You Name It

I know I had pledged never to use this space for monetary gain, but I've hit upon an idea so brilliant, and so potentially profitable, that I think I'm going to have to reconsider that pledge. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got around to making the pledge, so we're cool.
Here's my new business idea. I think you're going to like it, except for those of you who are green with envy that I thought it up first. Well, I didn't actually think it up on my own. You could say I was inspired.
Have you heard those commercials for the National Star Registry. They're the people who will name a star after you if you send them fifty bucks or so. I used to think that their idea was ridiculous. After all, they don't own the stars. They can't force anyone to call the stars by the names they give them. They just basically give you a piece of paper that says such and such a star is named Henry, or whatever. I used to think those people at National Star Registry were crazy, then it dawned on me, they're crazy alright, crazy like a fox. They're making money. I'm sure they make more than I do.
At least until now. I am, here, today, introducing the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry. That's right. I'll name anything after you or a loved one. Would you like a day of the week named after you, or perhaps, you'd like to give that as a gift to someone near and dear? Just send me twenty-five dollars and I'll name the day after you. Pretty cheap, eh?
I'll even send you an authentic looking letter and a calendar showing that day named for you. Just send me the money. I'll do the rest.
Or, perhaps, you'd like a planet named after you. I can do that, too, and for a mere twenty-five dollars. Heck, I'll give you a discount for Pluto since it's not a real planet.
I'll name anything. How about a number? For instance, you send me the money, and I'll send you back a sheet of paper that proves I've named a number for you. Imagine your wife's delight to get this authentic notification.

Here are the numbers: One, Two, Hilda, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten.

Can you imagine the love you'll be feeling from Hilda when she gets a letter like that? With the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry, I'll name anything. Spices? Imagine the excitement around your house, when you're sitting around the dinner table, and someone says, "Pass the salt and Bobby, please." How is Bobby going to feel then?
The beauty of my company is that we're not limited to just a few trillion stars. I'll name anything. You know that atomic table of the elements? How about if one of those elements were named Jim? Pretty cool, huh?
Or Einstein's Theory of Relativitiy? Suppose, around your house it looked like this E=Mike c2. Mike would get quite a tingle out of that.
Just use your imagination. I'm using mine. I'll even rename people for you. Did you know the first president of the United States was Herb Schmidlap? Well, when Mrs. Schmidlap sends me her twenty-five bucks, that could become a reality. Or how about this...in 1492 Columbus discovered Mary Wilson? That's right, I'll name continents, oceans, mountains, anything, and all for just twenty-five bucks. And, as I said earlier, for a limited time, I'll give you a discount on Pluto.
When we say the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry will name anything, we mean anything. I'll even rename the Steve Cook Name Anything Registry if that's what you want.
This thing is going to be big. I can feel it. In fact, just since I started writing this, I've had a dozen orders pour in. So, I better run. I have some renaming to do. I'll talk to you again on Myrtle.

Something's Rotten in Daytona

I've always wanted to be one of those hard-hitting, investigative journalists...you know, one of those embittered, crusty old veteran writers who is always smelling a scandal. And, I would have done that. There was just one thing, which, in my opinion, held me back...talent. I also lacked a nose for news. For instance, for years I wondered what was so bad about plumbers being in the Watergate Hotel. It finally dawned on me a couple of years ago that those guys probably weren't plumbers at all.
Anyway, I think my nose for news is improving, and while my talent isn't, the talent of most reporters these days is so low that I'm not looking nearly as bad as I once did. Hence, I've been sniffing out a good story, or at least trying to find something that might win me a Pulitzer, or some kind of prize.
So, you can imagine my glee, when, just the other day, I heard a story that immediately sent my scandal-radar blipping like crazy. It was a piece done about a race car driver who, all of a sudden has gotten quite popular. The guy is in his forties, but, it seems that in just the past year he's gone from being a nobody to a somebody. Sounds innocent enough, huh? Well maybe to you novices out there who don't have the nose I do.
You won't believe what I'm about to tell you. Here's the freaky part...the driver's name is...are you ready...Philip Morris. Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Do you see what's going on here folks? It's time to wake up and smell the cigarettes.
You know how for years the tobacco industry was so closely intertwined with NASCAR, and then, due to government regulations, the Winston Cup mysteriously became the Nextel Cup? Well, do you suppose the big money people at the tobacco companies just decided to give up? Call me Ed Bradley, but I don't think so. I smell a rat, and rat spelled backwards is tar. Something to think about.
So, this Philip Morris just suddenly bursts onto the scene. Me thinks, that if you look at the guy's driver's license, you might find he's really, oh, I don't know, KYLE PETTY! Do you see what the cigarette people are doing? It's really brilliant in a diabolical sort of way. They're changing the names of the drivers. What's next? Maybe Mark Martin disappears, but a driver bearing a strange resemblance comes on the scene, a driver by the name of Winston Tastegood, perhaps.
The scary part is that they (they being the tobacco guys) almost pulled this thing off. If it hadn't been for my newly-developed keen sense of smell, they would have.
You think I'm crazy, don't you? Well, I have confirmation. I called a couple of the big tobacco manufacturing giants and confronted them with my theory. Do you know what they said? They said I was crazy. That answer is just a little to pat if you ask me. People are always telling me I'm crazy. How simple would it be for these tobacco people to parrot that response?
But, I'll not be deterred. I did a little snooping and found an informant....someone who works for one of the cigarette makers. Now, the guy wouldn't tell me his name. We had to meet in a parking lot, behind the Richmond Convention Center at three in the morning, and he was dressed in one of those old Lucky Strike packages that the Lucky Strike dancers used to wear on TV many moons ago, so all I could see were his legs, but they sure looked like the legs of a tobacco informant.
He would only identify himself as Deep Cough. Here is a bit of my interview with him.

ME: So, how can I be sure you really work for a tobacco company?
DC: (DC stands for Deep Cough) Well (MUFFLED RESPONSE HERE - HE WAS SPEAKING THROUGH A GIANT CIGARETTE CARTON WHICH COVERED HIS FACE)...in 1958 I spoke with (I COULDN'T TELL WHO HE SAID) and he told me, 'Deep, (MUFFLED) until we reach our goal.'
ME: So, you're saying that this guy had a goal?
DC: (NODS)
ME: So, how is NASCAR involved?
DC: I knew this (MUFFLED, HE MAY HAVE SAID DRIVER, OR OWNER), who (SOMETHING, SOMETHING, SOMETHING) and people died.
ME: Thank you. You've been quite helpful.
DC: (HE SAID SOMETHING, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHAT)

There you have it. Obviously something is going on. And, I, singlehandedly have uncovered it. I am afraid to say more because I don't know who may do what to me. I read Runaway Jury, so I'm pretty savvy on these matters. But, as a respected investigative journalist, I felt I needed to pass this on to you. My advice...be afraid. Be very afraid.

