Isn't That Random?

I WILL Protect You from the Ebola Virus (and Other Pledges to My Son)

2012-02-10T18:00:00.002-05:00

So how's that New Year's resolution going?

At this point, for most of us just remembering what our resolution was in the first place is a feat. In fact, that's going to be my resolution in 2013--to remember my resolution by February.

Seriously though, whether you'd resolved to stop picking your boogers (me 2009) or chilling out with the high-fives (me 2006) or easing out of your jort phase (me 2000-2004), by Spring you were one booger-pickin', high-fivin', jort-wearin' fool.

But for me this year, something changed. I started to take resolutions seriously. You see, I watched Courageous, a movie that is all about a resolution. Five men, intent on being better husbands and fathers, make a resolution filled with "I Will" statements regarding what they will be for their families. The movie ends with a moving speech from the lead character, building to a crescendo of emphatic "I WILL"s.

I was pumped up. As the father of a 16-month-old boy, I wanted to make my own resolution to him, and live by it for the rest of my life. So here it is-

MY RESOLUTION TO MY SON, HUDSON CHARLES SPEIGHT.
ON THIS DAY, FRIDAY FEBRUARY 10TH, 2012, IN THE PRESENCE OF RANDOMONIUM READERS AND GOD AS MY WITNESS...

I WILL ensure my son's impersonation of a Jamaican is sound.

I WILL teach him that every part of the steak except the bone is edible.

I WILL let him have his first beer when he is seven so he won't want to drink again 'til he's 27.

I WILL show him how I shoot a basketball so he will know how not to shoot a basketball.

I WILL let him have multiple birthdays at Chuck-E-Cheese, but he will never beat me in Ski-ball.

I WILL unintentionally show him the dangers of a nail gun and I WILL intentionally show him a picture of a chainsaw in a book. I ain't gettin' near that crap for real.

I WILL agree with him that his math homework is a complete waste of time and will be for the next ten years. Suck it up dude.

I WILL teach him to kiss his mother, just not the way I kiss his mother.

I WILL attempt to explain Lady Gaga and fail miserably.

I WILL laugh with him when we listen to Grandpa on the toilet.

I WILL tell him what the F-word is but it won't be the real F-word and he'll go around saying it to all his confused friends (think I'll go with "Fergie").

I WILL show him how to fight using Jean-Claude Van Damme movies (muted of course, 'cause that dialogue is insufferable).

I WILL remind him I can't beat up other dads. It's not that I don't want to, I'm just physically inferior.

I WILL teach him about the ill-effects of drug abuse showing past and present pictures of Keith Richards.

I WILL make him do things I regret I never did, like kiss the princesses at Disney World.

I WILL talk with him about "the birds and the bees" but I think I'll use "the elephants and the turtles" 'cause that's just way funnier.

I WILL instruct him in punting a football from a very early age. Let's face it, it's his only chance to be a pro.

I WILL encourage he take up a musical instrument. Something he can master rather quickly. Probably finger cymbals.

I WILL teach him that there are no impermissible moves on the dance floor, as long as you keep your pants on.

I WILL temper his pride by revealing my own YMCA Honor Camper awards. That's right, I pluralized it.

I WILL make sure he is always properly hydrating, 'cause with Mama and Daddy's genes he's gonna sweat like a warthog.

I WILL nonchalantly take him to Civil War re-enactments and be like, "OH MY GOD, look son, it's a war!!!"

I WILL teach him horrible magic tricks so to convince him it's not cool.

What WILL YOU do for your children?
.......

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Why You Should Never Wash Your Car At Home

2012-02-03T16:54:00.001-05:00

In the world of doing chores, for me washing cars ranks somewhere between scraping charred pig parts off the crock pot and combing the backyard to collect turds. (In case you're wondering, that would be turds from my dog, and I'm not really collecting them, like for an exhibit, just for the trash can.) Anyway, I hate washing my car.

But I equally loathe the idea of paying someone else to do it. It's okay, I have soap, water, and hands, I think I can handle this. Even so, washing cars is just really stupid to me. The earth washes my car for free at least once a month. And it should, seeing as how it dirties my car right back up within days. That's what's so depressing about washing your car. Lots of work (or money for all you suckers) and one mud puddle puts you right back where you were before.

Yet this past Sunday, something possessed me to abandon all my prejudices and embark upon this trivial exercise in auto cleanliness. After all, it had been at least a year since I had thought about washing my car. It'd been much longer since I actually did it. So why not give it a whirl?

Dumbest decision of 2012.

For starters, don't wash your car in January. The air is cold, the water is cold, and this is a fruitless activity anyway. I'm voluntarily piling misery upon misery like an idiot. Well for some reason, I disregard that and consider this time it will all be worth it. So I go and grab my "car washing bucket," which in the last year has served as a stool for a charcoal bag.

I should have immediately quit when I reached into the bucket and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, one yellow, one orange, and both left-handed. How is that possible? It's mind blowing that I once had two pairs of rubber gloves and discarded a pair (not even the same pair) in favor of two gloves for the same hand, which happens to be my non-scrubbing hand. Again, ignoring the signs of imminent and epic failure, I pressed on to complete the task of ruining a perfectly good afternoon.

Now on to the hose, that green, irksome devil coiled up in its hose reel like a sleeping death adder. Just walking over to it brings forth a small voice in my head telling me that none of this is worth it. I believe it, but press on. I begin to unwind the hose, dragging it across the yard like the blankey of a pissed four year-old. And then the predictable JERK! The hose is stuck and I sulk back to the reel to unstick it. After repeating this process at least three times, the hose was stretched to the car and finally, I think, we were ready to rock.

So I flip the switch on the nozzle and the way things are going, you can probably guess how much water came out.I peer back across the yard to notice the hose resembles less of a flowing grass snake and more of a jacked-up mattress spring. Upon closer inspection there were places in the hose so warped they made right angles. Not a recipe for steady water flow. Being that I lacked Chuck Norris hands, there was no way to work out the kinks myself. It would require a tool; pliers, I thought.

Which was yet another sign I was losing my mind. If washing your car requires fetching your toolbox, things have gone terribly wrong. Quit while you're way behind and go be with your family. But no, I decided to persevere. Amazingly, after taking pliers to my garden hose, there was still no water flow! Now baffled, I returned to the water source only to discover the water was never turned on. This produced an odd laugh, one of both happy relief and stupefied self-humiliation. Like a clown who's shat himself.

Looking back upon the lawn, I descried some water coming from the nozzle, but even more was spraying upward like Old Faithful from a hole in the the middle of the hose. Undeterred, I grabbed some duct tape and wrapped up what I thought was an air tight seal, only to be disappointed with the resulting sideways Old Faithfuls now sprinkling the lawn.

Who cares, come hell or high water I am washing this car. Fuming, I took the hose to the car in a frenzied get-it-over-with pace. I aimed for the car and flipped the nozzle to full blast. And instead of a clean, direct shot on the vehicle, I myself was sprayed with cold January water, shooting out in at least eight directions from both sides of the nozzle, which had sprung from irreparable leaks. My fury had now reached its boiling point. I briefly considered doing my best with the hose itself, and simply deposit the defunct nozzle in the trash can. But that didn't satiate my blood lust. So I thought, "I must smash it."

With hose still attached, I took the little plastic nozzle behind the car where worried neighbors wouldn't witness the impending carnage. Summoning my inner-McEnroe I unleashed two downward swings of fury, pummeling the nozzle with all my might into the driveway pavement. A couple pieces flew off but the majority of it was still in tact. One last burst of testosteronic violence sent the nozzle flying off the hose, and like the final but futile strike of a king cobra on an impervious honey badger, it flew upward into my chin.

But I hardly felt it. Truth is, destroying the piece of crap and putting a climactic ending on an otherwise sad story was a rush I hadn't felt in awhile. I hadn't even noticed my bloodied chin until after gathering my whacked-out hose, two left-handled gloves, and nozzle shrapnel for the junk heap. Ironically, trashing these items salvaged my day. It meant I now had a really good excuse to never wash my car again.

My Beef with Three Sandwich Shops You Know Well- A Rantwich

2012-01-27T18:44:00.003-05:00

Did you know America has over 100 million sandwich shops?

That's not a real fact, but it seems like my estimation would be pretty close. Our country really likes to buy and eat sandwiches. Which is funny because, a sandwich is pretty basic. It doesn't take Emeril Lagasse to whip up something amazing. I mean, anybody with hands and a refrigerator can make a really delicious one in their house.

So when I leave my comfortable home to go buy a sandwich, that sucker better be really good. And for what most of these places charge for slapping some cold cuts on bread, my sandwich should come with a maitre-de sporting a finely-waxed moustache. And no less. But that's not how I'm treated. Instead, I get treated like someone who doesn't have the foggiest idea what a sandwich even is. Here's My Beef with Three Sandwich Shops You Know Well:

Jimmy John's Gourmet Sandwiches- Ooooohh. Gourmet. Jimmy must have it together, I thought. Then I ordered the #2 Big John and was asked if I wanted cheese with that. Yeah Slappy I want some friggin' cheese. Double cheese, triple it by God. I thought I was getting gourmet here. Instead I'm getting a piece of meat on bread. Most places call that a hot dog. You're calling it a Big John. Any sandwich with the word "big" in it should contain cheese that's closer to a block than a slice. Am I an idiot or is a piece of cheese a minimum requisite for a meat sandwich anyway? Forget gourmet, Jimmy John (if those are your real first names). I just want for you to serve a properly defined sandwich.

So I get my receipt and my $4.50 sub is now $5.50, as I've been charged an extra dollar for cheese. Wow! Hoodwinked, swindled and bamboozled am I! They charged me a dollar to put cheese on my sandwich. I should charge them a dollar of restitution for false advertising. I think I'm getting gourmet and instead I'm literally getting charged for essential parts of the sandwich.

"Hey everybody, free gourmet sandwiches!"

"I'll have one!"

"Do you want bread?"

"Of course!"

"Okay, that'll be a dollar-fifty! One bread sandwich, comin' up!"

Big John what a joke. The only big thing about it is the price you're paying for a gourmet sandwich that isn't even a sandwich.

Subway- I went into a Subway with a coupon for a buy one/get one six-inch sub. Upon presenting the coupon, I was informed I should just by the $5 Foot Long and it would be cheaper. Don't tell me what's cheaper. I know cheap. I just brought in a coupon for a sandwich. Discounted sandwiches is what I'm after. I don't really even care about your sandwich (or Jared for that matter) I'm really just excited about saving almost two dollars at lunch today. Okay, so the $5 Foot Long is cheaper. Then why the heck have a coupon? What was I going to say?

"No, I'd just rather use this coupon and pay more. Those are the kinds of coupons I collect. Ones that cost me money and make me feel bad. Please keep sending out more of those."

Freekin' Jared.

Panera Bread- Panera serves good sandwiches but has a chip selection that makes them look Communist. If you order chips at Panera you have the choice between plain potato chips and--not getting chips. In the world of a million options Panera has decided to give us one really dull crappy one.

Plain potato chips in a small bag? I'm not a five year old at summer camp. When I reach into your measly bag (sans baby hands) and pull out six mediocre chips (which are WOOOOAAAHHH!--potato-flavored!), it makes me wonder if this was even discussed in a corporate meeting. Panera spends countless hours on menu item brainstorms, then gets to the chips and the room has a collective brain fart. One chip? Would it kill you guys to swing by Food Lion in the morning and snag a box of Fritos for the few crazies looking for culinary variety?

Well as for me, I will no longer participate in business dealings with this oppressive regime...Unless I'm jonesin' some Asiago Roast Beef, 'cuz that thing is DA BOOOMMBB!!!

Please feel free to insert all of your great sandwich jokes below. After all, it's so fun to make fun of sandwiches.

Seven Strange Questions I Asked the Internet--and Seven Boss Answers

2012-01-19T18:10:00.000-05:00

We're so lucky to live in the information age.

Think about what people throughout the ages have had to go through to get answers...

Adam and Eve- "Well, looks like it's just us. Let's ask the snake."

Nomadic Cavemen- "Hmm...Hmm...Uhhh...Hmm."

Ancient Egyptians- "We could ask Pharaoh, who is God. Good chance he'll kill us though."

Roman Empire- "I bet Caesar knows, being God and all. Tough to catch him though between all the debauchery."

Vikings- "Oh, you're looking for the guy who knew everything? Yeah, Leif killed him with his club."

Explorers- "Hi brown people...Do you know...anything I'm saying...of course not--boys just gather some coconuts."

American Forefathers- "I have no idea. Pretty sure England knows. Damn."

People Living in the 60's and 70's- "One day dude, there'll be this trippy place where we can just, like, store all the answers. Until then bro, may I suggest we get high?"

Well now there is that trippy place. It's called the Internet, and it is a magical mystery tour of questions and answers. I thought I'd share seven strange questions that I'd been wondering about, confident I'd find the answers on the Internet in seconds. Affirmed.

How can I win at breaking the wishbone every time?

How is SPAM Made?

If I had to, could I hypnotize an alligator?

Can I microwave a steak?

Is there such a job as professional armpit sniffer?

What's the longest a chicken has ever lived without a head?

Where is Bubbles?

And for any of you who have an iPhone 4S, I'd be curious to hear what Siri had to say about these!

Five New Voice Competitions for 2012 You Won't Believe

2012-01-13T18:55:00.002-05:00

Do you love American Idol?

I don't. But if you do, then you would really love The Sing-Off. With no accompanying music, it is simply the performers and their voices.

And if you really love The Sing-Off (which you would if you love American Idol), then you would really really love NBC's new installment, The Voice. Here judges can't even see the performers; it's purely about the voice.

And if you really really love The Voice (you have an unhealthy addiction to singing competitions), then I'd love to tell you there is something that homes in even more on elite vocal talent-- but there isn't. I'm trying to imagine a show that has no accompanying music, no view of the performers, and no audible representation of their voice. Perhaps we'd call it The Chords, with the audition being judges staring at x-rays of the contestants' vocal chords. Wow, look at the healthy fluids on that one; I say "Yes."

There are so many shows on television now showcasing singing talent that I am no longer impressed by singing talent. It used to be every few years we'd hear a voice on the radio that would blow us away. Now, in one show, I can watch five elite vocal talents blow me away, often times singing better versions of the song than the original artist. We love you Stevie Wonder, but I'm watching this gay guy in a necktie and he's just way better.

Bottom line is these voice competitions are wearing us out. We need something original, something fresh. And trust me, to catch the wave of consumer demand for this crap, producers are doing their darnedest to bring it.

Believe it or not (don't believe it) someone in the industry has made me privy to the new voice competitions airing in 2012. They even gave me the promos for those shows! I know, you feel so lucky you are reading this blog. So, here are Five New Voice Competitions for 2012 You Won't Believe:

Fox's The Yell: Exhilarating. Heart-Pounding. Blood-Curdling. Fox's new The Yell features America's greatest screamers. Watch as contestants are forced to endure something horrifying and subsequently scream their faces off. From sixth-grade girls who've seen a spider to lumberjacks taking an axe to the kneecap, The Yell has something for everyone! So what if an hour of screaming hysteria makes your dad mute the television? We promise, you'll still be able to hear it!

NBC's Scatmen: Get ready America. The contest you've been waiting for is here! NBC introduces Scatmen. Twenty weird dudes you can't understand go back and forth in an intense Scat-Off! Watch Moustache Mel roll his tongue over faster than a Ferrari wheel, while Razz Rhubarb counters with his own version of, "Skibbedy-Ibbedy-Boppedy-Bibbidy-Tip-Top-Tody-Yo-Yup." Drama builds when contestants utter an actual word and are thrust into the "Hooked on Phonics" chamber for an unbearable half-hour. It's the show that will leave you saying--well--complete nonsense.

Discovery Channel's Totally Yodeling: For many years yodel lovers have pleaded to be taken seriously. After all, there's so much more to the craft than lederhosen and funny hats! Nothing funny here though, America. Witness professional yodelers be airlifted to the peaks of the Swiss Alps to belt it out in frigid conditions with limited air supply. It's the yodelers versus the elements, in a battle royale against frostbite and the occasional (unconfirmed) attack from Yeti! And if you thought those things were stressful, watch 2-Time World Champion Fritz Frobe try to remain pitch-perfect with the red threat of an afternoon avalanche! It's the kind of drama that will leave you asking oh-de-lay-he-who needs some more popcorn?!

ABC's Dads Mouthing Car Noises: Come watch the show that has toddlers raving! Ten adult men who never grew up take their noise making skills to the ultimate sound-off. Who got the best vroom? Most realistic NASCAR-zoom-by? Or the ever-challenging dump truck in reverse? Well, that's for a panel of eight surly babies to decide! Watch these dads labor for hours trying to crack a smile. The winner moves into the cryer's circle for a chance to win $10,000! Can this dad use his classic time-ticking car bomb routine to distract rankled Ralph from his own diaper explosion for more than five seconds? Vroom in to find out!

MTV's Ballad Whisperer: The musical event of the century comes to MTV this January! Belting out your favorite ballad is one thing. Whispering it as quietly as possible is quite another! Ever tried whispering Bon Jovi's, "Wanted: Dead or Alive"? If so, you know IT'S IMPOSSIBLE! These distressed singers try to keep quiet, but simply can't contain themselves from breaking into lower lip-biting, clenched fist-pumping, and a countenance of constipation. You'll find this show completely addicting--just like the rockers who penned these classics were to high-end blow! Psss...Don't miss it!

Things I Don't Get 4.0

2012-01-05T22:52:00.003-05:00

Things I Don't Get is a list of things I find ridiculous and so should you. If you don't find them ridiculous, you are probably either smarter than me (most likely) or have actually taken time to "get" these things, which obviously, I have not.

Breakfast In Bed- Freekin' A I don't get it. Sleeping is so precious, being woken up for anything is almost never worth it. When I'm woken up to a plate of food, I'm like, "Thanks, I would really enjoy this when I'm conscious and can contemplate hunger."

And it's never a simple muffin or a modest piece of toast. It's a feed troth of food consisting of grains, fruits, dairy, animals, and multiple liquids to wash it all down with. Who wakes up and is immediately desiring a feast? At whose house does the blaring of an alarm clock induce hunger worthy of an epic medieval-sized snarf-down?

Even if you loved eating a pile of food when you woke up, you have to admit the logistics of it all still make it not worth it. I get crap all over me sitting at the dinner table. Lying down half awake with bedsheets over me creates an impossibility of tidy food consumption. At the end of it all I'm bloated, dirty, and still sleepy. Wives, why do you love this?

Ear, Nose, and Throat Doctors- I don't get it. These guys are experts when it comes to most of the head but not all of it? You'd think by now the medical field would have come up with the Head Doctor. If you got a problem with your head, there's just one dude in the phone book who can fix all of it. One-stop-head-fix shopping.

Yes ENTs are specialists, but they ain't that special. They can remedy a whack stapes or ameliorate a flaming nostril, but apparently something funky growing on your lips is just way out of their comfort zone. I don't get how you can be an expert on a nose and literally half an inch away is an eyeball you can do nothing about. And am I supposed to believe the ear and the throat are somehow connected?

"Hey Doc, I can't hear nothin'."

"Alright, lemme take a peak down that throat."

Makes no sense. I bet nothing gets an ENT Doc more excited than the trifecta patient who comes in with an ear, nose, and throat problem. What are the chances? A dream patient whose head is functioning like a hollow gourd with the exception of sight. And quite the lucky patient I might add. Three random body parts all going haywire simultaneously and there is an expert for that. Maybe I should become a doctor and have my own specialty practice...

Come see Carson J. Speight, M.D., Armpit, Fibula and Guts doctor. Do you stink, suck at walking, and worry something's wrong with your guts? There's only one guy in the world for that!

Offensive Crab Shacks- Anytime you take a trip to the beach it's inevitable you'll pass a crab shack with a disgusting name. Names like Dirty Dick's and She's Got Crabs make me shake my head. I don't get it. Their best idea for getting me to try their seafood is to evoke images of venereal disease? Woo boy I was hankerin' some seafood until I got to thinking about crotch problems. Yes, the fresh catch is scrumptious but prep yourself for some burnin' urine. No thank you Dirty Dick. You can keep your crabs to yourself.

Fruitcake Blog: A New Year's Gift to My Readers

2011-12-30T14:23:00.030-05:00

So, who here is jonesin' some fruitcake?!

Ok, probably not. As comedian Jim Gaffigan quips, "What is the recipe of fruitcake, anything but fruit? It's like the baker was just clearing off the counter, 'Put all this crap in there. Nobody eats this stuff, they just mail it to relatives.'"

So true. But I don't care. I have some fruitcake to dish out whether you can stomach it or not.

You see, throughout the year I write down my observations and thoughts on a little notepad and come back to it when I need blog ideas. As the year goes on, good ideas get used and become the posts you have been (hopefully) enjoying. Other ideas that either don't have legs, lack appeal, or perhaps just plain stink, just sit there in the pad, growing stale as the weeks progress like that box of Cheez-Its in your pantry that is super-south of freshness but you can't throw away because they are, after all, Cheez-Its. Throwing away a box of Cheez-Its rivals the feeling of losing a small pet, like a gerbil. It hurts for a little until you get a new one.

Well for some reason I can't throw away these ideas that I've jotted down this past year but never used. They were once great in my mind and I can't help but think they still have some value. Like a good baker who feels confident he has been cooking up some tasty treats, it's time to clear the crap off the table and bake some fresh goods.

And so it is for this blogger and the New Year. My gift to you for reading all year (trust me, I appreciate you) is a dry, stale, crusty fruitcake, consisting of all my ideas that didn't make the cut to become a main course. Who knows, maybe you'll find a gem or two in this fruitcake, or as Gaffigan would have it, "a skittle or a treasure map." Bon appetit!

Peeve: The Omni-Server Restaurant Staff- All of us have been to the joint where any server can serve your table at any time. What this generally creates is being asked every 30 seconds if you want your sweet tea refilled. As much tea as these places pour they should offer their patrons a complimentary chamber pot so they don't have to head for the loo every five minutes.

I want to tell them the only possible reason I could want more tea than I've already had is because my body runs on tea and suddenly I'm in need of a tea transfusion. In fact, save yourself the trouble and hook me up with a tea-IV. At least then I can have an uninterrupted conversation. Freakin' tea freaks.

Object Permanence- Babies get a kick out of Peek-a-Boo because they don't remember that someone is still behind the thing they were just looking at. At some point, babies grow out of object permanence. I wish we didn't! Life would be so much more interesting for us adults.

"Look honey, it's the Eiffel Tower!"

"Wow!"

"Look honey, it's the Eiffel Tower!"

"Whoa, cool!"

"Look honey, it's the Eiffel Tower!"

"UN-BE-LIEVABLE!"

Home Security- Security systems are so freekin' expensive. (Of course, for any of you burglars reading I have the top-of-the-line system with lasers and alligators and stuff.) The best security system is not a system at all. Few things say "get away from my house" like a cop car in the driveway. I think only a tank in the driveway would be more intimidating. Bad-intentioned dudes with crowbars don't care to mix it up with sleep-interrupted dudes with AK's.

K- Why is "K" such a girl letter? I dunno.

How's My Driving?- Has anyone ever called the number on these bumper stickers on the back of vehicles? Does it go to the guy who is actually driving? I've been meaning to call it one time and when they answer I just say, "Really good. You executed that right turn perfectly. Continue to handle your vehicle in the way we all expect you to."

Well, I hope you enjoyed the fruitcake. I'm sure some of it was hard to digest, but maybe one or two lines made you spew. If so, mission accomplished.

On a side note, what do you-my fabulous randomonium reader-want me to write about in 2012? Tell me what you like and what you don't. Tell me your favorite post and tell me your least favorite. Just tell me something below! And Happy New Year!

Kim Jong Il's Death Means New Life for Korean Basketball

2011-12-20T12:23:00.013-05:00

Kim Jong-il, Darth Vader of the Far East and lover of nukes, is dead. While it's difficult to predict whether Kim's death is good or not for North Korean diplomacy, it would appear to be quite the boon for North Korean basketball.

Perhaps you're wondering if North Korea even has basketball. I have no idea, but if they don't, here's why I believe they will soon: Following the death of Kim Jong-il, CNN.com published an article regarding Kim's son and successor to the throne, Kim Jong-un (yay, the world gets another Kim Jong). What was apparent in the article was the limited information the world has on just who Kim Jong-un is (other than Kim Jong-il's mini-me) and just as noticeably, his affinity for the game of basketball. Here are some quotes with Isn't That Random footnotes.

"But the younger Kim remains a mystery. Even his age is uncertain to most of the outside world; Kim Jong-un is believed to be in his late 20s. He is said to have a fondness for James Bond and basketball star Michael Jordan."

So the first and only bit of information we have on this guy is not where he was educated, if he is married, or what his policies are, but that he likes James Bond and Michael Jordan. Bad start dude, those guys are heroes of the free world. Although, it should be no wonder he loves James Bond after years of watching Daddy stroke nuclear missiles like they were Bond villain-kittens. As for Jordan, it makes perfect sense this is his favorite player, seeing as how the Eastern hemisphere seems to love things the West did 10 years ago. Micheal Bolton and MC Hammer are still selling out shows left and right over there. But I digress...The point is that Kim Jong Un admires ballers. Well, the basketball love continues...

"He was competitive at all sports," said Joao Micaelo, a former classmate. Micaelo goes on to say Kim played basketball and had basketball games on his PlayStation. "The whole world for him was just basketball," said Micaelo.

This kid is shaping up to be a real force. We still know nothing about his policy or leadership, but who cares. He is a straight baller himself. If world power is ever decided by a game of NBA Live 2012, North Korea's got it in the bag. And who needs to break the will of other nations when you can break their ankles with a little one-on-one hoop action. Watch out though young Kim, our president has some ball skills of his own, not to mention he is black. Checkmate.

And just when the article was getting serious, talking about the doubts of many leaders who think this Mini-Kim is too young and unpolished to make good decisions, I read this:

"I think it's premature to conclude that Kim Jong-un will make all the shots," said Han Park.

