Previously on The Bruce: But, still I now had protesters to deal with along with the ominous thick envelope on my dashboard.

And now:

Leave it to some oozing, warm-blooded, do-good organization to screw things up royally. Pops had been making his buffalo mozzarella pizza for years without a hitch and along comes some hairy-armpitted, unkempt group hell-bent on exacting their pound of flesh or in this case, cheese, from this poor working stiff. Polly was besides herself, which isn’t unusual since she often battles with one if not several of the personalities that dwell with her cranial cavity. Talk about your extended family. Distended would be more like it.

340512743_508b5f403b Part of the extended Calamari family.

Fortunately the protest was peaceful if not somewhat malodorous as most of the protestors hadn’t had intimate relations with a bar of Zest for some time. But then again, Pops pretty much smells the same way all the time, shower or not. But he was getting the kind of gleeful press one reserves for Sarah Palin. The press smelling blood, which again in this case was NOT the case, was going for it all and at the center of it was Pops and by extension Polly and me. And Ahmad wasn’t too happy either. And there was that envelope too.

We called a few of our friends, lapsed Guardian Angels, to help us quell the crowd. The appearance of them in their worn but still proudly worn red berets was enough to instill just the amount of fear into the cheese-huggers. No doubt the large clubs they were carrying also had some effect on them and they left none too quickly. Polly returned to  huffing her almost depleted Sterno can, Ahmad said a prayer with his beads, and Pops offered free pizza to all who helped out. Me, I was just pissed.

The nearest we can figure is that this was a poor version of a flash-mob with nothing better to do, but isn’t that what all of them are about anyway? There didn’t appear to be any real organizing group behind it and we put it behind us. But, now I had to open that envelope.

There was a return address on it, but not one I could identify with anything specific. It was heavy, pretty thick, actually. I opened it with no small amount of trepidation fearing it might contain some biological equivalent to Polly’s cooking, known to render all who partook immobile almost immediately. It’s why Pops did all the cooking. It was Pops manuscript. He had an idea for a book and had sent it out to who knows how many publishers. He thought the world would beat a path to his door with his vegetarian pizza recipes. Pops was nothing if not ever-hopeful.

Well, it was no surprise. The publisher hated it. They thought a cookbook with the questionable title: Roadkill for Vegetarians might turn some people off. Hell, it might even offend them. Pops was crushed. But since he was of good peasant stock, he thought, he believed, another publisher would find the intrinsic merit of this gustatotrial tome, that it would only be a matter of days before it hit the New York Times best seller list. Hey, stranger things have happened in the Calamari family.

DSC_0374 Cover art for Roadkill for Vegetarians cookbook.

So the mystery of the envelope was solved; the mob was dispersed; Ahmed was back to polishing the same frigging glass; in short all was as it should be. But not for long. Barry came in looking for his weekly order of baksheesh.

PETA, pizza, Polly, and me.

Posted: February 4, 2013 in Food, People
Tags: ,

From the previous post:

In the meantime, her absence was all too short as she staggered back into O’Shea’s. “We need to talk, Foggy.” I hated that nickname more than my regular name. What the hell now?

And now:

Yeah… what the hell now did Polly want? Money probably. That was a given. Always looking for a handout – whether it had money in it or offering her a dance. Yeah, that was Polly alright.

“OK, Mom, what it is this time? How much? Have you called the personal injury lawyers again?”

Mom/Polly looked stricken by my tone. Well, that’s not exactly fair. She always looked like that. It was most likely due to the amount of roasted kale chased down by a bottle or two of Nyquil. “No, Foggy,” she slurred. Nyquil will do that to you. “It’s your father and the pizzeria.” Jeez.

6216242858_a30c3fb0d9 Goes really well with roasted kale, or so says Polly.

Before I go any further with this, let me tell you something about my father. We called him Pops. Everyone called him Pops, even when he was a kid. Don’t ask why, I don’t know. No one does. No one even remembers what his real name is. Pops was first generation this country. He was still in the womb when Grandpops and Stooky (his mom) came over from the old country. Grandpops pretty much lived the immigrants dream upon to coming to America. Got a job in a grocery store, made deliveries, swept the floors, ran numbers, and eventually bought the store shortly before buying the farm. Stooky kept churning out little Calamari’s until they ran out of places to put them all. Pops was the first born and the one with the most drive. He shared Grandpops work ethic if not his ethics. But all of the charges were eventually dropped.

