Santa vs. Santa Monica

“All rise. The honorable Henry T. Larimore presiding.”

Judge Larimore enters courtroom and sits behind bench.

“You may be seated. The court will now hear the case of Dwayne Fairborn vs. the city of Santa Monica, California. It says hear that Mr. Fairborn performed the duties of Santa Claus in the city’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade, but has yet to receive payment for the duties performed, is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. The defense is arguing that my client didn’t live up to the terms of their agreement in performing his tasks. We plan to show that indeed he did and deserves to be paid the agreed upon amount, as well as the costs necessary to cover his medical expenses, which arose as a result of the deplorable working conditions unresolved by the city. ”

“It also says here that representing the city is the parade organizer, Mrs. Tulula Robinson. Is that correct?”

“Yes, your honor. My client, Mrs. Robinson, works for the city’s Chamber of Commerce and also sits on the tourism board. She was in charge of scheduling the parade and hiring the staff and event performers, including Mr. Fairborn.”

“Very well. The prosecution may begin its case by calling its first witness.”

“Thank you, your honor. We call Mr. Fairborn to the stand and, per his wishes, ask that the court refer to him as St. Nick.”

“Denied.”

“Alrighty.”

Mr. Fairborn takes the stand.

“Mr. Fairborn, you appeared in the Santa Monica Thanksgiving Day parade as Santa Claus on the morning of November 22^nd, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And afterwards you sat in the library for two hours so children could tell you… excuse me… tell whom they thought was Santa Claus what they wanted for Christmas, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

“When the city agreed to hire you to perform these duties, when did they say you would be paid for these services?”

“On the 22^nd. As soon as the last kid was out of line, in fact.”

“And nearly a month later, have you been paid for your work on the 22^nd?”

“No.”

“The prosecution would also like to point out that in addition to not getting paid, Mr. Claus, sorry, Mr. Fairborn, was subjected to horrible working conditions and now suffers from a medical condition as a result of said conditions. For starters, the driver assigned to pick up my client from the airport was late and didn’t have an adequate amount of gas to complete the trip, which ultimately made him late to the parade. To rectify being stranded on the side of the road, my client was forced to push the car half a mile to the nearest gas station.

“Ironically, Mr. Fairborn would have been better off being dozens of miles from a gas station that day because the float he was required to sit on was not up to code and actually caught fire during the parade. In addition, at no time did he receive any breaks, even to clean himself up after a child threw up on him. If that wasn’t enough, one of the gentlemen on parole hired to play an elf urinated behind Santa’s, sorry, Mr. Fairborn’s chair while the children were waiting in line to speak to him.

“Perhaps the most humiliating moment for my client came when one of the reindeer used for the parade knocked him to the ground and began… uh… for lack of a better term… humping him behind the float. Finally, while my client did not get to take any breaks, the city was kind enough to grant him a complimentary lunch. Unfortunately, the medical condition I referred to earlier came about due to the turkey sandwich supplied by Mrs. Robinson. It seems the turkey was quite rancid and now my client has herpes.

“You do testify that this was your experience on the 22^nd, correct Mr. Fairborn?”

“Yes, all of that is correct.”

“That’s all from the prosecution, your honor.”

“Would the defense like to cross-examine this witness?”

“Yes, thank you, your honor. Mr. Fairborn, is it true that the Santa Monica police were called and upon arriving on the scene they administered a blood alcohol test on you?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And is it also true that your blood alcohol level registered at nearly three times the legal driving limit?”

“I like to add a little rum to my eggnog.”

“I’m sure you do. Could that explain why you mistakenly remember a child throwing up on you when in fact it was your own dog that vomited on you?”

“I always let Buster sip on my eggnog. He loves it more than I do.”

“Perhaps your inebriated state also kept you from remembering that it was Buster clad in foam reindeer ears that humped you behind the float. The defense would like to point out to the court that Mrs. Robinson told Mr. Fairborn that he could not bring his dog with him on the day of the parade, but he chose to ignore that part of their agreement. This ultimately makes Mr. Fairborn responsible for the vomit ending up on his suit and the assault he withstood from his dog.

“We’d also like to point out that while the float did catch fire, it met all the necessary safety standards and Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for it going up in flames. The prosecution failed to mention that its client smoked throughout the parade, in direct conflict to the clearly visible “No Smoking” sign on his and all of the floats. If he wished for it to remain flame free, he should have considered not dropping his lit cigarette butts on the floor of the sled.”

“I guess I should have used my empty eggnog glass to put out my cigarettes.”

“Was it ever empty, Mr. Fairborn?”

“Ha! Good point. I guess not.”

“Your honor, at this point we’d like to submit the video taken of the day’s events to show that in addition to the vomit, the humping and the fire, Mr. Fairborn was also directly responsible for the urine behind his chair. The prosecution grossly misstated the situation, as the man in the elf costume was not on parole, he is Mrs. Robinson’s husband, Mr. Robinson. And the urine wasn’t his, it was urine belonging to Mr. Fairborn that leaked out of the bag he had taped to his leg as part of the amateur catheter he fashioned to himself.

“Unfortunately we cannot dispute the fact that the driver hired to pick up Mr. Fairborn at the airport was a little late and his car did run out of gas. But the driver pushed the car himself to the gas station. Mr. Fairborn probably remembers trying to fruitlessly push the car as it was parked at the station, having gas pumped into it. I feel I should mention that he did this while dressed in his full Santa costume, creating quite the scene for the other patrons. The driver in fact still managed to drop his already-inebriated passenger at the hotel two hours before Mr. Fairborn was supposed to arrive at the starting point of the parade route. It turns out Mr. Fairborn later failed to catch the cab from the hotel that was sent to take him to the parade and that’s why he was late.

“In closing, the city does not intend to pay Mr. Fairborn for his performance because of the gross violations of the work agreement, and it has no intention of paying for his medical bills either. When the front desk of the hotel called Mr. Fairborn’s room to let him know he had a cab waiting for him, roughly an hour and a half after he arrived, they reported hearing what sounded like prostitutes in his room. The clerk who called said he heard at least two female voices say, ‘Thanks for the hour,’ ‘That’s not my underwear,’ and ‘No, I can’t take a check, I’m a prostitute.’

“So I think the origin of your venereal disease is pretty clear, seeing as how you can’t get herpes from a turkey sandwich, can you Mr. Fairborn?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“The defense rests.”

The Regurgitation Goes 'Round and 'Round, 'Round and 'Round

Everyone in my house is throwing up. Everyone. My son, my daughter, my dog, my… well… that’s it. Almost everyone. Well… three out of the five of us are throwing up. That’s not everyone or even almost everyone, but it is 60%, which is a lot. A little more than half, I guess. So technically a majority of the people in my house are throwing up.

No, that’s not true either. Exactly half of the people in the house are throwing up. But a majority of those who reside in the dwelling. The dependents. Yeah, there we go. Wait, no. I can’t claim the dog as a dependent. Whatever. Three out of the five beings that sleep in the house are throwing up. For now.

Seeing, smelling, hearing or even talking about vomit nearly makes my wife throw up, so she may be next. Then again, worrying that I’ll soon be throwing up is enough to actually make me throw up before I ever contract anything. I don’t like throwing up. My wife doesn’t like other people’s throw up. We’re a sad pair, really.

