Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 52

Want to help name my next book?

Yes, you too can be a famous editor and earn absolutely nothing!

Pick a title you like, or suggest one of your own…

Take Our Poll

Be a famous editor and earn nothing!

Take Our Poll

Super Bowl XLVI, Abby Redux VIII

(Our favorite grumpy columnist finally meets her neighbors)

This week, the hottest news stories in America are

The Super Bowl
The Presidential campaign
Various people butchering the National Anthem

(Oddly enough, all of these topics involve Roseanne Barr. Well, not all at once.)

So, naturally, given these world-shaping stories that are competing for everyone's attention, I'm going to address the obvious burning topic:

Apartment maintenance.

And we'll let Abby handle the butchering.

Now, for those of you who haven't met her, Abby Redux is an advice columnist who drops by from time to time. Abby has several interesting characteristics:

She has the same first name as another famous advice columnist
She has a very bad attitude, an extremely cynical demeanor, and no patience whatsoever
She doesn't actually exist

(Oddly enough, neither does Rosanne Barr. Well, not all at once.)

Normally, Abby fields questions about life, love, and relationships, and then helpfully lobs back scathing insults. But this week, things got weird, as things sometimes will, especially when you're making them up. This week, we've got her handling emails – maintenance requests (yes, they're real) from residents (no, they're not real) at Abby's apartment community, Belle Leigh Acres. (also not real, but it should be)

And if you think there's a whole lot of unreality going on here, you should see the Presidential campaign…

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The vent keeps running and won't turn off.

Signed, Tony

Dear Tony,

Don't worry about it. But please let us know if the light starts sucking air out of the room.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The toilet runs inside itself.

Signed, Rey

Dear Rey,

We'll get you a more outgoing toilet.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The heater will not turn on at all, and when it does, it won't blow hot air.

Signed, Marla

Dear Marla,

Won't turn on at all, eh? Except when it does, huh? Okay, here's the plan. We won't come fix it, but when we do, we won't not fix it. At all.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The fridge light is out again.

Signed, Unit 311

Dear 311,

Remember, earlier this year? Our little "plugging in the appliances" tutorial? Remember?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The disposal has started smoking.

Signed, Hubert

Dear Hubert,

You should see my place. The microwave has started drinking, the Panini machine's playing poker till all hours, and the vanity mirror's addicted to vampire novels.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The towel rack in 114 needs a drywall nil.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

We'll be sure to not do anything.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The fridge light is out again.

Signed, Unit 311

Dear 311,

We'll fix it again. In the meantime, shine the vent on it.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The garbage disposal doesn't work. It hasn't worked since John moved in.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

Please have John stop living under the sink. Obviously, he rusts.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The kitchen lights are leaking.

Signed, Andrea

Dear Andrea,

Do you know Tony, the guy with the running vent?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The widow in the master bedroom is cracked.

Signed, Bruce

Dear Bruce,

That's your opinion. Listen, there's a guy down the hall who lives under his sink.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The tenant fell and put a hole in the wall.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

The landlord will send condolences and then put a hole in the tenant's deposit.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The fridge light is out again. This has happened before.

Signed, Unit 311

Dear 311,

Happened before what?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

Please remove the hair from the guest bathroom, which belonged to the previous owner.

Signed, Anna

Dear Anna,

Well, of course the bathroom belonged to the previous owner. The hair, though? That could be anybody's. I suggest you shower at the Y.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

There's a dead frog or mouse in the third bedroom.

Signed, Kamir

Dear Kamir,

I'm gonna need to know if it's a frog or a mouse. We're a Union shop.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The washer damaged our trowels.

Signed, Tom & Lisa

Dear T&L,

Yeah, when it comes to shovels, washing machines can be a bit finicky. You might want to look into going outside to hose down your garden tools. Have you buffet-slayers considered eating with forks, like normal-sized people?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The ice maker needs to be checked to see if it is working in the off position.

Signed, Joe

Dear Joe,

I'm gonna go out on a limb here – you've never been a returning 'Jeopardy' champion, have you, Joe?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

There is a wet spot in the living room floor that is wet.

Signed, Cissy

Dear Cissy,

Shut up.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The AC is leaking through the wall. The resident stated that this happened last summer.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

It happened last summer, and now they're whining? Tell them to review the 'Statutes of Limitations' section in our Resident Manual. Tell them to review it last summer.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The dishwasher leaks when in use from the bottom.

Signed, Sid

Dear Sid,

Yeah, I would think it might.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

There appears to be a wet spot on the left as you come in. The carpet stays wet. There is a dog in the home.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

Shoot the dog. If you think it'll help, shoot the carpet, too.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

This is a 2nd request. The first request was pickled up by maintenance.

Signed, Freddie

Dear Freddie,

Odd that you should choose the word "pickled." Wait till you see our night watchman.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The bathroom fan in 240 is not working. She would like Jose to do in.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

Yeah, I just bet she would.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

I have ants in my kitchen. Come any time, I only have a cat.

Signed, Antonio

Dear Antonio,

So you have ants and a cat. You, sir, are in serious violation of our pet policy.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

Over half the home is without power. Please wear booties.

Signed, Tammy in 5-D

Dear Tammy,

Sorry, it's Jose's night to wear the booties.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The smoke alarm was going off for no reason and they smell a burning odor.

Signed, Call Center

Dear Call Center,

Mmm hmm. So, what part of 'for no reason' stumped you guys?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The outside lights in the common areas are all out inside the building.

Signed, LeeAnn

Dear LeeAnn,

Let me guess, sweetheart. English is a second language.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

Refrigerator is smoking in back.

Signed, Mary

Dear Mary,

Another fridge hittin' the pipe, eh? Okay, hang on, I'll contact Chilled Protective Services. We've got to nip these things in the bud.

By the way, you didn't see my Panini machine out there, did you?

