No, I Am Not the Unabomber

So another quick Grandma story since people seemed to like the one from yesterday. The woman turned me in to the FBI as the Unabomber. For the reward. Not because she "wanted to do the right thing." Seriously. And people wonder why I am bitter and crazy. I come from a long line of crazies and you just can't fight DNA. I guaran-damn-tee you the human genome project will find a genetic marker for crazy and my entire family will have it in spades. Right next to the marker that gives you a penchant for chocolate and ill-fitting, but very cute shoes.

But back to the point. Crazy Ted writes his manifesto (and why the papers agreed to publish this, I dunno. I would love to have a simple newspaper column and I am at least funny and not the least bit angry. Plus, how much column space did a flippin' manifesto take up?). The FBI sets up a hot line for tips as to who Crazy Train is and, ole Dial-A-Terrorist Loretta gets on the horn.



Her entire rationale as to why I must be the Unabomber is that I am a math person and I lived in Montana during grad school (oh, the things you do for love). Now the little details like I was prenatal when Ted started his bombings and I am not, well, insane (at least in an angry way) never crossed the broad's mind. Also, I don't have the attention span to write a manifesto. Furthermore, I don't think anything I write is worthy of the title "Manifesto" (and, as an Friedman economist, that word has some pretty negative undertones).

A friend of mine who was a total Nervous Nelly and prone to panic attacks (those have GOT to suck) said "Aren't you concerned about this? What if someone comes to question you?"

My entire defense was, I kid you not, going to be based upon two pieces of key evidence: I don't own a hoodie and I would never wear Ray Ban sunglasses.