So anyway, Pops opened the first ever vegetarian pizzeria. A real man ahead of his times. Naturally business was a little on the slow side as he had none of the traditional meat toppings. Pops did march to his own drummer. No else however could hear that peculiar beat though. So what could be the problem?

“Pops and the pizzeria?” I cleverly repeated. “What?”

“The pizzeria is being picketed by protesters! It’s a mob scene.”

Once again I engaged in clever repartee, “What?”

“It’s some group called Peter or Petra or something like. They really like animals and really hate Pops.”

Now we all know that Mom/Polly is prone to slight exaggerations. Well, gross exaggerations. Tell her something is ten feet tall and upon retelling, she’s made it twenty feet tall. It could be the Nyquil, we’re not sure. “Polly, that sounds like a group called PETA. They’re an animal rights group. What problem would they have with a vegetarian pizzeria? Especially Pops’?”

387142237_b0b49d357c Now why would anyone want to protest this? Jeez!

Pops’ pizza wasn’t very good but I would never tell him that. Thankfully, only once a year did I have to eat it as part of our traditional Thanksgiving dinner. But being boycotted by PETA? That didn’t make any sense at all. However, as a member of the Calamari family, one got used to such stuff.

“Foggy,” she cried. I did tell you I hate that nickname, right? “Foggy, it’s the cheese! They’re protesting his cheese!” I rolled my eyes as I thought of a number of less than civil comments I might have made about her last remark. His cheese? Aww, c’mon, that’s just too easy.

“OK, Polly. I give up. What’s the matter with his cheese?” I regretted saying that the moment I did. I hope no one else heard me say that.

“Foggy, you don’t understand. It’s buffalo mozzarella! They’re protesting the inhumane treatment of buffaloes during the making of the mozzarella and threatening to shut Pops down. ”

Oh no, please don’t tell me that’s what she said! This was more than just her normal kale and Nyquil delusion. She’d really gotten into the Sterno now. But, still I now had protesters to deal with along with the ominous thick envelope on my dashboard.

Fog Calamari.

Posted: January 28, 2013 in Animals, Food
Tags: , , , ,

From the previous post:                                                                                                         “Ahmed.” No need for words between us. Hell, he doesn’t know much more English than that anyway. He nods to a booth on the far wall. I look over. Damn, if it isn’t…

And now…

Yeah, the last thing I needed was to see that beast again. I thought when I dropped her off at The Pound, a bar for real dogs if you catch my drift, they would put her down once and for all. The only putting-down though that night were the rude but accurate comments on her clothing that she really didn’t deserve. After all, her clothes were fashionable – once, a long time ago, maybe two or three owners before. But, she survived and always landed on her feet. They say a cat has nine lives…who the hell loaned her another one?

3120368915_82a1127005 The girls from the Pound.

Since she saw me seeing her, I had to go over, and short of putting her in her place, the basement usually, and politely ask her to get the hell out of O’Shea’s. Nothing will ruin a good falafel more than an angry, poorly dressed, terminated house-keeper looking for a handout. But did she have to bring her bucket of cleaning crap with her? Really? To O’Shea’s? I glanced back at Ahmed and he quickly wiped that smirk off his face. Not that it was easy as the scars from a Tupperware party gone wild left it pretty much permanently in place. He knew the effect she would have on me. Look, it ain’t easy firing your mother. And that too is a story for another time.

“OK, Polly…what’s up? What dragged you away from your Ricki Lake show this time?”

She looked at me, snorted in her inimitable and loving motherly fashion, threw a smelly, wet sponge at me and walked out. Again. It’s always sponges. I’ve accumulated quite a collection over the years waiting for that one perfect moment in which I can bury her with them. At least they don’t hurt.

The last time I saw her was at the all-you-can-eat Hawaiian buffet at the bocce court. She would keep score for the old guys who made sure she always had an ample supply of poi. Finger food was all she was allowed as her dentist and the court had decided she was not permitted to be in possession of any sharp objects. That edict was handed down shortly after she was found while opening beer bottles with her teeth at the local PathMark prying off the lids of containers of Breakstone’s sour cream and sampling each one with a pocket knife, then slicing summer sausage and handing them out as samples. In her own screwed up way, she could be generous. And now she was back in my life. Why? Hell, if I know. But I did know she would show up again in the next day or so and all would be revealed, not that I really wanted to know. How she found me was easy. I need to find a different bar and falafel joint to hang out at. Maybe I’ll look next week.