~-~-~-~-~-~

Dear Abby Redux,

The resident's head is not coming on.

Signed, Call Center

Neither is yours, Call Center.

Neither is yours.

~-~-~-~-~-~

Uncommon Sense

(A competency quiz for Baby Boomers)

My generation's in trouble.

I don't mean in trouble with the law, or anything so dramatic as that. We already went through that phase, back in "the day," and we quickly got over the "glamor" of getting arrested.

Admittedly, we were maniacs. We played outside … OUTSIDE! (though not in our school clothes) We rode bikes, without helmets, and didn't die. We played tag, and dodge-ball, and threw rocks, and didn't die. So we might have been rash, at times. But we weren't stupid.

And that's my point. We used to be smart. Because we used to have to remember stuff, like Presidents, and state capitals, and our phone number. Remembering to change out of our school clothes, and not to slam the screen door. Remembering how to play, and dodge rocks, and win, and lose. And not die.

But then we grew up. (Well, many of us grew up. Well, some of us. Well, you.) And at some point we ceded control. Now, we get all our knowledge from Google, and all our truth from snopes.com.

Now, we don't have to remember anything. We just hop online, google it, verify it, use it, and forget it.

And now look at us Boomers. We're as ignorant as a Senator at an ethics hearing – and as insecure as an eclair at a Paula Deen picnic.

We're the first generation who would ever dream of taking the time to reply to an opinion survey with the response 'no opinion.' And forget naming the fifty state capitals – without a computer, we can't name fifty numbers. (But we don't have to. There's an app for that.)

So, in hopes of helping exercise atrophied craniums everywhere, we've cobbled together this handy Common Sense Quiz. It's guaranteed to be completely fraudulent; however, it's staggeringly useless. (this has been confirmed by snopes.com)

Ready? Let's begin.

~~~~~~~~~

What's the most abundant metal in the Earth's core?

Aluminum
Dirt
Led Zeppelin

Can you name three of the original states?

Maryland, Virginia and Conneti … Cunect … Kinnec … Georgia
Maryland, Clemson and Boston College
No

If you rearranged the letters "PZOMKSLA" you would have

the name of an animal
the name of a country
the name of an Eastern European hockey player
wasted several minutes

A farmer has thirteen cows. A bolt of lightning kills all but five of them. How many cows survived?

Eight
Five
None. The farmer also kept zoo animals. Then one day, he went insane, released them, and they ate all the cows.

ESSAY QUESTION:  Mary, who is sixteen years old, is four times as old as her brother, who likes to wear Mary's clothes. How old will Mary be when her brother is eligible for early parole?

Why are there 100 Senators in the Senate?

The Constitution provides for two Senators from each state.
The Founding Fathers only budgeted for 100 chairs.
In my entire life, I have never seen 100 Senators in the Senate, and neither have you.

Complete the following sentence:  When faced with unexpected events, _____

I know I can rise to the challenge.
I wonder if I can cope.
I buckle like the fender on an electric car.

What do you put in a toaster?

Toast
Bread
Barry Manilow CDs

Which one of the four is least like the other three?

Dog
Coyote
Wolf
John Edwards

Who presides over your local government?

My County Commissioners
My Mayor and community council
My cousin's stepfather, Big Tony

Which one of the four is least like the other three?

Canine
Incisor
Molar
John Edwards

ESSAY QUESTION:  A friend you believed to be close suddenly breaks off all communication for no apparent reason. You leave phone messages but get no reply. How long do you wait before de-friending her, updating your Facebook status, and flaming her reputation?

In terms of keeping appointments, I am likely to arrive

Slightly early
Slightly late
Yes, I am.

What kinds of words are used in the following sentences:  "Wow! My grandpa did a backflip!"

Two nouns, one verb, and an interjection
An action, a reaction and an injunction
Lies

Sally has three coins equaling fifty-five cents. One of the coins is not a nickel. What are the three coins?

Two quarters and a nickel.
One half-dollar and three very strange pennies.
Someone else's. Sally is a kleptomaniac.

For what chemical process do plants need sunlight, carbon dioxide, and water?

Photojournalism
Precipitation
Plant sex

ESSAY QUESTION:  You're driving a bus from Jacksonville to Miami. At St. Augustine, 11 people get on the bus. At Daytona, 3 riders get off and 9 get on. In Boca Raton, 4 more passengers climb on and 3 exit the bus. How many passengers will make it all the way to Miami if the toothless guy in the back wearing the choir robe and fur hat keeps arguing with the luggage rack?

"Acquiesce" is the opposite of

Agree
Disagree
Quiesce

Who elects the President of the United States?

The electoral college
The citizens of the United States
An evil international banking consortium that would flick you off this planet like a limp mouse carcass

Complete the following sentence:  I did _____ on my grammar test.

good
well
not cheat much
a backflip

What is the introduction to the Constitution called?

The Pre-Ramble
The Disclaimer
The Acquiescence

ESSAY QUESTION:  Johnny needs seventeen bottles of water from the store. Johnny can only carry three bottles of water at a time. What do you suppose is going on at Johnny's house that requires all that water?

During a morning break at work, I usually take the opportunity to

Chat with my coworkers
Have some time to myself
Cart off some more office supplies
Detox

Complete the following sentence:  As a rule, politicians should be _____.

in favor of term limits
inspired by a humble, public-serving nature
indicted

Jack had two rabbits. Then his mom gave him a turtle and another rabbit. How many rabbits does Jack have now?

Counting the turtle?
Could be dozens. You know how rabbits can be when it comes to photojournalism. They're worse than plants. Or John Edwards.
Two. He swapped the new one for fifty-five cents with Sally.

~~~~~~~~~

So, how'd you do? Feeling smarter already, aren't you? Excellent!

And now, where do we go from here?

I have no clue.

Google it.

Southern Discomfort

(The critical role of sausage biscuits in South Carolina politics)

You might have missed it. You might have slept right through it. After all, it took place on a lazy mid-winter Saturday.

