Category Archives: Humor

Things that make you LOL

For Mothers Day, Something Completely Different (Glaring Omission)

One the right side of my blog there is a list of tags entitled “Where I Get My Grins”. These are to indicate what my posts are about , what makes me laugh  and the sources of my humor. The one glaring omission is the tag “Mother”. She is definitely a source of humor for me. Not that she makes me laugh though she does. Not that I laugh at her, I do and visa versa. It’s in the sense that I have learned how to approach life, by laughing through it all, from her. When life give you lemons laugh , besides we like our lemonade sweet and too much sugar is not good for you.

If you have followed my stories here you have noticed that for a blog in the category of humor it has a tale or two that at first glance would not seem to warrant the tag of “Humor” or “Humour” for those more worldly than I.  Those postings stand out a bit because they cover topics of loved ones lost. If you have read them you realize they are not really about death but of how to celebrate life and to laugh through it all . This lesson I learned from my mother and consider the most valuable of all that she has taught me.

Thank you Mom. Happy Mothers Day*.

*Go out and enjoy the strange weather we’re having. I’m sure it has nothing to do with global climate change. (An inside joke we share).

It’s Time to Play Travel Fee Jeopardy

Welcome to  Travel Fee Jeopardy, the game that tests your patience and your wallet.

Let us welcome our contestant Dan. He is an engineer from Colorado and he lists his hobbies as writing and outdoor recreation and he is on his way to his nephew’s graduation.  Welcome to Travel Fee Jeopardy Dan. Are you ready to play? “Yes Alex I suppose so”.

Camera Cuts to Commercial.

“Come on Dan show some excitement will you?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong Alex but basically the point of this game is to find out what travel fees I will be paying for on my upcoming trip. Correct?”.

“That’s correct. My Dan is a sharp one isn’t he.”

“Well how is that exciting?”, asked Dan.

“Well Dan that’s a good question. The excitement comes from the trepidation of what unusual and perhaps unreasonable fee could be levied. It is possible in some rare instances that the feelings you experience will be ones of relief. Now don’t you find that exciting?

“Yes, In the way that I find filing my taxes exciting,” replied Dan.

“Now your getting it Dan.”

”Glad I could make you happy Alex, it’s all about you”.

Back from Commercial:

“Well folks we just had a lively discussion with our contestant and now it’s time to play the game.”

“I’ll take Would You believe for 50 Alex”.

“Good choice Dan.  Dan your flying in to Kansas City and renting a car. What additional tax will you be required to pay?”

“Um, I don’t know a Barbecue Tax Alex?”

“Well that’s an interesting answer but it is not in the form of a question now is it Dan?”

“Um, What is no Alex.”

“You have the idea but you’re still wrong Dan.  The tax we are looking for is assessed by the car rental company that goes towards the new Sprint Center in Kansas City.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“ Sorry Dan , That is not a category but you are getting the whole form of a question theme.”

“But I am not going to use the Sprint Center Alex.”

“But how do we know you won’t change your mind Dan. Lets move along now. Choose your next category Dan and remember “Are Kidding Me?” is not a category. Ha Ha.”

“You’re a stitch Alex. I will take “Would You Believe for 100.”

“Feeling lucky in that category aren’t you Dan?”

“No but the sooner I get this over the quicker I can end this charade and get my reservations .”

“See I told you this was exciting.”

“Yea, it’s a thrill a minute Alex. Can you give me my next question?”

“Glad to see your anxious now Dan.”

“Dan your flying out of Denver International Airport. What fee is added to your ticket when you fly out of Denver?”

“What is the Snowball Tax Alex?”

“Ha Ha . I can see our contestant has a sense of humor but no the fee is not a Snowball Tax.   The tax you will be paying is the Denver Airport Tax which pays for the building and operation of the Airport.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Ha Ha, I guess Dan wants us to rename the category. We’ll take that into consideration. But, no I am not kidding you. The Denver Airport does not get tax dollars from the city or the county.”

