Barry Parham's Blog: The Mooncalf Communion, page 55

Return of the Giant Vote-Sucking Locusts

(The good news: it's only every four years. The bad news: it lasts for five.)

 

Moderator:  Good evening, America! Welcome to the Iowa State Fair and the first of several hundred thousand election events!

 

(Cue applause prompt)

 

Moderator:  I'm your rugged-yet-sensitive host, Biff Condor, reminding you that, here at Wolf News, we're State Fair and Balanced!

 

(Cue audio of insanely expensive "24×7 political coverage" jingle)

 

Moderator:  We're glad you're with us tonight! On behalf of Wolf News, thanks to our studio audience here at the Iowa State Fair, and to our viewers tuning in from home, many of whom still have jobs.

 

(Cue fear-inspiring "breaking news" graphic of national debt clock)

 

Moderator:  Before we get started, let me tell you a little more about myself. I'm Biff Condor, award-winning, all-purpose Hair Helmet and international camera magnet. I'm a regular recipient of TV's prestigious Em-Me award, an honor recognizing my uncanny ability to inject myself into absolutely any news story whatsoever, regardless of whether or not I was actually there. But enough about me, the award-winning telejournalist, Biff Condor. Now, without further ado, let's cut to several minutes of car commercials, featuring apocalyptic price deadlines, screaming off-camera announcers and squinting local businessmen dressed in bad suits.

 

(Cue commercial)

 

Moderator:  Welcome back to our coverage of tonight's event, including various camera shots of my head. I'm award-winning broadcast legend, Biff Condor. And now, without further ado, let's cut to several minutes of real estate commercials, featuring great discounts on desolate, bone-arid, pre-electricity, Obama-forsaken ranch properties in Vulture Jerky, Idaho and Barren Tonsil, Wyoming.

 

(Cue commercial)

 

Moderator:  Welcome back! I'm your air-brushed host, Biff Condor. And now, without further ado, let's introduce the 2012 Republican candidates for President, each of whom has spent the previous week uttering mystical pronouncements that always begin with 'at the end of the day' or 'where the rubber meets the road.' All week long, we've watched them smiling while flipping hamburgers, or smiling while autographing hamburgers, or pointing and acting surprised when they see someone semi-famous who was planted in the audience. America, please give a warm welcome to Glove Romney, Michele "Toots" Bachwommann, Tim "Toots" Aplenty, Guido "I'm Not John McCain" Cain, Eft "Newt" Gingrich, Sanctum Santorum, and Thaddeus Somebody.

 

(Cue applause prompt)

 

Ron St. Paul:  And me! And me!

 

Moderator:  Oh, yeah.

 

(Cue montage reel of Biff Condor's career)

 

Moderator:  Tonight, we'll be asking our candidates very probing questions, composed and hand-written in a lovely award-winning cursive by me, Biff Condor. We'll begin with Glove Romney, who's been running for President non-stop since about 1928 and who is the only candidate named after a baseball appliance. I should point out that I, your humble correspondent, Biff Condor, used to play baseball. Good evening, Glove.

 

Romney:  Hi, Biff. I'm accompanied tonight by my wife Wheel Play, my sons Bunt, Bullpen and Ground Rule Double, and my hair, which just formed its own garage band. I'd like to say thanks to the people of Iowa for watching me simultaneously smile and flip hamburgers, and that's why, when the rubber meets the road, I'm clearly the most qualified person on this platform.

 

Moderator:  And now, let's turn to Guido Cain. Guido, as the only "person of color" on this stage or, for that matter, in the entire state of Iowa, let's start with the most relevant question that I, Biff Condor, can compose; one that pierces through the "politically correct" veneer and addresses this crucial element of America's troubled past and promising future:  Thin crust or deep dish?

 

Cain:  When I was the godfather at Big Caesar's Pizza King, I made business decisions every day, at the end of the day. I know how to focus on the problem and fix it in 30 minutes or less. Guaranteed. And that's what the American people are clamoring for.

 

Moderator: Thank you, Guido. Well, having touched on pizza, that wraps up our segment on America's foreign policy, and I think you'll agree that our in-depth treatment of America's foreign policy is at least as competent as anything going on in the current administration. So now, let's pivot like a laser…

 

(rim shot)

 

Moderator:  …to a discussion of domestic issues. But first, let's cut to several minutes of commercials in which you'll be repeatedly yelled at by a bald, angry Watergate ex-con about why you should invest in gold.

 

(Cue commercial)

 

Moderator:  Welcome back. I'm award-winning media icon, Biff Condor. Before we move on to our next candidate, let's take a minute to review tonight's rules and procedures. Each candidate will have exactly one minute to speak, and if anybody on tonight's stage actually complies with that rule, nobody will be more surprised than me. This one-minute rule may be the most ignored instruction in the history of mankind, with the possible exception of those cautions about not removing that tag from your mattress. Anyway, each candidate will ha…

 

Sanctum Santorum:  Excuse me, Biff, but is anybody gonna talk to me tonight?

 

Moderator:  I seriously doubt it.

 

Santorum:  But my experien…

 

Moderator:  As I was saying, each candidate will have thirty seconds for rebuttal, which is an ancient French term meaning "snide, bitter and staggeringly irrelevant comment." Also, throughout tonight's debate, candidates will have ample opportunity to be captured on camera rolling their eyes, furiously scribbling notes, or shaking their heads in poignant "tragic hero" gestures of silent disgust.

 

Santorum:  But they told me if I smiled and flipped hambur…

 

Moderator:  Zip it, Richie Cunningham. Now, concerning tonight's procedures, I should warn the studio audience that, from time to time, you may hear short bursts from an alarm bell. That has nothing to do with our debate, or violations of the one-minute rule, or anything like that. It's just that … uh … it's, um … well, let's put it this way. Remember – outside, at the State Fair, there are thousands of professionally obese rural people swilling cheap beer, gobbling barrel-loads of undercooked pork, and sampling all manner of ill-prepared fried things that have been mutating for hours under a broiling mid-summer sun. For those of you unfamiliar with rural customs in the "flyover" States, this confluence can create a sudden meteorological condition known as an "orographic flatulence pendant echo" – or as locals put it – St. Elmo's Fire Drill.

 

(Cue 'Wizard of Oz' tornado scene)

 

Moderator:  Well, there it is. That's who we are and how we ride. Out here in Fried Lard country, cyclones ain't the only things that kill, and storm cellars ain't the only things that save. And speaking of Iowa, let's turn now to our next candidate, Michele Bachwommann.

 

Bachwommann:  Good evening, Biff. It's great to be back home in Iowa where, at the end of the day every summer, I used to flip burgers while smiling and eat fried lard on a stick. This went on until I got so desperately sick of Iowa that even a place like Minnesota began to look good. And that's why I'm the only candidate on this stage who will fix America's energy dependency on foreign immigration corn tariffs while balancing the serious shortage of education-ready shovels.

 

Eft "Newt" Gingrich:  Biff, may I offer a rebuttal?

 

Moderator:  Well, technically, no, since nobody asked your opinion in the first place.

 

Gingrich:  But I'm practically a Statesman. I have white hair!

 

Moderator:  And you're named after a salamander.

 

Gingrich:  Look, when the rubber hits the end of the day, I'm the only candi…

 

Moderator:  And now to … um … Thaddeus Whaddayacallit. Senator, or whatever you did, any comments, or any update on your attempt at generating a visible emotion or a recognizable facial expression?

