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Dear Kayla, My Biggest Fan

May 18, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Gene Han

Dear Kayla,

Thank you for writing to inform me that I was the topic of your recent academic project on newspaper columnists for your English class. Clearly you deserve an A in this literary endeavor because naturally I can tell that you are the smartest student in your class.

How do I know? You chose me, that’s how.

It sort of makes me feel sorry for the pupil who chose to write his or her essay on newspaper columnist L. Ernest Whitherbottom. Can you imagine how terrible that would have been? I bet you don’t even know who that is — and for that matter neither do I, mostly because I just made it up — and it’s still funny.

If your teacher doesn’t give you an A then send me his name and address. I have no qualms about breaking legs. Sometimes in life you have to break a few legs to make an omelet. Remember that kid, and you’ll go far in life.

I wanted to personally write you back because it appears that you took a lot of time on your well-crafted and thought-provoking letter to me. Granted, it wasn’t as well-crafted and thought-provoking as my writing, but that goes without saying.

Your correspondence meant a great deal to me and like any self-obsessed narcissist I hung your letter on my refrigerator to remind my family and friends how vastly superior I am to them.

So far Kayla, it’s working magnificently. Thanks again!

Normally when all of the fan mail rolls in each day there is never enough time to respond to each one. However, considering the circumstances I figured writing you back was the least I could do.

Actually, the least I could do is nothing, but I thought I would do you one better.

In case you are wondering that was the subtle way of telling you how lucky you are that I decided to answer your prayers and write back. Honestly, you should sit back and reflect for a moment as you think about how fortunate you are. I am a busy guy, you know? So yes, perhaps a bit of groveling is in order.

And while we are on the subject of me, thanks for saying how truly amazing I am. Guilty as charged! Yes, I am pretty amazing, thanks for noticing.

Of course, it’s not like I need you to tell me how amazing I am to know how amazing I am. It helps, but I already know I am probably the most amazing person in the world. Even my mom seems to be in total agreement. I don’t know you personally, but I am sure you are amazing, too, though not nearly as much as I.

One of my favorite parts in your letter was the line about “how effective my persuasive writing techniques are.” My writing techniques are indeed both effective and persuasive. Please pay careful attention to what I am about to tell you next. Are you ready, Kayla?

OK, can you please send me a few hundred dollars?

Like any self-obsessed, egotistical jerk whose favorite topic is himself, I agree with you that I employ “endlessly clever puns,” “artistic allusions,” and “humorous hyperboles.” I am not sure what all of that means, but it sounds impressive.

I understand that as a part of your detailed project you had to write a mock essay pretending to be me. That’s fascinating. Hey, let me ask you another question, Kayla.

When you were pretending to be me, how cool was that? Yeah, thanks in advance for saying how exceptional, important and distinguished it made you feel.

In closing, you’re right; doing what I do is not as easy as it looks. Being as charming, handsome and muscular as me on the other hand, well that’s exactly as easy as it looks. Any questions? I’ll assume no.

Not to sound all sentimental, but not too long ago it was me writing my favorite newspaper columnist. So aim high, stay off the drugs and remember that you are capable of becoming an amazing person — just not as amazing as me.

Oh, and one last thing, Kayla: make checks payable to Will E Sanders.

To contact Will E Sanders email him at wille@willesanders.com. To learn more about Will E Sanders, to read past columns or to read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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A Piece of (Wedding) Cake

May 11, 2012 By Leave a Comment

Photo by Christian Yves Ocampo - used by permission

Planning a wedding is stressful stuff. That’s why I like to let my girlfriend, Christine, plan all the hard parts. This basically entails her picking out a wedding cake and pretty much everything else, too.

Last Saturday morning she came running down the stairs and asked if I was ready. Ready for what, I thought in stunned silence. Apparently, we were going to visit a cake-maker fittingly named the Cake Lady and the process involved trying samples of cake.

“You forgot?” she rhetorically asked.

I had.

And to make matters worse I had no appetite because I had just wolfed down an entire plate of waffles.

Then I was whisked away to spend hours force-feeding myself 17 different types of cakes.

