Should Have Gotten an A

In keeping with the spirit of the season, I thought I might share one of my old term papers from college that I dug up over the weekend. It’s from my Philosophy class, when we were asked to research the life of a saint. Below is my final draft. The grade I received is not important.

Nicholas’ childhood was in many ways reflective of his adult life, but in many ways quite different. Nicholas was born in what is now known as Death Valley, California to very loving parents who provided a modest lifestyle for themselves and their son. His father was a cobbler, while his mother ran a daycare that catered exclusively to midgets.

Growing up without any brothers or sisters, the midget children often served as Nicholas’ playmates. As he grew older, he often got them to do his chores by compensating them with the allowance money he earned for supposedly doing the chores himself.

In school, he was a very good student, but not very social; preferring on most occasions to concentrate on his studies rather than engage in extracurricular activities. Try as he might, his father could not persuade him to play any sports, but he frequently found young Nicholas timing himself as he climbed in and out of the windows to the family home. The boy would climb through a window as quickly as possible, then repeatedly try to break his own record.

“You’re a strange kid,” his father often remarked.

Nicholas was a very obedient son, rarely getting into trouble, and he grew to enjoy the company of the midget children for more than just their agreeable nature and strong work ethic. Other than delegating the responsibilities of his weekly chores, the only time his parents could recall him acting out was as a teenager, when he complained of the heat.

“Do you have any idea how #*&@ing hot it is here?” Nicholas would ask.

“Are you hot? I never really notice the heat,” his mom would say.

After graduating high school, Nicholas decided to change the circumstances of his environment and attend college up north. He received a full academic scholarship to Harvard, but turned it down to instead attend the University of Vermont. He preferred Vermont because of its higher ranking on the Princeton Review’s list of Top 100 “Party Schools.”

He could feel his social shell chipping away. He didn’t want his college career to be just about studying. He felt he needed to meet people and let his hair down once in a while. A lifetime spent in the desert will do that to a person.

Upon arriving on campus, he was an instant hit. Classes were a breeze, which left plenty of time to attend parties and enjoy a beverage or two. And enjoy them he did. While many of his classmates fell into the trap of packing on the “Freshman 15,” Nicholas out did them all and quickly added the “Freshman 35” to his once wiry frame.

It was during this time that the newfound heavyweight let his devilish side come out. He loved to take his friends out to the local pubs, order a few rounds, and then slyly ask every co-ed that walked by, “So, have you been a good girl this year?”

But besides his fun-loving wild side, Nicholas was also popular for his gullible nature, and willingness to please. Perhaps feeling the need to make up for all the chores he didn’t really do, he frequently offered to write all of his friends’ papers, and managed to earn very good grades for each of them. His academic legend only grew once his peers learned that he always waited until the last minute to start each assignment, regularly finishing two dozen term papers in a single night.

While he enjoyed impressing his classmates, Nicholas eventually became bored with school and suspected he didn’t have many real friends. His suspicions were confirmed when the knocks on his door stopped after he refused to do anyone else’s homework. It was at this time, midway through his junior year, that he discovered the co-op program offered by the university and jumped at an opportunity to work in Norway with a reindeer breeder.

Nicholas soon found Norway’s climate to be even more to his liking than Vermont’s. He also discovered that reindeer can do some things he never dreamed possible.

He enjoyed working on the farm and spending time with the farmer and his family, particularly his daughter, who was in the same year of school as Nicholas. The work was much different than his studies, and it didn’t come as easy to him, but he still felt at peace there. He felt like he was home.

But despite his new surroundings and responsibilities, Nicholas’ fiendish side never really left him. Upon seeing published reports of a new American invention that was getting world-wide attention, he couldn’t help but taunt the two brothers responsible from clear across the ocean. He sent many a letter to North Carolina that went something like this:

Dear Orville and Wilbur,

Congratulations! I hear that you managed to keep your “flying machine” airborne for up to 100 feet. Sounds like you boys will be zipping around the world in no time flat. Ha ha! Losers.

Sincerely,

Nick Claus

After a few months, he also sent a letter to his parents telling them he would not be returning to school. In it, he described finding what he was meant to do, and how he had fallen in love. Despite his good fortune, the fact that he would not be finishing school did not sit well with his father.

“I told you we should have raised him Jewish,” he exclaimed to his wife.

For years the elder Claus repeated this sentiment whenever the subject came up. Nevertheless, Nicholas soon married the farmer’s daughter, Conchita, and they made plans to start a life of their own together.

Being that they were both social misfits, the newlyweds didn’t feel the need to live in a big city or bustling suburb. So, coupled with its virtually non-existent tax laws, the North Pole seemed like an inviting place to settle down. With the few dozen reindeer that her father had given them as a wedding present, Conchita and Nicholas packed their things and made the top of the world their ultimate destination.

Once they settled in, the Clauses found their new home much to their liking. Mrs. Claus took up baking and, thanks to her husband’s insistence, started a daycare that was eerily similar to the one Nicholas’ mother ran when he was a child. A few years later, Nicholas began to oversee a highly successful toy manufacturing operation. Following the ambition he discovered after leaving school, he went on to engage in unprecedented world-wide philanthropy. It was his devotion to giving year after year that earned him his sainthood.

He was lucky enough to earn the honor while still alive, yet the matter of his current existence has been a hotly debated topic. Despite no real evidence indicating his death, and the fact that his number of reported sightings is even greater than that of Elvis, many people question whether Nicholas was ever born. The sheer physics required to achieve his generous feats is often sighted as the reason why his existence must be fabricated. But to this day his story lives on. As do his appearances at the mall.

He typically limits public visits to this time of the year, due to the ever-growing media scrutiny, but he’s out there. So if you see him, be sure to wish him and Conchita a Merry Christmas. And a Happy Hanukkah.

Looking For Bling in All the Wrong Places

By virtually all accounts money is hard to come by these days. People are losing money on home sales, stores don’t have any due to lagging retail numbers, and penny pinching will only increase as job losses continue to soar.

The sob story of this past week bordered on the surreal as we learned that Wall Street guru Bernie Madoff lost $50 billion of other people’s money. (The stress must have done something to Madoff’s brain because the New York Times reported that days before being arrested, he actually invited two senior employees to his home to tell them his business was all a big scam.)

Let’s not forget that governors are trying to sell vacated Senate seats, and auto makers and giant lending institutions are asking for loans from Congress. Which, when you think about it, is absurd because Congress will only pull the funds from the public and, as mentioned earlier, the public doesn’t have any money, indicated by slipping home values, lagging retail sales and mounting job losses.

It’s getting so bad that a guy can’t even rob a pro shop with underwear on his head anymore.

But believe it or not, there’s someone these people could have turned to - a group that could have helped them all, if they had just thought to ask.

The New York Yankees.

In the midst of this economic black hole, the Yankees are, to use a term that’s well out of my 30-ish white guy vernacular, “making it rain.” Six hundred million-dollar contracts are being handed out to every free agent on the market, including to those that don’t even play baseball.

Instead of wasting their time in front of Congress, the big three automakers should have asked for a few billion from the Steinbrenners. Then in exchange, each company could have offered the team one of its automobiles and the Yankees could have been the first organization to welcome back the bullpen car.

If the governor of Illinois was so hard up for some dough, I’m sure the Yankees could have slipped him some under the table and then have taken control of the vacant Senate seat. Once in power they could permanently designate the Cubs as their Double A affiliate.

And Madoff could have benefited the most of all of them. All he had to do was get in front of the team’s general manager, Brian Cashman, and tell him that with a little money up front, he could create the appearance of magnificent returns without actually producing anything of real value or substance. The next thing you know, Bernie Madoff would have been the new Alex Rodriguez.

If only all these poor saps had realized this before stepping in it so deep. After all, the Yankees love to grant wishes. For the past eight years, they’ve been making dreams come true for everyone who lives outside of New York by not winning the World Series.

Thank you Yankees!

Don't Expect Miracles

I TOLD you it was a holy day!

And apparently, in celebration, people have already begun spreading Christmas cheer.

Hard to Watch? You Aint Lion

If you’re an idiot like me, perhaps you listen to sports talk radio on a regular basis. And if this is the case, you may have heard/been beaten to death with the argument that the NFL should cancel the tradition of having the Detroit Lions play on Thanksgiving. I ask, why not have the NFL cancel the Detroit Lions?

I think the poor people of Detroit have suffered enough. Their three leading job producers – GM, Ford and Chrysler – are suffering horrible revenue losses and are likely to instill massive layoffs; it’s cold year round; their state touches Canada, and the city’s most accomplished athletes play something called hockey.

It just seems cruel that they be subjected to the Lions week after week. At the very least, the NFL should move them to a city that has never had a professional football team. Like Cincinnati.

It’s hard to imagine how a person, in this case owner William Clay Ford, can be allowed to pull in millions of dollars from the city and its citizens while providing a product so putrid. Some would argue he provides no product at all. And Mr. Ford, you can no longer use the excuse, “Hey, Pairs Hilton does it.” Something must change.

The team’s despair has even begun to spread around the league. Instead of rejoicing over the virtually guaranteed win that comes with playing the Lions, other teams no longer want to face them. Many players have said that telling people they beat Detroit is like saying, “I knocked over a fat lady on crutches,” or “I can recite the alphabet faster than my dog.” Congratulations.

So the next time you complain about watching the Lions on Thanksgiving, just remember you could be watching them 16 Sundays a year from September through December. Then say a prayer of thanks that your state doesn’t touch Canada.

Ah, The Good Ol Days

These days the soundtrack that plays in my car is pretty consistent. It usually includes random shouts of the names of everything I pass on the highway, such as, “Bus!” or “Airpwane!” or “Pony!”

My son is at the age where he identifies everything he knows the word for, which, since he’s not quite two years old, is cute. And anyone within ear shot always smiles and heaps praise on him.

“That’s right, that is a tree!”

Before long, almost immediately after hearing the word ‘car’ 150 times on the way to the store, it dawned on me that no one else in my life does this. The habit seems to die out at a relatively young age, which is a shame if you think about it. If everyone continued this practice into adulthood, we’d overhear a lot of things like, “Hair plugs!” or “Boobies!”

Instead, on those occasions when an adult is overheard shouting out the names of everything he or she sees, they’re thought to be drunk or an escapee. Not cute.

The same goes for our eating habits.

While I was out of town last week, my wife told me that our son thoroughly enjoyed the mashed potatoes that he had for dinner. He then reached over to her plate and ate the potatoes she had left. When those were gone, he proceeded to climb on the table and dig into the potato bowl until his lust for potatoes was satisfied. Again, because of his age, everyone at the table laughed and made roughly the same comment, “He must really like mashed potatoes!”

Of course if I tried this at a dinner party, everyone would shudder like the unsuspecting guests in the old sketches with Mr. Peepers from Saturday Night Live.

People always wonder why adults don’t have as much fun and don’t laugh as much as we did when we were kids. And yet, if we try to recapture that innocence, society only looks down on us. When my son is, say, 14, I can’t think of a single place or time when it will be appropriate for me to ask him, “Do you have to go potty?”

I’d look weird, he’d look weird, everyone who claimed to know us would look weird.

And yet, these are the things that make life great – shouting out whatever you want to, eating in an uncivilized manner, and urinating without having to remove your pants. No wonder that growing out of these habits coincides with life becoming less fun.

Thank goodness Thanksgiving is coming up soon and homes all across the country will be filled with the kind of behavior described above, however short lived.

Dawn of a New Day

Stupid Sign, You're Not the Boss of Me

Directly above the scale in my doctor’s office is a nondescript, four-word sign that reads:

Eat Less
Exercise More

Simple enough premise. And perhaps a little pretentious considering the sign never knows who’s reading it at any given time. Nowhere does it say, “If you are more than 30 lbs. overweight,” or “If you are at risk for diabetes,” or “If you get winded tying your shoes.” Instead it prescribes the same regimen to any and all who stand before it.

Eat Less
Exercise More

The nurse taking my weight doesn’t say a word. No comment on whether the number is acceptable, or what I should do before my next visit. No need to; the sign says it all. It practically looms as a wooden, wall-mounted medical expert. One can’t help but feel it’s there to cut the doctor’s work in half, dispensing advice in a sort of drive-thru manner.

“Well, your cholesterol is a little high, but your blood pressure is in check. All in all, things look pretty good. By the way, did you see the sign?” asks the doctor.

“Yes,” I might say.

“Good. Then I think we’re all done here.”

With each visit, I grow increasingly disappointed by my doctor’s decision to display such a sign. In this day and age, it’s just irresponsible. If marketing has taught us anything about health, it’s that if you’re going to “eat less,” you must focus on one item and cut it out of your diet entirely - fat, trans fat, carbs, sugar, salt, red meat, protein, etc. At some point, depending on the latest fad, all of these were acceptable subtractions. To simply “eat less,” however, is rather vague. It doesn’t even answer the question of how many shakes followed by sensible dinners to plan for.

Just as vague and equally unhelpful is the exercise part. How long should I exercise? Seven minutes a day, or eight? Should I enlist the assistance of Chuck Norris, Billy Blanks or Tony Little? How much is too much to pay for a gym membership or the advice of a personal trainer?

Given all the expert nutritional and aerobic information available, this sign has its work cut out for it without the endorsement of Muscle Magazine or the International Diet Institute of South Beach.

I’ve feared for some time now that my physician has let today’s common medical practices pass him by. He’s simply of an older generation that is not up on modern medicine. Who exercises anymore? For that matter, despite all the food fads mentioned earlier, who even diets anymore? Doesn’t weight loss come in pill form now? And eating less while exercising more will only leave me hungry and tired. According to my 18-month-old son, that is not an agreeable condition.

I understand the need for good health, but he should realize what he’s asking. Following this kind of regular routine would require a moderate amount of will power. Even though the sign doesn’t say so, we all know that “eating less” requires eating less things that taste good. No one ever says to cut back on asparagus or eggplant. It’s always cookies and pies and things that make life worth living.

Then there’s exercise, which usually consists of moving followed by sweating. And after enduring a lot of moving and a lot more sweating, I'll be expected to do it all over again a day or so later. Eventually soreness will set in, and maybe even some cramping. Then not only will exercising be painful, but so will all of my other daily activities. As a reward for undergoing all of this, I can treat myself to a nice head of lettuce. Somehow this is supposed to be beneficial?

Frankly, when it comes to what’s best for his patients, I think my doctor has gotten lazy. Guess I could always find a new one. Then again that sounds like a big hassle.

What the Doctor Prescribed

Amidst the presidential election, the fallout of the economy, hurricanes, gas prices, global warming and the return of O.J., the widely-discussed controversy over prescription drugs has recently fallen by the wayside.

By the way, speaking of O.J., there is dumb and then there is “O.J. dumb.” Here’s what I imagine was the last thought running through his head just before he burst into the hotel room in Las Vegas:

“OK Juice, let’s think about this – I’ve been given a pass to live the rest of my life as a free man despite killing two people, so tempting fate by stealing a couple of autographed pictures might not be a good idea. However, surely a jury wouldn’t hold my past crime against me, despite the evidence that there’s no one else on the planet who could have committed those murders, and surely they won’t be bothered by the fact that I’ve spent my free time playing golf and trying to publish books that describe how I committed the crime. I’m completely confident that twelve people could come together and agree to block that out of their heads and focus on this new crime I’m about to commit. Besides, even if they do find me guilty, how much trouble can I get into for kidnapping and armed robbery anyway? I’m gonna do it. I’m O.J. Simpson. I was in Naked Gun, damnit!”

Back to my point – prescription drugs. My wife and I talk regularly about the mass marketing of prescription drugs. Through diligent scientific research (i.e. lazy assumptions), we have concluded that, as a whole, society is probably a little over-medicated.

We try to counterbalance this by not continually driving in and out of pharmacies. For instance, I’m quite sure I have ADD. I would sooner defend O.J. than sit through another Peter Jackson movie. Am I taking anything for it? Nope. Although it’s largely because trained specialists who have spent years studying my behavior (i.e. my wife) typically refer to my condition as “distracted by television.” But whatever. I soldier on.

However, when it comes to being sick, I don’t soldier on and I don’t espouse on the over-medication of society. I want drugs.

Like a couple of weeks ago, when I had a sore throat, severely enflamed tonsils, a non-stop cough, the shakes, a full-body itch, and I was bleeding out of my eyes and ears, I went to see my doctor. Unfortunately, he is a little “old-school” and is against over-medicating his patients during times that I don’t typically agree with – like when I go to see him. Luckily, he did in fact prescribe something for me, but when I told people what it was, the overwhelming response was, “that’s what they give babies.”

This was not encouraging. I am not a baby. Not physically speaking anyway. Well, unless you pinch me really hard. But scientists and anthropologists would not classify someone my size as a baby. OK, maybe I’d qualify as an American-sized baby, but not a Chinese baby or a European baby. The point is, the drug wasn’t strong enough and I was back in his office two weeks later with the same cough.

That surely could have been avoided if my first visit had gone more like I wanted. More like this:

Dr: “So how are you feeling?”

Me: “I think I have a pine cone stuck in my esophagus. What can you give me?”

Dr: “Well, there’s this drug that the FDA has been slow to approve. It’s from Mexico, and it can only be smuggled in under the cover of night. Anyone caught trying to get it across our border will probably spend more time in prison than if they’re caught smuggling heroin. To be honest, it hasn’t even been tested on rats, let alone people.”

Me: “How soon can it get here?”

Dr: “A shipment came in just last night. Now, this is the part of your visit when I always remind you that I’ve only completed the first two years of medical school, so I can’t legally prescribe this to...”

Me: (interrupting) “I’m cool if you are.”

Dr: “Great.”

Look, it’s probably not best for people to take a lot of crap that isn’t completely necessary, but there are times when some hard-core drugs are necessary.

Last year, I had a staph infection in my finger. I didn’t know what it was, but my finger swelled up and turned unusual colors, so I went to an emergency care center. I thought about seeing my regular doctor instead, but not only would I have had to wait for an appointment, I also worried that he would look at it and say, “Go home and dip your finger in a warm cup of tea. With lemon – that part is important. While you’re doing this, be sure to think happy thoughts. It should clear up in 2-3 weeks.”

The emergency care physician did not prescribe tea. He prescribed the good stuff and, sure enough, it cleared up in 2-3 days. Not weeks.

Why is all this important? Because you need to talk to your kids about drugs. Tell them to take something strong and quit coughing on me. Little twerps.

ECON S.O.S.

Regular readers of this site (which currently totals -3 people) know that this is the place to turn for updates on less-prominent news events. If a story was barely covered or even completely ignored by the mainstream media, existing only in the far reaches of cyberspace or sparsely-read no-name newspapers, you will find it here. But only if I have time to find these stories after reporting even more obscure oddities I dig up on my own.

This week is no different. Most of you, no doubt, are completely unaware that the economy is in a downturn. Actually, it’s worse than a downturn. You probably didn’t know that the President went on national television recently to explain how bad it is, saying the U.S. economy is “in the shitter.” Of course, being the President, and being on national television, he didn’t use those exact words. He had the tact and decency to say the U.S. economy is “in the crapper.”

Apparently our economy has committed such an indefensible crime, that the government is required to post a $700 billion “bailout” to get it out of trouble. I’m not sure what kind of underhanded activity constitutes setting bail at $700 billion, but it must have been pretty bad. Public intoxication? Lewd and obscene behavior? Sexual harassment? Jaywalking with your dog off a leash and not picking up its poop?

Our economy must have done all these things simultaneously. Shame on you, economy.

Now the select few that are following this situation are asking, “Should the government bail out the economy?” or “Should they leave it in lockup so it’ll learn its lesson and realize it needs to quit drinking, get off the coke, dump its loser friends, take responsibility of its kids, start respecting the elderly, get a haircut, a nice suit and a steady job?”

The people that support the ‘tough love’ strategy continue to point out an interview the economy gave to the New York Times, before the bottom fell out, where it called Britney Spears a “light weight” and a “line toter.” Ouch.

Naturally no one can agree on what to do or how we got here. Everyone is to blame, from Republicans to Democrats to Independents to the credit lenders to the mortgage institutions to the media to immigrants to Starbucks to Raiders’ owner Al Davis.

And the uncertainty of the future is the most frightening part. Will we all lose our homes? Will we pay $6 a gallon for gas? Are the Mets afraid the playoffs will give them cooties?

I’m not too scared of being impacted personally, but I can’t dismiss the danger altogether. I know from recent experience, for instance, that if the government orders my power turned off, I will not hold up psychologically for more than 2-3 days. Without television, the thought of once again being forced to read or, worse yet, interact with my family is too much to bear.

So let’s hope and pray it doesn’t get to that point. Hang in there, economy. We’re all pulling for you.

Feeling Powerless

Apparently all of my Jim Cantore taunts toward the hurricanes last week were not appreciated, as one of the storm systems decided to offer a little retribution. Despite being at least a nine-day drive from any ocean, Louisville was hit with some of Hurricane Ike’s wind gusts a day after it made landfall, knocking out trees and most of the city’s power. I am now on hour number 121 without electricity.

This means, like every personal matter I tend to, I typed this at work. Even if I had power, I’d still probably have typed this at work, but only after paying some bills, checking my e-mail, checking my fantasy baseball stats, napping, shaving and doing some laundry.

The point is, even if I wanted to do all of those things at home, I couldn’t (except for napping). And it’s not looking like I’ll be able to anytime soon. Local news outlets are reporting that power is slowly being restored by LG&E, which, for those of you who don’t live in this area, stands for “Oh Is Your Power Out? Sucks To Be You.”

When it became apparent that this was not for the short term, I tried telling myself that not having power would be fun because it would be like camping. Then I remembered that camping sucks. Know why? No electricity.

And sleeping indoors without power is even worse than sleeping outdoors because at least while you’re outdoors, you don’t have electricity cruelly taunting you with its nearby light switches, televisions and refrigerators. After five power-free days, I still instinctively flip on the light switch every time I walk into a room, only to hear the switch laugh at me.

“Bwaa Ha Ha Haaaa! Silly human and your light-bulb dependencies,” it mutters mockingly.

But with little else to complain about, and knowing things could be a lot worse, the family and I have made the best of the situation. Without the luxury of TV or the Internet, the creative juices have kicked in and pulled out some exciting new ways to pass the time. For the first three days, we all played a game that I came up with called “Stare at the Living Room Wall.” After mastering that in every way possible, we then hatched a game called “Stare at the Kitchen Wall.”

I’ve tried to explain to my 18-month-old son that this is the way people lived way back when, like during the ‘60s. I don’t think he fully comprehends what’s going on because he usually responds by saying, “crackers” or “pee-pee.” Naturally he’s adjusted much better than my wife and I.

On the flip side, we’ve maintained much better spirits than our neighbors who have power and went less than 24 hours before it came back on. Despite their good fortune, they were shockingly rude and even violent two days ago when we simply stood outside their window and gazed longingly at their TV set. I tried to explain that they didn’t even notice we were there for the first hour, so what was the big deal, but that only bothered them more. So much for being neighborly.

That’s okay, though. We’re gettin’ by. The bathroom wall is just begging to be stared at.

Storm Chaser or Runner Fromer?

Given my excitement for hurricane coverage, the following paragraph from a CNN.com article today caught my attention:

At least one man this week steered his Chevy Tahoe against the stream of traffic, toward the wind-whipped coastline and the target of the storm’s fury.

Believe it or not, the person referenced in the story is not Jim Cantore. Upon further reading, though, it becomes apparent that this man, if you can call him that, is no threat to taking Cantore’s title of Hurricane Ass Kicker. Instead, after overreacting to getting caught in a mild rainstorm a few years ago, this guy merely drives to the expected destination of a hurricane’s arrival, sets up cameras, and then flees like a toddler running from the boogey man.

Click the link above to read the full story, which goes into detail about what he tries to capture with his cameras. Afterward, you might find yourself calling the guy “innovative.” I still call him “wimp.”

Show Me What You Got

This past weekend, like a lot of people, I nervously watched Hurricane Gustav approach New Orleans, hoping and praying against the unusually cruel fate of a city being decimated by two major hurricanes in three years. As the storm dropped from a category 3 to a category 2 just before it hit the coastline, and then to a category 1 as it passed over Louisiana, like a lot of people, I breathed a sigh of relief. Besides seeing that the storm wasn’t nearly as destructive as Hurricane Katrina, I knew that whatever damage the city did sustain, it’d be in much better hands this year given that those running FEMA back in 2005 are now in charge of maintenance at my condo complex.

Even as the drama lessened, however, I couldn’t help but keep watching – partly to be sure the storm wouldn’t suddenly pick up in intensity, but also because, I hate to admit, the media’s coverage of approaching hurricanes is wildly entertaining.

Gone are the days of the rookie weatherman clinging to a tree while the tenured studio reporter, say Ted Koppel, wished him good luck in riding out the storm. Koppel, for instance, didn’t dream of doing on-the-spot hurricane coverage given the worst case scenario was that he wouldn’t make it back, and the best case scenario was that his hair wouldn’t. Now, all the well-recognized, well-compensated reporters stand on the shorelines doing their imitation of Lieutenant Dan on the shrimp boat in Forest Gump.

I first noticed the trend a few years ago, before Katrina’s far-reaching impact, when Florida was hit by 2-3 relatively mild hurricanes/tropical storms within the span of a few weeks. The high-profile reporters from the 24-hour news networks, the major nightly news networks and, of course, the Weather Channel were all over it. Or should I say in it.

Believing that somehow a microphone and a company-issued rain slick were all they needed to protect themselves from the elements, reporters from numerous stations would stand underneath stop lights that were spinning out of control while saying things like, “Local authorities are urging people to stay in their homes and away from downed power lines.” Others stood on the beach, surrounded by massive amounts of electrical equipment, and said, “As you can see behind me, some folks are ignoring the dangers of the storm and are venturing outdoors. They’re really taking a chance by not seeking shelter. I mean, some of these people don’t even have rain slicks.”

During that same season, while hundreds of cars drove away from town on the street behind her, one female reporter was visibly annoyed to announce that the hurricane she was covering had slowed down and would be delayed in coming ashore. Later, another meterologist sustained a storm-related injury while off the air, but once the cameras were rolling again, she acted like she caught the Super Bowl-winning touchdown.

“Catherine, is everything alright?” asked the anchorman.

“Hell yes! I just got hit by debris! I’m going to Disney World!”

But the main attraction was and always will be Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel. This weatherman/fullback/hurricane pugilist has devoted his life to covering hurricanes, at least those that still have the guts to come ashore after seeing him stand in their path. I actually didn’t see Cantore much during the Gustav coverage, but that’s probably because he doesn’t waste his time with anything less than a category four. During those times when Cantore does get the itch to see what a hurricane is made of, he’s been seen leaving a boring, weakly-pounded section of beach to find a stronger stretch of the storm. Luckily, he keeps the cameras rolling while en route, and even ups the ante by riding in the back of a pickup truck and delivering his report the whole way. That’s right, when the 80-90 mph winds aren’t enough, he creates more wind – if not for everyone else, then at least for himself. I imagine that once the cameras are turned off he can be seen mooning approaching tropical depressions.

Forecasters are extremely valuable in letting us know when we can expect storms to hit. But by the time hurricanes reach land, the locals have ceased watching TV and hopefully are no longer in town or are hiding in their homes or shelters. Standing on the beach or under a whirling stop light as the eye passes through is obviously meant to entertain those of us farther inland who are still watching TV.

For this I say, "Job well done, weather people. Job well done."

Bueller? Bueller?

At this point in the year, in most parts of the country, households are buzzing because, as Target has repeatedly reminded us, it’s "Back to School" time. Everyone gets excited around "Back to School" time. Everyone except of course the teachers and the students. So I thought I might take this opportunity to offer eight simple words of encouragement to all the kids (and teachers) heading back to school, and the parents and bus drivers taking them there: Get off the road, you’re making me late.

Ok, so I guess I lied about the teachers and the students being the only people who aren’t excited (But I wasn’t lying about them gunking up the road. That came from the heart.). Really, who does get excited about going back to school? The roads are clogged, the stores are more crowded, grown men and women have to wait for a single week in April before taking their next vacation, etc.

Oh sure, some people really do look forward to it. High school football coaches can once again feel important, even while warping young people’s understanding of geography and American history.

For parents of young kids, it reduces (and in some cases eliminates) the cost of daycare. That is if your kids are in public school, which my son certainly will be, judging by his early fascination with the toilet plunger. But even so, for parents it still means nights spent helping with homework. Of course I won’t have to worry about that. My kids will surely ask my wife to help them in that matter, as her college aptitude scores (ACT, SAT) make mine look like I left halfway through the exams. But this means I’ll be left to prepare my own dinner and perhaps even, if I’m thinking about it, dinner for the rest of the family. Oh the injustice.

And let’s not forget the school plays, recitals, sporting events, band concerts, dances, fall festivals and parent-teacher conferences. To top it off, we'll be expected to show up for a lot of these events.

Granted, all of this is still a few years down the road for my wife and I. But even now, as I’m years removed from my own No. 2 pencil days, I can’t help but feel bad for all those impressionable minds trudging through the halls wondering what they should do with their lives. And I feel sorry for the students as well. Day after day of hot, cramped, neck-snapping bus rides, school-issued lunches, the fear that comes with entering the great unknown that is the gym locker room. For boys, entering the gym locker room is like watching a Mike Tyson fight: you have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen.

Although perhaps my worries are completely misplaced. After all, if I asked the average school-aged kid, “How was gym today?” I’d probably get a response like, “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

So whatever the case may be, good luck to all the students and teachers out there. Just stay off the road.

Add a Dash of Nuclear Submarine Blueprints

In a week in which Norway knighted a penguin and giant inflatable poop wreaked (or is it ‘reeked’) havoc in Switzerland, the most surprising story had to be last week’s announcement that iconic chef Julia Child served in an American spy ring during World War II. What’s surprising is not that she served as a spy, but that the United States finally admitted what the rest of us already knew. I guess all those letters I wrote to the government warning about the dangers of Paula Deen weren’t so “bizarre and borderline depraved” after all, were they, Senator?

Let’s face it, aside from Ms. Child being a tad masculine, she was also a chef. And chefs have doubled as secret agents for decades. This only enhances my belief that the culinary 007 sent to destroy the U.S. is none other than Deen - the sweet, sassy “Southerner” who’s known for using only three key ingredients in each of her dishes: sugar, butter and lard (I put Southerner in quotes because her accent suggests that she’s really a native of Iceland. Or maybe Denmark. They train for years to disguise that kind of thing).

On her popular show on the Food Network, Deen is often found using the above-mentioned items to whip up anything from bundt cakes to celery sticks. Her down-home ways and disarming charm lure viewers in, rendering them helpless. She then creates meals that look so outlandishly delicious, people cannot help but make them for themselves, enjoying every last bite until their arteries clog like concrete through a garden hose and their hearts explode out of their chests. It’s similar to the way we would employ Ms. Child against the Germans, only instead of clogging their arteries, enemy viewers would often do themselves in by ramming skewers into their ears after hearing her speak.

For proof of her scheme, one need not look any further than the episode in which Deen makes bread pudding. In it, she actually diverts from her normal routine by not adding any extra sugar to her recipe, but that’s hardly surprising considering the main ingredients in her version of bread pudding are, and I’m not making this up, 12 glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

For those who aren’t familiar with bread pudding, it’s a very rich, very creamy, very sweet dessert, even on those rare occasions when, instead of doughnuts, bread is used for the bread portion of the recipe. Using a dozen glazed doughnuts in bread pudding is like saying, “Today I’m going to show you how to make Chicago-style pepperoni pizza, only instead of using dough for the crust, I’m going to use bacon.”

As one who has enjoyed many a Krispy Kreme doughnut, I can tell you this is both a brilliant and deadly ploy. Her methods should not be taken lightly. Deen has quickly grown a small empire, with restaurants popping up around her base of operations in Savannah, Georgia and other cities in southern portions of the country. She has two sons who operate restaurants as well.

Beware, citizens. We haven’t faced a threat this serious since France sent over this guy.

Doctors Say Standing Too Close to Torch May Cause 'Olympic Fever'

When I asked my boss if I could travel to Beijing to cover the Olympics, she seemed confused.

“Your job has nothing to do with covering the Olympics or any other athletic event," she said. "It doesn’t even involve reporting of any kind. In fact, this is not a news media outlet.”

"But how will my readers get all the latest on the Olympic competitions?” I asked.

She responded with awkward silence, followed by, “Did you fall down over the weekend?”

No matter. Here I am, bringing you the latest. And there is a lot to report.

For instance, after only two days of competition, U.S. swimmer Michael Phelps has already collected 28 gold medals, cleared China’s air pollution and is on the verge of freeing Tibet. Those last two accomplishments pale in comparison to the degree of difficulty Phelps faced in keeping his medal hunt alive by helping to win the Men’s 4x100 meter relay yesterday.

Believe it or not, the U.S. was not favored to win the event, but the team got a boost just before the race by learning that the final leg of the relay would be swum by none other than Brett Favre. Just four days after signing with the New York Jets, Favre was allowed to leave training camp to represent his country.

In the press conference following the relay, Favre’s one and only statement on winning a gold medal sounded eerily similar to his press conference upon arriving in New York to take over the Jets quarterback position.

“I’m just glad they gave me a chance to play,” he said of his Olympic teammates.

In similar news, both presidential candidates Barack Obama and John McCain said they would consider either Favre or Phelps as their vice presidential nominee.

“It’s a tough choice,” Obama said. “Favre has the stubble, but Phelps has the abs.”

When asked if Favre’s commitment to play Batman in the next Batman movie would hurt his chances as a VP nominee, Obama responded by saying, “Certainly Brett’s time constraints due to his prior obligations will play a role in determining if he can best serve the duties of the office, but let’s get one thing clear - he is not playing Batman in some movie. He will be performing the actual duties of Batman for the citizens of this country and every country around the world.”

McCain also weighed in with either athlete’s chances on securing the nomination.

“Given that there’s a good chance I will check out to the big retirement community in the sky before the end of my term, I need to pick a VP that the public feels confident can run the country. Therefore, I think I should let the American people choose whether Michael or Brett will be my vice-presidential pick by having them vote for one or the other on ‘American Idol,’” McCain said.

When reminded that the election will take place in the fall, before the next season of ‘American Idol,’ McCain said, “Really? The election is this year?”

He then laid his head down on the podium and appeared to take a brief nap before his publicist helped him off the stage.

In other Olympic news, Germany has won something, China has won something and Australia has offered to buy Lithuania’s medals, should they win any. Stay tuned.

I Can't Believe (Cough! Cough!) I Won Gold!

I don’t know how closely you follow international news, but you may have heard recently that China has come under scrutiny for having environmental standards that are, shall we say, less than habitable. Within the past year, China has been found to fill its food with cardboard, coat its toys in lead paint, and pump the ashes of dead Pandas into its atmosphere.

I don’t have a link for that last one, but I’m sure it’s true. NBC Nightly News has in fact featured a story on China’s poor air quality for 118 (give or take 3) consecutive days.

Fortunately, at no time in the near future will hundreds of countries around the world send their finest athletes to China for more than two weeks to compete in intense athletic competitions while eating that nation’s poisoned food, breathing its poisoned air and playing with its poisoned toys.

Wait a sec. What?

Oh, right. The Olympics. Is that this year?

Hmmmm.

Well I’m sure everything will be fine.

But what kind of advantage does this pose for the Chinese athletes? It’s been widely reported that many American athletes are training here in the U.S. and waiting to arrive in China until after the Olympics are over. Meanwhile, the Chinese athletes have been not only training, but living in this chimney-like atmosphere for decades. Surely they’ve become accustomed to it, thereby building up a necessary tolerance, right? So when it comes time to run the 10,000 meter distance race, the rest of the world’s track stars will feel like they’re camping on the ledge of an erupting volcano, while the Chinese athletes will merely feel like they’ve been smoking a pack of menthol cigarettes.

And don’t forget, the Chinese have always been adventurous eaters (which is why they're always walking into the Veterinary Clinic without taking any animals in with them). They’re used to egg rolls, General Tso and that crappy soft-serve yogurt that is somehow simultaneously runny and full of ice crystals.

Then again, maybe years of exposure to this type of environment will catch up to all of them as they’re pushing their bodies to extreme limits. Maybe in the middle of a relay, the Chinese athletes will double over like they’ve just seen John Daly play a round of shirtless golf.

Who knows? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see. But we might want to send Daly over there just in case.

Do We Look Like That?

As a parent of a small child, I hope to never become a parent of a small child. Since that sounds a little confusing, I’ll explain. I’m not saying that I don’t want to go through parenting a second time. And I certainly don’t regret having the first one. What I mean is that I hope to never sound or act like the parent of a small child. At least not the ones I encountered at the zoo during the “special” visit by Dora the Explorer.

Good God.

A couple of weeks ago my wife, my young son and I ventured to the zoo, completely unaware that this cartoon-character-come-to-life would be there, and even more unaware that every parent in the tri-state area was descending upon the zoo to see this traveling mecca of entertainment. If only these parents could have seen themselves.

Now, it wasn’t like a scene at the mall the day after Thanksgiving. Everyone was very civil. It was more like a scene of once normal, well-adjusted adults who have morphed into mobile nurseries that live only to serve their midget-sized offspring. And most were completely unaware that other people were at the zoo and that these people could see them.

For example: I was standing in line at a concession stand behind two dads and their corresponding set of kids, I’d say ages 5-7, and upon reaching the front of the line, both dads tried asking their kids what they wanted to eat. The kids, however, were more interested in running around and acting silly (like kids do). So the dads asked again. And then again. And continued asking. Meanwhile, the line had grown quite large.

Keep in mind I’m at a concession stand that sells pizza, giant pretzels and hot dogs. To a seven year old, there is no wrong answer. Yet the dads were intent on getting this right, no matter how long it took. Call me crazy, but I saw this as an opportunity for them to teach their kids a valuable lesson. They could have decided what each kid was going to eat, ordered the food, and if one or more of the kids wasn’t happy with what they ended up with, that’s when the parent says…(can you guess?)…(it’s a word I heard many times growing up)…(here it comes)… “tough.”

Again, this wasn’t a French restaurant, so the risk wasn’t very high that the kids would be disappointed. But if one of them was unhappy, impart the lesson: “Instead of listening to me when I asked you what you wanted, you chose to goof off, so I had to order for you. So, you can either eat what I ordered you, or when we continue our tour of the animals, I can push you over the ledge of the grizzly bear exhibit. Your call.”

After finally getting my bottled water (always worth the wait), I saw an example of a woman who is slowly losing her own identity. As we sat at a playground, this mom was significantly happier than her kids to see the approaching show. While her kids played on the swings, she intermittently broke from her conversation with another adult to yell things like, “Dora, kids! Dora! Are you excited?!” Sadly this was not a case of a mother trying to round up her kids by feigning excitement (which parents are known to do). She was expressing general enthusiasm. I was close enough to the playground to hear this actual conversation:

KID 1: “Is that your mom?”

KID 2: “Yeah.”

KID 1: “She’s really hyped for this Dora the Explorer show.”

KID 2: “Yeah, and she doesn’t even realize I stopped playing with that crap two years ago.”

KID 1: “Wow.”

KID 2: “I’ve asked her to get help. She just holds her hands over her ears and sings the show’s theme song.”

KID 1: “Yikes.”

KID 2: “Can I go home with you?”

And parents of small children can be seen coming from hundreds of yards away. They look like a whirling dervish of chaos. The image reminds me of the giant hamster balls on the old American Gladiators, whereby the parents are the gladiators making the hamster ball roll, and in this instance the ball has strollers, diaper bags and noisy kids covered in jelly stuck to the outside of it. The only thing missing is a flashing sign on top of the ball that reads, “Here we come. Leave now or you’ll never escape.”

Of course my wife is far less concerned with morphing into this spectacle. While I was envisioning the hamster ball, she was making comments like, “Look at their stroller, that is badass. It’s so maneuverable and has a huge sun shade. That’s what we’ll need when we have two (kids).”

Sigh. I just hope it doesn’t get to the point that people start hiring clowns to follow them everywhere they go.

DAD: “I’ll have the pasta alfredo and my wife will have the chicken salad.”

WAITER: “Anything for your friend?”

DAD: “Oh, you mean Sprinkles? I don’t know. Sprinkles, do you want anything?”

SPRINKLES: “Nah. While the kid’s asleep, I’m gonna go out and have a cigarette.”

DAD: “Ok, but hurry it up. If he wakes up and starts fussing, I want your ass back in here puttin’ on a show.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love to see my son happy and I’m sure I often look ridiculous. I already do something I swore I’d never do whenever someone approaches and smiles at my kid – “Can you say hi to the nice lady? Can you say hi? You say hi at home. Say hi.”

(My son, of course, is imminently smarter than I am because he knows that in 2-3 years we’ll have the conversation about how he should never talk to strangers, despite my efforts to get him to do so at the age of 16 months.)

I just don’t want to be the dad who is so obnoxious in public that he might as well yell out, “Hey everyone, look at my son! Look at the way he watches the monkeys! Isn’t he cute? He’s a genius too. One day he’ll buy and sell every one of you. Look how he laughs at the monkeys! He's adorable!”

So if you see me acting this way in public, or if you see someone who you think is me, feel free to smack me (or him) around until I (he) come(s) to my (his) senses. I promise to do the same for you.

The Well is Dry

Ok, I know this blog hasn't been updated in two weeks, but I don't know what to tell ya.

Here, what do you think of this - It seems Madonna is in the news again, breaking up the marriage of a famous athlete and making a lot of people unhappy with the release of her new toy.

That's it. That's all I got. Keep checking back in case Peter Cetera models a doll after himself.

It's Not Tea, But it Sounds Like Jolly Good Fun

Well, as you may have heard, the Fourth of July is upon us – a holiday in which most of us celebrate our independence either by seriously injuring ourselves while improperly discharging fireworks, or by watching Will Smith movies. Then again, I’m sure at some point, somewhere, hundreds of people in a cramped theater have seriously injured themselves while watching a Will Smith movie.

This second, and more recent tradition started back in the mid ‘90s when a Will Smith movie in which he battles aliens premiered on the day that shares its name with the title of the film: The Legend of Bagger Vance. In it, Bill Pullman plays the president, Will Smith plays Muhammad Ali, and Tommy Lee Jones plays a space alien who spends the majority of the movie looking for Harrison Ford. Frankly, the film had too many plot twists for my taste.

Fortunately there are other ways to enjoy the holiday. For instance, many people will spend the day taking in a baseball game, unless of course those people are Pittsburgh Pirates fans. Those people will more likely spend the day seriously injuring themselves. Not necessarily with fireworks, but by any means possible.

The Fourth of July is also a popular time to barbecue. Americans pride ourselves on the ability to cook almost anything over an open flame: hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks, chicken, fish, bratwursts, pork chops, prime ribs, shiskabobs, smores, Will Smith albums, etc…

Unfortunately, all of this fun in the name of our independence eventually started rubbing England the wrong way. To squelch some of our merriment and deliver a little retribution for fleeing their iron hand, the Brits created something known as Wimbledon. For those who prefer to watch more popular sports such as backgammon or monkeys driving soapbox cars, Wimbledon is an event in which athletes are not only subjected to playing tennis, but they’re forced to travel to England to do it.

The Brits don’t fare particularly well during this tournament, but they’re happy simply watching American athletes, the men anyway, humiliate themselves on their courts. Thankfully, the Williams sisters have represented American female tennis very well at Wimbledon over the last decade. The men, however, are another story. For a while, we were quite proud, thanks to Pete Sampras, who won 42 consecutive men’s Wimbledon titles. Even England didn’t mind Pete’s domination, mainly because they thought he was British, due to his personality. (It was often said that Pete was as lively as a mannequin on sedatives.) After discovering he was in fact American, Pete was banned from Wimbledon and the U.S. men have done poorly ever since.

It’s gotten so bad that Congress has actually drafted a bill to ensure a return to dominance for the U.S. men by making it mandatory that every year we send over Will Smith to compete in the tournament. But even if the bill doesn’t pass, the British can’t dampen our spirits with their Wimbledon and their Pittsburgh Pirates. We’ll always have our fireworks and hot dogs and hero movies and 50% off mattress sales.

So however you choose to celebrate, have a safe and happy Fourth of July.

When It Rains, The Leaks Are a Bit More Noticeable

I hate to do this because I don't want to get in the habit of writing about the mundane annoyances in my life - or continue the habit, I should say - but I have to share a quick story about some minor structural damage to our condo and the surrealness of working with building contractors.

Last fall we noticed during a storm that water was coming in through the top of our door and one of our windows (while you're reading this, please keep in mind how far removed we now are from last fall). After a lot of complaining, wading through red tape, and sitting in on home owner association meetings (which I can now cross off of my "Things To Do Before I Die" list), the manager of our condo's maintenance company finally agreed back in April to fix the problem. The only thing that was holding him up, he said, was all the rain we were getting.

Please feel free to read back over that last paragraph if you missed the irony in the maintenance manager's comment. For those of you who are short on time - the company who receives my $106 check every month for the purposes of exterior upkeep and repairs preferred to wait until it stopped raining before fixing the LEAK over our door.

Now I admit that our situation isn't exactly similar, but after thinking on this a moment, I couldn't help but ask, "Do you think Noah ever said to God 'Look, I'll be happy to build an ark. It's not the time or the materials that bother me. I'm just waiting for all this rain to let up. I mean, have you looked outside lately? Jesus it's really coming down!'"

I don't think he got it. Or maybe he got it and just didn't appreciate my sarcasm. Either way, the leak still isn't fixed.

Flying High

Come with me, if you will, back in time. Back to a period historically referred to as “last week.”

I’m anxiously awaiting to board a plane that will take me home. I’m anxious, in part, because I want to get home, but at this particular moment I’m anxious because I have to board a plane to get there. And it’s a cross-country flight, so I’ll likely be anxious for a few hours.

I’m not an overly worrisome flier – you won’t see me gripping the arms of my seat, taking deep, audible breaths while the person next to me says, “Sir we’re at the airport dropoff. You’ll have to get off the parking tram now” – but I’m as equally excited as the next guy about plummeting 40,000 feet to the ground. Luckily, as I’m trudging down the aisle, some of my worries subside as I realize I once again get to choose among a slew of middle seats scattered throughout the plane. Ahhh, the beauty of flying Southwest, where you’re not just assigned a middle seat, but you get to choose which middle seat you want.

I should take a moment to point out that while Southwest’s unassigned seating practices create potential and, oftentimes, actual bloodshed among passengers, the airline has managed to stay lucrative and avoid the massive employee layoffs affecting a lot of its competitors. The reasons are two-fold: 1) They offer some of the lowest rates in the industry and 2) they have a customer-first business model that enhances the flying experience for their passengers by offering, in terms of perks, absolutely nothing. The cramped spaces, the lack of in-flight movies and the complete absence of food create a level of comfort unmatched in the industry.

And in case you were wondering about food on their flights, here’s the breakdown of what to expect, according to the back of each boarding pass:

For flight times less than 2 hours long: Drinks will be served

For flight times between 2-4 hours long: Snacks will be served

For flight times between 4-10 hours long: Drinks and snacks will be served

For flight times between 10-20 hours long: Drinks and snacks will be served, followed by another round of drinks and snacks

For flight times more than 20 hours long: Look, you’re not getting food, okay? You can bring food onto the plane or nibble on your neighbor. We don’t care. Just don’t ask us for a meal.

Anyway, back to my flight. After our smooth, easy takeoff, I’m reading comfortably and happy to be headed home. All of a sudden, my nerves kick in. Chills shoot down my spine. Something is amiss; something unmistakable in the air. The man in the seat next to me just farted.

As eight other people sit within a 10-foot vicinity of him, this man has no problem introducing his unique aromatic brand to the pressurized air around us. And, acting in a manner that I guess we all would if we committed such an egregious flying taboo, he is chomping away on his non Southwest-issued chicken fajita as if nothing happened.

I suppose that’s his only real option. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s not looking at those of us around him and saying, “My bad. Sorry about that.” He can only hope that everyone will wonder where it came from, but at the same time, he could crinkle his nose and look around as if to say, “Do you smell that? Who would do such a thing?” At least that would show an attempt to pass (pun intended) blame onto someone else.

Oh well. I should probably get back to my book. I’m making too big a deal of it. It is, after all, a perfectly natural bodily… Wait a sec. What the hell? Oh my God, he did it again! Are you kidding me? Dude, get a hold of yourself!

I don’t think this guy knows where he is. And once again, despite looking at him with my jaw dragging across the top of my seat-back tray, his expression doesn’t change. No burying his head out the window, trying desperately to avoid eye contact. No awkward repositioning in his seat. Nothing. I haven’t seen such an unabashed, shame-free display of public flatulence since my one year old ate pizza rolls for dinner.

Mercifully, before the oxygen masks can deploy, the plane soon lands. Not surprisingly, Stinky McToots-A-Ton, who chose a window seat, is now nervously standing and trying to figure out how he can get off the plane as soon as possible. Guess he has some sort of emergency to tend to.

See, Southwest? This is what happens when you let the customer make all the decisions. You get chicken fajita-eating farters taking up the window seats on four-hour flights. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.

Am I Missing Something?

A few head-scratching stories from this week’s print edition of
The Obvious Observer…

Shocking news rang out across the sports world yesterday when overwhelming Belmont Stakes favorite – largely because his trainer said he would win – Big Brown failed to win the race and subsequently this year’s Triple Crown.

The shock hit Big Brown’s trainer the hardest as he did all he could to aid the horse’s chances leading up to the race, including making risky, karma-defying comments like, “I don’t see how he can lose” and “We’ll be in the winner’s circle when the other horses are coming around the first turn.”

Entering yesterday’s contest, the horse seemed to have everything working in its favor: weeks before the race, he suffered a cracked hoof, which kept him from properly training for the event; he did not receive his latest regular monthly steroid injection; he was facing a 1.5 mile run, the longest of the three Triple Crown races and a typically difficult one for hard-charging, short-distance runners to overcome; and history was definitely on Big Brown’s side – no horse had captured the Triple Crown in the last 29 years, including numerous contenders in the last dozen years who managed to win the first two races of the elusive milestone.

When asked for reasons why the super stud could have failed so miserably, every “racing expert” working for ESPN and all the outside “experts” that the network interviewed had the same response: “Big Brown’s performance in the Belmont is absolutely inexplicable.”

Indeed.


In other puzzling news…

Gas prices continue to rise despite growing worldwide demand, spurred by years of rural-population growth and consumers buying gas-guzzling automobiles. Also adding to the perplexity of high gas prices is the ever-increasing cost of crude oil and the record quarterly earnings of petroleum companies everywhere.

When asked if they will ever cease following this backwards business model, a spokesman for the petroleum companies said, “Absolutely. Taking home piles and piles of money every pay period just isn’t working for us anymore. Plus, we can’t risk it anymore now that all those e-mails are circulating that ask readers to participate in bizarre and impractical methods to lower gas prices, like refusing to buy gas between 7-8 a.m. on the third Thursday of every other month. If one more of those e-mails goes out, it could mean the death of our industry.”


In perfectly reasonable celebrity news…

Former drug addict, death-threat maker, and prostitute aficionado Charlie Sheen had no trouble recently landing a new wife. Brooke Mueller is Sheen’s third and, quite possibly, most ignorant mate.

When asked how she felt about Sheen’s past, which includes hard-core drug abuse, connections to Hollywood madame Heidi Fleiss and threats made to his former wife, Denise Richards, while she was pregnant with their second child, Mueller responded: “I know, isn’t Charlie adorable? And he has his own show!”

O.J. Simpson’s current girlfriend and Mike Tyson’s most recent ex-wife could not be reached for comment.


Finally, Clay Aiken will soon be a dad. Oddly enough, the Barry Manilow-wannabe bypassed the natural form of conception by artificially inseminating the mother, Jaymes Foster.

As a side note, the favorite crooner of female octogenarians everywhere has been willfully appearing in public looking like this.

Aiken’s sexual preference continues to remain a mystery.

The Place To Be

Before the door finishes closing behind me, I am immediately overwhelmed by their numbers. Even while moving slowly, and with little deliberation, they seem to somehow swarm throughout the building. Nervousness and claustrophobia set in as they always have, despite my increasing familiarity with the situation. I could turn and leave, probably before anyone notices, but the same thought keeps creeping in, "Just do it, get it over with, like a band aid."

Yet this isn’t like the band aid analogy at all – the process won’t go quickly, and the pain will endure. There’s simply too many of them.

The worst part is the all-too-late realization; the fact that I should know better, and yet somehow find myself in this situation over and over again. I have no one to blame but myself. It’s the same day every week. It’s well advertised. I’ve certainly witnessed it many times before. Yet I never remember what I’m about to walk into until I’m ankle deep in the white-shoes-on-black-socks mess.

I’ve once again found myself in Kroger on Senior Discount Day.

How do I keep doing this? There are six other days of the week in which I could visit the grocery store. Even if I fall into the routine of buying a week’s worth of food, I could go to the store a day ahead of time (Tuesday), or order a pizza and wait one more day (Thursday). The problem is that I don’t always walk in on a Wednesday, which keeps me from remembering that it’s Senior Discount Day on those Wednesdays when I do happen to go to the store. And once there, I’m trapped. The family expects me to return with food.

So I grab a cart and start pushing, mesmerized once again at the popularity of this promotion. Someone working at the deli counter must be calling out bingo numbers.

The trudge through the store, needless to say, is slow. Some aisles contain more people than consumables. Stepping into the fiber aisle is like being on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange if Google suddenly went for 10 cents a share. Cereal will have to wait another day.

Despite only needing items from roughly half the aisles in the store, I always peak down each one as I pass by (habit, I guess). The exception is Wednesdays, when I can’t bring myself to glance in the lane titled "Incontinence."

Upon crossing everything off my list, I head to the front, where the lone retribution for shopping on this day of the week is that, while the checkout lanes are full, the self-checkout stations are empty. Ah, technology - enemy to the elderly. I complete my transaction without delay.

The only obstacle remaining – the parking lot, where interpreting the turn signals is on par with trying to interpret Mandarin Chinese. I somehow make it out unscathed.

So long, seniors.

Until next week…

Sounds About Right

I saw the following headline today, and it certainly boosted my confidence in the American legal system...

Boy band creator sentenced to 25 years in prison

Apparently, from reading the article, his sentence was not handed down as a direct result of creating the boy bands, but the judge certainly must have taken that into consideration.

Show Her You Care

This past Sunday was of course Mother’s Day – a time to celebrate all that our moms do for us. Usually this means showing your mom an appropriate amount of gratitude by making her breakfast or taking her out to lunch, and then expecting her to have dinner ready at the regularly scheduled time.

Sure, on paper this sounds pretty fair. But if you really think about it, moms get the short end of the stick. Aside from only getting one day in their honor, that day (Sunday) happens to be a day that they normally have off from their job anyway, but not a day that they have off from taking care of the demons (I mean kids) that make them moms. And stay-at-home moms never have a day off from taking care of demons (whoops, I mean kids). At the very least, moms should get a day off from work AND from the demons (damnit! I mean kids).

In all seriousness, as someone who has been in a delivery room during the birth of a child, moms should get a week celebrated in their honor just for that. For crying out loud, where I’m from the entire town celebrates for two weeks prior to a bunch of horses running around a track; an event that never lasts more than two minutes. If every two-minute period that my wife spent in labor with our son equaled two weeks of celebrating afterwards, we’d embarrass Lindsay Lohan.

And consider all the other days we celebrate. Despite having no ethnic ties to the holiday, plenty of non-Hispanic people in this country raise a glass on Cinco de Mayo. Same thing with St. Patrick’s Day. And you know who else gets a whole day named after him? A giant rodent that has to be pulled out of the ground by people way overdressed for the occasion simply to ritualistically “predict” six more weeks of winter. Has the damn squirrel ever not predicted six more weeks of winter? Groundhog Day has never given us a reason to celebrate (but in all fairness, it is a great movie).

So I think we can do better. Hopefully you gave your mom the whole day off on Sunday, and if you didn’t, do it this weekend. And next weekend. And maybe a few whole weeks here and there. Devote as much time to showing her your appreciation as she devoted to you.

Then again, if we adequately celebrated our moms, we wouldn’t get anything else done, including preparing our kids to leave home. And according to my mom, that’s when the real celebration begins.

The Never Ending Story

In an effort to continue its award-winning political coverage, this blog is once again bringing you hard-hitting insight into the 2008 presidential campaign. You’re probably saying to yourself, "Campaign? You mean we haven’t elected a new president yet?”

As shocking as it sounds, not only has the election not taken place, it’s still 2.5 years away. Hold on. I’m getting a message from the studio. Sorry, it’s six months away. Still, that’s a long ways off.

