Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 54

Trousers 2.0

(From fabric to Facebook. Sometime progress isn't.)

I finally bought a new laptop (a computer, not an abdomen). And everything went just fine until I got cocky and tried to use it (not the abdomen, the computer).

I remember the first time I saw it (the computer). It beckoned to me from an online ad. It was thin, fast, smart, tactile, responsive, and had a mute button – half of me wanted to buy it, the other half wanted to date it. It was awesome, or sweet, or all that, or def, or non-epic fail, or the shizzle, or whatever phrase we're using this week to represent the concept "good." It was love at first sight, albeit a very sick, virtual, Oedipal, man-attracted-to-motherboard kind of love.

Until recently, I'd been immune to the urge to upgrade laptops. After all, I don't play graphics-intensive games where the goal is to create graphic intensive-care victims. I don't travel, I'm not an online social media junkie, and when I hear "algorithm," I think oxymoron. (Al Gore doesn't have rhythm.) Plus, my credit rating hovers somewhere between "house pet" and "Greece."

See, I was entirely happy with my "old" laptop. It lets me type, though it doesn't care much for my way cool grammar shizzle, or my speling, or my, like, literary style and stuff. It occasionally lets me win at Solitaire (but not Scrabble). It correctly performs complex mathematical calculations for me, as far as I know. It lets me drag colorful rectangles and circles from one place on the screen to another until they're perfectly left-aligned, a disturbingly comforting exercise, I'll admit, though completely useless from a business or social perspective.

Best of all, it lets me put it in my car and take it places, so I can be "working remotely" from anywhere. "Working remotely" is a complicated tax concept that essentially describes the act of paying exceptionally manipulative people to stay home and not work. "Working remotely" translates, roughly, as "not even remotely working.

Historical Sidebar:  Members of Congress refer to this handy little "money for nothing" trick as "getting to know our constituents."

But, like many things in the life of someone who builds websites for a living, the "computer upgrade" decision wasn't really up to me. Since I build websites for a living, I am effectively under the control of a global mega-power who, for legal reasons, I'll refer to as MicroSauce. MicroSauce is an American company that makes software updates. That's it. That's their whole job – to release updates, version upgrades, and something called Service Packs.

(MicroSauce never says "bug fix." They say "Service Pack." And when you call them for support, they never say "Hello." They say "I am having one or more help deskness for getting your MicroSauce to bliss." I don't know why that is. But half of me wants to date it.)

Now, I suppose that, if your entire corporate strategy is to sell updates to stuff, you have to figure out ways to keep updating stuff. And MicroSauce is very, very good at updating stuff. On any given day, they may release ten, fifteen updates, sometimes for stuff made by other companies, including food. Sometimes they'll release an update to stuff that you're updating, while you're updating it, generating a system overload guaranteed to turn any defenseless computer into a whimpering idiot, reminiscent of James Mason during the closing scenes from "Lolita." (Note:  this may result in what is known as a "dual boot," which is when you kick your computer off the back deck, then run down the deck steps so you can kick it again.)

But the real genius behind MicroSauce is their notorious ability to release software updates that condescendingly snort at your computer's hardware. No matter what kind of pumped PC you own, it's never enough for the next MicroSauce upgrade. It's uncanny. Somehow, they find out. Somehow, they know.

(MicroSauce is also notorious for releasing upgrades that contain confusing messages like this: To finish, click 'Continue.' Pardon me? If I have to continue, then we're not really finished yet, are we, Rinpoche?)

And since the cool tools I use to build websites are made by MicroSauce, I have to follow their cool tool rules. I have to comply with their "hardware requirements." And so, recently, when MicroSauce released the latest updated Service Pack to upgrade my Service Pack's upgraded update, my old computer simply could no longer keep up with the cyber-Joneses.

So, as they say in the hive-mind of the Star Trek Borg collective, and in the IRS, "Resistance is futile." I had to upgrade my "ancient" computer.

According to the internet, the first computing device was something called the Jacquard Loom, an amazing device invented in 1801 by a European man named Joseph Loom.

Historical Sidebar:  Joseph's middle name was "Marie," but apparently that happens a lot in Europe.

The Jacquard Loom was a relatively primitive device which, like my old computer, didn't support RAM upgrades or federally-funded condom distribution in kindergartens. (On the other hand, my computer can't make a quilt.) But what this revolutionary new loom did do was use punch cards to control individual warp yarns. Prior to this breakthrough, I suppose, gangs of rogue warp yarns just roamed the streets of Europe, sleeping in parks, holding up misspelled signs and demanding that corporations stop making all those nasty profits. I suppose Medieval tailors were forever running about, trying to manage great thundering herds of warp yarns, a futile effort which led directly to the invention of nudity.

Historical Sidebar:  Ultimately, of course, warp yarns faced total extinction, along with dodos, dinosaurs, and Henry VIII's wives. The last extant warp was memorialized in "The Warp of 1812," a famous symphonic fresco by Charles Marie Dickens.

As it turned out, Madame or Monsieur Jacquard had not really invented the punch card system at all. He or she had only improved on an earlier invention, dreamed up around 1745 by one Jacques de Vaucanson, a flash-in-the-pan citizen immortalized by his coinage of the term "binary" (literal translation:  "having two naries"). It was a very simple system:  a hole meant Yes, no hole meant No. This system still works today, except in southern Florida elections.

But Joseph or Marie was a man or woman of action, and they collectively contacted a Vatican "fixer" named Tony the Nose, a campaign bundler who had a penchant for conflict resolution and a gift for negotiation. And a boat.

And the rest is history. The punch card-based machinery in the factories of Jacquard Loom, Inc., allowed an "ordinary" workman to produce the most beautiful patterns, quickly and consistently. It was an overnight success. Soon, people all over Europe were not naked, mostly.

But before Joseph Marie's wife, Harold, could invent insider trading and file for an IPO, the plant had to shut down, because France was not a right-to-work etat.

Historical Sidebar:  Many years later, another pre-computer innovator, Charles "Warp" Babbage, used the punch card idea to store programs in his "Analytical engine," which he named after his goldfish, Google. And Google, of course, led to the internet, which was invented by Al Gore, driven into a ditch by George W. Bush, and miraculously saved by Barack Obama.

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Fifty Grand for Tale-Gunner Joe

(All States were created equal. All statesmen were not.)

Lately, it seems that some of America's fifty States are competing to deliver the most bizarre news imaginable. And, admittedly, it's a tight race to the bottom.

If you're a news junkie, that's great. But if you're a student of humanity, or a mid-level pan-Galactic deity charged with Milky Way Moron Management, it can get a bit depressing.

Americans just keep trying to out-stupid each other. And that was before Joe Biden started running around the country, lobbing non-sequiturs and spouting gaffes like some kind of political poster child for Tourette's.

But the news "gatekeepers" always focus on the same States; California, Arizona, New York, Mexico, the Kennedy compound, the Land of Loco Starlets. We rarely get a glimpse at the goings-on in the engine of America – that vast mass rudely referred to as "the flyover States."

Surely, we wondered, the flyover States are just as goofy.

So, for your edification, we've corralled our entire global research staff, and asked her to check out what's making news across all our fifty states. Witness:

Alabama

The "Yellowhammer" State continues to push for the toughest immigration laws in the country, including the mandate that any school child can be stopped and forced to compose a limerick using the word "yellowhammer."

By the way, we should note that Alabama has a State Nut.

Alaska

An undecided moose allegedly survived being stabbed in the thigh by Sarah Palin. Later, at a quail hunt, the hapless moose was shot in its alpha antler by Dick Cheney. Ultimately, the moose succumbed to all this political pressure, joined the Tea Party, and was elected Governor. Liberal news organizations immediately put tactical teams in the area, located the moose's nightly resting tree, and rented the tree next door.

Arizona

Headline: Man Shot By Albuquerque Cops High On Meth

All right. Who's giving guns to doped-up cops?

Arkansas

Anthropologists claim to have discovered an anomaly – a human female that Bill Clinton never hit on. Lack-of-paternity test results are pending. (These are scientists from the University's satellite campus in Cecil, down along the State Road 16 Spur, over there nearby to the Sonic.)

This just in:  never mind.

California

In the Golden State, they have earthquakes, tar pits and TV executives. Feral coyotes and financing by the kilo. City employees getting taxpayer-funded sex changes, with seven official genders to choose from. Businesses fleeing like Hamelin rats. Air the consistency of loaf bread. And a governor whose job resume highlight was being a liquid-metal android from the future that managed to make sequels after it died. Twice.

So what draws the Fed's focus?

Medicinal marijuana.

Colorado

Speaking at a fundraiser in Beulah, Joe Biden warned a group of disaffected Buddhist donors that if those vile Republicans block the President's agenda, more women will be raped. The White House was quick to point out that this would save or create millions of jobs for sexual deviants, or Congressmen.

