MOVE!

Not the dance kind. I’m posting at www.jenbennett.com/litmucker. Go there. Read. Laugh. Tell me how awesome I am. Send me gifts and money. You are dismissed.

Los Angeles: City of Angel…Hair Pasta, Ice-Cream, Funnel Cakes…

 

          I arrived at LAX, which isn’t as big as you would think, and immediately got lost trying to find my friend.  Unfortunately, getting lost is a recurring theme in my travels.  I spent four hours walking London’s streets at night…in the rain; I spent an hour and a half trying to find my dorm in Krakow after a wrong turn; in Seoul, I spent most of a day looking for anything familiar that could help me pinpoint my location.  I seem to have inherited my sense of direction from a piece of pocket lint.

          The first thing you’ll want to see in Los Angeles is the outside of LAX.  After that, if you’re from a non-coastal state, it’s time to see the ocean.  Although the Pacific Ocean is the largest body of water on Earth, its grandeur isn’t readily apparent from Venice Beach.  Also, the water is quite cold during the second week of March.  Do not attempt to go swimming.

          Food is plentiful in Southern California.  Lemons, limes, and oranges are free for the picking (as long as the home owner doesn’t see you).  Diddy Reese, an ice-cream shop near UCLA’s campus, sells ice-cream sandwiches for a dollar (as of 2006).  Other unhealthy food includes Carl’s Jr. and its taste-tastic Western Bacon Cheeseburger.  I regret that I did not patronize El Pollo Chicken, but the locals assured me that its food is as great as its name, which means “The Chicken Chicken” in English.  (Speaking of Spanish, it’s a popular language in Southern California.  If you studied German in high school and college, which is about as useful as studying Klingon, you may encounter some difficulty.)

          As you might imagine, there is a very serious, but delicious, obesity problem in Los Angeles.  To help combat this growing epidemic, the city has established various frozen yogurt shops and juice bars.  One of them, Yogurtland, offers many flavors of-you guessed it-frozen yogurt, along with numerous toppings such as fresh fruit, granola, and moshi.  If you are worried that your frozen dairy treat is too healthy, don’t forget to top it off with a heaping spoonful of crushed candy bar (available at the end of the row of fruit and nuts).

          When you’re done gorging yourself, you can work off the calories by shopping.  Los Angeles offers two kinds of shopping:  The kind you can afford and the kind rich people can afford.  The latter can be found on Rodeo Drive, which is home to Cartier, Hermès, Dior, and Burberry.  If you visit these stores, do not touch anything.  Don’t look at anything.  Don’t even enter the store.  Wait.  What are you doing?  Get out of there, you fool!  Run away!  (The kind of shopping you can afford is at the grocery store.  If you’re lucky, it’ll be a double coupon day.)

          There is no shortage of entertainment in Los Angeles and its surrounding cities.  Disneyland, Knott’s Berry Farm, and Universal Studios are more than happy to take your money.  I can’t speak of the attractions at Disneyland, but Universal and Knott’s are very enjoyable, especially in early March when there are no lines.

          Universal Studios boasts sixteen different attractions.  The Studio Tour takes visitors around its film sets so people can have the magic of movies and television destroyed.  Please keep your hands and feet inside the trolley at all times and do not try to set fire to the Desperate Housewives set.  (Interesting Fact:  Universal Studios has suffered seven major backlot fires since 1932.  Maybe it’s time to get rid of the Backdraft attraction.)  I deeply regret that Star Trek Adventure was replaced in 1994; I think I might have a case with the International Court of Justice.

          Knott’s Berry Farm opened in 1940 and is, today, a hodgepodge of rides, attractions, and the creepiest animatronics outside a Rod Serling production.  I’m not kidding.  The Timber Mountain Log Ride takes visitors on a logging camp nightmare that features ’70s-style robots (that come to life at night).  Besides this bastion of evil, the rollercoasters are rip-roaring (the whole complex has some sort of strange Wild West theme that doesn’t seem quite appropriate for a coastal city); the creaky wooden one is especially terrifying.  The best part of the farm, though, is its food, which includes candy shops, funnel cake stands, an ice-cream parlor, and Cinnabon.  Interestingly, I saw no berries.

          If crowded amusement parks and rollercoasters aren’t your scene, Tijuana, right next to San Diego, offers loads of drugs, prostitutes, underage drinking, kidnappings, and random acts of violence.  While I can’t promise you’ll be kidnapped or shot, the odds are in your favor.

          Southern California has incredible weather.  The temperature rarely falls below 40 degrees and it is predominately sunny.  Winter months bring rain instead of snow.  Summer months bring scorching heat and drought.  In fact, record highs are over 90 degrees for all twelve months of the year and over 100 for eight of them.  On the bright side, you’re unlikely to encounter a tornado.  On the downside, California does not want for natural disasters.  Besides the drought, earthquakes, fires, and mudslides occur in the Greater Los Angeles area.  I suggest returning home before any of these happen.

 

          As you settle into your seat for the hours-long flight back to Middle-earth, do not become panicked as the airplane heads over the Pacific Ocean and towards Japan.  You have not boarded the wrong plane.  The pilot is merely using that airspace to turn around…unless you’ve been hijacked, in which case it’s a good time to brush up on your Japanese for “I’m Canadian.”

 

Note:  Although Southern California is lovely in early March, Minnesota is a barren wasteland.  There is every chance you will miss your connecting flight in Minneapolis/St. Paul because of a blizzard, and be forced to sleep in the airport.  Still, they have a Cinnabon.

Michigan: At Least It’s Not Wisconsin

 

          I’ve decided to do a series recounting the various places I’ve been.  It’s a short list, sadly, but I hope to add to it when I’m a famous writer (and I can afford to stay in the sort of hotels Paris Hilton stays in, instead of the sort of hotels her family owns).  Let’s start with Michigan.

          Michigan was founded twenty-maybe thirty-years ago by Native Americans, but they don’t count because they didn’t have a flag when the French showed up in the 1600s.  The French were one of the primary influences on Michigan, which goes a long way to explain why we have so many problems.  They’re responsible for a lot of city names that eventually became cars, such as Pontiac, Cadillac, Marquette, and Toyota.

          Speaking of place names, we have a lot of places with names that can’t be pronounced by non-natives.

 

Name	Pronunciation
Sault Sainte Marie	Soo Saint Marie
Charlevoix	Shar-le-voy
Charlotte	Shar-LOTT (This one is especially popular with the natives, who deride visitors for mispronouncing it.)
Gratiot	Grash-it
Schoenherr	Shay-ner

 

          In Michigan, winter lasts from about November 1^st until March 31^st and most of it is spent indoors, complaining.  Temperatures are usually far below freezing and the state gets anywhere from 50 to 200 inches of snow during the season.  Interestingly, Michigan does not have an abnormally high suicide rate.

          Michigan is composed of an upper peninsula and a lower peninsula, giving rise to our state motto, “Si quaeris peninsulam amoenam circumspice” (”Out of many, one”).  The people in the U.P. good-naturedly refer to Lower Peninsula residents as “Trolls,” while we “Trolls” refer to them as “Yoopers,” because no stupider name was available.  Michigan gained the U.P. as a result of the Toledo War, when Michigan and Ohio battled for control of Toledo and its surrounding swamps.  To settle the matter, the Federal government gave the city to Ohio and Michigan received a vast expanse of frozen, uninhabited forest that could only be reached by boat.  Geologists, however, found huge deposits of iron and copper, so Ohio can suck it.

          Michigan has two main universities:  Michigan State University and the University of Michigan.  U of M is ranked 18^th in the world by Times Higher Education and its medical and engineering schools are highly regarded.  Although MSU doesn’t even show up on the Times’s list, they make some darn good turfgrass and have the top Supply Chain Management program in the country.  In retrospect, I probably should have attended U of M.  (To be fair, MSU started as an agricultural college and today boasts a botanically lush campus and high squirrel population, whereas U of M is a cement wasteland devoid of life.  Also, there are animal teaching and research centers all around Michigan State, including centers for beef cattle, dairy cattle, horses, poultry, sheep, and swine.  I’m not exactly sure what these animals are taught or what research they conduct, but there’s nothing like the sight of a pig in a lab coat.)

          Detroit is a popular destination for nineteen and twenty-year-olds in Michigan because it is home to the Ambassador Bridge, which connects Detroit, Michigan to Windsor, Ontario.  Unlike America, Canada’s drinking age is nineteen.  The price, however, is costly for Michiganders; in retaliation for our drunken teenagers, Canada routinely sends us cold fronts, coins we can’t use in vending machines, and its garbage.  There is a lot of talk about simply annexing Canada.  For the record, the Ambassador Bridge is a terrifying expanse of steel and concrete that stretches over the Detroit River for more than a mile.  At its peak, it towers 200 feet over water that is 115 feet deep.  I cannot speak to the horrors of the Mackinac Bridge (which connects the U.P. to the Lower Peninsula) because I refuse to step foot on a five-mile-long bridge that hovers 200 feet over a deep, frigid abyss.

          According to Wikipedia, Michigan has a booming tourist industry.  Tree-huggers love the state because it is 50% forest.  It also offers thousands of miles of shoreline, some of which is quite pristine.  Lake Michigan’s shoreline, however, is covered in dead fish and other aquatic goodies the water has thrown up.  Detroit is home to the Henry Ford Museum, the Detroit Zoo, white-flight, three casinos, and various sports teams.  Hockey is quite popular because Detroit referees don’t interfere with players’ fights.  Plus, fans are encouraged to throw octopuses onto the ice.  My favorite tourist attraction in Michigan, however, is the wealth of wildlife.  I have seen deer, foxes, and wild turkeys in just the suburbs. 

          Speaking of hunting, it’s very popular in Michigan.  Residents and visitors have the opportunity to hunt deer, bear, turkeys, elks, coyotes, illegal immigrants, and all number of birds.  I have never, technically, gone hunting, although I played Duck Hunt a lot when I was a kid.  Those who do go hunting are a force to be reckoned with.  These are well-armed people who like guns, know how to use them, and enjoy stalking and killing other living things for sport.  Al-Qaida (I’ve been told) had better stay the heck out of Michigan because you don’t have to buy a license to shoot a terrorist.

          Famous Michiganders include Madonna, Sinbad, Eminem, Geoffrey Fieger, Kid Rock, and Michael Moore.  I think we more than make up for this, though, with Motown and Bruce Campbell.

          So, this is Michigan.  I hope you like it; you’re welcome to visit.  Next on the tour is Los Angeles, the City of Angels, where you’d better speak Spanish if you want to order at the Carl’s Jr.

 

Note:  Although I’ve spent a lot of time visiting family in Wisconsin, I don’t feel the need to write another article.  Wisconsin is exactly like Michigan, but more unpleasant and with less peninsula.  Milwaukee smells of brewer’s yeast.

Poorly Informed Predictions for 2009

 

 

            Like death and internet porn, change is one of the few constants in the universe.  Some people embrace it.  They change their hairstyles, lifestyles, profiles.  They’re insane.  Other people are so change-averse that they stay in the same job for fifty years and would rather undergo a rectal exam than move to a new home.

            I’m not a huge fan of change, personally.  To me, it often represents the end of something familiar and the start of uncertainty.   Change is life’s way attaching electrodes to your body and hitting the on-switch.  But, as I said, it’s unavoidable, so I wonder what changes are in store for the world as we head from 2008 into 2009…

 

North America

 

            Come January 20^th, Mr. Obama will become the 44^th president of the United States and herald in an era of peace, prosperity, and equality.  We will no longer be forced to pay mortgages.  Nationalized insurance will provide free, high quality, easily accessible medical care to everyone.  Instead of greenhouse gases, factory byproducts will include smiley faces, unicorns, and candy necklaces.

            Back in reality, January 20^th will be no more historic a day in 2009 than it was in 2005—it’s just a big stupid party that I wasn’t invited to.  Come January 21^st, Obama and his cabinet, still hung over from the night before, will sit down and have a nice long talk about continuing the policies already in place.

            Halfway through the year, Ford, Chrysler, and GM will still not understand why their crapomobiles aren’t selling.  However, they’ll conduct extensive research.  In Rio.  With their wives.  And while they’re living la vida loca surveying Brazilian attitudes on cars, Michigan will seek out new sources of income, such as stem-cell research, joint ventures with the Department of Energy, and organ trafficking.

            Over in California, the Proposal 8 controversy will reach its climax when advocates from both sides stream into the state, causing it to sink.  All inhabitants drown.  On the bright side, the state’s budget deficit is no longer a problem.

 

South America

 

            Hugo Chavez will host an “I Hate Democracy” party in the spring.  Vladimir Putin, Fidel Castro, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and the ghost of Karl Marx are slated to attend.  Games will include pin the horns on the capitalist, bobbing for oil wells, and beer pong.  At the end of the festivities, partygoers will break open a Bush-shaped piñata that is filled with smaller effigies of Bush.

            Land reforms meant to redistribute wealth in Bolivia will fail completely and leave indigenous groups without the tools, equipment, or knowledge necessary to run farms.  The smart people will take a hint from Colombia and grow coca plants.  Fortunately, Americans will see a decrease in the price of their cocaine.

            Panama accidentally loses the keys to its canal locks.

