Man Martin's Blog, page 114

Organized Misdeeds

Al Capone was successfully prosecuted, but his distant cousin,
Joan Capone, continued to operate with impunity.Most people are unaware that such an organization exists, that the vast majority of petty nuisances and minor social infractions are masterminded by a tightly-knit body.

Organized Misdeeds grew up in Sicily as the slightly simple-minded and more annoying baby brother of Organized Crime.  

In addition to bootlegging, drugs, prostitution, and gambling, Organized Crime, or as it was called, Cosa Nostra, "our thing," extorted small businessmen for protection money with veiled threats such as, "Vinnie, nice bakery you got here.  It'd be a shame if something happened to it,"  Whereas, Organized Misdeeds, or the De Chi E Questa Cosa, "whose thing is this?" operated more insidiously.  Typically, they'd see a sandwich, say, that Vinne was saving for later, or maybe a slice of red velvet cake, and they'd say, "De chic e questa cosa?" and when no one answered, they'd eat it themselves.

While Mafiosos faced occasional criminal prosecution, Organized Misdeeders operated below the law's radar, and thus wreaked havoc with impunity.  For one example, 1931, the year Al Capone was found guilty of tax evasion and sentenced to a dose of syphilis, his half-cousin, Joan Capone, was caught with fourteen items in a "ten items or less" grocery lane, and got nothing worse than a "Oh, come on," from the exasperated fellow-shopper behind her.

Today, Organized Misdeeds is a vast international network coordinating such misbehavior as taking up two parking spaces by parking over the white line, being rude to restaurant wait staff, or talking loudly during movies.  The internet has opened a whole new field for Misdeeders, allowing them to post pictures of food on Facebook or take constant selfies or text friends during meetings.

The Popular Kids

Remember the popular kids in high school?  There was the bossy one with the weight problem, the cute guy who was quiet, the not-as-cute-guy who was loud and silly, the sassy girl?  Their table at lunch was set off from the others, like they were too good to eat with everyone else, even though we were all eating the same pork nuggets and over-boiled vegetable mush.

Remember them?

Remember how much fun they always seemed to have and how they'd sometimes burst out in laughter, like life was one big party, only you hadn't been invited?  Speaking of parties, they always had parties, right?  Like they'd either be talking about the party they had last weekend or the party this weekend, or even the party tonight.

Well, they're still around, much older now, of course, but they haven't changed much.  You always used to tell yourself that life would catch up with them, that they wouldn't always be "the popular ones," that one day you'd show them.  Well, guess what?  They're still as popular as ever, and they still sit at the same table at lunch.  It's a secret table in a special restaurant no one knows about or can get in unless you're one of the popular kids.  And they talk about parties they went to and parties they're going to, neither of which you were invited to.  

And they go to IHOP and don't tell you.  Or maybe, you might get a text, "WE @ IHOP JN US" or however popular kids would text a message like that, only if you go to the IHOP don't bother, because they'll already be somewhere else, and if you run into one of them later, they'd be all sorry and say it was a big misunderstanding, and they meant to text you when they went to the Cheesecake Factory, and they told Lance to be sure and text you but Lance didn't do it because you know what a goof-troop Lance is.  Only you'll know it wasn't a slip-up, they did it on purpose, and they thought it was funny because that's how popular kids roll.

What's that, you say?  You say I'm full of it?  You say the popular kids don't still get together?  You say that you've got friends and loved ones and you've got a life?  You say you don't care what other people do, you're happy with yourself?  You say you're pretty popular yourself.

Oh, please.

If you were one of the popular kids, you'd be riding around with them right now.

Pop-Tarts, The End is in Sight

Underground Storage Facility, Yucca MountainThis week, Pop-Tarts turns 50.  Yep, fifty years ago, Pop-Tarts were introduced for the first time to the consuming public.  The shocking news is, soon there will be no more.

This has been a closely-guarded secret until now, but the fact is, the original batch of Pop-Tarts produced in 1964 was the only one ever made.  Owing to a misplaced decimal in the original invoice, Kellogg's manufactured over a trillion Pop-Tarts in one year.  The Pop-Tart factory has since been shuttered and demolished, and the accountant responsible for the error disappeared soon after the fiasco.  His body has never been found.

The excess Pop-Tarts have since been stored deep under the Yucca Mountain in Arizona, along with depleted Uranium isotopes and 50,000 back issues of George Magazine.  Ever since, Kellogg's has been extracting them on an as-needed basis for retail sale.  Using special high-powered syringes, the original fillings have been replaced with new flavors from Disney Princess Jewelberry to Guava Mango.

