As part of this feature’s ongoing series profiling Mainers who have distinguished themselves in the great big world beyond the Piscataqua River Bridge, this week I am distressed to inform you that nobody qualified. 

Naked Shakespeare has been cast out into the world, like King Lear into the wilderness. It’s almost as if the Bard had known the fate of the group of now-homeless Portland actors when he wrote in that famous play, “Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,/That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,/How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,/Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you/From seasons such as these.”

Few things in life are more likely to incite violence than a greased cod.

Otisfield is not the sort of community that lets a huge federal bureaucracy trample on its rights. Portland may fold whenever the feds show up. Bangor may bow down to Washington’s authority. Even Lewiston has been known to grovel before the government. But in Otisfield, the spirit that made this country great still survives.

In a weirdly mutated form.

Maine is losing its stones.

I suppose that’s about as far as I’m going to be allowed to take that joke, Down East’s Web site being a family friendly venue that doesn’t tolerate risqué allusions. I just want it noted that as a result of this dictatorial editorial policy, a lot of potential for off-color humor is going to be wasted.

Still, I’ll persevere. I don’t need to wallow in the gutter to be funny. Although, it’s a lot easier.

The question on every Mainer’s mind this past week has been: Is there any chance the giant snake that’s allegedly roaming around Rumford will eat the record number of mosquitoes that are about to hatch before the little buggers suck up every drop of blood in the state?

The answer appears to be: no.

This is not one of those annoying, whiney postings complaining about how much it’s rained in the past month. That’s because I’m not one of those annoying, whiney people who can only see the gloomy side of the unending soggy weather. I’m the type of person willing to accept that there are definite advantages to the deluge.

How can you tell an endangered Atlantic salmon from Paul Bruneau?

There are several methods, but one of the easiest is wine selection. Bruneau, whose current address is the Cumberland County Jail, prefers a nice white wine with his seafood. For the most part, salmon are teetotalers.

Each year at this time, the same thing happens.

Nothing.

With the impending arrival of summer, all news in the state of Maine officially comes to a halt. The Legislature goes home.

A sizable portion of the population goes on vacation.

Hellougghfuh. Jutha minuphth. Ahm ahmoth finithed pigging muh teef.

Sorry, what I meant to say was, “Hello. Just a minute. I’m almost finished picking my teeth.”