Saturday, December 23, 2017


IN THE FOURTH GRADE, I was singled out to perform 'The Little Drummer Boy' in the Christmas play. Took me this long to live and rewrite the tribute:


Come, they told me
doldrum a drum-drums.
A cold malaise there'll be
doldrum a drum-drums.
Our hands and feet will freeze
all numb a numb-numb.
We’ll cough, shiver and sneeze
until we succumb,
to the doldrums,
dumb a dumb-dumb.
Or, we’ll warm our toes
our fingers and thumbs.
We’ll drink umbrella drinks
of butters and rums.
We’ll slurp them down wethinks
and sit on our bums,
bum a bum-bums,
bum a bum-bums.

Shall I pour for you
my rum a rum-rums?
Your butts I'll warm up, too.
Come chum a chum-chums.
We won't care if it's cold
and won't be so glum.
We'll drink 'til winter's old
come spring and then some,
what we become,
Merry Doldrums.

Senior Wire News Service Syndicated Humor Columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH. He is an author, humorist, agony uncle columnist and poet. His latest book is “THE DIOECIANS –His and Her Love”. You may contact him via his website at Copyright 2017. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017


   If we were smart, the first thing we’d do every morning is admit how dumb we are.
   No, not the kind of dumb my dictionary calls: “a lack of intellectual acuity.” That kind of dumb happens when I don’t bring in the suet birdfeeder at night, and by morning, a herd of bears has trampled the rhododendrons and twisted the feeder post into an iron pretzel.
   By the way, when marauding bears collect in a group and savage your birdfeeder (the latter also known as “a squirrel feeder”), the proper animal collective noun is “sloth,” not herd. A sloth of bears. I didn’t know that until researching this column, and that’s the kind of dumb I mean that we need to revel in.
   Uninformed. Unenlightened. Unaware.
   Not the dumb where you know full well that if you don’t bring in the feeder at night, a passing sloth might flatten the perennials, but you leave it dangling out there anyway, thinking you’ll outsmart Mother Nature. Dumb.
   But, I didn’t know until venturing here, that said sloth would deprive the “scurry” of squirrels of their bird food, not to mention the “dissimulation” of birds, specifically the “party” of blue jays. There, now I suspect there’s also at least one fun fact you hadn’t known until just now. You are now less dumb than you were a minute ago, and this may have saved your life.
   I claim this because I once had the privilege of tending to the daily needs of an old woman. She was old. I mean the kind of old where if she’d been ten years younger, she’d have looked the same.
   In one morning conversation we had as I prepared her breakfast, I told her about the “kneeling moose” I’d seen early this summer (more on this coming up). She listened, smiled and said: “There, now I won’t die today.”  She believed that if she learned at least one new thing every day, she’d live to see the next.
   She just recently passed away, probably dying on the day that she felt she’d learned enough. I’ll always have to wonder if she hadn’t known, and might’ve lived another day, if I’d told her that cats can see ghosts, and when two adult felines lie immobile and staring at an empty sofa, that’s a “pounce” of cats probably waiting for the spirit of a visiting dead uncle to yield their favorite cushions.
   Thus, “I’m dumb and I’m proud!” might just be the rallying cry to good health and longevity. After this sentence, you’ll feel livelier knowing that when you find what looks like a scattering of thistle seed on your kitchen counter in the morning and the tell-tale nibblings in your fruit bowl, you’ve been invaded by a “mischief” of mice.
   Or, when you swerve to avoid that cluster of lumbering characters in the road, your mood will brighten when you realize you had a near-miss with a “prickle” of porcupines.
   Or, it just might lower your blood pressure and put a spring in your step, now knowing that when kittens congregate, they do it in a “kindle,” and your neighbor has a new “puddle” of puppies.
   Kitten kindles. Puppy puddles. Say those together three times fast and you’ll be sure to live another day.
   I don’t know why I’d never known that a moose will drop down on its front knees to eat. I discovered this on a respite to a remote New Hampshire cabin, when I saw one assuming this genuflective feeding posture one late afternoon.
   I’ve spent most of my life in moose country, and when I haven’t been swerving to miss that highway prickle, I’ve been preventing sloths from gobbling up suet intended for dissimulating parties but stolen by scurries.
   I’d just never seen a kneeling moose. I’ve watched them eating trees (on their feet), stepping over guardrails and swimming across ponds. I knew their antlers could have a six-foot span. I knew they dropped them after mating season and grew new ones in the spring, thus conserving energy for winter (making them smarter than some other dumb animals I know).
   I knew they could eat 100 pounds of lily pads a day. I knew that one of them had a cartoon sidekick named Rocky. But, I never knew that moose will kneel down to eat up. Makes perfect sense, of course. On your feet all day and bent over?  Forget kneeling; I’d be lying down to eat, and often am.
   But, there’s one dumb animal kingdom enigma which never has been and never will be explained:  One goose?  Two geese.
   One moose?  Two … moose. I’ve stopped asking why moose not meese, though I believe it’s forever been an inside joke amongst our founding lexicographers, and I still feel dumb about it.
   Lastly, you deserve an extended life bonus just for all this learning: I can tell you that geese are also clumped together according to activity and habitat. Ever see geese in flight?  You’re looking at a “skein” of geese. Geese on the water?  You’ve just spotted a “plump.”  Meanwhile, multiple moose standing, swimming, stampeding or kneeling?  Doesn’t matter. Always a “herd.”
   I don’t ever expect to see a herd of kneeling moose, but if one hobbles into view, I’m ready.
   Thomas Edison said: “We don’t know a millionth of one percent about anything.”
   Now that we’ve learned that, we’ll have lots of tomorrows to figure out what it all means.
Senior Wire News Service Syndicated Humor Columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH. He is an author, humorist, agony uncle columnist and poet. His latest book is “THE DIOECIANS –His and Her Love”. You may contact him via his website at Copyright 2017. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.

