Carl Vine's 40th Parallel Universe

History Detective Does It Again - Nobel Committee Takes Note

2011-02-06T13:18:00.003-05:00

Though the true origin of Valentine’s Day has long been clouded by indifference, personal reflection on the matter has provided uncharacteristic lucidity, shocking my doctors and putting the question to rest once and for all

In Third Century Rome, Emperor Claudius II decided single men made better soldiers than those with wives and families, outlawing marriage for young men and ensuring a steady supply of edgy, short-fused fighters for the Roman army. This severely limited the prospects for young women, upsetting them to no end, while simultaneously causing the emperor’s approval rating to skyrocket in the ‘males, age 35-to-50’ bunch.

A priest named Valentine, comprehending the injustice of such a decree, began to wed young couples in secrecy. These weddings took place in a fictional cave near the foot of Mt. Aelop (giving rise to the modern-day word ‘elope’ which translates to mean ‘right under the emperor’s big fat nose’).

Valentine’s insolence was soon made known to the emperor, prompting Claudius to call for the priest’s execution.

Valentine, understandably disconcerted by this edict, prepared to flee to the United States; which, unfortunately for him, hadn’t been invented yet. In fact, it would be several centuries before the world would take on its present globular form, and North America would cease drifting about, finally declaring itself an independent continent.

Escaping instead to France, Valentine immediately recognized the French an insufferable people and, without unpacking his bags, made for England. Upon arriving in London, Valentine set up shop as a monger of flowers, confections and pickled beets; goods that were largely spurned by the locals as frivolous extravagance.

To make ends meet, Valentine hunted wild game, having the good fortune one day of taking a goat. This ultimately proved a misfortune when it was learned that Valentine’s arrow had found one of the king’s goats—a goat, not surprisingly, indistinguishable from any other goat.

Valentine was arrested forthwith.

At trial, Valentine’s defense centered ‘round the unlikely story that a cherubic, midget had committed the crime, flying away before All the King’s Men arrived to pronounce the unfortunate goat’s demise. (It seems All the King’s Men had been occupied in processing the scene of a suspicious accident involving an egg, which may or may not have been pushed from a wall). Valentine was about to add that the midget was riding a unicorn, but could see the gullible King’s Court had already fallen for his ruse—something he could never have put over on the far more cynical French.

The king ordered Valentine’s release (forthwith) and called for an immediate round-up of all chubby midget archers… a disturbingly common demographic in those days.

Meanwhile, back in Rome, Pope Gelasius I (creator of the popular Italian treat, Gelato), for no reason whatsoever, issued a decree that established Valentine’s Day as an official holiday; the holiday originally being celebrated (at the clever suggestion of Valentine, himself) with gifts of flowers, confections and pickled beets.

And that’s the truth about the origin of Valentine’s Day.

State Department Release - Vancouver Olympics

2010-01-31T19:40:00.005-05:00

Travel Advisory
United States Department of State
Bureau of Consular Affairs
Washington, DC 20520

CANADA

The U.S. State Department has issued the following advisories for American citizens planning to attend the 2010 Winter Olympic Games in Vancouver, Canada.

Crime:

1) A number of fraudulent Olympic venues have recently been established for the purpose of taking advantage of witless travelers. Visitors should be watchful for perpetrators of this chicanery, who often advertise sham events such as: Moose Roping, Snowshoe Racing, Loon Calling or Caribou Milking.

2) Exercise caution if you are approached with an offer to purchase time-share property. Tourists are being targeted with what would appear to be incredible offers to purchase large tracts of land in Canada’s most northern reaching territory of Nunavut. Potential investors are warned that this region is made up entirely of snow, and that climate change experts agree it will be part of the Arctic Ocean by 2012, the wet part. If solicited to buy property in northern Canada, politely tell the flimflammer that you want none of it.

3) Recent activity by gangs of reprobate bears have prompted the recommendation that you conceal the Molson’s in your locked vehicle to avoid Canada’s most pervasive crime, the smash and grab theft of beer by drunken bruins.

Banking:

1) Before departing for Canada, verify that your Traveler’s Checks can also be used as Travelers Cheques, the only form accepted in Canada.

2) Exchanging your U.S. currency for Canadian currency is not recommended. Even when exchange rates are favorable, this is an unwise practice for vending-machine-reliant travelers, as Canadian money doesn’t work in their vending machines either.

Language:

1) Canadians will readily identify you as a U.S. tourist by your foolish grin and incessant conversation about the weather. Avoid trying to fit in with the locals by adding the word “Eh” to the end of sentences. Canadians realize they do this; when you do it too, they just think you’re making fun of their impediment.

2) Do not call members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Dudley Do-Right. The Mounties have guns, and they know how to use them.

3) When conversing with Canadian’s from the Province of Quebec, it is acceptable (and encouraged) to pepper your conversation with regular exclamations of “Sacré Bleu!”

4) Never call a Canadian, “Hoser.”

Other:

1) Moose frequently assist law enforcement authorities in reducing traffic speeds by standing in the middle of the road. Since moose are 95% leg, motoring to Canada in a low profile vehicle will allow you to drive right under them without slowing down. Otherwise, be sure to purchase moose insurance—you’re going to need it.

2) Should you require medical attention while in Canada, you will receive the best of care, at a reasonable price, as long as your illness is related to a hockey injury or the common cold. Any other malady is best managed by a lawyer who can update your Last Will and Testament.

3) Travelers shouldn’t be alarmed by the odd fact that water draining from Canadian toilets circles neither left nor right. Parliament’s attempts to earmark funds to research this phenomenon have been frozen in committee.

4) If you lose your passport in Canada, you will be required to use the secret password to re-enter the United States. When the Customs Officer asks “How much Canadian whiskey do you wish to claim?” reply: Nunavut!

Bean Dip and Mini Coopers

2010-01-18T21:07:00.016-05:00

The other night, I fell asleep on the couch. I was awakened around midnight by a car's headlights shining into the living room. "Yet another young couple mistaking our drive for Lovers-Lane," I grumbled as I stumbled out the door to chase them off.

I was annoyed at the understanding that I would enjoy no more sleep that night, but the evening was to become frighteningly disturbing.

As I approached the Mini Cooper, I could see four heads inside the vehicle. I thought about the make-out cars of my youth, and was feeling a little sorry for these kids as I approached the driver’s side window to admonish the occupants. As the driver lowered his window I looked inside the car. I wanted to run, and I tried, but was unable to move.

Inside the car were four big-headed, bug-eyed, grey-skinned, no-nosed, slit-mouthed – Spacemen! This was doubly disturbing because I was powerless to escape, and I could hear the spacemen’s thoughts as if they were my own.

The driver had the largest head (I’ll call him Big-Head) and was the one who addressed me… telepathically, and in English, with a French-Canadian accent.

Big-Head… telepathically: Slave-earthling, what is your name?

Me… thinking: I’m Scared!

Big-Head… telepathically: (These earthling names get weirder all the time.) Scared, direct me to the nearest dairy farm.

Me…nothing: Though I think I may have pointed before I fainted there in the driveway.

When I came to they were gone.

As panicked as I was, I knew I had to call someone to report what I had seen. Who to call? Homeland Security? NASA? National Geographic? I decided the Air Force would be a good place to start.

I ran into the house and grabbed the phone. I thought I would call the operator in order to be promptly connected. As I put the phone to my ear and was about to dial “O” I heard a soft voice ask, “May I help you?”

Startled, I replied, “Is this the operator?”

“This is the United States Alien Detection and Tracking Service, a division of the Department of Agriculture. What can I do for you?"

“I just saw four spacemen in my driveway! They were driving a Mini Cooper!”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did! They’re gone now. I passed out; I don’t know how long I was out. You’d better hurry!”

“We know all about it. The situation is being dealt with.”

It was then that I realized I wasn’t saying anything aloud, and I could hear the phone’s dial tone ringing in my ear. The whole conversation was taking place in my head!

“It’s you, isn’t it!” I screamed (in my head).

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, I know it’s you! Listen Big-Head…”

That’s all I remember. I must have passed out again. When I came to, it was morning and I was back on the couch.

That’s where my wife found me. She says it was just a bad dream, and advised that I lay off the nachos and bean dip. I think she suspects there's something to the story, but is taking advantage of the opportunity to alter my eating habits for her own selfish purposes. She may be right, or maybe she’s one of them.

I stopped eating bean dip, for now. I’m also maintaining a focused vigil whenever I see a Mini Cooper roll by.

I'm Going Back to Bed

2010-01-17T00:21:00.014-05:00

My favorite holiday is approaching, but don’t buy a card or bake a cake. Don’t shop for gifts or plan a party, either. Don’t even send me a friendly greeting via email.

Why? Because none of these are required in order to celebrate Groundhog Day. On Groundhog Day, even listening for the news on whether Marmota monax saw his shadow is optional.

Though few groundhogs will have shaken off the slumbering effects of hibernation by February 2nd, a number of North American antagonists will abusively ply the groundhog in wintertime competitions of dubious seasonal precognition. Georgia has their groundhog, General Beauregard Lee; Staten Island, NY has Charles G. Hogg; and many in Ohio look to Buckeye Chuck. Even Canada practices this black magic, through Ontario’s Wiarton Willie.

None of these imposters, however, have been able to hold a candle to the biggest fraud of all, Punxsutawney Phil. The people of Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania make the dubious claim that their groundhog has been at his post since 1887, a feat they say made possible by Phil’s annual ingestion of Groundhog Punch, an elixir that allegedly adds 7 years to Phil’s life (more black magic). They don’t explain why, if it adds 7 years to Phil’s life, an annual dose is required. Maybe he’s come to rely on the stuff.

Punxsutawney Phil’s popularity (if not his credibility) has been enhanced by the fact that his annual forecast is recorded in the Congressional Record. (A practice that hasn't done anything for the legislature's credibility, either.)

There are other parts of the Punxsutawney fable that don’t really add up. I’ve learned that Punxsutawney Phil spends the year (with his mate Phyllis) in the town’s library under the care of volunteers. There, they live on dog food and ice cream, presumably passing the time reading books and periodicals, and making fun of the librarians.

On the eve of the big day, Phil is placed in a heated burrow under a simulated tree stump at Gobblers Knob, where ceremony calls for him to be unceremoniously yanked from his rest at 7:25 a.m. on February 2nd, the precise moment of the Punxsutawney sunrise. This is when Phil supposedly gives his forecast to one of the inner circle of the Groundhog Club, a man dressed in tuxedo and top hat.

Phil’s forecast must be translated from his native tongue, Groundhogese, though it is largely believed that the communication is nothing but a lot of groundhog cussing about being rudely awakened and placed on display before enjoying his customary mocha cappuccino.

I say this must stop! The residents of Punxsutawney Pennsylvania have made Groundhog Day into a multi-day affair that involves such events as an Oreo stacking contest, a Groundhog Jog (little more than a waddle, I suspect) and a Groundhog Beer Dinner—something that may finally explain all of this nonsense.

The beauty of Groundhog Day lies in the fact that the usual demands of a holiday aren’t placed on those of us who choose to observe Groundhog Day in our own carbohydrate-induced hibernation from the comfort of our winter beds.

Let the six weeks begin, and goodnight.

Our two cats - Ricochet, Sly and Boots

2010-01-07T21:52:00.002-05:00

Someone in the family, I don't know who, brought a couple of young cats into the household.

I'm told the cats had been left at the door of our local veterinarian—abandoned. Doc neutered them, gave them their shots, and made them available to the first taker...free.

That’s the propaganda that’s being foisted upon me, anyway. My family knows that I’m a sucker for anything that can be gotten free. Like when my neighbor yelled: “Hey, Carl! You want my old charcoal grill. One of the legs is rusted off, and I lost the part you grill on, but most of the charcoal stays inside. You want it? It’s free!”

The grill is behind the shed; my favorite place to hide the things I’ve brought home for “parts.”

Anyway, hearing that these young mousers hadn't cost me anything, and had been rendered incapable of spawning even more mouths to feed, I welcomed them into the family.

Our old tom cat “Kitten” recently went on to the Happy Hunting Grounds. Arguments continue over how long he lived. The boys say four of five years; my wife says ten, at least. I say it was eleven, but it seemed like twenty, since Kitten had a nasty (or unfortunate) tendency to be in my path whenever I happened to be moving around the house in the dark.

I’d be up in the middle of the night, groping my way toward the bathroom or the refrigerator (I don’t know why I haven’t put a refrigerator in the bathroom yet!) and I’d step on Kitten's foot, or tail.

We would both howl; Kitten as he tried to fight off the demon that was attacking him in his sleep and me as I tried to levitate from my one foot while maintaining control of my bladder. I would take an aspirin in an attempt to minimize the damage from the impending heart attack, and sit up for the next two hours, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. Kitten always sat up with me, probably more for self preservation than a desire for quality together-time.

Over the last few years, Kitten had gotten into the habit of thanking me whenever I opened the door to let him in or out. It was just a little, trilling sound. I think he appreciated the fact that I pronounced his name correctly - Kitten preferred the more French Creole sounding "Key-tawn." He wasn't really from Louisiana, but he wanted everyone to believe that he was. I miss Kitten.

The new cats have been named, several times, and will continue to be named and re-named for some time to come. Eventually, we'll pare the selections down to two or three names for each of them. If they survive to old age, one of those names may stick.

For now, I think I’m going to enjoy Smoky, Butter, Sophie, Stinky, Sly, Maurice, Fluffy, Boots, Ricochet, Peanut, and Walt—both of them.

Christmas Letter 2009

2009-12-16T19:30:00.001-05:00

It’s that time again, time to light a Yule log, don the gay apparel (not a favorite tradition of mine) and dash off my annual holiday greeting.

It’s been quite a year! I hardly know where to start. Maybe it’s best if I recap chronologically.

January – We brought in the New Year by firing shotguns into the frigid night sky. What fun!

Sadly, we learned that a sudden barrage of gunfire in the middle of the night provokes great anxiety in chickens. A strange sound came from the henhouse, a sort of chicken-scream, followed by a clunk and a thud. The frightful awakening caused our hens to spontaneously drop their eggs before pitching over dead, en masse. We filled the freezer with chicken.

February – The groundhog forecast a quick end to winter. Groundhogs make poor prognosticators. (Winter held for another 12 weeks.)

March – I finished boiling syrup on March 12th. Using the boiling tub for such a short time each year seemed a waste, so I tried my hand at distilled spirits. I have only a hazy recollection of the balance of March.

April – See March... I’m told a good time was had by all!

May – Spring finally arrived! We saw the groundhog for the first time since February. We dined on groundhog that evening. In case you’re wondering, it tastes like groundhog. It was a sweet revenge.

Popcorn futures were up, and looked to hold real promise, so we planted all our tillable acreage in popcorn.

June – We rebuilt the outhouse after the seat gave way and the wife took a dip in the honey pit. She had been telling me it needed some work. I suppose it’s my broader base that prevented me from recognizing the problem earlier.

July – Vacation! We took a daytrip to a floating peat bog that’s surrounded by a swamp called Buckeye Lake. It wasn’t until our arrest that we learned this bog, the only one of its kind in the world, is a protected area. Our daytrip became a three-day trip with free lodging and meals, complements of the County Sheriff.

Meanwhile, the neighbor found the power line we had run from his house to ours. He unplugged us… again. We lost everything in the freezer.

August – The weather was so hot that our popcorn popped right there in the field. What a racket! I set up a roadside stand and tried to sell popcorn-on-the-cob. It never really caught on.

September – To offset the loss of farm income, I started a new business. My system for winning the lottery seemed sure to offer a lucrative financial reward.

October – Our oldest son had what some might term success in deer hunting. It’s unfortunate that the neighbor’s bull was brindle colored, but the freezer is full of meat again.

November – The wood shed burned to the ground as a result of a Cornhole mishap when my younger son was experimenting with exploding corn bags–he thought it would enliven the game. Sanctions by the American Cornhole Association are pending.

December – We’ve been burning losing lottery tickets for heat, but the stack is running low; I’d say we have less than a cord remaining. The top six feet of the neighbor’s 20 foot spruce made a wonderful Christmas tree! We blamed the power company.

Well, that’s our year in a nutshell, though the year’s not over yet–anything could happen! Please include us in your prayers, and Merry Christmas!

Home Economics

2009-12-10T22:31:00.003-05:00

In these economically challenging times, it has occurred to me that I could probably earn some extra scratch by writing a book about money saving tactics. Not that I have any particular knowledge in this area, but I think I could fake it. First, I’ll organize an outline and present it to the big publishing concerns. After that, I’m pretty sure all I have to do is sit back and wait for a fat advance check to arrive in the mail.

Outline:

Home Economics – Stuff your mom forgot to teach you!

Chapter 1 - Dumpster Diving: This is a great way to get free stuff, but be safe. Before starting, learn and understand the dump schedules. You don’t want to be inside a dumpster wrestling a raccoon (or homeless person) for a moldy bag of mashed bagels when the waste management engineer drives up to collect what is rightfully his.

Chapter 2 - Dining with Friends, Neighbors and Coworkers: A great way to manage your grocery budget! The key is in maintaining balance; one that is tipped in your favor, naturally. When the couple next door invites you to enjoy a nice steak dinner, you can’t return the favor by offering them mac-n-cheese with chunks of hotdogs mixed in. This is when you want to use the meat products you rescued from the dumpster. Take care to mark the steaks you bought for yourself, to ensure there's no mix-up when you serve the meal.

Chapter 3 - Home Heating: Some entrepreneurial wit once came up with a tool that would tightly roll newspapers into logs that you could burn in your fireplace. You can still find these rollers (usually in dumpsters – see Chapter 1), but the newspaper business being what it is today, you may find fuel a bit hard to come by. My advice is to tough it out until temperatures drop below 50 degrees, then start burning pieces of your neighbor’s privacy fence. He won’t be outdoors again until spring. By the time he realizes that his fence, boat trailer tires, dog house, barking dog, and the maple tree in his side yard are gone, the evidence will be up in smoke.

Chapter 4 - Shop Thrift Stores: Take a tool kit, pepper spray and a cane when you embark on this experience. The tool kit is for re-assembling the parts from several broken items to make one good working item, which you can then purchase at the damaged goods price. The pepper spray is for those aggressive shoppers who will attack you, or your pile of goods, without hesitation, and for no apparent reason. The cane is to clock the really aggressive ones upside the head when the pepper spray doesn’t work, or to correct their children when they become a little too boisterous.

I’ll stop after chapter four. There’s no point in overwhelming my readers with a glut of advice they’ll never bother to use anyway. And I’ll need to save some of my ideas for the companion book I’ll put out when the advance money is gone and royalties begin to drop off.

I think I’ll call the companion: Book Writing – The Art of the Con.

Wild Game Recipe

2009-12-03T05:28:00.001-05:00

So… you've enjoyed a successful day of hunting! Maybe you didn’t bag the trophy buck you had hoped for, but toward the end of the day you settled for a couple of squirrels that had annoyingly cursed you throughout the afternoon. Maybe, too, as you were walking out of the woods, your meditative thoughts were interrupted by a rabbit that exploded from a tuft of grass at your feet. Too bad for the rabbit!

You hike through three miles of rough woodland terrain to find your vehicle (that was parked 60 yards from where you were hunting), load your SUV with the 400 pounds of gear you lugged into the woods, and head for home.

Now, it’s time to transform your wild game (which, if flattened, would be termed road kill) into a sumptuous meal. This recipe can be used for the preparation of any wild game. If you follow the recipe carefully, you will be pleased and well satisfied with the results.

Ingredients:
Two pounds of wild game, cleaned and dressed (black tie optional)
One-half (1/4) cup of gunpowder
Two large cans of moist dog food
Four gallons of kerosene
Three pounds of cayenne pepper
One quart of oil-based paint (any color will do)
Two liters of whiskey (If using Canadian whiskey convert from litres to liters)
Vinegar, baking soda, liquid dish detergent, red food coloring, warm water
Three pounds of beef (or pork)
One gallon of barbeque sauce
Large sandwich buns

You will also need a short traffic cone, 21 gallon trash can, and every he-man’s favorite tool—a roll of duct tape.

Combine the wild game, gunpowder, dog food, kerosene, cayenne pepper and paint, in the trash can. Seal the lid securely with duct tape and bury the can, Korean kimchi style, in a sunny location of your backyard. Be sure to flag this spot for later retrieval by the EPA.

Bake the beef (or pork) at 350 degrees, for one hour and forty minutes. While the beef (or pork) is baking, drink the contents of one of the whiskey bottles.

Next, set the traffic cone over the empty whiskey bottle using the remaining duct tape to secure this apparatus to a solid base (It should look reminiscent of a volcano, if not, use more duct tape). Start drinking the second bottle of whiskey—slowly now, pace yourself.

Pour warm water into the neck of your volcano until it is half full. Add detergent, food coloring and baking soda to this mixture; then, slowly pour in the vinegar until it erupts. Repeat until the beef (or pork) is done, you run out of volcano ingredients, or you sober up.

Finally, use a fork to shred the beef (or pork), adding a generous measure of barbeque sauce. Serve on buns with side dishes of your choice.

Enjoy your meal! It won’t take three days to digest like the wild game would have, and the rest of the family will actually eat what you’ve prepared.

With this recipe you will enjoy the added benefit of a free show when the EPA arrives to search for whatever the neighbor saw you bury in your backyard. After consistently overlooking the flag you left, they will call in backup from the ODA, FDA, ATF, FBI, PTA, AFL-CIO and Homeland Security.

It’s appetizing, nutritious and fun! Bon Appetit!

Last Year, Thanksgiving was a gas!

2009-11-24T16:05:00.004-05:00

Last year, to ensure I did nothing to ruin Thanksgiving, my wife decided we would spend the day at her brother’s house. Never mind that my SPAM turkey from the year before made that holiday (in Scott's own words) "The Best Thanksgiving EVER!”

