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.

2009 Layne Family Christmas Letter

As we gaze out our window at swiftly falling snowflakes and home values, we are reminded it is once again that joyous, heartfelt season of Disease on Earth and Shopping at Goodwill.

In addition to stockpiling ammunition and H1N1 vaccine, one of the Layne family’s more significant follies of 2009 was a second experiment with dog ownership.

Taffy (formerly Tiffany) is a Yorkie-Poo, emphasis on the “Poo.” Scientists say a dog’s nose is 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s, which explains how Taffy can detect the intoxicating aroma of another creature’s filth from hundreds of miles away. Pampered and spoiled, she spends her days comatose on the back of the couch or gazing sleepily out the window, dreaming of feces while plotting her escape from captivity. At night, she shakes off the fatigue from her day to prowl the dark recess of our neighborhood, skulking about in the shadows, poking her nose into shrubbery, and begging fights with skunks and raccoons. If the veterinarian hadn’t assured us otherwise, we might have believed she was a mutant house cat, Paris Hilton, or a US Congressman.

Needless to say, Amanda and Allyson adore Taffy who has become the rope in their daily tug-o-war of affections, leaving Taffy both terrified of Allyson and several inches longer stem-to-stern. Truth be told, Taffy has been a terrific learning experience for the girls. Not only has caring for her taught them responsibility, but owing to their gratitude for finally getting a “dog” (and news reports of a nearby cougar siting), Mark no longer needs threaten to smear Taffy with bacon grease and chain her out back at night to get the girls to behave.

Taffy tolerates Mark (no doubt because at some fundamental level, he’s made of meat). Though not thrilled about having another mouth to feed, Mark is likewise learning to accept Taffy. For the benefit of the kids, he has even taught her a few simple commands like “heel,” “sit,” “baa like a lamb,” and “taste like chicken.” Though progress has been slow, it seems she gets a little better – and more plump and juicy – every day.

In one of those Norman Rockwell-like moments which make the many travails of parenthood seem almost worthwhile, Allyson declared if anything tragic ever happened to Karen, leaving Mark as her sole caregiver, she would kill herself. In related news, Amanda announced if [due to a bizarre genetic mishap] she ever happens to have a hillbilly baby, she will name it Heidi. Their work as parents now complete, Karen and Mark moved to Phoenix.

This past winter, Allyson played indoor soccer. In a move rarely attempted by players her age, she impressed coaches and fans alike by removing both pigtails and converting them into a high pony tail, not only during the middle of the game, but while one of her teammates scored on their own goalie. In other sporting news, spring marked the end of Amanda’s competitive dancing career. She has opted to devote her newly acquired free time to drinking the world dry of root beer and brushing up on her SpongeBob.

This summer, the family again traveled east to spend Fourth of July in New Jersey with the Rothmans. Along the way, they stopped to visit fascinating, historically significant places like the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Empire State Building, and Toledo. Everyone had a fabulous time except Ally who, convinced the automotive GPS is a diabolical, free-thinking cyborg bent on marooning her family in some remote, uninhabited place like Iowa, cried the entire trip.

Both girls continue to grow and mature: Amanda into a remarkable young lady, and Allyson – owing to her quick temper, pugilistic tendencies, and ability to conjure flatulence at will – a teenage boy. Everyone who assured K & M the fighting would subside as the girls grew older is an idiot. Not a day goes by the two rapidly aging parents don’t wish they had six more daughters.

In November, Mark attended his 30 year high school reunion. Though very few of his classmates recalled attending high school with a hot air balloon salesman and part time lumberjack named John Malkovich, all were delighted to see John again after so many years.

Karen is adjusting to Ally being in school all day which has freed up more time for her to watch reruns of black-and-white 1960’s television serials in stunning high definition. The constant emotional turmoil of living with a wife, two daughters, two female hamsters, and a female dog has rendered Mark so irrational he has actually considered taking up golf. So far, the medication is helping.

In keeping with this year’s theme, let us pause to recall the words of famous scholar Groucho Marx who said, “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally, and Taffy

Scooby Poo

We got a dog. At least I’m told it’s a dog.

The dog, or canis lupus familiaris (Latin for large, eating, pooping machine which, if properly provoked, can bite off your leg) is a domesticated subspecies of the Gray Wolf. As such, a true “dog” cannot be carried around in one’s coat pocket, nor shuttled about the house in a baby carriage. A “dog” doesn’t go to the beauty parlor. Nor does a “dog” deserve equal privilege when it comes to familial membership or affairs of state. (“Who should we vote for?” “Let’s ask the dog!”)

The acquisition of our “dog” was the result of my nine-year-old’s insistence that if she didn’t get one, she would run away to join the circus. I made her a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, wished her good luck growing a beard, and sent her on her way.

My wife, on the other hand, is one of those sensitive, nurturing types who actually cares what the children think. As a result, our house is now home not only to four humans, but two hamsters, two parakeets, several fish, a few tadpoles, a guinea pig (the other white meat), and Taffy, the “dog.”

All the aforementioned are females (except the tadpoles and me who are of no discernable gender) and each possessed of far greater social and sentimental stature within our tribe than their adult caregivers. (Egyptian pharaohs had less elaborate funerals than those routinely conducted by our daughters for an expired goldfish.)

Don’t get me wrong; I like dogs. What’s more, most dogs like me – no doubt because at some fundamental level, I’m made of meat. Even so, I have been accused throughout this ordeal of not being a “dog person.”

I disagree. Wet nose and floppy ears notwithstanding, I am a dog person. I nonetheless feel compelled to help my misinformed family understand that Taffy is not a dog – or at least no mutation of the species I’ve ever encountered – as she simply does not meet the classic definition of “dog.”

The mere ability to bark and growl is not sufficient proof of one’s dog-ness, as our neighbor’s cat does both. Authentic dogs live idyllic existences of unfettered leisure. They spend their days sleeping, eating, chasing the occasional stick, offering a perfunctory “woof” as the ice cream truck drives off with the neighbor’s kid. What’s more, they’re known to be brave, resilient, and of rollicking good humor. (See “Lassie,” “Rin Tin Tin,” “Scooby Doo.”)

Taffy is nothing like this. Pampered, spoiled, and aloof, she despises getting wet, refusing to go outside in the rain. She spends her days comatose on one of the girls’ beds, or preening herself on the back of the couch as she gazes sleepily out the window, no doubt plotting her escape from captivity.

At night she shakes off the fatigue from her day to prowl the dark recess of our neighborhood, skulking around corners, twitching nervously at every sound, and poking about in the shrubbery. If the veterinarian hadn’t convinced us otherwise, I might have believed she was a large house cat, Paris Hilton, or a US Congressman.

Clinically speaking, Taffy is a Yorkie-Poo, an apparent eponymous appellation based on the breed’s ability to detect the intoxicating aroma of other creatures’ filth from miles away, and likewise their insatiable appetite for the stuff.

Scientists say a dog’s nose is 10,000 times more powerful than a human’s, which explains why Taffy’s primary skill appears to be sniffing. According to my wife, just because she is wont to spend half an hour walking in circles searching for a worthy patch of earth to defile with excrement* is no reason to consider her unusual. (*Unless she’s indoors in which case any old Persian rug will do.)

Of course owning a dog does have certain advantages. Not only are my toes always clean, but in terms of home security, a dog has no equal.

