The Devil's Advocate

Giosue'

2009-05-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

VACATION!

2009-05-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Is there any more stirring moment than a Friday afternoon for the working man or woman? People who start Monday with the growl of the proverbial lion with a thorn in their paw on Friday are smiling gently as refined creatures of almost angelic proportions. They are at their happiest when the weekend looms! Actually who we are on Monday is a good gage of where we are as a society. On Friday we fulfill the potential of the human race and engage one another as we would like to be treated. That is until we leave the office. Then out on the highway the carnage begins. Who gets somewhere the fastest to reclaim the lost part of their life can look ugly especially at the beginning of the weekend. Only the drive to the office Monday morning could be worse.

Criminal statistics suggest that most individuals are victims of violence after dark. What they don’t tell you is that most such mayhem occurs between people driving to work in rush hour traffic before the sun comes up. If not overly aggressive there is certainly very entertaining creativity in the art of in-cockpit driver gestures toward fellow commuters. The faces made are tortured, precious, and comical. It is like watching the contortions of Donald Duck!

Donald’s gesticulations are similar to your boss’s at times when the vein in his neck begins to bulge. That usually happens over something as simple as
your mistakenly sending his secret computer file of girlie pictures to corporate headquarters “NO I SAID SEND THE TIT FOR TAT FILE TO MY HOME, NOT THE HOME OFFICE!!! Sheesh ya make one small flub and the old boy has a conniption!

Somewhere between Monday and Friday people have varying degrees of stress and reprieve from it. The relief is akin to how we feel when we take vacation. The behavior is nothing short of a series of weekends strung together through an entire week. If you’re not drinking and you’re on leave for a week just decompressing at home it is kind of eerie around the neighborhood. Actually it’s reminiscent of being in a desert on the moon. Your little neighborhood, which you only really know on the weekend, is no longer bustling with the buzz of assorted activity. It has become a ghost town! You are the only one there and the streets are empty except the homemaker whose husband is still able to support his wife and 2.1 children with a job at the sludge factory. You never knew there was so much money in waste! He must be wealthy and just never flaunted it. Argh! Now how do you keep up with the Jones’ after that new discovery?!

Nevertheless you get to hear the sounds of the newspaper delivery boy, sanitation workers, the mailman, and the neighborhood recluse who keeps stealing you kid’s two-wheeler from your front porch. He has secretly ridden it daily for years to the nearest store to buy himself a pack of smokes, a Slim Jim snack, a slurpee and to flirt with the counter help. He apparently is partial to foreign women with thick unrecognizable accents! You always thought the cherry slurpee stains on the bike were from your sloppy kid. Now you learn the truth! She has recluse potential!

Vacation gives you perspective whereas you get to see everyday stuff you normally miss because of work. Some of it is scary, but most of it is refreshing. If folks really knew what went on in their neighborhoods when they’re working they would stay in bed under the covers quivering at how much the usual laws of nature don’t seem to apply during the week.

You can rise above the oddity of this new world because most importantly YOU ARE OFF WORK! Nothing you’ve thought has carried that much reverence and at the same time fear since you were a child willing to give great grandmother a kiss because you knew she was gonna reward ya with bucks!. Good old reliable great grandma, her whiskers, and her money!

When we grew up our parents (our mom’s at least) knew the weekday environs and their oddities as everyday happenings. But as a culture we have forgotten stuff much like the Native Americans no longer remember how to perform their cultural rain dance. I think they’ve forgotten. Could be in those years of harsh drought when we go months not being able to water the lawn because of the lack of rainfall Native Americans are chugging from water coolers just laughing their asses off at the rest of us in some sort of self imposed cultural reparation. It’s either that or a memory lapse of how to get the sky to open by pleasing the rain god.

If you are taking time away from work to go somewhere on a trip well then this can be even more exasperating than going to the office. True the attitude is usually laid back at the beginning of the excursion. However, traveling with your kids or even worse, the in-laws, could be a harsh sanity stealing, nail on the blackboard, heart palpitating environment all it’s own.

You certainly have moments of fun but there always seems to be a Russian roulette of emotions being played on those getaways. One person it seems is always unhappy. The rest of the group is saying things like “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but what do you expect from a guy who’s favorite dwarf is grumpy,” or the guys whisper “PMS” under their breath. The journey seldom lives up to your expectation because there is always some sort of irritation. Whether it is that check-out is at dawn and check-in is at dinner time, or that the room has hangers that don’t come off the rod, it seems like you always end up with some bizarre hotel neighbors. My last trip included a lodge booked with a convention of transvestite truckers.

Traveling with my family always seems like I’m in an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. It’s pleasant and down home yes, but how relaxing can it be it when the family’s idea of take out food is going behind the shack to “blast some critters?”

No matter how your vacation turns out however there is always one grim fact. It has to end and you have to go back to work. That is even worse than a bad holiday expedition. You knew it when you first left for vacation. You counted the days. It seemed in the beginning like such a large amount of time. Then it creeps into your mind midweek that it’s half over. You give it scant thought at that time. By the second weekend you are lamenting the coming Monday. Sunday night before going back to work you end up staying awake until 3:00 a.m. just to squeeze every last ounce out of the time you deserve for yourself. The next day you’re off to work like a lion with a thorn in your paw that can barely keep its eyes open. It’s better that way though. After all what’s there to look at now that the boss’s “fun files” are gone!

2009-04-03T20:47:00.002-07:00

The Art of the Wait

What is worse than going to the doctor’s office to “turn your head and cough” or hearing those immortal ear stimulating words that turns the average body to a quivering mass “put your feet up in the stirrups?” Waiting in line to do it! While spending your day in a medical office you can distract yourself in the latest magazines such as Cosmopolitan, Vogue, or Teen Scene (yea us guys really like those). Note to Doctor’s office managers MAGAZINE VARIETY PLEASE! Give me something with some teeth like Highlights kids magazine. At lease that’s challenging and reminds me of being a juvenile again when hanging around wasn’t really a conscious issue. There are no articles in Highlights about “How to get your man to say your size 18 butt looks wonderful in those size 9 pants so you feel good about yourself!” You would think that a culture that is so in tuned to having it all, and having it now, would have found a way to avoid having to stand in line!

Delay! Is there anything that moves the soul in such a way? Waiting in lines and hopping from foot to foot is a great way to pass time and the benefits are untold. I think that’s how I learned to dance! Why is it everyplace I go there is a wait? Heck you don’t even have to leave the house to spend your time waiting. If you’ve got a large family there is always a wait for bathroom time which is why the proper industrial strength bathroom door lock is so important. As you know most 5 year olds can pick nearly any door lock just by turning the knob. This is because of the supernatural lock melting mechanism hidden cleverly under the skin up their sleeves. If yours doesn’t have the power consider yourself fortunate. They do this mind you at the worst possible moment. It doesn’t matter how private or intimate the moment. The precious so and so’s can just make you just lose it. At least in the bathroom you’re in the right place!

Simply making a phone call can result in you practicing the art of the wait! Before call waiting the “busy signal was the height of disappointment. Today nothing can equal saying hello and spouting off your complaint in a well rehearsed diatribe and then realizing you’ve dialed into an automated phone system. Typically after you realize you’re talking to a machine the response goes like this:

“Thank you for calling Don and Fred’s Pulled Pork Stand. Your call is very important to us” (understood to mean: you’re a boob for interrupting our employees during our office’s big computer solitaire tournament. That is why we have you trying to talk to a mechanical disembodied voice on this end). “Due

to the great pig fiasco at Mrs. O’Leary’s Farm our representatives have been inundated with a high volume of calls. Please stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly.” Now if I’ve managed to figure out how to maneuver through the first fourteen levels of the automation by pounding the right buttons when prompted just to get to this message I’m vested! I gotta stay with the call to find out what kind of a fiasco can befall swine. After three to five additional seconds of silence they always add information which turns out to be a twist of the knife to the most patient caller. “There are 753 calls ahead of you and your approximate wait time will be a fortnight.” I can feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs as they begin to protrude making me look like Marty Feldman on steroids.

It all started at birth. I wanted out but something akin to the Marx Brothers was running the medical team and they held me back. When they finally got the forceps (which is Latin for suction cup boxing gloves) around my head to pull me out you would have thought it was a taffy pulling contest. This made for a lifetime of bewildered people asking “who’s the baby prizefighter with the black eyes?” Of course I had to live down the stigma of being two weeks late on top of looking like Rocky Balboa after a brawl.

In my high school yearbook the theme was “the line.” I should have known that it was a foreshadowing of greater things to come. It’s not so much the fact that you have to wait your turn that is frustrating. It’s more about sharing precious moments of your life surrounded by such colorful characters. Stimulating yes but I’m beginning to wonder if the powers that be are having a good laugh. I always manage to get behind either the guy who doesn’t know what a shower is or the lady who is spending her time in line laughing. Unfortunately she’s standing by herself. It never seems that I can find the “patience is a virtue” line either. Someone is either stressed, angry, crazy, or stinky!

Typically long lines include the pressed for time guy. We’ve all been him at one time or another. When it’s not you however it looks silly. He’s hopping from foot to foot in a pressure paced tension to get to the front of the line. Usually you can see the vein bulging in his neck and even count the heartbeat pulsation if you gawk long enough. The one I chuckle at the most is the crazy dude. You know the Charles Manson look alike with the spooky stare in his eyes. He handles his time waiting in an even more tense fashion. He screams about the injustice of having this unreasonable delay for something so trivial. It’s as if he’s too important to be forced to wait behind the dregs of society in the bank line just to be able to pick up money so he can get his months supply of peanut brittle. His favorite repeated and very audible sigh is “HUMPH!” I snicker very quietly to myself so as to not upset Charlie anymore.

The wacky woman who is going over her recipe for guacamole stew (out loud I might add) while asking her imaginary friend what they want for the dinner also amusingly helps pass the time. It also reminds me that I have to pick up a quart of milk, a lime and toenail clippers at the next stop I still have to make. I breathe a deep sigh as I wait. “Great” I think, “I’m sure at the grocery store there will be another line!”

