Let us Prey

It is with much shame and humiliation that I've come here today to admit that my computer is a faithless piece of trash. The cold, hard truth, with which I've been forced to come face to face, is that my computer is an atheist.
I have seen the light from the glow of my monitor, but that light only led me to the harsh truths I stand before ye today and speak of with such meekness. Can I get an amen here, please?
Thanks
You see, I was doing some research on my Darwinian PC. I wanted to know more about a news story that had appeared on the Fox News Network on Monday night, about this church in California where images of Jesus, Mary, and a host of other Biblical characters keep appearing on the walls. The holy pastor, Wynona something or other, admitted she was a little skeptical when she first was told of these miraculous images. But then when people started paying to come see 'em, she became a believer.
What a blessed woman, she. And, I know she must be telling the truth about these images. Think about it. If a lady of God says there are images appearing in the water stains and on the dirty vents of her church, who am I to be so lacking in faith to question her. I wanted to see. I wanted to have my life altered as have countless others who have seen one or more of these images. I've been hoping for a raise at work. Maybe catching sight of the image would be just what the doctor ordered to rustle me up a nice raise. And, I feel confident that with said raise, I'd be more willing to go out and help the poor.
But, no, not gonna happen. My PC, who I now refer to as Ol' Beelzebub, wouldn't show me even one miraculous image. Oh sure. I saw water stains. I did think that maybe I saw Alvin of the Chipmunks in one stain. And, he does sing that wonderful Christmas hymn about the hula hoop. So, maybe I'm being too hard on the monitor. But, hey, I wanted to see a real honest to goodness Jesus and Mary image.
The pastor lady says they've even had images of Moses and Peter show up from time to time. My problem there is that even if my computer hadn't renounced all belief in God, I probably couldn't tell which one was Peter and which one was Moses. In all of the photographs I've seen of the two gentlemen, they look so much alike.
But it's a mute point (that is a point no one can speak about). It's all academic now, because, as I say, the best image I got was of a rodent.
But that's not the worst of it. I thought well maybe my eyes are bad. Maybe these images were showing up but it was due to my eyes (or lack of faith) that I wasn't seeing Jesus. And, heaven knows, I really was hoping to see him.
But, again, I stand before ye brethern and tell you that it wasn't me. It was this heathen Dell computer.
You see, even though I couldn't see the images, I did see that this church has a website (bless their bytes)for people to go see more of the images. The website is miraclewall.org. So, I typed the url in to my address box and do you know what happened? Do you want to know what happened? YOu're not going to believe it. Nothing happened. No website even came up. I guess that's proof enough that my computer is of low moral character.
I know, I know...some of you doubt. You say, "Steve, it's all a hoax." But, I say, "A hoax? Would a church do something like that? And you say, "But Steve, would God really waste time playing pictionary with a bunch of nuts?" And I say, "You tell me."
Anyway, here I sit, weeping openly. All I asked for was a glimpse of miracle wall, and all I got was this error message. My computer must die! As soon as I can afford a new one.
Well, so much for the computer. I have better things to do. My neighbor has a chihuahua who can bark How Great Thou Art, and I don't want to miss tonight's performance. I may just get that raise after all.

Random Thoughts, Once Again (Or, in other words, I haven't had an intelligent thought in days)

Well, in true rambling form, I just have a few random thoughts to share. First of all, did you watch the new show on NBC tonight? Clash of the Choirs? Talk about not living up to the hype. I was under the impression that this was some sort of WWF or WWE or whatever, RAW type of battle royal between local church groups.
I was looking forward to some hymnal hurling, robe ripping action, and all I got was horrible singers singing horribly. Maybe I didn't pay enough attention to the advertisements, but I was miserably disappointed.
Also, what's with all this stereoid hullabaloo. Hey, these guys are high paid ball players. I'd be surprised if they DIDN'T own stereos. I'm sure many even have I-Pods. So what's the big deal? These dedicated professionals give everything they have day in and day out during the long, grueling summer season. Sometimes, I feel sure, they go beyond what might be considered humanly possible, at least to you and me.
I think it's amazing to see such marvelous specimans of humanity...men, who even after they have passed the prime of life, continue to grow even stronger, and bulkier. So, if, in their off time, they want to chill to some stereo music, I say, let 'em chill.
I'm glad I don't walk around with an attitude like some people I know, including Bart Giomatti, or whoever that guy is who says he's like the big wig of baseball.
I say live and let live.
Speaking of which, so what if Barak Obama wanted to be president in kindergarten. I can't see how the Clintons could make a big deal about that. And, if, at the same time, he was dealing in drugs, I'm sure he's put that all behind him.
I hear some people saying Hillary is slipping in the polls. I find that hard to believe. I mean just look at the woman, she looks presidential. In fact, she looks very much like some of the nation's earliest presidents, although I'm not sure I could put names with faces.
Personally, I believe Mrs. Clinton has the nomination locked up, but a lot can happen between now and the Democratic Convention next summer. For instance, if there's some big scandal...like, for instance, if someone catches Bill Clinton having sex with Hillary, then I say all bets are off. But barring that, and I feel that it won't be a problem, I say Hillary is a shoe in. Unless of course, the nod goes to Obama or that pretty boy with the southern accent. I never can remember his name.
And, speaking of politics, I can't believe what the Republicans are doing to each other. I read somewhere that many of the candidates have come right out and called Mitt Romney a moron. Hey, when you're named after a glove, maybe you deserve a little ribbing, but a moron? Really! Some people.
Well, I gotta get back to watching the news. I try to stay up to date on world events so I can better help you, the little people out there, better understand what's going on. Don't thank me. I consider it an honor.

Tis The Season, Tisn't It?

So, I'm minding my own business, just sitting at my desk, when the phone rings. You can probably guess who is was. Yep, Lochru the Druid, who for whatever reason only comes out this time of year. He's kind of like the groundhog in Pennsylvania only earlier. Anyway, I answer the phone, and he says, "Steve, can you help me out?"
"Sure," I say, because as everyone who knows me knows, I'm always looking for ways to help people out.
"Well," he continues, "you remember a few weeks ago when I played some of my Druid Carols?"
"Yeah, how could I forget?" I say.
"Well, anyway, I got some complaints."
"What sort of complaints?" I ask my favorite Druid.
"Oh a bunch of people wrote me," he continues, "and said since I'm living in America now, I need to act like Americans."
"And what did you say?" I asked him.
"I asked them if they meant I needed to speak Spanish."
"Quick thinking," I say.
"But that irritated them too," Lochru tells me. "They said that Druidism is yesterday and that I needed to have the Christmas spirit."
"So, what do you think?" I asked him.
"Well, I want to get along," he answers. "So, I did some studying up on Christmas. And, then this morning I was listening to Sid and Melissa on Q-94."
"You listen to Q-94?" I asked incredulously. "I bet you really skew the demographics. What are you, about 500 years old."
"You're too kind," he answers. "Anyway, I was listening to Sid and Melissa talk about a Christmas party they went to last night. And it really helped me to understand what Christmas is all about."
"Well, that's great," I say, "but you asked me for my help...?"
"Yes," Lochru says. "You see, after doing my research and listening to this morning's program, I sat down and wrote a Christmas song."
"I'm sure it's lovely," I say.
"Again, you're too kind," he says. "May I sing it to you so you can share it with your millions of readers?"
"Why not, after all, I am writing the column. I need something to finish it off."
"Okay, here goes," he says. "I call it The 21st Century Christmas Song, and it goes a little something like this..."


Employees puking in the garbage can
They’ve had just too much Christmas cheer.
Tiny tots listening to Q-94
Say, ‘Hey Jesus must really like his beer."

Co-workers hooking up in the ladies room
This Christmas party is really something swell
But if what Pat Robertson says is the truth
Then the Q-94 staff will burn in hell.

This Christmas thing is kinda weird
Is it about baby Jesus
Or this fat guy with a long white beard?
And all the revelers are going to try
To get really drunk but yet not die

And so I’m offering this simple phrase
To all you party goers drinking the 100 proof fluid
Although it’s never been said
At any time or in any way
You’d all be better off if you were Druids

When Lochru finished his song, I wiped a tear from my eye and hung up.

My Dog Blog

I need to set the record straight on a particular issue. Let me go on record right now as saying that I am not a dog hater. I love all God's creatures, except for camelback crickets, of course. They're the meanest insect on earth. If you try to step on one, it will lunge for your throat. Believe me, they've come after me on more than one occasion.
But, back to the subject at hand...dogs. I don't hate them. True, it's not like I'm best friends with any of them, but I don't hate them. I'm just not crazy about them.
My wife loves her dogs and I think she secretly views me as an inferior life form because I don't share her emotions. She has two dogs, Toby (a male) and Tory (female). We've had the dogs since they were puppies. Someone had abandoned them, and my wife, bless her heart, took them in. They're about eight years old now.
I told my wife recently that while I liked Toby, I wasn't all that fond of Tory. Her voice is too shrill (Tory's, not my wife's) and she whines about everything (Tory, hmmm, oh yeah, I do mean Tory). "I wish we could find a loving home for Tory," I say (wink, wink, nod, nod)
"Well, Toby would miss her so much if I got rid of her," my wife says, agreeing with me that Tory can get on your nerves.
"So, let me get this straight," I say in reply. "You have Toby as your pet, and Toby has Tory as his pet. Is that the way it is?"
She didn't answer. I guess, bottom line, my wife really loves both dogs. I'm not saying, or even suggesting that she loves them more than she does me. But, on rare occasion, if she gets irritated with me and raises her voice, she immediately comforts the dogs. She never reads my columns, so, unless one of you has an exceptionally large mouth, this will be our little secret.
My wife doesn't insist I love the dogs, but she does want me to treat them nicely. It's not like I kick them, and I swear I am no supporter of Michael Vick, but I have a hard time talking baby/dog talk to the dogs.
When I come home and kiss my wife, she will say, "Speak to Tory."
"Hi, Tory," I'll say rather matter of factly.
"No," my wife will say. "Speak sweetly to her."
"How was your day, Tory?" I'll say, still devoid of any deep emotion.
"You can do better than that," my wife will scold me.
So, in the same way I speak to my infant grandson, I'll muster up the courage and say, "How is da wittle doggie doing today, huh Toreeeee?"
"Did you hear that?" my wife will say to Tory. "Daddy loves you."
And Tory, being exceptionally dumb, will believe my wife and get up and come over and try and lick my face. Yuck.
Like I say, I don't hate dogs, but I do hate being licked by a dog. Now, I know that dog's saliva is supposed to be as pure as Ivory soap, but I just don't want to be near it. But, Tory, who has no appreciation for human subtleties will immediately be convinced that I've suddenly converted to a dog lover just because I speak sweetly to her. She'll totally ignore the fact that only moments previously we were just two warm-blooded creatures who passed in the night.
Toby, isn't much better, but he does have a good disposition. Oh sure, he loves to kill a cat or a possum on occasion, but except for a little blood lust, he's not a bad dog. He's a big, black lab. I really don't mind him. I just know that if I speak nicely to me, he'll want to be up (all 100 pounds of him) on my lap.
I just want to explain my position. If you should ever hear that I hate dogs, don't believe it.
In fact, just this morning, I went into the dog's bedroom to dress. Yes, my closet is in the dog's room. When I cut on the light, at about 6:00 this morning, Tory looks up at me, like what the heck are you doing here?"
"Sorry, Tory," I say sincerely. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
Then it dawns on me. What difference does it make if I wake the dog up? It's not like Tory has a really hectic schedule today and could have used an extra hour's sleep. In fact, sleeping is what she'll pretty much spend the day doing.
And, it's not like Tory won't be able to get back to sleep because her mind will be racing with all that she has to get accomplished today. I can just imagine Tory lying in bed thinking..."Hmmm,what's on my schedule today. Oh yeah, first I have to lick my rear end, then I need to go to the window and bark at the neighbor's stupid cat. And, oh yeah, there's one of Steve's shoes I have to chew on for a little while. That'll serve him right. I know he hates me. I know he's just pretending when he speaks nicely to me. But, I also know how much he hates me licking him. What a stupid animal he is. But, it's not like I hate him or anything. I'm just not crazy about him."

