How Things Aren't

Portmanteaus

2011-12-29T14:12:00.004-07:00

The Return of... How To's Day

2011-11-08T06:00:00.006-07:00

How to Obtain a Restraining Order Without Hurting Your Stalker's Feelings

Okay, it was cute at first. The roses showing up on your desk at work. The daily letters professing undying devotion. The phrase "I am always watching" scrolled across your mirror in lipstick accompanied by a montage of photographs of you asleep in your bed.

All innocent fun, but enough is enough. The next car bomb you find, attached to your ignition after a date with another man, might actually be functional. It's finally time to obtain a restraining order.

But herein lies the dilemma. On the one hand you know that your life is in very real danger. The obsessive and destructive attentions of someone who is so obviously mentally unstable and quite probably psychopathic make legal intervention practically unavoidable. But on the other hand, you know that a restraining order will just crush your stalker emotionally.

So how can you protect both your own life, and the feelings of he who is threatening it? Below are three possible methods. Some adaptation may be required, based on your individual stalker's temperament and your state's laws, so be prepared for a bit of improvisation.

Method 1: Make it Look Like and Accident

This is the simplest method, but it can be a bit transparent. When considering this option, judge your stalker's intelligence. If it is decidedly lacking, this is the method for you.

First, you'll need to arrange a document swap at your local courthouse. To do this, text - DO NOT CALL - a casual friend. Stalkers usually have bugs in your home, so all of your planning should be done via text message. Also, stalkers tend to keep an eye on the close friends of their victims, so a casual friend is best to contact for help.

Ask your casual friend to go to the courthouse and obtain an application for a restraining order. Tell her to take the application to the marriage license line and place it at the bottom of the stack of blank marriage license applications.

Next, call a close friend (Yes, a CLOSE friend. You want this conversation overheard.), and explain to her that you are tired of fighting your heart. Tell her you've decided to marry your stalker. She will likely freak out and start screaming at you, but you mustn't break character.

Now, put on your best love-struck face and drive to the courthouse. If your stalker is at all worthy of the title, he will be following. Once at the courthouse, march directly to the marriage license line and, as subtly as you can, retrieve the restraining order application from the bottom of the pile of marriage license applications. Fill in the application as fast as you can without leaving the counter, and hand it to the waiting clerk.

The clerk will probably look at the form and want to tell you that you're in the wrong line. You must stop his objection before he has a chance to say anything. Just hold up your hand, looking as desperate as you can and say, "Please. This has to happen today!" (Your stalker will be over the moon at this.) The clerk will infer that you are in immediate danger and rush the form to the appropriate office.

Finally, find a chair in the waiting area and take a seat. Your stalker, amazed that he has finally won you, will emerge after a short time and sit by your side. Just make googly eyes at him until the officers arrive to escort him away from your immediate proximity. When they do, act as surprised as he, and look back confusedly at the marriage license line.

Keep in mind that this method depends upon your stalker never returning to the courthouse to compare the marriage application with the restraining order application. There are marked differences between the two, and he may suspect a ruse if he juxtaposes them. Again, only opt for this method if your stalker is really stupid.

Method 2: Make Him Think it Was His Idea

This method is ideal for the stalker who has demonstrated self-destructive behavior while attempting to prove his devotion. For example, if he has ever walked through a pile of broken glass in order to write your name in blood with his bare feet in the snow-covered park adjacent to your apartment building, this method is probably your best bet.

First, you'll need a diary. If you already have one, great! If not, get one and make daily entries for a couple of weeks before proceeding to the next step. Nothing is more enticing to a stalker than a diary. Make sure you leave your diary in a place your stalker will be sure to find it, such as your night stand or underwear drawer.

Next, enroll in a law class at your local college. In order to really sell this, you'll need to start confiding in your friends that it has been a long-time dream of yours to pursue a career in law.

In your diary, start mentioning your new class. Note how fascinated you are with the intricacies of the law, and how excited you are that you are finally "doing it". Explain that your life, up to now, has been but a sorry attempt to fit into the expectations of others. That you are finally becoming the "you" you always knew you were but were afraid be.

Then, after several weeks in the class, muster as much heart-broken angst as you can, and make the following diary entry (in your own words):

Dear Diary, I fear all is lost. The knowledge I have gained these past weeks in my law class has been as water to dehydrated flesh. I have drunk it in with the zeal of one left for days in the driest of deserts, but now I find there was a pebble in my canteen. A stone which catches in my throat and prohibits the remaining water from reaching my needful stomach.

My professor introduced the concept of restraining orders today, and ,though he spoke in length about the principles governing them, my feeble mind could not grasp his words. I listened, confused, to his entire lecture. Afterward, I explained my lack of understanding to my study group. They too spent much time trying to explain to me the concept. Still, nothing clicked. They insisted that restraining orders are quite simple things, but to me they may as well be ancient and undecipherable glyphs carved in the tombs of kings.

If only there were some way for me to gain actual, real-world experience with restraining orders. To participate in the process from beginning to end. Then, I think I might finally grasp the principles governing the things. But alas, no. I have no reason to file one. No enemies. No persons from whom I wish always to be separated by a minimum of 600 yards.

And so I must awake from the dream that has been these past few weeks. I pray that it fades with the years as the fanciful dreams of night do with the dawn. That I may forget the hope and joy I have so naively, and unworthily held for this brief while.

After making this entry, lay down on your bed face down and cry into your pillow until you fall asleep. If you can't make yourself cry, laugh. It's hard to tell the difference when your face is in a pillow.

When you awake, the message scrolled in lipstick on your mirror will most assuredly be an offer from your stalker to have you file a restraining order against him. Call him immediately and protest vehemently. To solidify his resolve, you should make him insist at least three times before reluctantly accepting his selfless offer.

Method 3: The Reversal

If your stalker is neither stupid nor self-destructive, you may be forced to use The Reversal. This method is a bit tricky, and involves breaking some federal laws but, like the crane kick from The Karate Kid, when executed correctly, there is no defense against it.

See, an interesting thing about restraining orders is that they work both ways. If you obtain a restraining order against your stalker, it not only prohibits him from coming near you, but also you from going near him. So, regardless of who filed it, you both need to keep away from each other.

To start The Reversal, you'll need to become a master of trans-gender disguise. This may sound daunting, but don't worry, there's plenty of reference material out there. Whenever you're out with friends and it's your turn to pick a movie, choose Tootsie, or Yentl, or Big Mamma's House, or Boys Don't Cry, or Mrs. Doubtfire, or Just One of the Guys or... well, there are a lot of choices.

Once you have the technique down, you'll need to disguise yourself as your stalker. You'll obviously need to do this in a place that is not under surveillance by your stalker. Try to lose him in a busy mall, and then slip into a utility closet.

Now you'll need some legal documents that identify you as your stalker. You may be tempted to try to steal your stalker's wallet, but don't. Too risky. Instead, visit your local counterfeit artist and commission a set of legal documents. The cost is usually around $300 for a full set, but you may be able to get a discount if you ask only for a driver's license. If you don't know who your local counterfeit artist is, go downtown and ask for a guy named Slick. If you find somebody named Slick, he will almost assuredly either be a counterfeiter himself, or know where to find one.

With identification in hand, visit your courthouse and file a restraining order against yourself (your actual self) in the name of your stalker. Cite all sorts of disturbing behavior, but nothing strictly illegal - you don't want to get yourself arrested.

After completing the restraining order, find a discreet place in the courthouse to change back into your normal clothes, then call the police. In your best man voice say, "Hi, I just got a restraining order against my psycho ex-girlfriend and I think she's on her way over here. I'm afraid she's going to do something crazy." Then, hop in your car and head to your stalker's house.

The police should be waiting for you outside his home. Try to go in anyway. When they forcibly remove you from the premises, scream as loud as you can, "WHAT!! YOU GOT A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME??!! I'M GOING TO BOIL YOUR HAMSTER!!!"

He'll be left confused, and unable to approach you, but his feelings will not be hurt. Also, a surprising number of stalkers are schizophrenic, so he may just blame himself.

Jack and Jill - A Halloween Tale

2011-10-26T15:02:00.011-06:00

Jill's father was a bastard. Jack sat, perched in the ancient elm tree, and seethed as he watched the leathery old coot shaking a gnarled fist threateningly at Jill as he berated her. Even from this distance, Jack could see Jill's face. She shot a worried glance towards the tree. Likely she knew that Jack was watching her father's outburst and was inwardly preparing her excuses for the man. She was irrationally defensive of his tyrannical behavior.

Of late, Jack spent a lot of time in this tree. Its thick foliage kept him hidden from onlookers beneath, but from this vantage, aloft in its branches, Jack was easily able to survey the surrounding area. The tree was situated on the far side of the prairie, East of Jill's farmhouse. It grew at the base of Water Hill, which was thusly named for the well which sat atop it.

That well was somewhat of a legend in these parts. Every decent farmer knew that the best place to dig a well was at the lowest point available. Yet, here in Colby County, the best well within a 12 mile radius was audaciously situated at the apex of the tallest hill in said area. Old Hank said it wasn't a well at all, but a spring that someone had made to look like a well with a stone facade. But Old Hank also picked the fleas out of his beard and ate them.

Jill was now making her way across the prairie towards the hill, holding a large pale made of faded wooden slats bound together by two copper bands. Her jackass of a father consumed nearly as much water as he did whiskey, which is why Jack had been spending so many of his afternoons in this tree. At least two, sometimes three or four times a day, the old man sent Jill to fetch water from the well. Since her father's opinion of Jack was nearly as dour as Jack's was of her father, visiting Jill at her home was out of the question. So it was only these brief water errands each day that afforded Jack the opportunity to steal a few moments with the girl he ached to be with always.

"Jack... are you up there?" Jill was nearing the tree and squinting into the shaded branches.

"Why do you put up with that man?" Jack asked as he bent himself in half over a branch and somersaulted out of the tree. "Let's run away together and leave him to fetch his own water."

She rolled her eyes, but was smiling at the sight of him. "You know I can't do that. He's my father."

"No father could treat his own daughter the way that man treats you." Jack fell in beside Jill and took the large pale from her. "I think he might actually be an ogre who kidnapped you at birth."

"Stop that." She said, slapping his shoulder playfully. "You've only seen his bad side." Then more seriously, "I've told you. He wasn't this way before mother died."

"Look, " Jack said, "you loved her too, but her death didn't turn you into the worst version of yourself. You need to stop making excuses for him."

