Q: How Do You Capture a Unique Rabbit?

A: You 'neak up on them!

I was in the supermarket the other day and I was going down the aisle where they sell condoms. Not that I would be needing a condom for any reason, but you probably already guessed that didn't you? Anyway, while I was not shopping for condoms I happened to notice that on one of the condom packages it said, "New Unique Shape!" New unique shape? Who the hell are these for?!!? Did I miss some crucial step in evolution somewhere? As far as I knew, the equipment I have is the latest model. State of the art. It may even be broadband digital.

I Witnessed A Mugging

Two days a week I work in an elementary school. There is nothing cooler than working in an elementary school. If you are not a teacher, but just an occasional visitor to the classrooms, you become something of a celebrity to the little tikes. They all wave hello everywhere you go and shout your name as you pass them in the hall. Certain select students are lucky enough to have weekly appointments with me, the famous Mr. Taylor of Martin Luther King Elementary School. All the other students are jealous of the chosen ones who get to leave class and visit my office. They all beg and plead for their chance to see where I take their classmates. I'm sure they're imagining that my office is a some palatial throne room filled with candy and roller coasters. At this point you must be wondering what the title, "I Witnessed A Mugging" has to do with all of this. I did witness a mugging at the school. It was horrible. The poor kid didn't have a chance. I'm not sure who was more tramatized, me or the young child I was escorting to my office. As we walked down the hallway we had casual conversation about that days' events in his classroom, never suspecting the horror that awaited us around the next corner. With classes all in session, the dusty hallways were empty. Our footsteps echoed as we made our way to my office. As we rounded the next corner, almost to the safety of my office, the perpetrator leapt, seemingly right out of the cinder block wall to our left. At the outset, it was obvious that the student was the intended victim. It was a teacher, with marker in hand. I had never seen this before. It was a math mugging. She gently caught the student by the arm and directed him to look at the large piece of poster paper she had taped to the wall. On it was a math problem. She assertively suggested that the innocent boy try to solve the problem in as many ways as he could think of. I stood by helplessly as he pondered this problem. I had ideas. I thought I could help, but I was frozen. The math phobic child I used to be screaming inside my head to stay away. To run. To save myself while I still could. When I chose the field of mental health, I made a vow. A vow to myself to help others. I couldn't abandon this meek, kind-hearted child. After his valiant effort to please the teacher who had so viciously attacked him, I escorted him to my office and attempted, with words and reason, to wash away the horror of what he had just endured.

A Three Hour Tour, A Three Hour Tour..

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale. A tale of a fateful trip, that started from this Minnesota port aboard two tiny ships. Ironically the Minnesota Vikings football team “pleasure” cruise on Lake Minnetonka was scheduled for a three hour tour. Sadly the Vikings football players could have used some Viagra because their boat ride only lasted 40 minutes. But it was not because the weather started getting rough and the tiny ships were tossed. In this case there was also no fearless crew either. The crew turned the ships around and returned to port because they were fearful of being impaled by a Viking spear. In the business world my company will often organize office retreats or team building exercises. This is apparently what Fred Smoot was trying to do for his team. With the Vikings team falling apart on the field Smoot decided that the guys need a morale booster on their week off. So he and others hired two boats and 20 entertainment “professionals” for a boat “ride.” I wonder how many of them were named Ginger and Mary Ann? Or at least claimed to be. I wonder if Onterrio Smith brought his Whizzinator to impress the ladies? (Reference May 11 "Gee Whiz" post)

It never ceases to amaze me that young men who are paid to millions of dollars to play a game continue to find new and ridiculous ways to embarrass themselves. Whether it’s gambling, hookers, steroids, illegal drugs, or domestic violence these guys just can’t seem to stop finding ways to piss away (sorry, Onterrio Smith reference) what most of us would do for a tenth of what they get paid. We’re paying money to play fantasy sports at what these morons get paid millions to do and they can’t stop finding ways to screw it up. They say money can’t buy you happiness. I believe money can buy you happiness, but as the professional athletes keep reminding us, it sure doesn’t buy you brains.