Cars From Mars

2009-03-29T19:34:00.000-07:00

The powers that be could vote to change America’s car fleet fuel system at any time. In order to switch from dead dinosaur-goo powered propulsion to water, or air-driven engines to save the planet from the Abominable Global-Warming Monster, all Congress has to do is wave its petroleum soaked wand. Abracadabra! We could change into a gluttonous sweet-toothed, sugar-cane driven nation to fuel our cars. We would force ourselves to eat less too. Not only would it trim our waistlines but eliminating the foggy cloud resulting from fossil fuels would enable us to see angels smiling upon us and birds gleefully tweeting. Then living in such a Madison Avenue commercial could be in our future.

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods t the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. This hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

The difference between the unsightly Pacer and today’s gruesome pod-sized atmosphere- friendly designs is that the Pacer seemed to be made out of metal. The modern death traps that the industry is offering a nervous public seem too lightweight. They could fly if each passenger put an arm out of a window at the same time. That might be necessary given the limited creature comforts, such as space, that these mechanized midgets present. They do not inspire safety, or an esthetically pleasing sense of taste. They completely ignore the cool factor.

Guys who thought being seen behind the wheel of a soccer-mom sporty van shudder when they see the Mork from Ork motor vehicles that salivating granola munching environmentalists seem to favor in the current crop of earth friendly autos. These cars from mars remind one of the Merry Melodies cartoons of ages past featuring Marvin the Martian. He was about as popular as the Edsel too! He didn’t drive a car, but in a turnabout with Bugs Bunny, Marvin would be the instigator of antics that the poor rabbit endured trying to save the Earth from the odd looking Martian. The zany antics come to mind when one views the designs of the “inventive offerings’ of modern earth-favorables from the auto industry. Like Marvin we might seek destruction of the earth rather than its salvation after we spend any time squished in one of these modern mechanical monstrosities. The feeling inspired by their appearance and performance is a desire to drive the ever so clean, fuel efficient, four-wheeler, off nearest cliff.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. No longer referred to as the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”

WHO'S THE DOG?

2009-03-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

We have a new puppy in our house. A decade of fighting against the inevitable, down the drain! My mind was against a pet for so long because my daughter wasn’t old enough or responsible enough to clean up after herself let alone another living creature.

A few months ago out of sheer chance we attended a family function complete with new puppies. Damn the family! Finally mom and dad relented and consented. Alas, another hungry mouth to feed at home.

She is a loving creature, but much more of a baby than our daughter use to be in her infancy. When we leave the house and puppy stays behind. She whines like Rocker Axl Rose trying to hit notes three octaves too high. She sort of sounds like an alley cat on steroids hanging from a cliff or Rod Steward after a regular night on the town; which is kinda the same thing. I like a little noise to make sure I still have my hearing, but the only kind of high pitched whining I want to hear is one that is calling out God’s name. Its the one that always has my neighbors whispering to each other when my wife and I reappear from our house.

The new puppy follows the Mrs. Around like she’s a baby duckling. She is afraid of my manly voice, and of course she pays little attention to her true owner; our “I swear I’ll take care of her” daughter!

When we go outside the puppy must follow. When we go in the bathroom the dog is there. When we hit the sack the new addition is between us. I like a little affection as much as the next guy, but our home is quite warm so I’m not really looking for a three-dog-night. We never let our daughter sleep with us when she was a child, but the dog gets away with everything.

She chews up shoes. and doesn’t get spanked. She chews up electrical power cords, and doesn’t get electrocuted. She eats pens like they were bon-bons, and I swear she laughs at us whenever our backs are turned.

There is a critical part in the movie “When Harry Met Sally” when Harry (Billy Crystal) explains to Sally (Meg Ryan) that he slept with her out of pity, effectively ruining their friendship. He says she had looked up at him with those big sad puppy dog eyes in her moment of weakness. “What was I suppose to do?” he asks her. Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?” she boils. "Yes you are" he replies. “I’m the dog?” she says repeatedly angry, and not believing her ears. Sex for almost any reason, even pity, will get men into trouble. The same may be true in the dog world.

Outside on a leash our puppy romps after birds, barks and whines at passing dogs and longs to enjoy the good life. It puts me in mind of my own youth. The older I get the younger everyone else looks, especially women. It is a place where I can no longer go! When I was growing up all of the attractive ladies were just that, ladies. They were at least in their 20’s. As every decade has passed the sleek bodies and trim waistlines have garnered more and more of my attention. The problem is that they have gotten progressively sexier and much younger too.

Madonna and Brittany Spears are to blame for pointing out that fourteen year old Lolita's can be in every household. Now there are girls that are not even teenagers that look like those “women” I use to adore looking at when I was twelve. Unfortunately today they are the twelve year olds!

My daughter played soccer this fall and her teammates, all 10 and 11 year olds, had a higher proportion of boobs per capita than any group of girls has a right to claim. It worries me for our future, mine and the dog.

Is it wrong to notice these things, or is it more improper to be pushing sex upon our young children? Is it improper to keep introducing steroids into our food supply (beef, and pork) that causes these young girls to have bigger chests than Dolly (Parton not the family cow)? The same chemicals create little girls with tushies large enough to make Sir-Mix-A-Lot sing! heck the food contamination is spread so evenly even the boys are getting boobs!

Perhaps it is that I am observant, or maybe I’m turning into a dirty old man. The problem is that I’m not that old. Old keeps getting older, the older I get!

In the puppy’s world, owners have to be careful because the males know when a bitch comes into heart. Since I hit middle age, I have the same keen canine sense when it comes to that sort of lady. I should be worried, but I’m too preoccupied with every curve and the wiggle that goes with them.

As it turns out what I notice most now is that which is not available to me. The skirt chasing days were put to bed when I woke up from a foggish stupor uttering the words “I do.” Still in my older years I can put my sniffer to the wind and find the red hot mammas. Oh yes it is well known in my house; I’m the dog.!

Giosue'

2009-02-26T12:32:00.001-07:00

DIRTY JOBS!

2009-02-26T12:20:00.002-07:00

It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it” is a phrase often used regarding performing duties that are anything but pleasant. For instance being a sewer worker is not on the top of the hope lists of many, unless you are “The Honeymooner’s Ed Norton, or a member of a rodent family. The phrase is also used sarcastically for those things that are pleasant experiences. For example, waterskiing nude with Jennifer Anniston would be a welcome chore to many a man, but of course, we’d force ourself to do it.

There is actually a program on the Discovery Channel devoted to bringing you less than stellar jobs which are performed each episode by the lively host, Mike Rowe. Their program brings you such activities as working in a rock quarry, digging caves for wine, and a perennial favorite, Yak farming. Now of course there are plenty of jobs Mr. Rowe performs that involve, mud, dust, dirt and waste.

In everyday life there are some pretty monotonous work most of us have to put up with, but sweeping the floor or scrubbing the bathroom toilet with a toothbrush is about as far as it goes. Now mind you, if that sweeping involves using the family dog as the dust-mop, or utilizing your annoying little brother’s toothbrush for the bathroom, then it is not so unbearable. Actually it can involve a little bit of snickering on your part.

Traversing under the house in a crawlspace can be pretty bothersome, but its nothing compared to getting caught in your parent’s bedroom closet while searching for dad’s porno magazines or mom’s special marital aids. It’s much worse if you hear them coming, hide in the closet, and then dear ol’ mom and dad, thinking you are out of the house, decide to “get it on.” By the way, that’s the phrase that their generation used for it “back in the day.” Timeline-wise, that would be somewhere between the disappearance of the dinosaurs and the invention of dirt. Having to endure “the moves of the ancients” can be life altering if the closet is one of those with slats in the door.

One of the dirtiest jobs I ever dealt with was at gunpoint from a woman named Melissa, who practically attacked unusual parts of my body while I rested under a banyan tree in the Caribbean. Now that is pressure, but she certainly could perform being a dirty girl, and luckily finding the right dirty white boy for her antics. Not so comical but definitely a point loss for the heavenly bound.

One of the hardest jobs to achieve is to make people laugh. For every five tries you might get a snicker. Try for ten and you might get someone to really relieving stress with laughter. At my house I’m the funny one. Ever sarcastic, and with a captive audience, I can perpetrate humor upon my housemates until they either laugh, or throw me into the nearest wishing-well. Naturally the well is dry, and I’m too big for it, so once they realize their mistake, guilt will set in, and they’ll eventually have to find a troupe of Amish barn builders to gather the team of mules and pull me to safety. I know the fanfare, and it will be on every network. Until then, I’m just stuck here typing away on my laughter, trying to get a rise out of you. It’s a dirty filthy place to be working from. Then again, it’s a dirty job and somebody’s got to do it!

ROAD RAGE!

2009-02-06T13:52:00.001-07:00

What is wrong with people? I know a little lady who thinks that yelling and screaming at people driving stupidly from behind a steering wheel is a sign of “road rage.” The latest namby-pamby coin of a phrase from doctoral eggheads looking to justify their existence, not only has turned “road rage” into an axiom, but it has pushed the concept into the American psychological lexicon. In the course of the average week, what big city commuter doesn’t have a couple of eye-popping, vein bulging gasket blowing, conniptions behind the wheel? This isn’t road-rage! It is merely the free expression of healthy ideas; mainly that the other guy needs to learn to care about us by getting the hell out of our way, or else crawl off to the shoulder and die.

This dynamic is what folks in the 1970’s, and before, simply referred to as driving. It was back in the day before seatbelts were introduced into cars. People were tough then;. even riders and children who were assured of their toughness by the hardness of their skulls bashing against dashboards all over America. Thank goodness you could put a Saint Christopher statue on your dash to watch over your bloody scalp without it being banned by politically correct anti-religious zealots! It is the great American past time to add some gentle critique on every other drivers skill level while emphasizing the high points with selected, suggestive gesturing.

Unfortunately the collegiate think-tanks have invented the concept of “anger management.” Of course “road rage” is one small portion which falls under the behemoth category of “anger management.”. You are heaped into this large category of offenders if you articulate your points of view emphatically while driving. This of course tends to frighten the timid bleeding heart, idealistic, commune-dwelling types. They are really at the heart of this big anger conspiracy. Their mommy’s didn’t hold them often enough when they were baby monkeys, and now everything scares them, including loud voices, backfiring cars, and people who disagree with them in the work place enough to staple their fingers to their desktop..