Thursday, December 7, 2017


Kudos to Dr. Patrick Morhun and his team at the VA hospital, after my 2nd successful eye surgery.  20-20 vision now, for the first time since boyhood, WITHOUT GLASSES! 

Oh ... and to all those long-ago bullies who took great delight in the "four-eyes" chant? Here's your  giant audio-visual raspberry.

Saturday, November 11, 2017


Revisiting the "yellow footprints,"  Parris Island, SC
   A Happy Veteran's Day to all my brothers- and sisters-in-arms, past & present. I'm sorry that this comes at a time when our current president is "visiting" Vietnam.  What a slap in the face to all veterans.
   This wretched chickenhawk, who received multiple deferments from active duty during the time of the Vietnam War for bone spurs in his feet, is now on a "tour" of Vietnam.
   What an outrage.
   What an insult.
   What an embarrassment.
   What a disgrace.

   This is the same man who said:   "It's my personal Vietnam - I feel like a great and very brave soldier." --- Donald Trump, speaking about the challenges of his avoiding STD's with multiple women. 

   I apologize on behalf of all of us, for the actions of this degenerate-in-chief.
   Meanwhile, a shout-out to all my fellow veterans.
   Thank you for your service.

Friday, November 10, 2017


A dedication for my wife Diane's mother

Dagfrid Holm-Hansen Church

Aged 98
Leaving us on 11/09/17

    Dagfrid Church Back Share Email Dagfrid H. Church October 14, 1919¬November 9, 2017 Conway, South Carolina
    Mrs. Dagfrid H. Church, 98, wife of the late Howard B. Church, passed away peacefully Thursday,
    November 9, 2017 at her home, surrounded by her loving family. Born October 14, 1919, in Norway, Mrs. Church was the daughter of the late Osmund Lutzow and Bergliot Pedersen Holm¬Hansen. Her family immigrated to the United States from Norway in 1929.
    Dagfrid and her husband lived in Westport, CT for nearly 50 years before retiring to Conway, SC. She held a Masters Degree in education and a Bachelors Degree in organic chemistry, and was an educator and research scientist. She was an avid tennis player and birder.
    Dagfrid loved gardening, shelling, butterflies, traveling, hiking, and spending time with her family, including Taffy and Sammy Jo. She served as a volunteer at Brookgreen Gardens for over 20 years.
    The family would like to extend special thanks to her dear friends Maggie Tudgay, Clara Elizabeth Brown, James Carl McNeil, Jim and Joy Schroeder, Sallie Crowley and all the Green Hatters.
    Dagfrid's daughters are especially grateful for the loving and compassionate care provided by Home Instead Senior Care and Embrace Hospice.
    Survivors include her daughters, Carol Joanne Church Holm-Hansen of Vollen, Norway, Diane Lillian Sherman of Fairlee, VT, Patricia Gwendolyn Church of Fairfield, CT and Sharon Holm Church of Boston, MA; three siblings, Vebjorn Holm-Hansen of Fairfield, CT, Turid (Trudy) Moore of Corpus Christi, TX, and Osmund Holm-Hansen II of La Jolla, CA; three grandchildren, Courtney Longo, Kim Longo, and Gabriel Church Lambie; one great-grandchild, Vanessa Longo; and many nieces, nephews, and extended family members.
