#1089 Mourning Serial

When I was at a Mariners game, I noticed a peculiar scent. Which I’m sure will be forever associated with baseball in the primitive nasal memory of little boys who have been at Safeco Field. Hot dogs? Hot peanuts roasted in the shell? Nope, the modern baseball culinary delight¾Garlic Fries. Man, the sweet odor of garlic fries was wafting to the rafters.
My son pointed out another interesting gastronomic anomaly. On their menu, the chocolate-covered strawberry kabob people listed “Dingleberry on a Stick.” Maybe dingleberry means different things in different places, but it in the end it didn’t sound very appetizing to me.
My son and I talked about recent news items during the slow parts of the game. Like the reinstatement of Michael Vick at a pitiful 1.2 million “probation” salary. Nice to know he can do all he did and still come back to barely struggle along on a mere 1.2 million. Of course, that amounts to minimum wage in the NFL. How unfortunate. I’m guessing his lawyer, as good as he is, probably won’t be getting him the Alpo endorsement to supplement his salary. We’ll see if the audience greets him with howls of disgust as his reputation continues to dog him.
But we have lawyers to thank for one thing. One of the worst recent news items is the millionaire who decided to kill and render his estranged wife, and did so strangely. Apparently, he’d been watching too many episodes of CSI. In his attempt to dispose of her beyond scientific recognition, he went to the trouble of removing her fingertips and pulling her teeth.
You got to wonder about a guy who not just kills someone, but methodically does what he did. Talk about processing his issues.
He was finally undone by a miracle of modern medicine. She was identified by the serial numbers on her chest enhancement accouterments. That’s right, they have serial numbers. Like all prosthetic medical devices.
Why? Thanks to lawyers. Because our litigious society demands a paper trail of whom to sue if something goes wrong. Or in this case whom to catch when his number comes up—before he becomes a serial killer.
America, ya gotta love it.