Her keen senses ever tuned to the many dangers which threaten our safety, we have come to depend on Taffy to warn us of squirrels trespassing in our yard, robins lurking in the garden – that the guinea pig is awake, or the goldfish swimming – along with countless other admonitions vital to the well being of our family.

She’s also been a terrific learning experience for the girls. Not only has caring for Taffy taught them responsibility, but owing to their gratitude for finally getting a “dog” (and recent news reports of a nearby cougar siting), I no longer need threaten to smear Taffy with bacon grease and chain her out back at night to get them to behave.

Our experiment with dog ownership is a work in progress. And although I don’t consider Taffy a “dog” in the strict sense of the word, I am learning to accept her. For the benefit of the kids, I’ve even been teaching her a few simple commands like “heel,” “sit,” “baa like a lamb,” and “taste like chicken.” It seems she gets a little better (and more plump and juicy) every day

GM Got Game

DETROIT – In a move industry analysts say could salvage the beleaguered US automobile manufacturer from the brink of financial disaster, General Motors announced plans this week to merge with iconic US toy and game manufacturer, Hasbro, as an integral first step in their bid to build the first Nerf automobile.

GM CEO Dick Wagoner believes it’s a perfect example of the sort of “outside the box” thinking GM is known for.

“You take two somewhat antiquated, market-worn concepts and bring them together to create something altogether new and revolutionary – like the Saturn, for instance.”

Reached during GM’s quarterly shareholder meeting at a Denny’s restaurant in suburban Detroit, Robert Lutz, head of GM Global Product Development, agreed.

“It’s kind of like combining peanut butter and chocolate, or pig and human DNA.”

Brian Goldner, President and CEO of Hasbro, and current custodian of such powerful brand names as Tonka, G.I. Joe, Monopoly, Transformers, and Mr. Potato Head, offered his own perspective.

“We saw it as an opportunity to branch out from toys and games into safe, reliable, low cost transportation – and to get our hands on a boatload of primo real estate for next to nothing.”

The GM Bounce will feature a lightweight aluminum frame surrounded by high density foam rubber. Like the VW Beetle, it will be marketed in dozens of pastel shades, or for an added fee, in popular NFL and college team colors.

Hasbro was initially attracted to the many “green” aspects of the idea including outstanding fuel economy, insignificant greenhouse emissions, a first class safety rating, and dramatically lower insurance premiums for the American consumer.

According to State Farm agent Jayson Buckwilde, “Sure, a six year old can tip it over, but guess what? No damage. It’s a Nerf!”

Auto industry experts say the move will finally allow GM to compete on the global stage where safety and fuel economy are established must-haves.

GM President Frederick Henderson couldn’t agree more. “With a little luck, we hope to post a profit for the first time since 1976.”

As an added benefit, the new “sponge on wheels” is expected to dramatically reduce US dependence on foreign oil. Since the vehicle will weigh next to nothing, the energy required to operate it will be negligible.

“Our engineers are already working to adapt the low voltage electric motor we use in Kota The Triceratops,” said Goldner, adding, “Nobody else in the business offers a car powered by six D cell batteries.” [Not included.]

Until the all-electric version of the vehicle becomes available, GM will substitute gas powered 2-cycle chainsaw engines in an effort to bring the product to market as early as next year. GM believes this strategy will also help ease the transition-to-electric for their many loyal customers who aren’t quite ready to give up on dirty, noisy, internal combustion.

CEO Goldner admits the idea came to him as a result of a Ray Romano stand-up comedy routine during which the popular comic suggested the idea of a Nerf automobile.

“A good idea is a good idea regardless where it comes from,” echoed Wagoner, speaking by megaphone from a retired Goodyear blimp the company now uses as its corporate aircraft. “Look! There’s my house!”

Donald Crashmore of the National Transportation Safety Board believes the Nerf car will also be a lifesaver. “It’s brilliant when you think about it. A perfect fit for the next generation of drivers who will be far more distracted than drivers of today.”

Crashmore refers to recent NTSB study which predicts a 122% increase in vehicular collisions by 2012 owing to emerging electronic technologies that will allow motorists to simultaneously talk, text, surf the web, and watch TV on their mobile phones.

While the exact cost of Hasbro’s acquisition of GM stock was not disclosed, it is believed to run in the tens of thousands.

This announcement comes on the heels of GM’s recent use of federal bailout funds to acquire Chrysler Motor Corporation, thereby expanding GM’s branding to include Buick, Cadillac, GMC, Chevrolet, Hummer, Pontiac, Saab, Saturn, Chrysler, Dodge, Plymouth, and Jeep.

Said Wagoner, “Competition is good for the marketplace, even if we are competing against ourselves.”

As a personal favor to Wagoner, Hasbro has agreed to launch a line of corporate action figures bearing his likeness. The product will be marketed under the brand “CEO Joe.”

© 2009 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Amanda's Revenge 2008

I always knew it was a mistake to teach Amanda to read. This ability has not only allowed her to unmask clandestine, spelled conversations between parents, but also provided her access to the tawdry world of print, including our annual Christmas letter, in which we have been known to parody the oft humorous circumstances of her life (along with those of the less interesting members of her family). Last year, she took verbal umbrage over fun poked at her expense. This year, she took revenge.

A full text of her unexpergated work is included below. Keep in mind these are the thoughts of a nine year old -- the same nine year old who is wont to sit down at her desk and crank out fifteen, double-sided, letter size pages (complete with dialogue) on the fictional adventures of her friends, family, and/or Scooby Doo.

Seems it's time for the real writer in the family to stand up and be heard.

Dear Dad,
This year I am going to write YOU a Christmas letter and get revenge. Now let’s talk hair. You really don’t need that stuff anyway. Now you know, some bald men are very attractive to women that have just got out of jail or are mentally confused , but your lucky you got mom because you would have NEVER stand a chance. Christmas is the subject, so let’s get to it. This year your spending your Christmas Eve down stairs, because one, you have so much work to do that you can’t even move your butt upstairs and two, moms horrible snoring keeps you up all night so you go down there to sleep. Then you sleep late. (good job mom). From sleeping down stairs you say you got a sinus infection. Well I say you have it because you take TOO MANY VITAMINS! What about all those pills! You take so many of those that you could turn into one. (moms says that you are already one and not me). Allyson feels super bad about the whole thing, sort of , kind of, not really, nope, sorry and my favorite-man falling off of a cliff,Nooooooooooooooooo boom. Well that raps up this master piece. So, next year, Christmas time and see ya! Oh! Almost forgot that this MASTER PIECE is written(typed) by


AMANDA!!!

P.S. you don’t stand a chance to me next year!

2008 Layne Family Christmas Letter

It seems like yesterday we sat gazing upon the carnage of last Christmas, listening to the kids squeal with delight as they played amongst the heaps of boxes, bows, and diabolically impossible to open packaging, having lost interest in the contents of said parcels long before breakfast.

The Layne family spent the past year working to reduce their carbon footprint, while simultaneously increasing their Hannah Montana footprint, having spent close to the gross national product of Ecuador on every licensed Hannah Montana product in existence including HM cereal, underwear, toilet paper, floor wax, and motor oil – not to mention advance booking a week long stay in the yet-to-be-constructed Best of Both Worlds Resort at Disney World where every guest will be greeted with a blond wig upon arrival. Mark is looking forward to spending his first week since high school with hair.