    In lieu of flowers memorial donations may be made to Brookgreen Gardens, 1931 Brookgreen Garden Drive, Murrells Inlet, SC 29576.
    Please sign the online guestbook at Goldfinch Funeral Home, Conway Chapel, is serving the family.

Friday, October 27, 2017


To my dahling daughter, Erin.  Happy Day!

(Please join her and support
 her performing arts company, below.)

   Erin Lovett-Sherman, Artistic Director of ARTSFEST, is a dancer, choreographer, educator, and director. She earned a BFA from The University of the Arts, and has danced and choreographed for several dance companies including Group Motion Multi Media Dance Theatre in Philadelphia.
   Erin created ARTSFEST in 1999. Erin teaches performing arts classes including Aerial Dance and Circus Arts as well as Musical Theatre and all genres of Dance.  She creates multi-disciplinary work by encouraging collaboration between artists of all genres and by exploring and celebrating improvisation.
   Her innovative choreography fuses Hip Hop, Theatre, Stomp Percussion, Lyrical and Modern Dance.  She serves as Artistic Director for the Wolfeboro Creative Arts Center Summer Theatre in NH.  Erin has choreographed over 25 Shows including Beauty and the Beast, High School Musical, Camp Rock, The Music Man, Grease and DROOD as well as original productions.
   Erin has performed and directed all over the world including India, Quebec, Russia, Lithuania and throughout the U.S.  Erin also is the Director of Youth and Outreach Programming and Circus Arts coach at New England Center for Circus Arts.

Wednesday, October 25, 2017


    LUCKY CAPTURE of this beauty, taken from a kayak 100 feet away on a remote North Country pond. He was unperturbed, barely paying us beak-service as wildlife interlopers, tolerating the paddle-by below with this backward glance, hardly flapping a feather over our intrusion.
    What a grand creature, and a privileged moment.

   Senior Wire News Service Syndicated Humor Columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH. He is an author, poet, humorist and agony uncle columnist. His latest book is "The Dioecians -- His And Her Love." You may contact him here at Copyright 2017. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.

Friday, October 20, 2017


Dear General John Kelly:

   Shame on you.
   I earned the right to say that to you because I've honorably worn the uniform.  Yes, I respect your service and the loss of your heroic son to this country, but in your standing for and defending the current occupant of the White House, you've lost your personal honor and credibility.
   How dare you, and in fact how can you ally yourself with this moronic wretch of a man, who has repeatedly shown his disdain and disrespect for this country's heroes and their families? Have you been living in a bubble? Then, let me pop it for you with a few Trumpisms:

   “He was a war hero because he was captured. I like people that weren’t captured.” --- Donald Trump, speaking on Senator McCain's service and sacrifice for this country.

