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.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
No Small Fete
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Tied To Be Fit
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Imagine That
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
A Lesson in Stupidity
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
What's Next, Jesus Junior?
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.
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.
Monday, February 26, 2007
With Deep Regrets...
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
The Money of Love is the Root of All Evil
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?
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?
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
There Ought To Be a Law!
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?
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?
Monday, February 12, 2007
That's Mighty Big of Me
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
My Hero
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Many Are Cold; Few Are Frozen. I'm Frozen
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
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
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
At Last...The New Official State Song of Virginia
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
They Don't Know Their Aspartame From A Hole In the Ground
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Big Bad John
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Paybacks are Hellish (It's Okay to Say That, Isn't It?)
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.
.
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.
.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Remembering Mary Lynn cooK
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.
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.
Friday, January 12, 2007
The Rest of the STORY
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.
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.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Alexander Graham Bellyaching
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?
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?
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Buy It By the Gross
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.
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.
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