Of All The Things I Miss, I Miss Ogyny The Most

A subject that I steer away from is women drivers. Normally, one (a male one, that is) can only heap troubles upon his head by bringing the matter up. But, since some of you out there have decided to open that can of worms, let me dig in.
First, by way of disclaimer, let me say that generally speaking, I like women. I think they deserve to share the oxygen and other resources the earth has to offer.
I even think many of them are qualified to drive automobiles. Although I think a separate lane for women and truck drivers would make this old world a little bit better place to live.
However, until that glorious day, I’m willing to share the highway with both. Although if I had my choice, I’d say keep the women and get rid of the truck drivers. The problem with women drivers is that they’re, well, they’re women. Again, please hear me. I love women, generally only one at a time, but I love them. But, women do think differently from men. And, based solely on my experiences in life, many women never entertain the idea that they might be wrong about anything.
So, if you were to suggest to a woman, not necessarily my wife, that using the cell phone, putting on makeup, and looking up a phone number in her address book while cruising down the Interstate at 75 miles per hour, is not such a good idea, she (not necessarily my wife) can’t even comprehend what could possibly be wrong with that. Because she (not necessarily my wife) has done it before and didn’t kill anyone, she (not….) automatically assumes that it’s a safe practice.
Then there's one of our sales consultants here in the office. I'll call her Mandy. Mandy comes in yesterday, absolutely furious because someone almost hit her on the highway. Seems Mandy was lost. Now, in Mandy's mind (remember, Mandy is a woman) her being lost automatically calls for the suspension of all driving rules and regulations. So, because Mandy was lost, everyone else on the road should recognize that if she needs to make a left turn from the right lane, she has every right to do so. That's how Mandy saw it. She even says she yelled at those drivers who were too rude, or too stupid to understand the logic there. You do see her logic, don't you. I know women who would and they're not necessarily my wife.
That’s really my only complaint about women drivers. Other than that little “I’m always right” flaw in their otherwise sparkling personalities, women make great drivers. Actually, they make wonderful drivers. How else could you explain a woman’s ability to travel twenty miles and not even one time glance at the highway in front of her. And, try to convince a woman that the rear view mirror is not simply there for makeup application. Can’t be done.
There is one other little bitty teeny weeny complaint. I hesitate to bring it up. I know I’ll be touching a raw nerve, but since I’m somewhat of a senior citizen myself, I think I can chance it. Here’s my question, why is it that the bluer a woman’s hair gets the more she shrinks? Have you ever passed one of those blue-haired brake riders on the highway? First glance into their car is rather scary. It looks as if the car is being driven by a blue doily. I mean, all you see is this little blue mop. I guess there’s a woman beneath it.
I think the DMV should start giving tests to drivers once they reach seventy or so. Not an eye exam, but a hair color test. If your hair is above a pre-set blue safety zone, you don’t get to drive. Now, this is merely a suggestion, but I think it’s a pretty good one. And, so that you don’t think I’m discriminating, I think you could give the same test to older men (wink wink). If there hair is blue, they should be held to the same standards.
Well, I hope I haven’t stepped on any toes today. Far be it from me to ruffle feathers. But, since some of you opened the door, I just stepped right in. And, now, it may be best for me to step right back out.

Ron Popeil Move Over

So, I was lying there, in bed, at three-thirty this morning watching television and out of the blue they show this commercial for a company that promotes inventions…
Acme Inventor’s Club, I believe they called it, but I’m not sure. The guy was saying that if you had a new invention, or even an idea to make an existing product better to give them a call.
I called.
“Acme Inventor’s Club (or whatever),” the guy answered the phone.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“Go ahead,” he says.
“Well,” I continue, “you know how when you go out to a steak restaurant and they have the ten-ounce steak with baked potato and the sixteen-ounce steak with baked potato, and you really want the sixteen-ounce steak, but you just can’t afford it?”
After a pause, the guy at the inventor’s club says, “I’m listening.”
“Well,” I say, “if you put A-1 Sauce on the baked potato it’s like you’re getting more steak.” I stop waiting for the significance of what I’ve said to sink in with the guy. I’m wondering how much money I can make with this idea.
Finally, after what seemed like five minutes, the guy says, “That’s not an invention.”
“No,” I answer. I’m ready for this reply. “But, it is an idea to make an existing product even better.” I’m beaming by now.
“That’s not the sort of idea we were talking about,” he says rather gruffly.
“Why not,” I ask, now somewhat deflated, but not destroyed.
“In all my years working here,” he says, “that’s the most asinine idea I’ve ever had anyone call in with.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say and hang up. But, I’ll not be deterred. Thomas Edison’s light bulb was laughed at until someone invented a lamp to put it in. I got up out of bed, grabbed a pen and piece of paper and began to write down all the other ideas that course through my brain. After about an hour, I call the guy back.’
“It’s me again,” I say.
“This is my lucky night,” he says.
“Okay, what about this idea,” I say. “You know those hand buzzer gizmos?” I ask.
“You mean the prank thing where you shake a guy’s hand and the buzzer buzzes?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, thankful that he and I are beginning to make a connection. “Well, suppose you replaced the buzzer with a doorbell…”
“Wait,” he interrupts. “Your idea to improve an existing product is to take a hand buzzer and replace it with a doorbell? You are putting me on, right?”
“No,” I reply. “Think about it. Everyone knows the hand-buzzer. But, suppose someone came to your door and you opened the door and held out your hand, and they shook it and the doorbell went off. You could then say, ‘Excuse me, I have to get the door.’ Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Is that all you got,” he asks.
“No,” I say enthusiastically, encouraged by his desire to hear more. You know those bow-ties that squirt water?”
“The kind clowns wear?” he asks.
“Yep, one and the same,” I say. “The problem is no one except clowns wear bow-ties. If you see someone coming towards you wearing a bow-tie, you know you’re going to get squirted.”
“So, you’re thinking that we should make a necktie that squirts,” the guy says.
“Whoa,” I laugh. “Did I call the Psychic Hotline or the Inventor’s Club?”
“Is that all?” the guy asks, ignoring my humor.
“You got time for another?” I ask politely.
“It’s a slow night,” he says. “Go ahead.”
“You know false teeth?” I ask.
“You mean the prank kind…the really ugly ones?” he asks.
”No, I’m talking real false teeth,” I say.
“Already invented,” he says. “Or do you have an idea to improve them?”
“Yeah, kind of,” I say. “I think it would be good to make false teeth blue.”
“You mean color them blue?” he asks. I can tell he’s interested. “Why would you do that?”
“Well,” I say, “suppose you’re dating this woman and she has false teeth, but you can’t tell. And, then you get married, and on your honeymoon night, the two of you are getting ready for bed and she just casually slips her teeth out. That would be a horrible time to find that sort of thing out.”
“I’m with you there pal,” he says, “but, why would someone want to wear blue false teeth. Wouldn’t that just advertise the fact that their teeth weren’t real?”
That question came at me from left field. I had to think for a moment. “Well, you could pass a law requiring it,” I suggest.
“We’re not in the legislation business,” he says. “If you’re done, I gotta run.”
“Wait,” I say. “One more.”
“Okay,” he says, “I’ll give you one more shot.”
“You know when you’re driving down the road and some truck driver gets right on your rear bumper and he has his brights on?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That really galls me.”
“Well,” I continue, “I think you could put a laser on your trunk and when that happens, you could turn the laser on, and maybe you’d even have some sort of way to control it, so you could burn the laser right into the guys eyeballs, maybe even destroy a retina or two. That would sure get him off your tail.”
“Hey,” he says, “you may be onto something.”
Long story short…I have a meeting with this guy from the Inventor’s Club. I can smell big bucks in my future.

It Was a Dark and Dreary Night

I'm going to tell you a story...a true story that I think will shock you. You will gasp in horror as the story unfolds. Because the story is so unbelieveable, I'm going to change the name of the main character...a handsome man, in his fifties...a man whom I will call Kevin Stook.
You had better take a seat, perhaps place a cold compress to your forehead, because the gruesome story is being told with no holds barred. Every miserable word is true. Here goes my story...are you ready?
Kevin Stook had to spend the night at his mother's house. It was because he worked out of town and it was cheaper to stay at his mother's house than at a hotel...a whole lot cheaper.
Kevin arrived at his mother's house at about 7:00 PM. He ate dinner. His mother loved to cook. You're such a good cook, people would tell her, that's why your name is Stook. She would laugh. Kevin never thought it very funny.
Anyway, Kevin ate his meal and in order to avoid conversation...Kevin hated conversation...he went upstairs to the guest room to watch television. Kevin lay on the bed. He grabbed the remote and turned the TV on. The TV came on to the local channel showing Jeopardy. Because the twelve-year-olders were no longer on, Kevin was unable to answer any questions. So, he thought, I'll see what's on the cable. He pushed the "up channel" button. It went right to the local NBC channel. Kevin froze in fear.
"What's the matter?" he shrieked. His mother came running, as well as she could run. "What's wrong?" she asked nervously. She had never heard such anguish in another human. She may have thought it sounded like the howl of a werewolf as the silver stake was buried into its heart. Kevin didn't ask her if it sounded like that, but he hoped it did.
"What's wrong?" he asked somewhat sarcastically, as if his mother had asked, "Why are there two holes in your nose?"
"What's wrong?" he repeated. "Only that the cable is not working."
"Oh, I took it out," his mother said. Kevin thought, with utter contempt, that she sounded almost happy to have removed the cable. "There's nothing but filth on there anyway," she said.
His mother loved the word filth. She said it with such disdain it was as if she had literally spit a wad of letters out of her mouth that when they tumbled to the floor, fell into a pattern that spelled "F I L T H." She used the word to describe every show on TV except Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy. In years past she wouldn't apply the word to Dateline either, but since they got hooked on pedophilia, that had changed. "There's nothing worth watching anymore," she said. "Except Vanna."
Kevin had heard some tales about Vanna, but he didn't want to burst his mom's bubble. Down deep, he was a good son.
"But there's nothing on," Kevin wailed. He briefly considered throwing a tantrum, but thought that might bring on vertigo and he'd just end up throwing up.
"Calm down," his mother said. "You can watch King of Queens."
For a brief moment Kevin cheered up, then he remembered that King of Queens wouldn't be back on until mid-season. But, he thought, I can watch that new CBS comedy. What was it called? The Class?
So, Kevin stopped whimpering, wiped his, by now, fogged up glasses on his necktie and lay back down. He was ready to be entertained. He was ready for a good CBS comedy. Yes, he was still vulnerable, due to the shocking discovery that his mother no longer had cable, but he thought that if the rest of the evening went smoothly, he'd be okay.
It was 8:00 PM. Time for The Class. Then the real horror began. The terror he had felt previously, compared with this new terror, was only like the terror you get when you realize that you've come back into the office, from the restroom, without remembering to zip. The terror Kevin felt now was unlike any he'd ever encountered before in his life.
If one could take terror and roll it up into a ball and examine it under a light, Kevin would have been too afraid to do that to this particular ball of terror...it was that bad.
"We interrupt tonight's regularly scheduled program...." the voice on the TV said, "to bring you this special programming."
Kevin thought at first that maybe it was a ball game, but, no, that wouldn't make sense. The voice continued:
"This is the final in a series of debates between George Allen and Jim Webb. Blah blah blah blah blah blah..." the voice continued.
"Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!" Kevin screamed, reaching for the remote. He turned to channel 12. The same voice was speaking, "Your host for tonight's debate is blah blah blah blah blah."
This was like a scene right out of The Outer Limits. They've taken over the TV Kevin thought. Maybe this is Armageddon. Kevin brightened up for a moment. But it wasn't. This was a real, live debate between Allen and Webb. And here was Kevin, forced to watch it. He felt his head going numb. His ears began to tingle. Either blood was gushing out of his mouth, or he was drooling. He started to wipe his mouth to find out. At this point Kevin lost consciousness. I'll tell you the rest, as soon as Kevin comes to.