The upside of going to my brother-in-law’s for Thanksgiving was that Scott had a new turkey fryer, which effectively placed him and I in charge of preparing the bird. He had also bought the turkey, a monster 22-pounder.

Scott had placed the fryer at the top of his asphalt driveway and was already heating the peanut oil when we arrived. Because the drive slopes toward the street, he had shimmed one leg with a piece of scrap two-by-four, to keep it level... and totally safe.

As the oil neared optimal temperature, Scott and I went in and removed the turkey from the freezer. What a giant!

Prying the carcass open, we managed to insert the hook that would be used to carefully lower the turkey into the hot oil, but it was obvious we had a problem.

The bird was too large to fit down into the cylindrical fryer.

Thinking quickly (I’m known for the results of my quick thinking - ask my wife) I walked to the street and grabbed the chainsaw from my pickup. After filling the chain-oil reservoir with peanut oil, for a sanitary cut, I trimmed away enough frozen meat to allow a snug fit without taking too much away from Scott’s glorious bird.

The magic moment had finally arrived! Scott and I stood opposite each other and momentarily held the turkey above the fryer before plunging it into the hot oil.

How were we to know that the bird is supposed to be dry... and thawed! Other than reading the directions that came with the fryer, I mean.

Whoosh! A violent plume of peanut oil blew out of the vat. Our cat-like reflexes allowed us to limit our injuries to second degree burns over just 30% of our bodies, but that same reaction caused us to tip the fryer—spilling fryer, oil, and turkey toward the street.

The now flaming bird surfed a wave of oil as the flames chased it down the driveway. It skipped a couple of times, near the end of the drive, and then skittered across the street, completing a lovely pirouette before dropping into the storm sewer on the opposite side. That should have been the end of it.

Scott and I were dousing the flames that burned a path in his asphalt drive, when our wives arrived on the scene. Just then, a massive explosion rocked the neighborhood! The blast caused smoke and cinders to belch out of the storm sewer drops up and down the street, and left a couple of manhole covers spinning on edge. This brought a number of the neighbors out, as well!

The guys from the fire department never told us what was in the storm sewer to cause that explosion. I’m not sure we would have understood them anyway—they were having a little trouble communicating, what with the choking laughter. They took what was left of the turkey—the burnt carcass and the still cold and wet chainsaw trimmings. They took the fryer too. They left the directions.

Thanksgiving dinner at St. Ann’s Hospital wasn’t so bad, but it wasn’t the best Thanksgiving ever.

Yes We Can!

2009-11-16T20:18:00.003-05:00

In the spirit of invention and entrepreneurship that propelled our nation to the imagined position of “Leader of the Free World,” I offer the following flashes of genius in automotive design. These ideas required a good 20 minutes of semi-strenuous thought on my part. Production of any one of these beauties will revitalize our auto industry, salvage the environment, and offer the opportunity for true energy independence.

T. Boone Pickens—eat your heart out!

The Catafalque – a car that’s so small, extrapolation of your body after a wreck is impossible. After the coroner has notarized your death certificate (and scrap permit) your car serves its secondary purpose as a casket. Never mind that it was a minor fender bender—you’re stuck now. For those who prefer cremation, arrangements can be made through the now defunct Cash-for-Clunkers disposal program, where operators are standing by to assist you.

The Catafalque is offered in simulated woodtones of mahogany, maple, or walnut, and is appointed with a comfy satin interior. For a few extra bucks, you can special order one that sports your favorite NASCAR racing team’s logo.

The Bumper Car – Similar in size to the Smart Car, but without all that muscle under the hood. The Bumper Car is fashioned after the amusement ride of the same name. The main principal behind the efficiency of this vehicle is that kinetic energy of other vehicles is used to propel you to your destination. After your initial acceleration to the vehicle’s top speed of 6 mph, other (enraged) drivers are encouraged to give you an aggressive, self-satisfying nudge with their vehicle in order to jettison you down the road, or at least out of their way.

A few problems with the bumper car include the fact that the car doesn’t really respond to the movements of the steering wheel, and it tends to get bunched up with other Bumper Cars.

The China Syndrome – Don’t let the name fool you, this car will be 100% American made. The design of this nuclear powered vehicle is loosely based on a 1958 Ford concept car called the Nucleon. The car offers a handy, cab-forward design that safely places occupants several inches from that bothersome radiation.

Now, I can already hear all of you tree-hugging-greenies screaming about the nuclear waste, but that’s the beauty of this car! You see, in Ohio alone we have plenty of existing nuclear waste we can employ for the propulsion of these vehicles. Near the city of Fernald is a defunct uranium processing plant with billions of pounds of waste material, and an underlying aquifer that offers over 200 acres of water that’s so atomically charged, anyone who drinks it pees bright green for the next 25 years!

Of course, I momentarily considered solar or wind-powered vehicles. This is out of the question for my home state of Ohio, at least. The wind here is unreliable, and we would look silly driving around with those big fan-blades on top of our cars. Then there’s the dark cloud of depression-and-doom that moves in to block the sun and curtain our sky from November until March. Wintertime use of a solar powered vehicle would require a pedal option—something that we in Ohio are just not fit to utilize.

So there you have it, a plan for the future if ever I made one up. Say it with me—Yes, we can!

1958 Ford Nucleon Concept Car

Sharpshooters, and such

2009-11-12T20:02:00.003-05:00

For years, owners of woodland, cropland and rural landscapes have suffered the ravages of whitetail deer. Now, the deer are encroaching on our urban neighbors and at last: “Something must be done!”

I’ve long considered how we can manage this problem. Not all these ideas have been tested; however, existing ideas (like birth control for deer) haven’t worked, so I’m hopeful that some of these suggestions will prove to be effective and worthwhile.

1) Arm residents with shovels: Part of me admires the 75-year-old Euclid, Ohio woman who killed a deer in her yard with a shovel. How many of us can list that among our accomplishments? Mind you, it was a very young deer. Still, that woman’s got grit!

As a practical matter, the majority of deer are more astute than the one she clocked. Few of us will ever get close enough to use a shovel—or any other garden implement, for that matter.

2) Recruit PETA: Just threatening a deer eradication campaign should be enough to bring a backlash from the wild-eyed, frothy mouthed, wackos at PETA.

I can see it now: PETA protesters coming by the busload, doctor’s permission slip in one hand and medication in the other. They’ll carry signs, block traffic—maybe spill barrels of fake deer blood into the streets before being bused back to the cracker factory.

After a day or two of such nonsense, the most humane among us will be compelled to take up arms. Against the deer, I mean. With no deer, PETA has no cause for which to fight… right? It’s the only legal recourse.

Alternately, we could throw deer estrus on the protesters and watch the show as they attempt to ward off the amorous attentions of the male deer population—ethically, of course. This does nothing to solve our deer problems, but the PETA problem would be momentarily quelled.

3) Release wolves on the urban fringe: This isn’t anything new. At one time, wolves were common throughout Ohio. It may take a few years for them to get the deer under control, but these predators will do it. This tactic could help with the raccoon and feral cat problem, as well!

Keep an eye on the family pets, though, unless you have a pet bear… or wolverine—they can probably take care of themselves.

4) Issue special permits for hunting along roads and highways: The Department of Transportation has placed those deer crossing signs all over the place. All a hunter should have to do is sit near one of those signs until a deer comes loping up to cross the road at the legally designated crossing.

For less experienced hunters, the sign will provide a convenient reference for what a deer looks like, should there be any confusion.

5) Sharpshooters: Place sharpshooters in some of the homes that have been abandoned as a result of the nation’s mortgage crisis. The sharpshooters would have to prove they are competent, by pointing out which is the business end of a gun.

When they’ve bagged their deer, they can leave the meat for the squatters who have taken up residence in the house—win-win, except for the deer… and maybe the surrounding neighbors.

Perhaps the best idea takes me back to where I started this manifesto. Better birth control; not for the deer, but the rest of us. There may be some benefit in the thinning of our herd, as well.

Village Tools

2009-11-05T17:44:00.002-05:00

As an arborist, I’m regularly called upon to assess trees in neighborhoods around Central Ohio. The nature of my work has allowed me to identify a number of personality types that are common from one neighborhood to the next. For those of you who may also have to deal with persons exhibiting these territorial idiosyncrasies, I share the following profiles, and offer advice for dealing with each of them.

Know-it-All – This person won’t hesitate to approach you and tell you how to get the job done. Never mind that they don’t know who you are or what you’re up to—they’ve got an opinion and they can’t wait to share it with you. You’ve spent hundreds, perhaps thousands of hours learning your craft; but the Know-it-All feels compelled to enlighten you with knowledge he has gleaned from an article in the March 1962 edition of Popular Mechanics magazine, or the waitress at Waffle House. Your best tactic for dealing with the Know-it-All is to smile, a big smile, and exclaim repeatedly, “No English!”

Not in My Backyard - They circle, timidly at first, as they repeatedly whine, “Excuse me! Excuse me!” or “May I help you?” You think: “Not unless you go into your house and never speak to me again—that would help me, otherwise... no!”

This person (usually female) is the most territorial of the group, and feels great anxiety that you are so near her home, no doubt up to something that will have a negative impact on her home’s value. You can get rid of this antagonist by looking over at her house and asking, “Who’s that in your back yard?” If she returns (after not finding anyone there), excitedly exclaim, “They’re they are again!” She’ll stay put.

Conspiracy Theorist – Your role in their drama is to listen as the Conspiracy Theorist shares their suspicions regarding the real reason the neighbor across the street is having a new concrete patio installed. You can get rid of the Conspiracy Theorist by telling him you’re on undercover assignment and that you need his help in keeping an eye on Mrs. Not in My Backyard

Fuss-Budget – It doesn’t matter what you’re working on or the level of professionalism you bring to the task; the Fuss Budget will question your intentions, thoughts and deeds with a worrisome look and fretful tone. It’s recommended that you kill her cat so she has a legitimate reason to fret.

Contrarian – Once the captain of her high school debate team, the Contrarian is similar to the Know-it-All. Convinced that she is the repository of vast sums of knowledge, she listens to your pleasant (though apparently careless) conversation, waiting for the opportunity to tell you you’re wrong, explain why you’re wrong, and then step back with a triumphant look in her eye as she awaits your rebuttal. The best method for dealing with a Contrarian is to make a statement in response (any statement will do), and then yell: “I win!” and run away.

Skulker – This person won’t approach you right away; they may not approach you at all. Your first hint that they’re nearby will be a sensation that you’re being watched. The Skulker is especially good at casting disapproving looks in your direction, or staring through you as if you don’t really exist. You can shoo the Skulker away by slinging the Fuss-Budget’s dead cat at her

So there you have it. These techniques work most of the time, but aren't guaranteed. It's good policy to carry a stick with a sharp point on the end... just in case!

Dave Barry 1947 - 2009

2009-10-31T05:00:00.004-04:00

Dave Barry, Pulitzer Prize winning author and columnist, has reportedly died in what authorities are describing as an unfortunate case of horse-play.

Eyewitnesses report that the 62-year-old Barry was alone in his speedboat, and traveling at a high rate of speed, when he crashed into a pier on the Port Boulevard Bridge around 2 a.m. Barry is reported to have been standing in his boat at the time of the crash, and was naked except for a jack-o-lantern that he wore over his head. Authorities believe that the pumpkinhead guise may have been a contributing factor in the accident.

Coincidentally, Barry’s passing comes five years to the day after his announcement that he would be taking an indefinite leave of absence from his weekly humor column at the Miami Herald.

Barry’s widow released the following statement early this morning:

“We’re all so shocked that this could have happened. Of course, we knew Dave loved to wear his pumpkinhead, but he never, ever boated in the nude! I want to offer a sincere apology to the eyewitnesses. It must have been a very disturbing sight!”

Barry’s passing starts the fifty-year countdown to the expiration of the author's copyright on such phrases as “I’m not making this up!” and “would be a good name for a rock band,” as well as words like “gob” and “booger,” which will be available for use by all humor writers in 2059. It is generally believed that Barry's more generic use of exploding or flaming farm animals, small appliances and toilets will be available at a much earlier date.

Barry’s attorney has indicated that it was the humorist’s desire that his cremated remains be blended with the ink that will be used in printing his final book. The posthumous release (appropriately titled Dead my Ash!) will be published from notes that Barry compiled on his substantial gum wrapper collection and the inner flaps of Cheese-It box tops.

Barry was scheduled to make an appearance in his role as lead guitarist for the Rock Bottom Remainders at a concert this evening. Venue organizers at the Gramercy Park Nursing Home are expected to release details on the concert later today, but it is believed that Barry will be unavailable for this appearance.

Plans for a memorial service are uncertain; however, memorial contributions may be made to the Miami-Dade Objectophiliac Support Center or the Starving Humor-Writer Fund of America.

Readers may leave their expressions of sympathy, or application for relief from the previously mentioned charities, in the "comments" section below.

The final chapter in the riveting series on Ohio Town Names

2009-10-23T08:00:00.007-04:00

I’ve mentioned in previous posts that my study of an Ohio map indicated a lack of creativity in the naming of Ohio’s cities, towns and villages. For my vote, top honor for least creative would go to the town of Ohio City, Ohio. How hard was it to think up that name? It’s like naming your dog, Dog.

Then there’s Farmers Center, Farmers Station, Farmerstown and Farmersville. I wonder what industry is driving the economy in these communities.

Many of the names of Ohio towns are just plain ridiculous—or so it seems.

Who came up with names like Pancoastburg, Jelloway, Scio, Seventeen, Wilgus or Yelverton? (Jelloway?!?)

Sligo sounds like the name of a board game, so does Uniopolis; and Overpeck?

“Hi, Boss? I’ll be late getting to work today. I have to take my rooster to the orthodontist…he has an overpeck. Hey! What a great name for a town!”

Were the settlers of Converse contrarians, or did they enjoy good conversation? I wish I cared enough to look into it. What about the people from Assumption? I would suppose or speculate that there’s a good reason they took this name for their town.

Was Plankton named for small aquatic organisms, or do they refer to themselves as “The City of Boards.”

It might be interesting to visit River Styx, Ohio, just be careful of what’s on the other side. Equally hazardous could be a visit to Pandora; and I often wonder if Dracula’s kin were the ones to settle Rushylvania. Actually, I don’t wonder about this at all.

Was Oldtown always called Oldtown; or did the name change after so many years?

I know that Celeryville was named for their chief agricultural product. I wonder if they have a celery festival each year; it sounds like fun!

I imagine there would be a celery parade and pageant, which would be followed by a crown of celery being placed on the head of the Celery Queen. Of course, there would be all sorts of celery food and drink: Deep-fried celery, celery burgers, celery ice cream, celery on a stick, celery beer... Yum!

“Stop by a nearby floss-station to clear the fibrous vegetable debris from between your teeth before joining us in the celery eating contest!” Woo-hoo!

I couldn’t help but think of an old-time television commercial when I read that there's a Whipple, Ohio. I haven’t seen Mr. Whipple in years! Speaking of absences, does anyone no where Waldo is? It’s somewhere in Ohio, though I can’t pick it out from all the other cities on my map.

I should get someone from Enterprise to help. They’re probably more ambitious than me. Or maybe their town was named after the Starship Enterprise. If that’s the case, I don’t want their help.

Are the people of Eureka keeping a secret? I’ve never heard of anything having been discovered there. Maybe that’s where the vacuum cleaners are made. If I traveled to Reminderville I bet it would come back to me.

We have one city in Ohio whose name begins with an X, though Xenia is pronounced with the "Z" sound ("Zed" if you’re a traveler from Canada).

I bet the people in Veto, Ohio would know just what to do with this rambling trilogy!

Read Part One

Read Part Two

Ohio Town Names - Second part in a trifecta of journalistic farcism.

2009-10-20T08:00:00.003-04:00

I recently wrote about some of the oddities in the naming of Ohio cities, towns and villages. As I mentioned previously; creativity appears not to have been a forte of early Ohio settlers. I can understand how, over time, as a state’s map becomes more dotted with named places, providing a unique name for one’s town would become more difficult. That’s probably why so many towns seem to be named for the obvious.

The Ohio towns of Catawba, Sycamore, Magnolia and Hemlock are obviously named for trees.

There are several towns that are named after other states, or what were, in some cases, territories at the time. Florida, Wyoming, Kansas, Texas and Idaho are all represented in the names of Ohio towns. I checked to see if any of these other states had a town named after Ohio—they don’t.

To their credit, Kansas has an Ohio township, and I learned that in Texas there is a ghost town named Ohio (whatever that means). When the post office in Ohio, Texas closed in 1920, they moved it to Cowhouse Creek. It doesn’t say much for the leadership of a town when a place called “Cowhouse Creek” survives you.

There are loads of Ohio towns that are named after famous persons of their time. Certainly some towns were named after the proprietor of the general store or tavern that lay along a popular trail where a town eventually grew. No doubt, too, there were those vain individuals who named a town after themselves. I would start an Ohio town and name it after myself, but Coolville is already taken.

Many positive sentiments are expressed in the names of Ohio towns. We’ve got Unity, Blissfield, Charm, Friendsville, Tranquility and Brilliant. Who wouldn’t want to live where they could enjoy the good view from either of the two towns named Buena Vista. Or why not live in a town where everyone is willing to lend a hand—a place like Pitchin, Ohio.

Biblical references in the names of Ohio towns are also popular. It’s probably a good idea to live in a town with a biblical name—improves one’s odds, I should think, when the Four Horsemen arrive. Towns like Canaan, Goshen, Hebron or Hiram would be alright places to live. I’d rather not have to go to the effort of writing out Mesopotamia, Ohio, every time I had to write my address.

Naturally, there are towns whose names might put-off the potential traveler. I wonder if Getaway is a recreational destination or a warning. I’m pretty sure I will avoid Crooksville when I travel. I might go through Bevis, Gomer, Meeker or Funk, but I’ve spent a lifetime trying to stay out of Bellevue!

Gnadenhutten is an Ohio town whose name makes me a little nervous. I don’t know what it means, Gnadenhutten. Sounds scary!

I could drive through Gore, I just wouldn’t look around too much. I’d have to watch my wallet if I stopped in Shadyside or Panhandle. People in those towns are probably down on their luck.

Hicksville is one of my favorite names for an Ohio town. It surprises me that there's only one town that took the name Hicksville... so many qualify.

Read Part One

Read Part Three

Ohio Place Names... part one of a three-part cartographical odyssey

2009-10-16T08:15:00.006-04:00

I had reason to look at an Ohio map recently. You remember maps, don’t you? Those big, colorful, multi-fold pieces of paper that we once used to find our way in the world, before computers or GPS?

I was looking to the map’s index, something that is usually followed by flipping the map over and then wrestling, refolding, crumpling, tearing and wadding it to a manageable size in order to locate your destination and consider a route. As I looked at the index, I was distracted by the fact that there were two towns with the name, Olive Green. It seemed a strange name to bestow upon a town; why would anyone choose to use it a second time?

If I wanted to drive to Olive Green, how would I know which one to choose? What were the implications for sending mail? Did the residents find this dual-moniker status confusing? Do the inhabitants of one Olive Green resent those of the other?

As I continued to look at the map's index I found several other anomalies. In fact, I spent quite a lot of time reading the names of Ohio’s populated places… I really need a hobby!

I found that Ohio has 43 instances in which two towns have taken the same name, though I included Valley View and Valleyview in that count; same with Lindale and Linndale. I was curious about the two towns named Millersport. Did the name suggest a port for millers, or a sport for Miller? I wonder about these things.

Surprising as it was, to me, that any name might be used twice, I had to chuckle when I noted that there were four names that had each been used three times—Bloomfield, Oakwood, Lafayette and Rome. Perhaps all roads don’t lead to Rome, but quite a few must.

More shocking, still, is the fact that there are four Newport’s and four Centerville’s! None of the Centerville’s appear to be quite at the center of anything; and shouldn’t the second Newport have been called New Newport, and so on?

As would be expected, there are quite a few towns named after founding fathers. The names of foreign countries are popular, as well. Foreign cities are well represented in the names of Ohio towns. I’m not sure if I can include Lima with that group, since I can’t state with certainty whether it was named after the city in Peru or the bean.

There are 19 occurrences of the abbreviation “Mt.” and 61 uses of “New.” It becomes apparent to me that early Ohioans were not a particularly creative lot.

There are a number of references to American Indian culture. Descriptive words from their languages; names of places; tribes; and chieftains. My favorites are Tymochtee, Wakatomika, Tontogany and Tawawa. Don’t ask me what any of them mean, I provide the raw data, you can do your own leg-work.

I wondered about a couple of the names I found on my map, and whether they, too, are references to Native Americans. I wouldn’t mind living in Round Head, though I’m not sure if that’s a title a native warrior would cherish. Still, it’s better than Round Bottom, or worse, Long Bottom.

I can only imagine the self esteem issues that a young native would have in being called Long Bottom. Probably didn't get many dates.

Read Part Two

Read Part Three

Convoluted Corporation, Inc.

2009-10-06T09:03:00.001-04:00

Memo

To: All Company Associates
From: Mr. Throckmorton, Vice President of Communications
CC: Vendor Groups
Date: 10/5/2009
Re: Modeling the capture of strategic platform strategies.

I want to touch base regarding our collateral matrix of costs and their relevance to our ongoing operations. I’ll keep this short and make it as clear as possible, in order that you might begin immediately to develop cross-functional profiles to carry out the objectives of this evolving mandate.

The economy has offered a critical challenge in recent months. Forecasts suggest continued movement into negative territory before evidence of a measurable turnaround will begin to yield effective results. Moving forward, it will be particularly important that each of us step up to the plate and give 110% effort in leveraging our negative risk opportunities for a win-win outcome.

