A VISIT TO GERIATRIC PARK

It's a big day here at the ol' office. I'm set to unveil a new product line aimed at those vibrant "active adults (active, as in still breathing)" in my age group. I want to run some of these ideas by you first to see if you think I have a real money-maker on my hands, but only if you qualify. My products would only appeal to those of you who are, how should I say it, just a bit long in the tooth. So, before we proceed, I'd like you to answer a few questions:

1) When you see an ad for an assisted living community, do you find yourself thinking, "Wow. What a cool place to live!"?
2) Do you look at the green and red plaid polyester pants in your closet and say, "Honey, could you buy me a black and white checkered flannel shirt to go with these pants?"
3) Do you find yourself wishing you could be fifty again?
4) Do you spend hours each day checking your pulse and trying to determine if that lump on your left side has a match on the right side?
5) Do you remember a time in the past when Presidents of the United States were younger than you?
6) Is Pepe the Wonder Chihuahua your closest friend?

If you can answer yes to at least four of those questions, then the Steve Cook Senior Moments Gift Collection might be just for you. Here are a few of the items in our first catalogue.

CONNECT THE LIVER SPOTS MARKERS - These non-toxic, easily-wash-off markers provide hours of fun as you connect your liver spots creating clever, and often hilarious shapes.

SILENCE CUSHION - Place this high-tech cushion, utilizing sound asorbing materials developed by NASA, on the chair and invite one of your senior friends to sit on it. Watch for the shock in his/her eyes when he/she sits down and produces none of those tell-tale embarrassing sounds.

HARD CANDY LINT REMOVER - This safe, gentle cleanser comes in a handy spray can and is perfect for cleaning the hard candy that's been sitting in your candy dish since Mother's Day, 1987.

MAIL ENHANCEMENT - Embarrassed by the fact that the mail man just isn't delivering the goods...you know, birthday cards, postcards, letters, and correspondence from family and friends. Now, for just $12.95 a month, Mail Enhancement will send you fake cards for all special occasions. And, when you sign a two-year agreement, we'll send you a pajama-gram at any time of the year you decide.

Finally, one more item for those of you who want to rekindle the romance even when the fire's long been extinguished...PEEKABOO DEPENDS.

And Yet More Random Observations

I was listening to the news on my way in to work this morning. Now, before I started writing this online column, I’d listen to the news on and yell at the radio in order to express my own views. I had, at least as far as I was concerned, some rather clever opinions and comments, but, alas, no one ever heard them.
Now that I’m read by upwards of a handful of people, there are those few fortunate ones out there with whom I can share my delightful ideas. I know you’re feeling especially lucky to have this opportunity, although, I’m guessing that Kathy G. isn’t feeling so lucky as she lies in her hospital bed this morning. Kathy, I’ve heard you’ve been undergoing a lot of pain, but, take it from me, once the baby is born, it will all have been worth it.
Anyway, enough about her. This is supposed to be all about me, and my thoughts on the news. So, here goes:
How about that East End man who was cleaning his gun and shot both of his kids. Now, normally, shooting one’s children isn’t a laughing matter, but in this case…Well, never mind. But, now they’re talking about arresting the guy. Hey, what’s up with that? It’s not like he deliberately shot his kids. I mean doesn’t everyone handle loaded firearms while holding their 10-month old? And, really how unlucky can one guy be. He shot both kids with one bullet. At least environmentalists should applaud him for not wasting bullets.
I guess you’ve heard by now that Gerald Ford died. Who saw that one coming? I tell you who I feel sorry for. It’s his wife, Betty. The poor woman takes a few drinks, opens up a clinic and now when you hear her name, you think drunks. Here, she becomes one of only about 40 women or so in history to be First Lady and yet when you hear the name Betty Ford, you don’t think wife of a president, you think lush. At least that’s what I think and I’m guessing you think like me.
Another big death in the news this week…James Brown the Godfather of Soul is dead. I always wondered who the father of soul is, and why he named Brown the Godfather. Anyway, word coming from Brown’s family is that the legendary singer’s last words were, “I don’t feel so good.”
There is another story out of the East End this week, that while not as bloody as shooting one’s kids, is just about as stupid. It’s the story about a guy named Fred Gay. Gay gaily decorates his home each year for Christmas, and it would appear from pictures at the Times Dispatch’s website that even for the East End, the guy’s a bit gaudy. In addition to thousands of lights, the guy also has about 100 blow up ornaments…you know the inflatable Santas, elves, snowmen, etc. All sounds a little too kinky if you ask me.
But, a comment by a little girl who visited I think is the most telling. The child said that the yard looks like "Christmas heaven." Somehow, from my limited knowledge, I don't believe heaven is populated with inflatable santas, or angels, for that matter.
I just have one thought on that, if God is as gaudy as Gay, then heaven help us. One thing I know for sure. if I die, I hope I don't go to Fred Gay’s front lawn.

That's An Elfish Thing To Do

I’m going to blow the lid off of an international icon. I’m going to upset millions. But, someone has to do it. Someone has to have the fortitude to say, “Enough is enough,” and I’m the one.
Brace yourself. Here me now, and think about this later. Santa Clause is a bigoted snob. There I said it and I feel good. I’m tired of him getting all this positive publicity as some sort of goody-two-shoes bringing toys to boys and girls around the globe.
Oh yeah? Think again. What about little Jewish boys and girls? Or the little Muslim junior terrorists? They don’t deserve a visit from ol’ Saint Nick? Apparently not.
But, you might reason, they don’t celebrate so why should they get anything. Okay, let’s forget the non-celebrants for a moment.
What about all those poor families…the destitute kids? Do their mommas and daddies sit them down and lovingly explain that while Santa Claus is real, the truth is, he just doesn’t love poor kids?
That would seem like the fair thing to do. After all, how do you explain to Johnny why his rich schoolmates got these fabulous gifts, and he got a used pair of shoes and a coloring book?
I think it’s time we took off our rose-colored glasses and smelled the egg nog. Failure to do so could have horrible consequences. Little Johnny may grow up to be a criminal…not through any fault of his own, but because of Santa. If Johnny grows up and eventually comes to your home, perhaps after a lonely Christmas day, and mugs you, are you going to be so in love with the jolly old fat man then? I don’t think so.
There he sits in his comfortable North Pole home giggling like a drunk sailor “Ho Ho” this and “Ho Ho” that. Personally, I believe he’s laughing in the face of the world’s poor folks. Yeah, think about that.
He thinks it’s funny that he is going to bring great electronic games to the upper crust, and, if you’re lucky, he’ll stop by the Dollar Tree and pick up a little trinket for the poor kids.
If there was ever a need for some sort of Senate investigative committee to expose outright corruption, this is it. Let’s stop whitewashing what has been one of the biggest cover ups of hatred and bigotry for hundreds of years. Let’s open our eyes and see what’s really going on.
Now, keep in mind, I’m not endorsing violence. I’m not suggesting that anyone lie in wait for this pompous, overweight elitist, and then giving what’s coming to him. But, if his reindeer were to accidentally ingest rat poisoning this year, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.
If Santa were to be mistakenly taken for an intruder and shot, I say so be it. Again, I’m not suggesting anything. I wouldn’t want his blood on my hands, but I can tell you, from what I’ve observed, it would be blood that runs ice cold through the heartless enlarged body of one of the most devious, hypocritical bigots this world has ever seen.
Think about this, not only is Santa an anagram for Satan, but Claus is a homonym for claws. I haven’t stopped shuddering over that fact yet.
Am I an alarmist? You be the judge. But trust me. The day WILL come when you say, “You know…Steve Cook really was on to something. He was trying to tell us something, but we didn’t listen. And, now we are going to have to pay the price for ignoring that wonderful man.” Or, maybe not.

Am I Early Enough to Call This Steve Cook's Disease?

Well, it’s a sad day in the Cook household today, as you can well imagine. I’ve been diagnosed with RLS. I should have seen this coming, but, to be honest, the diagnosis was a bolt out of the blue.
Now, before you overly panic, I will admit that at this point there’s only been a self-diagnosis, but, truth be told, I’m rarely wrong. I realized that, yes, I am an RLS sufferer while watching television this morning.
As soon as the lady in the commercial, a true sufferer and not an actress, I’m sure, mentioned the symptoms, I sat up and took notice. As she spoke, a tear welled up in my left eye. She could have been talking about me.
At that specific moment (and I'll always remember what I was doing when...) I knew, and immediately shared with my wife, the grim diagnosis. I have Restless Leg Syndrome. It might be Restless Legs, as in many, I’m not sure, but either way, it’s a full-blown case of RLS.
Now thankfully, RLS, unlike most of the other dreaded diseases from which I suffer, including the up-til-now incurable Combination Skin problem, didn’t rear its ugly head until there was already a drug to combat it. At least, I know I never heard about it. I guess another pill is in my future, and before you go worrying about when I can work another pill into my daily regimen, I do have a spot between 3:00 and 3:45 each afternoon, when I’m not taking something.
Getting back to RLS, though, it begins to dawn on me the implications of the fact that there was no RLS until there was an RLS drug. I’m thinking that what this really indicates is that the American Medical Association, in all their wisdom and empathy, didn’t want to panic the American public until the drug was on the market.
And, when you think about it, that’s a real kindness. Suppose an RLS scare got out prior to an effective treatment. Think of how that would impact all of us RLS sufferers. I honestly don’t believe we would have sat still for it. Really, how could we?
And, while I’m appreciative for the AMA’s act of…what can I call it but an act of love for their millions of patients…anyway, while I appreciate it, it causes me some measure of concern. Could there be some other initials from which I suffer and just don’t know about it.
That gives me pause for thought. Now that I think about it, I can come up with some other letter combinations, which, if they ever became real medical problems would scare the dickens out of me. For instance, and I’m sure this goes for most of us who have hit the forty year mile marker and gone on beyond, what about HGES, or Hegess, as I’m wont to call it.
I don’t suffer from HGES yet, but I’m in tune with myself enough to know it’s coming. HGES, of course is Hair Growing in Ears Syndrome. I think if a cure for this malady is not discovered within my lifetime, I’ll do what many men, including our super-duper sales consultant here at the company, Jon Pope, has done…grow a beard. Now, I’m not saying Jon has HGES. I’ve never examined his ears. But, beards are a great way to hide HGES. Admittedly, unless someone probed, they’d never know if the hair around your ears was part of a really cool beard, or a really uncool crop of, well, a crop of hair in the ears.
There’s another disease I’m in the very early throes of, and that’s FWSS. You’ve probably figured that one out, especially if you’re in that wonderful Boomer generation. I’m speaking, of course, about Flatulence When Sneezing Syndrome. And, before you go and get upset with my crudeness, consider this, I didn’t have to use the word “flatulence.”
That’s a disease I sincerely hope medical science is about to cure. Because FWSS is all too often followed by PIPWSS, if you know what I mean.
Anyway, I’ve been sitting here typing way too long. My RLS is acting up, and I’m not on any medication at this point. At least now I know what’s wrong with me. I wonder if I can get handicap license plates for this.

More Random Acts of Stupidity

I did something just a little bit stupid this morning. Admittedly, I’m not a genius, but I surprised myself with my stupidity. Or, perhaps I’m being too hard on myself.
Here’s what happened: I was fixing a peanut butter sandwich to eat on my way to work. As I spread the peanut butter on the bread, I noticed a little black speck in the peanut butter. Now, because we had a problem with mice a few months ago, my first reaction is that perhaps Mickey's been pooping in the peanut butter.
I had pretty much convinced myself that I was wrong. It wasn’t quite the right shape (belive me, I have studied such things), and how could a mouse get in a sealed jar of peanut butter. I was pretty sure that it must be some sort of seed from the whole grain bread.
But, after giving the matter about five minutes worth of thought, I finally decided that it’s better to be safe than sorry. So, I took the knife and scraped the speck off the bread. Then, I did the stupid thing. Without thinking, I stuck the knife in my mouth and ate the speck along with a tad of peanut butter.
In other words, to be sure that I didn’t get rat droppings in my sandwich, I went ahead and ate the possible dropping directly. Now, the good news is that the speck didn’t taste like what I would imagine a mouse dropping would taste like (if one can imagine such a thing). It was pretty tasteless, actually.
So, I’m probably safe, but, still, it was a pretty stupid thing to do. At least I’m in good company. There are lots of stupid people out there, and when I put my own antics up against those of others, I can proudly say that I’m no where near the top of the stupid list.
For instance, what about this brilliant truck driver who tried to sneak a crane under an overpass on I-95 last night. I have to admit, I’d rather eat mouse droppings than be facing the charges this brainiac must be looking at. How oblivious must a guy be to think he can do something like that?
Or how about the Holloways? Did you hear about this precocious mother and daughter act? While Samara Holloway was finishing up a 7-month jail term, in Richmond City jail, her brilliant mom, Tracey, allegedly (which means we know you did it, but we just can’t say so) smuggled drugs into the jail (in a body cavity, no less) for her daughter.
So, Samara gets out of jail and now she’s back in for having the drugs Mom smuggled in to her. I guess her mother wanted company. She’s also behind bars for resisting arrest, oh yeah I mean for allegedly resisting arrest. Now, that’s a Richmond family you probably won’t be seeing on Jeopardy anytime soon.
On the national scene, I’ll tell you something else that’s pretty dumb. It’s the way this story regarding South Dakota Senator Tim Johnson is being reported. The poor guy is at death’s door (allegedly), and the main concern among most newscasters is that his death could put the Republicans back in control of the Senate. Gee, Mrs. Johnson, I’m sorry to hear about your husband. Just know that I’m praying that the governor won’t appoint a Republican to replace him when he allegedly dies. But the story that takes the cake, is the one about the British professor who wants warning labels put on clothes for fat people. Now, if I go to the clothing store, and have to buy size triple slob, that’s insult enough. I shouldn’t have to look at some label every time I squeeze into the garment, that contains a phone number to call to counsel me on the dangers of being fat. That's just plain tasteless…as tasteless as rat droppings, if you ask me.

Good Orning E-ree-ody

Well, I'm in the midst of having an almost lifelong dream come true. First, let me tell you the exciting news that will make this whole thing possible. I've just graduated from the Acme School of Ventriliquism. You've probably heard of them. They're the ones whose motto is "We teach you how to talk without ooin your litz." And, sure enough, I can now do that.
But, that's just the beginning. I've already done an amateur night at a local comedy club, and, while there were a few little glitches (to be expected) in my act, I think I wowed the audience. Let me share the evening with you. And, I can, thanks to the efforts of a Mrs. Janet Dewbarger of Laurel, who transcribed my act and emailed it to me. I'm printing it verbatim, below:

STEVE: Thank you ladies and germs.

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

STEVE: I'm Steve Cook and I brought along with me somewhere my good friend, Charlie Mahoney. Charlie are you here?

CHARLIE: (muffled) eppp mmm nnnnn dddddox

STEVE: Whoa, sounds like Charlie said, "Help I'm in the box." He must be in my suitcase here. (Steve opens box, pulls out his dummy) Well, look everybody. It's my good friend Charlie Mahoney.

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

STEVE: So Charlie, what's new?

CHARLIE: i don't know i nnnn dah ox

STEVE: Charlie doesn't know. He's been in the box.

CHARLIE: i haaa et n air

STEVE: You hate it in there?

HECKLER IN AUDIENCE: We can't understand a word the dummy's saying. You got to move your lips a little.

STEVE: Whoa. I'm a ventriliquist. Charlie, tell the nice gentleman what a ventriliquist does.

CHARLIE: He eeks without oooin his litz

HECKLER: That's totally indiscernable. You're the worst ventriliquist I've ever seen.

CHARLIE: Just or that I ne'er gon seek again. Ut ee ack in the ox.

STEVE: (covering beautifully) See what you've done. You've hurt Charlie's feelings. He says he'll never speak again. He wants to go back in the box.

ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE AUDIENCE: (kindly) Steve, why don't you try moving your lips just a little. That might help.

STEVE: Hey, thanks. Charlie what do you say?

CHARLIE: Okay. How's this? My nae is Charlie.

STEVE: So, you're name is Charlie, eh. What do you for a living?

CHARLIE: I in wood

STEVE: (knocking on Charlie's head) I get it. You're in wood.

HECKLER: If you're going to repeat everything he says this is going to be a long night.

ANOTHER HECKLER: Besides, nothing you've said is funny.

STEVE: Hey, I'm just getting started. Besides ventriliquists don't have to be funny, do they?

THE NICE AUDIENCE MEMBER: Steve, I'm afraid so. Although many of them aren't. I can see why you're confused.

STEVE: Well, I had a routine planned, but some of you have kinda gotten me off my game.

NICE PERSON: Hey everybody. Let's give Steve another chance, okay?

AUDIENCE: (a few grumbles, but finally everyone applauds)

STEVE: So Charlie, do you have a nickname?

CHARLIE: Yeah, knothead

STEVE: Any relatives?

CHARLIE: Oh I ha any rothers and sisters on i a-i-lee tree.

STEVE: Please bear with me folks, I do have to repeat that one. Oh, you have many brothers and sisters on your family tree.

CHARLIE: Yeah

STEVE: What are their names?

CHARLIE: Well, there's aple.

STEVE: Maple...

CHARLIE: And Ellnnn

STEVE: Elm....

CHARLIE: And Pine

STEVE: Ine...

CHARLIE: And, little fig

STEVE: Little ig.

HECKLER: Hey, you've gotten yourself mixed up with Charlie. You're speaking in his voice and he's speaking in yours.

STEVE: I always did have trouble with that in school.

HECKLER: Why don't you go back to school.

STEVE (getting angry) Hey, Hayseed, I've had enough out of you.

HECKLER: Hey, you can't call me Hayseed. That's a hate crime.

STEVE: Sorry Hayseed, but Hayseed is a name I can use. According to the handbook for entertainers, "Epithets You Can Still Say Without Having To Make a Public Apology (note from editor: This handbook is the work of Mahatma Jose Osama Bin Vereen)." The book clearly states that since that name is almost always applied to white men, it's okay to use. So there.

HECKLER: So there, yourself.

EMCEE: Thanks Steve. I think that's quite enough.

STEVE: Say goodbye Charlie.

CHARLIE: Good eye, Charlie.

Well, that's the way it went. As I said, there were a few glitches along the way, but I'm sure even Bea Arthur had a few flubs in the early days of her illustrious career. One thing for sure, I'm not giving up. Look for me on another stage real soon.

Is There Anyone I Haven't Offended Here?

Twas three weeks before Christmas
And I was in a foul moo-id
When who should call me up
But my old friend, Lochru, the Druid

“Hey Pal,” he exclaimed with somewhat of a shout,
“Please tell me what this war against Christmas is about.”
“Beats me,” I replied. “That’s not my cup of tea.”
“Well,” he said, “They’re complaining about diversity.”

“Who is they” I asked, “making all this hullabaloo?”
“It’s some bunch of nuts,” he says, “known as the A.C.L.U.
Seems they don’t think Christmas is diverse enough.
But it’s total diversity. I know all about this stuff.”

“Total diversity?” I asked, with somewhat of a yawn.
“Yeah,” he said, “From the Celtic yule log to Saint Nick on the lawn.”
“I’m still in the dark. Are you saying Santa’s diverse?”
“Well, he’s really a pagan Norse god, but wait it gets worse.”

“Well,” I wisely replied, “I knew he wasn’t there in the manger.”
“And neither was Jesus in December, but wait it gets stranger.”
“Lochru, my friend,” I said over the phone.
“I don’t want to make waves. You’re in this alone.”

“All I am saying,” he replied with so very much glee,
“Is that Christmas is your day if you want diversity.
The neigh-sayers are saying that the whole day is too Christian,
And what I’m trying to say is that Christian it isn’t.”

“Well spit it out then,” I say. “Don’t let the words fail ya.”
“I say” he says, “Let’s call the Roman Saturnalia the Saturnalia.
And what could be more diverse than the Roman’s day of the sun,
mixed with Druid myth, Norse gods…add fertility rites for some fun.

“Shake it all up, add some snow till it freezes.
And then gaily proclaim, ‘Happy Birthday, Jesus.”
It seems that virtually every culture would get all their wishes,
A wham bang celebration that’s truly A.C.L.U.-LICIOUS.

The Nerve of Some Presidents

You know, that Jim Webb is one party animal. And, personally, I think we, here in Virginia, ought to be delighted to have him. He's a national treasure. I mean, think about it. Can you come up with any other senator anywhere who goes to a party with the President of the United States and almost gets into a fist fight with him? Talk about a cool guy!
Now, I've heard some folks on the radio blasting Webb, but did you hear what President Bush had the gall to do? Unbelieveably, Bush goes right up to Webb at this party and asks him how his son is doing. Can you imagine the nerve of some people. Listen here Mr. Bush...just because you're the president doesn't give you the right to go around asking people how their kids are doing.
Next thing you know this power hungry President will want to shake hands. Well, good thing for him he didn't try that with the honorable Jim Webb, or I'm sure Webb would have shook hands and come out fighting, if you know what I mean.
I think we should congratulate Jim Webb on showing such self restraint. I know I wouldn't have had his discipline. I was at a family reunion not too long ago and this little old lady comes right up to me and asks me how my daughter was doing. "Aunt Sarah," I say, looking her right in the eye, "that's between me and my daughter." Hmmph, I showed her. But did that shut the old busy body up? Nope.
"I was just asking how your daughter was doing," Aunt Sarah said, feigning hurt.
"Oh excuse me," I said sarcastically. "And, I guess you also want to pry into my personal life and ask about my wife too, huh?" By this time I was boiling. "I'm on to you, you old coot," I shouted at this ninety-two year old nosey nanny."
By this time a crowd had gathered. I could tell the other family members were looking at me with admiration. It was about time somebody put this woman in her place.
Some in the group, I have to tell you, seemed a little stunned. It may be because the devious old bag started crying. Her crocodile tears didn't suprise me one bit. "Would you just turn around, go back to your walker and leave me alone?" I shouted. And then I did something that I think Jim Webb would have loved. When Aunt Sarah turned around to leave, I drop kicked her into the fruit punch. Talk about a surprised look on a prune face!
It was priceless. Her dentures went one way. Her hearing aid went another and her walker ended up wrapped around the neck of one of the toddlers. But, don't worry. No one blamed me. They knew it was Aunt Sarah's fault.
So, you can imagine how proud I am of United States Senator Elect Jim Webb. He's a man after my own heart. And, here's an open imitation to the gentleman. If you ever get invited to the Oval Office, and need a good tag team partner, just let me know. I can do a pretty good pile driver, too.

My Name Is Steve C.

You may have noticed that I haven't written much lately. There's a reason for that, and I figure I may as well come right out and tell you what it is. It's not pretty. It's not something I'm proud of. But, it's the cold hard facts.
I've been in rehab, fighting an addiction...Tetris.
It started so innocently. I bought a new cell phone about a year ago and was allowed by the marvelously generous folks at Sprint to download a free game. I chose Tetris. If you're not familiar with it, Tetris is a Russian game where you try to fit various shaped pieces together. When you get a whole line completed you score points. Sounds like fun, eh? Well it was...at first. But, you know those Russians (hope I don't sound like Michael Richards here). They're devious. Even their president goes around poisoning ex-spies.
And they poisoned my mind. Really, they did. I started playing Tetris a few minutes here...a few minutes there, and before I realized what was happening, I was playing six to twelve hours a day.
I stayed up all night playing. I started taking sick days at work in order to stay home and play. I kept telling myself I could stop anytime I wanted to. And, I did, on many occasions, but each time that demon Tetris came back with a vengeance.
Recently I began to realize I'd hit rock bottom. I looked for some sort of twelve step program to help me stop. I went to a TA meeting. Unfortunately, this group had nothing to do with Tetris addiction.
Finally, when I was at wit's end, I saw an ad for a rehab clinic in Tampa, Florida...Sister Mary Krushchev's Tetris De-Tox and Cellulite Removal Ranch. Kill two birds with one stone, I thought.
So, away I went. It was a grueling four months. We were up at six every morning, eating a breakfast of seaweed and kelp. Then there were the group sessions. We'd introduce ourselves. And we'd have to confess to our addictions. Not everyone there suffered from Tetris addiction. There were Ms Pac Man addicts, and Super Mario addicts. Of course, there must have been a couple dozen Solitaire addicts. There was even a poor old man, probably in his eighties, who had been addicted to Pong for over forty years. That was very sad.
After a lunch of bean sprouts and ice cube sandwiches, we'd spend the afternoon weaving baskets or building submarines out of popcycle sticks. Then we'd have more meetings. Those of us who were addicted to Tetris would compare how many lines we had been doing each day.
Finally, after a dinner of oxygen and toothpicks, we'd turn in at about 7:30 PM. The first few nights, I'd sneak back up, get some construction paper and cut out little squares and rectangles and other shapes and then piece them together. After one of the ex-nuns who runs the place caught me and beat me mercilessly, I figured it was time to cut that out (no pun intended).
Well, the bottom line is I've been Tetris-free for over a week. Sure, I wake up at night in a sweat, thinking about the hopelessness of making a square fit when there was no space for it, but aside from that, I'm pretty clean. I feel great. I feel like a new man. I think I'm going to really enjoy life again.
Before I go, just one thing. Can any one out there loan me a cell phone?

Sorry Excuse.

This whole Michael Richards fiasco, following somewhat on the heels of the Mel Gibson deal has opened up a rather painful memory from my past. Sometimes it helps to talk these things out, especially when I really can't think of anything else about which to write.
The painful, and up-til-now closeted event in my life goes back about a half a century, to my first grade days in Boones Mill Elementary School. It was the annual Boones Mill Elementary May Day Talent Show. Gee, I remember it like it was yesterday.
(INSERT DREAM LIKE MUSIC AND SPECIAL EFFECTS HERE)

Mrs. Williams (my first grade teacher): And now, everyone, little Stevie Cook will be performing his rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot." Let's have a big hand for Stevie.

Me: (shuffling onstage, placing one hand on my hip, and bending my other arm and hand to remarkably ressemble a spout) I'm a little teapot...short and stout..."

Floyd Clingenpeel (a bratty kid in the audience, not to be confused with his twin brother Lloyd Clingenpeel): You sure are short...and stout too.

Entire Audience: Laugh Laugh

Me: (LANGUAGE WARNING: Watch out, remove children from the room. I use the "B" word here) Oh yeah. You...you...you bugger eater.

Floyd: Who you calling bugger eater, fatso?

Me: You! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater!

At that point Mrs. Williams, and our principal, Mr. Gruver rushed me offstage. I had humiliated myself and the school. The story made the Franklin County Gazette the next week. My career in show business was pretty much destroyed.

I did go on a local TV talk show a few days later. That went something like this:
(MORE DREAMY MUSIC)

Me: What can I say, but I am truly sorry. I am sorry not only that I hurt Floyd Clingenpeel, but that i hurt bugger eaters everywhere. And not just bugger eaters. I know there are many that were hurt. For instance, take Sandra Wood, who is in my class. She doesn't eat buggers, at least not to my knowledge, but she chews ABC gum. She doesn't know that anyone knows that, but we all do. I'm sure she was hurt, because there really isn't much difference between a bugger eater and an ABC gum chewer. Or consider Bluford Overfelt. He's in the third grade and he still wets his bed at night. I overheard his mother tell my mother that he did. I'm sure he was hurt by my cruel words. To all of these people, I truly say "I'm sorry."

Now you would have thought that such a heartfelt apology would have put an end to the matter. You'd have thought we all could have had a good laugh and gotten back to the business of learning to read and write. But, noooooooo. It seems those kids at Boones Mill Elementary were not very forgiving. Charles Wimmer, who was in the second grade, and who was president of the ABEDL, that's the Anti-Bugger Eaters Defamation League, was very vocal in condemining me.
He said, and I quote, "It's unfortunate that Mr. Stevie Cook chose to go on a non-bugger eating TV show, with a non-bugger eating audience and apologize. I'd have felt more comfortable if he'd gone on Romper Room where most of the audience are bugger eaters."
It's that sort of mentality that pretty much did me in. Shortly thereafter, I moved from Boones Mill to Richmond. I changed my name from Stevie Cook to Steve Cook, and for the past fifty years I've been successful in keeping this nastiness hidden, but, thanks to Michael Richards all the pain and the hurt have come flooding back.
I heard from Bluford Overfelt last night. He admitted that he had a hard time living down the bed wetting reputation, and then confessed that just about the time he'd lived it down (within the past year or so), he's once again become incontinent. I consoled him. I told him what goes around comes around.
Neither of us knew exactly what that meant, but we both felt better. If there are any more of your Boones Millians out there who are still hurting over my unkind words, what can I say? Taking a cue from Mel Gibson and Michael Richards, let me well up a tear in my eye and say, "I'm sorry." That ought to take care of matters once and for all. And, if you don't like it, well, hey, I'm sorry.

Are We Stupid or What?

When I say, "Are WE stupid..." I really mean other folks, not me. Is it just me, or is stupidity really at an all-time high?
For instance, take these brainiacs who will stand in line for 48 hours to buy a video game. Admittedly, most do it so they can sell the video game at a profit. Maybe the folks at Sony are the stupid ones. Why don't they just take all their x-boxes, or whatever they're called and sell them on E-bay themselves for thousands of dollars.
And tell me this...how stupid do you have to be to pay three thousand dollars for a six hundred dollar game in order to be the first on your block to own that x-box.
I think Best Buy and Circuit City should take the folks who line up to buy the game, and make them do some sort of community service during those 48 hours they're just hanging around, getting their pictures taken by the stupid people at the newspaper who think there's something interesting about all this.
And, then what about those stupid people who write columns about the stupid people who do all those other stupid things mentioned above. Now, that's really stupid.
I tell you what else is stupid. I heard this morning that when this new movie, Dreamgirls comes out, they're going to sell tickets for twenty-five dollars for the first ten days. So, if you want to impress all your friends by telling them you were one of the first to see the movie, you have to shell out twenty-five bucks.
Listen, take some advice from an old man who has been around the block a few times. If you want to impress people with stuff you have or stuff you've done, impress them the old fashioned way...lie. It's easy and it doesn't cost a dime. I have the new x-box. I love it, and you know what, I've already seen Dreamgirls. I had to pay a thousand dollars for a really good seat, but it was worth it.
Impressed? I thought you would be. But, surprise. I made the whole thing up. I did this only for demonstration purposes...just to show you how you can save big bucks, as well as precious time waiting in some stupid line, if you simply lie.
There's one more really stupid thing I wanted to talk about, but I'm a little reluctant to do so. I write this little piece for entertainment purposes only (please, no wagering) and there's nothing entertaining about O.J. Simpson, or in Fox TVs decision to air a two-night interview in which Simpson will explain how he would have killed his wife, but, of course, he didn't. Who could conceive of something so stupid.
Actually this goes way beyond stupid. It's about the most immoral thing I've ever heard. Obviously Simpson has no morals or conscience, for that matter. But I'd think there'd be someone at Fox who makes the big decisions who'd not be so stupid to air this. I guess I'm wrong.
It's painfully obvious that Simpson has no regard for his children's feelings, but isn't there someone somewhere who might have the decency to step in and say we're not going to subject his children to this?
Maybe I shouldn't say this, but if you watch that interview on Fox, you'd have to be pretty stupid.

Death Becomes Me

I really don't believe I'm in my mid-fifties. In fact, if I didn't remember Howdy Doody, I'd swear I was, oh, I don't know, maybe twenty, twenty-five. It's not that I feel so great physically. It's just that my maturity level skews rather low.
Unless, as some suggest, men just never really grow up. What I'm thinking about today is the silly little games I play with myself. I wouldn't even talk about this, but I'm hoping you'll write me and say, "Hey, Steve, you're not as silly, or as stupid as you think you are." That sort of glowing praise would make my day.
Let me tell you what I do, and you tell me if something is seriously wrong upstairs. One of my little games is my gas-pumping game. When I start to pump gas into my luxuriously appointed 1993 Saturn, I predict the total amount on the pump when the auto shut-off kicks in. I also create this little scenario that if I'm within fifty cents I win, but if I'm off by more than fifty cents, I'll get a mild electric shock. However, if I go over my actual bid, then I'll be shot to death. Somehow, knowing that my life is on the line, makes pumping gas just a little more fun. Yeah, I know what you're thinking...why don't I just go down to Church Hill and pump gas. I'm more of a virtual thrill seeker.
Another game I like to play is also automobile related, and equally as violent. When I'm driving home, I predict the time I'll pull into my driveway. If I don't park and turn the ignition off before the clock on the radio goes a minute beyond that, my car will blow up. It really makes those last few minutes of the drive quite interesting. Admittedly, on more than one occasion I've come close to mowing down a pedestrian, but hey, that's the price you (or they) pay for my entertainment.
Last night I did something really fun. I was heading home to Hampton and decided to take the Jamestown Ferry. It was after dark, and being the adventurous sort of guy I am, I got out of the car and stood at the front of the boat. I pretended I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, although I couldn't figure out which one. I wanted to pretend that the sea gulls were going to attack me, but I didn't see any. So I pretended that the oncoming Ferry was carrying spies who wanted to kill me. That was enjoyable, although I don't think the guy in the SUV, parked at the front of the line appreciate me hurling my body into his windshield and then rolling over the roof in order to make a quick escape to my car. Some people have absolutely no imagination.
Take my wife (no, I won't say please). She evidently has no imagination. The other night, at dinner, I told her that the clam chowder was so bad, that we should pretend she was poisoning me. You'd think she'd appreciate having such a fun-loving husband. Nope. Somehow that suggestion didn't sit well with her. I guess she's just not the playful sort. In fact, the next morning, I'm fairly certain I saw her put something suspicious in my hot chocolate. When she wasn't looking, I poured it out on the potted plant. When I get back in town tomorrow, I'm interested in seeing how the plant is doing.
I'll tell you about one more game I used to play. I haven't played it in a few years, but it was fun. When I was lying in bed, I'd pretend I was the star of a TV show about a detective who could really do a good job pretending he was dead. I would lie as still as I could without breathing for as long as I could. I would make up a different episode every time I played. For instance, in one episode, the police had laid my body in a hotel room where there was a jewel thief and his moll. I was there to gather evidence, figuring they wouldn't mind revealing secrets about their plans for a heist in front of a dead body. In retrospect, I guess the show didn't make much sense, however I'm sure with some fine tuning there's at least an oyste in there somewhere, if not a pearl.
I've always loved playing like I was dead. When I was in the emergency room because of heart palpitations recently, and was being totally ignored by the staff, I pretended I was dead. I lay on the gurney with my eyes and mouth propped open. I even added drool for effect. No one noticed. Doctors and nurses walked right past. They'd glance at me and smile and keep on going. Finally I unhooked my monitor terminals thinking the flatline might increase their concern. I guess I must have caught them during a coffee break because no one came to check on me. I was a little irritated, but still enjoyed my game.
So, now, the moment of truth. You tell me. Am I normal? Or am I a little twisted? I really don't know. But, I'd appreciate your feedback. If you are going to tell me how strange I am, at least be gentle, because, I think I'm in the early stages of a heart attack. Oh no, my heart is slowing down dramatically and my breathing is becoming shallow. I'll catch you later.

When It Comes to Eating Meat, I'm Game. But, Don't Shoot Me

I may be just a tad bit confused, but if I was reading an anonymous comment on yesterday's column, it seems that someone was equating serial killers with hunters. Maybe I misunderstood. That's been known to happen.
Let me say that I've never shot an animal (or a human, for that matter), nor do I think I ever could, unless it was attacking me and I just happened to have a rifle in my hand. Although, I'd probably scream like a woman and run like a coward.
I also do believe that there are some Nimrodish types who truly enjoy killing and hence hide behind that perversion by becoming hunters. That's not to say, however, that hunting is necessarily bad or wrong.
I think it's somewhat ironic that I don't know the meaning of ironic, but if I did, I'd probably use it in discussing the fact that some people rail against hunters while they're eating their fried chicken, or their McDonald's double cheeseburger. Do these folks think that the hamburgers came from cows who died a peaceful, natural death...perhaps in their sleep? Or that the bucket of KFC is made up of suicidal chickens?
Basically, whenever you eat meat, you're eating something that someone has killed. That may be the most asanine statement I've ever made. It's obviously rather obvious. But not so obvious to some anti-hunting types. Again, let me say, I've never been hunting and never would want to go. I'd hate to see Bambi get it right between the eyes, but put Bambi's hindquarter on a bun and I'm there, with the A-1 Sauce.
I have been fishing, although I don't like it, mainly because I think it's inhumane to put worms on a hook...or is that inworm? But, I do love fresh fish. I'll eat 'em as fast as you can catch 'em. It's funny. Some people who hate hunting are fine with fishing. Why? Less blood? Maybe. And it is interesting that Jesus chose fishermen and not hunters to follow him. But, that's not to say that there aren't some blood thirsty fishermen. I think any guy who goes fishing just so he can mount his fish on his wall or have his picture taken holding the biggest badest fish in the pond, is no better than those who hunt because of a love for the kill.
And, if there's some farmer who gets his jollies killing chickens, then he's got a problem too. I think it's pretty clear that many of these subhuman animals are great for eating, unless you belong to PETA. But, when you think about it, the PETA people are the most hypocritical of them all.
Think about it. They want animals to be accorded to same rights as humans. That should mean that animals have the same responsibilities as humans. So, when a bear kills a salmon, shouldn't PETA be out there protesting...maybe even have the bear locked up, or march around wherever bears congregate with gory signs showing half-eaten fish?
To my knowledge, PETA doesn't do that. The only life form they meddle with is humans, and I bet if you added up all the numbers, humans are pretty far down on the list when it comes to sheer numbers of other life forms they have killed.
Think how many poor little worms have been consumed by birds and fish. Those birds and fish should be ashamed of themselves. And, how can some perverted mother bird justify eating her young if she thinks it's been touched by a human?
Or, is that just some old wives tale? I hope not. I always liked telling that story.
When I was a baby, I'm sure some dowdy old woman picked me up because I was just so cute. I'm glad my mother didn't eat me because of that. Really PETA, why don't you go pick on something your own brain-size?
I hope I don't sound uncaring. I'm really a very nice guy. But, I gotta run. I want to kick the dog before I go to work. Have a nice day.

More Random Thoughts

I have all these random thoughts bouncing around in my head and I think the best thing to do is to get them out here on the table, so to speak, so I can get back to worrying about the really important things in life. I believe, and I have no expert backing on this, but I believe that having too many random thoughts in one's head is what turns a person into a serial killer. And, I would hate to start down that road this late in life.
Speaking of murder, I think that if I was planning to murder someone, I'd spend a year watching all the CSI shows. Now, don't be alarmed. I really don't think I'd ever kill someone deliberately. But, from watching CSI, I have learned lots of things not to do if I ever would try my hand at it.
For instance, you might think that if you, let's say in the heat of the moment, murdered a friend or a mate, and their blood splattered all over the room, that the best thing to do is to get the bleach out and wash the blood away. It makes sense to me. But, evidently those crime scene people can tell if you've used bleach. Seems that it shows up under some sort of light. And, since policemen probably watch CSI, the first thing they're going to suspect when they find bleach is that you've murdered someone. I'm so paranoid, I've stopped bleaching my underwear.
If I was some sort of clever, but diabolical inventor, I'd invent a cleanser to clean away the stuff in bleach that shows up under the light. That way murderers could run out and buy some of that stuff after they cleaned away the blood with bleach. Since I'm not very scientific, there's little chance I'll ever get around to inventing that, so, if you're the clever, but diabolical sort, be my guest.
Anyway, most of the thoughts in my head do not pertain to murder. They deal with more mundane things. For instance, what do you think about the city council (Richmond) trying to get rid of panhandlers in some parts of town? Why just some parts? You know, if I lived in a part of town where they allowed panhandlers, I'd be rather jealous of the people that lived in no-panhandling sections. I might even want to murder someone. No, no, I didn't mean that. It was the CSI speaking.
But, I would be jealous. I think what the city ought to do is take a section that no one really liked. Maybe, they could rent Cloverleaf Mall from Chesterfield. Anyway, they could take that section and make it a panhandler paradise. Cloverleaf Mall would be great. There's plenty of room for the panhandlers to sit or stand if they were the industrious type. And there's also plenty of room for the bleeding hearts to drive around and hand out money.
Evidently, there are still a good number of people who really believe that when the drop a dollar in a panhandler's cup, he or she (the panhandler, that is) is going to run right out and buy a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. Yeah, right...only if the cheese is of the port wine variety. I hate it when I'm waiting at a stoplight and a panhandler goes to the car in front of me and that idiot gives him something. It makes me look so bad in the eyes of the panhandler.
I used to not to look at them, but I read somewhere that panhandlers have little respect for people too cowardly to look them in the eye. So, now I look at them and say, "No." But, I can tell they still don't have much respect for me. And, if there's one thing I want to do, it's look good to panhandlers.
Something else that has me wondering is just how thirsty Americans have become. Have you been in a WaWa or a Sheetz lately? About 75% of the store is devoted to fountain drinks. I just wish I were thirsty when I go in. They have all kinds of sodas, teas, coffees, lattes, shakes. Of course, most of the drinks have sugar, and as a diabetic, I have to stay away from all that. Where were all those drinks when I was a young diabetic-in-training?
Speaking of diabetes, here's another thing clogging up my brain. I heard this TV commercial that started out, "Great news for diabetics." Well, they had my attention. Had a cure been found? Could I go eat a cake without passing out? I was giddy with excitement.
Turns out the news wasn't all that good. It was a commercial for one of those blood sugar testers. It's the least painful tester on the market, or so they say. Hey, when the best thing you can say about something is that it doesn't hurt as much as other things, I say just shut up. Telling a diabetic that a new tester is good news is tantamount to telling a crippled guy that you have great news for him and then when you have him so excited, you open a box and show him a brand new shiny pair of crutches. Hip hip horray! New crutches might be nice, but don't say you have good news, just give 'em to me.
How can people be so cruel? I think something should be done to stop those people. And, if you want to be the one to stop them, I'll bring the bleach.

My Very Own Election Blog

Because I choose to keep a low profile, and because I’m a somewhat, no, make that very modest guy, many of you probably don’t realize that when it comes to politics, I’m exceptionally savvy. Therefore, while it may surprise you, it didn’t surprise me one iota that I’ve been asked to do an election wrap-up radio program this morning.
Actually, I’m doing it as I type this, and thanks to modern technology, the transcript of my program will be seen below. So, get ready to be impressed. Here goes:

STEVE: Well, my next guest on the Big Wig line is Senator George Allen. Welcome Senator Allen.

GEORGE ALLEN: Thanks Steve. It’s a pleasure to be on a show with such a modest, and yet politically savvy guy.

STEVE: You’re very gracious, Senator. Let me get one thing straight right away. I’m constantly getting you mixed up with the old comedy team of George Burns and Gracie Allen. Are you their son?

GEORGE ALLEN: No, not at all, Steve. I’m the son of George Allen.

STEVE: That’s right, that’s right. Your dad was some sort of a sports star or something, wasn’t he?

GEORGE ALLEN: You’re close. He was the coach of the Washington Redskins.

STEVE: Yeah, I remember now. And he also has some cars in NASCAR, if I’m not mistaken.

GEORGE ALLEN: Well, you are mistaken, actually. You’re thinking of Joe Gibbs.

STEVE: Yeah, that’s right. Hey, you’re pretty smart. It’s too bad you lost last night.

GEORGE ALLEN: Well, hold on. It’s too close to call right now. I have not conceded defeat.

STEVE: Well, I’m just going by the numbers. But, let’s say that you do lose, what would you blame that on?

GEORGE ALLEN: Well, there are a number of factors. I made some pretty stupid blunders, especially when I called that terrorist “Macacaw.”

STEVE: Yeah, that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?

GEORGE ALLEN: (laughing) I heard that, Steve. I was talking to my great-aunt, Hadassah Goldburg, and she told me…

STEVE: Sorry, Senator, or should I say soon to be ex-Senator, but I have the winner on the line and I have to go. Well, folks, there you have it. Thanks to Senator Joe Gibbs, Junior for being so gracious. Now, let’s move to Jim Webb. Senator Webb…

JIM WEBB: I like the sound of that, Steve, but not quite a Senator.

STEVE: Okay, then I’ll just call you Jim, if I may. Jim, I know Al Gore invented the Internet, but with a name like Webb, I’m wondering if you had anything to do with that whole world-wide thing.

JIM WEBB: No, I can’t take credit for that, but I would like to make a comment. I’m hearing on the news that this race is to close to declare a winner. That’s wrong. I declared myself a winner last night.

STEVE: Yeah, I heard that. I guess last night was pretty exciting.

JIM WEBB: Well, let me put it this way…I was so proud I went back to my room and wrote an entire pornographic novel in less than an hour.

STEVE: Oh, I didn’t know they took that long to write. Hey, Jim. I hate to cut this short, but Joe Lieberman is on the line and, you know, he’s really a famous guy.

JIM WEBB: Well, let me say one thing…

STEVE: Senator Lieberman. Let me be the first to offer my condolences on your loss last night.

JOE LIEBERMAN: Well, you definitely are the first to do that, Steve, because, actually I had a pretty impressive victory.

STEVE: Oh, my bad. I was about to suggest that if you were out of work, I think you’d be great as the voice of Elmer Fudd.

JOE LIEBERMAN: (laughing). I’ve heard that before.

STEVE: Senator, I have to apologize because I had made up my questions to ask you based on my belief you had lost. So, can you bear with me.

JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, you cwazy wabbit. Go ahead.

STEVE: Thanks. How does it feel to have lost?

JOE LIEBERMAN: I’m very thankful to my constituents who believed in me.

STEVE: Have you offered your support to Ned LaBlanc?

JOE LIEBERMAN: That’s Lamont.

STEVE: What’s lamont?

JOE LIEBERMAN: Ned

STEVE: Are we still talking about Ned LaBlanc?

JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, I really have to go.

STEVE: And, on that note, let’s take a break. I’ll be right back to speak with Governor Mayor Doug Wilder about last night’s tragedization of city council. So, don’t go anywhere. Okay?

The Handwriting's On the Wall

I may have told you this story before, but even if I did, stay with me, because everytime I tell it, it just gets better. Also, by the time I'm done here, I think you'll find a little nugget that might be interesting.
One thing that should be perfectly clear is that a lot has changed over the past half century. You probably would not have noticed that had I not called it to your attention. Anyway, back when I was a fifth grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, Virginia, my teacher, Mrs. Gruver, was the wife of the school principal, who, interestingly was named Mr. Gruver.
One day Mrs. Gruver told our class, "I want you boys to help Mr. Gruver out. If you see any dirty words written on the walls in the boys' restroom, let Mr. Gruver know so he can wash them off before the little kids see them." The Gruvers were very religious people. They were sincerely interested in protecting the little six-year-olders from the dirty minds of the ninth graders, some of whom were in their early twenties.
I was always very diligent about doing what I was asked. Or, at least, I loved getting others in trouble. So I regularly scoured the walls (visually) looking for dirty words. I knew two or three dirty words, so, of course, they were the ones I was looking for. One day I saw two words I had not seen before. Although I recognized one as being, in normal usage, a clean word, I immediately realized that I must be looking at dirty words. Actually, this was my first encounter with the grand daddy of all dirty words. I didn't know what it meant, but just the sound of it told me it was dirty. At that moment, however, I had no idea how dirty.
So, up the stairs I went (the boys' room was in the basement) to the principal's office.
"May I see Mr. Gruver?" I asked his secretary.
"Why?" she asked me.
I want to tell him about some dirty words," I replied. I was immediately ushered into Mr. Gruver's little office. Dirty words were being given top priority at the time.
Every time I went in Mr. Gruver's office, I would look around for his electric paddle. I had never seen it, but the older kids had assured me he had one, and he wasn't afraid to use it. Just the idea of an electric paddle kept me in line through my early, formative years. Anyway, I looked around, searching for the paddle, while Mr. Gruver finished reading some letter or something he had in his hands.
Finally, Mr. Gruver looked up at me. He was a bald, little man, but very stern. He sort of resembled Don Knotts, who had not yet become Barney Fife, but was still seen often on TV. "How may I help you?" he asked me. He always sounded so authoritative, that I didn't even want to imagine what he must sound like when he was hooking a kid up to the electric paddle.
"I found some dirty words on the wall in the bathroom," I told him. "At least I think they're dirty words."
He just looked at me with his beady little eyes. He didn't say a word, and I suppose I should have remained quiet until he asked me for more information.
But, if you know me, you know silence is a great inducement to get me talking. If I were being interrogated, the police wouldn't even have to say a word to me...just bring me in a room and stare at me and I'll tell everything I know.
So, after waiting for what seemed like an hour, probably only three seconds in actuality, I continued. "The words are 'BLEEP' and 'BLEEP.' Are they dirty?"
Mr. Gruver didn't say a word. But his face turned a bright red, from his pencil-like neck to the tip of his bald head. He made a little face like he'd just eaten a very sour lemon. I knew I must have hit the curse word jackpot. And, to tell you the truth, I was scared. I was wondering if maybe he might reach into a drawer and pull out his electric paddle and use it on me right then and there.
Finally, after several seconds (two hours in fifth-grader standing in front of the principal time), Mr. Gruver spoke. Or, to be more precise, he squeaked."
"Yes," he gulped. "They're dirty." I don't remember what he said after that. I was just glad to get out of there.
That event was ultimately good for me. I've never been able to use those words, especially the number one dirty word in the entire universe, ever since then.
That was in the mid-fifties. Today, everyone uses the word. My wife was telling me about a conversation she had with one of the big-wigs in her company. The guy was not mad at her, but was expressing his irritation with another worker. "I'm BLEEPING tired of this," the guy said. My wife only used the first letter of the word. I won't even go that far, here.
"What!" I exclaimed. You should report him for using such language. My wife looked at me as if I had just stepped off the Gerber Creamed Banana Boat.
"Everyone in the office talks like that," she said.
What a difference a scant half century makes. In the fifties, only those filthy-minded ninth graders would use such words, and they probably wouldn't even say them, just write them on a dirty bathroom wall.
Today, everyone says it, or so I'm told. What has happened to Beaver Cleaver? Even Eddie Haskell would not have said "BLEEP." And, while I was trying to help the Gruvers protect the first-graders, I bet the first graders are using those words today. In fact, every one from the President on down seems to be using such language.
I think we ought to pass some sort of law that allows us to wash people's mouths out with soap. Mr. Gruver sent someone down to the basement to wash off those walls. It's a shame washing people's minds is not so easy.

The Ghoul of Some People

It’s Monday night. I’m about ready to turn in for the night. Tomorrow is the worst day of the year. If I had the ability to put myself in hibernation mode and go to sleep tonight and not wake up until Wednesday morning, I’d do so.
Tomorrow, if I go into the bank, my financial matters will be cared for by a witch. If I go to the doctor’s office, the nurse will be a pirate, and, the doctor may well be Satan the Devil himself. The folks down at the DMV especially make a big to do about the day. They actually will go to work disguised as intelligent people.
Not to mention that about one fourth of all the males in many offices around town will be dressed like women. Earl “Gloria” Schmep, president of the NAACD, The National Association for the Advancement of Cross Dressers, says Halloween is the most glorious day of the year. It certainly is a day that cross dressers can spread their wings and fly. I just wish so many of them weren’t flying right into me.
If there were one argument to be made to prove that human brains were being taken over by alien life forces, it would be Halloween. It’s the day (night) when normally semi-sane people think it’s quite alright to have fake blood dripping from their mouths as they take my order at Burger King. Hey, I don’t care if it is fake blood, keep your drool out of my fries. Oh, that’s right. It’s Halloween. Anything goes.
For 364 days a year (365 during leap year) parents tell their kids not to play in the street, to be home before dark, and not to take candy from strangers. But, on Halloween, all these rules fly out the window. Not only is it fine and dandy to play in the streets after dark, and to go to the homes of strangers, and then, later, devour anything those strangers may choose to drop into your bag, but it’s perfectly fine to be wearing dark clothing and a mask. It’s a field day for serial hit and run drivers. And, if Johnny doesn’t make it home in one piece, oh well, it is, after all, Halloween.
I hate Halloween. I hate everything about it. When I was a child, I was not especially religious. Well, I was more religious than the rest of my family. I used to lay my hands on the TV, hoping that Oral Roberts could clear up my sinuses. Yes, even as a child I was a hypochondriac. Anyway, my family really wasn’t a churchgoing family. But, I remember going to church on Halloween. They had candy and punch and ice cream and witches and ghosts and even a fortune teller.
It’s like the preacher and the deacons got together and made a list of all the ungodly things they could do in the church. And then they invited all of the kids into the church to do them. Somehow, I can’t picture Jesus dressed in a skeleton costume giving the sermon on the mount. But, maybe I just lack a good imagination.
Now, the truth is many men of the cloth have never met a pagan festival they didn’t take a shine to, but Halloween is just so blatant. I am baffled how anyone could not find it offensive. If you see your preacher tomorrow, why don’t you ask him what he thinks about Halloween. By the way, he’ll be the one dressed like a stripper.