 

Thad:  First, let me respo…

 

Moderator:  Thank you, sir, but you're out of time. "Toots" Aplenty, if you'll please stand up, you can respond.

 

Aplenty:  I am standing up.

 

Moderator:  Awkward. And finally, let's turn to an absent Governor of Texas who only became an official candidate about eleven minutes ago and, surprisingly, is already leading in the polls. Governor, would you like to add anything before I, Biff Condor, award-winning Thesaurus owner and author of the upcoming book, "Biff On Biff," wrap things up?

 

Disembodied voice of a Texas Governor:  I am the only candidate on this stage who is not on this stage. Vote for me, or I'll kill your cow.

 

Moderator:  Be sure to stay tuned for my weekly news round-up, "Running Hunched Over Across Various Wind-Whipped Landscapes with Biff Condor." And thanks again to our candidates for showing up tonight, despite the fact that most of them have about as much chance of becoming President as fried lard on a stick.

 

Ron St. Paul:  And me! And me!

 

Moderator:  Oh, yeah.

 

I'm Just Sayin'

(Nothing special. Just sweeping clutter off the porch in my head.)

 

I started reading a scientific article, warning that Facebook was creating a self-obsessed generation, but after two whole paragraphs, the article hadn't mentioned me, so I deleted it.
The 614 Republican presidential candidates met in Iowa for a debate. In honor of the event, I ordered a tepid pizza with no ingredients or spices, watched as each slice ate each other, and then sent the bill to somebody else's grandchildren.
A new drug claims to endow mice with 50% more stamina. Imagine the thesis underlying that research grant. Inside this lab, I'm guessing, is a clutch of undergrad interns who often call in sick.
Women shoppers in Fairfax, Virginia reported there's some sick freak on the loose, who sneaks up behind them in malls and slashes their clothes. Local police are rounding up members of Congress for questioning.
Some supermodel is suing some ex-somebody for over $40,000 a month in child support. Heck, I'd give her ten bucks just to watch the kid eat.
I saw a guy on TV wearing a shirt with small checks, a jacket with large checks, and a polka-dot tie. And he wasn't even healing people!
"If you experience persistent bleeding, contact your doctor." I did not need to be told that.
This first-time-ever credit downgrade for the United States is not gonna go well. Saturday night, I called out for some Chinese takeaway. They demanded I bring THEM food.
Barry's Posting Postulate: The credibility of an email's content is inversely proportional to the size of the font used in the email.
Last week, at a birthday party in Chicago, Nancy Pelosi put on a Marilyn Monroe wig, popped out of a cake and started cooing "Happy Birthday, Mister President." The entire block had to be quarantined by the Center for Disease Control's roving Nausea Containment Squad.
A cat food commercial is boasting "real ingredients." Pardon me? What other kind of ingredients are there?
Only on Facebook can somebody ask for help harvesting a lucky Farmville leprechaun horoscope mafia hit cocktail biscuit coupon, and then turn around and challenge somebody else for making an ignorant comment.
You can now buy a Shirley Temple DVD collection. Eighteen chronically cute Shirley Temple films. Think about that. Somewhere, right now, some family could be queuing up eighteen back-to-back Shirley Temple movies. I'd snap like a twig.
Following on the heels of their wildly popular financial downgrade of the entire United States of America, Standard & Poor's finally got around to downgrading Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, the Weimar Republic, and the 1637 Dutch Tulip Mania. On a roll, they then signaled a promising future for an exciting new drug they've been reading about, known as penicillin. Next week, according to an insider tip, they plan to announce the pending breakup of The Beatles.
Casey Anthony is now kiting checks. What is it with this Ma Barker Redux? Is she packing some kind of Cosmic Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card? If I miss a utilities payment by six hours, somebody downtown flips a switch, and suddenly I can't open my garage door.
According to unnamed sources, Treasury Secretary Geithner "curses like a 7th-grade boy." So whatever happens with his iffy Treasury gig, Geithner'll be fine — after all, with a mouth like that, he's a shoo-in for Vice President.
I was thinking about forming a community group: Ignorant Southern Bigot Bomb-Throwing Reactionary White Vampire Racist Tea Party Terrorists, but I couldn't fit the ISBBTRWVRTPT logo on the guest towels at the lodge.
That weird 12-member Super-Congressional-Committee-Of-The-Justice-League-All-Stars has finally been selected. One of the chosen twelve is from my home state of South Carolina. Another of them, Senator John "Heinz 57 Opinions" Kerry, went on record to point out that he was from South Carolina before he wasn't.
These medicine commercials (with their "mild, rare" side-effects) are getting ridiculous. "A small number of heart attacks, strokes, and heart-related deaths have been experienced while taking Thiskudenditol. Other symptoms may include stabbing ear pains, blindness, barking like a doomed slavering ex-pet in a Stephen King novel, and a staggering sense of having made a really bad decision."
Earlier this week, madness reigned at a rally in Ohio, when bomb-throwing, hostage-taking, bigot vampire Tea Party members allowed a non-public-sector-union fetus to come to full term. The unholy mob (read: "voters") then invaded a retirement home, where they overturned an all-organic salad bar and made several rude "Soylent Green" jokes. Afterwards, they shape-shifted into bats, desecrated a copy of Charles Darwin's eighth-grade math test, and sacrificed a middle-class goat.
Shortly after concluding their Discontinued Shuttle Parts yard sale, NASA launched an exploratory rocket to Jupiter. Their mission: ask around on Jupiter, see if anybody THERE has a cogent fiscal policy.

 

On a personal note, I'm just glad NASA picked Jupiter. Given the conditions in Congress, if they'd pursued funding for Uranus, the jokes could've kept me awake all night…

 

Pets Are People, Too

(Hey! Who you callin' a dumb animal?)

 

I used to work for an acceptably neurotic American company. But then they bought a dwarf, so I had to move on.

 

It wasn't the dwarf's fault, of course. Imaginary characters with pointy hats have to eat, too. But I had to get out while I could; while I was still rational. I mean, a dwarf can be handy, no doubt about it, particularly on days when you've taken all you can stand and you just need to throw something.

 

But there are limits to the capabilities of a dwarf, even a corporate dwarf. A dwarf is not management material – it just smells like it. And if, for whatever cloudy, muddled middle-management reason, you give a dwarf its own office, it's only a matter of time before co-workers start listening to it; before it starts scheduling meetings; before it begins calling you in for weekly "one-on-one's." And before you know it, people start to believe that the dwarf is capable of normal human behaviors – complex cerebral machinations, like hiding your wallet in the toe of your shoe at the beach, or saying "thank you" after getting a speeding ticket. Complex behaviors that indicate higher intelligence.

 

After all, we're talking about a dwarf.

 

The term, I think, is anthropomorphism. But that's big word to be lifting without having warmed up first. Be warned not to toss it about carelessly; think twice before shoving it in the middle of a heated argument. You don't just wade into a word like anthropomorphism – you could lose a tooth.

 

For some background, anthropomorphism is listed in the dictionary as a noun. And I understand that, if you're the type of person who has Facebook as your home page, the previous sentence may contain several confusing words, including "dictionary" and "noun." ("Background," I'll give you. Benefit of the doubt.)

 

According to my copy of "The 2011 Public Sector Union-Approved Book Of, Like, Words And Stuff," anthropomorphism is the attribution of human qualities to non-human things, like pets, or machines, or politicians. In other words, it's the act of treating a dog (or a dwarf) like a person; of expecting raptors to have a conscience, or expecting members of Congress to have a digestive system.

