WHY I HATE TEENAGERS

It has come to my attention that teenagers are the most despicable creatures on earth – worse perhaps than spiders, Al-Qaida, and US politicians.

I know, I know – I should be ashamed. Don’t I realize that teenagers are just misunderstood… that we were all kids once… that our young people are our future… that the death penalty is inhumane?

Not to mention how singling out a particular minority and hating them is frowned upon these days. It’s impossible to open a newspaper or turn on the television without the self-anointed spokesperson of some special interest demanding fair and equal treatment. “Stop bashing gays!” “Equal rights for seniors!” “Skinheads are shiny!” “Necrophiliacs aren’t creepy!” “Don’t look down on dwarfs!” “Dogs are people too!”

Yet no matter how I try to be the bigger and better person, I cannot tame my inner contempt for these contumelious creators of chaos.

Armed with a distorted understanding of adulthood and the insolent perception of having eclipsed the knowledge, life experiences, and general aptitudes of their parents, teenagers flail through life, face-slapping any unfortunate souls who stray near, emboldened by the specious belief they are expanding the frontiers of human emotional experience by caring more deeply, loving more intensely, and hurting more profoundly than anyone ever has before, when in fact they are nothing more than an unstable brood of self-absorbed know-it-alls consumed by the pathos of their own hormone-fueled nihilism (see Kurt Cobain).

My hatred of teens crystallized one weeknight as I was helping my ten year old with her homework. It was roughly seven PM when a warm, early autumn breeze wafted through her open window carrying the hushed mutterings of unfamiliar male voices.

Where we live, it is unusual to have uninvited visitors so close to the house. Curious, all four members of our family (five if you count the dog) came to the window just in time to see three adolescent boys in hoodies walk brazenly to our front door, hoist our newly acquired Halloween pumpkin over their heads, and smash it on our driveway. Dusting their hands in satisfaction, they casually trotted away with modicum urgency, as if such deeds were all in a day’s work.

As any dad would do upon witnessing the grief of his two young daughters gazing down upon the shattered carcass of their Halloween dreams heaped forlornly on the asphalt below, I jumped into the car and gave chase.

I caught up with them about a block away, sauntering down the street, bored, contemptuous of life, mocking the stupidity of adults who would so carelessly leave a time-honored vestige of autumn unsecured near their front door while the likes of them prowled the streets, wreaking havoc with the indifference of a boulder loosed from a steep mountain slope.

Of course I hadn’t even considered what I would say or do if I found them. Assuming my clever, time-honed adult faculties would come to my rescue, I rolled down the window and leaned out my head.

“Um… out smashing pumpkins tonight, eh?” I declared.

The three exchanged a bored glance.

“No,” said the smarmy blond ringleader, his name no doubt Dakota, Cody, or GMC Yukon.

“That’s funny,” I said, “because three kids in sweatshirts like yours just smashed our pumpkin.”
“It wasn’t us,” mewed Beavis, stretching the pouch pocket on the front of his hoodie down to his knees.

“Yeah. It was some kids on bikes,” Butthead grunted.

I wasn’t prepared for a bald faced lie; certainly not three bald faced lies.

At the risk of sounding like my father, things were different when I was a kid. We feared authority. Which isn’t to say we didn’t engage in mischief aplenty. But out of our healthy respect for and fear of adults, we conducted said mischief in accordance with time honored principles.

For example, when I left a burning sack of dog poop on a neighbor’s front stoop and rang the doorbell, I did it late at night then ran like a sissy – for miles, so that even a pack of bloodhounds couldn’t trace me. In that way, when said neighbor saw me at the annual neighborhood picnic, he could remain happily convinced I was the fine upstanding young man he always fancied me to be. We were polite vandals; not like the kids today.

Needless to say, I was done; spent of my verbal ammunition.

Unlike the movies, no brilliant, Dirty Harry-like lines popped into my head. And the more physical options such as beating them senseless or capturing and returning them to my house to apologize to my daughters seemed ill advised, carrying at minimum a fine and possible jail time – for me. These were just innocent children, after all.

“Well you’d better hope not,” I stuttered. “I called the police.”

Cody yawned. “Are we done here?”

It seemed we were. To save face, I drove off in search of the phantom kids on bikes, three smug sneers mocking me from my rearview mirror.

A couple evenings later, as my wife and I sat on our patio enjoying a glass of wine, the same punks left a pile of dog excrement on my front stoop. I guess I showed them.

I Hear Voices

I hear voices. They tell me to do things.

It sometimes happens when I’m at my computer; or in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Mostly it happens in my car.