“But doesn’t the city and county get funds from taxes on tourists Alex?” “ Oh come on Dan it doesn’t work that way. If it did you wouldn’t have to pay the Sprint Tax in Kansas City and then where would you be?”

“I would more likely to be in Kansas City Alex.”

“Ha Ha, my our Dan has a sense of humor now doesn’t he.  So Dan would you like to choose your next category?”

“What is Can I say no Alex?”

“Well that is in the form of a question so I will allow it. Besides I can see that you will be checking in a couple of bags and we make out like bandits on those.”

“ Yea I’m happy for you Alex.”

“Well Dan thanks for playing our game and being a good sport. Drop by again and play the game when you are in the area.”

“Snowballs chance in heck Alex, Snowballs chance in heck.”

“Ha Ha, You are a card Dan.”

From The Case Files of Grok, The Original Detective: “The Harder They Fall”

Grok was convinced that several things held him back from being the richest man in the village, his sense of justice , his lack of cool last name (well having a last name would be a good start) and his lame job title.   “Finder for hire”  did not have the right ring to it.  Never mind that none of the villagers could handle the concept of an extra syllable, he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of crafting a better job title.

Grok had only been a finder for a short time but the things he had seen had made him lose his faith in humanity. Oh sure the humanity he knew could barely walk upright and they had not quite mastered the concept of multi-syllabic words but that didn’t stop them from being mean to each other.  Often he found himself helping out folks not for payment but because it was the right thing to do. It really ticked him off when the strong prayed on the weak.  He wasn’t worried about physical confrontation. His newfound intellectual powers allowed him to outsmart most troublemakers. Sometimes though, a bully had to be taught a lesson.

His next door neighbor, who Grok referred to as Big Hairy Guy or Big Hairy* for short, was such a bully.  The cave drawings Grok had provided to Big Hairy’s mate had provided little effect on his philandering. He was not sure Big Hairy understood what the drawings had meant. Everyones’s a critic. It was obvious Big Hairy was continuing his philandering ways with every unwilling female in the village. It did not take a paleontologist to figure it out and Grok did not have to tale him either. There were many a time when a concussed female would come knocking on his cave looking for Big Hairy. He knew these women would have been able to find him if it were not for Hairy’s suave clubbing skills.

Grok had enough of  dinnertime interruptions  and a decreasing population of lucid females in his village. Action had to be taken and Grok had a plan. He was going to lure Big Hairy into a trap by providing him a surprise victim, Grok himself.

It wouldn’t take much to present himself as a female to Big Hairy.  Not many of the local  women had discovered the secret of using a sharp rock for getting rid of unwanted hair. As for hygiene, the only thing that separated the fairer sex from the brutes in this village was a monthly bath. It was not a pleasant place to be during the scorching heat of a still summer.  All it would take for Hairy to find Grok appealing would be a quick dip in the nearby watering hole and a second animal skin for a top. It frightened him to think that all that prevented him from getting constantly hit on was  the lack of a second strategically placed loincloth.

At dusk Grok put his plan into action and hid behind the bushes near Big Hairy’s cave. The bushes allowed him to observe the caves entrance without being seen but the insects they attracted were driving him nuts. Perhaps there were advantages to poor hygiene.  Fortunately it wasn’t long before Big Hairy emerged from his cave. It was right before dark and he was on the prowl. Grok had planned well.

Grok sauntered out from behind the bushes,  putting an extra wiggle to his lurch to set the bait.  It worked. The beast had caught his scent, or lack thereof, and the hunt was on.  Big Hairy approached Grok trying to appear suave. The only alteration to his look was his feeble attempt to hide his club.

“So much for the subtle art of seduction”, thought Grok. Suddenly Big Hairy shifted his club to make a pass at Grok but Grok was quicker. He ducked and came up revealing a small heavy club of his own. The noise  of the club connecting with Hairy’s head sounded like a gatherer checking a melon for freshness. Big Hairy tried to grab Grok’s waist for support as he was falling. In  doing so he only managed to remove Grok’s loin cloth before passing out.

