You may have noticed that I haven't written much lately. There's a reason for that, and I figure I may as well come right out and tell you what it is. It's not pretty. It's not something I'm proud of. But, it's the cold hard facts.
I've been in rehab, fighting an addiction...Tetris.
It started so innocently. I bought a new cell phone about a year ago and was allowed by the marvelously generous folks at Sprint to download a free game. I chose Tetris. If you're not familiar with it, Tetris is a Russian game where you try to fit various shaped pieces together. When you get a whole line completed you score points. Sounds like fun, eh? Well it was...at first. But, you know those Russians (hope I don't sound like Michael Richards here). They're devious. Even their president goes around poisoning ex-spies.
And they poisoned my mind. Really, they did. I started playing Tetris a few minutes here...a few minutes there, and before I realized what was happening, I was playing six to twelve hours a day.
I stayed up all night playing. I started taking sick days at work in order to stay home and play. I kept telling myself I could stop anytime I wanted to. And, I did, on many occasions, but each time that demon Tetris came back with a vengeance.
Recently I began to realize I'd hit rock bottom. I looked for some sort of twelve step program to help me stop. I went to a TA meeting. Unfortunately, this group had nothing to do with Tetris addiction.
Finally, when I was at wit's end, I saw an ad for a rehab clinic in Tampa, Florida...Sister Mary Krushchev's Tetris De-Tox and Cellulite Removal Ranch. Kill two birds with one stone, I thought.
So, away I went. It was a grueling four months. We were up at six every morning, eating a breakfast of seaweed and kelp. Then there were the group sessions. We'd introduce ourselves. And we'd have to confess to our addictions. Not everyone there suffered from Tetris addiction. There were Ms Pac Man addicts, and Super Mario addicts. Of course, there must have been a couple dozen Solitaire addicts. There was even a poor old man, probably in his eighties, who had been addicted to Pong for over forty years. That was very sad.
After a lunch of bean sprouts and ice cube sandwiches, we'd spend the afternoon weaving baskets or building submarines out of popcycle sticks. Then we'd have more meetings. Those of us who were addicted to Tetris would compare how many lines we had been doing each day.
Finally, after a dinner of oxygen and toothpicks, we'd turn in at about 7:30 PM. The first few nights, I'd sneak back up, get some construction paper and cut out little squares and rectangles and other shapes and then piece them together. After one of the ex-nuns who runs the place caught me and beat me mercilessly, I figured it was time to cut that out (no pun intended).
Well, the bottom line is I've been Tetris-free for over a week. Sure, I wake up at night in a sweat, thinking about the hopelessness of making a square fit when there was no space for it, but aside from that, I'm pretty clean. I feel great. I feel like a new man. I think I'm going to really enjoy life again.
Before I go, just one thing. Can any one out there loan me a cell phone?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Sorry Excuse.
This whole Michael Richards fiasco, following somewhat on the heels of the Mel Gibson deal has opened up a rather painful memory from my past. Sometimes it helps to talk these things out, especially when I really can't think of anything else about which to write.
The painful, and up-til-now closeted event in my life goes back about a half a century, to my first grade days in Boones Mill Elementary School. It was the annual Boones Mill Elementary May Day Talent Show. Gee, I remember it like it was yesterday.
(INSERT DREAM LIKE MUSIC AND SPECIAL EFFECTS HERE)
Mrs. Williams (my first grade teacher): And now, everyone, little Stevie Cook will be performing his rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot." Let's have a big hand for Stevie.
Me: (shuffling onstage, placing one hand on my hip, and bending my other arm and hand to remarkably ressemble a spout) I'm a little teapot...short and stout..."
Floyd Clingenpeel (a bratty kid in the audience, not to be confused with his twin brother Lloyd Clingenpeel): You sure are short...and stout too.
Entire Audience: Laugh Laugh
Me: (LANGUAGE WARNING: Watch out, remove children from the room. I use the "B" word here) Oh yeah. You...you...you bugger eater.
Floyd: Who you calling bugger eater, fatso?
Me: You! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater!
At that point Mrs. Williams, and our principal, Mr. Gruver rushed me offstage. I had humiliated myself and the school. The story made the Franklin County Gazette the next week. My career in show business was pretty much destroyed.
I did go on a local TV talk show a few days later. That went something like this:
(MORE DREAMY MUSIC)
Me: What can I say, but I am truly sorry. I am sorry not only that I hurt Floyd Clingenpeel, but that i hurt bugger eaters everywhere. And not just bugger eaters. I know there are many that were hurt. For instance, take Sandra Wood, who is in my class. She doesn't eat buggers, at least not to my knowledge, but she chews ABC gum. She doesn't know that anyone knows that, but we all do. I'm sure she was hurt, because there really isn't much difference between a bugger eater and an ABC gum chewer. Or consider Bluford Overfelt. He's in the third grade and he still wets his bed at night. I overheard his mother tell my mother that he did. I'm sure he was hurt by my cruel words. To all of these people, I truly say "I'm sorry."
Now you would have thought that such a heartfelt apology would have put an end to the matter. You'd have thought we all could have had a good laugh and gotten back to the business of learning to read and write. But, noooooooo. It seems those kids at Boones Mill Elementary were not very forgiving. Charles Wimmer, who was in the second grade, and who was president of the ABEDL, that's the Anti-Bugger Eaters Defamation League, was very vocal in condemining me.
He said, and I quote, "It's unfortunate that Mr. Stevie Cook chose to go on a non-bugger eating TV show, with a non-bugger eating audience and apologize. I'd have felt more comfortable if he'd gone on Romper Room where most of the audience are bugger eaters."
It's that sort of mentality that pretty much did me in. Shortly thereafter, I moved from Boones Mill to Richmond. I changed my name from Stevie Cook to Steve Cook, and for the past fifty years I've been successful in keeping this nastiness hidden, but, thanks to Michael Richards all the pain and the hurt have come flooding back.
I heard from Bluford Overfelt last night. He admitted that he had a hard time living down the bed wetting reputation, and then confessed that just about the time he'd lived it down (within the past year or so), he's once again become incontinent. I consoled him. I told him what goes around comes around.
Neither of us knew exactly what that meant, but we both felt better. If there are any more of your Boones Millians out there who are still hurting over my unkind words, what can I say? Taking a cue from Mel Gibson and Michael Richards, let me well up a tear in my eye and say, "I'm sorry." That ought to take care of matters once and for all. And, if you don't like it, well, hey, I'm sorry.
The painful, and up-til-now closeted event in my life goes back about a half a century, to my first grade days in Boones Mill Elementary School. It was the annual Boones Mill Elementary May Day Talent Show. Gee, I remember it like it was yesterday.
