My Cousin's Big Beautiful Non-Greek (I think) Wedding

If someone ever does another Profiles In Courage type book, I think my actions today will warrant there being a chapter on me. Yes, I'm going to skate on thin ice, as it were...to go out on a limb. I'm going to write about my family, knowing that they will probably be reading this. Not my immediate family, actually, but cousins and in-laws and such.
I went to a wedding this weekend and had a chance to see some cousins whom I haven't seen in at least 2 decades. Some came from out of town, and discovered our magazines - West End's Best and Chesterfield Living - and subsquently my daily ramblings. "You ought to write about the wedding," one of the cousins suggested.
Yeah, right. Everyone knows I ridicule just about everything. So, do I write some nice little folksy column and talk about how wonderful everything was and how great everyone was? Yawn. Or do I do what I normally do and lie, fabricate, falsify and exaggerate? I hate to admit that's what I do. It's kinda like a magician doing a trick and then showing you how he did it. The truth is what I write isn't 100% accurate. I do tend to make up a few things for added effect.
So, as I write about the wedding, some of it's true, some of it is exaggeration. I only say this provide myself with an escape hatch should I really tick somebody in the family off.
First of all the wedding itself was very nice. Ken Thers and his staff at the Place in Innsbrook do a great job. The food was wonderful. Although when I first went in, I ate what I thought was an appetizer, and it was horrible. Later I learned it was some sort of bird seed to be thrown at the bride and groom.
But, the meal was exceptional. I wanted to go back for seconds, but the trouble with being a fat man is that everyone expects you to go back for seconds. I think that secretly they're watching to see how many helpings you have so they can say, "No wonder he's a slob, look at how much he eats." As far as buffets go, my philosophy is to lose the plate after the first trip and just stand around the buffet line picking at food with your fingers. Of course, that philosophy has gotten me banned for life from Golden Corral. Can you imagine how disgusting one must be to get such a sanction at the Golden Corral? I certainly can.
Now, enough about the food, let's talk about my cousins. What surprised me is that everyone else has gotten so old, while I have remained impressively youthful looking. I chided a few of them by noting that I remembered when they were younger than me. I think they appreciated my sparkling wit, although, due, probably to being tired from traveling, they failed to laugh. The sad thing is that not only have they gone down hill physically, but, I'm reluctant to say, also mentally. For instance, I heard one cousin say to another, "Look how old Steve is looking." Poor things.
I will say the bride was beautiful (a cousin's daughter) and her husband was a nice looking guy. That's good. I always hate to see a pretty bride marry an ugly guy. My feeling is that ugly guys just don't deserve that. And, even worse is when a good looking guy marries an ugly woman. I have to wonder just how low their self-esteem must be.
The wedding service was a little strange. Or maybe, I'm just not in tune with the times. First of all, the officiant, as I believe the official term is, was so impersonal. He slipped when reciting the vows and called the groom "fill-in-the-blank." I think the guy really wanted to be a poet. He used such flowery terms, calling the wedding day an unreality, I think. He said it was really a glimpse into the future. And he also spoke about flying away on wings of love, or something equally inane. I'm wondering if he was on something, if you know what I'm trying to say.
One more thing I liked about the reception is that it was a cash bar rather than an open bar. I say if you're going to make a fool of yourself, you ought to do it on your own dime, and not the bride and groom's. For the most part, my family controlled themselves as far as the old John Barleycorn is concerned. Although the husband of one cousin, did have to crawl to the door to say good-bye when I left. But, at least he was friendly.
All in all, it was very nice seeing my family. Even though their faces have been weathered with time, they're still my cousins. I love my family. I wouldn't want my daughter to marry any of them, but I love them still the same.

Parts Unknown

I've been looking at labels again. It's what I do when I get bored, or when I have to stand in the shower for five minutes to let the hair conditioner work. That, by the way, can be the longest five minutes of the day. Anyway, I generally find it amusing to read labels, particularly on cosmetics, and, my wife loves to experiment with new skin/hair/body/face care products, so we always have some new lables lying around.
I picked up some kind of face cream stuff and right on the front it said "non-comedogenic." I guess that means there's nothing funny about that product. I could look the word up, but my feeling is that if I have to consult the dictionary, then that's not the sort of product I'd want in my home. What I need to find out from my wife is what about the term "non-comedogenic" was so appealing that she decided to buy the product. Maybe, it's just that it was the most expensive jar in that particular aisle at the drugstore.
Then I look at this bottle of hair conditioner she bought, and on the front of the bottle, in big "we're so proud of this" lettering, was the statement: "This product does not contain." Then it began to list a bunch of stuff that the conditioner DIDN'T have in it. As I start to read this impressive list of items, I'm thinking that this could go on forever, because I figure there must be billions of items not in there. But, they're one step ahead of me. After listing about twenty things, such as animal parts (I think), the final item not in the conditioner - "Anything else not listed in the ingredients." Well, there you go. Wouldn't it have been easier just to say that in the first place? And, of course, you'd really only have to say it if you thought a lot of the users of the product are the sort that might think the company would try and slip a few things in on them.
Hey, maybe that does happen. Now, I have something new to worry about. Maybe this company is subtly trying to tell me that most hair conditioners do have animal body parts (unlisted, I might add) floating around in the goo.
I do hope this doesn't become a trend in packaging - listing a bunch of stuff that isn't in the product, that no one in his or her right mind would have ever thought might be in the product, that is until the manufacturer goes out of its way to try and convince you otherwise. I wonder what sorts of parts might be in my toothpaste.
I gotta stop reading labels. I'm getting nauseous.