Finally Famous After All These Years

Wow! I must be famous. So this is what it feels like. Hmm, I wonder if Mayor Governor Wilder is going to give me the key to the city, or at least give me one of the city’s discarded artist renderings of some really neat place that never got built. That would be cool.
But, I guess I had better slow down and explain myself. How do I know I’m famous? You might be thinking someone asked for my autograph. Think again. The UPS guy did ask me to sign for a package of toner cartridges the other day, but that’s about the closest I’ve come to autographing anything.
Or, could it be I’ve been asked to judge a beauty contest? That might seem to be a logical conclusion inasmuch as all the famous people who get to do that aren’t really all that famous. At least, I’ve never heard of any of them. But, no. No one has asked me to judge anything.
I did get a call from someone with the Miss Virginia Pageant recently, but she only called to complain because I had innocently made the statement that the Miss Virginia Pageant has to be the most poorly produced programming in the history of pageantry. I think I may have said something about the semi-lovely ladies being completely devoid of talent. I hope I didn’t say that. I hope I only thought it. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But, to reiterate, I have not become aware of my fame due to any requests to judge things.
Maybe, you’re thinking I’ve become so famous that I was asked to be in this year’s Ukrop’s Christmas Parade, maybe even to be the grand marshal. Nope. And, I’m not complaining either. I was told, by our Art Director, Vince Robertson, who watched on TV, that this year’s parade was so bad, Ukrop’s has asked that from now on it be called the Food Lion Christmas Parade. Vince tells me that the Henrico County float was downright embarrassing. Well, maybe he didn’t use that term, but he described the float, something to the effect that it was a tool shed on a truck. Way to go, Henrico! But anyway, I’m not famous because of any parade. Although, it would be cool to have a big balloon that looked like me flying above the buildings. Of course, some people think I look like a big balloon of me already.
So, back to my famousness. Is it because people come up to me and say, “Hey, Steve, we really enjoy your columns”? No, the truth is no one has ever, and I mean ever, recognized me in public, even when I’m wearing a badge that says, “Steve Cook.” In fact, it wasn’t so very long ago, I approached a big wig with the Chamber of Commerce, who, every time I encountered him at a meeting, would always say, “It’s good to meet you.” I spoke to this guy every month at a breakfast meeting, and invariably, every month, he would introduce himself to me, and I’d play along and introduce myself to him, and every month he would say, in the same totally insincere manner, “It’s good to meet you.”
So, at this one particular meeting, I approached him, before he could come up and introduce himself for the umpteenth time. As he was starting to re-introduce himself, I said (and keep in mind, I’m wearing a badge that identifies me as who I am – Steve, in case you’ve forgotten), “Joe, we’ve met before.”
“Yes, I remember,” he says, and continues, “It’s nice to see you again Dave.” DAVE! Hold on, you moron. I’m Steve Cook. I’m famous. I didn’t actually say that. But, I sure thought it, except for that part about being famous. I have never thought that.
But, I have thought about how great it would be to be famous. The biggest thing about being famous is all the free stuff. I imagine famous people are always being given stuff for free, you know, like cars and free hamburgers, and other neat stuff like that. Until now, I’m sorry to say fame has eluded me as successfully as has talent.
But, the day has arrived. And, if you’ve looked closely at this page, you’re one step ahead of me. Did you notice? Yes, I am famous. Because only famous people have impersonators impersonating them. And now, there’s a Steve Cook impersonator out there. Look at the picture. Surprise! That’s not me. It’s Chase Porter, who lives in Smithfield, Virginia, and fittingly, Chase is a real ham.
He does a perfect me, I think. Actually, it’s a perfect mini-me, which even adds to my fame. Don’t you think?
And, if you ever saw Chase do the impersonation on stage, you’d notice he even blinks like me. I’m one of the world’s great blinkers. Anyway, the next time he does one of his popular, “An Evening With Steve Cook (sort of) Concerts,” I’ll let you know. And, if you’re famous, I can probably get you a couple of tickets for free.

If Hippocrates Were Alive Today He'd Be Spinning in His Grave

At the very least, the father of medicine may be considering putting his child up for adoption. Truth is, we know very little about what Hippocrates really believed, but, having grown up the son of a country doctor, I can tell you that the practice of medicine today ain't what it used to be.
I'm not talking about the marvelous breakthroughs. There are plenty. Rather, I'm focusing on one particular aspect of modern medical practice. And, as the public spirited guy I have proven to be on so many occasions, I've prepared a quiz to help you better appreciate my concern. There is one actual, factual answer provided to each of these multi-choice questions. Are you ready? Here goes:

1) I call a heart specialist, to whom I've been referred by my doctor. The receptionist is setting up my appointment. After a time is set, and directions to the building are provided, she says, "And, yes, please don't forget to..."

A) Bring photos of your family. We want to get to know you.
B) Bring a list of your medications.
C) Bring your insurance card.

2) There is a sign in my doctor's office which reads, "If you are unable to pay for today's visit, you must..."

A) Not worry about it. Your health is all that matters.
B) Sign an agreement accepting liability for today's charges.
C) Make arrangements to return and see your doctor at a time when you can make payment.


3) I call my doctor's office and the recording instructs me to push "ONE" as a priority caller if:

A) You're feeling really sick
B) You're a long-time patient
C) If (you're paying an additional charge and) you are a Priority Patient


4) There is another sign in my doctor's office addressed to the elderly. The sign reads, "As of September 1st,..."

A) We are starting a new program to provide special services to our elderly patients.
B) We will need to see your Medicare card at each visit.
C) We will no longer be honoring Medicare Insurance.

5) You go to a new doctor and are given four forms to fill out. Form one is a medical history, the other forms are...

A) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, and one page on insurance.
B) Requesting additional information on any medical problems, with two pages on insurance.
C) Nothing but insurance and "How in the world will you pay us" forms.


Okay, let's exchange papers and find out how we did.

Answer One is C. And, even if it's just because you know I'm an ornery old man, you've probably guessed two through four are also "C." Yep, that's the sad facts. But, I think you will agree that the time we have spent here, venting together, makes you feel somewhat better.

Do you agree? Good. That will be $25.00. Thanks for visiting.

It's Beginning to Look Like The Most Miserable Time of the Year - Ding Dong Ding Dong

This has to be the absolutely most miserable time of year. It’s not just a matter of crowded streets and jam-packed stores. It’s not just the incessant bell ringing and the strong-armed tactics of the dozens of winos in Santa suits. No, it’s much more than that.
The real problem is that I’m being Burl Ived to death. I hate Burl Ives music. I don’t think he was a good singer. And, thankfully for about 11 months of the year, no radio station will dare play his music. But, starting Thanksgiving day, my favorite radio stations do 24 hour Christmas music. Why?
Even if you’re a big fan of Christmas music do you really want to listen to it non-stop? Now, Delilah is playing it. Why can’t she just go back to her sappy love songs? Someone calls her up and says they want to dedicate a special song to a loved one who has meant so much to them, and has helped them through the hard times, and has stuck by them, and can Delilah please play something very special, and she says, “I have just the perfect song,” and plays Frosty the Snowman.
Stop the insanity. Everybody is getting into the act. Just last night, I was sitting at my keyboard, when the phone rings. You’ll never guess who was phoning. Yes, it was my old friend Lochru, the Druid. I hadn’t heard from Lochru in quite some time. You may remember, he was found frozen at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir a couple of years back, and when he thawed out, he was as good as new. Anyway, he calls, and the conversation went something like this…

ME: Hello

LOCHRU: Hey, big fellow. It’s Lochru

ME: Well, Lochru, how are you? I haven’t heard from you lately. What’s happening?

LOCHRU: Well, I’ve been busy. I’ve started my own business.

ME: (wondering what sort of business a Druid would be starting) Well, you have me wondering. What sort of business would a Druid be starting?

LOCHRU: Amway, my friend. That’s why I’m calling. How would you like a six-figure income without ever leaving home?

ME: I’m not really interested.

LOCHRU: (Laughing) Whoa! Hold on. That’s what I said. But then I took a look, and these folks are amazing. I’m making money so quickly, I have several checks I haven’t even had time to cash yet.

ME: Let me stop you. I really am not interested...at all.

LOCHRU: I thought you’d say that. So, if I can’t interest you in becoming part of my down network…

ME: Down network? What, are you selling ducks now too?

LOCHRU: (Laughing) Steve, my friend, you always did have a keen sense of humor. But, let me continue. The real reason I’m calling is to see if you know anyone at Lite 98.

ME: Well, I have met Bill Bevins. Why?

LOCHRU: I’ve written a song of the season, and I was hoping they would play it.

ME: You’ve written a Christmas song?

LOCHRU: Heavens no. Christmas is so, so, well, it’s so commercialized. We Druids view this as a very sacred season. It’s Alban Arthuan, you know.

ME: No, I didn’t know.

LOCHRU: Well, it’s very special, and for eleven months a year I really miss my homeland, but this time of year, everyone becomes so Druidish, albeit a bit commercialized. Anyway, as I was window shopping at Short Pump Town Center the other day, I got the idea for a beautiful song. Would you like me to sing it to you?

ME: Yeah, go ahead.

