I’m feeling just a little sad right now. I know. I know. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions which I ought not...to jump to, that is. Maybe I’ve come to expect the worst, when indeed, the end result is not always the worst. Although most of the time in my life, even when I was expecting the second or third thing from the worst, I ended up with the worst. (I'm not talking about my wife here)
Whatever my particular emotions may be or from whence they spring, the truth is I feel like I’m losing an old friend. I, of course, am referring to my dear friend, the planet Pluto. Yes, for the time being I’ll still call Pluto a planet, although it appears that might not be the case.
Very soon a handful of scientists will make a final decision. And, if my worst fears come to fruition, it’s bye bye Pluto.
Now, admittedly, that solar body named Pluto will still exist, but once you take it away from the other planets, the real planets, if you will, it’ll never be the same. I’ve grown up saying (not constantly, but on occasion) “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near Pluto.” What do I say now? “My Very Elderly Mother Just Stood Up Near”? It just doesn’t have the same ring.
Taking Pluto out of the planet group is the beginning of breaking up a set we’ve all come to love...as a set. It’s kinda like when the Mary Tyler Moore show ended. Sure, in the show the characters were going on to other things, but it never was the same. We saw Mr. Grant, but where were Mary and Murray, and, before we knew it Ted was dead. And he wasn’t just acting.
That’s what’s going to happen on a planetary level. First they take Pluto away and then the next thing you know, Paul Harvey will be concluding his news and opinion radio program with that last story, the cute little story about the Pluto formerly known as planet that had disintegrated. It won’t hardly be noticed, because our little friend Pluto had become so insignificant that no one cared. Sure, we’d care if a planet blew up, but Pluto, hey, who cares. It’s a nothing. A ball of ice. That’s all.
I don’t think planets should be treated that way. Who are these upstart scientists to come along and say a planet can’t be a planet?. Suppose I came along and said they couldn’t be scientists. I guess that would show ‘em a thing or two. To say Pluto can’t be a planet because it’s so insignificant compared to the other planets, would be like saying that John Rocker can’t be called a ballplayer because, hey, Babe Ruth...now that was a ballplayer.
Even if they finish up this big-wig scientists meeting and say, “Okay, we’ll still consider Pluto a planet,” the damage will have already been done. It’s already too late to un-ring this bell. From now on when you think of Pluto, you know you’ll feel differently towards him. Maybe he’s a she, because we do call earth Mother Earth. But Pluto could be the younger brother. Anyway, poor Pluto. He has a stain on his name that will never be erased.
Scientists will be whispering about him whenever scientists get together and do the things they do when they get together. “Ha ha,” they’ll laugh. “Come here, fellow scientists,” they’ll say. “Look through the telescope and look at this teeney-weeney little thing we used to call a planet.” Scientists are known for their sick sense of humor. It’s all very sad.
I, for one, will go on calling Pluto a planet, but, I know, in all reality, every time I look up in the sky and don’t see Pluto, I’ll know I’ll be not seeing what’s probably not a planet. And, somehow, I think I’ll be a little less a person for not knowing and not seeing. And that makes me sad.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Plenty of Nothing
My mind is like a blank screen, a notebook with nary a single letter entered on a page. That might be nice if I didn't have to write a column. See, the truth is, nothing is coming to mind. I'm drawing blanks this morning. I'm not particularly upset about anything. Or the things that I am upset about are subjects I will never try to get a laugh out of.
So, I'm in somewhat of a quandry. I guess I could complain about cell phone voice messages. You know, when the automated voice starts giving you options. "If you want to leave a phone number, press star. If you want to send a fax, push pound. If you don't really have anything important to say, press pound and star together. If you want to send an email, press 1, and think about why you didn't just do that in the first place." Finally, after about three minutes of options, you get a beep to leave a message. But, complaints about voice messaging have been over done. I won't even bring it up.
I could mention that I bought some shampoo in one of those dollar stores. It said right on the bottle, "Great for dandruff." And boy were they right. I have more dandruff than ever. But, that's too disgusting a topic, so let's leave that alone.
Oh yeah, there is one little matter I've been wanting to bring up. It has to do with the comments I get on these little daily pieces. I like the comments. Admittedly, some of you out there have some serious mental issues. But, I think you already recognize that. I'm hoping you'll get the help you need. Regardless, don't stop commenting. The only thing that I don't like is that most of you just use "anonymous." Hey, you don't have to give me your name, address, phone number, and social security information, but can't you at least make up a name that let's me get to know you a little better?
For instance, if you're a dog lover, you could sign yourself "Mentally unbalanced." That's just a little inside joke. I don't mean it. But use a nickname of some sort.
I heard something on the radio yesterday about nicknames. According to some new book on names, people who use nicknames are viewed by others as being friendlier, more approachable. Maybe that's why no one likes me. I don't have a really cool nickname. Some people say "Steve" is a nickname. To that I reply, that's stupid. "Steve" is a shortened version of my name, Herbert. But it's not a nickname.
I need a good nickname. From now on, could you refer to me by my new nickname - Buster. Or, should it be Sluggo. I always liked Sluggo in the Nancy comic strip. No, wait, how about Steve-arino? That kind of says my name, but also says "Steve is a friendly approachable guy" at the same time.
Maybe I should have a nickname that tells you a little about myself. What do you think of Big Boy? No, that reminds me of that freakish statue that used to be outside Shoney's. That kid really let himself go.
Speaking of kids letting themselves go, whatever happened to Jared on Subway. Now they have John Lovitz. He's really one over-the-hill has been. I bet Jared let himself go. I bet he went off the Subway wagon and is now blimping out. Or else, the Subway diet finally killed him. But that's just my guess.
Anyway, I still haven't come up with anything to write about. So until I do, this is Buster Cook saying, "Good Day!"
So, I'm in somewhat of a quandry. I guess I could complain about cell phone voice messages. You know, when the automated voice starts giving you options. "If you want to leave a phone number, press star. If you want to send a fax, push pound. If you don't really have anything important to say, press pound and star together. If you want to send an email, press 1, and think about why you didn't just do that in the first place." Finally, after about three minutes of options, you get a beep to leave a message. But, complaints about voice messaging have been over done. I won't even bring it up.
I could mention that I bought some shampoo in one of those dollar stores. It said right on the bottle, "Great for dandruff." And boy were they right. I have more dandruff than ever. But, that's too disgusting a topic, so let's leave that alone.
Oh yeah, there is one little matter I've been wanting to bring up. It has to do with the comments I get on these little daily pieces. I like the comments. Admittedly, some of you out there have some serious mental issues. But, I think you already recognize that. I'm hoping you'll get the help you need. Regardless, don't stop commenting. The only thing that I don't like is that most of you just use "anonymous." Hey, you don't have to give me your name, address, phone number, and social security information, but can't you at least make up a name that let's me get to know you a little better?
For instance, if you're a dog lover, you could sign yourself "Mentally unbalanced." That's just a little inside joke. I don't mean it. But use a nickname of some sort.
I heard something on the radio yesterday about nicknames. According to some new book on names, people who use nicknames are viewed by others as being friendlier, more approachable. Maybe that's why no one likes me. I don't have a really cool nickname. Some people say "Steve" is a nickname. To that I reply, that's stupid. "Steve" is a shortened version of my name, Herbert. But it's not a nickname.
I need a good nickname. From now on, could you refer to me by my new nickname - Buster. Or, should it be Sluggo. I always liked Sluggo in the Nancy comic strip. No, wait, how about Steve-arino? That kind of says my name, but also says "Steve is a friendly approachable guy" at the same time.
Maybe I should have a nickname that tells you a little about myself. What do you think of Big Boy? No, that reminds me of that freakish statue that used to be outside Shoney's. That kid really let himself go.
Speaking of kids letting themselves go, whatever happened to Jared on Subway. Now they have John Lovitz. He's really one over-the-hill has been. I bet Jared let himself go. I bet he went off the Subway wagon and is now blimping out. Or else, the Subway diet finally killed him. But that's just my guess.
Anyway, I still haven't come up with anything to write about. So until I do, this is Buster Cook saying, "Good Day!"
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Save Big When You Read This Column
The one thing I especially admire about myself is that no matter how high I fly…no matter how successful I become, I’ve never lost touch with the little people. You know who I’m talking about…those people who really don’t matter much at all, and yet, in their own special way are so very…well, so very special.
True, I work for a powerful magazine publisher. I drive a 1994 Saturn. I shop at the S&K Crazy Warehouse for most of my clothing. My shoes are the very best pair of $15.00 shoes that Walmart has to offer. And yet, I’m still, in so many ways, just one of the common folk.
So, to demonstrate my “every-day-sort-of-guy-who-happens-to-love-hyphens” persona, I’ve gone to the trouble of preparing what I like to call, “Steve’s Handy Guide to Economizing.”
“What does a successful guy like you, Steve, know about economizing,” you’re thinking, while, at the same time, I’m wondering if you put thoughts in quotation marks. But, anyhow, I think you’ll find by the time you finish reading my guide, that there’s quite a bit I know about saving money. So, without further ado (you may want to print this out and keep it with you at all times), here’s my guide:
1) Save money by using over-the-counter medications as food. Why? Because there’s no tax on medicine. Clever, eh? For instance, rather than expensive chocolates, try Exlax. They offer a rich, chocolatey pill that could rival the finest Swedish chocolates. OH YEAH, THE DISCLAIMER – I’M NOT A DOCTOR. DO NOT DO ANYTHING I SAY. NOW BACK TO THE GUIDE. – For a fruity little treat, Tums and Rolaids tablets are great. And those Tums chewables will delightfully melt right in your mouth. If you’re serving ice cream, don’t waste precious tax dollars on syrup. Use Pepto Bismol. One warning – it can cause some darkening of the stools, and I’m not talking about your dining room furniture.
2) Many people waste money by filling their entire toothbrush with toothpaste. Go only half the way, a demi-squiggle if you will. You really can’t tell any discernable difference and you’ll save big on toothpaste.
3) While we’re on hygiene, I’ve found that I can get by on using deodorant every other day. Now, you may already know that, but here’s the big secret, use the deodorant under your left arm one day and your right arm the next. Alternate every day. That way, if you really do work up a stink, you can simply make sure you stand next to other people on your “today’s pit” side. Even if people think you stink, you can let them smell the good pit to convince them that the odor must be coming from someone else in the room.
4) The last suggestion is one that I found helps get me over the hump when the funds run low and that is…Ignore your bills. You recognize them when they come in the mail. Just throw them away. Don’t open them. There may be verbiage in the letter that will only hurt your feelings. And, when bill collectors call, simply tell them you’re dead. Works like a charm.
Well, these are my tips for today. Perhaps you’d like to share some of your own. And, if you find these helpful, let me know. I’ll share some others with you some day. Well, I gotta run. It’s time for the Saturn’s 12,000 mile oil change.
True, I work for a powerful magazine publisher. I drive a 1994 Saturn. I shop at the S&K Crazy Warehouse for most of my clothing. My shoes are the very best pair of $15.00 shoes that Walmart has to offer. And yet, I’m still, in so many ways, just one of the common folk.
So, to demonstrate my “every-day-sort-of-guy-who-happens-to-love-hyphens” persona, I’ve gone to the trouble of preparing what I like to call, “Steve’s Handy Guide to Economizing.”
“What does a successful guy like you, Steve, know about economizing,” you’re thinking, while, at the same time, I’m wondering if you put thoughts in quotation marks. But, anyhow, I think you’ll find by the time you finish reading my guide, that there’s quite a bit I know about saving money. So, without further ado (you may want to print this out and keep it with you at all times), here’s my guide:
1) Save money by using over-the-counter medications as food. Why? Because there’s no tax on medicine. Clever, eh? For instance, rather than expensive chocolates, try Exlax. They offer a rich, chocolatey pill that could rival the finest Swedish chocolates. OH YEAH, THE DISCLAIMER – I’M NOT A DOCTOR. DO NOT DO ANYTHING I SAY. NOW BACK TO THE GUIDE. – For a fruity little treat, Tums and Rolaids tablets are great. And those Tums chewables will delightfully melt right in your mouth. If you’re serving ice cream, don’t waste precious tax dollars on syrup. Use Pepto Bismol. One warning – it can cause some darkening of the stools, and I’m not talking about your dining room furniture.
2) Many people waste money by filling their entire toothbrush with toothpaste. Go only half the way, a demi-squiggle if you will. You really can’t tell any discernable difference and you’ll save big on toothpaste.
3) While we’re on hygiene, I’ve found that I can get by on using deodorant every other day. Now, you may already know that, but here’s the big secret, use the deodorant under your left arm one day and your right arm the next. Alternate every day. That way, if you really do work up a stink, you can simply make sure you stand next to other people on your “today’s pit” side. Even if people think you stink, you can let them smell the good pit to convince them that the odor must be coming from someone else in the room.
4) The last suggestion is one that I found helps get me over the hump when the funds run low and that is…Ignore your bills. You recognize them when they come in the mail. Just throw them away. Don’t open them. There may be verbiage in the letter that will only hurt your feelings. And, when bill collectors call, simply tell them you’re dead. Works like a charm.