Apparently something’s going around. Isn’t that always the case? If anyone ever vomits for reasons other than food or alcohol poisoning, it’s because something is going around. And that seems to be the case now. I guess it will always be the case too because if “something is going around” anytime someone vomits then it must not originate anywhere. No one starts the vomiting cycle; it just keeps spinning.

So how do we stop it? I’m afraid we don’t. I mean, we probably could, but I’m afraid it won’t happen. Literally afraid. Like I said, I don’t like throwing up. I’ve heard I’m not alone in this. What’s to like? The lurching, the awful taste, the awfuler smell, the awfulest bile left in your mouth afterwards, the sound of it hitting the toilet water or a trashcan or the floor of the car or whatever. The sinking feeling that that wasn’t the last of it. I’m getting nauseous just writing about it.

The worst part is knowing there’s no escaping it. If someone at work is sick, you and the rest of the office can berate them until they go home. You just tell them over and over again what a horrible person they are for exposing everyone else to it. You remind them how unimportant their work actually is and how out of touch with reality they are for thinking anyone will even notice if their duties are left undone for the next two weeks. But if you live with a person who has it and your main residence happens to be your only residence, then your days are numbered.

I guess I could starve myself in anticipation of the vomiting and hope that there’s nothing in my stomach to come back on me. But I think we all know that if you’re going to wretch, you’re going to wretch. Dry heaving won’t improve the situation much. Maybe I could only eat food that has a chance of tasting good coming up. Not sure what that would be, though. I don’t think that I’ve thrown up anything that tasted good on the way out. Oooh, that must mean I should eat things I’ve never eaten before, like liver and caviar. That might taste… o… k… when I throw… no, that can’t possibly be right. Screw it.

Whatever happens happens. Wish me well through the process and I’ll do the same for you when it’s your turn. Tick… tick… tick.

Where Was My Pandering?

This past election season is just that: past. So I hate to dredge it up again, especially since I was so looking forward to it finally being over, but something really stood out from the past year’s election cycle other than the billions of dollars spent campaigning. To me it was the way percentages were used to describe so much of the population. Not the percentage in favor of Obama or Romney, or the percentage of women likely to vote one way compared to the percentage of Hispanics likely to vote the other way. We get those statistics every voting year. I’m talking about the way that percentages were used in place of words to describe who we are and how we live our lives.

The 1%, the 99%, the 47%, etc…

Even though mathematically speaking I have to be in there somewhere, I don’t feel like anybody was talking about me when they threw these figures around. I don’t feel like pundits are really speaking about me when they talk about white males, even though that’s what I am. I don’t feel addressed when they narrow it down to my specific age rage or income level or family size or really any demographic yet to be discussed during a typical election year.

That’s probably because I’m of a generation where we all feel like our specific wants and needs should be catered to personally. Or because I and the rest of my peers know that it’s lazy to think that people of the same race, age, family size and income level are going to necessarily think the same. (Lazy like the way I say my entire generation thinks that its needs should be catered to personally.  See what I did there? J)

Selfish or unselfish as my reasons may be, I don’t care. I only care about how it would feel to be personally pandered to in the press. I also wonder what kind of percentages would have to be used before I felt the pandering. Weirdly specific ones, no doubt.

“With the presidential race appearing so close in the polls, both candidates know that in the coming months they’ll need to gain a foothold among…

“The 13% who routinely injure themselves sleeping.”
“The 37% who have physically accosted someone for using the middle stall in a public restroom. (You expect me to use one right next to you, jackass?!)”
“The 89% that can’t believe there are people still not on Facebook.”
“The 20% of that 89% who hate everyone on Facebook.”
“The 4% that doesn’t think college athletes should be forced to play games that start at 9 p.m. or later because that’s too late for them to stay up.”
“The 45% that have texted at least three photos of their genitals.”
“The 10% of men who can’t grow a mustache quite as well as the rest of their beard.”
“The 16% who, during a story, ask questions that aren’t pertinent to the story.”
“The 27% who, despite their best efforts, are terrible at hiding the fact that they can’t remember your name.”
“The 12% who apply sunscreen just to check the mail.”
“The 42% who believe Apple wants to see the end of all human-to-human contact and convince us to use our electronic devices to fill the emotional, and probably even sexual, gaps in our lives.”
“The 2% who don’t play fantasy sports but still listen to fantasy sports-related podcasts.”
“The 6% who are confused by the notion that using our phones to type somehow makes our lives simpler and more convenient.”
“The 72% who’ve used the baggy shirt of a stranger in the grocery store to wipe off a particularly stubborn booger from their finger.”

Actually, I think I do know what it would feel like if some of these percentages became the target audience of our candidates. It would feel awesome because then I would know I was being talked to directly.

Hail to the Unlucky Bastard

Well, this is it. Today is the day. After a year of campaigning, constantly traveling, endless debating on one side of the aisle to ultimately pare down the nominee, both parties spending millions of dollars, answering millions of interviewers’ questions, shaking millions of hands, hosting conventions, more debating, and finding new ways to look foolish on the internet (which isn’t easy to do at this point), by the end of today one man will earn what has got to be the absolute worst job on the planet – President of the United States.

I really can’t fathom why anyone would want the job at this point, and it’s obvious by looking at those who do campaign for it that most normal people don’t want it. In the last few years, we’ve been treated to presidential hopefuls who father children with a mistress while their wife is dying from cancer, address campaign supporters by opening a speech with “Awww, shuckey duckey!” and express their desire to colonize the moon. These people genuinely believe that we want them to represent us. At least until they have no choice but to accept that we don’t.

And no wonder the average citizen isn’t interested in the job. What’s the upside? The constant criticism? The twisting of your words on every media station that has ever devoted two minutes to talking about politics? The threats? Good Lord, how many jobs do you know that involve the holder of that job having to accept the fact that he or she will receive regular death threats? So far it has nearly a 10% assassination rate. Ten percent! ‘Death row inmate’ doesn’t have a 10% kill rate.

And have you ever noticed the horrible aging? If you are president, you can count on aging faster than the guy who picked the wrong cup at the end of Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade. It’s probably because they know their job comes with a 10% assassination rate.

Not to mention the number of things you’re considered responsible for is fairly overwhelming: jobs, the economy, taxes, the price of gas, the price of homes, the price of milk, the price of Yankees tickets, the nation’s security, immigration, the war on drugs, the war on women, the war on Christmas, actual war, health care, birth control, gun control, no gun control, the deficit, the debt, imports, exports, the Cubs sucking every year, the quality of our education, China owning us in six months, other countries getting nuclear weapons, the fact that parts of Canada still speak French, the environment, federal disaster relief, children getting fat, gays getting married, cows getting mad, birds and pigs getting the flu, your vice president going on TV, affirmative action, equal pay for men and women, what you have stuck in your teeth, what you might have said near a live microphone, how many times your administration says “God,” and if your flag pin is big enough.

 If I took every job I ever had going back to high school, including internships (which totals 13 places where I’ve reported for work), and added together all the things I was responsible for, I could list three things I was responsible for. The point is the president oversees a lot. That person gets a lot of credit, but also catches a lot of grief.