Another basketball reference?! This is getting absurd and fairly obvious what Mini-Kim and his regime will be all about. Mini-Kim is hovering in the Spike Lee-sphere of basketball mania. I don't see any evidence that he cares for world affairs, unless it involves Olympics. Forget cares about policies, Mini-Kim is more interested in a game of H.O.R.S.E. Mini-Kim isn't thinking about how to bomb South Korea. Assuredly frustrated with his own government's restrictive and insular cable TV situation, his first order of business is getting NBA on TNT in his living room.

No doubt Mini-Kim has taken on some of his late father's predilections, such as wearing Dr. Evil jumpsuits and trying to dominate people. But if Mini-Kim wants to create the next great world basketball powerhouse, he has an uphill battle to climb. The average North Korean male is 5'4", meaning most of them will be getting dunked on by most other countries' ball boys.

But Mini-Kim is no dummy and won't accept basketball failure. I betcha he's summoning his country's passion for revolution and diabolically scheming a completely innovative way to play the game. I don't mean just systems; we're talking a complete makeover of the game's rules. Our dream team will voyage to North Korea to find points are had for fouling, getting one's shot rejected, and "nifty passing." With a team full of point guards Korean success bodes well.

So beware America. If we don't immediately shift our concerns of imminent nuclear warfare to imminent hard court warfare, we hazard this gamesmonger defeating us at the one thing we absolutely dominate. That's good for North Korean confidence and bad for everybody else.

Seven Ridiculous Gifts for Dad at The Sharper Image

2011-12-16T00:10:00.000-05:00

It's impossible to shop for Dad, right?

I mean, he has everything. He has enough Lands' End sweaters and Members Only jackets to start his own thrift store. He has so many tools his garage looks like an Ace Hardware. Plain and simple, he has enough stuff. And if you get him a gift card, it's kind of like saying, "Hey Dad, here's money I don't have and you do have, plus now what's on this gift card." Our dads can buy whatever they need.

Problem is they don't need anything either. As this point in life our dads are so set in their ways that introducing something new is nearly repulsive. "Hey Dad, we want you to give spelunking a try in 2012! Here's some gear." You might as well wrap up a ball of trash, because that's where it's going. On second thought, your Dad is probably too nice to throw your gifts away. So it will likely find its way into that special corner of the garage, a.k.a. the abyss of never-used crap. Can't throw it away or sell it. So it sits there festering for a decade until a yard sale comes along and someone says, "Hey Dad, remember when we got you this? Did you ever use it?" Once you have to remind Dad what it is, you know he never used it.

The only way to really impress Dad with a gift this Christmas is to get him a better version of something he already has. The problem here is that what he already has is pretty dang good. It's ten times better than the crap you have. But somewhere out there is a product that even tops what Dad has. The reason he doesn't have it is: a) he doesn't know it exists; b) he wouldn't believe it existed if someone told him; c) he knows it exists but is too practical to buy it for himself. It's up to you to buy it for him.

So where do you find products like this? Look no further than The Sharper Image. BASF made the products you buy better. The Sharper Image makes the products you buy ridiculous. Don't believe me? Here's seven ridiculous gifts for Dad from The Sharper Image:

Motorized Tie Rack- Dad works hard enough. He shouldn't have to labor while choosing a tie in the morning. After years of tossing his head side to side to see all his ties he's practically lost all movement in his neck. Why not introduce another motor to his life? With this nifty rack, now all he has to do is lift his arm (which he had to do anyway) and press a button. This creates a fashion show of sorts, a suspended catwalk if you will, that your Dad will find pleasurable and amusing. Now he'll pick out his tie with a smile and not whip the dog with it in frustration with his immobile and lazy rack of shame.

Whole Body Massage Chair- Dad's current chair is boss. Plush leather, giant armrests, and reclining bliss. Only one small problem. It doesn't make him feel like he's being pampered by a Swedish supermodel at a beach resort. Let's be honest, reclining has lost its sweetness. Only lying down while being rubbed will do. Just be careful. You think Dad turns into a sloth on Sundays now. With the Whole Body Massage Chair he won't get up until Tuesday when the neighborhood's power grid shuts down. Also, go in on this with the other family members. This is the most expensive piece of furniture known to man.

Wireless Pulse Monitor- Dad is damn tired of using his finger to check his pulse and make sure he's still alive. This is a good stocking stuffer if you're gifting him with the Whole Body Massage Chair, as it will come in handy when you wonder if Dad is still alive after a week of Rip Van Winkle-like activity.

Wireless Stereo Hat- Time to lose the earbuds. Those clunky has-beens were so November 2011. Now Dad can just put on his hat and listen to the music. More importantly this helps Dad on his unintentional quest to make everything in his life cordless.

Nose and Ear Hair Trimmer- Time for Dad to ditch those minuscule scissors that barely fit a baby's hand. The man needs to deal with his unseemliness in style. Plus, this is as close as anyone can get to looking cool while removing hair from their nostrils.

Infared Wine Thermometer- Playing the guessing game with wine bottle temperature just won't do anymore. So let's get lasers involved. I can't imagine pulling this thing out at a party and not feeling like a complete toolbag. Dad on the other hand has lots of other dad friends who also have everything else. Well he's sure to impress them with this garish gizmo.

Heated Gloves- One year my Dad's best gift was a pair of big gloves. As far as I know, he still uses them when he wants to keep his hands warm. Afterall, that's what gloves do. Of course, there is the rare occasion that your dad is wrestling an elk in an arctic blizzard and his gloves aren't sufficiently keeping his hands warm. With these babies he can now wrestle the elk in comfort. And isn't that what your dad really wants?

Remember--when it comes to buying Dad a gift this Christmas, it's okay to overspend. And you'll have no choice but to at The Sharper Image. Of course, he's worth every penny.

What ridiculous gifts have you bought for your dad over the years?

Christmas Parties for Dummies: Minimizing Host Mistakes, Maximizing Food Intake

2011-12-06T23:05:00.026-05:00

It's really easy to have fun at a Christmas party.

I mean, you'd have to try really hard to have a bad time. You'd have to be the kind of person that arrives and immediately starts to diss snowflake sweaters or declines an offer of eggnog (idiot). Or maybe Christmas music makes you grumpy, with all its joy-filled, hopeful messages (hater). Or stuffing yourself stupid with cheese just really isn't appealing to you (blasphemy).

Perhaps you hate people who smile a lot. Meeting an attractive female under the mistletoe is gross to you. Maybe you can't turn away from mediocre bowl games, put on a decent shirt, and leave the house for an hour. Well for the rest of us, Christmas parties are an awesome time.

But would it be possible to make them awesomer?

Well let's just say if you had a certain wise man in your corner helping you follow the north star of party wisdom all the way to the baby Jesus and Christmas party glory, awesomer is possible. (If you followed that out-of-hand metaphor, I commend you.)

Minimizing Host Mistakes
I've hosted many Christmas parties and every year I seem to learn something new about what not to do. My advice for hosting?

1) Don't Wear a Sweater- Nothing is worse than being the sweat machine at your own party. "Hey, where's Carson?" "Oh, I think that's him outside rubbing himself down with an icicle."

2) Don't Be a Bartender- I know you have good intentions of whipping up a delicious Christmas cocktail for each of your guests. Believe me when I say it is not worth it. "Hey, where's Carson?" "Oh, he hasn't left the kitchen. Been crushing mint leaves for three hours."

3) Don't Play Music Only You Like- Yes, it's your party. But not everybody thinks John Tesh's "Romantic Christmas" is dope. Even if they should.

Maximizing Food Intake
Food is generally good at Christmas parties, but the expectation to socialize often gets in the way. But you mustn't be deterred. Making a meal out of Christmas party finger food is what it's all about. By "it's" I mean life. It's what life is all about. If you can master the techniques of finger food engorgement you will be happy forever. Here are some moves you can execute at your next Christmas party that will ensure maximum food intake:

Veggie Tray Vultureing- Any hors d'oeuvres devourer worth his salt knows the veggie tray is key to a night of successful gormandizing. While mostly everything else available will send your cholesterol count into Santa territory, here's a choice you can actually feel good about. And that's the key. In no way will leaves and legumes balance out your eve of caloric gluttony. But at least it can offer you temporary solace. Don't forget though- these are veggies we're talking about. Those jokers will be there all night. Don't fill up on them; there will be multiple opportunities to swoop in and snag your one helping of cauliflower for the year.

The No-Look Grasp- You know you're gonna have to talk to people. You also know that it's going to be very hard to listen to a word they say as long as that steaming crock pot of sumpin' is dominating your periphery. So--maintain eye contact and reach for a quiche. They'll be there, trust me. Lightweight and durable, these guys are easy to snag while maintaining conversation. Wait for a blink or sneeze and you can pop three or four of 'em, no problem.

The Meatball Dilemma- Don't you dare put that thing on your flimsy paper plate. Take appropriate quantity of meatballs (three if someone is looking, twelve if you're alone) and eat that crap now. The risks far outweigh the rewards of transporting meatballs to another room.

The Spinach Teeth Check- You took my advice and went ape on some quiche. Now you're pretty sure your smile looks like it spent time in a marsh. Of course, you can't confirm this until you find a mirror. Until then, spend time with people who talk a lot but aren't very interesting. You won't have to talk back and chance of laughter is nil. Gradually inch toward a mirror. If you do it incredibly slow the other person won't realize it until you are suddenly fifteen feet away. Smile into the mirror and if you have a spinach sighting, make a beeline to the bathroom. Just not too fast- otherwise rumors will quickly spread that you may have the runs. Which reminds me of...

The Bean Dip Bonanza- If there is bean dip at the party, all rules of etiquette go out the window. Do not socialize. Do not waste time with veggie trays and quiche. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Go straight to the bean dip and start working it from the corners. Once someone else sees the bean dip is under siege, you can bet on an instant influx of party goers flocking to your zone. Just keep working it, not paying them any attention. The dip will be gone very soon, and you will consider yourself one of the fortunate few who partook of the one food that lasts no longer than 15 minutes at any party.

The Hilarious Moment Snarf Down- You have a plate full of delectables, but in the midst of an intense conversation/joke/story you can't find a good moment to eat any of it. Here, patience and timing are everything.

When the punchline or climactic moment approaches, subtly lift the plate close to your face, just below the chin. Inevitably, the joke will crack and everyone will be laughing with eyes half-closed and dishing out high fives. ACT NOW! Authoritatively lower your face into the plate and start voraciously chomping like a hyena on prey! After two seconds the food will be somewhat broken up. Mind you, people will be coming out of their laughter so there's no time to waste. Take two more seconds and like a vacuum cleaner suck up every morsel possible! In four seconds you can clear half your plate.

*Footnote* This usually works best when everyone else is pretty much intoxicated.

What have you learned from Christmas parties? Do you have a hosting lesson or food intake move to share?

Blasting Off Aliens' Heads (and Other Ways to Spend Your Saturday Night)

2011-11-29T23:37:00.010-05:00

What do an Italian plumber, a double agent, and an original gangsta have in common? They're all main characters on video games that changed my life.

That is not an understatement. Life changing. After acquiring Super Mario World, Goldeneye 64, and Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, I went from a functioning human to a sedentary slug. I played for so long my tear ducts stopped working. I played so late that I went to bed when birds began chirping. I played so hard I got thumb cramps. Thumb cramps! Oh I was good for some gaming, but very little else. Something about going to bed at six in the morning really screws up your day.

The danger posed to every game addict is that you become your game's character in real life. It happens to the best of game geeks. Mario lovers look at a toilet and wonder if it could warp them into a land of dinosaurs. Bond fans check in to hotel rooms immediately inspecting every mirror and clock and ordering a bottle of something they can't afford. When I was addicted to Grand Theft Auto I imagined how much better life would be with a rocket launcher handy. If you got ill about something you could just obliterate a city block. Sinister yes, but strangely appealing. Alas, these are not normal thoughts or actions.

While it's been awhile since I've gamed, I'm still young enough to be around people who do. It's good to know these folks are gamers; otherwise you risk overhearing a conversation halfway-in that is full of some real wiggedy crap that causes concern. Just take these typical utterances by Pete B. Gamer...

"Have you ever been hit by a flamethrower? It is scary! Everything goes blurry and you lose life really quickly. Most people die within seconds. Thankfully, when I got hit I had my armor on. So, survived it."

"There were only four people left. I entered the house and approached the man by the door. Took out my buck knife and slit his throat. It was awesome. You can really see the blood spray in the light."

"As soon as I left the hotel I went on a rampage just capping pedestrians left and right. Emptied my oozy into an old lady. Carjacked a taxi cab and sped away before the police arrived. What a rush! So what'd you do Saturday night?"

"Yeah, me and Tyler were playing in the bonus room on Friday. We were waiting for someone to walk in so we could annihilate them. Suddenly, this huge friggin' alien entered the room! He ate Tyler before I could blast his head off with a ray gun. Ray guns are so rare; it was a good thing we had one."

"It was a normal flight until we started to lose altitude. I knew something was wrong. The pilot was dead so they made me fly the plane. It was extremely difficult because I've never flown this plane before. We crashed and everyone in the plane died except for me. I stepped out of the plane and had to battle a race of cloaking monkeys. Brutal."

"Oh! You're talking about video games. Hey Anne-- Pete is not a psycho!"

Have you ever emulated a video game character? Please say so below so I won't feel alone in my nerdom.

Tweet Tweet 3.0

2011-11-26T11:39:00.002-05:00

Got some good stuff in the pipeline but for now thought I'd share some of my favorite tweets over the past several months. Just like my blog posts but under 140 characters. You can follow me on Twitter @carsonjspeight.

You know you really gotta pee when a minute into peeing you still really gotta pee.

Car expo on Fayetteville St. I'm tempted to pull up in my '03 Saturn & see if one person stares at it for more than 2 seconds.

Gosh for a winged animal moths are really crappy at flying.

Maybe clams are so happy because they have so few cares. Or they really like being eaten. But I'd think that'd be a care.

Gas station sign reads, "we support local law enforcement." Yeah, I'd say that's something we can all gather around.

College coaches are always calling their Freshmen "young kids." No, they are men. Young kids are 4-year olds and baby goats.

My dog story is better than your cat story. Every. Time.

"She's a bad mamma jamma." #songonlyplayedatweddings

Come on grown businessmen, flush your urine! #workrestroomblues

I think people who say " I COULD care less" couldn't care less about saying "couldn't care less" correctly.

Lenin might've been a bad dude, but gosh he looked awesome.

If you're wearing tennis shoes and a t-shirt, a sport coat is neither necessary nor helpful...

Unless you're Paul Simon, who is awesome.

It's daylight savings time! Don't forget that you dont have to set your clocks back since no one lives by those anymore.

When someone asks if you have a quick second to talk, tell them, "ye-."

The "Please Don't Ring Doorbell" sign fails again. I think we are gonna train a rattlesnake to guard it.

Macy's commercial says they've been part of my life for 150 years. How silly of them to think I'm that old.

I'm Thinkin' About the Doorbell, When You Gonna Ring It?

2011-11-15T13:25:00.000-05:00

Forrest Gump and his momma always said, "Stupid is as stupid does." Well this week, stupid showed up at my door.

You see, earlier in the week we placed a sign above the doorbell that read, "Please do not ring doorbell." We did this because every time the door bell rings our dog freaks out like it's a terrorist attack and wakes up the baby.

And about the sign; it's a good one. The words are clear and written in thick, black ink. It's not in cursive so if you have a 2nd grade reading level there shouldn't be a problem. The sign is expertly and strategically placed; directly above the doorbell. If you see the doorbell, you see the sign.

Or so we thought. When that doorbell rang a bevy of thoughts ran through my shaking head. Before answering the door I momentarily attempted to fathom how such a thing could happen. Behind that door was either an enemy or an idiot, hardly a recipe for getting jazzed to see who had come to visit.

And about doorbells in general. Does anything pleasant ever happen with a doorbell ring? Either nothing happens because no one is home, or complete chaos ensues. There's nothing in between. A doorbell ring heightens everyone's anxiety. The anxious people outside are worried they may be agitating some neurotic beast. The anxious people inside are thinking, "Crap! People are here." Then it's a flurry to hide embarrassing paraphernalia, make sure your face doesn't suck, and find some pants to put on. So annoying.

Well back to mystery doorbell turdhead. If they knew my thoughts they probably would've been long gone. So here were a few of my thoughts when someone rang the doorbell despite the awesome and obvious, "Please Do Not Ring Doorbell" sign:

*Maybe it's a toddler who can't read but is old enough and tall enough to ring doorbells. Or maybe it's a Chinese man who came non-stop from Shanghai to my doorstep. Not likely.

*It's a friendly robber. He's determined to get in the house but he wants to be polite and ask. It's obvious he doesn't care much about me or my sign though.

*Stupid flying squirrel...Nah. Probably not.

*It's Ed McMahon back from the dead with a big freaking check and a camera crew that insisted there must be a "doorbell ring."

*What if I started screaming while interspersing wails about doorbells and ringing and people?

*If I answer and tell the person to please stay on my doorstep, might they disregard that too and leave?

*I could run out of the back of my house to the front yard yelling, "You've done it now! It's gonna blow!!"

*God has given me new blog material.

Anyway, perhaps you're curious who the lucky person behind door #1 was. It was simply an apologetic woman who said she didn't see the sign. And ma'am, I should hope you did not. If you did I could only guess the reason you are still here is because you want to fight.

How about you? Do you use the doorbell?

Literally, Stop Abusing Literally

2011-11-11T15:22:00.000-05:00

Alright, so literally I've been excited about writing this post for a couple of days. Figuratively, I've been lighting my pants on fire and doing jigs like a tippled leprechaun in anticipation.

You see, as a culture we have literally failed to properly use the word "literally." Figuratively, anyone who uses "literally" incorrectly should be boiled in a pot of stew and eaten by giants. Literally, the definition of "literally" is, "actually" or "in a literal sense." Figuratively, "literally" has lost its raison d'etre and should take a toaster-bath. Literally, "literally" has become the way we emphatically explain something, often times when attempting humor.

But there's nothing funny about an ill-used "literally." Like when you're explaining the difficulty of the exam you just took and say, "It was literally the exam from hell." Really? Hell is in the exam distribution business? And I suppose Satan is postmaster general and sends all those credit card apps and GEICO solicitations? I guess it's possible. But figuratively, your misuse of "literally" makes me want to rip my eyeballs out of their sockets and throw them at you. Literally, I would never throw my freshly-ripped out eyeballs at you. Surely I'd immediately realize my gruesome error and seek medical attention.

Literally, this post may be causing you to feel bad if you are a serial "literally" user. Literally, no one should come to this blog and leave feeling bad; figuratively, I'd rather wrestle a rabid raccoon naked (not me naked, the raccoon--ahh hell who cares, I'm being figurative, bring on that sucker!).

Literally, this blog is intended to make us laugh at ourselves. Figuratively, I hope you laugh so hard you pull a rib muscle and tell everyone it happened on account of my outrageous blog! Okay, I actually literally want that to happen.

Here are some examples of the wrong and right ways to use "literally":

Wrong: I laughed so hard I literally peed my pants.
Right: I laughed so hard I literally felt my bladder contracting until I realized I'm an adult in public and should not be soiling myself.

Wrong: She was literally driving me crazy.
Right: She was literally making me ponder how a lunatic would attack her.

Wrong: This game is so boring I'm literally going to die.
Right: This game is so boring I'm literally going to streak.

Wrong: The party was so crazy, I literally had 50 beers.
Right: The party was so crazy, I literally had 2 beers and told everyone I had 50.

Wrong: Dinner was so good, I literally licked my plate.
Right: Dinner was so good, I literally stared at the crumbs left on my plate and held back the farts.

Are you literally taking any of this seriously?

The MAPLE Act and Other Eyebrow-Raising Food Protection Laws

2011-11-03T12:27:00.001-04:00

I know all of you are just dying to talk about Vermont. Lucky you! The Green Mountain State buck stops here. This little state that we know little about is making some big news because of a big problem. Big, that is, for Vermont standards.

Two of the state's senators (Vermont has two senators?) have proposed a bill in Congress called the MAPLE Act. MAPLE stands for Maple Agriculture Protection and Law Enforcement. Translation: We're Lockin' Up the Sorry Sons of Jackals Who Make Fake Maple Syrup Act.

In Vermont, adulterating the sweet holy nectar that is maple syrup and besmirching its precious name is not only frowned upon, it can land you in a cell with a new girlfriend named Butch. Until this bill, Northeast rednecks who didn't have the stones to make their own moonshine were resorting to making fake maple syrup and getting little more than a wrist slap. If the bill passes, he who produces fake syrup and passes it off as the real stuff will be charged with a felony and up to five years in prison.

Yeah, that's reasonable. God forbid some unsuspecting Vermonter will consume their pancakes with anything short of the finest-liquid-to-come-from-a-tree available. The collective Vermonters cry, "You can break into our house, steal our television, and drop kick our beagles on the way out. But if you screw with a part of our complete breakfast, you are finished, sir!"

For me, I'm just not sure the punishment fits the crime. I understand that maple syrup production is an important part of Vermont's economy. But we are talking about a food product here, and this is a dangerous precedent to set. What about little Alice who is selling lemonade on the corner for 10 cents? Are you not using real lemons, Alice? Save your cryin' for the police chief sweetie, we're impounding your little stand here and takin' your sorry tail downtown. Dumb.

Interestingly, Vermont is not the first state to enact similar food production protection laws. Several states, mostly in the Southeast, have specific laws for the farming and sale of catfish. If you can make a fake catfish, call me because I want to see that. Vidalia onions can only be grown in a specific area of Georgia. Walla-Walla, Washington has its own onion laws, too. Basically, if you aren't issuing an act of Congress when it comes to your onions, I question whether you give a crap about them at all.

Frankly, I'm worried if the MAPLE Act passes the doors will swing open for more states to issue similarly ridiculous federal laws for their food products. Here are a few food protection laws we should look out for, along with the potential sentencing:

New York passes the PIZZA Act. Anyone who claims to have made a pizza better than a New York pizza will be subject to up to eight months in Attica and have the skin permanently removed from the roof of their mouth.

Florida passes the CITRUS Act. This Act will require that all hotel lobbies offer citrus fruits that contain at least trace amounts of juice. Violation of law will require the hotel to produce a continental breakfast that is, in fact, continental.

Massachusetts passes the CHOWDA Act. Anyone caught using the "r" sound to order chowda will be tarred and feathered, Sons of Liberty-style. Wicked awesome.

Louisiana passes the CRITTER Act. Any man caught ordering a meal without a critter in it will be fined $100,000 and sent home wearing a dress.

Pennsylvania passes the CHEESESTEAK Act. Anyone outside of Philly who makes and markets a "Philly Cheese Steak" will be interrogated by weaselly, hairy, old guys donning gold chains and wife beaters, and will be forced to admit that their cheapo cheese and Grade B mystery beef is--somehow--inferior to the "Philly Way."

Week Off

2011-10-26T12:49:00.001-04:00

Hi Reader-

Isn't That Random is taking a week off from the funny, out of respect for some dear friends who lost their child this week. Please join me in praying for the Monroe family.

Things to Say to People on an Elevator

2011-10-17T12:30:00.009-04:00

Elevators are so uncomfortable.

It's one of the few places in life where you find yourself in a tight space with a stranger. (Other places include: gas station bathrooms [you know, the ones where the urinal and and toilet face each other with no stall]; and hitchhiker-friendly smart cars.)

And there are lots of reasons the elevator situation is uncomfortable. One may be the stranger has decided on the tuna salad sandwich for lunch and is inexplicably bringing it back to her desk. Another may be the entrance of the very, very large man, who causes to you check the "elevator capacity" sign, make your estimations, and exit if you must. Still another is the guy you say "hi" to and he does not reply with any word/emotion/sign of ability to communicate with humans. Forget elevators, this guy is uncomfortable being alive. The lack of recognition causes you to wallow in your rejection for the remainder of the ride.

The real problem with elevators is we just don't know what to say to one another. We know the conversation is going to be brief, so we can't ask each other about theories of global domination (but if you do, that'd be a lot more interesting than "hello"). Even if we had time for a conversation, no one knows anything about the other. You could just guess. "So, you an Olympic volleyball fan?" or "Hey, you look the kind of person who'd appreciate a good story about my rat collection." In the miraculous event you guess right ("how did you know I have a rat fetish?") you will immediately be suspected for a stalker and that is typically a conversation stopper. Not that I would know. And not that I have a rat collection.

The point is, it is darn difficult establishing quick rapport with a stranger on the elevator. The best way I've found to do this is being the first one on the elevator and asking the other person what floor they are on. From here, you have some great information you can comment on. Here are things to say, when you get a response from asking "what floor?".

"13": Oh man, did you know some buildings omit the 13th floor when they are built because of superstition? Alright, here we go, hope we don't die!

"7": Ahh. Prime floor. Prime. Get it?

"82": Wow, that is high! That would be an epic jump if, you know, just had a horrible day and wanted to quit with a bang.

"250": Very funny! I won't fall for that one again!

"2": If stairs are an option and a normal person without a burden says "2", you have many things you can say to them:

I can't believe you have to go all the way up to the 2nd floor. That's just gotta be brutal.

What's on the 2nd floor? Lots of people who waste other people's time?

I'm gonna let you push the button. Then you can understand the meaning of "effort."

If you were on the 1st floor, would you still take the elevator then?

If you worked on the 3rd floor, would you even come in to work?

Hi. It appears your legs are functioning but your brain is not. What gives?

I feel ya. That trip across the parking lot really wears me out in the morning too.

If we get stuck between floors 1 and 2 I'm going to transfigure into a ferocious beast.

Cool iPhone. You should Wikipedia "stairs." That's an invention that will really blow you away.

The Conversation Helper: "I Hear Ya"

2011-10-14T18:08:00.000-04:00

Keeping conversation ain't easy. Perhaps especially if you're the kind of person who uses "ain't." Don't fret, the Conversation Helper is here to ensure your next chat is a little less awkward.

