Man Martin's Blog, page 165

Tip O'Neill in Heaven

"
...Congressman Lehman told... Speaker (Tip O'Neill) that I had worked hard all summer.  The Speaker looked at me, then reached over and patted my head. He turned to the congressman and remarked, "She's pretty."  Then he turned his attention back to me and asked just one question: "Are you a pom-pom girl?"  ...I was crushed...I felt belittled... [I could only reply] I was too busy studying... The Speaker just patted me on the head - again! - and moved along." - Sheryl Sandberg, Lean In

So it's great being in heaven, what with having wings and all, better than my own private jet.  (Laughs)  Of course, the best thing is the memories. For instance, I remember when I first became House Majority Leader, back in '73, which was due to tragic circumstances.  (The previous leader had died in a plane crash.)  But it was a time of momentous events.  I was one of the first to call for Nixon's impeachment.  Also, in that time period, Moshe Dyan, the Defense Minister of Israel, introduced me to a little lady.  I told Moshe she was "cute as a button," and tickled her under her chin.  I asked her if she spent much time twirling batons.  Well, she gave me a funny look and said she was too busy just then fighting the Yom Kippur War.  So I told her how cute she was, and tickled her under her chin again.  Her name was Goldie Meir, or something like that...  Of course, a lot of people ask me about Reagan.  I thought he was dead wrong on virtually every issue under the sun, but the fact is, we liked each other personally.  And that's the way it is in politics.  You have to be a people-person.  For instance, I was traveling over across the pond, and William Whitelaw, the British Home Secretary, introduced me to someone or other, and I decided to make a good impression, and told William I thought she was "just adorable."  I patted her on the head and tickled her under the chin for good measure, and asked her if she ever played with Barbie dolls over in England.  She got kind of huffy about it and said she really had her hands full what with rescuing the economy and defending the Falkland Islands.  Her name was - was Marge or Maggie - oh, that's right, Maggie Thatcher.  I could tell she was sensitive on the subject because I guess they don't have Barbies over there, so I told her she was precious, and patted her head again.  Of course, as great as life was, it's nothing compared to heaven.  Heaven is tops.  Halos, the Continual Presence of God, soft-serve ice cream, the works.  And you'll never guess who I got to meet the other day.  Louis XIV of France, that's right!  The Sun King himself!  "L'etat c'est moi."  I was pretty thrilled, I can tell you.  Well, Lou, he asked me to call him Lou, introduces me to someone, and at first I thought it was a guy, because he's dressed up like a knight, but then I take another look, and it's a girl!  Joan of Arc, her name was, which is kind of a funny name, but I think I knew some "Ofarcs" from Boston.  Anyhow, I was sort of taken aback, but I didn't let it show, and told Lou I thought she was "pretty as a picture."  Then I patted her on the head, which sort of hurt, what with the helmet and all, and asked her if back on earth she ever got to dress up in a cheerleader outfit or anything like that.  Joanie was a strange one, I can tell you, because all she said was she'd been a little too busy saving France and earning sainthood.  I patted her on the helmet again, but honestly, to this day I'm not sure what she was talking about. Dames.

Things I Do Not Understand

I see many things driving on the Interstate that defy explanation.  Can you tell which of the following self-contradictions I have actually seen and which I have made up?

1. A woman with a "Breast Cancer Survivor" sticker smoking a cigarette.
2. A man with a "Honk if You Heart Jesus" bumper sticker flicking someone off in traffic.
3. A vanity license plate that read, "THRFTY."
4. A car with a handicap license plate and a Harley Davidson Motorcycle decal.
5. A man holding a lit cigarette out of the window while in his mouth was a "Whisp" disposable toothbrush.
6. A woman with a "Hang up and drive!" bumper sticker who was texting in traffic.

(Answers: Actually seen: 1,4,5.  Made up: 3, 6.  2 I did not actually see myself, but was witnessed by my good friend, David Gardner who honked and got this reaction.)

