The Blue Lady 2: Paranormal Boogaloo

If I search through the newspapers in the old college library a few things happen: One, I can praise God, Allah, Bill Gates, and Al Gore for giving us the Internet. Two, I can smell that really old musty basement smell that reminds me of clothes left in the washing machine too long combined with damp cat. Three, I can learn stuff.

The last time I was there, that's exactly what I did, learn, not sniff stray cats. I went there seeking answers to the mysterious blue lady that chased me into the bathroom the last Halloween. (if you haven't read her story, it's probably better if you read it first). I wanted to find some sort of explanation for what I'd seen. Rumors about the theatre building being haunted were nothing new on campus, so I figured somewhere in the stacks and stacks of brittle yellow newspaper, I'd find some sort of answer.

After weeks of using whatever free time I had to search for an explanation to the things I'd seen, eventually, in a dusty pile of college newspapers from the mid-1920's, I found what I was looking for.

The theatre building was still fairly new back then, and the town was relatively small. Surrounded by farm communities, the college and the town pretty much marked the halfway point between the middle of nowhere and Chicago. A perfect spot for a railroad stop.
Folks looking for an exciting night out on the town no longer needed to travel all the way to the big city, the railroad now gave them closer and easier place to go. Businesses started to pop up around the college, restaurants, night clubs, shops... And things really got booming for the college theatre; folks could have an evening of culture and entertainment without the long journey into Chicago.

Philler Hall became a destination for all sorts of popular acts of the time. Big bands, vaudevillians, comics, and singers. The little town had hit the big time.

One month, a real live Broadway revue made it's way to Philler Hall.Folks from all around journeyed to the college to see New York's brightest stars right there in the middle of farm country. One woman in particular was so excited to see the show that she gathered up three generations of her clan into the family truckster and headed off towards the college.
Grandma, in her Sunday best, a long beautiful dress with a high collar and lovely faux pearl buttons, sat right in the middle of the audience, blown away by the bright lights, the ornate theatre decorations, and the anticipation she'd get before the show began.Next to her, Grandpa, not a lover of the arts, but along to make the Missus happy. On both sides of them, their four sons, their wives,and their children. The whole motley brood there for the show.
The curtain rose and Grandma's heart skipped a beat. She loved the theatre, completely fascinated by the actors, the sets, the music, the costumes, every single aspect of it. Grandpa, not so much with the fascinated, he took a nap. Throughout the first act his wife kept giving him the ole elbow in the ribs; one, to keep him awake, and two,to point out specific things about the show that she was enjoying.

Grandpa kept dozing back into lullaby land and eventually one of Grandma's nudges just wouldn't wake him. She tried again, digging the pointiest part of her elbow into the soft spot below his ribcage. He didn't budge. She kicked and pinched, all of it very discreetly, but Grandpa was dead to the world. Really.

Grandma wasn't terribly surprised, her hubby was an old dude and dying is what old dudes tend to do. She was upset more than anything, upset that he dared to die in the middle of the show and ruin an evening at the theatre for her. She wasn't going to let that happen though. She leaned to her left and informed her oldest son that Grandpa had passed. He took it well, because the look in his mother's eyes told him to remain calm, stay seated, and watch the show. She leaned over Grandpa to her right, and told her youngest boy that his father was gone. One look told him to wait until intermission to do anything, to just sit there and allow the nice folks around them to enjoy the performance.

That halfway break came and Grandmas smiled and clapped and stood and made small talk with the theatre goers around her as they shuffled up the aisle to the lobby and the restrooms. Grandma sent her four daughters-in-law and all the little ones away, out to get some refreshments. The auditorium sufficiently empty, she employed her sons to lift Grandpa out of his seat and walk him up the aisle"Weekend at Bernie's" style. All the while Grandma walked in front of them, swatting her deceased husband with her purse and admonishing him about the dangers of drinking too much. "I'll never take you out in public again, you embarrass me with that drinking of yours." Her boys caught on to the ruse and began to laugh and carry on about how much good ole pop drank.

There they stood, up in the lobby, encircling Grandpa and insulting added man who'd never tasted alcohol in his life for being a drop down drunk.

Grandma refused to let a little thing like death ruin a perfectly goodnight at the theatre, for herself, her family, and everyone else there. Knowing full well that notifying the authorities would probably wind up cancelling the show, she waited until the lobby lights flashed and people made their way back into the auditorium to make her move.

Once the lobby was clear, Grandma led her sons across the room, opened what she thought was a storage closet (it was actually the ticket booth), and gently tossed her dead husband on in. They went back inside and enjoyed the rest of what turned out to be a really good show.

There was only one problem with the dead guy in the closet. The dead guy, he wasn't dead. Yet.
After the show, Grandma and the boys waited around to deal with the proper authorities. When Grandpa was dragged out of the ticket booth,a young doctor discovered that he had not in fact died in his seat watching a Broadway show, he had died inside that closet, using his fingernails to try and claw his way out in the dark. Grandpa had suffered a heart attack brought on by fear. He'd woken up in a strange dark place and freaked out.

Grandma was heartbroken. She felt that she was responsible, and every doctor's reassurance that Grandpa would have died soon anyway was no consolation. She went into a great depression, distancing herself from everyone she knew and loved. She believed that she'd killed her husband and deserved no happiness, so after a few painful, difficult years, Grandma killed took her own life, hanging herself in the attic.

Legend has it that the woman I saw that Halloween night was Grandma,peeking into the ticket window to find the lost soul of her departed love. Whether or not Grandpa's spirit was in the closet at the time,I don't know, but I sure am glad that's not the room I decided to hide in.

Plain Ole Fright

Halloween night my senior year in college was the scariest of my young life. I don't mean the shadows startled me or I couldn't sleep because the Blair Witch was in my room kinda scary, I'm talking full on pee yourself, Fred Sanford clutching his chest kind of fear.

For years, I'd been hearing haunted house stories about the theatre that I worked at. For years, I'd listened as other students recounted far-fetched, unbelievable tales of phantom encounters in the building. For years, I sat on the stage on Halloween night as Jack, the theatre manager, told his own first hand stories about the ghosts of Philler Hall. All those years I kinda straddled the line between belief and skepticism, between acceptance and "hey, get me some sciencey stuff that proves it and I'll be on board." That night, that Halloween, I got shoved right over that line into full on "Amen brother, I believe" land.

That particular show, I was in charge of sound design. All the floor microphones that sat on the stage, all the body mics that were woven into the actor's costumes, all the music, and all the sound effects, that was all on me. It's a fun job, really, but it is an awful lot of work on show days. To test all my equipment and prepare for that evening's performance, was a long process that made a whole heck of a lot of noise. To be courteous to the other tech geeks, and I guess to the actors too, I'd usually get there about four hours before showtime.

My sound board was set up at the back of the theatre's main level, kinda tucked away in the corner. Most of the sound equipment was way upstairs, so I had cabling running up through the walls, three levels up, to the sound and lighting booth. My sound system took me months of planning and rehearsal to get just right. Dozens upon dozens of cables ran from the board to the speaker box, plugged into just the right spot to get what I needed to come out of the correct speakers. This cord inserted into this outlet made the alligator sound come from just where the alligator was supposed to be. That cord split off and plugged into this series of inserts made the choo choo sound like it was moving across the theatre. So on and so on... Each plug had its place to have the sound do what we needed it to do and sound the way we wanted it to sound, almost three months of work had made my set up near perfect, in fact, I'd finally just gotten it the way I wanted it about four o'clock that morning. But, when I got there that night, opening night, a mere four hours before curtain, all those cables were no longer stuck into their perfect spots, they were pulled out and lying on the ground.

I was livid. All of the theatre lights were off, except for the little green desk lamp I had sitting on my table, but I scanned the room anyhow, searching for signs of movement of the low sound of the perpetrator breathing. Convinced it was the vacuum cleaner lady who seemed to have no respect for our equipment, I swore that I'd kick her right in the pancreas if I saw her.

Pancreas kicking or no pancreas kicking, I had to put the anger aside and get this problem fixed. I was rushed anyway, but now, there was no way I'd be done before show time. The first thing I had to do was get the plugs back in place. For most shows, that would have been easy. We'd map which cable went where and label each and every plug. Time consuming, yes, but to fix a snafu like this one would be simple. That brings up problem number two. I didn't map and I didn't label. The director had me make so many changes and add so many last minute sound cues that I'd never found the time. I'd actually planned to do it during this evening's performance. Now, well... oops.

I did the best I could, using a rough draft map from a few weeks back and a scientific guessing game that involved tugging on tiger digits. Fifteen minutes later, I was somewhat satisfied. Now I had to run up to the sound booth, three flights of stairs up, and push the power button to turn on the speakers. I don't think I've ever run up so fast in my life. Steps really should be in the Olympics.

Throwing open the door, I dashed into the booth. Once I reached the power source, I held my breath and did one of those "Oh dear God, please make this work" sort of pseudo-prayers. I reached for the button and listened. Pressing it and hearing a little click followed by a soft hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm would mean I did a good job guessing which plug went where. Any sort of pop would mean I did bad, the louder the pop the worse I did. I pushed the button.

I waited.

I waited some more.

It seemed that I could have waited all day and nothing would have happened. That wasn't one of the options though. It had to make a noise. Good noise, bad noise, there had to be a noise. Any sort of noise. There wasn't. The only thing that could mean was that the cables downstairs weren't connected.

I flew out of the booth, down the stairs, around the corner, down the next flight, through the upper lobby, down next set of steps, around the last corner, down the final flight and into the fancy schmancy lobby. I dashed across the lobby, passing the front doors and the ticket booth, burst into the theatre and towards my sound table.

Those cords, you know, the ones that were unplugged and in a mad panic I plugged them back in, threatening pancreatic violence against any cleaning ladies that happened by, they were all out again, just lying there on the carpet.

At this point I figured I had to be the victim of some sort of practical joke. I sensed Dick Clark or Ed McMahon was lurking behind the stage curtain with all my classmates, laughing hysterically at the bulging vein on my forehead that had now begun pulsing.

Grabbing the diagram from the chair where I'd left it, I began plugging everything in again in a frantic daze. I never got to the tiger's toes this time, eenie and meenie ran the show.

Sprinting up the stairs winded me, so there were no deep breaths before I hit the button this time, heck, I was lucky I was breathing at all. I said my silent prayer and pushed "power." Nothing. No click, no pop, nohmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

An angry demon had taken over my body at that point. Walls, windows, and banisters felt my wrath as I hurried back down the twisting, turning stairs, across the lobby, and into the theatre. There they were, all the cords, unplugged again.

That pulsating bulgey vein was just about doing a salsa dance by this point. Alan Funt was backstage having a coronary, dreaming how great Candid Camera ratings would be this week. The wheels were turning somewhere in the brain of a prepubescent Ashton Kutcher.

The plugging in of the cords was more of a random blind guy playing darts from a tilt a whirl kind of event this time. The trip up the steps more of a huffy puffy "I think I can" thing than a dash. The pre-button prayer more of a threat to the powers above that I just might hurl myself from the balcony. I pushed it. Held my breath. Then, there it was, a tiny little click and the sweetest hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm I ever did hear.

The trip down the stairs this time became more of a stroll. A leisurely stroll spent with me calculating exactly how much time I'd have to get done, where to cut corners, where to delegate when my idiot helper got there... Lost in thought, I'd wound my way down to the upper lobby and was halfway down the next set of steps when I noticed the big stained glass window above the stair landing was rattling like crazy. It stuck out to me, because I remembered remarking to my roommate on my way out earlier, how nice a night it was. Nearly sixty degrees, no clouds, no sign of rain, no wind. Yet, that window was vibrating like the bed in a cheap motel when you've brought a pocket full of loose change.

I took the last few steps towards the window and reached out to touch it. Ice cold. The shaking stopped though. But, now I could hear the same sound coming from the other side of the pretty much symmetrical lobby. Feeling a strange need to investigate, I climbed back up to the upper lobby, walked across, and made my way to that stained glass window. Up in the lobby, there was a rattly stereo effect going on, I could hear the glass vibrating on both sides. I reached up and touched that window too. Freezing.

I pulled my hand away and watched the fog fill back in the hand print I'd left, all the while wondering how the windows were icing over when it's sixty outside and how in the world the wind was blowing at the building from both sides.

For whatever reason, instead of continuing down the set of steps I was on, I walked back up to and across the upper lobby and started down the West staircase. Each step I took down revealed more and more of the lobby to me, and I suddenly realized the carpet was bathed in a bluish light down there.

I slowed myself, the gears in my brain working overtime to figure out where and how my friends were hiding to pull this elaborate prank on me.

I took a step down, expecting Matt or Tony or Todd to pop out and scare the living poop outta me. Nothing.

I took another step and was able to see the very bottom of three sets of double doors that led into the atrium and then outside. That was down and to my left. Down and to my right were the five sets of double doors that led into the theatre. Shadows filled the corners, but the middle of the room was more and more blue the closer I got.

I took another step and realized that the front doors, the six glass doors with brass handles that led into the atrium, they were open. Now, I'm bright enough to put two and two together and get something that at least resembles four, so that ability worked its magic right there. I remembered that those doors don't have locks, so Jack would chain them each night, wrapping loop after loop after loop of heavy metal chain through the cold metal handles, then pad locking them. Jack himself was the only one with a key to those locks, (the rest of us used the back doors) and taking off those chains was an incredibly noisy process that made garbage trucks picking up other garbage trucks and dropping them into a third set of garbage trucks seem tranquil by comparison. I wasn't gone long enough for those chains to have been removed, and even if I had been I would have heard that racket all the way upstairs, but there they weren't.

I took another step, this time, turning my back to the wall and scooting down kinda sideways. Those old fancy doors also didn't stay open on their own. We used this big ornate ashtray things to prop them open when the audience was coming in. Yet, when I looked to the right, there were the ashtrays, far from the doors that were somehow holding themselves open.

I took another step, only a few from the bottom, only feet from the lobby floor now, I could see that the blue light that was spilling into the lobby was coming either from outside or from the far end of the atrium.

I took another step and another, each one bringing me closer and closer to that entryway where I was sure Greg or Barb or Erica were going to jump out with a "boo." No one jumped, so I pushed myself forward.

Scooting myself around the seemingly magical door, for some reason I now found myself about to peek into the foyer. That room was probably six feet across to the outside doors and maybe thirty feet wide from my end to the ticket window across the way, so there wasn't anywhere for a person to hide in there, or hide a blue-ish light bulb for that matter.

My muscles pretty tense, hoping I'd catch whoever it was off guard and scare them first, I side stepped into the atrium. What I saw there changed everything.

Looking across the room, I saw very clearly the source of the mystery. It was a figure, about five or six feet high made entirely out of blue light. I froze. My brain told my legs to move it out those doors a few feet away, but they didn't listen. I just stood there, kinda transfixed. I remember almost every detail. The figure looked like a woman. She had her hair up, rolled into a bun, she had a high collared dress that buttoned up the back, she was tall, frail looking... her back was to me.

I must have gulped too loud, or maybe my stomach growled, or maybe she heard the urine as it trickled down my leg, but whatever it was, something caught her attention. She started to slowly turn towards me. I could see the lines in her face, the sadness that she carried; I could feel her empty eyes on me.

My jaw dropped, but not in one of those cartoon character AAAooooooGaaa sort of ways, more like a slow steady my mouth kept opening wider and wider and wider. I stopped breathing and my eyes got really big. I started to almost hunch over, as if I was about to fall into the fetal position. I didn't want to lie down on the ground and suck my thumb, but somehow I couldn't seem to move. My brain went through all the options, six feet to the left - door to outside, fifty feet behind you - door to theatre, five steps back - the stairs. All of those seemed like viable options, but my feet didn't like them. My feet finally decided to run, and of all the directions they could have picked, they figured running closer to blue lady was a good idea.

I took one little half step out of the atrium and into the lobby and sprinted myself closer to her. Luckily, my feet, as stupid as they appeared to be, didn't much feel like stopping to have a chat, and I zoomed right past her.

I could have chosen any of seventeen doors; ten into the theatre or six that led to the sweet ghosty-woman-free realm of outside, but no, I chose door seventeen. I ran and hid in the handicap bathroom. I don't know why.

Flying through that door without even thinking about it, I slammed it shut behind me and pushed the little button to lock it, yeah, like little push button door locks are going to stop blue people from getting in there and doing whatever it is blue people made from light do to people who are completely solid and entirely devoid of blueness.

It took a good ten seconds for me to realize where I was, but only an instant to come to the conclusion that I was the stupidest person ever. What the holy heck was I doing in the handicap bathroom? The only door I could have gone through that did not lead to a sure-fire escape route. Trying to calm myself, I mentally listed my options.

There was a window. Windows rock. I can go out the window.

No, The window was seven feet off the ground and, for some inexplicable reason, it had bars on it. I don't know who, but apparently somewhere down the line, someone was concerned that handicap people were going to leap seven feet in the air and climb out the window, so they put bars on it.

I thought for a second, pretty seriously too, about attempting to flush myself down the toilet, even going so far a checking to see if my foot would even fit in the bowl. It didn't.

Under the cabinets, no, there were none. Up into the ceiling tiles. Nope, there were none. The only way out of that room was the way I'd come in.

I made two plans. Plan A. I'd throw open the door, the lady would be no where in sight, I'd make a hard left and spring through the door into the theatre, down the aisle, and out the back door. Plan B. I'd throw open the door, the lady would be there waiting for me, and I'd lay down on the floor and cry. I hoped plan A would work.

Working up the courage, I went for it. I turned the handle, the little lock button's click and my heavy breathing the only sounds. The adrenaline coursing through me made the door like a feather; I tossed it aside and quickly scanned to lobby for any side of psycho Smurfette. No one there. I cut hard, sliding a little on the carpet, but kept my footing and charged that door. I hit it as hard as I could, already envisioning myself sprinting down the street to hide under my bed. The problem... I pushed at full force, ordering that door to open, and it only accepted pull commands.

I'd built up a considerable amount of speed and power in that seven step sprint, so when I hit the door it was like a unstoppable force vs. unmovable object death match. I lost. I found myself falling backwards, but with a nifty ninjaish maneuver right after I hit the ground, I was right back on my feet. A little dizzy, but on my feet and charging right back at the door.
Dodging theatre seats, props, and the stage curtain, I fought my way all the way out the back door. Finally, I calmed down.

I waited for the other tech people to arrive, and praying for that whole safety in numbers thing, I went back inside. I didn't tell a soul about what had happened, I just went about my business and had a fantastic show. (Somehow, when I'd gotten back inside, all my wiring was hooked up perfectly.)

At the end of the night, Jack held his little post-show hooray type pep talk. As always, the Halloween tradition, Jack invited us all to stay and tell ghost stories up on the stage. "Ha ha ha ha ha ha," I blurted out, "Oh man, have I got a... a burning desire to go home. Have fun with the stories guys,"and I left. There was nothing, not even those big heavy chains that'd magically disappeared that was going to keep me in that theatre that night.

Jack and the Epilogue

This is the epilogue to Jack's story. I posted the story itself last Friday.

Jack didn't tell anyone about the little boy he'd seen. Figuring that anyone who heard about his ghostly encounter would probably either assume he was certifiable or having LSD flashbacks, he decided keeping his ordeal quiet would be best.

After a few years, though, Jack began hearing more and more inexplicable stories about the building and its inhabitants. Everytime someone else relayed a first or second hand paranormal event, Jack considered spilling his own guts. He didn't. He continued to keep his secret. For over ten years, Jack kept it quiet.

