So, I go in a small retail store this evening. It's about 6:45 and the sign on the door makes it clear, in no uncertain terms, this store closes at 7 PM. The "OPEN" sign is lit, but, let's not get too giddy. The store will close at 7. I can live with that. I'm not moving in...just kinda checking the store out.
So, the clerk, in typical friendly clerk fashion says, "Excuse me, but you do know we close at seven, don't you."
"I can read," I reply politely. And I proceed to look around...somewhat thoughtlessly, I guess. I had the nerve to shop when the clerk wanted to vacuum the store.
And now, I'm feeling so remorseful. How dare I to think that I should go in a store where the clerks were looking forward to closing up. Who did I think I was anyway?
It's not the first time I've done something so cruel. I went into a restaurant recently. I can't say I went in under false pretenses. I knew full well that the restaurant was going to be closing in about an hour. And yet, with full knowledge, and total lack of regard for the waitstaff who were apparently running the place, I went right in, sat down, and even had the nerve to order something.
The way the waitress slapped the water glasses down on the table should have been a wake up call to me. If I had any human compassion whatsoever, I would have realized that this waitress was being forced (by me) to actually take an order and serve food, and with less than an hour left on her shift.
Why, I was so rude that night, that I didn't even lift my feet that high when one of the waiters was trying to vacuum under my table. It's a wonder they didn't just throw me out on my ear.
People like me shouldn't even be allowed to mix with the rest of society. If I had even a shred of decency, I'd never enter any business after noon. I'm sure from that point on they're just counting down the minutes until they can flip the old sign to "Sorry, We're Closed."
Why should I presume on these dear, dear folk. Don't they work hard enough as it is. I mean by the time they get the open sign set up and turn all the lights on, why these young clerks have hardly any time to themselves, you know, time to make those personal phone calls, and buff their nails and polish their piercings...you know the important stuff.
I ask again, just who do I think I am. The other day, I was in a store and I had picked up a few items that I wanted to purchase. Without any regard for anyone other than my own selfish self, I marched right up to the counter, plopped my items down, pulled out my wallet, and just glared at the two young people behind the counter.
What is wrong with me. Obviously, these two had important matters to discuss. One of them, the blonde, I think, had gone out with Greg the other night, and Greg is so cool, but she (the blonde) doesn't really think they hit it off all that much, and the other girl, the one with the really, really red hair, knew just what the blonde was talking about, because she used to date this guy and he really had a lot going for him, but somehow their just wasn't that, you know, that connection.
Rather than doing the right thing and quietly tip toe out the store without disturbing these two bright young people, I had the audacity to clear my throat. And it wasn't that little subtle throat-clearing. It was a loud, obnoxious harrummph. You know the kind that has some substance to it.
It did have the intended impact. Both young ladies interrupted their meaningful dialogue and one even got up and came over and rang up my purchases. I almost felt guilty asking them to take my money.
Again, I ask, just who do I think I am? A good-for-nothing jerk, that's who. Really, who other than a jerk would ask the clerk at Food Lion to do a price check when she rings up an item at a price significantly higher than that posted in the aisle. I mean, the cashier told me I was wrong. She made it clear that she had more important things to do than call someone over and interrupt their time to go check a price for me.
The fact that I was right is little solace when I stop to think about how much I expected of these people. They have jobs to do. They have personal agendas which keep them pretty busy, and yet, here I waltz into their lives like I'm some sort of prima donna saying, "Hey, look at me. Take my money. Wait on me."
So, here's an open letter, or whatever to all of you clerks and cashiers and waitpersons out there. To all of you, I humbly say, "Please forgive me. If at all possible, I'll never, ever bother you again."
Your humble servant,
Steve
Monday, July 31, 2006
My Ongoing Love Affair With Television News
Inasmuch as I'm still in the throes of terminal writer's block, and inasmuch as no one has stepped up to the plate to write my blog, I've decided to just paste the transcript to this morning's CBS early morning show...whatever they're calling it these days.
So, here goes:
ANNOUNCER: Good morning! This is Rita Emweep and there's a lot going on this morning in the Middle East. It's day 20 of continuous bombing. But first, this breaking story on Mel Gibson's run-in with the law. Standing by in California is our entertainment editor, Holly Wood. Good morning, Holly.
HOLLY: Good morning Rita. Yes, speculation abounds in the motion picture capital of the world as to Gibson's future in the industry. As you know, the aging actor was arrested for drunk driving Saturday night, and despite official police reports, it appears from the original report of the arresting officer that Gibson was downright rude.
RITA: Holly, any word on the rumor that despite official police reports, Gibson was downright rude to the arresting officer?
HOLLY: You couldn't be more correct, or observant, Rita. Gibson was rude. In fact, it was reported that Gibson made several anti-semitic comments. You may recall that when the Passion of the Christ was released, Gibson's ultra-conservative father publicly stated that much of the Holocaust was fictitious. So, many insiders here are thinking Gibson was affected by his father.
RITA: If I'm not mistaken, Holly, hasn't Gibson's father made some rather questionable comments himself?
HOLLY: I have no eartlhy idea what you're talking about, Rita.
RITA: Well, there you have it...straight from Holly Wood. On a more serious note, and before we get to the Mid-East crisis, we want to tell you about a problem that many are having to face this time of year, and that's swimmer's ear. For that, we go to our medical editor, Dr. Gene Pool. Hi Gene.
GENE: Hey, Rita. Right you are, Rita. Summertime, for some inexplicable reason seems to see a much higher incidence of swimmer's ear.
RITA: Let me interrupt you, Dr. Gene. Might it be because more people go swimming in the summer?
GENE: By George! You may have hit on something there, Rita. I can't wait to get back to that disease place in Georgia and bring that up.
RITA: You mean the Center for Disease Control?
GENE: What?
RITA: Are you talking about the Center for Disease Control, in Atlanta?
GENE: Well, I hadn't planned to. I was going to do a report on swimmer's ear. If I may?
RITA: I'm sorry, Dr. Gene, but we're getting a late breaking story in, so we're going to have to postpone your report, maybe til later in the fall if that's okay.
GENE: But, Rita...
RITA: Now, more on this late-breaking report. The crisis in the Middle East is escalating. Some have even speculated that we are on the verge of World War III. Or is that "3"? CBS, in anticipation of such a catastrophe has announced a major agreement with the McDonald's Corporation. For more on this, we go to our business editor, Dow Jones. Good morning Dow.
DOW: Rita, in an unprecedented agreement, CBS News and the McDonald's Corporation have announced a major agreement that McDonald's will be the exclusive sponsor, not only of World War III, but wars IV, V, and VI as well. And, while it has not been announced, rumor has it that the fast food chain will also be sponsoring the very end of the world itself.
RITA: Wow Dow! That is good news, especially for all of us at CBS. Will there be any merchandising tie-ins?
DOW: You can bet on that, Rita. While, I'm sure there'll be plenty of announcements to come, I have learned that already, McDonald's is introducing a transformer toy.
RITA: Cool, I always loved those. Is this something like a truck that turns into a tank or something like that.
DOW: Hey, that would be a good idea. I'll pass that along. But, actually, this is a missile that turns into a hamburger.
RITA: Let me see if I have this straight. You take a toy missile and turn it into a toy hamburger?
DOW: You're close, Rita. Actually, you take the toy missile and turn it into a real hamburger. In other words, after the kiddies are through playing with it, they can actually eat it. That'll stop mom from having to say, "Kids, stop playing with your food."
RITA: So, the missile is made of ground beef?
DOW: Heavens no! That would be somewhat disgusting, wouldn't it. Actually, the missile is made of a beef-flavored soft plastic material, the same material which McDonald's uses for their hamburgers now.
RITA: Thanks Dow. Another interesting report. Well, we were going to bring you the latest from the Middle East, but our time is up for this half-hour. We now go to your local afilliates so that the two anchors can try to emulate us here at CBS by engaging in clever repartee. In our next half-hour, we'll try to get to that Israel thing, but, beforre that, we will have a report on a cat with two faces. You don't want to miss that. Stick around.
LOCAL CUT-IN
GREG MCQUAKE: Did you hear that, Julie? A cat with two faces. Now, that's scary stuff.
JULIE: Sounds like you're a fraidy-cat, Greg.
SOUNDS OF LAUGHTER CONTINUED THROUGHOUT THE BALANCE OF THE LOCAL CUT-IN
So, here goes:
ANNOUNCER: Good morning! This is Rita Emweep and there's a lot going on this morning in the Middle East. It's day 20 of continuous bombing. But first, this breaking story on Mel Gibson's run-in with the law. Standing by in California is our entertainment editor, Holly Wood. Good morning, Holly.
HOLLY: Good morning Rita. Yes, speculation abounds in the motion picture capital of the world as to Gibson's future in the industry. As you know, the aging actor was arrested for drunk driving Saturday night, and despite official police reports, it appears from the original report of the arresting officer that Gibson was downright rude.
RITA: Holly, any word on the rumor that despite official police reports, Gibson was downright rude to the arresting officer?
HOLLY: You couldn't be more correct, or observant, Rita. Gibson was rude. In fact, it was reported that Gibson made several anti-semitic comments. You may recall that when the Passion of the Christ was released, Gibson's ultra-conservative father publicly stated that much of the Holocaust was fictitious. So, many insiders here are thinking Gibson was affected by his father.
RITA: If I'm not mistaken, Holly, hasn't Gibson's father made some rather questionable comments himself?
HOLLY: I have no eartlhy idea what you're talking about, Rita.
RITA: Well, there you have it...straight from Holly Wood. On a more serious note, and before we get to the Mid-East crisis, we want to tell you about a problem that many are having to face this time of year, and that's swimmer's ear. For that, we go to our medical editor, Dr. Gene Pool. Hi Gene.
GENE: Hey, Rita. Right you are, Rita. Summertime, for some inexplicable reason seems to see a much higher incidence of swimmer's ear.
RITA: Let me interrupt you, Dr. Gene. Might it be because more people go swimming in the summer?
GENE: By George! You may have hit on something there, Rita. I can't wait to get back to that disease place in Georgia and bring that up.
RITA: You mean the Center for Disease Control?
GENE: What?
RITA: Are you talking about the Center for Disease Control, in Atlanta?
GENE: Well, I hadn't planned to. I was going to do a report on swimmer's ear. If I may?
RITA: I'm sorry, Dr. Gene, but we're getting a late breaking story in, so we're going to have to postpone your report, maybe til later in the fall if that's okay.
GENE: But, Rita...
RITA: Now, more on this late-breaking report. The crisis in the Middle East is escalating. Some have even speculated that we are on the verge of World War III. Or is that "3"? CBS, in anticipation of such a catastrophe has announced a major agreement with the McDonald's Corporation. For more on this, we go to our business editor, Dow Jones. Good morning Dow.
DOW: Rita, in an unprecedented agreement, CBS News and the McDonald's Corporation have announced a major agreement that McDonald's will be the exclusive sponsor, not only of World War III, but wars IV, V, and VI as well. And, while it has not been announced, rumor has it that the fast food chain will also be sponsoring the very end of the world itself.
RITA: Wow Dow! That is good news, especially for all of us at CBS. Will there be any merchandising tie-ins?
DOW: You can bet on that, Rita. While, I'm sure there'll be plenty of announcements to come, I have learned that already, McDonald's is introducing a transformer toy.
RITA: Cool, I always loved those. Is this something like a truck that turns into a tank or something like that.
DOW: Hey, that would be a good idea. I'll pass that along. But, actually, this is a missile that turns into a hamburger.
RITA: Let me see if I have this straight. You take a toy missile and turn it into a toy hamburger?
DOW: You're close, Rita. Actually, you take the toy missile and turn it into a real hamburger. In other words, after the kiddies are through playing with it, they can actually eat it. That'll stop mom from having to say, "Kids, stop playing with your food."
RITA: So, the missile is made of ground beef?
DOW: Heavens no! That would be somewhat disgusting, wouldn't it. Actually, the missile is made of a beef-flavored soft plastic material, the same material which McDonald's uses for their hamburgers now.