Fruit Flies

Ever since Monday I my students and I have been swatting fruit flies in my classroom, which, if you've ever tried to do it, is no small feat.  I attributed the infestation to the enormous quantities of fruit I bring each day in an effort to lose weight; however, I have since come to learn that I am not to blame: everyone on my hall has fruit flies.  Our theory is they are traceable to a biology classroom where, it being Spring, the students are conducting the time-honored experiment of fruit-fly breeding.

The fruit fly, drosophila melongaster, (parenthetically, why would you hang a ten-foot moniker on something like that?) is a handy critter for genetic labs because it breeds so quickly - Wikipedia informs me it's ten days, but I could swear it's a lot faster than that - and because they are easily anesthetized and sexed.

In my own high school days my teacher - oh, what was his name? - I can remember how he looked.  We students found him contemptible because he was bald, gray-haired and wore glasses, and - say!  Wait a minute!  Anyway, I was put into a group with Bruce Greenwall and Pete Warnick, and having anesthetized the little rascals with a cloth soaked in ether (we were warned not to over-anesthetize them or it could result in sterility or even death) we placed them under the microscope to find a little boy fruit fly and a little girl fruit fly.  There, as Hamlet put it, was the rub.

Male and female fruit flies, even under the microscope, are a lot harder to differentiate than is widely believed by biology teachers.  All this talk about how easy it is to tell them apart, is pretty much hype as far as I'm concerned.  I attach an actual diagram from the Wikipedia article which notes, "Males are easily differentiated from females."  Note that word "easy."  Okay, wiseguys, you tell them apart.  Bear in mind, the little circles with the arrow and the plus sign do not actually appear in nature.

Before Bruce, Pete, and I could determine if the fruit fly in question were a hulking he-man fruit fly or a delicate feminine one, it began to recover from its ether and move around.  Afraid to re-anesthetize it and possibly sterilize or even kill it, thus depriving it of the joy of its full fruit-fly life, and thereby receiving an "F" in the lab, we three hit upon the obvious solution: instead of putting only two fruit flies in our little fruit fly jar with its yummy smear of Purina Fruit Fly Chow in the bottom, we put eight fruit flies.  Surely, we reasoned, with that many, we'd end up with at least one male and one female.

And we did.

In case you didn't know, when a Mommy and Daddy fruit fly love each other very much, in about ten days, God lets them have up to a hundred baby fruit flies.  And they don't have any favorites; they love all their children equally.  In fact, they love their children just as much as they love each other, if you catch my drift.  And the children love each other.  So if you start the lab on Monday before Spring Break, when you come back after Spring Break, you have approximately 10,000 fruit flies.  That's if you start with just two.

I'm not sure how many fruit flies Bruce, Pete, and I ended up with, but it was a hell of a lot more than 10,000 I can tell you.  Even though we're only talking about fruit flies here, our jar was noticeably fuller than anyone else's.  They were not so many as to blot the sun from the sky, but there were a lot, so many that we feared if Mr What's-is-Name the science teacher noticed, he'd suspect we'd shirked the sexing part of the fruit fly experiment and give us an "F."  So we did what any right-thinking high school student would do: we added some of our fruit flies to all the other jars until the quantities looked approximately even.  No doubt a few thousand of the little rascals escaped during the process to plague other classrooms up and down the hall.

I don't remember the results of the experiment, but I'm sure they made Gregor Mendel sit up in his grave, knock his head on his coffin lid, and mutter, "WTF."  As I look back on it, the fruit fly lab wasn't a biological experiment at all, but an experiment in adolescent psychology and situational ethics.

So I've gone back to blaming myself for the fruit fly infestation - not that these particular fruit flies are the ones I released, but because karma is finally paying me back for that undetected crime of decades ago, just as it has paid me back for smirking at Mr What's-his-name for his bald head and glasses.

I had it coming.

Stockholder Report

Ladies and gentleman, we are in a slump and there's no way to deny it.  We might as well call it what it is.  Slumpity-slump-slump.  Slumpsy-daisy.  El Slumpo.  Slump City.