 

Europe

 

            Europe continues to break up into smaller and smaller nations.  Southern Ireland, angry at being ignored for so long, secedes from the Emerald Isle.  Scotland and Wales both claim their independence.  Spain finally gives up on the Basque region.  In Belgium, the Flemish attack the French speakers, who immediately surrender; the country is officially divided into “French-Belgium” and “Flemland.”  Holland revolts.  Germany, overwhelmed by the revolutionary spirit, splits into East and West again.  Finally, the Balkan states continue to secede from one another until each person is his own independent nation.

 

Asia

 

            Middle East:  One of the few places that never changes, the Middle East will continue to be a cauldron of hate and violence until the sun burns out.  To keep things interesting, however, Israel will wipe out Iran’s nuclear facilities using stealth aircraft, electromagnetic pulses, and gefilte fish.  Its actions are widely condemned by the other countries in the Middle East, which are secretly rejoicing that Mahmoud Ahmadinenutjob had The Button blown out of his hand.

 

            Russia:  Putin continues to eat capitalism and democracy for every meal, which gives him the energy he needs to buy up majority shares in every major industry in Russia.  Fortunately, he still has time to occasionally cut off Ukraine’s natural gas. 

 

            Afghanistan:  Utilizing historically friendly northern Afghan Tajiks who oppose the Taliban, NATO troops move up from the south-east while the Tajiks close in from the north-west.  They force Taliban and al-Qaida members into the center of the country, then set fire to the immense marijuana and poppy fields.  Afghanistan can rebuild itself unmolested while the militants search for chocolate pudding and Doritos.

 

            India and Pakistan:  Early in the year, before any problems can escalate, India sends Pakistan a letter.

 

Dear Pakistan,

 

            It has recently come to our attention that you are, again, massing your forces on our shared border.  We can only assume this is in response to our blatant provocation of getting attacked by your citizens.  Please accept our humble apologies for ever intimating that ten Pakistanis—who appear to have training funded by your ISS—murdered 164 victims on India’s sovereign territory.

            Nevertheless, we would like to remind you of some minor facts.  First, Pakistan started the last three Indo-Pakistani wars; maybe it’s somebody else’s turn.  Second, aren’t you already a bit overextended in the north?  Finally, although your military is impressively ranked seventh in the world, ours is ranked sixth—oh, wait.  It’s ranked third.  Our bad.

 

Love,

 

India

 

Pakistan decides that 2009 is a great year for block leave for its troops.

 

            East Asia (except for China):  Korea, Taiwan, and Japan spend 2009 marveling at how much it sucks to have four nuclear-armed neighbors (and North Korea).  Economic superiority, once their only solace, has been replaced with wishing they had a billion citizens who would happily work for a dollar a day.

 

            China:  China just keeps growing—economically, politically, militarily, physically.  Even its people get bigger.  Ironically, the Great Wall shrinks.

 

Africa

 

            In Zimbabwe, Robert Mugabe dies when his heart, already suffering from necrotizing fasciitis, finally dissolves.  He still refuses to give up power.

            The Republic of the Congo and the Democratic Republic of the Congo go to war over which country can keep the word “Congo” in its name.  In the DRC and Uganda, the Lord’s Resistance Army continues to massacre civilians in the name of God.  The Mujahideen in Somalia object and claim that they thought of this first.

             Tuberculosis, malaria, Ebola, and HIV/AIDS still ravage the continent, as do famine, drought, and locust plagues.  Political instability shows no sign improvement.  Marauding militias still rape anything that moves.  The United Nations officially declares Africa the Worst Place to Live Ever.  (The insane fundamentalist dictator industry, however, sees continued growth.)

 

Australia

 

            Australia’s air conditioner malfunctions and the entire continent burns up.

 

Antarctica

 

            The ice, cold, and hurricane-force winds continue to draw scientists from across the globe, proving that scientists really aren’t all that bright.

 

(In all seriousness:  Have a happy 2009.  Let’s hope future generations look back on 2009 as a huge improvement on 2008.)

 

 

 

Extra, Extra: One-Third of Americans Insane!

PICTURE

(I may have accidentally

deleted MS Paint.  You

go ahead and imagine

whatever picture you like.)

 

 

          It’s hard to make jokes about mental illness.  D’you hear the one about the schizophrenic who had a psychotic episode at the circus?  He knifed two clowns and got mauled by a bear.

          See?  What kind of a punch line is that?  Plus, I hate clowns, so it seems more like a really short story with a happy ending.

          According to a report published by the World Health Organization in 2000, approximately one third of people polled reported experiencing a mental disorder that met DSM-IV criteria.  The WHO surveyed citizens in the United States, Canada, Brazil, Mexico, Germany, the Netherlands, and Turkey.  There were 29,644 respondents at or over the age of eighteen.

          Thus, it’s mathematically safe to say that there are about 100,000,000 people in the United States who were or are mentally ill.

          Suddenly, I don’t feel so alone.

          It took ages for me to become comfortable with having an anxiety disorder.  With the exception of celebrities, who seem to find joy in sharing their diagnoses, most people feel stigmatized in society if they have psychiatric problems.  Rarely will you encounter two guys in the street and hear:

 

Jim:  Dick!  It’s been ages!  How are you?

Dick:  I’m great!  I managed to kick that underage-Thai-hooker habit.  How about you?

Jim:  Better than ever.  I made regional sub-vice president and started taking an atypical antipsychotic for off-label treatment of my treatment-resistant depression.  How’re Jill and the kids?

 

          But the problem exists for large segments of society, so I don’t understand why I should be ashamed.  It’s not a sign of weakness to have a mental disorder.  Don’t get me wrong, there are many signs of weakness.  Crying in front of others, for example, or begging for sex.  But it is fairly difficult to self-regulate brain chemicals.  Those are involuntary bodily functions (unless you have a high threshold for pain, a drill, and an exceptionally good working knowledge of the brain).

          I came to realize I had a problem during my sophomore year of high school, when I couldn’t sleep, eat, or leave the house.  Constant panic attacks dominated my life until I sought treatment.  Interestingly, Hugh Laurie’s experiences mirror mine, except for the torment.

          I was a fan of Hugh Laurie before I ever saw House.  In fact, I own all four series of Blackadder and the whole Jeeves & Wooster collection.  But I’m a little annoyed that he claims to have realized he had depression when he felt bored at a charity stock car race.  Geez, Hugh, are you sure it wasn’t when you felt pensive at an awards ceremony?  How about that time you got frustrated when you couldn’t remember Stephen Fry’s phone number?

          It’s not that I doubt the validity of his diagnosis or the seriousness of the problem.  I just think that boredom at a stock car race is the most pleasant incidence of depression I’ve ever heard of.  Most people cry for no reason and can’t get out of bed.  How Hugh must suffer.

          After ten years, I feel like an old pro.  I want to offer advice to the recently diagnosed.  I want to wear “I ♥ Paxil” T-shirts and hand out Xanax to people on the street.  The only problem (besides occasional flare-ups and a lifetime of prescription drugs—thanks GlaxoSmithKline!) is the name of my diagnosis.  The “generalized” in “generalized anxiety disorder” gives the impression of being a no-name brand product.  Can’t afford a real anxiety disorder?  Wal-Mart brand Generalized Anxiety Disorder is one third cheaper and just as effective!  Now available with mild OCD!

          I feel assured that psychiatric problems will eventually lose their stigma (except for pederasty; sorry, NAMBLA).  As the economy continues to suck/fails to thrive, more and more people will want drugs.  I foresee a day in the near future when the government will put Prozac and Valium in our water the same way they put fluoride.

          It’d save me a lot of time and money.

Kung Fu Panda

          I like animals.

          A lot.

          I don’t like animals in a gross, illegal kind of way, but I’m certainly more fond of them as a group than I am of people.  People are capable of cruelty; animals simply go on instinct.

          Also, I’ll admit I tend to credit animals with human emotions.  I saw a nature documentary not long ago about animals in Antarctica.  At one point, a seal went after a penguin, which kept backing up until it was cornered.  It raised its little appendages (wings? arms? flippers?) and I could imagine its terror right before the seal ate it.  I could even imagine its final thoughts and the horrible sadness of leaving behind a widow and orphan.  I had to change the channel.

          And that’s the problem.  Animals do not have human emotions, even though we think they do.  Thanks to all the anthropomorphized creatures from Disney and Japan, we often personify animals.  Just ask Liu, the 20-year-old college student in China who jumped a zoo barrier to get a hug from a panda.  “Yang Yang was so cute and I just wanted to cuddle him. I didn’t expect he would attack,” the young idiot told reporters from his hospital room.

          Liu isn’t the first person to enter Yang Yang’s enclosure.  In 2007, the panda mauled another visitor who jumped the barrier during feeding time (because if you’re going to do something stupid, you should really go all out).  The previous year, an intoxicated tourist snuck in to hug a sleeping Yang Yang, who returned the affection with his teeth.

          But pandas aren’t the only animals that humans needlessly interact with.  Have you heard of Mowgli?  Jack London?  How about Sandra Piovesan?  Ms. Piovesan kept a pack of wolf-dog hybrids in her backyard.  She fed them road kill; gave them toys; played with them; she even kept one as an indoor pet.  They responded by mauling her to death after ten years.  Talk about ingratitude!

          Like Sandra Piovesan, Timothy Treadwell spent many years living with animals, but he chose bears instead of wolf-dogs.  Tim, a former drug addict (surprise!), spent thirteen summers living among grizzly bears at Katmai National Park in Alaska.  He credited them with his recovery from drug abuse, and now bear therapy is showing promise for millions of addicts who want their limbs strewn around campsites, which is what happened to Tim and his girlfriend, Annie Appetizer.  (It is my sincerest hope that they were both vegetarians.)

          I’m not immune to this stupidity.  Although I wouldn’t dream of trespassing on a bear’s territory or playing Jungle Book with a pack of wolves, I’ve been known to get pretty friendly with squirrels.  I used to lure them close to me with peanuts or grapes or Little Debbie strawberry shortcake rolls and then hand feed them.  This worked really well until 2007, when one of them, apparently, took offense to my Kashi granola bar.  He swatted the food from my hand, walked right up to my shoe, and began hissing.  When I backed away, he came closer.  At one point, he started to climb on my shoe.

          I don’t hand feed squirrels anymore.

          It says a lot about society that people are looking to members of other species for affection and affirmation (and treatment for addiction).  Why couldn’t poor Liu get a hug from another human?  Why do I get teary when I read about animal abuse but not murder?  Why did it take the bears so long to eat Tim?  Maybe we find comfort knowing that animals aren’t capable of intentionally hurting us (emotionally, obviously).  Maybe we’re just attracted to soft furry things, which would explain why no one has ever tried to cuddle a komodo dragon.

          All I know is:  Liu, if you’re reading this and you still need a hug, you’d better find somebody else.  I don’t like human contact.

Aha!

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/11/20/news-keeps-getting-worse-for-vitamins/?em

So suck it, hippies.

A Gorilla in the Living Room

          I am a question-asker by nature.  Even when I was quite young, I had to know the whys and hows and what-ifs.  But there are answerless questions that haunt me at night.  These are the sorts of riddles that philosophers have spent ages pondering over with no success.  To be honest, we may never have satisfactory answers, but that mustn’t stop us from asking:

 

1.     If seedless watermelons don’t have seeds, what do they grow from?

2.     Why does Spanish have an “H” if it makes no sound?

3.     If machines are used to make other machines, where did the first machines come from?  For example, machinists use lathes, boring mills, and drill presses to create parts for use in automobiles.  Who made the lathes, boring mills, and drill presses?  And who made the parts for the machines that make the lathes, boring mills, and drill presses?  How did the first machine come about if there were no machines to make it with?  Do they grow in nature?  Is there a drill press bush somewhere in the Belgian Congo?

4.     Why do all of the marshmallows in Lucky Charms migrate to the top of the package?  My first bowl is half marshmallow and half cereal; by the end, I’m lucky to get a marshmolocule.  Does General Mills do this on purpose so I’m desperate to get a new box?

5.     Is every FreeCell game winnable?  Do I just suck at playing it?

6.     What does mercury taste like?

7.     Why do people “protest” retarded things?  Take poverty, for example.  Why would anybody take time out of his schedule to protest that?  It’s not as if some group is going to form a counter protest in favor of poverty.  Geez, what’s next?  Protesting child abuse?  Picketing against punching old ladies?  Whom are you trying to convince?

8.     Why are English speakers (British, American, Australian, etc.) generally able to speak with different accents, but it’s so much more difficult for people from Asia and Africa?  If Hugh Laurie can pull off an American accent, why can’t Jackie Chan?

9.     Why don’t photojournalists put down the camera and help people during catastrophes?  “Hm?  I’m taking pictures…No, you’re fine; you just keep pullin’ people outta the rubble…um, no, I can’t put down my camera and help.  Geez, what a schmuck.”

10.                        How does Braille help blind people in public places?  I always see Braille lettering on elevator signs and numbers, but how are blind people supposed to know where to “look”?  And (here’s my favorite) why do banks put Braille on their drive-through ATM machines?  There simply aren’t that many licensed blind people.

 

          (In case you’re wondering, the title is from my early childhood, when I asked my mother what she would do if there were a gorilla in the living room.  I don’t know what prompted me to ask that question, but I sincerely hope that, one day, I’ll be in a position to answer it.)

Two Monks Walk into a Bar…

          I’ve really been wracking my brain lately, trying to think of something to write about.  Unfortunately, it’s hard to be concerned with anything besides looking for jobs, not getting any, and reminding myself that I have a roof over my head, a loving family, and at least I don’t live in the Jerusalem.