Am I Famous Enough Yet?

Am I famous enough to change my name, or has that ship already sailed? I've noticed that a lot of famous people tend to change their names, either before, during, or after becoming famous. From Marilyn Monroe, to Sting, to Madonna, to Cher, to Diddy, name changing seems to be very popular with the famous crowd. Are they famous because they changed their names, or did they change their names because they were famous? What got me thinking about this is Sean, Puffy, Puff Daddy, P.Diddy, Diddy, Coombs. Most famous people change their name once and stick with it. Sting, Madonna, and Cher all picked cool names and kept them. Sean Coombs has to be the all time worst at choosing names to improve his fame. His first, Puff Daddy, sounds like a drug dealer. Then he went with Puffy Coombs. I had a friend in college who kept a stuffed bear from his childhood that was named Puffy. We once stuffed it into a plastic tennis ball canister, filled it with water, froze it and then used the frozen bear to bowl down our dormitory hallway. I would do the same with a man named Puffy if given the opportunity. After that Mr. Coombs went with P. Diddy. What is the P. for and what exactly does diddy mean? P.Diddy sounds like a problem you'd go see a urologist about. Now he's just Diddy. What does Diddy mean? It means diddly if you ask me. So I'm left to wonder, am I famous enough to change my name yet, and what should I choose? I think I'm famous enough. The overwhelming volume of comments left on my blog will attest to my undeniable popularity. So what name should I choose?

Inappropriate Uses For Onstar

We've all heard the commercials. "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?" Caller responds tearfully, "My six month old baby is locked in my car with a rabid pit bull and I can't find my extra set of keys." While Onstar is a wonderful service I'm sure there are people who abuse the service.

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Caller: "Dude! I can't believe this. I went out with my friends and man we had, like, I dunno, 20 shots of this incredible blue stuff. Dude, you gotta try this stuff. It's awesome. Anyway, the parking lot is like, ginormous, and now I can't find my car. It's red. Can you see it from there?"
Onstar Dave: (With biting sarcasm) "No sir. I cannot see your car.
Caller: C'mon Dave. Dude, you've got, like, a satellite right? Why can't you see my car? Can you at least make the horn honk or the lights flash so I can find it?"
Onstar Dave: (Smirking) "Oh, sure sir. This may take a few minutes. Just wait, and the next time you hear a car horn, walk towards it. Have a nice night."

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Female caller: I'm calling about my boyfriends car."
Onstar Dave: "What's wrong ma'am? Has he been in an accident?"
Female caller: "An accident? I wish! That son of a bitch slept with my sister when I was gone for the weekend! Could you use your satellite to, like, blow up his car with a giant laser or something?"

Ring, ring! "Hello. This is Dave from Onstar. How can I help you?"
Caller: "Yeah. You've got to help me. This is an emergency."
Onstar Dave: "Slow down. Talk slowly so I can get all the information I need."
Caller: Ok, I was stuck in traffic on I-90 when I look over at this little, red, Pontiac Sunbird next to me and this chick was totally hot and she smiled at me. Just as I was about to get out of my car and go over to get her phone number, traffic started moving again and I missed her. Her license plate number is 975-AIG. Could you call her up and give her my phone number?"
Onstar Dave: "(Heavy sigh) Ok, hold on a sec. There, that should do it. About a half mile ahead you should find her pulled over on the shoulder with her car inexplicably stalled. Keep me on the line and when you get under the hood just press your star key and I'll start her back up."
Caller: "Onstar Dave, you rock!"
Onstar Dave: Yes I do.

The Roof, The Roof, The Roof Is On Fire

Ok, my roof was not on fire, but I had to go up there nonetheless to prepare my house for inspection so it can be sold. The roof on most houses looks pretty harmless and they are rarely prone to jumping out at you from behind a bush and yelling "Boo!" The roof on my house did just that this week. Figuratively speaking that is. During a particularly malevolent windstorm about 6 months ago the cap on my chimney broke off. I dealt with this the way I do most problems with my house. As long as the chimney cap did not hit me in the head when it decided to make it's bid for freedom, I decided that I appreciated it's consideration in keeping my cranium intact, so I pretended I didn't even know about it. Unfortunately, I don't think the engineer inspecting my house will feel the same way. I own a two story house. As long as I have owned it I have been very pleased with the job my roof has done staying on top of the house and keeping the rain out. The chimney cap was a problem that forced me to confront the fact that the top of my house is much higher above the ground than I am used to being while I am outdoors. I am not afraid of heights, and in most situations I enjoy them immensely. Most situations, however, does not usually include hanging my feet off of the roof 30 feet above the suddenly immeasurably cold, hard, ground feeling around for the ladder with my toes. I ascended safely enough with my eldest son holding the ladder. He was more nervous than I was, worried that he would make some mistake that would result in my sudden and catastrophic impact upon the previously described ground. I had previously imagined that in getting up on the roof I would revel in the thrill of my momentary role as a suburban Spider-Man. Once on top of the house there was a lot less reveling than I had imagined there would be. There was a lot more clinging and inching along carefully. I safely found the remains of the old chimney cap and flung them through the air, prompting my son to briefly panic that my body would come sliding off the roof after it. I slowly crept back down to the edge of the roof and dangled my feet off the edge feeling around for the ladder that I hoped was still there. As I searched for my lifeline to the ground, that I hoped was still held by my son, I thought to myself, "Maybe now would be a good time to raise his allowance." As you can see by my telling of the tale here, I found the ground safely right where I had left it.

Sweet Child Of Mime

Often as a parent I'm concerned about what my child is exposed to when he's not with me. I worry that at school, on the bus, or in the neighborhood he may hear bad language that other kids learn from their parents, hear stories about "R" rated movies or professional wrestling that some kids are allowed to see, or even worse, that some other kid may loan my child a copy of Grand Theft Auto for Playstation. Today my greatest fear was realized. I was totally unprepared to explain the unmitigated horror that my innocent 7 year son was exposed to at school today. Mimes! They didn't even send a note home asking permission to let my child see a mime! If anyone is going to annoy my child with stupid behavior it's going to be me! I do not want those annoying bastards trying to convince my son that they're stuck in an invisible box, or trying to get him to play invisible tug of war with them. Why the hell don't mimes talk? You can pretend to climb an invisible ladder and talk. Are we really to believe that miming is the occupation of choice for mutes? What's wrong, were all the Oompa Loompa jobs taken? Just once I'd love to see a mime who spoke through his entire act. Who wouldn't want to hear a mime say, "Oh fuck! I'm stuck in this freakin' box again! Hey morons! Do you think you could stop just staring at me and maybe try to feel around the outside of this box for a doorknob or something? Remind me not to get stuck at the top of an invisible ladder when you mooks are around. This is definitely not a mensa meeting."

My House Is A Very, Very, Very Fine House

3 bedrooms, one bath, and one melancholy owner. Amenities include several new windows, one of which was replaced very recently due to a baseball shaped hole put there by a future major league pitcher. A fully carpeted flight of stairs which are capable of withstanding the tumbling of an 11 month old child without inflicting a single scratch on either of them. A beautiful deck built in the hot, summer sun which has hosted countless cookouts and quiet nights with a glass of wine. Walls that don't talk, but that do contain countless words of wisdom, written on them by tiny hands, that would tell a story if they hadn't been hidden by a few coats of paint. The large picture window in the living room features a spot centered directly in front of it that is just right for a Christmas tree. The plush, royal blue carpet in the living room is perfect for being strewn with wrapping paper and presents. I have finally sold my house and as I sit here looking around at the big, wooden box that has contained my life for the last 13 years I can feel the ghosts of those memories in each and every room. Sadly those ghosts seem to be living things which will stay in this house as I move on. I wonder, when I move into the new home I'm buying, will I sense the ghosts of someone else's life wandering those hallways? Although a house is just wood, steel, and mortar, when filled with memories it seems to be a living part of you. It is the place that has provided my physical and emotional security for most of my adult life. My children have never known another home and I've never known them in another home. Gone will be the familiarity of knowing which step to avoid if you don't want that loud squeak as you descend in the middle of a sleepless night. The 6th sense to instinctively avoid the sharp edge on the corner of the wall in the basement will no longer be there. No longer will I habitually know which door will need me to push down slightly as I pull it open to avoid sticking. I wonder, when I'm gone, will my house miss me as much as I will miss it?