The tradition of wedding cakes dates all the way back to the Roman Empire. Since icing had not been invented yet, cakes at that time primarily consisted of barley bread and were basically the equivalent of eating a six pack of beer.

Clearly, wedding cakes aren’t as cool as they use to be.

Wedding cakes really came into their own in medieval Europe when our benevolent ancestors decided that there weren’t enough frivolous and inflated costs involved with a conventional wedding ceremony.

Other traditions would later become the social order of the day, like limousines, tuxedos and ridiculous reception hall security deposits, but it all began with the wedding cake.

These aren’t your mother’s cakes, either. These are elegant, multi-leveled culinary masterpieces that are so pristine you could eat dinner off of them.

When I was growing up a cake to me meant my mother would whip up some insane combination of flour, sugar, eggs and random pieces of candy or cereal she found in the cupboards. She would always cautiously choose a cake theme based loosely on something I was enamored with at the time (like dinosaurs or the solar system). Her cakes were simple, homemade and 50 percent of the time only slightly resembled an alligator.

By contrast, professional wedding cakes also involve heaping helpings of flour, sugar and eggs, but do not contain Lucky Charms marshmallows and are not shaped like reptiles, or even amphibians for that matter.

Wedding cakes do, however, have exuberant price tags attached to the same empty calories.

Naturally this befuddles me because if you are a cake connoisseur like I pride myself to be then you are already aware that a fancy wedding cake tastes exactly like the $12 cakes available from the Walmart bakery. It almost makes me feel like throwing a box of Entenmann’s down on the reception hall floor and letting all of our wedding guests scavenge like a bunch of starving dogs,

That’s the thing about cakes; they all taste good regardless of price.

Cakes are a lot like wine: a bottle of 1986 Duckhorn Napa Valley merlot basically tastes the same as a bottle of Boone’s Farm. You save money to get just as drunk. It’s a double score.

But I get it, I am getting married and buying an outrageously priced cake is a piece of that process — I accept that.

What I don’t understand is how a cake can be that expensive. It’s pretty hard to mess a cake up, my mother’s abovementioned cake baking “talents” notwithstanding. Unless you throw in a whole can of clove peppers and chives, chances are your cake will be delicious even if you throw in the egg shells.

If all else fails, any cake-related problem can be quickly rectified with a whole tub of chocolate icing.

This all dawns on me as Christine and I are shoving our seventeenth brick of cake into our cake holes. I realize wedding cakes are so expensive because you are paying for all of the fancy glitz and glamour and edible beads. This upsets me most of all because it seems silly to dress up food like that. Whether it’s a $900 cake or a bag of discount biscuits, it all looks the same after the grand voyage through the intricacies of the human digestive system.

In the end, we picked out a wedding cake that was accommodating to our pocketbooks. But honestly, what other choice did I have.

What’s that saying again? When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

To contact Will E Sanders email him at wille@willesanders.com. To learn more about Will E Sanders, to read past columns or to read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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Attack of the Snack Food Giants

March 20, 2011 By Leave a Comment

For years, a steady anger grew within me as I watched one candy bar manufacturer or snack food company after another slowly decrease the size or quantity of their product, but the price remained the same or rose.

If you don’t believe me, look at a Cadbury Egg the next time you’re at the store — they are so small that I could take them like aspirin. Or a Snickers bar. When I was a kid, they cost 50 cents and seemed as large as diving boards. And don’t even get me started on bags of anything, especially chips. Sometimes I wonder if I’m buying a bag of snacks or pre-packaged oxygen.

But something happened recently that sent me over the edge. I noticed that family-sized bags of Combos went from 8.5 ounces to a slim 7 ounces, yet the price stayed exactly the same. That’s right, the fat cats over at Combos are ripping us off, America!

Now some of you might not be aware of what a Combo even is, even though the thought appalls me. Combos are those oven-baked, cylinder pretzel or cracker snacks with flavored filling injected in between. And I love them. I could probably live exclusively off of Combos for the rest of my life — but only if a private party funded the experiment. In all honesty, if Combos aren’t going to be in Heaven, then I am not sure I want to die.

Are times that tough over at Combos? Has the price for a pound of pretzel gone up these days? Did crackers and cheese become an endangered species? I mean, what gives?