"Jack, you don't understand... he needs me."

"Tell you what, " Jack said with a grin, "we'll race up to the top of the hill. If I get there first, we drop this pale in the well and run away together right now. If you beat me, I'll never say another bad word about him."

"Wouldn't be fair." She replied, "Even holding that pail, you're faster than me, and you know it."

"All right, I'll give you a ten second head start." Jack doubted that Jill would ever actually do something so irresponsible and spontaneous as to leave everything and set out to start a new life, but he was unable to bat down the spark of hope that had suddenly ignited itself somewhere in the back of his throat.

Jill was running up the hill. Fast. Jack was so shocked he almost forgot to start counting. "One Mississippi..." he said out loud to keep himself honest. She was nearly half way up the hill when Jack finished his tenth Mississippi, and he started to run.

He ran harder than he had ever run before. He ran as if his life depended on it, and he realized that, in a very real way, it did. He thought of the bruises on Jill's arms, and he ran faster. He thought of being chased at gunpoint off of Jill's porch, and he ran faster. He thought of a nine year old girl, forced to go alone to her own mother's funeral while her father lay unconscious in a saloon, and he ran faster.

When Jack's foot found the sink hole, the world slowed. A large rock on the ground in front of him came towards his face and he instinctively twisted. The thing crashed into the back of his head with a sickening crunch and Jack landed roughly on his back. The blue sky above him blinked off and on a few times before returning as a dull grey. Jack tried to focus his eyes. Everything around him looked backward. Like those backward film panels that came out of Mr. Goodfellow's camera before he developed them into photographs. Irrationally, Jack wondered if Mr. Goodfellow was there, taking a picture. But no, he would have smelled the smoke from the flash powder.

As if through water, he could hear a muffled screaming sound. He turned his head enough to see a frantic Jill running fuzzily down the hill toward him. She lost her footing as she neared and tumbled to a stop by his side.

"Oh no Jack, " Jill sobbed, "are you hurt badly?" Her face paled when she saw the blood pooling at his shoulder. Gingerly, she turned his head and probed at his wound with her fingers. She gasped as her fingers sunk easily into flesh where bone should have resisted her.

"It's my crown." Jack said hoarsely, "I think it's shattered."

"I'll... I'll get help."

Jack managed to grab her wrist weakly. "Don't go. It's too late." He tried to focus his eyes on her. He knew he was dying and wanted to burn the clear image of her face into his mind forever. "Jill, I'll never stop loving you."

Jack stopped loving Jill. He stood above her as she sobbed helplessly over his lifeless body. He felt... weird. He remembered loving Jill only seconds earlier, but couldn't recall exactly how. Perhaps, he thought, love really did exist in the heart. He no longer had a heart.

He wondered idly if Jill's father would be happy about all this and, as he thought it, he burned. Had he blood, it would have boiled. Wherever hate lived, he realized, it wasn't in the heart.

Jack turned and began floating towards Jill's home. He knew he no longer had love. Perhaps he would never have peace, or joy. But he would have pleasure. Haunting Jill's father.

An Attitude of Platitude

2011-10-17T14:46:00.007-06:00

In the song, "The Fly" by U2, there's a lyric that my forthcoming thoughts exemplify. "Every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief. All kill their inspiration and sing about their grief."

I'm about to start an incohesive rant about trivial things using the most vitriolic and verbose prose that I can muster. I do this knowing full well that it is easier to criticize than to create. That is, in fact, the point. I'm trying to follow the age-old, "If you don't have anything nice to say, lambast an innocent bystander" rule.

I'll start with the most callous of my criticisms. It relates to a quip I saw recently on a bumper sticker that read, "Don't Drive Faster than Your Guardian Angel Can Fly!"

Ok, so how fast is that exactly? I'm no expert on guardian angels, but I'm pretty sure any one of them could outpace my Corolla on a straightaway. Not that he'd need to. What kind of a guardian angel would watch me get into the driver's seat of my car and not realize I might be planning on going somewhere? Maybe the bumper sticker should say, "Don't Start Driving Until Your Guardian Angel Has Had a Chance to Grab Shotgun!"

I don't know, maybe there really is some sort of transdimensional barrier that keeps guardian angels from entering vehicles, and maybe they do have a maximum flying velocity that happens to correspond with a reasonable highway speed. But if that's the case, a more helpful message would be, "Just FYI, If You Ever Get in a Plane, You're Screwed."

Maybe you're sitting a little uncomfortably in your chair right now, wondering how I've come to this dark and cynical place in my life. I don't know, but while I'm here, I may as well move on to cookies.

Suppose you're at a carnival. You see a brightly colored tent beneath a painted wooden sign which reads, "Madame Mystique's Fortune Telling $5". You realize that you would indeed like your fortune told, so you enter the tent. After handing over your hard-earned money to the Gypsy-esque Madame Mystique, she gazes into her smoke-filled crystal ball for several tense minutes and then gravely pronounces, "You have an infectious smile."

"Uhh...Thank you." you say, "So, what does my future hold?".

"Another reading will be five dollars." she replies.

You grind your teeth and wonder if punching Madame Mystique square in the nose would be worth the resultant curse upon your progeny. You decide it wouldn't, so instead leave in a huff and ultimately take your anger out on a well-intentioned bumper sticker you see while driving home.

The fortune cookie at the end of a Chinese dinner is more than just dessert. It represents hope, dreams and destiny. By definition it should be a glimmer of light cast into the unseen darkness of the future. How infuriating is it then to break into one of these little hope-holders only to find a generic statement about your positive attitude? For the love of all that is decent and good in this world, they're not called compliment cookies!

Rrrgh. Now I've gotten myself so worked up about fortune cookies that I can't think of anything else to rant about.

Oh yeah! Greasy politicians that never make good on their campaign promises. I mean, how hard is it to... you know what, never mind. I'm sure they're doing their best.

2 of 6. Sucka!

2011-09-22T11:03:00.002-06:00

My previous blog post was in January. It is now September. Standard blog protocol dictates this post begin with a self-abasing statement about being a crappy blogger and a commitment to be better in the future.

Well, I just can't do that. For one thing, I'm not a crappy blogger. I'm a freaking brilliant blogger. If my adoring fans have to wait 8 months between installments, so be it. The posts will just be that much sweeter for the anticipation. Two years passed between the 6th and 7th Harry Potter books, yet J.K. Rowling did not begin the The Deathly Hallows with, "Whoa, I guess it's been a while. Sorry I'm such a flake."

As for my future blogging performance, I actually will make a commitment. Looking at my blog archive, I noticed a pattern. In 2008 I had nine posts, eight in 2009, and seven in 2010. There's a pattern there that needs to be preserved. This will be my second post of 2011. I hereby commit to deliver no more or less than four additional posts before 2012 bringing the 2011 count to six.

"But wait!" you say, "Aren't you running the risk of posting just for the sake of posting? Won't focusing on the numbers deprive the posts their personality?"

To this I say phooey. If a newlywed man and woman decide they want three children in their family, is not each one of those three children a number? Does arbitrarily specifying a final count somehow steal the personalities from the individual children within that count? Of course not. The motivation behind the creation of a child is irrelevant. Once here, each child becomes his own entity. Speaking for himself. Brightening or darkening the world by simply being who he is. Thus it is with my blog posts.

So here we are, six paragraphs into this post and my only subjects have been me, my blog, my blogging abilities, and this post itself. Rap fans will appreciate the convention.

Talk smack if you like, but my future is bright. I'll be blogging past the end of days and into the night.

The Secret Healing Powers of the Smiley Emoticon

2011-01-10T15:09:00.014-07:00

WARNING!!! If you like feeling sick, do not read this article. If you enjoy being overweight, do not read this article. If you constantly have so much energy that you want to burst into song for the sheer joy of it, DO NOT READ THIS ARTICLE!

Folks, the executives in the medical industry have invested tens of trillions of dollars to keep hidden the secret I'm about to reveal. Why? Because they hate you! It's not even about the money. They are just sadistic, power-hungry vampires that feed on your happiness and rejoice in your misery. Plus they worship Satan.

What if I were to tell you, that by doing one simple thing, you could soon be rid of literally all that ails you? What If I were to tell you that, in just 15 seconds per day, you could not only become the healthiest version of yourself, but you might actually gain super powers?

Already, I can sense your skepticism. You're thinking to yourself, "Sure, another fad diet - or vitamin - or South American berry used for centuries by Incan witch doctors to cure shortness".

Believe me, I understand your hesitance. How could there be one single all-encompassing cure for everything from acne to decapitation - a proverbial "fountain of youth" that has eluded every person on this planet for millenniums? I mean, what are the odds right?

I had those same thoughts and feelings, until I learned that this cure is actually based in science!

See, the human body is made up of hundreds upon hundreds of tiny particles called atoms. When we get sick, or grow old, or lose a limb, the atoms that make up our body become configured differently than when we were healthy, young, and fully-intact. If, say, you were to use an electron microscope to compare the arrangement of atoms in the body of Olympic athlete Michael Phelps with those found in the mortal remains of King Tutankhamen, you would find marked differences.

So now you're thinking, "OK, my atoms are all screwed up, but what can I do about it?"

Well, first off, you won't find the answer in some high-priced drug developed by the pharmaceutical industry to pad the pockets of it's CEOs. No, taking pills won't fix your atoms. The only way to get your atoms to reorganize in a beneficial way is by staring at a smiley emoticon for 15 seconds each day.

How does it work? It's simple. Like the atoms in your body, the characters on a keyboard are building blocks. A right parenthesis symbol by itself is fairly meaningless, as is an unaffiliated colon. However, put the two together correctly and you have a simple and pure representation of happiness.

When you stare at a correctly constructed smiley emoticon, your brain recognizes the benefits of properly configured base components and begins to search out and rearrange incorrectly organized atoms in your own body.

But don't take my word for it. In just moments you can begin to experience the benefits of this revolutionary cure for yourself. Simply stare at the emoticon below for 15 seconds and then, based on your results, read the corresponding explanation of what has happened within your body.

:)

Now, how do you feel?

I feel better already!
Great! This is to be expected. Your brain has begun the process of correctly configuring your atoms.

I feel worse!
Great! This is to be expected. Your atoms have been misaligned for so long that dust has gathered on them and they must go through a cleansing process before they can be arranged properly. This cleansing causes your symptoms to worsen, but rest assured knowing you will soon be healthier than ever.

