"Department of Merry Vehicles"

By Jerry Zezima

I don’t need a driver’s license to drive people crazy, which I was doing even before I was old enough to drive a car. But I did need a new driver’s license to get on a plane, which I wouldn’t be flying because I don’t have a pilot’s license, even though my mere presence would undoubtedly drive everyone on the plane — that’s right — crazy.

So I had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles, a place that has been known to — right again — drive people crazy.

That didn’t happen to me because: (a) I was already crazy and (b) the experience was fast, smooth and — the last thing you’d expect anyone to say after being in the DMV — fun.

I made a morning appointment because I wanted to be back home before sundown. Also, I thought I had a REAL ID and wasn’t sure if I needed an Enhanced ID, the difference being, of course, the spelling.

I didn’t want to be prevented from boarding the plane or possibly taken into custody because I couldn’t prove I’m actually myself (who else would want to be me?), so I played it safe by going to the DMV office in Medford, New York.

The place looked like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I instantly regretting not packing an overnight bag.

But the line to the check-in desk moved quickly thanks to a friendly and efficient staffer named Robin, who asked if I was returning a plate.

“You mean the one in my head?” I answered.

“No,” she said pleasantly. “A license plate.”

I mercifully decided not to torture her with more stupid jokes and incur the wrath of the countless customers waiting behind me, so I said I needed a new driver’s license and explained why.

Robin handed me some paperwork, told me to find a place where I could fill it out and return it to her.

“Put down that you want a replacement license, not a renewal,” she said after I showed her my license, which was, indeed, a REAL ID. It was also cracked, so I needed a new one anyway.

Robin gave me ticket number U0037.

When I returned the paperwork, cutting in line to do so, she gave me another ticket: K0019.

I sat down and heard the automated voice on the loudspeaker say, “U0037 to Window 4.”

I went to Window 4 and saw a very pleasant person named Liz. I told her that my new number was K0019.

“You have to sit down and wait to be called,” she said. “But while you’re up here, I can take your picture.”

It came out looking like me, but without the constipated expression so common in driver’s license photos.

I sat down but was called back about two minutes later when I heard, “K0019 to Window 4.”

I was greeted by another very pleasant person named Dana.

“Where’s Liz?” I asked.

“She ran away,” joked Dana, who explained that I’d be getting an Enhanced ID, which would allow me to board domestic flights and go anywhere in the United States. “You can also go to Canada and Mexico,” she added.

“I don’t think they’d want me,” I said.

“Just show them your handsome photo and they’ll let you in,” Dana said with a smile.

“Everyone here is very nice and very efficient,” I told her.

“Sometimes we get called a bad name,” she said, “but we try our best.”

The whole experience took only half an hour and cost just $17.50.

“I’ve had a great time,” I told Dana, who gave me a temporary license and said the official one would arrive in the mail soon.

“Drive safely,” she said.

“Can I also drive people crazy?” I asked.

Dana smiled again and said, “You don’t need a license for that.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"No Fortune at the Wheel"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man who is not letter-perfect (I’m not number-perfect, either, and I have the bank account to prove it), I could never replace Ryan Seacrest as the host of “Wheel of Fortune.”

And my wife, Sue, who is perfectly aware of this, couldn’t replace Vanna White as the legendary letter-turner.

In fact, we couldn’t even be contestants on the show because, in a perfectly dumb move, we neglected to register to go onstage for “Wheel of Fortune LIVE!,” a traveling version of the popular TV game that we saw at a local theater.

But we had fun anyway. And I did so well from my seat, mumbling one correct answer after another, that I could have been the champion and won $1,500, which would have made for — the category is Phrase — A PERFECT EVENING.

Sue watches “Wheel” every evening and is pretty good at it, having “won” cash, trips and cars she will never see because she has been on the wrong side of the TV screen.

Five years ago, I tried out to be on “Wheel of Fortune.” In the category of “What are you doing?” my answer would have been: I AM BOMBING.