RITA: Thanks Dow. Another interesting report. Well, we were going to bring you the latest from the Middle East, but our time is up for this half-hour. We now go to your local afilliates so that the two anchors can try to emulate us here at CBS by engaging in clever repartee. In our next half-hour, we'll try to get to that Israel thing, but, beforre that, we will have a report on a cat with two faces. You don't want to miss that. Stick around.
LOCAL CUT-IN
GREG MCQUAKE: Did you hear that, Julie? A cat with two faces. Now, that's scary stuff.
JULIE: Sounds like you're a fraidy-cat, Greg.
SOUNDS OF LAUGHTER CONTINUED THROUGHOUT THE BALANCE OF THE LOCAL CUT-IN
Friday, July 28, 2006
The Emperor's New Theory
As you've perhaps been able to figure out, all my creative juices have been sapped by the summer sun. It's a good thing I still have my L'Occitaine Essential Water and Precious Fluid, or my face would be as withered as my brain.
It's not entirely my fault. After all, the state of Virginia has either fried or lethally injected the really interesting people over the past few weeks.
I have been doing a lot of serious thinking recently. WARNING: THIS MEANS THERE'S NO HUMOR CONTAINED IN THE FOLLOWING.
I've been thinking about how foolish the theory of evolution really is. I was pleased to read recently that in a survey, 80% of Americans beleive in a creator. So, those 100% of nature video narrators haven't made as many inroads as they may think they have.
I'm not the world's deepest thinker, but I really can't understand how anyone can believe everything happened by chance. I think the whole evolution movement is the ultimate application of the Emperor's New Clothing. You see, it's like this...someone comes up with the idea that given enough millenniums anything could come about by accident, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. I did experiment though. I tried to see how many car payments I could miss before my car payment got made by chance. That's why I'm now driving a 1994 Saturn. But, anyway, someone came up with this idea and whenever any reasonable person would say, "I don't see the logic in that," they would be told that only intelligent people saw the logic.
So, pretty soon, in order to appear intelligent a bunch of people started saying they saw the logic in evolution. However, in this little darwinian play I just laid out for you, I play the precious child who shrieks, "Hey, the evolution emperor is naked."
Now before you try to pit your mental prowess against mine, I simply ask you to consider two factors. I call them the "Two Main Reasons I Don't See the Logic In Evolution" factors.
Number 1 is eyebrows. I think eyebrows are a pretty good feature to have on your face. But, they're kind of like cupholders in the car. You don't really need them to drive the car. In fact, my 1994 Saturn has no cupholders, except for the recess between my two flabby thighs.
So, if evolution is true, we (meaning that ancestor pool we share with the primates) somewhere down the line, lost our fur but kept some hair. Why did nature choose to put hair over our eyes. I can see why a designer would do that. If you can't, then go pour some GatorAde in your eyes. But, it's not like the inferior life form is going to lose so many battles due to sweat in his eyes that the eyebrowed life form wins out.
In fact, if there were any female early forms of mostly human people, they would have spent so much time trying to pluck their eyebrows with two rocks that I'm betting the non-eyebrowed clan could have smeared them into oblivion.
The fact that there would almost have to be a female version of early man (early woman), brings me to factor number 2.
2) - Dating. Now, I'm not talking about Fred taking Wilma to the drive-in. I use the term dating somewhat euphemistically. What I'm really saying (wink wink nod nod) is that for the human race to happen (via evolution, this is) you'd have to have had a full human male come along at the same exact time as a full human female, if you see where I'm coming from.
You see, evolutionists are counting on having unlimited amounts of mythological years to throw at their problems. They even have convinced many that something that could never happen, could really happen in a million years, or if a million seems to paltry, let's make it a billion years...yeah, that's the ticket.
But, let's say this monkey gives birth to a little boy. (I may be a little over-simplistic here, but I think I'm pretty much on target) First thing, if I were a monkey who had this skin-covered baby, I'd probably eat it, or kill it or something. You sure don't want that ugly thing lying around the cave. But, let's humor the evolutionists. Let's say the monkey mom was the compassionate type. So, she convinces her husband to let the hideous little creature live. All is good. Except little human boy can't get a date. Well, it's not that he can't. He could "date" some of the other monkeys, but I'm betting they aren't attracted to him, maybe even vice versa.
In the real world of real people giving in to real urges, there would have to be some sort of human senior prom to keep the line going. That means Wilma would have to be born to another primate family just a few caves over, at the same time.
If Fred is born, in let's say 1,000,000 B.C. (just an aside, if evoution were true there'd be no need for "C" - think about that) and Wilma doesn't come along until 999,850, Fred is dead while Wilma wilts. I don't really know what I meant by that, but it sort of flowed. I think all in all there's sheer brilliance in my reasoning. My logic is fully clothed. It even has an overcoat on.
At least that's the way I see things. In fact, I'm so convinced that I'm right here, that I'm going to put my money where my mouth (really fingers) is (really are). I will give one thousand dollars in cash to the first person who can convince me that I'm an idiot. Any takers?
I thought not.
It's not entirely my fault. After all, the state of Virginia has either fried or lethally injected the really interesting people over the past few weeks.
I have been doing a lot of serious thinking recently. WARNING: THIS MEANS THERE'S NO HUMOR CONTAINED IN THE FOLLOWING.
I've been thinking about how foolish the theory of evolution really is. I was pleased to read recently that in a survey, 80% of Americans beleive in a creator. So, those 100% of nature video narrators haven't made as many inroads as they may think they have.
I'm not the world's deepest thinker, but I really can't understand how anyone can believe everything happened by chance. I think the whole evolution movement is the ultimate application of the Emperor's New Clothing. You see, it's like this...someone comes up with the idea that given enough millenniums anything could come about by accident, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. I did experiment though. I tried to see how many car payments I could miss before my car payment got made by chance. That's why I'm now driving a 1994 Saturn. But, anyway, someone came up with this idea and whenever any reasonable person would say, "I don't see the logic in that," they would be told that only intelligent people saw the logic.
So, pretty soon, in order to appear intelligent a bunch of people started saying they saw the logic in evolution. However, in this little darwinian play I just laid out for you, I play the precious child who shrieks, "Hey, the evolution emperor is naked."
Now before you try to pit your mental prowess against mine, I simply ask you to consider two factors. I call them the "Two Main Reasons I Don't See the Logic In Evolution" factors.
Number 1 is eyebrows. I think eyebrows are a pretty good feature to have on your face. But, they're kind of like cupholders in the car. You don't really need them to drive the car. In fact, my 1994 Saturn has no cupholders, except for the recess between my two flabby thighs.
So, if evolution is true, we (meaning that ancestor pool we share with the primates) somewhere down the line, lost our fur but kept some hair. Why did nature choose to put hair over our eyes. I can see why a designer would do that. If you can't, then go pour some GatorAde in your eyes. But, it's not like the inferior life form is going to lose so many battles due to sweat in his eyes that the eyebrowed life form wins out.
In fact, if there were any female early forms of mostly human people, they would have spent so much time trying to pluck their eyebrows with two rocks that I'm betting the non-eyebrowed clan could have smeared them into oblivion.
The fact that there would almost have to be a female version of early man (early woman), brings me to factor number 2.
2) - Dating. Now, I'm not talking about Fred taking Wilma to the drive-in. I use the term dating somewhat euphemistically. What I'm really saying (wink wink nod nod) is that for the human race to happen (via evolution, this is) you'd have to have had a full human male come along at the same exact time as a full human female, if you see where I'm coming from.
You see, evolutionists are counting on having unlimited amounts of mythological years to throw at their problems. They even have convinced many that something that could never happen, could really happen in a million years, or if a million seems to paltry, let's make it a billion years...yeah, that's the ticket.
But, let's say this monkey gives birth to a little boy. (I may be a little over-simplistic here, but I think I'm pretty much on target) First thing, if I were a monkey who had this skin-covered baby, I'd probably eat it, or kill it or something. You sure don't want that ugly thing lying around the cave. But, let's humor the evolutionists. Let's say the monkey mom was the compassionate type. So, she convinces her husband to let the hideous little creature live. All is good. Except little human boy can't get a date. Well, it's not that he can't. He could "date" some of the other monkeys, but I'm betting they aren't attracted to him, maybe even vice versa.
In the real world of real people giving in to real urges, there would have to be some sort of human senior prom to keep the line going. That means Wilma would have to be born to another primate family just a few caves over, at the same time.
If Fred is born, in let's say 1,000,000 B.C. (just an aside, if evoution were true there'd be no need for "C" - think about that) and Wilma doesn't come along until 999,850, Fred is dead while Wilma wilts. I don't really know what I meant by that, but it sort of flowed. I think all in all there's sheer brilliance in my reasoning. My logic is fully clothed. It even has an overcoat on.
At least that's the way I see things. In fact, I'm so convinced that I'm right here, that I'm going to put my money where my mouth (really fingers) is (really are). I will give one thousand dollars in cash to the first person who can convince me that I'm an idiot. Any takers?
I thought not.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Running A Fowl of the Faithful
So, I’m sitting at the desk, absent-mindedly picking at belly button lint. My boss slaps my hand, screaming, “I said leave me alone!”
In response, I go back to my own desk and decide to check my email. Lo and behold, I actually get one that’s not trying to sell me a stock, a Rolex watch, or some sort of medication.
It’s from a Reverend Owen Christopher. Mr. Christopher, it seems was somewhat offended by my reference to Sandersria, the somewhat off-beat religion I had written about this morning.
He said, and I’ll quote, “Mr. Cook, may you burn in the eternal flames of hot oil for blaspheming our religion.”
He has my attention…another fan, I’m thinking. He goes on…
“You seem to take our beliefs very lightly. Do you not have even a modicum of appreciation for the feelings of dozens of Sanders-fearing upright men and women who practice our faith?”
First, let me say to Reverend Christopher, “I sir, used to have a modicum, but it broke.”
The good Rev continues, “We are a sincere group of individuals who have been looking for, yes, praying for the Colonel’s Second Helping. And rubbish such as you write can only serve to humiliate us.”
Once again, I interrupt the man of the cloth napkin to assure him and you that I am very fond of his Colonel. I don’t view him as divine, but certainly as a great profit center.
Christopher continues, “Our faith has taken quite a hit over the past few years. First there was that “extra crispy” apostate movement. Then some of our less faithful leaders took the very name Kentucky off our signs, replacing it with the offensive ‘KFC.
“I, sir am very vocal in proclaiming, ‘Put the Kentucky back into K.”
The pastor makes a good point. I personally think a bucket of chicken has become too commercialized. Have you seen what they’re charging – an arm and a leg for a breast and a leg?
But, I digress…the Reverend Christopher concludes, “Perhaps I am over-reacting, but our little group has taken some hard knocks lately. That sweet sticky sauce on the wings was outright blasphemy, but the very worst thing, the most unimaginable thing, and I’m sure if the Colonel were alive today he’d be spinning in his grave, is that horid ecumenical movement. Of course, I refer to the adulterating of pure Sandersria with Pizza Hutian beliefs. A sacrilege…an outrage.”
The reverend concluded with the typical, "Sanders bless."
I’m sharing this with you, my friends in an effort to say, “let’s all stop and smell the roses.”
No, that’s not what I wanted to say. It had something to do with walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes. I tell you what. I’m going to get a big box of wings and go sit down and think this over for a bit.
In response, I go back to my own desk and decide to check my email. Lo and behold, I actually get one that’s not trying to sell me a stock, a Rolex watch, or some sort of medication.
It’s from a Reverend Owen Christopher. Mr. Christopher, it seems was somewhat offended by my reference to Sandersria, the somewhat off-beat religion I had written about this morning.
He said, and I’ll quote, “Mr. Cook, may you burn in the eternal flames of hot oil for blaspheming our religion.”
He has my attention…another fan, I’m thinking. He goes on…
“You seem to take our beliefs very lightly. Do you not have even a modicum of appreciation for the feelings of dozens of Sanders-fearing upright men and women who practice our faith?”
First, let me say to Reverend Christopher, “I sir, used to have a modicum, but it broke.”