 

You've seen anthropomorphism in action, hundreds of times. People will wave at a goldfish, or gob baby-talk at a cat, or put a knit hat on a Doberman. Housewives will coax a stubborn dishwasher, commuters will curse a spent car battery, clueless office clerks will try and bribe a misbehaving spreadsheet, frustrated sales reps will kick a dwarf.

 

But where it really gets out of control is when people subject their pets to blisteringly inhumane, criminally insulting acts of random cuteness. We've already mentioned a particularly foul example – knit hats on dogs.

 

It gets worse.

 

Now hang on to something. Know, gentle reader, that you can buy little booties for your dog to wear when you all go camping. And if you can buy them, that means there's a market for them.

 

It gets worse.

 

You can also buy a little matching "Canine Camper" backpack, ergonomically adjusted for Fifi or  Fido.

 

That's just sad.

 

Picture the scene. As the poor pup's owners (Chaz and Trixine) are busily trying to extract the backpack from its sadistic molded-plastic sarcophagus, Bowser must be anthropomorphically rolling his eyes and thinking, "Oh, I'm not believin' this. Matching backpack? What's up with that? I'm still nauseous over the hat. Look, bipeds, I wouldn't be caught dead in this AT HOME. But we get out in the wilderness and you suddenly go all Stupid Pet Tricks on me?"

 

For all I know, there's a matching fold-out butane stove and arf-activated color-coordinated canteen. (monogram not included)

 

It gets worse.

 

In some coastal communities … I forget which … public safety officials are using dogs as shark-spotters. Again, I forget which coast, but I'm guessing it's California. In Florida, all dogs are either auditioning in Orlando to understudy Pluto or Scooby Doo, or else they're frantically trying to avoid Vietnamese restaurants.

 

North of the Florida line, most dogs are gainfully employed as pets, or assisting Homeland Security in not enforcing immigration laws, or modeling Sierra Club knit hats. (In-between jobs, they can be found killing a little time randomly fertilizing my yard. Apparently, they have a map.)

 

But on the coast, callous humans are using clueless canines to spot sharks. Since the dogs don't realize what they've been asked to do, and since they probably never saw "Jaws," I assume it works like this:  the dogs hop around in the mid-height surf until they spot something swimming by that looks suspiciously like a long grey cat, or a very plump dwarf. A genetic response fires in the dog, and it leaps around, thrashing and making food-like noises, until the shark has its own genetic response, which involves lots of aquatic dental work, and which I won't discuss here in front of children, or Facebook users. Let's just say that, last week, when Sparky the shark-spotter's owners went shopping for four "Backwoods Booties" and a canteen, I hope they kept the sales receipt.

 

What is it, exactly, that we expected the dog to do? Eyeball the antediluvian predator, maybe, make a quick calculation, then turn to the lifeguard and mutter, "You're gonna need a bigger boat."

 

It gets worse.

 

Ponder, human, this horrifying thought. You realize, don't you, that somewhere … right now … somewhere out there are the five humiliated dogs who were forced to pose for the original "dogs playing poker" velvet painting? What were we thinking? What shame! How do these poor dogs look themselves in the mirror, assuming they know what a mirror is, and how to look in one, if they had access to one, or borrowed a friend's, maybe to adjust their knit hat, or to discuss reflective optics?

 

And now, everywhere there's an empty lot on a busy street, some human is profiting from the sale of these paintings, along with their poor cousin, "dogs playing pool," and the obligatory assortment of oversized velvet paintings that always seem to feature Elvis, an attractive dark-skinned couple with huge Afros, or a dwarf dressed up like a matador.

 

Shameful. As the "top of the food chain" around these parts, we really ought to ease up on the animal kingdom. Think before you act. Pets are people, too.

 

Just this week, I read a Facebook posting from someone named Amber. Based on her "profile," I thought Amber was a cute, perky legal assistant with some kind of out-of-control lung edema. As it turns out, "Amber" is an ex-con who lives up a spur road outside of Tucson, collects commemorative railroad plates, and cross-breeds pit bulls for resale to California lifeguards. But that's not the point.

 

Amber was all excited because he or she was preparing for their annual pig roast. Every year, it seems, Amber and his or her family invite people over, and they cook a pig. Every year.

 

Don't you know that must get old for the pig.

 

Think, people. We can't just keep kicking these animals around.

 

After all, we're not talking about a dwarf.

Can You Borrow WHAT?

(If this is the American dream, please wake me up.)

 

Ah. Saturday morning in suburban America. The sounds, the smells. The camaraderie, the cable outages, the collapsing property values. Backyard barbecue served here, custody papers served there. The endless parade of roof replacement scam squads. The bank-dodging "everything must go" yard sales, the revolving army of moving vans. The lazy flutter of foreclosure notices.

 

I live in a nice, middle-class neighborhood. "Neighborhood" is a complex Old English term, roughly translated as "ye olde credit default swappe." (Call Ethelred today for ye very own! Verily, canst this offer not last!)

 

My neighborhood is one of those planned communities with a cute, oxymoronic name, like Nepalese Shores, or Aerie Caverns, or Upside Downs. The developer followed the standard Bulldoze-Claw-Cajole plan:  sell off every extant tree, scrape off every micron of topsoil, buy off every minor official. Nudge-nudge-wink-wink your way past your ex-wife's second cousin at the Building Inspector's office, slap up several hundred mildly divergent versions of six pre-fab floor plans, disconnect your "Award-Winning Service – After The Sale!" phone number and then vanish from the known universe.

 

In my cute, oxymoronic neighborhood, Mordor Shires (Third Age, Phase Two), I live at the end of a cul-de-sac. "Cul-de-sac" is a complex French term, roughly translated as "Hey, Joe, see if you can't shoehorn one more 3BR Portsmouth Deluxe in there, in-between the legal plats. Wink-wink."

 

Now, in and of itself, living on the toe of a cul-de-sac is pretty cool. Zoning variances allow me an oversized back yard and, in the evenings, oncoming headlights keep my daylilies nervous, wondering if today is The Day. Plus, when the developer's mop-up team got around to the house numbering scheme, they got confused. As a result, my house is number 26, but the house on my left is #24 and the house on my right is #25. So I'm constantly getting to read other people's mail. (After all, there's a reason the US Post Office lost 8.5 billion dollars in 2010.)

 

However, in my case, there's a down side to living at the end of the block. Due to prevailing wind patterns, my cul-de-sac acts as some sort of telescoping wind tunnel, focusing and funneling anything that is loose, or gets loose, or loses its footing, down the street and into my yard, particularly if it's something that's brightly colored, non-biodegradable and/or marginally toxic.

 

SIDEBAR:  I was going to say that the wind blows things down the street and "onto my lawn," but honesty compels me. I don't own a lawn – I have a yard. A yard is that buffer zone that surrounds your physical dwelling and ends at your neighbor's buffer zone, usually demarked by a disputed fence that leans like bad teeth and a half-dead tree that has even less dependable roots than the teeth. A lawn, on the other hand, implies commitment, which immediately rules me out. The term suggests that the owner cares about his "yard" enough to treat it as a "lawn," even during the heat of August in the American South, a sadistic chunk of the calendar when small, furry forest animals have been known to suddenly explode, or at least ask to.)

 

So, I'm forever staring out my window (literal translation:  "working from home") as stuff blows at, against, and past my house.

