Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 47

A Guy’s Guide to Public Privacy

(Hmm…I wonder if the Spanish Inquisition invented fruitcake?)

I was attending a Christmas chorale concert when a friend suggested I write a column about bathrooms. I realize that’s not exactly a glowing endorsement of my skills as a humorist, or, for that matter, a glowing endorsement of my friends’ confidence in my scribbling skills.

Come to think of it, I guess it doesn’t say much for the concert, either.

But it is the holiday season in America, which means guys have to turn off the TV and go places. And in such uncharted places, public bathrooms play an integral, underrated role. All over the country, guys are being forced to put on (preferably matching) socks, swipe their hair into obedience, and leave the house – often, during a ball game – to go out and attend various seasonal social functions.

You know what happens next. At these various functions, various hosts will callously carpet-bomb you with 800 gallons of an off-white substance, cleverly marketed under the unassuming alias “eggnog.” Eggnog is a digestive-system-disrupting paste first created by the Spanish Inquisition for use on particularly stubborn interviewees. (“Nog” is an ancient Latin term meaning “renal express lane.”)

What’s worse, the 800 gallons are dolloped at you in 20-micron increments, served in overfilled elfin plastic tumblers etched with holly leaves, snowflakes and exclamation points, and presented on a useless square napkinlet the size of a Congressman’s conscience, but cleaner.

Alternatively…or, if your karma really stinks, alternately…the inviters will insist that you try a nice goblet (or two, or six) of this year’s wine from their Uncle Cletus’ private label, Chateau Boxing. (“it’s a pesky yet haunting little grape-toned diuretic that we like to call Chenin Blanc itty Blanc Blanc.”)

And after an hour or so of that, there you are – a helpless, clueless, nog-mustached guy, facing a multiple-front volley of festive fluids. And all advice to the contrary, you forgot to “go” before you left home. Plus, you’re wearing uncomfortable clothes and, theoretically, matching socks. Against such an onslaught, a guy and his plumbing don’t stand a chance.

So the guy does what he must. He heeds the siren’s call. He’s just a guy.

The public bathroom is, I think, the only remaining American institution that’s not yet been attacked by gender rights activists. (Excluding, of course, the West Coast. At last count, San Francisco had eleven distinct genders, and this weekend they’re interviewing two more.) As a result, many of you have never been inside that odd, echoey, decidedly non-aromatic chamber known as the “men’s room.”

And even those of us who qualify for entry genetically (or, in San Francisco, eventually) are often socially unprepared for the experience.

So, as a public service, let’s review some rules of etiquette concerning the room simply labeled “Men.”

~-~-~-~-~-~

If you enter a public bathroom and, instead of seeing individual stations along the “wall,” you notice a long trough, you should:

A)     Move to either end of the trough

B)     Run back and forth, shouting “Take that, commie! Ack-ack-ack!”

C)     Sincerely hope you’re in a football stadium

Sometimes in the men’s room, there’s a line of people waiting. While in line, you should:

A)     Return your phone messages

B)     Pull out a deck of cards

C)     Try to organize a sing-along

Just inside the door of many public bathrooms, there is some kind of fold-up table. What’s that for?

A)     Those occasional social situations that call for an impromptu human sacrifice

B)     An fold-out berth for narcoleptics to grab forty winks, if they’re very short narcoleptics (“Well, officer, the sign did say ‘rest room,’ didn’t it?”)

C)     It’s used for changing a baby’s diaper, but it has never been used by a guy in the history of there being the possibility of more than one guy in the bathroom at the same time.

When standing next to another guy at the “wall,” you should never make:

A)     Chit-chat

B)     Eye contact

C)     A cardigan

However, if you know the next guy, you may feel the need to communicate. Which greeting is most appropriate?

A)     Evening, Tom. Whoa! What’s in that eggnog? WD-40?

B)     Hey, Tom! Glad I caught you. Have you ever considered the variable-length benefits of term life insurance?

C)     Tom, I killed again today.

On the other hand, if the next guy at the wall is a stranger to you, avoid the following phrases:

A)     My! Aren’t you tall!

B)     These are way nicer than they got at the asylum.

C)     Got a minute?

While washing up at the sink, if you happen to make eye contact in the mirror, you should:

A)     Nod curtly, then look away and start humming the Marine Corps anthem

B)     Mutter something non-committal and guy-like, like “how ’bout those Yankees!” or “Be honest – do I look bloated?”

C)     Use your finger to write “I’m watching you” on the mirror

~-~-~-~-~-~

One more thing, guys. Remember this: eventually, inevitably, at some point in your life, you will commit the ultimate public facilities faux pas: you will get confused and walk into the Women’s Room. When this happens, keep your wits about you, because you have options:

A)     Mumble an apology and immediately make your retreat

B)     Make some idiot comment like “Hey! Where’s the wall? What’s with all the stalls? What, are you guys voting?”

C)     Memorize everyone’s shoes. Later, while mingling at the party, try to find the shoes’ owners and strike up a conversation.

I will recommend, however, that you steer clear of any female you see at a holiday party if she’s wearing Viet Cong combat boots, or eight-inch stilettos and a leopard-motif leotard with iron ring inserts. Believe me, it’s just not worth the effort. Believe me.

Don’t ask.

The High Cost of Free Stuff

(facebook: a quick surreality check)

Well, here we are in early December. A nice calm in-between cacophonies. The national elections are behind us. The Thanksgiving traffic is behind us. Black Friday and Cyber Monday are behind us. But some real, serious stupidity is on the horizon. So while we have a minute, let’s talk about something that’s not insultingly stupid.

Like facebook.

Yeah, good point. Okay, let’s talk about something different.

facebook: that thing we love to hate. facebook has become the Archie Bunker of the digital generation: strange, loud, and full of crude remarks – but still oddly addictive; not really dangerous, but not really helpful, either; opinionated, but ultimately irrelevant.

facebook is a lot like the way The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’s famous Encyclopedia Galactica describes Earth: mostly harmless.

You can tell that facebook has reached an iconic level in American culture, because our elder saints – the members of the real Greatest Generation – are officially “worried about” facebook. And you can tell they’re officially worried because they’ve started adding that dreaded code-word for “trouble ahead” – the prefacing “the.” You know the “the” I mean:

“My daughter spends all her time on the facebook.”

“That bar’s got the rock-n-roll. Shameful.”

“I hope he’s not doing the marijuana.”

“Cheez, these Commies!”

“Archie, are you on the facebook?”

“Stifle.”

According to the internet, there are now over 1 billion facebook users, possibly as many as six of them using their real name. A billion people. Imagine that. One out of every seven people on Earth, steadily misusing “they’re” and “its,” overusing exclamation points, and reflexively typing “lol” every eleven seconds.

One out of seven. It’s weird. Why, if you randomly picked any 100 people on Earth, chances are they would be more effective than the current US Senate. (No, that’s not relevant to this discussion, but it’s still pretty weird.)

And believe me: these facebook fan(atic)s – I call them “the SocNets” – take their facebook very seriously. If a SocNet reads something on facebook, it is Truth (or as the SocNets would put it, it is “like wholly writ and stuff lol.”)