I feel exactly the same!
Great! This is to be expected. The fact that your symptoms have remained consistent proves that you were about to take a turn for the worse. Had you not taken the first steps of atom correction now... well, let's just say it's a good thing you did.

I don't feel better, worse, or the same!
Double great! Your atoms have become so perfectly aligned that you are now able to perceive a condition within yourself that can only exist on an alternate plane of reality.

Lemmings

2010-12-07T08:20:00.010-07:00

When I discussed with my wife the topic I had in mind for this blog post, she told me I might come off as sounding a bit pedantic - to which I responded, "Have you read my blog? Pedantic is kind of my thing." Still, knowing that she has read my blog and, moreover, actually knows me; I'm lead to suspect that "a bit pedantic" may have been a euphemism for "wildly self indulgent and anal to the point of cruelty". Now, chances are, if you're reading this at all, you're a very near relative or friend of mine, and a single blog post, no matter how painful, will not create an unbridgeable schism in our relationship. However, if you're on the fence about me, you may want to skip this one.

Yesterday, I saw an image floating around on the Internet that gave me pause. Incidentally, when I say I saw an image "floating around", I really mean my web browser interpreted a file that complied with the JPEG standard - as defined in RFC 1341 - that was stored on at least one of millions of interconnected computers and made publicly available via the HTTP protocol. (I just got pedantic goose bumps.)

Anyway, the image I saw was a depiction of a bumper sticker that stated, "Lemmings for Obama 2008". As I'm sure was the intention of the bumper sticker's author, the message got me thinking. However, it was not about Obama's proponents, but about actual lemmings. I realized, for the first time, that the idea of an entire species being genetically inclined to commit suicide en masse in order to control its own population was a bit hard to swallow - or rather, there was a disparity between that notion and my perception of rationality.

I decided to do some research on lemmings and, with surprisingly little effort, discovered that, in fact, lemmings are NOT innately suicidal at all. Not only do they not blindly follow each other over cliffs to their deaths, they show the same desire for self preservation as does every other species of animal on the planet.

Suddenly I was filled with the sort of holier-than-thou giddiness that only the truly self important can attain. Why? Because I enjoy irony nearly as much as I do pedanticism. See, lemmings are used as a metaphor to portray people who unquestioningly go along with an incorrect but popular opinion, but, in itself, the idea that lemmings unquestioningly follow each other is an opinion which is popular but incorrect. So, essentially, those who accuse others of being lemmings are, themselves, in fact... well, I suppose I can't call them lemmings - but whatever they are, it isn't as clever as me.

Happy Thanksgetting!

2010-11-24T09:46:00.004-07:00

Thanksgiving is the most ironic of holidays. The fact that we gather together once a year to demonstrate our thanks by eating a ton of food makes me wonder if the original name for the holiday included air quotes.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan - It's just that the physics of the thing don't quite click with me. First, we're presumably given something for which we are to be grateful - then, we show our gratitude by treating ourselves to roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, etc. It just doesn't seem very karma-friendly to me.

But, who am I to question a good thing. I mean, Thanksgiving is the epitome of a win-win situation. Far be it from me to disparage a truly American pastime. In fact, I think we should keep the spirit of Thanksgiving with us throughout the entire year.

A stranger lets you cut in front of him in line at the grocery store? Show your appreciation by buying yourself a candy bar. Your neighbor unexpectedly shovels your walk? Don't stay indebted, get yourself right over to Krispy Kreme and eat three doughnuts (four if you have a big driveway).

Now you're probably thinking, "Wait! If I show my gratitude throughout the whole year, will I have anything left to be thankful for come the actual Thanksgiving holiday?" The answer is, obviously, who cares? Haven't you ever heard of paying it forward? Suppose someone gives you a kidney in 20 years. Do you think you're going to be able to show thanks for something that generous by just eating a bowl of ice cream? No, you'll need years of gluttony to properly compensate for that level of kindness. Better to start saying thanks now so as not to find yourself in an awkward situation later.

How Things Aren't... The 1st Comic

2010-08-28T17:29:00.003-06:00

So Much Negativity

2010-08-02T13:28:00.013-06:00

Grammatically speaking, a double negative is a faux pas. You should obviously never commit a grammatical faux pas. However, in French, "faux" means "false", which has a negative connotation; never is also negative, so it's technically more correct to say, "You should always commit a pas." But, I shouldn't digress... or rather, I should gress.

While the "double negative" rule has been long standing and is generally undisputed... i mean puted, the origins of the rule itself are undisclosed... rrrgh... closed. By that, I mean to imply that the rule's root is actually known to a select few, and not undiscovered (I give up), as some have claimed.

I hesitate to use the word, "conspiracy", but only because the phrase, "I hesitate to..." is a worn out, euphemistic conversational device that I hesitate to... crap.

Anyway, why are we not allowed to use double negatives? If you want my opinion, it's because the grammarians of yore were either presumptuous snobs or communists. Either they honestly didn't believe our little brains could handle the back and forth switcherydoos of multiple negatives, or they were deliberately trying to make us stupider... uhh... more stupid - presumably to make the gradual introduction of their communist ideals less noticeable. Either way, I'm offended.

If someone wants to say something like, "I don't not want to never leave.", he should be allowed to do it without everyone in the room shrieking, "AHHHHH DOUBLE NEGATIVE!!" (Especially since it was a triple negative), and I should be given the opportunity to puzzle through all those negatives to figure out whether he actually wants to stay or go.

Maybe it's the programmer in me, but I think multiple negatives are fairly straightforward. Off - on - off - on... anyone able to count can get to the bottom of them. If something has to be banned from proper English, it should be vague and/or misleading statements. Phrases like, "We're looking into it" should be absolutely forbidden. The next time you hear that sentence from a customer service representative, make sure you have him define his pronouns. "We" could be him and his buddy Eugene, and "It" could be a monkey's armpit.

So I say down with rationing out our negatives like they're the final drops of water in a desert canteen. We're certainly not never going to not run out of them, so let's stop not using them.

Send Out the Clowns

2010-07-27T10:17:00.015-06:00

Why do we still have clowns? From what I can gather, they are just a vestige from the middle ages; a time when an autocrat could sit on his thrown and demand to be amused by a starkly painted commoner acting like an imbecile.

Of all the things that could have persisted from that era, why clowns? Why not heralds, or thatchers... or even gigantic flagons of ale?

Well, in the case of heralds and thatchers, it's simple. They're not needed. Nobody has a thatched roof these days, and people rarely require someone prancing about in front of them announcing their arrival. As for gigantic flagons of ale, who knows, maybe the 64oz Super Big Gulp is a descendent.

But why clowns? Do we still need them? Is there anyone out there that honestly thinks they're entertaining or funny? I don't think so. In fact, a disturbingly large number of people are actually afraid of clowns! And I'm not just talking about reclusive weirdos who think their fingers are cheese. These are normal, well-adjusted, hard-working, average-looking people that jump out of their skins at the mere mention of a clown. And for some reason, society is okay with that.

There's a reason you'll never hear about a person with a phobia of sitcoms. Sitcoms are there for entertainment, and entertainment should not freak people out. At its worst a sitcom may be cliché, or maybe even mildly offensive, but you'll never see a sitcom starring as the antagonist in a horror flick.

To draw a parallel, clowns are to the middle ages what alligators are to the Jurassic period. They give us a glimpse into a world long dead and, from a purely academic perspective, are an interesting object of study. But they shouldn't be allowed to roam freely among us, and you certainly wouldn't want your children anywhere near one.

Pheidippides: Behind the Music

2010-05-18T13:15:00.022-06:00

According to legend, the origins of the marathon race can be traced to the ancient battle of Marathon in Greece (490 B.C.). In this battle, the Persians were defeated by the Greeks. As the story goes, Pheidippides, a Greek messenger, was sent from Marathon to Athens to announce the victory. He ran the entire distance (26.2 miles) without stopping and promptly died after proclaiming to the assembly, "We have won!".

The validity of this account has been widely disputed among historians due to differing narratives from various sources. Some records mention a runner named Philippides (instead of Pheidippides). Others claim that the whole army marched rapidly to Athens, not just one messenger.

Fortunately, speculations over the details of the first marathon can now be quelled. Pheidippides' journals have been discovered and, by wild chance, have fallen into my hands. I'm going to paraphrase his personal account below. I would do more than paraphrase, but it's all written in Greek, which I don't understand per se. My interpretation is based mostly on the look and feel of his handwriting.

About a year before the Battle of Marathon, Pheidippides was 60 pounds overweight. "I'm pathetic", he said to himself as he stared at the scale one morning. "How could I have let myself get this fat?"

He resolved to get more fit, and decided the best way to do it would be to get a side job as a messenger. He started off easy - only delivering messages that were a mile or so from his home, but gradually he worked up to longer distances. His sister, who had been a long time messenger, invited him to deliver a couple of messages that were 5 and 10 kilometers away, and although he was a bit slow, he delivered the messages successfully.

After approximately six months of delivering messages, Pheidippides was feeling pretty good about himself. He had lost his excess weight, and was able to deliver several 5 to 10K messages each week. He decided to set his sights on something bigger. He had heard about the big battle of Marathon that was going to take place in half a year, and on a whim signed up to deliver the victory message from Marathon to Athens. After all, everyone knew the Greeks would win - it was really just an exhibition battle. (The Persians were a bunch of wimps.)

Some claimed that Pheidippides was a great patriot for voluteering to deliver the message, but really he just wanted to get the "κϛ.β" sticker for his chariot.

Pheidippides' sister agreed to deliver the message with him, and together they began to prepare themselves physically for the mighty task.

Pheidippides' wife was supportive, but a little concerned. "Are you sure this is a good time to deliver a message over such a long distance?" She pointed out that he was very busy with his full time job, and that he had recently joined the cathedral choir - which demanded a lot of time.

Pheidippides waved away his wife's worries and assured her that preparing to deliver the big message would not impact his life significantly. Pheidippides was wrong.

The ensuing months proved to be very difficult. With the hours of training added to his already busy schedule, Pheidippides began to think he had spread himself too thin. Still, he pressed on. He met his sister each Saturday to deliver messages and the distances grew longer and longer.

At long last, the day of the battle approached. Pheidippides and his sister travelled to the battle site with another messenger friend the evening before the victory was to be won. That night they made camp, but slept very little due to the fact that their camp site was right next to a umm... train station.