I guess the accommodations aren’t bad and the parties are probably pretty nice. Still. If the guy I voted for wins, I don’t know if I should feel happy for him or send my condolences.

A Scientist Dictates His Findings of a Squirrel That Is Possibly Carrying the Plague

From the CNN Wire Staff on CNN.com (Oct. 9, 2012) - Authorities in Riverside County, California, said Tuesday that a ground squirrel has tested positive for exposure to fleas infected with the bacteria that can cause plague.

A Scientist Dictates His Findings of a Squirrel That Is Possibly Carrying the Plague

Click. “Ok, the date is October 15, 2012. The time – 2:04 p.m. Eastern Standard. Today’s study will investigate the likelihood that a North American mammal of the order rodentia has been exposed to the bacteria Yersinia pestis. The subject is a ground squirrel infested with Ctenocephalides felis, also known as fleas, thought to be carrying said bacteria.

“My early hypothesis is that, unlike what was historically found in rats, this squirrel is not carrying the strain of Yersinia pestis that leads to the disease known as the plague. The first factor leading me to form this hypothesis is the rarity of that particular bacterium today. It has not been a widespread threat to any population for over 100 years. The second basis for my hypothesis comes from the fact that the squirrel is adorable. I realize this is not medically-sound evidence, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“The squirrel has a furry coat, dapper ears and large, deep-set eyes. His paws are soft and capable of grasping not only large acorns, but also my thumb when I manipulate them to do so. I have named him ‘Wally’. Isn’t that right, Wally? Oh wes it is! Wes it is! Wub wub wub wub wub!

“Wally’s physical state is ‘deceased’, but his soul lives on in all of us. Today’s dissection will likely prove there is little to fear from Wally.

“The initial passover of Wally’s coat reveals legions around the stomach and groin, and red splotches covering his tail. A brief scan of the mouth turns up a number of newly-missing teeth and stained gums. The skin abrasions do indicate some sort of infection, but the dental damage is likely due to consuming items of trash or animal remains. I bet you got into all kinds of yummy little morsels didn’t you, fella? Who’s a good boy?

“Now for the internal review. The first incision indicates that Wally’s muscle fibers are strained and weak. His bones appear brittle. His blood smells particularly of barium and appears green in color. The blood findings are somewhat disconcerting, but the weakened skeleton is not uncommon in mammals of similar size and age.

“While certain to be unrelated, it should be noted that my eyes have started to itch and I am having trouble breathing. I remain unconcerned, though, as I am following the proper procedure of wearing protective goggles and a mask. I’m sure the irritation is due to my sinuses, which are always a nightmare this time of year. I bet you didn’t have to worry about silly little sinuses, did you Walrus? Nooooooo.

“Continuing with the autopsy, it appears that most of the subject’s organs have turned black. This is a tad worrisome, but can certainly be caused by other factors. Rodents are known to regularly suffer from kidney disease, they are susceptible to liver failure thanks to their poor diet, and their lungs are naturally grey. Typically light grey, whereas Wally’s are more of a midnight, but still.

“A quick glance at my forearms reveals a previously-unseen rash and numerous boils, but I’m sure that’s what I get for scrubbing my hands with that generic, so-called ‘anti-bacterial’ soap that Carol bought. She never gets the good stuff, does she Waldo? No matter how many times we tell her.

“A look at my hands will likely show similar findings, particularly since the burning is quite intense, but it’s safer to keep my gloves on until the examination is over.

“A gentle grazing with my scalpel unintentionally pierces the subject’s left lung. Like the bones, it is unusually weak. And like the other organs, both lungs are black in color. You must have picked up a nasty smoking habit, huh?”

The doctor chuckles at his joke and then violently coughs up a handful of phlegm.

“In addition, puss is escaping from the lung. I must admit that this is rather disturbing. Furthermore, the physical decay seems to be increasing at a rapid rate. The subject’s fur is falling out in clumps. However, I’m less inclined to think he is carrying the plague and more inclined to think the loss of hair is due to the fumes from my cologne. Again, bought by Carol. Always cheaping out, isn’t she Waldorf?

“Huh. Well, this is interesting. While doing nothing but recording my findings, poor Wally’s head popped off. Just detached from his body and rolled to the edge of the table.

“I’m going to pause here for a visit to the restroom.” Click.

Click. “I have revised my earlier inclination that the subject’s fur loss is due to my cologne. It seems that between now and when I emerged from the shower this morning, I too have lost a significant amount of body hair, including that which resided on my testicles. I don’t know what compelled me to mention this particular finding, other than to point out that it may prove beneficial to my social activities. I feel it is a welcome development, as opposed to one I should be concerned about.

“What is concerning is the amount of blood contained in my vomit and stool. And perhaps the fact that I produced vomit at all prompts a bit of an eyebrow raise. Better to be safe than sorry, so I’ll call my doctor when I wrap up here, but I’m sure it’s nothing.

“You think it’s nothing, don’t you Wally Wally Washington? Wes you do! Wes you do!”

Doing the Twist (and Squirm)

So my daughter is taking a dance class. A combination of tap and ballet. That’s not really pertinent, I just thought it would add a little more description and answer any questions you might have about the career path I’m putting her on. Shame on you.

Anyway, despite it being an innocent tap/ballet class for 3-5 year olds, involving no tawdry moves whatsoever, it’s still awkward. The waiting part, that is. The class is 45 minutes and, for me, finding something to do while she dances is awkward.

The lobby of the dance studio is small, particularly when it fills up with teen and pre-teen girls waiting for another class to start or waiting for rides after a class has ended. When these moments converge, which is every week, I become keenly aware that I’m the only member of the male population in sight. I don’t just stick out like a sore thumb, but more like a hand that is missing its thumb. Or an actual thumb, unattached to anything, lying on the ground. Possibly bloody. Yeah, come to think of it, the dismembered thumb is probably bloody because I really stick out.

Besides that, there aren’t many places to look. All the teenage girls are dressed as if they just finished an outdoor yoga class. As a father, all I can think is they need to have more clothes on (my daughter is covered head-to-toe with only her arms exposed, and I’m not totally cool with that either). I used to wonder if any of them were uncomfortable with me being there while they walked around in little more than beach attire, but based on the amount of giggling, it’s just me. The girls, as if you don’t know already, giggle in quantities that can’t be duplicated without large amounts of pot. “Look at the thumb in the corner,” they must be saying.

Fortunately there is a window in the lobby that looks into my daughter’s dance room, but it’s not very big and the other four parents gather around it to watch as well. During the few times I’ve gone to the class instead of my wife, I have squeezed alongside the other parents, all moms, for a few minutes at a time, but the little ones get distracted from seeing us. Not to mention I get claustrophobic. Not in the “I can’t catch my breath” sort of way, but more in the “Oh, there are other people here?” sort of way.

Since one of the walls of the dance room is a full window looking out into the parking lot, I can always stand outside in the parking lot and look in through the giant window wall. But the problem with that is, standing outside by myself staring into a room full of dancing four-year-old girls, I wouldn’t look so much like a thumb as I would a giant pervert. Particularly since there’s a window inside that I can look through without appearing pervy. The only person who would choose to stand outside and look in is someone who doesn’t have the option of going inside to watch. Someone who is on a list that the police might pass around your neighborhood, for instance.