Finally, once he'd been working there long enough, and had the respect, authority, and credentials that made him confident enough that no one would strap him down and ship him to the looney bin or fire him, he decided to ask an older gentleman who'd been working at the college for decades if he'd ever heard or seen anything strange in the building. Jack was careful not to let too much information slip, he wanted to gauge the man's reaction, not tell him what he'd seen just yet.

Jack was still being very cautious. The gentleman Jack asked was the same custodian that said goodnight to him each night on his way out, including the night he had his little run in with Lil Casper. The same maintenance man that let Jack know he was the last one in the building that night ten years back.

If this story had been a cartoon, this is the part where Jack would peel a rubber mask off that crazy old Janitor Jenkins, and discover that he, in fact, was the little boy and an elaborate series of pullies and people covered in special glow-in-the-dark flour would have enabled this prank, but this was real life, so the old man just sat there in silence for what had to have been a full minute, but seemed like nine hours, pondering the question. Eventually he spoke. This is the story he told.

Oh, way back in the 30's, years before I was even working here, when this building was still fairly new, there was a young music professor. This kid was trying to make a name for himself, trying to impress the college big-wigs and the like, trying to do something great and important. He spent countless evenings locked in his office, an office that is right around the corner from yours Jack. The one right across from the water fountain. Not unlike you, he'd be here all night, til three, sometimes four o' clock in the morning before he'd decide that he should get home to his pretty young bride and their little son. Time always seemed to slip away from him, as it does for a lot of us.

One particular day, the professor's wife was heading out of town to visit relatives. She left the young son, probably around six or seven years old, in the care of his father. Now, just because he had the little tike to look after didn't mean that the prof didn't have work to do. No sir, he dragged junior along, sat the little guy down in his office, and got to work.

Junior got tired of drawing pictures on the chalkboard and lying on the office floor real quick. He begged and he begged and he begged, finally, the rascal disturbing his work enough, Dad relented. "Go, run around, just don't break anything," Dad warned, adding, "Just don't go down into the basement," as the boy dashed out of the room.

Freedom had its advantages. He ran up and down the steps. He did cartwheels on the stage. He sprinted up and down the theatre aisles. He tooted every horn, banged every drum, and punched every key up in the music room, but eventually he got bored. The only place in the whole Hall left for him to explore was the only place his daddy had told him was off limits. The basement.

Eventually, time, like it seems to do, slipped away from the professor and he headed home. It was late and shuffling out the door tired was his routine. Remembering to bring his son back home with him was not part of his regular routine, so he forgot.

The next morning, in a mad panic, the professor burst through the doors and frantically searched the building for his boy. He scanned the stage. He glanced down every row in the auditorium. He looked in each classroom, under every desk, and behind every piece of furniture. Finally, his gut churning and his heart in his mouth, he knew he had to look downstairs in the basement. That's where he found his son, crushed to death under a pile of lumber back in the far corner of the woodshop.

When the pieces were put together, it was found that the last person to see him alive was a friendly old maintenance man who was locking the building up for the night. He spotted junior up on his tippy toes getting a drink from the fountain. From the other end of the hall, that old broom jockey shouted goodnight and waved to the boy, getting a big smile and wave in return.

"I suppose, Jack," the old man said, "that you asked me because you'd seen something. By the shade of white your face turned there a second ago, I'm gonna go and say you saw that very boy."

"If I did?" Jack asked, amazed that the janitor's story so closely matched his own.

"Well, then you wouldn't be the only one whose thought they may have heard a little boy getting a drink late at night. Seems he comes back about once a year, every year, same time."

Jack marked his calender from that point on, making sure to skedaddle at a reasonable time at least one night a year.

In part one I promised that this would be a true story about something that happened to me. Hold tight, we're getting there. Parts three and four later this week.

Jack and the Ghost Stalk?

There are only two types of people in this world. Those who believe in ghosts and those who do not.

I happen to fall into the first category. Scoff, guffaw, and jest all you want, I understand. You see, I used to be like you, I used to be a non-believer, but I've seen things now that I just can't explain. I've witnessed events that no scientific, religious, or psychological explanation can satisfy. Not even a six foot talking dog and a pot-head in a van could get to the bottom of these mysteries.

Back in the day, when I was a young pup at college, I worked in the theatre department. While there, I did just about every job you can imagine being dished out to a student. I swept the floors, I tore the tickets, I carried the heavy set-pieces around, I built the sets. I ran the lighting, I designed the sound, I worked the spot, I controlled the sound board. Later in my theatrical career, I acted in, wrote, and sometimes directed the shows. A regular Renaissance man, I had myself a little chunk of each and every portion of "it all." Those were some great times.

Oh yeah, the theatre I worked at was haunted.

It seemed that just about every one that worked there, went to that school, or wandered by late at night and for reasons that still escape that person, decided to play drunken ghost in the graveyard inside the building at three in the morning had a ghost story to tell.

Lucky for all of them that ghost stories became a fall semester tradition. Even though the building we were sitting in was chock fullo' ghostly sorts, each and every Halloween night, Jack, the theatre manager, would sit us down on the stage with all the lights dimmed, and we'd tell our stories. Jack would always start.

He'd fill us in on Bertha, the ghost in the balcony. You could see her, sitting up there in a chair, looking down on the stage. She must have been a theatre lover in her past life, or should that just be life, because there she was, every night, just sitting there in the fourth row of the balcony, right on the aisle. She'd disappear if anyone happened to find their way up into the balcony, and same thing if the lights came on, but there she was, whenever the lights were low and the upper level empty. She sat and watched the show. Always from the same seat.

After Jack introduced Bertha to all that year's freshmen and transfers, we'd go around the circle and tell the stories we had. Most of them stunk, unbelievable tales of frightening phantoms and mischievous poltergeists. Some of them were rewritten versions of all the urban legends, reconfigured just enough so that they took place in or around the college. Most of them were pure make-believe. A lot of them were nonsense. Or so I thought.

Jack would always finish the evening with his own ghostly encounter. His story always had us on the edge of our seats, even when we'd heard it several times. His story, coming from a respected professor and award winning director, that story felt true.

Jack's story took place during one of the first years he was teaching at the college, way back in the early '70s. Late one night, hip deep in term papers, Jack was nodding off at his desk. He knew that he was the last one in the building, because the night janitor always said goodnight before he left. Even so, somewhere in between awake & alert and sleepytime, Jack recognized the sound of the water fountain out in the hallway when it suddenly went off.

Believe me, the is was an easily placed noise. That water fountain was, in all likelihood, the first water fountain ever assembled in North America. Some students theorized that it had actually been the Queen's favorite bubbler, but those crazy pilgrim folk snatched it and brought it over on the Mayflower. In other words, it was old.

That thing made some very un-water fountain like noises. It actually sounded more like a Harley Davidson/baby screaming underwater combo deal. Clank clank clankity clank clank rattle rattlerattattattatttattattle screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee is the sound that came out of that thing when anyone dared to press the button. Not many people did that twice, not only because of the migraine inducing sound effects, but also because somewhere in the past, perhaps back at Plymouth Rock or maybe when General Custer was using it, the spiggoty thing became all misaligned. Instead of a nice cool refreshing sip of icy H2O soothing your throat and moistening your lips, you'd get a room temperature spattering of yellowy liquid right in the eye. It didn't even matter how tall or short or close or far you were, it somehow knew, and it shot you in the eye.

You can probably understand why the Clank clank clankity clank clankrattle rattle rattattattatttattattlescreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee coming from the hallway outside his office startled Jack. He thought he was alone in that big old building and who in this world would be quenching their thirst from that thing?

Jack slowly rose to his feet, shaking off the sleep as he headed towards the door. He peeked out into the hallway and saw nothing. It was dark out there, nothing but the red light from the exit sign reflecting on the surface of the Kaiser (that's what we called the fountain) and the cold linoleum floor.

Chalking the whole thing up to a mish-mosh of lack of sleep, hardwork, end of term stress, and his over-active imagination, Jack went back into the office to pack up his stuff and head home.
He tossed some books and papers into his bag and reached for his coat. Mid-reach, Clank clank clankity clank clank rattle rattlerattattattatttattattle screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee came pouring into the room from the hall again. Already on his feet thistime, Jack stepped towards the door. It took a second for his eyes to adjust. No one was at the Kaiser, but in the shadows, Jack swore he saw a shape, an arm maybe, rounding the corner and heading down the stairs to the basement. Knowing full well that there was no reason for any students to be in the building this late, Jack got his "hey,you're not supposed to be here" face on and trudged down the corridor. When he reached the steps, he shouted down, "Hey! Hello? Is anyone down there?"

No answer came back.

Curious to see if maybe he'd inadvertently picked up an LSD habit, Jack wandered down to the basement to prove his hallucinations false. He took the first ten steps quickly, but turned the corner and slowedhis pace for the last ten. At the bottom, Jack found himself in an empty room. On one side was the door to the costume and make-up room, that door was bolted. Jack, himself, had the only key. He checked it anyway. Satisfied, he wandered to the other side and checked the other door - a super wide, ridiculously heavy metal door that weighed close to a hundred pounds. That door led to the woodshop and was pad-locked. Jack felt his pocket, finding the lone key to be right where it belonged.

Shrugging it all off as late nights and caffeine jitters, Jack strolled back to his office, more ready to go home than he'd ever been before.

Quickly, Jack organized the paper's he'd been working on, just to give himself a head start on the next morning. A morning Jack was startingto realize was going to come way too soon. With his coat in hand this time, he heard it again, the unmistakable colicky baby/biker gang noise that emits from the Kaiser. He darted out into the hall and turned towards the sound. What he saw there relieved him. A boy. A small boy, no more than six or seven years old standing up on his tippy toes to get a drink.

"Hey, kid? Kid?" Jack called.

The kid didn't respond, he was busy slurping the loudest water ever. "Kid, you're not supposed to be here. Where's your mom and dad?" Jack didn't recognize the boy as the son of any of his co-workers, but figured some sort of parent had to be nearby.

As he approached the kid, with the intention of ripping ole pops a new one when he was found, Jack explained to us that he started to feel cold. Like someone had turned the air conditioner onto super Arctic freeze setting and it was blowing just at him.

Jack was still a good fifty feet away when the kid stopped drinking, stood up straight, looked right at, almost right through is the way he described it, Jack, smiled a real big crazy little boy goony bird smile and waved.

"Yeah, that's it. Hello," Jack muttered under his breath. About to repeat his where in the living heck are your parents line of questioning, Jack moved closer. The boy, he didn't seem to really notice Jack. He just turned and marched down the basement steps.

"No!!! Kid, you can't go down there," Jack shouted, running after the lad. Skipping all but the really important stairs, Jack found himself in that big empty basement room in no time.

No kid.

He checked both doors. Locked. Keys, still in his pocket. Jack was dumbfounded. He's a rational guy. Down to Earth. Straight laced and conservative. There was nothing to explain these things he was seeing. Or rather, what he wasn't seeing.

Sure that some of those radical 1960's campus hippies had spiked his coffee, Jack muttered curse words under his breath the entire way backupstairs.

Back in the office once again, Jack grabbed his bag and pulled on his coat. As he walked out into the hall, he smiled to himself at his foolishness. How could a grown man let his imagination get the best of him like that? With one foot firmly planted on the hall tile and the other well on it's way, Jack made an effort not to see the Kaiser with his peripheral. "Please don't go make a peep," Jack thought.

It didn't listen.

Clank clank clankity clank clank rattle rattle rattattattatttattattlescreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Jack stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly turned, swearing and cursing the mere existence of water fountains as he did so, and faced that end of the hall. There he was, gulping down nasty luke-warm, slightly eggy smelling water, the little boy.

His shoulders slumped and "why me-s" ran through his brain like hamsters on a wheel. "Kid?" Jack managed to spit out. "You're notsupposed to be here," came out next, trepidation replacing the irritation that was in his voice earlier.

Just like before, the boy stood up, turned real slow, smiled that bone chilling creepy little smile, and waved. Just like before, the boy turned and bounded down the stairs. Just like before, not wanting to, but no longer entirely in control, Jack headed after him.

Going full speed when he tried to make the worn out loafers on his feet make the turn around to corner to the steps, Jack slid on the tile and knocked into the wall. Stumbling uncontrollably down the first few steps, he hit the iron hand rail so hard that he actually chipped the bone in his elbow. Still, he didn't feel the pain, not yet, adrenaline kept him moving into the basement.

As he'd expected, that big empty room was just that, empty, so shoving his hand into his pocket, Jack grabbed his keys. Fumbling a little bit from all the nerves, Jack finally turned to dead-bolt and threw open the costume room door. He reached over and flipped on the lights, suddenly sending power to a room full of insanely bright make-up mirrors. That sort of brightness could probably melt your eyes, but Jack fought through the temporary blindness and the spots and the whiteness. When his vision started to clear he saw a fuzzy version of a room full shadowy figures. In the moment, he nearly wet himself,but he slowly realized what he was seeing was a room full of costume mannequins.

When his sense of sight returned, he searched under the tables, behind the dummies, in the wigs, within the props, and inside the cabinets, but there was no boy. That left only the wood shop.

Jack bolted across the room and sped towards the shop door. It took two hands and all his strength to pull the metal barricade open, and he had to prop it in place with his foot while he hooked the cable that held the door open around a bolt in the wall. Without that cable or that bolt, the door would slam violently shut, and I still have an ache in my once broken hand to prove the force that door closed with.

The fluorescent ceiling fixtures in the shop were easy on Jack's eyes, so when he hit the switch in that room the light actually made it easier to look around. He searched every inch of the shop, in the lumber room, behind scrap piles, under the work benches, around the table saw and air compressor. Finally, in the furthest corner of the room, near the giant drill press, Jack saw a pair of Keds sticking out.

"Hey, kid, I don't know how you got in here, but it's not hide and seek time. Get out here." Jack shouted.

The kid didn't budge. Jack crept closer.

"Hey. I said get out here. Where are your parents?" Jack mumbled.

Still, the kid didn't move a bit. Nearly right on top of him, Jack edged his way around the drill press. There he saw the kid, just laying there, a glassy look in his eyes, his chest, which should have been rising and falling with breath, still.

Jack, side-stepping panic, dashed the last few feet and reached out to the boy, boy scout CPR lessons swirling around in his brain.

As he went to touch the kid, to help him, to save him, Jack placed his hand on the little guy's chest. The boy vanished. Like smoke dissipating into the night air, he was gone.

Now Jack would tell us this story every Halloween night, with the stage lights low, and that very woodshop directly beneath the stage floor we were sitting on. With the freshman sufficiently freaked out, Jack would usually ask for a volunteer to run to his office, back behind the stage, to get something for him. Realizing they'd have to walk by the waterfountain and the stairs, no one ever offered their services. I did. I didn't believe. "Great story," I thought, "but just that, a story." That was my stance until three years later, when my own empty building encounter changed my mind.

Next week, the anniversary of my ghostly run-in, I'll tell that story. Until then, run home and hide under the bed when ever you hear Clank clank clankity clank clank rattle rattle rattattattatttattattlescreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Read the Scooby Doo style revelation that takes place at the end of Jack's story.

A Super PlainOleShoutOut to Deb and Joe

I'm a big slacker. I readily admit that. I'd apologize, but that's more effort than I'm really willing to put forth.

A few weeks back, Joe from Crotchety Old Man Yells at Cars was kind enough to bestow upon me this beautiful award. I didn't forget his kindness; I'm just... incredibly lazy. I hope Joe forgives my slackery ways. Check out his site. He may be crotchety, but he's hilarious and one of my favorite bloggers.

Then, as if I don't possess enough slackerific tendancies, Deb from Debbie Does Drivel goes and gives me another award. Deb is great, and I love her site, but her award came with rules and regualtions and stipulations and all those sorts of things (Deb, that just makes me like Joe better). I guess I'll play by the rules and list 6 things that make me happy. I'll have do the second part (passing the award on to 6 other deserving folks) later.

6. Monkeys in people clothes.

5. Monkeys in hats and/or diapers.

4. That no matter how hard they try, the Cubs can't lose today.

3. This Saturday no one is making me go pick pumpkins, pick apples, wander through haunted corn mazes, trek through the zoo, or any sort of extended family activities where the activity takes the back seat to my mom and sister yelling at me. I actually have an entire day where no one will bug me, and I can just relax on the couch doing what I do best - not a damn thing.

2. PlainOleTike (that's the rug rat)

1. I suppose this as good a way to announce this as any, there's another PlainOleTike on the way. Heretofore this munchkin will be referred to as PlainOleTike 2: Fetus Boogaloo.

Thanks Joe and Deb.

I'll be back tomorrow with a regular post: a four part Halloween saga that will tell you all the greatest ghost story of all time.

The Downfall of McMerica

Americans are getting fatter and fatter. I'm sorry if you're fat and this offends you, but so be it. We, as a people, are getting bigger, fatter, lazier, and I don't think it will be long before some unsuspecting surgeon cracks open the chest of some middle management drone from Akron and finds a Super Size order of McFries right there in the left ventricle.

Sure, we have health craze spurts every now and again, but the number of treadmills currently treading mills are far out numbered by the ones that currently act as clothes hangers. The folks that dutifully order entrees with the little hearts next to them would be trampled by the early morning Ultimate Omletters (yes, the Burger King and his big giant creepy head are actually seeing success serving up heart disease on a warm toasted bun). Our health club membership cards are collecting more dust than our Swiffers could ever hope to.

Yup, here in McMerica we're getting lazy, fat, slovenly, and there's no end in sight. We're a society of people who throw our gnawed on fried chicken bones out the car window, aiming for that jogger. We're a land of folks who habitually pump four dollar a gallon gas into our suburban utility vehicles while the bicycle in the garage becomes a future middle school science project on oxidation. We're a country that takes a perfectly nutritious, chock full o' vitamins vegetable, and deep fries it. Really, was there an outcry in the streets for someone to start fat frying green beans? Come on people, when is it enough cholesterol?

I'll tell you why we are the way we are today too. It's TV. I put 100% of the blame on TV. No, this isn't going the direction you think it is. What I'm saying is that TV now-a-days is too good. CSI:Tuscaloosa and Distraught Soccer Moms and Attractive People Trapped on an Island are all too good. I can't recall shows being this good back when I was a kid, and that's the problem. There are no good kids TV shows that encourage today's youth to go outside and play.

What you say? That's contradictory? Nope. Wait. Listen. Learn. Nod in agreement.

When I was a kid we had the greatest horrible TV shows ever. We had the Dukes of Hazard, with the car jumping, police evading, saloon fighting Duke boys always ready for action. We had the A-Team, chockfull of damsel/dude in distress, save the day heroics. We had Knight Rider, well Knight Rider had a freakin' talking car. How cool is that? We had Shatner rolling over the hood of his car; super-powerCourtney Cox; Richard Dean Anderson making a bomb from a grapefruit, an adult diaper, and a clothes pin; a dude that turned into a panther; Don Johnson's day-glo socks; Major Dad solving crimes with some blond headed dude, and two different Lee Majors vehicles.

The problem today's kids face, and the reason why McMerica is become obeser and obeser by the second (in fact we, as a nation are consuming forty-two trillion Double Whoppers with Cheese while you read this sentence) is there isn't enough great horrible TV show for kids to watch.

TV shows used to inspire play. You'd get a buddy, you'd be Bo Duke, he'd be Luke Duke and you'd sit under the picnic table in Mrs. Stein'sbackyard, driving that bad boy around, jumping imaginary rivers and crashing invisible road blocks. Sometimes the Duke boys would crash that picnic table up and have to jump on there vintage Huffy/Schwinn motorcycles to evade Roscoe P. Coltrane (aka the little sister). If you absolutely had to, a third pal could join in, but if Eddie didn't want to be Cooter, he'd have to make up a third Duke, usually it was Han Solo Duke.