When it’s all said and done, the one defining theme of the 2008 campaign will be that, from start to finish, there were at least a dozen defining themes. First it was defined simply by the massive number of people running for president. Then it was the massive number of debates that this massive group held on a weekly basis. Next it was the massive number of times during the massive number of debates that this massive group said the word “change.”

Now the race is being defined by the massive number of primaries that have taken and will continue to take place for years to come. And if that’s not bad enough, this will all occur across the backdrop of a desperately dissipated sports landscape that involves only the professional teams from Boston playing each other in every round of playoffs ever invented to decide who should be declared the most obnoxious and over-exposed team of the 21st century.

At least the field of political contenders has finally whittled down. We now know that the next president will be John McCain, Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton or some kind of perverse amalgam of both Democratic candidates that sounds like a degenerative eye disease called Barillary Clintama.

That is, if we ever get around to electing one of them. The eventual winner will have spent more time campaigning than actually holding the office. And during all this time, none of them have been able to decide on a vice-presidential nominee? We’re not going to have to hold primaries for that too, are we?

Well, if we do, you can bet that all the really pertinent details can be found right here. Stay tuned.

If you can gut it out that long.

Pull My Finger. Or Just Give Me a Push

I’ve got gas. And thank goodness.

Sometimes it’s inconvenient and mildly embarrassing, but I’ve never been more happy to be full of gas. Well, for my car to be full of gas, I mean.

Just like the rest of the country, Louisville saw record highs in its gas prices this past week, when gas topped out at roughly $12.95 a gallon. With the nearest station holding out for a couple of hours before implementing the increase, cars were recently backed up into the highway waiting to fill up. Thankfully I had just filled up two days earlier. Not that it really matters.

If I have three quarters of a tank on the day of an expected price increase, I always think to myself, “Cool, I should be able to ride this out until it goes down again.” But of course that’s never happened because for at least the past two years, the price of gas has jumped 90 cents every week. So I guess my euphoria over having plenty of gas will soon (pardon the pun) pass.

Despite the fact that the price of everything (minus homes, of course) is on the rise, and always has been, it’s the price of gas that seems to make everyone nostalgic. Just think, 17 year olds everywhere are saying things like, “I can remember when gas never got above $3.15 a gallon.” Yeah, those were the good ol’ days.

But there are ways to deal with the rapid increase. Just the other day I was watching a CNN correspondent go over ways that we can improve our gas mileage to ease our “pain at the pump.” For instance, keeping your tires at their correct air pressure will help increase your mileage by five percent. That’s important because it means instead of having to fill up on a Thursday morning, you won’t have to fill up until Thursday afternoon. Possibly even late afternoon.

It’s painful to think about, but I guess things could get worse. People say all the time that even now we shouldn’t complain because Europeans regularly pay $4 - $5 a gallon for gas. The only problem with that argument is that Europeans are affected very little by the price of gas because they hardly drive. And who can blame them. With the steering wheel located on the right side of their cars, they constantly have to find a friend to ride in the passenger seat so they’ll have someone to work the pedals. Either that or occasionally they’ll use a stick to poke at the pedals from the other side, but that has to be near impossible if they’re driving a manual transmission.

Anyway, the future doesn’t look much brighter. Pretty soon we’ll all be filling up our giant empty tubs of Sam’s Club mayonnaise with gasoline just so we’ll have reserves before the next big hike. We could always walk more or ride bikes or buy smaller, more fuel-efficient cars, but I’m trying to think in a practical manner.

Hands at 10 and 2. Right?

This is a message to the guy driving next to me one day last week who was holding a cup of Starbucks in one hand and his cell phone in the other: Thank you for not killing me or anyone else. At least not during the tenth of a second that I stayed on the road after noticing you. Who knows what happened after I steered into a ditch and hid under my seat until I felt like it was safe to drive again.

Actually, I never really did feel safe again. I contemplated walking the remaining 10 miles to work, lest I get back on the road and discover someone else next to me who might be drinking a cup of coffee, talking on their cell phone and showering. I know this has been asked a thousand times before, but seriously, what happens to us when we drive?

It seems driving has just become so boring that it can no longer hold our attention past the time it takes to back out of the driveway. And talking on a cell phone is now one of the least dangerous things a person can do while driving, thanks to the ability to type on a cell phone. Then again, instead of boredom, maybe the collective IQ of the driving population simply drops a few dozen points each time we put the key in the ignition.

Consider the woman in Oregon, as reported in the Chicago Tribune, who was drunk and then got in the car to drive to ... (can you guess?) ... (I bet you can't) ... the police station. Was it to turn herself in for driving drunk, you ask? Nope. She was driving to the police station to ... (wanna try again?) ... (you'll never get this one) ... that's right, to work. Not only did she get drunk before driving to her job, but she got drunk before driving to her job at a police station.

Then there's the guy in Pennsylvania, also reported in the Chicago Tribune, who thought he'd get a better view by climbing on the roof of his car while it was still proceeding down the highway. If you can't guess what happened next, here's the link. And you shouldn't be driving either.

Maybe the concept of cars and how they work just eludes a lot of people. Take the man in New Zealand who couldn't get his SUV parked just right, and it wound up plowing into a man on his toilet. Then again, you can't really blame the guy for not knowing how to park his car since his country's main mode of transportation is still sheep.

But hey, I realize no one has a perfect driving record. A couple of weeks ago I drove my son to daycare with him sitting on my lap, a la Britney Spears, which my wife was delighted to hear about. I don't make a habit of it. I only do it on those days when I don't put him in his car seat.

Anyway, my point is let's try to be safe out there. Remember to keep your hands on the wheel, the talking to a minimum, and if you must be one with nature, buy a car with a sun roof.

You Take One Down and Pass it Around...

Have you ever been at a party, particularly during college, or some other social gathering, and asked someone, "How's the beer?" only to hear them say, "Tastes like horse piss"?

I don't know about you, but whenever I hear this I immediately assume that means the beer doesn't taste very good. I say "assume" because I don't know for certain what horse piss actually tastes like, having never tried any. That is, until this past weekend.

After trying it, I realize that all those times that I thought people were less than satisfied with the quality of their beverages, it turns out they must have been enjoying them after all. Horse piss is quite good. And to think of all the times I've turned down a drink that tastes as good as horse piss. I guess I should be glad I discovered it when I did.

Horse piss is light, smooth and, surprisingly, doesn't leave an aftertaste (that was my biggest concern when first trying it). I certainly recommend it. Unfortunately horse piss can't be enjoyed from the tap. But you can purchase some in four 12-oz. bottles at many retail locations, or by visiting this website.

As far as micro-brewed beers go (what did you think I meant?), it doesn't have the flavor or richness of a lot of other locally brewed beers, but it compares favorably to a lot of popular domestic brews, such as Bud Light or Miller Lite. So the next time someone tells you that their beer tastes like horse piss, first understand that you're probably cavorting with a member of high society who enjoys the finer things in life. Then crack open a bottle and slurp some down.

Congratubeerplease

As many of you know, this past weekend marked the first weekend of spring and Easter Sunday, a time when many kids spend the day outside hunting for eggs. So naturally the temperature never got above 45 degrees.

Extended weather like this usually produces a lot of cabin fever, but maybe lately you’ve decided you would rather not take out a loan to buy the gas needed to reach your favorite get-a-way spot. Or if you’re like my wife and I, maybe you have a small child, which makes traveling anywhere that’s more than 100 miles away about as practical as performing your own vasectomy.

If either or both of those are the case for you, here’s something you can try to fit into your schedule that will liven up any weekend: Catholic wedding! Or even better: Catholic reception!

I’ve had the pleasure of attending both of these numerous times, and as is usually the case, there’s a buzz in the air as people leave the church. Is it due to the momentous, uplifting occasion everyone just witnessed? The beautiful joining of two people into a union that will change their lives forever?

Sure.

That, and the open bar.

If there’s word that the reception will have an open bar, some people actually get excited at the prospect of sitting through a full mass/ceremony. I believe ceremonies themselves would be more exciting if the reception occurred before the wedding, but I haven’t seen many of them organized this way. (As a side note: you know how when characters on TV get married, the wedding is always wrapped up in 10 minutes? If a Catholic wedding were accurately depicted on TV, it would run longer than a season of 'American Idol.')

The more weddings I attend, the more I appreciate how important an open bar is to the guests (i.e. my relatives). At the most recent one that I attended, within minutes of everyone arriving at the reception, a SUBSTANTIAL line had formed at the drink counter. Slowly but surely, the line whittled down to about five or six people. That’s when someone made an announcement for everyone to find their seats as the wedding party was about to arrive. Despite hearing that they could soon return to their same spots in line, the looks on the faces of those still waiting for a drink ranged from disappointment to blinding rage.

Seeing this, I couldn’t help but try to come up with some reasons why an open bar is so coveted at wedding receptions. Perhaps free drinks are perceived “needs” after attending a religious service that likely occurred on a day other than Sunday. Maybe it’s due to the length of the service itself. Or maybe it’s a combination of the two.

On the other hand, it could be a way for couples to say: “Thank you for coming to our wedding. To show our appreciation, we encourage you to drink lots of alcohol in the vicinity of a microphone, a dance floor, and our grandparents. We don’t see how, in any way, this could go bad.”

I also wondered if brides and grooms fear that without an open bar, no one would show up. Realistically, though, this is probably true of just 20 or 30 people on most guest lists.