Plus, the college football season was over, having been replaced by the wildly popular sport of league bowling, where you almost never get to see any serious violence.

So you might have missed it. Maybe you were busy preparing your tailgating smorgasbord, before watching the breathtaking Professional Bowling US Open (brought to you by Lumber Liquidators!), featuring all your favorite Alley Warriors, who, for some unexplained reason, all have names like Mike Wzmlrzksi.

But this Saturday, here in South Carolina, we were getting ready to pick the next President.

Right after breakfast.

See, all this week, we've been trying our best to be polite, as the full slate of candidates careened across our state – staffers, know-it-alls, nabobs and news crews in tow – tying up traffic and babbling bromides, kissing hands and shaking babies, disrupting routine and interrupting breakfast, at diner after diner after diner.

Don't get me wrong – in South Carolina, our role in picking a President is a responsibility we take very seriously … after we eat. In South Carolina, politics is sanctified.

But breakfast? Breakfast is imbued.

After all, it's in the Constitution, isn't it? Life, liberty and the pursuit of a Happy Meal.

Anyway, in case you missed it, here's a handy recap of South Carolina's Presidential Primary Day 2012. The blow-by-blow, if you will, the way I saw it.

After breakfast.

7.00am

In polling places all across the state, several million TV news crews poise, countdown "three, two, one, roll tape!" and simultaneously point their cameras at … nothing. A bunch of empty rooms.

Remember, it's Saturday morning, it's raining, and polling places don't offer coffee.

8.00am

At a rally in Columbia, Governor Nikki Haley strongly endorses Mitt Romney, citing the undisputable fact that both their last names end in "ey." Former Governor Mark Sanford was scheduled to appear, but he misread his map and wound up at a Brazilian micro-brewery.

8.01am

Current President Barack Obama surges ahead of all other candidates in the Democrat primary, or would have done, if there were any other candidates in the Democrat primary.

The incumbent reacts by singing four notes of "Pretty Woman" from the third tee.

9.00am

A poll conducted by Clemson University shows Newt Gingrich holding a slight lead. This confuses university officials, who were not aware that the school even had a Department of Statistics. Clemson's arch-rivals at the University of South Carolina quickly respond by getting arrested for disorderly conduct.

10.00am

Due to a scheduling conflict, two Republican candidates show up, at the same time, at Tommy's Ham House in Greenville. The combined weight of the egos collapses the floor, injuring seven patrons and 42,000 sausage biscuits.

10.30am

Despite heavy rainfall, poll-watchers say that voter turnout is very high. And contrary to some reports, primary voters in South Carolina, after voting, are NOT given stickers saying "I Done Voted."

That's what happens in North Carolina.

11.00am

Responding to a 'conspiracy theory' heckler at a Political Christian Scientist Monitor Versus Merrimack rally in Charleston, incumbent Barack Obama officially denies that he has ever been to Mars.

Ron Paul immediately demands that we withdraw our troops from Fort Sumter.

11.30am

Mitt Romney points out that "newt" is a synonym for "salamander." Newt Gingrich fires back that Mitt's first name is Willard, the name of a movie about a boy who likes rats.

Ron Paul immediately demands that we withdraw our troops from Hollywood.

12.00pm

At noon today, all across the state, political rallies are interrupted by hordes of car dealers wearing big hair and bad suits. A spokesman for the group, Jim "Jim" Gallstone of Cotton Mather Motor Sales, defends the bold action, pointing out that since candidates had bought up all the available ad time, this was the only way car dealers could get on TV to advertise their last sale ever, until next week's last sale ever.

1.00pm

In a taped message from his bus, on his plane, on the way to a golf vacation, incumbent Barack Obama documents his qualifications by singing – FROM MEMORY – seven notes from "Mama Said" by The Shirelles. The crowd goes wild, and four women went into spontaneous labor.

1.45pm

During a debate at a Rock Hill diner, CNN moderator John "Larry" King presses Newt Gingrich to explain Newt's choice of mustard-based, rather than tomato-based barbecue sauce. A deeply-offended Gingrich electrifies the BBQ-buffet lunch crowd, firing back that barbecue sauce is a deeply personal decision; plus, the biased national media wouldn't know a pepper-rubbed flank from a Boston Butt.

CNN offers a butt-rub rebuttal, but I've already gone way too far with this joke.

2.00pm

A pundit points out that, for over 30 years, South Carolina has correctly picked the eventual Republican candidate, calling the state "kind of a litmus test for the South." The SC Department of Education immediately schedules a "Teacher Work Day" so students can study, in case they need to take a litmus test.

2.30pm

At an Upstate rally, Newt notes all the young people in attendance. He points out that he's always glad to see young people getting involved in politics, particularly that one hottie over there wearing the 'Scooter's Exotic-Like Pole Dancing & Lunch Buffet' t-shirt.

Ron Paul immediately demands that we withdraw our troops from downtown Bangkok.

3.00pm

An MSNBC reporter in Myrtle Beach calls South Carolinians a bunch of gun-toting religious rednecks. The Greater Grand Strand Women's Auxiliary Gospel Choir And Transmission Repair Shop scoffed at the characterization, and then shot him.

3.30pm

In an announcement surprising on several levels, South Carolina's premier religious radio station (WASP) endorses The Shirelles for President. The endorsement comes from the station's chaplain, a heavily-jowled AARP member with a Pentagon-sized pomade allowance.

During the station's call-in segment, Al Gore claims that he invented Motown.

Ron Paul immediately demands that we withdraw Newt Gingrich from The Shirelles.

4.30pm

At a rally near North Charleston, GOP candidate Brick Sanitarium is injured after being gang-swarmed by adoring, sweater-vest-clad freshmen from Pinewood Prep School.

Incumbent Barack Obama immediately waives the freshmen's student loans.

