His wife was overpaying for pilates somewhere near the marina. The twins were zip lining upriver at an adventure course. Walter himself spent the better part of two hours at the hotel bar, The Sterling Basin, enjoying river-forward bourbon cocktails. Walter didn’t know what it meant, but the bartender gave a little shoulder shimmy while shaking the mixer, which he took as chemistry and kept ordering.

But now his stomach was calling. He hopped off the stool and threw an extra twenty onto the bar. She slid the money away and gave him a wink.

“Still got it,” Walter whispered to himself before heading outside.

Next to the bar sat a walk-up kiosk for The Pluck & Tot, the best fried chicken in the county. He ordered an extra-large bucket with steak fries, the perfect accompaniment to slosh downriver.

Walter approached the street’s rental launch. “This is livin’,” he whispered to himself.

The teenage dock attendant looked concerned. That, or his eyes were blinded from the SPF 70 Walter shellacked across his chest, visible through an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Walter paid extra for a premium tube and a parking space near their hotel. It came with cupholders and a slip-resistant coating. He still managed to almost capsize trying to settle in. He slid the kid a fiver for holding his chicken bucket.

“Whoa—okay. Okay. We’re good,” Walter announced and pushed off. The current caught him almost immediately. At first, the ride was perfect. Riverborn drifted around him in postcard fragments.

Tourists waved from rooftop bars overlooking the water. Paddleboards wandered between tour boats near the ferry crossing. College kids cannonballed from an old stone bridge while shoppers carried boutique bags along Restaurant Row.

Walter raised a chicken thigh toward the sky. “This is why people work hard. The Aspen of the lowlands.” He made a mental note to look into buying a rental condo before Riverborn turned into one of those places people ruin by discovering.

A few bends later, the river widened, and the buildings thinned. The current sharpened up. Walter floated past weathered bait shops, old fishing docks, and a handful of warning signs. Up ahead, the river split.

Most tourists stayed left, where the current slowed near Restaurant Row and drifted lazily beneath the patio district. Eastbank Bend went right. Faster water. Narrower channels. More rocks and brush lines, catering to the more action-oriented seafarer. Walter, however, was busy watching a sunburned woman in a neon bikini shotgun a hard seltzer from a paddleboard. By the time he looked forward again, the current had already claimed him.

Walter squinted at some signs through his sunglasses. “Hmm.”

ENTERING EASTBANK BEND
INCREASING SPEEDS
KEEP LIMBS INSIDE

Then the tube accelerated. The fried chicken basket bounced, sending a fry into the river. “Damn.” Water splashed onto the lid of his lemonade. He wondered if any made it past the lid hole. The current pulled him faster toward a narrow stretch where the river curved around a cluster of low hanging brush. People along the shoreline began to notice.

A waitress carrying cocktails froze mid-step. Someone on the dock stood up. A tourist whispered, “He’s in the wrong spot.”

Walter attempted to paddle with one hand, getting nowhere. He pulled off a Croc to use as a makeshift oar. It did nothing. Now he was spinning. Slowly at first, then faster. The tube clipped a warning buoy and ricocheted sideways toward some underbrush.

That’s when a whistle blew. Every head turned. And standing atop the Eastbank platform was Stonehouse 3’s own Barrett Westbrook. Sunglasses, tank top, and practice rope dangling around his shoulders like a gunslinger holster.

He strutted down the platform steps and onto a rescue skiff while tourists gathered along the railing to watch.

Walter’s tube spun again. “My chicken bucket!” he yelled.

Skip, Barrett’s number two, glided the skiff into place. Barrett twirled the rope once. Twice. A completely unnecessary third time and then launched it. The line whipped through the air in a perfect arc before snapping tight around a handle on Walter’s tube.

The crowd erupted.

Walter’s tube stopped spiraling. Barrett gave the rope a tug and anchored him to the skiff, then coasted to the calm shoreline.

“Easy now,” he called. “Eastbank bites hard after lunch, hombre.”

The dockside crowd applauded as Barrett jumped ashore and offered a hand to Walter.

He looked up in awe. A single wet chicken skin fell off his shorts as he got up. “You saved my life.”

“We throw line,” Barrett said. “Around here… it’s the same thing.”

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—Ricky C.

The Line Throwers shuffled into the Stonehouse 3 briefing room, the sound of folding chairs scraping across the floor competed with the squeaking of wet sandals. The cinderblock walls were covered with county rescue maps, sun-bleached current charts, and framed photographs of legendary saves stretching back nearly forty years. Several staffers were unwrapping breakfast burritos.

“Now listen up,” the sarge said in a tone that drew all eyes. “I need this to be known. You did a hell of a job last week.”

The group erupted in cheers and whoops.

He banged a miniature oar on the podium. “Yes! That’s right. Great week, and I wanna keep it that way. I want everyone to remain focused. We have one job and one job only. What is that?”

“Safe shores, clean throws,” the group said in unison.

“That’s right. Riverborn County is thriving. We’re making all the charts for top places to visit. People wanna be on that river, but they wanna be on that river and safe. We got tourists floating through Restaurant Row for brunch. Paddleboards clogging the docking lanes. Bachelorette parties drifting past the marina, screaming country songs. Folks hop in tubes upriver and end up downtown three margaritas later. That river runs through this whole county. Shops, hotels, bars, rentals. Riverborn goes where that current goes. So let’s keep it that way.”

The unit answered with a series of sharp whistles and scattered applause.

“Now assignments haven’t changed. I’ll say this, Barrett, no more reports coming in about you hotdogging it out there.”

Barrett grinned. “The people demand a show.”

“The people do not demand a show. The people demand being safe while traversing the river. No more flair.”

Barrett high-fived a few supporters.

“Rein it in, now, I’m serious. You throw line better than anybody. You’re good, you’re damn good, that’s why you’re on Eastbank bend. That’s why you’re on Stonehouse 3. That’s why Stonehouse 3 keeps the Eastbank bend because we have the top talent. You’re the head lifeguard and Harbor Marshal. We need you. But tone it back. You make good throws, clean throws, but you don’t need to add all the theatrics. If a guy comes downstream with his Crocs a wiggling heading for the underbrush on an inner tube, grab him, center him, and send him on his way. That’s it. You don’t need to make a production out of it. Loopdeloops. Back hands. Behind the back tosses. Just clean throws.” Sarge swung the oar to his shoulder. “Safety. We watch each other’s backs out there. Folks spend good money to drift through this county. Riverfront condos, bait shops, rooftop bars, mechanical bulls. Doesn’t matter if they’re sipping $18 cocktails downtown or shotgunin’ beers upriver in a tractor tire. Once they hit that current, they’re our responsibility.”

