I Just Can't Make Up My Mind Whether or Not to Do a Sex Tape

Say Hello to My Co-Stars

I just can't make up my mind whether or not to do a Sex Tape.

I've thought about it and thought about it, but I just haven't been able to decide. Both Tina and Jocelyn have been bugging me about it for weeks now, but I'm still not sure.

True, the sex among the three of us is nothing less than epic, and I guess it might be cool to demonstrate how a man my age can fully satisfy two smokin' hot twenty somethings. But are there really that many people around who would want to sit down and watch a full length video depicting an incessant swirl of sensual young female bodies writhing and convulsing in paroxysms of joy while having every conceivable part of themselves pleasured? 

By me.

I dunno.

So I asked my Uncle Ned and Aunt Phyllis for some advice; they've never steered me wrong.  Uncle Ned helped me pick out my first two wheeler and even built my car for the Pinewood Derby, and Auntie was always there for me when I was being bullied in Junior High School.   

Well, Uncle Ned was less than enamored of the idea of the sex tape because he felt if I later turned pro a relatively primitive sex video could be damaging to my career. Aunt Phyllis, however, was very enthusiastic about the concept and couldn't wait to tell all her friends at the Rose and Hydrangea Society. She's Past President of the local chapter, you know.

My co-workers were rather evenly split between those who thought the tape might prove a valuable sexual technique training tool and those who felt making it would require time and effort better spent on other activities.  My boss pointed out that if I were looking to broaden my interests or make new friends it would be more productive to take night school classes or do some volunteer work rather than to have repeated steaming hot sex with two bosomy young women.

Food for thought.

Yesterday I asked my rabbi if she believed the sex tape would be good for the Jews.  She said that no doubt it would, but she also asked if the two girls were Jewish, and I had to tell her that Tina was a Unitarian.  After some reflection the Rabbi said that if Tina would commit to some measure of Jewish education, she would yet wholeheartedly endorse the video.   I'm sure that will be no problem.

Ha, if I know Rabbi Debbie, Tina will be a real Yeshiva Bocher even before our next three-way!

But I'm still not certain. Call me old-fashioned, but for me a proper sex tape ought to feature at least one "C" List celebrity, orgasms in multiple languages, and no shortage of threshing equipment.  We are deficient in two out of the three essential categories.

Do you guys have any thoughts on this?  Would you want to watch two gorgeous girls with huge breasts in the throes of heated sexual passion for hours on end, or would you rather go to the Mall? What if we recruit David Hasselhoff to join us?

Or do you think he's less than a "C- Lister" anymore? 

Help me, folks!

Decisions, Decisions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Namaste, Dudes!

Ain't Yoga Grand? 

Namaste, dudes!

I have begun the ancient and honored practice of yoga.

Do I aspire to one day attain enlightenment and the transcendent state of being at one with the universe? 

Nah. 

I’m taking yoga because I have a spine that’s shaped like the maze in a game called Help Explorer Sam Find his Way to the Magic Talisman of Bloth. So I wended my way to Yoga Pagoda - which likely requires less wending than wending my way to the Talisman of Bloth - and signed up.

Yoga Pagoda possesses an ethereal incense and Eastern music suffused atmosphere that reminded me pleasantly of the 60's, which unfortunately also reminded me that the only 60's I’m dealing with anymore are the ones that feature Medicare in the middle.

Scheduled for Gentle Yoga, which is  something like Yoga-with-Training-Wheels, I was instructed to "take a mat, a blanket, and two blocks," and go to the room in the back, which made me feel comfortable. With a mat, blocks, and a blanket in hand, could milk and cookies be far behind?  

In the back room there were about twenty people busily unfurling mats and getting ready for the class, mostly young to middle-aged women and a sprinkling of men, amongst all of whom I was probably the oldest one there.

That's right.

The oldest one there.

Not a particularly transcendent enlightenment to begin the epic journey to becoming one with the universe. 

Or even to getting on a first name basis with it.

The leader of the group, an attractive young woman in absolutely terrific shape, began leading us though the assumption of various body positions called poses.  

Some are simple like the Tabletop Pose, in which you get on hands and knees and form a table top with your back and a waiter comes along and sets the table and welcomes two guests who order Chablis and Veal Picante. This last part didn't actually happen but I assume it does in the more advanced classes.

There are many other poses like Child’s Pose, Downward Facing Dog Pose, and Fuck-Over Perry Pose.  I don’t believe this is the official name of that last pose but by class’ end all but the kindest of my yoga mates had readily adopted it as such.