They awoke very early and got on one of the many chariots designated to transport all of the messengers to the place from which they would depart. Upon reaching the starting point, they huddled in the brisk morning with thousands of other messengers (apparently the Greeks believed in redundancy) and awaited the explosion that would announce the end of the battle and the beginning of their journey. They heard the blast and began.

The first several miles passed in relative ease. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the cool mountain air was refreshing and there was an electricity in the air that was exhilarating. Some messengers were faster than Pheidippides and his sister. Some were slower, but no one cared. They were all just happy to be there delivering such an exciting message.

When they reached the half-way point, Pheidippides was pleased to see that, according to his GPS enabled wrist mounted sundial, he and his sister had traversed the distance much more quickly than they had expected. He was tired, but still felt strong and confident. They pressed on.

As the day progressed, the sun burned away the crisp air of morning and strength began to dwindle. The road stretched endlessly before him, and Pheidippides noticed that the distance between mile markers was growing. He plodded arduously for what seemed like hours only to find seconds had passed. At mile 17 he had a fleeting fear that he might not be able to deliver the message after all. He pushed the thought out of his mind and trudged on.

He passed mile 20 with a feeling of accomplishment. Never in his life had he delivered a message farther than 20 miles. Every step he took now was a new best for him.

Pheidippides had heard about "the wall" that messengers encountered when delivering messages over long distances. At mile 22 he began to wonder if he had already hit this wall. He was tired. His muscles screamed and his joints ached. Maybe this was all "the wall" was... It wasn't. At mile 24 Pheidippides learned what "the wall" was. His body felt like it shut down. Every single step was a battle of will. He wondered what in the hell ever possessed him to deliver this stupid message.

On and on he struggled. The path opened to a large clearing and Pheidippides was distantly aware of thousands of people cheering all of the messengers on their way. He could see his destination far down the road and it may as well have been on the moon. Every part of him wanted to stop. His hands, feet and head felt as if he had sat on them too long and they had gone to sleep. His vision was a blur and all sound seemed to be filtered through a pool of water. Still he plodded on.. and on.. and on... until finally he stumbled weekly through the entrance to the assembly.

Relief and exhaustion flooded over him. He shouted triumphantly, "WE HAVE WON!"

Then he died.

First We Abhor

2010-04-07T16:14:00.012-06:00

As the addage goes; first we abhor, then we tolerate, then we embrace. Well, there are a plethora of things that I abhor, and I've decided to skip the whole tolerate stage and just start embracing.

To my knowledge, no one has ever attempted to go directly from abhorance to embracing, so the results could be a little unpredictable. I'm hoping it gives me some sort of super power.

Firstly, the word plethora makes my skin crawl. Ever since "¡Three Amigos!" hit the big screen in 1986, plethoras upon plethoras of people have added this once obscure word to their vocabularies. Saying plethora makes you sound neither funny nor smart, and warrants a plethora of smackings.

Finally, it really irks me when people begin a statement with a word like, "finally" and then continue blathering after the statement is complete. If I'm already listening to you, then I've resigned myself to the ordeal and am prepared to suffer through it - but hinting at a conclusion before you're ready to give one is just cruel.

Lastly, "Got Pet Peeves?" I do. when people think they're clever by putting their own spin on a successful ad campaign it really gets my knickers in a twist. Almost as much as the phrase, "knickers in a twist". I mean seriously, "I'm NOT Lovin' It", so "Just DON'T Do It".

As I end, let me just tell you, there are a plethora of additional things that I abhor, but unfortunately I can't tell them to you. Well, I could... but then I'd have to kill you.

So, as a parting blow I'll impart to you some wisdom in an hilarious format:

Can of soup: $1.39
Stainless steel doorknob: $37.99
Discovering the fountain of youth and gaining immortality: Priceless

NOT!

How To's-Day

2009-10-27T06:55:00.002-06:00

How to Correct Someone’s Grammar without Sounding Snobbish:

When it comes to knowing stuff, I consider myself an expert. So, on the subject of correcting improper grammar, I can say with full confidence that there is only one way to pull it off without sounding like an insufferable know-it-all. You must be the offender’s English teacher. And no, this can’t be a self-appointed honorary position. If you are a state certified English teacher, and a current student in your classroom uses incorrect grammar in a written assignment, you may be able to correct that student’s grammar without sounding snobbish. In all other circumstances, it is impossible.

I’m not suggesting that you never correct improper grammar. In fact, I do it quite frequently. Just be aware that, in all cases, you will be resented by the very bumpkins you are trying to help.

For those of you that harbor the compulsion to correct the grammatical maladies of others, but prefer not coming off as haughty twits, don’t despair; I have a work-around:

How to Listen to Improper Grammar without Putting a Pencil through your Eardrums:

1-Count Words
Once you have established that the person speaking has no useful information to relate, try counting his words. This is surprisingly difficult and will completely divert your attention from the meaning and context of the words themselves.

2-Pretend She’s Foreign
Even the most anal of grammar snobs can smile indulgently at a foreigner who is butchering the English language. The next time your coworker uses the incorrect form of a verb, just convince yourself that she’s from Yokelstan.

3-Pop Quiz
Fact: Your fifth grade English teacher is concerned about your grammar skills and is hiring professional actors to interact with you. After each conversation, write down all of the errors you were able to identify in cursive on ruled paper using a black pen.

4-Shin Kick
When all else fails, a sharp kick to the shin will usually convert a whole stream of incorrect grammar into a single interjection. Remarkably, the shin kick is far less damaging to a friendship than actual grammar correction.

It's... How To's-Day!

2009-10-20T08:00:00.014-06:00

How to Eat Spicy Food without Looking Like a Weenie:
It is human nature (or at least “man” nature) to want the respect and admiration of one’s peers. Depending on social circle, this may be earned by exhibiting an extensive knowledge of politics, or literature. Some laud a quick wit and sharp sense of humor. Still others count athleticism and physical fitness as marks of honor.

But the ability to eat insanely spicy food, without flinching, is a ubiquitous indicator of coolness that transcends all the sundry spheres, be they social, economic, cultural, or even religious. Walk into a chicken wings establishment with your friends, down a basket of the joint’s most extreme offering with a smile on your face, and you will be forever branded a tough guy.

So, what of the faint tongued? Are they condemned to eke out a meager existence, cowering in the shadows of those more stout of mouth? Not necessarily.

The truth is; nobody actually likes those atomic chicken wings, or that center-of-the-sun chili. Sure, there are those that prefer their meals with a little kick, but when it comes to foods that literally require a hazmat suit for transportation, EVERYONE is faking it… so you can too!

While it may not be easy, by following just a few simple steps and guidelines, anyone can learn the skills necessary to enter the upper echelons of awesomeness. As one who has been a long standing member of the highly exclusive clique of spicy food consumers – and because I am truly a humanitarian at heart – I have taken it upon myself to reveal my secrets to the world:

1-Understand the Stakes
I really can’t stress this enough. When it comes to eating spicy food, there are three classes of people. At the top, of course, are those that can successfully eat spicy food while maintaining an amused, or at least an indifferent, composure. This group comprises approximately 2% of the population. The middle, and largest, group is made up of those that willingly admit to their own inadequacy and decline to eat spicy food. There is no shame in being a member of this group, which encompasses roughly 94% of all humans. The bottom group (about 4% of the population) consists of those who attempt, and fail, to consume spicy food in an acceptable manner (Exhibit A).

Be warned: there is no redemption from the bottom group. No amount of daredevilry and no exhibition of strength can ever blot out the shame of a failed attempt at spicy food. Seriously. You could pull a shark out of the water with your bare hands and chew its head off. It wouldn’t matter. The thing your friends would bring up at your funeral would be the time you ran maniacally around in circles, clawing at your tongue and begging for water.

Once you choose to leave the ranks of the middle group and partake of spicy food, you will be forever classed with either the top or the bottom. Don’t gamble with this. If you’re not 100% ready, continue to practice and wait until next time.

2-Practice Alone
There is no substitute for practice. The real secret to eating very spicy food is learning how to endure massive amounts of pain without reflecting that pain in your expression.

Get a mirror and watch yourself closely as you eat something spicy. Don’t worry about the things you can’t control, such as watering eyes, running nose, and reddening face (these will be addressed later). Rather, pay attention to your general demeanor. Try smiling while eating, and work on talking naturally without choking. If your eyes tear up so much that you can’t see yourself in the mirror, a camcorder on a tripod may be required.

3-Preemptive Symptoming
There are some physiological signs of vulnerability that no amount of practice can hide. Occasionally, these symptoms can be masked. For instance, if your nose tends to run when you eat spicy food, you might excuse yourself to the restroom and stuff balls of toilet paper up your nose before your meal arrives. Unfortunately, other symptoms, such as watering eyes, face flushing, and coughing fits, are virtually impossible to conceal.

For these, I recommend preemptive symptoming. If you try to blame your tears on allergies immediately after you take a bite of something dipped in Dave’s Insanity Sauce, your friends will see right through the guise. If, however, prior to your arrival at the restaurant, you mention you have a cold and make a point of coughing, shaking, and wiping your nose incessantly, your friends will not suspect a thing when you continue the same behavior after eating.

4-Self Talk
While in the act of eating spicy food, the effective use of self talk can sometimes be the difference between success and failure. When using self talk, avoid watered down and cliché phrases such as, “You can do it!”, or “Atta boy!” Instead try, “This will not kill me.”, and “two more minutes to infinite glory!”

Also, remember that self talk should always be mental. Never actually say the above phrases out loud.

5-Avoidance
Whether you succeed or fail in your attempt, you should do all you can to avoid future situations that could afford another opportunity for spicy food eating. If you failed in your first attempt, there is no point in trying again, and being around spicy food will only remind your peers of your defeat. If you succeeded, it is likely that your associates will demand a repeat performance whenever an appropriate menu item is accessible. It is mandated by the CSFE (Coalition of Spicy Food Eaters) that such repeat performances be delivered upon request. Failure to repeat a performance for any reason is grounds for expulsion from the coalition.

_______________________________________

Remember, the glory of being a spicy food eater carries a heavy price tag, but it is one that is well worth paying. If you persevere, you can be counted amongst the elite, and the skills you learn along the way will benefit you throughout your life - especially if you’re ever taken prisoner and tortured for state secrets.

Demon Reborn - A Halloween Tale

2009-10-13T15:41:00.010-06:00

A little background…

120,000 years ago I was born in the ancient kingdom of Rackhaman. As a boy, I played with my father’s dagger, pretending it was a sword, and found I had a knack for wielding the thing. I spent hours in the communal wheat fields with my little weapon, laying waste to the imaginary foes that raged against me.