(INSERT DREAM LIKE MUSIC AND SPECIAL EFFECTS HERE)
Mrs. Williams (my first grade teacher): And now, everyone, little Stevie Cook will be performing his rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot." Let's have a big hand for Stevie.
Me: (shuffling onstage, placing one hand on my hip, and bending my other arm and hand to remarkably ressemble a spout) I'm a little teapot...short and stout..."
Floyd Clingenpeel (a bratty kid in the audience, not to be confused with his twin brother Lloyd Clingenpeel): You sure are short...and stout too.
Entire Audience: Laugh Laugh
Me: (LANGUAGE WARNING: Watch out, remove children from the room. I use the "B" word here) Oh yeah. You...you...you bugger eater.
Floyd: Who you calling bugger eater, fatso?
Me: You! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater!
At that point Mrs. Williams, and our principal, Mr. Gruver rushed me offstage. I had humiliated myself and the school. The story made the Franklin County Gazette the next week. My career in show business was pretty much destroyed.
I did go on a local TV talk show a few days later. That went something like this:
(MORE DREAMY MUSIC)
Me: What can I say, but I am truly sorry. I am sorry not only that I hurt Floyd Clingenpeel, but that i hurt bugger eaters everywhere. And not just bugger eaters. I know there are many that were hurt. For instance, take Sandra Wood, who is in my class. She doesn't eat buggers, at least not to my knowledge, but she chews ABC gum. She doesn't know that anyone knows that, but we all do. I'm sure she was hurt, because there really isn't much difference between a bugger eater and an ABC gum chewer. Or consider Bluford Overfelt. He's in the third grade and he still wets his bed at night. I overheard his mother tell my mother that he did. I'm sure he was hurt by my cruel words. To all of these people, I truly say "I'm sorry."
Now you would have thought that such a heartfelt apology would have put an end to the matter. You'd have thought we all could have had a good laugh and gotten back to the business of learning to read and write. But, noooooooo. It seems those kids at Boones Mill Elementary were not very forgiving. Charles Wimmer, who was in the second grade, and who was president of the ABEDL, that's the Anti-Bugger Eaters Defamation League, was very vocal in condemining me.
He said, and I quote, "It's unfortunate that Mr. Stevie Cook chose to go on a non-bugger eating TV show, with a non-bugger eating audience and apologize. I'd have felt more comfortable if he'd gone on Romper Room where most of the audience are bugger eaters."
It's that sort of mentality that pretty much did me in. Shortly thereafter, I moved from Boones Mill to Richmond. I changed my name from Stevie Cook to Steve Cook, and for the past fifty years I've been successful in keeping this nastiness hidden, but, thanks to Michael Richards all the pain and the hurt have come flooding back.
I heard from Bluford Overfelt last night. He admitted that he had a hard time living down the bed wetting reputation, and then confessed that just about the time he'd lived it down (within the past year or so), he's once again become incontinent. I consoled him. I told him what goes around comes around.
Neither of us knew exactly what that meant, but we both felt better. If there are any more of your Boones Millians out there who are still hurting over my unkind words, what can I say? Taking a cue from Mel Gibson and Michael Richards, let me well up a tear in my eye and say, "I'm sorry." That ought to take care of matters once and for all. And, if you don't like it, well, hey, I'm sorry.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Are We Stupid or What?
When I say, "Are WE stupid..." I really mean other folks, not me. Is it just me, or is stupidity really at an all-time high?
For instance, take these brainiacs who will stand in line for 48 hours to buy a video game. Admittedly, most do it so they can sell the video game at a profit. Maybe the folks at Sony are the stupid ones. Why don't they just take all their x-boxes, or whatever they're called and sell them on E-bay themselves for thousands of dollars.
And tell me this...how stupid do you have to be to pay three thousand dollars for a six hundred dollar game in order to be the first on your block to own that x-box.
I think Best Buy and Circuit City should take the folks who line up to buy the game, and make them do some sort of community service during those 48 hours they're just hanging around, getting their pictures taken by the stupid people at the newspaper who think there's something interesting about all this.
And, then what about those stupid people who write columns about the stupid people who do all those other stupid things mentioned above. Now, that's really stupid.
I tell you what else is stupid. I heard this morning that when this new movie, Dreamgirls comes out, they're going to sell tickets for twenty-five dollars for the first ten days. So, if you want to impress all your friends by telling them you were one of the first to see the movie, you have to shell out twenty-five bucks.
Listen, take some advice from an old man who has been around the block a few times. If you want to impress people with stuff you have or stuff you've done, impress them the old fashioned way...lie. It's easy and it doesn't cost a dime. I have the new x-box. I love it, and you know what, I've already seen Dreamgirls. I had to pay a thousand dollars for a really good seat, but it was worth it.
Impressed? I thought you would be. But, surprise. I made the whole thing up. I did this only for demonstration purposes...just to show you how you can save big bucks, as well as precious time waiting in some stupid line, if you simply lie.
There's one more really stupid thing I wanted to talk about, but I'm a little reluctant to do so. I write this little piece for entertainment purposes only (please, no wagering) and there's nothing entertaining about O.J. Simpson, or in Fox TVs decision to air a two-night interview in which Simpson will explain how he would have killed his wife, but, of course, he didn't. Who could conceive of something so stupid.
Actually this goes way beyond stupid. It's about the most immoral thing I've ever heard. Obviously Simpson has no morals or conscience, for that matter. But I'd think there'd be someone at Fox who makes the big decisions who'd not be so stupid to air this. I guess I'm wrong.
It's painfully obvious that Simpson has no regard for his children's feelings, but isn't there someone somewhere who might have the decency to step in and say we're not going to subject his children to this?
Maybe I shouldn't say this, but if you watch that interview on Fox, you'd have to be pretty stupid.
For instance, take these brainiacs who will stand in line for 48 hours to buy a video game. Admittedly, most do it so they can sell the video game at a profit. Maybe the folks at Sony are the stupid ones. Why don't they just take all their x-boxes, or whatever they're called and sell them on E-bay themselves for thousands of dollars.
And tell me this...how stupid do you have to be to pay three thousand dollars for a six hundred dollar game in order to be the first on your block to own that x-box.
I think Best Buy and Circuit City should take the folks who line up to buy the game, and make them do some sort of community service during those 48 hours they're just hanging around, getting their pictures taken by the stupid people at the newspaper who think there's something interesting about all this.
And, then what about those stupid people who write columns about the stupid people who do all those other stupid things mentioned above. Now, that's really stupid.
I tell you what else is stupid. I heard this morning that when this new movie, Dreamgirls comes out, they're going to sell tickets for twenty-five dollars for the first ten days. So, if you want to impress all your friends by telling them you were one of the first to see the movie, you have to shell out twenty-five bucks.