So, as a public service to the SocNets – and at the risk of being a stormcrow – here’s a partial list of clarifications lol:

Not everyone wants to play Farmville. Really. They don’t.
There is no miracle fruit that is 10,000 times more effective than chemotherapy.
Abraham Lincoln does not, in fact, have his own facebook page.
No. Seriously, no. They don’t want to play Farmville. Or Farmville 2. Stop asking.
No, they don’t want to play Pet Society or Pet Rescue Saga or Fishville, either.
There is not some kind of mystical connection between facebook and the universe, comingling in such a way that if you share a certain post with a certain number of SocNets within a certain period of time, good things will happen to you. What is more likely is that all those SocNet share-ees will start lol-ing @ u.
Warnings from “friends” to ignore messages from this-person-or-that will not cause your computer to become infected with a virus. Remember: these “friends” are people who can no longer complete a sentence without lobbing in an “lol,” an acronym which has now officially become the most-typed phrase since the English language was invented in the Fifth Century by Cedric “Al” Gorewulf. (source: Wicked-Step-Ex-Pedia)
No, not even Mafia Wars. Or Lost Bubble, Bubble Blitz, Bubble Epic, or Yoville, either. Really, they don’t.
The universal wisdom contained in a facebook post is not directly proportional to the number of exclamation points used to punch up that post.
If you’ve sent someone five thousand invitations to play games, and they’ve pleaded with you to stop sending them game invitations, you will not wear them down by sending them several thousand more.
Clicking “like” on a photoshopped picture of an allegedly health-challenged human (or animal) will not automagically generate a cash donation to that human/imal’s health situation.
You cannot modify facebook’s rules, guidelines, privacy policies, mission statement, or internal genetic structure simply by posting some bobo cheesy quasi-legal disclaimer, even if said disclaimer includes Perry Mason-ish terms like “heretofore” or “therein” or “Berner Convention.”
You cannot get a computer virus simply by adding this-person-or-that as a “friend.” On the other hand, should you choose to meet that person late one night for a friendly cocktail at some dim back-street bar named “Selma’s House of Pain” without even confirming that this new “friend” is the gender they say they are, all bets are off.
By the way: there is no such thing as a “Berner Convention.”
It is not true that people just can’t get enough of photos of cats posing anthropomorphically above captions of mangled, misspelled baby talk.
Regardless of the actual exclamation point tonnage, the rest of us do not, in fact, “have to see this!!!” Neither is it likely to be “the best thing ever!!!” nor is it guaranteed to “leave” us in “tears!!!” But if you keep it up, there’s a “good chance” we will “never contact you again.”
When calculating your credit score, the major credit bureaus no not take into account the number of “friends” you have on facebook. However, the bureaus may consider the number of “friends” you have named “Sybil the Trisexual Vegan Vampire,” or if your résumé lists the Berner Convention as a former employer.
There is no app that can tell you who has recently viewed your profile. The fact that you are that desperately interested in your own profile is kinda scary.
LOL is still an acronym for “Laughing Out Loud.” It is not short for “Lucifer Our Lord.” However, if your profile name is “Sybil the Trisexual Vegan Vampire,” all bets are off.
No matter how many “friends” you have on facebook, very, very few of them care that you just scored a Double Taupe Glazed Ferret Discount Yo-Bonus in Mafia Farmville Bingoland Sim-Wars III.
If all you ever do is share other people’s posts, you are not providing the online world with a valuable and otherwise neglected service. At least once every 4-6 months, try to have an original thought.
When someone asks you to “post this on your status for one hour,” and you don’t do it, that does not mean you don’t like that person. However, if they keep doing that, you may soon learn to dislike them. A lot.
By the way: that same person may say they know, in advance, which of their friends will post it. No, they don’t.
They may also quote some percentage (“78.298% of you won’t post this on your status for one hour”), claiming they know this percentage to be true.
No, they don’t.
If they challenge your facts, threaten to bring them before the Berner Convention.
God is not going to decide how you spend eternity based on whether or not you share a post.
If you have enough common sense not to click on links that promise you free iPhones, then be happy. You are smarter than 78.298% of SocNets.

And one more thing.

On the pending Mayan doomsday this December, facebook is not planning to automatically start dragging the Earth into the Sun.
This is not an option that you can change by going to Settings > Planetary Settings > Trajectory.
And there is no ‘Avoid Apocalypse’ checkbox that you can tick.

I hope that helped clear up some misconceptions. We’re at a nice, calm pause in the year just now, and we don’t need any distractions. After all, it’s December, and you know what that means. You know what’s coming.

No, not “last call” at Club Maya. Worse.

Burl Ives.

Alas, Poor Sponge Cake!

(Some times call for respect. This is not one of those times.)

It’s a sad day, for those of us who eat.

By now, I suppose you’ve heard the bad news from the culinary world. No, not the news that Paula Deen will do her live holiday cooking special wearing spandex. The other bad news.

The Twinkie is dead. RIP, old friend.

Of course, as bad as this “no more Twinkies” news is for humans, it’s even worse news for other species: I mean, in a Twinkie-free post-apocalypse, what are the cockroaches supposed to eat?

Personally, I haven’t had a Twinkie in years, because my doctor won’t let me – something to do with one of those numbers she’s always measuring: high heart sugar, or low systolic resale value, or some such. She doesn’t like it when I do risky things like have fun, or die, or anything else that might cause her to miss a boat payment.

But even though Twinkie and I haven’t stayed in touch over the years, when Twinkie finally went to the Sweets By and By, I thought it deserved a little attention. After all, it’s not that often that a post-apocalyptic sponge cake dies.

And that’s when I learned, among many other things, that the Twinkie was invented by a man named James Dewar.

Dewar? Hmm.

I knew that name from my own (ancient) history as a bartender, though I’m not involved in that world anymore. Drinking always seems to make people do stupid stuff, like yell at furniture, or date.

So I kept digging, and suddenly Dewars started popping up everywhere. Then, as often happens, the weave of history started getting interesting. Here, I’ll show you what I mean:

~-~-~-~-~-~

1805

John Dewar, the man who would eventually create the iconic Dewar’s Scotch, was born in central Scotland to humble crofter parents (‘crofter’ is an ancient Gaelic term meaning ‘I have more croft than you do’). In fact, John’s parents were so humble they couldn’t afford to get John a middle name – they had to put it on layaway over at Kilts ‘R’ Us. (‘layaway’ is an ancient Gaelic term meaning ‘well, we don’t have THAT much croft’)

1842

Nearly forty years after John Dewar’s birth, one James Dewar was born in Kincardine, Scotland, proving that middle names were still a luxury.

1851

In Adams Center, New York, Melville ‘Melvil’ Louis Kossuth Dewar was born with way more middle names than a man of his height would ever need. Melvil would go on to invent the Dewar Decimal System, which was a type of anal-retentive Rolodex file, except it kept track of books instead of normal stuff, like pizza delivery numbers, or ex-girlfriends.

(As you’ve probably figured out, Melvil wasn’t really named ‘Dewar.’ Melvil’s real surname was ‘Dewey,’ but if you’re gonna niggle, we’ll never get through this, so please settle down.)

(Plus, I got ten bucks that says you’ll never again in your life see the name ‘Melvil’ used in five consecutive sentences.)

(You’re welcome.)

1867

James Dewar, now an up-and-coming chemist, describes a few chemical formulae for benzene. Then he describes several more. Future parents, take note – this is the kind of ugly thing that can happen when you start skimping on middle names.

1880

John Dewar dies at age 74. Tragically, his parents had just one payment left on his middle name. (They had chosen ‘Ethel’, which would’ve been doubly tragic.) In his will, John bequeaths the family whiskey business to his sons, John Alexander Dewar and Thomas ‘Tommy’ Dewar. (along with that respectable middle name for John, and a nice set of single quotes for Tommy)

1886

Dewar’s Scotch Whiskey wins its first medal. This was back when drinking Scotch was an Olympic sport. But back then, men also wore skirts and threw logs. Coincidence? Hmm.

(To complete their 19th-Century ensemble, men also played a confused wind instrument called a bagpipe, a thing that makes a noise like an oxygen-deprived yak with a deviated septum that got its tail caught in an escalator.)

1891

Dewar’s Scotch makes its debut in Washington, DC. After a particularly painful and extended evening of toasts, log throwing, and barked shins, President Benjamin Harrison has electricity installed in the White House.

1892

Back in Scotland, James Dewar invents the flask. This was way better than just lapping up Scotch out of your cupped hands; plus, it led directly to the invention of the football stadium.

1897

Tommy ‘Tommy’ Dewar is appointed Sheriff of London, prompting William Shakespeare to coin the word ‘graft,’ which was an outstanding achievement for a 300-year-old dead guy. Tommy ‘Tommy’ went on to become Mayor of Chicago. And Governor of Illinois. And a State Senator. All at the same time.

Meanwhile, in Cook County, Illinois, James Alexander ‘Hostess’ Dewar was born. This is the Dewar who would eventually create the Twinkie. In keeping with Cook County custom, a local community organizer (Thaddeus Hubert Obama) immediately registered young Dewar to vote. As a Democrat. Twice.

