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As Lame as a Duck
by Wayne Scheer

Carole avoids me like I'm the rain and she doesn't have an umbrella. For her, I would rise like the sun if she would only get out from under her Sam cloud.

Sam is Carole's boyfriend and she clings to him like straight-legged jeans that's been washed so many times it's as shrunk as a head on the end of a sharp stick. Only Sam isn't all that sharp. He doesn't appreciate Carole the way I do. Sam may look like a movie star, but he's more like a dwarf planet that exploded centuries ago and we still see the light that's not really there anymore.

If she was my girlfriend, I would treat her like a lady. Not like a person. To me, Carole is as sensitive as the princess who, when you put a pea under her mattress, it makes her butt hurt. Carole is as special as a talking pig or a car that runs on lemonade and has leather seats.

She means the world to me. If I owned a globe, I would name it Carole.

Whenever I see her with Sam, I want to spit like a camel with two humps. But I don't, because I contort myself like a gentleman. In the olden days, like before 1960, gentlemen challenged their rivals to duels. Now they just drive by and knife them with cheap guns.

Instead, I use my computer, which I know like a book, to make Sam look so mean Carole will see him the way I see him, which is like a hungry, drooling Rottweiler in heat, and not the romantic kind.

So I open a Twitter account in his name and say things about Carole that are so nasty I can't repeat them here because children might read this, not like on Twitter. And I open another account in my name and I tweet that Carole is not what Sam said she is. I say she's as beautiful as a summer rose before the sun shrivels it and turns it into compost.

Only I screwed up and sent my tweet first so it didn't take a rocket salesman to know what I did and now Carole won't talk to me, which is like deja vu because she never talked to me before.