Listen, take some advice from an old man who has been around the block a few times. If you want to impress people with stuff you have or stuff you've done, impress them the old fashioned way...lie. It's easy and it doesn't cost a dime. I have the new x-box. I love it, and you know what, I've already seen Dreamgirls. I had to pay a thousand dollars for a really good seat, but it was worth it.
Impressed? I thought you would be. But, surprise. I made the whole thing up. I did this only for demonstration purposes...just to show you how you can save big bucks, as well as precious time waiting in some stupid line, if you simply lie.
There's one more really stupid thing I wanted to talk about, but I'm a little reluctant to do so. I write this little piece for entertainment purposes only (please, no wagering) and there's nothing entertaining about O.J. Simpson, or in Fox TVs decision to air a two-night interview in which Simpson will explain how he would have killed his wife, but, of course, he didn't. Who could conceive of something so stupid.
Actually this goes way beyond stupid. It's about the most immoral thing I've ever heard. Obviously Simpson has no morals or conscience, for that matter. But I'd think there'd be someone at Fox who makes the big decisions who'd not be so stupid to air this. I guess I'm wrong.
It's painfully obvious that Simpson has no regard for his children's feelings, but isn't there someone somewhere who might have the decency to step in and say we're not going to subject his children to this?
Maybe I shouldn't say this, but if you watch that interview on Fox, you'd have to be pretty stupid.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Death Becomes Me
I really don't believe I'm in my mid-fifties. In fact, if I didn't remember Howdy Doody, I'd swear I was, oh, I don't know, maybe twenty, twenty-five. It's not that I feel so great physically. It's just that my maturity level skews rather low.
Unless, as some suggest, men just never really grow up. What I'm thinking about today is the silly little games I play with myself. I wouldn't even talk about this, but I'm hoping you'll write me and say, "Hey, Steve, you're not as silly, or as stupid as you think you are." That sort of glowing praise would make my day.
Let me tell you what I do, and you tell me if something is seriously wrong upstairs. One of my little games is my gas-pumping game. When I start to pump gas into my luxuriously appointed 1993 Saturn, I predict the total amount on the pump when the auto shut-off kicks in. I also create this little scenario that if I'm within fifty cents I win, but if I'm off by more than fifty cents, I'll get a mild electric shock. However, if I go over my actual bid, then I'll be shot to death. Somehow, knowing that my life is on the line, makes pumping gas just a little more fun. Yeah, I know what you're thinking...why don't I just go down to Church Hill and pump gas. I'm more of a virtual thrill seeker.
Another game I like to play is also automobile related, and equally as violent. When I'm driving home, I predict the time I'll pull into my driveway. If I don't park and turn the ignition off before the clock on the radio goes a minute beyond that, my car will blow up. It really makes those last few minutes of the drive quite interesting. Admittedly, on more than one occasion I've come close to mowing down a pedestrian, but hey, that's the price you (or they) pay for my entertainment.
Last night I did something really fun. I was heading home to Hampton and decided to take the Jamestown Ferry. It was after dark, and being the adventurous sort of guy I am, I got out of the car and stood at the front of the boat. I pretended I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, although I couldn't figure out which one. I wanted to pretend that the sea gulls were going to attack me, but I didn't see any. So I pretended that the oncoming Ferry was carrying spies who wanted to kill me. That was enjoyable, although I don't think the guy in the SUV, parked at the front of the line appreciate me hurling my body into his windshield and then rolling over the roof in order to make a quick escape to my car. Some people have absolutely no imagination.
Take my wife (no, I won't say please). She evidently has no imagination. The other night, at dinner, I told her that the clam chowder was so bad, that we should pretend she was poisoning me. You'd think she'd appreciate having such a fun-loving husband. Nope. Somehow that suggestion didn't sit well with her. I guess she's just not the playful sort. In fact, the next morning, I'm fairly certain I saw her put something suspicious in my hot chocolate. When she wasn't looking, I poured it out on the potted plant. When I get back in town tomorrow, I'm interested in seeing how the plant is doing.
I'll tell you about one more game I used to play. I haven't played it in a few years, but it was fun. When I was lying in bed, I'd pretend I was the star of a TV show about a detective who could really do a good job pretending he was dead. I would lie as still as I could without breathing for as long as I could. I would make up a different episode every time I played. For instance, in one episode, the police had laid my body in a hotel room where there was a jewel thief and his moll. I was there to gather evidence, figuring they wouldn't mind revealing secrets about their plans for a heist in front of a dead body. In retrospect, I guess the show didn't make much sense, however I'm sure with some fine tuning there's at least an oyste in there somewhere, if not a pearl.
I've always loved playing like I was dead. When I was in the emergency room because of heart palpitations recently, and was being totally ignored by the staff, I pretended I was dead. I lay on the gurney with my eyes and mouth propped open. I even added drool for effect. No one noticed. Doctors and nurses walked right past. They'd glance at me and smile and keep on going. Finally I unhooked my monitor terminals thinking the flatline might increase their concern. I guess I must have caught them during a coffee break because no one came to check on me. I was a little irritated, but still enjoyed my game.
So, now, the moment of truth. You tell me. Am I normal? Or am I a little twisted? I really don't know. But, I'd appreciate your feedback. If you are going to tell me how strange I am, at least be gentle, because, I think I'm in the early stages of a heart attack. Oh no, my heart is slowing down dramatically and my breathing is becoming shallow. I'll catch you later.
Unless, as some suggest, men just never really grow up. What I'm thinking about today is the silly little games I play with myself. I wouldn't even talk about this, but I'm hoping you'll write me and say, "Hey, Steve, you're not as silly, or as stupid as you think you are." That sort of glowing praise would make my day.
Let me tell you what I do, and you tell me if something is seriously wrong upstairs. One of my little games is my gas-pumping game. When I start to pump gas into my luxuriously appointed 1993 Saturn, I predict the total amount on the pump when the auto shut-off kicks in. I also create this little scenario that if I'm within fifty cents I win, but if I'm off by more than fifty cents, I'll get a mild electric shock. However, if I go over my actual bid, then I'll be shot to death. Somehow, knowing that my life is on the line, makes pumping gas just a little more fun. Yeah, I know what you're thinking...why don't I just go down to Church Hill and pump gas. I'm more of a virtual thrill seeker.
Another game I like to play is also automobile related, and equally as violent. When I'm driving home, I predict the time I'll pull into my driveway. If I don't park and turn the ignition off before the clock on the radio goes a minute beyond that, my car will blow up. It really makes those last few minutes of the drive quite interesting. Admittedly, on more than one occasion I've come close to mowing down a pedestrian, but hey, that's the price you (or they) pay for my entertainment.