The executives at Kellogg's calculated that the supply of Pop-Tarts would last well past the year 2214, when a secret scientific report reveals that the sun will explode engulfing the inner planets and destroying all life except for earth's billionaires and their chosen concubines, who will escape and a fusion-powered spacecraft.  Their confidence was further boosted by critical reception, which ranged from "nauseous," to "not recommended for eating purposes."

Unfortunately, no one anticipated the public's voracious appetite for processed breakfast treats.  Moreover, Pop-Tart consumption was further fueled by a packaging snafu.  Each Pop-Tart, a single serving, is wrapped in a foil sleeve with one other Pop-Tart.  This means that the typical consumer, having opened the foil, will eat both Pop-Tarts, fearing spoilage of the remaining.  (This fear is unfounded: Pop-Tarts are impervious to spoilage.)  There being two foil containers in the typical box, the other Pop-Tart pair rattles in the box like an orphan until the consumer, deluding himself that he is saving shelf-space in his cabinet, the eats the other pair as well.  Thus, a typical American consumer eats four times as many Pop-Tarts as the wildest and most optimistic forecast estimated.

Think about the last Pop-Tart you had.  Was there anything about it that suggested it was not fifty years old?  Would you have applied any adjective to it such as "fresh?"  That's because every Pop-Tart you've ever eaten was made in the middle of the last century.

And now they are running out forever.

Whether this is good news or bad, is for you to tell.

The Existential Crisis of Rob Mark

Full Disclosure: The Beavers Were Normal SizeRob Mark, 44, an adventurer and member of The Explorer’s Club of New York City, became the first person to visit the world’s largest beaver dam located in godforsaken terrain of Canada’s largest national park 124 miles from Fort Chipewyan, from where he began his (nine-day) trek. - David Strege

So people keep asking me, "How big were those beavers, anyways?"  Full disclosure here, the beavers were ordinary size.  The dam is what was big.  When I tell them that, they kind of stare at me, like "You hiked nine days to see a giant dam?  I can see doing that for giant beavers, maybe, but just to see a giant dam?"  Frankly, I'm starting to see their point.  I mean, what was I thinking?  I guess, the fact is I'm kind of blue.  It's a big let-down after you've seen the world's largest beaver dam, it's like what else is there to do?  

Ever since I was a kid, I was fascinated by seeing really large animal structures.  When I was seven my brothers said, "Come outside, there's the world's biggest wasp nest hanging from the eaves!"  And I went outside, and there it was.  It really was impressive, and I thought, now my life has meaning, now I am fulfilled.  But then it turned out it wasn't the world's biggest wasp nest, just the biggest one my brothers ever saw.  I can't tell you how depressed I became.  I wouldn't speak to anyone for days.

I promised myself I really would see the world's biggest wasp nest one day, and I did, too.  In the Orinoco River Basin, Summer of '09.  It was magnificent, but I remember thinking, "Yeah, well, James and Scott said their nest was the biggest, too.  I wonder what else is out there?"  So I went on a quest.  I've seen the world's largest ant bed, the world's largest termite mounds.  The world's largest prairie-dog town, I've seen that, too.  Each time, the thrill left me less satisfied than the one before; each time I went on another search for the next big thing.

But the world's largest beaver dam tops them all.  And now I've seen it.  I keep asking myself, so what?

I hear there's a ginormous beehive in Africa no human eyes have ever laid eyes on.  I've got my plane ticket and my hiking gear.  Maybe it will be the thing I've been seeking all along.

Keeping Abreast, or Another Obvious Pun

A Florida woman had a third breast surgically implanted because she "was tired of dating."  It seems to me there must be easier and less painful ways of discouraging unwanted masculine attention, but it's not for me to say.  And truth to tell, it must be kind of fun to be sitting in a bar and have a guy come up and say, "Say, have we ever met befo-  Whoa!  Is that a third boob?"
Her name, by the way, is Jamie Tridevil, which sort of sounds surgically implanted itself.
A number of other women have undergone radical plastic surgery to look like Barbie dolls or "sex dolls."  One woman, currently living in France, spent $50 K of her boyfriend's money to be turned into a sex doll.  Her lips are so puffy, it looks like she's eating a pink sandwich.  To each his own, I guess.
That woman's name is Victoria Wild.  Everyone talks about the surgery, no one even mentions the name.
Of course, these are the outliers, but lots of people have odd cosmetic surgery.  I read on the internet - so it must be true - that two of the most common cosmetic surgeries are eyelash transplants and bellybutton enhancement.  (Turning an outie into a innie or vice-a-versa.)
I'm not going to advocate here that people should be happy with the way they look, but there's clearly a slippery slope in play here.  One day you go in for a perfectly ordinary bellybutton transplant, and next thing you know, you've got three boobs.