Connecticut

Our research staff tried to rouse someone in the Constitution State, but they're all busy trying to fend off a hostile takeover by New York City. The Big Apple's looking to annex Connecticut, erect parking garages, and have it renamed "Brooklyn North."

Delaware

Delaware continues to make news as the only state that's actually building a border fence. However, in Delaware's case, they're building it in hopes of keeping Joe Biden from getting back in.

Florida

A lawmaker in the Sunshine State wants to do away with Florida's ban on dwarf tossing. That's just so…well, so Florida. Firstly, there's an activity in Florida called dwarf tossing. Secondly, it's wildly popular. Next, naturally, Florida's legislature outlaws it. And finally, a grass-roots movement to repeal the anti-dwarf-tossing legislation.

So Florida. I mean, let's face it – there never was any need, really, to discuss where to put Disney World. It was kismet.

Georgia

Headline:  SLED Director Lays Out Agency's Mission

Sheesh. That director's got some temper. Wonder what the mission said?

Hawaii

Aloha! (literal translation:  "Please leave before you get here, if not sooner") Hawaii is perhaps best known as being one of the three birthplaces of President Barack Obama.

Idaho

In the Gem State, a body was found in the Kuna reservoir, another in an Ada County canal, and a car dinged a teenager on Lake (LAKE?) Lowell Avenue – on the same day. In an unsolicited speech to himself, Joe Biden insisted that patriotic taxpayers should bail out stuff that's wet, and assigned blame to all those damp Republicans.

Illinois

Officials in Des Plaines had to call in extra help to deal with a sharp spike in the skunk population. The skunk count blip is variously blamed on either a rise in the beetle grub population, a drop in rabies, or the recent installation of Rahm Emanuel as Mayor of Chicago.

Indiana

Headline:  Missing Student's Mom Hurt By Letter

Note to Missing Student's Mom: When you see a letter coming, duck.

Iowa

In an attempt to bolster out-of-state attendance to their famous State Fairs, Iowa unveiled eleven more unlikely things that could be deep-fried.

Kansas

In a first-of-its-kind legal action, Kansas (the State) is suing Kansas (the band). Kansas (State) is demanding that the 1970s rockers officially change their name to some other State. Nebraska was highly recommended, but so was Detroit, which says a lot about the state of public education in Kansas.

Kentucky

A Lexington drifter was sentenced to twenty-five and one-half years in prison:  twenty-five years for committing violent crimes, another six months for contempt ("lifting his middle finger"). The transient's other nine fingers immediately filed a digit discrimination counter-suit, and are being represented by celebrity attorney Gloria Allred.

Louisiana

According to a Pelican State news website named "The Dead Pelican" (really, that's what it's named), a Shreveport robbery went awry when one of the intruders mistakenly shot the other one. Then the police arrived, everybody arrested each other, and the entire group was given a nice set of abandoned FEMA house trailers.

Maine

Residents were saddened when yet another research grant failed to ascertain why Maine is still known as "down East."

Maryland

This morning, while speaking at a "Re-elect Us Anyway" fundraiser, Joe Biden warned that if those vile Republicans block the President's agenda, all college football teams would morph into rabid dogs and eat everybody in the stadium.

The White House was quick to claim a bipartisan victory, pointing out that the rabid dogs would eat everybody equally. (Plus, the White House noted, Joe got through three consecutive sentences without swearing.)

Massachusetts

Our research staff tried to rouse someone in the Bay State, but the entire state government had been mobilized to deal with a Mitt Romney hair emergency.

Michigan

In Detroit, the ACLU legally challenged an FBI sting operation. That, of course, hardly qualifies as news. What is news is that, this time, the FBI finally told the ACLU to shut up and sit down.

Minnesota

Headline:  Minneapolis Metro Transit Rides Hit 60 Million

60 million hit by metro transit? We're guessing that the ACLU and celebrity attorney Gloria Allred are racing toward the North Star State as we speak.

Mississippi

After uncovering one Pulitzer-worthy headline from a Magnolia State news website, our research staff had a decision to make. The headline? "Fun With Worms."

Nah.

Moving on to Missouri…

Missouri

In a story about zoning issues, we found this bizarre observation:  "Officials blamed [the problem] on lack of red tape." We're not sure that those words have ever been uttered, in that order, in the history of Earth.

Montana

An environmentalist coalition in the Treasure State is pleased to announce they are making progress in their legal efforts to ban roads. No word on their pending legislation to outlaw light.

Nebraska

Citizens in the Cornhusker State are embroiled in a debate about someone who dug a three-foot hole in something called the Ogallala Aquifer. And it's just such levels of rural ennui that explain Al Gore's rush to pipe in internet access to backwaters like Ogallala as soon as humanly possible.

Nevada

A member of the Hells Angels who was supposedly killed at the funeral of a member of the Hells Angels who was killed during the killing of a former member of the Hells Angels has been discovered alive by the police who were not killed by the members of the Hells Angels who were not killed during the killing of an ousted member of the Hells Angels. Meanwhile, no word on the missing possessive apostrophe from "Hells Angels."

New Hampshire

Three New Hampshire citizens were playing poker in a Delaware hotel when three more fun-lovers barged in and started pistol-slapping the room's original occupants. The assailants ran away when the bedside phone received an "Are you injured?" robo-call from celebrity attorney Gloria Allred. Hard-line NH secessionists pointed out that this kind of vile activity would never have happened in Old Hampshire.

New Jersey

A Garden State resident (Hackettstown turnpike exit) who was served divorce papers in 1992 (filed at a Hackensack turnpike exit) has been convicted of watching helplessly, with malice aforethought, while his wife tied herself up, gagged herself, and jumped backwards off a cliff (Palisades turnpike exit). But hey, that's New Jersey, yo.

New Mexico

While speaking to a roomful of semi-conscious turquoise jewelry artisans, Joe Biden claimed that he had inherited Muammar Qaddafi from George W. Bush. Undergrads at a local dentistry college offered to volunteer their services to have Biden's teeth filed down before he hurts himself.

New York

A single woman and her single grandmother have created a blog, to share their experiences in the cyber-world of online dating. According to Granny, what's the most important characteristic of a Senior Citizen single guy?

1)    He's honest

2)    He has a sense of humor

3)    He lives nearby

North Carolina

During a Homeland Security speech in Raleigh, Janet Napolitano was asked a question by someone in the audience who admitted – admitted – he was in the country illegally. Napolitano lunged so violently for a "Border Arrests Are Up" chart that she pulled a muscle in an Arizona rancher's back. Celebrity attorney Gloria Allred immediately arranged for the illegal to get in-state tuition and free health care.

North Dakota

The president of Dickinson State University says he's innocent of tampering with enrollment records. He further claims that stress related to the unfounded accusations resulted in him losing twenty-five pounds, which in turn caused him to eat all the subpoenaed documents.

Ohio

A deranged Buckeye apparently heard some voice inside his skull that told him the rains were receding, so he should go ahead and let all the animals out of the ark. Here's the scary part:  no candidate has ever become President without winning over Ohio voters. And if this guy was an example of an Ohio voter…

Oklahoma

According to a news report, the police chief in Mangum was accused of getting in a fight at a rodeo in Altus after his stepdaughter didn't get voted Rodeo Princess. Punctuating the story is this shocker:  the chief was intoxicated at the time.

We should note that, in Oklahoma, these are the good guys.

Oregon

At a building dedication in Portland, former Senator Margaret Carter stole the show, but after lunch, she brought it back. Charges may still be filed, however, according to celebrity attorney Gloria Allred, who refused to comment on her comment, since she's representing both sides, and the lunch.

Pennsylvania

Our staff uncovered one headline from a Keystone State news website that read:  "Hershey Trojans break under pressure."

And our staff realizes that there are times when we need to just move away from the joke.

Rhode Island

Due to new FCC regulations, the Ocean State has been classified a virtual State (a Statelet), resulting in them having to relinquish their static IP address and set up some kind of interstate internet router sharing with the larger, full-sized States next door.

South Carolina

Headline:  City Adds Streets To Road Repaving List

Clever lads. Wonder what they were paving before they thought of streets? Next thing you know, they may start putting police in the Police Department and adding water to the water.

South Dakota

Our research staff tried to rouse someone in the Mount Rushmore State, but we kept getting a recording that both circuits were busy.

Tennessee

During our research for this article, Libya's Qaddafi was finally captured by a French drone funded by American taxpayer money borrowed from Chinese banks to support President Obama's not-war. Speaking at Dollywood to a group of plus-sized Lacrosse Moms who collect commemorative railroad plates, Joe Biden cited this as a White House victory that will clearly reduce violence against non-conservative women.

Texas

Our research staff tried to rouse someone in the Lone Star State, but we were unable to hear anything over the erratic gunfire, wailing harmonicas, and official Rick Perry retractions.

Utah

We can't share the top news from Utah, because our news contact in the Beehive State has five wives and they're still arguing over what the top news is.

