Bamboozled by The Girl Scouts

I was lounging around the house in a state of dishevelment when the doorbell rang. Mildly annoyed that my lazy Sunday was being disrupted by an interloper, I considered ignoring the bell. But curiosity got the better of me and I went to the door and peeked out from behind the curtain.

I saw a small girl-child standing quietly out on my front walk. I opened the door to see what she wanted. Upon opening the door I discovered the little girl wasn't alone. She had her mother with her (or at least I assumed it was her mother). Her mother was in her mid-thirties, blonde and Caucasian. The little girl appeared to be of mixed ethnicity; her hair was braided and she wore a pink winter jacket. The little girl spoke first, reciting her lines as if she were reading from an invisible cue card.

"Would you like to buy a box of cookies to support the Girl Scouts?"

Awwww, how could I say no to such a darling little child?

"Certainly," I said.

Not wanting to get into a conversation about assorted cookie flavors, I quickly spat out the first one that came to my mind.

"I'll take a box of Thin Mints."

The mother stepped forward and presented me with a glossy sheet of paper where I could fill in my name, address, and the type of cookie desired in the appropriate boxes. The mother attempted to make some small talk with me about the popularity of Thin Mints, but I was too busy filling in my information to be sociable. Briefly looking over the sheet I saw several handwritten addresses from adjacent streets. The kid and her mother had been working my neighborhood all afternoon, it seemed.

When I was finished writing I handed the sheet back to the mother. She then told me I could either pay now or pay when my cookies arrived. Wishing to display my unwavering support of the Girl Scouts, I offered to pay in advance. Surely there was no risk involved. The Girl Scouts would never rip me off, would they?

The box of cookies cost four dollars. I went inside and pulled a solitary ten from my wallet. I asked the mother if she had change. She said she did.

As mommy rummaged though her purse looking for change I noticed the little girl was staring up at me with a mixture of intimidation and mistrust on her face. I suppose I must have looked like some sort of scary giant to her. Being in my Sunday afternoon state of dishevelment probably didn’t help matters. I tried to put on a friendlier face, but my forced grimace probably just made things worse. Rather than looking happy and kind I took the appearance of someone who had just been stabbed in the scrotum with a broken whiskey bottle.

Finally the mother handed me my change. Six dollars. She told me the cookies would be delivered in a couple of weeks. They thanked me and turned to walk away. I closed my door, and went back to the couch with a warm feeling, proud to be supporting a noble cause and helping a little girl learn a valuable lesson about salesmanship (salesperson-ship?).

As the days passed my warm feeling slowly corroded into unbridled anger and disappointment. Three weeks went by and there was no sign of my goddamn cookies.

I tried to tell myself not to jump the gun. There was probably a reasonable explanation. Maybe the cookie delivery truck was delayed. Maybe the little girl got sick and couldn't make the deliveries. Maybe the Girl Scouts were on strike.

Day after day I paced my kitchen, occasionally walking over to the front door and peeking out the blinds, hoping to see the little girl in her pink jacket staggering up the sidewalk with my $4 box of cookies in her hand.

She never came back.

It is clear now that I have been had. The little girl probably wasn’t even a Girl Scout. Her floozy mother is probably some sort of criminal mastermind. My hard-earned money has probably already been spent on crack cocaine and Silly Bandz.

I am organizing a neighborhood posse; a random collection of beer drunks and irate senior citizens armed with ball bats and tire irons. We’ll go door to door until we track down these fiends. This sort of criminal activity will not go unpunished. The good name of The Girl Scouts of America is at stake.

This is what I get for trying to do something nice for the kids. Next time I'll just buy my cookies from the Keebler Elves and not bother dealing with the middleman.

Haiku Contest is a Sham

The local newspaper was holding a contest. They wanted readers to submit haikus in reference to winter, which is stupid considering this is the most un-wintry winter many of us have ever seen.

A haiku, for you illiterates out there, is a form of Japanese poetry consisting of three lines. The first line contains five syllables, the second line contains seven syllables, and the third line contains five syllables. The winning haiku would be published in the newspaper for all to see and the author would receive a gift certificate to a local bookstore. Only one entry was allowed per writer.

Sensing an opportunity for easy money, I went ahead and penned several haikus for potential submission. It didn’t take long; I can knock these things out in my sleep. When I was finished I narrowed my output down to three that I felt pretty good about. Here are those three:

Ode to Seasonal Affective Disorder

Winter crashes down
There is nothing to live for
I wish I was dead

I’m rather fond of this one, but I have to see things from the point of view of the newspaper. They would be hesitant to publish this one, out of fear of offending those readers who legitimately suffer from this disorder.

A Special Corner of Hell

Curse those damn skiers
Only a sick maniac
would pray for snowfall

Again, I think this is pretty clever, but the use of rough language and insulting the many loyal skiers in our area would likely disqualify it from contention.

Bone Yard

A blanket of ice
no comfort for my grandma
who sleeps underground

I don’t think this one could offend anyone. It contains the required winter imagery and bursts with cheap sentimentality, something the average reader can respond to. This is the haiku I ultimately chose to submit.

I opened the newspaper this morning to see if I had won and, sadly, my haiku was not chosen. I don’t think I can reprint the winning haiku here due to copyright laws, but let me assure you it was a genuine piece of crap. Images of deer hoof prints and snapping branches. Predictable and boring.

I should have given them what they wanted instead of trying to be quirky and different. Its clear those idiots down at the newspaper don’t know genius when they read it. Just to show them there's no hard feelings, I wrote a new haiku and submitted it for their approval:

Sore Loser

The contest was fixed
My haiku was much better
Than any of these

Oh well, better luck next time.

Star Wars: Episode I - The Phantom Menace in 3-D! (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb)

Maybe I owe George Lucas an apology.

I saw “Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace” when it premiered in 1999, and I was severely disappointed (and drunk). I thought it was absolutely terrible.  I hated the flimsy story, the cheesy dialogue, and the computerized effects and backdrops. It lacked all the charm of the original Star Wars trilogy I had grown up with.

Just to make sure it wasn’t the alcohol talking, I sobered up and saw it a second time a week later. My response was the same: revulsion.  I saw the film just once more since then, on television a year or two after its theatrical release. It was clear my reaction was never going to change.  I hated the stupid film and swore I’d never sit through it again. I had the same reaction to the other two films in the prequel trilogy, “Attack of the Clones” and “Revenge of the Sith”.

Last weekend “The Phantom Menace” was re-released to theaters in 3-D. The release date coincided with my Star Wars-fanatic friend’s birthday, so inevitably he asked me to accompany him to the theater and see it. How could I say no?

The thought of having to endure this wretched film in three dimensions made me weak in the knees. I expected to find myself vomiting in the aisle, either as a side-effect of the seizure-inducing 3-D enhancements or the incomprehensible computer-generated stupidity taking place on the screen.

We arrived at our local theater and got in line. I was immediately growing disgusted by the entire affair, finding myself surrounded by a horde of graying nerds and unwashed toy collectors. There was some idiot dressed-up in a Chewbacca costume; another, a girl, was dressed as Jabba The Hutt, complete with a long fabric tail which dragged along the floor behind her (talk about a germ-catcher). We were handed a pair of 3-D glasses and took our traditional seats at the back of the theater.