Do you ever catch yourself saying something that you realize you say a lot, and the reason you do it is to keep conversation going? For me, there is no better example than saying "I hear ya." What's great about "I hear ya" is that you can say it for anything and it means absolutely nothing. "I hear ya" is sweet elixir for any sour conversation. And it truly is good for every type of conversation you will find yourself in.

1) The Uncomfortable Conversation- I'm not talking about a discussion with your dad about the birds and bees when you're 35, or a pow-wow with your landlord explaining honking horns and unsettling laughs in the middle of the night (you've already told him you live with a bunch of clowns). No, I'm talking about shootin' the breeze with a stranger who does not heed the "filter what you say with new people" mantra. One minute you are talking about the weather (of course, that's where all conversations with strangers begin) and the next moment he pulls this one out:

"I ain't gonna vote for Obama because he's a Mooslum."

What am I supposed do with that? Simple. "I hear ya." It's all I can do. This guy brought the loaded bazooka of all "show-me-what-side-you're-on" phrases, using politics and religion in less than 12 words. Here, it is impossible to affirm this man with an "I agree wholeheartedly" or "Yes, I too vote ignorantly with a sprinkle of hate." But I don't feel like correcting him either, as in, "Obama is actually a Christian" or "Sir, allow me to teach you how to say the word 'Muslim' properly. If you must make a cow noise, you are off to a terrible start." Both replies would stall the conversation or perhaps worse, ignite combat. So, a simple "I hear ya" does the trick.

2)The Lost-in-Translation Conversation- Ever talk to someone who makes you wonder if your brain is working because you are comprehending absolutely nada of what they're saying? We all have. How about financial-genius guy at a party.

"I think the derivatives market is as robust as ever, with all the instability in mortgage-backed securities and collateralized debt obligations."

"I hear ya."

Instead of excusing yourself to search for a dictionary or just saying, "I sorry. Me so stoopid," just say "I hear ya." Even though you are adding nothing to the conversation, at least you are not proving you're an idiot.

3) Will You Please Shut Up? Conversation- When people begin to use the dialogue to gossip, bloviate, or brag, use the amped-up double "I hear ya" to get them to shut up. Case:

"Oh my gosh, my boyfriend is so hot. He lives in Tokyo but works in New York. He has a capuchin monkey who makes quiche for him. He has a leather jacket with a real flame on the shoulder. He-"

"I HEAR YA, I HEAR YA!" (with a smile so you don't put them off)

4) I Can't Hear You Conversation- The perfect time to use "I hear ya" is when you hear nothing at all; either you are at a rock show where conversation is useless or you are chatting with Mumbles McGee. Sometimes, it's awkward to admit you don't understand someone. Especially after they say something twice. In that case, admitting you don't understand either means you're deaf or they're stupid. These are both unwanted outcomes. Stop all of that with an "I hear ya." One caution: this does not work with questions. If they look at you funny like they wanted a reply, tuck your tail between your legs and admit, "I didn't hear ya." Or start crying, so they'll feel bad. Or knock them out and run away.

Just remember; "I hear ya" is conversational gold because it keeps you diplomatic and likable with all parties. It does not mean you agree with someone, nor that you understand them. It simply means, "I hear ya," as in, "I'm not deaf; my eardrums, stapes and other ear accessories are in well-working order and I can confirm that noise just came out of your mouth and has been captured by the human ear. You have succeeded in transmitting noise, though truly, it may not be good noise."

Comment below with phrases you've heard that warrant an "I hear ya."!

Awkward Moments with a Staring Child

2011-10-05T18:40:00.001-04:00

My one-year old son loves to watch people. And sometimes he stares; particularly at people not white. Sure, it's harmless, but in a few years that's going to get him beat up. Not just by people not white, but by anyone. But at this ripe age, we are powerless to tell him to stop doing something, not because he doesn't want to (I think that's age two) but because he simply doesn't know what we are saying. I say, "Buddy, it's just a Latino and black guy having some pizza. Don't stare." I might as well say, "Peanut butter, rinestones and booboo bears." It doesn't matter. So the staring continues.

This all recently happened in a restaurant, when an African-American gentleman took a seat at a table next to us. He was seated almost directly behind my son, but that did not keep the boy from torquing his body around like a barn owl to look at the man. You know, at first it's cute. Smiles are exchanged, maybe a "hey, big guy" if the one being observed is friendly. But ten minutes later, when the staring hasn't abated and the guy is just trying to eat his eggs, it becomes uncomfortable. Maybe not for the guy, but definitely for me. I mean, the guy is not really doing anything extraordinary to garner such attention from my son. And I want to ask my son what makes this guy so special, but I don't, because I already know the answer. (Well, that, and the question would prove rhetorical like all the other questions I ask my baby.)

But yes, I could only guess that what made this guy so special to my son was the color of his skin. It wasn't my son's fault; if anything it was an indictment of how white I am and his lack of exposure to non-white guys. To my credit, I've really tried to mitigate this by forcing the boy to watch as much NBA basketball as possible. But as it's been said, the TV product just can't match the real thing. At one point I tried to position his high chair differently, but that just made it all the more obvious that my son was hell-bent on a staring contest.

Finally, we distracted our son long enough for him to forget there was instant access to a real life non-white person just feet away. Before we left, my son wanted a picture with him but we decided that would be awkward. As I pondered these precious moments, I hoped that my son would grow up with a diverse group of friends and live a life without serious staring. Until then, we'll go to as many NBA games as possible.

Headlines Better Than the Story Itself- Animals Edition

2011-09-28T13:14:00.002-04:00

In "Headlines Better Than the Story Itself", I take a real news headline and speculate what the story may be about. Headlines are almost always better than the story. So here, we just make the story up.

Famous Bear May Be Dead

Upon reading this headline, all of my favorite bears sprung to mind, and morbidly I surmised what might have happened to them.

First I thought of Smokey the Bear. Smokey always told me, "Only YOU can prevent forest fires." If that's true, then Smokey could NOT prevent forest fires, and might have lost the battle fighting one. I hope Smokey didn't--well--go up in smoke.

Then I thought of Yogi the Bear. Yogi always told me he was smarter than the average bear. Which was true, of course, because he could talk. Couldn't help but think he might've mouthed off to the wrong person; say, a bear hunter. If a bear came up to me and started talking, I would hear him out, but I'd still probably have to shoot 'em. I hope Yogi didn't get shot.

"Oh No!" I thought. I hope it's not Baloo the Bear! Baloo was the most likable of bears who are famous. He taught us not to pick prickly pears and how to scratch our backs using a tree; life lessons I heed daily. Sadly, I could only guess that perhaps Baloo ran out of the bare necessities of life.

After hours of mournfully mulling over the demise of famous bears, I glanced at the headline once more, and my grief was overcome by new feelings of hope and optimism. The famous bear may be dead. Or he may not be, right? But how can a bear only possibly be dead? Who is the master-dead-bear identifier? I have never seen an actual dead bear. But I think I could identify one pretty quickly. It's just a careless news story. Yeah, the famous bear may be dead. And I may have a pineapple for a head. I may be the prime minister of Congo (is that still a country?). I may have grown a lizard's tail overnight. I may be a soon-to-be-famous bear who ate Carson and is now writing this blog post about bears. You just don't know.

Dog Falls into Raw Sewage

I know all you dog lovers out there are saddened by this headline. My question to you is, "Why?" Most dogs would love to discover a pool of feces to fall in. They'd be heroes, revered by their peers like Columbus returning to Spain. I mean, this is a significant find. Heck, my dog is a furry, breathing, poop detector hoping to locate just one nugget of nastiness to roll around in. Like the luckiest vagabond in the desert, this wandering pooch happened upon an oasis of fetid filth that most canines only dream of. No way did the dog "fall" into the raw sewage. I bet with big ears flappin' he did a cannonball in the doodoo-deep-end, with his mouth open all the way down.

No doubt the dog had to spend the next week of his life being sent through car washes. Makes us pity the owner. But we shouldn't. He now has a story-trumper ready to go. You know how dog owners like to brag on their dog's superlatives. Well when the "stinky dog" stories come out, this owner wins.

"Oh, you think that is a stinky dog. Hmm. Last year my dog found the area where all of our neighbors' poop pools up and took a swim. Bam."

10 Ways to React to an "Inmates Working" Sign

2011-09-20T13:19:00.004-04:00

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you will know that I am fascinated with signs. Signs can only say so much, and that's what is funny about them. They only tell part of the story. Most of them are not instructional; they leave it to the reader to discern how to act accordingly. So when I'm driving down the highway and see a big orange sign that says "Inmates Working", I have no idea what to do with that. And I'm betting you don't either. Here are 10 possible reactions I think are worth consideration:

10. Slam on the brakes. Yeah, that car behind you might kill you. But chances are if you keep driving someone ahead will kill you with more efficiency and/or brutality.

9. Freak out, abandon yourself from the vehicle.

8. Put in your "Prison Mix" CD and enjoy hits such as "Jailbreak" and "Jailhouse Rock" as you drive by.

7. Pull over, put on an orange jump suit, stand by the "Inmates Working" sign, and offer the hitchhiking gesture to passersby.

6. Increase your speed significantly. And experience the thrill of flying by an officer of the law with no consequences.

5. Hijack an armored car so you can safely pass the inmates.

4. If there is someone in the car who doesn't know you well, as you drive by the inmates put your head out of the window and excitedly scream some random name.

3. Perform a Vin Diesel-esque J- turn and hightail it back into oncoming traffic.

2. As you pass by the inmates, throw a piece of trash out the window. This may seem unkind but if the inmates have nothing to do, the sign will soon change to simply "Inmates." And that is a far more precarious situation.

1. Light your beard on fire. Absurd yes, but not any more so than that sign.

How to Get a Free Breakfast at Chick-fil-A

2011-09-15T13:15:00.003-04:00

I'm a big fan of free. It's why I ditched cable and can watch Real Housewives of North Dakota on Hulu (darn tootin'!) anytime I please. It's why instead of playing golf, (emptying my wallet to embarrass myself for four hours) I just play tennis. It's why I jump up and down like an idiot at a hockey game with the hopes that I'll be noticed by a mascot with a cannon and have a crumply shirt ball sent my way. I'm a big fan of free.

And when Chick-fil-A cordially invites me to enjoy a free chicken biscuit, like the Russian billionaire in the DirectTV commercial, I jump in it.

Speight, Party of One
Now getting a free chicken biscuit is not as easy as you may think. First of all, you have to make a reservation. Is the market for free chicken biscuits so robust that people will be turned away at the door?

I'm here for a free chicken biscuit!

Scram kid, there ain't a seat left in the house and we can't kill these chickens fast enough!

Chick-fil-A should take a good look in the mirror and admit they are a fast food joint. The only reservation I should have is to whether I should actually indulge in a lunch of fried chicken, waffle fries, Coke, and fatty fat dipping sauce.

For Free Chicken, Please Identify Yourself
But for a free chicken biscuit, I determined a reservation was well worth it. I showed up promptly and was met at the front door by a smiley lady with a clipboard. She asked for the printout of my reservation, along with a photo I.D. For a second I was worried I might not be old enough to eat chicken. But then I reminded myself I'd been eating chicken my entire life and nobody ever told me that wasn't okay. Why would she need an I.D.? I am literally being carded at a Chick-fil-A. As if consuming too many chicken biscuits would make me stumble around the restaurant, slur my speech, and make inappropriate come-on's to the Big Cow.

But this wasn't about chicken consumption abuse; this was about protecting my identity! Chick-fil-A has valiantly sought to protect its free-chicken customers from misfits who would take our reservation printout and pretend to be us, all for the sake of obtaining a free chicken biscuit. (Is stealing something that gets you something for free really stealing?) Anyway, I hope Chick-fil-A captured some of these kleptos and is prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the law, which I'd guess is denying the crook a "My Pleasure" when he says thank you. Serves him right.

The Biscuit is Mine
After I made it through security, it was time to secure the free chicken biscuit. I chose the Spicy Chick-fil-A biscuit, because I'm betting that cost them a trace amount more to make, which meant I was getting an even better deal. At this moment, based on what else I grabbed in the line, I realized I would probably fall into one of two categories of customers for the "Free Chicken Biscuit Campaign".

The first category would be the customer who makes the campaign profitable. Sure, they get their free biscuit, but they also get OJ, hashbrowns, and other items that make the free biscuit okay to be free.

Then there is the second category of customer, the guy they factor in that they'll lose money on. This guy will only get the free biscuit. He'll probably never get another biscuit again (unless it's free). He definitely won't eat breakfast there again (cheap breakfast at home). In fact, he probably is so stinking frugal that he already had a cheap breakfast at home, and this free biscuit will be his lunch.

Can you guess who that guy is?

Marching Band Appreciation (Mostly)

2011-09-07T13:20:00.002-04:00

The fall is here, which means football is here, and where would football be without marching bands? Well, I'd guess it would be alright, considering the NFL seems to get by with supermodels posing as cheerleaders and an incessant supply of Black Eye Peas blaring over the speakers. But college football without marching bands would be a disaster. I mean, what would we have to listen to while peeing in the bathroom during halftime? Hmm, maybe college football could get by too. Certainly not high school football, though. We'd have to have marching bands. Without band geeks, the cool kids would have to give wedgies to themselves. That is not fun or easy.

Marching Bands Enhance Life
Okay, so perhaps marching bands are not essential to the football experience. But they do enhance it. Without marching bands, we would have to whistle our fight song. Nothing like the sound of 50,000 dwarfs to intimidate the opponent.

Without marching bands, how else could we listen to classic Zeppelin songs to the tune of a tuba? Jimmy Page never whipped one of those out, at least not on stage. Not saying Page couldn't shred the tuba though. That guy could take a dead squirrel and a mayonnaise jar and make sweet music.

Elite Rifles...Not
And without marching bands, the color guard would have nothing to move to. Just wandering aimlessly while twirling that fake wooden rifle. And what is up with that fake wooden rifle? It is so fake looking it is embarrassing to other fake rifles, like the one I had when I was five. At least that had some girth and could put the fear of God into kids smaller than me (babies). My fake rifle looked real. The color guard wooden rifle is not even trying.

For starters, the rifle is white. You'd think the color guard would have an idea about the true hue of a real rifle. But a white rifle? Alpine snipers don't even use white rifles. The fake wooden rifle has no trigger, looks about as heavy as a Taco Bell spork, and is stuffed into a big bag at the end of the performance. A bag? Why not continue the shameless fabrication and place the wooden rifles in a "gun rack" that is transparent, has no lock, and can be carried off the field by a kittty cat.

Did you know there is a company out there that makes these things and calls them "Elite Rifles"? To call a piece of crap elite is pretty bold. It's like bragging to people about your shack. "Hey Ned, check out my elite shack. It comes with free air, nothing gets wet unless it rains, and next month we're digging a hole for a toilet."

These Batons are on Fire
Anyway, I'm not here to upset the color guard but I do have something else to say that may be upsetting: Let's do away with the batons with fire. I do admire the baton-twirling skill. I know someone who tried to take it up as a hobby once and the reception he received from the other fraternity brothers was hostile. Thing is, batons just aren't real cool. So to compensate, we've placed fire and the ends of them. Sorry, it's still a baton. The only way to make a baton cool is if Q rigged one up for Bond that doubled as a poisonous dart dispenser. Can't really think of a good time Bond would need a baton, though. "Well 007, I must say those sparkles make you look fabulous!"

Basically, you just can't look cool twirling a baton.

Unless you're that guy, who is cool enough to wear nothing but a diaper in public. But trust me, you're not that guy.

Things I Don't Get 3.0

2011-08-31T12:40:00.000-04:00

Things I Don't Get is list of things I find ridiculous and so should you. If you don't find them ridiculous, you are probably either smarter than me (most likely) or have actually taken time to "get" these things, which obviously, I have not.

Official Coconut Water- Recently, I heard that ZICO was named the "Official Coconut Water of NFL Players". Before we get official here, shouldn't we have some education on coconut water? Before this ad, I'd never heard of coconut water. Apparently it is the only natural substance that can be injected into our bloodstream (I hope you're taking notes, Roger Clemens). However, since it's really not convenient to "shoot up" during a game, coconut water has become packaged so we can drink it. Take that, little African kid climbing up a tree with a machete. You're not the only one with access to fresh coconut water anymore. By the way, have you ever had pure coconut water? Frankly it's disgusting, which is why ZICO has packaged it in about five other flavor varieties.

Anyway, it's just sillyness for ZICO to negotiate and then proudly announce they are the "official coconut water". How many other coconut waters are out there? Chill out, ZICO- you've won. Not only are you the sole company that makes coconut water, more importantly you have also informed us the stuff exists. By becoming "official", you are really just showing off. Don't get too comfortable though. We've seen how this plays out for drink brands starting with "z" (see 'ZIMA').

Expensive, Splashy Neckties- With neckties, it's all about value. If you by a $50 tie and it makes you look like a million bucks, it was worth the purchase. But if you subsequently buy a tie for $8 and it makes you look like a million bucks, then your $50 tie purchase is now stupid. And here's a secret I've found to ties: the cheapest ones are more valuable than the expensive, splashy ones. I have about two nice ties. I mean nice like hand-woven-by-a-little-old-Italian-women-in-Venice-nice. Then I have about 12 decent ties. They're the ties all the other guys wear. Then there are the three or four cheapo ties. Guess what? I get more comments on these ties than any others. In fact, these are the only ties I get comments on. And not comments like, "hey, where did you get that tie, the thrift store parking lot?" or "did that tie talk you into wearing it?". Instead, I get comments like, "I really like that tie" and "Good tie Carson. Good tie." So if you are thinking of getting me a tie for a gift, know that a free one will produce the most compliments. That's good for you and for me.

Radar Speed Signs- Every now and then while driving, you'll come up to a speed limit sign with a radar speed sign beside it to tell you how fast you are going. This is beneficial for the one guy in a million who drives a car without a speedometer. Truly, the radar speed sign is at best useless and at worst counterproductive. It's meant for speeders who already know they're speeding and are driving too fast to notice the sign anyway. For the unhurried driver like me, the radar speed sign alerts me to my slowness and reminds me to accelerate. Thank you radar speed sign for making sure everyone is speeding.

These are Things I Don't Get.

Things I Really Like: Animals Edition

2011-08-23T13:10:00.001-04:00

I like animals. I guess it would be a lot more interesting if I didn't like animals. Because after all, who doesn't like animals? Probably people who live in a place where there are very few animals, and those animals try to eat them. I bet Eskimos don't like animals. Walk outside and you may get eaten by a polar bear. If a polar bear ate me I would hate him for it. Can't blame the Eskimos.

But, I like animals. And there are many animals that I really like. Well, probably just three:

The King Cobra- I don't like cobras because they are snuggly and cute (though obviously, they are) but because they are nostalgic to me. My childhood was packed with fun cobra action, as I enjoyed watching the sinister plots of Cobra Commander on G.I. Joe, and the Cobras were my youth soccer team. And we were just as awesome as real cobras. Rarely did we lose a game and I have no doubt around 12% of that can be owed to our intimidating mascot.

As if cobras were not cool enough, there is a king cobra, who obviously reigns supreme. Did you know the king cobra is the longest venomous snake in the world? That means if one is in your apartment and you can only see its tail, it may be killing the guy across the hall. Of course, you probably live nowhere near a king cobra, unless there's a shady herpetologist in your building. Watch out for those guys. They'll tell you about their pet snakes (a little abnormal) and ask if you've run into any federal investigators lately (not at all normal). OK, but back to the king cobra. The reason they kill so many people? They live in Asia. Like shooting fish in a barrel, or more apropos, like biting Asians in Asia.

The king cobra is also fast and agile. As if you needed another reason not to try and catch one.

I really like the king cobra.

Clams- You might not think clams are amazing but me and clams would beg to differ. That is, if a clam could beg. Which it cannot, because it does not have a head. Yet its sheer agelessness testifies to its awesomeness. Did you know some clams live to be over a hundred years old? I respect anything that can live for that long without a head. Who needs a head though, when- according to Wikipedia- clams have a "heart, mouth, anus and pearls." May no other marine animal brag. The shark thinks he is special with sharp teeth and the ability to produce fear. Yeah but shark, a third of the clam's body is an anus and it produces pearls. Trump card, check please, good night and good luck.

Also, I like clams because they are really chill. No, not really chilled, like in a Red Lobster. Before that, like, in the ocean. They just sit there, at the beach, all day. Clams have so few cares. I think that's why they're so happy. Or they just really like to be eaten. But I'd think that would be one of their few cares. In a related note, I'm realizing that I sure have consumed a lot of clam anuses over the years.

I really kind of love clams.

Skunks- This is not an obvious choice, as I realize so many people hate skunks. Or at least, they think they hate skunks. What people really hate is the smell a skunk makes. When a skunk wants to shoo away others it doesn't like, it releases a noisome odor from its anus. This strategy works; I've executed it many times at parties. So I'm really impressed when the skunk's odor can ward off bears. If you have a fart that a bear won't get near, all I gotta say is "props".

But it isn't just for the bawdy reasons I love skunks. Like the cobra, skunks are nostalgic for me as well. Everyone's favorite skunk (unless you can actually think of another one) is Pepe Le Pew, the popular Looney Tunes character that I watched and imitated in my youth. He taught me how to talk like a French skunk, and for that, I'm forever grateful.

OK, I don't really like skunks much- that is, when compared to clams. If not compared to clams, I really like skunks.

In summary, I really like the king cobra, clams, and skunks. Is there an animal you really like?

Mastering the Self-Checkout Aisle

2011-08-17T18:30:00.002-04:00

In this technological age, it was only a matter of time that the grocery store self-checkout aisle would become popular. As businesses continue to seek ways to avoid face-to-face interaction with their customers, turning cashiers into robots was inevitable. Now, however, it's too popular. People frequent the line that have no business being in it, and discretion should be applied. Like any technological nuance, the self-checkout aisle has a bevy of snares that bewilder hapless grocers like you and me. After painfully witnessing person after person botch their transaction, along with some feeble attempts of my own, I think I now know what it takes to successfully navigate the treacherous maelstrom that is the self-checkout aisle.

1. Enter with minimal groceries. Too many times I've seen people enter the self-checkout aisle with a cart, only to realize halfway in that they didn't need a self-checkout aisle, but a human with a cash register and teenage-voice-cracking-hobbledehoy bagger instead. Don't enter the self-checkout aisle with more than a handful of goods. The sheer odds of something going awry are not in your favor. With the scan of every item, you are inching closer and closer to a defunct bar code, non-granted discount, or blood leaking London Broil to ruin your checkout experience. Let the blood be on someone else's hands- not yours. And, not only have the multitude of groceries frustrated you, but the irritation has spread to the folks behind you who were aware of the "few items" rule long before you were.

2. Avoid all human interaction possible. If a human helps you or comes to check on you, your purpose for going to the self-checkout aisle has been defeated. You could've just had another human do everything for you, which is preferable, generally, in life. So don't create ways to involve others. Such as, don't buy alcohol in the self-checkout line. They will make you walk to them to show your ID. I've been walking for the last half hour and the last thing I want to do in the checkout line is walk more. It's my one opportunity in the store to relax, take a breather, and catch up on important news like Britney Spears birthing an alien baby.

3. Follow robot lady's voice carefully. If she tells you to place the item in a bag, do it. If she tells you to put the produce on the scale, listen. If she says "Welcome MVP customer", thank her. No snappy comebacks, name-calling, or dissension. She ruins peoples' days like ketchup ruins anything. And beware, she does not leave room for error. One screw up and she won't deal with you anymore. I leave the celery on the scale for half a second too long and she tells me to get assistance from the customer service representative. No robot lady, that kid is 14 and can't figure out how to rid his nose of its own boogers. You're the artificially-intelligent-21st century wunderbot. You do it. How hard is it to figure out my intention? I want one celery stalk. Not two, as it appears I've been charged for. Why the freak would I buy two stalks of celery? I'm not a llama, nor am I making chicken salad for the entire neighborhood.

Once the customer service rep comes over they press one button and it's fixed! Wow, why didn't I have knowledge of that button? On a side note, what if you could hit a button to simply bypass the robot? "Welcome, would you like to deal with me or just scan crap?" Scan crap.

4. Know there are good times not to use self checkout. Like if you have an 80 pound bag of dog food to lift again. Or if there is a real pro cashier. You've seen her before. She knows where the bar code is on every product. She punches in produce numbers before you know you bought produce. She scans so fast the bagger goes cross-eyed and wets his pants (wow, cease fire on this post's bagger blasts). Plain and simple, she is a joy to watch. Proof positive that at the end of the day, humans will always best computers.

With that, I'll wrap it up. You can take this advice with a grain of salt. Just make sure it's got a bar code.

Tweet Tweet 2.0

2011-08-09T17:00:00.005-04:00

I'm on vacation this week, but didn't want to deprive you devoted followers of some randomonium. Thought I'd share some of my favorite tweets over the past several months. Just like my blog posts but under 140 characters. You can follow me on Twitter @carsonjspeight. Enjoy!

When people tell me to appreciate the finer things in life, is it odd I think of industrial power flush urinals?

ESPN 3's menu of programs includes AAU Girl's 9th Grade BBall. That's either a joke or a great reason to never watch ESPN 3 again.

Ladies- wearing high heels is fine. But when they make you walk like a VELOCIRAPTOR, it's gone to far.

Didnt think a Reeses Cup could be improved but theyve done it, with dark chocolate. Seriously, why is milk chocolate still produced?

There's a sippy cup in the break room fridge at work. I think I'll take a break and go play with the new guy.

Ever thought someone asked u how ur doing, and u said good, and then realized they werent asking u, and u wish u had said "platypus babies"?

A medium sized drink at the movies is 44 oz. Mr. Ed was behind me and only ordered a small.

When people around me start having conversations about World of Warcraft, I just nerd my head. Did I say nerd? I meant "nod".

The Filet-o-Fish wrappers strewn across the sidewalk downtown confirms people are actually buying Filets-o-Fish.

When someone says "you have to be in the right mood to see it", they really mean "if you're in any other mood it's complete crap".

I love watching kids sprint to their school bus. They already get America.

Used a skill saw today. The finished product sucks but I still have all my fingers...so...mission accomplished!