 

And does stuff ever blow! Mail, garbage, laundry, lunch wrappers. Foreclosure threats and savings account invites, often from the same bank. "Vote For Me, Please" pleas; vast savings on volume discounts; very small pets. Realtor placards with "For Sale" scribbled out and "For Rent" Sharpied in, or appended with "NU LO PRICE!" (spelled, apparently, by someone with a Master's degree in Post Office)

 

Mind you, not all of this wind-mailed detritus is necessarily a bad thing. When the local pizza delivery franchise issues a new discount coupon, for instance, I end up with dozens. As a single guy, I'm set for weeks. The same goes for our four nearby Chinese takeaways; Great Wall Joy Food, Panda Food Joy Wall, Wall of Great Panda Joy, and Bank of America.

 

But the rest are mostly Mom-n-Pop entities offering unique products or niche services, like low-maintenance vinyl siding treatments ("now in creative geometricalized patternizations!"), miniaturized rock-garden river rapids ("tiny inbred banjo player, not included"), or ferret whispering.

 

And, interestingly, some of these marketers have taken clever steps to ensure that rogue wind gusts don't defeat their advertising efforts. For example, they'll slip their little flyer in a small Ziploc bag and then shovel in a short handful of pebbles or pea gravel – the idea being that the rocks' extra weight will keep the wind from carrying off their bulk-printed two-color advertisements, touting custom-treated balsa decks or free-range parrot colon cleansing.

 

Fortunately, these bag-lobbing advertisers usually include their own home address somewhere inside the rock-filled bag they toss, uninvited, onto my property, making it quite easy for someone like me to figure out where they live, sometime around two in the morning, if you get my drift.

 

Anyway, here's what went down this week at #26 Mordor Shires. I was out in my "lawn," collecting several hundred wind-whipped yellow flyers advertising the services of Mark, The Lakeland Area's Undisputed Mulch King. ("Because Compost Happens!")

 

A few more-or-less consecutive house numbers up, I noticed a U-Haul truck in a driveway. So I watched for a while to see if they were taking stuff out of the truck, or putting stuff in; to see if I was gaining, or losing, a neighbor. But I never saw anybody, doing anything, period.

 

Maybe they'd simply decided to buy a U-Haul truck.

 

And then a friend told me about a story she'd heard on the news:  apparently, some people were renting moving vans and using them as temporary meth labs.

 

Ah, well. At least somebody's working in America. And if there's a market out there, clamoring for temporary meth, who am I to tsk-tsk, eh?

 

A little while later, while I was loading pea gravel in the scatter-gun (if you get my drift), there came a knock on my door. Lo and behold, it was my neighbors from the U-Haul house! A slimmish young couple, obviously on a first-name basis with several tattoo parlors, they asked if they might borrow a cup of sugar and, if it wasn't a huge bother, maybe some anhydrous ammonia or phenylpropanolamine, and a dash or two of red phosphorus.

 

Now, I like to be a helpful neighbor. And I had no immediate need for that occasionally handy keg of phenyl in the basement, nor the red phosphorus I keep in the fridge door for Jehovah's Witness counter-measures, but please … processed sugar? I haven't used processed sugar in decades.

 

But, to be honest … well, yeah! What do you think? Of course I wondered what they were up to! Of course I got nervous!

 

What if these two were miscreants who hadn't acquired the proper permits? What if they were simply enabling parents of impressionable children, gearing up to

 

(gasp)

 

sell lemonade without a license?

 

Till Debt Do Us Part

(Congress. Casey. Zombies. Czars. Lemonade. Only in America.)

 

The good news is the zombie invasion is over. The bad news is the Casey Anthony invasion is just getting started.

 

We'd have been better off with the zombies.

 

To be sure, I never saw it coming. But then, nobody else saw it coming, either. America still boasts legions of smart people, but they're all unemployed. We still have hordes of geniuses with a knack for de-complicating complex clues and discerning underlying patterns in chaos, like those pale, oddly-dressed clerks whose job it is to sit in dark cubicles and calculate your cable bill. But this year, all those smart people are out on the streets, fighting for the same six jobs sorting bolts at the local hardware store.

 

What we needed was a dedicated, focused, brain-intensive agency, along the lines of our bygone heroes, SETI (Search for Entertaining Television Idols) and NASA (Nee A Space Agency).

 

It's been a tough year to have brains. SETI, whose grand mission was to search for signs of intelligent life, stubbornly stuck to its agenda despite having a budget smaller than your average fifth-grader's illegal lemonade stand. But one slow weekend at the lab, somebody flipped the channel over to coverage of the Casey Anthony trial, and the "search for intelligent life" futility sunk in. Overwhelmed by the irony of it all, SETI giggled itself to death.

 

NASA, meanwhile, wrapped up three decades of miracles known as the Space Shuttle program and was rewarded for its efforts by having its utilities disconnected. NASA couldn't contribute to solving the zombie problem; our ex-NASA scientists have been relegated to scribbling at Sudoku while standing in line for their unemployment checks. They're hunkered down at home, hording MREs and Tang. Consider their history:

 

President Kennedy:  NASA goes to the moon.

President Reagan:  NASA builds a space station.

President Obama:  NASA loses 18,000 jobs, is forced to scrabble up beer money by holding Muslim self-actualization seminars, and has to call Russia every time they need a ride to the store.

 

But now that the zombie crisis has passed, let's take a minute to point out some of the players, and review some of the clues that took us to the brink of disaster. Witness:

 