Random Thoughts

There is a lot of random stuff on my mind this morning. So, I thought I'd take a moment to get some of it off my chest. Hey, that doesn't make sense. If it's on my mind, why does it need to come off my chest? I never thought about that before. Now I have something else on my mind.
Anyway, for starters. What did you think about the American Idol winner last night? Personally, I don't care. I never watch the show, but I listen to others in the office talk about it, which is pretty much the way I live my life - vicariously. Anyway, one of our salespersons, says she was disappointed that Bo didn't win. "I don't know how many times I voted," she says. Hey, what's with this multiple vote thing. Where does she think she is, Chicago?
I guess if multiple votes count, then it's not so much about who is the most popular, or the best, but who has supporters who have time to stay on the phone the longest. Really, a charismatic non-talent, would have more chance on the show than a great talent who couldn't muster up much support. But, that's another story altogether. I don't have talent or charisma, so I needn't worry my pretty little head about this.
Here's what really gripes me about the thing. This morning, on the news, they were touting the American Idol winner. Carrie, is it? I don't even know. Anyway, some reporter was calling her the "Queen of Country Music." What hype! Here the girl has not released her first record, and she's already the queen of country music. What happened to Patsy Cline, or even Loretta Lynn or Dolly Parton? I'd think a queen would have to prove herself over time. I mean, even the English Idol, Princess Di, never made it to queen.
Moving on to another topic...will the media ever get tired of hyping that Paris Hilton hamburger spot? The commercial is disgusting. And for any of you Richmonders who want to protest, don't forget that Carl's and Hardees are the same people.
Just one more thing before I go, what's with these lame Law and Order season finales this year. In fact, season finales in general have been rather disappointing with a few exceptions. I want the season to end with a big star getting shot. I want to have something to worry about all summer. And, as for the series finale of Everybody Loves Raymond, that was pathetic. I was hoping to have something big. Really as far as I'm concerned, it's not a season finale unless it includes Patrick Duffy in the shower, or Suzanne Pleschette in bed. But, I guess that's just me. Have a nice day.

Limp Reasoning

Well, I've done it again. This is the third time this week that I've had a brilliant thought. Go figure. Must be the Grape Nuts. Anyways, I was thinking, on my ride to work this morning, about a news item on TV last night. All evening long the station had been teasing some big story about a bride who made a horrible discovery just days before her wedding. "This has got to be good," I thought.
Well, the story turns out to be that the facility for the wedding had double booked and she needed to find another location. At least, I think that's what it was about. The bride was crying to profusely, that she was difficult to understand. The reporter looked like she was going to break out in tears any moment herself. Even the graphic read, "Wedding Nightmare."
Big whoop. The poor thing has to find another location. Hey, lady, wake up. There are people out here who are killed on their honeymoon. Remember the poor bride who was totally disfigured when someone threw a boulder into her car while she and her husband were passing through the area on their honeymoon? Now, that's what I call a wedding nightmare.
But, anyway, I haven't gotten to my brilliant thought. I was contemplating this morning as to why so many people get on TV and cry these days. Then it dawned on me. One word - attorneys. I bet these whiners have an attorney who tells them to get on TV and turn the waterworks on. It'll mean more money when they sue, and, one thing for sure, they will sue.
Some (not all, mind you, just a few) attorneys have about as much believability as professional wrestlers. Several years ago, I injured my back in an auto accident when someone rear-ended me. So, I sued. But, as I was called to the stand, my attorney whispered loud enough for the entire courtroom to hear, "Limp."
I didn't need to limp. I wasn't crippled, just in pain. I was brought up to believe that even when you need to limp, it's good if you can avoid it. And here this shyster was telling me to put on an act for the jurors. I didn't get a penny in the lawsuit, even though the defense attorney had offered several thousand dollars in settlement during jury deliberations.
Maybe I should have limped. I'm sure it's why the bride couldn't stop crying. In fact, I'm getting a little teary-eyed just thinking about the poor girl. I feel that my exposure to her heart-wrenching story has caused me unnecessary pain. Excuse me while I limp to the phone and call my attorney.

