He Spoke Fluent Disclaimer

Just wanted to say that I am the proud owner of a brand-spanking new Ryobi BT3100, purchased from the Home Depot in Rocky Mount, NC this very day - on sale for $249. This is what is left from the Great Tax Refund of 2006, which finally arrived. Mrs. Wiggy got a stove. Which is nice, because her old one was made in 1953 and the last burner, although it still worked, was developing a rather frightening tilt to one side. Made eggs an adventure.

I have never owned a power tool in my life - with the exception of a Dremel which I used to wrap a very expensive model airplane into a tight little ball with, because apparently, that's the way God wanted it.

I bought the Ryobi because of two very important events in my life. One, I own this danged old house instead of living in a crackerbox apartment; I'm nearly 45, thought I deserved it. We've been here for nearly two years now; I haven't so much as tightened a nut or a bolt around here. And second, it was Mrs. Wiggy's birthday yesterday, so I thought I should get her something nice. So I got her this nice table saw for me to use for her. I thought that was nice.

I read about the saw in "Make" magazine, and then I saw that they were on sale at the Home Depot, and brother, that was all I needed to know. Because if there is one thing more dangerous than computer geeks, it is computer geeks with power tools.

So it is sitting out in my garage this very minute, still in the box and all. I am not sure what to do next. The garage has no power, it was built in 1923 like my house. Well, my house has power, but for some reason, they never got around to dropping a line into the garage. That could be because you can't keep a car in it, too narrow for modern cars. You could drive in, but you'd never manage to open the doors. That's kind of weird, huh? Stuck inside your own garage, have to crawl out the windows or something.

And of course, I have no idea what to do with a table saw. I have this vague notion that I'll build something. Perhaps a book case, the built-in kind. My house (did I mention it was built in 1923?) is an honest-to-Pete Bungalow, craftsman style, and I thought I'd like a chance to learn how do something craftsman-like.

I never took a shop class or woodworking class or anything like that, but my great-granddad was a carpenter. But he was already retired when I was just a kid, his own kids had to take his power tools away, he was down to three fingers on one hand and two on the other. He thought it was kind of funny, actually. Used to do that "I'm picking my nose" trick, which looked pretty realistic with the entire tip of his finger missing - so it really looked like he was rooting around in there, and brother, did he have a honker, so there was plenty of room for it.

His name was KC Jones, not the famous railroad engineer of song and legend, but just the same, his name is on a plaque at the Greater Peoria International Airport, he was one of the founders and a pilot during the Great Depression, well, he didn't have a license, but he had a badge as a Sheriff's Deputy and he flew in booze from Canada.

So that's why I want to build a Thing.

But you know, it wasn't easy to buy this table saw. No sir. I first had to find out where to buy it, which I found out by going to Ryobi's website. You put in your zipcode, and it tells you where the nearest dealer is. Turns out that in North Carolina at least, the nearest dealer is Home Depot, which is kind of like Lowe's, only with higher prices. And Ryobi table saws.

So I went to Ryobi's website to see what I could see, and I discovered the $249 bargain that I just mentioned. But it said "online only" next to the sale price, so I presumed that meant you had to buy it online. Not a problem, you can usually buy things like this online and then just pick them up at the local store. Well, Home Depot's Rocky Mount store is not THAT local, it's 15 miles away, but that's really about a half-hour drive, because there is no quick way to Rocky Mount from Wilson. Highway 301 is about it, with lots of no-tell motels and strip clubs along the way. Not that I've ever noticed. Although Mrs. Wiggy noticed during our drive up there today that one motel had a sign out front proudly advertising that they are for cheaters. Yep, the sign said "New A Cheat." That was all we could figure out, anyway. Then Mrs. Wiggy (got give her the credit) figured it out - it meant "New A/C (as in Air Conditioning) Heat." Oh. Well that's not as much fun.