I decided to call Combos headquarters in Clovis, Calif., the other day to get some answers. While I was on hold, I heard a recorded message that stated the following: “If you have a medical emergency, hang up the phone and call (908) 979-XXXX.” That’s an awfully strange message. I wonder how often people incur Combos-related accidents? Perhaps, this was the reason why I was receiving a smaller amount of Combos? And what tormented soul would ever call a snack food hot line over dialing 911 in the case of a snack food related injury?

I imagine Combos has that message playing for a reason. Some idiot out there probably stuck a Combo some place he shouldn’t have, so now they need that disclaimer. Boy, I sure would hate to be that guy.

I can see it now: A guy injures himself while trying to open a bag of Combos with a pair of scissors. “Honey,” he yells to his wife, “I’ve just cut off my thumb. Where in the heck did you put that Combos snack food emergency number again?”

“Don’t you think we should call 911 for something like this?” she replies.

After I called Combos headquarters a second time, I reached a representative named Tyrell. “Tyrell,” I asked him, “why am I paying the same price for a smaller quantity of your delicious, salty treats?”

Tyrell was taken aback at the question, and I don’t blame him. “Let me look up the manufacturing history,” he replied. “Please hold.” Three minutes later, Tyrell came back on the line (and for some reason seemed like he was out of breathe, but I didn’t ask why). “It was a marketing decision.”

Now there is a marketing strategy I can stand by: less quantity, same price. As a consumer, I find the philosophy doesn’t carry much weight.

So how can Combos get away with it? Unlike most snack foods, Combos does not have a generic off-brand. If you have orange gunk on your hands, the culprit could be from Cheetos or from cheese puffs. The rich eat Fritos, but the poor eat simple corn chips. For every two Doritos I find under a couch cushion, there is always at least one exotic-flavored tortilla chip. But a Combo is a Combo is a Combo.

If you ask me, the folks at Combos have the market covered. Not to mention they operate off the simple marketing philosophy that no American can resist: food injected inside of other food. We have a holiday especially devoted to it — Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing anyone? And sure, jelly-filled doughnuts built the market, but Combos reinvented the food-within-another-food snack genre.

So, I suppose I should give Combos the credit they deserve, even if it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase of having a light snack.

 

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What are Friends For?

March 16, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Danja Vasiliev

My friend Andy Puterbaugh never takes time zones into consideration before calling. Now that’s a pretty important thing to account for if you live in another part of the world aside from the one you are calling. To Andy, if it is 9 p.m. where he is calling from, he expects it to be 9 p.m. at whatever household he decides to dial.

Still, it’s way better now than when he was stationed in Belgium. Let me tell you, I never got tired of being called at 3 a.m. “Remember,” I would always tell him, “that it’s always going to be the exact opposite time halfway around the world.” That’s usually when he would begin yelling something at me in Dutch.

Now under normal circumstances, I try not to answer the phone after midnight on a weekday when an unknown number shows up on caller ID — at least after the last time. Nevertheless, I slipped into temptation. Andy was on the horn.

An Andy call is not actually a phone call at all; it’s more like an experience. And they always involve a quest — not a favor, a quest! A favor would be like him asking me to do something well within my skill set. In contrast, an Andy quest involves me doing something that I not only lack the knowledge to perform, but also something there is no reason on Earth a guy like me should be doing at all.

“So, let me see if I follow, Mr. Time Zone,” I told him the other night when he called. “You want me to attempt to fix a used laptop computer that you sent back home to your mom — all in an attempt to save thousands of digital family photographs.”

“Yeah, that won’t be a problem, will it?” Andy asked.

“You are aware that I have no idea how a computer even works, right?”

“You’re a smart guy. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Andy serves in the U.S. Air Force and has a specialty with bombs. I still can’t believe that he is in charge of weapons of mass destruction. We use to manufacture makeshift gas bombs in his backyard. After serving three overseas tours since the wars began, how could I say no to one of my best friends? Aside from the potential for being responsible for zapping thousands of family photographs into Internet oblivion, no pressure, right?

Did I already mention that I’m not good with computers?

