The Overlaughers

We all know the overlaughers. We encounter them in everyday life. You may even be an overlaugher. Typically the overlaughers have no idea they are one. Typically, overlaughers also annoy the hell out of the rest of us. I'm five sentences in and you're all still thinking, "What the hell is an overlaugher Phil? Get to it already would you!" If this was your thought, you are probably not an overlaugher.

An overlaugher is a person who's laughter is often disproportionate to the stimulus which provoked it. On the one side of this, it is nice that these people are enjoying life so much that they find even the most modestly amusing things bring them unmitigated joy. The other side of this coin is that the rest of us have to listen to them guffaw loudly during meetings, in casual conversations and during movies or television shows. Don't get me wrong, I love to laugh and I love hearing others laugh at my jokes, but even if it is my joke, I still get the urge to slap an overlaugher right out of their fit of hysteria if it is unwarranted. There are three types of overlaughers. I'm not sure which is more irritating.

The first type is the Self Overlaugher, or an Overlaugher Type I. For most of this week I was at a conference through my work. Eight hours a day for three straight days I sat in a conference room being lectured at. This first day presenter was a very attractive 28-30 year old woman who had just gotten her PhD the day before yesterday and couldn't wait to enthusiastically share all the brand spankin' new information they had taught her in college, but which has no useful application in the real world. In an effort to spice up her presentation she interspersed jokes and amusing personal anecdotes. Early in the day I was very pleased with this approach. Then I noticed she was an Overlaugher Type I. She found herself hysterically funny. So funny in fact that she often began laughing at her jokes before the audience had a chance to. Sometimes the audience chose not to laugh since she had already done it for them. It is fine to tell jokes, in fact I do it all day long. Sometimes it is even Ok to smirk or chuckle a bit when you say something amusing. A Self-Overlaugher laughs loudly and profusely at their own jokes as if someone else had just said something side-splittingly funny.

The second day we had a different presenter who was a bit more low key. Unfortunately for the rest of us an Overlaugher Type II had taken up residence in the front row. As a performer or public speaker it is wonderful to have several Type II Overlaughers in your audience. Type II Overlaughers seem to have an over-reactive funny bone. They find everything hysterically funny and usually have very little self-awareness regarding the volume at which their laughter emanates from their body. The problem for public speakers and audiences alike is when there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience. When there is just one Type II Overlaugher in the audience their laughter, which is either too loud, occurs alone, or outlasts the group response, tends to make a joke seems less funny because of their singularly exaggerated response, which usually causes everyone in the room to look at them and think, "What the hell is wrong with him?"

The Type III Overlaugher is known as the Combo type. A Combo Overlaugher laughs loudly and frequently at both their own jokes and everyone elses. The Combo Overlaughers are exhausting to be around and give most of us a headache. These people must collapse exhausted at the end of each day from the sheer energy required to maintain this laughter all day. The Combo Overlaughers strike me as very sad though because you know damn well that no one is that happy 24/7 and if they behave as if they are they're probably hiding something. Like seeing a clown at a bar drinking and smoking at the end of a long day of making ballon animals I imagine that the Type III Overlaughers go home and drink themselves to sleep every night.

The one place I do love Overlaughers however is in my comments, so please, feel free to embrace your inner Overlaugher. Which type are you?

Tag! I'm It.

A big sarcastic Woo Hoo for being tagged. If you've read my blog for any length of time you know that I avoid tags like I'd avoid a George Bush family reunion. Question Girl returned from being dead to the world for two weeks and the first thing she does is tag me. This time I decided that it was time you got a chance to see the serious, thoughful side of Phil. The side that likes to refer to himself in the third person. I believe that on some subjects my opinions are worth sharing with the world, so without further ado...

1) Are you happy/satisfied with your blog's content and look? I'm bored with everything about my template except that little picture in the top left.

2) Does your family know about your blog? The only family I acknowledge is my blog family.

3) Do you feel embarrassed to let your friends know about your blog? I'm not embarrased about my blog, but my friends are. Also, because people I know in real life read my blog I do avoid writing some things I might otherwise.