Well, these are my tips for today. Perhaps you’d like to share some of your own. And, if you find these helpful, let me know. I’ll share some others with you some day. Well, I gotta run. It’s time for the Saturn’s 12,000 mile oil change.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
It's a Bird, It's a Plane, No, I Was Right the First Time
You know, when scientists announced that they had frozen mouse sperm for up to fifteen years and then thawed it out and used it to fertilize a little mousie egg, I wasn't all that concerned. I figured that they (they, being the scientists, not the mice) had better things to do. After all, mice seem to reproduce relatively well on their own, and I couldn't see any real reason to go around helping mice to make more mice.
Besides, and this may be from growing up watching the Mickey Mouse Club, I tend to think fertilizing eggs in the laboratory takes some of the rodent romance away. Who can forget Muskrat Love, by Captain and Tenille?
I've seen the way Mickey looks at Minnie, and his eyes aren't saying go get the test tube, if you get my drift. Hmmm, I'm just wondering. Did they ever tie the knot? I'm assuming so.
But anyway, if scientists want to freeze mouse sperm, I've always been the first to say, "Let them do it." But, now, they're carrying things just a bit too far. I guess you've spent a sleepless night or two recently, as have I, just thinking about what those sperm-freezing scientists are up to now.
I, of course, am talking about their exploring the possibility of thawing out the sperm of wooly mammoths, which have been found buried in the permafrost of Siberia. I think it's Siberia. It could be Minneapolis, but I don't think so.
Anyway the scientists want to take that wooly mammoth sperm, inject it in the egg of an Asian elephant and get an animal that would be 50% wooly mammoth.
First of all, I say the Asians are having enough problems right now without their elephants running around giving birth to prehistoric creatures. If China will only allow human couples to have one child, why would they let their elephants start producing wooly mammoths?
I think, and admittedly this shows the softer side of Steve Cook, but I think that the world would be better off with a few more Chinese children than even one wooly mammoth. I mean, really. We've all seen Jurassic Park. Do you want dinosaurs and those pterodactyls back here on earth? I think there's a good reason those birds were extinct before windshields came along. And forget hanging the laundry on the line to dry.
But, if scientists have their way, I'm predicting we'll have a wooly mammoth invasion within the next month or two. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not the brightest bulb in the...whatever bulbs are in...so my prediction could be off by a week or two, but you just better wake up and smell the pterodactyl droppings and stop science before it's too late.
I think we should have a year or two moratorium on scientists doing anything. We pretty much have everything we need. Oh yeah, I think those guys who are working on 3-D televisions should be allowed to keep that up, but other than that, there's really nothing that man needs right now. We sure don't need a wooly mammoth.
At least that's this man's opinion. Anyone care to disagree?
Besides, and this may be from growing up watching the Mickey Mouse Club, I tend to think fertilizing eggs in the laboratory takes some of the rodent romance away. Who can forget Muskrat Love, by Captain and Tenille?
I've seen the way Mickey looks at Minnie, and his eyes aren't saying go get the test tube, if you get my drift. Hmmm, I'm just wondering. Did they ever tie the knot? I'm assuming so.
But anyway, if scientists want to freeze mouse sperm, I've always been the first to say, "Let them do it." But, now, they're carrying things just a bit too far. I guess you've spent a sleepless night or two recently, as have I, just thinking about what those sperm-freezing scientists are up to now.
I, of course, am talking about their exploring the possibility of thawing out the sperm of wooly mammoths, which have been found buried in the permafrost of Siberia. I think it's Siberia. It could be Minneapolis, but I don't think so.
Anyway the scientists want to take that wooly mammoth sperm, inject it in the egg of an Asian elephant and get an animal that would be 50% wooly mammoth.
First of all, I say the Asians are having enough problems right now without their elephants running around giving birth to prehistoric creatures. If China will only allow human couples to have one child, why would they let their elephants start producing wooly mammoths?
I think, and admittedly this shows the softer side of Steve Cook, but I think that the world would be better off with a few more Chinese children than even one wooly mammoth. I mean, really. We've all seen Jurassic Park. Do you want dinosaurs and those pterodactyls back here on earth? I think there's a good reason those birds were extinct before windshields came along. And forget hanging the laundry on the line to dry.
But, if scientists have their way, I'm predicting we'll have a wooly mammoth invasion within the next month or two. I'll be the first to tell you that I'm not the brightest bulb in the...whatever bulbs are in...so my prediction could be off by a week or two, but you just better wake up and smell the pterodactyl droppings and stop science before it's too late.
I think we should have a year or two moratorium on scientists doing anything. We pretty much have everything we need. Oh yeah, I think those guys who are working on 3-D televisions should be allowed to keep that up, but other than that, there's really nothing that man needs right now. We sure don't need a wooly mammoth.
At least that's this man's opinion. Anyone care to disagree?
Monday, August 14, 2006
The Devil Wears Thin
Sometimes I’m just too nice for my own good. Take this Saturday night as an example. My wife, who had worked all day, calls me on the way home and asks if I want to go see a movie. Even though I really wanted to watch the Atlanta Braves lose a game on TV, and, even though I have never had sensitivity training, I replied, “Sure, that sounds great.”
I used to love going to the movies, but nowadays, it’s just a matter, generally of paying close to ten dollars to have someone cuss at me. I can get that free all day every day. But, there are a few good movies out right now, so I figured what the hey. This could be fun.
“What do you want to see?” I asked ever so kindly. “Talladega Nights?” I hear that’s pretty good. I’m hoping she won’t say the one movie I have absolutely no interest in seeing – “The Devil Wears Prada.
“Then there’s World Trade Center,” I say. “I hear that’s really good. My wife still hasn’t responded and I’m hoping she has forgotten about The Devil Wears Prada. She had mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, but I’m thinking and hoping she has changed her mind.
I almost mentioned The Ant Bully, but I have my principles and one of them is that I won’t pay that much money to watch a cartoon. But, please, I’m thinking, not The Devil, anything but The Devil.
“We could see Superman Returns again,” I say, rather half-heartedly. I know she won’t go for that.
“How about we go see,” she says,(and I’m thinking not The Devil, please not The Devil), “The Devil Wears Prada.”
I shriek, but only to myself. “Sure, that’ll be great,” I lie. And so, off we go to see The Devil Wears Prada. On the way to our screen (if that’s the word) we pass Talladega Nights and The World Trade Center. I look at each door to these screens longingly. But, as the great husband I am, I don’t sigh, I don’t whimper. I just march right in to the Devil room and take a seat. To add insult to injury, they’re showing previews of World Trade Center before The Devil starts.
Anyway, I sit there and watch the movie. And, you know what? Even though I thought it would be a bad movie, in reality, it was a horrible movie.
Now, I’m a macho sort of guy, but I won’t use the term “Chick Flick.” I love the Lifetime Channel. I could watch it all day, so chick flicks can be pretty good. This was just a bad movie. Even my wife hated it.
For starters, there were no really likeable characters. I mean none. Stanley Tucci’s character was the best, but not the sort of guy I’d want to spend any time with.
Meryl Streep was merely playing the non-animated version of her role as Cruella De Vil. Of course, she was using her other name, Glenn Close, when she did that role. The female lead, I don’t remember her name and it wasn’t worth looking up, was such a poor actress, she did everything but turn to the camera and wave.
There was absolutely no chemistry between anyone. Timothy Leary himself couldn’t have added enough chemistry to make this thing work. By the time the movie was over, I could not have cared less who, if anyone, she ended up with. Her boyfriend was a totally uninteresting, unappealing character.
He pouts because she doesn’t make it to his birthday party. What? Is he six-years old?
And the other guy who is trying to steal her away offers nothing to the movie. There were no characters whom you’d really like to get to know.
The only good thing about the way the movie ended was that it ended. I’m not a movie critic, but I think I’ve written some pretty good stuff here. I’d consider turning this column into a movie review page, but that would mean I’d have to watch all the tripe they’re putting out these days. And, I’m willing to bet that there are even worse movies than The Devil out there. I just hope my wife doesn’t hear about them.
I used to love going to the movies, but nowadays, it’s just a matter, generally of paying close to ten dollars to have someone cuss at me. I can get that free all day every day. But, there are a few good movies out right now, so I figured what the hey. This could be fun.
“What do you want to see?” I asked ever so kindly. “Talladega Nights?” I hear that’s pretty good. I’m hoping she won’t say the one movie I have absolutely no interest in seeing – “The Devil Wears Prada.
“Then there’s World Trade Center,” I say. “I hear that’s really good. My wife still hasn’t responded and I’m hoping she has forgotten about The Devil Wears Prada. She had mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, but I’m thinking and hoping she has changed her mind.
I almost mentioned The Ant Bully, but I have my principles and one of them is that I won’t pay that much money to watch a cartoon. But, please, I’m thinking, not The Devil, anything but The Devil.
“We could see Superman Returns again,” I say, rather half-heartedly. I know she won’t go for that.
“How about we go see,” she says,(and I’m thinking not The Devil, please not The Devil), “The Devil Wears Prada.”
I shriek, but only to myself. “Sure, that’ll be great,” I lie. And so, off we go to see The Devil Wears Prada. On the way to our screen (if that’s the word) we pass Talladega Nights and The World Trade Center. I look at each door to these screens longingly. But, as the great husband I am, I don’t sigh, I don’t whimper. I just march right in to the Devil room and take a seat. To add insult to injury, they’re showing previews of World Trade Center before The Devil starts.
Anyway, I sit there and watch the movie. And, you know what? Even though I thought it would be a bad movie, in reality, it was a horrible movie.
Now, I’m a macho sort of guy, but I won’t use the term “Chick Flick.” I love the Lifetime Channel. I could watch it all day, so chick flicks can be pretty good. This was just a bad movie. Even my wife hated it.
For starters, there were no really likeable characters. I mean none. Stanley Tucci’s character was the best, but not the sort of guy I’d want to spend any time with.
Meryl Streep was merely playing the non-animated version of her role as Cruella De Vil. Of course, she was using her other name, Glenn Close, when she did that role. The female lead, I don’t remember her name and it wasn’t worth looking up, was such a poor actress, she did everything but turn to the camera and wave.
There was absolutely no chemistry between anyone. Timothy Leary himself couldn’t have added enough chemistry to make this thing work. By the time the movie was over, I could not have cared less who, if anyone, she ended up with. Her boyfriend was a totally uninteresting, unappealing character.
He pouts because she doesn’t make it to his birthday party. What? Is he six-years old?
And the other guy who is trying to steal her away offers nothing to the movie. There were no characters whom you’d really like to get to know.
The only good thing about the way the movie ended was that it ended. I’m not a movie critic, but I think I’ve written some pretty good stuff here. I’d consider turning this column into a movie review page, but that would mean I’d have to watch all the tripe they’re putting out these days. And, I’m willing to bet that there are even worse movies than The Devil out there. I just hope my wife doesn’t hear about them.
Friday, August 11, 2006
To Errrrrrrrr is Human - by Becky Robinette Wright
Becky Wright is our normally sane writer for Chesterfield Living Magazine. Today, however, she's just a tad bit upset. I've invited her to use this space to vent. So, here goes:
Errrrrrr,errrrrrr,errrrrrr… no, that’s not the sound of my klunker trying to start in the torrents of a rainstorm or in a winter wind howling with huge drifts of snow blowing in mounds around me. It’s not the sound of my klunker after a blistering journey across the desert heaving its last sigh.
Please excuse me, I’m growling, not something I usually do in public.
Do you have any personal Pet Peeves? Just for the record here are a few of mine. 1)Telemarketers. 2)Telemarketers. 3)Telemarketers. 4)Calling a business and a computer answers. 5)Calling a business and being put on hold by a machine. 6)Telemarketers. 7)Telemarketers who call extremely early or late.
This morning, on a rare occasion I wasn't up yet, the phone rings...Loudly.I wasn't ready for loudly yet. Because of the time frame I figured it was one of my kids and jumped up to answer. Caller ID said unknown, I should have picked up on not to answer.
As a victim suffering from Sleep Deprivation from Overworkation,I answered. Besides, you just never know. What if one of the kids has broken down, the cell phone is in a dead zone and who knows what else they could be challenged with? My offspring could be using someone else's phone...parental instincts kick in and I answer anyway.
Telemarketers have risen to a new low.
Stifling a yawn, trying to unstick my eyes, I answer.
Me:"Hello?"
Them: Thank you for calling so and so....all of our customer service representatives are busy, please hold.
Me: PLEASE HOLD?????? They called me!! And it was a computer voice no less (unless now we have women who speak with a electronic accent).Please hold???
Oh,I was going to hold okay, for this call anyway. When the living, breathing human finally came to the phone we had a little "discussion" on their selling tactics. I'll leave it at that.
Errrrrrrrrrr...now where is that bed???
Errrrrrr,errrrrrr,errrrrrr… no, that’s not the sound of my klunker trying to start in the torrents of a rainstorm or in a winter wind howling with huge drifts of snow blowing in mounds around me. It’s not the sound of my klunker after a blistering journey across the desert heaving its last sigh.
Please excuse me, I’m growling, not something I usually do in public.
Do you have any personal Pet Peeves? Just for the record here are a few of mine. 1)Telemarketers. 2)Telemarketers. 3)Telemarketers. 4)Calling a business and a computer answers. 5)Calling a business and being put on hold by a machine. 6)Telemarketers. 7)Telemarketers who call extremely early or late.
This morning, on a rare occasion I wasn't up yet, the phone rings...Loudly.I wasn't ready for loudly yet. Because of the time frame I figured it was one of my kids and jumped up to answer. Caller ID said unknown, I should have picked up on not to answer.