Grok was getting ready** for another tale job a week later when he thought about the Big Hairy job. He felt satisfied. He had decreased the bully count in the village by one and cured Big Hairy of his philandering. Grok liked to think he helped Hairy see the errors of his ways but more likely it was the discovery of his potential date’s extra equipment that did the trick.

*Grok figured that if the neighbor did not give himself a name then Grok could call him anything he wanted to. If Big Hairy found out ,Grok was sure he wouldn’t comprehend the insult.

** In this case “getting ready” meant choking down some fermented fruit juice so he could turn down his disgust level long enough to do the job. He got it down but wondered why someone couldn’t make better swill.

The Beginning or How Grok Got His Groove On.

I Grok, The Story of the Worlds First Detective

The Further Adventures of Grok, The Worlds First Detective

Miss the First Installment ?

Grok had awoken with a twinkle in his eye and snap in his lurch. His ability to walk upright  still needed some work but it did the job.  He felt excited , he felt like this was the first day of, hmm, the rest of his days?

His life had changed dramatically  since the “rock shower” in the clearing a few weeks ago. He had given up foraging due to boredom. There were no new plants to discover around here as he could recognize all of the edible ones from the plants that would send you scurrying for the bushes.

He had found a new way to get the necessities he needed for life. He had become what he liked to call a “finder”. Well that was the term he was going with for now because it described his skill set and what he could offer people. He could find things. He could find information and he could find people.  In return he received food, clothing, firewood and an occasional cave painting to brighten up his place.

Grok got dressed quickly. Let’s face it what does it take to throw on a loincloth? He knew some guys took forever in the morning primping and all. It’s a good thing they couldn’t see how they looked.

Hearing a tapping at his cave entrance Grok grunted out some sounds that resembled the phrase “come in doll-face “.  In walked his neighbor’s mate. The thought “ In glided a tall willowy redhead and I could tell she brought trouble where ever she went” popped into his mind but that would be totally inaccurate. A more appropriate statement would be, “In limped a women, barely waking upright,  with a mass of dirt-water colored hair. I could tell she brought hygiene  issues wherever she went.” But that would be mean and confusing since it described all of the residents of this local cave-town.

Grok inquired as to what her problem was and she replied in a lot of grunts , squeaks and a sound he was not sure what the origin was. He hoped it wasn’t a bodily function. From what he could make out she either thought her mate was having an affair and wanted proof or she got a hold of some bad plants. He was desperately counting on the former. His cave was spotless and did not want to clean up a mess.  She did offer cleaning services in return so he figured either way it would work out.

Grok shadowed the man for several days and then hit upon the idea of documenting his findings using cave drawings.  This resulted in what may be histories first case of Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.  It also resulted in a fine archeological display for the London Museum  hundreds of years later.

Grok had discovered that his neighbor was clearly having an affair. He also discovered the man definitely needed work on his seduction skills. While a club to the head may be effective, Grok did not think it very romantic or nice for that matter. Grok was amazed however that after a period of recovery the woman warmed to her “pursuer”.   Apparently she likes the bad boys.

The last day on the job Grok reported his findings to his client by showing her his cave drawings, not realizing that years from now men will be showing women their etchings in an attempt at a more sophisticated form of seduction.

In addition to the house cleaning she made him a hat to sweeten the deal.  She thanked him for his services and uttered some grunts that he interpreted as “ why don’t you drop by and see me some time”.  He politely declined. The last thing he needs is an irate neighbor lobbing rocks at him, besides it would not be professional.

Grok felt good. Tying up the job in a neat little package was satisfying. He had no idea if the couple was going to make it but at least the woman now could bargain from a position of strength.  He threw on his hat and went for a walk. Passing the nearby water hole he caught sight of his reflection. The hat looked good. It made him feel like a finder. He was going to have to work on that term. He needed something with a little more snap to it.