4) Did blogging cause positive changes in your thoughts? Ok, I'll give a serious answer to this one. Yes, I learned that I can write.

5) Do you only open the blogs of those who comment on your blog or do you love to go and discover more by yourself? I read the blogs of those who comment on mine and if I read a funny comment on someone elses blog I'll go to read that persons blog as well. I will also read any blog that contains information about how to start my own cult.

6) What does a visitor counter mean to you? Do you like having one on your blog? I have a visitor counter, but I could give a rats ass what it says. I almost never see it because it's way down at the bottom of the page.

7) Did you try to imagine your fellow bloggers and give them real pictures? Absolutely, and in my imagination they're usually naked because that's how I am when I'm blogging.

8) Admit it. Do you think there is any real benefit in blogging? Absolutely. I'm sure that somehow Blogger is making a fortune off of this. I don't know why they haven't sent me a check yet though.

9) Does criticism annoy you or do you feel it's a normal thing? I'll let you know as soon as someone criticizes me. Well, as soon as I hunt them down and make their life miserable until they take it back. Right after that I'll tell you how I feel about criticism.

10) Were you shocked by the arrest of some bloggers? I was not shocked at all. In fact it was I who turned them in. I was just trying to cut out some of my competition. I also fully expect to be arrested for my blog some day. How long can I make jokes about the F.B.I. without someone losing their sense of humor?

11) What do you think will happen to your blog after you die? Die? Me?!!? What the hell are you talking about?

I have eliminated a couple questions because I found them boring and because this was getting quite long. I am not going to tag anyone because that is the equivalent of passing on a chain letter, but if you wanted to do this tag go ahead and knock yourself out.

An Idiot Full of Sound and Fury

Dear Venezuelan President Chavez,

I hope you enjoyed your visit to New York. Your nonsensical ravings demanding President Bush resign, calling him "the devil," and stating that the podium still smelled like "sulfur" a day after he used it were hysterical. Clearly Robin Williams' new movie about a comedian being elected President is based on your life. It was even funnier a few days later when your Prime Minister showed up at the airport unannounced, bought a ticket with cash for a flight leaving in 30 minutes, and refused to get off his cell phone to answer questions from airport security. Brilliant! Behave like a terrorist then act outraged when you're pulled out of line for closer inspection. That must have taken some clever planning by you two just to get another opportunity to call George Bush "Mr. Devil."

President Chavez, can I call you Hugo? Good. Listen Hugo, I found your antics in New York this week exceedingly entertaining, but you are obviously not the sharpest tool in the shed, and here's why:

1) You are actively antagonizing a member of the Bush family. While I am no fan of their politics and have been known to have fun at their expense, I'm not stupid enough to aggressively provoke anyone named Bush. This family seems to make a hobby out of bombing small countries. Hmmm....Venezuela. Doesn't your country have some oil fields? I wonder, what are the chances that George Bush might decide to bomb a small country over something as insignificant as a little oil? I'm guessing that filling up AirForce One at nearly $3.00 a gallon is getting old fast. And don't even think of trying to talk junk about Florida. First of all, because that's my gig, and secondly, George's brother, Florida Governor Jeb Bush, would probably have no qualms about invading your little country with an army of alligators, rednecks, and giant bugs.

2) My second issue with your pre-adolescent attempt at international politics is that it is directed at the wrong guy. George Bush is on his way out. He's a lame duck President. Virtually powerless. The guy you want to go for is our next President, me. Then again, you might want to think twice on that front. I'm a big fan of expansion. I like the fact that the U.S. owns states that aren't anywhere near our country. We bought Alaska for the oil and for a place to hunt and fish despite the fact that it is basically a province of Canada. Hawaii? C'mon, we needed somewhere to vacation. So we've got a U.S. outpost to the north and to the west. I'm thinking we may need one to the south. How do you feel about Venezuela becoming our 51st state? You may not have a choice. Hey, if scientists can suddenly decide that Pluto is no longer a planet, as President I'm pretty sure it will be relatively easy to decide that Venezuela is no longer a country.

Sincerely,

Phil

*I just want to say a quick Hello to the F.B.I. and Homeland Security task force who are no doubt reading this because whatever software you use to monitor the internet alerted you that I had used the words "President, George Bush, and bombing" in this post. You guys are doing a great job and everyone here at The Phil Factor appreciates you keeping the country safe. Feel free to forward the link to this post to everyone at the Pentagon. I'm sure you guys could use a laugh. And if you see Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice in the hallway please tell her that the whole "brainy chick with power" thing she has going on totally floats my boat.

Just A Little Housekeeping

I added a few new names to my blogroll over the weekend. If your blog does not appear in my blogroll, but you would like it to, just give me a shout here. In all honesty, I'm just buying time right now because I didn't have a new post ready for this morning. I'll have a new, "regular" post later this evening. It will be the best, most shocking post ever, possibly revealing things about me that would surprise you.

T.G.I.Friday!

No, I'm not referring to the chain restaurant known for having real fingers in their chicken fingers. I am of course referring to the wonderful day that for many of us signals the end of a seemingly endless work week. For many of us Fridays also bring on the medical phenomena known as Vacation Brain.

According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition: "Vacation Brain is a condition marked by a lack of motivation, difficulty concentrating and staying on task, frequent and lengthy bouts of undirected speech, and sometimes extreme silliness. The symptoms mimic those of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and most often occur in the days and hours prior to leaving for an extended vacation. Often less acute symptoms of this disorder occur on Friday afternoons."

In laymens terms, Vacation Brain is when your brain has already quit work for the week in anticipation of the time off. I am a chronic sufferer of Vacation Brain. In fact, I have a handicapped parking pass due to the severity of my condition. That allows me to flee to my car, which is parked just outside the doors, that much quicker in my haste to start the weekend. Vacation Brain is the reason many of my posts get written at work and e-mailed home.

Vacation Brain is also the reason many, many wonderful things happen every Friday afternoon in offices and workplaces across the world. What wonderful things you ask? Invented office games, internet surfing, getting together in a co-workers office or cubicle to talk aimlessly, and a lot of feeding of office fish. In fact, studies show that up to 85% of office affairs began on Friday afternoons. What do you do when you have Vacation Brain?

*Dear American Psychiatric Association, Yes, I made up Vacation Brain. Please have a sense of humor and do not sue me for using the name of the DSM IV. Consider it free advertising. I have a copy. I'm a big fan.

Blogaholics Anonymous

Speaker: Hello everyone. My name is Phil and I’m a blogaholic.
Audience: Hi Phil!
Speaker: I’ve been a blogaholic for over a year now and I’ve come to admit that I am powerless over blogging. It started with greed. I read a magazine article about a guy with a blog who ran Google ads in the sidebar and was making over $100 a month on these pay per click ads. Like anyone else I was desperate for easy money, so I started a blog and signed up for Google ads. At first I was very disappointed. At a nickel per click the money was adding up much too slowly for my liking. At that rate it would be a year before I’d see $100. I was still Ok with it, willing to be patient. I was writing, making jokes, imagining that thousands of people from all over the internet were reading my words and being amused. I had no idea that no one was reading my blog. Then it happened. I didn’t even now it existed, but there it was. In the bottom right hand corner underneath my post it said, “1 comment.” One comment? I clicked on it, and lo and behold (whatever that means) someone had left a comment on what I had written. I was amazed. How did they do this? Was this the tip of the iceberg? I e-mailed this person to thank them, thrilled that I had been acknowledged by a stranger from across the globe. Was it Ok to e-mail strangers? Is that what people did? Was there such a thing as blog etiquette?

The person e-mailed back kindly enough. I clicked on her name in the comment. She had a blog too! I was amazed. There were lots of comments on her blog! It appeared that there were hundreds, maybe thousands of blogs out there! I wondered, how do I get lots of comments? I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to look like a blog rookie by asking, so I kept writing or blogging as I came to learn that this was called. I had a blog and a new verb about it! Then about a week later I had two comments, and then three! My first blog commenter had come back! Yes! It was the ultimate affirmation. The ultimate drug. Someone had liked what I’d written enough to read my words again! So I kept writing for my invisible audience. For months I wrote, only getting 2 or 3 comments per post. It was such a tease, kind of like getting a free sample of crack from the dealer just to get you to come back for more. The blogs I visited had many, many commenters. “I’m funny, intelligent, interesting,” I thought. “How do I get comments like my more esteemed blogging brethren?” I wondered. (No, I’m not dorky enough to use words like “brethren” in real life. The alliteration just sounded good here.) Then I read a blogger who was doing a very funny thing that I had never seen before. She was commenting back to the commenters. Holding conversations and bantering! I didn’t know what I would say, but if it meant more of the sweet, addictive high of comments then I would have to try it.

I began responding. And like bees to honey the commenters returned to express opinions and respond to my comments on theirs. I was hooked. I came back time and again just to read their words, their feedback. I yearned to know what they would think of what I wrote. Although I couldn’t hear their laughter, I was sure it was there. Serenading me silently through the magic of the internet. Now I can’t stop. I feel as if my blog has become a living, breathing extension of myself. I can’t give it up. If I did, what would happen to all I have written? Would my electronic friends cease to exist? How would I know what was going on in their lives if I could no longer visit Blogland? Would they go on with their lives, or would they have a hole in their heart as I would in mine if my blog were gone?

Despite the joy, the high I get from my blog, my addiction as any other, has it’s price. The pressure. The pressure to post something witty,reasonably intelligent, and correctly spelled three times a week. I can’t stop. What will happen if I do?

Audience: Uh, Phil? The meeting ended a half hour ago. You can shut up now. Help me put these chairs away would you?

The Old Man on the Street

As the sun rises in the morning sky he ambles down the dirt and stone road. Few dogs are as big or as marked by life as this one. He stops to sniff a scent near the dewy, wet brush that threatens to one day crawl across to the other side, blocking this glorified footpath. He has no fear of vehicular traffic. The cars that venture onto this wooded lane are few and far between. His casual, confident attitude seems to imply that it is his road as much as anyone else's. The sharp caw of a black crow in the distance causes his ears to prick up. The left ear so ratty and ragged that it may not serve him as well as it once had. He lifts his head and turns his rheumy eyes back over his shoulder. After seeing what he was looking for the black and brown mottled behemoth of a dog turns his muscular shoulders forward and begins to walk slowly again. He favors one of his rear paws as he walks as if it has a thorn that has yet to be removed by a kindly mouse. He has no tail to wag behind him, so it is impossible for a stranger to gauge his mood.

Then, as if attached by an unseen umbilical cord, comes his master. If dogs really do grow to resemble their owners or vice-versa, there likely are very few pairs that demonstrate this phenomenon more clearly. A grizzled, almost claw-like hand covered in nearly transparent skin holds a weather beaten oak cane. The copper tip and duck head shaped handle appear as old and worn by life as their owner. He wears glasses best described as spectacles behind which his eyes seem almost overwhelmed by the wrinkles and folds of skin that have taken on the rough shape of a face. A battered, torn baseball cap, with a shadow where the missing logo had been stitched on, adorns his head, forever leaving it a mystery what lies beneath. To the curious observer he might be as bald as a billiard ball or hiding a thick, lustrous mane of Rhett Butler-like hair beneath his cap. His small, frail shoulders are concealed beneath a khaki colored windbreaker reminiscent of what one might wear when out sailing on a cool fall day. Underneth he wears a plain blue workman's shirt that may or may not have a red and white stitched name tag that is concealed by the jacket. What might such a man's name be I wonder? His feet shuffle along behind the cane in plain, dark brown workboots that were not designed for comfort, but which must be soft and flexible by now from many years of walks such as this one. With a smile and a wave he slowly passes by.

Although impossible, this man and his canine companion appear to be the same age, closer to a century than anything else. If he so chose this man could probably hold court beside a campfire, pipe or cigar in hand as he spun stories of days gone by while his faithful companion stretches at his feet, soaking in the radiant warmth of the fire. In my mind I know they won't live forever. I know that someday there won't be that quiet wave and smile on Sunday morning and I'll miss them both.