Last night I did something really fun. I was heading home to Hampton and decided to take the Jamestown Ferry. It was after dark, and being the adventurous sort of guy I am, I got out of the car and stood at the front of the boat. I pretended I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie, although I couldn't figure out which one. I wanted to pretend that the sea gulls were going to attack me, but I didn't see any. So I pretended that the oncoming Ferry was carrying spies who wanted to kill me. That was enjoyable, although I don't think the guy in the SUV, parked at the front of the line appreciate me hurling my body into his windshield and then rolling over the roof in order to make a quick escape to my car. Some people have absolutely no imagination.
Take my wife (no, I won't say please). She evidently has no imagination. The other night, at dinner, I told her that the clam chowder was so bad, that we should pretend she was poisoning me. You'd think she'd appreciate having such a fun-loving husband. Nope. Somehow that suggestion didn't sit well with her. I guess she's just not the playful sort. In fact, the next morning, I'm fairly certain I saw her put something suspicious in my hot chocolate. When she wasn't looking, I poured it out on the potted plant. When I get back in town tomorrow, I'm interested in seeing how the plant is doing.
I'll tell you about one more game I used to play. I haven't played it in a few years, but it was fun. When I was lying in bed, I'd pretend I was the star of a TV show about a detective who could really do a good job pretending he was dead. I would lie as still as I could without breathing for as long as I could. I would make up a different episode every time I played. For instance, in one episode, the police had laid my body in a hotel room where there was a jewel thief and his moll. I was there to gather evidence, figuring they wouldn't mind revealing secrets about their plans for a heist in front of a dead body. In retrospect, I guess the show didn't make much sense, however I'm sure with some fine tuning there's at least an oyste in there somewhere, if not a pearl.
I've always loved playing like I was dead. When I was in the emergency room because of heart palpitations recently, and was being totally ignored by the staff, I pretended I was dead. I lay on the gurney with my eyes and mouth propped open. I even added drool for effect. No one noticed. Doctors and nurses walked right past. They'd glance at me and smile and keep on going. Finally I unhooked my monitor terminals thinking the flatline might increase their concern. I guess I must have caught them during a coffee break because no one came to check on me. I was a little irritated, but still enjoyed my game.
So, now, the moment of truth. You tell me. Am I normal? Or am I a little twisted? I really don't know. But, I'd appreciate your feedback. If you are going to tell me how strange I am, at least be gentle, because, I think I'm in the early stages of a heart attack. Oh no, my heart is slowing down dramatically and my breathing is becoming shallow. I'll catch you later.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
When It Comes to Eating Meat, I'm Game. But, Don't Shoot Me
I may be just a tad bit confused, but if I was reading an anonymous comment on yesterday's column, it seems that someone was equating serial killers with hunters. Maybe I misunderstood. That's been known to happen.
Let me say that I've never shot an animal (or a human, for that matter), nor do I think I ever could, unless it was attacking me and I just happened to have a rifle in my hand. Although, I'd probably scream like a woman and run like a coward.
I also do believe that there are some Nimrodish types who truly enjoy killing and hence hide behind that perversion by becoming hunters. That's not to say, however, that hunting is necessarily bad or wrong.
I think it's somewhat ironic that I don't know the meaning of ironic, but if I did, I'd probably use it in discussing the fact that some people rail against hunters while they're eating their fried chicken, or their McDonald's double cheeseburger. Do these folks think that the hamburgers came from cows who died a peaceful, natural death...perhaps in their sleep? Or that the bucket of KFC is made up of suicidal chickens?
Basically, whenever you eat meat, you're eating something that someone has killed. That may be the most asanine statement I've ever made. It's obviously rather obvious. But not so obvious to some anti-hunting types. Again, let me say, I've never been hunting and never would want to go. I'd hate to see Bambi get it right between the eyes, but put Bambi's hindquarter on a bun and I'm there, with the A-1 Sauce.
I have been fishing, although I don't like it, mainly because I think it's inhumane to put worms on a hook...or is that inworm? But, I do love fresh fish. I'll eat 'em as fast as you can catch 'em. It's funny. Some people who hate hunting are fine with fishing. Why? Less blood? Maybe. And it is interesting that Jesus chose fishermen and not hunters to follow him. But, that's not to say that there aren't some blood thirsty fishermen. I think any guy who goes fishing just so he can mount his fish on his wall or have his picture taken holding the biggest badest fish in the pond, is no better than those who hunt because of a love for the kill.
And, if there's some farmer who gets his jollies killing chickens, then he's got a problem too. I think it's pretty clear that many of these subhuman animals are great for eating, unless you belong to PETA. But, when you think about it, the PETA people are the most hypocritical of them all.
Think about it. They want animals to be accorded to same rights as humans. That should mean that animals have the same responsibilities as humans. So, when a bear kills a salmon, shouldn't PETA be out there protesting...maybe even have the bear locked up, or march around wherever bears congregate with gory signs showing half-eaten fish?
To my knowledge, PETA doesn't do that. The only life form they meddle with is humans, and I bet if you added up all the numbers, humans are pretty far down on the list when it comes to sheer numbers of other life forms they have killed.
Think how many poor little worms have been consumed by birds and fish. Those birds and fish should be ashamed of themselves. And, how can some perverted mother bird justify eating her young if she thinks it's been touched by a human?
Or, is that just some old wives tale? I hope not. I always liked telling that story.
When I was a baby, I'm sure some dowdy old woman picked me up because I was just so cute. I'm glad my mother didn't eat me because of that. Really PETA, why don't you go pick on something your own brain-size?
I hope I don't sound uncaring. I'm really a very nice guy. But, I gotta run. I want to kick the dog before I go to work. Have a nice day.
Let me say that I've never shot an animal (or a human, for that matter), nor do I think I ever could, unless it was attacking me and I just happened to have a rifle in my hand. Although, I'd probably scream like a woman and run like a coward.
I also do believe that there are some Nimrodish types who truly enjoy killing and hence hide behind that perversion by becoming hunters. That's not to say, however, that hunting is necessarily bad or wrong.
I think it's somewhat ironic that I don't know the meaning of ironic, but if I did, I'd probably use it in discussing the fact that some people rail against hunters while they're eating their fried chicken, or their McDonald's double cheeseburger. Do these folks think that the hamburgers came from cows who died a peaceful, natural death...perhaps in their sleep? Or that the bucket of KFC is made up of suicidal chickens?
