One Too Many Stories

I love tall tales even though I'm more short and squat than is good for me. Truth be told my name translates from the original Latin as 'that stubby little fellow' and I try to never lose sight of that in a never ending battle for truth, justice and a Superman only cable channel.

So while I've always wanted to believe that from childhood on, I've lived next door to Princess Anastasia or that Jimmy Hoffa, in costume, has trick-or-treated annually in my neighborhood or that, by gum!, it really does take two hands to handle a Whopper, experience has led me to believe a very small percentage of all the things I've seen with my own two eyes.

So when I saw this story the other day and read of this woman's dilemma, I went down right quickly and got lickity-splitly out to my Ol' '55 because I, too, have lost more than my fair share of tennis bracelets as I was strolling by unmonitored metal donation bins.

Those things are pernicious and vicious. Perhaps I am the only person in the history of the world who ever dumpster-dived (dove?) when I was a slip of a boy back on the Banks of the Olde Raritan. 

But somehow, I don't think so. It is mean of me to mock the woman in the story and I know that, but she doesn't help her case by phoning for help from inside the collection box (as I read the story) and then, after all the travail and extricational activities, NOT finding the bracelet she 'dropped' that led her into temptation in the first place.

I'm wondering if this could be what happened to The Donner Party? 
Did you smell that? Smelled like Mongolian Barbecue to me, coming from over there. Let's just look and we'll come right back here and tell the others. Yep, that's what we'll do, as soon as I pick up a box of napkins  Have we started over?
-bill kenny