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The victim asked, “Why are you carrying a weasel?” Police said the attacker answered, “It’s not a weasel, it’s a marten,” then punched him in the nose and fled.

The moral of the story? See no weasel.  Hear no weasel. Speak no weasel.

UPDATE:  By request for making such a terrible joke –

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I mentioned the other day being invited to sing in a little patriotic concert over at RFEC in honor of the Fourth.  As it turns out, I didn’t pay sufficient attention to the significance of the name “Friends of Music 1776” because I just received a copy of the score and it turns out they’re actually doing the musickal.   I assume that they want me to help pack out Congress.

I’ve only ever seen this show once, a looooong time ago, and don’t remember being particularly impressed with it.  Still, as the mere fact of performing would be fun, I suppose I’d better get busy learning to sing, “Siddown!”

You know, ol’ Robbo has never been one of those people with a concrete set of Life Dreams.  For the most part, I don’t have lists of places I want to see or things I want to do or goals I want to achieve before I toddle off the stage, instead being content with outlining some broad parameters of what I consider to be the Good Life and letting the details sort themselves out.

I do have one very concrete and specific ambition, however.  This is to live long enough to hear my children complain about their children.

I long for the day when the gels come to me and gripe about how sloppy their kids are, how lazy, how loud, how they simply don’t listen and how it is driving the gels positively batty.

And do you know what I’m going to do on that day?  I’m going to laugh and laugh and laugh.

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