   "I always wanted to get the Purple Heart.  This was much easier."  --- Donald Trump, speaking after a wounded combat veteran gave him his Purple Heart medal.

    "It's my personal Vietnam - I feel like a great and very brave soldier." --- Donald Trump, speaking about the challenges of his avoiding STD's with multiple women.

   “Are they playing that for you or for me?”  --- Donald Trump, speaking in a Fox interview with Sean Hannity at Harrisburg Air National Guard Base. In the background, the traditional bugle call Retreat was being played as the colors were lowered.

   But, let’s forget the military for a moment and look only at what this degenerate-in-chief said about his own daughter: “Yeah, she’s really something, and what a beauty, that one. If I weren’t happily married and, ya know, her father…”

   As a man, a husband, and especially as the father of a daughter yourself, if that alone doesn’t fill you with disgust; if that doesn't prompt you to distance yourself as far as possible from #45, then, like I said, shame on you.

   And, lest we forget: "I did try to fuck her. She was married."  Or, the now infamous "And when you're a star, they let you do it.  Grab 'em by the pussy. You can do anything." So, I'm assuming that it would be OK with you if Donald Trump spoke about or greeted your wife and/or daughter that way?

   In my opinion, General Kelly, for you to continue in your current position shows the true measure of your character. I salute your rank and sacrifice, but you, sir, have become a poor measure of a soldier: grossly derelict in your duty.

Saturday, October 14, 2017


Dear Donald and Mike:

Pardon me if I don't address you with your titles, but when you earn them, perhaps I'll consider it.  So far, you haven't.  In my mind, you're both insults to the high offices you hold (Remember? The ones We The People gave you?).

Now, pay attention, boys: "Taking a knee" during the playing of the national anthem at football games is NOT unpatriotic.  It is dissent, and dissent is the heart of patriotism in this republic.  And though it's an action that I personally would not do, I respect and support the right of these players to do it. You might say I respect and support the U.S. Constitution.

It's why I put on the uniform years ago: to protect the right to dissent in this country.  You and Don must answer for why neither of you served in the military, but meanwhile, don't use me and your "support the troops" rhetoric to power-up and politicize your self-serving positions. You want to support and respect and thank me for my service?  Get off your jingoistic soapboxes, quit your chickenhawk saber-rattling, and acknowledge that Our right to protest is protected by the 1st Amendment.

Shame on both of you morons.  Strictly speaking, you two are the subversives. 

Oh, and btw, Mike: it seems that your attending an NFL game only to leave it prematurely was a well-choreographed stunt -- a stunt that cost us (We The Taxpaying People) around $100K -- all so you and your boss could feign an act of ... wait ... could it be ... DISSENT?  How quaint, you hypocritical sonsofbitches.   

"There are men - now in power in this country - who do not respect dissent, who cannot cope with turmoil, and who believe that the people of America are ready to support repression as long as it is done with a quiet voice and a business suit."
--- John Lindsay

Friday, October 13, 2017


My thanks to Dr. Morhun & the staff at the VA hospital for my eye surgery today. 

I can now see things I didn't know were there, or things I thought were something else.

(So ... THAT'S where I lost that sock!)

Thanks again to all the eye people at the White River Junction VA Medical Center.  You're the cat(aract's) pajamas!


Sunday, October 8, 2017


I LEFT FACEBOOK TODAY after several years of likes, dislikes, and waves of friends (and friends of friends) coming and going, some unceremoniously, some with big bangs.

   I did it to spend more time on a few writing projects, and because of some mad depressions, chronic Trumpitis, too many doses of TMI given and received, and a surplus of unrequited hurricanes (you’ll have to figure that out for yourselves).

   I’m also taking a hiatus from the News, real & fake, and will limit that intake to once weekly.  The Huffington Post has become a mush of Tabloidian titillations, anyway.  This actually might be fun, as everyone else will continue to be demoralized daily by #45, I can store up my heightened anticipation of outrageous-er and outrageous-er Tweets from the runamok manchild in The White House, have a good laugh, let go of it, move on and store up the seriocomic angst until the following week (rather like how Confession works).

