Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim weren’t the brightest bulbs in the room even when they were sober. But to celebrate Saint Patrick’s Day, they crossed the line from merely asinine to outright stupidity. At 21, they were legal adults. They headed first to Paddy’s, a local pub. “Paddy’s has a lot of different beers – some of them are really green, and if they sell it in a green bottle, that counts too,” Jerry asserted. The decision had been to “go green” to celebrate the Irish saint’s feast day, even if none of the young men actually hailed from the Emerald Isle. On the way back to their dorm, Jack had the bright idea to search for “green food” amid the leftovers inhabiting their communal refrigerator. All moderately inebriated, the idea was soon seconded by the other three. “I’m sure we’ll find something that qualifies,” opined Jim, “I’m starved.”

The cooler contained a bounty of green foodstuffs, mostly inedible to sane & sober folk. But Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim were neither.  Jack found a plastic cup that had once contained fresh orange juice; orange was no longer visible as a layer of green mold had grown there. He dared John to drink it.

“Okay,” John declared while grabbing the cup from Jack and swallowing the contents. Oblivious to the taste, John noticed a container of mashed potatoes. He couldn’t remember how long the potatoes had been there.

“Alright Jerry, I dare you to eat the rest of these potatoes,” John said.

Jerry opened the container and gagged from the smell. “A dare is a dare,” he solemnly stated, beginning to shovel the bacteria-laden root vegetable into his gob.

Jim spied some guacamole dip that looked ancient enough. He was only able to get down three bites before he himself turned green and began to vomit.  John and Jerry were nauseous too, and soon were puking copiously alongside Jim. Jack, so far abstaining from the “green food,” grabbed a phone to call a cab, destination, the nearest ER. All four young men had coverage, courtesy of parental prudence and a California Health Insurance agent. Enroute to the hospital, the “boys” made a mess of the taxi’s interior, and caused quite a stink.  “You are disgusting” screamed the cabbie, but Jack tipped him an extra buck.

When Memorial Day came, Jack, John, Jerry, and Jim decided to make it really memorable. “Let’s go down to Paddy’s!” Jim suggested. This time, they just got good and drunk.

Luis from Los Angeles Mission.

The homeless population in and around Los Angeles knew her only as “Grandmomma” as she preferred to be called. But Morticia Jackson was no mere ancient crone who’d once had a traditional family. A wealthy woman, her last relative, a 62-year-old grand-niece, had preceded her in death some six years before, when Morticia had already achieved the venerable age of 105. That’s when the very old woman, still in excellent health, decided to volunteer to help the homeless. No mere bag lady, she brought bags of food and clothing to the numerous shelters, making the rounds. She also cooked meals and scrubbed floors, and referred to this last stage of her life as “my exciting new career.”

“Don’t you have a family?” she’d often be asked.

“Nope,” she’d reply, “I did. They’re dead.”

She had made the acquaintance of California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard, and had purchased from him any health coverage she might need in case she became ill. But it turned out to be just a precaution. Morticia never even caught a cold. A lesser woman might have just considered herself invulnerable and left it at that, pleased with her good fortune and resolved to die in her sleep someday. But by the time she walked into Matt’s office, still with a spring in her step, she’d acquired a new “family.”

Matt always marveled at Ms. Jackson’s energy. “You sure got spunk,” he’d say.

“I used to,” she’d say, “When my husband was alive. But he died a while back. His spunk died with him.”

“How long has it been?” Matt asked, a little curious.

“Sixty-three years this Tuesday,” replied Morticia.

What she told him next astounded the California Health Insurance agent, not that she wanted to buy a final expense life insurance policy, but what she wanted it for.  Besides taking care of her funeral and burial expenses, she wanted it to provide extra money for the city’s homeless population. It would have to be specially written and comply with California law. But it would be one gift of many from one Morticia Jackson to the people she now loved.

“Why are you doing this?” Matt asked.  “They’re strangers to you.”

“No they’re not,” she replied, “They’re my family.”