5.00pm

At a rally near Augusta National golf course, Ron Paul is interrupted by incumbent incompetent Joe Biden, who inexplicably yells "Go Giants!" and almost doesn't swear.

Suddenly, Jackie Chan pops out of a water hazard, throat-chops Biden, and replaces Ron Paul's iced tea with a V-8 Smoothie.

5.05pm

Local evening news leads with the breaking story that candidate Gingrich has, not three, but several dozen ex-wives. A Gingrich spokesman denies the allegation, but points out that Newt is the "family values" candidate, so the more families, the better.

6.00pm

Mike Huckabee, FoxNews' official bass guitar analyst, points out that incumbent Barack Obama, in his first term as President, never once finished an entire song.

Due to a serious breach in security, Joe Biden manages to find an open mike and inexplicably promises federal subsidies for Hilton Head, so they can build more high-rise condoms.

6.55pm

Geraldo Rivera, desperate to inject himself in this humor column before 7.00pm, claims that, while covering a story in Aruba, he and Hillary Clinton had been shot at by Chechnyan rebels, and Jackie Chan.

7.01pm

The South Carolina polls are closed, and I couldn't be happier, because all during this column I kept forgetting to write in the present tense.

Presidential Primary Day ends without incident. Nobody voted for Pat Buchanan by mistake.

Out of pure habit, Al Gore challenges the election.

And Ron Paul immediately demands that we withdraw medication from Al Gore.

What's the Plural of Y'all?

(The Second Oldest Profession meets the Bible Belt)

It's the middle of January, 2012, the Republican Presidential hopefuls have descended upon my state, South Carolina, and it is an absolute nuthouse down here. I don't see any way to escape the madness, except one:  maybe the Mayans miscalculated.

Maybe, just maybe, the Mayans misread their round rock clock, and the world will end early. I don't see any other way to avoid this ongoing political ego parade.

But Mayans or not, I think we can say this with some certainty:  the world probably will end wa-a-ay before this endless election season does.

But for now, it's South Carolina's job to help pick the President. And the contestants? They're all here:

Willard Mitt 'Glove' Romney (he squeaked a win in Iowa by … what? … seven votes? Basically, he won Iowa by a family)
Brick Sanitarium and his sweater-vest collection (who looks like an under-aged son from an Iowan family)
Nude King Grinch (whose ego is the size of an Iowan family)
Tron Paul (he fights for the users)
Rick Prairie (I'm pretty sure he's not an actual human, but  an animated cartoon character from 'Toy Story')
Jon Huntsman's son, John Huntsman, who is Jon Huntsman's son

Just making it out of Iowa alive must've been tough. I remember hearing an Iowa politician make this biologically complex promise: "When my head and my heart come together I'll jump in with both feet."

Whoa. Never change metaphors in the middle of streaming the rules for a game horse's level playing field.

While in Iowa, Rick Prairie, in between power-grinning, eating fried lard on a stick, and power-grinning, described Iowans as "just hard-workin' God-fearin' freedom-lovin' people." So please consider making a donation to the Rick Prairie campaign, so they can afford to buy a box of lower-case Gs.

And remember – after Iowa, Herman Cain suspended his Presidential campaign. And he's STILL polling at 8%. At this rate, if he drops out entirely, he'll win.

But after leaving Iowa (their favorite state) and New Hampshire (their favorite state) all six surviving candidates have now invaded South Carolina (their favorite state). And they're everywhere – in the parks, on the news, in the diners and on the phones.

As you'd imagine, it's getting ugly, too. Just today, Nude King Grinch accused Willard Romney of speaking French in public. Tron Paul immediately demanded that we withdraw our troops from Willard Romney. Willard could not be reached for comment, since he was campaigning in the South Carolina Upstate, while his hair was holding a rally on the coast.

To be sure, you other forty-nine States should be a bit concerned that South Carolina is playing such a pivotal role in your destiny. Keep in mind that South Carolina is a place where one food group is pork barbecue, and beef barbecue is the other one. (Barbecue sauce, on the other hand, is not a food group. Barbecue sauce, if it's done right, is a divine appointment from heaven.)

We have our own language, too. We pronounce Manigault as 'mannigoe' and Simons as 'simmons.' We pronounce boyfriend as 'beau' but Beaufort as 'byoofurt.' And we still pronounce carpetbagger as 'collateral damage.'

In South Carolina, we know that one person is "y'all" and we know that the plural of y'all is "all y'all." We make a clear distinction between 'dinner' and 'supper' but we make no distinction at all between 'Can you believe what that clueless idiot just did?' and Aw, bless his heart.'

We have cities with suggestive names like Ninety Six, Six Mile and Due West. We have a town called North and a burg named Norway.

Not long ago, in Norway (population:  dwindling), the outgoing Mayor refused to give the City Hall keys to the incoming Mayor. So the incoming Mayor broke in to City Hall by breaking out, and crawling in, a window. Shortly, the outgoing Mayor of Norway had the incoming Mayor of Norway arrested, but the incoming Mayor bribed a jail guard with a pint of pork barbecue. The incoming Mayor escaped and fled to Sweden (yes, there is). From there, he hopped a NASCAR convoy to Finland (yes, there is) and ultimately was sent back to Norway after being extradited by Denmark (yes, there is).

It may surprise you to hear it, but here in South Carolina, we're regularly treated to groundbreaking research and brilliant news analysis, resulting in headlines like this one:

LAKE WATER LEVELS RISE WITH RAINFALL

Whoa. Somebody alert the National Weather Service. Somebody call the Nobel committee.

And how about this one:

"…the bust was dubbed Operation Countywide because it was conducted from one end of the county to the other."

Whoa. You know, sometimes it's hard to see the Forrest for the Gump.

Here's another:

"At a bowling alley in Rock Hill, a man was charged with attempted murder after he threw a bowling ball at a woman who rejected his offer to buy her a drink."