Immediately vocalizing your feelings rather than creating a pent up frustration has medical value. It is much healthier to express those feelings right away than to hold them back. Behind the wheel of a motorized, propelled, three ton vehicle, it is imperative to remain healthy! Much like the pressure cooker on a stovetop, the little safety valve of yelling and screaming through a closed window at complete strangers that just denied you a road-wise courtesy prevents maladies such as busting blood vessels that would explode and shoot your eyeballs from their sockets up against the inside of your car’s windshield. Unless you were wearing glasses, the outcome could delay arriving at your destination on time.

The real wacky ones are the drivers who stop their car, open the door and try to challenge you at your door side. Now that is taking speech into the realm of action, and is one step too far. That is how you can tell if there is really road rage. So be wary of loopy psychos that don’t know where to draw the line. The next time that some “fruit-loop” exits their vehicle to tell you how you didn’t give enough “signal time” before you changed lanes in front of him; you know you are facing road rage. As long as you keep your doors locked and your windows rolled up you should feel comfortable telling him what you think of him. Use selected fingers to dot your exclamation point. Now once he takes a swing at your window only then maybe, can you run him over!

WINKIN' LINCOLN

2009-01-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

The Rock band “Faces” utilized a clever phrase with their 1971 album “A Wink is as Good as a Nod to a Blind Horse.” That axiom comes in handy when looking in retrospect at the gala Presidential inaugural held recently in the shadow of the Smithsonian. The astronomically priced festivities remind us of the excess found at a full blown pink-satin Rod Stewart post concert party. The Capital, where all of the important swearing-in occurred, lies at one end of the Washington Mall. Given the tons of garbage left behind, the aftermath reveals that those in attendance were surely not “earth-friendly” but rather a Styrofoam generating throng of star struck drooling followers. If you could cut through the astral plain you might have heard a few different choice words coming from the Lincoln Memorial at the other end of the Ellipse. The large white statue depicting arguably the most important U.S. President, Abraham Lincoln, could have been the place to hear after-life murmurs of a different kind of swearing.

That is not to say that Lincoln wouldn’t like Obama, or the people he attracts, he probably would. The pair does share some connections. Both now belong to quite an exclusive club consisting of a mere 44 males. No it is not a Dumbo-sized ear club for men! All the President’s have been men of course. It sounds a bit sexist, but why would anyone want to be ruled by an administration headed by a woman anyway? Heck that would be just like being married! Perhaps that is the reason that both Hilary and Sarah bumped their noggins on that glass ceiling.

The similarities between Abe and Barrack don’t simply end with the fact that both of these bean-poles are from Illinois. With a little make up and some straw they could be used in corn fields to scare crows. Lincoln’s tall gangly countenance reminds us that his hideously large sized ears were the things holding up those top-hats. The current large-lobe challenged President hasn’t yet discovered the virtue of hats, but nevertheless has magically been deemed qualified to be placed among the D.C. marble. This, despite the fact that he hasn’t even served a hundred days yet! Lincoln had to put up with Mary Todd, but still gave it his all. Obama merely gave us a good campaign and some wild dancing on Oprah. Still, there were no less that 3 commercial products depicting smiling Barack on coins, plates and guacamole dip.

No freshman rookie gets their face plastered on the Mount Rushmore of Mexican dishes until he has done phenomenal feats such as inventing the sombrero. Occasionally however, along comes a personality so revered that the entire population takes a siesta for four years, or the cacophony inverts so loudly that the poles reverse. Obama is just such a figure. In his case no one is sleeping because the grating noise of well wishers is loud enough to make a grown man squint.

So would the man who freed the slaves be happy about America’s election of a man of color? In Honest Abe’s case, there is no telling if his response to Obama’s ascension is a wince of distain, or an approving wink to go with the invisible nod. To the masses who are the blind horses in all of this, it doesn’t matter because once you are big enough to be pictured on food, it doesn’t matter how well sighted the horse. All that matters is that we giddy up!

C'MON EVERYBODY, EXERCISE!

2009-01-09T09:55:00.000-07:00

I have a theory as to why America has gotten so obese! Even our children have become little porkers. I can’t remember more than one person in my elementary school class that was overweight all of those years ago. Of course that one poor little fat kid that we nicknamed “Hunky Chunky Monkey” was excoriated ruthlessly by the rest of us thinner children in the name of comic relief. The only thing more interesting to talk about was Alana. She was the only other classmate aside from the chunky one who required a bra. She was popular because her chest was fat not despite it.

The rise in per capita weight within the citizenry coincides with the decline of the teen pregnancy rate. Kids are binging still, but no longer upon one another. In the 1980’s carnal snacking was quite the rage and created unwanted babies at an alarming rate. Kids were plopped onto the planet by unwed child-mothers who had the bodies of sticks and all of the sensuality of salmon swimming upstream. Somehow the boy population in those days didn’t need anything more than to share their testosterone with nearest shapeless girl as a societal pressure relief valve.

This phenomenon is not that different than what you find in marriages today. At the beginning, newlyweds are bumping and grinding like rabbits. You can tell who’s a recently married couple by simply taking a walk around the neighborhood on a few successive nights. The houses you hear all of those strange noises coming from all of the time are the ones with the bride and groom actively romping through their pleasure room. Listen long enough and you’ll hear performing feats of spectacular delight with a repertoire befitting its own chapter in the Kama Sutra. It may sound like she is being knifed, or he is doing a mad- bull stuck in a tar pit imitation, but really those are just the sound of true love (or some sloppy rendering, pleasures of the flesh).

Once the children start arriving for a couple the libido death knell is sounded. The ladies usually lose interest; the men forget what made them famous in the courtship, and focus more on how to land their lips around the tip of a long neck bottle of beer rather than around their woman in the same seductive way.

Then after a period of time, couples start to swallow all of the pent up sexual frustration. Just because there is no getting-it-on in great frequency anymore doesn’t mean the hormones don’t still rage. Fools start to consume their frustration in various forms of food and drink. To excess they go as they replace their favorite well positioned activities with a different sensory stimulation geared toward the taste buds. With the world of processed high fat foods the next thing you find is that the 9 months of gestation is replaced by 9 months of ingestion resulting in that mound above your waistline; it isn’t a baby either, it’s a beer belly.

If you want to find the most sexually frustrated folks in the neighborhood check out the largest ones. They are making their moves on a box of frosted flakes, a bowl of ice cream, a load of Oreo cookies, and a box of donuts instead of upon their spouse. You’ll notice that the ones gaining weight are on the down slope of the Saturday night love-machine frolics, while the ones getting in shape are rolling in the hay most often. Note that silent skinny person in the neighborhood; they don’t talk ‘cause their hoarse from all of that midnight vocalization between the sheets. They’re happy and making it, laughing all the way to the Lovin’ Time’s store for more supplies.

Staying in shape certainly means more than it use to in our modern society and now you know where one needs to be to properly exercise your mind, body and your demons. The bedroom is America’s gymnasium and playground. More couples need to get back to that regular role-playing slurp-sounding, great-to-be-alive style of exercise.

Christmas Magic

2008-12-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

How does a fat man get down a skinny chimney? Some of us barely fit through the front door! Well of course its Christmas magic. When you were a youngster anything was possible. The world was full of wonder, and excitement except when Aunt Gertrude came to town with her penchant for over-squeezing cheek pinching. The didn’t know her own strength vise grip was only outdone by the uncountable whiskers on her chin! Then, it was run for the nearest closet under the stairs and hope they didn’t miss you.

As far as the true magic of the season, it rests in all of our traditions. Who can get through it without a couple of good size turkeys making the ultimate sacrifice? This of course is so that we can sit our overstuffed carcasses in front of an oversized flat screen plasma TV and nod off, resting upon our oversized double chins during special football games. As usual the teams are a pair; one superior display of talent against a group that plays like a collection of women from the Red Hat Society. Nevertheless the whole family laying about the hovel like they were a bunch of tired basset hounds back after a long day’s hunt is pretty typical. It’s sort of a Norman Rockwell meets the Beverly Hillbillies; picturesque but not exactly inspiring of Christmas’ past.

The erosion of the true holiday’s message, giving each other gold and frankincense (no one can seem to find myrrh anymore), has been gradual, steady and to benefit of Mr. Claus’ celebrity status. Here’s a guy who invades your home (breaking and entering), dressed in a red furry suit (fashion disaster), and not only does he not take anything, but he leaves you stuff (insanity). Of course in our materialistic society, he’s going to be a right popular ol’ elf! His mode of transportation is also out of this world too (space alien). How does one get a gig like this? Imagine working one day a year, giving stuff away to the needy and the greedy, and being revered more than Brittany Spear’s silicone implanted trailer trash play humps: sounds like every youngsters dream!

As an adult of course things are a bit different. You become a bit more jaded, cynical and the closets are no longer big enough to hide from unwanted hairy-faced family. As a matter of fact people can get so swept up by the holiday that they actually sit and talk with Aunt Gertie now, pretending as if her face full of hair is not a good conversation starter. The magic may still be there and you can view it in the wonder-filled eyes of your snot-nosed children; they’re sort of just like you use to before adulthood transformed you into a neurotic shell-shocked whimpering remnant of your former self.

The traditions are still wonderful though a bit more varied, diluted, or disappointing. Stockings are still hung and by the chimney with care but mistletoe for instance, is something that’s missing. For countless Christmas’ as a child the “love bush” hung in the doorway so that when guests came over like Aunt Gertie with her face of stubble she could righteously expect a lip-smacking welcome. It was after all the closest she got to intimacy after Uncle Herbie up and perished in that mysterious backyard mineshaft disaster. All they ever found of him was his little black book, the one with five stars next to that mysterious girls name (Bambi) written in lipstick. However, today when you need decent noticeable size mistletoe vegetation, you can’t find the stuff to hang up anymore. Too bad because there are finally some good looking neighbors worth planting one on and you’re interested to see if they offer egg-nog induced tongue action..

Yet, despite it all we still find a quiet moment on Christmas Eve. Usually it is 3:00am after the last minute round of midnight madness shopping at the all night 7-11 (yeah, Slurpees and meat snacks for everyone’s stocking). When the wheezing from all of the rushing around has finally died down, we can reflect on the real meaning of the holiday; never getting what you really wanted!

You see if you look hard enough some things don’t change throughout your entire life whether its prickly facial encounters or the roundness of a fat man in the room on Christmas - never mind that he is now your husband instead of your father. The presents may be smaller; the joy a bit more tempered yet there is magic just the same. The Christmas tree blinks its silent message in the stillness as you reach to place the last of the presents under the tree before Santa shows up.

