My book is out & available @ I'd Rather Not Be Bothered: Sharkey, Thomas: 9798879315974: Amazon.com: Books Enjoy all the snarky sarcasm of the blog for you to own...Sample chapter below.
Bowling Til It Hurts
Current home of the latest serialized Luke Williams mystery. Solving crimes, righting wrongs, but frankly he'd rather not be bothered.
Sunday, July 28, 2024
Monday, March 21, 2016
Chapter1: Three Bodies, Cheap Beer and a British Novel
April, 2015
I felt the blade pinch at the testy bits around my mouth and once again pondered the wisdom of buying the generic disposable razors. Looking in the mirror I noticed I had shaved every area except that bastard piece just under my nose. It reminded me of my ex-girlfriend Kayla who’d walked in on me in a similar position years ago and asked, “You’re not gonna leave that are you?” To which I replied, “Yes. Yes I am.” And goose-stepped past her nearly forgetting to shave off the postage stamp ‘stache before heading to work.
I felt the blade pinch at the testy bits around my mouth and once again pondered the wisdom of buying the generic disposable razors. Looking in the mirror I noticed I had shaved every area except that bastard piece just under my nose. It reminded me of my ex-girlfriend Kayla who’d walked in on me in a similar position years ago and asked, “You’re not gonna leave that are you?” To which I replied, “Yes. Yes I am.” And goose-stepped past her nearly forgetting to shave off the postage stamp ‘stache before heading to work.
Kayla…great legs…good kisser. And
yet somehow we drifted apart. Oh well…I was already running late.
“Do your taxes?” It was Housecoat
Helen. My chatty, downstairs neighbor.
“Why, is it April 14th
yet?” I cracked sarcastically, stepping into our shared vestibule.
She held up the early edition of The Boston Globe in answer.
“Crap,” I replied louder than I
wanted. Then considered that I should really do better hallway reconnaissance
before venturing out in the morning.
I smiled what I, but not her,
thought was politely and pushed past and thru the door. Maybe it was that third
Natty Ice I downed for “breakfast”, but I actually noticed the air smelled
fresh and spring had arrived, dappling the leaves of the New England maples
with subtle reds and browns. I briefly considered whether the presence of the
word “dappling” in my thoughts may be indicating I had a burgeoning problem, you know, “breakfast”-wise. However, time was of the essence and it seemed to be more a
dosage issue than full blown dipsomania so I put the matter to rest as I made
my way across the parking lot.
Into the Ford Falcon where I pulled
the “Defroster Glove” from the hole in the dashboard. Wiped the windshield. And
prayed like Hell she turned over. That accomplished I made my way downtown and
took an angled spot on the Norman Rockwell-esque main drag in front of a narrow,
two-story, brick office building with ARTFIELD HERALD printed across the
bay window. As I approached the paint peeling front door I noticed a piece of
loose leaf paper with a large magic marker-ed “F” had been stuck to the window
with a wad of gum right in front of the “A” in ARTFIELD. The price of being located just down the
street from the Calvin Coolidge Middle School.
I
left it flapping in the light breeze and made my way inside. I waved to, but
tried not to look at, the new 19 year old receptionist with gravity defying
breasts. The paper went to press today and
I didn’t need any more distractions than the slight buzz I had currently. Copy Editor
Gladys Nutwell was hunched over a laptop in the rear office area. She was sixty
and serious in a New England Puritan at a witch burning kind of way. She was
decked out in her usual, seasons be damned, outfit: long solid colored skirt,
frilly blouse pinched at the neck by a pearl pin and shoes so sensible they
probably had their own 401k. Her graying hair was pulled back with such
severity it looked painful and with the deadline approaching she was a safe
distance from a barrel of monkeys.
“How’s
it going?” I asked, turning toward the coffee machine in the alcove kitchen.
“How do you think it’s going?” she
spat…and we were off.
There was no milk in the mini
fridge. Just some fancy looking creamer and the only place I wanted to be less
than here was at a tiny café table in Vienna. So I left it black, but made it
up to myself by leaning against a file cabinet where I could engage Gladys
while still glimpsing at the receptionist in my peripheral vision. Her brown
hair bounced as she spun in her swivel chair to answer a call. I pictured
diving into it nose first and it smelling like new tennis balls. Then before I started
creeping even myself out I decided to get back to business.
“Did you see the Middle School-ers
‘F-bombed’ us again?” I asked Gladys.