Bed Panned

It seems as if my health has become the number one topic in my life and I'm sure that delights you no end. There's nothing I enjoy more than listening to someone complain about how poorly he feels. Actually, for someone in so miserable a shape as I am, I feel pretty good...most of the time.
Saturday night was an exception to that. I was getting ready for bed and my heart started pounding. At first I thought that was because I had a new pair of Superman Returns pajamas with footies. But by the time I got into bed, my heart was racing so rapidly that I felt I was about to pass out. This happened just a few weeks ago. I finally told my wife...well, I didn't actually tell her. I clutched at my heart and began to moan. Within thirty minutes she got the picture.
When I explained what was happening, she lovingly said, "We can't afford to be taking you to the emergency room every time you feel a little faint." Well, she didn't actually say those exact words, but I could tell that's what she was thinking. Anyway, I finally crawled back to the closet, took my Supermans off and redressed.
I get to the hospital, and after they do an EKG, they put me in one of those little gurney beds in the emergency room. They hooked me up to a monitoring device, stuck a needle in my hand, just to be sticking something somewhere, and abandoned me.
I lay there for the next 4 hours waiting. They did leave the TV on, but by this time of night, all that was on were infomercials. I kept trying to get someone's attention because after the first hour, nature began to call, first softly, then louder and louder. Finally, I was able to grab hold of the side railing of the bed with one hand and lean over, suspending my body in mid-air, while I reached for the call button. I couldn't reach it, but I could jab at it, which started the button swaying on the cord. Acrobatically, I finally got it to swing to within my grasp. After I had punched the button, I waited no more than another half hour until a nurse comes in my room to see why I was interrupting their card game.
"Can you unhook me so I can use the restroom," I asked with about the same meekness Oliver Twist displayed in asking for more gruel. The woman leaves the room, as if she needs to get permission for me to go to the bathroom. She comes back with a plastic pitcher. I was hoping that wouldn't happen. I had a gown on, about 20 wires attached to various parts of my body, a plastic tumbler, hooked to a needle sticking out of my arm, and a blood pressure cuff sliding down the other arm. And, they expect me to use this little narrow-mouth pitcher? Since I had been feeling the urge for over an hour, I used the pitcher.
I got back into bed, readjusted all my wires and watched my heart rate on the monitor, only because that was more interesting than the infomercial for a course in stock trading. And I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally the doctor came in and said the heart doctor wanted to see me before they would release me. So I waited some more. I tried to sleep but the nurses (male and female) were having such a rollicking good time out in the hall that I couldn't fall asleep. I've been in quieter pool halls than this emergency room.
Finally, at about three-thirty Sunday morning I decided I had to get out of there. It wasn't a matter of wanting to leave. I had to. I really thought I was going to have some sort of panic attack. I pulled one of the wires off my chest. That started the bell ringing. I figured when a nurse responded to the ringing, I'd tell her I wanted to leave. No one ever came. I guess they figured that if I were dead, there was nothing they could do anyway, and if a wire were just loose, it was no cause for alarm.
I don't know why the nurses didn't get tired of the ringing. Maybe the clanking of glasses as they toasted one another drowned out the noise of my alarm bell. So, I pulled off another wire, and then another, until, before long, like Eric Clapton, I was unplugged.
I removed the little clip from my finger and the cuff from my arm. Still no one showed up. The only thing that stood between me and freedom was this needle sticking out of my hand. I started peeling off the bandages, and then grabbed the needle and ripped it from my flesh. Sure, I bled profusely, but it felt so good to be free. I put my clothes on and scurried out the door. I cleverly skulked down the hall, and out of the building. My wife was waiting outside, and in a scene that would remind one of the raid on Entebbe, I was gone.
I giggled like a teenager. Sometimes doing something daring and bold is refreshing. The cool thing is that my heart didn't skip a beat through the entire escape. Actually, I felt better than I had in years.
My wife thinks I'm crazy. I say, go ahead put me in an asylum. Lock me up in a straight jacket. I'm ready for my next great escape.

Now, That's Sick

After you read what I’m about to say, you’re going to think I’m a real hypochondriac. You would, of course, be wrong, but you’re going to think it. Here goes: I am just recovering from the worst case of flu any human has ever had to endure. Now you’re probably thinking, “Hey Steve, that’s absurd. Millions have died from flu.”
To that, I respond, true, but they weren’t as sick as I was. I really believe that. I ached in places I didn’t even know existed. My toenails hurt. My hair hurt.
I also know what a hot fudge sundae would feel like if a hot fudge sundae could feel. I was burning up and freezing at the same time. I don’t think that sort of thing has ever happened to anyone else before.
I was so sick I thought my internal organs were shutting down. I started to get up and write my will, but hey, let my wife and daughter figure out how to divide up the buck fifty-seven in my savings account.
One thing I got to do while I was recuperating was watch a lot of TV. I saw all sorts of shows, and since I couldn’t sleep at night I had the privilege of watching some of the late night stuff. Let me tell you, as bad as daytime and primetime TV is, overnight is downright horrible.
I saw some sort of Hollywood Insider show. Gee those folks in show business are a boring lot. I kind of get the impression that this Anna Nicole Smith person is just a wee bit self-obsessed. But maybe my ill health affected my disposition. I also saw Farrah Fawcett. Wow! Has she ever aged? When it comes to a time-ravaged face, I’d say Farah is the modern day Lucille Ball.
What’s really horrid are the late night commercials. There sure must be a lot of people interested in telephone dating. I saw one commercial after another for phone dating. Evidently there must be a lot of very beautiful women who are afraid that their looks intimidate men, so they’re forced to sit at home alone, and, if they’re lucky, to date via the phone. I’m just basing that on the commercials.
And besides dating ads, there must be a lot of lonely guys out there who just need friends because they kept running ads showing this guy who talked about how hard it was to hook up with other guys. So, they have a phone number guys can call and talk to other guys. I guess they’re talking about football, hunting, and stuff like that.
There was also a “Mark Foley Date-A-Senator line. I take that back. That was just a joke and I don’t think I should joke about it. Foley has said he’s sorry. He said he’s put that part of his life behind him and has turned to a new page. I think I should believe him. After all, it wasn’t him hitting on boys, it was the alcohol. Oh yeah, and he was a victim of clergy abuse too.
I was a victim of clergy abuse last night. I flipped to a channel that showed a group of people waving green handkerchiefs in the air. There was a guy on stage whooping it up. I thought he must be some sort of raunchy comedian. But, I soon learned (and my apologies to all raunchy comedians), the guy was a TV evangelist. He was hawking this green prayer handkerchief…said it would heal just about anything. Judging from the guy’s looks, I’m thinking maybe he should try wiping his face with it.
Anyway, to wrap this up, I’m feeling much better. And without the help of a green hanky. I know you’re glad to hear that I’m all well now. Except I do have a slight pain in my neck. You don’t suppose that could be meningitis, do you?

