I suppose it was only a matter of time before it happened, but I didn’t think Bernie bin Laden’s third sex offense strike would come so quickly.  And I really didn’t think it would happen during our vacation.  Which, if you think about it in a convoluted way, is exactly why I should have expected it to happen when I least expected it.

     My wife Diane (aka Maximutt on these forums) and I left our home in sunny Orange County, California this morning and headed upcoast to Carmel (and of course, the Nor Cal get-together in Mill Valley on Saturday).  Our adventures along the way will be documented on another thread later, but I figured Mr. bin Laden’s third strike deserved a topic of its own, if for no other reason than to protect the squeamish and faint of heart who might want to read a more family-friendly account of our adventures.  But for those of you with strong stomachs, read on.

     So here’s how the latest crime was committed.  Once we started unpacking in our room at the dog-friendly Cypress Inn in Carmel, I called the handyman to help reset the digital lock on the room’s safe.  After getting barked at by Linda and Bernie until they were both satisfied he knew who was boss, he came in and stated to look at the safe.  He was friendly toward the dogs, petting them and letting them say hi.  That was a mistake, since like most sex offenders, Bernie interprets a polite hello as unconditional consent to inflict whatever atrocities he can imagine.

     The handyman turned his back on us to start working on the safe.  At first, I held on to Bernie to keep him out of the way, but he seemed to calm down a bit (obviously to lull me into a false sense of security), so I let him go.  Apparently wanting to prove that he doesn’t discriminate between the sexes, Bernie promptly pranced over to him and firmly jammed his nose into what, for the sake of a PG-13 rating, we shall refer to as the “taint.”

      The handyman let out a startled “Whoa!” and clamped his cheeks together as he jumped up in the air.  I snapped “Bernie!” in a sharp tone of voice, causing him to turn and look at me for a moment.  But apparently the handyman’s butt was more enticing than a scolding from dad, so he turned around and jammed his nose back where the sun don’t shine three times in rapid succession, which made the handyman repeatedly jump up and say “Whoa!  Whoa! Whoa!” in rapid succession as well. 

     Bernie really liked this, and started spinning his tail like a propeller and dancing around happily as our victim tried to catch his breath.  I grabbed him by the collar and handed him off to Diane, who looked like she wanted to crawl under the bed and die of embarrassment.  The handyman turned to face us, probably in an attempt to protect his backside from further violations.  I tried to apologize for Bernie’s behavior (which I’m getting very experienced at doing), but our victim was a good sport about it, saying, “I ain’t been goosed like that in a long time.  Who knows - I just might come back.”  Unfortunately for him, Bernie took this as an invitation, and lunged forward to head-butt his new friend squarely in the family jewels.

     Mr. Handyman let out an explosive “Whoof!” as he clamped his hands between his legs and doubled over.  Bernie started dancing around ecstatically, probably in celebration of his third strike (or home run, depending on how you look at it).  My wife just put her head between her hands and slumped down like she was giving up on life altogether.  Still trying to be a good sport, our victim gasped out a ragged “It’s OK” and staggered out of the room, probably on his way to find a large bucket of ice to sit in.

     And like most guys do once they’re finished, Bernie bin Laden jumped up on the bed and went to sleep.