A few days later, Andy’s mom brought the computer by my place. I sat the laptop on my kitchen table and spent the next half-hour wondering how I was going to fix it. After briefly thinking about trying to pawn this task off on one of my other friends, I grabbed a small tool set, which someone ironically purchased as my Christmas gift. Then I got back to staring at the computer in amazement of the task before me.

Another half-hour later, a plastic computer cover, a lone hard drive and a dozen or so tiny black screws rested before me on the table. Somehow, I deduced that during transport the laptop must have been jarred, knocking the hard drive loose from its port.

And that’s when it happened.

My cat Thumper leapt upon the table and, in recognizing the dozen or so tiny black screws as something he could bat around endlessly, instinctively went at them like raw meat. I yelled “No-oo-oooo!” all slow motion like, but it was to no avail — the gears of discord were already turning. It was like a freakish cat re-enactment of the “Oh fudge!” scene from the movie “A Christmas Story.”

I searched the entire kitchen for two hours, and even after that I only had 11 or so of the tiny black screws. I even had to move the refrigerator to find one. Finally, I found the last screw in the tread of my left shoe. It came as a relief. For a while, I theorized that Thumper potentially ate the screw because he is mentally challenged.

When I finally finished the quest with screwing in the last screw, I looked at the clock and laughed. It was late — but it was even later where Andy was.

So, I called Andy to inform him of my progress. And I didn’t care what time it was.

 

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Putting My Money Where My Mouth Is

March 7, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I wish I had a dollar for every time someone bought me a wallet as a shoddy present. Birthday, Christmas or otherwise, it is an unsolved mystery why people are always giving me wallets. Seriously, in the last seven years alone, I have opened five presents that I initially thought were DVDs only to find the unsettling sight and smell of cheap leather and child labor-grade leatherworking.

I have actually worked the numbers, too. I don’t want you thinking that I am just throwing out numbers here. On any given special occasion where a wrapped present is traditionally given, I stand an 18 percent chance of adding yet another wallet to the wallet pile in my underwear drawer.

When people like my mother repeatedly ask, “So what do you want for your birthday?” I am quick to whisper to them, “Anything but a wallet.” But alas, my wallet warning is oftentimes in vain because people continue buying them for me. And I can’t even begin to describe how aggravating it is to receive a wallet from someone who three days earlier I told specifically not to buy me one. Like my mother, who has been known to buy a wallet or two (or 12) in her day.

The worst part of it is, I am only 31. If I live to be 90, and my calculations are correct, I will have amassed quite an impressive number of wallets by that time. Unfortunately, those very same calculations also forecast that by age 91 I will die when — in a freak wallet-stacking frenzy — I am crushed in a leathery avalanche of brand-new wallets.

Fatal wallet avalanches aside, I suppose I could start using at least one of them. Problem is, I already have had an awesome wallet for some time now. I have used the same wallet for going on 21 years. That means my wallet and I can go out and enjoy some brewskies together legally this year, even though we have been doing that together for the past decade. But don’t tell anybody that.

My pathetic, decades-old Velcro wallet once belonged to my late grandfather. Back then, the canvas wallet possessed a reddish hue with a complementing white border. Now it’s just a black wallet with a black border, all of which is ripe with grime and a thin coat of gunk. The Velcro, if it ever worked properly, is now like trying to stick two rocks together. And for some mysterious reason, my “Made in Taiwan” wallet always feels damp with no logical explanation. I might not know the criteria for deciding when to use a new wallet, but I like to think that off-the-charts moisture retention is one of the warning signs.

And in general fairness to my wallet, I do suppose it is time to give up the ghost. I don’t know what sins my wallet committed in its past life, but nothing deserves being nestled away in direct proximity to a guy’s right cheek for more than two decades with only a thin layer of deteriorating fabric for protection.

Not to mention all of this wallet-giving is beginning to make me out to be the bad guy. When wallet gift givers learn that I am still using the same old one, they feel disenfranchised as a gift giver. I never thought my wallet would create so much grief in the lives of others. Telling them things like, “If it’s any consolation, it makes for a great makeshift beer coaster,” never seems to amuse these folks.