The crowd was surprisingly small for a Friday night premiere. There were only about 30 or 40 people in the theater. Maybe the misguided Star Wars fans finally came to their senses and stayed home. Why put more of your hard-earned money into the deep pockets of that sick-maniac George Lucas?

When the house lights dimmed I put on my glasses and prepared for the worst. How long would it be before I fell to the sticky movie theater floor in a 3-D-induced convulsion, bleeding uncontrollably from the ears, nose, and anus?

 Then something strange happened:  I started having a good time.

All the previous faults I had found with the film were pushed aside and I allowed myself to be transported to a galaxy far, far away. I occasionally had to stop and question my own sanity. What was going on here? What was it that suddenly made this film tolerable?

Was it the new 3-D effects? Unlikely; it didn't really add that much to the experience. Yes, it gave the images on the screen a sense of depth, but there were never any instances during the film where I found myself pawing at the air above my head trying to grab non-existent spaceships and laser blasts. In fact, the coming-attraction trailers were much more impressive visually than the Star Wars feature. This being my first time attending a 3-D film (I avoided the over-hyped “Avatar” like a plague) I didn't really know what to expect, and while I doubt I’ll feel compelled to pay an extra $5 for this luxury again, it wasn't the migraine inducing hell I had anticipated.

Maybe it was all those Jack and Cokes I pounded before the show. Then again, I had been stinking drunk the first time I saw the film back in 1999, and I left the theater that day wanting to see George Lucas disemboweled by a Wampa; so no, that’s not the answer either.

I think the real reason I enjoyed the film this time was due to the toll life has been taking on me these past few years. When I was first exposed to “The Phantom Menace” I was young and carefree. I still lived in my parents’ house, worked at a restaurant for chump change (which I quickly spent on cigarettes, CDs and alcohol), and I had some delusional vision of a prosperous future. The best times were still yet to come. There were all sorts of wondrous things to look forward to. Now I’m old, tired, and just looking for a way to distance myself from my 13-hour work days and the always-looming threat of unemployment and homelessness. George Lucas’ blue-screen fantasy-world allowed me to escape from my personal hell for a couple of hours, and for that I was grateful.

I didn’t hold the original Star Wars trilogy up against it like some sort of yard stick. I didn’t scrutinize the film for flaws in logic and continuity. I didn't dwell on Jake Lloyd's crummy acting. I didn't try to comprehend the convoluted political sub-plot. I didn't bemoan the unnecessary droid slapstick or even the presence of that jackass Jar Jar Binks. I just sat back and enjoyed myself.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I am sorry for slandering George Lucas all these years for his trilogy of “prequels”. He wanted to make a family-friendly space adventure, and sure enough he did. He may have destroyed his original Star Wars trilogy in the process, but that’s neither here nor there.  When “Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones in 3-D” comes out, I'll be in line with all the other mindless sheep, grateful for a taste of George Lucas’ 3-D Kool-Aid.  

Chewie, get me out of here!

Happy Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is great if you have someone to share it with. For two-thirds of my life I found myself alone on this holiday. I didn't mind, really. Who needs the expense of overpriced flowers, stale candy, and elaborate candlelight dinners? It was just another day to me. I could take a walk, buy a magazine, or maybe wash the car. Let the lovesick fools stand around waiting for a table at The Cheesecake Factory. I’m hitting the Taco Bell drive-thru.

For the past decade I have had that certain someone to share Valentine's Day with. Thus, I am now responsible for holding up my end of the bargain. I buy the overpriced flowers, the stale candy, and even treat my spouse to a fancy dinner out on the town (no candles, though, we eat at two in the afternoon to avoid the crowds). I'm officially part of society, going through this frivolous ritual just like all the other sheep.

There are some people who get depressed on Valentine's Day. These are mostly people who are single and longing for someone to come into their lives and make everything better. I guess I can understand their feelings. I remember what it was like to be alone. But these people need to realize that Valentine’s Day is just a day like any other. If you’re alone, you're alone all year round. I never went out of my way to feel down on Valentine's Day; I was miserable all the time. If no one loves you today chances are no one will love you tomorrow either. At least that’s what the sock puppet on my hand told me.

The only time I felt truly burdened by the holiday was in elementary school. The teacher would direct the children to design little "mailboxes" which would hang, via masking tape, up by the chalk board. These "mailboxes" were often no more than brown paper lunch bags with your name and some red crayon scribbled on them. Your classmates would slip a Valentine into your bag and then, at the end of the school day, you'd take the bag down and see what you’d got.

Never being much of a Lothario, my bag was usually a little on the light side. I’d turn my bag over and a small pile of envelopes would fall out onto my desk. The Valentines inside were little scraps of paper with popular cartoon characters like Scooby Doo or Batman on the front. On the backside was a personal message from your classmate, scrawled in indecipherable pencil. “To: Kevin. From: Jill.”

Sometimes you'd find some of those candy hearts with the messages on them rolling around in the bottom of your bad. They displayed random expressions of affection like "Hot Stuff", "Love Me", or “Bi-Curious”. The ones in my bag always seemed to say things like “No Chance”, “U Stink”, and “Drop Dead”. I began to suspect that these candies were not being selected at random.

This sort of classroom exercise helps many children prepare for the lifetime of disappointment ahead of them. While some students will go on to find true love and live the American dream, a good percentage of the group will end up alone and destitute. They will squander their lives in search of that mythical sack of Valentines and a handful of candy hearts which display answers to all of life’s riddles. These poor souls shall eternally lug that brown paper lunch bag in hope that somebody will come along and slip a Valentine into it.

Take it from me: being in a relationship isn’t always easy, but it sure beats being alone. So on this Valentine’s Day, look to your partner, if you have one, and be thankful that you are not doomed to a life of wretched solitude. Then take a moment to send a prayer to those still out there wandering the barren landscape in search of that intangible madness we refer to as true love.

Building A Nest

Isn't the toilet a peculiar invention? I certainly think so. Of course, I spend so much time sitting on it each day that I've had plenty of time to contemplate it. But being a bit of a germ-o-phobe, I cringe at the thought of pressing my naked ass up against a place where countless other disease-carrying degenerates have pressed their own. Therefore I go to great lengths to protect myself each and every time I use the toilet.

I build a nest.

Some public toilets offer pre-made paper seat covers, which are supposed to be convenient and easy to use. This is not so. I have squandered many minutes of my life trying to properly tear the perforated center from the seat cover without ripping the whole thing to shreds. I have yet to successfully apply one to a toilet. I find that it is in my best interests (especially when I am in a rush and staring down the barrel of a rectal explosion) to simply abandon the provided seat cover and construct my own using sections of toilet paper. The toilet paper is not only easier to maneuver, it's also a tad thicker giving you even more protection from countless unseen germs.

I will now demonstrate the proper method for building a nest.

Step one: tear a section of paper from the toilet paper dispenser and drape it across the back of the toilet seat. You want it to be a little long so it will hang down the sides. This allows the Earth's gravitation pull to assist in keeping the paper in place. This piece is the foundation of your nest, and if it goes the whole thing goes. This tissue protects you from a key area of the toilet seat (the section which comes closest to anuses and oncoming waste) so it is imperative that you keep it properly covered.

Step 2: apply a sheet to each side of the toilet seat. You want to line these up just right so as little of the seat is visible. Now, this already might look like a half-decent nest to you, but you are mistaken. There is too much chance of the paper shifting beneath you and exposing you to danger. You must reinforce it.