Of the more significant events of 2008 was our temporary acquisition of a six week old Wheaton Terror named Daisy. The product of two years of incessant begging and whining on the part of Amanda, Daisy was with us for ten remarkable days during which she taught us all the meaning of the word “animal.” No one will ever forget returning home that first night after Daisy’s departure to a quiet, virtually excrement-free house.

In other scatological news, Karen tricked Mark into briefly joining a bowling league. An accomplished bowler herself, Karen felt compelled to explore her inner cheese head. Conversely Mark is to bowling as what cataracts are to a neurosurgeon. His sole contribution to the effort was to give his team a name – Bowl Movement – and, as it turns out, its identity.

Not unlike the intrepid American pioneers who braved harsh conditions and an unforgiving land to expand the frontiers of this great country, the Laynes piled into their air conditioned, video-screen-equipped minivan this past July and fought their way west to the renowned Black Hills of South Dakota. There they celebrated the birth of our nation beneath the mocking gaze of our forefathers who stand in proud, silent testament to the subjugation of native peoples and the desecration of their most sacred places. Afterward, they went out for ice cream. Much like National Lampoon’s Vacation, the kids most enjoyed the free dinosaur park, fighting at Wall Drug, and the ice-cold, insect-encrusted pit that passed for the resort swimming pool.

In September, Allyson began kindergarten. As with all things, she approached the experience with grave determination and sobriety. At Amanda’s urging to loosen up and have some fun, Ally cautiously abandoned her place in line to join the rest of her class on the playground, and promptly broke her right arm. The first ensuing days were pure anguish as Karen, Mark, and a team of psychiatrists worked round the clock to comfort and console their agonizing daughter. Amanda eventually recovered, able to accept the accident wasn’t her fault. Ally never skipped a beat, quickly adapting to her one-armed existence, rather enjoying her new fiberglass appendage and the damage it could inflict upon her sister.

Amanda continues to be the gasoline to Allyson’s fire. Earlier this year, Allyson began channeling deceased actor and comedian, Sam Kinneson, responding to requests such as get dressed, brush your teeth, get out of the street, and stop gouging your sister’s eye, with a resounding, “Ah-h-h! Ah-h-h-h-h!” In sporting news, Ally was fortunate to have her father co-coach her U6 soccer team (team motto: Come for the Game, Stay for the Snack). Mark was able to impart unto the team his wealth of soccer knowledge including useful tips on “kicking,” “passing,” how to achieve a “first down” and successful implementation of the “Tampa Bay Cover 2 Defense.” They didn’t win many games, but all enjoyed the camaraderie and tackling drills. When not practicing her penmanship – which she does indiscriminately, tagging the Layne household like a New York City subway platform – Ally continues to enjoy her after school opera lessons.

Amanda was invited to join a competitive dance team which has the family traveling to far off venues to watch her perform a hip-hop number featuring a complex series of twists, kicks, gyrations and twirls. When not competing, Amanda practices – incessantly wherever she happens to be, causing passers-by to stop, afraid she is having a seizure. The teachers at Amanda’s school are working hard to keep Amanda challenged. Next year she will be teaching eighth grade. Outside of dancing, Amanda enjoys finding new ways to make her sister cry, watching age-inappropriate television programs, and writing – her latest project translating classical literature into Sanskrit.

The extended Layne family gathered in Door County, WI, this year for Thanksgiving (since all the nearby indoor pools were booked). Still stinging from the turkey tar tare incident of several years previous, the group opted for the restaurant buffet. It was good to see Leslie and Jayson; the girls enjoyed having their cousin there to fight with.

Not much different in the lives of K & M. Karen spends her free time perfecting a whole-house Febreeze system (similar to a restaurant fire suppression system), while Mark continues his job as a high priced call girl.

In keeping with last year’s theme, as Aristotle once observed, “Melancholy men, of all others, are the most witty.”


Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Good Eats at Zoo

BROOKFIELD, IL – Dusti the giraffe is dead.

In a sad but true story, the eleven year fixture of the Chicago Zoological Park located in Brookfield, Illinois, somehow hanged himself in the ropes and rigging used to suspend baskets of food at mouth-height inside his enclosure.

Perhaps more troubling than the leggy creature’s demise, however, is the reaction of zoo staff to this unfortunate event.

My initial thoughts upon hearing this tragic news were, “Do you think it was a suicide?” and then, “Wonder what they’ll do with the meat?”

In his article, “Giraffe Recipes Reshelved Over Lack of Ingredients,” Chicago Tribune columnist John Kass posed just such a question to horrified zoo employees who expressed outrage at what they considered an impertinent – nay, sacrilegious question – as if John had suggested they were all baby-stealing, cat-torturing gypsies.

I don’t get it. If 3,000 pounds of choice meat fell out of the sky onto my dinner table, I’d mutter a quick prayer of thanks, then fire up the grill.

Say, for instance, a prize Angus steer wandered into your yard and died of a heart attack (no doubt from eating too much red meat). The last thing I would be inclined to do is tie it to my lawn tractor and drag it to the curb for garbage day. Angus beef? That’s good eatin’. And while
I don’t know whether giraffe meat is fit for the human palate, I must imagine any of the zoo’s many carnivores would find its tasty goodness reminiscent of home on the range.

Yet the zoo, a not-for-profit institution which relies heavily on charitable contributions, public patronage, and sales of $4.00 boxes of popcorn, to support its research, sought fit to cremate Dusti rather than do him the dishonor of returning him to “the circle of life” (quoting a bit of Disney dime-store philosophy), thereby reducing his existence to nothing more than fertilizer for next summer’s butterfly garden.

Shame on you, Brookfield Zoo! Since when did zoo animals become pets? And why is it suddenly more about the feelings of the milk-toast, overly sentimental zoo staff than the enrichment of the zoo’s paying customers? Last I checked, the zoo was a place where local folk could come to experience glimpses of life in other parts of the world – to learn about exotic creatures and distant habitats – without ever leaving the quaint confines of Cook County. Take away the patrons, and what is a zoo but Riker’s Island for animals?

Yet here we are, crying alongside the poor zoo workers whose pet giraffe just died. Never mind that Dusti could have fed all of the zoo’s meat eaters for at least one day, thereby ensuring he didn’t die stupidly and without purpose.

Somebody needs to consider the welfare of the animals. You think the animals – especially the big predators – want to lie around all day in a tiny enclosure waiting for someone to toss them a chunk of horse meat? Hell no! They want to roam, hunt, mate – all those things animals do when their kids aren’t watching.

I offer proof of this claim by way of an anecdote from my own experience. Before we had kids, my wife and I lived in Brookfield. Owing to convenience, we used to visit the zoo regularly. One fall day we were standing at the viewing window outside the lion enclosure watching a male lion sleeping against the glass. Just then, a slight, three or four year old girl walked up with her mother and pushed her way to the front. Realizing a one inch tempered pane was all that separated her from the king of beasts, she retreated to her mother’s leg.

“Does he bite, Mommy?” she asked.

A zoo veteran, wise in the ways of all deadly creatures, I interjected, in my most avuncular, condescending, know-it-all manner, that the animal had been in captivity so long, it was probably tame as a house cat.

No sooner had the words left my pursed lips when a Canada Goose perched high on the enclosure’s rocky back wall, made an ill-conceived decision to glide down from its safe roost into the center of the enclosure where lay a chunk of soft pretzel tossed by a misinformed onlooker who believed he was at the seagull exhibit.