I hardly carry cash on me anyway, opting to customarily use my magical bank card — so I don’t really even need one wallet, much less several. And even if I did carry cash — and had lots of cash to carry (it should be obvious that I don’t) — I don’t think it would necessitate the need for a new wallet, much less a small battalion of them at my disposal. After all, it is not like the three dollars I have in there are working my wallet double time or causing it to bust at the seams.

So while a fool and his money are soon parted, the same doesn’t go for a moron and his mysteriously wet wallet. But one thing is for sure: my wallet has withstood the tests of time. I have sure gotten my money’s worth out of it.

 

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Green Eggs and Spoiled Ham

February 27, 2011 By Leave a Comment

As lady luck would have it, I recently became the recipient of a ham. Now this wasn’t just any ham, this was a special ham — a raffle ham. What is, you must be wondering, a raffle ham? Well, that’s a silly question. Are you stupid or something? Everybody already knows a raffle ham is any ham (or ham-like product) awarded to any individual participating in a raffle where ham is a door prize.

You might not realize this, but I’m a big fan of hams. Be they dry- or wet-cured, country or canned, shank or spiral-sliced, smoked, salty or sugared, bone in or out. From black forests to bradenhams, these things matter not to a true ham lover. I’ve tried ham so many ways that the only way left to try it is to take a bite out of a live pig. I’ve heard it’s delicious, but I don’t want worms.

But I like those exotic hams, too, from your traditional cottages to Smithfields. Why, I’ve even been known to enjoy an occasional picnic ham or two in my day, even though any ham connoisseur reading this already knows picnic hams don’t technically qualify as a member of the ham family per se.

However, I don’t like honey hams. The mere thought of honey repulses me. I will speak of this honey ham hatred no further. Let us move on.

So, this raffle ham I’m jabbering about has me in a pickle (which reminds me, pickled ham also tastes especially delectable). A few hours ago, I walked in the door and sat the ham on the countertop. One look in the freezer all but confirmed the fact I have nowhere to adequately preserve a ham without becoming a card-carrying member of the salmonella society.

The ham is still on the countertop at this very moment because I don’t think it will keep in the cupboard. It’s been on the countertop for going on three hours now. When I crane my neck around from where I write this now, I can see the ham from here. It’s rather unnerving and starting to make me feel paranoid. I could be wrong, but I think the raffle ham is watching me, and I swear I thought I saw it move on its own. Nevertheless, if I don’t make a decision soon, I should probably give it a name. I’m thinking of calling it Sam the Ham.

I know what you must be thinking: Why doesn’t this idiot just have ham for supper tonight? I suppose that would solve the raffle ham problem I’m having, but I’m not in the mood for some ham at the moment — much less an entire boneless ham that weighs 6 pounds. While I’m not exactly on a strict dietary regiment, I try not to consume more than 5 pounds of meat in one sitting. I don’t know many people who can pig-out and eat an entire ham themselves anyway, and I believe any doctor would agree that digesting a whole ham is ill-advised, if not potentially fatal.

This happens to me every time I win meat, which is surprisingly often believe it or not (it’s the second raffle ham that I’ve won this year). I never have a place to keep large chunks of meat. I almost wish hams were redeemable for cash, but mostly because it would give “bringing home the bacon” an all new meaning.

Great! Now my some of my cats are messing with the raffle ham. Hold on. All right, sorry about that. Sometimes I think my five cats enjoy ham more than I do. They tore the plastic a little bit, but I think Sam’s going to pull through if I jury-rig the contents of my freezer without something falling on my toe, including two other hams already crammed in there.

Too bad tomorrow isn’t Easter. Easter ham, problem solved. The problem is since the next ham holiday is Easter, I don’t think the ham can stay on the countertop for much longer without me getting a really bad case of tapeworms. And Christmas is way too far away — fugetaboutit. Come December, this thing is liable to be leather.

But in case you never hear from me again, just assume I ate the entire ham in one sitting. Heck, maybe with some green eggs, too. After all, I do so like green eggs and ham! Thank you! Thank you, Sam the Ham.

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What Goes Up Must Come Down

February 19, 2011 By Leave a Comment

An open letter to everyone I saw last Monday :

Yeah, I am sorry about the zipper thing. My fault, for sure. I have to tell you that I’m pretty red-faced about that one. Say, there is probably no reason to tell anybody else about that, is there? Feel free to keep that just between us guys. Am I right, ladies?

What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry my zipper was down the entire day last Monday. But what I’m also trying to say is: At any point, any of you could have politely informed me that you knew what color my boxers were because of a little lavatory lapse in normal potty protocol.

Now under normal circumstances, I zip up my pants. I don’t want any of you thinking I’m some closet pervert who stalks the world each day in a trance-like state with his zipper intentionally in the downright position. Rather, I’m merely a forgetful stooge who possesses only a few shreds of decency. I assure you, I have had this zipper problem my entire life, and it made junior high seem especially cruel.

Most of the time, it is simply a matter of getting sidetracked in the bathroom. I aim to do one thing and forget about another. Nine times out of 10, I forget to zip up because someone comes into a public restroom I’m in. I act like I’m washing my hands, you know, to appear normal and sanitary. It seems tireless at times — I would be exerting less energy if I just washed them!

I’m getting off track. What I am trying to say is that you are all partly to blame for this whole zipper thing, as well. I think they call that an accessory after the fact — after the fact being my forgetting to zip up accordingly. At any point in time last Monday, any single one of you could have had the good graces to inform me of the security breach in my britches.

I bet that many of you mocked me. For all you know, I was headed to a big job interview or a photo shoot for a new kids clothing line being released by Kmart. Those things mattered not to any of you. Instead, you went ahead and asked me how I was, what I did over the weekend and other casual social exchanges we were both obligated to recite. At some point, you must have noticed, and yet you spoke not a word. You probably just giggled like a schoolgirl after I walked away with a “get-a-load-of-this-guy-over-here” look on your face. Yeah, that’s real mature, butthead!

Actually, the more and more I think about it, all of this is your fault. I’ve just been trying to be polite about it this whole time. OK, I guess some of you acquaintance-types might have felt embarrassed to point it out to me, but a lot of you know me well. Many of you have no excuse whatsoever.

Which brings me to you, mother. Out of all people, you deceived me the most. At the end of the day when I stopped to see you, you spoke not a word of unfastened zippers. No, it was only after I arrived home when this matter was brought to my direct attention.

“You know, your fly is down,” my girlfriend, Christine, said seconds after I came through the side door. As my girlfriend, Christine has impeccable “your fly is down” radar that usually saves me every time. She’s also really good about reminding me to put on deodorant and pointing out when something is stuck in my teeth. You all could learn a lot from someone like that — from someone who isn’t afraid to keep their lips zipped when a guy’s fly is down.

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A Race Against Time (Warner Cable)

February 11, 2011 By 1 Comment

I don’t mind waiting for the cable guy to arrive. Sure, you clear half the day only for him to be 30 minutes late, but it’s still better than grinding your teeth in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. When you are waiting at home, you can pursue more intellectual practices like trying to stack Oreos as high as you can on a coffee table — try doing that at the doctor’s office.

After a while, I surrendered all hope the cable guy would ever show and began humoring intricate scenarios in which saboteurs abducted the cable guy in exchange for outrageous demands. But then, like a cliche, the cable guy arrived a minute past eternity. His name was Bill. Bill was not the brightest bulb in the box.

“I’m Bill,” Bill said, smiling. “I’m the cable guy.”

Bill asked a series of questions, many of which did not revolve around cable-related issues, which seemed odd. “What time is it?” Bill asked. It was 6:30 p.m. Bill laughed. “Sorry I’m late. May I look in your attic now?”

“Yes you may,” I replied.

Bill went up into the attic and returned quickly. “Can I go outside?” he asked me.

“Yes, you may, Bill,” I responded.

Lord only knows what Bill did while out there, but when he reappeared inside minutes later, he was a lot sweatier than before. Finding no conceivable reason why any man would sweat that much in such short of a time, I asked Bill if it was raining outside. Bill said it was not.

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” Bill informed me. “I locked my keys in the cable van, and my tools are inside the van. My supervisor needs to drive out here with another key, which won’t be for another hour. I hate to ask, but do you mind if I wait inside with you?”

