@mysteryman,
Well, you could say whichever of those same things about me and what would it matter? You are a man who uses a fake name who represents himself with a picture of a monkey. I always look for wisdom when someone represents himself with a picture of a monkey.
I don't know if you have caught on yet but nothing posted here has any application in the real world or any meaning. This is a past time. It is somewhat akin to playing mumbly-peg . . . whatever that was.
Now that I know my saying brewer hasn't committed suicide yet upset okie . . . who must be a tight rope walker as he is among the most easily upset people on the planet . . . I will tell you how that expression originated.
When I was in college during the 1960s, I worked at the Henry Ford Museum.
Another of the college guides, as we were called, was one of the dumbest women in the state but she had a knack for putting together visiting single men with the college guides, who were all female. Except she couldn't count, because there was always one girl more than needed. That girl was always her. Even at 18, she looked like Barbara Bush . . . tall and fat with pale blonde hair.
Anyway, some guys from Burroughs were in Detroit to be trained. This girl sniffed out that they were single and she suggested she could fix them up. I know she sounds a bit like a madame, but, she wasn't.
I was on welcoming duty with her and the guys wanted me to be part of the outing. One of them, who stood as tall as I am (5' 3") and who was less than 30 and bald as an egg, took a shine to me. His name was Byron.
So, we all piled into someone's car that evening. These guys had no idea where to go. They had had dinner and they didn't want to see a movie. Byron was already trying to kiss me. Ugh! I asked everyone what they enjoyed doing. Byron answered listening to jazz. So, I directed them to Baker's Keyboard Lounge. The act that night was Roland Kirk and he was wonderful.
Everyone but me hated the entertainment part. When we got back to the car after one set, Byron said icily that he liked George Shearing.
Unfortunately, Roland Kirk did not extinguish his flame and resumed trying to kiss me.
That was Friday night. We were to go to a party at their residential hotel the next night but I said I wouldn't come. The girls who weren't working went out to buy their first black dresses. Puh-leeze. They also made the mistake of talking to Byron who said if I wouldn't come, the party was off. The girls begged me. I said no. They called Byron who said that he done nothing to offend me. I said that he hadn't committed suicide yet.
About once every four