"The Adventures of a Class Clown"

By Jerry Zezima

On May 23, 1985, a date which will live in journalistic infamy, my first humor column was published. Now, 40 years later, I am still writing it for two unsound reasons: I am spectacularly unqualified to do anything else and nobody has stopped me.

I knew I wanted to be a writer in high school. My decision was made in an English composition class.

We had to write an essay about a particular topic (I forget what it was) and get up in front of the class to read it. Nobody wanted to do this — except me. Everybody took it seriously — except me.

I wrote the silliest, stupidest, funniest stuff I could think of. When I read my essay, I got big laughs.

Around this time, I started to read my hometown paper, the Stamford Advocate in Connecticut, and got hooked on the humor columns of Art Buchwald and Erma Bombeck.

I resolved to be like them because I was the class clown. My professional goal was to be silly and irresponsible and actually get paid for it.

In 1976, a year out of college, I strolled into the Stamford Advocate newsroom and announced that I wanted a job.

The editor, Roland Blais, asked what experience I had. I told him I had none.

Instead of throwing me out, Mr. Blais — kind, patient and a true newspaperman — gave me a test that included grammar, history and current events.

I did well enough because I was hired. But there were some questions to which I didn’t know the answers. Instead of leaving them blank or taking halfhearted guesses, I remembered what I did on that essay in high school and wrote the silliest, stupidest, funniest stuff I could think of.

Later, in his office, Mr. Blais said, “That’s what got you the job. It showed signs of creativity.”

I was going to say that I didn’t think you were supposed to make stuff up in a newspaper, but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut.

Over the next nine years, I was a succession of things: copyboy, police reporter, sportswriter, assistant metro editor and features editor. I failed miserably in all of them until there was nothing left to do but write a humor column.

I decided early on to write about family foibles and the funny little things of everyday life.

My wife, Sue, without whom I would be either dead or in prison, has been the star of innumerable columns. One of the most memorable was when I went to the bank to apply for a loan to buy her the $10 million Millennium Bra from Victoria’s Secret. I didn’t get the money, so I bought her a flannel nightgown.

I wore pajama bottoms to work to impress our two daughters, who wore them to school. It was the only time they ever thought I was cool.

I called the White House to see if I could qualify for federal funds to clean up the disaster area that was our younger daughter’s room when she was home from college. Not only couldn’t I get the money, but she put a lock on the door.

And of course I have written about our five grandchildren, who are more mature than I am. I’m proud to be their favorite toy.

Other column adventures, which number more than 1,500, have included being a model in a women’s jewelry show (I got a turquoise necklace for Sue), running for vice president of the United States on the Cocktail Party ticket (my running mate and I actually got votes), playing blackjack with our dog (I lost), making my own beer (it went down smooth and came back up the same way) and taking Sue to the dump on our anniversary (I’m surprised she didn’t leave me there).

After 40 years, I’m still writing nonsense and having more fun than the law allows.

Not bad for a class clown.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"O Say Can't I See"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man of vision, which has saved me from walking into walls, I can see clearly that my eyes aren’t what they used to be.

In fact, they used to be martini olives. Those were the days!

At any rate, I now need my wife’s glasses to read books, newspapers, emails, bills and even what I am writing, which would probably come out better if I couldn’t see it.

The only kind of glasses I have needed until now are wineglasses, which can make me a double-visionary.

I also have a pair of specs that can be used for distance if I am driving at night in the rain and can’t see road signs leading to important destinations like, for instance, my house. But I really don’t need them because on most nights, I am asleep in front of the TV, unable to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news to see if rain is in the forecast.

But I recently found, at the advanced age of 71, that I am farsighted, though not in the sense of showing foresight, because I can’t see into the future. If I could, I would have won Powerball by now.

Rather, I am farsighted in the sense that I can’t properly focus on things that are close to my eyes, such as words, objects or, in an extreme case, my nose, which I could see if I had access to the Hubble Space Telescope.

This may explain why my wife, Sue, who has what she estimates are “90 pairs of glasses” scattered around the house, is always telling me that whatever I am looking for in the refrigerator, a cabinet or a drawer, but can’t find, is right in front of my face.

