The Season of Taking

Call me old fashioned, but I always look forward to the same things this time of the year: the first snowfall of the season, spending quality time with friends and family, having my car die on the Gene Snyder on Christmas morning, and so on and so on. Sure, they’re the same things everyone looks forward to, but hey, I’m a sucker for the sentimental.

That last item I hadn’t experienced until just last year, but it didn’t really feel like Christmas until that point. My wife, my mother-in-law and I were headed to my parents’ house in a car full of food and gifts, when all of a sudden the car lost power and slowed to a stop.

My survival instincts immediately kicked in and I remembered the most important thing to do in just this type of situation.

“You’ll have to push,” I told my wife.

“You’ll have to remarry,” she responded.

Luckily, Christmas is a time to help your fellow man. Only not if you’re a tow-truck operator and your fellow man is in need of a lift. Nobody was willing to help us. Not the highway department, not the police, no privately-owned companies (none of which were open anyway), not even AAA. You know the wording on your membership card that says, “Call for an emergency tow seven days a week, 365 days a year?” Well, what it meant this day was, “We’ll reimburse you for what you pay somebody else to tow your car seven days a week, 365 days a year.” Only no one else would tow the car because, in case I haven’t mentioned this already, it was Christmas.

A prompt rescue from my parents reminded me that there are in fact rare occasions when it’s nice to live within 15 minutes of family. The car, however, had to sit on the side of the highway - alone and desolate. Until, that is, the next morning when I returned to the scene and it sat there no longer. The only thing remaining was shattered window glass.

Now, there were only so many reasonable explanations for this scene and I couldn’t come up with a single one. The car wasn’t towed, yet how someone could have stolen an automobile that wouldn’t run was escaping me. Regardless of what happened, it contained less glass than it had 24 hours earlier. I wasn’t optimistic about seeing my ride again.

Nevertheless, I made all the same calls I made the day before to see if, in fact, anyone had towed it. Turns out the highway department (one of the first places to reject my pleas for a tow the day before) picked it up late Christmas night. The only problem was that after reuniting with my car at the in-pound lot, I learned they didn’t get to it before some desperate procrastinator used it as a department store for some very last-minute holiday shopping.

“Your stereo’s gone,” the helpful lot worker pointed out.

“It would appear so, yeah,” was all I could get out.

It wasn’t until after I left that I thought of something better, not to mention more childish and unconstructive, to say. After getting my broken-down wheels to the body shop, I tried to imagine how the discount shopper spent his or her hours following the heist of my stereo. Perhaps they went something like this:

“Merry Christmas, mom. I got you this.”

“This is a piece of junk. Where did you get this from, a ’92 Accord? It doesn’t even look like it was factory installed.”

“Of course not. Do you really think I would’ve had time to rip out a factory-installed model before the cops showed up?”

“Well maybe if you didn’t wait ‘til the last minute, the interstate would’ve had a better selection!”

Then again - who knows? Maybe she loved it.

Anyway, after a joyous Christmas day, the start of the New Year involved a major financial decision: either 1) pay for the repairs, including a new window, which the body shop estimated would add up to the next-to-nothing price of $2,000 or 2) buy a new car. Since the poor thing probably wasn’t worth $150 (or significantly less without the stereo), we opted to get a new car. But after becoming one of the statistics that says the Honda Accord is the most broken into and/or stolen car in the United States every year, we decided this time around to buy another Honda Accord. Like I said, I’m a sucker for the sentimental. Happy Holidays!

Please check back for a direct link to the December 2007 issue of Louisville Magazine, in which this column appeared.

Leave Your Fanny at Home

With only a few weeks left in 2007, the year will come to a close before my wife and I can go on vacation. Which is fine. Before this year, we’d been fortunate enough to go on at least one vacation together every year that we’ve been married, but lots of people don’t go on vacation every year (or any year) for a variety of reasons.