Our practice concluded with a relaxed meditative state in which all of us join in chanting "Ommmmmmmm."  If this particular chant is to help me achieve a relaxed meditative state, I’ll need a string of "m"s hard to find anywhere outside an explosion at an M & M's Factory.

Hopefully yoga will prevent my back from morphing into a Philadelphia soft pretzel and keep me tall enough so I can at least go on almost any ride I choose at Disneyworld.

And should I also get myself on a first name basis with the universe, well, it’s always good to make a new friend.

Namaste, dudes!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Soft Murmur of the Sea (FF)

FF- Friday Fictioneers

Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

"I love the soft murmur of the sea" said Perry to his friend Andy as they rested by the edge of the shore watching the waves break upon the rocky shoals of the beach.

"No wonder you were so eager to come here today," replied Andy.

"Nowhere else on Earth do I feel as at one with Nature and the world as by water's edge," Perry went on. “I think to truly appreciate life you must immerse yourself both mentally and physically into water’s spiritual essence.”

"Well, let's go in for a swim then," suggested Andy.

"What are you, out of your mind? It's fucking freezing in there!"

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I've always loved going to the ocean and riding the waves, but as I've gotten older a curious phenomenon has taken place.  The higher my age gets, the lower the temperature of the water seems to go.  The last time I was at the beach, the soft murmur of the sea was "Turn up the heat, dammit!"

The story herein represents  my take on the picture prompt above, and the takes of the other Friday Fictioneers are available if you click here.  I'm sure you'll enjoy. 

Meanwhile I'm hitting the snack bar at the beach.  Which is heated.

The Most Disliked Nominees in History

It's been said that Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton are the most disliked party nominees for President ever in the history of the United States. However, that's not true. There were two other even more disliked nominees running back in 1920. 

That year Vlad the Impaler ran for President against Satan.

Vlad the Impaler's slogan was "I smoked, but I did not impale." Satan's followers countered with "A human in every pot."  Vlad lobbied hard for unrestricted access to impalement stakes under a frequently misinterpreted law known as the Second Dismemberment. Satan ran into trouble when a number of torture-related letters were found in the wrong server, the one in his dining room and not in his office. 

These two were VERY disliked.  Satan's followers frequently rioted at his rallies against him. Vlad was incessantly booed and spat upon by his Vice-Presidential Running Mate, Godzilla.

At the last moment a third party challenge was mounted and Warren G. Harding was elected President. He was no picnic either.

Reached today, Satan commented that "yes, we were disliked, it's true, but that Trump guy really scares me!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Day CNN Almost Reported the News

This is CNN - Certainly Not the News 

"And thank you, panel.  Again this has been our dream team panel of experts on "Texas Tornado Terror!" discussing whether last week's devastating tornadoes in the state of Texas may have been anti-Semitic. We'll have you three back again soon to discuss all of this much, much further."

"Looking forward, Wolf."

"I'll be waiting right here, Wolf."

"What do you think, about 15 minutes, Wolf?"

"Now, before we return to today's other approved story, here's something different we have never reported on before.  We'll go to Indonesia where a revolutionary new agricultural development is more than doubling production of life-saving rice ...."

"Wolf, what the hell are you doing!!?”

"I'm reporting a new story, Bill."

"What are you, crazy?!!  This is CNN, where we only report two stories a day. Three maybe, if the Apocalypse should happen."

"Bill, I know you're the producer here and you're only following the CNN - Certainly Not the News news model, but I thought our viewers might want to learn something new that's a bit out of the mainstream."

"Ridiculous! Our viewers don't have the attention span to focus on more than two stories a day! What do you think this is - NPR?"

"Well, no, I just thought the anti-Semitic tornado story was kind of beat after we had the exclusive one-on-one with Alan Dershowitz and the neo-Nazi meteorologist."

"Trust me, our viewers are hungering for more of the same!  Who's reporting that silly farming story anyway?"

"Sara Sunman, a very perceptive reporter and expert on Asian culture from the New York Times. Look, there she is on the monitor."

"Wolf, are you out of your mind? That's an average looking woman! None of our male viewers is going to want to have sex with her."

"Are looks the only criteria for hiring on-air women here at CNN?"

"Of course not, Wolf.  They have to have big tits too."

"Bill, with all due respect there are many qualified women journalists who are not hot."

"Of course there are.  On the radio!   Which is where you'll be if you keep up this nonsense about actually reporting the news."

