Diego Park Ranger took me all the way to the Fort Worth courthouse, where I had to stand before a judge named Leroy Bean and was fined $250 for mistreatment of a treasured species.

“It was a fucking crow, Judge.”

“Guilty,” he shouted. Ranger Bud led me down the hall to the country clerk. Luckily, they accepted credit cards.

At least Ranger Bud was decent enough to give me a ride back to the hotel. I was so worn out from my adventure I decided to walk over to Chili’s for a beer. The crow was still there, waiting for me.

I sure wish Coco’s served beer.

Mr. Ass

Ever since the Nordic Warrior Queen and I started dance lessons, a terrible feeling has come over me.

Don’t get me wrong. I thoroughly enjoy doing the two-step with my wife. But I’ve begun to have thoughts no man should have to admit.

I can’t stop watching Dancing with the Stars

Poor Dorothy Hamill. Brave Zendaya. The titanic efforts of Wynonna Judd.

I’m not proud of my obsession.

I admit, however, that while out of town on business recently, eating dinner at a local sports bar, I asked the waitress to change the channel. “Can you switch that to Dancing with the Stars?”

Bear in mind it was Spring Training. The place was filled with rabid sports fans.

“I don’t know, sir…”

“C’mon,” I protested. “You have fifty-four TVs in this place. Can you please just change the channel on one of them?”

She came back with the manager. “Sir, I’m not sure we can do that.”

He knew I meant business. “It’s just one TV. Leave the volume down if you must.”

“Well…it is Zendaya and Val’s big night,” he said, relenting at last.

The place had a maximum capacity of 310 patrons, and 309 of them turned to stare at me.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WATCHING?” screamed a troll-like young man in a Houston Astros cap.

His wrath meant nothing to me. “Look at those moves, dude,” I said. “The Foxtrot, and the Viennese Waltz. And look at that Samba! Have you ever seen anything more sensual?”

He had to admit, the dancers were very elegant. He ordered another beer and came to sit down next to me. “Beautiful,” crooned Chuck.

His buddies were unimpressed. “CHUCK! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WATCHING?” Apparently, Bud Light makes for a potty mouth.

It wasn’t long, though, before they were likewise convinced. Chuck and his friends were now undying fans of Dancing with the Stars.

That didn’t do much to convince the opposing side. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GUYS WATCHING?” yelled enough Texas Rangers fans to man a battleship.

Chuck was in no mood to put up with that shit. “YOU GUYS ARE NINNIES,” he yelled. Chuck wasn’t big in the vocabulary department.

“NO, YOU ARE!” yelled the Rangers fans, whereupon Chuck picked up a bar stool and launched it with the misplaced vehemence of a North Korean cruise missile.

That was when the restaurant manager called the cops. It was time for me to go. I threw a twenty on the table and ran for the takeout door.

Five minutes later, I sat in my hotel room, watching the lights of the entire Fort Worth police department as they hauled away hundreds of Baker Street Pub and Grill patrons, still arguing about Lisa Vanderpump’s low score in the Cha-Cha.

Chuck was right. Those dancers are beautiful. But it might be better to watch them from home.

Mr. Ass

My grandson Logan and I were sitting on the couch watching Terminator when the kid turned to me. “You know something, Papa?” he said. “Linda Hamilton is hot.”

I looked down at his chubby face, the splotch of crusted breast milk on his t-shirt. “Dude, you’re six months old. How would you even know?”

A thin runner of drool trickled down his chin. “I especially like the part where she says, ‘Watch it for me, big buns.’”

I tried to explain it to him. “Listen, Dumptruck. She’s not your type. Believe me.”

The longer he watched the TV, the more excited he got. “Why not? She’s a total babe.” He was bouncing up and down by now.

“No breast milk, Logan.” There was little sense in hiding it from him.

He started to cry. “No, Papa. No!” He shook his head, finally coming to grips with the reason for Linda Hamilton’s smallish breasts.

Once he composed himself, he looked up at me, clearly distraught. “Really? I’m afraid.”

“It’s really true. Sorry, little man.” I gave him a hug. “Do you want your mom now?”

With a final sniffle, he shook his head. “No. I’m not hungry yet.”

“Moms are good for a lot more than milk, Dumptruck.”

He rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Yeah, right.”

When the Cadillac chase scene started, the kid began flailing his arms about. He looked like a plump windmill. “You’re not going to start the dancing baby thing, are you?”

“That’s so 90’s, Papa.” He glanced at me disparagingly. “Dad was right. You really are an old fart.”

I ignored the comment. On the TV, Arnold Schwarzenegger was using a machine gun to mow down the Los Angeles Police Department.

Dumptruck was squirming on my lap. “What’s your problem?” I said at last.

He seemed uncomfortable. “Damnit, I think I just sharted.”

Sure enough, the distinctive odor of baby crap was filling the room. “Jesus Christ, Dumptruck. Your dad never shit on my lap!”

“That was nearly thirty years ago, Papa. I’m surprised you can even remember back then.”

“Watch it, kid. You have a birthday coming up.”

He grinned. “Besides, Nana said you never changed a poopy diaper in your life.”

I protested. “That’s not true! There was that time after the green beans, and…well, it was a lot more than one time.”

Dumptruck was unimpressed. “Whatever,” he said. Another fruity noise escaped the back of his pants. “I’d like to get down now, Papa.”

“You have no class, kid,” I said, and handed him to his mother on my way out to the garage. I needed a beer. Being a grandparent’s a lot of work.

Mr. Ass

Sam Champion’s been making a big hoopla lately over the comet PANSTARRS, Earth’s most recent once-in-a-lifetime interstellar visitor.

Every morning he explains the details of the comet’s appearance, going on about perihelion and secular light curves, terms as foreign to me as Sam’s gassy traveler from the Oort Cloud.

It’s all over my head, but still it’s exciting to hear Sam Champion say words like magnitude and astronomical units, especially this early in the morning. “It’s been in the southern hemisphere for the past couple years,” smiled Sam. “Now it’s our turn.”

He then looked out at his viewing audience and invited them to share their best photographs of Comet PANNSTARRS. “Send us those photos,” he said with a wink.

And what photos he received! Beautiful shots from Japan, Spain, even distant Grand Rapids, Michigan, all showing Comet C/2011 L4 as it hangs majestically beneath a dangling sliver of moon. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the groaning of the comet’s ponderous bulk, the icy roar of her tail as she swings around our sun on a journey millions of years long. Amazing.

I decided right then: I would be Sam’s next photo contributor. After all, I live in Arizona. Comet viewing conditions here are perfect, so I readied my camera and waited anxiously for night to fall.

At 6:37 PM, I ran outside. There she was, right on the horizon! Comet PANNSTARRS was smaller than Sam led me to believe, and farther to the south, but that had to be it. She was beautiful.

I found a clear spot at the fence on which to steady my camera and started snapping pictures, catching the perfect image just as the sun slipped below the horizon.

That night I emailed my photo of PANSTARRS to Sam Champion and went to bed, confident I would soon be on GMA. Maybe he would even ask me to come on the show. I could congratulate Robin on her recent recovery and goof around with Josh Elliott and Lara Spencer. When George Stephanopoulos wasn’t looking, I’d spin his chair down to its lowest height and watch him peer over the table.

Sam and I would green screen the day’s weather together.

He called the next afternoon. “Is this Mr. Hanson?”

“Sam?”

“Yes, this is Sam Champion.” He sounded uncomfortable.

“So, you must be calling about the comet photo, huh?”

“I sure am.”

“You must have really liked it.”

“Well…” Sam didn’t seem his normal chipper self.

“Did you see the tail on that thing? I think that’s the best shot yet,” I said. “When does it go up on your show?”

He interrupted me. “Mr. Hanson?”

“Yes, Sam?”
“Can I call you Kip?”

“Sure thing.” If nothing else, he was very polite.

“That wasn’t a comet, Kip.”

What the hell was he talking about? “Sure it was, Sam. I saw it myself. I waited all day to take that photo.”

“I’m sorry, but that was an airplane.” Sam Champion sounded embarrassed.

“An airplane?” I said. “Was not!”

“Afraid so, Kip. It was just an exceptionally long contrail. Sorry.” He didn’t sound very sorry.

“Sam?”

“Yes, Kip.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“No worries, Kip. We here at GMA are here to serve our viewing audience. Better luck next time.”