In the meantime, her absence was all too short as she staggered back into O’Shea’s. “We need to talk, Foggy.” I hated that nickname more than my regular name. What the hell now?



Posted: January 23, 2013 in Food, Life
Tags: ,

It was a miserable night. It was rainy, damp, cold – a real skank of an evening. In short, a typical Keansburg, NJ kind of night. I loved it.

2250173012_8c968d7918 Keansburg. Yeah.

I was sitting in my car, watching the wipers describe lazy arcs across the windshield, waiting for my brother to finish whatever he started in that ramshackle, sorry little excuse for a house. Drugs? Women? Who knows? He’s that kind of guy and I’m waiting for him. Guess that makes me another kind of guy. Right?

If you don’t know me, let me introduce myself. I’m Fog Calamari. Yeah, yeah, make your jokes now. I’ve heard them all. Thanks to the illustriously hard-working people at the INS, my name was butchered into what it is today. Not that the original was any better, but at least it wasn’t so accurately descriptive.

The hack at the immigration office couldn’t get over our real family name of Occtavia, so he wanted to list it as Octopus. Grandpops wasn’t having any of that, thank god. But his language skills weren’t that good and he thought he had to at least follow the direction those jamokes set out upon. So, translating octopus became Calamari. Go figure.

Fog – well that’s another story. Being a redhead as is most of my family, it was originally Fuego for fire. But being blessed as much of my family is with another affliction, flatulence, it became appropriately but not happily, Fog. Thanks a lot Mom and Dad, love you too. Yeah, I got issues. Who doesn’t?

Anyway and eventually, my do-not-much-of-anything brother comes out of the mystery house and decides he’ll probably show up for work at the dollar store. You got to understand this is a step up for him, a promotion. Previously, he worked at the 69 cents store. What’s that line about a rising tide raising all boats? Here it is in real life. I drop him off and decide to stop in at my favorite falafel bar, O’Shea’s. It takes a little longer than usual to get there because the old Yugo, painted in Slovakian Racing Beige, only wanted to make left turns today. Somedays it’s left, other days only right. And that’s when by the grace of some dark-humored deity it starts.

After a Magellan-like plan to get there, I arrive. Ahmed O’Shea has the best falafel in town, Let me correct that – he has the only falafel in town unless you count the combination gas station/sushi/ falafel/ and dry cleaning establishment down on Central. How he came to open this dubious venture is best left to another time, but it did involve bearer bonds, zoo animals, and grey market Gummi (Trademark!) Bears. You figure it out. I’m not saying anything else on this subject.

Walking into O’Shea’s is like entering some New Age candle shop. Besides the Yin and Yang decor, the beaded curtains covering only electrical outlets, it’s the over-powering scent of cilantro that grabs your attention. That and the mangy Labradoodle attack dog by the front door. Say what you will, the joint has ambiance. And cheap beer. Oh, and did I mention the falafel?

Ahmed is behind the bar polishing, I swear, the same damn glass he’s been doing for years. It must have been very dirty. He looks up, well, raises his eyebrows at me and acknowledges my presence, “Fog.”

“Ahmed.” No need for words between us. Hell, he doesn’t know much more English than that anyway. He nods to a booth on the far wall. I look over. Damn, if it isn’t…


It’s that time of the year when the weakest among us of which I of course do not count myself, make New Year’s resolutions. It’s the same old, same old – “I’ll drink less”; “I’ll eat less”; “I’ll lose weight”. Yeah yeah, yadda, yadda. Come on. When are you going to get realistic? All of that will last a week or so before you come up with a rationalization for breaking it. I know because in the past I’ve been there.

So, the rest of you reading this probably have already started on how you will attempt to turn your lives around in 2013. My advice to you: don’t bother. You won’t keep the freakin’ things any way and will just embarrass yourselves when you finally admit your genetic weaknesses regarding commitments. Never, never make commitments around the holidays unless it’s to meet for drinks. And even then, be careful. You never know who you’ll wind up going home with.

2541584717_d7b509fc33 You never do know who you’ll wind up with.

And that’s another thing –  why is it so many people insist on making life commitments (marriage proposals, etc.) around the holidays? Isn’t there enough pressure to be falsely happy at this time of year? That’s what all the booze is for. Don’t ruin a good gin buzz for crissakes making a promise you’re almost certain to break!