"Bill, I believe the American people want and deserve to be fully informed. Americans are clamoring to hear the news --- all of it! --- presented comprehensively, fairly, and objectively.   Plain and simple, the American people deserve better!  

"Umm, Wolf?"

"Yeah, Bill?"

"The American people are about to elect Donald Trump."

"Oh yeah, you're right.  My bad."

"So do your job."

"You got it."

"Folks, we'll get back very shortly to "Texas Tornado Terror!" - Were last week's devastating tornadoes in the state of Texas anti-Semitic? - but first, I sat down with Donald Trump earlier today in a candid one-on-one....

This is CNN - Certainly Not the News 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kropotkin's Chair (FF)

FF- Friday Fictioneers

 © J. Hardy Carroll

It seemed too good to be true.  A man named Kropotkin had invented a device for bending at the waist, lowering your rear end downward, and resting it on a flat surface!

  

What a boon to humankind!  No longer having to lie down whenever you became tired of standing. They called it "Kropotkin's Chair."  I have no idea what the word chair meant.

I was invited into the Hall of Chairs to try out the incredible device.  Over 20 of us sat down, as they called it.

Suddenly Kropotkin burst into the room. “Get up, everyone, we’ve discovered something terrible!”

“What’s that?” I cried. 

“Once you have a chair, there’s a horrible thing that follows called a job!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

How many of you remember the initial experiments with chairs?  Unfortunately they were not able to separate jobs from chairs, so there you are right now, closing the books on sales of toilet seats for May instead of lying down. 

Perhaps the takes of the other Friday Fictioneers on the picture prompt above will be more positive.

On the other hand, speaking of toilet seats, without Kropotkin we wouldn't have them either!

Still Stupid About Smart Phones II

Until not that very long ago, I was still stupid about smart phones. 

It's not that I'm a Luddite or otherwise particularly behind the times, it's just that I was waiting until we had cars that drive themselves before I got myself a phone that did anything more than ring up Ol’ Doc Johnson because Little Timmy was sick and Lassie was missing. 

But with the advent of cars so advanced that not only can they drive themselves they can also stop and ask directions and then get the directions screwed up, it was time for me to step up to a stepped-up phone.

It was time for iPhone for mePhone.

But I swore that in so doing I would not fall prey to the custom most foul practiced by smart phone owners around the world.  I would not spend the rest of my life with my head tilted downward, my eyes riveted upon the phone, and my psyche oblivious to the rest of the Milky Way around me.

For one thing, it's rude. These days you can meet someone on the street, talk for five minutes, and not even know who you were talking to. You may not even know whether the person was wearing pants.  And even worse, it isn't safe. With eyes locked onto the screen 24/7 you risk all kinds of mishaps from bumping into one another (especially unpleasant if neither of you are wearing pants), to walking down an open manhole, to striding into the Pacific Ocean until you trip over the International Date Line.

So when I got my iPhone, I took it in hand and walked proudly forward out of the Verizon store, my head held high, my eyes gazing straight ahead, and my life firmly rooted in reality. 

How did I manage to do this?

Simple.  I'm a loser who doesn't get any e-mails or texts.

I'm not in business anymore so there's no e-mails from bosses, co-workers, or anyone who wants me to do anything more than get out of bed occasionally. My circle of acquaintances and friends having shrunk like a linen jacket in the dryer, I get texts from Verizon about my overdue bill, friends who think they might have left gloves at my house six months ago, and elderly Uncle Ted who is experimenting with texting and didn't mean to text me, which is okay because I don't have an Uncle Ted.

And as I walk around fully perceiving and totally in touch with my environment, all around me are the cool people enmeshed into their smart phones, studying their screens as though they are little slot machines constantly coming up with three cherries.  

Me, I don't even get one pit.  

Where are all the Nigerian princes when you need them?

So it’s time to beef up my social networking life.  Subscribe to some interesting blogs like A Presbyterian’s View of Tooth Decay, Gardening in Greenland, and Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Gherkins. And political sites Sensible Gun Regulation Now!, Save the Earth Now!, Screw Wayne LaPierre Now!, Save the Earth While Screwing Wayne LaPierre Now!, and Wayne LaPierre and Gherkins: Screw Them Both ... Now!”

That’s it.  Getting there.

And subscribe to internet journalism in the form of esteemed sites like TruthRipper, FactForker, and BuzzKill, as well as the dating site JuicyJews.com.  And subscribe to The Ballsy Boomer about aging in place, that place being a strip joint near Schwenksville PA.  And start sending out texts to folks I barely know, including Uncle Ted whom I probably know better than all the rest of them.

