Six MORE Months; Will It Ever End?

I (Gene to you) is no longer 77, as I have told you.  The clock has rolled over to 78, and that deal where the doctor said I had 6 months to live hasn't worked out so well.  In fact, this is the third dose of that kind of advice I have been given; I reckon I am not very lucky at dying on time.  I am now on my fourth six-month stretch of having just 6 months to live; maybe I can get it done this time.
                                 (Maybe I can catch one of these.)

Anyway, what we're doing here today is wrapping up our Third Annual Christmas Letter.  I know you been waiting.  So here we go.

I think I told you last year that Scamp is 39 (again) this year.  She looks good in a size 39.

Thanks to the current economy, we here are learning some new Wall Street terms.  For instance:  "Value Investing:  The art of buying low and selling lower."  And what with the economy being so dour, we are making money selling our Haiku.  Haiku is not easy, either:

"The deal with Haiku
"You just get started and then

We again have spent a lot of time with doctors -- heart specialists, lung merchants, fat doctors (well, not fat fat doctors, the ones that thin you up or down, whichever way you want to go.   I once went into the doctor's office and said "I have a serious memory problem?"  The doc says, "When did it start?"  And I say, "When did what start?"

My Scamp has been busy this year, improving body and mind.  She's doing Qi Gong, tai chi, oil painting, water coloring, camera technique, and her regular bicycle workout.  She also did the Thanksgiving dinner, which was just as good as Mother used to make (well, MY mother; I don't know about YOUR mother).

A funny thing happened last summer.  Three of us baseball fans were walking toward the train at Safeco Field in Seattle one night, and one of us noticed a foot sticking out of the bushes by the sidewalk.  We looked and discovered a nude woman, drunk and passed out.  In respect of the lady, I took off my Cubs hat and placed it over her right breast.  One of my buddies, who was wearing a Red Sox hat, took off his beanie and put it over her left breast.  Following our lead, the Yankee fan took off his cap and placed it over her crotch.

When the cops came, the Sergeant lifted the Cubs' hat, replaced it, and wrote down some notes.  Then he lifted the Red Sox cap, replaced it, and wrote some more notes.  The Sarge then lifted the Yankees' cap, replaced it, then lifted it again, replaced it, then lifted it a third time and replaced it once more.

By now the Yankee fan was getting upset, and he finally asked, "What are you, a pervert or something?  Why do you keep lifting and looking, lifting and looking?"  "Well," said the Sergeant, "I am simply surprised.  Normally when I look under a Yankees' hat, I find an asshole."

Oh, by the way, if you ever reach total enlightenment while you're drinking a beer, I bet it makes beer shoot out your nose.

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My favorite word today is men.  N., you've seen 'em around: bald heads, no teeth, needing a shave?  THOSE are men.  Def.:  They are all the same; they just have different faces so you can tell them apart.