So anyway, where was I? Oh yes. I was online and saw this great price of $249 for a Ryobi BT3100 table saw from Home Depot, and the website for Home Depot said 'online only'. So, I thought I could order it online and pick it up in Rocky Mount. So I created an account on Home Depot's website and proceeded to begin the ordering process. However, when it came to the part where I put down how I wished to ship said table saw, it listed the shipping price as $119 and did not offer an option to pick the thing up locally. Bummer.

So I abandoned that process and found the "Customer Service" phone number on Home Depot's website and called it. I went through the usual voice response stuff, and finally got to speak to an customer service representative. He had a heavy accent, I'm guessing Indian, and his name was Keith.

Here's how our conversation went, more or less:

Wiggy: Hi, is this Home Depot Customer Service?
Keith: Hello, this is Keith, with Home Depot Customer Service. To whom am I speaking?
Wiggy: Wigwam Jones, Wiggy for short. Wigs to my pals.
Keith: hallow, Mister Wigway. How may I be of service to you?
Wiggy: Well, I saw this great table saw on your website and I'd like to purchase it, but there is a slight problem you see, and...
Keith: Can you tell me the SKU number of the table saw that you saw on our website?
Wiggy: Ah, sure (I gave him the number).
Keith: Oh, that is the Ryobi BT3100 10-inch table saw. It is a fine machine. Do you wish to order it now?
Wiggy: Well, yes, sure, but I wanted to pick it up at the local Home Depot, since shipping is like a hundred and twenty bucks and I...
Keith: Your local prices may vary.
Wiggy: What?
Keith: Your price may vary at the local Home Depot. This is what I am saying.
Wiggy: Ah, well, yes. I saw that you had an 'online' price of $249 and I thought maybe I could still get that price but pick it up to avoid paying shipping. I'll still buy it online, though. That would work, right?
Keith: Your price may vary.
Wiggy: Yes, you said that.
Keith: The prices vary.
Wiggy: I got that. OK, well then, can you tell me how much they cost at the local store?
Keith: That is the thing. The price could be more or less.
Wiggy: Right. So how much is it at the local store?
Keith: They vary.
Wiggy: Look, Keith, this isn't "Let's Make a Deal." I am not playing what's behind curtain number one over here. I understand the price is different in the store than it is online, I just want to know HOW MUCH it costs if I buy it locally!
Keith: The prices...
Wiggy: ...vary, yes. I got that. OK, never mind, I think I have you guys figured out. I'll buy the table saw somewhere else, you don't want my business.
Keith: Wait, Mister Wigwam. Can I help you to decide to purchase the Ryobi BT3100 saw from us locally instead of online?
Wiggy: What? I thought you weren't going to tell me how much they cost locally?
Keith: If you will hold the line, I will call the local store manager and ask him directly how much he charges for the Ryobi BT3100 table saw that you are wanting to purchase.
Wiggy: OK, then.

I then listened to the nice hold music for a short while. Keith came back with the store manager from Rocky Mount, who told me the local price for the table saw - $249, just like the 'web only' sale price. I told him I'd be up during the weekend to pick one up and rang off.

When I told Mrs. Wiggy this story, I mentioned that nobody talks like Keith did, which is why I found it so irritating. You see this "Prices May Vary" stuff on the bottoms of store flyers, right next to "size and color may vary from item shown." Nobody talks like this, it is strictly legalese.

One, she told that this kind of stuff only happens to me. My good friend Milcom Miasma is the 'unmaker', he can make any mechanical thing disassemble itself without even touching it. And I am a shit magnet. The second thing she told me made me drop my jaw in open wonder and admiration - she casually mentioned that apparently, Keith from India speaks two languages. Indian; and Fluent Disclaimer.

We happened to be having some lovely Chinese buffet at that moment, and I inhaled a rice. That is not as fun as it probably sounds, but on the bright side, I think I finally got rid of the last traces of tar that might have been hiding in the very bottom of my lungs from two years ago when I quit smoking.

So now I have a table saw, and I am a-feared to unpack it. I guess I'll have to man up and start sawing off fingers.

