Steve Cook's Daily Ramblings

DID YOU HEAR THE ONE ABOUT THE FORMER WAR PRISONER AND THE BLACK GUY

2008-10-09T14:06:00.002-05:00

Perhaps, it’s because I’m so apolitical, so completely out of the loop, politically speaking, that I’m so highly respected by both Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain. There are other sterling qualities of mine that have led to these two gentlemen holding me in such high esteem, but whatever the case, suffice it to say that they like me…they really like me, so much so, that they asked me to interview them for this highly popular blog, a blog, which I must boast, is read by upwards of a dozen people each day or month or so.
I met with the Presidential candidates recently and here is the result of a very insightful interview:

ME: First, thank you both for allowing me this opportunity

MR. OBAMA: Steve, you’re quite welcome.

MR. MCCAIN: Steve, you’re even more welcome with me.

MR. OBAMA: Steve, I hope you noticed who said “you’re welcome” first. So, Mr. McCain, is simply acknowledging my saying it and agreeing with me.

MR. MCCAIN: Steve, if you’ll look at my record, you will clearly see that I said, “You’re welcome,” back in 1982, which was just a couple of decades after I returned from my imprisonment on behalf of my country.

ME: Well, I think I understand both of your positions on that subject. Let’s move on.

BOTH MEN: Sure

MR. MCCAIN: I said it first.

MR. OBAMA; No, I did.

ME: Both of you said it well, I must admit. But, let’s continue. Mr. Obama, why do you think you should be president?

MR. OBAMA: Well, I think the most important reason that Americans should elect me President, is that I will invite every American to my inaugural party. I seriously doubt that Mr. McCain would do that.

ME: But, sir, you’re talking about inviting millions and millions of people. Where could you hold such a party as that? You don’t have anyplace that would be big enough.

MR. OBAMA: Steve, that sounds like a pretty racist thing for you to say.

ME: Well, the only race I’m interested in right now is the…

MR. MCCAIN: Let me guess this one, Steve. You’re going to say the human race, right?

ME: No, although that would be trite enough, I was actually going to say the race for President.

MR. MCCAIN: (LAUGHING) Oh, that’s a good one. I like a good laugh. You know when I was being tortured, it always helped to have a good laugh. Did you know I was tortured?

ME: Yes, I read that somewhere. But, back to you Mr. Obama. Even if you couldn’t invite everyone in America to your party, what are the chances that editors of local magazines might get to go?

MR. OBAMA: Let me just say that only in America could an editor get an invitation. This is a great country and for the first time in my adult life, I’m proud to say so.

ME: What sort of food do you anticipate serving? Finger sandwiches are always good, and chicken wings, and, oh yeah meatballs.

MR. MCCAIN: Hey, if you’re having meatballs, I might be interested. You know, when I was being held in prison…you did know I was being held in prison, didn’t you?

MR. OBAMA: We know that John, and let me just say that only in America could a former prisoner be defeated by a 50% black man for the position of the highest office in the land.

MR. MCCAIN: Yeah, yeah, sure, okay, good. But, I think we were talking about me and, of course meatballs. Do you think you’ll be serving meatballs? And, if so, do you think you could get some of those multi-colored toothpicks.

MR. OBAMA: Multi-colored, eh? That’s rather racist isn’t it?

MR. MCCAIN: Well, maybe I misspoke. You know, as a result of my years of being tortured, sometimes I say things I don’t mean.

ME: Whoa, you two. I think I’m conducting the interview around here. Mr. Obama, you’ve been dodging any questions about Mr. Ayers. I’ve done a little research and I’d like to ask you a question.

MR. OBAMA: Hold on, young man. I’ll not stand for such racist questioning.

ME: Well, I haven’t actually asked anything yet? And besides, from my research I have discovered that Mr. Ayers is white, isn’t he?

MR. OBAMA: And furthermore, you can leave my wife, Michelle (WAVING TO MICHELLE WHO IS WAITING IN THE WINGS) out of this. I’ll not stand for that, or for any racism. I’m only for change.

MR. MCCAIN: Speaking of which, did you know that because of the severe treatment I received during the war, it’s difficult for me to grasp change?

ME: Huh?

MR. MCCAIN: It’s really very difficult. I can hang on to dollar bills and such, but I can barely pick up a quarter off the floor. But, I was proud to do my part in serving my country.

MR. OBAMA: I was even prouder, Steve. Honest. And, furthermore, I’m not a racist, like some Presidential candidates I could mention (MR OBAMA POINTS AT MR MCCAIN, BUT HIDES HIS POINTING FINGER BEHIND HIS OTHER HAND AS A DIPLOMATIC MEASURE)

MR. MCCAIN: Well, if you’re suggesting I am a racist, I think we have come to a parting of our minds, or whatever. There’s not a racist bone in my previously tortured body. But, I would like to ask just one more question…at this party you’re going to have, you’re not planning on serving chitterlings…are you?

I'VE SAID IT BEFORE AND I'LL SAY IT AGAIN. HEY IT BEATS COMING UP WITH SOMETHING NEW

2008-08-07T08:05:00.002-05:00

The subject of reparations has, once again, reared its head. And, while you may be surprised to hear this, I’m kind of in favor of it. But, let me explain. I’m only in favor of reparations if it’s done fairly. About three years ago or so, I wrote a column on the subject. And, while I’m extremely humble, I have to say my idea is without a doubt the most brilliantly thought out idea I’ve heard anywhere. So, as a public service, I’m posting my column below. You can tell at the end of the piece that it’s somewhat dated. But hey, pure genius is timeless.

A STEVE COOK BLAST FROM THE PAST

PAYBACKS ARE HELLISH

Here's a little personal tidbit you might not be aware of. I'm a black man. Not 100%, probably less than 5%, but I am. At least I'm pretty sure of that. I'm also a white man, and, I think, just a wee bit Eskimo. I'm not sure about the Eskimo part, but I know I really love their pies.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.

Is It The Folks at Walgreen's? Or, Is It Just Me?

2008-07-21T07:44:00.002-05:00

Hey, it’s time to play America’s number one family-favorite game, “Is It Just Me, Or What!” Today’s subject: The folks at Walgreen’s.
Okay, here’s the way we play, I tell you what happened to me the other night at Walgreen’s and you tell me if it’s just me…or what! Maybe it is just me. But, I don’t think so.
So, I go in to Walgreen’s, make some wise purchasing decisions (based upon sales signage on the products), and take my wise purchases to the not-so-wise guy at the counter.
First item: Two packs of Wal-Sharp razor blades. These sturdy, stainless steel, double-bladed razors normally retail for $4.99 a pack, but the sign says, “Buy one pack at $3.99 and get a second pack free.”
I’m buying. The guy rings up the first pack: $4.99. Before I can gasp, he rings up the second pack: $4.99. “Whoa!” I shout. The sign says, ‘Buy one pack…blah, blah, blah.’”
The guy looks at me as if to say, “Oh boy. Here’s another idiot.” He sighs and asks me to show him. He follows me to the back of the store.
Beaming like a giant beacon in a sea of morons, I point to the sign under the razors.
“Hey,” he says, as if he’s just spotted one of those guys on America’s Most Wanted, “this sale doesn’t start until tomorrow.” He’s proud. He just made $6.00 for Walgreen’s. And, truth be told, in very, very small print under the huge sale print, it lists the dates for the sale. It does start tomorrow, which is about 30 minutes away by this time.
“Well, that’s pretty stupid,” I say. “Why would you announce a sale price that’s coming? If you have the price up there, you should honor it.” Make sense to me. So, first question to you, “Is it just me, or what?”
By this time, the young, assistant manager has arrived on the scene. Maybe the guy pushed some sort of Idiot Alert button. She hears my protestations and says, “That sale starts tomorrow.” I know that…now, but I don’t say anything. Okay, I do say, “Well it seems pretty stupid to have the sign up tonight.”
“You don’t expect us to just slap the signs up in the morning, do you?” she asks me.
“I don’t care when you slap ‘em up,” I say. “But, I do think if they’re up, you’re wrong to not honor the price.”
“Sorreeee!” she says. I think it sounds sarcastic, but, my motto is “Never start an argument you can’t prove.” So I remain quiet. I select a cheaper package of razors and return to the register.
Several other items don’t ring up properly, but the guy makes adjustments, because, in these other instances, I’m totally right. Finally, he gives me my total. It’s over $40.00 bucks. I’m surprised, but I pay it. The guy virtually flings my change at me and doesn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” I say cheerily, and, yes, sarcastically. I go home and decide to look at my receipt, because $40.00 bucks does seem high. Sure enough, once again, I’m right. He charged me twice for a $10.00 item.
It’s late, and I’m tired, but I head back over to Walgreen’s. I approach the same clerk. “I know you’re irritated with me,” I say, “but I should be irritated with you. You charged me twice for the bathroom scales.”
He looks at the receipt, calls the dumb, young manager, and goes to get the same pack of razor blades. I guess, despite what I had just pointed out to him, he feels he has a winning argument with the razor blades.
The manager storms over, looks at me as if I’m the most annoying human on the planet and asks the young clerk why I’m still upset about the razor blades.
“It’s not the razor blades!” I shout. I’m exasperated, but, my question to you is, “Is it just me, or what!”
“It’s the bathroom scale. You charged me twice.” She, the manager, peruses the receipt. I know she’s hoping that if she holds it long enough the second charge for the scales will disappear. Finally, she gives up and gets my refund, which she flings on the counter. She then thrusts a form in my face and shouts, “Fill this out.”
"No," I tell her. Of course, I pick up my ten plus tax before I tell her that.
She grabs the form back. She knows she’s lost that one.
“I know you all are irritated with me,” I say again. “But, I’m the one who had to come all the way back here because of your mistake. And besides,” I continue, “you didn’t even apologize.”
I’m almost done, but I have one more point to make. I don’t think I’m wrong to make it, but you tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”
“Not only are you totally incompetent,” I tell them both, “but you’re very rude.”
“Incompetent?” the clerk says incredulously. I guess he agrees with the rude part. Or, perhaps he thinks I’ve just made some attack on his manhood. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, totally,” I announce as I walk out. So, was I rude? Or, did I do the right thing? Should I expect more, or should this service be viewed as standard operating procedure these days? You tell me, “Is it just me, or what!”

The Least Angry Man

2008-06-24T09:21:00.002-05:00

I feel that I have, somehow, totally created a false impression of myself. And it’s all due to my charming little stories that I gladly share with you from time to time. It appears that some of you have gotten the impression that I have a mean streak in me. Nothing could be further (or is it farther) from the truth.
For instance, my cousin asked my mother recently, “Is Steve always angry?” I hate that. It’s like when someone says, “Are you in a bad mood.”
I reply, “I am now.” I mean, really, why would anyone suggest that I’m disgruntled. Actually, I prefer to think of myself as totally gruntled. But, nothing puts me in a bad mood like someone asking if I'm in a bad mood.
I was at a wedding this weekend. Now, admittedly, in the past, when I attended weddings, I have shared my observations as to the idiocy of some of the people in attendance. I’m not angry about it. Amused is probably more what I am.
But, anyway, I was sitting with some old friends during the reception and one of them says, “Please don’t say anything ugly about me in your column.” I just stared. I thought she was talking to someone else.
This woman, I’ll call her ‘Donna,’ went on to say, “But, if you do say anything nasty, please don’t use my last name, (Tillett).In fact, don't use my first name either. Just call me ‘DT.' Better yet, just call me ‘D.’”
So, in order to accommodate her, I’ll just say that I had no intention of saying anything bad about D, except that she misjudges me. I would never say anything bad about an old, old friend.
I will say I found her daughter quite charming. She (the daughter) told me how much she enjoys my columns. I didn't hang on her every word like some egomaniac, but it seems she said something like, “I laugh uncontrollably.” I don’t know what it is, but when I’m around people who like me (admittedly, that’s not often), I find them so fascinating. When people are raving about me, I could sit and listen all day. When she changed the subject, I politely said, "Don't stop on my account."
I definitely can’t say anything bad about the wedding either. That’s mainly because it was my boss’ son getting married. Actually, it was a lovely wedding, with great food. I enjoy food. This was the first wedding reception I went to that served Chinese food and fortune cookies. My cookie said, “Avoid the egg rolls.” Unfortunately, I didn’t read it until I had actually eaten one. But, everything else was great.
True, the bride and groom were quite young. I won’t say too young, but I sure would like to have had the Clearasil concession at the event. It was the first wedding I’ve been to where, instead of wedding cake, they served ice cream cones with clown faces on the ice cream. This was the first wedding I went to where the bride and groom were registered for gifts at Toys R Us. I hear they are getting a discount on their honeymoon suite because they were on the honor roll last semester.
But the young couple were quite lovely. They seemed very happy. So happy, that they giggled their vows. But, I’m not saying anything negative. I’m certainly not angry. I mean, after all, these fine folks gave me all the food and grape-flavored Kool Aid I could consume. I was enthralled with the entire event.
So there, to all of you naysayers who besides saying, “Nay,” also say I am an angry man. I guess you all are eating those words this morning, eh?

Back In The Day

2008-05-28T09:19:00.001-05:00

On occasion, and mainly because I’m a public spirited sort of guy, I’ll gather the children in the neighborhood together, my wife will fix them some knockwurst sandwiches, and I’ll tell ‘em about the good ol’ days.
They seem to enjoy it. “Kids,” I’ll start, “would you like to hear about the good ol’ days?”
“Yippee!” They’ll exclaim. “Please grandpa,” they’ll say. They like to call me “grandpa” because they know how much it hurts me. I try and pretend it doesn’t. But, often, as my tears well up, they can tell. Nevertheless, I continue to regale them with tales of days gone by.
“Okay, kids,” I’ll say, doing my best to hide the tears. “I can remember a time when we could go down to the local filling station…”
“Filling station?” they ask as if they’ve never heard of it.
“Well, that’s what I call ‘em,” I’ll say, with a twinkle in my eye.
“Yeah, he still says, ‘icebox,’” Jimmy Witherspoon will pipe up. I don’t know why I keep inviting Jimmy. He’s obnoxious. But, hey, that’s the sort of guy I am. All the kids get a good laugh over my calling the refrigerator an icebox.
“Jimmy, you’re not only obnoxious, but you’re also fat,” I’ll laugh. I think my scorn will, one day, make a man out of the little brat.
Anyway, by this time, I will have forgotten what we were talking about. “What were we talking about?” I ask the kids.
“The good ol’ days,” they sing together.
“That’s right,” I say, beaming, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s the good ‘ol days.
“Where were we?” I inquire. I’m not that old, but memory is among my souvenirs, so to speak.
“The filling station, Gramps,” Jimmy says. Sometimes when he walks past me, I’ll “accidentally” knee him in the head.
“Yes we were,” I agree vigorously, and continue. “Well, back in the day…” I say before I’m quickly interrupted.
“What day?” Sally Kimchuck asks. Sally’s a sweet little girl, but, well, she is blonde.
“Huh?” I ask, scrunching up my nose in a way that still makes me look rather cute.
“What day?” Sally repeats. “What day are you talking about?”
“No particular day,” I’ll say.
“Well, what did you mean when you said, ‘back in the day’?”
“He doesn’t know what he means,” Jimmy interjects. “He still calls the refrigerator an ‘icebox.’”
“That wasn’t funny when you told it two minutes ago,” I say, somewhat educatingly. But, interestingly, all the kids still laugh. Why can’t I seem to remember before I call the kids and invite them over, just how obnoxious kids can be?
“Back in the day,” I say, continuing to educate, “simply means in a time gone by, a bygone era, if you will.”
“If we will what,” Sally asks?
“Sally, did your mom drop you on your head when you were a baby?” I’ll ask inquiringly. Now the kids are all laughing. I do so love children.
“’If you will’ is just an expression,” I say. “It means, that, well…It’s kind of like saying, ‘if you…’ well, I don’t exactly know what it means. But regardless…”
“Don’t you mean ‘irregardless’?” Billy Wells asks innocently.
“No, there’s no such word as ‘irregardless,’” I say, thinking this must be how a college professor feels. “Sometimes people use that word…”
“Use what word?” Sally asks.
“Irregardless,” I answer.
“I thought you said there was no such word as ‘irregardless,” Billy says.
“Well, there isn’t really.” I’m getting somewhat frustrated by this point.
“Well, why did you call it a word?” Billy asks.
“He still calls a refrigerator…”
“Shut up or go home, Porky,” I snap
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. Jimmy starts to cry.
Trying to change the subject, I speak up, “Let’s all sit back down and let me tell you about the good ol’ days.”
“Oh boy,” they all kinda say, or something to that effect. Anyway, I go to the ice box and pour them some milk. I get the Oreo cookies out. As the kids start to pull their Oreos apart, licking the creamy center filling in a way that reminds me of the time when I didn’t have diabetes, I start my story again.
“Back in the good ol’ days," I say, "I could go down to the local filling station and the gasoline only cost three dollars a gallon.”
“Wow!” they’ll shout in disbelief. “Really?”
“Really!” I answer them, knowing they’re looking at me admiringly. I think they think it’s cool that they know someone who can remember those good ol’ days. “Why, I could fill my car up and drive a whole week for less than sixty dollars.” I know this impresses them.
“Gee, Grandpa,” they’ll say, “Do you think we’ll ever return to those good ol’ days of yesteryear?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “Life just keeps on changing. Now, take my cell phone,” I say, pulling my cell phone out my pocket.”
“Okay, thanks,” Sally says, grabbing my phone.
“What the hey,” I shriek, grabbing the phone back from her sticky little hands. “Leave my phone alone.”
“But you said take it,” she wails.
“Yeah,” I say, “but I didn’t mean ‘take it.’”
“Well, what did you mean?” she asks.
“I just mean consider it. I mean think about cell phones. Used to be…”
“You mean back in the day,” Sally asks, smiling because she’s learned something new, and, for that, I’m proud.
“Exactly,” I smile. “Back in the day, a cell phone was only good for making phone calls.
“That’s all it would do?” Bobby Barry asks in total shock and disbelief.
“Well, you could also use it as a flashlight,” I say, “but other than that, it didn’t do much else.”
“Wow, you are old,” Bobby says.
“And, you have a big ugly birthmark on your arm,” I remind him. “But, anyway, take this cell phone I have now. Leave my phone alone, Sally,” I yell.
“But…” she starts to explain.
“Shut up,” I remind her.
“My new-fangled phone shows TV programs. It has games. It plays music. It sends text messages. I can check my email and get the sports scores and keep appointments. It’s marvelous. I just wonder one thing,” I say. “Do you think one of you could show me how to make a phone call?”

My Wait Problem

2008-05-19T13:00:00.001-05:00

CONTINUED

Okay, so where were we? That’s right. I had spent about an hour of my morning drive into work waiting for someone at Sprint to help me. Little did I know that waiting would be the order of the day.
I bet I have lost several years of my lifetime just waiting...waiting in lines, waiting on the phone, waiting for someone to assist me. For instance, later that same day, I headed over to Best Buy. I needed to find some kind of connector to tie my XM Radio in with my new receiver.
Before I even got there, I encountered a stop light, out on Hull Street near our office. This stoplight works about as well as the customer service reps at Sprint. Or else, I’m just so skinny that my car fails to trip the light. I sat through three changes of the light before I got my left turn arrow.
Finally, I get to Best Buy. Talk about service with a stall. I think the company should change its slogan to “The K-Mart of Home Electronics.” I honestly feel that my body puts off some sort of magnetic interference that not only disables stoplights, but also renders me invisible when I enter a store. I stood around looking like I was anxious to buy something for about 60 minutes. I’d go from sales associate to sales associate. I did my best to give an appearance of part helpless and part very wealthy and ready to spend.
No one even looked at me. I know how Jimmy Stewart felt in that Wonderful Life movie. But just let me try to sneak out carrying a home theater in my arms and bells and whistles will go off all over the place. I’ll get some attention then. As I found out.
Finally, I tired of Best Buy and decided to head over to the Chinese Restaurant for lunch. Usually my waiter, a pleasant, older, Chinese gentleman is overly attentive. He can’t stop filling my water glass. He’ll even follow me out to the parking lot and hose down my car as I drive away.
But, on this particular day…the day of waiting…he was nowhere to be found. I kept waiting for him to bring my bill and he never came. I figured if I shook my waterless water glass, the sounds of clinking ice would summon him. But nope.
I was in a hurry to get back to work. Finally he happened by, totally oblivious to me or my empty glass. “Hey,” I shouted, “stop bowing to everyone in the building and bring me my check.”
He bowed, and went to get my check. I was feeling pretty badly. I hate being rude, and this guy is so nice. Anyway, he brings me my check and my fortune cookie. Although I was in a hurry, I’m never too busy to stoop to open a fortune cookie. I pulled my cookie apart and read my “fortune.”
It really got to me. For there on my cookie fortune, this little, old gentleman had given me, was this sentence: “People are drawn to you because of your charm and courtesy.”
Despite my ill temperedness, I had to smile. I guess I’m not so bad after all.

And You Think You Have Problems

2008-05-16T08:55:00.001-05:00

You don’t want to hear about the day I had yesterday. Don’t even get me started. Okay, I’ll tell you.
It was frustration personified. To start it off, let me say that my wife just bought me a new Touch phone. That’s the name. It’s through Sprint. This phone has so many bells and whistles. I just wish I knew how to operate it.
Even more so, I wish either the manufacturer (HTC) knew how to write a manual to explain how to operate it, or that Sprint would hire people that knew anything at all.
I called Sprint. They must hold classes showing their customer service people how to deliver absolutely miserable customer service. No one could be that bad by accident.
The first person I got had a lovely Bangladesh accent. And, I’m sure that if I spoke her language, I would have understood every word she said. I was trying to find out how to make something on the phone work.
Finally she said (in that lovely accent), “You mooost hive eee take-nee-kool proh-blem. I wheel kewnect you.
“Hold on,” I screamed as she went, “Click.” I didn’t have a technical problem, but I guess I’d have to wait and tell the person in the Technical Problem department that. I looked around the house while I waited to see if I had an English to Swahili translation book, just in case.
While I waited, I got to listen to the lovely hold music Sprint uses. I guess the same people who write instruction manuals on delivering horrible customer service, must also produce CDs of one tone hold music. Actually it was about 3 or 4 notes, repeated constantly during my fifteen minute (by my watch), three minute (by their calculation) wait. The music just kept going “Diddle-lee dop,” diddle-lee dop, diddle-lee dop.”
Finally someone who spoke English came on line. Hey, now we’re getting somewhere.
“Can I get the mobile phone number you are having a problem with,” she asked in about the same tone as the music.
“Didn’t the woman I just spoke with give you that?” I asked good-naturedly.
“No sir,” she responded in a way that suggested I was keeping her from her cigarette break.
So, I give her the number.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“I just gave that to the last person,” I informed her.
“May I have the password?” she asked.
“Don’t you people have enough sense to let each other know when you’ve already qualifed someone?” I asked sincerely.
“No sir,” she answered honestly.
I gave her the password and started to explain that I didn’t have a technical problem, I just wanted some information.
“What is the problem with your phone?” she interrupts to ask.
“May I speak with someone who is not a moron?” I ask.
“Sir, I want to help you.”
“I don’t want you to help me. Let me speak with a manager.” I’m getting ticked.
Finally the manager comes on the phone.
“When my wife bought this Touch phone,” I say, “I should have right then and there slashed my wrists. It would have been quicker and less painful.”
He actually laughed. Hey, I’m thinking, I like this guy. Anyway, he puts me on hold and goes to find his Touch book. He tells me how to solve the problem.
“If this doesn’t work, I’ll call you back,” I tell him.
“You don’t want to have to call us back,” he laughs.
“You’re right,” I say. “I’d rather be pecked to death by geese than call Sprint.”
Anyway I do what he says. It doesn’t work.