The good Rev continues, “We are a sincere group of individuals who have been looking for, yes, praying for the Colonel’s Second Helping. And rubbish such as you write can only serve to humiliate us.”
Once again, I interrupt the man of the cloth napkin to assure him and you that I am very fond of his Colonel. I don’t view him as divine, but certainly as a great profit center.
Christopher continues, “Our faith has taken quite a hit over the past few years. First there was that “extra crispy” apostate movement. Then some of our less faithful leaders took the very name Kentucky off our signs, replacing it with the offensive ‘KFC.
“I, sir am very vocal in proclaiming, ‘Put the Kentucky back into K.”
The pastor makes a good point. I personally think a bucket of chicken has become too commercialized. Have you seen what they’re charging – an arm and a leg for a breast and a leg?
But, I digress…the Reverend Christopher concludes, “Perhaps I am over-reacting, but our little group has taken some hard knocks lately. That sweet sticky sauce on the wings was outright blasphemy, but the very worst thing, the most unimaginable thing, and I’m sure if the Colonel were alive today he’d be spinning in his grave, is that horid ecumenical movement. Of course, I refer to the adulterating of pure Sandersria with Pizza Hutian beliefs. A sacrilege…an outrage.”
The reverend concluded with the typical, "Sanders bless."
I’m sharing this with you, my friends in an effort to say, “let’s all stop and smell the roses.”
No, that’s not what I wanted to say. It had something to do with walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes. I tell you what. I’m going to get a big box of wings and go sit down and think this over for a bit.
You Know You're a Norse Heathen...If Your Church Service Ends With A Lethal Injection
I was in the men's room at Ukrop's today. I know that, in itself, is not fascinating. As one rapidly approaching senior citizen's status, I find myself in the men's room at many locations around town. Well, when I say I find myself, I don't mean that I regain consciousness and discover that's where I am. I went in their on my own volition.
Anyway, I knew the Ukrop's family is somewhat a corporate bumper sticker for their religious convictions, but, even so, I was a tad suprised to see that they had etched on the restroom stall the statement, "Jesus saves." Interestingly, below that, someone else (I'm presuming) had etched: "And you can too...at Food Lion."
I'd been thinking about religion lately. There are some strange ones out there. What got me on that mindset is the story about Michael Lenz. He's the Virginia death-row inmate who's about to be lethally injected for killing a fellow inmate during a religious ritual. Seems the fellow inmate - the dead one - was a backslider. He wasn't serving his Norse gods in the manner that the other inmate - the amost dead one - thought he should.
The way I look at it, those Norse god religions are kinda backwoodsy compared to some of the world's major religions. I mean, think about it - the major religions kill hundreds, if not thousands of people at a time in the name of religion. These Norse heathenists can only muster one person, and a prisoner at that. If you ask me, it's kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.
I'll have to remember to ask my old friend Lochru more about this the next time I see him.
There are other interesting religions, that, at first glance might seem a little strange. For instance, there's the Frisbeeterians. They believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it down.
I think if I were going to choose a cult, I'd be partial to the Sandersria. This is a little-known religion found in the southeastern part of the United States. Their major practice, and the one that draws in the most converts, involves sacrificing a chicken, then frying it up with several delicious herbs and spices and serving with mashed potatoes and biscuits. Devotees follow that up with a two-hour sleep-like state in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
If you ask me, that's a lot more enjoyable than having to go out and kill people. With my luck, I'd end up killing the wrong guys. But, when it comes to ingesting a fried chicken, you can hardly go wrong. I've never, to my recollection, eaten a chicken I didn't like.
Well, I hope I'm not sounding like a religious fanatic here. Keep in mind, I'm not a practicing Sandersria. And, with clogged arteries, I'm not about to go headlong into the movement. But, hey, once in a while, a nugget or two sure can't hurt.
Anyway, I knew the Ukrop's family is somewhat a corporate bumper sticker for their religious convictions, but, even so, I was a tad suprised to see that they had etched on the restroom stall the statement, "Jesus saves." Interestingly, below that, someone else (I'm presuming) had etched: "And you can too...at Food Lion."
I'd been thinking about religion lately. There are some strange ones out there. What got me on that mindset is the story about Michael Lenz. He's the Virginia death-row inmate who's about to be lethally injected for killing a fellow inmate during a religious ritual. Seems the fellow inmate - the dead one - was a backslider. He wasn't serving his Norse gods in the manner that the other inmate - the amost dead one - thought he should.
The way I look at it, those Norse god religions are kinda backwoodsy compared to some of the world's major religions. I mean, think about it - the major religions kill hundreds, if not thousands of people at a time in the name of religion. These Norse heathenists can only muster one person, and a prisoner at that. If you ask me, it's kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.
I'll have to remember to ask my old friend Lochru more about this the next time I see him.
There are other interesting religions, that, at first glance might seem a little strange. For instance, there's the Frisbeeterians. They believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it down.
I think if I were going to choose a cult, I'd be partial to the Sandersria. This is a little-known religion found in the southeastern part of the United States. Their major practice, and the one that draws in the most converts, involves sacrificing a chicken, then frying it up with several delicious herbs and spices and serving with mashed potatoes and biscuits. Devotees follow that up with a two-hour sleep-like state in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
If you ask me, that's a lot more enjoyable than having to go out and kill people. With my luck, I'd end up killing the wrong guys. But, when it comes to ingesting a fried chicken, you can hardly go wrong. I've never, to my recollection, eaten a chicken I didn't like.
Well, I hope I'm not sounding like a religious fanatic here. Keep in mind, I'm not a practicing Sandersria. And, with clogged arteries, I'm not about to go headlong into the movement. But, hey, once in a while, a nugget or two sure can't hurt.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
It's A Big Beautiful Stupid World Out There And I'm Loving It.
Well, I'm back. And I think I'm man enough that the truth can be told now. I've been in a rest home over the past few weeks. Special thanks to Lars Kirkengaard, a rising sixty-grader at Maude Trevette Elementary School in Henrico for so capably filling in for me.
I didn't, in the truest sense of the word, have a comlete breakdown. But, I had a nervous condition brought on by the lack of really funny stuff about which to write.
You see, truth be known, I have no genuine sense of humor. I just recognize something stupid when I see it. But the stupidity has to have a measure of funniness. I mean with the nations of the world at each other's throats, there's lots of stupid going on, but none of it is all that funny.
I was about to give up all hope, and then I heard Jimmy Barrett interviewing Chad Siewert on WRVA this morning. As soon as the interview was concluded, I unfastened my straight jacket, and headed back to the keyboard. I'm a new man. I'm reinvigorated. Yessireebob, there is stupid news tonight.
Siewert, in case you haven't heard is a South Richmond guy, a former soldier, in fact, who has posted a sign in the yard of his Jahnke Road home encouraging people to just take a minute and stop and think about the whole 9-11 controversy. Siewert, evidently just by looking at a few websites, has pretty much figured this whole 9-11 conspiracy theory out.
"It was an inside job." That's what Siewert has discovered. He even knows the reason why the United States government decided to destroy the World Trade Center and a portion of the Pentagon. It was to gain support for a war in Afgahanistan. Makes sense to me. I'm just glad Bush was able to convince us that Sadam had WOMD. Who knows what the President would have done to get support for a war in Iraq. I'm thinking he may have even have had to have himself bombed.
Now, I admit, as brilliant as Siewert's reasoning seems to be, I do see a loophole or two. Let me, if you will, play devil's advocate for just a sec.
If the government was so willing to kill millions of its citizens on September 11th, why don't they just pop Siewert's little head off next time he sits out in his front yard? Now, keep in mind, I'm not recommending that. I'm just trying to think presidentially.
Siewert, based on what he told Barrett, sits outside quite a bit. Apparently when motorists drive by, they'll often stop and want to engage him in intellectual debate. From what I could discern, that would be tantamount to me trying to debate relativity with Einstein himself.
Chad Siewert, when it comes to conspiracies, is a mental giant. So much so, that he says that everyone - and he means EVERYONE - who debates him comes away convinced he's right on target. I'd say that's a pretty good batting average. I mean, even Jesus couldn't convince everyone. Of course, Jesus never, to my knowledge, ever thought to use yard signs.
Now, keep in mind that not everyone stops to debate Siewert. Many, he says, just honk their horn as they go by to tell him they're on his side. I think Jesus did come up with that bumper sticker first.
Anyway, Chad Siewert is a powerfully convincing guy. But, again, I do have a few questions. Obviously, Siewert has the answers, but what I'd like to know is this: The guy says that one of the reasons he knows the whole 9-11 thing is a hoax is because he's been on the official FBI website and they don't even mention Osama Ben Ladin as being most wanted.
It kind of makes sense, but before I join Siewert's Army, I would like to know why George Bush doesn't just make that guy doing the FBI's website put Ben Ladin on the most wanted list. And, if the guy didn't want to do it, Bush could just have him killed. In fact, Bush could hire himself another plane and just destroy the whole FBI building if the feds weren't willing to help him with his coverup.
Really, once you've killed several thousand citizens, why wimp out now? I'm sure that after I've massacred my first thousand people, there'd be no stopping me. But, then I'm not the president. Maybe George Bush has some diabolical plan that involves keeping Chad Siewert alive.
If so, that's fine with me. Personally, I want to tell Mr. Siewert how much I appreciate him. Had it not been for him, and Jimmy Barrett, of course, I'd at this very moment be sitting in the Shady Meadows' basket weaving for seniors class. And, do you have any idea how difficult it is to weave a basket with your hands strapped behind your back?
I didn't, in the truest sense of the word, have a comlete breakdown. But, I had a nervous condition brought on by the lack of really funny stuff about which to write.
You see, truth be known, I have no genuine sense of humor. I just recognize something stupid when I see it. But the stupidity has to have a measure of funniness. I mean with the nations of the world at each other's throats, there's lots of stupid going on, but none of it is all that funny.
I was about to give up all hope, and then I heard Jimmy Barrett interviewing Chad Siewert on WRVA this morning. As soon as the interview was concluded, I unfastened my straight jacket, and headed back to the keyboard. I'm a new man. I'm reinvigorated. Yessireebob, there is stupid news tonight.
Siewert, in case you haven't heard is a South Richmond guy, a former soldier, in fact, who has posted a sign in the yard of his Jahnke Road home encouraging people to just take a minute and stop and think about the whole 9-11 controversy. Siewert, evidently just by looking at a few websites, has pretty much figured this whole 9-11 conspiracy theory out.
"It was an inside job." That's what Siewert has discovered. He even knows the reason why the United States government decided to destroy the World Trade Center and a portion of the Pentagon. It was to gain support for a war in Afgahanistan. Makes sense to me. I'm just glad Bush was able to convince us that Sadam had WOMD. Who knows what the President would have done to get support for a war in Iraq. I'm thinking he may have even have had to have himself bombed.
Now, I admit, as brilliant as Siewert's reasoning seems to be, I do see a loophole or two. Let me, if you will, play devil's advocate for just a sec.
If the government was so willing to kill millions of its citizens on September 11th, why don't they just pop Siewert's little head off next time he sits out in his front yard? Now, keep in mind, I'm not recommending that. I'm just trying to think presidentially.
Siewert, based on what he told Barrett, sits outside quite a bit. Apparently when motorists drive by, they'll often stop and want to engage him in intellectual debate. From what I could discern, that would be tantamount to me trying to debate relativity with Einstein himself.
Chad Siewert, when it comes to conspiracies, is a mental giant. So much so, that he says that everyone - and he means EVERYONE - who debates him comes away convinced he's right on target. I'd say that's a pretty good batting average. I mean, even Jesus couldn't convince everyone. Of course, Jesus never, to my knowledge, ever thought to use yard signs.
Now, keep in mind that not everyone stops to debate Siewert. Many, he says, just honk their horn as they go by to tell him they're on his side. I think Jesus did come up with that bumper sticker first.
Anyway, Chad Siewert is a powerfully convincing guy. But, again, I do have a few questions. Obviously, Siewert has the answers, but what I'd like to know is this: The guy says that one of the reasons he knows the whole 9-11 thing is a hoax is because he's been on the official FBI website and they don't even mention Osama Ben Ladin as being most wanted.
