I’m madder than the holiday shopper who stood in line overnight to score a bargain-priced giant-screen television only to find his wallet pick-pocketed by a pick-pocketer while on the cashier’s line right before he was about to pay for it — and then couldn’t — over the fact that I’ll never have all the things I really need in this life.
Look, you all know that the ol’Screecher can’t possibly fit all my stuff into my small two-bedroom apartment in the beautiful twin towers of Harway Terrace no matter how hard I try (and believe me, I really try!). And it seems that the bigger I get every year, the less stuff I can fit.
So it wouldn’t be a surprise to you to learn that the best way for me to keep tabs on my stuff is to keep it on my person — as anyone who has seen me zipping down 86th Street atop Tornado can attest to!
The first thing that taught me to wear my stuff wasn’t as you might suspect, that Regency TR-1 that I got back in the ’50s that I sometimes still wear around my neck.
In fact, it was the medical alert buzzer I’ve been wearing since I first saw the commercial with that lady falling down back in the ’80s and knew right then and there that it was time for me to protect myself and my loved ones from me falling — myself because I sometimes fall and can’t get up, and my loved ones in case I land on them.
My latest falling adventure happened during a recent 2 am call of nature that had me going from the bed to the toilet and back again. Thankfully, the first part of that was complete before the fall, that I was sure someone heard, because me falling tends to make quite a thump.
But as I’ve told you over and over and over again, my lovely wife Sharon can sleep through an atomic explosion, and this was once again the case.
Knowing she would never hear me through the earplugs she wears to drown out my deafening snoring, I decided not to yell and scream, but try to get myself up.
But this was difficult in and of itself, thanks to the aforementioned stuff I’ve collected and put on display throughout the walls, floors, and ceilings of my house these oh-so-many years.
Thankfully, all of my squirming around like a fish out of water was banging things around in a way that eventually shook the bed, waking my lovely wife, who sprang to action!
“What happened?” she screamed.
What happened?
Well, with me lying on my back in the fetal position, one would assume the obvious, but I let her know anyway.
“Help,” I said. “I fallen and I can’t get up!”
Sharon’s calls security — who have a forklift at the ready for whenever this happened — weren’t answered, as they were probably making their rounds of the two-building complex.
Knowing help would soon be here, Sharon got dressed, and then tried to figure out a way for me to get myself up by positioning my legs, my body, my knees, and my feet against the bed, the wall, the door, and the armoire without any success. Worst, I was getting knocked out from the exertion.
That’s when Sharon decided she was going to call the 911, and I remembered the thing hanging around my neck!
“Wait!” I exclaimed! “Let me press the button on my ‘Call Alert’ and see what happens!”
The man that immediately answered my call stayed with us until the police arrived, making sure that we were okay.
Thankfully, the cops that came were huge, and they each grabbed an arm and sat me on the bed. Sharon and I thanked them as they left.
So during this Thanksgiving season, I give thanks to all of you readers for your loyalty. And if you happen to meet me or recognize me on the street or wherever, be aware that my bravado is only in print, and I will most probably will appear shy to you, but I do enjoy hearing from you, meeting you in person or in print. And speaking of Thanksgiving, let me brag abut my son-in-law Michael, chef extraordinaire that did the absolute impossible — he cooked more than I could eat, leaving me more stuffing than the 30-pound turkey!
Screech at you next week!
