No Easter egg hunts for Donald Trump

President Obama reported earning $1.7 million last year, which is down from $5.5 million in 2009. This year, he hopes to reduce his income by $1.69 million so he can pay higher taxes.

The Arizona Legislature wanted to pass a bill that would allow presidential candidates without birth certificates to show other documents such as proof of circumcision. They should demand that of Congress members because they're the people screwing us.

If Donald Trump is elected president, unemployment will rise. After all, he's the guy who appears on TV every week just to fire people.

Donald Trump decided not to host an Easter egg hunt this year because he doesn't want to urge children to count their chickens before they hatch.

The Donald refuses to count chickens before they hatch because they have to hatch before they can get a birth certificate.

Donald Trump doesn't believe in putting all his eggs in one basket. He believes in putting them all in that nest thingie on his head.

I don't need a watch dog. My cat looks out for me. Every time she hears a bird, she looks out the window.

Every morning, I get to hear these wonderful song birds perched in a tree outside my window. I love those birds. And, those birds love my car.

I walked past a downtown building with an outside designated smoking area adjacent to the fire exit. I figure if you don't die of smoke inhalation while trying to escape, it will get you on the way out.

My mother-in-law isn't very computer literate. She thinks Windows is something I never wash.

Logic isn't always logical

So far November has been an interesting month. It's been filled with deception, criticism and illogical logic. And, that's just the election.

I don't even want to know what Americans were thinking when they voted out decent people – especially those talented couples on "Dancing with the Stars."

Then, there's my temporary day job. For ten more days, I'm a file clerk in a bank. My chore is to remove staples and scan documents.

When the scanner broke last week, my boss said, "Take it apart and wash it with soap and water. But whatever you do, don't get it wet."

I don't even want to know what she was thinking. It's a cheap operation. They don't supply instant water.

So I used coffee crystals. Well, I figured if I couldn't clean the scanner, I could at least wake it up.

Turns out the scanner broke because another temp scanned documents with staples. When I pointed out our job was to remove staples, my colleague remarked, "If I do that, I won't have time to do my job."

This same guy went looking for a file called "Heart and Hand". He came back empty handed, but with heart, he bellowed, "I couldn't find it, and I looked through every folder in the Bs."

I don't even want to know what he was thinking. But, I know I had to fight the urge to say, "While you had the B drawer open, you should have filed yourself under Butthead, Beavis."

I began temping last year to supplement my income because a lot of people who hire writers believe in keeping the free in freelancer. I love temping. It provides great fodder for comedy writers. And when the job is complete, I can walk away from incompetence, hypocrisy and illogical logic.

Two weeks ago, I received a call from an agency where a woman interviewed me in person six months ago. She suddenly had a sense of urgency and insisted I needed to take some tests that day.

Three days later, the woman said I scored really high on Microsoft Word, basic skills and typing.

"But, you flunked the personality test."

Specifically, she indicated my answers stressed I was not a reliable team member as I was not willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done. You see, I answered that I was not willing to work unpaid overtime and skip lunch to pick up the slack created by colleagues with less enthusiasm but better personalities.

I guess I shouldn't let a little thing like the law stand in the way of my being a good person.

The woman promised she would call the next day with some follow-up questions to help me boost my score on her computer-generated personality test.

I don't even want to know what she was thinking. I've learned her definition of a day is 72 hours or longer. True to her word, she called me three days later and asked what I'm currently reading at night so I can become an A-lister in the industry.

I said, "Kathy Griffin's autobiography about getting on the D-list."

The woman said that wasn't industry-related unless I write comedy or do standup. I said, "Duh!"

She inquired, "I want to know what you're reading after hours to get better at your current temp job that ends in two weeks."

I had a great answer for her absurdity, "the Staples catalog."

I was told I'd receive an e-mail at the end of the next business day, which in real time would have been yesterday. Quite frankly, I don't care if she upholds her integrity by replying on Friday.

I don't even want to know what I was thinking. After all, this is a human resources executive who wore jeans and a tank top to our interview. I remember she was braless and adamant that I should "always dress like a professional and always look the part."

This woman obviously doesn't practice what she preaches. My first clue should have been when I saw she was flat-chested in Beverly Hills.