Cereal Killer

So, there I was, eating my bowl of Grape Nuts for breakfast, and reading the box. Hmm, this is interesting, I'm thinking to myself. It's a Grape Nuts diet plan. The box is telling me that if I eat the cereal for two meals a day, and eat sensibly for the third meal, and get some exercise, I can lose ten pounds. It doesn't say how long it will take, but hey, ten pounds is ten pounds. And, i do enjoy the nutty, wholesome taste of Grape Nuts. Maybe I should give this a try.
Then it hits me. Like a bolt out of the blue, I realize, duh, it's the people who make Grape Nuts who want me to make that two-thirds of my daily diet. Of course they do. I'm sure they're not at all thinking about how that will impact their sales. Obviously, their only concern is for my health.
How stupid do I look Mr. Grape Nuts Manufacturer? What's next - a total Grape Nuts diet? Nice try, but I guess I'm just one step ahead of you. I guess I just shot down your little scheme...nipped it in the bud, if you will.
But then, I get to thinking, I wonder how many other manufacturers have tried that little trick on me. For instance, for years, I've been following the directions on my shampoo bottle: "Shampoo. Rinse. Shampoo again." I used to think, before they reduced me to robotic-like obedience, that a second shampooing didn't make much sense. But, I figured, they (they, being the makers of the shampoo) knew best. So, I did it. I probably washed the natural sheen out of my hair in an effort to comply with their wishes.
How foolish I now feel. I have (along with, no doubt, millions of others) been duped by these money-hungry industrialist, who care nothing about my hair, only about padding their overseas bank accounts. Actually, I don't know anything about overseas bank accounts, but it sounded pretty good.
Now, I'm suspicious about everything. For instance, I've been taking an aspirin a day for years as a precaution, due to some heart problems. But maybe that's just a ploy by the aspirin manufacturers. Maybe, people weren't taking enough aspirin so they come up with this heart safety idea.
Of course, keep in mind that when it comes to ignorance, I am out in the forefront. Don't stop taking your daily aspirin just because I mouth off. I don't even play a doctor on TV. But, I do have to wonder how often I fall victim to the wily ways of Madison Avenue.
Is Listerine really killing those germs in my mouth? Did I ever truly have combination skin? Is there any such thing? Why does shampoo have to smell like a telephone pole to fight dandruff? Now my head is spinning. I'm so confused. I'm going to go lie down, take an aspirin, and eat another bowl of Grape Nuts.

Fat, Hot, and Looking Good

Several years ago, I started writing a book. I was going to call it "A Fat Man's Guide to Fashion." I never got too far in it, because, truth be told, I know a lot about being fat, but nothing about fashion. Well, perhaps I'm too modest. I do know a bit about fashion.
And, with summer coming on, I thought it might be good to remind all you fat men out there about a fashion tip that often gets overlooked this time of year. I can really sum this tip up in one word - OVERCOAT!
Simple, eh? But you'd be surprised at how many fat men put the overcoats away just because the temperature soars into the nineties. What's with that? Sure, it may be a bit hot, but you're still fat, aren't you? And nothing hides fat like a good overcoat. Admittedly, not that many normal-sized people wear them in the summer, but, believe me, if you go out in the hot noonday sun with an overcoat on, the last thing others are going to be thinking about when they see you is how fat you are. And really, isn't that what you want.
I'm not talking a thick wool coat. Really, just a full length rain coat will do. And, who says you look ridiculous in a rain coat over the swimming trunks at the beach. Makes perfect sense, and hides a lot of those love handles that you just can't squeeze into the Speedos.
So, as you plan your summer wardrobe, be sure to include one or even two fashionable topcoats. It sure beats dieting, and, we all know that diets don't work anyway. So, be bold. Make that fashion statement. It's a statement that says, "Hey, I may be fat, but I'm not stupid."
And get ready for those admiring looks from the ladies who know a fat fashion plate when they see one. By the way, let me know, how it works for you. I may just try to finish that book.

Steve's Solutions to World Problems

This is big. All I thought I was doing was figuring out why there are so many Richmonders against building a ballpark downtown, and what I ended up doing was solving the world's number one problem. Now, whether anyone takes my advice to heart or not, is another problem which I don't have time to solve today.
But, maybe you better sit down and reflect on this, because it's going to be deep.
Here I was at the Diamond last night for another R-Braves trouncing. I was enjoying the game along with a throng of at least 700 fans, when out of the blue, it hit me. Voila! I remember thinking to myself at the time. Although then, I didn't realize I'd solved the world's problems, too.
Actually, I was in the restroom at the Diamond. It was clean and modern enough for a restroom, and I was thinking about the dingy old restrooms at Parker Field. At that moment, I could understand why so many Richmonders don't want to move the ballpark downtown. The Diamond is really not all that bad. Actually, it's a fine facility in a mid-twentieth century sort of way.
The Diamond was fine when people were satisfied just to go out, see a game with family and/or friends, and then go home. I remember as a kid, being thrilled to listen to the post-game show on the car AM (only) radio on the way home. I'd be thinking - Hey, I saw that play...I saw that happen, as the tape of game highlights were broadcast.
Then I'd go home, look over my program, and go to bed - a happy boy.
Today, and here is where the major problem of the world begins to come into clear view - today, kids and even many adults suffer from the "What are we going to do next" syndrome. A ball game is not enough. Maybe grabbing a burger on the way to the game, and then eating some popcorn at the game, and then going home is not enough. In today's world, many, if not most of the money-spending, recreation-seeking public can never be satisfied.
A night at the diamond, has to be preceeded by a few drinks and some appetizers at the nearby pub. Apres game (pardon my French), everyone has to go out and spend whatever money is left (or whatever credit is left on the card). That means a late meal, perhaps, more drinks, maybe some entertainment, and then, doughnuts or ice cream at the last place that's open before one reaches their home.
So, that is the problem with the Diamond. When you leave the Diamond, there is no place close-by to take our money, except the bus station. Maybe what Greyound ought to do is market the coolness of taking a bus to D.C. after the game. Then the Diamond would be the ideal location.
No doubt, you can see, that I've also hit on the problem in the world. People are never satisfied. Why? Because basically, they're not happy. They're not happy with the way their mate is treating them, or the way their children are acting, or with things at work...really, and here's the key - they're not happy with themselves. And you want to know why - because all we ever think of is making ourselves happy. We do something that should be enough fun for the week, and we immediately want to go do something else for fun. The world today - at least this part of the world has confused fun with happy.
Gee, I've worn myself out. I'm not used to thinking this hard. No wonder Dr. Laura is always so grumpy. I'm mentally exhausted. Excuse me, but I gotta go do something fun.

