I recently visited one of the national auto stores to pick up a part for my wife’s car. Upon entering, I was ambushed by a “store associate” who offered his assistance. I thanked him but said that I needed to go to the parts counter for help. He insisted he would be able to help me—after several laps around the store he suggested that I would need to go to the parts counter for further assistance.
There were quite a few customers standing at the counter, but only one (harried) employee working there. This, in spite of the fact that there were four store associates buzzing around the place, with the apparent mission of raising customer’s blood-pressure to dangerous levels before sending them to the parts counter.
I listened as Solo-employee started to assist the next customer in line, a guy who only needed replacement windshield wipers. I thought, “Good! This one should be quick.”
Solo-employee: (at a computer terminal) Year and Make?
Customer: 1999 Bonneville.
Solo-employee: Engine?
Customer (Confused, he looks around at the rest of us—we weren't able to help him)
Solo-employee (more pointedly): What size engine is in the vehicle, sir?
Customer: Oh sorry, (nervous chuckle) 2.0, it’s either a 2.0 or a 2.2… I think.
Solo-employee: (giving customer a glare that suggested knowing this information should be on par with remembering his kid’s birthdates, which he can’t do either) Two-door or four-door?
Customer: I need windshield wipers!
Solo-employee: I understand sir; two-door or four-door?
Customer: (Sighing) Four door.
Solo-employee: Air conditioning?
Customer: Yes.
Solo-employee: Was it manufactured between January and July, or May and December?
Customer: (now red-faced and shouting) How should I know?
Solo-employee: On the underside of your vehicle, and on top of the catalytic converter, there should be a metal tag with a code. If you get me that code I can tell you which windshield wipers you need.
Customer: (Looks around at the fairly significant crowd now waiting for assistance.)
Solo-employee (sensing the early onset of an anxiety attack): You won’t have to wait; I’ll get you as soon as you come back in.
This helped perk the exasperated customer up a bit and he leaves for about 20 minutes. When he walks back in, he has dirt down his back side, grease down his front side, and a piece of paper in his hand... he’s nursing a burn.
Solo-employee: Yes sir, do you have the code?
Customer: (Silently hands over the piece of paper)
Solo-employee: Year and Make?
And the entire scene repeats itself as Solo-employee drills down through the computer prompts to finally arrive at an answer.
Solo-employee: Okay sir, do you want Rain-Master, Super-Master, Super-Squeegee or The Hurricane?
Customer: (Obviously defeated, and not daring to ask the difference, glumly responds) Just give me the cheapest one.
Solo-employee: (Gives him another look—this time seeming to suggest that the guy might be the kind of person who would kick a cat, or intentionally commit negligent homicide... also on a cat.)
This is where I walked out. Instead of buying a replacement part, I’m thinking it might be easier to go out and buy a new car. I believe one of those bumper-to-bumper lifetime warranties might be a good idea, too.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Help! I Have a Monkey on my Back!
I think I’m addicted. I haven’t discussed this with anyone yet, but I’ve been doing some research, and find that I’m exhibiting all of the signs of a hardcore addict. I’m not talking about drugs, alcohol, tobacco, or any of the mainstream addictions—I’m addicted to Laffy Taffy.
It starts as soon as I wake up in the morning. I pour a cup of coffee and immediately begin patting my pockets as I nervously search for a piece of taffy to give me a fix. I begin to feel a little panicky until I lay my hand on one, and then shred the wrapper to get to the flavorful, sweet deliciousness inside. The act of chewing helps to calm me—and as the melt-in-the-mouth sugary goodness begins to slide down my throat…I feel good. It’s then that I realize that I didn’t read the joke on the wrapper, and I get down on my hands and knees to search it out... pathetic.
What makes my addiction so debilitating is that the fix only lasts for about twenty-minutes. It’s about then that I crash into a sugar-low and the process begins again.
I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to quit. I tried going cold-turkey, which only made me want it more. I tried substituting Altoids, Nerds, or Malted Milk Balls, but I always return to my candy of choice—Laffy Taffy.
My research yielded the following information.
Signs of Abuse - with personal observations:
1) Increased energy - brief, in fact, scarcely perceptible
2) Inability to sleep - how am I supposed to sleep when all I can think about is Laffy Taffy?
3) Slow movements, confusion disorientation - this was happening long before Laffy Taffy.
4) Sudden weight loss or gain - gain, if you must ask
5) Excess sleeping - “excess” is a relative term
6) Paraphernalia - I shove the wrappers into an empty cola can that serves as a decoy when I’m “using”—does that count?
7) Chronic health or dental problems - pending
If you’ve never had Laffy Taffy, I caution you against trying that first individually-wrapped taffy treat. It comes in so many delicious flavors that thinking about it makes my head swim—banana is my favorite. The candy is marketed under the Willy Wonka brand, which is appropriate because with 50 calories in each snack-size piece, a habit like mine can soon lead one to look like Augustus Gloop. Anyway, I’m hooked, I admit it.
So far, I’ve done a good job of hiding this problem from my family, but I think they’re starting to get wise to me. They’ve had to notice that I’m developing Laffy Taffy handles on my love handles—another unpleasant and unappealing sign. Sooner or later, one of them is bound to stumble across one of the many bags that I’ve secreted in hiding places throughout the house. Someone may have already been hitting one of my stashes—I’d swear I had more in that bag behind the refrigerator.
Oh yeah…another one of the signs of addiction? Paranoia.
It starts as soon as I wake up in the morning. I pour a cup of coffee and immediately begin patting my pockets as I nervously search for a piece of taffy to give me a fix. I begin to feel a little panicky until I lay my hand on one, and then shred the wrapper to get to the flavorful, sweet deliciousness inside. The act of chewing helps to calm me—and as the melt-in-the-mouth sugary goodness begins to slide down my throat…I feel good. It’s then that I realize that I didn’t read the joke on the wrapper, and I get down on my hands and knees to search it out... pathetic.
What makes my addiction so debilitating is that the fix only lasts for about twenty-minutes. It’s about then that I crash into a sugar-low and the process begins again.
I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to quit. I tried going cold-turkey, which only made me want it more. I tried substituting Altoids, Nerds, or Malted Milk Balls, but I always return to my candy of choice—Laffy Taffy.
My research yielded the following information.
Signs of Abuse - with personal observations:
1) Increased energy - brief, in fact, scarcely perceptible
2) Inability to sleep - how am I supposed to sleep when all I can think about is Laffy Taffy?
3) Slow movements, confusion disorientation - this was happening long before Laffy Taffy.
4) Sudden weight loss or gain - gain, if you must ask
5) Excess sleeping - “excess” is a relative term
6) Paraphernalia - I shove the wrappers into an empty cola can that serves as a decoy when I’m “using”—does that count?
7) Chronic health or dental problems - pending
If you’ve never had Laffy Taffy, I caution you against trying that first individually-wrapped taffy treat. It comes in so many delicious flavors that thinking about it makes my head swim—banana is my favorite. The candy is marketed under the Willy Wonka brand, which is appropriate because with 50 calories in each snack-size piece, a habit like mine can soon lead one to look like Augustus Gloop. Anyway, I’m hooked, I admit it.
So far, I’ve done a good job of hiding this problem from my family, but I think they’re starting to get wise to me. They’ve had to notice that I’m developing Laffy Taffy handles on my love handles—another unpleasant and unappealing sign. Sooner or later, one of them is bound to stumble across one of the many bags that I’ve secreted in hiding places throughout the house. Someone may have already been hitting one of my stashes—I’d swear I had more in that bag behind the refrigerator.
Oh yeah…another one of the signs of addiction? Paranoia.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Motorized Bar Stool - Made in U.S.A.
“Is this Nine-One-One? I done wrecked my barstool!”
The chief shook his head, just another drunk fool
He dispatched the squad, and then said with a smirk
“I’m Ohio Proud, to say I’m from Newark!”
They arrived on the scene, found a man in the street
A peculiar contraption lay there at his feet
He groaned, “My head hurts, and I got me a bump”
They’d seen it before, just another stewed chump
The cops came and questioned the free-wheelin’ punk
How fast he was going, how much he had drunk
The answer came quick, from the beer addled sot
He said, “I don’t know, but it sure was a lot!
“It goes nearly forty, I crashed doin’ half
“My wheelie-bar saved me,” he let out a laugh
The report said "ejected, no airbag deployed"
Tippled into the street, this rotundish man-boy
Ripley’s people got wind, and a deal was near struck
‘til a problem was found, with the no account cluck
It would seem that he owes for the care of his kids
Children’s Services said, “We’ll consider all bids
“This barfly took wing, from his five-horse machine
But now we will seize it, he’ll no more careen
His support’s long past due, and up near forty grand
There are those who would say, lock him up in the can
“Just smokes and a brewski, that’s all that he wants
Disdain for the system he readily flaunts
Three days in the clink, and his license to boot
He can’t drive it now, so we’ll sell it for loot”
But the county’s too broke to transport and garage
This contrivance that might bring a fiscal barrage
So his kids they won’t eat, but I bet they’re sure proud
Of their dad, and his fame, with the bar sitting crowd
There’s a positive note, from this sorry exploit
It could be just the thing, to help salvage Detroit
Motor City could use the attention and hype
Of this high-mileage, cheap, ready-made, prototype
The chief shook his head, just another drunk fool
He dispatched the squad, and then said with a smirk
“I’m Ohio Proud, to say I’m from Newark!”
They arrived on the scene, found a man in the street
A peculiar contraption lay there at his feet
He groaned, “My head hurts, and I got me a bump”
They’d seen it before, just another stewed chump
The cops came and questioned the free-wheelin’ punk
How fast he was going, how much he had drunk
The answer came quick, from the beer addled sot
He said, “I don’t know, but it sure was a lot!
“It goes nearly forty, I crashed doin’ half
“My wheelie-bar saved me,” he let out a laugh
The report said "ejected, no airbag deployed"
Tippled into the street, this rotundish man-boy
Ripley’s people got wind, and a deal was near struck
‘til a problem was found, with the no account cluck
It would seem that he owes for the care of his kids
Children’s Services said, “We’ll consider all bids
“This barfly took wing, from his five-horse machine
But now we will seize it, he’ll no more careen
His support’s long past due, and up near forty grand
There are those who would say, lock him up in the can
“Just smokes and a brewski, that’s all that he wants
Disdain for the system he readily flaunts
Three days in the clink, and his license to boot
He can’t drive it now, so we’ll sell it for loot”
But the county’s too broke to transport and garage
This contrivance that might bring a fiscal barrage
So his kids they won’t eat, but I bet they’re sure proud
Of their dad, and his fame, with the bar sitting crowd
There’s a positive note, from this sorry exploit
It could be just the thing, to help salvage Detroit
Motor City could use the attention and hype
Of this high-mileage, cheap, ready-made, prototype
Update December 13, 2009: The barstool was eventually siezed and auctioned on Ebay. The just concluded auction brought a price of $1125.00, far short of the reported offer of $3500.00 from Ripley's. The net proceeds are said to be going toward the satisfaction of a portion of the past-due child support. Whether the kids are proud or not remains uncertain.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Invasive Exams
I thought doctors were the only ones allowed to perform invasive exams on the rest of us. Okay, sure… doctors and the IRS. And aliens… but that’s it!
I recently learned these procedures can also be performed by insurance companies. Not only can an insurance company perform the exam, but they can do it remotely, from their offices, without having to actually see the patient. Medical history, finances, genetic profile, private ruminations—nothing is off limits or out of reach of their probing.
I believe it all started with Outpatient Surgery. When it was learned that patients could tolerate fairly significant “procedures” and be sent home immediately afterward, the insurance companies knew they were on to something—especially since some of the patients were surviving. There followed an almost immediate, system-wide policy change that called for mother and newborn to be sent home before the first diaper change.
Today, patients should not be surprised at being placed in the driver’s seat of their vehicle and handed their keys, as the anesthetically induced coma is just beginning to wear off. Never mind that in your drug-addled mind, you think you’ve just been place inside a giant pocket watch, and you’re pretty sure you’re upside down. You’re no longer the responsibility of the hospital—the insurance company says so.
If you, the patient, object to this revolving-door surgical process, the insurance people will answer with the industry’s equivalent to the phrase, “Buck Up.” What was formerly known as pain has now been re-termed discomfort, and you can recuperate from the discomfort of a double hip replacement in your own bed.
As the industry has evolved, there have been consultations with experts in business efficiency, Ponzi schemes, organized crime, and tactics in ethical circumnavigation. As a result of these discussions, a number of new processes have been devised to make the insurance business even more efficient (read lucrative).
First, there’s the Preferred Provider, which is code for a doctor who received their medical training in a thatch hut, and will work for food and a place with indoor plumbing. You may have been going to the same doctor for 26 years, but if you change insurance companies and he’s not on their preferred provider list, seeing him is going to cost you—bigtime!
There’s also the requirement that you call your insurer for pre-authorization before visits to the real doctors (the ones who might actually be able to help you) or the emergency room. You won’t forget to call while you’re attempting to maintain enough pressure to stop the bleeding, will you?
While consulting their actuary tables, Ouija boards, Satan, and a medium that can channel the spirit of Joseph Stalin, the insurance companies have devised countless ways of tacking on charges, denying payment, or flat out canceling your insurance because you’ve become a burden to them by being so bold as to file a claim against your policy.
And beware if you decide that it’s time to take a stand and challenge these schemes to provide riches to the unnamed co-conspirators, the holders of preferred stock—they’re already watching you. One wrong step and you’ll receive notification of cancellation of your policy due to the pre-existing condition that was discovered during your recent (Surprise!) invasive exam.
I recently learned these procedures can also be performed by insurance companies. Not only can an insurance company perform the exam, but they can do it remotely, from their offices, without having to actually see the patient. Medical history, finances, genetic profile, private ruminations—nothing is off limits or out of reach of their probing.
I believe it all started with Outpatient Surgery. When it was learned that patients could tolerate fairly significant “procedures” and be sent home immediately afterward, the insurance companies knew they were on to something—especially since some of the patients were surviving. There followed an almost immediate, system-wide policy change that called for mother and newborn to be sent home before the first diaper change.
Today, patients should not be surprised at being placed in the driver’s seat of their vehicle and handed their keys, as the anesthetically induced coma is just beginning to wear off. Never mind that in your drug-addled mind, you think you’ve just been place inside a giant pocket watch, and you’re pretty sure you’re upside down. You’re no longer the responsibility of the hospital—the insurance company says so.
If you, the patient, object to this revolving-door surgical process, the insurance people will answer with the industry’s equivalent to the phrase, “Buck Up.” What was formerly known as pain has now been re-termed discomfort, and you can recuperate from the discomfort of a double hip replacement in your own bed.
As the industry has evolved, there have been consultations with experts in business efficiency, Ponzi schemes, organized crime, and tactics in ethical circumnavigation. As a result of these discussions, a number of new processes have been devised to make the insurance business even more efficient (read lucrative).
First, there’s the Preferred Provider, which is code for a doctor who received their medical training in a thatch hut, and will work for food and a place with indoor plumbing. You may have been going to the same doctor for 26 years, but if you change insurance companies and he’s not on their preferred provider list, seeing him is going to cost you—bigtime!
There’s also the requirement that you call your insurer for pre-authorization before visits to the real doctors (the ones who might actually be able to help you) or the emergency room. You won’t forget to call while you’re attempting to maintain enough pressure to stop the bleeding, will you?
While consulting their actuary tables, Ouija boards, Satan, and a medium that can channel the spirit of Joseph Stalin, the insurance companies have devised countless ways of tacking on charges, denying payment, or flat out canceling your insurance because you’ve become a burden to them by being so bold as to file a claim against your policy.
And beware if you decide that it’s time to take a stand and challenge these schemes to provide riches to the unnamed co-conspirators, the holders of preferred stock—they’re already watching you. One wrong step and you’ll receive notification of cancellation of your policy due to the pre-existing condition that was discovered during your recent (Surprise!) invasive exam.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Grill Master
The Fourth of July is fast approaching—time to separate the grill-masters from the weenies.
Many of us have been at it since Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial start of summer. It is on that weekend that we honor our fallen warriors, visit the graves of those who have gone before us, and forgive the husbands and fathers who don a silly apron in the backyard.
Memorial Day weekend is often the first time we men prepare our own special recipe of secretly sourced, corn fed, custom-ground, delicately seasoned ground beef... and slap some patties on the grill. This is when we knock the rust off both our grill, and our grilling game. It’s an accepted fact that things will go wrong—a little dirt and dog slobber are just part of the tradition.
This is not the case when Independence Day rolls around. By now, you’ve had several opportunities to mess things up, and it’s hoped that you have learned from your experience. Your wife never complained as she offered to cut away the charred surface of the steaks you almost cremated earlier in the season, and she really didn’t mind ordering that pizza when the bratwurst all tasted like charcoal lighter fluid some weeks back. But when everyone in the family had to turn in their burgers last weekend, so she could remove them from their buns, wash the condiments off, and return them to you to finish cooking the mostly raw patties—she started to show her concern.
It doesn’t help that you have the star pupil of Barbeque University living next door. Just yesterday, you and your kids were busy at the grill, relaying Super Soakers in an impromptu reenactment of old-time firefighting and the bucket brigade. About that same time, your neighbor, I’ll call him Steve, was serving braised duckling, roasted eggplant, cheesy breadsticks and a dessert of tropical fruit kabob, all perfectly prepared on his grill.
Your wife (silly woman) suggested that you go talk to Steve to see if you could pick up some grilling tips. You, of course, knew that the problem was with that old, worn-out grill you bought last year, and you went out and got a new grill—one that’s bigger and better than Steve’s. Trouble is, with a new piece of equipment, you’re back at the start of the learning curve… and time is running short.
Fortunately for you (and that incorrigible ego of yours) your wife has already set in motion a plan to save herself… and the kids. While you were attempting to assemble the new grill, she was talking to Steve’s wife about getting together for the Fourth. Don’t think it’s an accident that the assembly instructions you initially cast aside couldn’t be found when you finally decided that maybe they really could help…at least to get started.
And on the Fourth of July, when Steve starts spouting about the value of chunk charcoal, or the importance of proper grill lubrication, you shouldn’t feel bad. In fact, you should pay close attention to what he has to say—those missing assembly instructions will probably turn up yet, and you’ll have from now until Labor Day to regain your family’s confidence, and claim your rightful title: Grill Master.
Many of us have been at it since Memorial Day weekend and the unofficial start of summer. It is on that weekend that we honor our fallen warriors, visit the graves of those who have gone before us, and forgive the husbands and fathers who don a silly apron in the backyard.
Memorial Day weekend is often the first time we men prepare our own special recipe of secretly sourced, corn fed, custom-ground, delicately seasoned ground beef... and slap some patties on the grill. This is when we knock the rust off both our grill, and our grilling game. It’s an accepted fact that things will go wrong—a little dirt and dog slobber are just part of the tradition.
This is not the case when Independence Day rolls around. By now, you’ve had several opportunities to mess things up, and it’s hoped that you have learned from your experience. Your wife never complained as she offered to cut away the charred surface of the steaks you almost cremated earlier in the season, and she really didn’t mind ordering that pizza when the bratwurst all tasted like charcoal lighter fluid some weeks back. But when everyone in the family had to turn in their burgers last weekend, so she could remove them from their buns, wash the condiments off, and return them to you to finish cooking the mostly raw patties—she started to show her concern.
It doesn’t help that you have the star pupil of Barbeque University living next door. Just yesterday, you and your kids were busy at the grill, relaying Super Soakers in an impromptu reenactment of old-time firefighting and the bucket brigade. About that same time, your neighbor, I’ll call him Steve, was serving braised duckling, roasted eggplant, cheesy breadsticks and a dessert of tropical fruit kabob, all perfectly prepared on his grill.
Your wife (silly woman) suggested that you go talk to Steve to see if you could pick up some grilling tips. You, of course, knew that the problem was with that old, worn-out grill you bought last year, and you went out and got a new grill—one that’s bigger and better than Steve’s. Trouble is, with a new piece of equipment, you’re back at the start of the learning curve… and time is running short.
Fortunately for you (and that incorrigible ego of yours) your wife has already set in motion a plan to save herself… and the kids. While you were attempting to assemble the new grill, she was talking to Steve’s wife about getting together for the Fourth. Don’t think it’s an accident that the assembly instructions you initially cast aside couldn’t be found when you finally decided that maybe they really could help…at least to get started.
And on the Fourth of July, when Steve starts spouting about the value of chunk charcoal, or the importance of proper grill lubrication, you shouldn’t feel bad. In fact, you should pay close attention to what he has to say—those missing assembly instructions will probably turn up yet, and you’ll have from now until Labor Day to regain your family’s confidence, and claim your rightful title: Grill Master.
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