Of course reaching under the tree with your face in the bottom branches sort of reminds you of kissing Aunt Gertrude and her pine needle whiskers. You may shudder, but it’s really the chill of an ol’ familiar feeling.

CARS FROM MARS

2008-12-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods at the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. The hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. We won't have to refer to the car of the future as being the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”

THE NEW AMERICAN BIRD!

2008-11-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

Ben Franklin, the consummate in-depth thinker, all around colonial genius and well rounded panty-chaser is about to be proven insightful once more. Living in a time without Rogain (note his bald head on the $100 bill) and knickers, the “creator extraordinaire” laid down his own personality template. I’m not just talking about the sex drive of an old man sliding his hands on supple naked lady-ness well into his eighties. The history suggests he may have had long term vision, and it wasn’t because of his new fangled invention (wire rimmed eye glasses).

The leaders of his day struggled for a Declaration of Independence while Franklin was one of the proponents of creating a national emblem befitting of the colonies heritage and traditions. You might think it would be a “wild hare” given its proclivity to reproduce almost as much as Franklin himself. The Philadelphian and most popular founding father pictured on U.S. money that was never a President however, wanted the national bird to be the turkey.

How could such an gifted man propose that a bird willing to stand with its head stretched in the air facing skyward, mouth opened catching raindrops until the damn thing drowns was indicative of America. Did he really think it resembled anything of the America he helped to birth? The answer is that his insight was long and far reaching though a bit muddled by lacey bodices.

The feathery gobbler after all was an emblem of all that was good in America between original settlers and the Native Americans they found when Europeans landed on her shores. Given the source, you might have expected the back of the $100 bill to picture a brothel instead of Independence Hall. Nevertheless Franklin was a man of passion decision, opinion, and as it turns out extra sensory perception (ESP).

Look around yourself today. Culturally you will notice little resemblance to even the 1980’s. The traditions have been sliding down the proverbial slippery slope for at least that long. It is almost as if we are virgins that have plunked down our first $25 waiting to see what kind of whore and bottle of booze it will buy us. We are as oblivious as Tom the Turkey; ever satisfied to keep overstuffing ourselves. The country is drunk with success, pomp and circumstance, singing glory to ourselves while the lumberjack sharpens his Thanksgiving Day ax right before our eyes.

The bald eagle surely symbolized the more than two hundred years reflecting America’s rugged individualism that carried the nation. Today that eagle is much more of a turkey. The eagle a fierce-looking, domineering hunter ever vigilant to guard and defend her territory once survived on its wits. The sustenance upon the weak and more venerable of Mother Nature’s domain had been replaced by a sniveling whiney geekish kind of existence. A country that was once John Wayne has become a society of Don Knotts.

Today one can conclude that maybe Franklin had it right, we were destined to be a nation of turkey’s not eagles! He might have been stimulated by our loose moral values in the name of sexual gratification, but he likely wouldn’t have enjoyed the last 20 years of American politics.

In the movie 1776 John Adams (played by William Daniels) moans to Franklin (William De Silva) that he would be forgotten by posterity. He muses that Franklin will be credited for its success. “Franklin did this, and Franklin did that.” Adams states. “Franklin smoked the ground and out popped George Washington on his horse. Then he, Franklin, and the horse defeated the British all by themselves. Franklin responds “I like it!” He is remembered as a serious man with a sense of humor. Until about 200 years after the fathers founded the country it seemed likely that men with so much on the ball, like Franklin would be perfect candidates for President.

Most recently, that eagle had to be rescued by Ronald Reagan. In a mere short 20 years since the country has once again molted turkishly. It now waddles around the holding pen at Thanksgiving time waiting for the much talked-about grand feast; still not realizing that it is the guest of honor on the table not at it.

Franklin and his extensive hanky panky would have been right in fighting for a Rhode Island Red emblem. For today’s sexually charged culture both our propensity for nakedness and all things foul are two enduring legacies of the American dream. Maybe Franklin who liked women’s legs more, saw through the history of mankind enough to know that one day our sturdy cowboy haunches would end up as turkey legs.

ANOTHER F-ING HOLIDAY!

2008-11-03T08:17:00.001-07:00

After all of those years of mutual assured destruction, duck and cover jingles in the classroom, and downright dreaded doom of cold war reality, there is finally something about Russia to be admired. The headline in the Denver Post from late summer said it all! Russians get day off to procreate, then win prizes. It almost makes one want to become a communist.

As the story goes the Russian region of Ulyanovsk is fighting the Russian trend of a population decline. More Russians are dying than being born. That might have cause great cheer 30 years ago, but today the solution is inspiring. Russia has one-seventh of the worlds land mass, but only141 million people occupy the space. This region is offering a unique way for folks to give birth to “a patriot” on Russia’s national day.

Their procreation day dubbed the “Day of Conception” is September 12th. Who could argue with a holiday for something called the National Day of Conception, no matter when it’s celebrated? I can almost guarantee that 99 44/100% of the male population of the U.S. would line up the night before to participate in that holiday! On top of that if you give birth on Independence Day you stand a chance of winning prizes! Last year’s Russian couple collected an SUV. Others won TV’s, refrigerators, washing machines, and the like. In America such an SUV could be manufactured on a strictly limited basis. Produce only one of them a year for the contest winner and it will be deemed an instant “classic”. Of course the SUV could be produced by any car company as long as the model has a name like “the Sexcapade”, or we could just give the winner a hummer….again. Imagine finally being able to claim a trophy for your bedroom antics!

The U.S. would go wild for that especially if that means we get a “day off”, so to speak. Imagine the sounds around your neighborhood as everybody did their part and “pitched in.” Not only would it be rhythmic, but it would probably prove melodic and ear-plug worthy if the neighbor’s are anything like the people at my house. The holiday would be guaranteed to surpass Halloween and all of the others combined with the exception of Christmas. Christmas is mainly for children anyway so why not give the adults that are still young at heart their own humping holiday?

Since July 4th is our day of Independence, 9 months prior would be October 4th. That just so happens to be my wife’s birthday so it works doubly well for me. Who wouldn’t want to have their birthday off from work in order to lather up? I mean on your birthday you practically have to be in a coma not to get lucky! Even comatose patience sometimes “get some” depending on the quality of care of the nursing home they’ve been placed in unwittingly.

A day off for carnal knowledge as a goal sounds much more American than Russian. It also sounds like any night in every singles bar, but this would be different. It would be the duty of every citizen to “give it their all” for the good America’s future. It would be your duty damn it, your duty! Even the weirdo’s, grosso’s, fatso’s, and the freakishly hideous would have a sporting chance. Think of it as a holiday you’d be eager to celebrate; akin to those desperate last moments of your life. How else would you want to spend that time other than going out with a bang?

As the years go by, this annual holiday would give the U.S. all of the little rugrats that it will need to someday pay and reconstitute a sagging Social Security system. We’ll grow are way out of the looming Social Security crisis. The government for generations to come will be able to keep dipping their corrupt hands into the Social Security Fund, all because of our newly found holiday. We won’t have to worry about worker-to-retiree ratios anymore, or how much money is in the fund. When there are enough of the little buggers born, then we could curtail the program or give out condoms. No need to cut benefits, or raise premiums. Heck we could probably lower the cost to each of us. This is after all the country that gave us the sexual revolution, the pill, aids, Madonna, Brittany Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and a cast of Hollywood tramps dedicated to flaunting the human form; especially without underpants.

The years that October 4th would fall on a Wednesday would give new meaning to the phrase “Hump Day”. In any event the only way to traverse the ills of this country is through a national procreation day. Grow, grow, grow should be our chant. That is the same tune sung by many women any night of the week in most married person’s bedrooms around the country. The guy’s part of the process is like that of the blind man on the corner, only there’s no cup, no pencils; just an equal amount of begging. In a few years I’m sure the day destined to be the happiest of all holidays will carry it’s own slogan; something like “National Procreation Day, America’s favorite F-ing holiday!”

THE SEASON OF FEAR!

2008-10-21T08:24:00.000-07:00

The Season of Fear
By Giosue Santarelli

When was the last time that you had a good scare? Don’t count the kind of bone chilling that has you reviewing at your depleted 401K account and looking for the nearest bolder to tie around your neck. Halloween rolls around every year and as dependable as the decline of the stock market in the fall, autumn’s ghoulish goblins conjure up all sorts of haunts.

So many years ago when trick or treating was more simplistic, so were the kids and their imaginations. Jumping out from behind a bush could make a youngster scale the nearest tree in two seconds flat, but spending time with crazy Aunt Helen was a more dicey experience. Her propensity to wear oversized droopy stockings always made her appear as if she had elephant-skin legs, not to mention her propensity to leave the bathroom door open at the worst possible time. If you thought Halloween was frightening, that kind of stuff could scare the heebie geebies out of you.

The fall is our time to fear. It seems to parallel hurricane season. Perhaps it is the winds of change blowing in the remnants of old dead sea-faring pirates ashore. Their spirits, which have found no rest (and no buries treasure), stir up frightful notions. Those pesky Jack Sparrow look-a-likes are everywhere leading up to the end of October. You wouldn’t want Johnny Depp showing up at your house either. He’s always got a far away look in his eyes and his demeanor can be more like Edward Scissor Hands than the regular guy next door. Here’s a guy who prefers to live in France, a place that has even more ancient haunts and creepy castles than the U.S. How sane is that?

The season of fear often starts during back to school shopping. Candy corn often starts the trend. Can there be anything more Hellish than candy corn or more frightening than the prospect of having to eat more than a hand full of the sickeningly sweet harvest colored confection? I think I still have some candy corn from my trick or treating days back in 1966. The stuff never goes away! It is like the cockroach of candy. It has always been around and would probably survive a nuclear holocaust.

Scary displays of skeletons that only use to be available in the school science lab show up in store aisles too. Something that looks like Ferdinand the peg-leg sailor who donated his old dried carcass to medical science so that he’d have enough money to be buried shows up regularly in the Halloween displays. What kind of a school accepts a peg leg skeleton anyway? Of course old Ferdie would have preferred to be buried at sea, but he splurged his after-life money on big bottles of booze and wenches with big boobs. That is why skeletons always look as if they are smiling!