I’m not sure what my options are at this point, but standing around the lobby full of giggling tweeners is out of the question. I might look through the window wall from the parking lot just for the joy of making other people uncomfortable, but that could lead to phone calls. Plus winter is coming.

(Sigh) Soccer season can’t get here fast enough.

Bending Bad. Or Just a Little to the Left

Given the immense popularity of the show for the last 4 – 5 years this certainly isn’t unexplored territory, but I can’t help but wonder if I have it in me to “break bad.” I came into the show late, so I haven’t seen the progression of the character of Walter White from beginning to end, but I’ve seen enough and heard enough to get a good feel for how far he’s come.

Knowing what I know about me, about my personality, about what I’m capable of, about my feelings toward my family and their well being, and imagining the desperation I would feel given the same circumstances, I can almost assuredly say no, I don’t have it in me.

For one thing, the reason I only recently started watching the show is because it’s on too late. I think that alone says everything I or you need to know when figuring if I’m capable of killing dozens of people (I’ve lost count of the actual number), including a well-respected drug kingpin who’s proven he’s capable of the same, all while running the most successful meth operation in the Southwestern United States.

Even for something I like and am not morally opposed to, like watching the show, I draw the line at staying up until 11 p.m. The only reason I’ve seen the last two seasons is because I now have a DVR. Come to think of it, the fact that I’ve only recently had a DVR is probably enough of an indicator that I couldn’t even stay ahead of the cops as long as Walter has.

I don’t appear to have the resources or the faculties to drain a train of its load of methylamine, even with four buddies helping me out. I’m also fairly confident that I couldn’t convince a room full of Nazis to simultaneously kill ten inmates scattered across three prisons, even if Nazis don’t need a lot of convincing to do that sort of thing. And I seriously doubt I could talk an old man into blowing himself up even if it means the explosion would kill his sworn enemy. I used to be in sales and based on my track record, I wasn’t very good at it.

I think the only thing we have in common is that I could pull off looking like Walter, at least when he has hair, but even still I couldn’t pull off the Heisenberg hat (and I’m not convinced he can either).

But I’m sure that’s a huge reason why I watch. I’m totally intrigued by everyone on the show because none of them are like me and their lives are nothing like mine. Searching for shows that have no similarities to my own daily routine is probably the same reason I don’t watch Ultimate Fighting competitions, “The Mentalist” or “Honey Boo Boo.”

Even with a full year before the next “Breaking Bad” season starts, I still don’t think I’ll fill the time watching those other options. Or cooking meth.

It’s going to be a long winter.

A NASA Engineer Tests Out New Pick-Up Lines After Curiosity’s Recent Mars Landing

“How would you like to have a potential carbon-based life form named after you?”

“Aren’t you… (comedic pause coupled with single eyebrow raise)… curious to see my moon rock?”

“I can stream the live images of red, swirling dust straight to the PC in my apartment. Pardon? No, they won’t give us Macs.”

“Without the sonic parachutes and reverse jet propulsion to slow your descent, it must have hurt when you fell from Heaven.”

“I don’t know about Mars, but I think I’m looking at the building blocks for life right here.”

“Hi, what’s your name? Well, Red Rover, Red Rover, send Tonya right over! Wait, wait. Don’t you get it? ‘Cause Mars is the red planet. And we have a rover on it. Whatever. Your loss.”

“Ride with me and I can send you on a galactic trip that lasts hundreds of millions of miles. Uh, well, Mars specifically. Yeah, it’s approximately 350 million miles away. Huh? Uh, about eight months, but I can have you make that trip in just one night (winks). No, I guess there’s not really a reason you’d want to visit the actual Mars, but you’re taking that too literally. Nevermind.”

“What do you say we have my valence electrons chemically bond with your valence electrons to create our own molecular life form back at my place?”

“Excuse me, I don’t usually do this, but I saw you sitting here and I was so captivated by your beauty that I wrote you a poem. Would you be so kind as to indulge me? Wonderful. ‘Man is not from Mars, but we are there now/The distances we have traveled surely do wow/Women, though mysterious, aren’t technically from Venus/But how would you like to end up on my…’ (gets drink thrown in face)

“Hi, what’s your name? Gale?! Are you serious?! That’s perfect! Say, Gale, how would you like my rover to explore Gale’s crater? Wait, wait! That’s one of the rover’s main goals – to send back images and samples from the Gale Crater! Damnit! Don’t any of you watch the news?!”

Enter Marsman

A lot of alien talk in the news lately. First it was who would be the better leader if Earth faced an alien invasion, and now we’re the ones doing the invading (again).

NASA, understandably, is fairly excited about successfully landing its rover Curiosity on Mars, but has anyone considered the potential consequences of introducing our technology into a potential lion’s den? We sent the rover to Mars to see if the planet has the basic building blocks for life or if its environment has ever been capable of supporting life. Nothing too threatening.

But what if this thing stumbles across more than just indications of past or current life-forming “blocks” and simple cell amoeba? What if Curiosity rolls right into the Mars’ version of Sturgis, with millions of 10-foot-tall, green, mean-spirited, highly intelligent badasses riding inter-galactic Harleys? What if these badasses, despite their high IQs, have lived a kabillion years without knowing a thing about us, but can’t help notice the robot on wheels taking a bunch of pictures of them? So, they pick up the latest creation sent by NASA, turn it upside down, see that the label says, “Made in China,” then Google the word “China,” learn all about where China is located – Earth – and ride their alien Harleys here to obliterate us and take all of our resources?

Am I the only one worried about this? Does no one else think we’re playing with fire here? You see how upset some celebrities get when the paparazzi take one too many photographs of them. What if angry, destructive aliens do exist on Mars and all they want is to be left alone, but now their privacy has been disturbed, so they’re even angrier and yet, since they are so destructive, they’re also giddy over the thought of kicking some Earth ass? Will we then be giddy about learning that life does in fact exist on Mars? Hmmmm?

Way to go, NASA. Way to go indeed.

Aliens vs. Presidents

A recent poll of Americans found that 65% of those surveyed believe President Barak Obama would better handle an alien invasion than presidential-hopeful Mitt Romney. In an odd turn of events, alien life forms known as the Roarnacks heard this and abducted the two men to see what, if any, dangers might exist should they decide to invade Earth. Below is what transpired.

Alien Leader (AL): “Greetings gentlemen, welcome aboard.”

Obama: “You speak English. That’s impressive.”

AL: “We speak over 300 languages, and we have nearly all the accents down. Even German. But we prefer to leave out the shouting. So much shouting with the Germans.”

Romney: “Well that’s great,” he says with a big smile. “I love aliens. You know, my dad was born in Mexico. Maybe we should all sing the Mexican national anthem?”

Neither Obama nor the alien leader look interested in singing.

Romney: “Maybe later. Say, where are you from?”

AL: “I doubt you’ve heard of it.”