Basically, whenever you eat meat, you're eating something that someone has killed. That may be the most asanine statement I've ever made. It's obviously rather obvious. But not so obvious to some anti-hunting types. Again, let me say, I've never been hunting and never would want to go. I'd hate to see Bambi get it right between the eyes, but put Bambi's hindquarter on a bun and I'm there, with the A-1 Sauce.
I have been fishing, although I don't like it, mainly because I think it's inhumane to put worms on a hook...or is that inworm? But, I do love fresh fish. I'll eat 'em as fast as you can catch 'em. It's funny. Some people who hate hunting are fine with fishing. Why? Less blood? Maybe. And it is interesting that Jesus chose fishermen and not hunters to follow him. But, that's not to say that there aren't some blood thirsty fishermen. I think any guy who goes fishing just so he can mount his fish on his wall or have his picture taken holding the biggest badest fish in the pond, is no better than those who hunt because of a love for the kill.
And, if there's some farmer who gets his jollies killing chickens, then he's got a problem too. I think it's pretty clear that many of these subhuman animals are great for eating, unless you belong to PETA. But, when you think about it, the PETA people are the most hypocritical of them all.
Think about it. They want animals to be accorded to same rights as humans. That should mean that animals have the same responsibilities as humans. So, when a bear kills a salmon, shouldn't PETA be out there protesting...maybe even have the bear locked up, or march around wherever bears congregate with gory signs showing half-eaten fish?
To my knowledge, PETA doesn't do that. The only life form they meddle with is humans, and I bet if you added up all the numbers, humans are pretty far down on the list when it comes to sheer numbers of other life forms they have killed.
Think how many poor little worms have been consumed by birds and fish. Those birds and fish should be ashamed of themselves. And, how can some perverted mother bird justify eating her young if she thinks it's been touched by a human?
Or, is that just some old wives tale? I hope not. I always liked telling that story.
When I was a baby, I'm sure some dowdy old woman picked me up because I was just so cute. I'm glad my mother didn't eat me because of that. Really PETA, why don't you go pick on something your own brain-size?
I hope I don't sound uncaring. I'm really a very nice guy. But, I gotta run. I want to kick the dog before I go to work. Have a nice day.
Monday, November 13, 2006
More Random Thoughts
I have all these random thoughts bouncing around in my head and I think the best thing to do is to get them out here on the table, so to speak, so I can get back to worrying about the really important things in life. I believe, and I have no expert backing on this, but I believe that having too many random thoughts in one's head is what turns a person into a serial killer. And, I would hate to start down that road this late in life.
Speaking of murder, I think that if I was planning to murder someone, I'd spend a year watching all the CSI shows. Now, don't be alarmed. I really don't think I'd ever kill someone deliberately. But, from watching CSI, I have learned lots of things not to do if I ever would try my hand at it.
For instance, you might think that if you, let's say in the heat of the moment, murdered a friend or a mate, and their blood splattered all over the room, that the best thing to do is to get the bleach out and wash the blood away. It makes sense to me. But, evidently those crime scene people can tell if you've used bleach. Seems that it shows up under some sort of light. And, since policemen probably watch CSI, the first thing they're going to suspect when they find bleach is that you've murdered someone. I'm so paranoid, I've stopped bleaching my underwear.
If I was some sort of clever, but diabolical inventor, I'd invent a cleanser to clean away the stuff in bleach that shows up under the light. That way murderers could run out and buy some of that stuff after they cleaned away the blood with bleach. Since I'm not very scientific, there's little chance I'll ever get around to inventing that, so, if you're the clever, but diabolical sort, be my guest.
Anyway, most of the thoughts in my head do not pertain to murder. They deal with more mundane things. For instance, what do you think about the city council (Richmond) trying to get rid of panhandlers in some parts of town? Why just some parts? You know, if I lived in a part of town where they allowed panhandlers, I'd be rather jealous of the people that lived in no-panhandling sections. I might even want to murder someone. No, no, I didn't mean that. It was the CSI speaking.
But, I would be jealous. I think what the city ought to do is take a section that no one really liked. Maybe, they could rent Cloverleaf Mall from Chesterfield. Anyway, they could take that section and make it a panhandler paradise. Cloverleaf Mall would be great. There's plenty of room for the panhandlers to sit or stand if they were the industrious type. And there's also plenty of room for the bleeding hearts to drive around and hand out money.
Evidently, there are still a good number of people who really believe that when the drop a dollar in a panhandler's cup, he or she (the panhandler, that is) is going to run right out and buy a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. Yeah, right...only if the cheese is of the port wine variety. I hate it when I'm waiting at a stoplight and a panhandler goes to the car in front of me and that idiot gives him something. It makes me look so bad in the eyes of the panhandler.
I used to not to look at them, but I read somewhere that panhandlers have little respect for people too cowardly to look them in the eye. So, now I look at them and say, "No." But, I can tell they still don't have much respect for me. And, if there's one thing I want to do, it's look good to panhandlers.
Something else that has me wondering is just how thirsty Americans have become. Have you been in a WaWa or a Sheetz lately? About 75% of the store is devoted to fountain drinks. I just wish I were thirsty when I go in. They have all kinds of sodas, teas, coffees, lattes, shakes. Of course, most of the drinks have sugar, and as a diabetic, I have to stay away from all that. Where were all those drinks when I was a young diabetic-in-training?
Speaking of diabetes, here's another thing clogging up my brain. I heard this TV commercial that started out, "Great news for diabetics." Well, they had my attention. Had a cure been found? Could I go eat a cake without passing out? I was giddy with excitement.
Turns out the news wasn't all that good. It was a commercial for one of those blood sugar testers. It's the least painful tester on the market, or so they say. Hey, when the best thing you can say about something is that it doesn't hurt as much as other things, I say just shut up. Telling a diabetic that a new tester is good news is tantamount to telling a crippled guy that you have great news for him and then when you have him so excited, you open a box and show him a brand new shiny pair of crutches. Hip hip horray! New crutches might be nice, but don't say you have good news, just give 'em to me.
How can people be so cruel? I think something should be done to stop those people. And, if you want to be the one to stop them, I'll bring the bleach.
Speaking of murder, I think that if I was planning to murder someone, I'd spend a year watching all the CSI shows. Now, don't be alarmed. I really don't think I'd ever kill someone deliberately. But, from watching CSI, I have learned lots of things not to do if I ever would try my hand at it.
For instance, you might think that if you, let's say in the heat of the moment, murdered a friend or a mate, and their blood splattered all over the room, that the best thing to do is to get the bleach out and wash the blood away. It makes sense to me. But, evidently those crime scene people can tell if you've used bleach. Seems that it shows up under some sort of light. And, since policemen probably watch CSI, the first thing they're going to suspect when they find bleach is that you've murdered someone. I'm so paranoid, I've stopped bleaching my underwear.