My First Epic Battle

My first Epic Battle Was with a kid named Keith - I don't remember his last name.  Keith was handsome, tall for a third-grader, and extremely well-dressed.  I remember he wore a button-down shirt every day instead of a pullover, and I never saw him in dungarees.  (This was the late sixties when childrens' denim was making the unsteady transition from dungarees to jeans.)  Keith was self-confident and well-liked.  The teacher would call him up to the blackboard to do long division and he would race through problems like he was born with a piece of chalk in his hand.

I liked him, too, but I knew it was essential that I fight him.

I was a new kid, having just moved to Georgia from Florida, and I could see that fighting Keith - and winning, I had no doubt I would win - would earn me eternal glory in Mrs. Brown's class in Washington County High.

I told Keith I was going to fight him, and Keith, while somewhat nonplussed, accepted the challenge.  He was a polite kid and willing to oblige a newcomer.  He had a sidekick named Ricky, whom I always thought of as Ricky Ricardo, who was very derisive about my chances.  In truth, I don't think Ricky was really Keith's sidekick, but just someone who was nearby when I made the challenge and who - wisely - predicted I was going to get a whooping.

(In 1968 Sandersville, Georgia, children did not use the expression "ass-kicking."  We did not say "ass" at all, and some of us did not suspect such a word existed.  A vandal had spray-painted "Class of '67 SUX" on various surfaces throughout the county, which left me totally mystified.  I thought it was Roman numerals.)

We fought during recess, but we didn't even get as far as the playground.  We fought on the sidewalk just outside the front door.  "I'm going to fight you now," I informed him, and went for him.  Most of the kids went on to the swings, but two or three onlookers stayed to watch.  The tension was so thick, it was noticeable.

In my mind's eye, I pictured the sort of fights I'd seen on Bonanza.  I actually believes that at a climactic point, I would seize him by his belt and his shirt collar and send him crashing through a plate glass window.  However, the setting was not congenial to such maneuvers, there being no windows handy.  Instead I seized him by his upper biceps, and attempted to hurl him to the ground.  He seized me likewise.  I do not know if he was attempting to hurl me to the ground or not, but he might have been.

That's where we stuck.  Neither of us could let go without being hurled to the ground by the other.  It would never have occurred to me to throw a punch; I didn't want to hurt him, just beat him.  Kicking was also out of the question.  This was years before the TV show Kung Fu made kicking okay; in those days, kicking was still something only girls and sissies did.  So we stayed there, locked in a mortal grip.  Two of the three onlookers got bored and went to the playground.  Mrs. Brown, if she observed the tableau from the window, did not rush out to break up the fight.  If she'd seen it, she wouldn't have known it was a fight.

It was Ricky Ricardo who indirectly broke up the fight.  Ricky, the only remaining onlooker, inquired of Keith why he didn't simply beat me up.  Keith, still as pleasant as ever, said that I was a lot stronger than I looked.

That was all it took.  I released him, and he me.  I was stronger than I looked, which was high compliment coming from Keith, who was clearly pretty strong himself if I hadn't been able to send him crashing through a window.  After that we could be friends.
I had proven myself and earned eternal glory in Mrs. Brown's third grade.

The Multi-Species Meal

Last night Nancy waxed eloquent about Sunday dinners her mother used to make.  For any Yankees out there, "dinner" is not the evening meal, but a late lunch, especially if it is large and company is expected.  Momma's Sunday dinners featured a slicing roast, ham, and fried chicken, plus any number of vegetables, cornbread, biscuits, and on special occasions, chocolate pie.

A friend of ours, Lane, was struck by the marvel of a meal featuring three different meats and said she'd like to eat a "multi-species meal" herself some day.  It was no use pointing out that if she'd ever had a bacon cheeseburger, she'd eaten a multi-species meal already, nor would she admit on at least one Thanksgiving to having both turkey and ham.  

