Monday, February 2, 2009
New place to View
Mortgage business has kept me so busy that I haven't had the time for weekly ideas. I am submitting some to the Orland Park Prairie newspaper ans on-line paper. www.opprairie.com under the Opinion section is where you can find my work every 2-3 weeks. There's a new one there today. So adjust your viewing destination. Thanks.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Right Tool For the Job
The upcoming holiday season is a very special time for most people. The next few weeks will be filled with decorating, shopping, angrily uttering dirty expletives while decorating and shopping, and for some, abusing their children by forcing them to sit on the lap of a fat, bearded stranger, dressed in red, ho-ho-ing their kids into future therapy sessions. It’s also a time, when people whom normally satiate their desire for baked goods with a visit to the local grocery store bakery, lose their minds and start baking anything that’ll rot your teeth and add an extra compartment to your already impressive saddle bags. Unfortunately, I am not impervious to such manic bouts with creating scrumptious, Yule Tide pastries, pie, in particular…food of the Gods and the chubby. In order to make the perfect pie from scratch, one must possess the proper tools to handle such a delicate job. That’s when I turn to the drawer in the kitchen I usually avoid the other 11 months of the year; the utensil drawer.
Oh, who am I kidding? Like you, I have more than 1 drawer housing these never used, bizarre gadgets, which I felt compelled to buy, after a few drinks and a heaping pile of guilt served up from an exploitative, friend hosting a Pampered Chef party. We have 2 drawers which can barely contain the twisted, shiny crap. One drawer holds the devices and tools which we use more frequently than drawer 2’s useless devices. Let’s first compare drawer 1, shall we?
3 spatulas: I only have 2 hands and plan on keeping it that way for the foreseeable future. I can’t find any situation where I’d be required to work 3 spatulas with only 2 hands. And honestly, I barely have the coordination to hold a bowl and work a spatula simultaneously. Besides, the only reason to use a spatula is to scrape of the extra batter or frosting so you can shove it your mouth when no one is looking. Fingers work just as well. I’m more of a face-in-the-bowl-probing-tongue-guy myself. Oh, very important…1 spatula must have a curled, burnt end from where you put it in a hot pan and were too lazy to throw it away.
2 can openers: The more modern looking one, I haven’t quite figured out how to use and the other one, looks like I went back in time, circa 1971, and stole it from my parent’s utensil drawer.
Oh, who am I kidding? Like you, I have more than 1 drawer housing these never used, bizarre gadgets, which I felt compelled to buy, after a few drinks and a heaping pile of guilt served up from an exploitative, friend hosting a Pampered Chef party. We have 2 drawers which can barely contain the twisted, shiny crap. One drawer holds the devices and tools which we use more frequently than drawer 2’s useless devices. Let’s first compare drawer 1, shall we?
3 spatulas: I only have 2 hands and plan on keeping it that way for the foreseeable future. I can’t find any situation where I’d be required to work 3 spatulas with only 2 hands. And honestly, I barely have the coordination to hold a bowl and work a spatula simultaneously. Besides, the only reason to use a spatula is to scrape of the extra batter or frosting so you can shove it your mouth when no one is looking. Fingers work just as well. I’m more of a face-in-the-bowl-probing-tongue-guy myself. Oh, very important…1 spatula must have a curled, burnt end from where you put it in a hot pan and were too lazy to throw it away.
2 can openers: The more modern looking one, I haven’t quite figured out how to use and the other one, looks like I went back in time, circa 1971, and stole it from my parent’s utensil drawer.
2 wooden spoons: Mom used to smack the hell out of me and my sisters with her wooden spoons. We use ours to grow dangerous bacteria in the porous wood fibers and to make anything you sample, via the spoon, taste like you’re chewing on a popsicle stick.
1 potato masher: Bulky and odd shaped, it’s never used because we make instant potatoes. Its’ sole purpose is to get entangled with other objects and piss me off by jamming the drawer.
11 knives of differing shapes and sizes bought from a late night infomercial: I’m guilty on 2 fronts there, as I have Ginsu’s and an enviable collection from Ron Popeil. Mock if you must, my surplus of cooking shanks, but I’m quite prepared if ever attacked by the cast of “West Side Story.”
1 knife sharpener: Guaranteed to whittle off dangerous, tiny bits of metal shavings into your families food, all in the name of having a knife that can saw through a tin can, then slice a freakishly, thin tomato slice.
An ice cream scoop: Filled with dangerous anti-freeze, so the impatient diet-breaker can carve through a frozen block of “Cherry Garcia” without having to wait a whole 2 minutes for a natural thaw.
A giant turkey baster: It’s that plastic tube with the rubber bulb on the end of it. It looks like a gigantic version of the gizmo we utilized to suck boogers out of my infant daughter’s nose. I have never seen anyone baste a turkey. Most people use this to suck off excess fat. Why? What the hell are you doing!?! Fat is flavor…cooking 101.
Meat mallet: This is used to tenderize your meat and impress people with your skills in preparing succulent dishes. TIP: Lose the mallet and impress your friends by forking over a few extra pennies for edible cuts of meat, rather than beating your meal into something palatable by means of construction tools.
Aside from a smattering of other strange devices, that about covers utensil drawer number 1.
Drawer number 2 is where we keep the utensils we’ll need when Hell freezes over. They seemed like a worthy purchase at the time but booze tends to lower your inhibitions, making pinching the ass of your best friend’s wife and buying stupid kitchen junk really cool things to do!
8 pairs of corn on the cob holders: Back in the day, these were cleverly shaped like little ears of corn. Genius! We have these green, cork screw things that are impossible to screw into a piping, hot ear of corn. We’ve never used them… but we have them… in case a visiting dinner guest simply can’t proceed with the meal until he/she has something to protect their digits from nasty buttery corn. Chances are I will punch them in the throat for being a pain in the ass, well before the meal is over.
4 dwarfed, pudgy butter knives with carved fruit handles: One day of the year, we serve an appetizer that can be spread on something else. It’s comforting to know we have these hideous things.
6 metal shish-kabob skewers: Metal skewer + hot grill + dopey host, half-way through a twelve pack = blistered hand and a pool full of k-bobs.
