Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 50

Marvin, Attorney to the Gods

(How to live like there’s no tomorrow, when there’s a tomorrow)

All right, this is getting ridiculous. Now they’re telling us the predictions were wrong. Now, they’re saying, the world will not end this year.

Probably.

Great. Now they tell me – and I just got my ObamaCare voucher for taxpayer-funded law school tuition, holistic cell-phone minutes, and free contraception.

But there it is. Based on the most recent ‘analysis’ of new ‘data’ discovered by ‘guys with a grant’ exploring what grant-granting experts refer to as ‘a hole,’ the Mayans were wrong about this December’s pending Big Un-Bang. Or we were wrong about the Mayans. Or wrong about their calendar. Or we were looking in the wrong century. Or the wrong hole.

Probably.

C’mon, Science-Type People! Make up your minds! Those of us out here in real life, us non-tenured proles, we gotta make some plans, and get on with whatever’s left of our lives! We have more, or possibly less, things to do! Do we replace the roof or just go with duct tape? Do we save that touted nine cents by opting for the cable/internet/phone bundle or not? Do we default on a 30-year fixed or do we default on an ARM? And what’s the opposite of default? Fault?

But just in case they’re wrong about being wrong:

Things Not To Buy If The World Is Ending

Perennials
Anything by Stephen King
Bulk clothing, sold by the pound from Jos. A. Bank
KGB-sized super-saver discount packs of Joe Biden pie-hole corks
“Hillary in 2016″ buttons
Old pork or new cheese
Will Call tickets to “The Lion King”
Extended warranties (technically, not part of this list – I’m just saying)
Obama’s new book, “An Alphabetical List of My Accomplishments Prior to Adoption of the Gregorian Calendar, Part I”
Facebook stock options, or casket futures

Ah, those madcap Mayans. Those doomsday stormcrows. Those nearly-naked tanned guys, with their deep-blue feather fetishes, those oddly-spelled nouns, that miserably misunderstood calendar, and a seriously proscriptive program for organ donors. The Mayans – the original purple people-eaters.

But new facts have emerged about the Mayans and their calendar, according to a paper published by The National Academy of Looking in Guatemalan Holes. While studying the Eighth-Century Mayan city known as Xultun (pronounced ‘Boise’), scientists discovered an underground cave, as opposed, I suppose, to an above-ground cave. (Remember: these are people who received a federal grant.)

The scientists went into the cave (pronounced ‘Qarlsbad Qaverns’), and painted on the cave’s wall were some numbers and the words “Have you been injured?” (pronounced ‘refrigerator magnet’)

The scientists also noticed drawings of stacked bars and dots which they determined to be a calendar, because at lunch they’d gotten into the local beer. However, after a few more six-packs of discussion, they decided the bars and dots represented the story of basketball being introduced to Earthlings by rectangular space aliens (pronounced ‘Dennis Rodman’). The next morning, however, the scientists returned to their original interpretation and began yelling about the world coming to an end on 21 December, and they kept yelling it until the cantinas agreed to reopen.

So let’s review. Basically, we’re supposed to believe that the world will end this year because somebody who was vetted by Congress found a number scratched into the wall of a damp cave.

I know, I know. It’s hard to argue with such empirical evidence. So let’s sweeten the pot. Here’s some more hard science found in the chamber:

The numbers on the cave wall were scratched next to a mural of a man wearing a red crown and blue feathers. (fortunately, italics had already been invented)
Peeking out from behind that man was another man. (now debunked, in archeological circles, as a hoax known as ‘The Peeking Man’)
A translated hieroglyphic warned, “Extended warranties are for suckers.” (true then, true now)
A calendar inscription pointed to a four-year interregnum (literal translation: ‘acid reflux’), which was wrongly diagnosed as mesothelioma, resulting in a fatal outbreak of either lawyers or smallpox.

In the face of such an array of indisputable facts, you can see how the 21st Century’s entire global scientific community might have gotten red herring-ed.

So here we were, ready to make not-so-long-term planet-wide plans, based on subterranean scrawls scribbled by a civilization that hadn’t even finished inventing clothes, much less the full-court press or the downtown jump shot. We were ready to globally shut down shop because of a cave-wall chalk portrait of some blurry guy in an Elton John hat.

Imagine that fateful calendar-carving day in the cave of the King:

~~-~~-~~-~~

Guard: Halt! State your business, puny-child-of-mortals.

Scribe: Can the theatrics, Marvin. It’s me. Is the big guy in?

Marvin: Yeah, but he’s eating Lunch.

Scribe: What do you mean, Lunch? Why the capital L?

Marvin: Lunch was the guy’s name.

Scribe: Point taken.

Marvin: So how about that game last night, eh?

Scribe: We were robbed.

Marvin: Who knew Pizarro had cannons? They weren’t listed in the lineup.

Scribe: I can’t wait till somebody invents referees. So,  can I go in and see Vault of Heaven’s Imperial Jaguar And Immortal Chaser of Stars or what?

Marvin: Enter, lower-than-toad-toenail-fungus-discount-cleanser.

Scribe: Keep it up, Smallpox Boy. Keep it up.

Marvin: Your momma’s a llama.

Scribe: Your Highness?

King: Ormum nmrlm?

Scribe: Got a minute, Mighty Sky Panther And Ultimate Shizzle?

King: Mzun NHM!

Marvin: Slowly, sir. Chew slowly. Remember the last time you had Mexican. And don’t swig your marrow.

Scribe: Love your tan, sir. Not just anybody can pull that off, you know, living underground. Tres chic.

King: Well, hello, T’ah’ak T’u Oxicontn! Welcome, scribe! What brings you down here while I’m eating, a rash act that, depending on my mood, could result in me having you gutted like a Chilean sea bass and sliced into seventeen astrologically-favorable pieces?

Oxicontn: I wanted to wrap up that little calendar issue, if y…

King: Guard! Any heart left?

Marvin: Sure. Here you are, sir.

King: You were saying?

Oxicontn: The calendar, sir. That mathematician’s here.

King: Oh, for Goxntotl’s sake.

Oxicontn: I know, I know. But you have to make a decision about the fourteenth Baktun before the rainy season; otherwise, in the distant future, Paul Theroux might write a novel. So if you’ll jus…

King: You gonna finish those friars?

~~-~~-~~-~~

For now, though, the science people have canceled the calendar crisis. But just in case they’re right about being wrong, here’s a takeaway:

Books You Can Finish Before The World Ends

The Collected Sonnets of Ozzy Osbourne
“Women I Respect” by Bill Clinton
Joy Behar’s Fashion Tips
“No, Really!” (A Virtual Tour of Iran’s Nuclear Centrifuges)
Spicy Recipes From The English Countryside
“Don’t Pat Me, Bro!” – The Search for Dignity at US Airports
Dr. Suess’s Haiku Weekend

Keep that list in your pocket. At the very least, it’ll get you through the next holiday season.

Probably.

Mark’s Twenty Billion New Friends

(Insipid polls, intolerant vampires, and initial public offerings. What a great country!)

Hey, America’s youth! I have some good news! In these muddled, mixed-up, mixed message-filled times we live in, there’s still hope! And I mean ‘youth’ in a broad sense. Youth in general. Not you, over there sulking in the doorway, with your Goth eyeliner and all that impaled nose jewelry. But collectively speaking, there’s still hope!