Body By Phil

According to the recent results of a study published by Dr. Tracy L. Tyka of Ohio State University, "Men are affected by those pressures in the media ... or the pressures that others put on them to look more muscular," she said. That's right ladies. You just need to back off and let us get fat. We may all be working on 6-pack abs, but it's a 6-pack of Budweiser. Let's call a truce between men and women. How about if the men stop idealizing Hollywood anorexics and supermodels and you stop drooling over Nick Lachey and Matthew McConaughey? We'll let you have your curves if you let us have ours.

In fact, it's my opinion that men have it harder than women when it comes to pressure to have perfect bodies. Yes, you heard me right. On the dating scene you may think you need to be all tall and busty to attract men, but that is far from the truth. We're guys. All you have to do is to be female and we're happy with that. Do we have standards that we judge women's bodies by? Of course we do. If you have a body we're basically happy. Women on the other hand demand their men be 6 feet tall and built like a Greek god. I think Dr. Tracy L. Tyka of Ohio State University said it best when she said, "Instead of pressuring men to be more muscular, (we need to) accept men's bodies for what they are and instead focus on internal characteristics." Hey, I don't create the news, I just report it. If a scientist says it, then it must be true. That's right ladies, we're not just sex objects, we have feelings too ya' know!

Now don't get me wrong, this isn't about me. I'm a total smokin' hottie. I was at the Man Meeting the other night and some of the other guys were getting down about this, so I told them I'd mention it to you.

Random Phil Thought

I was at the supermarket last night browsing in the magazine/book aisle. In the aisle with me there's a women on her cell phone with a 7 year old child. They're trying to pick out a magazine for the little tyke. Here's how the conversation went:

Mom: How about Games and Puzzles honey?
Child: No. I hate Games and Puzzles. I want this one. (Child is holding up a copy of Handgun Annual 2007)
Mom: No, I'm not spending that much on a gun magazine.

The child, obviously smarter than the parent, replied "So if it was cheaper you'd buy it?" (Insert your own punchline here)

A Quick Public Service Announcement

Beta Bloggers are now welcome. I've adjusted the comment settings so everyone but spammers can comment. I just wasn't smart enough to know I had the settings wrong. We can all thank Linny and Quinn for straightening me out on this. Also I wasn't smart enough to know I would offend anyone with the post below this. I was in no way trying to imply that thousands of years of male violence towards women is OK, but it's not OK when the tables are turned. I think what those women did is great and should hopefully scare the hell out of all the bad guys out there.

Beauty Is A Beast

I love women. Let me get that out of the way right up front. I think women are the best invention known to man. Women, however, are starting to scare me. Remember about a month ago when I mused about what I would do and how I would elude authorities if I turned to a life of crime? If I do turn to a life of crime you can sure as hell bet that I will go out of my way to avoid victimizing women. I say this not only because of my great respect for women, but also because they apparently have no qualms about killing you.

Two incidents occurred in the past week that caught my attention. Last Thursday Susan Kuhnhausen, a 51 year old nurse in Portland, Oregon returned home from work to find a man armed with a hammer in her home. Of course Susan did what any women would do in this situation, she strangled him to death with her bare hands. The second incident occurred in New York City of course. 56 year old Margaret Johnson was cruising through a Harlem neighborhood in her wheelchair when a mugger thought he would try to snatch a necklace off of her neck. So of course Margaret did what any right thinking woman would do when confronted with this situation. She shot him. Granny was packing serious heat. It turns out that this little, old, wheelchair-bound woman was on her way to a shooting lesson. Sadly, the incident occurred before the lesson. She only managed to hit the mugger in the elbow, but he was arrested and no doubt embarrassed. I'm guessing that when he's hanging out at the muggers weekly poker game his friends are not going to let him live this down.