Before the foundering foul’s second foot lit upon the ground, the comatose lion had sprung to life, closed the twenty or so feet between the window and the center of the enclosure in a single bound, and swiped the landing bird from the air, and dragged its now limp form into his cave.

As the folks on the open side of the enclosure cheered the gander’s demise with rousing applause, I looked down at the terrified little girl and said, “Don’t believe everything grownups tell you.”

Though shocking, I was intrigued by the spectacle.

It seems we’ve become a society of special- interest-touting activists. Animal rights. Children’s rights. Convicted criminal’s rights. Vegetable’s rights. You can hardly do anything nowadays without offending someone, somewhere.

That being said, would it be so bad to add a little circus to the zoo? For example, what would be the harm in turning a few tigers loose in the Okapi enclosure, or a boa in the rodent house, or a perhaps a snow leopard in the Children’s Zoo?

Given the popularity of television programs like Wild Discovery, where on any given night you can see a cheetah take down and devour an Ibex in all its gore, I have to believe people would flock to see the same sort of thing live, up-close, and in person.

The US has already been accused of following in the footsteps of the Roman Empire. Why not embrace our destiny and have a little fun in the process? Not only would we be providing an enriching, affirming experience for the animals, but think of all the $4.00 boxes of popcorn they’d sell!

Animals will be animals. It’s not their fault (or ours) they taste good.


© 2008 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Packaging Industry Alive and Well

Thankfully, another Christmas has passed. All that remains to remind us of the gluttony of giving that befalls our household each year is the stack of forgotten, yet unopened toys in the corner of the living room, many of which will be re-gifted – some to our own children – in the months and weeks to come. That and my bloody knuckles, of course.

When I was a child, toys came in a box. The box was typically made of cardboard which, except in rare instances, had a photograph of its contents plastered on the lid.

This was a convenient and effective packaging system. In the first place, our parents had it made in that boxes of the day were usually square or rectangular, which made wrapping them a breeze, even for a blind person missing two fingers on each hand.

To frantic children overcome by the spirit of receiving, it was also ideal in that once the thin veneer of gaudy paper was stripped from the box, we were able to tell exactly what was inside merely by looking at the photo pasted on the lid. It was rare, for example, to open a box with a photo of GI Joe on the lid only to discover Prom Queen Barbie lurking inside. What’s more, a quick shake and the lid would slide off, providing full and almost immediate access to the contents.

Today’s product manufacturers have decided that mere photographs aren’t good enough. No – people just won’t buy a product unless they can see the actual product encased inside a clear, hermetically sealed plastic vessel impenetrable even by Navy Seals demolition experts.

And I’m not talking just about toys. The same packaging philosophy appears to apply to electronics (lest we attempt to test them to see if they work), light bulbs (lest we mistakenly buy the wrong color), baseballs, paper clips, shoes, apples, puppies, etc. Want to protect something from damage, theft, or occasional use? Have it packaged by a modern-day product manufacturer. Idea: send the Hope Diamond to Mattel. No one will ever be able to steal it.

As a result, like most parents, I spent Christmas morning surrounded by hopping, squirming, whining kids, each desperate to actually touch the glimmering items smiling at them from inside their plastic prisons. So, after hacking four Hannah Montanas free of their acrylic sarcophagi with a utility knife, tin snips, and a blowtorch, and shredding my knuckles on the razor sharp edges in the process, the children were finally able to play with their toys, right?

Wrong!

In their infinite marketing wisdom, toy manufacturers have decided that not only must we see the toy, but it must be arranged in “play” mode so children – who are known to have little in the way of imaginations – can visualize how they might use it. “Look! We can pretend that he can fly.”

In order to create a more compelling illusion of “action,” each toy is then contorted and/or arranged into an exciting action pose or clever diorama via the use of thousands of tiny wires, strings, and nearly invisible rubber bands, the workable ends of which are sandwiched between layers of cardboard sealed at the edges with unbreakable clear plastic tape, thereby rendering the toy inaccessible to any child not skilled in the use of a hacksaw. And that’s just the feature item.

When we were kids, the small accessory parts (aka “choking hazards”) were contained in a plastic baggie tucked safely into a corner of the cardboard box. Not so anymore. In order to protect our children from certain death by insuring that these items can never be played with, each miniature thingamajig is sealed in plastic and glued (using the same adhesive NASA uses to attach heat resistant tiles to the space shuttle) onto a colorful cardboard backdrop depicting some clever use for the toy. “Look, Dolly can play with her rubber ducky in the bathtub!” or “Oh, I see – she wears the shoes on her feet!”

In that it is impossible to extract these smaller items without destroying them, we usually send them out to the recycling bin with the rest of the seven metric tons of plastic and cardboard that holidays of this magnitude generate.

Of course it’s all worth the hassle to be able to sit back and watch the little ones enjoy playing with the big cardboard box from my new television.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to try and get this blood stain out of Cinderella’s dress.


© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

2007 Family Christmas Letter

As Andy Williams reminds us, it is once again “…the most wonderful time of the year.” Of course, Andy is referring to football season. It is also that magical time of year when the thoughts and hopes of all young children turn to toys, presents, and that long awaited visit by a jolly old elf in a soot-tarnished red suit – except in the Layne household, that is, where ghouls, witches, vampires, and mummies cast an orange-and-black shadow over this otherwise festive, red-and-green season.

It would seem around here that the penultimate annual commemoration of our savior’s birth has taken a back seat to the ancient druid celebration of the harvest. Amanda and Ally begin discussing their Halloween costumes on November 1st, changing their minds 364 times up until the afternoon of October 31st, at which point they give up and go as whatever they were the previous year. This year, Ally was pink Jasmine (as opposed to last year’s green version), and Amanda went as Myanmar. Barely ten minutes after trick-or-treating ended, plans were set into motion for the following year. As of this writing, Ally wants to be purple Jasmine, and Amanda, petulance.

Amanda is a tall-and-spindly, creative, high maintenance creature who is drawn to the arts and depends upon her parents to keep her alive by reminding her to eat, sleep, and breathe. Ally, on the other hand, is a tough, self-sustaining sort who takes guff from no one and can forage for a full day’s nutrition right in her own nose. Having given up all attempts to tame Ally’s fearsome temper, K & M have instead elected to put her pugilistic tendencies to constructive use by enrolling her in the kick-boxing program at the local YMCA. Known as “Ally-Kazam” and her sidekick “Blankie,” she strikes fear into the hearts of the other Medinah Park District preschoolers.

This past spring, the Layne troupe made their first pilgrimage to Orlando to visit Disney’s Wonderful World of Licensed Merchandise. Karen was ecstatic, having been inculcated into the Disney cult as a child. Amanda and Ally were excited about seeing their friends, Courtney and Stephanie, who came down from New Jersey following Bon Jovi on the southern leg of their 2007 tour. Mark was the only one not necessarily looking forward to the trip, owing to his pronounced distaste for crowds, hot weather, children, and fun of any sort. Thanks in large part to the hospitality of the Elliots – cousins Brad and Sheryl in particular – he managed to have a delightful time, except for the four days he spent in bed with 104 degree fever.