Pumpkins show up in stores as if they belong there. In decades past there were simple triangular eyes, nose and a few teeth in a hastily engraved mouth. Today there are kits with elaborate templates that require more carving skill than Jack the Ripper. With the right kit you can make your Jack-O-Lantern look like Vincent Price in the aftermath of a Michael Jackson video. Now that’s scary!

If you’re cable connected there are plenty of ghostly shows about real life encounters with spirits and other deceased wanderers. These programs often look like they were filmed by the same demented crew from the Blair Witch Project. Some whole networks are devoted to paranormal and use night-vision film to record much of their eerie atmosphere. It is like watching a reality show version of Poltergeist, only it is filled with delusional story tellers named Bubba and Lorleen. It always seems that their haunted houses are in the country highlighted with cold spots and of particular interest is the camera taking parapsychologists who make the Ghost Busters look like intellectual geniuses. These shysters can somehow always find a plethora of slightly deranged citizens to let you know about their basement rattlings or how the ghost of their dead uncle Clyde knocks on the ceiling from the attic space twice a night because he’s looking for his missing pooch, hector. These characters of course display no action at all when the camera is in place. Watching those folks can send a shiver down your spine when you realize that they are the very people listed in political surveys as “likely voters.’ Now that reveals something really scary this Halloween season!

A RAT PACK OF PACK RATS!

2008-10-21T07:02:00.000-07:00

Groundhog Day is usually a sign one way or the other of the duration left in winter. To me that means 6 more weeks of hibernation. For my wife however it means SPRING CLEANING! In a normal household the conversation would go like this:
Wife: It’s Groundhog Day!
Husband: Yeah six more weeks to hide in the house and doze.
Wife: No that means spring cleaning!
Husband: But there are 6 more weeks of winter!
Wife: Time to clean; this place is a filthy mess!
Husband: But that makes no sense…
Wife: Help me straighten up or else.
Husband: But 6 weeks…
Wife: If you don’t get off your lazy butt the first thing that will be outta
here is you!
Husband: Yes dear.

It always seems to start the same way. The proud parents push their child to clean her room. If you can open the door to get into the space you notice that it looks like a Toys “R” Us exploded in there. With a path as treacherous as Lewis and Clark’s journey to find the Northwest Passage you risk your neck stepping into the mountainous terrain of the play zone. Everything has been shoved to the edges of the room (that’s my daughter’s idea of straightening up). Another oddity is that during the cleaning you will find 37 and a half dolls (and yes there is always one that is only half of a doll baby) and two thirds of them are naked. Should I be worried?

Part of the clean up phenomenon in this part of the house is that no matter how much is threatened to be “thrown out,” the bags of toys that always end up staying, out ranks the “toss out” pile by 5 to 1. So basically it’s just a straightening up operation which wouldn’t be necessary IF THE KID WOULD JUST PUT THINGS AWAY IN THE FIRST PLACE! My mother, who was one of the foremost authorities on pig sty’s swore to me that my room, like all boys rooms, belonged near the barn and not in the house. I use to try to get my prissy daughter to become a tomboy and gave up because I thought it didn’t work. I was wrong. One look at her room would make a hog proud!

But, not to leave out another pack rat in our “rat pack,” let’s not forget the lady of the house herself. The top floor has an unusually large closet though you wouldn’t know to look at it. Amidst her childhood stuffed elephant set and size AA brazier collection neatly tucked away you will find an expanse full of clothing. Some of them are even packed away inside of a trash can! Are the powers that be sending us a message about this stuff? Dear, take the hint! They’re not winter clothes held there in the summer or summer clothes held there in the winter. No it’s more like clothing of when my wife’s shapely figure had curves instead of cliffs. Why are they here?

Because every woman has a delusion that someday she will get back to her “playing weight” and fit back into that size 2 dress. Honey, that’s back in the day when you had more men interested in you than you could shake a stick at. “They are nice dresses” she says. They will perhaps be passed on to my thin daughter if the moths don’t get to them first. When my girl is a teen I won’t have to worry about her going on dates because the boys won’t come around. They’ll be afraid of her unsightly partially devoured wardrobe. It’s worse at my home because in my wife’s heyday she bottomed out in a size zero! Does a size zero indicate an invisible person? That’s why I fell in love with her (I’m sucking up again in case she didn’t like the bodily “cliff” remark 8 sentences ago). She was so tiny and practically invisible. There was no talk of cleaning back then. She, like most wives who’ve been married for some time, needs her fantasies. And if I keep writing about this I’m sure that all of my “fun time” with her will be made up of only “fantasy.”

Next there is the attack of my things usually most of which have been exiled to the basement or onto the curb like the old wagon wheel coffee table scene in the movie When Harry Met Sally. “It’s outta the way so what’s the problem?” Like most basements the storage space becomes quite a safari to maneuver. The Mrs. doesn’t fancy a good hunt like most of us men do. It wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t attack those vitally useful, precious items of mine like the old time medicine cabinet which hangs on the wall. It’s the kind with the two blinding fluorescent (sun like) side lights. It doesn’t light, mind you, so no shades or radiation tests are needed. “It is the only mirror in the house that works” I say as if such nonsensical statements will make a difference to a cleaning czar bent on a dust busting spastic mission. That kind of humor seems to prod her the other way. The cabinet which I picked up at a flea market 35 years ago I got for a song (I think it was the theme from Sanford and Son). It’s not even hooked up to the electricity in our home. But it houses my rare potato chip collection that I’ve had since my teen angst years. You know the rare anomalous chips that you run across that have unusual shapes and resemble different people. My prize chip is the one that looks like Abe Lincoln.

Are my children doomed? They can’t be any worse at being pack rats than the 84 year old Annapolis woman who was found in her overrun home. She had so much stuff in her house that when the floor to ceiling mountainous towers of refuse fell she became trapped. Her only comment was “arrrrgh!” It was such a problem the fire department had trouble getting into her house and extricating her. You hear about one of these kinds of stories every so often and it never ceases to amaze me! “Those people” are nuts! Our ability to rationalize our own “mental-ness’ knows no boundaries.

So when warm weather is here, while most husbands battle it out to avoid dusting for weeks I perform my dutiful cleaning because if I don’t the only thing that will get a stick shaken at it is me!

THE ART OF THE WAIT!

2008-09-26T07:09:00.000-07:00

What is worse than going to the doctor’s office to “turn your head and cough” or hearing those immortal ear stimulating words that turns the average body to a quivering mass “put your feet up in the stirrups?” Waiting in line to do it! You would think that a culture that is so in tuned to having it all, and having it now, would have found a way to avoid having to stand in line!

Waiting and hopping from foot to foot is a great way to pass time and the benefits are untold. I think that’s how I learned to dance! Heck, you don’t even have to leave the house to spend your time waiting. If you’ve got a large family there is always a wait for bathroom time which is why the proper industrial strength bathroom door lock is so important. As you know most 5 year olds can pick nearly any door lock just by turning the knob. If yours doesn’t have the power, consider yourself fortunate. They do this mind you at the worst possible moment. It doesn’t matter how private or intimate the moment. The precious so and so’s can just make you just lose it. At least in the bathroom you’re in the right place!

Simply making a phone call can result in you practicing the art of the wait! Before call waiting the “busy signal was the height of disappointment. Today nothing can equal saying hello and spouting off your complaint in a well rehearsed diatribe and then realizing you’ve dialed into an automated phone system. Typically after you realize you’re talking to a machine the response goes like this:
“Thank you for calling Don and Fred’s Pulled Pork Stand. Your call is very important to us” (understood to mean: you’re a boob for interrupting our employees during our office’s big computer solitaire tournament). “Due to the great pig fiasco at Mrs. O’Leary’s Farm our representatives have been inundated with a high volume of calls. Please stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly.”

Now if I’ve managed to figure out how to maneuver through the first fourteen levels of the automation by pounding the right buttons when prompted just to get to this message I’m vested! I gotta stay with the call to find out what kind of a fiasco can befall swine.
“There are 753 calls ahead of you and your approximate wait time will be a fortnight.”
I can feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs as they begin to protrude making me look like Marty Feldman on steroids.

In my high school yearbook the theme was “the line.” I should have known that it was a foreshadowing of greater things to come. It’s not the fact that you have to wait your turn that is frustrating. It’s more about sharing precious moments of your life surrounded by such colorful characters. I always manage to get behind either the guy who doesn’t know what a shower is, or the lady who is spending her time in line laughing. Unfortunately, she’s standing by herself. Someone is either stressed, angry, crazy, or stinky!

Typically long lines include the pressed for time guy. He’s hopping from foot to foot in a pressure paced tension to get to the front of the line. Usually you can see the vein bulging in his neck and even count the heartbeat pulsation if you gawk long enough. The one I chuckle at the most is the crazy dude. You know the Charles Manson look alike with the spooky stare in his eyes. He handles his time waiting in an even more tense fashion. It’s as if he’s too important to be forced to wait behind the dregs of society in the bank line just to be able to pick up money so he can get his months supply of peanut brittle. His favorite repeated and very audible sigh is “HUMPH!” I snicker very quietly to myself so as to not upset Charlie anymore.

The wacky woman who is going over her recipe for guacamole stew (out loud I might add) while asking her imaginary friend what they want for the dinner also amusingly helps pass the time. It also reminds me that I have to pick up a quart of milk, a lime and toenail clippers at my next stop. I breathe a deep sigh as I wait. “Great” I think, “I’m sure at the grocery store there will be another line!”

THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE

2008-09-08T12:32:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed that even though beauty may be in the eye of the beholder there are some folks whom the good fairy has touched with a magic prettiness wand? Bodies can be stunning but without a face to go with it the package becomes a reduced value in today’s society. We can all generally agree these specially blest individuals belong to the sect of beautiful people. Not only are they far and above better looking than us all but they flaunt a pretty power by only going to certain places while avoiding other select areas. Their presence can make an establishment chic or a location the in place. The rest of us schlogs and also-rans simply don’t measure up in the attractiveness pageant of life.

Universities are one example where you will find a higher percentage of beautiful people per capita. By sheer numbers good lookers are found in large colleges and educational settings. Perhaps beauty knows that education is a good thing. It’s either that or student’s parents send them away to college investing thousands in a sort of reverse cosmetic surgery procedure. Parents bank on college lore. Their secret desire is for their looker of a child to drink too much, party too much, and somehow ruin their stunning good looks in the college coed frat house.