If there were four of you, that bad ass picnic table would be Mr. T's van. And your little gang was a team of underground vigilantes who almost shot people and blew up stuff that was kinda near the bad guys. Shows like The A-Team led to endless hours of me being Hannibal, the smart one; Tristan as Murdock, the crazy one; and Mitch asB.A., the strong one. Eddie never wanted to be Face, the pretty one (what little boy ever wanted to be the pretty one), so he was usually Han Solo A-Team.

Even if you had no friends, you could be Knight Rider and hop underneath that picnic table and talk to it. Sure, that's a little creepy and sad, but at least those kids were outside, running around, pretending to solve mysteries, calling the picnic table to come rescue them whenever trouble arose. If things got too hairy for you and your version of Kitt crashed, you could always call an imaginary Han Solo Car to come to your aid.

That's just the way TV shows were back in the day. TV shows that were so bad that you had to go outside and act them out yourselves and make them better. Shows like Misfits of Science, Manimal, The GreatestAmerican Hero, Wonder Woman, V, McGyver, TJ Hooker, The Fall Guy, The Six Million Dollar Man, Simon and Simon, Riptide, The Incredible Hulk, and Miami Vice.

These shows were so bad that they were awesome. These shows encouraged kids to get up and go outside. Now we have theaptly named Jackass.

Back then we had horrible video games. You spend too much time slothing away in the house, you'd burn out your retinas playing Pong, or if you had no friends, you'd play vertical pong, also known as Breakout. If you played those games for more than half an hour, with lack of motion, animation, or change of scenery, your eyes would dry out and you'd lose the ability to blink.

Come on, there's not a soul in my age bracket who didn't have dreams, or perhaps nightmares, about the Tetris pieces not quite fitting right.

Now video games are so cool that I'm not sure why anyone would want to participate in real life. There's no need to pretend your Bo or Luke or Han Solo Duke out under the picnic table when Nintendo can get a General Lee for you.

America is in danger or losing its imagination. We're in danger of sinking into the couch, our cottagey cheesey thighs and overhanging bellies getting in the way of any sort of physical activity. We need to get kids out there flying in invisible jets; warning each other that they won't like them when they're angry, jumping off the front porch over the bushes making the Bionic Woman nenenenenenenenenenenenenoise as they go... We need Spidey and Friends, we need The Goonies, we need Star Wars movies where the heroes are actually the good guys...

Before too long we're going to be big lumps o' goo, stuck in between the arms of the barcalounger, McMeal in one fist, game controller in the other, wishing that Jack Bauer and Gil Grissom could solve all our real problems. I wish they could, perhaps if they had a partner. MayI suggest Han Solo?

Give me a shot at winning Humor Blogger of the Year by voting here. Or, you could just give me a smiley here.

G.I. Joe's Adventures in the Land of Doot Dah Doo: and Other Choking Hazards

It is my belief that there comes a time in every single person's lifethat they are so bored they want to take drastic action. I've heard people utter, "I'm so bored I could die." I've seen folks stare at a clock so intently, as if to will the hour hand to suddenly lurch forward, that I feel their eyes may actually pop out of their head's and shoot across the room. I've witnessed boredom being eased by doodling (on paper, desks, pants, arms, and even the back of a sleeping person's neck), napping (including snoring, jerking awake so violently you fall out of your seat, and some monstrous drool puddles), and playing little games (tic tac toe, hang-man, and the ill-advised "see if we can drop these staples into that floor outlet" - but that's a story for another day).

A while back, I encountered such boredom firsthand. My wife signed us up to attend a baby safety class, in preparation for our first born's arrival. At first that seemed like a splendid idea, learn baby CPR and baby Heimlich and such, but then we got there. I soon realized I was in for a level of excitement that can usually only come from bashing yourself in the head with a pair of maracas.

The class started with Boring Johansen (yes, that is what it said on his "Hello my name is…" sticker) lecturing the group about car seats. Yes, this is vital information, but I believe I was signed up for the common-sense-impaired section of the course by mistake, because the session began with Boring informing the group that you should always strap the seat in, not simply place it in the car. This statement produced various "oooohs" and "aahhhhhs" from the crowd, like Boromir had discovered the secrets to time travel or some such thing. It was right then that I started beating my head against the table, thinking that maybe time would go by faster if I was unconscious.

In this ninety-minute session about car seat safety, I learned this:

(Yes, there is a big blank space here for a reason. I'm making a point.)

To keep myself entertained I decided to play some games with it. The same games that would probably drive me nuts in my own classroom were suddenly my lifeline to sanity. I poured myself a glass of the world's sourest lemonade (lemonade that would inspire the phrase "If life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade like that stuff cuz it's so sour that it's actually puckering internal sphincters"), grabbed a few of the cookies they'd laid out for us, and played the following games:

1. Every time the man said the word "crotch" I'd force myself to do a"shot" of the pucker-juice. The word came up so many times that if I'd been doing actual shots, I'd have passed out around the twenty-five minute mark, an amazing amount of crotch considering this was a baby safety class, not a how to.

2. How long can I go without taking a bite of that cookie? This was a challenging game, cuz those cookies were good. I'd try to set goals for myself: watch the second hand go around two times, get a bite –watch it go three times – take a bite --- wait til Boring Johansen repeats the word "crotch" again, then get a bite. It tested my willpower and helped the cookies survive the whole session, a pretty difficult game.

3. Hold my breath until the man's PowerPoint presentation repeats something he'd already said. Okay, this wasn't much of a challenge; each slide contained something he'd already said at least once. Almost every one letting us know that a five-point harness car seat connects in the crotch. (Do a shot, eat a cookie.)

The only thing that kept me there was the knowledge that the second half of the session would be run by someone else. A younger female nurse had introduced Borizimo the Not-So-Magnificent and promised tobe back later. It had to be better.

After a short break, we returned to find a few colorful note cards on the table in front of us. The cards contained some interesting questions about child safety and we learned that we'd take turns reading the cards and attempting to answer our own questions. It seemed to be a good idea in concept, but in execution it made me long for the days of Boro the Lord of the Car Seat.

Apparently common sense is not a strong characteristic around these parts, because these questions should have taken ten minutes with simple, straight forward answers. Instead, they sparked discussion and debate, dragging on for over an hour. Non-discussable, un-debatable things were suddenly being argued with a passion that's usually reserved for holy wars, soccer fans, and Star Trek geeks.

The first question, read out loud by a clean cut man in his mid-thirties, asked the group to name five household items that could pose a danger to babies. Boom boom boom boom boom and we're done. Next question. That's how it should have gone, but no, yuppie-boy hemmed and hawed for what seemed like enough time to have an impromptu reenactment of the War of 1812. Just after the baby new year 1813 was born, someone shouted out, "household cleaners."

The teacher praised him and agreed that household cleaners were indedd dangerous for babies. He was all smiles until she asked him to name four more. She may as well have been asking him to recite the Gettysburg Address in Latin. After about fifty-seven "ums"and thirty-eight "uhs," I decided to help the poor man out.

"Blenders," I offered, merely to lighten to mood in the room, get a cheap laugh, and take some pressure of the common-senseless man to my right.

Instead of a few chuckles, I got a chorus a Family Feud style "Good answer, good answer"s and a little bit of clapping, like these people were stumped by the question and amazed that I was able to pull an answer out of thin air like that. I then knew I had to move from this neighborhood before my son was old enough to be infected by the stupidity that was present before me.

Yuppie, the pressure now off, blurted out, "Outlets."

Another clap attack and round of "good answer"s followed. If Richard Dawson were dead, he'd have rolled over in his grave.

The nurse lady, sensitive young lass that she was, snapped back sarcastically, "Yes, all the outlets that just happen to be laying around are very dangerous."

A very elderly woman on the other side of the room, who was there for no apparent reason, because she was last fertile when Taft was in office, quickly became that annoying person that asks way too many questions and adds her own two cents to everything that you just want to strangle so the idiocy can continue interruption free. She defended Yuppster with, "Uh, outlets are dangerous. They're very very dangerous."

At this point, Richard Dawson would have beaten her with a garden hoe, instead the nurse stepped in. "Yes they are," answered nurse, "but we're asking about items that could be left laying around for a baby to pick up."

Eventually the rest of the group agreed upon five things that are dangerous for babies, a list that included the obvious choices: model airplanes, large rocks, plastic forks, those buttons with the sticker stick pins on the back, and "my wedding ring," but somehow the conversation was cut short before they could mention hatchets, tomahawks, fighter jets, Freddy Kreuger, and weapons grade plutonium.

Question after question, the nurse lady led the class in the most round-a-bout way possible back to what should be considered common knowledge. Actually, until that evening, I had no idea just how uncommon common sense was. She had to help these people understand that it's not a good idea for babies to get their heads stuck in the crib slats, fall down the steps, sign up for sky-diving lessons, or ingest cat feces.

As time went on, I believe the room actually made her dumber, illustrated by the "choking test" she demonstrated. Nurse lady held up an empty cardboard toilet paper tube, an item that my niece calls a doot dah doo, since that's the noise she yells when she holds the tube up to her mouth. Nurse Lady used that as an example of a small child's throat.

Anything that can fit through the tube, she said, should be considered a choking hazard and kept out of reach. She demonstrated. Holding up a small shirt button above the tube. She paused for a second to build the suspense, as if we were going to be amazed that it fit. She let go, allowing the button to fall to the floor and bounce around where innocent children (or my stupider classmates) might find it and choke. She paused again, this time for dramatic effect, waiting for the ooohs and aaahhhs to come. They did, because these people were so dumb they would have been amazed by the concept of pockets.

Apparently not certain that we all understood that small things fit through big holes, she demonstrated again. Holding up a quarter this time, she gave us the dramatic pause, then dropped the coin through the tube. One guy actually stood up to see if it made it. It went on.

Preemie pacifier. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Ooooo. Aaaaaahhhh.

Lighter. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Oooooo. Aaaaaaahhhh.

Action figure. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Oooooo. Aaaaaaahhhh.

Cap to a two-liter bottle. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Oooooo. Aaaaaaahhhh.

Barbecue fork. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Ooooooo. Aaaaaaahhh.

A Volleyball. Pause. Drop. Bounce. Oooooo. Aaaaaaahhhh.

My turn to read and answer a question was next. I had to follow the "doot da doo" choking on a GI Joe. That was akin to going on with a five man kazoo band after Sinatra has vacated the stage, so I didn't know how I'd top the cardboard toilet paper tube's entertainment value.

My note card told me to ask the group to list four safety concerns regarding pacifiers. Immediately, jokes galore ran through my head. It shouldn't be made of lava. Don't put it in the front seat with the airbags on. Maybe it should have the option of doubling as a rape whistle. Instead, I responded, "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that they shouldn't be able to fit through the toilet paper tube."

That was an easy joke. It should have been a slam dunk. You could have heard crickets chirping. You could have heard a pin drop through a cardboard tube.

I don't think they got it. I should have gone with the lava joke.

The rest of the session was loaded with such common sense that it made my head hurt, but it seemed to amaze so many of these people that I began to wonder how some of them were able to master those tricky insert penis into vagina maneuvers that got them into this situation in the first place.

Oh dear God, these people are going to be raising children soon. Let's just hope they realize they need to belt in the car seat, keep the flamethrowers out of reach, and understand that the five-point harness connects in the crotch. (Now drink some pucker-ade and eat a cookie).

Throw me a bone and vote for me for Humor Blogger of the Year,

or just a vote over at Humor-Blogs.com.

That's My Dad

My dad had a heart attack. It was six years ago, but sometimes it sticks in my brain like it just happened. Every now and again, something triggers the memories of that day, like a song or a movie, but other times it just pops into my brain like an uninvited cousin and her weird obnoxious son who doesn't wear shoes that you didn't invite in the first place.

Luckily, I guess, I just happened to be staying at my parent's house that night. My wife and I had just driven ten hours to get there. We were beat and already in bed, starting to drift of to sleepy-land. Mom yelled something down the stairs. I didn't hear her at first, but my wife made out the words "hospital" and "chest pains." I darted to the stairs, praising the people at Bayer for pounding their commercials into my head. "I'll be up in two seconds," I hollered back, "give him some aspirin." My wife was dressed and ready to go before I could even think about finding some pants.

Throughout my high school years, each and every morning, I felt like Gilligan. Why? Well, because every day, on his way out the door, my dad would stop in my room and wake me up with a gentle, "Hey, little buddy, it's time to get up." Like a stupid teenager, I made fun of
it, never doing it, but always wanting to respond with a "five more minutes, Skipper." Never to his face, that would hurt his feelings, but to my mom and my sister, the gloves were off. "Why in the world does he call me little buddy?" I'd complain. Finally, Mom snapped,
"He doesn't get to see much of you." With his ridiculous commute and long hours, she was right. "He asked me if he could be the one that wakes you up; it's important to him." I stopped mocking and complaining.

Mom wanted me to drive. I was calm and she was starting to panic. She must have told me thirty-seven times that I was driving, that she couldn't handle it, but when I ran back down to the basement to get something stupid like my wallet or cell phone or something I don't even remember what, using up precious time, she hopped in the driver's seat and started the car up. She never relinquished control, even though the whole way there she kept talking about pulling over and letting me take the wheel. It was a white knuckle ride the whole way, mom paying more attention to dad, asking him over and over and over how he was doing, how he felt, if he was okay. She was paying about as much attention to the road, the other cars, and those pesky little traffic laws as a hyperactive pre-teen does to his teacher when there's a bird outside the window. The exact same drive I took every day, from my parents house to my college (just a few miles past the hospital), was suddenly very different. I felt helpless. I wanted to be in that driver's seat.

I bought my first car without actually knowing how to drive it, I hadn't learned yet how to drive stick. Dad promised to teach me. My first manual transmission lesson, I sat down in my car. My dad showed me the gears, explained the clutch, and demonstrated how to shift. I
was ready to start. Shifting into reverse to back out, easing off the clutch, and slowly giving just a little gas, I stalled it. The car lurched forward a way I didn't know that cars could move.

"It's okay," Dad encouraged, "try again, you'll get the touch in no time."

Shift, ease, gas. Stall. Lurch.

"Don't get discouraged. Everyone has a hard time at first," Dad urged.

Shift. Ease. Gas. Stall. Lurch.

"Again,"

Shift. Ease. Gas. Stall. Lurch.

"Okay, maybe you should let me try it. You can watch and see what I do"

I jumped out of the car and my dad and I switched spots.

Shift. Ease. Gas. Stall. Lurch.

"It's okay, dad, don't get discouraged."

"What the heck is wrong here?" Dad questioned.

After about forty-five minutes of futzing (his word, not mine) around with that stupid little car, Dad was getting mighty irritated. With his foot on the clutch and the car in neutral, we started to roll backwards out of the driveway, but with some kind of Superdad lightening quick reaction power, he slammed the car into first gear, turned the key, popped the clutch, and jammed the gas pedal. I expected that the car would stall again, but it shot forward like a stallion with a horsefly hovering around his rear. I guess Dad wasn't expecting that either, because he'd nearly shot us right into the side of the garage.

Earlier that night, when my wife and I had first arrived, we all sat up in the living room talking, joking, laughing. One of the last things I remember Dad saying that night was reading aloud from one of those wacky t-shirt catalogs - "They say I have ADD, but I don't thi... Ooooo, look, a chicken." He, being the king of the short attention span, found that one hysterical. Still, looking back with that hindsight thing being what it is, he didn't seem himself at all that night.

Every family gathering, every neighborhood party, every barbecue, picnic, camp out, or conference, my dad is the one telling the jokes. He's always got a showstopper in his pocket. He thinks they're hilarious, and I haven't figured out if I'm the only one that finds him funny and everyone else is polite, or if he really is the laugh riot he believes he is. I really don't think it matters either way, he'll tell them anyway. My mom calls them groaners and asks people to
not encourage him, but he doesn't need encouragement, he just needs an audience. My childhood memories are polka dotted with occasions when he pulled out the big boy, his favorite, every time he told it, he'd start to snicker and giggle to himself before the punchline came. That laugh was infectious, soon everyone was hootin' and hollerin' and they had no idea why, which made it even funnier.

We arrived at the hospital, in one piece no less. My mom pulled up into the ambulance bay and I ran around to take over. I'd park the car while she walked dad in. By the time I got inside, they were all set up in their little curtain area. Dad was hooked up to about fifty-two machines, bleeps and blips and big red digital numbers and tubes and wires, like a whirlwind of chaotic confusion, going every which way. Mom, already teetering on the edge of full-blown-tizzyville, began to get me going. Each change on the readout screen sent me into high alert. My sister showed up in such a panic that the nurse threatened to remove her. It was those moments
that my admiration grew for two very brave people: My dad, who continued to joke around, his way of dealing with stress and an attempt to keep us all calm; and my wife, who's level head and medical background gave us all a voice of reason, patiently giving us a bleep/blip play by play in the compassionate way the doctors didn't have time for.

One particularly Barbie-ficated Christmas morning that I can still picture, my dad and my uncle, hip deep in Dreamhouse bits and magic kitchen pieces, exasperated, stressed, and laughing - each confusing step in the not-so-kid-simple instruction book causing them to survey the room full of pink chaos around them and shout that morning's sarcastic mantra, "Some Assembly Required." Some Assembly Required became a running gag for those two, a trailer hitch, steaks on the grill, a new bike, a crib for his grand-daughter, the finished basement they worked on... were all met with the same catch phrase, "Some Assembly Required."

After about half an hour lying in the emergency room, in the middle of a bad joke, his eyes rolled back in his head, eye-lids fluttering, chest convulsing, arms waving. My mom started
screaming, "Mike stop it. Mike, it's not funny, stop it." At first, we all thought the eye rolling and the convulsing was him goofing around. It took the blips and the bleeps, blippin' and bleepin' with no more rhyme or reason, just frantic, piercing bedlam, to make it real. Doctors and nurses and the like came rushing in there like a pack of malnourished rotwiellers pouncing on a McDLT.

Helpless. That's not a word I could have ever used to describe my dad, except once. When my sister was getting married, we had a bachelor party for my soon to be brother-in-law. The whole gang was going to play paintball, and, of course, Dad was invited. I don't recall if anyone expected him to take us up on the invite, but I distinctly remember thinking about a little revenge on the paintball field for a few unjustified groundings and the like. Teams that day were randomly selected, and of course, I was on the opposite side as my old man. Yes, I thought, a Mr. Burns style "excellent" playing in my brain. Now, this paintball course was out in the woods, densely forested, lots of shrubs and heavy brush covered the ground, and I was doing my best GI Joe maneuvers to sneakily get myself to the front line. There was a small, but incredibly muddy ravine, with a little creek meandering through it, dividing our side from theirs. When I got up there, I saw Dad. The man who represented strength, stability, courage, and honor to me, right there for me to shoot. Before I had a chance, he slipped and fell, sliding ten feet down the slippery slope, into the creek bed. The muck sucked his feet in and he couldn't seem to right himself. By then he was in his late fifties, so a fall like that wasn't a bounce back and keep running kind of fall. Hidden away in the bushes, I felt that moment of helplessness with him as he tried to get back up. My brain debated with itself for a half of a half of a second, wondering if I should help him, shoot him, or stay hidden and let him keep his pride. Before I could make a decision, a friend, one on Dad's team, bounded down the incline and pulled my pop out of the creek, helping him to the top of the slimey, rain-soaked ridge. Once he was safe, I popped out and shot them both. It was awesome.