Dahn Bhan, the leader of my township’s battalion, happened upon me one morning while I was thusly engaged. He saw warrior potential in me and, upon learning from my father that I had not yet been indentured, made me his apprentice. I studied the sundry arts of combat with Dahn Bhan for nine years. Under his tutelage I mastered, not only the sword, but every manner of weapon known to man. I became known as Mhal Ngat, or ‘Blessed Deliverer of Obliteration’, for no enemy could stand against me.

On my twenty fourth birthday, Dahn Bhan released me from my apprenticeship and charged me with a formidable task. For centuries my people had been abused and tormented by the demon Shahpikhart, and it became my lot to seek the monster out and destroy him.

For thirteen years I searched fruitlessly, but at last, through a series of dark negotiations with the vilest of creatures, I learned the location of the cursed stone cavity wherein Shahpikhart dwelt. Within days of my discovery, I stood at the blackened entrance of his cave and, without hesitation, shouted my battle challenge.

From deep within the cavern I heard a guttural growl that shook the earth. My eyes strained into the abyss. Two glowing green eyes slowly took shape as the creature began to emerge from the deep. The emerald eyes darted back and forth as they searched for the source of the challenging call. Finally, they locked on me, and the ground-rumbling growl became a malevolent chuckle.

“Where is your army human?” His voice was surprisingly languid.

“I am alone, and am come to vanquish you.” I held his gaze and spoke with confidence.

“Your flesh will only serve to whet my appetite boy. Many will suffer the consequence of your insolence after I have devoured you, for my hunger is not easily sated.” His grotesque head was now dimly visible as he crept nearer to me from the depths of his putrid hole.

“Never again will you feast on the flesh of man!” I screamed, and flew at him with the fury of a thousand years of unrequited offences.

Whether by luck, skill, or intervention of the gods, I danced and weaved through the onslaught of his furious attacks and found myself standing beside his outstretched neck as he craned his head around to begin another barrage of attacks. With one swift and powerful stroke, my sword flew through his neck like the wings of a falcon through a thick fog.

All four of his knees buckled sideways as his body, bereft of his tainted soul, fell suddenly limp. It was over. Yet, as I turned to leave the cavern, I heard a sickening, gurgled voice from behind me. I turned and looked upon Shahpikhart’s disembodied head, which was still glaring at me with its glowing green eyes.

“Know this;” the head choked, “though you have broken this body, my spirit will live on forever and will torment you through this and all your lives to come.”

With that, the eyes went dim and silence filled the lair of the fallen demon.

Upon returning to my village, I was immediately hailed as a hero. Word spread of my deed, and I was eventually named King of the Nine Nations. I lived in peace and luxury, but I was always vigilant. Shahpikhart’s dying threat echoed in my mind throughout the years and I often sought out spirit speakers to learn whether the demon spirit had found a way back to the natural world. Their information was always the same. Though they could sense the soul of Shahpikhart striving to find a portal to this mortal dimension, nothing on earth existed which was evil enough to embody his wicked spirit.

Now, hundreds of millennia later, Shahpikhart has at last found a host vile enough to house his soul. And, true to his ancient threat, he has returned to torment me. He is raging at me with a new ferocity and a new name. He is now called Shopping Cart, and his crimes against me are not few.

He has pulled me sharply to the right and to the left, wobbled incessantly, flattened his wheels to induce an annoying thumping effect, squeaked at me, and sometimes even refused to move at all. He is able to possess any shopping cart at will, and jumps quickly from cart to cart as I try helplessly to avoid his wrath. When I see others using problem-free carts, I often wait for them to finish and then quickly grab their carts. Alas, as soon as my fingers touch the thing, Shahpikhart immediately inhabits the new cart and resumes his assaults. In his new form, Shahpikhart is more agile and protected than he has ever been.

This is not the lament of one defeated, but rather a rallying call to arms. An eon ago, I bested the beast alone, but I cannot repeat the deed. If Shahpikhart is to fall again, all the brave and stout hearted need to act together with a pointed and sure offense. I fear the only path to success is through the utter destruction of every earthly thing that has the capacity of housing his pernicious essence. If each of us can just bring to ruin one shopping cart each time we find ourselves in a market, the world will soon be free, once again, of the demon reborn.

Step 9

2009-09-02T15:28:00.004-06:00

Yesterday, while on my nightly run, I had an interesting thought.

Have you ever noticed that whenever people start trying to live more healthily, they invariably find surreptitious ways to broadcast their new lifestyle to anyone who will listen?

People don’t want to be perceived as braggy-pantsed-meglomaniacs, so they won’t come right out and say, “I now work out 5 times a week, I’m training for the Olympics, and I no longer eat red meat, processed sugars, or anything endorsed by Elliot (the kid from E.T.). Rather, they go fishing for acknowledgement by cleverly working not-so-subtle references to their laud-worthy activities into random, unrelated statements:

“You’ll never guess who I ran into at the gym this morning”
“I’d offer to give you a ride home, but I’ve only got my bicycle today”
“I don’t know, when’s a good time for you? I have a 5K next Thursday morning, but my afternoons are usually pretty free”
“Stupid pants! They must have expanded in the wash”

Now, let me clarify; I’m not talking about people who have been living healthily for years. This observation primarily applies to individuals (like me) that have, until very recently, been pariah to the world of fitness. It’s a condition similar to that of one who (like me) washes the dishes once a quarter and requires copious praise for the mighty feat.

Having been, many times, on the receiving end of these clumsily veiled braggings, I know how obnoxious they are. Still, being newly converted to physical vigilance, I feel compelled to participate in the very practice which I know to be so irksome. Yes, I see the eyes rolling, the feet shuffling, the ‘glance-down-at-an-invisible-wristwatch’ing, but I just can’t stop myself. I’m not even sure it’s voluntary. Perhaps a reduced calorie diet deprives nutrients to the part of the brain that regulates social judgment.

In any case, I’ve decided to take the advice of the 300 pound bodybuilder I was arm wrestling on my lunch break, and apologize to any of you whom I have bored with conversations woven with allusions to my most recent obsession.

Sorry.

The Bigots Have Spoken

2009-05-20T21:43:00.006-06:00

Left wing America, and indeed the world, is in outrage tonight as Kris Allen has stolen the American Idol crown from Luciano Pavarotti.

"This is yet more proof that Americans are just as Italianaphobic as they ever were.", said visibly distraught Italian Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, in a prepared statement. "They still see us only as pizza makers and mafia lords."

And it's not just the ERI (Equal Rights for Italians) movement that is upset with tonight's results. While considerably less vitriolic than Sr. Berlusconi, famed vampire and equal rights activist Count Dracula also addressed the media. "I would like to think that all Americans cast their votes [yesterday] based on the vocal talent of the contestants, but it seems clear that Mr. Pavarotti's unwillingness to hide the fact that he is dead, has hurt him."

Still others accuse conservative America of ignoring Pavorotti simply because he was not an 'actual' contestant on the show.

Steve Canton, a sophomore at Michigan State disigreed with accusations that Allen's victory was evidence of a 'close minded' America. "Look, I could care less that Luciano is Italian - or even dead. I just don't like his voice. Sure I think he is probably technically a better singer than Kris, but I can't stand his music. No matter what Randy Jackson says, Luciano is NOT current. I don't care if he can sing Ave Maria in seven different languages and in ten different octaves - he's not making it onto my playlist."

I Got Nothin'

2009-04-08T15:33:00.007-06:00

A long-time aspiration of mine has been to write a novel. To create an original and engaging story filled with quirky characters that readers grow to love and care for. The problem is, it takes a long time to write a novel - sometimes years, and I just don't have the attention span to support that kind of commitment. I've considered trying my hand at short stories, but even that seems too daunting a prospect. And so here I am, writing blog posts: easily digestible bits of drivel that I can spew out in a few paragraphs and be done with.

Embarrassingly, I am often unable to come up with a topic that warrants even a single paragraph of fluff to frame it. Such is the case today. So, rather than making a futile attempt at cohesiveness, I am simply going to regail you with unrelated tidbits of thought. I've done my best to make them sound like wise sayings, in the hopes of one day finding myself cited in the "Quotes of the Day" on Google. After all, what have we, if not our dreams to cling to.

Crack: It’s killing our children and immortalizing our bells.

To everything there is a season. Except spotted owls; they’re endangered.

The surest cure for hiccups is to count to a billion by tenths.

Statistically speaking, you are much more likely to die of a heart attack than in a plane crash. Of course, that’s also true of your pilot.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
They’re eaten by horses, and turned into poo (which is kind of greenish brown).

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So, before you go grabbing a wild bird with your bare hand, think about the market value of two birds in a bush.

Tofu is like life support. It will keep you alive, but is it really worth it?

All men are created equal. All women are created greater than.

Laugh and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone - unless you’re on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

In business, the whole is greater than the sum of all its parts. In golf, the sum of all its pars is greater than the holes.

In heaven you will sing praises for eternity to the Most High while surrounded by angels. Hell is the same, only the guy next to you will be playing air guitar.

A cry for help from a proud man rarely comes in the form of words; especially if that proud man is tied up and gagged in the trunk of his kidnapper’s car.

Death is the great equalizer, but Sony makes a pretty decent one too.

I lived in Las Vegas for eight years, and never once got up the courage to try my luck at the roulette wheel. I can’t even imagine how the guys in Russia do it.

Problems are like clouds. They can be daunting, and sometimes seem to cover the whole world. But, if you can just work your way up through them, you’ll see the sun again - then fall 30,000 feet.

The ant is the strongest organism on the planet – able to lift up to 50 times its own weight. I can crush 5 ants with my pinky. Step off punk.

Saving Time

2009-04-02T17:34:00.003-06:00

Satisfaction Guaranteed*

It has been said that time stops for no man. While that may be true, it does bounce back and forth a lot for most men – and women for that matter.

If you’ll forgive me a rant, I’d like to relate my feelings about daylight saving time.

In general, I have nothing against saving. I think it’s an important discipline that, when executed appropriately, can promote peace of mind and enrich one’s life. What I take issue with is being told how, what and when I must save – and exactly when I must withdraw and use that which I have so judiciously put away.