On the sly, parents hope their kid will get in with the self-abusive roommate type in the dorm that can lead miss cuteness down the path toward the facially challenged. The parents are always less attractive than the coed they are paying to send to the institution of higher learning too. If your parents pushed you repeatedly in your high school years to “get a good education, go to college, make something of yourself” (all which are code words in their diabolically hideous and deceptive plan to ruin your beauty) now you know the real reason for their entire non-stop pushing and prodding. It is because you are better looking than them, or at least you were until you went to college and started the long slide into plainness. Want proof? Hold your college freshman yearbook picture in one hand and then look in the mirror. After the initial scream and jolt you’ll see the truth. Remember when you were more beautiful?

As you look back now I’m sure it’s clear why you noe hear the whispers from your contemporaries. “What happened to them” is a common phrase gently spoken between two of your colleagues as they snicker and work hard not to point noticeably at you. The one asking the question is always someone with more bugged out eyes or a disappointed disgusted look on their face. Remember this is all the work of your parents! Parents are the same couple of people who told us “I see you making that face behind my back. You better stop it or your face will get stuck that way!” They tell us so many stories its hard to know which ones are true!

There are certainly definable categories of good looks. The upper echelon involves the model kind of looks. This is the Christy Brinkly, Tyra Banks, Cheryl Tiegs type who have made a living with their face and form. Generally they are tall long legged beauties that are built with stick like figures reflecting their daily diet of rice cakes, scallions, bean sprouts and Diet Sprite soda portioned into quantities fit for feeding small animals or birds.

“You eat like a bird.” I remember that phrase my father use to tell me all the time when I was growing up. So averse to eating was I that I use to sneak off to the bathroom every night at dinner and not return until the plates were being cleared from the table. That could take hours! I could tell you stories about how to survive in a bathroom for days but that’s another column all together.

The food razzing eventually got my attention and I started eating more and more until I discovered I was in love with food. By then it was too late! That’s another one of those ways parents steal your beauty. They turn you on to some intoxicating substance knowing all the while that your above average youthful looks are doomed with the first bite of cheesecake. Ever wonder why the folks are always pleading with you to eat? Now you know!

The Farrah Fawcett types of individuals are in the Helen category. The term Helen is lifted from David Lance Goins 1987 writing that suggests that Helen of Troy, daughter of Zeus and Leda, had a face that ". . . launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium." Goins' conclusion is that “Here we have a useful, dispassionate, scientific measure of beauty: a helen. One helen is sufficient good looks to launch one thousand ships, and to cause the destruction by fire of an entire city.” It’s no wonder such beauty is often described by over zealous lonely men as “Smokin’! Those objectifying guys (which is another way to say all men) are always from one of the lesser looks variety that I am about to describe.

Beneath the Helen grouping is the generally good looking set of folks. Most of us in any lower class in the beauty procession of life would consider ourselves blessed to have a date with one of the good looking people. The next category into which most of us fall is the plain crowd. The unfortunate buggers on the descending scale next are the homely followed by the ugly and finally the eeewwwweeee what happened to them category.

Recently I was on a beach where one could view slinky blonds, lanky brunettes, and sultry redheads scantily clad in the latest fashion of skimpy swimwear showing as much skin as possible without being hauled off to jail for indecent exposure. Beauties go to the beach! It’s like a flesh smorgasbord. Find a nude beach and you’ve got Playboy Magazine live! For most of us beaches of any kind is a nice atmosphere as sun worshippers in all shapes and sizes enjoy this form of Mother Nature. Some of us however simply out rank others in the pursuit of age defying personage as we struggle to appear as if we have found the fountain of youth.

Take a look at the street where you live. There are certainly one or two people who could be considered truly beautiful. On my block there are a couple sets of those types (I put that in there so my neighbors will wonder who else (besides themselves) might win the “mirror mirror on the wall” contest. Some have it naturally; others work hard to achieve and maintain the gorgeousness mask. It is a mask you know. Eventually those who buy into all of this exterior beauty nonsense are destined to be disappointed. “Time will take its toll upon you no matter what.” That’s another one my parents drilled into my head. You could end up looking like Joan Rivers. She’s had so many facelifts that when her knees knock she gets a headache! Beauty should not be that important. Interior good looks are a much better quality. You have to be somebody who can see past all of the good looking flesh though in order to find that.

Sometimes you can look at a group of folks and see the physical beauty they once possessed. As the year goes by it becomes harder to detect. There is the young who stand the best chance of being a beauty. In adulthood we peak in our attractive physique. By middle age the wrinkles are starting to pop up like you made a face and it got stuck that way. Oh my goodness my parents were right!

DREAMS!

2008-08-25T12:40:00.000-07:00

One of the greatest inventions known to man is the sleep to wake cycle; especially the sleeping part. Okay it’s really a marvel of evolution that the gods provide as a mechanism of rest from the pencil pushing, butt kissing, shoe licking, desperate groveling mode that most of us call work. Nowhere can we find a complete culmination of laziness more than when flopping on the mattress long before it is time to do so.

The folks who stand out the most however, are the ones who are on their way out of the door after work claiming “the only thing I’m doin’ when I get home is getting in the bed.” It is never my bed it is always the bed, as if there is some club-med oasis secluded in their very own home.

Who can blame us? Where else can we close our eyes and live a completely different life? We are forever young in our dreams. We can touch forbidden things, and perform feats without consequence. All of it is tailored by our own desires. When sleeping, our mind goes where it wants to and there is an assumption that we are not to blame. A spouse can have a fling in a dream, and there’s not much a partner can do about it.

It is a fair bet that most of us have affairs in our own beds while our spouse lies right next to us. A typical explanation is “after all it was only a dream.” If you ever try this method, then beware. Dreams can also cause black eyes, brusies, and a weekend sleeping on the couch.

This special alternative universe of the subconscious is valuable. We are spoken to from the great beyond, receive premonitions or are given tonight’s winning lottery numbers. The one who tries to pass off the winning numbers to us inevitably wears broken glasses because they are never correct. In this mysterious mode we are capable of solving the worlds problems, delivering consequential answers to questions of the age, and seeing our favorite sexy neighbor naked after all these years.

Of course there are those out of control experiences where we dream about falling, losing control of the steering wheel or the bluebird of happiness pooping on our head.

Another problem with the unconscious state of mind is that we often wake and after a period of time don’t remember some of the juicier visions. In the morning it is fresh and easy to describe just how somebody’s butt wiggled as we watched them falling off their bicycle into a thorn bush. By the time the day is over though we’ll forget about every detail; except the throny rump twitching like a pair of hams . Even with the loss of dream details there are some things that we consistently commit to our brain permanently. It’s like storing secrets under our mattress. Thank goodness no one else goes there to find them.

Sometimes that recall refuge is seen on our faces as we daydream in front of our work computers. It looks like we’re concentrating on the bosses important excel spreadsheet when, in fact, we’re looking in our brain at a completely different spread altogether.

It’s even tougher to summon up the good dream material once senility sets in. Ask an elderly person about their dreams and they’ll likely tell you something convoluted. Usually it is about their pacifier, or a story about how they spent a long winter at Mount Vernon. There are only short moments of lucidity for the elderly, but in those times the ultimate memory is from their dreams regarding that special someone’s keester; even if it belongs to Martha Washington.

SIZE MATTERS!

2008-08-08T06:49:00.000-07:00

Aside from the regular cackling heard during “girl’s night out” regarding this column’s title, the axiom’s validity can now be heard on the, lips of disgruntled grocery store patrons everywhere. Let’s clarify what we’re shopping for here. Similar to a women’s fantasy, there needs to be some “bulk” in the supermarket products we buy, or our price-per-pound will seem like lopsided chicanery has grasped our food supply.

For instance, check out the half gallon of Edy’s ice cream, and you might find that it suffered the spell of a head-shrinking witchdoctor. It looks as cylindrical in its usual creamy good packaging, but in reality the company has shrunk that sucker enough to fool the hasty 5-items-or-less-aisle customer. On top of that the price has risen a bit. Now we get less ice-cream at a higher cost. Cows might find it uncomfortable having to retain more milk in their smooshy parts, but those of us with astronomical cholesterol levels whose blood consistency is that of a chunky monkey ooze quality are offended. Did they think that women wouldn’t notice the size of their package? Think again. Ladies are avarice shoppers. They know what it takes to satisfy, and the latest slight of hand could have some ol’ favorites in the dog house.

The dollar doesn’t have the power it once did. If I have to hear about “stretching it” any more I’ll scream. Let’s forget about that, and discuss making the dollar go farther.

Quantity over quality has exploded upon the economic scene, and the reduction of the former is an attempt to fool you as long as they keep the latter in check. If they would just put a picture of a clown on all of the affected packages most folks would be even more distracted and oblivious. After all, manufacturers keep treating consumers like children. Of course the Mrs. would never buy a clown-faced product. She’d likely be sent shrieking from the store trembling in a neurotic state of quivering confusion. Everybody knows that clowns are actually not cheerful kid playmates, but rather knife wielding homicidal maniacs who simply never took a class on the proper application of theatrical makeup. Well if you find any painted jester in a store these days the packaging they find probably has them wearing a sad clown-face. Ramein soup noodles, frozen burritos, snack chips, pork rinds other staples of the American diet, especially among carny folk and people who live in houses with front porches, have begun to shrink in size! One could barely ever find a reasonable schnitzel before this latest food package shrinkage scandal. Now what’s a krout lover to do?

Of course the blame for this belongs with those oil rich nations in the Middle East. Our truckers have to charge more to get piggy to market. We are left holding the bag, and not only is it the stretchy thin plastic kind that won’t degrade for a million half lives or until Joan Rivers has her last facelift, but it is a much lighter bag than in years past. The high cost of fuel is choking our economy while the sheiks with their harems throw wild petroleum parties complete with veiled virgins in palaces playfully riding the slip-n-slide greased by revenue from American shoppers.

Recently heard in the checkout aisle amongst the divorcees is the lament that “I want my normal half- smoke big boy not the Pewee Herman sized sausage.” It’s tough these days in the meat section!” With that kind of sentiment can banana shrinkage be far behind? The country’s desire for largess is as big as ever? True you have to pay a little more, but in the past more always meant better. Just ask any married women!

THE UNCOORDINATED!