I don't even want to know what I was thinking when I assumed that, while I have the skills, I also have the personality to fit into an office environment filled with double standards and people who need to consult a computer quiz to determine if they like me as a human being.

But, there are a couple of things I want to know. How is it possible to actually flunk a personality test? And, is that worse than getting voted off "Dancing with the Stars"?

Sleep disorders are tiring

Whoever said, "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise," probably was not a late night television show host.

It is more likely those words of wisdom were spoken by a sleep specialist. Such an expert would contend that sound slumber may be better medicine than laughter for people seeking solace for their souls. After all, scientific researchers have discovered restful sleep reduces stress, boosts the body's immune system and promotes mental alertness.

Unfortunately, I rarely get the luxury of a good night's sleep. OK. It's true. I stay up watching funny late show hosts. But, that is not the reason for my lack of restful slumber.

I am one of scores of people who suffer with sleep apnea, a malady that causes us to stop breathing while we snooze. We unconsciously awaken several times an hour to kick-start our breathing. As a result, our sleep cycles rarely reach the deep dreamy stage.

When we are awake, our lives can be depressing nightmares. Apnea-stricken sleepers often arise in the morning feeling as dead as the corpses we disturbed during the night with our serious snoring and snorting.

"I slept 13 hours last night," I announced one morning before being diagnosed. "But, I feel so tired. And, I don't think I'm nocturnal because I'm not wise enough to be an owl."

My companion made it obvious he believes he is the one who truly travails.

"I'm tired too," my mate muttered. "I woke up at 3 o'clock this morning and couldn't get back to sleep."

"Did you have a nightmare?"

"No, you were snoring really loud. I think you awakened all the deceased this side of the Mississippi River."

I blamed my buddy's grumpy demeanor to the fact he had not finished his cup of coffee. But as I ate breakfast and he slurped his brew, he expressed the fact he was worried. He was convinced I had a sleep disorder. At least I think that is what he did, but I'm not sure as I uncontrollably began snoozing and spilling cereal on the cat.

The slosh of cold milk in my lap awakened me momentarily. But as I spent the morning plucking letter-shaped oats from the feline's ears, my eyes automatically closed to catch some more Zs. This routine went on for hours. At least I think it did, but I'm not sure as I kept impersonating Rip Van Winkle.

Finally, I rejoined the living.

"I'm so tired!" I exclaimed. "I think it's starting to affect my memory."

"Oh yeah, what did you forget this time?"

"I don't remember dying my hair red."

"Oh, that happened about an hour ago when you were eating lunch," my buddy explained. "You nodded off, and your head plopped into the spaghetti sauce."

Grabbing the telephone book, he decided to take matters into his own hands. He made arrangements for me to spend the night in a sleep clinic. At least I think that's what he did, but I'm not sure as I irresistibly sawed some more logs.

A week later, I moseyed into the offices of Dr. Sandman and Associates where sleep technicians plastered a clump of electrodes to my head with white Silly Putty. The next morning, Dr. Not-So-McDreamy declared his diagnosis. I indeed had sleep apnea.

He said there was no cure, but the disorder could be treated. All I had to do was use a Continuous Positive Air Passage machine, affectionately known as a CPAP. It would involve sleeping while wearing a mask attached to a hose that constantly blows air into my nostrils. Supposedly, this contraption resembling an elephant trunk would result in restful sleep.

That was the good news. The bad news was the doctor got dramatic. As he explained the mask concept, he entertained himself by singing an off-key rendition of "Masquerade" from "Phantom of the Opera". That prompted me to question his professionalism.

"Doc, let's go back to the days when we were in fourth grade," I said sarcastically. "Let's pretend we're learning about sets and subsets. Which of the following does not belong to our set – a nightgown, a nightlight, a nightcap or a night mask?"

He didn't fall for it.

"Trust me," he said. "A night mask is not a nightmare."

"That's easy for you to say," I remarked. "How do I know you're not in cahoots with the CPAP salesman?"

"Again, a night mask is not a nightmare. A night mare is a horse after day light."

After hearing his lousy impersonation of a late night TV show host, I begged the doctor to revert to singing show tunes. I also agreed to go home with a CPAP, although I later made excuses for why I should not wear the darn mask.

"I don't want to wear this stupid thing," I told my roommate as we got ready for bed that evening.