Vermont

Vermont is struggling with the recent discovery that it's really nothing more than a chunk of upstate New York, shaped like a flipped-over New Hampshire. Apparently, in the late 1700s, "Vermont" was sold to a western New Hampshire land baron by a traveling jigsaw puzzle salesman.

Virginia

I don't know why, but an Old Dominion State news website posted an entire article on how to pronounce stuff. The "stuff" included a long 'a,' the letter 'k,' a judge named 'Leonie Brinkema' and a potential ACLU client named 'Abdelhaleem Hasan Abdelraziq Ashqar.'

Washington

In the Evergreen State, proposed legislation intends to limit humans to 3 emergency room visits per year, but there are reams of legalese in place to protect trees. Basically, in Washington, lumber is treated more humanely than lumberjacks.

West Virginia

West Virginia has a request. For a little while, for kicks, they would like to be called "East Kentucky." Just for kicks. Just for a little while.

Wisconsin

Nothing much is happening in Wisconsin, because the entire population have unionized and are holed up in a Rockford, Illinois motel.

Wyoming

There's a state named Wyoming?

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Duck! Soup!

(When healthy food kills you, who do you call?)

This week, I made a fascinating culinary discovery, which I'll share with you here, absolutely free. Got a pen ready? Okay. If you violently shake a can of Campbell's soup before cooking, you may find that it can slip from your grasp and then imitate a Wile E. Coyote-style kitchen wall-penetrating missile.

I may be the only person on Earth who, while innocently transporting something as NATO-neutral as a border-agnostic tin of tame tomato soup, could be warned, "Careful! You could put somebody's eye out!"

Leave it to me to go ballistic with broth.

And trust me – when a high-speed can of hearty vegetables impacts with innocent sheetrock, what a sound it makes! It sounds a lot like a footfall from that rogue Jurassic Park T-Rex, pursuing a J-Park jeep and about to lay into a can of condensed Jeff Goldblum, but with more sodium.

So now I need to find a handyman – some skilled expert who can de-Campbell-ize my dented kitchen wall. And that presents a new challenge. Among the many things that I don't do well (repairing drywall, respecting authority, holding food), I always seem to have a hard go at actually finding a company or service's phone number in the phone book. Specifically, in those irritating yellowed pages.

The white pages are a snap, as long as you know more about the person you need to call than just "Bob." Personally, I can only remember the last names of about eight people, and six of those people are in my immediate family.

And forget the blue pages. Only the government would list a City Manager, and an Assistant City Manager, and a Deputy Assistant City Manager, and then show them all as having the same phone number. And after you learn that your tax dollars are paying for some government drone with the job title "Adjutant Assisting Pro-Tem Secretary to the Assistant Sitting Under-Secretary to the As-Yet Unindicted East Coast Director for Post-Menopausal Shrimp Stress Research Grants," you're too depressed to bother calling anybody anyway.

On the other hand, the canary-colored pages were designed specifically to make it easy to find stuff. Weren't they? The phone company is our friend, right? That's what I was always taught as a child, anyway, back at Ma Bell High School, and every summer at Telecom Monopoly Employee's Union Vacation Bible School.

But the lemon page listings don't help: they only confuse the issue. Sure, there are the eye-poppingly obvious listings: Welding (See Also 'Metalworking'). Zippers. Cabinetry (See Also 'Kitchens' and 'Caskets'). Small Caliber Ammunition. Fish Bait. All the things your average guy needs, if your average guy is involved in Chicago politics and is going to spend the weekend "cleaning up some loose ends."

Anything more complex, though, and the trouble begins. Because the phone company's Category Team refuses to call anything by the same name that we use here on Earth. I can never guess what term they're using to point at the term I'm using.

You know what I mean:  Let's say you need your grass cut. So what you need is the phone number of some bipedal mammal who can parse the straightforward sentence, "If you will cut my grass, I will pay you." Granted, in addition to being able to walk upright and read single syllable words, you would also prefer somebody who's unindicted, who's been in the country more than 20 days, and who still has a few of their original teeth (though, to be fair, that's more than we expect from sitting members of Congress).

So, being a clever citizen, you thumb-rifle through the Jaundice Pages to the C's (for 'cut'). Nothing. On, then, to the G's (for 'grass'). Nothing. On a whim, you think 'Lawnmower Man' and try the S's (for 'very weird Stephen King short story that was the victim of possibly the worst movie adaptation of all time'). Nada. Zip. Bupkis.

(Because you weren't paying attention at school, you don't think to try 'peat' or 'sod.' Not that it would've mattered.)

See, the Banana Book calls that particular activity 'Lawn Maintenance" or 'Landscaping' (See Also 'Lawn Maintenance') or 'Modular Waterfall Gardens That Double As Mosquito Breeding Farms.' At least, that what's they call it today. Next week, try looking up 'Landscaping' and you'll get nothing but a cross-reference that says "See Also 'Unemployed Beach-Front Property Realtors That Now Cut Grass.'" Well, that and a giant refrigerator magnet from a legal firm, just dropping by to check on your health. ("Ever been hurt by a waterfall garden? Ever been pregnant? Ever taken Cantsleepital? Ever known anyone who was taking Cantsleepital while standing near a pregnant waterfall garden? Ever spelled 'asbestos' correctly? If so, you may be entitled to millions of dollars in settlement claims of which, after our fees and costs, you will get to keep about seventy-five cents! Call 'We Are Legion' Legal Services today!")

So the upshot is you just can't easily use the Butter-Colored Pages to find something as commonplace as lawn mowing. On the other hand, if you're staring helplessly at a flat coil (whatever that is), and are desperately in need of someone who can "distr" it (whatever that is), you can riffle right to a category called 'Springs-Coil, Flat, Etc. Distrs & Mfrs.' (What a "distr" is, I don't know. And based on what passes as "acceptable" on TV sitcoms these days, what a "mfr" is short for, I don't want to know.)

Besides, it seems to me that "flat coil" is an oxymoron. It's either coiled, or it's flat. And if you're looking for tactical help to deal with a straight piece of flat wire, well, maybe you have bigger issues than finding the right distr for your (ex)coil. It's like the thinking behind having a listing for "Breast-Feeding Coordinator." I mean, I ask you – how dumb do you have to be to need someone to swing round and coordinate your breast-feeding?

Imagine, if you will, Day Five at "Toni's School of Future Beauticians & Breast-Feeding Coordinators."

Instructor:  "Very good, class! Next week … the other one!"

And then there's all that "See Also" phone book clutter. To be fair, I'm sure that the Ochre Gourd Pages had the best of intentions when they came up with the "See Also" concept. But their implementation of the concept leaves a lot to be desired, kind of like the European Union, or microwaveable pork. For example, category 'Floor Waxing' recommends you "See Also 'Floor Laying'."

Sorry. That's just a flawed analogy. Waxing and Laying? That's not even close, as any self-respecting hen will tell you.

Why not some seriously useful cross-referencing?

 

College Athletics (See Also 'Professional Athletics')
Chicago Politics (See Also 'Lake Michigan' and 'Sonar, Retail')
Catholic Churches (See Also 'Sins, Carnal' and 'Sins, Venal')
Poultry Discipline (See Also 'Hen Waxing')
Doughnuts, Wholesale (See Also 'Men's Plus-Sized Jeans')
'Die Hard' Sequels (See Also 'Enough Already')
Baptist Churches, Southern (See Also 'Potato Salad Recipes')
Cantsleepital, Retail, (Don't See Also 'Heavy Machinery')
Cantsleepital, Potentially Fatal Side-Effects (See Also 'Giant Refrigerator Magnets, Obnoxious')
Predestination Services (Foresee Also 'Presbyterian Churches')
Nagging Wife, Persistent (See Also 'Diamonds, Retail')
Hot Dogs, Total Enlightenment (See Also 'Make Me One With Everything')
Hope (See Also 'Change')
Jury Tampering, Wholesale (See Also 'Chicago Politics')

 

And sometimes, cross-referencing just fails. Just. Simply. Fails. Here's an example:  in the Summer Squash-colored pages of a nearby phone book that I borrowed (See Also 'stole'), I noticed this handy listing:  Fish Ponds (See Also 'Fish Ponds').

On the other hand, 'Chimney Lining Materials' was listed just next to 'Chinese Food Products.'

Hmm. Maybe these guys are smarter than I thought.

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Great Colons in US History

(Never underestimate a Queen & her money)

Columbus Day. That day when we reflect on our national heritage, recall our common status as immigrants, and pay grateful homage to a city in central Ohio.

We all know the story. In 1492, some Italian guy named Chris kept hitting on Isabella, the Queen of Castile. Finally, in an effort to hide from the hormone-infested maniac, Isabella renamed the country "Spain." But Chris still didn't take the hint. So in a last-ditch effort to shake him off, the Queen bought Chris some boats and commissioned him to sail west until he and his ships fell off the edge.

According to the internet, Christopher Columbus was born in 1451, sometime between August 25 and October 31, which is an awfully long time for a woman to be in labor, then or now.

(This may explain why Chris' parents shoved him off to Castile.)