I think what she really wants is to be at a table where there aren't quite enough chairs to go around, and at least one full-grown adult is sitting on a stool with a phone-book on it, so he'll be more than eye-level to the table.  She wants field peas and snaps with little onions cut up in them.  She wants turnip greens with a jar of pepper sauce handy.  She wants boiled red potatoes and rutabagas.  She wants sliced fresh tomatoes and sliced Vidalia onions.  She wants white rice, stirred in the pot until it is a mushy white slab.  She wants steamed cabbage and yellow squash.  She wants sweet tea.  She wants cornbread, biscuits, and white bread all at one table.  She wants there to be sorghum for the biscuits and buttermilk for the cornbread; she probably doesn't eat sorghum or buttermilk herself, but it is imperative they be there and that at least one person is enjoying them.  Two chocolate pies should be waiting on the counter.  If at all possible, she would like there to be a box-fan in the window, and sheets drying on a line outside.  And there should be at least three meats: a slicing roast, ham, and fried chicken.

And all of this should be served up by someone who has never heard of goat cheese or balsamic vinegar or edamame, and who would think shrimp and grits is "weird," and who, before anyone can touch a fork, will make someone say grace, and after the "amen" will say - as always when offering such a feast - "I just hope it's fit to eat."  

What Lane really wants is the multi-species meal Momma used to make.  I don't blame her.

The Discovery and Use of the Whoopee Cushion

The Whoopee Cushion.
Any schoolchild will tell you the Whoopee Cushion was pioneered by the Roman Emperor Elagabulus who delighted the ancient world by placing an inflated sheep's bladder on the chair of a guest.
We can imagine the dinner conversation going something like this:
Emperor Elagabulus: (With unusual solicitude.) Have a seat, Marcus.Marcus: With pleasure, Caesar.Whoopee Cushion: Ffffflbrt!Elagabulus: Ha ha ha!  You fell for it again, Marcus!  Ha ha ha!Marcus: Yes, Caesar, I fall for it every time.  It is as funny as ever.  By the way, could you let me hold 45 drachmas til payday?
Incredibly, Elagabulus was only fourteen when he first played this prank.  Less incredibly, he was assassinated at eighteen.
For centuries, the haggis industry placed sheep organs out of reach for the average person and only the wealthiest could afford to offer their guests the amusement of the Cushion de Joie, as the French named it.
That is, until the 20th Century when August Vink and his crew of researchers at JEM Manufacturing were looking for a way to use sheets of scrap rubber.  The prototype probably originated as an inter-office prank, but Vink immediately spotted the commercial potential.  He took his device to Samuel Sorenson Adams founder and president of the S S Adams Company.
When we consider the sheer breadth of Adams' inventive powers, we cannot but stand in awe.  The invention of the joy buzzer alone would have ensured him a place among the immortals, but he also gave us the snake-nut can, the stink bomb, and the dribble glass.  Adams had made a fortune almost overnight from the sneeze-powder craze, and had built from it a formidable company.  The man was a living monument, and therefore, when he rejected Vink's discovery as "too vulgar," it must've seemed like there was no hope.
But Vink was a man with a vision and was not to be deterred.  He took his invention to Adam's rival Johnson Smith Company.  
Johnson Smith in those days was plucky and hungry, an ambitious young upstart ready to try anything.  The launch of his X-Ray Vision Glasses had won him supporters among the intelligentsia and he was cocky enough to rush in where others feared to tread.  When Vink demonstrated the novelty cushion, Smith didn't hesitate to snap it up.
People have objected from that day to this that the name Whoopee Cushion is unhelpful and misleading, as the cushion does not make a sound which at all resembles Whoopee.  Perhaps the name was a corruption of "whoopsy," an interjection of chagrin.  Perhaps Whoopee was an attempt to imitate the name of Adams' "joy buzzer," implying that the purchase of the product would result in boundless delight at social gatherings.  Perhaps it was a reference to a forgotten Vaudeville routine in which a comedian referred to flatulence as "whoopee."  Whatever the case, the origin of the name seems destined to remain shrouded in mystery.
It was the Roaring Twenties, and didn't take long for the cushion to become all the rage; it was a time of bathtub gin, flivvers, and flappers, and people knew a good time when they saw it.  Adams, belatedly seeing the money to be made, came out with his own version, "The Raspberry Cushion."  It was a cut-throat move all too typical of the novelty industry and a blatant violation of patent rights.  Smith planned to file suit, and no doubt would have won, but he fell an early victim of the Crash of '29; he'd unwisely poured a fortune into rubber chickens, which had proved a dud among the buying public.  Of course, Salvadore Dali's endorsement was later to lead to a rubber chicken renaissance, but that was years in the future, and meanwhile Smith was unable to muster funds for a legal team.
Young people today may not even know a Whoopee Cushion when they see it.  Thanks to technology and the new Fart App for IPhones, no one need ever inflate a rubber bladder again, yet we still owe a debt of gratitude to Vink and Smith, and the halls of history echo with the fart sounds of their invention.