Step three: tear two small sections of toilet paper, 3-4 squares in length, and apply them at an angle over top the spots where the previous sections meet. This will unify all the pieces and help prevent slippage.

Are we done yet? Nearly, but here comes the pièce de résistance:  a wad of toilet paper placed carefully inside the bowl. This will serve as your splash guard. How many times have you been doing your business and the water splashed back up at you, almost always hitting you directly in your exposed rectum? (We in the business call this a "poor-man's bidet"). The wad of tissue will catch your waste and gently lower it into the bowl, keeping you clean, dry, and free of who knows how many microscopic organisms that might be swimming around in that filthy toilet water.

You can repeat the above steps as needed depending on how dirty the seat appears. Usually I’m okay with one layer of toilet paper, but if I see any discoloration or something resembling a Junior Mint sitting on the seat I’m going to go the extra mile. Hell, I’ll build a nest six inches thick if I have to. Just make sure there's enough paper left on the roll so you can clean yourself up when you are done with your shameful business.

Now sit down and enjoy your comfortable nest! Savor the soft, cushiony seat, and rest assured that your ass cheeks are a safe distance from anybody else's. If you have a pen with you be sure to plug your pal "The Stationary Explorer" on the stall wall. Good luck!

Fear of a Shoeless Afterlife

I spend my days in an office environment surrounded by a bunch of cantankerous old bats. One time this woman who works in my department was talking about a friend or family member who had recently passed away. She was very upset because they buried him in his coffin with no shoes on.

"He's gonna have to walk around Heaven barefoot,” she said.

She was truly flustered and taking this injustice seriously. It was the sort of concern you'd expect to hear from a 6-year old child, not a woman of forty. Now, I’m certainly not an expert on religion or the afterlife. When asked about my faith I generally label myself a “failed Buddhist". But c’mon, lady...it's HEAVEN! I'm pretty sure they can locate a pair of Converse All-Stars for the shoeless son-of-a-bitch.

But this brings up many other important questions. If she has such faith in the existence of an afterlife to begin with, why would she fear such frivolous shortcomings? I mean, if Heaven does exist, it seems rather likely that it is a place of magical and wondrous things, such as an infinite supply of comfortable footwear for all.

And another thing...who says he'd be wearing the shoeless suit he was buried in? How do we know THAT will be his permanent attire? If the clothing on one's back travelled with the departed person into the afterlife, would it not be the clothing the person died in and not the suit a mortician stuffed the body into days after the fact? So, according to her convoluted theory, there must be some sort of a delay in the departure of the soul. A person dies, but their spirit lingers, quietly waiting for someone to slap a nice set of duds onto them so they can begin their heavenly journey in style.

But what about murder victims whose bodies are not found right away? Do they get sent up to heaven in the blood-soaked rags that they happened to have on when they were viciously hacked to bits by some lunatic in a Darkwing Duck costume? And what if a person died nude? Maybe they slipped in the shower and broke their own neck. Then what? Would they spend eternity with both hands cupping their genitalia so strangers don't see his or her wee-wee?

There are so many things to consider in this matter, but I suspect that this silly woman in the office didn't take the time to ponder such inconsistencies in her belief system before announcing them to the entire room and being deemed an idiot by me.

Flushing My Career Down The Toilet

Using the toilet at work can be tricky business. Our bodies are capable of so many vile sights, sounds and smells. One little slip up and you'll be the talk of the town. A lifetime of embarrassment is always just a red cabbage fart away.

In the men’s bathroom here at the office the lights automatically go out after 10 minutes of inactivity in an attempt to conserve energy. The motion sensor does not detect a person inside a stall, so apparently moving your bowels is considered “inactivity” to the cold, inhuman sensor. Due to my rather poor digestive system (and even poorer diet), I have, on several occasions, surpassed my allotted 10 minutes of light.

Herein lies the problem.

You see, I’ll be in the midst of completing my personal business when all of a sudden…*BOINK!*…The damn lights go out and I find myself sitting in complete darkness.

The mechanical sensor is attached to the bathroom’s ceiling and doesn’t recognize a hand reaching up and waving over the stall wall. A futile action such as this will not restore the lights. Through much trial and error I have come to the conclusion that the only way to get the lights back on is to carefully get up off the toilet, shimmy over to the stall door, open it and wave your full arm frantically.

My biggest fear was having someone enter the bathroom while this ridiculous ritual was taking place. They might come in and find me sitting in the darkness, suspecting that I am engaged in some weird act of lewdness within the stall. Or they could walk in and see me with my pants down around my ankles leaning out of the stall and waving my arms around like an air traffic controller.

It was the second of these two scenarios that just occurred moments ago. After my allotted 10 minutes, I inevitably found myself sitting in total darkness. I immediately got up, opened the stall door and waved my arm, just as I had done in the past.

Strangely, no amount of waving was doing the trick this time. The sensor continued to ignore my desperate pleas. Finally, I bent my knees and waved a little lower, which finally triggered the light. At that exact moment, the men's room door began to open.

It was the Assistant Superintendent.

Did he notice the lights coming back to life as he entered? I can’t see how he couldn’t have. Most surely he also noticed me quickly retracting my arm into the stall and stumbling my way back down onto the can.

What do you think is going through his mind at this moment? Does he think I like to flap my arms around in the bathroom with my pants down? Or is he also aware of the 10 minute time limit? Will he ever look me in the eye again? Is my career over? Have I shamed myself publicly for the last time? Only time will tell. Stay tuned…

Pondering Ponderosa

One of my fondest memories from my high school years is my trip to the beloved Ponderosa buffet. Ponderosa was a steakhouse with a lunch buffet. It was a precursor to the current popular “all-you-can-eat” buffet chains, “Golden Coral” and “Old Country Buffet”, although the Ponderosa’s food was of a substandard level seldom seen in today’s competitive food industry.

The now defunct Ponderosa was conveniently located right across the street from the local mall, our weekend hangout. We’d organize a posse of unwashed longhaired headbangers and then storm the gates of the unsuspecting restaurant, with its employees totally unaware that they were in harm’s way. A couple of us actually paid; the rest just sat down and helped themselves to this immaculate feast.

Our goal was a simple one: chaos. Our success would be based upon the size of the mess created. We would pile our scraps in the center of the table, eating with our hands like grunting animals. Our policy was to take one bite and then throw the rest away. Why waste your time finishing something when you can experience the ecstasy of the first bite over and over again? Our chicken wing death toll reached triple digits, with the staff barely able to keep up with our relentless pace.

My buddy The Colonel went far beyond the call of duty and snatched the shaker of multi-colored ice cream sprinkles from the unmanned dessert station, unscrewed the metal top and periodically raised the jar to his mouth and "drank" them during his meal. When we began to feel the ill effects of our crazed overindulgence, we popped peppermint Rolaids (I would always carry a steady supply thanks to my undiagnosed Lactose Intolerance, and the Nazi school system which forced white milk on me every day at lunch) and continued with our gluttonous expedition.

Keep in mind these events took place back in the days of “The Smoking Section”, a cancerous initiative that has faded away in these bland politically correct times. We would light up and take a “breather” between plates. This helped in prolonging the adventure and further added to our offensiveness to the other restaurant patrons.