"It can't be that bad," he said. "A lot of people wear CPAP masks. I don't hear them complaining."

"That's because you don't know those people."

"Just put on your mask and give it a rest!"

"I'm telling you, the only night I want to wear a mask is on Halloween."

But, I donned the dumb thing and proceeded with my regular bedtime routine. As expected, the CPAP was distracting.

"If I put this on when I crawl into bed, I can't read until I drop off to sleep," I whined.

"Why?" my inquisitive pal asked.

"In order to get comfortable, I have to position the air hose above my nose and over the center of my forehead. That keeps my eyes from seeing together. I might as well have one eye on the right side of my head and the other eye beside my left temple."

"You're exaggerating," he contended.

"I am not. Why do you think you never see a goldfish reading a novel?"

I continued stressing my point.

"I've got to figure out a way to sleep without the air hose getting in the way."

"It will be OK," my companion said supportively. "The hose will move with you when you change positions."

"As much as I toss and turn, I'm afraid it's going to get wrapped around my neck and choke me."

"That's ridiculous," he countered.

"Well, you're going to appear ridiculous when you have to explain to the coroner why I was strangled by King Kong's umbilical cord."

While the air pressure hurt my ears, I eventually dropped off to sleep. The next morning, my comrade said the CPAP seemed to result in better slumber. Since the machine kept me from snoring, he slept superbly.

Godfather Calls for Chocolate Truce

It looked like a chocolate convention. All the power bars were present, neatly placed around the table for what could have been the sugar rush of the millennium.

Only the M&Ms were missing. They couldn't decide if Red or Blue should run their organized family.

It was Don Hersheoni who called the meeting to order. His right-hand body guard bar, Ressiano Cupini stayed close to the chocolate patriarch's side.

"I, Don Hersheoni, want to thank Don Nestleoni for helping me organize this meeting here today. I also welcome the other heads of the five chocolate families. From Nashville, we have Googoo Cluseterino. From the West Coast, we have Don Seesino. And, we have our associates from the interplanetary syndicate – Mars Bariano and Milky Wayini. Thank you!

"How did things ever get this far? I don't know. It's so unfortunate, so unnecessary for the feds to assume we're behind the reason their children are chunky. Because of it, Don Nestlenoi's son got crunched. I, too, lost a family member close to my heart when my nephew, Almondo Joiano, was done in because some senator's son had an allergic reaction to nuts.

"This chocolate war stops now! And if Kit Katsini and his impersonator Kit Katsiano agree, then I'm willing to let things go on the way they were before."

Don Nestleoni cracked his rice knuckles as Don Katsini offered his response.

"We're all grateful to Don Hersheoni for calling this meeting. We know him as a chocolate bar of his word. A modest bar, he'll always listen to reason."

But Googoo Clusterino had not stayed in business by remaining silent. He had to offer his caramel-coated comments.

"Yes, Don Hersheoni is too modest. He had all the FDA dieticians and holiday promoters in his wrapper and refused to share them."

"When did I refuse an accommodation?" Don Hersheoni asked. "All of you know me here. When did I ever refuse, except one time? For what? Because high-fat milk and saturated fat in our products are going to destroy us in years to come.

"I mean it's not like bagged spinach with e-coli or lettuce harvested from soil with traces of bacteria. Fresh green roughage is something most people want now days, and some of it has been ordered off the shelves by the USDA.

"Even the health departments and the holiday promoters who have assisted us in the past will all refuse to help us when it comes to chocolate with a high-fat, high-sugar content. I believed that when I saw that senator's preadolescent son inflate to 200 pounds. And, I believe that now."

Mars Bariano could not resist offering his intergalactic view of current day consumption.

"Times have changed. It's not like the old days when we could use any ingredients we wanted. A refusal is not an act of a friend. If Don Hersheoni has all the FDA dieticians and holiday promoters in his wrapper, then he must share them, let others use them. He must let us draw the chocolate from the vat."

However, Don Seesino had always considered his family to be of superior quality. He wanted to make sure his assorted chocolate family continued to exude temptation.

"I also do not believe in empty calories. For years, I paid my William Wonkarinos extra so they wouldn't use anything but the best goobers and fruit in our products. Then, Whitman Sampliano's flunky comes to them and says, 'Hey fellows, if you put up three or four thousand dollars for store brand peanut butter and crisp rice cereal, we can make fifty thousand distributing at holidays.' So my Willies can't resist."

