Yes, I can be like Homer Simpson. Sometimes all of us can.

We can all think, say, and do some pretty dumb things in our lives; make bad decisions, suffer from gullibility, open our mouths at the wrong time, and all that. Kind of like those suddenly lonely Trump voters I know who’d really rather we didn’t bring it up again, if you don’t mind. OK, I feel for you. You’re not bad people, you just make bad voting decisions.

So in the spirit of the eye-popping stupidity that currently defines our Commander in Chief, I’d like to share three of my better “faux pas” moments. If nothing else, it will serve to illustrate that we all have our moments we’d rather forget. It’s just that I would never presume to run for public office based on the following true incidents.

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It was a sunny fall Monday on a secondary road between Omaha, Nebraska and Sioux City, Iowa. I had a business in North Sioux City, South Dakota, just the other side of the Big Sioux River from Iowa. I love secondary roads and, time permitting, will take them over highways any day. Secondary roads show you the true beauty of America; highways show you only cold, uncaring concrete.

The 90 mile drive north between Omaha and Sioux City was very pleasant that day. The corn was being harvested, the trees turning golden, and the waves of brown grass on the low hills where buffalo were being raised were gently rolling in the breeze. It was about ten o’clock on that Monday morning when I saw the three school kids walking on the side of the road about a mile ahead of me. Funny, I thought, why aren’t they in school this time of day? These God-fearing Cornhuskers are pretty serious about their childrens’ education.

As I closed the distance on them I could see they had no school books or any other baggage. Odd. And one other thing, why were their heads so small and their butts so big? Members of the same family with similar physiques? These kids needed some exercise.

As I got within about a city block of the three kids, they must have heard my engine sounds, because, as one, they lifted their arms, began to rise from the road and to slowly fly off into the low corn off the side of the road. Yes, they were three adult wild turkeys, who scooted off the road as I came near. Wild turkeys like to walk the road when the traffic calms in Nebraska. Doh.

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It was a lovely May morning in Manhattan. The Big Apple can be at its best in May and it is one of the world’s great walking cities. My wife and I were staying in a little hotel off Central Park on 62^nd and Central Park East, if you know Manhattan. If was a four day holiday and we had plans to walk all the way down to about 28^th to visit a friend who now worked there. Nice day, nice walk.

I got this great romantic notion. I would surprise my bride of some 43 years with a visit to the one New York location every woman who has ever watched “Sleepless in Seattle” gets all teary-eyed about. Yep, the top of the Empire State Building. Got to keep the magic going somehow.

So we walked and walked, taking it all in. New York, especially Manhattan, is a continuous feast for the eyes and it bustles with an energy that even Chicagoans can feel is taking them to the next level. I kept my eye on the top of the Empire State Building to make sure we didn’t veer too far east of west as we closed on this great surprise. Block by block, we were gaining on the objective. At last we were abreast of it. So I casually said “Let’s check out the lobby” and she went along with my whim. This is going to be a great little surprise, I thought. She’s going to love this.

A uniformed man behind a desk noticed us, and asked in a pronounced New York accent if he could help us. “Sure,” I said. “Can you tell me where the elevator to the observation desk is?” He looked at me as one might look at a confused child or someone with mental deficiencies. “This is the Chrysler Building, Sir.”

In the blink of an eye I turned from a savvy, sophisticated big city dweller into a small town goober. I might as well have been dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, sandals with sweat socks, and a camera slung around my neck, along with my conference or trade show credentials showing, so that every pickpocket in town could spot me. I sheepishly thanked him and we slunk out of the lobby. I could almost feel him slowly shaking his head at the sad misguided tourists.

Over wine later, I told Maureen of my original romantic notion. She smiled and patted my hand, as if she knew my intention all along and didn’t have the heart to tell me; she has long recognized my ability to be an occasional dolt, but she appreciated the gesture. Doh.

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I saved the best and the worst for last. In the mid 80’s I was building my business and I made a lot of sales calls. On this particular fall day I was headed in my car to a mid-afternoon meeting in Glenview, a meeting in which I hoped to come away with an order. This was the era of Palm Pilots, not cell phones, if you are old enough to recall that device that once seemed so magical and now seems as primitive as a flintlock musket. I was performing a sort of early texting with the office and my mind was focused on the upcoming conversation with the potential customer.

I didn’t have time for lunch, unless I could grab something quick, and as I headed up River Road, sure enough the Golden Arches appeared in Des Plaines, Illinois. Still pre-occupied, I swung into the lot and found a space between two vintage 60s muscle cars. “Must be one of those road rallies,” I thought to myself. You know, those rallies at drive-ins like Duke’s on south Harlem or SuperDawg on North Milwaukee.

Still studying my Palm Pilot messages, I barely noticed that this McDonalds was set up like an old one, where you stood in line outside. So I took my place in line, about five back from the counter. I could hear laughter, soft at first, then growing in intensity and then some muffled cat-calling from across the street. I looked up and saw that I was standing in a line of mannequins. The one in front of me was a dummy in a brown suit, and in front of him a plaster women dressed like June Cleaver.

The laughter and cat-calling was coming from the real McDonalds on the other side of River Road. I was dummy #6 in the very first McDonalds store, which is now a museum. God, how they were enjoying this. I did a quick right face, got back in my car and roared north, my face, I am sure, a bright red. No way was I going to stop across the street now. Big Doh.

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Yes, there have been a few times in my life where I have been intuitive, smart, perhaps even brilliant. Problem is you can’t tell those stories without sounding like a pathetic braggart. Kind of like the Don ….nah, we won’t go there again. So if it’s true that confession is good for the soul, these three little stories probably mean my soul is good for another 100,000 miles. And I might not be done.