And just like that, he was gone. My hopes of national recognition were dashed. Better luck next time, my ass.

What’s a weatherman know about comets anyway?

Mr. Ass

Some women are afraid

their man thinks about others.

That he’ll break his promise

and leave someday. They wonder,

does he even want to be with me?

Please believe me when I say,

that’s not you.

Some women worry

he might get drunk and hit her.

Avoid or ignore her, or simply not care.

They want to trust him, but are unable.

Darling, just know this: I’ll cherish you,

and honor our love. You’re my everything,

and that will never be you.

Some women are concerned,

he won’t come home tonight

or be there tomorrow.

Will he lie, or hide things,

and break his promises again?

Whatever happens, dear,

I won’t let that be you.

Some women regret,

look back on past mistakes, they wonder,

how could he do that to me?

Will the hurt ever heal?

Can it be like it was, once more?

But I’m telling you, I’m here for you.

That isn’t you.

Some women feel stupid.

How could I have been so naïve?

Is it safe to believe him again?

Should I trust, and forgive him? Please,

just realize one thing: you are my life.

I want nothing more than your love,

and that’s not you

Some women are troubled,

uncertain of his devotion.

They wonder if he really wants her,

to be her best friend. Someone to be there,

to the end.

You should realize, wife, I’m here with you,

until forever. That’s not you

I love you, Nordic Warrior Queen

Happy Anniversary.

Mr. Ass

One of the drudgeries of business travel is renting the car. You’ve just flown halfway across the country, jammed into an airplane filled with crying babies, farting fat guys, and Sudoku-playing armrest grabbers. At the end of this odyssey, when you’d like nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner somewhere and suck your thumb, comes the car rental.

Your employer would put you on a skateboard if he could save a couple bucks. As it is, you’re lucky if corporate policy lets you reserve anything larger than a Smart car.

The rental car companies feel your pain, however, and if you’re a loyal customer, which means you’ve driven more miles than a retired long-haul trucker, they might upgrade you to a Ford Focus, or maybe a lemon-colored PT Cruiser.

I’m not so lucky. Although I’ve rented enough cars to fill the deck of an aircraft carrier, and am a card-carrying member of the Enterprise Emerald Club, the Hertz Gold program, and the Alamo Insiders, my latest car rental found me in a minivan.

It wasn’t just any minivan, either. No sleek Nissan Quest here, or a sporty Mazda5. It was a Dodge Caravan, second cousin to Lee Iacocca’s 1970′s wet-dream, the Chrysler K-Car.

Red like the ass-end of a rhesus monkey, and with enough room to seat a Little League team, this thing was plain old butt ugly. I wouldn’t drive a car like that if tomorrow was Armageddon day and it was my only chance to escape certain death.

I took one look at it and went back to the rental counter. “Dude. You gave me a fucking minivan?”

The agent, who bore a striking resemblance to George Costanza, was nonplussed. “Just a minute please, sir. Let me check our records.”

Fifteen minutes later, George confirmed that, yes, they had assigned me a big ugly piece of crap. He offered up a vague but hopeful justification. “A lot of famous people drive minivans, sir.”

“Like who?” No way was I falling for this tactic.

“Sarah Jessica Parker, for one.”

“Jesus. She has three kids. Of course she has a minivan. Who else?”

“Umm…Jennifer Garner?”

“She does not.”

George demurred. “Does too.”

“Fine. Good for her,” I said. “What’s your point?”

“She’s married to Ben Affleck. That means he drives a minivan, too.”

Tired of the conversation, I raised my hand. “I seriously doubt that Ben Affleck drives a minivan. And to be honest, I don’t give a shit either way.”

George stared nervously at me, unsure how to continue. I helped him along. “You were about to offer me a different car?”

“Certainly, sir,” he said briskly. “Let’s take a walk to the garage and see what we have available.”

Once outside, I pointed to a jet black 2012 Camaro. “How about that one?”

“Well, I’m happy to set you up with that car, but are you absolutely sure you don’t want the minivan?”

I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. “Aside from the prestige of driving the same car as Sarah Jessica Parker, why would I want a minivan?”

He rubbed his hands together, as though preparing to argue a Supreme Court case. “Well, sir. Just let me show you some of its features.”