Hard-boiled egg slicer: Good for putting the finishing touches on a Cobb salad. We’ve had one for 16 years now…the welling, anticipation of that first, damn Cobb salad is almost more than I can handle. I’m sure we’ll put that to use one of these decades.
Not 1, but 2, count ‘em, 2 melon ball scoops!: I like to carve watermelon into chunks as big as the heads of the kids whom are eating it. The melon ball scoop is only used when I’m feeling randy and re-enact the “Aunt Jemiamah treatment” scene from “Stripes.”
An assortment of twisted, wacky, plastic straws: Ok…I use these.
Plastic popsicle forms: We spent $12 on 10 pieces of 2 cent plastic, so we can make popsicles that cost about $4 for 100 in the local store. So did you!
5 giant clips for sealing chip bags: Never been used in our house as an opened bag of chips is an eaten bag of chips. I put the clips in my hair sometimes to act like a sissy man and bum out my daughter. I do that a lot.
2 broken meat thermometers: I don’t tell guests they’re broken. I place one in cooked meat, pretend to be reading the meter, confidently announce, “and yes, that’s it…perfect…let’s eat!” Then I pray no one gets worms or Dysentery from eating undercooked meat.
And that about covers it. I feel liberated, openly sharing what we have in our utensil drawers. Honesty does that for people. As long as we’re being honest, I must confess a falsehood I said earlier about pie. I don’t make pie. I eat pie but since my famous second grade mud-pies, I’ve never made one. Strange…isn’t it. A guy with all those tools and doesn’t make pie. A rational person would throw out all that crap but I can’t. You never know when friends will pop over this holiday season, aching for corn on the cob-shaped ice cream melon balls, toting kids with boogery noses and in need of a good ass slapping with a wooden spoon. I love the holidays.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Great To Be Back!!!!!
Just got back this week from Thanksgiving vacation and was hit head on by a pile of work from the unbelievably low interest rates. I'll have this week's blog up Saturday morning. Tell your friends. Feel free to contact me about the rates as well, if you or somebody else wants to take advantage of theses historic lows! matt@promortgagepartners.com
Friday, November 21, 2008
Growing Pains
I apologize for skipping last week’s installment but I was physically unable to write and I’ll explain why a bit later. Moving forward, throughout my childhood, I suffered the same pains most children endured as part of our natural progression toward acne and body hair. Somehow, I managed to survive the torment of K-Mart clothes, my mother’s ability to synthesize odd foods into “casseroles” and the dawning of music from “The Captain and Tennille.” The worst youthful pain I was forced to bear came courtesy of the senseless, unprovoked violence from the sixth grade bully at St. Michael’s Elementary School, whom we'll call Bernie. Actually, his name was Bernie but I’ll withhold his last name in case he ever hears of this and wants to kill me.
As young minds are prone to do, the rumor mill was cranked up in high gear, when it came to stories about Bernie and his upbringing. Some say he shot his neighbor’s dog with a 12 gauge shotgun. Other’s said he lived in a wooden shack on the outskirts of town and everyday, ate a breakfast of cold, White Castle hamburgers and his granny’s ox-tail soup. I tend to believe this last rumor, as Bernie had a knack for dispelling gas with such ferocity that I’ve witnessed first-hand, classmates vomiting and small children crying from breathing in the noxious fumes. As I said, Bernie was the class bully and proudly executed the duties which were inherent to holding such a prestigious office. Aside from the usual recess beatings he randomly administered to unsuspecting 5th and 6th graders, he had a signature move, uniquely his own, which he violently shared with just about anyone he came in contact with. He employed this technique when he was running short on time and couldn’t devote the proper time and concentration to give you a full-blown ass-kicking. He called it a “jap-slap.” Obviously, political correctness was not high on Bernie’s list of desired traits and to remind him of this meant certain death. The slap was simply an open-handed whack upside the back of your head, which accelerated the brain into the front of your skull, resulting in double vision for the next ten minutes. The only response to the jap-slap was a nervous laugh while hiding the pain, “Huh, huh, huh…good one, Bern! Huh, huh, huh.” Then you prayed he found a new victim. He’d also accompany the slap with phrases that were complete gibberish but still managed to scare the crap out me. My favorite was,
“Hey Red! You need discipline…like Buffy, you round-headed wall-swamper!” Then he’d blast the back of my head and I tried not to cry. I discovered the “Buffy” he referred to was his dog. Just what the hell a wall-swamper is, and a round headed one no less, I’ll never know. Although Bernie inflicted pain with a style all his own, the schoolyard bully, in general, was something most of us suffered. As time passed, a new “bully” emerged to replace Bernie and with it, came a whole new world of pain. I’m referring to the onset of old age.
Recently, I’ve suffered some fine examples of once previously harmless activities, which have now caused me unbelievable pain. Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. For example, last winter I made my way to the couch for a Saturday afternoon of sitting. As I stepped between the couch and the ottoman, I felt a soft presence with my foot but was unable to see what I was about to crush because of the darkness and armful of gooey, snacks blocking my vision. As a pet owner there are certain rules you must adhere to. If you step on something soft and you’re not sure what it is, assume it’s a paw and take immediate action to step elsewhere. With my cat-like reflexes, I did just that. Quickly, I shifted my weight off the paw with a slight leap…2 or 3 inches…tops. That tiny leap was more than enough to pop my hamstring! It didn’t twinge, strain or stretch…it popped! Somehow I managed to safely set down the snacks, then I proceeded to hop around the family room on one leg, swearing at the dog and accusing her of “doing it on purpose.” I don’t know which was more embarrassing…the fact that I was seriously implicating our dog in a conspiracy to harm me by sleeping on the floor or that while in agony, I first sought to make sure not to spill my food. I had a black and blue bruise, from the back of my knee, all the way up to my butt cheek. When people inquired as to why I was limping, I thought it best to lie and tell them I did it during my daily 5 mile run. Unfortunately, people aren’t stupid and my ruse fooled no-one…but they were polite, kept there mouths shut and didn’t press me for the truth.
