Writings
When this service is done, I am going to not one, but two Super Bowl parties. But I find myself in the incredibly strange position of not caring who wins. I do have a slight wager riding on the outcome. But it is with Hunter Hook. It involves ice cream (as most of our wagers do).
Buried in yesterday’s stack of e-mails was Stew Peck’s story of an 87-year-old woman who gave up beer for Lent, only to lament the fact that the hard liquor she commenced to drink instead made her brain furry and her tongue fuzzy. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Since this will soon get a little heavy, perhaps we should begin a little light….like with a guy named David who, much to his surprise, received a parrot for his 40th birthday. The parrot, himself, was fully grown, with a bad attitude and a worse vocabulary. Every other word was an expletive. Those that weren’t expletives were, to say the least, rude.
The phone rang late one night and, as I always do, I answered by saying: “Bill Ritter speaking.” Which was followed by another voice….higher, sweeter and infinitely more teasing than mine….saying: “I bet you don’t remember who this is?” I didn’t.