1902

Tommy ‘Tommy’ Dewar is knighted, which was pretty outrageous, even for Chicago.

1904

A guy named ‘Thermos’ creates the … well, duh. James ‘Flask’ Dewar sues Thermos for royalties, residuals and any future movie options. Dewar lost the case, however, when he fails to find his flask patent, possibly due to the fact that, benzene formulae notwithstanding, there was still no electricity.

1917

The Dewar’s distillery in Aberfeldy is closed due to a war-time shortage of barley. This was before anybody had invented bullets, so soldiers would just lob various wheat products at each other.

1930 or 1931, depending on who you ask

The Twinkie is invented by the appropriate Dewar, I forget which already. Dewar, a suburban Chicago baker who made strawberry shortcakes, was looking for something to do in the off-season, when all the strawberries would go to Florida for the winter. So he filled his shortcakes with banana cream, as would any clear-thinking half-frozen baker. And the Twinkie was born.

According to Twinkie legend, Dewar came up with the name ‘Twinkie’ after seeing a Saint Louis billboard for ‘Twinkle Toe Shoes,’ which makes me think there were other Dewar’s products involved, if you catch my drift.

1933

Prohibition ends in America. In Chicago, alcohol sales plummet. After all, it’s no fun if it’s legal.

1942

You’re not gonna believe this, but Dewar’s Aberfeldy Distillery had to close, again, due, again, to a war using up all the available barley.

Meanwhile, the Hostess Twinkie makers had to switch to a vanilla cream filling, due to … ready? … a war-time shortage of bananas.

And we wonder why Earth never gets contacted from outer space.

1972

The Twinkie Dewar retires. Hostess nicknames him “Mr. Twinkie,” leaving the poor guy with no choice but to move to California, take up costume design, and avoid bars in Texas.

2000

President Bill Clinton puts a Twinkie in the millennial time capsule.

Before the capsule can be sealed, Newt Gingrich eats the Twinkie.

Bill Clinton pardons Newt Gingrich.

~-~-~-~-~-~

See what I mean? Odd, isn’t it? History can get so incredibly interwoven sometimes, especially when you’re making up most of it.

And now Twinkie is gone. But maybe that’s for the best. If you ever did a quick scan of Twinkie’s ingredients, it can be a bit sobering (Pun intended. Sorry, relevant Dewars). Besides the normal polysyllabic list of chemicals and carcinogens, each Twinkie contains … ready? … beef fat.

It gets better.

A Twinkie also contains something that its producers will only list as ‘solids.’

Solids. Mmm.

“Hey, Mom! Any more solids?”

“Not until you finish all your benzene.”

Maybe that’s why the lovely little sponge cakes have that legendary reputation that they’re gonna last forever.

Or at least until the next Barley Wars.

Mary Had a Little Clam

(How America nearly killed its own holiday)

Thanksgiving in America

As every schoolchild knows, unless they’re overmedicated, Thanksgiving is a uniquely American holiday, along with our perennial President’s Day White Sale, and the wildly popular The Post Office Lost Another Billion Dollars This Month Month.

Yes, Thanksgiving is a special time when we celebrate (among other things) our independence from Great Britain, a country defined by an untouchable caste of self-serving lawgivers, shrinking exports, and socialized medicine, all in the hands of a haughty, seemingly infallible royalty playing coddle-master to a whiny, uninformed electorate.

No, wait, that’s America. Okay, never mind. Let’s move on.

The First Thanksgiving

As most schoolchildren could tell you, if they weren’t busy texting, the tradition now known as Thanksgiving began in the fall of 1621, when Pilgrims and Native Americans gathered together to celebrate a successful harvest (literal translation: “well, they’re obviously not leaving, so let’s create a White Sale”). On a whim, the Pilgrims decided to have a three-day feast, as opposed to their traditional methods of celebrating the arrival of winter (freezing and starving to death). They were joined by 108% of the local Wampanoag tribe. (head count provided by the Plymouth Bipartisan Board of Poll Watchers)

For that first Thanksgiving, the Wampanoag delegation was led by their tribal leader, Chief Ted ‘Massasoit’ Kennedy, who introduced the Pilgrim settlers to a vital food source (‘maize’) and introduced the Wampanoag to a vital revenue source (‘maize tax’). Things went swimmingly until another member of the tribe, Deputy Assistant Under-Chief Willard ‘Mittasoit’ Romney, suggested the Pilgrims pay for the tribe’s universal health care (literal translation: ‘tax maze’). The plan didn’t go over very well, there in pre-colonial Cape Cod, so Chief Willard was forced to move to Utah, where he founded Mormonism. That didn’t go over very well, either, so in 1624, Romney moved to Iowa and began his long-standing tradition of running for President, once somebody invented the State Fair.

Overall, however, the first Thanksgiving feast represented a treasured moment in American history, since nobody yet had invented carbs, trans-fats, or PETA. According to the logs of Edward Winslow, a Pilgrim spokes-puritan, host and guest alike enjoyed a meal of deer, turkey and other fowl, clams and fish, berries, plums, and not boiled pumpkin. (Oh, they ate the boiled pumpkin. They just didn’t enjoy it.)

And of course, after the first Thanksgiving, all the women went outside to wash dishes, hang the leftovers from a tree branch, and wait for somebody to invent Brad Pitt; meanwhile, the Pilgrim men passed out in primitive Lazy-Boys, waited for the Detroit game, and helped coin the word ‘eructation.‘ (a Latin term, loosely translated as ‘pull my finger’)

Scattered Thanksgivings

Though we base our current Thanksgiving holiday on that first three-day grocery binge in 1621, it was hardly an overnight sensation. There were sporadic, regional celebrations, usually to give thanks for local events, such as the end of a drought, or the latest catalog of non-wooden teeth. But over 150 years went by before men from all thirteen colonies collectively celebrated a ‘day of Thanksgiving,’ after the guys spotted Dolly Madison in a bathing suit. (The women were still outside by the ‘leftovers’ tree, hacking at some frozen clams.)

In 1789, President George “Who’s Ya Father?” Washington proclaimed Thursday, 26 November, as the very first national day of Thanksgiving. This was to be a day to celebrate the official formation of a new nation, so that America could officially begin borrowing billions of dollars from China. Unfortunately, though, the nation got sidetracked. Somebody invented the ACLU, and suddenly, all over the colonies, constitutional lawyers were having heated debates over odd, arcane things called ‘clauses’ and ‘nuances’ and ‘per diem fees.’ Then somebody pointed out that we didn’t actually have a Constitution yet, so everybody had to stop what they were doing and go draft one.

And so, even after a national day of Thanksgiving was declared in 1789, there was still no annual celebration.

Except for the lawyers.

The Mother of Thanksgiving

As it so often turns out, it took a woman to get the job done. We owe our modern Thanksgiving to Sarah Josepha Hale, a contemporary of President Lincoln who spent forty years of her life advocating for a national, annual Thanksgiving holiday. (Rumor has it that Sarah may have invested heavily in cranberries, but she’s allowed to do that. It’s in the Constitution. Look it up.)

Sarah Hale, by the way, was the editor of something called Godey’s Lady’s Book, and if that little factoid ever comes in handy, please let me know. But she’s also credited as the author of the famous nursery rhyme, ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ a sad, irritating story about an underage stalker disguised as an albino farm animal. (‘And everywhere that Mary went…’)

And so, for forty long years, Sarah kept at it, year after year, endlessly demanding a Thanksgiving holiday, carping about cranberries, and reciting her famous poem at anyone who didn’t see her coming. Finally, President Lincoln, who was willing to try just about anything to shut her up to hold America together, agreed to the idea, and on 3 October, 1863, he issued his Thanksgiving Proclamation, which declared the last Thursday in each November to be a day of thanksgiving and praise, and to signal the outbreak of holiday shopping.

Honest Abe christened the new Post Office holiday during a press conference in the Rose Garden, where he established another annual Thanksgiving tradition by pardoning two attorneys. In a spirit of bipartisanship, Congress adjourned until 1901.