Things I Hate About The Gas Station

Now, I'm betting you think I'm going to talk about paying ridiculously high prices for gas. Actually, I'm not. In fact, I was thinking this morning, as I was pumping $2.039 a gallon gas, that the petroleum industry has done a marvelous job. By raising gasoline up to about 2.17, then dropping it back, I'm actually standing at the pump thinking, hey, what a great price.
When I see gas at 1.999, I get positively giddy. So, the prices are not what I hate.
Well, that's not completely true. What I do hate is that extra 9. Why in the world do gasoline stations sell their gas at whatever plus nine tenths of a cent? I wonder who started that asanine practice.
And, there is one more price-related thing I hate. It's those Manic Mondays or Terrific Tuesdays or Wonderful Wednesdays or whatever. I never hit it on the right day. So when I'm standing there on Tuesday pumping gas and see that if I'd come yesterday, I could have saved five cents a gallon, it really irks me. It's like the station is saying, "Too bad you loser. We sold it to your neighbors for a lot less because they're smart enough to know when to come in." I think they change the day every week, because I went in to a station last Tuesday for their Terrific Tuesday, only now it's Freaky Friday.
Something I hate more than these pricing games are those new pay-at-the-pump pumps. Don't get me wrong, I love the convenience. What I hate is trying to figure out where to stick the credit card, and which direction to stick it in. And, then when the screen says to remove the card quickly, I really panic. I'm never sure if I'm quick enough. Sometimes when it seems to take forever to authorize, I get to worrying that maybe I'm getting too old to remove the card quickly.
Then you have to figure out if there's a button to push or a lever to lift, or just what to do. I've literally stood in front of the pump for five minutes before I could find the start button.
And, for whatever reason, I never can find the "Yes" button. I think it's on the "9" key, but I never remember when I'm asked if I want a receipt. The other day I was so proud of myself. I found the "yes" right away. Only problem was I was agreeing to a car wash, which I didn't want.
And what's with this asking about car washes? What's next? Do I want a cup of coffee, or a quart of oil, or a pack of cigarettes? I could see the day when it will take about ten minutes just to tell the pump all the things we don't want.
And one more thing I hate - What's with these restroom keys hooked to a tree limb, or a twelve-inch pipe? What, does the management really think I want to steal the key, so I can sneak in and use their ultra-clean restroom anytime day or night? When I walk out of the station lugging the key chain, I'm sending a message to everyone passing within five hundred feet of the station that I have to use the bathroom.
I try to avoid using gas station restrooms, but by the time I figure out how to use the pump, I've gotten so nervous...well, I guess you get the picture.

A Little Old Fear

I got scared this morning. There's something, or really, somebody, that is scaring me most mornings, and, while I'm a little hesitant to talk about it, I think it might be therapeutic to do so. I'm hesitant, because I'm rather ashamed to say that a sweet little old lady is scaring me. But, let me tell you about her, and you tell me if you think my fears are irrational.
There's a little old lady, who evidently lives in the neighborhood. I say "evidently" because no one seems to know where she lives, but she wanders the streets in the neighborhood each morning. Now, I'm not talking about some homeless person, just wandering aimlessly.
No, this lady is dressed to the hilt at 6:00 AM, and she strolls through the neighborhood taking the neighbors newspapers from their front lawn to their front door. Sounds nice, huh? But I don't think a harmless elderly woman would display such dedication to doing that. She scares me so much, I stopped my subscription to the paper.
This lady is out in rain, sleet, snow, whatever. And she always has this cheery greeting. You're probably still thinking I've got the problem, but wait, there's more.
It's like this woman senses that I'm getting ready to leave the house. Regardless of what time I leave, she's walking past my house. And before I even see her, I here this "Good morning." I'm at least two decades her junior and my mind couldn't react that quickly. If I look out the window before I open the door, she's not there, but as soon as I open the door, I here her greeting, and, somehow she's standing in the street right in front of my house.
Somehow, she knows when I'm about to open the door. It's not just in my head, I know she knows.
But what really freaks me out is the Stepford-Wives-like way she greets me. It's friendly enough, but it's always the same, almost mechanical, "Good morning...How are you this morning?...How's your family?...Have a nice day." I think that if I told her my wife had gotten hit by a truck, she would follow it up with "Have a nice day." In fact, maybe I'll try that tomorrow. But, it'll be my luck that she's really just a sweet little lady, and my response will freak her out.
I guess the only thing I can do is leave before the sun comes up, slithering on my belly from the front door to the car. The only problem with that is I'm afraid no matter what time I leave the house, I'll here her cheery, "Good morning." I don't think I could handle that in the dark.
Really, the only thing for me to do is to lie low, stay indoors for a few weeks, and see if she goes away. I'll have my computer with me. So, I'll keep you posted. But, a word of caution, before you leave home, check for little old ladies. Believe me, they're out there!

What About Slob?