Smooches,

Wiggy

The T-Shirt Sheet

The news on bed sheets is apparently:

Cotton Knitted Sheets: As Comfortable As A Favorite T-Shirt

Since being heralded by Oprah Winfrey on national T.V. as her "best discovery of the year," 100 percent cotton jersey knit sheets have become one of the hottest items for the home. Coined the "T-shirt sheet", these stretchy, comfy, wrinkle-free alternatives to the flat weaves, twills and sateens that currently dominate the market, have answered the consumers cry for apparel-influenced bedding.

What? Cry? I wasn't aware of any cry. Did you hear any cry? Did you hear me moan out loud that I was thinking of hurling myself off a tall building or in front of a danged old train because my bed sheets did not resemble my apparel? Thosed danged weaves, twills, and sateens. How dare they dominate the marketplace? What kind of world is this, when sheets can gang up on...aw, never mind. I'm just being weird. I was gonna work a Mohammed joke in there, but I could get set afire for that, so never mind.

If I wanted my bed sheets to resemble my favorite apparel, they'd be made of faded denim and have holes in them, be run down at the heels, and have some paint stains on them. They would not fit on the bed quite right, but would ride down a bit in back, revealing a bit of 'mattress crack' when the bed was bent a certain way. If my sheets resembled my t-shirts, they'd say "Did it hurt when the aliens removed your anal probe?" like my actual t-shirts do.

If I wanted my bedding to resemble my go-to-work attire, my sheets would be made like a polo shirt, complete with BBQ stains where I dripped my lunch (turkey sammich and provolone cheese with KC Masterpiece BBQ sauce on wheat bread, yummy) and some crumbs from a Little Debby's Oatmeal Snack Cake. OK, maybe two Little Debby's. But I have no idea what happened to the third, I'll bet the dogs ate it.

But somehow I got my wish that I didn't even know I had. Mrs. Wiggy came home over over the weekend with two sets of sheets made of t-shirt material. Twenty bucks a pair, she said. We got our tax refund and the woman has gone mad. Mad, I tell you.

So I am about as interested in what our sheets are made of as I am by what vitamins are in the roughage I'm not eating. Which is precisely none at all, out to five decimal places of precision. However, I say "Gee, that's great, honey," because I do not like to have my face lightly tapped with a shovel.

I helped put the new sheets on the bed. Ah, yes, now I see. They are just like t-shirts. Stretchy. Soft. Warm to the touch. Very nice. We have to pull the dickens out of them to get them on the bed, but just like a t-shirt, they'll stretch out a bit. So, all was well. No need for a Wiggy rant.

Ah, but wait. There's more.

See, having sheets on the bed is nice. I'm in favor of it in general, even though I spent a good couple of decades as a single man with sheets being more-or-less optional, and clean sheets being a rare luxury. But more important, I discovered, than having sheets on the bed is having sheets you can sleep on.

You'd think it would not make much difference. Satin, sateen, silk or rubber, a sheet is a sheet, right? As long as it's clean, who really cares if it has lace around the edges or 320 threads per inch?

Well, see, t-shirt material, as it turns out, is really good at being used for t-shirts. For sheets, I'm voting not so much.

Because here's the thing. When you are wrapped up in the comfort that is a t-shirt and you're in bed, it gets warm. Really warm. And you perspire. And the sheet clings to you. And it continues to do so as you thrash and turn and twist as you're sleeping. And pretty soon, you're in a burrito. Every turn you make makes your head turn a bit redder - pretty soon you'll pop.

And worse. See, many ladies choose to shave their legs and such. Me, I don't really go in for that, except for that one incident in college that we won't talk about now. There is probably a really good reason that t-shirt material is used for t-shirts and denim is used for jeans. As it turns out, t-shirt materal grabs your leg and uh, other short and curly hair and it relaxes enough to let the little boogers slide right through. Then you move a bit and what was loose is made tight and it rips the little hairs right out of your body. Oh yeah.

I'm not even going to discuss the kind of dreams I had as I was slowly depilated over the course of the night. Suffice to say I haven't had rug burns like that since the military.