“I don’t want to see its features, George. I just want to leave this smelly parking garage and find my hotel. I have an early morning.”

He looked at me strangely. “Ah, sir? Who is George?”

I quickly checked his name tag. “Oh, sorry…Abdul. Please, continue.”

He started by showing me what he referred to as the van’s cockpit. “You see? It has Dolby surround sound, Bluetooth, and GPS.”

I admit, the dashboard had more buttons than an Imperial Death Star. “I don’t care. Give me the Camaro.”

He could tell I was impressed, though, and started explaining the car’s other features. “Take the air conditioning, sir. The seats in the Dodge Caravan can sense your body temperature, and adjust the climate accordingly. They offer the ultimate in driving comfort.”

“So? They keep my ass warm. Big deal.” Still, heated seats might be nice, especially at this time of year.

“How about rear-view cameras, auto-parking, and collision avoidance?”

The Camaro was beginning to look like a horse and buggy compared to the Caravan. “What else, Abdul?”

“Watch this, sir,” and with a flourish of his hand, waved the car’s keyless entry dongle. I heard a beep, beep, beep, and the rear gate opened as if by magic.

He had me. “How did you do that?”

“It’s all part of the Caravan experience,” he said with a smile.

“Do it again,” I pleaded.

He pushed the remote control and the rear hatch swung down like a prom dress at midnight. “Still want the Camaro, sir?”

“No!” I grabbed the dongle from his hand and pushed the button for the rear gate. Beep…beep…beep. It was like the opening of Heaven’s gate.

Abdul started back to his desk. “Have a good night, sir. And drive safely.”

“Thank you, Abdul.”

As I pulled onto the freeway, I looked about at all the BMWs and Audis, the Toyota Camrys and Nissan Pathfinders, and considered how fortunate I was to have the Caravan. Maybe I would rent it for an extra day, and just cruise downtown Seattle.

I love my red minivan. And why shouldn’t I? It’s the same car Ben Affleck drives.

Mr. Ass

28 years ago, a baby girl was born. It was a Wednesday. The space shuttle Atlantis would roll out of the Rockwell assembly plant in Palmdale that day, and Mike Tyson would KO Hector Mercedes in his first professional. No ears were damaged. Minimum wage was $3.35, gas was $1.20 a gallon, and the Dow Jones industrial average was hanging around 1300.

Bill Gates was still putting the final code tweaks on Windows 1.0. Madonna was like a virgin, Huey Lewis was thinking about the power of love. There were still two Germanys; Ronald Reagan would have to wait two more years before laying down the spank bottom on Gorbachev in front of the Berlin wall. And the 10,000 souls who would perish in Mexico City later that year were still going about their daily business.

None of that mattered to the girl’s parents. Their world was still very small. Despite the fact that his wife was big as a house, the girl’s father went to work that morning, a stupid kid whose only skills to that point were cooking eggs, fixing cars, and making small metal parts. “Call me if anything happens,” he told his wife, kissing her and their infant son on the cheek as he left the trailer.

He had no business being a father. Perhaps he still doesn’t. If not for his wife—who loved him in spite of his limited skill set, and would have been content had he remained a machinist for the rest of his life—he would have made a complete mess of the whole affair.

Back home, she waited patiently. The labor pains had not yet begun, but she had a feeling. She would call the shop soon, and tell the owner’s wife to please page her husband. “It’s time,” she would say.

While she waited, though, she watched the girl’s older brother, who would soon be putting flashlights down his pants and falling into fireplace mantels. He hadn’t a clue what was coming through that door in a few days, but she knew he would be a good brother. She was right.

That night in the hospital, her parents watched Dynasty on the room’s 19” television. At least, the girl’s father did. The mother was too busy to care about the Carringtons.

At some point, the doctor came in and said, “Let’s have a baby.” Fifteen minutes later our Jamie emerged. She was face up, her eyes wide open. She looked right at me, as if to say, “Here I am. The fun’s about to start.” I’ll never forget it.

This is the story of a single day, that most important day in all our lives. Suffice it to say the girl grew up as young girls should. She went to school, served our country, fell in love with a good man and had two beautiful children of her own. She’s had her share of triumphs and tragedies, and through it all she’s made her parents proud.