If I was some sort of clever, but diabolical inventor, I'd invent a cleanser to clean away the stuff in bleach that shows up under the light. That way murderers could run out and buy some of that stuff after they cleaned away the blood with bleach. Since I'm not very scientific, there's little chance I'll ever get around to inventing that, so, if you're the clever, but diabolical sort, be my guest.
Anyway, most of the thoughts in my head do not pertain to murder. They deal with more mundane things. For instance, what do you think about the city council (Richmond) trying to get rid of panhandlers in some parts of town? Why just some parts? You know, if I lived in a part of town where they allowed panhandlers, I'd be rather jealous of the people that lived in no-panhandling sections. I might even want to murder someone. No, no, I didn't mean that. It was the CSI speaking.
But, I would be jealous. I think what the city ought to do is take a section that no one really liked. Maybe, they could rent Cloverleaf Mall from Chesterfield. Anyway, they could take that section and make it a panhandler paradise. Cloverleaf Mall would be great. There's plenty of room for the panhandlers to sit or stand if they were the industrious type. And there's also plenty of room for the bleeding hearts to drive around and hand out money.
Evidently, there are still a good number of people who really believe that when the drop a dollar in a panhandler's cup, he or she (the panhandler, that is) is going to run right out and buy a double cheeseburger from McDonald's. Yeah, right...only if the cheese is of the port wine variety. I hate it when I'm waiting at a stoplight and a panhandler goes to the car in front of me and that idiot gives him something. It makes me look so bad in the eyes of the panhandler.
I used to not to look at them, but I read somewhere that panhandlers have little respect for people too cowardly to look them in the eye. So, now I look at them and say, "No." But, I can tell they still don't have much respect for me. And, if there's one thing I want to do, it's look good to panhandlers.
Something else that has me wondering is just how thirsty Americans have become. Have you been in a WaWa or a Sheetz lately? About 75% of the store is devoted to fountain drinks. I just wish I were thirsty when I go in. They have all kinds of sodas, teas, coffees, lattes, shakes. Of course, most of the drinks have sugar, and as a diabetic, I have to stay away from all that. Where were all those drinks when I was a young diabetic-in-training?
Speaking of diabetes, here's another thing clogging up my brain. I heard this TV commercial that started out, "Great news for diabetics." Well, they had my attention. Had a cure been found? Could I go eat a cake without passing out? I was giddy with excitement.
Turns out the news wasn't all that good. It was a commercial for one of those blood sugar testers. It's the least painful tester on the market, or so they say. Hey, when the best thing you can say about something is that it doesn't hurt as much as other things, I say just shut up. Telling a diabetic that a new tester is good news is tantamount to telling a crippled guy that you have great news for him and then when you have him so excited, you open a box and show him a brand new shiny pair of crutches. Hip hip horray! New crutches might be nice, but don't say you have good news, just give 'em to me.
How can people be so cruel? I think something should be done to stop those people. And, if you want to be the one to stop them, I'll bring the bleach.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
My Very Own Election Blog
Because I choose to keep a low profile, and because I’m a somewhat, no, make that very modest guy, many of you probably don’t realize that when it comes to politics, I’m exceptionally savvy. Therefore, while it may surprise you, it didn’t surprise me one iota that I’ve been asked to do an election wrap-up radio program this morning.
Actually, I’m doing it as I type this, and thanks to modern technology, the transcript of my program will be seen below. So, get ready to be impressed. Here goes:
STEVE: Well, my next guest on the Big Wig line is Senator George Allen. Welcome Senator Allen.
GEORGE ALLEN: Thanks Steve. It’s a pleasure to be on a show with such a modest, and yet politically savvy guy.
STEVE: You’re very gracious, Senator. Let me get one thing straight right away. I’m constantly getting you mixed up with the old comedy team of George Burns and Gracie Allen. Are you their son?
GEORGE ALLEN: No, not at all, Steve. I’m the son of George Allen.
STEVE: That’s right, that’s right. Your dad was some sort of a sports star or something, wasn’t he?
GEORGE ALLEN: You’re close. He was the coach of the Washington Redskins.
STEVE: Yeah, I remember now. And he also has some cars in NASCAR, if I’m not mistaken.
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, you are mistaken, actually. You’re thinking of Joe Gibbs.
STEVE: Yeah, that’s right. Hey, you’re pretty smart. It’s too bad you lost last night.
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, hold on. It’s too close to call right now. I have not conceded defeat.
STEVE: Well, I’m just going by the numbers. But, let’s say that you do lose, what would you blame that on?
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, there are a number of factors. I made some pretty stupid blunders, especially when I called that terrorist “Macacaw.”
STEVE: Yeah, that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?
GEORGE ALLEN: (laughing) I heard that, Steve. I was talking to my great-aunt, Hadassah Goldburg, and she told me…
STEVE: Sorry, Senator, or should I say soon to be ex-Senator, but I have the winner on the line and I have to go. Well, folks, there you have it. Thanks to Senator Joe Gibbs, Junior for being so gracious. Now, let’s move to Jim Webb. Senator Webb…
JIM WEBB: I like the sound of that, Steve, but not quite a Senator.
STEVE: Okay, then I’ll just call you Jim, if I may. Jim, I know Al Gore invented the Internet, but with a name like Webb, I’m wondering if you had anything to do with that whole world-wide thing.
JIM WEBB: No, I can’t take credit for that, but I would like to make a comment. I’m hearing on the news that this race is to close to declare a winner. That’s wrong. I declared myself a winner last night.
STEVE: Yeah, I heard that. I guess last night was pretty exciting.
JIM WEBB: Well, let me put it this way…I was so proud I went back to my room and wrote an entire pornographic novel in less than an hour.
STEVE: Oh, I didn’t know they took that long to write. Hey, Jim. I hate to cut this short, but Joe Lieberman is on the line and, you know, he’s really a famous guy.
JIM WEBB: Well, let me say one thing…
STEVE: Senator Lieberman. Let me be the first to offer my condolences on your loss last night.
JOE LIEBERMAN: Well, you definitely are the first to do that, Steve, because, actually I had a pretty impressive victory.
STEVE: Oh, my bad. I was about to suggest that if you were out of work, I think you’d be great as the voice of Elmer Fudd.
JOE LIEBERMAN: (laughing). I’ve heard that before.
STEVE: Senator, I have to apologize because I had made up my questions to ask you based on my belief you had lost. So, can you bear with me.
JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, you cwazy wabbit. Go ahead.
STEVE: Thanks. How does it feel to have lost?
JOE LIEBERMAN: I’m very thankful to my constituents who believed in me.