American children know Christopher Columbus as the man who discovered our country, and recognize him from a famous portrait … some uncomfortable guy, wearing what looks like a limp stealth bomber on his head and a lace Joe Cocker shirt beneath a Spanish Inquisition-era cloak, and nursing the tortured expression of someone with an irritated bowel. In fact, in places where people primarily speak Spanish – places like Spain, California, and most automated telephone systems – Columbus Day is known as "Dia de Cristobal Colon."

An agonized colon. That may explain the Queen's restraint. And the hat.

According to our internet research, our famous little Colon had four brothers. And according to the same research, the four brothers were named Bartolomeo, Giovanni Pellegrino, and Giacomo, and that, you'll quickly notice is only three names, and that, in our opinion, pretty much sums up internet research.

We can only assume the fourth brother was given a name, possibly il Bastide, or lo Errore, or Son of Latte Delivery Man.

(And we can only hope that, given his family name, Mama & Papa Colon didn't name the fourth kid Spastic, or Semi.)

So it's really no surprise that Chris opted to sail away, rather than face an existence flush with missing siblings, snubs by pre-Spanish royalty, and all the inevitable Colon jokes. Plus, Chris had a sneaking suspicion that if he sailed west far enough, he would eventually land in India, or at least Brooklyn Heights.

Things moved pretty quickly after that. Chris purchased state-of-the-art maritime gear (two limes and a hat). He stocked up on supplies (rum). He outfitted a first-aid kit (more rum). In a move eerily similar to current Pentagon spending, Chris bought not one boat, but three. These are the now-famous trio of ships we all know and love: the el Nino, the Pentangle, and the Santa Clara (patron saint of Aunt Bee's friends).

Captain Colon and crew spent the next five or six staggering dull weeks sailing the Atlantic, with no in-flight entertainment whatsoever other than one beat-up BetaMax copy of "H.M.S. Pinafore" and a very nervous fiddler nicknamed Teencie.

And finally, after many adventures and a mini-series starring Ed Asner, Teencie spotted land on 12 October 1492, the same year that West Virginia Senator Robert Byrd was born. After such an arduous voyage, the three crews collectively said "Yay" in Italian, and Chris named the island San Salvador, which confused the locals, who had always thought their place was called Guanahani. A petition was immediately filed for a zoning variance.

Of course, as we now know, Christopher Columbus "discovered" America in much the same way as Al Gore "invented" the internet. Lots of people were already here, running around respecting their environment and calling corn "maize." But even those people originally came from somewhere else, having walked across the Bering Strait as part of a time-share discount weekend giveaway. Once here, they went forth and multiplied, mostly around freeway exits, due to their new-found fondness for Stuckey's pecan logs.

Ultimately, our country was named after a different Italian explorer, a Florentine adventurer named United States Vespucci. But we still celebrate Columbus Day, because Vespucci Day rated poorly in the focus groups during the Great Marketing Synod of 1812, and Colon Day was already taken.

Columbus Day is an increasingly controversial holiday, because historians point out that millions of North America's original pecan log fans died as a direct result of contact with European peoples. And if you've ever been trapped in a poorly-ventilated United Nations elevator, you'll tend to agree.

(It's true that many humans died after Columbus landed. However, to be fair, many humans died before Columbus landed, too. But that's George Bush's fault.)

According to our internet research, Columbus Day is also known as the unofficial start of the Christmas shopping season. Personally, we take issue with that claim, because where we live, the Christmas shopping season kicks in each year around the fifth of July. We do manage to postpone decorating the downtown area until Halloween or so. But as we postpone, we pout.

We've actually seen some cities that will just leave the powered-down Christmas lights in situ, forlornly hanging up there all year long. These are usually burgs with the population of an Appalachian high school, the budget of that school's band department, and a name like Fred Unincorporated or Curdled Mohawk, Arkansas.

And don't think that Columbus Day can escape good ol' rugged American regionalism. This troubled holiday is celebrated very differently – if it's celebrated at all – depending on where in the country you happen to be.

America's first Columbus Day celebration took place in San Francisco in 1869. Among other events, there was an impromptu parade, featuring an Embarcadero exotic dancer named Lately Gaga (one of Teencie's direct descendants) and several locals costumed, more or less, as sailors. Senator Robert Byrd served as Grand Marshall.

Despite their claim to first-ever status, however, Columbus Day is not officially recognized in California. Alternatively, some California cities celebrate Indigenous People's Day, but nobody can spell "indigenous," so they just stand around comparing divorce attorneys and eating pecan logs.

The first state-wide celebration of Columbus Day was held in 1907. For some reason, it was held in Colorado, possibly due to Colorado's proximity to Santo Domingo and Cuba.

Minnesota recognizes Columbus Day, but they're not thrilled about it. Minnesotans know that America was actually discovered by the legendary Viking, Norm Van Brocklin.

Hawaii (literal translation:  "The land that consonants forgot") gets in on the Columbus Day action, too, although Hawaii's not even in the same ocean. However, in Hawaii, they don't call it Columbus Day. In the Aloha State (literal translation:  "Welcome! Get out!"), Columbus Day is known as "Landing Day" or, as the locals say, "Aaneeuuiaamumu." (literal translation:  "Continental breakfast not included")

(According to an unconfirmed article on the internet, Columbus Day is not celebrated in South Dakota. But neither resident could be reached for comment.)

Finally, we note that Latino communities all across America also celebrate the anniversary of Chris' first New World visit. But they call it "Dia de la Raza" (Day of the Race), and here at Internet Research Central, we have absolutely no idea what "Day of the Race" has to do with a jilted fifteenth-century Italian kid, with an agonized intestine, whose family was named after a punctuation mark.

And so it goes.

Goodbye, Columbus.

 

Table for One?

(Why we need a cost-of-living index for Single Guys)

A friend came to work this week with a tin of excellent homemade cookies. Cinnamon-topped, crunchy around the edges, chewy in the middle. I don't know if the entire batch was dependable, but the twenty-nine I ate were top-shelf.

I fondly filed the memory away as, well, cinnamon cookies. But it turned out that these cookies were a commonly shared confection, with a name well-known to parents and other humans who drive SAVs. ("Suburban Assault Vehicles" – you know, those two-story cars-on-steroids that sport warehouse-sized sliding doors, theatre seating, and a gas tank the size of Lake Mead.)

And it also turned out that I was the only guy in the room who didn't know that this tasty little cookie is called a "Snickerdoodle."

Snickerdoodle: the common name for the cinnamon cookie I was eating (and the one I was about to eat, and the three or four I ate already, and the half-dozen I'd hidden under paper towels, a legal pad and various opaque desk ornaments).

Now. For the record: at the time, earlier, when my friend had offered me a cookie, I do remember him saying something like, "yep, the wife makes excellent Snickerdoodles." But at the time, I shook that comment off as irrelevant. TMI. It was way early in the morning, I hadn't had any coffee, and I didn't really care to hear about anybody's sex life.

And so it goes for single guys. We're used to it, but so it goes. There's a whole sub-culture out there, privy to information to which single guys are rarely exposed. On the other hand, however, single guys have access to tons of handy little factoids that seem inexplicable to Great Dads Throughout History … iconic symbols of parenting, like Ward Cleaver. Homer Simpson. Ozzy Osbourne. Catherine the Great's horse.

Partly, I suppose, it's a matter of perspective. Single guys often see things differently, or miss things entirely, or sometimes see things that remain unseen to married bipeds and other humans who are, shall we say, less commitment-challenged.

Here's an example. Most of you family-types out there buy milk in enormous containers called "gallons." Single guys buy milk in small, manageable doses known as "pints," as if they were bringing home beer, or morals. It would never cross a single guy's mind to bring home an entire gallon of anything, much less some consumable breakfast liquid that can mutate into something that smells like downtown Detroit looks.

Here's another example of Single Guy perspective. I had been out of college for nearly a decade before I learned that shower curtains are replaceable. Single guys just assume that, as part of life's rich pageantry, we're given one shower curtain each, and that's our quota. Unless, of course, somebody steals it, or it gets used in any activity that involves Catherine the Great's horse.

Right about now, you may be thinking, "Well, that's just stupid. Of course you can replace a shower curtain! Otherwise, the thing just gets more and more disgusting, what with all the mildew, pizza stains, and hoof prints."

Pizza stains? Pizza stains? And you're questioning my commentary?

Of course, to be fair to the Single Guy Nation, not all single guys are as stupid as I. Or as stupid as me. Or equally unsmart like I or me am or are. I hope you get my point, because I forgot what I was talking about.

Oh, yeah. Cookies.

According to one recipe I found on the internet, you'll not get far as a Snickerdoodle Maven without having various accesses to various amounts of various products, including shortening, sugar, eggs, flour, cream of Tartar, baking soda, salt and cinnamon.

I checked my own pantry. (First, I had to ring up my wicked step-ex-girlfriend, Emasculata, to find out where it was.) You know how many of those Snickerdoodle-enabling ingredients I own?