TO BE CONTINUED

Global Whining

2008-05-07T08:17:00.002-05:00

I’ve been away. Or, didn’t you notice? I decided, several weeks ago, to solve the global warming problem. I’m not exactly sure I believe there is a global warming problem, but since perception is reality, it must be a big one…problem, that is. And, the Steve Cook motto is, “Where there’s a problem, Steve’s got a solution.” Or, something like that. I haven’t really given much thought to my motto.
Anyway, I put my mind to solving the problem. First, I studied the situation. It’s always good to study situations. So, that’s what I did. I did a lot of reading, mainly cereal boxes, but, hey, there’s some good stuff out there, especially on those organic cereal boxes.
I basically came to the conclusion, initially, that in some parts of the world it was cooler this year, and in some areas, it’s been warmer. What I think we are really experiencing today is what I call, “Global Staying Pretty Much the Same.” But, again, since so many people are so scared about global warming, I may as well solve it.
Personally, I say, “Bring it on.” I think it would be great to be able to take a vacation in the tropics and see the sights of Manhattan, all at the same time. I just hope global warming kicks in before I get too old to enjoy that.
But, anyway, I digress. Here’s the solution: Do you remember, back in the seventies, when everyone was whining about global cooling? I do. So, here’s what I did. I read some stuff, including a very well-written piece on Wikipedia, about global cooling. I read what the experts of thirty years ago thought was causing global cooling. And, I decided that the secret to ending global warming, is to do the things we were doing in the seventies to cause global cooling.
Pretty clever, eh? I thought so. For instance, it seems that aerosol cans were blamed on global cooling. So, for starters, if you’re really worried about your carbon footprint, and all that, everyone should go get themselves an aerosol can and spray it everyday. It doesn’t matter what it is. Maybe deodorant, or room freshener would do. And, if manufacturers took out those fleurocarbons, then Congress, or someone like that, should demand they be put back in. I firmly believe that if we all cooperated on this, we could end the threat of global warming almost overnight. I think we should all be encouraged to spray regularly. In fact, I’ve already come up with a great campaign slogan. Are you ready for this? “If you want to end global warming, let us spray.” Huh? Cool or what?
Now, there was something else that the scientific gurus were suggesting thirty years ago that might be causing global cooling. It had something to do with the earth’s tilt getting just slightly off kilter. I am not sure if that was caused by anything, or just one of those things that happens. But, anyway, if the earth tilts too much one way and it gets cooler, then logically if it tilts the other way, it’d get warmer. Even an idiot could figure that one out, as I proved. Now, what I haven’t been able to figure out, is how the earth’s tilting affects the whole earth. I’d think the people on one side would get cooler, while the folks on the other side got warmer, but that’s one of those issues I leave for those far wiser than I to figure out.
But, here is what I did figure out. If we simply set off some bombs or something, it should be an easy thing to cause the earth to tilt the right way. And, since we have plenty of bombs lying around, if we tilt too far one way, we can just set off some bombs on the other side of the earth and adjust it. It might take several detonations to tweak things just right, but obviously it’s an easy fix.
So, there you go. While the various political candidates do nothing but whine and complain, I look for solutions. As Bobby Kennedy said, “Some men look at things and say something or another, I look at things and say something else.” Hey, maybe that should be my motto.

An Ox is an Ox, Of Course, Of Course

2008-04-18T08:44:00.002-05:00

As publishers of several magazines in the Richmond area, we receive a lot of press releases from various organizations, including Colonial Williamsburg. Generally speaking, they’re doing some interesting things down there in Williamsburg, and we will often include their upcoming events on our events website – www.flavorcalendar.com.
However, I received a press release from there this morning that leaves me somewhat underwhelmed. I’m pasting the release into this blog, just so you’ll know I’m not making this up. Here goes:

The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation will host its first symposium on oxen and their crucial
role as beasts of burden through the centuries.

Now, let me stop right there. Are you fascinated? Do you know anyone who might be? I can picture the scene at the offices of the Colonial Williamsburg organization. Someone pipes up in a meeting, “Hey, let’s do a symposium on oxen.” Heads start bobbing up and down.
“Yeah!”
“Oh my yes”
“Bully for you, ol chap.”

Well anyway, once they got through congratulating themselves on the idea, they actually came up with a name for the symposium. The release continues:

“Oxen in the Old and New Worlds,” consisting of lectures, demonstrations and
panel discussions by oxen experts from America and Great Britain.

Lectures! Wow! Hope they’ll be serving lots of coffee. Demonstrations? What will they consist of? Will the bigger guys take turns riding the little guys around on their back. Or maybe they’ll just bring in some long sticks and take turns goading one another. That might be fun.

Of course, I hope I’m not too winded from the goading to prevent me from getting to the panel discussion. I hope they take questions from the audience. I have a few I’d like to ask, such as “Why are you doing this?” And, “Like, really, why are you doing this?”

Something else in that release enthralls me. I really, truly want to meet some oxen experts from America and Great Britain. I have long wanted to know more about oxen. For instance, was Babe the blue ox, really blue? Was she as big as people say she was? And, this Paul Bunyan guy, what was he really like, you know, in everyday life?

I Googled “oxen experts” just to see what might come up. Apparently this oxen thing is big right now. They’re having panel discussions all around the world on oxen. And to think I almost slept right through it.

As I continue to read the press release, I’m becoming more and more fascinated. For instance, the release goes on to say:

Relied upon for strength and intelligence, as well as a food source, oxen were
man’s main beasts of burden until the late 19th century, when horses and mules
replaced them.

Now, if the oxen were so intelligent, how did they let horses and mules replace them? Hold on there. I get it. They were so intelligent, that they played dumb so that the horses and mules did all the dirty work. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t recall seeing any oxen plowing the fields these days. I bet they’re all in some resort, somewhere, playing oxen games, drinking milk cocktails, and flicking fruit flies with their tales.

I wonder if any of the more intelligent oxen will be invited to participate in the panel discussion. This might not be so bad after all.

Stupid Is as Stupid Says

2008-04-04T14:48:00.003-05:00

You know, there are some really dumb people out there. Not you and I, of course. But, virtually everyone else. Especially is this so among the media elite.
For instance, just this morning a national broadcaster on CBS Television made the comment that he would be interviewing the son of Martin Luther King, Jr. later in the show. He identified the late civil rights leader's son as Martin Luther King, Jr., the third. I'm thinking that's kinda dumb.
And, while I enjoy the Fox News Network talk shows, have you ever stopped to analyze just how dumb most of the people who appear on those shows really are? Here's what I mean. Have you ever heard two people arguing on that show, persons who have very different viewpoints. Have you ever heard one say to the other, "You know, you're right. You've convinced me."?
In real life, people listen to one another. They learn from one another. They grow from their disagreements with others.
On TV that never happens. One guy says, "Your candidate is a total idiot. Here's his I.Q. test. It shows he's a moron."
Now, if someone were to say that to me, at least I'd want to look at his proof. But on Fox, that never happens. The second guy will shout back, "Well, your mother is an idiot."
There's no reasoning. There's no acknowledgment of anything the other guy said. It's just yelling.
So, guy two just called guy one's mother an idiot. What does guy one say? He retorts, "Oh yeah. Well, what about Reverend Wright?"
So, does guy two stop to reflect on Reverend Wright? Nope. He snaps back, "Yeah, and I guess Hillary has never lied." By this time these two guys have about four different arguments going and the only losers are the viewers. Whatever happened to intellectual, thoughtful discussion? It simply doesn't exist on television, or probably anywhere else nowadays.
But, no discussion of media idiots would be complete without taking a moment to honor one of the great idiots of all times. Of course, I'm speaking of Ted Turner. Sure this guy is a billionaire, but he adds new meaning to the term, "Southern hick." He sounds like one. He acts like one. He really must be one...a rich one, but a hick, nonetheless.
Did you hear the latest from Turner? He's talking about global warming with Charlie Rose, on Rose's TV talk show and he says that because we're not concerned with global warming it's going to be 8 degrees warmer. Turner, you can tell, is just making this stuff up. He starts to say (with authority) that it'll be 8 degrees warmer in ten years. But, you can see, he catches himself, as any good liar can do, and kinda tells himself, "Hey, that's too soon. Let me make up another number." He then says, "Not ten, but thirty years." He says it as if to say, "Hey, who really cares. Ten, thirty, they're all the same when you're just making this stuff up.
But Turner can be even more stupid than that. He continues. "Basically," he says, "(Due to those 8 degrees) none of the crops will grow." Now I have to wonder about that. For instance, sometimes in the summer, it can get ten to twenty degrees warmer on some days. The crops don't die. And, what about folks in Florida? Can they not grow anything? I bet summers in Southern Florida are always eight degrees warmer than here. And, when you think about it, aren't the rain forests, which are lush with growth, in even warmer climates? Of course, Ted Turner is a horticultural genius, so who am I to question.
But, Turner gets even stupider, which is the correct term for when you're too stupid to be "more stupid." He says, "Most people will die." Now, I'm getting scared. I could still be around in 30 years, and, for all we know, it might just be ten years if Turner really gets his way. Most people on earth will be dead in thirty years. That's pretty bleak. But, wait. It gets the stupidest at this point. Ted Turner isn't content to just predicting a global warming so severe that most people will die. He goes on to predict that, "The rest of us will be cannibals."
Now that's the scary part. I'm not so scared about mass cannibalism in thirty years. I'm afraid to be anywhere near Ted Turner today. His solution to deal with global warming, for "the rest of us - note, he includes himself - is cannibalism. So, what happens if Ted Turner wakes up hungry in the middle of the night and the hotel restaurant is closed. Who does he eat?
Or, let's say he's sitting at one of his ranches and he suddenly gets a pang of hunger. His cupboard is bare, and the nearest Food Lion is twenty miles away. And, as luck would have it, you have a flat tire in front of his house. My guess is that Ted Turner is gonna see you out there, lugging a lug wrench, and think, "Tasty!"
What may be even more stupid about this whole thing is that Charlie Rose is just sitting there nodding as if he's engaged in some deep, intellectual discussion. He's looking at Ted Turner as if he might be the next Stephen Hawking. Which, when you think about it, if Turner really is a closet cannibal, might not be such a bad idea. I know. I guess I'm rather stupid, myself.

A Few Corrections From Things I've Said Previously

2008-03-27T09:33:00.006-05:00

I'm not a political sort of guy at all. However, as a lifelong observer of human nature, I have learned a few things by following the goings on among the presidential contenders...especially from Mrs. Clinton. I've seen her sniper fire comments backfire spraying political shrapnel all over the place. I don't want to have anything I may have inadvertently said in the past, come back to haunt me. So. I'm here to clear the air.

Remember a year or so back, when I wrote about having gone into my bank, and gotten caught up in a bank robbery? "Bullets were flying over my head," I wrote at the time. I misspoke. What I had meant to say is that I went to the bank and I got there right after the bank had closed. And I looked at the teller through the glass door and pointed to my watch to say, "Excuse me, ma'm, but it's two minutes til closing time." And she had mouthed back to me, "Sorry." That's what actually happened. Close, but not exactly the way I had described it. But, let's be honest. Don't we all, from time to time, when we're under pressure, or we're trying to hide our personal failures and foibles, tend to totally lie about a matter? I'm not trying to justify anything, but, tell me, that if you weren't trying to find some excuse for something you'd done, you wouldn't just embellish the story a bit to make yourself look better. With that said, let's move on.

A couple of years ago, I told you about having a driver run me off the road, then get out of his car, come back to my car, open my door, yank me out, and beat me about the arms and face. Do you remember that? I misspoke. Although, that is what the guy had intended to do, had he gotten the opportunity, in truth, he only flipped the proverbial bird at me. I have an excuse for misspeaking on that one, though. Mrs. Clinton inspired me. I, too, was suffering from sleep depravation when I wrote that column.

And, while I'm not political, let me digress for just a moment. Mrs. Clinton said that the reason she said she had come under sniper fire when she hadn't, was that she was suffering from sleep deprivation at the time. Huh? Wasn't she the one who produced the TV spot about the phone ringing in the White House at three in the morning? Suppose the call comes in when she's sleepy. I hope she doesn't decide to nuke California because she gets a call that the Governor has criticized her. You know sleep depravation can do that. All of a sudden, through no fault of their own, the people of California are wiped off the map. Hmm, maybe sleep depravation is not all bad.

Anyway, I'm not here to talk about Hillary Clinton. This is all about me, baby. I'm trying to get a few things off my chest. One of those things is more a personal note to my family. Do y'all remember how I told you that when Uncle Eddie had that seizure I had called 911 and they never responded? Do you remember how at Uncle Eddie's funeral, I had railed against the local 911 people for their lack of professionalism? Do you remember how I had threatened to sue someone?

Well, I misspoke. Now, to be totally fair to myself, I had meant to call 911. Actually, I dialed 411. Then when the operator asked me what number I was looking for, I asked her to give me the local 911 number. She muttered something under her breath and hung up. That made me so mad that I took off in my car to do down to the phone company and give them a piece of my mind. I honestly forgot all about Uncle Eddie until the next morning. But, hey, nobody's human. We all make mistakes.

And sometimes my mistake is that i misspeak. I think it all stems from that time when I was a kid and was kidnapped and held hostage in an underground bunker for three weeks. That can scar a kid sometimes, you know.

I Haven't the Remotest

2008-03-25T08:13:00.005-05:00

As much as i bend over backwards to avoid hurting others' feelings or irritating anyone, I have a suspicion that I will make some folks unhappy today, especially women. But, I think it's time someone stepped up to the plate and told the truth. And, it looks like I'm the designated truth teller here.
The subject at hand is the TV remote. Now, men have been getting a bad rap (or is that "wrap") for years when it comes to their flippant (get it, a pun) attitude towards the remote. Men are accused of running non-stop through the channels and not ever staying on one channel long enough to know what's going on. I've come to the conclusion, however, that either women are worse than men, or else my wife is really a guy. I'm hoping it's the former.
My wife, bless her heart, has to have the remote in her hand if she's anywhere near the TV. Even if she's not watching, she wants to control the remote. And, if we're lying in bed watching television late at night, her last act before she falls asleep is to roll over and wedge the remote between her body and the bed, so that even after she's sawing logs, there's still no way I can control the remote.
My wife, bless her heart, has a really weird, woman-like way of using the remote, too. For instance, let's say she's flipping through the channels. Now, admittedly, she doesn't go as quickly as I do through them, but here is what she will do. She'll flip to a program. And leave that program on just long enough for me to get involved. And just as the detective says, "I have figured out who murdered Colonel Mustard. It has to be..." FLIP. I'm not lying. She does it every time.
And I'll tell you something else. Remember, now, we have this pact, you and me...we don't mention these columns to my wife. Okay? She never reads 'em, unless someone says, "Oh, you'll never guess what Steve said about you." Anyway, here's my little secret. I think she knows full well what she's doing. I think it's a form of torture.
It's particularly bad when I'm trying to watch a baseball game. I love baseball. If I'm watching, she'll come in the room and tenderly take my hand, and after she's pried my fingers open, she'll take the remote. She'll hold it...tauntingly, as if to say, "I have it. Don't make me use it."
After a few minutes, I'll relax, as much as a man can relax when he's watching TV and his wife is holding the remote. I'll get involved in the game. And, just as the Braves are about to stage a fantastic comeback, with the bases loaded and Chipper Jones at the plate, with a count of 3 and 2, and here comes the pitch. FLIP.
I kid you not. Now don't tell me she doesn't understand baseball. She understands just fine, thank you.
She also does the FLIP when I'm watching the news. You know how the news guys love to tease us. She's in on it. The newscaster will say, "You'll never guess who was assassinated tonight. Full details when we come back." Then we'll watch the fifteen commercials and then the news will finally come back on and the guy says, "A horrible tragedy tonight." FLIP. If I had been married in 1963, I probably still wouldn't know that Kennedy was dead.
But it's not just her flipping. It's what she'll choose to flip to. She has an uncanny ability to flip to a channel that's as uninteresting as the previous channel was interesting. Last night, for instance, my wife, bless her heart, decided, while I was trying to watch David Letterman, to switch to Arthur. Now, I'm not talking about the Dudley Moore movie. I'm talking about the animated adventures of Arthur the Aardvark, which has to be the cutest, sweetest, most boring show on TV. I never knew my wife was so enthralled with Arthur. She lay there watching it for fifteen minutes, while I keep reminding her that Letterman is on. At least I thought she was watching it until I heard her snoring.
Of course, by that time, the remote was nestled safely under her body. So there I was, just me and Arthur. The show was pretty good. You see, Emily really wanted this sparkly ball that D.W. found, so she tells a little white lie about how Marie-Helene actually gave it to her. No harm done, right? But then Emily has to tell even bigger lies to cover her story! Have you seen that one?

Something Spooky in Gloucester

2008-03-20T10:04:00.002-05:00

I’m afraid. I’m very afraid. I have just moved to Gloucester Courthouse. Have you ever been there? It’s a quaint little town about an hour east of Richmond. On my first visit there, and even on subsequent visits, I thought it somewhat reminded me of Mayberry.
However, since I’ve moved there, I’m thinking it’s more like one of those small towns you see in the horror movies. In fact, with its rustic charm and backwoodsy feel, I’m going to call my story, “Return to the Village of the Dag-Nabbited.” I don’t like to use the word, “damned.” You know, with the Jeremiah Wright thing so much in everyone’s minds.
Anyway, the more I get to know Gloucester, the more frightened I become. For instance, sometimes I’ll drive through the town square at about 8:00 in the evening. Now, for a small town, by this time you’d expect everyone to be home, in bed. But, in Gloucester, there are cars, many cars, parked along the curb. Nothing so bad in itself, but, there are men walking in somewhat of a zombie-like stupor through town. Maybe there’s some sort of town meeting going on, but I think it’s much more sinister. I truly believe that some sort of Invasion of the Body Snatchers-like alien force is at work here.
My wife and I went in a little sandwich shop the other night. There was an acoustic duo playing and the place was fairly crowded. When we walked in, the duo stopped playing and everyone turned to look at us. But wait! It gets even more frightening. We stand at the counter to order a sandwich and the woman smiles at us with a blank-eyed stare and says, “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“But, it’s not closing time,” I start to say. My wife hushes me up. She is afraid I’ll make a scene. Or, could it be that some human-transforming pod has already overtaken her body? I’m not sure. Anyway, we leave.
Then there’s the newspaper, the Glo-Quips. Now with a name like Glo-Quips itself, I think there is plenty of reason to believe that some alien force is in play here, but since I’m not one to jump to conclusions, I’ll present more evidence and let you decide.
Glo-Quips has to be either a) the worst newspaper in the world; b) an Onion-like satire on newspapers; or c) a devious, cleverly-encrypted collection of coded messages designed to destroy one’s brain cells. I’m picking selection “c” here.
I had written a column on Glo-Quips a couple of years ago. I thought it was just funny the first time I read it, that a newspaper could be written as poorly as this publication. But, I picked up another copy the other day. And, seriously folks, it’s pretty scary.
For one thing, there’s a rant and rave section, where readers can phone in their complaints. These people complain about everything and they don’t mince words. In the latest issue, someone is accusing a post office employee of being a convicted forger. Another caller is suggesting that virtually everyone in the county administration is involved in, or covering up child abuse. One complaint comes from someone who is afraid of a man who walks along Route 17 and talks to people in the Walmart Shopping Center. Hmm, maybe there’s some validity to that one.
But, there’s even more about Glo-Quips that frightens me. For instance, what would you think about a newspaper in a small Virginia town that has a columnist who writes about what a great guy Hitler was? I’m not making this stuff up. I’ll show you the paper if you want. Or, a front page story that is merely about a county employee who showed up for work three sheets to the wind? The biting investigative piece in this issue asked the burning question, "Have you ever eaten green eggs and ham?"
I tell you something is happening in Gloucester...something very, very weird. Scoff if you will. Ridicule me. But, if I suddenly show up missing one day, I hope you’ll remember this. And go get help. My wife is still there, or, at least, that alien pod that looks like her.

A Moving Experience

2008-03-13T10:12:00.002-05:00

I just moved to a new house. And, it's been a rather eye-opening experience. For one thing, having lived in this house for about a week without television (the cable people haven't gotten around to hooking me up), I think I've come to have some sort of mind meld with our forefathers...you know the rugged, pioneer, Little-House-on-the-Prairie-Michael-Landon types,
I think I can feel their pain, their anguish. I also think I know why our ancestors died so young. They were bored to death.
This sitting around the house talking to one another thing gets old rather quickly. I can just imagine past generations sitting around the house and thinking, there's bound to be something better to do than this.
I've also learned something about the construction workers of today. They stink. I think the young men and women of today's work-force have spent so much time watching television, they've never taken the time to learn to do a job well. For instance, I have a brand-new home (not bragging, just stating fact), with no door knobs. It seems that these guys forgot about the door knobs. Now, I am exaggerating. Many of the doors have them. It's only a few doors that they overlooked.
For instance, there's a door going to the laundry area, and it has a knob. The only problem is, I really won't ever need the knob because the door won't go past the washer and dryer. You know, it seems like someone would have gotten a tape measure out and figured those things out. And speaking of the washer and dryer, these nincompoops put in the vents and plumbing so that the washer and dryer are forced to be positioned in a way that the doors open into each other. If they had positioned them the opposite way, there would have been an open space between the two, which would make for an easy transfer from washer to dryer. It may seem like a little thing, but really, can't someone just use a little forethought?
Also, there are no light bulbs in the house. I guess the workers figure that their workmanship looks a lot better in the dark. And, once I put a bulb in, I discovered that the light switch in the walk-in closet is positioned behind the door, so you have to open the door and walk around it in the dark in order to get to the light switch. And, there are no drawers in the bathroom. Where do they think I'm going to put my toothbrush? No towel racks either.
Okay, maybe I'm a bit of a whiner, but this is the first home I've ever lived in that wasn't sitting on wheels, or, at least, cinderblocks, and I want it to be just right. But, I guess I should be thankful for what I have. Actually, since I've gone without TV for several days, I discovered I have a wife. Who knew?
Forget everything i just saId. Everything is fine. I'm perfectly happy. And, if I get too bored, I can always pull up a stool and watch my underwear spinning in the washer. And, actually, that's more entertaining than a lot of today's TV programming. But maybe I'm biased.

The Great Ukrop's Beer Scare of 2008

2008-03-11T18:57:00.002-05:00

Wow! What about that beer scare at Ukrop's? "Fortunately," says a Ukrop's spokesman, "it turned out to be nothing more serious than a bomb." The spokesman, Harv Pinkle, went on to say,"Considering the type of world in which we live today, you never know. It could have been a six-pack."
Quickly Pinkle asked, "That is how theose heathen stores sell beer, isn't it? In six-packs?"
Pinkle and the entire Ukrop's team have every right to be alarmed. Beer is prevalent everywhere these days. You can buy it on the open market. And, so, I'm told, there are sights on the Internet that even give detailed instructions on making your own beer.
So, when someone from Ukrop's found an abandoned bag outside one of their West End groceries recently, he immediately suspected beer. Ukrop's called in their own beer squad, replete with beer-sniffing dogs, and within a couple hours, to the relief of all Ukrop's employees, the suspicious-looking bag was found to be just a bomb.
The Ukrop's family has toiled tirelessly through the years to ensure that lips that touch alcohol never touch them...or something like that. Smokes? No problem. The Ukrop's make a pretty hefty profit on cigarettes, but when it comes to beer and wine, it's nosiree bob.
Which leaves me scratching my head. Well, I'm not literally scratching my head, except on those occasions when it itches. But I do wonder where the Ukrop's got their abomination for alcohol. I know, I know, it's a religious thing.
From what I've been told, the Ukrop's have a doctored picture of the Last Supper. All of the wine has been painted over. And, or so I'm told, the picture shows Jesus lighting Peter's cigarette.
Now, I couldn't make this sort of stuff up, folks. Oh, wait, hold on. I guess I could make it up. But, even if I were, and I along with the governor of New York, am not admitting anything right now, but, even if I were making it up, you have to admit that,somehow, it seems rather hypocritical to refuse to sell wine, the drink of prophets, and sell cigarettes, the carcinogen of profits.
If you want to shun all alcohol, I say more power to you. There's nothing in the Bible that condemns the moderate use of alcohol, but there's nothing in there that says you have to drink either.
But, how, with all the statistics, and with the horrendous odor, and with those ugly yellow teeth, so prevalent in the mouths of many Ukrop's employees and shoppers,how do you condemn alcohol and promote tobacco?
But, I shan't worry my pretty little head over it. I'll keep shopping at Ukrop's because, truth be told, they are nice to deal with. And, if I ever want a drink, I'll go to Food Lion, which, truth be told, by the time I leave a Food Lion, I need a drink.