Milky Wayini also viewed himself as a chocolate bar of star quality. He wanted assurance Don Seesino wouldn't try to compete with Milky Wayini Enterprises.

"I want to control it as a business and keep it respectable. I don't want our bars near schools. I don't want Hersheoni Kisses sold to children. In my galaxy, we would keep the traffic to dark chocolate lovers, the colored lovers. They're animals anyway, so let them lose their souls."

Don Hersheoni got the meeting back on track.

"I hoped that we could come here and reason together. And as a reasonable chocolate bar, I'm willing to do whatever is necessary to find a peaceful solution to this problem."

"Then we all agree," Mars Bariano confirmed. "The traffic of chocolate candy will be permitted, but controlled. And, Don Hersheoni will give us protection, and there will be peace."

"But I must have strict assurance from Don Hersheoni," Don Clusterino said with a drawl. "As time goes by and his position becomes stronger, will he attempt any individual vendetta?"

"Look, we are all reasonable chocolate bars here," Don Nestleoni bellowed. "We don't have to give assurances as if we were lawyers."

"Talk about vengeance," Don Hersheoni replied. "Is vengeance going to bring your son back to you or my nephew back to me? I forego the vengeance of my nephew. But, I have selfish reasons. My youngest son, Baby Ruthiano, is supposed to leave this country because of his commercial business. And, I have to bring him back here safely clear of all his false charges.

"I'm a reasonable chocolate bar, but I'm also superstitious. If Baby Ruthiano gets his nugget smashed by one of Butter Fingerino's bars, or if Baby should choke himself on his peanuts or if he's melted by a lightning bolt, then I'm going to shred some of the bars in this room to coconut and put them in mounds. That I will not forgive.

"With that aside, let me say that I swear on the souls of my future chocolate products, that I will not be the one to break the peace that we've made here today."

While riding home from the meeting, Reesiano Cupini sat in the back of the limo and contemplated future business negotiations. After all, Christmas was just around the corner and Easter came on the Yuletide cusp. These were major business days for those whose lives were tied to the chocolate syndicate.

"When I meet with Kit Katsini's people, should I insist that Santiago Clausette and Eastere Bunnioni and all the other middle mascots for the holiday promoters have clean records?" Cupini asked Don Hersheoni.

"Mention it," the Don responded. "Don't insist. Katsini is a chocolate bar who will know without being told."

"You mean Katsiano?" Reesiano Cupini inquired.

"Katsiano is a pimp," Don Hersheoni said calmly. "He never could afford dark chocolate and low-cal sweetener. But, I never knew until this day that it was Katsiano all along."

Shopping on Empty Results in Fullness

Chances are slim dieters will lose anything other than money if they go grocery shopping with empty stomachs.

Such a practice can lead some people to fail in merely preparing to succeed. I know because I am one of the some.

In my case, the sum ain't pretty. The total is approximately 50 pounds of surplus fat. So, I recently decided to do whatever it takes to lose one-fourth of me. It also means whatever includes ridiculing from my roommate.

"From this day forth, I am going on a diet," I declared. "I pledge to never leave home without a grocery list and to never purchase items that are not on that list."

While I made these vows to myself, my companion heard every word. I know because he started laughing.

"That list trick never works if you shop when you're hungry," my compact comrade exclaimed between chuckles and gasps for air. "For example, Santa Claus has a list and checks it twice. But, he's still fat."

Secretly, I felt proud because I have a friend who loves me regardless of my shape and size. However, my stubborn streak made me even more determined to put my plan into place. Grabbing a pencil and last week's grocery store tab, I began drafting my first dietary shopping list on the back of the receipt. I also tried to ignore my pal's rude remark about St. Nick.

My buddy knew I was miffed. I know because he started cleaning the kitchen, a task he never tackles unless he is trying to get back on my good side. Then, his kissing up became sappy.

"Why don't I cook you some bacon and eggs to eat before you go to the store?"

"No, that's OK," I responded. "I'm starting a diet so I shouldn't eat fried bacon."

"I can poach the eggs and broil the bacon," he insisted. "You really should eat so you won't buy everything in the store because you're hungry."