I've come to the painful conclusion that I am a real slob. I guess I always knew that, but last night it was forecfully driven home. I had received an invitation to a reception at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. But, no one told me that all the elite of Richmond would be there.
Here I was in the midst of so many tuxedos and bow ties, and I have on this hideous checkered suit. I sort of looked like a 21st century Pinky Lee. Not to mention that my Walmart shoes squeak with every step I take.
But anyway, I do have a tie on, so I'm thinking maybe I don't look too bad. I'm not quite down to the Columbo level yet. And then I look down and the hem has come out of one of my pants legs, and the material is hanging down under my shoe. Talk about making a fashion statement.
I used to have those dreams when I was younger, you know the ones where you're standing in a crowd in your underwear, and nobody has noticed yet, but you know the next move you make and everyone is going to see you. Well, that's how I felt last night.
But even before last night, I've known I was a slob. I've even come to work with two different shoes. And, I don't know how many times, I'll look down and one of my socks will have a big hold in it. I keep a felt marker with me to color any flesh that shows through the holes.
I also have a tendency to put my socks on with the heels on the top. You'd think after all these years, I'd think to check that before I get out in public. But, nope, not me. I seem to never learn (or remember the past humiliations).
And, I haven't even touched on my ties yet. I wish I had one tie that didn't have some sort of food or coffee stain on it. I drop so much food on my ties, that I've started hanging them in the refrigerator.
Well, that's my confession for today. I wish I was more fashionable, but, I've come to accept me for who I am. And, despite my disheveled look, I'm not such a bad party guest. Just don't invite me anywhere today. My zipper just broke.

There Is A Point In All This

Just as a general rule, I hate spending time in doctors' offices. I hate waiting, and, since that's what a visit to the doctor usually entails, I only go when I absolutely must. Sitting in the big waiting room, waiting to go to the small waiting room, sometimes called the examining room, gives me plenty of time to contemplate all the things I hate about going to the doctor. And, I'd have to say, that number one, I hate needlepoint. As far as I'm concerned, it's rather needlepointless. Evidently, every doctor in town has at least one patient who thinks a needlepoint picture on the office wall would be the ultimate.
Needlepoint must have been designed by someone who wished she (or he, yeah right) had some artistic talent, and who decided that if the picture was stitched on cloth, it could pass as art. Here's a head's up - it isn't art. At best it's a cartoon done with string.
On my doctor's office wall today was a needlepoint that was entitled the "Physicians' Alphabet." It consisted of each letter of the alphabet neatly stitched and then below that, a squiggly line that was supposed to "hillariously" represent the sloppy handwriting of the doctor. Now, first of all, making fun of doctors' handwriting skills has been overdone. But, to take the time to stitch it out seems absolutely absurd.
Maybe I just have a bad attitude. And, I'm sure that many needlepointers are fine people. But, please, wake up and smell the 21st century coffee. Go find another way to express your semi-artistic abilities. Fingerpainting would be better...or maybe balloon animals. Now, that would be kind of cool. Just please back away from the needlepoint.
And a word for you doctors: Your patients are not impresssed with needlepoint. We are already worrying about needles when we come in, we don't want people taking needles and doodling with them. At least that's my opinion. If you're a big needlepoint fan, I'd love to hear from you.
Well, I was going to give you a litany of the things I hate about visiting the doctor, but, this needlepoint crisis has taken all my time. I'll resume this subject at a later time.

Gee Whizzinator

I've done columns in our magazines on things I hate, and I admit that there are any number of things which really irritate me. But, I've recently discovered something I really hate, and yet, never in a million years would I have ever guessed that this "thing" even existed. If I were to work on a comprehensive list of things I hate, this particular item would never have been listed, because I don't think any relatively decent human could have ever thought such a thing up.
But, someone did. I really think I've lived too long, when I see advertisements for a device called the Whizzinator. Without going into detail, the Whizzinator is designed to allow steroid/drug-filled men to pass a SUPERVISED urine test. Need I say more. If the answer to that is yes, just go to the website, you can figure it out.
There are even testimonials at the website including one by a Robin B. in Virginia, who said: "I have to test while being observed, and not only was it undetectable, but I passed with flying colors. This product is AMAZING!! Thanks again!!"
I guess people flaunt the law all the time, but I think this is taking flaunting to new heights. Tell me, would you have ever thought up the possibility of mixing warm water with dried urine? Would you have ever come up with the idea for a prosthetic that could dispense such?
The thing that really makes me mad is that, from now on, whenever i write about things I hate, the things I hate will be so far below this thing, that it'll be hard to get really riled. The Whizzinator takes disgusting to such a new level that previously disgusting things will be only mildly annoying by comparison. And, where's the humor in writing about things that mildly annoy you?
As far as I'm concerned, the Whizzinator may allow athletes to continue doing their job, but it's making it difficult for me to do mine. As long as such things as the Whizzinator exist in the world, there is no humor. I can't even make jokes about it, because then I'd be as disgusting as it is.
So, thanks to the Whizzinator, I can never be funny again. So, the next time you read my column and think, wow, that wasn't funny at all, just know that it's all because of the Whizzinator.