LOCHRU: (demonstrating a very beautiful voice, I might add)

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan,
Everywhere I go
Just when we thought it was dead and done, Here again comes the sun
And so we put up our mistletoe.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
The Father Sky God in every store
But the prettiest sight to see is the old yule log that will be
Burning brightly just inside my own front door

It’s beginning to look a lot like Alban Arthuan
Try and describe it and the words will fail ya
Nothing can be so gay, as when we give each other gifts that day
Oh how much I love the good ol’ Saturnalia.

Da Da Da De Da Da Da Da Da

ME: Are you done?

LOCHRU: It needs a little work, but all in all, what do you think?


ME: It’s lovely.

LOCHRU: Thanks. So, can you help me get it on the air?

ME: Sure, sure. I’ll try.

LOCHRU: You’re a pal. Let’s do lunch one day real soon. Byeee.

Anyway, the truth is, I don’t know Bill Bevins at all. So, I’m hoping you can help out. If you know him or someone else there, can you put me in touch? I’d be so grateful. You know how much I hate to disappoint Druids.

The Patience Of Jobs

As I was standing in the checkout line at Food Lion the other night, a thought hit me. Now, before I go on, I ask, please that you not ridicule me for shopping at Food Lion. It’s almost as good as a grocery store, and it is convenient.
Anyway, I was standing in the checkout lane, and I noticed, standing nearby, a security guard. The guard was an older gentleman, but that didn’t bother me. I’m one of those myself, except, perhaps, for the gentleman part. But, what caught my eye about this guard was the pained look on his face. He was also standing very rigidly. Even that didn’t bother me too much. I didn’t feel his pain, and, since I’m often accused of having a pained look on my face when I’m perfectly fine, his face wasn’t the problem.
Here’s what did bother me…the security guard was bracing himself on a cane. Admittedly, it was one of those fancy modern metal canes, you know the kind that has four little feet instead of just one rubber tipped stick. But it was, still, a cane. Now, I’m sure that this guard is a fine man, probably even a loving great-grandfather. And, I’m sure that if the situation warranted it, he would vigorously hurl his cane in the direction of any intruder. I’m even somewhat impressed that a guy who needs a cane to get around had enough gumption to apply for a job as a security guard.
But, how did he ever get the job? Why did he think he could get hired as a security guard? It’d be like Stephen Hawking applying for a position as a swim coach. Perhaps if Food Lion ever hires swim coaches, there might be a place for Hawking.
But it’s not just crippled security guards that puzzle me. There seem to be any number of positions filled by individuals who are incredibly unqualified, or just downright unsuited for that position. Take the staff at my doctor’s office (please) for example. My doctor is a wonderful man…caring, compassionate, all those things you’d want in a doctor. And, since he’s just one doctor in a huge practice, I doubt he has much influence on personnel hiring. But his staff is composed of the most uncaring, obnoxious, arrogant women I’ve ever met. I’m not being sexist. All of the support staff with whom I’ve dealt are woman and 90% of them are routinely rude to the patients.
While I know my doctor to be a caring sort of guy, I don’t get the impression his staff shares his concerns. In fact, I feel confident that if I were to walk into the office with a gaping whole in my chest and my heart dangling by an artery, the first thing his front desk receptionist would ask is if I have my insurance card on me. Then, after a fifteen minute wait for her to photocopy my insurance card, for the fifteenth time this year, she would sigh and say, “Let me see if we can work you in, you great big imposition, you.”
Why would anyone apply for a job in a doctor’s office if patients are an intrusion to them? I believe these gals are convinced that their main duty is to sit around the office and gossip with their fellow ignorer of patients.
One of these women called me yesterday to tell me that, based on a recent EKG, I need to see a heart specialist. “I’m not dying, am I?” I asked in one of those half-joking, half-really-needing-assurance sort of ways.
“Well, we all have to go sometime,” she says, in one of those half-joking, half-yes-you-are-dying sort of ways. Do you see what I mean about being the right fit for the job?
This is not a new phenomenon. I can remember, even as a kid, wondering why some people had certain jobs. Take Smiley, the milkman, for example. Smiley was our milkman, when I was a child, living in Boones Mill. Smiley was not the guy’s real name, I don’t think. My brothers and I nicknamed him Smiley because he never smiled.
Can you imagine that? Here the guy had one of the greatest jobs of all times…delivering milk both plain and chocolate, right to people’s homes, in cool glass bottles. And, the guy never smiled. We’d yell down at him from our bedroom windows, “Hey Smiley!” He’d look up and grimace. What a horrible fit…Smiley and the dairy business.
Then there was Lonnie Amos. Lonnie was a big man. Not as big as Lonnie, Junior. Lonnie, Junior was about five years older than I. He was a humongous kid. But, word on the street was that he had some sort of metabolic disorder (I think that was the term we fourth graders were using back then) that made him fat. His mom and dad ran a little business right in town…Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop. Now, first of all, speaking of bad fits, a snack bar and a barber shop don’t really go together. When you ate a hamburger at Amos’ Snack Bar and Barber Shop, you knew something was wrong if you didn’t find a hair in your food.
But what really made Lonnie Amos (the dad) a bad fit for the job was his nerve problem. Lonnie would cut our hair with a straight-edge razor. And, on virtually every occasion, he would tell me, “Hold real still today, my hands are shaky.” Lonnie, so they said around town, had nerve problems. Now that I’ve grown and look back on it, I’m thinking Lonnie’s nerves may have come out of a bottle. But, don’t quote me on that. I hate to speak ill of the dead. I’m not sure Lonnie is dead. But if he’s still living, he’d probably be about 105 by now.
Truth be told I’ve had some jobs for which I wasn’t the perfect fit. For about five years, I worked in customer service for Time Life. That was horrible. Every day for five years, I had to listen to other people complain all day long. And even worse than that…I had to be nice.

I Sphinc Therefore I Am

I can't count the number of times people, total strangers, at that, have come up to me and said something like this, "Steve, I love your column, but I'm worried about your gastro-intestinal tract." Finally, after hearing that over and over, and partially because my doctor forced it on me, I decided to schedule a colonoscopy. Let me tell you, if you have never had one, do so today. Before I share all the exciting details of mine, let me share an interesting little tidbit of trivia, I picked up while waiting in the doctor's office. If you, like me, think colonoscopy is a hard word to say, you may be interested in knowing that several years ago, the name was briefly changed to Colon Rectal Area Photo Scan. But the Acronym Sanctioning Society rejected the name. Food for thought?
Although the procedure wasn't done until this afternoon, I enjoyed all the preliminary events starting yesterday. It's kind of like the Superbowl. It's a one-time thing, but in the days preceding it, there are so many festivities. My 2 days of celebration began yesterday morning with a light breakfast. I knew, based on the information the colon guys had sent me, that this was to be my last meal for over 24 hours. So, I cherished each bite. It was a sweet meal, but ended much too soon. At eight yesterday morning, I picked up my plate, licked the last morsels of egg yolk and paid my bill at the Cracker Barrel and left.
Next stop: Walgreen's. I had to pick up my medicine, better known as Go Juice, if you get my drift. And just to make sure that the preliminary celebrations would be a moving event, I also had to purchase some laxative tablets. I took my magic potion home, mixed it with water as well as a flavor packeting the drug store included for the mixture. I chose the lemon-lime flavor. Unfortunately my packet had been mislabeled. In reality I got the duck feces flavoring. Not bad, but not lemon-lime either.
At two yesterday afternoon, my wife blew the whistle. "Let the games begin," she declared. And they did. I started with 2 laxatives. And shortly thereafter I chased them with the first of what would prove to be twelve glasses of the motion potion.
"Ah," I exclaimed after greedily gulping down my first glassful. This is going to be a breeze. I could hardly wait the prescribed twenty minutes, when I was allowed my second 8-oz serving. For some reason, the second glass didn't have the go-down goodness of glass number one. But, I drank it...devoured it, in fact.
My instructions had told me that within the hour, the magic in the mixture would kick in. I won't bore you with the details. I will say that the instructions included the warning, "Stay close to a facility." As I headed to my car, my wife asked, "Where do you think you're going?"
"To Fort Lee," I answered. That was the closest facility I could think of. After she explained the meaning of the term as used on the bottle of my KickaPOO Joy Juice, I stayed home. I have to remember to thank my wife for clarifying that.
Twenty minutes later, I steeled my nerves and poured a third glass of my flush slush. "Only five more after this one," I encouraged myself. (Servings nine through twelve were to be saved for the morning of the big game.)
About the time I was finishing my 24th ounce of this lavoratory licquer, the magic began to work. I headed for the facility. I marveled at the accuracy of whoever had predicted my time schedule.
Glass number four was approached with some trepidation. By this point, my stomach felt as if I might be with child. And while virtually everything I had ever eaten was vividly recalled last night, I am happy to say that I didn't give birth. I finished the fourth glass, but knew by this point, that the festivities were not going to be as festive as I had originally hoped.
Thirty minutes later, I crawled out of the facility, slithered down the stairs and poured my fifth glass of what I had begun to call Poopsie Cola. I gulped and gagged, gulped and gagged. I finally finished it off and headed back upstairs. There was a small white flag on the toilet lid. The Tidy Bowl man had surrendered and gone home.
As I drinking glass number six, I began to see some light at the end of the tunnel. "Thank goodness," I exclaimed, "I'm dying." But before I could enter the light, I had to run back upstairs.
I was down again in twenty minutes. "Only two more glasses," I told myself. "You go Steve." And I did. Twenty minutes after that, I literally rushed down the stairs, flushed with excitement. The end was in sight. Sorry, bad choice of words. Somehow I had finished my Loo Brew. In about two hours, I had consumed sixty-four ounces of some really nasty stuff. It was kind of like spending the entire day at the Shoney's Buffet.
Anyway, come this morning I was up and again on the move. I had one more quart to go and I could hopefully say good-bye to what should have been named Seven UpChuck. I really spent the morning engaged in two primary activities, drinking this stuff being one of them.
At 11:30, I headed to the doctor's office. "I'm here for my portraits," I told the receptionist. She didn't seem to find that as amusing as did I, but, hey, it takes all kinds...one of those kinds being dull and humorless. Actually, the woman was nice enough, she just doesn't enjoy rich-bodied humor. Or, maybe she's heard that joke a hundred times. Who knows?
I was soon escorted to a small examining room and told to take off my shirt and put on a gown. "Just my shirt?" I asked.
"Just your shirt," the nurse told me.
"Are you sure?" I asked in my typical pleasant manner. It's not that I was hoping to get naked, but if I was going to get a colonoscopy without removing my pants, I was ready to praise the marvels of modern medicine. This I had to see.
"You'll take the pants off later," she told me. I guess she just wanted to gaze admiringly at my washboard like body.
Anyway, soon a really nice nurse (In my own sexist way, I call them all "nurses." This lady, Robin, may own the place for all I know, but she was very nurselike, and very pleasant."
She also did a most wonderful thing for me. She gave me drugs. I saw the big monitor sitting there and knew that within minutes my colon was going to be the star of the show. And, while I like TV, this was one program I was hoping to sleep through.
I had had a colonoscopy several years ago, and it was kind of like someone trying to pick your teeth via a rear entry. "The procedures are much more modern nowadays," Robin told me. "But," she said, "you'll probably feel some discomfort."
That was reassuring. At least she didn't tell me I would be writhing in pain. She said I'd be in a somewhat twilight state. She didn't seem too worried, but then again, it wasn't her colon that we were all interested in, was it?
While we waited for the doctor to arrive, Robin asked me if I needed anything. "I was hoping you were going to show the movie, 'I am Joe's Colon,'" I told her. I'd seen that show several years ago and it was fascinating.
Anyway, before we got around to seeing any filmstrips, the good doctor arrives. Robin had me turn on my side and told me, "Here's your favoite cocktail," as she administered the drug.
"Can you put one of those little umbrellas in it?" I asked. I was trying to calm my nerves. I knew that within moments I'd be experiencing unbelieveable pain. "I really don't think this drug is going to work on z z z z z z z."
Next thing I know, Robin is waking me up. "Is he about to start?" I ask her.
"It's over," she told me.
Probably the two most wonderful words I'd ever heard. Anyway to make a really long, boring story, just slightly shorter, the doctor calls me this afternoon and tells me my colon is perfect.
Perfect! Think about that. In all my years, I've never had a perfect anything. And now I have a perfect colon. I'm hoping to get some prints from the doctor and have them framed. If you'd like one to hang in your home, just let me know.