   Sooo … after today, if anyone would like to palaver, buy my books, or commiserate on our collective national nightmare, just comment below or use the links here, where you'll find connections to booksellers and my snail- and e-mail addresses. 

   Meanwhile, a pumpkin-bodied grandson will tide us all over nicely. There's a secret of life in there somewhere.

Friday, May 26, 2017

THE DIOECIANS --- His and Her Love

THE DIOECIANS --- His and Her Love

They are one man and one woman of the traditional opposite sexes, married later in life after surviving other marriages, divorces, lovers, deaths, abortions, children, careers and travelogues, planned and abrupt, overplayed and unrequited, and how they now lose and find each other’s mind, body and soul in the labyrinths of love --- his and hers.

Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Friday, April 21, 2017


What makes a humor columnist?
First, there’s the suffering:

It’s no accident that someone invented the word “seriocomic.” Nothing is funny without springing first from a grave consideration. Nothing. William Somerset Maugham’s “something irresistibly comic in our most heartfelt woes” must draw you hither. If it doesn’t, you haven’t suffered enough hither, and I’d suggest you go find some real misery if you’re planning a career in textual comedy.

Comedian Steve Martin once attributed his studying of Socrates as the foundation and springboard for his theater m├ętier, and you don’t get much funnier than Socrates when it comes to abject despair.

If I have to explain why that’s good humor column fodder, best you drink the vocational hemlock now and move on to a career in sump pump repair. (I’m not knocking sump pump repairmen; without them, I’d be writing this underwater.) But there are a few minimum requirements you must meet if the seduction of writing a humor column for a living (as my grandmother used to say) “flips your skirt.”

Accept the fact that everything ever imagined has already been written, with the exception of a rant on how to construct a truly red squirrel-proof birdfeeder (you may have this topic, with my blessing).  All that remains is style and rewrites and an ability to stylize and pen again in a way that seduces your readership like first love at a drive-in movie.

Be ready with the basic tools. If you can’t spell, and you think syntax is the price you pay for a moral offense, sweeten up your spellchecker and pick up Strunk and White on your way to the drive-in. You can keep Strunk in the trunk and send White out for Milk Duds, but they should come along for the ride. This is not to say that you can’t break the rules, but you must first know them and their abstracts. Picasso got away with having elbows emerging from ears, but only because he knew where knees belonged.

Know your markets. If Ratchet Wrench Monthly is looking for a two-hundred-word filler anecdote on the latest torque converter, don’t send the editor a thousand-word ramble on funny beehive politics.

Skip the hardcore profanity, or be willing to see your column only in profane publications. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve adorned a few silken ears with sow’s curses; I’ve just elected not to do it with my musings. Rank expletives are lazy language, anyway, and as a humor columnist, you’ll be fending off enough built-in sloth without dragging your words into it.

Lastly, be willing at the outset to sell your muk-yuks for less than zero. Sure, keep the rights to your works, but if your rewritten historical stylisms are destined for seriocomic greatness, they’ll get there, along with the livelihood.

Publish or perish, and be willing to work out a payment plan, for now, with your plumber.

* * * * *
Senior Wire News Service Syndicated Humor Columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH. He is an author, humorist, poet and agony uncle columnist. His latest book is "Dear Witbones" -- Ask A Humorist!, now on Kindle and in paperback, from Curry Burn Press. You may contact him via his website at Copyright 2017. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.

Saturday, April 8, 2017


(WARNING! The names of individuals and eateries below are fictitious, but the persons and places are not. Any resemblance to real people and restaurants is purely intentional.)