Salt.

(Actually, I did find some cinnamon, but it was in a dust-creased jar bearing a cheesy "As seen on 'Bewitched!'" promo and a label that warned, "Best if used by the Tet Offensive.")

And should I ever run out of Tartar cream, I wouldn't even know where to start. What aisle at the grocery stocks pre-Mongol Turkic ethnic groups? Can I get just the cream, sold in a tube, or a jar, or a goatskin? Or do you have to buy the whole Tartar, get the guy home, and then employ some ancient Tartar-cream-separating Iranian farm implement? Do Tartars expire?

Eggs, for a single guy, fall into the same category as milk. Basically, the problem is this – the stuff spoils. It goes bad, and quickly, too, like Rod Stewart trying to sing "It Had To Be You."

(This short-term temporal window also holds true for bags of lettuce, very expensive cheese, and very cheap pork.)

Such grocer's purchases present an insurmountable container-to-consumer ratio. It's just math. The stuff simply can't be swallowed, by one person, prior to the expiration date. A single guy ends up dashing about, looking for stuff to throw milk on, or at, or in.

(Consumer Tip: There is no food item that, having been handed to you via a car window, will get better by being dipped in nearly expired milk. None. There just isn't.)

(Humane Tip: Leaving several unattended bowls of milk in one's front yard, in hopes of conscripting cats to consume the stuff, may lead to unexpected side-effects. Cats tend to view such largesse as the onset of a "trend." This is closely followed by a "social contract" and, ultimately, an "entitlement.")

Fortunately, eggs have alternative uses, including deliciously violent functions that involve safe, healthy playground concepts like arc, carpet-bombing, trajectory, splatability, and so on.

And shortening? I don't even know what shortening is, other than a dim childhood memory ("Mama's little baby loves shortenin' bread") from some song that I don't think we're supposed to sing anymore.

(Later on in the song, some single guy apparently does something stupid in the kitchen with the shortenin' bread lady, and it costs him a year in jail, where he learns many new vocabulary words, like "recidivism" and "shiv." Meanwhile, upstairs in this doomed household, some bed-sick kids smell the bread, get out of bed, and attack a pigeon, for some shortening-induced reason. The place was out of control.)

Come to think of it, maybe it's better if we don't sing that song anymore.

Turn Left…um…Eventually

(The continuing race toward an adjective-free America)

I don't have a normal hobby, like collecting stamps, or training pit bulls to chew each other and write their name so they can sign their royalty checks over to NFL quarterbacks. But I do like to keep the old mental faculties well-oiled. So this week, I learned several new ways to get sued.

Now, don't scoff. Some of the ways I learned to get sued are pretty bizarre (literal translation:  "the government must be involved"). For example, I can now get sued for phone malpractice!

What did you do this week? Can you get sued for phone malpractice?

What I'm talking about, of course, is that even-more-than-normally-simple-minded government program known as the Fair Housing Act.

Now, before you pop a blood vessel and start suing me for just talking about suing me, let me point out that I have nothing against the construction or intent of the original Fair Housing Act in 1968, nor its 1988 upgrade (Fair Housing, Version 2.0, civil Service Pack 3).

But what began as an honorable attempt to insure equality has, of course, mutated. It has morphed beyond recognition – as unchecked, overfunded government programs inevitably do – into that dread ghoul, that beast which cannot be fed.

Political Correctness.

Case in point. Let's say you're someone who owns an apartment complex. As you might imagine, potential tenants will call you. Hopefully. Otherwise, you will soon be someone who once owned an apartment complex.

That's not entirely true, of course. Rather than failing at owning an apartment complex, and then gracefully going out of business to try something else, you could just change your name from "Casa Del Mescalito Horizon Forest Manor Acres" to "Casa Del Mescalito Horizon Forest Manor Acres Savings & Loan," run out and buy a big money rake, and wait for the harvest. Or you could masquerade as a California solar panel manufacturer, collect Star Wars battlecruiser-sized loads of taxpayer cash, and then go out of business. (Oddly enough, these criminals never get sued).

But for now, while you're still running the apartment complex, potential tenants will call you. They'll call you for floor plan descriptions, square footage measurements, Management's views on concealed weapons permits, prices, deposits, directions, and to inquire about permission to bring their "baby," Lurker, a 285-pound Argentine Dogo with the larynx of a ticked-off banshee, a "pesky" intestinal imbalance and an actual FBI rap sheet.

And there's the rub. Thanks to the federal Hurt Feelings police at the Fair Housing Authority, you're hamstrung. You can no longer offer intelligent, helpful, informative answers to your tenants' questions.

Did you know that you can no longer refer to a large closet as a "walk-in" closet? Yep. According to the federal frumps at Fair Housing, if word ever got out that somebody somewhere had walked into a closet, then somebody somewhere else – somebody that has trouble walking, maybe – might get their feelings hurt. (Of course, people come out of closets all the time, although "walking" might be too pedestrian a term for the activity. But Closet Liberation Theology is handled by an entirely different federal department.)

Nor can you refer to your property as "within walking distance to the mall." See, in the federal government, they think so little of us that they've convinced themselves that we'll never make it without their manic nanny-like oversight. And their only solution, their only reaction, is to over-react:  not every single human can walk, so let's just not mention walking, and then maybe walking will just go away.

I don't know how walking will go away, because, well, walking went away, right? But there's an entirely different federal department handling that. (It used to be NASA that handled such time-travel conundrums, but NASA now has the operational budget of a nine-year-old's lemonade stand, only with less pending lawsuits.)

It gets more weird. That largest bedroom in each apartment? You know, the one with the, um…the, uh…the drive-in closet? You can no longer refer to that room as the "master" bedroom. (However, there are specific IRS exemptions available if you are a gainfully employed Argentine Dogo rooming with your master, who happens to be an NFL quarterback.)

Next to be outlawed, I suppose, will be any references to the sitting room. Not everybody can just sit whenever they bloody well care to sit, you know. Especially if you're one of those enterprising apartment communities in the Rust Belt, pulling in a little extra coin by running a meth lab in the on-site Laundromat.

So, to help you fine-tune your telephony skills, here's yet another helpful quiz.

 

A prospect calls with a question about closet space. The federal Hurt Feelings police won't let you say "walk-in closet." How do you respond?

a)    All our closets are walk-in closets. You just can't walk in very far.

b)    Our bedrooms boast monstrous closets, once you get shoved in there. Ask about our personalized shoving service!

c)    I don't know from "walk-in," but we once offered run-in closets. Made an absolute killing on forfeited security deposits.

 

While researching your competition, their saleswoman quotes this phrase from their marketing brochure: "Many residents have large dogs or alarms that will automatically call the police department." How do you respond?

a)    Just pure coincidence, I guess, that you guys are running that "secret" meth lab in the Laundromat?

b)    If your place is anything like my place, calling the police department is a briskly optimistic exercise.

c)    Cool! Where can I get me one o' them phone-dialing dogs?

 

A prospect calls with a question about bedrooms. The federal Hurt Feelings police won't let you mention "master" bedroom. How do you respond?

a)    All our units feature a humorously small bedroom and a ridiculously small bedroom. Legend has it that, once upon a time, someone almost slept in the "humor suite," but we can't confirm that.

b)    The standard floor plan offers three sleeping cells; one dominant and two submissive. Were you interested in something more bitter?

c)    Be sure to ask about our Simon Legree discount!

 

What is the proper way to answer a Customer Service phone call?

a)    Hi, my name is Ted. Can I help you?

b)    Hi, I'm Ted. I can help you.

c)    Hi, I'm Ted, and if I can help you, nobody will be more surprised than me.

 

A prospect is interested in your apartment and asks about proximity to grocery stores. The federal Hurt Feelings police won't allow you to use the expression "within walking distance." How do you respond?

a)    There are several grocery stores within alking-way istance-day.

b)    Several grocery stores are unbelievably close, if you happen to have eight surface-gripping appendages!

c)    Hey, I remember you! I took you to lunch, and you ate lunch twice, in my car, on the way to lunch. I need to hook you up with Kip, the guy who runs our Laundromat.

 

A tenant with a question about "maximum occupancy" calls to ask, "Somehow, I got pregnant. At what age do you recognize children?" How do you respond?

a)    For the purposes of occupancy, we recognize children at birth.

b)    For the purposes of occupancy, we recognize children at age two.

c)    Somehow, ma'am? Somehow you got pregnant? Any idea who the mother is?

 

A prospect is interested in your apartment and asks for directions to the property. The federal Hurt Feelings Police won't allow you to mention the obvious landmark, that massive twenty-four-acre Protestant church on the corner. How do you respond?

a)    Go three miles on Main, then turn left at the big pointy building.

b)    Go four miles on Main, turn around, go back one mile, then turn right.

c)    Drive down Main Street until you come to the only intersection within fifty-miles that doesn't have a pharmacy on the corner. Turn left.