A few veterans pounded the table while Barrett spun a practice rope overhead. “Stonehouse slings!” somebody yelled from the back.

Sarge cleared his throat. “Just wanna make a few quick acknowledgements. Rebecca and Rochelle, those double line catches on that wayward pontoon. Well done, ladies. That made it up the chain quick.”

The group applauded. Rebecca and Rochelle stood and acknowledged them.

“Skip. Outstanding redirect work near Ferry Cut. Family of six came through tangled like kielbasa links. Could’ve been ugly.”

More applause followed.

“Lastly, Rodger. Quick response on that drifter trying to settle at the hibachi place. Textbook work.”

The sarge raised his whistle and gave it a soft blow. “Alright. To your post, Stonehouse 3. Rivers already moving. Clean throws on three. One, two, three.”

“Clean throws!”

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—Ricky C.

In a place where being a lifeguard meant more than just a summer job.
This is The Line Throwers of Riverborn County.

Line Throwers have it all. Admiration, prestige, killer tans. The selection process was as rigorous as Navy SEAL training, only wetter and with less clothes.

To Johnny, being a Line Thrower meant everything. But it wasn’t going to come easy. Especially for someone from his side of the creek.

Head Lifeguard: “You think you could become a Line Thrower just because your granddaddy was? You couldn’t polish a buoy with two hands and a dropped anchor, skink.”

From the creators of Wet Leave Limos and Plight of the Brown Belts, one boy risks everything.

Grace: “I don’t know why it’s even that important to you, Johnny. We need lifeguards right here, in our trailer park pool.”

Johnny: “You don’t get it, Grace. And I don’t know if you ever will.”

Grace: “Johnny, wait.”

This summer the current was about to change. Johnny wasn’t just chasing respect, he was chasing his legacy.

Head Lifeguard: “Again. Again! Clear that channel, plebe.”

Johnny: “I’m trying to prove I’m more than just a skink from the trailer park.”

Wise Old Guy: “That river don’t know your name. It don’t know your bloodline. That river only cares if you can throw.”

Bystander: “Send the line Johnny! That canoe’s driftin!”

Failure wasn’t an option. For this county… there are no second throws.

Wise Old Guy: “Say what you want about where he’s from, that boy’s got river instincts.”

This wasn’t just about lifeguarding anymore.

(Rapid cuts)
Whistles blowing
Everyone watching the current
Johnny dives heroically off a pontoon boat
A kayak flipping in slow motion
An old woman cheers

Head Lifeguard: “So what, he saved him. Still smells like discount sunblock.”

Line Throwers of Riverborn County—coming soon.

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— Ricky C.

*thanks to my neighbor Candy for providing the voiceover for Grace.

“I can’t help it, sir,” the squire said. “This wig is itchy.”

“Quit your bellyaching. You ruined the entire walk over with your whining, and I already gave you a pass on the false teeth.”

“I was getting splinters.”

Dale shook his head. “I swear I’ve seen a stronger constitution on a paper spittoon.”

A horse and cart came clomping by, they ducked for cover. Dale popped back up without his wig, which got caught on a branch.

The squire resurfaced. “Sir, your wig.”

Dale took it back angrily, put it on backwards, and stood for a moment sensing something was off. Then straightened it. He watched as the last of Robin Hood’s men left the bar.

“Alright, squire. Now’s our chance.”

They emerged from the bushes, swiping leaves and debris from their minstrel clothes, and walked toward the tavern.

“Sir,” the squire said, “I’m just not sure why we need to disguise ourselves as performers. We’re not that well known here, and I don’t even know how to play the lute.”

“Certainly not you, but the legend of Dale has been sung in these woods for years now. Remember that fifth runner-up in last fall’s archery competition. Would have been a first if that crow hadn’t begun spatting off. We wear the disguises, get the location of Sherwood Forest, and report it to the king. We’ll collect our bounty and be restored as the rightful heroes of this village. Well, me at least. You’ll remain a squire, but with better clothes.”

They entered the tavern.

“Good day,” Dale announced.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man with a limp.

“Good day,” Dale said.

“Good day,” the squire echoed.

“Good day,” said a man in an eyepatch.

“Good day,” Dale said. He turned to the squire and whispered, “Is this a tavern or an infirmary?” He edged his way over toward the fire. “We’re just a couple of entertainers in search of an audience.”

“Normal regular entertainers,” the squire said.

“If I may regale you with one of our latest poems,” Dale said. He pulled a piece of parchment from his purple and teal vest and swiped a few strands of wig hair off his face. Then cleared his throat:

The rancid fish roasted on the spit.
A feral possum eyed a juicy bit.

A smell so foul it could start a fire,
But not any worse than the smell of a squire.

Laughter burst out from the tavern. Dale took a slight bow, the wig almost flopping off. He slid it back in place, then they sidled up to the bar.

A large man with a beard cracked his neck beside him. “Great poem, Dale.”

“I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” Dale said. “I’m Gus. A minstrel. We’ve been looking for an audience. I hear the Merry Men enjoy some entertainment. Might I—”

The barkeep slid two ales down the counter. “Your usual, Dale?”

Dale stared at the cup, then picked it up and drank.

The squire leaned toward him. “Sir, I think our cover may be blown.”

Dale exhaled loudly. “I told you to wear the false teeth, you imbecile.”

Dale turned slowly. In the far corner, Robin Hood sat at a table with three men, all laughing. He glanced over at Dale with a pleasant expression, then went back to his conversation.

“We’re leaving,” Dale said.

“But, sir, the location.”

“Now.”

The squire chugged his drink and followed Dale outside. Dale ripped the vest off, yanked the wig from his head, and threw it into a water trough. It floated.”

“Same time next week?” the squire asked.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

If you’re interested in the first adventure of Dale and the squire, they can be found here:

“Yes, I’m sorry, sir. I think I just spotted Robin Hood entering the tavern.” The squire pulled a match from a small satchel attached to his belt. He attempted to spark it against the post beside him. The match skipped twice.