My online application was accepted, but when I competed in a qualification game on Zoom against two other people — both of whom were smart young women — I was at a pathetic LOSS FOR WORDS.

So I figured I would make up for it when Sue and I attended “Wheel of Fortune LIVE!,” which was held at the Patchogue Theatre for the Performing Arts on Long Island, New York.

We walked into the crowded lobby and right past the table where we could have registered to be contestants. There was no guarantee we would have been chosen because the theater, which has a seating capacity of 1,100, was packed.

As we settled into our seats, the announcer, Cody Dove, was warming up the crowd.

He chatted with Marie, a hairdresser who said she watches “Wheel” every night, which drew applause, and John, a retired power company worker who said, “I never watch it,” which drew boos.

Cody, a funny guy who was with the famed Second City improv group and has toured with “Wheel of Fortune LIVE!” for four years, turned over the reins to host Jay Flats, another funny guy who is on his second tour with the show.

“I absolutely love this,” said Jay, who was absolutely loved by the audience and especially the contestants.

And why not? He was their key to (relative) fame and fortune.

But before the game could begin, a letter-turner was needed. The winner was Paulette Siegel, who had two excellent qualifications: (1) a bubbly personality and (2) sparkly pants.

“Paulette will be our Vanna tonight,” said Jay, who was the host with the most while smoothly running the show.

I smoothly picked letters and solved puzzles from my seat.

“I could have won this,” I whispered to Sue.

The real winner was Jennifer Busacca, who bested all the other contestants and made it to the Bonus Round. Her category: Fun and Games.

She had 10 seconds to solve the puzzle. She got it in about one second: TRIVIAL PURSUIT.

Jennifer didn’t win a car or a trip, but she did take home $1,500.

Afterward, she told me, “I always wanted to be on the show. It was nerve-racking, but it was fun.”

I told Jennifer, as well as Jay, Cody and Paulette, that I once tried out for “Wheel of Fortune” but didn’t make the cut. I also said I didn’t register to be a contestant that night but did great while sitting in the audience.

“It’s easier when you don’t actually have to play,” said Cody.

Sue nodded and gave me a phrase that was letter-perfect: “BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"A Jolt for a Dolt"

By Jerry Zezima

I don’t want to beat around the bush, so I’ll come right out and say it: I should start a hedge fund.

It could have paid for my hospital stay — or, worse, my funeral — after I came close to being electrocuted while trimming the hedges.

Instead, I should have paid my wife, Sue, the going rate for being a master electrician. That’s because she restored power in the downstairs bathroom after I blew it out in a shocking display of landscaping ineptitude.

When it comes to using power tools, I am a chicken. Fortunately, I wasn’t fried.

That’s why I was apprehensive about trimming the hedges, or bushes, or whatever they are.

The ones in front of the living room windows had grown so high and mighty that they blocked the beautiful view of cars blowing through the stop sign.

The ones on the other side, in front of the dining room windows, blocked the view of birds relieving themselves on the cars in our driveway.

Still, they weren’t as large as a butterfly bush we had years ago. The floral fiend stood about 12 feet tall and its branches reached all the way from the edge of the property to the side of our two-story Colonial.

“I hope this thing isn’t really a gigantic Venus flytrap,” I told Sue. “If I go outside, it could eat me.”

“In that case,” she told me, “it would get indigestion.”

The guy we hired to annihilate the gargantuan growth used a chainsaw that must have been sharp enough to cut through concrete, although it would have been blunted by my skull.

I once had a chainsaw that I used to cut fallen tree limbs, but I was afraid of doing the same to my limbs, which meant: (a) I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on or (b) I’d have to write my own version of “A Farewell to Arms.”

Our younger daughter — braver, smarter and more coordinated than her father — has a chainsaw that she uses to cut down her family’s Christmas tree.

So far, in this digital age, she still has all her fingers.