According to facts, decades of obscene spending finally caught up with Washington. According to Washington, somebody snuck into Congress' bedroom and stole all its money. According to Congress, America ran into a totally unexpected debt crisis because Wall Street rolled such a low number that we didn't pass "GO" and collect 200 (trillion) dollars. Outraged fingers pointed everywhere (else), fixing blame on everyone (else), including Republicans, Democrats, a Tea Party, a Tupperware Party, that little mustached guy from Monopoly, and George Bush.
Meanwhile, in an Orlando television recording stu…I mean, uh, courtroom, a Florida mother with fabulous teeth was acquitted of murder and other crimes when the defense proved that the deeds were actually committed by an imaginary Latino woman, and George Bush. Then, just after midnight, Casey Anthony and her teeth got out of prison. For some reason, this made her staggeringly famous, prompting television crews to track her every move, up to and including follicle activity and the generation of internal enzymes. Within an hour, she had inked a deal to star in a new TV show, "Dancing with America's Most Wanted."
The President flew to St. Louis and warned that he had to raise taxes (although he didn't want to); otherwise, there could be a horrible invasion of flesh-eating zombies, or worse, Republicans.
As America's debt limit deadline loomed, America's leadership took charge, as evidenced by a Republican, sitting next to the playground window, who shot a spitball across the classroom at a Democrat. The world financial markets cautiously gauged these mixed signals.
The President flew to Tucson and warned that the Tea Party had been selling lemonade, and stockpiling a zombie army, without a license.
Casey Anthony was spotted at the grand opening of a tattoo parlor in northern Georgia, where she selflessly offered to auction off her imagination to charity.
During a Texas Hold-Em game, Congress-person Sheila Jackson Lee held up a race card and began to speak to the press, but suddenly her hair collapsed, killing nine.
As America's debt limit deadline loomed, the President warned that America's debt limit deadline was looming.
Casey Anthony was spotted at an Omaha diner, eating a waffle that, according to locals, is the spitting image of Saint Patrick. No, wait. That was Elvis.
The President flew to Cleveland and warned that we only had a few days left, before the Tea Party started beheading everybody's Grandma and Republicans began cross-channeling toxic waste pipes into the national water supply. Sales of zombie-piercing bullets skyrocketed.
Casey Anthony accused a fictitious babysitter of showing up at her fictitious job and kidnapping her fictitious boyfriend. Alert officers questioned her testimony after she signed her name as "George Bush." Celebrity attorney Gloria Allred cited a "reality bias" and agreed to represent any and all people that don't exist.
Vice President Joe Biden gave an inspiring, profanity-laced commencement speech, pointing out that he'd managed to attain the office of Vice President despite his inability to grasp the simple concept of "open mike." Unfortunately, he had misread his daily schedule and gave the commencement speech to a roomful of undocumented eight-year-olds awaiting extradition for lemonade misdemeanors.
The President flew to Baltimore and signed an executive order granting in-state tuition to undocumented flesh-eating zombies.
As America's debt limit deadline loomed, a Democrat dipped a Republican's pigtail in an inkwell, and had to stay after class and write on the blackboard, 100 times, "I promise not to limit debate pertaining to the revenue-neutral out-years posited among any caucus during non-binding participatory proscriptive abrogation in the well of the Senate, or the lower intestine of the House, by invoking an obscure Title Nine parliamentary cloture, and I promise, each day, to floss."
Flesh-eating zombies were sighted outside a casino in Vegas. No, wait. That was Elvis.
Congress-person Sheila Jackson Lee introduced a bill decrying the entire Universe as racist, pointing out the obvious:  there are no cosmic anomalies known as "white holes."
The President flew to Dallas, read a speech, smiled, waved and nodded knowingly. Joe Biden cursed for a while and then attended a ball game, where he misread his daily briefing and tried to lead the crowd in a heat wave.
As America's debt limit deadline loomed, a Democrat made a face at a Republican during Science class. The Republican responded by passing a folded note across the classroom that read, "U R a big stupid."
While initiating a tax audit on a Bethesda lemonade stand, Nancy Pelosi frightened a crowd of small children and was arrested for grinning without a license.
Congress-person Sheila Jackson Lee accused Bing Crosby of racism for his obviously intolerant rendition of "White Christmas." In a related story, the ACLU sued Bing Crosby for forcing the word "Christmas" on unsuspecting mall shoppers.
The President flew to Philadelphia and alleged that the Liberty Bell had been deliberately cracked by George Bush. He then warned senior citizens that Republicans wanted to take away their right to claim being killed more than once by a flesh-eating zombie as a "pre-existing condition."
The Cesar Chavez Memorial Orchard-Workers Union (Bing Cherries Local 411) sued Bing Crosby for copyright infringement. Undocumented zombie field laborers picketed, petitioning for universal post-mortem health coverage.
Casey Anthony was spotted at a Zombie Victim Anger Management seminar wearing nothing but a tattoo and a hat made of duct tape. No, wait. That was Joe Biden.

 

And then, in the eleventh hour, Treasury Secretary Tim Geithner had a brilliant idea. He held a brief conference with Casey Anthony and then drove her up to the US Treasury, where she assumed all of America's debt. Then, thirty minutes later, she plea-bargained, and all the debt was forgiven.

 

America was saved!

 

The President took credit for the victory, then flew somewhere and read something. Democrats claimed victory, took up a donation, and bought dinner. Republicans claimed victory, took up a donation, and bought a restaurant. A local food workers union made a donation to each, claimed a deduction for both, and bought a Senator.

 

Congress responded to the good news by drafting a non-binding resolution affirming their consistent, on-the-record support for news that is good. Then they named a post office after Casey Anthony, raised taxes, and took a month off.

 

The Tea Party sighed and continued with their rally, where their fanatical supporters continued to get caught on camera not being violent.

 

America, bored with watching television news coverage of the Casey Anthony story, went back to watching television talk show coverage of the Casey Anthony story.

 

And all the zombies slugged to a staggered halt, reversed course and began lurching back to the unholy darkness from whence they came: the ACLU.

 

Blowing Up & Other Fun Hobbies

(There's more than one definition of "traction")

 

There are a lot of things in America that I don't understand. Reality TV that isn't. Miracle cures that don't. Fast food that's neither. Soy milk. Wisconsin politics.

 

But right up there near the top of the list are weekend hobbies that cause you to catch on fire.

 

What I'm not talking about here is learning how to prepare blackened fish. I tried that once, too, in an apartment I was renting in Charleston. The apartment survived, and I didn't technically catch on fire, but I stood a good chance of getting arrested for murdering a security deposit.

 

What I am talking about is combustible-engine-based vehicle racing:  that catch-all collection of off-road, on-road and near-road events, where people who like to drive too fast buy a bunch of beer, get together with a bunch of other people who like to drive too fast, buy more beer, and then proceed to thin out the collective human herd by dying, and if the spectators are really lucky, exploding.

 

Maybe it's just me. I am probably what you would refer to as a "wimp," if you were a lumberjack, or a shark wrestler, or Sarah Palin. After all, my idea of a wild weekend is watching the uncensored "director's cut" of a 1930′s Marx Brothers movie. (I know, I know – the societal implications of such unbridled hedonism are chilling. I would imagine your biggest fear in life is having an unmonitored maniac like me move into a house near your child's school.)

 

Now, I'm the first to admit that there's talent…not to mention bravery…involved in vehicle racing. After all, it takes keen reflexes and a dedicated focus just to survive a "civilian" morning commute…and that takes place on public roads. Just yesterday, in the shopping district of one of South Carolina's metro areas, police identified the atrophied body of a driver who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a left turn across incoming traffic since 1968.

 

But, speaking in a classical sense, there's bravery involved in putting your hand on a hot stove. Sadly, though, after you're done, there's nothing much left but discipline, as you learn to spell your name with your other hand.

 

So I can admire the challenge; I just don't get the cheering. I appreciate the skill, but not the thrill. I fail to appreciate the attraction of driving around in circles, much less watching other people drive around in circles.

 

If wanted to pointlessly rush around in circles, I'd go to work.

 

And why so many circuits around the same oval? I mean, it's not like the race officials are moving the tarmac around, pushing up moguls and gouging pot-holes in-between laps. Come to think of it, that would make things much more interesting. After all, even in professional golf, they occasionally move the holes around. And golf has been mathematically proven to be the most boring spectator sport in the known Universe, except for bowling, or watching Geraldo Rivera inject himself into breaking news.

 

It's true, of course, that thoroughbreds and greyhounds are often forced to run around in circles, as if they were filing health insurance claims, but at least the horses and hounds get to stop after completing the lap. (The greyhounds, however, have been justifiably irritated ever since some do-gooder leaked the news that, all this time, they've been chasing a fake rabbit on a stick.)

 

Now, I understand that there are millions of vehicle racing fans, spanning all social and cultural segments, and they may have insider insights to which I am not privy. I also understand that, since we're talking about loud, outdoor public events that involve beer, I could spend the next half-hour coming up with "privy" jokes. And, of course, many professional vehicle racing events involve the participation of nearly-clad women, who apparently can earn a decent living by wearing a bikini, stiletto heels and a sash that promotes motor oil, while tip-toeing around on a bunting-laced platform and waving giant bowling trophies.

 

I guess I'm just overly cautious. Personally, I wouldn't make it through day one at Vehicle Racing School.

 

-~-~-~-~-

INSTRUCTOR:  Hello, class, and welcome to Day One of our summer elective, How To Drive In A Counter-Clockwise Circle Without Dying Much! My name's Parnell. Please sign these legal disclaimers.

MODERATELY OBSERVANT STUDENT:  Where's your other leg?

