"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

"Magic Carpet Guys"

By Jerry Zezima

I’m a guy who has always swept things under the rug. That doesn’t include the things another guy, who happens to be a cute little pooch, recently plopped on the rug.

Which is why my wife, Sue, and I had the rug cleaned.

Because I don’t take my shoes off in the house, which means dirt is afoot, we had a second rug cleaned, too.

The cleaners were Keenen Pierre and Josh Vazquez, who are esteemed colleagues, even though they don’t use steam on rugs and carpets.

“We use what’s called hot water extraction,” Keenen explained.

“Instead of going on the rug, steam comes out of the machine and hits me in the face,” Josh added while mopping sweat from his brow. “Every day is like a trip to the sauna.”

On this day, the sauna was at our house, where the rugs in the dining room and the family room awaited the spa treatment.

The one in the dining room needed the most work because of our canine guest, who is so adorable that he didn’t end up in the doghouse.

“Now that he’s back home, the rug needs to be cleaned,” Sue said.

“That’s what we get the most calls about,” said Keenen, who went over the rug with an ultraviolet light to spot the spots.

“Do you have a dog?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“I have a 10-month-old wire-haired miniature dachshund that my wife and I got for our 12-year-old son,” Josh said. “We also have a 6-year-old cat. She’s a shedder. I have to start brushing her.”

“I guess the fur flies in your house,” I noted.

“It sure does,” said Josh. “We have an area rug and a stair runner that I keep clean. I might have to get one of those Roomba vacuum cleaners.”

“I can’t do the rumba because I have two left feet,” I said.

“Speaking of feet,” Sue told the guys, “Jerry doesn’t take his shoes off in the house.”

“If I did, you’d complain about the smell,” I countered. “Then the rugs would have to be fumigated.”

“My girlfriend makes me take my shoes off,” said Keenen. “We have wall-to-wall carpeting.”

“Do you clean it?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he replied. “I use this equipment. It’s one of the benefits of the job. And it keeps my girlfriend happy.” Keenen smiled and added, “That’s a benefit, too.”

The equipment includes a carpet-cleaning wand, a long metal tube with a bottom that looks like a vacuum cleaner. The wand is attached by a tube to a tank of water from the house.

“It’s like a power washer,” Keenen said.

“I could use one,” I told him. “I haven’t taken a shower today.”

“We also have deodorizer,” he said.

“You can spray it on his feet,” Sue suggested.

“It has active enzymes that attack and kill bacteria-causing odor,” said Josh, who also used it on the family room rug, which was discolored by the dirt I dragged in on my shoes.

“When I don’t take off my shoes, my wife gives me flak,” he admitted.

“See?” said Sue, shooting me a glance.

The family room rug is made of wool; the one in the dining room is made of either viscose or polyurethane.

“Wool rugs take longer to dry,” said Josh, who used a carpet rake, which lifts hair to help eliminate moisture.

“Don’t put your furniture back until tomorrow or it will create indentations,” Keenen said.

“How do you get indentations out?” Sue asked.

Josh had a surprising answer: “Ice chips.”

“They’re not just for cocktails anymore,” I said.

“Thanks for the great job,” Sue said to the guys.

“You’re very welcome,” Keenen replied. “If the dog comes back for a visit, keep an eye on him.”

“And,” Josh reminded me, “don’t forget to take your shoes off.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima