I hardly ever issue corrections to anything I write because I see this as just a slippery slope waiting to happen. Once you correct one thing, people will be demanding that you erase all references you made or will make to drunken debaucheries from their college days, or even last week. Other people, who I don’t even know, will be expressing outrage, outrage(!) I tell you, about the fact that I incorrectly identified Colonel Mustard as the murderer when it was, in fact, Charles Darwin. Then lawyers will get involved and the next thing you know you’ll be standing in the middle of a pentagram in an old deserted warehouse, slitting the throat of a goat, and drinking the blood from a hollowed out skull. Believe you me, the only group of people I have less interest in meeting than lawyers, are politicians. Maybe actors too, but politicians, they’re definitely in the top three, either just before or just after lawyers.
Anyway and anyplace, my last post, a labor of love and caffeine fueled hallucinations, may have contained an inaccuracy or two. Inaccuracy might be a little harsh, perhaps a slight exaggeration, an ever-so-minor embellishment. Not about my memory for names, mind you, if anything the situation is even worse then I described it. However, it has been pointed out to me, by the woman I apparently married, even after doing everything I could to invalidate the license, that I may just have confused the identity of the person who gave the answer of ‘Thurman Munson’ to every sports trivia question. Margo, or Margaret, or Mary, whatever her name is, points out that the person in question is not in fact, my mother. Indeed, the sports trivia disabled person is actually Madge, or Martha. Mavis? You know, the person who shares my joint bank account, but doesn’t let me see the balance in it.
So apparently, Maribel is of the opinion that the issue with my memory for names is only the tip of the iceberg. If that is so, then I think Mandy is voyaging on the S. S. Titanic. Which would be me, I guess if you continue onwards with that particular analogy, and that’s not a good thing. I’ll have to find another analogy in which I don’t sink at sea, dooming hundreds to a watery grave.
So to reiterate, Madeline or Mary, my wife, and not my mother, is the person to whom I was referring when I recounted the curious case of the sports trivia answer. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go and find a goat.