Harvest Moon, or Moon the Harvest?*

Seeing as how I am in An Old Folks' Home and therefore almost dead, all the people with annuities in mind suddenly got my name.

"Hoss, leave your money with us, NOW, and you will be happy living off the principal while we harvest the interest to pay for saving the Wily Coyote of North Hollywood."

"Hoss, your estate can do us both a lot of good. Sign it over and we will keep you in beer while we save the Everglades from your buddy Laura."

Well, I think the coyote is a fig newton of the imagination, and I doubt my buddy Laura is going to screw with the Everglades. And, anyway, I ain't interested in anything to do with money unless it helps me Make My Pile.

And right here is how it's going to go down. I have invented the leprosy detector. You see, when you are armed with one of these here dudes, you are protected from lepers.

Let's say you're in a restaurant, and you're not wanting to get infected with leprosy again. So you grab your leprosy detector and go around gettin' ever'body to stick their finger into the hole, there. If their finger comes off, you have caught one of the suckers, and you can banish 'em to the smoking section. Or someplace else where losing face is still in style.

These will be on sale until Labor Day, half off (hee). After that, expect to pay full price.

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My favorite word today is whoops. Adj., why me? Def. A minor spill of water in your genital area makes it less appealing for you to arise and go to the restroom.

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(*How many times do I have to tell you: The title of these pieces seldom has anything to do with the content. But they is damn good titles. J. K. Rowling is always after me to do titles for her books, so I guess it's okay to tell you that No. 7 in the Potter series will be "Harry, Harry, Quite Contrary, the Half-Crazed Spook.")