It kind of makes sense, but before I join Siewert's Army, I would like to know why George Bush doesn't just make that guy doing the FBI's website put Ben Ladin on the most wanted list. And, if the guy didn't want to do it, Bush could just have him killed. In fact, Bush could hire himself another plane and just destroy the whole FBI building if the feds weren't willing to help him with his coverup.
Really, once you've killed several thousand citizens, why wimp out now? I'm sure that after I've massacred my first thousand people, there'd be no stopping me. But, then I'm not the president. Maybe George Bush has some diabolical plan that involves keeping Chad Siewert alive.
If so, that's fine with me. Personally, I want to tell Mr. Siewert how much I appreciate him. Had it not been for him, and Jimmy Barrett, of course, I'd at this very moment be sitting in the Shady Meadows' basket weaving for seniors class. And, do you have any idea how difficult it is to weave a basket with your hands strapped behind your back?
Monday, July 24, 2006
Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave, When First We Practice to Be Clever
So, I’m sitting at the computer with my wife Francesca. She is checking out my latest blog.
“What do you mean by blaming your stupid ideas on me having a dream?” she asked inquisitively.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied sardonically.
“There’s no need for you to be sardonic,” she says thesaurically. “And don’t avoid my question. You’ve made me look foolish. I had no such dream about your being missing. And, what is more, who is this Morgan Fairchild?”
I prudently ignored the Morgan Fairchild question. “I’m being totally sincere,” I said totally sincerely. “I really don’t know what you mean about your dream.”
“Sure you don’t,” she said, semi-sardonically. “You got into some stupid story line about your being missing and the best way you could think of to get out of it was to make up some idiocy about it all being my dream.”
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, look here on my computer,” she said bytingly. “See right here,” she said pointedly, pointing to a blog about her dream.
My eyes bugged out of my head, so to speak. She was right. I began to read in an undertone. The more I read, the more confused I became. I surely never wrote any of this, I thought.
“I surely never wrote any of this,” I echoed.
“Well who do you think wrote it?” she asked derisively, “…M. Bob Freeley?”
“Imbibe freely?” I asked, using a cute ploy to make sure that no pun goes overlooked.
“I’m sick and tired of your stupid antics,” Francesca said angrily. With that she started to pound me about the face with her fists.
“Stop. Please Francesca, stop,” I began to scream. “Stop, Francesca, stop, please stop.”
Suddenly someone began to shake me vigorously. “Steve, wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was my wife Helmi.
“What’s wrong. You must have been having a dream,” Helmi asked me anxiously. “And, who is this Francesca?”
TO BE CONTINUED?
“What do you mean by blaming your stupid ideas on me having a dream?” she asked inquisitively.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied sardonically.
“There’s no need for you to be sardonic,” she says thesaurically. “And don’t avoid my question. You’ve made me look foolish. I had no such dream about your being missing. And, what is more, who is this Morgan Fairchild?”
I prudently ignored the Morgan Fairchild question. “I’m being totally sincere,” I said totally sincerely. “I really don’t know what you mean about your dream.”
“Sure you don’t,” she said, semi-sardonically. “You got into some stupid story line about your being missing and the best way you could think of to get out of it was to make up some idiocy about it all being my dream.”
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, look here on my computer,” she said bytingly. “See right here,” she said pointedly, pointing to a blog about her dream.
My eyes bugged out of my head, so to speak. She was right. I began to read in an undertone. The more I read, the more confused I became. I surely never wrote any of this, I thought.
“I surely never wrote any of this,” I echoed.
“Well who do you think wrote it?” she asked derisively, “…M. Bob Freeley?”
“Imbibe freely?” I asked, using a cute ploy to make sure that no pun goes overlooked.
“I’m sick and tired of your stupid antics,” Francesca said angrily. With that she started to pound me about the face with her fists.
“Stop. Please Francesca, stop,” I began to scream. “Stop, Francesca, stop, please stop.”
Suddenly someone began to shake me vigorously. “Steve, wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was my wife Helmi.
“What’s wrong. You must have been having a dream,” Helmi asked me anxiously. “And, who is this Francesca?”
TO BE CONTINUED?
Friday, July 21, 2006
Sneak Preview Part 2
And now, another exciting scene from the upcoming blockbuster motion picture "Short Pump."
FRANCESCA, WIFE OF INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER STEVE COOK (PLAYED BY MORGAN FAIRCHILD, YEAH, THAT'S THE TICKET) IS STANDING AT THE SHOWER DOOR, DISPLAYING THAT DEER IN THE HEADLIGHT LOOK. SHE SPEAKS
FRANCESCA: Good morning. I had the strangest dream.
HER HUSBAND, STEVE, THE INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER (PLAYED BY ANTONIO BANDERAS), IS STANDING IN THE SHOWER, DRIPPING WET, YET STILL MIGHTY HANDSOME. HE SMILES.
STEVE: Tell me about it.
FRANCESCA: I dreamed you and a monkey were missing.
STEVE: Missing what? (STEVE CHUCKLES AT HIS QUICK WIT)
FRANCESCA: You and the monkey were missing in the Fan district. I was so lost and alone.
STEVE: Francesca, darling. It was just a dream.
FRANCESCA: But, I read your blogs about being missing.
STEVE: They were just a dream.
FRANCESCA: How about those six other people who read them too.
STEVE: They must have been dreaming too.
FRANCESCA: And the monkey chow mein meal at the Wok of Gibraltar Restaurant...?
STEVE: Just more dreams.
STEVE NOW DRIES HIS FACE WITH A TOWEL AND LOOKS CLOSELY AT FRANCESCA. HE GASPS.
STEVE: Oh my!
FRANCESCA IS SOMEWHAT PUZZLED AT STEVE'S SHOCK AND AWE.
FRANCESCA: What is it?
STEVE: I had never before noticed how much you look like Suzanne Pleshette.
THE CAMERA PANS IN ON FRANCESCA (MORGAN FAIRCHILD). SHE TURNS TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR. SHE GASPS. THE CAMERA SHOWS THE REFLECTION OF FRANCESCA IN THE MIRROR. THE REFLECTION IS PLAYED BY SUZANNE PLESHETTE.
SCENE DISSOLVES
FRANCESCA, WIFE OF INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER STEVE COOK (PLAYED BY MORGAN FAIRCHILD, YEAH, THAT'S THE TICKET) IS STANDING AT THE SHOWER DOOR, DISPLAYING THAT DEER IN THE HEADLIGHT LOOK. SHE SPEAKS
FRANCESCA: Good morning. I had the strangest dream.
HER HUSBAND, STEVE, THE INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER (PLAYED BY ANTONIO BANDERAS), IS STANDING IN THE SHOWER, DRIPPING WET, YET STILL MIGHTY HANDSOME. HE SMILES.
STEVE: Tell me about it.
FRANCESCA: I dreamed you and a monkey were missing.
STEVE: Missing what? (STEVE CHUCKLES AT HIS QUICK WIT)
FRANCESCA: You and the monkey were missing in the Fan district. I was so lost and alone.
STEVE: Francesca, darling. It was just a dream.
FRANCESCA: But, I read your blogs about being missing.
STEVE: They were just a dream.
FRANCESCA: How about those six other people who read them too.
STEVE: They must have been dreaming too.
FRANCESCA: And the monkey chow mein meal at the Wok of Gibraltar Restaurant...?
STEVE: Just more dreams.
STEVE NOW DRIES HIS FACE WITH A TOWEL AND LOOKS CLOSELY AT FRANCESCA. HE GASPS.
STEVE: Oh my!
FRANCESCA IS SOMEWHAT PUZZLED AT STEVE'S SHOCK AND AWE.
FRANCESCA: What is it?
STEVE: I had never before noticed how much you look like Suzanne Pleshette.
THE CAMERA PANS IN ON FRANCESCA (MORGAN FAIRCHILD). SHE TURNS TO LOOK IN THE MIRROR. SHE GASPS. THE CAMERA SHOWS THE REFLECTION OF FRANCESCA IN THE MIRROR. THE REFLECTION IS PLAYED BY SUZANNE PLESHETTE.
SCENE DISSOLVES
Thursday, July 20, 2006
A Sneak Preview
And now an exciting scene from the upcoming blockbuster motion picture “Short Pump."
SCENE - BEDROOM OF FRANCESCA COOK, WIFE OF MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER, STEVE COOK. FRANCESCA AWAKENS. SHE HEARS THE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER AND GOES INTO THE BATHROOM. THE SHOWER IS RUNNING AND WE SEE THE SHADOWY, YET PORTLY IMAGE OF SOMEONE IN THE SHOWER. FRANCESCA OPENS THE SHOWER DOOR AND SPEAKS
FRANCESCA: Oh! (Shocked expression on her face)
THE CAMERA REVEALS WHAT FRANCESCA HAS SEEN. IN THE SHOWER STANDS HER MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER HUSBAND, STEVE. STEVE SPEAKS
STEVE: Good morning.
Scene fades.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
SCENE - BEDROOM OF FRANCESCA COOK, WIFE OF MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER, STEVE COOK. FRANCESCA AWAKENS. SHE HEARS THE SOUND OF RUNNING WATER AND GOES INTO THE BATHROOM. THE SHOWER IS RUNNING AND WE SEE THE SHADOWY, YET PORTLY IMAGE OF SOMEONE IN THE SHOWER. FRANCESCA OPENS THE SHOWER DOOR AND SPEAKS
FRANCESCA: Oh! (Shocked expression on her face)
THE CAMERA REVEALS WHAT FRANCESCA HAS SEEN. IN THE SHOWER STANDS HER MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD INTERNATIONAL BLOGGER HUSBAND, STEVE. STEVE SPEAKS
STEVE: Good morning.
Scene fades.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
All The News That's Apt to Scare
GREG: Hi, I’m Greg McQuake, local TV news anchor. I’m filling in for the missing Steve Cook and I just want to say right up front, I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. There are so many frightening things in the news and I thought I’d use this space to promote our morning news show and to let you know just how terrified I am. For starters, the weather scares me. Have you noticed just how hot it is? How hot will it get tomorrow? For the answer, tune in to our “I’m Scared as Heck” alerts each morning on our local news program.
JULIE: Excuse me, Greg. Hi, folks. I’m Julie Fearmonger, Greg’s capable co-host, and I just want to reiterate that this heat could kill you. In fact, probably most of you could die unless you tune into our early morning newscast.
GREG: Thanks, Julie, but I can handle this. It’s just a little-read blog, not our stellar early morning newscast. But, Julie’s right folks. If you don’t listen to our segment tomorrow morning dealing with staying cool through this killer heat wave, chances are you will be dead by this weekend.
JULIE: Enough with the weather, Greg. There are other things to be scared about.
GREG: Again, I can handle this, Julie. And, yes, there are other things going on in our fair city that scare me to death. For instance, have you heard about the ongoing search for a train that may be buried in a tunnel under a hill? Scary stuff. I mean if there’s one abandoned tunnel there could be millions of others. Could your house be ready to cave in on an abandoned tunnel? That would likely kill you, you know. Tune in tomorrow morning and I’ll have the answer.
JULIE: Now, you have me scared, Greg. In fact, every time I hear you do the news, I cringe.
GREG: Well, gee, thanks Julie. I guess you can stick around and help me do the blog. I am pretty good as an alarmist, aren’t I?
JULIE: The best I’ve ever worked with. Of course, my previous experience was working with Gene Cox. He wouldn’t get alarmed if his mouth were on fire.
GREG: Ha, Ha. Good one, Julie. But, we’ve gotten somewhat off-track here. There’s a bunch of other scary stuff in the news. For instance, there’s the warning from the NAACP, to stay out of Target Stores. I don’t know who this NAACP is but when they sound the alarm, this reporter is going to be listening. I wonder how close is too close to get to a Target store.
JULIE: You don’t know who the NAACP is, Greg? It’s the National Association of people who don’t like to be called Colored People. They’re urging blacks to boycott Target because Target didn’t fill out an NAACP-sponsored survey regarding diversity.
