Would You Like Death With That?

Yes, it's true. Scientists are kidnapping people and replacing their brains with those of small monkeys. I know this because I read a news article today about a Chicago woman who stabbed her cousin to death in an argument over a box of french fries.

Now before we start getting on our high-horse and making self-righteous claims about the degradation of humanity and the effects of too much exposure to casual violence, let's step back and take a look at the larger issue: the deliciousness of those fries.

I can't remember the last time I've had fries so good I'd kill for them. This has to be what's missing in my life. (Yes I know that the thing-that's-missing-in-my-life changes every week, what's your point?)

Frankly, there are too few things in this world I'd be willing to kill for. I suppose I'd kill for my family, but that's rather vague don't you think? Better stated: I'd kill for my family and for the huge wads of cash they'll all happen to be holding in each hand.

Of course this whole thing is tragic. Here are two perfectly stupid human beings involved in a senseless murder. Nobodly likes murder, unless it somehow involves Fran Drescher. Really, people should not be subjected to things like "The Nanny." Shame on you, Fran.

Back to the point. Where did these deadly fries come from? The delicious folks at White Castle is where. Sadly, since White Castle is only available to the tiny-hamburger-loving eastern U.S., their sublime french fries have yet to grace my palate. All I know is that if I ever make it out to Chicago or some other White Castle-friendly town, I plan on sampling the fries. If they live up to the ridiculous expectations I've set for them, I'll add them to my list of things worth killing for. Until then, I plan on living a non-murderous lifestyle, no matter how many times I think of doing in Fran Drescher. And let me tell you, I think of it hourly.

Postscript:
No, I'm not making this up. Read the news article here.

I Dream of TiVo

TiVo has become my new crack cocaine. Before TiVo, my crack was shopping for furniture, and before that it was herbal tea. Perhaps there was a time when my crack was actual crack, who can say?

Yes, I'm addicted to TiVo. And not because I watch a lot of TV. It's simply this: TiVo makes me powerful. I can pause, rewind, fast-forward and record live TV. Perhaps I can even affect weather patterns. Who can say? TiVo has many powers.

For example, I was watching the very end of the BYU-Notre Dame game last week with some friends, and apparently I missed an amazing catch. Oh no! But was I doomed to a bad reenactment of this momentous event through my feeble imagination? No! Thanks to Tivo, I just pushed the rewind and lived it all over again. (sidenote: it wasn't that cool.)

Sometimes I’m listening to NPR in my car and am temporarily deafened by a loud sound (usually from some dumb semi truck) and end up missing an important point. What was that, Neal Conan? We're still fighting a war on WHAT? The National WHAT is coming in November? I'm listening to “WHAT of the Nation?” So I instinctively reach for the rewind button before I have to stop myself. Holy crap, the radio is not a TiVo! This realization hits me like a thousand voodoo needles. Then I can barely even see the road because I can't stop sobbing.

TiVo would be great in real life too. No longer would you have to sneak peeks at some attractive young thing across the room. Simply reach for the remote, press “pause,” then gaze away. And think of all the dry, meandering conversations you could fast-forward though. Hear that, old man Johnson? Your gardening stories have no power over me.

Yes, life is better with TiVo. But is TiVo better with life? This is the great question of existence. Only God can answer. And I'm sure he will get to it eventually, unless he owns a TiVo, in which case forget about it. He's busy.

Tamped On

This post is about tampons, as you probably couldn't guess after reading the title. You see, it was a PUN. Get it? You know, “tamped”...the act of tamping.

So tampons. Why would I bring them up, you wonder. Being male, I naturally would not have occasion to use them. Which is precisely my point. They don't concern me, so I'd like to forget they exist.

Why then do commercials try so hard to remind me? I could go my whole life without seeing a tampon commercial and be perfectly fine. But the folks at Tampax just don't seem too concerned about my feelings. I'm regularly exposed to ads where clever menstruaters use their tampons to solve little problems. What luck! You can fix a leaky boat with tampons. Oh rapture! You can use your tampons like a rope. Except these cute little ads still only remind me of what I'd rather not remember; that tampons exist to absorb gooey, bloody discharge.

Some feminine hygiene commercials take it a step further, not even attempting to deliver a message in good taste. I will quote from an ad I saw a year or so ago which has been permanently burned into my memory:

"Some things are kept best among friends. Like painful, burning, feminine itch."

Whoa, way too much detail Ad Lady. If it's kept best among friends, why are you telling the whole world? Yes, the WHOLE WORLD. The orphans in Romania haven’t stopped having nightmares.

Now girls, don't tell me I'm being too squeamish and wimpy and that it's a part of nature and I might as well get used to it. How many commercials do YOU see advertising products to eliminate thick, sweaty back hair on men? It's certainly something that some men deal with, but I seriously doubt anyone wants to be reminded of it.

Alas, I'm throwing up my hands. Really, nothing can be done, since the nature of advertising involves pushing a message through thousands of unintendeds to reach that special target audience. I've accepted that. But can I whine about it anyway? Of course I can. I can also make up verbs like "to tamp.” Don't tamp with me mother-tamper.