The backyard garden area of Rebecca’s Ventura home, a split-level ranch, was one of her favorite places. She loved the solitude of tending the various plants, and plucking weeds, which she often did barehanded. One day following the recent Los Angeles area rains, a deluge actually, mudslides were reported in the hills, and so much rain fell that entire homes were washed away.  Perhaps if Rebecca Sunnybrook had lived on a farm, this might have been her tragedy too, but in her own environs, mostly it was a newfound abundance of weeds suddenly proliferating in her lovely garden that she was primarily concerned with. Funny, the worst of the weeds had shiny leaves which reflected the prodigal sun in all its own subtle beauty. She wondered what kind of weed was this, with its creeping fronds and questing tendrils spreading a perverse chaos throughout her once lovely garden?

It was while sitting on her patio drinking lemonade when Rebecca noticed the itching.  By the next day, even after she’d showered, the itching had become intolerable, accompanied by numerous raised blisters and a patchy rash that now had spread over her entire body. Scratching only made it worse, even with her long sharp feminine nails, and Rebecca didn’t have the slightest clue why. She was miserable, and had health insurance, that she knew, and when she picked up the phone to speak to Matt Lockard, her friendly California Health Insurance agent, she sought his advice. “Should I seek out the ER?,” she asked plaintively, her lips bloated and strangely muffling her speech, after she’d related her encounter with the peculiar weeds n her beloved backyard garden.

Matt pondered her tale.  As she waited for his response, he gave her two sound bytes that would linger in her memory. “Poison oak,” Matt said, “Urgent care.” He mouthed a third, “You’re covered,” but she already knew that. She got in her car, a Toyota that still stopped okay, and raced it down to the Urgent Care center less than a mile away.

She was treated with various topical anti-urushiol potions, a potent antibiotic to alleviate the systemic infection, and released feeling much better. She called Matt once again with a sound byte of her own. “No more itchy,” she said, and he replied with his booming laugh.

[ How to cook your own Fish & Chips ]

It was St. Valentine’s Day eve before it occurred to Ed Nolan, a diesel mechanic and family man, that the ‘holiday’ needed to be celebrated or else his wife and eight kids would feel cheated. Brought up Catholic, Ed had met his wife Nancy when they were both in sixth grade at St. Valentine’s School back in Massachusetts, where they’d been childhood sweethearts. St. Valentine, as gorily depicted in the Catholic semi-sacred tome, “The Lives of the Saints,” had been a cupid-like young teenager shot to death by bow sent arrows, according to legend. As these grisly images surfaced in Nolan’s mind, he suddenly decided, without any planning whatsoever, that he’d have to take the entire family out to eat for “St. Valentine’s Day.” As it fell on a Sunday, but for some reason felt like a Friday, he figured it had to be a “fish place” — a restaurant specializing in seafood dishes. A born procrastinator, Ed and his family ended up driving around greater Los Angeles in search of a “fish place.” Finally, Ed pulled up to a seedy-looking diner called Cedrick’s Fish Place with Chips. “Perfect,” Ed exclaimed.

The food, planks of greenish-tinged cod with murky, dark red chowder tasted good enough going down. The younger Nolan children especially enjoyed the chowder and the process of discovering what “lurked beneath” in their bowls. “It tastes funny, but kind of nice,” remarked five-year-old Mary. 

A few hours later, the Nolan family en masse became very sick. A large quantity of vomit and diarrhea began to permeate their humble home. Much of it smelled like rotten fish. Ed procrastinated until his little girl began to resemble Typhoid Mary, a tragic character in history just as St. Valentine had been in his painful last ordeal. She began to develop her own greenish-tinge around the ears, nose, and mouth.      

Feeling nauseous and leaking out the derriere himself, Ed drove to the nearest urgent care facility post-haste. He remembered when they’d purchased a California Health Insurance policy from an agent named “Bill.” What was his last name? “Valentine,” Ed recalled. Next year, the Nolan family would plan well in advance for St. Valentine’s Day, the family’s patriarch ruefully mused.