A few months ago, while mopping the kitchen floor, I noticed a stubborn piece of funk stuck to the area of floor I had just cleaned. I bent over to scratch off the offending speck with my fingernail and when I stepped on the damp floor, all hell broke loose. My right foot quickly slid across the floor, while my left foot remained stationary and although I hadn’t had any formal training or instruction at any level, I found myself involuntarily performing a less-than-perfect splits. Again, with cat-like reflexes, I managed to manipulate my body to avoid the impending slamming of my genitals on the freshly cleaned kitchen floor. With the dexterity and fluidity of an overstuffed sack of dirty laundry, I came to a flopping crash on the floor. As I lay there, I found myself doing what most people over the age of 30 do, after any kind of fall. Before getting up, I stopped and starting from my head and slowly working my way down, I gave myself a diagnostic check to see if all functions were operating at normal capacity.
“Ok…I can move my head…neck feels alright…both arms seem to be functioning…stomach…stomach feels a bit soft…gotta work on that…legs are moving…okay…I’m good to go.” Only after this examination could I have attempted to get up, for fear something may have been broken or leaking. Some falls, I’ve heard…never experienced myself, can actually make the “fallee” pass gas on impact, which brings up a whole other level of embarrassment. My fall was thankfully void of rectal fireworks but it did put a hurtin’ on my groin muscles. Word to the wise…mopping is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.
This brings to me why I missed last week’s blog and my most recent example of adulthood pain. I planned on writing the blog last Saturday afternoon, right after doing some yard work. After completing my yard work, I discovered the new “bully” hell-bent on making my life miserable. It’s the common leaf rake. All I had to do was rake up and bag a backyard full of leaves. Sounds pretty simple. After a few minutes of raking, I deduced an increase in speed would make the chore go a whole lot faster. So, I spent the next hour raking like a madman…sweat pouring off my face, cheeks all red and hot…both sets of cheeks, I might add. From my chest, my heart was pounding out a loud, deep, resonating tone which sounded like the vibrating base of a punk teenager’s car stereo system. I stared death in the face and beat him back with a rake and a good lathering of sweat coming from bad places. After completing my task and a long period of still-time to recover, I tried to get up to write my blog…“tried” being the operative word here. From what I was experiencing, I somehow managed to snap my neck. My lower back on the right side was completely seized up and in direct correlation; my left ass cheek was on fire. I couldn’t move. All this pain from raking leaves…unbelievable!
It’s tough getting old but it’s something we all have to deal with. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that I should accept what life brings you and try to make the best of it. I’ve taken steps to do this and to settle some old scores, while I’m at it. Next time I have to rake the leaves, it won’t be me do the raking. You’ll find Bernie out in the yard, working off some past jap-slaps, which will free me up to write. Thanks Bernie.
As young minds are prone to do, the rumor mill was cranked up in high gear, when it came to stories about Bernie and his upbringing. Some say he shot his neighbor’s dog with a 12 gauge shotgun. Other’s said he lived in a wooden shack on the outskirts of town and everyday, ate a breakfast of cold, White Castle hamburgers and his granny’s ox-tail soup. I tend to believe this last rumor, as Bernie had a knack for dispelling gas with such ferocity that I’ve witnessed first-hand, classmates vomiting and small children crying from breathing in the noxious fumes. As I said, Bernie was the class bully and proudly executed the duties which were inherent to holding such a prestigious office. Aside from the usual recess beatings he randomly administered to unsuspecting 5th and 6th graders, he had a signature move, uniquely his own, which he violently shared with just about anyone he came in contact with. He employed this technique when he was running short on time and couldn’t devote the proper time and concentration to give you a full-blown ass-kicking. He called it a “jap-slap.” Obviously, political correctness was not high on Bernie’s list of desired traits and to remind him of this meant certain death. The slap was simply an open-handed whack upside the back of your head, which accelerated the brain into the front of your skull, resulting in double vision for the next ten minutes. The only response to the jap-slap was a nervous laugh while hiding the pain, “Huh, huh, huh…good one, Bern! Huh, huh, huh.” Then you prayed he found a new victim. He’d also accompany the slap with phrases that were complete gibberish but still managed to scare the crap out me. My favorite was,
“Hey Red! You need discipline…like Buffy, you round-headed wall-swamper!” Then he’d blast the back of my head and I tried not to cry. I discovered the “Buffy” he referred to was his dog. Just what the hell a wall-swamper is, and a round headed one no less, I’ll never know. Although Bernie inflicted pain with a style all his own, the schoolyard bully, in general, was something most of us suffered. As time passed, a new “bully” emerged to replace Bernie and with it, came a whole new world of pain. I’m referring to the onset of old age.
Recently, I’ve suffered some fine examples of once previously harmless activities, which have now caused me unbelievable pain. Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. For example, last winter I made my way to the couch for a Saturday afternoon of sitting. As I stepped between the couch and the ottoman, I felt a soft presence with my foot but was unable to see what I was about to crush because of the darkness and armful of gooey, snacks blocking my vision. As a pet owner there are certain rules you must adhere to. If you step on something soft and you’re not sure what it is, assume it’s a paw and take immediate action to step elsewhere. With my cat-like reflexes, I did just that. Quickly, I shifted my weight off the paw with a slight leap…2 or 3 inches…tops. That tiny leap was more than enough to pop my hamstring! It didn’t twinge, strain or stretch…it popped! Somehow I managed to safely set down the snacks, then I proceeded to hop around the family room on one leg, swearing at the dog and accusing her of “doing it on purpose.” I don’t know which was more embarrassing…the fact that I was seriously implicating our dog in a conspiracy to harm me by sleeping on the floor or that while in agony, I first sought to make sure not to spill my food. I had a black and blue bruise, from the back of my knee, all the way up to my butt cheek. When people inquired as to why I was limping, I thought it best to lie and tell them I did it during my daily 5 mile run. Unfortunately, people aren’t stupid and my ruse fooled no-one…but they were polite, kept there mouths shut and didn’t press me for the truth.