Yes, young people, you too can eventually sup on success, armed with nothing but your own initiative and ingenuity, a little luck, and millions in inherited trust funds strategically positioned in off-shore banks! You too can face universal loathing and be branded “The One Percent” by whining hippie wannabes whose idea of intensive career planning is to sleep in the park, dye their hair purple, and defecate on police cars!

(Okay, to be fair, that’s not entirely true. They only dye parts of their hair purple.)

But I bring you today an assuring proof that the American Dream is still alive and kicking! And the best news is this – for you to dream the Dream, the same attainable, time-honored rules still apply:

Stay in school, stay out of prison
Build a website that caters to several hundred million insatiable egos and then sell it
Floss

The proof? Facebook! The world’s most popular hated website. Facebook – that ubiquitous online social platform that we all know and don’t love.

Yesterday, in case you missed the financial news, facebook went public. This instantly made its creators, and Bono, very rich, and prompted the clever investment analysts at Morgan-Freeman-Stanley-Clark-Adam-Smith-Barney-Rubble to immediately invest four billion dollars in MySpace.

The numbers are impressive, even to partly-purple people in tents. In just the first four minutes of its IPO, 100 million shares of facebook had been traded, mostly by Martha Stewart and members of the House Ethics Committee.

By the end of that first day, facebook’s co-founder, Mark Zuckerberg, had some twenty billion dollars, prompting him to go buy a new wallet, and Brazil. As of right now, only twenty-eight people on Earth are richer than Zuckerberg, a guy who’s younger than most of my shirts. Twenty billion bucks – not bad for someone who can’t even drive after dark yet.

But what is it, exactly, that makes facebook so attractive to investors? To begin with, facebook is frugal; they didn’t even spring for a capital F.

Furthermore, facebook has 800 million users, aka ‘potential shoppers,’ all connected to each other by various likes, dislikes, and other dysfunctional emotional states. Imagine that – 800 million captive consumers. If facebook were a country, it would be the fifth largest country on Earth, and Ron Paul would be demanding that we get our troops out of facebook.

And now that facebook has gone public, vested advertisers will have access to highly targeted markets; some seriously narrow niches: take, for example, your discriminating vampire. As it turns out, facebook vampires can be quite clique-ish. They’re a lot like that famous golf club in Augusta GA where they hold the Masters, but with less plaid.

There are facebook groups for gay (or lesbian) vampires, Republican (or Democrat) vampires, vampire killers, vampire bikers, and, for all I know, suburban soccer mom vampires with fixed-rate mortgages who lease their Kia SUVs and take modest liberties on Schedule C deductions.

There are facebook groups for just about everything. And it’s these groups, these connections between consumers that makes facebook so tempting to marketers. If someone with hundreds of facebook ‘friends’ buys something, they may share that news with all those friends. And those friends may share with their friends, and those may share, and on and on until the product goes viral, becomes all the rage, and no self-respecting metrosexual vampire would be caught undead without it.

And facebookers will share. Believe me, they’ll share. They’ll share that they decided to buy that thing, and what they were eating at the time, and how it tasted LOL, and what they plan to eat later BTW, and that now they’re leaving to go buy that thing, they’re on the way, they’re almost there, and they almost drove past it cause they were updating their facebook status LOL. They’ll share until you want to hit ‘em with a golf club, or Ron Paul.

Facebook keeps track of how many ‘friends’ you have, a number which, for me, rises and falls as my friends rate my status updates, based on the following scale:

Stupid
More stupid
Way more stupid
Joe Biden

Today, for example, Facebook tells me I have almost 800 friends.

No, I don’t.

I don’t have 800 friends. I don’t even know 800 people. Heck, I don’t know 800 numbers. In fact, by my count, I know exactly fourteen numbers:

0 through 9
Less
More
Way more
Theater popcorn

Of course, now that investors are involved, one has to wonder how much longer facebook will be free to use. And imagine having to handle billing for 800 million irate customers! Will there be some furiously underfunded office somewhere, similar to my cable company’s Customer Service center? Some drab, concrete-block structure that’s intentionally difficult to find, even harder to find parking, and staffed by two angry, obese women using circa 1979 black-and-white computer terminals that are still damp after being bought in bulk at an auction held by a defunct Pakistani call center after a tsunami?

It could get tricky. After all, facebook users are a special breed, even before you factor in fanged transsexuals, the Pit Bull Awareness Coalition (yes, there is), and the Appreciation Centre for Cats That Look Like Hitler. (yes, there is)

Case in point: somebody recently held a facebook poll, asking people if they installed their toilet paper rolls in “Over” or “Under” mode.

Within the first hour, 13,148 people had actually taken the time to vote. And in a world like that, there’s only one thing left to say:

LOL.

International Blue Velvet

(Odd goings-on among many-legged animals)

This past weekend, I had the rare opportunity to combine several disparate activities in a single location, a circumstance which doesn’t necessarily qualify as an attraction to someone like me – someone who works from home, but thinks even that represents a suffocating and cloyingly-structured invasion of privacy.

Bill of Barry’s Rights violations aside, however – this past weekend, I had a chance to experience, in one place, things you might not normally expect to find in one place. It was like watching Joe Pesci playing Gandalf in ‘Lords of the Flatbush Rings,’ or going to a Joe Biden foreign policy presser and stumbling over a cogent thought.

What and where, you ask? This past weekend, I visited a small town in North Carolina, where I spent the day alternating between watching where I was walking, questioning what I just heard, and wondering what I just ate.

Now, before I go on, let me lodge this complimentary disclaimer about the ‘other’ Carolina. If you’re not familiar with the state of North Carolina, know this – it has wonderful edges.

North Carolina’s western sector is nothing short of glorious; it’s a wildly popular area known to millions of tourists as the scenic Blue Ridge Parkway and Appalachian Trail, and known to a former South Carolina governor as Argentina. And some three to four hours’ drive due east, the state’s Crystal Coast hosts Cape Fear, Kitty Hawk, the Outer Banks, and the occasional feral hurricane.

In-between those edges, however, you’re likely to run into all sorts of scary creatures, species that are focused on nothing but their own survival, like black bears, timber rattlers, and John Edwards.

But don’t get me wrong – there’s plenty to do in the slow-sloping zone, the tilting plain connecting west to east in North Carolina. For example, North Carolina may have more privately-owned small businesses per square foot than any other state in the Union, if you don’t count Congress. North Carolina is rife with unique vendors, peppering the roadsides along winding pavings that lead from here to there, open and ready to serve you on the eight calendar days per annum that the freeways aren’t under construction, or under a rockslide.

And specialized, super-niche marketers they are, too! I know of no other state where you can find a business establishment named ‘Stumps and Stuff.’ (Imagine, just for a whimsical moment, what the ‘stuff’ might be, in a roadside emporium where ‘stumps’ got top billing.)

Now, given the fact that we’re talking about North Carolina, I should clarify. For the purposes of my story, when I say ‘small town,’ I mean ‘small’ as in very few traffic lights, and even fewer meth labs. I mean ‘small’ as in less than three furniture factory outlets, which, in North Carolina, is small indeed. But for the purposes of my story, I do not mean ‘small’ in the sense of ‘it’s hard to conceive of a place this remote that doesn’t have actual icebergs.’ Although, in North Carolina, such places exist.