A Story of Passion that Never Occurred in Plaça Catalunya.

I was going through some old boxes the other day. My rule is if you have not opened up a box once in the past year it’s toast. There are certain riders to the rule to adjust for special situations. If you have just moved for example then the time period starts at arrival at the new abode and lasts for six months. If, at the end of that time, a box has not been opened it is time to auction it off to Storage Wars.

I stumbled upon a box that I did not recognize and was not sure when it was opened last. I am sure that I had violated my rule several times over. Most of the contents did not seem worth holding on to until I came upon an old pamphlet advertising a shopping district (FNAC) in Barcelona by the name of Placa Catalunya. ” If you’re after sheet music, music-related books or musical instruments, there is a large FNAC on Placa Catalunya”. The past came flooding back as I gazed into the faded type of the yellowed poster.

It was several years back and I found myself enjoying  a warm spanish summer in Barcelona. I was living the life of an expatriate in Spain. It was not long after college and I was drifting along in the world bereft of an anchor that a career would provide. I had no inkling as to what my identity in the world would be and I was perfectly happy. I had drifted throughout  France and into Spain and by the summer I had found myself in Barcelona. I was in need of an influx of cash so I had procured a job at a small music shop in a shopping district known as Placa Catalunya. My spanish was passable and my music knowledge was sufficient enough to convince the proprietor to give me a job. I think the novelty of being American did not hurt.

It was my third day on the job when the universe pulled the emergency brake  as I was turning the wheel and the direction my life was taking was immediately adjusted by 180 degrees. The cause of this of course was a woman. Not just any women. Lupe was the embodiment of every gorgeous senorita that had ever existed. When she smiled the sun came out and when she walked the breeze smelled of jasmine.

I was too mesmerized to understand her request at first but I soon snapped to reality and understood her yearning to play the guitar. It did not take me long to convince her that I was the man for the job. When I got done with her, my guitar would join the legions of men, women and children that had fallen in love with her.  For me, it was too late. I had already fallen hard.

The summer had passed in a rose-colored instant. All of the Disney  bird chirping , stream flowing , flower blooming symbolism could not describe the passion that we shared.  I had no inkling as to the danger that lay a head. There may have been a sign or two that I chose to ignore. Perhaps it was the strange mens clothes in the back of a closet or the montera (bullfighter’s hat) on the coat rack inside Lupe’s front door.

When summer ended, so had our love affair. One moment I was professing my love for her and the next I was running for my life down the  La Rambla de Sant Josep with El Rodrigo and his gang of picadores  in hot pursuit. Fortunately my european ramblings had gotten me into excellent shape and I was able to outrun the angry mob of bullfighters*.

My mind came back to the present and I decided to keep the pamphlet. It was my only keepsake that tied back to Lupe. Well ,not if you include the times when the weather is cold and the act of sitting down brings back the sharp reminder that one of the picadores had a decent arm and good aim with a pica.

*Well that’s what I called them at the time. Running for your life is not the time to research the true name, Torrero.

Note to friends and family. Do not fret about this unknown part of my life. It did not happen. This story was hatched from a writing idea in a blog called “Daily Prompt”. The instruction was to go to  “Blogs I Followin the Reader. Scroll down to the third post in the list. Take the third sentence in the post, and work it into your own post. In my case the third post was “Music Shopping in Barcelona” at a Blog called “Shop With Intent”. I hope you enjoyed my story.

