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.
Monday, October 29, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 26, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
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."
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."
Thursday, October 11, 2007
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…
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…
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, October 05, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
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."
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."
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