FDR Bungs It Up

For the next 75 years, America got itself used to its annual, end-of-November Thanksgiving weekend. But then, in 1939, things changed again, thanks to President Franklin “Fear Itself” Roosevelt, a man who seemed to think the United States was his own personal box of Legos. Roosevelt, who was elected President so many times that the Republicans had to buy a new elephant, decided to just issue his own Thanksgiving Proclamation, thank you very much.

In 1939, FDR decided to yank Thanksgiving back a week, a bold, selfless move based on Roosevelt’s deeply-held religious conviction that moving the holiday would extend the Christmas shopping season. Of course, the immediate result was mass confusion: calendars were now incorrect; school schedules were disrupted; Howard Cosell missed a connecting flight.

And then Americans did what Americans do. We made it worse.

The Schism

All across America, an uproar roared up, led by governors, politicians, and other life forms that depend on a host organism. Twenty-three States actually ignored the proclamation and kept right on being humble and thankful on the last weekend of the month. Twenty-three other States sided with FDR’s new third-week Thanksgiving, while Colorado and Texas decided to celebrate both dates. In a spirit of bipartisanship, Congress just took the whole month off.

(This was back when we only had 48 States, as opposed to our current crop of 57.)

And so, there we were, a nation mired in quag. The holiday that had been established by President Lincoln to bring the country together was now doing the exact opposite – that other thing, that whaddayacallit thing that involves a bunch of rending, where stuff gets asundered.

Where would it all lead?

Congress Fixes Everything

You’re right. That was its own joke.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Post-Teenage Wasteland

(Later. Later, I’ll grow old gracefully.)

Some of you will remember The Who. I guess. I hope. Thanks to The Who, my generation learned many of life’s invaluable coping skills, like guitar smashing, amp puncturing, and how to be deaf.

But, for those of us who grew up in the late 20th Century, their contributions went way beyond simply broadening our corporate skillsets.

The Who was one of the defining rock ‘n’ roll bands of my generation; in fact, they penned one of the teenage anthems of my generation, entitled … well … My Generation.

Remember?

People try to put us down (talkin’ bout my generation)

Just because we get around (talkin’ bout my generation)

Things they do look awful cold (talkin’ bout my generation)

I hope I die before I get old, else the medically ignorant bureaucrats at the IRS might decide I’m not allowed to replace my out-of-network spleen based on some arcane spleen reimbursement cost analysis that isn’t covered because some half-stoned civil service twidge in the ObamaCare Auxiliary Organ Management Department (Spleen Subcommittee, Out-Of-Network Branch) misspelled the word ‘bile’ (talkin’ bout my generation)

My Generation was recorded in 1965. And that, children, was a long time ago, in case you’ve misplaced your smart phone and can’t get to the math app. Way back then, America only had three TV stations, two genders, and one allergy (Communism).

Now it’s 2012. Fully half The Who have gone to that great record store in the sky; down here, Roger Daltrey is 68, Pete Townshend is 67, and I’m now at the age where, instead of staying up till dawn, I try to stay awake till dark.

And this past week confronted me with a couple of things that brought on a bout of nostalgia:

1)      America survived another Presidential election, which I went through with the rest of you – in fact, according to some vote-counters in Florida and Ohio, more than 100% of you.

2)      Here in the South Carolina upstate, The Who performed live; however, this year, the audience’s drugs of choice were Ben-Gay and No-Doz.

But for those of you who when I said “The Who” said “the who?” – I’ve set you up for

I’ve set up for you a quick Late Twentieth Century trivia quiz. Ready?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Who was Ella Fitzgerald?

a)      A jazz singer without equal

b)      An overzealous Cape Cod coed who married President Kennedy’s middle name

c)       The guy who wrote ‘The Great Gatsby’

Who was Captain Kangaroo?

a)      The first President of Australia

b)      A famous soldier who was killed during a duel with Colonel Mustard

c)       The common-law wife of Captain Crunch

Who was Johnny Carson?

a)      The patron saint of Malibu

b)      The common-law wife of Ed McMahon

c)       Wasn’t he, like, that Indian scout dude and stuff?

Who was Monica Lewinsky?

a)      The founder of Who’s Your Papa John’s Pizza

b)      A character in Ella Fitzgerald’s first novel, ‘The So-So Gatsby’

c)       The creator of Maryland’s first combination dry cleaning & discount birth control drive-thru

d)      The inspiration for the submissive female lead in the very popular risqué novel, ‘Fifty Shades of Depending On What You Mean by the Word Grey’

Before the internet and email were invented by Al Gore, how did people share jokes?

a)      People used to get all their jokes from watching what were called ‘variety shows’ – what we know today as ‘network television news.’

b)      Before the internet and email, it wasn’t possible to share jokes, because nobody knew how to say “LOL.”

c)       What do you mean, ‘before the internet?’

Next to the ’0′ on the number pads of late-20th-Century telephones were the letters OPER. What did OPER mean?

a)      OPER was short for ‘Operative’ – during the Nixon administration, pressing that key connected you with the CIA agent who was monitoring your phone calls.

b)      OPER was an acronym created by the phone company. They never told us what it meant, but federal laws mandated that it had to be there on everybody’s phone, much like that mysterious ‘do not remove this tag’ warning on your mattresses.

c)      OPER was short for ‘Opera.’ See, in the late 20th Century, the economy was fantastic, so every household had their own phone, indoor plumbing, and a live-in Italian chorus.

Why does the South Carolina “Education” lottery have the insipidly lame marketing slogan, “Have you scratched today?”

a)      This is not really part of the quiz. I just had to get that off my chest.

Before music was invented by Al Gore, what did people do at concerts?

a)      Not a whole lot, really. Not until Al Gore invented lighters.

b)      Bands would just cut straight to the guitar smashing part.

c)       People just stood around counting to four, over and over again, wherever Al Gore had created festival seating. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4, over and over in a subdued, anticipatory kind of way. And then came … the waltz.

Whose music best defines the late 20th Century?

a)      The Beatles, before they broke up

b)      The Beatles, after they broke up

c)       Cat Stevens, back when he was still a heathen

d)      Madonna, before she broke down

What was the name of the first ever portable music device?

a)      The eight-track tape

b)      A radio, if you stole it

c)       The iPod iPhonograph (optional i45 iSpindle not included)

d)      Dick Clark

How did the eight-track tape system work?

a)      We’re not sure, but it was way better than the seven-track tape system.

b)      Tiny little musicians rode around in a molded plastic rectangle. Actually, in the 60s, stuff like that happened more often than you might think.

c)       You shoved this plastic container into a hole below your car radio, and music came out. Then you rode around for a while singing along, until it stopped working. When it stopped working, you folded up a matchbook and shoved it in under the eight-track tape. That made it work again. No, really.

d)      I’m dead serious.

What was the best thing about eight-track tapes?

a)      They nearly always often worked sometimes.

b)      They single-handedly revived the struggling matchbook industry.

c)       It was really cool when the plastic case melted all over your car’s dashboard.

d)      Eight-tracks were so lousy that when cassette tapes came out, we thought they were magic from Mount Olympus.

What’s the worst thing about digital music in general?

a)      Trying to figure out where to stick the matchbook

b)      I get tired of writing checks for 99 cents.

c)       You can’t play them backwards and pretend like you hear secret messages.

d)      Ever tried to roll a joint on an MP3?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Well, I hope that little challenge gives you young people a deeper appreciation for your superiors

for your betters

for your elders

for those of us who, despite being just a wee bit older, are still wise, amazingly clever, and startlingly attractive.

Not to mention humble to a fault. Go in peace.

One last note for the record, cause I don’t want anyone to get any wrong impressions, especially anyone who’s still on the phone from the circa-Nixon CIA: that little joke I made about rolling a joint on an MP3?

Just a joke. I gave up experimenting with MP3s years ago.

Unsound Bites

(Election Eve: that one last sprint in the Mendacity Olympics)

Well, it’s nearly here. In fact, for many of you, by the time you get around to reading this, it will all be over. All across America, men, women, and single guys will have done that thing that Americans do every four years:

Vacuum.