Age Rage

Okay, I told you I had made an important self discovery, and since many of you are, like me, in that ever popular Baby Boomer demographic, I'd be interested in knowing if you agree.
Here's what I've discovered...We (we, being Baby Boomers), are a very self-absorbed bunch of people. I thought about it last week while visiting some old friends in Florida. Did I mention I had a fabulous vacation? Not as fabulous as my fabulous trip to China last year, but fabulous.
Anyway, we were sitting around whining about getting old...how unfair...how miserable we were. You know the typical stuff we Baby Boomers are wont to do. Then it dawned on me. Hey, I thought to myself, if memory serves me correctly, we're not the first generation to get old.
Clever, huh? We're just the first generation to, as a generation, whine about it. True, no one, I suppose, enjoys getting old, but our parents and grandparents did it and I don't ever remember them complaining, or acting as if some unbelieveable plague had infected them. They just got old...and died (many of them).
We, on the other hand, want to document every wrinkle, every gray hair, every liver spot. We want some sort of miracle goo to pour on those wrinkles and gray hair (or bald scalp) or liver spots and make everything magically disappear.
We want to be virile and cool and with it and happening people.
And all the while that we're thinking we're still pretty cool, we're whining about being old. At least that's my observation. Maybe I"m wrong. Maybe I was too absorbed in myself ten, twenty, thirty years ago to hear my mother complain about her gray hair and liver spots. But, I think I'm right.
I don't know if it's television, movies, Madison Avenue, or what, but we act like old age is not something we thought would ever happen. We look at our tired, prune-like old faces and wonder what's going on. We act like we're in some sort of science fiction movie and the aliens are doing something horrible to us.
I don't want to be like that. I want to be cool, but cool in a "hey, I AM old" sort of way. I want to embrace my liver spots...maybe even take a magic marker and play connect the dots with them. I'm tired of the magic goo. There really isn't much magic in it.
In my mind, I think of myself as thirty, until I move or breathe or catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I want to start thinking of myself as 70. Even though I'm still more than a decade away from that age, if I think of myself as 70, I'll be really impressed when I look in the mirror. It is true, I look pretty good for a 70 year old man, and if I live another 30 years, I'll be a hundred in my mind. That'll be cool. Maybe Willard Scott will say hello to me.
What's the use of trying to pretend I'm thirty? It ain't working. I know it and you know it. And, while I have a few aches and pains, it's not so bad for this 70 year-old body.
So, I'm going to go out and embrace the day as an old man. Okay, I will dab just a little of that mushroom facial elixir on first, but then I'm out of here.

I'm Baaaaccccck (or however you spell "back" when you drag it out in that pseudo-frightening way)

Hi. Did you miss me? Don't you hate it when someone asks you that question? What are you supposed to say, "Oh, have you been gone?" I hope so, because that's what I always say. Anyway, I just returned from a fabulous vacation in Florida. I would have written sooner, but my laptop was on vacation as well - actually in the shop.
I went eight days without even touching a computer. And, you know what? I loved it.
But, anyway I'm back. I don't know where to start. So many ideas hit me while I was gone, but without a computer, I wasn't able to write them down. Didn't we used to keep little sticks in our pocket that produced a colored liquid that you could use to write on paper? I vaguely remember having one of those one time, long ago.
Anyway, I'd love to tell you about the exceptional service we received from Avis Rent a Car. Unfortuantately, their new slogan is We Hardly Try. So, there isn't much to tell. I could tell you about my battle with swimmer's ear but that might only disgust you. It sure did my wife, who looked in my ear and shreiked that there must be a small animal growing near my brain. I did spend the entire week responding, Huh?" to any and all questions asked me. I could tell you about all the new attractions at the Orlando theme parks. However we didn't visit even one. That's right...a whole week in Orlando and no Disney. Personally, I'd feel better if Mickey Mouse just held a gun on me when I entered the park and demanded all my money, rather than charging me fifteen bucks for a hot dog and a drink.
I would love to regale you with exciting stories about how I spent my summer (make that fall) vacation, but all I did was lie by the pool. Oh, I did finish my first book. I'd been working on it for quite some time. I'm delighted to have finished it. Maybe next year I'll read another one.
The book, a novel by Dean Koontz, contained about six pages of quotes from various book reviewers around the country. Have you ever noticed how book reviewers all use the same cliches? "It was a real page-turner." "I couldn't put it down." "(Insert author's name here) is a master at his/her craft."
I think book reviewers must be, for the most part, frustrated writers...people who think if they write a sparkling review, the author will take notice of him (or her) and take him (or her) under his (or her) wing. When you read the reviews you can see why the reviewers are not published authors. They can't even write decent reviews.
I hate cliches. My father used to tell me to avoid cliches like the plague, and I've tried to follow his advice.
I would like to try my hand at writing a review. Tell me what you think....Dean Koontz writes pretty good. I really liked the story except for the boring parts. He does tend to use too many big words. But, other than that I like the book. It was nice. The cover was pretty, too. I wouldn't mind reading another one of his novels, if someone gave it to me as a gift.
Now, that's a review you just don't see every day. But, personally, I like it. It has enough zing to get you to go buy the book. Oh yeah, the name of the book is Sole Survivor...just in case you're zinged.
I had a lot of other cool stuff to tell you, but this is the first time I've typed in a week and my hand is getting tired. Oh yeah, one word of advice...if you're over fifty, don't go bowling. It's too hard on the hands. I took my wife's nephew bowling while on vacation and I still can't move my fingers. There ought to be some sort of warning that comes on the bowling balls.
I was saying, before I so rudely interrupted myself, that I had other things I wanted to talk about. I made an interesting self-discovery (and it has nothing to do with the folds of my flesh) while on vacation. I'll share that with you tomorrow, unless I forget all about it, or change my mind. Anyway, it's nice to be back. Kind of.

Animal Passions

Okay, for you all keeping score at home - the tainted spinach count is now 131 persons. Personally, I'd have to say the last 31 are just plain stupid. The story's been on the news so much that now my wife's dogs won't even eat the spinach. Believe me. I've been trying to feed it to them.
Yeah, that's right. I'm holding my wife's dogs hostage and if I can't get a thousand people to read this blog, I'm going to start stuffing spinach down their throats.
Okay, I'm kidding. But that story about the VCU student who is threatening to kill his dog in order to generate publicity is so ridiculous. I'm not a dog lover, but I don't go around killing them either. However, my experience in life is that dog and cat lovers are perhaps the most unbalanced humans on earth.
Now, if you love your pet, don't go getting upset. I can understand an attachment to one's pet, but I'm talking about these fanatics. You know, the person who'd use their child as a raft to paddle out and help a dolphin.
My father was a doctor, and I remember times (on more than one occasion) when mothers would bring their children into his office suffering from a dog bite. And guess what...the mothers were blaming their kids. "Fido is such a good little dog. Oh yes he is. It's just that Junior wouldn't stop looking at him."
I actually have never tortured an animal nor condoned torture of animals. Okay, before you start digging for the skeletons in my closet, I did go to a cock-fight when I was a kid. And, by the way, they were serving the most delicious chicken salad sandwiches I've ever had. Beyond that, I've never been into animal torture.
But, for the life of me, I can't understand how people seem to be more concerned with animals getting hurt than they do humans. For instance, have you ever, at the end of a movie, seen the disclaimer, "No stuntmen were injured in the production of this film?"
Nope, and you never will. One reason is because stuntmen do get hurt...all the time. And, guess what. I bet animals do too. But, if they just put that "No animals were hurt" disclaimer in the movie, everyone feels better. I've been to movies where horses were being shot at full gallop. The horses were falling down left and right. I don't believe they were actually shot, but you can't tell me it didn't hurt those horses just a tad to go sprawling in the dirt. I'm sure the horses weren't just coached to lie down on cue. Somebody was doing something to make those horses fall. And, when they do those rat movies and people fall into a vat of rats, you know one or two of those rats got squshed.
Something else you'll never see is a notice on a medicine bottle or a can of hair spray or whatever telling you that no humans were used as test subjects for the product. But, they'll sure tell you no animals were. And do you know why? Because there are more folks who'd get upset at testing animals than testing humans.
Right now, as we speak, I'm being tested for a drug that is supposed to raise your good cholesterol. The pill is grotesquely huge and dry. I choke it down every day. Some days it gets hung in my throat. I cough. It produces discomfort. But has anyone ever protested that I'm being subjected to this mini-torture? No.
But try sticking that pill down the throat of a pig (no sarcastic remarks here, please), and you'd have pig lovers up in arms. Now I call that just a little unbalanced.
If you think I'm harsh, or cruel, let me know. Drop me a line. But don't be surprised if I don't get back to you right away. I've got to go check on the dogs. They're barking right now. What's that you're saying fellows? You want daddy to give you a little spinach?