2008-07-25T12:44:00.000-07:00

If you were ever the uncoordinated kid in class, or the brainaic in Harry Potter thick glasses wearing a bookworm facade then you are very familiar with being the last one picked for sports. We short folks were never worth the selection when it came to basketball and might have never been on a team had the Little Sisters of Righteousness School not inspired that everyone must play. With a kind word, a bizarre hand held clicking device, and rulers that could make your knuckles feel like they had just been hit with basketball-sized hailstones in a Midwest summer storm, the sisters enforced equality at the end of a wooden gun. Still that feeling of being left out and unwanted were stigmas after such drama played out on the court. Silently we hid the scar tissue on the inside lest we be seen as sissy mommas boys or crybaby little girls.

With the ever aging baby boom generation coming into its glory, can I tell you that all I see are signs of crisis? The adult teams are being chosen around me and now the world doesn’t have Sister Mary Guilt-A-Lot to tame it. Many are about to be stung all over again. Being one of those baby boom mentioned types looking at big numbers of candles on my birthday cake I must say that aging is nothing like I thought it would be. Who would have thought that wearing diapers, eating pureed food and crying until someone comes to hold you would carry the same weight at both ends of your life? Actually I didn’t spend enough time thinking about what it would be like at all!

As Young Turks we all think of ourselves as invincible; boys profess this outright while girls seem merely to believe it. As we grow from our indestructible teen years and early twenties into our thirties, forties, fifties and beyond it becomes apparent that there are certain things we will no longer be able to enjoy completely. For guys, long distance whizzing is out of the question, and ladies need a medical device around their neck in case they get down on the toilet and can’t get up again!

Like the prepubescent geeky years, here comes the constant reminder that we are no longer worthy. Young girls in phone calls talking about whether the cute guy is going to be at the party tonight no longer includes you as the person they might be talking about. Second glances thrown your way from a good looking member of the opposite sex is one resembling a reaction more of horror than one of lust. No one is checking out your shape anymore unless they want a person to model their Humpty Dumpty costume for the community playhouse.

Amidst all of the missed opportunities of your life it seems like the ones you felt strongest about yet never achieved come haunting. Licking the whip cream off of the thigh high boot of a buxom blonde behind the bleachers of the soccer field is not going to include someone with as much gray hair as you. You’re more likely to be the one snapping photos of the pair under there but you’re also predictably going to be hauled off to the hoosegow to be charged with being a pervert. It’s all because no one ever warned you to live life beyond the fullest. They always told you to settle down and spend your life with that special someone. That is a great life I’ll admit it. However, when you come out on the other end of the aging tunnel you can see back to the beginning and the things that filled your loins with passion and vigor all belong to a younger generation.

There could be worse things in life than not being picked for the ball team unless it’s a toss up between you and Norvall the one armed, one eyed, paraplegic midget who talks with a lisp, and tends to drool allot. Still, as you age and the great creator in the sky starts calling the geriatric class home for his ball club, you might find that being picked last for that team is a lot like winning the lottery. You’ll get to see all of those contemporaries of yours who made your life so miserable go before you. You’ll get to witness more sunrise’s and sunsets, and who knows you might get lucky with Granny Gertrude in the old folks home that the kids put you in, if she happens to have narcolepsy and is partially blind. Perhaps she was never into sports and doesn’t mind that you pitch a baseball like a girl.

When you’re a hundred eight years old and your body acts like it at every turn creaking and offering new insights into the true meaning of the words ache and pain you might long to be chosen for that great gig in the sky. Many of us who fought for life never ending might find that being selected last still sucks as much as when you were a kid. Live large and ride a wild one as long and as often as you can before doing so causes you to bust a gut or fling your dentures across the room. You might poke someone’s eye out. Then they wouldn't want to pick you for their team!

HORNY DRIVERS

2008-07-17T12:08:00.000-07:00

There are parts in automobiles primarily as safety devices. Modern vehicles have air-bags, padded dash-boards, and specially designed head rests. Simple devices such as seat-belts were auto after-thoughts long after baby boomer childhoods. I have the radio button pocked-forehead scars to prove it. We’ve come a long way, or have we? The most misused safety feature on a car is the horn. Never mind that roadways are strewn with carnage like fans in the aftermath of a World Cup soccer match gone awry. Spend any time driving in rush hour traffic, and you’d think you were at a Green Bay Packers football game during the Lombardi era. These abundant loud blasts emanating from cars carry the sentiment much worse than a Bronx cheer.

Originally designed to warn other motorists “Hey don’t drive in front of me that’s dangerous,” has more aptly become Honk, “you stupid @%$!& moron, who the #@&”!$% taught you how to drive?” Often the horn is accompanied by specific hand gestures, and uncontrolled contorted muscle gesticulations. Now in a split second after someone cuts us off on the highway we shoot our anger down our arm through the horn and right at the offender. It’s almost like turning on an electrical switch to a bolt of lightning. If we were in a James Bond 007 hot-rod we would have hit the rocket firing button to vaporize the road perpetrator into a mere Ford Taurus dust cloud.

Today the horn has become somewhat more of a safety device not to warn other drivers, but to curse them once the offense has been committed. Thus it keeps the offended safe. Driving down a roadway going the speed limit, and having someone pull their car out in front of you ten feet before you arrive is frustrating, and bruising to your brake pedal foot. Then when they have the audacity to drive 7 milers per hour in front of you afterward, it sends most drivers’ hands to the steering wheel to sound the alarm. Eventually you pull behind them at a stop light, and if you hadn’t blasted your horn you might get out and confront the #&%@%*% knucklehead. So the horn performs a service for you without having to actually exercise your body by getting out of your car, pulling them from theirs, and beating the crap out of the inconsiderate @%$#&!%.

Of course doing so is the result of the much dreaded and conveniently invented “road rage.” Let’s face it; some people deserve a good smacking to stimulate their driving skills. Getting a driver’s attention after all is the main design of the much dreaded “speed trap,” utilized by the authorities. Teenagers, soccer moms, little ol’ ladies, old men over 80 years old, and folks who can’t see over the steering wheel should not have licenses. However, any one of these is confrontable once they’ve misguidedly slid in your lane like a black cat crossing your path. As such, something bad is going to happen. It can be a simple horn blast and raised finger, or it could be worse.

Your mother would think you crazy if you got out of your car to vent your displeasure with other drivers. She’d say something like “what if that person was built like Mike Tyson or something? You don’t know what they’ve got in their car!” Aside from potentially having your ear bitten off, telling the other driver what you think of their performance is an American tradition. We have only in the last decade or so decided to deliver the message in person. The horn protects us from such hazardous work. After all those other guys always drive like @^&%$#* imbeciles, and you are the model of highway perfection.

If things don’t escalate after you are perturbed enough to jump from your car and visit their front door at the stop light, you still might find yourself being shipped off to anger management classes if the scene is witnessed by the “police officer donut patrol.” So ya see it might be better just to stay in your car and channel your distress via the horn. However, if you have a compact car with the horn volume similar to that of an annoying yapping Chihuahua, you might want to install a super decibel delivering Mack Truck size diesel horn capable of delivering a rear window shattering blast. That would teach those #$@^%’s to stay out of your way, or at least make you memorable, with a great story to tell in anger management class!

THE SECOND COMING!

2008-06-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

It has been nearly 30 years since we had a bonified energy crisis. Initially after the first oil embargo in the early 1970’s, it’s long gas lines, odd and even rationing and the virtual disappearance of the station wagon, America responded by producing a collection “gas efficient” automobiles. These lovelies were not only the opposite of the much heralded muscle car, but they could be dubbed part of the “eye-sore” era of autos. In a word they were fugly; and unfortunately a little more popular than the granddaddy of all design mistakes, the Edsall. It was the 1970’s mind you so; weird things were “in” like bizarre color schemes, free-love, and Twiggy, a girl so thin that she could hide from you simply by turning sideways.

These automotive oddballs still haunt the American psyche. Leading the pack of misguided design was the American Motor Corporation. AMC, as it was known, invested heavily in peculiar looking autos, and promptly disappeared from the auto world by the 1980’s. It produced a couple of classics worthy of the “don’t let this happen to you” prize of distinction as the worst looking and least comfortable cars. The Gremlin is the first that comes to mind. A vehicle composed seemingly of tin in a clunky squared off stature; the hatchback looked as if Lorena Bobbitt had practiced slicing on it before utilizing her deft skills on a two-timing gigolo of a spouse.

The AMC Pacer was probably the king of tastelessness. A deformed VW Beetle- looking creation, the Pacer was somewhat akin to a swollen walrus, with an overactive feeding habit, sort of like beer guzzling sports fans named Hal that come over to your house to visit your dad, and sit ever too close to your kid sister. Known mostly for his beer-gut, Hal was the guy that seemed to have a diet only comprised of fast food pork rinds, and too many ding dongs. The Pacer had a bubbled-out rear window and windshield that gave it a swollen appearance. It was akin to what your sexy girlfriend will look like after she becomes your wife, has 3 kids, and a decades worth of nightly rocky road ice cream gallon parties to produce hips that seem out of place on her body. The Pacer was a short squatty styled sedan. What’s worse is that a ton of people bought these hideous things for a while, and gave hope to middle aged ice cream fetish mothers that their own bodies were somehow still in vogue.

Lincoln Mercury’s Capri was a sports car that was big enough for two bodies and a few pair of legs, provided they were attached to people in the front seat. It made a spirited sound similar to dad in the Lazy-boy recliner any night after a cheese and bean burrito festival. The VW Bug fits into the same category with the ingenious trunk up front, and the engine in the rear. Many women spent many an enjoyable time sitting in the back seat overtop of the battery and vibrating engine of the egg shaped classic fuel efficient car of all time.

The Subaru Justy was a rather small subcompact car. It was so small that the whole thing could fit inside of a corner telephone booth. That’s how cramped it seemed inside. Another tin can of the automobile sect, the driver and passenger could stick their arms out each window simultaneously, and the damn thing would have taken off like a lightweight biplane. Orville and Wilbur Wright would have been happy with a Justy! The only car smaller at its inception was the Honda Civic. A survivor into the modern era because it grew, initially it was about the size of a baby’s high-chair. It was practically a round ball and big enough to carry a load of dirty clothes from the hamper to the washer. Unfortunately, loading it would have left no room for the driver.

