A Maliboo-boo

Beautiful beachfronts. Blue bloods. Balmy breezes. Barbie. Breathtaking bluffs. Broad Beach. Bronzed bodies. Beach Blanket Bingo. Bikinied blondes (and brunettes). Barbra and Bob. And 20 tons of beached blubber.

B’s abound in Malibu, an enclave for well-heeled individuals west of Los Angeles. But only one B inhabits Malibu. Usually. Somehow, an extra one has washed up at the intersection of B and U. This was not meant “two B.” We’re witnessing a rare case of Malibu malformation, and I need to do a whale of a job coming up with a solution. What to do? What … to … do?

I’ve got it! Hand me that khaki-colored uniform and broad-brimmed hat. We’re in Malibu, near the Pacific Coast Highway, so I’m going to pose as a California Highway Patrol officer and let the CHiPs fall where they may. Here I go. Don’t blow my cover.

[Slowly removing my shades and assuming my best Erik Estrada impersonation] Do you realize how vast you were going? You went above the keyed limit … by one letter. That’s a minor graphic violation. I’ll let you go with a warning if you promise to get back on the PCH, leave Malibu and immediately dispose of that second B. Haul its carcass out of here. It’s like an inexpensive beachfront home — it doesn’t belong in the ‘Bu.