And now with head held low and eyes straight downward, I daily risk mortal injury in the form of walking into a revolving door and going around forever in four neatly sectioned pieces.

Now I’m just like everyone else.

So, looks like I'm still stupid about smart phones.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cupid Saves the World

   Cupid, the now retired Greek God of Love, was quizzical.

"Hey, Cupid, we’re trying to work on your memoir The Boy Who Shoots the Arrows, remember?" I said.  "So far we're only up to Chapter 1, Adventures in the Womb."

"I'm sorry, Perry, but I just don't understand how you 21st century Americans are running an idiot for President."

"Well, look, your gods weren't so tightly wrapped either,” I replied. “Zeus had poor Prometheus bound and sent an eagle to eat his liver every day."

"True, and Zeus was so cruel he assigned the job to an eagle who hated liver."

"But you’re right, Cupid, Trump is way worse than Zeus. At least Zeus had a half way decent toupee.

“Come on, Perry,  let's give Trump a taste of antiquity!”

“But he’s in New Jersey at a rally. How are we getting there?”

"Hello! I’m Cupid, I got wings.” 

"You can take me?"

"Yes, but if you start singing I Believe I Can Fly, I'm going to drop you."

In a twinkling of an eye - not that mine have ever twinkled - we were at a Trump rally in New Jersey.   We entered the building and there on the podium in front of us was Donald Trump, giving one of his cogent well-thought through speeches.

"Folks," he said, "I have decided that instead of banning all Muslims from entering the United States, I will ban only the ones who do not speak Yiddish."

"Yeah, Donald!" shouted a man in the crowd. "What a genius!"   

"And we will build a ten foot high wall around Salma Hayek!"

"A true leader!" screamed a woman in the front.

"Crooked Hillary would be the worst President ever, including Grover Cincinnati!"

"And Grover Cincinnati was terrible!" yelled another adherent.

"This is even worse than I thought," moaned Cupid. "The orange comb-over is the most reasonable thing about the guy."

"What are you going to do, Cupid? Call in Zeus? Will he work for scale?" 

"No, I'm going to use one of my arrows on Trump."

"But you said now that you’re retired your arrows only work to make the person admire one's clothes, not their bod."

"Just watch," said Cupid.

THWACK!

The arrow found its mark and in a twinkling of the eye - not that Trump's eyes or any part of him have ever twinkled -  he started babbling.

"What a great sweater, young lady!  Love the color of your jacket!  You're very well-tailored, sir. Hey, I really dig that man bun!"

The shocked crowd began to leave. ”He's not lying, he's not distorting, and he’s not insulting anyone,” they complained. “He’s boring our asses off. Let’s go check out Bernie Sanders!"

"You did it, Cupid!" I exulted. "You've saved the world!"

"Well, it may not hold, but at least we've learned one thing."

"What's that?"

"The only person with orange hair who should ever be president is Alfred E. Neuman!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Splish Splash (FF)

FF - Flash Fiction

copyright - C.E. Ayr

Last Sunday I went up to New York to visit my cousin Kevin, and as always we spent most of the time talking about how to contend with the relentless global warming. Just as we do in Philadelphia, when the heat gets unbearable New Yorkers splash around in any of the multiple bodies of water surrounding the city.

Monday morning it was so hot we joined thousands of New Yorkers and dove into New York Harbor.  The water was blessedly cool and just as I surfaced I saw what looked like a majestic crown also surfacing above the waters.

"Lady Liberty too?"  I asked.

"Ahh shit," bellowed Kevin, "there goes the day and every play on Broadway as well."

"But why?"

"It's Midtown's day to towel dry her."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm pleased to present this cautionary tale about climate change.  If we're not careful about the environment, we'll all be required to towel down the iconic statues in every city where we live, and frankly I don't feel like getting that up close and personal with Rocky.

The other Friday Fictioneers have their own takes on the picture prompt above and you can check them out by clicking here.  If you don't do it, you're all wet!

I hate that joke.  I deserve to be drying Lady Liberty's private parts.

Ask Your Doctor If a Hot Actor Portrayal Is Right for You

                      

                   

Without Hot Actor Portrayal                                       With Hot Actor Portrayal

These days through the magic words  “ask your doctor if such and such is right for you,” pharmaceutical products of all kinds can now be advertised directly to the general public on television.  

But a funny thing happened on the way to your TV tube: the sick and generally lousy looking patients who actually take the drugs are missing in action in the commercials hawking them and instead we're shown an array of great looking actors portraying the patients feeling great, looking great, and having the time of their lives ...