There was a wide array of edible abominations to choose from. Crap tacos overflowing with unknown meat. Stiff hamburgers smothered in white, hardened grease. Undercooked macaroni in a yellowish sauce that couldn't have been much more than a distant cousin of actual cheese. A selection of grotesquely discolored liquids being passed off as soup. These were not for eating, of course, but for “accidentally” spilling on the dining room rug. Lumpy chocolate pudding was smeared across the table like an abstract finger-painting. Our utensils were used only to gouge holes into once pristine seat cushions.

Occasionally the pimple-faced waiter would come by and attempt to clear some of the debris from the table, but we'd chase him away with our dull butter knives and uncivilized profanity. We anticipated that a shift manager would inevitably remove us, but it never happened. Apparently this place was running on autopilot, with inbred teenagers and dope fiends heating up pre-prepared slop in the filthy rat-infested kitchen, while incompetent stooges were handling the registers and waiting tables. The Ponderosa was nothing but a ghost ship of imitation nourishment with no sane voice of reason to bring this situation back under some semblance of control.

After almost two hours we finally moved on. Chairs were knocked over, packets of butter were smeared on walls, and the floor was littered with random garbage and broken glass. The table was no longer visible, lost beneath a hardening crust of half-eaten food, soiled plates, cigarette butts, gnawed bones, melted ice cream and human waste.

And then came the final insult: No tip, although there may have been some loose change mixed into the travesty, which the waiter could certainly keep for himself, if he felt courageous enough to roll up his sleeves and go exploring through that vile heap we left behind.

I feel a mild pang of guilt when looking back at our horrible actions. Boys will be boys, yes, but we may have crossed a line on that fateful day. Our insensitivity to the patrons and the employees was reprehensible. I’m sure my friends and I are at least partially responsible for the hard times that the Ponderosa franchise has fallen upon, for it may have been our wasteful behavior that finally pushed the struggling business into the red. I must pause now and ask forgiveness from the powers-that-be for the sins of my pampered youth.

Our local Ponderosa restaurant closed up shop many moons ago, replaced by a short-lived Southwestern sludge-hole that also went belly-up after only a couple of miserable years. Maybe an angry Native-American tribe damned that miserable piece of land centuries ago, banishing all who tried to prosper from it into a vortex of failure, food poisoning, and bankruptcy.

Alas, restaurant chains come and go. The Ponderosa’s food was vile, but the memories are delicious, getting more sweetly decadent with each passing year....

The Ten-Cent Chocolate Walrus

I was in Walmart buying groceries when I stumbled upon an aisle of clearance items leftover from Christmas. Being nearly four weeks after the holiday, the store was eager to part ways with these unwanted items, therefore they were being offered at a 90% discount.

In most cases, the items for sale were legitimate junk. There were some god-awful outdoor decorative items that would cheapen the appearance of any home, and ridiculous tree ornaments that had no business being sculpted in the first place. These things would most surely be tossed into a dumpster shortly, but for now they remained on the shelf, attempting to entice the misguided consumer with their rock-bottom clearance prices.

Pushing past the garbage, I reached an area of the aisle which featured some aging edibles; mostly candy canes in non-traditional holiday colors which nobody wanted. But then I spotted something resembling chocolate, so I brought my shopping cart to a screeching halt to investigate.

The box said "North Pole Pals" and showed friendly images of a penguin, walrus, and polar bear, all beckoning me to come away with them for some wintry fun. Inside the cellophane window was a small piece of chocolate, sculpted in the image of one of the friendly animals in the drawing. There were no polar bears or penguins on the shelf, but there were a couple walruses.

The chocolate was made by the Palmer Company, a name which is synonymous with the so-so tasting chocolate candies you received as gifts on Christmas, Easter, and Valentines Day growing up. It ain't Hershey, but it’s good enough. And at 90% off how could I say no?

"Let's be friends!"

I carried the chocolate walrus over to one of those price scanners that Walmart has conveniently placed around the store in order to help customers who can't find a price tag or have no basic arithmetic skills. I placed the bar code of the North Pole Pals chocolate under the laser and heard a loud beep.

".10" read the display.

A measly dime. Can you believe it? How can there still be starving children in the world when there are ten-cent chocolates to be had at Walmart? I added the walrus to my cart and continued on with my grocery shopping.

Days later at home I opened my cupboard and saw the chocolate walrus sitting there silently waiting to be eaten. Having been unable to consume anything of this nature since my dental surgery, I was eager to get my hands (and mouth) on something sweet. I grabbed the box and took it over to the kitchen counter.

I looked over the decorative packaging, admiring the artwork and glancing momentarily at the mildly distressing nutritional information. Then I carefully opened the box and shook the chocolate walrus out into my hand.

It was a very handsome looking piece of candy. I was in awe of the craftsmanship that must have gone into creating it. A shaped piece of milk chocolate for the body, a pair of darker chocolate dots for his eyes and nose, and a pair of white chocolate tusks. It was beautiful. And now I was going to eat it.

I felt a pang of guilt over my yearning to devour the beautiful candy. Maybe I should save the walrus and keep him around as a decorative item. I could place him on top of the television and feel a warm glow in my heart every time I looked in his direction. He was, after all, my North Pole Pal, and pals don't eat each other (at least not the last time I checked).

I set the candy down and turned to the sink to wash some melted chocolate from my hands.

"Hey buddy! Aren’t ya gonna eat me?"

The voice came from behind me. I turned quickly but saw no one.

"Down here! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!"

It was the walrus on the counter. The candy was motionless; its mouth did not move, yet the voice emanated from it just the same.

"What do you want?" I blurted out, suddenly fearing that some sort of demon had entered my humble home.

"I wantcha to eat me!" the walrus replied.

I took a step forward and looked down at the candy.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, silly goose, that's what I was made for!"

"But if I chew you up and eat you, I won't get to see you anymore. Isn't that a bad thing to do to my...'North Pole Pal'?"

"Hyuk hyuk...naw! When you eat me, I don't die! I get to live on inside you...forever! We'll be the best of buddies, you and me! But first you have to eat me!"

I picked the candy up off the counter and looked at it very carefully. The face showed no expression whatsoever, yet somehow by looking into its dark chocolate eyes I sensed the candy was telling the truth. Here was a walrus that was made specifically to be eaten. He was created to bring joy to the boys and girls with his tasty chocolate favor. It was his destiny, and I must not stand in his way.

I bit down into the candy, taking the walrus' head and half his chest into my mouth with one bite. Good old Palmer chocolate, with that same so-so flavor I remembered so well from my childhood. I finished the walrus on the second bite, letting the chocolate melt slowly in my mouth, savoring every moment it was there before chewing and swallowing it away.

And then it was gone. My North Pole Pal, the walrus, was gone forever and never to be seen again.

"Hello? Mr. Walrus?"

Nothing.

I had killed my special friend. I was quickly overcome with grief and loneliness. Then I heard a voice. Not with my ears, exactly; the voice seemed to come from within me.

“I’m still here buddy! Nyuk nyuk nyuk!”

Mr. Walrus was alive and well!

“You and me are gonna be pals forever,” he said. “And we’re gonna have so much fun! Now let’s get started! First, we’re gonna need to buy a gun…”

The Apicoectomy

It was one week ago today. The dreaded apicoectomy.