I can only imagine how this situation will playing out in the dating scene. What guy in his right mind now would risk a flirtatious slap on someone's behind at a bar? Or say you go home with a girl, how could you possibly even thinking of making your "move" unless you ask permission and outline exactly what you plan to do ahead of time. Yeah ladies, don't think you're ever going to come home to find your boyfriend in his birthday suit with a dozen roses for you. If we jump out and yell "surprise" we could end up dead. I've read many, many women's blogs bemoaning the fact that they can't find any decent, single guys. I'm pretty sure there are lots of decent single guys, they're just terrified that if they say the wrong thing you're going bust a cap in their heads.

Blogger Beta Bites

Blogger Beta Bites. Sounds like a candy doesn't it? I thought Beta went out when VHS tapes came along. It's certainly not helping Blogger. Every time I try to leave a comment on the blog of someone who has switched over to the new and improved Blogger Beta I get the following message: "We're sorry, but we're unable to complete your request." I'm not ignoring you Beta people, but your new and improved system is screwing you out of comments. You've gone over to the dark side. Run to the light. Return to the side of the good and the right. Comment with us old school Blogger types. Does anyone now how I can get around this? I don't want to switch to Beta myself until I know everyone can still comment on my blog as usual? Progress is bad. The soothing, simple ways of the olden days of blogging are better.

Everybody's Working For The Weekend!

The musical reference in the title is so embarrassingly cheesy that I’m not even going to ask anyone to identify it. I’d like to pretend that it was just a coincidence that I chose those words, that I don’t really have that song running through my head. I’d like to pretend that I don’t know the rest of the lyrics. Sadly however, none of the aforementioned is true. My brother had the album. Yes, I said album. On vinyl. I was little. I thought it was cool. I now know better, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t unlearn those songs. It just kills me to know that there is a section of my brain that is entirely devoted to Loverboy lyrics.

This post is evolving as I write it. I was going to write about ways we kill time at work on a slow Friday afternoon, such as the one I had today. Then as I began to write the above paragraph about the title I realized that it might be much more fun to think about the useless things that are taking up valuable space in our brains. Space that we can never get back without electro-shock therapy, which I’ll have you know, still goes on regularly today. I know a doctor who does it.

Here is a list of things that are taking up invaluable space in my brain, space that I wish I could recover and put to better use.

1. Lots of lyrics to lots of bad music.
2. 77. That is the number of days I was dating my 12th grade girlfriend when she broke up with me two days before a concert that I already had bought expensive tickets for. I lost $15 selling her ticket to a friend the day before the show. Whenever I hear the number 77 that is what I think of.
3. The fact that the guy who played the oldest boy in The Sound of Music later played Spider-Man in a 1970’s t.v. show.
4. The word usufruct.
5. Todd Bridges and Dana Plato were getting jiggy with it when Diff’rent Strokes was on the air.
6. The fact that I still know who Todd Bridges and Dana Plato are.
7. I still remember a badly done civil war re-enactment myself and several friends did as a Social Studies presentation in the 4th grade. We basically just played guns in front of the class and tried to pass it off as a history lesson.
8. I remember walking around outdoors in just a diaper while my dad changed the oil in our car. I was about 1 ½ years old at the time. It’s amazing that I remember that random event, but why? I also still remember that the diaper was full.
9. A dog my family had for 3 weeks when I was 14. If we had kept the dog, fine, use up some brain cells remembering it, but it was too old to be house trained when we got it, so we returned it.
10. At the shelter where we got the dog it cost $25 to adopt a dog and only $10 for a cat. When we returned the dog we took home a cat, so as far as I know, my family still has a cat and a half credit at the shelter. (Cat and a Half Credit would be a great name for this post or for a rock band)

Those are but a few of the millions of useless things that are taking up space in my brain. What do you find when you rummage through the back of the closet in your mind?

Celeb Without A Cause

I can’t wait until I become famous. Err…more famous I mean. I want to be famous enough that I can righteously shame others into worrying about problems I’ll never have to worry about because of my fame and fortune.

There’s nothing I love more than having someone who has millions of dollars telling me that I need to give more of my money to help those less fortunate. Diseases, baby seals, and South American children working in sweatshops. What would they all do without celebrities telling us that we should worry about them? Hey, if it’s important enough to worry Madonna and Will Farrell, then I want to know about it!