INSTRUCTOR:  Today, we're going to discuss Voluntary Immolation! First, we'll watch a short training film entitled, "Learning To Write With Your Good Hand," and then we'll head outside to the track, measure you for your flame-resistant Abrasion Minimizing suit, and strap you in to the cage.

(Sound of Barry's receding footfalls)

-~-~-~-~-

 

As part of my exhaustive research for this column, I spent almost five whole minutes on the internet, where I discovered many websites that cater to these weekend warriors, or to their eventual medical needs. In order to hammer home their sales pitch, most of these websites are heavily dependent upon very bold graphics, very bold air-brushed photos of nearly-clad women, and staggeringly obvious typos. For some reason, I never expected in this life to be able to include … in the same shopping cart … a set of tires, an in-dash CD changer, a collision restraint system, a 10-vial "party pak" of nitrous oxide, and a self-activating fire extinguisher.

 

See, to me, that's a great huge clue. Never select a hobby that involves both compressed explosive gases AND volunteer fire department supplies. This is what seasoned pundits would call a "self-fulfilling prophesy" or, roughly translated into street-speak, what the rest of us would call "rock stupid."

 

In my own defense, may I point out that I come by my caution honestly. Several years ago, during a nice lake weekend with friends, I learned by accident how to not parasail. I've shared that story with you before, and I won't bore you with it here. Let's just say that, if you ever decide to try parasailing for the first time, don't try it with a boat pilot who's also trying boat-piloting for the first time.

 

And you may want to invest in a custom-fitted Abrasion Minimizer.

 

Noir, Y'all

(An unfinished chapter from a non-existent novel)

 

It was a dark and nightly storm.

 

An improbable moon scudded across an unwilling canvas of really dark sky, invoking the deployment of some seriously obscure "dark" synonym, possibly even ebon.

 

Me, I was working late at the office, trying to make some sense out of this latest puzzler, and getting nowhere slowly. (A three-letter word for 'salamander?' Are they kiddin'? What happened to 'newt?') Outside, beyond the greased grease that scudded against the window of my second-story walkup, rain thundered like lightning. Across the scudded hall, I could hear Mary McMary cackling as she reeled in one jaded, hopeless, burned-out cell phone subscriber after another. And still no word from my rent ticket … my latest client, Howland Payne … about his missing hypnotist.

 

Another day in Paradise.

 

In the gutter across the two-lane blackened moist-top, I could still see the dwarf. He was eating another eraser. He makes for a sad tale, this palooka, and he's too far gone to listen to reason. Sad. Just another eraser junkie. Not long ago, this was the strapping, six-foot-four bouncer down at Geronimo's, and life was laid out before him like a life buffet might be laid out, if parts of life came in bowls or steam trays and needed a sneeze guard. Another metaphor I could use might be, oh, a buffet of life-parts, if such things were all part of a full life, or part of a healthy breakfast.

 

But the dwarf's too far gone. The erasers are winning. At this rate, he'll wipe himself out before his next monthly stimulus check arrives.

 

But I was still alive. My luck was holding. Yeah, that's right. My luck is normally as rotten as a thing that reminds you of some luck-based thing that might rot, but lately it was holding, like a thing might hold if it got itself compared to rotten luck in one of those mood-setting "pattern of rottenness" descriptions you find in the early-on exposition of these types of stories. As it were.

 

Stick around. I have more similes.

 

The luck of a free-lance crossword detective often gets taken for granted, especially by all those get-rich-quick formulaic writers in the best-seller lists, all those imperfect caricature artists who just don't appreciate a real brush with death. Got to have that large spool of luck steadily threading the bobbin of your life (unless I mean treadle, or maybe feed dogs), or you end up just one more splotch on the side of the road, a cold memory, a scudding speck of tepid mold, a pitiful, unwanted, used-up, shot-down, empty shell of a man whose life remains unfulfilled without that elusive three-letter salamander synonym.

 

Enough introspection. Time for a break. I'm getting a headache; plus, some of my upcoming similes require me to segue into the present tense. I sweep keys and crossword from my tarnished (tainted, tawdry, tallow-stained, turn-of-the-century) desk, grab my hat and coat, and pocket my gat (my gun, my rod, my heater, my widow-maker, my argument ender, my little overdue-library-book equalizer). Out the door and two blocks east, down to the corner of Thirteenth and Lesion, to toss back a few quick ones at Geronimo's place.

 

As I begin to step inside, I'm nearly Vienna Boys Choir-ed by an outbound umbrella, wielded by a diminutive but stunning Asian woman, storming through me and into the scudding rainstorm. I side-step the self-absorbed petite patron and ease onto a corner stool. Geronimo nods. I nod. He raises one eyebrow and two fingers. I nod again.

 

Transaction completed.

 

"Nice stems," I open, arching my head toward the exiting Asian.

 

"She'll eat your face," Geronimo castles and counters. Checkmate.

 

A shot glass and unlabeled bottle glide (or possibly scud) to a stop within my reach. I review the label and sniff the cork, or I would have, if I had paid just a little more attention in school, so that I could have ended up in a different kind of story than this one.

 

Suddenly, another problem. I smell them before I see them. The twins. The Enoff boys, Buzz and Bob, who recently resurfaced after spending ten long at County due to my testimony, and who seem to have taken the whole event a bit personally. They've pulled up to the curb outside, more or less seated on a brace of dead-silent, green-friendly, all-electric highway bikes.

 

My luck holds. The Enoff brothers waddle blindly into Geronimo's, their Idaho-sized heads locked backwards, waxing priapic, watching the south end of that sultry northbound Asian. They don't see me.

 

Embracing a nearby metaphor, I grab at the proverbial brass ring and manage to oil into the nearest faux naugahyde booth, subtly arranging the soiled tablecloth around my head like a Hindu turban. The confused couple who were already occupying the booth take a few seconds to regroup, probably weighing candidates from among their list of possible greetings. I grin menacingly, touch my turban, slip them a fiver, and make what may or may not have been a kindly but stern Hindi hand gesture. The young couple prove to be a quick study – the woman winks, dabs ashes on her forehead and molds her fingers in an elegant pranam mudra. Her date faints.

 

Geronimo, scanning the scenario, reacts. "Uh, just missed him again, boys," he grins. So now I owe him, too. Obviously, dead presidents are gonna flutter tonight.

 

As clever as ever, the Enoff boys realize Geronimo is speaking to them. Awareness spins the twins, and they stare at the bartender. "Oh, yeah?" quips Bob Enoff, leaping into the lead in this literary le Mans.

 

Geronimo, eyelid twitching, begins to wipe down the bar. He flicks a short eye at me and leans into diversion. "Close game last week, huh?" he skats, automatically mixing up a couple of Wrangler Wildcats.

 

(Great. Another fiver.)

 

Buzz Enoff sneers and attacks a defenseless bar stool. His fingers ruthlessly pinch the offered shot glass, his nostrils flare, he slaps glass to lips, he slurps, he blanches, he belches. He speaks.

 

"…urp."

 

Class will tell.

 

Bob Enoff reaches in his pocket and pulls out a glittering, clinking something and tosses it on the bar. "Found these out front, cocky. Look familiar?" I hear the thing slide across the bar. Geronimo says nothing.

 

I make eye contact with the girl at my table. "What's he got, and what's your name?" I whisper, as I slowly push her still non-functional date down to the floor.

 

"Looks like some car keys," mouths the pleasantly attractive girl. "Ophelia. Nice to meet you."

 

Ophelia smiles and my headache returns. A low moan drifts up from underneath the table.