Rooting for Root Canals

I have never used a recreational drug in my life, and, truth be told, I really don't like taking any kind of pill (although, my briefcase does look like it belongs to a pharaceutical salesman), but I had sedation dentistry recently, and I'm here to tell you it's great. I may devote the rest of my life touting the benefits of sedation dentistry.
I had to have a root canal. Just the thoughts of it sent chills up my spine, or down my spine, I'm not sure which direction they were heading. It was my first time with a new dentist - and, if I may, let me send some shout-outs to Dr. Baxter Perkinson's team. They're fantastic. The doctor scheduled me for the root canal, and then gave me a prescription for a little pill - Halcyon, I think - to take about 2 hours before the procedure.
By the time I was dropped off at the dentist office (I'd been told not to drive), I was feeling a little care-free, but still relatively in control of my actions. When I sat down in the chair, I was offered the gas, or whatever it is and I gladly took it. The next thing of which I'm aware is being told the procedure was done. I hope I wasn't asked to spit, because I'm sure that would not have been done with maximum proficiency.
I have fuzzy memories of my wife picking me up when I left.
I have no memory of falling asleep in the mashed potatoes she claims I had for dinner. I slept like a baby that night and the next day I was refreshed and ready for work.
This is not an ad for my dentist, but I'd be happy to do one. Everything about my visit was very pleasant. The people are pleasant, the pills are pleasant, the gas was pleasant.
My only complaint is that all of the females in the office are very attractive, including my dentist. For whatever reason, I'm not crazy about pretty woman looking up my nose, and the position you're in when you're lying back in the dentist chair is optimum for looking up one's nose.
Except for that, my root canal is probably one of the nicest experiences I've had in quite some time. Maybe that says something about my life, I don't know. What I do know, is that I just felt a slight pain in another tooth. I hope I need another root canal.

Non-Scents and Rubbish!

Well, there's a new study out, and you know how much I love these studies. And, it shows that when asked to sniff male testosterone (which kinda grosses me out to begin with), homosexual men's brains responded more like women's brains. Now, I'm not about to touch this subject, except it did give me an idea.
You know how you're always seeing these wives on daytime TV (ie Jerry Springer, Oprah, etc.) who find out after years of marriage that their husbands are gay? And, of course, they then have to come on television and proudly talk about how humiliated they were. You've seen these women, I'm sure. They describe every gory detail of their husband's outing, usually in some local park or school, while the audience, in its typical dignified manner, hoots and hollers and eggs them on to tell more.
Well, why not invent some sort of homomometer? So, let's say this guy asks you out (we're assuming you're a female in this scenario), and you want to be sure that you're not going to end up on the Jerry Springer show in five years or so. All you do is have him sniff into the device and it tells you instantly - gay or straight. Maybe it could even have some sort of dial that tells you how gay or how straight, because maybe the really straight guys are the ones who end up on Jerry Springer for beating their wives senseless when she burns the toast.
Now, I may be going out on some sort of genetic limb here, since I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. I'm just sort of thinking out loud. But, I believe there really could be some sort of commercial application to a device such as this.
And, while we're talking about those inane daytime talk shows, I wish someone would do a show examining those emotionally-troubled audience members who applaud at the most inappropriate moments. You know the type I'm talking about. The low-life guest will say something like, "So, Jerry, I caught my husband with the mailman (no offense to the USPS)." And, the audience will go wild. "So, Jerry, I got back at him by setting the house on fire." (more wild applause)
Then some idiot in the audience will be given the microphone, and she'll shout out, "I'm offended that you get upset because your husband was with the mailman. My husband works for the Post Office. What do you have against postal workers?" And then the audience will go crazy applauding that statement. They'll applaud anything and everything - on both sides of the issue.
What's with these people who come to see these shows? Well, I guess I really answered my question with my question. What we really need is a device that could predict if your future mate is someone who is going to really love watching the Jerry Springer show. Now, that's the type of person I'd hate to end up marrying.

Tunnel Vision

Did you see the news story yesterday about the supposed image of the Virgin Mary on a tunnel in Chicago? It's causing real congestion problems because so many people are crowding into the tunnel, the traffic can't get through. Now, I'm not here to challenge other's religious beliefs (I do that somwhere else). But, it seems to me that if Mary was going to have her image revealed, why pick a tunnel in Chicago? Of course, I realize I can't speak for Mary, but it just seems...
One of the persons interviewed on television was this guy who was somewhat skeptical. "It doesn't even look like Mary," he said. And, you know, he was right. I saw the image, and it looked more like Mary's cousin Elizabeth...you know John the Baptizer's mother. Okay, I'm being facetious. The point is, there are no real pictures of Mary. So, who really can say?
Another woman interviewed was up in arms over the fact that vandals had defaced the image, which, keep in mind, is really a stain on the tunnel wall. But, this woman was crying, "It's not fair what they've done to Mary."
Hey, if you really believe Mary is in heaven (and, again, I'm not here to challenge or debate the religious implications here), I would think Mary could take care of herself. She really doesn't need to go around spray painting her image on walls, nor is she affected by vandals.
The whole thing boils down to the silliness of taking religion to such a mundane level. With all the problems in the world, regardless of your religious convictions, does it really seem that God would be using some vague, fuzzy, stain as a means of bringing people to him? And, if he did, wouldn't he have the ability to prevent vandals from defacing that vague, fuzzy stain?
I guess the whole brouhaha really shows how much some people have a need to see and touch something in order to have faith. But, if I go into that subject, I'll be revealing my serious side. And heaven knows, I wouldn't want that to happen.

