Don’t call ME silver-haired; I’m MORALLY GRAY, Baby.

[stalks off ambiguously]

Or … holey socks. Time to buy more.

I have no idea why I do a number on socks the way I do. Must be my cloven hooves.

Update — a pal of mine on Facebook jumped in to suggest that I have “clown hooves,” and I think that’s an inspired rejoinder.

So I washed my comforter and submitted four poems to The Irish Times. It’s a long shot, but hey.

The poems, I mean — not washing the comforter. That I can usually pull off.

Here’s the interesting thing … the postal service’s new postmark design looks remarkably like the footprint of a very large man.

Hey, the sticker on the front says “Do not bend” — not “Do not stomp on.”

I AM YOUR SOUR GRAMPA.

Somebody just e-mailed me some coronavirus information, but he told me his source was “Doctor Specious,” and now I’m thinking twice about EVERYTHING this dude has ever said to me.