More Adventures in Fine Dining

I took my mother grocery shopping last night...at the Golden Corral. I actually thought I was taking her out to eat. Monday's Shrimp Night, you know. I wondered why she lined her pocketbook with a 30 gallon lawn and leaf bag before she left home. I soon found out. She'd take a bite or two of an item and proclaim it too tough to eat. Next thing you know, she's wrapping the "too tough" item in a napkin and dropping it into her purse.
I bet she took home ten dollars worth of napkins, not to mention the food...everything from steak to baked potato, to rolls, to an assortment of delightful desserts. Rather than being embarrassed, I was just thankful she didn't go from table to table scraping the remains of the meals into her purse. I'm just waiting for the day she asks a stranger, "Are you going to eat that?"
My mother does know how to squeeze a dime. We had a dollar off coupon, so each buffet was $8.39. The total bill (for 3) came to $26.11. As I'm paying the bill, my mother asks the cashier in a very demanding tone, "How did that come to $26.11."
I try to hush her up, but she becomes even more irate.
"No," she says, "I would like to know how that came to $26.11." She would have pulled her calculator out, but evidently she had left that at home so the leftovers wouldn't mess it up.
"They saw us for easy marks," I tell her, "and decided to make us pay sales tax." That seems to satisfy her.
My mother has many good qualities, but she's never been a pure joy to take to a restaurant. I think she gets her pure joy in finding something not to like. I don't really think it's a bad attitude as much as an outright resentment at having to pay restaurant prices. Her attitude is "How dare McDonald's charge me a dollar for a hamburger. I could have made it at home for a lot less." I'm sure on many occasions the waitstaff had wished she had fixed something at home.
Actually, she's not so bad at Golden Corral. As I've said before GC is the mecca of restaurants...lots of food for a relatively good price. Even my mother is okay with the price. It's just that blasted sales tax she resents.
But, I think since she brought home enough food to make several meals, she's probably feeling pretty good today. I hope this doesn't sound like an ungrateful son criticizing his elderly mother. Actually, my mother is okay, once you get to know her. In fact, if you don't know her, stop by. Maybe she'll even share a bowl of left over soft serve ice cream

Where Have All My Heroes Gone?

If I don't seem my normally chipper self today, it's for good reason. Last week was not a very good week. It was downright traumatic, and eye-opening at the same time. You see, two of the people I've respected the most in my life let me down big time last week, each in their own way.
Actually, both of these folks, whom I've respected and admired for many years, are at least partly to blame in the deaths of other people. I guess you can see how let down I feel. Perhaps, you feel the same way, because both of these people are well known.
I am, of course, talking about Nancy Grace and Popeye. Nancy has always seemed like the epitome of gentility, a real classy lady, if you know what I mean. But, after seeing the way she harangued that poor woman in Florida, I've lost all respect for her. Actually, I took a "say it ain't so, Nancy" approach when I first heard the story. I tuned in to see if Ms. Grace (and I use the term loosely) was apologetic and somewhat repentant. Quite the contrary. She had this wild-eyed look on her face as she continued to berate the poor dead woman. I've never seen anything like it. And, frankly, I'm disappointed. I expected much better.
Popeye, is a different story. I think he must be dead himself, as I haven't seen him in anything new in years. So, obviously, he can't be repentant. However, he is very much to blame for this whole tainted spinach thing. For all my life, I've believed that you can just squeeze open a can of spinach anytime you wish, gulp it down, and everything will be okay. Not anymore.
I'll never look at spinach, or Popeye, for that matter, in the same light. Maybe it's because I've been a big fan of Popeye since I was a kid. I even appeared on Sailor Bob once. So, you can see, my relationship with the sailor man goes way back.
How many times I've watched in awe as Popeye, simply by devouring his spinach, was able to save Olive Oyl. Admittedly, if I had a girlfriend that looked like Ms. Oyl, I'd probably be glad that Bruto took her off my hands, but I'm shallow that way. Despite her wandering eye, Popeye kept taking her back. It's a wonder Bruto lived as long as he did, when you consider the spinach-induced whuppings he kept taking at the hands of Popeye.
I wonder if Popeye had any idea how much damage he was doing to his legions of juvenile fans through his unreserved endorsement of what has proven to be a very dangerous vegetable. Even if he didn't, at the very least, he took a totally irresponsible attitude...and I, for one, am bitterly disappointed.
I'm almost as disappointed as I was when I learned about Pee Wee Herman. What's next? Is there no one in whom we can put our trust anymore? Next thing you know, someone will be telling me Liberace was gay.

A Crappy Idea

I have to tell you that I really don't want to die, but now that I've seen everything, I guess death must be near. And, yes, as of this morning, I have now seen everything. The final piece fell into place today when I saw the latest from Mattel Toys. You, may have already heard about this. But, since you're still alive, you probably haven't seen it.
It is the latest Barbie innovation. Barbie's dog, Tanner, poops. It's the latest - Barbie's Fun With Feces Set. I heard about it, but didn't believe it, so I went to Barbie.com and lo and behold I saw a little Barbie video and sure enough, Tanner was pooping.
I wonder what people in third world countries would think if they knew that in America poop was a plaything. Barbie has never been a great toy for teaching kids the realities of life, but this hits a new low. If little girls grow up thinking poop is an odorless, messless, plastic lump, they're in for a rude awakening.
If the poop idea proves successful, and if I live long enough to create this, I have some great ideas for further Barbie adventures. I think Mattel should start a Barbie's Little Litigator Series. Perhaps Ken could become a lawyer and Barbie could sue Cracker Barrel when she finds a rodent (of the plastic variety) in her soup. Or maybe Barbie could find a plastic finger in her plastic ice cream cone, and, to prove damages, go into a plastic court and spew plastic vomit.
The plastic possibilities are endless. How about a G.I. Joe that gets decapitated by terrorists? The kids should love that and, when you think about it, by making terrorism a game, it could help kids better cope with life in the real world, at least, that is, until they go out into the real world.
Although Walt Disney made a fortune out of it, I think there are some things you just can't plasticize. Well, you can plasticize them, but it's probably not a good idea. Just as a small example, think about Tanner's synthetic bowel movement. Are you thinking? What happens when little Suzie sees real dog poop. "Oooh, this is much bigger than Tanner's," she squeals with delight. "Oooh, this is much softer than Tanner's," she discovers as she reaches down to pick it up. "Oooh this stuff smells like...well, you get the picture.
True, kids love to play make believe. It's fun to pretend, but shoveling dog droppings just doesn't seem like the stuff fantasies are made of. Why can't kids just go back to the way it was when I was growing up - you know, when we'd have fun "killing" one another.