As a victim suffering from Sleep Deprivation from Overworkation,I answered. Besides, you just never know. What if one of the kids has broken down, the cell phone is in a dead zone and who knows what else they could be challenged with? My offspring could be using someone else's phone...parental instincts kick in and I answer anyway.
Telemarketers have risen to a new low.
Stifling a yawn, trying to unstick my eyes, I answer.
Me:"Hello?"
Them: Thank you for calling so and so....all of our customer service representatives are busy, please hold.
Me: PLEASE HOLD?????? They called me!! And it was a computer voice no less (unless now we have women who speak with a electronic accent).Please hold???
Oh,I was going to hold okay, for this call anyway. When the living, breathing human finally came to the phone we had a little "discussion" on their selling tactics. I'll leave it at that.
Errrrrrrrrrr...now where is that bed???
Something's In the Air
I really don't have the time nor the energy to solve all the world's problems. But, somehow I muddle through. Now we have this terrorist thing going on. And, I have the solution. I don't say this in an arrogant, yes-I-know-it-all, sort of way. Although, perhaps I should. Then, maybe folks would sit up and listen.
I've passed along my suggestions before and no one, and I mean no one, has paid any attention. But, being the public-spirited sort of guy I am, I'm going to say this one more time. The solution to the misuse of aircraft by terrorists can be summed up in 5 words (including a hyphenated one) - Colorless, odorless, non-toxic, knockout gas. There! I've said it again. Maybe someone will wake up and smell the odorless gas this time and realize that I know that of which I speak.
If all airlines would simply make it their modus operandi (I think I'm close on this latin) to fill the cabin with the gas, think of all the benefits that could be realized, and I'm not talking about just ending terrorism as we know it today.
I spent 16 hours crammed into a window seat during my fabulous trip to China. How I would have preferred to have been sedated and awakened just moments before touchdown.
The airlines would save millions on peanuts alone. They could cut down on the number of stewardesses. Yes, I know they want to be called flight attendants these days. I know they hate being addressed, "Oh stewardess," especially the guys (most of 'em anyway), that is exactly why I call them stewardesses, but I'll save this one for another day.
Think about it. You need probably fifteen stewardesses on those big international 747 flights. If all the passengers were comatose, you could probably get by with just a couple. I think in first-class you could offer catheters, where coach class passenger would just get a Depends. That way you wouldn't lose your first-class revenue. Admittedly, there are a few kinks to be worked out here, but I can't do everything.
There'd be no unruly children running through the aisles, and those formerly screaming babies would be sleeping like babies. That alone should be enough reason to knock out the passengers. You could also probably squeeze a fourth person into those three people rows. So there's some extra money for the airlines right there.
Listen to me people. This is a win-win situation.
No need for headsets, movies, magazines. No trash to pick up. No drunks. No lines waiting to use those teeney-weeney restrooms. And, who wants to take a seat in a room where a drunk being jostled in the air has just visited? I think you get the picture.
Airline sedation could become a whole new industry unto itself. More people would fly, especially those who are terrified of flying. Just imagine the scenario. The head stewardess gets on the P.A. system and says, "Welcome aboard Sleepy Time Airlines. Don't worry about life jackets or oxygen masks because you won't need them, and even if you do, you'll never know it. It doesn't really matter how high we'll be flying and of course there will be no in-flight...." By that point the passengers are out. The plane takes off and all is well.
I can see this idea taking off as well. Who knows, it may become so popular that airline seating as we know it today will become non-existent. The passengers could actually be sedated right at baggage check. They could become part of the baggage themselves.
Before you know it, non-traditional air service will be available, bringing the cost of a ticket even lower. I bet within a year or two, FedEx would be offering a "Passenger as Freight Package," with a special envelope to stuff yourself in. Oh, yeah. FedEx shipping people. Never mind.
I've passed along my suggestions before and no one, and I mean no one, has paid any attention. But, being the public-spirited sort of guy I am, I'm going to say this one more time. The solution to the misuse of aircraft by terrorists can be summed up in 5 words (including a hyphenated one) - Colorless, odorless, non-toxic, knockout gas. There! I've said it again. Maybe someone will wake up and smell the odorless gas this time and realize that I know that of which I speak.
If all airlines would simply make it their modus operandi (I think I'm close on this latin) to fill the cabin with the gas, think of all the benefits that could be realized, and I'm not talking about just ending terrorism as we know it today.
I spent 16 hours crammed into a window seat during my fabulous trip to China. How I would have preferred to have been sedated and awakened just moments before touchdown.
The airlines would save millions on peanuts alone. They could cut down on the number of stewardesses. Yes, I know they want to be called flight attendants these days. I know they hate being addressed, "Oh stewardess," especially the guys (most of 'em anyway), that is exactly why I call them stewardesses, but I'll save this one for another day.
Think about it. You need probably fifteen stewardesses on those big international 747 flights. If all the passengers were comatose, you could probably get by with just a couple. I think in first-class you could offer catheters, where coach class passenger would just get a Depends. That way you wouldn't lose your first-class revenue. Admittedly, there are a few kinks to be worked out here, but I can't do everything.
There'd be no unruly children running through the aisles, and those formerly screaming babies would be sleeping like babies. That alone should be enough reason to knock out the passengers. You could also probably squeeze a fourth person into those three people rows. So there's some extra money for the airlines right there.
Listen to me people. This is a win-win situation.
No need for headsets, movies, magazines. No trash to pick up. No drunks. No lines waiting to use those teeney-weeney restrooms. And, who wants to take a seat in a room where a drunk being jostled in the air has just visited? I think you get the picture.
Airline sedation could become a whole new industry unto itself. More people would fly, especially those who are terrified of flying. Just imagine the scenario. The head stewardess gets on the P.A. system and says, "Welcome aboard Sleepy Time Airlines. Don't worry about life jackets or oxygen masks because you won't need them, and even if you do, you'll never know it. It doesn't really matter how high we'll be flying and of course there will be no in-flight...." By that point the passengers are out. The plane takes off and all is well.
I can see this idea taking off as well. Who knows, it may become so popular that airline seating as we know it today will become non-existent. The passengers could actually be sedated right at baggage check. They could become part of the baggage themselves.
Before you know it, non-traditional air service will be available, bringing the cost of a ticket even lower. I bet within a year or two, FedEx would be offering a "Passenger as Freight Package," with a special envelope to stuff yourself in. Oh, yeah. FedEx shipping people. Never mind.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
You Bored Me With Hello
My wife thinks I talk too much. Well, maybe not too much, but that I'm just too boring. When I'm in a crowd of her friends, I am able to regale them with tales of my youth. She thinks my joke about my having just learned how to adjust the rabbit ears on the TV dates me...makes me look like an old man, as it were. She says I remind her of those blathering old men who don't know when to shut up.
I don't get mad at my wife when she says those things. I just pity her. She doesn't grasp the subtle nuances of my repartee. Silly girl...she thinks I'm boring. Or could it be that she's just a little too jealous that her friends think I'm a clever sort of guy? Either way, there's no need for me to get angry.
On the other hand, there are many people I know...even work with, who do talk too much. They aren't able to just answer a simple question and move on. You ask them how they're doing, and instead of saying, "Fine," they proceed to actually tell you how they're doing. Hey people, if I wanted to know how you were doing, I'd ask you. I mean I'd ask you in a way that showed I really cared.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why some people (no, not just women - you misogynists really irritate me sometimes) seem to feel that my only purpose in coming to work is to sit and listen to them tell me each day's episode of their rather drab life. Again, if I were interested in knowing every little detail, I would definitely convey my interest to you.
I think one of the really big evils in today's world is cell phones. Used to be we'd get a little break from these chatterboxes (no, not necessarily women. stop thinking that) when they were in their cars. Nowadays riding in the car just gives them more time to call me up and drone on and on.
It's not that I don't like people. It's not that I'm just one sour-dispositioned old man. It's not that I don't enjoy a good conversation, but for the most part, for most people, I have just one simple credo - SHUT UP. Is that really asking too much?
However, if you have had a fascinating experience, or if your life, like mine, is filled with truly amazing and amusing antecdotes, then that's a different story.
I, for one, can tell you some tales...true life experiences, that will have you rolling on the floor, or as they say in the AOL offices "ROFL." Well, they used to say that. Now they say, "IJGFSINDML," which, basically means, "I just got fired so I'm not doing much laughing."
I'm reminded of a time back in the third grade, when Mrs. Webster asked me to...hold on, I don't have time right now, but send me your phone number and when I get in the car, I'll give you a buzz and share this story. You're going to love it.
I don't get mad at my wife when she says those things. I just pity her. She doesn't grasp the subtle nuances of my repartee. Silly girl...she thinks I'm boring. Or could it be that she's just a little too jealous that her friends think I'm a clever sort of guy? Either way, there's no need for me to get angry.
On the other hand, there are many people I know...even work with, who do talk too much. They aren't able to just answer a simple question and move on. You ask them how they're doing, and instead of saying, "Fine," they proceed to actually tell you how they're doing. Hey people, if I wanted to know how you were doing, I'd ask you. I mean I'd ask you in a way that showed I really cared.
For the life of me, I cannot understand why some people (no, not just women - you misogynists really irritate me sometimes) seem to feel that my only purpose in coming to work is to sit and listen to them tell me each day's episode of their rather drab life. Again, if I were interested in knowing every little detail, I would definitely convey my interest to you.
I think one of the really big evils in today's world is cell phones. Used to be we'd get a little break from these chatterboxes (no, not necessarily women. stop thinking that) when they were in their cars. Nowadays riding in the car just gives them more time to call me up and drone on and on.
It's not that I don't like people. It's not that I'm just one sour-dispositioned old man. It's not that I don't enjoy a good conversation, but for the most part, for most people, I have just one simple credo - SHUT UP. Is that really asking too much?
However, if you have had a fascinating experience, or if your life, like mine, is filled with truly amazing and amusing antecdotes, then that's a different story.
I, for one, can tell you some tales...true life experiences, that will have you rolling on the floor, or as they say in the AOL offices "ROFL." Well, they used to say that. Now they say, "IJGFSINDML," which, basically means, "I just got fired so I'm not doing much laughing."
I'm reminded of a time back in the third grade, when Mrs. Webster asked me to...hold on, I don't have time right now, but send me your phone number and when I get in the car, I'll give you a buzz and share this story. You're going to love it.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Striking a Happy Medias Show
Well, for those of you who have been anxiously waiting to hear, I'm happy to report that FedEx found our Plinko game. Were our salespeople ever relieved! It's a lot easier to show someone how to drop chips down a Plinko board than to ask that same person if he or she wants to buy an ad.
For those of you just joining us, I don't feel like repeating myself. Go back and read yesterday's blog. But, for those of you too lazy to do that, I'll just briefly say that we were at the Richmond Media show at the convention center yesterday.
Now, I'm not one to complain, but some of the exhibitors had some pretty lame exhibits.
Kudos to the radio station that did exactly what we did last year. I guess next year you'll have a tiki hut and a Plinko game. You know who you are. And to the folks in the booth that had an electronic sign reading, "We offer a variety of advertising medias," go back to Latin class, or is that Greek. I know it's not Spanish.
One booth, promoting an exciting new advertising venue, had an attractive, hand-lettered (no, make that hand-scribbled) sign that read, "For more imfo call 555-5555." I made up the number, so if you want more imformation, don't bother to dial. Now, not only am I not one to complain, I'm definitely not one to make fun of stupid people, but really, these folks are supposed to be advertising experts and they can't even spell "info."
I feel that our company went the extra mile to produce an interesting, entertaining exhibit. I mean, when you have Plinko, what more could one possibly want, but some of the advertising "giants" in the Richmond area did little more than set up a card table with a few photocopies of imfo sheets...excuse me, info sheets.
One local TV station had, as the centerpiece of their booth, a big bowl of M&Ms. Okay, I have to admit, they may have been Skittles. But, who, in their right mind, is going to plunge a hand in to a bowl that hundreds of other hands (which you don't know where they may have been) have plunged into for a big sweaty wad of candy? I know it sounds tempting.
I think Gene Cox was at the show, but it could have been a wax likeness of the venerable newscaster. I don't think so, though, it looked to lifelike to be wax.
I was hoping Mac Watson would have been there. He could have found plenty of stuff to make fun of, and he does it so much better than I do. I'm just too nice. That's something Watson will never be accused of. But Clear Channel didn't send any personalities, just salespeople, who, as you probably know, are the very antithesis of personality.
Now, I'm not suggesting that there weren't any other interesting booths at the show. One advertising agency had little bottles of what looked like Jack Daniels. That was nice. I'm guessing it's really honey in the bottle. Hold on. I'll find out.
Well, now, I'm going to do all my shopping at that agency. It's the real stuff. I gotta run. This typing has worked up a mighty thirst, and I'd better go quench it.
For those of you just joining us, I don't feel like repeating myself. Go back and read yesterday's blog. But, for those of you too lazy to do that, I'll just briefly say that we were at the Richmond Media show at the convention center yesterday.
Now, I'm not one to complain, but some of the exhibitors had some pretty lame exhibits.
Kudos to the radio station that did exactly what we did last year. I guess next year you'll have a tiki hut and a Plinko game. You know who you are. And to the folks in the booth that had an electronic sign reading, "We offer a variety of advertising medias," go back to Latin class, or is that Greek. I know it's not Spanish.
