A VISIT TO GERIATRIC PARK

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Yet More Random Observations

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

That's An Elfish Thing To Do

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

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

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

More Random Acts of Stupidity

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

Good Orning E-ree-ody

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

STEVE: Thank you ladies and germs.

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

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

CHARLIE: (muffled) eppp mmm nnnnn dddddox

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

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

STEVE: So Charlie, what's new?

CHARLIE: i don't know i nnnn dah ox

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

CHARLIE: i haaa et n air

STEVE: You hate it in there?

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

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

CHARLIE: He eeks without oooin his litz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHARLIE: I in wood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STEVE: So Charlie, do you have a nickname?

CHARLIE: Yeah, knothead

STEVE: Any relatives?

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

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

CHARLIE: Yeah

STEVE: What are their names?

CHARLIE: Well, there's aple.

STEVE: Maple...

CHARLIE: And Ellnnn

STEVE: Elm....

CHARLIE: And Pine

STEVE: Ine...

CHARLIE: And, little fig

STEVE: Little ig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HECKLER: So there, yourself.

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

STEVE: Say goodbye Charlie.

CHARLIE: Good eye, Charlie.

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

Is There Anyone I Haven't Offended Here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nerve of Some Presidents

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