Romney: “Oh I’ve been all over this great universe of ours, my friend. The family and I came up here once for our summer vacation. Brought the dog along too, but he didn’t quite make it back through re-entry. But hey, at least we don’t eat them like this guy here.” (points his thumb at Obama)

AL: (rolls his eyes and sighs) “We’re two galaxies over. We like to tell people we’re from Xenoremslad, but technically it’s a suburb of Xenoremslad.”

Romeny: “Ah yes, it’s beautiful there this time of year,” Romney says unjokingly.

AL: “It’s been burning for 500 years.”

Obama: “Ha! Nice try, Mitt.”

AL: “Gentlemen, I must say, it was surprisingly easy to get by the security for both of you and bring you aboard our ship.”

Romney: “Well I’m not surprised that the President’s Secret Service detail couldn’t stop you. I’m sure they were entertaining some Brazilian prostitutes at the time.”

AL: “Brazilian what?”

Romney: “Prostitutes. They’re women you pay for sex. Well, technically they can be men too, but usually they’re women. Although, the president’s all for gay marriage now, so I’m sure his attitude has helped broaden the extracurricular activities of his staff members. If you catch my drift.”

AL: “Wait, wait, wait. You have to pay women to reproduce with you?”

Romney: “Not all the time, no. You’re actually not allowed to by law, but I’m sure if Obama is re-elected, he’ll legalize that too.”

Obama: “Mitt, these guys can’t vote, so why don’t you give it a rest.”

AL: “That’s true, we can’t vote in your elections, but we do appreciate being extended healthcare coverage from your country’s government.”

Obama: “I beg your pardon?”

AL: “Your new healthcare act. The Roarnacks stand to benefit a great deal.”

Romney: (throws his hands up) “Well that’s just great.”

Obama: (chuckles) “I don’t think you’re mentioned in the healthcare act.”

AL: (pulls out a very large stack of papers) “Indeed. Right here on page 1218, paragraph six, provision 10C. (points to the page) See?”

Romney: “Unbelievable.”

Obama, confused, just stares at the alien with his mouth open.

AL: “Well don’t feel bad. Your plan doesn’t extend us nearly as many benefits as this guy’s plan did when he was governor of Massachusetts.”

Romney: “That’s a lie! My healthcare plan didn’t look anything like his.”

AL: “Miiiiiiitt. Come on. I helped you write it.”

Romney: (gritting his teeth) “Will you shut up?!”

Obama: “You know, if you’re interested, I’m sure Bain Capital has some jobs they’d love to outsource to you guys.”

AL: “That won’t be necessary. We have our sights on more than just Bain Capital. By the looks of things, a complete takeover of your country, even your planet, should be pretty simple no matter which of you is in charge.”

Obama: “Now don’t get ahead of yourself. You may not know this, but I gave the green light for our Navy SEALS to kill the most wanted man on our planet.”

AL: “Ah yes, we heard about that. The helicopter those SEALS used is very cool. I got my son one of those for his birthday and he loves it.”

Obama: “That would explain why we’re missing one.”

AL: “Oh you’re missing more than one, believe me. We’ve pretty well mastered your planet’s most sophisticated fighting machines. To be honest, from the intelligence we’ve gathered about Earth and its inhabitants, we have little reason to be worried about your resistance.”

Romney: “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

AL: “Yes.”

Romney: “I bet you don’t know if a full house beats four of a kind.”

AL: “It doesn’t.”

Romney: (turns to Obama) “Is that right?”

Obama: “Yes.”

Romney: (dejected) “Oh boy.”

AL: “Before we strike, I thought it would be a good idea to study the two of you more closely, especially since your people seem to be on to our plan. But I don’t know what they see in either one of you that makes them think you could adequately protect them.”

Obama sits down and buries his head in his hands.

Obama: (mumbling) “It’s an election year. People look for all sorts of stupid things to say about the candidates. (looks up) Is there anything we can say to convince you to spare our planet?”

AL: “Hmmm… I’ll tell you what. Give us Dick Cheney back and we’ll leave you alone. We’ve been trying to get him to come home for years.”

Obama: “Deal!”

Romney: “Wait a second. We can’t give them Cheney. They’ll be 10 times more powerful than they are now.”

Obama: “You’re right. Sorry, we can’t give you Cheney.”

Romney: “How about that guy that texted all those pictures of his junk last year. (turns to Obama) The Democrats don’t care about him anymore, right?”

Obama: “Sure don’t. These guys can have him.”

AL: “Absolutely not. We’re not taking the junk guy.”

Obama: “What about Michele Bachmann? She’s gotta be one of you.”

AL: “You wish. I’m growing tired of this. There’s only one other Earthling we’ll accept: Martin Scorsese.”

Romney: “What?”

Obama: “You’re kidding! He’s one of America’s most cherished directors. What do you want with him?”

AL: “Same thing you do. He did Goodfellas for crying out loud. The man’s a genius.”

Romney: “Can’t you take Lucas instead? He seems to know your kind pretty well.”

AL: “Uggghh. Do not get me started on George. It’s Scorsese or the complete obliteration of your planet.”

Romney: “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

Obama: “Guess not. Alright, he’s yours. Will you consider taking Lucas too?”

AL: “I guess we can. But he doesn’t come alone.”

Obama: “Fine. You got a deal.”

AL: “Great. Ok, we’ll drop you both off near the D.C. limits, but you’ll have to get home from there.”

Romney: “But I don’t live in Washington. Not yet anyway,” he winks.

The alien leader just stares at Romney.

Romney: “The D.C. limits sound great.”

AL: “Good luck to both of you in November. We’ll be in touch. Oh, and tell Biden we said ‘Hello’!”

Only If There's a 20 In It

Is it just me or do greeting cards suck these days? No matter what the occasion, you cannot find a good one. It’s getting to the point where nearly all of them fall into just three categories – cards for kids play music, cards for adults are long, drawn out diatribes about how the giver of the card has a hard time expressing his/her feelings so the stream-of-consciousness epic does it for them, and the last kind is a recent development where readers send in family photos with funny captions and the greeting companies turn those into cards in lieu of creating cards themselves. Outsourcing, basically.

These categories – music, diatribes, outsourcing – are all terrible and the individual results of these categories are terrible. Even the few remaining cards that don’t fit one of these descriptions are lousy. You just can’t find quality cards anymore.

The rambling feelings-dump cards, which also happen to be filled with bad metaphors, are my least favorite. When you open them, they usually sound something like this:

To my wonderful wife on our anniversary…

We’ve sailed some rocky waters together over the years, but I love the course our relationship has steered us on. I can always count on you to be there and I hope you feel the same way about me. I don’t always know the right words to say, but you always seem to know exactly how I feel, which makes it weird that I was compelled to buy a card filled with a frank discussion of my feelings written by someone else.

The last 10 years with you have been the best of my life and I can’t wait to see the adventures we take over the next 10. Perhaps we’ll scale the peaks of all of our hopes and dreams, but even if we slip along the way, I know we’ll be there for each other to properly secure the ropes of our love to the mountain of life.

Before you, I felt lost and unsatisfied (and I don’t mean that in a sexual way, but I guess I kind of do to some degree). Thank you for finding me and giving my soul life, love and happiness. As long as your brother doesn’t try to borrow thousands of dollars from us again, I know we’ll be sharing our golden years together.

And that’s just the left side.