GREG: Oooh! I didn’t know that. Thanks for the background info, Julie. That tells me that surveys might be harmful to one’s health. Watch out folks. You may be confronted with a survey when you least expect it. Julie, maybe we can do a piece on tomorrow’s newscast providing our viewers with some helpful hints as how to protect themselves from surveys.
JULIE: Uh, yeah, right you are Greg. I’ll get on it, if you’d like.
GREG: There you have it, folks. You don’t want to miss our “I’m Scared as Heck” alerts on tomorrow’s news.
JULIE: By the way, Greg, I heard you say that Steve Cook is missing. I wonder if something terrible happened to him. Aren’t you terrified just thinking about it?
GREG: Nah.
JULIE: Excuse me, Greg. Hi, folks. I’m Julie Fearmonger, Greg’s capable co-host, and I just want to reiterate that this heat could kill you. In fact, probably most of you could die unless you tune into our early morning newscast.
GREG: Thanks, Julie, but I can handle this. It’s just a little-read blog, not our stellar early morning newscast. But, Julie’s right folks. If you don’t listen to our segment tomorrow morning dealing with staying cool through this killer heat wave, chances are you will be dead by this weekend.
JULIE: Enough with the weather, Greg. There are other things to be scared about.
GREG: Again, I can handle this, Julie. And, yes, there are other things going on in our fair city that scare me to death. For instance, have you heard about the ongoing search for a train that may be buried in a tunnel under a hill? Scary stuff. I mean if there’s one abandoned tunnel there could be millions of others. Could your house be ready to cave in on an abandoned tunnel? That would likely kill you, you know. Tune in tomorrow morning and I’ll have the answer.
JULIE: Now, you have me scared, Greg. In fact, every time I hear you do the news, I cringe.
GREG: Well, gee, thanks Julie. I guess you can stick around and help me do the blog. I am pretty good as an alarmist, aren’t I?
JULIE: The best I’ve ever worked with. Of course, my previous experience was working with Gene Cox. He wouldn’t get alarmed if his mouth were on fire.
GREG: Ha, Ha. Good one, Julie. But, we’ve gotten somewhat off-track here. There’s a bunch of other scary stuff in the news. For instance, there’s the warning from the NAACP, to stay out of Target Stores. I don’t know who this NAACP is but when they sound the alarm, this reporter is going to be listening. I wonder how close is too close to get to a Target store.
JULIE: You don’t know who the NAACP is, Greg? It’s the National Association of people who don’t like to be called Colored People. They’re urging blacks to boycott Target because Target didn’t fill out an NAACP-sponsored survey regarding diversity.
GREG: Oooh! I didn’t know that. Thanks for the background info, Julie. That tells me that surveys might be harmful to one’s health. Watch out folks. You may be confronted with a survey when you least expect it. Julie, maybe we can do a piece on tomorrow’s newscast providing our viewers with some helpful hints as how to protect themselves from surveys.
JULIE: Uh, yeah, right you are Greg. I’ll get on it, if you’d like.
GREG: There you have it, folks. You don’t want to miss our “I’m Scared as Heck” alerts on tomorrow’s news.
JULIE: By the way, Greg, I heard you say that Steve Cook is missing. I wonder if something terrible happened to him. Aren’t you terrified just thinking about it?
GREG: Nah.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Lochru Again, Naturally
Hello, this is Lochru, the four hundred year old Druid and now man about town. With Steve Cook still missing, the publishers of the magazine asked me if I'd fill in for a day or two.
As you may know from reading Steve's columns, I was recently found frozen at the bottom of Swift Creek Reservoir. Since my de-thawing, or coming out party, as I like to call it, I have enjoyed actually breathing again.
People ask me, "Lochru," they say, "Is it hard getting used to modern civilization?"
To that oft-asked question, I must reply that it really hasn't been all that difficult. We used to have an old Druid expression, "The more things change, the more things stay the same." How true that has proven to be. For instance, since I'm virtually unemployed (I do hang out at the 7/11 sometimes, hoping to pick up an odd job or two), I've been watching a lot of TV. I enjoy all those nature shows, but I'm a little baffled as to whom this god Evolution is. Constantly, I hear the narrator's crediting Evolution with this or that.
I've done a little research, and while most Evolutionists are reluctant to come right out and say it's a religion, it sure seems like one to me. We Druids were a bunch of nature-worshiping freaks if you ask me. Actually, among my Druid friends, I was viewed as somewhat of a monotheistic heretic. The worship of this god Evolution is very similar to our beliefs. I just don't understand why Evolution's devotees are so reluctant to acknowledge their unquestioning devotion as being a religion.
We Druids were proud of our religious beliefs. I'm sure that if the real Druids were around today we would quickly fall at the feet of Evolution and pay him honor. In a way he reminds me of Ginnugagap. Now, admittedly, we stole this one from the Germans. Basically, the teaching was that in the beginning was the great void, Ginnungagap. A fiery region developed to the south and a windy, icy region to the north. Together they produced chaos and out of chaos sprang life. Doesn't that remind you of what your "enlightened modern thinkers" say the great God Evolution did? It sure does me. I've listened to some of your TV evangelists and the way they describe faith - just believe it because we say it, is very similar to both our ancient beliefs and the worship of Evolution.
Of course, on the other hand, you have those who believe that all life was the product of some great designer. Now, does that make sense? I mean look at a baby's little finger. Does that seem like something that was designed? Or the petals on a dogwood tree...would you have me believe there's some great master artist who created that? Hmmm. Excuse me. I've got some thinking to do, and, personally there's no better place to think than while encrusted in a block of ice. I'll talk to you later. And, if Steve ever shows up, tell him I said hi.
As you may know from reading Steve's columns, I was recently found frozen at the bottom of Swift Creek Reservoir. Since my de-thawing, or coming out party, as I like to call it, I have enjoyed actually breathing again.
People ask me, "Lochru," they say, "Is it hard getting used to modern civilization?"
To that oft-asked question, I must reply that it really hasn't been all that difficult. We used to have an old Druid expression, "The more things change, the more things stay the same." How true that has proven to be. For instance, since I'm virtually unemployed (I do hang out at the 7/11 sometimes, hoping to pick up an odd job or two), I've been watching a lot of TV. I enjoy all those nature shows, but I'm a little baffled as to whom this god Evolution is. Constantly, I hear the narrator's crediting Evolution with this or that.
I've done a little research, and while most Evolutionists are reluctant to come right out and say it's a religion, it sure seems like one to me. We Druids were a bunch of nature-worshiping freaks if you ask me. Actually, among my Druid friends, I was viewed as somewhat of a monotheistic heretic. The worship of this god Evolution is very similar to our beliefs. I just don't understand why Evolution's devotees are so reluctant to acknowledge their unquestioning devotion as being a religion.
We Druids were proud of our religious beliefs. I'm sure that if the real Druids were around today we would quickly fall at the feet of Evolution and pay him honor. In a way he reminds me of Ginnugagap. Now, admittedly, we stole this one from the Germans. Basically, the teaching was that in the beginning was the great void, Ginnungagap. A fiery region developed to the south and a windy, icy region to the north. Together they produced chaos and out of chaos sprang life. Doesn't that remind you of what your "enlightened modern thinkers" say the great God Evolution did? It sure does me. I've listened to some of your TV evangelists and the way they describe faith - just believe it because we say it, is very similar to both our ancient beliefs and the worship of Evolution.
Of course, on the other hand, you have those who believe that all life was the product of some great designer. Now, does that make sense? I mean look at a baby's little finger. Does that seem like something that was designed? Or the petals on a dogwood tree...would you have me believe there's some great master artist who created that? Hmmm. Excuse me. I've got some thinking to do, and, personally there's no better place to think than while encrusted in a block of ice. I'll talk to you later. And, if Steve ever shows up, tell him I said hi.
Friday, July 14, 2006
A Letter Poured In
(TEMPORARY EDITOR'S NOTE: The following email was received following our posting of today's blog which was guest written by our wine columnist, M. Bob Freeley. We found it interesting to say the least.)
Dear Sirs:
I read with great interest your column today in which your columnist, Mr. Freeley, mentioned our "Mystery Meat" chow mein. If Mr. Freeley was insinuating that we, somehow, stole your precious monkey for our mystery meat of the week special, I have to say that I am somewhat offended.
We run a reputable operation here at Wok of Gibraltar. We are aboveboard in all of our activities, and get very few severe filth violation write-ups from the city's health department.
I want to go on record right now as saying we paid good money for that monkey...more than he was worth judging from the overall reviews of last night's special. Besides, I'm not even sure he was your monkey.
I demand an apology immediately.
Sincerely,
Elmo Chan, Jr.
Owner,
Wok of Gibraltar Asian/African Fusion Restaurant and Snack Bar
OUR PUBLISHER RESPONDS:
Mr. Chan,
Thank you for your kind letter. We appreciate your loyalty to our publications. If there is anything we can ever do for you, please let us know.
Sincerely,
Guy Cerwilhelm
Publisher
Dear Sirs:
I read with great interest your column today in which your columnist, Mr. Freeley, mentioned our "Mystery Meat" chow mein. If Mr. Freeley was insinuating that we, somehow, stole your precious monkey for our mystery meat of the week special, I have to say that I am somewhat offended.
We run a reputable operation here at Wok of Gibraltar. We are aboveboard in all of our activities, and get very few severe filth violation write-ups from the city's health department.
I want to go on record right now as saying we paid good money for that monkey...more than he was worth judging from the overall reviews of last night's special. Besides, I'm not even sure he was your monkey.
I demand an apology immediately.
Sincerely,
Elmo Chan, Jr.
Owner,
Wok of Gibraltar Asian/African Fusion Restaurant and Snack Bar
OUR PUBLISHER RESPONDS:
Mr. Chan,
Thank you for your kind letter. We appreciate your loyalty to our publications. If there is anything we can ever do for you, please let us know.
Sincerely,
Guy Cerwilhelm
Publisher
The Steve Cook Tragedization - Day II (2 if you're not Roman)
Well, hello everyone. M. Bob Freeley here. Hope you remember me. I'm the wine columnist for West End's Best Magazine, and today I'm here filling in for the still-missing Steve Cook.
I must say I missed bringing you my regular reviews of great wines over the past few weeks. I was away on a somewhat forced "vacation." I won't say much about where I was. Suffice it to say that Betty Ford and I don't totally see eye to eye as to what constitutes a problem.
Anyway, I get back in town last night, and first thing I hear is that Steve and his monkey are missing in the Fan. Speaking of the Fan, I enjoyed a Fantastic evening at that new Fan eatery. It's an Asian/African fusion place called Wok of Gibraltar.
I'm not sure just what was in the Mystery Meat Chow Mein, but what I can tell you is that it provided the perfect pairing for a frisky little bottle of a merlot, which teased me to "go on and have a second bottle." I resisted that tantalizing temptation, but what I couldn't resist was a naughty little shiraz that, by the third or fourth glass, was shouting "G'day Mate."
The lovely waitress suggested I give the bottle a little time to breathe. I told her I'd do even better than that, I'd give the bottle mouth-to-mouth. Ha Ha. That one's always good for a laugh down at the corner watering hole. Although the waitress didn't seem to find it as funny as do my fellow wine lovers. Perhaps, something got lost in the translation.
Anyway, the meal was a true delight, as were the wines. I topped the evening off with a randy little dessert wine that was so easy to sip in to, before I knew it, I was pounding on the bottle, much as I would on a bottle of Heinz Catsup, to make sure I didn't miss a drop.
I just might head back downtown today. You know...to help look for Steve, and to check out that new wine and beer bar, Brewjolais. I enjoy a good wine, but, truth be told, there isn't anything more thirst quenching than a gourmet can of PBR. So, if you're out and about, and we happen to meet, you can buy me a drink. And, if you happen to see Steve, give us a shout.
Until next time, this is M. Bob Freeley, saying "Bottoms up!"
I must say I missed bringing you my regular reviews of great wines over the past few weeks. I was away on a somewhat forced "vacation." I won't say much about where I was. Suffice it to say that Betty Ford and I don't totally see eye to eye as to what constitutes a problem.
