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THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT

© Henry L. Lefevre

During my last meandering scan of the Internet, I ran across a gentle reminder of the need to be civil to the Baby Boomers who are still in the hunt. I was totally flustered.

Why?

Because of a humorous book that I found. It's called "No More Bobs" by Cynthia (Cindi) Borris, the one-time contributing editor of the "Belly Laughs" segment of Suite101. Despite making me laugh, it also made me feel guilty. Why? Because humorous_sage is only my code name. In truth, I'm really a Bob.

A January incident made matters worse. Her complaint showed up on this web site under the title "No More Bobs."

In the beginning, God created the universe and left it in the hands of Adam and Eve. A few millenium thereafter, the Devil created a large number of "Bobs". I'm one of them. However, the Devil didn't do a very good job of creating a balance. For instance, he gave me (one of those Bobs) a conscience, making me sorry for the bad things that I've done. Then, he ordered me to make Cindi's life miserable. If I've been too successful, all I can do is apologize. It wasn't my fault. The Devil made me do it.

Due to this gosh darn conscience, I'm forced to ask Cindi's forgiveness. I'm that "dirty old man" who keeps invading her personal space. Along with a plea for forgiveness, I'd like to explain the circumstances involved.

First, I was lured into her personal space by the perfume that she wore. Once I passed 95, my olfactory senses degraded to the point where my nose couldn't differentiate between the sweet smell of "Joy" and the more pungent, odiferous "Este Lauder" without getting up close and personal.

Second, my eyesight degraded making it extremely difficult to anticipate eminent collisions before contact is made. Cindi might have zoomed past me and parked in the last "handicapped" space at the bank. As she probably noticed, I never exceed 1 mph when driving my 1945 Flivver. At 1 mph, I seldom do irreparable damage and Flivver fenders are scarce.

Third, my tactile senses are also corrupted. I'm oblivious to physical contacts that fail to challenge my balance. If I got smotheringly close, I wasn't aware.

In addition to apologizing profusely, I'd like to offer some useful advice that could easily help this poor lass avoid similar disagreeable contacts with one of us Bobs.

A sharp jab to the gut with your elbow would have caught my attention. Once I realize that I've entered someone's personal zone, I always back off. In refining this suggestion, I recommend that the jab be hard enough to challenge my balance without splintering more than one rib.

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