The Sur-Realist finally has some news. Wes’ attorney has filed his appeal with the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. However, since he would not send a copy to me to read, I can only surmise that it said something like this: Dear Real Judges (unlike that dumb ass Wingate, who only made it through college and law school by virtue of Affirmative Action), Please note all the egregious moral and legal errors that stupid jerk made as he deliberately set up my client, Wes Teel, for conviction. We would appreciate it if you would send Wingate to federal prison where he will have a chance to really study law. Love, George.
P.S. I'm sorry I saved his life in Court that day.
If you would like to read Paul Minor’s brief (which is anything but), go to this site supplied by the Sun Herald. Minor's 5th Circuit appeal brief
About my identity. I am the Executive Assistant to a Mafia Don who doesn’t like for people to bother me. When that happens, he points them out to his newbees to "make their bones." Uncle The Don likes his world to run smoothly, and if I’m upset, he’s upset. It’s a trickle-down thing.
I think I have discovered our Al K. Duh connection. It’s my husband, the engineer. He thinks we have mice because we have a field behind our house. Nice try, City Boy! That explanation would hold water for regular mice, but not for those armed kamikaze mice wearing suicide vests (okay, it was dark and I didn’t have on my glasses, but I’m pretty sure the little sheet-head had one on.).
My first clue to Spouse’s connection came when I noticed the clock radio. Let’s start with the fact that my husband is a man. A man’s man, to be exact. Some men go out and buy themselves magnificent toys such as a yacht, a Farrari, a Linguini, beautiful blonde arm candy. My husband can’t afford any of these. Big bills and busty blonds upset me. And when I’m upset, in comes The Uncle Don. Trickle-down. See? Besides which, Spouse is interested in Engineering Things that would bore the paint right off the walls. We often have stimulating conversations about sine waves and electricity. My sweet Spouse has tried for decades to explain time zones to me by using grapefruits and oranges. However, as brilliant as he is, he doesn’t read body language very well. Glazed-over eyes, yawning, turning off the lights, and going to bed in the midst of one of his lectures has never shortened one, to my knowledge. He firmly believes that one day, I too, shall understand sine waves and electricity if he just repeats the lectures often enough, complete with gestures in the air.
Anyway, I digress. Before he learned how to comparison shop on the internet, Spouse was not a reconnaissance shopper. His shopping method involved dashing into a store that may carry what he wanted, usually Walmart, grabbing the item, and checking out as if he were trying to catch the last helicopter out of Saigon. The grocery store is his one shopping exception. Spouse has some sort of fascination with every single item in grocery stores. It would be faster to stay home, plant the crops, thresh the wheat, raise the cow, bake the bread, and brew your own Pepsi instead of waiting for him to poke around in the grocery store. Let’s just say that Mr. Whipple would have to take Valium.
So Spouse came home one day with a real prize - a clock radio. He went out and bought it himself with no prompting and was delighted with its features. He thinks It has a really good sound system (like who cares what a buzzer sounds like) and you can set it for two time zones (there went the lecture with the grapefruit and oranges again.) "And," he says, "It only cost ten bucks!" It buzzes and wakes people up. That is, if there was any possible way they managed to get any sleep whatsoever during the night with It in the room. You see, It was apparently made from a refurbished floodlight formerly used in Hollywood at opening nights. By the way, if any airports should have a problem with their landing field lights, please just let us know. I’ll gladly donate the clock radio to sit right there on the landing field although It would probably blind all the pilots as well as the people in the tower. So, after a few nights of taping paper, then tin foil over the lighted face to no avail, It was relegated to the floor with its face to the wall. It sits there blinking just outside the bathroom door, serving as a sort of a night light for the blind.
Wait! Did I say "blinking?" Yes, I did. There It sits at Al K. Duh level, blinking some kind of signal known only to kamikaze mice. And that’s not the only clue I sluethed out around here. Spouse, the Engineer, who now reconnaissance shops on the net, found himself the all-time prize watch. It does things like give him the equation for the co-efficient of linear expansion; it can plot a course to the core of the earth; it can store phone numbers and addresses. It may also tell time. But this marvel of wrist watchery has one fatal flaw, it has a direct connection to Mecca, home of the little sheet-head kamikaze mice.
Every night Spouse dutifully lays his Captain Marvel Watch on his bedside table (that would be the one that doesn’t get knocked around by serial killers or Al K. Duh mice.), and he has to line it up pointing to Colorado! The Rule Book that came with the watch told him to do that, and Spouse, the Engineer, always follows Operating Rules. Now think about this. One end of the watch is pointing to Colorado, supposedly to line it up with some time zone thing or other (probably an errant lemon, or something.) Well, excuse my geometry or trigonometry or whatever math (and geography) I valiantly ignored, but that makes the other end of the watch wide open and directly pointing toward Mecca!!! With my dead reckoning, his watch may be shooting toward the direction of Colorado, but it is sucking up from Mecca (for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. By golly, I remember something from Physics!) Therefore, every night, Spouse’s watch - while getting itself reset to the correct time - is sucking little sheet-head kamikaze mice right out of Mecca where they recognize the destination by the blinking clock radio light right at their mouse hole.
Well, that solves that riddle.