A sofa and a turtle

Every entry should start with an apology. As the full of it banker once said in a W.C. Fields movie, "Allow me to express my heartfelt contrition." The camera panned to his dead fish handshake--a handshake that I emulated every holiday much to the annoyance of my macho uncles who expected a firm manly handshake. My brother and I would laugh til it hurt as they walked away murmuring "What's wrong with those boys?"
Not what I wanted to write about so ignore all that nonsense and for that matter also ignore this nonsense coming your way. In fact, show some backbone and stop reading this stuff write now. O.K. I warned you. Reality shows. I get it. Cheap to produce--let the camera roll and enjoy the train wreck of the dysfunctionites taking place in your living room. And what's next when they outlaw tanning booths in New Jersey -or outlaw New Jersey--even better. They had their chance. Housewives have their own shows, but no husbands. Every major city has a house wives show. There are no ill mannered inappropriately dressed husbands? I'm one for sure. My pants have been hanging on for dear life for decades in public. Anyway, what's next? I have the answer. Even cheaper tv to fit the economic disaster of the times. A turtle and a living room with and a camera. A little water for the turtle--no water needed for the sofa. No actors or pseudo actors. No embarrassing charity events or off key singing. Turtles don't do anything for free--even singing. Watch the turtle slowly and I mean slowly walk across the living room heading for the sofa. Too fast? Velcro a brick to his shell and slow him down. Be lulled into a meditative trance and realize that your life is not so boring after all. I got to go for coffe with my friend. I feel better.