Sticky Situation

When I was in elementary school, I used to dig stickers. My teachers would paste them on my schoolwork if I did a particularly good job. I hadn't thought about stickers much since then. Until Tuesday.

That's when I went to the school on Selby Avenue near my home to cast my vote in the city of St. Paul's mayoral election. The place was practically deserted. I filled out my ballot, fed my sheet into the meter and headed for the door. But before I could get out of the gymnasium, a sweet little old lady grabbed me by the arm.

"Hey, sonny, aren't you forgetting something?" she asked.

"Ahhh, I don't think so," I replied, checking my coat for my wallet and keys.

"What about your 'I Voted' sticker?" she asked.

"Oh, that," I said.

"You want one, right?" she asked.

"Maybe... do you have a scratch and sniff one?" I joked.

"It's not scented, but if you'd like I can scratch it and then you can sniff it," she said.

The old gal was pretty funny, so I agreed to take one of her stickers. She started to hand me the sticker, but then pulled it away at the last second.

"Waitaminute," she said. "You're not going to wear it, are you?"

"Ummmm, probably not," I admitted.

"Why not?" she asked. "Don't you want everyone to know you voted?"

"It doesn't matter to me," I laughed.

"Well, it does to me," she chirped. "Come over here."

I walked a few steps forward. She peeled off the sticker and just pancaked it on my left man hooter. No worries about the sticker coming loose anytime soon.

"There, much better," she beamed before sitting back in her chair to await her next victim.

"So let me get this straight: I have a choice who will be the next mayor of our fine city of St. Paul, but I don't have a choice about wearing this sticker?" I teased.

"That's right," she said. "Now get out of here, sonny."

There was no getting out of this sticky situation, but that was OK with me.