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9 / 11 / 2001
	Hit the Buildings, Missed America An open letter to a terrorist:			Drawing by a child WTC redesign idea
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Calling in sick to work makes me uncomfortable. No matter how legitimate my illness, I always sense my boss thinks I am lying. On one occasion, I had a valid reason, but lied anyway because the truth was too humiliating. I simply mentioned that I had sustained a head injury and I hoped I would feel like coming in the next day. By then, I thought, I could  think up a doozy to explain the bandage on my crown. The accident occurred mainly because I conceded to my wife's wishes to adopt a cute little kitty. Initially, the new acquisition was no problem but one morning after breakfast I was taking my shower when I heard my wife, Deb, call out to me from the kitchen. "Ed!! The garbage disposal is dead. Come and reset it." "You know where the button is," I protested through the shower (pitter-patter). "Reset it yourself!" "I'm scared!" she pleaded. "What if it starts going and sucks me in?" (Pause.) "C'mon, it'll only take you a second." So I came, dripping wet and buck naked. I crouched down and stuck my head under the sink to find the button. That was the last action I  remember performing. I was struck without warning! Nay, it wasn't electrical shock. It wasn't a disposal drawing me into its gnashing metal teeth. It was our new kitty, clawing playfully at the dangling objects she spied between my legs. She had been poised round the corner and had stalked me as I took my position under the sink. At precisely  the second I was most vulnerable, she lept at the toys I had unwittingly offered and snagged them with her needle-like claws. I lost all rational thought when it came to controlling my bodily movements. I rose up at a violent rate of speed, with the full weight of a kitten hanging from my masculine region. Raising straight up, the sink and cabinet bluntly impeded my ascent. The impact knocked me out cold. When I awoke, my wife and the paramedics stood over me. Having been fully briefed by my wife, the paramedics were trying to conduct their work while suppressing hysterical laughter.   At the office, my colleagues tried to coax an explanation out of me. I  kept silent, claiming it was too painful to talk about. "What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"  If they had only known.
THE HAMSTER
If you have raised kids, and gone through the pet syndrome including toilet-flush burials for dead goldfish, the story below will have you laughing out LOUD!!! Overview: I had to take my son's hamster to the vet. Here's what happened: Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there was "something wrong" with one of the two hamsters he holds prisoner in his room. "He's just lying there looking sick," he told me. "Oldest trick in the book, son," I informed him. "You go in to see what's wrong with the sick one and the other one sneaks up behind you  and bonks you on the head.  Then they change into your clothes and escape." "I'm serious, Dad. Can you help?" I put my best hamster-healer expression on my face and followed him into his bedroom. One of the little rodents was indeed lying on his back, looking distressed. I immediately knew what to do.  Call the professional. "Honey," I called, "come look at the hamster!" "Oh my gosh," my wife diagnosed after a minute.  "She's having babies."  "What?" my son demanded. "But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!" I was equally outraged. "Hey, how can that be? I thought we said we didn't want them to reproduce," I accused my wife. "Well, what did you want me to do, post a sign in their cage?" she inquired. (I actually think she said this sarcastically!)    "No, but you were supposed to get two boys!" I reminded her, (in my most loving, calm, sweet voice). "Yeah, Bert and Ernie!" my son agreed. "Well, it's just a little hard to tell on some guys," she informed me. (Again with the sarcasm, you think?) By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on. I shrugged, deciding to make the best of it. "Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience!" I announced.    "We're about to witness the miracle of birth." "OH, Gross!" they shrieked. "Well, isn't THAT just Great!" What are we going to do with a litter of tiny little hamster babies?"  my wife wanted to know.     (I really do think she was being snotty here, too. Don't you?) "Well, when my parents' dogs had puppies, I took them up to the grocery store in a cardboard box and gave them away," I recalled. "So what are you going to do, go up with a pair of tweezers so people can pick out their hamster?" she asked. (Gotta love her!) We peered at the patient. After much struggling,  what looked like a tiny foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.     "We don't appear to be making much progress," I noted. "A breech birth," my wife whispered, horrified. "Do something, Dad!" my son urged. "Okay, okay." Squeamishly, I reached in and grabbed the foot when it next appeared, giving it a gingerly tug.  It disappeared. I tried again, with the same results. "Should I dial 911?" my eldest daughter wanted to know.  "Maybe they could talk us through the trauma." (You see a pattern here with my females?)  "Let's get Ernie to the vet," I said grimly.  We drove to the vet with my son holding the cage in his lap.    "Breathe, Ernie, breathe," he urged. "I don't think hamsters do Lamaze," his mother noted to him.  (Women can be so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing,  but this boy is "of her womb", for God's sake.) The vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little animal through a magnifying glass.  "What do you think, Doc, an epidermal?" I suggested scientifically.     "Oh, very interesting," he murmured.  "Mr. and Mrs. Cameron, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"  I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside. "Is Ernie going to be okay?" my wife asked. "Oh, perfectly," the vet assured us. "This hamster is not in labor.   In fact, that isn't EVER going to happen... Ernie is a boy." "What!?"   "You see, Ernie is a young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, male hamsters will, master, er, er, ah..." He blushed,  glancing at my wife. "Well, you know what I'm saying, Mr. Cameron."    We were silent, absorbing this. "So Ernie's just ... just ... Excited?" my wife offered.     "Exactly," the vet replied, relieved that we understood. More silence.     Then my viscous, cruel woman started to giggle. And giggle. And then   even laugh loudly.    What's so funny?" I demanded, knowing, but not believing that the woman I married would commit the upcoming affront to my flawless Manliness.  Tears were now running down her face. "Just .. that ... I'm picturing   you pulling on its ... its ... teeny little ... " she gasped for more air   to bellow in laughter once more.   "That's enough," I warned. We thanked the Veterinarian and hurriedly bundled the hamsters and our son back into the car. He was glad everything was going to be ok.    "I know Ernie's really thankful for what you've done, Dad," he told me.     "Oh, you have NO idea," my wife agreed, collapsing into laughter as I gave her a dirty look.
Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time, which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very little, which made him rather frail and with his odd diet, he suffered from bad breath. This made him ...... A super calloused fragile mystic hexed by halitosis.