As everyone knows, Disney is all about getting kids to watch television. As such, Ally nearly fainted from the thrill of meeting her idols Jasmine and Aladdin. Amanda spent the week searching each theme park for Zack, Cody, Hannah, and the brothers Jonas, who Karen and Mark assume must be characters in some new Disney western. In the end, all the expense and hassle of travel was worth it in that to this day, whenever the subject of Disney World is mentioned, Amanda and Ally’s eyes light up and their rosy cheeks crease with smiles as they recall the glorious times they had at the hotel pool.

During summer, Illinois got a taste of life in a hurricane prone state when the most severe thunderstorms in history swept through the Chicago area, uprooting trees, flooding basements, and knocking out power to over half a million people, causing local ratings of Deal or No Deal to plummet. Karen and Mark discovered that living for three days without electricity and water is a lot like camping in a really expensive tent. It was a terrific learning experience for the kids, however, who got a taste of what life was like for the early pioneers by cooking over an open fire, reading by lamplight, making potty in a bucket and tossing it out the window, trapping beavers, etc.

For Thanksgiving, the gang made the trek down to drought-plagued Atlanta to visit Leslie, Anthony, and Jayson, and to celebrate Amanda’s eighth birthday. As it turns out, showering without water isn’t half as bad as it sounds. The kids had a blast rolling around on the bottom of the empty hotel pool and playing at the local Jump Zone (until Ally bloodied the nose of an eleven-year-old boy because she didn’t like how he was looking at her sister).

Sadly, the days of the annual X-mas letter may be numbered. As it happens, kids don’t enjoy their parents making fun of them. Who knew? K&M aren’t too worried about Amanda who has a relatively evolved sense of humor – even though after reading last year’s installation she demanded stuffed animals as compensation for being libeled and abused for the past seven years. It’s Allyson who will have her parents watching their backs.

In closing, never has the underlying melancholy of the Christmas season been captured more aptly than in “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” one of many idiomatic masterpieces by author Charles M. Schultz, who also once said, “I love mankind; it’s people I can’t stand.”

Merry Christmas to All, and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, and Ally

Old Foes Worry Washington

WASHINGTON DC – News of Cuban President Fidel Castro’s return to health spawned renewed concerns at the White House over the potential threat to US security at the hands of the devoutly anti-American communist republic located a stone’s throw from the Florida Keys.

“We all figured he was a goner,” said Peter Pace, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “His return to office can only be viewed as an imminent threat to our national security.”

During his Monday morning press conference, The President concurred. “The man is a terrorist,” stated Bush. “And like all terrorists, he will be dealt with in a terrorist-like fashion.”

Amid these new concerns over the potential spread of communism to America’s doorstep, the President ordered US Naval vessels to establish a defensive perimeter in international waters between the US and Cuba.

This military deployment is in response to what sources inside the CIA cite as reliable intelligence that the 80 year old military dictator intends to allow Russia to locate land-based ballistic missiles on the island nation.

“We have concrete evidence showing the initial stages of construction of a ballistic missile base near San Cristobal in the Pinar del Rios Province of Cuba’s western coast,” President Bush stated in his weekly radio address. “Bald-faced aggression of this nature will not be tolerated a mere 90 miles from America’s most popular gay and lesbian vacation spot.”

House Democrats, who claimed the intelligence reports upon which the President and CIA had relied consisted of reconnaissance photos taken by U2 spy planes during the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, quickly withdrew their objections when poorly doctored photographs of these same representatives in compromising situations with Valerie Plame’s Chihuahua, Max, began appearing on the internet.

Vice President Dick Cheney dismissed the Democrat’s claims as politically motivated rubbish. “This is obviously the partisan, anti-American rhetoric of a group of fascist pinko sympathizers and likely terrorists,” said Cheney during an interview on Face the Nation. Adding, “If they dare question the policies of this administration again, I’ll shoot their faces off.”

According to a report by Walter Cronkite which aired Wednesday evening on the History Channel, nineteen cargo ships believed to be carrying Russian missile components and other Soviet military cargo were on route to Cuba with orders to ignore any US attempt to intercept them.

President Bush immediately drafted a letter to Nikita Khrushchev demanding the ships reverse course and that all offensive weapons be removed from Cuba immediately. In the event diplomatic measures fail, the President is said to be prepared to authorize a naval blockade of the tiny Caribbean nation.

White House Press Secretary Tony Snow denies this new military deployment has any connection to a weekend-long classic film festival held at the President’s Texas ranch during which the President viewed the 1974 film, The Missiles of October, along with several other war, western, and sci-fi classics.

Just the same, Bush vowed to keep a close watch on a reported Indian uprising near Wounded Knee, SD, as well as to have the FBI look into rumors of a planned Japanese attack on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor. As for claims of a Martian invasion of Grover’s Mill, New Jersey, the President said during his weekly taped radio address, “The Martians want New Jersey, they can have New Jersey.”

Hussein Genius Applauded

WASHINGTON DC – A ruthless dictator in life, Saddam Hussein is now being regarded as a political genius in death by the very forces who sponsored his downfall.

In a surprise about face, the Bush administration now admits removing Saddam Hussein from his role as dictator of Iraq may not have been in the world’s best interest.

“Perhaps we’ve been going about this all wrong,” Bush remarked during a White House press conference. “Rather than removing dictators from the Middle East, maybe we should be supporting the rise of new ones.”

It is no news to anyone that the situation in Iraq has deteriorated since the arrival of US troops. Prior to Hussein’s ouster, Iraq was a stable, secondary world power functioning efficiently in the global theater. Now, however, Iraq is locked in a chaotic state of rampant civil war with the US caught in the middle.

Coming in the wake of the President’s statement, House and Senate leaders agreed that removing Hussein from his leadership role in Iraq was a mistake. Though commentary on the floor ran to both ends of the spectrum, in the end, all agreed that Hussein was the only person in history able to maintain control over a disparate population of zealous, gun-toting, religious nut-jobs, and should be replaced with a like-minded individual.

While some world leaders consider the idea of reinstating a Hussein clone in Iraq as a foolhardy gesture that will only serve to plunge the nation into another generation of repression and tyranny, many others disagree.

“As it turns out, the man was a genius,” stated an official White House aide. “He may have been a brutal, murderous dictator, but apparently, that’s exactly what those folks over there need.”

Dan Weimaraner, State Department spokesperson, believes that the fighting and unrest is merely a cry for help. “Fear is the only thing some people respond to,” said Weimaraner. “It’s the same reason nuns carry yardsticks.”

While most experts agree that Saddam’s success as a leader was attributable to his clever if not ruthless application of fear, it was his willingness to experiment with non-traditional types of intimidation and terror which seemed to yield the greatest results.

According to General William Bombgard of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the US military has been ineffective in Iraq largely because the typical Iraqi insurgent doesn’t fear death.

“What he does fear, however, is being fed to a tiger, or having his testicles cut off and shoved down his throat in front of his kids,” stated Bombgard. “Unfortunately, the Geneva Convention currently prevents us from taking such measures.”

Sociologist Marvin Gardner of New York University agrees. “Just like all children crave boundaries, Iraqis crave terror. It’s the only thing they respond to.”

In a recent broadcast on Al Jazeera, Shiite cleric Kilal Ben Dik Hed Abu Azhol said, “Saddam Hussein was the devil and deserved to die, as do the infidels who removed him from power.” Azhol also called for the deaths of all Christians, Sunnis, non-Arabic Muslims, and people who eat broccoli.