No, I’m talking of course about America’s Presidential election – that joyous period when we all pull together in some kind of collective national psychosis, a sort of interstate insanity, as we try to convince ourselves that anybody who would spend a billion dollars to land a job that pays $400K is honest, competent, and/or sane (any single quality will do, and sometimes even getting that can be tricky).

In America, we vote. Voting is one of our inalienable rights, like unlimited calling plans, or $9 birth control. Voting is what we call a political ‘franchise,’ because politics is a lot like a fast food drive-thru, except politics smells worse (and the drive-thru’s out of order). Plus, in political franchises, the restaurant asks you for seconds.

And every four years or so, we elect a new President, whose job it is to get re-elected while avoiding felonious behavior in intern-rich environments. But most importantly, the President’s task is to maintain his golf handicap and equally represent everyone. (‘Everyone’ is a complex political term, broadly defined as ‘people who donated to my campaign.’)

We’re very proud of this ‘President’ idea. See, here in America, we would never put with the concept of royalty: some family who claims divine authority, sets up a ruling structure, and then pretty much ignores us. No, here in America, we elect representatives: exceptional, upright adults who literally swear to look out for our best interests.

And then they ignore us.

Americans, therefore, take voting very seriously; so seriously, in fact, that some people aren’t satisfied with voting just the one time. And so, in the media, you’ll often see voting anecdotes involving men, women, young people, dead people, cats, a brace of oxen (both named Swizzle), and undocumented workers from Somalia who don’t speak English but somehow still arranged for a group bus to carry them to polling places in central Ohio so they could vote early, collect $20 from a Union guy named Tony, and take the bus home.

Case in point: according to one internet reporter, in this year’s Presidential election quarterback Tom Brady has voted early some twenty-eight times. (We know it was quarterback Tom Brady, because on all twenty-eight bogus voter registration cards, he listed his legal name as “Quarterback Tom Brady” – even in the three precincts where he showed up as a woman. Wow … what a Patriot!)

Voting in America has not only created career politicians; voting has created voting careers, that exist solely to gin up more voting. It’s like that picture of a snake feeding itself by eating itself, or a great big set of teeth trying to grow more teeth by eating other teeth. But let’s not drag Joe Biden into this.

Here, for example, are a few of the cottage industries spawned by the franchise we call voting:

Robo-Calls

I’m sure you already know all about this foul, evil technology, especially if you live in what politicians refer to as a ‘swing State.’ A robo-call is a robot that selects your phone number from a database and then uses another robot to dial your phone, at a time determined by a junior assistant robot as the most inconvenient possible moment of your evening, which then triggers yet another robot to play a script of a human voice urging you to vote for Candidate X (who, as far as you can tell, is also a robot).

Over the years, several politicians have mounted election campaigns based on promises to outlaw robo-calling. But the simple-headed pols always used robo-calling to gauge voters’ anger at using robo-calling, which eventually caused everybody involved to explode in a massive irony fireball.

Yard Signs

There are only two occasions in American society when people ever put signs in their yards: political elections and yard sales. (There used to be a third occasion: For Sale signs. But due to bonehead decisions made by politicians elected in political elections, nobody anymore can sell their house.)

A candidate’s yard signs seem to have very little actual effect on political races; in fact, the primary value of yard signs is the role they play in generating a need for replacement yard signs. (see the article ‘Vandalism and Cheap Beer: A Study in Feedback Loops’ at PlannedParenthood.gov)

Voter Mobilization Groups

These are (usually) local offices, (usually) bound to the mission of getting more people to vote. At their best, they assist potential voters in the registration process, and help legally registered voters access the correct polling places. At their worst, they become vote zombies who will gnaw their way through radioactive concrete in order to get Candidate X elected. But let’s not drag Hillary Clinton into this.

One example is the controversial group known as ACORN, a dimly-lit collective, blissfully free from the ravages of ethics, and monitored by federal authorities about as frequently as continental drift. ACORN is like an urban version of the Khmer Rouge, but with indoor plumbing.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Sadly, voting has become so important that it’s also attracted society’s underbelly (but let’s not drag personal injury lawyers who glue 4-inch-square refrigerator magnets all over the front cover of your phone book into this). Our political history is scarred with episodes of voter fraud, especially as various States have become more and more lenient about who can take part in ‘early voting.’

For instance, in Massachusetts and parts of Vermont, you can now register to vote as a fetus, as long as you have a clean police record and make a small donation to Planned Parenthood. (a process known as ‘late-term extortion’)

Earlier this week, we learned that Attorney General Eric Withholder and his Department of Just Us were heading to Florida to keep an eye out for voter fraud (see ‘irony overload’).

Oh yeah, that’ll work. That’s like sending Paula Deen to guard a spiral-cut ham.

But remember, voting is your civic responsibility, especially if you’re an undocumented illegal alien house pet, or you’re dead.

Why, even our own President took a quick moment, after bogeying the fifteenth hole, to urge old people to vote early, in case they died before getting to exercise their Obama-given right to vote for him on Election Day.

And even if you do die, no worries. Go to Chicago, where you can be dead and still vote. If you need a ride to Chi-Town, borrow the Somali’s bus.

Just don’t get cremated. Remember, it’s gonna be four more years before I vacuum.

National Really Large Italian Month

(For far too long, Halloween has hogged October. Enough already.)

I really hope you didn’t get distracted and miss it, but it’s my job to get the word out: 24 October was National Bologna Day.

I know, I know. Lots of people didn’t. But try to be strong. Take a minute to pull yourself together, if you need. But I’ll bet that, next year, you’ll be paying a little more attention to these things, won’t you? Mmm?

National Bologna Day – that one day a year when we celebrate the career of actor Joseph Bologna.

No, I made that up. National Bologna Day is a day set aside to pay our respects to Baloney, a city in northern Italy known as the birthplace of Oscar Mayer, the first Earl of Sandwich.

I made that up, too. Starting to see a pattern yet?

If you think about it, and I doubt you will, and I don’t blame you, it’s hard to grasp the monumental coincidence necessary that would allow a National Bologna Day to fall this close to a Presidential Election Day.

On the other hand, it makes perfect sense. I mean, for direct-dialed, high-impact baloney, you just can’t beat a Joe Biden stump speech. At any minute during any speech, you half-expect his ears to spout mustard, forcing Congress to grab a frying pan, subsidize white bread, and declare a National Fried Sandwich Day, or at least name a Post Office after Joseph Bologna.

As it turns out, the month of October is just jam-packed with holidays, though you rarely hear about most of them unless you’re a member of Congress, in which case you’re preparing to not work during any of them; after all, you just returned from not working during any of September’s holidays. (Not working is what Congress calls ‘recess.’ And when you think about that arrogant asylum of warring brats, ‘recess’ is the perfect word for it.)

Every single day in October plays host to at least one holiday. For example, 10 October is ‘World Mental Health Day,’ which we usually celebrate by yelling at people in traffic. But 11 October – the very next day – is ‘Take Your Teddy Bear to Work Day.’ And it’s bizarre scheduling like this, I think you’ll agree, that helps explain how October got its nickname: ‘National Sarcasm Awareness Month.’

(Coincidentally, 15 October is ‘National Grouch Day.’ I guess HR finally made your boss get rid of his teddy bear.)

Obviously, though, when it comes to holidays in October, National Bologna Day doesn’t get a lot of attention, unless you’re Joseph Bologna, or a devotee of the Pork Channel (not to be confused with C-SPAN). But neither do many other very fine October holidays. Witness:

National Mole Day (not to be confused with Take Your Ferret to Work Day)
National Mule Day (take a border-jumping drug runner to lunch!)
Count Your Buttons Day (renamed in 1998 by Bill Clinton to ‘Velcro Appreciation Day’)
Increase Your Psychic Powers Day (Yes, really. I am not good enough to make this stuff up.)
Reptile Awareness Day (Actually, I think every day should be filled with reptile awareness. Personally, whenever I become Aware of a Reptile, I immediately respond by celebrating National Run Away Day, followed closely by Run Straight Into A Tree Day.)