Help Me Make It Through The Write

2008-02-08T14:31:00.000-05:00

A letter poured in the other day from little Jimmy Melmer in Mechanicsville. Jimmy writes:

Steve, you have to be in your mid-thirties by now. And yet, your writing is better than ever. How do you do it?

Just to interrupt for a moment, at this point in the letter I was beaming with pride. But, Jimmy continued…

Are you using any performance enhancing substances?

Now my first reaction was to deny it. But, taking a page from the Roger Clemens playbook, I have decided to come clean. I guess I owe my gratitude to little Jimmy in Mechanicsville. I have been using performance enhancing substances, and, I think I’ll feel much better after I confess it all to you. The way I look at it, it's either you or Congress. And I'll pick you. So, here goes:

First, I’m using coffee. This caffeine thing is absolutely mind boggling. Sometimes I come in to work and I’m mad at the world. Nothing seems right. Then I have a cup of coffee and all of a sudden it’s a new day. The sun is shining, and I’m positively radiant.
You may have wondered what gives me that bright Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm attitude. It’s coffee.
But, I haven’t limited myself to coffee. There are other little “tricks” that I use to enhance my performance. There is one substance, which, interestingly is available over the counter at Walgreens. It’s powerful, so if you choose to use, I’d advise you to proceed with caution. I’ll admit, my years of using this substance have played havoc with my health and well-being, but emotionally and mentally, it has made me the man I am today.
Yes, I feel a little awkward going public with all this, but little Jimmy Melmer, and his child-like innocence, has helped me find, deep within my personal recesses, the strength to admit my substance abuse.
Anyway, I have, for several years, been addicted to a little treat that I discovered several years ago. Harmful? Yes, I suppose. Mind-altering? Definitely! I hope you won’t think less of me when you hear my full confession, but here goes.
I’m hooked on Peeps. I don’t care whether they’re heart-shaped and pink, or little yellow bunny rabbits. Give me a Peep and I’ll ingest it. I had gotten up to three packs a day, but because I was destroying my health, I have slowed down.
I would like to think that often I’ve done my best work while under the influence of Peeps. I know that, like caffeine, when I’m down and out,
When I’m on the street,
When evening falls so hard
Peeps will comfort me.
When darkness comes
And pain is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
Peeps will lay me down.

You see? Do you see how Peeps inspire me? As I say, I do my best work with a Peep in me.

So, there you have it. Yes, little Jimmy Melmer, you nosy little brat, you got it out of me. Are you happy? Here, let me have a sip of coffee. Good. I hope you’re happy, li’l fellow, because I sure am. Thanks for your kind letter. Now, let me get back to the ol’ typewriter.

Gwinnett County, Georgia - The Land of the Free and the Home of the Braves

2008-01-16T20:31:00.000-05:00

Do you remember where you were and what you were doing when you learned the R-Braves were leaving R? I remember it as if it were yesterday. I was in my car. I think I was on the cell phone at the time. I've only recently begun using the cell phone while driving. But since I heard that drivers who use cell phones drive more slowly than drivers who don't, and they also don't change lanes as often, it seems like using the cell phone while driving is the safe thing to do.
Anyway, I digress. So the Braves are leaving town. Wow! I feel like I've been blindsided. No, wait! It was Richmond city officials who were blindsided. They didn't see this coming. Huh? My Uncle Earl could have seen this coming and he's been dead for 25 years.
I'll tell you who I feel the most sorry for. Charlie Diradour. He's a Richmond real estate investor, who was quoted in the Richmond Times Dispatch as saying, "What do I tell my 6-year-old who says, 'I want to go to a baseball game.'? I have to say, 'Honey, there are no baseball games.'"
Oh the humanity! I can't imagine any parent having to endure something like that. I'm glad my daughter is grown.
But, anyway, the Braves are leaving town. There are some positives to that, you know. For one thing, now that Mayor Governor Wilder doesn't have to worry his pretty little head about such things as building new ball parks, the entire city government along with the entire Braves organization can get back to the real National Pastime...pointing fingers.
I don't really blame Mayor Governor Wilder. He can't go around building ball parks for every minor league franchise that's been playing ball in the city for over four decades. Who do the Braves think he is...Daddy Warbucks?
And, I also have to say that Bruce Baldwin, GM for the local team, can be one of the most abrasive, arrogant individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. That's one of the good things about the Braves leaving...saying, "Bye-bye Bruce."
But, there are some negatives to this whole thing, even from the perspective of someone as positive as myself. I remember 1965. That was the last year with no baseball in the city. I was just a kid at the time and a huge baseball fan. The Yankees had their Triple-A farm team, the Virginians, who called Parker Field, "home." But after the 1964 season, the Yanks yanked the Virginians and moved them to Toledo. Shortly after that, the Milwaukee Braves announced that they were moving to Atlanta and that their farm team, the Atlanta Crackers would be relocated here. In 1966, the Atlanta Crackers became the Richmond Braves. But, 1965 was a very bad year for pimply-faced, fat teenage boys who didn't date, but who spent every Summer evening either at the ball park, or with their respective ears glued to the game on the radio.
So, I guess the real victims here are today's youngsters, pimply-faced and otherwise. I don't follow the Braves as faithfully as I did in 1966 and for many years thereafter, but I've always been glad they were a part of the city. I loved Parker Field, even when I did sit behind one of those poles that blocked my view. I love the Diamond, even when the concrete rains upon my head. But, most of all, I love baseball. There's something very special about sitting at the park with your friends and family, drinking a big orange soda, eating a five dollar hot dog, and whooping it up for the home team.
It's hard to imagine the Diamond going dark in 2009. The Mayor says we will have baseball. At least, I think that was the Mayor I heard on the soundbite on the radio. It sounded more like Weezie Jefferson, but Paul Bottoms assured us it was Mayor Wilder.
Maybe we will have baseball, but I think the chances are pretty good we won't. I'd be greatly surprised if we ever get Triple-A baseball back in the city. It really doesn't matter who is at fault here. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. What matters is that come 2009 a bunch of strangers in Gwinnett County, Georgia will be sitting in some fancy ball park rooting for our Richmond Braves. Somehow that just doesn't seem right.
Oh yeah, I guess there is one more good thing that comes from all this. We won't have to listen to a bunch of local whiners asking, "What's Charlotte got that we don't?" From now on, we'll listen to them whining, "What's Gwinnett County got that we don't?" And, of course, the answer to that is simple...The Richmond Braves.

Now That's Using the Old Noodle

2008-01-08T21:05:00.001-05:00

You know, I'm really, really irritated. That's not an emotion I'm used to. Typically, I'm an easy-going, unruffled guy.
I tend to take life as it comes and not sweat the small stuff and all that other mumbo jumbo "let's take a positive view of life" philosophy. But, I'm irritated.
And I'll tell you why. It all has to do with Sesame Street. You've probably heard that the first couple of seasons of the popular kids TV show have been rated unacceptable for kids. Seems that Cookie Monster is too politically incorrect, as is Oscar the Grouch and a bunch of the other original characters.
Now, admittedly, that's asanine. But, that's not what irritates me. If these idiots who justify their jobs by making stupid rulings want to put an "Adults Only" rating on Sesame Street, who is it going to hurt? Not me. Not the producers of the show. In fact, the rating will probably make more people go out and buy the DVDs.
But, here's what gets me: If today's Sesame Street is so much more "acceptable," if it's so much more in-tune with people's feelings, if it's supposed to be a kinder, gentler Sesame Street, then why Mr. Noodle?
Have you seen Mr. Noodle? The original Noodle died of AIDS. And since I censor my own stuff, I won't comment on that. The new Noodle, actor/clown/mime, Bill Irwin is a good actor. But, as Mr. Noodle, he plays a mildly retarded guy. Really! I saw him trying to hold a violin. This brainiac couldn't tell the difference between his chin and his ear.
So, here's my question: Why is it politically correct, in the 21st century, to depict a retarded guy? Why is retarded okay when grouchy is taboo? I'll tell you why. It's because Mr. Noodle is an old white guy.
There, I said it. You see, in today's world, it's okay to make fun of old white guys. They deserve it. Old white guys have abused every non-old-white-guy group of people for centuries.
All of us old white guys used to own slaves, don't you know. At least, that seems to be the opinion of many. All of us old white guys belong to the Ku Klux Klan, mistreat women, abuse Hispanics, and, as a group, are responsible for global warming.
So, we deserve to be depicted as retarded. You couldn't show a young, black guy acting retardedly. Unless, of course, it was a movie produced, written, directed, and starring young black guys.
You couldn't show a retarded woman...no matter what color she happens to be. But when it comes to old white guys, piling on is allowed. And so, Sesame Street, when they want to do something that would probably be viewed as politically incorrect, just hauls out Mr. Noodle. Mr. Noodle can be as stupid as one would desire. He can prance around and point at his nose when asked where his chin is located. He can act downright foolishly. Because, of course, he's an old white guy.
I had considered the idea of starting an organization to be known as the NAAOWG. We were going to march and picket and demonstrate and protest and do all those cool things all the other groups do. Then it dawned on us that that would mean putting down the chips and dip, getting off the couch and going outside. Ouch. I guess Mr. Noodle isn't all that bad. He is kinda funny...even cute, if you will. So what if he can't identify the parts of his face. He's an old white guy. He doesn't have to. He can always hire a minority to do that for him.

The New Improved Organic Steve

2008-01-07T10:17:00.000-05:00

Well, let me begin by saying how great it is to be back. I've been away for the past month or so for some special schooling. The school is a division of Ohio State. It's called the Cincinnati Remedial Academic Program...better known as, well, that's not important. Anyway, I took part in an intensive 4-week course designed to help students better understand how to use the word, "Organic."
I have to admit, I'm still pretty confused, but not nearly as confused as I was a month ago when my wife brought home a special box of organic cereal she had bought at the health food store. Back then, in my unenlightened days, as I'm wont to call them, back then I have to admit I was a little upset that she spent $12.95 for a box of cereal.
Imagine my chagrin now. Now that I have a deeper appreciation for "organic," that is. Back in the old days, using my own limited understanding, the only thing "organic" meant to me is that it must have to do with one organ or another. Ha Ha. I laugh at myself...my old self, that is.
The new Steve is enlightened. I see things as a whole much more clearly. I guess you could say my thinking has become more organic. I now, seeing the whole picture, can understand why thirteen bucks for a box of cereal is a sweetheart of a deal. I can now enjoy that cereal much better knowing that before I ate it, it had been smothered in chicken manure. I think about that with every bite. I smack my lips and say, "thank you," to my wife. She's begun to call me "organic breath" as a term of endearment. So that school thing is a win-win all the way around.
And, I'm only beginning to reap the rewards of my education. Actually, you are just beginning to reap the rewards of my education. In the months to come, I think you'll be seeing me use the word, "organic" much more frequently. For instance, when reading a column I've written about architecture, I'll sneak the word in. "Huh?" you're probably saying right now. I don't blame you. But, let me make you feel better by telling you that your confusion only stems from the fact that you're still very ignorant. There, do you feel better now?
You see, organic can also mean (and I'm quoting here, from my textbook, which came free with the three thousand dollar course), noting or pertaining to any work of architecture regarded as analogous to plant or animal forms in having a structure and a plan that fulfill perfectly the functional requirements for the building and that form in themselves an intellectually lucid, integrated whole.
It's so clear now. How could I have been so unenlightened? I feel like a real boob. And, by that, I mean a stupid or foolish person, a dolt.
I could continue to regale you with ways in which my "organic" education will benefit you in weeks to come. For instance, in one of my upcoming columns on fine art, a subject I thought I was already somewhat of an expert on, I'll be using "organic." When I do so, of course, I'll mean, something pertaining to the shapes or forms in a work of art that are of irregular contour and seem to resemble or suggest forms found in nature. From now on, thanks to my education, if I see a big blob of paint on a canvas, I'll know it's organic. Because it almost has to resemble something in nature, if nothing more than a cloud. Because, you see, clouds are a part of nature. I want to make sure you understand that, because it took me about three days to really let that fact sink in. I'd have to say some in the class picked up on that much more rapidly.
For some reason, the only thing I could think of in nature was a monkey. I kept telling the professor, "but that doesn't look like a monkey," and he kept looking at me as if I were some sort of dolt, that is a dull stupid person, a blockhead, a boob, as it were.
Anyway, I come back to you a much wiser man than I was a month ago. I'm so wise now that I'll think nothing of spending twenty bucks on a box of organic cereal. In fact, I picked up a box this morning. It's delicious and, according to the box, it's lightly sweetened with pure chicken manure.

Let us Prey

2007-12-26T19:19:00.000-05:00

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)

2007-12-17T23:16:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-12-13T12:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-12T21:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-12-06T13:42:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-29T05:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-28T12:21:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-21T09:02:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-15T15:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-12T07:49:00.000-05:00

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

2007-11-09T12:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-29T20:10:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-29T11:59:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-26T08:34:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-23T06:21:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-18T22:17:00.001-05:00

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?

2007-10-17T07:42:00.001-05:00

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...

2007-10-15T12:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-11T11:51:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-10T12:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-10-05T07:57:00.001-05:00

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

2007-10-03T07:23:00.001-05:00

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

2007-09-27T11:43:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-26T20:05:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-21T07:17:00.000-05:00

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

2007-09-19T09:20:00.000-05:00

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?

Head Line News

2007-09-18T11:08:00.000-05:00

The next time I complain about the quality of medical care in this country, and I’m sure I will, if for no other reason than that I love to complain, please remind me that, at least, I’m not in Venezuela. I just read an interesting news story that makes me just a wee bit doubtful of the medical care one might receive there.
The story concerns 33-year-old Carlos Camejo. Seems Camejo was pronounced dead following an auto accident and his body was taken to the morgue for an autopsy. The only problem is was that his body wasn’t exactly dead.
The story goes that when the medical examiner cut into Camejo’s face, he began to bleed. The examiner, according to the news report, immediately knew something was amiss. I wonder how many years of training it took so that he could immediately recognize a warning sign when the corpse begins to bleed. Anyway, apparently, the medical examiner continued to do the autopsy. I mean one bleeding face does not a live person make, does it?
The examiner didn’t actually stop cutting until the corpse began to complain about the excruciating pain in his face. A scalpel can do that. It was reassuring to read that as soon as Camejo began to complain, the medical examiner stitched him up. And, it appears that Camejo is still living, which is rather surprising, considering he’s still in Venezuela.
I wonder what the criteria is down there for being declared dead. Evidently, you can still be breathing, because Camejo had to do some breathing to stay alive. At least that’s my non-medically trained opinion. I wonder if the doctor who declared him dead ever thought to check for a heartbeat, because, I’m guessing the guy’s heart was still beating as well.
But you know the most important thing about this story is the moral. Yes, there’s something to be learned here. And that is that sometimes there are worse things than waking up with an excruciating pain in your face.
In a semi-related story from England (related in the sense that sometimes things turn out much better than it would appear on the surface), a young boy underwent brain surgery to remove fluid caused by a rare strain of meningitis. The doctors held out little hope for the boy’s survival. However he did survive, but lost his ability to read and write. Anyway, after several weeks recovering in the hospital, here’s the amazing thing: The boy, whose mother is a music teacher, is reportedly playing the piano and trumpet much better than he had previously.
Some people have all the luck. I know that if I’d been killed in an auto accident, I’d have never awakened in the morgue. And, as far as improving my musical abilities, forget it. I had hernia surgery several years ago and I still can’t play a musical instrument. Heck, I can’t even read music. What kind of doctors must I have had…Venezuelans?
But, here’s something even more amazing about this kid in Britain. Before the surgery, he had a thick Yorkshire accent, now, the story says, “He speaks like the queen.” Hmm, he plays the piano and speaks like the Queen. I wonder if boy has become Elton John. Just a thought.
Anyway, the boy’s parents say that when he began speaking several weeks after the surgery, “He sounded really posh.” I’d like to sound posh. Even if I never played the piano, it would be cool to sound posh. I wonder if I started poking around in my head if I could lose my southern accent. I’m going to go find a scalpel. I’ll let you know what happens.

Now You'll Know the Rest of the Story

2007-09-18T02:16:00.000-05:00

Call me naive if you will, but this thing with O.J. Simpson has really blown me away. Just when I thought this young man had begun to pick up the pieces and get on with his life, here he is in trouble with the law again. This poor guy might well be the unluckiest human on earth.
First he's framed for his wife's murder. I still remember that that glove didn't fit. When I saw that powerful demonstration, that poor guy struggling to slip a glove on his allegedly blood-stained hand, it wrapped the case up for me. And now he simply goes to retrieve his rightful belongings and wham - out of the blue - he gets arrested.
So what if he brought along some heat, as we say on the streets. Sometimes the man needs a little back up (picture my fist raised in the air at this point).
Anyway, O.J. is back in the big house, although technically, I guess at this point he's in the little house in back of the big house, since he hasn't been sentenced.
I guess I really shouldn't be all that worried. His lawyer has publicly said he's innocent and, well, I guess that pretty much settles that. But still, justice can be so blind sometimes and, often color blind as well, if you get my drift.
I do have a theory I'd like to run by you, and before you quickly dismiss this as the ramblings of an amateur, let me remind you that I have sat through 80% of several Law and Order marathons on the USA Network. Now that I have your attention, here goes:
You know they said there's an unidentified fourth suspect (or maybe fifth, I'm not keeping score here)? Well, do you suppose that this unidentified guy could possibly be Fred Goldman? Now, play along with me here. Fred stands a lot to gain over this whole deal. It seems a little too convenient that the very day Fred's new book, written by O.J. comes out, O.J. goes and pulls a stunt like this.
I mean, let's think about it. O.J. Simpson was a great athlete, but he's no rocket scientist. He not even a Fred Goldman. I've seen Fred on TV. He's smart. He's clever. Even if he wasn't in the hotel room with O.J., I'm pretty willing to bet he put the bug in O.J.'s ear to go get his stuff.
Sales of O.J.'s make-believe confession are through the roof and every penny goes to the Goldmans. So who really stands the most to gain by putting O.J. back on TV? O.J.? I don't think so. Even if he'd pulled the heist off, all he would have gotten were things he owned in the first place.
But now that Fox TV has predictably fallen in love with this new O.J. story, it's like a 24 hour infomercial for the book...Fred's book, if you will. While I'm on this subject, let me just say that it's a good thing another terrorist attack didn't occur this weekend, because if you're tuned into Fox News, you'd have never known about it. Greta is so stunned over O.J.'s arrest, she even came in to work Sunday night. That's how big this whole thing is on an international level.
But back to the subject at hand...when will this evil man be stopped? Fred Goldman, I mean. Hasn't he done enough damage to the Simpson family. He wasn't satisfied that a jury of 12 intelligent, impartial men and women found O.J. not guilty. No. He had to run out and buy a civil judgement against Simpson.
Now, he's using this poor murderer as a pawn in his evil scheme aimed solely at self aggrandizement. If you ask me, it's Fred Goldman who should be behind bars.
Oh yeah, that's right. You didn't ask me, did you? Okay, well, let me wrap things up. This is just an opinion. Maybe you agree. Then again, there's a slight chance you disagree with me. And, when you think about it...isn't that what makes this country so great...this, and the fact that we have a 24-hour-a-day network devoted exclusively to O.J. Simpson.

An Open Letter of Apology to All Miss Virginia Contestants (sort of)

2007-09-14T12:53:00.000-05:00

Well, I did it again. I knew it was going to happen. And, probably, truth be told, I wanted to irritate someone. So, pat yourself on the back, Steve. You did. All I really did was innocently write a column about the Miss Virginia pageant in our September/October issues of West End's Best and Chesterfield Living Magazines. And, you know me, I'm one of the nicest guys around. I just sort of expressed my dismay at the horrible quality of the pageant's annual television show. That shouldn't make anyone mad, should it?
The reason I say I knew it was going to happen, is that this is the second time I've written such a column. I had seen a previous telecast, about two years ago. It was so bad, I just had to express my opinion. But that was two years ago. I didn't catch last year's blockbuster presentation. So when I stumbled across the show a few months back, I decided to watch. You know what? It was worse than the one I'd seen before. It may have been the worse one I'd ever seen. But, read my colulmn to learn more.
The original piece I had done, back in 05, had resulted in an irate phone call from some woman connected with the pageant. I politely listened and even offered to do a rebuttal article in which the caller could point out how wrong I was. That offer was never accepted.
Today, i get a phone call from one of the local directors of the pageant. She has seen my most recent article, and she was even unhappier than the first gal who had called.
"Hey," I said, "it's just a humor column. Don't take it so seriously."
"That was a humor column?" she asked."
"Well, it was supposed to be," I said.
"I work for Style Weekly," she said, "and I know humor columns. That wasn't one."
Okay, we're even. I hate the pageant and she hates me. I can live with that.
I was going to offer this lady the opportunity to respond to my "humor," but she was so humorless that I decided to just humor her (get the pun? now that's funny) and listen, which I did. I was determined to just keep my mouth shut, which I didn't.
She got on my nerves blabbing on and on about how wonderful these contestants are. "These are the sorts of girls you'd want your son to marry," she raved.
"I wouldn't go that far," I responded. And I meant it. If I had a son, I wouldn't want him marrying anyone vain enough to get involved in a "beauty" contest. I'd rather he married an Amway saleswoman. Well, maybe not. But, really, would you like a beauty contestant sitting at your dinner table? I can see myself going beserk as I ate my fried chicken and mashed potatoes, finally shrieking, "Shut up and sit down. I hate opera, and I don't care what you would do if you were elected President. "
Anyway, back to my phone conversation. I finally had enough of this pompous director. She told me how I'd done so much damage. "We depend on corporate donations," she wailed. "No one will want to donate after they read your column."
I wish I had that much power. After listening to her drone on and on, I finally said, "How can you complain about my criticizing the Miss Virginia pageant when Style Weekly has destroyed the businesses of local restaurant owners with their unfair criticism?" Now, to be honest, I don't know of any case where Style Weekly has done that. But I do think their food critic is an obnoxious bore.
"Let me tell you about our restaurant reviews," Miss Highhorse says. (Goody, I've touched a nerve) "When we go to a restaurant and have a bad experience, we go three times to make sure they're really bad before we write a negative review."
"Well thanks," I tell her. "You've made me feel better. I've watched more than three Miss Virginia telecasts and they're all bad. So, I guess based on Style's procedures, I was alright with what I wrote."
Funny stuff! I'm zinging one after another and the lady doesn't laugh at a one. She just keeps on telling me how marvelous these gals are.
"They do look good in swimsuits," I say, thinking maybe she'll look at me with a new-found admiration.
"Good-bye," she says.
So, bottom line. If any of you were planning on making a sizeable donation to the Miss Virginia pageant, don't let me stop you. But, if you have any funds left over, how much would you give me if I came over and sang an aria or two?"

I'd Tell You How I Did It, If I'd Done It, But I Haven't Done It. Really.