As reported previously, I had an infection involving the tooth I had a root canal on about eight years ago. The prognosis was that the dentist who performed it (that no good son-of-a bitch) had done a half-assed job and the root canal had to be retreated. The endodontist said the best course of action was to perform an apicoectomy. This is a procedure where an incision is made into the gums above the tooth, the bone beneath it is penetrated, and the roots that the quack dentist had previously failed to remove are taken out and the canals sealed off. The cost would be around $1,400. Add to that cost the price of antibiotics to clear up the infection, the cost of the original root canal, the stress and the aggravation I've suffered, and suddenly I feel like driving over and assaulting my formal dentist.

My appointment was for 8:30. I arrived at 8:20 with my wife, who was my designated driver. The dentist sauntered in at 8:29 and in less than a minute I was in the chair. I immediately received the inevitable anesthetic injections. Once I was good and numb, we were ready to begin in earnest.

I closed my eyes and went to a happy place in my mind while my ears were filled with the sounds of bone being chiseled away. Blood and water splashed down my cheek as the dental assistant kept rinsing the surgical area so the doctor could see what he was doing. Finally the drilling stopped and the doctor did whatever it is he had to do in there, including removing an infected lesion in the area around the roots. Then they sealed the root canals in and stitched me shut. All in all, the procedure took a little over an hour, but wasn’t all that unpleasant compared to other dental high jinks I’ve endured.

When we were finished I felt great relief, but knew the ordeal was only just beginning.

I was given an ice pack to hold up to my cheek while the doctor told me about the long recovery process. The area needed to be iced, 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off, the entire first day. I was told to expect swelling and some bruising (I didn’t see any bruising but did look a little puffy). The flap of gum that had been stitched down was very delicate and must not be disturbed. This meant no hard foods that could poke at it and disrupt the healing process. Thus, I was on an all pudding, mashed potatoes and soup diet. Talking, smiling and laughing had to be kept to a minimum (not a problem). And I could not brush my teeth. After a day or two, I would be allowed to take a dry toothbrush and brush the teeth on the side of my mouth opposite the wound, but I could not get anywhere near the surgical site. As you can imagine, my teeth soon got rather funky; my breath even funkier.

Yesterday afternoon I returned to the doctor’s office for a follow-up. After a brief glance into my mouth, the doctor gave me an “A-plus”, as far as healing goes. He told me I could now start rinsing with hot salt water several times a day (to prevent infection and help the stitches dissolve), and that by Thursday I could start eating some normal foods again, albeit in a cautious and gentle manner (table for one at the Chinese buffet!).

Anyway, that’s where I’m at as of today. The recovery continues, as does the uninspired diet. But it looks like I’m going to get through this, just like everything else life throws at me.

Next?

School's Out

Barbara Walters: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

 

PRESIDENT OBAMA: I deeply regret not having learned a musical instrument. And I regret not having focused more on Spanish when I was studying it in school. I would love to be able to speak Spanish fluently and play an instrument.

Well, it looks like President Obama won't be alone in his regrets as school funding in New York State continues to get slashed by Governor Cuomo. In fact, a certain local school district is considering eliminating all elementary level music and art, and all non-mandated high school courses.

I don't know about you, but I can't imagine an elementary school without art and music. Being a right-brained sort of person, these were my two favorite classes (at least when I wasn't being physically and mentally abused by the music teacher). No more putting on smocks to finger-paint or sitting in a semi-circle of tiny wooden chairs to sing "Go Tell Aunt Rhody".  Sounds like Nazi Germany to me.

Removing some non-mandated high school classes would mean deleting some of the advanced Foreign Language courses, and it is this minor detail which will negatively impact my fragile life. For my wife is a high school Spanish teacher in this particular school district, and if her job is cut we're pretty well screwed.

My wife always wanted to be an educator. I don't know why any sane person would. Imagine having to walk into a room with thirty disobedient teenagers. Imagine having to stop every 5 minutes to tell someone to stop talking or stop fooling around.  Imagine taking phone calls from arrogant parents who demand to know why their smart-mouthed little bastard was given detention or a failing grade. All this and then being paid slave wages while working around the clock grading papers and formulating fresh lesson plans.

Maybe she didn't think this career choice through.

My wife takes her job very seriously. Too seriously, if you ask me. She gets home each afternoon around 4 p.m. and spends the rest of the night doing school work. When I tell her she should just recycle old lesson plans and make it easy on herself she says that she has to keep it fresh and interesting for the kids.

Not that they appreciate it.

"Duh, why do we have to do this? It's stoopid."

But for every moron who doesn't want to learn there are a handful of kids who are grateful for her efforts. They've come up to her and told her how they’ve learn more in her class than any other. Some students have even pursued teaching careers following graduation, and told my wife it was her shining example which lead them in that direction.

Well, maybe they should think twice as well, because the educator is not appreciated in these modern times. The educator is taken for granted. And recent actions by our state government indicates our governor does not care much about the people who have chosen to devote their lives to readying America’s future citizens.

I realize this state is in a financial crisis the likes of which have never been seen and that drastic cuts need to be made, but surely they can find somewhere else to tighten the belt rather than continuing to reduce funding to schools. These actions have left districts scrambling to make ends meet, forcing them to let hard working professionals go.

My wife and the other teachers in her district took a pay-freeze last year to save a few people's jobs. But it looks like they were just prolonging the inevitable. There is no end in sight for this financial calamity. If she doesn’t get the ax this year, it could be the next, or the one after that. We are doomed.

My poor wife spent all that time earning her Masters Degree and becoming a certified Spanish teacher and now, as a show of gratitude for her efforts and her entry into such a noble profession, she is likely going to be shown the door. She did everything like you were supposed to do. She took the high road. So where is her piece of the American Dream?

If my wife loses her job my pathetic income won't keep up afloat very long. Goodbye house. Goodbye standard of living. Goodbye starting a family. We'll be back in the apartment complex before you know it, surrounded by annoyingly noisy white-trash neighbors.

My wife deserves better than this. She paid her dues. It's not supposed to turn out this way. Her degree was supposed to provide her with a solid career for the rest of her life. Hell, she hasn't even finished paying off her student loan.

We're screwed, that's all there is to it. If I had my shit together maybe I could somehow save the day. But I am a failure with no useful skills. Unless someone out there reading this blog wants to hire me for routine writing assignments, I think the end is probably near.

Get Off The Damn Bus!

I'm a person who sometimes needs direction.

On my first day of elementary school I failed to get off the school bus when it reached my home. I guess I expected the bus to stop on cue and for the lady bus driver to tell me what to do. "Okay, kid. Here's your stop." This did not happen. I looked on in horror as the bus passed right by my house without even slowing down.

Too much of an introverted pile of quivering fear and anxiety to speak up, I sat by the window and cried as the bus made stop after stop on its route. I was frozen to my faux leather seat, unable to act and unable to speak. It was a pathetic display of ineptitude.

Soon there were no children left and I was all alone. I rode unseen back to the bus garage with the driver. Once she parked the bus she made her routine check of the vehicle. This is when she discovered the sobbing idiot about eight rows back.

She went back to her chair and picked up her CB radio. She reported her findings to dispatch. Sobbing kid. Idiot. Didn't get off the bus. Probably retarded. But it didn't take long to get things sorted out. My mother had seen the bus go by the house and had gotten in her car and followed us to the depot. She told the driver that the sobbing idiot child belonged to her and I was escorted off the bus and into her safe custody.