A few months ago, while mopping the kitchen floor, I noticed a stubborn piece of funk stuck to the area of floor I had just cleaned. I bent over to scratch off the offending speck with my fingernail and when I stepped on the damp floor, all hell broke loose. My right foot quickly slid across the floor, while my left foot remained stationary and although I hadn’t had any formal training or instruction at any level, I found myself involuntarily performing a less-than-perfect splits. Again, with cat-like reflexes, I managed to manipulate my body to avoid the impending slamming of my genitals on the freshly cleaned kitchen floor. With the dexterity and fluidity of an overstuffed sack of dirty laundry, I came to a flopping crash on the floor. As I lay there, I found myself doing what most people over the age of 30 do, after any kind of fall. Before getting up, I stopped and starting from my head and slowly working my way down, I gave myself a diagnostic check to see if all functions were operating at normal capacity.
“Ok…I can move my head…neck feels alright…both arms seem to be functioning…stomach…stomach feels a bit soft…gotta work on that…legs are moving…okay…I’m good to go.” Only after this examination could I have attempted to get up, for fear something may have been broken or leaking. Some falls, I’ve heard…never experienced myself, can actually make the “fallee” pass gas on impact, which brings up a whole other level of embarrassment. My fall was thankfully void of rectal fireworks but it did put a hurtin’ on my groin muscles. Word to the wise…mopping is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.
This brings to me why I missed last week’s blog and my most recent example of adulthood pain. I planned on writing the blog last Saturday afternoon, right after doing some yard work. After completing my yard work, I discovered the new “bully” hell-bent on making my life miserable. It’s the common leaf rake. All I had to do was rake up and bag a backyard full of leaves. Sounds pretty simple. After a few minutes of raking, I deduced an increase in speed would make the chore go a whole lot faster. So, I spent the next hour raking like a madman…sweat pouring off my face, cheeks all red and hot…both sets of cheeks, I might add. From my chest, my heart was pounding out a loud, deep, resonating tone which sounded like the vibrating base of a punk teenager’s car stereo system. I stared death in the face and beat him back with a rake and a good lathering of sweat coming from bad places. After completing my task and a long period of still-time to recover, I tried to get up to write my blog…“tried” being the operative word here. From what I was experiencing, I somehow managed to snap my neck. My lower back on the right side was completely seized up and in direct correlation; my left ass cheek was on fire. I couldn’t move. All this pain from raking leaves…unbelievable!
It’s tough getting old but it’s something we all have to deal with. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that I should accept what life brings you and try to make the best of it. I’ve taken steps to do this and to settle some old scores, while I’m at it. Next time I have to rake the leaves, it won’t be me do the raking. You’ll find Bernie out in the yard, working off some past jap-slaps, which will free me up to write. Thanks Bernie.
Friday, November 7, 2008
The True Path To Salvation
I have yet to pilfer the few remaining treats from my daughter’s Halloween candy stash and when I look around at the local stores, I find we are steeped in the holiday season. Thanksgiving doesn’t get equal billing with Christmas. In fact, this late November feast has become nothing more than an exercise to stretch our stomachs to handle the upcoming December pig-outs, which then leads us to the January 1st rebirth into fitness and healthy eating, followed immediately by the January 2nd diet failure and depression. It’s a wonderful time of the year. There are those who would say that this is a despondent way of viewing, what should be, a time for joyous celebration with family and friends. They’re called “skinny people” and I hate them. Those of us, whom haven’t actually made direct eye contact with our toes in some time, have a more realistic outlook toward the holidays. Thankfully, while I was out shopping the other day, my friend Chuck called to remind me of another interesting, yet seldom contemplated, aspect of this season. I’m referring, of course, to the numerous charitable donation stations of The Salvation Army.
What Chuck found so fascinating is that there are no other documented branches of the Salvation war machine. Why isn’t there a Salvation Navy…hmmmm? This could be a very useful way to get much needed pool equipment or water sports gear to those in need. Imagine yourself trying to fight back the tears when you see a muddy-faced, street urchin being presented with his very first kayak or a wrinkled, old man trying on a newly acquired, and barely used, Speedo. All this inspiring magic, courtesy of The Salvation Navy, would surely bring a lump to the throat of the most cynical, wretched bastard, which is really what this season is all about; making the intolerable, tolerable for a couple of months, so we don’t kill them in shopping lines. I don’t think I’d trust anything supplied by The Salvation Air Force. I could be way off here but I’m fairly certain most, not all, but most indigents have no need for used air-sick bags and complimentary headsets, which have been previously inserted into the waxy, ear canals of complete strangers. I could see potentially, the creation of The Salvation Reserves in the near future. Volunteers would only be required to work one weekend a year and they can keep their full-time jobs. They wouldn’t see any real action braving the cold, outside crowded malls, no sir! These troops would be deployed inside the confines of warm restaurants and nightclubs. Of course, a rift between the “real” Salvation Army workers and the reserves would eventually boil over into an all-out, bloodbath in the streets across America. Senseless violence and streets piled high with the dead are the kind of things communities tend to distance themselves from, especially during the holidays, so perhaps the Reserves isn’t such a good idea after all. The time spent contemplating this organization opened my eyes to a disturbing fact, that as a writer, I’m bound to share with you. Brace yourselves…The Salvation Army isn’t really an army at all. This mind-blowing truth made me start to question other aspects of our armed forces that may not be all they’re cracked up to be.
Keep this information on the down-low, as it’s highly classified. Navy SEALS aren’t actually seals. They’re not the amicable, slippery, oceanic mammals we thought they were but instead, an elite and highly trained contingent of soldiers, specializing in deadly warfare. So deadly in fact, rumor has it they can kill you, using nothing but a short length of licorice whip and a throw pillow. When I was 8, I saw “Day of the Dolphin” wherein assassinations were being executed by trained dolphins. I just figured, over time, the Navy decided to use a mammal capable of killing in the water and possessing the ability to waddle out onto dry land, assume an undercover role in a circus, honking horns and balancing large colorful balls on their snout, then kill unsuspecting, potential terrorists who were out for a day of fun under the Big Top. Brilliant!