“Just give me that, you buffoon.” Dale yanked the match from the squire’s hand, spun him by the shoulder, and struck it cleanly against the back of his tunic. He lit a hand-rolled cigarette, took a long puff, and watched the smoke drift. Then he nocked an arrow, read the wind, and sent it clear over the tavern roof and into the forest.

“Spotted Robin Hood,” Dale said, mocking the squire’s voice. “Yeah, you and half the village. Oh, Robin Hood. He’s such a charmer. You know, I was the first to wear poulaines with tights. And I’ve got the real pointy ones too, you could pick a lock with these shoes.”

“I can recall you trying, sir.”

Dale spat a stream of tobacco into the watering trough beside him. A horse tied to the post gave him an awkward eye.

“Robin Hood starts wearing them, hands out a few coins and trinkets to the local dullards and now everyone’s lining up at the tannery to get a pair.”

The squire squinted as a group entered the tavern. “That had to have been Robin Hood. Friar Tuck just went inside.”

Dale ignored him. “I’m the better archer. That’s well known. I could plink a corn kernel set on a fence post with a quart of beer in my belly and the sniffles.” He set another arrow, took aim at a wagon wheel in the center of the square, and fired. It flew flat, missed the spokes, and landed in the dirt. “Damn! Mosquito deflected it.”

“Assuredly, sir,” the squire said. “If we were going to hatch this plan, I’d say our window is getting shorter. Might I suggest we move over to the tavern?”

They slipped around the side of the building toward the back. A mass of cheers rang out from inside. Glasses clinking, stringed instruments picking up.

As they crept, Dale whispered, “You hear that? Likely paying the tosspot’s bar tabs. Takes from the rich and gives to the poor, my hindquarters.”

“Does he really pay bar bills?” the squire asked.

“Quiet. This is it.”

They reached the back of the tavern where a horse stood tied to a post. “Of course his horse is white. How typical. Let’s get this beast loose. See how he fares without it.”

“Do you think you can untie the knot, sir? I think it’s a clove hitch.”

Dale looked at him. “Does Little John have bad breath?”

“I can’t say. He’s so tall, I doubt breath can carry that far.”

“Just shut up and keep watch.”

Dale struggled with the knot. Yanking and fumbling. He began to sweat. A roar went up from inside, then voices spilled toward the front door.

“I think now is a good time, sir,” the squire said.

Dale pulled his knife and cut the rope. “Move,” he said to the horse. The horse stood. Dale waved and clapped his hands. “Shoo you oaf.” The horse blinked.

“Go on,” the squire whispered. “Shoo. Shoo.”

The horse sneezed in Dale’s face.

“Hey!” a voice called from the side of the tavern. “What are you two doing?”

They both panicked and took off. Dale’s extra pointy shoes caught a root, and he crashed into the squire. They hit the ground together. Dale’s bow snapped under him.

He looked down. “You’re paying for that.”

Consider subscribing. Dale wouldn’t.

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See you soon,

—Ricky C.

Volcanic Ash looked down at his leadership manual. It was sourced from the human world, but had solid principles that most top executives swore by:

Chapter 1 Summary - How to Nail the Intro - C.A.N.S.

• Connect: share something about the passage of time

• Anecdote: humanize with a story or hobby (use humor if setting permits)

• Nurture: provide calming validation

• Suggestion: offer steps for improvement (use a soft knife)

He shut the manual. This was the fifth consecutive year leading the event, yet he still felt some nerves.

As everyone found their seats, the lights dimmed slightly. Volcanic Ash self-illuminated, just enough to draw more eyes. “Showtime,” he whispered to himself, then flicked on his headset mic.

“Welcome everyone to the 2026 Supervillain Mid-Career Retirement Seminar.”

The applause was underwhelming. Volcanic Ash spun and launched a glob of scalding lava above the audience’s heads. Some of their hair singed.

The glob tore through the back wall.

An older couple from Iowa, returning to their room for their matching fanny packs, peered through the opening. A cyborg wolf in the back row turned and growled. They moved as fast as their New Balances and sock sandals could take them.

Back up front, Volcanic Ash grinned, feeling some nerves subside.

“As I said, welcome everyone.” The reception in the Motel 6 conference room warmed. “That’s better.”

“So,” Volcanic Ash continued, “I don’t know about you all, but I cannot believe it’s almost May. The year’s been flying by. Springtime. I’m a huge swimmer—not exactly a hot tub guy, for redundant reasons. I’ve got an Olympic-sized lap pool at home, and I tell you, when they removed the cover, the water level was lower than Camel Related Man’s IQ.”

A few respectful chuckles came from the crowd.

Camel Related Man spurted a wad of acid spit towards the front. It began melting through the carpet—which technically had been through worse.

Volcanic Ash waved his hands innocently. “I joke, Camel. You know we love you.”

“Before we move through the agenda, I just want to say, and I mean this from the bottom of my rubble, the fact that you’re here, that you’re thinking ahead, taking your mid-career seriously enough to plan? Well, that’s everything. You should all be proud and deserve a round of applause.”

Minimal followed, until Volcanic Ash began forming another lava glob.

“So, just a quick housekeeping note. Out of forty-six attendees last year, we only had eleven fill out the survey. I’m not calling anyone out, but feedback helps us improve. In theory anyway. It takes just three minutes and means a lot. If you need help with writing implements, I’m looking at you, the wormy fella in a fedora, just flag down an intern. That’s all.”

Volcanic Ash clicked to the next slide. “Alright. Breakout sessions are divided by room.”

He read off the screen:

He was interrupted by Yellowing Conch from the front row. “The Motel 6 doesn’t have an Ambassador Room.”

“Damn it, Conch,” Ash said. “We put a placard outside the front door of each entrance.”

Yellowing Conch sat back down, his massive wet tongue hit the floor.

Volcanic Ash glanced down at his lanyard. It still read 2028. He made a mental note to eviscerate his latest assistant.

“One more thing, please be respectful of other guests on your way to the breakouts. We don’t need another Toledo.”

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—Ricky C.

Chester sat on the carpet. Dog toy in mouth. Diligently awaiting the first official day of Got Bats.

“Well, Chester,” said Larry. “Seven months of planning has led to this. We’ve advertised. We’ve networked. Phone lines are ready to be flipped on. Time to solve the good people of southern Missouri’s bat problems.”

Chester licked his toenail for posterity.

Larry plugged in a long wire to connect the hotline. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang.

Larry jumped off his stool. “This is it, Chester.”