 

A tenant calls with a question about their garage. How do you qualify their question?

a)    If the garage is attached, ask the caller for the apartment number.

b)    If the garage is detached, ask the caller for the garage number.

c)    If the garage is not detached but just reticent, or a bit aloof, ask to speak to an adult garage.

 

So, there you are, citizens. Don't be idle! Get out there, find your litigious niche, and start getting sued for something!

If you have any other questions, feel free to come see us at El Permanente Los Wages Garden Estates At Blynken West, Phase IV. Just head down Broad Street and turn left at the First United Methodi…uh…just hang a left at the first intersection that has fabulous landscaping, no satellite dish, and a tax-exempt status.

No appointment necessary! Just walk right in and…um…ah…

Just, uh…just…

Please call to make an appointment.

The Good, the Bad and the Profile-Challenged

(Don't say "ugly." Say "homely-enabled." Or "Jerry Springer guest-ish.")

For the few dozen of you out there who still have a private sector job, I have some breaking news for you. Monday morning, when you get to work, tread lightly. That voracious varmint known as "Political Correctness?" You know, the beast that cannot be fed? It's extended its reach.

It now protects ugly people.

That's right, America. From a legal perspective, ugly people are now a protected class, with their own set of exemptions and extra rights, much like atheists, or Wisconsin schoolteachers. We now have a whole new group of potential workplace-lawsuit victims, whining for advocacy and access, clamoring for attention and attorneys, despite sporting heads that look like they must've lost a bet.

According to this week's cadre of pesky, know-it-all progressive crusaders, discriminating against ugly people in the workforce has suddenly become a huge problem. Personally, I fail to see any evidence of these alleged encroaching tentacles of anti-ugly bigots, if you catch my drift. Ugly's kind of like Sarah Palin, or car commercials: ugly is everywhere. For example, I order fast food almost every day from people who look like they're running late for a Michael Jackson zombie video.

And on behalf of us single guys in the workplace, let me say for the record that we don't need this extra hassle. We had enough hassles already, thank you very much. It's tough enough as it is now, just trying to deal with women and overly-caffeinated sales people. Not to mention grandparents armed with photos.

Sales people are easy. Just tell them they're ugly, and they'll laugh and go away. Long ago, perhaps in utero, they convinced themselves that they're not ugly, because…well…because they're sales professionals!

Alternatively, you could try just killing sales people, but let's be honest – who walks around work all day , handily packing garlic and a stake? Besides, there's no guarantee a sales person will stay dead, especially if they've not yet hit quota.

Women, on the other hand, can be a bit trickier. At work, women immediately outflank guys tactically, for two very good reasons:

1)    Women think most guys are idiots

2)    Most guys are idiots

However, women have inherent advantages that further compound the problem:

1)    Women have great big eyes. Two, generally.

2)    Women have angles and bumps that guys don't have. Well, most guys.

3)    Most guys are idiots

And finally, we have grandparents. Grandchild-picture-packing grandparents, when unmonitored and released in a work environment, are ruthless, political and adhesive.

Now, I'm the first to admit that two-week-old babies, as a non-invasive caucus, are ridiculously cute, and they stay cute until there are mitigating factors, like decorative body piercings, or proms, or pending indictments.

But two-minute-olds? No. Sorry, no. Extremely newborns look like Mr. Magoo would look after getting his hand caught in a vise.

But grandparents don't see it that way. They have a bias, and they're on a mission. Somehow, at the hospital, they'd managed to smuggle a camera into Labor & Delivery and then snap candid photos of their own child's child, a tiny, damp, six-second-old future human who doesn't even have a fig leaf or a Facebook account. I mean, here's a hapless, naked little biped who as yet hasn't even worked out that whole inhale/exhale thing. The poor, wailing congealed kid looks like a mini-Bill Murray, just off of a "Ghostbusters" slime outtake.

To a grandparent, however, this little bundle is the galaxy's first perfected person. Until now, every other human was just a flawed draft.

To a grandparent, this child is the apex of history's vast sweep, the acme of personhood.

To your average guy on his morning break, it's a grainy Mutual of Omaha marginally-viable prairie mammal.

So, be warned. It's just a matter of time before some grandparent corners you at work and proudly whips out snaps of the former fetus (undoubtedly saddled with a name like William Overlord Johnson III, a name that weighs more than the kid itself). There's no graceful way to deal with this tricky social challenge, other than the obvious, time-tested, manly solution:

Lie.

Yes, lie. Lie like lying was an Olympic event. Lie like lying is a newly-unearthed Commandment. And don't look at me like that. As if you're offended or something.

You're not fooling anybody, you know. You've lied twice since you started reading this. You lied to get this job.

I mean, what are you gonna say to the grandguy as he proudly brandishes progeny-once-removed? The truth?

a)    Holy rainwater! What morphing software are you using?

b)    Isn't that the two-nosed alien Han Solo blasted in the Star Wars bar?

c)    None of my business, of course, but why are you carrying around a photo of Jonathan Winters in a hurricane?

I rest my case.

So let's review some scenarios. Ready?

Because you were distracted, Tony from Accounting (a new grandparent) managed to corner you at the water cooler. As you calculate sprinting distances to the various exits, Tony rakes your cheek with a photo and launches a salvo:

Scenario 1:  Grandpa Tony says, "Is that not the most handsomest child you ever saw?"

Your optimal response?

a)    Tony, I've never seen a more beautiful baby in my life!

b)    Whoa! What, did somebody dip the kid in something?

c)    Aw, Tony, he looks just like you, if you were Mr. Magoo and had been in a serious shop accident!

Scenario 2:  Grandpa Tony says, "Look at that grin, eh? This one's gonna be a handful!"

Your optimal response?

a)    Yep, trouble for sure, that one! Heh heh.

b)    Tony, that's not his grin. Somebody flip the kid.

c)    Well, whaddaya know! I didn't realize recidivism was an acquired trait.

So be careful, worker guy. Remember, ugly people are out there, and now they can sue you. Now they're a protected class. An endangered species, even. Maybe. Hopefully.

Ugly, in solidarity.

I just hope they're still a minority.

The Turbeaux Diaries

(Reflections on corporate taxonomy, if not outright taxidermy)

I call him Turbeaux. That's not his real name, of course. A dwarf generally has a first and last name, just like you and me, unless the dwarf is dumb enough to lose one of his names (it happens more often than you might think). And Turbeaux was an exceptionally stupid dwarf.

Even for a corporate dwarf.

As we know from several songs, sung by people who are now dead, "life goes on." And mine has. But before the memory fades – or before my psyche blocks out the whole episode as part of a protective auto-defense mechanism – let me tell you about my summer with the dwarf.

It's a fairly standard tale, I suppose, to those of you who have figured out how to go to work every day, week after week, surrounded by walls and waste and weird report requests and unwarranted office rearrangements and mandatory pencil requisitions in triplicate and Secret Santas and corporate dwarves – and then do it again, and again, all without going clinically insane.

So I'll attempt to not bore you with my bit of a tale, partly by interspersing a few flashbacks from my diary, which I maintained during my days in the company of a company's bi-polar dwarf.

Witness…

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf got disoriented during our weekly "Chip & Dale Carnegie" motivational meeting. As a result of his confusion, the dwarf rescheduled his secretary's schedule so she could work the "paradigm shift."

See? That's the kind of nonsense I had to deal with, earlier this year, when I found myself working with … and then working for … a bi-polar dwarf. Or course, we didn't call him Turbeaux at first. That came later.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, the dwarf was late for work. Turns out he'd let his shampoo confuse him and then he got caught in a vicious "lather, rinse, repeat" loop.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at lunch, somebody convinced the dwarf that he couldn't possibly get salmonella, because he wasn't eating salmon. So now we know: a bi-polar dwarf with food poisoning turns a really weird shade of green.

As you might imagine, being barely taller than a grade-school ruler presents its own problems for a dwarf, especially when you're a corporate dwarf swaggering around and burdened with that deadliest of combinations:  a middle-management job title and a very short fuse.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf went ballistic after learning that normal-height people use these things called "light switches," and that's what actually makes the lights go on and off. Until now, the dwarf had thought meeting rooms were just sad to see him leave.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, a tall woman accused the dwarf of staring at her knees. The dwarf, of course, pouted and whined, saying he preferred women half her thighs.

Turbeaux had learned to simultaneously suck up and pout, which of course qualified him for a middle-management position, his own office, and keys to the corporate lunchroom. The dwarf didn't eat much, though; he somehow acquired nourishment from attending endless meetings and parroting drivel like "you're so right, Bill" and "paradigm shift."

Turbeaux is mad for meetings. (That's how he got the nickname "Turbeaux." Think "Tasmanian Devil" armed with a quiver of Venn Diagrams.) Turbeaux will schedule an afternoon meeting to talk about planning a meeting to analyze that morning's meeting, that he had convened to discuss the inordinate amount of non-productive time middle-management's been spending in meetings.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, while loping from one meeting to the next, the dwarf ran into another wall. For the rest of the day, he walked around cupping a seashell to his head. When asked why, he said he'd been advised to file an injury claim, and somebody told him if you hold a seashell next to your ear, you could hear OSHA (he really is a very stupid dwarf).