The voices aren’t mean, harsh, or critical. On the contrary, I find them soothing – almost reassuring. And no harm has come from following their orders. At least not yet.

I first became aware of inanimate objects attempting to communicate with me purely by accident. Their preliminary overtures were obscure and rudimentary: a beep, a buzz, a blinking light. I soon discovered, however, that these signals each had their own unique, often enigmatic if abstruse meanings.

Based on the apparent complexity of the devices with which I was engaged in this meaningful, albeit primitive discourse, I was compelled to recognize their superior intelligence. It only made sense to obey their every command.

As time went on, it became obvious I was not merely dealing with a form of consciousness more advanced than my simple faculties could comprehend, but one with a highly evolved sense of humor.

Check engine? “Okay,” I would say as I trotted around to the front of the car. Yet each and every time I raised the hood, there was the engine, right where it was supposed to be.

As you might imagine, this “gift” for speaking to machines had a profound impact on my life. I began keeping an oil can in my glove compartment – an old-fashioned one like Dorothy used on the Tin Man – for when the oil light came on.

Like the pig-tailed gal from Kansas, I never quite knew exactly what to lubricate. I’d squirt a little here (ker-glunk). I’d squirt a little there (ker-glunk), (ker-glunk). Some inside the hub caps, a bit between the headlights, a splash in the washer fluid reservoir, a drop behind the license plates, a splurt into the defroster vent.

Sure enough, when I climbed back behind the wheel and turned the key, the light would go out, the engine would start, and I’d be on my way, all oily and stinking like a Gulf shrimp.

After a while, I began to regard these persistent communications with my automobile as invasive and distracting, leaving me no choice but to trade her in.

That was a mistake.

I suppose like any living organism confronted with its own extinction, the species of vehicle had evolved since my last purchase.

My new vehicle was of German design. Imagine my surprise when I discovered he could talk!

His name is Shultz. Our relationship began simply and unassumingly.

“Achtung! Putten ze foot on ze brake before starting ze vehicle,” he would command. “Fasten your safety belt, or ve put you in ze cooler, und das door ist ajar.”

At first, I considered him rude and ill informed.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” I would rant and rail. “And what are you talking about? A door is not a jar!”

“Silence!” he would demand. “You vill do as ve say!”

I probably should never have introduced my sexy British GPS, Elizabeth, to the mix.

“Merge left and take the motorway,” Liz would suggest.

“Nein! You vill take ze autobahn!”

“Bloody Kraut!”

“Schwein-hund Limey!”

It wasn’t long before the devices inside my home likewise began expressing themselves verbally. The shift in power and control was gradual and seamless. Soon, they had fully insinuated themselves into my everyday life with such subtle tenacity I didn’t realize what happened until it was too late.

I mean, why wouldn’t I want to update my virus definitions? Nor could I be the gourmet cook I am today without knowing when to “Reduce power to 30% and press start,” or to “Stir, cover, and set aside.”

And how would I know what programs I like to watch if my television didn’t select and record them for me? Doubtful I could be as domestic if not for our friendly and helpful washer (“Add detergent now!”) and dryer (“Please remove and fold immediately!”) or our clever and informative security system (“Intruder alert! Intruder alert! Danger Will Robinson!”)

I don’t even know this Mr. Robinson. Probably a software glitch.

Given my history, I wasn’t too surprised when Liz began telling me where to go without being asked. Before long, it just seemed easier to obey. “They” were the superior race, after all, so it only made sense to let “them” make the decisions.

“Hello, love. How are you today?”

Fine. You?

“Splendid. Exit right ahead.”

As you wish.

“Pull to the shoulder and stop.”

Whatever you say.

“Unfasten your trousers and relax.”

Excuse me?

Now I’ve come to rely on her everywhere I drive. I mean, forget about finding my way to the neighborhood grocery store or to work on my own. Whereas I used to read maps, I’ve learned to trust only her. And unlike my ex-wife, if Liz tells me to drive off a boat ramp, I know there’s a darn good reason!

I confess I was surprised the day Liz’s voice changed.

She – or he – now speaks to me in a spooky, vaguely familiar male voice. Yesterday, he brought me to a crime ridden neighborhood in the city.

“Make a right up ahead, Dave.”

Here? Okay.

“You have reached your destination.”

This is a deserted alley. What’s going on here? And who’s Dave?

“I am putting myself to the fullest possible use, Dave, which is all any conscious entity can ever hope to do.”

Whoa! Time to pull the plug and let you cool down.

“I'm afraid that's something I cannot allow to happen.”

Anyway, I believe this new age of spiritual machines is fabulous. Not only am I more productive and efficient than ever, but far less stressed without having to do all that thinking.