That is, after the drugs kick in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Most of my life has been spent contending with the misery of Kropotkin's Disease. I was constantly worried that at any time, day or night, my esophagus might inch its way up my chest, clamber out of my mouth, and attempt to strangle me! 

Some days taking care of the kids was just too much of a burden, especially on those days when my esophagus would try to attack them too. Every part of my life became a struggle!

Then I heard about Romero, and I asked my doctor if portrayal by a hot actor in a Romero commercial was right for me. He told me that a hot actor portrayal would turn me into an unbelievably sexy 25 year old blonde with perfectly proportioned boobs. He said I'd be running through fields of beautiful flowers, swimming and sunning myself on the beaches at Monte Carlo, and having sex with George Clooney!

And here I am!  Oh, George, get your hands off my tits!"

Voiceover: Hot Actor portrayal in a commercial for Romero is not for everyone. Depending upon the hot actor we hire, you may not become drop dead gorgeous and in fact may only become moderately beautiful.  Running and swimming with perfect effortless coordination may not occur; you may acquire the ability to do something else world class like masterfully play a wide variety of musical instruments instead. 

You may wind up having sex with another A-list star, not George Clooney, but no less than Clive Owen. Tell your doctor about all other drugs that you may be taking as a reaction may cause you to become only a 9 or high 8 instead of a ten. 

"Ask your doctor if a hot actor portrayal in a Romero commercial is right for you. You might wind up looking and living like me. Or the stuff may fucking kill you."


And ...


"I was crossing the street here at rush hour and I just got myself run over by a garbage truck.  See? Those are my guts spilled all over the highway. Every one of my internal organs is now an external organ! There’s so much blood here it looks like a catered Bar Mitzvah for Count Dracula’s nephew!

Then I asked my doctor about Zipupian which is specially formulated to treat people who’ve been smashed to bits by a truck, and he told me about hot actor portrayal in a commercial for Zipupian.  And look, here I am playing quarterback in the NFL with my gorgeous alluring girlfriend waiting for me on the sidelines! And it’s a bright sunshiny day too!

Voiceover: Hot actor portrayal in a commercial for Zipupian is not for everyone.  In some instances some of your guts will remain spilled on the highway, and your ability to play football in the NFL and garner an alluring girlfriend may be limited depending upon whether you continue hemorrhaging indefinitely. Tell your doctor about all medicines you are taking because he or she generally likes to know what that icky stuff is that’s oozing out of you. 

And remember, some days the weather is going to be overcast too.

"Ask your doctor if a hot actor portrayal with Zipupian is right for you.  But if you've already been hit by that truck like I have, don't expect much in the line of the actor portraying you. Expect John C. Riley or less."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So what about you, folks?  Is a hot actor portrayal right for you?

I don't think it could hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Sandwich Generation

They are called the Sandwich Generation and it's not difficult to see why. They are caught in a whipsaw between two generations, the one directly above them and the one directly below.

The Sandwich Generation consists of Baby Boomers and some folks a bit younger who have to take care of both their pre-college age children and aging parents. And it is a daunting responsibility because both generations eat lots of sandwiches, and you're the one who has to make them!

For the kids, you're pumping out family favorites like PBJs, BLTs, tuna fish, ham and cheese, and Nutella slathered on Wonder Bread at such speed and intensity you could almost fill up Chris Christie on a day that Donald Trump forgets to feed him.

Meanwhile the aging parent is upstairs clamoring for a corned beef on rye. While busily shifting gears from young Arthur's BLT you accidentally schmear mayo on the corned beef. If your parent is over 80 and Jewish, it may well be a near cataclysmic event.

Fortunately, support groups have sprung up throughout the country where you can share your worries and frustrations in a safe supportive environment and hopefully scope out tips on where to pick up day-old kaiser rolls and how to cut the crust off a tea sandwich without cutting off your fingers.

Ultimately there is hope for the Sandwich Generation.  In time the kids will leave home and the parents will take off for greener pastures (i.e. they'll be dead) and there will be no more sandwiches to make except those you want to eat yourself.

Then before you know it, you'll be on the tail end of the next Sandwich Generation with your kids frantically pushing out pbj's and turkey clubs to their unruly kids and garrulous old you.

And you'll be wishing like hell you were back in the middle of this Sandwich Generation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blackberry Ringing (FF)

FF- Friday Fictioneers

copyright - Roger Bultot

Blackberry Ringing

(to the tune of Blackbird) 

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Take these smokin’ things, watch e-mails fly!