The Ghoul of Some People

It’s Monday night. I’m about ready to turn in for the night. Tomorrow is the worst day of the year. If I had the ability to put myself in hibernation mode and go to sleep tonight and not wake up until Wednesday morning, I’d do so.
Tomorrow, if I go into the bank, my financial matters will be cared for by a witch. If I go to the doctor’s office, the nurse will be a pirate, and, the doctor may well be Satan the Devil himself. The folks down at the DMV especially make a big to do about the day. They actually will go to work disguised as intelligent people.
Not to mention that about one fourth of all the males in many offices around town will be dressed like women. Earl “Gloria” Schmep, president of the NAACD, The National Association for the Advancement of Cross Dressers, says Halloween is the most glorious day of the year. It certainly is a day that cross dressers can spread their wings and fly. I just wish so many of them weren’t flying right into me.
If there were one argument to be made to prove that human brains were being taken over by alien life forces, it would be Halloween. It’s the day (night) when normally semi-sane people think it’s quite alright to have fake blood dripping from their mouths as they take my order at Burger King. Hey, I don’t care if it is fake blood, keep your drool out of my fries. Oh, that’s right. It’s Halloween. Anything goes.
For 364 days a year (365 during leap year) parents tell their kids not to play in the street, to be home before dark, and not to take candy from strangers. But, on Halloween, all these rules fly out the window. Not only is it fine and dandy to play in the streets after dark, and to go to the homes of strangers, and then, later, devour anything those strangers may choose to drop into your bag, but it’s perfectly fine to be wearing dark clothing and a mask. It’s a field day for serial hit and run drivers. And, if Johnny doesn’t make it home in one piece, oh well, it is, after all, Halloween.
I hate Halloween. I hate everything about it. When I was a child, I was not especially religious. Well, I was more religious than the rest of my family. I used to lay my hands on the TV, hoping that Oral Roberts could clear up my sinuses. Yes, even as a child I was a hypochondriac. Anyway, my family really wasn’t a churchgoing family. But, I remember going to church on Halloween. They had candy and punch and ice cream and witches and ghosts and even a fortune teller.
It’s like the preacher and the deacons got together and made a list of all the ungodly things they could do in the church. And then they invited all of the kids into the church to do them. Somehow, I can’t picture Jesus dressed in a skeleton costume giving the sermon on the mount. But, maybe I just lack a good imagination.
Now, the truth is many men of the cloth have never met a pagan festival they didn’t take a shine to, but Halloween is just so blatant. I am baffled how anyone could not find it offensive. If you see your preacher tomorrow, why don’t you ask him what he thinks about Halloween. By the way, he’ll be the one dressed like a stripper.

What's A Nice Guy Like Me Doing...

You know what my biggest problem is? I'm too nice for my own good. Yep. It's a curse. As you have probably garnered, just from our brief time together, I am very reluctant to ever say anything negative. And yet, sometimes, I feel that it's in the best interest of others to hear the painful truth.
I'll give you a for instance. I was sitting in CiCi's Pizza the other day. There were a couple of semi-attractive women. Actually, they were probably more quarter attractive than semi, but I digress. One of the women had a little boy with her. I'm guessing he was her son. She looked at him like she loved him. And, let me tell you, the kid had a face only a mother could love.
I'm being sincere when I tell you the little tyke was the epitome of ugly. Now, I'm sure all you mothers out there are furious with me. But, if you are, stop and ask yourself why. For telling the truth? Hmm, me thinks I may have struck a nerve there.
There are ugly people in the world. That includes a fairly large number of ugly kids. Sometimes these kids grow up to be handsome adults. However, truth be told, they generally grow uglier.
So, how does all this relate to my being too nice? Well, it's like this...I was so worried that I would upset the mother that I didn't go up and offer some sort of condolences. I'm sure the mom must look at Junior sleeping in his bed at night, and think, "he really is ugly." Wouldn't it have been a kindness on my part to go up and tell the woman I'm sorry she has an ugly kid. I could maybe even hold out some false hope that he'll get better looking. That may have brightened her day.
But, did I do that? Nope. Why? You guessed it, I'm just too nice...too afraid of hurting someone's feelings.
Even if the woman did not realize her son was ugly, wouldn't it be good to call that to her attention now, while the kid is still quite young.
I know that if I'd been an ugly kid (thankfully, even the idea is laughable), I'd have appreciated my mother conditioning me so as to accept the painful truth. Actually, my problems growing up were similar to those of ugly kids, but for opposite reasons. Ugly kids can't get dates because they're too ugly. Really good looking people can't get dates because our looks are too intimidating. I discovered in my teen years, that my good looks were often off-putting. Girls wouldn't even call me back when I'd call their homes and leave a message with their mothers. I'm guessing they just didn't feel as if they could hold up their end of the conversation when speaking with a really good looking guy.
And sometimes when the girls would answer the phone (remember this was pre caller ID days), they'd nervously hang up as soon as they realized it was me. I didn't try and humiliate them. I didn't call attention to their deficiencies, because even as a youth, I was just too nice.
Why am I bringing all this up now? I've been doing some thinking. I've decided no more Mr. Nice-Guy. From now on, if I see an ugly kid, I'll proudly go right up to his mother and tell her. And, when you think about it, in some ways that's being even nicer.
And, since I'm so nice, I'm on a mission. I'm off to find ugly kids. If you know of some, let me know. I'll have a word with their mothers.

You Name It

I know I had pledged never to use this space for monetary gain, but I've hit upon an idea so brilliant, and so potentially profitable, that I think I'm going to have to reconsider that pledge. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got around to making the pledge, so we're cool.
Here's my new business idea. I think you're going to like it, except for those of you who are green with envy that I thought it up first. Well, I didn't actually think it up on my own. You could say I was inspired.
Have you heard those commercials for the National Star Registry. They're the people who will name a star after you if you send them fifty bucks or so. I used to think that their idea was ridiculous. After all, they don't own the stars. They can't force anyone to call the stars by the names they give them. They just basically give you a piece of paper that says such and such a star is named Henry, or whatever. I used to think those people at National Star Registry were crazy, then it dawned on me, they're crazy alright, crazy like a fox. They're making money. I'm sure they make more than I do.
At least until now. I am, here, today, introducing the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry. That's right. I'll name anything after you or a loved one. Would you like a day of the week named after you, or perhaps, you'd like to give that as a gift to someone near and dear? Just send me twenty-five dollars and I'll name the day after you. Pretty cheap, eh?
I'll even send you an authentic looking letter and a calendar showing that day named for you. Just send me the money. I'll do the rest.
Or, perhaps, you'd like a planet named after you. I can do that, too, and for a mere twenty-five dollars. Heck, I'll give you a discount for Pluto since it's not a real planet.
I'll name anything. How about a number? For instance, you send me the money, and I'll send you back a sheet of paper that proves I've named a number for you. Imagine your wife's delight to get this authentic notification.

Here are the numbers: One, Two, Hilda, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

Can you imagine the love you'll be feeling from Hilda when she gets a letter like that? With the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry, I'll name anything. Spices? Imagine the excitement around your house, when you're sitting around the dinner table, and someone says, "Pass the salt and Bobby, please." How is Bobby going to feel then?
The beauty of my company is that we're not limited to just a few trillion stars. I'll name anything. You know that atomic table of the elements? How about if one of those elements were named Jim? Pretty cool, huh?
Or Einstein's Theory of Relativitiy? Suppose, around your house it looked like this E=Mike c2. Mike would get quite a tingle out of that.
Just use your imagination. I'm using mine. I'll even rename people for you. Did you know the first president of the United States was Herb Schmidlap? Well, when Mrs. Schmidlap sends me her twenty-five bucks, that could become a reality. Or how about this...in 1492 Columbus discovered Mary Wilson? That's right, I'll name continents, oceans, mountains, anything, and all for just twenty-five bucks. And, as I said earlier, for a limited time, I'll give you a discount on Pluto.
When we say the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry will name anything, we mean anything. I'll even rename the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry if that's what you want.
This thing is going to be big. I can feel it. In fact, just since I started writing this, I've had a dozen orders pour in. So, I better run. I have some renaming to do. I'll talk to you again on Myrtle.