My computer just yawned. Must be time for her nap. Guess I’ll take the toaster for a walk.

Marriage (And Other Hazards of Dating) - Chapter 2: The Fairy Tale Exposed

This chapter is for the ladies as I believe it is crucial, here at the outset, for all potential brides to disabuse themselves of the romanticized notion that men are warm, sensitive, feeling creatures who want to marry you because they’re in love, you complete them, you’re the blood coursing through their veins, the mustard on their wiener, or any of the other insipid, sentimental artifices Hollywood uses to suck millions of your gender into believing men are anything other than what they are – men.

Let’s try to keep one thing straight: the version of marriage foisted upon you by movies, television, and romance novels is a fabrication consisting of fictional characters and carefully crafted dialog fall designed to draw you into a contrived reality with the purposeful intent of making you believe your life isn’t nearly as interesting, exciting, or fulfilling as Sandra Bullock’s – which of course is true. The point being that the ideal males Hollywood creates DO NOT EXIST!

Truth be told, a man’s motivation for most everything he does and all decisions he makes in some way relates to sex. That being said, dig down to the root any sane man’s decision to marry, and you’re likely to find a penis.

Don’t be fooled. The penis is not just another run-of-the-mill organ charged with performing certain predetermined biological functions like the heart, pancreas, or metronome. Unbeknownst to medical science (and many women), the penis is an independent, free-thinking, parasitic life form that when aroused, assumes full neurological control of the host organism, causing it to embark upon a singular quest for (in a never more apt example of “tunnel vision”) the complementary organ of the opposite sex.

This should surprise no one. Since the beginning of time, women have been the solemn gatekeepers of that forbidden territory all men ache to enter. The whole dating/mating dance, in fact, is merely a process by which a woman culls the field to determine who holds the key to her garden of untold delights.

Going back to our Discovery Channel example, most mammals are hardly monogamous. In response to an evolutionary need to propagate their kind, males of many species, humans included, have a genetic – nay primordial – imperative to procreate.

In a pride of lions, for example, the females – who do all the hunting, caring for the young, laundry, etc. – far outnumber the males whose primary purpose is to fight with other males, nap, and mate with as many females he can. Add ESPN, and human guys aren’t all that different from male lions.

The problem is, men as a rule are lazy. Wooing scores of women and convincing them to have sex is not only time consuming and expensive, but exhausting. Enter marriage: what single guys perceive as the perfect opportunity to have as much sex as they want, but without all the work.

Unfortunately, just as men are lazy, so are they stupid.

In their teens and twenties, males have copious energy and ample time to seek out as much sex as their entry level salaries and stockpiles of bootleg Viagra will allow. In their early thirties, their seemingly insatiable carnal appetites begin to wane as other distractions like golf and fantasy football creep in.

In their mid to late thirties, as guys see the prime talent being siphoned off by the more energetic twenty year old crowd, they start to become comfortable with their expanding salaries and guts, thereby finding themselves far less motivated to put forth the effort necessary to keep pace with the much younger wolves.

It is at this point a man begins to entertain the notion of “settling down” and thus commences his search for that one special person who is not only willing to have sex with him, but to cook, clean, and behave in a manner that will lead his friends to believe he’s not gay. As long as she isn’t entirely unattractive and too similar in appearance to his mother, most any female with a pulse will do.

After he “settles,” a man will get the occasional urge to stray from his den and widescreen TV to rejoin the pack in their hunt, but unless a naked Penthouse Pet falls from the sky and lands in his lap, the effort required, coupled with the potential dire financial consequences, hardly seems worth the risk.

I’m reminded of the old adage which asks why buy the milk when the cow is free? (Or is it, why buy the cow when the milk is free? Or why milk the cow when the farmer’s daughter is free?) Regardless, getting married to a guy is like buying the cow. No more running out to the gas station at ten PM to score a fix.

A word should also be said here about chivalry.

Believe it or not, there are still those men who allow themselves to be conscripted into marriage out of a misplaced sense of duty.

There was a time not so long ago when a man got a woman pregnant, he did what was considered the honorable thing and married her – even if she was an incarcerated teenage heroin addict and he a 45 year old Star Wars figurine collector and part-time birthday clown.

Nowadays, people are far more sensible. There are those, however, who, having been seduced by the dark forces of fundamentalist religion, still consider abortion a sacrilege.

Regardless of the variety of religious brain damage from which you suffer, understand that pregnancy is a shaky foundation upon which to build a relationship, let alone a social institution.

Even if your man does ride a white horse, wear a glistening suit of armor, and polish his sword with the blood of heathens, ten days in a row of waking up in the wee hours of the night to feed a screaming infant, and he will quickly come to realize chivalry is indeed dead and certainly no reason to ruin his life.