For years we got by selling those little chromium "naked lady" silhouettes to truck drivers.  Then we added the "Jesus fish" decals people could attach to their bumper stickers to be all religious and stuff and sales picked up.  A while later, someone came up with the hot idea to stick little legs on one of the fish and label it "Darwin" like it was evolving.  Genius!  Not only did we sell about a zillion of those, we sold even more of the original "Jesus fish" because naturally fundamentalist Christians couldn't let the ideological war of bumper stickers - where all significant political and social debate occurs - be won by a bunch of danged agnostic secular humanists.  Those were the glory days, which is when we installed the Jacuzzi in the executive washroom and added the sushi bar in the employee cafeteria.
And then - !  Just when we thought things couldn't get any better, someone came up with a Jesus fish eating a Darwin fish!  The money just rolled in!  It was whacko-crazy!  We bought the janitor a private jet and added pet psychic coverage to the insurance.
But after that, I just don't know.  We came out with a Cthulhu bumper sticker with little wings, tentacles, and feet, but no one really seemed to appreciate the humor.  Not enough Lovecraft fans, I guess.  We came up with a "filet-o-fish" bumper decal, but it was just a rectangle and no one bought any of those at all.  Ditto for the fish that said "Eat mor chikn."  People complained it was "confusing" and they "didn't get it," that they couldn't tell if it was supposed to be "a fish or a cow," which is stupid because clearly anyone could see it was a fish.
So we went back to the drawing board and decided to weigh in on the whole gay marriage thing, you know, give citizens a chance to express their convictions on this issue in chromium bumper stickers.  We had two fish, to symbolize traditional marriage, sort of get the controversy-ball rolling, an opening shot if you will.  But people couldn't tell it was supposed to be a man and a woman fish, so we went back and added breasts to the woman fish and a penis to the man fish.  This resulted in a court injunction and several lawsuits.  Which leads us to where we are now.
A slump.  Slump-o-rama.  Slumpzilla.  Slunpsville.
So it's back to the naked ladies for awhile until we come up with the next big thing.  Maybe a naked lady with a weird out-sized head and toothpicks for arms labeled Darwin?  Maybe a lady being crucified labeled Jesus?
I don't know.  We have to think of something.

Thoughts of a Dog

So I saw the suitcase on the bed, which means at least a week before I see her again.  He's staying home, which is something to be grateful for, I guess, but, he's gone all day and by the time he gets home, he doesn't do much more than plop some food in my bowl and plop his plump butt in front of his computer.  I'm lucky if I get a walk.

Let's face it, my life isn't exactly a roller-coaster of excitement even when she's home.  Mostly all I do all day is sleep while she stares at her computer or talks on the phone.  Once in a while she gets up to do laundry and I get to go downstairs with her.  Big whoop.  She lets me outside and I could run out there, I guess.  But what's the point of running by yourself?  My one real source of entertainment, apart from my daily walk, is barking.  And she yells at me if I do that.  So pretty much I'm reduced to taking naps and waiting for a walk or to go downstairs for the laundry.

I wish I knew what they do when they go away.  I wish they'd take me with them.  I bet they go somewhere and chase squirrels.  Imagine that.  She's off somewhere chasing squirrels all week, and didn't take me with her.  Then he goes away all day chasing squirrels while I'm still stuck at home.  This would explain why they're so tired all the time.  I've never seen them chase squirrels myself, but that only proves they must be chasing them when I'm not around.  They must chase squirrels sometime.  It would be too ironic if they left during the day or for an entire week to stare at computers and talk on the phone when that's all they do when they're here.  They couldn't possibly be that dumb.

They probably don't take me with them because they don't think I'm good enough to chase squirrels with them.  They mostly see me nap when I'm in the house, but that's just because there aren't any squirrels in here.  And I never catch a squirrel when I go for a walk, but that's because I never get any practice.  I bet if I got to spend an entire week somewhere chasing squirrels, I'd catch them all the time.

I wish they'd take me with them when they go squirrel-chasing.  I wish a squirrel would come in the house once in a while.  I wish they didn't leave so often.

Oh, well.

Might as well take a nap.

Consider the Horseshoe Crab

As soon as you mention horseshoe crabs, someone will inform you in supercilious voice that horseshoe crabs are not true crabs at all, but more closely related to spiders and scorpions.  No one ever thinks to mention that it's not a horseshoe either, and doesn't even resemble one, that it looks a lot more like an army helmet crab, but this is the sort of zoological insight you get for visiting this page.