STEVE: Have you offered your support to Ned LaBlanc?
JOE LIEBERMAN: That’s Lamont.
STEVE: What’s lamont?
JOE LIEBERMAN: Ned
STEVE: Are we still talking about Ned LaBlanc?
JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, I really have to go.
STEVE: And, on that note, let’s take a break. I’ll be right back to speak with Governor Mayor Doug Wilder about last night’s tragedization of city council. So, don’t go anywhere. Okay?
Actually, I’m doing it as I type this, and thanks to modern technology, the transcript of my program will be seen below. So, get ready to be impressed. Here goes:
STEVE: Well, my next guest on the Big Wig line is Senator George Allen. Welcome Senator Allen.
GEORGE ALLEN: Thanks Steve. It’s a pleasure to be on a show with such a modest, and yet politically savvy guy.
STEVE: You’re very gracious, Senator. Let me get one thing straight right away. I’m constantly getting you mixed up with the old comedy team of George Burns and Gracie Allen. Are you their son?
GEORGE ALLEN: No, not at all, Steve. I’m the son of George Allen.
STEVE: That’s right, that’s right. Your dad was some sort of a sports star or something, wasn’t he?
GEORGE ALLEN: You’re close. He was the coach of the Washington Redskins.
STEVE: Yeah, I remember now. And he also has some cars in NASCAR, if I’m not mistaken.
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, you are mistaken, actually. You’re thinking of Joe Gibbs.
STEVE: Yeah, that’s right. Hey, you’re pretty smart. It’s too bad you lost last night.
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, hold on. It’s too close to call right now. I have not conceded defeat.
STEVE: Well, I’m just going by the numbers. But, let’s say that you do lose, what would you blame that on?
GEORGE ALLEN: Well, there are a number of factors. I made some pretty stupid blunders, especially when I called that terrorist “Macacaw.”
STEVE: Yeah, that was pretty stupid, wasn’t it?
GEORGE ALLEN: (laughing) I heard that, Steve. I was talking to my great-aunt, Hadassah Goldburg, and she told me…
STEVE: Sorry, Senator, or should I say soon to be ex-Senator, but I have the winner on the line and I have to go. Well, folks, there you have it. Thanks to Senator Joe Gibbs, Junior for being so gracious. Now, let’s move to Jim Webb. Senator Webb…
JIM WEBB: I like the sound of that, Steve, but not quite a Senator.
STEVE: Okay, then I’ll just call you Jim, if I may. Jim, I know Al Gore invented the Internet, but with a name like Webb, I’m wondering if you had anything to do with that whole world-wide thing.
JIM WEBB: No, I can’t take credit for that, but I would like to make a comment. I’m hearing on the news that this race is to close to declare a winner. That’s wrong. I declared myself a winner last night.
STEVE: Yeah, I heard that. I guess last night was pretty exciting.
JIM WEBB: Well, let me put it this way…I was so proud I went back to my room and wrote an entire pornographic novel in less than an hour.
STEVE: Oh, I didn’t know they took that long to write. Hey, Jim. I hate to cut this short, but Joe Lieberman is on the line and, you know, he’s really a famous guy.
JIM WEBB: Well, let me say one thing…
STEVE: Senator Lieberman. Let me be the first to offer my condolences on your loss last night.
JOE LIEBERMAN: Well, you definitely are the first to do that, Steve, because, actually I had a pretty impressive victory.
STEVE: Oh, my bad. I was about to suggest that if you were out of work, I think you’d be great as the voice of Elmer Fudd.
JOE LIEBERMAN: (laughing). I’ve heard that before.
STEVE: Senator, I have to apologize because I had made up my questions to ask you based on my belief you had lost. So, can you bear with me.
JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, you cwazy wabbit. Go ahead.
STEVE: Thanks. How does it feel to have lost?
JOE LIEBERMAN: I’m very thankful to my constituents who believed in me.
STEVE: Have you offered your support to Ned LaBlanc?
JOE LIEBERMAN: That’s Lamont.
STEVE: What’s lamont?
JOE LIEBERMAN: Ned
STEVE: Are we still talking about Ned LaBlanc?
JOE LIEBERMAN: Steve, I really have to go.
STEVE: And, on that note, let’s take a break. I’ll be right back to speak with Governor Mayor Doug Wilder about last night’s tragedization of city council. So, don’t go anywhere. Okay?
Thursday, November 02, 2006
The Handwriting's On the Wall
I may have told you this story before, but even if I did, stay with me, because everytime I tell it, it just gets better. Also, by the time I'm done here, I think you'll find a little nugget that might be interesting.
One thing that should be perfectly clear is that a lot has changed over the past half century. You probably would not have noticed that had I not called it to your attention. Anyway, back when I was a fifth grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, Virginia, my teacher, Mrs. Gruver, was the wife of the school principal, who, interestingly was named Mr. Gruver.
One day Mrs. Gruver told our class, "I want you boys to help Mr. Gruver out. If you see any dirty words written on the walls in the boys' restroom, let Mr. Gruver know so he can wash them off before the little kids see them." The Gruvers were very religious people. They were sincerely interested in protecting the little six-year-olders from the dirty minds of the ninth graders, some of whom were in their early twenties.
I was always very diligent about doing what I was asked. Or, at least, I loved getting others in trouble. So I regularly scoured the walls (visually) looking for dirty words. I knew two or three dirty words, so, of course, they were the ones I was looking for. One day I saw two words I had not seen before. Although I recognized one as being, in normal usage, a clean word, I immediately realized that I must be looking at dirty words. Actually, this was my first encounter with the grand daddy of all dirty words. I didn't know what it meant, but just the sound of it told me it was dirty. At that moment, however, I had no idea how dirty.
So, up the stairs I went (the boys' room was in the basement) to the principal's office.
"May I see Mr. Gruver?" I asked his secretary.
"Why?" she asked me.
I want to tell him about some dirty words," I replied. I was immediately ushered into Mr. Gruver's little office. Dirty words were being given top priority at the time.
Every time I went in Mr. Gruver's office, I would look around for his electric paddle. I had never seen it, but the older kids had assured me he had one, and he wasn't afraid to use it. Just the idea of an electric paddle kept me in line through my early, formative years. Anyway, I looked around, searching for the paddle, while Mr. Gruver finished reading some letter or something he had in his hands.
Finally, Mr. Gruver looked up at me. He was a bald, little man, but very stern. He sort of resembled Don Knotts, who had not yet become Barney Fife, but was still seen often on TV. "How may I help you?" he asked me. He always sounded so authoritative, that I didn't even want to imagine what he must sound like when he was hooking a kid up to the electric paddle.
"I found some dirty words on the wall in the bathroom," I told him. "At least I think they're dirty words."
