An audible groan fell upon Boston and most of New England tonight. Eli Manning threw the winning touchdown with 35 seconds left to spare for the New York Giants’ win in Super Bowl XLII over the New England Patriots. This was not just any Super Bowl victory. With their win, the Giants stopped a juggernaut in reaching a perfect 19-0 season. They prevented a 4th title in 7 years. They destroyed the dreams of a football dynasty from the dynamic partnership of Coach Bill Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady. Even Vegas betted against them by 12 points. No, this game was a major upset.
I said goodbye to my hosts for the night and headed home. Out on the streets, small groups of people briskly passed each other as they walked home from the football parties, the bars and pubs, and the presumptuous celebrations. Their breaths would condense around their noses and mouths to give a gray aura of dejection. All had stunned looks on their faces as they stared distantly down the streets, and they barely noticed the cars whizzing by not more than two feet away. Indeed, as a driver, it was difficult to concentrate on the road.
Oh Nike, great goddess of victory, why do you taunt us so? Why do you bait our hopes for the history books? You appear to us as an oasis in the desert, as a shiny object in a haystack, as Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return. Yet you are nothing more than a harsh mirage, a rusty nail, or a speck of dust on the horizon. Yes, it is great to cheer for the underdogs, but sometimes, you just want the establishment to win.
Tomorrow is another day. In a week, all that will be talked about is the primary election that will happen on Tuesday. Obama or Clinton? Romney or McCain? Life will be back to normal. There will be other years to live for, other Super Bowls to root for, and many more trophies to vie for. What really matters in the end is that the Red Sox are the defending champions and the Yankees still suck.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Haberdashery
(It has been too long since I’ve last written creatively, so here’s a quickie.)
Two months ago, I was in pain. It wasn’t the acute pains you get when you accidentally stab yourself with a fork while you are cutting a burnt rack-of-lamb in the dark because the electricity just went out. It wasn’t like the dull pain that you feel when you mildly electrocute yourself while you’re trying to replace the blown fuse in the basement. It was more like the chronic pain of a stomachache caused by having too many harmful bacteria in your food that rotted from the lack of refrigeration.
It was for this pain that I got fired. I walk into work one day, with my hands over my stomach and walking slightly keeled forward. My boss is coming down the hallway towards me. She is someone who enjoys confrontation and loves to take out her temper on the poor worker who happens to be within shouting distance. My co-workers and I have worked out a fool-proof system. We devised a system of claps and clicks we do as she walks down the hallway to notify people where she is and where she is going so that people can avoid her. Unfortunately for me, I was so concerned with holding my coffee cup without spilling that I did not notice the frantic clicking until I was staring at the white of my boss’s eyes. Bad.
So here I am, out on the street because I cannot afford a decent apartment. I have been living off of charity by the Homeless Shelter for Middle-Aged Veterans Who Suffer from Dementia. However, since I am neither middle-aged, a veteran, nor do I suffer from dementia, I only get to eat leftover macaroni and cheese. So please, any help would be great. All I want is a shower and a hot meal. Just no lamb chops. I’m allergic to them and I get stomachaches from mint jelly.
Two months ago, I was in pain. It wasn’t the acute pains you get when you accidentally stab yourself with a fork while you are cutting a burnt rack-of-lamb in the dark because the electricity just went out. It wasn’t like the dull pain that you feel when you mildly electrocute yourself while you’re trying to replace the blown fuse in the basement. It was more like the chronic pain of a stomachache caused by having too many harmful bacteria in your food that rotted from the lack of refrigeration.
It was for this pain that I got fired. I walk into work one day, with my hands over my stomach and walking slightly keeled forward. My boss is coming down the hallway towards me. She is someone who enjoys confrontation and loves to take out her temper on the poor worker who happens to be within shouting distance. My co-workers and I have worked out a fool-proof system. We devised a system of claps and clicks we do as she walks down the hallway to notify people where she is and where she is going so that people can avoid her. Unfortunately for me, I was so concerned with holding my coffee cup without spilling that I did not notice the frantic clicking until I was staring at the white of my boss’s eyes. Bad.