Anyway, I get back in town last night, and first thing I hear is that Steve and his monkey are missing in the Fan. Speaking of the Fan, I enjoyed a Fantastic evening at that new Fan eatery. It's an Asian/African fusion place called Wok of Gibraltar.
I'm not sure just what was in the Mystery Meat Chow Mein, but what I can tell you is that it provided the perfect pairing for a frisky little bottle of a merlot, which teased me to "go on and have a second bottle." I resisted that tantalizing temptation, but what I couldn't resist was a naughty little shiraz that, by the third or fourth glass, was shouting "G'day Mate."
The lovely waitress suggested I give the bottle a little time to breathe. I told her I'd do even better than that, I'd give the bottle mouth-to-mouth. Ha Ha. That one's always good for a laugh down at the corner watering hole. Although the waitress didn't seem to find it as funny as do my fellow wine lovers. Perhaps, something got lost in the translation.
Anyway, the meal was a true delight, as were the wines. I topped the evening off with a randy little dessert wine that was so easy to sip in to, before I knew it, I was pounding on the bottle, much as I would on a bottle of Heinz Catsup, to make sure I didn't miss a drop.
I just might head back downtown today. You know...to help look for Steve, and to check out that new wine and beer bar, Brewjolais. I enjoy a good wine, but, truth be told, there isn't anything more thirst quenching than a gourmet can of PBR. So, if you're out and about, and we happen to meet, you can buy me a drink. And, if you happen to see Steve, give us a shout.
Until next time, this is M. Bob Freeley, saying "Bottoms up!"
Thursday, July 13, 2006
STEVE COOK'S DISAPPEARANCE - DAY ONE
Hello. This is staff writer, Felipe Schwartz, of West End's Best Magazine. I've been asked to fill in while Steve Cook is missing. As you may know,in a shameless effort to increase web traffic, Cook has disappeared a la Oops the Mill Mountain monkey. When last seen, he was heading into Richmond's Fan district with some sort of a monkey on his back.
To be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I should be writing about here. I generally cover the fashion beat for Richmond's West End. I could tell you that when last seen, Steve Cook was wearing green and orange plaid trousers, similar to those seen on many of the West End's most fashionable golf courses, such as Patterson Mini-Golf, and the Two-Buckets-For-A-Buck Driving Range. There's something about golfing and loud, gaudy pants that just seem to naturally go together. And, I'm not exactly sure what that attraction is. I mean, I could understand such attire in a bowling alley. Bright plaid pants work well with the stylish bowling shoes which can be rented for about ten bucks a pair these days. Speaking of which, have you ever been tempted to stick one of those rented bowling shoes up to your nose and whiff it prior to putting it on? Well, take it from someone who has, don't do it.
I'm not exactly sure what those bowling alleys do that they call cleaning their rental shoes, but descenting or rescenting must not be part of the package. Regardless of smell, those multi-colored bowling shoes make a fashion statement. Look for a future fashion feature in our magazine in which we pair the plaid polyester-blend pants with the bowling shoes. Making the combo work is not as easy as many of you may think. In fact, my advise, as a professional in what I like to call the fashion arena, is don't try this at home.
Steve, as I was saying, was wearing the plaid pants when last seen. To complement the trousers he had a black and white checked flannel shirt. So, I'm thinking he would not be so hard to spot. Steve, it would appear, has finally hit what we in the fashion industry refer to as that really lousy old man stage in life. You know, the age when men Steve's age just reach in the closet and pick out any two items and put them on. He's been known to come to work wearing Bermuda shorts...as a shirt. At least, unlike most of the shirts he wears, there were no food stains on the shorts.
As a fashion guru, so to speak, I notice the little things, and one thing I've noticed is that Steve is one sloppy guy. He spills so much food throughout the day, that he has to hang his clothes in the refrigerator at night. As a word of advice, if you should spot Steve, don't go to lunch with him. It's a disgusting sight. He's one of those guys who talks while he eats. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say that at company luncheons, I wear a sneeze-guard if I'm sitting anywhere near him.
If you live anywhere near the Fan,m and if you should see Steve, check his collar. He's wearing a name tag with our phone number. I have to be honest though, his disappearance is a rather welcome event for many of us here in the office. But, please give us a call if you see him. We would like to get the monkey back.
To be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I should be writing about here. I generally cover the fashion beat for Richmond's West End. I could tell you that when last seen, Steve Cook was wearing green and orange plaid trousers, similar to those seen on many of the West End's most fashionable golf courses, such as Patterson Mini-Golf, and the Two-Buckets-For-A-Buck Driving Range. There's something about golfing and loud, gaudy pants that just seem to naturally go together. And, I'm not exactly sure what that attraction is. I mean, I could understand such attire in a bowling alley. Bright plaid pants work well with the stylish bowling shoes which can be rented for about ten bucks a pair these days. Speaking of which, have you ever been tempted to stick one of those rented bowling shoes up to your nose and whiff it prior to putting it on? Well, take it from someone who has, don't do it.
I'm not exactly sure what those bowling alleys do that they call cleaning their rental shoes, but descenting or rescenting must not be part of the package. Regardless of smell, those multi-colored bowling shoes make a fashion statement. Look for a future fashion feature in our magazine in which we pair the plaid polyester-blend pants with the bowling shoes. Making the combo work is not as easy as many of you may think. In fact, my advise, as a professional in what I like to call the fashion arena, is don't try this at home.
Steve, as I was saying, was wearing the plaid pants when last seen. To complement the trousers he had a black and white checked flannel shirt. So, I'm thinking he would not be so hard to spot. Steve, it would appear, has finally hit what we in the fashion industry refer to as that really lousy old man stage in life. You know, the age when men Steve's age just reach in the closet and pick out any two items and put them on. He's been known to come to work wearing Bermuda shorts...as a shirt. At least, unlike most of the shirts he wears, there were no food stains on the shorts.
As a fashion guru, so to speak, I notice the little things, and one thing I've noticed is that Steve is one sloppy guy. He spills so much food throughout the day, that he has to hang his clothes in the refrigerator at night. As a word of advice, if you should spot Steve, don't go to lunch with him. It's a disgusting sight. He's one of those guys who talks while he eats. I won't go into detail, but suffice it to say that at company luncheons, I wear a sneeze-guard if I'm sitting anywhere near him.
If you live anywhere near the Fan,m and if you should see Steve, check his collar. He's wearing a name tag with our phone number. I have to be honest though, his disappearance is a rather welcome event for many of us here in the office. But, please give us a call if you see him. We would like to get the monkey back.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Oops.
You know, we Virginians love our animals. We have all sorts of horrible things going on all around us, but the thing that seems to create the most attention are those pesky zoo animals. First we had the Maymont bear tragedy that tragedized the entire city, as Mayor Governor Wilder put it. And now we have the Mill Mountain Monkey mess.
And, according to the folks at the Roanoke children's zoo, it wasn't just Virginians, it was the entire world...waiting, worrying, wondering about Oops, the mischevious monkey that (who) escaped from the zoo recently. Mill Mountain Zoo evidently saw a huge increase in visitors to their website, which got me to thinking. My genius machine is up and running 24/7, so to speak.
You see, we've been trying to think of ways to increase traffic to our websites (westendsbestonline.com and chesterfieldlivingonline.com). It seems that my sparkling commentary is simply not enough. Go figure.
Anyway, I'm thinking we ought to get us some sort of an animal and let it escape and run amok in Richmond, terrorizing the populace and driving up website visits. Now it can't be something like a bear because if it were to kill anyone, our insurance rates would sky rocket.
I'm thinking, with a tip of the cap to Mill Mountain, that maybe we should get us some sort of monkey-type animal...perhaps Freddie, the Fecal-Flinging Chimp. It has a nice ring to it. And while fecal flinging is terrorizing, I don't think that many people have died from it. That should make the national news. I bet even Greta Van Whatever would want in on that story. We could let Freddie loose down in the VCU area so that everyday the feces would hit the Fan. Of course, there are some who would say (not I, of course) that this happens every week when the latest Style Weekly is published.
Maybe we can give the local folks an option...either you start going to our websites regularly or we get us a monkey. I have to admit that as a non-pet person, I'm not crazy about monkeys. They're cute, but don't you think they're just a little too cute? Monkeys are probably the most egotistical animals I know. I mean, you'd have to be pretty egotistical to hurl your waste at others.
Cats are more egoists than egotists. In other words, a cat pretty much thinks all other life forms, including humans, are just here to cater to its needs.
Monkeys,on the other hand, want everyone to see how cute they are, how clever. Why do you think monkeys go around impersonating humans? Because they know humans will ooh and ahh over them. Really, if you just ignored them, they'd probably just give up and go back to being monkeys.
I have kind of wandered all over the place here. It's just that the more I think about monkeys, the more steamed I get. I can just imagine how impressed Oops was with himself...at least until that tranquilizer dart hit him. And if he finds out that people from as far away as Australia were calling Mill Mountain Zoo to find out how he was doing, it would go straight to his ugly little monkey head.
And, I bet you that Mill Mountain Zoo will have an increase in visitors because everyone is so concerned about poor little Oops. Hey, I went 24 hours without anyone knowing where I was once, and no one even realized I was missing. I can run around and scratch my chest. I can peel bananas with my feet, but does anyone care?
I'm going to find out. Forget about getting a monkey. I have a better way to drive traffic to our website. Starting today, STEVE COOK IS MISSING. Oops, he was here just a minute ago. What's happened to him? To find out go to our website. And, if our traffic doesn't pick up, you may never hear from him again. That'll show you.
And, according to the folks at the Roanoke children's zoo, it wasn't just Virginians, it was the entire world...waiting, worrying, wondering about Oops, the mischevious monkey that (who) escaped from the zoo recently. Mill Mountain Zoo evidently saw a huge increase in visitors to their website, which got me to thinking. My genius machine is up and running 24/7, so to speak.
You see, we've been trying to think of ways to increase traffic to our websites (westendsbestonline.com and chesterfieldlivingonline.com). It seems that my sparkling commentary is simply not enough. Go figure.
Anyway, I'm thinking we ought to get us some sort of an animal and let it escape and run amok in Richmond, terrorizing the populace and driving up website visits. Now it can't be something like a bear because if it were to kill anyone, our insurance rates would sky rocket.
I'm thinking, with a tip of the cap to Mill Mountain, that maybe we should get us some sort of monkey-type animal...perhaps Freddie, the Fecal-Flinging Chimp. It has a nice ring to it. And while fecal flinging is terrorizing, I don't think that many people have died from it. That should make the national news. I bet even Greta Van Whatever would want in on that story. We could let Freddie loose down in the VCU area so that everyday the feces would hit the Fan. Of course, there are some who would say (not I, of course) that this happens every week when the latest Style Weekly is published.
Maybe we can give the local folks an option...either you start going to our websites regularly or we get us a monkey. I have to admit that as a non-pet person, I'm not crazy about monkeys. They're cute, but don't you think they're just a little too cute? Monkeys are probably the most egotistical animals I know. I mean, you'd have to be pretty egotistical to hurl your waste at others.
Cats are more egoists than egotists. In other words, a cat pretty much thinks all other life forms, including humans, are just here to cater to its needs.
Monkeys,on the other hand, want everyone to see how cute they are, how clever. Why do you think monkeys go around impersonating humans? Because they know humans will ooh and ahh over them. Really, if you just ignored them, they'd probably just give up and go back to being monkeys.
I have kind of wandered all over the place here. It's just that the more I think about monkeys, the more steamed I get. I can just imagine how impressed Oops was with himself...at least until that tranquilizer dart hit him. And if he finds out that people from as far away as Australia were calling Mill Mountain Zoo to find out how he was doing, it would go straight to his ugly little monkey head.
And, I bet you that Mill Mountain Zoo will have an increase in visitors because everyone is so concerned about poor little Oops. Hey, I went 24 hours without anyone knowing where I was once, and no one even realized I was missing. I can run around and scratch my chest. I can peel bananas with my feet, but does anyone care?
