THAT WASN’T ME SWEARING – I SWEAR

 

The other day I received an email from a friend. At the end of the note she added, “By the way, did you know that was me you were swearing at in the Talcott Plaza parking lot at lunch yesterday?”

 

Immediately my face turned red as I read the email. I thought to myself, Oh no, I can’t believe I flipped off and swore at some other motorist in a parking lot, and it turns out I know that person! Ugh, what a jerk I am. Then I began to formulate a heartfelt apology, such as, “I ran out of gas. I had a flat tire. I didn’t have enough money for cab fare. My tux didn’t come back from the cleaners. An old friend came in from out of town. Someone stole my car. There was an earthquake. A terrible flood. Locusts. IT WASN'T MY FAULT, I SWEAR TO GOD!” (The classic John Belushi “Blues Brothers” apology is about as heartfelt as they come.)
 

As I was thinking of how I might handle this embarrassing situation, it dawned on me that I was nowhere near the Talcott Plaza on that particular day. And come to think of it, I didn’t remember being mouthy or “flippy” with any motorists in quite a while. (However, to be honest, if I were under oath and a prosecuting attorney asked me, “Have you, at any time in your entire life, Mr. Dunn, ever flipped off someone?” I would have to take a deep breath, and with a profound sense of shame, answer by flipping off the creepy lawyer with both hands and saying, “Does this answer your question, pal?”)

 

I replied to the email, “That couldn’t have been me. I was in East Hartford all day.”

 

She sent back a note, “Well, it was a guy in a blue minivan, and he looked EXACTLY like you.”

 

OK, that proves it wasn’t me. Even if I’ve developed a case of “angry outburst amnesia,” I don’t drive a minivan. But I still have a problem: someone who apparently looks just like me is lurking around the area and swearing at people—and I’m getting blamed for it.

 

What else is this guy doing? I hope he doesn’t rob banks. Or at least I hope he wears a ski mask, as is required by the Unauthorized Withdrawal Professionals Union, local 24. Even if it looks like me on the surveillance camera, if he’s holding the gun in his right hand, it’s not me because I’m a lefty. (Oh crud, I shouldn’t have mentioned that. What if he’s reading this column?)

 

This is not a good situation. Being falsely accused of a crime really stinks. I can just see it now. Cops knock at my front door and say, “We need to take you in for questioning, sir.” I frantically exclaim, “What did I do?!”

 

The cops say, “Three different women identified your photo. They claim you grabbed their rear ends and then tossed Milk Duds down their cleavage.”

 

“That couldn’t have been me!” I plead. “I hate Milk Duds!”

 

As they drag me away in handcuffs, I cry out in tears, “But it wasn’t me! I swear! I’m a Raisinets man!”

 

Well, this could get pretty dicey. I’m going to have to make sure I have an alibi for my whereabouts at all times. And if you run into someone who looks like me, and he swears at you, trust me, it wasn’t me. I would never swear at someone. I swear.