Anyway, before I decided on an answer, the caterers came around and poured the guests champagne. This was so that we could toast the happy couple and squelch a possible mutiny. The toast was made and then more champagne was poured. Then another toast was made and again came more champagne. This went on until roughly two dozen toasts were made. I didn’t notice if people reclaimed their places in line at the bar, but that wasn’t really necessary (or possible) for those who took part in every toast. At any rate, everyone was having a good time, and by 5 p.m. nobody cared any more that they had to first attend a church service that started some time the day before.

So if you can’t afford to drive to work anymore, let alone the beach, get on someone’s invite list. Then pass along your congratulations, share in the merriment, and drink responsibly. Just keep in mind, if you’re at a Catholic wedding reception and you’re the only one who continues to raise their hand when asked, “Who needs a refill,” call it a night.

That's Fascinating. I Think I Left the Oven On.

There’s a national organization that I belong to that offers professional seminars, workshops and networking opportunities to all of its members in my field of work. The local chapter of this organization hosts luncheons every month that feature guest speakers who try to provide some insight into writing and communications. As someone who is looking for a new job, I diligently attend these meetings, which are usually well attended by other members who work in the same industry. These luncheons are very valuable networking tools, which I use to, of course, socialize with my friends.

For instance, at the latest function, while most people were chatting about what they do and their professional interests, my friend and I were going through the buffet line and discussing how his roommate recently gave away his new dog after only two weeks because it, and I quote, “wouldn’t stop peeing.” Most of my conversations at these events go like this, and they usually take place among the same three people every month.

I know networking is a great way to hunt for jobs and in order for it to work, you have to meet a lot of new people. But there’s one major objection I have to networking – the meeting a lot of new people part. I hate talking to people. Strangers, anyway. And I really hate when people randomly walk up to me and try to engage in conversation for the purpose of seeing if I can help their career (I can assure you up front – I can’t).

I got caught in just such a predicament at the end of the latest luncheon. I was standing around waiting for my friends to finish talking to the guest speaker, whom they had worked with before, when some guy walked up to me. I recognized him because he had gotten up and spoken to the whole group earlier about something called I-Fi. Not Wi-Fi, which I had just gotten accustomed to hearing in everyday conversation, despite knowing little to nothing about it, but I-Fi. I-Fi is apparently a chip or card that you insert into your digital camera that allows you to instantly upload a picture to your e-mail or personal website from anywhere in the world. At no time do you have to hook up the camera to your or anybody else’s computer. As if the fact that every third person on the planet owns a camera phone isn’t reason enough to permanently stay indoors.

Anyway, even though the expression on my face said “I have the Bird Flu,” he proceeded to introduce himself.

“Hi, I’m someone who’s name you’ve already forgotten,” he said.

“Hi, I’m Mike,” I responded.

“So Mike, who do you work for?”

“Uh, (insert name of multi billion-dollar, soul-sucking corporation),” I said.

“Oh man, have I got a social networking system for (multi billion-dollar, soul-sucking corporation),” he said. “Have you ever heard of Pie-Fi?”

“No.”

“It’s even better than I-Fi. Pie-Fi is a giant, transcontinental networking system that allows all of your offices to instantly tap into the electrical mainframes of each of the other offices and instantly perform the duties of those offices in an instant. From one central location, you can operate each buildings’ copiers, fax machines, printers, coffee makers, lights, air conditioning, the locks on the doors, the microwaves in the break rooms, the parking levers on the guard shacks and the hand dryers in the bathrooms,” he said.

“Hmmm,” I informed him.

“If you have Pie-Fi in your car, it will e-mail your boss your mileage and what you spent on gas every time you fill up during a business trip. It’ll even make your toast in the morning.”

(Pause)

“What if I haven’t put any bread in the toaster?” I asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” he noted. “It’ll butter it up and have it sitting on the table when you walk in the kitchen. It’ll even read you the Sunday paper.”

“Wow. That’s the biggest edition of the week,” I said.

“Exactly,” he grinned.

At this point, the-guy-who’s-name-I-can’t-remember mercifully let me slip away when I told him that I had a hunch my car was on fire. I had to make up something because my “friends” had long since given me the “talk to you later” head bob on their way out the door while I was still being held captive.

Serves me right, though. That’s what the meetings are for. And it all worked out in the end. I got my brand new Pie-Fi to post this whole message, so if you didn’t like it, don’t blame me. And go check your toaster.

Typing in a Winter Wonderland

As a follow up to my recent weather report, this weekend is looking a lot different than last weekend, which, depending on who you are, may be a bad thing or a good thing. You see, a sunny, 70 degree day is a sunny, 70 degree day. It pretty much means the same thing to everyone. How you’re impacted by a foot of snow, however, is all relative.

For instance, if you live in Wisconsin, a foot of snow is called “a light dusting.” Whereas if you live in Alabama, a foot of snow is referred to as “the apocalypse.”

In my southeastern/mid-western state, a foot of snow, which is what we woke up to this morning, is a lot, but it’s not the most we’ve ever seen. Even so, it means my hometown will virtually shut down for days, especially since it fell over the weekend. Rookie newscasters will report from the popular sledding locations. Normally law-abiding citizens will stab each other in the neck for the last loaf of bread and the last gallon of expired milk on the grocery shelves. And when asked why snow plows haven’t been out, state officials will respond by saying, “Are you kidding? Have you seen the roads?”

A foot of snow also has different meanings depending on your age. When you’re a kid, it means school is closed and you’ll engage in massive snowball wars, ensuring that it goes down as the greatest day in the history of mankind. When you’re an adult, it means the office is open, your kid’s daycare is closed, you still have to give that presentation at 9 a.m. and, if you’re me, it means your left rear tire is flat for the second time in three weeks (the first instance occurring the last time it snowed).

If you’re a lifeguard, a foot of snow probably means you have the day off. If you work in road construction, it probably means you have the month off.

If you’re a dog, a foot of snow means you just won the lottery. If you’re a cat, it means… well, it means the same thing it did the day before: humans are idiots.

Anyway, you see my point. If you’re under a foot of snow, here’s hoping that it means something good for you. If you’re not, how about you shovel my driveway?

He Can't Stay Long

This weekend I was reunited with an old friend that I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was great to finally reconnect because his infectious personality really brightens my day and never fails to lift my spirits. I like to call my friend the sun.

By no intention on my part, the sun and I had lost touch. Despite my efforts, he wasn’t interested in catching up or even nodding in my general direction. Usually every year right around this time, there’s a stretch of days when it’s dark and gloomy and 90% of each day is filled with rain. In my part of the country, meteorologists refer to this time as "February."

During "February," whenever you walk outside, it’s often difficult to tell the difference between 4 p.m. and 11 p.m. The prominent grayness tends to wear on people, understandably. Passing the time is more difficult when the weather isn’t nice, mainly because there are so many things you can do when it is.

For instance, when the weather’s nice you can go for a walk, go for a run, barbecue, catch a ballgame, fly a kite, play any number of sports, like golf, tennis, softball, football, badminton, cricket, hop scotch, the high jump, you can go waterskiing, go for a drive, go on a picnic, sit on your deck and read the newspaper, spend time at the beach, go hang gliding, feed the ducks, plant a tree, clean out the gutters, repave your driveway or form a human pyramid.

Don’t get me wrong, I like all the seasons and can appreciate the qualities of each one. The list may not be as long, but there are still plenty of fun things to do when it’s rainy and 38 degrees outside, like rent a movie or hurl yourself off a bridge. Nevertheless, it was nice to know the sun would eventually come out again.

So if you live east of Las Vegas and north of Cuba, and have renewed your driver’s license at least once since the last time the sun came out, don’t lose hope. You may not have seen it this past weekend, but it’s out there. Just don’t blink. I’d hate for you to miss it.

The Makeover

If you’re a regular visitor to this blog, you’ve probably realized that I’ve made a lot of design changes. Hope you like them. If this is the first time you’ve visited this blog, you don’t care about the changes and you’re probably disappointed because you’ve no doubt stumbled upon this page by mistake. Even so, feel free to look around.

I should warn you, though, you’ll quickly realize that there’s no pornography on this site, so my pleas to get you to stay are surely futile. If that’s the case, I can only say thanks for stopping by and good luck in your search.

As for the rest of you, check out the pictures I added. Pretty snazzy, huh? NASA should be calling me at any moment. And when you’re done here, check out Humor-Blogs.com. It has very little porn, but plenty of laughs. Or is it the other way around?

Writing at a 19th Grade Level

For Valentine's Day, in addition to a thoughtful gift, a delicious home-cooked meal and an overall pleasant evening with my family, I also received a rather big surprise. Keep in mind, I've always been annoyed at people who tout their very young children as "geniuses" or "prodigies" simply because they seem to be advancing a little faster than the average child their age. But I think I'm being completely objective when I say my infant son may truly possess such qualities.

Just before opening the boxer shorts that he got for me, which I can only assume he paid for with money he stole from one of the other pre-toddlers at his daycare, or earned in a manner that would shame even the kids working in Nike factories, I read the card that he made for me. It read, and I quote:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Thank you for changing

My diapers o' poo

I'm very glad 'cause,

You might realize,

I'm near to the source,

So the stink burns my eyes

But mom and I think

The time is now here

For you to tend to

Your own stinky rear

To help with that task

This gift is for you

Use it when changing

Your own pile o' poo

Honestly, even if it was someone else's child, I would think that's pretty good for an 11 month old. Now I admit the content is a little crude, but kids his age tend to find subject matter like this funny, so I overlooked it. What I can't overlook, though, is that he's able to read and write before having even said his first word. Not only that, he can write in rhyme. That's a little unusual, right? I mean, I'm no child development specialist, but that seems advanced.

I don't want to jump the gun, but I think it's safe to say my wife and I can plan for retirement in no more than five years, after he's patented his invention that lets you travel through time or reach an actual person when calling your insurance company.