As I write this week's challenge to intellectual adumbration and not-infrequent factual improbability called Parting Glances, it's two days after April Fools' Day. Better late than never.
As fools go, I suppose I rank somewhere near the top. It's one of the few positions in said category of placement that I can honestly own up to without blushing or divulging details of my sex life.
My MacBook says it's 11:59 p.m. My battery indicates 3:03, so theoretically I could get my column done by 4:00 a.m., in one sitting. A first.
(PGs take me three hours spread over two days, including research, drafts, spell checks, 12 cups of coffee, eight eclairs and breaks for outdoor respiratory needs, neighborly reality checks.)
I usually don't write at this hour, but because this marry-go-round's not serious – hence the April Fools intro – and I'm all keyed up by a phishing incidence, I'm, as the saying goes, on a bait-back jelly roll.
If I had sense in the first place I wouldn't check my e-mail before going to bed. It causes me to toss and turn. (Especially if I'm not alone.) But I can't resist checking for items that might remotely come across as fan male.
I should know better. There never is. But hope, like the once-advertised Serta-Perfect-Sleeper, bounces back eternal, whether you sleep on your stomach or on your back. (Please do not second guess me.)
But, for one heavenly moment I thought I had a fan. E-mail from a Captain Mike Downs, who wanted me – out of the wild blue yonder – to check out a mutually "important" Web site. Think about what it says. Get back to him. Discuss content in "depth."
Aye, aye, Sir! Anything you say, Sir!
Unfortunately the specified Web site isn't S/M-rated. (Standard Military) It's a business proposition involving investments at slight risk and moderate participation for nominal reimbursable cash inflow (his), economic egress (mine).
Contrary to my opening PG confession, I'm not as foolish as I look. (Check above photo. I'm sure you'd have no problem buying a used car from me, unless of course it's a Buick.)
To make a long story short, I couldn't resist replying to Downs with a tad bit of e-mail phish back of my own. Sort of revenge for the zillions of phishes I've endured.
SUBJECT: Generous Offer. "Captain! Thanks for the suggested strategic deployment of vital, non-distributive (but frank) articulation of what it means to have choices in this the New World Order of trickle-down, Iraq-Iran-Afganistan-Palestinian Contra, bounce-back economics.
"Your click-on confirms my take on things. In banking the end justifies the means. Rush Limbaugh's squares can be changed into Bernie Madoff's circles. Compromise is a Neo-Con isosceles triangle; but, as the calculus of Euros indicates, geometry is indeed in the eye-teeth of the beholder.
"We're on similar Wall Street pages. A global takeover initiated by the anti-Christ, with help from the military-industrial complex. Hup-two! A 21-gun salute to our mutual cosmic destiny. Here's to 666!"
It's 3:33 a.m. I'm pooped, having taxed my April Fools mind-pranking brain to its limit. It's off to bed. I eagerly await Captain Downs' response, if any.
Surprise! 8:30 a.m. Saturday. Among this day's 1783 new e-mail spam and phishes is this solicitation from: Captain you-know-who.
"Dear Cosmic Soulmate. That's one hell of an e-mail come on. Your 21 gun-salute kept me 'up' all night. One question! On a scale of one to 10. Zero being bottom. Ten being top. Where do you – if you'll pardon the duty report – fit it?
Hugs, Big Guy! You can call me Mikey, Sir!"