It's a Girl!

No, I haven't impregnated anyone. Not that I couldn't mind you, I just haven't done so lately. Nope, the girl I'm talking about is the one that called my oldest son on the telephone today. The brazen little hussy's name is apparently Sarah. My son is 13 years old. He has never received a phone call from a girl who wasn't his mother or grandmother. I have never been more proud of him than I am at this moment. Good grades in school? Who cares! Musical talent? What's that worth? Athletic accomplishments? Please! A girl called my son! What could be more impressive than that? I think I'll raise his allowance. He doesn't need to do work around the house! I want him to rest up so he's fresh for the ladies. He's going to need more money for entertaining. I'm just disappointed that I can't give him a car yet. It's definitely not cool making out in the back seat of the school bus. Do you think it's too soon to give him condoms and a fake ID?

There's More Than One Way To Skin a Cat

Really? Is there more than one way to skin a cat? Who the hell took the time to figure that out? And how many cats did they go through? Exactly how many ways? Why didn't anyone call the cops on this psychopath? Wouldn't all the painful howling have alerted the neighbors that something bad was going on?

It's A Dog Eat Dog World

And my dog just ate up a big chunk of my budget yesterday. My dog has been chewing on her feet for about a year now and one of her little toes had gotten red and a little swollen, so I decided to bring her in to see the vet. Admittedly she was overdue on getting all her shots and her heartworm medication. Essentially, aside from the foot chewing, she wasn't going to pass inspection. So she got all her shots and her medication before Dr. Do Little addressed the foot chewing. He said it was probably a skin allergy. I asked about the treatment options and the consequences of not treating it. He outlined all the options, all the way up to "skin and blood tests that could run $700-$800." Needless to say, I was not going to spend four times the original cost of the dog just because she her feet itched. If my car needs $800 worth of repairs I'd get a new car. I was tempted to do the same here, but I didn't want to train a new dog not to pee in my house. The house I'm still trying to sell. The first option, however, was to try an allergy medication similar to benadryl. When I asked the consequences of not treating the allergy at all, Dr. Do Little said "She will continue to itch." That didn't seem so bad to me, but not wanting him to call the SPCA on me, I agreed to take two weeks of allergy medication for her and call him and tell him if it worked. Dr. Do Little is likely to grow old waiting for that call. As I was checking out I braced myself for what was likely to be an astronomical sum for what I consider an optional member of my family. The bill was $243.15. I think I may have to win the lottery with those motel ticket stub numbers if I want to afford to keep my dog. Actually, if I win the lottery I'll just hire someone to chew her feet for her. That has got to be cheaper than the treatment. At the checkout desk as I was signing a mortgage to pay for my dog's bill I noticed that they had stickers you could put in your window to remind the fire dept. to rescue your pets in the event of a fire. I thought to myself, "If I ever have to pay this much for my dog again, I may just set her on fire myself."

You Can't Spell Funeral without F-U-N !!!!