License To Brag - PART I

I heard something fairly interesting on the radio this morning. Seems that, according to a national survey, Virginia leads the nation as far as vanity license plates go. That’s right, there are more of those moronic personalized plates in Virginia (per capita) than any other state in the nation.
I guess that means there are more morons (per capita) in Virginia than any other state. What? They don’t offer personalized plates in California? I’m sure they’d have us beat by a large margin.
Just think how stupid personalized plates are. Are you thinking? First of all, you pay the state more money than you need to. That’s the dumbest part of the deal. Why in the world would anyone try to figure out a way to pay more than they had to in order to drive their car?
Secondly, what do you get for that extra fee? Well, you get a chance to say something that often no one knows what you’re saying. Personalized license plates are kind of like Millard the Mallard on the Alden Aaroe program – about a hundred years ago or so on WRVA.
Millard (actually the voice of the station’s news director, John Harding) would come on the air and in his Donald Duck-like voice engage in conversation with Aaroe. Now keep in mind that by this point, Aaroe was so senile that he would make Paul Harvey appear lucid. Aaroe would joke with the duck, but the listeners could never understand what the duck was saying. So Aaroe would have to translate. It went like this:

AAROE: So Millard did you do anything exciting this weekend?

MILLARD: dwwaaaah sahhhhhh coe disshussh

AAROE: You drank some Cold Delicious, did you? How was it?

MILLARD: Nigh aw ish kwaaadooobie?

AAROE: (Laughing so hard he was gagging on his saliva) Not all it’s quacked up to be, eh? (More laughter)

Well, coming back to the topic at hand, that’s what most personalized plates are like. If you have to translate them for everyone, why bother with them to begin with?

For instance, I have a friend, no make that acquaintance, I don’t choose to have friends who do personalized plates. Anyway this guy’s plate reads GRZ LGT.

Griz Leg it?
Graze light?

Nope. He calls himself “Greased Lightning”

Clever, huh?

Then I had this cousin. His plate read ROD LV T

Yeah, you guessed it. He, (Rodney) loves his wife Terri. That is until Terri ran off with the guy she worked with. Now his plate reads ROD HT T.

At least he didn’t change it to RD SHT TB

Which would be “Rod shot Terri’s Boss.”

Anyway Rod (and I did change names to protect the stupid) keeps changing his plates and paying dearly for it, to tell us who he has the hots for at any given moment.

The plates I hate the most are the real vanity ones…you know, the plates that are there simply to try and impress. I had a fri…oops, an acquaintance who had plates that read MY LEXUS. Gee, I’m impressed. I’m glad you told me what it was. I’m so stupid I thought you were driving a VW.

Get over yourself. If you want to drive a Lexus, go ahead, but don’t rub my nose in it. I could drive a Lexus if I wanted to. Of course, if I did, my plates would be BLNG 2 BK.
You figure it out.

I'm Just Another Tear Jerk

I honestly believe crying has become the national pastime. I'd been thinking about this for some time, and then earlier this week, WRVA's new afternoon guy, Doc Thompson, was having men - that's right, grown men - phone in and tell him which movies and TV shows make them cry.
And, believe it or not, the lines were jammed with MEN admitting they cry over movies. Can you believe that? Men? I know it's true, because I called in and couldn't get through. Okay, I admit it, Mr. Holland's Opus had me crying like a baby. And when Everwood was on TV, I couldn't watch it without a box of Kleenex by my side. I am glad to know that I'm not the only teary-eyed man in the city.
Actually, one caller hit upon something that I think explains the national affinity for crying...old age. The caller admitted that at his age, there weren't many movies he didn't cry over. I can relate. I sniff at the Simpsons sometimes. I think the older you get, the more weepy you become. It's probably some sort of brain deficiency thing going on. I used to laugh at old men who cried. They'd be laughing at me now, except they're all dead. So, i guess I really did get the last laugh, as far as they were concerned.
I think that this Boomer generation, in addition to having chronologically reached a crying stage in life, is also an extra-whiny generation to begin with. It was my generation that made such a point about getting in touch with their feelings. And now, even with our various limbs and other appendages going numb through diabetes, heart troubles and other ills, we're still very much in touch with our emotions.
Think about it. It was the Boomers who gave us the flower children. What a bunch of pansies those folks were. Now they're a bunch of flower geezers...still crying and whining about everything. Take global warming for example. I am so sick of hearing all these aging whiners crying over this warming thing. Hey, even if we are doing it to ourselves, which I doubt, what's so bad about global warming. When most folks go on vacation, they go south, don't they? Hey, with gas prices going up, global warming can save us some money. We can take our winter vacations in the tropics without ever leaving home. So, stop crying about it. Embrace it. Let's call it the New Tropicalism. Isn't that much nicer sounding?
And what about all those misty-eyed super-emotional Californians crying over the forest fires? You know, if you lose a home, yeah, you can probably shed a tear, but it's like each "victim" tried to outdo his fellow-victims by crying. "Oh boo hoo, i lost my house. Sure, my family is okay. No one was hurt, but poor poor me."
I don't actually wish my house would burn down, but if it does, I want to go on the news and say, "Hey. Stuff happens. At least we're all okay." I think I could get voted victim of the year for keeping my multi-chins up in the face of adversity. The only problem is the networks probably wouldn't air my interview. They don't like happy people. Actually, now that I think about it (You can tell I don't do much pre-thinking prior to writing this), I bet it's television and not old age that is really responsible for the over abundance of tears.
Being a victim is cool. Being a victim gets you your fifteen minutes of fame. Women flock to get on Jerry Springer and admit that their husbands were caught in a men's room playing footsie with another guy. I never could understand how those shows could induce so many criars to go public. I guess it's the fame thing.
I guess I'm glad I didn't get through to Doc Thompson. After all, why should I boast about my uncontrollable weeping. In fact, I'm going to try and dry those tears in the future. I'll become one of those iron-jawed guys...you know the type who never cries, even if he just got hit by a car.
I can handle it. I'm a man. I'll single-handedly reverse this trend. Today is the first day of the dry-eyed rest of my life. Just remind me not to listen to Delilah on the radio in the evenings. Talk about emotional. I'm welling up just thinking about it.

I'll See You in the Food Line

I had an experience this past weekend, that had I been told a year or two ago I would have, I would never have believed it. I visited a new business - a new grocery store, in fact. And there is something so unbelieveably extraordinary about this place that I fear you'll think I'm making it up.
Perhaps you've heard of this new chain. I went to one in Hampton. To my knowledge they do not exist in Richmond to date. The name of the store is Bottom Dollar.
Now, what's so strange about that, you're probably thinking. Bottom Dollar sounds like a pretty good name for a grocery store.
Yes it does. On the surface, I would not find anything too unusual about the place. But, as Paul Harvey used to say before he died, "Here's the rest of the story..."
You see, as impossible as it may seem, Bottom Dollar is run by Food Lion. It is, in fact, a step down from Food Lion.
I know, I know. If you're like me, you would never have believed that the folks who bring us Food Lion would ever be able to do themselves one better, or is that worser?
Food Lion is like the bottom of the barrel when it comes to grocery stores. Every time I go in (including last night), I ask myself, "Why, Steve? Why did you come here? Won't you ever learn?"
The truth is, I won't learn. I go to Food Lion, not because it's cheaper, but because it's closer. It's estimated that by the year 2050, there will be a Food Lion store in everyone's own home. They're everywhere, and getting everywherer, especially now that they've come up with this insidious Bottom Dollar concept.
Bottom Dollar, in many respects, is still a Food Lion. They love to play the "Guess where we hid the item you want" game. Who else but the Food Lion folks would think it reasonable that cigarettes and baby formula be in the same cabinet...a cabinet that comes replete with an armed guard, or a grossly overweight female employee, whichever comes cheaper.
Who else but Food Lion would put diapers and cheese spread in the same aisle? And just when you think you've figured out their little tricks, they move things around. I was looking for crackers last night. Now, naturally, since it was Food Lion, I headed for the motor oil aisle. But, lo and behold, they'd moved crackers to the aisle labeled, "Magazines." They're tricky, those Food Lion folks.
I've often said that Food Lion's motto should be, "We're the store you swore you'd never come back to...but, just look at yourself."
Bottom Dollar's motto should be, "Would you rather we just shot you as you are getting out of your car?" I think the philosophy of the powers that be at Food Lion is that rather than fire an incompetent clerk, why not make him a manager at Bottom Dollar.
At Bottom Dollar, they don't just hide the most popular items, they keep them loaded in carts and are constantly moving them around, staying just one step ahead of the shoppers. Bottom Dollar doesn't even offer grocery bags, but their clerks will help you stuff your purchases down your pants and under your arms. They'll even hold the broken automatic door open for you as to stumble out to the parking lot.
I really would like to have been in on the corporate meeting when some big Food Lion executive proposed that they come up with a new brand...a new store where they could lower the quality of the service. That would be kinda like a staff meeting at the Jerry Springer Show, where someone says, "Let's see if we can appeal to a dumber audience."
Jerry Springer has discovered that this is possible, and now the Food Lion family has proven they can also lower the quality. I shopped Bottom Dollar on Saturday. I know that of which I speak. Actually I didn't really shop there. I loaded my cart, and headed to the checkout counters. There were about fifty people lined up in the only lane that was opened. Of course, this was about noon on Saturday, so I guess they figured not many people shop at that time.
I did the only sensible thing I could think to do. I left my cart, ice cream and all, sitting in the aisle and headed for the hills. I think if more people would do that, it might send Food Lion a message. I might say, "Hey, we're not going to stand for this."
I for one am never going back to a Food Lion or a Bottom Dollar...not until I need to run out for some ice cream, that is.