One booth, promoting an exciting new advertising venue, had an attractive, hand-lettered (no, make that hand-scribbled) sign that read, "For more imfo call 555-5555." I made up the number, so if you want more imformation, don't bother to dial. Now, not only am I not one to complain, I'm definitely not one to make fun of stupid people, but really, these folks are supposed to be advertising experts and they can't even spell "info."
I feel that our company went the extra mile to produce an interesting, entertaining exhibit. I mean, when you have Plinko, what more could one possibly want, but some of the advertising "giants" in the Richmond area did little more than set up a card table with a few photocopies of imfo sheets...excuse me, info sheets.
One local TV station had, as the centerpiece of their booth, a big bowl of M&Ms. Okay, I have to admit, they may have been Skittles. But, who, in their right mind, is going to plunge a hand in to a bowl that hundreds of other hands (which you don't know where they may have been) have plunged into for a big sweaty wad of candy? I know it sounds tempting.
I think Gene Cox was at the show, but it could have been a wax likeness of the venerable newscaster. I don't think so, though, it looked to lifelike to be wax.
I was hoping Mac Watson would have been there. He could have found plenty of stuff to make fun of, and he does it so much better than I do. I'm just too nice. That's something Watson will never be accused of. But Clear Channel didn't send any personalities, just salespeople, who, as you probably know, are the very antithesis of personality.
Now, I'm not suggesting that there weren't any other interesting booths at the show. One advertising agency had little bottles of what looked like Jack Daniels. That was nice. I'm guessing it's really honey in the bottle. Hold on. I'll find out.
Well, now, I'm going to do all my shopping at that agency. It's the real stuff. I gotta run. This typing has worked up a mighty thirst, and I'd better go quench it.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
When You Absolutely, Positively Don't Need It
Well, today is a big day for Advertising Concepts - the parent company of our two magazines. We’re participating in a media show at the Richmond Convention Center. We have worked for months to produce a (we feel) top-notch exhibit.
We ordered a custom-made Plinko game, because nothing says “buy advertising from us” like a good game of Plinko. Everyone in the office has been on a Plinko-high, just anticipating the arrival of our Plinko game.
But, alas, thanks to FedEx, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. They’ve lost it. They won’t say so. It’s just been on their truck here in Richmond since Friday morning, but they can’t get in touch with their driver. I think I’d call 9-1-1 if I were they, but, they seem about as concerned about their driver as they are about our Plinko game.
One thing FedEx does well is apologize. But, after speaking with about a dozen FedEx employees, I’ve learned to translate. When they say, “I’m sorry,” they mean, “I’m not the least bit sorry.” When they say, “I’m very sorry,” they mean, “Hey, I’ll say ‘I’m sorry’ again if that makes you feel better, but I couldn’t care less.”
But, when you finally reach a customer advocate, you’ve reached the creme de la crap. They’ll tell you, “I certainly apologize for that,” which means, “Evidently saying ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough to get you to go away.”
Of course, not all of their people are so well trained. There’s this guy named Patrick who is some sort of supervisor in the Richmond depot (a French word that means “place where you lose things"). Patrick told me that I shouldn’t be mad at him because he hadn’t personally done anyway with my package. That was comforting. It’s nice to know that FedEx has so many truly dedicated company people.
There were nicer people than Patrick. Take Lizzie, for instance. She’s an advocate. She promised to stay on top of things and call me back as soon as the Richmond office could get in touch with their missing delivery guy. So far, I’m waiting to hear from Lizzie. Maybe she’s missing too.
Here’s the world’s largest (I’m just guessing on this) delivery company and not only do they lose packages, they lose people. They advertise “the world on time.” Too bad Richmond isn’t part of their little world.
So anyway, we’re Plinko-less. Now, our salespeople might actually have to talk to visitors to our booth, rather than just play games with them.
Whatever, we have a boat-load of prizes to give away. I suggested we play Pin the Brain on the FedEx Guy, but no one liked that idea.Not grounded in reality, I guess. So, tell you what...come on down to the Richmond Convention Center. The show is free and runs from 11 this morning until 5 tonight. Just ask me about our Plinko and I’ll give you a prize. One little caveat. I’m heading out to FedEx right now. So, this might be the last you’ll ever hear of me.
We ordered a custom-made Plinko game, because nothing says “buy advertising from us” like a good game of Plinko. Everyone in the office has been on a Plinko-high, just anticipating the arrival of our Plinko game.
But, alas, thanks to FedEx, it doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. They’ve lost it. They won’t say so. It’s just been on their truck here in Richmond since Friday morning, but they can’t get in touch with their driver. I think I’d call 9-1-1 if I were they, but, they seem about as concerned about their driver as they are about our Plinko game.
One thing FedEx does well is apologize. But, after speaking with about a dozen FedEx employees, I’ve learned to translate. When they say, “I’m sorry,” they mean, “I’m not the least bit sorry.” When they say, “I’m very sorry,” they mean, “Hey, I’ll say ‘I’m sorry’ again if that makes you feel better, but I couldn’t care less.”
But, when you finally reach a customer advocate, you’ve reached the creme de la crap. They’ll tell you, “I certainly apologize for that,” which means, “Evidently saying ‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough to get you to go away.”
Of course, not all of their people are so well trained. There’s this guy named Patrick who is some sort of supervisor in the Richmond depot (a French word that means “place where you lose things"). Patrick told me that I shouldn’t be mad at him because he hadn’t personally done anyway with my package. That was comforting. It’s nice to know that FedEx has so many truly dedicated company people.
There were nicer people than Patrick. Take Lizzie, for instance. She’s an advocate. She promised to stay on top of things and call me back as soon as the Richmond office could get in touch with their missing delivery guy. So far, I’m waiting to hear from Lizzie. Maybe she’s missing too.
Here’s the world’s largest (I’m just guessing on this) delivery company and not only do they lose packages, they lose people. They advertise “the world on time.” Too bad Richmond isn’t part of their little world.
So anyway, we’re Plinko-less. Now, our salespeople might actually have to talk to visitors to our booth, rather than just play games with them.
Whatever, we have a boat-load of prizes to give away. I suggested we play Pin the Brain on the FedEx Guy, but no one liked that idea.Not grounded in reality, I guess. So, tell you what...come on down to the Richmond Convention Center. The show is free and runs from 11 this morning until 5 tonight. Just ask me about our Plinko and I’ll give you a prize. One little caveat. I’m heading out to FedEx right now. So, this might be the last you’ll ever hear of me.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Take My Advice, Please
I love giving advice. I especially like it when someone asks for my advice. But, even when they don’t (and they usually don’t), I still love giving it. The amazing thing about me is that I can give advice on subjects about which I know absolutely nothing.
You have a medical problem? Ask me what I would do. I’ll be glad to tell you in great detail what you should do.
Or, perhaps you’re facing a legal issue. Maybe your entire future is at stake. Come to me, or just write, if you prefer. I’ll tell you exactly what you should do. Now, I do offer this disclaimer, if you follow my advice and end up in jail, then that’s probably because you didn’t do exactly as I said.
But, whatever, the results of following my advice are not my responsibility. If you do go to jail, though, let me know. I think I have some neat ideas as to how to break out. I have not tested these, but still, I’m pretty sure, they’re good ideas.
If you take my advice and try to break out, and you end up getting shot as you make your escape, give me a call. I also have some ideas as to where you could go to have a bullet removed.
Or, better yet, come see me. I’m pretty sure I know how to remove a bullet. And I would love having the opportunity to experiment with my bullet-removal ideas.
I really wish the marketing folks at McDonald’s had come to me for advice before spending millions of dollars marketing a new product. They’re calling it a Snack Wrap. Looks good on paper, but if you’re listening to a radio ad, or hear it on TV (when you’re not actually looking at the screen), all you hear is that McDonald’s is now offering Snack Crap. Oh, if you people would just take my advice.
My whole point here is that I have ideas. My brain is like some non-stop sponge-like organ.
I’ve said all that as a way of explaining why I’m offering advice to aliens (more of the Martian than the Mexican variety) as to how to take over the world. This does not mean that I want an alien race to take over the world, but I think I have a pretty good idea of how to go about doing it.
If an alien came to me and asked what he should do to dominate Earth, the first thing I’d want to know is how much time does he have. I have a sure-fire plan but it would take about four generations (human life span) to get it done. So, if the alien didn’t have a lifespan of at least a couple hundred of our earth-years, it wouldn’t do him any good to listen to me.
But, since you’re here, reading this blog, I’m guessing I have your interest and you would like to know how to take over the world. I will share my secret, but I’m asking you not to try this at home.
Okay, here is my four-generation program for world domination.
First generation – fill with wars and economic hardship. Have this generation grow up knowing what it’s like to do without. Then, at about the age this generation starts to have children, bring about vastly improved living conditions.
Second generation – make this a generation that is given everything on a silver platter because their parents “don’t want my children to do without all the things I had to do without.” Create an environment where material things matter most…an environment where both parents feel they have to work, or want to work so as to get those things.
Third generation – is raised by the second generation. This generation should be almost completely abandoned, with the parents spending only a few minutes a week actually talking to and instructing their children. Of course, those few minutes would be quality time and really, isn’t that all that matters? The third generation should be spoon fed large doses of violent and/or immoral entertainment so that by the time they have kids, they’ll have absolutely no idea what real values are all about.
Fourth generation - Will grow up almost totally brain dead. At that point, the aliens can take over. The kids' parents won’t even notice. After that, it’s just a matter of the aliens doing as they please.
Now, this is just theory, of course. I’m not promising any of you aliens out there that it will work. But, I feel pretty confident there’s some usable stuff in here.
One more piece of advice, again to aliens…if you only have one generation – create a cable TV system that’s “All Jerry Springer, All The Time.”
You have a medical problem? Ask me what I would do. I’ll be glad to tell you in great detail what you should do.
Or, perhaps you’re facing a legal issue. Maybe your entire future is at stake. Come to me, or just write, if you prefer. I’ll tell you exactly what you should do. Now, I do offer this disclaimer, if you follow my advice and end up in jail, then that’s probably because you didn’t do exactly as I said.
But, whatever, the results of following my advice are not my responsibility. If you do go to jail, though, let me know. I think I have some neat ideas as to how to break out. I have not tested these, but still, I’m pretty sure, they’re good ideas.
If you take my advice and try to break out, and you end up getting shot as you make your escape, give me a call. I also have some ideas as to where you could go to have a bullet removed.
Or, better yet, come see me. I’m pretty sure I know how to remove a bullet. And I would love having the opportunity to experiment with my bullet-removal ideas.
I really wish the marketing folks at McDonald’s had come to me for advice before spending millions of dollars marketing a new product. They’re calling it a Snack Wrap. Looks good on paper, but if you’re listening to a radio ad, or hear it on TV (when you’re not actually looking at the screen), all you hear is that McDonald’s is now offering Snack Crap. Oh, if you people would just take my advice.
My whole point here is that I have ideas. My brain is like some non-stop sponge-like organ.
I’ve said all that as a way of explaining why I’m offering advice to aliens (more of the Martian than the Mexican variety) as to how to take over the world. This does not mean that I want an alien race to take over the world, but I think I have a pretty good idea of how to go about doing it.
If an alien came to me and asked what he should do to dominate Earth, the first thing I’d want to know is how much time does he have. I have a sure-fire plan but it would take about four generations (human life span) to get it done. So, if the alien didn’t have a lifespan of at least a couple hundred of our earth-years, it wouldn’t do him any good to listen to me.
But, since you’re here, reading this blog, I’m guessing I have your interest and you would like to know how to take over the world. I will share my secret, but I’m asking you not to try this at home.
Okay, here is my four-generation program for world domination.
First generation – fill with wars and economic hardship. Have this generation grow up knowing what it’s like to do without. Then, at about the age this generation starts to have children, bring about vastly improved living conditions.
Second generation – make this a generation that is given everything on a silver platter because their parents “don’t want my children to do without all the things I had to do without.” Create an environment where material things matter most…an environment where both parents feel they have to work, or want to work so as to get those things.
Third generation – is raised by the second generation. This generation should be almost completely abandoned, with the parents spending only a few minutes a week actually talking to and instructing their children. Of course, those few minutes would be quality time and really, isn’t that all that matters? The third generation should be spoon fed large doses of violent and/or immoral entertainment so that by the time they have kids, they’ll have absolutely no idea what real values are all about.
Fourth generation - Will grow up almost totally brain dead. At that point, the aliens can take over. The kids' parents won’t even notice. After that, it’s just a matter of the aliens doing as they please.
Now, this is just theory, of course. I’m not promising any of you aliens out there that it will work. But, I feel pretty confident there’s some usable stuff in here.
One more piece of advice, again to aliens…if you only have one generation – create a cable TV system that’s “All Jerry Springer, All The Time.”
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Talking Dirty
You know, it was traumatic enough when they (they being the ones who do all the surveys and tests and what not) told us that the candy in the dish by the cash register in restaurants has been tested positive to contain the bacteria or whatever in human urine. I think it's downright cruel for someone to give any kind of candy such a bad name, but, hey, if them's the facts, what can I say.
But then "they" tested the ice in the cups at the fast food restaurants and told us it had more bacteria than the water in the toilets in those same restaurants. You could have gagged me with a spoon on that one. Again, I have to wonder why someone is doing this to me. Can't people just leave well enough alone...even when well enough is pretty disgusting?