Horseshoe crabs are sometimes known as "living fossils" because they've been around so long, 450 million years or so, but really that's not that impressive.  Crustaceans have been around just as long, but no one calls them "living fossils."  We call them "tempura."  Horseshoe crabs are celicerates, which means they're more closely related to spiders and scorpions than crabs.  What makes them living fossils is they're just about the last of celicerata to live in the water, which is where all celicerata originated.  The only other marine celicerata are sea spiders, which live in the Mediterranean and may not be celicerata at all.  They're not spiders either, as a Greek fisherman is bound to inform you in a superior tone if you mention one around him.

Horseshoe crabs have ten legs, which is something you'd know if you ever turned one over and counted, which I bet you haven't.  People don't turn horseshoe crabs over if they can help it; the pointy tail is harmless, but looking at a horseshoe crab's underbelly is enough to give you a case of the cold-robbies.  Another disturbing thought is that horseshoe crabs like to swim upside down.

Think of that next time you're paddling in the surf.  In addition to jellyfish and sharks, there are horseshoe crabs, their ten little legs pumping for all they're worth, turned belly-up all the better for your toe to brush across one.  This is perfectly harmless, I know, but still.  Oog.

So to recap.  Horseshoe crabs live in the sea.  Humans live on land.  The ocean reaches depths of over six miles.  A lot of it filled with weird shit you'd rather not think about.  For example, horseshoe crabs.  We've been around in our current for about 200,000 years.  Horseshoe crabs for about two thousand times as long.  We have two legs.  They have ten.  We swim rightide-up.  They swim upside-down.  And they won't give a darn if they brush against you.

Yes, Brain Games Do So Work Too!

Dear Customers and Potential Customers:

We here at NeuroBlast! Inc. have noticed a lot of so-called "research" floating around claiming brain games don't really have any effect on intelligence or working memory.  Some "scientists" at Georgia Tech, which is basically just a glorified vocational school, claimed that games designed to improve cognitive performance showed no effect on their subjects except in the "narrow set of skills" taught by the games.

For example, for four hours each day over a five-day period, one hundred test subjects played Kookoo-Kitty-Klash (a fun and mentally-stimulating game, in which you have to remember the numbers and colors of adorable playful kittens in each apartment of a thirty-story high-rise).  At the end of the training period none of the participants showed noticeable improvement remembering where they had parked the car.  Two of them could not even remember if they'd driven a car, and one was heard mumbling quietly to himself, "Kittens, kittens, kittens, must kill kittens."

But what even the haters at Georgia Tech can't deny is the massive gains these test subjects made in remembering kittens.  Ninety-nine percent of them increased their KRQ (Kitten Recall Quotient) by 20 points or more.  (As far as the other one percent, he just spent his time staring angrily at the screen and muttering.  Some people just can't be helped.)

Besides which, Kookoo-Kitty-Klash is only one of the many challenging and neuron-stretching games we at NeuroBlast! Inc. offer.  For a mere twenty dollars a month, you can also play Whackawaiter.  Similar to the classic Whackamole, waiters randomly pop up beside your table holding bills to which you must add a tip of twenty to twenty-five percent.  And for fifteen dollars more, you move up to "premium" where you can play Sodoku-Smarter-than-a-Rocket-Scientist Maze, which has received customer raves such as "frustrating and pointless" and "why am I wasting my time on this?"

When you get right down to it, "research," "double-blind studies," and "facts" are all a bunch of hooey.  (Something you can learn playing Hot-Diggity-Diameter for a mere $12.50 extra a month.)  The real question is not what some know-it-alls at Georgia Tech claim, but how do NeuroBlast Inc.'s customers feel?  At the end of a twelve-month $2500 training course, customers report they'd be "a lot smarter next time" or that Neuroblast Inc. "certainly taught me a lesson."

Results speak for themselves.