He picked up the phone. “Hello, Got Bats. This is Larry speaking.”

An elderly voice came through the speaker. “Yes, Larry. Oh thank God you picked up. I’ve got bat problems.”

“Not to worry, ma’am. That’s what we’re here for. What kind of trouble are you having?” Larry said, sliding a notebook from his messenger bag.

“Oh, they’re everywhere, Larry. All over my house. The attic, my cupboards.”

“Your cupboards?”

“Everywhere. I’ve caught a few with those snap traps, but I still see their droppings.”

“You caught a bat with a snap trap?”

“Yes, I baited it with cheese and peanut butter like they say.”

“Ma’am, are you talking about mice? Do you have a mice problem?”

“Bats mice. What are you trying to prove? They’re both rodents.”

“Ma’am I apologize, we’re set up for bat control issues. You’ll have to call an exterminator.”

“Ah, help me, Larry. I see one now. It’s chasing my cat. Oh, it’s in my hair.”

Larry hung up and sighed. “False alarm, Chester. Just a prankster getting their jollies in.”

The phone rang again.

“Hello Got Bats. Larry speaking.”

The same elderly voice came through. “You’re not gonna believe this, Margaret. I just pranked that Got Bats fella. Anyway, I’ll tell you about it over bridge. Call me back if you get a chance.”

“Ma’am, this is Larry again from Got Bats. I think you accidentally called us.”

“Oh. Well thank God, Larry. The bat mice have begun dumping out all of my cereal boxes. I don’t know how I’ll cross into the kitchen without getting my socks dirty. The horror. The crunch. The crumbs.”

He cut her off and let out another sigh. “Don’t worry, Chester. Just a bit of a rocky start.”

Three hours passed. Chester finished a bone he’d been gnawing on. Shards were spread throughout the carpet. He began working on one of Larry’s shoes.

The phone rang.

“Got Bats. Larry here. How may we be of service?”

“Help, help there’s a duck on my back!”

“A duck?”

“Yes, its beak is wet. Oh, no. Plea—”

Larry hung up. “This is getting ridiculous.”

Another ring.

“Yes, Got Bats. Please tell me you’ve got a bat problem.”

“Ever since I moved to Gotham City, there’s been nothing but problems.”

Larry hung up and stared at the receiver.

“Maybe we just should have done that fishing podcast we talked about.”

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Gillman took a job at the cafe. It had been interesting.

Gillman entered the back office, where the manager, Mr. Wand, was waiting. Wand was a kind man. A bit of a boring optimist, who projected a sense that velcro shoes were a staple for the weekends. Still, there weren’t many offering positions to middle-aged swamp creatures with humidity requirements.

“Gillman, welcome. May I call you Gill?” Mr. Wand stood and shut the door behind them—not waiting for a response to the informality. He offered a chair. “How is everything going? Feel like you’re adjusting well?”

Gillman sat. There was a squish. “No complaints.”

“Good good. Here’s the scoop. I don’t want to take up much of your time. The team loves ya. They really do. It’s just.”

Gillman’s tongue began to pulse, eyes darting around the room following a fly. Wand attempted to steer him back with his head.

“It’s just that,” Wand said, regaining eye contact. “There’s been some comments.”

“Comments?”

“Anonymous. We have a suggestions box. I’m a bit old school in that way.” Wand grabbed a stack of cards from his desk and set his reading glasses on his nose. “Let’s see. Pushes slime infused drinks too aggressively.”

“People love slime,” Gillman said.

“Perhaps. Eating flies in front of customers.” Wand looked up from his glasses. “We’ve already seen that trend here today. What else? Smells like a sewer. That one, I actually wrote.”

Gillman let out a sigh.

“I know, I know, Gill. Swamp creatures have different hygiene regimens. Here’s the deal. I brought you on thinking that we’d be the first and only Dutch Bros with a real cryptid. And trust me, we saw an initial spike in interest that will get us through the post-holiday financial tightening.”

“Which holiday?”

“Flag Day. Arboretum. Whatever. Point is, you started off strong. But reality has set in and either you’ve gotta tighten it up or maybe we try you on drive through.”

Gillman burst to his feet. “This is outrageous.” He smacked the fly mid-air and swallowed it down.

Wand waited.

“If you work drive-through, I’ll give you a $5 weekly bonus and let you stay after hours to catch as many mice as you’d like.”

“Deal.”

Gillman shook his hand. There was a squelch. His first promotion.

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The year is 1997. Impulse and indecision brought us to this moment. Everyone had rehearsed their lines on the drive over. My brother, short-tempered and eleven, was to say nothing. I was to act innocent.

This was a return.

The family approached the red-counter. A tired woman in a vest slid off her stool. Behind her sat a rusted wire shopping cart, littered with open box dishes, bent nerf arrows, and a popcorn maker. They were negotiation casualties, despite her years of training. You can’t win them all.

Vest lady: How may I help you?

Mom: Yes, I’d like to return this.

Vest lady: Do you have your receipt?

Mom: I do.

She removed the paper from a file folder and slid it across the counter. We always kept receipts.

Vest lady: Okay, so what seems to be the problem?

Mom: We no longer need it.

Vest lady: You no longer need it?

Mom: That’s correct.

Vest lady: That’s a tad unusual, don’t you think?

Mom: You know how it is, a quick purchase. Realized ours was still fine. So I’m bringing it back.

Vest lady: I don’t actually.

She turned the box over, inspecting the corners.

Vest lady: Oh, it looks like the seal is broken on this tape. Did you open it?

Mom: I think my husband might have opened it. But we no longer need it.

Vest lady: Well that changes the calculus a little bit. Did you try it? Does it work?

She opened the box now, pulling the contents onto the operating table.

Mom: No, he didn’t.

Vest lady: There’s crumbs in it.

Mom: Those are factory crumbs probably.

Vest lady: Factory crumbs? I’ve seen plastic shards in a unit like this, but these are food particles.

All of us sweating now.

Vest lady: Listen, ma’am. I’ve seen a lot of toasters come and go. Let me pose a theory. You purchased this toaster. Perhaps you tried it. Maybe your husband bought one too. Miscommunication on your end. Maybe you liked the speed on the other one. But this is Kmart, okay. We have a certain reputation of honesty and transparency. This has been used. We’re not in the business of letting you test-drive electronics, then pawning them off onto other buyers. Now might I suggest you remove this from my counter and grab a slice of Little Cesar’s on the way out.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I was talking to a squid. He was feeling down, mostly about his name.