"Part of being on a diet is having the discipline not to buy food you don't need," I contended. "Besides, we're out of bacon, which is one reason I'm going to the store."

To demonstrate I had control, I read him my two-item list – vegetables and bacon. Just to be cordial, I queried if he had additions for my roster. But, he showed little concern for my compilation. Instead, he continued his sweet talk.

"I still think you should have something hot to eat before you go," he said. "It will only take a minute for me to serve you a bowl of cornflakes."

I replied, "A bowl of cornflakes does not constitute a hot meal unless you left the milk out."

"We're almost out of milk. Add that to your list," he demanded. "While you're at it, also write down chocolate milk."

"I'll get regular milk," I announced, making his addition to my list. "We really don't need chocolate milk. That's too tempting. It would be like eating liquid ice cream."

Before my roommate could comment, I picked up my car keys and headed out the door. An hour later, I returned home. I was delighted because I purchased fewer items than I usually buy. But, my companion still was not convinced my list plan was working. His desire was to prove the flaw in my system.

"What took you so long?" he asked.

With hesitation, I answered, "I forgot my list so I had to improvise."

Then, smugness surged into my chum as he began offering unsolicited quips.

"It looks like you bought everything in the store and then picked up a few items at another one."

I reacted as any sane woman would behave. I became defensive.

"I didn't buy beets, Brussels sprouts or balsamic vinegar."

"You don't like those things."

"I didn't buy dog food."

"We don't have a dog."

"See, I only bought half of everything in the store."

"Well, that's all you could fit in the trunk of your car."

I realized giving him the silent treatment would serve no useful purpose. So, I dismissed his criticism of my latest purchases. Wasting no time, I returned my focus to the heart of the matter – getting on with my diet and relieving my hunger pains.

"While I put everything away, why don't you fry some bacon and eggs," I requested. "That would taste so good with a large glass of milk."

"Is the bacon in the bag with the six cartons of cupcakes or in the small bag filled with jelly beans?"

He proved his point, which forced me to admit my defeat.

"Oh, man! I forgot to get bacon and milk."

Mailbox Filled with Star Power

While technology makes written communication easier and faster than ever before, nothing can replace the intimacy of hand-delivered mail. Yep, the real thing straight from the United States Postal service is unparallel to e-mail, text messages or even smoke signals.

Come rain or shine, our letter carrier never fails to stuff our mailbox with exciting items such as greeting cards from insurance companies, coupons from hardware stores and campaign literature from folks with political ambition. OK, the latter ain't exactly representative of literary classics such as "Grapes of Wrath" or "Little Women." But, well-written election propaganda does resemble a fabulous mud-slinging abridged version of "War and Peace."

With anticipation, I await the daily arrival of my snail mail. The thought of getting junk with a personal touch is the highlight of my day.

Ditto for my companion. "What did the mailman bring us today?" he eagerly asked yesterday.

"I got a therapy bill and a lifetime opportunity from the marketing director of Startouch magazine. You got a summons for jury duty."

"You can keep the bill. But¸ I'll trade you my jury duty for the magazine pitch letter."

His enthusiasm inspired me to rip open that letter to learn why the marketing director decided to be my pen pal. The word "free" dressed in bold letters seemed to tap dance across the page just above this stranger's salutation of "Dear Friend."

She hooked me with "friend." So, I read on. She wasn't just a marketing guru. She was a mind reader. Her practical prose got right to the point. Her first sentence revealed I had a hectic life and I deserved more than a few fleeting moments of leisure time. I could not contain my excitement.

"Honey, the Startouch marketing director wants to help me melt away my stress. She wants to treat me to the relaxation remedy I need."

"Beware," my skeptical supporter insisted. "If she were a licensed therapist, she wouldn't be writing sales pitches."

"She's giving me a gift certificate for six issues of Startouch. This certificate entitles me to the perfect therapy for my mind, heart and soul."

"A magazine instead of therapy. Your medical insurance company probably hired her to write that letter."

Undaunted, I continued to cherish this opportunity for satisfaction. "My gift certificate also entitles me to steal moments with George Clooney and Patrick Dempsey over morning coffee. Would you be jealous if I accepted this offer?"

"Not at all," my companion said a little too enthusiastically. "While you're out with George and or Patrick, I can spend time alone with my soon-to-arrive mail-order bride."