Look, it’s not my fault. My parents should have prepared me better for the first day of school. I need directions when it comes to being a functioning member of society. The pieces of the puzzle don't always fall into place the way they do for everybody else. Things you'd assume were common sense need to be written out. Maybe it's a mild case of Asperger’s syndrome. More likely it's just uncontrollable bashfulness with a side order of stupidity.

My older sister called the girls down the road she occasionally babysat and asked if they could see to it that her idiot brother got off the bus when he was supposed to. They said they would and the next day on the way home they told me when to get up and get off the bus. I think soon after that I finally got the hang of it. Eventually I became a pro. One more daunting challenge successfully overcome. But there were always plenty of others lying ahead.

The Office Holiday Party (or Mr. Anti-Social Strikes Again)

The office Christmas party is today, so I'm looking forward to 90 minutes of silent discomfort. Each year, I enter the board room, gather a plate of edibles from the buffet line (usually ziti and cold cuts), then take my seat as quickly as possible before I have a chance to embarrass myself.

Once seated, I marvel as no one sits on either side of me until all the other seats are taken and there are no alternatives left. Then I eat in silence, unable and unwilling to participate in small talk with my co-workers.

When I finish eating I wipe my mouth and then zone out, staring blankly at my plate and counting the minutes until this miserable ordeal is over.

We have a grab bag gift exchange, which is usually good fun. It's of the “Chinese Auction” variety so people can steal gifts from others. Everyone is always vying for that elusive bottle of wine. I used to participate, although I liked to bring a gift that nobody in my office would want or need. I think there should always be an "old maid" novelty item in the mix that people go out of their way to distance themselves from. So I would watch with amusement as my $5 “Essence of Slug” scented candle got passed around like a hot potato.

I no longer participate in the grab bag. A couple of years ago when it was my turn to go up and choose a gift I humiliated myself. The room is rather tight and in order to get up to the gift table I had to squeeze behind a row of office chairs (suck it in, you old bat!). I was pressed tight up against the wall for a moment, shimmying my way along before finally reaching the clearing. But little did I know that as I pressed my mid-section up against the wall I had inadvertently unbuckled my belt.

There I was, the center of attention, choosing a gift from the table, with a long leather phallus jutting out from my waist band. When I became aware of the situation I snatched the first gift I saw and scurried back to the table as quickly as possible. Once seated, I carefully re-buckled my belt, moving my hands under the table with a surgeon’s precision. I hoped and prayed that my co-workers hadn’t noticed what had just transpired. This is unlikely.

It was then that I vowed never to participate in the grab bag again. It's safer just to stay in my seat. There's less chance of unfortunate mishaps...like accidentally de-pantsing myself.

Oh, My Aching Tooth

No sooner did I revive my computer than I felt a slight pang in the tooth that had a root canal about 8 years ago. Surely this can't be right, the nerves are supposed to be dead?

By Saturday it was an annoying ache, by Sunday it was a throbbing nightmare. Naturally, I had to wait until Monday morning to call a dentist and have him look at me.

Since I had no intentions of returning to the crook who took me to the cleaners last summer, I called a dentist that several of my co-workers recommended. They said they could see me at 9:30 that morning. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to suffer long.

I arrived at the dentist's office and took a seat. I was presented with a lovely tote bag as a special gift for new patients. This would certainly help me forget all about the thousands and thousands of dollars I've invested in dental treatment over the past decade.

After a while I was called into the room. They sat me down and put on my bib. I gagged. Then they told me to hold a little gizmo wrapped in a plastic bag up to my tooth so they can take a digital x-ray. I gagged again, but managed to keep it in place long enough for them to get the x-ray. The dentist looked at the image and instantly recognized the problem.

"This root canal is short."

It seems the quack that performed the procedure all those years ago short changed me and failed to fill the canals as far as he should. I swear, if I ever see that guy on the street I'm going to knee cap him and stomp him like a NARC at a biker rally.

The dentist pulled out a small metal object.

"Open wide, please".

He struck the tooth to the left of the crown.

"How's that feel?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

He hit the tooth on the other side of the crown.

"And that?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

Then he struck the piece of metal to the crown.

"Sweet bastard!" I cried.

"Yep, that's the one," the dentist remarked.

The dentist explained that the root canal would have to be redone. He would send me to an endodontist, a man who specializes in root canal treatment. With a copy of the x-ray, a letter of referral, and a prescription for antibiotics, I was sent on my way.

I wasted no time getting the pills (Clindamycin). The inflammation was out of control and the constant, maddening throb made me want to lay down in the street and die. Then I went home and got on the phone. I called the endodontist .

They said they could see me the next day, so I agreed. No sense in beating around the bush. The following day I woke up and looked in the mirror. The gums around the crown were now discolored and swollen. I tasted the presence of pus. A day's worth of antibiotics and this is all I have to show for it?

I got dressed and went over to the endodontists office at 9 a.m. After a few minutes of waiting a lady called me in. She sat me in the dental chair and took another x-ray. She handed me the plastic object which I was to hold in my mouth. I gagged again, but we got the x-ray. She too said it was clear that the root canal did not go far enough up into the roots. Then she left and I waited patiently for the doctor.

The doctor came in. He looked at the x-ray and made the same prognosis as the others. A poorly done root canal was the culprit. He went on to say that it was likely the canals were sealed off and he would be unable to reach the roots by burrowing through the crown. He instead suggested cutting a flap in the gums and removing the inflamed roots that way. It would be an hour long procedure, require stitches, and cost between $1300-1600.

Considering the pain I am in, it seems I have no choice. I signed up to have the procedure done in early January after the holidays. In the meantime, I must continue to take the antibiotics, rinse my mouth with salt water, and eat soup and pudding gingerly until the pain subsides and I start to feel normal again.

Just another speed-bump in the road of life.

Life on the Sinking Pirate Ship (Walking the Plank with The Buccaneers)

Do you like football? Me too. I was a baseball guy when I was very young (New York Mets!), but made the transition to full-time football fanatic in the 8th grade.

The first step in becoming a football fan is to choose a team to root for. I live in New York, so naturally most of my school chums at the time were fans of the New York Giants, New York Jets, or Buffalo Bills.

Then there were those damn Cowboys fans. I don't understand how they had infiltrated our state, but there sure were a lot of them. I guess it’s easy to root for a winner. After all, The Cowboys were “America's Team”.

I could have taken the easy route and chosen to root for a team that actually won games. Instead, I decided to be a rebel and follow a team that no one in their right mind would root for: The Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

I remember the day I made that fateful decision. I opened a newspaper mid-season and looked for the team with the worst record. I didn't have to look far. The Buccaneers were 2-8 and were generally one of the worst teams in the league year after year. They wore jerseys that were the color of orange cream sickles and their mascot was a rather dainty looking pirate named “Bruce”.

Yep, this was gonna be my team.

It started out as a joke. My friends would mock my sad devotion to this horrible franchise. I didn’t mind. I love rooting for an underdog. When I got my first job my boss would always have a good laugh at my expense. He'd introduce me to his friends and say, "This guy’s a Buccaneer fan. Ever see one of them before?"

Yes, I suppose I was a rare creature in the northeast. It was sort of like seeing a Sasquatch, or at the very least a Florida alligator rolling around in a snow bank.