The doctors needed room. The nurses, very fond of helping the doctors achieve that space, kicked us out. We were shooed away like cats drawn to the can opener. We wanted to stay, but we weren't wanted in return. I remember my sister bawling and holding my mom, then they
were gone. I know they didn't just vanish, but they were just gone. I tried to back away, I didn't want to be in the way, but my legs wouldn't cooperate. I recall, at least in my head, very calmly
saying, "That's my dad," and falling to the floor. My wife pulled me to my feet and dragged me out of there.

My dad has about a million stories about stupid, but incredibly funny things that he did as a kid. The idiotic trouble that a teenage boy and his friends can get into, that was passed down to me from him, only, I think he was worse than me. He grew up in a different state than we live in, moving away to get a fresh start in his twenties. My mom kept him here, which was good for me, but I've never gotten to see my dad in his element. One time, and one time only, have I ever seen him with his buddies. We visited some family, and made it a point to have breakfast with his pal, Bruce. That morning, I saw the ME in my dad, or the HIM in me. A different element, a different time and place, a different man. The waffles were just barely on this side of okay, but that breakfast changed everything. I suddenly understood who my dad was.

Out in the waiting room, totally unaware of what was going on back in curtain number three, we prayed. My mom begged us to take a knee with her and say some words. I don't remember what was said or how long we sat there, still in shock, I stared at the door back into the emergency room, hoping someone would come out soon and tell us what was happening. A nurse or an orderly or a receptionist, I don't know what she was, but she wore scrubs and looked official enough, she came over to us and sincerely apologized. "I'm sorry," two simple words,
two small, powerful words and that was it, that was her telling me my dad was gone. Her telling me that my kids would have no grandpa. That my mom was all alone. That I'd never hear those groaner jokes again.

My wife asked what happened and it turned out that Scrubbie the Tactless Buffoon was apologizing for us having to witness what we had. She had no more idea than we did what was going on back there. Totally out of control, I laid into her. How dare she come over here and say "sorry" to people in that situation, did she have no sense in her head. I went on for a while, probably making her cry, but definitely teaching her a valuable lesson. Later, I felt bad that I'd talked to her that way, but my mom, my sister, and my wife told me not to, she'd deserved it.

I saw my dad cry once. I was in college. He'd been laid off about a year earlier and had struggled a bit, trying his hand at sales. It was something he'd always wanted to give a shot, but it just wasn't working out. I'll never forget my mom's reaction to a few years of just not cutting it, "Your father really wants to try this. He thinks he'll do well because he's a people person, but he won't. He's too honest and kind. He's too good a man." One day he came home, I was walking into the garage as he was getting out of his car. He wasn't due home for hours, so I asked. My mom must have known already, cuz she was waiting in the doorway. He couldn't, or wouldn't, look at me. He had tears in his eyes. I looked to my mom, and she shooed me away. Letting Dad pass me, I left. He felt like a failure that day, like he'd let his family down. I had never been happier that he was my dad. I had never seen him as more of a man.

We waited forever. Tired of the waiting room, we wandered. The chapel, the gift shop, the vending machines, random hallways. Just waiting.

When my niece was born, my sister wasn't in great shape. There were complications, and I don't know if anybody ever explained them well enough to me for me to comprehend exactly what was going on. To this day, I don't know if my sister or her daughter were in danger, and to be honest, I don't really care. All that matters is they're both fine today. My sister, one of my best friends, still offering advice. My niece, who may possibly be the loudest human being on the planet - showing us all that evolution may very well make the microphone unnecessary - getting ready to celebrate birthday number four. The day she was born, the whole family was gathered at the hospital waiting, Dad more excited than anybody. We sat in a little area down the hall from my sister's room, and each and every time a doctor, someone who looked like a doctor, or anyone wearing white appeared in the hall, Dad stood up in anticipation. Finally, Emmy was born. You should have seen the look of incredible pride and unmeasurable joy on his face when he held her the first time.

Eventually, the doctor emerged. A man with posture so good that I have to interrupt this story to remark on the rigidness of his spine. You could have used his vertebrae to measure if you're hanging shelves straight, that's how good his posture was. Anyway, he, in a very professional and straight-forward way, let us know what was going on. I don't remember all the technical mumbo-jumbo, or which artery was all gunked up and which was one partially full o' goop, I only
remember him telling us that Dad was going to be okay. A simple angioplasty would lead to more waiting and worrying and praying and aimless hallway wandering, but he'd be alright. And he is.

That was the worst and the best day of my entire life. So many more memories have happened since. The zoo with his granddaughter. World travels with my mom. Enjoying his retirement by getting a job. Friends, family, the people who are glad he's still with us. More jokes, moments of him lost in his own little world like he tends to do, the stress and excitement of football Sundays, declining a second invite to play paintball, playing his guitar to watch Emmy dance, the tears in his eyes when he found out he'd be Grandpa squared. Strength. Courage. Hope. Love.

If this was his story, he'd tell you a joke. He'd probably tell the one about the little Native American boy. Back in the pre-PC days it was a joke about an Indian boy, but I'll play by the rules. The little boy was curious about something, so he went to ask his father. His father was the wisest and bravest in the whole tribe, so when the little fella wondered about anything, Dad had an answer. "Father, where do we get our names?" he asked.

"Well, son, when your sister was born, it was early morning. I held her in my arms, emerged from the tee pee and saw a running deer. Her name became Running Deer. When your brother was born, I emerged from the tee pee and saw a strong buffalo. That became his name. Often
times, we name our children after what we see in the moments after they're born. Why do you ask, Pooping Moose?"

That's my dad.

Sorry, I wasn't feeling funny today, but if you want, you can still vote for me for Humor Blogger of the Year by clicking here.

The Only Thing Better Than Chicken Pot Pie is Deep Fried Chicken Pot Pie With Bacon

I've reached the point in my life -- with a kid and a parental heart attack under my belt -- that I'm really trying to live healthier. I try to eat right. I do a sit-up every now and again. I
read the labels at the grocery store. Okay, I'm still working on the whole concept of portion control, but Saturday I realized I was a lot closer to the right track than I'd previously though. This weekend I had dinner with Cholesterol Jones himself, the walking anti-Richard Simmons sat down and talked with me about his eating habits. I went out to dinner with my pal Rob.

Jim's usually good for a laugh or two, but the other night he had me pretty close to wetting
my pants. I know, I know, peeing your pants is the coolest, but still I tried to stop myself anyway.

A lot of Jim's humor comes from the delivery, so try to imagine this dialogue in a slow paced, dead-pan like a manic depressive Steven Wright.

"So my mom shows me this article she found in some magazine about the ten worst things in the world for you to eat........

There was a long pause during which wondered where in the world this story might be going. Like a june bug in your bedroom in the middle of the night, Jim has a tendency to shoot off in odd directions that no one could anticipate.

"Number one was the Peppridge Farms Chicken Pot Pie... ... ..."

Expecting him to mention the restaurant we were currently sitting in, I definitely wasn't anticipating any talk about pot pie. Why in the word he decided to bring up pot pie, I wasn't certain.

"That's what I had for dinner last night... There was a little picture next to the article in the magazine; it was the same package, the same brand... ... ... ... I mean, what are the odds, that the thing I ate for dinner the night before was the worst thing in the world you could possibly
eat on the day that my mom gives me an article to read about the worst thing you could possible eat?"

"How were things rated?" I inquired, "What was it, a health list or something?"

"Exactly. Fat, cholesterol, calories, sodium..."

"What else was on the list?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't remember all of it. Burger King fries. Burger King chicken tenders..."

"Really? I wonder what makes Burger King fries worse than other fries," I wondered.

"They're nasty," my wife, who does not ever get called to do Burger King commercials, quipped.

"I mean, what are the odds. It's the worst thing in the whole world to eat, and that's what I had for dinner," Jim carried on, his brain all stuck on pot pie the same way the pot pie is probably all jammed up in his arteries. "I mean, it's only this big," he claimed, showing us with his hands that the pot pie was about the size of a pygmy shrew, "it's not a lot of food. How could it be that bad?"

"Well, it's not like you eat those every day," I consoled.

"Yeah, but that's not all I had."

"What else did you have?" I asked, imagining Mr. Anti-Vegetable may have complimented the pot pie with some sort of potato concoction or maybe a bread product.

"I had some tacos," Jim admitted, pulling that one so far out of left field that even the left fielder got smacked in the head cuz he didn't see it coming.

"You ate tacos and chicken pot pie?"

"Yeah, it's small and it took a whole hour to cook, and I had some left over taco meat that I wanted to use up."

"So you had tacos as an appetizer?"

"Yeah, kind of. I guess you could call it an appetizer."

"How many tacos did you have?"

"How many tacos would you think?"

"Well, when we have tacos I usually eat four or five, so I'm guessing, since tacos were just your warm-up, you had three."

There was no response, just a look. A look that said, what are you crazy? Three tacos, that's nothing.

"Four?"

Crazy look.

"Five?"

The same look, only with a hint of exasperation. I remember back in the day, Jim used to eat a ten pack of Taco Bell tacos and still have room for a bag of fun sized Kit Kat bars, two liters of Coke 2, and the hind quarters of a spit-roasted hippopotamus, but that was in high school, there's no way he could still eat like that. "Six tacos?"

Jim gave me this big goony bird smile that was so crazy it made the Cheshire Cat look sane.

"Six tacos and a chicken pot pie? What, losing your touch?" I sarcastically chided. "Didn't you have any rice or beans to go with it?"

"And a bag of chips with salsa."

The look of shock and amazement stood in place of me asking, "What the...?"

"While I was waiting for the pound of meat to cook. Just to tide me over," he explained.

Apparently having said enough about the feast of the century that Jim calls a light supper, he transitioned into a story about his latest trip to the doctor.

"I went to the doctor earlier this week too... I have this whole long list of things that are wrong with me and none of them are taken care of... He didn't do anything..."

"What's wrong?" I dared to ask.

"Well... my left ear is all clogged up, so he gave me this spray to shoot up my nose. Then there's the problem with my eye..."

"Wait," I interrupted, "your ear is clogged up, so he gave you nose spray?"

"Yeah, apparently it's all connected in there. I'm supposed to shoot it up my nose and the gunk will plop outta my ear."

I was still trying not to picture, but to at least understand the ear/nose caverns that allow this to happen, but Jim had moved on.

"Then, there's the fact that I go to the bathroom all the time... I'm afraid to even go to the movies... I go to the bathroom like every hour..."

Suddenly there was no more eye contact, Jim's gaze just kinda drifted off towards the floor, down and to the right.

"The doctor said he didn't think there was anything he could do about that... but he wanted to .... check my prostate just in case..."

"You're only thirty-five. I didn't think you had to do that until you're forty," I wondered.

"Fifty... so I have to drop the drawers... it was very uncomfortable... then he pushed it in even deeper... I didn't like it... and I told the doctor that... 'Bigger stuff comes out of there,' he told me... 'Yeah, but that's coming out... it was designed with out in mind.'... ... ... 'Everyone says that,' the doc said... ... ... 'Yeah, and besides the other stuff is soft... not like fingers... ... ... and I wasn't even bent over a table... ... ... I was just laying there in the fetal position... ... ... very
uncomfortable... ... ... I don't know if it got all stretched out, but I was walking funny the rest of the day... ... ... I hope it goes back... ... ... ... I have a whole new world of admiration for gay
guys... ... ... I wonder if they enjoy going to the bathroom... ... ... ... ... ... at least they seem to walk normal."

The eye contact snapped back. "I also got all this blood work done. A cholesterol test and a bunch of other stuff."

"Your cholesterol was probably around 900."

"It was a little high."

"So you went home and ate six tacos and a chicken pot pie to celebrate?"

"And some chips and salsa... ... ... I really got to start eating healthier."

There was a big sigh and what could only be described as a contemplative pause. Mid life-style rumination, the waitress came over. Jim asked if he could add bacon to his chili-cheeseburger. The looks my wife and I gave him made him feel the need to defend his order, "Hey, I survived the pot pie, and that was the worst thing you can eat."

I sure would appreciate a vote for HumorBlogger of the Year.

Cursing, Nude Folks, and Plumber's Butt: A List of Things We Don't Want While We Eat Soup

A few years back I went to the movies. I'm a sucker for any of those happy ending sports flicks, so I was pretty excited to be seeing "The Rookie" with Dennis Quaid. Not actually with Dennis Quaid, I'm not sure what he was doing that day, he doesn't return my calls anymore, so I saw the movie with my wife and my parents. "The Rookie" is a Disney film, so its a family friendly and free of all the profanity and potentially uncomfortable subject matter that make it a perfect
show for a grown man to see with his parents.

I hate watching movies with my parents that have F-bombs dropped at a ridiculously frantic pace or where for no plot moving reason, people sashay to and fro with uncovered body parts flippin' and flappin' all about. The only thing worse is gratuitous love scenes that just won't
seem to end flashing by on the TV while seated on the couch between Mom and Pop, all three of us staring straight forward, any conversation muted, a deafening awkward silence ringing in the room. Usually, I have no problem with this kind of stuff being thrown into a movie, but when I'm watching with my parents the heebies and the jeebies pop out with extreme force.

"The Rookie" was a great choice, because all that discomfort and awkwardness is avoided when good ole Uncle Walt has his name on the flick. I went a screwed that up though. Somehow, before the previews, the conversation between the four of us turned to Oscar contenders. My mom mentioned her favorite of the year, a movie that I absolutely did not get, "Moulin Rouge." She listed her reasons why it was the best picture of the year, and I countered with a list of my
own. She loved that they used old pop songs, I thought it was a cop out for writing your own music. She loved the "original" story, I claimed the idea was better a few years back when another Oscar winner featured an almost identical plot. In fact, I went so far as to say, very loudly, very VERY loudly, that "Moulin Rouge" was simply "Shakespeare in Love" with dancin' whores.

I found my statement quite amusing, as did my dad who nearly spit his Diet Coke across the theater. My mom and wife, however, violently hushed me, telling me to watch my language. Sure, we were there to see a Disney movie, but it was the ten pm show. There were only a
handful of people in there and no kids. "Why?" I asked, "There aren't any kids around. I didn't say anything offensive."

In the row behind us, a buttoned up gentleman and his prim and proper wife, probably in their mid forties, looked shocked and upset when I inquired, "Dancin' whores? What's wrong with saying dancin' whores? Who's going to be offended by me saying dancin' whores?"

Never in a million years would I have thought "dancin' whores" would bother people. In fact, I figured those around me would steal my Moulin/Shakespeare comparison and be chatting about dancin' whores at the water cooler the next day, stealing my idea and claiming at as their own. Surely no one would be insulted by my language. Well, I found someone who was put out by the concept of dancin' whores, the guy sitting behind us. He let me know. "Actually, I'm quite
offended. I would prefer not to hear words like that if that's okay with you."

For the first time in my life, I was shut up. I thought for a second about arguing with the guy, but while my brain was trying to formulate a snappy comeback for Mr. Conservative, I realized that he was right. Just as I had the right to free speech, he had the right to be offended by what I said. In fact, I began to think, he should have the right to go out and not hear or see things that bother him. Sure, he was being a wee bit overboard, I was making a joke, not graphically
describing sexual situations, but still he'd chosen to go to a Disney movie and spend a nice night with the Missus. He did not choose to listen to some idiot trying to be funny by repeatedly shouting the word whore. (Although I still contest that the phrase "dancin' whores" is hilarious).

I apologized.

I've found myself in the reverse situation a few times as well, only back then I didn't think about my rights, the right to not be put in avoidable situations that make me uncomfortable.

In my old profession, I was sent out on business trips every so often. Usually there'd be three or four sales people, like me, and a sales manager. Most of the time we'd buddy up on hotel rooms. That's no big deal, even sharing a bed for a few nights never really bugged me. What really got my goat was the boss and his shower habits.

Mark was the big cheese, the head honcho, there was no talking to Mr. Honcho or convincing him that his idea wasn't the best one. What the boss said, went, and almost 100% of the time, that was okay, because Mark was a business savant. He was almost always right.

The one thing about Mark that really got under my skin on these trips was his demands that he be the last to shower in the morning. So far, not so bad, but the real problem reared its ugly head (yes, literally) when Mark got out of the shower and insisted on holding a morning sales meeting right there in the hotel room, while he drip dried.

You see, Mark had something against one of man's greatest achievements, the towel. He preferred to dry naturally, by letting it all hang out and having the air around him evaporate the water on his skin. He claimed it made him baby soft and invited me on more than one occasion to check out his claim. I politely declined each time.

He'd pace back and forth, free as a bird, and spout our sales statistics, targets, and goals, while the rest of us sat uncomfortably on the beds trying to focus on his eyes or hair or the lovely Days Inn artwork, anything that wasn't his dangling wang. Now Mark was not an unattractive man, and I'm sure there are folks out there who'd love to get a peep show, but I was not among them. I was very uncomfortable, as were most of my co-workers, but no one was going to say anything to the bossman. Eventually, I had to quit.

These situations, or similar ones, seem to be popping into our society more and more frequently. Modesty-impaired teenage girls strutting around with their goods hanging out. Foul mouthed folks loudly spewing their talk for everyone to hear. Cell phoneites blabbing on and on about things not everyone would choose to hear about. Fat construction workers with butt crack issues. All of these are things that most of us would choose not to have to deal with if we'd been
asked our opinions. However, none of those are the hot topic of the week, that seat of honor is reserved for nursing mothers feeding their babies in public.

The other day, I attended a football party with a bunch of friends and their wives. In the group were several moms, one of them still nursing her eight month old son. For most of the afternoon the guys huddled around the TV and the women stayed way over on the other side of the room talking and playing cards. Most of them were uninterested in football. Sarah is not a sports fan at all, she didn't watch a single minute of the games, however, when her little son gave his "Hey
Mom, I'm kinda hungry" cry, she leapt to her feet to take care of his needs. Very commendable.

The party was in a very large finished basement. The women and all the kids were gathered at the back of the room around a gaming table. Nearby there was a guest bedroom, an office, and a very nice, clean bathroom, all of them with locking doors. Sarah chose instead to step over a few of the men, push her way over to the couch, and squeeze herself in between two guys who were, up until them, totally wrapped up in the football. She took the decorative blanket off the back of
the couch, covered herself up, and fed her son.

Let me start on the right foot, I don't want to offend anyone or their beliefs, I simply want mine to be understood and respected. Breastfeeding is a wonderful, marvelous, fantastic, beautiful, natural thing. In fact, my own son was breast fed. Nursing your baby is good for the kid, for the mom, and for society in general. In no way do I oppose breastfeeding. I understand that when a kid's got to eat, the kid's got to eat, and I'd much rather his mom feed him than torture the poor thing and make him continue screaming. Feeding babies is a wonderful idea, in fact, when I run for king. "Feed Babies" is going to be one of my campaign slogans; along with "Let's All Kick Paris Hilton" and "Hey, Maybe We Should Do Something About Bad Stuff That Happens." Bottom line: hungry babies = bad. Satisfied, well nourished, bonded with their mommies babies = YAY!!!

That said, I do have an issue with moms breastfeeding out in the open. It makes me uncomfortable. Sure, it's natural, and maybe my discomfort is the result of some deep seeded psychological issues that reside in dark parts of my brain, but that doesn't matter. I'm
uncomfortable around it and that probably won't change. Please don't tell me to get over it, I can't. Respect that.

I know babies don't run on a perfect schedule. I know you can't run your entire life around junior's feeding time. Every once in a while, the little one is gonna want his meal while mom's shopping or dining out or having social hour with her friends. That can't be helped. What can be helped is where and how Mom chooses to get junior his supper. There aren't many situations where Mom won't have options. Sarah, at the football bash, had several options, and yet she decided to move into everyone's view and make a production out of the act. She could have discreetly moved to another room, but instead she shoved her butt in between two unassuming guys and made an entire room of men very uncomfortable. Why would she do that?