Because of our new responsibilities, when we do get away again we’ll probably head to a “family-friendly” destination. Our days of skirting common sense and jetting off to Las Vegas at a time when we’re both unemployed, as we did a few years ago, are probably over. But I got to thinking about that trip and it dawned on me that Vegas just might fit the bill after all.

Despite all the city’s efforts to convince you otherwise, it has become quite the family-friendly getaway lately. Sure, there’s still lots of people running around looking to leave their inhibitions in the cab, but these days they have to share time at the craps table with families who stretch nine wide, including grandma Gertrude and her sequin-covered cane. But it wasn’t the number of kids I counted that led me to this conclusion. It was the number of fanny packs.

This disturbingly popular accessory from the ‘80s has made a disturbingly popular re-emergence. It was everywhere. On the street, at the shows, in the casinos, in the cabs… ev-er-y-where. And it captured the fancy of all walks of life. Young, old, white, black, American, European, Asian and Spanish. Everyone had one. It was like seeing hats at the Kentucky Derby or flannel at Lillith Fair. Even the men wore them. That proved most disturbing.

I saw a guy wearing one despite the fact that his wife/girlfriend carried a purse. Another guy had one even though his wife/girlfriend had a purse and wore one herself. What’s the point of that? I have a hard enough time understanding why a guy would need one if his wife has a purse, but what does he have that won’t fit in his wife’s fanny pack too? At that point it’s just a fashion statement.

There’s nothing a guy carries that won’t fit in his pockets. Keys. Wallet. That’s it. That’s all he needs. Even during extenuating circumstances, like when his pockets have holes in them (not necessarily making the pants unwearable) and he needs at least one hand to hold his beer, his wife/girlfriend will have something that will hold his valuables. And believe me, I’m not trying to be sexist or insensitive by suggesting that women should have to carry around our essentials when we go out. I’m thinking of them and their potential embarrassment. My wife would strap a Ford Festiva to her back to avoid being seen with me walking down the street with a fanny pack.

Anyway, we saw whole families of fannies. One lady actually wore two - one facing the front, one facing the back. As if owning one was a status symbol. The only thing I saw that may have outnumbered them was the slot machines, but it was neck and neck. My point is that these aren’t the people doing shots at the roulette wheel at 4 a.m. The guy in the fanny pack is not walking into Caesars with a woman on each arm and making people wonder if he’s ever ordered a hit on anyone. And the fanny-pack wearers are probably not the target market of the guys on the sidewalk handing out pamphlets that advertise… well, let’s call it “companionship.”

So don’t let all those “What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas” commercials fool you. Pack up the kids and head to the gaudiest desert around. Hopefully what gets left in Vegas are all the awful zip-shut pouches that make me long for the days of Zubaz.

This is an updated version of the column that appears in the July 20, 2005 issue of Velocity magazine.

If Your Last Name is Fudd, Forget It

With deer hunting season upon us, I’d just like to remind everyone of the importance of gun safety. There are, of course, other methods you can use to hunt deer that don’t involve going into the woods or wearing anything that makes you look like an escaped con. You can simply drive up and down any stretch of highway, day or night, until one runs into your car. Cars are a terrific magnet for deer (any make, model and year will do). Plus, by using a car, you don’t have to pour a certain liquid on yourself that many hunters use to attract deer. This makes driving an attractive alternative, as many well-trained aroma scientists have said the ‘liquid’ has a distinct odor that smells “a lot like deer piss.”

If you do hunt with a gun, however, please be careful. It’s important to be responsible and not to use your gun for anything other than what is permissible by law. Up until a couple of weeks ago, if anyone had said to me, “I never use my gun for anything other than hunting,” I would have believed them. But a few news stories over the last couple of weeks have shown me that gun owners are good at finding all sorts of uses for their guns.