In North Carolina, there’s a place called Frank, Unincorporated.

That’s small.

No, the event I attended took place in a standardly small town, one of those places commonly known as a tourist trap. You know the symptoms:

Flavored ice vendors with names like The Merchant of Ven-Ice
A compact town square lined with coy, gingerbread-y gift shops and booksellers specializing in regional titles like ‘A Beginner’s Guide To Our Indigenous Toads’ and ‘The Collective Porn of Carl Sandburg’
Frighteningly cute artisan studios with names like ‘Barrel Streep’ and ‘Kiln Me Softly’
Flavored ice vendors with names like SnoConi
Dozens of A-frame chalet rental offices, all staffed with realtors named ‘Tink’ or ‘Dovie’
Slant-in parking spaces, angling in to abut smiley-faced $4-per-hour parking meters
A perennial-planter-cordoned ‘public space,’ constantly hosting some bogus festival or another, like the Regional Pit Bull Rapid Response EMT Challenge, or the Orthodontic Late-Bloomers’ Clogging Semi-Finals, or The ‘Y’all Ain’t From Here, Are Ya?’ Plaid Bermuda Shorts Fashion Parade & Double-Aught Taillight Target Open
Flavored ice vendors with names like Sacco & Vanzetti

The event I attended was something known to insiders as an ‘equestrian competition,’ a term which, for the rest of us, loosely translates into regular English as ‘standing in the rain, sipping tepid, Pentagon-project-priced coffee and eating lard-coated tealight candles flash-dipped in fried grease, while young American girls dressed like so many midget British royals coax large mammals around an arid, Grapes-of-Wrath-ish dust-cloud-cloaked arena, in hopes of getting the snorting beasts to negotiate a complex, weaving obstacle course of Lilliputian fences, while onlookers weigh the risks of going for another cup of coffee from the concession stand, some 300 threatening yards away, accessible only after navigating a staggeringly complex, Flicka-dropping-laced mine field, sadistically sown by guerilla recruits from the Clydesdale Contras.’

And as I watched, and dripped, and sipped, and ate lard-wrapped lard, all I could think about was what the horses must be thinking, as they hopped over these faux fences, over and over again. I’m sure the horses were dying to point out a few things to the bipeds on their backs.

“Excuse me, up there being all top-of-the-food-chain and stuff – you do realize that we could just walk around these things, right? It’s not a real fence; at least, not a real long fence. You have noticed they’re only about eight feet wide, haven’t you, Hoss Cartwright? Hello?”

So, for this summer’s family getaway, consider a trip to North Carolina’s “Voted Number One” city! It’s easy to find – after all, there are something like 114 of it. And don’t forget to stop by Stumps and Stuff!

Stumps and Stuff. It’s just around the bend from Frank.

Because you can never have too many stuff.

Survey Says?

(You know, they say 42.8% of all statistics are made up on the spot.)

This year, while watching politicians racing around trying to out-slime each other, I’ve been struck by their ability to turn statistics into schizophrenics. It’s scary, but it’s fun to watch – a politician can make a four swear it’s a five, or a three, or a five again, and do it while simultaneously kissing babies, straddling fences, and going all Artful Dodger on your wallet.

Now before you get antsy, know that this is not a piece about politics. Well, at least not directly. Every year, it seems, politics creeps a little bit closer to the rest of us, over here out of the spotlight, futilely yelling, “No! We’re just fine, thanks. Go make a bridge or something. Invade somebody, whatever. Really, we’re just fine. But thanks for asking!”

Someone famous once said, “All politics is local.” Of course, someone else once said, “Hey, babe, be a dear and play ‘Helter Skelter’ again while I carve a swastika on my forehead,” and he was famous, too. But let’s not get sidetracked on J. Edgar Hoover’s senior prom.

As you probably know, that “All politics is local” quote is attributed to the famous statesman and former live person, Tip O’Neill, who regrettably passed away before telling anybody what the heck it meant. Grettably, though, the quote seems quite close in spirit to “All sewage is local,” a phrase coined by my sister’s cousin’s half-brother, the highly respected Tony One-Lip. Tony is our local Commissioner of Cement Projects, Garbage Pickup, and In-Law Vetting, as well as the owner of Sinistro Amico, a ‘rapid response’ service agency. (“Car-Trunk Steam Cleaning, While You Wait!”)

Politics: if you got the pearls, we got the swine.

But that’s not for today. No, today, we’re here to talk about issues of import. Things that may affect us on a multi-generational level. The great topics of the ages. To wit:

Statistics as a bellwether of our society
The importance of unbiased baselines in non-manipulative probability and its potential interplay with the Central Limit Theorem
Whole milk

Like me, you might be surprised, initially, at the sheer volume of statistics available online about a topic as pedestrian as milk. But remember where we are – and when we are: we live in 21st century America, where “OMG LOL” is a complete sentence, and people have American Idol’s phone number on speed dial. And if that’s not an argument for steadily increasing levels of mandated medication, I don’t know much.

So let’s dive into milk. (sorry) In 2005, Americans drank 2.7 billion gallons of milk. (The latest data we could find was for 2005; apparently, that’s the last time Al Gore updated the internet.) By the way, one gallon of milk weighs 8.6 pounds, in case you’re planning to bring a few gallons on the plane as carry-on luggage, and with my luck, you’ll have the seat next to me.

Young boys tend to drink milk 10% more often than girls, which is why it’s called a “milk moustache” instead of, say, a “milk lip-gloss spritz.” And 9.1% of you out there drink an entire gallon of milk every single day. (Not only will you be seated next to me on the plane; you’ll be in the window seat.)

FUN FACTOID: One milk-based site offered a handy list of links to other on-topic websites. One of the milk-related topics? Corrective lenses. Apparently, chugging a whole gallon of milk a day can not only make you go often, it can make you go blind. Which puts a whole new spin on “lactose-intolerant.”

Just next door to milk on the food chain is cheese. In 1909, Americans nibbled just north of 3 pounds of cheese per person, per year. By 2001, we were up to 30 pounds of cheese a year. At this rate, by 2050, we’ll all be George Wendt. Homeland Security is looking into the problem, and Congress has summoned several of the usual suspects to appear and testify, including Domino’s Pizza, that Sargento guy, and Little Miss Muffet.

FUN FACTOID: This massive bloat (sorry) in cheese consumption also led directly to me creating several dairy-product-related jokes, none of which I’m proud of.

Nationally, we’re no better with butter, either. In 2004 (the last year anybody’s cholesterol was low enough to allow for running around, counting stuff), we collectively spread 1,353,000,000,000 pounds of the stuff on stuff. That statistic alone ought to make you proud to be an American, or two. But count those zeroes – that’s 1.35 billion pounds of butter, scooped and dolloped onto biscuits, gravy, corn, and, for all I know, other butter. After all, to reach that rate of consumption, we could’ve been slathering lard on carport walls, pets, and Tip O’Neill.

People are just getting larger and larger; in fact, according to a recent survey, 2 out of 3 people are now 3 out of 4 people.

They’ve even come up with a new word to describe American over-eating, and all its attendant medical problems: Diabesity.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Diabesity! Because sometimes, gluttony just isn’t enough.

There is a side-order (sorry) of good news, a bit of bright-ish lining. We’re eating more fish, according to statistics. But you can’t really trust some of these reports. A footnote points out that the numbers exclude “edible fishery products consumed in Puerto Rico,” but include tuna caught by foreign vessels in American Samoa.