Power tools leave me feeling powerless. That includes the electric knife I used when carving the Thanksgiving turkey. The big bird often ended up looking like it had been through a meat grinder. One year I drew blood (mine, not the turkey’s).

Our daughter is now in charge of the carving, which she does — smoothly and bloodlessly — with a large kitchen knife that doesn’t need to be plugged in.

I still have an electric drill that I used on our mailbox, whose broken door I somehow reattached a few years ago, leaving unsightly holes from my initial failed attempts.

It’s a good thing I’m not a dentist.

But back to the bushes, which I promised Sue I would trim.

I found an extension cord in the shed, but it was too short for me to reach the full length of the bushes with the electric trimmer. So I used shears that were even duller than this column.

After Sue found a long extension cord in the garage, I plugged it in and revved up the hedge trimmer, thinning the thick thatch until I got a whiff of smoke and a slight buzzing in my hands before the trimmer conked out.

I looked down and saw that the cord was caught between the teeth of the trimmer, which had almost cut through it.

“I could have been electrocuted!” I told Sue.

Her response: “You blew out the power in the bathroom.”

Because she is brighter than I am, she knew how to reset it.

“I could be a master electrician,” said Sue, adding that I did a good job on the bushes.

“At least I didn’t end up like a fried chicken,” I said. “Extra crispy.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Comedy Is the Best Policy"

By Jerry Zezima

The greatest insurance sales pitch I ever heard was uttered by Groucho Marx in “A Night at the Opera” when he told a potential client, “I have here an accident policy that will absolutely protect you no matter what happens. If you lose a leg, we’ll help you look for it.”

That’s the kind of solemn promise you don’t hear in all those TV insurance commercials, which feature a guy who hangs out with a big flightless bird, customers who do business with a talking lizard, and a doctor who tries to prevent young homeowners from becoming their parents.

It is not my policy to insure my two grown daughters against becoming me because that’s the last thing in the world they’d want to do.

And they couldn’t get coverage anyway. After all, if there was ever a poor risk, it’s me.

But I am lucky to know the best insurance man in the business.

He is none other than Timothy K. Lovelette, president, chief executive officer and grand high exalted mystic ruler of the Marshall K. Lovelette Insurance Agency of Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

“Everybody wants to get into the insurance business,” said Tim, a college buddy who has remained a great friend for more than half a century. “I’ve become the exclusive agent for anyone who wants to get into the insurance acting business.”

That includes the aforementioned spokespeople, as well as mascots like geckos and emus.

“There’s a casting call in my office,” Tim said. “I have a lot that I’m working on.”

“How about casting me?” I wondered. “My kids should see you for an insurance policy against me.”

“No insurance company in the world would sell a policy against you,” Tim told me.

“Not even yours?” I said.

“Are you kidding?” said Tim. “You should tell your kids, ‘I feel bad that I may have to be a burden to you.’ Nobody is going to want you.”

“The worst part is that our kids still have stuff in our houses, even though they moved out years ago,” I said.

“There’s a simple solution,” said Tim. “Wrap it all up and mail it to them during the holidays with a tag that says, ‘Merry Christmas!’ ”

“No wonder our kids would never want to become us,” I said.

“But ultimately, they’ll get back at us,” Tim predicted. “When we die, our kids will have a yard sale. Our stuff will go on the free table.”

“What about those animal mascots?” I asked.

“If you got them together in my office, the emu would eat the gecko,” Tim theorized. “The most annoying one is that duck. It keeps quacking only one word.”

“You mean the name of the insurance company it represents?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Tim said. “It makes you want to go duck hunting.”

“Maybe the duck can take out a life insurance policy,” I suggested.

“Not with me,” said Tim, adding that the animal mascot for the Lovelette Insurance Agency could be a wild turkey. “Ben Franklin wanted it to be the national bird,” he said. “And it’s an excellent bourbon.”

“How about a snake?” I wondered, noting that Tim, in his role as the ringleader of countless pranks in college, often enlisted the services of live snakes he found in the woods near the school.