See, folks, Virginia is for lovers. South Carolina is for hunter-gatherers.

And, once upon a time, we had a Governor who confuses marital infidelity with mountain hiking, and who apparently thinks North Carolina is in Brazil.

Finally, we offer a quick pop quiz. Ready?

Outside, it's raining in bright sunshine. Here in South Carolina, this means what?

1)      the devil's beating his wife

2)      our former Governor is 'hiking' with the devil's wife

3)      an angel just got its wings, and then sold them at the flea market

4)      you're about to witness relative humidity that actually climbs ABOVE 100%

Starting to get the picture? This is why somebody once described South Carolina as "too small to be a country, too big to be an insane asylum."

And speaking of asylums, here's a quick Politico Update:  Brick Sanitarium has taken a commanding lead in South Carolina, after switching from sleeveless sweater-vests to sleeveless plaid work shirts.

Another update:  we've just learned that South Carolina's Governor has endorsed Willard. This is our current Governor, mind you, not the one with the backpack full of travel visas, tacos and tequila.

By the way – North, South Carolina? It's south of the South Carolina state capital.

And North, South Carolina is 100 miles southeast of Due West.

Involuntary Evolution

(Ever pondered the 'horse' part of 'horse pill?')

Well, it's a brand new year, and already I've learned something new. Understand – when you get to be my age, learning something new is Goal Number Two. (Goal Number One is remembering what you learned in Goal Number Two.)

There's a Goal Number Three, too. I think. It has something to do with not splitting infinitives, or original sin, or bran. One of those. I forget.

That's just the way it goes. At my age, it's just a matter of time before I repeat something I just said, or forget what I wanted to say, or repeat something I just said.

So sometimes I forget. Leave me alone. I'm a camel, not an elephant.

Anyway, here's what I learned this year, so far:  the true definition of the word 'generic.' See, till now, I'd always thought 'generic' meant 'bland,' or it meant 'undistinguished,' or it meant you'd wasted the last half-hour at a party talking to someone researching their thesis on 'Hidden Old Testament References To Ellen DeGeneres.'

Nope. As it turns out, 'generic' — in the medical profession, at least — means 'laughably expensive, and for no apparent reason.' Kind of a synonym for the Department of Energy, really.

And here's how I came to this new-found knowledge. Late last year, at the tailing end of my nineteenth yearly physical, I sat shivering in the doctors' examining room, looking longingly across the room at my street clothes and reflexively massaging a cotton ball. During the previous hour-and-a-half, I had been duly weighed, splayed, pricked, prodded, dabbed, daubed and bled by a steady procession of future physicians, all wearing Dansko clogs and disposable scrub suits saturated with Scooby-Doo characters.

After the appropriate hope-sucking delay … in whatever way that delay is calculated by the Union of Medical Practice Appointment-Overbooking Agents … there came a tap on the door, a whoosh of air, and my doctor dashed in to the examining room, wearing open-toed soiree stilettos, a foul-weather jacket, and gripping a three-barbed marlin lure between her teeth.

As it turned out, I was her last hurdle before she navigated out the Cheyenne Mountain-like "Doctors Only" door to take several well-deserved weeks off, and make a boat payment. Apparently, she'd been steadily segueing into her civilian clothes, one examining room at a time, self-prepping for a dash to the marina.

As she blasted in, I felt a bit under-dressed, given that I was wearing nothing but an over-laundered paper gown and a cotton ball pressed against my ring finger, though I took comfort in knowing that, if I sprinted fast enough, I was mere seconds away from sporting both socks.

But on this day, Doctor Armada had no time for prurience, nor proprieties.

The doc cut straight to the chase. Consulting a chart, she told me she didn't like one of my 'numbers.' She stared at me in an accusing tone of voice, which was pretty sobering, given that I was nearly naked and she was chewing on a honed marlin spike. In the spirit of cooperative fellowship, I scoffed at my numbers and offered to pick a different number, if she'd just let me know which number had fallen out of favor.

But Doc Bimini was already scribbling prescriptions, or maybe a maritime-meal shopping list, and I don't think she heard me.

(To be honest, I had more at stake than simple cooperation — I wanted to get out of there before the Scooby-Doo squad came back for more blood samples. They'd already hit me up for so much plasma that I no longer cast a reflection in the mirror.)

Then my doctor let me in on a little "inside baseball" news:  the prescription drug I'd been taking for several years had been recalled. It seems that the drug company had released some recent research, revealing that taking this particular drug, at this particular dosage, could have "undesirable" consequences.

"Undesirable?" I squirmed.

Recent studies, she explained, showed that some test subjects had developed mildly discomforting symptoms, including headaches, something quite foul that involved the word "leakage," and a sudden manifestation of camel hooves.

I took issue. I pointed out that getting cloven feet is not what normal people would consider "undesirable." Wouldn't you agree? I mean, gassing up your car in the rain is undesirable. Getting an over-cooked fried egg – that's undesirable.

But turning part-way into a leaking dromedary with migraines goes way past "undesirable."

I don't think she heard me.

"We're going to change prescriptions," she announced.

"We?" I thought. "What's with this 'we?' What're you now, my partner?"

"Keep in mind," she went on, avoiding my eyes. "This one isn't generic."

"Hey, Doc," I wondered aloud, "since 'we' are going to switch prescriptions, and 'we' are switching to brand-name drugs, that means 'we' are going to split the brand-name cost, right? Right?"

Silence. No reply.

I don't think she heard me.

So I did what any self-respecting, virile, nearly naked, totally ignored American male would do when in the presence of a wildly successful female authority figure who owns a boat.

I ran away.

With all the hunter-gatherer manliness passed along by my forebears, I tactically positioned the cotton ball and reached for my socks.

Not that it mattered. My allotted time had expired, and the good doctor had to leave if she was going to float her boat before low tide.