Yes. You heard me correctly. That’s what we’re getting for our tax dollars – we’re paying all-growed-up adults to count tuna fish sandwiches. Undocumented Samoan tuna fish sandwiches.

But now let’s walk past the food (sorry) and study some other statistics, like crime. In 2009, according to US Census numbers, 1,000 males were arrested for the nebulous-sounding crime of ‘suspicion.’ (No females were arrested for suspicion in 2009. I don’t know why, but I’m willing to bet lip gloss was involved.)

So a thousand guys were run in for suspicion. But on the same report, in the ‘Totals’ category for the same offense, the number somehow swells (sorry) to 1,600. That can only mean one thing: those guys not only got fatter- they got fatter while the report was being written. Maybe they were arrested for suspicion of switching to whole milk.

FUN FACTOID: According to crime statistics, if you’re an Alaskan native, you are 45 times less likely to be a runaway then the rest of us. Maybe it’s too cold. Maybe there’s something about moose meat that they’re not telling us down here.

If you live in the South, statistics say you’re 14% more likely to smoke pot, but if you live in the West, you’re 36% more likely to get popped for cocaine. In fact, in California, your chances of getting arrested for possession of an “other dangerous narcotic drug” are four times higher (sorry) than the rest of us. This condition is what is known in behavioral science classes as a “critical social meltdown,” and to residents of Malibu as a “buffet.”

And speaking of drugs, the number of arrests for methamphetamine between the years 2000 and 2009 has dropped by 35%. However, the amount of meth seized in those less-frequent arrests has gone up by 75%. And if that’s not a testament to workplace efficiencies in the American capitalist model, I don’t know much.

And then there are the statistics that are simply confounding. Interestingly, and I use that term with a straight face, Americans import less timber than before, but we also export less timber. And I don’t think I have to tell you what that means: the analysis is indisputable. As a country, we’re simply eating less wood.

Be prepared, though, as you surf statistics, for some disappointments. For example, the most current timber industry numbers for Western hemlock stumpage prices (as expressed in constant dollars) are not available. Douglas fir stumpage prices have gone missing, too. Downright sloppy, is what it is. As taxpayers, we have a right to expect more. Perhaps our Justice Department will look into it, as soon as they get out of prison.

FUN FACTOID: To be honest, I really didn’t lose a lot of sleep brooding over those missing hemlock numbers. But if you think I’m gonna miss an opportunity to say “stumpage prices,” you don’t know much.

Ward Cleaver’s Coyote Weekend

(Remember, kids…and men with kids…don’t try this at home!)

Last weekend, I saved a man’s life. Which gives you some idea of just how far I’m willing to go, on any given weekend, to avoid mowing the lawn.

Now, to you, saving somebody’s life may not be a big deal. Maybe you run around saving people’s lives all the time. For all I know, you regularly inject yourself in other people’s business, like one of those meddling masked superheroes, or some buttinski functionary from the Federal Bureau of Kibitzers and Samaritans. Or you could be lying to us. Maybe you’ve never saved a life your whole life. I have no way of knowing, ’cause I don’t know you. For Pete’s sake, I just made you up less than 30 seconds ago.

But for me, saving a fellow human being’s life — and doing it on a weekend — well, that’s a major accomplishment for a guy who won’t buy an entire carton of eggs for fear of making a commitment … for someone whose idea of ‘strenuous exercise’ is driving to get Chinese food instead of having it delivered.

Here’s how it happened. A married friend of mine posted on Facebook that he was ‘playing bachelor’ for the weekend. His wife was leaving town to attend some social event that involved mature, civilized adults, so, wisely, she went alone. But by leaving her husband at home alone, she’d created a volatile situation. Bad juju. An element in an unstable state. Def-Con Four. A twenty-third-hour Jack Bauer moment.

Imagine it – a married man, suddenly on his own. A husband with no instructions. No ‘how to’ coping manual, no navigational primer for day-to-day life. A male spouse, sans commands. Imagine a fish out of water. Imagine an antelope, having spent its entire life in a zoo, being released into the wild. Imagine Bill Clinton in Cartagena. Imagine an Indonesian dog in the presence of a peckish young Barack Obama.

Right away, I knew my friend was veering to trouble because of that comment he’d casually tossed – the one about ‘playing bachelor.’ What a rookie remark! He thought that being single, even for a few days, was a transition someone could just slip into without consequence, like not shaving, or listening to Zamfir, master of the pan flute.

No! It takes years (and bloody years they can be) before bachelors learn how to survive without parents, spouses, or ironed shirts. So I knew that it was just a matter of time before my friend crashed and sank, and I would need to sling him a buoy.

Quickly, inevitably, he hit the wall. And there on Facebook, he posted a proper, honest yelp for help:

“What do bachelors eat?”

So, I tossed the buoy. And saved a life. Of course, I had a little fun along the way…

~~-~~-~~-~~

Q: My wife’s out of town, and it’s lunchtime, and I don’t see any food. I’ve heard her mention some room called a ‘pantry,’ but I don’t know where it is. Besides, it could be locked, and even if I did know where it was, there can’t be any cooked food in there, ’cause I’d be able to smell it. See? I’m smart like that. Mind like a steel trap. I got this whole ‘bachelor’ thing bagged and tagged. But what am I supposed to eat?

A: Check your freezer, call somebody that delivers, or head for a drive-thru. (There’s probably a grocery nearby, but I don’t recommend such desperate measures on your first solo flight.) Generally, food comes from colorful boxes in your freezer. Just microwave the box until its contents achieve the texture of a monitor lizard, the temperature of moving lava, and the color of George Hamilton. If you’d rather, you can get pizza delivered by gaunt young people with face piercings, or get Chinese food delivered by people who, for some reason, are never Chinese. Alternatively, you can get food (of a sort) from the sliding-glass window cut in the side of a drive-thru, handed directly to you through your car window. This common, window-to-window transfer is how we get what is known as ‘fast food,’ which may be the most egregious oxymoron ever, because ‘fast food’ is neither. But at least you won’t starve.

Q: But there aren’t any plates or forks on the table. Where do I eat?

A: Over the sink, of course, like any career single guy. Or, if you’re feeling sparky, go wild. Be a coyote. Devolve! Abandon your status as a civilized, trousered ape and … ready? … eat on the sofa! Without a napkin! Cower in unshaven rooms in underwear, and burn your money in wastebaskets! Howl! Howl!

(Thanks, Allen Ginsberg)

Q: I’m all out of clean shirts. I’m out of kinda-clean shirts, too, ’cause the one I’ve been wearing all week moved out. Apparently it achieved consciousness, walked away, and has been spotted at the State Park, attacking random campers wearing permanent-press Tommy Bahamas. How do I make clean clothes? Does it involve that pantry thing?

A: You know that little room, off the kitchen, with the door that leads to the garage? That tiny, closet-y room with the coat rack and the brooms? Yes, brooms. BROOMS. B-R-O. . . never mind. Ever noticed those two boxy white machines against the wall in that room? Yes, the machi … forget I asked. Look, here’s what some guys do: just donate the dirty shirt to Goodwill. Overnight, they’ll clean it and toss it on a hanger. Next day, go back to Goodwill and buy your shirt back for two bucks. Everybody wins: Goodwill gets a $2 sale, you get a tax deduction and a clean shirt, and you saved several bucks on dry cleaning. Dry cleaning. DRY CLEANING. D-R-  .. never mind.

~~-~~-~~-~~

So. The next time you see a more-or-less clean-shaven fellow at the grocery, a man wearing a glazed shirt and an equally glazed expression who’s nursing a bag of russets and a jar of bacon bits, a man who’s numbly staring at the 250 brands of bottled Ranch salad dressing, have a little mercy. Show a little compassion.

Because there before you stands a Temporary Bachelor. A married guy, whose wife is out of town. A clueless, cue-less sojourner, who’s learning how to be a coyote.

And he’s about to eat an undercooked baked potato.

Order Now! But Wait!

(Hey! Didn’t they say ‘Hurry, today only!‘ yesterday, too?)

Some people, I’ve discovered, like to complicate things. Not me. I’m not complicated. I’m just a simple guy, with simple dreams and simple desires: some food, some books, a ridiculously large music collection, and some more food. Just keep it simple, and don’t confuse me.

Commercials confuse me. Though, to be fair, lots of things confuse me. Al Roker’s appeal, for one thing. People who get excited about lawn care, for another. How vampires went from scary to sexy. Neckties. Okra.

Why is black-and-white Tarzan’s hair slicked back, and with what? Who did Adam and Eve’s sons marry? And why #2 pencils? What happened to all the #1 pencils? Did somebody use them all up stabbing vampires? It’s confusing.

I remember when commercials were easy. Some polite human with sand-blasted teeth would point to a product, strongly suggest you buy it, and then shut up. Nice. Simple. And no drippy gore on any undead teeth.

But commercials these days are obtuse and obscure, like some conceptual foreign film. A nasal duck with a limited vocabulary attacks a kid delivering Chinese food: buy our insurance! An anthropomorphic frog mourns on its lily pad, surrounded by an amphibian ‘misery management’ support group: buy our beer! Sometimes you have to watch a commercial several times (and you’ll get to) before you figure out what they’re selling.

And then there are the commercials that don’t even attempt to sell you anything. They’re just on a PR binge: they just want you to like them. You know the type:

Here at Global Offshore Sweatshops, we don’t make the skateboard: we make the skateboard faster. We don’t make the bat: we make the bat harder, so we can sell the bat to thug kids in street gangs who’ve outgrown skateboards. We don’t make the computers: we make the casings that coat the nails that fasten the shelves that line the walls that house the computers that are hacked by the thug kids who then steal your identity and, on weekends, hit people with bats. Here at Global Offshore Sweatshops, we don’t make the stuff you buy: we make the stuff you buy hurt you.

So let’s look at some examples. I’ll describe actual ads that companies have produced and aired on TV, and you tell me what product these people are wanting you to buy.

…if you can…

Ready? Good luck!

~~-~~-~~-~~

A driver with an expensive non-American car and chiseled facial features is barreling down the middle of a middle-of-nowhere straightaway. Suddenly, a military support plane screams into view, extends its mid-air refueling snake, and refills the driver’s coffee cup.

Order now! But…what?

a)      A new car

b)      An after-market sunroof

c)       An ego reduction kit

A bubbly woman in white works in a stark white, horizon-less store that houses stark white shelves packed with vague, colorful boxes. Her name is Flo, she’s a part-time biker, she has a merry-go-round, and she’s often visited by guardedly nervous men who wear light blue suits and have no spine.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Car insurance

b)      Wimp repellent

c)       Dr. Seuss’s new book, ‘Horton Hears an Emasculated Who!’

A young Asian-looking woman sees air bubbles in a store aquarium. A young Indian-looking man sees workers mixing up concrete in a wheelbarrow. A young soccer mom sees kids having a water balloon fight. They all rush home, fire up an online conference, and prototype a brilliant water delivery system that looks suspiciously like a cement-spackled party favor in a fish tank.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Online conference software

b)      A super-sized pallet of paper towels

c)       A Toys-R-Us ‘My First Aqueduct’ kit

A cocky, evil man who goes by the unlikely name of ‘Mayhem’ and is indestructible (you just don’t get cockier than that) gets hit by a train, bounces off your car, gets electrocuted, is sucked through a large, bladed farm implement, gets attacked by escaped mental patients wielding #1 pencils, and ends up crashing through your roof.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Property insurance

b)      An ethics-optional, results-oriented realtor

c)       A machine-washable anti-Mayhem parka

A lady wants to quit smoking. We know how badly she wants to quit because she takes long walks with her boyfriend and her kids do their homework in the kitchen. A disembodied announcer’s voice recommends she try a product that has absolutely nothing to do with smoking. On the plus side, however, the product can cause “occasional, discomforting side-effects” ranging from dry mouth to suicide, including medical conditions so vile that we won’t discuss them here, but they rhyme with ‘spectral breeding.’ In rare cases, totally innocent dogs in entirely different neighborhoods may spontaneously explode.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Anti-depression medicine

b)      Pet-store-issue “Now – in your time of loss” sympathy card value packs

c)       Another parka

A grizzled man’s aging muscle car overheats in the desert. Oddly enough, this happens near the only gas station within 450 miles. At the station, the man grabs a bottle of water, refills his radiator, and drives away. He never bothers to speak to the equally grizzled proprietor. We’re pretty sure he didn’t pay for the water, either.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Sexual dysfunction medicine

b)      Three online global activists who prototype water delivery systems

c)       Eight weeks of etiquette classes

A father and daughter are shooting hoops in their driveway, accompanied by a giant imaginary tiger that’s standing on its hind legs and grinning like Al Roker on assignment in Phoenix. They finish and go inside for breakfast. As they eat, the tiger stands in the background, grinning and yelling about something being great. Other than a red bandanna, the tiger is stark naked.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Breakfast cereal

b)      Tickets to the annual ‘Fauna in the Sauna’ safari at the Playboy Mansion

c)       Anti-psychotic medication

The walls in your home are being attacked by a computer-generated monster that looks like something Stephen King might have dreamed up one night after eating too much pizza.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Pest control

b)      Martha Stewart’s new book, ’101 Affordable Ways To Entertain In A Condemned Building’

c)       Stephen King’s new book, ‘Stomach’

A wealthy lady takes a decorative plate from her curio cabinet, grabs a hammer, and smashes the plate, causing her maid to momentarily stop cleaning. So the lady fires the maid, then logs in to Monster.com and reactivates her ad: ‘WANTED: Unappreciated menial to do condescending work for insulting wages. Preference given to illegals who hail from predominately Catholic countries.’ The lady then grabs a shard from the shattered china, runs to the museum, and uses it to repair a painting.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Investment funds

b)      A robot floor sweeper

c)       A robot floor sweeper with a Catholic accent

There’s a battle for Earth. A pudgy, mute animated character is slinging tires at a giant marauding gas tank. The giant gas tank has monstrous tentacles, each terminating in a gas nozzle. It’s hard to pinpoint the mute animated character: he could be the puffy white mascot from a tire company in France, or that giant grinning nautical marshmallow man from ‘Ghostbusters,’ or a mid-winter Barney Frank.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Document-management services

b)      Barack Obama’s new book, ‘How I Liberated France’

c)       A flex-fuel vehicle with the ‘Marauding Giant Collision Alert, and Floor Mats’ option package

A man in an unbelievably cheap suit and what is, hands-down, the world’s worst hairpiece, looks directly into the camera and asks you several times if you’ve been injured.

