"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

"Poppie and the Puppy"

By Jerry Zezima

A dog may be a man’s best friend — except when the man has to take the dog out in snow, rain, heat or gloom of night — but as a man whose best friends have all been female, I hadn’t had a male bonding experience in a dog’s age.

That is, until recently, when a cute little guy named Jackson was our houseguest.

Since Jackson is a puppy, that made me his foster grandfather. And my wife, Sue, was his foster grandmother.

“I’m Poppie,” I said by way of introduction. “And this,” I continued, pointing to Sue and doing what the dog knew was a poor imitation of a pointer, “is Nini.”

Jackson barked to indicate he knew exactly what I was saying, which is more than I can say for most humans.

“He’s part Shih Tzu,” Sue told me.

“I can Shih that,” I told her.

“And part Schnauzer,” she added.

This explained why, for the duration of Jackson’s brief stay, I had the second-best mustache in the house.

The first guy thing we did was to watch a baseball game on TV. During the seventh-inning stretch, I told Jackson that his namesake, Reggie Jackson, has a mustache. The dog, who weighs only a few pounds, stretched in my lap but otherwise seemed unimpressed.

I also told him that I have been the human brother, father or grandfather of four dogs in my life.

My boyhood dog was Daisy, who cost the grand sum of one dollar. She was reportedly easier to housebreak than I was. Daisy was my first real friend and lived a long and playful life.

I got my next dog, Lizzie, after Sue and I were married. Lizzie cost a dollar less than Daisy and proved that the best things in life are free.

Lizzie was the sweetest creature God ever made. She also was so smart that she beat me — this is absolutely true — in a blackjack tournament.

Then there was our first granddog, Maggie, who had a spunky personality and a prodigious appetite. When it came to food, especially mine, which she constantly begged me to give her, Maggie was a canine vacuum cleaner.

Our present granddog is Opal, whom Jackson has met and likes. Opal is a lovable sweetheart and a real fashionista who has a better wardrobe than I do.

While I have enjoyed being a ladies’ man, I didn’t have a male delivery until Jackson arrived.

“OMG! He is so handsome and absolutely adorable!!!” my sister Susan gushed after I texted her a photo of me and the pooch.

My response: “Thank you. The dog is cute, too.”

Jackson, a man of few barks, was vocal in his reaction. I took it to mean that he laughed at my silly joke. Guys do that. Ladies — both human and canine — just roll their eyes.

But for all the masculine bluster, Jackson proved to be what Sue called a fraidy-cat because he didn’t like the cars that whizzed past when she took him for a walk.

“The correct term is fraidy-dog,” I said.

So we had to take Jackson in the backyard to do his business. Each time he did something, we gave him a treat.

“If I had a treat every time I did my business,” I said, “I’d weigh 500 pounds.”

Speaking of chewing, we thought Jackson, who is teething, lost a tooth.

“Is the Fang Fairy supposed to leave money under his pillow?” I wondered.

The three of us enjoyed watching “A Dog’s Purpose,” a fine family film based on the bestselling book written by my buddy W. Bruce Cameron, who co-wrote the screenplay.

Jackson gave the movie two paws up.

As with all good things, Jackson’s stay came to an end. He’s back home and Sue and I miss the little guy.

The male bonding was fun, but at least I once again have the best mustache in the house.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"The Lottery Doctor Is In"

By Jerry Zezima

If I ever won the lottery, I’d never collect the money. That’s because I would drop dead from shock. Then my wife would be a rich widow.

But since I haven’t even come close to hitting the jackpot, and the price of beer has gone up, I was willing to take the risk. So I sought the advice of Dr. Brown, a self-described “lottery doctor” whose practice has netted him — and some of his lucky patients — millions of dollars in winnings.

I learned about this money medicine man when I read an ad for his prognosticating services in the Old Farmer’s Almanac. It said:

LOTTERY DOCTOR. Lotto Advisor. African Mojo. Powerballs. Megamillions. Winning Numbers. Call Doctor Brown Now!

Because I took a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, I called him right away.

“I need your help,” I said. “I want to win the lottery.”

“Have you ever played?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “And I’ve lost every time. The only time I won anything, it was two bucks, which I used to buy another ticket. Most of the time, I don’t get any numbers at all. I think I should get a free ticket if I get shut out.”

“You really do need help,” said Dr. Brown, a personable guy who apparently doesn’t have a first name, lives on the West Coast and said he is a “spiritual doctor.”

“Have you ever won the lottery?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve won the California lottery twice. The first time was for $7 million and the second time was for $10 million.”

“You’re rich!” I gushed.

“Not really,” Dr. Brown said. “I have seven kids. They cost a lot of money.”

The good doctor, who is 77, has been married for almost 60 years. He and his wife have 32 grandchildren.

“I think there’s another one on the way,” he told me.

“I have two daughters and five grandchildren,” I said. “They’d love it if I won the lottery.”

“How about your wife?” Dr. Brown asked.

“She’s the boss, the family banker and the brains of the outfit,” I said. “She’d know what to do with all my winnings.”

Family is very important to Dr. Brown because that’s where he got his predicting powers.

“My grandfather trained me in this work,” he said. “He taught me how to make mojo bags. They contain good luck charms that can be turned into powerful money-making magnets.”

Dr. Brown, who began displaying his powers when he was only 3 years old, sells mojo bags for $247 each.

“Why $247?” I asked.

“Because,” he answered, “they work 24/7.”

“Have the bags helped anyone win the lottery?” I wanted to know.

“Absolutely,” Dr. Brown said. “People have thanked me, although not all of them. I think they squandered their winnings.”

“I can’t afford a bag because I haven’t won the lottery,” I said. “Can you pick winning numbers for me?”

“I don’t do that,” Dr. Brown said. “But I can give you some tips. When is your birthday?”

“January 11,” I said.

“You basically go by your birthday number,” said the doctor, adding that there are lucky days and hours associated with the number.

He gave me a full explanation that I didn’t quite understand because math was my worst subject in school, followed closely by all the others, but essentially I used the strategy to pick numbers in the next Powerball drawing. I also bought a scratch-off ticket.

The Powerball jackpot was $251 million. The potential scratch-off payout was $500.

“The $3 I spent on tickets will make us millions,” I told my wife, Sue.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she replied.

The day after the Powerball drawing, I checked the numbers. Not one came out. Nothing on the scratch-off, either.

“Loser!” Sue said.

“Not at all,” I countered. “This doctor saved my life. At least I didn’t win and drop dead from shock.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima