I cannot recall owning a sharp-clawed Bengal tiger cub. Or, taking a part-time job as an underbrush-slashing jungle guide. I’m not currently seeing a much younger and hubba-hubba gorgeous albeit sexually complicated COC humanities professor (female) with father issues whose boudoir safe word is, “DEATH TO TRAITORS!!” or “MAN THE TORPEDOS!!”

Dear Mr. SCV:

OK. That does it. This is a family newspaper. I’m mentioning you in this Saturday’s unasked-for derasha.

Best wishes for your continued success,

Rabbi Bob

Always appreciate the prayers, Rabs. Gracias!

So. Back to today’s essay — where am I getting all these boo-boos? I’m just barely approaching Middle Age, but, I’m starting to notice all these nicks, scrapes, bruises, contusions and battle scars appearing unannounced on my Polish sun god body. I’m not much of a drinker. Certainly, I’m not a blackout drunk who wakes up the next morning (scratched) atop a tattooed waitress corpse in an unfamiliar biker bar three states away.

How come I keep getting banged up with no idea from whence my wounds originated? Didn’t do a Joe Biden and tumble down the escalator at the Valencia mall. Wasn’t picking thorny cotton in just my, or, for that matter, anyone else’s, underwear. Wasn’t dragged a half-mile by a psycho rodeo horse. I have this large gash on the back of my left hand. Thankfully, it didn’t require stitches. Or, a hand transplant. But — where did it come from? I don’t recall raising my mitt to invite a defensive wound from a Signal reader irate over........

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