2007-09-12T10:03:00.001-05:00

I have figured out a great way to make a pile of money, but I don't know how to go about actually doing it. I've been reading about Ron Goldman's family getting the rights to O.J. Simpson's book. Seems they stand to make quite a killing (no pun intended) on this deal. Now, part of me thinks it's pretty horrible to make money from a book that describes how your son was murdered and how the murderer got away with it. But, maybe I'm just too old fashioned.
After all, money is money. Right? I mean O.J.'s money is just as green as anyone else's. Right? I mean, except for the bloodstains, it's just money. Right?
So, I'm thinking that maybe I could write a book about how I killed someone or did something equally horrendous. The only problem is, I'm scared to death of getting in trouble with the police. I've been racking my brain to see if I can come up with something terrible that I've done that people would pay good money to read about. I remember, years ago, I was on a long trip, and I had to go to the bathroom, see, but I just kept driving and driving and couldn't find a rest stop, or even a McDonald's, so finally, I just pulled over and, well, you can kinda figure out what I did.
I guess that's another problem. If I'm too embarrassed to even talk about the time I, well, you know what I did, beside my car (out of view of anyone else, of course), then how could I go into any detail about killing someone. And, of course, there's that small business about actually having to kill someone first, so I could then write about how I did it.
I did go in this restaurant once and no one was in the front of the restaurant. It was just a little mom and pop grill. But, anyway, no one was out front and the cash register drawer was open and I thought to myself, "Hey, I could reach over and grab a dollar and no one would ever know." But, of course, I didn't do that. Although I could have. But, that experience probably wouldn't make a good tell-all either, especially since the only thing I could tell would be what I momentarily thought about doing.
I guess I could take a lesson from O.J. on this thing though. He didn't really say he killed anyone, he just said that if he was going to kill them, this is how he would have done it. And people are buying his book, aren't they? So, I could talk about how I could have reached over and grabbed a dollar and run from the restaurant like a scared rabbit.
Somehow, I just don't think that makes for good reading. Gee, I wish I could think of something to reveal that would really have 'em standing in the aisles to buy my book.
Once, when I was about six years old, my mother told me to drink my milk before I left the breakfast table. She then went upstairs leaving me to cry over unspilt milk. I hated milk, I might add. Anyway, I sat there about five minutes and stared at the glass of milk. Then I noticed the kitchen sink just sitting there. Here was my escape. I quickly picked up the glass and poured the milk down the drain and then rinsed the sink out real good, getting rid of all evidence. I was pretty smart, considering that this was well before they had such shows as CSI on TV.
When I went upstairs, my mother asked me if I had finished my milk. "Yes Mam," I lied. Although, truth be told, I had finished it. Anyway, later that day, in school, I got to thinking about what I'd done. I was going to this little Brethern Church back in those days. They were really big advocates for hell, and I think I thought I might be heading straight there for telling my mother I'd finished my milk. So, as soon as I got home, I confessed my sin. My mother didn't seem all that upset, so I'm not sure the story would make a good book, but I could elaborate a little.
Now that I'm thinking out loud on this, I think I've come up with a better idea. Maybe I could write about something someone else did. Do you have any old skeletons in your closet which you wouldn't mind revealing? I could write about how you did it. That would shift the spotlight off of me, and yet, I'd still get rich. And, being the generous guy I am, I'd even cut you in for a percentage. It would have to be small, though, because I really want to get rich myself on this.
Anyway, if you have some really good juicy story, let me know about it. I'd love to make money off of you. Unless you minded, of course.

Marketing One Oh Dumb

2007-09-11T08:12:00.000-05:00

I may be going out on somewhat of a limb here, but, in my honest opinion, all marketing people are idiots. Now, admittedly, I know that there is a real possibility that I'm just too old to dig the latest marketing jargon, but I saw a sign in a cell phone store at the mall the other day that left me scratching my head. The huge sign had a picture of a cell phone and beside the picture was this caption: "Hot enough to melt chocolate."
That baffles me on so many different levels. First of all, are there people out there looking for a cell phone to melt chocolate? And, if so, how does the cell phone do that? Do you place the phone on top of the chocolate, or do you flip open the phone and put the chocolate on the screen area? And, once the chocolate is melted, can you still use the phone for other things, such as making phone calls?
I didn't know there was such a need to melt chocolate in the first place, but whenever I do have such a need, I've always found an oven does a great job. Of course, unless we're talking M&Ms, just holding the chocolate tightly in your fist will often cause a meltdown. I got to thinking that maybe there are a bunch of folks who want to melt chocolate while in the car, but really, placing said chocolate on a hot radiator would probably melt it a lost faster than even the hottest cell phone would.
You can see my dilemma. I'm also wondering if the phone gets that hot, wouldn't that cause a degree of discomfort if you were trying to hold the phone to your ear. True, sometimes when I'm talking to my wife, the great conversationalist, the phone gets a little warm. But, I don't think even she has the ability to melt chocolate, via the cell phone anyway.
Maybe "hot enough to melt chocolate" is some sort of double entendre, and my brain is too single-entendred to catch on. Hmmm, I wonder what sort of euphamism, "hot enough to melt chocolate," is. So, back to my original point...the point about marketing people being idiots. Who could have come up with that slogan? Did a bunch of advertising execs, sitting around a big conference table, think that such a line was clever? Did they say, "Hey, we're selling cell phones here. A line about the phone melting chocolate is just what we need to put this campaign over the top."?
Probably so...because they're idiots. Really, when you think about it, only an idiot could think that was clever.
And, it's not just the big marketing campaigns that bring out the morons of marketing. I was in Walgreen's the other day and they had a printed sign (in other words, they didn't just get the 18-year-old stock clerk to scribble something down), which read: "Candy bars - $1.00 each or 3 candy bars for $3.00!"
Wow. Who could pass up a deal like that? Wouldn't it seem to you that even if no one caught the idiocy of that sign when they were laying it out or printing it, that someone would have somewhere along the lines have thought, hey, we're going to look like idiots if we put up a sign this stupid.
I'll tell you why no one ever suspected they would look like idiots. It's a very simple answer. Because they are idiots. Idiots don't recognize they're idiots. In fact, most idiots I know, and I know a bunch, think they're intelligent. In fact, most think they're very intelligent...geniuses even.
The sad thing about that is that when a true genius comes along...someone such as myself...the idiots don't even recognize it. And that's the pathetic story of my life.

TO ER IS HUMAN

2007-09-07T10:51:00.001-05:00

I spent the whole day, yesterday, in the emergency room at Henrico Doctor's. My daughter broke and dislocated several bones in her ankle. I'd have to say that the staff in the ER (I like to use these medical terms whenever I can) was very kind and professional. However the ER physician may be in the wrong line of work.
He's a great doctor, I'm sure. It's just that he tends to panic a bit. When he looked at my daughter's ankle, he shreiked, "What took you so long to get in here?" You know how on those Looney Tunes cartoons, the character's eyes spring out of his head? I've seen Daffy Duck do that a million times. Well, it was kinda like that when the doctor looked at my daughter's ankle.
I called my wife to let her know what was going on and as I was telling her that my daughter had broken a bone, the doctor comes rushing back into her room (this time doing a great Road Runner impersonation). He hears me and shouts, "No! It's worse than that." It's that sort of reaction from your doctor that helps to keep you calm in stressful times.
The doctor informs us that he's going to put my daughter to sleep. I start to panic. I had a dog when I was a kid and my parents had to put him to sleep. I didn't think my daughter's broken ankle warranted her being put down. But, he went on to explain that they were going to knock her out while he pushed and shoved and twisted her ankle to get it back in place. Which is what he did, except for two things. He forgot to knock her out and he failed to get it back into place.
When the nurse called us back into the room, the doctor calmly informed me of the results, "I was unbelieveably unsuccessful," he wailed." There I was standing in the examining room with my daughter crying because her bones had just been twisted and manipulated without anesthesia, and the doctor crying because of his unparalleled failure. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I started crying with them.
Later, an orthopedic specialist was brought in to do the manipulating and all went well. The only problem is that by the time my daughter got to the operating room, the anesthesiologist had to come in and tell her that, while it was unlikely, she could die during the procedure. She was then asked to sign a form that basically the hospital can use if a patient dies. It kind of says, "Hey, they told me I could be dead, and look, I am."
Speaking of dying...how about that BB gun thief in Richmond's Southside. The guy goes into a Baskin-Robbins and tries to hold them up using a BB gun. Now, that's stupid. If I was going to use a gun in a holdup attempt, I'd get something that could do the job. This guy didn't and now he's dead. The owner of the store asks the guy, "One bullet or two?" and then shot him in the head.
Now, here's the amazing part: The shootee...the thief, ran two blocks before he keeled over and eventuallly died. I can't run two blocks with zero bullets in me. The guy must have been in pretty good shape, especially for a dead man. I wonder if they have any sort of special olympics for people who have been mortally wounded.
Speaking of criminals, while my daughter was in the ER yesterday, they bring a guy into the next room and he's wearing handcuffs. He's being escorted by a police officer, and he's telling the police officer what great shape he's in. "I played soccer for nine years," he tells the officer. "I could have outrun you if I had wanted to."
Now this guy, we come to learn from eavesdropping, has hepatitis and a bad liver, and he's bragging about what great shape he's in. I don't know what he was in the emergency room for, but evidently, even with the hepatits, he's also in better shape than I am.
I just realized I don't have any clever ending to this. I hate to start a story I can't finish. But, I guess I can live with that. One thing for sure...I can't run, but I can ramble.

BACK AND BIGGER AND BETTER THAN EVER

2007-08-31T07:19:00.001-05:00

Gee, this is like getting back on a bicycle for the first time in years. It's been so long since I've done one of these blogs, I may have forgotten how. Of course, many of you may be thinking that I never really did know how to do it. And, of course, if that's true, then it just makes my job even easier. It's kind of like being a school guidance counselor...no known skills are required.
I would try to make some elaborate excuse for not having written in months, but I'll just come right out and tell you the truth. My iron lung was in the shop. Anyway, I'm back and raring to go.
There are so many opinions I've been wanting to share, I don't know where to begin. I could talk about why the word "chipotle" is pronounced like it is. I don't like asking for "chee pote lee." I think it should be called "chi pottle," but maybe we'll discuss that further another day.
I also have an opinion on families benefiting monetarily from the loss of loved ones. I'm not talking about when the breadwinner dies, but if your child dies, such as in the Virginia Tech tragedy, why should there be a payoff...beyond any insurance the family had? I am really ticked by the Goldman family crawling in bed with O.J. Simpson on that "I Did It" book. But, I'll save that one for another day too.
I think the burning issue of the day right now is that Idaho Senator, Larry Craig, who was caught, allegedly, in a Minneapolis airport men's room playing footsie with an undercover cop. That whole story is rather ridiculous. It has helped me though in sorting some things out in my head. Suppose, I keep wondering, I was in his foot-under-the-stall shoes and I was innocent. What would I do? More importantly, what shouldn't I do? That's helped me come up with my top ten things NOT TO DO if you're really not gay but folks think you are.

10. Don't stand around in a men's room staring at an occupied stall
9. Don't ever touch your next-stall-neighbor's foot with your foot.
8. In fact, don't let any part of your body touch anybody else's body when you're in a men's room.
7. Don't stick your hand into your neighbor's stall - not even to wave a simple, "Hello."
6. Don't pick up a piece of toilet paper lying on the stall floor. This is good advice whether gayness is an issue or not. In
fact, don't pick up anything on a restroom stall floor. I dropped a cell phone in a men's room once. I really miss that cell
phone, too.
5. Don't go on TV and say, "I am not gay and I never have been."
4. Don't sing show tunes, especially while you're in the men's room at an airport.
3. If the police frisk you, don't giggle.
2. Don't go by the name of "Larry."
And, the number one thing not to do if you're not gay and people think you are.....Don't do anything gay.

As you can see, even though it's been months, I have not lost my public spiritedness. I hope you will find the above tips helpful and if it keeps any of you out of jail, a simple thanks is all I ask.

I BET YOU CAN'T WORK JERRY FALWELL AND AL SHARPTON INTO THE SAME BLOG. CAN TOO. BET YOU CAN'T.

2007-05-23T09:47:00.001-05:00

Did you hear Jerry Falwell died? I’m still reeling. There are some people, I guess, that you just kind of think will always be there, and then, voila, they’re not.
Anyway, Jerry’s gone. Well, according to all the talk coming out of Lynchburg, he’s not really gone, he’s just away. Or, did he only go beyond the curtain? I’m not quite sure.
I heard an interesting quote from this gal who arrived at the site of his funeral ten hours early to make sure she got a good seat. Makes sense, when you think about it. So, think about it. When you go to a funeral, you really don’t want the cheap seats. Of course, you don’t want the most expensive seat in the house either, if you get my drift.
Anyway, this lady made a fascinating experience about having had the opportunity to attend Jerry Falwell’s funeral. Here’s what she said, and I promise, I’m not making this up. I don’t believe I could.
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.” Really, she said that. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. You know, she’s right. I have a feeling Jerry won’t be dying again…not anytime soon, anyway. It’s nice the pastor could accommodate this woman.
She went on to talk about her experiences growing up…how her mamma just loved Jerry so much, and how her family would sit around the radio and listen to the honey just drip out of his mouth. She didn’t exactly say that, but that’s the gist, or at least as I understood it. She spoke with such a thick accent that I couldn’t understand everything she said. It just made me realized how much we need to protect our borders. West Virginians are slipping into the state every day and we HAVE to do something about that.
But, back to Jerry Falwell. Did you hear about the 19-year-old Liberty University student who was arrested yesterday? Evidently this kid somehow missed out on the “Vengeance is Mine” lecture. He had put together some bombs because he was worried about the possibility of protesters at the funeral. Nothing says “let the man be buried in peace,” quite like a homemade bomb.
Speaking of bombs, I’m really getting sick and tired of those Hannity and Combes type of TV talk shows. Is this representative of thoughtful debate for the 2000s? The typical “debate” goes something like this:
HANNITY: We have Al Sharpton and the producer of Don Imus’ radio program, Bernard McGuirk, here to discuss the recent firing of Imus for inappropriate comments. Bernard, we’ll let you go first.
MCGUIRK: Reverend Sharpton is an idiot.
SHARPTON: Oh yeah? You’re the idiot.
MCGUIRK: Am not!
SHARPTON: Are too!
MCGUIRK: You’re momma!
SHARPTON: You see, there you go hurling racial slurs. You’re momma!
MCGUIRK: You’re a liar.
SHARPTON: No. You’re the liar.
MCGUIRK: Am not.
SHARPTON: Are too.
MCGUIRK: Stop talking about yourself.
SHARPTON: Me? You’re talking about yourself…calling yourself a liar.
MCGUIRK: You’re an idiot.
SHARPTON: You already called me an idiot.
MCGUIRK: Did not.
SHARPTON: Did too.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a double idiot.
SHARPTON: I’m rubber. You’re glue. What you say bounces off me and sticks to you.
MCGUIRK: Does not.
SHARPTON: Does too.
MCGUIRK: You’re dumb.
SHARPTON: Well, you’re bald.
MCGUIRK: Well, you’re a nap….
HANNITY: Ooops, time’s up. We thank both of you for being courageous enough to come on the program and debate this weighty issue.

Speaking of weighty, did you see Nancy Grace on Law and Order SVU last night? Hasn’t she blimped up? Star Jones was on as well. She looks like she’s lost some weight, but I’m pretty sure Nancy Grace has found every pound that Jones has lost.
Anyway, I’m going to wrap this up. My mother always said if you can’t say something nice about someone, say something bad, and I hope I’ve lived up to that today.

Did I Ever Tell You How Much I Really Care About You?

2007-05-07T14:02:00.000-05:00

This may well be my last column. My days of hacking away at these pathetic excuses for blogs are done. I am about to embark on a bold, new, dynamic career move. It's a heady move, but, I like to think I'm somewhat of a heady guy. Before you start patting me on the back and offering your congratulations, at least let me tell you what I'm going to do.
Are you ready? I'm guessing some of you are thinking male model. Not quite. I'm going to become a life coach. And why not? I've read about these life coaches. It's a pretty cushy job. The money is good, the hours are short, and there's no heavy lifting. You go around telling people how pathetic they are and giving them some ideas to become less pathetic. The beauty of this is that the people who hire you are pretty much accustomed to failure. They've never made the right decision in their lives, so if (when) I don't work out, hey, it's what they expected all along. That means I'll never disappoint them. And to make things even better, if I don't help them, they're pretty much conditioned to blame themselves anyway.
Now all I have to do is find out how to get in front of these folks and let them know I'm open for business. I'm thinking about advertising on the back of match book covers. I always was a sucker myself for match book cover ads. I used to submit pictures of Blinky almost every week. The fact that I never got admitted to the Acme Artist's School is not the point. What is the point is that matchbook advertising works. In fact, as a life coach, I going to recommend that all of my clients spend some major dollars on matchbook covers.
Of course, I have lots of advice to give. I think my ability to give advice, often times on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing, is one of my stronger points. A good life coach has to act like he/she knows what he/she is talking about, even when he/she knows nothing.
Another thing working in my favor...an ability that has been pointing me towards a career in life coaching for many years, is my ability to come up with cliches at the drop of a hat. Hey, that's a cliche right there. I think you get my drift...you see where the compass is pointing, as it were. Really, a life coach is nothing if he doesn't have his cliches, and I have a satchel full.
I'm not exactly sure what a life coach does beyond that. He probably has some sort of spreadsheet to show people to prove how smart he is. And maybe some pictures of him standing with past clients, hugging them as if to say, "I'm so proud that I helped you." He also probably knows a lot about IRAs and annuities and roll-overs. I'm hoping that's not the case, because I don't know a thing about those subjects. In fact, truth be told, I find all that stuff rather boring.
But, as for the rest of the day to day duties...the meat and potatoes of the operation, so to speak, I'm pretty much going to have to improvise and learn as I go along. I rather imagine that my first few clients will bear a lot of the brunt of my inabilities. But, a man has to learn somewhere, doesn't he?
And even those first clients are going to be made to feel as if their success is the most important thing in my life. And therein lies my greatest strength...my ability to make people think I care. It's not that I don't care. It's just that I could never care as much as they might think I should considering how much of their money I'm going to be earning.
Well, I gotta run. I want to make up some ads to put on the match books. If you're in need for a good life coach, I'd appreciate you giving me a call. I think I could really help you...if for no other reason than that I care about you so very much. Look at me. You can tell I care...can't you? Alright. Why not give me a call today and tomorrow can be the first day of the rest of your life.

You Don't Like Me. You Really Don't Like Me!

2007-05-04T07:15:00.000-05:00

Well, the Queen came to town and I didn't get to see her. But, and here's the exciting part, I was driving on I-64 at the same time she was riding on I-64. That'll be something to tell the grandkids about one day. Hey, actually I'm at that point in life where I can tell the grandkid.
True, he's only 11 months, but he is the smartest kid you'd ever want to meet. And cute! He so reminds me of myself at that age. Except, to be honest, I never had the sparkling disposition this kid has.
The fact is I have always had a somewhat rotten disposition. My grandfather used to ask my mother, every time he'd catch a glimpse of my sour puss, "Is that kid ever happy?"
My mother's reply was that, "He's only happy when he has something to complain about." Fortunately, I'm still that way. So, as you can well imagine, I'm a happy guy.
That's the great thing about living in this rotten world...there's plenty of stuff about which to complain. I try and stir things up when I see a situation developing. I hate it when there's real potential for turmoil and it dies down before it really gets a head of steam up.
For instance, I was in my doctor's office a few weeks ago for a follow up visit. When I had been there the week previously, I was asked to hand over my insurance card so the receptionist could make a photocopy of it. I started to ask her then why I had to show my card since they had copied it a few months before that. But, I felt too sick to stir things up.
But, anyway, when I went in for the follow up visit, and the woman asked me for my insurance card, I politely asked her why I had to show it again inasmuch as I had given it to her less than a week previously.
I was nice about it. I was pleasant. I think those of you who know me know that I'm always pleasant.
So I was blindsided when this arrogant excuse for a receptionist pointed to the sign by the window and shouted, "Because that sign says you have to."
There's nothing that gets my blood boiling more than a stupid answer, so I (again politely) say, "That's a stupid answer." I then ask the girl, "If the sign said 'Stick Your Finger Up Your Nose' should I do that simply because there's a sign that tells me to?"
Now, I knew that asking that question would only escalate matters, but, hey, I have a column to write. Am I supposed to just sit around passively and wait for people to treat me like bird droppings? No! I have to force people to do that sometimes.
The rest of the story is not all that interesting. I'd like to tell you the girl was fired on the spot, but, alas, she wasn't.
I do have a knack for irritating others. I think it's what has helped me get to where I am today. I had to tell an archaeologist off recently. He had written an article for our magazine...worst writing I'd ever seen, to be honest.
But, because I hate to hurt someone, rather than tell him that he had the writing skills of a six-year-old, I simply did a little editing and sent it back to him. He called me up, screaming about how I had ruined his masterpiece. "Everyone tells me I'm an excellent writer," he screams. "I conduct tours and people say I write like I talk."
"Maybe that's your problem," I tell him.
"You're just a little man," he tells me.
"And, you're the worst writer I've ever encountered," I tell him.
All in all it was a pleasant conversation. We simply agreed to loathe each other.
I have somewhat mixed feelings about my encounter with him. I hate for it to be said that 100% of all archaeologists with whom I've ever had any interaction, hate me. But, on the other hand, how many of you out there can say you've had the pleasure of screaming at an archaeologist?
I can also say that I've had a bit of a run in with everyone who works for Queen Elizabeth. I had mentioned that I had requested press credentials to see the Queen. Some one from her office phoned me and told me that I was too late. I told them that if I couldn't see the Queen, then our magazine would do an article on Elton John. This person from the Queen's office didnt' find that amusing.
He did tell me I could go to the state capitol and watch her on a giant jumbo screen. Now that makes sense. In other words, I can go get in all that crowd just to watch the Queen on TV. My thinking is that I could kinda do the same thing at home.
The gist of his reply had to do with suggesting I do just that.
So, there you have it. I'm proud to say that a direct representative of Queen Elizabeth likes me as much as my doctor's receptionist, and, oh yes, this archaeologist fellow.

Wait Problems

2007-05-03T09:48:00.000-05:00

I got up early this morning and watched my DVR’d latest episode of 24. The show is pretty good, but Jack Bauer really does live in an alternate universe. In the real world, nothing happens that quickly. For instance, in the latest hour episode, Jack saves his ex-girlfriend, Audrey. Audrey is totally whacked out due to Chinese drug-induced brainwashing techniques. But, within five minutes, Jack has brought her back to reality, at least close enough to help the good guys.
So many things have happened in this one day of the current season’s shows. Jack has been shot or shot at on at least four or five occasions. His brother has been murdered by his father; he’s cut off innumerable fingers (not his, those of friends and enemies), and he still goes on. Wow! I’m impressed.
What I’d like to see Jack accomplish within a matter of hours, though, are such mundane things as getting his driving record straightened out at DMV. At least three hours of programming would have to be devoted to him sitting in his little kindergarten chair watching numbers flash on the screens, while DMV workers visit with one another, drink coffee, and occasionally scowl at the people who pay their salaries.
In Jack Bauer’s world, he can capture a Middle Eastern terrorist, a Russian spy, and an American traitor in less time than I can get my cell phone customer service rep to correct an error on my bill. And, in less time than it takes me to stop fuming over poor service from that rep, Jack has recovered from having spent the past year being tortured by those rascally Chinese.
Now, Jack Bauer could probably get better service at DMV than I because I’m willing to bet that if his number wasn’t called within the first three minutes, he’d be removing fingers from an insolent clerk. Of course, if he had to stop at Food Lion and pick up a makeshift finger remover (maybe a garlic press), then he’d never even make it to DMV within that hour’s episode.
Food Lion management has some sort of policy about constantly moving items. On one visit, the garlic presses might be with other kitchen utensils, but on the next, it could easily have been moved over to diapers and baby food. And, while I’m talking about baby food, have you noticed how Food Lion keeps baby formula under lock and key. I went in the other night, spent about 30 minutes perusing the baby stuff aisle and finally gave up. When I asked where the baby formula might be, the assistant manager told me that it was up front. When I got up front and asked about the formula, a sales clerk got out a wad of keys and started unlocking this cabinet. I don’t think the Hope Diamond is any more closely guarded. After I made my selection, the clerk wouldn’t hand me the formula. I had to walk around to the check out area and pay for the formula before I was allowed to hold it. Let Jack Bauer deal with stuff like that.
Once he found his garlic press, he would then have to get in line. And, if he got behind the folks I get behind, there goes another hour episode. Here's a warning. If you're standing in line at the checkout in a grocery store, and the person in front of you is holding coupons, leave the store. You'll never get served...at least not until the clerk has had to double check each coupon against the receipt to ensure that the coupon user got full credit. Then the coupon user will want to take the coupons back and closely inspect each one to make sure he isn't somehow being cheated. There are no coupon users on 24. And in Jack Bauer's world there are no price checks at counter twelve. Everything goes smoothly, even major obstacles are cleared away within minutes. I mean look how quickly Powers Booth recovered from learning that his girl friend was sleeping with the enemy. Why can't things go that easily in my world?
Truth be told, a real-life Jack Bauer, as good as he might be at diving out of windows and torturing the bad guys, would never make it in the real world. Sadly enough, we can’t go around punching people in the gut because they don’t give us the answers we seek immediately. How easy it would be, if,after waiting a half hour at DMV, to just dive right through the plate glass window and leave. But we, the real heroes of the world, have to sit there and be ignored until our number is called.
Jack Bauer is a wimp, when you think about it. He can’t do anything unless he has a gun. And, if he doesn’t have one, he’ll knock someone out, or do as he did this week, put the ol’ Johnny Weaver sleeper hold on Ricky Shroeder. And, if you don’t know who Johnny Weaver is, you’re either too young or too intellectual to be reading my column.
How nice it would be to be able to save the world, save our loved one, resolve personal issues, help a friend overcome alcoholism, disarm a bomb, cut off an ear, and kick a few folks in the groin, all within 24 hours...and never even get our hair mussed. But, in real life, it just ain’t that way. Every hour of Jack Bauer’s life is filled with daring exploits. Sometimes it takes me that long just to find my car keys.