This is not rocket science folks! If every one of us commits to pushing the envelope and thinking outside the box, at the end of the day we will drill down to our base demographic to re-initiate a balanced logistics matrix.

We all know there is plenty of low-hanging fruit out there. Going forward, it will be required that everyone accentuate their forward planning initiatives and keep this shifting paradigm on their radar.

I know I can count on you for the development of a plan to re-facilitate the primary filter-down parameters and deliver on the core objective profile (as outlined above).

I'll expect your report by end of day, Wednesday.

Regards,

Thaddeus Throckmorton III

Swine Flu Facts

2009-09-25T20:58:00.007-04:00

I rolled out of bed and walked to the kitchen to start the coffee. As I walked, my knee made a strange clacking noise. In the past, I've popped, creaked and crackled, even squeaked—but I have never clacked.

As I shook off the morning groggies, I noticed I was feeling a little woozy. Achy, too… and hot.

“Great!” I thought, “I must be coming down with something!” It was then that I was jolted by the most terrifying thought: Swine flu!

I made a clacking-dash to the computer; to learn as much as I could about this malady, since I had totally ignored the glut of information to date. What would happen to me? What could I do? Could I continue to free-range, or must I confine myself to bed? Thank goodness for the internet!

What I sought was a quick and easy answer to my questions. Something like: “Eat a hearty breakfast that's high in saturated fats, with plenty of beer—beer is good for swine flu!" Instead, I found page after page of conflicting information—it was confusing!

In order to spare others the uncertainty and fright that I experienced, I’ve organized what I learned into five basic facts. This is all one needs to know about swine flu.

Fact #1 – You can’t catch swine flu from pigs. Oh sure, it’s suspected that the very first case came as a result of an indiscretion by a Mexican hog vaquero and one of his wards, but there was a chicken involved, too. Again, this is only speculation, but unless you’re planning to participate in similar deviant behavior—don’t worry about catching swine flu.

Fact # 2 – The same goes for pork products. The virus travels by air. Well, actually, it’s sneeze blasts, snot, spew, spittle and phlegm—but not pork. The sweaty fat guy that brushed against you as he exited the elevator doesn’t count.

Fact #3 – Swine flu is a misnomer. The flu has nothing to do with hogs. It was originally identified as a normal, seasonal flu by a researcher who also happens to sit on the Cattlemen’s Beef Board. This researcher remembered, all to well, the renegades from the National Hog Farmers Convention of 1986.

These were a handful of guys who, perhaps, had one too many, and in a fit of farm-humor got a couple of cows drunk. Their mistake, really, was in taking video of the results, and releasing the footage to the local television station.

Again, it was supposed to be a joke when they told the news people that the cows were afflicted with a recently discovered disease called Mad Cow. They should have realized that news people are uncommonly gullible, and will repeat just about anything you tell them, verbatim.

Anyway, this researcher remembered the trouble the hog farmers’ little stunt had caused, and decided to exact revenge by calling this year’s seasonal flu: Swine Flu.

Fact #4 – Being reviewed for accuracy.

Fact #5 – Experts disagree on what vaccine to use, or how the vaccine should eventually be administered. Recent research indicates that inhalers show some promise. It’s hoped that one or two snorts will do the trick.

For now, if you long for the stabbing pain of a vaccination needle, have a desire to gamble your future health in the name of unknown side effects, or are really, really lonely—go get a flu shot. Otherwise? Forget it.

That’s what I grunt did, and I’m squeeeel fine!

Electric Car

2009-09-21T05:57:00.003-04:00

Dan fancied himself as quite the mechanic. When he had the opportunity to buy a “flood car” for fifty dollars, he had every confidence that he could make her roadworthy once more.

Dan’s wife, Patti, earned a modest living as a wedding planner. Owning a Cadillac had long been a dream of Patti’s… that was about to change.

The car was a 2005 Cadillac Deville, and Dan spent the next five months working on her in the neighbor’s barn—he grew attached to her; it was a labor of love.

It was early Saturday morning, the day Dan finally rolled in with the Caddy. Patti was on her way out the door for a wedding, and had just pulled the box of monarch butterflies from the refrigerator where they had been stored, to keep them dormant, since the day before. Having butterflies shipped in for release at the blessed moment was one of the specialties Patti offered to her clients.

As thrilled as she was to see Dan and his gift, Patti was on a tight schedule—she had to get the butterflies to the wedding before they warmed up. Excited to try out her new ride, she placed the box of butterflies in the trunk of the Cadillac and sped off.

“There’s just one thing!” yelled Dan, “I haven’t quite figured out the wiring, yet! Be careful!” But Patti was already beyond his voice.

As Patti approached the first intersection, she signaled a left turn and was startled when, instead, the high-beams came on. Naturally, a driver across the intersection flashed his high beams in retaliation. Patti pulled the lever to dim the headlights, causing the horn to sound... non-stop. The other driver hit his horn, as well, and yelled something.

Patti thought to shout a response, but when she pressed the button to lower the window, the passenger side airbag deployed. Meanwhile, the horn continued to ensure that everyone in the neighborhood took note of Patti in her new ride.

Thinking that she had better seek safety at the side of the road, Patti signaled to pull over to the right, engaging the cruise control and causing the car to lurch forward. The panicked wedding planner jammed on the brakes to disengage the cruise control and stop the wild ride! As she came to a halt at the side of the road, Patti turned on the hazard lights, releasing the trunk lid... and most of the 400 butterflies that had been inside.

Dan had heard the racket from the house. As he ran down the street he could see the cloud of butterflies spreading over the neighborhood and he started to calculate the cost of his error. At $6.75 per butterfly, the cost of the new car had risen suddenly and dramatically. That didn’t count what lay ahead for Patti when she had to deal with an upset bride, and worse, the bride’s angry mother.

As it turned out; the bride didn’t really mind pocketing the refund of her mother’s butterfly deposit. Dan never did manage to sort out all the problems with the wiring in the Caddy, but Patti got accustomed to things as they were. Sometimes, you’ll see her around town, proudly driving her new car and displaying her personalized license plates that read:

Yard Sale Revenge!

2009-09-13T06:11:00.012-04:00

“Why is she driving smack in the middle of the road?” I asked myself aloud. Then I asked myself why I was talking to myself; but my tone of voice made me decide I would ignore me, and I refused to answer.

Continuing the conversation in my head, I wondered why the foolish woman in the 1980-something Plymouth Duster was driving so erratically! Then, without warning, she veered through the shallow, grassy ditch at the edge of the road, and came to rest with the nose of her car against the split rail fence in someone’s yard.

I stopped at the side of the road and jumped out of my truck, even more questions spinning in my head. Did she break a tie-rod? Could she be in diabetic shock? Has she expired at the wheel? (And me, thinking so poorly of her just moments earlier).

No, before I closed the door of my pickup, this little old lady with a fisherman’s cap and a faded, tie-dyed tee shirt was out of her car and marching toward the neighboring home. When she heard my truck door close, she wheeled around, glaring, in a way that made me stop in my tracks, before she spun around to continue her march.

I shivered as I realized I had just been on the receiving end of the Yard-saler’s Hex—a sort of Midwestern voodoo jinx that’s designed to make you hesitate for just a moment, just long enough so she can get at the “good stuff” before you can.

It was like that all Labor Day weekend—the unofficial end of summer, and yard sale season.

You have to be watchful for these rummage sale ruffians throughout the year, but on Labor Day weekend a heightened sense of desperation is evident—leaving your home is discouraged, particularly by your auto insurance agent.

If you do venture out, beware! If you find yourself driving behind someone (usually female or elderly—often both) who’s driving too fast; someone who, without notice, slams on their brakes so hard that they do a reverse wheelie as they simultaneously veer into a driveway; if it’s at this moment (as you’re trying to avoid rear ending her) that you notice the collection of troll dolls that are glued to her dash, and maybe an old dog riding shotgun, a dog that has been trained to give you that same evil-eye; you’ll know then (as you recover from the skid and feel the rush of blood that’s made your eyes bug out a little) that you’re behind one of the pro’s… a master at her craft, a genuine, bare knuckles, hard core, fight to the death for a scarcely-used Veg-O-Matic… yard saler.

Though you are now in a rage, it’s best not to confront her immediately about her unsafe driving habits. After all, you can never tell if there is really something to that voodoo thing—and she has a dog.

If you really want revenge, stop up the road at the next yard sale and buy the most expensive thing they’ve got. Don’t hold back, this is war! When she pulls in to that sale (and she will) walk past her with a big smile on your face, hold your purchase up where it’s easy for her to see and announce triumphantly, “One Dollar!”

Sports Cliches - the next best thing

2009-09-07T18:55:00.004-04:00

Shopping malls should be closed on Saturdays, at least during football season.

If legislation to this effect can’t be enacted immediately, then malls should be outfitted with sports lounges where those of us who have been drafted for a “fun day of shopping” can take the occasional break to catch the latest scores and updates.

As it is, you’re lucky to find a bench where you can rest a minute! This past Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find a bench and a like-minded bench warmer. We enjoyed a pleasant time, observing shoppers and discussing common interests:

Jim, see that brunette in the red jacket? Watch her today; she's a physical player, a proven winner and a force to be reckoned with.

Let’s not forget about the blonde with the ponytail, Carl. She’s a scrappy player, and a serious student of the game.

You’re right, the blonde is obviously the real deal, no question, but don’t discount the elderly lady – she’s a real playmaker who can be counted on to come through in a clutch.

Well, it looks like things are about to get started here. What are you’re thoughts going into this competition?

The intangibles will be the key. This is an intriguing match-up and I’m going to say that the one that wants it most will probably be our winner here today.

I would agree. They’ll have to dig deep, and capitalize on opportunities if they hope to come out on top.

And there they go! It looks like the blonde draws first blood with a smooth end-around cart maneuver that caught the others off guard.

That’s right, Carl. The others are going to have to stay on their toes. They’ve got to stay consistent and not allow those un-forced errors.

They'll need to start playing with a sense of urgency if they’re going to battle their way back into this competition!

Yes, but stick to the game plan – that’s key here. Size-wise, these players are well matched; nobody is likely to dominate in the physical game.

The brunette is making a move now. Boy, she really thrives under pressure.

Yeah, great instincts, and great lateral mobility; I’d say she’s got first-round pick written all over her.

I don’t know, Jim. She has the makings of a great one, but she’s been plagued by injuries all season.

Oh My! How about that screen the elderly lady just set?

She makes it look easy out there, and what an arm! Did you see how she was negotiating the traffic out there before launching that pack of stockings into her cart? Great touch! That pass was right on the money.

Carl, that move may have just changed the complexion of this game. You can almost feel the momentum swinging her way.

You’re right; it was a gutsy play that paid off. That may prove to be this game’s defining moment!

It’s not in the bag yet, Carl, there’s still a lot of game to play and the others could still blow this thing wide open.

True, they’re not out of it yet but…

“Ready, Hun?”

Wha’s 'at?

“I’m done… we can go home now. Are you ready?”

Well… okay… are you sure you got everything?

“Yes! C’mon, let’s go. Are you feeling alright?”

Yeah…I guess. Can we come back here next week?

Help Menu

2009-08-31T20:12:00.020-04:00

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Breakfast Conversation

2009-08-24T06:37:00.013-04:00

Mornings… a peaceful time; a time to gently ease into the new day; a time to contemplate what must be done, and what might be put off ‘til tomorrow. For me, there’s plenty of time to mull over these things each morning. I’m what you might term an early riser... a short sleeper... a dawn greeter. It’s routine.

After a time, I find myself searching out some breakfast, and some breakfast-time conversation. Since no one else will be up for several hours (including the dog), my options for conversation are limited:

“Good mornin’ Cap’n Crunch! How goes it this fair day, sir? Will ye and Sea Dog be shovin' off to sail the Good Ship Guppy this morning? Be mindful, sir; I hear the Barefoot Pirate, Jean LaFoot has been trolling about, a-searchin’ for trouble. A toast to the new day! Here’s to success in battlin’ the Soggies, and to be sendin’ that rascal, LaFoot, to Davey Jones’ locker!”

And so I toast the Cap’n, with a hearty swig of milk from the Quisp mug that I purchased some years ago, with a dollar bill and four box-tops.

I’ve enjoyed cereal at breakfast for as long as I can remember—I never tire of it. One of the pivotal moments of my childhood came when Mom, after a long and hard-fought battle, finally waved the white flag, signifying the end of the Cereal Wars and the purchase of my first box of Kaboom! The box claimed that the cereal was fortified with vitamins and iron—a ploy by the manufacturer to foil all the Moms. We kids knew, from our careful study of Saturday morning television commercials, that the clown faces and marshmallows in Kaboom would provide a psychedelic, sugar-charged blast of fruit flavored insanity. We were cautious to avoid eating it too fast—we had heard stories about a kid who had attacked it greedily, causing his head to explode. (A story no doubt circulated by the moms.) KABOOM!

“I’ll not partake in any of your mischief today, Leprechaun! No, you can’t tempt me with yer pot-o-gold; 'tis the Charms I’m after. I hear they’re magically delicious!”

One morning, I might gossip with Count Chocula about Franken Berry. On another, it’s a lively chat with that ever-energetic trio: Snap, Crackle and Pop. Many a morning, I’ve sat expectantly waiting for Cornelius the rooster to proclaim the dawn of the new day with his Cock-a-Doodle-Do… as I sop the limp Corn Flakes from my bowl… wishing I’d had Frosted Flakes, instead.

Frosted Flakes... once known as Sugar Frosted Flakes. The manufacturer dropped “sugar” from the name due to pressure from those pesky nutritionists—probably all moms. Thankfully, in spite of the name change, the sugar remained firmly and generously frosted to the flakes. Sugar Smacks (Now disguised as Honey Smacks) and Sugar Frosted Flakes. They’re G-r-reat!

Every morning, no matter where I am, you’ll find me up early, practicing my morning routine. “I follow my nose! It always knows! The flavor of fruit! Wherever it grows!”

“Ah! Good morning Toucan Sam! What shall we talk about today?”

Side Effects

2009-08-17T06:03:00.002-04:00

It frightens me to think that, one day, I may have to count myself among the millions of people who take prescription medications. I know that I shouldn’t be afraid. These medicines have been developed by some of the finest minds in medical research. Developed and improved upon since the days of Hippocrates and the alchemists. They offer the opportunity to lengthen life, improve the quality of those extra years, even help you jump tall buildings in a single bound after your double hip replacement.

Knowing this should make me feel better, but it doesn’t… not at all. This is because every time a new pharmaceutical hits the market, and the ad campaign hits the airwaves, the only thing I remember about the drug is its side effects.

The side effects are always summed up by the soft-spoken, speed-talker at the end of the 30-second spot. It’s the verbal equivalent to fine-print. “May cause headaches, nausea, bleeding from the ears, goiters, ocular cysts or, in rare instances—death. This product should not be taken by people who are considering air travel, as changes in atmospheric pressure have been know to cause spontaneous, human combustion. Consult your physician, neighbor, mechanic, and gardener before taking this product.”

Now, all that may not sound so bad to you. But what is one to do when their doctor prescribes two medications. What if one of them has the potential to trigger an uncontrollable urge to binge-eat and the other may cause the inability to swallow? What do you do then? How about if each of them causes drowsiness? If I take them both, as prescribed, am I going to sleep through tomorrow? Doesn’t that reduce the value of the whole longer-life principle?

Or, what if both drugs have their own unique set of side effects, all of them bad? The side effects that the drug companies are willing to admit are never good. You don’t ever hear Speed-Talker say anything about experiencing a deep-seated sense of well being, or a tendency toward healthy weight loss, or the ability to read people’s minds.

No, it’s always: “This product could cause seeping lesions of the skin which may be mistaken for leprosy. A sensation of insects crawling over the entire body has been known to occur. Actual insect attacks have been reported by some survivors. You should not take this medicine if your doctor determines that you are ill, or becoming ill, as the manufacturer will deny all claims of liability that come as a result of your weakness.”

No, this isn’t for me. As I grow older, and the indiscretions of my youth begin to manifest themselves physically, I think I’ll just ignore them. And when the pain and suffering become more than I can bare; when I feel that it may be time to fill the ream of prescriptions that my doctor has written for me; when I begin to question if life is still worth living—I’ll just listen to a pharmaceutical ad on the radio. I imagine the picture painted in my mind as I listen to Speed-Talker will convince me that I don't feel so bad after all.

The day Mary almost shot the devil

2009-08-10T07:01:00.011-04:00

A friend called and said he had a downed tree out on his farm. He told me I could have it for firewood, if I wanted, but I would have to get it soon—if his wife spotted it, she would make him cut, split, and stack the wood to use at their place. “Please hurry!” he begged.

The humidity was high and it was already pushing 90 degrees when I drove out to the farm late the next morning. I got right to work, cutting and loading the sections of log into my pickup. It was one of those days that people describe as sticky; so I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw a hummingbird fly over, and then stop to rest in mid-flight. It hung suspended there, its motionless wings silent as it surveyed my worksite before mustering the strength to plow on through the soggy stillness of the hot summer air.

Turning away from this anomaly, I looked down and noticed my shadow appeared to be slumped over. As I studied this new spectacle, my shadow lifted its head and made a sweeping gesture with its hand—as if waving me off and saying: It’s too hot. I’m done! And with that he walked over to the truck and laid down in the shade.

I looked back at where my shadow should have been, but there was nothing there. This caused me some concern, and thinking I might not be well I decided I’d better go home and rest my obviously heat-addled mind. I couldn’t see my shadow, there in the shade of the truck, so I called out, “If you’re coming, let’s go!”

I looked, but still no shadow.

Over the next several days, my shadow appeared to be enjoying his freedom. One day, I saw him follow someone into the feed store. On another, I’m pretty sure I saw him standing behind a reporter on the TV news. I started to hear talk of a strange, dark critter roaming around town, always in broad daylight. Some folks were getting a little jittery about it. I hoped he wasn’t going to get me in trouble.

One of the most concerned was my neighbor, Mary. Apparently, my shadow had taken a particular liking to spending time in Mary’s garden, where she had spied him on several occasions. Mary has a Mediterranean style garden that’s full of urns, benches and statues, but the focal point of the garden is the labyrinth. The first time Mary showed me her garden, she told me the history of labyrinths and how they were once constructed to serve as traps for evil spirits. Mary mostly used the path for quiet exercise and meditation.

One morning, my shadow was taking a stroll in Mary’s labyrinth, when she spotted him. Mary’s husband, Cal, heard her growl, “Now I’ve got you!” before grabbing Cal’s 16-gauge from the gun rack and running onto the screened porch. Mary took five shots, right through the screen, missing my shadow (even the labyrinth) completely. Cal snatched the shotgun from her hands as she screamed, “I shot him! I shot the devil!”

There have been no more reports of the dark, mystery-creature skulking around town. My shadow returned unscathed—not that he would have been hurt much anyway, I suppose. He’s been staying close by, and to keep it that way, I’m taking it easy if temperatures are forecast to go over 70 degrees.

My wife thinks I’m making this up to avoid work—Mary and Cal aren't talking about it. But there’s a shadow of truth in it…I swear!

Sheepdog

2009-08-03T08:46:00.006-04:00

Spiders… insects… bugs… crustaceans… they’re all the same, when they’re big enough to be fitted for a saddle.

Living in the woods along Raccoon Creek, our family suffers more than our share of extra-large creepy crawlers. Any of us, glimpsing a bug out of the corner of our eye, may easily mistake it for one of the family pets.

Common are earwigs the size of scorpions, spiders with a leg-span of 4 - 5 inches, mosquitoes whose buzzing could be mistaken for low flying aircraft, and houseflies that cause bruising when they happen to ricochet off an unvigilant victim. We’ve got them all, and they’re all gargantuan.

Buddy was somewhere between a pup and a grown dog when his first summer arrived. Bugs hadn’t been a part of his earliest months, and they were proving to be a novelty as well as a supplemental food source for the hungry young hound. Buddy could often be found sitting on the front porch, where he attentively watched for the hapless cricket, moth, or daddy-long-legs spider that might come within striking range.

It was late summer, and the cicadas were nearing the peak of their incessantly pulsating waves of racket when Buddy discovered they were easy prey. For those unfamiliar with cicadas; they are a stout, flying insect that appear each year during the dog days of summer, spending their days and nights singing to woo a mate. The ones around our house are as big as a hippo’s thumb. Whenever Buddy would catch one, he would hungrily scarf it down with two or three snaps of his long snout.

One morning, our mailman, Sam, was driving up the lane to drop a package at the house. On his way up the wooded drive, Sam spooked a couple of cicadas that flew noisily ahead of him. Buddy had heard the familiar sound of Sam's truck, and was waiting to torment the mailman when he recognized the mid-morning snack that was winging his direction. I watched as the excited mutt ran out and leapt to grab a cicada, just as the rattle-with-wings took a decided dive.

The cicada shot down Buddy’s maw, causing him to stop hard in the middle of the drive where he violently shook his head before running a couple of figure eights. Expecting a howl of displeasure, I was surprised when Buddy, instead, opened his jaws wide and bleated… like a sheep. This happened several more times—Buddy opening his mouth to howl, and the pulsating rhythm of the cicada changing his usually strong voice into the plaintiff wail of a wooly ruminant. It was apparent that the cicada had remained intact on its decent, and was busy inside Buddy’s gullet expressing its own indignation at its current circumstance.

Sam studied this catastrophe for a moment before deciding it was safe to get out of his truck and hand me the package. Without a word, Sam looked at Buddy, then me, then back at Buddy before getting into his truck and driving away, laughing and shaking his head.

Eventually, the cicada fell silent and Buddy crawled under the porch where he stayed until mid-morning the next day.

Now, whenever Buddy hears the mail truck, he just crawls under the porch. I guess the embarrassment is just too much for him.

National Auto Parts Store

2009-07-27T07:16:00.010-04:00

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.