In the age of dying newspaper subscriptions and 140-character tweets, it seems counterintuitive that cards like this not only exist, but are practically the only ones you can find anymore. The card industry has to be hurting. I mean, does anybody buy cards anymore? The post office is nearly extinct and no one under the age of 45 communicates by any means other than texting and tweeting, right? Hallmark can’t employ a lot of writers given what I mentioned earlier about card companies relying on the general public to create the few remaining adult cards that don’t double as novels (unfortunately I’m not talking about “adult” cards, which we need way more of, by the way).

Since people are buying greeting cards at the same rate they’re buying VCRs, you’ve probably never even seen these publicly-produced cards unless you’ve sent one into Hallmark and they used it. But trust me, as someone who still buys cards, they’re out there.

Fortunately there are some different genres of cards that you can find for the proper birthday celebrations. Like a half-naked chick or dude on the front of a card, always looking oiled and bronzed, with a message that says something like, “She/He really, really wants you…” and the inside says, “… to have a great birthday!” And of course there’s no shortage of old people talking about their latest body part that aches, sags or fails to hold in gas. These started popping up around the time that we became interested in oily, naked members of the opposite sex and farts. I believe this time period is called ‘The Dawn of Man’.

Come to think of it, I guess I should stop complaining about a lack of quality cards. Flatulent old ladies, half naked dudes… those are sure to brighten anyone’s day.

He Drinks "Five Year Energy"

I’ve written a lot about my kids lately, particularly my five-year-old son. I try not to do that too much because I don’t want this to morph into a “mommy blog,” especially since I’m a dad. But I can’t help it this time because I’m jealous of something. My son has something I want. As a parent, I shouldn’t pine for something that one of my kids has, particularly when he’s this young and virtually everything he has is dictated by what I or my wife give him. But this is different. Nobody gave him the thing I want, he just has it.

It’s his energy level.

And I’m not the only one who wants it. You want it too. We all do. That’s why, as I wrote a few years ago, energy drinks are so popular. That’s why Starbucks charges $4 for a small cup of coffee. That’s why we get addicted to soda and mayors feel the need to outlaw the sale of soda containers that could double as lawn mower attachments. That’s why meth fans are willing to forgo their teeth in exchange for it.

But none of that can match the potency of simply being five. He doesn’t need sugar, caffeine, naps or meth in order to go full throttle for 14 hours. The only way to get my son to sit still and be quiet for more than three minutes is to play that game where you see who can be quiet the longest. Luckily his competitiveness is the one thing that exceeds his energy level. Most kids, however, couldn’t care less about exceeding at that game because the sacrifice (being quiet) isn’t worth it.

To be fair, there are quiet times that don’t involve him trying to win a contest. But the energy is always there, bubbling under the surface, just waiting for the right time to erupt. The other night he sat quietly through dinner, ate his entire meal and then, like a perfect gentleman, very politely said, “I’m finished. May I please be excused?” My wife granted his request and then he slid out of his chair and immediately started playing air guitar. Put on a show right there at the kitchen table. Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer,” I think.

Other times when he’s not bouncing off the walls are the few seconds it takes to move his peg around the Trouble board. However, during the few seconds it takes me to move my peg, he usually sways back and forth, shakes his arms in the air and sings only half of the lyrics to a song correctly. Lately it’s been “Living on a Prayer.” We all went through a Bon Jovi phase. Don’t judge.

If I did the same thing, I would never get through the game. I would absolutely pass out from exhaustion a quarter of the way through. For my son, though, conserving his energy while it’s my turn never crosses his mind because he’s not in his mid-thirties and he doesn’t need energy reserves to play a board game. He doesn’t need energy reserves to do anything.

And for all the things that are wasted on kids (food that hits the floor, clothes that are stained after one wear, education), energy is never one of them. The excess energy that isn’t used while eating or pushing the Trouble button is simply exerted later on top of other energy that's already being exerted. For instance, running up and down the soccer field doesn’t adequately squelch all the energy, so a lot of times you’ll see kids running up and down the soccer field AND playing air guitar at the same time. You’ll rarely see professional athletes do this because they’re limited by their age and pathetically low endurance levels. But you’ll see kids do it.

What my son doesn’t understand is that the energy will run out. Not today, but years down the road. I’m not sure if holding onto some of the energy will ensure that he can summon it again 30 years from now, but one thing I do know – all the Starbucks in the world won’t bring it back.

Sports Headlines or Weather Reports?

Heat Rolls Over Thunder

Avalanche Buries the Lightning in Six Games

Hurricanes Rip Tide

Eclipse Blots Out the Suns in Front of Record Crowd

Hail Pounds Rising Ocean Levels

High Pressure System Topples Low Pressure System to Win Championship

Tornadoes Do More Damage than Earthquakes in World Cup

Pollen Count Overshadows Humidity in Playoffs

Fog Blankets Cold Front After Coach Gets Ejected

Severe Thunderstorm Warning Dominates Severe Thunderstorm Watch

Heat Index Raises Its Game Over Mercury

Sleet Sends Rain to the Showers Early to Win Arm & Hammer® Baking Soda Bowl

Premature Pomp

So my son is a graduate. He didn’t exactly finish at the top of his class, but he graduated. Actually, maybe he did finish near the top. Maybe he graduated magna cum laude. Hell, maybe he was even valedictorian. His school kept pretty crappy records, so it’s hard to know for sure. Honestly, I don’t think they kept records at all. We never saw a report card or a transcript or class syllabi’s. I’m pretty sure his only requirements for graduating were the fact that he’s five and will no longer be a paying customer this fall. You know, cause it was preschool.

The concept of graduating from preschool is… quaint. Cute, even. You probably thought the word I was going to use was ‘stupid.’ Some people might use that word, but not me. The concept is cute and the actual “ceremony” was cute. Assuming it’s ok for a man to refer to his son’s preschool graduation as cute.

But here’s the problem… it’s also kind of stupid. I can’t help it. He looked cute (there’s that word again) in his $25 cap and gown, but he didn’t really achieve anything. Nice weather days consisted of round-the-clock recess, broken up only by lunch and nap time. And he failed miserably at nap time (Aced lunch, though). If I may take just a moment to brag - the director of the preschool did say quite regularly, “Your child is so smart,” which felt great, even on those occasions when she was looking at other parents while saying it (I felt bad that she rubbed it in their faces like that, though). But my son was never required to prove it through quizzes or tests or book reports or anything. Sure, he excelled at identifying colors, writing numbers and letters, and performing basic math, but even if he did those things poorly, they still would have given him a diploma.

As proof: at the ceremony the kids all sang a song in unison. Unfortunately it wasn’t decipherable until the second verse because the singers were the exact opposite of ‘in unison.’ That hardly seems diploma worthy.

I promise, though, I’m not a jerk. It was very thoughtful of the school to take the time and effort to make them feel special. And, as I said, the ceremony was cute, the caps and gowns were cute, and the free food was cute. I laughed when I was supposed to laugh, and I said my allergies were bothering me when… you know… I was supposed to say my allergies were bothering me (see, I have a heart).