Some speculate the United States’ lack of military success in Iraq coupled with growing anti-war sentiment at home have swayed the President’s thinking, causing him to reconsider his policies for the Middle East in general.

When questioned about the decision by Congress to reinstate a Hussein-like dictator to the Iraqi throne, the President said, “Sometimes you need a bigger whooping stick, which is what we had with Saddam.”

A senior White House official who preferred to remain unnamed told reporters that even prior to his execution, measures had been put in place to commute the sentence the kangaroo Iraqi court placed upon Hussein in the hope of returning him to his seat of power.

Bush considered Hussein's death a setback, but noted there are hundreds if not thousands of "Saddam Husseins" out there just aching for the opportunity to continue with the former dictator's good work, and believed it was only a matter of time before CIA field operatives would find another despot to take Hussein's place.

Said Bush, “People have criticized me for having no exit strategy from Iraq – well, put this in your Hookah and smoke it.”

© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Mascot Mayhem

South Bend – In the wake of the ouster of legendary University of Illinois symbol, Chief Illiniwek, University of Notre Dame officials are this week considering the fate of their own mascot and spokes model, as well as the future of the Fighting Irish moniker.

The move on the part of the Notre Dame board of directors to reevaluate their widely recognized trademark is preemptive in nature and likely fueled by the NCAA’s recent crusade against “hostile or abusive mascots or images.”

“We have had complaints,” said Maggie Donnelly, Office of Community Relations for the University. The complaints Donnelly refers to originate primarily from the Irish Image Reform Association, an activist group who claims the mascot and moniker are insulting to persons of Irish descent.

“It gives people the impression that all we Irish do is drink and fight,” stated Association President, Golden Gloves boxer, and part-time bartender, Patrick Monahan. “We’re concerned that outsiders may get the wrong idea of the Irish culture.”

According to University of Notre Dame president, Rev. John I. Jinkers, it is the University’s intention to head off any potential action by the NCAA which could compromise their teams’ eligibility for post season play. “It’s a sign of the times in which we live that we must strive to eliminate all racial and/or potentially controversial elements from our day-to-day lives.”

The University of Notre Dame is said to have adopted the Fighting Irish appellation by happenstance over some vicious taunting by Northwestern University nuclear physics students during an 1899 football contest.

“At the time, calling someone ‘Irish’ was akin to uttering some of todays more offensive and degrading racial epithets,” said Sean Mangus, Professor of US History at the University of Pennsylvania. “Back then, the Irish were considered dirty, untrustworthy people you wouldn’t want your kids to hang around with.”

Regardless of the dubious origins of its public identity, Notre Dame – namesake of the famed Gothic cathedral in Paris, France – rapidly became an icon among the Irish and pseudo-Irish community, even though the institution has no formal connection to Ireland whatsoever. The University nevertheless embraced its albeit tenuous association with The Green Isle – as well as the generous financial support of the thriving Chicago area Irish Catholic community – by adopting the leprechaun as its official school mascot.

A mythical figure from Irish folklore, the leprechaun is a small male faerie known for his feisty, ill-tempered, and mischievous nature. Said to be possessed of magical powers, leprechauns can supposedly guarantee wealth and protection to any who might capture one (except acting ND head football coaches).

The irascible, elf-like creature first appeared in a cut-away green suit, Irish country hat, and shillelagh at the start of the 1965 football season. He has since become a fixture at all home varsity sporting events. Prior to the leprechaun, the University’s official mascot was an Irish terrier named Clashmore Mike, and prior to that, an artichoke.

Surprisingly, though a seemingly benign if not embarrassing symbol, the familiar leprechaun does not enjoy the support of all Notre Dame fans and faculty.

Notre Dame alumna, Eileen Shanahan, is disgusted by what she considers an abuse of elfin iconography. “I mean – leprechauns are people too, aren’t they? So is it fair to stereotype them all as odd, nasty little men always begging for a fight?”

NCAA president Myles Bland believes it is the NCAA’s obligation to consider complaints from outside interests seriously. “It is the policy of this organization to present a wholesome image of intercollegiate athletics. As such, we cannot allow institutions of higher education to perpetrate insensitive references to racial minorities, religious groups, forces of nature, ancient extinct civilizations, mythical war-like figures, or animals with unattractive or aggressive qualities.”

Civil rights organizations applaud this increased level of sensitivity with respect to minorities and special interest groups, initiatives the NCAA maintains are rooted in their mission to be more responsive to public concerns.

Inside media sources conversely believe the NCAA’s recent push to make intercollegiate athletics as non-controversial as possible has far more to do with their concerns over the potential loss of billions in annual television revenues in this post-Janet-Jackson era.

Some new University of Notre Dame slogans and mascots currently under consideration include the Golden Domers (Mascot Idea: a bald Jesuit monk with a gold spray painted cranium), the Capitulating Frenchmen (Mascot Ideas: either a student in a foam French fry costume with his hands raised in surrender, or Napoleon Bonaparte with a cartoonishly large head), the Holy Rollers (Mascot Idea: a Rastafarian priest brandishing a giant spleef), and the Saintly Smoters (Mascot Idea: an angry, baseball-bat-wielding Jesus). The University previously rejected Pugnacious Pugilists, Bellicose Barflies, Cantankerous Catholics, and Haggis as inappropriate given the public message they are attempting to convey.

Under new NCAA policies, Notre Dame isn’t the only school considering a shift in identity. According to the NCAA, a fair number of colleges and universities will need to “rethink” their mascots, slogans, and catch phrases. For example, the Florida State Seminoles will soon be the FSU Kittys, the University of South Carolina Gamecocks (known by their fans simply as “Cocks”) will make the switch to the Peckers, the Arkansas State University Indians will become the Rednecks, and the Oregon State Beavers will transition to the OSU Naughty Female Body Parts. A plan to rename the Arizona State’s Sun Devils to the Ecstasy Addicts was recently rejected by ASU officials.

By the same token, there are a number of schools who won’t need to make changes. “The University of Hawaii Rainbows already fits the NCAA vision of proper symbolism,” says Bland. Others team names such as the Hoyas (Georgetown) and Hoosiers (Indiana) will remain in tact in that nobody knows what a Hoya or a Hoosier is. (The State of Indiana, however, will be forced to change its name to Nativeamericana.)

The NCAA likewise ruled Purdue's Boilermakers – named for a cocktail popular with steel workers in the 1930’s – is not in itself offensive, but that mascot Purdue Pete could be construed as making fun of hydrocephalic individuals, hence the University’s decision to replace Pete with a giant shot glass in time for the start of the 2008 football season.

When asked about Michigan State University’s recent move to retire the moniker Spartans in favor of Serial Killers, Bethany Martin, Director of MSU Sports Relations, says the change makes perfect sense. “I can certainly see how direct descendants of ancient Sparta might find Sparty the Spartan offensive – what with his overly prominent chin and all – whereas nobody likes a serial killer, not even other serial killers.”

It is under this same pretext the NCAA forced the University of Illinois to retire the name, regalia, and image of Chief Illiniwek in March, 2007. In a tradition dating back to 1926, Chief Illiniwek – aka “The Chief” – portrayed by a student in traditional Oglala Sioux ceremonial dress – would perform a Native American “fancy dance” during the halftime of men’s home varsity football and basketball games.