Help! I Have a Monkey on my Back!

2009-07-20T07:02:00.016-04:00

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.

Motorized Bar Stool - Made in U.S.A.

2009-07-13T16:10:00.003-04:00

“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

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.

Invasive Exams

2009-07-05T06:20:00.005-04:00

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.

Grill Master

2009-07-01T07:00:00.003-04:00

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.

A Runner I'm Not

2009-06-24T16:53:00.008-04:00

I went for a run last week. Recent weight loss tactics had been met with stiff resistance by my middle-aged body, and something had to be done.

I used to be a runner of some ability. Back then, I actually enjoyed going for a two... three... even four mile run on a regular basis. But my job, my age, a general tendency toward loafing, overindulgence, and a variety of other totally valid excuses had kept me from it for years—I was ready.

I went to the bike path in the pre-dawn hours of Sunday morning. It was good to be setting off on a run again, and I contemplated whether I should do a hard two-mile run, or pace myself and put in four.

I started strong, and other than the Clydesdale-like clip, clop of my flat feet slapping the asphalt, everything felt right. It wasn’t long, though, before I found myself desperately gasping for air, my lungs burning, as I simultaneously developed an alarming wheeze. I noticed there were colored spots dancing before my eyes (mostly yellow) and I had developed a tendency to veer left—a habit I was constantly reminded to correct when a tree limb along that side of the path would thwap me in the face (Yes, thwap is a real imaginary word). The stabbing pain in my side was rivaled only by the one in my back, and my heart seemed to be trying to evacuate my chest via my throat. I took my first break.

When I came to, I stood, brushed myself off, and foolishly continued to lurch forward. Glancing at my watch, I noticed that I had already put in eighteen minutes, counting my break, and I felt like I might be able to hang on for awhile yet, if I stopped another time or two along the way.

Twenty minutes into my run I took my second break. Doubled over, hands on my knees, I fought to maintain consciousness as I watched the sweat puddling at my feet and tried to decide if the ringing sound was in both ears, or just one. Bent like that, in the early dawn light, I could see a mark on the pavement indicating that I had run ½ mile. It then struck me that I hadn’t properly stretched before starting my run. In order to avoid unnecessary injury, due to my negligence, I decided the safest thing was to stop immediately.

Limping back to the car, I was menaced by a fairly sizeable dog, but I was pretty sure that being torn apart and eaten by the hound would hurt less than trying to run away, and I stoically maintained my gimping pace.

I must have looked too pathetic to be given serious consideration, even as dog food, because the dog stopped barking and stared at me for another moment before flashing a knowing, dog-smile and trotting away. He had seen my type on the bike path before.

That was last week. The chafing on my thighs is beginning to improve and I can feel my feet again. I’ve decided to give the abstemious use of food and drink another try. One thing is certain—there will be no more of this monkey-business of running.

Sophomoric

2009-06-18T16:36:00.013-04:00

It can be a might hard on one’s ego to have a child return home after their first year of college. Suddenly, they’ve become worldly and wise, and you, it is believed by your loving child, have entered the early stages of witless senescence.

When our boys were small, I could tell them anything, and they would trustingly accept my words as true and correct. We’ve all witnessed kids quibbling, in the age-old debate that begins, “My dad is smarter than your dad!” If you and the other dad both happened to be present at the onset of one of these contests, you would glance at the other dad and offer an apologetic smile, knowing you really were smarter than him.

But eventually, this open acceptance of your wisdom begins to waver. It starts when you share information that you know is suspect, and they give you a hard stare as they mull over your words. You can almost hear the gears turning as the machinery of their little mind is locked in a struggle between their faith in your expansive knowledge, and the thought that maybe you really don’t know everything. This uncertainty in your abilities continues to grow until they hit their teen years, and they are convinced that, in fact: you know nothing, intentionally cause them embarrassment, and dress weird. Fortunately, you still know a little more than they do, and they grudgingly tolerate your lectures on the subject, though they’ll never confess it to be true.

It’s a hard day, though, when they return from that first year of college. Now, they see it as their duty to challenge everything you say, as they engage you in critical-thinking debates.

Dad, why do you always skip the Arts section of the newspaper?

Oh, I don’t really care for it much, I guess.

Why?

I don’t know! I’m just interested in other things—that’s all.

Is it because you don’t agree with what you see there, or you just don’t understand it?

Huh?

Look at the photograph of this painting. Would you describe this style as expressionist, realist or post-impressionist?

He holds up the newspaper and I look at the photograph, which I would describe as a one-legged frog, belly-flopping into a Jell-O salad. I decide that before being drawn further into this engagement of cerebral-jousting, the safest thing for me to do is fake a seizure. Which, I do.

If you try this, you will later want to explain that it is a recently diagnosed medical condition, with sudden and unpredictable onset, and that your doctor said it is best if you avoid strenuous mental activity. Then, the next time you recognize that you’re being pulled into a contest of intellectual gymnastics, rigidly contort your face and stare blankly at a corner of the ceiling. At this point, they will search out another victim—hopefully a younger sibling…the younger ones are accustomed to the abuse.

Eventually, your child will be out of college and have a family of their own—and it will be discovered that you are once again filled with wisdom. Then, your advice will be unabashedly pursued as your grandkids challenge the patience, will and intellect of their parents... it’s only fair.

Fishing with Grandma and Tim

2009-06-11T13:20:00.012-04:00

Each summer, when we were kids, my brothers and I were sent away to spend two weeks with Grandma. I’m not sure if this was Grandma’s idea, or Mom’s.

One of the many rituals that we enjoyed each year was going to a creek, a place called Siever Springs, to do some trout fishing. I don’t recall that I ever caught a trout at Siever’s, but Grandma almost never got skunked, as she called coming home empty handed.

I tried to catch what should have been easy prey in this stocked stream, but I never had what fishermen call luck. Ti improve my odds, I would watch Grandma carefully, trying to copy whatever she did. She would pull out some extra line for a long cast upstream, and would land her baited hook with precise accuracy. I would pull out that same length of line, and spend the next 20 minutes untangling it.

Sometimes, Grandma would catch a chub, and she would come as near as I ever heard her come to cursing when she would say, “Nuts!" I caught chubs all the time. I was a chub-fishing pro. If catching chubs had been a good thing, I would have had my own televised fishing show.

One day, I was catching so many chubs that I stopped reeling them in. I would just whip the tip of my pole up and over my head, snapping the line out of the water and slinging the unfortunate chub in an overhead arc before slamming it to the ground of the pasture from which we fished. "Nuts," I would mimic, before unhooking the stunned fish.

Sometimes, Grandma would invite one of our cousins who lived there in town. I liked them all, but for fishing, Tim was the best. Tim would also try to emulate Grandma’s actions in hope of enjoying success similar to hers. Trouble was, Tim would try to do this while standing right next to her. When Grandma dropped her line next to a rock snag, Tim would drop his in the same place. When Grandma’s line came out of the water, so did Tim’s. When Grandma would eventually shoo him away… Tim would fall in the creek.

Tim was great at falling in the creek. If Tim was walking along the creek, and there was a tree near the creek's edge, he always chose to pass between the tree and the creek… and fall in. One time, I had been fishing from my seat on a large log that was several feet from the creek. I got up to try another spot and Tim came over to fish from the log. As soon as he sat down, the log and Tim both rolled into the creek. I loved fishing with Tim!

I don’t fish much anymore. When I do fish, and the fish aren’t biting, and it’s hot, and the day is growing long, and the effort seems pointless—I remember fishing with Grandma, and wish Tim were along to provide a little entertainment.

The Great Weed War

2009-06-05T16:50:00.018-04:00

Pulled a weed from my garden, and then I saw two
I got rid of that pair, it’s what gardeners do
You may not believe, that I then spotted four
Plucked up the quadruplets, and spied even more!

I pulled all that day, and into the night
My wife went to bed... and turned off the light!
I decided right then, oh, these weeds I would best
I would win the weed war, I would pass this weed test!

This went on for a week, and then a fortnight
My foe grew quite large, but I carried the fight
My skin was burned red from the wind and the sun
I kept at my work, hoping soon I’d be done

Scratched, prickled and whipped, I lost track of the date
I saw spiders and toads, and even a snake!
I would not be put-off, from my mission, my fate
Even wove a weed-hat, to protect my thin pate

Pulling first with my left hand, then with my right
One pulled with great ease! The rest took all my might
It was then that I found that I couldn’t stand straight
I just hobbled and limped in a strange weeder’s gait

The sweat ran in rivers, the skeeters did bite
I just couldn’t stop, with a weed still in sight
An obsessive compulsive, I know that it’s true
But with weeds in my rows, what would you have me do?

There were rainstorms and lightening, and even some hail
A tornado touched down, made me think I might fail
It was humid so bad that I thought I might die
And it only got worse, when the rain brought deer flies

May, June, then July, the months came and then went
My clothes hung in rags, I was tired and spent
My hands they were blistered, and gnarled like two claws
Scarecrow-ish I looked… but the crows just guffawed

I was nearing the end, I could see it quite clear
The weeds they were fading, looking weak, showing fear
Then quick as a wink, the great battle was done
I called to my wife, “I have done it! I’ve won!"

As I crawled to the house on my hands and my knees
Glancing over sore shoulder, my mind was now eased
I will say that for sure, it was well worth the strife
For the handful of beans, and zucchini for life

Procrastination

2009-05-26T14:03:00.017-04:00

I’ve been told that I’m a procrastinator. I would take time to refute this lie, but I’m presently trying to meet a deadline for a writing project, so I’ll have to get back to you about the matter… maybe next week.

In fact, I’m quite the opposite of a procrastinator, and though I don’t know what the opposite of procrastinate is, I will almost certainly look it up sometime.

I have always exhibited a sense of urgency in everything that I do, and I can prove it.

For example, as I’ve been working on my project I’ve noticed that one of my fingernails is getting annoyingly long, which for me is about 1/1024th of an inch. Not being one to dawdle, I stop what I’m doing to attend the problem.

As I proactively snatch the fingernail clippers from my desk drawer, I notice the business card of a man that I’m supposed to call about my furnace. Not wanting to delay the call for another moment I immediately place the call and am told by his wife that he passed away two years ago.

I turn back to my work, a little bothered by the fact that this man had assured me that he would take a look at my furnace as soon as I gave him a call. As I study the three lines that I’ve already written I feel an internal gnawing that reminds me it’s time for lunch.

Wishing to be punctual, as usual, for the little meal that I know my wife is preparing, I promptly move to the kitchen—once I've determined that my help isn't needed.

After lunch, it is straight back to the desk to finish my project. I make some changes to those three lines that I’ve completed, and contemplate where next to take the writing when I realize that I forgot to help my wife with the dishes from lunch. I drop everything and return to the kitchen just as she is drying the last fork.

While in the kitchen it seems to me that the clock must be running slow, so I decide, without delay, to set the clock to the correct time and synchronize the other clocks in the house, as well.

Then, it is straight back to the desk to put my shoulder to the wheel and finish my task.

Arriving at my desk I again notice the time, and the late hour, (it’s already 1 pm!). Always one to do my best to maintain a strict schedule, I waste not a moment as I move to the couch for my nap.

I awaken before I’m fully rested, but there’s work to be done and I’m not one to dilly-dally. As the hour is growing extremely late (it is now 3 pm) I decide the wisest choice would be to adjourn for the day, to start again tomorrow, when I'm refreshed.

Later, when I consider making a list of things that I must do tomorrow, I will place the writing project at the top of my list.

How dare anyone suggest that I’m a procrastinator!

R.A. Berklesteenk 1964 - 2009

2009-05-21T18:12:00.009-04:00

Ranald Armand Berklesteenk lived life in incredibly average fashion. Arriving in this world three weeks late, Ranald never quite managed to catch up. His parents, Opal and Emily, wanted nothing but the best for their child. Due to the teasing that Ranald’s father, Emily, had endured throughout his life, it had been intended that Ranald would have a common name. However, Opal’s poor penmanship caused an error to be entered on Ranald’s birth certificate, and the name stuck.

Ranald’s formative years were spent in an unmemorable part of the Midwest, where Ranald continues to be largely unremembered by classmates and teachers. Having graduated from high school without honors, Ranald went on to earn a degree in dance from Central State Mail Order College where he graduated magna cum mediocris.

Ranald served our country, without distinction, as a Canuck Specialist in the United States Coast Guard, where his primary responsibility was to patrol the waters of Lake Erie for Canadian boat people attempting to make illegal entry into the United States.

Ranald was employed by the Columbus Washboard Company, which has enjoyed a recent surge in business as a result of people’s need to pinch pennies in these difficult economic times. There, after 23 years on the job, Ranald had risen to the position of washboard tuner.

Ranald leaves behind his wife of 45 years—a fact that, perhaps, is the most interesting in Ranald’s life, since he met his end at 45 years of age.

Ranald also leaves behind 2.3 children, two of whom are grown and now enjoy their own obscurity. The remaining child is expected to continue to live with his mother, as it has been suggested that he isn’t all there.

Ranald’s death came as no great surprise to those in the community; since no one here has heard of him, or the news of his passing. A memorial fund was to be established in Ranald’s name, but was quickly forgotten.

Services were attended and interment completed by cemetery staff at Our Lady of Perpetual Gloom.

Weathermen

2009-05-12T10:04:00.015-04:00

From urbandictionary.com:
dope slap – A light “whapp” to the back of the head, done with an open palm in an upward motion. The physical equivalent to the phrase, “Whatta you… a moron?!”

Have you dope slapped a weatherman today? Actually, you’re probably too late. Today is National Dope Slap a Weatherman Day—and they all know it.

By now, they’ve sequestered themselves within the secure confines of their respective studios—the studios being secured as a result of the prognosticators having the foresight to include such protection in their contracts. They knew that this day would come. One forecast they got right!

I can just imagine them there, cloistered together and peering at the building’s security monitors while lamenting the day when then-president G.W.Bush signed the legislation that officially proclaimed this national day of public revenge. I believe the president called it “revengification.”

I don’t see how the weathermen can blame us, really. They’ve worked the whole year to mess up our plans and otherwise provoke, taunt, and annoy.

In its simplest form, their subversive tactics are evident whenever you try to catch the weather report while you’re driving. The weather looks iffy, so you turn on the radio and listen intently as you wait to finalize some plan that is dependent on the weather.

You listen first to the traffic reporter, who gives a run down of every fender bender, tire change, and pedestrian strike in the city. This, too, is important, and you note that one of the pedestrian strikes lies ahead on your present route. As you contemplate exactly where the jaywalker lies, why this miscreant picked today to inconvenience you, and how you might maneuver to avoid the nuisance, you hear… “And that’s today’s forecast!” Just like that, the weathermen sneak it in so you can’t hold them to their prediction when it later proves to be wrong.

The weathermen on the television news are every bit as devious. First they give us all the information about record averages, and such, with a near endless dissection of every weather-minute from the past 24 hours—this accompanied by a good deal of excitedly pointing to their “weather radar” and the various (meaningless) colors and fabricated images that sweep across its screen.

Next, you can expect to see a minute-by-minute computer model of conjecture on what to expect for the next several hours—again presented in incomprehensible colors that, along with their time-stamps, flash by quickly enough to qualify as a subliminal message.

Finally, when you’ve been completely stupefied by the glut of information, mesmerized by the ambiguous radar images, and lulled into a semi-conscious dreamlike haze, up flashes the five day forecast (the information you’ve foolishly waited so long to see). This appears just long enough to snap you out of your weather-coma to realize you’ve missed the forecast—again.

So, for this year you’ve missed your chance at a weatherman. My suggestion is you start making plans to get a shot at one next year.

Perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that Ear-Flick a Sportscaster Day is next month. Get up early, but be careful—the sportscasters are much more aggressive than the weathermen, and they might flick back!

A Grimm Tale

2009-05-06T09:16:00.008-04:00

Long ago, deep within a great and enchanted forest, there lived an ancient witch named Hazel. This is a story about a woodcutter who happened into Witch Hazel's forest. Though he never met the old hag, the woodcutter was nonetheless influenced by her conjury.

One day, setting out at an early hour and intent on enjoying a day of quiet toil, a woodcutter wandered into an enchanted forest, whereupon he immediately crossed paths with a giant. The giant, on an errand to gather goats for breakfast, shouted a hearty greeting to the woodcutter, “Good morning stick chopper!” But since the giant is not part of this story, the woodcutter ignored him and tramped on in silence.

Try to pay attention, won’t you?

At length, the woodcutter came to a stream. There, at the edge of the stream, he met a fringe tree and had a brief conversation with the tree as he rested in its shade. In the course of their exchange, the woodsman told the fringe tree of his plan to harvest wood in the still serenity of the forest. The fringe tree offered this warning:

"You’ll have no luck here, woodcutter—not one of these trees is of any use. The spruce is green with envy at the way the Austrian is pining for the fir. The fir, as you may have heard, has gone into hiding since he learned PETA is on another one of their anti-fur crusades. He’s not very bright.

"Of course, everyone knows that the maple is a sap, and the hickory is just nuts! The walnut isn’t the worst of the bunch, but she’s a bit squirrelly

"The dogwood has a nasty disposition, though his bark is worse than his bite. Then too, he has some reason to be upset because the larch is forever needling him.

"That sassafras has some mouth on her! Between her and the crabapple’s sniping, the willow can’t stop weeping.

"It’s plain to see that the bald cypress is past his prime, and the pawpaw is far too old for serious consideration—and cranky, too. He is annoyed by his grandchildren and their refusal to simply call him Grandpa.

"No one can understand a thing the Norway spruce is saying because of that ridiculous accent, though the English oak is just as bad, as far as I’m concerned.

"The cottonwood is a productive fellow but nothing can be weaved from his crop. And speaking of useless crops—everyone knows that a buckeye is nothing more than a worthless nut.

"The slippery elm is a shady character who has made the quaking aspen as nervous as a cat! The yellowwood would like to put a stop to it but he hasn’t the courage.

"The smoke tree has finally ruined his health, and the sycamore hasn’t been well in years."

“What about the tupelo?” the woodcutter asked, as he stood and picked up his ax.

The fringe tree was about to speak, but before she uttered a sound a loud whack resonated throughout the forest. The fringe tree fell silent and the woodcutter continued his journey, once again enjoying the tranquil quiet of the woods.

neologism - a new word, meaning, usage or phrase.

2009-04-28T18:55:00.018-04:00

It had been going on for some time before I noticed it. I think it started with my wife, but the boys quickly picked it up, and now it has become a regular part of their vocabulary. It’s the word Plogged.

plogged - If a drain is so badly stopped-up that it is both plugged and clogged—it’s plogged.

I should have seen something like this coming. For years I’ve listened to my wife inadvertently dissect and reassemble clichés into forms that she feels work best for her at any given moment. “You can’t have your cake if it’s already eaten.” True, I suppose. “There are two sides to every pancake.” Uhh, yeah…

I’m pretty sure she butchers clichés just to see my reaction. These quasi Yogi Berra-isms are guaranteed to make me twitch, first, then tense up as I try to refrain from correcting her. I wrestle with this for a few moments but always fall back on the argument that if I correct her when it’s just the two of us, it will save her from embarrassment when she’s having a conversation with someone else. So I correct her. But she really doesn’t care. It is only natural that the manufacture of words would follow such reckless disreguard for language standards.

So now, the boys walk about dropping plog, plogs, plogged, plogging and other forms of this non-word into their conversation, as if it's an accepted part of the language. It's not—I looked it up, just to be sure. From plod the dictionary moves on to plonk (I don’t think that’s a real word either) with no plog between!

In her defense, plog is a word that probably should be in the dictionary. It says what it means, is convenient to use and easily remembered. Maybe she’s onto something, this combining of words to create new words. I’ve played around with it a little bit and come up with a few new words of my own.

yardvark – The neighbor who incessantly moves one side of his landscape to the other, then back again, leaving a good portion of his yard upturned at any time. He sustains himself by snacking on ants.

changevaporate – It’s what happens to loose change when you vacuum the inside of your vehicle. (Confess! Sometimes you vacuum up the pennies on purpose!)

cellularm – The ringing of any mobile phone, among a collection of two or more people, which causes heads to spin, arms to flap and pockets to be patted (hopefully one’s own pockets) as near panic causes all those within earshot (even those without phones) to be concerned that it is their phone that is ringing and that they might miss something that could be better than what they’re presently up to.

dietiquette – When one eats the last three brownies in order to spare their spouse the temptation, because, “You said you wanted to lose some weight!?!”

barbequest – The attempt to complete the preparation of just one meal on the grill, without something burning, falling to the ground, or being snatched up by the dog.

springots – The ingots of treasure that the dog deposited through the course of the winter that reappear in the spring with the melting of winter’s snow.

I’m going to submit these to the people at the Merriam-Webster Dictionary for consideration. Don’t tell my wife, but I’m including Plog in the list—though I’m experiencing an immeasurably deep feeling of uneasiness about it. I think the term for what I'm feeling is abysmalaise.

The Cha-Chingo Dance

2009-04-22T18:00:00.007-04:00

Awhile back, I took my car to a service station for an oil change.

Because I’m thrifty (my wife calls me the “Ch” word) oil changes are a task that I always handle myself. But since my son’s post-accident car replacement sits really close to the ground (and I don’t) I decided to take it to the local garage and have them change the oil. I thought, “It’s just an oil change. How much can it cost, fifteen... twenty bucks?”

I walked into the place just as a customer with an angry scowl was walking out. Nobody was at the counter but I heard a strange sound coming from the service area in the back. As I had stood, contemplating this sound, a garage employee burst from the door that was just behind the counter. He was winded, his face was flushed, and he seemed nervous as he apologized for my wait.

I told him what I needed; not bothering to ask how much it would be because, like I said, it’s just an oil change. He took my keys and directed me to their waiting area.