I Have Met the British and They Are Me

2007-05-01T06:42:00.000-05:00

I've been reading your comments posted pertaining to my last column on the Queen. I get the impression that there are many Americans who have some sort of inherent affinity for HM (I abbreviate to show my knowledge of all things British). Of course, I know there's at least one Limey in the crowd out there. He's the one who talks such funny English you can't even understand him if you can't watch his lips moving.
That's one of the irritating things about those English folk...they really don't speak English all that well. Oh, I suppose they muddle through well enough that most of us can make some semblence of what they're trying to say, but for the most part, they tend to mumble. I guess it's that stiff upper lip and all. And yet, they act as if they owned the language.
Speaking of stiff upper lips, what about the so-called British sense of humor. The British are so staid and yet nothing gives them the jollies so much as watching a man dress up like a woman.There's something about that, which really seems to strike a chord.
Something else about the British that bothers me is their sorry excuse for food. Think about it. How often have you said, "Gee honey, I'm really in the mood for a British restaurant tonight."? Maybe the last time you dressed in drag, but other than that...?
Not since Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips restaurants closed down has there really been a great British restaurant.
And think about what they eat. Shepherd's Pie? Is that something akin to a cow patty? Sounds like it.
It's not that British food tastes bad. It's more that it doesn't taste at all. I believe if I were British I would probably not be so fat because the desire to eat would be almost nil. Of course the down side to being British, is that I'd be...well, I'd be British.
In some ways, the British are rather bland. I hope none of you Brits take that as offensive. I mean it in the nicest possible way. I have family from Scotland, not exactly Britain, but maybe it is. I never was good at Geography. Anyway most of these Scotish relatives are, to be painfully honest, very boring.
I don't know why they can't be as clever and delightful as I am, but, truth be told, they're just not. I guess that's the reason my family only holds reunions about once every fifty years. Everyone just goes to wherever the reunion is being held and just sits there looking at each other. Except for dearly departed Uncle John. He used to take his false teeth out for us kids. It was especially funny when he was dressed up in a bridal gown.
Once Uncle John died, I think the rest of the family kinda figured what's the use. We're just too boring to get together.
Other than their language, their humor, their food, and their personalities, I love the British. I would love to visit London someday. I hear the biggest attraction there is fog. Sounds like a lot of fun. Must be the British in me speaking. Wonder why I have such a burning desire to slip into something lacey?

The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!

2007-04-27T14:07:00.000-05:00

I’m baaaacccckkkk! I apologize for my absence, but I’ve been busy with wedding plans. For those of you who don’t know…Rosie O’Donnell and I are soon to be wed. I know. It’s very exciting. I had actually hoped I could quit work, but in view (get it) of her somewhat surprise announcement this week, it looks like I have to go back to doing what I do best.
So, here I am. And I have a fresh bunch of stuff to gripe about. But, first, I want to talk about something really exciting. The Queen is coming to town. No, I’m not referring to another Elton John concert…the real queen…Elizabeth II, the non-virgin queen is coming to Virginia.
It’s such a big deal that Virginia governor, Eddie Munster, has created a special website, http://queensvisit.governor.virginia.gov/. My only concern is that it looks like something from the Clampetts. In other words, this website smacks of a bunch of hillbillies who all got together to say a special Howdy-do to the queen.
For instance, and you may want to go to the site and see what I’m talking about, but for starters, press the About the Queen button. Here’s what you find: On the throne for 55 years (so far), Queen Elizabeth II has played an important part in the life of Great Britain, the Commonwealth, and on the world stage, including Virginia.”
Huh? Great sentence structure there. And, do you really need “so far” in there? I mean, I’m not expecting a queenometer timer to give me the exact hours, minutes, and seconds the gal’s been on the throne (speaking of thrones, did you notice how fast the state moved to get a new reststop built between Richmond and Williamsburg? Do they really think the Queen is going to need to skip to our loo. I’m willing to bet her limo has a wc built in.) But back to my initial ranting – We kinda know that if you say the queen has been on the throne for 55 years, that you mean “so far.”
Next, click on the etiquette hyperlink. There, under protocal, we are informed by Jethro Bodine, “When the Queen enters a room, everyone stands (with the exception of her late mother when she was alive).”
Now, that really is a stupid line. If you want to state that the Queen Mother doesn’t stand for the queen, just say it. But, again, we can kind of figure out that upon her death, she had little further involvement in her daughter’s affairs. Technically, the wording is really saying that now that she’s dead, the Queen Mom should stand for the Queen. I have a feeling that was not the writer’s intention.
Further down on the page we are told “Bowing is not required of U.S. citizens.” That’s reassuring. I can just picture one of them smiley-face guards poking the barrel of a rifle in my ribs trying to make me bow.
Although, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind bowing to the queen. It’s something I don’t get to do all that often, not since I was in China, in fact, when I spent hours trading bows with everyone I met. Those Chinese really are into bowing.
The website goes on to say that women don’t need to curtsey, but it does give a nice description as to how you curtsey. In all my years of curtseying, I never knew I was supposed to put my right foot behind my left heel. Gee, I’m embarrassed.
There’s another interesting line on the website regarding the Queen. It says, “And if HM The Queen Elizabeth II lives until Dec. 21, 2007, she will become the oldest reigning monarch in the history of both British and the Commonwealth Realms.”
Now don’t get nervous Elizabeth, the writer’s not suggesting anything. Sure you’re past 80, so you might not want to buy any green bananas. Why not just say, “On December 21, 2007, she will become….”? Maybe the site should say, “If the old gal can hang on until December 21….”
I wrote the PR person responsible for the site and asked her if this site was a joke, or just terribly written. For some reason, I didn’t get a reply, although someone from the Queen’s office called to tell me they were out of press credentials and I can’t see the Queen. Here I am, trying to make her feel better, and at the same time getting rejected.
I should be disheartened, but hey, I have my Rosie to keep me warm.

Sticks and Stones Can Break Your Bones, But Words Can Kill You

2007-04-11T13:27:00.000-05:00

From reports I’m hearing, it appears that Osama Bin Laden, who has been suspected of being dead, is set to make a reappearance this afternoon. The terrorist leader has called a press conference to present his views on this whole Don Imus deal.
I’m not sure when I’m going to hold my press conference on the issue. I hope the networks can pencil me in between Al Roker’s press conference and Pee Wee Herman’s.
This is just another example as to how a non-story becomes the big issue of the day. It’s also an example of how quick everyone is to become a victim.
Now, don’t’ get me wrong. I think Don Imus was very stupid to have said what he said. However, the man has made a fortune saying stupid, and often shocking things, for several decades now. He’s belittled any number of persons, some more deserving of his tirades than others.
Obviously, the Rutgers women’s basketball team is not made up of a bunch of nappy-headed hos. Is “hos” the plural of “ho”? I don’t think an apostrophe should go there, should it? You can see the issues that puzzle me. But, since these women are, in all likelihood, fine, young ladies, why is there such a big hubbub? Really, how could a thoughtless statement from a washed up old man like Don Imus ruin your moment in the sun?
No one took Don Imus seriously. He might be a jerk, but if the news channels, and even the major networks, filled their schedules with covering every stupid thing that every stupid jerk says or does, there wouldn’t be enough time to cover the really important issues such as the paternity of Anna Nicole Smith’s baby.
And, do you fire someone for saying something stupid? If so, then I can think of lots of folks who’ve said far more incendiary things than what Don Imus said. Take the unforgiving Al Sharpton, for example. On many occasions in the past, his comments have done quite a bit of harm, including getting people killed, and yet, I’m betting he’s been rather forgiving of himself for those slip-ups.
I thought it was interesting that, according to a “news” story, a preacher somewhere included in his Easter Sunday sermon, his tirade against Don Imus. The preacher evidently said the man should not be forgiven. Pretty tough words, especially on a day that's supposedly honoring a man who gave his life in order to obtain forgiveness for a lot of people who had done worse than name-calling.
The "Reverend" Jesse Jackson has been quite vocal regarding Don Imus. And yet, it seems he was rather quick to forgive himself for some past indiscretions. Hmmm...Adultery…name-calling. Name calling…adultery. When I weigh them out, I’d think adultery would be a little heavier in the “oops, I’ve sinned” department. But, that’s just me.
Here’s my advice to the Rutgers' ladies…show your grace, your maturity, your dignity. Forgive Don Imus. You’re the ones he offended. You’re the ones who can forgive, or not. If you don’t forgive him, what will you do? Go through life whining about the time someone said something stupid that was offensive? That would certainly be productive. If you really want to make Don Imus feel bad, forgive and forget.
The problem is, when people take a minor indiscretion and blow it up to a national issue, one tends to feel sorry for the offender. Listen ladies…have you ever said anything negative, anything that wasn’t true, anything just plain stupid about someone else? If so, then why not just let this whole thing drop. And, if you have never done that, then you’re perfect, so I’m sure you’ve already forgiven him.
The point is that I’m just sick and tired of hearing about this. I’m sick and tired of everyone who can think of any reason to be offended to be going on TV and wearing that hurt like a shiny badge of which to be proud. It's things like this that give Gary Coleman a chance to make a comeback. If for no other reason than that, this whole thing has to be nipped in the blossoming bud now.
Please just drop the whole mess. I don't really have a pony in this show, but I do want to find out what’s going to happen to Dannielynn.

A Bad Case of Clap For Everything

2007-04-06T13:49:00.000-05:00

THERE ARE NO OBSCENITIES IN THIS COLUMN, BUT I DO USE THE ROUGHEST LANGUAGE I HAVE EVER USED.

I’m not a political sort of guy. I know virtually nothing about politics. The difference between Conservatives and Liberals is lost on me, although the best I can figure out from listening to Rush Limbaugh and others, is the Liberals believe in killing unborn babies, and Conservatives would rather wait until they’re born and have ‘em killed via tobacco, or firearms, or even a bit of capital punishment if need be. If there are any other differences, I’m unaware of them.
I say all that to say this…I do think a large segment of society has become Jerry-Springerized into mental oblivion. What do I mean by that? Well, think about it. In the good old days of television, the studio audience would applaud someone famous, or someone who had acted heroically, or someone who did had entertained them. Today, studio audiences applaud everything. And that’s thanks to Jerry Springer and that ilk.
For instance, I’ve seen the foulest talking, filthiest acting, most body-pierced, tattooed, scum of the earth types come on stage and start slapping their girlfriend’s secret lover, who also happens to be their own father, or mother, or brother, or sister, or milkman, and the audience goes wild.
The more trash talking, the more applause. In other words, these idiots in the audience have been conditioned, probably with applause signs, to put their hands together for the trashiest people that the producers of the shows can scrape out of a dumpster and bring on their shows.
I keep thinking that one day Oprah will do an entire show about “Audiences Who Clap at Crap.” Pardon my French.
So now we’ve come to the point that people like Rosie O’Donnell will go on TV and say, “Yep, we Americans are the terrorists and we’re torturing those poor, innocent Islamic captives,” and the audience will applaud wildly. Explain that to me. I get the impression that the audience is saying “Hooray! We stink. We’re horrible people.”
If Rosie’s audience really believes her…if they truly believe that Americans are torturing Islamic prisoners…if they really believe that George Bush orchestrated 9-11 for political purposes, is applause really the correct response?
In my day, you didn’t demonstrate shame or guilt or remorse by applauding wildly. It’d be like a judge pronouncing a death sentence and the prisoner would pump his fist in the air and exclaim, “Alright! I’m doomed!”
Again, this is not a political issue I’m talking about here. It’s simply pure logic. Why should we applaud our badness? What has happened is that the dregs of society have become celebrities via the Jerry Springers of TV land. The message is the badder you are the more famous you are.
Think about what the TV show COPS did for sleeveless t-shirts, or wife-beaters as they’ve come to be called. Because of the misplaced (aka non-existent) values of so many, it became cool to wear a wife-beater. Take that fact one step further and beating women becomes cool. Then turn on Maury or Jerry or whomever, and you’ll see the audiences applauding wife-beaters. You think I’m making this up?
We’ve become so conditioned to glorifying bad that people equate fame with badness. In other words, it makes sense when Rosie says the President of the United States is behind the killings of thousands of Americans because he’s famous, hence he’s bad. Let’s all applaud.
This rule is applied even in the elementary schools, where the good girls, the ones who believe virginity is still something to cherish, are teased and humiliated. Who become the role models when that happens? You don’t need me to tell you.
And so the bad girls grow up to be celebrities. When I was in school being known as a slut would be horrifying. Now, the cable news networks devote special programs to sluts, such as Anna Nicole Smith.
Remember Deborah Jean Palfrey, the Washington “madame” who was threatening to sell her phone records showing which D.C. notables had used her escort service? When whores hold press conferences and the major networks televise them, you know something is wrong. Except for those who’ve been Springerized, this all seems perfectly normal.
I sure am glad TV wasn’t like this fifty years ago. I don’t think I could have handled a Leave It To Beaver episode where June and Lumpy were an item, or, worse yet, Ward was caught in bed with Eddie Haskell.
And, if you think I exaggerate, watch just about any of today’s situation comedies. On second thought, maybe you’d be better served by turning the TV off. That would be something worthy of applause.

Pet Peeves

2007-04-04T11:00:00.000-05:00

I haven’t given out any Total Idiot of the Week Awards in quite some time. That’s not because there are no idiots out there. Just the opposite. There are so many they tend to blend together. Unfortunately for me, there hasn’t been any really good, new, unique stupidity lately. That is until Elaine Larable came along. Thank you Elaine. You have restored my faith in mankind.
I guess I should feel sorry for the poor gal. She’s sick. She’s vomiting and foaming at the mouth. How you do that at the same time, I’m not sure, but Elaine evidently has figured it out.
Elaine, a resident of Ottawa (that’s in Canada, for all of you who attend Richmond Public Schools), became ill after eating dog food. Now, when I first heard this story, I immediately began to feel sorry for Elaine. As you know, I have a heart as big as all indoors. I assumed she was some destitute old lady who had been reduced to eating dog food because she couldn’t afford human food, although, have you seen the price of dog food lately?
I wept a tear or two, then I continued to read the story. Elaine was not eating dog food because she couldn’t afford better. She was eating dog food in order to encourage her own doggie to eat it.
I’m picturing Elaine sitting in the kitchen with Fido in the high chair. “Open wide,” she’s telling her pet. “Here comes the chow chow choo-choo.” And, since the little fellow was a bit finicky, Elaine had to show him how tasty the food was. I guess Elaine was thinking that if it works for babies, it’ll work for dogs. After all, what is a dog, but a stinky, shedding, ugly baby.
Yes, you see Elaine’s real sickness is what I have diagnosed as Anthropomoronism. I’ve always been a bit put off by folks who treat their animals as if they are humans. I’ve seen mothers blame their kids for being bitten by the dog. They’ll send the kid to the room and give the dog a little treat to compensate for the trauma that Junior has put the animal though.
I’ve seen individuals who appear to be relatively normal in virtually every respect, but who put sweaters and pants on their pets and parade them through the mall. And, while I’m on the subject, what’s with these malls letting people bring their pets shopping with them. My foot is already a manure magnet. I just hate to have to worry about possibly stepping in something while trying on a $95.00 shirt at Brooks Brothers.
I’ve worked with people who give their dogs and cats Christmas presents, and, who actually get Christmas presents from their animals. Don’t ask me how that is done. I do wonder if dogs ever complain about Christmas becoming too commercial. Do you think the manger story has the same significance to a dog as to a human? I mean wouldn’t the dog be thinking, “Cool, he was born in a really swanky place.”?
I thought I’d seen every sort of pet idiocy imaginable. But Elaine Larable takes the cake, or the can of dog food. Can you imagine a woman so delusional that she really belives that by eating dog food she can be a source of encouragement to her dog? I would think eating dog food would be almost as bad as eating potted meat, or, even worse, Spam.
As is so often the case, my tender side has gotten the best of me. So, Elaine Larable, if you are well enough to be reading this, I truly am sorry, not only that you’re sick, but also for all the nasty things I’ve said about you. If you’re still feeling sick, may I suggest a sure-fire remedy. It’s a little health food item they call wheat gluten.

Phlegm Flam Man

2007-03-30T07:18:00.000-05:00

I've been sick. I'm not saying that to upset you. But simply to explain why I have been derelict in my duties. Even if I had not been sick, saying "I've been sick," is such a simple way to get by with stuff. But, I really have been sick. I won't go into details, but if phlegm were as valuable as, let's say, oil, I'd be a rich man today.
I finally went to the doctor. He said I had asthmatic bronchitis. I guess what that means is that I had bronchitis and my bronchitis had asthma.
Anyway, I was sick. I have spent a lot of time lying in bed, watching TV and reading. My wife has this book on natural remedies for every illness imaginable. I've always thought such books were written for hypochondriacs, but, after spending the past couple of weeks reading the book, I now realize that I suffer from a lot more than asthmatic bronchitis.
This book lists each disease or disorder and then gives the symptoms. I have almost everything. For instance, it's obvious I have diverticulitis. Since I was a boy, I've been telling anyone who would listen that I have a very redundant sigmoid colon, but no one believed.
I also think I have mercury poisoning. The symptoms were not that clearly spelled out, but it just sounds like the sort of thing that makes me feel so poorly. You know, that blah feeling that so many of us get from time to time? Mercury poisoning.
It would also appear, from reading the symptoms, that I have bulimia. I guess I just keep forgetting to purge.
I think it's pretty clear that I am also a LLS sufferer. Yes, I have Listless Leg Syndrome. Sometimes my legs just go to sleep while I'm walking. And, I can't count the number of times I've been sitting and watching TV and knew I had to get up to use the restroom, but my legs just didn't have it in them to take me there. Let me tell you something I've learned about those bathroom urges. They don't go away. The problem doesn't just resolve itself. I've discovered that even if you don't get up to go to the bathroom, you still go to the bathroom, if you know what I'm trying to say. I think my fellow LLS sufferers can relate to this better than the rest of you.
Now, by this point, you're probably becoming quite alarmed. "How does this young man even find the strength to write?" you're probably asking yourself.
Don't worry. I'm like a cat. I always land on my feet. Although with my fallen arches, sometimes that can be quite painful. But, I do go on.
The great thing about all this is that now, after reading this masterfully-written book, I know that I really am sick. For years, my family has suspected that I'm making all this stuff up. They've thought I tended to be just a bit neurotic. But, I guess I'm getting the last laugh here.
Actually, despite my reputation, truth be known, I'm in excellent health, considering how sick I am. I guess I'm just a trooper, or something like that.
Anyway, I think my bronchitis is gone. I've improved to the point that I'm now feeling no worse than if I simply had a very bad cold. And, actually I'm feeling better today than I have in weeks. Let me just check my pulse and my blood sugar level and I'm ready to go to work.

No Small Fete

2007-03-22T06:55:00.000-05:00

Someone pointed out to me yesterday that I've now written two blogs (acronym for Brilliantly Literate Online Gems) on shoelaces. So? What's your point? I could write a column every day on shoelaces, or at least on feet related material. When it comes to feet, I have lots of thoughts. For starters, and some of you already know this about me, I suffer from toe phobia. I've been told it's acute. I cannot stand anyone to touch my toes.
If I was ever interrogated by the police, all they would need to do is start pulling my toes. I'd cave in an instant. I think I also have a police interrogation phobia. I'm always worrying about how easy it would be for the police to get me to confess to anything.
I've seen these Court TV stories about someone who confesses to killing fifty people and leads the police to all those dead bodies and then his lawyer gets in court and tells the judge that the guy made the confession under duress and that he never killed anyone, and there the guy just sits there smiling as if to say, "Silly me."
I used to think that no one would confess unless they had actually done the crime, but, now that my mind is on my toes, I can see how someone might confess to being a serial killer if the police were pulling his toes. I just hope that before the police get a hold of my feet that the Democrats do something to pass some sort of anti-torture law.
Speaking of torture, I'd been reading about how some people are upset at the show 24 because Jack Bauer uses too much torture. I am not a lover of violence, but I thought I'd check the show out. i'd never watched it before this year. It is a pretty well written show, but the fact that everything happens in a 24 hour period dampens some of the impact.
For instance, one of the characters, a recovering alcoholic, fell off the wagon, compromised national security, recovered again, and went on to perform his job beautifully, all within a period of a couple of hours. Hey, if all my problems could be over and done with in one day, I'd have no problems.
Then, there's Jack's sister-in-law. Her husband, Jack's brother, is killed and within an hour or two she's hitting on Jack. I would think a grieving widow would need at least 36 hours to really get over the loss of her mate, but then what do I know about such things?
Also within the first twelve hours, Jack has escaped death about fifteen times. At about nine in the morning, he said, "I can't go on doing this." But, by three in the afternoon, he's recovered and has renewed his determination to go on torturing in the name of either national security or just good TV drama.
So, do you see what I just accomplished? I've cleverly woven my feet into Jack Bauer's life. Now let me segue back. I do enjoy 24, but if they ever start torturing terrorists' toes, i'm tuning out. That would be disgusting.
By the way, did i ever tell you about the time I tried to kill a cab driver with my shoelace? I'll save that for another day.

Tied To Be Fit

2007-03-20T06:53:00.001-05:00

I’m feeling positively radiant today. They say that we all need to stop and do something nice for ourselves once in awhile. And, I’m living testimony today that this is so true. In fact, if you were to look at me today, you’d probably say I was glowing.
I don’t usually splurge. I always look for the cheapest item. But yesterday, I said to myself, “Steve, you’re worth it.”
So, I went to Richmond’s top shoe store, Saxon Shoes. No more Shoe Barn for me, I thought. Plus, there wasn’t a Goodwill store anywhere nearby. So, I marched right in and after considerable deliberation, I bought myself a pair of shoe laces.
Yep, you heard me right...shoe laces from the very best shoe store in, perhaps, the entire world. True to form, I received excellent customer service, and I returned that by being an excellent customer. The young lady approached me at the shoe lace rack, and asked if she could be of assistance. I really thought I’d be able to make the decision myself, but, hey, why not let an expert help me out? I had told you previously that my last pair of shoe laces were purchased at Food Lion. I made some horrible mistakes that day. For one thing, I bought brown laces for black shoes. They don’t match. Who knew?
Then I bought laces that could have been used to hold a body cast together. They must have been 100 inches or so. Those days are behind me. From now on, all my shoe laces come from Saxon’s.
It really does pay to have professional assistance when it comes to such things. You see this woman didn’t just guess at what I needed. She examined my shoes. I was a little embarrassed, since they had come from Shoe Barn, via Goodwill. But she didn’t let on that my shoes looked hideous. She looked back up at me like I was a real customer.
Then she looked at the back of the shoe lace container. They actually had a little guide to help you pick the right length....27. I’ll remember that from now on. I need 27 inches of shoe lace. Really, to be technical, I need 54, since I’m buying for two feet.
Anyway, the woman selected a pair of those round shoe laces. I was holding flat in my hand at the time, but she looked at me as if I had made a rather gauche selection. That’s probably my insecurities talking there, because actually, she just looked at the laces and reached for the round ones.
“Those come undone too easily,” I told her. I figure since I’m the one with the buying power here, I may as well get what I want. She then looked through Saxon’s extensive shoe lace selection and picked out a pair of flat laces.
“Are these guaranteed not to ever come untied?” I asked her seriously. I don’t think she thought I was serious, though. She just smiled and kinda ignored that question.
Anyway, I’m standing there holding the pack of shoe laces. I do what even those who splurge occasionally must do. I turned the package over and looked at the price...$1.50.
I froze. Should I pay a buck, fifty for a pair of shoe laces. I’d only paid 99 cents at Food Lion. I started to put them back, but, I remembered what I’d told myself about being worth it. To give me the courage I needed, I looked at myself in the mirror and repeated that little speech. Of course, because I was in a shoe store, the mirror was only a foot off the floor, so I had to crawl over to the mirror and give the speech.
The nice lady waited patiently until I crawled back over to the shoe lace rack. “I’ll take them,” I said proudly.
She smiled. I’m figuring that if the gal’s on commission, that’s probably the easiest fifteen cents she’ll ever make.
I take my shoe laces to the counter and immediately hand the cashier my dollar bill and fifty-eight cents in exact change. Yep, the ol’ sales tax. Almost forgot about that, but I figure I’m worth it.
The lady put my laces in a nice golden Saxon’s bag. At a dollar fifty for a pair of laces, I’m thinking I deserve a golden bag. But, here’s the kicker. This morning I go to put my brand new shoe laces in my shoes, and, lo and behold, the package has two pair! Not two laces, two pair. I got a steal! I wonder if the folks at Saxon’s know about that. I can’t believe they could let four laces go for a buck, fifty. But, anyway, I put the other laces in my drawer. I’m figuring I got enough shoe laces to last me a lifetime...and top dollar laces at that. But, you know what? I’m worth it.

