Man oh Manischewitz, I couldn’t wait for this work week to end. On Wednesday, I had an episode I still don’t understand in which sudden, severe neck muscle cramps caused me blinding, debilitating pain that resulted in my walking around all day with my head facing to the left. Poor Impulsives, you have not lived until you’ve descended stairs perpendicular to the direction you can see. To his credit, Pete observed this without passing coffee through his nose. Today, as I was saddling up the bicycle to ride home, undergraduates of the unnamed university flooded the avenue, squawking and racing toward their exciting, regrettable futures. It’s a big weekend in the tiny city. Traffic clogged the surrounding roads. I got out just in time.
Siobhan: Three idiots tried to make a living the old-fashioned way: by breaking into her house and kidnapping the old lady on the Columbia Sportswear commercials.
Tata: That’s going to look funny on their tax returns.
Siobhan: And their arrest records. They got as far as tying her in Boy Scout knots before the cops showed up.
Tata: So an alarm sounded, security worked and the police saved the day?
Siobhan: Yup.
Tata: Well, paint me red and call me Josephine. That never happens!
The 87-year-old [Gert] Boyle was approached at her West Linn home last November by a man offering a gift basket who pulled a gun. Boyle was able to trigger a silent alarm, bringing police.
Boyle didn’t appear at Thursday’s sentencing but released a statement through her attorney, saying the three defendants “caused me to suffer indignity, violence and indescribable fear.” She added that her life was forever changed by the incident.
Presiding Judge Robert Herndon told Caballero that the plot was “a completely lame-brained scheme.” He described Boyle as an Oregon[sic] and American icon.
“It couldn’t have been worse if you tried to kidnap Santa Claus,” Herndon said.
It’s April 15th and for some reason that escapes me the tax deadline softened from a firm Friday to mushy next Monday. So since we’re firmly entrenched in financial FantasyLand, let’s picture a kidnapper’s visit to the accountant.
Bernstein: Mr. “Smith”, what kind of work do you do?
Smith: I’m in acquisitions.
Bernstein: Unh huh. You’re self-employed?
Smith: I think of myself as workplace-flexible.
Bernstein: How much did you make last year?
Smith: $350,000 in small, non-sequential, unmarked bills, not at all dyed red.
Bernstein: Sure. Did you pay your quarterly taxes?
Smith: No, I kind of acquired that all at once.
Bernstein: I see. Any work-related expenses?
Smith: Rope, duct tape, rubber gloves, monogrammed crow bars.
Bernstein: Education? Take any work-related classes?
Smith: I’m a proud 2010 graduate of the county’s locksmithing school.
Bernstein: Really? Me, too. For the off-season. Are you going to write a check?
Smith: Have you been watching C-SPAN? Bankers are CRAZY. Here, have a stack of cash.
Bernstein: Good thing I’m wearing lifts. Sign here, here and here, Mr. “Smith.”
Smith: X, x, x.
Bernstein: Well, have a good year and recommend me to the grand jury, will you?
Tax amnesty has real potential.
Poor Impulse Control 