What Happens in Scotland

Dig In!Scotland has decided not to secede from the UK, so now we can all breathe a sigh of relief.  I know how concerned you all were.  Major catastrophe, narrowly averted.

The real terror, of course, was that had Scotland left the UK, they might have wanted to join someone else.  They might have wanted to join us.

I have Scots ancestry myself, and I have nothing but pride for my heritage, and yet there are some things that are better left in Scotland.

There are some things
I cannot even comment onOther than scotch whiskey itself, Scotland's primary contributions to civilization are dubious at best.  Take for example, plaid.  The last time plaid was considered fashionable was... well, never.  Paisley goes in and out of fashion, but plaid has always been out.  Take a close look at a paisley and you'll get an idea just how bad plaid must be to lose by comparison.  

Apart from kilts and gimcrack novelty tams sold at Scottish fairs, the only people who wear plaid are eight-year-olds whose mothers dress them in it, deliberately to humiliate them.   The eight-year-olds sense this and are rightly indignant, but being underage, have no recourse but to wait until they are adults and can dress their own children in plaid.  You also see plaids on boxer shorts, but never the boxer shorts of single men.  Women buy their husbands plaid boxer shorts as a preventative for adultery. 

My family has a plaid, but it is not one of the good plaids.  You may not have known there were good plaids.  Clan McDonald has a very good plaid as plaids go.  It is red and blue and white and very distinctive.  My family's plaid has dull bluish green horizontal stripes offset with dull greenish blue vertical stripes against a dull blue and green background.  You have to look closely to know it is plaid.

The British isles were never known for their cuisine, but even there Scotland sets a low-water mark.  Haggis.  The first step of an acutual haggis recipe I found online runs thusly; "Clean stomach bag thoroughly and soak overnight.  In the morning turn inside-out."  Next, you are to clean the "pluck," and mouthwatering collation of lungs, liver, and heart, allowing the "windpipe to hang over the pot" to drain out "impurities."  I will spare you the rest.  No one should read a Scottish recipe on an empty stomach.  Or a full one.  Suffice to say, later it calls for oatmeal.

The Scots did give us golf, which outdoes even baseball for sheer dullness, but their primary sport is the caber-toss.  This, for the uninitiated, is a test of agility and split-second timing wherein a lunatic in a kilt attempts to throw a telephone pole end-over-end.

And then there's bagpipes.  Dear lord, the bagpipes.

Some people say bagpipes are beautiful.  Then again, some people like haggis.

So Scotland will stay in the UK.  Be glad.  Be very glad.

Barbie Apologizes

Talina Woods, 25, from Wales, recently purchased a "Life In The Dreamhouse Talking Barbie Doll" for her daughter, Demileigh, according to UPI.com....Demileigh had the Barbie for two days before her mother heard the doll blurt out an off-color, three-word phrase summarized by the letters W, T and F. - David Moye, Huffington Post

Alright, look, I snapped.  That's all there is to it.  Everyone looks at me and thinks, "Oh, you've got it so easy, you've got looks and... well, looks.  And how hard can it be being a plastic doll with ginormous boobs?"

Let me tell you it's not that easy.  For starters, I don't have a man in my life.  I'm not one of those women who needs a man to make her happy; I'm pretty much happy all the time.  I can't help it.  My face is made this way.  But sometimes a girl wants a little masculine companionship, you know?  As for Ken, you knew he was gay, right?  I mean, just look at his wardrobe.  But I've seen him naked.  Gay is the least of it.  He's in good shape and all, but...  Well, I can't go into details, but let's just say he doesn't have what it takes to satisfy an eight-inch tall plastic woman.

And it's not easy keeping the equivalent of an 18-inch waist and a 39-inch bust, especially since I can't do Pilates, yoga, or anything.  My knees don't bend.  God, just one day I wish I could sit down.  My only alternative is to diet.  I simply don't eat.  Ever.

So can you blame me for letting fly a little F-Bomb?  But I'm sorry.  I know I said it in front of a little girl who is impressionable and looks up to me as a role model to teach her important values like shopping, getting mani-pedis, having nice clothes, an 18-inch waist, and 39-inch boobs.  I let her down, and I'm sorry.

Bitch.