But have we gone a little off the ranch with things like preschool graduations? For one thing, none of the kids have to earn passing grades in order to graduate. You don’t have to “pass” the first 4-6 years of your life in order to get into kindergarten. You have to go (yes, even in Kentucky). Which brings me to my second point: the kids aren’t allowed to stay at the preschool. We’re legally obligated to enroll my son in an actual school, or at least purchase home-school curriculum, in a few months. It’s like throwing a retirement party for someone who’s being forced to take early retirement.

So what are we celebrating and/or congratulating, exactly? Was the ceremony a way for the teachers to thank the parents for our money over the last five years by asking us to pay another $25 and take time off work?

Ok, that sounds angry. I’m certainly not angry; amused more than anything. And even a little proud. So I’ll just say what you’re supposed to say after graduations. Congratulations Son! You earned it, I guess.

Everything Is a Thing

When you’re a kid, that is. I’m talking about the title, of course. When you’re a kid, everything is a thing. Everything you see is a thing, everything you do is a thing, everything someone says to you is a thing, and everything someone says to somebody else is a thing. If you don’t have kids, those statements probably need clarifying. If you do have kids, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Getting ready for bed, for instance, is more than just putting on your pajamas, brushing your teeth and climbing under the covers. Much more. It’s first asking, “Who has to go to bed?” after one of your parents says, “Time for bed.” Then it’s standing in front of the mirror and seeing how many goofy faces you can make while singing whatever is floating around in your head. It doesn’t even have to be a real song. It can just be a series of random words said in a sing-songy tune. Like, “I like to toot. Toot, toot, toot. You like to toot. Toot, toot, toot.”

Then it’s turning to whomever has walked into the bathroom to ask you to stop singing and start brushing your teeth, and saying, “Look at my belly!”

This continues in a number of similar scenarios for roughly 45 minutes before the child is finally in bed. But you’ve heard all this before. Kids have short attention spans, they don’t like to go to bed, they act silly, blah, blah, blah. But what you may not have heard is what I led off this article with. I wasn’t exaggerating. Everything - not just going to bed - is a thing.

Washing your hands, for instance. An activity that, for an adult, takes 15 seconds at most and requires little thought. For a kid, however, it can take 15 minutes. And helping them speed up the process only leads to elevated blood pressure. Don’t turn the water on for them because they can turn on the water. And they will turn it off and then back on to prove it. Don’t hand them the soap either because they can get the soap. And they will put it down and then pick it back up to prove that as well. But there is something they would like help with – knowing what soap consists of, where it comes from, why it smells so good, etc… So be sure to have the answers to those questions.

Then there are rocks. Holy shit, rocks are awesome. And sticks! They’re even more badass than rocks. Which is great. I love my kids’ passion for things that don’t impress most people past the age of 10. But did you know every rock and every stick has to be picked up? Every single one. No matter how much of a hurry you’re in. And when their arms are full of rocks and sticks, you have to hold the overflow. Even if you need to get to work or to a hospital or to a space shuttle that is rocketing off the planet because aliens are about to blow it up.

"Why are there so many rocks?" they'll probably ask. And they'll ask it when you're trying to hurriedly get them in the car so the line of vehicles behind you can finally pull around the jerkoff that is clogging up the parking lot by waiting to take your spot.

“Why do they want our parking space? Why do they want to be close to the building? Why don’t they want to walk far? What’s a lazy asshole?”

See? Getting into the car is a thing. And rocks are a thing. And parking spaces are a thing.

If you don’t have kids, there’s a chance you’re thinking that mine might have A.D.D. If you do have kids, you know that everything I’ve described is perfectly normal behavior of an average child with average attention-paying abilities. I knew kids that had A.D.D. and I know parents of children who have it. My kids aren’t within an Everest climb of even approaching it. Something to consider if you’re considering having kids.

Not that that should stop you. Kids are great. And a ton of fun. Just know that everything is a thing.

Rejected Course Curriculums at Various Schools Around the Country

Dante’s Seven Deadly Sins and Their Shaping of Religion in Modern-Day Europe – University of Nevada, Las Vegas

Making Waves as the Unaffecting Bystander: Introduction to Apathy – University of California, Berkeley

Advancements in American Culture, Post Civil War – University of Mississippi

The History of Brewing – Brigham Young University

Computational Astrophysics – Southern Baptist Theological Seminary

Pride in the Family Business: Taking Over Your Father’s Air Conditioning Repair Company - Harvard University

Back to the Basics of 20th Century Business: Surviving the Internet Fad – Stanford University

Math Theory – Smith College

Advanced Surfing – Oklahoma State University

Modern Dance – Southern Baptist Theological Seminary

The Depiction of Human Sexuality in 16th Century Italian Renaissance Art – Massachusetts Institute of Technology

Microeconomics Lab: Lowering Gas Prices Through Offshore Drilling – University of Oregon

Study Abroad Program – University of Hawaii

You Think YOU Like Beer?

For some reason or another, I’ve been doing a lot of research on beer lately. Perhaps I’m developing a problem. It feels oh so good, though. Actually, I’ve done a lot more reading than I have drinking. And most of my reading has focused on how our ancestors viewed beer, so I don’t think my liver has much to worry about. For now.

To tell the truth, what I’ve found is that no matter how much drinking you or I take up, no matter what lengths we go to to acquire beer, no matter how much money we spend or how many barrels we start brewing in our basements, beer won’t mean nearly as much to us as it did to our great-great- great-great-great grandfathers.

Now you might be saying to yourself, “Hmmm… I don’t know. I saw last year’s fourth quarter earnings for the world’s largest brewer – AB InBev – and they sell a crapload of beer.” I saw those too. And you’re right, that is a lot of money, especially just for one quarter. Don’t forget too that they’re not the only brewer by any stretch, and lots of beer companies, despite all their profits, still feel compelled to spend huge sums on advertising. Apparently all that profit still makes the corporate suits ask themselves, “Do you think people will remember that they like beer next year?” So they dole out $2.5 million for a 30 second ad during the Super Bowl, just to remind us that beer is pretty cool.

But nevertheless, all that spending doesn’t necessarily equate to people feeling passionately about beer. For passion, you might look to all the Oktoberfests (original and knock off versions) held around the world. Or the fact that so many young people try to secure it illegally. You might even say that the fact that people pour it into bags and tape those bags to dark places of their body in attempts to smuggle it into sporting events speaks volumes about our passion for beer. But all those asses full of beer are nothing compared to how people felt about beer thousands of years ago.

Consider the following…

In the game of love, Modern Man tries to use beer to achieve any number of goals. The ultimate one being to get a woman to agree to come back to his house or apartment and… “organize his music collection,” if you catch my drift. He hopes the “organizing” takes place over a single night or maybe even up to a week if it’s Spring Break. But anything more than that and he begins to not appreciate her criticism of his Scorpions phase.

On many other occasions, however, Modern Man is happy to exchange a beer for a phone number, even if it turns out to be fake, just so he can show his friends that he can in fact ply a number from a member of the opposite sex. Then there are times when Modern Man is happy to buy bottles and bottles of beer for a lady even if it only means she’ll talk to him for five more minutes.