4124361638_f79e6f80e3 Second thoughts already!

I know someone who is convinced they will find a new job in 2013: one that is fulfilling and financially rewarding. Really? Do they not watch or read the news? Yes, it’s true, that that practice will most likely lead to more drinking but not of the socially acceptable irresponsible holiday imbibing. But a new and good job? Maybe they’ve been dipping into the cooking sherry a little too much already. Resolutions just suck.

A few years ago, I made a resolution I’ve actually been able to keep completely. It’s simple – I resolved never to make another resolution again. And I’ve stuck to it. The good news? It hasn’t interfered with my drinking at all!

Cheers and Happy New Year!

It’s true. I don’t always drink beer. I don’t care. I prefer wine. But what kind? I don’t much care about that. Your kids are sick? Too bad. No, that’s not right. I just don’t care.

6314300858_17c0be6411 Not me. Who cares?

As I said, it’s true. I could care less. There isn’t much of anything I do care about. My investments perhaps, but they are so many and so large, I just don’t care anymore. My trophy wife? Take her! She’s already my fourth one – they’re all the same anyway.

If I sneeze, no takes notice. Mosquitoes don’t fear me. I’m not on the Pope’s Rolodex either. And that’s all OK.  I’ve never excelled in sports, educational attainment, work, you name it. You see, I just don’t care. What I did care about at one time was that I’d been very good at making money. Don’t bother asking how, my attorney says it’s none of your business. Did I hurt your feelings by saying that? So what? I don’t care. Money can have that effect on one.

The funny thing is that at one point in my unbelievably fortunate life, I did care. Almost, but not quite bleeding heart liberal care. About everything. But after a while, a certain sameness crept in. I kept looking for greater thrills and stimulation. Oh, I found it and wallowed in it dirtily and happily. I had it all and I didn’t care any more. At this point if you’re still with me, and if you’re not, who cares?, I’ll tell you what happened.

Pure and simple, I ran for elected office and won. Would you expect anything else? I was able to convince the electorate that I cared. Isn’t that a joke? But I did. Deeply. And they believed it. And now I had to make good on all those bloated but hollow election promises. Do you know how impossible that is?  I’m surprised no one has been hung for some of the things we are forced to say in order to get elected. I guess it’s not perjury unless there’s a crime involved. Even then.

So, the first day in office, I was inundated by sycophants wanting something or to attach themselves to what they perceived as a newly minted seat of power. It was flattering at first but became tiresome rather quickly. I had my issues I wanted to advance. But, nooo, they had their issues too. They wanted snow removal; new pet pooper laws; real estate reassessments; zoning variances; that kind of crap. Before long, I started not to care any longer. It was that easy. And believe me, that quick.

So, while I know there’s a beer company advertising it’s “World’s Most Interesting Man”, the truth of the matter is that’s not me and I don’t care. He’s never been elected to office. He probably knows better than that. However, if he was, he wouldn’t care. And neither do I. And neither should you.

I just can’t stand to read the news anymore. Somehow or another, I’m terrified that the media will find out about my misdemeanors, felonies, and general poor behavior and have a field day with it. When one who is so famous and yet shuns the media spotlight, one lives in constant dread of being found out. One does. Really.

So, while waiting in the ne plus ultra waiting room of some mid-America airport, I happened upon the worst purveyor of such treacle, nay, trash – USA Today. While the paper itself has shrunk in on itself in size, it still harbors ambitions, however misplaced, of being a real newspaper. But one read of it will inform you otherwise. Unless you are entertained by the state-by-state snippets in the back of this publication passing for news, everything reeks of low-level sensationalism. Such is the fodder of the masses.

But read it I did for I am always in dread as mentioned before of being found out. Happily, there was no mention of my name or any of the aliases for which I’ve been known. Yet, I fear it is only a matter of time before things not perpetrated by me are soon ascribed to same. So it is with that in mind, I wish to inform all dear readers of the following:

I did not get Kate (or Pippa) Middleton pregnant. While an enticing proposition, I am innocent.


I did not get anyone elected. For that, one would have to vote. I categorically did not. Nor am I responsible for the “fiscal cliff”. That’s just hearsay.

I did not bench Mark Sanchez – whoever he is.

I'm just gonna dance right over there, and tackle your ass...

I have no friends with benefits. But they are grateful for universal healthcare.