And that's all I have to say on that subject. Except thank God I'm bald already.

Smooches,

Wiggy

Have Some Pooty

I have a coworker who is from India, he is a Sikh. He wears a turban and all. His name is Garm, and his wife is named Binkle. They're great folks, and Mrs. Wiggy and I like them very much. Last summer, we invited them over to our house for a wonderful 4th of July bash, complete with American-style hotdogs, hamburgers and so on, cooked on the grill and topped off with a visit to the local fireworks viewing area. All in all, it was a pretty nice night. And we've been promising each other to get together ever since.

So this long weekend, we put out heads together and came up with Friday night after work being a pretty good time to do it. This time, we'd be their guests at their home, and they'd cook us some traditional Indian cuisine.

Now, I need to make a confession here. I'm pretty bland. In fact, Mrs. Wiggy laughs and refers to me as "Mister Vanilla" when I say such things. She heard me making fun of some fella on the TeeVee who hated to change, and she roared with delight - insisting that if *anybody* doesn't like change, that would be me. She could have a point, maybe.

And I'm also a stick-in-the-mud when it comes to food. The list of food that I don't like would pretty much fill the Superbowl, even after they took the top off. The food I like is described as follows...red meat, starchy noodles, coffee, and beer. Some eggs once in a while to keep the edge off, maybe a taco or a burrito or some corn-on-the-cob. That's pretty much it. Don't like fish, they're too flat. Don't like any seafood, for that matter. Don't like ribs, too much work. Don't like chicken wings, same deal. And I'm pretty much of a late bloomer when it comes to veggies and fruit, too.

I can't blame my parents - they always had a garden, and they loved fresh produce, and they cooked it up and presented it in interesting ways and my three younger sisters just love the stuff. Me, not so much. Growing up in the midwest, we did eat a lot of food others consider strange, though - like lots of canned veggies and fruits - which I like. Grits. Bratwurst. And so on. So it isn't their fault that I am like I am. I have no idea what my problem is.

Mrs. Wiggy is always on me to try new things. She says it is OK if I don't like them, but she insists that I 'give them a try'. I don't even know what that means. I mean, if it smells like death in the kitchen, and it looks like an escapee from a gruesome car accident, do I have to put it in my mouth to make 100% certain that I hate it? I guess so.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, talking about how I'm a 'fussy eater' as they say. Funny how I managed to get some danged fat eating just cheeseburgers, eh?

You might think I'd have viewed this visit to my pal Garm's house with trepidation, given my proclivities, but this was not the case. In fact, I've had a couple of close brushes up against an Indian restaurant, and survived it. They usually have something on the menu that resembles food I recognize, and there are only so many things you can do to a chicken, most of which remain edible. So I had high hopes and no fear when we set off for Garm and Binkle's house.

We arrived at the appointed time, and were ushered in. Garm was not wearing his usual turban, but instead he wore was for all the world appeared to be a pair of pantyhose on his head, with what I can only presume to be his hair pushed up to the front and center and cordoned off by a rubber band, making a knot about the size of a baseball on the top of his head and leaning towards the front. I couldn't take my eyes off it, all I could think of was a clown in the circus with one of those tiny hats. I kept thinking he was going to squeeze a hidden bulb in his pocket and the thing would spin around or shoot water or something. It never did, though.

The house smelled like Indian food and a lot of it, which Mrs. Wiggy adores. She inhaled deeply and commented favorably on the aroma. I was trying really hard not to gag. I find it difficult to describe just what Indian food smells like to me. Something like plastic burning inside an electronic device mixed with garlic and cloves. Or a bag of hair on fire with an onion inside. Something like that.

I mastered my nearly overwhelming desire to run outside and fall over retching, and we were welcomed in to their lovely home. We settled down in the living room and I noticed that although we had a conversation in a normal tone of voice, a television on in the background was broadcasting a satellite feed of a Sikh religious ceremony at a rather high volume. Apparently, this needed to be on during our visit, perhaps it was to cleanse us for what was to come. I don't know, I'm guessing here. Maybe it is like having the NFL on when guests come over, or NASCAR racing here in the South. Just being neighborly.