Get this, I found another misrepresentation by a specific group of our fighting forces. Commando’s, do in fact, wear underpants! Shocking! Whenever I’ve treated myself and the “fellas” to a day or two of unconfined undie freedom, I’ve always referred to it as “Going Commando.” Well, after checking this out for myself, and a severe beating I might add, turns out they’re required to wear briefs at all times. These disturbing revelations have made me question another thing about the army which has been troubling me for quite some time.
I know, in WW II, we defeated Hitler and the Third Reich. The world celebrated and we moved on. Simple enough. Well then, why am I the only one fearful and talking about, the blatant lack of concern over the First and Second Reich curiously, still at large? The Government has hushed it all up and yet, those rogue Reich’s are out there…plotting…waiting to strike again. Combat rule number one, laid down at the Lake Geneva Convention; don’t be content destroying Reich number 3, when 1 & 2 are still out frivolously “Reiching.”
Perhaps I’ve underestimated our countries defense. Maybe that’s the mission of The Salvation Army, to sniff out and destroy factions of the free running Reich’s, under the guise of bell-ringing, common-folk dressed like the Maytag repairman. If you live long enough, you learn many interesting things you thought previously innocent and harmless. This year, I learned something vital to my future efforts on this blog…if at all possible, avoid suggestions from my friend Chuck. It can lead to WW III and who wants that so close to the holidays?
What Chuck found so fascinating is that there are no other documented branches of the Salvation war machine. Why isn’t there a Salvation Navy…hmmmm? This could be a very useful way to get much needed pool equipment or water sports gear to those in need. Imagine yourself trying to fight back the tears when you see a muddy-faced, street urchin being presented with his very first kayak or a wrinkled, old man trying on a newly acquired, and barely used, Speedo. All this inspiring magic, courtesy of The Salvation Navy, would surely bring a lump to the throat of the most cynical, wretched bastard, which is really what this season is all about; making the intolerable, tolerable for a couple of months, so we don’t kill them in shopping lines. I don’t think I’d trust anything supplied by The Salvation Air Force. I could be way off here but I’m fairly certain most, not all, but most indigents have no need for used air-sick bags and complimentary headsets, which have been previously inserted into the waxy, ear canals of complete strangers. I could see potentially, the creation of The Salvation Reserves in the near future. Volunteers would only be required to work one weekend a year and they can keep their full-time jobs. They wouldn’t see any real action braving the cold, outside crowded malls, no sir! These troops would be deployed inside the confines of warm restaurants and nightclubs. Of course, a rift between the “real” Salvation Army workers and the reserves would eventually boil over into an all-out, bloodbath in the streets across America. Senseless violence and streets piled high with the dead are the kind of things communities tend to distance themselves from, especially during the holidays, so perhaps the Reserves isn’t such a good idea after all. The time spent contemplating this organization opened my eyes to a disturbing fact, that as a writer, I’m bound to share with you. Brace yourselves…The Salvation Army isn’t really an army at all. This mind-blowing truth made me start to question other aspects of our armed forces that may not be all they’re cracked up to be.
Keep this information on the down-low, as it’s highly classified. Navy SEALS aren’t actually seals. They’re not the amicable, slippery, oceanic mammals we thought they were but instead, an elite and highly trained contingent of soldiers, specializing in deadly warfare. So deadly in fact, rumor has it they can kill you, using nothing but a short length of licorice whip and a throw pillow. When I was 8, I saw “Day of the Dolphin” wherein assassinations were being executed by trained dolphins. I just figured, over time, the Navy decided to use a mammal capable of killing in the water and possessing the ability to waddle out onto dry land, assume an undercover role in a circus, honking horns and balancing large colorful balls on their snout, then kill unsuspecting, potential terrorists who were out for a day of fun under the Big Top. Brilliant!
Get this, I found another misrepresentation by a specific group of our fighting forces. Commando’s, do in fact, wear underpants! Shocking! Whenever I’ve treated myself and the “fellas” to a day or two of unconfined undie freedom, I’ve always referred to it as “Going Commando.” Well, after checking this out for myself, and a severe beating I might add, turns out they’re required to wear briefs at all times. These disturbing revelations have made me question another thing about the army which has been troubling me for quite some time.
I know, in WW II, we defeated Hitler and the Third Reich. The world celebrated and we moved on. Simple enough. Well then, why am I the only one fearful and talking about, the blatant lack of concern over the First and Second Reich curiously, still at large? The Government has hushed it all up and yet, those rogue Reich’s are out there…plotting…waiting to strike again. Combat rule number one, laid down at the Lake Geneva Convention; don’t be content destroying Reich number 3, when 1 & 2 are still out frivolously “Reiching.”
Perhaps I’ve underestimated our countries defense. Maybe that’s the mission of The Salvation Army, to sniff out and destroy factions of the free running Reich’s, under the guise of bell-ringing, common-folk dressed like the Maytag repairman. If you live long enough, you learn many interesting things you thought previously innocent and harmless. This year, I learned something vital to my future efforts on this blog…if at all possible, avoid suggestions from my friend Chuck. It can lead to WW III and who wants that so close to the holidays?
Friday, October 31, 2008
A Vote of Confidence...I Think
“All men’s wallets should be waterproof and required, by law, to be worn around the neck, like soap on a rope.” This would be my platform for election, if I were running for the office of President on Tuesday, November 4th, which probably explains why my name isn’t on the ballot. I don’t feel my passion for this key element of my platform is the reasoning behind the snub from Democratic and Republican committee leaders. Perhaps the impetus of my wallet reform campaign has precluded me from achieving the Presidency. I can’t say that I blame them. Can you really trust the well-being of our nation to someone who can’t remember to take his wallet out of his pants before NOT putting said pants in the hamper?
Recently, I was rifling through my wallet, which just finished a refreshing spin in the permanent press cycle, searching for items that weren’t destroyed. As I flipped through the contents of my wallet, I came across 2 plastic cards stuck together, which I found to be a strange, yet fitting, pair. Liquidly sealed together were my voter’s registration and Cardinal Fitness membership cards. As I dried them off, I couldn’t help but see the similarities in voting and belonging to a health club.