Something's Rotten in Daytona

I've always wanted to be one of those hard-hitting, investigative journalists...you know, one of those embittered, crusty old veteran writers who is always smelling a scandal. And, I would have done that. There was just one thing, which, in my opinion, held me back...talent. I also lacked a nose for news. For instance, for years I wondered what was so bad about plumbers being in the Watergate Hotel. It finally dawned on me a couple of years ago that those guys probably weren't plumbers at all.
Anyway, I think my nose for news is improving, and while my talent isn't, the talent of most reporters these days is so low that I'm not looking nearly as bad as I once did. Hence, I've been sniffing out a good story, or at least trying to find something that might win me a Pulitzer, or some kind of prize.
So, you can imagine my glee, when, just the other day, I heard a story that immediately sent my scandal-radar blipping like crazy. It was a piece done about a race car driver who, all of a sudden has gotten quite popular. The guy is in his forties, but, it seems that in just the past year he's gone from being a nobody to a somebody. Sounds innocent enough, huh? Well maybe to you novices out there who don't have the nose I do.
You won't believe what I'm about to tell you. Here's the freaky part...the driver's name is...are you ready...Philip Morris. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Do you see what's going on here folks? It's time to wake up and smell the cigarettes.
You know how for years the tobacco industry was so closely intertwined with NASCAR, and then, due to government regulations, the Winston Cup mysteriously became the Nextel Cup? Well, do you suppose the big money people at the tobacco companies just decided to give up? Call me Ed Bradley, but I don't think so. I smell a rat, and rat spelled backwards is tar. Something to think about.
So, this Philip Morris just suddenly bursts onto the scene. Me thinks, that if you look at the guy's driver's license, you might find he's really, oh, I don't know, KYLE PETTY! Do you see what the cigarette people are doing? It's really brilliant in a diabolical sort of way. They're changing the names of the drivers. What's next? Maybe Mark Martin disappears, but a driver bearing a strange resemblance comes on the scene, a driver by the name of Winston Tastegood, perhaps.
The scary part is that they (they being the tobacco guys) almost pulled this thing off. If it hadn't been for my newly-developed keen sense of smell, they would have.
You think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, I have confirmation. I called a couple of the big tobacco manufacturing giants and confronted them with my theory. Do you know what they said? They said I was crazy. That answer is just a little to pat if you ask me. People are always telling me I'm crazy. How simple would it be for these tobacco people to parrot that response?
But, I'll not be deterred. I did a little snooping and found an informant....someone who works for one of the cigarette makers. Now, the guy wouldn't tell me his name. We had to meet in a parking lot, behind the Richmond Convention Center at three in the morning, and he was dressed in one of those old Lucky Strike packages that the Lucky Strike dancers used to wear on TV many moons ago, so all I could see were his legs, but they sure looked like the legs of a tobacco informant.
He would only identify himself as Deep Cough. Here is a bit of my interview with him.

ME: So, how can I be sure you really work for a tobacco company?
DC: (DC stands for Deep Cough) Well (MUFFLED RESPONSE HERE - HE WAS SPEAKING THROUGH A GIANT CIGARETTE CARTON WHICH COVERED HIS FACE)...in 1958 I spoke with (I COULDN'T TELL WHO HE SAID) and he told me, 'Deep, (MUFFLED) until we reach our goal.'
ME: So, you're saying that this guy had a goal?
DC: (NODS)
ME: So, how is NASCAR involved?
DC: I knew this (MUFFLED, HE MAY HAVE SAID DRIVER, OR OWNER), who (SOMETHING, SOMETHING, SOMETHING) and people died.
ME: Thank you. You've been quite helpful.
DC: (HE SAID SOMETHING, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHAT)

There you have it. Obviously something is going on. And, I, singlehandedly have uncovered it. I am afraid to say more because I don't know who may do what to me. I read Runaway Jury, so I'm pretty savvy on these matters. But, as a respected investigative journalist, I felt I needed to pass this on to you. My advice...be afraid. Be very afraid.

Of All The Things I Miss, I Miss Ogyny The Most

A subject that I steer away from is women drivers. Normally, one (a male one, that is) can only heap troubles upon his head by bringing the matter up. But, since some of you out there have decided to open that can of worms, let me dig in.
First, by way of disclaimer, let me say that generally speaking, I like women. I think they deserve to share the oxygen and other resources the earth has to offer.
I even think many of them are qualified to drive automobiles. Although I think a separate lane for women and truck drivers would make this old world a little bit better place to live.
However, until that glorious day, I’m willing to share the highway with both. Although if I had my choice, I’d say keep the women and get rid of the truck drivers. The problem with women drivers is that they’re, well, they’re women. Again, please hear me. I love women, generally only one at a time, but I love them. But, women do think differently from men. And, based solely on my experiences in life, many women never entertain the idea that they might be wrong about anything.
So, if you were to suggest to a woman, not necessarily my wife, that using the cell phone, putting on makeup, and looking up a phone number in her address book while cruising down the Interstate at 75 miles per hour, is not such a good idea, she (not necessarily my wife) can’t even comprehend what could possibly be wrong with that. Because she (not necessarily my wife) has done it before and didn’t kill anyone, she (not….) automatically assumes that it’s a safe practice.
Then there's one of our sales consultants here in the office. I'll call her Mandy. Mandy comes in yesterday, absolutely furious because someone almost hit her on the highway. Seems Mandy was lost. Now, in Mandy's mind (remember, Mandy is a woman) her being lost automatically calls for the suspension of all driving rules and regulations. So, because Mandy was lost, everyone else on the road should recognize that if she needs to make a left turn from the right lane, she has every right to do so. That's how Mandy saw it. She even says she yelled at those drivers who were too rude, or too stupid to understand the logic there. You do see her logic, don't you. I know women who would and they're not necessarily my wife.
That’s really my only complaint about women drivers. Other than that little “I’m always right” flaw in their otherwise sparkling personalities, women make great drivers. Actually, they make wonderful drivers. How else could you explain a woman’s ability to travel twenty miles and not even one time glance at the highway in front of her. And, try to convince a woman that the rear view mirror is not simply there for makeup application. Can’t be done.
There is one other little bitty teeny weeny complaint. I hesitate to bring it up. I know I’ll be touching a raw nerve, but since I’m somewhat of a senior citizen myself, I think I can chance it. Here’s my question, why is it that the bluer a woman’s hair gets the more she shrinks? Have you ever passed one of those blue-haired brake riders on the highway? First glance into their car is rather scary. It looks as if the car is being driven by a blue doily. I mean, all you see is this little blue mop. I guess there’s a woman beneath it.
I think the DMV should start giving tests to drivers once they reach seventy or so. Not an eye exam, but a hair color test. If your hair is above a pre-set blue safety zone, you don’t get to drive. Now, this is merely a suggestion, but I think it’s a pretty good one. And, so that you don’t think I’m discriminating, I think you could give the same test to older men (wink wink). If there hair is blue, they should be held to the same standards.
Well, I hope I haven’t stepped on any toes today. Far be it from me to ruffle feathers. But, since some of you opened the door, I just stepped right in. And, now, it may be best for me to step right back out.

Ron Popeil Move Over

So, I was lying there, in bed, at three-thirty this morning watching television and out of the blue they show this commercial for a company that promotes inventions…
Acme Inventor’s Club, I believe they called it, but I’m not sure. The guy was saying that if you had a new invention, or even an idea to make an existing product better to give them a call.
I called.
“Acme Inventor’s Club (or whatever),” the guy answered the phone.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Well,” I continue, “you know how when you go out to a steak restaurant and they have the ten-ounce steak with baked potato and the sixteen-ounce steak with baked potato, and you really want the sixteen-ounce steak, but you just can’t afford it?”
After a pause, the guy at the inventor’s club says, “I’m listening.”
“Well,” I say, “if you put A-1 Sauce on the baked potato it’s like you’re getting more steak.” I stop waiting for the significance of what I’ve said to sink in with the guy. I’m wondering how much money I can make with this idea.
Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, the guy says, “That’s not an invention.”
“No,” I answer. I’m ready for this reply. “But, it is an idea to make an existing product even better.” I’m beaming by now.
“That’s not the sort of idea we were talking about,” he says rather gruffly.
“Why not,” I ask, now somewhat deflated, but not destroyed.
“In all my years working here,” he says, “that’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever had anyone call in with.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say and hang up. But, I’ll not be deterred. Thomas Edison’s light bulb was laughed at until someone invented a lamp to put it in. I got up out of bed, grabbed a pen and piece of paper and began to write down all the other ideas that course through my brain. After about an hour, I call the guy back.’
“It’s me again,” I say.
“This is my lucky night,” he says.
“Okay, what about this idea,” I say. “You know those hand buzzer gizmos?” I ask.
“You mean the prank thing where you shake a guy’s hand and the buzzer buzzes?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, thankful that he and I are beginning to make a connection. “Well, suppose you replaced the buzzer with a doorbell…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “Your idea to improve an existing product is to take a hand buzzer and replace it with a doorbell? You are putting me on, right?”
“No,” I reply. “Think about it. Everyone knows the hand-buzzer. But, suppose someone came to your door and you opened the door and held out your hand, and they shook it and the doorbell went off. You could then say, ‘Excuse me, I have to get the door.’ Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Is that all you got,” he asks.
“No,” I say enthusiastically, encouraged by his desire to hear more. You know those bow-ties that squirt water?”
“The kind clowns wear?” he asks.
“Yep, one and the same,” I say. “The problem is no one except clowns wear bow-ties. If you see someone coming towards you wearing a bow-tie, you know you’re going to get squirted.”
“So, you’re thinking that we should make a necktie that squirts,” the guy says.
“Whoa,” I laugh. “Did I call the Psychic Hotline or the Inventor’s Club?”
“Is that all?” the guy asks, ignoring my humor.
“You got time for another?” I ask politely.
“It’s a slow night,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“You know false teeth?” I ask.
“You mean the prank kind…the really ugly ones?” he asks.
”No, I’m talking real false teeth,” I say.
“Already invented,” he says. “Or do you have an idea to improve them?”
“Yeah, kind of,” I say. “I think it would be good to make false teeth blue.”
“You mean color them blue?” he asks. I can tell he’s interested. “Why would you do that?”
“Well,” I say, “suppose you’re dating this woman and she has false teeth, but you can’t tell. And, then you get married, and on your honeymoon night, the two of you are getting ready for bed and she just casually slips her teeth out. That would be a horrible time to find that sort of thing out.”
“I’m with you there pal,” he says, “but, why would someone want to wear blue false teeth. Wouldn’t that just advertise the fact that their teeth weren’t real?”
That question came at me from left field. I had to think for a moment. “Well, you could pass a law requiring it,” I suggest.
“We’re not in the legislation business,” he says. “If you’re done, I gotta run.”
“Wait,” I say. “One more.”
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll give you one more shot.”
“You know when you’re driving down the road and some truck driver gets right on your rear bumper and he has his brights on?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That really galls me.”
“Well,” I continue, “I think you could put a laser on your trunk and when that happens, you could turn the laser on, and maybe you’d even have some sort of way to control it, so you could burn the laser right into the guys eyeballs, maybe even destroy a retina or two. That would sure get him off your tail.”
“Hey,” he says, “you may be onto something.”
Long story short…I have a meeting with this guy from the Inventor’s Club. I can smell big bucks in my future.