“I mean what is a squid anyway?” he said.

“Well… you sort of are,” I replied.

“Squid. It’s one sound. Like burp. It’s gross.”

“I think it’s kind of cool. Fun to say. Fun to read.”

“Please, what do you know? Kids don’t even recognize me. Always thinking I’m an octopus.”

He slid a shrimp across the table. “Any ideas? You’re the creative type. Help me out here.”

“What about a name change? Lean into the ten arms. Decapus, maybe?”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

My golf comedy Bluecut Rills is out today.

It’s about two brothers trying to save a public golf course from a developer with a bad attitude and poor taste in blazers.

If you like Caddyshack or are just a fan of golf hijinks set in small mountain towns (I know, a rather eclectic taste), here’s the link:

Amazon - Bluecut Rills

Minks, questionable swamp-adjacent golf conditions, fog machines. It’s got it all.

Thanks for reading.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I’ve always loved oblivious comedic villains—Judge Smails in Caddyshack, Tony Perkins in Heavyweights. Fred was my attempt to create one.

Here’s a scene from the first chapter where he shares his vision.

Fred Falloon, local real estate developer and guardian of unchecked sprawl, sat perched on a barstool that looked like it had been stolen from a saloon-themed amusement park. His pinky ring clinked against the rim of his glass as he swirled a double Scotch. He wore a white blazer with embroidered flamingos flying skyward, as if they were trying to escape his poor taste.

The nicest hotel in Bluecut Rills promised “rustic refinement” and mostly delivered, right up until you found The Water Hazard, the dive bar tacked onto its backside. It was quiet, private, and had the sort of wear-and-tear that kept people with networking agendas away. Maybe that’s why Fred liked it, though he’d never admit he was a regular.

He sniffed. “Smells like Windex and wet naps in here. You must have a date.”

The bartender, a part-time wedding DJ named Dennis who insisted on being called Denali, as confirmed by his Sharpie-marked name tag, just nodded. Experience taught him that Fred’s comments were rarely meant for anyone but himself.

“Denali, let me ask you something. You ever play golf?”

Denali was polishing a martini glass with a threadbare rag, stained and frayed from years behind the bar. “I work here, man. What do you think?”

“Exactly,” Fred said, pointing a knuckle at him. “Exactly. You’re not burdened by the lies of the game. You don’t pretend that walking five miles in ugly pants chasing a tiny ball makes you better than anyone else. That’s real freedom.”

He took a long sip, grimaced, and continued. “Me though? I’m a prisoner to it. Because golf, golf is how you get to the soul of a man. You can’t lie on a scorecard. Well, you can, but it’s a spiritual lie. And I don’t trust spiritual liars.”

Fred shifted on his stool and looked past Denali. He stared through the bar’s smeared window at the town beyond. Its flickering neon signs, the weathered shingle roofs, the outline of Bluecut Rills Golf Club, just past the tree line. A smug grin crept across his face. He could practically feel his bank account growing.

“You know the thing about those Wicksell boys?” Fred said. “They’re like rust. Not dangerous right away. But leave ‘em alone long enough, and they’ll ruin good metal. That real estate is a gold mine, and those turds are squandering it.”

He swirled his drink and scoffed. “It was supposed to be my year. Senior year. All the scouts were watching me. Then he shows up as a freshman, and breaks every damn record I set before my spikes were even dry. I was the name at that school. Then Knut saunters in, swing like a poet, attitude like a happy hour meatball. Please. I’ve seen better motions in a toddler’s birthday piñata line.”

He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “I had to grind for everything. He breezed through, smug and naturally better at the one thing I cared about.”

Fred took another sip, then clinked the glass suggestively toward Denali. After a few awkward moments between the two men staring at each other, Denali obliged with a top-off.

“Knut thinks he’s some kind of folk hero, walking around barefoot quoting bumper stickers and Fred Flintstone—next thing you know, he’ll be pedaling a giant stone wheel. And Arnie? Come on. That man probably tries to itemize paperclips. He’s a spreadsheet away from a nervous breakdown.”

He jabbed his thumb again. “I’ve got vision. Plans. Capital. Connections. I know how to take something broken and make it profitable. That’s what separates me from those two. I don’t get sentimental. I succeed. End of story.”

“Sure,” Denali said, in a way that meant nothing at all.

Fred kept going. “I mean, take a ride by the course sometime. You should see it.”

He hesitated, trying to picture how someone like Denali lived. Did they have cars? A kitchen? “Do people with name tags even get days off?”

Denali broke into a yawn that could also have been the beginning of a response, but was waved away by Fred.

“Eh, never mind. It’s a mud patch with flagsticks. I could have a five-diamond resort built on that land in six months. Rooftop hot tubs. Automated cocktail carts. No tipping. No talking. And of course cucumber towel service.”

He paused, waiting for affirmation. Denali shrugged.

Fred continued a while longer, fantasizing out loud about fairway condos and his name etched in stone above the clubhouse door. After draining his cup, he stood and flipped a $25 poker chip in Denali’s direction.

“In the biz, we call that a little seed money, dippy,” he said.

Denali watched the chip roll and tumble off the bar top. There wasn’t a casino within 50 miles of town. Unwilling to risk a further conversation with Fred Falloon, he went back to drying glasses.

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So that’s Fred. He gets worse.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Hank - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Head Groundskeeper
Louie - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Mechanic

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The moonlight washed the course in a soft glow. Caught between seasons, the air had turned cool. Crickets hummed steadily until a walkie crackled through the quiet.

“Mountain Clam, this is Barnacle. I’ve got three in my sights. Over,” Louie called into the radio. He inched forward on his stomach to get a better position through a thicket of chokecherry.

“Do not engage, still approaching from the East,” Hank said. “Also, what is this Barnacle claptrap? We agreed on Mop for you. How many times can I say, ‘no name changes mid-operative?’ Stick to the script. Over.”

“Relax, compadre. If I’ve learned one thing about geese, it’s that there is no script.”

Hank let out a low growl and clicked the receiver. “I should have requested overtime for tonight.”

“We’re getting paid for this?” Louie said.

Hank shook his head as he slipped his three-wheeled maintenance cart into neutral, cutting the engine noise while creeping slowly down the steep hill of the 16th Hole.