What this doesn’t explain is why Sue is always asking me if I saw her glasses. It has led to the eternal optical conundrum: If you can’t find your glasses, wouldn’t you need your glasses to find them?

I found a pair of hers in my office and have been using them to work on the computer because without them, letters and numbers look like either a Volkswagen Beetle or the chemical symbol for krypton, which you’d think would give me X-ray vision.

But my eyes have been opened to the joy of using glasses for which I don’t need a prescription. I refer to “readers,” inexpensive glasses you can buy in a store not affiliated with an optometrist, whose prices might be so high that when the bill comes, you won’t believe your own eyes.

Sue’s readers have a diopter strength of 2.75 (to the best of my knowledge, which is scant on this subject, the highest in the typical range is 3.0).

According to Merriam-Webster, who has astigmatism, a diopter is “a unit of measurement of the refractive power of lenses equal to the reciprocal of the focal length in meters.”

I have no idea what that means and can’t read it without getting a headache.

Still, I thought it was a good idea to get a pair of my own glasses. So Sue and I went to CVS (Cheap Vision Service) and found a stand with readers that weren’t particularly flattering on me. Plus, they were tight.

“They’re for women,” Sue helpfully pointed out.

We went to the men’s section, where I selected a pair that fit well, look stylish and have a diopter strength of 2.75.

I opened the email on my phone and beheld letters, words and sentences I could actually read without squinting so hard that my eyelids fell off.

And the glasses cost only $26.99.

“That’s a lot better than what you would pay for a pair from the eye doctor,” Sue said. “And now you don’t have to use mine.”

“At last,” I said, “I see what you mean.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Cone of Sloppiness"

By Jerry Zezima

You scream, I scream, we all scream for …

Beer!

Well, I do when the grandkids aren’t around. But when they are, we all scream for ice cream. My screaming happens when I eat it too fast and get brain freeze, which I would get even if I were marooned on the blistering sands of the Sahara Desert without food, water or a heaping cone of vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles.

This year’s ice cream season officially began on a sunny Saturday. After Old Man Winter was finally run out of town and took his sleet, mittens and sinus infections with him, I drove two of my granddaughters to a shop called Magic Fountain for frosty treats that go straight to the sweet tooth if you are a kid and straight to the waistline if you are an adult.

“What do you girls want?” I asked as we stood in a long line outside.

They looked over the extensive menu printed on a large board, where an excited bunch of other kids had congregated while their parents (and one grandparent) held their place in line, but it didn’t matter because they had already made up their minds.

“I want a cup of cake mix with rainbow sprinkles,” said one granddaughter, who’s 12.

When she was 4, she and I went to Magic Fountain (“Where Ice Cream Dreams Come True!”) to make a batch of honey-cinnamon with the owner.

My granddaughter helped pour a bottle of honey into a plastic container. She also helped pour eight ounces of ground cinnamon into a measuring cup and dump the ingredients into the container. Then she squeezed in a bag of ice cream mix and helped turn on the machine.

When the ice cream was done 20 minutes later, my granddaughter tasted it and exclaimed, “Wow!”

“Now,” said the very kind and patient owner, “you can say you taught your grandfather how to make ice cream.”

“I remember that,” said my granddaughter, who didn’t want to make ice cream this time. “I just want to eat it.”

Her sister, then a baby and now 8, wanted a large mint chocolate chip milkshake with whipped cream.

“That cup is too big for you,” I said, pointing out that the plastic container’s contents could choke a water buffalo.

“No, it’s not,” the girl protested. “I can finish it.”

I placed both orders with a young woman behind the counter.

“What would you like?” she asked me.

“A vanilla soft serve cone,” I replied.

“What kind of cone?” she inquired.

“Anything but a traffic cone,” I said with a goofy grin.

She sighed, because it was really busy, and inquired further: “Wafer or waffle?”

I waffled before choosing wafer.

“Rainbow sprinkles?” she said.

“No, thanks,” I responded. “I’m driving.”

I paid at the register — $26.09 on a card, plus a nice tip in cold cash because the frazzled employee really deserved it — and grabbed a fistful of those wimpy little napkins that are sadly inadequate for wiping melted ice cream from the faces, and sometimes clothing, of sloppy patrons.