          Speaking of Jerusalem, the city experienced an increase in violence recently when two monks got into a fistfight (which sounds like the opening to a very poor joke).  Apparently, a group of Armenian monks held a procession in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to commemorate the date, in the fourth century, when Saint Helena found the True Cross.  (I can only assume it had been stored with a note reading, “To Whom It May Concern:  Enclosed, please one (1) cross belonging to Christ, Jesus.  Many kind regards.  Sincerely, RomCorp.”)

          The only problem with the procession, besides its inherent tedium, is that the Greek Orthodox Church has dibs on the Holy Sepulcher.  They didn’t want any of the Armenians parading about without at least one Greek Orthodox monk to chaperone.  When the Armenians refused and began their procession, the Greek Orthodox monks stood in their path.  That appears to be when members of the two sects got out their switchblades and descended into a rumble.  Tony and Maria remain in critical condition.

          This isn’t the first time the two groups have come to blows, however, and they aren’t the only ones; seven denominations have duties at the church:  Greek, Armenian, Syriac, Ethiopian, and Coptic Orthodoxes (or whatever the plural of “orthodox” is), Roman Catholic, and Armenian Apostolic.  And they can’t stand each other.  Also, in keeping with traditional, organized Christianity, they hate themselves.

          I can’t help thinking there’s something in Jerusalem’s water supply.  I mean, the Jews and Arabs have reasons to loathe one another, although I won’t go into that because I’m not a masochist.  But a fistfight between monks?  What must their theology classes be like?

 

Priest:  And Paul, in Romans 12: 17 and 18, exhorted his readers, “Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” except those bloody Greeks and Armenians.

 

Monk:  Actually, sir, I don’t seem to have that last bit here in my version of the scripture.  In fact, it seems to say something about overcoming evil with good…?

 

Priest:  I see, Brother, and does it also mention the part about you murdering baby angels?  Maybe you should go on to Romans 13 where Paul discusses submitting to authority.  I think you’d find that chapter very enlightening.

 

          I’ve decided to experiment on Jerusalem.  I shall move small communities of Buddhists, Hindus, pagans, and Rastas to the city and see how long it takes them to start hating each other.  I suspect the findings will conform to my equation:

 

(Number of religions) x (Religions’ history of violence) – (Introduction of marijuana from the Rastafarians) ÷ (Size of community) = Level of violence, as measured in jihads (note: 3 fatwas = 1 jihad)

 

Previously, I would have listed the address of the article I read, but I can’t be bothered.  Find it for your own darn self.  Geez!

Republican. Democrat. Fascist?

 

            I know.

            I promised I wouldn’t write about politics after my tirade against them, but with the inherently partisan nature of any election, I’m drawn toward the subject like the NRA to a shotgun.  I just have to be extra careful because I killed Marcel Marceau in my previous politically-themed article; I mentioned him and he was dead the next day.  (Coincidence?  I hope not.)

            Oh, you’ve heard of the Big Two.  Democrats and Republicans have dominated the House, the Senate, and the Oval Office since Teddy Roosevelt’s Bull-Moose Party-which I would vote for without hesitation-failed to get any bulls or mooses into office.

            But did you know there are other political parties in the United States?  Although we don’t have any communists running for president this year, there are some Independents and Libertarians.  There are a few people running under the “None” Party; I’m sure they felt very pleased with themselves until they realized that, by claiming no party, they had joined a group of other people who had claimed no party, thereby creating a party of people with no party.

            Some party names are both unoriginal and redundant.  “Citizen’s”?  “American”?  Yes, congratulations, you’ve hit upon two of the requirements for the presidency.  What’s next?  The 35-Years-Old-or-Older Party?  The Not-a-(Convicted)-Felon Party?

            One guy is running for president under the United Fascist Union Party, which takes a lot of chutzpah.  Today, fascism is associated with Mussolini, Franco, racism, and-let’s be honest-Europe.  The truth is, though, that fascism is not inherently racist or evil; it just always turns out that way.

            Some other interesting parties in this election include:

• U.S. Pacifist. “Um, we’d like the presidency, please. What? We have to fight for it? Dang it all! Come on, guys, let’s go play with the Quakers.”
• Free Soil Party. “If elected, I will lower taxes, reduce the deficit, and make available that scarcest of resources, dirt.”
• The Light Party. “Vote for me! I have 33% fewer calories than the leading candidate!”

            The only advice I can give to these third-party candidates is:  Save your money.  You will not get elected.  If John McCain and Barack Obama both died in some sort of freak campaigning accident (”Senators McCain and Obama were killed today when their podiums came to life and ate them.”), you will still not ascend to the presidency.  You are more likely to be eaten by your podium.

            Because they’re rarer than individual liberties in a fascist state, third parties are hard to describe.  What is your average Free Soil candidate like?  Dirty, maybe?  I don’t know.  But I can sure as heck stereotype the Big Two.

• Democrats: Sissies. Tree-hugging liberals. Think that, by opposing war, they can ensure peace. Pro-abortion, but anti-capital punishment. Have no moral compasses. Want to take all of my money and give it to a female black Hispanic Wiccan lesbian abortionist. Motto: “Hug a terrorist.”
• Republicans: War-obsessed. Impatient for the complete deforestation of the Amazon. Think that every problem-including rush hour traffic-can be solved with surface-to-air missiles. Pro-capital punishment, anti-abortion. Pay no attention to their well-publicized moral compasses. Want to take all of my money and give it to defense contractors, who will then trickle a few pennies back down to me. Motto: “Rape a kitten.”

            Yeah, I know they’re stereotypes, but they’ve jaded a lot of the population.  All over the country, undecided voters are looking at the candidates and trying to figure out who is the lesser of two losers.  Granted, most of them will forget to go to the polls on Election Day, but right now they’re wondering:  Is McCain too old?  Is Obama too inexperienced?  Can J-Mac get us out of Iraq and Afghanistan?  Does B-Dog plan to sell Louisiana back to France to pay for his social welfare programs?

            If only we lived under the bright, sunny, iron-fisted reign of Hugo Chavez…

(Come on, coincidence, don’t fail me now.)

Crapitalism

 

 

          I have been trying—desperately (well, not really)—to understand the current financial situation.  At first I chalked it up to Voodoo, but it turns out the answer is much simpler:  Pure, unregulated greed—or, as I like to call it, crapitalism.

          I think I’ve got the gist of the situation figured out, at least.

 

1.     People want to buy houses.

2.     Banks offer mortgage loans to everyone, including the recently bankrupted, recently unemployed, and recently dead.

3.     Housing prices increase significantly as a result of…lunar cycles?  Ergotism?

4.     Banks continue to hand out loans on a first come, first serve basis.

5.     Our robust economy catches a cold.

6.     The cold gets worse and becomes a sinus infection.

7.     Banks begin handing out mortgages whenever anyone opens a new account.

8.     The economy does not respond to antibiotic treatment and develops pneumonia.

9.     Mortgagors stop sending in payments because their kids want to eat.

10.            Banks get angry and foreclose on people’s homes.

11.            Banks realize that their new houses won’t sell.  Consumers laugh until they pee themselves.

12.            Consumers stop laughing when all of the mortgage lenders that start with “F” implode.

13.            The government—showing the sort of can-do spirit that’s going to bankrupt us all—proposed a bailout that 200+ university economists scoffed at. <http://faculty.chicagogsb.edu/john .cochrane/research/Papers/mortgage_protest.htm>  (Props to Paulson, though, for trying to get $700 billion and no oversight; that takes chutzpah.)

14.            The bill passes after two votes in Congress.  As far as I can tell, I don’t benefit directly.  That’s right:  I have no job, but the people making millions—and bad decisions—are getting bailed out.

15.            Everyone decides to set up their own mortgage firms and hope for another bailout.

 

          I know Shinola about economics, but I feel very impotently angry—as if I’m getting screwed over for reasons I don’t understand.  Whom do I hold accountable?  Who caused this to happen?  I want to burn some effigies or write an angry letter or stone someone.  I can’t even blame the terrorists (I think; I don’t know).

          It’s enough to make me reconsider paying taxes.

 

 

          (So, I thought up “crapitalism” on my own, but then I Googled it, and it turns out that others came up with the term first.  Still, I’m pretty pleased with myself.)

Alternaherbaditional Medicine

         

 

   Have you tried naturopathy?

          What about homeopathy?

          Has alternaherbaditional medicine worked for you?

          No?

          Do you know why?

          Because it’s crap.

          In today’s world of megavitamin therapy and modern quackery, I find myself surrounded by people who would rather consume hardened-bird-spit soup than antibiotics.  I’m sure there are people out there who would point to drug-resistant diseases, but at least you don’t run the risk of bird flu.  (Hmm…do I want to eat bread mold or bird spit?  Why doesn’t anything good-tasting cure disease?)

          I will admit that, in its own way, alternative medicine has its merits.  For example, it…um…I guess you could, y’know…do…a thing.  Okay, I can’t think of any merits in particular at the moment.

          Some supporters might argue that alternative medicine encourages healthy life-styles, but so does traditional medicine.  You don’t have to be a homoeopathist to understand the benefits of vitamins and minerals.  Even a kindergartener can tell you that you’re better off eating a turnip than a deep-fried Mars Bar-and that same kindergartener can also market his dietary supplements to you.

          In 1994, Congress passed the Dietary Supplement Health and Education Act.  This requires manufacturers of dietary supplements to market their products as dietary supplements and not conventional food or medicine.  It also deregulates the industry.  Since they aren’t selling food or drugs, they don’t have to pass muster with the FDA.  Are your supplements safe and effective?  Who knows!

          Let’s put aside the pesky “is this inherently dangerous” question, though, and consider dosing.  According to people who should have brain scans, vitamin C can cure everything from the common cold to cancer.  Some groups, such as the Vitamin C Foundation, encourage people to ingest 3,000 mg (regularly) to 18,000 mg (for heart disease) to 30,000 mg (for cancer) every day.  (”I see you have stage-four lung cancer that has metastasized to every other part of your body, including your nose.  Not to worry, Mr. Jones; I’m writing a prescription for a billion grams of vitamin C to be administered by fairies and leprechauns.”)

          The National Academy of Sciences, which has a much more professional sounding name, suggests that Americans consume between sixty and 95 milligrams of vitamin C each day.  So it only takes 375 oranges a day to cure cancer.

          “But you don’t have to ingest anything to practice alternative medicine,” I hear you whine.  “What about aromatherapy, reiki, or chiropractic procedures?  They’re painless and you won’t be peeing orange for a week afterwards.”

          Okay, you’re probably not going to die from a massage.  I’ll even admit that there may be some psychological (read: placebo) benefits.  But if you just had major surgery, are you going to ask for essential oils to dull your pain, or a big ‘ole shot of morphine?  Heck, I’d take the morphine for minor surgery.  Or a headache.  Or just, y’know, ‘cause it’s there.

          So eat your oranges and bird-spit soup if it makes you happy.  Go get someone to balance your yin and yang.  Me?  I’ll stick to double-blind studied, FDA approved treatments, like aspirin.  Aspirin is derived from salicylic acid, which occurs naturally in plants, such as the bark of the willow tree.  Willow bark was used for ages to treat pain and fever.  In 1853, Professor Charles Gerhardt used this to develop aspirin, thereby taking traditional medicine (”here, eat this bark”) and turning it into a proven treatment (”here, eat this pill”).  Scientific research has shown aspirin to be very effective and safe for alleviating headaches.

          The same cannot be said for trepanning.

A Letter to China

            So you want to be a superpower.

            Ever since the peoples of Mesopotamia got together and decided to extend their influence, mankind has been working toward national supremacy.  Ancient Egypt, Greece, Rome, the Mongols, the British Empire, the USSR, the United States—everybody wants to rule the world.

            But you—little, insignificant, 1.3 billion-strong you—have reached that coveted height.  Your economy is growing in leaps and bounds (thanks huddled masses!); your military is powerful and well-equipped; everybody wants to be your BFF.  Sometimes it seems as if the honeymoon will never end.

            But wait!  What’s this?  Why is everyone picking on you?  Why do all of the other countries criticize your policies (even while they trip over themselves to curry your favor)?  After all, you put on an outstanding opening event for the Olympics, replete with fireworks, computer graphics, fairies, and singing ventriloquists.  And what do you get for your hard work?  Criticism and accusations!

            Welcome to the sad truth of superpower-dom, China:  You can’t suppress the media in other countries.

            I sometimes wonder if the power is worth the cost.  Sure, you get to make international decisions that boost your power and enrich your upper classes, but then you get snagged on for all the consequences.  Who wouldn’t have sent money, arms, and tactical information to Islamic radicals to fight the USSR?  Who could have known they would later use the training and supplies to fight you?  Geez, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

            Or—get this—you innocently enroll a group of sixteen-year-old gymnasts in the Olympics and then the US won’t stop whining because it turns out they’re really fourteen.  Um, hello?  Their passports clearly say, “These girls are over sixteen, we swear.  No.  No, stop looking at the other documents…hey!  You put that evidence back!”

            If that weren’t bad enough, the stupid press keeps hauling out other matters that you’d long ago swept under the carpet (where they belonged, thank you).  Who cares if you support the carnage in Darfur?  What does it matter if you refuse to allow for any semblance of autonomy in Tibet?  (Up yours, Richard Gere!)  What’s so horrible about kicking a few…okay, many…all right, several tens of thousands of people out of their homes so the wealthy can develop the land for profit?  Boy, you get yelled at for being communist and then you get yelled at for being capitalist.  There’s just no pleasing some people.