 

"Is that a pistol in your pocket or are you just gl…"

 

"Knock it off, Ophelia," I mumble. I pull back the edge of my turban and make a micro-turn toward the bar. Geronimo is holding a Saab key ring, three keys swaying back and forth. For some reason, I wonder, again, what happened to that hypnotist.

 

"Can't help you there, guys," Geronimo declares, "but I'll hang on to 'em. Somebody'll claim 'em."

 

Buzz sniffs and rubs a paw across his mouth. "Gimme them keys back, cocky," he glares. "I think I know who they belong."

 

Coolly, Geronimo keeps swinging the keys, slowly and steadily, in a precise rhythm, a … hypnotic … rhythm. When he speaks, his voice sounds different.

 

"— Wouldn't you rather — I keep them — wouldn't you rather — leave them — with me — while you — go tell the Fat Man — his accountant — forgot the car keys —"

 

The twins are transfixed. I am amazed. Ophelia rubs her eyes. Her date moans. I put my foot in his mouth. Geronimo slowly lowers the keys to the bar.

 

"Bye-bye, boys," he intones.

 

Buzz and Bob Enoff rise like lumpy puppets, turn away, and lumber oddly, metrically out into the night.

 

When the door closes behind them, I jump up, peck Ophelia on the cheek, shove my turban in her date's mouth, and leap scuddingly to the bar.

 

"Where the heck did you learn that?"

 

Geronimo smiles and pours a couple shots. He nails one and hands me the other. "You pick up a lot of tricks in this trade," he says. "Payne's hypnotist was a little short of ready cash once, and we … worked something out."

 

"Impressive," I reply, "very impressive. Useful. Utile. Convenient. Expedient. Handy. Hey, you don't happen to know a three-letter word for 'salamander,' do ya?"

 

Geronimo looks at me closely, as if I might suddenly start biting things.

 

"Eft."

 

"Thanks, G. Hey, wait a minute. You said 'the accountant forgot the car keys.' What accountant forgot the car keys?"

 

"That accountant," Geronimo responds, pointing behind me. I turn to look and see nothing. Well, nothing but Ophelia winking at me, which does nothing to help my headache.

 

"Geronimo," I ask, "you don't mean that illegal-in-several-states little dumpling is an accountant, do you?"

 

"No," he says, "but her date, the prone guy presently gargling with my tablecloth, is."

 

Hmm, I think. No wonder he fainted. A total stranger handing an accountant five bucks.

 

I start to pursue this twist when I feel something at my side. Turning, I see Ophelia, chest flashing, eyes heaving, pressing a business card into my palm. "Call me," she breathes. "We should talk."

 

I look at the card:  Pinner & Lever Confectioners — Ophelia Payne, Junior Icer.

 

PAYNE!?!

 

(Stay tuned for next week's episode! Though probably not!)

 

Today Only – 77 Trombones!

(One small step for man; one giant weekend tent sale!)

 

July 4, 1776. I can hear it now. Thomas Jefferson's famous prophecy of patriotism:  "My fellow citizens, this is the day. Throughout America's future, this sacred day will stand apart from all others as the day when we celebrate our hard-fought freedom by offering deep discounts on fitted sheets."

 

America. Land of the free shipping and home of "The Brave Wear Briefs" Three-Day Sale.

 

I don't know where you spent your Fourth of July holiday weekend, but wherever you were, it couldn't have been crowded, because everybody in America was with me. Somehow, this Saturday, roughly twenty-seven million Americans managed to discover what errands I had to run, what items I needed to buy, and from where, and then they all managed to beat me there. Every single one of 'em. Driving like Otis from Mayberry, parking like Salvador Dali, bouncing from aisle to aisle like Arlen Specter, and charging like a hippopotamus might charge if a hippopotamus could run for Congress and spend other people's money, and besides, hippos could not possibly be worse than the mud-wallowing mammals in Congress right now, and they'd probably be less cocky, and definitely better behaved. (I don't know if hippos have morals, but then … yeah, you know where this is going.)

 

My first stop, the grocery, was a chaos, along the lines of 1975 Saigon during "last call." Soft drinks were being traded as commodities, chips and dips were a faded memory, and cookout buns were as rare as leftover money at a Pentagon budget summit. Even in the Four-Hundred-Thousand Items Or Less lane, sympathetic staff were doling out cots and complimentary shampoo. And I'm not sure, but based on observed buying patterns, I believe some shoppers had been told that spare ribs could cure cancer.

 

But this is what we've done to ourselves. We celebrate with sales. We consecrate with cash or credit, we honor with outlay, we praise with "paper or plastic?" Whether it's Christmas, Thanksgiving, President's Day, Spam & Three-Bean Milkshake Day, National Midget Aardvark Preservation Week, the Cinco of Mayo, or The Fourth of July, car dealers and other one-celled organisms will find a way to turn a holiday into a way to turn a dollar.

 

And this Independence Day weekend was no different. Every surviving, un-shuttered shop with a shingle and a shill had some barbed "Buy here if you love America" lure, spinning on some lame marketing hook, feebly tied to the "theme" of the national holiday. Used cars for $1776, that sort of nonsense.

 

A local clothing store teased that any second item was only $76. For a loss leader, the grocery led with thirteen-to-a-dozen "Original Colony Eggs," and a fast food joint was hawking Cornwallis dogs with a side of Cheez Yankee Doodles. An uncommonly large, muumuu-ed woman named Estelle took out a half-page newspaper ad touting a special group therapy session, billing it as Codependence Day. ("Girl, we didn't need the British, and you don't need him!")

 

A regional weight loss center named Heft Hiders unveiled a new "Give me 76 sit-ups or give me death" exercise plan, an over-eager orthodontist marketed his "1812 Overbite," and an obviously holiday-challenged entrepreneur was pushing Rosa Parks' memorial seat cushions. An appliance store promotion promised a free "Philadelphia Flier" dryer with the purchase of any new "Washing-ton" machine, but thankfully, a hole suddenly ripped opened in the Universe and the store's marketing department was sucked away to that dark place were really bad puns go to die.

 

Cell phone companies promised steep discounts on all phone calls, as long as the calls were made within one of the thirteen original colonies, lasted exactly 76 minutes, and were completed prior to the end of the Spanish-American war. (Some ante-bellum connection charges may apply. Offer not valid in New Jersey, North America, or Earth.)

 

And of course, in Washington, you could get a sweet deal on an overnighter in the Lincoln Bedroom.

 

Meanwhile, the home improvement stores were particularly frenzied this year, given the current state of our housing market. (see "Saigon 1975″) You know these stores, or at least the two major competitors. I forget their names; Home Skillet and Low Depot, maybe, something like that. One is orange, the other is blue.

 

For a marketing slogan, one of the two – the blue or the orange, I forget which – one or them invites shoppers to swing round and "build something together that will utterly void your warranty," while the other pumps up Joey Homeowner's ego with the reassuring jingle, "You might or might not be able to do it. We might or might not help."

 

I forget which store is the reassuring one, but the other one, the codependent one, might want to consider brokering a cooperative marketing venture with Estelle.

 

Both stores have parking lots the size of some small European nations, and they're both populated by roving, color-coordinated-vest-wearing squadrons of savants who all somehow manage to know everything there is to know about lumber, toilets, lawns, lawnmowers, grills, shelving, paint, brushes, blinds, boring tools, bits, brads, nails and anodized self-tapping chrome-plated toilet brush gasket caps.