In the past 18 months I've gone to too many funerals and honestly they were not nearly as fun as they should have been. I think funerals should be conducted as wedding receptions are. Really, what's the difference? People stand up and make speeches about the guests of honor at both occasions. I do think that dancing with the guest of honor at funeral would be tacky, but not out of the question. Music, dancing, drinking, and presents for the survivors of the deceased would make funerals much more popular events than they currently are. That would however bring up the question, what is a good funeral present? When I was a kid the standard gift was a casserole of some kind. It seemed like everytime anyone died my mother would bake up a casserole of some kind and send me to bring it to the grieving neighbors. Somehow I don't think a casserole is an adequate replacement for a lost loved one. How about a plasma t.v. that could hang on the wall? Now that would be an adequate replacement for a lost loved one! (That's a not so subtle hint for those of you that know me) And why are eulogies always so sad? I think the eulogy should be conducted as a roast of the loved one.(Not literally though) I tried this humorous strategy to mixed response at my mother's funeral 7 months ago. On the altar of a Catholic church I suggested that since my mother was such a neat freak in life it might be appropriate to spread her ashes on the carpet and vacuum them up. She would have appreciated that. I wasn't looking at the priest, but apparently he appeared quite aghast. Needless to say though, the right people laughed. I think every funeral should have a reception afterwards. Not the usual wake at the deceased's house eating casseroles. Why not rent out a big banquet hall and have entertainment? If my pallbearers don't hook up with the mourning hot chicks in the coat room at the reception I will specifically ask God to send them to Hell. (Only for a little while though) I think I've just found my second career. I'm going to put on funeral receptions. Entertainment, food, dancing, the works! I think people would feel a lot better about blowing thousands of dollars on a funeral if they got to have a good time at it. I'll be The Funeral Planner! I can't wait for the movie starring Jennifer Lopez.

The Ticket

I like reading as well as I do writing. Occasionally if I can't find a book I want at a bookstore I'll buy a used copy on e-bay for $1 plus shipping. About a year and a half ago I bought an old Stephen King book that way. About halfway through the book I found a motel room ticket stub between the pages. Immediately the ticket held a sort of fascinating mystery for me. Who did the book belong to before me? Why did they go to the Flamingo Motel? Were they hiding from the police in a seedy, Norman Bates run, dive after a bank robbery? Did the book belong to one of an illicit pair of lovers sneaking away to the motel to consummate their passion? Was there a private detective, hired by a suspicious spouse, documenting their movements from the shadows? Did the book come from just an ordinary person with no extraordinary story who just brought the book along as a good way to pass the time at a sunny, vacation beach? And if so, was it a clothing optional beach? Could the motel room ticket stub that now serves as my bookmark be a desperately sought after piece of evidence in a murder investigation, proving the presence of the accused on the night in question? And did the murderer pay $45/NIGHT for 1 BED as the ticket says, or did he only have to pay ($22/Night Off Season)? Did he or she perhaps spring for the two beds at $50 per night during peak season? One bed for him and one for his victim? Or perhaps did this ticket find it's way to me through some sort of karmic destiny, and will it lead me to find my purpose in life? I think I may use some of the numbers on the ticket, the prices, the room number and the phone number, to play the lottery. If it was karma or fate that brought this mysterious 1 inch wide by 4 inches long piece of almost paper-thin cardboard to me, then I think the lottery might be a good idea. Unless of course the numbers turn out to be unlucky for me like they did for Hurley on LOST. Sadly, as in so many things in life, my curiosity drove me to a foolish course of action already. After about 18 months of owning this book and the ticket that held such fascination for me, I did a reverse phone number look-up. I've discovered that the Flamingo Motel is not in some exotic locale such as Las Vegas, Rio, or Casablanca. The Flamingo Motel is in Mackinaw City, Michigan. I'm sad because now part of the mystery of the ticket is gone for me. I still believe that someday I'll have to take a vacation to room 155 of the Flamingo Motel in Mackinaw City, Michigan. To pass the time I suppose I'll bring an old Stephen King book with a ticket stub for a bookmark. Then maybe I'll sell it on e-bay when I'm done.

