I opened the door to an anemic-looking specimen who looked like he couldn’t lift a buttered scone without a derrick.

“Sir,” he said, “you don’t know me. My name is George Allen. I’m from Interpol.” He flashed an ID. “We’ve been tracking the movements of a known international terrorist. Here’s a photo.” 

It was the woman in my basement alright. 

“Her name is Hannah Leipzig, alias Sabine Toussaint, alias Jennifer Wilson, alias—”

I held up my hand. “I get it. She’s got a lot of library cards. Go on.”

“We fear she may be hiding in your house at this very moment.”

“Do come in,” I said. “Would you like a buttered scone?”

“No, thank you. Sir, I don’t think you understand. This woman is very dangerous. It’s not safe for you here.”

I pulled out a deck of cards and fanned them. “Go ahead, pick one.”

His lip trembled a bit. 

“Go on. I’m not leaving until you pick one.”

He did what he was told. (Morrison Man has the power to persuade anyone. Except DMV employees, for some reason. I don’t know why that is. Anyway, I digress.)

“Okay,” I said, turning my head. “Don’t show it to me. Got it memorized?” 

He nodded.

“Good. Now, put it back into the deck. Okay. You ready? Watch this.”

I squared up the deck, did a series of cuts, gave a one-handed riffle shuffle, then punched him square in the nose with my left.

“That’s called sleight of hand,” I said. “Now, tell me why you’re really here.”

(Note: I didn’t hit him hard. I number my punches on a scale according to strength. I hit him with a #5, otherwise known as my “hipster be cool” punch.) 

“You’re crazy!” he screamed. “I’m telling you the truth!”

“He’s lying,” said a voice from behind me. 

I’d told her to wait in the basement. I’m glad she didn’t. Morrison Man likes a strong-willed woman. She came up behind me, using my body as a shield. 

I must say here that my enchantment with her was only exceeded by my anger at having my day interrupted in this manner. I’d planned to attend my annual meeting of the Morrison Man Chess Club. Morrison Man chess is like regular chess, only instead of chess pieces, we use live scorpions. Again I digress.

I stared fish-face dead in the eye. “I happen to know you’re not with Interpol. All agents are required to know my identity, as my hands are lethal and my wit is registered as a WMD. When I answered the door, you lacked the look of awe and admiration that I know so well from the eyes of Interpol agents around the world. Now that that’s out of the way, you leave me no other choice but to bubble wrap you and mail you back to your mama’s house with a note saying ‘returned for structural defects’.”

 “No such luck,” he said, suddenly brandishing a Ruger 9mm.

“Cute,” I said. “Tea party favor?”

Tune in next time to find out what happened next.

(Hint: He didn’t find me amusing.)


I was relaxing at home one day, feeding my piranha. That is, feeding him to the grizzly I keep in my garage. (I have a license to keep dangerous pets; I rehabilitate them and send them off as certified social workers). That’s when I heard a strange noise coming from my basement.

Now, the Morrison Man doesn’t like surprises. My parents tried to surprise me with a birthday party when I was eight. I walked in to my house, the lights went on, people shouted, and I roundhoused the entire group before anyone could get out the last syllable. (My uncle had to get a party horn surgically removed from his throat.) I reiterate: surprising me is like surprising a spitting cobra who’s had too much coffee while watching his stocks take a dive. 

Anyway, I went down to investigate. 

Someone was sneaking in through my basement window. 

I clicked on the light and got a good look at my intruder. Blonde, about five-foot-six, with a figure that made me want to race slot cars again (think about it). 

“If you’re looking for trouble,” I said, “he lives with his mom next door and drives a Hyundai to his job at Costco. Is there something I can do for you?”

She explained that she had been hanging out at a restaurant with her girlfriends discussing loop quantum gravity (I told you that so this post can pass the Bechdel test – you’re welcome), when her ex-boyfriend showed up and made a scene.

If there’s one thing a Morrison Man hates, it’s an ex who can’t move on. 

I helped her down and told her to relax. I taught her some of the meditative breathing techniques I learned back in my days at the ashram, where I was personally trained by a sexy female yogi as a reward for helping her when she locked her qi in her karma, if you know what I mean. (I hope you do, because I don’t. Sometimes the Morrison Man is an enigma even to himself).

“So,” I said, “tell me about this raging weevil you used to date.”

She looked at me with terror in her eyes. “Just hope he hasn’t followed me here. You could be in great danger.”

I hadn’t laughed so hard since I saw Leo DiCaprio freeze to death in Titanic.

Once I recovered, I calmly explained to her that she had nothing to worry about. Then I moved in closer to allow her to get a whiff of my natural musk (which has been described as a cross between jet fuel and tiger fur) and she slunk into my embrace. 

I was just about to give her a course in reciprocal CPR when I heard a noise coming from upstairs: An urgent pounding on my door, and an angry male voice accompanying it. 

You know I hate surprises. 

But not as much as I hate interruptions. 

It’s just another day, I thought, as I went upstairs to answer it, stopping once to fix my appearance in the glass of the empty piranha tank. I made a mental note to get another fish, made sure I had nothing else on my agenda for the next twenty-three minutes, and then I opened my door.

Tune in next time, friends, to see how I handled it.

(Hint: Some may have opted to use transactional analysis in this situation… I didn’t.)