“Yes, I noticed that,” she replied
distractedly while shuffling through papers with her left hand.
“It’s not the crudeness I mind. It’s
having to scrape the gum off the window every time.”
“Why not get Miss Magna Cum Perky of
Secretarial School out there to do it?” Gladys sniffed, casting aspersions on a
young lady who had done nothing but warm the cockles of my poor heart. Or the
poor heart of my warm cockles…I wasn’t sure which.
I decided to take a different tack. “Is
that the minutes of the Council meeting?”
She picked up the stapled pages
which I now noted were covered in more red ink than my Freshman Chemistry
midterm. “No, it’s Carol Hanselman’s weekly editorial. She musta caught that 60 Minutes piece on Campaign Finance
reform and she turned in 1200 words in defense of the Citizen’s United decision
and money in politics.”
“No national stuff. We’re a local
paper. Bad enough we agree to publish her rants about Freeholders and County
Sheriffs every November. Isn’t there a pothole on her street or unkempt lawn in
her neighborhood she could go off about?”
“Consider it killed,” replied Gladys
with what qualified as a smile on “go to press” day. “I had already cut it down
to nothing removing all the crap about Charles Koch. I figured that would
rub you the wrong way.”
“Actually my problem with Charles Koch is not political, so much. It's more that with a billion dollars he could be renting out The
Louvre for a private viewing, riding dirt bikes up the Pyramids at Giza,
playing a game of A-S-S against the Great Wall of China. Hell, I’d be swinging
from a chandelier in The Bellagio penthouse getting ready to do a Triple Lindy
into an Olympic-sized pool filled with Dom Perignon and hookers. I mean the
world is your oyster and you’re worried about getting an anti-labor candidate
elected in the third Iowa congressional district encompassing the greater part
of Cedar Rapids? It’s not the politics that bother me; it’s the utter lack of
imagination.”
“What are we gonna use for filler?”
Gladys asked, knocking me off my momentary soapbox.
“I’ll come up with something,” I
replied, sipping the bitter coffee. “Lord knows they pay me enough.”
Gladys shrugged, tossed the pages on
top of her overflowing trash bin and added, “While you’re at it Mrs.
Kleinschmidt called saying she was sick all week and won’t have a social column
for us.”
“Fabulous. Oh, the glamorous life of
a small press editor.”
“Hey, you coulda wrote for a city
paper, remember. But you were no good at taking orders. So you came back home.
Now this is your job. You chose it.”
“Maybe so,” I responded, shaking my
head. “But, trust me, starving came in a close second.”
Gladys looked routinely unimpressed.
“Just get me something for Hanselman,” she intoned, rotating her swivel chair
to attack the overstuffed IN basket on the other side of her desk. “I’ll go
through the notices folks sent in and fudge up what passes for a social column in this podunk 'burg .”
I looked down at my still quarter
filled coffee cup then tossed it in the kitchen area trashcan thinking I really
need to get a flask for days like these. Meanwhile Gladys went back to her keyboard
and I headed into my tiny, cluttered office to look over some last minute
advertising copy for this week. Next I gave a once over to our meager finances
and fully depressed decided to phone the Town Clerk.
Miriam answered in a voice so husky
it should’ve been pulling a sled. I was momentarily titillated until I
remembered she was pushing 70 and built like an H-Back. I told her it was Luke
Williams calling. “Is Wes in?”
“Not yet honey,” she purred.
“Any revelations from the Council
Meeting last night,” I asked, hoping for a surprise that could fill Carol
Hanselman’s space.
“Nothing really. I have the notes.
Should I read them to you?”
I flipped through the junk mail on
my desk until I uncovered the Victoria’s Secret catalog that I noticed had gotten
mixed in by mistake. Locating a particularly buxom, bustier-ed brunette I bid
her go on. Then I put the voice to the picture until it seemed silly that she
should be kneeling on a four-poster bed licking her finger while discussing
repairs to the town’s septic system. So I thanked Miriam and signed off.
Out in the office I saw Sandy
Molesworth, a part-time reporter, enter. Her husband owned the biggest car
dealership in the county and she was dressed in a full length fur in defiance of
the rising temps. Despite the fact that she thought she was the second coming
of Ida Tarbell and Martha Gellhorn rolled into one I tolerated her. If only for
the fact she was happy to go up to Montpelier to cover the state legislature.