On her way out, she told me to make appointments three times a month for my yearly physical, handed me a prescription form filled out in something, possibly Sanskrit, and reminded me to be sure and floss my hooves.

"Don't you mean 'our' hooves, Nemo?"

We don't think she heard us.

I tossed my shredded left sock in the bin, grabbed the mate sock and, scowling at the hoof, silently vowed to be more careful with this one.

And on my way out, I stopped by the water cooler to fill up my hump.

And So, Your Honor, By the Twelfth Day of Christmas…

(Where do you go to return twelve pear trees?)

I don't know about you, but I'd pay real money to just skip the whole week after Christmas. There are several reasons why:

Your waistline's fatter, but your wallet's thinner
You have to go to work, but everybody else is on vacation, so it's impossible to get an approval, a signature, or sexually harassed
Everybody at every store is returning stuff, including gifts, but also things like live animals, dead laptops, unwrapped undergarments, and suspect cheese
You're stuck with sports options like the San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl, the Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl, and the PETA Simpering Confiscatory Fund To Help Relocate The Transgendered Spackle-Necked Ozark Boll Weevil Bowl
You still have seventeen rolls of cartoon-reindeer-coated gift-wrapping paper that can't possibly be used for mid-calendar occasions like birthdays, weddings, and early parole celebrations

Plus, thanks to a Christmas-carol-induced purchasing frenzy, committed by My True Love (I call her "True"), I'm now several layers deep in redundant gifts … 364 of 'em, if you add up all twelve days' worth.

The unmentioned problem with the whole 'Twelve Days of Christmas' gift strategy is its multiplier effect. I mean, thanks very much, True, but … twenty-two turtle doves? Seriously?

Maybe, I could find a use for one golden ring. Maybe. Ever unwrapped five of them? And then five more, and then five more? Eight times? While you're trying not to trip over maids, lords, pipers, drummers, geese, hens, swans, doves, calling birds and cranky PETA protestors?

And if you've ever had thirty heavily-caffeinated lords leaping in the same room with forty-two egg-laying geese, you know things aren't going to end well. That's just goose doom waiting to happen. That's just pending pâté.

Another problem with the week after Christmas is a sneaky post-Christmas music conspiracy. Here's how it works:  During the holiday season, we're persistently bathed in happy, inspiring Christmas music, and it's wonderful. But then, once Christmas is over, the music gatekeepers box up the good stuff until next year.

And then they pull out the B team. Really marginal stuff. The fringe fa-la-la. Dick Haymes. Patti Page. Tex Ritter (I'm not kidding). Various amalgams called The So-And-So Brothers or The Whatsit Sisters, babbling about bells, fat men, fat men with coal, Mommy kissing fat men, and Frosty the Scary Reanimated Popsicle Person. Paul Anka from his "pre-acne" period (apparently Paul Anka has never been spotted not singing, and has at least two albums recorded in utero). The Ray Conniff Singers, who deserve to be publicly caned simply for horribly arranged syncopation. Roger Whittaker singing Boston Marathon versions of 'The Twelve Days,' which may constitute criminal negligence and be legally actionable.

It's as if we'd all spent the last few months in a warm, cozy bar relishing the house band, led by Mozart himself, and suddenly we're stuck with a bad eight-track tape titled "Salieri Is Rocking This Crimmuh, Yo."

Case in point:  not long ago, because I wasn't fast enough to turn off the radio, I heard somebody named Buddy Clark singing something called 'The Merry Christmas Waltz.'

I'm still getting over it.

'The Merry Christmas Waltz' is, without challenge, the WASP-est holiday offering ever over-wrought. Compared to this arrangement, Lawrence Welk was the thug gangsta love child of Jimi Hendrix and Sergio Mendes.

"Wunnerful, wunnerful! Give it up one moe 'gin for Paul Anka's fetus and the June Taylor Dancers!"

Besides, there's something sinister about 3/4 time. It's just so … feudal.

I understand what the gatekeepers are trying to do – they're trying to make us so sick of carols that we won't miss them when they go away until next winter. I understand. They're weaning us. They're trying to do us a favor.

Stop trying to do us a favor.

Conspiracies aside, though, America's Christmas music repertoire in general is out of control. Over time the genre has crab-walked into topics that are, at best, a bit of a stretch and, at worst, downright bizarre. Let's review some selected lyrics, shall we?

"Hang your nose down, Rudy. Hang your nose and cry."

What the heck is that?

"Here comes the fattest man in town."

C'mon, people. It's Christmas. Leave Newt alone.

"He's a rootin' tootin' Santa Claus. Yippee ki-yo ki-yay!"

This marketing tie-in defies analysis, and the absurdity speaks for itself. Besides, I don't want to know anyone who is rootin', much less tootin'.

And just for the record – if anybody ever walks up to me and says "yippee ki-yo ki-yay," I'll stab 'em with a pointy stick. If they're wearing a red wool suit, I'll stab twice.

"To see a great big man entirely made of snow," she sings.

This is an obvious, desperate plea for therapy. When the snow melts, somebody riffle the Yellow Pages for "intervention."

"Down in Mexico, we have got no snow. Every time we sing, tequila glasses ring."

Let's hope they don't sing much, else it's gonna be an early night. Have an undocumented Christmas!

"If you want bananas, great big bananas, shake hands with Santa Claus."

How does that transaction work, exactly? What, is St. Nick now moonlighting as some kind of Chiquita Pez dispenser? It sounds more like some sick Vegas come-on, or street code for a drug drop.

"Tumpety tum tum."

"Ba rum pa tum tum."

"Jing jing-a-ling ling-a-ling ling-a-ling-ling. Ha ha. Ho ho."

What more is there to say, your honor? Psychiatric evaluation completed. Case closed. Bring on the big-arm tuxedo.

