feedAcknowledgments
I’d like to thank the Academy, the academics, the pandemics, the id, the ego, the superego, Superman, his friend Clark, and three guys who sit outside Freddy’s on Sunday mornings, all of them named Pete.
For the time and space and love: my wife, my guide, my chair, the light near my chair, the full spectrum light near my chair without which I’d be under the table weeping like a crossdresser trapped in the elevator at Nordstrom (that is, at least, Pete, the crossdresser, who did this last fall, trapped with an old woman and her pomeranian who reminded him of his mother--the woman, not the dog). Also the spellchecker, the great vacuum of space, and ramen noodles.
For advice and encouragement: Ann Landers, Emily Post, Dan Savage, Marcus Welby.
For being there (rather than being here, that is): Donald Trump, Merv Griffin, Kathy Griffin, Rosie O’Donell, Dick Clark, Steven Segal, and many other famous people I don’t think about as often as I think about these people (no, I’m not a stalker--not really even a follower, so please don’t think that).
For expert testimony: Dr. Phil, Dr. Ruth, Doc Severencsen, Ed McMahon, Mr. Ed, Mr. Rogers, Mister Mister, Devo, The Cars, Blondie, Billy Idol, Billy Joel, and Billy Bob Thorton.
For warming my feet: the dog, whose name I won’t reveal for the sake of her privacy, though she has no qualms about nosing strangers in the crotch to see what’s what. It just seems unsavory to give you the key to her identity. She’s a good dog, really.
And you, of course. You. Thank you for everything. For the rest. For the top of the mountain. For the icing on the cake. For the hair on my head. For the extra foam on my cappucino. For the epi of my dermis. For everything, okay? That’s what I mean by everything. Everything. Thanks.
Light of my life, fire of my loins, lady of my lake, verb of my noun, time of my life, piece of my mind, you know who you are, don’t you? Well? No. Not Pete. Not any of the Petes. I have a thing about the name Pete, that’s all. No no. It’s you. Over there. In the kitchen. By the toaster oven. It smells like something’s burning.
Labels: humor