Contrary to what you might be thinking, National Mole Day is not a day to celebrate spies (see ‘Drug Runners’), nor garden pests (see ‘Congress’), nor is it the time to stare at that dark, disturbing hair-capped spot on your coworker’s chin. National Mole Day is actually about chemistry. (I say that up front, in case you want to skip this part and go do something more interesting, like counting your buttons.)

See, in the world of career chemists, which is a cold and blisteringly dull place where sex appeal goes to die, a ‘mole’ is a basic measuring unit that equals the atomic mass of a single molecule. (Counting buttons yet?)

The actual number of a mole is 6.02 x 10^23, which is a number so large that mathematicians are forced to describe it to us ‘civilians’ by using emoticon-like symbols:

0 (buttons)
X (kisses)
^ (single-family housing)

Thanks to their intervention, therefore, we non-scientific ‘laymen’ can now grasp the staggering size of this mole whaddayacallit thingie. A mole is, like, really huge and stuff.

A monstrous number. In fact, if Congress were to take one recess for every mole zero, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.

Anyway, it’s that mole’s number that we now celebrate on National Mole Day, a number known to mathematicians and chemists who hang out in General Sciences Karaoke Bars as “Avogadro’s Number,” since it was discovered by an Italian named Amadeo Avogadro’s Number.

According to the internet, Avogadro’s full name was Lorenzo Romano Amadeo Carlo Avogadro, conte de Quaregna e di Cerreto (literal translation: ‘Oscar Meyer’). But his parents couldn’t afford to embroider all that on his lunchbox, so they just went with Amadeo (literal translation: ‘a movie about Mozart’).

Legend has it that Avogadro challenged chemistry’s conventional wisdom (that kind of picky ‘can’t leave well enough alone’ nonsense went on all the time in the 1800s). Chemists at the time depended heavily on a construct known as the Law of Definite Proportions, but around 1810, Avogadro met Sophia Loren, had an epiphany (literal translation: ‘misdemeanor’), and came up with the Law of Multiple Proportions. And the rest was, as they say, baloney.

No, in the “Everybody’s Favorite Holiday” contest, Baloney Day and its mates don’t stand a chance. And why is that?

You know why.

This annual slighting of what would otherwise be perfectly good festive days is due to the looming presence of that overpowering holiday monolith that steals October’s spotlight – yes, you know the one I’m talking about:

Four Prunes Day.

No, I’m talking of course about that autumnal crowd-pleaser, Halloween, that magical late-October evening when, all across America, eager children, many of them old enough to default on a mortgage, dress up in costumes, fearlessly trespass, and extort candy from homeowners who actually are defaulting on a mortgage, all to celebrate an ancient mystery: the official kick-off of the Christmas shopping season.

By the way, if you’re looking for ways to fully immerse yourself in ‘Increase Your Psychic Powers Day’ … and who isn’t? … here are some suggestions from a particularly lame, lashed-together, holiday-focused website, one of those cloyingly cute, exclamation-point-laced e-efforts that refuse to be shackled by outdated concepts like spelling, grammar, and punctuation:

Get out the Ouija board! Use it with some friends! (Do this repeatedly until you don’t have any friends left. It won’t take long.)
Flip a coin and guess heads or tails. Over time, as your psychic power increases, you should guess correctly more than 50% of the time. (Also, over time, people will stop inviting you to go places, and coworkers will start leaving Thorazine brochures on your desk.)
When the phone rings, guess who it will be. As you go through the day, guess what people are going to say. (As your psychic power increases, accost random strangers in the grocery, spin them around, and yell, “I know! I know!”)
Get out a deck of cards. Shuffle them well. Think of what the top card is. Then, turn it over. (Better yet, don’t even bother turning it over. Just tell people you’re psychic. Tell everyone you meet. Say it loudly, while wearing various hats. Don’t forget to update your résumé!)

One final note: I’m told that, somewhere in the October calendar, there’s an International Skeptics Day.

I’m not buying it.

The Continuing Adventures of What’s-His-Name Boy

(Looking for a career change? Keep looking!)

Hey, guys! Ready for a little good news in this numb economy? I think I’ve found the perfect gig – if you’re the right guy. All it requires is low expectations. And a touch of altruism.

And a little spandex.

Now, since I mentioned job requirements like low self-esteem, no recognition, and stretch tights, I know what you guys are thinking: you’re thinking, “Hey, I can get treated like that at my current job; plus, I don’t have to relocate.”

You’re right. And it’s partly my fault. I walked into the discussion; I brought up soul-slaying workweeks, sorry prospects, and Speedos. So naturally you’re hoping I’ve led you out of the wilderness, and put you on the path to pluck a career plum like one of these dream jobs:

Stand-in actor for an off-season Gilbert & Sullivan festival in south Georgia
A national security position as Joe Biden’s stunt double
Teaching Assistant who spends his life standing next to a flip chart waiting for somebody to say, “Next, please.”

But no – this job offer’s a bit different. Here’s the scoop:

There’s a guy on Craig’s List looking for a superhero sidekick.

For those of you who still participate in eighteenth-century activities, like reading books or going outside, Craig’s List is an online Classified Ads service, where people like you, me, and Rasputin the mad monk can announce they want to sell something, or buy something, or do something to something during something, while dressed as something and using or chanting something, and to do that something with like-minded people, though we’re not ruling out animals, hearth deities, or entirely different species.

Every month, according to the internet, people post somewhere north of sixty million new classified ads at Craig’s List, of which at least eleven have been spellchecked. In support of those sixty million posts, Craig’s List admits to funding a staff of about thirty people, a clerk-to-customer ratio approximately the same as is found in your average Department of Motor Vehicles.

Personally, I’ve never used Craig’s List, but I did spend nearly five minutes researching it, because when it comes to journalistic integrity, that’s the kind of demanding feral animal I am. In a nutshell, Craig’s List is like that other online mart, eBay, but without all those pesky, time-consuming design details…you know: color, graphics, page layout, navigation, spell-checking, etc. Spending time at Craig’s List is like going out on a dinner date, but without all the bother of putting on clean clothes, or bathing.

And, given that it’s a bona fide superhero advertising for a sidekick, the submission guidelines appear to be fairly generous, too.

In his “Sidekick Wanted” ad, the superhero chose to remain anonymous, possibly due to having a secret identity, or a statute of limitations. But he did admit that he’s focusing his crime-fighting efforts on the city of Atlanta, which is kind of silly, because there are no people left in Atlanta to commit any crimes. Atlanta, in case you haven’t tried to drive through (or around) it lately, is Earth’s metropolis populated entirely by cars, trains, and planes. Seventeen trillion vehicles, all just endlessly driving around three unholy, inbred interstates, occasionally exiting onto one of 400,000 streets, all named ‘Peachtree.’

The ad begins like this: “I am looking for a Sidekick that will help me fight crime around the city.”

There it is. Not a hint of sarcasm, no whining, no hubris … just another overworked guy in a costume, looking for a boy wonder, and the faster I move away from that joke, the better.

Captain Nameless continues:

Applicants should be skilled in any of the following:

Kung Fu / Karate / Taekwondo
Hapkido
Wing Chun
Wrestling or WWF
Savate
Capoeira
Brazilian Jiu-jitsu

Note the interesting distinction between ‘wrestling’ and ‘World Wrestling Federation.’ You gotta admire a purist. I mean, c’mon – there’s wrestling, and then there’s TV wrestling. I’d say more, but I don’t remember how to spell ‘wrasslin.’

(To be fair – when our superhero mentioned the WWF, he might have been referring to the World Wildlife Fund. For all I know, there’s a huge market in Atlanta for cage-match tag-team panda mud wrestling.)

It seems that, at this point, Captain Neo was beginning to grow a bit desperate for job requirements. For instance, Capoeira is a Brazilian martial art that combines elements of dance and music (music provided by that rave 80s band, Wing Chun, famous for their neo-Hebrew hit, ‘Dan Saul Days’). I guess that’s where the spandex comes in … kind of a cultural cross between ‘West Side Story’ and ‘Omen XII: Damien Goes to Congress.’ Hapkido, as best as I can tell, is the name of a Korean mid-sized sedan, while Savate is a type of mulled wine, popular among middle-aged white guys who sell vinyl siding insurance and vacation in Tijuana.)