So here I am, out on the street because I cannot afford a decent apartment. I have been living off of charity by the Homeless Shelter for Middle-Aged Veterans Who Suffer from Dementia. However, since I am neither middle-aged, a veteran, nor do I suffer from dementia, I only get to eat leftover macaroni and cheese. So please, any help would be great. All I want is a shower and a hot meal. Just no lamb chops. I’m allergic to them and I get stomachaches from mint jelly.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
London Journal
London arouses a sense of passion from person like no other city. Perhaps it is the pulsating rhythm that enraptures every body. Perhaps it is the air of pomp and circumstance that surrounds its daily life. Or perhaps it is the sound of music of a British accent to an America ear that makes it incredibly romantic. Due to my latest experience in England, I tend to favor the latter.
During my latest trip across the pond, I found myself falling victim to that said seductive accent in a most peculiar manner. You see, I was not at a bar ogling over the masses. I was in a checkout line of a supermarket in downtown London when I heard those magical words “Hey mate, can you move over a bit so I can reach the chocolate?” Well, the words were not that magical, but the accent was. I turned around ready to ask the person out right then and there and found myself awkwardly face to face with a wrinkled old pensioner trying to buy some sweets. He stood there and smiled, amused, while I grinned weakly and awkwardly. And the date afterwards was awkward too.
But the Toad-in-the-Hole I had was delicious. One part fat and one part fried, drowned in a thick brown sauce served with sausage and potatoes followed by a traditional apple cobbler and wash it all down with a pint of rich Guinness made for a hearty British meal. You could hear in the background the music for the changing of the guard and people yelling, “Hail Britannica!” with every bite.
Mind you, London also has an array of healthy food options from all round the world, due to its location as a major transportation and trading hub. One can go and find Middle Eastern stuffed aubergine, Spanish grilled berenjena, Italian melanzane alla parmigiana, South African baked brinjal, and Trinidad & Tobago stewed Baigan all within a block of each other. It is amazing that this array of dishes arose from the Sanskrit word vatinganah, which means eggplant.
Then there was the street performer. Never have I ever been chosen to be a “volunteer” for a street performer. I think I was singled out because I was not wildly applauding any of his antics nor laughing at his jokes. My hands were in my pockets firmly gripping my passport and wallet while scanning the crowd for pickpockets. He singled me out as someone who could use a little bit more enthusiasm and had me wrap him up in 20 meters of heavy chains and lock him up with three padlocks. He could have easily escaped within a few seconds, but he dragged his show out for nearly half an hour.
Well, half an hour was nearly enough for me to miss my flight. I ran back to my hotel as soon as the show ended, grabbed my luggage, hopped on the Heathrow Express, and blazed through check-in and security at the airport. As I settled into my luxurious coach-class seat, reminiscing about the journey, I came to the conclusion that London is romantic for many reasons, but one should really try to go on dates with people their own age.
During my latest trip across the pond, I found myself falling victim to that said seductive accent in a most peculiar manner. You see, I was not at a bar ogling over the masses. I was in a checkout line of a supermarket in downtown London when I heard those magical words “Hey mate, can you move over a bit so I can reach the chocolate?” Well, the words were not that magical, but the accent was. I turned around ready to ask the person out right then and there and found myself awkwardly face to face with a wrinkled old pensioner trying to buy some sweets. He stood there and smiled, amused, while I grinned weakly and awkwardly. And the date afterwards was awkward too.
But the Toad-in-the-Hole I had was delicious. One part fat and one part fried, drowned in a thick brown sauce served with sausage and potatoes followed by a traditional apple cobbler and wash it all down with a pint of rich Guinness made for a hearty British meal. You could hear in the background the music for the changing of the guard and people yelling, “Hail Britannica!” with every bite.
Mind you, London also has an array of healthy food options from all round the world, due to its location as a major transportation and trading hub. One can go and find Middle Eastern stuffed aubergine, Spanish grilled berenjena, Italian melanzane alla parmigiana, South African baked brinjal, and Trinidad & Tobago stewed Baigan all within a block of each other. It is amazing that this array of dishes arose from the Sanskrit word vatinganah, which means eggplant.
Then there was the street performer. Never have I ever been chosen to be a “volunteer” for a street performer. I think I was singled out because I was not wildly applauding any of his antics nor laughing at his jokes. My hands were in my pockets firmly gripping my passport and wallet while scanning the crowd for pickpockets. He singled me out as someone who could use a little bit more enthusiasm and had me wrap him up in 20 meters of heavy chains and lock him up with three padlocks. He could have easily escaped within a few seconds, but he dragged his show out for nearly half an hour.