Gladys claimed this was because she was sleeping with half the Assembly, but
considering our sparse staffing I couldn’t afford to look a gift whore in the
mouth. When I noticed Gladys stop typing I knew something important was up. So
I left the mystery of Victoria’s ongoing secret unsolved and walked out to see
what was prompting Sandy’s unscheduled visit.
As I sidled up behind Gladys’ left
shoulder Sandy was just getting to the point. She seemed surprised at our
ignorance though I’m sure her already subterranean estimation of our abilities
couldn’t go any lower.
“So you really didn’t hear? Neither
of you?” She placed her hands on her hips, but I fixed her with the sternest
glower I could muster through the Natty Ice and caffeine. She caught her eyes
mid-roll and continued. “Out on Logansport Road, a murder-suicide…”
“Holy shit on a shingle,” Gladys
exploded. Sandy stopped and we both stared dumbfounded. It was like catching
your grandmother watching porn. Worse it was like catching your grandmother doing porn.
Murders just didn’t happen here; let
alone one with a suicide kicker. “Who was killed?” I asked.
“Ted Sheehan, he was Vice-Principal
at the high school.”
I only knew of Ted Sheehan, but it
was still sad and shocking. “I can’t believe it. What happened?”
Sandy fixed me with a smug, more
informed than thou look. “Apparently he was dating an ex-student. Of legal age
and all, but 16 years his junior. She was 23, he was 39. The girl’s father shot
them both then killed himself.”
“A double murder!” It was Gladys
again. “Son of an ass!!”
Though I was far from the
touchy-feely type I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her while wondering if
there was such a thing as shock-induced Tourette’s. “Poor Ted,” I managed. “I’d
only ever heard good things about him.”
“I got the news from Bob Carpenter,”
said Sandy, dropping the name of our district’s State Assemblyman and one of
her probable lusty liaisons. “He’s a certified EMT. Picked it up on his
scanner.”
She fixed me with a contemptuous
stare as if I was derelict in my duty. When in actuality the last thing I
wanted when I was trying to wind down with a Natty Ice and some Graham Greene
was background static keeping me posted on every old bastard’s broken hip or
police station donut run. “So who was the girl?”
“He didn’t get it. The signal wasn’t
great and he missed some of the details. Isn’t your brother-in-law on the
police force?” I thought missing the names of the girl and her father sounded
suspicious. But she re-upped on the disappointing looks when she reached the
last part of the statement. I couldn’t blame her. Having a brother-in-law on
the force should’ve be a direct pipeline to big news like this. Problem was
she didn’t know my brother-in-law.
Patrolman Andrew O’Scanlon is a
doughy, pasty, redheaded Irishman who could talk the balls off a brass monkey.
To the extent that I was never really sure whether he won my sister’s heart
through courtship or battering her into a conversational coma. And like most of
the violently verbose there wasn’t a subject he couldn’t or wouldn’t discourse
on with absolute certainty. I tolerated him for a while. First for her sake
then for the sake of inside info, but after she leaked it that I referred to
him as “the man Will Rogers never met” my pipeline to police secrets dried up in a hurry. Though, on the bright side, my ears finally recovered from their
dog toy-like consistency.
I checked Gladys again. She seemed
to be coming back around. Her eyes no longer glazed over; her need to curse
like a rapper in a strip club subsided. I then made my way back to my office
and dialed the Artfield Police.
Sergeant
Wally Reynolds was working the desk. I knew him well from years of playing
softball and drinking beer together; the former really just an excuse to
participate in the latter. “Hey Wally,” I said, trying to sound official. “Give
me Andrew will ya.”
“Hi Luke, how’s it going,” he said
too nonchalantly and it was instantly obvious something was up. “Oh, uh, you mean your
brother-in-law Andrew?”
"No I mean Andrew Ridgeley, the other guy in WHAM!, I figured he's not doing anything maybe he can play my birthday party next month."
"Oh yeah, Andrew's not here...uh, wanna leave a message?" Sarcasm received and not returned was another red flag.
Big city departments may have layers
of faceless, monotone underlings to steer the curious away from sensitive
matters, but that wasn’t going to fly here. “Listen Wally, I know about the
double murder-suicide, no thanks to you guys. Now what’s going on? I’m about to
hold up the press here. Gimme something!”
I’d always been the laid back type,
but I saw an entire day of re-writes and re-arranging coming my way and it gave
my voice an unfamiliar edge. This obviously took Wally by surprise and he
switched to trying to level with me. “I’m sorry Luke, but we’re under orders
not to talk about that. Straight from the Chief.”