 

And these cavernous competitors are always located right across the street from each other. I suppose there are hordes of insecure shoppers out there right now, constantly zipping back and forth across the divider highway, looking for the three-penny-better bargain on cap-tapping chrome-gasketed anodyne brush-mounted free-range toilet air-gun self-dissolving pre-greased flag mounts.

 

"Let's build something together," they say. This Saturday, apparently, the something they were planning to build together was an epic, eight-lane, cross-country mulch highway, laid down by an army of buffet-enabled workers boldly outfitted in the most horrid plaid shorts imaginable.

 

Visiting the blue and orange giants always reminds me of a line by the late, brilliant comedian, Mitch Hedberg:

 

"I don't own a house. I rent an apartment. People like me need a store called 'Apartment Depot' – a great big huge store, full of people just hangin' out, saying, 'We ain't gotta fix nuthin'."

 

So. Happy Independence Day, America. Now get out there and buy something … else, the terrorists win.

 

And let's end the holiday on a happy note:  fortunately, neither the orange place nor the blue place is one of those pesky membership clubs. I'm not paying a store before I buy something; I'm not paying somebody for the privilege of paying somebody. I have a relationship with my wallet that's far too codependent for anything like that.

 

At least, that's what Estelle told us.

 

 

Rocky's Run For The Border

(Communing with nature, but with a dash of vengeance)

 

Somewhere, beyond the tree line that snakes along behind my house, there lives a lovely little female, a red-tailed fox, with a unique perk. This may be the only four-legged forager in America that can order in.

 

For the few years I've lived here, that fortunate fox has feasted on all my discards, all the pounds of food that an average single guy just can't ever seem to finish prior to the various expiration dates. Several times a week, I'd be out on my deck, lobbing groceries out at the green edge of (sic) civilization:  sliced bread, sliced cheese. Buns that shouldn't be hard and veggies that should. Bagels with a pedigree that would have to be measured in half-lives. The occasional doggie-bagged dessert, the one-day-too-long pizza slice, the A Fridge Too Far fetid egg or fuzzy chop meat. Those weird little mutant miniature corn cobs that keep dropping out of the Universe and landing in my Chinese food.

 

And the little vixen never seemed to mind that she's getting my hand-me-downs. I suppose that's one of the advantages of being a feral famale, along with the money you'd save on table silver. If you're the type of woman that can eat a live mouse, you're hardly likely to haughtily sniff at day-old Triscuits.

 

Lately, though, I haven't seen her around much, and now I know why. She's been dining in. Madame Fox no longer needs to pop over to Barry's Backyard Bakery & Ballast Disposal. Thanks to modern technology, mice are now just queuing up at her front porch and conveniently exploding.

 

Now you may think I'm lying, because I do that a lot, though only when I'm writing, or talking, or making hand gestures. But this "Mouse as Bottle Rocket" anecdote is knowledge I picked up directly from my friendly pest control person. You know him:  this is that white-uniformed guy who pops in every other month and walks around the house, armed with a hose attached to a metal cylinder, and acts like he's spraying stuff, which may or may not be some invisible but monstrously toxic Bug Elimination Mist that I'm afraid of because I can't see it or smell it. Eventually, he'll finish his rounds, smile, hand me an old mimeographed copy of something that, for all I know, describes my liabilities regarding the Louisiana Purchase, and then something automagically debits my credit card.

 

But what Beau Peste shared with me is this: to ensure that I have no infestation of rodents, he's installed a little black brick of mice bait beneath my house. Here's the strategy:  whenever some extraordinarily stupid or intensely bored mouse decides (for whatever rodent-oriented reason) to bite the brick, said mouse ingests the bait, prances along into the tree line and, ultimately, blows up.

 

You know … for a humorist, reality's just a big, endless gift, isn't it?

 

So, obviously, my vixen-y neighbor now has it made. The evening's main course just shows up and blows up – heck, these entrees even self-filet. Milady fox just sits by the stream, humming and knitting little kit booties, watching Fox News, and waiting to hear that familiar popping noise.

 

You may be thinking, "Mouse parts. Now that's a nasty diet." And you may be right. Or you may be humbled into shut-up-ed-ness by two words: Hot Pockets.

 

Cast the first stone, biped.

 

Another example of the difference in dining habits between two- and four-legged fauna is the squirrel (Scarfus maximus). I have many squirrels frequenting my back yard, because I own a bird feeder, which is apparently a device you buy in order to feed squirrels.

 

See, I thought I bought my bird feeder to hold bird food, which I buy in 10-pound bags that have pictures of birds on the bag, and which I take home and pour into the bird feeder, in order to attract birds, who will happily eat the bird food and then thank me, in that cute bird-like way of theirs, by decorating my deck with staggering amounts of ex-bird stuff that is basically the bird equivalent of a political speech.

 

Ha. Shows you what little I know. Squirrels showed up at my bird feeder faster than Gloria Allred spotting a neurotic celebrity.

 

I buy bird feed, I get squirrels. I can't imagine what kind of lawn guests I'd have if I'd brought home some actual squirrel food and laid it around for free. Jackals, maybe, or Obama's economic team. (Yeah, I know they are.)

 

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against squirrels, structurally. True, they're basically rats that can climb trees, but that's not their fault. If you want to file a design complaint, you need to go take it up with the creator of the squirrel:  Al Gore.

 

It's not the fact of the squirrel. It's their attitude. Squirrels have a right to eat, just like the rest of Al Gore's creatures. But I've watched these selfish little squirrels, these four-legged, entitlement-minded buffet boars. They'll grasp the side of my deck with their rear claws, hang upside down, and eat for twenty-nine consecutive days. They don't even stop to breathe.

 

The birds never get a chance, and have to go organize…form a disenfranchised victims support group, stage some kind of avian civil rights telethon, campaign for a federally-funded bird bail-out.

 

So, like any other spoiled brat who isn't getting his way, I hopped on the Internet to research ways to regain control of my bird feeder, to figure out how to modify Nature to make it fit my needs. And there it was:

 

Cayenne pepper.

 

Perfect. As it turns out, it's the capsaicin found in hot chiles that lands the punch. Squirrels hate it, but birds could care less about it. It was all explained to me on the Internet, by an online chemical repellent expert. Witness:

 

"According to [famous online chemical repellent expert], the ethmoid branch of the trigeminal nerve innervates the eyes, nose, and oral cavity. This is the nerve responsible for mediation of chemical irritation."

 

See? Could it be any obvious? Apparently, in the overarching scheme of things, birds are an ethmoid or so short. And as a famous television vixen might say, "It's a good thing."

 

So I blew a whole weekend spiking ten pounds of bird seed with ounce after ounce of ground red chiles. And believe me, you haven't lived till you've been stared at, standing in the grocery checkout line cradling sixty-five 2-ounce bottles of designer Cayenne Pepper.

 

And just in case you needed any further proof that the birds are gonna be okay, there's this from Famous Repellant Boy:  "there is no evidence that birds code capsaicin as an irritant at concentrations as high as 20,000 ppm, but mammals like squirrels, rats, and mice reject capsicum concentrations as low as 1-10 ppm."

 

Hmmm. Maybe the brick-biting mice will eat the peppers, too. Then my fox will get to enjoy some Jalapeno poppers. (and I'm sure you saw that joke coming from about 20,000 ppm away)

 

See, it's all in the design. Reassuring, isn't it? This is all "big picture" stuff. It's all a part of Al Gore's plan.

 

And then I heard what I could've sworn was a Mariachi band.

 

I looked outside. And there, dangling upside-down from my bird feeder, were four squirrels wearing Haz-Mat masks and a poncho.

 

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