Consider the asshole. Now I’m not talking about that pesky micromanager at work or your impossible-to-please mother, I’m talking about that indispensable void between your nether regions that so often goes underappreciated. Much like myself these days I’m afraid. But as a proctologist, rated number one in Palm Beach County according to a 1998 edition of the Jewish Senior Advocate, assholes, particularly the unhealthy ones, is what I butter my bread with. For I am in the business of maintaining the state of your rectum. No, not your anus, Princess, my fine-feathered Budgie. Believe me when I say it, what a joy it is to seldom see your asshole. Even if I pried apart your tidy green feathers, I doubt I’d come across it so easily. There’s only one woman for me these days, Princess and at least your squawking won’t bring on another migraine.

You have one hour to complete the following exam.

1. Your best friend asks what you think of her new yellow couch. Which of the following is not an appropriate response?

A) Pointing out that, as a licensed interior designer, you can’t comment until you receive a retainer.
B) Pointing out that the color is “goldenrod,” not yellow.
C) Pointing out that the piece is a “sofa,” not a couch.
D) Pointing out that it is late, and you must be going.

If I had a talking dog I would train it to have a reasonable debate with the postman rather than viciously attacking him. It could politely ask:

“What are you doing in my garden? Please get out of my garden.”

And the postman would reply:

“Please don’t be cross, I have letters for you, they are replies from all those celebrities you write to.”

Generally speaking, my vintage trumpet, a Bach Stradivarius, has been an obedient, often delightful, and even comforting companion. She—no way around it, it’s a she—has never complained about being shut up in her case and ignored for days, or for being treated as carry-on luggage, or for resting bell down on a stand that sticks up into her gut… Just pick her up, jiggle her three valves, blow a few warm breathes into her mouth, and she’s ready to go. It’s true that on occasion we’ve had our little spats, disagreements over, say, triple tonguing (which she hates) or sorting out the low C sharp which stubbornly refuses to stay on pitch. “It’s not me,” she says, “it’s you!” To which I respond by flushing her out with soapy water.

Remember that? Remember rollerblading? We used to do that! All the time! We should do that again! C’mon! Let’s go rollerblading!

Yeah, I’m serious. Mine are in that old sports crate in the garage. You know, the one with that empty racquetball can, maroon neoprene elbow sleeve, and my rollerblades! Purchased in 1987, 1991, and 1993, respectively. My kneepads are in there, too, although I didn’t see my wrist guards. I was always losing my wrist guards. Fudge! I bet we could find your rollerblades. I bet we could. Let’s find ‘em!