REDRUM, He Wrote

The paper had an interesting story today -- and photo -- of a guy charged with murder. That's everyday stuff, of course, but what made this interesting was the tattoo on his neck. Looking at him straight on, he had REDRUM tattooed, reversed to see it better in a mirror. And it was huge, estimating it to be a 1000 pt outline font. Counsel has moved to allow him to cover it or have it removed, lest the jury find him YTLIUG and he's YAWA TUP.

Whatever happens to that guy, I'm sure you'll join me in wishing for him a completely fair trial, with the prosecution prevailing only if they prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. The fact that he has REDRUM on his neck, in my opinion, doesn't say anything incriminating necessarily.

There could be lots of reasons -- from an artistic bent to sheer antisocial cussedness -- for his tattoo. I know a lady with a pretty flower on the back of her leg, and that doesn't mean she's good at gardening. In fact, she lacks a green thumb.

I've always been that way about fair trials. As an average citizen, I read the paper and form opinions. But these accounts are always lacking some of, usually most of the evidence. In a different case, this other guy charged with murder, who is allegedly a hothead, went with some folks on a pleasant outing in the country. Apparently something turned sour, as everyone but him was brutally murdered, including a toddler whose body was found in a creek. Of course my first thought is Bigfoot. Then I start considering this guy. But if I'm on the jury, or I'm the judge, I go for the reasonable doubt conclusion.

I think I would've made a great judge. We've got a pesky defender or prosecutor, moving for a bathroom break. I go, "I'm the judge, I'll say when we have a bathroom break ... bathroom break! 10 minute recess. Be back in 9. If you take 11, you'll spend the rest of the trial in stocks. And anytime I see a juror even start to nod, it'll be one lash of the cat 'o nine tails for you. OK, sorry, I went long, be back in 8."

Other than messing with them like that, I'd be impartial and good. Soaking it in, proud when the bailiff calls out, "All rise! The honorable Tobias G. Slump presiding!" I look out, nod, have everyone be seated, wink at the cute bailiff, which whom I've just been in quarters, and admire the defendant's interesting tattoo, a guy sneaking a canoe out of Walmart, coincidentally the same crime he's charged with. The final verdict: Innocent! (I believe the defense, that the canoe was put in his truck by person or persons unknown, invisible to video surveillance.)

It's my prayer -- which I expect to be answered -- that someday soon we shall get past all this. For you see, I fervently believe in the perfectibility of man. Call it the new heaven and new earth, call it the Millennium, or just call it the pink-starred la la land I'm favored to live in. But I see a day when there's no REDRUM, drug-dealing, bank robberies (even by bankers), or the stealing of canoes.

In my new world, every person is so content in their being and Ultimate Being, in fact we're One! Each of us will follow -- by a redeemed nature and social setting -- the Golden Rule. Or, to refine that statement, our will won't will evil, our wont won't be toward evil. All mankind will possess their own person in peace, dwelling peaceably under the communal fruit tree, nothing really their own except maybe a nice shirt, a pair of pants, suspenders, and shoes that shall never wear out.

Peacetime Has Ruined Our Restaurants

Here's the good news, the war's over, the sailors are all home. The merchant marine fleet also has docked and the crew debarked! They battled the South Americans to a standstill and now it's over! Hallelujah! But there's also bad news. First, their unfaithful wives came clean to their many sins and dumped them. And, second, they've all gotten jobs as waiters at the restaurants I go to.

What a war it really must have been! I can't remember what it was all about, but half of it took place in jungles, and that really ages a man, makes him gnarly, gruesome, and tough. And tattoos have to be the national past time in those forsaken ports whenever there's leave. Because the sorry sacks have been through the mill. I'm sure they'll regret it, especially the prominent tattoos of their wives' names.

Really, their wives are better off with whatever trash they've found stateside. They've kept warm at nights -- I'm guessing warmth had something to do with it. Because these guys are in bad shape, the war did a number on them. They're all messed up. War is the human grinder, unfortunate for them, and certainly making a mess out of my restaurants. They're always looking for waiters, it seems.

But it's also tough for us, thinking of me in particular. It's tough to go in, paper under my arm, with my dignified look and an appetite to die for, and have to see sailors and drifters trying to memorize my order. Of course they're going to get it wrong. As for your tattoos, try to find a blank space and just jot my order on your arm somewhere. Then if I want to know what I ate today, five years from now, I'll come and read it.

You don't know what's going to happen if they do happen to get it right. The plate's going to come back with human fur in your food, grease from the ship dripping off the edge, and whatever other begrizzled bits of offal one of these specimens might drop, or shed. Basic hygiene, more about that later, doesn't prevail. But since we're all into recycling, there's a little good news: That greasy apron, a dishtowel tucked in the pants lengthwise, is the same one he was wearing last week. Same stains and everything.

I think I remember a Popeye cartoon sort of like that. The war was over even back then, and Popeye was a waiter, waiting on Bluto. Popeye has a big dirty dishtowel around his normal sailor outfit, waiting on Bluto, and of course still smoking his pipe, squinting at the big man's food, and getting ready for a fistfight.

Here's what I want, restauranteurs: No mustaches. And mandatory tattoo removal. And short hair on men, clean, not a shaved head. Anything longer than an inch or so -- I'd rather their hair look cheerful, like the hair of an average five year old kid -- must be trimmed before returning to work. Their hands must be washed according to the Lord's standards, which is, scrubbing your hands with soap as long as it takes a person to recite the Lord's Prayer at a normal speed. This isn't the old days when we ate around campfires, with any old thing someone could shoot or trap unaware in the corner.

And I want decent coffee. Some of these old war boys don't know how to make decent coffee. Seriously, they'll be telling people 70 years from now how they learned to make coffee on ships, a big boiling pot set on the fire all day, with grounds continually dumped in. Think of a spaghetti pan about five times the size, with 8 inches of old grounds settled in the bottom. Coffee with that old bottom-of-the-pot wang, probably made like this one old boy said, just keep adding fresh grounds and stir.

The waiter needs to be someone who got up on the right side of the bed, and looks it. He needs to be perky, intelligent, with a good memory, and a pleasant personality. These hardened sea hands -- think of "The Deadliest Catch" for the type I'm thinking of -- would make anyone lose their appetite, which isn't good for the bottom line of the restaurant either. Disinfecting once in a while is good!

Preferably, we'll get the women wait staff back, nice ones, so if their germs fall in the food they'll be harmless. Honestly, it's too bad the damned war had to end, wherever it was, South America, I guess I said. As should be abundantly clear, it hasn't been good for my restaurants.

Note: I may be wrong about these rare human specimens being wasted-away sailors. It could be they're just other weird guys who haven't taken care of themselves.

Everyone's Comfortable With Themselves

There's something very interesting I've noticed. The old discomfort people used to have with themselves seems to be gone. It's obviously a new day for self-confidence and pride, which I think is a great thing.

We used to have this whole thing with magnifying our supposed imperfections, thinking we were ugly, etc., and we didn't have the same attitude prevalent today. I don't know why we did it. I guess it could've had something to do with our parents, always worrying themselves sick with how we looked. "You can't go out with your hair like that! Is that what you're going to wear?! I'd be ashamed to be seen with you!" So we'd carry that attitude with us, like a constant burden.

But now everything's a lot more swinging. Babies get their ears pierced, parents are proud of everything their offspring do, and style is really any old thing you can throw on. I love it, it's a new day! Our lives are on display! Everyone's happy!

Another thing that might explain the lack of discomfort is all the cameras we're toting around. Digital cameras. We see people taking pictures of everything, whereas we didn't do that 40 years ago. You had a roll of 24 pictures and it cost money to get them developed. But with digital, it's all free, so everyone's walking around town taking pictures of themselves with the camera extended arm's length. "There's a cool expression! Look how I can cross my eyes! I'm cool!" It's great! You're more proud of yourself when you're clicking pictures.

I have to confess, I still carry over some of the old discomfort myself. I say, I'm too bald, too fat (although my doctor says I'm by no means obese), my teeth suck, there's nose hair where there used to be none, etc. It's hard to get with it, with the new way of doing things, but I'm really trying. I look and see guys who look far worse than me, only they don't know it. And I think, I should act like that, then think like that, and without comparing myself to those who look worse, be simply proud of myself.

People today, I honestly think, have got it going on! And I'm getting into the flow of things. I may be an old man, but I'm trying to be the best old man, even a folklore-looking codger, let's say, that young hipsters might like to have their picture taken with. I'm flashing gang signs that I just made up. I'm with the best people on earth, the average guy and gal on the street! Take off your suit jacket and break dance on the street. Spin on your jacket, it's just cloth! True!

So I'm out there ... and more. And what do I see? People who are psychically healthy, very healthy. They're proud of their tattoos, their bra straps, their headbands, shirt tails, and underwear. They're flashing cool hand signs everywhere, one finger, two finger with a gap, five fingers straight up, the A-OK sign, etc. They're proud if they're bald, furry, wearing black, wearing white, in make-up, without make-up, if they're Plain Jane or Jane Mansfield, Bubba or Burt Reynolds, whatever may be may be, world without end, Amen.

I was out today, sitting in a restaurant, and saw some of the greatest cleavage of my life. This was breakfast. I drooled egg yolk on my shirt, which I'm proud of. It's like a shirt tattoo. Lastly, my complexion -- like I said, I'm old, but once in a while I still, even I, get a pimple. Who cares? It's not like anyone cares anymore.

Diamond Heist Yields Millions In Diamonds

Oh boy! This was a biggie! And I'm happy to say it was all my idea! Thank God for the devious subconscious, because that had to be where it came from! I was really worried for my reputation after my plan to fix the pro wrestling match failed. So I'm thinking about that, that my ascension in the realms of the criminal glitterati was stymied, when I came up with a great idea. To stage a diamond heist! And it turned out better than I could ever imagine!

My brainchild was, Why not create a diversion? Then while a few police officers, the active patrol at that moment, checked it out, we would use what could only realistically be a 10-minute window to rob one of the local jewelry stores. I thought we would have to work fast, because the city's finest would quickly deal with the diversion and be back on patrol in no time. But I also had this crazy idea that we might get more...

I went with this psychology: A huge diversion would point to a huge crime taking place. But a small diversion might not even seem like a diversion. But it'd still be enough to keep the few guys on patrol busy, and even complacent. So it was very small, a normal sized garbage can with a few gasoline-doused rags afire in it, squarely in the middle of a large parking lot, adjoined to a defunct grocery store, absolutely no danger to anyone. With a guy watching from behind the trees on a nearby hill, telling us what's going on with a walkie-talkie app on our phones. Complete with cool bursts of static sound effects between transmissions.

He lit the rags and went to his place. Someone called the cops, then they started showing up. At that point, the rest of us were at the jewelry store. We busted in and started shooting the place up, obviously scaring the crap out of everyone. I saw my phone light up and called for quiet. "Shut up, youse guys!" I commanded. I took the walkie-talkie call, and it was amazing: It wasn't just a few officers on the scene. It looked like the entire police force was out there to investigate the little fire, including what looked like every emergency vehicle in town!

We were still working with some urgency, because Who knows?! And then -- oh no! -- I thought we were done for; I heard sirens and pressed my nose up against the glass. A string of police cars (black and white with a cherry on top) came into view, but, thank God, they were speeding by, heading west. With civilians along as well! I got a call later that confirmed it. Police headquarters had apparently emptied out, including all the secretaries and even the dispatchers! What a scene it must've been, 50-75 unnecessary personnel gathered around a (by now) smoldering garbage can!

It seemed like we had all the time in the world! We bound up the jewelry store guy, his wife, his kids, and the rest of his staff. They watched us move around the store with impunity, emptying out the place right down to the wall. Then we had an unexpected windfall: A delivery truck pulled up in back, with diamonds and other jewelry not just for that store but for every store in the area. We opened the door, bound that guy too, and started carrying his load to our own vehicles. This was diamonds in big buckets, heaping over, a huge payday! At one point I had one big bucket in one hand, another in the other, and a smaller, daintier bucket held in my teeth!

Our guy called on the walkie-talkie and said no one was leaving. It appeared they figured it was close enough to 5:00 that they might as well close out their shift socializing. Although there was some official business at the scene, with forensics carefully measuring the distance from the empty store to the garbage can. And it seemed important to dust the unburnt pieces of rags for prints.

We had everything out of the store, everything out of the truck, and time to spare. And here's where it gets good. I stepped out and saw a young kid with tattoos. I knew he had to be a delinquent, so I called him over. I said, "Do you know where the police department is?" He says, "You mean the cop shop?" I said, like Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, "Good boy, delightful boy!" I told him I'd give him 10 bucks if he'd run over and take a piss on the police chief's desk. And a hundred bucks if he really had to go! The youngster let a fart, which I took as a promise. So I was better than my word: I gave him a hundred bucks and a bucket of diamonds and sent him on his way...

We left then, headed back to the hotel, and took our time getting the loot up to our rooms. After splitting it between us, I went back to my room, took a shower and nap, watched Jeopardy, and went over to the corner for a milkshake. It wasn't till then that I saw the police cars come speeding back into town, sirens full blast, headed for the jewelry store.