The other day I opened my Yahoo home page only to see Cindy Crawford staring back at me telling me that I should do more to help cure cancer. Here’s my idea: why not have those South American sweatshop children working on a cure for cancer instead of sewing Spongebob sweaters for Walmart? Way to go Cindy! Thank God you brought that up! I had no idea that cancer was bad. Maybe Cindy should write a letter to the medical researchers. I wonder if they know about this cancer thing she’s talking about! What’s that Cindy? Cancer kills people?!!? I had no idea! That’s terrible! We have to do something right away! If Cindy hadn’t alerted us to this terrible disease who knows how long it would have been before someone else noticed it! How did Cindy find out about this? And I thought she was just a pretty face.

I can’t wait for Mel Gibson to start admonishing me to avoid drinking and driving. He seems pretty concerned about that. A few months back Janine Turner (formerly of Northern Exposure) was telling me about the heartbreak of dry eyes. Apparently there are some people who can’t cry. How ironic huh? I can’t wait for the friggin’ telethon for that one!

Update To The Chain Letter Post

I did not break the chain. It wasn't out of fear of the consequences, but more because of a desire to reap the rewards of good luck. Of course I couldn't just forward it to 20 of my best friends. After redistributing it at work I was still short of the requisite 20 recipients needed to help me claim my good fortune. Here's what I did: I went through the original e-mail received and scrolled back to find the ringleaders. The people who had received this and then forwarded it on to everyone in their e-mail address book. The list included people in jobs from secretary to company president from large companies all over the globe. I sent the e-mail chain letter back to them with the text of my Chain Letter Panic Disorder in the e-mail as well. Since it's the weekend I anticipate that when they all get back to work tomorrow I'll be hearing from them. Oh, and I did send it to a couple of my blogger friends as well.

Is Your Name Sting Ray Hunter?

Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin was killed by a sting ray while filming his show today. Look at the picture. There's Steve feeding a crocodile while holding his baby. What are the chances a guy like that would be killed by a large, dangerous animal? Pretty good obviously. What the hell was he doing in the ocean fooling around with sting rays? His wife is just lucky Steve didn't decide to strap some floaties on their 2 1/2 year old son and take him out on swimming with him. This just goes to show that you should stick with what you know. Now if we could just get David Blaine to take over Steve's show I think everything would work out all right.

Chain Letter Panic Disorder

We’ve all gotten them. We dread receiving them. We dread sending them out, but we are compelled to. They are usually worded something like this:

“This letter is being sent to you to bring you good luck. This letter was blessed by a Buddhist monk on his death bed and he imbued the letter with the last of his life-force. This letter has brought good luck and countless blessings to people the world over. This letter was started before the beginning of time. Within 72 hours of receiving this letter you must forward it to 20 of your closest friends or the chain of luck with is broken. The last person who broke the chain had all their limbs fall off in excruciatingly painful fashion. I, myself, forwarded it to all my friends and within days I won a billion dollars. None of my friends will talk to me anymore, but now I can buy new friends.”

I recently received such a letter in my work e-mail. It’s very nice to be friendly with co-workers, but sometimes all that gets you is added to their e-mail list so you can receive chain letters and adorable pictures of dogs sitting on the toilet. I’m convinced that the Black Plague that wiped out half the population of Europe around the year 1000 occurred because Julius Caesar forgot to forward a chain letter. Why do you think Brutus stabbed him? The great economic depression that occurred in the United States in the 1930’s was caused by millions of workers who stopped what they were doing to forward an e-mail chain letter they had received. The chain letter I received today implied that it had started in 1953! I scrolled all the way back to the beginning. The first name on the list was Elvis. I guess things worked out OK for him. It must be real then. When I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, I'm going to pass a law against chain letters. But that won't help me today.

So here I sit, with a chain letter in my inbox. Do I ignore it as silly superstition? The clock is ticking. I have to make up my mind. Do I boldly break the chain, or do I give into my anxiety that just maybe there is something real and magical to this? If I break the chain am I willing to risk catastrophic tragedy? The clock is ticking...Are there any volunteers to help me keep the chain intact?