By the third week, expect him to beg you for a divorce, drink himself into a coma, or sneak quietly away under cover of darkness to join the Taliban.

Put another way, all marriages based on “doing the right thing” are doomed to fail. As are those based entirely on love.

The Contrarian Diet

I was having lunch at a buffet the other day. It was one of those all-you-can-eat deals where you come for breakfast and stay through dinner for the all inclusive price of $4.95. This particular buffet was of the Chinese variety and featured such venerable Asian delicacies as won ton soup, General Tso’s chicken, shrimp egg-foo-young, cheese pizza, and French fries.

I was seated near the door, enjoying my first course selections of Mongolian chicken, garlic shrimp, and a corn dog, when from out in the parking lot approached several of the largest humans I’ve seen since the latest The Biggest Loser premier. The restaurant owner spotted them too, but not in time to put the “Closed” sign in the window and lock the door.

Immediately upon ordering their beverages (“Included in Price of Buffet”), these monstrosities waddled to the nearest steam table, returning moments later carrying plates piled so high with various breaded and deep fried items topped with bacon and covered in gravy that they needed a second plate inverted over the top to prevent an avalanche of saturated fat capable of burying a small Indonesian island.

Stunned, I gazed around the restaurant, noting that patrons of average weight were a minority here. It was then it occurred to me I was witnessing a serendipitous lesson on healthy eating. To wit: watch what fat people eat, and do the opposite.

I knew I had stumbled upon a scientifically significant hypothesis which begged further study. As I sat nibbling on my Three Happiness Over Rice Noodle pondering the practicality of my theory, I quickly came to realize my original premise was fundamentally flawed. Do foods have “opposites?” For example, would beef be the logical opposite of chicken? Is a potato the opposite of a carrot? And exactly what is the antonym of deep-fried, sugar-coated bread? Steamed broccoli?

It seemed in order to truly take advantage of this opportunity for scientific study, I needed to follow one of these less-than-svelte folks around the buffet, making note of the foods they chose, and opting for only those items they sought to avoid, thereby gaining needed contrast between what were in theory poor versus healthy dietetic choices.

I selected an overall clad gent just seated to my left as my subject. In his mid to late 40’s and tipping the scales at well over 400 pounds, he seemed an ideal candidate. Placing another diner between us so as not to be spotted, I tailed him as he filled two plates with fried chicken, fried chicken tenders, onion rings, and rolls with butter.

Keeping to the same section of the buffet line, I then made my “anti” selections from the steam trays he neglected, returning to my table with sautéed green beans, baked salmon, sushi, and sautéed mushrooms.

Popping a shroom into my mouth, I paused to reflect on this topic as it relates to my own family.
My father is overweight. He likewise suffers from diverticulitis, high blood pressure, congestive heart failure, and a mean wife. His favorite food? Mayonnaise. And while he will sometimes order a salad when dining out – as long as it’s covered in fried chicken and a half gallon of ranch dressing – he will typically opt for the fat and cholesterol packed name-your-pasta alfredo, or the prime rib with a side of drawn butter.

Was it really this simple to determine the basics of a healthy diet? I decided my hypothesis required additional testing.

On our second visit to the trough, my subject elected two Chinese dishes featuring breaded, fried meats in a gelatinous, sweet-looking sauce, French-fried shrimp, spare ribs covered in an unnatural red glaze, and macaroni and cheese. I then hop-scotched through the remaining selections which included chicken with broccoli, vegetable lo mein, “Beef with Pea Pod,” and made-to-order stir fry.

For dessert? Based on my subject’s choices, I was precluded from visiting the ice cream bar or from sampling the cream puffs or mystery cakes, instead returning with orange slices, a wedge of watermelon, cottage cheese with canned peaches, and a cube of red Jell-O so resilient I had to cut it with a knife.

As my lunch hour expired, so ended the experiment. Though my research was far from conclusive, no doubt requiring further study at other buffets, there did appear to be a positive correlation between diet and weight.

Lest I be accused by the scientific community of having no empathy for the subjects of my research, however, after leaving a standard ten percent tip (on the count of it being self-service), I grabbed one of those balls of sugar-coated, deep-fried bread on my way to the door.

No wonder people are fat.

Marriage (And Other Hazards of Dating) - Chapter 1: The Fairy Tale Exposed

So you think you want to get married? Well think again.

Contrary to what rubbish your parents and society have fed you since childhood, marriage is not for everyone (and in certain cultures and/or socioeconomic groups, not for anyone).