Three Cab Monte (Dante’s Dilemma)

I arrived at Denver International at a little after 11:30pm  and immediately began  a journey through Dan’s 14th level of hell, lost-luggage-land.  I have no idea why Dante stopped at 9 levels.  I am sure he had a deadline.  Perhaps my outlook on life is a bit cynical.  I have 59 levels and counting.  My 14th level is the afore-mentioned lost-luggage-land and I was staring it directly in the face after 25 minutes of waiting at the luggage carousel produced the usual black , red and an occasional pink bag but none that matched my generic black one*. When it was clear my bag was not coming I schlepped over to the baggage office where I was promptly directed back towards a podium by the carousels and asked “Have you talked to that women?”.  “No”, I replied and then thought “15th level, merry-go-round-land, here I come”. I answered the prerequisite questions for entrance into merry-go-round-land, type of bag, color etc and resigned myself to never seeing my luggage again.  The next problem on my agenda was how I was getting home at this late hour but before I started to tackle that problem my luggage had been granted a last stay of execution. It seems it “had wandered away from the rest of the luggage” and was found  cowering in a corner somewhere.  Lets hope I did not just use up my travel karma I thought as I headed over to ground transportation.  When I am gone for weeks at a time I always leave my car in my garage and take the airport shuttle. For return trips the shuttle folks tell me a reservation isn’t necessary. I was now about to put that advice to the test. Sixteenth level of hell, stranded in airport-land here I come.

Fortunately the shuttle desk was still open complete with a long line of customers.  My luck seemed to be holding until a minute later some official looking guy, well he wore a uniform anyway, announced that I was now entering the 16th level, the shuttle was shutting down. He was trying to contact the drivers that had just left for home to see if they could come back for one last run. As optimistic as he sounded, I for one was not convinced that he was going to be successful.  So there we were about twenty of us hanging around for Beelzebub to greet us while uniform guy wandered off in the direction of what I only could hope was a shuttle and not a donut. I am sure those were easier to find. I being of Polish descent (ie, sweaty) was content to wait outside away from the desperate masses. Soon the refugees started to break into small groups. Oh-oh, Lord of the Flies level here we come. My trepidation turned out to be premature. The cliques were based on who was going where.  Unfortunately the leader of the Boulder group was a very young , very desperate and who I assume was a about to be victim of a hustling cab driver.  The desolate look on his face screamed  “I’m vulnerable , please take advantage of me”. He and two others bound for Boulder had secured a $20 dollar a piece ride to Boulder.  I believed that about as much as I believe the Cubs will win the word series in my lifetime. I am making plans for my ashes to be sprinkled on the field when the blessed event takes place.  I declined to be a passenger  on the road to level “stranded by cabby because we did not have $200”.  Soon another “choice” opened up. For $60 I could have the privilege of accompanying 5  strangers to unknown parts of Denver before making it to Boulder. For that I get a discount of $20 off of average cab fare of $80. Sorry, I can get lost in Denver on my own and for free. I was starting get a feeling that this evenings  odyssey had a few more chapters in it that would rival “After Hours” (it’s an awesome movie, check it out)  but so far nobody had died. Risking that record and taking matters in to my own hands I talked to one of the cab drivers still hanging around the ground transportation island and “negotiated” an $80 fee. Yes steep compared the other “bargains but from I what gathered by talking to ground transportation personnel earlier, it was within line of a normal cab fare to Boulder. At this point my gut told me to shoot for normal rather than bargain and I alway’s listen to my gut. Well these days I do. Just ask my friends about the times I didn’t and you will get a litany of psycho ex girlfriend stories.

The ride home was uneventful. Sorry folks, no murders , no mayhem and no running out of gas. It was however 1:20 am. I suppose that was not too late considering I had just left level sixteen. Thankfully level one of heaven on earth was just around the corner. “Posturpedic-land” was calling me.

* Note to reader: I am color blind so it is highly probably that any one sample of the worlds luggage collection will contain much more than three colors.

Traveling Stooges Style

The three stooges. Most men love them, not too many women admit the same. I  contend that it depends on when the latter is questioned about this particular proclivity. I believe that a woman is much more inclined to admitting their love for the Stooges before giving birth. Afterwords I believe the fear of intervention from social services prevent them from telling the truth.  Watching them was fun , traveling like them would not be.