But the Human Shield is prepared to compromise. If his Trusty Sidekick applicants prove to be short-timers in the primary sidekick skillsets, they might still qualify via their expertise in weaponry such as:

Fencing / Archery
Kendo / Jukendo
Sword fighting
Crowbar

Yes, he did. Yes, he said ‘crowbar.’ (see ‘statute of limitations’)

And now for the tricky bit – the hands-on experience:

Also Please have up to 3 years of experience in

Warrior Battle
FBI / CIA / Military
Ninja / Samarai
Footclan
Shadowloo
Monk
Police / SWAT
etc.

Can’t you just hear that conversation?

Superhero: So, tell me more about your work as a monk.

Candidate: Are you interested more in the part where I butchered Oriental civilians, or the chanting, celibate part?

Superhero: Either way. What the hey, it’s Friday.

Candidate: Actually, I mostly spent my time darning stretch tights.

Superhero: Fair enough. How’s your etc.?

According to the internet, by the way, ‘Footclan’ is misspelled. But I suppose that’s a niggling criticism for me to make, given that the correctly-spelled ‘Foot Clan’ is nothing more than a fictional martial arts horde in the fictional Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles universe.

In case you’re not a steady consumer of cartoons featuring non-existent reptiles that run around exhibiting Far Eastern military tactics, the Foot Clan are the main antagonists of the Mutant Ninja Turtles (which means there are others). The Foot Clan are usually led by The Shredder (which means there are others). But what if The Shredder wants a long weekend? Maybe The Shredder should advertise on Craig’s List.

So, heads up, candidates! To make an impression in a your average super-sidekick interview, what you really need is to fake three years’ experience fighting make-believe cartoon animals, with an imaginary army, on a planet that doesn’t exist.

Might be easier to just get a job in civil service.

But what about the run-of-the-mill interview stuff? What about those standard, American superhero job-posting must-haves? You know the list:

Candidate will have a good work ethic
Fights crime as a team, or in an unsupervised environment
Consistently defeats evil on time and under budget
The ideal candidate will respond professionally to cross-departmental responsibilities, shifting deadlines, and exposure to kryptonite
Proficiency with Microsoft Office

Now for the bad news. As I mentioned at the beginning, making the world safe from evildoers doesn’t pay very well (at least not in Atlanta). And somebody’s gotta pay for all those tights. Also sprach Captain Lonely:

Compensation: Gratitude and self-accomplishment is the only form of payment.

So, if you’re in it for the money, get out of it. Go find another career, or stick with the one you’re on. Sure, self-accomplishment is a nice thing … when you’re six. But later, when you’re all growed up and, of an evening, you try to fund your Chinese carry-out by swiping self-accomplishment instead of a bank card, it’s gonna be a long, cold, no-shrimp-fried-rice evening.

Finally, just for kicks, I checked out a few more Craig’s List listings. And when it comes to good prospects in bad times, it looks like Atlanta is the place to be. Witness:

An Atlanta-based chap at Craig’s List is looking to hire ‘escorts.’ Candidates should send bikini and nude photos, contact #, and a list of any ‘limitations.’ Candidates should be sexy, curvy and have a ‘good work ethic.’

No mention of any specific Microsoft Office skills.

Hello! I Must Be Going.

(Banter that only a brother could love. A Marx Brother.)

I don’t know if you looked in on the lone 2012 Vice Presidential debate, but it was something to see…especially if you’re a fan of watching unbalanced people in positions of authority who look like the Cheshire Cat and act like the Joker.

And, c’mon – be honest. Who isn’t a fan of that?

It wasn’t so much a debate as it was a drive-by; fortunately, Paul Ryan, the national politics newcomer, managed to walk away from the accident.

Basically, Ryan got gang-debated.

Paul Ryan’s demeanor was that of a younger man trying to be polite in the presence of his elders, albeit an elder who’d snagged the keys to the nurses’ station and then spent the afternoon nipping at the nitrous oxide.

For his part, Joe Biden spent the evening giggling like Bram Stoker’s Renfield at a spider buffet. And when he wasn’t snickering, he was wailing at the skies like some long-suffering relative of George Costanza, or blinding the hapless audience with some horrid reflective device embedded in his mouth.

(Defense analysts have since confirmed that the child-frightening wall of white was either Biden’s eight over-polished incisors, or else the Pentagon’s Psy-Ops group was testing a new citizen-blinding weapon. As someone online put it, “Joe Biden’s teeth were so white that they’re voting for Mitt Romney.”)

And when Joe wasn’t using parts of his face as a lethal weapon, he was interrupting – or interrupting the moderator’s interrupting.

At one point during the debate debacle – and this was a first in rhetorical history – Joe Biden actually interrupted himself.

The moderator, a gaunt lady named Martha, who has more ties to the Obama administration than the Indonesian Society for the Promotion of Canine-Flavored Hot Pockets, quickly proved to be out of her league. Oh, she managed the debate…in the same sense that Margaret Dumont used to ‘manage’ the Marx Brothers.

But I’ll let you decide how it went. Here’s the actual, minute-by-minute transcript of the debate.

As far as you know.

~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~-~-~

Martha: Ladies and gentlemen, and Republicans, welcome to the first and only Vice-Presidential debate. My name is Martha, and I’ll be your moderator tonight for this debate between former Senator and current Vice President Joe Biden, one of the finest people I know, and that shifty-looking guy next to him. I’ve been selec…

Biden: Hey, who ya gonna believe? HA HA HA HA HA.

Martha: Not yet, Joe.

Biden: Pick up the pace, Toots.

Martha: (unintelligible comment) I’ve been selected to moderate tonight’s event due to my professional objectivity and my off-the-clock isolation from politics, as evidenced by the fact that Barack Obama was a guest at my wedding, Barack Obama appointed my husband to head the FCC, and I personally contributed to former Senator and current Vice President Joe Biden’s fabulous dental work.

Biden: Thanks, babe. And hello to all my friends here in the great state of Florida.

Martha: West Virginia.

Biden: Whatever.

Ryan: Martha, may I say ‘thank you’ for agreeing to modera…

Martha: In a minute, Todd.

Ryan: It’s Paul.

Martha: Whatever.

Biden: Let me tell you good folks something. I am six-foot eight, and that’s a fact. That. Is. A. Fact.

Martha: In the interest of bipartisan fair play, we’ll let that bizarre, baseless statement go completely unchallenged, which gives our audience some idea of what the evening’s gonna be like. And with that, let’s get started. Our first category is ‘photographs of kittens buried under volcanic lava.’

Biden: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Ryan: That’s horrible. But I’m not sure I understand how that’s relev…

Martha: Time’s up, Todd. Your rebuttal, former Senator and Vice President Joe Biden?

Biden: My friend knows very well where I stand on the torched kitten issue. Why, just last week, a modified report suggested that my friend’s budget will slash 800 millio…600 mi…1.7 trill…five dollars from milk subsidies for Kitty Welfare. (raises both arms, apparently in supplication to the klieg lights) What in the world were they thinking?

Ryan: I have to take issue with those numbers. Even the nonpartisan analysis by severa…

Martha: Time’s up, Bill.

Ryan: Paul.

Martha: Whatever.

Biden: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Ryan: Will you please let me say something?

Biden: I hardly think so.

Martha: (rim shot)

Ghost of Groucho Marx: Hey, that’s my line!

Biden: Martha, I think I love you.

Martha: I don’t think you’d love me if I were poor.

Biden: Well, I might, but I’d keep my mouth shut.

Ryan: (rim shot)

Groucho’s Ghost: HEY!

Martha: We’ll take a short break, and when we come back, I’ll explain why I appear to have no bones in my face.

(Commercial)

Martha: Welcome back. Let’s move now to a topi…

Biden: Ever been to a biker bar, Toots?

Martha: Not now, Joe.

Biden: HA HA HA HA.

Ryan: Does he always grin like that?

Martha: Mind your tone, rookie.