Two jelly beans every five minutes really adds up after a day.

Creepy ice cream truck (more like old van) driving through my neighborhood playing "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". #badbusiness

I love the prospect of a free T-shirt. It's the acquiring, ownership, and inevitable neglect of them that's so disappointing.

February was Black History Month. March is Women's History Month. When is Male Caucasian History Month?

Came up with a new term: Post-It Poot. This is a poot that reminds you that you have to poop.

If I had a peanut allergy I would kill myself...by consuming as much peanut butter as my body would allow.

Lamenting the days when i could carelessly eat a chili dog and fries and let my boyish metabolism take over...#damnyouUncleFattys

Try saying "sorbet" without feeling emasculated. #impossible

At the moment ad wizards are fresh out of ideas, someone in the room says "how 'bout monkeys?"

Throw everyone for a loop at your Super Bowl party. Laugh hysterically in the middle of a serious commercial.

Watching people coming into work this morn consuming Mt Dew and cigarettes. What's for lunch? Sugar cubes and crack?

I have decided I will no longer resort to bringing up the weather to make conversation. Instead, I will ask how many cats the person owns.

When you throw the wheel of your trash can into your trashcan, it's time to get a new trash can.

Why are we describing things as "sinfully delicious"? I mean c'mon, Jesus did not die for pie.

A Beginner's Guide to Changing Your Car's Oil

2011-08-03T22:23:00.000-04:00

This past weekend, my father-in-law Charlie helped me change the oil in my car. Charlie has changed oil many times in many cars over many years. Meanwhile, I'm a complete boob when it comes to fixing anything associated with an automobile. So we were set up for an interesting afternoon. For all you other beginners who'd like to change the oil in your car yourself, I thought I'd share what I learned.

1. You need tools that don't suck. Okay, I'm not completely deficient when it comes to "working on something." I do, in fact, have a tool box. The quality of this box and the "tools" in it are what is suspect. One look at my tool box and you could probably ascertain whatever lied inside was weak and would make Al Borland snicker. The box is kind of plasticky and I'm pretty sure you could obliterate it with a hammer in not much time. In fact two of the four tabs that keep the thing shut have come off, and we are one lost tab away from a tool tray.

But don't let the wear and tear fool ya. My toolbox goes so long without use that every time I open it I expect a genie to come out. Lemme guess, first wish, new tools? Much to my chagrin a genie never does come out, but there is the occasional spider that has made its home somewhere between my two favorite tools: the thingamajiggy and the whatchmacallit.

Once the box is fully opened, two things happen. First, the one tool I need is predictably absent (no doubt feeling neglected it went in search of a new home). Secondly, out of nowhere, a little girl will appear, giggle, point at one of my tools and say, "That's cute. I want that one." To which I reply, "sure, go knock yourself out." Not literally though, that would be cruel. Seriously though, my tools are all too small for any job. The only time my wrench looked big was when it was it my baby's hand. And he tossed it in favor of his toy tools and went to work on a bad buggy wheel. Good for him.

So that gives you a picture of what Charlie and I were up against with the oil change. Charlie has more tools than almost anyone in the world; he just didn't happen to bring many of them. Probably thought I'd have what we needed, like I said I did (big mistake). In fact, I only had one useful tool, an oil filter wrench, that would have been helpful if my car needed it. Of course, it did not. Thankfully, my neighbor Chad bailed us out with some tools called channel locks that helped us remove the oil filter. So in one fell swoop I learned what channel locks and oil filters were, while also being reminded I owned poo tools.

2. You need oil. More than what you'd put in your lawnmower. Yes, I know, this seems obvious. But when I went to get all my supplies for the job a week earlier, I was not thinking clearly. Instead I was thinking, how can I get the bare minimum supplies needed for the job? Some guys want performance. I want a traveling block that I can sit in. Certainly, I didn't want to buy more oil than necessary; so I got two quarts. I should've been tipped off by the puzzled look on the cashier's face followed by his question, "you just need two?". Yep. My car runs on two. I'm pretty sure. Eh, maybe I'll see you again soon.

My fear of purchasing an insufficient amount of oil was affirmed when (with fleeting pride) I placed my two quarts on the engine and Charlie said, "Is that all ya got?" Yes, Charlie. Unless this engine can also run on Worcestershire sauce, that's all I got. So Charlie was kind enough to donate some oil to the cause. (He works for Carquest and practically keeps this stuff in his back pocket.)

3. There's a reason all the car shops do this for people. Changing the oil in your car is a messy, unforgiving endeavor. One mistake and you end up looking like a suicide octopus. Thankfully, Charlie had learned from all his past mistakes and kept us relatively clean. Of course, he did all the work, yet somehow at the end of it all, more oil was on me.

Now; I have most of the things a shop has. I have tools (kind of). I have oil (some). I know what I'm doing (Charlie). But the one thing they got that I don't is a garage. And changing your car's oil while it's raining is also not advisable. Unless you're making a mess. Then you don't have to spend as much time cleaning up. Probably why I'll wait for a good rain storm to actually change my car's oil by myself.

Or will I change my own oil again? Much knowledge has been gained from my experience. No doubt Charlie has proven to be a drain plug-pulling, dipstick-checking Mr. Miyagi to this young grasshopper. I know I could do it myself now. But perhaps the best knowledge of all is that a pro can do the same thing in less time for about the same cost. That may be a good reason for eternally hanging up the oil filter wrench, even if I never got to use it in the first place.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

2011-07-26T13:30:00.002-04:00

Recently, I mistakenly left my running shoes at the beach. I like to work out, but all I had now were my tennis shoes, which are made for tennis, and in fact make my calves sore when I run in them. So, I had to put running aside and venture into the wild world of "walking for exercise". And lemme tell ya, it is a different world.

First of all, walking for exercise is basically Diet Running. We would all run if we had the motivation, energy, physical strength and health to do so. But most of us do not. So when we walk for exercise, we try to get as close as possible to running. This is why die-hard walkers look so ridiculous when they walk. Once normal strides now resemble steps over moon craters. Light arm lifts now look like Mike Tyson uppercuts. Die-hard walkers replace steady breathing with puffing like a 10-pound baby is coming out of them. Basically, the more you get into your walking the less you look like you're walking and the more you look like you are 1.2 seconds from an epileptic seizure.

What's our motivation for walking hard anyway? There's not any pride in it. Runners can pass other runners and feel the instant satisfaction of being in better shape than someone. But there is no prideful passing in walking. Even if you're walking faster than someone else, in truth you are still moving incredibly slow. And you're passing other people who are doing almost exactly the same thing as you, with the poignant exception that they are enjoying its leisure quality. Good for them. Seriously, I see a woman ahead of me walking her dog, it takes me five minutes to catch up with her, and once I pass her I think, "shouldn't I just be walking my dog?" and "What the heck am I doing in running shorts?"

The only reason I can find for attempting to walk fast is to not get passed by another walker. In the fitness-humiliation category that one may take the cake. How slow am I that another person is walking past me? I'd have to pull out a cane to save face. Getting passed by another runner is one thing. There are plenty of people who can run faster than me. But walking? Put me up against the fastest walker in the world. I'm talking the speed demon of all walkers here. Now I'm not saying I would beat him...but it would be dang close.

At least when you pass someone walking, you don't scare the crap out of them. I always scoffed that someone could be scared from me running past them. Then it happened to me. It was terrifying. For a brief moment you think you're about to get mugged. And then it's just Ralph.

What irritated me most about my walks was that I actually worked up a sweat. How did that happen? I didn't even do anything. I was simply fulfilling the most basic of my homo sapien functions- moving. What was the point of going outside in scorching heat to do that? I could've taken 100 laps around my couch with a cocktail in my hand and accomplished the same thing.

I suppose I discovered that walking isn't for me. Even if I could be the greatest in the world.

Netflix Raises Rates, Won't Throw Customers a Bone

2011-07-19T15:52:00.002-04:00

Just over a decade ago, Michael Richards could do no wrong. As the Seinfeld series came to a close, the man you may know better as "Kramer" had forever placed his stamp on American sitcoms. Eccentric. Enigmatic. The clown of all clowns. No one made us laugh harder or smile bigger than Cosmo Kramer. All of the antics, schemes, and gyrations earned Richards three Emmys over Seinfeld's nine seasons. Richards could have retired as one of the most beloved entertainers of his time. Instead, he returned to stand-up comedy.

And in November 2006, at the Laugh Factory in Los Angeles, Richards' career blew up like a fragmentation grenade, as he unleashed a vitriolic, racist tirade on an audience member. In one night, Richards had gone from American hero to absolute zero. No one was happy with Kramer anymore.

This past week, I think we can all say Netflix "pulled a Richards".

But instead of spewing cuss words and calling us dirty names, Netflix politely told its customers, "screw you" in email revealing significant rate hikes. From hero to villian immediately. Usually that kind of thing is gradual. Can you imagine an immediate good guy/bad guy role reversal in a movie? Try and picture Luke Skywalker destroying stormtroopers and in the blink of an eye he is wearing all black, breathing heavily, talking like James Earl Jones, wielding a pink lightsabre and hewing Wookies in half. OR, Look, there's our hero Indiana Jones- wait, oh my god, it's the war paint wearing, slave driving, human sacrificing Mola Ram instead! COVER YA HEART!! I thought Netflix was the Batman of movie rental companies, but it turns out they were just a fat sloppy Penguin.

Yet the real problem with Netflix was not the 60% rate increase. The real problem was Netflix raised their rates 60% without offering any new value to the customer. That's really absurd when you think about it. Perhaps Netflix should have released the bad news with some good news, such as an enhanced streaming library. Seriously, Netflix boasts about their 20,000 titles that can be instanty streamed, but have you seen the actual titles? Forget about streaming quality flicks such as Saving Private Ryan, A Beautiful Mind, or Titanic. You're lucky to get Little Shop of Horrors, Teen Wolf or Gigli. Anyway, other companies would not make the same mistake. I mean, if companies raised prices that much, as a customer I would expect a significant improvement in product or service. Take these for example:

Terminix raises prices for quarterly pest control from $75 to $150. Will now offer small nuclear device that wipes out your yard's bugs for the next 50 years.

AT&T raises prices 50% for all land lines. Will send representatives to homes to educate users on how to use a cell phone.

The San Diego Zoo raises ticket price from $25 to $50 a person. Instead of making patrons attempt to descry the unrecognizable, immobile lumps 50 yards away, now animals will be injected with doses of caffiene throughout the day and have to fight for their dinner.

Six Flags tickets to increase from $50 to $75. New roller coaster boasts the ability to produce painless heart attacks, a bright light, and instantaneous resussitation.

Alpo New and Improved dog food is $2 more expensive. But your dog doesn't need to poop for seven weeks.

Apple iPhone was $350, now $575. New features include physically touching people on the other line and an app that brings UFOs right to your backyard.

Amazon Prime raises annual fee from $79 to $179. Prime customers now receive Freaky-Fast Shipping, where upon order the item is fired from an aircraft carrier by way of GPS guided missile directly to your recliner.

Ruth's Chris Steak House raising prices on all steaks by 40%. Beef now comes from cattle that have an all-grass diet and bathe in pools of teriyaki marinade.

Dodge Caravan raises price on new models by $10,000. The extra cost is for a robot who looks like you, can drive the van, and berate refs at the kids' soccer match.

This is too much fun. Time for YOU to submit your price hike/added feature example below!

Fun with Headlines: Bad Boys Edition

2011-07-10T21:40:00.032-04:00

Here is something I suggest you try. Go to your favorite news source, and read headlines without reading the stories. Instead, make up your own stories. Surmise what might have happened. And don't ever find out what actually happened. Headlines seek to grab your attention, so most times they are better than the story. Trust me. And take a look at actual headlines involving lawbreakers this week, along with some of my own presumptions.

Ice Cream Truck Fined For Loud Music

And I hope it was blasting some Rage Against the Machine as the Po-Po ticketed the hapless driver.
In this case "The Man" has gone too far. When you fine an ice cream truck for being loud, you might as well have fined it for being an ice cream truck. It has to be loud. For the business to succeed ice cream trucks must become moving doorbells that lure people out of their comfortable homes and into the scorching heat, while providing a benefit that most people could have received by simply staying inside and visiting their freezer. Loud music is the ice cream truck's lifeblood. Without the loud music an ice cream truck is a creepy van playing clown music operated by strangers with candy. Not exactly a formula for booming sales.

Girl Scouts Allowed at Jail

That is a horrible idea. A lot of these guys have been locked up for sometime. When they go askin' for Tagalongs and are met with funny looks, mark my words, it will get ugly.

Headless Animal Found at Jail

Gosh, I'm surprised the convict didn't eat the whole thing considering the quality of prison food. And hasn't it been well documented prisoners make poor pet owners?

Owner: Entire Home Stolen

At first glance that is sad but let's address the implications. How small is the owner who can fit in a home that is capable of being stolen? Did this person also report a missing pink convertible and mention her name was Barbie? Jeez, I feel sorry for the owner but maybe they should buy a house that is just big enough not to pickpocket. C'mon, was this a fairy living in a shoebox?

All I know is the thief is a damn good one. How covert do you have to be to steal a house? A combo of James Bond, Ocean's 11, and Houdini could not pull that off. Still, fault the owner. If I'm asleep and my house starts moving down the road, I'm waking up.

I'd feel horrible trying to explain the loss to the insurance company. "Yes, yes. Significant loss of property indeed. In fact, the house is just not there anymore. No telling if the home has damage, seeing as how it disappeared and all. And the backyard is gone too. But they didn't steal the front yard, thank God. Of course, no need to call it a front yard anymore. Just a smaller yard with no house. Suppose it's really just a patch of grass. Okay agent, good luck."

CAUTION! Five People to Avoid at the Beach

2011-07-06T23:39:00.003-04:00

Exclusivity. It keeps night clubs cool and makes their bouncers feel important. It keeps Canada from becoming America's 51st state. And it keeps the Pittsburgh Pirates from becoming a major league baseball team. What's that? They already are? That's a dirty lie.

Exclusivity, though shunned by many of us who embrace equal opportunity, is necessary to maintaining an orderly society that is pleasant to live in. If you let wild animals into your house it will become a zoo. If you hug everyone you see you will be arrested. If you let anyone into your country club you may have the unpleasant experience of meeting someone different than you. Exclusivity makes life easier.

But it doesn't make life more interesting. When everyone is allowed in, you get to see some wild stuff. Look no further than a public beach. Half the people there are half-naked, half-drunk, and using half of their brain. Some folks are on vacation and have decided to leave their entire brain back home. The result is seeing plenty of people you'd rather not. What you hoped would be a relaxing day turns into a futile attempt to steer clear of fools to the left and jokers to the right. With that said, here are Five People to Avoid at the Beach.

Sunscreen Spray Mom- Yes the kids need to be protected from the sun's dangerous UV rays. But someone needs to protect me from Sunscreen Spray Mom and her SPF 50 death can. Ma'am, did you notice the trace amount of spray that hit your kid and wonder where the remaining spray cloud went? It blew downwind directly into my eyeballs. Whenever I can actually open them, I'll be sure to come over and thank you for keeping my retinas safe from sunburn.

Bring-a-Real-Shovel Guy- Meet the overachieving, overzealous beach dad. While most construction at the beach can be done with a mere pail and plastic shovel, or for that matter one's bare hands, this guy has opted for a heavy-duty metal yard shovel. The kids want to build a sand castle, Bring-a-Real-Shovel Guy wants to build an empire. Why create a small channel for incoming water to pool when you can create a world-class irrigation system for the entire beach? Seriously, how much shoveling are you planning on accomplishing today? Most holes made by the children are modest and easy to maneuver around. Bring-a-Real-Shovel Guy is building craters that will beach whales. A nice walk on the beach with my wife will turn into a frightening struggle to find our way out of Bring-a-Real Shovel Guy's trench. Dude, do us all a favor and use the baby's shovel.

Bad Bathing Suit Butt Crack Dude- A refreshing sip of frosty, pina-colada. The salty sea-breeze cooling my skin. A gaze out into wondrous beauty of the vast, foam-laced ocean. And a disgusting butt crack quickly providing the beach buzz kill. This dude has decided to wear a pair of oversized, no-drawstring, stretched out swim trunks to a public beach and attempted to run in them down to the water! The bad choices are stacking up. Next thing you know he'll be attempting belly flops from the pier. So remember to call the police the next time you see a young man peddling crack on the beach.

Cocky Cornhole Dude- Cornhole is a great beach game because it is relaxing and requires little mental energy. So watch out for Cocky Cornhole Dude, who points and yells and wants everyone within an earshot to know that he is the best. Get over yourself man, you are throwing a bag into a hole. I know humans who can do that by the age of one. I can do it everyday without thinking- it's called using a trashcan. And how can you experience the thrill of victory when your opponents are wobbly from suds? Instead of best cornhole player you are closer to least-enubriated-dude, or worse yet, King of Beer Games. And that's not something mother would be proud of.

Prego-Kini Lady- Most women are modest with their pregnant attire and wear appropriate outfits for their growing belly. But not Prego-Kini Lady. She flaunts her melon of a belly in skimpy, summer underwear. Sorry sister, but the sexy factor wanes when it appears you've devoured a beachball. Who are you trying to impress? You've just implicitly told every guy on the beach you're taken. Wanting to still feel beautiful at the beach while very pregant is understandable. But they have decorative muumuus for that. Buy one.

Three Entirely Different Ways to Get People Not to Like You

2011-06-28T13:25:00.001-04:00

We all want to be liked, don't we? After all, we are social beings and we'd prefer to have a friend or two to make that possible. And the truth is that most of us are liked, albeit some more than others. Yet even the most notorious figures in human history were liked by some.

Take Genghis Khan, whose empire was responsible for the deaths of 40 million people. Hated to be sure, but according to all the movies and shows I've seen, he still managed some delightful feasts with grand company, which usually included several women smiling and feeding him chickens.

Or how about Osama Bin Laden? Indeed he was shunned by most of the world, but he still had a loyal faction who were willing to blow themselves up for him at the drop of a Keffiyeh. Not to mention that poor soul who had to schlep Osama's dialysis machine over the Hindu Kush mountain range for a decade. By golly that is camaraderie if I've ever seen it.

And lest we forget Hitler. Okay, no one liked Hitler. He is now such an historical pariah that he single-handily damned forever the name Adolf, and more disappointingly, the appeal of very little moustaches. No one told Michael Jordan though, who inexplicably wears it proud, gets away with it, and looks jolly good doing it. Some folks are liked by everyone no matter what they do.

Yet most of us do not share MJ's popularity, and we must beware of ways we are making it easy for others not to like us. So here are three entirely different ways to get people not to like you:

1. Ride a Moped- It takes a special person to ride a moped on busy roads in this country. I could never do it; I'm too aware of the people driving behind me and am fast to notice if I'm annoying them. Mopedists are fast at nothing. They move with the celerity of a pill bug (not that they can help it with a motor that is better served for weed-whackers). Nor do mopedists have much regard for anything taking place behind them. Whether it's a row of 38 cars, a screaming ambulance, or Jesus-Riding-On-The-Clouds- Apocalypse, old Mopey is content with maintaining his 35 miles per hour.

2. Shake Someone's Clean Hand with Your Bloody One- It's important to make a good first impression. So when you have lacerated your finger and blood is seeping through the bandage, it's best not to shake hands with strangers and hope they like you. It's okay to say, "sorry to not shake your hand, hurt my finger". But instead, most of us shake away and implicitly exclaim, "Hey, nice to meet you. Here's some of my blood." Who wants to meet your blood on a first encounter? When has that ever been a positive?

On our first date your Dad busted his forehead wide open on the steering wheel while head banging to Slayer. I kissed his bloody face right as "Angel of Death" hit its crescendo. The rest, they say, is history.

3. Ask Someone If They've Thought of Getting a Mole Removed- On the surface this is a seemingly harmless question with no malicious intent. But that's because we're not talking about your moles. A mole is like the bright pink house in your neighborhood. It's an eyesore that ain't going anywhere. So when you ask someone about their mole, you are bringing up a subject that is ranked somewhere in the thousands on the list of things they'd like to talk about. And just mentioning it is one thing; wondering aloud why they don't whack it off is a completely different thing. First of all your statement affirms that it is indeed ugly, and should be excused from your person. But the person with the mole already knew that.

Have you thought about getting that mole taken off?

Oh, you mean this disgusting conglomerate of melatonic cells with dark hairs growing out of it sitting in the MIDDLE OF MY FACE?!! Yeah. Yeah, I've thought about it.

I mean, what would you expect for a response?

You know, I've never thought of that. I've grown quite fond of my furry wart.
OR

What mole? I have a mole? You found it?! That's great! You're a natural Horatio Caine! Please inspect the rest of my body and see what other grotesque features you can find!

Unless you're a dermatologist, stop worrying about my moles.

The Unfortunate Demise of America's Littlest Sport

2011-06-21T13:00:00.010-04:00

HEY! You wanna go play miniature golf?

Sorry, I know that was awkward for you. You probably haven't been asked that since M.C. Hammer was popular. The question really breeds a flurry of subsequent questions.

This blogger is a grown man, why does he want to go miniature golfing with me?

Even if I wanted to go, where is the nearest miniature golfing facility?

I can't possibly be prepared for this; when was the last time I golfed miniaturely?

Or perhaps, Just what is miniature golf?

All understandable thoughts. If you don't want to play miniature golf with me, you are doing me a solid because I can tell you that miniature golf sucks. But it used not to.

Now I'm no historian but miniature golf is believed to be invented by golfers who wanted an easier life. In contrast to golf, mini-golf includes very little walking. The courses are so small one can practically crawl around like a quadruped beast for 18 holes if he pleases. These golfers were also sick of wearing funny pants and tucking their shirts in, and who could blame 'em? They'd rather play in tank tops and flip-flops (mini-golf's unofficial attire). Most notably, these dudes were just plain broke from all the exorbitant greens fees and country club membership dues, mainly because they were not physicians or mobsters. So they started a game with such an abundance of deals and coupons that if you didn't play for free you just weren't trying.

But not trying is really what miniature golf is all about. Unlike golf, a sport that rewards those who display focus, precision, and equanimity, mini-golf rewards those who care more about mooning the plastic giraffe than making a quality putt. Golf requires consistent thought and discussion about each shot; mini-golf hardly requires a working brain. And what made this game so appealing ultimately led to its downfall; mini-golf got so leisurely we simply stopped playing it.

The demise of miniature golf wasn't due to the fact we who enjoyed playing it stopped trying (no, we had already stopped trying long before). But the contagion of laxity spread through the playing ranks and ultimately infected those who made the game possible with their courses. Golf courses require constant maintenance, keeping the grounds verdant and the scenery pristine. Mini-golf courses were completely artificial and required a janitor named Curly to sweep up the cigarette butts from time to time. As mini-golf course owners regressed into deeper levels of apathy, Curly got taken off the payroll.

Simultaneously, course owners added batting cages, arcade games, and go-carts to their venues. Gee, nothing like hitting balls, shooting stuff and driving cars to take a kid's attention away from the little gentleman's game. Courses were forsaken and left to rot, along with their ornamental mascots. We'd show up to play and that inviting ceramic elephant we'd grown to love was missing his trunk. That once menacing crocodile was now covered in bird droppings, and was floating upside-down in a turbid bog that even Swamp Thing wouldn't touch.

Investments in the actual course were null and any semblance of obstacles evanesced. The treacherous windmills. The oscillating turf. The zig-zagged boundaries marked by a flowing brook water hazard. These classics were supplanted with new obstacles; typically one measly hump and the occasional dumpster rat. Mini-golf was effectively reduced to rivaling the competitive demands of Candy Land, and was sadly less engaging. The biggest obstacle these courses presented was not falling asleep as you watched your four-year old get eight straight holes-in-one. You could close your eyes and fart the ball to a two-putt.

So we stopped going and the courses seemed to vanish. And today miniature golf is the endangered species of leisure activities. It rivals the relevancy of the VCR and is about as exciting (though not quite) as having your gall bladder removed. Remember the days when you went to seven straight birthday parties at Putt-Putt? Now kids have scavenger hunt parties where they comb the city looking for a Putt-Putt.

Will our little game ever return to its previous glory? I doubt it. To do so, we must replace the elephant's trunk and scrub clean the crocodile. We must bring back the windmill and turn on the faucet to the brook. We must rehire Curly, assuming he's still alive. And if he's not, we must bring him back from the dead. And if we cannot, we will at least say we tried. That'd be a heck of a lot better than miniature golf ever did.

Food Pyramid Out, Being Fat and American Still "Way In"

2011-06-09T12:43:00.030-04:00

The Food Pyramid has been ousted as our country's go-to guide for nutrition, and Egyptian-Americans are furious. Not really, but we all felt a shot to our youth when Uncle Sam (and Michelle Obama) jettisoned the crusty, old pyramid for a shiny, new Food Plate.

For many years, we Americans have relied on the Food Pyramid to help us gauge how much of certain foods we should be consuming every day. While helpful to an extent, the pyramid was rife with confusion and apparently the country's leading nutritionists just couldn't take it anymore.

What confusion you may ask? Well for starters, the stupid thing was meant to be an educational tool yet was counter-intuitive to what we know about pyramids. Usually a pyramid model stresses working one's way to the top, e.g. Maslow's Heirarchy of Needs. Old Maslow must've been doing somersaults in his coffin when the Food Pyramid was introduced, placing Fats, Oils, and Sweets at the top. And wouldn't you know it, we Americans are reaching for the Doritos bag and Butterfingers far more frequently than for those leafy greens.

No doubt nutritionists have developed twitches over other subtleties of the derelict pyramid, such as an entire chicken pictured as a possible serving of protein (cue John Belushi), and the tomato embarrassingly positioned amongst vegetables while we all know (though not sure why) it's a fruit. Perhaps the final brick that felled the pyramid was the recommended 11 servings of carbohydrates, which only works for Michael Phelps and Italians.

Which leads me to my beef with "food icons" in general. People come in all shapes, sizes, and health statuses, and thus have unique nutritional needs. Now look at the food plate. Not one space devoted to fats and sweets. Are you supposed to tell me I can't enjoy a helping of bacon and sugar from time to time? And one little cup for dairy? As if. Why would they invent cheese wheels if you weren't supposed to eat the whole thing?