Finders Creepers

Brandon Fizer has got to be one of the unluckiest guys I've heard of. Or, at the very least, he's having a bad week. Fizer is the ice cream shop employee who lost a finger in a mixing machine earlier this week. Now, that's relatively unlucky. But, of all the customers who frequent the popular Wilmington, N.C. shop, it's also just Fizer's (bad) luck that the creep who gets the finger in his pint of custard won't give it back.
Now, I know there are a lot of bad people in the world today, but I really believe that most of us would have given Fizer his finger. Most, but not Clarence Stowers. Seems Stowers is so concerned about making big bucks in a lawsuit, that he's hidden the finger which could possibly still be of some use to its owner.
I've heard the old "finders keepers" poem, and I've also heard it said that possession is nine tenths of the law, which I totally don't understand, but it would seem to me that if you wound up with another guy's finger in your mouth, you'd give it back to him.
Really, is a judge going to reward Stowers a larger settlement if he the finger into court with him? No one is disputing that Stowers found the finger in his custard, and, in my opinion, if I were the judge, I'd give him more money for letting the finger's original owner have it back.
Now, it's true that medical authorities have said that it's probably too late for the finger to be reattached to Fizer's hand, but, even so, it's bound to have more sentimental value to Fizer than to just about anyone else. So come on Clarence, take a picture of you with the finger in your mouth, and take the picture into court with you. And then give the poor guy his digit back.
And, by the way, to those of you creeped out by this story, you may feel better that it's being reported in the news that those who study such things are offering assurance that finding human body parts in food items is somewhat rare. Gee, I'm glad that piece of information came across the wire, I was getting hungry.

It's All About Me

I had the privilege to sit down with WRVA's Jimmy Barrett and Mac Watson, hosts of the station's (1140 AM) morning and afternoon drive programs, respectively. We'll be featuring the two in the Summer issue of West End's Best Magazine. Both of these guys do a great job, and, in person, come across like real people, very down-to-earth. One of them made the comment about how much he enjoyed working at WRVA, saying there were no egos among the personalities.
Now, while both Jimmy and Mac are credible folks, I have to wonder just a bit about that one. I've worked in radio, and it's a seething hotbed of egoism. At least it was back in my day.
I started in radio as a pimply-faced 18-year-older, and even though my first job was putting a long-playing Mantovani album on the turntable, and then replacing it with a long-playing 1001 Strings album when it was done, I still thought I was the coolest thing in town.
I was a disc jockey! Here I was, some fat, dorky guy, with a face for radio and a voice for print and I had an ego. So, it's just a tad bit hard to believe there are no egos at WRVA. Why, even the guy that came in once a week and scrubbed the toilets, had an ego.
I worked at one station where the program director/on-air afternoon drive guy had to be the dumbest human alive. This was in West Virginia, and even the natives living way back in the hollers (hollows, for East Virginians) shook their head in disbelief at some of the things this guy would say. He couldn't read one sentence without stumbling over the big words, and for him, "West Virginia" was a big word. And yet, he had a massive ego. Every time he would complete a sentence, he'd lift his head up, in a proud-peacock-like way and look towards the window separating the studio from the lobby and beam. You could tell he fully expected legions of fans to be gathered at the window just for a chance to see him in action. The fact that nobody every paid him a bit of attention was no deterrent.
The guy was a real slob, too. Watching him eat, which he did incessantly, stopping only long enough to introduce the next record, was disgusting. He would end up with about a third of his sandwich dangling from his mustache. Actually, that was a good thing, because the sandwich would hide other disgusting items that were in his moustache. I never looked closely enough to prove it, but I suspect those other items had been hurled from his rather bulbous nose. Another third of the sandwich was left lying on the control board.
Whenever I had to follow him on-air, I'd have to hose down the studio before I'd touch anything. And the studio always smelled like a deli...a dirty deli, but a deli none-the-less.
There was only one other jock at the station who had a bigger ego than this guy, and he was that fat, pimply-faced teenaged dork from Richmond. So, Jimmy, Mac, it's not that I don't believe you, but I've been there. I've seen the ego (from both sides now, to quote Judy Collins). Of course, that's just my opinion, but don't forget, I'm most always right. I am a former disc jockey, you know.

Ugly Baby Syndrome

Why am I surprised? I mentioned just last week how much I despise those stupid surveys that show that fat people don't get treated as well as thin people, and so forth. But the latest survey is the mother of all stupid surveys. In fact it has to do with mothers...and fathers...and ugly kids.
Seems this researcher in Canada sat in parking lots and skulked around grocery stores and watched how parents treated their kids. His conclusion: Parents don't treat ugly kids as well as they treat the pretty ones.
Now the very premise is stupid, but let's think about this just a little more deeply. Here's this one man (or maybe a few of his equally asanine researchers) who goes in the store and starts labeling kids as being pretty, or ugly, or pretty ugly. And, then he watches how much attention the parents pay to each kid, or how far they let them get away from the cart, or how often they buckle the kids up in the car. But all of his conclusions are based on what his definition of pretty is.
First thing I'd want to know is what does this guy look like, and what does his wife look like, and his kids? You know how sometimes you'll be out in public and you'll run into a couple where one is quite attractive, and the other looks like he/she has been beat with an ugly stick? And yet the pretty mate is looking at the ugly one like he/she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen.
Or, has anyone ever shown you a picture of their kid and the tyke is just ugly warmed over. And yet some sentimental woman (seldom a man) looks over your shoulder at the same picture and coos, "Awww, isn't she the cutest little thing?" Now, maybe this person is laboring under the delusion that all babies are cute, but just maybe this person really thinks that this ugly baby is, indeed, cute.
The point is (and, yes, I do have a point), how can one man set himself up as the judge of what's ugly and what's cute? For instance, when I was a teen-ager, I did an unscientific survey that concluded that all good-looking girls were grossed out by me. But, as I get older, and maybe this is because my tastes have changed, I now realize that even a lot of ugly females are grossed out by me.
So, who really is to say? One thing for certain. From now on, when someone stands trial for some grisly murder, there'll be some shyster lawyer who'll argue that the defendant was deprived of a decent upbringing because he was ugly and his parents didn't treat him as well as they did his pretty sibling. And, there'll be juries who buy that. And before you know it, you'll have a bunch of ugly thugs roaming the streets because...hold on, we already do have that. Well, I guess I rest my case.

