House Arrest

My Personal March Madness:  The Great License Plate Disaster rolls into next week, as the Bellflower criminal courthouse tries to resolve what appears to be a clerical error on their part, or as the SJG prefers to call it, A Ginormous Bureaucratic Eff-Up.  Meanwhile, I'm deeply touched by everyone's concern.  Many of you have wondered where I'll be serving my sentence for questioning authority, getting all huffy and playing the "don't you know who I am?" card, to absolutely no avail.  Where to send the cake with the file?  How much bail money do I need?  Well, here's your answer, my friends.  Send money, as much as you can, and a nice coffee cake, sans file, a warm, yummy kugel, a dozen bagels from Nat n' Als, a pound of lox, and a few bottles of Lafete Rothchild, care of the SJG, Sherman Oaks.  I'm under self-imposed house arrest.  I'm too afraid to venture out in my auto.  The thought of getting pulled over again by the cops and falsely accused of criminal behavior, not to mention the biggest shanda of them all, unpaid parking tickets, has sent me into seclusion. Drop by any time.  I'm not leaving the house.  Ever again.