To prove my point, below I've prepared the food plates of some very different individuals, who I believe would also scoff at the "healthy suggestions" offered by the new food icon. I'm sure I missed some people, so add yours in the comments section below!

Don't Worry. Be Happy. Move to North Korea.

2011-06-06T13:08:00.021-04:00

How does one measure happiness? Ask the North Koreans, who seemed to have figured it out.

This past week our fine friends in the Far East published (kind of) their Global Happiness Index, ranking all of the world's countries (presumably) by way of happiness (potentially subjective). The list was ranked from 1 to 203 and included all but 196 of the countries ranked. While apparently many unimportant and unlisted countries are wallowing in despair, the Top 5 countries are basking in their own Utopian glow.

According to the list, China is the world's happiest country, edging out North Korea and its hedonistic paradise. Third place was Cuba (duh) and Iran and Venezuela, two paragons of free hugs and unceasing jubilee, rounded out the Top 5. The only other countries listed were South Korea, who just missed the Top 150 (shucks), and United States of America, who sadly ranked last in terms of happiness. Gosh, I would've thought we'd be cheerier than at least one Balkan state.

While my brains are positively scrambling to discover a trend here, some quotes have surfaced on the Internet recently to give us clues as to why folks in the Top 5 Happiest Countries just can't help smiling.

#1 China, Li Chung- "I am skipping with joy. Just yesterday I received a letter from our powers-that-be telling me I could not have any more children. Boy is that a relief, we just don't have any yen left. Also, my gymnastics tryout for the Olympics has been wonderfully challenging and fun. Today we were instructed to stand on the balance beam until our coach returned from his vacation in London. I'm so giddy I could giggle, but coach said I can't do that either. So just know, I'm all glowing on the inside."

#2 North Korea, Ji Nam-Ho- "I am so happy. In my town, I like to take walks on days when the air is clear of mind-altering inhalants. I stroll past the bomb depots and armed guards to the town square, where I get to wave our flag and sing patriotic tunes for nine hours. At nighttime, I enjoy turning on the television and tuning in to our one channel that our government so graciously provides and operates. Just last night we watched our boys win the World Cup. Again. What can I say, we are the best."

#3 Cuba, Pedro Montoya- "Hahahahaha! Sorry but I can't contain my mirth. This place is awesome; best beaches in the world. In the middle of the night, half my town goes down to the shore and starts building rafts together. Once the rafts are built, everyone piles on and heads north! The middle of the ocean is so beautiful at night. Those monstrous fish with the really sharp teeth try to jump on to our rafts because, huhhuh, I think they want to head north too! We spend the rest of our excursion on an American cruise vessel (we call it the SS I.C.E), who gives us a ride back home in style. Next week, we get to do it all over again. Yippee!"

#4 Iran, Abu el-Sharif- Love this place. Wearing 18 layers of clothes in the desert gets me excited. My eyes are sunburned shut, which is a good thing as it helps me sleep through the night's random gunfire. Looking forward to this weekend as our family is taking a trip to the mountains. Of course when we get there, we'll have to turn right back around; our camels aren't as fleet-footed as they used to be. The trek home should be sublime, as we take in our country's wondrous landscape with its shiny, brand-new nuclear missile facilities. What a view. What- a- View.

#5 Venezuela, Angelina Sosa- Getting pumped for the next coup!

Can't You Read the Signs? (Southern Fried Road Trip Part II)

2011-05-26T12:28:00.014-04:00

"Signs, signs, everywhere signs. Blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind. Do this, don't do that, can't you read the signs?"

When the Five Man Electric Band penned this song, they were speakin' truth. Signs inform us, agitate us, disgust us, and make us laugh. The only reason signs exist is because there aren't enough people in the world to always be where something needs to be communicated. A sign is an extention of the person who made it, and that person may be sane, or riduculous, or has alterior motives altogether (think advertising).

For me, the best signs are the ones that are purposed to inform but in fact entertain. And we witnessed plenty of entertaining signs on our Southern Fried Road Trip. Here are my favorites:

Big and Tall Men's Store Signs

First of all, I totally understand why this would make a good billboard (or 20) off the highway. Big and tall stores are not easy to find and this could be an exciting find for a vertically gifted guy, especially one on a long road trip who had no clothes packed and was driving half-naked because of the lack of Big and Tall stores in his community. But one of the billboards advertising this particular store made me do a double-take. The sign read, "Big and Tall Men's Store- Shorter Men's Clothing Too!".

Well at 6 feet tall, apparently I'm the only kind of man that can't enter this particular store. Now if I could put myself in a short man's little shoes for a second, I'd surmise a Big-and-Tall Store is not the place I'd look for a nice pair of slacks. You'd be sized up (not in a good way) the second you sheepishly walked through the door. "Look honey, we got a wee-fella." No short dude wants that. I'd imagine the conversation with the sales guy would go something like this:

"Yes, I'm in the market for a suit."

"Well, you came to the right place. How tall are ya, sport?"

"I'm 5'5"."

"Okie-dokie. Most of the clothes here are for giants that can't go to regular stores that serve people like yourself. But we do have a very tiny section over here for your kind. Of course, all the suits are green and come with a little hat and a shillelagh. Oh and watch out for Colossus while you're over there. He might mistake you for a lollypop and devour you."

Public Bathing

Center-stage of City Market in Savannah displays a multi-spouted fountain that is typically enjoyed by fun-seeking children. There is also a sign nearby that reads, Fountain Rules: Rule #1- Unattended Solo Bathing Prohibited. What an odd and perplexing sign!

Does it mean that I can bathe in the fountain as long as I'm not by myself? It's okay officer, I was bathing in the fountain with my wife.

Does it mean that I can bathe in the founatin as long as someone else is present? It's okay officer, I brought my buddy Steve so he could watch me bathe in the fountain.

As I interpret the sign, we could have a party in that fountain and bathe 'til the sun goes down. Sorry officer, you just missed the guy who was here before. With nothing in his possession but some Dial and a loofa, he bathed by himself while unattended.

Not that you could charge him anyway, seeing as how he's clean.

Gettin' Wiggy With It

As we traveled home on a lengthy, boring stretch of highway, my eyes were peppered with numerous unsightly billboards in sequence advertising a Wig Store. Now some stores off the highway make sense. Look no further than Cracker Barrel's, Fireworks Outlets, and the aforementioned Big and Tall Store. But who the heck travels down the road and realizes they're in need of a wig?

"Ehh, pull over honey, these signs reminded me I have eight hairs left on my head and need to do something about it."

The urgent nature of the signs is equally preposterous. Stylish Wigs! EXIT NOW! Most people come to understand their need for wig over time. Who immediately needs a wig?

"Well we were comin' home from Disneyworld and suddenly, Fred lost all of his hair. And then, thank God, there was the Wig Store."

Stylish Wigs! EXIT NOW! Can't you just picture the elderly couple swerving across three lanes of traffic in their Cadallic in hopes of getting stylish?

Well, signing off.

Southern Fried Road Trip (Part 1)

2011-05-24T12:50:00.017-04:00

This past weekend my wife and I travelled south to Savannah, GA for a fabulous time in one of our nation's oldest and most picturesque cities. I'll spare you the details that you may expect to read from someone summarizing their vacation, and elaborate on a few things that made us raise our eyebrows, some things I found to be Isn't-That-Random-worthy.

Amenities My Foot

We got a deal on Priceline for a pretty nice hotel in the historic district. The thing about nice hotels is they make you pay for everything. It's the frugal man's worst nightmare. When we arrived I asked if they had a business room where we could use the Internet. The lady at the front desk said we would need to pay $5 to access the room. The only way that would be a good deal is if I sequestered myself in that room for the entire weekend, which wasn't worth it because then I wouldn't get to see the bench Forrest Gump sat on, which would subsequently ruin the purpose of this entire trip.

When we got to our room, we realized we were quite parched from the long drive. My wife almost made the egregious mistake of opening up the bottle of Aquafina sitting on the table. That would've cost us $6. Six hundred cents for a bottle of freekin' water? The only time I'd take that deal is if I were in the middle of the Sahara desert and vultures were pitching tents ahead of me. No aqua is fina enough to warrant that ridiculousness.

Culinary Delights, Mostly

A top priority for us was endulging in some exquisite southern cuisine, as this is one of the city's great boasts. We had some delicious meals, not the least of which was at Paula Deen's Lady and Sons. The restaurant serves a mouth-watering buffet, replete with delectable down-home treats that included savory fried chicken, melt-in-your-mouth mac and cheese, and the best pork hock collard greens you've ever eaten. And then there was the catfish.

To be sure, the catfish was still good. After all, it was cooked up by one of world's most renowned chefs (she was probably in the kitchen that night, right?). But I've come to realize that a catfish can only be so good. While other more glorious races of its finned brethren such as tuna, wahoo, and swordfish grace the cold ocean waters, most catfish spend the majority of their time at the base of muddy lakes feeding on God-knows-what. There's nothing sexy about the catfish. Their defining characteristic is big ugly whiskers. While the salmon may be the Adonis of the fish family, the catfish is more like its dirty Grandpa. I mean, if fish were at the top of the food chain, you think they'd put him on a buffet?

"Hey, there's my dirty Grandpa. He's been drinking whiskey and chewing Skoal Bandit all day. And that's either remnants of pig's feet or chitlins in the whiskers of his beard. Okay, let's eat him."

No thank you. By the way, this is why they usually fry catfish. Deep-fat frying can mask the taste of anything. But, I still wouldn't try it with your Grandpa.

Ghost Hunting

On Saturday night, we dared to get spooked by going on a Haunting Tour, led by longtime Savannah native Robert Edgerly. It was great fun, even if my wife hasn't slept for the last 72 hours. One thing our tour guide encouraged often was snapping photographs of the ghosts. What was funny was his storytelling was so efficacious all of us turned into nine-year olds and managed to find something in every picture we took. Like children seeking affirmation from their father, we repeatedly shared our snapshots with Robert, asking him "is that a ghost?". Well, the guide's one job was to convince us the town has ghosts! What's he gonna say- "Nah, that ain't a ghost you idiot, it's a trashcan." Of course it's a ghost! Now there were a couple times where he politely said, "I'm sorry, I don't have my glasses, I can't see that" which I translated as, "I'm sorry sir but that picture is so dark you might want to check if the lens is still on." Anyway, we did get some great pictures of ghosts. Unfortunately, they were of the variety of ones you cannot see. I'll try harder next time.

Tune in next week for Part II, where I'll bring to light some signs I saw on our trip that I couldn't believe actually existed!

Pete and the Mermaids

2011-05-16T22:05:00.004-04:00

"Tell me what's been bothering you lately," said the psychiatrist.

Pete hesitated and stared at his shoes. "Well, it's complicated."

"Okay, maybe try starting from the beginning and just talk it out."

"Alright. Well, I have a phobia that I can't shake," Pete muttered nervously. The shrink urged him on with a nod.

"I'm afraid that when I'm eating all of those butter sticks, the mermaids will attack me."

"Wait, uhh, you eat a whole butter stick in one sitting?", the psychiatrist asked, perplexed.

"No, of course not...usually I eat three or four."

"Oh, alright, and the mermaids don't like that?"

"Who said anything about mermaids?", Pete fired back indignantly.

"You did, Pete. You said they would attack you."

"Ha!", Pete snickered. "That's preposterous. Mermaids are the least aggressive species in my kitchen. If a mermaid came after me I'd tie her up and sell her to Long John Silver."

"Okay, so you do have mermaids in your kitchen?"

Pete looked at his shrink dumbfounded. "Uhh, who doesn't? C'mon, you're a doctor and you're smarter than that."

"I don't have mermaids in my kitchen", she retorted matter-of-factly.

Pete smacked his hand on his forehead. His frustration had reached its zenith. He began to fumble around in his coat pocket and proceeded to pull out a soggy stick of lukewarm butter. He stared his shrink in the eyes and began to devour the butter stick like a candy bar.

The psychiatrist continued, "Pete, I'm trying to help you. It's obvious you have some issues you need to deal with. I'd like for you to work with me, and you can start by putting away that disgusting butter stick."

Pete's face dropped like an anvil. He coiled up on the couch like a snake and wiped a big smear of butter off his cheek with his sleeve. "Hey you stay in your chair you crazy mermaid, I don't want any trouble."

Go Ahead, Make Yourself at...Work?

2011-05-09T12:11:00.013-04:00

It has been said that "home is where the heart is". Unless you work a 50 to 60 hour work week. Then home is where your dog is. Your heart is at the office, and thus the pervading thought is, why not make work like my home?

Of course, there are problems with this. Professionalism and domestic behavior are polar opposites, like tailored slacks and tattered jorts. As much as I'd like to prop my Bortelli loafers up on my desk and eat Cheetos in my underwear, I don't think I could get away with that in a corporate setting, unless I worked in a really hot Cheetos factory.

Nevertheless, employees just can't help taking home and work life and sandwiching them together like peanut-butter and jelly. Unfortunately for our workplaces, this sandwich looks and tastes more like ketchup and liverwurst. Merging these worlds would be fine if we were all sane and reasonable, but the reality is the lot of us are clueless to seemingly not-so-implicit boundaries that exist in our occupational lives. And as the insatiable urge for acting like the office is the home cannot be stopped, I've taken it upon myself to be more explicit and lay a few ground rules for the inevitable collision of these worlds. These rules won't save your life or even your job, but in the least you may jettison your reputation of being the Cheetos-and-Underpants Guy. This is my hope for all of us.

Let's start in the break room where- let's be honest- we all feel like we can be ourselves. It's time to take a short sabbatical from your morning monotony and yuck it up with your fellow colleagues while enjoying your lunch of leftovers, right? WRONG! Leftovers in the break room should be consumed with extreme caution. It's time to expose the guilty parties. Our first offender is the Warming-Up-My-Leftover-Fish Girl. Leftover fish has no place in a break room. No one likes the smell of fish except sailors and other fish who are bigger and hungry. And once that fish hits the microwave, you might as well pull the fire alarm as well, because it is time to evacuate the premises. I am trying to enjoy my pizza slice in peace when all of the sudden I feel like I've been swept into an episode of Deadliest Catch. Making your colleagues seasick so you can enjoy your musty rank tuna fish is unacceptable.

Worse still is Eating-My-Leftover-Ribs guy. If you take ribs to work, eat them in the solitude of your own office with the door shut. No one wants to try to swallow their yogurt while watching you voraciously cram the left side of a pig down your gullet. In five swift minutes you have taken your reputation as Well Polished Andy and exchanged it for Hannibal the Cannibal. If we wanted to watch flesh being ripped off bones while we ate we'd go see African Cats over a bag of popcorn. Talking and chortling whilst sucking bones with a sauce-face and pretending you look normal is a surefire way to lose work-friends fast.

After all those ribs, it's only natural to want to brush your teeth. Brushing teeth at work is fine as long as you stay classy. There should be no parading around of any sort, as if you are proud of your overachievements in dental hygiene (Look-I'm-Brushing-My-Teeth Guy). I don't need to see your toothbrush outside of the restroom. I especially don't need to see it hanging out of your mouth on the way to the restroom. At that point you might as well slip on your bathrobe and big bunny slippers and make me some freakin' pancakes.

And we can't forget Pin-Everything-Humanly-Possible-to- Cubicle- Wall Person. I understand the desire to have a little space devoted to your loved ones while at work. But making a familial shrine out of your 100 square feet is another thing entirely. Nothing says "I'd rather not be here" like your workspace including 84 pictures of your cats, as if you were putting a collage together for National Geographic. Or maybe you are a sports nut who loves to pin up clippings and pennants of your favorite team! That's great until your cube is recognized by the Baseball Hall of Fame and you have to start charging your colleagues to see you. Advice to those who want to make your cube like home: pick four great pictures, one cool poster (not the one of David Lee Roth grabbing his crotch) and learn to appreciate a little gray space.

The reason we must be vigilant and not appear too comfortable in our make-work-home mentality is that our attempts at diversion from corporate life are obvious. Think of the flip-side; no one is bringing their work life into their home. We don't set up crappy fax machines in our house because we miss the feeling of being infuriated. We don't create pie charts before bed so that we can dream of four hour meetings. And we certainly don't brush our teeth. Stupid.

So the next time you think about integrating your domestic behavior into your professional milieu, just remember Big Brother is watching, and he really doesn't like the smell of your nuked-up fish dish.

5 Things You Can't Do at a Low-Budget Theater

2011-04-27T12:51:00.032-04:00

We all love going to the movies don't we? If you don't, I suggest you stop reading this blog post immediately and finish eating dinner with your cat (why am I always hating on cats and their owners?). Okay, so most of us love going to the movies. What's not to like about sitting in a comfy chair, snarfing down copious quantities of junk food and having something entertain you for two hours (or eight if you are watching a Peter Jackson film)?

Oh, I know what's not to like. How about having to initiate a wire transfer from a Swiss bank account to get a ticket! Sheesh, forget buying popcorn and soda when I get there. To afford a movie I'll have to go hungry for a week, feed the baby one measly bean, and encourage my beagle to ramp up her coprophagous predilections for devouring her own yard-poo.

At least some people get a discount, meaning they do not have to squeegee others' windshields downtown the next day during their lunch break. Seriously, buying a movie ticket is the one moment in my life where I wish I was either a toddler or elderly. Only they can afford it.

Which is why low budget theaters are so appealing.

In Raleigh, we have a theater that shows movies for $1.50. I know, that's like Mayberry stuff. The catch is the movies have been out for awhile and are no longer playing in the main theaters. They just got The Sixth Sense last week. Cannot wait to see what all the hype was about!

The other catch is that low budget theaters can offer amazing value because they operate at levels that push the boundaries of municipal sanitation law and rival the maintenance detail of a Siberian gulag. And that is okay. Because they are giving their customers the most outstanding deal in town. As long as you can withstand the break-room-banter about movies that have just come out but you won't see for another three months and are good at nodding your head and saying "yeah, that sounds funny", then low budget theaters are the place for you! But before you go, let's review the tacit rules in place that will keep you grateful during your budget bonanza. Here are the Five Things You Can't Do at a Low Budget Theater.

5. YOU CAN'T Pay with a Credit Card- Merchants get charged every time they have to swipe plastic for payment. And in charging only a buck and two quarters their profit margin is already smaller than Vern Troyer. Pay in cash instead, and experience the thrill of actually using one dollar bills! It's really hard to buy stuff these days where Washingtons will suffice. Most things worth buying are at least $10. Lots of things are less than $20 though, if you think about it. It's why we need a $15 bill. It would be perfect. Slap a modern day American hero on it like Dick Cheney. These are the things I would be bringing to the table if I had any power.

4. YOU CAN'T Complain- You're making a great date out of $3.00. That is unheard of, unless you dated in the '50s or you're going out with Ebenezer Scrooge. And that can't be so because I'm fairly certain he's dead and absolutely certain he's fictional. So when you arrive at the low budget theater, expect the worst, because you deserve it. The staff could pelt you with Jujubes and call your girlfriend "Chewbacca", and you're still getting an amazing experience for the price. It would be easy to complain about the unkempt facilities, particularly the restroom. Just take one step in and the stench of urine hits you in the face like you are in fact the toilet. It actually makes you think, "should I just pee here on the floor"? After all, it seems that's what everyone else has been doing. And don't expect soap for sanitizing or a paper towel for drying your hands. Just the obligatory faucet and hand wetting that will make your buddy a little less queasy when mid-movie you thrust your paws into his popcorn bag.

3. YOU CAN'T Get a Bad Seat- At a low budget theater, all seats are equal. No matter where you ensconce yourself, you will still be able to hear the loud dude making sure everyone knows he owns a cell phone and has a girlfriend who is unhappy with him, presumably because seeing another Nick Cage film ain't exactly her cup o' tea. And no need to change rows to "see" better; it's the screen that's out of focus, not your eyeballs. It's best not to get attached to your seat either. Once the mischievous 6th grader pulls the fire alarm and everyone has to exit the theater (which literally happened to us while watching Poseidon as tidal wave was hitting the ship), it's a doggone free-for-all once you reenter the theater.

2. YOU CAN'T Take Seriously the Slides that Show Before Previews- They are so dumb, you can feel yourself getting stupider. It's either some useless trivia, or trivial quote that's meant to be transcendent, or a reminder from the theater that you have a human brain. I don't care what Tom Hanks' childhood orthodontist's name was. I'm not going to take a Jennifer Aniston quote like, "Your life is a beach. Get sandy", and put it on my refrigerator. And I know I can't smoke in a movie theater. I'm pretty sure someone bigger than me would ask me to put it out. Which is why I bring my EZ Smoker.

1. YOU CAN'T See a Bad Movie- No matter how terrible the movie is, you wasted very few dollars going to see it, and should not begrudge your purchase. Throw your expectations of quality out the window and embrace the garbage. Whether it's the latest Big Momma installment (she gets stuck in tub and eats herself) or the epilogue to the Twilight series (the werewolves and vampires fight to the death at a Justin Bieber concert), you're still getting incredible bang for your buck.

Gotta good low-budget theater story? Share it below!

Top 10 Signs You're Not a Handyman

2011-04-24T18:53:00.015-04:00

One of a man's few admirable qualities is handiness. It's a big reason women marry us and keep us around. We may forget anniversaries, pretend that we're listening when we're not, and have complete disregard for toilet seat etiquette, but by God we can wield a hammer. And yes we may often be disgusting but that makes us really adept at dealing with disgusting situations. Gotta mass of soapy hair in your drain? We'll unclog it. Got chicken blood and gizzards on the counter? We can dispose of it. Does your toilet resemble that of a lone stall in a Wendy's off Hwy 40? No worries, we hombres have plunging power.

For some men however, being a handyman comes about as naturally as learning how to properly hug a cobra snake. I am nearly 30 years old and have no shortage of "man stuff" that I'm supposed to do well but in fact suck at. Last weekend I had an epiphany while building a vegetable garden that some dudes are really good at that kinda crap while other dudes (like me) are more suited for constructing a plate of nachos or fixing a milkshake.

So, I now present the Top 10 Signs You're Not a Handyman.

10. Your wife applauds and rubs your back after you successfully hammer a nail.

9. You'd rather juggle kitchen knives than be forced to use a circular saw.

8. Every step of a project ends by you saying "that's good enough" or "well, can't change it now".

7. You find yourself wishing that there was an instruction manual for your instruction manual.

6. When your wife asks you to fix something, you ask "how broken is it?".

5. When given the typical time to complete a project you multiply that number by seven.

4. When someone at Lowe's asks if they can help you, you actually say "yes" and then follow up with an idiotic question.

3. When someone gives you tools as a gift you remark, "thank you, my neighbor will really enjoy these".

2. A "troubleshooting tip" asks when you last changed the oil which in fact prompts the revelation that your machine uses oil.

1. You ask someone how to do something in hopes they'll offer to help you, with higher hopes they'll actually do it for you.

Have a Star Named After You! (kind of)

2011-04-18T15:22:00.015-04:00

Gifts. Who doesn’t like to receive them? Especially from their loved ones? Well, I guess there are two kinds of gifts we can give to someone we love, i.e. good gifts and bad gifts. Good gifts may include an iPod, spa treatment, or tickets to a ballgame. Bad gifts may include sweat suits, dried fruit candy, and various appliances that encourage our lady to clean more. Then there is the strange gift that looks like a good one but is in fact pretty bad.

In this case, look no further than getting your mate a star named after them.

First of all, I am not making this up. The International Star Registry (ISR) is a company who has been selling naming rights to stars since 1979 (no doubt spawned by the mass star-mania that had swept the nation at the time). Star Wars had recently come out, Carl Sagan’s Cosmos was soon to be broadcast, and even James Bond ventured into the celestial realm to shoot lasers at baddies and join the 100-mile high club (Moonraker). If you still don’t believe this is an actual business, you may view the infomercial here, hosted by a trustworthy fellow named Rocky Mozell. Sounds like a soldier from the Corleone crime family. “Hey, I’m Rocky Mozell, you wanna buy a star or sumptin’ or should I break ya freakin’ face?”

And it does appear Rocky has a gift for at selling stars. Since 1979, the Star Registry has sold naming rights to hundreds of thousands of stars. The video boasts that their list of satisfied customers includes "celebrities, dignitaries, royalty, and individuals just like you". Basically, people who are important and YOU, LOSER!

ISR is obviously marketing to encourage guys to put their girl’s name on a star. While this is a slightly better idea than tattooing a girl’s name to your arm, I wouldn’t put it in the category of the most romantic gift they’ll ever receive. Most-romantic-gift-ever-category includes retreats to utopian paradises, diamond jewelry, and any Hallmark card with a poem that begins on the front but doesn’t stop there. Those are things you can touch and experience. What’s the good in receiving a massive, luminous ball of plasma held together by gravity that you can’t hold or even use?

The gift of naming a star costs $54. For that kind of money a man can buy his woman a dozen roses, a box of chocolates, and a respectable Admiral’s Feast at the Red Lobster. If only $54 was the actual price of the star-naming. Let’s add $500 for the not-so-cheapo telescope you will have to purchase just so she can actually see the gift you bought her!

But wait- there’s more! The bad gift gets worse! On the infomercial, we are told the name is recorded in the ISR. They also tell you (in an infinitesimal disclosure) that the name is not recognized by the scientific community! Bummer! Instead of the star truly being named after you, it is simply recorded in the “Astronomical Catalogue”, the creation of a multi-million dollar business that has found the secret to everlasting solvency and profitability- selling products (which they don't even own!) that are as unlimited as… the stars in the sky! Wow, makes me want to go start a business of granting naming rights to grains of sand.

Naming a star after someone is branded by ISR as “a gift that lasts as long as your love”. I fear how long that love can last after breaking the news to your lady that you dropped $50 so she would forever have her name listed in a big book, with hundreds of thousands of other people, who all share the common plight of having to remember the antics of their ridiculous ex-boyfriends.

I’m simply struggling to imagine how a guy can sell this as a romantic gift for his girl!

