Post No. 212: How I Long for the Days of a Gal Like Judge Judy in My Life

© 2023, The Institute for Applied Common Sense™

I haven’t written a post since March of this year. That I choose to do so now suggests that the past 6 months contained more than its share of wackiness about which I must try to make sense.

I filed papers to formally establish The Institute of Applied Common Sense ™, and despite using it for the past 15 years with only the permission of its original creator, Curvin O’Reilly, and my mentor, Willy Hopkins, no one else chose to seize on the concept in the intervening period.

Why am I obsessed with Judith Sheindlin, who I’ve been watching since 1996? She has become less and less amused by litigants with each passing year, and that is just one thing that we have in common.

I sent a text to a buddy acknowledging my infatuation upon my return to California. Such precision and clarity of thought, I noted. No frigging nonsense. From his silence, I suspect he thought I had gone off the deep end when I mused that we could live in a fantasy world all our own. I even contemplated passing out flyers: “Man seeks Judge Judy type female; Looks, age, and sexiness unimportant.”

Several months ago, I realized we had a standing, virtual date. I found myself glued to the screen while she eloquently expressed what I could only quietly think, “You’re both so stupid.” My favorite? “Mr. Jones, I can legally give you rights to the dog left by your wacked out, former roommate, but I recommend that you simply return the dog, and remove both her and her mother from your life.” When asked what he wanted to do, the man who described himself as “compassionate” replied, “I want to keep the dog.”

Every single day, she suggests to parties that having negative energy in their lives is unhealthy and not the preferred option, and yet they always smile and point to Door No. 1.

Oh, how I long for the days of a gal like Judge Judy in my life.

Earlier today, while communicating with a former girlfriend of 50 years, I found myself walking down the street laughing at, and talking to, myself about the current wackiness. I’ve become concerned that residents in my newfound, bedroom community, where there is absolutely no crime, might feel “uncomfortable.”

I take some degree of comfort in the straight-shooting lay version of Judge Judy who joined my Facebook page, who regularly shares, “Another Week of Stupid,” alluding to our elected leaders.

Despite all, the assessment of my 1980s secretary, friend, and confidante, that the world is spinning “out of control,” seems spot on. Madison Avenue feels similarly, as we watch back to back prescription drug commercials with people dancing, as No. 2 becomes easier to do. My money is on the firm which can repair your destroyed home and lost possessions, “Like it never even happened.”

Oh, how I long for the days of a gal like Judge Judy in my life.

So, placing this in the proper ADHD bi-polar context, I just returned from the laundry room, after the most invigorating conversation with a stranger about the fact that all four washers are working at the same time for the first time within the past year (with remote wi-fi monitoring), and found it stimulating. I suggested to her that last night was a good night to return to my more than adequate version of a college dorm room, and touch base with you folks.

COVID really messed us up, in ways that are not immediately apparent, except to the Chinese and Russians, and it paved the way for the emergence of Corporate Drug Dealers.

And that’s what I’ve concluded at 72 years of age, using my world-class education, as I walk down the streets of Paradise. I am reminded there’s nothing more fascinating than the human capacity to adapt, as I watch the latest episode of the History Channel’s The Unexplained. Last night’s episode explored how they divided 80,000 pieces of the body of Buddha, and distributed them to disparate locations around the globe, so that hundreds of millions could worship them. The most sacred item (one of his teeth) landed in Sri Lanka, and others around the corner from me in Rosemead.

Good night, Los Angeles, where I no longer choose to live, despite the excitement generated by that guy who pulled a butcher knife on my subway car a couple of weeks ago, which I might have mistaken for a machete, as 25 people scrambled on top of one another within a moving, confined space. It provided a whole new meaning to the phrase, “Up close and personal.”

[I managed to almost complete this piece without one mention of sex, Nora O’Donnell, Halle Berry, Shyanne Malone, or Jessica Alba.] It’s been an exceptional 6 months.

Oh, how I long for the days of a gal like Judge Judy in my life.