I have never seen a trilogy of anything nor will I. I do have some pride left after all.

That is not me in those nude photographs, but I wish it was. Whoever it was was having a good time and looked really good.

I am not the love child of Dr. Phil and Roseann Barr. The resemblance, while remarkable, is accidental and unfortunate.


I did not, have not, will not leak any information to any intelligence gathering organization ever…unless a substantial advance is provided. And even then, I reserve the right of exaggeration as a negotiating tool.

I will never have a phone smarter than me.

I did see the movie ABBA, but I don’t talk anymore with the people who took me there. No use in encouraging them further.

I have never been caught in a compromising situation with Lindsay Lohan. Yet.

I have never made an illegal campaign contribution to a candidate who lost.

I have never cheated on a test unless you count paternity tests.

I do not believe in digital technology without latex gloves.


That’s about it. I could of course claim innocence for so much more and maybe some of that would be true, but it’s getting late and there are people outside with cameras and lights. What in hell do you think THAT’S all about?

We’re putting up the banners, slashing prices, getting new fixtures, clearing out the old inventory, slapping on some fresh paint, wearing new team shirts, and best of all, installing new management. After the better, bitter part of a year, we’ve come to a decision that was quite difficult for us as are those of which wine to choose. But, we, (the royal WE after all, as no one will openly take responsibility for a decision), have bitten the proverbial bullet and have affected a change at the top. No gold watch, no party, nothing – just don’t let the door hit you on the butt on your way out. Later. Adios. Arrividerci. Bon Soir. Hasta luego. Thank god and Greyhound he’s gone!

We had to make these changes as certain inconsistencies kept appearing on our books and in the tabloids. Allegations (all untrue until proven otherwise) are just that, but we could not in all good faith labor under the weight of such bad press. The election certainly did not help either. We were placing so much hope on our candidate for Alderman and then to see him lose so ignominiously, we had to make changes. The graft, accusations of infidelity, purported drug use, laundered money, watching Real Housewives… shows, deviant… well, you get the picture. It could not go on. At least not while other people were watching. It’s not that we condone such behavior, we don’t. Well, actually we do until someone is caught. Then we have to appear offended that such accusations could be made though likely true. Hey, we are only human!

So dear reader…what does this mean for you? The biggest sale on slightly used blog posts ever! Make us an offer. No reasonable offer will be turned down. We mean to clear out this place and make space for all the exciting 2013 blog posts coming your way. Who can forget “The Great Oldsmobile Migration…”? It can be yours! Make me an offer. Or how about “Screw the Lawyers”? That one’s appropriate anytime of year. Got someone in your life who’s addicted to all things automotive? “The Pig Lives” is waiting for you. What are you waiting for? These are all one of a kind and won’t last long. Look for our almost clever TV ads (after midnight ’cause that’s when TV time is really cheap) done in spectacular, realistic back and white video tape.

These posts are guaranteed original. No fakes. No warmed over imposters. These come directly from the keyboard of the operator. We are making a clean break of the past at least until it’s forgotten by all but the most persistent reporters.

So come on down and meet the new management. Just ask for one of us. Of  course, our names on our shirts will be somewhat different, but that’s the price you pay in the witness protection program. Looking forward to meeting you.

You’ve got to keep this under your hat. but I’m about ready to give Bruce his walking papers. He’s just not pulling his weight which by the way is quite considerable. As I wrote the last time, it doesn’t seem like it’s working out. But, I can’t do this myself. Between my daytime responsibilities as a senior citizens crossing guard and part-time mercenary, my hands are pretty full. I have a full-time, unpaid position available for another to help me with this load. I’ve listed the qualifications here.

At work.

1. Must be able to construct sentences using the Ludovico Sentence Structure Construct. This consists of nouns, verbs, pronouns, adverbs, adjectives, participles, punctuation, and of course, correct spelling – no spell-check allowed. Compound sentences allowed only with poly-syllabic words.

2. All posts must use injunctive reasoning. If you do not know what this, do not bother applying.

3. No use of crayons allowed. What do you think is? Kindergarten?

4. Plagiarism is not permitted unless it actually enhances the post.

5. The use of legalese is discouraged. No “whereas’, “party of the…”, “wherefore”, “henceforth”, or anything that might be construed as a subpoena. Hell, we got enough of those already.