The guy to her right was lucky, he turned a little and stared at the TV. His gaze never deviated on fraction. He waved off any attempts to include him in the conversation, just staring straight ahead. It was very obvious that he didn't want to be there, that he wished a portal to another time and place would suck him up and plop him down on a breastfeeding free sofa.

The guy on her left, not so lucky. He would have had to look her direction to keep watching the game, so he very awkwardly turned to his left and flipped through a People magazine, fighting the urge to look back at the TV every time the group cheered a big play. He was upset that he had to read Miley Cyrus cradle robbing updates instead of watching the big game, and he was incredibly uncomfortable, made that way by someone who could have easily chosen not to. The rest of the room was equally anxious, not daring to glance that way. Most conversation halted and the entire tone of the party was changed. And it's not just a guy thing, some of the women in the room later expressed that they were ill-at-ease as well.

No one would have had a problem is Sarah had excused herself to the guest bedroom, the office, or even the bathroom. Actually, I don't think anyone would have even noticed what was going on if she'd stayed back at the poker table. Why didn't she? What is so wrong with asking a woman to discreetly remove themselves from the room? Of course there are situations when that's just not possible, like an airplane, so that's an exception. However, if you're at the mall, go
back to the car or one of them family rooms that keep popping up all over. If you're at someone's home, excuse yourself to another room. If you're in a restaurant, use the restroom (they're relatively clean, very private, and no on is asking you to make your baby lick breast milk off the toilet, so don't claim the sanitation thing), or, if the restroom is objectionable to you, discreetly cover yourself and take care of baby business at the table - they key concept there being discretion, something Sarah seems to lack.

Americans are prudish, blame the Quakers and the TV sensors that didn't like Elvis' Ed Sullivan Show hip gyrating, that's just the way our society is. Is it a flaw or a fault? Maybe. Is it something that people need to learn to deal with? Maybe. But that isn't going to happen over night. That isn't going to change in an instant. Some people are going to be frazzled in situations like that. Don't ask them to get over it. Respect them, respect their wishes, respect their right to be comfortable. Nursing your baby is a beautiful thing, but find some privacy; some people would prefer not to witness the act, just like some people don't like dancin' whores or sales
manager's dangling wangs. Please, respect that.

That's Probably What the Hot Dog's Made of Anyway

A couple of my former students came back and visited me yesterday. That's always an awkward situation. Sometimes they look at me as a huge part of their lives, a big influence, and sometimes I hardly remember them. I don't mean to be insulting, but I have 180 students a year, they only have a handful of teachers. Sure, there are students that I'll never forget, and there are a bunch that I wish I could forget, but with so many new ones filing through my door each fall, some are bound to tumble out of my brain.

Not so for Mitch and Brock. I remember them. Mitch was a good student, a good kid, very outgoing and funny. He sticks in my brain. Brock more so. Brock = nuts. Absolutely insane. Brock is one kid that makes me wish I could wipe my mind clean like a chalkboard and be forever unaware of the hells that he put me through. Brock makes that Jim Carey movie about the spotless mind seem less frightening and more fantasy. You see, Brock will forever be remembered by all of us here, he's legendary around these parts. He's the kid that ate a bug.

No, before you get any ideas, I don't teach Fear Factor at the juniorhigh. I didn't assign the kid to eat the bug, it wasn't homework, and I certainly didn't grade his bug devouring techniques, he just did it. Up to that point, class that day was normal. Discussion, questions, answers, then some sort of independent activity. Somewhere along the line, like some sort of lizard boy, Brock spotted a cricket in the corner of the room. I wasn't sure what was going on, but his eyes got big, his body very still (which was highly unusual for him), and his head kind of tilted to the side like a dog when you ask it questions in a high-pitched voice. He sat like that for a full minute. I didn't say anything, but I started to worry he was about to have some kind of seizure, so much so that I actually began to sneak over towards the intercom button so I could put the nurse on alert. Then he pounced, and I mean pounced, it was like a leopard leaping out of the brush to take down an antelope kinda pounce. This kid could give lessons to house cats on proper pouncing practices.

He scared the bejesus out of me. I must have jumped three feet and then I lunged for the "call the office" button. After that, there was a chain reaction that disrupted the class far more than simply chowing down on insects would have.

I knocked into Emily's desk, almost tripping over it, so she turned to avoid being trampled and inadvertantly elbowed Mallory in the ear. Sure, Mallory probably should have been sitting up and not resting her head on the desk, but did she really deserve bodily injury? Mallorysquealed in a way that seventh graders tend to squeal when bashed in the head unexpectedly. That squeal startled the kid in the back that was kinda sleeping. He jolted awake and knocked his leaning tower of books off the desk. That huge pile hit the floor with a bang that's usually reserved for July Fourth. It seemed the kid had an enitre Office Max stuffed into his pencil pouch and it burst like a pinata when it hit the ground. Pens and pencils and markers, protractors, sharpeners, erasers, a case of white out, and one of those mathy compass things with the dangerously sharp tips scattered everywhere. Most importantly, his Social Studies text slid up the aisle and found itself under Kenny's foot. Kenny, a curious sort of chap, had stood up and started to move towards the front of the room to see why Brock was lying on the floor. He took one last step, not knowing that the slick covered History book was underfoot, still sliding on the carpet. His right foot came down right on Ole George Washington's face and shot out from under him. Kenny lost his balance and toppled onto Ham Sandwich (who for some reason, even though his given name was Robert, asked to be referred to as Ham Sandwich). Ham, not expecting the star of the basketball team to give him a flying backwards head butt and land in his lap, tried to jump back out of the way, which is a difficult thing to do when you're seated in a desk, so he mostly just managed to knock his seat into Caitlyn's who then threw her Crayola marker across the room where it drew an amazingly perfect straight line across Joey's cheek.

With Emily holding her elbow, complaining about the density of Mal's head; Mallory rubbing her noggin; sleeping kid wide eyed and awake for the first time this year; Kenny flailing about trying to remove himself from Mr. Sandwich's lap; Rob attempting to swat away the unwelcome lap dance and making a face like he'd been asked to eat a dog turd pie; Cait searching the room for her marker; and Joey already whining about going to the bathroom to wash his face, the office called down to see why I'd pushed the button.

Mary down in the main office asked, "Can I help you?" through the little speaker box, just as Emily screamed out, "It was an accident,"to try and stop Mallory's revenge smacks.

The office must have thought Emily's plea was me telling them that we'd accidently brushed up against the call button, because Mary replied with, "Okay, thank you," and she went away.
That left me to deal with the aftermath of Hurricane Brock all by myself. I looked to the floor in the middle of the room, and there he was, his hands cupped to the carpet, presumably imprisoning the defenseless cricket, beaming up at me like a three year old proud of his latest finger paint masterpiece.

The class calmed down now, and with my demands that Brock return to his seat bringing the attention back to him, he promptly absorbed the glow of the spotlight, rose to his feet, and popped the cricket into his mouth.

At that point, even though there was still twenty minutes left in the period, class was pretty much over. There was no way I was getting control back that day. Instead of struggling on with the lesson we'd, up until the pouncing, been plugging away at, I used the whole experience as a writing opportunity. With the prompt, "The most disgusting thing you've ever seen someone eat," I put them to work.

Most of the class wrote about Brock, but a few had a doozy up their sleeve about childhood cat box dares and mud pies and even a couple of spider stories. I, as I like to do sometimes, took part in the assignment too, writing about my buddy Jim's sixteenth birthday party.

Jim was one of those sheltered kids who's mother coddled him well into his twenties. He was babied and protected from the big bad world out there in a way that was well on the bad side of the embarrassing line. It shocked us all when Jim's mom called all our friends one summer, planning a surprise birthday bash.

The party was pretty fun, volleyball and card games and Marco Polo int he pool. His mom even cooked for all of us, hot dogs on the grill and a full on picnic spread, potato salad, pasta, watermelon, someother unidentified melony type things, a half dozen varieties of chips, pops, juices, Kool-Aid, and the largest selection of pickles I'd ever encountered. Til that day I'd never known there were that many pickle decisions a person could make. The most remarkable thing on the buffet was the largest bottle of ketchup I'd ever seen. This was before the days of Sam's Clubs and Costco and the like, so to see a bottle of ketchup that I could almost crawl inside of was quite memorable.

Jim's birthday was the weekend before school started up again, so we were all a little extra wound up and out of control. I blame the heat, the chlorine, and the massive amounts of sugar for my behavior, so don't think too badly of me. I had no control over what I did. If fingers need to be pointed, aim them at the sun, the water, and that giant Kool-Aid pitcher that crashes through walls all the time, they're the ones to blame. I also blame our friend Owen, trouble and bad decisions seem to follow him around.

The party was dying down and we came to the realization that Jim's parents either really liked grilling hot dogs or they couldn't count very well, because there as a huge plate of probably twenty wieners still sitting out on the table. For whatever reason, Owen and I thought it would be a good idea to unscrew the giant cap on the monster ketchup and drop a few of those frankfurters in. So we did.

Two years later, the sixteenth birthday extravaganza long forgotten, Jim had a Fourth of July party when his parents went out of town. That was the first in a long line of legendary Independence Day bashes that Jim and his two brothers were responsible for, all of them memorable in their own way.

A wild night of drinking, swimming in the pool, climbing around on the roof to see the fireworks from all the neighboring towns, and and ill-advised series of jumps off said roof back into said pool, was highlighted by Jim's big brother Wally and his masterful barbecue ability. Wally (yeah, of course with a big bro named Wally, Jim was known as The Beav) cooked up some of the most amazing burgers I'd ever tasted that night, and when we all sat down at the picnic table to eat, out came a gigantic bottle of ketchup.

I looked at Owen, and Owen looked at me. Surely that had to be a different bottle. That couldn't be the same one from two years back. There's no way a family with three teenage boys has anything in their fridge for more than a forty-five minutes, let alone twenty-three months. Wally dished out some burgers and hungry teenagers held out their plates. The ketchup slowly made it's way around the table, but Owen and I passed. With a sick feeling in our stomachs we watched each party goer unsuspectingly potentially tainting their burger with decomposed... well decomposed whatever hot dog is made from.

Finally the trough o' catsup made its way down to our end of the table and Wally grabbed a hold of it. Nearing the bottom, amazingly, he had to beat the side of it with his palm to get the last bit of tomatoey goodness to spill out onto his plate. With a sound that was both sucking and slurping at the same time, a sound that reminded me of opening a space shuttle airlock and trying to vacuum up a giant pile of Jello all mixed together, Wally got the bottle to give up the goods. One last smack and a slightly greenish ketchup coated hot dog slid out of the bottle onto Wally's burger. The entire group was speechless, no one understanding where the wienie had come from

"Cool. Bonus dog," Wally exclaimed, and he put the top bun on his double meat sandwich and bit into it.

Several people clapped, some groaned, Owen cried, and I nearly threwup. Wally took another bite and exclaimed, "Best damn new burger slash mystery dog I ever had."

The only thing that could have made it worse was if he'd emptied outthe bug zapper on there too. That's something Brock probably would have done.

If Wally and Brock's adventures got a chuckle out of you, throw me a few votes over at Humor-Blogs.com or for Humor Blogger of the Year at HumorBloggers.com.

Nothing Says I Love You Like Flaming Meat Hurtling Through the Air

You've all seen them, you've all heard about them, heck, even the Grand-pappy of all sitcoms, Friends, featured one. Yes folks, I'm talking about the anti-Valentines Day parties. No "Holiday" (if you could see me, you'd be noting the sarcastic quote fingers there) inspires as much anger and ire as VDay. Perhaps some folks are bitter they didn't get a little cartoon He-Man on a frilly paper heart backin third grade. Maybe there's people that are still upset that their little candies always say, "just go ahead and eat the whole bag, you're alone and no one loves you." Or, it's always possible that some people are just really deep-down-in-there angry about being alone.

I fit into category three. Not now, not anymore, that's fit in the past tense, this is way back in the day. Fresh out of college and recently dumped with Valentine's Day fast approaching, I started to feel a bitterness usually reserved for David Letterman when someone takes a job he wants. I was alone, but fortunately I wasn't alone in my loneliness. My roommate Matt had also been recently dismissed by his lady. Like gin and tonic, cinnamon and raisen, pork chops and apple sauce, his angry made good company for my bitter.

In our house, we had two other roommates, a disgustingly happy couple that shared the bedroom upstairs. They played like good coupley couple and planned a night out on the town for February 14th. Thatl eft Matt and I home alone to throw the "We're Guys and We Want to Kick Cupid in the Sack (of Arrows, keepin' it clean here) Anti-Valentine's Day Extravaganza.
The guest list was huge. Every bitter, angry, love-lorn, heart-broken, lonely guy we knew. Somehow though, poopers of the party that they were, all of our brethren had dates that night. Mattand I it was. Just the two of us, emerced in some totally hetero-sexual male bonding that was to include eating meat, drinking heavily, and complaining about the fairer sex.

The day came. The other roomies left for their romantic evening of bliss, strolling hand in hand down the driveway, he opened the car door for her. Matt almost threw up they made him so sick. I did throw up, but just a little, in my mouth. It might have been because I'd already started into the Jack Daniels and was eating cocktail wienies by the fistful. Then again, it might have been the sugary sweetness of their love. Probably both now that I think about it.

The evening began with VHS viewings of the least romantic movies we could find in our collections; First Blood, Reservoir Dogs, ErnestGoes to Jail, combined with some hard core drinking. Jack, Jose, Jim,and Johnny were all invited to this party. Before too long, we got hungry.

Knowing full well that drinking and driving are two verbs that don't belong together, and knowing full well that drinking was going to be the action word of the day, Matt and I had planned ahead. We spent the morning at the grocery store finding the biggest juiciest steaks we could find. Unfortunately, we looked at the price tags of those succulently fine carnivore's delights and plan B became our new buddy. The back up was to find the biggest, juiciest steaks we could lay our hands on for a price that would allow us to continue eating for the rest of the week. It wasn't long before we settled on two less than prime pieces of meat. They were huge steaks, by huge, I mean they must have been ten inches across, that's meatapalooza right there my friends. So what if the thickness had to be measured in millimeters. So what if the fat to meat ratio looked like Chicago Cubs-ish Vegas odds. So what if there were funny little swirly rainbow looking things on the surface of the meat. Meat cooked on fire is meat cooked on fire.

Next stop produce. No, no, no, don't get the wrong idea, we knew that vegetables are not for angry bitter testosterone loaded men who would show the world the meaning of MAN that very evening. Women eat vegetables. Women eat green things. Rabbits eat green things. Men eat rabbits that are currently eating womanly green things. Men eat potatoes. We grabbed the four biggest potatoes the potato pile had ever seen and went to check out.

Problems quickly developed when we started to cook our meat. That little tank o' gas on the grill that allows us men to char our tasty flesh on an open flame, it was empty. Again, the need for a plan B popped up. Easy. We had a fireplace.

Stoves? Ovens? Broilers? Toasters? Scoff, scoff, scoff, scoff. Men cook meat with fire. Manly brains went to work. Hot dogs and marshmallows are easy too cook on sticks, you can do the luau pig on a spit, but how about steak? Really flimsy thin droopy steak?

Ding. (that's the sound of Matt's cartoon light bulb) Probably should be more of afizzzzzlefizzlefzzzzzzzlecrackle-bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz, like one ofthose blue bug zapping lights, but ding makes him seem smarter. After this he'll need a lot of help seeming smarter.

Matt decided to pull the wire rack out of the oven and wedge it into the fireplace. It actually fit. Sure, it stuck out a foot and a half into the living room and we had to use our other roommate's work boot to hold the end sticking out of the fire place up, but surely it would be safe, surely that wasn't something that would give both the fire marshall and our landlord strokes, and surely that boot was far enough from the flame that it'd be alright. It was a manly boot. Manly boots should be able to withstand a little fire.

Matt treated lighting a grill like most folks revere the torch at the Olympic games. It was a sacred moment. I left him to it, and while my Einstienie-ish roommate got started on the fire lighting, I moved to the kitchen for potato duty. Looking back, I realize that making a drinking game out of slicing spuds was a bad idea, but at the time, take a drink every time you almost chop off a digit seemed innovative and wacky. Hindsight brings such a different perspective, as does sobriety. Who'da thunk it?

Meanwhile, in the living room, the fire wasn't burning hot and fast enough for Matt's liking. His eyebrows found out that lighter fluid, like frisbees and footballs, is an outdoor toy. That fire got up and going right quick after that, but Matt was too busy stopping, dropping, and rolling to get the meat on.

Back in the kitchen, I had the brilliant culinary epiphany that vodka is made from potatoes, therefore potatoes sauteed in vodka would be especially tasty. Let's do a quick math problem. Open flame from the stove + free flowing vodka + a massive mound of carbohydrates = crispy spuds, an embarrassing lack of arm hair, and a desperate need for some sort of salve or ointment. (salve and ointment, both funny words, so I couldn't decide)

His face flame free, Matt now understood that lighter fluid burns off real quick. The fire dying, he tossed the steaks on. The consistency of the meat was not entirely unlike the skin you find on day old pudding, so it kinda started to slither through the spaces in the grill. Alert with the tongs, my pal was able to save it, but he knew those steak-like hunks of former cow had to be cooked right quick.

He reached for a pile of newspaper with his free hand and shoved it into the flame. It erupted almost as violently as my second go round with the vodka, which, I learned, is going to ignite no matter how low the flame is. I was beating the kitchen wallpaper with an oven mitt that resembled a chicken puppet. Matt was evading bits of red hot newspaper ash that were flying out of the fire every which way, most of them landing on Matt or the meat.

When one smoldering hunk of what was the sports page landed unexpectedly on the back of his neck, Matt freaked and knocked the now partially melted work boot out from under the grate. The grill, still wedged in solidly in the back, tipped violently forward, landing squarely on Matt's leg with a sizzling sound I heard all the way in the kitchen.

This was all probably about the time I finally knocked the smoke detector off the ceiling with a dust mop and came to the realization that like Chernobyl, these potatoes were in full on melt down mode.

I used the only option I could think of; I sacrificed the chicken puppet by grabbing the volcanic pan and making a run for the backdoor. I darted into the living room just in time to see Matt's reaction to molten steel searing his knee. He kicked like a ticked off mule, which catapulted the "steaks" and the oven rack across the room where they ricocheted off the wall onto our roommate's couch. This all coincided with me launching the potatoes, the pan, and the alcoholic ball of fire out the door into the snowy backyard.

My mission complete, I dove to the sofa to prevent yet another piece of our furniture from becoming infurnituro. (Like that word? I justcame up with that one.) Good ole chicken mitt snatched that rack off the cushion and deposited in the snow bank right next to the steaming sauce pan.

Hunks of newspaper ash still falling from, well, everywhere, like a swirling vortex of "The Flaming Times," Matt did a nifty rolling ninja-ey maneuver and snatched the fire extinguisher out of the front closet and put an end to any plans that flame had of taking over the universe.
The Rug Doctor, a buttload of Seaside Breeze scented Lysol, and an ingenious flip-the-cushion-and-hope-he-doesn't-notice maneuver took care of a good portion of the mess. The rest would have to wait, there were injuries to tend to.

In all of about three minutes, we'd managed to lose our dinner, our desire to party, and our security deposit. What a Valentine's Day.