Imagine That

2007-03-13T15:05:00.000-05:00

I saw a preview for a movie the other day and it really got me to thinking. It’s about this little girl who has this imaginary friend, except the imaginary friend isn’t really imaginary. Now, in this movie, the imaginary friend was evil, but what I got to thinking was suppose in real life imaginary friends aren’t really imaginary.
There are a lot of details I haven’t worked out yet…like, who these imaginary friends really are, and where they’re from, but just suppose, that they’re like some sort of invisible people who hang out with kids and then when the kids grow up, they move on to other kids.
You’re probably thinking I’ve flipped out, but I’m just saying, “Suppose this were true.” I’m not saying I believe it, but I do keep an open mind, so I got to thinking there’s one way to find out if imaginary friends are real. And that is to ask you if you have ever encountered my imaginary friends. I had two of them, but I haven’t seen them, or not seen them since I was about six years old. Their names were Gabbi and Ding Dong. Do those names ring a bell (no pun intended)?
I wonder if some of you have ever encountered those two wacky guys. Now Gabbi really wasn’t so wacky. He definitely was the wiser of the two, always there with good advice for me. Ding Dong on the other hand was just plain silly. For instance, it was Ding Dong who told me that the manhole in front of the apartment I lived in on Cary Street had a man living in it. “Why else would they call it a manhole?” Ding Dong once asked me. It made perfect sense to me. I used to spend several hours a day collecting cigarette butts to feed the man in the manhole. I think the butts idea was Ding Dong’s as well.
Gabbi was more of an older brother type…a protector if you will. I used to ride my red fire engine up and down the sidewalk all day and no one ever bothered me. I think that was because of Gabbi.
Gabbi was also the one who told me about Magic Alka Seltzer. Have you ever heard of it? It was good for all sorts of problems. For instance, if we were playing cops and robbers, and I got shot, I’d just pop a Magic Alka Seltzer in my mouth (imaginarily, that is) and my wounds would go away. In fact, Magic Alka Seltzer could even bring you back from the dead. Since my brothers were constantly killing me, in our games, that is, Magic Alka Seltzer was of real benefit. And believe you me; the Magic Alka Seltzer was very frustrating to them.
That’s been a half century ago and I have a feeling that Gabbi and Ding Dong are no longer working the Carytown beat. You don’t see kids out, by themselves, playing in the alleys and on the sidewalks, like you did when I was a kid. Parents lock the kids in the house, behind chains and deadbolts and the like. True, many of the old houses and apartments have been converted into stores, but there are still plenty of houses down that way. I don’t suppose the man is still in the manhole, although there are some folks roaming the street that look as if that may be where they’ve come from.
I have to admit, I haven’t heard anyone mention Gabbi and Ding Dong in many, many years. I think when my family moved to Roanoke when I was six, they came along. So, they might still be down that way. If you see ‘em, or, rather, don’t see ‘em, tell them I said “hello.”
By the time one reaches their mid-fifties, a large number of the non-imaginary people he or she has loved the most in life, are no longer around. I would think that’s the especially bad part about living to really old age…you see virtually everyone you have ever loved die.
I guess that’s a big part of the reason I’d like to meet up with Gabbi and Ding Dong again. I’d love to get my hands on some of that Magic Alka Seltzer.

A Lesson in Stupidity

2007-03-07T22:29:00.000-05:00

People often approach me on the street. "Steve," they'll say, "there are so many stupid things going on in the world today." I usually agree with them. Then they'll ask me, "Steve, what sorts of things do you think are stupid?"
I'm not quite sure why so many people hang on my every thought. Maybe it's charisma. Or maybe I'm simply on some egomaniacal fantasy trip. If that's the deal, it has been a good ride. But, whatever the case, I'll be glad to share with you what sort of things I think are stupid.
Speaking of fantasy, which we kind of were, I think fantasy football leagues are really stupid. I know other sports have them as well, but it seems that the fantasy football folks really create this imaginary world and move right in, lock, stock, and barrel. The fantasy fans are so fanatical that there are radio programs on the sports channels devoted to how your fantasy teams are doing.Grown ups call these shows and really talk about how their teams are doing. People! You don't own a team. You probably don't even own a TV. You're stupid.
Now, I'm not totally putting this sort of fantasy thing down. When I was a kid, I had my own fantasies. I probably shouldn't talk about it, but, what the heck. When I was in my teens, I created a fantasy TV network. I created programs, made up schedules, cancelled shows, etc. Then I created a TV star who got mad at me for cancelling his show and killed me. That kind of put an end to my fantasy.
I really wish someone would explain this fantasy football craze. It sounds like grown ups playing dolls, but then maybe I'm just a very stupid man. That has been suggested on more than one occasion.
By the way, have any of you ever been attacked by a crazed archaeologist? I can't talk about it here, but call me sometime and I'll tell you a horror story, the likes of which you've probably never even imagined in your worst nightmares.
But, back to stupid...I think the shoelaces they make today are stupid. I bought a pair of black dress shoes. They're quite unstylish, just plain, black shoes with flat fronts. The shoelaces that came with them could be used to lace up army boots. I'm guessing each shoelace is about six feet long. When I tie them in a regular way, the non-bow end hangs down to the ground. I'm constantly stepping on them. I probably have to tie my shoes fifteen to twenty times a day. I never enter a building without first leaning up against the wall and sneaking in a quick tie.
The only way to keep the dangly ends from dangling too low is to tie bows that are so big that when I enter a room, people think I'm kicking two black gift-wrapped packages into the room in front of me. I could double knot, but that scares me. I'm afraid I'll create some sort of nuclear knot that can't be undone.
Is there some new law that shoelaces have to be so long? I thought that maybe the Romanians who manufactured my elegant shoes just chose the wrong size laces, so I went to the grocery store the other day and bought some new shoelaces. The sign on the rack said I was buying classic shoelaces, as opposed to the sports shoelaces they also sold in the store.
Now, if you had a pair of boring dress shoes, the kind really bland old men wear, wouldn't you think that "classic" would be the correct designation...especially if your only other choice was "sport?" Yeah, me too. But my new shoelaces are even longer than the original laces. I could easily lace up a straight jacket with them, which, if I have to keep stopping and tying my shoes, I will need.
I'm such a pathetic sight, that people on the street will stop and offer to tie my shoes for me. Do I look that old, decrepit, senile, or, yes, stupid? I'll go into important business appointments and everyone in the office or restaurant or wherever, will stop what they’re doing and stare at my shoes.
I guess with those long strings flapping with my every step, it might look as if I came into the room hoping to rope a calf or two. And, then when I stop, I invariably step on one of the dangler ends. Then, when I start to move, I’ll lift the foot that’s anchored to the ground by my other foot pressing on the shoelace. What happens is that I’ll start to move and trip over myself. I do that constantly. I really think the shoelace people are stupid.
There’s another group of people I think are stupid. I label them as “Everyone else on the highway except me.” Sadly, it’s gotten to the point that no one knows how to drive anymore. Like, what’s with these idiots who’ll drive right up on your bumper and flash their lights at you when you’re in the passing lane and already going ten miles over the speed limit?
And, what’s wrong with these idiots in front of me who are only going seven miles over the speed limit...in the passing lane. And, why are they so stupid that when I flash my lights they don’t know what I’m saying. Don’t both of these groups of fools know that ten miles over the limit is the new speed limit? I mean come on people...wise up and get with the program.
There are a lot of other stupid things I could talk about if space permitted. I could go on all day about restaurant servers who’ll vacuum under your feet while you’re still eating. I’ll save them for another day. On a similar note, how about those McDonald brainiacs who turn the soft serve machine off a half hour before closing time in order to start cleaning it? Now, that’s stupid. If the store closes at 11:00 PM, I should be able to order anything I want up until that moment. Who cares if they have to wait for me to enjoy my cone before they can start cleaning? Not I.
And one more thing, what’s with archaeologists today? Are they stupid or what? Oh yeah, I can’t talk about that here. Never mind.

What's Next, Jesus Junior?

2007-02-27T08:20:00.000-05:00

Okay, I've been doing some research. Yes, I take my column very seriously and want to display the utmost professionalism at all times. I hope both of you who are reading this appreciate that. Anyway, more on this Jesus discovery.
I admit that at first I was skeptical. Just because one finds some bones marked "Jesus," doesn't in my opinion mean they've found Jesus.
But, here's what I have learned - the name on the tombstone was Iasus "bargainos veritas" Kristos. In other words, as any of you who have a working knowledge of Latin (or maybe Greek, or Aramaic) can figure out, the tombstone reads: Jesus "The Real Deal" Christ. So, there you have it. I guess this whole Christian thing is pretty much out the window.
But wait, there's more. Archaeologists have found a table leg and a papyrus door mat near the grave and have been able to say with 99% certainty that they found the home/retail furniture store, which Jesus and Mary Magdalene owned. From that door mat, they've been able to determine that the couple owned a two-chariot garage home in the suburbs of South Jerusalem. Adjacent to the home was a small retail store in which Jesus sold handcrafted furniture, and, on Sundays had a clown come in to do face paintings for the kids. Jesus' son, Judas (nickname Skippy) would evidently, archaeologists say, sell lemonaid from a small plywood stand in front of the store.
All I have to say is "ain't archaeology wonderful?" It's amazing how from just the teeniest of artifacts, scientists are able to tell us so much. Now, I know there are still some die-hard Christians out there who are not going to believe, and while, I hate to be a bubble burster, particularly in matters that involve everlasting life and death, I think you stiff-necked Christians need to consider one more factor. James Cameron has said that this really is THE Jesus' tomb.
Now think about this, friends. Cameron is the man who so masterfully told us the true story of Jack and Rose, who met aboard the Titanic. So, this is a man with total credibility. I'm so impressed with the guy, that I've started selling a line of jewelry displaying the engraving, "WWJCD?"
So, there you have it. Christianity is a done deal. But, before you go switching religions, wait until I finish an investigation into whether Muhammad operated a go-kart track in Colonial Williamsburg. It's just a theory, but I have discovered a wooden steering wheel.
Anyway, all this news about Jesus pales into insignificance when you hear what I have discovered. I was looking through the Richmond phone book, and believe it or not, I came across a listing for a John Smith. Do you realize what that means? Not only is the famed English explorer still living, but he's living in Richmond's West End. Wait til James Cameron finds out about this.

With Deep Regrets...

2007-02-26T09:07:00.000-05:00

Sorry, I haven’t written lately. Truth be told, I’ve been in hiding. I’m afraid that somehow, unwittingly, I’ve broken some law. In fact, I’ve probably been breaking the law for most of my life. And, I never knew it. You see, from the time I was old enough to understand just what slavery is, I had what I would call profound regret that such a horrible thing was ever practiced.
And, now, I find out that Virginians were not allowed to have profound regret until last week when it was legalized. But, I’m tired of running and hiding. If I’m guilty of premature regret, then so be it. There are too many things going on that I need to talk about, so I’m out of the regret closet and ready to go back to what I do best.
And, in my opinion, what I do best is being totally dumbfounded by the arrogance and ignorance of the new media.
Did you hear Matt Lauer this morning. If you’re a true Christian (and, you know who you are), I hate to tell you this, but Matt Lauer said this morning, in response to a report that the tomb containing the bones of Jesus may have been discovered, “If this is true (Keep in mind this is Lauer speaking), then that changes everything,.”
Wow! The whole Christian ethic, a belief system that has impacted millions of lives, is, according to Matt Lauer, out the window. Forget the Bible, some archaeologist has proven God a fraud. Yeah, right.
A supposed discovery of a pile of bones changes everything. I guess they’re calling these skeletal remains, Christ-Magnon Man. It just amazes me how supposedly intelligent people can be so absolutely stupid.
Speaking of stupid, what did you think of Ellen Degeneris’ outfit last night? I honestly like Degeneris’ comedy. I think she’s a funny lady. I just try not to think about her personal lifestyle, just as I don’t think about what an immoral guy Frank Sinatra was when I listen to his music, or Elvis, or the Beatles… In other words, if you condemned every entertainer who lived a lifestyle that didn’t match yours, you probably would never watch a TV show, go to a movie, or listen to any commercial music.
But, that being said, the only thing Ellen DeGeneris could have done to advertise her orientation would be to wear one of those big Laverne “L’s” on her dress. I’d like to think that even lesbian’s were still female. But, maybe I’m just a tad naïve.
The only reason I tuned into the Oscars last night was to hear her monologue, which wasn’t too bad. Other than that, was there any reason to watch? How many of the movies that were nominated did you see?
If I were to give awards based on the movies I saw last year, here’s a rundown of how things would have panned out:

Best Special Effects: David Young, Superman Returns
Best Costume Design: Louise Mingenbach, Superman Returns
Best Cinematography: Newton Thomas Sigel, Superman Returns
Best Supporting Actress: Parker Posey, Superman Returns
Best Supporting Actor: Kevin Spacey, Superman Returns
Best Actress: Kate Bosworth, Superman Returns
Best Actor: Brandon Routh, Superman Returns
Best Direction: Bryan Singer, Superman Returns
And, the best picture of the year (the envelope please) Yes! Superman Returns

If this old world revolved around me, that’s the way it would have gone last night. But, it doesn’t, and truth be told, that’s another thing I deeply regret.

The Money of Love is the Root of All Evil

2007-02-14T13:59:00.000-05:00

I have a rather painful confession to make. I hope that after I tell you what I have to tell you, you won't think any less of me. Please, I beg you, don't hate me because I'm beautiful. That's not the confession, but I'm sure it has something to do with it. Gulp. Here goes. My name is Steve C. and, I, well, er, well, I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.
Whew! That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Actually, I should say that I MIGHT be the father. Forensics have narrowed it down, or so I'm told, to me, Howard K. Stern, Bill Clinton, Tom Cruse, Stephen Hawking, Richard Simmons, Bill Clinton (a second time), Hugh Hefner, or Melissa Ethridge. So, I'm in a rather elite group, don't you think?
Actually, of greater concern than who is the father of such a blessed child, is who done Anna Nicole Smith in? Accidental? I think not. Overdose? Hardly. The woman was a saint. She wouldn't come anywhere near an illegal or even a controlled substance, unless you consider a Playtex Straight Jacket Bra a controlled substance.
Here's my question. Has anyone thought to ask Nancy Grace where she was the night Smith died? Now, I'm not suggesting anything, I'm just saying. Obviously, Grace had probably more to gain than anyone else with Smith's death. For one thing, she gets an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas. I mean she milked that Natalee Holloway deal for all she could get out of it. Her Aruba connections have dried up, and so have her ratings, which have steadily gone downhill ever since she killed (allegedly, I have to say that), that woman in Florida.
If every time somebody died, I got a free trip to somewhere neat, I think people would begin suspecting me. Why, I'd even be suspecting myself. So, I don't think it's too great a stretch to include Nancy Grace in as a person of interest in this thing. Someone else who I wouldn't put it past, and forgive me for saying this, is Anna Nicole Smith's mother. I've seen wackos and I've seen wackos, but this woman takes the cake. Or, at least she would have taken the cake if Smith hadn't devoured the entire thing in one sitting.
I think one thing we can be pretty sure of is that Anna Nicole Smith didn't die of anorexia. Perhaps she exploded. But, personally, I think there was foul play. I'm pretty sure she wasn't step-mother of the year, so those kids should probably be high on that interest list as well.
It's hard to believe that Anna Nicole was only 39. It seems I've been reading about her for the past 30 years or so. I think that any parent who has a daughter who starts to dress, act, or talk like a tramp, should immediately go out and rent the Anna Nicole Story on DVD and force their child to watch it. What a life!
Just in case one were thinking that money might be a key to happiness, this woman's story should throw a towel on that idea. All seriousness aside, what good does money do when you're dead...except for maybe getting you a good funeral? This whole sordid affair has made me renounce the evils of filthy lucre. I don't need it. I don't want it. I want to devote my life to helping the underprivileged. My first act is to take responsibility for little Dannielynn Smith...poor thing. I'll raise her. I'll teach her to walk the straight and narrow. Just one question, does anyone know how much she stands to inherit?

There Ought To Be a Law!

2007-02-13T08:59:00.000-05:00

What’s the big deal with these payday loan people? So what if they’re crooks. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of other crooks out there in business. So, why do state lawmakers turn their attention to just this one industry?
Why do they feel they have to protect us country bumpkin citizens of the state from the payday loan companies? And, if they do feel we need that sort of protection, why stop at payday loans? I can think of plenty of other businesses that stupid people need to be protected from. So, here’s an open (non-political) message to the legislators: If you feel the need to play daddy to us, you need to do it much more thoroughly. As a public service, I’m providing some suggestions for additional legislation:

Cigarette Manufacturers – If you really want to protect us, why not stop the production of cigarettes? Excuse me, but is there anything they’re good for, except the economy? Lawmakers want to ban smoking in public places, which, as much as I hate the smell of tobacco, I have to admit, doesn’t make sense. If cigarettes are legal, how can you stop their use by state law? I certainly think it’s proper and wise for the owners of any business to ban cigarettes in their place of business, but if the state can ban smoking, what’s next? Chocolate can kill you. I hope that’s not banned. Or how about diet sodas? I hear they cause brain tumors in mice. That’s a proven fact, and yet, as far as I know, any mouse in town has the right to order a Diet Coke anytime he or she wants. So, if the Virginia legislators really want to protect us, they need to outlaw the manufacture of cigarettes.

Tanning Salons – Talk about stupid. People pay good money to let someone bombard them with deadly radiation (or whatever it is they use). I’ve seen women who’ve spent years going to tanning salons. They’re tan all right. Their faces look like tan handbags. Why should the state stop businesses from making outrageous loans, and allow other businesses to literally (I hope this is one time I can say, “literally’) burn our bodies to a crisp cinder?

TV Meteorologists – This is one group that needs to be shut down. They’re not only wrong most of the time, but they’re intentionally cruel. They know that most of their most avid viewers love snow. They know that there’s no chance of Richmond getting any snow, and yet they insist on teasing snow. Last week we were led to believe that we’d be in blizzard conditions this morning. How cruel. How heartless. I know they don’t actually charge us money, but I still think they’re doing us snow lovers irreparable harm. I say shut ‘em down.

A Certain Regional Grocery Store Chain – The chain shall remain nameless. Well, I’ll make up a name…let’s call them Grocery Gazelle. It’s the store you swear you’ll never go back to, and yet most of us do keep going back. Why? Because they tell us that they’ve got these fantastic bargains. Filet Mignon for $1.99 a pound, as an example. Only problem is, when you actually get in the store, no one seems to have ever heard of that promotion, and if they did have it, it must have expired. And when you show them the ad, they look at you as if to say, “So… What do you expect me to do about your problem?” I hate this chain. I know they must have corporate meetings to decide how best to hide the most wanted items from shoppers. The other day I was looking for Kool Aid. It was Jim Jones’ birthday and I wanted to do something special. Now, wouldn’t you think Kool Aid would be under drink mixes? I did. How stupid of me. The Kool Aid was on the aisle marked “BREAD/BABY FOOD.” How could I have been so uneducated not to have figured that out? I definitely think that during this session, the state lawmakers need to shut down this grocery chain. Protect us before we shop again! Come one Frank Hargrove. Can’t you do something about this?

Now these are just a few ideas. Of course, the big question is, is there anyone out there who can do something to protect us from the legislators?

That's Mighty Big of Me

2007-02-12T09:42:00.000-05:00

I had an epiphany the other night, as I was enjoying my third, or maybe fourth, petite filon wrapped in bacon at the local Golden Corral. It dawned on me as I ruminated on a succulent morsel of meat, reflecting on the many nuances in the tastes of Golden Corral cuisine, that most of the people there, in fact, virtually everyone, except me, were morbidly obese. Now, I don't know exactly at what point a person officially becomes morbidly obese, but when a person looks hideous, I think it's proper to call them morbidly obese.
As I sat and stared, maybe even glared, at these monstrosities of humans, most of whom apparently feel most comfortable wearing bib overalls, it hit me like a bolt out of the blue...humans are changing.
If I was one who believed in evolution, I might even think we were evolving into a new lifeform...a lifeform that has a voracious appetite accompanied by a very slow metabolism. If I believed in evolution, and if I were the scientist allowed to name new lifeforms, I'd call this new human sub-species, Abdomenabominable Slowman Species, or AS for short (scared you, didn't I?)
Anyway, it seems to me that probably through some sort of genetic mutation, rather than evolution, humans are becoming more and more obese.
And, I for one, intend to do something about it. I intend to milk this phenomenon for all it's worth. Let's make money off of these AS people. I've been trying to think of ways to do just that.
I am not a fashion designer. I know nothing of ergonomics, and medicine is not my strong suit. The one thing I know how to do is write.
So, as my way of capitalizing on the new wave of fat, I'm going to begin writing a soap opera for fat people. So often, thin, or otherwise normal people, tend to think that even those of us who are only grossly obese, are not romantic...have no sex appeal. Now, we fat people know that is not true. But, try and convince the entertainment industry of that. For instance, when was the last time you saw really fat people play the romantic leads in television shows or movies? Maybe never?
I'm going to start with a sweet little soap. But, I envision a day when there will be an entire network devoted to fat people.
Anyway, I'm at work now on my new daytime drama. I'm calling it The Folds Of Our Flesh.Catchy, don't you think?
Unfortunately, that's as far as I've gotten thus far. I've developed a bit of writer's block on this. And, so, I turn to all of you Anonymi out there. Surely, you can help me with character and plot development. I'd welcome any advice. Just be sure that all your characters are fat, and that food plays a large role in any plot.
Now, go to it. I think if we put our collective heads together, we're sitting on a goldmine here...or at least a good buffet.