No matter what their mode of transportation was ,they always slept three to a bunk , chair or car.  Flying was not much of an option during those days. If it was they could have shared my recent experience.

Let’s face it. The one size fits all airline seats were designed when Mickey Rooney was that one size.  The standard airline seat requires that you fast  a week before traveling.  Is it an accident that cheaper tickets require a reservation at least one full week before departure? I think not.  The fact that the airlines manage to fill up the planes defies natural law and the fact that there are not more air marshal incidents  due to overcrowding is beyond me. I know I am not alone when I say that I hate the middle seat. When it comes to sitting in the middle seat,  I am an on the edge of being claustrophobic . This particular flight I was lucky and was assigned my preferred seat next to the window. The aisle seat was assigned to a  man about 2 1/2 Mickeys, I am about 2 Mickeys.  The person who would be taking up the middle seat was running late and giving me hope that there would be a buffer , allowing comfort for all involved. If he did arrive he was going to have to be somewhere between .75  to  1 Mickey.

Middle Guy , my official name for him during the flight , showed up just moments before they closed the airplane door. Judging by the look on his face as he first gazed upon his seat assignment it seemed he was silently cursing  the flight attendants sloth-like ability when it came to closing cabin doors, the failures of many people to get in his way during his terminal run or his own swift feet. Middle guy politely squeezed  into his seat and his position gradually evolved into  a more comfortable one, for him, leaning onto me.  For those of you who have followed my adventures on this story board, you know my one true super power. SPOILER ALERT ( I have always wanted to do that). For those of you who have just discovered my stories , I will reveal it now, but please go back and see what you missed. My superpower is that I can sleep anywhere , particularly if I am on something moving. It was at this time that I chose to deploy my power. What I can’t see , hear , or feel can’t hurt me. Probably a philosophy used by many in prison. My power did not fail me and I slept through snack and beverage time. In kindergarten that would have made me cranky but I have evolved. I woke up 2 hours later with the strange feeling that something had gone wrong.  I cleared the sleep from my eyes and noticed that middle guy was looking at me with trepidation, ok down right fear in his eyes.  When I caught his gaze he cautiously stated “ I have been really worried the last hour or so. I am sorry but I accidentally got mayonnaise* on your pants”. I  glanced down at the location of the mayo and approved of his decision not to try to clean it up while I was sleeping. I looked at middle guy and laughed and said” No worries,   They are just jeans”. Travel pants are a good idea. Besides I pictured him trying to squeeze mayo out of a packet with his right hand while trying not to elbow Aisle Guy and commiserated with his predicament.

Getting to the hotel I promptly attempted to wash out  the stains left on my pants. There were still noticeable spots. I was a little self-conscious about them on the return flight but nobody seemed to notice . Perhaps they were afraid to look at the laughing man staring at his pants and doing impressions of Curly. Nyuk , Nyuk, Woo Woo Woo.

*Thankfully it was the fake stuff, the egg in the real stuff would have gotten nasty.

I Grok, The Story of the Worlds First Detective

“I Grok Therefore I am “, He thought when he first woke up this morning. He was not sure what any of that meant. He did not have thoughts before this morning. Well to be clear he had not had any lucid thoughts until this morning. He was still not quite sure what lucid meant.  There was really only one thing he could be sure about and that was that  all of this strangeness started yesterday.

It was a day like all of the others. Get up in the morning. Slowly peek outside the cave and see if it was safe out there. No big hairy flying things, check. No big hairy four legged walking things, check. No sign of anything hairy and moving, check. Most of the dangerous things around here were hairy and moving except the dweller in the cave next door, but he was always having a bad hair day , even when he did manage to move his behind off his rock and do something useful.