I Be Suffering

I'm going to dig down deep within my inner psyche or whatever you call that thing inside you. I'm going to do something that's very painful, yes, even difficult for me to do. I'm going to reveal a secret I've kept hidden for lo these many years.
My name is Steve C. and, well, um, you see, I have IBS. Whew! I've said it. I've practiced this in front of the mirror for years, but never actually got to the point of revealing this most hideously hidden aspect of my pathetic little life.
IBS is fascinating. No, really it is. Stick with me here. By the time I get through, you may wish you were an IBS sufferer yourself.
It's an amazing thing really. IBS, that is. I just repeated a pattern that, alas, I'm sure I'm doomed to repeat many more times in my life.
What am I rattling about? I'll tell you. I went to my favorite restaurant tonight. It's a restaurant that has been around for years, but recently has taken a definite gourmet turn. It's a bit pricey, but let me assure you, even with IBS, it's worth every penny.
Perhaps you've been, yourself. Or, at least, you've surely heard of this fine West End dining establishment - it's Golden Corral. I love it. I mean, think about it...a filet and a baked potato for ten bucks. How about 5 filets and 3 baked potatoes for ten bucks.
The only down side is that my meal at Golden Corral is always followed by my rushing home and...well, it is Golden Corral, you do the numbers (one and two).
What I don't understand about IBS is how it can have an immediate impact. How can I eat and run, so to speak? It's somewhat impressive.
Anyway, now that I'm out of the IBS closet, I think I'll start some sort of telethon to raise money for IBS sufferers. Or start some sort of movement to raise funds. If I can raise enough, we IBSers can have our next meeting at Golden Corral, and we'd better have it on a Wednesday - that's Mexican Fiesta Night!
I would appoint myself the poster boy for IBS, but I'm not sure I could sit still long enough to have my picture taken.
Can you reach deep into your heart and give a little something to help fight IBS? At least buy a can of air freshener.
Okay, my wife has just informed me that this column is disgusting. So, before she pulls the plug on the computer, let me push the "publish" button. If you're reading this, you'll know I won.

My Heart-Racing Experience

I spent a night in the hospital this past weekend. I hesitate to mention this because I'm sure it will upset so many of you who are consumed with my well-being, but, I'd expect you to tell me if you were in the hospital. Just joking. I wouldn't really care. Anyway, I'm not telling you all this for sympathy...money, yes...sympathy, no.
It's just that I have a heart that enjoys racing at up to 192 beats a minute on occasion, so once in awhile I get to go to the hospital. And, contrary to what I always was told when I was a kid, they don't give you unlimited ice cream there. One thing I have learned is that if you go to ER and mention you're having heart problems, it's like getting the wheel chair express lane at Disneyworld.
There was this woman in front of me in the registration line.  She was pretending to be in great pain. Her body was contorted so as to give the impression she was trying to kiss her calf. She was telling the hospital check-in gal that she was in too much pain to sit down or stand up or lie down. Personally, I'd have just shot her...I mean with a pain relief medication. What, do you think I'm that violent?
Anyway, she was forced to go contort herself in a chair and I stepped up to the desk. I merely said, I'm having heart problems and it's like a NASCAR pit crew coming to my rescue. If I ever break an arm, I'm going to the emergency room and tell them I'm having heart pains. Then when I get in the little room, I'll just casually mention, "Oh yeah, while you're at it, could you take a look at my arm. I seem to have hurt it while I was trying to tie my robe in the back."
I kinda got off subject here. What I was going to say was that Miss Contortionist gave me the dirtiest look as they briskly wheeled me back to the examining area. I politely gave her a little thumbs up...you know like champions do when they make a public appearance.
Although my overall stay was somewhat enjoyable (I like people fawning over me), there were some aspects of the visit that were not so cool. For instance, when they put me in the hospital bed, they said, "Now we're going to weight you." Yep, they have a hospital bed that doubles as a scale. That's a pretty crumby trick. I couldn't stand light like I do on a regular scale.
They also asked me all sorts of personal questions, including had I ever lost my mind. I'm not kidding. The doctor, a really nice guy, by the way, looked right at me and asked, "Have you ever lost your mind?"
"No," I replied, "but you must have lost yours to be asking questions like that." I mean really. If you have lost your mind, are you going to go around telling every doctor you see about it. He asked iabout my mind kinda casually. He probably thought I would be too preoccupied with my deteriorating heart to have time to think about the question. You know, it's like police interrogators do.
They start off simple..."How's the weather? What sort of work do you do? Are you married? Did you kill anyone last Saturday?"
Before you know it, you're admitting to it.
But, I was too clever. I looked that doctor right in the eye and told him, "No. I had never lost my mind." And, the neat part is...I think he bought it hook, line, and sinker.
They also asked me if I had any skin blemishes. I told them no more than the average guy in his mid-fifties. The nurse said to me...get this..."You look pretty good for a guy your age." Gee, thanks. I almost blushed.
Isn't that pretty much like telling someone, "I thought you'd be very, very ugly, but you're only very ugly"? At least that's the way I took it.
One more thing that I kind of took as an insult, although I will have to say it was delivered in a nice way...on the doctor's report he described me as a "well nourished man." At first I was feeling rather proud, then it dawned on me that what he was really saying was "Mr. Cook is a fat slob."
So, there you have it. As nice as the hospital was, I really just ended up paying thousands of dollars to be insulted, and, to add injury to insult, I didn't get any ice cream at all.

Hmmms of Inspiration

I was rather uninspired this morning. I know I needed to come up with something to write, but I really couldn't get a good rolling boil going, so to speak. I've had several experiences over the past few days, but nothing really got my dander up, or gave me a good laugh.
So, I did what I always do when I get in one of those mental funks. I watched the early morning news. Today, I chose channel twelve, mainly because I fell alseep watching Conan. I heard three stories that had me going "hmmmm"...stories to inspire me. Here they are in no particular order.
First, I heard a report that some meteorologists or some sort of weather scientists had done a study. Here's what they found out. This may come as a shock, but did you know that hurricanes are affected by the temperature of the water. The report elaborated...seems warmer water energizes the hurricane. Who'd have ever thought that?
Second story is somewhat of a puzzler. Now, I'll admit, I don't listen all that closely, so I may have missed a point or two, but there was this business news report proclaiming that many companies in Virginia would be doing more hiring in the coming months. That's good news. But, the reporter said certain types of industries would be doing more hiring than others. The reporter went on to say that the industries which would be doing the most hiring were: contractors, wholesale, retail, as well as those offering products or services. Okay...sounds good. Now, I'm trying to figure out which types of businesses aren't included in that list. If you can come up with an answer, I'd love to hear it. I'm not being facetious. I merely have an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.
There was one more story that caught my attention. It's been all over the news. Seems the Richmond city council has come up with a piece of genius legislation. They want to crack down on prostitution in the most popular prostitution areas of town. I think two of those areas are near Chamberlain Avenue and the third is out on Jeff Davis. I really wasn't paying that much attention. I promise.
But, anyway, the legislation or the ordinance, or whatever you call it basically allows the police to arrest a previously convicted prostitute if she is even found in these three areas. She doesn't have to be doing anything. She can be locked up just for being in one of the three zones.
Now, all of the truly briliant minds have been debating the brilliance of that, or even the legality of it, but my mind is trying to figure something else out. The report said that the prostitute wouldn't be arrested if he/she/it lived or worked in the zone. Think about that. Wouldn't you agree that it's probably been pretty well established that the prostitute definitely works in that area. I'm not saying she has a job pumping gas, but she is working.
So, if the police find a prostitute in a NO PROSTITUTION ZONE (I'd love to see what that traffic sign would look like), the only way she won't be in trouble is if she's engaged in the act of prostitution. I guess you can just chalk another one up to city council.
There was one more thing I saw on TV that leaves me marveling at the great media minds out there. It was a commercial for a law firm. The lawyer is doing a voiceover. He says, "This is the facility where Johnny was electrocuted." Then the picture changes and he says, "This is Johnny's parents being told what happened." The parents were looking real sad in that one. Then he says, "This is me getting the family a huge settlement." Every one looks happier. Then he says, "Johnny survived, but he'll be crippled the rest of his life." Johnny survived his electrocution. Talk about inspiring.
I guess there must have been some sort of Frankensteinien resurrection of Johnny. Boy, I bet he was shocked. Just as shocked as I am virtually every time I watch local TV. But, at least it gives me something to hmmm about.

As The Town of Gloucester Turns

I took a little trip yesterday, along with my wife, to Gloucester Courthouse. It’s a very Mayberry-ish type town. And, when I picked up a copy of a local newspaper, I actually thought I’d been transported back to the fifties. Although, I’m not sure that even in the fifties, you’d have found the stories I found in the current issue of “Glo-Quips.”
I’m not totally sure this isn’t a clever National Lampoon parody of small-town local papers, but, it appears the publishers view this as serious journalism.
If you know me, you know I generally don’t believe in making fun of others, but, folks, this is like shooting fish in a barrel. Here is a sampling of some of the riveting stories found in the current Glo-Quips (and I’ll be quoting verbatim).