I'm going to find out. Forget about getting a monkey. I have a better way to drive traffic to our website. Starting today, STEVE COOK IS MISSING. Oops, he was here just a minute ago. What's happened to him? To find out go to our website. And, if our traffic doesn't pick up, you may never hear from him again. That'll show you.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Driving Me Nuts
Well, well, well...Richmonders are killing each other on the highways at a record pace. I guess congratulations are in order. The newscaster sounded mighty excited when he reported the story. Personally, I think we should be doing a lot better than we are. I mean, have you seen the way Richmonders drive?
A transplanted New Yorker once told me that Richmonders were the worst drivers he had ever encountered. After I backed up and unpinned his leg, he elaborated. "Richmonders never stop at stop signs," he said. I think he might be onto something. I'm not so sure about stop signs, but I will tell you, from personal observation, Richmond area drivers (except me) never, ever stop before making a right turn on red.
I almost hit an idiot last night. I kind of wished I had. The moron didn't even slow down for the red light. He was determined to make a right turn in front of me. He succeeded. When I pulled along side him, I showed him. I looked over at him and gave him the sternest look I could muster. I know, you were thinking I made some sort of obscene gesture. Nope. I kind of figure, again from personal observation, that the one-finger saluters are probably proudly using sign language to tell you their I.Q.
Admittedly, a stern look is not as effective at night, but I think the guy could feel my glaring baby blues burning a hole in the side of his face.
There are other absurdities that I see along life's highway, that really is a highway. For instance, the bumper-to-bumper-lane-changing-buffoon really gets on my nerves. Do these idiots not realize that if they just stick in one lane it'll be much safer for everyone than constantly squeezing into whatever lane they're not in because it's moving two miles per hour faster than the lane they were in? At best, they might save five or six seconds. But, they've raised my ire in the process, and here's fair warning...you don't want to make me mad. I have IBS.
Then there's the type (99% of all drivers) who, when merging onto a busy interstate highway, don't realize how much better it would be to use the entire acceleration lane rather than stopping as soon as they get anywhere close to the lane they want to be in and waiting for a chance to squeeze in. Why doesn't the DMV give real, practical tests to new drivers? Even imbeciles can tell you what color a stop sign is. But, the majority of drivers have no idea of what true defensive driving is all about.
If you recognize yourself here (and, just a quick personal piece of business to my wife - I wasn't thinking about you in writing this. Really, I wasn't), go ahead and risk your own life if you must, but stay out of my way. If not, I swear, if you should ever get in my way on a lonely dark road, be prepared for a really, really stern look.
A transplanted New Yorker once told me that Richmonders were the worst drivers he had ever encountered. After I backed up and unpinned his leg, he elaborated. "Richmonders never stop at stop signs," he said. I think he might be onto something. I'm not so sure about stop signs, but I will tell you, from personal observation, Richmond area drivers (except me) never, ever stop before making a right turn on red.
I almost hit an idiot last night. I kind of wished I had. The moron didn't even slow down for the red light. He was determined to make a right turn in front of me. He succeeded. When I pulled along side him, I showed him. I looked over at him and gave him the sternest look I could muster. I know, you were thinking I made some sort of obscene gesture. Nope. I kind of figure, again from personal observation, that the one-finger saluters are probably proudly using sign language to tell you their I.Q.
Admittedly, a stern look is not as effective at night, but I think the guy could feel my glaring baby blues burning a hole in the side of his face.
There are other absurdities that I see along life's highway, that really is a highway. For instance, the bumper-to-bumper-lane-changing-buffoon really gets on my nerves. Do these idiots not realize that if they just stick in one lane it'll be much safer for everyone than constantly squeezing into whatever lane they're not in because it's moving two miles per hour faster than the lane they were in? At best, they might save five or six seconds. But, they've raised my ire in the process, and here's fair warning...you don't want to make me mad. I have IBS.
Then there's the type (99% of all drivers) who, when merging onto a busy interstate highway, don't realize how much better it would be to use the entire acceleration lane rather than stopping as soon as they get anywhere close to the lane they want to be in and waiting for a chance to squeeze in. Why doesn't the DMV give real, practical tests to new drivers? Even imbeciles can tell you what color a stop sign is. But, the majority of drivers have no idea of what true defensive driving is all about.
If you recognize yourself here (and, just a quick personal piece of business to my wife - I wasn't thinking about you in writing this. Really, I wasn't), go ahead and risk your own life if you must, but stay out of my way. If not, I swear, if you should ever get in my way on a lonely dark road, be prepared for a really, really stern look.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Have I Shown You Pictures...
I kept my grandson, Jacob, this weekend. He’s only seven weeks old, so watching him was a full-time job for my wife and me. Now, it goes without saying that he’s the cutest and smartest baby on earth today.
But he’s much more than that. He’s a human sucking machine. That baby spends 50% of his time drinking formula, 50% of his time sleeping, and 100% of his time eliminating waste materials.
Even in his sleep, he’s practicing his sucking skills for the next bottle. I made the mistake of cootchie-cooing his chin and the next thing I knew my finger was being devoured. He might not have teeth, but he’s got some iron jaws going for him.
Have you ever noticed (gee, I’m sounding like Andy Rooney) how infants can make adults act like total idiots? I was sitting in a restaurant with the baby, trying to get him to look at the camera as my wife took his picture. I didn’t realize I was making these moronic boop boop boop sounds in an effort to get Jacob’s attention. I didn’t realize until a woman at the next table asked about the strange sound coming from our table.
Since infants don’t speak anyway, why do adults naturally assume that a baby is going to understand baby talk? And why do I think it’s attractive for me to say, “Does him want something to drink? Oh yes him does?”
The kid’s probably thinking, “This man uses the most atrocious grammar of any human I’ve ever met.” I mean my grandson is already confused that he has such a youngish-looking grandfather. I hate to confound him further.
I don’t understand the power a little nine-pound, toothless, speechless, almost-hairless human has. How can something (or someone) who just lies there and pees, manipulate fairly intelligent adults. It must be some sort of mind control thing they have. Why, I even found myself using the word “cutie-patootie.” I actually said it out loud. I looked around immediately to see if there were any other adults around who could have possibly heard me. Thankfully there weren’t. But, I looked down at Jacob. He was grinning…not a cute little baby grin, but an almost evil grin, as if to say, “You’re in my control now old man. You’ll do what I say.”
I have to admit, the look he gave me sent chills up my spine. I felt like those guys on Star Trek must have felt when Spock had them in that Vulcan Mind Meld thing. I was starting to panic, but then I looked at Jacob again. On second thought, it was probably just gas. His...not mine.
But he’s much more than that. He’s a human sucking machine. That baby spends 50% of his time drinking formula, 50% of his time sleeping, and 100% of his time eliminating waste materials.
Even in his sleep, he’s practicing his sucking skills for the next bottle. I made the mistake of cootchie-cooing his chin and the next thing I knew my finger was being devoured. He might not have teeth, but he’s got some iron jaws going for him.
Have you ever noticed (gee, I’m sounding like Andy Rooney) how infants can make adults act like total idiots? I was sitting in a restaurant with the baby, trying to get him to look at the camera as my wife took his picture. I didn’t realize I was making these moronic boop boop boop sounds in an effort to get Jacob’s attention. I didn’t realize until a woman at the next table asked about the strange sound coming from our table.
Since infants don’t speak anyway, why do adults naturally assume that a baby is going to understand baby talk? And why do I think it’s attractive for me to say, “Does him want something to drink? Oh yes him does?”
The kid’s probably thinking, “This man uses the most atrocious grammar of any human I’ve ever met.” I mean my grandson is already confused that he has such a youngish-looking grandfather. I hate to confound him further.
I don’t understand the power a little nine-pound, toothless, speechless, almost-hairless human has. How can something (or someone) who just lies there and pees, manipulate fairly intelligent adults. It must be some sort of mind control thing they have. Why, I even found myself using the word “cutie-patootie.” I actually said it out loud. I looked around immediately to see if there were any other adults around who could have possibly heard me. Thankfully there weren’t. But, I looked down at Jacob. He was grinning…not a cute little baby grin, but an almost evil grin, as if to say, “You’re in my control now old man. You’ll do what I say.”
I have to admit, the look he gave me sent chills up my spine. I felt like those guys on Star Trek must have felt when Spock had them in that Vulcan Mind Meld thing. I was starting to panic, but then I looked at Jacob again. On second thought, it was probably just gas. His...not mine.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Before You Do Anything, Check Your Fly
So my wife says, “Let’s go shopping.”
“It’s the fourth of July,” I remind her. “Nothing’s open. She reminds me that I’m always wrong. So, into the car we go and off to the shopping center. As we pull in, I immediately notice it’s packed. My wife is right. I am always wrong.
“Well, who would have thunk it?” I ask somewhat rhetorically. “I wonder what Thomas Jefferson would say if he were alive today.”
“He wouldn’t mind,” a little tinny voice buzzes in my ear. It didn’t sound like my wife’s voice.
“Did you say something?” I ask her anyway.
“Nope. Let me out in front of the shoe store,” she says.
“Well somebody said something,” I say. My wife is totally ignoring me now, perusing the ads.
“It was me,” replied the little buzzing voice.
I look around, somewhat frightened to be honest. “Who’s ‘me’?” I ask.
“Me. That little fly you’ve been swatting at,” the fly(?) answers.
Now, you would think at a moment like that my first interest would be could a fly really be talking to me. But, sometimes when we’re faced with shocking situations, our thinking gets a little off kilter. So, I ask (rather quietly since I don’t want my wife to know I’m talking to a fly), “How do you know how Thomas Jefferson would have felt about the stores being open today?”
“I was there. I’m a time-traveling fly. One of those time flies.”
“Time flies?” I exclaim.
“It sure does,” my wife replies. “So hurry up and let me out.” I do. I want to continue my conversation with the fly. My wife hops out and I go find a parking space.
“So, you were where?” I ask the fly.
“I was there with the whole gang…Jefferson, Adams, Lynch, the Lee Brothers, and, of course, Ben. I especially liked Ben,” the fly says wistfully, as if remembering times past. He continues, “I was the fly on the wall on July 4, 1777.”
“You mean a year after the signing of the Declaration of Independence?” I ask.
“Yep,” the fly says. “I remember it as if it were yesterday. Why there we all were at Monticello…” (INSTRUCTION TO THE READER: HUM THE TWILIGHT ZONE THEME AND PICTURE THE SCENE OF ME AND THE FLY DISSOLVING AND MORPHING INTO MONTICELLO, JULY 4TH, 1777.)
JEFFERSON: Hey guys, it’s been a year since we did the D.O.I. thing. We really ought to have a celebration.
FRANKLIN: Cool. How should we celebrate?
JEFFERSON: Why don’t we shoot off some fireworks?
ADAMS: Fireworks? Pray tell me what are fireworks?
FRANKLIN: Heavens, John. Don’t you read…ever? The Chinese have had them for years. They’re like…oh, like little rockets, that you light and they produce marvelous colors in the sky.
ADAMS: They sound like a good way for someone to lose a hand, or an eye. I think there are better ways to celebrate freedom than to shoot off fireworks.
LYNCH: You worry too much John. I think it’s a grand way to say, “Hey, we’re free. We’re all free.” And, don’t worry about the danger. We’ll just have a slave light them.
JEFFERSON: Sounds like a plan fellows. Why don’t you all come back about six this evening and we’ll have a cookout?
ADAMS: Well, count me in. I do have to do some shopping first, however. I want to get a pair of trunks in case we decide to cool off in the pond.
JEFFERSON: Shopping? Hey guys, it’s the fourth of July. The stores will be closed.
FRANKLIN: Not necessarily Tom. My craft stores are all open today. In fact, we’re having some fantastic Fourth of July sales going on.
JEFFERSON: Well, sounds good, but I think it’s a shame, you having to work on the fourth and all. This is a day to celebrate being a free people.
LYNCH: You worry too much, Tom. I’m sure he has the slaves running the store today.
JEFFERSON: Well, if you all are okay with it, let’s all get together.
ADAMS: I’ll bring the hotdogs and hamburgers.