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf had another "green" epiphany, and confiscated everybody's Earth-killing light bulbs. Sadly, though, his little corporate dwarf cranium had forgotten to buy replacement bulbs, so he had to redistribute our originals. Of course, the rest of us worked that little "gift" all day long. We spent the rest of the day complaining that we had to work using somebody else's light.

Right about now, you may find yourself thinking about some of the middle-management characters at your office. Hmmm. Could Fred in Purchasing be a bi-polar dwarf? Hmmm. Sure, that Angela in Accounts Payable is taller than a fire hydrant, but … might a dwarf run out and purchase shoe inserts? Hmmm?

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, a rogue "who's your secret gift partner" email exploded, destroying half of the dwarf's moustache. At least, I hope that's what happened to his moustache. I'd hate to think the little guy walks around looking like that on purpose.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, the dwarf inexplicably insisted that everybody start referring to him as "The Hammer," possibly because he's exactly the same height as one. Unimpressed co-workers just let him rave on, and on and on, until he finally fainted from a hubris overload. Then we all rolled him into a corner and voted on whether to keep calling him "Turbeaux," or to just stick with our current pet name, "Irrelevant Yard Ornament."

Of course, a middle-management corporate dwarf with a job title is still a member of middle-management, with all the petty, vindictive, destructive, career-warping power that such a position confers.

And as I was about to learn, you can only push a bi-polar dwarf so far.

DEAR DIARY:  Today, at work, I switched some characters on the dwarf's keyboard. As a result, a huge client got an email, inviting them to fake their sales witch at a Friday seminal.

That was the beginning of the end.

And then, one day, the dwarf got terminally angry at me because, according to him, I didn't look at him often enough when he was "making a point." (a.k.a. shrieking, throwing extremely light objects at people's knees, and pulse-popping the few remaining veins in his Malibu Barbie-sized forehead)

Yeah, I know. I thought the same thing you're thinking right now. A corporate dwarf, in a position of tiny-step-ladder-assisted authority, mad at me because I didn't look at him enough.

Whoa.

You know, as part of my initial conversations with this company, Mrs. H.R. Lady had submitted me to a psychiatric evaluation. Standard stuff, nothing invasive, no dials or restraints, no goofy paper outfits that never quite close in the back, thereby allowing you to simultaneously freeze to death while letting you advertise your spine and, um, points south.

A standard psych analysis. Just a last-chance, optimistic opportunity for the Human Resources department to weed out the finger chewers, the criminally insane, and other members of Congress.

I got the job, so obviously, I evaluated as "sane." Obviously, Turbeaux also slipped one past the goalie.

And obviously, the Psychiatric Evaluation Metrics review committee of the Federated Union of Human Resources needs to reassess their standards.

But life goes on, and now I'm unemployed again.

Have I learned anything, you ask? Well, yeah. Sure, I've learned something. Two things, actually:

 

1. From what I know of psych exams, most of corporate America could very well be insane.

2. If you ever need to take out a dwarf, you can't necessarily depend on salmonella.

The Future King of Tonga

(How to abdicate a throne when you don't rule anything)

I give up.

Here's what it's come to. Here's how weird it's gotten, just to try and be a guy in America.

I'm in the parking lot at the grocery, right? I see a stranger approaching, a lady, juggling bags and produce and wallets and keys. I analyze her situation, I calculate my options, I react. I lean in to open the strange lady's car door. Just trying to help, right?

And she nunchucks me with her wrist-collar of plastic "Valued Customer" bonus cards.

Sheesh. I didn't realize she was that strange.

So I'm making it official.

I give up.

Being an American Guy has just gotten too confusing. I'm going gender-neutral, like Switzerland, or Jimmy Swaggart.

I don't know when the switch got flipped, but somehow the simple act of holding a door open for a female has morphed from "Why, thank you, polite, well-mannered fellow!" into "What's up with that freak?" Things were much different when I was growing up, back when there were only three TV channels and two genders. I was taught to stand up when a lady entered the room.

But should you dare to exhibit such psychotic behavior these days, get ready for askance stares – and not just from the acknowledged lady. From the other women in the room, too.

And the men. And the potted plants.

And no, I did not stand up because I considered her weak. No, I did not stand up because I thought she was inferior.

I stood up because I thought she was HOT. (Remember, I was growing up. At that point in my development, I thought the potted plants were hot.)

Now, before I start getting emails from irritated feminists, and offended Schefflera, let me point out that, statistically speaking, guys are idiots.

Yeah, I said it. Many guys are morons. This is a confirmed, repeated, measurable fact. I mean, look at us. Look at our historical record:

 

Once upon a time, a guy launched a thousand ships because of a woman's face. This became the first documented practical joke in a long history of maritime pranks spawned by guys, grog, and "Fleet Week."
In the 1500s, an Italian guy named Nat King Cole painted the portrait of Mona Lisa, immortalizing her inscrutably sly smile. This painting would later become all the rage in freshman-level art appreciation classes as being the first example of "perspective," though hardly the first example of "smirking."
A guy who became a King in England insisted on marrying multiple women … at the same time. After about two weeks of that, the breakfast bickering drove him insane – surprise, surprise – and he had no choice but to "cloister" them in London's infamous Leaning Tower of Babel.
According to legend, a guy named Narcissus fell in love with his own reflection in a pond, even though his reflection was occasionally marred by surfacing turtles. For thousands of years, he was unable to tear himself away from himself, until the year 2008 AD, when he was elected President of the United States.
Another bunch of guys, desperate to rout the USC Trojans, redefined military tactics by hiding inside a hollow horse next to Saddam Hussein. Not only did these guys think it was a good idea to carve a giant horse and then hide in it; the Other Evil Bad Guys actually fell for it, which is where we get the term "never look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if you hear guys' voices and clinking armor coming from inside the horse."

And this is no recent phenomenon, either. According to some tenured university scientists, the Earth is 4,600 million years old. (This is what is commonly referred to as a SWAG. Floating a SWAG is normal behavior for a guy. Tenure was created so women could do it, too.) But it was only about 15,000 years ago that guys started knuckle-walking across the Bering Straits, en route to Malibu and Laguna Beach, looking for babes with minimal facial hair.

See? Even four thousand million years ago, already guys were sleeping in, showing up late and, as it turns out, not all that picky.

So, to be fair, there is some validity to the "we're made that way" argument. And, as a matter of scientific objectivity, any time you run across a life form that spray-paints profane graffiti in block capital letters, but uses cursive to "write" its name in the snow, you definitely want to double-check the creature's DNA.

But, unlike tenured people, you have to check your sources. You can't just lump all guys into a single, single-celled-organism category. For example, guys in general are expected to know how to make quick, determined decisions, and how to fix stuff. Not true. I once borrowed a friend's late-model Saab and nearly died of dehydration before I figured out where to insert the ignition key.

And trust me. Somewhere out there, right now, is a guy with a weighty decision to make. Just a guy … perhaps he's a rugged yet sympathetic high school sports coach, tall, balding, probably sporting a mild limp from a selfless accident during his pool lifeguard days. And every morning, this guy can be found standing in front of his open gym locker, staring at bottles of competing ibuprofen medications.

Should he take two of this one, or eight of that? Or did he already take a handful and forget? If so, which one? What if he took both? According to the TV commercials, either one could cause his heartbeat to stutter, or his ankles to dissolve. Either might cause him to drool, faint, or, according to some double-blind tests, go blind twice. Both might cause skin vomiting, nausea, queasiness or other synonyms. Neither should be taken while sleeping, or while not sleeping, or while scuba diving or not, or while operating monstrous machinery that third-world countries use to gouge out diamond quarries.

Ultimately, the upshot is that guys are expected to be a kind of social shape-shifter. Adaptable to the point of genetic de-differentiation. A set of men for all seasons.

All of whom, it is readily assumed, are bone-banging stupid.

As a guy, I can absolutely assure you of one thing: no guy wakes up of a morning, eager to run outside and compete for "Moron of the Year." But societal sources are forever at the ready, monitoring guys for any outbreak of Pending Idiot Syndrome … and these sources never sleep. Including the most insidious source of all – television.

When it comes to TV, guys can't win. In the sports, shows, and specials, guys are depicted as everything from slime to saint; but in the commercials, it's all about the idiots.