Then there are songs that snuck in, like emaciated blonde celebrity addicts at a White House dinner, and now they won't go away. In our opinion, 'My Favorite Things' is not a legitimate Christmas carol; however, it is a nice "hint hint, honey!" paean to obsessive shopping. And given everything American advertising has done to prostitute Christmas, the jury's still out on this one.

Nor is 'Toyland' a valid tune for tinsel-time. "Once you cross its border, you can never return again" does not invoke Christmas. This is more a tune for Halloween, maybe, or a cautionary tale about backpacking in Iran's back yard. It speaks of making a bad decision with no mulligans, like subscribing to that relentless, time-defying Time-Life Book-of-the-Month club, or eating too much Mexican food.

And speaking of Halloween, what's the back story on this campfire lyric, from 'It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year' – "There'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago."

What glories, exactly? Dude, we're talking about a federal holiday, not the fields of Verdun or the '36 Olympics! Did I miss something on the news wire? Did Santa paratroop into Tehran and spirit away the busted backpackers?

But even those tunes, bad as they are, are mere infractions. As Gandalf might put it, there are fouler things in the deep places than Orcs. Musical travesties exist that must be stopped, with due prejudicial intensity and by all available means, military, judicial and otherwise. So, in the interest of promoting a sane, civil society, I propose a new set of Yuletide Music Management laws.

In the song 'Jingle Bells,' after the line "…O'er the hills we go, laughing all the way," it shall be illegal for a recording studio to insert actual laughter. This prohibition shall include (but not be limited to) the ha-ha-ha's of children, dogs, and strolling hordes of Lawrence Welk-type Judeo-Christian couples.
No entity shall be allowed to add lyrics to Tchaikovsky's 'Nutcracker Suite.'
It doesn't make any sense for all-growed-up adults to be singing 'All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,' unless said adult is hopelessly accident-prone, or Leon Spinks. So cease and desist. Find a kid or sit down. Estop it.
During any given Christmas tune, you may only transpose up to the next key once. Actually, the court would prefer that you not transpose at all or, if possible, less.
It shall be illegal for anyone, anywhere, at any time, to sing 'Dominick, the Christmas Donkey.' Not even as a joke. This proscription really should've been part of the original U.S. Constitution.
The Rule of Thirds:  If a carol is written in a perfectly nice minor key and then suddenly, at the very end of the song, you decide to resolve it in a major key, the court will find you and visit upon you a severe form of vigilante justice. (see "pointy stick")
No one shall be allowed to modify, in any way, 'The Twelve Days of Christmas.' This carol is much like the Constitution – it may have its flaws, but futzing around with it is only gonna make things worse.

In closing, I'll confess something to you. As much as I love the holiday season, there's one American-holiday-oriented thing I'm always glad to know will be going away – wherever it is these things go away to – until next Christmas. And what is that thing, you ask?

Burl Ives.

It's nothing personal, actually, even though there's something about Burl's cover of 'Frosty the Snowman' that makes True and me want to invest in an ice axe. No, my main concern is this:  I just want to make darn sure the gatekeepers have big Burl available, until next holiday season, to sit on the box where they keep Andy Williams.

You know what I'm saying? I mean, the average American's work-a-day year is hard enough already.

The last thing we need in mid-calendar is Andy Williams jumping up and grinning those teeth at us.

Pictures in Search of a Caption

Razor Unicyclist Strikes Again
Too late, the melting astronauts noticed the container's "GAMMA RAYS" warning
The ASPCA were none too pleased when the NRA debuted "Gummy Bear Taxidermy"
Reviews were mixed for the debut episode of "Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire That's A Non-Descript Emerald Merchant Without Opposable Thumbs?"
Citizens Narrowly Escape Harm When Delta Flight Jettisons Rancid Jell-O
Taliban leaders appear willing to compromise, says dead woman who was told she would be cut in four pieces
Great Moments in Diplomacy: Churchill Cedes Half of Greenland to the Russian Bear
Tonight! On an all-new "Bear Witness!" While adjudicating a tricky child custody battle, Judge Ursa invokes King Solomon!
Captain Kirk finally figures out how to have sex with two green aliens
"Take your nap, young students, or I'll skip right to the chapter about the Aztecs."

All I Want for [Censored]

(Scrooge would've been proud. For a while.)

Christmas. Arguably, the most well-known holiday in the history of history, if you discount that day in 3050 BC when the Arabs invented zero trans-fat, racial profiling, and fruitcake re-gifting.

Okay, not all Arabs were responsible for fruitcake. According to legend, fruitcake was invented by a confectioner named Mischel-Toeh, who founded the first-ever Semite bakery, "House Wheat It Is." (Mischel-Toeh would later establish the first non-denominational deli-bookstore combo, "To Bialy Or Not To Bialy.")

Admittedly, Christmas is an odd tradition, especially when we try to explain it to children. Reindeer fly. Snowmen live. Strange, strangely-clad, obese, bearded men engage in chimney-oriented home invasions, eat other people's food, and give away stuff, with no regard to any quid pro quo, as if they were red-coated liberals.

No wonder kids are confused. Heck, adults are confused. In the grand scheme, getting taller didn't really make us any smarter – it just made us taller. (and our clothes tighter)

But, these days, saying "Christmas" aloud is not allowed, unless you're selling a product so wildly popular that shoppers would swarm in even as you shrieked "Merry Off-Shore Drilling!" at them.

The only holiday tradition still sacred is the one in which neighbors compete to see who can squeeze 57,500 marginally-yule-related ornaments onto a drab of distressed lawn sized to support, at best, six.

What's left? That holiest of holiday icons — shopping. So, since we can't say Christmas, let's talk about shopping for presents. Here's a list of some of this year's favorites:

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Let's begin our gift list with that government-backed gift albatross that nobody wanted as a gift in the first place – the Electric Car. First of all, thanks to that other Santa – the one in the White House – you already bought the electric car, you generous taxpayer, you. There's simply no need for you to buy it again.