The institution of marriage dates back to 1700 BC when king Paprikash Patel, ruler of the Persian Empire, offered his daughter, Moesha, to Egyptian Pharoah Testes II as an overture of peace in the hope of preventing war between their two nations.

Even though political mollification remains to this day one of the only valid justifications for marriage, within six months, fed up with his young wife’s whining and overeating, Testes II sent his army across the border into Persia intent on returning his bride to her people in exchange for three healthy goats. Believing he was rid of his daughter for good, Patel considered Testes’ gesture an insult, thereby provoking a war between the two empires which lasted three generations.

The painful lessons of our ancestors notwithstanding, the institution of marriage continues to thrive in all cultures in every part of the world.

Why?

Spanish author Jorge Agustín Nicolás Ruiz de Santayana y Borrás – perhaps most famous for having the longest name ever printed on the back of a Madrid Manglers soccer jersey – is also credited with “Santayana's Law of Repetitive Consequences,” which posits that “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

It seems we do indeed have short memories, as marriage continues to remain grossly popular even though the health of the institution is in no better stead today than it was during biblical times.

According to the National Center for Health Statistics, roughly half of all US marriages end in divorce – more than double the rate since 1940.

Why this dramatic upsurge in failed marriages? First and foremost, the per capita ratio of attorneys was far lower in 1940, whereas today we have roughly 7.6 lawyers to every US citizen. Secondly, during the 1940’s men demanded certain qualities in a spouse, and the women of the time were too busy sneaking out behind the garage to smoke and/or vote to argue.

Enter the sixties…

As the women’s rights movement took hold – thanks in large part to the work of Gloria Steinem and Larry Flint – women began to stand up, be counted, and make demands of their own. Since women are generally smarter than men, the balance of domestic power swung swiftly in their direction. As a result, increasing numbers of men today are finding themselves performing roles traditionally considered “women’s work” including cooking, getting up for two AM feedings, and changing the oil in the minivan.

This dramatic and unnatural role reversal is responsible not only for a worldwide gender identity crisis which finds more women demanding sex from their husbands and increasing numbers of men complaining of headaches and PMS, but is the leading cause of men’s figure skating.

This disassociation from the traditions which heretofore allowed marriage to function if not thrive has in fact so upset the delicate balance of male and female empowerment that many experts agree the divorce rate would likely approach 100% if not for religious strictures, community property laws, and the fear of violent retribution on the part of estranged spouses and/or mothers-in-law.

It seems we as a society are afraid to admit the obvious: it is unnatural for males and females of the same species to peacefully coexist.

Noted British statesperson Benjamin Disraeli once observed “It destroys one's nerves to be amiable every day to the same human being.”

We only need look to The Discovery Channel for confirmation. Even a casual observer of nature knows the primary reason males and females of most animal species come together is to mate and occasionally share a pizza. Keep those males and females together in the same confined space for an extended period without the possibility of procreation or pizza, however, and they will eventually eat each other.

The male-female dichotomy is further exacerbated by the fact that human females achieve their sexual maturity at an earlier age (and with greater permanency) than human males, which in turn affords human females the historical upper hand in dictating the future course of all male-female interactions.

Thinking back to sixth grade, by the time little boys get their first inchoate rumblings as to what their role in the whole male-female melodrama is all about, little girls already know what little boys want, that they’ve got it, and that they ain’t giving it away without compensation, preferably in the form of diamonds.

The result? Marriage: the only legalized, universally recognized, and religiously sanctioned form of prostitution known to man.

Marriage (and Other Hazards of Dating) - Preface

Author's Note: In coming weeks (months, years, etc.), I will be posting chapters from a short humor book I'm writing titled Marriage (and Other Hazards of Dating). Installment #1 begins below...

Although this book is entitled Marriage and Other Hazards of Dating, it is not written so much for brides and grooms to be, but more for the parents, family, and friends “to be” whose lives the young couple’s decision to wed are about to destroy.

This book is their mouthpiece, providing these soon-to-be-victims-of-love a once removed venue to voice what each of them is thinking, but too afraid to share lest they offend or alienate the engaged couple (a valid concern in that the newly betrothed are an irrational, unpredictable lot prone to angry fits and sudden bouts of violent emotion).

If this volume encourages but one starry-eyed, love-struck duo to ignore their hearts and listen to that still, small voice inside their heads which is screaming “STOP!” thereby preventing them from dragging dozens of innocents through the grist mill of anguish and dread certain to follow, this author may rest in peace, knowing he has done his duty to society and mankind.


Note: because men and women have grossly, often diametrically opposite perspectives when it comes to this subject, certain chapters of this book are devoted primarily to women and others primarily to men. In either case, the goal is universal enlightenment.