Tonight’s mission was to disrupt the family of geese who’d taken a liking to the greenside bunker of the long par-3. Hank had spent one too many mornings hosing down his rubber boots following a clash between bunker duty and the geese treating the sand trap like their personal porta-john.

Hank pulled over, then moved to the utility bed of the cart. He lowered the hatch and quietly lugged a dark box off the back. It had the shape of a small treasure chest, fitted with metal handles. A circular window the size of a quarter was positioned on top.

He clicked his radio, staring at two geese who popped their heads up from the bunker but appeared to fall back asleep. He whispered, “Have you tested this contraption?”

The walkie crackled. “Does a skunk test its spray? Does a porcupine question the point of its quills? It works.”

“Alright. Go over it again then.”

Louie sat upright in the bush, peering over the leaves. “It’s simple. You position the device near the top of the bunker. When clear, I’ll activate the porch pirate bait. It’ll spring, disorienting them in a cloud of fog. A window sensor picks up the haze, triggering the tent launch, carefully capturing them inside. Tomorrow, in your truck, we relocate the crew to Monarch Ridge, where they’ll have plush fairways and fluffy bunkers for nesting.”

Hank sighed. “And why didn’t we just set the device during the day so I could get some sleep?”

A pause.

Hank clicked the receiver. “Mop… Mop, you read me?” He bent his head around the cart to see if the geese moved. They didn’t stir. Hank sighed again. “What the hell did he say?” He pressed the walkie. “Barnucle, do you copy?”

“Sorry. Was opening a beef skinny with my teeth. That’s a no-go on daytime deployment. Scared of the dark. And it’s Barnacle.”

“You know most courses just use fake wolves or border collies. But alright. Positioning now.” Hank approached the lip of the bunker from an army crawl, dragging the device as he went. Upon reaching the crest, he settled it into position—the latch on the spring door facing toward the sand. “Positioned,” Hank whispered.

Fog from the nearby water hazard crept low across the green as Hank began to slink away.

Click. Whirr. BOOM.

A burst of compressed blue dye erupted from the device like a gender reveal gone wrong.

Hank disappeared into the plume, coughing.

The tent launched, clearing the bunker with the veracity of a t-shirt cannon and landing in the pond. The irrigation intake began making a heavy suck sound, slurping up the tent into the abyss.

One goose stood up, then re-nestled back in the bunker.

“Come in, Mountain Clam. Status of containment,” Louie said.

Hank wiped a hand across his cheek and spat blue to the grass, then engaged the radio. “Tell me the haze sensor wasn’t wired to the pirate bait.”

“Huh,” Louie said. “Come to think of it, it might have been.”

The irrigation line kept chugging before the clog ceased operations.

“Was that my good fishing net in there?” Hank said. “Thought you used a tent.”

“You can rest easy,” Louie said cheerfully. “Just onion bags I stitched together.”

Hank coughed and stared into the dark. “Skunks and quills.”

He pressed the radio button. “Let’s get back to the shed. I need your eyewash and a retirement plan.”

“Aye-aye,” Louie replied.

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See you soon,

— Ricky C.

Every day I’m told how to live better, sleep deeper, and eat differently. My great-grandma made it to 95 with barely any instructions.

Nobody ever told her a life hack. She didn’t know that the first drink of the day should not be coffee. I’m confident she never counted a step: “7,000 are required to cut heart disease by 30%.” She never switched to almond butter because technically peanut butter is a legume, which means it will slowly detonate your spleen.

When I think about her, there are a few things that stand out. She was married to a man named Raymond. I don’t know how they met. The standards for swiping right back then were living on the same street and whether the man could raise a barn. I’ve seen old pictures of Poppa Ray, as we called him. He didn’t look like much of a barn raiser, but it’s hard to spot muscles under long-sleeved button-ups—the only attire of the time. His brown slacks appeared to have a weight to them, so I’m sure his squat numbers were respectable.

I hope they were in love, though I remember my mom saying Poppa Ray wasn’t that nice to her. I can’t speculate what that meant. Perhaps he was rather cold, or perhaps he never took her to Chili’s on its grand opening. I’m not here to sully the man’s name, it’s not the point, what I’m saying is she lasted a long time.

Her house was filled with cuckoo clocks, and she’d watch daytime tabloid TV, then recount the insights she learned back to us. I can recall her telling the neighbor’s daughter not to marry a man who checks your underpants. It wasn’t sound logic, but she spoke. Isn’t that enough to suggest she cared? She owned a housecoat that she wore all year round. It had a quilted pattern and mustard color that thrived during sloppy barbecues.

Let’s walk through her normal day, in terms of information load. She’d awake to the coordinated blare of thirty-seven cuckoos manufactured in the Black Forest region of Germany. Maybe there would be a newspaper in her house, assuming old Ray allowed such progressive behavior as literacy.

When the husbands went off to work, she might have phoned another housewife, to collectively fantasize about what the interior of Chili’s was like. She probably sat on the porch to peel potatoes and work on a pie of unusual fruit origin. Rhubarb or some other vaguely vegetable root plant. Parsnip loaf with sprig of bland. All in, maybe she encountered five to ten messages.

My morning begins with the vibration of my phone, synced to my watch. I slap at the off button on both screens. Eventually one registers, usually the snooze, meaning the whole exercise will occur again in about eight minutes. From there, I scroll through my phone with shame. Making rounds between email, social media, and package deliveries.

As I make my coffee, I’ll watch a YouTube short—or three. I try to skip the ad by closing the app. Some days it works and I feel like I’ve stolen something. A similar cycle continues throughout the day, to a total approaching the thousands. If I had to guess, probably a level that could give the peanut a real run for rupturing spleens.

She made it to 95 and survived Poppa Ray. I’m still deciding about the efficacy of cold showers and safest non-legume spread.

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

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Innovation

I don’t like to complain, and I appreciate all the solid work they’ve done over at Apple with the earbuds.

But they still haven’t solved taking your shirt off without losing one.

Household Issues

I haven’t read many divorce decrees, but I’ve got to believe more than a few say: kept putting the cinnamon right next to the turmeric.

I don’t like cutting open a pepper, because once you do, the clock starts.

So instead, I leave it untouched until it goes bad and I end up throwing the entire thing away.

I guess I prefer a full, dignified waste.

Meetings

Only two people need to be in a meeting.

Kenneth and like, Stephanie.

The rest of us are on mute going, why didn’t Ken just call Stephanie?