Once each year I am forced to extract one hour from my day and set it aside for later use. And it’s not just any hour. It’s a 2:00 AM hour. Three times out of four, I am asleep at that time. I sleep too little as it is, and for my own government to swoop in and snatch up one of my precious sleeping hours is just plain inconsiderate. If they insist on taking an hour, they should do it at 4:00 PM on a Friday. I’d be happy to offer up that hour.

Furthermore, most experts agree that the benefits of saving are best achieved by investing in long-term prospects. This philosophy is not shared by those that mandate saving time. While the method of extraction is somewhat cruel and ill thought out, I could overlook the inconvenience if my saved time was being locked away safely and gaining interest. If, in retirement, I had the option of withdrawing my youthful hours as I saw fit, I would happily cope with the hour I find missing one morning each spring. But no, I have to use my saved hour within the year on a specific date at, once again, 2:00 in the morning.

I have, in the past, voiced a strong opinion that daylight saving time should be done away with entirely. My position has changed. I think the idea has merit, but some practicality and flexibility need to be introduced into the institution.

Each of us should have complete control over what time we save, and when that time is deposited. In an emergency, saved time should be available for immediate use. Perhaps a minor penalty might be assessed for early withdrawals to discourage misuse. Also, similar to a 401K plan, a maximum yearly contribution would be appropriate.

To illustrate this plan, I’ll describe a likely scenario:

Jane is a 37-year-old woman. It is midnight on January 1, and she currently has 8,760 hours remaining in her year.

Jane has decided to participate in the time saving program. She can invest a maximum of five percent of her time in the program and therefore has 438 hours this year available to deposit.

Jane was exhausted yesterday and fell asleep at 7:00 PM, but she set her alarm clock for 11:55 PM so she could wake up to celebrate the New Year. Now it is midnight and she can’t get back to sleep. She decides to save the next 8 hours, which makes it immediately 8:00 AM, and she goes to work.

Throughout the year, Jane continues to contribute to her time fund. She is committed to the program and wants to save as much time as possible. She is able to find time to put away every time she is in a doctor’s office, on hold for customer service, turning on her computer, or watching Paula Abdul critique a contestant on American Idol. She is so successful, that by September she has stowed her maximum hours.

The time she has saved is now gaining 3% interest and will be available for penalty-free withdrawal when Jane reaches age 59.

Flash forward to Jane’s 60th birthday. She has decided to treat herself to a day at the spa and is getting a 30 minute foot massage from a 25-year-old Hungarian boy named Matthias. She is in seventh heaven and, on a whim, decides to withdraw 8 hours from her fund and insert it directly into the middle of her half-hour massage. She smiles as she begins to reap the rewards of her practical planning.

Our current daylight saving system has a grain of smart mixed with a sandbox of stupid. If we can just reverse that ratio, we’ll all be able to enjoy multi-hour foot massages in our golden years.

*This blog post is guaranteed to bring you satisfaction. If you feel unsatisfied after reading, simply contact the author for a full three minute refund.

Forever Young

2009-01-06T20:58:00.000-07:00

English is a living language. Not living in the sense that it may one day become self-aware and attack the human race, living because it is constantly evolving, growing, and mutating - much like a cancer cell.

Due to its living nature, it’s impossible to say with any real authority what is or isn’t correct English. Grammar snobs argue over things like whether a word beginning with the letter “h” should be preceded by the article “a” or “an”, whether one should say “toward” or “towards”, and so on.

Unfortunately, for those with a propensity toward(s) grammar snobbery, the fact is; since there is no governing body for the language, the correctness of any given part of English is almost entirely a matter of opinion. It could be argued that the only incorrect English is that which does not correctly convey the intent of a communicator to his English-speaking audience. The phrase, “This food ain’t got no salt on it” may make many an English major cringe, but no English speaking person can truthfully claim ignorance as to the intent behind the phrase. Sure, there’s a double negative and a contraction that will keep you out of heaven if you say it too many times, but we are still able to clearly understand that the speaker is voicing concern about a sodium deficit in his victuals.

But, I’m tangenticating. My thoughts today aren’t actually about English grammar at all. They are about English words. The evolution of the words we use intrigues me. For instance, the “world wide web” is thus called because of the logical similarity between interconnected computers and the many intertwined points of a spider web. From this relatively new definition for the word, “web”, we already have derivatives. People started using the “web” as a medium to record and publish “logs” of their lives, but apparently the term “web log” was too much of a mouthful. Someone decided to truncate it and, voila!, “blog” popped into existence. A completely new word derived from the bastardized definition of a very old word.

Having been in the computer industry for over a decade, I could write page after horrifically boring page about new words and acronyms that owe their existence to modern technology. But, before you start clawing your own eyes out, rest assured - I’m not going to.

Rather, I’d like to point out a couple of words whose definitions have evolved in a manner that you may not be aware of; namely the words, “forever” and “never”.

There was a time when the word “forever” literally meant “for ever” or “without end”. As its counterpart, was “never” - which was originally a contraction for the words “not ever”. Unbeknownst to most English speakers, though, both of these words have evolved considerably.

Forever no longer represents an infinite amount of time. As of this writing, forever is about 16 days. This is based on the average length of time it takes for something to cease after it has been declared to last forever. A generation ago, forever was holding steady at approximately 39 months, but in recent years its value has dropped radically. This is primarily due to the advent of millions of personal computers which all take “forever” to boot.

Interestingly, never is much less volatile than forever. Never’s current average length is nearly 18 years. The disparity in values between forever and never can be attributed to the context in which each of these words is typically used. Forever is generally used to denote the presence of something, while never is more often used to describe a thing’s absence. For example, when a shopper says, “I’ve been in this checkout line forever”, he is referring to how long the phenomenon of standing idly in a line has been present in his life – which, in actuality, is probably about two minutes. Conversely, when a 90 year old woman says, “I’ve never been to Paris”, she is referring to how long the phenomenon of being in Paris has been absent from her life – in this case 90 years. In other words, people use “forever” when they are talking about how long something which already exists will continue to exist, and “never” when referring to something that does not yet exist. Obviously, it’s quite easy to speak with conviction when you’re talking about nothing, ergo “never” has a lifespan that nearly allows it to buy cigarettes.

Of course there are exceptions on both sides. Never would be even longer if not for kids whose birthdays are “never” going to get here. Forever might not last five minutes if it didn’t have the help of comets that have been circling the solar system “forever”. As a general rule though, you should always take “never” more seriously than “forever” (please note that the current value of “always” is 57 times out of 100).

So if your boyfriend tells you that he’s going to love you “forever”, don’t plan an elaborate party for his next birthday. However, if he swears that he’ll “never” stop loving you, it may be time to brush up on your state’s restraining order laws.

Cereal on My Mind

2008-12-14T00:05:00.000-07:00

After reading this, you may think I’m a little obsessive. My last post was about Cheerios, and here I am writing about breakfast cereal again. Well, in truth I am obsessive, but I do have an excuse – or at least an explanation.

I recently started a new job. It’s across town so, to beat rush hour traffic, I decided to start work at 7AM. To get there on time, I have to leave my house by 6:20AM, which in turn requires me to roll out of bed by about 5:45AM. Following this schedule, I usually land at my breakfast table with a bowl of cereal in front of me in the neighborhood of 6:05 each morning.

I’ve been me long enough to know that I will never be a morning person. At 6:05AM, my thoughts haven’t quite yet made the leap from dream logic to reality. I’m still convinced that there is a little green man inside my alarm clock whom I should be able to convince to stop changing the numbers while I sleep indefinitely. It is in this mental state that I find myself staring at cereal boxes. So, as I spew my pre-dawn thoughts about my breakfast at you, please be aware that I do have other Interests.

With that disclaimer firmly in place, I will now proceed with my Post®.

To start, why must the front of every cereal box include some form of the disclosure, “Enlarged to show texture”? It’s a picture for crying out loud! Do they really think we expect everything in photographs to be exactly life size? If so, why doesn’t the image on the back of the box of children playing soccer have a footnote that says, “Shrunken to fit on the box”? Who knows, maybe the absence of said footnote means the children really are that small. Maybe food companies are covering up the existence of a race of teeny people being exploited for advertising.

The fact that the, “Enlarged to show texture” tagline is so ubiquitous makes me wonder if there is an FDA regulation that requires it. If that is the case, then cold cereal is just way too regulated. If the government is going to force food manufactures to make disclosures on cereal boxes, they should at least be somewhat helpful. Maybe something like; “dextrose, galactose, fructose, sucrose, maltodextrin, and corn syrup ARE ALL JUST SUGAR!”

Another common note I see on cereal boxes is, “Serving suggestion”. This, I assume, is to make it clear that we won’t find fresh blueberries, eggs, toast, and a glass of orange juice inside the box. Now, I’m sure that cereal manufacturers are under no delusion that anyone actually heeds these serving suggestions. Still, I think the one pictured on my current box of Cheerios is pushing it (yes, I actually pulled this out of my pantry and scanned it):
I have nothing against strawberries in my cereal, or even eating from a heart shaped bowl. I will not, however, eat my Cheerios with diapers on top of them. Frankly I’m offended that they would suggest it.

Interestingly, the “Serving suggestion” footnote is absent on my box of Raisin Bran: I imagine they didn’t want to be culpable if someone decided to actually try this. It may look great in a photograph, but you should never sprinkle diamond shards on your cereal and eat it from a molten hot spoon.

I Love Cheerios

2008-12-04T22:13:00.000-07:00

I’m getting older. I’m fine with that; it’s an acceptable side effect of being alive. I don’t, however, like thinking of myself as ‘old’. The fact than I’m older than I was a year ago is indisputable. Whether or not that makes me ‘old’ is highly subjective – or at least it should be.

See, lately I’ve been getting phone calls from people who, for some inexplicable reason, seem compelled to inform me that I’m now a withered old raisin.

“Hello”, I answer the phone unsuspectingly.
“Hello, my name is Blah Blah, calling on behalf of Blah. Am I speaking with Mr. Hill?”

“Yes, this is Mr. Hill, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Hill, I’m just calling to inform you that you are a withered old raisin.”

“What a hurtful, hurtful thing to say.”

“Mr. Hill, this will only take a few minutes. May I continue?”

Of course I’m paraphrasing, but only slightly. The actual conversation goes something a little more like this:

“Mr. Hill, I am conducting a short survey. Before I begin, I need to ask you a few qualifying demographical questions, starting with your age. Are you a)Under 18, b)18-24, c)25-34, or d)35 and over?”

“Umm… I’m 35.”

“So, d) 35 and over?”