Do I mind? Now why would anyone mind spending time with a complete stranger inside their home — alone? For an hour! Of course, I minded. I minded a whole lot to tell you the truth. I’m sorry, but I’ve watched far too many “Forensic Files” to know this road could lead to a shallow grave or a roadside burial.

Nevertheless, I tapped into my cordial nature and offered Bill the hospitality he sought. And so began the most uncomfortable and awkward hour of my entire existence, sitting there on the couch (a steak knife under the cushions for safety) bantering back and forth with a guy named Bill, who was a cable guy — a very, very strange cable guy.

Now this brings up an ugly piece of information that I haven’t mentioned until now. This all happened the week that my truck’s transmission went out, not to mention the almighty Internet, TV and home telephone going out, too, which was why Bill blessed me with his ignorance to begin with. That’s right, no transportation, TV, World Wide Web or telephone for nearly one week. It was like living in the 18th century, except with less coonskin hats and musket loading involved.

However, the only problem with baby-sitting Bill (or as I call it, Billy-sitting) was that I promised my girlfriend, Christine, that I would pick her up at work at 8 p.m., after driving her there in her car earlier.

I had two options. I could either upset Christine or let Bill, the very strange cable guy, have the run of the house while I left to pick her up. In the end, I decided to keep an eye on Bill, mostly because my homeowner’s insurance policy doesn’t cover burglary.

Be that as it may, I still needed to call Christine’s workplace to inform her of these transpiring events. And since I throw away telephone books because any phone number can be found online, I tried searching Google before remembering I had no Internet or telephone to call with, for that matter.

A light bulb went off — I told Bill I needed something in the other room. Then I snuck outside my own home and ran down the street to my parents’ house where I called Christine. Rushed, I hoofed it back home again, snuck inside and went back into the living room.

Bill looked at me.

“Where did you go,” he asked. “And why are you so sweaty?”

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Don’t Make Him Tell You Thrice!

January 28, 2011 By Leave a Comment

Recently, talk show host Conan O’Brien issued a challenge to his audience by encouraging them to use the word “thrice” more often. You know, thrice — as in something transpiring three times in succession. So, for instance, the Lionel Richie classic would be renamed “Once, twice, thrice times a lady.” And I think that sounds like a better song title anyway, don’t you?

Coco championed the Thrice Campaign because he argued great words that nobody uses are already in the dictionary. And just let me say, I acquiesce capaciously (whatever that means) with Conan not once, nor twice, but thrice.

See, every couple of years a bunch of word geeks sit in what I imagine are clandestine gatherings and decide what words will be added to the dictionary in a perverse mutiny of the English language. A small sampling of just some of these new so-called words include frenemy, bromance, nonversation and chillax. I’m sorry, forgive me for not knowing, but when did junior high kids start dictating what words belong in the dictionary?

You remember Conan, right? He has a show over on TBS now, and it’s his thrice time hosting a late night talk show in the aftermath of the whole Jay Leno debacle. That’s right, despite Conan’s once-perceived bromance with Jay Leno, they both became frenemies with one another.

I must admit, however, there was one word I felt lugubrious (that means sad) about for not making the dictionary cut. That word is lenoed, a verb that means to give something to someone only to take it back undeservingly at a later date (once your prime time show receives poor ratings). Here, I’ll use it in a sentence in case you’re stupid: It was only after awakening in the recovery room when Tim learned his best friend Joe had lenoed him out of a kidney for a transplant.

Another word that made the list is a personal favorite of mine: staycation. It’s not often a single word will rouse an aggressive (or pugnacious) response from me. One time I butted into a “nonversation” between two strangers just to object to their usage of the word! I made a few frenemies that day, let me tell you, and if not for the statute of limitations that murder carries, I’d even tell you where I buried one of the bodies.

“Stay-cation, va-cation, get it,” I always overhear some self-amused moron say.

“Yes, we get it,” I feel like screaming. “Just like bromance, it’s clever wordplay, but so is the word “defriend” — do you want that in the dictionary, too?”

