By Rose A. Valenta
Uncle Harry came over for breakfast this
morning. I was making corn fritters with maple syrup and the aroma travelled
across our water-logged backyard into his bathroom, while he was getting a load
off his mind.
He is not supposed to eat corn. The doctor
told him that he has diverticulitis; he can’t digest American politics either,
but Harry never listens to anyone.
This morning, he made divots in my yard with
his flip-flops and walked into my kitchen looking like the cat that ate the
“Got any left?” He asked.
“You know that you are not supposed to eat
them.” I responded.
“Everything in moderation.” He said.
He had The Washington Post folded
under one arm.
“That’s why you have diverticulitis.” I said.
“You’re obsessed with politics.”
“I like to hit the newspaper with a bingo
highlighter.” He said. “The ones with the orange dots should have gone to
school to learn how to track manta rays, instead of majoring in political
“Look, I know its gearing up for another down-pour,
but can’t you call Dick to come over and play cards or something, instead of
reading the Post? You guys like Uno and I’m not up to your political
“I think you might be interested in what the
Jane Goodall Research Center had to say about Romney’s high school bullying this
morning.” He said.
“What, he’s being charged? The statute of
limitations has run out on that one.”
“No, he’s in a modern hunter-gatherer group,”
“Well, we all know that politicians are
“Seriously, lookey here:”
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“Nice.” I said. There’s a mutant in Darwin’s
“Did you notice, ever since the Republicans voted
against Santorum and the Democrats advocated gay marriage, people are into
bipartisanship?” he asked. “And look, Biden thinks he’s working for President
“Harry, don’t get caught up in crazy. Do
something bipartisan and let the cat out, before he pees on your dry