My Hero

2007-02-07T10:19:00.000-05:00

I don’t know what triggered it, but I got to thinking about Johnny Venesky last night. I hadn’t thought about him in many, many years, but somehow he popped into my head. Chances are great that you’ve never heard of Johnny Venesky. The truth is he lived and died and was, for the most part, unknown.
But, when I was about five years old, Johnny Venesky was my hero. I guess kids are always fascinated by uniforms. That’s probably why so many boys aspire to be policemen or firemen when they grow up.
Johnny Venesky wore a uniform. He worked for the government. He was also a neighbor of my grandmother’s, living two doors down with his wife, Mabel. Mabel was a large woman, always laughing (as I recall), always friendly to the kids in the neighborhood, and when I was a kid, I spent many hours at my grandmother’s home, and accompanying her on visits with her neighbors.
The thing I remember about Mabel Venesky is that she had a talking dog. Mabel swore the dog could talk, and my grandmother attested to the dog’s rather unique ability herself. My grandmother once told my mother, "That dog looked at me and said 'Good morning, Mrs. Carter.'"
"Carter," however was not my grandmother's name. She had remarried by this time. So my mother replied that Mabel's dog must be pretty stupid not to know that my grandmother's name had changed. My mother always knows just what to say.
In retrospect, trying to remember Mabel, I think she was probably a somewhat educated woman, but the years had apparently not always been so good to her. By the time I was old enough to understand such things, it was clear Mabel suffered from agoraphobia. At least, that was my diagnosis. For the last twenty years or so of her life, Mabel Venesky would venture no further than her front porch. Even when Johnny died, Mabel refused to go to the funeral home.
Whether Mabel was a good wife, or Johnny was a good husband was a subject that never entered my little kid head. At the time, I didn’t know much about happy marriages or miserable marriages. Mabel and Johnny just were.
As I said, Johnny was a government worker. He had a uniform. He had his equipment, unique to his particular job, and Johnny kept his equipment in spic and span shape. I can remember Johnny returning home from work, going into the back yard and spending hours (or so it seemed) cleaning his gear and getting ready for the next day’s work.
I didn’t fully understand just what Johnny did for the government, at the time, but I knew it must be intriguing. Even though my father was on the verge of graduating from MCV, and then setting up a medical practice, I had no desire to be a doctor. I wanted to be like Johnny Venesky.
Johnny was friendly. Johnny always seemed happy. I think he genuinely loved what he did. And, while I can’t prove that, he exuded so much pride in his work that I knew I wanted to walk in Johnny’s footsteps when I grew up.
And there were plenty of footsteps in which to walk. Johnny spent a lot of time on his feet. You see, Johnny Venesky was a street sweeper. Not just any street sweeper, but a Carytown Street Sweeper, although, I’m not sure they called it Carytown in the mid-fifties.
Johnny had his little cart, replete with trashcans, brooms, dustpans, a shovel, and, as I recall, other pieces of equipment to help him practice his profession. Johnny’s cart seemed to me to be the most exciting contraption I had ever seen. On those summer days, when I was at my grandmother’s house, I couldn’t wait for Johnny to come trudging down the alley, no doubt fatigued by a day of pushing his cart through the streets of (then) West End Richmond.
Looking back on the conversations I had with Johnny, the truth is he probably wasn’t the most brilliant man to ever walk the streets. But, through the years, I’ve learned time and again that brilliance doesn’t always lead to success or happiness. What Johnny lacked in mental prowess, he more than made up for in dedication to his job. He had a job to do, and my guess is that he did it well.
On those cold winter mornings, and remember, this was before global warming, when the winter mornings were often hovering around the zero mark, and I mean Fahrenheit and not Celsius, Johnny would be up and out the door, even before daybreak. He’d pick up his little cart and push it out the back gate, down the alley, and out into the city streets…streets just waiting for Johnny to work his magic.
I never accompanied Johnny on his journeys, as much as I would have liked to, but I can imagine the day was long and hard. My back hurts just sweeping the kitchen floor, and I’m probably, today, about the same age Johnny was at the time he was sweeping streets.
Johnny Venesky, I am sure, took pride in his work. If most folks today took the same pride in their work as did Johnny Venesky, I imagine I’d have a lot less things to complain about. So, I guess, from the standpoint of my having material about which to write, I’m glad there are so few Johnny Venesky’s today. I’m definitely not Johnny material. I whine and gripe and complain about every little obstacle, which I encounter in my day-to-day.
And, unlike Johnny, I never have to sweep up cigarette butts, discarded newspapers, and, a never-ending supply of dog manure. I never have to walk the streets from sunrise to sunset. I gripe if I can’t find a parking spot right in front of the store.
I realize that as much as I admired Johnny Venesky, I never thanked him for cleaning my street. I never told him that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. But, in reflecting on how proud Johnny was of his job…in reflecting on how happy it seemed to make him that I was so keenly interested in watching him organize his equipment each evening in preparation for the next morning, I think Johnny would have liked that.
That’s been a lifetime ago, but I think the next time I see a McDonald’s wrapper, or a discarded beer can lying on the road, I’ll stop and pick it up…just a little tip of my hat to Johnny Venesky.

Many Are Cold; Few Are Frozen. I'm Frozen

2007-02-06T09:04:00.000-05:00

I am certainly thankful for global warming this morning. Think about it. If it were not for global warming, life as we know it would have been extinguished throughout much of the United States within the past few days.
I’m imagining that if we were not creating that greenhouse effect with our deodorant cans (or whatever, I don’t really care), the wind chills in Michigan and other northern states would have dipped down to, oh, I don’t know, maybe 500 degrees below zero.
They tell me that when it gets that cold, it’s almost impossible to start your car, or flush your toilet. And, if you can’t do either of those, what really is the point in living?
Speaking of wind chill factors, isn’t that about the most ridiculous thing you ever heard of? Jim Duncan tells me how cold it feels to me. How does he know? I think he could tell you his personal wind chill factor, but what might feel like 17 degrees to him, might feel like 15.75 degrees to me.
But, don’t get me started on weathermen. That’s about the most unnecessary job on earth. When you think about it, all they can really do is tell you the current temperature and what it’s doing or not doing outside. Once they get into prognostication, their abilities somewhat fall apart.
For instance, last week, several school systems shut down because the weathermen (and ladies, better known as weatherpersons) were calling for some sort of winter precipitation. We certainly got that. Years from now, they’ll be calling it the “Drizzle of ’07.”
The kids who were dismissed early from school last week will be telling their grandchildren, “When I was your age, the temperature dipped down into the mid-thirties, and a cold rain fell intermittently for much of the day. It was so bad, they had to shut the schools down.”
Of course, by that time, with this global warming thing, the kids will be sipping pina coladas under palm trees at their winter homes on Cape Cod. Due to glacial meltdowns, Cape Cod will be relocated to the Chicago area by then, I’m guessing.
Anyway, back to the present…I’m freezing this morning. I have my BVDs on. I only have one pair and I intend to wear them all week. The way I look at it, it’s better to feel good than to smell good.
Besides, it’s too cold in our office for smell to travel. Our boss Ebenezer Davis, keeps the thermostat at 60 degrees in here. If you notice any typos here, it’s because it’s just too hard to type with gloves on.
I hate gloves. I don’t know if I have a particular sensitivity to gloves or not, but once I put gloves on, it’s like I have shoes on my hands. I can’t pull anything out of my pocket. I can’t dial my cell phone. I can’t put the key in the ignition. I can’t even pick my nose. Actually, I can pick my nose, but…well, never mind.
My whole point here is this…I’m cold, uncomfortably so. Here, then is an open letter to big commerce. I’m appealing to the big corporate giants.

Dear Ruthless Businessmen and Unconcerned Contaminators of our Atmosphere:

Can’t you turn up the pollution just a bit more? Can’t you emit some additional gasses over the next few days? Can’t you speed up this global warming thing? If there’s anyway the temperature could be in the mid-70s by the time I head home this evening, I would be very appreciative. Thanks in advance for anything you can do.

Your frozen friend,

Steve

At Last...The New Official State Song of Virginia

2007-01-31T07:36:00.000-05:00

On those mornings when my creative juices aren't flowing all that well, I simply listen to Jimmy Barrett on WRVA radio. He has more than an ample supply of nutty stories and strange people. Today, however, I heard something during my morning drive in to work that brought out, what I like to think is, the genius in me.
It seems that the neverending search for a state song has taken on renewed energy, what with the Queen of England coming to town this year, and all. I guess Virginians want the not-so-Virgin Elizabeth to know just how talented we are. Do you get the impression that Americans still feel we have something to prove to the British. Hey, just because you guys speak with that hoity-toity accent doesn't make you any better than us. Okay, maybe it does, but at least the guys here in America don't dress up like queens. Okay, maybe some do, but anyway, I don't think we really need to impress the queen...oh, excuse me, the Queen.
However, that being said, I did rush in to the office this morning and write the state song. Listen up Virginia, your search is over. Jimmy Dean and Steve Bassett and all the rest of you guys, including my good friend, the extremely talented Victor Gotlieb, can hang it up. Steve Cook has written a sure bet.
This song has number one on the list of state songs written all over it. So, here, for your reading enjoyment, is the new Official State Song of Virginia. Oh yeah, I haven't come up with a tune yet. So, if you want to write the music, please feel free to do so. I'll even give you some of the credit.
I call my song, "No Matter How You Spell It, It's Still Virginia To Me. Catchy, huh?
Here it is:

"V" simply means you're very, very, very pretty (pronounced Pri-Tee')
"I" refers to who is singing about you and that would be me
"R" stands for Richmond. It's the state capital you see
And when you think about how good you are, you've quickly got your "G"
"I" really do love you Virginia
I love everything that's "N" ya
And "I" have just one more thing to say
Oklahoma may be just okay, but on the state report card, Virginia, you've earned an "A"

No matter how you spell it.
You're always Virginia to me.
And the fact that Virginia you're swell, it
seems perfectly clear to me.

"V" says we welcome the visit of the Queen
"I" is still about me, a person she's never seen
But Liz, I want to ask you, "R" you gonna want to meet
The "G"uy who wrote a song about a state so sweet?
"I" am awaiting for you to come to town
"N" means notify me. I'm sure to be around
There is no "I" or "A" to this verse, so to honor the first Elizabeth, so greatly famed.
If she hadn't been a virgin, I shudder to think what Virginia might have been named.

No matter how you spell it.
You're always Virginia to me.
And the fact that Virginia you're swell, it
seems so perfectly clear to me.

Well, there you have it. I'm just sitting back now, waiting for the cards and letters and emails of appreciation to pour in, and wondering just how rich I might get over this. Feel free to write me and tell me how proud you are of me. I never tire of such correspondence.

They Don't Know Their Aspartame From A Hole In the Ground

2007-01-30T06:56:00.000-05:00

Have you ever had really bad customer service? Just kidding. Of course you have. That is if you ever have the opportunity to leave your house and interact with corporate America.
I had two great examples of miserable customer service Friday night...one at a funeral home, the other at one of those trendy bagel/coffee/menu items you can't pronounce sort of places.
First the funeral home...an elderly long-time friend died and I was trying to help the family with some last minute details of the funeral while at visitation Friday night. I needed to speak with the director on duty. Only one problem...the director on duty was, in effect, the director on the telephone...for two solid hours.
Now, it's true, he was legitimately busy. He was trying to get a dead body picked up. He made that loud and clear, so that anyone standing within 100 feet of him would have known there was a dead body that need moving.
I went to the front desk in order to speak with the director on three occasions during my time in the funeral home. I waited patiently, if you call tapping one's foot and clearing one's throat incessantly patient. He, the director, that is, never even looked up. He kinda reminded me of the woman who used to work the Merit Gas Station at Wistar and Broad. In the ten or so years that I gasssed up there, that woman never got off the phone. Morning, noon, and night, she was on the phone.
And, when you tried to conduct business with her, she'd extracate the phone from her ear long enough to answer your question. She always answered in a whisper. I guess she didn't want to be rude and make the persons on the other end of the phone feel they came secondary to the customers.
They eventually razed that little cashier's booth at the gas station and rebuilt it. I think the woman remained on the spot, cointinuously talking on the phone during the entire renovation process.
Well, Mr. Funeral Director was very much like Ms. Gas Station Attendant, except for the moustache. The funeral director didn't have one. When we first entered the funeral home, he did courteously place his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and mouthed the words, "Can I help you?"
When we told him whom we were there to visit, he just pointed, so as to not interrupt his phone call any more than absolutely necessary. I don't know about you, but to me, that's poor customer service.
After we left the funeral home, my wife and I headed to a little way-overpriced sandwich and coffee shop, recently constructed at Willow Lawn Shopping Center. When we entered the building, there were two cashiers and two lines. Cashier A had a line about ten people deep. Cashier B had only one person in her lane. Putting a curse on the woman in front of me, I got into Cashier B's line.
My wife, knowing my ability to put a curse on cashiers, got in the long line. We were playing "Race to the Register." And, except for the fact that I always get in the line destined to stall, I should have beat her by several minutes.
The woman in front of me ordered two dozen bagels. The cashier's response should have tipped me off that this was no brain surgeon moonlighting at the cafe. "Is that for here or to go," the lovely young moron asked.
"I know I look like I could eat two dozen bagels by myself," the customer responded, "but, it's to go." The customer then told the lady the combination of bagels she desired...you know, so many cinnamon, so many poppy-seed, and so forth.
The cashier rang the order up. Then she asked the lady if she would repeat the order. Then she attempted to repeat the order back to her. Each time she attempted, the cashier called out a different combination. Meanwhile my wife is getting closer and closer to the register in line A.
Finally, Cashier B hands the lady in front of me her receipt and then goes to the bagel bin and starts flinging bagels down some sort of metal chute. I'm guessing it was an automatic cutter. She throws a few bagels down and then she starts looking confused. She asks the customer if she can have the receipt back in order to see what combination the lady wanted. The customer good-naturedly says, "Just give me a combination. I don't care what it is."
I think that only served to confuse the cashier even further. The lady turns to me and tells me that every time she comes into this particular cafe, the service is slow.
"It's the Howard Johnson's of coffee shops," I suggest. We would have continued to enjoy a good laugh remembering the horrible service that one used to get at Howard Johnson restaurants, but my wife has now reached register A. She wins...again.
So, I go on over and join her. She places the order. It goes rather smoothly, except for the fact that the cashier mixes up two to three items. For one thing, I had asked for a diet root beer. It was one of those Jones Soda bottles. I think they're cool, so I don't mind spending four bucks for a fifty cent drink. I get my bottle of root beer, pour it into a cup of ice and begin drinking. This is pretty good for diet, I think, and look at the label to see if they use Splenda. No wonder it tastes so good, it's got 48 grams of sugar. That cashier was so bad, she could have gotten a job at the funeral home.
I started to pretend I had gone into a diabetic coma just to drive home a lesson on the importance of good customer service, but I'm too tired to play the game. I'm just glad I didn't really go into a coma and die. Because then it would have been back to the funeral home for really bad customer service. And, I was way too tired for that.

Big Bad John

2007-01-24T09:44:00.000-05:00

I have a friend (I'll just call him "D.J.") who reminds me so much of the extremely late Robert Kennedy. No, D.J. is not as famous as Bobby Kennedy. But, then again, he's not nearly as dead either. And, I'm betting D.J. would trade the fame for being alive.
D.J. reminds me, I guess, not so much of Bobby Kennedy, himself, but of something Bobby Kennedy said. You may recall his famous line. Or, if you're like some people I know, you may have a pillow on your rocking chair with this statement needlepointed on it.
Of course, I'm referring to this famous statement, "There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why? I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?" Now, before you email me and inform me that Bobby Kennedy never actually said this, remember one important thing...I don't care.
But, getting back to D.J...for years I looked at something and never even had the gumption to ask "why?" Until, D.J. brought it up the other night in a Bobby Kennedy-like way. His question had to do with the doors in public restrooms. I think D.J. has been dreaming up a new way to get out of the restroom. And, his point is well-taken.
"Why is it," he asked wisely, "that you can push your way into a restroom, but you have to grab a handle to get out?" Now, D.J. did not call it a "urine-infested handle," but I'm sure that's what he was thinking.
It's what I think every time I leave a public restroom. I'll usually use my paper towel to grab hold of the handle. Now the trick is to open the door, then run throw the paper towel away, and make it back to the door before it closes. Or else, I'll end up sticking a wet paper towel in my pocket. I have enough bulges from excess poundage. I sure don't want anything else making me look larger than life.
It would seem to me that people with public restrooms would wise up, and reverse the doors. I wish I could be like Bobby Kennedy, and D.J. and ask why not, or even why, depending upon how I phrase the question. But, no, in a very lemming-like way, I just keep opening the doors with paper towels.
Speaking of which, what do you do when the restroom has a hand dryer? I hate hand dryers. Typically, they just blow cold air on wet hands, which doesn't do anything about drying, just makes one's hands colder. You can't open a door with a hand dryer. Well, actually you could, but that would mean ripping the hand dryer from the wall first, and I've always had a feeling that doing that would not be welcomed by most business owners.
I did use a new-fangled hand dryer the other day that was so powerful, it almost blew my hands off my wrists. I feel sure that when no one is using the bathroom, NASA is probably testing their rockets under the dryer. If I could have aimed the blower in the right direction, I probably could have opened the door with the blast, or at least ripped the hinges off the door.
Since we're talking about public restrooms, let me weigh in on a couple of other things. Something that really bothers me in some public restrooms are the detailed instructions posted on the wall, showing the employees of the company how to wash their hands. You've probably seen such. The instructions tell you how to turn the faucet on, how long to run your hands under the water, how to dispense the soap, and so forth. Now, my thinking is that if the employees are too dumb to know how to wash their hands, what must be happening in the kitchen?
There's one more thing that I really hate about some of the fancier public restrooms. It's not all that prevalent, but when I encounter it, I cringe. It's the public restroom attendant. When I was in California a few years ago, it seems all the nice restaurants have them.
These guys just sit there, on their little stool by the door, looking at you, with those begging, pleading, leave-me-a-tip eyes. For starters, I'm not keen on anyone looking at me while I'm using a restroom. I suffer from what they call in the industry, SB Syndrome, or, Shy Bladder Syndrome for short. Even when I'm alone, I have to hum, or do some sort of Kennedy Space Center countdown before I can get the show on the road.
In a public restroom, with others around, it's much harder, and when there is an attendant staring, it's downright impossible. My bladder just kind of twists itself up in a knot.
Secondly, I hate to tip someone for letting me use the bathroom. But, how do you walk past the guy and ignore him? He's standing right at the door, offering me a towel, or soap, or even mouthwash. If I use any of those things, I feel obliged to tip him. Sometimes if I think quickly enough, I'll limp past him. I figure he might think I'm more needy than he is.
I do like those public restrooms that have all the toiletries, as long as there's no busybody begging for tips. I especially like the mouthwash. I think it's nice to leave the restroom with fresher breath than when I went in. Of course, there is a little stigma to drinking in a restroom, but I will use the mouthwash, especially if I've just had a beer. And, yes, I admit, I will drink a beer or two from time to time. I guess I'm more of the Teddy Kennedy type.

Paybacks are Hellish (It's Okay to Say That, Isn't It?)

2007-01-17T08:01:00.000-05:00

Here's a little personal tidbit you might not be aware of. I'm a black man. Not 100%, probably less than 5%, but I am. At least I'm pretty sure of that. I'm also a white man, and, I think, just a wee bit Eskimo. I'm not sure about the Eskimo part, but I know I really love their pies.
So, what's my point? It's this...I think it's high time we all stopped making race an issue. That goes for this reparation foolishness. And it really is foolishness when you think about it...I mean really think, not just emote.
First question, who gets repared. I guess that's the word. Or, maybe it's just repaid. But who gets the money? The obvious answer is descendants of slaves get it. Okay. great. I'm for that. At least the black man part of me is for that. The white guy part isn't all that thrilled. But, I have always been a little stingy on my white side.
Consider this, ever since the first Afro-Africans were brought to this country in the early 1600s, there's been a lot of intermingling, if you get my drift. Can anyone today truly claim to be 100% anything? I don't think so.
So, who gets the money? Wouldn't everyone who had an ancestor who was a slave be entitled? That only seems fair. So, where do I line up for my money?
Next question, who pays? Does everyone who has a shred of white blood in him have to pay? Again, I'd think that would be the fair thing to do. So, all the descendants of slaves who want reparations, are you willing to pay it too, because I bet most of you have some white blood in you.
So, I have an idea. I think it would save a lot of time fighting and figuring to do this: Let each of us descendants of slaves decide how much money we'd want in reparations. Then let us have our slave-owner-descendant-side write us a check. I think if we're repaying ourselves, we're going to bend over backwards to be fair to ourselves, and, after all, isn't that what everyone wants...fairness?
Call me the great peace maker, please. Yes, I'm a modern day Rodney King. Can't we all just get along?
I mean aren't there more important things to worry about. For instance, why is it that on one side of the street gas is selling for $1.97 a gallon and on the other side of the street, there's a station selling it for $2.14 a gallon? And furthermore, why are there two guys filling their cars on the $2.14 side?
Now that's the sort of person who needs some sort of reparation.
.

Remembering Mary Lynn cooK

2007-01-15T11:06:00.000-05:00

They say one should never attempt to write a column when one is filled with grief. But, I say, why not? It might be therapeutic.
I am grief stricken today. I guess you can understand why, when I tell you…I’m left handed.
You did hear the news, didn’t you? They (not the same they that say you should never write a column…) are now saying that left-handed people are left-handed because when we were first conceived we had a twin, who somehow dissolved within us.
First of all, I say, “Yuck!” But then I reflect on my grief. I think of the implications. There must have been two of me. Well, actually not two of me, because I think when I do my reflecting that this dissolved twin theory answers a lot of other questions I’ve had in my life.
For instance, if I’m in a large group and I hear someone yell, “Hey, Mary Lynn,” I always turn my head. Do you suppose my dissolved twin was a beautiful little baby girl, named Mary Lynn. Makes sense to me.
I know you’re hoping for some sort of sick confession from me that, as a child, I liked to play with dolls. Nothing like that. But, I always did enjoy the smell of fingernail polish remover. Still do, as a matter of fact.
I think that’s Mary Lynn speaking. And, as much as I would have loved my little sister, I have a feeling she would have been the evil twin. It is my understanding that in all twin relations, there’s a good twin and an evil twin. I learned that from watching soap operas as a child.
Just like on every police force, there is a good cop and a bad cop. Only sometimes the good cop becomes the bad cop and the bad cop the good cop, but I digress.
Mary Lynn must have had a very evil side to her. I know one shouldn’t speak ill of the dissolved, but I have to face facts. That was one evil little girl. Or how else can you explain that someone as kind and loving and thoughtful as I can sometimes think such evil thoughts?
For instance, have you ever been driving down the road and passed a student-driver? And, did you ever have a desire to ram that car off the road, just to let the student driver know how dangerous it can be on the highway? If so, then, you’re either an evil twin, or you’re left-handed. Up til now, I mistakenly thought I was evil.
I didn’t want to think evil of myself, but sometimes I say things to people that I know are not polite. For instance, just this weekend, I phoned a local cab company and asked the guy how much to take a cab from one place to another.
He answered in some sort of a terrorist dialect. It made me (really, Mary Lynn) so mad, I (she) said, “I can’t understand a word you said.” And I hung up. I was blaming myself for that, but now, it would appear I’ve been too hard on myself. Mary Lynn deserves every bit of the blame.
I’m not glad she dissolved, but to be honest, the poor thing would have had a hard row to hoe in life, what with her evilness and all. But, still, perhaps with my good example as her big brother, she would have come around.
One more thing…I asked my mother if she knew about Mary Lynn. She feigned ignorance. But, how else could you explain her wanting me to wear a strapless gown to my senior prom? It’s all making a lot of sense to me now.
I wish I’d known about my twin years ago. But, better late than never. Mary Lynn, I’m going to spend this day remembering you.