"You're just jealous."

"Go. Have coffee with George. Just don't tell him where you hide your diamonds."

"What do you mean?" I inquired.

"While George lures you out of the house for lattes, he might send over his criminal companions from Oceans 13 through 27. George can't be trusted."

I ignored the cynicism and returned to my letter. In addition to caffeine connections with George and Patrick, I could curl up in my favorite armchair and spend blissful afternoons with old friends and new such as Julia Roberts and Jennifer Aniston.

"I doubt if Julia would like to be called old, although she might have a few years on Jennifer," I criticized. "Still, spending time with Julia would be fun."

Of course, my pal played devil's advocate. "I don't think so. Julia might be a steel magnolia, but she's also a runaway bride. Plus, she tried to foil her best friend's wedding. Julia can't be trusted."

"What about Patrick?"

"You don't stand a chance. Thanks to his role in 'Grey's Anatomy', Patrick has quite a reputation as Dr. McDreamy. He can walk into any room and hear women's hearts fluttering. He doesn't even need his stethoscope."

"What about Jennifer?" I questioned, expecting my companion to cast more rain on my parade.

"With Jen, it's friends forever. She can be trusted."

I interrupted this stimulating conversation to read more. The marketing director said if I like my six issues of Startouch, I can get 16 more for three easy payments of $13.14 each.

My budget-conscious buddy ruined the charm. "If you spent afternoons curled up in your armchair, you'd have to quit your day job. Then, you wouldn't earn a paycheck. So in order to make those easy payments, you'd have to steal more than moments from George and Patrick."

"But I'd be saving $2.19 an issue. That's a bargain."

"Well, since you put it like that!"

"Don't be sarcastic," I pleaded. "My letter states, and I quote, 'for best results, read all six free issues before making Startouch a weekly rejuvenation ritual.' "

"Go ahead and cash in your gift certificate."

"Do you really think I can put a price on therapy for my mind, heart and soul?" I queried.

"Well, $13.14 is $1.86 cheaper than the co-payment for your therapist. Besides, reading Startouch will give you something to do at night if I get on a jury panel and the judge has us sequestered."

Writer's note: The name of the magazine has been changed to protect the shameless. Some of the facts have been changed to protect the comedy.

If Chocolate Was Illegal

Welcome to the city. Two million people live here. It never sleeps. When it fails to snooze for illegal reasons, I get involved. My name is Bob Tuesday. I’m a police detective. I carry a badge – but not necessarily a red one of courage.

8:32 a.m. October 12. My partner, Detective Fred Jones, and I were assigned to the Chocolate Division. We started our morning meeting with Mayor Seymore Thinley and members of the organized chocolate syndicate. They included Don Ghirardelliano, Peanut Clusterini and Willie Wonkarino. With the exception of the mayor, these men were not nice people.

Today, they were more riled than usual. The mayor called the meeting to order. “As you know, a ban on chocolate has been in effect within the city limits for the past 11 months. Working with the chocolate syndicate through plea-bargain agreements, we have drastically reduced the chocolate trade and the waistlines of our once obese youngsters.

“But during the past three weeks, something has gone drastically awry. We have serious reason to believe illegal chocolate trade is inundating even our quaintest neighborhoods. I noticed this about a week ago, when my son, Seymore Junior, began to chunk out after losing 35 pounds. Only one thing can cause this phenomenon – devouring chocolate between meals.

“We have to get this situation under control before the feds halt financial subsidies to our city coffer. Besides, the city doesn’t pay me enough to buy Junior new britches.”

Peanut Clusterini was angry enough to throw rotten Cadbury eggs at enemy mobs. “This smells like Almondo Joie is behind this. You just can’t trust those gangsters dealing in Swiss chocolate.”

“Joie is French,” Don Ghirardelliano set the record straight. “But, I think German chocolate may be the culprit. I never did trust Don Hersheygut.”

Willie Wonkarino wanted to give his fellow criminal element the benefit of the doubt. But, he too had strong feelings that crossed lines of the underground chocolate turf. “I have reason to believe Mario Nestleoni’s family is involved – specifically, his nephew Ralph. We all know Ralph doesn’t think with his noggin. When the chocolate ban went into effect, he was the first to get busted. Why? Because he can’t resist wooing the women with heart-shaped boxes filled with assorted chocolates. It wouldn’t have been so severe had he done this in February – the month of love and Valentine’s Day. But no, it was January when he used chocolates to steal a few hearts.”