Twenty-eight years from now, if I’m lucky, I’ll be one of those old men we curse for their fading skills with a motor vehicle. “Can you believe that guy’s still driving?” Or the one who holds up fifteen people in line at the grocery store while he counts out exact change. “C’mon, you old bastard. Get a move on.”

My daughter will be 56 years old then. She’ll probably be wondering, as I do, what happened to the years: what she might have done differently, or how life was unfair at times. All I can tell her at this point is, don’t worry about it, dear daughter. It will all work out. And please don’t forget to call your father once in a while.

Happy birthday, Jamie Marie. We love you.

Mr. Ass

The Sister Wives went to the movie theater this afternoon. The Crazy Cat Lady  said she’d pay (turned out she had free tickets) and the Nordic Warrior Queen wanted to see Silver Linings Playbook. Ever since Hangover, she’s had a thing for Bradley Cooper.

I took a rain check. I’m more of an action movie kind of guy. But to show that I wasn’t sore at being left home alone on a Saturday, I decided to surprise them with a nice meal.

But what to make?

My wife likes Paula Deen, and would watch Paula’s Home Cooking all day long if she could. Maybe it’s the southern accent, or her witty sayings. Whatever the reason, I made a quick phone call. Paula would have some ideas.

“Hello y’all,” said the Queen of Southern Cuisine.

“Hi, Paula,” I said.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! It’s Mister Kip.”

“How’ve you been, Paula?”

As it turned out, she was just down the street at the Mayo Clinic, undergoing a quick angioplasty. “I oughta tell ya, I’ve been shakin’ like a hound dog tryin’ to shit a peach pit over this thing. Turns out it warn’t nothin to worry about a’tall.”

I asked her if she could help me out with dinner.

“I tell you what, old son. Soon as I can git this doctor to shut his pie hole, I kin be over in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. But he’s slower than molasses going uphill in January, so in the meantime you just hump your little tuckus over to the grocery store and wrangle us up some chicken and cornbread fixings. We’ll whip up a meal your Nordic Warrior Queen won’t soon forget.”

Paula was waiting at the door by the time I returned from Albertson’s. “Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I got stuck in line with Bob the Comedy Cashier.”

“I swear, that man’s elevator don’t go all the way to the top.” She cackled at her wit. “But let’s git inside now y’all. It’s drier than a popcorn fart in this state and I need me a cold one.”

Unlocking the door, I asked about the angioplasty.

“That doctor’s so dumb he couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel,” she said, and grabbed up a bag of groceries. “Can you believe he said I cain’t have no more butter?” She said it like budder. “I told him if you can’t run with the big dogs you might’s well stay on the porch.”

She followed me to the kitchen, cussing out the man who’d saved her life like he’d voted for Abraham Lincoln. I opened the fridge and began putting away the groceries.

“Wooeee,” exclaimed Paula. “Lookit all that Miller Lite! The Sister Wife’s gonna be busier than a one-armed monkey with two peckers. Suppose she could spare one?”

I handed Paula a beer. “What should we make?”

“Ain’t no food like southern food, son. What say some fried chicken and beeskits?”

“Beeskits?”

“Never heard of corn beeskits before!” she said. “Are you daft?”

“Oh, you mean biscuits.”

Paula rolled her eyes. “That’s what I said. Boy, you could start an argument in an empty house. Now fire up that burner and tell me where I can freshen up. I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church.”

I pointed to the bathroom and started breading the chicken.

On her way back, Paula grabbed another beer. “Lord, this town’s hotter than a Billy goat’s ass in a pepper patch. Now where you hidin’ the bacon grease?”

“What for?”

“What for? I’ll give you what for! Lordie, every good cook knows you have to fry chicken in bacon grease.”

“I think I’ll take care of the chicken, Paula. Maybe you could start on the beeskits.”

She ignored my jibe. “Fine. Gimme some aiggs then.”

I handed her the eggs. “Here’s your aiggs. Flour’s up there,” I said. “In the cubberd.”

Paula put her hands on her substantial hips. “Is you mockin’ me, boy?”

I tried to change the subject. “What’d you think of that interview with chef Anthony Bourdain? He said your cooking makes you the most dangerous person in America.”