Though most University of Illinois students, faculty, and alumni considered The Chief a proud tradition respectful of the State’s Native American heritage, certain Native American groups, namely the National Indian Education Association and the National Congress of American Indians, found the symbol to be “predominantly offensive and deeply disparaging to Native Americans.”

"Illiniwek," an Algonquin word meaning, “the complete human being – the strong, agile human body, and the indomitable human spirit,” is from whence the State of Illinois derives its name. Regardless, according to The Chief’s critics, it is high time this dramatic and dignified depiction of Native American culture was eliminated so as to “stomp out any remaining public memory of the Illiniwek people,” a consortium of Algonquin tribes who once thrived in the central Midwest.

Though reluctant to go on record with anything which could be construed as legally actionable, Ronald Rizza, University of Illinois professor of sociology, explained it is the belief of Native Americans that by further isolating themselves from mainstream American society, they might one day hope to overcome the misunderstanding and mistrust that plunged their people into decades of destitution, impoverishment, and substance abuse dating back to the arrival of the first white settlers from Europe.

Oneida Casino manager, Percy Stumbling Bull, agreed. “Bull” believes the University of Illinois’ decision is a crucial first step in his people’s goal to eradicate all traces of Native American culture from the prying eyes of white society. “Current generations of whites don’t realize their ancestors essentially stole North America from indigenous peoples. As such, it has been our ongoing policy to attempt to erase our historical legacy from the modern world, thereby honoring our ancestors by protecting their obscurity – at least until such time as gambling revenues allow us to buy back the Louisiana Purchase.”

Other measures under consideration by the NCAA include broadcasting all televised games in Spanish, making cheerleaders wear bloomers, forcing colleges to earmark a certain number of scholarships for illegal immigrants, changing Division I varsity football from tackle to touch, replacing half of all head coaches with members of the clergy, making personal fouls in men’s and women’s basketball a felony, requiring referees to wear flowered shirts, and having Alabama head football coach Nick Saban shot.

Editor’s Note: As an added measure of solidarity with the Native American community, The Illinois General Assembly is currently considering legislation to change the name of the State of Illinois to The State Just East of Missouri, and Chicago – a word derived from the Algonquin “chigagou” meaning “onion field” – to Detroit.



© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

2006 Layne Family Christmas Letter

As we sit huddled all toasty and warm before the crackling fire displayed on our giant, flat panel television, we find another holiday season upon us.

The passing year has been most generous in providing much to ponder, loathe, and fear. Though global warming threatens to plunge us headlong into another ice age, we at least have an avian flu pandemic to look forward to. Perhaps the greatest threat to our health, safety, and longevity, however, may well be living right under our own roofs. Much as bats are known to carry rabies and politicians VD, so are children bearers of every known malady harmful to man. Case in point, Amanda has had a cough since August (of 2004), and Ally’s nose runs with such consistency she is being considered by the US Department of Energy as a site for a hydroelectric plant.

From a very young age, children offer clues as to the future directions of their lives based on their interests, predilections, and predispositions. Imaginative, domineering, and quick to defend her strongly opinioned ideas, Amanda will someday make a terrific surgeon, lawyer, or dictator. Thankfully, Allyson has all but stopped relying on her fists to express herself, opting instead to use her head – as a bludgeon. A Butkus Award finalist, she now “head bunks” her way through conflicts, striking fear into all who cross her, and earning her the household nickname “Urlacher.” K & M are hopeful the NFL will allow female linebackers by the time she’s draft eligible.

In June we traveled to northern California to attend Karen’s cousin Judy’s wedding. California was hot, but it was a dry heat – not unlike a steel mill, kiln, or active volcano. We visited Karen’s cousin, John, who lives suspended on the side of a cliff so steep that one misstep, and next stop, Tijuana. We also stayed with Karen’s best friend from high school whose husband is Silicon Valley’s leading trucking magnate and food critic. The children got along well, mostly because they let Amanda boss them around.

While there, we drove through California’s wine country which looked a lot like rural Wisconsin, but with grapes for corn and snooty ex-actors for farmers. We also had occasion to gaze upon the oldest living things on earth – no, not Gerald Ford or Zsa Zsa Gabor, but the awe-inspiring redwoods and sequoias of Muir Woods – majestic, 300 foot tall monuments of nature, many of which predate Christ. As we were leaving, a team of conservationists from the Department of Interior arrived with chainsaws. It seems the White House needed firewood.

Mark’s cousins from Maryland drove out for a visit, but after spending three days stuck in traffic on I-80/94, gave up and returned home. Mark otherwise spent so much time in swimming pools he began to grow a dorsal fin, placing him in grave danger of being caught, canned, and sold under the label “Squab of the Sea” (a wholly owned subsidiary of “Chicken of the Swamp”).

In September, Amanda began first grade and Ally preschool. As one might expect, it was not without a torrent of tears, angst, and trepidation. We’re all confident Karen will eventually adjust. The jury was out until the last minute as to whether Ally would attend school at all owing to her intense dislike of other humans, especially male humans (except, of course, for Shaggy, Freddie, and sometimes, Daddy). She finally agreed to go as long as she didn’t have to talk to anyone or share her snacks.

Amanda now wakes each morning, surveys her closet full of clothes, laments over which brown top and brown skirt to wear (hopefully UPS will be hiring when she turns eighteen), and then spends the rest of the time before her bus arrives whining that nothing fits. Ally isn’t nearly as difficult when it comes to clothes in that she prefers to not wear any, making getting her dressed like stuffing an angry porcupine into a gym sock. Owing to their eardrum bruising protests, Karen has given up trying to brush either girl’s hair. Good thing dreadlocks are all the rage with kids these days.

Mark hangs out with his two new best friends, Harley and Davidson, pursuing his lifelong dream of transmogrification, relieved property values have begun to recover now that the PGA has left town and Tiger Woods has moved out of the neighborhood. Karen prays for the ability to tune out the girls’ bickering if only long enough to hear herself cry.

If it is indeed true that much of life’s more poignant wisdom can be found on bumper stickers, then as we stumble forward into a new year, confronted by increasingly difficult decisions, we might do well to ask ourselves one important question: “What would Scooby Doo?”

Merry Christmas to all, and to all good grief.

Karen, Mark, Amanda, & Ally

Hussein Dubbed Genius

WASHINGTON DC – A ruthless dictator in life, Saddam Hussein is now being regarded as a political genius in death by the very forces that sponsored his downfall.

In a surprise about face, the Bush administration now admits removing Saddam Hussein from his role as dictator of Iraq may not have been in the world’s best interest.

“Perhaps we’ve been going about this all wrong,” Bush remarked during a White House press conference. “Rather than removing dictators from the Middle East, maybe we should be supporting the rise of new ones.”

It is no news to anyone that the situation in Iraq has deteriorated since the arrival of US troops. Prior to Hussein’s ouster, Iraq was a stable, secondary world power functioning efficiently in the global theater. Now, however, Iraq is locked in a chaotic state of rampant civil war with the US caught in the middle.

Coming in the wake of the President’s statement, House and Senate leaders agreed that removing Hussein from his leadership role in Iraq was a mistake. Though commentary on the floor ran to both ends of the spectrum, in the end, all agreed that Hussein was the only person in history able to maintain control over a disparate population of zealous, gun-toting, religious nut-jobs, and should be replaced with a like-minded individual.

