Eskewpades

Jealous husband? Or the extinction of cockroaches? With each humor column, I’m simply out to solicit a smile or two, a nodding of the head and even an occasional belly laugh. Not convulsions. Indeed, laughter isn’t always the best medicine. Fun fact: Many people have actually died while laughing. And who’s in a hurry to die? Not I, not I. Hell’s bells, I want to live until someone is finally born laughing, thank you very much. Heck, while we’re at it, put that wish on my bucket list. Other baby boomers entertain dare-devil ambitions. Be my guest. I’ll stick to safe aspirations. Or will I? The most dangerous goal I’ve ever concocted was in the essay in which I listed my ultimate death wish — to be shot to death by a jealous husband at age 106. And I solemnly promise that, if God grants that gift, I won’t ask for another thing. Ever. In the meantime, I want to please the one person who I know for sure will show up at my  funeral — myself. Here’s another item on my

Sharp as a mitten filled with jello Sharp as a mitten filled with jello In our reckless salad days, my bride and I set up housekeeping in a sketchy neighborhood. Questionable personalities everywhere. Well after all, not every neighborhood can be abundantly blessed with people as perfect as we were. ’Twas truly a hood for strugglers. Broke most weeks. Trapped. Cursed by fate, there we resided, confined among the “certified” in a luxurious trailer park, where the chief status symbol was new tires for the house. Call it a cosmic force thingy, call it a fact: Kookie people gravitate toward each other. The big mystery? In the marching band of life, how did everyone but us-uns fall out of step? The bloke who dwelled two doors down with his mate, Myrtle, called himself Murpho. He played the fiddle, she played the accordion. After a sample concert, my wicked wife affectionately but secretly nicknamed the couple Sharps and Flats. Sharps and Flats shared the unique misfortune

Vacuuming the sidewalk at 3 a.m. Don’t call me Ishmael, call me a nerd’s nerd. For a kid who grew up in an era when drug subcultures were rapidly rising, I surely emerged into the ultimate square. Pepsi, please! Some of my friends, however, dabbled in mild recreational drugs. Mostly marijuana. Being politically inclined, I quickly embraced the idea that pot should be legalized and stocked at the supermarket. And, by all means, place it in proximity to a generous array of munchies to satisfy one of the drug’s major side effects — a craving for junk food. Oh, the evils of side effects. As a college kid, I became addicted to domineering females. Anyway, that’s how I perceived all of my girlfriends. Mostly inflatable women. The side effect? These would-be dominatrices bamboozled nerdy little me into gracing parties where the hosts served booze. Now you’re talkin’. Where had booze been all my life? Who needed drugs? Booze, please! But, guess what? Booze itself qualifi

INVISIBLE GOLDFISH AND GAY FELINES Many moons ago when my wife and I owned a grocery store, we discovered that most of our customers relished humor almost as much as they craved quality food. Once just for fun we stuck a goldfish bowl on a counter. ’Twas filled with only water. Nothing else. We placed a sign near the display: “Win $5 in groceries. Guess the weight of Freddy, the invisible goldfish.” Dumb, no doubt, but it gotta lotta laughs from a lots of folks. Even from me. I chuckled whenever certain people kept staring at the empty bowl, trying to spot Freddy. Some people actually guessed at Freddy’s weight. I wish I were kidding. Call me a warrior fighting gloom. Call me a man-child. Laugh with me, at me or next to me, just laugh. And laugh we did. Our customers were also our neighbors, and they treated us as if we were royalty. Neighborhood block parties prevailed with glee. After selling the store, we moved to an apartment. Nice view, but the couple

Tomcat, thy name is Petunia As I was saying last week at the Mensa meeting, naming a pet is neither brain science nor rocket surgery. Good thing it ainʼt. I rescued an adorable kitten on a cold day last December that I named Petunia Louise in honor of Porky Pigʼs girlfriend. Well, kids, within a couple of months, it became, shall we say, doubly clear, that Petunia was a male kitten. Did I rename it? Of course not. This is Steve here. Besides, Petunia loves his name. In this age of transgender issues, heʼs considered a really cool cat in some circles. Being of insane mind and body, Iʼve never subscribed to the pink-and-blue nonsense that defines masculine and feminine. So, I painted the kitten nursery lavender, the same color as my karate belt. (Perhaps heʼd prefer purrrrple). Androgynous names have always invaded our culture. Iʼm no etymologist of names, but Iʼve heard that the name “Beverly” used to be a male name, and that “Shirley” was also a male moniker until Shir

SOME SLOB STEPPED ON MY TONGUE Ah, I just survived another New Year’s Eve without swilling down so much as a thimbleful of alcohol. As a devout Irishman, I’ve had my moments with booze, believe me — or at least believe my criminal record. I simply got tired of waking up every New Year’s Day feeling like some slob had just stepped on my tongue. My swan song to alcoholic swill had its genesis nearly 30 years ago (but didn’t take until 12 years later). Much of that toot remains a blur. I do recall “waking up” on that New Year’s Eve while staggering down an unfamiliar road in the midst of a blizzard. Had I lost my car again? Or had I sold the car earlier that night for drinking money? My wife was going to kill me. Oh, wait, she’d just divorced me. Whew! Then, what to my wandering eyes should appear within the treacherous whiteout-weather but a neon sign bearing the legend Tiger Tom’s Tavern. Though I’d never heard of the place, my frozen brain immediately surmis

SIBLING FOLLY BY STEVE ESKEW Although my half-brother Skip and I didn’t even meet until we hit our mid-30s, we immediately bonded. We craved restitution for our three-decades delay as playmates. Sharing the same father, we looked alike, thought alike and partied alike. And, like many wild and crazy guys, we had both been freshly divorced. During this period between wives, we rented separate studio apartments in the same building. We knew better than to move in together. We were too much alike. Book ends. We’d have killed each other. As it turned out, we merely teased each other unmercifully. For openers, when he popped into my apartment unannounced one day, Skip noticed a baby picture on my mantle and wondered aloud which one of my daughters it imaged. Julie or Sarah? “Neither one, you dolt,” I said. “That’s me.” “You? Then why did your mother stick you in a dress?” “I’ll have you know that isn’t a dress,” I told him. “It’s a long shirt. Mothers dressed their