Hey baby. See that star right there? The one above, below, beside, and between all the other ones? No? Anyway, that’s Sally….Kiss me, Sally.

Things I Don't Get 2.0

2011-04-07T13:03:00.018-04:00

Here are some things I don’t get:

Romantic Living Room Picnics- Oftentimes I run across an article about romantic things to do for your wife or girlfriend. No idea is stupider than the romantic living room picnic. We guys are supposed to make a meal, set up a nice blanket in the living room, and eat our food on the floor. What a stellar suggestion. Instead of going outside, enjoying the sun, and eating in an environment without chairs, we choose to stay inside, not sit in chairs that are readily available, and still eat crappy sandwiches. As Ron Burgundy would say, “That’s just dumb.”

The Everything Bagel- It’s simply too much. The flavor is overpowering. You know why? Because it tastes like everything! When has that ever been a good thing?

"Hey Phil, what kind of sandwich you have there?"

"Oh, it’s a peanut butter and jelly ham and cheese tuna fish on rye, wheat, pumpernickel bread bagel sub."

I’m guilty. I’ve ordered the Everything Bagel. You ever looked closely at one? The irony is nothing is recognizable on the Everything Bagel. It looks like someone dropped a plain bagel on the kitchen floor. That would make sense too, because nothing on the Everything Bagel seems to stay on it. Ever noticed the last bite of your Everything Bagel? Everything is on your lap and you are eating a plain bagel! Uh-huh.

At the end of the day The Everything Bagel defies logic. How can you order anything to go on your Everything Bagel?

What’s that? You want cream cheese? Sorry sir, this bagel already has everything. If the 9 million ingredients already present do not satisfy you, by God nothing will.

“Do Not Consume Raw Cookie Dough” Labels- Got a package of chocolate chip cookie dough the other day. On the package it says “do not consume raw cookie dough”. Okay. How about don’t sell me cookie dough. It’s chocolate chips, sugar, and dough. It’s delicious. Why even bother with the cookies? It’s just one more unnecessary step keeping me from consuming doughy goodness. In fact, Pillsbury should start selling cookies that when cooked melt into dough balls.

Yes, we’d be fatter. But we’d be happier too.

Let's Talk Trash

2011-03-31T13:34:00.017-04:00

You know, garbage is pretty funny if you really think about it. I mean, everything we own is garbage. It’s simply a matter of time. It’s not technically garbage yet, but it will be will as soon as we condemn it to the nearest receptacle.

My new computer= Garbage, 2020

My refrigerator= Garbage, 2013

My EZ Smoker stock certificates= Garbage, any day now

There’s even stuff in my house that’s garbage right now. I just haven’t made it official. We are so lazy with disposing of our refuse. You ever noticed some obvious trash sitting around in your house and thought “Hmm, should I do something with that trash?”, only to go right back to watching The Price is Right? It's okay, we all have. Sometimes doing something with our trash is worse than actual trash.

The big decision when it comes to your junk is if you can manage to have men come pick it for you, of if you have to make a special trip to the dump. The decision really boils down to two variables; is my piece of crap so big it will not fit in the big garbage can, or could it potentially break the dumptruck? These have been the deciding factors for me.

But none of us want to make that dreaded trip to the dump, do we? First of all, it is such an inconvenience to go further than a few feet to dispose of our trash. To load up our cars with trash and drive somewhere with it is a depressing annoyance that is hard to bear. Especially if we never go to the dump. Personally, I’m intimidated by the dump. If my stuff gets rejected there, where else can it go? I’ll have to bear the shame and face my neighbors, as they shake their heads in disgust when I haul the garbage back onto my property.

I do feel almost clueless when I pull up to the dump. You see, the dump is complex in its simplicity. Just a couple of massive bins of rubbish. What’s clear about the bins is that there is one that everyone is throwing everything in, another that appears to have a lot of crap in it but no one is using, and another small one for cardstock (whatever the heck that is).

So naturally, I start dumping all of my crap into the “Everything Goes According to Me!” bin. I love watching my stuff cascade into the rubble, oftentimes exploding or shattering. Nothing confirms you owned a piece of crap like observing its effortless destruction with a measly ten foot fall. This is a much more enjoyable way of disposing of junk. If I tossed a TV out of my window into my yard, it would be frowned upon. Not here at the dump. We all destroy things together.

So there is a lone neon-garbed garbage dude (presumably in charge of this operation) sitting in reasonable proximity to the bins, talking on the phone, with his eyes closed. Meanwhile, my dumping is becoming more intrepid with each passing heave-ho. Items have passed through the “dump filter” that I didn’t think stood a chance. The garbage dude couldn’t seem to care less about what I’m chucking in the “everything” bin. I swear I could pull up a van full of bodies and he wouldn’t take notice. And just as I’m about to throw in my last piece (a rod iron table), garbage dude nails me!

“Whoa, whoa, now man. Dat iron cain’t go in dere.”

What?! How did you do that? This guy has been around trash so long he can distinguish the the gnarly trash from the proper trash. And apparently without even looking. That guy just smelled that iron comin' off my car. Impressive.

Well, time to let me know if you think this post is trash.

How to Fight SPAM

2011-03-24T13:21:00.018-04:00

I love SPAM. Not because it isn’t annoying (it is). Not because it doesn’t waste my time (it does). But because I find it hysterical. The people who engineer these messages (often schemes) are likely as dumb as the folks who actually respond to them. If they are trying to come off as normal and get me to respond for whatever purpose they are seeking to accomplish, they are doing a horrible job! For instance, this week I received I mysterious message in my inbox at work. This is how it read:

Hi,

I just wanted to remind you about the meeting we have scheduled next week. Do let me know if you have any questions!

Best wishes,

Miss Alanna

The first thing that struck me as odd was that I did not have any particular meetings scheduled next week. This message perhaps works for people that have so many meetings scheduled they cannot in fact remember whom they are meeting with.

Which brings me to the least effective closing this person could’ve used in an email or letter. To end with “best wishes” invalidates anything that has been said previously! Normal people do not sign “best wishes”. That is for movie stars and ball players. I am not seven years old anymore. Is our meeting a play date? Are you coming over to my house so we can watch Romper-Room and eat paste? Furthermore, what wishes could be accomplished in the brief period of time between this email and our meeting?! I don’t have a birthday this week to blow out any candles. I don’t have time to rub all the lamps in my house to see if there’s a genie. What amazing thing could happen in the next week that I’ve always wished for?!

“Sorry I can’t make our meeting, the Dallas Cowboys picked me up Sunday and I’m reporting to camp tomorrow.”

And where to begin with this name “Miss Alanna”? Did you really try and think of the most fraudulent sounding name possible? The only folks who refer to themselves as “Miss” anymore are debutantes and beauty pageant contestants, and if that’s the case, I doubt you and I have any business to conduct together. I mean, are we meeting to discuss world peace? Do you have a bikini you want my opinion on or would you like me to critique your flute skills?

And that name “Alanna”. They could have picked any name out there, and they chose Alanna? If you want to get some responses, plug in “John” or “Pete” or “Alice”. Not Alanna. That is not even a name. Alanna sounds more like a character on Street Fighter or a rare breed of gazelle. No one knows an Alanna. That "name" is not even capable of being pronounced. As you read this, you are wondering how to actually say this "name". And you are probably wrong, because again, it is not a name.

So anyway, I just had to respond to Miss Alanna. After all, if you can’t have fun with SPAMers, then they are simply relegated to tiny little people who can give you big people problems. Here was my response:

Dear Miss Alanna,

So glad to have never have heard from you. About our meeting next week. Yeah, I have a few questions.

For starters, since we never scheduled a meeting, I wondered what our meeting may be about? Most meetings also require a time and place, unless you would like for me to just show up somewhere at some time and hope you are there.

Also, what would you like the meeting to be about? Perhaps we can discuss things that interest you. Let me guess; Identity theft? How to get rich right now by doing next to nothing? Acquiring a certain pill that will do a certain something? You know what I’m talking about.

Well yes, I’d appreciate discussing all of those things. But I am just all tied up next week trying to figure out who the hell you are.

Bon voyage,

Lt. Col. Pedro Van Kaliyaperumal

Pirates of the Caribbean 4- Coming to an Interpreter Near You!

2011-03-17T13:26:00.016-04:00

The excitement is palpable for Disney’s latest installment of its “Pirates” series, set to hit theatres this summer. Unfortunately I don’t share the enthusiasm. Usually when the third or fourth movie comes out in a particular series, viewers have relatively grasped the storyline and have an idea of what to expect in the new flick. With "Pirates", I don’t have a freakin’ clue.

Does anyone? Can any of you out there come even close to telling me what happened in the first three movies? I remember only a few things. For one, the movies were fun to watch. I also remember there being a monkey and a dude with an octopus beard. That’s about it.

What’s crazy about these movies being so successful is that they are nearly impossible to understand. Why? Because the dialogue is mostly unintelligible garbled pirate-talk. Forget the lovable lexicon we’ve come to expect from pirates, the “arrrr’s” and the “shiver-me-timbers”. These pirates need subtitles for their gibberish. First of all, you have Johnny Depp’s iconic Jack Sparrow, who seems kind of gay and kind of drunk and often mumbles out of the side of his mouth with his head half-turned. Good luck deciphering speech there. I swear even at crucial moments in the movie, when the camera would zoom in on Sparrow so much that I could see his nostril hairs, we’d expect something poignant and dramatic, only to get a squinty, wobbling Sparrow to say, “Gobble man 'em straight. To Amba, the moomummumm,” followed by a burp. Thanks, Jack.

Most of the other pirates with major speaking roles don’t have a human face. One guy has the head of a squid, another a crab, another a hammerhead shark. Add to that a pirate accent, whilst sword fighting, and bombs exploding all around and you have the recipe for completely nonsensical verbiage.

Good luck understanding this guy.

Ahh, and lest we forget Tia Dalma, the voodoo witch doctor who could be mistaken for Bob Marley on serious crack or Busta Rhymes after trying to smoke his charcoal grill. When I’m watching the movie, I know Tia Dalma is saying something important, whether it’s delivering some mysterious prophesy or divulging some invaluable wisdom to her subject. But all I hear is, “Obiah right bwoy Jack Sparrow vin de way cum clout now to de sea one time Lord-a-mercy.” Thanks Tia. Some help you have been for this sad soul trying to hopelessly interpret this apparent cinematic masterpiece that I fear a six year old has a better understanding of. Why don’t you just go back to eating snakes and listening to Peter Tosh in your shanty?

So to conclude, when Pirates of the Caribbean 4: On Stranger Tides comes out this May, I will probably go see it. I’m just hoping there will be a lot more scenes with the monkey. That I can understand.

Top 10 Reasons I Quit Cable

2011-03-10T13:12:00.013-05:00

After back-to-back blog posts regarding smoking and drinking, I thought I’d discuss something else America is addicted to: television.

Oh, but not me. I turned off the cable two weeks ago and I haven’t looked back. In fact, I haven’t looked at much of anything recently. Not only do I have nothing better to do, I have nothing to do. So I just go to bed right after dinner. Less informed but sleeping like a freaking baby. Well, more like a rock, because I’ve noticed since becoming a dad that sometimes babies aren’t exemplary sleepers. Of course, neither are rocks. They are inanimate. Hmmm. Maybe I should simply say I have been sleeping like an ordinary human with nothing to do after 7:30 pm is supposed to sleep. Well, all of this is a joke anyway, so who cares? You didn’t actually think I’d been sleeping for 10 hours a night, did you?

Okay, I’m horribly off-topic. So here are the top 10 reasons (there are plenty more than that) I quit cable:

10. Tired of getting sucked in to watching four straight hours of the National Spelling Bee.

9. When Animal Planet is interviewing Charlie Sheen, it’s gone too far.

8. Running out of lamps to break from watching N.C. State play basketball.

7. Couldn’t flip channels anymore because watching Judge Mathis for more than half a second depressed me for the rest of the day.

6. Censoring movies is now a seamless process. I miss the days where horrible and obvious attempts to censor actually made movies funnier.

5. The 6 pm Sportscenter is two weeks away from renaming its show “Cheats and Tweets”.

4. Realized that all of the money I sent in to Benny Hinn might be going towards his dry cleaning.

3. Cesar Milan attempting to rehabilitate Lindsay Lohan was just disturbing.

2. By Oprah getting her own channel, she is one step away from ruling the entire world. Couldn’t justify my hard-earned cheddar supporting that.

1. Jack Bauer didn’t get his own channel.

Making Light of Light Beer

2011-03-02T13:23:00.008-05:00

In the good nature of my heart and in the interests of the American consumer, I’ve taken it upon myself to call out the light beer brands and their asinine marketing ploys.

While the typical beer ad comes off as quirky, witty, and cool on a superficial level, we peel back the onion to discover the utter preposterousness and hopeless desperation of these clowns. The gimmicks and gadgets, facts and features, slogans and mottos, have all gotten way out of hand. It’s time to stop believing them.

Let’s start with light beer, in general. Why do people drink light beer? The logic is it allows one to drink beer without getting fat. But since when were beer drinkers health nuts? Most of the light beer in America is consumed by 18-23 year olds at LSU football games. Those folks aren’t worried about their next physical. The other people that drink light beer are ones who enjoy beer occasionally. But if you only enjoy beer occasionally, shouldn’t you take a walk on the wild side and actually enjoy a beer with flavor?

Oh, what’s that, you like the flavor of light beer? No, you like the refreshment offered by a cold, carbonated beverage. Light beer has no flavor. And the marketers know it.

Don’t believe me? Take Coors Light. They tout their beer as “A Taste That’s as Cold as the Rockies”. Cold? A flavor?

“Hey, Jim, how does that beer taste?”

“Ummm. It’s really cold.”

“Yeah, but what is the flavor like?”

“It tastes like refreshing.”

“Okay, can you give me an analogy of its taste?”

“Yes, it tastes kind of like a half-melted ice cube. Or better yet, have you ever licked the Rocky Mountains? That’s what it tastes like. Mountains.”

And Coors isn’t simply guilty of goofy slogans. Their gimmicks are equally appalling. Take the bottle label, where the mountains turn blue when the beer is cold. That would be helpful if your hands had no sensation or you were a complete idiot. If your beer has been sitting in a refrigerator or a cooler full of ice, believe me, it’s cold. But that’s just the thing. Coors wants your beer to be ice cold. Because you can’t taste ice cold beer. When the Rockies aren’t blue the stuff tastes like yak urine. And nobody wants to shotgun that at their frat party.

And then there is Miller Light with their ingenious Vortex bottle, which enables beer to flow better and smoother out of the bottle. Amazing. Have light beer drinkers become so retarded they can no longer effectively drink bottled beer? How many beers must you consume to lose complete control of limbs and be unable to pour liquid into your head? The Vortex bottle also (allegedly) releases the beer faster. So now, instead of shotgunning a beer in 3 seconds you can do it in 2.4. What’s next? I can only gander.

“Introducing the Bud Light syringe kit! Simply pop the top, insert the needle into your vein, and start pumping alcohol directly into your bloodstream! Reaches your heart before you can say, ‘umm, now that's refreshing!’”.

And then there is the competition of creating the lightest, lowest calorie brew. First there was MJD 64. Now, Budweiser Select has laid claim to the “Lightest Beer in the World”, only 55 calories. In their ad they ask, “When can less be more?” I can think of three times. Scoring in golf, marrying women, and Paul Simon going solo. But not beer. Where will the calorie reduction end? Could they make a Bud Zero?

“Try Bud Zero. Zero calories. Zero flavor. It’s not even a beer. Just yellow bubbly water. For zeros like you.”

P.S. In the interests of full disclosure, I am indeed a beer snob and hold nothing against my light beer drinking brethren. Peace be to you and your beverage of choice.

Why You Should Quit Fake Smoking

2011-02-13T14:03:00.012-05:00

Has everyone seen the new infomercial for EZ Smoker? If not (totally worth it) watch here.

The cascade of ridiculousness in this product and its infomercial is blatantly apparent to anyone with a human brain. That is, with the exception of the poor souls who are actually buying EZ Smoker.

The ad calls it "an electronic cigarette". Join the digital age Marlboro Men. Now you can have a cigarette with no nicotine, no ashes, and no actual smoke. I know what you're thinking. Why don't I just suck on my finger? To which I reply, "yes, why don't you".

In the disclaimer, the ad mentions that "this is not a smoking cessation device". I would think not! Most people who smoke do so because they are addicted to the nicotine. With no nicotine in EZ Smoker, they'd get a better buzz off of a candy cigarette. That's it; just eat an entire pack of candy cigarettes and your sugar high will simulate the first 37 seconds into your real cigarette.

The only people who I could see buying EZ Smoker are people who think smoking makes them look cool. The irony is that EZ Smoker makes you look like a complete jackass. Did you see in the video the guy using EZ Smoker in the restaurant? He's sitting there, puffing away, and the waitress tells him he can't smoke. So he pretends to put the cigarette out on his hand. Wow, that is going to get you the ladies. Freak people out for half a second until they realize you are smoking a damn toy. While you're at it, shove the thing up your nostril and get the "smoke" to come out of your ears like a cartoon character. Or pretend to put it out on a baby. Everyone will just love you.

Other parts of this infomercial defy normal human behavior. Like the lady falling asleep in bed while smoking! Whaaaatt? Is that even possible? I'm no physician, but I don't think a jolt of nicotine to the bloodstream is a realistic recipe for snagging some instant Z's. Of course, the lady in this commercial was using EZ Smoker. She was understandably wiped after a day of trying to convince people she wasn't actually smoking in places she wasn't allowed to smoke.

And about those places. The infomercial says "you can now smoke in your home, or your office, and even restaurant or bars." Shouldn't that 'even' be in front of 'office'? There are plenty of restaurants and bars you can still smoke in. But offices? Seriously, the 60's called, they want their stereotypical work environment back. Who the heck is lighting up at work these days? Can you imagine?

"Uhh, Billy. We're in a meeting, inside the conference room, which happens to be in a building. You cannot smoke here."

"No prob bossman. This is an EZ Smoker. That smoke you see, it's just a virtually odorless vapor. That red tip, just a little light. In fact this whole device is designed to fool the masses, while coming clean if they actually ask about it, while making me feel like I'm actually smoking, while it is obvious to everyone, especially me, that I am not."

"Okay then. Could someone please punch Billy in the face?"

What do you think of EZ Smoker?

Observations from Saturn (i.e. my Saturn)

2011-02-03T13:13:00.010-05:00

When I drive, I’m not a big fan of paying attention to the road, minding stoplights, or pulling over for cops. But I do like to take in everything else that’s going on…

Street Smarts

Man are homeless guys amazing at navigating through traffic! Every morning on my commute downtown these guys are buzzin’ in and out of traffic like impecunious superheroes. Half the time they don’t even look both ways. Just start walkin’. Moseying to be exact. They are in no hurry. And why should they be? The day is a big, fat unopened oyster to them. But I swear that they don’t even need to look because they can audibly sense the exact speed and distance of an oncoming vehicle hundreds of yards away. It blows my mind. Every morning I watch these guys cross the road in front of me. I ain’t slowin’ down. They ain’t speedin’ up. And just at the precise moment where vehicular manslaughter is an absolute certainty, they casually step onto the curb without so much as a misplaced whisker. In the world of no crosswalks, well-timed jaywalks reign.

Shut Up Boss DJ

When did radio DJs get the impression we don't care to listen to the beginning of a song? It never fails that when a classic diddy with a sustained beginning starts to play, the blabbermouth butthead at the radio station has to unleash his projectile verbal diarreah on all of us, discussing the good Lord knows what until the singer on the song starts to sing. Instead of enjoying the melodious mastery of a classic rock lick intro, my ears are relegated to the DJ talking about why girls don’t like him, or what his favorite oatmeal is, or how his foot fungus makes life awkward for him at the neighborhood pool. I don’t care about the pet bird you owned when you were five, or that you saw Sasquatch enjoying a cocktail with your mother at your family’s summer cabin. I just care about the song you decided to start playing, but for some reason will not let me listen to.

Beware of the Dog

Not paying attention to the road the other day, I noticed a house with a chain linked fence around the backyard. Two things stood out about this fence. One was that there were two separate “BEWARE OF THE DOG” signs on the fence. The other was that the gate to the fence was open! Beware of the dog indeed! While your carnivorous canine is unleashing hell on the rest of the neighborhood, I’m going to your backyard where it’s safe! If you have a dog that’s worthy of two "BEWARE OF THE DOG" signs, I recommend omitting the gate. In fact, I recommend a new dog unless you’re campaigning for an appearance on the next season of Cops.

Possum Count

The other day I was driving behind someone who had several possum stickers on their rear window, as well as a possum stuffed animal inside the window. I thought; does this person understand the irony of the co-existence of a possum and an automobile? So I came to two possible conclusions. Either this individual is a sicko and places a possum figurine or sticker on their car for every one they run over, or they are the only person in the world who has an adoration for possums, whose sole contribution to the animal kingdom is roadkill. Either way, problems.

Get Back, Honky Cat!

2011-01-27T13:16:00.012-05:00

Surely you've heard the news this week that Sir Elton John and his partner, David Furnish, have adopted a baby boy. His name is Zachary Jackson Levon Furnish-John. This is disappointing as I think we were all expecting the boy to be named "Simba". The name is rather long isn't it? I think Sir Elton has been waiting for a baby so long he had to give the boy all of the names on his list. I wish I could have been there for the moment Furnish asked Sir Elton what they should name him and Elton dramatically proclaimed, "HEEEE-SHALL-BEEEE-zacharyjackson- LEEEEVON!"

Anyway, I'm not here to suggest we boycott US Weekly (you haven't already?) or to start printing "I Love My Daddies" T-Shirts. Instead, I'd like to pose a serious question. Is Sir Elton a cougar?

Now Furnish is still in his forties while Sir Elton is into his sixties and getting deeply discounted coffee at McDonald's. The age disparity does appear "cougary". After all, Furnish is a young man. Young for Sir Elton, that is. Furnish is old enough to be my dad. Sir Elton is old enough to be ZJLFJ's grandpa.

But I don't think we can call Sir Elton a cougar, can we? For one, he is not a woman. For two, he is not good looking (not that all cougars are good looking, just the ones on TV). For three, he is too old. If only there was a member of the wild cat family that would serve as an appropriate appellation for the new daddy...

Hmmmm....

I got it!

The Carolina Panther, Sir Purr!

Dream Big Willy

2011-01-20T20:23:00.009-05:00

Willy always wanted to be a mannequin.

Yes, it sounds impossible, but Willy dreamed big. Some people aspired to be actors, or professional ball payers, or swimsuit models. Not Willy. He dreamed of being an inanimate object. He knew it would not be easy. As far as he knew, no living being had actually, successfully, turned into a non-living object. That was what was so exciting. Sure, we had designed the computer, walked on the moon, and even invented string cheese. But never had we changed ourselves into a thing.

Willy had waited his whole life for this moment. JC Penny's had accepted his job application and requested an interview. This was his big chance. It was no industry secret that Penny's produced the finest mannequins in the business. Not the torsos- that's J. Crew. We're talking full-bodied six-foot mannequins. Out of New York. None of that small town Grade B plastic crap. Real mannequins that looked you in the eye and sold you whatever they were wearing.

Of course, Willy knew all of this. He wasn't stupid. He was born for this. For 10 years, he studied them. Their casual poses. Their passive-aggressive sales techniques. He had spent $1,400 just to get unblemished skin. Willy even had his nipples removed. With that level of dedication, how could he go wrong?

Willy confidently strode into the sales manager's office and sat down. The sales manager smiled and looked at Willy. "So Willy, you think you can sell some clothes, huh? Tell me, what is your greatest sales strength?"

"Consistency. I'll never lose focus. I'll never tire. I won't move a centimeter for eight hours."

The manager adjusted himself in his chair. "Well, you have to move Willy, you have to go to the customer. After all, you're not a mannequin."

The words cut Willy like a Ginzu. His eyes became heavy, welling up with tears. "But, but, my mother always said I could be anything I wanted to be."

"Well Willy, she would have never said that had she known you aspired to be a mannequin. Good day."

Dejected, Willy left the manager's office and strolled towards the exit. As he approached the escalator, he noticed a handsome mannequin, wearing a portofino blue Lacoste shirt. For a moment, he stared intently at the small, green, reptilian logo. And that's when the stroke of genius came that truly changed Willy's life forever.

"Who wants to be a mannequin when you can be an alligator."

Big Dumb Football Panels

2011-01-09T13:33:00.004-05:00

I was watching CBS's NFL Pregame Show today, and observed six guys conversing on one set. Six guys. What happened to the days when two humans who knew a lot about football could carry a show? Now it takes six experts to break down a game? It's football, not a G-8 summit, why are we making this so complicated?

The show includes James Brown (not the black guy who sings and somehow maintains the hair of an amazing white guy), Dan Marino (most noted for his performance in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective), Bill Cowher (the guy who delusional State fans think will be their team's next coach), Shannon Sharpe (the less likable of the Sharpe brothers), Boomer Esiason and current Jets linebacker Jason Taylor.

Anyway, as you can imagine, with six mouths competing to say something noteworthy in three minutes, the conversation was as jumbled as you would've expected. Here's a snipet:

Brown: What do you guys think of Joe Flacco's play so far?

Cowher: Great. He is recognizing the blitzes and finding his hot routes.

Marino: I agree. And he's also using his feet when he is rushed.

Sharpe: Yep, and he has a nice arm.

Brown: Boomer?

Esiason: Uhhh, yes. I thought we summed it up. But, for what it's worth, he's got a nice beard.

Brown: Jason?

Taylor: Flacco.

Brown: Now to the other side of the ball. What do we make of the Chiefs young defense Coach?

Cowher: Struggling a little. The Ravens are finding holes in the zone.

Marino: Absolutely, and you can see the youth in the secondary.

Sharpe: And they have some big linemen.

Brown: Boomer?

Esiason: Youthful. Big. Holes. Concur.

Brown: Jason?

Taylor: Hmmm...Playoff Football!! Oww!

Brown: Okay, time for our Rapid Fire Session, brought to you by Bank of America. Because all of our panel, in a limited amount of time, must put in their two cents. First question- What should we expect in the 2nd half?

Cowher: A lot of Ray Rice taking-

Marino: Handoffs and running down-

Sharpe: The field with-

Esiason: His pants off, I mean, reckless abandon, and-

Taylor: Sputnik.

Brown: Alright, 3o seconds. How can the Chiefs get their offense going?

Cowher: Hand it-

Marino: Off ta-

Sharpe: Whachu say? Ta? Ah-

Esiason: The-

Taylor: Blankee.

Brown: Okay, let's get everyone's last word before we're cut off by the break! Coach, go!

Cowher: The National Foot-

Marino: Hut!

Sharpe: Yofatmama!

Esiason: Ha h-

Taylor: Shi-

Mel: Oprah

Lucy: Heeey Macarena Ai-

Cameraman: Shanked it!

Ditka: Please don-

Brown: And that's gonna do it for-

A History of Failed New Year's Resolutions

2011-01-02T17:02:00.002-05:00

Having trouble sticking to your New Year's resolutions? You're not the only one. Take comfort in these famous failed resolutions:

"I will not test poison on my favorite dog." Adolf Hitler, 1945

"I will be the first man to set foot on the moon!" Buzz Aldrin, 1969

"Why make millions, when I can make billions?" M.C. Hammer, 1991

"I will not vomit on a foreign diplomat." George H.W. Bush, 1992

"I will become a better driver." Lindsay Lohan, 2007

"I will do an interesting interview." Tyler Hansbrough, 2005-2009

"I will enter the Hall of Fame with dignity." Michael Jordan, 2009

"I will not be a distraction to my team this year." Randy Moss, 2010

"I'm gonna be in a good movie." Brendan Fraser, every year.

"No more Christmas cookies starting tomorrow!" My wife Danielle, two days ago.

Surely I missed some. Feel free to add one!

The Mystery of Christmas

2010-12-22T17:07:00.009-05:00

Mystery. Not Joy. Not Hope. Not Family. Not Presents. Not Santa. Mystery, more than any word, describes Christmas. Ask 10 people what Christmas means to them and you may get 10 different answers. And most people you ask will roll their eyes to a particular side of their head and scurry back into their brain to find something to say, almost like, "I know it's profound, so give me a second". What is that? Why do we care so much about Christmas though most of us don't even really know why we care about it? Kind of a mystery.

And not only mysterious, but often downright spooky. Angels scaring the bejesus out of shepherds. Giant animate nutcrackers pirouetting to discomforting chimes. Grinches perched on a cold dark mountain devising cold dark schemes. Ancient apparitions jingle-jangling down tenebrous hallways to startle poor old geezers in the middle of the night. Home invasions, both of the legal (Santa) and illegal (Wet Bandits) variety. Mysterious indeed.

When Johnny Mathis pinned and eternally branded Christmas as "the most wonderful time of the year", he wasn't kidding. Christmas is indeed "full of wonder". Our wonders are derived from mysteries, things that may or may not be real and events that may or may not have transpired. Things that we would like to believe but leave us in serious doubt.

When young, belief and wonder were easily acceptable. When I was a boy, Santa or Rudolph or a baby Jesus were as real as the Sun and the Moon. No disputes here. And wondering about things unfathomable in fact brought great joy, hope, and laughter. While often frightening, I embraced these Christmas mysteries and allowed them to grip me with wonder and amazement.

But I am a boy no more. I am so not a boy, I have my own baby boy now. His wonder is so deep and rich it pervades every ounce of his thinking. He can stare and ruminate on a ceiling fan and crack a smile. I'm a bit envious of that. Most of my wonders, particularly the Christmas mysteries, have passed away. I know Santa (gasp!) is fictitious. His reindeer are also a farce. Nutcrackers can't come to life and ghosts most certainly do not wear loud clanky chains.

But one Christmas mystery remains alive in my heart. One mystery cannot be disproven or simply dismissed as a childhood fantasy. One mystery stands alone and beckons us to examine it with awe and wonder. It's the mysterious case of the Incarnation. God became man. In the form of a baby. Through a virgin. Hard to believe. Unless of course you follow the man's life, and see how He healed the sick, raised the dead, and caused the weather to obey Him. Oh, and He too, believed He was God. That's why he was killed, only 33 years after being that precious boy born in a barn.

So this Christmas, what shall we do with this mystery? We may either swipe it aside and categorize it as another wonderful myth (that happens to make us feel good) or we can contemplate the mystery for what it is; the one time in human history when people asked, "Where are you God?" and a humble yet authoritative rabbi answered, "I am here".

Zinedine Zidane- The Next Most Interesting Man in the World

2010-12-18T01:16:00.008-05:00

So for some time, I've been campaigning for Zinedine Zidane to be the next "Most Interesting Man in the World". For those of you who have been hibernating under a rock for the last year, this is the ad campaign currently run by Dos Equis. Now we all know that the current "Most Interesting Man in the World" is in fact, an actor. Meanwhile, Zidane is a real dude who blows the collective minds of all who attempt to comprehend him.

He is a World Cup winning footballer. He is French, but his parents are African. He is kind of bald but not really. He has perfect cheekbones, a permanent five o'clock shadow (magical), and he is better than you or me at everything. Zinedine Zidane is...the next "Most Interesting Man in the World". Here are a few things that have been said of the great "Zizou"...

When he plays football, the goal invites him in for a nightcap.

He once ordered wine, and the waiter brought him Jesus and water.

He breeds tigers because he can.

When you ask him for a photo, your camera has already taken the picture.

Once in a poker game he revealed a pair of kings; one card and himself.

His cologne sniffs him.

He won the Nobel Prize for donating an organ; and it wasn't even an important one.

He's so good looking he makes out with himself in his sleep.

He's so romantic he doesn't even need candles.

He has the right to bear arms but he'd prefer to kick your ass.

He's been known to hold outrageous parties with only himself in attendance.

French police once arrested him for the privilege of obtaining his mug shot.

He invented the soccer ball. Don't argue. He did.

His name is a poem. Look at it.

Zinedine Zidane is...the next "Most Interesting Man in the World".

Blog at the Improv

2010-12-12T00:03:00.005-05:00

Well, what do you do when you have nothing to blog about, but you need to write something to keep readership going? Well, you wing it, which is what I plan on doing the next few minutes.

Today was pretty good. I was in my pajamas until approximately 5:30 pm. It was cold, rainy, and I have a baby to take care of. No way was I gettin' outside. I did go running. Do you think about stuff when you run? Gosh knows I do, I have to. Trying to soak it all in and experience the joy of running is not possible for me.

Have you ever stopped someone mid-sneeze? You are a jerk. A sneeze is a wonderful thing. It allows you to get rid of dust, boogers, and God knows whatever else is up your nose, sometimes up to speeds of 100 mph! But no, you decide to say "bless you" right before I sneeze. Then I miss the sneeze and I'm all stuffed up. Next time say "curse you", because that's what you've done. You've ruined my life until I find a Kleenex box. Was it worth it?

Albert Haynesworth is Haynesworthless. I don't like making fun of fat people but for him, it's Haynesworth it. Uh-oh. Here comes some on-the-spot fat jokes...

Albert Haynesworth is so fat he ate his refrigerator. Yikes. Let's try again.

Albert Haynesworth is so fat, he ate his refrigerator for dinner. Umm. Still bad. Ok, deep breath, just like fatty Haynesworth.

Albert Haynesworth is so fat, refrigerators store items in him.

I'm not sure that makes sense but I'm pretty sure that is the funniest.

Bing Crosby is kind of a racist in White Christmas. He calls a Mexican guy in the movie "Cisco". That's so racist racists don't even say that anymore. But it's Bing, so we laugh and smile. What happened to the days where being a racist was endearing?

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Being a frugal, sometimes hopeless cheap-skate, I hope my kid says that to me some day.

Why do the ugly, non-human like people in the Harry Potter flicks still have British accents? Shouldn't they have their own unique accent that means nothing to us? Are they spending time conjuring up potions in a cave or enjoying frothy libations in a London pub?

Spelunking is a fun word.

Okay, I'm runnin' on empty.

Fancy Feast, Fancy Farce

2010-11-16T22:26:00.017-05:00

Fancy Feast. The greatest misnomer in the history of cat cuisine. Who are these wiseguys fooling? Your product is not fancy. You're serving it to a cat. They are always naked and get hairballs from licking themselves. Ooohh, fancy, fancy. Here comes the Duke, Patches Pitherton, finest calico in all of Brussels. Only three-piece suits and hand-carved pipes for this ostentatious feline. Smacks the dog with a white glove and poops in a spacious sandbox. C'mon, who are they kidding?

And stop it with the feast talk, okay? I have seen the container. You couldn't fit a Slim-Jim in there, much less an entire feast. True feasts are served on a large table. A Fancy Feast comes in a tin can and is generally served in a crusty, plastic bowl. Bon appetit, Monsieur Pitherton.

The commercials are laughable. Anyone ridiculous enough to serve their cat food in a crystal dish probably thinks their cat is actually having a feast. He is not. More than likely he's consuming a delectable helping of processed chicken legs in a stew of xinosacromycligobin. But what does he know? His brain is about the size of a Fancy Feast can, and we all know how big those are.

Word to you cat owners. If you really want to treat your cat to a fancy feast, let it hop up on the table at Christmas dinner and nibble on your turkey leg with you. But you probably do that already, don't you?

The McRib is Back!...Again!

2010-11-16T00:25:00.009-05:00

Here we go again. Stop the presses. Smash open your piggy bank. And head to the closest McDonald's. THE MCRIB IS BACK.

My question is, did it ever leave? Now I'm no faithful Mickey D's patron, but I'm pretty sure the McRib has been serving up heart attacks since like 1986. Apparently, like some sort of high cholesterol Houdini, the McRib is vanishing from the menu, only to reappear again. Hocus-pocus and abra-cadabra!! Just when you thought it was gone forever, this barbecued Phoenix rises from the ashes and grips the heart (literally) of America once again.

But the mystery doesn't stop there. Now that it's back, can we send in some culinary detectives to dissect just what the crap a McRib in fact is? I can tell you within .0004 seconds there are no actual ribs involved. There are ribbed edges however, which of course is a very natural part of the, ummm, animal (I think) that it comes from. Seriously, is the McRib actual food or a melted rubber glove? Or an overused dish sponge? Or the sole of a human foot?

The new commercial is just as laughable. Lots of happy people, gormandizing these presto-patties, with reckless abandon, mind you. Has America in its gluttonous pursuit of food forgotten how to efficiently consume a sandwich? If I have to watch one more person wipe the sauce off their freakin face and pretend it's endearing I'm going to McVomit.

But the thing in the McRib ad that sent me over the edge was the motto: "The Simple Joy of Obsession". I have no idea what that means. What could possibly be joyful about a McRib obsession? If you are obsessing over McRibs I pity you. My life is just way better than yours. And if you are truly finding joy in stuffing yourself stupid with McRibs, there is nothing simple about your problem. This is a serious issue that needs to be dealt with. I'm no doctor but if you eat more than one McRib a day, suffice it to say you will be dead within a couple weeks.

If you've had a McRib today, I hope you enjoyed it. But don't get too attached. The McRib will be gone soon never to return until you don't miss it again but McDonald's makes you feel like you did.

Things I Don't Get

2010-11-06T00:18:00.005-04:00

Here is the first installment of Things I Don't Get. This is a list of things I find ridiculous and so should you. If you don't find them ridiculous, you are probably either smarter than me (most likely) or have actually taken time to "get" these things, which obviously, I have not.

Things I Don't Get:

1) Non-Reactive Baking Dishes- Every time I look at a recipe to cook something it asks that I use a non-reactive baking dish. No, I'll just use a dish that gets pissed off when I pour stuff in it. How can a dish possibly react to how I am using it? What would it say? "Hey buddy, I don't do raw pig, get this crap off me and use the non-reactive baking dish!" Stupid reactive dish, stalling dinner again.

2) Scoring the Basketball- Basketball guys say this all the time. The Heat are great at scoring the basketball. It's a little superfluous, don't you think? I mean, what else would you be scoring? A chicken? Of course you're scoring the basketball. You're not playing with a watermelon. It would not be easy scoring an anvil. Let's just say "the team can score", and end it!

3) Weekend Shooting Parties- Boy do I sometimes wish I was a rich, handsome prince. Apparently Prince William and his sweetheart Kate Middleton spent time at Birkhall, the Queen's Scottish estate, for a "weekend shooting party" with friends. How it's possible any of these things can coexist blows my boring, uncool, middle-class American mind. First off, I've now realized what my parties have been missing. Guns and wild fowl. How cool is William calling his buds up? "Hey, sup man. This is the Prince. We're having a few people over. Gonna party and shoot some birds. You in?" Oh you betcha. Not just that, but they do this for an entire weekend? What a life! Party til the break of dawn? More like the party starts at dawn when we take rifles into the backyard and shoot anything that moves. Royal family. Their beagles produce dinner. My beagle produces a baby pool supply of candy corn vomit on the living room rug. I'm beginning to think this created-equal stuff is a bunch of hooey.

What don't you get?

How to Circumisize a Baby Boy (Not Really)

2010-10-29T00:08:00.001-04:00

My hiatus from the blogging world has officially ended! Having a baby can really take up your time. For those of you who have not heard (and have somehow magically found my blog), Hudson Charles Speight was born on October 13th. He is a treasure and I am enjoying every second with him. I wish there was a lot of humorous stuff to report, but really his life is pretty basic right now and he hasn't done anything remarkable, such as grilling the perfect steak or doing a spot-on Freddie Mercury impression. But that day will come. There is a story that needs to be shared from the hospital...

The day after Hudson's birth, the main doctor from Danielle's OB/GYN, Dr. Anthony, visited us in our room. He had come in to check on us and see how everyone was doing, and to inform us he would be performing the circumcision on Hudson. Now, you must know, while Dr. Anthony is friendly he is also a bit quirky and a little different socially. So, he began to describe how the circumcision would go down. And then a curious thing happened. As he was explaining how the circumcision works, he looked down and started to fumble with the strings on his scrubs pants. It appeared as though he was undoing the strings (while still mumbling on about circumcision). Dani and I simultaneously shot each other a glance, as if to say, "is he actually going to pull down his pants??!!" Just as I was about to say, "it's okay Dr. Anthony, I know what a circumcised penis looks like", he removed his wedding ring from the strings he'd been struggling with, and proceeded to use it as a prop to describe the ring that would be on Hudson's penis. The funny thing was, there was never any mention that he was undoing his scrub strings to get his ring. He just carried on talking about penises while we wondered why the hell he was undoing his pants.

After he left Danielle and I cracked up and knew we would have an interesting story to tell. Can't wait to share more stories on the life of Hudson Speight.

Why I Hate Phone Books (And So Should You)

2010-10-03T22:01:00.000-04:00

This week at work we received about 30 copies of The Real Yellow Pages. Presently, they are stacked up in our storage closet sitting next to a typewriter and a pile of dinosaur bones. Why in the name of Alex Graham Bell are these things still being distributed to businesses? What morons do The Real Yellow Pages take us for? We are a Fortune 500 company. I know it's crazy, but we have discovered the Internet.

On top of that, why must The Real Yellow Pages feel the need cement their status as "the real one"? Have people suddenly run to get their hands on a phone book they can trust? Were people getting shafted by obtaining and using fake phone books? Trust me, there is nothing grand about being The Real Yellow Pages. It's like a dodo bird saying it's the real dodo bird. It doesn't matter dodo bird, you are still extinct and functionally irrelevant. If someone wants to stand out, why don't they PICK A COLOR OTHER THAN YELLOW?! These idiots are fighting over whose piece of crap is yellower. Wow. One of these days, these jokers will come to their senses and realize knocking down another forest is not worth having one in 7,000 people use their cumbersome, space-eating, inconvenient phone number Bibles.

Pizza Deal and Briefcase Guy

2010-09-21T22:46:00.001-04:00

Pizza Deal

Today I was driving and saw a sign on the side of the road, in front of a pizza place. The sign read, "$10- ANY PIZZA, ANY SIZE!". Ummm. Okay. I will have the huge, monster, double decker, feed kith and kin pizza with absolutely everything on it. All meats, veggies, and extra anything you can extra. Seriously, who would order anything smaller than the "big one"?

Briefcase Guy

I don't think anyone carrying a briefcase can be trusted. As briefcases have fallen out of fashion and necessity, anyone carrying one is bound to be up to some mischief. Why we are letting these people go wherever they want nonpluses me. Sniper rifle? Right this way, sir. Detonator? That building over there is heavily populated. Biological-skin-eating-agent? Take a taxi to 5th and Main and the schoolyard is on your left. Stupid. As soon as I see briefcase guy I start looking around for black helicopters and Jack Bauer. Briefcase guy is terrorizing something and I want no part of it. As far as I'm concerned, you should have to get a license to carry a briefcase, because to be sure anything you are carrying in one requires a license anyway. The trick is to call out briefcase guy, because people about to cause trouble don't like to be noticed. So when you are on the elevator with briefcase guy, just ask him, "What's in the briefcase?". He will become as uncomfortable as a baboon at a chimpanzee party. And you just saved lives.

Discover...North Dakota?

2010-09-14T20:54:00.000-04:00

North Dakotans are a rare find. Even rarer is getting a glimpse of a North Dakota license plate, which I saw today. The plate is most intriguing. It is simply a picture- I kid you not- of a yellowish nothing-less void stretching into the horizon. The kicker is that the motto on the plate says "DISCOVER THE SPIRIT". Umm, before we get spiritual, shouldn't we first attempt to discover signs of life? That motto should read, "Discover anything. We dare you." Or maybe it should say, "Discover a spirit". After all, I'd imagine you're just as lucky to meet a ghost in North Dakota as you are an actual person.

Smashed Potatoes

2010-09-06T00:38:00.000-04:00

The nerve of modern restaurants.

Have you ever been to a a restaurant and tried "smashed potatoes"? And after you tried it, did you say, "Boy, I'm glad they didn't mash these things. You can tell these potatoes were smashed, instead". Of course you didn't. We are meant to believe that smashed potatoes are different from mashed potatoes; not just different but far superior. We do not serve mashed potatoes in our restaurant. Only smashed potatoes. Yeah, what you're serving us is a bunch of bologna sandwiches. I am not fooled by your obvious marketing antics. Am I supposed to believe, after thousands of years of potato consumption, that your chef has discovered an ingenious way to prepare a potato? Even if he did, would it really matter? It's a potato for Pete's sakes. It tastes like whatever the crap you put on it. And even so, how much more can we pulverize a potato? I thought mashing something was pretty much the equivalent of turning a solid into paste. Now it's smashed. What fury must it take to smash a potato? Is your chef so angry that he is destroying potatoes with an unrelenting force in your kitchen? And if a masher is used to mash a potato, what is being used to smash one? A stick of dynamite, perhaps? It's all too violent if you ask me. Let's return to more wholesome times where we respected our potatoes and did not try to annihilate them.

Testing the Flacco Theory

2010-08-27T17:54:00.001-04:00

Occasionally, I like to blog on one of my favorite hobbies, Fantasy Football. If you want to read about my first draft of the year, proceed to the following link by copying and pasting it to your browser (having trouble creating my own link).

thefantasytheory.blogspot.com/

If not, I'll have a tasty treat coming right up, to your liking, real soon!

The Age of Innocence

2010-08-24T20:57:00.000-04:00

I love the innocence of kids coincident with the mature brain of adults.

On Sunday at church, I was in the youth room with 3 adults, one of whom had her five year old boy with her. The adults were talking and the little boy stood on his tiptoes on the worship stage to reach the microphone, which was turned on. He said, "Excuse me, does anyone here have drugs in their house?" I snickered, wondering if I'd heard what I thought I'd just heard. The parent was not paying attention and continued to talk with another adult. "Excuse me," the boy said louder, after no reaction from anyone. "Does anyone here have drugs in their house?" The mom, still paying no attention, continued to talk while the rest of us adults started to awkwardly laugh. I tried to assuage the situation with a little adult vs. kid wit and trickery. "Yes", I said, "I have a dog in my house." "No, no," said the boy. "Do you have any drums in your house?" Ahhhhhhh. Drums. Not drugs. A fair question, not at all intrusive to me or anyone else's personal drug situation. Good lad.

Bomb Threats

2010-08-01T17:29:00.000-04:00

I think I wrote this down on paper about 2 years ago but never offered it to the masses. Can't even remember if it's still funny or not.

You know what I think are ridiculous?

Bomb threats.

Lemme ask you this: have you ever heard a bomb threat followed by an actual bomb? H-E-Double Hockey Sticks no, a bomb never goes off. The guys who actually have bombs never tell you. That would be stupid. "Yeah, uh, just wanted to let you know, I spent thousands of dollars on this world class bomb and spent hours of time planting it under your building. I'm probably gonna set it off, I just want you to know it's there." Whatever, those jokers plant there stuff and press the red button the second they get out of the blast radius.

I think we should be suspicious when there is not a bomb threat. "Ok, it's too quiet, everybody out of the building." And then we just all wait outside until we do get a bomb threat. "Alright, finally some dude just called in a bomb threat. Everybody back inside, the police are now leaving."

Forever Young...Ehh.

2010-07-23T18:31:00.000-04:00

I'm having a kid in October, and that makes me feel kind of old. But I don't think that's the only thing. This is my life lately...

I'm growing wiser. I now know that getting a dog's teeth cleaned can probably wait while the sound of squeaking breaks cannot.

My sports viewing has become more refined. I used to watch everything. Every Braves game. Every grand slam tennis tourney. Even watched men's bowling when a guy with a cool mustache was playing. Now I'm very selective. I watch mostly playoffs, final rounds of majors, and the Pro Bowl, 'cause what's not to like about two-hand touch football?

My life is more defined than ever by the weather. It has been 100 degrees in Raleigh for two weeks and essentially, I've just given up exercise. Getting fat is much better than getting heat stroke. In truth, I kind of like scorching heat. It's the perfect excuse for laziness. I could go out and conquer the world today, but...I'd prefer to conquer nothing because it's easier and comes with air conditioning.

I don't like any new rock n roll. Can't you tell, I'm calling it rock n roll?!! Seriously though, my ears cannot handle the cacophonous crap played by today's modern rock stations. I have officially hit the age of, "They don't make music like they used to" and I've reserved myself to my own old, 90's Compact Discs (which themselves will be irrelevant in 10 years). I don't even listen to music on the radio anymore. Today on the way home I turned off a song where guitars were being shredded at a furious pace and tuned in to NPR to hear some lady talk about her recipe for homemade bee's jam. And I liked it.

I get crushed when I play video games. It's sad. People laugh at me because I ask questions like "what's this button for?" and "how come I keep getting shot when I don't see anyone in my screen". I'm not even a "newb" anymore. I'm a boob. A despicable boob. Who claims he can kick anyone's ass in Goldeneye on Nintendo 64, which happened to be a top-of-the-line entertainment system 15 years ago.

I've just given up on some sports and activities. Mostly due to concern of injury. May never do these sports again: Watersports- no longer fun (but were they ever?). Trying all afternoon to get up on skis. Muscles sore a week after intertubing. Jet skis, never even done one, and not sad about it. Snow skiing. Only thing worse than breaking your leg is breaking your leg when you are freezing cold and could've completely avoided it by staying back and enjoying cheese doodles in the lodge. Basketball. Two friends with two knee injuries in the last two weeks. And I all I have is tennis shoes and no flexibility. So maybe basketball never again. Golf in my life is getting closer and closer and cannot be avoided.

I'm starting to realize maybe I was never young. I've never smoked weed or even a cigarette, but instead went straight to a pipe. I hardly had time for my Tony Montana-bathtub-with-a-cigar stage. Just flew immediately into a lifestyle wearing old tweed pop hats, cursing at the birds who've pooped on my deck, and doing my darnedest to maintain a well-lit bowl.

Wow, this list ended up a lot longer than I expected. Might have to publish another soon. In the meantime, I'm taking my depressed self to the movies. Hey! At least I still have my hair!

Wooden Shoes and Sexy Boots- A Review of the Dutch World Cup Squad

2010-07-12T19:07:00.000-04:00

The World Cup is over, and while Spain are deserving victors, I think I can speak for most Americans in saying we all kind of wanted a "Dutch treat". Afterall, our country is rather enamored by the Dutch. A team who wears brilliant orange with odd font and plays attacking football, while its nation sports multiple names and is famous for ingenious ways of smoking drugs (legally) and apparently trapping flatulence under bed sheets. They also gave us Heineken, the most famous Dutch beer, which happens to be brewed in New York. Oh well.

But to really appreciate the intrigue of the Dutch, you need to look no further then its national team, whose players embody its image. In celebration of a fantastic World Cup, that ended in textbook-Dutch fashion (a loss in the Final) let's recap this motley crew, starting from the top.

Bert "Dutch Silk" Van Marjik

Van Marjik seemed to inspire his side with slick tailored jackets and a never-ending supply of hair goo. It's hard for a coach to look more pimp on the sidelines. Unless of course you are his German counterpart, Jogi Low (pronounced Yogi Love), who wears $1,000 scarves, and if he doesn't drive a Benz with three beautiful ladies as passengers then he's just not trying as hard as I think he is.

Robin Van Persie a.k.a SBP

While a Dutch Oven is typically preceded by an SBD, Van Persie put in the SBP (Silent But Pouty) performance of the Cup. Though one of the greatest players in World Football, Van Persie's lack of a presence in the games made it feel like the Dutch were playing without a striker. And the only real news he made was pouting while being substituted late in a Group Stage match. Dude, you had 80 minutes to score against the 47th ranked team in the world. Stop crying. I do like Van Persie, and perhaps his pre-Cup injury held him back, but he was nevertheless disappointing.

Arjen Robben a.k.a. Dancing Nancy

OK, I must disclose that despite his antics, I am a huge fan of this guy's game. He is as entertaining as he is enigmatic. The man runs like a fairy, flops like a fish, celebrates like a nerdy European, and has the receding hair line of a 40 year old man. Except that he just turned 26. Robben has looked like the oldest guy on his team ever since he started playing professional football. I remember watching him for the first time about 5 years ago when he broke in with Chelsea, and was so impressed with the dexterity of this man who was assuredly the oldest on the pitch. Robben's left foot is perhaps the best in the game, and if he can stay healthy (a massive IF) he should entertain us mightily in Euro 2012, as he will still be in his prime.

Dirk Kuyt a.k.a The Blond Beast

Tough. Smart. Indefatigable. And a little ugly. Kuyt defies the stereotype of selfish, pretty-boy Dutch attackers. Molded like a linebacker, he is a competitor to the nth degree. Kuyt also has the distinction of "the last name that no one actually knows how to pronounce". Cowt? Kite? Coight? Crap.

Wesley "I Don't Care That I'm Small" Sneijder

While somewhat dimunitive in stature, he is tough as nails, and has the skills to boot. He's like Gennaro Gatusso with talent. This World Cup solidified his status as one of the game's greatest midfielders.

Beavis and Butthead a.k.a. Nigel "Everybody Was Kung-Fu Fighting" de Jong and Mark "Train Off The Tracks" van Bommel

While the Spanish were attempting to Joga Bonito, these guys were attempting crack Spanish bones. De Jong and Van Bommel almost singlehandedly turned the Final into a demolition derby with their ill-timed tackles and general thuggery. Early in the match, De Jong preferred ultimate fighting to football, as he Chuck Norrised midfielder Xabi Alonso in the chest with his boot, prompting everyone in the stadium to say Van Damme! The fact he got away with only a yellow card is equally appalling, when considering his unmistakeble "Hiiii-yahh!" followed by a bow to his sensai sitting pitch side. De Jong deserved handcuffs, not a yellow card. Equally belligerent was his midfield partner in crime, Mark Van Bommel, who should win the Golden Foul award, given to the biggest hack of the tournament. Van Bommel's defensive strategy is to run at the opponent, make no attempt on the ball, and slam into the man with the intent of sending him to the hospital. He is like one of those boats in the James Bond movies; out of control with no one at the wheel about to crash into a rock wall. He is like that big ball in the Indiana Jones movie; an unstoppable rock moving at full speed with the intent of crushing a man. He is like the retarded kid playing tag that has total disregard for rules or actually anything resembling a legal "tag". Anyway, these two jokers were more deserving of a red card than a World Cup title. At least De Jong, when not a complete hacker, passes the ball well and is a smart player. Van Bommel is like a Chechnian tank that will not even stop for the children.

Heitenga, Mathijsen, Van Bronkhorst, and Van der Wiel

No nicknames here. While for the most part solid, these guys had the unenviable task of defending for an attacking-style football nation. If the Dutch had it their way, they would attempt to play with 3 forwards and 7 midfielders, but that's just not viable in modern football.

Martin "Too Tall" Steklenburg

Towering over teammates such as Sneijder, this Dutchman had a fine cup minding the Holland net. He seems to have proved himself as a suitable successor to Holland's long time #1, Edwin van der Saar.

Well, there you have it. The Netherlands has dazzled us and perhaps broken our hearts once more. Can't wait to see what they have in store for Euro 2012.

Firework Ponderings

2010-07-06T13:29:00.000-04:00

Fireworks were cool when I was 8. When you’re an eight year old boy, you really just want to see explosions. When you’re a twenty-eight year old boy, you really just want to see bigger explosions. When you’re an eight year old boy, you are content with fireworks that simulate “the bombs bursting in air”. When you’re a twenty-eight year old boy, you’d prefer to see actual bombs bursting in air. That might make it worth going outside in searing heat and getting destroyed by mosquitoes.

Firework engineers must be the dullest shmoes on the planet. Not one firework breakthrough in 50 years. In 50 years as a society we have landed on the moon, invented the personal computer, and even successfully cloned living things. Firework engineers have invented the smiley face firecracker and ones that whistle. Wow boys, it’s gonna be hard to top those.

Gandalf ruined fireworks for me. In The Fellowship of the Ring, Gandalf makes a firework that turns into a dragon. Ever since then that has been my expectation.

Have you seen the guy recording firework shows? This guy brings out his camcorder, assembles it on a tripod, and proceeds to tape fireworks for 20 minutes. Is he going to watch the fireworks at home later?!! How can you possibly appreciate fireworks at home? They already suck live. And when is the moment in your life when you realize you have gone so long without fireworks that you have to pull out the videotape?!! If you are not a complete hermit, you are practically guaranteed fireworks every couple of months! And if this guy is taping fireworks this year, I imagine he’s done it other years. Does he just have annals of this crap in his entertainment centers at home? “Hey Bobby, you got any good firework vids?” “Interesting you should ask, Stanley. I do. Let’s watch July 4, 1995. Haven’t even opened it up yet. It’s a good year”. Crazy.

(thanks Joe Pettiford for our conversation that inspired this post!)

I Love Vuvuzelas and Italian Football

2010-06-20T19:38:00.000-04:00

The World Cup is the greatest sporting event in the world (sorry Olympics, but the Sudan is not watching figure skating). With the World Cup comes lots of fun things to talk about, and make fun of.

Vuvuzelas

I love vuvuzelas. Not the sound. The sound drowns out anything you could possibly ever hear at a futbol match. Like one big bastard bee swallowing up every precious cheer, yell, or whistle. What I love about them is that they are getting people to talk about the World Cup. People who know nothing about the game are talking vuvuzelas. And why not? Just saying the word correctly is an incredibly gratifying experience.

Jabulani

Another fun Zulu word that no one can pronounce correctly. Say it with me- "JAH- BOO- LA- NEE". It's the name of the ball. How cool is that? They name the ball. I would like to see this spread to other parts of the game. Just randomly naming stuff in Zulu. "And Donovan steps up to the penalty spot, better known as Umkankankandookandoo."

Frenchies

Allez Les Bleus? More like, Le Skunk, Le Peeyeu! First, French striker Nicolas Anelka beraded his coach with obscenities at halftime of the last match, and was dismissed from the team. I cannot imagine what Anelka was complaining about. He had done nothing in the first 1 1/2 games but crap away any decent opportunity that came his way. What was he saying to the coach? "Monsieur Domenech, Tu est a baffoon! Are you watching ze match? Ma touch on ze ball is like a rhino fart! You should have substituted me after Zirty Minutes!"

Anyway, the French team decided to protest Anelka's expulsion by not training. This is good for France. Training was certainly not improving their football at all. I think it would do them some good to get trashed by Bafana Bafana in the final match. That way the French Football Federation would have an excuse to clean house and recruit new French players...from Algeria, Senegal, and any other nation who can produce big, cool-looking, French-speaking black dudes.

The Azzurri

Every tournament the Italian xenophobia runs rampant as announcers and soccer fans alike are disgusted by the flopping, crying, and general pompousness of the Italian national team. Well, my reply is STOP WHINING yourself. We pretend that the Italians are the only ones who practice these shenanigans. It's just not true. Players from every country do this every tournament. Did you see the Brazil/Ivory Coast game? An Ivorian ran into Kaka and fell over as if Kaka had slammed a 2 X 4 across his skull.

Anyway, as bad as flopping is, it does deceive referees and can provide an advantage that would otherwise not be gained. Smart teams and players take advantage of this. Just like the best NFL lineman can hold without being caught, just like a wily MLB pitcher can doctor a ball.

And don't complain about the Italians complaining. Everyone does it. When was the last time you saw Kobe Bryant not break into histrionics when someone contacted him while shooting? Wait, what's that? Kobe speaks Italian? Hmmm. You got me there.

Guacamole, Foam Fingers, and Black White Guys

2010-06-02T21:49:00.000-04:00

Guacamole

This buzz word has run its course. Using this word in a commercial to be funny just doesn't cut it anymore. "Guacamole" being funny was so 6 months ago. We need to have a new food buzz word. I submit "horseradish". That's funny. I can laugh at that.

#1's

Fans turn into robots when they get on camera. They say "hi mom" and they also put up the #1 finger and say "we're #1". But that is so stupid. There is only one #1, and most likely, it is not your team. I think only fans who have a top 10 team should be able to hold up fingers. And then they should say what they really are. "We're Ohio State, we're #6". This is a good idea for the foam hands market. Perennial top 5 teams could simply keep an inventory of 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 finger hands in their stores. So when your team is #1 in the nation and loses, you'll get those "We're #5" foam hands ready for next week.

Tremendous Athleticism

Announcers are always saying guys have "tremendous athleticism". What they are really saying is, "this guy is more black than other guys". Let's face it, the black guy has surpassed the white guy in every sport. A guy like Steve Nash should be praised for his "black-likeness", not his athleticism. "Gosh Harvey, Nash is playing like a black guy today." "Your right Norm, Nash is just oozing with blackness." Honest.

Tweet Tweet

2010-05-09T13:43:00.000-04:00

Recently, I joined the Twittersphere. In case you've missed it, I thought I'd give you a sampling of my tweets. If you'd like, you can follow me on Twitter @carsonjspeight.

Tweets:

People say one should smile instead of frowning b/c frowning uses more face muscles. But who really gives a crap about face muscle usage?

I think the next most interesting man in the world should be Zinadene Zidane.

Useless car function-the dashboard dimmer. Who doesnt turn it all the way up? Do i kind of want to know how fast im going?

Finding matching socks is one of the most challenging human endeavors.

Having 2 Twitter followers is much better than 1. With 1 it's like "yo dawg, i'm just gonna text you".

Anything u buy for your fish is really for u. Do u think your fish gives a crap about a treasure chest with no treasure?

Where would America's Funniest Home Videos be without "shots to the nuts?" Bob Saget and Tom Burgeron would be nobodies, thats for sure.

When techies explain things in techy, i wanna b like, "ok lemme teach u English by using English". It just doesnt work.

Just bc you use your blinker does not mean you arent driving like an a-hole

When i come across an unflushed toilet, i think, "wow. The previous individual is truly failing at one of life's most basic functions"

"Shake what yo mama gave you"? My mother gave me lots of things, be more specific.

The most awesome thing about camping is everything you do before sleeping. And then nothing is awesome about camping at all.

Just saw two unattractive women flanking a man smoking a swisher sweet. Gave me a whole new appreciation for the fact that Pimpin Aint Easy

Contrary to popular belief, u dont need a bowl to eat ice cream. I just enjoyd some off a tupperware top.

Beerfest Notes & Ponderings

2010-04-26T21:33:00.000-04:00

The World Beer Festival in Raleigh was quite enjoyable this weekend. Here is what I took away from it.

1. While standing in line waiting to get into the festival, girls come by selling beer. And people bought it. To me, this is like 1 + 1= cat. Completely illogical. These people have already paid $40 to get into a festival to sample over 300 beers from around the world for the next four hours. Every time I see people buying beer in line I wonder why. Could the person be so dependent on beer that they cannot go 20 minutes without having one? Could the person have consumed so much beer in his/her lifetime that the depletion of brain cells has disabled them from completing rational thought? Is the person worried that Miller Lite and Yuengling are not being featured at the festival? Is dropping $5 mindlessly a thrill to wonderful to pass up? I could go on, but I obviously am simply appalled at this stupidity.

2. Inside the festival, I went up to a booth claiming to have a beer that tasted like banana bread. When I went up there, the sign was misplaced and this booth was actually serving hard cider. No thanks, I said. Then, a woman enjoying the cider said, "oh, you should try it, it's delicious". Matt and I tried the cider. It was, well, cider. Now we know to never trust a woman pounding cider at a beerfest. Anyway, the "banana bread" was at the next booth, with proper signage. We asked for it. They said, "It's not available until June". Oh that's cool. Maybe I should wear a shirt that says "Best dad ever", even though I won't actually be one until October. By the way, if any of you didn't know Dani is pregnant, now you do! My point is, don't advertise your stuff as if it's there when it's not. I was looking for tasty nanner bread and all I got was girl cider.

3. Saw a girl and a guy go into a portajohn together. I can't fathom how they were able to use the toilet at the same time.

4. Sampled many good beers. Among them are:

Dogfish Head's Aprihop and Olde School Barleywine
New Holland's Dragon's Milk Stout and Charkoota Rye
Foothills Sexual Chocolate
Holy Mackerel Black

Second-Guess Shenanigans

2010-04-06T18:20:00.000-04:00

Basketball analysts who second-guess coaching always frustrate me. Doug Gottlieb, just now on Sportscenter, said that he thought Coach K made a huge coaching gaffe at the end of last night's game, when he made Zoubek miss the second free throw. The second free throw allowed Butler a chance to win the game...kind of. If you consider a "chance" a half-court heave, then that is a chance any person in their right basketball mind would let happen. The only reason we are even talking about it was because the shot was close. But just because it was close doesn't make it a high percentage shot.

What's even more ridiculous is Gottlieb following up that statement with saying Coach K is perhaps the greatest coach of his era and one of the greats all-time. Really? Are you sure? Because you just said that he made a "huge coaching gaffe". Let's break this down. You are saying that one of the greatest coaches of all time, who has coached on the highest level for 30 years, in one of the biggest games of his life, in the most critical moment of the game, with time to think about what to do, just crapped it all up and made a huge mistake???!!!! That makes my gray matter hurt just thinking about how you can put those two things together.

In a big moment, does Donald Trump all of the sudden forget how to close the deal? Did the Croc Hunter (R.I.P) all of the sudden forget how to deal with a venomous snake when he was holding it in his hand?

Basically Gottlieb, either don't call K a good coach, or let him do his job.

Ballsy? Maybe. Stupid? Most Definitely.

2010-04-01T22:49:00.000-04:00

It has been reported that Cleveland Browns player Shaun Rogers was arrested after being caught with a loaded gun in his carry-on at an airport. When I read read this, I thought Rogers was issuing in an all-new era of stupidity for pro athletes. But apparently not. He has done this crap before. I researched, and here is what I found.

In 2005, Rogers was arrested in New York after attempting to steal a police car with the officer in the driver's seat.

In 2006, Rogers was arrested after the 5 lb bag of weed in his pocket was sniffed out at a K-9 Convention he attended.

And in 2008, Rogers was arrested after attempting to holdup a police station.

Wow, the inability of this guy to be cautious around authority figures is mind- boggling.

A Living Expert & Amigos

2010-03-31T19:46:00.000-04:00

A Living Expert

I was watching TV today and this woman was introduced as a "Living Expert". Wow. This woman is very good at life. And not just good. But an expert. My goodness, she has mastered life. I thought there was just Jesus, but apparently, this lady has figured it all out. Who consults a Living Expert? "Hey man, I've really been struggling with life lately". "Ahh, you should talk to Renee, she's actually amazing at life". This "Living Expert" was like 40. Personally, I don't think you should be a living expert unless you are at least 100 years old. What the crap do you know about life, lady? You have never felt the pain of a kidney stone. You don't know how to talk about "the War". Have you mastered Bingo? Doubtful. How can I trust you with my life?

Amigos

How does a Mexican calling someone an amigo make everything okay? We were at Los Tres Magueyes tonight and we gave them a coupon. The waiter said, "Oh, sorry amigo, but we do not take this coupon." I am so not your amigo right now. Friends don't diss other friend's coupons. I thought I was gonna save $6, which would have justified all the horrible food I just ate. Now I'm $6 poorer and still fat. Well I ain't comin' back. Not until the end of next month when I have no money, or if I find a better coupon. Adios, amigo.

Men Working Above!

2010-03-21T21:09:00.000-04:00

"Men Working Above" signs are fascinating, aren't they? Once you see the sign, whatever you were doing or talking about before that is no longer important. There are men working- in the sky. It's the most effective sign there is, no question. Think about the signs we don't respond to. Like railroad crossing signs. Thanks for letting me know, just in case the gates malfunction I'll know why my car has exploded and I'm dead. But "Men Working Above" gets a reaction every time. You can't not look up. A leprechaun could be riding a unicorn in front of me and I don't care. Dudes are in the sky.

What a cool job to tell others about. "Hey Bill, where do you work?" "I work above."

The sign's cautionary nature is also intriguing. On the one hand, men are working above, and we should be worried. Men are stupid and crappy at life while on the ground. Suspend them in the air with heavy objects and add some gravity and you have formulated a horrible futuristic accident. Of course, on the other hand, could the sign really save us? Isn't it just ensuring we take it to the face instead of our skull? Just be real with us sign, and tell it like it is. Alternative names I propose are "Look Up and Also Protect Your Face" or "Men Potentially Falling From Above" or "Watch Yourself Die". I kind of like the ring to that last one.

That's kind of morbid. Can't end a blog like that. So anyway, the lost bunny was accepted by the family of generous otters. There, that's better.

Metal Plates & Hardee's Plops

2010-03-15T17:43:00.000-04:00

Wow, three months and no posts. I am so fickle.

Metal Plates

There is a social stigma connected to people who have a metal plate in their body. I know this in my experiences with people who have metal plates. You know the difference between the coolest guy you know and the weirdest person you have met? Where their metal plate is. If you talk to a guy and he tells you he has a metal plate in his leg, or arm, or chest cavity, you just have to hear that story. It's kind of like he is a real life Terminator. But if a dude tells you about the metal plate in his head, you wonder what is wrong with him. In the short distance from anywhere else on your body to your head, you have gone from Terminator to Cousin Eddie in my stereotypes of society's metal-plated.

Hardee's Plops

Does Hardee's advertising piss you off? It should, if you can make it through the commercials without vomiting. Who are they appealing to? Apparently young men who don't shave, have no ambition and enjoy consuming 7,000 calories at one in the morning. The worst part of the whole commercial is the food falling from the sky in a large plop at the end of the commercial. No, this is not manna from heaven. This is a heart-attack between layers of beef patties, cheese, bacon and more layers of beef patties. And what is the need for the plop? Have I ever received food like that? The only time food plops like that is when it falls from your tray onto the floor. Maybe that is what they are going for. They are seeking to emulate food that most people would not consider eating but dudes with no money or metabolism are craving.

Do you want to end Hardee's commercials forever? Join the cause on Facebook's "Hardee's Commercials Suck".

How 2009 Results Should Impact Your 2010 FFL Draft

2009-12-31T15:05:00.000-05:00

For most of us, the Fantasy Football season is over. The easy thing to do at this point would be to bask in glory or wallow in defeat. But why not take a look at the 2009 season and see what we've learned that will help us for the 2010 draft? Well, I'll just do it for you, how about that?

Perhaps the biggest question surrounding drafting in our little game is how should you positionally draft? Traditionally, the most popular and accepted draft method was to go RB, RB with your first two picks. This can still work. My wife drafted Jackson and Gore with her first two picks (both finished Top 10 for RBs) and did not sacrifice getting a Top 5 WR (Wayne) or a Top 5 QB (Rivers). In another league, an owner took Peterson and Chris Johnson with his first two picks, and look where those two ended up! The RB-RB selection is not dead; but I do find it ill-advised. Here's why:

When taking a look at Average Draft Positions (ADP) this year, I noticed that out of the first 20 RBs drafted, only 5 finished in the Top 10. Compare that with WRs, who had 8 of the top 20 drafted finish in the Top 10. QBs, the most predictable position, had 7 of the top 10 drafted finish in the Top 10. Only one of the Top 10 drafted finished outside of the top 12 (Jay "Poopy" Cutler). From this we can conclude the RB position is now the hardest to predict.

And it will get harder. The league continues to get more violent. Two of the league's top backs, Portis and Westbrook, missed most of the season with concussions. More than ever before, concussions are being monitored and moreso, respected as the dangerous injuries they in fact are. A RB gets hit more than any other player on the field, thus improving chances for a concussion as well as other injuries. As the league has recognized this, two-back and even three-back systems are becoming more popular (see Giants 2008, Cowboys 2009), thus limiting the touches of many of the league's top backs. Perhaps the coup de grace of the "go for RB's early mentality" is that the league is more pass heavy than ever before. As offenses have become more sophisticated, with greater schemes and super-athletic wideouts, a game is more likely to end in a shootout than a defensive struggle. Did you notice there was not one dominant defense in the league this year? Did you also notice that QBs are putting up bigger numbers than ever? As the league continues to implement rules that protect the QB and augment offenses, the QB and the WR will thrive more and more.

With that said, I must offer one disclaimer. Out of the Top 10 fantasy players in standard scoring leagues this season, there were 4 RB's (3 in the Top 5) and 6 QB's. No receivers. Interesting.

So what are we to make of all this to help us in 2010? I think that if you have a Top 3 pick you are fine picking CJ, AP, or MJD. All have exhibited amazing skill, receiving ability, and end-zone finding for multiple years now. It is highly likely the top 3-5 RBs (whether it is these guys or not) will score more fantasy points than any WRs, barring any Randy Moss-esque-2007-type performances. But after those guys previously mentioned, I'd feel really good about getting an elite WR or QB in the 1st round. If I have the option b/t Brees, Andre Johnson and Gore, I'm taking Brees or AJ, no questions asked. Even though Gore is awesome, I would have to take him mid-late first round, and most of the time, that is a risky place to get a RB.

So, what will your strategy be?

The Pieces of a Winning Fantasy Roster

2009-12-29T21:30:00.000-05:00

What do you need on your Fantasy Football roster to total big points every week? Yes, of course good players. But how you got those players is what’s really important. I can guarantee that you didn’t draft all of them. No, half your draft picks were horrible. It’s okay, so were everyone else’s. But how you managed your team to have the consummate squad by the end of the year is what is important.

This year, I won the fantasy championship in my favorite league. When looking at the roster, I noticed that each player was acquired and/or made a difference in a unique way. I will explore each starting lineup slot, and perhaps you can glean something from each player’s uniqueness.

QB- The Franchise- Drew Brees- Every roster needs a player that is a big point scorer that you paid a lot for (high draft pick). Usually you acquire “the franchise” in your first two picks. These are players that have proven success, likely over a few years, and you know are going to be solid barring any major setback such as injury. Brees was my second pick, and I highly valued getting a great quarterback early, because they are such a premium in this league. The “six-points-per-TD pass rule” gives you a great advantage if you have a quarterback who throws a lot of touchdowns. I knew this guy would be solid all year and I wouldn’t need another roster spot for a QB.

WR- The Pickup- Miles Austin- Nearly every FFL team has a player that no one anticipated being worth any value before the season started. It happens every year. This year, Austin burst onto the scene with a 250 yard, 3 TD effort versus the Chiefs. Typically, I don’t jump on a guy after only one good week. However, several things were happening here: A) I had a guy on my roster I was more than willing to dump (so why not); B) Roy Williams, the presumed #1 WR for the Cowboys was obviously not that anymore and; C) This was not just a good week, this was a great week. Surely this guy has some higher level of talent to produce such fantastic numbers. Austin ended up being my highest scoring receiver and a Top Five fantasy receiver.

WR- The Stalwart- Anquan Boldin- Every roster needs a guy whom you can count on, and a guy that you will put in your roster even if he is banged up. Boldin can be in your lineup without you ever having to question whether or not to sit him. Therefore, I really only needed to make a decision on one WR slot every week, not two.

RB- The Blockbuster Trade Steal- Chris Johnson- Trading is not a highly popular option for acquiring players in any of my leagues. However, a unique situation presented itself after Week 6 this season. An owner was willing to change up his roster significantly in hopes of jump-starting his team. I owned Steven Jackson, who had been getting the yards but was not getting the TD’s. Chris Johnson had only blown up once at this point, so the jury was still out on his awesomeness. I looked at the matchups for the next 4-5 weeks for Johnson and Jackson. CJ’s matchups were more favorable, I believed the Titans offense would come around and the Rams’ would not, and I was willing to roll the dice, being in the middle of the pack in our league. The trade happened, CJ came off a buy and killed it the rest of year, being the league’s #1 RB in fantasy points by a substantial margin. Sometimes, a blockbuster trade is necessary if you feel like it needs to happen to push you over the top.

RB- The Late Round Monster- Cedric Benson- Typically, after the 6^th round in a 10 team league, the chances of landing a viable fantasy player drop off significantly. Really, you can hope for 1-3 decent players in the final 8 or 9 rounds. I drafted Benson in the 9^th round as my 5^th running back.

FLEX- Mr. Consistency- Steve Smith (NYG)- I love having a guy that I can count on for solid (though not outstanding) points every week. I especially love to have this guy in my FLEX spot. Many leagues have a FLEX spot, where you can input a RB or WR. Usually this is a matchup play. But sometimes, you have a guy who just gets it done quietly every week, and gives you double-digit fantasy points you can count on. I picked up Smith early in the season and played him almost every week afterwards. In weeks 8-16, Smith got double-digit fantasy points in every week but one, and in that week he got nine points. Possession receivers are great FLEX players and are highly consistent fantasy producers.

TE- The Power Sub- Fred Davis- Cooley went down for me. I picked up Olsen who was crappy for three straight weeks. Picked up Davis who was good until Week 16. He was the only player on my roster who did not produce double-digit points in the final week.

K- Mr. Stick With Me- Mason Crosby- I will not elaborate on the unpredictable nature of kickers here; it has been well documented. What I will say about Crosby is he had been good most of the year, but had struggled in recent weeks. His numbers were sub-pedestrian the last few weeks, and I almost dropped him before the Championship. Why didn’t I? Well, he was going up against the Seahawks, a team who allows a lot of points. He is on the Packers, a team who scores a lot of points. I figure, if the Packers score 5 TDs, he will get at least 5 points. If they stall a couple of times, he has a chance at a field goal or two. And 14 fantasy points later, I was quite satisfied with my decision.

DEF- The Home Defense- Cincinnati- I love adding/dropping defenses and playing the matchups. My rule is to pick up a decent/good defense who is playing at home against a low-level opponent that likes to turn the ball over and struggles on offense. Cinci was at home against the Chiefs, and I figured the Chiefs would not score much and were likely to turnover the ball a time or two. Cinci’s D scored nine points, and I’ll take that every week, considering the unpredictability of defenses.

In retrospect, every roster slot I filled this week produced as I hoped they would, with the exception of Davis. I scored 122 fantasy points and took home the title. Victory is sweet. Stay tuned for more about what I learned this year and how you can prepare for success next year…