While some world leaders consider the idea of reinstating a Hussein clone in Iraq as a foolhardy gesture that will only serve to plunge the nation into another generation of repression and tyranny, many others disagree.

“As it turns out, the man was a genius,” stated an official White House aide. “He may have been a brutal, murderous dictator, but apparently, that’s exactly what those folks over there need.”

Dan Weimaraner, State Department spokesperson, believes that the fighting and unrest is merely a cry for help. “Fear is the only thing some people respond to,” said Weimaraner. “It’s the same reason nuns carry yardsticks.”

While most experts agree that Saddam’s success as a leader was attributable to his clever if not ruthless application of fear, it was his willingness to experiment with non-traditional types of intimidation and terror which seemed to yield the greatest results.

According to General William Bombgard of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the US military has been ineffective in Iraq largely because the typical Iraqi insurgent doesn’t fear death.

“What he does fear, however, is being fed to a tiger, or having his testicles cut off and shoved down his throat in front of his kids,” stated Bombgard. “Unfortunately, the Geneva Convention currently prevents us from taking such measures.”

Sociologist Marvin Gardner of New York University agrees. “Just like all children crave boundaries, Iraqis crave terror. It’s the only thing they respond to.”

In a recent broadcast on Al Jazeera, Shiite cleric Kilal Ben Dik Hed Abu Azhol said, “Saddam Hussein was the devil and deserved to die, as do the infidels who removed him from power.” Azhol also called for the deaths of all Christians, Sunnis, non-Arabic Muslims, and people who eat broccoli.

Some speculate the United States’ lack of military success in Iraq coupled with growing anti-war sentiment at home have swayed the President’s thinking, causing him to reconsider his policies for the Middle East in general.

When questioned about the decision by Congress to reinstate a Hussein-like dictator to the Iraqi throne, the President said, “Sometimes you need a bigger whooping stick, which is what we had with Saddam.”

A senior White House official who preferred to remain unnamed told reporters that even prior to his execution, measures had been put in place to commute the sentence the kangaroo Iraqi court placed upon Hussein in the hope of returning him to his seat of power.

Bush considered Hussein's death a setback, but noted there are hundreds if not thousands of "Saddam Husseins" out there just aching for the opportunity to continue with the former dictator's good work, and believed it was only a matter of time before CIA field operatives would find another despot to take Hussein's place.

Said Bush, “People have criticized me for having no exit strategy from Iraq – well, put this in your Hookah and smoke it.”



© 2006 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.

Daylight Savings Time (and Other Lies)

It is time once again to participate in that semiannual fraud in which we, the citizens of the United States, run through our homes changing clocks, struggling to remember which buttons to push to reset our digital watches, all so we can delude ourselves into believing that by simply advancing the hands of time by one hour, we will all lead happier, more productive lives.

The annoyance factor aside, I am frankly insulted that our leaders in Washington believe we are this stupid. While I’m certain some folks, particularly those in our southern states, may well consider Daylight Savings Time the greatest thing since food stamps, convinced it provides them an extra hour each day to brew moonshine, pickle pig parts, or figure out how to reinstate slavery, I must demur.

Even those of us who bought into that business about weapons of mass destruction, or the stories of a weather balloon crashing in Roswell, New Mexico, or that nonsense about man landing on the moon, are hard pressed to swallow the idea that merely advancing our clocks by an hour somehow earns us an extra sixty minutes to work, play, or make prank phone calls to the Department of Homeland Security.

In search of that elusive 25th hour, NASA scientists, applying a sophisticated mathematical algorithm, were able to prove that during the period of Daylight Savings, there are still 24 hours in a day. They also determined that, regardless of how many hours you advance your clock, the average per diem amount of sunlight remained relatively constant during any given month of any given year.

The idea that fiddling with the time runs contrary to the laws of nature is perhaps best witnessed in the behavior of my children. Both are under seven, unable to tell time, and except for those parts altered by consumption of genetically modified foodstuffs, more-or-less creatures of nature. Neither, however, are roused into daily consciousness by the ticking of a clock, but instead by that primordial force existing within each child that says it’s time to get out of bed and begin messing up the house.

If I had to guess, I’d say the sun has far more to do with society’s productivity than the time of day. Going back to my kids, I have observed that when the sun comes up, they begin making noise. Conversely, when the sun sets, they begin rubbing their eyes, yawning, and tripping over toys. On dark, cloudy days, they are inclined to sleep late. On bright sunny days, they wake with the birds.

And what of the birds?

The digital alarm clock on my nightstand faces a window. Never, however, have I observed even a single bird perched on my windowsill attempting to peer through the glass so as to know what time to commence its birdly activities. Nor do the other various and sundry creatures which roam our neighborhood appear sensitive to the hour. I expect this would hold true even if we set our clocks ahead by ten hours, forcing sunrise to occur at three in the afternoon.

But if DST is considered absurd by the scientific community, and likewise contrary to natural law, why do we continue to observe it?

The illogical, unfounded origins of Daylight Savings Time can be traced to an ill-conceived political response to the growing pressure on the agricultural industry to provide food to America’s rapidly increasing, post World War II population. It was believed at the time that providing more sunlight at the end of the day during growing season would allow farmers the ability to find their way home from their favorite taverns before it got too dark, thereby preventing countless tractor related deaths. Nowadays, as the bulk of our agricultural production has been outsourced to China, doubling and/or tripling the average farmer’s T.S.I.T. (Time Spent in Tavern), this albeit once key concept appears to have outlived its usefulness.

For example, until recently the state of Indiana had refused to bow to federal pressure to join the rest of the country in observing Daylight Savings. As a result, Hoosiers (a French term meaning “Gesundheit”) kept their clocks permanently set at noon Eastern owing to the fact that “the cows need milkin’ when they need milkin’ and the corn don’t grow no faster.”

In a dark day for sanity, Indianans have now passed legislation to fall-in with the rest of the country in honoring DST. The motion carried by a narrow margin, barely defeating legislation proposed by Indiana’s large Amish community which would have abolished time altogether, making possession of any mechanical timepiece other than a sundial illegal, and declaring cow tipping as the official state sport.

And considering geopolitical ramifications, is it any wonder why the rest of the world hates us? What with our constant meddling in the time-space continuum, Europeans are sitting back right now, laughing at our arrogant disregard for the laws of the physical universe, mocking us for believing that by merely passing a proclamation, we can cause today to become one hour longer (or shorter) than the day before.

“Basil, have you any idea what the time is across the pond in New York?”

“Really, Reginald. What with their willy-nilly clock fiddling, it’s anybody’s guess.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Pass the sheep intestines, will you?”

Truly, this biannual attempt at chronological alchemy is tantamount to reordering the periodic table of elements or rearranging the points on a compass. For instance, the stuff inside your Aquafina bottle will still have two hydrogen something-or-others to every oxygen thingamajig regardless of whether we arbitrarily alter its atomic number from H20 to H7G. Likewise, swapping the “W” for the “N” on your trusty compass will no more cause the needle to point in a direction other than north than it will prompt a Muslim to embrace Jesus.

Of course logic and common sense have never been a priority in this country. Just ask those first folks who climbed aboard boats the size of modern day sofas and, after washing ashore at Plymouth Rock and gazing around at a wild, untamed land lousy with dangerous creatures, harsh weather, and Indians, decided to invent the International Dateline.

© 2007 Mark J. Layne/Layne-Duck Productions, Ltd.