Before the Internet came along, my only resource for Buccaneers news came from the newspaper and ESPN. I'd watch the highlights of their games and see a team constantly getting outclassed. They lost so much that I didn't even mind, really. The constant losses only served to make those rare victories all the more pleasing.

Then something strange happened: The Buccaneers started to show signs of improvement. It all started when they were given cool new uniforms of red and pewter. On their helmets, an ominous skull insignia replaced that nonthreatening smiling swashbuckler “Bruce the Pirate”.

The team opened their 1997 season going 5-0. I finally had something to crow about. I'd go into work and start making crazy predictions to entertain my boss and co-workers. I’d tell them the Bucs were going to go 16-0, and quarterback Trent Dilfer would break every single season record before the year was through (I think the only record he ended up breaking was in interceptions).

Well, sure enough the Bucs hit a skid and they didn't go undefeated that season after all. But they did reach the playoffs, and that alone was an exciting change of pace.

The Bucs continued to be a pretty good team for the next few seasons, with some real superstars emerging like Mike Alstott, Warren Sapp, Warrick Dunn, Derrick Brooks and Ronde Barber. It was an exciting time to be a Buccaneer fan. Everything finally seemed to be falling into place.

And then, following a glorious 2002 regular season, the Buccaneers reached their pinnacle: Superbowl XXXVII. They beat the Raiders 48-21. After the game I receive a phone call from my old boss congratulating me. After years of loyalty, I finally got to see the Bucs bring home a championship.

In the years since the Superbowl things have been going steadily downhill. The players I admired so much were traded away or retired. The win/loss records got less and less worth mentioning.  By 2009, the Bucs were pretty much starting from scratch with a whole new team of young rookies. They started the year losing seven (7) straight games and ended the season with only 3 wins.

It looks like we've gone from feast to famine. This year the team is playing especially poorly, currently in the midst of a six game losing streak. But losing is nothing new for Buccaneers fans. It's going to be a long climb back to the top for this young Bucs team, but I shall remain loyal and root for them each Sunday regardless of how badly they stink (and boy do they stink this year!).

"Windows Has Failed To Start"

This blog has served only to illustrate to me what a hassle life is. The weekly predicaments really start to pile up when you see them laid out before you. Every time I turn around there’s something else to feel bad about. My car is leaking transmission fluid, my 5-disc CD changer died, my new furnace's air vent is dripping water down the side of the house, and giggling mice are running rampant through my attic. What else can go wrong?

Well, this week my computer broke down for no good reason at all. There's something wrong with Windows and it won't load properly. It can probably be repaired, but I'm trying to rescue the contents of my C drive before reformatting the machine and losing everything. This requires some effort on my part.

Apparently I needed an External Hard Drive Docking Station. Not being very tech savvy, I didn't even know such a thing existed until some Internet friends gave me the tip. I wasted no time and immediately went over to Staples (formerly Chuck E. Cheese, remember?) and bought one for $40.

The idea is to carefully remove the C Drive out of your malfunctioning computer tower, plug it into this gizmo, and then plug the gizmo into the USB port of a functioning computer. You will then be able to access the drive using the functioning computer and retrieve your precious files.

Well, I tried it with an older computer I had collecting dust in the closet, but unfortunately that one was incompatible. It was running Windows Millennium Edition which is sadly outdated. So I guess I'll have to go over to my parents' house this weekend and try to hook it up to theirs. I will then transfer the important C Drive documents to a newly purchased 16-gigabyte flash drive memory stick so I can reinstall the information back onto my computer once it is repaired.

When all is said and done this might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I'd been trying to clean up my computer's hard drive for a while now, for I am a bit of a pack rat when it comes to pictures, music and video clips. I won't be able to save it all. It's way too much to transfer. I will have to make careful choices and sacrifice some of it. But that’s probably for the best. There is far too much clutter on the drive.

But there are a few things that I absolutely have to retrieve, specifically, my photos from this year's vacation to Maine. I uploaded them to the computer but foolishly failed to back them up to a CD, which is what I usually do. And I have to rescue my wife's folder of school work. She is a teacher and has many worksheets and PowerPoint presentations she's made over the past several months that we have also failed to backup. If I am unable to retrieve them she is going to be extremely upset.

But I don't see any reason why this project should fail. It seems pretty cut and dry. What could possible go wrong with such an easy procedure? Oh, wait, now I remember. Everything goes wrong for me.  So yeah, this plan will probably fail too.

I donated $20 to the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation in an attempt to improve my karma. Maybe it will help. I doubt it. I'm not so sure there’s anyone behind the wheel. If there is, I have shaken my fist in their general direction once too often, and now must pay the price.

Blackballed By Brooks

A few days after Halloween my friend and I walked over to Brooks Pharmacy in the strip mall to get something to drink. We went to the rear of the store, grabbed a couple of bottled waters from the cooler, and headed up to the cashier to pay.

When we reached the counter the girl at the register started hollering at us.

"What are you doing back in here?" she said.

"Huh?"

"You were told not to shop here anymore."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You'd better leave right now or I'm calling security."

"Call them," I calmly replied.

My friend looked at me nervously, but I waved him off. I knew we had nothing to worry about, for we had done nothing wrong. This is America. We have rights.

The girl picked up the phone and called security. When she put the phone down she asked us to wait outside. We complied, leaving behind the refreshing bottled waters we had hoped to buy.

In a couple of minutes we saw the flashing yellow lights of security van approach and pull up to the curb outside the store. The girl employee came outside to meet him. She was running her mouth about shoplifting and how we had been permanently banned from the store. I spoke up and told the security guard that I had no idea what she was talking about and that we had never been in trouble in this store or any store in the strip mall. The security guard thoughtfully nodded in agreement and turned back to the girl.

"I've never seen these guys before. These aren't the same kids who you threw out last week."

Vindication! Surely the girl would accept that she had made a mistake and allow us back into the store. Hell, maybe they’d even give us the water for free as a form of apology for being so rude.

But the Nazi clerk wasn't satisfied. She still wished to ban us from the store anyway, just because we slightly resembled some other long haired troublemakers. The security guard gently explained to my friend and me that the store reserved the right to ban anyone they chose. I mused aloud how well this would go over if we were black. It was stereotyping and bigotry, plain and simple. Somebody call the headbanger equivalent of Al Sharpton.

The girl wanted our names so she could add them to her list of drug store exiles. She already had a pen and paper in her hand and was ready to write them down. I looked at the security guard, who shrugged and said it was up to us whether we wanted to give our names to her. I told her to forget it; I was not about to have my good name associated with a pack of petty thieves. Believe it or not, there were still some shreds of dignity left beneath that smelly leather jacket and gnarly long hair.

In the end, we went on our way and Little Miss Fancy Pants went back inside her precious store. As we were departing the sympathetic security guard took a moment to comment on how well we had conducted ourselves by not becoming confrontational with the irrational clerk. We appreciated his words and, out of respect, we did as we were asked and did not return to the store, no matter how thirsty we became.

By the following summer Brooks Pharmacy had gone belly-up and the store was replaced by Revco Pharmacy. The day the new store opened I walked right in and bought all the bottled water I damn well pleased. We never again crossed paths with the idiot clerk, so I’ll just assume she lost her job at the pharmacy and had to resort to selling her once untainted body on the street for food money in order to stay alive.

Sounds like a satisfying story conclusion to me.