            Oh, and if you never hear “human rights” again, it’ll be too soon.  Look, you gave the world paper, gun powder, chopsticks, Ramen noodles, Jackie Chan, kung fu, and cold fusion.  Sometimes, down the road to progress, you have to break a couple eggs…or people.  Y’know, one person’s “human rights” is another person’s “keeping the peace.”

            My heart goes out to you, China.  You’ve been promoted to the big leagues and it’s a difficult adjustment.  Therefore, I urge you to take some of your cues from more learned superpowers:

 

1.      Think of a good justification for breaking a law before you break it.

2.      Hire the most brilliant spokespeople you can find.

3.      Throw money and supplies at other governments.

4.      Two words:  Plausible deniability.

5.      Don’t break the little rules—even with the IOC.

6.      Threaten to get tough when the situation is appropriate but do not intervene.  Are India and Pakistan on the verge of nuclear war?  Has Columbia impinged on Ecuador’s sovereignty?  Offer to mediate.  Offer money.  Offer advice.  Under no circumstances, however, should you get directly involved.  It never works out.

7.      Choose likeable presidents.

 

 

            Yes, by following these simple rules, you, too, can enjoy the many pleasures of being a superpower.  So buck up, China, and enjoy the limelight—just remember to do your dirty work in the dark.

Naked Wrestling

 

“The goal of the Olympic Movement is to contribute to building a peaceful and better world by educating youth through sport practised without discrimination of any kind and in the Olympic spirit, which requires mutual understanding with a spirit of friendship, solidarity and fair play.”  (IOC website)

 

          It’s been a long time since muscled, oiled, naked men wrestled one another in front of excited crowds.  Well, it’s been a long time since that happened and didn’t require an MPAA rating.  But now, in honor of javelins and stuffed grape leaves, the Olympics is being held in that famous Greek city, Beijing.

          Renown for the quality of its air pollution, Beijing is thrilled to host the Olympics and bring glory to the motherland.  Mao Zedong, whose name translates to “Spell Checker,” was quoted as saying nothing because he’s dead.

          Normally I don’t become involved in athletic events because they’re boring and stupid, but my nationalism kicks in every two years and I hope for gold.  I don’t know what sports are being played, but I’m generally content as long as the United States has more gold medals than anybody else.

          In these modern times, however, the games are not nearly as important as the international events surrounding them.  You never read ancient Greek poems about Athens boycotting the games that were held in Sparta.

 

Athenian Delegate:  Due to Sparta’s flagrant human rights abuses, the city state of Athens will not be attending the 608 BC games.

 

Spartan Delegate:  Human rights abuses?  We haven’t even invented human rights yet!

 

Athenian Delegate:  Free Tibet!

 

Corinthian Delegate:  What does “BC” mean?

 

No, the ancient Greeks were far too concerned with athletic prowess to bicker over trivial matters, including war.  In the same way that I paused Mario Bros. 3 when my mother called me to supper, the Greeks put their wars on hold to wrestle and run naked (okay, the similarities between those two examples may be a bit ambiguous).

          Since the games started anew in 1896, they’ve been cancelled three times and boycotted five times.  I suppose I can see the logic in a canceling a game during wartime.  With soldiers stationed all over the place and Germany invading Belgium again (starting world wars proved to be misguided—and internationally unpopular—hobby for das Vaterland), it’s hard to call off a war.  You can’t exactly call up the Axis powers and say, “Hey, Germany, Japan, Italy—even though you don’t really count.  We were wondering if you could hold off on committing atrocities against Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, socialists, republicans, Slavs, Koreans, Chinese, most of Southeast Asia’s citizens, Allied civilians, and prisoners of war.  We’d like to hold the Olympic Games.”

          The boycotts, on the other hand, were more about being pissy.  In 1956, Egypt, Iraq, and Lebanon boycotted the games to protest the Suez Crisis because there is a direct correlation between the nationalization of a European-dominated Egyptian-based waterway and the 400 meter sprint.

          The United States and about 61 random countries boycotted the 1980 Olympics because the USSR had just invaded Afghanistan, which, incidentally, participated in the games.  In response, and conveying the utmost dignity, the Soviet Union boycotted the 1984 Olympics because “we were really, really mad about the 1980 thing.  Come on, Cuba, Vietnam; we’ll go have some friendship games, instead.”

          So far, the 2008 games have gone relatively smoothly, except for a murder, some bombings, the beating up of two Japanese reporters, and the kind of forced happiness that makes The Stepford Wives look like Platoon.  My only complaint is that America has won a measly three gold medals.  I mean, for Heaven’s sake!  We are tied with Italy.  Italy!  They can’t even meaningfully compete in a world war!

          Therefore, I suggest we start doping our athletes until our female competitors begin to bear a striking resemblance to former-East Germany’s men’s hockey team (and our male competitors start looking like East Germany’s women’s weightlifting team).

          There’s nothing quite so beautiful as friendship, solidarity, and fair play.

 

(My new goal is to offend as many countries and world leaders as possible.  So far, so good.)

Wanted: Not. You.

 

            Looking for jobs makes me want to kill people.

            It’s such a frustrating endeavor.  Nobody wants to work at a crap job, but the good ones seem to be reserved for…well, I don’t know, but it sure isn’t me.

            Part of the problem may be that my English degree is entirely useless.  People who study engineering become engineers; those studying biology become biologists; someone who majors in accounting will become an accountant.  There are no positions for Englisheer or Englishist or Englishant.  And there shouldn’t be.  How has an English degree ever helped anyone?

 

Patient:  Doctor, doctor!  I seem to have accidentally committed seppuku whilst in the throes of an unnatural sexual act!

Doctor:  Don’t worry!  I’ll grab my Shakespeare anthology and we can analyze the oedipal influences in Hamlet.  You’ll be okay!

 

Robber:  Don’t come any closer or I’ll blow his brains out!

Cop:  Don’t do it!  I’m sure this can all be resolved with a better understanding of World War I poetry, which contrasted a jejune mentality in Victorian Europe with the inescapable horrors of trench and chemical warfare.

Gun:  Bang

 

MacGyver:  Okay, I need a length of kite string, a piece of gum, two gerunds, and a past participial phrase.

 

            But my degree isn’t the only hindrance to employment; the employers share at least half the blame for not hiring me.

            First of all, they want experienced employees.  I can understand that.  I certainly wouldn’t want to hire, say, a clown who’d never murdered any children before.  But I can’t get experience without getting a job, and I can’t get a job without getting experience.  It’s to the point where I’m planning to kidnap Barack Obama and demand to know his secret for success.

            Of course, there are ways to gain experience without getting a job.  It’s called interning and it may be the most brilliant business concept of all time.  Interning has done away with the costs of housing and feeding an apprentice, thereby legitimizing slavery under the concept of “learning.”  Numerous companies have “exciting” internships that will “prepare” novice workers in the fine arts of fetching coffee and running errands.  My teaching internship was so amazing that I actually had to pay my university for the privilege of working for free.

            The Tribune Company has a “Program Operations” internship available in Chicago right now.  It’s one of many that they offer.  In addition to not being paid, the intern must be a student at a university and able to earn credit for his work, which means he has to pay his university to work for the Tribune Company.  Is this some sort of Big Business meets Big Education scam?  Are there meetings between Tribune and university officials?

 

Tribune VP #1:  “Fellow executives, our cherished bonuses are threatened on all sides. With the cost of gas increasing, we may face the possibility of flying on commercial airlines.”

 

University VP:  “Not commercial airlines!”

 

tribune vp #1:  “Yes, Neville, commercial airlines.  Therefore, it is imperative that students pay their universities to work for free at the Tribune.  With their money, we’ll have to buy extra coffers just to hold all of the cash.”

 

University VP:  “Thank goodness!  Our board of trustees just approved $61 million in renovations on our football stadium and we’re moving the flagpoles twenty feet closer to the administration building.  Plus, we voted to give ourselves 12% pay increases.”

 

Tribune VP #2:  “More caviar, Mr. Gecko?”

 

            Granted, I could probably stand to learn more skills.  So far, I only excel at writing, reading, BS-ing, studying, judging others, and ennui.

            One skill I’ll never pick up, though, is selling.  I hate selling.  Everybody hates selling.  That’s why they’ve come up with new terms for it.

 

• “Account Executive” = salesperson
•  “Enrollment Counselor” = salesperson
• “Appointment Setter” = salesperson
• “Politician” = salesperson
• “Prostitute” = salesperson

 

This is similar to the military’s tactic of advertising exciting jobs—such as F-16 Fighter Pilot—that have no basis in reality.  Now, I am deeply grateful to the brave men and women who protect our country and its interests and I have nothing but respect for military personnel who uphold the law.  But you’d have to be a complete knob to walk into a recruitment office thinking that you’ll be doing anything but getting your butt kicked on the frontlines.  Even if you have a four-year degree, they’re hardly going to hand you the keys to an F-16.  Heck, you’d be lucky to get an F-150.

            But the military doesn’t want me, so I guess it’s moot.  Besides, I want to be a writer, which would be a lot nicer profession if all the jobs weren’t based in New York City.  I know that everybody loves New York, but I’m put off by its population density, smell, filthiness, rampant crime and poverty, exorbitant prices, and rudeness.  For some reason, eking out a living and residing in a no-bedroom apartment with two other people and eight padlocks on the door just doesn’t appeal to me.

            (If you want to work from home—whether it be in New York City or Blueballs, PA—I strongly recommend http://www.phoneactress.com.  All you need is “a charming voice, a private area of your home to work from, and a very positive attitude!”  Oh, and you must be an adult.  And interested in “fantasies and role play.”  Really, it’s the perfect job if “you love to chit chat.”)

            Given these many obstacles, I’ve decided to create my own classified ad.  Now I just need a business to hire me for it.  Any takers?

 

Wanted:  Writer.  International conglomerate seeks lazy misanthrope to mock society via all forms of media whilst traveling extensively in first-class accommodations.  Must be able to quickly throw together crap pictures in Microsoft Paint.  English degree a plus.  No experience needed.

First Class Fantasies (in a Crap Class Reality)

            I love to travel.  Sometimes I torment myself by dreamily creating summer-long holidays that cover entire continents (South and Central America, Africa, and South East Asia not included; void where prohibited by war, political unrest, abject poverty, and diseases that make projectile vomiting seem like a day at the park).  I long to fly first class and stay in posh hotels.  I fantasize about culinary delights at the most delectable dining establishments.

            Unfortunately—and to my intense bewilderment—the airlines, hotels, and restaurants routinely demand payment in exchange for services.  Bourgeois capitalists!

            I try and reason my way out of the luxury of first class.  “Even if I were wealthy,” I think to myself as I try to dislodge my neighbor’s foot from my ear, “I’d never fly first class.  I don’t want to be treated better simply because I have more money.  No!  I crave solidarity with my fellow cattle.  Moo!”

 

            I am, of course, a liar.

 

            I would much rather enjoy seats that tilt 180° than the company of my fellow travelers.  In fact, one of the nice things about first class is that I don’t have to put up with others.  Cocooned in my seat, I can enjoy the bliss that only money is able to buy.

            Emirates Airlines now has first class cabin suites.  You get your own little room with a massaging seat/flat bed (I guess it’s like a transformer?), giant TV, mini-bar, talking dog, your own personal slave (a coach passenger), they name a newly formed East European country after you, and—get this!—you get a coat closet.  Do you know what I got the last time I flew on an airplane?  I got to go from Point A to Point B without dying.

            The last hotel I stayed at after arriving at Point B was the Croydon Hilton.  It was nice enough, I suppose.  There was a bed and a bathroom and a floor and a ceiling.  It even had walls.  Unfortunately, the toilet took about ten tries to flush, the air conditioner didn’t work, our key cards often failed to open the door, and we had to share the room with an angry hobo.  I’m still waiting for an apology from Paris; for a hundred bucks per night, you’d think she would offer better services.

            Despite the drawbacks of Croydon’s premier hotel (which, if you’ve never been to Croydon, isn’t saying much), it was about as posh a hotel as I’ve ever been to.  Growing up, I thought a hotel was amazing if it had a swimming pool.  Clearly, my standards have since dropped; if a hotel has clean sheets, it deserves five stars.

            But I’ve heard of mythical hotels that have four-poster beds, gigantic marble bathtubs, fireplaces, something called “spas,” onsite prostitutes (only available in Thailand, Cambodia, and The Netherlands), clean sheets, and swimming pools.  Much like the Loch Ness monster and your girlfriend’s virginity, however, these claims cannot be verified (although I’ve seen pictures—of the hotel rooms, not your girlfriend—and they make the bedrooms in Versailles look Spartan by comparison).  I would love to stay in these hotels, but I don’t have an extra $37,200 lying around (per night, Hotel Martinez, Cannes, France).

            Let’s say, though, for the sake of argument and the preservation of my fantasy world, that I had $260,400 to blow (seven nights in Cannes or the cost of my house with an extra $153,400).  What would I do?  How would I spend my time?

            Well, I could look at the sea or watch movies on cable or play online poker (free WiFi; your gambling debt to Tommy “The Tourniquet” Ghirardelli not covered).  If I get hungry, I can eat at any of the five gourmet restaurants.  Their premier eatery, La Palme D’Or (The Palm of Or?), is pleased to serve la passeuse et la chandelle—leg of rabbit, accompanied by baby squid and egg plant. 