Convinced all was well in the neighborhood of caves he stepped outside to begin his morning of foraging for breakfast. Foraging was not the duty of most of the males in his village but he was no longer allowed to go hunting with them. His idea of “hunting” was too boring for the other men. He preferred to “think” about it for a while. At least that is the “word” he now attached to it, thinking. After thinking he would determine the easiest place and time to kill the beast. This usually involved waiting until the beast had mated and had fallen immediately asleep. Male beasts were no different than any other male creature.  For the rest of the village males, this did not offer enough excitement. Oh sure some of them had an unusual fascination for the preliminaries to the kill but it still did not offer enough prehistoric brutality to make it worthwhile.

He found foraging fascinating. Fascinating, that is the word he now attached to the feeling. He could look at plants and think about them all day long. At first, finding the plants you could eat was a crap shoot and usually that is what happened after eating what you found.  After several instances of hiding behind a rock the rest of the day and erupting at both ends of the spectrum, yes it’s a euphemism, you put a few clues together and learned what you could eat and what you could not.

He had been in the large clearing , a field maybe, yea that’s it, on the edge of the cave neighborhood when a loud noise above him caught his attention. Turning his attention skyward he caught site of a large boulder flying over him. Closely following the boulder was a flock, yea  a flock , of other smaller boulders. Maybe rocks, but kind of shiny.  That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up in his cave. That was two sunsets ago.

Upon waking up, Grok had two thoughts. “radioactive” and “cliche”. He was not sure what either of them meant but whatever happened had changed him. He felt different , he felt smarter, he felt the need  for an outside rock and ran out behind his cave. “Hmm, still feeling the after affects of yesterdays foraging”, he thought. “ What is with these thoughts “, he ….thought. Until yesterday all he ever had in his head were grunts and other incoherent syllables , with the majority the grunts being mostly “doh” and “nuts”. What was that all about? After a few moments he gave up trying to figure it out and went back inside his cave to start his day.

Once he a had spruced up a bit ,splashing water on his face and plastering down his hair, he exited his cave. Looking upon the neighborhood he saw it in a brand new light. Something different lay before him. Something that contained possibilities.

The Vampire Down The Hall

Far be it for me to judge my neighbors. That said , Let the judging begin.

For the better part of almost a year I have noticed a strange ritual going on with one of my neighbors down the hall.  Several times during the week, could be every day I don’t take notes, a styrofoam cooler appears outside their door.  On a few rare occasions I have seen a woman leave the apartment . This went on for some time without any other clues revealing themselves. Then one day I saw a UPS driver taking away one of the suspect coolers. There was one still at the door so I can only assume that he had dropped off that one and was taking an empty with him. Cue the imagination. Now I immediately ruled out an alien able to grow organs at will and selling them to make rent. I mean come on , an alien coming to this planet without enough cash , please, not too mention the whole organ match thing. My next thought was that perhaps she was a middleman (middle-person, sorry I am not sure what the proper term is these days) in an international stolen organ ring.  They are always international otherwise they sound so pedestrian. She did look a little familiar I might have seen her at an airport lounge looking for  travelers to drug and then steal a kidney from.  Apparently I did not rate worthy enough to waste a mickey on.  Ruling out those totally ridiculous theories I came to one logical conclusion.  One of my neighbors is a vampire.

Now I have never actually gotten a good look at her per se which only strengthens the theory. You know, keeps odd hours, avoids daylight and human contact in general, except for the rare times deliveries can’t be made and she has  to break out her fangs.  I can only assume she is a vampiress (come on spellcheck we all know that a female vampire is a vampiress).  Perhaps a countess.  It is a known fact , vampirism and countesses go hand in hand.  The last clue, and the clincher, is that I never, ever,  in the year that I have lived down the hall from her , smelled garlic emanating from her apartment. Case solved.

One can only hope that she  is a kindler gentler vampire . You know, the kind that sparkles in the sun rather than turn into a mass of putrid flesh.  The cooler deliveries tend to back up the kindler gentler part.  So my friends , if I start keeping odd hours and the number of times  you see me can only be documented in your yearly calendars ,do not fret, I am probably keeping company with a pale complected , slightly older (by 300 years) woman.  Do not judge, be happy for me.