A True Story of My Life of Crime

While the Whizzer is off in the land of on-deck shuffleboard and swan diving, I, Old Horsetail Snake will be subbing for her a couple of times. My theme today is treachery.

There is this fella named James Frey who got rave notices from Oprah for his "memoir," "A Million Little Pieces." Only it turns out what a lot of he remembered didn’t happen – like times he was in prison and all the doping he claimed he did. Oprah apologized.

Well, if it’s memoirs of that ilk that is selling, Old Snake wants to get in the game. Only all my stuff is true!

May 2, 1938: Stole a 10-cent ring from Woolworth. Got caught by Dad. Got whopped with razor strop by Dad, and sent to a prison cell, which strongly resembled my bedroom. I got out some poster paints to write on the wall all the years I would be serving in the joint. Dad paroled me at 6 o’clock for dinner, which was veal steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, and fresh peas. Crime pays.

July 15, 1939: Bought a box of candy cigarettes. Inhaled the whole pack while practicing my George Raft squint, in case I spotted some more chances at Crime.

Oct. 31, 1942: Halloween observance involved tipping over two outhouses with my gang. Never got caught, but vowed to learn at least half of the Alcoholics Anonymous Twelve-Step Program. "Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves." Asked Aesop for the moral of the story.

Oct. 31, 1944: Halloween observance involved the gang again. We stole a horse and let it loose in the high school. Never got caught. Fat maintenance guy who never provided enough heat had to clean up the droppings. He never did figure out why we would go "nyah nyah" at him. Studied further on the 12-Step.

Oct. 2, 1948: Dodged the draft by becoming a college student. Jesus wept.

June 16-17, 1981: Got mixed up with a couple of girls who had a bag of doobie. Inhaled, got giggly, got hungry, which proved I am normal. Did a take on the 23rd Psalm: "Yea though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest sonofabitch in the Valley." Not funny, giggled anyway. I hope Oprah asks us to demonstrate this event on-camera. I have not had any good doobie since June 17, 1981.

(This sums up my life of rampant crime and drug addiction. I suppose about half my readers are weeping by now, and pulling for me to turn over a new leaf. Hell, they did it for James Frey.)

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My favorite word today is pointless. Adj., where’s the sympathy? Def.: When a child who has fallen finds it’s useless to cry because there is no one near enough to know about it.