6. Correct use of tense and gender a must. This is not a PC blog and I don’t want it to be, ever. The goal is to call it as we see it. Tenderness is prohibited.

7. Cliches are encouraged. The more the better.

8. Check your snark index. If you border on being polite, try writing for the Christian Science Monitor. Politeness is for church, not here.

9. If you’ve won any awards or prizes for journalistic excellence, think twice about applying. This would probably end your career and I don’t want that on my hands.

10. If you’ve aspirations of moving up in this organization, then you’ve got more problems then I willing to handle. Walmart would be a better career move. Come to think of it, you would probably look good in one of those greeter’s vest.

11. If you are an illegal alien, that is in your favor since the pay is non-existent anyway.

12. Any political affiliation can be a problem. That’s just more baggage you’ll have to lose.

13. Do you have a record? If so, call…now! (This is for felonies, misdemeanors, grand theft, embezzling, etc. Any other need not apply.)

14. What is your favorite pizza top[ping? This can be a deal-breaker.

15. Are you currently under a restraining order(s)? If so, please list the name(s) of that/those person(s)? This is the kind of character reference we’re looking for. The larger the restraining order, the better your chances are to considered.

A valuable asset.

16. And finally… Is your name Bruce?

So, that’s it. Most of you reading this blog probably meet some of the qualifications already. But, I am going to be quite specific this time around. The last Bruce… well, if you’re hired, I’ll tell you over drinks. Your treat of course.

This is the other Bruce and I’m not happy. Not happy at all. Do you hear me? Not happy!

And you wanna know why? Probably not and that’s why I’m unhappy. I’m more than unhappy. But I promised Bruce I would confine that kind of talk to the bar or behind Mrs. Crosby’s more than ample backside.

Bruce has been moping about and there doesn’t seem to be anything any of us can do about it. We’ve offered him his favorite girly drink, Club Soda, Elderberry Wine, nightshade, a slice of lime, and Rose’s Lime juice with an expresso bean thrown in, but even that can’t seem to stir him from that damned funk he’s in.

Just add the nightshade and the coffee bean and Bruce’ll be happy…maybe..

And here’s the dirty little secret behind his crappy attitude. You. That’s right, You. Or really the lack of You’s. Each day he looks at the numbers on this blog and gets more and more pissed. If Bruce is pissed, then you can only imagine how I feel. Spittin’ nails, right!

Look, I don’t want to air our dirty laundry, but I can’t stand it when Bruce is this way. He’s mean to his wife, kicks the dog (and the cat, but she deserves it), and is just generally lousy to be around. Each day he toils on this blog and feels like he’s unappreciated. (Awww, poor little Bruce!) But hey, aren’t we all?

So, Bruce is threatening to leave this endeavor of ours and go to work for Rupert Murdoch. He claims he has had it. He might even run away. Talked about arrested development! Join the circus! See if I care.

He says why should he do most of the writing, as if you couldn’t tell, right?, if no one is going to read it. I keep telling him that the market (of which he thinks of as urbane and sophisticated) isn’t really there or if it is, doesn’t care. Bruce, look, maybe you’re not that funny after all. That was probably not the right thing to say. What do you think?

I can’t see this blog going on without him. What would I call it? – The Bruce? Not on your life! Of course, I could go out and find another Bruce, but truthfully, it wouldn’t be the same. We’d have no history, we probably would be too similar and that wouldn’t work. I guess I could use my brother, but he isn’t a Bruce, he’s a Richard and that’s all that needs to said on that count. He’s not even a pale comparison. This is not how I thought I would spend my final days in the nursing home. Disregard that last remark. I am fully capable and functioning and don’t use Depends… often. I’m just really upset over this.

Last night, Bruce went to a gun show of all things. That’s usually the thing I like to do, but hey. He came back with a Kroger 90mm hand cannon complete with mother of pearl grip and elephant ivory sightings. He said it was formerly owned by Cher. At least that gave him some comfort. It’s what he may intend to do with it that has me scared. We need to talk him down off this ledge.

It made him happy for a moment until we took out the firing pin.

Please let Bruce know you love him. Tell your friends to read this too. Maybe even follow. Write him comments. Send him cookies. It will make my life much more bearable and will continue the fine writing that you’ve all come to love. Or like maybe. Tolerate? Please? Otherwise, it could mean the end of the Two Bruces blog. Unless you know of another extremely talented Bruce. It could happen. I’m open to suggestions.