The change in his voice indicated
the aggressive approach was working so I forged ahead. “Cut the crap Wally.
This isn’t the friggin’ Rockford Files.
It’s ‘Buttfuck’, Vermont. We went to elementary school together. That night we
won the league championship I saw you trip and pass out in your own vomit in
front of Pete’s Pub…”
“Yeah and if I remember correctly,”
he cut in; “you didn’t help me up, but stood over me yelling ‘officer down,
officer down’.”
I suppressed a chuckle and kept on
working him. “Yeah and you once kept Pete’s entertained with your impression of
me crapping out on a head first slide and doing the Australian Crawl into third
base. That’s what I’m talking about. Give me something to work with. You know I
won’t throw you under the bus.”
It was his turn to hold back a laugh
and he softened a bit. “OK. All I can say is try Glen Hubbard,” he said,
mentioning the name of the former Artfield correspondent for the nearest daily
paper the Burlington Bee. “He’s still
in the loop. He might be able to point you to folks who can talk.”
It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t play
tough-guy for long. “Thanks Wally I’ll give Hubbard a try. Next time I see ya
at Pete’s remind me I owe you a beer.”
“You owe me several, but one will do to start. Sorry I couldn’t do
more.”
He hung up and I shot my drawers for Hubbard’s home number.
Found it under an old Molly Hatchet cassette. Noted that it didn’t feature
“Flirtin’ With Disaster”, tossed it in the trash and dialed.
“Hello,” Hubbard answered on the
first ring. It was early, but I knew he’d be up. He was a family man after all.
Three kids from a first marriage, all grown now, and twins, under the age of 5,
from a second marriage. He even wanted more, but wife number two was not a
player. He joked that if she didn’t come around he’d dump her and start a third
family that’s how much he enjoyed it. I told him once that his obituary was gonna
look like the actor Tony Randall’s: “He leaves behind two daughters, ages 54 and 3.”
“Glen, it’s Luke Williams. Did I
wake you?”
“Are you kidding? I’m surprised
you’re up. Did Artfield repeal the 21st Amendment or is it a ‘go to
press’ day?”
“You know I only drink at home alone
these days…like George Thorogood. I really called to see if you heard anything
about the murder-suicide last night.”
“In Artfield? Jee-sus,” he was
shocked as the rest of us. “No. Not a thing. I can’t recall a homicide ever
happening up there.”
“No one can and that’s the problem.
Seems like the cops don’t know whether to shit or wind their wristwatches and
so they’ve brought down the Cone of Silence. It’s like a goddamn Benedictine
monastery up here,” I declared, stopping before I cross-referenced yet again.
“Can you get me any info. Work a backchannel, call in a favor?”
“I’d be happy to, but I’m not on the
beat anymore. Haven’t been for a month,” he said. “If you picked up the Bee once and a while and got your nose
outta Evelyn Waugh you’d know that. I’m big time now; on the Editorial Board.”
“Who replaced you?”
“Some kid named Jeremy,” he spat out the name with disgust. “Green as freakin’ grass. Thinks he can do the job by
text, email, Twitter and Google searches. Buncha BS if you ask me.”
“Yeah, outside of gambling and porn
I don’t really get the purpose of this Internet thing.”
“OK, OK I’m a dinosaur. I get it.
Listen I’ll reach out to the kid and see if he’s got anything, but don’t count on it.”
“Thanks,” I replied, hanging up.
Another dead end.
I leaned back and pondered the
options. I could try my brother-in-law’s cell phone. Hope he picks up and via his
congenital diarrhea of the mouth spit something out for me. But then just the
way I phrased that in my head made the idea distasteful. I could go out to the
scene of course, but this would take time. I’d have to push the press run back
a day and the printer over in Farmingdale would no doubt charge us for the
change of dates and rush job. Having just perused our meager monetary situation
this was not an option I was anxious to embrace.
By now Gladys and Sandy had taken up
spots in my doorway. For lack of better options I was in charge and they were
looking for me to make the big call on 3rd and long. Instead I ran a
draw and punted by calling my sister, Amy Williams O’Scanlon.
The phone ceased ringing, but there
was no answer on the other end. “Hello…Amy…Hello,” I tried.
“Gimme that you little shit,” I
heard, and remembered why her and Andrew were a couple. There was faraway
laughter and then, “Yeah…hello?”