A Devil of a Holiday

I wore white pants to work today. But, before you panic, let me say, "Don't!" I'm fine. You see, I don't celebrate Labor Day, so I can wear white pants throughout the year. Speaking (now, catch this segue) of holidays I don't observe, as well as dressing horribly, it's time for the most obnoxious, the most disgusting, the most revolting of all holidays...Halloween.
Aw, it's just a fun time for the kids to dress up. When I hear someone say that, I politely reply, "Shut up, you idiot." Halloween is nothing more than a demonic ritual that teaches kids to blackmail their neighbors.
But, before I get too deep, here are the things I really hate about Halloween:

3) Fat women dressed like prostitutes. You know those skimpy little Playboy Magazine approved costumes that you get from such stores as Sluts R Us? Why is it that the larger gals seem to be drawn to such? I guess they think since everyone else is going to look hideous on Halloween, they may as well also. But when you see these larger than should be legal ladies stuffed into these little tramp outfits, it makes one's eyes want to vomit.

Now, Steve, you may be thinking, where do you see these lucious ladies? That brings me to the #2 thing I hate about Halloween.

2) Businesses that encourage employees to dress up for Halloween. One year, I had my teeth cleaned by a witch. I've deposited my hard earned paycheck with a rabbit, and I've sat across from a 250 pound co-worker (a black guy) dressed like Marilyn Monroe. I hate it. If you want to put on your goofy little outfits and run around your own neighborhood looking like complete fools, I guess you can go ahead, but don't come to work looking like a moron. Grow up people. I believe in fun in the workplace, but I don't believe in responsible adults (which you should be at work) wearing costumes in the workplace. Nothing gets done on Halloween, and when you consider that come Thanksgiving, no work will take place in most offices, until January 2nd, we can't afford to lose another day.

But there's one more thing I hate even more than clowns performing surgery. I mean surgeons dressed like clowns.

1) And that's the discount on candy on November 1st. Hey, I'm on a diet. My life is at stake. Who in their right mind, would put M&M's at 50% discount, or miniature Milky Ways half off? It's not fair. I'm only human. Cut me, I bleed...a lot. I figure with my willpower that by noon the day after Halloween, my blood sugar will be spiking at about 300. I just hope that when they cart me into the emergency room, I'm not tended to by a 400 pound nurse in a fishnet miniskirt and an arrow through her head. If you see that coming, just go ahead and shoot me.

It's Somewhat About Me

I'm going to talk about one of my favorite subjects today...myself. True, I'm not accustomed to talking about me, but when I do it, I always feel good. I'm particularly thinking about my weight. I'm continuing to lose. I have now gone from what is technically designated "Grossly Pig-Like" down to "Big Fat Slob." Pretty cool, huh? Another twenty-two pounds and I'll be down to what I swore I would never get up to. And, at that point, I'll just be fat. I can't wait to just be fat.
Of course, I'm not stopping there. As you know, there's my book I'm working on - From Chunk to Hunk. Can someone who is racing headlong towards sixty be considered a hunk? I hope so. I've always wanted to be one.
I would love to recapture my youth. I look at my liver spots and think how wonderful it would be to just have acne again. How I long for those days.
In the next issue of West End's Best magazine, we're doing a story on my high school graduating class of 1967. They (we) just had our 40th anniversary reunion. I didn't go, but a friend, Sherry Hollister, took my place, interviewing many of the graduates and asking them about their hopes and dreams and the realities of life. She's written a very interesting article. Even if you weren't in that class, I think you'll enjoy reading it.
But, what amazes me is how so many of my classmates have actually become old in the past forty years. Sadly, many have started experiencing a degree of dementia as well. I know this, because some of them think I look old too. Poor things. It's so sad when your eyesight goes, and then your mind. When you think about it, wouldn't it be nicer if your mind went first, so as you were wandering aimlessly, you could at least enjoy the scenery?
Speaking of getting old...that is what we were talking about, isn't it...a friend sent me a list of benefits of being over 50. Some of these were very good, so, I thought I'd share a few. Among the perks of being over 50 there are:

1. Kidnappers are not very  interested in you.
 
2. In a hostage situation you  are likely to be
released first.
 
3. People no longer view you  as a hypochondriac.
 
4. There is nothing left to  learn the hard way.
 
5. Things you buy now won't  wear out.
 
6. You can eat supper at 4  PM.

AND HERE'S THE ONE THAT IS SO TRUE:

7. You quit trying to hold  your stomach in no matter who walks into the room.

Of course, within weeks, I won't need to try. I'll be thin. I'll be cute, maybe even cute as a button. Don't worry. I'll be sure to let you know when I reach that point.
 

Evil Returns

About two-and-a-half years ago, when I was living in Richmond, I wrote a column about something in my neighborhood that scared me to death virtually every morning. It was something so creepy, so freaky, so downright scary, that I eventually found myself slithering out my front door, crawling to my car on my belly, and driving away as quickly as I could...not even daring to put my headlights on until I was out of the neighborhood.
I had forgotten that daily fright, as I have lived in Hampton for over two years. But something happened this morning that sent cold chills, once again, running up and down my spine. I stayed in town last night...at my mother's house. I should mention that my mother lives right across the street from the house in which I lived back then.
But over the past couple of years, I had, as I say, about forgotten about the daily ritual, which I used to confront every morning and about how scary it was. So, this morning I was unprepared for what was about to happen when, in the pre-dawn darkness, I walked oh so innocently and unsuspecting out of my mother's front door. And then I heard it...again...after all these years.
Perhaps I should let you read what I wrote back in May of 2005, so as to help you better understand the horror I encountered as I headed to my car this morning. Read on...

FROM MAY, 2005
I got scared this morning. There's something, or really, somebody, that is scaring me most mornings, and, while I'm a little hesitant to talk about it, I think it might be therapeutic to do so. I'm hesitant, because I'm rather ashamed to say that a sweet little old lady is scaring me. But, let me tell you about her, and you tell me if you think my fears are irrational.
There's a little old lady, who evidently lives in the neighborhood. I say "evidently" because no one seems to know where she lives, but she wanders the streets in the neighborhood each morning. Now, I'm not talking about some homeless person, just wandering aimlessly.
No, this lady is dressed to the hilt at 6:00 AM, and she strolls through the neighborhood taking the neighbors' newspapers from their front lawn to their front door. Sounds nice, huh? But I don't think a harmless elderly woman would display such dedication to doing that. She scares me so much, I stopped my subscription to the paper.
This lady is out in rain, sleet, snow, whatever. And she always has this cheery greeting. You're probably still thinking I've got the problem, but wait, there's more.
It's like this woman senses that I'm getting ready to leave the house. Regardless of what time I leave, she's walking past my house. And before I even see her, I here this "Good morning." I'm at least two decades her junior and my mind couldn't react that quickly. If I look out the window before I open the door, she's not there, but as soon as I open the door, I hear her greeting, and, somehow she's standing in the street right in front of my house.
Somehow, she knows when I'm about to open the door. It's not just in my head, I know she knows.
But what really freaks me out is the Stepford-Wives-like way she greets me. It's friendly enough, but it's always the same, almost mechanical, "Good morning...How are you this morning?...How's your family?...Have a nice day." I think that if I told her my wife had gotten hit by a truck, she would follow it up with "Have a nice day." In fact, maybe I'll try that tomorrow. But, it'll be my luck that she's really just a sweet little lady, and my response will freak her out.
I guess the only thing I can do is leave before the sun comes up, slithering on my belly from the front door to the car. The only problem with that is I'm afraid no matter what time I leave the house, I'll here her cheery, "Good morning." I don't think I could handle that in the dark.
Really, the only thing for me to do is to lie low, stay indoors for a few weeks, and see if she goes away. I'll have my computer with me. So, I'll keep you posted. But, a word of caution, before you leave home, check for little old ladies. Believe me, they're out there!

That's what I wrote then. But, since I've been away, I had all but forgotten about "The Newspaper Lady." So, I walk out my mother's door this morning. It's still dark. I haven't a care in the world...except for all the things I normally worry about. I no more get off the front porch, when I hear it. SCARY ORGAN MUSIC GOES HERE.

"Good morning." I shriek. I start back towards the house. But, I'm not sure from where that evil voice eminates. All I can do, besides becoming paralyzed with fear, is squeak out, "Good morning."

"Have a nice day," she says in her horrifically evil way. I see her shadowy form creeping down the street...looking, no doubt, for some other aging old man to frighten.

"You too," I squeak as I dash for my car. How long will the madness continue? I can feel my life and my sanity spiraling downward from this point on. Because, you see....she's baaaaaaacccccck. So have a nice day.

Chalk Another One Up to Insanity

Well, I feel as if I had wandered into Hooterville again. Now, just in case you're too young to remember Green Acres, let me explain that Hooterville is not some crude term based on the major marketing points used by a national restaurant chain. Hooterville is where Oliver Douglas and his wife Lisa moved, from their penthouse suite in New York. Poor Mr. Douglas was the lone voice of sanity in Hooterville...a town where only he thought it strange that a pig was one of the most important citizens.
Well, sometimes I feel like poor Oliver Douglas. Is it just me, or has virtually everyone on earth gone completely batty? I read stories in the news and can't help but scratch my head in bewilderment.
Does it seem strange to you that in the world today, it's a crime for a six year old girl to do chalk drawings on the sidewalk, but it's perfectly okay for a middle school to dispense birth control pills to eleven year old girls?
It does to me. And, I'm not being hypothetical. There are two stories this week, one from New York, where a six year old was warned to stop drawing on the sidewalk with chalk. The other story, from Portland, Maine, where a middle school was making birth control available to sixth graders. And, it seems, most of the townsfolk thought it was a good idea.
Call me old fashioned, but wouldn't it be nice if little girls werre allowed to be little girls? Am I just plain naive? Are little girls so potentially sexually active these days that it's the course of wisdom to teach them about birth control, and even to supply them the pills?
Or, could it be that the school systems with their liberal views of what constitutes a politically correct education, are teaching little girls, and boys, to become sexually active? At the very least, when you tell a child, "Don't do it, but if you do do it, here's a pill," aren't you to some degree legitimizing the "doing it."
If you were to tell little Johnny, "Don't eat this cake until after dinner, but if you do, only eat one slice," does little Johnny get the point that eating the cake is wrong? I wouldn't. If I'd been given a message like that as a child, eating the cake would have been the first thing I would have done.
When I was eleven I had no idea what sex was. Nor do I think I was ready to have it graphically explained to me by a teacher with a condom and a banana. I'm not trying to be crude. That's the way of the world today. And, if you ask me, that way stinks.
I say take away the pills and the condoms and give back the chalk. But, what do I know?
I say unplug the TVs and the MTVs and the Internets and let's all go draw on the sidewalk. I think the world was a safer place before they invented electrical.