“That fucking Frenchman’s more confused than a fart in a fan factory. Do I look dangerous to you?” she said, and smiled like a Great White.

I could tell I’d hit a nerve though. Paula was whipping the biscuits into a froth. Batter flew everywhere. “He only thinks he’s a chef. His coq au vin stinks so bad it could knock a buzzard off a gut wagon,” she said.

“What’s a gut wagon?”

You northerners don’t know nothin.” She picked up the spoon, licked it clean of batter, and dropped it back in the bowl. “Yummm,” she said with a smack of her lips.

“I told you before, Paula. I hate it when you do that.”

“Well, who peed in your cereal bowl this morning?”

I took the bowl away before she could do any more tasting. “I wish we had some cheese for the biscuits.”

“Lord, ain’t that the truth. Everything’s better with a little cheese on top. Still, you can put wishes in one hand and shit in the other. Wait and see which one fills up first. Hahaahaaahaaahaa.”

Now I remembered why I never invited Paula over for dinner.

“’Scuse me,” she said. “I gotta piss so bad my eyeballs are floating.”

While Paula went to the little girl’s room, I dropped the chicken into the deep fryer. The first piece was floating by the time she returned.

“Well, I have to skedaddle,” she said, wiping her hands on the back of my shirt. “Me and that short order cook Anthony Bourdain are having us a showdown on Iron Chef tonight.”

I’d only bought two chickens, so I was a bit relieved she was leaving. Paula loves her fried chicken. “Good luck, Paula.”

“Ain’t about luck son,” she replied. “Bourdain ain’t got the good sense God gave a goose. His ass is grass and I’m a lawnmower. Hahaaaahahahaaaaa.”

I walked the Queen of Southern Cuisine to the door. “Don’t take any wooden nickels, Paula.”

“Oh, don’t you fret, son. I’ve got a dog that’ll hunt this time. You take care now, y’all.”

I closed the door and went back to the chicken.

She’s a nice lady, but I think next time I’ll call Emeril.

Mr. Ass

The Sister Wife bought two pet birds last week. They’re zebra finches, one of the most worthless creature in the animal kingdom. You’d need a hundred of them for a sandwich. She named them Ted and Alice.

“Why not Bob and Carol?” I said.

“Those are stupid names,” replied the Sister Wife.

She said the Übercat needed something to keep it entertained during the day, while the Sister Wife’s away at work. As if sleeping and licking its ass all day isn’t enough.

There once were goldfish, but the cat ate them. Then it vomited in the kitchen.

When not licking it’s ass, the cat stares at them. All day long. I know it bothers the birds, so whenever I see the cat there I squirt it with water. Ted and Alice cheer loudly (for finches) as it runs from the room.

“Hey Mister. We hate that fucking cat,” said the larger of the two. “Make it go away.”

“Sorry to hear that, Ted.”

“I’m not Ted,” said  Alice. “He’s Ted,” and pointed a wing at the nest.

Ted nodded his tiny beak. “Wassup,” he said amicably.

I turned to Alice. “You lay the eggs and he sits on them?”

She gave me a wink. “That’s how it works in this house, mister. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“What?”

“Umm, the Übercat? How would you like to sit trapped in a cage with a T-Rex staring at you all day?”

“How would you know about T-Rex?” I said.

Alice rolled her beady little eyes. “Hey Ted,” she called. “Get a load out of this loser. He’s never seen Jurassic Park!” They both laughed raucously (for finches).

I turned to leave. “Mister, don’t go,” called Ted. “We’re sorry. We’ll do anything for you.”

“What?” I laughed. “You’re just tiny birds. What do you think you can do for me?”

Ted glared, sullen now. Alice turned her back.

“Listen, guys. I like you. You make those cute beeping noises and you don’t eat much. But there’s nothing I can do about the cat.”

“You must KILLLLL IT!” hissed Ted. He sounded like a miniature Freddy Krueger.

Alice chimed in. “Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!” she chanted.

“Goodbye birds,” I said, and closed the door behind me. I couldn’t listen to any more.

The Übercat waited in the hall. “Those guys are crazy,” he said. “ Isn’t there something you can do?”

For once, I agreed with him.

Mr. Ass