Well, half an hour was nearly enough for me to miss my flight. I ran back to my hotel as soon as the show ended, grabbed my luggage, hopped on the Heathrow Express, and blazed through check-in and security at the airport. As I settled into my luxurious coach-class seat, reminiscing about the journey, I came to the conclusion that London is romantic for many reasons, but one should really try to go on dates with people their own age.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Memphis Journal
When most people hear of the town Memphis, they think of the ancient Egyptian capital of the first Nome of Lower Egypt that existed from around 3100 BC to 1300BC. Unbeknown to most, there is also a Memphis right here in our backyard, located in the state of Tennessee.
There are a few must-go places in Memphis that will make or break your trip. The first place you should go is to the airport. This is especially true if you fly into the city. As you get off of your plane you will see a few of FedEx planes - well over a hundred to be exact. Memphis is the central facility of all FedEx central facilities. Anywhere else, you will see a fleet of trucks and delivery vehicles. But here in Memphis, you will see a fleet of planes, ready to transport important cargo to all corners of the globe. On the far side of the airport, near a very small cargo building, there were two UPS planes. I was surprised that there were so many.
Schnucks is a name for a supermarket chain. Isn’t that a great name? It rolls off of your tongue far better than “Stop and Shop” or “Albertsons”. Schnucks also sounds a lot like schmuck. Schmuck, by the way, is the Yiddish word for jewel. To say “Schnucks is a schmuck” sounds far better than saying “Schnucks is a jewel.” To say “Albertsons is a schmuck” does not have the same ring, but saying “Albertsons is a jewel” sounds much better. However, any schnook that says Schnucks a jewel must be a schmooze, as no self-respecting schmuck would be that schmaltzy.
Different regions of the US all have their own regional foods, but rarely does the aroma of that dish permeate the entire city. Indeed, as you stroll down Beale Street listening to Jazz and Blues, you cannot escape the sweet smell of hickory barbequed ribs as it wafts out of every restaurant. Beale street is one of the few “five senses” streets that I’ve seen. You see history, you hear music, you feel the bass through your bones, you smell the barbeque, and you salivate for a taste of it. Remarkable, isn’t it?
So that is Memphis in a nutshell. Yes, there is by far more to see of Memphis than the Airport and a supermarket chain and there is more to eat than just ribs. But who in their right mind would skip all of that in order to see Graceland, a Redbird baseball game or the Civil Rights museum? I didn’t.
There are a few must-go places in Memphis that will make or break your trip. The first place you should go is to the airport. This is especially true if you fly into the city. As you get off of your plane you will see a few of FedEx planes - well over a hundred to be exact. Memphis is the central facility of all FedEx central facilities. Anywhere else, you will see a fleet of trucks and delivery vehicles. But here in Memphis, you will see a fleet of planes, ready to transport important cargo to all corners of the globe. On the far side of the airport, near a very small cargo building, there were two UPS planes. I was surprised that there were so many.
Schnucks is a name for a supermarket chain. Isn’t that a great name? It rolls off of your tongue far better than “Stop and Shop” or “Albertsons”. Schnucks also sounds a lot like schmuck. Schmuck, by the way, is the Yiddish word for jewel. To say “Schnucks is a schmuck” sounds far better than saying “Schnucks is a jewel.” To say “Albertsons is a schmuck” does not have the same ring, but saying “Albertsons is a jewel” sounds much better. However, any schnook that says Schnucks a jewel must be a schmooze, as no self-respecting schmuck would be that schmaltzy.
Different regions of the US all have their own regional foods, but rarely does the aroma of that dish permeate the entire city. Indeed, as you stroll down Beale Street listening to Jazz and Blues, you cannot escape the sweet smell of hickory barbequed ribs as it wafts out of every restaurant. Beale street is one of the few “five senses” streets that I’ve seen. You see history, you hear music, you feel the bass through your bones, you smell the barbeque, and you salivate for a taste of it. Remarkable, isn’t it?
So that is Memphis in a nutshell. Yes, there is by far more to see of Memphis than the Airport and a supermarket chain and there is more to eat than just ribs. But who in their right mind would skip all of that in order to see Graceland, a Redbird baseball game or the Civil Rights museum? I didn’t.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
A Complaint
Dear Reader,
I am sorry to do this to you. I’ve tried desperately to stay away from writing anything like this in the past but I cannot control the urge to do so any longer. This week has been more stressful than usual and I need to vent. For the first (and hopefully last time ever), I am going to complain about the weather.
