The blackberries taste like blackberries. For the second time in my life, I was caught stealing. The first time, my dad busted me for concealing an armed Milky Way in my pocket. That was age 5. I payed for it in the chicken coop where ample wood was available for a proper whacking.

Now, I’m guilty of committing another crime at age 50. I stole two black berries at the local market in Milan, Italy. Thinking they were samples, I ate one and tossed another to my wife, which makes her an accomplice. Sirens went blazing and I threw my hands in the air after the man, ten yards away, was accusing me of theft. Avoiding Italian incarceration, I apologized and payed 3 bucks for the case of berries.

I have the most boring bucket list known to man or woman kind. One of which is being clean shaven in London with a razor which may or may not provide hepatitis. You leave a tip if they give you hepatitis.

Other than Willy Wonka, the best thing about London is new commercials.

BK doesn’t have it their way in the UK.

Drama is the weather. Seattle effectively shutdown last week over a half inch of snow, and what amounted to be a five minute “blizzard”. It led me to both roll my eyes, and reflect on the less terrifying memories of my snowy childhood.

I grew up in a city called Spokane. We would regularly get two to three feet of snow in the summer. That does’t count the plows pushing an additional six feet of snow in our drive way. Pounding our way through Eastern Europe, we said, “Screw this noise, Let’s build a snow castle!” Done. I was the brain. My brothers were the engineers. It was magnificent.

Bigfoot. Where the Hell is He or She?

This topic has plagued me for years. I blame it on my brother, Tom. At the age of six, he convinced me this bipedal apelike creature roamed the Northwest. Bravo, Tom. Maybe just like the myth, he was just screwing with me. It scared the crap out of me. Not funny.

He also convinced his God Son there was a bengal tiger living in his basement. The mother of his God Son thanked him properly. “Thanks, Tom. Our terrified youth will never travel to Asia because of you, and I will never sleep.”

How about an encore of Godzilla, King Kong, Patrick Mahomes or the movie “Cocktail”? All providing nightmares.

Why in the hell does a team In the USA, named after a French Cathedral, have an Irish mascot? What’s with the identity crisis?

The English translation of Notre Dame is “Our Lady” in French. The Notre Dame Bonapartes would be more applicable.

The Notre Dame Hunch Backs? Get real. Can you imagine the mascot?

We watched the fighting Irish play yesterday and instead of enjoying their victory, we thought about the past. Why in the uncivilized world would Micks, or dirty drunken Irish immigrants, wind up in a college which belongs in Paris?

In my semi professional opinion, unlike the 2016 U. S. election, faithful democrats aren’t screaming, storming, or marching. Rather, they are tucked in a fetal position, much like Nancy Kerrigan, saying “why why why?!.”

My wife took it worse. The grinding of her teeth made her chip a tooth and break a crown. I’m glad we have dental insurance.

No fooling.

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

It’s raining. I forgot my jacket. My wife threatened to leave me (not true). To Hell with Christmas. It doesn’t matter, though, because “Baseball playoffs” is the most wonderful time of the year.

I haven’t spoken this frequently with family members since last season. Baseball brings us together.

Baseball was an obsession for me growing up as a foolish youngster. I was a fan almost to the point of nausea for others. I’m no longer a fan, but I still do love the game. The most important thing I’ve learned is that it’s not just about watching baseball, but who you watch it with.

This is how blind I am. My wife and I were watching late night tv and, without my glasses, I was wondering why she watching ZZ Top. She said “Those are the Four Tops, you dumb ass.”

Now, she just walks around the house calling me dumb ass. She also calls me Ray Charles. I take that as a compliment.

I remember Mary Lou and Carl Lewis at the 84 Olympics. Our family watched it collectively, and It was dynamite. Recently, my sister made a great analogy regarding the Olympics. She thought, although impressive, badminton is a game played in the backyard or at picnic gatherings. It was a funny observation. As a jerk, I convinced her lawn darts was also an Olympic event. But, instead of receiving medals, the winner would be rewarded with a lifetime supply of potato salad.

The games have changed.