            Really, Hotel Martinez does have some fine facilities.  They have a “Kid’s Club,” where parents can get rid of their children for a few hours.  There’s a private beach, fitness center, and heated outdoor pool (in case the Mediterranean Sea isn’t enough).  But the place where I’d spend all of my time and money has to be the Givenchy Spa.

            Are you tired?  Achy?  Does your life as a globetrotting A-list mega star leave you needing your lymph nodes drained and your skin oxygenated?  Then come to the Givenchy Spa, where they will cover you in oils, rub hot stones into your flesh, and wrap you up in seaweed.  Do be careful, though; this was their same method for preparing the passeuse.  Or the chandelle.  I studied German.

 

            I doubt I’ll ever enjoy Emirates first class “suites” or the Hotel Martinez’s luxurious spa.  I darn well won’t be eating any rabbit’s legs or baby squid (freakin’ weirdo French).  But it isn’t the trip, right?  It’s the destination.  Actually, the destination—especially if it’s a hotel in Croydon—kinda sucks, too.

            Maybe I’ll just stay home and rent a video about Europe.  I understand The Seventh Seal and Das Boot are both good examples of life on the continent.

 

 

Note to all airlines, hoteliers, and restaurateurs:  I would be pleased to sacrifice my literary integrity as a way of thanking you for whatever gifts you might bestow on this humble writer.

Mink Overlords

 

 

            PETA.

            I hate PETA.

            Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favor of the ethical treatment of animals.  I fed a balding squirrel today.  I pick worms up off the hot pavement and place them in the dirt.  In 2001, I carried a flea-infested baby squirrel from my German class to the university’s veterinary hospital so they could treat his closed-head injury (they made me take him back; yeah, that’s gonna cure a subdural hematoma).  Fur coats are only good for Eskimos and those 60-year-old Jewish women who stand around at the Estée Lauder counter and look as if they were attacked by a makeup-wielding maniac (hi, grandma!).  Along that vein, it is wrong to subject animals to testing for beauty products (don’t tell my grandma).

            But PETA makes me want to throw hard candy at vegetarians, whom I would normally leave in peace to enjoy their organic soy products.

            Take, for example, the organization’s request that Rodeo, California change its name to “Unity” to avoid conjuring thoughts of cowboys getting bucked off of highly enraged bulls (you’d be enraged, too, if someone tied a rope around your “flank”).  PETA even offered the city’s schools $20,000 in veggie burgers as some sort of insane compensation.  Well, if we’re going to follow this line of thinking, I have a few more changes in mind.  First, we’re going in the wrong direction; interesting names are better than boring names.  For example, how often to you get to say, “I © Blueballs (Pennsylvania)”?  Therefore, I suggest we rename San Francisco “Gayford Buttram” (Mr. Buttram is an actual resident of Montana).  As compensation, all residents will receive four veggie burgers and a seat in the House of Commons.

            Another issue I have with PETA is its use of print media.  According to the pamphlets Your Mommy Kills Animals and Your Daddy Kills Animals, both of my parents are sociopaths who go out of their ways to murder defenseless fish and bunnies.  First of all, my dad has been dead for nearly five years; he doesn’t do much fishing.  But even when he was living, the closest he came to gutting a fish was opening a can of tuna.  Secondly, my mother does not torture bunnies.  She tortures cats.

            Furthermore, PETA supports groups like the Animal Liberation Front (ALF?  Really?  Were you in a hurry to find a name?) that go around letting minks loose from fur farms, especially in northern Europe.  Unfortunately, the minks have not been educated on conservation and the effects of invasive species.  Once released, they run around and begin devouring native animals.  This escalates until, eventually, the minks band together and set up a fascist police state.  Plus, supporting firebombing isn’t really going to win you any friends, except for terrorists, maybe, and the firebomb industry.

            Plus, Ingrid Newkirk, the woman who started PETA and gives cancer to children, would rather scientists did not run laboratory tests on animals, even if it led to a cure for AIDS.  Y’know what?  I’d kill a monkey if it meant that another 25-million people wouldn’t die from AIDS.  I’d kill two monkeys.  And a hamster.

            My biggest problem with PETA, though, is their stance on meat.  Do not try to take away my meat.  I love meat.  I especially love beef.  And I am not going to give up my steak while you release 6,000 minks (Hampshire, 1998), which will promptly destroy every other animal in their path.  Instead, I’m going to drug you and put you in a pigpen, where you can experience the intelligence and intestines of our swine friends, you cheeky little vegan freaks.

            In conclusion, I hate PETA.

$43,000 in the Crapper

 

 

            After five years, fifty credit hours in the College of Education, $43,000 in student loans, and a year-long slave internship, it turns out that I hate teaching.  This is, perhaps, the most expensive conclusion I’ve ever come to.

            I don’t want to hate teaching.  People always respond so positively when I tell them I’m a teacher.

 

            Driving Instructor:  “Really?  That’s wonderful!  We sure do need good teachers—dedicated teachers.  It takes a special kind of person to be a teacher.  My niece is a kindergarten teacher.  Teacher, teacher, teacher.”

            Me:  “Shut-up!  Stop saying teacher!”

 

            My alma mater, Michigan State University, has one of the top colleges of education in the country, which is a fact they never fail to throw into a conversation.  (“My grandfather immolated himself yesterday, which is a pity because MSU’s college of education is top ranked in the country.”)

            But why are they so good?  What has catapulted MSU’s program above everyone else’s (I should clarify that, although MSU considers itself the Harvard of colleges of education, U.S. News and World Report only ranks their elementary education, secondary education, and “rehabilitation counseling” secondary programs as the best—and they have to share that last one with the University of Wisconsin at Madison because everybody felt bad that Wisconsin sucks so much).

            Anyway, why are MSU’s teachers so great?  Because they are obsessed with teaching.  It dominates every facet of their lives.  When they read books, they find ways to use them in the classroom.  A movie?  Use it as a teaching aid.  Your colonoscopy?  It must have some classroom applications!

            And they got so excited about the most mundane topics.  Quite a few of my classmates started a “Kiddie Lit Club.”  They enthusiastically shared upcoming activities with the rest of the class.  Others couldn’t wait to go to teacher conferences, where, for $40, you can listen to other teachers present their ideas.  In my opinion, the only good thing about conferences is that the little cups of juice offered during the keynote speaker’s address are occasionally fermented.  I might have gone more often if they’d also laced the Danishes with something interesting.

            Overall, there are some qualities that I find very common among teachers.  Many are sensitive, highly educated, hard working, and have no outstanding felony convictions.  Unfortunately, there are other traits I neither appreciate nor feel prepared to emulate.

 

1.      Teachers talk incessantly.  They are so accustomed to dominating a discussion that they would rather suffocate you into unconsciousness than let you get a word in.

2.      Teachers have loud, grating voices—the product of learning to be heard over thirty raucous students who each seems to have the same lung capacity as a Himalayan athlete.

3.      Teachers usually have high standards.  And I don’t.  The teachers I interned under really stressed the importance of preparing as far in advance as possible.  (I should probably note that both cooperating teachers are classic examples of firstborn child, Type A personalities.)  They often had their lessons planned and materials ready two weeks in advance.  I often had no idea what day it was.  And that works for me; I typically thrive under that pressure.

4.      Another skill my mentor teachers emphasized was omniscience.

Teacher:  “You need to know everything that’s going on in the room.”
Me:  “But that isn’t possible.  No human can do that.”
Teacher:  “And you need to start class sooner—get things going before the bell rings.  Also, when the students enter, make sure you pass back papers.  And take attendance.  And give yesterday’s assignments to students who were absent.”
Me:  “At what point in my education was I supposed to receive magical powers?”

 

5.      Teachers are liars.  I know this because my cooperating teachers told me to lie.  They encouraged me to feign exuberance for every topic and lesson, even when I thought it was stupid.  For example, I had to teach the five-paragraph essay, which is one of the most boring, tedious styles of writing to compose and to read (and grade).  I made the mistake of sharing this opinion and was promptly chastised for my foolishness.  Not only did I need to embrace this style of composition, but my students would enjoy it more if I displayed the same sort of excitement about the 5-P as I would for the second coming of Christ.

 

 

 

 

6.      Teachers are nitpicky.  My instructors at MSU often included numerous comments on my papers that asked questions for me to consider.  I once wrote “We also need to make certain that challenges don’t become frustrating (especially with low-level learners).”  Following, in lovely blue letters, my instructor asked, “and what it [sic] a low-level learner?  What does s/he look like?  How does s/he learn?”  Shall I draw a picture?  Eventually, I just started mindlessly writing papers for these teacher teachers.  I kept my views to myself and offered up pedantic garbage.  (Note:  I bet Dave Barry would really like “Pedantic Garbage” as a name for a band.)

 

            What saddens me the most is that I really enjoy interacting with students.  Usually teachers complain that learners are unruly, loud, poorly behaved little monsters.  But students are a lot like puppies; they just need patience, structure, consistency, and the occasional rolled up newspaper.  In the right environment, each learner has his own personality and isn’t afraid to say the first thing that comes to his (fairly) open mind.  I talked with my students about books, television, movies, music, (their) parents, (their) personal conflicts, pets, writing, culture, school policies, video games—things I never broached with my colleagues, who took everything so seriously and wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.

            So, teaching isn’t for me.  I’ve learned a lot through the process of getting certified and I hope I can put it to use in a satisfying way.  I really hope some highly placed executives show up at my door and say, “Hey, you’re just the person we’re looking for who happens to have a teaching certificate.  Come creatively write for us.  Here’s a big bag of money.  And some ice-cream.  And a ticket to England, which is where we want you to write.

           If this happens, please, nobody wake me up.

Happy Periodic Table Day!

Pop Quiz

            According to various polls published in newspapers that I don’t read (I hate reading newspapers), most Americans don’t know Henry Ford from Gerald Ford and regularly confuse Winston Churchill with Orson Welles.
            As a history minor, licensed history teacher, and admitted history slut, I am dismayed by the public’s lack of knowledge.  Americans, especially, should be ashamed of themselves.  Technically, we only have 232 years of history as a nation.  How hard can it be to remember George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and 1776?
            Therefore, I would like to give my own test to English speakers.  Trade papers with the person beside you when you’re done to correct.  I’ll be outside lighting up.

j  The Battle of Midway was fought during which war?

A.     The Civil War
B.     World War II
C.     The War on Terror
D.    “War” by Edwin Starr 

k  Which Libyan leader’s name has 32 accepted spellings?

A.     Muam Moammar al-Qad Moammar El-Qadh Moammar El-Gaddaf Moammar El-Khadafi  Screw it
B.     Caligula
C.     Libya?
D.    Santa

l  What caused the Irish Potato Famine of the 1850s?

A.     Phytophthora infestans, also known as the potato blight
B.     The feckin’ English
C.     Killer potatoes
D.    Step-dancing

m  Two trains leave a Berlin station traveling east.  Train A is traveling at 100 km/hr.  Train    B is traveling at 115 km/hr.  How long will it take before Germany annexes Poland?

________________

n  Follow-up question:  How quickly will France surrender?

A.     Immediately
B.     Right away
C.     As soon as possible
D.    They already surrendered

o  Park Chung-hee was

A.     A South Korean Dictator
B.     A South Korean Savior
C.     I had him for dinner last night
D.    A Klingon obscenity

p  Who colonized Australia?

A.     Australians
B.     The British
C.     The Japanese
D.    I always get confused; which one’s Australia and which one’s Austria?

q  I © the ‘80s.

A.     True (cocaine + neon anything + the NES = good times)
B.     False (wine coolers + mullets + Wheel of Fortune = sadness…and my life)

r  Franklin Roosevelt : Winston Churchill as

A.     Toast : Jam
B.     Polio : Depression
C.     Hitler : Stalin
D.    Apples : Zebras

s  Which famed Roman leader is known for his longevity, month, and the Pax Romana?

A.     Augustus
B.     Caesar
C.     Nero
D.    Little Caesar

Bonus:  Citing specific examples, explain how the events of the Franco-Prussian War (1870-1871) paved the way for World War One.

…I’m just kidding.

Score:10:  How did you do that?  Question two doesn’t even have a real answer.
9-7:  Lower…
4-6:  Lower…
1-3:  Keep going…
0:  There you go.

Smoking Could, Indeed, Be Hazardous to Your Health

 

          If someone is smoking in my vicinity, and I can smell the fumes, I give it my best effort to light the offender’s head on fire with my undeveloped telekinetic powers.  They haven’t worked yet, but practice makes perfect.

          You see, I know that nicotine is terribly addictive and smokers can actually lose their minds if they’re forced to go an hour without a fag.  It has been clinically documented that the majority of road rage violence and spree killings were perpetrated by someone experiencing nicotine withdrawal.

          (Note:  Withdrawal can have two very similar meanings that are applied to two very dissimilar actions.  Back when I did telephone surveys, I didn’t know this.  When a question came up about birth control, I listed the various forms of contraception:  Oral, shot, DUI, natural, abstinence, and withdrawal.  I actually told new mothers that “withdrawal” meant “doing without.”  Sadly, I remained this naïve until only a few years ago.)

          Therefore, we can’t expect smokers to just quit.  That’s like trying to get an anorexic into a buffet—those anas might be underweight and emotionally unstable, but they’ll claw your eyes out to stay that way.  Similarly, a smoker will do anything for a fix, including (but not limited to) biting your face off.

          So, since I can’t live with smoking and smokers can’t live without it, I’ve developed a solution that I’m quite pleased with.  And although there will be some costs associated with the PVC boxes and lethal injections, we’ll ultimately save more money than we spend.