This one was particularly eye-opening as far as learning what a gun can be used for. It got me thinking that maybe everyone who wants to buy a gun should be required to take an IQ test and score higher than a 12 before going home with one. Or, if not an IQ test, some kind of grading scale that lets the government and your surrounding community know that you at least have the brain capacity of a pop-tart.

For example, if you’re met with a scenario like this, it would be comforting for the rest of us to know that you have answered the following question correctly:

You may carry a gun when you are:
a) Hunting with a correct permit in a legally designated area
b) At a firing range
c) In a crowd of people, including while at work, even if you are not a police officer
d) a and b only

And many other ugly mishaps could be avoided if people in Boddington, Washington had to correctly answer the following question before being given a firearm:

If your neighbor is playing music a little too loudly, you should:
a) Shoot him
b) Not shoot him

Then again, even if a test contained thousands of multiple choice questions, it wouldn’t ensure that people would use a gun responsibly. Sometimes it requires more than just intelligence. For instance, in my opinion you should not be allowed to own a gun if you are a complete – and I believe this is the proper medical term – dickhole. Maybe you should have to collect the signatures of 50 people who will vouch that you, in fact, are not a dickhole. Do you think these two yahoos could get 50 signatures? Or even 10?

As you can see, I don’t have the perfect solution. My suggestions need a little tweaking. But obviously something needs to be done. I mean, if you're a high-ranking government official, you can own a gun without even knowing the difference between a bird and the face of a 78-year-old man. So help me spread the word to use guns more responsibly. Now excuse me while I pull out my 12-gauge – the toilet is backed up again.

What'd You Say, Whippersnapper?

I’m sure a lot of married people would agree that adding the phrase “my wife” or “my husband” to their everyday speech habits feels weird at first. It did for me. I mean, hey, I had never said it before.

“I’d like you to meet my wife. My wife has that sweater. My wife likes cheese.”

Now it feels completely natural, but all of those were new four years ago. Now “my son” has entered my lexicon. That feels strange. Wonderful, but strange.

(As a quick side note, my age may indicate that I’m plenty old enough to have a child, but my maturity level indicates quite the opposite. I know that everyone who hears me say “my son” for the first time has the same thought, “You’re somebody’s father?” Believe me, I feel badly for him too. Back to my point.)

It feels great to say “my wife” and “my son.” For most people, those phrases are positive indications we’ve reached certain stages in our lives. Older stages, but positive ones nonetheless.

But as we get older, there are all sorts of things we say that indicate we’ve reached other milestones. Some of them I can do without. No matter how old I get, I hope the following never become a regular part of my vocabulary:

“Enflamed prostate”

“Irregular”

“When I was your age”

“We might as well face it, we need a minivan”

“What are they teaching you at that school?”

“If there’s a place you got to go/I’m the one you need to know/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/If there’s a place you got to get/I can get you there I bet/I’m the Map/I’m the Map/I’m the Map”

“Well, son, Cialis is something daddies take when they want to…”

“Honey, where’s the Celebrex?”

“Honey, where’s the Cialis?”

“Yes officer, he lives here”

“Let’s not go to the movies on a Friday night, there’ll be too many teenagers there” (Okay, I may have heard myself say this already)

Buddy of mine: “Hey you want a beer?”
Me: “No thanks. What kind of diet soda do you have?”

“That Rich Little is a hoot”

“More fiber”

The word ‘hoot’

“That’s way too loud, turn it down”

“I can’t hear, turn it up”

“I can’t remember the last time I stayed up past 11 p.m.” (Okay, I know I’ve heard myself say this)

“These velcro laces work great”

“No thanks, I have enough hair on my back that I don’t need to put sunscreen on it”

“Oh no! Ponderosa looks crowded”

“The guided tour sounds lovely”

The Great Debate(s)

Something about the current presidential race has me riveted. It’s drawn me in and forced me to examine how I go about my regular activities. Lately I can’t help but incorporate the essence of the race, from both sides of the line, into my everyday activities.