Order now! But…what?

a)      Legal services

b)      A handgun and several rounds of ammunition

c)       O.J. Simpson’s new book, ‘I Didn’t Injure You, But If I Had, Here’s How I Would Have Done It’

~~-~~-~~-~~

Well, I hope this little exercise helped better prepare you for America’s unending, ongoing onslaught of TV commercials. After all, in the Battle for the Wallet Bulge, you need to gird your loins, although that could chafe your … um … girdage.

And when you get to the ‘ enough TV already!’ stage, give me a shout. I can get you a sweet deal on a bat.

Louisville, that is. Not Vampire.

S*M*A*S*H

(Welcome to the 38th Parallel…universe!)

Let’s play a game. Basically, it’s a ‘fact or fiction’ quiz involving that zany Pacific Rim fun park, North Korea. I call it “Global Thermonuclear War and the Chia Pet.”

I have the easy part. For the next few minutes, I’m going to write stuff about North Korea, and some of the stuff, I’m just gonna make up.

Yours is the tough job. You have to figure out which bits are true and which aren’t. And if you’re familiar with the madcap antics of North Korea’s Fearless Leader and his fun-loving forebears, you know that picking out the true bits is gonna get a bit tricky.

Ready? Good luck!

~~-~~-~~-~~

Korea is thought to be one of the oldest countries on Earth, with signs of population since the Lower Paleolithic (literal translation: ‘un-tanned lithics’). In fact, the area we now call Korea has been inhabited for 400,003 years.

“Get out,” you skeptics out there may be skepticizing. “400,003? What do you mean, three?“

Yes. 400,003 years. I have this on good authority, because when a friend of mine visited Korea, her tour guide said Korea had been inhabited for 400,000 years, and the tour was three years ago.

(I told you this was gonna be tricky…)

However, despite all those SPF30-obsessed lithics, things in Korea got off to a slow start. In fact, it wasn’t until the year 1000 BC that the first Korean pottery turned up. So not much happened for the first 399,007 years (yes, seven). In terms of getting anything productive done, protean Korea was a lot like the US Congress.

Finally, in 2333 BC, the ancient Korean kingdom of Gojoseon (literal translation: ‘Samsung’) was established by Dangun Wanggeom (literal translation: ‘Steve’). Dangun claimed to be descended from heaven (literal translation: ‘ego the size of Godzilla’); however, he needn’t have rushed down here; after all, he had some 1300 years to kill before anybody even invented pottery. Thankfully for Dangun, though, somebody invented soju. (literal translation: ‘Bud Lite’)

According to legends, Dangun was out clubbing one night when, depending on which legend you read, one of two things happened: either he ran into a tiger and a bear that could talk, or else he’d invented the DUI. Legend says the two misguided animals petitioned Dangun to turn them into humans (they didn’t know any better, because ‘People‘ magazine hadn’t been invented yet). Dangun responded rather cryptically: he gave the tiger and the bear twenty cloves of garlic and a bundle of mugwort, and told them to avoid sunlight for 100 days (see ‘un-tanned lithics’). After a few days of mugwort, the tiger gave up, bounded off, and ate a yak. But the bear persevered and became a woman who wore lots of turquoise, enrolled in a pottery class, and demanded free contraception.

(I told you this was gonna be tricky…)

Then, to the bear’s great surprise, some 5000 years passed, which is the kind of thing that can happen when you’re a mythical shape-shifting bear in some guy’s humor column. Fast-forward to 1392 AD, when the Joseon Dynasty was established by an up-and-coming general who, with a straight face, called himself Yi Seong-gye. General Yi built a famous Korean palace, which he named Gyeongbokgung. (literal translation: ‘About Four Billion Points in Scrabble’)

Naval factoid: In 1598, another Yi, Admiral Yi Sun-sin, invented something called the turtle ship, a maritime nightmare which struck fear in the hearts of navies everywhere, particularly navies with ships modeled after small insects, or pond algae.

Not surprisingly then, over the millennia, the Korean peninsula has been marauded by most everyone except France: brutally invasive forces like China, Japan, Russia, Mongolia, Detroit, Barbra Streisand, and Samsung. Even the United Kingdom occupied tiny Geomun Island in 1885, but left almost immediately, possibly due to the British navy having no at-hand anti-turtle-ship tactics. (Hearing this news, France immediately surrendered to a Belgian tortoise.)

Finally, in 1919, the local population decided to get involved, since they’d already, like, invented pottery and stuff. Independence rallies broke out on 1 March 1919, and in one of those classically inscrutable Far Eastern moments, the uprising was dubbed ‘the March 1st Movement.’

(I told you this was gonna be tricky…)

In 1948, Kim il-Sung founded the modern nation of North Korea, became Prime Minister, and instituted his own variant of communism, which revolved around pottery co-ops, some kind of seasoned cabbage, and state-owned turtles.

Two years later, Korea was invaded by a movie starring Elliot Gould and Donald Sutherland; then invaded again by a TV show starring Alan Alda and a staggeringly unattractive woman named Jamie Farr (no relation to the bear).

Network factoid: Sutherland’s son, Keister, would later star in a TV show called ‘24,’ so named for the number of times each week that Keister’s character would grab his cell phone and shout, “Chloe, send it now!”

Kim il-Sung is best known for his 1994 nuclear weapons talks with erstwhile US President Jimmy Carter, a world-changing summit during which both leaders complimented each other’s teeth.

Following Kim il-Sung’s death later that year (ruled a coincidence; however, Carter’s teeth were briefly detained for questioning), the first Kim was succeeded by a string of Kims, including Kim Jong-il, Kim Chi, Kim Novak, Kim Basinger, and Korea’s current Fearless Leader, Kim Jong Dongi Kong.

You’re probably familiar with Kim Jong Dongi Kong and his country’s current attempts to successfully launch WMD-type missiles, which are North Korea’s chief export, if you don’t count ursine-shaped anti-misogynist pottery. Their latest launch attempt stayed aloft for nearly 90 seconds before it fragmented and drowned in the Yellow Sea, taking out a turtle ship and two vacationing shrimp. In response to the launch, Iran immediately placed an order for two dozen missiles, and shrimp fried rice, while Ron Paul demanded we withdraw our troops from Red Lobster.

But for pure entertainment value, no Kim could touch Dongi Kong’s dad, Kim Jong-il.

Kim Jong-il was – how can we put this delicately … let’s see … remember that guy in ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest‘ who, day after day after day, just waltzed around the ward with himself? Imagine that guy, but in a military green leisure suit and a Chia Pet hat. That’s Kim Jong-il. I mean the man was his own magical mystery tour. First, the hair. His head looked like it was being attacked by a bear-fur-covered bamboo steamer. He wore oversized glasses so outlandish they would embarrass Elton John. Overly sensitive about his diminutive height, he wore platform shoes that would make a pole dancer drool.

Circa 1970 pimp shoes – always a good choice with military green leisure suits.

Kim Jong-il spent over $700,000 a year on cognac, according to family sources (Ma Jong). Reportedly, he never used the toilet, and he could levitate on demand. He was also immortal, which, coupled with the cognac, is a long time to not go to the bathroom.