He just looked at me with his beady little eyes. He didn't say a word, and I suppose I should have remained quiet until he asked me for more information.
But, if you know me, you know silence is a great inducement to get me talking. If I were being interrogated, the police wouldn't even have to say a word to me...just bring me in a room and stare at me and I'll tell everything I know.
So, after waiting for what seemed like an hour, probably only three seconds in actuality, I continued. "The words are 'BLEEP' and 'BLEEP.' Are they dirty?"
Mr. Gruver didn't say a word. But his face turned a bright red, from his pencil-like neck to the tip of his bald head. He made a little face like he'd just eaten a very sour lemon. I knew I must have hit the curse word jackpot. And, to tell you the truth, I was scared. I was wondering if maybe he might reach into a drawer and pull out his electric paddle and use it on me right then and there.
Finally, after several seconds (two hours in fifth-grader standing in front of the principal time), Mr. Gruver spoke. Or, to be more precise, he squeaked."
"Yes," he gulped. "They're dirty." I don't remember what he said after that. I was just glad to get out of there.
That event was ultimately good for me. I've never been able to use those words, especially the number one dirty word in the entire universe, ever since then.
That was in the mid-fifties. Today, everyone uses the word. My wife was telling me about a conversation she had with one of the big-wigs in her company. The guy was not mad at her, but was expressing his irritation with another worker. "I'm BLEEPING tired of this," the guy said. My wife only used the first letter of the word. I won't even go that far, here.
"What!" I exclaimed. You should report him for using such language. My wife looked at me as if I had just stepped off the Gerber Creamed Banana Boat.
"Everyone in the office talks like that," she said.
What a difference a scant half century makes. In the fifties, only those filthy-minded ninth graders would use such words, and they probably wouldn't even say them, just write them on a dirty bathroom wall.
Today, everyone says it, or so I'm told. What has happened to Beaver Cleaver? Even Eddie Haskell would not have said "BLEEP." And, while I was trying to help the Gruvers protect the first-graders, I bet the first graders are using those words today. In fact, every one from the President on down seems to be using such language.
I think we ought to pass some sort of law that allows us to wash people's mouths out with soap. Mr. Gruver sent someone down to the basement to wash off those walls. It's a shame washing people's minds is not so easy.
One thing that should be perfectly clear is that a lot has changed over the past half century. You probably would not have noticed that had I not called it to your attention. Anyway, back when I was a fifth grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, Virginia, my teacher, Mrs. Gruver, was the wife of the school principal, who, interestingly was named Mr. Gruver.
One day Mrs. Gruver told our class, "I want you boys to help Mr. Gruver out. If you see any dirty words written on the walls in the boys' restroom, let Mr. Gruver know so he can wash them off before the little kids see them." The Gruvers were very religious people. They were sincerely interested in protecting the little six-year-olders from the dirty minds of the ninth graders, some of whom were in their early twenties.
I was always very diligent about doing what I was asked. Or, at least, I loved getting others in trouble. So I regularly scoured the walls (visually) looking for dirty words. I knew two or three dirty words, so, of course, they were the ones I was looking for. One day I saw two words I had not seen before. Although I recognized one as being, in normal usage, a clean word, I immediately realized that I must be looking at dirty words. Actually, this was my first encounter with the grand daddy of all dirty words. I didn't know what it meant, but just the sound of it told me it was dirty. At that moment, however, I had no idea how dirty.
So, up the stairs I went (the boys' room was in the basement) to the principal's office.
"May I see Mr. Gruver?" I asked his secretary.
"Why?" she asked me.
I want to tell him about some dirty words," I replied. I was immediately ushered into Mr. Gruver's little office. Dirty words were being given top priority at the time.
Every time I went in Mr. Gruver's office, I would look around for his electric paddle. I had never seen it, but the older kids had assured me he had one, and he wasn't afraid to use it. Just the idea of an electric paddle kept me in line through my early, formative years. Anyway, I looked around, searching for the paddle, while Mr. Gruver finished reading some letter or something he had in his hands.
Finally, Mr. Gruver looked up at me. He was a bald, little man, but very stern. He sort of resembled Don Knotts, who had not yet become Barney Fife, but was still seen often on TV. "How may I help you?" he asked me. He always sounded so authoritative, that I didn't even want to imagine what he must sound like when he was hooking a kid up to the electric paddle.
"I found some dirty words on the wall in the bathroom," I told him. "At least I think they're dirty words."
He just looked at me with his beady little eyes. He didn't say a word, and I suppose I should have remained quiet until he asked me for more information.
But, if you know me, you know silence is a great inducement to get me talking. If I were being interrogated, the police wouldn't even have to say a word to me...just bring me in a room and stare at me and I'll tell everything I know.
So, after waiting for what seemed like an hour, probably only three seconds in actuality, I continued. "The words are 'BLEEP' and 'BLEEP.' Are they dirty?"
Mr. Gruver didn't say a word. But his face turned a bright red, from his pencil-like neck to the tip of his bald head. He made a little face like he'd just eaten a very sour lemon. I knew I must have hit the curse word jackpot. And, to tell you the truth, I was scared. I was wondering if maybe he might reach into a drawer and pull out his electric paddle and use it on me right then and there.
Finally, after several seconds (two hours in fifth-grader standing in front of the principal time), Mr. Gruver spoke. Or, to be more precise, he squeaked."
"Yes," he gulped. "They're dirty." I don't remember what he said after that. I was just glad to get out of there.
That event was ultimately good for me. I've never been able to use those words, especially the number one dirty word in the entire universe, ever since then.
That was in the mid-fifties. Today, everyone uses the word. My wife was telling me about a conversation she had with one of the big-wigs in her company. The guy was not mad at her, but was expressing his irritation with another worker. "I'm BLEEPING tired of this," the guy said. My wife only used the first letter of the word. I won't even go that far, here.
"What!" I exclaimed. You should report him for using such language. My wife looked at me as if I had just stepped off the Gerber Creamed Banana Boat.
"Everyone in the office talks like that," she said.
What a difference a scant half century makes. In the fifties, only those filthy-minded ninth graders would use such words, and they probably wouldn't even say them, just write them on a dirty bathroom wall.
Today, everyone says it, or so I'm told. What has happened to Beaver Cleaver? Even Eddie Haskell would not have said "BLEEP." And, while I was trying to help the Gruvers protect the first-graders, I bet the first graders are using those words today. In fact, every one from the President on down seems to be using such language.
I think we ought to pass some sort of law that allows us to wash people's mouths out with soap. Mr. Gruver sent someone down to the basement to wash off those walls. It's a shame washing people's minds is not so easy.
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