The Boy Who Wouldn't Fly

Shameful admission - I've never been on an airplane.

I don't like to travel. In fact, I don't like movement of any kind, really. I won't go on amusement park rides, water slides, or even a merry-go-round if I don’t have to. This is not a form of entertainment for me. It just leaves me feeling dizzy and sick.

I don’t find anything even mildly enticing about being launched up into the sky in an airtight tin can and breathing toxic recycled air while mutant germs and deadly parasites from every country in the world crawl over me unseen. There's no way I'm putting myself at that much risk just for the privilege of shaking hands with some crystal-meth addict in a Mickey Mouse costume at the Epcot Center.

Sometimes I get pressured by my wife to take her on a "real" vacation. I guess she bases vacation quality solely on the distance we are from our house and the amount of money wasted on travel accommodations. Summer after summer she is thoroughly disappointed as we visit such far away exotic locations as Hyannis, Burlington, and the majestic Lake Placid.

I’m not about to put my life in the hands of some anonymous drunkard who’s slumped behind the wheel in the plane’s cockpit. These professional airline pilots are paid minimum wage and have the credentials of a sanitation worker. Many suffer from unchecked acute mental disorders and are legally blind. They have no business hauling me and my loved ones twenty miles into the sky before sending us all into a spiraling, hellish death. No thank you, sir, I’ll take the stairs.

Things have only gotten worse in these troubling modern times. Back in the “good old days”, all one had to worry about was pilot error or mechanical failure. Now there’s the constant risk of finding yourself seated next to an Al-Qaeda operative with a shoe full of plastic explosives and a box cutter with your name on it. Is a chance to sit in the studio audience of “The Tonight Show” really worth the risk?

Maybe my fears are irrational. I suppose, statistically, the odds of my flight ending in a fiery calamity are rather low. But I’ve made such a big deal about it over the years that I’ve surely created a self-fulfilling prophecy. After all my refusals to fly, to board a plane now would surely guarantee that I, along with all the other innocent passengers who were unlucky enough to share my flight, would wind up as a pile of charred debris after taking a sudden nosedive into the side of a mountain in the Poconos.

I guess I won't get to see the Hawaiian Islands, the Eiffel Tower or the Roman Coliseum. So it goes. I'm a land animal, dammit, and if I can't get there on foot or by automobile I have no business being there in the first place. Flying through the sky is for the birds. Amen.

Double Quarter Pounder (Medium Rare)

When I was in high school I'd hang out on the other side of town with my headbanger friends. On weeknights I'd get picked up by my mother around 9 p.m. and she'd take me home. Sometimes I'd be hungry (I usually skipped dinner after school) so Mom would hit the drive-thru on the way home and I'd grab a burger (Eating this late was probably not a good idea. No wonder my stomach hurts so much).

My friend Dexter from school worked at McDonalds. Dexter worked the grill, flipping hamburger patties. Sometimes my friends and I would stop in at the end of his shift and he'd give us free stuff to eat. Dexter was a nice guy. But as an employee Dexter was unreliable and often stoned out of his mind.

This appeared to be the case on the fateful night my mother stopped at the McDonalds’ drive-thru to buy me some dinner. I ordered a Double Quarter Pounder value meal. When I received it, I noticed the meat looked uncommonly rare. It was bright pink. Usually, McDonalds serves everything well done. Apparently there is a reason for this, as I soon found out.

The lights of the restaurant faded into the distance as we drove away. Soon I couldn’t see the pink meat in my hand anymore. So I went ahead and ate the burger. What I can't see won't hurt me, right?

Moments after pulling into our driveway inhuman noises began erupting from my belly. Pain shot through my mid-section as if I had been stabbed. I knew I was in for some serious trouble.

I leaped from the car and ran into the house and straight for the bathroom. The urge to vomit came fast and hard with little time to prepare. I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and the puking began.

On and on, my body was locked in horrible agony. Suddenly, in the midst of the vomiting, the diarrhea hit like a foamy brown tidal wave. It was too late to pump the brakes. I soiled myself.

I vomited a little more then flushed that awful vision away. I quickly staggered to my feet, dropped my drawers and sat down on the can, looking down at the soiled underwear sagging between my legs. Feeling another wave of sickness coming up, I grabbed the nearby bathroom garbage can and puked into it. The puking action loosened my bowels again and more waste exploded out of my backside.

I had done my fair share of puking and crapping in my life, but I had never experienced anything like this. My body could not purge the undercooked McDonalds hamburger fast enough. I could almost hear the alarms going off inside me. “Abandon ship! She’s gonna blow!”

After twenty minutes of purging I was finally finished. I stood up and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and tears were streaming from them. My throat was raw and my ass was sore. I began the long, delicate process of cleaning myself up.

With shame I told my mother what happened and placed my soiled garments in the washing machine. Even though I was shaken up emotionally and physically, I was also thankful that my body was wise enough to remove the horrible poison I placed inside it. It probably saved my life.

The next morning at school I told Dexter all about what he’d done to me and to this day, everytime I stop at McDonalds and see a photo of the Double Quarter Pounder, I think of Dexter and the night I soiled myself.

What's That Smell?

It's no secret that I love my wife, but living with her has shredded my nerves. She always manages to find the worst case scenario and run wild with it.

Case in point - I was awakened at 3:30 in the morning by my wife who was suddenly sitting upright in the bed.

"Wake up. I smell something."

I had only been asleep for 2 hours and my brain was not fully functional.

"What do you smell?” I asked.

"I dunno. Maybe skunk. Its so strong it woke me up."

I inhaled. My sense of smell has never been that great, so naturally I came up empty.

"I don't smell anything."

She got up out of bed and started sniffing around the room like a crazy person.

"It smells like skunk. What if there's a skunk in here?"

Ah, a reasonable deduction. A skunk is inside the house.

"It's probably coming from outside. Please go back to bed."

She goes over to the window and cranks it open.

"I don't smell anything outside. What if there is a skunk in the attic?"

I feel a warm flush inside me as the seeds of  irritation begin to grow.

"How would a skunk get into our attic?"

"Why not? Raccoons get into attics!"

Seeing as how I was just in the attic dealing with our mice problem two days ago I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if there was a large, gaping hole in the side of the house where woodland creatures were entering at will.

"If there was a skunk in the attic you'd hear it running around."

She went downstairs and into the kitchen. I could hear her sniffing around down there.

Then she went out into the garage.

"I think I smell gas. Come down here."

Sigh.

I get up and go downstairs. I start to shiver because I'm under-dressed and it's freezing cold.

I join my wife in the garage. I inhale deeply. I smell nothing. I go over to the furnace room, where any sort of gas leak would most likely originate from. Again, I smell nothing.

"I don't smell anything. Now can we stop this lunacy and go back to bed?"

Before the words are out of my mouth she's already heading back upstairs. After a few more sniffs she gets back into bed. I join her, now shivering uncontrollably.

"Do you still smell it?"

She muttered something unintelligible, neither confirming nor denying the presence of the smell. Soon she was asleep again, while I lay there in the dark letting her irrational fears get the best of me.

Is there a gas leak? Is there an animal in the attic? A dead mouse rotting in the wall? Did we make a mistake buying this house? Do we have enough money? Do I have cancer? Will my wife go blind? Is the furnace going to blow up?

My stomach continued to twist and turn as the sky slowly brightened and the birds began to sing.