Even though the headline is intriguing, I’m still trying to figure out what is exactly being said. If you’re from Gloucester, or have watched the movie Deliverance on several occasions, perhaps you can translate.
OLD CORDUROY ROAD PASSES INTO HISTORY
Mr. Sam Gwyn and his faithful and efficient assistants, Mr. Henry Berry and others, in 1930 made a splendid piece of work of the road under the care of Mr. Gwyn. The thanks of the neighborhood and of all who travel over the road are due to him and them for to say in which they are accomplished their difficult task for as Mr. Gwyn says, “The Land’s End Corduroy is a thing of the past.”

Here’s an editorial regarding the death of a former employee. Because I’m a compassionate guy, I’ll change the name of the employee. Here goes:

It is with great sadness that we learned about the passing of our former employee, Steve Cook, on August 29, 2006. She was a typist for Glo-Quips in the 80’s and 90’s and we enjoyed her friendship throughout the years. A kind and compassionate person, Steve was always seen helping others in her generous manner. Especially the elderly, as she was known as the “Foot Lady,” extending her services to the podiatric needs of those confined to their homes. (MAY I INTERRUPT HERE – EXACTLY WHAT DID THE FOOT LADY DO TO THE FEET OF THOSE CONFINED TO THEIR HOMES?)
Music, the water and daffodils were among her interests (WHAT A FASCINATING LADY), and we fondly remember her easy-going personality. She was a wonderful mother, and her children not only carried on their mother’s love of music (WHAT? THEY DON’T LIKE WATER AND DAFODILS?) but also excelled as upstanding citizens. She was proud of their accomplishments and always had news to tell of their success. Most notably, son Scott is currently serving as CEO of (NAME WITHELD), the largest women’s retail store in Ft. Myers, Florida. (MOM ALWAYS DID LIKE SCOTT BEST).

Here’s an important correction notice that appears on page 5 of the paper:

In the article on Mathews Market Days Honorary Mayor, Barbara Walters Williams; the article stated that her first husband, Bill (Williams Walters) was deceased – that is incorrect, he is very much alive. (NO ONE COULD BE HAPPIER TO HEAR THAT THAN BILL, I’M GUESSING)

The best part of Glo-Quips is on the back inside cover. It’s so good, I’m going to recommend that we add this feature to West End’s Best Magazine. It’s called “READERS CALL-IN!”
The publisher of the paper allows readers (I use the term loosely) to phone in anonymously and air their gripes. These are great. For instance, here are a few…

“My mother has needed her roof repaired for the past three of four years she has been trying to get the Gloucester Housing to get it fixed. She is 76 years old and put in several applications. The volunteers come out but never have been fixed What is wrong with Gloucester County? Everytime it rains it leaks. It doesn’t need to be replaced but just nailed down.”

I SWEAR I’M QUOTING THESE WORD FOR WORD. READ ON:

“Anyone having trouble with coyotes? Try purchasing a donkey! Even a min-donkey will do. (WHAT BURNS ME UP IS THAT I’VE BEEN WANTING TO USE THAT LINE IN A COLUMN FOR YEARS AND THIS PERSON FIGURES OUT HOW TO DO IT.) Coyotes are very afraid of them.”

ME THINKS THIS NEXT CALLER HAS SOME SERIOUS ISSUES…

“On July 28, 2005, I was taken to court for cursing abuse charges against my son’s ex-girlfriend’s mother. Those charges were dismissed. On July 29, 2005, she went down and took out stalking charges against my son which he pleaded not guilty and was found not guilty. On August 5, 2005, her mother attached me outside the store, so I took assault charges out on her. She was found guilty. Since then she has done nothing but harass my son and me. I would appreciate it if she would just leave my family alone. When you go back in front of the judge (SOUNDS LIKE A COUNTRY MUSIC LYRIC WAITING TO HAPPEN) on September 21, 2006, which is my son’s birthday, I wonder if you will realize the h--- (EXPLETIVE DELETED, EITHER BY GLO-QUIPS OR THE ANGRY LADY) he has been through with fighting cancer and your lies (PLEASE, IS THERE A COUNTRY MUSIC WRITER IN THE HOUSE ANYWHERE?). Sometimes you have to forgive and forget and put it in God’s hands. To your daughter (ON AN EVIDENTLY LIGHTER NOTE) – congratulations on her marriage. So quit calling and leave him alone. You are married NOW! As far as your friend in our old neighborhood, have her stop telling you everything that we are doing. I can call D.O.S.S. on her, too! What kind of justice is there in Gloucester County?”

I SAY FORGET THE O.C. I WANT TO SEE A NIGHTTIME SOAP CALLED G.C.
I THINK THIS NEXT ONE SHOULD CONVINCE YOU THAT GLOUCESTER COUNTY IS SEETHING WITH DRAMA AND INTRIGUE. HERE’S ONE MORE…


“I am so sorry to hear that a certain doctor is in a financial mess. He is such a good person. A few years ago he had the same thing happen to him with another lady.”

WOW! I’M HOOKED.

Well, all I can say after reading this is that I wish I had the imagination to make this sort of stuff up. I could be rich. One thing for sure, I’m getting me a subscription to Glo-Quips.

I Keep Forgetting To Remember To Forget

I really wish that someone would take me, hold me real still, and just kick me in the groin. Maybe that would remind me not to keep doing the same stupid things over and over again. They say one learns from his past mistakes. Not ol’ Steve.
Take going into the Food Lion, any Food Lion, for example. I actually wrote the folks at Food Lion and suggested that their slogan be “We’re the store you’d swore you’d never go back to.” In keeping with their great customer service, they never even gave me the courtesy of a reply.
Is it just me or is Food Lion consistently bad? I know their prices are lower than some other stores, but have you ever been there when something didn’t go wrong? Usually it’s a price check. Because advertised prices and the actual scanner price are often two totally different things.
Food Lion also has a propensity for putting items on special that they don’t have. It’s like the old joke. I don’t really feel like telling it, but the punchline is, “So the customer says, 'I could sell it at half that if I was out of the item.'” Or, something like that. Make up your own joke and send it to me.
Another thing I keep forgetting to not do is go to fast food drive thru’s. I wasn’t planning to do that until, while driving in to work this morning, I hear this Burger King radio spot advertising sausage biscuits at 75 cents. Lo and behold, I was driving past a Burger King when I heard it, so I whip in, pull up to the little speaker and order a sausage biscuit. I didn’t say, “I’ll take a 75 cent sausage biscuit,” because I thought that would make me sound too cheap. I was prepared to have the woman say, “That will be 75 cents (plus tax, of course),” and I’d say, “Oh my! What a surprise. I was prepared to pay a buck ninety-nine. For something so wonderful.” Then she and I would share a nice laugh, I’d look like I had money to burn as I handed her my crumpled up dollar bill, from the driver’s seat in my luxurious 94 Saturn and all would be wonderful.
Instead, the woman says, “That’ll be a dollar seventy-seven.”
“What!” I shriek, as if she has asked me to sever a limb and give it to her. “Your radio commercial said it was seventy-five cents.”
“Pull up to window number two,” she replies as if I’d just said, “Hey, that’s a good price. I was prepared to pay a buck ninety-nine.”
“So how much is it?” I ask. Evidently my voice is getting squeaky, which it tends to do when I’m upset because she says, “Pull up to window number two, ma’m.”
MA’M! Now that really burns me up. I remember that I have told myself not to shriek or else people will mistake me for a woman. It happens frequently, particularly when I’m on the phone, but when I’m that upset, I make the same mistake over and over.
Anyway, I pull up and the girl comes up to the window and says, “It’s seventy-five cents with a coupon.”
She just looks at me. I guess she’s thinking I’m not a woman.
“Are you the manager?” I ask.
“No, but I just spoke with my manager.”
“Well, I want to speak with your manager,” I demand, but now in a manly voice. Whenever I’m called “ma’m” I over compensate by talking like Jim Nabors sings.
The manager comes and I simply ask her for the customer service phone number, which she gives me. But, as I pull away, do you know what that stupid manager had the nerve to say to me? You’d better sit down because you’re not going to believe this.
She looks me right in the eye and says in a very polite manner, “Have a nice day.”
“Have a nice day!” The nerve of some people. Here, she has just absolutely ruined my entire morning. Needless to say, I didn’t take the sausage biscuit, not at a buck seventy-seven. So, I’m hungry, I’ve been deceived, I’ve been mistaken for a woman, and now, I’m being told, “have a nice day.”
Sheesh. Why can’t I remember not to go to fast food drive thru’s?
I pull off. Now, I’m so steamed I do one more thing that I tell myself never to do. I drive down Osborne Road to get to work. Now, if you’re not familiar with Osborne Road, in Chester, this may not seem like any big deal, but if you are familiar with Osborne road on a school morning, you know what I’m talking about. There must be seventy-five kids waiting for the school bus. And each one is capable of walking to the end of his sidewalk to catch the bus. Often, their parents have to help them the last few feet, as they’ve tired out by then. What this means is that the school bus stops in front of virtually every house.
Now, far be it from me to make fun of little kids, but have you noticed that the little tykes seem to get fatter each year. It wouldn’t hurt some of these pudgies to walk a couple of blocks.
I spend about fifteen minutes to go two blocks. I finally get so impatient, I turn around and figure I’ll go another way. It just so happens that on the way, I pass a Food Lion.
Hey, I think. Why not go in and grab something to eat?