“No, not 35 'and over'. Just 35.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Hill, that’s not an option. I need to enter d) 35 and over.”

“Do you realize that you’ve just grouped me with George Burns?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Hill, I don’t understand that reference.”

“That’s because you’re b)18-24.”

To be fair, a year ago I was more than happy to be classified as '25-34', and I hardly ever belittled telephone surveyors about the unfairness of the generalization. Now, though, these meddling callers make me angry and embittered, and I have an irrepressible urge to rant about them to anyone who will listen. Plus my hip hurts.

Conversely, Cheerios make me feel spry, youthful, and giggly.

Why? Coincidentally, it's for exactly the same reason. They too have decided to segregate the population into age groups. They have recently divided the nutritional information listed on the side of their boxes into age appropriate columns.

This makes perfect sense to me. Obviously the recommended daily calorie intake for an adult is going to be different than it is for a child. Everyone should be doing this. And the best part? There are only two age groups: Under 4… and everyone else.

Brilliant! In a single, master stroke, Cheerios has made 4-year-olds feel all grown up, and 90-year-olds feel young.

Frankly, this new Cheerios age paradigm has changed my life. I’ve been marching around like the king of the world asking everyone I see to guess my age. Before they have a chance to awkwardly mumble something about not being very good with ages, I blurt out, “4 AND OVER! HA!”

Totally worth the three hours of musty Cheerio burps I have to endure after breakfast.

History is Made as America Elects Its First Blue President

2008-11-04T23:54:00.001-07:00

The world is in shock tonight as Anthony Parrulli has been named President Elect of The United States of America.

Mr. Parrulli, who is most famous for being a member of the popular Blue Man Group, seems equally taken aback by his sudden appointment to America’s highest office.

“During his acceptance speech he didn’t even say anything.” said one supporter who was present at the Las Vegas rally, “He just looked around really fast without moving his head. I could tell he was surprised because his eyes were opened freakishly wide.”

Even many of those who voted for him were stunned by the results of tonight's election.

“WHAT HAVE WE DONE?! FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, TELL ME THIS WASN’T MY FAULT!!” commented Justin Sterling, a Kansas resident who admits to having been intoxicated while at the ballots.

Others are more optimistic.

“Sure I think he has the experience needed to rebuild the economy.” Remarked Stephanie Langdon of New Jersey, “Have you seen what those guys can do with PVC pipes?”

Another voter said it was actually Barack Obama who inspired her to vote for Mr Parrulli.

“Obama got me excited about change, but when I looked at his voting record, it was all just down his party line. That wasn’t what I was looking for, so I started keeping my eye out for someone who would bring real change to Washington. That was about the time my family took a trip to Vegas, and well, the rest is history.”

A major factor in this election was voters aged 30 to 35 who grew up during the Smurfs era. 78% of these individuals cast their ballots in favor of Parrulli.

President Parrulli will officially be sworn in to office on January 20, 2009. Due to contractual obligations with The Venetian Hotel and Resort, however, he will only be available to perform presidential tasks on Tuesday mornings before 10AM.

Recession Proof Yourself

2008-10-14T14:52:00.000-06:00

I don’t want anyone to panic, but our economy is in trouble. Not just, “Maybe we shouldn’t get the integrated Blu-ray windshield option on our new Escalade” trouble. I mean real “the-sky-is-falling” trouble.

In light of this, you may be wondering, why not panic?

Well, firstly, you shouldn’t panic because it’s a very unoriginal response to the situation. I mean, seriously, everyone is doing it. Trust me, in about 6 months all these people who are so into panicking now are going to be in complete denial, saying things like, “yeah, I may have panicked a little, but I did it before it got huge. Once it went main stream, it was totally lame. You should check out unfounded optimism though. It’s all the rage.”

Secondly, although the financial outlook for our country is undeniably grim, there is still a sure-fire way to “recession proof” yourself.

It’s simple really. All you need to do is pull all of your money out of high-risk areas (e.g. your savings account) and put it in mattresses. And when I say, “put it in mattresses”, I don’t mean you should actually cram your cash into the mattresses in your house. I mean you should use your money to buy a bunch of mattresses.

Based on current foreclosure and employment trends, it is reasonable to assume that by the fourth quarter of next year, 98% of the US population will be homeless. With 295 million people sleeping on the street, where will the balance of power lie? With the guy who owns a crap-load of mattresses.

Trying to get through this economic crisis by holding onto your cash is tantamount to trying to survive a trip from Earth to Neptune by holding your breath. We’re leaving the oxygen-rich atmosphere of a world brought into existence by the big bang of the subprime housing market, and heading into the vacuum of space. Sure, having a “lung full” of cash will sustain you for a minute or two, but eventually you’re going to have to exhale.

As we stand on the cusp of this fiscal meltdown, saving your money is simply the worst thing you can do. While it’s still worth more than the paper it’s printed on, use your money. Buy Mattresses.

Mark my words, history will tell of the 21st century Mattress Lords who rebuilt a civilized society from the tattered remains of a world torn to shreds by the archaic economic ideologies of those who came before them.

To Err is Human, to Sing Playground Songs Isn't

2008-09-27T23:03:00.000-06:00

I’ve heard a lot of talk in the media lately about “nature vs. nurture”. How much of what we become is determined by our genetic makeup, and how much is learned? My gut tells me that it is a combination of the two. Of course, that may just be because my gut is genetically predisposed to tell me that.

Now, while the “nature vs. nurture” debate is intriguing and fraught with fascinating – if somewhat disturbing – implications, it is about neither nature nor nurture to which I wish to address my thoughts today.

There is, in fact, a third factor which shapes who we are. A factor unseen and unsuspected that has an unfathomable influence over each of us. To name this factor will, in all likelihood, lose me the previously unshakable respect of the millions of readers I like to pretend frequent this blog. Even knowing that, however, I still feel compelled, so I will name it.

It's aliens. Aliens control us in ways that you, quite literally, won’t believe. My realization that there was an unearthly intelligence shaping our thoughts and behaviors came about a year ago. I had a very flux capacitor-esque revelation when I heard my children singing the playground song, “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells”. That’s funny, I thought amusedly, I used to sing the same song when I was their age. As I thought about it more, however, my amusement turned to foreboding. 30 years and hundreds of miles separated the 5-year-old me from my present-day children. How could they possibly be singing the same song? It’s not the type of song that is taught to elementary school children by their teachers, and I have a hard time believing that parents all across America have been propagating it from generation to generation.

The seeds of suspicion had been planted in my mind, so I decided to do some research. Each phone call and casual conversation I had over then next few days was fodder for my suspicions. Every person I talked to was familiar with the song. There were no geographical or generational bounds to it. It was known by octogenarians and kindergarteners, New Yorkers and Californians. Not only did everyone know the song, the vast majority of them had absolutely no recollection of ever learning it.

Still, I dug further. I tried to find the origins of the song, and was amazed by what I found. My research took me to Lascaux France where, in a forgotten corner of its famous cave, I found the following prehistoric painting:

The image clearly depicts jingle bells, Batman smelling, and even the Batmobile which has lost a wheel.

Interestingly, the carbon dating on this painting proves it not only to predate Bob Kane and Bill Finger (the supposed creators of Batman), but even Christmas itself.

With the combined evidence of my personal interviews, the cave painting, and my gut – which, as pointed out earlier, is genetically predisposed to tell me stuff, the conclusion is irrefutable. This song (and probably many others) is routinely implanted into human minds by aliens.

So what's the big deal? After all, it is just a silly playground song. Well, the "big deal" is that this song subtly strikes a blow at two of the most central pillars of civilazation - super heroes and holidays. If aliens are successful in trivializing these two staples of humanity, the consequences will be catastrophic. Movie script writers will have to start thinking up original plot lines. Retailers will have to figure out how to be profitable without a post-Thanksgiving rush. Credit card companies might fail altogether. In short, the world will be a confused mess.

So, for the sake of our planet, please remember, Batman does NOT smell, and The Joker never gets away.

I Am Brilliant

2008-09-17T20:20:00.001-06:00

Several years ago I had a friend who thought everything was cool. It didn’t matter what it was, there was some degree of coolness in it. The only variable was the actual quantity of coolness imbued in a thing. For instance, if someone told my friend that a puppy had been run over, he might have responded, “Wow… that’s not very cool.” which, of course, would imply that there was, albeit minuscule, at least some level of coolness it.

See, there is a monumental difference between something not being cool, and something not being very cool, and in that difference, lies a paradigm-shifting idea that bears consideration.

Entertaining the notion that there is at least some shred of coolness in every person, place, and thing (ok, every noun) that exists, it follows that other attributes (beauty, intelligence, goodness, etc.) would be similarly ubiquitous. In fact, I assert that this idea can be applied not just to some other attributes, but to every other attribute. In other words, everything is everything – to an extent.

Traditionally, attributes are considered to have opposites which do not typically occupy the same space. Beauty and ugliness, for instance, are thought to be on a single scale, ugliness being at one end, and beauty at the other. In my view, beauty and ugliness are two distinct attributes, both of which are present in everything. Heidi Klum, for example, is not very ugly, but, as it must, a tiny shred of ugliness does exist in her. I can therefore, with a clear conscience, say that she is ugly, because she embodies that small bit of ugliness.

Likewise, as the title of this post avers, I can say with full confidence that I am brilliant. Granted, the quantity of brilliance that abides in me may be microscopic, but it is there. Unfortunately, idiocy is also inexorably attached to me, so it is just as correct for me to state, “I am idiotic”.

The problem is that often times one attribute is so blaring, that all other attributes are overlooked. If I was devoured by lions, the tragedy of my gruesome death would almost completely overshadow the triumph of me getting a day off of work. Ergo, most people would feel comfortable saying the event was not triumphant. In actuality, however, the event was just not very triumphant.

So, what’s the point? Well, if you embrace the, “everything is everything” philosophy, you can be totally relieved of any guilt associated with "little white lies" and/or unfair criticisms. Statements like, “You are beautiful!”, “That idea is genius!”, and “That joke was hilarious!”, can all be said with complete candor. Conversely, for those of you less inclined to niceness, feel free to boldly assert, “Your face is atrocious!”, “Your mannerisms are obnoxious!”, or even, “Your blog is lame.”

When you come to the realization that everything (and everyone) actually does manifest some level of beauty, genius, hilarity, atrocity, obnoxiousness and lameness, pointing it out is merely rhetorical.