I didn’t have to wait long. Only eight minutes had passed when another employee (I’ll call him Sparky) breezed through the door from the service area with a big smile on his face and my keys dangling from one finger.

“All done!” Sparky brightly announced.

“That’ll be $53.00!” Chirped Sparky.

“Oh no,” I chuckled, “I had the oil change… the Bonneville?”

“Yep, that’s the one! That’ll be $33.00!” (He was beginning to annoy me) “Oh, wait! I forgot the E.P.A. disposal fee! That’ll be $36.31!”

Now I was the one with a scowl on my face.

I grudgingly paid my ransom and was just out the door when I remembered I had left my receipt on the counter. I stepped back inside and was surprised to see that Sparky had already disappeared. There was that sound again!

Rather than wait to be rediscovered, I decided that I would just poke my head through the doorway to the service area to let them know I was back.

I pushed the door open a little, and that’s when I saw it… the strangest thing.

Both Sparky and the other guy were dancing around the floor of the shop. Occasionally they would lock arms at the elbows and swing around square-dance style. Sparky was waving the copy of my bill over his head as subdued giggles squeaked out of him. The other guy was chanting in hushed tones to the rhythm of their shuffling feet, “Cha-ching…Cha-ching… Cha-chingo… Cha-ching!”

I quietly closed the door and slipped out.

My advice to all of you is this: If you ever enter a service station and hear an unfamiliar sound coming from the back, turn around and run.

Let the sound of the Cha-chingo dance be your warning.

Are You From Licking County?

2009-04-16T20:19:00.002-04:00

You might be from Licking County if any three items from the following list apply to you:

1) Your mailbox looks like it was hit by a snowplow (which probably was).

2) Your neighbor’s favorite roofing material is a blue plastic tarp.

3) You are fully prepared (in fact, you expect) to live without electric service for 6 weeks of the year.

4) You count local gossip as the mainstay of available entertainment.

5) You know seven ways to gut a deer.

6) You find yourself driving city-ward weekday mornings and rural-ward weekday afternoons.

7) Your favorite color is plaid.

8) You personally know at least half a dozen farmers.

9) You recognize Blackhand Gorge as a place rather than a medical condition.

10) You’ve bought the hoakum the county engineer put out about potholes being intended for a traffic control.

11) You habitually check your mobile phone’s signal strength before attempting a call.

12) You and all the dogs that live within five miles of your place are on a first name basis.

13) A tree goes down and your first thought is to estimate how many cords of firewood just set itself down for cutting and splitting.

14) You used to get a lot of “snow” on the screen when your television signal was poor—now, with the improvement of digital transmissions, you get a lovely slideshow of impressionist artwork before the little dancing icon says, “No Signal….No Signal….No Signal….”

15) Your tool-of-first-resort, for any repair project, is duct tape.

Timing is Everything

2009-04-10T19:49:00.002-04:00

Last fall, I built a small shack at the lake—then I cut holes in the floor. Come January, I planned to move the shack onto winter’s frozen water, in order that I might enjoy a bit of ice-fishing.

When the ice was thick enough to support a tractor, Frankie (a local farmer and owner of the nearby bait shop) offered to help, and pulled it onto the ice with his old Farmall H.

I spent a lot of time in my hide-out—fishing, eating, drinking, and napping… dreaming of catching the big one.

It’s a tricky thing to judge when the time is right to pull a shack off the ice. It was forecast to be warm on the day Frankie called me to meet him so we could retrieve mine. In fact, the temperature had been rising all night. By the time I met Frankie, there was an inch of slush on top of the ice.

Frankie pulled the Farmall to the edge of the lake. A half-mile away, there was a big John Deere pulling another shack off the ice. When the John Deere made it to shore without incident, Frankie decided it would be alright to take the Farmall out.

We rode through a cold spray of slush, and then chained the shack to the tractor so we could drag it back to shore. Frankie eased the Farmall forward to tension the chain—then gave it a tug. The shed didn’t budge. On inspection, the shed appeared to be shallowly frozen in the ice under the slush. I used a pair of fencing pliers from the tool box of the tractor to chip at the ice, and signaled for Frankie to try again.

Edging forward, he gave it another pull. This time, the shed seemed ready to break free, so Frankie dropped the Farmall into a lower gear and throttled-up before popping the clutch.

The shed remained locked in the ice as the tractor heaved forward then reared up like a circus pony! Frankie flattened the clutch pedal, causing the front end to drop through the ice with a crash and a splash!

The thrust of the tractor’s forward-falling plunge caused the shed to finally break free and skate forward, as the groaning ice slowly continued to open, seemingly intent on swallowing the tractor, with Frankie still aboard, motionless, and gripping the steering wheel. The ice eventually held—with the Farmall wedged in the gulf. Frankie, ever so gently, reached with his foot to feel for some good ice on which to make his escape.

We were still formulating a rescue plan when the lake refroze that night.

For the next several days, people drove out to the lake to see our Agricultural Ice-Sculpture. Frankie’s insurance agent was one of those visitors. The agent just shook his head as Frankie and I suggested elaborate plans to rescue the tractor. A helicopter was mentioned at one point, but by then the agent was walking toward his car.

I don’t know when the wreck went to the bottom of the lake—but that’s where it is today. I’m still working on a plan to salvage it (the tractor, not the shack). I’ve given up on the helicopter idea—it would probably just open a whole new can of worms insurance-wise.

Maybe, if I time it right, I can retrieve it when the water level of the lake drops this summer. After all, as I’ve learned... timing is everything.

Tax Assistance

2009-04-01T06:00:00.003-04:00

Pointless Disclaimer: The author of these instructions is not a Certified Public Accountant, an agent of the IRS, or an author. Anything taken as the truth must be returned immediately, and the offending party should remove one shoe and repeat the phrase: “Shame, shame, shame on me” until a passerby drops a green button into the shoe.

SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS FOR COMPLETING ANY TAX FORM

Assemble the counterfeit documents that you have fabricated for this purpose.

Choose a work place that is hidden from possible witness to your impending fraud. This may be your kitchen table if it faces east, but it is better to work in a dark room or behind your back.

Dress comfortably. You are going to be at this awhile, and there is likely to be a good deal of thrashing about and cursing. It is an established fact that one curses best when one is dressed comfortably.

Select a blank tax form, any form will do—a bonus deduction will be allowed if the form is printed in Braille or Morse code. Position the form, with your counterfeit documents, in a precise arc or in three horizontal columns. Failure to select the correct configuration for your paperwork shall result in significant penalties, which will be disguised as more of those enigmatic fees in your monthly utility bills.

Enter your name in the box labeled: Name

At this point, it is recommended you take a break. Get some exercise to stimulate the circulation and to clear your muddled head. Walking makes for good exercise—a brisk march to the local pub may suggest opportunity for further stimulation.

You should now be ready to address the business at hand... but first take a nap. This ought to be done somewhere other than the pub.

Once you have risen and are feeling well rested, though perhaps a bit fuzzy, seek advice from any of the following (and only legitimate) tax authorities: psychic, witch doctor, prophet, sorcerer, guinea pig farmer and if available in your area, man behind the curtain. It is also recommended that you consult a cabbie... or your barber if it is Wednesday.

IMPORTANT! Do not contact the IRS for assistance in completing your tax form—they won’t disclose the answers until you have turned in your test, and contacting them will only draw attention to your flimsy documentation (Honestly, your left-handed script isn’t fooling anyone).

Once the appropriate professional advice has been secured and all of the spaces on your tax form have been penned with legible zeros, take another break. By now you should have come to realize that according to the United States Internal Revenue Code, Catch-22 of Paradox 666 it is impossible to complete any tax form.

Staple your documentation to the form, in triplicate, and bury this packet (now evidence) at the foot of a gingko tree. Tomorrow morning—move to another country, change your name, alter your physical appearance, and choose a new line of work. It’s the simplest thing, really.

U. S. Department of Snickers, Whistles and Sneezes

2009-03-27T21:45:00.006-04:00

Last summer, the EPA sought public comment regarding the possible regulation of greenhouse gases.

To proceed, the EPA would have to find that greenhouse gases endanger public health and should be classified a pollutant. If such a finding were made, other provisions of the Clean Air Act would be activated, resulting in a potential impact upon, among others, agriculture. Specifically targeted would be the production of dairy cattle, beef cattle and swine.

The potential cost of this regulation is estimated to be $175.00 per dairy cow, $87.50 per beef cow, and $20.00 per hog—a cost initially to be paid by the producer but ultimately borne by the consumer.

Rather than give serious consideration to a flatulence-tax on livestock production, it may behoove us to look at some of the possible ramifications of such a proposal. (the puns in that last sentence cost me almost nothing!) Our experience with the odiferous winds forever wafting from Washington D.C. have prepared us to anticipate a likely (hasty) expansion of this revenue generating scheme—this gas tax.

I can see it now—scientists carefully measuring the emissions of a chicken’s cluck or a pig’s squeal, as bureaucrats look on in gleeful anticipation of the results. Beware when those same onlookers turn their gaze on you and me, and begin considering how much they might be able to collect for a hiccup, a yawn or a gasp. I suppose they will take a particular interest in bad breath, and can only imagine their excitement when they realize they might be able to institute double-taxation on those of us who enjoy a beef burrito from time to time!

Let’s not forget about the family pets! Those of us with a dog or cat will be expected to do our part to pay for our furry friend’s lack of control. And don’t think the EPA will overlook those bubbles that occasionally break at the surface of the goldfish bowl, either.

In 2003, a similar proposal was presented in New Zealand. There, farmers protested by mailing packages of cattle and sheep manure to lawmakers.

Before the U. S. Department of Snickers, Whistles and Sneezes becomes a reality, we should ask ourselves how we might stem these proposed changes. We could follow the lead of the farmers in New Zealand and mail parcels of dung to our legislators. I’m certain it’s not illegal—I personally get loads of it from their end whenever an election approaches.

We might call on experts in animal husbandry to develop more restrained breeds, or work to improve the quality of animal feeds to reduce the potential for exhaust. The folks up in Cuyahoga County have already started addressing the air quality problem by opening Cow-Check emissions testing stations. Or is that Car-Check? I’m not sure.

Why not work toward capturing this presently wasted form of energy, much being methane. We could employ the methane to reduce our reliance on foreign oil, perhaps collecting it in convenient, consumer-ready packets that could immediately be put to productive use, say, to power our lawnmowers.

Watch for publication of the EPA’s findings, in order that you may make well-timed investment purchases to rejuvenate your recently decimated portfolio. I hear that work is being done to develop Bovine Beano, and Toot-o-Meter, Inc. has already ramped up production.

What's that smell?

2009-03-19T21:11:00.002-04:00

She had just laid down for a nap when I decided to boil some eggs. I set the electric burner on high and placed a pot of water on the stove. Certain that I had enough time to tidy up the interior of my pickup before the water was hot, I headed out the back door to quickly complete my chore.

How I ended up in the lawn chair I don’t recall, but that’s where I was when she woke me. “You know you turned on the wrong burner?” I opened one eye and saw that she was looking into my still messy truck. “There was a clean pot on the burner you turned on. I think you’ve ruined it— and the house reeks!” Not fully awake, and forgetting that I hadn’t actually added the eggs yet, I asked, “Are the eggs done?” That’s when it came—the look.

When I walked into the house, the smell was reminiscent of that of a steel mill—the air was hazy. Looking at the pot, I could see that it had nearly become welded to the burner of the stove. The bottom was blackened and the dry metal on the inside was splotched with discoloration from the heat. “This will be okay,” I lied.

I could sense that I was still getting the look, so I made for my shop in the basement without saying anything more. The eggs weren’t done.

I suppose she had some reason to be upset. She’s always been sensitive to smells that fall outside of a narrow range that lie somewhere between spring breeze and floral essence.

This was my second egg-boiling incident. The first time, I had started some eggs and stretched out on the couch to wait. When I woke up the house smelled like sulphur—all the water had boiled out of the pot. Did you know that eggs can explode? There was egg everywhere, including a liberal application on the ceiling. I had it pretty well cleaned up before she got home, but the smell was heavy and there was a satiny sheen where the eggs had been. I was compelled to give the kitchen a fresh coat of paint soon after.

There have been other incidents with smells. There was the winter evening when she went shopping and I suggested to my sons that we fix some burgers on the gas grill...in the kitchen. I set the small grille on the countertop next to an open window, then opened another window for cross ventilation. It should have worked... It didn’t. We got the grille out of the house before she got home, but the smoke was still thick and the house smelled like smoky burgers for days.

Then, there was that time I let the dog out. Buddy learned a hard lesson about skunks that night. Would she blame the skunk? Or even the dog? No, it was my fault...again. That smell hung on for weeks.

There have been other problems with smells, but I’m hesitant to share them for fear that my insurance rates would go up—probably triple.

What can she expect? She lives in a house with three men—there’s bound to be smells. Am I right?

On Canada - real facts, frivolously presented

2009-03-14T06:45:00.001-04:00

There has always been a degree of tension between America and her northern neighbor. Canadians lay fault with the Americans insistence on referring to Canada geese as Canadian geese—an error which any Canadian will politely (but pointedly) correct. Americans are quick to point out that since all the Canadian geese seem to be in the United States committing rancorous acts of eco-terrorism by attempting to cover the entire country in goose poo, we can call them whatever we please!

Passing through Canada on his way to becoming a U.S. citizen, Alexander Graham Bell remarked that he very much enjoyed Canadian bacon. Canadians have since claimed him as their own, which they have some right to do, since Bell later died while there on a work-visa to install phone booths - he is buried in Nova Scotia.

A few inventors have come from Canada—as did some of their inventions. Five-pin bowling, the retractable beer carton handle, and frozen fish (isn’t everything in Canada frozen?) are a few of the important contributions made by Canadians. Ski bindings are an invention claimed by Canadians—I would think that idea came rather easily:

Canadian Inventor One, “That-there ski went right down the mountain, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Two, “We’ll ‘ave to fix that, eh.”
Canadian Inventor Three, “Eh... eh.”

The inventor of the anti-gravity suit is said to have been a Canadian, but it’s difficult to prove since he’s been in low earth orbit ever since.

Most Canadians speak Canadian (which sounds vaguely similar to English) except the French Canadians—many of whom reside in Quebec and speak French Canadian.

Some of the early French Canadian settlers emigrated to Louisiana in search of crayfish and a good gumbo recipe. Those that remained in Quebec are being held hostage by the Canadian government, which is preventing them from removing Quebec to a warmer climate for fear that Newfoundland and Labrador will drift to sea.

Canada’s primary export to the U.S. is snow, cleverly sent across our shared border via the logistically sound use of the jet stream and cold fronts. Canada’s national sport is lacrosse. If this comes as a surprise to you, don’t worry—it’s news to seven out of ten Canadians as well. The national animal of Canada is the beaver. You might think that this is due to the industrious nature of this semi-aquatic rodent, but that’s not the case.

Prior to the decimation of their numbers, the beaver was known to be a much larger animal. When Jacques Cartier was exploring Canada (scouting a good location for his next jewelry store) his boat was prevented from advancing up the St. Lawrence River by rapids. With horses having not yet been invented, Cartier was forced to outfit his exploration party to continue on the backs of beavers.

Without the beavers the expedition would have failed, but no depiction of this event exists today because Cartier prevented its characterization due to his embarrassment at being astraddle a paddle-tailed rat. Cartier later claimed Canada for France. The French immediately forgot where they left it, allowing for Canadian self-rule, such as it is.

And that is everything one needs to know on Canada.

If not for women...

2009-03-07T10:26:00.005-05:00

The planet’s burgeoning population is placing a strain on our natural resources, the environment, and the availability of good parking spaces. My wife has suggested a solution to this growing problem – temporarily transfer responsibility for pregnancy and childbirth… to men.

She says temporarily because she fears (with good reason, I think) that if men permanently assumed responsibility for birthing, the human population would decline at such an alarming rate as to force us to list our own species as threatened within months.

The raw truth is: Men can’t do it.

Man-pregnancy wouldn’t be a good idea for a number of reasons.

Imagine: Five guys sitting in the waiting area of a Jiffy Lube, when the technician walks in and tells one of them that he went 500 miles past his scheduled service. The hormonally charged customer starts to weep, openly and uncontrollably, and at least three of the others start bawling, too - I can’t even think about it.

Many of us would eventually suffer the symptoms of false labor - what are known as Braxton-Hicks contractions. Many women don’t even notice them. We men would notice them! We would experience a panic attack, race to the hospital, demand to be admitted for the remainder of the term, and let rip with an episode of hysterical wailing while being forcibly removed from the facility.

The sudden jump in babies being delivered en-route to the nearest delivery room would create additional cause for concern. This would be attributed to the fact that the only thing a man fears more than pain in his nether-region, is asking for directions!

Labor and Delivery? Forget it! Nausea and swelling would have sapped us of all but the will to survive months ago.

Admittedly, we men would shine in certain elements of the pregnancy experience. Take nesting for example – we’ve already demonstrated similar tendencies in the way we prepare a comfy place for our tools, our television, and our dog.

Then there’s the weight gain. As things stand now, we put the weight on right along with the women. The only difference between us and the ladies is they take the baby-weight off - we keep it on so we’ll be ready for their next pregnancy. We’re creatures of efficiency, you see.

And birth statistics? Men can remember detailed statistics of every sporting event from the past half-century, so recalling the newborn’s birth weight, length, APGAR score, clocked time in the 40 yard dash, and decibel level of that first squeal would be a breeze.

Naturally, our competitive tendencies would come into play and we would start to embellish the facts, making them more impressive with each telling, until delivery times would be whittled down to fewer than 20 minutes and the average reported birth weight would be 41 pounds.

And yes, the women would laugh at us. After centuries of ensuring the survival of our species they’ve earned the right – but since they laugh at us already, maybe it’s just as well if we leave things as nature intended. Please?

Timberdoodle Time

2009-03-01T12:03:00.008-05:00

It’s time for the show, and I’ll be in the audience – if I’m able to locate the venue.

The migratory bird known variously as the bog-sucker, mud bat, big-eye, night partridge, American woodcock, or by what some may describe as the more socially acceptable moniker of timberdoodle, is due to arrive in Central Ohio any day now. The timberdoodle is an odd looking bird that upon its arrival commences an entertaining courtship display.

Early this past summer I spotted my first timberdoodle. I visited a pond, and was walking its edge surveying the springtime plants emerging there. This pond's overflow passes into moist, low-lying woodland.

As I walked, I heard what sounded somewhat like a solitary cicada flying near the edge of the woods. While I continued walking, it occurred to me that it was too early in the season for cicadas, or their cousin the Dogday Harvestfly. Looking to the spot from where the sound had come, I spotted a stumpy, chunky, long billed, caricature of a bird – it was a timberdoodle. The sound that I had heard was the twittering sound that is produced by wind passing through the flying bird’s outer wing feathers.

A seasonal inhabitant of brushy, moist wooded areas, the timberdoodle arrives in late February or early March when the male will attempt to woo the female with what she-timberdoodles have described as embarrassing and foolish, but the males know to be extremely cool.

The male chooses a woodland edge or clearing to call his own then, as dusk approaches and young avian hearts turn to thoughts of amoré, the courting ritual begins. After producing a regular buzz, or what is often described as a “peent, peent, peent” sound, the male takes off and flies as high as 300 feet into the air, before spiraling and darting downward, while producing a variety of twittering sounds in his descent to the launch pad. From there he will repeat this show of machismo until (he hopes) a female arrives to satisfy his need for an ego-massage... among other things.

The woods that surround my home and lie along the creek and its adjacent floodplain are perfect habitat for the timberdoodle. Many a March sunset has found me on the fringe of a woodland opening, listening and waiting - eyes pointed skyward. My family finds my motionless, sentinel-like watch in the frigid dusk to be their own amusing form of springtime entertainment, since, after some years of trying, I’ve yet to personally witness the timberdoodle’s annual display of aerial acrobatics.

Franklin County Metro Parks offers free opportunities to view this event in programs called Woodcock Watch, Woodcock Walk or Timberdoodle Time. Anyone interested can find scheduled dates and times at: http://reservations.metroparks.net/programs/

Myself... I’ll be in some of my usual places, waiting patiently as squirrels curse me and the sun drops over the horizon. This year I believe I’ll start my vigil at that pond where I saw my first timberdoodle - it’s been awhile since I’ve visited and I’m long overdue.

Secret Society for the Perversion of Language

2009-02-22T12:39:00.004-05:00

I’ve always suspected that English teachers belong to a secret and cruelly-intentioned society, whose only purpose is to embarrass and bewilder the rest of us. One of my English teachers had mastered the tactics of this imagined society. I’m certain he was a high-ranking official, at least in the American-English sect of the cult.

Mr. McDole relished hearing the bell that signaled the start of class, when he would chuckle to himself as he surveyed the class with a devilish smirk. He always spoke as if auditioning for a Shakespearean play, with every word being the shouted word - to ensure that all of his audience (and maybe a few out in the street) could savor the perfection with which he delivered his lines.

Each day, Mr. McDole’s class seemed to play out in the same degrading fashion. We were: Incompetent Buffoons, Scurvy Knaves, or one of my personal favorites, “Insignificant Sons of (what you will).”

Class would begin with some Shakespearean-like pontification from Mr. McDole, followed by a question. We always thought this question was somehow related to what he had just been talking about - we weren’t sure.

McDole’s question would be followed by all of us want-wits slouching down in our chairs, scrunching our eyes closed, and making powerful contortic efforts to retract our heads into our necks. This went hand-in-hand with chanting, “Not me…Not me…,” under our collective breath.

Next, Mr. McDole would choose his victim and, true to his oath of fidelity to the secret society, impale the sufferer with a Shakespearean-style barb, quickly expanding his fusillade to include the entire class:

McDole shouting: Provide the subject in the following sentence. “Jim escorted Penny to the theatre.”

(Sound of slouching, head retracting and a strange murmuring hum)

McDole, shouting: Mr. Snodgrass!

Doug Snodgrass: (Incoherent, muffled sounds coming from the top of Doug’s neck.)

McDole, shouting: SPEAK! You Impertinent Toad-Spotted Idiot!

Doug: (Head popping up just long enough to respond with a question of his own), “Jim?”

McDole, shouting: Wrong! Mangled, Weather-Beaten Gudgeon! The correct answer is Penny!

McDole, shouting: Miss Morgan! Subject of the following sentence please, “James escorted Penelope to the theatre.”

Startled, Jackie Morgan’s head accidentally pops out of her neck and (almost crying) she responds, “Penelope?”

McDole, shouting: Why must you insist on demonstrating that you are a Beetle-Headed Skainsmate!?! WRONG!

Now Jackie is really crying because she doesn't know what a skainsmate is… none of us do.

Mr. McDole would then turn on the rest of the class and begin shouting even more vehemently, “The lot-of-you are nothing more than Beef-Witted Miscreants and Dog-Hearted Malt worms!” And thus the days would pass in Mr. McDole’s class.

I was one of the lucky ones - I’m pretty sure he liked me. I might even go so far as to say I was one of his favorites. You see, Mr. McDole knew he could always count on me to hold up under the rigors of his bombastic barrage of questions until, overwhelmed, I would shout back, “I just don’t know Mr. McDole!”

To surrender an “I don’t know” was openly admitting inferiority to all members in the sect, and this at the hands of one of its leading disciples. I could tell that Mr. McDole looked upon my stoic tolerance of his abuse favorably, because the worst thing he ever called me was a “Bawdy, Pox-Marked, Hasty-Witted, Clack-Dish!”

Chanti's Demise

2009-02-14T06:46:00.003-05:00

“Roses are red, the rooster is dead”
She said as she cooked up the soup
Not Chanticleer! What happened my dear?
“He was offed by the chicks in the coop”

“It seems he forgot and was henpecked to death
So the scene did appear that I found
He had failed to remember, and clucked his last breath
I have noticed it’s going around!”

What could Chanti forget? His head’s really quite good!
Or at least it had been when he had it
But now he is gone, being boiled like a prawn…
Could you throw in some onion and carrots?

She grimaced then glared, I was caught in her stare
It was stink-eye like I’d never seen
And that’s when I knew, a chill raced down my spine
Déjà vu again how could it be?

Cupid’s day had near passed while I’d been out to play
With the boys at the Happy-Time Lounge
Though I’d won a big stake, playing Hold’em quite late
I could see I must go back to town

I flew out the door, time to waste I’d no more
It was Valentine’s Day, I now knew it
And if I should fail I’d enjoy no more ale
With my friends and they’d all say I blew it

It was late, as I said, and I surveyed my head
For just what I might do to make right
Knowing not what to do, I did panic it’s true!
And I made for the Open-all-Night’s

Hitting Speedway, the Duke, Dairy Mart and BP
For a gift that spoke romance, but none were to be
So I thought, “Maybe dinner romantic and light”
And I laid out my winnings to salvage the night

Normal fare would not do, all the best I’d provide
I would show my sweet peep I’m no capon
With cuisine of convenience (and not to be crude)
I drove home for romantic sensation

I laid out the vittles, the table I set
With the Slyders I’d grabbed on the way
There was Red Bull for drinking, and one could plain see
Mighty Mouse-like how I’d saved the day

Dining late in the night, she partook of my gift
With some soup on the side, it was nice
Before heading to bed, she first pointed, then said
“To the sofa, now heed my advice”

Stretching out on the couch, my thoughts wandered and trailed
Couldn’t make a good guess, at just how I had failed
It was then that it hit, like a lightning bolt strike
So men hear me now, don’t throw the dice

If you want to avoid a long string of bad nights
Make her ever so glad you’re her man
Come next Valentine’s Day, show some class, do it right
And remember Spray-Cheese-in-a-Can!

My Drawer

2009-02-06T22:29:00.005-05:00

At home, my personal effects are required to be neatly stowed in an assigned location. The space I’ve been allotted for these things is my drawer… one drawer… in the whole house.

This is because my wife (like most women) doesn’t want a bunch of “man-stuff” cluttering up the Martha Stewart Living mirage she’s painstakingly manufactured to fool our friends into thinking we have good taste.

My wife will tell you that she has good taste, but she makes it clear from the tone of her voice and the arch in her brow that I’m a handicap in her quest for perfection. As far as she’s concerned, my only domestic responsibility is to leave no clue that I’ve been living in my home, should I actually attempt to do so.

Her interior design efforts are focused (as nearly as I’m able to understand) on the marriage of natural and artificial lighting, coordination of tertiary colors, consultation of the latest Feng-shui charts, and ensuring that my existence doesn’t disrupt the harmony that she has fought so hard to achieve.

It’s been this way for years… my one drawer. Recently, I’ve found that I’m running out of space in my drawer. I sometimes have to jiggle the drawer to get everything to settle so I can open it. Occasionally, I’ll slip a ruler or (don’t tell her) a butter knife through the cracked opening, to move things around so I can get it opened.

I inquired about the possibility of annexing the drawer next to mine, in order that I might redistribute some of my wealth and gain more ready access. This, however, is out of the question due to the pressing need for the knick-knacks, bric-a-brac and scented paraphernalia that are in the adjacent drawer, and must remain close at hand in case of a design-emergency.

So I decided I would clean my drawer. One thing that I found, in tackling this chore, is that I really don’t need everything in my drawer.

I didn’t free-up much space when I threw out the three school-photos of children I don’t recognize. Likewise, removing the half-package of petrified Twizzlers did little to satisfy my warehousing crunch—but little by little, I was able to gain space.

What’s this? It looks like a tool (or medical device) - don’t know. Out!

Annoying cat toy - I remember hiding this! Out!

A seed catalog from 1991. Out!

Wow! Two brand new anniversary cards still in the cellophane packaging. This may explain the one-drawer system… I’d better hang onto these.

I slipped one shoestring and a broken television remote in with some of her things. This is bound to be found out, sooner of later, and will bring a lecture regarding my “knuckle-dragging-man-habits”.

Anyway, I’ve got some room in my drawer now. I’m thinking about leasing the extra space to one of my teenage sons. He’s in a pinch for space too, and refuses to clean his drawer – or anything else for that matter.

Snow Warriors

2009-01-27T19:53:00.007-05:00

This is written in honor (and understanding) of the hard work and sacrifices made by all those who put their lives on hold every time there is winter weather in our forecast.

Anyone who has worked third shift, excruciatingly long hours, or a winter employed in the glam job of pushing snow will commiserate and understand that this, while perhaps amusing, is painfully near the truth.

January Snow-Event #21

A call to arms! - You just finished your regular 8-hour shift when you get the call to report for snow-duty. You are swept up in the excitement of the mass exodus of personnel and machines leaving the salt barn. You look at the sky a lot.

Hour 2 – Work is well underway. You are convinced that the motorists you’re dodging are very appreciative of your kind attention to their needs. There’s a lot of radio chatter about how the weather isn’t too bad and will probably pass soon.

Hour 4 – Third equipment breakdown. The weather is winning, but you continue to fight the good fight. You’re gloves smell like diesel fuel.

Hour 6 – To stay alert, you start to calculate overtime pay. You notice that you’re cursing more than usual.

Hour 8 – You’ve been talking to yourself for awhile now – you tell yourself to stop. The theme song from The Price is Right begins to play interminably in your mind.

Hour 10 – Whatever is decaying under the seat of the truck starts to smell good. You look longingly as you pass a closed Taco Bell before reaching an arm under the seat.

Hour 12 – You wonder if your brother-in-law’s offer to join him in his Port-O-Potty business is still open. You scrape both shins while climbing into the Bobcat to load your truck with salt.

Hour 14 – Your speech is becoming slurred and you have sudden, explosive episodes of uncontrolled laughter.

Hour 16 – Communications have come to a standstill. You make a mental note to stop rubbing your eyes and to call your doctor about whether calcium chloride causes permanent damage.

Hour 18 – You slam on your brakes when you see Bigfoot at the edge of the road... or was it a deer? You’re not sure because when you come to a stop, nothing is there.

Hour 20 – You no longer know what day it is. You search for what’s stinking up the truck before realizing it’s you.

Hour 22 – You encounter another salt-truck driver and you both pull up to have a word. You stare at each other blankly before moving on without saying anything.

Hour 24 – Involuntary muscle spasms rack your body. You think you may be losing control of your bladder and your hair hurts.

Hour 26 – You are jolted out of a semi-conscious state by the squawking of your dispatcher’s voice over the radio. You can remember nothing of the last two hours – but it looks like you got a lot done… this is good.

Hour 28 – You pull a fallen member of the salt-barn crew from the snow. He was face-down, but as near as you can tell he was only unconscious for about twenty minutes. He warms up in the truck but is too tired to remove his gloves and inspect for frostbite. Besides, he’s concerned that a couple fingers may come off with the gloves.

Hour 30 – You are experiencing symptoms of organ failure. The call comes to return to the shop, wash and fuel your truck, repair your equipment and fill out your time sheet - this should not take more than three hours. You ask for driving directions to your home.

Finally! – You’re home, showered and in bed for some much deserved sleep. The phone rings, “We need you to come back in. There’s drifting, and we need to plow before the morning commute gets underway.”

You’re blind in one eye, have oozing wounds on both shins, and have lost the ability to speak – these are not excuses to shirk your responsibility.

You cheerfully report for duty – and I thank you!

The Idle One

2009-01-23T20:39:00.004-05:00

He whose hands are pocket-sewn
I wish him all the best,
For if he weren’t so handicapped
He’d work with all us rest.

He casts about with wary eye
And never misses chance,
To duck and dodge at just the time
That suits his scheme the best.

He toils in his own way I s’pose
Though never breaks a sweat,
While trying hard to look the part
Of a regular hard-work vet.

He jowls well with the bosses
It’s all part of his plan,
To lull them into thinking
That he’s a go-get man.

He’s daily at your workplace
We all have one I guess,
He’s good at doing nothing
In fact, I’d say he’s best.

And if one day you ask him why
His idleness is dear,
He’ll present the memo from the boss
“I’m Employee of the Year!”

But one day he’ll get busted
Though perhaps it’s not to be,
‘Cause that big job that just opened up
They gave to him not me!

It's almost Iowa-cold!

2009-01-17T10:17:00.009-05:00

This week, temperatures reached forty-below in my state of origin, Iowa. My sister’s daughter, Jennie, incessantly complains about the Iowa-cold but stubbornly refuses to take any of the usual precautions against cold, like wearing socks.

Dear Crystal,

As you know, the brutal winters were one of the reasons I left Iowa. That, and the fact that I had done everything there was to do there… twice!

Hasn't Jennie heard about what we went through as kids on the farm?

Rising at 4 every morning, we would find no fire in the woodstove, frost on the back of the dog and the electricity frozen in the wires.

Marty was usually the first up. He hated shoveling the path through those five-foot snowdrifts to the outhouse, but somebody had to do it, and the first one out got to wear the good boots that day.

I can still remember seeing you and Mom struggling to get the fire started in the stove, as Dad and we three boys headed out to milk the pigs.

Off we would go, tied together with a length of rope so none of us would get lost in the snow-stormy darkness, only to find that half the pigs had gotten out of the pen and the rest were frozen to the ground.

Marty and I would strike out to round up the scattered hogs, while Jeff and Dad would begin the process of chipping out the frozen ones.

Lucky for us, Grandpa had shared a trick for gathering loose hogs during winter: Grandpa told us to start in November by letting the hogs lick honey off an unused metal fence post. Before long, they would see that post and come running for the treat.

In winter the honey was frozen solid – we couldn’t use it. But the hogs didn’t know that and as soon as they touched their tongues to the cold metal… we had them.

Leading several hogs back to the barn stuck on a single fence post wasn’t easy, but weather conditions helped - we just slid them over the snow and ice.

We couldn't even enjoy a taste of warm milk while we worked. I still shiver when I hear someone jingling loose change—the sound reminds me of milk hitting the bottom of those cold metal pails… frozen in mid-squirt.

As soon as we were done with milking it was straight out to wait for the bus. With temperatures at -40 to -50 degrees Fahrenheit (there was no talk of “wind chill” back then), we would walk the quarter mile to the end of the driveway and wait for the bus in a small cavity we had hollowed out of a snow bank.

We anxiously watched for the bus because missing it meant walking to school and certain frostbite… or worse.

I still mourn the loss of my friends who missed the bus. We were comforted by the adults who told us it was a peaceful way to go.

Jenny thinks she's cold?

I could go on and on, but the memories are too painful.

Well, enough of all that. Write when you can. By the way, I'll be returning for a visit this year—look for me sometime in the summer.

Carl

Save the Sea Kittens!

2009-01-13T19:10:00.009-05:00

Advertising Jingle: Ask any mermaid you happen to see. What’s the best kitten? Kitten of the Sea!

I thought I would die! I had just taken a sip of coffee, when PETA’s latest act of insanity appeared on my computer’s monitor. I was seized by the uproarious absurdity, and nearly drowned as I sucked coffee into my lungs. Luckily, the coffee promptly exited my nose when I fell from my chair, racked with spasms of hoarse laughter.

It seems PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) has decided to re-brand fish as “Sea Kittens”... FISH!

Throughout their Save the Sea Kittens website, you’ll find information on threats to the welfare of these cute and cuddly creatures. There’s even a prepared email that you can forward to the director of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, to give him a good scolding. The email includes a helpful quote from a scientific advisor to the British government (impressive).

At Save the Sea Kittens, you can create your own animated Sea Kitten from a choice of trout, salmon, tuna or flounder. (I’m not sure why catfish aren’t offered as an option) While creating your Sea Kitten the website plays eerie music that is no doubt filled with subliminal messages about how you should despise your Grandpa – a barbaric human for his regular assault on the pain receptors in the mouths of fish.

The website also has a library of Sea Kitten Stories – tales you can read to the little ones as they snuggle with their pet Sea Kitten at bedtime. Of course, things won’t be so cozy in the morning. It gives new meaning to the phrase, “Sleep with the fishes.” It’s a good thing now!

In one of these stories we have Tony the Trout – litter trained in two months (litter trained?) and honors graduate with a double major. Tony is caught (no doubt by your mean, mean, Grandpa) and fed to a child whose mercury poisoned mind is wasted at an early age. Message: Just say No to Trout.

The most disturbing of the four stories is Sally and the Land Kittens. This frightening tale begins with Sea Kittens chasing balls of yarn (under water!) and goes on to tell how Sally goes insane and plots revenge against the much-better-off Land Kittens. The story is accompanied by artwork showing a Land Kitten that has been baked into a soufflé. (I ask you – is this ethical treatment?)

PETA even has a Fish Empathy Quilt – no doubt destined to be displayed at locations across the country, where people will slowly walk past the quilt, weeping silently for the plight of filleted flounders.

You can purchase Save the Sea Kitten merchandise, too! There’s T-shirts, buttons, totes and mugs. I’ve got to have one of the mugs – it’ll be great to start each day with a mug of coffee and a good laugh. I wish they offered a large glass tumbler – it would make an attractive and ornamental home for my goldfish, Ricochet.

PETA has taken their lunacy to new heights. Fish are not lap pets. They’re scaly... slimy... and when prepared correctly... lunchy. Young fish are psychologically preconditioned for their fate – that’s why we call them fry. As a matter of fact, that’s exactly how I like my Sea Kittens – fried.

Next time you’re feeling down and need a good laugh, I urge you to visit the Save the Sea Kitten website at: http://www.peta.org/sea_kittens/index.asp

While there, check out “Sea Kitten Facts”. You may want to take these “facts” with a grain of salt… or a shot of salt water. Strike that! It’s best not to consume beverages when you visit this website – you could drown and end up “Sleeping with the Sea Kittens.”

Mount Golden Comet

2009-01-09T17:15:00.005-05:00

When my wife and I noticed that “Large” eggs were apparently being measured on the Bantam-scale, we decided we could do better.

We ordered Golden Comet layers from the feed mill, and soon received the call, “Your chicks are here. Come up and get ‘em!”

We brought fifteen chicks home to a cozy bed of fresh straw, in a varmint resistant hen-pen. By week 16 the girls were laying about forty eggs a week!

My wife, youngest son, and I, attempted to consume eggs on pace with production. We fried, boiled, scrambled, poached, pickled, coddled, baked, broiled, and deviled. We sliced, diced, mashed, and blended. We tried egg-soup, and omelet recipes from every region of the world. After awhile, it became too much for us…. we were egged-out.

Our older son was no help at all. From the moment he witnessed the laying of an egg first hand, he became ova-intolerant. He hasn’t eaten an egg since.

Eventually, we were fortunate enough to find customers to buy our excess inventory and relieve us of the burden of an all-egg diet.

Another problem we encountered, with our egg-operation, came in the form of an indignity my wife suffered some weeks back.

You see, I keep a clean chicken pen - as a result, our compost pile has grown to massive proportions. I had taken the pitchfork out to turn it one day, and left it piled high.

Actually, I had challenged myself in this mounding of the pile, and I was proud of the result. It was a regular mountain of compost. While I worked, I had visions of selling lift tickets and hot chocolate as people came from all around to ski and snowboard. I would call it Mount Golden Comet, in honor of the girls - after all, they did most of the work.

A few days later my wife started a gardening project and rolled the wheelbarrow to the compost pile to get some “good dirt.” I saw her there, and paused to note that the pile had settled into a bit of a tilt.

I continued to watch as she stuck her shovel into the pile, which gave a little jiggle, then started to topple. I tried to help - I yelled, “AVALANCHE!”

This didn’t help at all. She turned and gave me a strange look before turning back to see the pile sliding her way. She dropped the shovel and ran.

She almost made it, too! She had cleared the edge of the wheelbarrow when the pile caught her… she was buried from the waist down in chicken-based plant food. The wheelbarrow caught part of the load, which was the only thing that kept her from being buried alive.

I ran to pull her out but didn’t say a word... break a smile... enjoy a moment of silent, convulsive laughter... or let slip with a chuckle or guffaw. After 20 years of marriage, I've found it best to get a little time between her and an event before cracking a joke.

I extracted her and soberly skulked away in silence.

We still have fifteen chickens – and three of us have reacquired a taste for eggs. The compost pile is still there too… though maintained at a much lower altitude.

Pop-Tart Diet

2009-01-01T06:00:00.011-05:00

So... you’ve resolved to lose weight. Me too!

For me, the decision came when I realized that buttoning the waistband of my pants had become a matter of timing: Breath out - stand on tiptoes - lean forward - kick left leg… button.

Sometimes it takes a couple tries.

I have a lot of experience in the weight-loss-resolution. A few years back, I instituted a regimen of one 800-calorie meal every 24 hours. I made it four days.

Apparently, I passed out when we were shopping at Sears. I dreamed I was eating bagels. When I came-to, I was gnawing on the wheel of our shopping cart. My wife tried to ease her embarrassment by telling everyone I was teething.

I bought a book on dieting once. Dieting for Tubbies… or something like that. I still have the book – it’s shimming up the short leg of the workbench in the barn.

More recently, I tried the fodder from a health-food store. I purchased several of their earth-friendly, reusable, cloth grocery sacks, to lug my treasure home. It was literally a treasure – I considered taking a second mortgage to afford this fiber-me-thin diet.

I had representatives of every color in the organic-produce palette. I bought farm-grown kelp and fifteen pounds of flax seed. Three bottles of cactus juice went in the refrigerator, right next to the string-tofu.

After several days, and in order to save myself from starving, I ate the cloth sacks. I made them into a stew. I was desperate for something filling - anything but health-food… I’ll take my chances.

Then there was the incident when my wife and I went on a strict diet together.

When we bought groceries, she picked up a box of Pop-Tarts. I thought, “This must be some sick way of testing my will power. I’ll show her! No Problem!”

That night, I didn’t even open my eyes when I got up and beat a direct path to that box of Pop-Tarts. She had hidden them, but it didn’t matter. The box was transmitting a homing signal and I locked on like a cruise missile.

I grabbed the box, and opened it by slipping a knife into the cardboard flap at the bottom. I snatched a packet of two tarts, ate them, resealed the box with a dab of real-fruit-filling, and placed it back in the vault.

The next morning, my wife opened the box-top to warm a breakfast treat for the boys, and was incensed to find that we had been shorted by the manufacturer. She charged back to the grocery store demanding a replacement box.

When I learned of this breakfast-time drama, I shamefully confessed my crime. She made me return to the store and apologize. The lady at the store understood - she gave me a box of Pop-Tarts for my honesty.

I didn’t tell my wife about my good fortune. Instead, I enjoyed a tart as I drove home, then stashed the box behind the seat of my pickup… just in case.

I’m going shopping later today – pants are on my list of things to buy. I’m thinking something with elastic in the waistband, probably.

I’ll likely have a couple Pop-Tarts on my drive to the store - only one on the trip home, though. After all... I'm on a diet.

Santa Tracks

2008-12-22T18:35:00.017-05:00

Some years back, in the early-morning hours of Christmas Day, I found myself uncharacteristically absorbed in thought. At the time, I was elbow deep in the annual assembly-of-the-gifts debacle.

Whether my meditations were spawned from sleepless delirium, or the half-empty bottle of Christmas Cheer, I can’t say. Either way, the scheme took shape, and I became obsessed with the idea of making Santa-tracks in the snow on the roof of our house.

My wife, ever confident in my abilities, asked if she should call 9-1-1 right away, or wait until we saw how significant the injuries were.

Our dog, Rusty, followed me as I walked the moonlit path to the barn, to gather the rope and ladder. I spotted the axe and brought it along - thinking the butt-end of the handle might make good reindeer tracks.

Rusty watched expectantly, and the nearby snowman smiled brightly, as I started up the ladder. I flipped the loop of rope over the chimney (after 30 or 40 tries), drew the slip-knot tight and glanced back nervously.

Rusty’s head was cocked to one side, as he watched in confusion. The snowman’s smile seemed to have changed to an evil grimace.

I stepped onto the roof and went to work - step, crunch through the snow, poke/poke with the axe handle, step, crunch, poke/poke – and so on, up the rope to the chimney.

From the chimney, I started tracking across the roof. The dog began to whine, and I swear I heard the snowman snicker.

I had reached the end of the rope, and started to backtrack to the chimney, when one of my feet slipped… just a little. I froze in place.

Trying to step into a secure position, I felt both feet slip… just a bit. Then it happened.

Like an Olympic skier charging out of the gates, I started my downhill run. Clutching at the rope, I tried running toward the chimney - my legwork resembling something between a windmill and a pogo stick.

I fell to the roof and swung on the rope, sweeping a wide arc to the roof’s edge where I stopped, having narrowly missed a tragic fall.

I lay there in silence, considering my options (none of them attractive) when I heard:

Thwink!... “What was that?”

Thwink!... “That is NOT the rope!”

Thwink!... I looked up and saw the cords of the rope fraying at one corner of the brick chimney then:

THWANG!

My life flashed before my eyes. So did a bit of my future when I realized, “This is gonna hurt!"

Spilling over the edge of the roof, I bounced off the porch overhang before the snowman broke my fall, and maybe my back.

When I came-to, the dog was licking my nose. From my crumpled heap, I could see the axe handle protruding from a wide cleft in the now headless-snowman’s chest, his obliterated face lying on the ground next to me.

My wife came around the corner of the house and eyed the roof, “Looks like a monkey was riding in the Mad-Cow Rodeo… nice job!” She turned and walked away, the dog followed, I limped further behind.

Thankfully, the kids didn’t notice the mess on the roof, though they've had some difficulty getting past the crime scene the snowman presented that Christmas morning.

We think they're mostly okay now - the therapist assures us she should have them all fixed up, once we've made another 17 of her boat payments... give or take.

Clash of the Titans

2008-12-19T22:03:00.019-05:00

Betty is a big girl - big and mean. Nobody’s sure why she goes by Betty, her given name is Melissa - but don’t call her Melissa… and don’t ever call her Missy.

Betty’s only display of femininity is the cropped ponytail that sticks out of the back of the Mack Truck ball cap that she wears everywhere.

Betty used to be a diesel mechanic, but she's been running deliveries for Roy’s Auto Parts since the new boss at Mack called her Missy... and lost three teeth for his indiscretion.

On Saturday morning you’ll find Betty working at the feed store, where she loads customer's feed orders to make up the difference in income from the diesel garage.

No matter where she might be the rest of the week, though, come Saturday night you’ll always find Betty at Snapper's Lounge. She’s a fixture there, like the mermaid tap-handle, or the pickled quail eggs in the big jar at the end of the bar.

At Snapper's, the records for beer chugging, arm wrestling, bobbing for pig's feet (and various others), are all held by Betty. None of the men are bothered by this – they accept Betty as one of their own.

Last Saturday, a stranger sauntered into Snapper's. It was really more of a waddling-march than a saunter. You see, this newcomer was significantly shorter than anyone else in the bar, but what she lacked in stature, she made up in girth. The stranger called herself Big Sheila.

Big Sheila seated herself around the corner of the bar from Betty, and every head in the place turned when Big Sheila loudly ordered Snapper to pour, “Pitcher of beer... no glass.”

Betty immediately ordered the same. Game on!

Big Sheila pulled a pack of Levi Garrett chewing tobacco from her back pocket and Betty huffed as she fished her own pack of Red Man out of her bib overalls.

The corner of the bar cleared as the pair commenced to make the once-decorative spittoon sing, between long draws on their frothy pitchers.

Almost an hour into the contest, Betty opened the conversation with, “You arm wrestle?” Big Sheila’s eyes narrowed as she responded, “I wouldn’t wanna hurt you.”

The pair met at the corner of the bar and locked hands. Snapper started them off and narrowly dodged a left hook from Betty, who didn’t like the cadence of his, “Ready…Go”. It was 10 p.m.

Around 2 am Snapper tried to declare Last Call. Big Sheila heaved a barstool at him and Snapper wisely decided to back off.

The police had been sitting outside, waiting to pick-off bar patrons when they got in their cars to drive home. When none of us exited at closing time, they went in to cite Snapper for staying open late. When they saw Betty and Big Sheila locked in mortal combat, they backed out of the bar and summoned backup from a nearby village.

Before it was all over, two other police departments had to be brought in to break up the match and subdue the contestants. The cops came through pretty much unscathed, though that might not have been the case but for the local veterinarian being at the bar, and the good fortune in him having his bull taser out in the truck.

The gals are in county lock-up until their hearing next Thursday. Word is, that’s when the contest will resume - though I hear Snapper has closed his place and gone fishing until the battle’s been decided.

The Dreaded Christmas Form-letter

2008-12-17T12:15:00.007-05:00

Feliz Navidad!

Because things have been so darn hectic, I’m sending a one-letter-fits-all holiday greeting this year.

I’ve been working double shifts to cover a budget shortfall that was brought on when the neighbor unplugged us from his Christmas light-display.

For years, we’ve enjoyed the benefits of his Christmas generosity. To ensure our supplemental energy supply throughout the year, I’ve presented him with electrical figures to display on other holidays, as well.

There’s been spinning cupids, lit leprechauns and turkeys that flap their wings and gobble. I think his suspicions may have been aroused when I gave him the homemade display of dancing rodents for Groundhog Day.

Borrowing electricity for the household (and selling the extra back to the power company) had provided financial benefits that we’d sort of become dependent on! Of course, you understand the loss of this subsidy prevents us from sending gifts this year.

Good news! We finally got the skunk outta the crawl space under the house!

Turns out, it was a whole family of skunks! We should have known when the dog got blasted not three days after I had crawled in and wrestled the big female out of there. By the way, I’m sleeping in the house again, though I’m spending most of my time on the back porch… at least until everyone stops tearing up whenever I’m in the room.

Grandma came for a visit this past summer! It was lucky she arrived when she did - we were just starting to put up firewood for winter. By the end of the week we had her swinging that splitting-maul like a lumberjack. If you’d seen her you’d never guess she’d had double hip replacement. For a 72 year old… the woman’s got grit.

Granny was so choked up when it was time to leave, she didn’t say a word as we dropped her at the bus station - didn’t even look back… just did a sort of gimpy-jog into the terminal. It was touching.

The wife is doing fine and is happy as a clam! Country life was a little rough on her at first, especially when she saw that mosquito draggin’ one of the kittens away from its siblings. She’s finally growing accustomed to things, though, and often reminds me about all the men she could’ve married. I guess it’s her way of saying she got the cream of the crop when she married me.

My sons still refuse to invite any of their buddies over to the house. I’m guessing it’s because they don’t want them to feel bad. I think it’s mighty thoughtful of the boys - not everyone has a two-hole outhouse, and there’s no point rubbing their friends noses in it… so to speak.

My job’s been most satisfactory this year. I’m generally able to get five or six hours of sleep each shift, and some of that has been overtime - though you understand I still can’t afford to send gifts.

Well, that’s our year in a nutshell. Here’s wishing you all the happiness and cheer that we’ve had the good fortune to enjoy this past year.

We encourage you to “Go Green” with your gift giving this holiday. Small bills are best - they won’t cash anything bigger than a twenty at the drive-through.

Merry Christmas!

Carl

Ole's Swap Shop - A True Adventure

2008-12-12T17:52:00.007-05:00

When we were kids, my two younger brothers and I would spend time every summer with my Grandpa and Grandma Alberts in their home in Northeast Iowa.

My Grandparents lived in Decorah, a town in a region settled by Norwegian immigrants some generations before. The influence of those Norwegian settlers remains today; many of the area residents still speak in Americanized Norwegian accents.

Grandma would take us along when she drove “uptown” to run her errands. Then we would pile back into her car to drive over to the K&S to pick up a few groceries.

I was always drawn to a place I could see from the car as we were driving home from the K&S - Ole’s Swap Shop.

Grandma’s errands never led us to the Swap Shop, but someone pointed Ole out to me once. To a youngster he seemed a scary man, with the look of Norwegian impishness that was common to the older men of the area. It was a look that never admitted, with any certainty, whether you might get a pat on the head or a pinch on the arm.

I did have what one might describe as an indirect encounter with Ole once.

I had been told that Ole and his wife lived just up the hill from Grandma’s house, and that the couple sold things out of their home too. The house was said to be packed with all sorts of cool stuff - swords, army helmets, and animal pelts that seemed to stare down from the rafters of the front room. It was the sort of thing that young boys dream of seeing… touching… maybe even possessing.

So one afternoon, when Grandma was busy with her garden, I struck out with my two younger brothers in tow. We made our way to the alley that led up Pleasant Hill, and began our ascent.

The sides of the alley were overgrown with weeds and volunteer trees, and conditions grew worse as we continued up the hill - but we kept walking.

Near the top of the hill we came to a narrow lane that led down a shallow cut in the hillside. Grass grew between two ribbons of gravel that led past a couple of outbuildings before ending near the small, dark, run-down house.

We stopped at what seemed a safe distance, to deliberate whether this was the place and if we should go on. The trek up that forest of an alley had given us “the willies” and the appearance of the house wasn’t doing much to bolster our confidence. To our excitable young minds it looked like something out of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.

We were torn between the desire to see a real railroad-lantern and the risk, just maybe, of never seeing Grandma again - and her not even knowing where we had gone. As is usually the case with young people, the desire won.

We moved quietly down the lane… past the first outbuilding… and the second. Still moving toward the house, we spotted a sheet of plywood leaning against the side door of that second building. It was a sign - and hand-painted in large white letters it read:

Keep Out!
Or I Will Cut Off Your Ears
And Pickle Them
And Eat Them For Supper!

My youngest brother lost a shoe that day. He was trying to run, but his feet rarely hit the ground as he was being carried between the other two of us.

Many years later, after Ole had passed away and I had grown, I went back to that not-so-scary house and visited with Ole’s widow as I shopped the relics in their home.

The sign was gone - I never mentioned it, or my prior visit.

I’m glad I went back. I treasure the memory of that first adventure, my later visit with Ole’s widow, and the small kerosene lantern that I bought that day.

Save the Faux

2008-12-06T20:07:00.006-05:00

I was minding my business, not long ago
Repairing my house, it ain’t no chateau
When into a tree near my place flew a crow
Who took me aback with a hearty, “Hello!”

I stood there in awe, and a little bit dazed
‘Tho my senses returned, when Crow shrieked the phrase:

Save the Faux!

I was thinking I might need a nip of Merlot
To calm flesh and spirit, ‘til I felt all aglow
But ‘twas not to be, for that pesky old crow
Kept repeating his phrase:

Save the Faux! Save the Faux!

Not sure what to do, I gave it some thought
As I kicked at the dirt, a toad hopped to the spot
He told me a tale, of cruelty and sin
About faux that were killed for the fur on their skin.

A bear, and a deer, and a crow, and now you?
You critters that talk should all be in a zoo!
He just shook his head, and went on to say
You make me quite weary, but have it your way

When the faux are all gone, and there’s no more to whack
When your Hollywood types have no faux on their back
When the hunters are done with their arrow and bow
And the one’s had his turn, named Dr. Moreau
You’ll wish you had heeded the black-feathered one
And saved all the faux, and their daughters and sons

When none can be found on plain or plateau
The only faux likeness, portrayed by Van Gogh
You’ll wish you had listened, I know that you will
But now I am done, I’ll be still

The toad then fell quiet, and hopped on his way
Not knowing I knew, that a faux is a fake
And if you de-furred one, not a scream it would make
‘Cause you can’t and it won’t, for a faux is a FAKE!

The wee-warty one, had made off down the road
When I suddenly felt, ‘bout to lose all control
Inspired and stirred, by the words of that toad
‘Tho beyond all good reason, I started to crow:

Save the Faux! Save the Faux! Save the Faux!

Bluetooth

2008-12-03T16:28:00.006-05:00

bluetooth (bloo'· tooth) n. 1. Personal communication device, designed to confuse and annoy all men, women, children and pets who happen to be in the vicinity of the user - in other words… everyone.

My wife and I had just been seated at our favorite restaurant when the man dining alone in the booth across from us started talking:

Man in Booth - Hey, how’s it going?
Me - Good! How ‘bout yourself?

He gave me a strange look and continued:

Man in Booth -What are you doing this weekend?
Me - Oh, not too much.

He gave me that look again, this time sliding toward the farther side of his booth.

Man in Booth - I’ve got an extra ticket for the Buckeye game … you want to go?
Me shouting - WOW! REALLY? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!

This seemed to startle my new friend, and his head snapped around in response to my outburst. I was expecting to receive another one of his looks - instead, the sudden motion caused something to fall from his head and plop into the bowl of chowder in front of him.

Without hesitation he splashed a hand into the steaming soup.

I was voicing concern to my wife over the practicality, not to mention the sanitation, of this obviously European custom, when she interrupted to tell me about something called a Bluetooth.

Her explanation was cut short as the bizarre scene continued to develop before us.

You see, when the fellow dipped a hand into the hot chowder, he let out a curse of pain - and though he managed to retrieve his prize, it immediately dropped to the floor.

As he plunged the fingers of his broth-coated hand in a glass of ice-water, he reached with his good hand to search the floor under the table. A look of relief came across his face when he seemed to have found the lost treasure.

By now, everyone in the restaurant was watching as our odd dining companion sat up with casual confidence… and stuck a baby-carrot in his ear.

Just then, another patron passed between our tables, and the look on my pal’s face quickly changed from relief to despair as a sharp crunch sounded from under the foot of the passerby. My distraught neighbor, still sporting the carrot, lunged over in a useless attempt to save his now demolished ear-gear.

He picked up the dangling strand of broken circuitry, plastic, and wires and we all watched as he grasped what looked like a fancy fishing lure, and tried to reaffix it to his ear.

Other diners seemed to get a little nervous at this point. I noticed a number of them cautiously eyeing me as they fiddled with their own gadgets, each checking and rechecking to make sure that everything was secure - as if I intended to startle them into dropping their device into a scalding liquid.

Things finally settled down and, still not fully understanding all that had transpired I leaned toward my fellow diner and inquired, “You were saying something about a ticket to the Buckeye game?”

Without a word he shot me another one of those looks.

It became clear to me then - I would be watching the Buckeye's from my usual seat… at home.

The Best Thanksgiving EVER!

2008-11-25T16:45:00.011-05:00

Last year, Thanksgiving Day got off to a bad start. The turkey had been roasting since early morning, but our alarm clock failed to reawaken us when it was time to check the bird. Eventually, the shrill piping of the smoke alarm did.

My wife and I stumbled into the kitchen to witness the oven door puffing rhythmically, as it belched out the smoke and cinders that filled the air. The turkey, well past jerky stage, had become a crisp lump of stuffing-filled charcoal. Even the pop-up thermometer had melted, causing a lava-like flow down one side of the bird.

Our guests would be arriving in a few hours, and my wife started barking instructions as I removed the cremated carcass from the oven.

I was to drive east, she would drive west – we would stop at every grocer until one of us found the Thanksgiving Day Holy Grail – a whole cooked turkey.

I was a poor choice for this mission. I have no patience for shopping - she knows this, and sent me anyway.

I failed to find a turkey at the first store, but I had the good sense to pick up a bag of croutons for a new batch of stuffing.

I was en route to the second grocer and already losing interest. I stopped for breakfast at my favorite diner, bought a lottery ticket at a convenience store, stopped at a pond to watch some ducks, took my pickup to a car wash, and returned to the pond where I fed croutons to the ducks. I was thinking I should phone my wife to report that I wasn’t having any luck finding a turkey… when inspiration struck.

I hurried back to the first grocer - then dashed home to save the day!

By the time my frazzled wife got home, most of our guests were already there. I gave her a wink, and her questioning look turned to one of loving appreciation as she darted to the bedroom to dress and fix her hair. She joined us just as the last guests arrived and I was inviting everyone to be seated at the dining table.

The room became quiet with anticipation as I placed the covered platter on the dining table. Holding my carving knives in one hand and triumphantly removing the cover with the other, I was alarmed at the chaos and pandemonium that erupted!

Mother-in-law - What did you do?!? (You is her pet-name for me)

Sister – (Uncontrolled laughter)

Wife – (Mouth agape, look of dread-horror)

Eldest son – Gross!

Me - (defensively) It’s a SPAM-turkey!!

Someone to my left – Oh, Carl… No!

Brother-in-law – This is the Best Thanksgiving EVER!

I won’t be lending a hand in the kitchen this Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t... even if I were allowed.

My brother-in-law, Scott, is the only one who appreciates the complexity and skill required to sculpt 27 cans of SPAM into an impromptu, 20-pound replacement turkey, just minutes before guests arrive.

No, this year my wife plans to stay up all night - to stand watch over the bird, and both entrances to the kitchen… in case I try to help.

I hope she doesn’t get suspicious if her brother and I don’t seem to have an appetite – we have plans to sneak off to the shed, where I’ve already positioned the gas grill. I’m preparing two Cornish hens, one for each of us.

I’m a little worried about grilling in the shed… did I mention they’re SPAM Cornish hens?

Mouse Attack

2008-11-17T17:05:00.005-05:00

My 75-year-old Uncle Jon and I were running late for a meeting. As we sped along the freeway. I noticed several partially-eaten mints on the floor of his car.

“Dieting?” I asked as I pointed to the scattered remains.

“No, I think a mouse got in here,” he replied, “I’m pretty sure it’s gone now.”

I was taking in the scenery, when from the corner of my eye I saw something dart past my foot.

I watched for a bit and, sure enough, saw it again. It was a mouse alright - a fat, brown field-mouse.

I didn’t say anything except, “Maybe you shouldn’t leave any food in here for awhile.”

Several miles passed quietly before I saw the flash of brown fur again, this time at Jon’s feet! I was about to sound the alert when the mouse darted up into his pant leg.

Jon bounced a little in his seat, and his eyes widened, before he began stomping his foot in an effort to shake the critter free. Of course the harder he stomped the more hysterically the mouse scratched and clawed to hold on.

I was laughing as Jon, now dancing in his seat, frantically stomped his foot. A passing carload of teenagers flashed big smiles and give the elderly Jon a thumbs-up, which made me laugh even harder.

Jon now grasped his pant leg with one hand as he tried to stem the rodent’s ascent. The mouse, having other thoughts on the matter, amplified its frantic efforts to scale his leg.

I was laughing to the point of tears, until Jon’s stomping began to alternately threaten to mash either the gas pedal or the brake.

Sensing the danger, but unable to stop my laughter and the tears that were now rolling down my cheeks, I gasped, “Pull Over! Pull Over!”

He managed to bring us to a safe stop before spryly leaping out of the car, kicking and writhing toward the back of the vehicle. I watched as he unfastened his belt and unzipped his pants with one hand, still gripping his pant leg with the other, and dancing a jig that would make a Scotsman blush.

His gyrations became even more jauntily erratic when his trousers dropped to his knees. I continued to watch until he disappeared around the back of the car and, though my lungs felt ready to explode from laughter, I hauled myself out of the car - not wanting to miss the rest of the show.

My tears were thick as I struggled to make out the form that now sat alongside the road behind us… but there was no mistaking the flash of blue and red lights.

Thankfully, as Jon flailed madly at the side of the freeway, the mouse ejected from the top of his pants and scampered off into some tall grass - all in plain view of the state trooper.

It was becoming apparent that we were going to be late for our meeting when Jon, now fully dressed and seated behind the wheel of his car, asked the trooper if we would be much longer.

Not appreciating the humor that I was so thoroughly enjoying, Uncle Jon was even less amused when the trooper replied, “Keep your pants on; I’ll be back in a minute.”

Fence Fixed... almost

2008-11-12T18:05:00.007-05:00

Last weekend, I coerced my sons into helping with a long overdue fencing project. There were a number of reasons for pressing them into service.

1) I couldn’t do the job without assistance - I needed the help of at least one good man, or two indifferent teens.

2) My friends and neighbors all told me they would be away for the weekend - strangest thing too, every one of them gone on the same weekend!

3) Forcing the boys to suffer some manual labor would “build character.” I know this because it’s what my dad repeatedly told me when I was their age.

There we'd be, grubbing out a forty-inch tree stump with a never-sharp axe, and a shovel we continued to use long after the handle broke - when I would ask, “Dad, why can’t we just pull it out with the tractor?”

His growled reply: “It builds character! Now get to work, we haven’t got all day.” As it turns out we did have all day... and most of the next day, too.

So it was the boys and me - and I admit, I made some mistakes.

First mistake:

We started early Saturday morning.

Experts in the laws-of-nature have established that: “A teenager will be in the foulest of moods and exhibit their maximum teen angst-and-attitude between the hours of 6 am and 11 am. Do not, under any circumstance, awaken a teen before 11 a.m., particularly on the weekend!”

I broke the law… I didn’t just break it, I foolishly flaunted my disregard for it by waking two teenagers.

Second Mistake:

I unplugged them.

In order to keep the job moving, I implemented a policy prohibiting phone calls, text messages, internet alerts, or music-thingies wired to their heads.

Every idle moment would result in arms flapping and hands flailing as the boys nervously searched their pockets for missing electronics and groped about their head and neck for errant earbuds.

They were completely disoriented by this forced return to 20th century living, and they exhibited both curiosity and concern with the unfamiliar sounds and the bright light (singing birds and morning sunshine).

