I have a new toilet.  High tech.  Plumber told me I needed a 'big swallow.'  That's plumber-talk, I suppose.  "For the man who has everything, give him a big swallow." 

As a tall guy who wears bifocals, I never thought there was anything funny about a toilet.  But now I have a perfect cure for the blues.  After it swallows, my new toilet gives out this wonderful sound. "Ah!"  Gratitude.

Reminds me of Bill Murray in "Little Shop of Horrors."  The masochist in the dentist chair.  "Ah!"  Makes me wonder what my toilet could do with the rest of the sound track: I go away on a trip, my toilet thinks I'm constipated.  "Feed me!" 

I remember when I was in school.  Miss Preston gave my class an assignment: "You hear a word you don't know, ask your parents what it means, then write a story using that word." 

I overheard someone say the F-word.  I asked my father, "What does 'frugal' mean?" [deep voice] "Frugal means thrifty -- like, to save."  I read my story in class...

[high voice] "Once upon a time, a beautiful princess fell down a well.  A handsome prince came riding by. 'Frugal me, frugal me,' cried the princess.  So he frugalled her and they lived happily ever after."

There are three problems in being tall:  The tops of all the refrigerators in the world are filthy.  People are always looking up your nose.  And what's the big deal about cleavage, anyway?

Try talking seriously to a woman: "The return on investment for this -- uh -- project..."  Oh sure, she's wearing one of those blouses.  Not low, loose. The view from up here is wonderful.  Perfect for bifocalling.

For some things in life, a glance just won't do.  I know I am going to ogle.  And I know she'll be watching.  It's a game with them, cleavage.  Tall guys always lose.

I let 'em think that, anyway.

When you look like me, people are always asking for your advice. Oh sure.

Here's my advice: Watch out for hotel-room movies.  The ones with all that cleavage to ogle.  And the sounds!  “Ah!”  Reminds me of my toilet back in Boise.  I always forget to read the notice on the screen: "Your room will be billed automatically."  Hey, all I want to see is just that part right there.

Then you check out, and the clerk behind the counter grins at your bill.  "Do you want to go over these charges, sir?" 

No, I have a plane to catch.

"Did you enjoy the movie?" 

Yes. It was a documentary.

My barber tells me, I'm in a minority.  Maybe that explains why I get offended about all kinds of things.

Not like all those other minorities: Native Americans, Hispanics.  Mine is unique.  Old people.  I have made it into the one minority to which we all aspire.  Old people.  I never even wanted to think about the alternative, even though it's tax-free.

"Get a life," people say.  What? -- another one?  What's wrong with the one I just did?  Been there, done that.

Women call themselves a minority.  Hey, I love women.  But I don't ever want to be one.  That's not even possible.  Please don't tell me otherwise.

I always thought it would be my ears that would give out on me first.  Or something else.  (I saw a sign on I84: "Welcome to Idaho; No Pecker Jokes.") 

Not to worry.  It's my personality that went bad on me -- and that's cool.  Other people suffer, not me.  Ask any of my most recent ex-wives.  I used to be mellow.  Nothing ever bothered me, except old people.  Now, something comes up I don't like, instant ass-hole kicks in.  Don't frugal with me!

The modern woman really likes to frugal.  You don't have to marry 'em first. I learned that from a hotel-room movie.  Hell of a time for me to find that out.  All those marriages.  All those wives sitting around talking about their values...

"Feelings are more important than facts."  I hear you.  Can we frugal now?

Marriage to me brings out the best in a woman.  Chastity.

Which is not to say, I haven't had some wonderful marriages.  Beautiful wives, every one.  Beautiful and talented.  And now rich. 

Well, I have a long way to go.  My reflexes are still good...coordination -- I can still see where I'm going.  It'll be years before I'll be qualified to drive a Winnebago.

With my dangly sign in the rear window:  "Big swallow on board."   My bumper sticker: "Show me your cleavage."

And when that time comes, it will be wonderful knowing that somewhere back there, following along, laughing at my license-plate holder -- "I brake for ogling." ... will be all of you.  Have a good life.