Max Decimale, 34, was prone to being “stressed out.” Much of this was due to his occupation as a certified public accountant. Income tax season was the worst but certain clients put him through his paces during the rest of the year. California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard was sensitive to Decimale’s needs, and suggested a policy that might offer alternative health options, such as acupuncture. Surprisingly, Decimale got the point. “An acupuncturist is not that big of a deal for me,” Decimale claimed, “I’m used to it. My girlfriend has been needling me for years.”

Lockard even suggested an available point man. “You might try Dr. Hazen L. Lu,” he told his client. 

“Does his middle initial stand for luck?” Decimale wondered.

“Nope, it stands for Lou,” Lockard replied.

“He’s really a Lou Lu?”

“You can say that.”

Dr. Lu was so experienced and the needles were thin enough that it didn’t seem to matter. Max Decimale became increasingly relaxed as the therapy continued month after month. “It calms me,” Decimale concluded, and the point was made.

One day Decimale was in the neighborhood, and he paid a visit to Mr. Lockard in person. “To show my appreciation, I’d like to take you out to lunch,” he told Matt.

Matt Lockard had never been out to lunch with an accountant, and was curious. “Does that mean you’re paying?”

“Of course,” said Decimale.

Lockard decided to take Max up on his offer. They walked about six blocks, until they came to “The Soup Kitchen.”

Feeling especially hungry, Matt entered the tiny emporium with Max and they were soon seated.  “What kind of soup do you want?” Max asked.

“I’ll have the chicken noodle with bean sprouts,” said Matt.

Max had the black bean. As they both sipped, Matt could not help but notice how relaxed Max seemed while they each consumed their cups of soup.   

Fishing Accident!!

Pete Wafsleger was an expert fisherman. Using bait and a fiberglass rod, he usually caught his limit. One day in May, Pete and five old friends, all experienced fishermen sans one, headed up to Pete’s favorite stream in Yosemite.  They drove up in an SUV, if not exactly fuel efficient, the vehicle was “fishing efficient,” according to Sam, the SUV’s owner and driver.

The vehicle’s onboard GPS worked swell, and within an hour, the group of friends arrived in the park. Within a few more minutes, they’d found Pete’s cherished stream. “Here we are!” he yelled. Sam stopped the car. The men felt like kids playing hooky when they got out their poles, and baited their hooks. Everybody was in a good mood. Five casts, expertly launched, went out into the stream.

Before Sam sent his own cast airborne, he spoke a red flag. “How do you even know for sure there’s even fish in this stream? It’s only about six inches deep!”

Pete and the rest turned to face Sam and flashed him looks. Every trout fisherman worth his tackle knows that a trout stream is seldom more than a foot deep. Besides, they’d all pulled stringers of writhing trout from this very stream. But at that very instant, Sam launched his cast. It sailed into the air like the others – for about seven feet – until Sam hooked Pete with considerable force – right in the forehead. “Geez Sam,” they all cried in unison, “now look what you’ve done.”

For his part, Pete just stood there bleeding profusely.  Sam drove in a quite a hurry back in the way they’d come, in fact, even further, all the way to Barstow. An emergency room gurney lay waiting for Pete. As he was wheeled off into the bowels of the hospital, his friends followed along like grown puppy dogs, and Sam seemed especially bedraggled. Pete lay there bleeding and repeating in the manner of a mantra, “Thank heavens I got health insurance coverage.”

Sure enough, Pete did have a plan in place. He’d purchased it a few months back from a California Health Insurance agent who was also a fisherman of sorts.

A few days later, the friends were all having a good laugh amid a few beers, even Pete, still wearing a bandage to protect the stitches.  “Still my friend?” Sam asked Pete.

“Sure,” Pete said, “Can’t help it. I’m hooked.” At least he wasn’t the friend that got away.