    I don't pretend to be a gourmet, and this is not the place to find high-toned hints on where to dine out, should you have an epicurean palate and a double-platinum American Express card.
    But, neither am I content with frequenting only drive-through burger shacks, where my comestibles and condiments are wrapped in foil packets, tossed into a bag, and shoved at me through a window and exhaust fumes.
    I suspect I'm like most of us: happy with the minimal amenities of a knife, fork and spoon, a Naugahyde booth, the faux charm of “vintage” wall hangings, and a non-teetering table top. All the rest is good food.
    If it must be the working man's rendition of gold chanterelle mushrooms baked in almond cream, I won't squawk. Just make sure I have a napkin and try not to stick me with a fork.
    But, yesterday, when Tiffany (not her real name), the waitress at Crocklebee's (not it's real meaning), announced, as she fairly lurched into position at our table with all the subtlety of a roadside bomb, that “Hey, guys, I'm Tiffany, and I'll be hanging out with you today!” my comic juices began to sizzle, and here we are at the do's and don'ts of food-servicing a humorist:
    If you are my waitress, I don't want to know your name. Familiarity breeds contempt, and I don't want mine being inflamed or diminished because I can later accurately name you in my lawsuit as the person who forgot my ketchup. If you want to name names, tell me who's doing the cooking and washing the dishes.
    Next, we're not “hanging out” (another vehicle of chumminess I'd rather not ride with my waitress). I'm a patron of your employ. You are my server. Unless you intend to sit down with me when you deliver the food and pick at my salad, I'd rather you hung out in the kitchen.
    As a personal preference only, I must add this: If you've found the need in your prior, extra-vocational pursuits to cover your arms with tattoos, please wear something long-sleeved. I'm not sure why, but when the human extremity holding my plateful of veggie burger comes at me covered in Komodo Dragons, I'm put slightly off my feed.
    Another point of order: Diet Pepsi is NOT the same as Diet Coke. I won't name my preference here, but the next time I order the one you don't have and you offer me the other with a loud and curt: “It's the same difference,” I will ask you why you didn't opt for Loch Ness Nessies on your forearms instead of Mr. & Mrs. Komodo. Same difference.
    In the art of table-waiting, here's a peeve motion that I'm sure my readers will second: Timing, close observations and silent interventions are prized above all else. I was raised to not swallow and speak simultaneously, unless I'm being waterboarded.
    To this end, if you catch me in any phase of mastication, including the act of just raising food to my mouth, DON'T ask me a question. If I'm indeed in the midst of chewing (hint: closed mouth, grinding jaw) or swallowing (non-verbal, and Adam's apple receding), WAIT until I resume open-mouthed breathing. I will then nod in your direction.
    Trust me, without knowing your name, I will let you know when and if I or my fare need to be monitored. If my veggie burger has been delivered sans burger, I will raise the empty bun into the air and entertain my neighboring consumptioneers with shadow puppets until you return.
    Another personal preference: There is no need to ever announce: “Here, let me get that out of your way,” then remove anything from my table, especially any plate, bowl or glass still containing food or drink, or any eating utensils I still have in motion.
    Speaking of which, if you have any power of this, DON'T vacuum-wrap my silverware inside my napkin. It renders the napkin into goat-shaped origami, and this isn't a prison cafeteria.
    I like having my eating surface cluttered with all the spent utensils of my foodfest. Despite my vegan leanings, there's something carnivorously primordial about a post-prandial table. Makes me feel like I'm guarding what's left of my prey. Please, leave my vessels and me alone together to bask in the banquet of my hunting prowess, even if it is a shred of slaughtered tomato.
    NEVER “freshen up” my coffee. This ruins my carefully mixed mixture of creamer & sweetener and upsets the balance of nature. Mine, anyway.
    Lastly, here's a tip on tips:
    I ALWAYS tip well, because I know that waitressing is a tough job, and you're not here because you emerged from the womb with a burning desire to feed strangers. I know about the indignities you suffer: the sore feet, the inanity of repetition, and the rude shadow puppeteer in Naugahyde Section B, blaming you, not the cook, for his burgerless bun.
    So, you'll always get a handsome gratuity from me, unless you intentionally stick me with a fork or fall into my soup.
    If you do the latter, just please don't hang out in there.