But, now "they" have gone too far. I guess you've heard the latest report. They say that in tests, a cell phone is filthier than the toilet seat in public restrooms.
My first reaction is why "they" are so interested in public restrooms. Talk about dead end jobs, how would you like to be the tester?
But, back to the issue at hand - filth. They tell us that cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats. But do "they" really believe that themselves. I'd like to take one of "them" and hold him or her at gunpoint (if I could borrow someone's gun), and give them a choice - either lick your cell phone or lick the toilet seat.
Then let them put their tongue where their mouth is or something like that. Maybe on a micro-biological level cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats, but I do know what no one has ever been allowed to do on or around my cell phone and the same can't be said of the toilets.
Maybe if there were some sort of law passed that all bacteria had to glow orange, then we'd be more disgusted, but until we can see it, I don't think "they" are really having any long term impact on our habits. I still grab a handful of the pee-mints when I leave the restaurant. Why, I'll even grab a toothpick that's already lying in the cradle of those high tech toothpick dispensers.
I still eat ice. I chew it with glee. But, I will never be tempted to freeze toilet water and chew on it. Call me old fashioned, but I won't. And, I'll still go on holding my cell phone to my face. And that's not just because I know it's only my bacteria on it. If I had a toilet seat that no one had ever used but me, I wouldn't hold it to my face. Although I will admit to doing something that some people might think strange behavior. If I buy a brand new (not used) toilet seat, wrapped in a plastic protective coating, once I unwrap it, I'll lick it because I know that's the only time I could ever lick a toilet seat. I do the same thing with the soles of a new pair of shoes.
I'm supposing everyone does that. I am right, aren't I?
So, I guess, in retrospect, this new report has helped me. From now on, when I get a brand new cell phone, first thing I'm going to do, is lick it.
But then "they" tested the ice in the cups at the fast food restaurants and told us it had more bacteria than the water in the toilets in those same restaurants. You could have gagged me with a spoon on that one. Again, I have to wonder why someone is doing this to me. Can't people just leave well enough alone...even when well enough is pretty disgusting?
But, now "they" have gone too far. I guess you've heard the latest report. They say that in tests, a cell phone is filthier than the toilet seat in public restrooms.
My first reaction is why "they" are so interested in public restrooms. Talk about dead end jobs, how would you like to be the tester?
But, back to the issue at hand - filth. They tell us that cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats. But do "they" really believe that themselves. I'd like to take one of "them" and hold him or her at gunpoint (if I could borrow someone's gun), and give them a choice - either lick your cell phone or lick the toilet seat.
Then let them put their tongue where their mouth is or something like that. Maybe on a micro-biological level cell phones are dirtier than toilet seats, but I do know what no one has ever been allowed to do on or around my cell phone and the same can't be said of the toilets.
Maybe if there were some sort of law passed that all bacteria had to glow orange, then we'd be more disgusted, but until we can see it, I don't think "they" are really having any long term impact on our habits. I still grab a handful of the pee-mints when I leave the restaurant. Why, I'll even grab a toothpick that's already lying in the cradle of those high tech toothpick dispensers.
I still eat ice. I chew it with glee. But, I will never be tempted to freeze toilet water and chew on it. Call me old fashioned, but I won't. And, I'll still go on holding my cell phone to my face. And that's not just because I know it's only my bacteria on it. If I had a toilet seat that no one had ever used but me, I wouldn't hold it to my face. Although I will admit to doing something that some people might think strange behavior. If I buy a brand new (not used) toilet seat, wrapped in a plastic protective coating, once I unwrap it, I'll lick it because I know that's the only time I could ever lick a toilet seat. I do the same thing with the soles of a new pair of shoes.
I'm supposing everyone does that. I am right, aren't I?
So, I guess, in retrospect, this new report has helped me. From now on, when I get a brand new cell phone, first thing I'm going to do, is lick it.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
As A Matter Of Fact, It Is Hot Enough For Me
Well, I guess I’m just a wee bit embarrassed this morning. I’m sure there’s a dab of egg on my face, and, given the weather, it’s no doubt fried. My embarrassment stems from this whole weather situation we’re in.
I should be too chagrinned to talk about it, but you know me. Anyway, I was walking from my car, across the shopping center parking lot, to the local grocery store yesterday afternoon. I enjoy going in grocery stores in this weather. They’re always so cool.
But, as I was walking, I was thinking to myself that while I didn’t know what the actual temperature was, it felt like it had to be 101 degrees. So, while I’m in the store, I get to chatting with the cashier…about the weather, of course, because what else is there to talk about? She didn’t seem to care that much about Mel Gibson. And, I mention to the lady that it feels like 101 degrees.
“Oh no!” she corrects me. The heat index is 100. I heard that on the radio.”
I wanted to take one of those plastic grocery bags and put it over my head in shame. I probably would have had my mother not warned me many, many years ago that doing so could kill me.
Here I was speculating about the heat index. True, I really thought that it felt like 101 degrees to me, but boy was I ever wrong. It only felt like 100 degrees to me. That’s what the grocery lady was telling me and when I scurried back to my car and turned on the radio, Mac Watson was confirming what she had said.
How I long for the good old days prior to heat indices. Do you remember when you were younger, and for many of us that means BAC (Before Air Conditioning), and you got so hot on those summer days? There were little tricks you could play on yourself to make you feel cooler. I remember my mother telling me to think about being outside on a snowy day with no coat on and I’d feel cooler. Somehow, since the heat index had not yet been invented, her suggestion actually worked. I remember one particularly warm July afternoon when I took my mother’s advice so well that I actually got gangrene in my little finger. Ah, how I long for those times.
Now, you can’t pretend you feel comfortable because there’s that dag-blasted weatherman telling you how hot you feel. They tell me today I’m going to feel like it’s 110 degrees. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that hot before, and, frankly I’m worried.
For those of you who are not as knowledgeable about these meteorological terms as am I, let me explain. The heat index is the very opposite of the windshield factor. The windshield factor is what they use in the winter. What that means is that if you were riding down the road and your windshield wasn’t in, you’d feel a certain degree of coldness. The windshield factor, like its summer cousin, the heat index, was invented so that no matter how cold or hot we were, we’d feel even colder or hotter than we should have had to feel.
I guess it’s some sadistic form of government mind control. That’s the only way I can figure it out. I mean what real purpose does it serve to enforce the way we feel? I don’t think President Eisenhower would have allowed such a thing. He seemed like a nice old man. That’s about all I remember about him. But, he kind of reminded me of my grandfather, and I’m sure my grandfather would not have stood still for either the heat index or the windshield factor.
Anyway, I think I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in the grocery store. Maybe my horrifying experience will give you cause to pause before you start blathering on about the weather. If someone asks you if it’s hot enough for you, and believe you me they will, don’t say a word until you make sure you know what the heat index is. Take it from a man who has been there. It’s better just to keep your mouth shut.
I should be too chagrinned to talk about it, but you know me. Anyway, I was walking from my car, across the shopping center parking lot, to the local grocery store yesterday afternoon. I enjoy going in grocery stores in this weather. They’re always so cool.
But, as I was walking, I was thinking to myself that while I didn’t know what the actual temperature was, it felt like it had to be 101 degrees. So, while I’m in the store, I get to chatting with the cashier…about the weather, of course, because what else is there to talk about? She didn’t seem to care that much about Mel Gibson. And, I mention to the lady that it feels like 101 degrees.
“Oh no!” she corrects me. The heat index is 100. I heard that on the radio.”
I wanted to take one of those plastic grocery bags and put it over my head in shame. I probably would have had my mother not warned me many, many years ago that doing so could kill me.
Here I was speculating about the heat index. True, I really thought that it felt like 101 degrees to me, but boy was I ever wrong. It only felt like 100 degrees to me. That’s what the grocery lady was telling me and when I scurried back to my car and turned on the radio, Mac Watson was confirming what she had said.
How I long for the good old days prior to heat indices. Do you remember when you were younger, and for many of us that means BAC (Before Air Conditioning), and you got so hot on those summer days? There were little tricks you could play on yourself to make you feel cooler. I remember my mother telling me to think about being outside on a snowy day with no coat on and I’d feel cooler. Somehow, since the heat index had not yet been invented, her suggestion actually worked. I remember one particularly warm July afternoon when I took my mother’s advice so well that I actually got gangrene in my little finger. Ah, how I long for those times.
Now, you can’t pretend you feel comfortable because there’s that dag-blasted weatherman telling you how hot you feel. They tell me today I’m going to feel like it’s 110 degrees. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that hot before, and, frankly I’m worried.
For those of you who are not as knowledgeable about these meteorological terms as am I, let me explain. The heat index is the very opposite of the windshield factor. The windshield factor is what they use in the winter. What that means is that if you were riding down the road and your windshield wasn’t in, you’d feel a certain degree of coldness. The windshield factor, like its summer cousin, the heat index, was invented so that no matter how cold or hot we were, we’d feel even colder or hotter than we should have had to feel.
I guess it’s some sadistic form of government mind control. That’s the only way I can figure it out. I mean what real purpose does it serve to enforce the way we feel? I don’t think President Eisenhower would have allowed such a thing. He seemed like a nice old man. That’s about all I remember about him. But, he kind of reminded me of my grandfather, and I’m sure my grandfather would not have stood still for either the heat index or the windshield factor.
Anyway, I think I learned a valuable lesson yesterday in the grocery store. Maybe my horrifying experience will give you cause to pause before you start blathering on about the weather. If someone asks you if it’s hot enough for you, and believe you me they will, don’t say a word until you make sure you know what the heat index is. Take it from a man who has been there. It’s better just to keep your mouth shut.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Service With a Snarl
So, I go in a small retail store this evening. It's about 6:45 and the sign on the door makes it clear, in no uncertain terms, this store closes at 7 PM. The "OPEN" sign is lit, but, let's not get too giddy. The store will close at 7. I can live with that. I'm not moving in...just kinda checking the store out.
So, the clerk, in typical friendly clerk fashion says, "Excuse me, but you do know we close at seven, don't you."
"I can read," I reply politely. And I proceed to look around...somewhat thoughtlessly, I guess. I had the nerve to shop when the clerk wanted to vacuum the store.
And now, I'm feeling so remorseful. How dare I to think that I should go in a store where the clerks were looking forward to closing up. Who did I think I was anyway?
It's not the first time I've done something so cruel. I went into a restaurant recently. I can't say I went in under false pretenses. I knew full well that the restaurant was going to be closing in about an hour. And yet, with full knowledge, and total lack of regard for the waitstaff who were apparently running the place, I went right in, sat down, and even had the nerve to order something.
The way the waitress slapped the water glasses down on the table should have been a wake up call to me. If I had any human compassion whatsoever, I would have realized that this waitress was being forced (by me) to actually take an order and serve food, and with less than an hour left on her shift.
Why, I was so rude that night, that I didn't even lift my feet that high when one of the waiters was trying to vacuum under my table. It's a wonder they didn't just throw me out on my ear.
People like me shouldn't even be allowed to mix with the rest of society. If I had even a shred of decency, I'd never enter any business after noon. I'm sure from that point on they're just counting down the minutes until they can flip the old sign to "Sorry, We're Closed."
Why should I presume on these dear, dear folk. Don't they work hard enough as it is. I mean by the time they get the open sign set up and turn all the lights on, why these young clerks have hardly any time to themselves, you know, time to make those personal phone calls, and buff their nails and polish their piercings...you know the important stuff.
I ask again, just who do I think I am. The other day, I was in a store and I had picked up a few items that I wanted to purchase. Without any regard for anyone other than my own selfish self, I marched right up to the counter, plopped my items down, pulled out my wallet, and just glared at the two young people behind the counter.
What is wrong with me. Obviously, these two had important matters to discuss. One of them, the blonde, I think, had gone out with Greg the other night, and Greg is so cool, but she (the blonde) doesn't really think they hit it off all that much, and the other girl, the one with the really, really red hair, knew just what the blonde was talking about, because she used to date this guy and he really had a lot going for him, but somehow their just wasn't that, you know, that connection.
Rather than doing the right thing and quietly tip toe out the store without disturbing these two bright young people, I had the audacity to clear my throat. And it wasn't that little subtle throat-clearing. It was a loud, obnoxious harrummph. You know the kind that has some substance to it.
It did have the intended impact. Both young ladies interrupted their meaningful dialogue and one even got up and came over and rang up my purchases. I almost felt guilty asking them to take my money.
Again, I ask, just who do I think I am? A good-for-nothing jerk, that's who. Really, who other than a jerk would ask the clerk at Food Lion to do a price check when she rings up an item at a price significantly higher than that posted in the aisle. I mean, the cashier told me I was wrong. She made it clear that she had more important things to do than call someone over and interrupt their time to go check a price for me.
The fact that I was right is little solace when I stop to think about how much I expected of these people. They have jobs to do. They have personal agendas which keep them pretty busy, and yet, here I waltz into their lives like I'm some sort of prima donna saying, "Hey, look at me. Take my money. Wait on me."
So, here's an open letter, or whatever to all of you clerks and cashiers and waitpersons out there. To all of you, I humbly say, "Please forgive me. If at all possible, I'll never, ever bother you again."
Your humble servant,
Steve
So, the clerk, in typical friendly clerk fashion says, "Excuse me, but you do know we close at seven, don't you."