The Coakleys were refugees from Malibu Beach. When they moved to Ventura, it was difficult for them to fit in. Fred Coakley had been an actor, playing ghouls in zombie-filled horror flicks when he could get the parts; his wife Isabelle an ill-equipped socialite — lacked social skills. Their adorable children Tristan, age 6, and Annie, age 9, were chronically toy-deprived until a passive-aggressive Samaritan philanthropist donated a kaleidoscope for the children to play with. Prior to the children’s acquisition of the sinister toy, the philanthropist had also paid for three policies, a family plan and two individual plans for the kiddies – all purchased from California Health Insurance agent Matt Lockard.

The Coakley children weren’t greedy like some children are. This turned out to be a liability, as they quietly shared the kaleidoscope, being utterly mesmerized by its ceaseless morphing colorful patterns – and in staring at the kaleidoscope in their obsessive-compulsive manner which was hereditary for any Coakley; their sweet little eyes became fixated in a cruel way. Strabismus, sometimes known as “cross-eyes” or in Isabelle Coakley’s crazed mind, “the double evil-eye times two,” set in. 

Fred and Isabelle noticed their children’s wandering eyes one night during a family séance. Isabelle became hysterical. “Why are you doing that kiddies?” she screamed, “Why are you giving your Ma the double evil-eye times two?” The children replied in eerie unison, voicing a chilling, sing-song cadenced mannerism reminiscent of some of their Da’s better films, “It’s the kaleidoscope me thinks!”

While Isabelle simply grabbed the nearest axe, Fred had the presence of mind to seek out emergency eye care, something to flush out strabismus when it was kaleidoscope-induced, preferably. A month later, the reunited family came by Matt Lockard’s office after taking the bus there. The children were wearing patches on their left eyes, the sinister ones. Matt was expecting the foursome, being a fan of Fred’s better undead impersonations and of course, being their trusted California Health Insurance agent, albeit by proxy.

“Nice patches,” Matt Lockard opined once the kiddies had ambled in, “Are they pirates today?”

When the children began sobbing, their feelings hurt; well-meaning Matt pulled a toy from a convenient drawer. It was, unfortunately, a kaleidoscope.

She’d wanted to save money. Haircuts were getting expensive. Why not? Marta Higgins mused. Her six-year-old would be getting a home haircut. The boy was anything but pleased. “Mommy; I want to go to the real barbershop.” Too old to have a tantrum, he had one anyway. It didn’t make any difference. Eventually, he was sitting up in a kitchen chair. She had promised to give him a cookie afterwards.      

Chip was well-behaved from then on, trying to sit absolutely still. Marta had never cut hair before. Once she’d dreamed of becoming a stylist in a unisex salon, but that’s when she’d been just eight.  Still, how hard could it be?  After draping a towel over Chip’s chest and shoulders, she grabbed a comb and scissors and just started cutting. Running the comb through her boy’s hair, she instinctively used it as a guide. “Mommy is doing a fine job,” she said to her son, as if to reassure him.

“I wish I could go to the barbershop,” the boy blurted.   

In fact, she was close to finishing, when the phone rang.  Distracted, suddenly she noticed when Chip started screaming that it wasn’t just hair she was cutting. Chip screamed again and was soon sobbing. Was that a piece of his earlobe that she now grasped in the pinching grip of her scissors? Blood came pouring out of the wound, and began running down his face and neck.

“Oops,” she said, “my bad.” She realized how remarkably calm she was.  It was a good thing she kept the phone number of her California Health Insurance Agent handy on the fridge. 

Matt Lockard came on the phone. “Yes?”

When Marta explained what had happened, Matt advised her to save the ear lobe, “Don’t lose it, whatever you do!” he said, rather loudly, to the voice on the phone, “Head right now to the nearest hospital ER, don’t waste a minute!”

“But my friend Sally called. I need to call her back. What if she has an emergency?” Marta said.

“YOU have your own emergency!” Matt screamed, in concert with Chip, who was still screaming.

“It will be expensive!” Marta howled.

“Don’t worry, you’re covered!” Matt explained. 

Thereafter, Chip always hid whenever his mom mentioned the word “hair,” but except for what the boy would forever refer to as his “Quasimodo” scar, he eventually recovered.