For instance, when gas jumped up by 10 cents this week, I went inside the nearest station and debated with the gentleman behind the counter as to why he raised the price per gallon. He babbled on about the cost of petroleum, supply and demand, his need to stay competitive in the marketplace, the effect of local gas taxes and other completely unfounded arguments. I told him that, “Raising the price of gas is uncool, man.”

I walked out of there with my head held high knowing I had bested him in our showdown.

I didn’t fair as well in my next round, though, when I debated with local law enforcement over whether or not the light was red. Although in my defense, I don’t recall any of the presidential nominees being allowed to use mace while trying to make their points (not that I would be against this).

I spent an afternoon actually debating with myself over whether or not to go to work. When I arrived at the office at 4:30 p.m., having decided that ‘yes’ was the winning answer, my boss engaged me in a debate on whether or not I should keep my job. So much for gratitude.

When kids came to my door one evening last week begging for candy, I debated with them on why they deserved something for free that I (by which I mean my wife) had paid for. Turns out their bags of flaming dog poo proved to be pretty convincing.

I even had to debate with my wife over watching the latest round of the debates. Lost that one too.

Over the last few days I’ve debated the necessity of the New York Jets, Ryan Seacrest, eggplant, rice cakes, FOX News, televised radio programs, Rush Hour III, the Secretary of the Interior, Diet Mountain Dew and the LPGA.

After a while, my track record in all these debates was leaving me pretty deflated. Plus, constantly constructing and deconstructing my portable podium was awfully tiring. So, I decided to curtail my debating habit.

I decided to give it one more shot when I debated with my seven-month-old son over why he should go back to sleep at 1 a.m. the other night, but every time I tried to make a point, he only shook his fists, cried louder and generally threw a fit.

“Son,” I told him, “you’ve got a future in politics.”

So to all of you who are thinking, “Mike, you should spend less time debating and more time sharing your brilliant musings with the world,” my only response is “Brilliant? That’s debatable.”

The Art of Sportsmanship

Every fall I hold a weekend-long clinic for all the 6, 7 and 8-year-old kids in my neighborhood to teach them the importance of sportsmanship and to demonstrate the life lessons we can all learn from competition.

At the end of the clinic I like to review with the kids everything that was discussed to make sure they leave with the most important points fresh on their minds. Below is the transcript from this year’s review session:

“All right kids, let’s go over what you learned about playing by the rules and being a good sport. Who can tell me the most important thing to remember when competing in athletic events? Timmy?”

“Rules are for fools?” Timmy answered.

“Good, Timmy,” I said. “If you want to win, you have to gain some kind of competitive advantage over your opponent. What’s one way to do that?”

“HGH and bovine steroids,” Cindy said.

“Yes! But there are rules to follow when using these drugs. Does anyone remember what those are?” I asked.

“Don’t leave a paper trail, find a friend who will take the fall for you, and if your sport doesn’t test for them, then it’s not cheating,” Johnny said.

“Very good. It’s never too early to start pumping your body full of chemicals. Now, let’s say you’re in college and one day after practice you’re approached by a wealthy booster who wants to offer you some cash and maybe an SUV or two. Do you take them?”

“Only if it’s the last year before you go pro!” Sally said.

“That’s right, Sally. That way, by the time any wrong-doing can be traced back to you, you’ll be long gone and the only people that suffer are your former teammates, coaches and fans,” I said.

“But Mr. H, why would you need a lot of cash and other perks if you’re getting a free college education? Especially if it’s against the rules,” Devin asked.

“Because. Class, how many Bentleys can you buy with a college scholarship?”

“None!” They shouted in unison.

“That’s right. None. It’s all about the bling, kids. Learn that now and you’ll be ahead of the game. Now what’s one thing that you never want to accept?”

“Accountability,” Timmy said.

“And how do we avoid accountability, Timmy?”

“Blame the quarterback, blame the coaches, blame the media and if all else fails, accuse a teammate of being gay,” he said.