          My plan:  Small, air-tight PVC boxes will be set up in numerous locations.  When a smoker feels himself going insane, he merely steps into the box and lights up.  He can stay there as long as necessary, puffing away while the smoke builds up in his little cubicle.  When he’s all done, he simply needs to push a button and the smoke will be sucked out and he can leave.  He gets his ciggie and I don’t try to kill him with my mind.

          Speaking of killing, I’m not a huge fan of supporting this bozo after he develops one or more morbidities, such as lung, larynx, kidney, bladder esophageal, pancreatic, or stomach cancer, heart attack, stroke, or emphysema.  These are very costly illnesses that could have been avoided.  But I have a solution for this, too:  Die.

          In the interests of social welfare and society, smokers who develop smoking-related diseases ought to kill themselves.  Now, it sounds harsh, but it does make sense.  I mean, if you’ve got lung cancer, you’re pretty much screwed.  Why not take the time to say goodbye to your loved ones, go outside, dig a hole (six feet is standard), get in, and shove that needle in you neck?  It’s quick, clean, arguably painless, and has saved thousands of dollars.  We could even place little boxes next to the holes where the syringes could be tossed.  After all, the Earth is a precious thing.

           I’m sure many people think I’m being facetious.  They’re wrong.  I would honestly support the government if it decided to institute this plan.  In fact, I would go further and apply my idea to other idiots, such as people who want to drive without a seatbelt and members of PETA.

          Oddly, I would have no problem with smokers if these measures are taken.  The heavy taxes on cigarettes (which vary from 7¢ per pack in South Carolina to $2.57 in New Jersey) can be used to pay for children’s healthcare, schools, and your senator’s hooker.  And, in most cases, I’m willing to let people decide what they want to do for themselves.  If you want to smoke, that should be your right—as long as it never affects me in any way.

          But be warned, smokers:  I’m working on my telekinetic powers.  Don’t be surprised if, one day, as you pass my way with a cigarette in your hand, you happen to smell the scent of burning hair.

What Your School Career Advisor Never Told You

            As I watch the youths around me try to pinpoint their future professions, I’m struck by how important it is to choose wisely.  You don’t want to end up doing something unpleasant for fifty years.  Therefore, in the spirit of helping our future workforce, I have compiled a list of jobs that I think will prove quite helpful.

Jobs to Embrace 

• Who am I?  I sit at the head of your surgical gurney and occasionally glance at your vital signs while I thumb through a Tom Clancy novel.  My residency only took three years and I earn about $250,000 to put people to sleep.  Your surgeon and I argue constantly about the music he plays.  He claims that Kenny Chesney helps him focus on the procedure; I claim that it makes me want to overdose on ketamine.  But I spent less time studying, have fewer responsibilities, and make just as much money, so he can suck it.  Also, I shtupped his wife and his girlfriend.

Who am I?  I’m your anesthesiologist!

• Who am I?  I get to travel the world and help make it a…less populated place.  The government sends me to a friendly country in business class and I make my way covertly into enemy territory.  Thankfully, I can spend a couple days enjoying Paris or Tokyo or Abu Dhabi in style; it’s not as if I have to file an expense report.  When I identify my mark, I can use any of the many skills the military taught me (another bonus:  free education!)  Generally, my targets are high-ranking government officials, military leaders, scientists, or industrialists.  They sent me to take out Castro once, but it turned out he was already dead; the guy you see on television is Castrobot 3000.  The only downside to this profession is the censorship.

Who am I?  I’m your government assassin!

•  Who am I?  I spend my days sitting around on my butt—literally, all day, cheeks on chair.  While sitting, I make appropriate faces for the C-SPAN camera or onlookers:  “J,” “K,” and “L.”  When the film is rolling, I’m sure to make fiery, partisan speeches that my aides wrote for me.  My aides write everything, actually.  When constituents call, write, or email, my aides respond and then sign my name.  They also pack my lunches, tell me where to go, make my appointments, go to my appointments, write my proposals, bring in underage hookers, and then cover for me when I accidentally suffocate her.

Who am I?  I’m your senator!

• Who am I?  I’m so old—“How old are you?”— that <insert age-related joke that references some historical event>.  I sit around waiting, carefully arranging my collection of snacks and beverages.  I watch you give blood and, before you even have a chance to sit at my table, I force-feed you cookies, water, and tepid juice drink.  If you try to refuse me, I’m authorized to give you a Kool-Aid enema.  I then ask you inane questions and discuss the most banal aspects of my life, which include my grandchildren, pets, great grandchildren, and what life was like under the Taft administration.

Who am I?  I’m the lady at the Red Cross who gives juice and cookies!

Jobs to Avoid

• Who am I?  I have a parrot, a peg-leg, an eye patch, and a big ship with a Jolly Roger hanging from the mast.  Occasionally, I force people to walk the plank, although I’m usually fairly mellow since I drink rum constantly.  My main goal is to sail around the world searching for gold doubloons and treasure.  The only problem with this is that there are no doubloons or pieces of eight.  Also, the parrot keeps pooing on my shoulder, I miss my eye and leg, the Jolly Roger flag gives away our presence every time we try to take over a ship, and rum isn’t cheap.  Sometimes, I think I should have gone into IT.

Who am I?  I’m your pirate!

• Who am I?  I’m a pretty charismatic guy; people from all walks of life are drawn to me and my ideas.  Most people with this gift would have gone into politics or business, but I had different ambitions.  I chose to embrace religion and then distort the crap out of it.  Unfortunately, this has proven to be ridiculously hard work.  First, I had to pick the religion, then I had to figure out how to convince my followers that I wasn’t bound by its rules.  Once I got everyone settled into our compound, I needed to stockpile weapons and keep the government from finding out that I was evading taxes and having sex with any female over thirteen.  Plus, at least once every few months, I had to crush some jerk-off who sought to create a schism and gain my flock.  It’s enough to make me reconsider my career choices.

Who am I?  I’m your cult leader!

• Who am I?  I do a lot of walking, usually along street corners.  Thankfully, all this exercise is interspersed with opportunities to lie down.  My work clothes could be called unconventional, although I don’t wear them the whole time I’m on the clock.  It isn’t all dress up and exercise, though.  The evening usually begins with my boss prepping me for the evening by repeatedly hitting me and threatening to slit my throat.  Once I finally get started, I need to be careful that I don’t incur on-the-job injuries, such as murder at the hands of a sociopath.  Fortunately, I’ve already been infected with every STD—from anal warts to vaginitis—so that’s not a problem.  Whew!

Who am I?  I’m your prostitute!

• Who am I?  I spent ten years attending college, racking up student loans in excess of Samoa’s current national debt.  That wouldn’t be so bad if I made more than $70,000.  I could even put up with pay if my job were exciting.  Sadly, instead of testing epithelial cells for DNA while listening to The Who, I have to listen to people whinge on about their lives.  You want to know how to be happier?  Stop drinking.  Stop doing smack.  Stop cutting yourself.  Don’t start fights.  Don’t throw up after you eat.  Stop having affairs.  Try thinking about puppies instead of death.  And the emos!  If I have to put up with one more whiney little emo, I’m going to start handing out aspirin and razor blades at Halloween.  I’ll walk them through the process.  At least I have my Paxil.

Who am I?  I’m your psychologist!

Commies

 

          I miss communism.

          Okay, that might require some explanation.

          Today’s world is a smaller, more complex, scarier place.  Terrorists lurk everywhere and they all have wet dreams about destroying your city.  We have MRSA, drug-resistant TB, two generations unvaccinated against smallpox, and an avian flu virus that is mutating while you read this—oops, too late; here comes the pandemic.  Kim Jong Il and Ahmadinejad tuck their respective nuclear programs into bed at night.  The ozone is melting faster than a pocket watch in a Dali painting.  And your spouse is cheating on you.

          Somehow, life seemed simpler when there were only two super powers—both of them political states confined by the accepted rules of espionage, diplomacy, and the fear of nuclear winter.  It was more straightforward:  “If you bomb me, I will bomb you, and I can find you on a map.”

          Alas, the USSR dissolved before our eyes.  After seventy years of oppression, failed collective farming under the yolk of Lysenkoism, discretely carried out murders, exile to Siberia, Big Brother surveillance, and clothes so ugly that they make sagging pants look not retarded, everyone gave up.

          Who’s left?  We have the PRC, Cuba, Laos, North Korea, and Vietnam.  Laos and Vietnam aren’t important—nobody’s cared about them since 1975.  Cuba was once a major threat to the United States because of its close proximity, but since Fidel Castro passed away eight years ago, he’s toned down the inflammatory rhetoric.  As for China, its citizens are more and more developing a taste for the capitalist pig-dog lifestyle.  They even have Wal-Mart (which is all too appropriate since most of Wal-Mart’s goods, including their famous lead-frosted sugar cookies, are made there).

          North Korea is the real threat, but it’s hard to take Kim Jong Il seriously with his little bouffant hairdo and platform inserts.  I can’t muster any fear.  Apparently, neither can the world, which is a pity.

          You see, people need a common enemy to unite them.  Otherwise, there isn’t much that can bring us together.  I’m Protestant; you’re Catholic; he’s Muslim; she’s Hindu.  He’s black; she’s white.  Your mom is a prostitute; his mom is a politician (okay, so some things are the same).

          Have you even thought about the positives of the Cold War?  For example, both blocs were making huge strides scientifically; they played a game of one-upmanship that resulted in space travel, advanced nuclear technology (which sounds better than “50 megaton hydrogen bomb”), and greatly increased funding for the teaching of science and math in school, as well as research and development.  Way to go, Cold War!

          Furthermore, it engendered a sense of unity amongst the nations of the Free World (as well as the mindless support of dictators who claimed to support the Free World).  It’s true that some Europeans disliked America and Americans during the Cold War.  That’s okay.  Some Americans disliked Europe and Europeans.  In fact, there’s still a mutual love-hate relationship.  But back then, the Wessis would have been overjoyed to work with the CIA on some sort of legally ambiguous covert operation.  Why?  Because we had a common enemy.  Each generation deserves a common enemy—and I pick the filthy, filthy communists.

          Lastly, don’t you miss the days of solidarity, purpose, and patriotism unrelated to the World Figure Skating Championships?  Our forefathers had the Germans in WWI to rally against and their sons and daughters had…well, they had the Germans, too.  Their sons and daughters had the Soviets to contend with.  What does the present have?  Terrorists, global warming, and the possibility of a mass pandemic (which is, I suppose, a pleonasm, since any pandemic is inherently on a massive scale).  You can’t really threaten those things with mutually assured destruction.

          I will grant that communism wouldn’t eliminate the previously mentioned societal ills, but those problems seem so much less important in comparison to the dirty, godless commies.  When faced with a nuclear holocaust, you might welcome a cheating spouse; the world needs more people so the human race can survive.

             In the end, what “I miss communism” really boils down to is that I miss order.  I miss the division of nations into first, second, and third world countries.  I miss having a clear enemy whom I can identify with a map and who is sentient.  I long for the kind of unity that causes nations to hurtle cans of food from airplanes at hungry, defenseless Wessis.

          Besides, the Soviets made better movie villains.

Closeted Geeks

          Coolness.
          What is it?
          Who possesses it?
          How can one attain it?
          Why don’t I have more/any of it?
          These questions have flummoxed philosophers throughout the ages, primarily while the cool kids were giving them atomic wedgies and stealing their Hostess cupcakes.
          Noam Chomsky, in his seminal book, Why Doesn’t Anybody Like Me?, defines coolology as “the study of coolness amongst members of a similar socio-economic group, as influenced by geography, shared psychologies, and the linguistic nuances that are affected by cultural diversity, with regard to man’s innate speech facilities.”  (He goes on to state, “Also, I really, really hate Israel.”)
          So, who possesses this poorly defined characteristic?  Coolness, like legality, is in the eye of the beholder.  Some people might see Fifty Cent (who, by mentioning in this context, automatically disqualifies me as a possessor of coolness) and think, “Look at that jewelry, those clothes, and the scantily clad women hanging off his arms—he epitomizes cool!”  Others might comment, “Look at that jewelry, those clothes, and the scantily clad women hanging off his arms—what a wanker.”
          Since I cannot definitively state who possesses cool, a brief list of people who are widely regarded as either cool or uncool will have to suffice: 

Cool	Uncool
James Dean	Wilford Brimley
Eric Clapton	Tiny Tim
Han Solo, Lando Calrissian	Luke Skywalker, C-3PO
George Washington	Richard Nixon
Al Capone	Leona Helmsley
The Dark Knight	Every other JLA character
Joan Jett	Every other female

           You’re probably wondering, reader, how you can attain coolness.  That feat is accomplished by possessing certain traits.

 1.     Be interesting.  Villains are interesting.  Superheroes who straddle the good/bad divide are even more interesting.  Wolverine, from X-Men, isn’t afraid to kill people who get in his way—even when they’re good guys.  If, during his quest to save Jean from Scott (who was brainwashed), circumstances require that he kill the one-eyed weenie, he’ll do so with the minimum amount of remorse.  Then he’ll take Jean to the nearest Motel 6 for some “grief therapy.”  Conversely, Cyclops was stupid enough to get himself kidnapped and brainwashed.

