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it when, by luck, I went into my bank and asked for a loan of $4,000 to help me buy a used Honda.
    The banker replied, “We don’t make loans. We arrange for people to use the money we give them so nobody can make heads or tails of it.”
    “I don’t care what you call it as long as I get my loan,” I replied.
    “Now the first thing you must do is create a dummy corporation in the Cayman Islands.”
    “What for?”
    “So people will think your Honda is there, when in fact it will be in your garage. Now you list your car in the books as an asset.”

    “That makes sense. I’ll call the company Bad Apple.”
    “Then you borrow $4,000 from the bank across the street.”
    “I get it. I use that loan to pay you back, you clear your books, and I owe the bank across the street instead.”
    “Because you paid us back so quickly, your credit rating will soar. You can then go to another bank across town and borrow $10,000. You pay off the $4,000 of the previous loan and still have $6,000 left for gas and oil.”
    “How much can I borrow now?”
    “The banks will come to you, and since you’re an offshore company, they will tailor a loan for you of $100,000.”
    “But I only want $4,000 for my Honda.”
    “You have to think big. Do you know what you can do with $100,000?”
    “I could buy a Mercedes-Benz.”
    “That would make sense, particularly since you must now move your money from the Cayman Islands to Bermuda to confuse the IRS.”
    “Can I quit while I’m ahead?”
    “Not really,” he said. “You have now reached the point where the banks are more worried about you than you are about them. They will wine and dine you and send your wife flowers.”
    “My wife would like that because she is against my buying a used Honda.”
    “The bankers are eager to throw money at you. You can buy futures in soybeans and pork bellies, sell natural gas that you don’t own, and make Bad Apple one of the largest dummy corporations in the business.”
    “But at some time they are going to call in all my loans and I could lose my Honda.”
    “Not if you declare bankruptcy.”

    “Isn’t that tacky?”
    “No. Everybody’s doing it.”
    “What do I do now?”
    “Just sign this agreement. If you don’t make your payment in 30 days, then we will take back the Honda.”

Ashes to Ashes
    I HAVE DECIDED TO DO IT. I am going to be cremated and then have my ashes dropped over every cocktail party on Martha’s Vineyard. It’s the only way I can make all the parties held here in the summer.
    I want Cape Air, the friendly nine-seat airline, to fly me.
    I imagine it this way. The plane takes off from Martha’s Vineyard Airport, and Mike Wallace is in charge of dropping the ashes. As per my instructions, I want some of me to be dropped over Rose Styron’s lawn. She gave so many wonderful parties when I was alive. As I fly over, Walter Cronkite says to David McCullough, “Are those Art Buchwald’s ashes?”
    “It’s hard to say. There are so many ashes dropping on Rose’s these days because she gives the most parties. It could be anybody’s.”
    The Cape Air plane heads for Edgartown and Carol Biondi’s house. All her guests look up, and once again Mike lets the ashes float down.
    “Who is it?” someone asks Carol.
    She replies, “Art Buchwald. He said he was coming if it killed him.”

    Everyone raises a glass.
    The pilot turns his plane toward Rollnick’s house. An Air Force jet buzzes the Cape Air plane. Mike says: “Bill and Hillary Clinton must be there. We’ll drop some ashes as long as it’s not a fundraiser. Buchwald never went to political fundraisers on the island.” Mike drops a handful of ashes just in case it’s a social gathering.
    Then the pilot heads toward Chilmark and Kate Whitney’s house. He asks Mike if he still has enough ashes. Mike replies, “I still have half an urn.”
    The party is in full swing and Kate is not only serving drinks but also lobster and fresh corn. Once again the