By that I mean grandfathers.

The girls and I sat outside on a bench and, in the strong spring sun, began slurping, sipping and slobbering our sweet treats.

Immediately my soft serve started to trickle over the top of my cone, so I had to lick the edges while inhaling the top of the creamy mound before it collapsed in an avalanche of goo.

“I can’t finish mine,” announced the younger girl, who had promised she could.

“I can’t finish mine, either,” said her sister.

I did finish mine, used every napkin in my possession to clean up the mess on all three of us and walked back to the car with the girls.

“Let’s come back tomorrow!” the older one said.

“Yeah!” her sister agreed. “But Poppie,” she said to me, “you have to stop telling silly jokes or you’ll never get any rainbow sprinkles.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"How to Be Walked by Your Dog"

By Jerry Zezima

I may be barking up the wrong tree, but as a human who has been owned by several canines, I am in a good position — standing, running or being yanked in several directions at once — to pass along my expert tips on walking a dog.

Tip No. 1: You do not walk a dog. The dog walks you.

I have been reintroduced to this pet project since Opal, a sweet yet frenetic Chihuahua pup, was adopted by my younger daughter and her family, which includes her husband and their daughters, ages 12 and 8, who are older than Opal in dog years and not nearly as active.

Unlike most people, including yours truly, dogs love to get exercise. And they are smart enough not to do it at a gym, which costs money the dogs don’t have.

That’s why dogs keep in shape by running crazily around the house or going for walks outside. Both require the participation of humans, who over the past several centuries have been domesticated to the point where they are, as far as interspecies relationships are concerned, a dog’s best friend.

Like my previous dogs — Daisy from boyhood, Lizzie from fatherhood and Maggie from grandfatherhood — Opal has GPS: Global Pooch System. This directs her to wherever she wants to go, including places where she, yes, wants to go.

Tip No. 2: When a dog does its business, a human must stand at one end of the leash and pretend not to notice what is happening at the other end.

This is a very important rule because you don’t want to embarrass the dog, who couldn’t care less but lets you think your unwanted attention is somehow interfering with the expulsion of whatever was ingested — treats, rocks, grass, another dog’s droppings — earlier in the day.

Tip No. 3: Always carry a doggy bag. Not the kind you get from a restaurant, silly human, but one specifically designed to help you pick up after your pooch.

Ideally, these slippery plastic bags should be as agonizingly difficult to open as those found in grocery stores. Compounding the problem is that your dog, having finished fertilizing a neighbor’s lawn, will try to pull you down the road while you are fumbling futilely with the pungent deposit.

“Woof woof!” the dog will bark. (Translation: “Hurry up!”)

“Just a minute!” you will invariably reply. (Translation: Can’t be printed in a family newspaper.)

Tip No. 4: Be prepared to stop and smell the flowers.

You have already smelled something much worse, so why not nature’s beauties? That’s what your dog believes. If he or she is not familiar with a neighborhood, the dog will stop approximately every eight feet to sniff bushes, eat grass or otherwise learn the lay of the land.

When Opal visited our house recently, my wife and I took her for a walk with her human sisters, also known as our granddaughters. I was the walker and soon found myself hopelessly behind the others while Opal inspected virtually every square inch of a five-block area.

The entire Super Bowl broadcast didn’t take as long.

Tip No. 5: Be prepared to sprint and suffer permanent injuries.

If a dog is on its home turf, he or she will already have stopped a million times on previous walks and will want to race you in a 100-yard dash. This will result in: (a) the dislocation of your shoulder, (b) myocardial infarction or (c) a face-plant with gravel up your nose.

On a recent visit to Opal’s house, we went for a walk with the girls, one of whom rode her bike and the other who rode her scooter. Lacking opposable thumbs and long enough legs for pedaling, Opal ran hither and yon, attorneys at law, while I tried to keep up without running headlong into a tree, a stop sign or an oncoming vehicle.

So there you have it, fellow humans. I hope these tips will help you enjoy your walks because neither rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night will keep your dog from its appointed rounds.

As Opal would say if she could talk, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima