Walk of Shame

America was discovered by men of great courage – intrepid explorers who braved long and perilous ocean voyages, landing upon the rugged, foreboding shores of this continent where they endured harsh conditions, bitter winters, hostile natives, and the Donner Party, all to bring the hope of civilization and professional football to this wild and untamed land.   

Which leaves me to wonder – given our proud heritage of exploration and fortitude, when did we all become too lazy to walk?

What I’m referring to is the recent proliferation of electronic convenience vehicle or ECV – a battery powered wheel-craft designed to locomote persons who ostensibly cannot do so themselves.

Also referred to as “mobility scooters,” I became aware of their existence thanks to those late night television ads which prey upon the elderly, specifically my mother.  I did not realize the extent of their pervasiveness, however, until we decided to bring the kids to Disney World.  (Motto: Experience the magic of your disappearing cash!)

When I say “we,” I of course mean “my wife” in that most males recognize Disney as a money devouring monster in the shape of a giant mouse whose sole objective is to separate you from your savings faster than the speeding roller coaster you just waited in line two hours to ride.

After a twenty minute delay during which our bus driver loaded, secured, and unloaded a half dozen ECV’s, we finally arrived at the Tragic Kingdom.  (Motto: The happiest place on earth for Disney shareholders.)  

At first, I thought we had stepped into the midst of a new Disney attraction:  Scooter Land – a futuristic society where humans have evolved beyond their need for legs.  I could already hear Goofy’s voice in my head: “Kindly exit through the gift shop featuring an enticing assortment of Mickey scooters, canes, and prosthetics.” 

At the risk of offending ECV owners, I realize many persons who employ these devices do so out of medical necessity.  Our neighbor, for instance, rides his scooter from the house to the end of his driveway – tubes up his nose, oxygen bottle strapped to the rear, smoldering cigarette dangling from his lower lip – to take out the trash.   

My own father, who suffers from congestive heart failure and has two bad knees, is just the sort of person who would benefit greatly from one of these contraptions.  He gets out of breath walking twenty feet and can’t ascend a flight of stairs without pausing for a martini.

Dad is a veteran of WWII, however, and would never consider taking advantage of any modern convenience that might improve his quality of life.  In his mind, crawling on one’s belly under barbed wire through a muddy field with tracers flying overhead is nothing compared to the indignity of accepting another’s assistance – unless it’s from a short-skirted cocktail waitress carrying a tray of vodka tonics. 

Nevertheless, each day of our magical adventure found us assaulted, nudged, and bypassed in line by folks on scooters.  There was even an ECV rental booth at the entrance to every park.  Most days, they were sold out by ten AM.

It confounds me why anyone with a dire medical condition which prevents them from walking would purposely come to a 10,000 acre theme park where walking, standing in line, and sprinting to the nearest ATM are prerequisites.  

Yes, there were those indolent few who needed assistance to get around.  There were also a remarkable number of perfectly healthy individuals – some in their teens – riding to and fro for no reason other than they were too lazy to walk or didn’t want to wait in line.    

At our resort, we watched two intoxicated seniors – one wearing a Richard Petty hat and the other a Dale Earnhardt t-shirt – plow their way through the hotel lobby, scattering toddlers and costumed characters, in a race to take the pole position at the early-bird buffet.   And my nine-year-old was nearly mowed down outside the tennis courts by two scooter-enabled couples in their thirties who had cut their doubles match short to ride to the fitness center for their 3 PM rock climbing class. 

Back home, our local news carried the story of a heroic man who came to the aid of a woman whose scooter became trapped on the railroad tracks at a crossing.  She had somehow turned parallel to the rails and got her wheels stuck.  Casting his personal welfare aside, this brave soul bolted into the crossing, pulled the woman from her scooter, and dragged her to safety mere seconds before the downtown express pulverized her ECV into poker-chip-size pieces. 

During the post near-tragedy interview, the woman was understandably grateful to the man for saving her life, but nevertheless disappointed he didn’t also rescue her scooter as she would now have to walk the four blocks back to her home.  The man apologetically offered her a ride.

So as the dawn of another year approaches, I resolve to walk less, ride more, and perhaps take up smoking, because if I’ve learned one thing for certain, it’s the stairway to heaven ends in a souvenir shop.

 



See Ya Sioux

GRAND FORKS, ND – Exercising its obligation to safeguard the moral fiber of America under authority granted to it by Congress and the US Constitution, the NCAA took another important step toward erasing the scourge of this nation’s ugly Native American past by making it illegal for University of North Dakota athletic teams, cheerleaders, and bands to wear or display the school's American Indianhead logo and Fighting Sioux nickname.


Inlaid Marble Floor, Ralph Engelstad Arena
Photo by Bill Alkofer

In his letter to UND provost Paul LeBel, NCAA executive vice president, Bernard “Ben” Franklin, stated that should the university refuse to cooperate in what is the NCAA’s latest round of "ethnic cleansing," they must forfeit participation in all post-season tournament play or otherwise risk having their upcoming men's and women's hockey games moved to a cattle pond on the Yankton reservation and their home venue, the Ralph Engelstad Arena, turned into an auto mall.

It was under this same pretext that in 2005, the NCAA forced the University of Illinois to retire the name, regalia, and image of Chief Illiniwek, a student mascot who performed a Native American “fancy dance” during the halftime of men’s home varsity football and basketball games wearing traditional Oglala Sioux ceremonial dress.

Although 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 found the symbol to be “predominantly offensive and deeply disparaging to Native Americans.” According to a spokesperson for the National Indian Education Association, it was 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.

Percy Stumbling Bull, general manager of the Spirit Lake Casino in Devils Lake, ND, believes the recent NCAA directive leveled at the University of North Dakota is crucial in his people’s goal to shield all aspects 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,” said Bull. “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 territory we lost in the Louisiana Purchase.”

Honorary University of North Dakota professor and legendary 1960’s rocker, Burton Cummings, explained it is the belief of many Native Americans that by further isolating themselves from mainstream 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 white settlers from Europe.

Said Cummings, “American woman, mama let me be.”

In the wake of the NCAA decision, a group of outraged students petitioned the University of North Dakota board of governors to consider changing the school’s moniker to, “A Team Named Sue.”

Photo by Bill Alkofer

The NCAA acted immediately by making it illegal to speak the name ”Sue” in public lest it be misconstrued as “Sioux” by college sports fans. Based on these same concerns, NCAA attorneys have proposed landmark legislation to ban US citizens from naming their unborn infants “Sue” or “Susan.”

UND is now said to be considering such alternate mascot names as the “Angry Aboriginals” and the “Not So Pleasant Potato Farmers.”

The university is also grappling with funding the multi-million dollar task of eliminating the Indianhead imagery from campus venues, official media, and football players’ biceps.

In the wake of the recent NCAA directives, other universities are considering proactive changes to their identities. The Florida State Seminoles, for instance, will now be the FSU Felons, and the Arkansas State University Indians will become the Rednecks. Although unrelated to Native American iconography, the University of South Carolina Gamecocks (referred to by their fans as the “Cocks”) will be making the switch to the Penises, while the Oregon State Beavers will transition to the Naughty Female Body Parts.

According to Franklin, most US universities have nothing to worry about, such as the University of Hawaii’s Rainbows which already fits the NCAA's vision of proper symbolism. The mascots from Georgetown University and Indiana University will remain intact only because nobody knows what Hoyas or Hoosiers are. The State of Indiana, however, will be forced to change its name to Nativeamericana.

In March 2011, the North Dakota Legislature approved a law requiring the university to continue using its logo and nickname despite the threat of NCAA sanctions. The Legislature later repealed the pro-nickname law when the NCAA declined to exempt UND from its policy against the use of American Indian nicknames and logos.

Nickname backers then responded by filing petitions demanding a June vote to decide whether UND should keep the nickname and logo, or instead move the university across the border into Canada where folks aren’t so uptight.



© 2012, Working Words Productions

Tasteless Humor x 4

Nothing rings in the holiday season quite like a hearty dose of offensive humor (provided by my friend, Jeff)...

 

 

Joke #1:

An ugly guy walks into a bar with a huge smile on his face.

The bartender asks, “What’s up? Why are you so happy?”

The ugly guy says, “I live down by the RR yard, and last night on my way home from the bar, I found a girl tied to the tracks.”

The bartender says, “No way! What did you do?”

The ugly guy says, “I untied her, brought her to back to my place, and…. SCHWING, we went at it all night long.”

“No kidding?” the bartender says. “Was she pretty?”

”Don’t know,” the ugly guy says. “Never did find her head.”



Joke #2:

A teacher, a lawyer, and a priest are all on the Titanic when it hits the iceberg. Over the loudspeaker, the captain announces the ship is sinking and orders the crew to lower the lifeboats.

In a panic, the teacher shouts, “The children! Save the children!”

The lawyer pushes his way toward a lifeboat and yells, “Screw the children!”

The priest says, “Do you think we have time?”



Joke #3:

Three old guys are in a urologist’s waiting room talking. The first old guy asks the second old guy why he’s there.

Second old guy: “Well – every morning at 7 AM, I have the urge to piss like a racehorse, but when I try to go, only a few dribbles come out.”

The third old guy nods. “I know just what you mean. Every morning at 7 AM, I feel like I need to take a massive dump, but when I sit down, I only pass gas.”

The second old guy looks back to the first old guy and asks, “So – what about you? Why are you here?”

The first old guy leans forward: “Every morning at 7 AM I piss like there’s no tomorrow, and then have a bowel movement that would put an elephant to shame.”

The third old guy frowns: “So what’s the problem?”

First old guy: “I don’t get up until 8.”



Joke #4:

Three rednecks and a gay guy are out driving around in the country after a night of partying. They turn down a farm road and see a sheep with its head caught in a fence. The driver slams on the brakes, backs up, aims the headlights at the sheep, and all three rednecks jump out of the car and take turns with the sheep.

When the last redneck is done, he turns to the gay guy and asks, “You up for a little of this action?”

The gay guy shrugs and says, “Sure.  But only if you promise to get my head out of the fence when you’re done.”

2011 Layne Family Christmas Letter

It is again that time of year when baby Jesus rises from the manger, dons his red suit, and climbs aboard his sleigh to deliver dreidels and ham sandwiches to all the good, non-Muslim children of the world.

Speaking of winter, 2011 began with the first honest-to-goodness blizzard we’ve had in decades. For several weeks, our patio was converted to a “potty-o” as the snowfall totals exceeded Taffy’s ground clearance by well over 17 inches.

Karen declared 2011 the year of purging the unnecessary and lightening loads, which Mark took to include ancillary pets. Not only was Mark thwarted in his attempts to introduce the tropical fish to egg wash and Pankow bread crumbs, but his plan to set the parakeets free in time for them to reacquire their natural migratory instincts and thus return to their place of origin (which in the case of store bought birds raised in captivity is the nearest PetSmart), was likewise foiled by his bleeding heart children and bird-loving mother-in-law. In keeping with the “out-with-the-old, in-with-the-new” theme, Karen’s new husband moved in during August. He and Mark are getting along well, although the bed is a bit crowded.

Allyson was highly disappointed when her Magic 8 Ball ran afoul of her career plans by confirming she would be a famous dancer one day. Insisting it’s not fair she can’t have a cat just because her father and sister are deathly allergic, Ally decided it would be best if Amanda and Mark moved out. When confronted with the impracticability of that idea, Ally generously proposed shaving the cat so Mark and Amanda could stay.

In reading through her old school papers Mark & Karen were surprised to learn Ally’s favorite things about 2nd grade were morning snack and lunch. Now a mature third grader, having moved to the more expansive Intermediate School building and grounds, it seems recess has gained a slight edge over lunch.

Amanda has become one of her soccer team’s best defenders, a skill she no doubt acquired from watching her father repeatedly defend his manhood. Ally almost missed the fall soccer season owing to her preference for Wii athletics to sports not involving a sofa. To cure her of this predilection, Karen & Mark signed her up for boy’s flag football. Turns out she preferred soccer after all, quickly elevating her game from the previous season during which she was a finalist for the Orange Cone Award given to the player most resembling a practice drill pylon.

Amanda has adjusted to the rigors of Middle School with a shrug and a yawn. Her academic achievements and writing skills are overshadowed only by her ability to antagonize people, primarily her sister. K & M are working with a team of scientists to convert the energy the girls spend fighting into a commercially viable byproduct such as a “green” automotive propulsion system, free electricity, or a death ray.

In their quest to visit a place even colder and bleaker than Illinois, the gang traveled to Minneapolis prior to Thanksgiving to visit Mark’s childhood friend who recently relocated there. It was great to see John and Janet and their mastodon-size puppy, Lila. While the girls squandered their college savings at the Mall of Everything That’s Wrong With America, Mark caught up with a former roommate from the University of North Dakota who is there hiding from his ex-wife.

Karen continues to battle depression over her inability to clean the house more than twice per day owing to her aggressive weight lifting schedule. Incorrectly assuming he was completing the paperwork to become a living organ donor, Mark was accidentally elected to the local school board. The girls are excited to have some new “muscle” behind their pet initiatives including a three day school week, No Homework Month, and Talk Like Scooby Doo Day.

Even though George Bernard Shaw once described Christmas as an indecent, cruel, gluttonous, drunken, disorderly, wasteful, disastrous, wicked, cadging, lying, filthy, blasphemous, and demoralizing subject forced upon a reluctant and disgusted nation by shopkeepers and the press, and that if left to its own merits would wither and shrivel in the fiery breath of universal hatred, all those lights sure are pretty.

Merry Christmas to All and to All Good Grief,

Karen, Mark, Amanda, Ally (and Taffy too)

Santa Safety Video

It is again that time of year when our thoughts turn to family, friends, festive decorations, Santa Claus, and exploding houses.  Have you had your furnace checked lately?

http://youtu.be/F8XBpkjwe-g

More Sad News from Happy Valley

COLUMBUS - Adding to his current legal woes, former Penn State Football Coach Jerry Sandusky faces new charges stemming from allegations that he violated Ohio law during his tenure at Penn State University.

Amid a sex abuse scandal currently rocking one of the most storied programs in college football, the Ohio attorney general’s office released a thirty page indictment accusing the retired Nittany Lions defensive coordinator of illegally coaching football in neighboring Pennsylvania.

The indictment cites a little known but long standing Ohio law prohibiting the “exportation of football talent, skills, or other gridiron knowhow” outside the state of Ohio.

Sandusky’s attorneys believe the law’s reach should not extend to Sandusky, a native of Pennsylvania whose only connection to the Buckeye state is the name he shares with a small Ohio town located on Lake Erie between Cleveland and Toledo which is perhaps best known as the home of Cedar Point amusement park.

Ohio governor John Kasich fully supports the law and stands behind the state’s obligation to enforce it.

“It is against the very fabric of our being to allow football talent that rightfully belongs to the people of Ohio the unrestricted ability to defect to neighboring states,” said Kasich. “Take away football, and you might as well change our name to Illinois.”

US Senator Rob Portman (R-OH) concurs.  “Whereas other states are known for their tobacco, automobiles, or unusual items made from corn, our cash crop, so to speak, is football – specifically football coaches.”

Virtually unpublicized outside the Buckeye state, the law is routine among those who have worked in and around Ohio’s football industry over the years.

Former Florida Gators coach, ESPN analyst, and Ohio native Urban Meyer didn’t realize the decades old legislation extended to persons with such tenuous connections to the state, however.

“Former coaches and players have always known we could never bring our talents elsewhere and expect to come back,” said Meyer. “It never occurred to me that the law might also extend to someone whose name just happened to be Cleveland, or Dayton, or Beavercreek.”

Fellow ESPN analyst Lee Corso doesn’t understand all the fuss over the law which he believes makes ultimate sense.

“Let’s be honest,” quipped Corso. “Less than 4% of the US population lives in Ohio, yet over 15% of FBS head coaches were born there, which is more than any other state. Face it folks, Ohio is football and football is Ohio.”

It is this very law that recently disgraced Ohio State University football coach Jim Tressel claims imprisoned him in Ohio for much of his professional life, and was the primary cause behind his recent dismissal.

“To people on the outside, my situation looked like a scandal, a cover-up,” said Tressel. “To me, it was my ticket to freedom.”

During his weekly radio broadcast, Eagles guitar virtuoso Joe Walsh – a one time Columbus resident and Kent State grad – expressed sympathy for Jim Tressel’s plight. Referring to the famous song lyric, “You can check out but you can never leave,” Walsh commented that while most people think the song Hotel California is about the west coast drug culture, it’s really about Ohio.

As an example of just how pervasive football culture is in Ohio, a Youngstown high school football coach who asked not to be identified admitted he advises his senior players that if they accept a scholarship to play football at an out-of-state college or university, they must renounce their Ohio citizenship, and could even face arrest should any be so foolish as to attend the University of Michigan and later get caught trespassing on Ohio soil.

“They are crazy down there,” said new Michigan head man Brady Hoke. “We have number of players on our roster from Ohio. Whenever we travel to Columbus, we get them in and out fast as we can before any trouble starts. And sometimes we make them wear dresses and silly hats.”

When asked for his take on the indictment, legendary Miami Dolphins head coach and Ohio native Don Shula mumbled something about Woody Hayes, then asked to be moved closer to an open window.

If convicted, the 67 year old Sandusky – a former protégé of legendary Nittany Lions head coach Joe “Pa” Paterno – could spend the rest of his natural life collecting tolls on the Ohio turnpike.

Top Dog

I am the head of my household. I know this because it said so on my 2010 US Census form.

So why, if a semi-competent, quasi-governmental agency has declared me head of household, do I find myself sitting on an empty five gallon bucket in the garage watching football on my smartphone?

I don’t know how it happened, or when exactly. It was glacial in progression. First a chair. Then some food… a bed.

Our dog, Taffy, is a beloved and cherished member of the family. Taffy is a Yorkie Poo, emphasis on “Poo.” Though small in stature, she is held in equal – if not superior – esteem to the four humans with whom she cohabitates. As such, her comfort is of paramount importance to us all.

Taffy sleeps 21 hours a day. This is because she works hard. Originally bred as food for larger dogs, Yorkies have evolved into loyal pets and committed guardians. Taffy protects us not only from chipmunks and Ken dolls, but from vacuum sweepers and the German couple down the street.

My two young daughters have taken it upon themselves to ensure Taffy gets proper rest given the rigors of her day.

“Dad! You can’t sit [lie, stand, inhale, etc.] there. Taffy is sleeping!”

Poor Taffy. So put upon. So underappreciated.

“Taffy’s Chair,” is the leather recliner from which, like Mickey Mouse Merlin, I once compelled an endless panoply of sporting events to scroll across our humungous flat screen TV. The only sports to appear on that television these days are Jellyfishing and underwater snowboarding.

I can’t blame Taffy. The recliner is quite comfy.

Neither can I blame the kids. SpongeBob just doesn’t look the same in standard definition.

Even so, I don’t mind sharing my chair. Or my bed. Not even my USDA Prime beef.

As a Food Network schooled culinary expert, I’ve been known to waste a fair amount of time in the kitchen preparing wholesome and savory dishes that nobody likes.

Owing to our five member family and four seat dinette, we tend to eat in shifts. I go last.

Understandably, my wife and children can’t bear to watch Taffy sit upon her tufted pouf before a bowl of brittle, nutritionally balanced, outrageously expensive dog chow, while they devour peppercorn and garlic encrusted New York Strips, herbed red potatoes, and honey-balsamic glazed green beans. Taffy’s suffering is more than they can endure.

Sometimes, the kids save me a few scraps. They are kind. At my age, I don’t need the fat and cholesterol anyway. And Taffy’s food isn’t half bad soaked in a little milk.

It is true that the older I get, the simpler my needs become. Nowadays, I’m happy if I can sleep through the night and wake the next morning pain free and un-constipated.

Experts on human aging have discovered a direct correlation between a couple’s years of marriage and their preferred proximity while sleeping. Though we haven’t opted for separate bedrooms (yet), my wife and I purchased a king size mattress in order to maximize our mutual comfort while maintaining the illusion of marital bliss, both for the benefit of the children and our respective mothers-in-law.

It’s a nice mattress. Big, too. But whereas I once looked forward to spreading out in my unencumbered half of nocturnal acreage, it seems poor Taffy just can’t get comfortable anywhere else. How an eleven pound creature is able to occupy twenty times her own volume in bed-space is a miracle that defies all known laws of physics.

And while falling out of bed a several times a night does provide good practice in the event of a fire or tornado, balancing a body my size on eleven inches of mattress edge makes for a night’s sleep even a galley slave wouldn’t envy. Fortunately, it turns out we have some very accommodating couches, chairs, and rugs scattered throughout our home.

All things considered, I can’t complain. I’m kept well fed and properly bathed. Taffy sees to it I get plenty of exercise during our morning and evening walks. And my family doesn’t seem to mind having me around, as long as I keep off the living room furniture. It’s not a bad life by any measure.

In Native American lore, my place at the base of our family totem pole represents a position of strength and dominance – the foundation which supports the whole. Nonetheless, as I gaze up beyond the smiling caricatures of my wife and two children, I can’t help but wonder what the view is like from the top. Only Taffy knows for sure.

 

In Defense of Dad

I just returned from a week-long trip with my family. Boy do I need a vacation.

The truth is, family vacations are neither relaxing nor recuperative.

There is good reason most families prefer a permanent living arrangement incorporating some sort of multiple room domicile with a kitchen, more than one lavatory, and separate sleeping chambers. Humans need their space. Which is why moving two large and three small humans into a single chlorine redolent hotel room with none of the aforedescribed amenities is a recipe for disaster.

I love my family. I don’t want to smell them.

To my father, quality family time meant a day on the golf course with his pals. He’d occasionally call if he was going to be home late. It seems he believed fighting Germans had fulfilled his duty to humanity. The rest was up to my mom.

Nowadays, fathers are expected to not only be present and accounted for during a child’s formative years, but to actually participate in the child rearing process. This is a mistake.

No matter how “evolved” men have become in recent times, it is in the best interests of society and the overall health of the family unit to keep men at the office, on the golf course, or deployed overseas. No good can be had from us meddling in the domestic arts, especially when it comes to children.

In the first place, men don’t really like kids, especially other people’s kids. Speaking from experience, a guy will get accustomed to the noises, messes, and odors his own children produce. Given time, the commotion becomes part of the natural landscape of the household – easily digested, easily ignored.

Then my oldest daughter began having “play dates” where one or more of her miniature accomplices would be deposited on our doorstep sans parent and left to wreak fresh havoc upon the preexisting havoc in our home. It was all I could do to keep from herding them into the garage and locking the door.

“Why don’t you guys pretend you’re taking a long car trip? The keys are in the ignition.”

In fact, science has proven men are incapable of properly caring for any child under the age of twenty seven. I confess I have no skill for discerning leggings from tights, taking a temperature by touch, or whether something is “cute” or “gross.” Men can’t be expected to remember that Samantha only wears pink (except on Tuesdays), Brandon can’t sleep without his favorite pot holder, Suzie is allergic to white, or Tommy only eats “left handed food.”

My wife does her best to spare the children my ignorance. At times, especially in the morning, it’s unavoidable.

“Frosted-flake-and-jelly sandwiches are not a school-approved lunch!” my wife will shriek with disgust.

“They have school today?” I will dumbly respond.

Bottom line: the nuances or raising children are far too subtle for men to comprehend. Nor does it help to know the downside of our incompetence will likely end in tragedy.

My father had a punch-list of names he’d call me depending on his mood, not the least of which included “rotten,” “good-for-nothin,” and “Lester.” I was stunned when my wife informed me name calling can be damaging to a child’s self esteem.

Self esteem? When I was a kid, self esteem (along with the various other “esteems”) were irrelevant as long as my homework was done, my plate clean, and my room tidy.

Thanks to the scads of research conducted over the past sixty years, however, we are now keenly aware just how fragile a child’s psyche is. Clearly our parents’ practice of spanking, yelling, threatening, and guilting us into behaving in a responsible, respectful, mature manner has resulted in our becoming a generation of drooling sociopaths unfit to participate in the conventions of polite society.

We are now painfully aware how one cross word or errant frown from a parent can send a child down the slippery slope toward absolute ruin. Before you know it, they’re smoking Kool’s, wearing their razor-slashed jeans at mid-thigh, sneaking cell phones into school, and opting to attend community college.

From a guy’s perspective, crawling through a minefield and lobbing a grenade into an enemy machine gun nest is a day at the beach compared to the responsibility of raising healthy, well adjusted kids. The pressure is unbearable.

Let us remember that at their core, men are solitary creatures. It’s all most men can do to accommodate a spouse in their lives, let alone a gaggle of mewling, runny nosed moppets who are forever begging for attention, food, and college tuition. Children – why God invented Canada. And Walleye. And mothers.

As P.J. O’Rourke observed, “Humans are the only animals that have children on purpose, with the exception of guppies who like to eat theirs.”

He was speaking of male guppies, of course.

The Ugliest Holiday

Like the blooming of jonquils, the reappearance of robins, and looming NFL player disputes, the emergence of pastel fashions, kaleidoscopic eggs, and a giant white rabbit who delivers candy to already sugar dependent kids can only mean one thing – Easter is on its way.

I confess – Easter is my least favorite holiday. In fact, Easter is to the holidays what the 70’s were to fashion and good taste.

Thanks to the widespread use of illegal narcotics during the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, the young adults of the time known as “Hippies” who we now refer to as “stockbrokers,” were the main proponents of loud, garish colors, psychedelic patterns, obnoxious home decor, and exaggerated pant cuffs and shirt collars, all owing to their drug-distorted perception of style, hue, and proportion.

Drugs also played a critical role in the music of the day, influencing such legendary groups as Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath (see heroin), the folksy, hallucinogenic musings of The Grateful Dead (see LSD), and eventually the vacuousness and superficiality of disco (see cocaine).

My point is the stylistic hideousness of that period in history can be traced directly to the abuse of illegal and/or controlled substances. Unfortunately, those persons who today embrace the foppery of Easter cannot point to drugs as an excuse.

Let’s face it – when it comes to over-the-top ugliness, Easter takes the proverbial lamb cake.

Whereas Thanksgiving is all about root vegetables, the harvest, turkeys, and Pilgrims inviting Indians to dinner then making them do the dishes, and Christmas all pine scented and cozy with wooden toys and sleigh rides and red bows topping luxury sedans, Easter is what happens when your three year old eats two pounds of jelly beans then pukes on the living room rug.

In the upper Midwest where I live, spring is the rainy part of winter that precedes three hot and humid weeks which occur just before the start of winter.

Spring is as ephemeral to Midwesterners as integrity is to government. More the stuff of legend than an actual tangible climatic event, I learned early on to doubt spring’s existence, considering it a mere trick nature plays to get us to believe the cold weather is finally coming to an end, which it never fully does.

Even so, when the calendar dictates, Midwestern men will dust off their seersucker suits and white patent leather shoes while their women don florid dresses and strap jaunty flower-basket-bonnets to their heads. Then with similarly costumed children in tow, they emerge from their underground burrows and parade about town in a futile attempt to impart some semblance of life and color unto the otherwise bleak landscape.

“Break out the kites, croquet mallets, and badminton racquets, kids! It’s springtime! And don’t forget your boots and mittens. ”

A primary reason Jews never accepted Christ as their savior is because they have too much self respect to denigrate themselves into celebrating such an obnoxiously vibrant holiday. It’s the same reason you never see Muslims dressing like popsicles or Native Americans worshiping white rabbits.

So this year as you dye your eggs, fill your gaudy baskets with polychromatic globs of sugar, and eat your deviled eggs, glazed ham, and hollow chocolate rabbits, pause for a moment to give thanks to those pioneering souls who weren’t afraid to get stoned out of their minds and put on orange paisley peasant shirts, bell bottom jeans, and tuck their long hair under leather headbands, all so you and I can sit back and admire this pastel infused season through our rose tinted shades.

Somebody pass the bong.

Japan Braces As New Threat Looms

Scant weeks since the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear facility was slammed by a mammoth tsunami resulting in a deadly release of radiation, Japan now nervously awaits an even more ominous peril which could threaten the very existence of the beleaguered island nation.

In what Chief Cabinet Secretary Yukio Edano regards as “a likely realization of Japan’s greatest collective fear,” Kyodo News reported yesterday that all merchant Japanese fishing vessels were ordered to be on the lookout for a “giant mutant dinosaur with rough, bumpy, charcoal-gray scales, a long powerful tail, and jagged dorsal fins” emerging from the sea near the site of the damaged reactors.

In a national televised address, Prime Minister Naoto Kan stated, “As a nation we have long feared a natural disaster of this magnitude would one day wake our slumbering nemesis.”

The nemesis to which the Prime Minister refers is Godzilla – a legendary creature similar in appearance to a Tyrannosaurus Rex of the Paleozoic Period, but ten stories tall and able to incinerate people and objects with its radioactive “fire breath.”

A hideous consequence of the US bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Godzilla is a mutation of a native species of Asian Iguana which has returned to wreak havoc upon the Japanese mainland several times throughout post WWII history.

Buried under tons of rock in the Pacific Ocean and presumed dead, it has been decades since the people of Japan faced annihilation at the albeit tiny hands of this abomination of nature.

Just the same, the Japanese people remain wary of Godzilla’s possible reappearance given the magnitude of the March 11 earthquake and the high levels of radiation in the ocean surrounding the crippled nuclear facility.

“It is not a matter of if, but when,” commented Tokyo resident David Hirohito.

“At this point, we cannot rule anything out,” agreed Secretary Edano. “Godzilla is known to be quite fierce and resilient.”

His Imperial Majesty Emperor Akihito has called upon the international community to send financial aid amid concerns of what many Japanese citizens consider an imminent attack.

“Seriously?” said Marcia McNutt, current Director of USGS. “They suffer an unprecedented seismic event, their country lies in ruins, radiation is leaking into the groundwater and ocean, their food supply is contaminated, and they’re worried about some overgrown lizard? Somebody shoot me.”

Though the creature has not been spotted to date, the Japanese military is bracing for the worst. Key port cities have been fortified – especially Tokyo which has been a favored target of the creature.

Sadly, the extensive military deployment has done little to bolster the spirits of the Japanese people.

“Conventional weaponry has no effect, and nuclear arms only make him stronger,” claimed Godzilla expert, Ishirō Honda. “If he returns, may the gods help us.”

With their options few and disaster relief operations stretched to breaking, the Japanese government has called to arms the most deadly and dangerous weapon in their post-war military arsenal.

Earlier today, Prime Minister Kan consulted with the shōbijin (Japanese for "small beauties") – two tiny fairies who have the ability to summon Mothra, a giant lepidopteron who has been known to get the better of Godzilla in past confrontations. 

Out of work for decades and woefully overweight, the shōbijin were found living in a tattered shoebox under a trash bin in Tokyo’s red-light district, cheating tourists at Chō-Han Bakuchi.

After exacting a hefty fee from the Japanese government, the shōbijin’s shrill entreaty was sung over radio stations and on public address systems throughout Japan in the hopes Mothra would appear to oppose Godzilla’s return.

“Now we wait,” said Secretary Edano, scanning the western sky. “Now we wait.”

Should the efforts of Mothra fail, Prime Minister Kan plans to seek the aid of a giant mutant simian from Skull Island in the Pacific. Obnoxious film actor Jack Black has been contacted to lead the expedition.

Libyan Madman Detained in US

New York - In a shocking revelation, the New York Times reports that beleaguered Libyan strongman, Moammar Gadhafi, is not only living comfortably in the US, but served as 55th governor of New York from 2008 to 2010.

In addition to charges of obstruction of justice, illegally acquiring World Series tickets, and his alleged involvement in a sex scandal, it would seem that former New York Governor David Paterson was not at all who he claimed to be.

“It’s really quite embarrassing,” said Josh Vlasto, current New York Governor Andrew M. Cuomo’s spokesperson. “We all noticed the similarities, but never guessed the former governor was actually a maniacal Libyan despot.”

Apparently, Paterson’s (aka Gadhafi’s) publicized indiscretions were only the tip of the iceberg.

Subsequent to release of the New York Times story, TMZ has discovered that Gadhafi has enjoyed a decadent, playboy lifestyle since arriving in the US.

With Libya’s vast oil wealth at his disposal, Gadhafi reportedly purchased a sprawling, multimillion dollar estate in the Hamptons next door to infamous radio host Howard Stern. Replete with a harem of high priced NY call girls, a stable of fancy cars, and all the Miller High Life he cared to drink, Gadhafi is said to have held week-long parties that make Charlie Sheen look like a Boy Scout.

FBI Director Robert Mueller, now better understands the absence of typical stress indicators during their analysis of Gadhafi’s recent taped addresses as commander-in-chief of his armed forces.

“Of course he was relaxed,” Mueller quipped. “I’d be relaxed too if I was over 4,000 miles from the battlefront.”

The puzzle began to take shape after rebel forces captured Gadhafi’s palace compound in Tripoli, and were surprised to find it empty. The rebel leader was informed by a palace servant that that Gadhafi hadn’t been there in years, having left Libya for the US over half a decade prior.

The non-profit State Government Affairs Council indicated this is first time a non-US citizen has held a high elected office.

“The New York governor’s office is shocked and disheartened that this somehow slipped through the cracks,” said Vlasto. “We hope it won’t happen again.”

Cuomo himself was outraged. “It’s simply wrong that security screenings at LaGuardia should be more rigorous than the vetting of candidates running for election to the highest office in the state. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been cavity searched before a twenty minute flight to DC, yet here’s this ruthless dictator living like a king right under our highly prominent noses.”

Prior to being detained by the FBI, Gadhafi was spotted at a popular NY night club with a beautiful woman on each arm, and earlier at a taping of the David Letterman Show.

Upon his arrest outside a Sag Harbor Starbucks, Gadhafi became enraged, shouting, “My bitches! I must get back to my bitches!”

Gadhafi will be deported and remanded into the custody of the provisional Libyan government to await trial for crimes against the Libyan people. His fate, as well as that of his “bitches,” remains unclear.

Lohan to Serve Time

During her plea hearing over a felony theft charge for allegedly stealing a necklace from a Venice jewelry store, Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Keith Schwartz said he will personally see to it that scofflaw Lindsay Lohan serves time – as a US Congresswoman.

“Miss Lohan’s utter disregard for the law, coupled with her antisocial, self-destructive behaviors, make her a perfect fit for the US Congress,” said Schwartz during a post-hearing press conference.

In a plea bargain that would spare Lohan jail time, but force her into a life of public service more fitting her reputation and proclivities, Schwartz was left with little choice.

The plea requires Lohan to run for public office at the next available opportunity. The one caveat Judge Schwartz placed upon Lohan’s sentence was she could not represent the state of California.

“The people of the state of California have had just about enough of celebrity politicians,” Schwartz commented.

Under Schwartz’s ruling, Lohan will be remanded into the custody of Federal Marshals who will then select the state that most deserves her.

Schwartz went on to suggest a good fit might be someplace where blind celebrity worship is still fashionable such as Iowa, North Dakota, or perhaps Alaska.

E Entertainment gadfly Ted Casablanca agrees that jail wouldn’t have helped the out-of-control child star.

“She’s been to jail before. For a person with no interest in reform and given her failed attempts at rehab, politics – especially on the national stage – is the only place left for her to go.”

Sources close to the beleaguered actress said, that after living so many years under legal scrutiny, she was looking forward to finally being “above the law.” Lohan also expressed excitement over the prospect of making new laws of her own.

Some initiatives she is reportedly considering include raising the legal blood alcohol level to 0.40, making retail theft up to $10,000 punishable by a tearful televised apology, and blogging for world peace.

Lohan’s attorney, Shawn Holley, was visibly upset over the numerous leaks to the media during the plea bargaining process.


"Thankfully, this case doesn't involve military secrets where people's lives are at stake," she said. “Of course as a congresswoman privy to state secrets and matters of national security, that might change once she’s in office.”

Lohan, who was meeting with her newly hired campaign manager, Charlie Sheen, at Sheen’s private Malibu residence could not be reached for comment.

Alabama Under Siege Over Auburn Victory

Alabama governor Rob Riley declared martial law today as celebrations resulting from Auburn University’s first national championship in 53 years spilled over into a third day of revelry.

Riley ordered National Guard troops to secure key government facilities and certain commercial establishments being targeted by looters such as liquor stores, tobacco shops, and auto parts dealers.

Recent ice storms which have shut down transportation in several southern states including Alabama and Georgia have only made matters worse with food shortages and most workweek activities skidding to a screeching halt. Riley will likely ask President Obama for federal aid.

“It’s really pandemonium down here,” Riley stated during his most recent press conference. “Folks can’t get to work or school, so nobody has had a good reason to stop partying.”

Birmingham mayor William A. Bell concurred. “Most of our citizens haven’t slept in several days, and with the schools closed, folks just keep drinking and shooting their guns in the air.”

Outside Birmingham, roving bands of unsupervised, sleep-deprived children wander zombie-like through the ice covered streets, screaming “War Eagle!” as their parents stare with bloodshot eyes at their television sets, watching replays of the BCS championship game on an endless loop.

In a Huntsville suburb, a cluster of children was found praying before a statue of Auburn head football coach, Gene Chizik, which they had fashioned out of mud.

“I looked out my window and saw seven or eight school kids make this likeness of coach with dirt and sticks,” said Auburn resident Lurleen Cowslip. “They stood there chantin’ and worshippin’ what they made. Then after a while, a couple of em started to eat it.”

Lurleen’s neighbor, Cooter Hogpile, was horrified at the spectacle. “I ain’t never seen cannibals before, but them kids sure enjoyed eating coach. Had to turn my head once.”

Sources close to Governor Riley say he hasn’t ruled out the use of deadly force to quell the uprising.

“We haven’t seen unrest like this in our state since the civil rights movement,” a governor’s aide said. “If we need to shoot a few kids to restore order, so be it.”

It seems everyone even remotely connected to Auburn University has joined in the celebration. Speaking from his estate in Scottsdale, AZ, former Auburn student and NBA superstar, Charles Barkley, remarked, “This is a great victory for Auburn and a huge victory for the south. It’s the whole reason we fought in and won the Civil War.”

Tigers fever has even spread to the heights of the state’s political infrastructure as the Alabama Legislature passed a resolution on Tuesday demanding the Atlanta based fast food giant Chick-fil-A change the names of all their Alabama locations to “Chizik-fil-A” in honor of Auburn’s victory.

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.