* * * * *
   Senior Wire News Service Syndicated Humor Columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH. He is an author, humorist and agony uncle columnist. His latest book is "Dear Witbones" -- Ask A Humorist!, now on Kindle and in paperback, from Curry Burn Press. You may contact him via his website at Copyright 2017. All rights reserved. Used here with permission.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


       Lots of talk these days about how we’re losing our privacy. Everywhere we go, we are being watched. Everyplace we speak, our voices are being recorded. This is perhaps best evidenced by the fact that politicians are now too often caught unawares in the act of saying what they really mean, and being exposed when telling the truth can ruin a political career.
            If you’re growing more uneasy about how public everything you do and say has become, I’m here to help. This column nearly ended right here, because I’m not in the habit of attempting the impossible.
            I’m old enough to remember a time when “Big Brother is watching you” meant that I had to spend the day babysitting my younger siblings. Now, I’m not here to wax nostalgic about how life used to be less complicated because it was, but I think that’s where we’re headed.
            (IMPORTANT SIDEBAR: Just so you all know, except for what I’m doing right this second, I don’t “text,” and I can’t even think about anyone who will text while they are driving. They apparently missed that Sir Isaac Newton class on what happens when a dumb object meets an immovable one.). 
            There are ways on the internet (I’m not telling you how, because that would make me an accomplice in fanning the flames of your paranoia) to not only see where you live, but to click along a photo-logue of your street to your house. I’ve just done it to myself, and yep, there’s my front door, my tippy porch chairs, my snowplow-flattened hydrangea, and the neighbor’s dogpoop on my lawn for everyone in the world to see. Looks like I’m not home, but let’s see if you are:
            Aha! I see you! It seems that my friend Ray still hasn’t hauled away that rusting lawn tractor, Betty really needs to get after those rain gutters, and Teresa has a new birdfeeder. And, hey, Robert! So, you can afford a new roof, but where’s that fiver you owe me?
Uneasy enough yet?
       I’m thinking about where I went today, and I conservatively estimate that I was photographed at least 100 times. A simple walk through one downtown and a drive-through another for a few errands, and tonight I’m a star in the video highlight vaults of stores, banks, town halls, post offices and parking lots.
            There’s now undeniable hard on-camera evidence that I like pizza with extra cheese, I took TWO Hershey’s kisses from the bank teller’s bowl, I used the bathroom at Wal-Mart, and I didn’t return my shopping carts to the corrals. There’s also a strong presumption of proof that I had too much coffee this morning before leaving the house, because I also used the bathroom at the town hall and the supermarket.
            I’m recklessly assuming that I was only filmed entering said bathrooms, and not while I was in there. If I was, you’ll notice that I did wash my hands and put the seat down.
            Personally, I’m not worried about being spied upon by the USA. We’ve been assured that this is not happening, and that just because Uncle Sam has the ability to eavesdrop on our phone calls, he wouldn’t. I don’t care. If fighting terrorism and world peace can only be achieved by my government spending 20 minutes listening to me trying to enunciate clear enough for my electric company’s crappy voice recognition software to understand what “YES…I…PAID” means, that’s fine with me. Spy away.
            Sorry, but unless you’re willing to get rid of your computers, credit cards, automobiles, bank accounts, licenses, phones, utilities, mortgages and jobs, you’re forever now in the roving eye of public domain and I can’t help you (mission impossible accomplished).
            Still, the government is a rookie sleuth compared with the advertising biz. There are people out there devoted to discovering that I’m a creamy not chunky peanut butter kind of guy, then filling my spambox with creamy peanut butter offers, which then generate a counter-offensive from their own chunky division.
            And, as this information is out there being sold and re-sold, the inevitable jelly ads start to roll in.
            I also expect, now that I’ve gone public about my bathroom breaks, that the coffee coupons aren’t far behind.

* * * * *

Senior Wire News Service syndicated humor columnist B. Elwin Sherman writes from Bethlehem, NH.  Copyright 2017, all rights reserved.  Used here with permission.  You may contact him here via this blog.  His new book: "DEAR WITBONES" -- Ask A Humorist! is now available on Amazon, via Kindle and Paperback, and via his blog at