Oh Say Can You Sue?

I received a flyer for a special seminar designed for business owners. The seminar is entitled, "Top Ten Ways Your Employees Can Sue You." Seems to me that this is a seminar that employees should be attending. I'd like to know more ways to sue my boss. I sure can't depend on my wise financial investments to keep me warm in my rapidly-approaching old age. My 401k kicks in when I'm 92. I'm looking forward to that. And my life insurance isn't very good either. Because of my health, the best policy I could get doesn't actually pay a death benefit, but when I die, my wife gets a free oil change every six months. So, all in all, I guess I should be thankful.
However, I believe I could firm up my financial picture by suing my boss. I've come up with several ways to do that, although i'm looking forward to learning of other ways at the seminar. But, as a public service, here are my top five reasons for which one could sue their employer.

5. Hiring Ugly Women. Some may say this is a sexist comment. My reply is, "Of course, it's sexist. But, hey, I'm a guy, so where's the problemo? Ugly women in an office do so much damage. Now, I'm not speaking from recent experience. Our office is teeming with lovely ladies. But, I have worked with some ugly gals. And it does have a negative impact. Take this woman who works at a local retailer (please) (I never can resist that one). She has dingy, gray dreadlocks and a beard much thicker than mine. Her facial hair is so coarse that I could easily believe that's where Brillo pads come from (if I were younger and naivier). Everytime I go into this store I end up at her register. I can't look at her. What a jerk, you all are probably thinking right now. Not true. Her personality is lovely. But her looks leave something to be desired. If I worked for this store, I'd have to sue my employer for creating an unpleasant work environment.

4. Paper Cuts. Ouch! Did you know that paper is the most dangerous item in an office. I'm not positive about that, but judging from the numerous paper cuts I get, I'm guessing I'm on the mark here. I have bloodstains on most of my files. I don't think we'll ever have paperless offices, but it seems to me that if they could make paper out of something less lethal than paper, maybe rubber, we'd have a lot less paper cuts. Plus, if writing paper were made of rubber, it could erase its own mistakes.

3. Unreasonable Employers. There's something about becoming a boss that makes some people so, how should I say it, so...bossy. Personally, I work better when I can come and go as I please and do exactly what I want, when I want, and how I want. But does my boss see it that way? Nope. He looks at me as if I'm nuts or something. I know that look. I see it often. But, let me tell you, that sort of attitude is going to end up biting him in the derriere. When he's sitting in a courtroom and I'm interrogating him mercilessly, we'll see just who looks so stupid then, eh?

2. Inferior Snacks. Our company has a snack room and the boss "so graciously" supplies us with cookies and candy and chips and stuff. But the guy must shop at Big Lots. Instead of Oreos, we have something called, "Choco-creamo-wiches." We don't have Fig Newtons, we have Figolicious Snack Bars. Big Lots has a knock-off on virtually every real product in existance. They have a deodorant that looks like Speed Stick, but it's called Pit Stop. They even have their own brand of birth control products, known as Poppa-Stoppa. The products have labels that, at first glance, make you think they're the real thing. Take it from me, they're not. I say if someone thinks so little of himself to go buy this stuff, more power to him. But when big corporations start foisting these things on their employees, my advice is, "Get an attorney!"

1. Five-Day Work Weeks. This may have been fine in Ebenezer Scrooge's day, but, hey, this is the 21st century. We're enlightened. I would personally prefer a five day weekend, but, to show my willingness to compromise, and to be reasonable, I'm willing to settle for a 3-day work week and a 4 day weekend. When you consider that Saturday and Sunday come and go so quickly, any reasonable person should conclude that the American worker deserves a couple more days to get things done. And, if my boss doesn't like it, I guess we can settle it, like men, in a court of law.

Well, these are just a few reasons one could sue their employer. I'm hoping this seminar I'm going to isn't just a rehashing of what I've written above. Or, I may have to sue the seminar people, too. If you have any good ideas, I'd love to know. I watched the Law And Order Marathon recently, so I know my way around a courtroom. In fact, there are some who might describe me as litigilicious.

Okay You Lovers of Daytime Drama...

Another episode from the Steve Cook Internet Playhouse. Today's episode Run For Your Lives.
Our characters:

PBJ Sampson - a former star football player who has had more than his share of run-ins with the law.
Vick Michaels - a current star football player who is working on having more than his share of run-ins with the law
Marion "Why Do My Calves Look Like Cows" Jones - a former track star who is in trouble with the law.

As our story opens, the three athletes meet in a bail bondsman's office...

PBJ: I have been unjustly accused
Marion: For about the eighth time too, eh PBJ?
PBJ: I can't help it if everyone has something against me. I'm innocent I tell you
Vick: I am too. I swear it.
Marion: What do you mean, you're innocent Vick? You confessed to a felony.
Vick: Hey, do I look stupid or something? I'd never do anything like that.
Marion: What do you mean? You signed a confession.
Vick: What? That was a confession? I thought they just wanted my autograph.
PBJ: What's the matter with you, Vick? Can't you read?
Vick: Well, not exactly.
Marion: How could that be? You went to Virginia Tech.
Vick: So?
Marion: So that's one of the best colleges in the country.
Vick: Wow! Really? No one ever told me Virginia Tech was a college. I knew it was a minor league football team, but a college too! Well, what do you know...I'm a college graduate.
PBJ: I don't think you ever graduated.
Vick: I didn't? Wow! Who knew?
PBJ: I remember reading that you dropped out.
Vick: Wow! You mean you can read?
PBJ: I can read and write. I even wrote a book...kind of.
Vick: Wow! Do you mind if I make you my hero?
PBJ: Don't mind at all. You wouldn't be the first.
Marion: Why are we standing around making small talk? Don't you all know that all of us could do some hard prison time?
PBJ: Don't worry. We're famous. We can get away with murder.
Vick: Well, I wouldn't want to go to prison. I want to spend the rest of my days taking care of those poor pathetic creatures that live in my basement.
Marion: You mean your dogs.
Vick: Dogs? No. I'm talking about my family.
Marion: Well the facts are that if we're found guilty, we're going to prison.
PBJ: Well, I guess there's only one thing to do...and fortunately it's something we all do pretty well.
All three: RUN!

We'll continue with our story after this message from our sponsor...

Billy: Mom, Dad, hurry up. You promised you'd take us to get ice cream this afternoon.
Mom: Gee Billy, your Dad must have forgotten. He's planning to have his nose hairs removed today.
Billy: But mom, that's not fair.
Dad: Billy, look at my nose hairs. Do you think I can go another week like this?
Suzie: Gee Dad, I was so excited about going to get ice cream. I told all the kids at school we were going.
Billy and Suzie: Wah Wah Wah
Announcer: Hey kids, dry those tears. Here's some good news!
Suzie: Eeeeek! Who is that?
Mom: (laughing) It's just our announcer. Don't be scared. Please Mr. Announcer, what is the good news.
Announcer: Now you can have your ice cream and your nose hairs removed at the same time!
Entire family smiles in glee.
Dad: Surely you jest. Tell us more.
Announcer: Announcing the grand opening of Nick's Ice Cream and Nose Hair Removal Parlor.
Scene shifts to parlor Billy and Suzie are enjoying their cones and dad is in the nose hair removal chair having his nose hairs removed.
Billy: Gee folks, this is great. I love each of the fifteen folliclelicious flavors!
Dad: Yeeeowwww!
Suzie: Yeah, Mom and Dad, thanks for bringing us here.
Dad: Yeeowwww!
Announcer: Next time you're in the mood for ice cream but need your nose hairs removed, visit Nick's Ice Cream and Nose Hair Removal Parlor. Remember at Nick's...
Entire family: You pick your flavor. Nick picks your nose.

And, now, back to today's episode...Run for your Life

Vick: (panting) I'm tired of running.
Marion: Hey, I'm just getting my second wind. Well, if it's not Mister Big Time Writer. Where have you been?
PBJ: I took a detour and ran through the airport waiting area. I do that so well. You should see the way I leap over the chairs.
Sounds of sirens interrupt the conversation.
Marion: Looks like this is the end of the road for us fellows.
Police Officer: (approaches) Okay everybody, you're under arrest.
Marion: Hey, go easy with the handcuffs. What did I do? It's not like I killed any dogs.
Vick: Same here. I don't care what I confessed to, I'm illiterate. I didn't kill any dogs either.
PBJ: Hey, what's the big deal. I didn't do anything wrong. All I did was kill a few dogs.

Organ music up and out.

Tune in tomorrow for another exciting story on the Steve Cook Internet Playhouse. Tomorrow's episode is entitled, "The Priest Who Pretended He Was Gay."