But not Ancient Egyptian Man. His standards were much higher. If Ancient Egyptian Man gave even a sip of beer to a woman, it meant she’d have to do a whole lot more than just “organize his…” ok, you know what? Sex. I’m obviously talking about having sex. And offering beer to a woman meant that he hoped for a lot more than just getting her into bed. It meant she would become Mrs. Ancient Egyptian Man. And you know what came next: in-laws, kids, Pictionary parties, weekends antiquing. Of course back then there weren’t any antiques. All of the quilts and tea sets were the latest, state-of-the art productions, so people went… now-ing, presumably. At any rate, an offering of beer was not made lightly.

The Babylonians didn’t have this same practice, but beer did play a role in marriage for them as well. Babylonian fathers of Babylonian brides sent beer to their new Babylonian sons-in-law for a month after the wedding. So beer may not have been viewed quite as highly by the Babylonians as it was by the Egyptians, given how much of it they were willing to part with, or maybe it was and fathers were just ecstatic to get their daughters married off to whomever would take them. Either way, husbands fared well no matter what their wives looked like (at least for as long as the beer lasted).

I didn’t find much on the changing alcohol content of beer through the ages, but I think it can be presumed that beer has always been fairly potent because the ingredients, for the most part, haven’t changed, and the taste isn’t really the selling point. So given that alcohol has certainly always been a reason to enjoy beer, it was interesting to read that George Washington gave daily rations of it to his troops during the Revolutionary War. Seems counterintuitive to winning a war in which you’re outmanned and outgunned (which I guess goes without saying if you’re outmanned). Then again, keeping morale high is an important factor in fighting a war, and what better way to do that than with some suds?

Going back to the Egyptians, they didn’t let diminished capacities interfere with their love of brewski either. Earlier, I only scratched the surface of the passion the Egyptians had for beer, given that they also used to brew batches of it to bury with their dead so it would travel with them to the afterlife. The only problem is that this passion for brew may have impacted their passion for rewards in the afterlife, since part of their beliefs about receiving rewards in the afterlife (other than beer, of course) involved “the ability to recite spells, passwords and formulae of the Book of the Dead.” So there’s a good chance that your buddy in college who always thought he did better on tests after he had a few beers in him is at least ¼ Egyptian.

But the Egyptians weren’t the only early civilization that tied beer into its religious beliefs. The Sumerians are believed to be the first to brew beer (even though it was most likely by accident) and, appreciating what a glorious thing they discovered, they had a goddess of brewing. When is the last time you heard of anyone praying to a god of beer? The “shrine” of empty beer cans your drunk test-taking friend built in his dorm room? Please. It may have been shaped like a pyramid (I told you that guy had Egyptian in him), but beer-can pyramid building was only the first step toward admittance into preschool back in the days of his ancestors.

And you’ve probably heard a thing or two about Catholics being particularly fond of beer. This is true, but much like their Egyptian counterparts, their fondness has waned. Used to be that Catholics would canonize people for beer. Nowadays you have to do things like “minister to the poor, sick, orphaned and dying.” And even that only gets you ¾’s of the way there.

But to be fair, passion for beer has waned among all religious groups and ethnicities. How could it not? Shortly after beer was discovered, people’s passion for it could only go down. Consider the fact that upon learning of the process for making beer, early man pretty much changed his entire way of life. He didn’t merely spend his nights and weekends drinking it, he didn’t suddenly have something cool to give his friends for their birthdays and hut-warming parties, and he didn’t just have something besides his own urine to drink. Well, he did. But he had so much more than that. As this quote from anthropologist Alan Eames points out, courtesy of Beer100.com, "beer was the driving force that led nomadic mankind into village life...It was this appetite for beer-making material that led to crop cultivation, permanent settlement and agriculture."

The Discovery Channel even devoted a documentary to that very topic. And not only did beer farming prompt man to stop gathering berries and hunting more advanced species, but the documentary goes into how his passion for beer pretty much led to reading, writing and arithmetic. No joke. (You’ll have to watch for a few minutes, but it’s worth it.) Today, when people change their way of life for beer, they usually end up flunking out of school or losing their job, their relationships and everything in their savings account. Yay alcoholism!

But the most telling evidence that we’re not so gung ho over beer anymore is that we don’t do morally abhorrent things in the name of it. Not like we used to, anyway. Oh sure, people may steal it from time to time, and they may do terrible things after drinking beer, but we rarely see others killed over beer. If you long for the days when you could have seen people killed for stealing beer or even the crops used to make beer, you would have enjoyed living under King Wenceslaus (around 900 A.D.), who had people killed for stealing hops. Were theses maniacal orders of a king who became drunk (pun intended) with power and no longer cared for those he ruled for? Probably not. I imagine he was always a fan favorite, given that he would go on to be canonized.

Then there was the Code of Hammurabi. Hammurabi was the King of Babylon during the 18th century B.C. Remember how I wrote earlier that the Babylonians may not have valued beer as much as the Egyptians? Well if you wanted to disagree, you could certainly point to Hammurabi’s Code, part of which stated that owners of beer parlors would be drowned for overcharging. The SOB didn’t order death just to those who stole the shit, he ordered death to those who charged too much! I’m looking at you, every pro sports owner in America.

And I’m sure we’ve all had the misfortune of being around beer that’s gone bad. It’s usually due to negligent behavior of another person (or maybe yourself). Have you then felt obligated to give that person crap for leaving beer out for too long and thereby causing its skunkiness? That’s what you do, right? You give that person crap. Not literally, I hope. You tease them, you belittle them, you shame them for letting good beer go bad. You let them know they’ve ruined everybody’s evening, but all in good fun. You ultimately, unless it happens a second time, remain friends with that person.

Well, if that person lived in the 1500s, and was a woman, they would have been tied to a stake and used for kindling. Actually, if that woman had nothing to do with the beer going bad, but was simply close by when the bad beer was discovered, she would be sent up in flames. ACTUALLY, even when no one was at fault, which was most likely all the time, mob mentality would still find someone, nay, a woman, nay, a “beer witch” to blame.

You see, beer went bad constantly back then because all the processes we know today to keep beer fresh – dark storage, refrigeration, pasteurization – either weren’t as well known or as widely practiced. And when the skunky beer was discovered, the villagers hunted down the beer witch, yelled “Bonfire!” and got out their S’mores. You might be saying, “Yeah, but back then a woman was believed to be a witch if she produced an inaudible fart. They burned so-called ‘witches’ for everything.” True, but that’s still some serious hatin’ for a bad batch of brew.

Thankfully we don’t act so violently today when beer goes bad, but it’s possible we’ve gone too far in the other direction when it comes to impure beer. Everyone knows that criminals, or in this case heroes, bootlegged beer during Prohibition. Now that’s an example of some serious passion for beer during the last century. However, bootlegged beer was “often watered down to increase profits,” (did I say heroes? I meant assholes) and this watered down, tampered with, “light” version is what Americans came to prefer. That’s right. All that light beer we consume, that we choose over the real thing, started because of what we became accustomed to back when hoodlums were ripping us off. Not only did we tolerate it, but we enjoyed it and continue to enjoy it today. Granted, there weren’t many options during Prohibition, but there certainly are today.

So save your stories about the number of consecutive St. Patrick’s Days you’ve passed out in the gutter for your nieces and nephews. Kill a beer witch and then I’ll believe that you know how to enjoy a cold one.