“Excellent! Everyone write that down,” I said.

“Mr. H, my dad says it’s not right to cheat,” Bobby said.

“He does, huh? What does your dad do for a living, Bobby?”

“He’s a doctor. He saves peoples’ lives.”

“Okay. And how many championship rings does he have?”

“None,” Bobby responded.

“And how often is he on TV?”

“Never,” he said.

“So, do you want to be like your dad and make a difference in the world by saving peoples’ lives, or do you want to be on TV?” I asked.

“Ummm… be on TV,” Bobby said.

“Alright, then lets continue. What can you start shaving before you hit puberty that doesn’t require a razor?”

“Points,” Johnny answered. “And make friends with the mob because they love to financially back point-shaving operations,” he added.

“Outstanding,” I told him.

“At my little league game last week, I grounded out to end the inning and someone from the stands said, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get ‘em next time.’ I pulled first base out of the ground and threw it at him. Was that okay?” asked little Frank.

“Absolutely. Don’t take any crap from the fans.”

“Mr. H, if the ump calls me out, can I hit him with the bat?" Sally asked.

“A better idea would be to walk back toward the dugout, then throw the bat at him,” I answered. “That way, you can say it flew out of your hand or you were just tossing it to the next guy up. And who knows another way to get back at the ump?”

“Sleep with his wife!” Came a shout from the back.

“You kids are learning so fast,” I said.

Any Chance They're Drinking O'Douls?

A couple of weeks ago, my wife and I went out to dinner and we saw a couple sitting a few tables over from us enjoying 24 oz. glasses of beer. Normally this wouldn’t have stuck out at all, except in this instance both the man and the woman were at least 80 years old.

My first thought was, “Good for them. It’s nice to see an elderly couple getting out and throwing back a few brewskis.”

My second thought was, “Oh my God, I hope we’re not behind them on the highway,” which was followed immediately by, “Oh my God, I hope we’re not in front of them on the highway,” and then, “Oh my God, I hope we’re not next to them on the highway.”

Did you ever notice that there’s a minimum age limit to drink and a minimum age limit to drive, but there isn’t a maximum age limit for either? Now, I’m not proposing anything. I'm just sayin’ – something to think about.

Just a Little Pick-Me-Up

Here’s an open question to all the tea, soda and energy drink companies: Just how much energy do you think I need?

Every time I turn around there’s a new bone-rattling drink that promises to give me more energy than the last. And to be sure I know what each drink is designed to do, they all have names like ‘Super Energy’ and ‘Super Supreme Energy’ and ‘Super Max-O Energy Blastoff.’ At least none of these beverage companies can be accused of false advertising. One look at the list of ingredients reveals that most of these sleep-depriving drinks have enough sugar and caffeine to equal 5-6 grams of horse cocaine.

Then there’s the commercials. They all have spokespeople who sound like they’re being tortured. Believe it or not, they make me want to go out and buy one, but only because I’m exhausted after listening to the ads.

Local radio commercials for one of these liquid treats claims those who drink it will get “obscene energy.” Really? Not an obscene amount of energy; just obscene energy. Hmmm… I don’t think I want any, but can I make other people drink it? Is that what the guy at the bus station is always sipping on? Maybe this is the excuse Senator Larry Craig should have used.

“Look, just before I went into the bathroom, I had this drink that gave me obscene energy. What do you expect?”

So who do they think wants this much energy, Olympic athletes? I have a six-month old son, which means I get roughly 47 minutes of sleep a night, but I still don’t want a pick-me-up like that. If I have just a regular cup of coffee on an empty stomach, I can see through drywall. I’m not sure what I’d do with more energy. Something obscene, apparently.

Obviously these drinks, like most products today, are aimed at kids and teenagers. But have you ever known anyone under 20 who needs more energy? And what exactly would they do with the rush they get from ‘Extreme Boost 3000,’ work the controller on their Playstation at warp speed?