Armed and Dangerous

I read a rather disturbing news story this morning…disgusting is perhaps an even better way to describe it. It seems this performance artist (sometimes pronounced “idiot”) had an ear…that’s right, a human ear…implanted on his arm. Click on the title of this blog (above) and you can see the ear arm (or is it arm ear) for yourself.
Now, nothing that performance artists do really surprises me. It’s like that Richmond (ex-) schoolteacher who paints with his buttocks. Okay, great. So you can do it. What does that prove. The biggest problem I’d think in painting with your buttocks is that you’re always getting a little behind in your work.
But, anyway, this “artist” was actually able to locate a surgeon who was willing to do the implant. Isn’t there some sort of hypocritical oath that doctors take that might keep them from doing that, but what do I know? I don’t even know where he got the ear. Is there someone walking around missing an ear? Or in some Frankenstein’s monster sort of way, is this a cadaver ear? Or, did this brilliant, yet mad scientist, I mean surgeon, kind of just doodle around with the guy’s skin and create his own ear. If it’s the latter (or would that be the latest?), the guy is pretty talented. I’m talking about the surgeon. It doesn’t take much talent to have an ear stuck on your arm.
While this whole idea was initially nauseating, and while I’m still disturbed at this being done for the sake of art, the more I reflect upon this, the better the idea really seems, especially if this ear on the arm is in good working condition. I mean this from the standpoint of someone who is hard of hearing.
I think it’s a family thing. My grandmother was hard of hearing, although she pretended not to be. My mother is hard of hearing, and she doesn’t pretend. She just keeps yelling, “Huh?”
And, I’m noticing that I don’t hear all that well these days. How cool would it be if when I couldn’t understand what someone was saying, I could just stick my arm up to his or her mouth. It’s hard to stick your head up next to someone else’s head. For one thing, a good many people, myself included, spit when they speak. I like to keep my distance when I’m engaged in a conversation. Or, keep a towel handy, at least. Also, there’s that not-so-little problem I like to call “Bad Breath.”
I sometimes gag when I’m standing too close to sufferers of B.B. It’s not that I want to. In fact, sometimes it can be downright embarrassing to gag in someone’s face. But, suppose I could subtly thrust my arm out and stick it right up to a person’s mouth and hear every word they said. I have a feeling that I could pull that off so cleverly that they might not even pay any attention to my arm thrust up under their chin.
You know, the more I think about this, the more my genius machine kicks into high gear. Why stop with an ear? How great would it be to have a nose on your arm? That way, let’s say you were going into the men’s room, you could just stick your arm in the door to make sure it was safe, if you get my drift (drift being the operative word). Or let’s say I wanted a better whiff of someone’s perfume. I wouldn’t have to sniff ‘em, at least not in the traditional way. I could just put my arm up to them. And, of course, an arm nose would be perfect if you’re trying to make sure your deodorant is still working. Rubbing one’s finger under one’s armpit and then sniffing self-same finger just looks so gauche. But, if I had a nose, about at my wrist, it would be a breeze to make a B.O. excursion.
And, best of all, how about a tongue on your arm. Think about that. Have you ever been sitting in a restaurant and seen the waitress (or waiter, for those who say I’m sexist) serve someone at the next table? Have you ever thought, “Gee, I’d love to just taste that.”? But, how do you do so? Not easily, I assure you. However, if you could just reach over and let your backhand graze ever so slightly over the delicacy on their plate, quickly allowing an implanted tongue to lick the dish, you could taste away and no one would be the wiser.
I may not be a performance artist, but I do have some great ideas. For instance, how about another hand attached to your arm. That way you could simultaneously hold a drink and eat from your plate at those fancy stand-up cocktail parties. And then there’s…

So Long Fatso. You've Been a Good Friend

I have some good news to share with you. I'm becoming as cute as a button. Okay, it might not be such good news to you, but to me...it's wonderful. Now, let me start off by admitting that my "cute as a button" assessment is pretty much my own. No one has told me that I'm reaching button-like heights of cuteness, but I can tell. And I owe it all to one thing...the first Monday in October was the first day of the rest of my life. Thrilling? Yes.
You see, I started a new diet. I've been promising for years that I would one day lose weight, get in shape, and write a book entitled "From Chunk to Hunk." Well, the weight loss has started. It's not really a diet. It's a lifestyle. At least that's what the book calls it. The book, by the way is Sugar Busters!
Yes, I am now a sugar buster. And, unlike other diets I've tried, I've been on this lifestyle for over a week. In Steve Cook years, that's about six months. I don't stick to anything. My follow through skills are non-existant. But, this lifestyle, which basically involves eliminating all processed sugar, white rice, white bread, and potatoes...you know all the stuff that makes life worth living...has proven to be relatively easy.
Now, I don't want to become one of those boring health food, fitness fanatics who bores the life out of everyone with whom he or she speaks. I don't want to waste your precious time telling you all about me and my diet. Although, I think you'd like us both.
I can't wait for next summer. I hope I'm so thin, my friends will think I'm going through some sort of medical treatment. I'm looking forward to going to the beach and not having to try and convince those with me that the latest swimwear involves an overcoat. When I was a teenager, if I was going to a pool party, I'd arrive at the host's home about four in the morning and jump in the pool so no one at the party could see my semi-nakedness.
By the time the other guests began arriving, oh, about eight hours later, I was totally wrinkled, but no one saw my fat, prune-like body because I never came out of the water. I'd eat in the water, read in the water, nap in the water, whatever. I'd stay in the pool until everyone had gone home and the folks throwing the party had gone to bed.
I'm hoping this year, I can act pretty much like the other guests. I know my bladder will appreciate that as well.
Now, I don't want to get too optimistic. By next summer, my lifestyle could be just a distant memory. I could be back on the lifestyle I've had for the first half century of my life. I call it the "eat everything in sight, make yourself sick, and become a total slob" lifestyle. It's worked for me for years. But, there's a new day dawning as Mamma Cass used to sing. Of course, when her new day dawned, she had a ham sandwich stuck in her throat, but that's another story.
Anyway, since I've been on this lifestyle for over a week, I just wanted to brag. If you get a chance, stop by and I'll suck in my stomach for you. I have a feeling you're going to be pretty impressed.

Wallowing In Filth for my Fellowman

Did it feel just a tad cooler this morning? You have me to thank for that...at least partially. You see, I stayed in this hotel last night. And the folks who manage the place are patriotically energy efficient. What does that mean? It means that I slept under a bedspread that hasn't been washed. Sure, it's gross, but these hotel people seem to think it's the right thing to do. And, what with global warming and all, who am I to complain.
If I can sleep amidst the filth of previous guests at the hotel and help lower the thermometer a degree or two, I'll do it. That's the sort of guy I am. It does irritate me, though, that so many of the hotels try to put a guilt trip on you for wanting a clean towel. They have a sign with the American flag on it, just to remind the guests where they are, and what a privilege it is to be staying in a hotel in America. The sign says something like, "Do your part. Use a dirty towel. If you want to be a decent human, put your towel back on the rack and we won't replace it. If you're a no good waster of precious energy, put the towel in the basket and we'll replace it, but we'll also have to report you to Homeland Security."
I do what any self-respecting hotel guest does. I throw the towel on the floor. The message I'm sending is, "Hey, I'm the paying guest. You're the maid." I feel pretty good about myself.
All seriousness aside, though, as much as I'm all about conservation and ecology and all that, one thing that I will not do...I absolutely refuse to do, is use the word "footprint" in any conversation. I mean any conversation, not just conversations about global warming. I first heard about "carbon footprints" a couple of years ago. Okay, I thought, that's a cutesey term. But, before you know it, everyone is using the term.
I was sitting in a marketing meeting with my boss and some bigwigs from one of the local TV stations the other day, and lo and behold, my boss speaks of our corporate footprint. Whoa Nellie! Where has he heard that word. Actually, I was a little embarrassed. I figure these people are going to figure out that we have no idea of what we're talking about when we start throwing around these pseudo-intellectual terms. But, hey, what do I know. In a minute or two, this big TV executive is talking about their footprint.
I interrupt the conversation to mention how my footprint on my birth certificate is so cute, or at least my mother thinks so. Obviously, my use of the term is the most correct, but they all stop talking and look at me as if I'm the one with the screw loose. It all goes to show you, doesn't it?
Anyway, think what you will of me, I'm hoping when I die, if I die, that my epitaph will read: "He slept in a dirty bed so that America would stay strong." But, listen, if it starts getting too cold this winter, I have to warn you. I'm going to go right to a hotel with clean sheets.

Wild World of Sports

The world of sports really is screwed up. Obviously, there have been corruption and crime in the past, but nowadays virtually every professional (and collegiate) sport seems to have some good juicy story...not that I'm complaining, mind you. I happen to be a big fan of good juicy stories.
But, how about this Isiah Thomas deal? He's the NBA former player and current coach for the New York Nicks who was accused of sexually harassing an employee at Madison Square Garden. He lost. She won. She said she did it for all the woman of the world, or something like that. Yeah, sure...she did it for the gals as well as the six million dollars. Let's see how much of the loot she uses to start some sort of organization to help sexually harassed ladies.
But, the one I feel sorry for is Thomas. Why? Because he's innocent. I'm sure of it because when he was interviewed, he didn't just say, "I'm innocent." Now, think about it. Everyone says they're innocent. Thomas went way beyond that. He said, "I'm very innocent." That settles it for me. Of course, I think he was talking about killing dogs at the time, so who really knows?
Speaking of famous dog killers, Michael Vick evidently impressed the PETA people. He took some sort of class in animal empathy. And, apparently, Vick has quickly become an animal empathizer. Hmm. I guess that means he doesn't just care about animals now, he actually feels for them. He feels their pain. Vick stated after the class that from now on, before he'd kill his loser dogs, he'd share some weed with them. Okay, he didn't actually say that out loud. But, I'm not really convinced the guy is totally sincere. I understand that he brought his own Big Mac to school for lunch.
If I were either Thomas or Vick, my main man right now would be former Northern Colorado backup punter, Mitch Cozad. Cozad makes both of those guys look like saints...not New Orleans Saints. He, Cozad, has been sentenced to seven years in prison for stabbing his teammate/rival Rafael Mendoza. He did it to get more playing time. Makes sense, I guess.
Cozad was cleared on charges of attempted murder when he explained that he wasn't trying to kill the guy, only to maim him for life. Okay, he didn't actually say that out loud, but I'm pretty sure he was thinking it.
There are other scandals and scoundrels in the world of sports, but why go on? Frankly, I feel rather hypocritical. You see, I too have a blemish on my record. I used to be a notorious cheater at Red Rover, actually supergluing my hand to my teammates. I've done other things of which I'm not especially proud, but when it comes to killing dogs, I can honestly say, "I'm very, very innocent."

More Reasons I Won't Be Called To Speak In Michael Vick's Defense

Let's talk Michael Vick. I mean let's get down to the real nitty gritty. I've done a lot of research and may be the most knowledgeable person in the country about what's going on with the native Virginian dog-fighter, who is also known for his prowess on the football field.
First to quell a rumor...there is no truth to the report that Vick has written a book, entitled, "I Didn't Kill No Dogs, But If I Had, Here Is How I Would Have Did It." You may already know that to be a rumor, but only I know how it got started. Seems Vick's publicist issued a press release, trying to put the guy in the best possible light. The release contained this statement, "Michael Vick has just completed his first book." Some were wont to jump on that line and expand upon it until you get the Michael Vick tell-all. There really was never any good reason for this rumor in the first place. All one would have had to do is to continue reading the press release, which went on to say, "Vick is so excited, he says he hopes to read another book real soon." Do you see how easily things can get out of hand?
Next item on the Michael Vick agenda: The marijuana. Seems Vick was drug tested and, you won't believe this, he had been smoking marijuana. A pro athlete? Unbelieveable. Honestly, with all the stuff the athletes are getting in to these days, I think it would be a good idea if ESPN merged with Court TV. But, as regards Vick, I say we cut him a little slack. Actually, the guys bettering himself. He's under a lot of pressure. In the old days, when the star quarterback needed to calm down, he could go out and kill a dog. But, now that he's been enabled to understand that hanging dogs by the neck until dead is not the truly humane thing to do, he isn't killing them anymore. I say we give the guy a standing O for that. One thing for sure, he ain't going to be getting much applause on the gridiron for a few years.
But, I do think Michael Vick has more adaptibility than many of you give him credit for. Do you know what the guy is doing ini preparation for his upcoming stint in the big house? When I learned what I'm about to tell you, I confess, it pulled one of my heartstrings. Thankfully, I had my Tums on me. Anyway, in order to help him pass the time spent behind bars constructively, right now, as we speak, Vick is training rats to fight. Isn't that wonderful?
Well, I hope you all are just a little more enlightened than you were a few minutes ago. I say, "Let's walk in someone else's never-to-be-worn-again cleats before we start judging him." And, you can quote me on that.
Now, if there's anyone else you want to know the real skinny on, just ask. When it comes to skinny, I'm your go to guy.

