when I was protesting the use of Red-Dye No-9 in colored rice-krispies treats. There were a few thousand of us there, all holding signs that said “Red Dye No-9 = Snap-Crackle-Pop No Fine!”

He walked into the midst of us, just as we were about to break the elf-cop line, and held up his sign. The clouds disappeared, and a Lucky-Charms rainbow arched down from the sun. A chorus sang in amazement.

Then he walked away, and I was struck by the Cookie Crisp Cop from behind, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in a wafer prison. I chewed my way through the bars, and went on with my life. But it wasn’t the last time Milton and I would cross paths.

too bad he never cries.

Me and guy from school had a band and tried real hard. But Joanie quit and Milton got married. When I look back now, that summer seemed to last forever….

isn’t that George Wendt? I suppose it could be any of the other “super fans” too, but his was the first name I could conjure up in my work addled brain. Daaaa Cubs!

Milton’s past is as cloudy as the White Russians he drinks. Some place him fighting overseas wars, while others have him teaching social studies in rural Nebraska. He’s rumored to have loved countless women, but also said to have taken a vow of celibacy.

One thing is know for sure, though: one fateful morning, when Milton was a wee lad of seven, his father, Jasper, brought home a nifty new contraption. “It’s called a television,” he announced to his bewildered wife Eunis, as Milton looked on in wide-eyed wonder. Milton was fascinated by the dial, and upon the intial plug-in, he settled on his favorite number: 9. Channel 9, in fact. WGN. Home of the Cubs.

selling used shoe laces in the small town of Sandcut Indiana. He would sit on corner (the only intersection Sandcut has) and offer his selection to passersbys. Unfortunately, he invested poorly and lost it all.

Another sign.

last February working as a rodeo clown during “Rodeo Days”. He always wanted to be an astronaut so he came to work in Tucson because it was as close as he would ever come to walking on the moon.

He’s been around for a while.

…when I was in Puerto Vallarta last week. Apparently, Milton spent some time there as a pre-teen. Anyways, back then, Milton was just showing flashes of the moustache that would help gain him fame. But the residents of Puerto Vallarta instantly recognized him when shown photos, remarking, “Milton con el bigote.” A much more slender child in his youth, Milton would often go into the rain forest as a youth, climbing mountains, scaling trees and setting the lines for canopy tours of the jungle. Then came 1984. By all accounts in Mexico, Milton followed the entire series via transistor radio, finally leaving Puerto Vallarta on foot following game 5. No one knew what had happened to him until the fateful photo at top appeared in Puerto Vallarta Today with the headline “vuelve para animar su las Osas Menor” (Milton returns to cheer his Cubs [little bears]).

I always wondered what happened to ex-Cub reliever Mike Proly:

I wish I could tell you that Milton fought the good fight, and the Sisters let him be. I wish I could tell you that – but prison is no fairy-tale world. He never said who did it, but we all knew. Things went on like that for awhile – prison life consists of routine, and then more routine. Every so often, Milton would show up with fresh bruises. The Sisters kept at him – sometimes he was able to fight ‘em off, sometimes not. And that’s how it went for Milton – that was his routine. I do believe those first two years were the worst for him, and I also believe that if things had gone on that way, this place would have got the best of him.

Milton lives up on a mountain, and kills anybody who dares climb to the top. He loves the taste of blood, and likes to add pieces to his deformed body. On his left arm, instead of a hand, he has…. A piece of celery. He walks with a limp. Because one of his legs is missing. And where his leg should be, there’s nothing but……..Patrick Duffy. So he lives alone on this mountain, and weaves baskets, and other assorted crafts. They say that on quiet nights you can hear him weaving his baskets. Tahink, tahink , tahink