FRANKLIN: Hey, John. I bet I can eat more hot dogs than you. Let’s have us a little contest.
LYNCH: Well, you should be able to Ben. You’re humongous.
FRANKLIN: You’re as ignorant as John. It’s not about size; it’s about metabolism. Why, one day, I can foresee that those little Japanese folks will be winning all the Fourth of July Hot Dog eating contests.
LYNCH: Japanese? Who are the Japanese?
FRANKLIN: I swear you guys really are ignorant. I’m surprised you knew how to write your name.
“It’s the fourth of July,” I remind her. “Nothing’s open. She reminds me that I’m always wrong. So, into the car we go and off to the shopping center. As we pull in, I immediately notice it’s packed. My wife is right. I am always wrong.
“Well, who would have thunk it?” I ask somewhat rhetorically. “I wonder what Thomas Jefferson would say if he were alive today.”
“He wouldn’t mind,” a little tinny voice buzzes in my ear. It didn’t sound like my wife’s voice.
“Did you say something?” I ask her anyway.
“Nope. Let me out in front of the shoe store,” she says.
“Well somebody said something,” I say. My wife is totally ignoring me now, perusing the ads.
“It was me,” replied the little buzzing voice.
I look around, somewhat frightened to be honest. “Who’s ‘me’?” I ask.
“Me. That little fly you’ve been swatting at,” the fly(?) answers.
Now, you would think at a moment like that my first interest would be could a fly really be talking to me. But, sometimes when we’re faced with shocking situations, our thinking gets a little off kilter. So, I ask (rather quietly since I don’t want my wife to know I’m talking to a fly), “How do you know how Thomas Jefferson would have felt about the stores being open today?”
“I was there. I’m a time-traveling fly. One of those time flies.”
“Time flies?” I exclaim.
“It sure does,” my wife replies. “So hurry up and let me out.” I do. I want to continue my conversation with the fly. My wife hops out and I go find a parking space.
“So, you were where?” I ask the fly.
“I was there with the whole gang…Jefferson, Adams, Lynch, the Lee Brothers, and, of course, Ben. I especially liked Ben,” the fly says wistfully, as if remembering times past. He continues, “I was the fly on the wall on July 4, 1777.”
“You mean a year after the signing of the Declaration of Independence?” I ask.
“Yep,” the fly says. “I remember it as if it were yesterday. Why there we all were at Monticello…” (INSTRUCTION TO THE READER: HUM THE TWILIGHT ZONE THEME AND PICTURE THE SCENE OF ME AND THE FLY DISSOLVING AND MORPHING INTO MONTICELLO, JULY 4TH, 1777.)
JEFFERSON: Hey guys, it’s been a year since we did the D.O.I. thing. We really ought to have a celebration.
FRANKLIN: Cool. How should we celebrate?
JEFFERSON: Why don’t we shoot off some fireworks?
ADAMS: Fireworks? Pray tell me what are fireworks?
FRANKLIN: Heavens, John. Don’t you read…ever? The Chinese have had them for years. They’re like…oh, like little rockets, that you light and they produce marvelous colors in the sky.
ADAMS: They sound like a good way for someone to lose a hand, or an eye. I think there are better ways to celebrate freedom than to shoot off fireworks.
LYNCH: You worry too much John. I think it’s a grand way to say, “Hey, we’re free. We’re all free.” And, don’t worry about the danger. We’ll just have a slave light them.
JEFFERSON: Sounds like a plan fellows. Why don’t you all come back about six this evening and we’ll have a cookout?
ADAMS: Well, count me in. I do have to do some shopping first, however. I want to get a pair of trunks in case we decide to cool off in the pond.
JEFFERSON: Shopping? Hey guys, it’s the fourth of July. The stores will be closed.
FRANKLIN: Not necessarily Tom. My craft stores are all open today. In fact, we’re having some fantastic Fourth of July sales going on.
JEFFERSON: Well, sounds good, but I think it’s a shame, you having to work on the fourth and all. This is a day to celebrate being a free people.
LYNCH: You worry too much, Tom. I’m sure he has the slaves running the store today.
JEFFERSON: Well, if you all are okay with it, let’s all get together.
ADAMS: I’ll bring the hotdogs and hamburgers.
FRANKLIN: Hey, John. I bet I can eat more hot dogs than you. Let’s have us a little contest.
LYNCH: Well, you should be able to Ben. You’re humongous.
FRANKLIN: You’re as ignorant as John. It’s not about size; it’s about metabolism. Why, one day, I can foresee that those little Japanese folks will be winning all the Fourth of July Hot Dog eating contests.
LYNCH: Japanese? Who are the Japanese?
FRANKLIN: I swear you guys really are ignorant. I’m surprised you knew how to write your name.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
What Richmond Really Needs
I think I know what Richmond needs to take this area to the next level...to take us to that point where people are saying, "Richmond is better than Charlotte."
After all, isn't that what we all want? Everytime someone puts our fair city down, they compare it with Charlotte. I've only been to Charlotte a couple of times, but evidently, I missed something, because to hear virtually everyone else in Richmond tell it, Charlotte is the nirvanna of southern U.S. cities.
Anyway, here's what we need. A mascot. Cool idea, huh?
Think about how big mascots are these days. Why the Diamond Duck, mascot for the Richmond Braves ball club, draws dozens of excited fans to the Diamond regularly.
I think my mascot, whichever one I decide upon, could be sold to the city as a way of Charlottizing us.
I've come up with several ideas, inasmuch as the metro area is so fragmented and segregated. I've even written scripts for those who wish to audition. So, if you want to take a chance on becoming the biggest thing to hit this city since Chuck Richardson, rehearse one of these scripts, give me a call, and we'll do lunch, or something.
Here are the scripts for various possible mascots:
ARTIE
Hi, I'm Artie the Artist Renderings. I'm here to show you just what Richmond might have been if my renderings had ever gotten off the drawing board. See this one. It's the Performing Arts Center. Neat. Of course, it's just a hole in the ground now, but if the city had given me a chance, we could have gone places. And look at this rendering. Yep, it's the Shockoe Bottom ball park. You can almost hear the crowds cheering. But listen again, boys and girls. What do you hear down there now. Just drunks vomiting on the hallowed grounds following a night of barhopping. Well, at least we have our dreams, and I'm the mascot of those broken dreams. Stick around, you never know what I'll have to show you next.
PHOENIX
Hi, I'm Phoenix the bear, the wonderful, wonderful bear. I live in Maymont Park, one of Richmond's many beautiful parks. As Richmond's official mascot, my job is to greet you, to make you feel welcome, to perhaps tell you about the many things that make Richmond such a wonderful place to live. Of course, I'm a bear. What do I really know about parks? I think I'll go back to doing what I do best. I do live in the woods you know. Oh yeah, even though I've been named Phoenix, and people tend to view me as a furry but friendly mascot, I will tear your child from limb to limb as I hungrily devour him. Just a warning.
WINDSOR
Hello. My name is Windsor Farm. I don't imagine I need to elaborate as to what portion of the city I represent. Notice my silk smoking jacket. It's a gift from my wife, McDonald Hadda. We truly relish the prestigious lifestyle we enjoy here in the western portion of the city. My part-time position as Richmond's mascot, is not born of necessity, just a little something I dabble in while McDonald tends to her many social activities. I'm not really here to welcome you, as much as to simply let you know that I enjoy a lifestyle which about 98% of my fellow Richmonders could not even dream of. However, please keep in mind that we are very Richmond here, although, I will issue a fair warning. If you're not of our kind (and I think you know what I mean), don't even think of driving through our community, or we may be required to notify the appropriate law enforcement agencies. The only exception, of course, is if you're one of our hired domestics. But, please enter through the rear door of our palatial abode.
Well, I must scurry. Please enjoy your visit to Richmond, but remember my home is not a tourist attraction. Just keep moving.
DIAMOND DUCK
Hi. Remember me? I'm still at the Diamond for every R-Braves home game, although you no longer come. I'm not the brightest duck in the pond, but I see the handwriting on the wall. I suspect I'll soon be out of a job. And, I heard you folks were looking for a mascot. Hey, I'm a talented duck, and versatile. I can change my name to Byrd Park Duck, if you like. Or, how about Here Comes a Bullet...Duck!
Just a little duck humor. It's true. I am somewhat of a wisequacker. But anyway, when you're selecting a mascot for the city, you could do worse than a duck. Hold on one minute. What's that bear doing coming this way? Who let that moron Phoenix in here. You idiots. He's a bear. I'm outta here.
After all, isn't that what we all want? Everytime someone puts our fair city down, they compare it with Charlotte. I've only been to Charlotte a couple of times, but evidently, I missed something, because to hear virtually everyone else in Richmond tell it, Charlotte is the nirvanna of southern U.S. cities.
Anyway, here's what we need. A mascot. Cool idea, huh?
Think about how big mascots are these days. Why the Diamond Duck, mascot for the Richmond Braves ball club, draws dozens of excited fans to the Diamond regularly.
I think my mascot, whichever one I decide upon, could be sold to the city as a way of Charlottizing us.
I've come up with several ideas, inasmuch as the metro area is so fragmented and segregated. I've even written scripts for those who wish to audition. So, if you want to take a chance on becoming the biggest thing to hit this city since Chuck Richardson, rehearse one of these scripts, give me a call, and we'll do lunch, or something.
Here are the scripts for various possible mascots:
ARTIE
Hi, I'm Artie the Artist Renderings. I'm here to show you just what Richmond might have been if my renderings had ever gotten off the drawing board. See this one. It's the Performing Arts Center. Neat. Of course, it's just a hole in the ground now, but if the city had given me a chance, we could have gone places. And look at this rendering. Yep, it's the Shockoe Bottom ball park. You can almost hear the crowds cheering. But listen again, boys and girls. What do you hear down there now. Just drunks vomiting on the hallowed grounds following a night of barhopping. Well, at least we have our dreams, and I'm the mascot of those broken dreams. Stick around, you never know what I'll have to show you next.
PHOENIX
Hi, I'm Phoenix the bear, the wonderful, wonderful bear. I live in Maymont Park, one of Richmond's many beautiful parks. As Richmond's official mascot, my job is to greet you, to make you feel welcome, to perhaps tell you about the many things that make Richmond such a wonderful place to live. Of course, I'm a bear. What do I really know about parks? I think I'll go back to doing what I do best. I do live in the woods you know. Oh yeah, even though I've been named Phoenix, and people tend to view me as a furry but friendly mascot, I will tear your child from limb to limb as I hungrily devour him. Just a warning.
WINDSOR
Hello. My name is Windsor Farm. I don't imagine I need to elaborate as to what portion of the city I represent. Notice my silk smoking jacket. It's a gift from my wife, McDonald Hadda. We truly relish the prestigious lifestyle we enjoy here in the western portion of the city. My part-time position as Richmond's mascot, is not born of necessity, just a little something I dabble in while McDonald tends to her many social activities. I'm not really here to welcome you, as much as to simply let you know that I enjoy a lifestyle which about 98% of my fellow Richmonders could not even dream of. However, please keep in mind that we are very Richmond here, although, I will issue a fair warning. If you're not of our kind (and I think you know what I mean), don't even think of driving through our community, or we may be required to notify the appropriate law enforcement agencies. The only exception, of course, is if you're one of our hired domestics. But, please enter through the rear door of our palatial abode.
Well, I must scurry. Please enjoy your visit to Richmond, but remember my home is not a tourist attraction. Just keep moving.
DIAMOND DUCK
Hi. Remember me? I'm still at the Diamond for every R-Braves home game, although you no longer come. I'm not the brightest duck in the pond, but I see the handwriting on the wall. I suspect I'll soon be out of a job. And, I heard you folks were looking for a mascot. Hey, I'm a talented duck, and versatile. I can change my name to Byrd Park Duck, if you like. Or, how about Here Comes a Bullet...Duck!
Just a little duck humor. It's true. I am somewhat of a wisequacker. But anyway, when you're selecting a mascot for the city, you could do worse than a duck. Hold on one minute. What's that bear doing coming this way? Who let that moron Phoenix in here. You idiots. He's a bear. I'm outta here.
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