The punishment fits the crime:

Oh, to have a recording of the conversation in the car on the way home. You hope the kid was still capable of embarrassment. Possibly he's already such a hard case there's no amount of mortification Mom can inflict.

The bygone perfumes of fall:

Furtive burning is apparently okay. Wait - you can get a permit for open burning? How much to burn leaves? Not that I have any; I just miss the smell. Still can't figure out when Bath & Body Works doesn't come up with a candle that smells like burning leaves; it's possible the fragrance designers have no memory of the aroma. They had one called "Leaves" a few years ago, but it smelled like singed yak hair. Of all the aromas that shouldn't be hard to duplicate in a candle, which requires flame, you'd think "combustion" would be one.

If more people watched "COPS" and took notes, they wouldn't try this stuff:

That always works, because cops are never looking for furtive gestures intended to hide or dispose small, incriminating items. Sometimes I wonder if we didn't find WMD in Iraq because we didn't send in beat cops. Well here's the mustard gas, crammed down between the seat cushions in the back. And what's this, anthrax in the side panel? Smallpox in a prescription container labeled for sarin gas? Naughty, naughty.

Excuse me sir, but I'm working my way through college. Also the criminal justice system:

Once a year we get solicitors who try to sell magazines. I feel bad for some of them, because I suspect they're packed into vans by some Fagin who takes all their earnings. You can tell they're new at the sales game, because they seem to place a great deal of faith in lamination. This ID proves I'm a legitimate charity! It's laminated!

There's a story here:

Possibly these folks were at the end of a long nocturnal reevaluation of their interpersonal relationships, complete with a good deal of neutral grain spirits, and someone had announced it was over, to which the other said FINE, after which someone said they wanted their clothes back, and the other said FINE, and there was much storming-off and furious smoking and calls to friends on the cell about CAN YOU BELIEVE IT.

Then came the Ceremonial Pitching of the Clothes, which in some cultures is the means by which one applies for a divorce. It's not final until the male returns the items of her clothing he has, but this takes less time, because - if we may consult a theoretical phone call the woman makes to a friend - he never went over to her place anyway because he was too lazy and she had to drive over every night just to watch him play XBox and ALL THIS TIME there was actually someone else on the other end of the computer thing, you know, playing XBox with him? I mean that made it worse. It would be one thing if it's just us and he can't talk because he's playing a game but when there really is someone else inside the computer or on the phone or whatever? Forget him. Can you come over? I'm going to throw his stuff on the lawn while he's there and I need you to help me.

Why? Because I need to put cans of soup in each shirt and you're better at knots.