Random Thoughts From a Guy Who Doesn't Have a Sexist Bone In His Body

It's kind of a mixed bag today...just some random thoughts that bounce through my less-than-pretty little head. First things first. I'm not sexist.
Our publisher was meeting with a high-powered female attorney this afternoon. I overheard her telling my boss that she had read several of my columns and, in her opinion, I am sexist.
I strolled into the conference room where they were meeting and took a seat. I don't like my name to be bandied about. I sat down right beside this (may I say it?) rather attractive woman. I looked her straight in the eye. "Listen, Hon," I said politely. "How about doing me a favor and getting me a bottle of water out of the fridge in the hallway." She was sitting closest to the door. Nothing sexist about that.
Somehow I could sense some tension, so I just strolled back to my desk. It really is hard to figure chicks out, even the smart ones.
But, on to other matters. A friend of mine, Deborah Crawford, vented some of her frustration in an email, regarding the rather absurd habit of certain waitstaff personnel in seating an exclusively adult party of diners right next to a family with four or five whining, screaming, sticky children.
"The restaurant was virtually empty," she told me, "and yet we were seated right next to a family with five kids." Now, regardless of whom I was dining with, it would be a nightmare to be next to a bunch of kids.
Don't get me wrong. I like kids. I have a precious grandson. But, if I were to be anticipating a quiet night out in a nice restaurant, the last thing I want are kids around.
I have known families who had a bunch of 'em, and the kids were really well-mannered, but all too often, the only persons who see the kids as well-mannered are their ignorant parents.
I don't despise the kids as much as I despise adults who think when little Maurice runs over to my table and puts his thumb in my French onion soup, that it's precious. Mom and Dad are so busy smiling at each other and congratulating each other on having given birth to such darlings, that rarely do they see me fling pepper into the child's eye. And when Maurice starts to cry, I get this high-pitched idiot-adult-talking-to-child voice and say, "Did him hurt himself? Here let me help."
That usually gets the parents' attention and often, as Maurice's eye continues to water and redden, they'll quickly pay the bill and leave.
Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not advising putting any foreign substance into a child's eye. But sometimes, when you're nervous (like when a kid sticks his thumb into your soup), you react in ways you wouldn't normally. We all do it. And I forgive myself for it.
For the life of me, I don't understand how parents can sit calmly and watch their children approaching strangers as if they're long lost friends. Hey, it's great your child has such a lovely disposition, but, beyond the fact it grates on my nerves, it truly isn't safe to raise such friendly kids nowadays. I've heard some parents say, "Well, I don't want Junior to grow up in fear." Sometimes that attitude is almost tantamount to saying, "I don't want Junior to grow up." Wake up people. Gee, where did that soapbox come from. I just hope the lady lawyer, if she's reading this, appreciates my serious side, as well as my concern for kids. I think she'd be just a tad bit impressed.
One more thing...isn't Phil Spector just about the ugliest human on the planet. At least when O.J. got by with murder, he looked rather dapper in that suit. But, when they showed pictures of Spector as his trial ended in a hung jury, it was painful looking at the guy. Really, with his long scraggly hair and pasty-white skin, he reminds me of a really ugly gal I used to know. But, enought about that.

Why I Want To Be Famous - In a Thousand Words or Less

I'd like to be famous. Now, that may sound rather arrogant, but, as you know, humility is my middle name. Actually, it's a family name, but...whatever. It's not that I think that I have the talent it takes to be famous. It's not because I want to be worshiped and adored. There's really only one reason I'd love to be famous and I can sum it up in two words: FREE STUFF!
Famous people are always being given things. For instance, I hear car dealers will give people like Tom Cruse cars to drive. Then after a few months, he gives the car back and the dealer can sell it as a car driven by Tom Cruse. Now tell me that isn't cool. Don't even waste your breath, because I know it is cool. I'd like someone to give me a HDTV for a few months. I'd also like XM Radio and another pair of Haggar slacks. Gee, if I were famous, I'd bet I'd have all that stuff...for free.
I bet when a famous person goes into a restaurant, hundreds of people are just begging to buy him a meal or a drink. The only problem I'd have with that is that I'd lose my girlish figure right quickly. But, it would be great.
And, think about this. Suppose I was famous and I wanted something and no one was offering to give it to me, all I'd have to do is sign a few photos of myself, put 'em on E-Bay, and sell my autographs. I'd be rich in minutes...just from signing my own name. That really is too cool. I think being able to sell your own autograph would be about the best gig anyone could ever have. No matter where you went, you could find work. I think it would be a good job for homeless people to look into. Of course, they'd have to become famous first. Famous people are the luckiest people on earth, except for handicapped people who get all the great parking spaces.
People love famous people...even infamous people like O.J. Can you believe that when he flew home the other day, other passengers on the plane were standing in line to get his picture? He probably got some free drinks and stuff just for being O.J. Maybe if I change my name to S.C. I'll become famous. Maybe I could try putting my autograph on E-Bay and see if someone would buy it. You know, that's a thought. There are plenty of stupid people out there. Maybe I could convince someone I was famous.
I think what I need to get me is an entourage. I'm not sure how you go about getting that, but if I could hire some people to follow me around and swoon and fawn (I'd never used those two words together. I like it), maybe then I could convince people I was famous. Even O.J. had his posse. That's exactly what I need...a posse. Now that would be cool. If I had a posse, even if no one would buy me a meal, I bet one of them would. I'm just guessing, because I've never had a posse, but I bet there are a bunch of perks. I'm getting excited now.
I'm going to put a posse together. If any of you would like to apply, let me say right up front, there's no pay in it. But, at least you'd get to go to lots of really nice places. But, of course, youd' have to be willing to pay your way and mine. But, you could go around telling your friends, "S.C. and I were at the club the other night," or "S.C. and I are heading to Paris." Impressive, eh? Think about it.

Don't Tease Me Bro

I woke up early this morning and couldn't go back to sleep, so I decided to do a little cable surfing. I tuned into Fox News, but my stomach was already queasy and I just didn't think I could handle looking at a rebroadcast of Greta Van Susteren, especially so early in the morning. Is she sure she got plastic surgery?
Anyway, as I was flipping through the channels, I came across something about parallel universes. I thought I was on the Sci-Fi channel, but nope, this was a real, scientific documentary on some Discovery type channel. Click on the title of this blog for a link to a transcript of the program, because you're really not going to believe this actually aired. Or, maybe you're one of those scientific intellectuals and you will believe.
You see, for years, I've been in what the scientific intelligentsia considers the ignorant minority. I believe in Creation. I believe in the Genesis account, in fact. Try telling many people that and they look at you as if you believe the world is flat. No enlightened twenty-first century human could possibly reject evolution...could they? What blind credulity!
Well, it hasn't bothered me and still doesn't. But, after watching this program, I sure am glad I'm unenlightened. The basic premise of the show has to do with how scientists are trying to understand the Big Bang theory...how the universe came into existence.
You see their problem can be illustrated like this. If I come upon a beautiful home and, being ignorant, I just accept the fact that the home had a designer and builder, I don't have to worry my pretty little head about how the house got there. I might appreciate the architecture and the beauty. I might even wonder about why the builder built it, but I don't give a moment's thought to how it arrived on the scene.
But, if I'm super-intelligent and I come upon the same house, and I don't believe there was an intelligent designer and builder, then my brain has to go into overdrive trying to figure out what laws of physics played into the house's existence. That's what many scientists are trying to do.
You see, often evolution and Big Bang and things of that nature are mentioned so casually and matter of factly, that one assumes they are matters of fact. But to the big brains, it's more than that. They want to figure out what caused the universe to appear. Now this show threw out all kinds of terms, with which little ignorant me is uninformed...such things as membranes, and leaking gravity, and eleventh dimensions.
Bottom line is, that these scientists have come up with the idea that there are many universes which we can't see, coexisting with ours. Here is an actual comment made by the narrator, a woman by the appropriate name of Dilly Barlow:

The only explanation which anyone could come up with is that the particles don't just exist in our Universe. They flit into existence in other universes, too and there are an infinite number of these parallel universes, all of them slightly different. In effect, there's a parallel universe in which Napoleon won the Battle of Waterloo. In another the British Empire held on to its American colony. In one you were never born.

Now, keep in mind that the scientists who suggest such possibilities are the same ones who scoff at the idea of a single universe with a single first human by the name of Adam. In fact, many will tell you that Adam and Eve are mythical creatures. And yet, it appears the real brains among such scoffers really believe in something much more incredible.

Here's another comment, made by Michael Duff (a physicist and string theorist ): "The other universes are parallel to ours and may be quite close to ours, but of which we'd never be aware. They may be completely different with completely different laws of nature operating."


Theoretical Physicist, Michio Kaku, who looked kinda like a cross between comedian David Steinberg and actor Pat Morita said: "Some of these universes may look just like ours, except perhaps you're not there."

These brilliant men really believe this stuff. I thought they were joking. But, no, they're dead serious. So serious that this whole parallel universe thing helped them to come up with the answer as to what caused the Big Bang. Here's the brilliant, and yet, so simple answer, according to Burt Ovrut, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania : "...and as we went along, at least I learned more and more about how it might be possible to have these brane collisions produce all of the effects of the early Universe and in particular it's just easy to do with my hands, when they collide you might have a Big Bang."
Wow, they did it. They eloquently explained the origin of the universe without the need for a creator. Of course, there's still that little matter of where those colliding universes came from. But, they're probably leaving that up to the geniuses in one of those other worlds to worry about.

These scientist guys are smart. So smart that they believe you could create your own universe at home. In the conclusion of the show, Alan Guth, of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, had this to say: "I in fact have worked with several other people for some period of time on the question of whether or not it's in principle possible to create a new universe in the laboratory. Whether or not it really works we don't know for sure. It looks like it probably would work. It's actually safe to create a universe in your basement. It would not displace the universe around it even though it would grow tremendously. It would actually create its own space as it grows and in fact in a very short fraction of a second it would splice itself off completely from our Universe and evolve as an isolated closed universe growing to cosmic proportions without displacing any of the territory that we currently lay claim to."

Now, when you think about it, that really does make a lot more sense than creation. The only thing I wonder, if there are such smart scientists out there, couldn't someone come up with a viable plastic surgery for Greta Van Susteren?