If Red Sox are truly “a bunch of idiots,” as they called themselves during their World Series victory, then I fit right in.

My sainted mother always told me that everyone had a guardian angel. But I had two, because I would need them. As usual, Julia was right.

Many of my most brain-dead moments involve the police, unfortunately.

A few years back I “lost” my Honda in Daytona during bike week. After I reported it to the police as stolen, it was found the next morning, right where I left it, three streets over from where I was looking. Incidentally, I spent the night in a flophouse cleverly disguised as a youth hostel, a former hotel where NASCAR was invented. Despite the subsequent catcalls, there was not a single alcoholic drink involved, only about 15 hours of solo highway driving.

Then there was the time I reported my Old Town canoe “stolen” from my front lawn. The police came, investigated and solved the case in about 80 seconds. As officer Robbie Laite was backing out of the Cobb Manor driveway, he spotted the “stolen” canoe, which had blown downhill into the brook in a very heavy wind, and came to rest bottom down, surrounded by tall grass.

I admit it, I am an idiot.

Wait until you hear this one.

Last week, I was in a Best Western in Fort Myers, Fla., on my annual trip to escape the snow and ice to watch the world champion Boston Red Sox. (Nice ring to it, huh?)

I got a batch of bills from Maine and hurried to get them in the mail to avoid a few due dates and get off to the game. I wrote the checks and hurried off to the post office and the ball park.

When I got back from the following night’s game, I found out that six checks had been “stolen” from my checkbook, which I had kept in an appointment book.

I stormed down to the desk, reported the “theft,” called the local sheriff’s office then the Bangor Savings Bank to stop payment on the checks. I steamed and stewed and told everyone in the elevator and pool area to be careful of this “clip joint.”

I even thought about leaving, but the room rate for a suite was a mere $70, a mere fraction of what the other fans reported paying. Plus I already had the Sox tickets.

While I was at the beach at Lover’s Key (where else), I got a cell call from a very polite girl at the Bangor bank. Did I really want to stop payment on my American Express bill? (Can you smell it coming?)

I had my checkbook with me (I certainly wasn’t going to leave it in the room) and looked to find the check. The American Express check was the right number, but one of the ones I had reported “stolen.”

It seems when I wrote the six checks, I turned the page and filled in the next check as 4807. But when I came back after the game, I read the first check as 4801 and jumped to the conclusion that the six checks were stolen. I never could read my own writing.

When it finally dawned on me what happened, I wanted to drive home to Maine without returning to the hotel which I had damned to anyone who would listen. The loss of my clothes and Trek 21-speed bicycle would be a small price to pay to avoid the huge embarrassment.

But I consulted with my ethical adviser, Rockland’s David Grima (who may or may not be becoming a pastor) who insisted that I had to return and confess my sins and hope to God that the maid had not been fired and-or deported.

I did all of the above and even called the police to retract my claim of theft. The desk took it very well.

“They are used to dealing with old people,” one alleged friend later commented. The maid, they said, wasn’t fired at least.

When I finally fled the hotel, I left the desk a few unused Sox tickets to sell.

When I return to Cobb Manor, if the snow ever melts, I shall open the Maine College of Idiots.

I shall be the dean.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.