Life is a Reach

My pet theory is that a person's ego develops in the second trimester. That's when you can feel him/her bucking around, hitting up against this side and that side, as if to say, "Hey get me outta here!"

Why do they call theories pets?

That's easy. If you don't have a cat or a dog, a theory will keep you company when you're reduced to talking to yourself.

"Do I have trouble with a person talking to himself?"

"No, I think it's fine."

"Then why do you ask the question?"

"Will you shut up, already?"

Back to the trimester business. I've always thought the anti-abortion people would make more sense if they backdated a baby's age to the point of conception, though I realize that might be a bit hard to pin down. Most everyone would be nine months older, but there would be endless debate about which date was the actual birthday.

That debate, in turn, would give the fools in the House of Lords or the Knesset something to actually do.

Oh, and you'd have to change the word birthday to the "Day We Did It." Or you could call it the day of the pepperoni for short. Or long.

***

For a while there, I thought this Corona-V might be a Republican. Because look what happened to New York, New Jersey? Solid Democratic country with people dying right and left, or should I say left and left.

But lately, I'm seeing the virus may have mutated into a Democrat. Now the Republican districts are getting hard hit, including the swing states that the GOP desperately needs to hold onto the Senate and keep Trump in the White House.

Who wouldn't want Trump in the White House? He must really love the place. He's the only known President so fond of inspecting the situation room bunker that he still does it four years into his term. He'll defend the place against peaceful protestors with vicious dogs, tear gas, smoke bombs, all kinds of weapons. He'll call out the military to blockade that nearby defensive zone, Lafayette Park.

Now we even learn, from the guy with the worst mustache since Cecil B. DeMille, and he didn't even have a mustache, that Trump begged China to help him hold onto the White House. I suppose Russia and the Ukraine were not enough to carry Michigan, Ohio, Wisconsin or most of the other Big Ten schools.

Bolton also reveals that Trump thought Finland was part of Russia -- "No, Mister President, they are not part of Russia but they do eat reindeers, if that helps") and that he never realized Britain was a nuclear power.

Are you kidding me? Where did they find this guy? He's the poster boy of why it's a really bad idea to leave your kid a $413 million inheritance. I say spend it while you can because you can't take it with you, so don't leave it behind. (Note to kids: I'm not leaving you the $413 million.)

There one comes again. Cliches keep popping up like PopTarts in the toaster (Jolly Rancher Watermelon is one of the top-ranked flavors.)

No, I'm spending my kids' fortune. In fact, I've been working on becoming a man of leisure. Am headed for the mountains next week, and yesterday I went to the beach. Did you know that Life is a Beach?

It's also a Peach, a Teach, a Quiche (if you firm up the crust), or my all-time fav, Life is a Reach.

Life is a Reach. Get it? I don't.

***

Now we've dealt with pets, pepperoni, politics, Pop Tarts, and poetry, the only p-word left to mess up our day would be piss.

As I compose my memoir, covering years of doing this and that, going here and there, with lots of ups and downs, big things and little things, minor achievements and major failures, writing ledes and  kickers, the inevitable question pops up like a Jolly Roger Watermelon.

Is any of it true?

Well, to answer that would take the piss out of the whole thing.

***

One of my grandkids has a pet theory, and no, as far as I can tell she doesn't yet have an issue with talking to herself.

Instead, she talks to her parents, and even sometimes to her hard-of hearing grandfather.

"When I was eight," she said recently, "I had to go to bed at eight. Now I'm nine I have to go to bed at nine.

"That means when I turn ten, I should be able to stay up 'til ten and when I'm eleven I should be able to stay up until eleven. When I'm twelve..."

"That's all fine and good," I interrupted. "But what about when you're seventy-three?"

-30-