Radio Dazed

I always enjoy hearing a good story on the radio in the morning, as it gives me something to rant and rave about in the blog. But enough already. I'm suffering from personal opinion overload. There are just too many stories in the last 24 hours that I want to chime in on. So let's get started:
The first two stories come under the "Gee, doesn't anyone get embarrassed about anything anymore?" department
First, Pat O'Brian, the host of Access Hollywood, is getting out of rehab and going on Dr. Phil's primetime special. Evidently, O'Brian is just going to sit there and let Dr. Phil tell him how screwed up he is in the head. What? Is he addicted to humiliation too?
And, then there's that Georgia loser, John Mason going on Sean Hannity's radio show and discussing his screwed-up-in-the head girlfriend, Jennifer Wilbanks. You know, I've been dumped by a few girls myself, but I sure didn't want to go on radio and talk about it. I had enough pride to hang my head in shame and lay low for awhile.
And did you hear the latest finger foods story? Evidently this time, unlike the Wendy's incident, there really was a finger in the food. It happened to a guy in Wilmington, North Carolina. He found the finger in some ice cream. The guy says he thought it was ice cream coated candy, so he put it in his mouth and sucked the ice cream off. It didn't taste like candy, so he took it out and discovered he was sucking on someone's finger.
Don't you hate it when that happens? I'd be tasting that finger in my mouth for a week. There wouldn't be enough Listerine in town to get that taste out of my mouth. The reason this story is believable is that an employee had, indeed, lost a finger in a food processor. Doesn't it seem to you that maybe the store would have shut down until they found the finger? Or, at least, put up a sign that read: "Find Bob's finger and win a free pint of ice cream." I guess the management was just hoping the finger would slide on down with the ice cream and never be recognized.
The funniest thing I heard on the radio was on the Mac Watson show yesterday. This was priceless. I wish I could have written something this clever. This guy from Windsor Farms calls complaining about crime in Shockoe Bottom. He says he's been the victim of crime several times in the Bottom. So Mac asks him to elaborate.
Now get this...the guy says on several occasions he's had beggars come up to him asking for a handout. "They wouldn't leave me alone," he says, "so I've had to pepper spray them."
Now, if I know my law, and I've watched enough Law and Order to be pretty knowledgeable here, I'd say it was the Windsor-Farmite that broke the law, and those poor beggars were the victims of crime. So, while technically, there may be crime in the Bottom, the criminals are coming out of Windsor Farms.
So, please, please, be careful if you find yourself out in the Windsor Farms area. It's a good thing no one is suggesting a ballpark be built there. Who'd want to go into Windsor Farms after dark. The place is a hot-bed of crotchety old pepper-spraying criminals. If you have to drive through the area, be sure to lock your doors.
Well, that's it for today. I'm going back to the radio.

Runaway Media

Did you hear the news about that bride who ran off to New Mexico? It was only on the news channels about 48 straight hours - and I mean after they learned she had runaway. I rail against the stupidity that's running rampant in the world, and a lot of that stupidity is found among the decision makers at Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, and other news organizations.
Why in the world would these channels go wall-to-wall with a story about a spoiled little rich girl who gets cold feet? As soon as it was learned that she ran away, close it up. It's old news. Maybe a brief mention here and there, but we're talking all day long Saturday and much of Sunday.
And talk about stupid! Where do you find all these angry experts that they bring on to interview? These so-called authorities are taking the runaway bride story so personally. You'd think she'd left them standing at the altar. First, there was this guy who thought she should be locked up. Then you had someone who would never forgive her for saying that it was an hispanic that kidnapped her. If she had said it was an oriental, he could have forgiven her. But then she'd have had a fringe element of the Asian community against her. She also said a white woman had kidnapped her. As a white man, I'm somewhat offended by that. Doesn't she think a white male has enough sense to kidnap someone? I mean, the nerve of her.
Whatever is done or not done to the girl, whatever her fiance decides to do, is really none of my concern or business. Has the human brain really become so dumbed down that we need to know all the intimate, personal details of other peoples' lives in order to be entertained?
Or, maybe we're just so tired of hearing about bombings in Baghdad that we're burnt out. Hey, perhaps I've hit on something here. But, let's find something more interesting or positive to talk about than a childish bride-not-to-be in Atlanta. Really, there are enough foolish people right here in Richmond to talk about.
In fact, if you want to know all the minutiae of my life, give me a call, or email me, I'll tell you everything you want to know and maybe a few things you'd rather not know about. For instance, do you know what my blood sugar was this morning? And, you'll never guess what I found in my ear...