How to Brag without Bragging

Let's face it, you're pretty darned awesome, and it's high time other people acknowledged it.  Frankly, every conversation should center around you and your amazingness.  Unfortunately, other people just don't get it, do they?  They want to yammer on about the boring old weather, or some lame book they've read, or the results of their chemotherapy.  Blah, blah, blah.  So along with everything else, you have to take responsibility for pointing out how wonderful you are.  "But hold your horses," you say, "if I tell people how great I am, won't that be bragging and therefore diminish my claim to awesome humility in addition to all my other awesome traits?"

Thank goodness, there's an easy way to let people share in the glorious sensation of appreciating "you" without lowering yourself by coming right out and saying, "Hey, pay some attention to me, losers."

Let's say, you've got an important new promotion and you're dying to fill in your friends; instead of bragging, try complaining.  "The manager at Starbucks (heavy sigh) told me he needs me to be chief barista.  Now on top of everything else, I have to be in charge of the latte machine.  That's what I get for being the only one he can trust not to get the soy milk mixed in with the almond."

See how it works?  Not only to you get to bask in the envy of your friends with their dead-end jobs, they have to express sympathy for you.

Or what if you want to dazzle them, with their drab colorless lives, with the mad whirl of your social life.  Again, the secret is complaining.  "I had to leave work a half hour early yesterday because (sigh) of Brian's party [This is double-plus effective if they weren't invited.]  I told him I didn't want to leave until I'd wiped out the latte machine, but he said he couldn't possibly have a Star-Trek-themed party without me.  I'm the only one who knows all the words to 'Happy Birthday' in Klingon.  At least there was a Carvel cake there."

As you can see, this simple conversational technique lets you direct attention to yourself where it belongs and still avoid the appearance of bragging, which is impolite and unseemly, by instead complaining which requires other people to swallow their bitter jealousy of you and express sympathetic interest.  It's a win-win.

Consider the Tapeworm

The tapeworm, Latin name Cestoda, is a parasite that inhabits the intestines of vertebrate animals.  There are about a thousand identified species of Cestoda and every vertebrate animal is capable of being infected by at least one of them.  Humans can be infected by all sorts of Cestoda - swine Cestoda from eating pork, bovine Cestoda from eating beef, and piscine Cestoda from eating fish.  A whale tapeworm can be up to 100 feet long, so maybe you should lay off the blubber.

Tapeworms are one of the oldest known parasites, and fossilized remains of them have been found in shark feces dating back 270 million years.  No one examines ancient shark poop without hoping to find something.  (We might do well to consider humble scientists looking for tapeworms in prehistoric shark poop while the rest of us are out living our lives.)

The tapeworm attaches its scolex, or head, to the intestinal wall and pulls out nutrients.  As it eats, it forms little sections called proglottids.  Each proglottid functions like a separate individual with its own digestive and reproductive system; moreover, each proglottid is hermaphroditic, meaning it can mate with itself, saving the trouble of trying to meet other tapeworms.  This is a good thing for the tapeworm, because, living in the intestine as it does, it doesn't get out much.  As the tapeworm grows, older sections are pushed to the end of the tail, until they finally detach, being, at that point, essentially just a sackful of eggs, and the miracle of birth begins anew.

Everyone always talks glowingly about the cycle of life, but they're always thinking about lions and things; no one ever mentions tapeworms, and I think it's high time someone did.  So here's to the humble tapeworm, silent and hidden, feeding away and dreaming its little proglottids will one day have children of their own, serving - I'm sure - its own part in God's mysterious scheme.

Victoria's Secret Targets Amish with New Lingerie Line

Local women react in shock and disgust at a fashion show
for the lingerie line in Stoltzfuz's pasture.  "Those hussies!"Only weeks after the furor over their "Pink" line of sexy lingerie for teenagers died down, the Columbus, Ohio women's wear company has announced its new line of "Gray," undergarments designed with Amish ladies in mind.  

Printed with suggestive Bible verses and featuring risque pride-inducing "buttons," "these garments will surely inflame the lusts," predicts Hezekiah Stoltzfuz who has sole rights to distribute the brand.  

Don't expect to see any TV commercials for the product; ads for the lingerie line will be posted on the backs of horse drawn carriages and sides of covered bridges.  An additional, "God says," sky-writing campaign is also being discussed.