To conclude our game, let’s quickly calibrate your ‘Kim’ quotient, shall we?

According to Kim’s official biography, what was unusual about his birth?

A)     A new star appeared in the sky

B)      The OB/GYN administered a cognac IV

C)      The OB/GYN forgot the cognac, and was executed

D)     At birth, he was as tall as he would ever get

What was Kim’s traditional title?

A)     Dear Leader

B)      Dear Abby

C)      Steve

D)     Punkin Butt

What ceremonial post does Kim still hold, despite being dead?

A)     President for Eternity

B)      Secretary General for Eternity

C)      All-Seeing Deity of Stuff That Can Be All-Seen From A Height of, Say, 40 Inches, Give or Take

D)     Bladder Master

Based on some reports, Kim once studied in which maritime location?

A)     The Isle of Malta

B)      The Isle of Coney

C)      Fantasy Island

D)     Atlantis

How tall is Kim?

A)     5 foot 3

B)      3 foot 5

C)      He’s actually 6 foot 8, but due to an humble respect for others, he stoops in public

D)     What, now?

According to North Korea’s news agency, what record did Kim set during his first-ever round of golf?

A)     He scored eleven holes-in-one

B)      He scored eleven holes-in-one, on the front nine

C)      He had six caddies executed

D)     At the turn, he consumed $61,000 worth of Hennessy

What gift did US Secretary of State Madeleine Albright give Kim when she visited in 2000?

A)     A basketball signed by Michael Jordan

B)      A miniature golf scorecard signed by Billy Barty

C)      Michael Jordan

D)     Bill Clinton’s Singapore rolodex

In 2001, Kim Jong-il’s eldest son, Kim Jong-nam, embarrassed the entire nation. How?

A)     He was arrested with a false passport at Tokyo’s airport

B)      During a heated game of Scrabble, he played the word AA

C)      At Gyeongbokgung Palace, he tore that ‘Do Not Remove’ tag off a mattress

D)     He was spotted at a club doing soju shooters with Britney Spears

According to a diplomatic source, what favorite thing did Kim have flown in regularly?

A)     Live lobsters

B)      Crates of cognac and pallets of ‘Depends’

C)      Randy Newman’s ‘Little Criminals’ album with the song ‘Short People’ removed

D)     Britney Spears

~~-~~-~~-~~

So, that’s where we stand. That’s the Korean situation in a nuthou … er, nutshell. Now, I guess, it’s up to the new Kim to write the next chapter. Will he take the reins, or will he barter with wistful bears? Will he grow into his global responsibilities, or will he out-odd his old man?

Most importantly – will Fearless Leader get to go to the bathroom?

Pictures in Search of a Caption

Budget cuts continue to plague NASA, SETI and Biff's Discount Pizza Delivery
"Let me guess, Mac," snapped the detective. "You didn't know it was loaded."
Looking back, perhaps Elwood had overthought his 'male dysfunction' issues
Tonight! On an all-new 'Carnival Divorce Bingo!'
At age 93, Geraldo Rivera introduces yet another Aruba theory
Sadly, Toby's patented 'Litter Box Ejector Cannon' forgot to factor in the ceiling
King Torvald finalizes his plans to conquer Unit 4-B
A desperate Willy Loman resorts to in-home demonstrations
Tensions continued to mount, but privately, world leaders doubted the nuclear capabilities of Northeast Korea
Cat Discipline? There's an app for that!

iNertia, v2.0

(Lazy? There's an app for that.)

As a career single guy, I'm constantly on the lookout for time-saving devices, as long as the looking doesn't take too much effort.

"But Barry," you may say, "time-saving devices are for lazy people, not single guys." And I may reply, after I run several hundred yards away because I don't really know you and I have no idea how gracefully you handle confrontation, "Shut up." (I'll reply loudly, so you can hear me.)

See, being lazy and being a single guy are really just two ways of saying the same thing. And, being lazy, I'm rarely ever tempted to say the same thing twice. Heck, sometimes I need a coffee infusion, or some vague, looming threat of pending physical violence, before I'll bother saying something once.

And as mentioned, I'm 'career' lazy. I'm lazy like somebody was handing out prizes…as if there was some International Sloth Awareness awards committee, who finally had to ask me to stay home this year and give somebody else a chance.

But other than the ISA judges, most people don't appreciate how much effort it takes to be inert.

Here's how lazy  I am: recently, to save an entire minute a day, I quit shaving and just grew a beard. But then I spent more time scratching at my face than I'd ever spent scraping it. So, next, in a misguided effort to be lazy and cool, I went with a mustache and chin beard (also known as a 'goatee' or a 'Van Dyke' or, in traveling circus circles, 'Fatima the Geek Lady'). Basically, I was walking around in public, randomly frightening children, with the facial hair equivalent of a love child fathered by Colonel Sanders and Old Scratch.

That partial hair ploy turned out to be an even more idiotic idea on my part, because now, not only did I have to shave – I had to not shave, too. I had to shave in zones. I had to shave and stay in the lines. I had turned my head into a kindergarten coloring book, but without a graham cracker. Or a nap.

I'd shave my head entirely, but I'm too lazy to calculate the Band-Aid budget.

Career single guys are a breed apart. In more ways than you might imagine, single guys are different from people who have kids and other tax deductions. I've seen it. I've been to homes that house whole families. Family people are used to a residual level of background noise. In my house, if I hear a noise I didn't make, someone's breaking in.

And single guys jealously guard that privacy, that silence, that inertia. Single guys have even learned how to doze without interruption while watching FoxNews, a network that has adopted the marketing technique of screaming "BREAKING NEWS" every time a plane crashes, or doesn't crash, or lands, or takes off, or taxis, or boards, or is on time, or is delayed, or gets bought, or sold, or cleaned.

However, don't confuse the single guy with his sociological cousin, the bachelor. Sure, on the surface, single guys and bachelors may seem the same:

1)      No one is barking in their ear, "See? I told you, you should've turned left!"

2)      No one is barking in their ear, "See? I told you about those socks!"

3)      They're lost, and their socks don't match.

But internally, we're wired differently. Bachelors don't have time to be lazy, because bachelors are still 'on the market.' 'On the market' means bachelors who are still looking for women who are 'available,' because these bachelors still think themselves 'a good catch,' even though they are 'older than Methuselah' and are wearing 'purchased hair' and 'orthopedic socks.' All of this combines to make bachelors 'funny to watch,' not to mention 'stupid.'

To be fair, though, in some ways, we're a lot alike, too. Single guys and bachelors both leap for the television whenever some stiletto-sporting TV news hair helmet mentions that they're about to show "an info-graphic."

(It's not our fault. See, "Coming up, an info-graphic" sounds just like "Coming up, a nympho-graphic," especially if you're 'stupid' or you just dropped your hair.)

So, to revisit our original question: why bother saying 'single guy' and 'lazy'? It would be like saying you're a long-tailed cat and nervous, or saying you're in a Detroit auto union and drinking during lunch.

"But Barry," you may say, "if you're so lazy, why do you say 'single guy' when 'lazy' takes less time to say?" And, this time, I may not reply to you at all, because you've now entered Barking In My Ear Land, and I'll be too busy making sure I never invited you to my house by mistake.