"I can read," I reply politely. And I proceed to look around...somewhat thoughtlessly, I guess. I had the nerve to shop when the clerk wanted to vacuum the store.
And now, I'm feeling so remorseful. How dare I to think that I should go in a store where the clerks were looking forward to closing up. Who did I think I was anyway?
It's not the first time I've done something so cruel. I went into a restaurant recently. I can't say I went in under false pretenses. I knew full well that the restaurant was going to be closing in about an hour. And yet, with full knowledge, and total lack of regard for the waitstaff who were apparently running the place, I went right in, sat down, and even had the nerve to order something.
The way the waitress slapped the water glasses down on the table should have been a wake up call to me. If I had any human compassion whatsoever, I would have realized that this waitress was being forced (by me) to actually take an order and serve food, and with less than an hour left on her shift.
Why, I was so rude that night, that I didn't even lift my feet that high when one of the waiters was trying to vacuum under my table. It's a wonder they didn't just throw me out on my ear.
People like me shouldn't even be allowed to mix with the rest of society. If I had even a shred of decency, I'd never enter any business after noon. I'm sure from that point on they're just counting down the minutes until they can flip the old sign to "Sorry, We're Closed."
Why should I presume on these dear, dear folk. Don't they work hard enough as it is. I mean by the time they get the open sign set up and turn all the lights on, why these young clerks have hardly any time to themselves, you know, time to make those personal phone calls, and buff their nails and polish their piercings...you know the important stuff.
I ask again, just who do I think I am. The other day, I was in a store and I had picked up a few items that I wanted to purchase. Without any regard for anyone other than my own selfish self, I marched right up to the counter, plopped my items down, pulled out my wallet, and just glared at the two young people behind the counter.
What is wrong with me. Obviously, these two had important matters to discuss. One of them, the blonde, I think, had gone out with Greg the other night, and Greg is so cool, but she (the blonde) doesn't really think they hit it off all that much, and the other girl, the one with the really, really red hair, knew just what the blonde was talking about, because she used to date this guy and he really had a lot going for him, but somehow their just wasn't that, you know, that connection.
Rather than doing the right thing and quietly tip toe out the store without disturbing these two bright young people, I had the audacity to clear my throat. And it wasn't that little subtle throat-clearing. It was a loud, obnoxious harrummph. You know the kind that has some substance to it.
It did have the intended impact. Both young ladies interrupted their meaningful dialogue and one even got up and came over and rang up my purchases. I almost felt guilty asking them to take my money.
Again, I ask, just who do I think I am? A good-for-nothing jerk, that's who. Really, who other than a jerk would ask the clerk at Food Lion to do a price check when she rings up an item at a price significantly higher than that posted in the aisle. I mean, the cashier told me I was wrong. She made it clear that she had more important things to do than call someone over and interrupt their time to go check a price for me.
The fact that I was right is little solace when I stop to think about how much I expected of these people. They have jobs to do. They have personal agendas which keep them pretty busy, and yet, here I waltz into their lives like I'm some sort of prima donna saying, "Hey, look at me. Take my money. Wait on me."
So, here's an open letter, or whatever to all of you clerks and cashiers and waitpersons out there. To all of you, I humbly say, "Please forgive me. If at all possible, I'll never, ever bother you again."
Your humble servant,
Steve
My Ongoing Love Affair With Television News
Inasmuch as I'm still in the throes of terminal writer's block, and inasmuch as no one has stepped up to the plate to write my blog, I've decided to just paste the transcript to this morning's CBS early morning show...whatever they're calling it these days.
So, here goes:
ANNOUNCER: Good morning! This is Rita Emweep and there's a lot going on this morning in the Middle East. It's day 20 of continuous bombing. But first, this breaking story on Mel Gibson's run-in with the law. Standing by in California is our entertainment editor, Holly Wood. Good morning, Holly.
HOLLY: Good morning Rita. Yes, speculation abounds in the motion picture capital of the world as to Gibson's future in the industry. As you know, the aging actor was arrested for drunk driving Saturday night, and despite official police reports, it appears from the original report of the arresting officer that Gibson was downright rude.
RITA: Holly, any word on the rumor that despite official police reports, Gibson was downright rude to the arresting officer?
HOLLY: You couldn't be more correct, or observant, Rita. Gibson was rude. In fact, it was reported that Gibson made several anti-semitic comments. You may recall that when the Passion of the Christ was released, Gibson's ultra-conservative father publicly stated that much of the Holocaust was fictitious. So, many insiders here are thinking Gibson was affected by his father.
RITA: If I'm not mistaken, Holly, hasn't Gibson's father made some rather questionable comments himself?
HOLLY: I have no eartlhy idea what you're talking about, Rita.
RITA: Well, there you have it...straight from Holly Wood. On a more serious note, and before we get to the Mid-East crisis, we want to tell you about a problem that many are having to face this time of year, and that's swimmer's ear. For that, we go to our medical editor, Dr. Gene Pool. Hi Gene.
GENE: Hey, Rita. Right you are, Rita. Summertime, for some inexplicable reason seems to see a much higher incidence of swimmer's ear.
RITA: Let me interrupt you, Dr. Gene. Might it be because more people go swimming in the summer?
GENE: By George! You may have hit on something there, Rita. I can't wait to get back to that disease place in Georgia and bring that up.
RITA: You mean the Center for Disease Control?
GENE: What?
RITA: Are you talking about the Center for Disease Control, in Atlanta?
GENE: Well, I hadn't planned to. I was going to do a report on swimmer's ear. If I may?
RITA: I'm sorry, Dr. Gene, but we're getting a late breaking story in, so we're going to have to postpone your report, maybe til later in the fall if that's okay.
GENE: But, Rita...
RITA: Now, more on this late-breaking report. The crisis in the Middle East is escalating. Some have even speculated that we are on the verge of World War III. Or is that "3"? CBS, in anticipation of such a catastrophe has announced a major agreement with the McDonald's Corporation. For more on this, we go to our business editor, Dow Jones. Good morning Dow.
DOW: Rita, in an unprecedented agreement, CBS News and the McDonald's Corporation have announced a major agreement that McDonald's will be the exclusive sponsor, not only of World War III, but wars IV, V, and VI as well. And, while it has not been announced, rumor has it that the fast food chain will also be sponsoring the very end of the world itself.
RITA: Wow Dow! That is good news, especially for all of us at CBS. Will there be any merchandising tie-ins?
DOW: You can bet on that, Rita. While, I'm sure there'll be plenty of announcements to come, I have learned that already, McDonald's is introducing a transformer toy.
RITA: Cool, I always loved those. Is this something like a truck that turns into a tank or something like that.
DOW: Hey, that would be a good idea. I'll pass that along. But, actually, this is a missile that turns into a hamburger.
RITA: Let me see if I have this straight. You take a toy missile and turn it into a toy hamburger?
DOW: You're close, Rita. Actually, you take the toy missile and turn it into a real hamburger. In other words, after the kiddies are through playing with it, they can actually eat it. That'll stop mom from having to say, "Kids, stop playing with your food."
RITA: So, the missile is made of ground beef?
DOW: Heavens no! That would be somewhat disgusting, wouldn't it. Actually, the missile is made of a beef-flavored soft plastic material, the same material which McDonald's uses for their hamburgers now.
RITA: Thanks Dow. Another interesting report. Well, we were going to bring you the latest from the Middle East, but our time is up for this half-hour. We now go to your local afilliates so that the two anchors can try to emulate us here at CBS by engaging in clever repartee. In our next half-hour, we'll try to get to that Israel thing, but, beforre that, we will have a report on a cat with two faces. You don't want to miss that. Stick around.
LOCAL CUT-IN
GREG MCQUAKE: Did you hear that, Julie? A cat with two faces. Now, that's scary stuff.
JULIE: Sounds like you're a fraidy-cat, Greg.
SOUNDS OF LAUGHTER CONTINUED THROUGHOUT THE BALANCE OF THE LOCAL CUT-IN
So, here goes:
ANNOUNCER: Good morning! This is Rita Emweep and there's a lot going on this morning in the Middle East. It's day 20 of continuous bombing. But first, this breaking story on Mel Gibson's run-in with the law. Standing by in California is our entertainment editor, Holly Wood. Good morning, Holly.
HOLLY: Good morning Rita. Yes, speculation abounds in the motion picture capital of the world as to Gibson's future in the industry. As you know, the aging actor was arrested for drunk driving Saturday night, and despite official police reports, it appears from the original report of the arresting officer that Gibson was downright rude.
RITA: Holly, any word on the rumor that despite official police reports, Gibson was downright rude to the arresting officer?
HOLLY: You couldn't be more correct, or observant, Rita. Gibson was rude. In fact, it was reported that Gibson made several anti-semitic comments. You may recall that when the Passion of the Christ was released, Gibson's ultra-conservative father publicly stated that much of the Holocaust was fictitious. So, many insiders here are thinking Gibson was affected by his father.
RITA: If I'm not mistaken, Holly, hasn't Gibson's father made some rather questionable comments himself?
HOLLY: I have no eartlhy idea what you're talking about, Rita.
RITA: Well, there you have it...straight from Holly Wood. On a more serious note, and before we get to the Mid-East crisis, we want to tell you about a problem that many are having to face this time of year, and that's swimmer's ear. For that, we go to our medical editor, Dr. Gene Pool. Hi Gene.
GENE: Hey, Rita. Right you are, Rita. Summertime, for some inexplicable reason seems to see a much higher incidence of swimmer's ear.
RITA: Let me interrupt you, Dr. Gene. Might it be because more people go swimming in the summer?
GENE: By George! You may have hit on something there, Rita. I can't wait to get back to that disease place in Georgia and bring that up.
RITA: You mean the Center for Disease Control?
GENE: What?
RITA: Are you talking about the Center for Disease Control, in Atlanta?
GENE: Well, I hadn't planned to. I was going to do a report on swimmer's ear. If I may?
RITA: I'm sorry, Dr. Gene, but we're getting a late breaking story in, so we're going to have to postpone your report, maybe til later in the fall if that's okay.
GENE: But, Rita...
RITA: Now, more on this late-breaking report. The crisis in the Middle East is escalating. Some have even speculated that we are on the verge of World War III. Or is that "3"? CBS, in anticipation of such a catastrophe has announced a major agreement with the McDonald's Corporation. For more on this, we go to our business editor, Dow Jones. Good morning Dow.
DOW: Rita, in an unprecedented agreement, CBS News and the McDonald's Corporation have announced a major agreement that McDonald's will be the exclusive sponsor, not only of World War III, but wars IV, V, and VI as well. And, while it has not been announced, rumor has it that the fast food chain will also be sponsoring the very end of the world itself.
RITA: Wow Dow! That is good news, especially for all of us at CBS. Will there be any merchandising tie-ins?
DOW: You can bet on that, Rita. While, I'm sure there'll be plenty of announcements to come, I have learned that already, McDonald's is introducing a transformer toy.
RITA: Cool, I always loved those. Is this something like a truck that turns into a tank or something like that.
DOW: Hey, that would be a good idea. I'll pass that along. But, actually, this is a missile that turns into a hamburger.
RITA: Let me see if I have this straight. You take a toy missile and turn it into a toy hamburger?
DOW: You're close, Rita. Actually, you take the toy missile and turn it into a real hamburger. In other words, after the kiddies are through playing with it, they can actually eat it. That'll stop mom from having to say, "Kids, stop playing with your food."
RITA: So, the missile is made of ground beef?
DOW: Heavens no! That would be somewhat disgusting, wouldn't it. Actually, the missile is made of a beef-flavored soft plastic material, the same material which McDonald's uses for their hamburgers now.
RITA: Thanks Dow. Another interesting report. Well, we were going to bring you the latest from the Middle East, but our time is up for this half-hour. We now go to your local afilliates so that the two anchors can try to emulate us here at CBS by engaging in clever repartee. In our next half-hour, we'll try to get to that Israel thing, but, beforre that, we will have a report on a cat with two faces. You don't want to miss that. Stick around.
LOCAL CUT-IN
GREG MCQUAKE: Did you hear that, Julie? A cat with two faces. Now, that's scary stuff.
JULIE: Sounds like you're a fraidy-cat, Greg.
SOUNDS OF LAUGHTER CONTINUED THROUGHOUT THE BALANCE OF THE LOCAL CUT-IN
Friday, July 28, 2006
The Emperor's New Theory
As you've perhaps been able to figure out, all my creative juices have been sapped by the summer sun. It's a good thing I still have my L'Occitaine Essential Water and Precious Fluid, or my face would be as withered as my brain.
It's not entirely my fault. After all, the state of Virginia has either fried or lethally injected the really interesting people over the past few weeks.
I have been doing a lot of serious thinking recently. WARNING: THIS MEANS THERE'S NO HUMOR CONTAINED IN THE FOLLOWING.
I've been thinking about how foolish the theory of evolution really is. I was pleased to read recently that in a survey, 80% of Americans beleive in a creator. So, those 100% of nature video narrators haven't made as many inroads as they may think they have.
I'm not the world's deepest thinker, but I really can't understand how anyone can believe everything happened by chance. I think the whole evolution movement is the ultimate application of the Emperor's New Clothing. You see, it's like this...someone comes up with the idea that given enough millenniums anything could come about by accident, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. I did experiment though. I tried to see how many car payments I could miss before my car payment got made by chance. That's why I'm now driving a 1994 Saturn. But, anyway, someone came up with this idea and whenever any reasonable person would say, "I don't see the logic in that," they would be told that only intelligent people saw the logic.