Extensive study has proven that simply carrying a health club membership card will not guarantee weight loss, unless of course, the card in question is made of stone and well over a hundred pounds. Since we have progressed as a species out of the Flintstone era, I don’t think that’s a possibility. Likewise, possessing a voter’s card and not showing up to vote, gives you no say in government. You must exercise your right to vote for this card to be effective. Those whom don’t physically exercise can’t complain about being doughy and those whom don’t vote can’t complain about our government. It’s that simple.
Some people say they can’t find the time to vote/workout. Both the polling stations and health clubs open early and close late, providing ample time to get there. If you’re one of those who go after work, you’ll suffer the same long lines waiting for a machine to open up. Hopefully the person, who uses the voting machine before you, extends the same courtesy of health club apparatus usage and towels off any disgusting pools of sweat.
Both voting and workout machines can be intimidating and lack of knowledge on how to use them can be very embarrassing. Case in point; I needed to develop some neck muscles, as nothing is sexier than a thick, girthy, veiny neck. For 3 weeks I used a machine at the club for this purpose, although I wasn’t sure if I was correctly doing the exercises. I wedged my face between 2 pads set 3 inches apart, so that my nose and lips stuck out in the middle, similar to when your face gets caught in the closing doors of a bus. The pads had a peculiar stench and the exercise motion was cumbersome but I figured, no pain, no gain, right? The last time I went to the club, I stopped one of the employees during my neck workout and with my lips being smushed together from the pads asked,
“Excuse me, miss. Am I doing this neck machine right?” The young girl smiled and with a puzzled, almost frightened, look responded,
“Well…first off, that’s a glute machine. Your head goes down there and your rear end goes up against the pads where your face is.” That explained the strange odor. Similarly, voting machines can be difficult to operate. That’s why they give you a booth with a curtain. So nobody can see a grown adult struggle with something any 5-year old could figure out. Also, I find the drawn curtain and booth to be exactly like the shower stalls at the health club, except for the canister of liquid soap on the wall, the threat of acquiring a foot fungus and a naked, singing man in the booth next to me.
Once inside the solace of the voting stall, safely removed from the discerning gaze of educated people who’ve actually familiarized themselves with candidates, policies and crap like that, the inner turmoil and true democratic process begins. The efficient voter will choose 1 party and punch that ticket across the board. This takes all of 2 seconds to do but this type of voter is cunning, as well. They’ll purposely stay in the booth for a few minutes to create the illusion of carefully analyzing their choices. Lazy, uninformed and deceitful; with these credentials you should be running for office rather than voting. Another type of voter decides strictly on familiarity and can’t be bothered with silly things like issues and policies. This person carefully scans over all the candidates to see if possibly they know someone with a recognizable name, as it would be rude not to vote for a friend, relative or someone that attended the same kindergarten class as you. Once names have been checked, votes are usually cast after considering candidates other key attributes, such as nationality, gender and most importantly, how you feel when hearing their name. Anyone running for office with a name like Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, Judas Iscariot, Darth Vader, Beelzebub or Skippy should probably consider another vocation. Similarly, anyone named after a body part doesn’t stand a chance either. I just can’t throw my loyalty behind someone named “Fred Testicles” or “Stella Nipples.” Finally, we come to making selections for judges. After forgiving yourself for having no clue as to the difference between the Supreme Court, Appellate Court and the Circuit Court, you base your voting decision for each judge candidate on one essential criteria…”In the past few years, have I been screwed over in court by some asshole judge!” This could range from being fined for speeding, a large settlement over a dispute with a neighbor or perhaps, an unfair death sentence over an impulsive, yet accidentally, killing spree. Since no one remembers the names of judges, the choice is simple. If you’ve been a good citizen and kept yourself out of a courtroom, all judges stay. If a judge has pissed you off, then they all must go because you can’t take the chance of voting for a judge that screwed you over. Uninformed vindictiveness…this is exactly how voting should be considered.
From everything I’ve read or seen on T.V., our country is in sad shape, both politically and physically. We need to become strong again and the only way to do that is exercise…our bodies and our right to vote. Do yourself and our nation a favor this November 4th. Go out and vote and let your voice be heard. As long as you’re there, if you find none of the candidates to your liking, feel free to write me in for President. The Wallet-On-Rope idea is gaining momentum.
Recently, I was rifling through my wallet, which just finished a refreshing spin in the permanent press cycle, searching for items that weren’t destroyed. As I flipped through the contents of my wallet, I came across 2 plastic cards stuck together, which I found to be a strange, yet fitting, pair. Liquidly sealed together were my voter’s registration and Cardinal Fitness membership cards. As I dried them off, I couldn’t help but see the similarities in voting and belonging to a health club.
Extensive study has proven that simply carrying a health club membership card will not guarantee weight loss, unless of course, the card in question is made of stone and well over a hundred pounds. Since we have progressed as a species out of the Flintstone era, I don’t think that’s a possibility. Likewise, possessing a voter’s card and not showing up to vote, gives you no say in government. You must exercise your right to vote for this card to be effective. Those whom don’t physically exercise can’t complain about being doughy and those whom don’t vote can’t complain about our government. It’s that simple.
Some people say they can’t find the time to vote/workout. Both the polling stations and health clubs open early and close late, providing ample time to get there. If you’re one of those who go after work, you’ll suffer the same long lines waiting for a machine to open up. Hopefully the person, who uses the voting machine before you, extends the same courtesy of health club apparatus usage and towels off any disgusting pools of sweat.
Both voting and workout machines can be intimidating and lack of knowledge on how to use them can be very embarrassing. Case in point; I needed to develop some neck muscles, as nothing is sexier than a thick, girthy, veiny neck. For 3 weeks I used a machine at the club for this purpose, although I wasn’t sure if I was correctly doing the exercises. I wedged my face between 2 pads set 3 inches apart, so that my nose and lips stuck out in the middle, similar to when your face gets caught in the closing doors of a bus. The pads had a peculiar stench and the exercise motion was cumbersome but I figured, no pain, no gain, right? The last time I went to the club, I stopped one of the employees during my neck workout and with my lips being smushed together from the pads asked,
“Excuse me, miss. Am I doing this neck machine right?” The young girl smiled and with a puzzled, almost frightened, look responded,
“Well…first off, that’s a glute machine. Your head goes down there and your rear end goes up against the pads where your face is.” That explained the strange odor. Similarly, voting machines can be difficult to operate. That’s why they give you a booth with a curtain. So nobody can see a grown adult struggle with something any 5-year old could figure out. Also, I find the drawn curtain and booth to be exactly like the shower stalls at the health club, except for the canister of liquid soap on the wall, the threat of acquiring a foot fungus and a naked, singing man in the booth next to me.