Anyway, we were soon escorted into the kitchen for what I thought was dinner, but instead it was just a snack - an appetizer, as it were. The entire kitchen table was covered with dishes of various types and sorts, all colors and consistancies I had never seen food exhibit before. To me, it resembled nothing more than a dozen open paint cans with various globs of dirt floating in them. Mrs. Wiggy made lip-smacking noises, and soon our plates were piled high with stuff, which I believe contained pooty, pooty-pooty, abu-grahib pooty, and hey-nonny-nonny pooty. We took it back out to the living room and everyone dug in. I tasted mine and then pushed it around the plate a bit, hoping it would evaporate or something. I looked pleadingly at Mrs. Wiggy, but she didn't feel like taking any off my plate, although she made hers nice and shiny clean, as did our hosts. I was the sole non-pooty eater in the bunch.

I put the plate down on the coffee table, where it glared at me accusingly, and tried to change subject of "Why Wiggy doesn't like good food," which is always a fun topic. Mrs. Wiggy was trying a bit to save me, telling stories about how she had to work at it to get me to eat green chile when we lived in New Mexico, and how the steam used to come out my ears and my head would sweat like it was raining on only me.

We proceeded to have an interesting discussion about life in India and how they had met each other, how long they'd been married, all that type of thing. Garm is a preacher's kid, his family is from Atlanta, and Binkle is direct from India, it was an arranged marriage, but not completely arranged - they had exchanged email and phone calls and had met a number of times, and they were in agreement with their parent's wishes, so they were happy and they were glad to be married to each other. Although they are in their twenties, they've been married just four years, like Mrs. Wiggy and me.

Dinner was eventually served, and we went again to the kitchen, where once again, Binkle had filled the counters, table, and every other flat surface of the kitchen with pans and plates and tureens brimming with food. The smell was amazing - Mrs. Wiggy was in heaven, and I was trying to recite my multiplication tables in my head.

We sat down, and Binkle filled my plate with brown rice (always a safe bet, I love rice) and some chicken in a garlic sauce so thick it looked like wallpaper paste, and some chick peas in some kind of brown stuff sauce. On the side was yogurt with what appeared to be a disemboweled plum drowning in it, and a couple of lumps of something vile and maloderous that resembled something I've cleaned up that the cat left more than once after a sound of much hacking. By the way, did you know that yogurt can be 'spicy'? Well, me neither. Imagine my surprise. Like spicy peanut butter or something. The mouth just isn't ready for that.

I started with the rice, which I was informed is called 'rice'. Well, at least it wasn't pooty something. It was fine, until I got to the part where the pickles were mixed in with it. Pickles? Finding pickles in rice is like finding pickles in ice cream, or pickles in jello. It oughtn't to be. And this was a fine, relish-like pickle, and crunchy. Rice should not be crunchy, I'm pretty sure there's a law about that somewhere.

So I'm choking down the Budweiser that Garm got me, and trying hard not to let actual tears run down the sides of my face, so I try the garlic-infested chicken. Not bad, really, although there is so much garlic that I feel myself become toxic in mere moments. I should mention here that I grew up with powdered garlic flakes being the closest thing to real garlic I'd ever tasted. My first brush with real, fresh, garlic gave me the fragrant trots in about 10 minutes, which is not something that really impresses dates, for you single guys out there. And here I am pounding down garlic cloves like they're potato chips. Oh, this is going to be interesting later on.

And hey, I grew up in an Irish-American house. We ate cabbage and hard-boiled eggs, and pap could chase the dogs out of the room when he got going. I'm a chip off the old boiler room, and I can clear about 500 square feet if I'm given the right fuel. I can give a Dutch Oven that could get me arrested in some states. Not that I'm proud or anything, but I'm wondering if we're going to be able to depart before I render the area into an EPA Superfund cleanup site.