Wonkarino’s theory led the mayor to suspicion. “Wait a minute. Willie just reminded me of something Junior said during breakfast this morning. I was having toast and chocolate milk. He was eating a bowl of Chococrisps. We spent quality time together this morning because Junior was in bed when I got home last night after the City Council meeting.”

“Yeah, go on,” Sgt. Jones insisted.

“Well, Junior said that a few weeks ago he and his friends were playing near the Nestleoni warehouse down the street from the elementary school they attend. They saw the school nurse, Clarice Godiva, leaving the establishment with Ralph. They were walking to a black stretch limo parked in the alley. Junior thought he saw Clarice holding a piece of chocolate. But, he couldn’t tell for sure. He was distracted by her long blond hair hanging down around her knees.”

I jumped into action. “Fred, we better go to the school and have a talk with this Lady Godiva.”

Tom ta tom tom! Tom ta tom tom tom!

10:42 a.m. Fred and I drove to the elementary school. We announced ourselves to the principal. Then, we headed straight to the nurse’s office. But, we had to wait 15 minutes to question Lady Godiva. She was attending to three children complaining of belly aches. The belly aches came on right after recess. Fred and I suspected illegal chocolate consumption was involved.

“Why do you want to to talk to me, sergeants?” The nurse asked innocently.

“Where were you about 3:47 p.m. on September 19, Miss Godiva?” Fred queried. “It is Miss isn’t it?”

“Well, I can’t be too sure. But, I think I was getting my hair trimmed. I do that about every six months. Otherwise it hangs down way below my knees. My husband doesn’t like that.”

I explained our line of questioning. “Some students here think they saw you that afternoon, Mrs. Godiva. And, you were not at the beauty parlor. You were spotted in the alley outside the chocolate warehouse with Ralph Nestleoni. The boys thought you were clutching contraband chocolate.”

“Why do they think it was me, sergeant?”

“One kid thought he recognized your hair. But one thing is for sure, he knows you were holding something, and you had your right pinky finger extended. So just give us the facts, Mam. When you left with Ralph, were you or were you not holding a chocolate truffle?”

“OK, I was with Ralph at the chocolate warehouse. I like Ralph. He gives me what my husband can’t. Ralph has access to chocolate. My husband can’t provide that because Mayor Thinley banned chocolate within the city limits.

"Please don’t tell my husband. After all, it is not what it seems. I was eating that truffle because I would never be caught carrying surplus chocolate. I don’t want it to get into the wrong hands.”

“It already has, Mam,” Fred replied. “We have reason to believe someone is selling stolen chocolate to children at this school.”

Lady Godiva seemed baffled. “What? Hot chocolate?”

Tom ta tom tom! Tom ta tom tom tom!

3:58 p.m. Fred and I decided Lady Godiva appeared genuinely startled. We doubted if she was the campus chocolate pusher. We decided to pay a visit to the mayor’s house. We wanted to interview Seymore Thinley Junior. As luck would have it, Junior answered our knock at the door. Something was smeared all around his mouth. It looked like chocolate.

We showed Junior our badges and invited ourselves inside. There on the coffee table beside a glass of chocolate milk and four chocolate chip cookies was a mound of evidence. It appeared chocolate-covered nugget, chocolate-coated almonds and chocolate Santas were being weighed and packaged for sell in clear plastic baggies.

“OK, OK,” Junior admitted his guilt. “My friends and I weren’t playing outside the chocolate warehouse. Two of us were standing guard while our pal went inside and stole some candy. We were only going to sell enough to earn money to buy Christmas presents. Our idea was to keep the rest for our own consumption.”

4:52 p.m. We handcuffed Junior and took him downtown where he was fingerprinted and booked for possession with intent to sell a controlled substance.

The story you have just read may or may not be true or false. The names may or may not have been changed to protect the innocent or not so innocent. In a moment, you will read the results of this story.

On October 31, Seymore Thinley Junior appeared in juvenile court where he was found guilty of breaking chocolate laws. He was sentenced to serve up to two years in juvenile detention or to lose 35 pounds, whichever comes first.