No, under the bad lights. Saturday I called the electrician who installed our new, energy saving, LED "fluorescent" tubes. Of the 12 tubes in the kitchen only 4 were working and those in different fixtures. He decided that "there were big things wrong" and came by yesterday morning.

Wow! The tubes had not just burned out very prematurely, they had literally split and melted (and LEDs don't put out heat!). The covers and the fixtures were literally scorched in a couple of places. And when we went to check one in my orifice and Pat's office one tube of four in each was bad in the new, never before used, fixtures.

He, his son and helper, and both of us, were shook. He and the kid took off to talk with the supplier, who said that it was ALL a warranty issue, who opened the shop and gave them what tubes he had, and said again it was warrantied and to make the work right.

It appears that there were two sets of tubes and it was those in the first batch that were bad -- the second batch had different part numbers and the ones yesterday still different ones. The electrician is coming back today to do a full-house scan.

As electrifying and shocking as it may seem, Shame did not (could not!) drink me under any table real or metaphoric. Shame could drink my old second grade teacher, Sister Angela Merici, under the table and she'd been teaching for at least half a century and was one of the original women who followed John the Baptist before he lost his head over a hootchy-kootchy dancer. Shame can, however, drink himself under that table with just the smell of Kool-Aid or orange juice or even water (preferably from the bottom of a fetid and festering pool from the water treatment plant).

I don't have the stomach right now to discuss that Typhoid Monkey, Chongx.

The new tubes were put in