Well, I had about six more beers, and managed to shovel in some lumpy things without having to smell them much, although the pickled crunchy rice was still giving me a slight case of the heaves. We had some kind of desert, which I frankly don't remember much of. I was too busy repeating 'Don't throw up, don't throw up' to myself like some kind of mantra. Our hostess was naming each dish as she shoveled more of it at me - pooty pooty pooty sahib, bad sign pooty, singalong pooty, and nasty-foot-smell pooty.

My host kept looking at me as I chugged beer and made what I presume were drowning man faces, and he asked me if I liked the food okay. I kept assuring him that it was wonderful, not the best job of hearty lying I've ever done, but it beat the alternative, which was to inform my friend that his wife's cooking reminded me of being force-fed a slice of retreaded tire coated in coal tar. I wanted to scream a claw at my mouth with both hands, but I kept putting down the beers and shoveling the various types of pooty in my mouth and nodding like an insane drinking bird.

We finally left about 10:30 p.m., and I realized of course that I had done a fairly poor job of convincing Garm and Binkle that I loved their cuisine. Thankfully, Mrs. Wiggy did indeed love it, and she appreciated it, and I hope that I can find some way that we can meet in the middle on this in the future.

But for now, we got home and I immediately stripped off and threw my clothes in the laundry room - the very smell was urging me to drive the big white porcelain bus. I brushed my teeth, took a shower, popped another beer, and chewed up a big hunk of provolone cheese which had been hiding out in the back of the fridge for nearly too long. I kept belching and tasting that food again, and it would make me shudder and groan like the starter motor on my dad's 1963 Plymouth in a 20 degree Illinois winter.

Listen - I am making fun, and I know that it's at my friend Garm's expense. He is a great guy, as I said, and I wish to hell that I liked that kind of food. His wife Binkle went all-out, that much is clear - trying to make what is probably some of the best authentic Indian food around these parts, and I wanted very much to be appreciative and enjoy it. Mrs. Wiggy clearly did, but for me it was a form of torture, and I'm sorry that it turned out that way.

Otherwise, it was great. Have some pooty?

Smooches,

Wiggy

Let's Call The Whole Thing Off

Well, I wanted to show off this photo. From a recent gig I'm doing in Goldsboro, NC.





Potato, Potahto,

Wiggy

Molly the Dog

One of the two Dogs of the Apocalypse. Looking innocent at the moment. I'm just saying.





Bark, Bark,

Wiggy

The Marbles in my Head Go 'Round and 'Round...

And poor old Wiggy's gone right off his trolley.

Taxes. Ah, taxes. No, not Texas, which is nearly as frightening to me. In fact, if Texas did not contain Kinky Friedman, I'd hardly even be able to say the name of that fine state, I'd be so terrified. But I digress. Taxes.

Did the tax thing this year our own selves. We used to use H&R Crock, but since those weasels hosed us up so badly last year, that's the end of that nonsense. I found TurboTax online (which is a Good Thing, since ol' Wiggy runs Linux and not Macintosh or Windows). Works like a champ, I must say. Did the e-file shuffle, for both state and federal taxes, and it even said when (approximately) we could expect our refund to come wafting into our sad and lonely checking account. We eagerly anticipate said refund, for the purchase of beer and other Important Things. We may even pay a few bills with it, crazy stuff like that. Since we've been experiencing $600+ utility bills the last few months, it surely would come in handy.

Well. We "got 'er done," as they say, and sat back to await the Magic Day when the Eagle Flies and squeezes out a nice lumpy tax refund check for us.

But your hero Wiggy is an impatient sort. So I went GIYF (Google Is Your Friend) and typed in 'where's my refund IRS' and Saigon!, there it was:

Where's My Refund?

Wow. That was easy.

So ok, you click on the link, you enter your Mark of the Beast Number, oops, I mean your Social Security Number, your filing status (single, married, bankrupt, bilingual, bilateral, bigamist, none of the above, etc) and the amount you expect to get back. So I did it.