Those of you who know me well will know that I am not a fan of the Boston Winter. This is a frequent topic of my banter, as I curse under my breath while putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, neck warmers, ear warmers, extra pants, three pairs of socks, and a portable electric blanket to prepare for crossing the street from my house to the supermarket. Needless to say, the temperatures are not exactly temperate and the winds are not exactly kind.
Routine daily tasks become dangerous trials of survival. It is an onerous challenge to walk on the snowy and icy build-up on the sides of the roads without falling. Add to that vehicles sliding down the streets, splashing freezing slush in your direction makes crossing the street an obstacle course worthy of a Marine recruit.
Frequently, it has been raised to me, that I am merely a warm-blooded Californian who does not understand the joys of living through each of the seasons. That’s balderdash. What most people do not understand is that in California, we do have seasons. To prove it, here are three photos, one of summer, one of spring and one of winter:
Photo taken at Carmel Beach with the sun setting behind the silhouetted rocks of Point Lobos.
Monarch Butterflies drying their wings in the rays of suns. Taken in Pacific Grove, where the monarchs come to live out the winters before their long migration to the borders of Canada.
A photo of the snow while driving by Lake Tahoe.
In most places, one has to wait many months for the seasons to change before it is possible to take these images. But in California, this was all done in a weekend.
You see, the secret to seasons in California is that they do not come to you; rather, you go to them. Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Lake Tahoe each have their own climates and temperatures. Yet they are separated by about 6 hours of driving on the interstate. Thus, you can go visit three seasons, have lunch, and still arrive at your destination for a mid-afternoon nap. That is the way one should enjoy their seasons!
So next time you hear me complain about the weather, you now understand why. In Boston, the seasons are separated by months. In California, they are separated by miles.
I am sorry to do this to you. I’ve tried desperately to stay away from writing anything like this in the past but I cannot control the urge to do so any longer. This week has been more stressful than usual and I need to vent. For the first (and hopefully last time ever), I am going to complain about the weather.
Those of you who know me well will know that I am not a fan of the Boston Winter. This is a frequent topic of my banter, as I curse under my breath while putting on my jacket, hat, gloves, neck warmers, ear warmers, extra pants, three pairs of socks, and a portable electric blanket to prepare for crossing the street from my house to the supermarket. Needless to say, the temperatures are not exactly temperate and the winds are not exactly kind.
Routine daily tasks become dangerous trials of survival. It is an onerous challenge to walk on the snowy and icy build-up on the sides of the roads without falling. Add to that vehicles sliding down the streets, splashing freezing slush in your direction makes crossing the street an obstacle course worthy of a Marine recruit.
Frequently, it has been raised to me, that I am merely a warm-blooded Californian who does not understand the joys of living through each of the seasons. That’s balderdash. What most people do not understand is that in California, we do have seasons. To prove it, here are three photos, one of summer, one of spring and one of winter:
Photo taken at Carmel Beach with the sun setting behind the silhouetted rocks of Point Lobos.
Monarch Butterflies drying their wings in the rays of suns. Taken in Pacific Grove, where the monarchs come to live out the winters before their long migration to the borders of Canada.
A photo of the snow while driving by Lake Tahoe.In most places, one has to wait many months for the seasons to change before it is possible to take these images. But in California, this was all done in a weekend.
You see, the secret to seasons in California is that they do not come to you; rather, you go to them. Carmel, Pacific Grove, and Lake Tahoe each have their own climates and temperatures. Yet they are separated by about 6 hours of driving on the interstate. Thus, you can go visit three seasons, have lunch, and still arrive at your destination for a mid-afternoon nap. That is the way one should enjoy their seasons!
So next time you hear me complain about the weather, you now understand why. In Boston, the seasons are separated by months. In California, they are separated by miles.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Tyranny of the Cerebral Cortex
It’s good to be the king.
That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.
He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.
But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.
So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.
King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?
“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”
A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.
It's good to be the king.
That was what Cerebral Cortex told himself. Cerebral was no ordinary tyrant or absolute monarch. He was the ruling power of his domain. Lord Hippocampus bowed to his every demand. Chancellor Cerebellum cowered under terror. Even the masses of Synaptic Nerves did not dare cross his path.