Under Pressure

Ding Ding Ding Da Duh Ding Ding. Ding Ding Ding Da Duh Ding Ding. (This is the David Bowie/Queen version, not the lame Vanilla Ice rip off version) Now that you know what those first two lines mean, go back and sing them aloud to the tune. I spelled it out pretty damn good didn't I? Until you actually try to spell out those nonsense phrases from songs, you don't realize how hard it is to make up words. Apparently people like Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey are much smarter than we give them credit for. The reason for the title of this post is that I'm feeling blog pressure. It's apparently not the kind of pressure that extra dietary fiber will help with. Other than my ridiculous musings about trying to sell my house or the adolescent antics of me and a bunch of other drunk, middle aged men I generally don't reveal too much about what goes on in my day to day life. Don't get your hopes up. That's not going to change now. This blog is sort of an outlet for an old hobby. I used to occasionally do stand-up comedy and despite having left that tragic part of my life behind, I still get the urge to make fun of everything. That can sometimes cause a problem in the world of working adults who don't see the humor in everything. The blog pressure I speak of is the pressure of trying to find something amusing or funny to say at least every 48 hours. I do say funny and amusing things on a regular basis throughout every day, but who wants to read a blog post that says, "Boy my day at work was really tough! ...and so I said to my supervisor, 'That's why form 304E was in the circular file! HA HA HA HA!" My goal is to be at slightly more amusing than a Dilbert cartoon. I mean, it's funny when the rest of you do it. I really love that. I do, but it's just not me. This is sad. I'm just rambling here like that guy in your college residence hall who gets high every day and always corners you in the elevator so he can use that old line, "What if we're really all just characters in someone's dream? What happens when that person wakes up?" AAAAIGH! More pressure! I don't want to ramble, yet I have nothing amusing or pithy to say. This is like high school all over again. I want to have a popular and interesting blog, but what do I do when I have nothing to say? I suppose I could get drunk and hope that I come out of my shell. That person was always fun in school wasn't he/she? That getting drunk to impress people thing never seems to work. If you're a girl you end up having sex with someone you didn't want, and if you're a guy you usually throw up on someone you wanted to have sex with. Well, if you've read this far without leaving I guess you're really my new best friend. Imagine how much I might write when I don't have writer's block.

The Phil Degrees of Separation

Well here it is. The explanations for all those mysterious connections to famous people.

1. Fidel Castro- My mother once spoke to Fidel Castro's brother on the phone. Back in the 60's when Castro and his rebels staged their coup of the government, the company my mother worked for had people working in Cuba. My mother was the company president's secretary. My mother took the call when Fidel's brother Raul called to tell the company that they had some of their employees hostage.

2. Jerry Seinfeld- Does everyone remember the plot of the final Seinfeld episode? Jerry and the gang had gone on vacation somewhere I think, and witnessed an enormously heavy man being carjacked. Rather than help the man being carjacked they laughed at him and were arrested for not helping. I once had a full-fledged conversation with that enormously heavy man. He is comedian/actor John Pinette.

3. Donovan McNabb- Again, my mother was the connection. Later in her life she worked as a school secretary in the Syracuse, N.Y. area where I grew up. Donovan McNabb came to her school twice to talk to students about learning disabilities. Both times he hung out in my Mom's office while waiting. She said he was very friendly and polite.

4. Richard Gere- My high school biology lab partner married Richard Gere's sister. I saw Richard at the mall once.

As I said, there are many less famous celebrities I connect to as well. There's two ESPN sportscasters I've spoken with. One of whom I knew in high school. Playing softball at a picnic, I once hit a triple off of Fox Sports announcer and bestselling fiction author Tim Green, who played for the Atlanta Falcons with professional wrestler Goldberg. Tim Green hit two home runs off me that same day. My best friend Gooby's second cousin is interior designer Thom from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I once had a guy who later played for the N.Y. Yankees hang out in my office for an afternoon. I know someone who used to be friends with has-been comedian Bobcat Goldthwait's sister. I'm sure you can all play this game. I think my Mom wins though. I mean really, who in the entire world has ever spoken with both Donovan McNabb and Fidel Castro's brother?

Just A Thought

Shouldn't a gallon of fat-free milk weigh less than a gallon of whole milk?