Don’t get me wrong – I’m sure the demand for all this extra energy exists. I mean, we’re a nation of Twinkies with feet, so getting that extra boost is going to be hard for a lot of people. But if we use this extra energy to play Grand Theft Auto 49, instead of burning it off, we’re only going to get fatter thanks to all the surplus sugar.

But hey, I’m no health czar. Feel free to slurp down as many as you want. Just remember – you might want to wait until you come out of the bathroom.

The Sounds of Domestication

What everyone says when you’re expecting a baby:

“Congratulations! …That’s wonderful! ... You guys are so lucky… You’ll have such a great time… Kids are so much fun… An absolute treasure… It will change your life forever… It’s magical… Wait until they grab your finger with their tiny little hand… Take lots of pictures… This is such a special time… Savor them now because they grow up so fast… You won’t know what you ever did before the baby came along…

Loosely translated from high-pitched screaming, this is what my baby says when…

… He’s hungry: “Oh my God, the pain! I think I’m dying. My tiny stomach is eating itself. The humanity! In case you don’t appreciate the depths of my suffering, I will now make the sound of cats trapped in an accordion.”

… He’s tired: “I’m not tired. Did you hear me? Don’t lay me down, I’m not tired. You’re laying me down anyway? The humanity! Maybe you’d like to hear my impression of a condor caught in the wheels of a combine. Enjoy.”

… He’s finally fallen asleep: “You idiot! I’m not asleep. I told you I’m not tired. You’ll never get me to go to sleep. Never! Back to the condor.”

… We’re starting to eat dinner: “What are you doing? You’re eating? I haven’t eaten in 60 whole minutes and you two are gonna stuff your faces? This is an outrage. Am I ever going to eat again? Ever?”

… I’m holding him while standing up: “This is horrible. I have never felt such torture in all my life. I simply can’t imagine anything worse than this.”

… I’m holding him while sitting down: “I was wrong. This is worse.”

… He needs a diaper change: “Excuse me? Does anyone care that I’m wallowing in waste over here? Waste, people! This is disgusting. I’d be better off living on the street. Call Social Services!”

… His diaper is being changed: “What the hell is this? You took my cushy pee-shorts off? Are you insane? The whole world can see my baby bits. Perhaps you’d like me to serenade you with the soothing sounds of a banshee caught in the ball return at a bowling alley.”

… Immediately after his diaper has been changed: “I can’t believe you put me through that. I wish my last name was Federline.”

… My wife isn’t home and I’m trying to use the bathroom: “I’m hungry! I’m tired! Hold me! Change me! Take the dog out! I’m hot! I’m cold! …”

… I’m five minutes into a phone conversation: (peaceful snoring… peaceful snoring) … “I’m hungry! I’m tired! Hold me! Change me! Change the channel! I’m hot! I’m cold! …”

… I’m watching my favorite TV show: “Why are you turning up the volume? Are you having trouble hearing it? What about now?! Is it better when I raise my voice a little?! WHAT IF I START CRYING LIKE THIS?! HAVING FUN?”

… I try to put a pacifier in his mouth: “Please. You think this is going to shut me up? Just wait ‘til I start teething.”

The Sounds of Paradise

The gray, dreary days of February were making our upcoming trip to the Bahamas all the more enticing. It was the perfect time of the year to swap out cold drizzle for abundant sunshine and 78 degree temperatures.

Everything I’d read, seen or heard about the islands made them sound ideal. I couldn’t wait to see the crystal blue water and sip a tropical drink under a nearby palm tree. But I had no idea the sounds would steal the show. No one ever told me about the flood of Bahamian delights that dance across your eardrums. So many melodic, harmonious sounds.

For instance, my wife and I could have sat on the beach all day and listened to: “Can I braid your hair?”

And: “Jet skis for rent!”

Or: “Next booze cruise leaves at 5 p.m.! You two wanna have some fun?”