The Golden Age

There needs to be more made-up holidays like Labor Day. Having a day off is a beautiful thing. I spent it at a cabin in Causey resevoir, among the pine trees and Pinesol scented air. You can't beat the mountains. Green things and relaxation go together naturally, like peanut butter and jelly or stomach pumps and Arbys.

The activities were uniform: hiking, stargazing, dvd watching, cheesy game playing. There were ten of us, a perfect number to fill the ten beds up in the loft. But think about it; when there's a bunch of single twenty-somethings, five guys and five girls, sleeping in a tight space in the middle of the woods, certain things are bound to happen...

Like long conversations about Eighties cartoons, for example. As a child of the Eighties, I never miss the opportunity to reminisce about the good old days. How could any boy claim to have had a horrific childhood when there was He-Man, Transformers, Thundercats, and Garbage Pail Kids? And girls had it good too, what with My Little Pony, She-Ra, Strawberry Shortcake, and Jem and the Holograms. Pity the female pre-teen today, with her Gangsta-Skank Barbie and complete lack of Kid Sister dolls.

It was the golden age of Saturday morning cartoons, unequaled by previous decades or any decade to come. What other decade had such catchy theme songs that can be so easily remade into techno songs? I mean the only thing the Nineties offered were thousands of Power Rangers spin-offs and those tended to cause severe mental retardation, or so I've been told. Today we have nonsensical shows like Sponge-Bob Square Pants. He lives under the sea, yet somehow he can go sailing on a boat on TOP of the water. I'm sorry, that's way too trippy.

Times are changing. What are my future kids going to watch? She-He-Man? The Adventures of Girls-Gone-Wild-Endless-Spring-Break Barbie? I say bring back the Eighties cartoons, or at least something like them. Kids need the stability, what with all the dangers that they face from terrorists and Michael Jackson. Who would you trust to protect you: a ripped, panther-riding super-hero or a talking dish sponge? Tight-pink shirts or not, my money's on He-Man.

Freakless

Yesterday one of my co-workers, let's just call her Denise (since that's her real name), was let go. Denise was a bizarre lady from New Jersey.  She had a distinct, nasal Eastern accent, dressed tackier than a garden gnome, and possessed an unhealthy obsession for horses. The very first day she moved into her cubicle, she junked it up with glittery picture frames, assorted baubles, trinkets, ceramic knickknacks, and old photographs. She was eccentric and loud. She spent all of her free time with her ex-husband, who lives down the street from her. She was such a delightfully weird, freakish woman. Her constant bantering was often a welcome interruption into a slow day at work. Too bad she was incompetent. Despite her long years as a teacher and educator, she seemed incapable of handling simple tasks. To her, a computer was like a mystical creature that had to be tamed, usually by yelling at it and making loud claims that it was possessed. So no more Denise. But it was an interesting 6 weeks.

There just aren't enough strange people in my life. When I look around me, all I see are relatively normal, non-deranged, everyday people. It's getting on my nerves. I miss the odd-balls.

Like the crazy Parisian at my first job home from France, who did phone surveys with a voice so high-pitched it often became inaudible.  I remember clearly her pale, mullet-like blonde hair, the gap in her front teeth... She couldn't pronounce the word "or" (she said "of"), and complained long and loud that our job had no good "benefit." It turned out she was the ex-wife of my French professor, who told me he divorced her because she went crazy. According to her: "Je lui ai foutu par le porte" (I kicked him the eff out).

Then there was Margo, one of my favorites. She lived in the French city of Poitiers, and spent most of her life walking her dogs. She was from Philadelphia, and kept her brash Eastern mannerisms and harsh American accent intact despite her ten years living abroad. She carried baby wipes on her outings and would wipe her dogs' rear-ends whenever they relieved themselves on the sidewalk (which was frequent). I got the feeling the locals were afraid of her. Sometimes I would pass her as she sat in a cafe, energetically gesturing at someone across the table, an acquaintance or a stranger, whose eyes were usually wide with shock, desperately maintaining an uncomfortable smile.

So many loonies, so many memories. These three examples are of women, but I've known my fair share of crazy men: one who communicated primarily in long, cartoonish giggles, one who kept the pre-packaged photos of pretty girls in the frames to display around his home, and my Senegalese friend, Ass Faye, who has no idea his first name is so comical.

Charming eccentrics, all of them. But they're in low supply these days. I need to meet more weirdos. I would turn to the internet but it's too full of the creepy, molest-a-child kinds of weirdos. I want the harmless kind. But where is one to go? Not the library or the park; too many normal families. Not Wal-Mart; too many rednecks. Not church; too many purposeful believers.

I will have to wander the streets, seeking out the strange, the funky, the socially backward. Perhaps my journey will be long, fraught with regular encounters and everyday exchanges. But I will persevere. I will not shrink. Be afraid, freaks of the planet, I'm coming for you.