The wonderful world of Walt
No, I’m not talking about Disney.
I’m talking about Walt, my colorful neighbor, who takes marathon walks, feeds chipmunks, wears three pair of glasses (readers, distance and in “betweeners”) and often stops to check in with me and offer some of his trademark Waltisms.
At times, he talks politics and his disdain for Washington, D.C.
“You know what’s wrong with what’s going on there?” he asked. “Everybody is looking for an escape goat.”
I repeated it and quizzed, “Don’t you mean a scapegoat?”
“That’s what I just said,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “An escape goat.”
I processed his remarks and said, “Oh, like when Tom Brady is about to get sacked and he breaks out of it. That makes him an escaped G.O.A.T.”
“Exactly,” said Walt, nodding his head. “You always make it confusing.”
I asked him if he went to the Pumpkin Festival in Milford.
“No,” he said. “There’s too much traffic in the ovary there.”
“I knew an old woman like that,” I answered. “She lived in a shoe.”
One of Walt’s favorite subjects is Donald Trump.
“I liked him on that pretentious show,” he said. “That one where he always yelled, ‘you’re fired.'”
“The Apprentice,” I said.
“Yup,” chirped Walt. “That one.”
Then, Walt started what sounded like a Steve Miller Band tune.
“He’s supposed to be the leader, he’s a cheater…” mused Walt.
“He’s a midnight tweeter,” in I jumped, singing. “He wears his goggles on the sunnnnn-bed.”
Walt laughed. He has a hearty laugh that sometimes ends with a coughing fit.
“You need to have that looked at,” I said.
“Hey, my wife says I should have nipped it in the butt,” wheezed Walt.
“Bud,” I corrected.
“What?,” he asked. “This thing is wrecking havoc on me sometimes.”
Yeah, it wreaks alright.
That said, I shared with Walt that I tried to use the rest room at the mall and there was a sign posted, “apologizing for any incontinence.”
“That ain’t right,” he said.
“Don’t I know it,” I shot back.
“Yeah. You can’t have that huge mall with no crapper,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Walt’s not my only source for great convo starters. Texting and Facebook provide me with a nice wrong-word fix at every tern, I mean, turn.
I read a post not long ago where this girl, “really liked the smell of her boyfriend’s colon.” I’m pretty sure “colon” and “smell” should never appear in the same sentence.
I was driving somewhere north, and saw the sign, “Ho Made Pies.” I guess you just leave the money on the dresser.
Related to that, was the sign, “Shoplifters will be prostituted.” That is one stiff penalty.
In Miami, you couldn’t throw a stone without hitting a misspelled sign. “Ives Diary Road,” (try “Dairy,” next time), “Shcool crossing” (time to go back) and “Please Slow Drively,” (please don’t drive at all if you’re the one who bungled that sign.)
“Also posted online: “Congratulations to our little home run Hitler.” Perhaps spell check should be germane to your next posts.
Misspelled tattoos are just plain embarrassing, as there were two spell-checkers involved: The person getting the ink, and the person holding the ink.
In a tattoo about life, I’m guessing, one dude at Home Depot had, “Never feel like you’re taking up ‘to’ much space.” I can tell you one thing at this guy’s house that’s not taking up too much space: a dictionary.
How about this doozy: “Blood is thicker ‘then’ water.” And apparently, density is thicker than wisdom.
On FB once again, was someone’s fresh ink (this is real): “Nolege is power.” Said the infinitely powerless one.
Other finds – if they’re still on there and haven’t been taken down: “Daddy’s aingel.” (Your father must be so proud.); “I’m Amsome.” (Pity the ink master who drew that one.); and “It’s My Life, by Jon Bovi.” (Someone was in a rush. There is undoubtedly a crater of a line between rock stardom and rocket science.)
Finally, there’s Judge Judy, good for some gosh-darn terrible linguists.
One defendant said a doozy: “Supposably, he had brang my phone back to me. But I couldn’t have tooken it because I wasn’t home.”
Run your nails down a chalkboard. That I hate but can stomach easier than the previous sentence.
Another Judy jewel: “He never asked me pacifically to do that.” Hmmm. Did he ask you Atlantically?
And then there’s getting the morning joe and hearing the barista behind the counter ask, “Who had the expresso?”
Apparently so named, because it makes you jittery twice as fast.
And the funny thing about writing all this down: I can’t spell check this column. I’d be here all night.
George Pelletier may be reeched (that one’s intentional to see if you’re paying attention) at firstname.lastname@example.org.