On a happy note, our other male roommie came home about an hour later, sans girlfriend. Some sort of argument about oysters and clams led to a Valentine's break-up. Like a guy should, he never inquired why a good portion of the stove was in the backyard, why there were bits of meat stuck to the window, why his left boot was a melted glob in the middle of the floor, or why the Sunday paper was a charcoaly mess smeared into the carpet. He just sunk down into the slightly singed sofa, ordered us a meat-lover's pizza, poured us each another drink, and asked if we could watch a few more Ernest movies.

Luckily, for the safety of the free world, I met my wife a few years later and have never cooked on Valentine's again. Matt, on the other hand, he's still single ladies.

Come on people. Head over to humorbloggers.com and vote for the Humor Blogger of the Year. I currently have zero votes. This saddens me.

PlainOleMike's Nine Rings of Hell-ular

The other day, I had a friend tell me to go to Hell. He didn't mean it, there was no urging me to book a trip on Expedia or anything, it was all just good natured ribbing, but even so, it got me thinking. What is Hell? There's hundreds of literary and Hollywood versions of it. Meet Joe Black, Family Guy, Bill and Ted, South Park, The Marquis de Sade, sitting through all fourteen hours that were Steven Speilburg's A.I. However, the grand-daddy of all that is the underworld comes from "The Divine Comedy." The classic version of Satan's rumpus room.

That grand old chap Dante made himself all famous simply for writing about Hell. Dante envisioned the land of H, E, double hockey sticks as a big funnel extending down into the center of the Earth, kind o flike a giant beer bong with burning flesh and tortured souls instead of the frosty brew and scantily clad co-eds. If Dante were MapQuest, he'd probably direct you to Jerusalem or there abouts to start your Netherworld treasure map, personally, I'm pretty certain he's off my a few thousand kilometers. My best guess is that the eternal lava pits are simmering just to the left of Washington.

Dante's beer bong is made up of nine circles, with that I can agree,but I don't think Dante had Mr. Orwell's eye for the future. I don'tt hink he fully thought out the multitude of future sins the human race would come up with. He had this part right, the first circle is the widest and they get smaller and smaller, less and less crowded until the ninth circle, which is a little tiny room, kind of like TheUnderworld's half bath. Dante and all the subsequent Dantephiles and Danteholics that supported his visions over the years needed a pair of fresh eyes, therefore, I've taken it upon myself to revamp Hell. This is a Hell for the modern world.

1st circle: Limbo. In Dante's brain, Limbo is for the folks who never found God, the ignorant; the unbaptized, savages, Carrot Top, and the like. Other than Mr. Top, who has punished all of us quite enough, I don't reallybelieve these folks deserve Hell. Instead, Limbo is for those that have committed lesser crimes, they won't necessarily burn in the eternal fires, but their seat is uncomfortably close. Limbo's population will be made up of people who wear pants you can easily fit three or four people into, parents who let their preteen daughters dress like extras from "Betty Jo is a Filthy Filthy Whore: The Musical," and celebrities that incite people to ask, "why is this person famous, and why won't they go away?" Also down there, in the forever limbo (which by the way does have an all Harry Belafonte all the time soundtrack) will be PeOpLe WhO TyPe LiKe ThIs, anyone who tears articles out of waiting room magazines, and every single beingthat has ever uttered the words, "would you like to take part in a short one to two minute telephone survey?"

Sure, you have rapists, murderers, little boy diddling clergymen, crack dealers, Michael Jackson, and all their ilk. I'm not going tof orget about them. Let's just go ahead and throw them into Hell's urinal right now, go ahead and assume these people are damned to an afterlife of eternal swirlie. These folks go without saying, my concern, though, is the remaining eight Hellevels. Like one of those freakishly limber Gong Show contestants with nineteen hula hoops, Hell has more rings we need to discuss.

2nd circle: This is the merely uncomfortable level. This is the level of eternal smacks across the face. Never ending sting of the cheek. Ring number two is reserved solely for souls that encounter cell phone static and ask their conversation partner (fully expecting a laugh)"can you hear me now?" Enough. Ring two may not be deep, but no one will hear you, except Satan's minions who will slap the crap out of you. Your comaptriots: people who over spout Saturday Night Live catch phrases. They will be seated in a slightly disagreeable chair next to you.

3rd circle: Every single time I go to the grocery store I see future residents of this very special ring. These are the people who, at insane volume levels, have one very loud side of a conversation on their cell phones for every one around them to hear. These people, since they lack the gene that controls discretion will be forced to parade naked in front of Howard Stern (oh come on, you know he'll be down there) for all eternity. Howie and his boys will teach you the lesson of keeping it to yourself by broadcasting your flaws and faults to all of the afterlife. In the 3 ring convoy will be the folks sneaking sixty eight items into the express lane and that moron who can't figure out the self check out, but insists on getting to it just before me.

4th circle: Living it up in Fourthringville will be all the people who use the Nextel BOOOODOOOP walkie talkie phones in public places. Again the grocers, the mall, the gas station, the bus, the train... Could Nextel have come up with a more obnoxious sound? I can't watch that scene in Dumb and Dumber anymore without expecting Jim Carey to pull out his mobile phone. It's okay, you'll have people to talk to on that level - the guy who decided that you can't control the volumeof the BOOOOOOODOOOOP noise and all of corporate Nextel will be walkie-ing and talkie-ing with you. For all eternity you will be whipped with ham radio antennas while being forced to listen to 1970's big rig CB chatter and watch "Smokey and the Bandit 2" over and over and over and over and over. 10-4?

5th circle: This fifth circle of hell is earmarked for the people who, in very inappropriate places; like church, class, meetings..., forget to turn the ringer off. No, that in itself is not a sin, that's a mistake, a forgetfulness issues, a reason to eat more zinc or carrots or whatever it is that improves memory. The criminals here are those that hear their phones go off in these inappropriate places and let them ring and ring and ring and ring. Sure, sometimes they give a sheepish, apologetic smile, but do they get off their butts and make it so we don't have to hear a synthesized cell phone version of "Holla Back Girl?" No, they do not. So, they will be drafted into Hell's marching band, where they will perform cell phone beeping button versions of Journey's greatest hits until their thumbs are numb, then they get to start in on the REO Speedwagon catalog. Roommates: people who are still doing impressions of or quoting Napolean Dynamite or Austin Powers and the actual Napolean Dynamite.

6th circle: This is a personal vendetta ring. Anyone who has answered a cell phone during a face to face conversation with me. This has happened countless times: at the book store register while I was cashiering, while I was talking to a table I was waiting on, the bank teller even did it to me once, my own friends have done it during dinner at restaurants... I've seen it happen in church, and it even happened during a parent/teacher conference the other day. It is a vicious, indescribably rude act. Due to the high instance of this sin being committed at dining establishments, these folks will spend the after life eating waiter-spit-soup in the company of people who don't hold elevator doors and those that leave their pets in the car during summer.

7th circle: It's quite passe to be vindictive against people who talk on the phone while they drive, and I myself am guilty of it, so I don't reserve this circle for just any driving phone talkers; this is for the people who are actually distracted enough by the telephone to have it cause safety issues. If you're alone, chat away, but if there are any of the following things taking place, welcome to level 7: kids in the car with you, you're a teenager talking to other teenagers who are also driving, you have a hamburger in the other hand, you are talking to someone that is actually in the car with you, you are within ten miles of home, you have caused an accident in the past, or you are applying make-up and/or shaving. Your hell will be equipped with crash test dummy driven vehicles repeatedly smashing into your cellphone talking ass while they endlessly sing, in their metallic robot voices, the chorus of the Crash Test Dummies song, "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm." Extra volume on the song for thosewho A. Palm Pilot with that stupid little pen or B. Text with that incessant thumb typing while piloting a motor vehicle.

8th circle: A special table for a select few. Everyone here will inexplicably have their cell phone clipped to their belt. Why they don't move it mere millimeters into pocketland, no one can comprehend. Who could possibly be calling that needs your attention milliseconds quicker than a hand into pocket maneuver takes? Since these folks think they're some sort of modern day communication device gunslingers, their forever will be spent with PDA styluses under their fingernails, ridden by spur wearing cowpokes, and being constantly antagonized by rodeo clowns. Along for the rodeo will be any one that wears a beret (non-military) and most of the four AM Denny's customers.

9th circle: This is it, this is the big boy. This is reserved for the utmost of utmost sins. The pickings will be slim, but the tortured souls wandering this level for the hereafter will be people who, when they are not actually talking on the phone, wear the hands free headset or the "Blue Tooth" into completely unnecessary situations. If you keep the ear piece in during youth sporting events, church, walking around stores, or the biggest sin I've yet witnessed, into the movie theater, you will take the elevator down and hit the big round number nine. Hell will not be a picnic for you, so leave your basket behind. You'll be greeted each morning with an army of failed dental assistants who will spend the day shoving inappropriate things into your ear; like cats, your elbow, and Austrian pop star Falco. Your dance partner will be Simon from American Idol and those pseudo-Christian nut jobs from The AmazingRace.

Dante was a fine writer, a creative man, and a wee bit on this side of wacky. He had the right idea, but he needed himself a flux capacitor and a glimpse of the future to see the real crimes against humanity. If you, yourself, are guilty of any of these sins, do yourself a favor, repent. Say a couple of Hail Marys, knock off a few Lord'sPrayers, maybe even recite that Crash Test Dummies song for good measure, there is still hope for you. Can you hear me now?

If you liked this one, throw a vote my way for Humor Blogger of the Year over at humorbloggers.com. Please.

Billy Joel Must Have Been Talking About This River... er... Creek of Dreams

This is the excitement that is my life. Like Snickers with the peanuts and the nougat, my weekly routine is just chock full of adventure. For example, just the other day, I drove over to my
sister's house. I know what you're thinking, WOW, all the way to your sister's house. Now bear in mind that this was on a whim, no planning, no mapping, just pick and go. That's not something just any ole person can handle, that's only for experienced adventurers like myself.

Okay, to the lay person, a Sunday drive to a relatives may not seem terribly exciting, but let me tell you about this is no simple trip across town, if I recount the things I underwent it will probably remind you of that old Atari version of Pitfall, with the vine swinging and the alligator hopping and the falling into giant scorpion pits. We are not talking about smooth sailing here. The trip starts out with one of those treacherous and nerve-wracking red left turn arrow intersections. Sometimes I have to wait a long time. Waiting for just the right moment is not easy, you get the shakes, you get anxious, you nearly jump the gun. This obstacle requires the patience of a... well, the patience of someone who is really really patient. Later, there's a slight curve in the road that takes the coordination of a fighter pilot to navigate, which is followed way too closely for none but the highly trained by a left hand turn - INTO TRAFFIC. And, as if all that wasn't enough, there's a four way stop that no one but the finest of drivers can coordinate, one false move can lead to tragedy. Then, right when you think you've hit the home stretch,
there's a hill. This is no ordinary hill, this one goes up AND down. Only the most alert and highly trained drivers should even attempt this portion of the trip. Most people would be better off pulling over and walking the rest of the way, but not me. I'm brave. I make this trip, believe it or not, almost every week. I am an adventurer.

Alright, so maybe I'm no Allen Quartermain and my sister's den isn't the crypt of the ancient pharaoh of death, but I am an adventurer.

Really I am. I'll prove it.

Each time I drive to my sister's house, which really isn't all that exciting, I have to drive through the neighborhood I grew up in. You see, my sister and her husband live in one of those new subdivisions that was built on what used to be some one's corn right behind the street I lived on as a kid.

Back when I was a lad, the whole area that my sister's neighborhood now sits on was corn fields, woods, and a few dirt roads. What is now one hundred and thirteen prefab houses was tree forts and snowball fights and dirt clod wars and sledding and being chased by the farmer's dog for getting to close to the house and a really weird and slightly creepy area in the middle of the woods with discarded rusted out cars from the forties and fifties and... well, tetanus shots.
Most of my early childhood memories took place in what is now Mrs. Denver's petunias, some young couple's half bath, or the two car garage down the street. Each time I make that drive, there's a little bit of me, deep down in there all mixed in with the guts and the innards, that's kinda sad.

The worst part of it all, the hardest thing for me to deal with, is the destruction of the creek. They rerouted part of it. Some of it was filled in. Other bits just went and dried up. Whatever it was, when that little stream disappeared some of the happiest times of my youth were washed away with it.

That creek was the center of my universe for a good decade. Frog hunting, spy games, fantastic hides and incredible seeks, rock skipping, wading, when the rains had come - swimming, incredible GI Joe nautical battles, crawling through the drain pipes to follow it to the other side of the road, ice skating, speed sledding, really narrow hockey games, and the best winter time sport ever - smashing ice with big huge rocks. That creek was everything, to all us kids. Now it's gone.

The best creek adventure took place the summer of my eleventh year. My sciencey minded friend Jerry spent the entire long winter designing a raft. Finally, after all these years, a vessel with which we can explore portions of the creek further than our tired peddling legs could bike us or our aching little feet could hike us.

The design called for a large piece of wood that we could sit on and something underneath that would trap pockets of air. Jerry, being one of those genius type kids that you either really want to be friends with or beat up, had a perfect plan within weeks. The problem would be gathering the necessary materials. Seeing as how Home Depot doesn't extend a line of credit to most prepubescents, we had a scavenger hunt ahead of us.

My job was to find wood. Construction site dumpster diving became my forte. Soon I not only had a four foot by four foot section of plywood. It was quite a sight, but I dragged all the way home.

While I was playing cat burglar in the construction zone, Jer was testing scale model rafts in his bathtub. His initial design called for several dozen air filled Ziploc freezer bags taped to the bottom of the board. They didn't support the weight.

I thought I was the hero of the summer when I stumbled across a giant piece of Styrofoam, about the same size as the wood, but about four inches thick that I figured would add to the floatiness. Jer agreed, although he used the term buoyancy. I like floatiness. It did a good
job of raising the wood portion of the raft out of the water, but still not enough to support our bodies.

Like that guy in prison who can get you whatever you want, like a dime bag or a tuba or an emu or maybe a Backstreet Boys poster to hang up there in the cell, Jerry seemed to magically get the materials he wanted. So his dad had nothing to take his lunch in, so his brother's paint supplies got all dried out, so his mom (probably to this day) wondered why her meatloaf was suddenly bare and freezer-burned up there in the icebox, none of that mattered, beacuse one day when I came over, he suddenly he had several hundred air filled Ziploc freezer bags filling his bedroom. Busy meticulously hot glue gunning them together in neat little rows, Jer was jittering like a crack fiend. I had no idea how he'd done so much work since the day before,
but he quickly taught me a valuable dietary lesson that came in quite handy in the subsequent college years. Jer had drank four liters of Mountain Dew to keep himself up all night to get work done.

"Ifitwasn'tfortheinsanelyfrequentpottybreaks," he explained, his hands shaking and his eyes twitching, "Iwouldhavebeendonebeforeyouevengothere. Gimmethatglassofpopovertherewouldyou?"

Jer made a bed of baggies and instructed me to lay down on them to test their strength. A loud pop let us know a plan B might be a good way to go.

Subsequent highly caffeinated nights "sleeping" over at Jer's house testing models and new theories accomplished two things. One, we found that Ziploc doesn't make a product that holds up to well against twigs, rocks, and other snagging agents in the creek. Two, we added
immensely to Jer's growing collection of empty two liter pop bottles.


Cartoon light bulbs dinged.

The pop bottles. I knew they were floaty. Jer knew they were buoyant. We had dozens of them and they were much stronger than plastic bags. Within minutes we were arranging the two liters in nice neat columns. Jer busted out a new hot glue cartridge and we were underway.

Soon we realized that we only had enough pop bottles to line about a quarter of the raft. We'd need more. A lot more. Spring was rapidly approaching. The wet season, when the creek would be highest, and our adventure best, was almost upon us. We had to hurry.

Fast forward to one of those movie musical montage scenes, some upbeat peppy pop song cranking in the foreground like "I Want Candy" or "MmmmBop." The film cuts between shots of two little kids going door to door asking for empty pop bottles, chugging massive amounts of soda
outside the local convenience store, pulling a wagon loaded with recyclable plastics around the neighborhood, raiding garbage cans, scavenging their own fridges and dumping into the sink partially filled bottles of sweet carbonated nectar, even a highly intense moment during which a caffeine withdrawn Jerry screamed at a neighbor for offering us the stupid one liter bottles.

Jerry had done some high falutin' calculations and determined that we'd need one hundred and thirteen bottles to safely support us on the raft. I never even thought to question his figures. He was good at math; I used calculators to spell words out upside-down.

The first big rains arrived just as Jer and me were finishing up the raft. Just over a hundred beverage containers glued to a big piece of polystyrene with a large hunk of plywood on top. Damn the Wright Brothers. Screw that Arch thing down in St. Louis. To hell with John
Titanic, or whoever it was that built that big boat. This. This, ladies and gents, this was a marvel of modern engineering. Like Huck Finn with petroleum products. We were adventurers.

Now to test it. The raft made debut in Jer's backyard. It floated just fine in the pool, yeah, I fell off into the barely melted, algae filled (isn't chlorine supposed to take care of that) swamp Jer's
family called a pool, but the raft was successful.

Next, the maiden voyage. The creek was thawed. The water was rushing. It rained and rained hard for nearly a week. We were afraid we'd be swept to far down stream. We were afraid the raft (I actually somehow just typed fart) would be pulled away before we could even jump on board.

Adventurers don't delay though. This raft had to launch. The show had to go on. The captain had going down to do (get your mind out of the gutter). The ship had to set sail. The fat lady, well, I guess that doesn't fit, so the fat lady can take a break and have a Twinkie.

Justifying our next decision with the claim that Jer and I both had to remain on land, each on one side of the creek, with safety ropes to keep the raft under control, we went on a mission to kidnap my sister. She'd be Laika, the Russian dog that was the first Earth creature in space. She'd be Lewis, or maybe Clark. She'd be Neil Armstrong, Columbus, Jackie Robinson. A pioneer. A legend. A living representation of the American adventurer's spirit. She'd tell Mom.

Somehow we talked her into coming with us to the creek. Somehow we talked her into stepping onto the raft. She actually seemed excited to be included and kind of asked for us to shove the raft off. Everything looked good. She held onto the safety line and started to float gently down stream. On one side of the creek, I shouted encouragements and had a death grip on the rope. On the other side, Jer held on tight while he did some more calculatin'. At about the same time, Jerry realized that the raft was much lighter than any of his previous figurin' had figured for, and that raft really started to get moving, fast. Before long, we had to jog to keep up with it.

Heavier rains than we had accounted for had that little boat cruising. Jer, possibly because all that brain power made him slightly top-heavy, slipped, fell, and lost his end of the safety rope. When he tells the story, he recounts a version in which, holding on for dear life, he was dragged nearly fifty feet by the raft, but he's a liar, he fell down, went boom, and my sister (along with any hope I had of seeing outside this coming summer) was floating away.

I held on to my end of the rope and ran as fast as my little legs would carry me. My thighs were burning, my feet were pounding, my tiny little heart was pumping so fast I thought it'd burst right there in my chest. I willed it not to though; I had to save my sister. Not only was I an adventurer, I was a hero. Indiana Jones always saved the girl. Even if it was a bratty little sister with severe tattle issues, he'd come to her rescue.

The raft was moving so quick that we got to the point where we were both holding on to the very ends of the rope. It was taut. I stopped and dug in like a tug of war anchor, but it wasn't enough. Her little hands couldn't hold on any longer and the line slipped from her fingers.

I tossed the useless line aside and resumed sprinting after her. losing ground when she went through a viaduct under the road and I had to climb the embankment, and some more during the barbed wire fence - hole in an unpleasant part of my shorts - I'd rather not talk about it
incident. Pretty soon, with all the twists and turns and curves of the creek and all the slipping and sliding and falling I was doing running on the muddy bank, she was out of sight.