“They were our evil pets, but they wouldn’t make good mascots,” he replied. “Besides, they don’t have arms. How would they sign policies?”

“Good point,” I said, adding that Tim would be an even better spokesman than Mayhem, the mischievous guy who causes trouble in what I think are the best insurance commercials.

“I could see that,” he said.

“If a client lost a leg, would you help him look for it?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t be covered,” said Tim, “but I would do it for the amusement value.”

“Yet another reason,” I said, “for our kids not to become their parents.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Loan Offers Are in Vein"

By Jerry Zezima

I used to think all the scammers who called to say I was approved for a loan I never asked for were bloodsuckers.

Now I know that one of them is a blood donor.

A snarky guy named “Mike C.” said he was willing to give me a transfusion if I would give him personal information so he could, presumably, drain all the money in my bank account.

Mike is one of the countless irritating people who have bombarded me with calls to make me an offer I can’t (but always do) refuse.

Their pitch, low and outside, typically goes like this:

“I’m calling about your request for a personal loan. We may be able to offer up to $40,000 at an estimated 5.49% rate with payments around $654 a month.”

My wife, Sue, the family banker, also gets these calls. I asked her if we needed a loan.

“No,” she answered. “It’s a scam.”

“Are you sure?” I said naively. “These callers seem very concerned about us.”

“They want to take advantage of us because we’re senior citizens,” Sue said.

“One of them said we need a hardship loan,” I told her.

“Hang up on them,” she said.

I can’t because the calls aren’t made by real people; they’re recordings from “loan specialists” named Daniella Foster, Carmen Torres, Charles Freedman, Steve Garner, Sophia Perez, Kayla Davis, Blake Armstrong, Lauren Pierce, Anthony Kirk and, of course, Mike C.

If I don’t pick up and press 2 to speak with a representative, they leave voicemails.

“Block the calls,” Sue suggested.

I’ve tried, but to no avail. The calls keep coming in from different numbers. There must be even more phone numbers than the many thousands of dollars these scammers want to loan me.

Because my time is not valuable, which negates the need for a loan, and I had nothing better to do, which is the main reason for being a columnist, I decided to call several of the callers back.

One of them was Charles Freedman, who did not sound like a real person.

“Are you AI?” I asked.

“I understand why you might ask,” Charles said in a clipped monotone.

“I was born with artificial intelligence,” I informed him. “Why did you call me?”

“Thank you for asking,” said Charles. “You have been pre-selected for our debt-relief option, which will put more money in your pocket.”

“It would only weigh down my pants,” I said.

After Charles droned on about needing my personal information, I figured there was no point in making wisecracks to a robot, so I hung up.

Next I spoke with Alice, a real person.

“What’s your last name, Alice?” I inquired.

She hung up.

So did Karen, another human who would not tell me her last name.

Anthony was more forthcoming.

“What’s your last name, Anthony?” I asked.

“Kirk,” he answered. “I’m an underwriter.”

“I’m an overwriter,” I said. “Why do you want to give me a loan I didn’t apply for?”

“Maybe you’re behind on payments,” Anthony said. “We have over 20 financial entities. It’s hard to know which company provided your information.”

“For your information,” I said, “I’m not interested.”

Anthony hung up.

Last but not least was Mike.

“What’s your last name?” I asked.

“Why do you want to know?’ he countered.

“I’m a busybody,” I said.

“I’ll give you the initial,” said Mike. “It’s C.”

“What’s it stand for?” I asked.

“Do you want to know my blood type, too?” Mike C. said sarcastically.

“Why not?” I chirped. “I might need a transfusion. Would you give me one?”

“Sure, if you give me your personal information,” he said.

“I’ll give you my blood type,” I told him.

Mike C. hung up.

Sue was greatly amused.

“I was right on the money,” I said proudly, “And I bet I made his blood boil.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima