At first, Bernie was relieved to see the headline:

‘Schoolmarm Cleared of Underage Molestation Charges. However…’

Chief Bernie knew that the rest of Bolsa Chico was reading along with him that morning, when “Fiddlesticks!” The scandal centered around his wife , Sylvia, had taken a ghastly turn.

The so-called “young punk,” who had actually bagged Bitch Benedict was only a few years shy of the NINETY. A junior to the ninety-five-year-old fisherman Sam Swathorn, who’d originally ‘finked’ on the unrepentant tramp, Sylvia to Reuter’s News Service. Sylvia’s lover turned out to be 88-year old Wayne Noway Sr. and not the grandson, sixteen-year-old Wayne Noway III. Bernie had seen the grandfather before. The old bastard was walking parchment! Bernie’s heart sank into his colon.

Apparently, Sylvia was very popular with the old guys she volunteered to chauffeur from Geezer World to Bolsa Chico Beach for surfing three times a week. She’d been noticed by lifeguards, hanging around the beach ogling flat-assed geriatrics with huge potbellies hanging over their Speedos. Lifeguards were afraid to tell their close buddy Bernie about his spouse’s odd behavior. When she whistled at the deaf old men, most people thought that she was just teasing.

Only last week, Sylvia and the old Wayne had been spotted sipping soup together by a local highway patrolman at a 3 p.m. (Early Bird dinner time at Denny’s). Sylvia had been overheard yelling at the old duffer who’d been sharing her one-piece bathing suit photos with his shuffleboard buddies. In one of the pictures, her covered, but generous, boobs hung over Wayne Sr.’s walker. Hoo hah!

The following day, Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the steamed up Sea Lion Beach – Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely. “I found Mrs. Benedict sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Wayne Noway the first had passed from a heart attack.”



Sylvia Benedict, the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff about what led up to the death of her eighty-eight-year-old lover: 

“We’d just had a friendly dinner, celebrating Wayne’s new Thriller Driller Penile Implant. He suggested that we to go out and replace all of the steel fasteners on the Long Beach bridge with his new… Oh, poopsieeeeeeeee!” (Crying.) “Wayne seemed fine! He really did. Then, after his little nap time, he wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Benedict,” said the nauseous ambulance driver.

The truth was el vomitosio. Somehow, the video of her story ended up on the local news.

Wayne Noway III’s (the grandkid) surfer buddies said that the sixteen-year-old surfer had been “blowing major chunkage,” “praying to the porcelain” and “hurling with a mighty chunder” after reading about what his grandpa and his ex-teacher had been doing. Los barfos, mesdames et messieurs.


My Sylvia! Bernie thought. And…and Wayne’s grandpa?! Noooooooooo!

He had to get out and get some fresh air, now.


After the broadcast, it seemed that the entire town of Bolsa Chico wanted to line the pier and join their local hero Police Chief in his major heave fest. It was if they’d all been hit with the dreaded Nosoi flu.

For days afterward, Bernie felt as though he were wearing a big red ‘D’—for Dumbass — on his forehead. Time had come for him to leave his longtime friends, his beloved job and his hometown of Balsa Chico.


It was the following Sunday, Bernie’s birthday, when he ordered his final breakfast at Donette’s.

The TV was on and…

“Oh, Fuck! No! Not……. on…….. my………goddamned birthday!” Bernie said. The other customers were wondering if the chief had caught Tourette’s from Dauna.

Nope. The news was on CNN — and Bernie was pissed. His tragic ‘train wreck’ had gone both bacterial and viral. Millions, perhaps gazillions, were following Bernie’s sad story. 

CNN: “Surf Patrol chief and local hero, Bernie Benedict, suffers major wipe out” was on the television screen above the lunch counter. It showed Bernie along with thirty other Bolsa Chico residents hanging over the pier railing retching.

Though he just lost his appetite, Bernie had ordered his usual: orange juice, toast and two runny sunny-side up eggs.

Hector, the truck driver joked to Dauna, “How does our chief, Bernie, order his eggs?”

“How?” Asked Dauna.

“Over easy—like his wife? Hahahahaha.” Hector came in every morning to drink Dauna’s dangerous coffee and, like the others, watch her wiggle and listen to her allude to forbidden lust.

“I hope that you enjoyed the little surprise that was swimming around in your coffee,” Dauna told Hector in her most sophisticated 16th century Tourettes. “You starveling, you ELF-SKIN, you dried NEAT’S-TONGUE! BULL’S-PIZZLE. STOCK-FISH!”


“Methinks thou art a general offence to farts in the breeze, you poisonous BUNCH BACKED TOAD!”

“Ma’am, where are my eggs?” Bernie asked with caution.

“OSCULUM MIHI RECTUM! (Latin: Kiss my ass!) Sorry, Chief. I didn’t mean… (she smiled at Bernie)…well, maybe.”

The chief, feewing wejected, looked lost and alone in the big mean corner booth. Months later, Dauna told Bernie that she’d felt compelled, on that horrific day, to offer him a comforting breast. “It would have been the civil thing to do.” Dauna wanted to wish Bernie a happy birthday in her own special way. Sadly, Bernie was in no shape to appreciate her gushing sympathies.