It Was a Dark and Dreary Night

I'm going to tell you a story...a true story that I think will shock you. You will gasp in horror as the story unfolds. Because the story is so unbelieveable, I'm going to change the name of the main character...a handsome man, in his fifties...a man whom I will call Kevin Stook.
You had better take a seat, perhaps place a cold compress to your forehead, because the gruesome story is being told with no holds barred. Every miserable word is true. Here goes my story...are you ready?
Kevin Stook had to spend the night at his mother's house. It was because he worked out of town and it was cheaper to stay at his mother's house than at a hotel...a whole lot cheaper.
Kevin arrived at his mother's house at about 7:00 PM. He ate dinner. His mother loved to cook. You're such a good cook, people would tell her, that's why your name is Stook. She would laugh. Kevin never thought it very funny.
Anyway, Kevin ate his meal and in order to avoid conversation...Kevin hated conversation...he went upstairs to the guest room to watch television. Kevin lay on the bed. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. The TV came on to the local channel showing Jeopardy. Because the twelve-year-olders were no longer on, Kevin was unable to answer any questions. So, he thought, I'll see what's on the cable. He pushed the "up channel" button. It went right to the local NBC channel. Kevin froze in fear.
"What's the matter?" he shrieked. His mother came running, as well as she could run. "What's wrong?" she asked nervously. She had never heard such anguish in another human. She may have thought it sounded like the howl of a werewolf as the silver stake was buried into its heart. Kevin didn't ask her if it sounded like that, but he hoped it did.
"What's wrong?" he asked somewhat sarcastically, as if his mother had asked, "Why are there two holes in your nose?"
"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Only that the cable is not working."
"Oh, I took it out," his mother said. Kevin thought, with utter contempt, that she sounded almost happy to have removed the cable. "There's nothing but filth on there anyway," she said.
His mother loved the word filth. She said it with such disdain it was as if she had literally spit a wad of letters out of her mouth that when they tumbled to the floor, fell into a pattern that spelled "F I L T H." She used the word to describe every show on TV except Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In years past she wouldn't apply the word to Dateline either, but since they got hooked on pedophilia, that had changed. "There's nothing worth watching anymore," she said. "Except Vanna."
Kevin had heard some tales about Vanna, but he didn't want to burst his mom's bubble. Down deep, he was a good son.
"But there's nothing on," Kevin wailed. He briefly considered throwing a tantrum, but thought that might bring on vertigo and he'd just end up throwing up.
"Calm down," his mother said. "You can watch King of Queens."
For a brief moment Kevin cheered up, then he remembered that King of Queens wouldn't be back on until mid-season. But, he thought, I can watch that new CBS comedy. What was it called? The Class?
So, Kevin stopped whimpering, wiped his, by now, fogged up glasses on his necktie and lay back down. He was ready to be entertained. He was ready for a good CBS comedy. Yes, he was still vulnerable, due to the shocking discovery that his mother no longer had cable, but he thought that if the rest of the evening went smoothly, he'd be okay.
It was 8:00 PM. Time for The Class. Then the real horror began. The terror he had felt previously, compared with this new terror, was only like the terror you get when you realize that you've come back into the office, from the restroom, without remembering to zip. The terror Kevin felt now was unlike any he'd ever encountered before in his life.
If one could take terror and roll it up into a ball and examine it under a light, Kevin would have been too afraid to do that to this particular ball of terror...it was that bad.
"We interrupt tonight's regularly scheduled program...." the voice on the TV said, "to bring you this special programming."
Kevin thought at first that maybe it was a ball game, but, no, that wouldn't make sense. The voice continued:
"This is the final in a series of debates between George Allen and Jim Webb. Blah blah blah blah blah blah..." the voice continued.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Kevin screamed, reaching for the remote. He turned to channel 12. The same voice was speaking, "Your host for tonight's debate is blah blah blah blah blah."
This was like a scene right out of The Outer Limits. They've taken over the TV Kevin thought. Maybe this is Armageddon. Kevin brightened up for a moment. But it wasn't. This was a real, live debate between Allen and Webb. And here was Kevin, forced to watch it. He felt his head going numb. His ears began to tingle. Either blood was gushing out of his mouth, or he was drooling. He started to wipe his mouth to find out. At this point Kevin lost consciousness. I'll tell you the rest, as soon as Kevin comes to.

Bed Panned

It seems as if my health has become the number one topic in my life and I'm sure that delights you no end. There's nothing I enjoy more than listening to someone complain about how poorly he feels. Actually, for someone in so miserable a shape as I am, I feel pretty good...most of the time.
Saturday night was an exception to that. I was getting ready for bed and my heart started pounding. At first I thought that was because I had a new pair of Superman Returns pajamas with footies. But by the time I got into bed, my heart was racing so rapidly that I felt I was about to pass out. This happened just a few weeks ago. I finally told my wife...well, I didn't actually tell her. I clutched at my heart and began to moan. Within thirty minutes she got the picture.
When I explained what was happening, she lovingly said, "We can't afford to be taking you to the emergency room every time you feel a little faint." Well, she didn't actually say those exact words, but I could tell that's what she was thinking. Anyway, I finally crawled back to the closet, took my Supermans off and redressed.
I get to the hospital, and after they do an EKG, they put me in one of those little gurney beds in the emergency room. They hooked me up to a monitoring device, stuck a needle in my hand, just to be sticking something somewhere, and abandoned me.
I lay there for the next 4 hours waiting. They did leave the TV on, but by this time of night, all that was on were infomercials. I kept trying to get someone's attention because after the first hour, nature began to call, first softly, then louder and louder. Finally, I was able to grab hold of the side railing of the bed with one hand and lean over, suspending my body in mid-air, while I reached for the call button. I couldn't reach it, but I could jab at it, which started the button swaying on the cord. Acrobatically, I finally got it to swing to within my grasp. After I had punched the button, I waited no more than another half hour until a nurse comes in my room to see why I was interrupting their card game.
"Can you unhook me so I can use the restroom," I asked with about the same meekness Oliver Twist displayed in asking for more gruel. The woman leaves the room, as if she needs to get permission for me to go to the bathroom. She comes back with a plastic pitcher. I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I had a gown on, about 20 wires attached to various parts of my body, a plastic tumbler, hooked to a needle sticking out of my arm, and a blood pressure cuff sliding down the other arm. And, they expect me to use this little narrow-mouth pitcher? Since I had been feeling the urge for over an hour, I used the pitcher.
I got back into bed, readjusted all my wires and watched my heart rate on the monitor, only because that was more interesting than the infomercial for a course in stock trading. And I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally the doctor came in and said the heart doctor wanted to see me before they would release me. So I waited some more. I tried to sleep but the nurses (male and female) were having such a rollicking good time out in the hall that I couldn't fall asleep. I've been in quieter pool halls than this emergency room.
Finally, at about three-thirty Sunday morning I decided I had to get out of there. It wasn't a matter of wanting to leave. I had to. I really thought I was going to have some sort of panic attack. I pulled one of the wires off my chest. That started the bell ringing. I figured when a nurse responded to the ringing, I'd tell her I wanted to leave. No one ever came. I guess they figured that if I were dead, there was nothing they could do anyway, and if a wire were just loose, it was no cause for alarm.
I don't know why the nurses didn't get tired of the ringing. Maybe the clanking of glasses as they toasted one another drowned out the noise of my alarm bell. So, I pulled off another wire, and then another, until, before long, like Eric Clapton, I was unplugged.
I removed the little clip from my finger and the cuff from my arm. Still no one showed up. The only thing that stood between me and freedom was this needle sticking out of my hand. I started peeling off the bandages, and then grabbed the needle and ripped it from my flesh. Sure, I bled profusely, but it felt so good to be free. I put my clothes on and scurried out the door. I cleverly skulked down the hall, and out of the building. My wife was waiting outside, and in a scene that would remind one of the raid on Entebbe, I was gone.
I giggled like a teenager. Sometimes doing something daring and bold is refreshing. The cool thing is that my heart didn't skip a beat through the entire escape. Actually, I felt better than I had in years.
My wife thinks I'm crazy. I say, go ahead put me in an asylum. Lock me up in a straight jacket. I'm ready for my next great escape.

Now, That's Sick

After you read what I’m about to say, you’re going to think I’m a real hypochondriac. You would, of course, be wrong, but you’re going to think it. Here goes: I am just recovering from the worst case of flu any human has ever had to endure. Now you’re probably thinking, “Hey Steve, that’s absurd. Millions have died from flu.”
To that, I respond, true, but they weren’t as sick as I was. I really believe that. I ached in places I didn’t even know existed. My toenails hurt. My hair hurt.
I also know what a hot fudge sundae would feel like if a hot fudge sundae could feel. I was burning up and freezing at the same time. I don’t think that sort of thing has ever happened to anyone else before.
I was so sick I thought my internal organs were shutting down. I started to get up and write my will, but hey, let my wife and daughter figure out how to divide up the buck fifty-seven in my savings account.
One thing I got to do while I was recuperating was watch a lot of TV. I saw all sorts of shows, and since I couldn’t sleep at night I had the privilege of watching some of the late night stuff. Let me tell you, as bad as daytime and primetime TV is, overnight is downright horrible.
I saw some sort of Hollywood Insider show. Gee those folks in show business are a boring lot. I kind of get the impression that this Anna Nicole Smith person is just a wee bit self-obsessed. But maybe my ill health affected my disposition. I also saw Farrah Fawcett. Wow! Has she ever aged? When it comes to a time-ravaged face, I’d say Farah is the modern day Lucille Ball.
What’s really horrid are the late night commercials. There sure must be a lot of people interested in telephone dating. I saw one commercial after another for phone dating. Evidently there must be a lot of very beautiful women who are afraid that their looks intimidate men, so they’re forced to sit at home alone, and, if they’re lucky, to date via the phone. I’m just basing that on the commercials.
And besides dating ads, there must be a lot of lonely guys out there who just need friends because they kept running ads showing this guy who talked about how hard it was to hook up with other guys. So, they have a phone number guys can call and talk to other guys. I guess they’re talking about football, hunting, and stuff like that.
There was also a “Mark Foley Date-A-Senator line. I take that back. That was just a joke and I don’t think I should joke about it. Foley has said he’s sorry. He said he’s put that part of his life behind him and has turned to a new page. I think I should believe him. After all, it wasn’t him hitting on boys, it was the alcohol. Oh yeah, and he was a victim of clergy abuse too.
I was a victim of clergy abuse last night. I flipped to a channel that showed a group of people waving green handkerchiefs in the air. There was a guy on stage whooping it up. I thought he must be some sort of raunchy comedian. But, I soon learned (and my apologies to all raunchy comedians), the guy was a TV evangelist. He was hawking this green prayer handkerchief…said it would heal just about anything. Judging from the guy’s looks, I’m thinking maybe he should try wiping his face with it.
Anyway, to wrap this up, I’m feeling much better. And without the help of a green hanky. I know you’re glad to hear that I’m all well now. Except I do have a slight pain in my neck. You don’t suppose that could be meningitis, do you?