But there we all sit. On camera. Reading our emails. Hoping no one mentions our name.

Ordering Out

Everyone has jobs in their family. Mine is ordering out.

It’s fine, but when I’m doing it, my wife takes a lot of liberties with my interaction and the restaurant. I think she believes these people are just waiting around for us to call and workshop the menu.

It usually goes like this:

Me: I’m going for bagels. What kind would you like?

Wife: Ask them which ones are fresh and call me.

Me: No problem. I’m sure the line of twelve people and overwhelmed cashiers won’t mind.

Or like this customized request, when calling in an order for Mexican food:

Me: Hello, yes, I’d like to order a chicken chimichanga.

Restaurant: Okay.

Me: But could you make sure there is enough chicken in this one? Last time, my wife said it was a bit thin.

Restaurant: You want double chicken?

Me: Nope. Nope. Just the standard allotted chicken, entitled by the order.

A pause. Some screen tapping.

Restaurant: Okay.

Me (taking a deep breath): I’d also like to replace red beans with black beans.

Restaurant (hung up).

Are you thirsty?

We live in the most hydrated society in human history, and yet we’ve decided tap water is socially unacceptable.

You can’t give someone a glass of water. Every home now needs bottled water on hand, just in case a guest forgets the five liquids they brought with them in the car.

You hand them a glass, they’ll look at you like it’s 1840 and you’re about to poison them with pond sludge drawn from a bucket.

The good news is no one’s dehydrated. Just suspicious.

Parents Vacation

My parents still vacation like it’s the 1990s.

They don’t book hotels. They just drive somewhere and try to find one when they get there. No reservation. Just relying on road ads and hope.

They do use GPS, but only at the very end. They’ll turn it on once they’re close.

How they determine they’re close is still a mystery to me.

They pack one suitcase. Not each. One. For a full week. Somehow it contains everything they need, plus room to bring something back.

When it’s time to eat, they don’t research restaurants. They’ll either ask the front desk or just walk outside and see what’s nearby. Shockingly, whatever is closest always has the best chicken parm they’ve ever eaten.

On paper, this should stress them out. I lose sleep just hearing about it—especially when they pull out the laminated map.

And yet, big picture, they have fun.

All while I’m reading reviews for rest stops.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

I’m trying to get better at wasting time. Everything is optimized.

Why go to the store when amazon can bring it?

You’re going to roll the dice on the 4.1 rated restaurant when there is a 4.6 a block away?

Have two friends check a text message to confirm I have it properly worded before sending it to the third? Alright, I may have over-embellished on having three friends, but you get the point.

I lose something when I try to optimize everything. My brain feels weaker, less tolerant. More demanding of perfection. Less patient. I used to be a great time waster. I could sit somewhere without a podcast rolling through my brain, or reading a life hack to improve things. I didn’t have to be entertained. I was okay. Now I struggle with the tedious burden of walking up a flight of stairs without checking my phone.

So I’ve been taking small steps. Sitting through the intro to my favorite show. Gasp.

Not rushing away from my neighbor while she’s giving me directions, actually trying to listen, despite the fact that GPS has been around for 20 years now.

When driving home I’ll occasionally take the less direct route. Getting me home 2 and half minutes later than normal. Gasp, again.

What’s been the result? Still early, but if I had to guess, my life is 3% less optimized, but notably less pressured.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

My local YMCA started a roller hockey league.
I signed up to create a Michael Jackson–themed team.
We’re called The Jackson Five Hole.

Still waiting on my first teammate.

Pastimes

I’ve been very busy lately. My favorite pastime has been taking up a lot of energy. Checking to see if my stuff that I don’t need was delivered.

I’ve become quite good at it too. Sometimes they’ll be like, “Expected tomorrow.”

I’ll check the origin. From Albuquerque? What kind of truck are you using? A time machine? It’s not even in transit yet. Check a map before you get cocky with the tracker.

Dueling intros

Man 1: I’m Jim, by the way.

Man 2: I’m Ralph, by the trash can.

New Job

I got a new job.
Posting “Who’s here in 2026?” on old YouTube videos.

It doesn’t pay well, but the hours are confusing. Which I like.

Tables

Being married is great.

Before that, I could sit down at any restaurant table, eat a meal, and leave perfectly happy.

I didn’t even realize I was constantly being seated at unacceptable tables.

Find Things

I’ve never found a thing my wife has asked me to look for. Not once.

Wife: “Can you grab my navy sweater with the white stripes?”

I go to the closet, open the door, and without fail it will be filled with orange dresses. It won’t even be close.

Me: “I don’t see it.”

Wife: “Our bedroom closet.”

Me: “Do we have another bedroom?”

Anything my wife can’t find is lost. It’s never actually lost, but she abandons hope immediately. And everything tends to disappear in the same spot—outside the car. I think she believes that her pockets are cut at this odd angle, or that she moves so violently exiting a vehicle it creates some odd vacuum whereby keys, chapsticks, sunglasses are just launched into an unrecognizable dimension.

The car isn’t transportation. It’s a portal.

It’s either that or I’ve thrown it away. For some reason, I’m accused of a sheer inability to pick up recycling or take out the trash without also scooping up her earbuds and sending them straight to a landfill.

And I get it, when I see a small valuable object near a box, my instincts kick in. I just want to sweep it in and bury it. It’s all garbage to me, right?

Status

I read Post Malone felt like Domino’s at 9:30 in the morning.

So he drove to one, stood outside, and banged on the door.

The guy let him in and made him wings and a pizza.

I tried the same thing.

I owe the city forty dollars for loitering. And am still hungry.

Careers

I frequently make up what I do for a living when I meet people. Not for any particular reason, just to keep things interesting.

For a while, I was telling people I’m a taxidermist. I said my business was called Furever. The pun purists enjoyed it. Everyone else just stared. Which was also fine.

Lately, I’ve been saying I’m a garbage man named Tom.

This woman finally caught me.

She goes, “My husband’s a garbage man. Are you SCOTUS or SCUBA?”

I hesitated. “SCOTUS.”

She says, “My husband too. What’s your last name? I’ll tell him.”

“Jefferson.”

She stared at me. “Your name is Tom Jefferson. The garbage man?”

“Yeah. My parents thought I’d be taller.”

See you soon,

—Ricky C.

No one has ever finished a sleeve of English Muffins. Do they know that over there at the muffin factory?

