Occasionally a column necessitates a little name-dropping. I mean, as a media darling who also runs a wildly successful roofing company, I come in contact with a plethora of people weekly. Even days I don’t go anywhere, there are plenty of neighbors in a townhouse complex.
Alert readers may recognize a few of today’s names, which would be purely coincidental. Probably half the names in last weekend’s bowling/golf (I coined it as “Bogo”) tournament were Augadahl – many here from brisk Minnesota. At the Super Bowl after-party, a familiar-looking chap approached me for idle chatter and I was temporarily stumped as to whom I was addressing, but it finally came to me.
I gasped, “Oh, Mark Needermyer,” (no one knows the actual spelling), and he said, “It’s pronounced Nedamyer,” so let’s compromise and call him “Ned Needamire.” Now, Dave “Call me ‘The Dream’” Beemer is a mutual friend of who I bemoaned frequently angers and perplexes me – although he’s a college-educated educator – with his convoluted, “talk-don’t-listen” debate style. While I’m supposedly just a commoner buffoon, any reasonable witness to said arguments would know I’m right.
Nedliemier introduced his “PHD in Common Sense” theory and how mine likely far out-reasons Beemer’s teaching degree. There’s King Solomon wisdom in that appraisal. Even if not obvious, I do possess an uncanny, uncommon common sense, unrivaled by most over-educated academia.
So who wins the tournament after 18 frigid Powell Country Club holes? Do the names Randy and Kristi Overhooey (or something similar) and their teammates Ed and Becky Slalomski ring a bell? The same foursome who won last year’s first Simon Augadahl Memorial? I don’t begrudge anyone their lucky moment in the sun, but this Overyou cat also won a local drawing last year of which I’d bought countless tickets, to the tune of three times my annual earnings. (I exaggerated … I’m not wildly-successful).
I smell foul play and will conduct a private investigation, hopefully funded by taxpayers. Everyone and no one is a suspect in this “alleged” scam.
Recalling my mixed-reviews, PC-culture column, hinting “Me-too” might be going too far, as I admitted putting my arm around a young server. A lady on Facebook blew it out of proportion, asking basically how I would feel if a man twice my size put his hands on me without asking.
So days later I walk into a local establishment when with no warning, off-duty deputy Tom Ehlers wraps me up in a prolonged, smothering hug. So my answer to her is, “I felt loved and safe. A large man and a lawman? Heck, I coulda’ stayed there forever.”
My vote for “Physical therapist a guy would most likely fake an injury for” goes to a gal named Amanda Wilson, (or she may have said “Sandra Nielson”). Regardless, her protective Uncle Larry thinks I have a crush on her. That’s absurd. Can’t a rugged middle-age man and a lovely young woman be friends these days without tongues wagging with suspicions of simmering, amorous undertones?
While I may be name-dropping, I might add I know Sen. Al Simpson on a close, first-name basis. How many people in this little town can say that?