But I'll answer your question anyway, since you asked, and since I need about 75 more words for this week's humor column so that I can submit it to both surviving American newspapers so the editors can reject it without bothering to comment. The reason I prefer to say 'single guy' instead of 'lazy' is rooted in my long-standing addiction to (and fascination with) one of the best board games of all time, Scrabble.

Scrabble puts a high premium on certain special  letters, like Z, Q, and the inter-office correspondence of Dick Cheney. So I naturally respect things like the letter Z, and the letter Q, and Dick Cheney, especially during quail season.

(By the way, playing the word 'quail' in Scrabble is one of those life-changing victories that hits a single guy where it counts, like winning a beer lottery, or seeing an info-graphic.)

But this week I may have stumbled upon the absolute ultimate in lazy. Witness:

Somewhere out there, a proud author published his eBook, entitled Progeny, and (rightly) started firing off marketing efforts to help sell the book. I wish him nothing but the best of luck, of course. I wish him tons of sales. I wish him a spot on Oprah's speed dial. I wish him yachts, and I wish him cramps accrued from signing royalty checks, and I wish him a severely disorienting mental condition that leaves him convinced that I'm his sole heir.

However, among his promotional efforts, he bulk-blasted a marketing email, and here's how it read:

FREE PROGENY ON YOUR KINDLE!

Wow. Free, virtual kids.

Now that's lazy.

Facebook’s Timeline (for Dummies)

(Now this is something new: software that hates you back)

It’s Tuesday, about 10am, and in case you hadn’t noticed, Facebook has changed its look-and-feel again. Seriously. Again. That’s the third time they’ve reworked themselves this week. And it’s only Tuesday, about 10am.

Facebook is the only website on Earth that’s rendered in pencil.

This week’s new version of the Facebook interface is being marketed as the “Timeline,” because “Timeline” sounds futuristic and hip, and because “Irritating Piece of Junk” was already taken.

Now, we’re not here to pass judgment on Facebook; after all, there are now an estimated 700 million Facebook subscribers, as of Tuesday, about 10am. To put that in perspective, if Facebook was a country, it would be the third largest country on the planet, and Ron Paul would be demanding that we get our troops out of Facebook.

Over 700 million subscribers. That’s a staggering success story, not to mention the potential religious implications of 700 million people all typing OMG at the same time.

So, before the next Facebook makeover (scheduled for Tuesday, about 11am), let’s review some of the new features of Timeline!

Timeline is a way to let you share your entire life’s story online, by posting an embarrassing amount of personal information on a non-secure website that’s potentially available to more bipeds than are listed in Madonna’s rolodex.

The genius underpinning Timeline can be encapsulated by reviewing this list of Timeline’s design goals:

Analyze which features users like, and then hide them
Analyze which menus users like, and then rename them (if it’s a Friday, or an HR-designated “Marquis de Sade Day,” remove the menus entirely)
Randomly shuffle sections of the user’s profile page so the sections show up in rude, nonsensical locations (including entirely different websites, or universes)

Timeline now allows you to customize your Facebook page based on what type of Facebook user you are. Most Facebook users fall into one of these categories:

The Steno: Champion of the sentence fragment, which is sometimes no more than just an acronym, like LOL, OMG, TMI or ROTFLMAO. The Steno hasn’t composed a complete sentence since the second grade. (the sentence was “Feed me.”) Probably works in network television advertising, or toxic waste management, which is redundant. IMHO.
Captain Lockjaw: This is the guy who finds it impossible to complete a train of thought without tacking on a little smiley face caboose. Without the smiley face, Captain Lockjaw can’t say anything, or reply to anything, or perform internal bodily functions like generating enzymes.
The Poster Child: Never offers any actual syllables, but just spends all day forwarding giant images of family, forest animals, pets, blurred office parties, or witty, trenchant quips and bromides like “There is No I in Team” and “I Heart Vampire Topiary.”
Rasputin (aka, The Lurker): This is the mysterious, mute friend who never makes himself known. Never says a word. Never posts, never replies. Just…lurks. You know he’s there, watching…waiting. Rasputin’s like an ex-girlfriend that wants her albums back.
Debbie Detritus: Debbie is that friend who invites you to events like the Obese Toenail Festival (next weekend in Rancid Gutter, Oklahoma). Debbie also sends you things…things that make you want to send Debbie to a very strict Spanish Inquisition revival: Debbie has sent you a Yak Cookie! Debbie has sent you a Timothy Leary Cocktail! Debbie wants you to have a Beaver Gland Corsage Inhaler!
The Shrieker: TWO WORDS – CAPS LOCK
The Exclaimer!: You love ‘em!! Or you hate ‘em!!!! But you can always gauge the intensity of their excitement, agreement, or anger by counting the number of exclamation marks they use!!!!!
The Adam Sandler Trump Card: This friend can’t help himself. He must reply to every comment, and he thinks his replies are hilarious. It’s because of people like this that mankind invented euthanasia.
The Reality Show Star: You know this one, too well. “I’m dropping little Tad off at soccer practice!” “I have to go to work!” “I’m on the way to work!” “I’m about to have some soup! Yum!” “I’m almost at work!” “My organs are generating enzymes! LOL!” “I’m growing faint from an internal hemorrhage! LOL!”
The Giver: Here’s that friend who says nothing, but shares everything. The Giver hasn’t had an original thought since naming their first pet (Spot). It makes you wonder if they even own a keyboard.
Bouncy Betty: Betty demands that you “like” something she saw because it’s just the cutest thing you ever saw in your whole life! (Betty is closely related to The Exclaimer!)
The Followers of Saint Biden: This is the group that can’t string six words together without cursing. They’re also known for their ability to turn any conversation into a double entendre: if someone comments, “I read where Eleanor Roosevelt once paved her driveway,” a Follower will snort and toss back, “Yeah, I’d like to pave her driveway.”
The Free Thinkre: This free spirit believes they exist on a plane beyond literacy, and that spelling, grammar and punctuation are too Victorian for social media. They likely stare into the sky a lot and wear loose-fitting clothes. For the record, may I say this about the Free Thinkres:  there wrong

Security, of course, is paramount in Timeline, and by paramount we mean insanely complicated. To take full advantage of the new security settings, follow these easy steps:

Click “About”
Curse mildly, then click “About” again, because while you were clicking “About” the first time, Timeline updated your status
Click “My Secure Stuff”
Buy two Farmville un-hatched yak egg coupon biscuits from the Mafia dwarf, after you’ve unlocked the Level Two cabbage dragon formerly held captive by the Deviated Septum of Ortho.
Click “My Yak Yolk”
Mop up the yak yolk with the dwarf
Click “My Secure Stuff” again
Choose “Encrypt Me”
Facebook will generate a security code, which you should remember
Log out and log back in
Click “y-May ecure-Say uff-Stay”
Enter your security code, which you forgot
Choose who can access your medical records, your banking information, and your fully-mapped genome
Click “Save”
Curse mildly, because your Timeline session has timed out
See Step 1

Alternatively, here’s a little “geek insider” secret; a fun way to take full advantage of the tightest Facebook security possible:

Click “About”
Take note of all that highly personal information of yours, that’s potentially available to over 700 million people (as of 10am)
Google the customer support phone number for Facebook
Call the number
Unsubscribe

Anyway, we hope this little primer helps, and we just know you’ll enjoy the new Timeline!

If you hurry.