The screen I got filled me with dread. It said "Your tax form has been received and is being processed." Oh. Well, that's kind of a let-down, eh? Reading further on the form, it says to check back - maybe in a week or so.

Which means, of course, that I checked back twice a day, every day. I'm a bad taxpayer.

Today, I got a different answer. Maybe they got tired of me asking alla time.

The message said: "There is a delay in processing your tax return. For more information, please continue." Oh, that's not good. That isn't good, is it? That can't be good.

Worse, there is no 'Continue' button. There is a 'Print Now', 'How Did We Do?', and 'Log Out' button, but no 'Continue' button!

Reading on, the cryptic message read "Please mention reference number 1234 to the IRS Customer Service Representative" and gave a phone number. I guess that's what they mean by 'Continue', eh? Government-speak or something.

I called. When I got the voice mail menu, I pressed '1' for English (sometimes it makes more sense in Spanish - which I don't speak) and then '1234' for the special sekrit code I had been given. Oops, I guess ya'll know my sekrit code now. Don't tell anyone, ok?

After a short time on hold - we're talking mere minutes, not ice ages this time - I got Mrs. Hughes on the phone. She gave me her Operator Number as well, but frankly, there were a couple dozen numbers, letters, and Cyrillic characters in there, so I didn't catch it at all.

The conversation then became much more philosophical than I ever expected any conversation with a government official to be. It went something like this:

Mrs. Hughes: How can I help you?
Wiggy: I went to the "Where the Hell's My Money?" website and it said to call you.
Mrs. Hughes: And you did it?
Wiggy: Ah, excuse me?
Mrs. Hughes: You went to the IRS Tax Refund Status website and it told you to call us and you did it?
Wiggy: Yes. Is that wrong? I'm confused.
Mrs. Hughes: What is your name, sir?

[Note: At this point, I began to feel that I might be in trouble. Maybe they knew that I had been checking that website more often than once ever three weeks? We established my bona fides, and the conversation continued.]

Mrs. Hughes: There was no need to call us, sir, the website tells everyone to call us.
Wiggy: It does? It said that there was a "delay in processing my tax return," and to call you. It gave me your number, honest!
Mrs. Hughes: Yes sir. It tells everyone that. There is always a delay in processing your taxes. This is the IRS, sir.
Wiggy: Umph. [Note: I was biting the hell out of my evil tongue at this point.]
Mrs. Hughes: However, sir, I'll check your refund for you, since you seem unconvinced.
Wiggy: Thampthf You. [Note: Bit that tongue a trifle too hard. Ouchy.]

[Note: Then I got to listen to some rocking Burt Bacherach tunes while Mrs. Hughes slaved over a hot computer terminal - which I could hear. It was strange, listening to Mrs. Hughes humming along to "The Look of Love."]