Before long, Jer had caught up to me on his bike, panting and breathing hard. He jumped off at full speed, handing the Schwinn with the banana seat off to me. I was far more athletic and even in my current state much more able to catch the raft before it reached the real river a few miles away.

Panic took a little more of me over with each turn of the pedals. The longer I went with out finding her, the more scared I got. Every curve of the stream led to a new sense of hope that I'd spot her as I came around the bend, each one a heart crushing disappointment.

Finally, I could hear the sound of the river in the distance. Just having that sound hit my ears filled me with dread. I knew that hearing it meant I was way too close and my little sister was probably way too far. Then, as I came over a hill, the river now in my sight, I saw her. She was lying face down in the mud by the river, the raft, fully intact, but overturned, was up in the weeds beside her. I dropped the bike and sprinted down the hill. Boy Scout CPR/Heimlich
Maneuver/all sorts of first aid gobbledy gook training rushed through my brain.

She was dead. I'd killed my sister. I was convinced of it.

Then, as I got closer, I could see her back slowly rising and falling. The steady rhythm of breathing. A new jolt of adrenaline took me the rest of the way at ThunderCats Cheetara like speed. As I approached I could hear a whimpering sound, no, it wasn't whimpering, it was... it
was... singing.

My sister was lying in the mud, perfectly okay, perfectly happy, serenading a frog with the chorus of "I Feel Pretty, oh so pretty...." When I finally got to her she sat up, smiled, and asked if we could do it again. "Next time tell your stupid friend to hold onto the rope though," she added.

As much fun as she had and as much as she promised while we hiked home not to tell Mom and Dad, within seconds of walking through the door, she'd spilled the beans about her adventure on the mighty rapids. The parents were quite unhappy, phone calls were made, like number
Johnny-5 -- rafts were disassembled, and the recycling guy wondered how much pop one family could drink in a week the next trash day.

Like the Titanic, that good ole raft's maiden voyage was it's last.

Every time I drive by where the creek used to be, on the way to tattletale's house, I think about the good times. I miss it. I wish it was still there. My sister, she has kids, she's probably glad it's gone. No rafting adventures for her youngest. Then again, none of them will get to sing West Side Story songs to amphibians either.

I told you I was an adventurer.

Vote for this adventurer for Humor Blogger of the Year over at HumorBloggers.com, or just check out the other funny blogs in the running.

Nothing Says True Love Like Mayonaise and Bacon

A lot of what defines me and has made mewho I am is the relationships I did not have. Yup, that's right, no typo there, the relationships I did not have.

As a young lad I had a tendency to idealize certain people. I had these crushes that I just wouldn't let go of. Most of the time it wasa relationship that never could be, someone attached, a girl that was out of my league, a friend's sister, a foreign head of state... but there I'd be with my crush anyway, an insecure adolescent who in no way, not in a million kazillion years would show his emotions and put himself in a position where he could actually be hurt. No, I'd admire from afar. I'd put them on a pedestal. I'd ignore other romantic possibilities, holding out for that impossible relationship, but neverever never ever doing anything to get the ball a rollin'. I admit that I was somewhere between one of those slightly nerdy guys in a teen romance comedy that eventually charms the girl and the dude that shot president Reagan to impress a woman, but I'd at least like to think I was slightly closer to the first one.

The first in a long line of these pre-failed relationships was with Carrie. She was my friend's sister, as off limits as it gets. Still, you can't control your feelings. Inner-most emotions don't know your buddy finds the mere thought, well, icky. It started innocently enough. I used to write parody songs to go with the hits on the radio. She'd read them and laugh and laugh and laugh; that's a lot of laughing. Some people might have suspected insanity or a gas leak, but me, I read it as true love. The feeling was not mutual, but that didn't stop me.

I continued to write songs... "Tim Tracy," about a friend of ours with anger issues to the tune of AC/DC's TNT. Van Halen's "Panama' became "Malaria," including the insanely romantic lyric, "Burinin'when I urine too." The best (read: most embarrassing in retrospect) was the history of our friendship and all the people around us to the tune of "We Didn't Start the Fire," by Billy Joel. It actually worked surprisingly well as a song, except that I couldn't come up with anything logical or real to replace "Bay of Pigs Invasion" with "May O naise and Bacon." No, it didn't make sense, and my friends called me on it, so I made up this elaborate lie about this dude that came into the burger joint I worked at and ordered mayo/bacon sandwiches. I even swore up and down that Carrie had been there once visiting me when the guy came in. I asked my pal Ray to back me up. He didn't. I had to back track and come up with some sort of "thinking of you makes me think of sandwich spread and pork products thing." The relationship was never the same.

I found out four months (four months of extreme candle burning) later, when I finally worked up the courage to ask her to the Valentine's dance, that she'd been secretly dating (in the way that only high school kids, co-workers, or leaders of the free world can secretly date) one of my best friends the whole while. Nothing says love like awkwardly inappropriate song lyrics.
He's still one of my best friends, I haven't seen her for a decade, but I was romantically altered for eternity.

I was over Carrie, but for a good chunk of high school I dreamed about, and had a very long-term non-relationship with Christine, my next door neighbor. Sure, I only actually spoke to her twice: once at the bus stop freshman the first day of freshman year. She was new. I was new. She asked, in a very friendly, very hot, manner, "Is anyone else here new?" Already smitten, I began a beautiful non-relationshipwith a meekly muttered, "me."

Sure, like any relationship, ours was rocky at times, there were highs and there were lows. The highs being the bus stop encounter, the lows being the subsequent four years during which we never spoke. But, fate stepped in. At the senior picnic, a water fight between the students and the teachers broke out. My counsellor, Mr. Keller, was hiding behind a tree. Christine was kind enough to point him out to me, shouting, "Mike, behind the tree."

Be still my heart, there was pointing too, yes, our relationship had advanced to the pointing point in just four short years. "Uh...eruhodeusdsickh," I shouted as I dumped a bucket of water on Mr. K, relieved that I finally got that off my chest.

Nothing says love like incoherent mutterings and an angry school dean.

My relationship with Christine ended that day. I saw her in the neighborhood once or twice that summer, but once she left for college, I never laid eyes on her again.

When I got to college, I developed a crush on Gina. Gina lived on my floor, right across the hall. Throughout the year, my feelings for her grew. She was amazing, the only flaw being one of those soul crushing "boyfriends back home." I didn't care. She was worth waiting for. I never made my feelings known, but I hung around her like a vulture waiting for little bits of roadkill (only she was quite a bit more attractive that roadkill). It didn't help things that her boyfriend was an ass. Frequent almost break-ups occurred, but it was never enough for me to make a move. We became really close friends, she often bounced boyfriend ideas off me, kind of like those little poisonous blow gun darts bounce of human flesh. It was fun, in the same kinda way that the poison and the darts and the bouncing from the flesh would be fun.

My roommate, fully aware of my predicament, suggested a heavy night of college binge drinking. "Emotions get high, inhibitions get low. Nothing erases an idiot boyfriend from a chick's memory like cheap beer. It's perfect," Ted swore to me.

I took his advice, he shooed everyone else out of the way for a night and the chugging commenced. I almost got up the courage to tell her how I felt. I swear, it was right there, almost perfect, but then... well, let's just say that nothing quite says love like dual upchucks.

Gina and I "broke up" when we both transferred schools the next fall.

At my new school, I met Sharon. She was the perfect girl to not have a relationship with. I worked backstage on the plays, she was a singer/actress. How not perfect is that? She asked me to help her with a play was directing for a class. I asked her to act in my play the next year. That was the extent of it. I never had the balls to figure out if there could be more. Two years later (yes, I know it's sudden), I made my move. I sent her flowers after a performance, that would have been a pretty good way to see if there were any feelings, except that I decided against signing my name and turned a nice gesture into just-on-this-side-of-creepy.

Nothing says true love like stalkerish tendencies.

After college I floundered around a bit. I still wanted to live the college lifestyle, only with a degree and no classes (read: Mike was a slacker fully prepared to out slack all slackers that had come before him). I kept working as a bartender and waiter, claiming that the poverty lifestyle would force me to work on my writing, force me to work for a better life, keep me wanting more. It also forced me to live in a dump and eat Hot Pockets and macaroni and cheese a lot.

While working at this little Italian joint, I met Toni. She had everything I didn't. Courage, an outgoing nature, spirit, vim and vigor (I have no idea what vigor or vim are, but somehow I knew they were good and Toni had them). What more could I ask for?

We became work friends, then sometimes outside of work friends, then really real friends. I actually made a move; I thought there could be something more, so I invited her to a party. That "something more" I was hoping for turned out to be the long-term boyfriend she brought along to the shin-dig, but had failed to ever mention before that night.

Nothing says true love like crying into your microwave meat filled pastry.

They say that fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce, and sincethe other fifty end even worse (no one seems to ever mention the part about the death and the 'til we parting), so I figure my non-relationships were much healthier choices. No one got hurt. No one got dead. And, best of all, no lawyers got rich.

It all worked out in the end though, eventually I grew up (and grew a pair). I met an amazing woman who showed me that I could love morethan I ever imagined a man could love. And, this one actually acknowledged my existence to boot. I went ahead and married her.

The only snafu, I couldn't convince her to play the May O naise and Bacon song at the wedding. Nothing says true love like being okay with that.

Throw a vote at true love at humor-blogs.com

The Legend of Eddie Bubble Gum

There are a handful of moments every now and again that trigger some deep, long forgotten sense memory in me. Once in a while, when the wind is just right, a neighbor will light up his barbeque and just a whiff of the coals will transport me back to a summer evening cooking out on the grill in our backyard. Just the right smell of just the right kind of leather sparks visions of long hours spent patrolling the little league outfield with my glove to my face to smell the greatest smell on Earth – leather and baseball dirt. Music can do it too. The opening chords of Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong has me longing for my days in the college dorms, and while I’ve probably only heard it two or three times in the last fifteen years, just a note or two of Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam’s Lost in Emotion instantly sends me back to 1987, so much so that I’d swear that I can smell the fresh paint my dad and I spent that entire summer coating our new house with. A nice rain, and the smell of worms, helps me recall family fishing trips. Overripe tomatoes, for some reason, give me mental images of these big fat green hairless caterpillars that roamed the fields around my neighborhood – we must have found them on backyard tomato plants at some point, because cutting into an even slightly mushy tomato makes me wince, as a picture of these alieny green bugs that emitted some sort of funky stank from their heads while little red antennae popped out. While these images that stem from smells and sounds are strong, nothing triggers sense memory for me quite like food.

When I start to think of specific foods from my childhood, memories flood my brain. Just the mention of Fun Dip has me salivating, and even though it’s been two decades since I’ve had any, I could just about taste the poof of candy powder that erupts from the pouch when you tear into a packet of Fun Dip as I typed those words. I can smell the artificial grape and strawberry chemical compounds that made Fun Dip so darn fun, and I can feel the grainy white stick slide across my tongue right now. What a disgusting concept that product was. While thoughts of Fun Dip have me planning a lunch hour trip to the local 7-11 to search for my old friend (or at the very least, snatch up a few packets of Smarties and Sweet Tarts that I can pound the crap out of with my stapler until I have my own homemade Fun Dip), that’s not even the food that conjures up the strongest memories. For some reason, the top of my list is cluttered with a variety of tube shaped foods – hot dogs, the Super Rope licorice, Freeze Pops, Cow Tails, and beef jerky all hold a special place in the pantry of my mind, but the Grandpappy of edible memory triggers is Big Daddy Bubble Gum.

I honestly don’t know if they make this anymore. I don’t know if it was ever even widely available. I don’t know if it came from a crazed bubblegum fanatic who had a mini-gum factory in his basement hidden somewhere in the maze of cul de sacs that is suburbia. The only place I ever saw Big Daddy Bubble Gum for sale was the concession stands of the little league baseball fields in my neighborhood.

For the uninitiated, Big Daddy Bubble Gum was indeed the big daddy of all bubblegum, not a stick like Big Red, or a hunk like Bubblicious, or a brick like Bazooka Joe, or a ball like you might chip your tooth on, or shredded like Big League Chew, or a nugget o’ gum like a Chicklet – Big Daddy was a rod of gum. As pornographic as this entire paragraph is going to come across, we’re talking about a nine inch gum pipe. I don’t remember which is a diameter and which is a circumference and what you multiply pi by to get the body mass index of a Big Daddy, but I’d have to guess that it was about as big around as one of those fatty pencils that they make you use in kindergarten, only it was about twice as long. Packaged in a slick plastic sheath that you had to tear open with your teeth, Big Daddy was coated in a strange white powder that was more flour than sugar, but may just have been cocaine’s little brother for all the addictive properties a rod o’ Big Daddy had. I don’t recall all the flavors they made, only that my preferred Big Daddy came in a bright blue wrapping that gets me excited just thinking about it.

I can distinctly recall sprinting to the concessions after a hard fought little league battle just to get my little mitts on another Big Daddy. Sitting here right now, twenty-five years after the fact, I can feel the smooth plastic, the soft gum inside, and the struggle I always had to tear into the wrapper. I can smell the chemically enhanced fruity flavors burst out of the plastic. I can just about feel the weird white powder on my fingers and the not-quite-as-soft-as-it-looks gum in my mouth. I can taste the grapey, bubble gummy, and mystery fruit flavored goodness right now. It makes my jaw hurt, my jaw which is probably twice the size as it was back in the day, just to think about the massive entire-pack-of-Bubble-Yum sized wad of goo I’d chomp on for seven innings at a time. Then I start to remember my neighbor and teammate Eddie Mayer. At one game little Eddie shoved an entire log of Big Daddy into his yap before taking the mound. He pitched great, prompted Coach Lakaitis to dub him “Eddie Bubble Gum.” Eddie liked the nickname so much, that despite the possibility of lockjaw (or, considering the Eddie to gum mass ratio, an entire locked head) he began a pregame ritual during which he would shove three or four Big Daddy Bubble Gums into his mouth.

Unbelievably, it helped. Eddie went from the worst player on the team to our top pitcher in the course of one foot long gum branch. His fastball had more pop. His curveball was suddenly wicked. He change-up changed so much that it changed, went back to being what it was initially, then changed again. It was like the bubble gum had empowered his arm to make the ball miss bats. Eddie Bubble Gum became a folk hero of sorts after he threw three straight no-hitters. There was an article about him in the local paper. There were kids asking for his autograph. There was a teammate who wrote an Eddie Bubble Gum song that helped the legend grow. Kids on other teams would breathe a sigh of relief on Eddie’s off days. Coaches would resign themselves to a loss. Opponents would see striking out against Bubble Gum as a badge of honor – something they would tell their grandkids about the day Eddie Bubble Gum was elected to the Hall of Fame.

Eddie’s new found success was part luck and part the power of positive thinking and part a psychological advantage – at first. Soon though, it inspired him, motivated him, pushed him. In no time Eddie Bubble Gum was watching major leaguers, studying their pitching delivery. He was reading books, trying to find any tips he could. And, he was practicing, practicing, practicing. He threw each and every day. Being his next door neighbor, I was suddenly elected catcher, so that I could work with him at home before and after practice. It was inspiring to see his dedication, but disgusting to see the little pink sugar crusties form on the corners of his mouth and the bubble gum juice erupt from his cheeks as he grunted with each fastball he threw.

Soon his nice white uniform was streaked with spitty, fruity globs of pink, blue, and green. This lasted most of a season, until Eddie’s mom made it to a game. You see, she’d been home most of this time looking after a newborn baby brother (who several coaches had already called dibs on), then it stopped real quick. The legend of Eddie Bubble Gum died because Mrs. Bubble had finally figured out what her son was doing that was making laundry day such a chore. No more gum, that was the decree from above. At first Eddie resisted, sneaking smaller wads (Jupiter would have been a smaller wad) into his cheek before gametime, but mom found him out. Eddie Bubble Gum was no more.

Opponents, sure that the gum was the source of Eddie’s dominance, were suddenly confident that they could hit him. Teammates began to question his ability. Coaches grumbled about banning mom from the ballpark. Eddie doubted himself.

The first game he started after the bubble gum ban was imposed was a disaster. He hit the first batter, walked two more, gave up a three run triple, and felt a little pop in his shoulder. Coach pulled him. He pitched again a few days later and was back to domination, striking out the first ten kids he faced. He kept it up, pitching great time after time all the way through high school and into college, but it wasn’t the same. He was just Eddie, and later just Ed. He wasn’t a legend anymore. He wasn’t a folk hero. He wasn’t Eddie Bubble Gum. In fact, it wasn’t long before kids went back to calling him by his old nickname – an unfortunate label inflicted upon him due to a strange set of allergies that left him with a runny nose all year round – Eddie Bubble Gum went back to being known as “Booger Ed.”

Until something triggered the memory of that gum, I’d forgotten about Eddie. I moved out of that neighborhood a few years after that baseball season and over time we fell out of touch. What a fun summer that was. What a fantastic baseball season. What a fastball. What a memory. What a bubble gum.

To get Eddie Bubblegum into the Hall of Fame, vote here.

No Ducks Were Harmed in the Writing of This Post

People do stupid things. Let's face it. There's no denying it. I'm pretty sure that we can all agree on that.

We can also agree, I'm sure, on the fact that you are a person. Unless you're a government trained chimp learning to read blogs so you can assimilate into our society, in which case, leave me alone G-monkey. Everyone else is probably a person. Therefore, you have likely done something stupid. The variation, of course, is the degree of our stupidity.

Sometimes it's as simple as a stupid comment slipping out of your mouth, like this one that haunts me to this day from my first day in the dorms at a "get to know the other people on the floor" meeting.

RA - "So, Mike, do you think there are any pretty girls on our floor?"

Mike (in front of the whole floor) - "Oh yeah, and Stan (my new
roommate) is two of them."

What the hell did that mean? It sounded funny in my head before I said it, but when it came out of my mouth, I immediately wished I could grab those words out of the air and cram them back in my cramhole. I thought about making a cross dressing joke at Stan's
expense, but, this was my bed to lie in. Everyone else seemed to think that what I said was pretty stupid as well, evidenced by all the very uncomfortable chuckles and a whole bunch of weird stares. Other than that, all I got was a guarantee that I would not see a single girl from my floor naked that year. College started off with a bang.

Sometimes, the stupid things we do are more pronounced and have a greater impact, as well as bigger repercussions. "Oh, that was dumb, perhaps I shouldn't have stuck that fireplace poker through my step-mom's chest. Stupid stupid stupid. Why do I do these idiotic things?"

The stupidest thing I ever did was somewhere in between those two.

Back in my high school days, my friends and I caused a little bit of trouble. Never really bad stuff, no one ever died, and only one trip to the hospital was ever made, but being model citizens bored us. Somewhere down the line one of us must have come up with the goal to be included in the weird crimes section of the newspaper, because the stupid things we did were ... well, really really stupid.

There were several of our escapades that could easily make a top ten list, such as pulling over on the side of the road and tossing one of those orange blinky saw horse construction zone things into the car. For some reason we thought it'd be cool to have one. We didn't think the whole thing through, and our crime became very apparent as we
drove down one of the busiest streets in town, the backseat of the car glowing and flashing orange.

That was probably topped on the stupidity scale by the time we found a discarded kitchen sink, filled the back seat of the car with other randomly odd items, and drove around hoping to get pulled over so we could hear a cop say, "You've got everything, including the kitchen sink in there." We did. He did. He let us off.