Labor Day at the Movies

Hey, it's Labor Day. You know what that means...the rich folks get time off to go to the stores and restaurants and watch us average guys work. I'm pretending I'm one of the rich today. My family and I are gathered around our beautifully decorated Labor Day tree, singing Labor Day carols, and drinking Egg Nog. Man, I love this time of year.
Anyway, if I were to write a column today, it would go against my very core beliefs, so I thought I'd pass along something I received in an email from a friend, Tom Orrick, in Alabama.
I don't usually pass the stuff I get in emails along. I'm figuring you don't need to know how to order Viagara from Canada, but this one is pretty good. I don't know who wrote it. I wouldn't think my friend came up with it himself, he's not that bright. But it contains a bunch of truisms about the movies. So, I'm going back to unwrapping my Labor Day presents, and seeing what Labor Claus left in the support hose hanging on the mantle. Hope you enjoy...

THINGS YOU WOULD NEVER KNOW WITHOUT THE MOVIES


During all police investigations it will be necessary to visit a strip club at least once.

All telephone numbers in America begin with the digits 555.

All beds have special L-shaped cover sheets which reach up to the armpit level on a woman but only to waist level on the man lying beside her.

The ventilation system of any building is the perfect hiding place. No-one will ever think of looking for you in there and you can travel to any other part of the building you want without difficulty.

Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language. A German accent will do.

A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

Kitchens don't have light switches. When entering a kitchen at night, you should open the fridge door and use that light instead.

If staying in a haunted house, women should investigate any strange noises in their most revealing underwear.

Cars that crash will almost always burst into flames.

Wearing a vest or stripping to the waist can make a man invulnerable to bullets.

If you find yourself caught up in a misunderstanding that could be cleared up quickly with a simple explanation, for goodness sake, keep your mouth shut.

Any person waking from a nightmare will sit bolt upright and pant.

A cough is usually the sign of a terminal illness.

All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red readouts so you know exactly when they're going to go off.

When in love, it is customary to burst into song.

When confronted by an evil international terrorist, sarcasm and wisecracks are your best weapons.

One man shooting at 20 men has a better chance of killing them than 20 men firing at 1 man.

Creepy music coming from a cemetery should always be investigated more closely.

If being fired at by Germans, hide in a river - or even a bath. German bullets are unable to penetrate water.

Most laptop computers are powerful enough to override the communication systems of any invading alien civilization.

Freelance helicopter pilots are always eager to accept bookings from international terrorist organizations - even though the job will require them to shoot total strangers and will end in their own certain death as the helicopter explodes in a ball of flames.

Most people keep a scrapbook of newspaper clippings - especially if any of their family or friends have died in a strange boating accident.

All computer disks will work in all computers, regardless of software.

Police Departments give their officers personality tests to make sure they are deliberately assigned a partner who is their total opposite.

When they are alone, all foreigners prefer to speak English to each other.

You can always find a chainsaw when you need one.

Any lock can be picked by a credit card or a paper clip in seconds - unless it's the door to a burning building with a child trapped inside.

You can tell if somebody is British because they will be wearing a bow tie.

When driving a car it is normal to look not at the road but at the person sitting beside you or in the back seat for the entire journey.

An electric fence, powerful enough to kill a dinosaur will cause no lasting damage to an eight year old child.

Having a job of any kind will make fathers forget their sons' eighth birthday.

Honest and hard working policemen are traditionally gunned down three days before their retirement.

If you are blonde and pretty, it is possible to become a world expert in Nuclear Fission at age 22.

The more a man and a woman hate each other, the more likely they will fall in love.

Be My Guest

A couple of days ago, I invited guest columnist Becky Wright to throw her two cents worth in. Well, it looks as if I’ve opened up the floodgates. Now there are others insisting that I allow them to use this column as a forum to express themselves.
And, hey, being the sort of guy I am, I’m open to allowing others to use this space from time to time. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing today. Besides showing what a really cool person I am, it means I don’t have to do any thinking today. And, if you ask me, any day where I don’t have to use my brain adds another day at the end of my life. I’m not sure medical science agrees with me on that, but I am pretty sure I’m right. So, here, for your listening enjoyment is my very, very old friend, Lochru, the Druid. Lochru, if you will...

Thanks Steve. Hi everyone. If you don’t know me, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lochru, a several centuries-old Druid who was found about a year ago, frozen at the bottom of Swift Creek Reservoir. Since my revivification, I’ve had a chance to observe your culture. This I have done mainly by watching television and listening to the radio. These are very entertaining. TV is great...such quality programming, but there are some things that have me just a little bit curious.

First of all, I’d love to meet that great humanitarian you folks are so blessed to have right here in your midst. I think he’s from around these parts. Of course, I speak of Phillip Morris. What a caring, giving gentleman Phillip Morris must be. From what I can discern, this man is spending his own money to run radio commercials begging people, especially young people, not to smoke. Personally, ever since I’ve been back, cigarettes have baffled me. Of all your strange, barbaric (if you will) customs, smoking cigarettes seems to be the most ridiculous.
And obviously, Phil Morris agrees with me. What a public-spirited citizen you have in this man. He’s a treasure. You folks need to take care of him.
I feel very strongly that if Mr. Morris had the funds, he’d actually go after those horrid people who manufacture the cigarettes. I can tell he would be the type who, if he could, would shut down cigarette production once and for all. But, folks, he’s just one man...one caring, sensitive man. Isn’t there something you out there in online column land could do to kind of pitch in and help him wipe cigarettes off the face of the earth? I can only imagine how delighted Phillip Morris would be if, in his lifetime, he could put an end to all cigarettes.

There’s something else that has me just a bit confused. It has to do with one of your gods. I’ve done some research and I’m not too clear on what must be a very localized god, but, at the same time, a powerful deity in your culture.
I speak of this god, Ukrops. The best I can figure, Ukrops must be some sort of weather god. Because every time a snow storm, or a tropical depression, or whatever approaches the city, minions of the citizens rush to Ukrops temples (and there are plenty of them) in what must be some sort of ritual designed to appease this god.
From what I can determine, Ukrops is both a kindly god as well as one who requires great sacrifice. I’ve heard many of you say that going to Ukrops cost you dearly, but, then you say it’s worth it. You say that he takes care of his people well. You rave about his temple workers, whom you say escort you to your automobiles when you leave the temple.
I’ve sat in the temple parking lot and observed. Obviously, these temple workers are very wise. At least they’re very old, and in my day, gray-headedness was a sign of wisdom. If that is so today, then Ukrops has some very wise escorters.
There is something about the worship of Ukrops that seems very strange. Back in my time, we’d take our produce to the temples and sacrifice it. You seem to bring the produce from Ukrops’ temple. Very interesting.
So far I’ve been reluctant to enter the temple. I did go to the entrance one day where I picked up a temple scroll called Style Weekly. It seems, just from reading the scroll, that many of Ukrops devotees are girly men. As we used to say in my day, “Lochru don’t swing that way.” So, I wasn’t sure if I was too manly, in a manful sort of way, to be allowed entry.
If you have any information, I’d appreciate hearing from you. Do you think I could go into one of Ukrops’ temples and come straight out, or come out straight?