Surviving in Las Vegas

2008-09-14T15:39:00.000-06:00

As I sat in an air-conditioned restaurant eating ice-cream with my son yesterday, He asked me what life would be like without electricity. I turned the question back on him, and asked him to name all the things he could think of that are powered by electricity. It was a fun and educational discussion. He was fascinated as I did my best to explain how people managed to live before electricity.

Later, long after the question had evaporated from my son’s curious mind, I was lying awake in my bed still pondering. I tried to think realistically about what I would do in the middle of this insane desert to keep my family alive in the event of a disaster severe enough to deprive us of electricity and the other conveniences of modern life on which we have grown so dependent.

The first and obvious answer is to have plenty of water and non-perishable food on hand. I won’t be discussing this because, frankly, my wife is much better suited to the subject of food storage. Rather, I’d like to share the insights I had last night about things not so commonly considered in terms of reacting to a disaster in the desert.

Keep in mind that these are merely a few suggestions and should in nowise be considered a comprehensive emergency preparedness plan.

1- Get Rid of Your Elephant
I’m not talking about the proverbial “elephant in the room”; I’m talking about a real live elephant. If you have an elephant when a disaster strikes, your first priority should be to get rid of it. I understand that your elephant may feel like a member of your family, but an elephant can eat up to 200 pounds of food and drink 50 gallons of water in a single day. Surviving in the desert while trying to sustain an elephant is simply not practical.

2- Don’t Rely on Your Chili’s Gift Cards
Perhaps you’ve been stockpiling gift cards to Chili’s with the idea that if calamity ensues, you will just eat at Chili’s until things are back to normal. The problem is that Chili's manages their gift cards with a computer system that relies on a magnetic strip on the back of each card. Without electricity, your waiter will not be able to swipe your card. Granted, you may still be able to use your McDonalds Dollars, but keep in mind that your food will be served raw and unrefrigerated.

3- Stop Exercising
Even if your New-Year’s resolution was to exercise every day this year, you should stop. Believe it or not, exercising in the desert with little to no food or water can actually have a negative impact on your health. If you’re worried about the weight, rest easy. You’ll find the pounds just melting away as you struggle to stay alive in the deadly heat of the Mojave.

4- Apologize to Your Loved Ones
When all is said and done, if a major disaster does occur while you're living in Las Vegas, you’re probably going to die. You’ll find it easier to do so if you’ve already made peace with those whom you have offended over the years.

I Don't Care if You Don't Like Fish

2008-09-12T18:35:00.000-06:00

I like fish. Actually, I like to eat fish; my feelings toward the animals themselves are fairly neutral.

As a liker of fish, I have to say that I am often ashamed of the lack of tolerance expressed by some of my fellow fish-likers. Why must fish-likers insist that fish-haters keep trying fish? “You’ll like this fish”, they say, “It doesn’t have that ‘fishy’ taste.” Well, if one of the criteria for a food to taste good is for it not to taste like itself, then there is an implication that that food is inherently not good.

If I was to tell a friend that I don’t like chocolate cake, he might think I was a little wrong in the head, but he wouldn’t try to convince me to eat it by telling me it didn’t have that ‘chocolaty’ taste.

Truthfully, I don’t believe that fish-likers really want others to like fish at all. I think they’re convinced that liking fish puts them in an elite class of fine food connoisseurs. (This is especially true of sushi-likers.) Their constant insistence that fish-haters keep trying fish is merely an excuse for them to raise an eyebrow in mock surprise and say, “Really? You don’t like it? To me, the moist flakes of buttery light meat are reminiscent of a Tuscan sunset. . . " Then, with the tone of a mother talking to a toddler, they ask, "And how do you like your hamburger?”

Since when did having an affinity for a particular type of food make anybody sophisticated? Whenever I see fish-likers exhibiting this kind of behavior, I inwardly question whether their fish fetish is even genuine. I think often times people develop a tolerance for fish just so they can lord their pseudo passion over everyone they encounter. In fact, the more outwardly exuberant someone is about fish, the less likely it is that they truly like it. Anyone who says, “Man, I could just kill for some cod right now!” or, “I’d chew my own legs off and drag myself through a pit of asps to get to some halibut!” should not be trusted.

There is even a hierarchy within the fish-liking community. As a fish-liker, your rank is determined by the outlandishness of the food you’re able to ingest. Those who are only willing to eat cooked salmon are no better than peasants. Eat a live blowfish, however, and you’re immediately hobnobbing with the upper-crust. I have no doubt that if I were to open a restaurant in Beverly Hills that sold nothing but aged raw sea urchin spleens, my patrons would be considered royalty.

It’s ridiculous, and I’m sick of it. To all you fish-haters and only-cooked-salmon-likers: On behalf of my insensitive, elitist and bigoted fish-liking peers, I apologize. Eat whatever the hell you want.

“Relativity: A Theory”

2008-09-11T18:30:00.000-06:00

In 1905, a 26 year old Albert Einstein shook the very foundation of the physics community when he introduced his Special Theory of Relativity. He all but called Isaac Newton a bumbling twit as he uprooted, spit-on and spurned Newton’s shallow and childish theory of gravitation.

Now, I give full props to Einstein for being a smarty pants, but his theory is seriously lacking in the arena of usability. Of course, if you happen to be a science fiction writer looking to add a shred of credibility to your wildly outlandish tales of travel through space and time, Einstein’s theory will always be a staple. For most of us, however, the applications are limited. I understand that it is a fascinating concept, and you may even be tempted to test the relative speed of the light from your laser pointer by shining it on the forehead of a flight attendant while you’re hurling through the sky at 700mph in a passenger plane. I highly recommend you resist this urge (see my article, “Waterboarding: It’s Worse than You’d Think” for more details).

My point is the world has long been in need of a relativity theory that can, not only be understood, but can be applied to daily life. Enter my brainchild, “Relativity: A Theory”. And before you send me an angry email telling me that my idea is actually a hypothesis, please note the quotation marks.

My “theory” deals with perception. Specifically the perception other people have of your physical appearance. It was born by personal reflection after a lifetime of gaining and losing weight, growing and shaving facial hair, and a rapidly declining battle between my hair line (the good guys) and my forehead (the bad guy).

In my reflections, I have concluded that there are five factors involved in determining appearance:

1- Initial Actual Appearance (i)
This is your physical appearance (on a scale of 1-100) upon first contact with someone who previously has never seen you. This is sometimes referred to as, “First Impression”, although the term “First Impression” generally has a broader scope which includes such things as your mannerisms and personality. The value of i becomes the initial value of P (see below).

2- Presumptive Appearance (P)
This is what a person who has previously seen you thinks you look like now. The value of P can only be modified when the variance between S and c (see below) is greater than two.

3- Subconscious Presumptive Appearance (S)
This is the value of c (see below) from the most recent contact a person has had with you.

4- Current Actual Appearance (c)
This is what you actually look like now.

5- Relative Appearance Variance(R)
The difference between Current Actual Appearance and Subconscious Presumptive Appearance is the Relative Appearance Variance, or more concisely: R=c-S

I assert that Presumptive Appearance is far more important than Current Actual Appearance. Groundbreaking? Maybe not at first glance, but when you consider the implications I think you may be surprised at what you find.

Say, for instance, you meet a friend for the first time. Assuming you’re an average looking person, we’ll assign your physical appearance at the time of your first meeting a value of 50. Understand now that this value is interpreted and logged subconsciously by the friend you just met. Now in the mind of your new friend you have a Presumptive Appearance (P) with a value of 50 (The value of i immediately becomes the initial value of P), and since you just met, this also happens to be the value of c and S. Your R is 0, which means you look exactly like your new friend thinks you look.

You see this friend often over the course of the next 5 years while you slowly gain 50 pounds. His S value for you is reset to your c value every time he sees you; however P can only be affected by immediate variances between S and c which are greater than 2. Therefore your friend has not noticed that you’ve become a fat slob. Your c is now 30, but your P (with this friend) is still 50.

You finally realize that you’re way too fat, so you go to a fat farm and lose 30 pounds. Your c is now 40, however your friend who still holds a P value of 50 for you will immediately recognize the 10 point improvement in your c as compared to his S value for you, and he will adjust his P for you accordingly – making your P a value of 60 in his mind. He may say to you, “Wow! You look amazing! Ten years younger!” and on a conscious level he believes it. Subconsciously he is merely recognizing how atrocious you looked the last time he saw you.

So why is this “theory” so much more usable than Al’s? Because when we’re aware of these principles we can use them to our advantage.

Rules to Live By:

1- First Impressions are critical
When meeting someone for the first time, remember that a high Initial Actual Appearance value could really hurt you in the long run. Try not to look too good.

2- If you’re really ugly, that’s great news!
With a relatively small amount of work and calculation, you can actually be better looking than a super model (at least in the eyes of those who know you).

3- If you’re really good looking, don’t worry there’s hope
The trick for you will be to slowly get ugly while making sure everyone you know sees you often enough as not to exceed the 2 point variance (which would make them aware that you’re getting uglier).

4- Stay away from the counterfeit “relativity” theory
There is a school of thought that would have you believe that surrounding yourself with people uglier than yourself will make you relatively more attractive. Inevitably this backfires for one of two reasons:
1- Eventually someone is going to see you alone
2-As you get older and fatter it will become increasingly difficult (and eventually impossible) to find people uglier than you.

5- Be Social - When you’re at your ugliest, try to meet as many people as possible.

6- Be Anti-Social - If you decide to go on a diet, become a hermit until the weight is off.

7- Photographs are not your friend – If someone sees a photo of you when you first met, there is a possibility that his/her S for you will be reset to the image of you in the photograph which would trigger the 2 point R variance threshold causing a P adjustment. This, of course, would make you very ugly.

8- Photographs are your friend – On the off chance that you're actually better looking than you used to be, it could be in your best interest to remind people what you used to look like.

Suggested Application:

As a balding man, I have found that an exellent way to take advantage of "relativity" is by letting the sparse remains of my hair grow for a month or two. Since I usually keep my head shaved, the gradual appearance of a thin and receding head of hair steadily reduces my Current Actual Appearance value. The effect is exacerbated if I simultaneously allow my facial hair to grow out to an unfashionably straggly length. Following this procedure, I can reduce my Current Actual Appearance value by up to 7 points in the course of just a few weeks. As long as I maintain frequent contact with those of my friends whose opinion of me I actually care about, I have the ability to become 7 points better looking overnight!

The above photos were taken one day apart.