We could stroll along the sand and hear them any time of the day, including: “This necklace would look great with your outfit, pretty lady.”

That one was usually reserved for my wife (I think), but who couldn’t appreciate a pitch like that?

As hard as it was to pull ourselves away from all these soothing beach tunes, we did head into downtown Nassau a couple of times and were pleasantly surprised to find that the harmonies followed us. As we walked up and down the streets, the sweet sounds of, “Beautiful Rolex watches inside – half off,” danced across the breeze.

“You should check out our handbags,” filled not only our ears, but also our hearts.

Most everywhere we went, people would walk right up to us and ask, “Carriage ride?” or “Wicker basket?” or “Pound of fudge?” It was nature at its finest.

We even got to hear: “I have a great opportunity for you guys. Hey, where are you going? I know you can hear me!”

These tropical, exotic songs were the icing on our island vacation. But at times, we missed the familiar sounds of home. That is until we visited an open market. As is often the case back home when we’re strolling through markets among large crowds during the middle of the day, we were asked rather bluntly, “Hey, you guys want some pot?”

Ahhhh, if only they put that on a “sounds you can sleep to” CD.

The only downside to the trip was the lack of sound that came when we pushed down the levers of the toilets in our hotel. But, in a twist of good fortune, that led to regular visits to the lobby restrooms of the neighboring hotel, which actually produced the sweetest sound of the whole trip, heard every time we entered the front door: “Are you enjoying the island? Great! Listen, in 30 minutes we’ll be giving a private tour of a beautiful property.”

Fantastic.

Upon returning home from a vacation, when asked what they missed most while they were gone, most people say, “my pet,” or “my bed,” or “driving my own car.” Not me. I always say, “The incessant pestering of sales people trying to sell me things every time I step outside.” But not this time.

So pack your bags and head to the Bahamas! Believe me, they have everything you need.

More Efficient Plane Travel is Just Around the Corner

An advancement in flight has taken hold of an overseas airline, and it’s only a matter of time before all the major airlines in the U.S. have adopted the same savvy mode of plane deployment. I’m referring, of course, to the technologically-innovative practice of goat sacrifices.

Earlier this week, the BBC reported that Nepal Airlines sacrificed two goats to the Hindu god of sky protection after experiencing technical problems with one of its Boeing aircraft. Now, you may be asking yourself how slaughtering goats would fix a mechanical glitch in an airplane. But the Nepalese proved that the ‘how’ is not important. The airline said that after the sacrifices, the plane successfully flew to Hong Kong. So there you go.

As proof that journalists all around the world are just like those here at home – completely uninterested in reporting the facts (as seen here) – the Nepalese media reported that the plane’s troubles were due to an electrical fault. I’m sorry? An electrical fault? Did they even bother to talk to officials with the airline? There were problems with the plane, they sacrificed some goats, and now the plane is working just fine. Sounds like the problem was a lack of previously-performed animal rituals. How much conclusive evidence do you need, media?!

I bet the higher-ups at JetBlue, and their passengers, wished they had thought of this when they were forced to cancel flights over the holiday season last year. The next time your departure is delayed and you’re sitting on the runway for over three hours, try shouting “I know what would get this thing moving – a goat sacrifice,” and see if there isn’t a great deal of movement immediately afterwards.

Besides, airplane parts are expensive. Surely more expensive than some feeble, old goat that’s blind in one eye and barely able to stand anymore, let alone produce cheese (or whatever useful purpose goats serve). So why not go with the cheaper, just-as-reliable option?

So I would like to take this opportunity to ask our country’s goat farmers and petting zoos to do their patriotic duty by calling their nearest airport and offering up a few dozen cloven-hooved livestock so that never again will we experience delays in our flight times. Don’t stand idlely by as airline customer service continues to receive poor marks year after year. You have the power to turn the industry around. Let’s not be afraid to adopt a scientifically-proven method of flight improvement from a foreign counterpart. Surely we will all benefit.