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An Open Letter to the All England Lawn Tennis Club
Dear All England Lawn Tennis Club,

I didn’t travel to Wimbledon for the latest tournament there, and I certainly didn’t sit in the Royal Box at center court beside Kate and Pippa Middleton, or even in nearby seats with tennis royalty Rod “The Rocket” Laver and Billie Jean King, both age 93 or so and looking every week of it, but fit, fit. But from the terrific view I had of all the important match-ups on my 19-inch, nearly high def TV [more...]
At the end of a long day, he reclined in bed beneath a gloriously rumpled pile of sheets and blankets. She walked in the room and eyed him.

“You want to make it?” she asked.

He smiled and lifted up the blankets. “You animal. I thought you were tired.”

“Not make it with me-I meant make the bed.”

“Oh,” he said, lowering the blankets. “Why would I make the bed right before going to sleep [more...]
In a Pickle
It was during the annual “Hell Yeah! Pickles!” festival that chaos arrived in our small town. Gherkin Queen Farmers Daughter #13 had been attacked, and people came to me for help. My name is Police Chief, the town butcher. My moniker confuses people, so they often ask me for assistance rather than going to the actual sheriff, Pool Hustler Conman. Because of these mix-ups, I had gotten my Private Investigator license from the Cracker Barrel [more...]
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