Third Mistake:

It was past lunch time, and we were nearly finished. I hadn’t noticed the glances the boys were exchanging, when the younger one asked, “Can we get something to eat?”

Without looking up I said, “Naw… let’s just finish up here, we’ll be done in an hour or so.”

This, of course, was in direct conflict with Section III, Article IX of the Local Teen-sters contract.

I was immediately confronted by my eldest son who, acting as union steward, presented me with a formal grievance.

Looking to my left - I saw his younger brother sitting with his back against a fence post, both hands limp on the ground at his sides, and a listless look in his eyes. I knew I had to feed them, or be faced with a wildcat strike.

I tried to bribe them with a 10% increase in wages, but even in their emaciated condition they recognized that 10% of nothing would offer little improvement to their financial position. That’s one of the problems with free labor.

I was forced to meet their demands and resolve the grievance.

After lunch one of the boys had an important appointment to keep - he assured me he had told me about it weeks before.

The other had homework that was to be completed that afternoon or he would fail the class, be spurned by college recruiters, and forced to live under my roof for the remainder of his life. Faced with this threat I temporarily suspended the project.

I’ve had to tell my wife that it’ll be a few more weeks before we can finish the fence. It will take me that long to reconsider my misguided parenting ways…and the boys need some sleep.

Fixing Fence

2008-11-06T17:00:00.005-05:00

I’ve got a big job to do this weekend. The old field-fence along the driveway needs to be replaced - it’s needed to be replaced for the past several years.

My wife was the first to bring it up: “Looks like that fence is in pretty bad shape,” she mentioned one morning as she was looking out the kitchen window, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Yep,” I said, “It’s lookin’ a little tired.”

Several months went by and a bit more pointedly she said, “I think we need to consider replacing that fence.”

“I suppose you’re right,” was my only reply.

Recently, more than a year after her first mention of the fence, she said, “Are you going to fix that fence, or not!?!” That's what I had been waiting to hear… the Call-To-Arms!

What she doesn’t know is that over the past several months I’ve been carefully laying out a plan for the job. There’s a lot to take into consideration – weather, tools, labor, materials, site preparation, engineering, permits.

Okay, I don’t need a permit to replace a section of farm fence. My point is that you can’t jump into a job like this too quickly. A job like this requires careful planning. Never mind that it’s only a 40 foot section of fence, you can’t rush it—who knows, it might take care of itself. Things like that have happened before, I read about it in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not!

No, a job like this requires some thought and, most important—proper timing.

It would be ill-advised to do the job during tornado season or winter - after all, a tree might blow over and fall on the new fence, then all the work would have been for nothing.

There’s frost-heave, spring flooding, and holidays to consider. You can’t have the place all torn up when guests might be stopping by to visit.

There will be some wood posts involved, so I can’t discount the hazards of the woodpecker migration, either.

No, this job requires precision timing. I figure I have two opportunities to get it done - either this weekend, or sometime after we know just what we’re up against with this whole global warming thing.

Besides, up until I got the “Are you going to, or not?” question, I wasn’t sure I had the job. Men learn these things after a few years of marriage. If I had jumped right in and replaced the fence after her first mention of it she likely would have said, “Oh honey, I wish you would have fixed the faucet in the bathroom, instead.”

If I had initiated the job after the second mention, it would have been, “I thought we were going to talk about putting in a wooden fence.”

Nope, you’ve got to wait until the problem matures to the ultimatum stage, when you know that no matter what you do, there won’t be any second guessing. This is important because (recently married men take note) when the job is done and your last two posts are only eighteen inches apart, or you’ve installed the fencing upside down, she won’t say a word about it. Not to you anyway.

Oh sure, she’ll let all of her friends know - but this is a good thing because her friends are now thinking that you’re not too handy around the house. When it comes time for their husband to tackle a job that requires some assistance, they won’t suggest that he get ahold of you. And there’s no lasting shame in your wife telling all of her friends because she’ll always end the conversation with a wistful, “Well... at least it’s done.”

So it looks like I’m replacing the fence this weekend. Unless?… I wonder if the Farmers Almanac has anything on fencing by phases of the moon.

Bat-Splat Incident of 2008

2008-10-30T18:30:00.007-04:00

It happens every year around Halloween. The days grow shorter and the evenings cooler, the early symptoms of Seasonal Affective Disorder warn of winter’s approach, and a bat finds its way into our rural home – always in the dead of night.

It happened again this week.

It was around 1 a.m. when I heard the familiar sound pass over the bed.

Whoosh!

I slipped out of the room so I wouldn’t wake my wife. She has a phobia of small flying mammals. She doesn’t think I noticed how she used to leave the living room every time the flying-monkeys appeared on The Wizard of Oz. Me? … I just closed my eyes.

Closing the bedroom door I stood in the hallway, listening.

Whoosh! (Good! No repeat of the bat-in-the-bedroom incident of 2005.)

After turning on every light in the house, I grabbed my bat-dueling weapon of choice, the kitchen broom, and for the next twenty minutes lunged, thrust, parried, and sliced the air, in a fruitless attempt to disable the trespasser.

By now, I had knocked over a lamp and upset the fireplace tools, the dog was barking, and my wife and two teenage sons were up.

As soon as my wife saw me with the broom, she dove to the living room floor and lay, face down, screaming – Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!

Please understand – living in a rural area where the bugs are more abundant, a bit larger, and far less courteous than city-bugs, we appreciate the value of bats as insect control technicians. We once tried opening doors and shooing a bat out, which somehow resulted in us having two bats in the house (The twin-bat-incident of 2006). We’ve even put a bat-house in a nearby tree, to give the bats a place to roost when they’re not out on mosquito patrol.

But even the best neighbor is likely to be threatened (or worse) if he barges in and wakes up the whole household at one o’clock in the morning.

Like many before it, this bat was taking advantage of our home’s bat-friendly floor plan. Open doorways allow an unobstructed loop through the house. Ideal for late-night flight maneuvers - a bat’s squeak-less equivalent to the hamster wheel!

So as my wife lay at one end of the living room, with her hands covering her head, we men went to work to vanquish our opponent.

Working as a team, we had nearly winged the intruder a couple of times before the house grew ominously still. The bat, as they often do, had landed somewhere… to rest a bit… and play with our minds.

The boys initiated a nervous search while I stood watch. This offered the first opportunity for me to have a good look at my sons.

Our oldest, had a baseball glove on one hand and a tennis racquet in the other. His younger brother was wearing a pair of safety goggles, and carrying a hockey stick.

I thought to veto the use of the hockey stick, but the bat had filed a revised flight-plan, accepted clearance for takeoff, and initiated a second sortie.

The boys took off in opposite directions, only to meet abruptly in a two-teen pile-up in the hallway. While they were busy extricating themselves from the knot of lanky limbs and sports equipment, the opportunity to end the battle came my way.

I was in the living room when I heard the whisper of wings approaching from behind me.

Tightly gripping the broom handle with both hands, I swung and nailed the bat with a sharp backhand as it was passing on my left. I watched it sail across the room, fighting to break out of its new trajectory.

What I hadn’t realized was that my wife was now standing behind me across the room.

SPLAT!

She took one hard on the cheekbone…. for the family.

By then, the boys had untangled themselves and emerged from the hallway.

The oldest, bending over the now motionless invader on the floor, declared, “Bat’s dead!”

The younger boy approached my wife, “Are you okay Mom?” he asked, “Uh, you’ve got a little something….” (He gingerly pointed to her left cheek).

You see, my wife hadn’t moved since face-fielding the bat, except to open one eye, which hadn’t yet blinked and was leveled at me.

I was caught in one of those panic-stricken moments that you read about, when someone meets a grizzly in the forest, or a large truck is bearing down on them in a pedestrian crosswalk. My brain said run, but my feet just wouldn’t move. I was locked in place by that one-eyed stare!

Now, my evenings, weekends….pretty much every spare moment, are assigned to be spent in stopping-up any suggestion of a gap, crack, fissure, crevice, slit, cranny or cleft, throughout the house.

I think next year, around Halloween, I’ll plan on staying with friends.

Announcing New Golf Course!

2008-10-22T18:50:00.004-04:00

My neighbor and I are about to take advantage of the greatest money-making opportunity since Tupperware parties.

Actually, my neighbor doesn’t know about the plan yet, but it involves part of his property, so I guess I’ll have to include him as a partner, since he’s bound to notice the land-grab sooner of later.

I recently read that the game of golf is a multi-billion dollar industry. Not wanting to be left behind, I’ve decided I’m going to make my fortune by building a golf course.

I have limited acreage to work with (even with the public property I’m planning to incorporate into my design) so this will be a course of the two-hole variety.

The course will start on my place, then dog-leg as it crosses State Route 62 and the creek, before terminating on my neighbor’s side of the highway. The intended fairway is already seeded in Licking County turf (tall grass and weeds), with field-corn planted along each side and at the far end.

I don’t presently have capital to invest in expensive grounds maintenance equipment, so I’ll graze goats to help manage the turf. This should also take care of fertilization. During the day, while the goats are busy manicuring the grounds, I’ll use the goat-shed as a clubhouse and will add amenities, like indoor plumbing, as profits allow.

I've done a lot of research on this project and have learned everything about the game of golf. For instance, most golfers are known as Duffers, or sometimes Hackers; the place you tee-off is called the launch-pad; and anything that can mess-up your score is called a hazard, as in: “Hey look! My tee shot killed a pigeon-hazard!”

I’m going to call my course The Raccoon Creek Highland Memorial Links Country Club Golf Course and Corn Maze.

Here’s how it’ll work:

The first group will arrive, and I’ll engage them in some golf-type banter before directing them to the outbound launch-pad. This banter will involve small talk about weather, green speed, and temperament of certain (horned) members of the grounds crew… the usual stuff. The first hole will be a 120 yard par-five.

Par-five may seem high for the 120 yard distance to the pin, but remember that there will be a small herd of goats to be negotiated (and it can be expected numerous goat related hazards), as well as the dog-leg at the highway, and a ditch on each side of the highway. (Duffers call these: Bunkers)

There’s also the creek (Duffers call this a: Water Hazard). Depending on the season, the water hazard may be a small rivulet, or a frothing cauldron of doom. Life vests will be recommended, with rentals available for a small deposit and nominal fee. Survivors will receive a full refund of the deposit.

So, group-one will be on their way, while the next group is held in more golf-type banter as I collect greens fees and signed insurance waivers. When I see that group-one has disappeared around the dog-leg, I’ll release group number two. And so the morning will pass.

This is where the game gets interesting! You see, the Hole One putting green will immediately be used as the launch-pad for Hole Two, and the return trip to the clubhouse. This assumes, of course, that no one overshot the green and landed their ball in the corn maze, which will lie just beyond. (Duffers call this and the corn on either side of the fairway: The Rough).

Anyone who overshoots the green and ventures out to locate their ball in the corn maze should pocket a couple of cold beverages before going in search of their ball, as this process is expected to take several hours.

Hole Two will be a 120 yard, par-nine. Remember, there's now a crowd of additional hazards playing up on Hole One and, by this time, players on Hole Two won’t give a damn about exercising due-caution, having spent the better part of their day wandering around in a corn maze.

A necessary rule, unique to my course, will be that all alcoholic beverages must be kept in a locked container.

You see, goats are known to be aggressive foragers who (as rural legend has it) love to eat cans, bottles, tires, live chickens and small farm implements.

Goats are also known to be mean drunks! So for the safety of all, coolers must be locked.

I hope you’ll come out and play a round or two at TRCHMLCCGC & CM. Hours of operation will be from sunrise to sunset, seven days a week - except Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and some weekends. You can expect a full range of services including port-a-potties, a goat-proof vending machine, and corn maze rescue missions at the top of every hour, almost guaranteed.

Legal Disclaimer: The Raccoon Creek Highland Memorial Links Country Club Golf Course and Corn Maze will not accept responsibility for any accident, injury, molestation, or death that come as a result of drunken goat incidents related to unlocked coolers, or the unintentional sharing of alcoholic beverages with a goat that has been mistaken for an elder-duffer.

Mickey Mouse for President

2008-10-17T23:05:00.005-04:00

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
Mickey Mouse Makes Late Entry into Presidential Race
11:05:42 PM Friday October 17, 2008

The Skintail Party has announced that popular actor Mickey Mouse has agreed to accept their nomination as a write-in candidate for November’s presidential election.

Born in 1928 to immigrant parents, Mickey Mouse is a native of California and an actor respected around the world for his talented performances in wide-ranging roles.

His father came to the United States on a cargo ship bound from Ireland. Upon arriving he made his way to Southern California where he met Mickey’s mother, a migrant field-mouse from Mexico. Mickey and ten siblings were born 21 days later.

Mickey lost his father this year as a result of a tragic accident involving spring-machinery and peanut butter. His mother presently lives with her pets, a pair of chipmunks that she has affectionately named Chip and Dale. Mickey has never forgotten his roots - the work ethic and undying optimism of his parents has been an ever-present reminder of his duty to the little man (and mouse).

Mickey is married to his childhood sweetheart, Minerva (Minnie) Mouse. The couple has not been blessed with a litter of their own, but take great pleasure in the companionship of their faithful old hound, Pluto.

Mrs. Mouse has stated that as first lady she will focus her energies to work for abolition of the use of frozen mice, rats, and guinea pigs as feeder animals for the reptilian pet community.

Mr. Mouse has selected Jiminy Cricket as his running mate, citing Cricket’s proven social conscience. Mr. Cricket is currently filming on location somewhere in Zimbabwe but is expected to join Mickey on the campaign trail as soon as he can be located.

In an effort to demonstrate the transparency and bipartisanship with which he will conduct his presidency, Mr. Mouse has made the early announcement that as president he will recommend the following appointments:

White House Chief of Staff - Goofy

White House Press Secretary - Pinocchio

Attorney General - Queen of Hearts

Secretary of Energy - Tigger

Chairman of the Federal Reserve - The Mad Hatter

Secretary of Transportation - Eeyore

Joint Chiefs of Staff - Bashful, Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey, Sneezy - and two others he can’t remember.

Mickey Mouse will be outlining his platform at a rally immediately following the Anarchist’s in the Park meeting at high-noon on Sunday in Newark, Ohio. We hope that you will join us on the square, and that we can rely on your vote for Mickey Mouse this November 4th.

RELEASED BY: The Skintail Party - Committee for the election of Mickey Mouse - Donald Duck, Chairman.

- END -

Sheep Dip

2008-10-16T15:47:00.007-04:00

Answer to Mystery Leads to Opening Round in Legal Battle

Carl Vine - October 16, 2008

MONROE TOWNSHIP: In a follow-up to a story that we first brought you in March; we have new information regarding the sheep that went missing from Stonyfield Farm near Johnstown.

The Louisiana Bayou Times reports:

A small flock of sheep were recovered from the waters of the Lower Mississippi River yesterday, by a commercial fisherman, near the town of Point á la Hache, in Plaquemines Parish.

Strom S. Spindleshank reported that he had been trolling the main channel for the better part of the morning and was about to pull his nets, when he saw something bobbing in the current upstream.

Drawing nearer, he became alarmed by an eerie sound that evoked memories of the plaintiff cries of the river creatures described in stories his Grandpa Spindleshank had told him as a small child.

Gathering his courage and cautiously maneuvering his vessel nearer, Spindleshank could see that the apparition was a group of sheep that were floating in raft-like formation. Mr. Spindleshank skillfully employed his nets to round up the flock and hoist them onto his boat in a single haul.

The herd, numbering 13 ewes and one ram, has since been removed to Spindleshank’s brother’s catfish farm in rural Louisiana, where a veterinarian was able to locate a computer-chip implant on the ram, allowing him to trace the herd back to Monroe Township in Licking County, Ohio.

There, a farmer by the name of Jake Beamer claims to have lost the sheep in the spring flooding that occurred across Ohio this past March.

“I figured they were lost for good,” said Beamer, “I knew it was the creek that took ‘em. I figured they had been flushed through to the Licking River, and might eventually hit the Muskingum or maybe even the Ohio!

“For two days I sat upstream of the Number 2 Lock and Dam to see if maybe they’d float by and I could snag a couple of ‘em. The only livestock I saw pass were a few hogs and one dairy cow. I would’ve tried to catch them, but the cow was too far out in the river, and hogs are hard to get ahold of to begin with - let alone scared, wet hogs with only the business end above water.

“I never figured the whole flock would make it as far as the Mississippi! I’m just glad that Mr. Spindleshank was able to retrieve them before they washed into the Gulf of Mexico!”

A legal battle between the parties is now underway to determine ownership of the errant livestock. Mr. Beamer says that the sheep were his to begin with and they’re still his, though he admits that he owes Spindleshank a finder and recovery fee for his troubles.

A lawyer for Spindleshank is requesting that the courts uphold an 1863 Louisiana law that states; “Any livestock or other chattels, found in or upon the river, shall become the property of the finder - an’ ain’t nothin’ you can do ‘bout it”

According to the lawyer for Spindleshank, a precedent set in the similar case of Lark vs. Tarlton won’t apply in this instance, because that case involved a group of guinea pigs, which can’t properly be considered livestock or chattels… though they make a fine gumbo!

The lawyer contends that the law is clear on this matter, saying, “They’s Cajun sheep now!” and was overheard to say, “Now let’s we all head out to Bubba Spindleshank’s place. I hear he’s havin’ a barbeque!”

We will continue to follow this story and bring you updates as they become available.

Deer-talk

2008-10-04T09:00:00.008-04:00

You might think that white tailed deer are stupid creatures but I’m here to tell you that this is not the case. I was out walking in the woods the other day when I met a talking deer.

My initial surprise was not as great as you might expect - it was only three years ago that I ran into a talking bear in the same wooded area behind my house.

For some time, I had been telling my unbelieving family that there was a bear living in our woods. I had found a few claw-marked trees, and I could smell him, when the wind was right. I’m pretty sure I heard him moving about in the woods a couple times and, occasionally, I would find evidence of something else that bears do in the woods.

I didn’t bother to tell my family about my face-to-face encounter with the bear, let alone that he was a talking bear. Their earlier laughter, taunts and jeers told me that they probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

But this is another matter. I was within eye-shot of the house and one of my sons saw me talking to the deer. Well, he didn’t actually see the deer, but he saw me talking, there in the woods, so I know everyone will be interested in hearing about the conversation.

They’ve asked me to wait and tell my story when we get together with a Dr. Bissell next week. I don’t know why we’re going to see him, but my wife told me that my cousin Craig, the psychiatrist, suggested that we schedule a visit with Dr. Throckmorton as soon as possible.

Nobody said that I can’t tell you, though, and I’m dieing to tell somebody, so here goes.

I had just walked through the wooded ravine behind my house and was about to round a big patch of briars, when I met the deer walking in the opposite direction.

Deer: How’s it going?

Me: Whoa…. you can talk!

Deer: Of course I can talk, all deer can talk - where have you been?

Me: Sorry, I guess I should have known. I met a talking bear a few years back!

Deer: Bears are idiots.

Me: Well, he seemed smart enough to me. He was very courteous too. His name was Clancy…. or Chauncey…. or something like that.

Deer: You meet a talking bear and you can’t even remember his name?

Me: I was a little shocked… and scared too.

Deer: His name is Chauncey; I know him…. he’s an idiot.

Me: Whatever.

Deer: Yeah, whatever (under his breath, “idiot”); I have to go.

Me: Hey! Wait a minute! I’ve got a question I need to ask you.

Deer: Shoot! Heh, heh, that’s deer humor…. get it?

Me: Ah….yeah, I got it. Listen, are you the one who’s been eating all of my landscape plants and vegetables?

Deer: Yeah, it’s me…. So what?

Me: Well leave them alone! I put a lot of time and expense into my gardening and you keep destroying it all. It’s very disheartening.

Deer: Hey man, you leave the stuff lying around, what do you expect?

Me: Couldn’t you just eat the plants in the woods?

Deer: How’s about you eat the plants in the woods and I’ll stick with your vegetable garden. I mean, look at this stuff man! Do you know what stripping briar leaves off the plants does to my lips? Not cool when it comes time to meet the ladies!

Me: I don’t know anything about that; I just wish you would stay out of my yard. Hey, while I’m thinking about it, how about you talk to your pals about staying off the roads at night, too.

Deer: It’s instinct dude, we can’t help ourselves. You’ve heard of reindeer games right?

Me: Sure!

Deer: Well that’s what we’re up to when you see us on the roads. We’ve got a LOT of free time on our hands. Playing chicken with a few tons of rolling steel breaks up the monotony of a long day. We do it with trains, too, you know.

Me: Deer play reindeer games?

Deer: Let me tell you something, reindeer are idiots! Some advertising executive was writing a poem for department store Santa’s to hand out at Christmas, and he didn’t like the syntax when he used “deer” games. One syllable later and credit for the game that we invented is stolen from us. We had been playing deer games for millennia before reindeer could even talk. Don’t even get me started on all that crap about flying!

Me: Sorry.

Deer: You know we’re responsible for most of those crop circles, too, don’t you?

Me: I didn’t know that.

Deer: Oh yea! We get bored as hell, lying around all day, waiting for you people to go inside so we can get something to eat. The whole crop circle thing started as a way to make some room to warm up for deer games. When we saw how crazy it made all you humans, we kept it up, purely for the entertainment value.

Me: Why?

Deer: Dude! We’re bored! Aren’t you listening?

Me: Sorry.

Deer: Listen man, I’ve really gotta go. I’ll see what I can do about the games and the garden. Until then could you spray some more of that Deer-Off on the tomatoes? Even deer like a little seasoning now and then. Later!

Me: See-ya…. Hey, wait a second! I didn’t get your name!

He just chuckled, and muttered something under his breath as he continued to walk away. I can hardly wait to tell my family and Dr. Bissell about this when we get together next week. I wonder if the doctor will know who’s responsible for the rest of the crop circles?