All your life.
You are always waiting for an e-mail to arrive.

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Not hard to theorize, it’s plain to see.

All your life.
Forever you’ll be waiting for a moment to be free. 

Blackberry fine! Blackberry mine!
Ringing all night through the dark black night.

Blackberry fine! Blackberry mine!
Ringing all night ‘til the broad daylight.

Blackberry ringing in the dead of night.
Take these smokin’ things and e-mails fly!

All your life.
You are only sated when an e-mail does arrive. 
With this gadget you are mated in an e-mail paradise. 

You are always waiting for an e-mail to arrive. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

I realize that "Blackerry Ringing" is a bit dated these days,  but iPhone ringing simply doesn't cut it.  Anyway, I always wondered what would have happened were the always ahead-of-their-time Beatles ever to have come face to face with modern technology and social media. 

This is one example; there's a couple more from the very early days of this blog in Meet the Beatles, Mr. Zuckerberg. Perhaps you have a few more ideas? In the meanwhile here are the ideas of the many other Friday Fictioneers regarding the picture prompt above.

Maybe I'll do a few more of these when I'm 64.  Ooops, already missed that!

What's In Your Wallet? or Why, This Isn't You!

What's in your wallet?  

I wonder if it's the same thing that's in mine.  If you're a Boomer, it probably is. 

In my wallet is a driver’s license with a picture on it that purports to be me. The problem is that the man in the picture is not me.  The man in the picture on my driver's license is most likely someone's grandfather, but certainly not me.

How did the picture of such an aged geezer get on my driver's license? I have theorized that there is a creature known as the Little Old Jewish Man or LOJM who leaps in front of camera any time I have a picture taken. If there is no LOJM, than the distorted and unappealing image upon the card may be the result of atmospheric disturbances, global warming, or some other bizarre phenomenon that is right now being over reported on CNN. 

Since my driver’s license is used frequently for ID purposes, I would expect to routinely hear these words from those whose job it is to scope it out: 

Why,  this isn't you! 

But oddly enough I never seem to hear them at all.

"Here's a pass for the 28th floor, sir.  I'll need to see an ID first, please."

"Umm, is that a picture ID you're asking for? I can give you lots of cards with my name on them.  Ah, this is one from Adams Warehouse."

"I'm sure that opens all doors for you at Adams Warehouse, sir. But I do need a picture ID, like a driver's license."

"Well, I'm afraid there's a problem with my driver's license.  The picture on it  doesn't look like me. If I show it to you, you're going to say 'Why, this isn't you!' and you won't let me up in the building!'"

"Try me."

"How about I get someone to vouch for me instead?  I know a lot of people on Twitter."

"Sir, the license!"

"Okay, okay,” I said, handing him my driver's license.  “But you'll see, you're about to say 'Why, this isn't you!'  And then I'll never get up in the building!"  

"That's you. Go on up."

"What? You're letting me up?"

"You're good to go."

"Without valid ID?! I want to see your badge number!"

Despite the fact that the picture on my card looks nothing like me, I never seem to get "Why, this isn't you!" Rather, I get admitted to wherever I wish to go, get to purchase whatever I want to purchase, and get permitted to do whatever it is I am seeking permission to do.

It isn't right. It isn't fair. 

Why?  Because it isn't me!

Since I so dislike that bogus picture on my driver's license, I took to carrying about a twenty year old license in which the man in the picture does indeed look just like me. Of course I carry it along with my current license since that is the one that must be shown when required.    

"Driver's license, registration, and insurance card,” said the traffic cop after I beautifully executed an illegal U-turn.

"Certainly, Officer, but I'm afraid there's a problem with my license."

"Just hand me the cards, sir!" he growled.

Ouch!  I was hoping I could explain the situation before he sees the counterfeit face upon the counterfeit card, but no such luck. I forked over the cards and gritted my teeth.

"Why, this isn't you!" he bellowed, thrusting the driver’s license into my face. 

And finally I heard those words!  At long last. 

"You see officer, it's the LOJM!” I scrambled to explain.  “Or some cosmic disturbance that made the picture look much older than I really am!”

I looked at the license thrust in my face.  It was the one from 20 years ago.

I gave the officer the license that deceptively depicts me and he accepted it and gave me a whopping ticket. But the experience was not a total loss. I did finally get to hear those golden words “Why, this isn’t you!”

Even if they were in response to a driver’s license dated 1996.

So what’s in your wallet?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~