The Shortest, Least-Complicated Murder Mystery Ever

Opening Scene: Investigator and Murderer are standing next to dead man who is lying on the ground.

Investigator: “Who killed this man?”

Murderer: “Me."

Investigator: “Officers, arrest this man for the murder of this other man!”

Murderer (angrily ushered away by police officers): “Blah! Thwarted!”

Investigator (triumphantly): “Yet another case solved by asking questions.”

Fin

***

It may not be gold, but if I added a theme song by "The Who", you'd be hard-pressed to tell the difference between this and any episode of CSI.

"Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaeeeeeeahhhhhh!" (See what I did there? Yeah, you do.)

Aren't You Gonna Kiss Me First?: The Lubed Fist of Freedom

I've come to a very important realization today, and this one's a game-changer. Ready for it? 'Cause here it is:

I've been molested by the "hauptsturmführers" of Homeland Security (ironically translates to "Chief Assault Leaders") at the airport in Vegas more times than I've been molested by my own wife.

"These new government-sanctioned, fully-manual airport security enemas
are a great way to lose some last-minute weight before reaching your bikini destination."

I'm sure their defense will be that I was asking for it by dressing too slutty. (In retrospect, waist-high boots and a red velvet corset were probably a bad choice for travel.)

Jesus, at the very least, this has gotta earn me the right to an "ABC After-School Special". Starring Melissa Gilbert. As me. And all of the handsy Homeland Security Agents should (and will, as a condition of the law suit) be played by Lindsay Lohan. Apparently she'll tie her name to anything. And maybe - just maybe - if she's as desperate as TMZ says she is, she'll do other stuff, too.

A Simple Truth: Parenting (Occasionally) Equals Pain

Earlier today, my son was running around the house crying, seemingly for no reason.

Concerned, I chased after him to console him and reassure him that everything would be alright, whatever the cause of his tears.

That's when he wound up and kicked me in the balls.

I'm pretty sure the word "fuck" not only crossed my lips, but was also spelled out in white-hot flames on my forehead.

None the less, I picked him up - still kicking and screaming - and hugged him tightly... although not so tightly as to misconstrued as an attempt to smother him.

I then put him down and stumbled over to my favourite rocking chair where I collapsed, choking back the barf and muttering some of the most foul language ever heard by human ears. (I think I may have even invented some new swears in there somewhere.)

I guess the reason I'm telling you this is because if you're thinking about having children, ask yourself this; what's your tolerance for pain? 'Cause sometimes your recompense for loving your kids is a swift kick in the nuts.

That said, I wouldn't change a thing. I'll just start wearing a cup around the house.