The Rest of the STORY

2007-01-12T15:56:00.000-05:00

I’m somewhat of a motivational guru. But then, I really don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure my abilities to motivate shine through quite clearly. I thought it might be nice for me to use this space today to share a heartwarming tale, which I personally believe will teach you a thing or two about life. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy telling it.
You probably have never heard of Ronnie Everwood. There’s a reason for that. Let me tell you about him.
Back in Jayhawk, Kansas, in the early fifties, there probably wasn’t a faster runner in town than fifteen-year old Ronnie Everwood. “Ronnie never walked, he always ran,” his mother, Edna Middleton, recalls.
“That boy was a runner, alright,” his stepfather, Earl Middleton agrees.
What Ronnie had in running ability, though, he lacked in self-confidence. However, after much encouragement from his friends, the school track coach, and his parents, Ronnie Everwood agreed to join his high school track team.
Ronnie did quite well in practice, but come the day for the big track meet, as the teams gathered, along with a sizeable crowd of high school track enthusiasts, Ronnie was nowhere to be found.
Finally, just before the match was to begin, the likeable kid was discovered hiding in a toilet stall in the boy’s locker room. “What’s wrong,” Coach Danielson asked, tussling the youngster’s hair.
“I just don’t believe I can win,” Ronnie said.
“You can only do what you believe you can do,” the coach said wisely. “You have to believe in yourself first.”
After much coaxing, Ronnie suited up and ran to the track. His parents, who had been nervously scanning the field, breathed sighs of relief.
Moments later the starter’s gun fired and the boys were off. Ronnie got off to a great start. After the first lap, he led by about ten yards. By the end of lap number two, he had about doubled that, and he’d virtually doubled it again after lap three.
But then something happened. Ronnie simply quit running. Why? No, it wasn’t an injury. He wasn’t winded. He simply gave up because he didn’t believe in himself. And, there, the story of Ronnie Everwood ends.
Half a century later, has anyone ever heard of Ronnie Everwood? Go ahead, and do a search on the name in Google. You won’t find it. There’s a good reason for that. Perhaps, you’ve already guessed it.
You see, the truth is there never was a Ronnie Everwood. Edna and Earl Middleton? Figments of my fertile imagination. Heck, for all I know, there is no Jayhawk, Kansas. I made the entire story up.
Did you learn a thing or two, as I predicted you would? Hopefully, you’ve learned never to trust anyone. I sincerely hope you realize how easily you can be duped. I could have used this outright fabrication to try and motivate you. But, no, I’m too decent a guy for that.
But beware. There are people out there, in this cold, hard world, even some parents, who will lie to you just to make you a better person. Will you fall for it? Will you better yourself based on some lie? It’s something to think about.
You see, I could have told you to think of Ronnie Everwood the next time you were ready to give up. But that would be like telling you to think about Hansel and Gretel the next time your parents ask you to go with them for a walk in the woods. Why waste your time thinking about fairy tales and other assorted lies.
Thankfully, you were in safe hands with me today. The next time some motivational speaker approaches you; you just might not be so lucky.

Alexander Graham Bellyaching

2007-01-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

I haven’t slept a wink in two nights? I’m sure you are as excited as am I with regards to Apple’s new IPhone. This is perhaps the most important event in the history of mankind. It’s unbelievable. Just imagine…you are imagining, aren’t you? It’s a phone, an ipod, a movie viewer, it’s a computer, it’s a pda. The deluxe version even comes with a bottle opener attached.
Do you know what this means? It means that ultimately the average American can receive horrible customer service for everything they ever need and all from the same provider. It means that we can be put on hold for upwards of six to twelve hours a day. It means new customer service jobs for millions of non-English speaking citizens of the world’s smaller nations.
And that’s just for starters. Just imagine (keep imagining) the technological implications. Everyone who is walking around with those Bluetooth thingamabobs in their ears today, will one day, in the not too distant future, be walking around with a satellite dish hanging out their pants.
And speaking of Bluetooth…have you noticed how ridiculously ridiculous these morons look whom you see in the grocery stores and malls? At first glance, I think they’re just deviants who talk to themselves. But, as they get closer, and I can see the Bluetooth, I realize they’re far worse than your typical mental cases of yesteryear. This is a new breed of idiot…someone not just crazy, but also impressed with himself and his technology.
Something else that doesn’t make sense to me is that for years people, especially the more mature (sometimes pronounced “elderly”), clamored for hearing aids that were undetectable. Hearing aid manufacturers labored to reduce what once looked like a transistor radio down to the point that today a hearing aid merely looks like a grotesque ball of earwax.
And now, these techno-freaks walk around with what could easily be mistaken for harmonicas hanging out of their ears. And they’re proud of it!
It doesn’t make sense. On one hand, you have people who will deprive themselves of the enjoyment of actually understanding what other people are saying because they don’t want the stigma of having a hearing aid, and, on the other hand, you have those who will stick a big metal box in the side of their head so that, God forbid, they don’t miss out on any opportunity to tell Aunt Betsy what Rosie O’Donnell said this morning, or to find out about Aunt Betsy’s latest tattoo.
Of course, there are also those wannabe high-power, business-people types…the ones who are so impressed with themselves and who love to walk through a crowd pretending to be making deals via their cell phone. These obnoxious boors are the first to click their cell phones on as soon as the airplane hits the ground and, speaking loudly enough for all on the plane to hear them, start scheduling appointments and conferences and the like.
I’m sure these will be among the first to have the new IPhones.
When you think about it, modern technology is wonderful. It’s a great equalizer, in a way. Trailer park trash (not to be confused with any of my wonderful readers who live in mobile homes) and egomaniacal yuppies have become somewhat co-mingled in their use and misuse of this technology. And now, thanks to the new IPhone, the TPT can get in the pick-up and head down to Aunt Betsy’s without having to miss a moment of professional wrestling, while the suits can listen to their latest motivational recording and make million dollar deals while shopping in their favorite gourmet boutique.
And when you think about it, isn’t that what makes life so great on this big blue ball that I like to call earth?

Buy It By the Gross

2007-01-10T08:35:00.000-05:00

I received an email this morning from one of my readers. Wow! I’ve never used that term before. I have a reader, a real honest to goodness reader. You tolerate me. You really tolerate me.
Anywho, she (the reader) makes some interesting points about a new era of grossness in advertising. First, let me share her thoughts:

"Hey, Steve, I've been reading your blog as often as I can (one of your "handful" of friends who is addicted to it), and I thought maybe if you wanted to do a column with a gross subject, I had an idea. I was walking around in Wal-Mart the other night and was struck by how some new cold remedies had the word "mucus" in their names. The commercials are gross, too. They have blubbery little green men (and little mucus kids, too) waddling around and setting up housekeeping in your lungs, until someone takes their mucus remedy and the little mucus people are forcefully ejected. Euuuw, thank heavens they never show you on the commercials where the little mucus people end up after the cough.
Another gross commercial is the one where the little fungus people lift some poor guy's toenail up as if it were a lid and then starts digging away in the skin under the toenail along with hundreds, maybe thousands of his buddies. Then the fungus remedy comes by and saves the day and scares the little buggers off. The first commercial had the remedy actually run over and squish the little fungus guy, but I guess they thought it was too violent and gruesome, what with the cute little fungus laying there dead with his tongue hanging out. In the newer commercials, the fungus remedy just looks threateningly at the fungus person who then runs away."

I agree with the reader. I prefer not to think about the word “mucus.” “Snot” is a much more dainty term, don’t you think?
The thing that really bothers me about those commercials, though is that it humanizes fungi and mucus and the like. When the little fellow under the toenail goes to his reward, so to speak, I’m devastated. Fungy, we hardly knew ye.
It’s the same way with the Raid commercials. I hate cockroaches in the flesh, but the cartoon roaches are just so darn cute that I’m sad to see them get it. I find myself sometimes rooting for the roach. That sounds like a lyric from a 60s rock song, doesn’t it?
Speaking of gross, I had a great idea for a toilet paper commercial a few years back, but everyone I pitched it to thought it was too gross. The commercial showed two people sitting on toilets (nothing revealing, just from the waist up). Anyway, one of the guys is looking disgusted and you see his finger has ripped through the toilet tissue.
The other guy is holding his wad of toilet tissue in the air proudly. His finger has not ripped his paper. The announcer says, “BRAND NAME is proud to announce no new breakthroughs.
Pretty clever, eh? Would you believe no one wanted to use my idea? Me either.
One more commercial that disgusts me is the toilet paper spot showing bears in the woods, with their roll of toilet paper attached to a tree. It creates a visual image that I’d rather not have.
Speaking of bears, today’s the day Governor Mayor Wilder announces the name of the second Maymont bear. I’m so excited I can hardly think straight. I had been thinking that the name Bobby the Baby Biting Bear would be good, but after rereading my column today, I’m going to make a last minute suggestion…Grunty.

A Kinder, Gentler Steve

2007-01-09T12:39:00.000-05:00

I don’t know if this constitutes a medical emergency or not, but my anger level is way down. I was thinking about it this morning. There are very few things I really hate right now.
That has me worried. They say that when you run out of things to scream about, you just slowly fade away. Well, they don’t say it. I do, but I believe I know as much as they do anyway.
Even my experience with Sprint Telephone customer service yesterday didn’t reach the ranting and raving stage. True, I did call the guy an idiot. But, if you’d been there you’d have done the same.
I didn’t even scream it at the top of my lungs. I just sort of matter-of-factly said, “Hey, you are an idiot.”
Let me tell you what happened. I couldn't make a call on my cell...kept being told my account could not be validated. So, I call customer service. They say my account looks fine, and that they will transfer me to technical support. I was then put on hold for fifty minutes waiting for technical support and then technical support comes on and tells me, “Oh yeah, there’s nothing wrong with your phone, we’re having a problem on the East Coast.”
“Well, why couldn’t you let your customer service people know that so I wouldn’t have had to wait so long,” I asked meekly.
His reply was one that in the old days would have had my arm reaching into the phone in order to throttle some neck, even if said neck was attached to a head in Bombay. But, rather than becoming hostile, I just quietly suggested that he might be an idiot.
What’s happening to me? Even this morning I had an experience that should have sent me over the edge. I should have run screaming through the house, but instead, I just said to myself, “Oh well. That’s life.”
That’s life? How could I have remained so calm? Oh, yeah, you don’t know what happened do you? I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I got the tube. It’s one of these new-fangled flip-top caps that the toothpaste people are so excited about. The problem is that these big dad-blasted caps simply create a receptacle for toothpaste to harden in. So, after one or two squeezes, the opening becomes scabbed over, as it were, making squeezing toothpaste on one’s brush nearly impossible.
Even though I didn’t go ballistic over the tube problem, which any normal human would have done, I do have a question or two I’d like to ask a customer-service rep with the toothpaste company about. I'm not upset. I just kinda would like to know.
First of all, were the old screw-off caps so much of a problem that they needed to create a new cap? I mean, I’m as lazy as they come, but I never really minded a couple of twists of the old cap.
Personally, I’d prefer they spend more time on new flavors than on new caps. For instance, what about a hamburger flavored toothpaste? Now, that would be a great way to start my day. Or devil's food cake with white icing. Now that would be a flavor.
When I was a kid, someone gave my father a bourbon-flavored toothpaste. It didn’t contain alcohol, just the taste. But, I was sneaking into the bathroom and brushing my teeth eight to ten times a day. Whatever happened to those good old days?
My second question, getting back to toothpaste tube caps, is this, do you guys ever stop to actually “test-drive” your caps before you start putting them on tubes and selling them? I’m sure that if anyone in R&D had taken that flip top tube home and used it a few days, the fool thing would never have gotten out the door. What’s wrong with you people?
Hold on. Do I seem to be getting irritated? Yes! Yes, I do, in fact. This is great. I’m actually getting mad just thinking about that stupid toothpaste tube. Every day or two I have to clean that scummy dross out. (I don’t know what scummy dross is, but I’ve always wanted to use the term). It’s not a pleasant job. It’s thick and hard and icky. And I hate it.
Gee, my blood pressure is soaring over this. I’m feeling giddy. Of course, I know that’s just the diabetes speaking, but hey, I feel alive again.
Life is great. Let me call that Sprint guy back and tell him what I really think of him.

A Wrinkle In Time

2007-01-04T08:56:00.000-05:00

I was talking to my oldest and, yes, dearest, friend, Jon Pope this morning. Okay, I barely know the guy, but he laughs at my jokes, which not only makes him my best friend, it also proves to me the guy's a genius.
Anyway, I have Jon convinced I'm a successful songwriter, and that I'm only working for this company as a community service sort of thing in order to make restitution for an armed robbery a couple of years back.
So, this morning Jon tells me he has an idea for a song. He thinks I should write a song about how when you're having fun, time goes by so quickly, but when you're bored, it just drags slowly by. He's right.
I've often thought that one of the true benefits of my boring existance is that it makes it feel like I'm living longer. But, anyway, I digress. I liked Jon's idea. And, I have to humor him with this songwriting pretense.
So, I sat down and I wrote a little song I like to call, "A Wrinkle In Time." Here, for your listening enjoyment is that song. You'll have to make up your own tune, of course.

I was watching the sci-fi channel just the other night
And they was talking about a subject that to me just don’t seem right
So, I thought I’d sit me down and put my thoughts in rhyme
And try to figger out that thing they call a wrinkle in time

A wrinkle in time. A wrinkle in time
Just the thought has me scratching my head
I don’t xactly know what they was a talking about
But I sure know that I’m mighty afraid.

You see the truth is there’s always been those wrinkles in time
It’s not science fiction. It’s really more like a crime
It’s like when you’re watching your favorite TV show
And your wife starts in to talking about what her days been like, don’t you know.

You’re trying to hear what they’re saying on the TV set
But your wife’s a chattering, she hasn’t taken a breath yet.
How come fore you know it the show’s almost done
And Bertha the missus, well she’s just begun

The thirty minute TV show breezed right past your ears
But your wife’s thirty minutes, well, they seemed like years
Yet it’s the same thirty minutes. Folks, I gotta tell you that I’m
Awfully confused about that dad blasted wrinkle in time.

I Only Complain As a Last Resort

2007-01-03T13:20:00.000-05:00

You know how much I hate to complain. But sometimes things happen that force me to air my grievances. For instance, my wife and I spent a couple of nights in a relatively nice hotel recently. Actually, it is a very resort-like facility. You’d think that I wouldn’t be able to find anything about which to complain. Think again.
This resort, like so many of the upscale hotels, are using so-called environmental issues as an excuse to not have to do laundry. You probably know what I’m talking about.

They have this little sign in the bathroom. It reads something like this:

In an effort to conserve the natural resources of this big dying planet, earth, we will only wash towels if you demand it. Now, if you don’t care if our home becomes uninhabitable…if you’re all in favor of seeing you and your family dead, then go ahead and put your towels in the basket, and begrudgingly, we’ll wash them. If you, on the other hand, want to see your kids grow up, we’d suggest you just keep using the same towels day in and day out.

Now, normally, I’ll use the same towel at home for a year or more. After all, I reason, it’s only used to dry off my already clean body, so why replace it? But, there’s something about going to a hotel that makes me want to use a fresh towel every day. In fact, I’d like them to come in and replace the towel after I dry my back and before I dry the front side.
So, I throw all caution to the wind and throw my towel in the basket. Actually, I don’t. I just throw my towel on the floor. That’s another perk of staying in a hotel. You can toss your towels anywhere you wish, and then walk all over them. And, voila, the next day, you have clean towels neatly folded on the rack.
This hotel also has an aversion to changing sheets. I’m wondering how many other guys may have been lying under the same sheets as I, just because none of us took the time to take the “Change the Sheets” card and place it at a 45 degree angle on the desk. Because if you don’t do that, the same ol’ sheets go right back on the bed. Pretty disgusting, eh?
There was something else I didn’t like about my hotel room…horseshoe toilet lids. You know the sit down/stand up lid? I like my lid to go all the way around. I never understood this open-ended lid mentality. My biggest concern is that it provides some wanna be sharpshooters too much of a temptation to try and do the job without lifting the lid.
I hate lifting the lid in a public restroom as much as the next guy. In fact, I’d say if there was one real benefit to being a woman, it’s that you never have to lift the lid. But, my good manners move me to always lift the lid. Oops, I guess I’ve kind of gotten off the subject at hand.
There were other things I didn’t especially care for at this so-called resort. For instance, they use that stupid faucet in the shower that is designed to scald you. You’ve probably seen them. It’s almost impossible to tell which end is the pointer. Is the fool thing pointing to hot or pointing to off?
I always choose the wrong way, and I always get burned. I know the inventor of this faucet is a sadist. I hope he’s getting his jollies knowing what he’s done to me, on more than one occasion.
And, one more thing I didn’t like…The hotel has these really fancy white bath robes you can put on. I never wear robes, unless I’m staying in a hotel that has them. There’s something just kinda luxuriant about the whole thing.
However, the hotel has a little card hung up by the robes that says, “Luxurious to wear, Soft to hold. If it leaves the room, Consider it sold."
What’s with that? They don’t put similar warnings on the TV or the lamps or the chairs, or even the pillows. Obviously the robes are not like the shower caps. No one is his or her right mind would think they’re a giveaway item. I think it’s just sad that people pay big bucks to spend the night in this resort and then they’re made to feel like a criminal.
Hey, if I wanted to be treated like a criminal, I’d go to Sam’s Club. Anyway, I wrote a card of my own which I hung up next to the robes. It read:
"Scratchy to my skin. Puts me in a bad mood. If I get a rash, Consider yourself sued."
Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Anyway, my mini-vacation is over. I’m back home. And now I have nothing about which to complain. But, don’t worry. I’ll think of something.

A VISIT TO GERIATRIC PARK

2006-12-29T08:32:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Yet More Random Observations

2006-12-27T09:40:00.000-05:00

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

That's An Elfish Thing To Do

2006-12-21T09:21:00.000-05:00

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

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

2006-12-20T08:51:00.000-05:00

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

More Random Acts of Stupidity

2006-12-15T14:26:00.000-05:00

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

Good Orning E-ree-ody

2006-12-06T08:18:00.000-05:00

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

STEVE: Thank you ladies and germs.

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

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

CHARLIE: (muffled) eppp mmm nnnnn dddddox

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

AUDIENCE: (Laughter and applause)

STEVE: So Charlie, what's new?

CHARLIE: i don't know i nnnn dah ox

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

CHARLIE: i haaa et n air

STEVE: You hate it in there?

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

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

CHARLIE: He eeks without oooin his litz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHARLIE: I in wood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STEVE: So Charlie, do you have a nickname?

CHARLIE: Yeah, knothead

STEVE: Any relatives?

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

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

CHARLIE: Yeah

STEVE: What are their names?

CHARLIE: Well, there's aple.

STEVE: Maple...

CHARLIE: And Ellnnn

STEVE: Elm....

CHARLIE: And Pine

STEVE: Ine...

CHARLIE: And, little fig

STEVE: Little ig.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HECKLER: So there, yourself.

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

STEVE: Say goodbye Charlie.

CHARLIE: Good eye, Charlie.

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

Is There Anyone I Haven't Offended Here?

2006-12-05T14:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Nerve of Some Presidents

2006-12-01T09:18:00.000-05:00

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

My Name Is Steve C.

2006-11-29T23:03:00.000-05:00

You may have noticed that I haven't written much lately. There's a reason for that, and I figure I may as well come right out and tell you what it is. It's not pretty. It's not something I'm proud of. But, it's the cold hard facts.
I've been in rehab, fighting an addiction...Tetris.
It started so innocently. I bought a new cell phone about a year ago and was allowed by the marvelously generous folks at Sprint to download a free game. I chose Tetris. If you're not familiar with it, Tetris is a Russian game where you try to fit various shaped pieces together. When you get a whole line completed you score points. Sounds like fun, eh? Well it was...at first. But, you know those Russians (hope I don't sound like Michael Richards here). They're devious. Even their president goes around poisoning ex-spies.
And they poisoned my mind. Really, they did. I started playing Tetris a few minutes here...a few minutes there, and before I realized what was happening, I was playing six to twelve hours a day.
I stayed up all night playing. I started taking sick days at work in order to stay home and play. I kept telling myself I could stop anytime I wanted to. And, I did, on many occasions, but each time that demon Tetris came back with a vengeance.
Recently I began to realize I'd hit rock bottom. I looked for some sort of twelve step program to help me stop. I went to a TA meeting. Unfortunately, this group had nothing to do with Tetris addiction.
Finally, when I was at wit's end, I saw an ad for a rehab clinic in Tampa, Florida...Sister Mary Krushchev's Tetris De-Tox and Cellulite Removal Ranch. Kill two birds with one stone, I thought.
So, away I went. It was a grueling four months. We were up at six every morning, eating a breakfast of seaweed and kelp. Then there were the group sessions. We'd introduce ourselves. And we'd have to confess to our addictions. Not everyone there suffered from Tetris addiction. There were Ms Pac Man addicts, and Super Mario addicts. Of course, there must have been a couple dozen Solitaire addicts. There was even a poor old man, probably in his eighties, who had been addicted to Pong for over forty years. That was very sad.
After a lunch of bean sprouts and ice cube sandwiches, we'd spend the afternoon weaving baskets or building submarines out of popcycle sticks. Then we'd have more meetings. Those of us who were addicted to Tetris would compare how many lines we had been doing each day.
Finally, after a dinner of oxygen and toothpicks, we'd turn in at about 7:30 PM. The first few nights, I'd sneak back up, get some construction paper and cut out little squares and rectangles and other shapes and then piece them together. After one of the ex-nuns who runs the place caught me and beat me mercilessly, I figured it was time to cut that out (no pun intended).
Well, the bottom line is I've been Tetris-free for over a week. Sure, I wake up at night in a sweat, thinking about the hopelessness of making a square fit when there was no space for it, but aside from that, I'm pretty clean. I feel great. I feel like a new man. I think I'm going to really enjoy life again.
Before I go, just one thing. Can any one out there loan me a cell phone?

Sorry Excuse.

2006-11-22T08:34:00.000-05:00

This whole Michael Richards fiasco, following somewhat on the heels of the Mel Gibson deal has opened up a rather painful memory from my past. Sometimes it helps to talk these things out, especially when I really can't think of anything else about which to write.
The painful, and up-til-now closeted event in my life goes back about a half a century, to my first grade days in Boones Mill Elementary School. It was the annual Boones Mill Elementary May Day Talent Show. Gee, I remember it like it was yesterday.
(INSERT DREAM LIKE MUSIC AND SPECIAL EFFECTS HERE)

Mrs. Williams (my first grade teacher): And now, everyone, little Stevie Cook will be performing his rendition of "I'm a Little Teapot." Let's have a big hand for Stevie.

Me: (shuffling onstage, placing one hand on my hip, and bending my other arm and hand to remarkably ressemble a spout) I'm a little teapot...short and stout..."

Floyd Clingenpeel (a bratty kid in the audience, not to be confused with his twin brother Lloyd Clingenpeel): You sure are short...and stout too.

Entire Audience: Laugh Laugh

Me: (LANGUAGE WARNING: Watch out, remove children from the room. I use the "B" word here) Oh yeah. You...you...you bugger eater.

Floyd: Who you calling bugger eater, fatso?

Me: You! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater! Bugger Eater!

At that point Mrs. Williams, and our principal, Mr. Gruver rushed me offstage. I had humiliated myself and the school. The story made the Franklin County Gazette the next week. My career in show business was pretty much destroyed.

I did go on a local TV talk show a few days later. That went something like this:
(MORE DREAMY MUSIC)

Me: What can I say, but I am truly sorry. I am sorry not only that I hurt Floyd Clingenpeel, but that i hurt bugger eaters everywhere. And not just bugger eaters. I know there are many that were hurt. For instance, take Sandra Wood, who is in my class. She doesn't eat buggers, at least not to my knowledge, but she chews ABC gum. She doesn't know that anyone knows that, but we all do. I'm sure she was hurt, because there really isn't much difference between a bugger eater and an ABC gum chewer. Or consider Bluford Overfelt. He's in the third grade and he still wets his bed at night. I overheard his mother tell my mother that he did. I'm sure he was hurt by my cruel words. To all of these people, I truly say "I'm sorry."

Now you would have thought that such a heartfelt apology would have put an end to the matter. You'd have thought we all could have had a good laugh and gotten back to the business of learning to read and write. But, noooooooo. It seems those kids at Boones Mill Elementary were not very forgiving. Charles Wimmer, who was in the second grade, and who was president of the ABEDL, that's the Anti-Bugger Eaters Defamation League, was very vocal in condemining me.
He said, and I quote, "It's unfortunate that Mr. Stevie Cook chose to go on a non-bugger eating TV show, with a non-bugger eating audience and apologize. I'd have felt more comfortable if he'd gone on Romper Room where most of the audience are bugger eaters."
It's that sort of mentality that pretty much did me in. Shortly thereafter, I moved from Boones Mill to Richmond. I changed my name from Stevie Cook to Steve Cook, and for the past fifty years I've been successful in keeping this nastiness hidden, but, thanks to Michael Richards all the pain and the hurt have come flooding back.
I heard from Bluford Overfelt last night. He admitted that he had a hard time living down the bed wetting reputation, and then confessed that just about the time he'd lived it down (within the past year or so), he's once again become incontinent. I consoled him. I told him what goes around comes around.
Neither of us knew exactly what that meant, but we both felt better. If there are any more of your Boones Millians out there who are still hurting over my unkind words, what can I say? Taking a cue from Mel Gibson and Michael Richards, let me well up a tear in my eye and say, "I'm sorry." That ought to take care of matters once and for all. And, if you don't like it, well, hey, I'm sorry.