“Amy it’s Luke. Is Andrew there?”
“No. The phone rang in the middle of
the night and he took off. Stopped back this morning for a thermos of coffee
and was gone again. Barely said two words.”
“Lucky you,” I replied, then
wondered what those ‘two words’ might have been. “Where’s your husband now?”
“Probably with anyone in the world except Will Rogers.”
“Ouch.” Things weren’t going well.
There
was a crash in the background and Amy held the phone away to yell something
unintelligible. “Luke, I’m juggling three kids, two dogs and a cat that likes
to piss in my shoes here. If you want somethin’ tell me now so I can get back
to livin’ the dream.”
Sarcasm apparently ran in the
family. I got down to it. “I know about the murder of Ted Sheehan last night. I
also know the cops aren’t talking. What did Andy say this morning? Who’s the girl?”
I shot the last question out as part
plea and part opportunity to get me off her back. The sound of crying started
up in the background and she gladly took the bait. “Monica Carson. She
graduated in 2009 or 10. Her father had some weird name…Burly or Curly or
something,” she said, her voice fading in and out, the phone obviously cradled
between shoulder and ear. “You good, now.”
“Hardly,” I said, thinking about how
I was going to sort this out on a deadline. “But thanks and don’t worry I
didn’t hear it from you.”
“Yeah…” I think there was another
“yeah” coming, but a dog barked, there was more crying, a thud and the line went
dead. Suddenly I was looking more benignly on the prospects of chemical
castration.
“Monica Carson,” I said looking up
into the expectant eyes of Gladys and Sandy. “Class of 2009, I think.”
There was a stack of High School
yearbooks on top of a filing cabinet in the corner. Before I could move Gladys
had maneuvered her sensible shoes through the detritus of my office like a
halfback running the tires at an NFL training camp. She deftly plucked 2009
from the stack and had flipped to Carson, Monica by the time she laid it out on
my desk.
We all looked down at a fresh-faced
blonde with the kind of freckled nose that is cute in a young woman, melanoma in
an older one. The caption was the usual jumble of recognition for sports, clubs
and awards over someday-to-be embarrassing shout outs to good times with
friends and the music of Miley Cyrus and Jason Mraz. Though considering my own
yearbook ramblings made Flock of Seagulls sound like the next Pink Floyd and
included the ubiquitous Bruce Springsteen “…it’s a town full of losers and I’m
pullin’ outta here to win…” line I was hardly one to cast aspersions.
Gladys was the first to make a
connection between Monica and Ted Sheehan. “Flip to the ‘Clubs’ section,” she
said, leaning in closer. “There they are…the Random Acts of Kindness Club. I
remember Sheehan sending in blurbs about their fundraising for Darfur that we
printed. And there’s Monica right next to him in the picture.”
This was an excellent catch by
Gladys. It wasn’t so much that my memory was shot. It was that high schoolers
were constantly collecting for one cause or another. I suspected it had more to
do with how it looked it on their college applications than a real concern with
victims of some disaster in a place they’d forget by the time they attended
their first kegger. Plus they seemed to always set up outside the automatic
doors of the supermarket where I didn’t need any help feeling guilty while
wheeling out with half a dozen boxes of Yodels in my bags. “Donate
to the Native American Tribal Council,” they’d beg. “I already gave at the
casino,” I’d reply.
“Interesting, but it doesn’t really
tell us much. It looks like half the student body was in the club,” I mused.
We flipped through more pages not
really knowing what we were looking for. Time was wasting. A decision on the
printer had to be made when Charlie Grissom, our photographer, came in, his
comb-over blown to crap, and went straight for the coffee.
Cup poured he made his way over to
the office and stood in the doorway next to Sandy. “Guess you know about the
murder already. I picked it up on my scanner this morning and stopped over
there on the way in.”
Sandy looked at me, eyebrow cocked.
“What is this 1977? Do I also need a CB radio with a 17 foot antenna for my
car?” I lamented. “Anyway, what’s going on out there Charlie?”
“Hard to say other than every cop in
the force is there roaming the property.”
“Sounds like a good time to knock
over the liquor store,” I joked to silence. “OK, what were you able to find
out?”
“Not much. I got a few shots of the
house and the commotion going on, but I couldn’t get closer than the street.
They had so much yellow police tape running from tree to tree I thought Tony
Orlando and Dawn were in town.”