Oh wait, it already is. Yup, defriend is coming to a dictionary near you, crammed between the words defray and defrost like a metaphor I’m too lazy to come up with. Thank you, Facebook, for helping to pollute a refined language that dates back to the fifth century.

That’s why we should heed the perspicacious words of Conan the Grammararian, which is a word I made up just now. Who knows, at this rate that word might end up in the dictionary someday, too.

But to be perfectly honest, these new words don’t bother me nearly as much as the people who actually say them. It takes a really special person to use “ginormous” correctly in a sentence. And I just want everyone who uses these types of words to know one thing: It makes you sound nescient, benighted and imbecilic, all of which are really great dictionary words that mean ignorant.

So, the dictionary is already filled with great words that nobody uses anymore, just like Conan said. And I don’t think it’s asking too much to start using some of them more often, especially the word thrice. Or else.

You’ve been warned once, and I’ve told you twice. Just don’t make me tell you thrice!

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Our Days are Numbered

January 20, 2011 By Leave a Comment

I watched a commercial the other day that claimed — get ready for this — kids in other countries are better at math and science than our kids. More accurately, the public service announcement claimed America ranked 29th in science and an abysmal 35th in math. So, I guess if you live your life according to commercials you’re too slow to fast forward through, the future is pretty bleak, huh?

Humiliating enough, the commercial then ran a laundry list of countries that rank higher than we do down the TV screen. I only recognized the names of a few of them, which is further evidence we should launch into inquiry where we rank in geography worldwide, as well. But I refuse to believe America ranks 35th in math, and not just because math is hard and a frivolous waste of time for most people. I honestly didn’t think there were that many countries on Earth. How can the Netherlands be better at science than us? Until recently, I thought the Netherlands was a fictional land of pixies and elves.

Correct me if I’m wrong here, but do we have to be better than everybody at everything? Is that what’s expected of us? Are we this egoistical and self-involved? And if it’s true, isn’t that an unrealistic, if not arrogant, expectation for our children and our children’s children, who will be even stupider than we are?

In a day where some might be provoked into action, I say why bother. Honestly, don’t flatter yourself: We’re stupid and we know it. We’re almost proud of it — for crying out loud, turn on a TV if you don’t believe me.

I suppose we can treat this in one of two ways. We can either show that old-fashioned American attitude of ignoring the problem and hoping it goes away or we can begin the systematic elimination of other countries that rank higher than us at science and math. We are America, and we have the bomb! After nuking a few of the countries that rank higher than us, I have a good feeling the remaining countries would catch on and throw the fight. Before you know it, America would be at the top of the class again. USA! USA! USA!

But do those rankings really matter? Honestly, does anyone care if Sweden is good at anything? Are they good at anything? When was the last time Sweden’s so-called knowledge of mathematic equations trumped America in the last century or any century? Are there Swedish mathematician masterminds operating as terrorists to release a legion division remainders on American soil that I’m unaware of? And more importantly, do they operate in factions or fractions?

Thankfully, I don’t think it will come down to nukes. Not because it’s a silly reason to go to war — America does that all the time — but because I imagine launching a nuke requires a fair amount of math and science skills. We’re so stupid that we might end up blowing ourselves to smithereens.

Unless firing a nuke is just pressing a gigantic red button, like in the movies. Please tell me it is. Just think where America ranks at pressing buttons — cell phones, text messages, computers, Internet pornography. I bet our world ranking is pretty high in that category. So chin up, America, that’s an impressive accomplishment worth celebrating. And let’s not forget about child obesity, which clearly shows American children at least rank first in something.

I guess if you want to be a real stickler about it and not go about the business of causing needless bloodshed, we could roll up our sleeves and learn our kids real good like . Count me out though, it sounds hard. Plus, I’m busy the next day (and the day after that). Besides, the whole process probably involves way too much math and science for me.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t have any ideas. For starters, in Japan at this very minute, junior high students are being taught about their country’s foreign policy. Ask American junior high students about America’s foreign policy and listen to what they tell you. In junior high, I was constructing makeshift dioramas for Hardy Boys books as class assignments. So if you want my opinion, I’d start there.

Until that time comes, America will constantly live in fear of Swedish mathematicians lurking in the shadows and biding their time to pounce.

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