Biden: Besides, Syria is five times larger geographically than Libya.

Ryan: Huh?

Biden: That. Is. A. Fact.

Groucho: Hey, who ya gonna believe? Me or your own eyes?

Ryan: Look, with all due respe…

Martha: Anybody seen my cheeks?

Biden: I hope I’ll get equal time.

Ryan: (muttering) I hope you get hard time.

Martha: Carl, I’m not gonna warn you again. One more remark like that, and I’ll turn this debate right around!

Ryan: It’s not Carl, it’s Todd! No, I mean, Paul! It’s Paul!

Groucho: What, you didn’t like Todd?

Chico: (rim shot)

Martha: Let’s move now to a topic on the minds of all voters: foreign affairs. And we’ll begin this round with…uh…with the guy sitting on my right. Carl, is it?

Ryan: (sigh) Todd.

Martha: Whatever.

Groucho: Atta boy.

Biden: HA HA HA HA HA.

Martha: Carl, please list all of the world’s leaders, alphabetically by height.

Ryan: Well, there’s Abu Almat, and Adam Prkysnk, and Ari Pipi Ngobo, Bryn Enho…

Biden: HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Ryan: WHAT? What is so funny?

Biden: (giggling) He said ‘pee pee.’

Groucho: I’m not getting any straight lines here.

Martha: Get out of the gutter, Todd.

Ryan: Yes, sir or ma’am.

Groucho: Atta boy.

Martha: Okay. Based on that stumbling response to a simple question about world leaders, I’m certain the entire American voting public realizes just how poorly this Todd guy would do, were he to assume the role of Vice President, especially a Vice President with semaphore-ready teeth and hair implants.

Biden: (giggling) He said ‘pee pee.’

Chico: He’s got a point, this teeth guy.

Biden: Those are my principles. If you don’t like them, I have others.

Groucho: Hey!

Martha: Now, in the spirit of fairness, let’s quiz former Senator and Vice President Joe Biden. Sir, how many letters are there in the word ‘jobs?’

Biden: Three.

Audience: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Ryan: (muttering) How many syllables in ‘moron?’

Chico: Good one.

Martha: That was uncalled for, Burl.

Ryan: Oh, you should hear what I wanted to say.

Biden: And this administration is prepared to go the gates of hell to do it.

Everyone on the planet: Huh?

Biden: Oh, wait. I read the wrong canned response.

Harpo: …

Groucho: I know. This guy’s too dumb for words.

Chico: Too dumb? He may be three dumb.

Harpo: (honk)

Chico: Sorry.

Ryan: While we wait for Captain Snicker’s meds to kick in, let me just point out that the Medica…

Martha: Time’s up, Carl.

Ryan: Paul. (sigh)

Martha: Whatever.

Biden: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Hey, We’re Two, Too!

(“I now pronounce you man and wife and wife and wife.”)

It’s not fair. It’s just not right. There I was, sitting at home and minding my own single guy business, when suddenly some whining psychotic starts yelling at me online.

Look. If I wanted whining psychotics to yell at me, I’d start dating again.

But there he was – some faceless guy sending me Twitter messages, demanding (see ‘whining’) I support him in his quest to marry multiple people. (see ‘psychotic’)

Ooh. Where do I sign.

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re probably thinking this online petitioner was just one more marginally-stable male with a manifesto; just the latest self-diagnosed tragic hero; just another 21-to-34-year-old guy speared with a few ounces of oddly-situated face jewelry, who drinks bulk-priced beer and smells like bulk-priced cheese, is dressed in a checkered hunting shirt, gym shorts, & athletic socks, and lives in his parent’s dimly lit basement with a refurbished Apple laptop and a forgery-accessed Ritalin prescription.

But no. This guy (I’ll call him Lipids) had also put together a nice basket of logical (see ‘raging sarcasm’) arguments in favor of his effort, a cause that he’s christened ‘Plural Marriage.’

(Lipids is what, in the sixties, we would’ve called an ‘activist’ or, as we know it today, a ‘schmuck.’)

See, Lipids thinks it’s downright discriminatory that several consenting adults aren’t allowed to marry each other, all at the same time, even optimistically assuming that they’re all sane. (see ‘Pollyanna Syndrome’)

So Lipids and his lieutenants are fighting for group marriage equality rights (see ‘tax breaks’), while ignoring the societal implications of such massive relationship-based redistricting. I mean, just for a start, allowing a whole gang of people to marry each other would call for a complete rethinking of that whole ‘bridal registry’ thing.

Or, on a less mercenary level, imagine this: one husband, living in a house with seven or eight wives, all sharing (or not) one bathroom. Poor guy would have to grow another bladder.

And speaking of the ol’ Fortress of Solitude, how about all those monogrammed hand towels? Hmm? Since the dawn of time … or at least the dawn of Target … those little towels have been sold in just-so sets, His and Hers. Haven’t thought about that little detail, have you? Hmm? I didn’t think so.

Nonetheless, Lipids and the Spousettes are demanding his/her/their equal access to entitlement money, which is what people do these days instead of working. See, according to these Pluralistas, marriage is a fundamental human right, right up there with a free cell phone, or being allowed to unload your idling car in the airport’s “Taxis Only” lane.

Hey, it’s in the Constitution. Look it up.

From there, Lipids segued into a debating point that even I thought was obscure, and I make up stuff for a living. Plural Guy’s next postulate was based on the following iffy, oddly-spelled premise: “Humans are not animals on Noah’s Arc. Two by two is nonsense.”

Ooh. Touché.

It is a point that may or may not sway potential Pluralites, but it does confirm a few things:

Lipids has never been mistaken for a returning Jeopardy champion.
Apparently, Noah and menagerie survived the flood by hunkering down in part of a circle’s circumference.
Lipids missed his 3pm dose of Ritalin.

But the overarching argument of the macro-managing Many-Mates is this: the more love in the home, the more stability in society.

Sorry, Lipids.

Nice idea, but you’re assuming that more people shoved in the same place would somehow automagically equal more harmony, even though one of them hasn’t seen the inside of a bathroom in twelve years. That’s like saying the more people in the car, the better the freeway traffic.

And Team Lipids isn’t settling for simple polygyny, either. This is not just some chauvinistic “me and my harem” movement. In the Plural Marriage handbook, anything goes: a man and two or three women; two men or two women; two men and two women; three women and two men; one woman and seven dwarfs; five men and Grace Jones – the possibilities are rich.

By the way: in this type of discussion, it’s usually around this point that people start fretting about something they call the “slippery slope.” (Usually these people are conservatives. Conservatives, as a rule, want to avoid heading down a “slippery slope.” Liberals, on the other hand, are always averse to opening a “can of worms.”)

But these multi-betrothal big-tent mathematics come in handy for simpatico recruiting purposes, too. According to one Plural Marriage supporter – a strange spotted-faced female named Dave – two out of three people in a plural marriage will be the same sex! So the Neo-Nuptialites are mano a mano with the LGBT community, too! (Of course, the 2-outta-3 rule does not take San Francisco into account. At last count, Frisco had more recognized genders than Joe Biden has original teeth.)

LGBT, of course, collectively refers to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender community. It used to go by the acronym LGB (less than/greater than/both), not to be confused with RGB (genders that have been Photoshopped) or the KGB (Russian grooms posing as Russian brides). The term LGBT was originally coined by an off-campus clothing chain known as The Gap. Roughly translated from the original San Fernando Valley-speak, LGBT means “If it moves, date it.” (Source: the lost scrolls of, like, Santa Monica and stuff)

The LGBT are a subgroup of AOI (Alternately-Oriented Individuals) who may or may not suffer from GID (Gender Identity Disorder), a condition recognized by the APA (American Psychiatric Association) as part of the AAA. (Absurd Array of Acronyms)

Ultimately, of course, given that I’m a single guy with no social acronyms whatsoever, I opted out of Lipids’ offer of solidarity. But I do wish him all the best, as he continues on his mission to collect enough in-laws to field his own NCAA football team. And from everything I’ve heard about in-laws, he’s gonna need all the padding he can get.

Not to mention some more Ritalin.