When my subscription to the Seattle Times expires in October, I’m going to have to cancel it. I don’t like their news anymore. I can’t take the stress.
Take the illegal alien stories, for instance. The reports about the Arizona immigration crackdowns and beheadings are especially worrisome. Grandson Ford is currently attending Arizona State University in Tempe and I know for a fact that they have him listed there as a Non-Resident. This is not a healthy time to be a Non-Resident in Arizona. They could actually deport him even though he speaks terrible Spanish and can’t salsa worth a darn. What do they care about that? It sounds like those immigration police are without pity.
I’m almost certain Ford doesn’t have a green card. I’ve considered asking the family artist, April, if she could forge one for him on her iPad but I just hate starting her off on a life of crime when she’s only eleven. Next thing, she’ll be cranking out twenty dollar bills or free passes to vampire movies. Or, come to think of it, some winning lottery tickets. Or maybe even income tax refund checks. Well . . . time for a little more thought. And planning. April, maybe we should have lunch.
Other current news stories that distress me involve all the famous athletes getting nailed for their use of illegal substances. They’re bound to get around to me sooner or later. Unlike all those sports jocks though, I’m not going to lie about it. What’s the use?
So here’s today’s secret, if you must know. Since sometime last year, I have been a steroid user. My supplier is a Group Health rheumatologist whose name I will not disclose. Even if they torture me. Even if they take away my library card. I can take it, doc. I’m tough.
Consider my predicament. I don’t know which will be worse: getting hit with a big fine I can’t afford, or trying to cop a plea to try to shorten the sentence — they probably figure life without parole would be too short for a criminal who’s going-on-80. Our family realtor, Debbie Covey, may not be able to help me this time. I may be moving to the Big House and it’s NOT one located in a nice retirement community. I hope they’ll at least yet me pass “Go” so I can collect $200.
Actually, I can probably adapt to life in the slammer. Of course, there will be challenges. Like, I’m squeamish about even getting flu shots so I don’t know how I’ll face getting all those tattoos. And then there’s Mass in the prison chapel. When I go to communion, if the priest is one of my fellow convicts, how can I help but wonder what he’s in for? When little April visits me to get her next assignment, I’ll have to be real careful it’s never on Sundays.
I don’t think they have chain gangs anymore so they’ll probably employ my talents in one of their shops. I don’t want you to worry about me though. I will make the best of things. I was secretly hoping to leave you a legacy of some of my lovely crocheted potholders but now I must give up that dream. I console myself however, confident that in the future, you will be able to point with pride to the license plates on your car and you will know that I am continuing to strive for excellence.
P.S. By the way, they’ll be sorry about sending me up. Wait’ll they find out I’m directly related to six Wardens. And practically everybody in my entire family has their own Cell phone.