He controlled his land as tightly as he controlled the royal court. Viceroy Heart never knew which ventricle was under the pay of The Cortex and Baron Epidermis could not keep his pores dilated for the stress that he was under. Not all the aristocracy was against him, however. Baron Liver gleefully put any traitor to work in the toxic environments of the digestive system where they would eventually find themselves in inescapable exile.
But in the far away serfdom of Podiakstan, civil unrest abounded. “We demand better working conditions! We want shorter hours! We want cleaner work environments! We refuse to carry the weight of the Kingdom on our backs while working the dark!” Their leader, Hallux (a.k.a Big Toe), was a mean figure. He was calloused from working endlessly in the pitch black conditions of the mines. His nail was chaffed and a generally offensive odor permeated the immediate space surrounding him. No one messed with Big Toe.
So in secret, Big Toe and his nine associates plotted to overthrow the kingdom. Little Toe (a.k.a Babyface), would innocently curl up and cause the entire kingdom to topple. Middle Toe would cramp itself in the middle of the night. The ankle, meanwhile, would send acute messages to the brain in an effort to overwhelm them with pain.
King Cortex was at breakfast when his world came crashing down. Reports of damage came from all over the kingdom. The upper right limb became immobile. Elite guards of white blood cells were dispatched to repair as much of the damage as possible. Meanwhile, the message from Podiakstan arrived. He writhed in agony. King Cortex was disconcerted. This was the most serious challenge to his authority that he had ever experienced. Should he send down an army of white blood cells to subdue the uprising? Or maybe he could lay siege and prevent supplies from reaching Podiakstan? No. This was too big for him to act alone. He had to call for help. But who could he call?
“911 operator, how may I help you?”
“Pain! Ankle is sprained! I fell and landed on my right arm! I think it’s broken!”
“An ambulance is on it’s way sir. Please hold tight.”
A day later, the arm was in a sling and recovering well. The ankle was put into a cast such that it could not cause any more trouble. As for the mutineers in Podiakstan, they were found guilty of plotting to overthrow the kingdom and every cell in their serfdom was replaced within 20 days by loyalists.
It's good to be the king.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
A Practical Joke
And the church bells rang with clarion sound. The pigeons flew out of their nests. Men cheered, women applauded, kids screamed. The pastor smiled and the groundskeeper waved. The town clown finally got married.
His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.
It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.
The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.
So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.
After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.
The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"
"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"
His shtick-full existence had caused the clown to become rather lonely since very few people bothered to talk to him and really understand what he was about. As time wore on, his antics became stale and his clowning lost it's edge. That was when the citizens of Townsvilleburg decided that it was time to mobilize. The clown had to get married.
It was not easy task mind you. I mean, who in their right mind would want to marry a guy with a pale white face, red nose, a permanent goofy grin and orange hair who wore shoes that were eight sizes too large? It was hard to get to know him too. If you approached him directly, you'd get shot in the eye with a jet of water that sprayed out of his fake flower on his plaid coat.
The citizens put wanted adds in the major newspapers all across the country - from San Francisco to New York, from Chicago to Cape Canaveral - calling out to the citizens of the world "We need a wife for our clown!" Applications poured in from all over the globe including exotic places such as Zimbabwe, Timbuktoo, and Rhode Island.
So they held an audition. They screened nearly three hundred candidates for the role of Town Clown and they wanted to be just as rigorous for the role of First Lady Clown. The prospectives had to dance, sing, act, perform stand-up comedy, acrobatics and cook - all while dribbling a basket ball. They even hired a city clown and she had to make him laugh. Have you ever tried making a clown laugh? It's hard.
After the initial screening, they settled on five potential candidates and called in their town clown. He walked into the auditorium and saw the lineup of women. Five lady clowns stood lined up in the middle of the room. He began to walk in front of them, pacing up and down. The third one squirted him with her fake flower. He shook her hand with an electric buzzer. They gave each other a great big smooch.
The wedding was brief but all of Townsvilleburg was there. As they left for their honeymoon, the town clown said to his new wife, "You know, for a town of their size, they treat us clowns pretty well!"
"I'll say" said his wife. "And wait till the Mayor sees the Jack-in-the-Box under his pillow!"
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