2.     Be Dangerous.  James Dean was only 5’ 6”, wore glasses, and did not discriminate against possible sexual partners based on their gender.  So how did this short, myopic feygelah become an icon of cool?  He was dangerous.  Really, really dangerous.  He was so dangerous, in fact, that he got into a car crash and died.  You thought it was an accident?  He was just making a statement.

3.     Be male.  Females are, almost universally, not cool.  They can be pretty, beautiful, sexy, hot, gorgeous, smoldering, cute, or any other adjective that describes an attractive outward appearance.  This is because a woman’s value is measured solely in Helens.  She might be able to “launch” a ship, but she could never command it.

           Finally, there are some people who cannot seem to attain any level of cool.  Does this sound familiar?

“I like to shop at Old Navy because the clothes are vaguely fashionable and inexpensive, although I fail to notice that I’m wearing a plaid shirt and striped tie.  While House is one of my favorite shows, it makes me feel superior to others when I notice a mistake or correctly predict the disease.  I am oblivious to people checking me out.  I can discuss all aspects of the Star Trek franchise in depth and at length.  My friends and I communicate by way of highly obscure references to cultural, historical, or scientific events and figures.  We have violently heated debates, pitting Kirk against Picard and Mike against Joel.  Lastly, I lack any semblance of charisma and am so painfully shy that I need morphine to strike up a conversation.  Also, I enjoy reading the dictionary.”

           Out in the real world, amongst my his peers, this person stays quiet, never mentioning his passion for Tears for Fears or his collection of Star Trek novels.  Rather, he downplays his divergent interests and makes mindless small talk with those around him.  Once in a while, he’ll innocently drop an obscure reference to see if his speaking partner might be of a similar mindset.  If the reference is reciprocated, an instant bond is formed.  Otherwise, this closeted geek remains as socially memorable as William Harrison.
          I really wanted to end this with an actual quote by Noam Chomsky, showing that I am familiar with his work and ideas.  Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a quote shorter than my entire article.

“Stewardess, Could You Dispose of this Body, Please?”

 

          I’m writing this on my way to London.  On the airplane.  I do not like airplanes.
          My problem with airplanes is threefold:  People (this is in no particular order), space, and disbelief.
          Now, as a rule, I don’t like people.  They have a nasty habit of irritating me because I have absolutely no patience whatsoever for rudeness (or anything).  Rudeness—real or perceived—abounds on airplanes:  You play your iPod loud enough for me to hear; you lean back in your seat; you dawdle; you talk incessantly and at a decibel that wakes dead people 30,006 feet below us; you are not pretty to look at; you are.
          Many people also contribute to the spread of disease.  Airplanes, like schools and hospitals, are, essentially, flying agar solutions.
          Picture it:  You’re sitting quietly, trying to hear the crap movie over the noise of the engines and the dunderheads, who seem to be flying to an international dunderhead convention because they have taken up every other seat on board.  Amongst the cacophony, you hear someone hack up gob of mucous that could be used to lubricate the plane’s pistons.  You glance over to see that he hasn’t covered his mouth.  So, what’s floating in the air, coming in your direction?  Is it the flu?  TB?  The pneumonic plague?  Any of the numerous hemorrhagic fevers?  No amount of vitamin C will protect you from this man and his friends, all of whom escaped from quarantine yesterday.
          As far as space is concerned, this problem has plagued air travelers since Wilbur and Orville designed the first airplane for anorexic midgets.  This design has been in use ever since.  My seat can’t be more than a foot and a half wide, which is fine if you’re an Olson twin or Nicole Richie, but not if you’re a normal, healthy adult.  It’s pretty bad where I am right now.  Allow me to illustrate with a picture of my seat:

. (actual size)

         I’m not certain, but I think this is a violation of my basic human rights.  We should get the UN and Amnesty International in here, although, on second thought, they might just blame Israel for the problem.  (“Oh, no!  My Pepsi has gone flat!”  “Israel!”)
          The thing is, I’m not chubby.  I weigh 130 pounds and stand five-feet seven-inches tall, which puts me somewhere between Victoria Beckham and Mama Cass.  Yet I cannot, despite numerous efforts, sit comfortably on an airplane.  I have tried everything!  I tried bringing a neck pillow.  I tried overdosing on Benadryl.  I even killed the little brat behind me who kept kicking the back of my seat.*  His death was a satisfying, but hollow, victory.
          There’s also the problem of feet³ / people.  This isn’t a problem for some travelers, such as the French, who require only one micron of personal space.  I know this from experience, having spent a month and a half with a gaggle of French students in my dorm.  As we stood in the queue for dinner, I thought they were trying to crawl inside of me.
          This intimate contact is prevalent on airplanes.  Seats are packed close together, so it’s not unusual to find yourself sitting on your neighbor’s lap after a bit of turbulence.  I feel confident that many people have joined the mile-high club by accident; there they were, trying to reposition themselves to allow for circulation, and now they’re expecting twins in August.
          As for disbelief, the problem stems from my own ignorance.  Have you ever seen a plane take flight?  It’s kind of like watching an athlete bound down the track.  He gets faster and faster, his muscles pumping as sweat streams from every pore.  Then he spreads his arms and takes off into the wild blue yonder.  Now, if you saw that, you’d think you’d gone stark raving mad.  So why is it any different with a gigantic metal contraption on wheels?  You can keep your nonsense about “thrust” and “lift.”  How about another scientific term?  How about gravity?
          It’s not that I’m afraid to fly.  I do it often enough.  Rather, I feel a sense of foreboding as we rocket down the runway.  “Believe!” my brain yells while I hold my arm rest in a death grip.  “You must believe that this can fly or it won’t!”  Five minutes later, when we’re cruising at 20,000 feet, I look as relaxed and composed as any other sane person, safe in the knowledge that I somehow defeated physics, gravity, and common sense.
          Not that common sense wants for defeat; some days, I go without it entirely.

*This is justifiable if you have provided the offender with at least three warnings, one of which may be a simple glare.

Haters

          I recently read an opinion article in Spiegel by Claus Christian Malzahn, Evil America, Poor Mullahs.  It was a slightly tongue-in-cheek editorial on the March 2007 poll that asserted that 48% of Germans viewed America as a greater threat than Iran.

          The author noted the apparent hypocrisy of Hitlerland (who doesn’t immediately think of Hitler when Germany is mentioned?), and the danger of viewing a theocratic, soldier-kidnapping, child-executing (the minimum age for the death sentence for girls is nine-years-old—fifteen if you’re a boy), nuke-loving nation as the lesser of two evils.  After all, it’s not as if they keep threatening to wipe a certain, somewhat colicky country off the map.

          While I found the article interesting, lucid, and a little uplifting (the anti-Americanism does weigh heavy on my soul), the real opinions came to light in the article’s discussion forum.  Here, supporters and detractors of US policy, values, practices, and cultural exports met in a fury of refined intellectual butt kicking—parliament style (“Given what the honorable member just said, I believe him to be a complete jerk-off.”).

          Quite a few readers pointed out that Iran hasn’t entered/liberated/invaded/created a quagmire in/helped (pick one) Iraq.  It doesn’t, to our knowledge, currently possess any nuclear weapons.  It hasn’t been at war since 1988 (which was, coincidently with Iraq over Iran’s blatant attempt to come sooner in alphabetical lists).

          Other readers pointed out that, hey, the US might have nuclear weapons, but Iran would be more likely to use them.  Also, the United States has not threatened to beat Israel into matzo ball soup, supported Hezbollah, executed minors because they were raped, or intentionally sent prepubescent kids to the front line.  Of course, that might just be because of America’s freedom of press.  Man, we can’t get away with anything.

          Some of the people who responded took a more straightforward, less politically correct, significantly funnier approach.  One respondent referred to the Germans as “hunlets” and informed all the “PC-euthanized, welfare state besotted, noodlewrist eurogoobers” [sic] that “99% of Americans…are really completely indifferent to what [Europeans] think.”

          My first inclination, upon reading this person’s tirade, was to embrace it.  “Yeah!” I thought angrily.  “Who do those hunlets think they are?  Is “hunlet” a proper noun?  Wait, that’s beside the point.”

          After all, it does sometimes seem as though Europe is awfully confused.  For all of their blustering on human rights, their immigrant population is disenfranchised, angry, and entirely unassimilated.  And it’s not as if France and Germany’s mollycoddling of Iran is entirely innocent; they, along with China and Russia, would be only too happy to get their hands on Iran’s sweet, sweet oil.  (“Oh, don’t take our enriched uranium!  We need it to supply energy to our people.”  “But what about your massive reserves of petroleum and natural gas?”  “Hm?  I’m sorry, I don’t speak your language.  Where is ElBaradei?”)

          What’s more, we’ve generally been quite positive on the Germans in America.  Granted, we may have helped push the Kaiser out of France, but at least we tried to keep the other European nations from exacting financial and territorial revenge.  And, sure, we might have gotten a little carried away during the bombings of Hamburg, Kassel, Darmstadt, and Dresden, but at least we stayed around to help rebuild West Germany’s economy.  Plus, Ronald Reagan single-handedly brought down the Berlin Wall.

          But after reflecting on my initial opinion, I realized that I’d approached the situation wrong.  The problem isn’t that 48% of Germans are prime candidates for the Darwin Awards; it’s just a matter of cultural differences.

          Robert Kagan postulates in his book, Of Paradise and Power, that Europe doesn’t commit to martial action as readily as the United States because it has been conditioned to seek out whatever diplomatic options are available.  This, he argues, is due to an historic lack of military strength during the Cold War, based on Europe’s size, economics, geographical location, and reliance on America’s might.

          Conversely, the U. S. has had the good fortune to be on the other side of the planet, away from the communists, fascists, Islamists, and other lunatics.  Furthermore, America is a large, wealthy, fiercely independent nation that has proven willing to undertake whatever measures are necessary to secure its interests.

          And that’s the point (I think):  All countries do this.  Every nation on this planet places itself before others.  They utilize their resources to maintain as high a place as possible on Maslow’s hierarchy.  For the United States, one resource is its military might.  For European nations, one resource is diplomatic give-and-take.

          Does this make America more likely to enter/liberate/invade/create a quagmire in/help another country?  Of course.  Does it make Germany more likely to pretend Iran isn’t a major threat, thereby continuing the diplomatic game and keeping its Volkswagens racing down the Autobahn?  Duh.

          In the end, although I think Germany’s 48% are a bit retarded (and I’m still huffy about this popular trend of anti-Americanism that’s become rampant even among our own citizens), I don’t think I’m in total agreement with my hunlet-hating friend.

          I’d actually like to see each side take a lesson from the other.  The U. S. could learn a thing or two about the art of lying diplomacy.  And the European Union could learn about massing its forces.

          I mean, come on, E. U.!  Combined, your member states have well over a million soldiers, each country has its own military budget, and France totally has nuclear weapons.  Don’t be afraid to flex a little muscle when Ahmadinejad or Kim Jong-Il or al-Bashir tells you to go suck an egg.

          So, in the end, I welcome the Germotards to think whatever they want.  Free speech and free thought are part of the foundations in our free societies.  These are beloved values in all of our countries, be they Germany, the United States, Great Britain, France, Ira—

          Actually, I wouldn’t start voicing too many opinions in Iran if I were you, unless you quite enjoy a bit of bastinado.

       PS.  Wow, those paragraphs about the cultural differences read way too much like an academic paper.  I humbly apologize if you accidentally learned anything. 

PPS. 

Chavez:  Oh, Mahmoud, I love you so much!
Ahmadinejad:  I love you to, Hugo!
Chavez:  Do you want to drill for oil together?
Ahmadinejad:  Oh, yes!  Yes!  I do!
kissy kissy kissy  

          I would like to use this article to explain why I don’t want to write articles about politics.  (Which is, possibly, a contradiction or an oxymoron or some other linguistic screw-up.  I do suffer so at the hands of semantics.  Don’t even get me started on irony, that thorny bugaboo.)