Everybody who is overweight, not grossly obese necessarily, but even those who find themselves pleasingly plump, get the urge to lose weight right after New Year’s. Diets are taken up like Bibles, and gymnasiums and sauna rooms are filled with perspiring people of every age and description. The offices of Turtlebaum & Turtlebaum, a Sacramento accounting firm of considerable renown, was no exception. Joe D’Angelo by his own estimation needed to shed twenty pounds worn around his middle like a girdle, Patty Provencal seemed to possess a double stomach along with her double chin; Betsy Boopora’s ankles had morphed into cankles, and Irving Iso, although quite conventional in most ways, possessed arms like an elephant’s trunk.

At the beginning of 2009, they’d all made New Year’s resolutions to lose the excess flab. Each was about to be weighed to learn just who might be winning the “Biggest Loser” prizes which had been offered by management as weight loss incentives. But the results were disappointing.

When Joe hopped up onto the precision scale, he’d lost only two pounds, and Betsy had lost just under a pound. Patty had actually gained forty pounds, and Irving had gained almost sixty. To describe any of these losers as “winners” seemed a stretch, but throughout the entire year, stress and anxiety about the “weigh-in” had been bubbling in their bloodstreams like lava from a volcano, and during the celebratory feast something was bound to give. People watched in abject horror as Irving turned red as a beet and actually “popped,” like in that Monty Python movie, and as he was whisked away in an ambulance, the same medical emergency to lesser degrees struck Betsy, Patty, and Joe.  While Irving had suffered some kind of massive stroke, his co-workers were merely hospitalized; thanks to a California health insurance agent who’d issued them all policies, they at least got to stay in separate semi-private rooms.

Joe grasped the prize he’d won in his left hand, the sinister one, while lying in bed and staring at the funny whorls in the hospital room’s ceiling. A nurse coming by with a bedpan happened to glance downwards and discover what it was: It was a ticket for the balcony as a member of the audience for the television show The Biggest Loser.

Because of his manipulative personality, his tendency to steal other children’s toys, and his predilection for tattling, other boys avoided eleven-year-old Stanley. When he was outside, he played solitary games like one-hand-clapping, and worse, he’d listen to that hand. Stanley’s mother, a single mom, could be accused of being overprotective, but she had contacted a widowed California Health Insurance agent named Ralph just to make sure her odd little cherub was covered by an individual child plan. This precaution seemed prudent, even prescient, once she started dating Ralph.

Let’s go camping up in the Sierras, Ralph announced one weekend. The three of them headed for a snow-covered campground in a rented SUV. After their tent was pitched, Stanley grew accustomed to the canvas structure’s fetid air and began his characteristic clapping game, which annoyed the heck out of Ralph. “Hey, let’s go out and throw some snowballs!” he announced. Pushed out into a winter wonderland as if re-emerging from the womb, Stanley, who had never really seen snow, began making a snowball with one hand. Ralph noticed. “You have to pack it – use your other hand,” he instructed. All too soon, Stanley had made his first-ever snowball.  But instinctively returning to his familiar game, the one-hand-clapping, the uncoordinated snowball became a projectile and smacked Ralph surprisingly hard on the side of the face.  Before he realized it, and because he assumed Stanley had meant to throw the snowball, Ralph retaliated with his adult strength. He may have thrown several. In any case, Stanley eventually screamed, “He broke my glasses! Ralph broke my glasses!”

Stanley’s mom drove at breakneck speed for forty miles out of that canyon until she made it to the nearest ER, hardly glancing at her newfound boyfriend.

Stanley had been cut below the left eye by a shard of glass, requiring three stitches. Afterwards, Ralph apologized. “I’m sorry kid,” he muttered.

Stanley was quick to forgive. “Want to play my game?” he asked. Ralph was initially repulsed, but decided, “Oh what the heck!” As the SUV sped along a narrow rural road somewhere north of Sacramento, two elusive hands chased each other while never touching.