Mrs. Hughes: Sir?
Wiggy: Yes, ma'am?
Mrs. Hughes: There is a delay in processing your taxes.
Wiggy: Ah.
Mrs. Hughes: It seems that the website was right.
Wiggy: I see. So. Any idea what the problem might be?
Mrs. Hughes: There is a delay. In processing your taxes. A delay. That means, uh, it takes more time. That's what 'delay' means.
Wiggy: Oh, good, I thought you said "DeLay" and we were talking about Texas. I fear Texas.
Mrs. Hughes: What?
Wiggy: Ah, never mind, Mrs. Hughes. I had Burt Bacharach on the brain there for a second. My bad.
Mrs. Hughes: There is something wrong with our website. It is telling everyone to call us.
Wiggy: That's bad?
Mrs. Hughes: They call us. About their taxes.
Wiggy: I can see where that would be a problem, with the phone ringing all day.
Mrs. Hughes: Yes. It is. A problem. They call us.
Wiggy: Um.
Mrs. Hughes: Your return is 'out for review'.
Wiggy: Oh, really? That sounds serious.
Mrs. Hughes: Yes. All returns must go out for review. That's normal.
Wiggy: Well, that's good. I mean, it sounds normal. Not like there is a problem.
Mrs. Hughes: Well, there is a problem with yours.
Wiggy: Yoikes!
Mrs. Hughes: You know you have an existing tax liability, right?
Wiggy: Yes, I do. We have a payment arrangement with the IRS regarding a previous issue. We pay so much per month on that.
Mrs. Hughes: Well, you were getting a refund, so we are taking that for your tax liability.
Wiggy: I see.
Mrs. Hughes: That's the delay.
Wiggy: Um.
Mrs. Hughes: In processing your return.
Wiggy: Well, Mrs. Hughes, I expected that. But there is a bigger return than there is a tax liability, so I presume we will get that much refunded, yes?
Mrs. Hughes: Oh, yes. You will get it. Your refund.
Wiggy: Well, my main concern is that this delay might end up taking a lot of time. I could sure use that money now. Or when the IRS originally said I could expect it in my checking account. Something near that, anyway. Not months later, or whatever.
Mrs. Hughes: Oh, there will be no delay. Zero delay. We'll just reduce your refund by the amount of your tax liability and deposit the rest electronically in your checking account.
Wiggy: Oh, that's great! No delay?
Mrs. Hughes: There is a delay. I informed you, sir. There is a delay. In processing your tax return.
Wiggy: But the refund?
Mrs. Hughes: No delay.
Wiggy: But, if the tax return is delayed...
Mrs. Hughes: It is delayed. As I said. Delayed.
Wiggy: Then, the refund will be delayed too, won't it?
Mrs. Hughes: No delay.
Wiggy: ?
Mrs. Hughes: As soon as the delay in processing your tax return is cleared up.
Wiggy: Ah. So, if it takes, say, six months to process my tax return?
Mrs. Hughes: Then as soon as it is processed, there will be no delay in depositing your refund.
Wiggy: Got it.
Mrs. Wiggy: I'm glad to hear that, sir. There is a delay.
Wiggy: Right. I'm hip.
Mrs. Hughes: Did you have any other questions, sir?
Wiggy: No, I think I'm full. Thank you for your time.
Mrs. Hughes: I don't know why everyone keeps calling. The website keeps telling them to call. And then they call. I don't understand.
Wiggy: Well, I'm sure sorry to hear that, Mrs. Hughes. I won't call again.
Mrs. Hughes: You can call if the website says to call, sir.
Wiggy: OK.
Mrs. Hughes: Just wait at least three weeks.
Wiggy: Right. Bye now!

At this point, I hung up. My poor little punkin haid is fried. I find myself talking. In short sentences. Just like. Mrs. Hughes.

[Note: by the by, spell check turned 'punkin haid' into 'Penguin Haiti'. I might like that better.]

And I'm strangely attracted to the idea of Burt Bacharach on the turntable and a couple gallons of beer near where I can get to it easily. There is a delay...

Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head,

Wiggy

Michael Jackson to pen Roman Catholic Church songs

I don't know whether to laugh or cry...

Hunter S. Thompson, you left the room too soon. It was just about to get SERIOUSLY weird around here.

On with the show,

Wiggy

http://www.teentoday.co.uk/gossip/gossipstory1653.shtml

Michael Jackson to pen Roman Catholic Church songs

Michael Jackson is to write songs for the Roman Catholic
Church. The 47-year-old singer - who was last year cleared of molesting children - is reportedly in talks with Vatican officials. Father Guiseppe Moscati, of the Millennium Music Society, said: "Michael Jackson is very interested in this project. We shall see what happens."

Church elders would like the 'Bad' singer to put the prayers of Pope John Paul II, who died last year, to music. Meanwhile, the star is still working on his comeback single. The song, called 'The Bottom Of My Heart', is being released to raise money for victims of Hurricane Katrina. The single will be a collaboration with a number of celebrity friends, including Jay-Z, James Brown, Mariah Carey and Mary J Blige.

Jackson's spokesman Ramone K Bain revealed the track is almost finished. He said: "All that remains is for two or three more artists to do their tracks, and Michael will then add his vocals. "He is now on the fast track, and we're happy with the progress."