For Mrs. Claus to maintain her bathing-suit weight year round. She really lets herself go this time of year
That Tickle-Me-Elmo never again sees the kind of popularity it had 10 years ago. Sweet Jesus
To not get so disgusted every time a child wets themselves while sitting on my lap
For the children to show the same restraint and decorum when I do it
To find the elf who put pot in the brownies that we passed out to the kids last year, causing me to get banned from the Midtown Mall in St. Petersburg
For the stock market to turn so I can expand the plant at the North Pole and stop outsourcing all the toy-making to China. All that lead will mess your s*#t up!
For Winfrey to hurry up and end her show already so I don’t have to hear anymore snot-nosed little punks run up to me every time they don’t get what they want and say, “Oprah would have got it for me.”
Bieber tickets
To never again get accidently locked in the barn while Prancer’s in heat
For those a-hole state troopers in Georgia to not give me another FUI (Flying Under the Influence) this year. Is it really so far-fetched to think that kids spike the milk and eggnog they leave for me? They do that ALL THE TIME! They think it’s freakin’ hilarious!
That “The Santa Clause” movies finally get taken off the Christmas television rotation. Tim Allen does the worst impression of me ever
That kids continue to fall asleep to “A Christmas Story” playing on their TVs. I love catching bits and pieces of it when I’m inside. “Fra-gee-lee. Must be Italian.” Classic!
That my agent lets me listen on speaker phone again this year when the Easter Bunny calls to ask if he can get the same royalty percentage from the department stores and candy manufacturers that I do. Laughing at that fuzzy bastard always makes my day
World peace. Nah, not really. But I would like a Kindle
Friday, December 3, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
It's Hard to Disagree
Ever notice how everybody is right? When they’re talking about themselves, of course. Anytime a person is talking about someone else, however, that someone else is always wrong. So, somehow, everyone is always right and everyone is always wrong.
Of course you’ve noticed this. It’s been the backbone of politics in this and every other country in the world for the last 5,000 years. And it’s not a philosophy that’s limited to just politics. We’ve all been behind a lady in Starbucks who tells a story to her friend that goes something like this:
“Oh! You’re never going to believe this. The other day I was reviving an unconscious puppy while giving a homeless man $100, when out of nowhere this jackass on his cellphone drives by and throws a dirty diaper out his window that hits me in the head! The doctor said I may be permanently blind in my left eye.”
Around that same time, on the other end of town, somebody is behind that jackass in line at Starbucks and hears this:
“Oh! You’re never going to believe this. The other day I was driving down the road with a bomb in my hand that was left outside an orphanage. I was trying to get the bomb as far away from the orphanage as possible, when all of a sudden this crazy woman runs into the middle of the road and starts stomping on a puppy and yelling at a homeless man. I swerved to miss her and when I swerved, my son, who was brilliantly changing himself, lost his grip on his diaper and it flew out the window. I think it landed right in a trash can, but can you believe that crazy woman?”
Regardless of which version of the story you hear, your initial reaction is most likely, “Oh my God! That’s terrible.” However, your initial reaction should always be, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” And really, that should be your reaction to every story that someone tells you involving them and another person in a conflict. Do you know anyone who speaks objectively about the “other party” when they retell a story about a dispute?
I know a woman who does in fact tell the other person’s side of the story, only she tells it as if the other person talks like Beaker from the Muppets. Not only does she mockingly talk in a really high voice, but she purposefully does not use actual words. Example:
Person I know: “So I told Jane that I thought the customer needed more information, and then Jane said, ‘Be be be beeeeee be be be beeeeee.’”
My first thought is always, “Really? That’s what Jane said, huh? When she started to say something you didn’t agree with, Jane broke into squeaky gibberish to try and convince you she was right?”
And I shouldn’t leave out that this person I know also moves her hand really fast in a puppet-type fashion to add a visual of Jane’s stupidity. So you can see how hard it is to side with Jane. That is unless you’re Dr. Bunsen Honeydew – the green professor with glasses but no eyes who somehow understands everything Beaker says.
There’s no great mystery surrounding why we do this. We want the person hearing the story to agree with us, not the other guy. And it wouldn’t hurt if the person listening to our version of events eventually grew to hate the other guy; maybe even hate him more than we hate him. It’s reassuring, even empowering.
So, does it work? Depends. It rarely works when we first start out doing it. Our methods are far from refined.
“Mom! Johnny took my crayons!”
“Then why is he the one crying?”
No response.
“Did you hit him?” asks mom.
Then with the most pathetic eyes and the softest voice we can summon, we try repeating our original statement, “Johnny took my crayons.”
Our biggest mistake as toddlers is that we try to convince the third party (mom or dad) while the other toddler embroiled in the controversy is standing right next to us. As we grow older, we learn that by recapping the series of events when the other person isn’t around, it’s much harder for that person to defend themselves. Then, after a little more practice, we learn to leave out key factors and embellish others. We might even act as if our enemies talk like Beaker from the Muppets, but for me, this isn’t effective. I always found Beaker to be a sympathetic figure. He was a kind-hearted soul that got forced into questionable experiments. Poor Beaker. How was it that a dude with no eyes always got the better of him? Couldn’t he have handed Dr. Honeydew a rubber chicken and told Honeydew it was him? He never would have known the difference!
Anyway, eventually we save enough money until we can create TV ads and buy airtime to tell people how worthless our opponents are. This is often much more effective than whining about Johnny taking our crayons, but the messages always sound eerily similar.
Of course you’ve noticed this. It’s been the backbone of politics in this and every other country in the world for the last 5,000 years. And it’s not a philosophy that’s limited to just politics. We’ve all been behind a lady in Starbucks who tells a story to her friend that goes something like this:
“Oh! You’re never going to believe this. The other day I was reviving an unconscious puppy while giving a homeless man $100, when out of nowhere this jackass on his cellphone drives by and throws a dirty diaper out his window that hits me in the head! The doctor said I may be permanently blind in my left eye.”
Around that same time, on the other end of town, somebody is behind that jackass in line at Starbucks and hears this:
“Oh! You’re never going to believe this. The other day I was driving down the road with a bomb in my hand that was left outside an orphanage. I was trying to get the bomb as far away from the orphanage as possible, when all of a sudden this crazy woman runs into the middle of the road and starts stomping on a puppy and yelling at a homeless man. I swerved to miss her and when I swerved, my son, who was brilliantly changing himself, lost his grip on his diaper and it flew out the window. I think it landed right in a trash can, but can you believe that crazy woman?”
Regardless of which version of the story you hear, your initial reaction is most likely, “Oh my God! That’s terrible.” However, your initial reaction should always be, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” And really, that should be your reaction to every story that someone tells you involving them and another person in a conflict. Do you know anyone who speaks objectively about the “other party” when they retell a story about a dispute?
I know a woman who does in fact tell the other person’s side of the story, only she tells it as if the other person talks like Beaker from the Muppets. Not only does she mockingly talk in a really high voice, but she purposefully does not use actual words. Example:
Person I know: “So I told Jane that I thought the customer needed more information, and then Jane said, ‘Be be be beeeeee be be be beeeeee.’”
My first thought is always, “Really? That’s what Jane said, huh? When she started to say something you didn’t agree with, Jane broke into squeaky gibberish to try and convince you she was right?”
And I shouldn’t leave out that this person I know also moves her hand really fast in a puppet-type fashion to add a visual of Jane’s stupidity. So you can see how hard it is to side with Jane. That is unless you’re Dr. Bunsen Honeydew – the green professor with glasses but no eyes who somehow understands everything Beaker says.
There’s no great mystery surrounding why we do this. We want the person hearing the story to agree with us, not the other guy. And it wouldn’t hurt if the person listening to our version of events eventually grew to hate the other guy; maybe even hate him more than we hate him. It’s reassuring, even empowering.
So, does it work? Depends. It rarely works when we first start out doing it. Our methods are far from refined.
“Mom! Johnny took my crayons!”
“Then why is he the one crying?”
No response.
“Did you hit him?” asks mom.
Then with the most pathetic eyes and the softest voice we can summon, we try repeating our original statement, “Johnny took my crayons.”
Our biggest mistake as toddlers is that we try to convince the third party (mom or dad) while the other toddler embroiled in the controversy is standing right next to us. As we grow older, we learn that by recapping the series of events when the other person isn’t around, it’s much harder for that person to defend themselves. Then, after a little more practice, we learn to leave out key factors and embellish others. We might even act as if our enemies talk like Beaker from the Muppets, but for me, this isn’t effective. I always found Beaker to be a sympathetic figure. He was a kind-hearted soul that got forced into questionable experiments. Poor Beaker. How was it that a dude with no eyes always got the better of him? Couldn’t he have handed Dr. Honeydew a rubber chicken and told Honeydew it was him? He never would have known the difference!
Anyway, eventually we save enough money until we can create TV ads and buy airtime to tell people how worthless our opponents are. This is often much more effective than whining about Johnny taking our crayons, but the messages always sound eerily similar.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Won't Anyone Think of the Children?!
So yesterday we took to the polls to vote for candidates for the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives, in what turned out to be a milestone election. I say “milestone” because that’s what everyone else is saying. Why was it a milestone? Beats me, ask them. The election is also being described as “important,” “very important,” “gravely important” and even “historic.” So I guess we might as well throw “milestone” in there too.
The Republicans had the most to smile about, as they regained control of the House and won new seats in the Senate, and are now in charge of fixing the economy. Which means yesterday they celebrated, and today they’re asking, “I’m sorry, you want us to do what now?”
And who can blame them? No one knows how to fix the economy. Republicans couldn’t do it 5-6 years ago, the Democrats haven’t been able to do it for the last 2-4 years, so the country decided the best thing to do was to let Republicans try again. It’s like choosing to be punched in the face or punched in the crotch.
But it was that time again, time to vote for the new or the same. So we voted. The only problem is, no matter which party we vote for, we always go to the polls thinking we’re voting to see future headlines that read: “The Economy is Booming” and “Unemployment is at an All-Time Low” and “Everyone Has Affordable Healthcare from Providers that Gladly Answer the Phone Whenever You Call” and “The U.S. No Longer Has a Drug Problem, Immigration Problem, Low Test Scores or a Shared Border with Canada.” Yay!
But the truth is, we actually vote for whether or not we’ll see headlines like this: “Elected Official Tries to Sell Senate Seat” or “Elected Official Solicits a Prostitute” or “Elected Official Buys Crack from Prostitute” or “Elected Official Stabs Prostitute for Taking the Last Chocolate Swirl at Local Dunkin’ Donuts.” The best we can hope for is scandalous headlines that are different from the previous term’s scandalous headlines.
Illicit activities are so commonplace among politicians, so accepted, that their misdeeds are used against them in campaign attack ads. Now, you probably think that makes perfect sense. While negative campaign ads are endlessly irritating, it’s only natural that candidates use their opponents’ crimes against them. But think about what that means. It means that despite a candidate’s seedy, possibly criminal history, THEY KEEP RUNNING. How many ads have you seen like this:
“Remember when Gov. Tim Stinkmouth urinated on that homeless guy? That’s because Gov. Stinkmouth doesn’t care about the homeless. And he doesn’t care about you. Well Frank Organdonor won’t urinate on you or the homeless. Frank Organdonor cares.”
If Stinkmouth wasn’t running again after mistaking a homeless man for a Port-O-Pot, then it wouldn’t be necessary to use that ad. But in many cases he does run again, and if he runs in a red state, there’s a decent chance he wins.
It’s only a matter of time before candidates stop spending millions of dollars on political ads and instead try to win office the way high school kids win student-body elections: sleep with the voters.
(By the way, remember in high school there were always rumors about a student – usually a star on the football team – sleeping with a teacher, but you never really believed it? Back in the day, guys in high school struggled with long division and had senses of humor that hadn’t evolved past farting on their classmates. It was hard to imagine they had scored with a teacher. Now? You absolutely believe it happened, right? I mean look at what goes on today. The most socially awkward, unconfident students have lengthy affairs with female teachers who look like they could do a lot better. And not just the single ones. The difference today is that we have proof it's going on. I blame the Internet.)
Let’s face it, politicians sleeping with voters in order to get elected would not be a far cry from what they engage in already. Since our country’s inception, politicians have been mired in sex scandals. Here’s a small sample: Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, John Hancock (no surprise there), Calvin Coolidge (you may be wondering, “What sex scandal was Calvin Coolidge involved in?” I don’t know either, but just because we haven’t heard about one doesn’t mean it didn’t happen), Franklin Roosevelt (ditto), JFK, Gary Hart, Gary Condit, Bill Clinton, Strom Thurmond, Newt Gingrich, Elliot Spitzer, John Edwards, former Kentucky Governor Paul Patton, the guy who used to tap dance in the bathroom stalls at the Minneapolis airport, the guy who hikes the Appalachian Trail, the former mayor of Detroit, and the guy who ran for judge in my county that was accused of unethical sexual behavior whose name I don’t remember because I really don’t care.
And the female politicians haven’t been angels either. It’s well known that in the absence of a bed post, Betsy Ross sewed the stars and stripes into the flag to represent her number of gentleman callers. The story about the stars and stripes representing our number of states and the original 13 colonies was one of the first U.S. government cover-ups. Ross had friends in high places who didn’t want to see her reputation sullied. And yes, I know Betsy Ross wasn’t a politician, but what does that have to do with anything? Then there was Joan Allen’s character in The Contender. Allen played a woman running for Vice President of the United States, who happened to have a very tawdry past and I think she had to defend herself in front of Congress or something. I didn’t actually see the movie because it also stars Christian Slater. I mean, come on. Christian Slater? At any rate, you get the idea. For centuries politicians have engaged in sexual improprieties, whether they be men or women, real or made up.
So here’s hoping that if we’re going to be unemployed, have investments that aren’t worth anything, kids who can’t add, cars that fall apart and homeless that smell more like urine than usual, that we at least get some quality entertainment out of our representatives.
The Republicans had the most to smile about, as they regained control of the House and won new seats in the Senate, and are now in charge of fixing the economy. Which means yesterday they celebrated, and today they’re asking, “I’m sorry, you want us to do what now?”
And who can blame them? No one knows how to fix the economy. Republicans couldn’t do it 5-6 years ago, the Democrats haven’t been able to do it for the last 2-4 years, so the country decided the best thing to do was to let Republicans try again. It’s like choosing to be punched in the face or punched in the crotch.
But it was that time again, time to vote for the new or the same. So we voted. The only problem is, no matter which party we vote for, we always go to the polls thinking we’re voting to see future headlines that read: “The Economy is Booming” and “Unemployment is at an All-Time Low” and “Everyone Has Affordable Healthcare from Providers that Gladly Answer the Phone Whenever You Call” and “The U.S. No Longer Has a Drug Problem, Immigration Problem, Low Test Scores or a Shared Border with Canada.” Yay!
But the truth is, we actually vote for whether or not we’ll see headlines like this: “Elected Official Tries to Sell Senate Seat” or “Elected Official Solicits a Prostitute” or “Elected Official Buys Crack from Prostitute” or “Elected Official Stabs Prostitute for Taking the Last Chocolate Swirl at Local Dunkin’ Donuts.” The best we can hope for is scandalous headlines that are different from the previous term’s scandalous headlines.
Illicit activities are so commonplace among politicians, so accepted, that their misdeeds are used against them in campaign attack ads. Now, you probably think that makes perfect sense. While negative campaign ads are endlessly irritating, it’s only natural that candidates use their opponents’ crimes against them. But think about what that means. It means that despite a candidate’s seedy, possibly criminal history, THEY KEEP RUNNING. How many ads have you seen like this:
“Remember when Gov. Tim Stinkmouth urinated on that homeless guy? That’s because Gov. Stinkmouth doesn’t care about the homeless. And he doesn’t care about you. Well Frank Organdonor won’t urinate on you or the homeless. Frank Organdonor cares.”
If Stinkmouth wasn’t running again after mistaking a homeless man for a Port-O-Pot, then it wouldn’t be necessary to use that ad. But in many cases he does run again, and if he runs in a red state, there’s a decent chance he wins.
It’s only a matter of time before candidates stop spending millions of dollars on political ads and instead try to win office the way high school kids win student-body elections: sleep with the voters.
(By the way, remember in high school there were always rumors about a student – usually a star on the football team – sleeping with a teacher, but you never really believed it? Back in the day, guys in high school struggled with long division and had senses of humor that hadn’t evolved past farting on their classmates. It was hard to imagine they had scored with a teacher. Now? You absolutely believe it happened, right? I mean look at what goes on today. The most socially awkward, unconfident students have lengthy affairs with female teachers who look like they could do a lot better. And not just the single ones. The difference today is that we have proof it's going on. I blame the Internet.)
Let’s face it, politicians sleeping with voters in order to get elected would not be a far cry from what they engage in already. Since our country’s inception, politicians have been mired in sex scandals. Here’s a small sample: Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, John Quincy Adams, John Hancock (no surprise there), Calvin Coolidge (you may be wondering, “What sex scandal was Calvin Coolidge involved in?” I don’t know either, but just because we haven’t heard about one doesn’t mean it didn’t happen), Franklin Roosevelt (ditto), JFK, Gary Hart, Gary Condit, Bill Clinton, Strom Thurmond, Newt Gingrich, Elliot Spitzer, John Edwards, former Kentucky Governor Paul Patton, the guy who used to tap dance in the bathroom stalls at the Minneapolis airport, the guy who hikes the Appalachian Trail, the former mayor of Detroit, and the guy who ran for judge in my county that was accused of unethical sexual behavior whose name I don’t remember because I really don’t care.
And the female politicians haven’t been angels either. It’s well known that in the absence of a bed post, Betsy Ross sewed the stars and stripes into the flag to represent her number of gentleman callers. The story about the stars and stripes representing our number of states and the original 13 colonies was one of the first U.S. government cover-ups. Ross had friends in high places who didn’t want to see her reputation sullied. And yes, I know Betsy Ross wasn’t a politician, but what does that have to do with anything? Then there was Joan Allen’s character in The Contender. Allen played a woman running for Vice President of the United States, who happened to have a very tawdry past and I think she had to defend herself in front of Congress or something. I didn’t actually see the movie because it also stars Christian Slater. I mean, come on. Christian Slater? At any rate, you get the idea. For centuries politicians have engaged in sexual improprieties, whether they be men or women, real or made up.
So here’s hoping that if we’re going to be unemployed, have investments that aren’t worth anything, kids who can’t add, cars that fall apart and homeless that smell more like urine than usual, that we at least get some quality entertainment out of our representatives.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
True Itch
Unless you tend to fall on your head a lot, you know that for the last few years nothing has been more popular than vampires. Every summer the production studios release at least 12 movies that either star vampires or are written by vampires or are directed by vampires or are seen by vampires. These movies are based on a series of widely-read novels about vampires that were also written by a vampire. HBO airs a popular drama featuring vampires that is also based on a series of novels, but a series of novels that are entirely different from the series of novels that the summer movies are based on and that are written by an entirely different vampire.
There’s no escaping them. Vampires are in our gyms, our offices, attending our law schools and passing our immigration reform. But I don’t understand the appeal. They’re not scary. And it doesn’t help that nowadays vampires want nothing but to be accepted by the rest of society. What the hell is that? Talk about a generation of pansies. In my day, vampires didn’t give a damn if you liked them; you were getting drained of your bodily fluids whether you sent them a Facebook friend request or not.
Not anymore. Now they’re all like, “Why doesn’t anyone love me? I just want to be like a normal person. Then again, I’m bad for you. You don’t want me to bite you and drag you into my world. It’s too much drama. You should find a guy who plays in a band, or that nice Jewish boy who works in the deli. I hear his dad is a dentist. I know, that’s weird that I’d put in a good word for anybody related to a dentist, right? But they’re harmless. I actually try to see one pretty regularly. You wouldn’t believe what I get stuck in my teeth. Your phone? No, I didn’t hear anything. Well, if you have to go, you have to go. Nah, I’ll be alright. That’s ok, you don’t have to come over later. Do what you need to do. I should probably work on that paper anyway. Ok, see you later.”
You know what’s a lot scarier than vampires? Mosquitoes. They suck blood too, but their bites don’t do anything cool like make me immortal. And mosquitoes are unrelenting. At least vampires can be warded off with a garlic necklace, but you could marinade for a day and a half in “bug spray” and be lucky to only have 27 mosquito bites after walking to the mailbox and back.
And evil laughs and bad Transylvanian accents are nothing compared to that buzzing sound from a mosquito that is hovering just outside your ear. So I guess it’s not enough that their itchy bites are annoying, they have to sound annoying too.
Mosquitoes are what send us running inside, fearful of the night. They’re horrifying. So why aren’t there hundreds of best-selling novels about girls falling in love with mosquitoes? Ok, you’re right. That would be stupid. There should be hundreds of best-selling novels about girls falling in love with creatures that are half man, half mosquito. And not just novels, but movies and TV shows as well. We let vampires infiltrate every outlet of entertainment, so that would only be fair.
The hunky, brooding man-mosquitoes could be forced to stay inside during the winter months, thriving only in hot, wet environments. A swarm of lake-living man-mosquitoes could take up a territorial battle against a swarm of swamp-living man-mosquitoes, and the girl-bird who is the love interest of one of the lake-living man mosquitoes could be under the spell of one of the swamp-living man-mosquitoes, so the lake-living man-mosquito has to choose between saving the girl-bird or helping his swarm defend their turf.
Or maybe the protagonist mosquito could fly into a town that’s broken off from the rest of society, and instead of having blood flowing through their veins, the townspeople are filled with some sort of green ooze. Then after biting everyone, the mosquito goes back to his swarm and starts infecting the rest of his colony with a disease given to him by the mutant humans, instead of the other way around. The possibilities are endless.
If we want scary, suspenseful forms of entertainment that are based on even a fraction of reality, then this is the only way to go. When all the kids rush to the theaters next year to watch a big budget movie about sexy, angst-ridden, teenager mosquitoes, remember that you heard it here first.
There’s no escaping them. Vampires are in our gyms, our offices, attending our law schools and passing our immigration reform. But I don’t understand the appeal. They’re not scary. And it doesn’t help that nowadays vampires want nothing but to be accepted by the rest of society. What the hell is that? Talk about a generation of pansies. In my day, vampires didn’t give a damn if you liked them; you were getting drained of your bodily fluids whether you sent them a Facebook friend request or not.
Not anymore. Now they’re all like, “Why doesn’t anyone love me? I just want to be like a normal person. Then again, I’m bad for you. You don’t want me to bite you and drag you into my world. It’s too much drama. You should find a guy who plays in a band, or that nice Jewish boy who works in the deli. I hear his dad is a dentist. I know, that’s weird that I’d put in a good word for anybody related to a dentist, right? But they’re harmless. I actually try to see one pretty regularly. You wouldn’t believe what I get stuck in my teeth. Your phone? No, I didn’t hear anything. Well, if you have to go, you have to go. Nah, I’ll be alright. That’s ok, you don’t have to come over later. Do what you need to do. I should probably work on that paper anyway. Ok, see you later.”
You know what’s a lot scarier than vampires? Mosquitoes. They suck blood too, but their bites don’t do anything cool like make me immortal. And mosquitoes are unrelenting. At least vampires can be warded off with a garlic necklace, but you could marinade for a day and a half in “bug spray” and be lucky to only have 27 mosquito bites after walking to the mailbox and back.
And evil laughs and bad Transylvanian accents are nothing compared to that buzzing sound from a mosquito that is hovering just outside your ear. So I guess it’s not enough that their itchy bites are annoying, they have to sound annoying too.
Mosquitoes are what send us running inside, fearful of the night. They’re horrifying. So why aren’t there hundreds of best-selling novels about girls falling in love with mosquitoes? Ok, you’re right. That would be stupid. There should be hundreds of best-selling novels about girls falling in love with creatures that are half man, half mosquito. And not just novels, but movies and TV shows as well. We let vampires infiltrate every outlet of entertainment, so that would only be fair.
The hunky, brooding man-mosquitoes could be forced to stay inside during the winter months, thriving only in hot, wet environments. A swarm of lake-living man-mosquitoes could take up a territorial battle against a swarm of swamp-living man-mosquitoes, and the girl-bird who is the love interest of one of the lake-living man mosquitoes could be under the spell of one of the swamp-living man-mosquitoes, so the lake-living man-mosquito has to choose between saving the girl-bird or helping his swarm defend their turf.
Or maybe the protagonist mosquito could fly into a town that’s broken off from the rest of society, and instead of having blood flowing through their veins, the townspeople are filled with some sort of green ooze. Then after biting everyone, the mosquito goes back to his swarm and starts infecting the rest of his colony with a disease given to him by the mutant humans, instead of the other way around. The possibilities are endless.
If we want scary, suspenseful forms of entertainment that are based on even a fraction of reality, then this is the only way to go. When all the kids rush to the theaters next year to watch a big budget movie about sexy, angst-ridden, teenager mosquitoes, remember that you heard it here first.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The State Disaster Panel Hears the Annual Arguments
Membership Panel that Oversees the Doling Out of American Catastrophes Hears Each State’s Argument for Why It Should Not Be the Recipient of the Next Natural Disaster
Panel Chairman: Alright, I apologize for this meeting spilling over into a third day, but there are just so many of you. These things were a lot easier when there were only 13 colonies. Anyway, just to remind everyone, now that the oil mess in the Gulf looks to be under control, it’s time to decide which of you should be next on the quote-unquote, hit list. In the last five years, Louisiana has obviously dealt with a major hurricane and the BP disaster, so it has a pass for the next six months. Also, keep in mind that even though the final judging isn’t official, Michigan is most likely off the hook this year because of its economic woes, and Ohio will probably get off easy because by all appearances it has never recovered from its last disaster. Whatever it was.
We only have two of you left to plead your case, so hopefully we’ll be out of here before lunch. Florida, you’re up.
Florida: Well, I’m sure most of you are aware that due to the economic downturn, I’ve experienced plummeting home prices the last couple years. My tourism industry was hurt this summer as well due to tar balls washing up on a lot of my beaches. Granted, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what Louisiana experienced, but still. A lot of people forget, but I also suffered damage due to a handful of hurricanes that hit my shores the same year as Katrina. Again, not nearly as bad, but I don’t think ALL the sympathy should be reserved for New Orleans. And I’m still the butt of jokes for the 2000 Presidential Election. I mean, seriously. That was 10 years ago!
(Shout from the back) Are yous kiddin’ me?! Yous assholes just got LeBron James!
Chairman (banging gavel furiously): New York, we’ve had enough of your outbursts! You’re dangerously close to getting tazed.
Alright, you’ve made your point, Florida. Last but not least, if they’re lucky (laughter trickles throughout the panel members), New Jersey. State your case.
New Jersey: Ok, well, going off what my colleague Florida was just saying, for all of his confused elderly and NASCAR-appreciating citizens, I am the butt of far more jokes than he is. New Jersey is everybody’s favorite whipping boy. And now that reality show just got picked up for a second season. You all probably think that’s a perfect reason to pick me, but let me tell you, it’s humiliating. I don’t think I’m off base when I say that choosing me would be too obvious. Be creative! Be original. Think outside the box.
Panelist #12: Hold it right there. You made a very convincing argument right up until you said, ‘think outside the box.’ How about YOU think outside the box by NOT saying the phrase, ‘think outside the box.’ You’re back on the list.
(Just then Maine drunkenly stands on its seat, uses one hand to point an angry finger at the panel and its other hand to lewdly grab itself)
Maine: Oh yeah, well you’re back on this list!
Chairman (more gavel banging): That’s enough! We warned you last time, Maine. Security, remove The Pine Tree State from the proceedings. (Puts hand over mic and turns to panelists on his right) I mean it – this is the last year they’ll be allowed to bring in outside alcohol.
Panelist #3 (whispering to Panelist #8): Wow. I can’t believe Maine was the first to get thrown out. I thought for sure it would be Nevada.
Panelist #8 (whispering to Panelist #3): My money was on Wisconsin, but man, she can really hold her liquor.
Chairman: OK, let’s get back on track, people. Each of you has had a chance to speak, so before we adjourn to make our decision, let me just address some points of interest with a few of you.
Arizona – You should know right off the bat that you’re a leading candidate. You hate all your residents, anyway. You’re practically begging for some kind of disaster to occur. And good Lord, could you be any hotter? And we’re not talking about being popular or really attractive. We’re talking about the f#@*ing heat. How can you stand it? You really think it makes a difference that there’s no humidity? That’s supposed to make up for the fact that we have to breathe sand? I think if you were suddenly catapulted to the sun, not many states would openly weep. And you wouldn’t notice a difference.
California – I think we’re split down the middle on your fate. I mean, you have your regular slate of disasters – fires, mudslides, earthquakes. On the other hand, it’d be tough for a state to be more pompous. You’ve got your beaches, your movie stars, your overpriced… well, everything. And let’s not forget your weather is almost as obnoxiously nice as Arizona’s is obnoxiously hot. Then there’s the fact that you wouldn’t convict a celebrity for double murder if he molested your child at his fantasy ranch and then videotaped himself beating you alongside a bunch of police officers after a minor traffic violation. And, you know… committed double murder.
Kansas - Sheesh. Where do I start? Let’s just say you’re lucky Darwin’s not on this panel.
And New Hampshire - That little fling you’re having with a certain Canadian province that shall remain nameless? It’s not as secret as you think it is. Turns out one of our members got a hold of an e-mail you sent her and I don’t think your wife would be too happy with what you wrote. Not only that, but you are sick, man. Absolutely sick.
Let’s see… who else, who else? Oh yeah, Oregon – Waah, waah, waah, waah, waah. Come on! You didn’t even make a case for yourself. You just went on and on about ‘Can’t we all just live in peace and love and harmony? Why do we have to have disasters and suffering?’ Auuugggghhhh (mockingly sticks finger down throat). I swear, if Lewis and Clark weren’t already dead, I’d kill them myself.
And Georgia – The panel will definitely take into account that unfortunate incident that a few of our members had when they pulled into one of your truck stops along I-75 last year. What’s that? The owners of the truck stop didn’t know who they were? Well, maybe next time they won’t get so wide eyed at the sight of ‘out-of-towners.’
Ok, I think that’s it. Rest assured, we will factor in Maine’s complete lack of respect for this panel and for all of you. We’re going to talk it over, then let’s reconvene at 11 a.m. for the big announcement. Just a reminder, the next disaster on the docket involves millions of strains of the Ebola virus being dropped into your largest city’s supply of drinking water. Keep your fingers crossed!
Panel Chairman: Alright, I apologize for this meeting spilling over into a third day, but there are just so many of you. These things were a lot easier when there were only 13 colonies. Anyway, just to remind everyone, now that the oil mess in the Gulf looks to be under control, it’s time to decide which of you should be next on the quote-unquote, hit list. In the last five years, Louisiana has obviously dealt with a major hurricane and the BP disaster, so it has a pass for the next six months. Also, keep in mind that even though the final judging isn’t official, Michigan is most likely off the hook this year because of its economic woes, and Ohio will probably get off easy because by all appearances it has never recovered from its last disaster. Whatever it was.
We only have two of you left to plead your case, so hopefully we’ll be out of here before lunch. Florida, you’re up.
Florida: Well, I’m sure most of you are aware that due to the economic downturn, I’ve experienced plummeting home prices the last couple years. My tourism industry was hurt this summer as well due to tar balls washing up on a lot of my beaches. Granted, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what Louisiana experienced, but still. A lot of people forget, but I also suffered damage due to a handful of hurricanes that hit my shores the same year as Katrina. Again, not nearly as bad, but I don’t think ALL the sympathy should be reserved for New Orleans. And I’m still the butt of jokes for the 2000 Presidential Election. I mean, seriously. That was 10 years ago!
(Shout from the back) Are yous kiddin’ me?! Yous assholes just got LeBron James!
Chairman (banging gavel furiously): New York, we’ve had enough of your outbursts! You’re dangerously close to getting tazed.
Alright, you’ve made your point, Florida. Last but not least, if they’re lucky (laughter trickles throughout the panel members), New Jersey. State your case.
New Jersey: Ok, well, going off what my colleague Florida was just saying, for all of his confused elderly and NASCAR-appreciating citizens, I am the butt of far more jokes than he is. New Jersey is everybody’s favorite whipping boy. And now that reality show just got picked up for a second season. You all probably think that’s a perfect reason to pick me, but let me tell you, it’s humiliating. I don’t think I’m off base when I say that choosing me would be too obvious. Be creative! Be original. Think outside the box.
Panelist #12: Hold it right there. You made a very convincing argument right up until you said, ‘think outside the box.’ How about YOU think outside the box by NOT saying the phrase, ‘think outside the box.’ You’re back on the list.
(Just then Maine drunkenly stands on its seat, uses one hand to point an angry finger at the panel and its other hand to lewdly grab itself)
Maine: Oh yeah, well you’re back on this list!
Chairman (more gavel banging): That’s enough! We warned you last time, Maine. Security, remove The Pine Tree State from the proceedings. (Puts hand over mic and turns to panelists on his right) I mean it – this is the last year they’ll be allowed to bring in outside alcohol.
Panelist #3 (whispering to Panelist #8): Wow. I can’t believe Maine was the first to get thrown out. I thought for sure it would be Nevada.
Panelist #8 (whispering to Panelist #3): My money was on Wisconsin, but man, she can really hold her liquor.
Chairman: OK, let’s get back on track, people. Each of you has had a chance to speak, so before we adjourn to make our decision, let me just address some points of interest with a few of you.
Arizona – You should know right off the bat that you’re a leading candidate. You hate all your residents, anyway. You’re practically begging for some kind of disaster to occur. And good Lord, could you be any hotter? And we’re not talking about being popular or really attractive. We’re talking about the f#@*ing heat. How can you stand it? You really think it makes a difference that there’s no humidity? That’s supposed to make up for the fact that we have to breathe sand? I think if you were suddenly catapulted to the sun, not many states would openly weep. And you wouldn’t notice a difference.
California – I think we’re split down the middle on your fate. I mean, you have your regular slate of disasters – fires, mudslides, earthquakes. On the other hand, it’d be tough for a state to be more pompous. You’ve got your beaches, your movie stars, your overpriced… well, everything. And let’s not forget your weather is almost as obnoxiously nice as Arizona’s is obnoxiously hot. Then there’s the fact that you wouldn’t convict a celebrity for double murder if he molested your child at his fantasy ranch and then videotaped himself beating you alongside a bunch of police officers after a minor traffic violation. And, you know… committed double murder.
Kansas - Sheesh. Where do I start? Let’s just say you’re lucky Darwin’s not on this panel.
And New Hampshire - That little fling you’re having with a certain Canadian province that shall remain nameless? It’s not as secret as you think it is. Turns out one of our members got a hold of an e-mail you sent her and I don’t think your wife would be too happy with what you wrote. Not only that, but you are sick, man. Absolutely sick.
Let’s see… who else, who else? Oh yeah, Oregon – Waah, waah, waah, waah, waah. Come on! You didn’t even make a case for yourself. You just went on and on about ‘Can’t we all just live in peace and love and harmony? Why do we have to have disasters and suffering?’ Auuugggghhhh (mockingly sticks finger down throat). I swear, if Lewis and Clark weren’t already dead, I’d kill them myself.
And Georgia – The panel will definitely take into account that unfortunate incident that a few of our members had when they pulled into one of your truck stops along I-75 last year. What’s that? The owners of the truck stop didn’t know who they were? Well, maybe next time they won’t get so wide eyed at the sight of ‘out-of-towners.’
Ok, I think that’s it. Rest assured, we will factor in Maine’s complete lack of respect for this panel and for all of you. We’re going to talk it over, then let’s reconvene at 11 a.m. for the big announcement. Just a reminder, the next disaster on the docket involves millions of strains of the Ebola virus being dropped into your largest city’s supply of drinking water. Keep your fingers crossed!
Monday, July 26, 2010
It Only Gets Crappier From Here
So earlier tonight I heard my three-year-old son tell my wife, "Mom, we should go on vacation" (again). The kid has never paid for a single bite of food that he's put in his mouth and yet he thinks he needs a(nother) vacation. Every day for him is a vacation. I didn't have the heart to tell him to enjoy this time while he can because in a few years the highlight of his day will be finding a seat on the bus that's not covered in dried boogers.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Voicemail Message from the Double Rainbow
Voicemail Message Left By the Double Rainbow on YouTube for the Guy Who Videotaped It
“Dude. Uh…hey. What’s up? Sorry I missed you. I hate talking on these things.
“Uh… look, just wanted to let you know I appreciate your passion. Really, I do. I tend to get a lot of oohs and ahhs, but nothing like what you did. And my cousin, the Single Rainbow, barely even gets a nod of appreciation from adults. It’s usually just kids who come out of the house to take a closer look when he decides to make an appearance. He won’t admit it, but he’s super jealous. Always bitching about putting in twice as many hours for only a quarter of the gratitude. Blah, blah, blah.
“Anyway, uh… so that’s cool that I was able to make your day. But, seriously, you might want to consider taking down the video, if you can. I really don’t know how these things work. Do you even have the rights to your own video any more, or does it legally belong to the YouTube people? Maybe you can talk to them and work out a deal. I’ve become the butt of quite a few jokes lately. Plus… ah crap. Stupid beep. These things are never long enough.”
(Redials)
“Hey, me again. Sorry to drone on forever, but as I was saying… I’ve also become the new standard measure of joy for people, whether it’s a not-so-ordinary life event or the most mundane daily occurrence with the most inconsequential results. People are shouting my name every time a second bag of chips unexpectedly drops in the vending machine. It’s insulting, quite frankly. Not to mention that it’s a lot to live up to. I don’t need the attention. I kind of like to just hang out and do my thing.
“But most importantly, people are starting to figure out what you were doing. I mean, it’s pretty obvious. Sure, you never turned the camera on yourself, but the audio is pretty damning. But I haven’t been telling people. Believe me! I have not said a word. The whole thing freaked me out. I mean, there you were… doing what you were doing, and I couldn’t go anywhere. I’m frozen there until the sun is finished refracting through the clouds or the rain or whatever. I couldn’t move. You really put me in an awkward position. There’s no reason you couldn’t go back inside to do that. I know, I know, you got that place out in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around for miles, but then you put it on YouTube, so your whole goal of ‘more privacy’ is moot at that point. Damn it!”
(Redials)
“Ok, so I don’t want to go on and on, but if we can just forget about the whole thing, I think that would be best. I’m sure you don’t want people to still talk about it. I can only imagine your embarrassment. And I won’t ever be able to erase that image of you “enjoying” the glory of the Double Rainbow, but if everybody stopped talking about it, that would sure help.
“So… anyway… thanks again. It was cool until it turned creepy. Take it easy.”
(Click)
“Dude. Uh…hey. What’s up? Sorry I missed you. I hate talking on these things.
“Uh… look, just wanted to let you know I appreciate your passion. Really, I do. I tend to get a lot of oohs and ahhs, but nothing like what you did. And my cousin, the Single Rainbow, barely even gets a nod of appreciation from adults. It’s usually just kids who come out of the house to take a closer look when he decides to make an appearance. He won’t admit it, but he’s super jealous. Always bitching about putting in twice as many hours for only a quarter of the gratitude. Blah, blah, blah.
“Anyway, uh… so that’s cool that I was able to make your day. But, seriously, you might want to consider taking down the video, if you can. I really don’t know how these things work. Do you even have the rights to your own video any more, or does it legally belong to the YouTube people? Maybe you can talk to them and work out a deal. I’ve become the butt of quite a few jokes lately. Plus… ah crap. Stupid beep. These things are never long enough.”
(Redials)
“Hey, me again. Sorry to drone on forever, but as I was saying… I’ve also become the new standard measure of joy for people, whether it’s a not-so-ordinary life event or the most mundane daily occurrence with the most inconsequential results. People are shouting my name every time a second bag of chips unexpectedly drops in the vending machine. It’s insulting, quite frankly. Not to mention that it’s a lot to live up to. I don’t need the attention. I kind of like to just hang out and do my thing.
“But most importantly, people are starting to figure out what you were doing. I mean, it’s pretty obvious. Sure, you never turned the camera on yourself, but the audio is pretty damning. But I haven’t been telling people. Believe me! I have not said a word. The whole thing freaked me out. I mean, there you were… doing what you were doing, and I couldn’t go anywhere. I’m frozen there until the sun is finished refracting through the clouds or the rain or whatever. I couldn’t move. You really put me in an awkward position. There’s no reason you couldn’t go back inside to do that. I know, I know, you got that place out in the middle of nowhere, with no one else around for miles, but then you put it on YouTube, so your whole goal of ‘more privacy’ is moot at that point. Damn it!”
(Redials)
“Ok, so I don’t want to go on and on, but if we can just forget about the whole thing, I think that would be best. I’m sure you don’t want people to still talk about it. I can only imagine your embarrassment. And I won’t ever be able to erase that image of you “enjoying” the glory of the Double Rainbow, but if everybody stopped talking about it, that would sure help.
“So… anyway… thanks again. It was cool until it turned creepy. Take it easy.”
(Click)
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Foul Run Afoul
The warm, summer breezes have ushered in new additions to the grounds of my abode – blooming flowers, lush grass, sprouting weeds, and a new companion. He joins me during the daytime hours on the screened-in porch, which serves as a gentle portal to the sun’s harsh rays beating down across the backyard. An escape from the heat while still communing with nature, the space is a welcoming enclosure for man and beast alike.
My first encounter with the unexpected visitor was complete with a proper greeting to my new-found friend.
“What the hell?! There’s a bird in here,” I said.
His presence brought forth a gentle reminder of Mother Nature’s transition of seasons, but I decided the winged guest would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings, so with the wave of my broom, I kindly escorted him out the door and wished him well in all his endeavors.
“Get outta here, bird!”
After a wink and a smile, I untied the wires holding up the doggy door that the previous home owners had fashioned in place, as that was clearly how my feathered neighbor had been coming and going.
Not quite a week had passed, however, when I noticed him again residing in the porch. The industrious creature was not swayed by the sealed doggy door. A careful review of the screens around the perimeter revealed a few gaps where the netting was not attached to the structure’s wooden posts.
I delighted in the prospect of the challenge before me.
“Damn it!” I yelled to no one in particular.
After hurrying to my toolbox, I crudely reattached each gap in the screens with my trusty staple gun. I didn’t want my airborne friend to feel unwelcome, I was simply looking out for him. I knew that in his own environment, he could thrive; soaring among the clouds and the tree limbs that danced across them.
Upon completing my task, I once again whooshed him out the door and hoped that he would continue to visit me whenever I ventured outside the porch and into the yard.
“Now beat it, you flying, disease-carrying rat.”
Mere hours later I gazed into the porch, admiring the work I had not planned on performing, but would nonetheless appreciate while sitting bird-free in my sanctuary.
Only it wasn’t bird-free.
His return left me feeling slightly deflated, but I wanted him to know I admired his persistence and determination.
“F*#k you, bird! Do you hear me? F*#k you!!”
It appeared he had now entered through one or multiple holes that either previously existed, or that he had created by continually pecking at the screen. I was forced to resort to the even cruder solution of applying duct tape to said holes. It was a move that ignored aesthetics and focused solely on eliminating the bird’s return. It was also a move that, an hour later, proved ineffective.
Admittedly I was a tad frustrated. I let out a quiet sigh, humbled by my failure to adequately secure the enclosure.
“That’s it, I’m buying a bb gun,” I told him. “I’m going to wipe the Earth clean of your species. Then I’m going to wipe out all species of birds. Maybe bats too. After that I’ll destroy every last flying insect I come across. Nothing with wings will exist on this planet ever again!”
I could sense that the bird now feared me. The way he looked me in the eye and relieved himself on my patio chair told me that he took my threat seriously. At this point, my wife provided me with a window into his refusal to retreat. Or should I say, ‘her’ refusal.
“I thought I heard some chirping in the rafters, so I took a peak up there,” Brigitte said. “There’s a nest and some babies.”
Suddenly the bird’s ambition was clear. And I ceased referring to it as ‘him’. She was a momma and she was taking care of her young. I felt my irritation soften.
“I think we’ll have to let her in, and we can’t move the nest or she’ll abandon the babies,” Brigitte noted.
With a family of my own, I sympathized with the bird and agreed we must let the mother nurse her young until they were ready to soar alongside her. However, thoughts of what may come weighed heavy on my mind.
“I’m just afraid that while we wait for the babies to leave, another one will get in here, build a nest, lay more eggs and before we know it, there will be bird shit everywhere,” I said.
Pondering this, my wife agreed that the situation presented quite a conundrum.
“Yeah,” she said.
So far, however, no other visitors have stopped by. And the momma and her babies have not been seen for a couple days. It seems they’ve taken to the outside world, and I’m actually starting to miss them and their melodic songs. Sure, I bought some rubber snakes to put in the rafters, but still.
Good luck, birds.
My first encounter with the unexpected visitor was complete with a proper greeting to my new-found friend.
“What the hell?! There’s a bird in here,” I said.
His presence brought forth a gentle reminder of Mother Nature’s transition of seasons, but I decided the winged guest would be more comfortable in familiar surroundings, so with the wave of my broom, I kindly escorted him out the door and wished him well in all his endeavors.
“Get outta here, bird!”
After a wink and a smile, I untied the wires holding up the doggy door that the previous home owners had fashioned in place, as that was clearly how my feathered neighbor had been coming and going.
Not quite a week had passed, however, when I noticed him again residing in the porch. The industrious creature was not swayed by the sealed doggy door. A careful review of the screens around the perimeter revealed a few gaps where the netting was not attached to the structure’s wooden posts.
I delighted in the prospect of the challenge before me.
“Damn it!” I yelled to no one in particular.
After hurrying to my toolbox, I crudely reattached each gap in the screens with my trusty staple gun. I didn’t want my airborne friend to feel unwelcome, I was simply looking out for him. I knew that in his own environment, he could thrive; soaring among the clouds and the tree limbs that danced across them.
Upon completing my task, I once again whooshed him out the door and hoped that he would continue to visit me whenever I ventured outside the porch and into the yard.
“Now beat it, you flying, disease-carrying rat.”
Mere hours later I gazed into the porch, admiring the work I had not planned on performing, but would nonetheless appreciate while sitting bird-free in my sanctuary.
Only it wasn’t bird-free.
His return left me feeling slightly deflated, but I wanted him to know I admired his persistence and determination.
“F*#k you, bird! Do you hear me? F*#k you!!”
It appeared he had now entered through one or multiple holes that either previously existed, or that he had created by continually pecking at the screen. I was forced to resort to the even cruder solution of applying duct tape to said holes. It was a move that ignored aesthetics and focused solely on eliminating the bird’s return. It was also a move that, an hour later, proved ineffective.
Admittedly I was a tad frustrated. I let out a quiet sigh, humbled by my failure to adequately secure the enclosure.
“That’s it, I’m buying a bb gun,” I told him. “I’m going to wipe the Earth clean of your species. Then I’m going to wipe out all species of birds. Maybe bats too. After that I’ll destroy every last flying insect I come across. Nothing with wings will exist on this planet ever again!”
I could sense that the bird now feared me. The way he looked me in the eye and relieved himself on my patio chair told me that he took my threat seriously. At this point, my wife provided me with a window into his refusal to retreat. Or should I say, ‘her’ refusal.
“I thought I heard some chirping in the rafters, so I took a peak up there,” Brigitte said. “There’s a nest and some babies.”
Suddenly the bird’s ambition was clear. And I ceased referring to it as ‘him’. She was a momma and she was taking care of her young. I felt my irritation soften.
“I think we’ll have to let her in, and we can’t move the nest or she’ll abandon the babies,” Brigitte noted.
With a family of my own, I sympathized with the bird and agreed we must let the mother nurse her young until they were ready to soar alongside her. However, thoughts of what may come weighed heavy on my mind.
“I’m just afraid that while we wait for the babies to leave, another one will get in here, build a nest, lay more eggs and before we know it, there will be bird shit everywhere,” I said.
Pondering this, my wife agreed that the situation presented quite a conundrum.
“Yeah,” she said.
So far, however, no other visitors have stopped by. And the momma and her babies have not been seen for a couple days. It seems they’ve taken to the outside world, and I’m actually starting to miss them and their melodic songs. Sure, I bought some rubber snakes to put in the rafters, but still.
Good luck, birds.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Where's My Mutant Bank Teller?
If you’ve turned on your TV for five minutes in the last two weeks, you’ve probably seen previews for a movie called Splice. The premise looks easy enough to understand – scientists, or at least two people who stole a couple of white coats, toy around in a lab until they create a being that’s half human, half Fox News correspondent. Then the Ann Coulter baby tries to devour its creators and wreak havoc for registered Democrats AND Republicans. No one is safe.
I’m not going to watch this movie and I advise that you don’t either. For one thing, it’s not an original premise. Humans creating things that come to life and turn on them has been seen since at least as far back as Frankenstein. And without knowing how it ends, I imagine most of the movie is pretty predictable. What do the main characters think will happen by tinkering with the DNA of someone from Fox, anyway?
I’d like to see a movie where people take some genomes here, some genomes there, and create a pig/bird/hippo human baby, then raise it and send it off to public school. They could show it playing soccer or t-ball with his peers, learning to ride a bike, participating poorly in spelling bees… or maybe it would do well in spelling bees. Who knows? Surprise us. Don’t have it become class president, though, or take the cutest girl to the senior prom. That’s a little too Teen Wolf or Encino Man. The movie needs to have some foothold in reality, and I imagine a kid with a beak and a curly tail would face just a little criticism from middle schoolers.
It may sound dull, but the movie should be devoid of any extremes. Despite the ridicule he’s sure to receive, I don’t want any scenes where the hippo kid loses control and takes a gun to school, or cries for 3/4s of the movie and then overcomes his adversity to get nominated to the Supreme Court (we’ve seen that already with Justice Scalia). Nothing that teaches valuable lessons or spins a heart-warming tale. Just show his family going to Applebee’s or visiting him at his telemarketing job. Life can’t be all about slithering on the ground and eating everyone you come across. At some point you have to renew your car insurance, no matter how many monkey paws you have.
And it absolutely should not become a super hero or super villain. We’ve definitely seen that before. Every theatrical mutant creature either wants to save the world or destroy it. Something about mixing the genes of people with the genes of animals creates a crazy amount of ambition. Give me a break! If there’s a half-man, half-horse running around, he’s not stopping bank robbers, he’s most likely driving the Greyhound I just passed.
But I get it. That’s not entertaining. Well, here’s betting that Splice isn’t either.
I’m not going to watch this movie and I advise that you don’t either. For one thing, it’s not an original premise. Humans creating things that come to life and turn on them has been seen since at least as far back as Frankenstein. And without knowing how it ends, I imagine most of the movie is pretty predictable. What do the main characters think will happen by tinkering with the DNA of someone from Fox, anyway?
I’d like to see a movie where people take some genomes here, some genomes there, and create a pig/bird/hippo human baby, then raise it and send it off to public school. They could show it playing soccer or t-ball with his peers, learning to ride a bike, participating poorly in spelling bees… or maybe it would do well in spelling bees. Who knows? Surprise us. Don’t have it become class president, though, or take the cutest girl to the senior prom. That’s a little too Teen Wolf or Encino Man. The movie needs to have some foothold in reality, and I imagine a kid with a beak and a curly tail would face just a little criticism from middle schoolers.
It may sound dull, but the movie should be devoid of any extremes. Despite the ridicule he’s sure to receive, I don’t want any scenes where the hippo kid loses control and takes a gun to school, or cries for 3/4s of the movie and then overcomes his adversity to get nominated to the Supreme Court (we’ve seen that already with Justice Scalia). Nothing that teaches valuable lessons or spins a heart-warming tale. Just show his family going to Applebee’s or visiting him at his telemarketing job. Life can’t be all about slithering on the ground and eating everyone you come across. At some point you have to renew your car insurance, no matter how many monkey paws you have.
And it absolutely should not become a super hero or super villain. We’ve definitely seen that before. Every theatrical mutant creature either wants to save the world or destroy it. Something about mixing the genes of people with the genes of animals creates a crazy amount of ambition. Give me a break! If there’s a half-man, half-horse running around, he’s not stopping bank robbers, he’s most likely driving the Greyhound I just passed.
But I get it. That’s not entertaining. Well, here’s betting that Splice isn’t either.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Family That Scares Together...
I haven’t truly been scared by a horror movie since I was a kid. I haven’t been a big fan of them since, but that one certainly didn’t shy me away from them. I’ve seen my fair share, it’s just that most of them are pretty stupid and don’t leave much of an impression.
At least I thought they hadn’t. These days, though, I’ve been a little on edge (particularly at night), and I put all the blame on horror movies. Lately, whenever I come out of my bedroom after, say, 8:30 p.m. there’s a good chance my three-year-old son will be standing in the hallway staring at me. Since he’s supposed to be in bed, I always jump out of my socks. Or sometimes I’ll round the corner and he’ll be standing at the top of the stairs, which is even spookier.
Whenever he does this, I explain to him, “Son, you have to stop getting out of bed like this. You see, throughout history, children in your age bracket have been depicted as harbingers of evil in scary movies. They’re usually motionless, staring ominously into the darkness, much like you’re doing now. A lot of times they start out as innocent bystanders, happily playing with their toys or their dog, when one day they’re overcome by some demonic presence bent on destroying civilization. Other times they start off rotten and are sent to Earth by a malicious overlord who wants to harvest our souls for his own personal gain. Things never turn out well for those who get their souls harvested.
“There are rare occasions when an evil spirit will possess the child’s doll, but that’s not quite as frightening as the child becoming possessed himself. Sure, it’s a story line that’s been beaten into the ground, but it’s become tradition. A horror movie just isn’t complete without the freaky kid.”
He usually stares at me blankly, which of course worries me, so I’m forced to ask him, “Buddy, are you possessed?”
He typically responds by saying, “No, I just have to poop.”
Sometimes he’ll say he wants to brush his teeth. And other times he’ll want me or his mother to read him a bedtime story. I’ve yet to hear him say anything like, “The seas will run red with your blood.”
So, I should probably relax and not be so jumpy, but it’s tough. Too many damn movies.
At least I thought they hadn’t. These days, though, I’ve been a little on edge (particularly at night), and I put all the blame on horror movies. Lately, whenever I come out of my bedroom after, say, 8:30 p.m. there’s a good chance my three-year-old son will be standing in the hallway staring at me. Since he’s supposed to be in bed, I always jump out of my socks. Or sometimes I’ll round the corner and he’ll be standing at the top of the stairs, which is even spookier.
Whenever he does this, I explain to him, “Son, you have to stop getting out of bed like this. You see, throughout history, children in your age bracket have been depicted as harbingers of evil in scary movies. They’re usually motionless, staring ominously into the darkness, much like you’re doing now. A lot of times they start out as innocent bystanders, happily playing with their toys or their dog, when one day they’re overcome by some demonic presence bent on destroying civilization. Other times they start off rotten and are sent to Earth by a malicious overlord who wants to harvest our souls for his own personal gain. Things never turn out well for those who get their souls harvested.
“There are rare occasions when an evil spirit will possess the child’s doll, but that’s not quite as frightening as the child becoming possessed himself. Sure, it’s a story line that’s been beaten into the ground, but it’s become tradition. A horror movie just isn’t complete without the freaky kid.”
He usually stares at me blankly, which of course worries me, so I’m forced to ask him, “Buddy, are you possessed?”
He typically responds by saying, “No, I just have to poop.”
Sometimes he’ll say he wants to brush his teeth. And other times he’ll want me or his mother to read him a bedtime story. I’ve yet to hear him say anything like, “The seas will run red with your blood.”
So, I should probably relax and not be so jumpy, but it’s tough. Too many damn movies.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I'll Just Stick with the Haircut, Thanks
It used to be that if you had an undesirable, embarrassing ailment or condition, you had to search high and low for information on a remedy. You might see or hear an advertisement for a pill to cure your overwhelming body odor, but it would only be late at night on some public access channel. Nowadays there’s a product to combat anything you can think of and each one is marketed during all hours of the day.
For a lot of people, this is a good thing. But the FCC needs to create some new technology that regulates how these products are marketed. Here’s my solution: Televisions should be wired so that commercials filtered through personal TVs are different from the ones that are shown on public/business TVs. I don’t know how this would work. The ‘how’ isn’t important, just the fact that it needs to happen.
I appreciate when a business owner is kind enough to provide a TV in his or her waiting room, but it’s almost more of a risk than a perk. Twice in the last couple of months, I have been at a place of business in the middle of the day, surrounded by strangers, when a Viagra commercial has come on. I can’t think of many places where I would like to be when the word ‘erection’ is overheard, but I can immediately think of two places where I don’t want to be and those are the car dealership and the barbershop.
I guess it could have been worse. Overhearing it at the hardware store would be uncomfortable. Standing in line for movie tickets would be odd. Work, church, the deli counter, a parent-teacher conference… all of these seem like highly inappropriate places.
The airport wouldn’t be so bad, simply because of the sheer number of people who are preoccupied with their own lives to really notice. But on an airplane would be awful. Aside from hearing that word through your headset while watching the in-flight movie (which doesn’t count because the headset makes you feel like you’re the only one hearing it), the only way you’d hear it on a plane is if it’s said by the person next to you, a stewardess or the pilot over the intercom.
Still, I stand by my assertion that one of the worst places to be is sitting in a chair while an old man runs his fingers through your hair. The ease of the room seems to disappear when that low, smoky voice tells you to consult your doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours.
And plenty of other commercials fit this bill. If I visit a relative in a retirement home, I don’t want to worry about ads for funeral homes coming on while I’m there. And when I’m at the gym, I’d prefer that none of the TVs show a woman who’s concerned about her level of freshness. Granted, given the number of times I go to these places, the likelihood of either scenario occurring is slim to none (particularly the one at the gym). But still. It’s possible.
A more likely scenario is one day soon I will cart a busload of kids to Chuck-E-Cheeses (which surely have TVs these days) and one of my own will turn to me and say, “Daddy, this advertisement with women in yellow bathing suits falling into a pool and doing a synchronized dance… is it trying to sell birth control?”
If that happens, I’ll have to be straightforward with my kid and answer honestly and to the best of my ability by saying, “How the hell should I know?”
My point is that you can’t go anywhere these days without commercials creating uncomfortable social moments. Just yesterday I walked into my boss’ office to ask for some paperwork I needed. While she was searching for it, an ad came on her radio for discount vasectomies. There’s only one thing to do in that situation.
“SO… HOW ‘BOUT THOSE METS?” I asked.
Something has to be done. We all need vasectomies, but don’t remind me at work. Send some literature to my home. And wrap it tightly in a brown paper bag.
For a lot of people, this is a good thing. But the FCC needs to create some new technology that regulates how these products are marketed. Here’s my solution: Televisions should be wired so that commercials filtered through personal TVs are different from the ones that are shown on public/business TVs. I don’t know how this would work. The ‘how’ isn’t important, just the fact that it needs to happen.
I appreciate when a business owner is kind enough to provide a TV in his or her waiting room, but it’s almost more of a risk than a perk. Twice in the last couple of months, I have been at a place of business in the middle of the day, surrounded by strangers, when a Viagra commercial has come on. I can’t think of many places where I would like to be when the word ‘erection’ is overheard, but I can immediately think of two places where I don’t want to be and those are the car dealership and the barbershop.
I guess it could have been worse. Overhearing it at the hardware store would be uncomfortable. Standing in line for movie tickets would be odd. Work, church, the deli counter, a parent-teacher conference… all of these seem like highly inappropriate places.
The airport wouldn’t be so bad, simply because of the sheer number of people who are preoccupied with their own lives to really notice. But on an airplane would be awful. Aside from hearing that word through your headset while watching the in-flight movie (which doesn’t count because the headset makes you feel like you’re the only one hearing it), the only way you’d hear it on a plane is if it’s said by the person next to you, a stewardess or the pilot over the intercom.
Still, I stand by my assertion that one of the worst places to be is sitting in a chair while an old man runs his fingers through your hair. The ease of the room seems to disappear when that low, smoky voice tells you to consult your doctor if an erection lasts for more than four hours.
And plenty of other commercials fit this bill. If I visit a relative in a retirement home, I don’t want to worry about ads for funeral homes coming on while I’m there. And when I’m at the gym, I’d prefer that none of the TVs show a woman who’s concerned about her level of freshness. Granted, given the number of times I go to these places, the likelihood of either scenario occurring is slim to none (particularly the one at the gym). But still. It’s possible.
A more likely scenario is one day soon I will cart a busload of kids to Chuck-E-Cheeses (which surely have TVs these days) and one of my own will turn to me and say, “Daddy, this advertisement with women in yellow bathing suits falling into a pool and doing a synchronized dance… is it trying to sell birth control?”
If that happens, I’ll have to be straightforward with my kid and answer honestly and to the best of my ability by saying, “How the hell should I know?”
My point is that you can’t go anywhere these days without commercials creating uncomfortable social moments. Just yesterday I walked into my boss’ office to ask for some paperwork I needed. While she was searching for it, an ad came on her radio for discount vasectomies. There’s only one thing to do in that situation.
“SO… HOW ‘BOUT THOSE METS?” I asked.
Something has to be done. We all need vasectomies, but don’t remind me at work. Send some literature to my home. And wrap it tightly in a brown paper bag.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The News is Making Me Thirsty
With so much political divisiveness going on these days, all sorts of new political parties have formed with ideas of how to change our government. It may be hard to keep track of all the groups and what they stand for, so feel free to consult the list below for some answers.
Tea Party – a loud, unorganized group that uses its title to hearken back to a Revolutionary movement without really understanding what that original movement was about. Many of its members are even unsure of what their current movement is about.
Coffee Party – formed in response to the Tea Party and consisting of similar types of people with similarly vague, unspecific ideas about what they expect from their government. This party’s only distinguishable trait is its pompous refusal to pay reasonable prices for coffee.
Kool-Aid Party – this group’s name strikes fear in those hearing of it for the first time because of the images it conjures up about Jim Jones. Instead, it consists largely of moms who drive mini-vans and get their kids to burn energy by playing soccer, only to fuel them up again by serving them Kool-Aid afterwards. Members fail to realize they can save thousands of dollars a year in sugar and gasoline by having their kids participate in something equally enjoyable, such as playing with fish hooks.
Lemonade Party – a moderate, easy-going party that is typically heard from only in the summer. Their off-shoot ‘pink’ contingent is highly active in raising cancer awareness.
Punch Party – this group has a hard time advancing its ideals unless they align themselves with a stronger group whose members display more confidence and fewer inhibitions. They do very well in the polls when partnering with Russian political advisors (see next party).
Vodka Party – enjoyed its renaissance during Boris Yeltsin’s administration
Soda Party – this group fails to gain any significant foothold due to its many fractured divisions. Members often bicker about which division is superior, with many groups changing their original colors from dark to clear. These members typically contain fewer ingredients and are often viewed as less influential. Other factors contributing to the group’s troubles include a divide over what to be called. Depending on where supporters live, the group may prefer to be called the ‘Pop Party,’ the ‘Cola Party’ or the traditional ‘Soft Drink Party’.
Sweet Tea Party Рdespite its name, has few viewpoints that are similar to the Tea Party. Sweet Tea advocates stand for everything that is right in the universe. It is a delicious, mouth-watering group that goes well with just about any entr̩e. Its roots can be traced back to a southern movement, and members can tolerate just about anything, even Jimmy Carter.
Bourbon, Rum, Scotch, Wine and Tequila Parties – Highly powerful, highly controversial groups that benefit from a lot of support, but ultimately fail on election day due to their struggles to sober up and make it out to the voting booths. Many also face scrutiny over questions of their citizenship.
Tea Party – a loud, unorganized group that uses its title to hearken back to a Revolutionary movement without really understanding what that original movement was about. Many of its members are even unsure of what their current movement is about.
Coffee Party – formed in response to the Tea Party and consisting of similar types of people with similarly vague, unspecific ideas about what they expect from their government. This party’s only distinguishable trait is its pompous refusal to pay reasonable prices for coffee.
Kool-Aid Party – this group’s name strikes fear in those hearing of it for the first time because of the images it conjures up about Jim Jones. Instead, it consists largely of moms who drive mini-vans and get their kids to burn energy by playing soccer, only to fuel them up again by serving them Kool-Aid afterwards. Members fail to realize they can save thousands of dollars a year in sugar and gasoline by having their kids participate in something equally enjoyable, such as playing with fish hooks.
Lemonade Party – a moderate, easy-going party that is typically heard from only in the summer. Their off-shoot ‘pink’ contingent is highly active in raising cancer awareness.
Punch Party – this group has a hard time advancing its ideals unless they align themselves with a stronger group whose members display more confidence and fewer inhibitions. They do very well in the polls when partnering with Russian political advisors (see next party).
Vodka Party – enjoyed its renaissance during Boris Yeltsin’s administration
Soda Party – this group fails to gain any significant foothold due to its many fractured divisions. Members often bicker about which division is superior, with many groups changing their original colors from dark to clear. These members typically contain fewer ingredients and are often viewed as less influential. Other factors contributing to the group’s troubles include a divide over what to be called. Depending on where supporters live, the group may prefer to be called the ‘Pop Party,’ the ‘Cola Party’ or the traditional ‘Soft Drink Party’.
Sweet Tea Party Рdespite its name, has few viewpoints that are similar to the Tea Party. Sweet Tea advocates stand for everything that is right in the universe. It is a delicious, mouth-watering group that goes well with just about any entr̩e. Its roots can be traced back to a southern movement, and members can tolerate just about anything, even Jimmy Carter.
Bourbon, Rum, Scotch, Wine and Tequila Parties – Highly powerful, highly controversial groups that benefit from a lot of support, but ultimately fail on election day due to their struggles to sober up and make it out to the voting booths. Many also face scrutiny over questions of their citizenship.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
I Want My Picture Back
A few weeks ago I submitted a writing entry to a regular monthly contest offered by Writer's Digest. As part of the contest, titled 'Your Story,' the editors provide a fictional prompt for those who would like to enter an article. I check out the prompts from time to time to see if any of them sound fun or spark my imagination. The one in the February issue did, so I gave it a shot.
Unfortunately my piece wasn't picked as a finalist. I guess the naked picture of myself that I attached to my article didn't impress the judges. Next time I'll make sure the picture includes my torso.
I decided, however, that I'd post it to my blog (the article, not the picture. Sorry ladies). If you want to read the five entries that were picked as finalists, you can visit the Writer's Digest Forum page. You'll have to register a new account, and then you'll receive a password from them to use when you sign in. After signing in with your password, just scroll down the page and click the 'Your Story' link.
Or you can just trust me when I say that mine was the best and clearly should have won. That's much easier. Hope you enjoy it.
Prompt: Parents look on in horror as a magician's trick goes terribly awry at a child's birthday party - 750 word maximum.
The sunny, 70-degree Saturday morning was making it hard to reconcile the fact that I was driving to a six year old’s birthday party. Weather like this hadn’t come along since… well, last year. And for the first time in almost two months, I didn’t have to spend the weekend working. By the time we pulled into Devin’s neighborhood, the number of other things I dreamed of doing was staggering.
As I helped Robbie out of the car, the expression on my face spoke volumes.
“Remember what mom said,” Robbie practically begged. “No swearing.”
I smirked at my son and told him not to worry. Attending a young person’s birthday party is a vacation compared to hosting one, and coupled with the comedy of errors that occurred at his celebration, anyone could understand my recent slip up. But I assured him that Devin’s party wouldn’t rattle me, so long as it ended quickly.
Despite my angst, I wanted Robbie to have a good time and I like seeing him interact with his classmates. I even like Devin. It’s his dad, Kurt, I can do without. His last name might as well be Jones because there is no keeping up with him. And he revels in making you know that. As we walked past his perfectly-manicured lawn and luxury car in the driveway, I told myself to smile and be polite. Today was about the kids.
Kurt greeted us at the door.
“Hey guys! Come on in,” he said. “Where’s Beth, she couldn’t make it?”
“No, she came down with a stomach bug last night,” I told him.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said with genuine disappointment.
My wife was all the rage during Robbie’s party, but not by design. Just as she was leaning down to hand out birthday cupcakes to all the neighborhood kids, she accidentally, and quite unfortunately, popped out of her dress. As a result, Beth’s current stomach bug didn’t actually hit her last night, but was carefully planned weeks ago when our invitation arrived in the mail. Not having her at Devin’s party meant I had to bear Kurt on my own.
“Well, you guys are gonna have a great time,” Kurt said. “Devin and the other kids are playing out back before the entertainment starts.”
The invitation didn’t mention anything about entertainment, but Beth and I spent the last three days wondering what was in store.
“We got this magician who is unbelievable,” Kurt said, as it was just the two of us now standing in his foyer. “This guy puts David Copperfield to shame. I was talking to him and he told me that with birthdays, little league parties and bar mitzvahs, he made over 150 grand last year.”
“Wow, he sounds good,” I politely smiled.
“Ah well,” he said, then paused before adding, “We can’t do anything to top what happened at Robbie’s party, huh?”
Kurt laughed as if I had no problem with him joking about the way he and his wife and eight other couples, not to mention their kids, saw my wife in a partial state of undress. I longed to break my “no swearing” promise.
For the next 30 minutes, however, I chatted with the other parents and remembered that free punch and cake wasn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. I then settled into the back of the room as the kids grabbed chairs in front of the magician.
“Behold!” He shouted. “I am the Great Wiz-ardo. Prepare to look on in wand-erment.”
Certainly his act was better than his puns, I hoped. Then Kurt sidled up next to me.
“You won’t believe some of the stuff he does,” he whispered.
“For my first trick, I will make Mr. Sprinkles disappear!”
Mr. Sprinkles was Devin’s hamster, who sat contently in his glass-enclosed cage on Wiz-ardo’s prop table. Wiz-ardo then pulled the cape from around his neck and draped it over the cage. After waving his hand and muttering some magician’s gibberish, he yanked the cape away, only Mr. Sprinkles didn’t disappear. Instead, the cape caught onto the back of his cage, pulled it forward and toppled it over the side of the table, spilling Mr. Sprinkles to the floor. The cage quickly followed, and ended its descent by landing on Mr. Sprinkles.
Screams rang out from parents and kids alike as the hamster’s head rolled to a stop at the magician’s feet.
Barely stifling a chuckle, I leaned toward Kurt and said, “You’re such a topper.”
Unfortunately my piece wasn't picked as a finalist. I guess the naked picture of myself that I attached to my article didn't impress the judges. Next time I'll make sure the picture includes my torso.
I decided, however, that I'd post it to my blog (the article, not the picture. Sorry ladies). If you want to read the five entries that were picked as finalists, you can visit the Writer's Digest Forum page. You'll have to register a new account, and then you'll receive a password from them to use when you sign in. After signing in with your password, just scroll down the page and click the 'Your Story' link.
Or you can just trust me when I say that mine was the best and clearly should have won. That's much easier. Hope you enjoy it.
Prompt: Parents look on in horror as a magician's trick goes terribly awry at a child's birthday party - 750 word maximum.
The sunny, 70-degree Saturday morning was making it hard to reconcile the fact that I was driving to a six year old’s birthday party. Weather like this hadn’t come along since… well, last year. And for the first time in almost two months, I didn’t have to spend the weekend working. By the time we pulled into Devin’s neighborhood, the number of other things I dreamed of doing was staggering.
As I helped Robbie out of the car, the expression on my face spoke volumes.
“Remember what mom said,” Robbie practically begged. “No swearing.”
I smirked at my son and told him not to worry. Attending a young person’s birthday party is a vacation compared to hosting one, and coupled with the comedy of errors that occurred at his celebration, anyone could understand my recent slip up. But I assured him that Devin’s party wouldn’t rattle me, so long as it ended quickly.
Despite my angst, I wanted Robbie to have a good time and I like seeing him interact with his classmates. I even like Devin. It’s his dad, Kurt, I can do without. His last name might as well be Jones because there is no keeping up with him. And he revels in making you know that. As we walked past his perfectly-manicured lawn and luxury car in the driveway, I told myself to smile and be polite. Today was about the kids.
Kurt greeted us at the door.
“Hey guys! Come on in,” he said. “Where’s Beth, she couldn’t make it?”
“No, she came down with a stomach bug last night,” I told him.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he said with genuine disappointment.
My wife was all the rage during Robbie’s party, but not by design. Just as she was leaning down to hand out birthday cupcakes to all the neighborhood kids, she accidentally, and quite unfortunately, popped out of her dress. As a result, Beth’s current stomach bug didn’t actually hit her last night, but was carefully planned weeks ago when our invitation arrived in the mail. Not having her at Devin’s party meant I had to bear Kurt on my own.
“Well, you guys are gonna have a great time,” Kurt said. “Devin and the other kids are playing out back before the entertainment starts.”
The invitation didn’t mention anything about entertainment, but Beth and I spent the last three days wondering what was in store.
“We got this magician who is unbelievable,” Kurt said, as it was just the two of us now standing in his foyer. “This guy puts David Copperfield to shame. I was talking to him and he told me that with birthdays, little league parties and bar mitzvahs, he made over 150 grand last year.”
“Wow, he sounds good,” I politely smiled.
“Ah well,” he said, then paused before adding, “We can’t do anything to top what happened at Robbie’s party, huh?”
Kurt laughed as if I had no problem with him joking about the way he and his wife and eight other couples, not to mention their kids, saw my wife in a partial state of undress. I longed to break my “no swearing” promise.
For the next 30 minutes, however, I chatted with the other parents and remembered that free punch and cake wasn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. I then settled into the back of the room as the kids grabbed chairs in front of the magician.
“Behold!” He shouted. “I am the Great Wiz-ardo. Prepare to look on in wand-erment.”
Certainly his act was better than his puns, I hoped. Then Kurt sidled up next to me.
“You won’t believe some of the stuff he does,” he whispered.
“For my first trick, I will make Mr. Sprinkles disappear!”
Mr. Sprinkles was Devin’s hamster, who sat contently in his glass-enclosed cage on Wiz-ardo’s prop table. Wiz-ardo then pulled the cape from around his neck and draped it over the cage. After waving his hand and muttering some magician’s gibberish, he yanked the cape away, only Mr. Sprinkles didn’t disappear. Instead, the cape caught onto the back of his cage, pulled it forward and toppled it over the side of the table, spilling Mr. Sprinkles to the floor. The cage quickly followed, and ended its descent by landing on Mr. Sprinkles.
Screams rang out from parents and kids alike as the hamster’s head rolled to a stop at the magician’s feet.
Barely stifling a chuckle, I leaned toward Kurt and said, “You’re such a topper.”
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sports Fan? Welcome to Suckuary
If you’re a sports fan, February is hands down the worst month of the year for watching sporting events. College and pro football is over, baseball hasn’t started (pitchers and catchers reporting to Spring Training is as exciting as waiting for the groundhog), and college basketball is still weeks away from getting really exciting. The NBA, though… now that’s another story. In February, the NBA is years away from getting really exciting.
Our options for sports during February usually consist of NASCAR and trying to figure out if Tiger Woods will play at the Masters, or if he’ll be passed out under a mountain of escorts while John Daly stands in the doorway saying, “Can we go now, Tiger? I’m tiiiiiired.”
This year is different though. This year we once again get to watch the Winter Olympics, which makes the month of February, in terms of sports viewing, much, much worse.
On the surface, it might seem like a nice diversion from Super Bowl wrap-up talk and shots of NBA players getting tattoos during timeouts, but really it’s nothing but two weeks of figure skating. Sure there’s other events going on, but you won’t see them. Somehow the networks have become convinced (I guess through something often referred to as “ratings”) that we ache for people covered in sequins, twirling around and alternating their expressions from “my dog just got hit by a car” to “no, wait, he’s getting back up!” to “oh no, he got hit again” and back to “wait, wait, he’s on his feet, I think he’ll be ok!”
Women are the reason that figure skating gets such high “ratings”. They’ve forced us to watch it for decades, but not because they like it. Instead it’s payback for us having football on for 46 hours each weekend from September to February every year. As soon as the Olympics started airing on TV, women everywhere would turn on figure skating and then leave the room to do something more enjoyable, like pull the refrigerator down on top of themselves. Eventually the networks took this to mean that viewers were clamoring for prime time figure skating, so that’s what we’re forced to watch.
And figure skating hasn’t been intriguing since that former celebrity boxer whacked her Mickey Mouse-hating teammate with a Foreman Grill. Turns out neither one of them won the gold. The Russian teenage phenom won instead, and has since spent her time picking up DUIs. But hey, she’s Russian. And if she doesn’t spend her time drinking, her only other option is figure skating.
Anyway, if you pay really close attention, you might see some speed skating or the giant slalom or the two-man luge. Even so, the Winter Olympics just can’t compare to the Summer Olympics. For one, so much of the competition depends on the athletes’ equipment - the sleds staying upright, the skis not snapping, the skates not flying off and spearing a judge. There’s little need to use performance enhancing drugs in the Winter Olympics. The Summer Olympics, however, are teeming with drug users. The drugs help the athletes run faster, throw farther and stab harder than they ever could naturally.
I for one am not in favor of athletes using performance enhancing drugs, but let’s face it, they make every event more exciting, from football, to baseball, to boxing and even horse racing. There’s nothing they can’t make more exciting. Just think if both guys involved in a chess match were on bovine steroids. That would be fascinating. If the Food Network were a little more lax on their drug policy, NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox would all be bidding for the rights to Iron Chef. With Bobby Flay and Paula Deen battling it out around those hot stoves and sharp utensils… you telling me you wouldn’t watch if they were both full of the same ingredients that Jose Canseco puts in his milkshakes?
At any rate, enjoy February. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Our options for sports during February usually consist of NASCAR and trying to figure out if Tiger Woods will play at the Masters, or if he’ll be passed out under a mountain of escorts while John Daly stands in the doorway saying, “Can we go now, Tiger? I’m tiiiiiired.”
This year is different though. This year we once again get to watch the Winter Olympics, which makes the month of February, in terms of sports viewing, much, much worse.
On the surface, it might seem like a nice diversion from Super Bowl wrap-up talk and shots of NBA players getting tattoos during timeouts, but really it’s nothing but two weeks of figure skating. Sure there’s other events going on, but you won’t see them. Somehow the networks have become convinced (I guess through something often referred to as “ratings”) that we ache for people covered in sequins, twirling around and alternating their expressions from “my dog just got hit by a car” to “no, wait, he’s getting back up!” to “oh no, he got hit again” and back to “wait, wait, he’s on his feet, I think he’ll be ok!”
Women are the reason that figure skating gets such high “ratings”. They’ve forced us to watch it for decades, but not because they like it. Instead it’s payback for us having football on for 46 hours each weekend from September to February every year. As soon as the Olympics started airing on TV, women everywhere would turn on figure skating and then leave the room to do something more enjoyable, like pull the refrigerator down on top of themselves. Eventually the networks took this to mean that viewers were clamoring for prime time figure skating, so that’s what we’re forced to watch.
And figure skating hasn’t been intriguing since that former celebrity boxer whacked her Mickey Mouse-hating teammate with a Foreman Grill. Turns out neither one of them won the gold. The Russian teenage phenom won instead, and has since spent her time picking up DUIs. But hey, she’s Russian. And if she doesn’t spend her time drinking, her only other option is figure skating.
Anyway, if you pay really close attention, you might see some speed skating or the giant slalom or the two-man luge. Even so, the Winter Olympics just can’t compare to the Summer Olympics. For one, so much of the competition depends on the athletes’ equipment - the sleds staying upright, the skis not snapping, the skates not flying off and spearing a judge. There’s little need to use performance enhancing drugs in the Winter Olympics. The Summer Olympics, however, are teeming with drug users. The drugs help the athletes run faster, throw farther and stab harder than they ever could naturally.
I for one am not in favor of athletes using performance enhancing drugs, but let’s face it, they make every event more exciting, from football, to baseball, to boxing and even horse racing. There’s nothing they can’t make more exciting. Just think if both guys involved in a chess match were on bovine steroids. That would be fascinating. If the Food Network were a little more lax on their drug policy, NBC, ABC, CBS and Fox would all be bidding for the rights to Iron Chef. With Bobby Flay and Paula Deen battling it out around those hot stoves and sharp utensils… you telling me you wouldn’t watch if they were both full of the same ingredients that Jose Canseco puts in his milkshakes?
At any rate, enjoy February. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Need a Price Check on the Flush Blaster 3000
We’ve all had to deal with buying things that are a little embarrassing but necessary for whatever reason. Whether it’s some type of anti-fungal cream, feminine “items” (which my wife says aren’t just embarrassing for men to buy), athletic supporters (which don’t actually support athletics, but something all together different), or whatever the case may be.
One thing I’ve never had to buy before that fits this category is a toilet. That is until tonight, when I will purchase my first one. I’ve never thought about the embarrassment that might come with buying a toilet because how often do you buy one? Everywhere I’ve lived, a toilet has been supplied for me. Thankfully, all of the apartments I’ve rented have come equipped with at least one, and of the condo and now house that I’ve bought, both of the previous owners were kind enough to leave theirs behind (no pun intended).
And if you’ve ever built a home, chances are the builders had toilets installed by the time you moved in and just added them to your bill (unless you really cheaped out). So, unless you’re a builder or a contractor or you’ve lived in the same house for a long time, you probably haven’t bought a lot of them, right?
At any rate, I have to buy a toilet. And I don’t want to.
If I was working as a cashier and somebody came through my line with a toilet, my first thought would be, “Finally getting some indoor plumbing, huh? Get tired of using the hole in your back yard? You’re really moving up, buddy. Good for you.”
My next thought would be that this person in my line has always had indoor plumbing, but somehow broke his previous toilet. And do you really want to be the guy that is believed to have broken his toilet? The whole store is watching you carry a toilet to the checkout lanes and thinking about the abuse you put the last one through. “Whoa, wonder what that guy eats?” people start asking each other. “I’d hate to follow him into the bathroom, ha ha ha.”
For the record, the toilet in our downstairs bathroom has a huge crack in the bowl that is days away from sending water all over the floor and into the hallway. And it was there before we moved in. (Before you ask – yes, it’s probably covered under our home warranty, but we have to pay $75 for an inspector to come out before it’s replaced, and a decent toilet is only $10 more than that, so it’s not worth calling our warranty provider.) But the sales guy at the hardware store doesn’t want to hear some long story.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to buy a toilet. It’s not the first toilet I’ve ever had, I just need to replace a broken one. But I didn’t break it. I don’t have horrible digestive problems or anything. My diet is very balanced. I don’t even go all that often. My doctor says I could go two or three more times a day and still be considered normal. I’m not a weirdo. I just bought a house and one of the toilets has a crack in it. But I don’t know how it got there. It could have been caused by anything, really. Maybe there was an earthquake and the previous owners never got it fixed. I’m sure they had normal diets too. There’s no way to tell.”
“Uh… it’s time for my break.”
So you see my dilemma. I’ll remain quiet and just hope the store isn’t crowded when I get there. But if anybody asks, I’m going to say, “It’s not for me, it’s for a friend.”
One thing I’ve never had to buy before that fits this category is a toilet. That is until tonight, when I will purchase my first one. I’ve never thought about the embarrassment that might come with buying a toilet because how often do you buy one? Everywhere I’ve lived, a toilet has been supplied for me. Thankfully, all of the apartments I’ve rented have come equipped with at least one, and of the condo and now house that I’ve bought, both of the previous owners were kind enough to leave theirs behind (no pun intended).
And if you’ve ever built a home, chances are the builders had toilets installed by the time you moved in and just added them to your bill (unless you really cheaped out). So, unless you’re a builder or a contractor or you’ve lived in the same house for a long time, you probably haven’t bought a lot of them, right?
At any rate, I have to buy a toilet. And I don’t want to.
If I was working as a cashier and somebody came through my line with a toilet, my first thought would be, “Finally getting some indoor plumbing, huh? Get tired of using the hole in your back yard? You’re really moving up, buddy. Good for you.”
My next thought would be that this person in my line has always had indoor plumbing, but somehow broke his previous toilet. And do you really want to be the guy that is believed to have broken his toilet? The whole store is watching you carry a toilet to the checkout lanes and thinking about the abuse you put the last one through. “Whoa, wonder what that guy eats?” people start asking each other. “I’d hate to follow him into the bathroom, ha ha ha.”
For the record, the toilet in our downstairs bathroom has a huge crack in the bowl that is days away from sending water all over the floor and into the hallway. And it was there before we moved in. (Before you ask – yes, it’s probably covered under our home warranty, but we have to pay $75 for an inspector to come out before it’s replaced, and a decent toilet is only $10 more than that, so it’s not worth calling our warranty provider.) But the sales guy at the hardware store doesn’t want to hear some long story.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I need to buy a toilet. It’s not the first toilet I’ve ever had, I just need to replace a broken one. But I didn’t break it. I don’t have horrible digestive problems or anything. My diet is very balanced. I don’t even go all that often. My doctor says I could go two or three more times a day and still be considered normal. I’m not a weirdo. I just bought a house and one of the toilets has a crack in it. But I don’t know how it got there. It could have been caused by anything, really. Maybe there was an earthquake and the previous owners never got it fixed. I’m sure they had normal diets too. There’s no way to tell.”
“Uh… it’s time for my break.”
So you see my dilemma. I’ll remain quiet and just hope the store isn’t crowded when I get there. But if anybody asks, I’m going to say, “It’s not for me, it’s for a friend.”
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