If the comb over that had now
settled into a soft serve ice cream swirl on top of his head had only partially
given away Charlie’s advanced age that reference clinched it. He was still an
excellent bloodhound though. Twenty-something years at an Albany paper had
honed his instincts. Even in retirement he knew a good story and we were lucky
to have him. I saw in his eyes a look that matched the feeling in my gut so I
pressed him for more. “Any State Police or even County cops out there?”
“Not a one,” Charlie smiled, and I
knew we were on the same page.
Outside of one minute to post at the
Wonderland Dog Track snap decisions were not my forte, but the time had come
today as some forgotten 60s rockers once sang. “OK, here’s the plan,” I
started. “Gladys call the printer and cancel the run. Tell ‘em we’ll get back
to them and when we do it’ll be a rush job.”
“That’s gonna cost us,” she replied,
fully aware of our hemorrhaging finances.
“Don’t care. Whatever the vig is
we’ll pay it.” Coming from a man who lived on Elio’s Frozen Pizza and drank gas
station coffee that could rip the enamel off your teeth this was attention grabbing.
“Charlie and Sandy get over to the High School and see what’s going on there.
I’m heading out to Sheehan’s place and see if I can crack this Blue Wall of
Dumbness. Something’s going on beneath the surface here. Let’s see if we can
pop this zit.”
As that last line will attest when
it came to pep talks I was more Rockhead than Rockne, but it had the desired
effect. Thrilled to be chasing a story with potential everyone bolted. I, on
the other hand, sank back in my chair exhausted. As a man who once listed under
hobbies on a dating profile “napping” I was hardly a get-up-and-goer…more like a
get-up-and-wait(er). Still, even I felt like I was in a rut or maybe as Waylon
Jennings once put it I was just “sick and tired of waking up sick and tired.”
Whatever it was I pushed myself out of the desk chair and set sights on…the
liquor store. Ted Sheehan’s house could wait an extra fifteen minutes. It was
gonna take at least another 30-pack of Natty Ice to get me through this ordeal.
Monday, April 13, 2015
From Shuttee Industries To You
Late, but for posterity sake here are today's plays...Det., Tex., CHC, Col....good luck. If playing Toronto/Tampa Bay tonight be sure to check Jake Odorizzi's Home/Away split from last year.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Happy? Not Since I Was Five
Here's the Guru-like gambling guesswork of a man who drafted Mat Latos in Fantasy...what could go wrong. We're playing Minnesota, Kansas City, Arizona, Toronto, Texas, Milwaukee and Oakland...Luck!
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Parking In Tom Seaver's Spot
Hey, here's some MLB Picks today. YTD 3-3, +40...For today we'll go Yankees -108, Twins +134, Rangers +127...And now National Beer Day ends when I damn well want it to...Good night!
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Livin' La Vida Drunko
Many, many computer problems later here they are...This may be the last week...Enjoy.
SIDES (24-19): Tennessee +10.0; Buffalo -1.5; Tampa Bay +3.0
TOTALS (36-23-2): Dal./Jac. Over 45.0; Den./Oak. Under 50.5; Mia./Det. Over 43.0
Dear God...
SIDES (24-19): Tennessee +10.0; Buffalo -1.5; Tampa Bay +3.0
TOTALS (36-23-2): Dal./Jac. Over 45.0; Den./Oak. Under 50.5; Mia./Det. Over 43.0
Dear God...
Sunday, November 2, 2014
One For My Horses...Snoopy And Prickly Pete
RIP to Cream bassist Jack Bruce who passed away at age 71. I once played "Tales of Brave Ulysses" for a gym full of 5th graders and 3 heads exploded. A true psychedelic rock God...
Considering the copious drugs it too to write tunes like "Anyone for Tennis" or lines like "...but the rainbow had a beard!" it's amazing he lasted this long really.
Is anyone else getting a visual of Jerry Jones in his luxury box screaming today like a frustrated Sheldon Cooper of The Big Bang Theory..."WEE-DON!!" But time for this...
SIDES (21-17): Tampa Bay +7.0; Houston +2.5; Jets +8.5; Arizona +1.5; Minnesota -1.0
TOTALS (33-20-2): Was./Min. Over 44.0; T.B./Cle. Under 44.0; Phi./Hou. Under 48.0; S.D./Mia. Under 45.0; ST.L./S.F. Over 44.0; Bal./Pit. Under 47.0
A bit dog-ish, a tad under-ish...they are what they are...
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