So, pretty soon, in order to appear intelligent a bunch of people started saying they saw the logic in evolution. However, in this little darwinian play I just laid out for you, I play the precious child who shrieks, "Hey, the evolution emperor is naked."
Now before you try to pit your mental prowess against mine, I simply ask you to consider two factors. I call them the "Two Main Reasons I Don't See the Logic In Evolution" factors.
Number 1 is eyebrows. I think eyebrows are a pretty good feature to have on your face. But, they're kind of like cupholders in the car. You don't really need them to drive the car. In fact, my 1994 Saturn has no cupholders, except for the recess between my two flabby thighs.
So, if evolution is true, we (meaning that ancestor pool we share with the primates) somewhere down the line, lost our fur but kept some hair. Why did nature choose to put hair over our eyes. I can see why a designer would do that. If you can't, then go pour some GatorAde in your eyes. But, it's not like the inferior life form is going to lose so many battles due to sweat in his eyes that the eyebrowed life form wins out.
In fact, if there were any female early forms of mostly human people, they would have spent so much time trying to pluck their eyebrows with two rocks that I'm betting the non-eyebrowed clan could have smeared them into oblivion.
The fact that there would almost have to be a female version of early man (early woman), brings me to factor number 2.
2) - Dating. Now, I'm not talking about Fred taking Wilma to the drive-in. I use the term dating somewhat euphemistically. What I'm really saying (wink wink nod nod) is that for the human race to happen (via evolution, this is) you'd have to have had a full human male come along at the same exact time as a full human female, if you see where I'm coming from.
You see, evolutionists are counting on having unlimited amounts of mythological years to throw at their problems. They even have convinced many that something that could never happen, could really happen in a million years, or if a million seems to paltry, let's make it a billion years...yeah, that's the ticket.
But, let's say this monkey gives birth to a little boy. (I may be a little over-simplistic here, but I think I'm pretty much on target) First thing, if I were a monkey who had this skin-covered baby, I'd probably eat it, or kill it or something. You sure don't want that ugly thing lying around the cave. But, let's humor the evolutionists. Let's say the monkey mom was the compassionate type. So, she convinces her husband to let the hideous little creature live. All is good. Except little human boy can't get a date. Well, it's not that he can't. He could "date" some of the other monkeys, but I'm betting they aren't attracted to him, maybe even vice versa.
In the real world of real people giving in to real urges, there would have to be some sort of human senior prom to keep the line going. That means Wilma would have to be born to another primate family just a few caves over, at the same time.
If Fred is born, in let's say 1,000,000 B.C. (just an aside, if evoution were true there'd be no need for "C" - think about that) and Wilma doesn't come along until 999,850, Fred is dead while Wilma wilts. I don't really know what I meant by that, but it sort of flowed. I think all in all there's sheer brilliance in my reasoning. My logic is fully clothed. It even has an overcoat on.
At least that's the way I see things. In fact, I'm so convinced that I'm right here, that I'm going to put my money where my mouth (really fingers) is (really are). I will give one thousand dollars in cash to the first person who can convince me that I'm an idiot. Any takers?
I thought not.
It's not entirely my fault. After all, the state of Virginia has either fried or lethally injected the really interesting people over the past few weeks.
I have been doing a lot of serious thinking recently. WARNING: THIS MEANS THERE'S NO HUMOR CONTAINED IN THE FOLLOWING.
I've been thinking about how foolish the theory of evolution really is. I was pleased to read recently that in a survey, 80% of Americans beleive in a creator. So, those 100% of nature video narrators haven't made as many inroads as they may think they have.
I'm not the world's deepest thinker, but I really can't understand how anyone can believe everything happened by chance. I think the whole evolution movement is the ultimate application of the Emperor's New Clothing. You see, it's like this...someone comes up with the idea that given enough millenniums anything could come about by accident, which is pretty stupid when you think about it. I did experiment though. I tried to see how many car payments I could miss before my car payment got made by chance. That's why I'm now driving a 1994 Saturn. But, anyway, someone came up with this idea and whenever any reasonable person would say, "I don't see the logic in that," they would be told that only intelligent people saw the logic.
So, pretty soon, in order to appear intelligent a bunch of people started saying they saw the logic in evolution. However, in this little darwinian play I just laid out for you, I play the precious child who shrieks, "Hey, the evolution emperor is naked."
Now before you try to pit your mental prowess against mine, I simply ask you to consider two factors. I call them the "Two Main Reasons I Don't See the Logic In Evolution" factors.
Number 1 is eyebrows. I think eyebrows are a pretty good feature to have on your face. But, they're kind of like cupholders in the car. You don't really need them to drive the car. In fact, my 1994 Saturn has no cupholders, except for the recess between my two flabby thighs.
So, if evolution is true, we (meaning that ancestor pool we share with the primates) somewhere down the line, lost our fur but kept some hair. Why did nature choose to put hair over our eyes. I can see why a designer would do that. If you can't, then go pour some GatorAde in your eyes. But, it's not like the inferior life form is going to lose so many battles due to sweat in his eyes that the eyebrowed life form wins out.
In fact, if there were any female early forms of mostly human people, they would have spent so much time trying to pluck their eyebrows with two rocks that I'm betting the non-eyebrowed clan could have smeared them into oblivion.
The fact that there would almost have to be a female version of early man (early woman), brings me to factor number 2.
2) - Dating. Now, I'm not talking about Fred taking Wilma to the drive-in. I use the term dating somewhat euphemistically. What I'm really saying (wink wink nod nod) is that for the human race to happen (via evolution, this is) you'd have to have had a full human male come along at the same exact time as a full human female, if you see where I'm coming from.
You see, evolutionists are counting on having unlimited amounts of mythological years to throw at their problems. They even have convinced many that something that could never happen, could really happen in a million years, or if a million seems to paltry, let's make it a billion years...yeah, that's the ticket.
But, let's say this monkey gives birth to a little boy. (I may be a little over-simplistic here, but I think I'm pretty much on target) First thing, if I were a monkey who had this skin-covered baby, I'd probably eat it, or kill it or something. You sure don't want that ugly thing lying around the cave. But, let's humor the evolutionists. Let's say the monkey mom was the compassionate type. So, she convinces her husband to let the hideous little creature live. All is good. Except little human boy can't get a date. Well, it's not that he can't. He could "date" some of the other monkeys, but I'm betting they aren't attracted to him, maybe even vice versa.
In the real world of real people giving in to real urges, there would have to be some sort of human senior prom to keep the line going. That means Wilma would have to be born to another primate family just a few caves over, at the same time.
If Fred is born, in let's say 1,000,000 B.C. (just an aside, if evoution were true there'd be no need for "C" - think about that) and Wilma doesn't come along until 999,850, Fred is dead while Wilma wilts. I don't really know what I meant by that, but it sort of flowed. I think all in all there's sheer brilliance in my reasoning. My logic is fully clothed. It even has an overcoat on.
At least that's the way I see things. In fact, I'm so convinced that I'm right here, that I'm going to put my money where my mouth (really fingers) is (really are). I will give one thousand dollars in cash to the first person who can convince me that I'm an idiot. Any takers?
I thought not.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Running A Fowl of the Faithful
So, I’m sitting at the desk, absent-mindedly picking at belly button lint. My boss slaps my hand, screaming, “I said leave me alone!”
In response, I go back to my own desk and decide to check my email. Lo and behold, I actually get one that’s not trying to sell me a stock, a Rolex watch, or some sort of medication.
It’s from a Reverend Owen Christopher. Mr. Christopher, it seems was somewhat offended by my reference to Sandersria, the somewhat off-beat religion I had written about this morning.
He said, and I’ll quote, “Mr. Cook, may you burn in the eternal flames of hot oil for blaspheming our religion.”
He has my attention…another fan, I’m thinking. He goes on…
“You seem to take our beliefs very lightly. Do you not have even a modicum of appreciation for the feelings of dozens of Sanders-fearing upright men and women who practice our faith?”
First, let me say to Reverend Christopher, “I sir, used to have a modicum, but it broke.”
The good Rev continues, “We are a sincere group of individuals who have been looking for, yes, praying for the Colonel’s Second Helping. And rubbish such as you write can only serve to humiliate us.”
Once again, I interrupt the man of the cloth napkin to assure him and you that I am very fond of his Colonel. I don’t view him as divine, but certainly as a great profit center.
Christopher continues, “Our faith has taken quite a hit over the past few years. First there was that “extra crispy” apostate movement. Then some of our less faithful leaders took the very name Kentucky off our signs, replacing it with the offensive ‘KFC.
“I, sir am very vocal in proclaiming, ‘Put the Kentucky back into K.”
The pastor makes a good point. I personally think a bucket of chicken has become too commercialized. Have you seen what they’re charging – an arm and a leg for a breast and a leg?
But, I digress…the Reverend Christopher concludes, “Perhaps I am over-reacting, but our little group has taken some hard knocks lately. That sweet sticky sauce on the wings was outright blasphemy, but the very worst thing, the most unimaginable thing, and I’m sure if the Colonel were alive today he’d be spinning in his grave, is that horid ecumenical movement. Of course, I refer to the adulterating of pure Sandersria with Pizza Hutian beliefs. A sacrilege…an outrage.”
The reverend concluded with the typical, "Sanders bless."
I’m sharing this with you, my friends in an effort to say, “let’s all stop and smell the roses.”
No, that’s not what I wanted to say. It had something to do with walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes. I tell you what. I’m going to get a big box of wings and go sit down and think this over for a bit.
In response, I go back to my own desk and decide to check my email. Lo and behold, I actually get one that’s not trying to sell me a stock, a Rolex watch, or some sort of medication.
It’s from a Reverend Owen Christopher. Mr. Christopher, it seems was somewhat offended by my reference to Sandersria, the somewhat off-beat religion I had written about this morning.
He said, and I’ll quote, “Mr. Cook, may you burn in the eternal flames of hot oil for blaspheming our religion.”
He has my attention…another fan, I’m thinking. He goes on…
“You seem to take our beliefs very lightly. Do you not have even a modicum of appreciation for the feelings of dozens of Sanders-fearing upright men and women who practice our faith?”
First, let me say to Reverend Christopher, “I sir, used to have a modicum, but it broke.”
The good Rev continues, “We are a sincere group of individuals who have been looking for, yes, praying for the Colonel’s Second Helping. And rubbish such as you write can only serve to humiliate us.”
Once again, I interrupt the man of the cloth napkin to assure him and you that I am very fond of his Colonel. I don’t view him as divine, but certainly as a great profit center.
Christopher continues, “Our faith has taken quite a hit over the past few years. First there was that “extra crispy” apostate movement. Then some of our less faithful leaders took the very name Kentucky off our signs, replacing it with the offensive ‘KFC.
“I, sir am very vocal in proclaiming, ‘Put the Kentucky back into K.”
The pastor makes a good point. I personally think a bucket of chicken has become too commercialized. Have you seen what they’re charging – an arm and a leg for a breast and a leg?
But, I digress…the Reverend Christopher concludes, “Perhaps I am over-reacting, but our little group has taken some hard knocks lately. That sweet sticky sauce on the wings was outright blasphemy, but the very worst thing, the most unimaginable thing, and I’m sure if the Colonel were alive today he’d be spinning in his grave, is that horid ecumenical movement. Of course, I refer to the adulterating of pure Sandersria with Pizza Hutian beliefs. A sacrilege…an outrage.”
The reverend concluded with the typical, "Sanders bless."
I’m sharing this with you, my friends in an effort to say, “let’s all stop and smell the roses.”
No, that’s not what I wanted to say. It had something to do with walking a mile in the other guy’s shoes. I tell you what. I’m going to get a big box of wings and go sit down and think this over for a bit.
You Know You're a Norse Heathen...If Your Church Service Ends With A Lethal Injection
I was in the men's room at Ukrop's today. I know that, in itself, is not fascinating. As one rapidly approaching senior citizen's status, I find myself in the men's room at many locations around town. Well, when I say I find myself, I don't mean that I regain consciousness and discover that's where I am. I went in their on my own volition.
Anyway, I knew the Ukrop's family is somewhat a corporate bumper sticker for their religious convictions, but, even so, I was a tad suprised to see that they had etched on the restroom stall the statement, "Jesus saves." Interestingly, below that, someone else (I'm presuming) had etched: "And you can too...at Food Lion."
I'd been thinking about religion lately. There are some strange ones out there. What got me on that mindset is the story about Michael Lenz. He's the Virginia death-row inmate who's about to be lethally injected for killing a fellow inmate during a religious ritual. Seems the fellow inmate - the dead one - was a backslider. He wasn't serving his Norse gods in the manner that the other inmate - the amost dead one - thought he should.
The way I look at it, those Norse god religions are kinda backwoodsy compared to some of the world's major religions. I mean, think about it - the major religions kill hundreds, if not thousands of people at a time in the name of religion. These Norse heathenists can only muster one person, and a prisoner at that. If you ask me, it's kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.
I'll have to remember to ask my old friend Lochru more about this the next time I see him.
There are other interesting religions, that, at first glance might seem a little strange. For instance, there's the Frisbeeterians. They believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it down.