We also got away with doing doughnuts in the middle of a corn field, even though there were corn stalks sticking out of the car’s front grill, removing all the flags from the local golf course and reinstalling them in strategic places throughout my friend Jerry’s house, sinking a stolen shopping cart in our buddy's pool, filling a neighbor's hot tub with laundry detergent, and "TPing" a friend's girlfriend's house with nearly 10,000 "found" shoelaces.

All of those pale in comparison to the dumbest thing we ever did. We decided to steal a duck crossing sign. Why? I have no idea. We must have thought it would look good hanging on one of our walls. There was just something about the silhouette of that mama duck and the tree little baby ducks that simply screamed out, “I got to have that.”

Our plan was simple. We found three potential Duck Crossing Signs to take. One near an apartment complex, one along a shopping plaza, and one in the middle of a subdivision. Each of them had their difficulties, so we weighed our options. It was decided that sign number two would be the easiest. It was in the parkway, adjacent to a mid-sized strip mall. Even though it was just a block off of a main street, in a high traffic area, we thought it was our best option because it wasn’t in a residential area. I mean, who would be hanging out in the Office Depot parking lot in the middle of the night? It would still be complicated, but we were up to the task. Of course, we were stupid.

It was decided that my pal Owen and I would do the deed. Matt, the Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes of the group (an insult I just don't get – don’t most people have two shoes?), would
drive the get away car.

Owen packed his socket set, just in case the bolts were different sized and we were off. Of course, we waited until the middle of the night when the cover of darkness, the lack of traffic, and those stores being closed would increase our probability of success. Matt
dropped us off and drove away.

This was to be a quick mission. Owen was taller, so he'd remove the top bolt. At the same time, I'd loosen the lower one. By the time Matt circled the block, we'd be ready to throw the sign in the trunk, jump in, and speed off. All plans have kinks though. Kink number one was that we could barely reach the bottom bolt, and the the top one was a good two feet beyond our outstretched arms.

We looked around, Owen humming the theme to Mission: Impossible. There, about fifty yards away, was the nicely done landscaping for the shopping center. Whoever did that did an excellent job. A little area filled with trees and bushes, mulch, all of it surrounded by a small retaining wall made up of bowling ball sized rocks. The rocks, probably about two of them when stacked next to the pole, would be about perfect for helping us reach that pesky top bolt.

Snafu number two. Those rocks, well, they were as heavy as... really heavy rocks. I tried to lift one, but when my eyes almost popped out of my head from the strain, I realized I was looking at a recipe for Insta-Hernia. We were going to each grab a stone and haul it over to the sign, but it took both of us to even budge one. Slowly, we lugged the rocks into place, Owen, all the while, humming the theme to The Flintstones.

Meanwhile, Matt had been driving in circles around the area to avoid the suspicion of a car parked in the shopping center lot in the middle of the night. He checked back on us, saw us messing around with rocks, and was confused. Figuring we’d be ready to go by now, he started to get nervous and instead of continuing around and around the commercial areas, he took a quick turn into an apartment complex and cruised around in there for a while.

Before too long, (thank God or my arms would have fallen off) we got both rocks in place. Owen got the bottom bolt off. Seeing as how he was balancing on top of a round stone that was balancing on top of another round stone, he was rocking back and forth, teetering a little, then tottering a tad. I tried to hold him steady, but there was nothing we could do. This incident with the rocks was slowing down our initial plan so much that we should have just called it quits and re-planned our caper. Did I happen to mention that we were stupid?

I was acting as lookout. At first, we didn't think we'd need a lookout, but the turtle pace of our scheme was keeping us exposed longer than we'd intended. Pretty soon, I had two things to say to Owen. "Lookout," and "Who in the world goes jogging at two o' clock
in the morning?"

Owen jumped down off the rock tower as fitness boy rounded the corner. He slyly shoved the wrench into his pocket and started humming the theme to Sanford and Son. I have no idea what significance that had.

As Mr. Ankle Weights passed, we exchanged pleasantries, as anyone would do when they encounter a stranger in the dark during the wee hours of the morning while he’s trying to keep his heart rate up and your plotting the demise of street crossing ducks everywhere.

As soon as Johnny Sweatbands was out of sight, Owen climbed back up, speedily spun that top bolt, and let the sign fall into the grass.

Suddenly, three cars in a row came down the street, their headlights shining right in our eyes. It’s hard not to look guilty when you are in fact incredibly guilty and your plan has gone kaput and your standing in the grass in the middle of the night next to an empty post and a road sign lying on the ground, so we probably looked pretty guilty. Panic took over. We started to walk away, in the direction that Matt would be coming from. Mission aborted.

I know what you’re thinking, “wise decision,” right? Haven’t you been paying attention? We were stupid. That’s the theme of this whole thing. Do you actually think we just walked away?

Matt swung out of the apartment parking lot, we jumped in, and took off.

We drove around aimlessly for the next hour or so. Kicking ourselves for not finishing the job. Upset that we were so close, but did not taste the sweet cigar. We decided to go back. We'd be cautious though. All we'd do is cruise down the street, pull into the shopping center, and take a lap or two to see how clear the coast was.

That's exactly what we did. Only, just as we pulled into the parking lot, a cop car pulled in behind us. We continued to drive along the storefronts, Matt started to freak out a little more than we'd have liked. The lot was empty, none of the stores had been open for hours, but there we were, being tailed by the police into a deserted mini-mall. Why were we in there? Why did we go back? What would our excuse be when those rollers started flashing?

Matt, good little citizen that he is, kept to the posted speed limit of 10 miles per hour, which made the whole event seem surreal, like a slo-mo action movie scene. He even stopped at all twelve of the little parking lot stop signs that most people don't even abide by during the day unless some old lady wanders out of the Honey Baked Ham store (yes, this mall had a whole store devoted to the heaven that is the honey baked ham) and into the road, Johnny Law right behind us at each and every one.

Then it happened. At the last stop sign, almost out onto the main road, the flashing lights went off. Since we were mid-speed bump, cruising along at a whopping seven miles an hour at that point, it really didn't take that much effort to pull over.

The cop strolled up to Matt's window and shined his ridiculously bright light into each of our faces. He seemed a bit jittery and nervous. "What are you guys doing out here so late at night?" He asked.

A fair question, but luckily our speedy lap through the parking lot gave us enough time to get our stories straight. "We're supposed to meet a friend here," Matt answered, doing a really good job at faking the calm, the cool, and the collected.

"Oh yeah, whose your friend?" Coppy Copperson asked, sure he was about to trip us up.

"Jerry," we answered in such perfect unison that I couldn't help but chuckle.

"Jerry who?"

"Schmutz," all together now, like a three man barbershop quartet. Come on, who could make up a name like that? He had to believe this story.

A couple more cop cars pulled up behind us and suddenly Barney Fife had his groove back. With a new found sense of confidence, he started in with the hard core interrogation tactics.

"Well, how long have you been waiting for your friend?"

Matt took this one on his own. He was in the driver's seat, so the questions seemed to be directed at him. Barney must have sensed Matt's weakness. "We just pulled in here right before you."

Coppy didn't buy it. He informed us that he had a witness that had seen us up to no good. Owen and I silently cursed fitness boy, assuming that he was the narc. Matt held strong.

The cop continued. "Don't make me go get the witness, guys. That will just make this
whole process worse."

As this game went on, Owen and I started to get the impression that the cop was bluffing us. We sensed that there was no witness. Good little Fitness Boy had minded his own business. The cop hadn't actually seen us doing anything, therefore had to get us to confess to something. No way. We wouldn't do it. We would never fall for such trickery.

"Come on guys, make it easy on yourselves, just tell me what you were doing."

"Ok, Ok," Matt started, falling for the trickery.

"Noooooooooooo," Owen and I shouted, in slow motion, inside our heads.

"We were stealing the duck crossing sign."

"You were what?" a very confused Deputy Fife asked.

"We were stealing the duck crossing sign," Matt repeated.

"Why would you do that?" the cop, who, on the off chance that we actually had been no good fired a lone warning shot into the dark cold night hoping to hit something. It was so obvious to Owen and I that he had no idea what we'd been up to, but that lone shot hit Matt square in the face.

"We're a bunch of idiots," Matt confessed, nearly in tears.

"OK. Hold on," the cop said, wandering away to chat with his cop buddies.

A minute or two later, after Owen and I had soundly chastised Matt for his cowardice and stupidity, the cop and his pals strolled back to the window.

"Now, what did you guys do?"

Matt launched back into the whole story and a group of highly entertained officers of the law stood there riveted. By then, we had seven cop cars attending to us.

They were all a bit surprised by Matt's confession, seeing as how they'd been called because some old woman had seen Matt's car circling around her apartment building for almost an hour. She was concerned that he was casing the joint for a robbery.

Eventually, they had us lead them back to the other side of the lot and show them the sign. Once they saw the sign on the ground, they pulled us out of Matt's hatchback and frisked us. I had nothing to hide but a wrench in my pocket, but since Matt had already confessed for us, there was no reason to worry about that. I'd completely forgotten, until Officer Friendly found it, that I had a little GI Joe figure backpack sound effects doohicky in my jacket. The cop got a little concerned about the unidentifiable lump in my pocket and pulled it out. Confuddled, he pressed the little buttons to hear laser beam
and hand grenade noises. At the same time, on the other side of the car, laser beams echoed back at us. I looked up to see that another slightly confused policeman had found Owen's noise maker. "What, do you guys communicate with these things or something?" cop number two asked.

Also in Owen's pocket, the cop found the bolts to the sign. Owen smiled in his Oweny sort of way and asked the cops if we could just put the sign back up and forget about the whole thing. They liked half that idea and pretty soon Owen was back up there, teetering on the rock pile to fasten the bolts. They didn't seem to care for the forget about the whole thing part of our proposition.

Later, at the police station, the three of us sat there quietly while a group of officers debated what they should charge us with. They only seemed mildly amused when Owen kept wandering over into their conversation and requesting that no matter what we were charged with that the word "duck" was some how included on the citation.

While filling out the paperwork for our "removal of traffic control signals" ticket, one of the cops asked Matt what his license plate number was. Too distraught to recall his own name at this point, Matt blanked. His car was parked out front, so the officer at the desk
used a little joy stick to maneuver a security camera to get a better look. He couldn't seem to get the right angle from any of the cameras he tried, so Owen offered to give it a shot. They said no, so he ran.

The cops started to scramble after him, but somehow, through my power of persuasion, I told them to stop and wait. This was Owen they were dealing with, he wasn't going to go all fugitive on them, he really wanted a ticket with the word "duck" on it, and he wouldn't leave without it.

Camera cop spun his eyes in the sky around, trying to pick up Owen on his monitor. Pretty soon he did, and there he was standing in front of Matt's car, reading the license plate number. Then, because he's Owen and that's what he does, he looked back at the building. Watching him on the monitor, you could see his eyes dart around to find the same camera the officer had been using, and once he did, he began to do what he calls "The Cantaloupe in Heat" dance, which consists of waving your arms about
like a slow motion stork and hopping from one foot to the other while bringing your knees almost up to your armpits. There's sound effects too, but I can't even begin to explain them. It's actually quite a sight. He used to do it all the time, but now he only pulls out the cantaloupe at weddings when the bride asks for it. Believe me, it's always requested.

The cops didn't quite know what to make of this sight, but I was loving it. The longer he did it, the funnier it got to the room full of lawmen. I took a shot and asked if the entertainment that is Owen could serve as payment for any fine they were going to hit us with. They found that funny too.

It took some time, but eventually they gave us our tickets and sent us on our way. We got a few laughs again when the court date came, but when we were told exactly how much our fine would be, there was no more ha ha. We'd learned our lessons. We were all reformed. Each of us is now completely pro-fowl. Never again would we interfere with a duck's ability to safely cross the street.

Still, I can’t help but think one of those signs would look good above my fireplace.

If you think the ducks are funny, give 'em a vote at humor-blogs.com.

I Mention Wilford Brimley in this Post, and I'm Not Just Saying That to Win Your Heart

Zoo: An excellent place to study the habits of human beings. - Evan Esar

We went to the zoo the other day, armed with our brand new video camera. We did all the things that proud new video camera owners are supposed to do. We tried out everything. Night vision, lights, quick focus, stabilization thingamabahobbers. We zoomed in. We zoomed out. I zoomed so much, I think I actually got footage inside a bear's nose. That's a powerful little camera. This morning, we finally got around to watching what we'd taped, and besides now knowing that the inside of a panda nose is surprisingly spacious, I came to the realization that the people at the zoo are far more entertaining than the animals. We actually found ourselves rewinding the tape to point out to each other odd things people had done and going back again and again to try and make out what someone had said in the background.

After nearly thirty minutes of zoo footage, we came up with a zoorific theory on the people at the zoo. On first glance it may seem that there are simply two types of zoo patron, kid and adult. Closer looks however break that down even further; hyper kid, bored kid, adult. A trained eye, however, will be able to distinguish between twelve, yes, that is a twelve, subspecies of zoo patrons. They are as follows:

1. The Scooter Alonger. The Scooter Alonger can be recognized by his inability to stay at any one display for more than a few seconds. Scooter Alongers, much like sharks and helicopters, are unable to stop moving. They're not necessarily in a hurry, but also will not be caught dawdling. There's constant shuffling of feet, never more than a mere glimpse of any animal, and quite often a confused look on their faces as they have to double back to find thier family members who fit into a different category.

2. The Attention Defici...Wha? What's Thaters. These folks have the attention span of a gnat. In fact, even gnats bore them. They are easily distracted by bright lights, the waving of arms, the sound of jingling keys, or motion of any sort. At the zoo they can often be heard making broad statements like, "I love the monkeys. The monkeys are my favo...Hey. Is that a polar be... Camels. Look everyone, camels." Do not get in their way, they bounce to and fro in a potentially (unintentionally) violent and dangerous way.

3. Sign Readers. Always wanting to be well informed about every detail about every single animal they do not see, because they're too busy absorbing paragraph after paragraph aboubt the mating habits of the naked mole rat and holding up their arms to compare them with the wingspan of the California condor and matching thier handprints with those of all of the great apes and turning knobs and flipping flaps and spinning wheels... These are the people that miss the rare occurrences when a captive animal actual does something different than sleep or lick its own butt, because they are too busy reading the signs. They can often be heard complaining, "Oh, I missed it." These folks don't realize they could go home and read a book about an animal, but unless there's an aardvark in their living room, there are certain things you can only accomplish while actually in the confines of the zoo.

4. Sign Scanners. A close relative of the sign readers, sign scanners are a dangerous sort. They merely skim the material presented to them on the zoo signs, often misinterpreting what they've been told. These are the people that believe that lions are making a fashion statement with the hair-do, tortoises are simply turtles after puberty, dolphins are in fact fish (not eat fish), and red pandas and giant pandas belong to the same bridge club. Sign scanners absorb a small percentage of the information given, but spout it back at their compatriots as if they know the whole story - often times filling in the blanks with professed expertise. These sad folks are most often found pontificating misinformation to their young. Sign scanners should be considered dangerous, keep children and elderly away.

5. Excessive Picture Takers. Are easily spotted, just follow the strobe effect of the flash bulb. They often have a dazed look in their eye from the light bouncing back at them off the plexi-glass enclosures. They often make proud declarations about the size of their memory cards and can usually be found scrolling through thier camera's memory and proudly showing thier companions the seventeen perfect shots they got of the "whatever that thing is." EPT's rarely know what they're photographing, but manage to frame each snap in such a way that it appears that they've just happened to stumble across a bandicoot in their backyard. An endagered subspecies of EPTs is the Almost Out Of Film EPTs. Before the advent of digital photography these folks could be found everywhere, but sadly, now a sighting is rare. If we don't take care to prevent their demise, out children may never hear a AOOFEPT bemoan, "I'm almost out of film. I took sixty-eight pictures of the gibbon, now I only have two shots left, and I have to save them for something really cool."

6. Linger Way Too Longers. These are the people that stare at the baboon butts just a wee bit longer than socially acceptable. At first they seem harmless. At first you believe they're trying to be in touch with nature. At first you disregard the odd behavior. Then, as if a light bulb just smacked you in the temple, you realize that if you saw the same person exhibiting the same behavior at the neighborhood playground, you'd be dialing 911 before I could sing the chorus of "Man in the Mirror." Be forewarned, do not look directly at the folks. Do not engage and for the love of Mike, do not make eye contact. If unsure, keep in mind, their finger prints are probably on file someplace.

7. Know It Alls. While annoying, like dung beetles and spiders, these creatures actually serve a purpose. Many an animal kingdom illiterate parent could benefit from following one of these people from pen to pen. Know it alls show up at the zoo with the knowledge that sign readers want and the sign scanners believe they've found. If you can find a nice know it all, one who doesn't lord his/her/its knowldege over the little people, stick with them. A very rare sighting, but absolutely priceless.

8. Don't Know It Alls. A far more common cousin of the Know It All. Sadly, these folks think they are Know It Alls. Like those butterflies that aren't poisonous, but look like other poisonous ones to fool the predators, these somewhat dangerous pests hook you in with an interesting fact. It seems plausible, and you figure that they must be smart, so you listen and believe that you're learning. Next thing you know it, you're at work the next day, telling your friends that canaries come from the Canary Islands, and Wolves come from Wolfistan, and Camels are bred and traded for small aircraft in Camelonia.

9. The Absolutely Clueless. The elderly, the very young, and the mentally disabled are usually the only ones that fall into this category. They generally have no idea where they are, what all the fuss is about, and are mostly wondering who will change their diapers. Zoos that serve alcohol (yes, they exist, so someone must have thought that Long Island Ice Tea and dangerous wild beasts made a good combo) have a more abundant population of ACs, but they can be found in most public arenas, usually playing with a straw or a napkin, completely satisfied with a form of entertainment that didn't have a fifteen dollar ticket price.

10. Schedule Keepers. These are fast moving folks who have a mission. Much like migrating geese or marching penguins, these people have somewhere to be and they are usually behind schedule. You can identify this species by their folded, unfolded, and refolded maps. You'll most often find them moving very quickly, herding members of these other categories, and shouting, "We've got a schedule to keep, people. We only have so many hours and there are a lot of animals to see," or something to that effect. Schedule Keepers are, without fail, close to a stroke due to the incompliance of their sign reading/lingering/clueless/photo-op/attention span lacking cohorts.

11. Shove the Kids to the Fronters. Always accompanied by their offspring, these zoo patrons are often pushing and shoving their children into prime viewing spots. These folks, regardless of what said offspring want, desire the kids to be front and center at each and every exhibit. They are easily recognizable by their mating call, "Do you see the ocelot, Timmy? Can you see it? Do you need to move closer? Let's move closer? Step over the barrier, Timmy, we'll see better. Don't worry about that ocelot, he's nice. He won't eat you, get a little closer, Timmy. Stop whining, so he took a little nibble, it's memories like this that you'll cherish forever, Timmy."

12. Careful Observers. These folks are a harmless breed. They are not grounded in reality. They, in fact, believe that they're on a nature safari in the wilds of what ever continent LaLa Land is on. They stare at the animals (sometimes even take notes or make sketches) as if they are Jane Goodall. Like a caterpillar or Wilford Brimley in the Cocoon, they can sometimes metamorphosisize into a Linger Too Longers or a member of the Know It All family. Can usually be recognized by the pith helmet and the blank stare. Of course, there are other species and subspecies and speciesubsubspeciespecies, but these are the most common humans found at the zoo.

Remember, it takes a keen eye to discern between the species, but this handy little guide should give you a head start. So, on your next trip to your local zoo, enjoy the lack of nature, dress for the weather, and steer clear of the people (the animals are much less dangerous). Let me know, which of these fits you and your family. Happy zooing.

Vote for happy zoo animals everywhere at Humor-Blogs.com.