Once inside the solace of the voting stall, safely removed from the discerning gaze of educated people who’ve actually familiarized themselves with candidates, policies and crap like that, the inner turmoil and true democratic process begins. The efficient voter will choose 1 party and punch that ticket across the board. This takes all of 2 seconds to do but this type of voter is cunning, as well. They’ll purposely stay in the booth for a few minutes to create the illusion of carefully analyzing their choices. Lazy, uninformed and deceitful; with these credentials you should be running for office rather than voting. Another type of voter decides strictly on familiarity and can’t be bothered with silly things like issues and policies. This person carefully scans over all the candidates to see if possibly they know someone with a recognizable name, as it would be rude not to vote for a friend, relative or someone that attended the same kindergarten class as you. Once names have been checked, votes are usually cast after considering candidates other key attributes, such as nationality, gender and most importantly, how you feel when hearing their name. Anyone running for office with a name like Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, Judas Iscariot, Darth Vader, Beelzebub or Skippy should probably consider another vocation. Similarly, anyone named after a body part doesn’t stand a chance either. I just can’t throw my loyalty behind someone named “Fred Testicles” or “Stella Nipples.” Finally, we come to making selections for judges. After forgiving yourself for having no clue as to the difference between the Supreme Court, Appellate Court and the Circuit Court, you base your voting decision for each judge candidate on one essential criteria…”In the past few years, have I been screwed over in court by some asshole judge!” This could range from being fined for speeding, a large settlement over a dispute with a neighbor or perhaps, an unfair death sentence over an impulsive, yet accidentally, killing spree. Since no one remembers the names of judges, the choice is simple. If you’ve been a good citizen and kept yourself out of a courtroom, all judges stay. If a judge has pissed you off, then they all must go because you can’t take the chance of voting for a judge that screwed you over. Uninformed vindictiveness…this is exactly how voting should be considered.
From everything I’ve read or seen on T.V., our country is in sad shape, both politically and physically. We need to become strong again and the only way to do that is exercise…our bodies and our right to vote. Do yourself and our nation a favor this November 4th. Go out and vote and let your voice be heard. As long as you’re there, if you find none of the candidates to your liking, feel free to write me in for President. The Wallet-On-Rope idea is gaining momentum.
Friday, October 24, 2008
A Halloween Cut-Up
Halloween is but a short week away. This weekend, the family and I will put the final touches on our home’s ghoulish decorations by partaking in one of my favorite holiday activities; pumpkin carving. Just like Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon, I enjoy taking a knife and carving up a face that will hopefully scare the pants off small children. No Halloween can truly be complete, without first engaging in the ritualistic stabbing, cutting and gutting of an innocent fruit. To accomplish this, a victim must be plucked from a pumpkin patch.
The week prior to Halloween, the family makes a pilgrimage to the nearest farm selling pumpkins. For a good hour or so, we’ll search out the giant, orange mounds for the most perfectly shaped pumpkins, all the while breathing in the inescapable stench of manure and fending off the farmer’s mangy dog from humping my leg. Once we’ve made our selections, I load our pumpkins into the complimentary provided, rusty, wheel-barrow with the half-flat tire and plow my way to the check out line. The pumpkin sales transaction is performed in a small barn, which during the other 11 months of the year, is the primary spot for the farmer’s barnyard animals to eat, mate and poo. While the farmer’s wife/cashier weighs our future jack-o-lanterns, it’s my job to subdue my wife from buying other crap, like dried stalks of corn and giant bails of hay. Why pay for something we can steal from any number of the farm fields we pass on the way home? Then, dizzied by the excitement of the holiday or the fumes from the cow dung, I gladly overpay .75 cents per pound for a fruit, which during the other 11 months of the year, sells for about .03 cents per pound. This is actually quite a deal, considering the extra foodstuffs gained from pumpkin carving.
An ancillary treat from gutting a pumpkin are the bountiful seeds. Unfortunately, modern technology hasn’t devised another method of extricating the seeds, so they must be scooped out by hand. As a man, it’s my job to stick my hand in disgusting places to retrieve objects. This also holds true for toilets, clogged dryer vents and any of the dog’s orifices. Women’s equality ends when the arm must be plunged into something moist or gross. After I remove all the seeds, and my hand is painfully cramped from the violent scraping, my wife preps them for baking. She spreads the seeds out on a baking sheet and lightly dusts them with, oh…about 2 pounds of salt, then cooks the hell out of them. You can tell if they’re done just right by popping a handful in your mouth and chewing. If it feels like your eating the wood chips from your landscaping, they’re perfect. The health benefits from consuming the wad of dry, splintered seed husks are significant. As the coarse mass passes through the digestive tract, especially Mr. Colon, it scrapes and scrubs the walls of your lower intestines clean. Eventually, when Mother Nature calls and it’s time to part ways with your colon-cleansing friend, it may feel like your passing an eagle’s nest but your bowels will thank you.
Pumpkin carving has always been big in our family. In fact, aside from coloring Easter eggs, it’s the only time we covered the kitchen table with newspapers. Times were much simpler back then. Dad issued each of us a pumpkin and a sword. Normally, my parents wouldn’t trust me with a pair of nail clippers for fear I’d lop off a toe but for one day out of the year, they were completely at ease with me jamming a 9 inch blade into pumpkin. The only real decisions I had to make were, “Do I want triangle eyes or do I want really big triangle eyes?” and “Is the beating I’ll get from the old man worth flinging some pumpkin guts in my little sister’s hair?” Such is not the case these days.