          A lot of people tackle politics in their writing—from really serious correspondents such as Ken Rudin to people like Jon Stewart, who claim to just be comedians (in the same way that Gary Powers was just taking the scenic route through the Soviet Union).  (”What?  U2?  No, that’s a band.  I’m just swamp gas or a weather balloon.)
          Some writers get really worked up about politics.  They are so gosh darn angry at the left/right/center/conservatives/liberals/moderates!  Or, as is often the case, these editorialists fume about poorly behaved politicians:
          “How could Bill Clinton have lied to the entire country like that?”
          “I cannot believe that Ford pardoned Nixon!”
          “It is inexcusable that <insert politician here> accepted bribes from <insert special interest group here>!”
          Wow.  Really?  People with power used their influence to procure sex/money/more power?  I am flabbergasted.
          Hm?  What was that, Lord Acton?  All power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely?  No, no, go ahead and finish your quote.  Ah, yes.  And great men are almost always bad men, even when they exercise influence and not authority: still more when you superadd the tendency or the certainty of corruption by authority.
          I think that part of the problem is the average person’s hatred for hypocrisy (when he isn’t the hypocrite).  And, naturally, this affects the Republican Party the most because they are the people most loudly opposed to sins of the flesh.  Take Larry Craig for example.  Or Newt Gingrich.  Or Bob Livingston, Strom Thurmond, Mark Foley, or David Vitter.
          Don’t get me wrong—the Democrats have had plenty of extramarital sex, but their constituents don’t really care.  It’s not hypocritical to cheat on your spouse with your aide as long as you haven’t espoused traditional family values.  (Ergo:  If you don’t throw stones, you’re welcome to live in a glass house.)
          Look, I don’t wish to sound jaded, but I’m not surprised by most scandals anymore.  I felt indignant for about five minutes when Bush excused Libby’s prison sentence.  That was five minutes of impotent indignation that I will never get back.  Just think of all the other crap I could have been angry about.
          And that is part of the issue for me.  Politics simply isn’t that important.  Americans, foreigners, and aliens in other galaxies become almost violently enraged when the war in Iraq is brought up.  If they had their druthers, they would crucify the Bush administration.
          Sadly, Dubya didn’t do it all on his own.  No one man can hold that much sway in a democracy…mostly.  And he’s all done in 2008 (unlike Hugo “Fidel” Chavez, who’s seeking an end to those nasty term limits).  What’s Bush going to do in a year?  He’ll go back to Texas while Hillary Obama is sworn in.  Then what, hm?
          People give politicians far too much credit, especially in the world of economics.  I don’t care what party a politician ascribes to, he (or, 16.3% of the time, she) would be hard-pressed to ruin or revive the economy.
          Even Alan Greenspan, patron saint of the Federal Reserve and proof that Jews rule the world, could do little more than play defense.  It’s not as if there’s someone out there, scheming to send Middle America into foreclosure.  (“I shall contact Big Business and tell them to ship all their jobs overseas!  Then I will devalue the dollar and raise interest rates by a billion percent!  Mwuahaha!”)
           Besides, with rare exception, politicians don’t have the maturity and ideology to advance any major agendas.  I’ve been on the floor of the Michigan Legislature.  It’s populated by kindergarteners.
          You see, while Representative Funbunderman is trying to illustrate the finer points of his proposal to introduce electricity to his district, the rest of the members of the House check their email, chat with friends, eat the Twinkies their aides packed in their lunchboxes, and take naps.  Unless the issue is especially close to the hearts of their constituents, most politicians would rather be raped by rabid kangaroos than sit through a speech.
          So, in conclusion, I don’t foresee many future articles that center on politics, even as the presidential election draws closer.
          I hate that election, actually.  The constant campaign ads.  The mud throwing.  The vitriolic eight-percent of people who get way too into the hype and the 94% of people who have never seen the inside of a voting booth.  It’s just a nightmare from the end of the primaries to a week after elections end.  I can see why the French vacillated so often between a republic and an unelected aristocracy:

Marcel Marceau:  Bonjour, Captain Picard.  Did you see all of the campaign ads on television?
Captain Picard:  Merde!  It makes me long for the days of an absolute monarchy.
Joan of Arc:  I can empathize, although I certainly don’t miss how they screw you over as soon as you’re captured by the English.  What do you think, Napoléon?
Napoléon:  I’m Corsican, actually…and a kind of ice-cream, I think.
Marcel Marceau:  No, that’s Neapolitan, a reference to its supposed origin of Naples, Italy.
Captain Picard:  Aren’t you supposed to be a mime? 

Visiting Samsung–I mean, South Korea

            Korea.

            Now owned by Samsung, Korea is a small country in East Asia known for having a north and south (like the Dakotas, if North Dakota were run by a tiny little dictatortot).  It has a 5,000-year history that, if memory serves, produced many dead guys who did and built important things.

            I spent ten glorious days in South Korea, where I beheld much that was good, and some that was bad, and quite a lot of weird.

 

            The nickname “Land of the Morning Calm” isn’t quite as applicable as it once was.  I conservatively estimated South Korea’s population in the trillions, which doesn’t leave much room for land or calm.

            Each resident owns a car and, for some reason, they all attempt to drive them at the same time.  Sadly, they do this with the same care and orderliness of a mob.  Speed limits are for speed cameras and losers; pedestrians should bear in mind the survival of the fittest; and your best bet for pulling into traffic is to just go and pray that the oncoming car brakes.

            To house its population, Korea has spent billions of dollars erecting buildings that require emergency oxygen for people who ascend too quickly.  The Sherpa population, however, has seen a sharp increase in business.

            And naturally, these trillions of consumers need jobs to pay for their absurdly overpriced goods.  That’s where big business comes in to make life better.  Big business is represented in Korea by the four small symbols around the yin-yang on their flag.  They stand for Samsung, Hyundai, LG, and Samsung (again).

            Samsung, LG, and Hyundai (which also owns KIA), truly are massive corporations.  Most people think of Samsung as a company that makes electronics (such as my computer monitor).  However, the company is also invested in heavy industry, chemicals, petrol, insurance, credit, retail marketing, entertainment, medicine, and education.  That’s right.  They own a university.

            If all of this isn’t interesting enough for the average tourist, there are also many unusual sights.  I feel bad making a judgment call on what does or doesn’t constitute “unusual.”  However, I don’t feel bad enough to refrain.

            Topping my list, and a source of continued nightmares, are the highway bots.  Highway bots are white-faced automatons that line the highways and wave orange batons up and down.  They wear uniforms and construction hats and look almost human until you see their lifeless faces up close.  I’m sure they were originally meant to make the roads safer, but they just terrify me.

            The next oddity really surprised me and deserves some background information:  Between 1910 and 1945, Japan occupied Korea.  For various reasons (mass rape and murder, pillaging, the attempted extermination of Korean culture, forced conscription, starvation), this is considered a tragic period of their history.

            Like Yad Vashem in Israel, Korea has set up a beautiful and impressive memorial, Independence Hall.  Being familiar with the kind of respectful and reserved attitude such a site commands, I refrained from photographs, chatter, and frivolity.

            I refrained, that is, until I heard Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven on the building’s speakers.  Granted, it was an instrumental version with some kind of Asian influence, but I distinctly made out Jimmy Page’s famous notes.  That’s like going to the Holocaust Memorial Museum and hearing Smoke on the Water. 

            Finally, in the realm of culinary delights, I was awfully surprised to find three little crabby buddies in my soup.  Whole, tiny crabs, with their little black eyes staring up at me, as if to say, “Yes, it’s true.  We are three tiny crabs.  Three tiny, tiny crabs.  In your soup.  And over there, by your hostess, is a plate of raw liver cubes.  Bon appétit.”

            Of course, for the tourist who can’t deal with any vaguely unusual foods, feel free to eat at Pizza Hut, Dominos, Krispy Kreme, KFC, Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonald’s, Bennigan’s, T.G.I. Friday’s, Cold Stone, Baskin Robins, Burger King, or Subway.  There are also 7-Elevens, but they don’t have Slurpees (I know:  Why bother going?).

            It must seem as if I have drawn a stark mental image of South Korea, but I had only one real complaint, which may sound a little, tiny, tad-bit, sort of, remoslightly absurd.

            It’s hard to be white sometimes.

            Now, before I start getting angry letters from the NAACP and its Asian counterpart, let me put this into context.

            I spent the final full day of my trip to Korea mostly at my host’s home because, when it rains in Korea, it rains all freaking day.  Bored and wanting ice-cream, I finally ventured out during a drizzle to the nearest Samsung Plaza.

            During my travels up escalators, down halls, and through one department after another, I was the object of intense scrutiny.  Every employee and shopper, small children, pedestrians, and pets kept their eyes on me.  It isn’t like that here.  If I’m looking at you oddly, it’s probably because you’re odd looking (blue hair, pirate eye patch, etc.), not because of race.

            I like to believe this is what life is like for famous people, but I felt more like a wary shoplifter than a celebrity.  (“I swear, I have no idea how that fifty-inch TV got under my shirt.”)

            In the end, however, despite my shopping experiences and the Highway Bots from Hell, I have nothing but fondness for Korea.  I was particularly overawed with the country’s natural beauty.  I couldn’t turn a corner without coming face-to-face with something majestic.  It does get a little repetitive, though.  (“Oh, look.  Another lovingly constructed Buddhist temple on top of a mist- and tree-covered mountain by the ocean.  Yes, thank you, it looks exactly like the last eighteen we saw.”)

            And the service!  In Korea, I was like a god.  Waiters did everything humanly possible to accommodate my whims (such as filling my cup when I looked needy), then bowed and thanked me.

            Speaking of accommodation, I couldn’t escape it.  Did I want a fork instead of chopsticks (even though I was clearly using the chopsticks without trouble)?  Would my senses be insulted if they placed some kimchee on the table?  Was I too cold?  Too hot?  Bored?  Tired?  Hungry?  I wasn’t even allowed to get anything for myself.

Me:  If you tell me where the orange juice is, I can get it.

Jihye (jumping from her seat):  No, no!  I’ll get it.  Just a moment.

Me:  No, really, I—okay.

Me:  I think I’ll walk down to the Samsung Plaza for some ice-cream.

Mrs. Lee (grabs her keys):  I’ll drive you there.

Me:  No, thank you.  I can make it on my own.

Mrs. Lee (completely incredulous):  But…it’s far.  And it’s raining.

Me:  It’s only fifteen minutes.  And it’s barely a drizzle.

Mrs. Lee:  …I’ll drive you.

            Korea might be a bit strange at times, and it can be disconcerting for non-Koreans walking down the street (or in a shop or a restaurant or on the subway or a bus…), but the good outweighs the bad.  It’s beautiful, the people are intensely kind, there’s no shortage of tourist attractions, and, if you play your cards right, you might not even have to wipe your own bum.  They’d be happy to help.

Just a Little Something…

 

Possible Seeing Eye Animals

• cat won’t take commands

• whale needs water (also,can’t fit through door)

• chameleon kept disappearing

• bat also blind

• tortoise too slow

• cheetah too fast

• skunk poor reaction when surprised

• Tasmanian devil ate patient

• koala slept twenty hours each day

• ostrich terrified patient

• lemming followed others

• goldfish kept dying

• dodo bird too stupid (and extinct)

Phobias

          Today’s subject is:  Phobias.  Ask any person who has one, and he or she will tell you there’s plenty to fear besides fear itself.  For example, some people fear confined spaces (claustrophobia); clowns (coulrophobia); the number 13 (triskaidekaphobia); gravity (barophobia); and rectums (proctophobia).
          Just to get something straight, a phobia does not only signify fear, but a person’s strong reaction to the feared object or situation.  Thus, you may be afraid of mutant rectum attacks from space, but a proctophobe will do anything to avoid rectums, whether they are mutant and alien or just plain old earth butts.  The mere thought of coming into contact with a rectum induces an anxiety attack in proctophobes, who turn to jelly at the thought of being proctologists.  (You may feel free to quote this essay in any papers you submit to medical journals.)
          Sufferers of phobias often experience panic attacks that are brought on by exposure to the trigger (for example, a giant hairy spider that is slowly crawling over your chest and making its way to either your jugular vein or your carotid artery, whichever happens to be closer).  When you have a panic attack, your body produces a chemical called “adrenaline.”  This gets you ready to either flee from the giant spider or fight it.  Naturally, of course, since your legs have stopped working and all thought processes have ceased, adrenaline is not particularly helpful.  In fact, a panic attack is really your body’s way of saying:  “Come here.  I want to kill you.”
          Most of these names are in their native Latin, Greek, or Klingon.  That’s not to say that scientists who name these phobias (realjobophobes) have no sense of humor.  Take, for example, “Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.”  This 36-letter, tongue-in-cheek term means a fear of long words.  Those scientists will sure get a good laugh when the Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobes hunt them down like prey.
          But phobias are not something to be laughed at, unless they’re really, really funny (such as the fear of amnesia, which you would promptly forget about as soon as you got amnesia).  I, myself, have emetophobia, a fear of vomiting.  I do not find this funny, especially since it has made me paranoid.  Eating out, eating in, or eating with some other preposition is very difficult when you suspect your food is tainted.

Me:  Are you sure this is cooked all the way through?
Waiter:  It’s a salad.
Me:  I know you secretly wiped chicken rectum on it.

           And sushi?  I’d rather fly Air Jihad than step within ten feet of a sushi bar.  Do you know why?  Because they don’t cook the food.  They serve it raw, which is tantamount to ordering some McColi.  This is a debate my friends and I have time and again.  They argue it’s fresh, and therefore free of illness.  I argue that they could eat freshly dropped cow poo and it would still make them sick.  Neither side has won, but consider this:  Four out of five doctors recommend cooking meat before eating it.  The fifth doctor would have agreed, but was unfortunately indisposed throwing up blood.
          Don’t even get me started on those salmonella lovers who store food past its freshness date.  Whatever government agency that is in charge of food spoilage didn’t put a date there for kicks.  If your mayonnaise expired three months ago and you try to pass it off on me, I will personally make sure your next sushi experience goes horribly awry.  You may wind up with eels in orifices you never anticipated.  Good luck explaining that to your proctologist.
          What truly riles me is when, occasionally, a parent or “friend” of an emetophobe tries to use experience as a cure.  “Well,” she says to herself while slaughtering a goat for Black Mass, “perhaps a bout of food poisoning is just the thing to cure him of his silly fear.  He’ll realize how pleasant nausea and vomiting are and the problem will be solved.”  So she undercooks the chicken a bit and little Jimmy turns violently ill.  Killing these kinds of people falls under the category of justifiable homicide.
            I digress.  I’d like to end this piece by mentioning a discovery I made during my research:  I am fearful.  This isn’t to say that I have many phobias; rather, as I perused the lists of phobias on the Internet, I found many that struck close to home.  It is reasonable, in my opinion, to be scared of clowns, ventriloquist’s dummies, wax figures, stairs, dentists, dolls, crossing bridges, horses, and enclosed spaces.  That isn’t indicative of irrationality.  It’s perfectly normal.

           …Isn’t it?