Here's how brilliant the electric car is. It hurls you down the highway at a top speed of ten miles per generation (less if any passengers have facial hair, or there's an oncoming breeze). It'll transport you about forty miles on a dose of electricity, if you've a week to spare.

Here's the little glitch. In the contiguous forty-eight states, there are over 2.9 million miles of paved roads; however, in those same forty-eight states, there are exactly four publicly-available places to recharge your electric car.

But don't sweat it, electric car owner. Soon, there will be, oh, six or seven stations nationally … unless Congress gets involved, which could result in there being only three, all coincidentally located on the grounds of a tax-exempt country manor owned by the ranking member of a Senate select committee.

It just makes no sense. Only four places to get replacement electricity? I personally know more than four places where I can get a replacement larynx. (Sadly, all four larynx shops are in South Florida – and unlisted – but you can always hitch a ride with some Jersey Shore grandma making a weekend cocaine run. While you're down there, be a tourista:  get mauled by a mutant Everglades alligator and take in a snuff film.)

What America really needs is a snap-in device that will de-convert an electric car back to a 1964 Mustang. Or a horse-drawn carriage. Or just a horse. With a horse, the average American could get to the mall and deliver the mail.

It makes one wonder why the electric car ever got named the "Volt." Should've been named the "Watt?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Because the world can never have enough burger-making devices, we now have the "revolutionary" new seven-option griddle from SqueezinArt. After all, nothing says "I love you" like another gift-wrapped slab of dishwasher-safe Teflon.

"Merry Christmas, honey. Here's a flat piece of coated metal that heats up. Lunch ready?"

This culinary breakthrough is a must-have, despite the fact that your pantry floor is already littered with one or more of the previously revolutionary griddles you received in previous holiday seasons:

The George Foreman griddle, which tenderizes burgers using a patented process known as beating them senseless
The Black-and-Decker griddle, which not only cooks burgers but also saws the buns in half and constructs a picnic table (patio not included)
The Hamilton Beach griddle, which we think was named after someone in the Carter administration. It doesn't actually cook burgers, but it lusts after them.

But now, with the revolutionary SqueezinArt griddle, you can cook burgers using the revolutionary "lid open" option, or the revolutionary "lid closed" option, which somehow equals seven options, suggesting that the griddle was designed by the Congressional Budget Office.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Parents of aspiring toddlers will flock to pick up a "My First Genetically Engineered Avian Flu" chemistry set. Imagine the parental pride as your budding chemist learns to comprehend useful vocabulary terms like "pandemic" and "acute toxic kill radius!"

Be sure to stand upwind.

Shopper's Note:  the "deluxe" version includes a complimentary "nolo contendere" waiver from Eric Holder's Justice Department and Gun Laundry, as well as a $28 billion R&D coupon from the Pentagon.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

For the music-lover on your list, be sure to pick up a copy of the all-new holiday CD, "Yule Hate This," an eclectic collection of carols and chaos brought to you by Largie Small Puff Step-Daddy and those good folks at Angry Goth Zombie Records.

For openers, the unsuspecting listener is subjected to an 18-minute live version of Wu Tang's "Jizzle Bells," followed by Lindsay Lohan doing a cover of "All I Was Wanted For During Christmas." Some forty minutes later, the punishment ends with the Nick Nolte Noel Singers, more-or-less emitting a rousing version of "The Twelve Days Of 500 Bottles Of Christmas Beer On The Wall."

Shopper's Note:  Be sure to get your loved ones far, far away before anybody slips this foul thing in the ol' CD player.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Unfortunately, the Snuggie is back this year with a vengeance. Apparently, there's just no avoiding these things. It's like some inescapable, recurrent family curse, or a year-end celebrity news wrap-up from Barbara Walters.

What's infinitely worse is that, like your clever youngster's modified Avian Flu virus, the Snuggie seems to be mutating. We're being invaded by imperfectly-cloned cousins, malformed outfits masquerading as acceptable fashion. There's now something called the Hoodie-Footie, which makes otherwise normal females look like a terry-cloth dishrag, but with eyelashes and breasts.

America, we need to take control of this situation, because, if we're not careful, we could see the re-emergence of velour.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

You're going to think I'm insane (if you don't already think I'm insane), but I have to tell you that there is an "Iowa Caucus" iPhone app. There really is. Now you can have instant access to live film footage of Republican Presidential candidates as they carom around both cities in Iowa, documenting their Leader-Of-The-Free-World credentials by getting on a bus, getting off a bus, denying having mocked an opponent's bus in 1968, or getting endorsed by a bus. (fried lard on a stick not included)

I don't mean to be the stormcrow or anything, but I believe this particular omen was mentioned as a "last call" harbinger in the doomsday memoirs of Nostradamus – right there in his Last Days schedule, in-between "city-sucking gaps in the Earth's crust" and "Geraldo Rivera getting a prime-time series."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The hot new interactive game this year is "How to Outwit Airport Security Without Having To Get Naked In Cleveland," v2.1, available for the Wii (by Ninja-Kendo), the Micro$oft X-Box (actual functionality not included), and the Sony Hey-We-Make-Game-Consoles-Too. Unlike previous diversions which catered to familial, multi-player interaction, this year's game is specifically designed for just one participant – just one sad, quiet, lonely, disaffected, bitter participant. Just one jaded juvenile in a jungle-gym crowd.

Just one missed twisted mister, just one more "stunned neighbors who were interviewed recalled a kind, quiet young man" kind of kind, quiet young man. Just one, simple, strong candidate for an "America's Most Wanted" full-hour episode about a seemingly normal, plaid-shorts-wearing, obsessive teeth-grinder.

But enough about Joe Biden.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

So, be careful out there, in this holiday traffic, and be sure not to forget the true reason for the season:  out-lawn ornamenting your neighbors.

And I hope you have a very Merry … um … Wednesday.

Or whatever.