I think if I were going to choose a cult, I'd be partial to the Sandersria. This is a little-known religion found in the southeastern part of the United States. Their major practice, and the one that draws in the most converts, involves sacrificing a chicken, then frying it up with several delicious herbs and spices and serving with mashed potatoes and biscuits. Devotees follow that up with a two-hour sleep-like state in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
If you ask me, that's a lot more enjoyable than having to go out and kill people. With my luck, I'd end up killing the wrong guys. But, when it comes to ingesting a fried chicken, you can hardly go wrong. I've never, to my recollection, eaten a chicken I didn't like.
Well, I hope I'm not sounding like a religious fanatic here. Keep in mind, I'm not a practicing Sandersria. And, with clogged arteries, I'm not about to go headlong into the movement. But, hey, once in a while, a nugget or two sure can't hurt.
Anyway, I knew the Ukrop's family is somewhat a corporate bumper sticker for their religious convictions, but, even so, I was a tad suprised to see that they had etched on the restroom stall the statement, "Jesus saves." Interestingly, below that, someone else (I'm presuming) had etched: "And you can too...at Food Lion."
I'd been thinking about religion lately. There are some strange ones out there. What got me on that mindset is the story about Michael Lenz. He's the Virginia death-row inmate who's about to be lethally injected for killing a fellow inmate during a religious ritual. Seems the fellow inmate - the dead one - was a backslider. He wasn't serving his Norse gods in the manner that the other inmate - the amost dead one - thought he should.
The way I look at it, those Norse god religions are kinda backwoodsy compared to some of the world's major religions. I mean, think about it - the major religions kill hundreds, if not thousands of people at a time in the name of religion. These Norse heathenists can only muster one person, and a prisoner at that. If you ask me, it's kind of like shooting fish in a barrel.
I'll have to remember to ask my old friend Lochru more about this the next time I see him.
There are other interesting religions, that, at first glance might seem a little strange. For instance, there's the Frisbeeterians. They believe that when you die, your soul goes up on the roof and you can't get it down.
I think if I were going to choose a cult, I'd be partial to the Sandersria. This is a little-known religion found in the southeastern part of the United States. Their major practice, and the one that draws in the most converts, involves sacrificing a chicken, then frying it up with several delicious herbs and spices and serving with mashed potatoes and biscuits. Devotees follow that up with a two-hour sleep-like state in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
If you ask me, that's a lot more enjoyable than having to go out and kill people. With my luck, I'd end up killing the wrong guys. But, when it comes to ingesting a fried chicken, you can hardly go wrong. I've never, to my recollection, eaten a chicken I didn't like.
Well, I hope I'm not sounding like a religious fanatic here. Keep in mind, I'm not a practicing Sandersria. And, with clogged arteries, I'm not about to go headlong into the movement. But, hey, once in a while, a nugget or two sure can't hurt.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
It's A Big Beautiful Stupid World Out There And I'm Loving It.
Well, I'm back. And I think I'm man enough that the truth can be told now. I've been in a rest home over the past few weeks. Special thanks to Lars Kirkengaard, a rising sixty-grader at Maude Trevette Elementary School in Henrico for so capably filling in for me.
I didn't, in the truest sense of the word, have a comlete breakdown. But, I had a nervous condition brought on by the lack of really funny stuff about which to write.
You see, truth be known, I have no genuine sense of humor. I just recognize something stupid when I see it. But the stupidity has to have a measure of funniness. I mean with the nations of the world at each other's throats, there's lots of stupid going on, but none of it is all that funny.
I was about to give up all hope, and then I heard Jimmy Barrett interviewing Chad Siewert on WRVA this morning. As soon as the interview was concluded, I unfastened my straight jacket, and headed back to the keyboard. I'm a new man. I'm reinvigorated. Yessireebob, there is stupid news tonight.
Siewert, in case you haven't heard is a South Richmond guy, a former soldier, in fact, who has posted a sign in the yard of his Jahnke Road home encouraging people to just take a minute and stop and think about the whole 9-11 controversy. Siewert, evidently just by looking at a few websites, has pretty much figured this whole 9-11 conspiracy theory out.
"It was an inside job." That's what Siewert has discovered. He even knows the reason why the United States government decided to destroy the World Trade Center and a portion of the Pentagon. It was to gain support for a war in Afgahanistan. Makes sense to me. I'm just glad Bush was able to convince us that Sadam had WOMD. Who knows what the President would have done to get support for a war in Iraq. I'm thinking he may have even have had to have himself bombed.
Now, I admit, as brilliant as Siewert's reasoning seems to be, I do see a loophole or two. Let me, if you will, play devil's advocate for just a sec.
If the government was so willing to kill millions of its citizens on September 11th, why don't they just pop Siewert's little head off next time he sits out in his front yard? Now, keep in mind, I'm not recommending that. I'm just trying to think presidentially.
Siewert, based on what he told Barrett, sits outside quite a bit. Apparently when motorists drive by, they'll often stop and want to engage him in intellectual debate. From what I could discern, that would be tantamount to me trying to debate relativity with Einstein himself.
Chad Siewert, when it comes to conspiracies, is a mental giant. So much so, that he says that everyone - and he means EVERYONE - who debates him comes away convinced he's right on target. I'd say that's a pretty good batting average. I mean, even Jesus couldn't convince everyone. Of course, Jesus never, to my knowledge, ever thought to use yard signs.
Now, keep in mind that not everyone stops to debate Siewert. Many, he says, just honk their horn as they go by to tell him they're on his side. I think Jesus did come up with that bumper sticker first.
Anyway, Chad Siewert is a powerfully convincing guy. But, again, I do have a few questions. Obviously, Siewert has the answers, but what I'd like to know is this: The guy says that one of the reasons he knows the whole 9-11 thing is a hoax is because he's been on the official FBI website and they don't even mention Osama Ben Ladin as being most wanted.
It kind of makes sense, but before I join Siewert's Army, I would like to know why George Bush doesn't just make that guy doing the FBI's website put Ben Ladin on the most wanted list. And, if the guy didn't want to do it, Bush could just have him killed. In fact, Bush could hire himself another plane and just destroy the whole FBI building if the feds weren't willing to help him with his coverup.
Really, once you've killed several thousand citizens, why wimp out now? I'm sure that after I've massacred my first thousand people, there'd be no stopping me. But, then I'm not the president. Maybe George Bush has some diabolical plan that involves keeping Chad Siewert alive.
If so, that's fine with me. Personally, I want to tell Mr. Siewert how much I appreciate him. Had it not been for him, and Jimmy Barrett, of course, I'd at this very moment be sitting in the Shady Meadows' basket weaving for seniors class. And, do you have any idea how difficult it is to weave a basket with your hands strapped behind your back?
I didn't, in the truest sense of the word, have a comlete breakdown. But, I had a nervous condition brought on by the lack of really funny stuff about which to write.
You see, truth be known, I have no genuine sense of humor. I just recognize something stupid when I see it. But the stupidity has to have a measure of funniness. I mean with the nations of the world at each other's throats, there's lots of stupid going on, but none of it is all that funny.
I was about to give up all hope, and then I heard Jimmy Barrett interviewing Chad Siewert on WRVA this morning. As soon as the interview was concluded, I unfastened my straight jacket, and headed back to the keyboard. I'm a new man. I'm reinvigorated. Yessireebob, there is stupid news tonight.
Siewert, in case you haven't heard is a South Richmond guy, a former soldier, in fact, who has posted a sign in the yard of his Jahnke Road home encouraging people to just take a minute and stop and think about the whole 9-11 controversy. Siewert, evidently just by looking at a few websites, has pretty much figured this whole 9-11 conspiracy theory out.
"It was an inside job." That's what Siewert has discovered. He even knows the reason why the United States government decided to destroy the World Trade Center and a portion of the Pentagon. It was to gain support for a war in Afgahanistan. Makes sense to me. I'm just glad Bush was able to convince us that Sadam had WOMD. Who knows what the President would have done to get support for a war in Iraq. I'm thinking he may have even have had to have himself bombed.
Now, I admit, as brilliant as Siewert's reasoning seems to be, I do see a loophole or two. Let me, if you will, play devil's advocate for just a sec.
If the government was so willing to kill millions of its citizens on September 11th, why don't they just pop Siewert's little head off next time he sits out in his front yard? Now, keep in mind, I'm not recommending that. I'm just trying to think presidentially.
Siewert, based on what he told Barrett, sits outside quite a bit. Apparently when motorists drive by, they'll often stop and want to engage him in intellectual debate. From what I could discern, that would be tantamount to me trying to debate relativity with Einstein himself.
Chad Siewert, when it comes to conspiracies, is a mental giant. So much so, that he says that everyone - and he means EVERYONE - who debates him comes away convinced he's right on target. I'd say that's a pretty good batting average. I mean, even Jesus couldn't convince everyone. Of course, Jesus never, to my knowledge, ever thought to use yard signs.
Now, keep in mind that not everyone stops to debate Siewert. Many, he says, just honk their horn as they go by to tell him they're on his side. I think Jesus did come up with that bumper sticker first.
Anyway, Chad Siewert is a powerfully convincing guy. But, again, I do have a few questions. Obviously, Siewert has the answers, but what I'd like to know is this: The guy says that one of the reasons he knows the whole 9-11 thing is a hoax is because he's been on the official FBI website and they don't even mention Osama Ben Ladin as being most wanted.
It kind of makes sense, but before I join Siewert's Army, I would like to know why George Bush doesn't just make that guy doing the FBI's website put Ben Ladin on the most wanted list. And, if the guy didn't want to do it, Bush could just have him killed. In fact, Bush could hire himself another plane and just destroy the whole FBI building if the feds weren't willing to help him with his coverup.
Really, once you've killed several thousand citizens, why wimp out now? I'm sure that after I've massacred my first thousand people, there'd be no stopping me. But, then I'm not the president. Maybe George Bush has some diabolical plan that involves keeping Chad Siewert alive.
If so, that's fine with me. Personally, I want to tell Mr. Siewert how much I appreciate him. Had it not been for him, and Jimmy Barrett, of course, I'd at this very moment be sitting in the Shady Meadows' basket weaving for seniors class. And, do you have any idea how difficult it is to weave a basket with your hands strapped behind your back?
Monday, July 24, 2006
Oh What A Tangled Web We Weave, When First We Practice to Be Clever
So, I’m sitting at the computer with my wife Francesca. She is checking out my latest blog.
“What do you mean by blaming your stupid ideas on me having a dream?” she asked inquisitively.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied sardonically.
“There’s no need for you to be sardonic,” she says thesaurically. “And don’t avoid my question. You’ve made me look foolish. I had no such dream about your being missing. And, what is more, who is this Morgan Fairchild?”
I prudently ignored the Morgan Fairchild question. “I’m being totally sincere,” I said totally sincerely. “I really don’t know what you mean about your dream.”
“Sure you don’t,” she said, semi-sardonically. “You got into some stupid story line about your being missing and the best way you could think of to get out of it was to make up some idiocy about it all being my dream.”
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, look here on my computer,” she said bytingly. “See right here,” she said pointedly, pointing to a blog about her dream.
My eyes bugged out of my head, so to speak. She was right. I began to read in an undertone. The more I read, the more confused I became. I surely never wrote any of this, I thought.
“I surely never wrote any of this,” I echoed.
“Well who do you think wrote it?” she asked derisively, “…M. Bob Freeley?”
“Imbibe freely?” I asked, using a cute ploy to make sure that no pun goes overlooked.
“I’m sick and tired of your stupid antics,” Francesca said angrily. With that she started to pound me about the face with her fists.
“Stop. Please Francesca, stop,” I began to scream. “Stop, Francesca, stop, please stop.”
Suddenly someone began to shake me vigorously. “Steve, wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was my wife Helmi.
“What’s wrong. You must have been having a dream,” Helmi asked me anxiously. “And, who is this Francesca?”
TO BE CONTINUED?
“What do you mean by blaming your stupid ideas on me having a dream?” she asked inquisitively.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied sardonically.
“There’s no need for you to be sardonic,” she says thesaurically. “And don’t avoid my question. You’ve made me look foolish. I had no such dream about your being missing. And, what is more, who is this Morgan Fairchild?”
I prudently ignored the Morgan Fairchild question. “I’m being totally sincere,” I said totally sincerely. “I really don’t know what you mean about your dream.”
“Sure you don’t,” she said, semi-sardonically. “You got into some stupid story line about your being missing and the best way you could think of to get out of it was to make up some idiocy about it all being my dream.”
“Honey,” I said sweetly, “I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, look here on my computer,” she said bytingly. “See right here,” she said pointedly, pointing to a blog about her dream.
My eyes bugged out of my head, so to speak. She was right. I began to read in an undertone. The more I read, the more confused I became. I surely never wrote any of this, I thought.
“I surely never wrote any of this,” I echoed.
“Well who do you think wrote it?” she asked derisively, “…M. Bob Freeley?”
“Imbibe freely?” I asked, using a cute ploy to make sure that no pun goes overlooked.
“I’m sick and tired of your stupid antics,” Francesca said angrily. With that she started to pound me about the face with her fists.
“Stop. Please Francesca, stop,” I began to scream. “Stop, Francesca, stop, please stop.”
Suddenly someone began to shake me vigorously. “Steve, wake up.” I opened my eyes. It was my wife Helmi.
“What’s wrong. You must have been having a dream,” Helmi asked me anxiously. “And, who is this Francesca?”
TO BE CONTINUED?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