These hideous classics have been the product of two lapses in judgment given the temporary nature of energy shortfalls of their time. Look out because here we go again! With gas priced at over $4 per gallon, and little Al Gore minions running around clucking that the global warming sky is falling, can it be far behind that modern technology will provide the next round of automotive nightmares. What’s coming may make us long for the day of the Pacer and Gremlin.

Auto producers already offloaded the first gaff of the modern era in the form of “The Smart Car.” As aptly named as “geek” is to the pocket pencil protector carrying four eyed math whiz crowd, these little gems are just as misnamed. They are not smart at all. Unless you are a munchkin from the merry ol’ land of Oz you’ll find that there is barely enough room for two adults in a smart car. If you don’t mind riding 6 inches off of the speeding pavement in a box fit for sardines, then this car may be right for you. I imagine that it comes with a special key so you can roll the doors open much like you do with a sardine can lid.

Children have ridden similar sized vehicles on sidewalks for years. These things are little more than double seated go-carts with an egg shell body placed futuristically atop. It is hideous and already reaching preposterous proportions. The little thing will become like the proverbial squashed bug in the grill of the still much larger vehicles on the road when push comes to shove. Who wants such an ugly hood ornament as that?

Not a smart car, but a coffin car; that’s what they should be called, and for what 60 mpg? (That’s miles per grief). Why not? People bury themselves in their classic cars all of the time. Why not have a smart car you can plug in, and recharge for the run-about town driving sensation, and the permanent burial place when you’re in it and get flattened like a Hummer pancake? It’s about the size of a cemetery plot for you and the misses anyway. Maybe it will help you to drive it through the pearly gates. It is well known that the main entrance to heaven is only about the size of the eye of a needle anyway. In a smart car the occupants might make it.

Mystery of Electric and Gas Shortages Solved

2008-06-17T09:26:00.000-07:00

If you own the power you own it all! Anybody who ever reigned supreme in a game of Monopoly can tell you that it’s true. That is unless of course you play some new version of the game. You know the new editions that have diluted the financial message of the early 1900’s board game whose only purpose now is to exploit your pocketbook by way of your emotions. Today on the market there’s foreign language monopoly, Barney I Love You” monopoly, Dukes of Hazard monopoly and even University monopoly. The college version is useful in making NCAA schools worth attending, as undergraduates stay up all night vying to see how they can meld some form of monopoly into the wild, carousing, over drinking college lifestyle that Universities have come to represent.

Nevertheless, owning the power means you are king! That seems to be the sentiment of many in this country who look at the high cost of gasoline and electricity. The good old days are gone; you know the ones with block long lines waiting for a fill up, and the rolling blackouts inflicted upon California. The good old days? Heck yea! Then even though there were shortages your gallon of gas was still well below a dollar a gallon. There was much whining then because we don’t like to wait for the goods and services we feel we deserve. We’ll pay through the nose just don’t make us wait! Witness as proof that of any Bridal Gown discount sale. The outlet, at great risk to its very infrastructure, will sell thousand dollar symbols of purity to women who’ve had more sex than Heidi Fleiss on a slow night; for about a dollar ninety eight over cost! This creates a stampede akin to a cattle drive gone awry as typified by a bad John Wayne movie. The virtuous young ladies attack each other to get the garment of their choice that they’ll wear for a total of four hours. The whole ruckus is an affair that reminds one of Wreslemania on a rainy Saturday night in Alabammy.

Now there are no gas lines but we’re approaching the cost equivalent to a gallon of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. Put some Chunky Monkey in your tank and see if that’ll make your motor run! If they could figure a way to make Hagen Daz combustible we’d have another energy source for about the same cost.
With exorbitant costs, there is finally a whimper out of the public’s collective mouth, and that’s just about the ice cream.

The West Coast blackouts were a different story. In 2001 and 2002 darkness could reign down upon your home without much warning jut like nightfall! Panic stricken people reacted as if it were the stone-age during a solar eclipse. People ran trembling through the streets as if the sky was falling, and the gods were angry with them. On top of that tension, prices spiked to ridiculous amounts per kilowatt hour, similar to the cost of hair darkening grease during the Reagan administration. Of course certain energy companies and high government officers were in on the shenanigans. Then to top it off California became saddled with Arnold, The Governator. Someone has been pulling pranks on the costal states ever since. The most popular commentary after a Schwarzenegger political speech is Huh? What did he say?

Many people complained that we are restrained in that we have plenty of product but no way to refine petroleum, and turn material into electricity (without charging a gazillion dollars per unit). That of course is so energy company CEO’s can drive around in bullet proof limos. What do you think they are afraid of anyway? As long as they stay in the limo smoking their big fat cigars made from illegal Cuban tobacco, and rolled with American hundred dollar bills they won’t have to worry.

The refinery shortfall premise does have some merit. There is one particular yet seldom mentioned theory on why there isn’t enough petroleum, gasoline or electricity. It’s not that our refinery capacity is lacking. It’s not even that evil conservatives have a hand on the lever of such power, and another one in my back pocket.

Have you ever driven past a field that has high tension power lines? The towers stretch in pairs across roadways, grassland to the horizon and beyond. They always look exactly the same no matter where you find them! The hypothesis is that this delivery system is simply not enough to carry the glut of that has built up behind the mysterious bottle neck of energy. There is only really one set of power lines and they go around the world! Each time you see a set in a field, realize it’s the same ones you saw across town, in another state, near the zoo, or in any number of “Ultra Man” episodes and “Godzilla” movies! They all look alike, they all stretch in the same direction and they are not enough to carry the world’s energy.

There are some positives to this situation. If you are ever lost and you run across a power line field, if you follow them toward the horizon eventually you will find your way home or to a good b-movie monster fight. The illusion is that many of these lines are stretching criss-crossing the country delivering all of our electricity. In reality there is only one set of towers erected by some guy named Mort. He of course has been subcontracted by your electric company to give the impression that they are everywhere. You hardly notice. The only person doing well outside of limo bound fat cats is Mort. Nobody knows why this lowly electrical worker has yachts, Lear jets, and his picture on a box of Wheaties. Now that his secret is out I bet you won’t be able to find his picture on cereal boxes anymore!

Take time to look carefully the next time you come across such a field and you’ll find they always run in the same direction. Clever Mort, but not slick enough to fool the watchful eye. You may have fooled us in the past but with prices going out of site your shrewd tactics have been discovered. How did you ever think you were going to get away with it?

What could possibly happen next? Will power lines cease to carry the glut of electricity those power brokers are sitting upon? Hardly. As long as the power is in the hand of a few guys the power lines will stand as picturesque as a symbol (like a stature of liberty) to the wealthy. Isn’t America a great place to live? It is especially true if you’re a big-wig, a guy named Mort, or Godzilla!

BATHROOMS!

2008-06-05T11:57:00.000-07:00

In a free capitalistic country such as America, it is really refreshing to know that freedom abounds in all areas. Take for example lavatories. While men usually have no specific requirement beyond a bush, open road, or a tire that is still upon a car, women need more creature comforts even in this; the most oddest of places. Can you picture your wife squatting in a field with a roll of leaves in her hand? Probably not, but many men can picture it of themselves out of true life experience; and that is just during pledge week at the college fraternity!

Bathrooms are perhaps one of the most intimate places on earth. We spend a lot of time naked in there, and there are usually mirrors. What greater example of vulnerability and hideousness is there than that? If you’re not in one with a moon cut out on the door then you are probably in some sort of modern version of the crapper. With a few stalls and urinals on the wall most men are satisfied. When manufacturers get clever with group canal basins in the middle of the bathroom for whizzing, many guys get uncomfortable. Perhaps it is the fact of whipping yourself out and waving it all over the place that has the modest a bit wary of this bathhouse style fixture. There are still also, great feelings of homophobia among many males in this society. The penile aversion even goes so deep as to inspire the catchy men's room phrase "if you shake it more than three times, you're playing with it".

Women on the other hand will often join hands, hop skip and jump their way from the restaurant dinner table to the restroom together. This for men is a big no no! Aside from the obvious discomfort among patrons when men might hold hands, most he-men are not coordinated enough to hop or skip without tripping over themselves and thus looking like a boob.

Ladies use these bathroom breaks as social interludes with likeminded compatriots to gossip and make fun of their dates. Guys who might be forced to stand in line on mass at a sporting event have a more Neanderthal socialization. It is often accompanied by loud drunken rhetoric, and cattle sounds including the famous moo-cow calls as they wait to relieve themselves. Now you know why Bessie is always loudest when she is standing in the field. She's full and needs to be tapped!

Sparse as male restrooms can be, the contrast is that some women’s rooms actually have furniture. What better place to sit and wait for your friends who are doing their business than in a chase lounge by the sink area? Upscale locations have their own separate sitting room; sort of like a classy family room for the urinally challenged. Who wants to talk to someone through a stall room door when we can converse in the comforts of home and still share a urethral experience?

At swanky hotels and establishments there are often finely dressed gentlemen standing at the wait with fine linen towels, a smile, and a plate that you are suppose to fill with money. For guys, the general consensus is “look dude I’m already in here because of waste so don’t expect me to give away my money as an additional cost to pooping”. That doesn't work. Thank goodness they don't charge dimes anymore to enter bathroom stalls. That was a post World War II idea that must have come from the ranks of Third Reich bathroom designers. More refined once again, the ladies might not mind it if there was a finely dressed man in their bathroom if he was perhaps, Sean Connery, Tom Cruise, or Brad Pitt. Nevertheless giving guys money in a bathroom would seem somewhat tawdry as demonstrated by Richard Gere in the movie American Gigolo.

Technological advances such as the bidet are mind blowing. Somebody dedicated their life to the pursuit of such a device! Do you realize how many hours have been contributed by countless engineers, designers, and craftsman so they could create a piece of equipment to wash your tooshie hands free? A lofty goal perhaps, but can anyone take credit for such an invention with a strait face? “I invented the crack washer and it made me a zillion-air; mostly because women don’t like to touch themselves down there!” How would you like to ride the crest of that wave all the way to the bank?

Of course this is the 21st century and there are those who think we have evolved enough to have unisex bathrooms. This seems to be an invitation to trouble. Not since they started putting infant changing tables in men’s bathrooms has such obvious evidence surfaced that the women are guiding the unisex concept. Where else can she slap the unsavory for not lowering the seat, chastise those without aim, and enhance her love life by meeting that one in a million good-looker? After all Brad Pitt has to whiz just like the rest of us.