Here's a partial list of TV commercial concepts that you, as a 21st Century Guy, are expected to do or accept, or tolerate, or embrace and understand, or defend against a Quentin Tarantino-sized squad of Ninja assassins, all while simultaneously flexing your six-pack abs, weeping at a Hugh Grant movie, and killing a spider:

 

A guy must know how to choose the correct shaving products. Present a nice, close shave and women will go all National Geographic at you; show up stubbly and you get snubbed like Paris Hilton at a eunuch convention. Plus, according to TV, if you don't dab on the right gel, your entire jaw could catch on fire.
As a single guy, you've been sleeping in the same bed, on the same mattress, since the War of 1812 (Odds are, on the same sheets, too, but let's not niggle). But now, your new bride wants a new mattress made out of something called Super Memory Ultra-Enzyme Tushie-Molding Hyper-Foam (not to be confused with shaving gel). It gets worse. She wants you to extend and relax on your side of the bed, posed in your favorite Hugh Hefner silks, while she jumps up and down on the mattress' eastern hemisphere, grinning like a lapsed eunuch at a Paris Hilton convention, and absolutely fascinated by an obstinate flute of red wine that refuses to spill.
A guy might get a phone call from his neighbor, alerting the guy that his pre-teen son, instead of delivering the paper each morning, has been lobbing boxes of whole-grain breakfast cereal onto people's lawns. What to do? Is his son insane? Is the kid knocking off the local grocery? Could breakfast cereal distribution be a gateway drug leading to unlicensed lemonade stands?
As a guy, you will eagerly drop over $300 on a new smart phone, simply because it is 4G, or has 5 Gs, or does whatever it is smart phones do with however many Gs are available in this galaxy, this week. You can rationalize the purchase because, according to the ad, the phone will turn into a lightning bolt that you can throw like a spear from your barn. (some barn assembly required, batteries and thunderbolt not included)
To prove that a spray-on product can seal a leaky gutter, a guy will gang-spray a screen door, then replace the bottom of a rowboat with the screen door.
As a formerly-single guy, to placate your wife, a nasal shrew who's beginning to sound more and more like Gladys Kravitz from Bewitched, you will agree on a $3,600 awning to shade a sad slab of concrete that cost nine bucks, a pitiful, 3-by-5 postage stamp of pavement that Gladys refers to as "the lanai."

So, the next time you see a guy fumbling his way through society, think twice before you judge him. Remember, he's missed nearly four billion years of charm school.

FOOTNOTE:  The parking lot lady didn't actually hit me. But you already knew that, because you're reading this column, which I'd have never written if she had actually hit me, because I'd have sued the edgy little shopper right down to her last lime, cleaned up in the personal injury lawsuit, and that'd be the last time you ever heard from me, because I would've relocated in mid-sentence to the Island of Tonga, where I would run for King.

Hmm. Wonder if they make a 5G Tushie-Foam throne.

How To Survive Disaster Advice

(Your tax dollars at work. Well, somebody's tax dollars.)

Hi there, citizen! (or, in case we hit a needle in a haystack – Hi there, taxpayer!) Welcome to another official, expensive, and ultimately useless government publication!

OFFICIAL MISSION STATEMENT:  FEMA (the "Feral Excitement Manipulation Agency") and the Bureau of Indian Affairs ("huh?") are proud to bring you this official Disaster Preparedness publication, prepared at great expense ("yours, not ours") and completely updated ("we changed the font") in painstaking detail ("we whipped it up this morning").

OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER:  You may be asking yourself: What in the name of Tonto & The Three Stooges does the Bureau of Indian Affairs have to do with disaster preparedness? Well, not much. We admit that. But then, take a quick look around at recent disasters, and be honest.

Neither does FEMA.

To be honest, the Bureau of Indian Affairs hasn't been relevant since their field trip to go watch "The Last of the Mohicans." But the Bureau is part of this project for an entire different reason. What with all the recent whining about Washington's over-spending, your government's been catching a lot of flak for a lot of things, like having an entire department dedicated to the sex life of native Americans. So we do what we do best – we just dim the lights and shove that department's budget around as needed, like we do with any Federal spending that comes under scrutiny (wait till you hear about the "Grebe" initiative, and all the taxpayer money being spent to relocate socially stressed ducks).

Welcome to Civil Service!

But let's get back to our mission. Here at FEMA, we understand – life can jump up behind you. And we want to do our part to help you get ready for any life-altering eventualities, such as hurricanes, earthquakes, particularly steamy Indian affairs, or absurdly incompetence from your Federal government.

In a normal year, DHS & FEMA get to be incompetent once or twice. But 2011 was no normal year. Before the madness finally ended, the 2011 Storm Season claimed the lives of thousands and thousands of daytime television hours. Those hours, America can never replace.

Of course, there were human tragedies, too. During the nearly historic 2011 earthquake, which was almost felt in as many as one places, a Cape Cod wedding caterer was wounded in Bed Bath & Beyond when a pallet of cranberry bog-themed paper plates collapsed. Then, late in the tropical storm season (Hurricane Yahtzee), a pedestrian in Virginia was struck by an airborne used-car salesman during the last-minute filming of a "this weekend only" TV commercial. (Remember, people – during a hurricane, an un-tethered car dealer can become a life-threatening missile.)

And disasters in 2011 weren't limited to foul weather. In August, the middle of a perfectly clear day, a house-bound man in Elk Nostril, North Carolina succumbed to a heart attack after repeatedly watching Super Bowl clips of Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction.

And so, to prepare you for exposure to painful things like natural disasters, or civil service employees, we've put together this Disaster Preparedness quiz.

Ready? Let's begin:

Q:  FEMA exists under the organizational umbrella of what overarching agency?

The Department of Homeland Security
2.    America's Most Wanted
China

 

Q:  The name of the current Secretary of Homeland Security is

Janet Neapolitan
Janet Reno
Janet Jackson

 

Q:  What does it take for a 24×7 cable news channel to shift into non-stop emergency news mode?

An Atlantic storm system with sustained measurable pressure below 950 millibars
Sweeps Week
Dawn

 

Q:  Once storm-generated winds reach 40 miles per hour, what happens?

911 operators may refuse to dispatch emergency vehicles
Electric cars may flip over, fail to navigate hilly terrain, or just faint
If you're Mitt Romney's hair, absolutely nothing

 

Q:  As a result of the almost historic 2011 Quake, hundreds of thousands of citizens along America's Eastern Seaboard

Nearly lost their homes and everything they owned
Nearly lost their interest in the almost historic 2011 Quake
Nearly lost their balance

 

Q:  Once storm-generated winds reach 80 miles per hour, what happens?

The White House may have to call in FEMA
The White House may have to call up the National Guard
The White House may have to call out for delivery pizza

 

Q:  The reason TV news reporters stand out on the beach in the middle of community-destroying Category 500 hurricanes is

They cling to an admirable, deep-seated, lifelong respect for the First Amendment
They are bound by an unshakeable, heroic duty to inform a grateful American public
It was either that, or go cover the Grand Opening of yet another Italian Ice franchise

 

Q:  "The Last of the Mohicans" was a film about

An Indian named Natty Bumppo
An Indian named Buddy Mohican
Out-sourced phone support for satellite dish TV

 

Q:  There is an American sub-culture, popularly called "Storm Trackers," who actually like to chase storms and see how close they can get without becoming dead, or maimed, or extremely flat. Such people are

What population-control sociologists like to call "self-pruning"
Not likely to attend Yanni concerts
Rare. Eventually.

 

Q:  "Ten Little Indians" was a film about

The making of a Janet Jackson video
Agatha Christie's years of intensive therapy with the Bureau of Indian Affairs
The penultimate Mohicans

 

Q:  When the government "highly recommends" you vacate your property immediately, you should

Trust them and leave immediately, given the crackerjack job they've done at handling everything else
Leave immediately, unless you drive an electric car with a bumper that couldn't survive a glancing blow by a jaywalking ferret
Make sure the evacuation order came from our government

 

Q:  New York City just can't seem to get a break. After an earthquake and then a hurricane, the Big Apple will next have to face

Godzilla
A massive outbreak of United Nations parking violations
Another "Die Hard" remake

 

Q:  The role of a Hurricane Hunter pilot is to

Measure wind velocities near the eye of a storm
Cull the human race of maniac daredevils who might otherwise become commercial airline pilots (see "self-pruning")
Try not to weep uncontrollably while your plane is being attacked like a spiral-cut ham at a "Legalize Pot" convention

 

Q:  Once storm-generated winds reach 100 miles per hour, what happens?

Satellite dish TV reception may fail. But then, that can happen during wind gusts of up to 1 mile per hour.
Politicians in Virginia start campaigning in West Virginia
Homeland Security points out that very few hurricanes enter the U.S. via the Arizona border

 

Q:  When stocking up for a pending emergency, the most important provisions to remember are

Water, Batteries & First Aid Supplies
Water Purification Tablets, Can Openers & Generators
Lawyers, Guns & Money

 

Q:  And speaking of disaster preparedness, Moses long ago parted the Red Sea in an attempt to escape from

Egyptian daytime television
Taxation without representation
Janet Jackson

 

Well, there you have it! From all of us at FEMA and other cash-bloated agencies, like the Department of Metrosexual Mallard & Grebe Relocation, thanks for your time … and we hope you survive lots of stuff!

And if not, enjoy your $255 government death benefit!