Whose genes did it?

By George Beetham Jr.

There are days when I wonder to myself how I have survived all these years in this crazy, mixed-up world. And one of those days was Saturday.

My brother and wife had tickets to see the Trenton Thunder play the Reading Phillies on Saturday night. So I ordered a ticket and planned to join them.

I got to the stadium about a half-hour before game time, went inside, ordered hot dogs and beer, and set out to the section where we would be sitting. I found them, sat down, chatted a bit, and began wolfing down the dogs.

I filled out my scorecard with the batting order. We all stood for the National Anthem, and the game began.

It was in the bottom of the first inning when the PA announcer announced, “Will the owner of a gray Ford Escape, license number (my tag number) please report to where your car is parked in the parking garage. Bad news: your lights are on and your car is running.”

“Is that you?” my brother asked.

“It sure is,” I replied, heading for the exit.

I got my hand stamped for re-entry and set out for the garage, a good five-minute walk away.

I got there and headed in. When I got to the bay where my car was parked, two parking attendants were looking inside the car. As I walked up, they both looked at me.

I nodded as if to say, “Yes, I’m the airhead who did it!” They had parked near my car and were standing by, making sure nobody stole it.

“Is this your car?” one asked.

I told him it was and thanked them for having me paged. I used my spare key to unlock the door and retrieve the key from the ignition where I had left it, car running and lights on.

I locked the car and headed back into the stadium, thanking the two attendants again. I felt like an idiot, but face it, things had worked out well. I only burned an hour’s worth of gas, and by leaving the car on I had inadvertently kept the battery from running down.

Inside again, I headed to my seat.

My brother looked at me, as if to say, “Well, how did you manage to pull off that airhead move?”

I told him how I managed to pull off that airhead move, and how I had a spare key attached to a

on my cell phone pouch.

He just looked at me as if to say, “That really was a airhead move.”

I looked back at him as if to say, “Who needs little brothers anyway?”

I told him that on the way back I was wondering to myself whether I had channeled our late father or our late mother.

A few innings later another PA announcement was made for another car owner who left his or her lights on.

“At least they didn’t leave the engine running,” my brother said.

“True, but their battery is probably run down by now,” I replied as factually as a person with egg on their face can state anything.

“But they’re not running out of gas,” he pointed out to the airhead.

“Neither did I,” replied the airhead.

“And I figured out who I channeled,” I added. It was the Pop gene, but it blamed the Mom gene!”

The airhead edits a weekly newspaper in Philadelphia, Pa., when he’s not running around loose doing airheaded things.