Long gone are the basic, triangle eyes, triangle nose and single toothed smile, which was the gold-standard for carved pumpkin faces. Now, kits with books of specialty patterns are all the rage. The selections vary from simple to the extremely ornate. In the past few years, I’ve carved a wolf howling at the moon, a witch whipping up a cauldron of smoky brew and a dancing skeleton. Each year, the carvings get more and more complex. This year, seeing as there’s an upcoming election and I’m feeling quite political, I’ve decided to carve the full likenesses of all 435 members of the House of Representatives, engaged in a conga-line dance around the Jefferson Monument. The carpal tunnel syndrome I’m sure to suffer while poking the necessary 2 million holes will be well worth it. Thankfully, these specialty kits come with their own plastic carving tools.
Over the years, my wife has saved all the different odd-shaped carving instruments and kept them safely in their very own giant Zip-Lock storage bag, marked “Pumpkin Carving Stuff.” They’re made of colorful plastic with dull, rounded metal teeth on the blades, specifically designed not to pierce skin or pumpkin flesh. After using these pieces of crap for an hour or so, your hand will spasm and you’ll scream out, “These things @#*#@* suck!” Then you’ll grab a steak knife or drywall saw from the garage and finish the job. Actually, before we start carving, my wife sets the different tools out neatly on the table. They’re some of the strangest looking hooks, scoops and blades I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’m not sure if the family is about to carve a pumpkin or disembowel Mel Gibson, like they did at the end of “Braveheart.”
As you can tell from my picture at the top of this article, I really do enjoy carving pumpkins. Nothing is more rewarding than creating something to display Halloween night, sure to scare people. I think this year I’ll carve a pumpkin which shows the bottom line of my 401K…now that’s scary!
The week prior to Halloween, the family makes a pilgrimage to the nearest farm selling pumpkins. For a good hour or so, we’ll search out the giant, orange mounds for the most perfectly shaped pumpkins, all the while breathing in the inescapable stench of manure and fending off the farmer’s mangy dog from humping my leg. Once we’ve made our selections, I load our pumpkins into the complimentary provided, rusty, wheel-barrow with the half-flat tire and plow my way to the check out line. The pumpkin sales transaction is performed in a small barn, which during the other 11 months of the year, is the primary spot for the farmer’s barnyard animals to eat, mate and poo. While the farmer’s wife/cashier weighs our future jack-o-lanterns, it’s my job to subdue my wife from buying other crap, like dried stalks of corn and giant bails of hay. Why pay for something we can steal from any number of the farm fields we pass on the way home? Then, dizzied by the excitement of the holiday or the fumes from the cow dung, I gladly overpay .75 cents per pound for a fruit, which during the other 11 months of the year, sells for about .03 cents per pound. This is actually quite a deal, considering the extra foodstuffs gained from pumpkin carving.
An ancillary treat from gutting a pumpkin are the bountiful seeds. Unfortunately, modern technology hasn’t devised another method of extricating the seeds, so they must be scooped out by hand. As a man, it’s my job to stick my hand in disgusting places to retrieve objects. This also holds true for toilets, clogged dryer vents and any of the dog’s orifices. Women’s equality ends when the arm must be plunged into something moist or gross. After I remove all the seeds, and my hand is painfully cramped from the violent scraping, my wife preps them for baking. She spreads the seeds out on a baking sheet and lightly dusts them with, oh…about 2 pounds of salt, then cooks the hell out of them. You can tell if they’re done just right by popping a handful in your mouth and chewing. If it feels like your eating the wood chips from your landscaping, they’re perfect. The health benefits from consuming the wad of dry, splintered seed husks are significant. As the coarse mass passes through the digestive tract, especially Mr. Colon, it scrapes and scrubs the walls of your lower intestines clean. Eventually, when Mother Nature calls and it’s time to part ways with your colon-cleansing friend, it may feel like your passing an eagle’s nest but your bowels will thank you.
Pumpkin carving has always been big in our family. In fact, aside from coloring Easter eggs, it’s the only time we covered the kitchen table with newspapers. Times were much simpler back then. Dad issued each of us a pumpkin and a sword. Normally, my parents wouldn’t trust me with a pair of nail clippers for fear I’d lop off a toe but for one day out of the year, they were completely at ease with me jamming a 9 inch blade into pumpkin. The only real decisions I had to make were, “Do I want triangle eyes or do I want really big triangle eyes?” and “Is the beating I’ll get from the old man worth flinging some pumpkin guts in my little sister’s hair?” Such is not the case these days.
Long gone are the basic, triangle eyes, triangle nose and single toothed smile, which was the gold-standard for carved pumpkin faces. Now, kits with books of specialty patterns are all the rage. The selections vary from simple to the extremely ornate. In the past few years, I’ve carved a wolf howling at the moon, a witch whipping up a cauldron of smoky brew and a dancing skeleton. Each year, the carvings get more and more complex. This year, seeing as there’s an upcoming election and I’m feeling quite political, I’ve decided to carve the full likenesses of all 435 members of the House of Representatives, engaged in a conga-line dance around the Jefferson Monument. The carpal tunnel syndrome I’m sure to suffer while poking the necessary 2 million holes will be well worth it. Thankfully, these specialty kits come with their own plastic carving tools.
Over the years, my wife has saved all the different odd-shaped carving instruments and kept them safely in their very own giant Zip-Lock storage bag, marked “Pumpkin Carving Stuff.” They’re made of colorful plastic with dull, rounded metal teeth on the blades, specifically designed not to pierce skin or pumpkin flesh. After using these pieces of crap for an hour or so, your hand will spasm and you’ll scream out, “These things @#*#@* suck!” Then you’ll grab a steak knife or drywall saw from the garage and finish the job. Actually, before we start carving, my wife sets the different tools out neatly on the table. They’re some of the strangest looking hooks, scoops and blades I’ve ever seen. In fact, I’m not sure if the family is about to carve a pumpkin or disembowel Mel Gibson, like they did at the end of “Braveheart.”
As you can tell from my picture at the top of this article, I really do enjoy carving pumpkins. Nothing is more rewarding than creating something to display Halloween night, sure to scare people. I think this year I’ll carve a pumpkin which shows the bottom line of my 401K…now that’s scary!
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