How do you spell "plbbbbbbbbt"?

Sometimes I have to laugh at myself. Sometimes I deserve it.

Here's the story. The other night, someone at work really annoyed me. I'm not going to name names, let's just call him "Old Yeller". This describes both his age and personality.

Anyway, Old Yeller annoyed me, and I was completely in the right. This really put a crimp on an otherwise OK day.

But wait, this was pizza day! On Tuesdays, the local pizza store does a pretty good special, so I usually pick up a pizza to give my aestheticly-pleasing and kind-to-animals wife a night off from the rigors of daily meal-preparation.

So, after I picked up the pizza, I had to drive back past my place of employment. As I did, I looked up at Old Yeller's office window and said this.

I know, I know, I really am 36 years old.

But sometimes it feels good to act 13.

Busted

I swear that I didn't mean to do it.

I've not been sleeping well recently. I realize that it's self-inflicted. If the candle had three ends, I'd be burning them all, what with trying to get up early, staying up late watching Season 1 of "Stargate SG-1", and trying to exercise more.

Anyway, my stunningly beautiful and ever-popular wife and I were engaging in some post-dinner chat. She was perched delicately in our reliner, and I was sprawled over our couch. A dangerous position for a tired person to be in.

Ever fall asleep while you're talking with someone? I have. Sometimes I even have very short, intense dreams. Micro-dreams, I call them.

Sometimes I can get away with this indiscretion. Sometimes, a suitable phrase, un bon mot, will pop into my head that I can use and so appear to have been alert the entire time.

Sometimes this doesn't work. Like tonight. I actually interrupted what my cute and creative wife was saying, to offer the following inspired comment:

"Your bra is on backwards."

Like I say, busted.

Sorry, Kevin...

Ah, nostalgia! It's not like it used to be...

I was recently reminiscing about my childhood, and remembered a defining event. Scout Winter Camp.

I can't exactly remember the year, but it had to have been in the mid-eighties, when I was a young teen. The Boy Scout pack that I belonged to made the incredibly unwise decision of holding a winter camp instead of a summer camp that year. Now, summer camp has many advantages over winter camp, not limited to the following:

1. It's warmer.
2. There's not much chance of having two feet of snow on the ground.
3. It's warmer.

(OK, I realize that I repeated #1, but it's such a big advantage, that it deserved to be in twice.)

Anyway, we went on winter camp. It was cold. It was very cold. To get ready for bed, we would take off our boots. That's how cold it was.

Anyway, none of us boys really enjoyed the camp. Then there was Kevin. Kevin was a smallish, sensitive boy. He was quite popular at school and in the Scout troop, but was not up to the rigors of Winter Camp. He spent the entire three days sitting next to the fire, crying.

He didn't take part in any of the "fun" activities.

He hardly even ate.

Just sat there and cried.

Well, as you no doubt know, teenage boys are not the most compassionate of creatures. To my shame, we basically ridiculed Kevin. We teased, taunted, and made his life just a little bit more closer to hell than it already was that weekend. I truly regret my part in it, but I was just a kid.

Well, recently, I got to thinking about Kevin. I have no idea what happened to him. It occurred to me that he could be anything by now...

• The CEO of some huge company, ready to buy out my employer and fire me...
• The next person I try to negotiate a mortgage with...
• My new boss...
• A Mafia hitman...

Anyway, Kevin, if you're reading this, please know that I wish the camp had never happened the way it did, and I'm sorry for my part in your misery.

Just don't hurt me, OK?