Six muffins. What am I running a summer camp?

Show Scenes

TV writers seem obsessed with certain scenes. They keep forcing them into scripts, and I can’t help wondering, don’t they know we’ve all seen these?

Fluid in the lungs.

“Oh no, he’s not going to make it!”
“Wait. Good news. I have a pen to jam into his body and release the air.”

That’s not even the right problem.
We were worried about fluid. Air is supposed to be in there.
You’re not draining his lungs, you’re just stabbing him with office supplies.

Cauterizing the wound.

Take a shot of whiskey. Pour some on the wound. Bite down on a belt.

First of all, I’m not putting my disgusting belt in my mouth, and neither should this guy.
Second, we get it. He’s tough. And the medical benefits of single malt remain unclear.

The Whiskey Order

And then there’s the woman drinking whiskey.
Ah yes. She’s so powerful and mysterious.
I can’t believe she doesn’t drink something fruity.

Some screenwriter still thinks this is doing a lot of work.

She’s heavy on the leather, drives a muscle car and an unusual history in exploiting cyber vulnerabilities that paid for her flat—in cash. She knows how to cook, but lives on takeout and owns a tattoo gun.

All because she ordered whiskey. Neat.

Toothbrushes

It’s mean that the drug store sells a 2-pack of toothbrushes when you’re single. Especially when one of them is purple.

“I’ll just keep this… in case my mom sleeps over. You don’t throw away value.”

Names

Some names are never going to make it.

Guy: “What did you name your baby?”

Dad: “Nathaniel. Isn’t it great?”

Guy: “Oh. So you named him Nate.”

Dad: “Yep.”

International Travelers

Most people traveling by train in the U.S. are from another country. The shocking part is their data plan lets them talk in the seat next to you the entire ride.

Airports

What kind of deals are people trying to make at airport gate counters? I’ve flown a million times and never once needed to talk to anyone.

(whispering)

“Excuse me… if possible, I’d like to be on the really, really fast plane.”

See you soon,

— Ricky C.

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I love how confident health advice is.

“This causes cancer.”
“No, wait, this prevents cancer. It causes a stroke.”
“Actually, it depends on how happy you are while eating it. Also, did you store it in the fridge? That’s a mistake.”

Keep in mind that not that long ago, news reports confidently informed people that the second leading cause of death in this country was witches.

So maybe I’ll ease into the cold plunge studies before shelling out $3,000 for an outdoor tub.

Getting Healthy in the Garden State

Two Italians from New Jersey discussing health at a local diner.

Man 1: Doctor says I’ve gotta lose weight. Cholesterol’s getting too high.

Man 2: Yeah, I’ve got that too. You should eat more legumes.

Man 1: What’s that? Like a fish?

Man 2: I’m not sure. My daughter said it’s healthy. I think it’s a bird.

Man 1: What, like a hen?

Man 2: I believe so. I think it’s French.

Man 1: How fancy. French hen—like the song.

Man 2: Exactly.

Man 1: Legumes, huh? Leave it to the French.

Cake

I saw a guy eating cake with a plastic knife. Just a knife. That’s a new level of lazy in this country. That’s not a utensil choice, that’s a lifestyle. Too burdened to track down a fork. I mean, where did it even come from? Nobody sets out cake and knives and then just walks away like, “Here you go you animals.” And he was eating slow too. It’s not like he was rushing. He could have waited to see if the person came back with forks.

Broccoli

In a rare occurrence in today’s streaming world, I actually saw a commercial.

It was for a medicine you take when you’re gassy.

Some woman was eating broccoli, and then—uh oh.

Could the PR get any worse for broccoli these days? It’s already struggling at about eleven cents a crown at the grocery store.

Then it hit me, is this really what happens?

You’re a woman at a restaurant. You order salmon and it shows up with some steamed broccoli on the side. And now you’re living a nightmare.

“Oh. Oh, dear. Of all the days to be wearing tan slacks.”

So she sneaks off to the bathroom and pops a pill that neutralizes the nuclear gas power of broccoli.

She comes out all confident. Thrilled she doesn’t have to drive home with the windows down.

— Ricky C.

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I’m not saying Amazon comes to my house too often. I’m just saying it felt weird not adding our driver to the family Christmas card.

Reviews

A lot of these reviews are fake. You read them and it’s always:

“Oh, I get so many compliments.”

Who is getting compliments on anything?

Am I just buying ugly clothes? I never get compliments, and never give them. What kind of place are these people living where everyone’s just running around praising each other?

That’s the place I want to move to.

“What a great blouse!”

“Thank you. And a nice slack to you, sir!”

Amazon’s Next Features

Usable Life (Give or Take)

Amazon should start listing how long each product lasts before it gets shoved in a closet or thrown away. I’d love to see the honesty:

• Decorative Soap Dish — 3 weeks
  Top comment: “It turned yellow, and really the dish soap already comes in a dish. Also, I can never find the refills.

• Wine Cork Stopper — 1 hour
  Top comment: “Why do I keep buying these? Who doesn’t finish the bottle?”

• Apple Peeler — 8 months
  Top comment: “We bought one of these? When?”

• Scented Candle — 6 years
  Top comment: “I don’t take baths that often, but I’m gonna start. Self-care September!”

It’s worth noting how things were going for a bit. There was a stretch where it felt like Amazon stopped trying. The app would glitch and go, “Oops, something went wrong,” then show a picture of a dog who looked like he just peed on the carpet.

No one was monitoring anything.

Boxes showed up mangled. A big boot print on top. Shampoo bottles exploded through their zip-tied plastic bags.

And the returns?

They don’t even want the stuff back anymore.

“Eh, keep it. If I ask anyone in the warehouse to put this back on a shelf, they might burn the building down.”

Amazon Pilot

One idea I could get behind is Amazon piloting an autopilot purchasing program.

They know us. They have the data. They understand us better than we do.

You go to buy a pair of pants and Amazon goes:

Amazon: “No That’s not the right size.”
Me: “I’m pretty sure I’ve been buying pants my whole life. I’m a 36.”
Amazon: “I’ve reviewed millions of returns. Your history suggests your body needs a 38. I’ve added it to the cart.”
Me: (resigned) “Okay.”

At this point, they should just start sending us things.

We still pay for it—we just don’t know what it is until the box arrives.

Honestly, I don’t think our lives would improve or decline in any measurable way.

See you soon,

Ricky C.

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