Furthermore

Shall we begin?

I’m not an exposition guy.

I don’t like it when the first five minutes of a movie are taken up with words rolling across the screen or with a voice without a head explaining where we are and who the people on the screen are and what’s happened to them previously and what’s about to happen to them if you happen to go out into the lobby for a tub of popcorn and a vat of Coke.

Something like this:

“It is the year 1519. Ferdinand Magellan, a Portuguese explorer who had fallen out of favor with his native country, has offered his services to Spain. Five ships under his command have set sail on a daring mission — to travel around the world. It will be a voyage of controversy, for many in the world still believe that Earth is flat and that someone sailing far enough will fall over the edge into oblivion, or at least a suburb of oblivion. Yes, even in the 16th century, oblivion is a victim of urban sprawl. Furthermore, both Spain and Portugal have their doubts about Magellan and his quest. Spain forced him to use Spaniards on his crew instead of Portuguese, and King Manuel of Portugal ordered that Magellan’s ships be followed. But Magellan and his brave crew are determined to overcome the odds and prove conclusively that the world is round, even if Magellan doesn’t live long enough to complete the adventure.”

Instead of wasting time with that lengthy word crawl, this exposition silliness could be accomplished with just a few lines of dialogue:

Magellan: “Can you believe that it’s 1519 and people still think the world is flat?”

Crew member: “You’ll prove them wrong, Magellan, or I’m not a Spaniard. Hey, isn’t that a ship following us?”

Magellan: “Yeah, those guys were sent by King Manuel of Portugal. We’ll lose them.”

Crew member: “This ought to be fun.”

Magellan: “Absolutely. Right up until I die in the Battle of Mactan.”

See, that wasn’t so tough.

I feel the same way about music. I hate it when a musician feels compelled to give me a 12-minute explanation of the three-minute song he’s about to play. An hour later, the musician has played a grand total of four songs. I didn’t pay $100 for a concert ticket so that some singer-songwriter could tell me the story behind every song. If I had wanted to spend that much on a storyteller, I would have made a campaign contribution to a politician.

Bonebrain critics and fans are always complaining about how a musician “failed to interact” with the audience. Well, I’m not paying $100 for interaction. I’m paying $100 to hear as many tunes as you can jam into a show — the 20 circus clowns getting out of one car theory of entertainment.

Don’t give me this:

“Here’s a song that did pretty well on the charts a while back. A lot of people have asked over the years how I came up with this tune. It’s mostly based on the partly true story of my high school trigonometry teacher and the affair he almost had with my best friend’s cousin after she converted to Buddhism following an explosion at a pastry plant that permanently wedged meringue into her left toenails…”

And musicians, if you choose to heed my advice and not waste my time telling me the story behind a song, don’t spend the time instead explaining to me at full length why you aren’t relating the backstory:

“I believe that every song is a two-way communication between the sender — that would be me, the artist — and the receiver — you, the listener. Whatever thoughts and feelings I had when composing a song get transmitted to you, but then you filter those transmissions through your own experiences, producing thoughts and feelings that may be entirely different than anything I could have imagined. It’s as if I’m a painter and I spent weeks meticulously constructing a mountain and at the last moment threw off a few afterthought brushstrokes on a trickling creek, but then you saw that humble creek and it washed over you a flood of memories of childhood escapades…”

When I hear that, I feel as I’ve fallen over the edge of Earth into a suburb of oblivion.

Acknowledgments

Sometimes at work you walk past someone you care about even less than MTV2.

Because of your puddle-deep regard for this human being, you don’t say anything to him as you walk by. But then he takes the offensive and utters some insipid greeting.

If you go through the motions and say something equally innocuous in return, your boss will regard you as a “team player,” the company euphemism for “suck-up,” and note your winning personality in an evaluation that reads “sometimes exceeds expectations.”

But if you choose not to reply, your boss will think of you as “someone with an attitude,” the company euphemism for “someone with an attitude,” and will reflect that in a damning evaluation that reads “sometimes exceeds expectations.”

To develop a reputation around the office as neither a suck-up nor a sometimes exceeder, you need to learn the art of small talk, acknowledgments of your co-workers’ bland greetings that will over time teach them never to greet you again. Some examples:

“Hi.”

“Not according to my latest company drug test.”

“Hey.”

“Up $7 a ton from last month. Farmers must use a rotation crop between plantings of alfalfa, which rules out replanting this year. Resulting shortages will keep prices high. More of the farm report after this word from Treflan.”

“Hello.”

“I don’t think the boss would appreciate you calling our workplace a hellhole.”

“Howdy.”

“Howdy yourself, buckaroo. Why don’t we mosey on over to the chuck wagon, get us some grub and sweet-talk us some fillies before we get back to our hoolihanning?”

“How’s it going?”

“First, every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it. Second, the relationship between an object’s mass m, its acceleration a and the applied force F is F = ma. Third, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Sorry to get all Newtonian on you.”

“How’s it hanging?”

“Three columns of erectile tissue — two corpora cavernosa and one corpus spongiosum.”

“How are you doing?”

“In the words of the rock group Megadeth: so far, so good, so what.”

“How’s life treating you?”

“Electroshock therapy.”

“What’s new?”

“Kanye West just interrupted Serena Williams’ discussion with a linesperson. Right now there’s an intense search for the tennis ball.”

“What’s up?”

“My blood pressure and your time.”

“What’s shaking?”

“My head as I ponder the phenomenon of the bobblehead doll.”

“What’s the good word?”

“Apoplectic.”

“What do you know?”

“Not nearly enough.”

Give me a break

I love news. I hate “the news.”

“The news” is a television show that pretends to present news. But most of the time, it really doesn’t. News is information that educates me or entertains me or both, information that improves my life. But “the news” thinks that news is anything, and I mean anything, that is happening right now. But just because it’s new doesn’t make it news.

“The news” is always pushing the fact that it’s “live.” To emphasize that, the anchors on “the news” feel the need to have a conversation with every reporter covering every story. The anchors ask the reporters all sorts of questions about the story, and the reply is always the same: “I don’t know yet, but as soon as I’m done talking to you, I’m going to find out.”

“The news” loves to mention that every story is “breaking news.” One problem, though. It’s extremely difficult to coordinate with thieves, arsonists, gunmen and Mother Nature to get them to do their dastardly deeds during the newscast. As a result, often when “the news” goes “live” to the scene of a dastardly deed, the deed is done, the authorities are gone, the crowd of onlookers has gotten bored and gone home, and the only person left at the scene is the reporter trying to convince us that what we’re looking at remains “breaking news.” That’s why some brilliant television news consultant came up with the term “late breaking news” — it’s breaking news that the reporter was late getting to.

“The news” insists on calling its reporters, videographers and anchors a “news team.” If that’s the case, the “news team” ought to post next to its constant on-screen logo its wins and losses — a loss being every time the “news team” spent most of the newscast on a “breaking news” story that broke down into nothing.

“The news” doesn’t just do an interview. It does an “exclusive” interview. The “exclusive” label is supposed to make viewers think that “the news” is smarter than its competitors because “the news” found this newsmaker before anyone else and the newsmaker refuses to talk to anyone but “the news.” In the beginning, “the news” probably attempted to keep its interviews “exclusive” by having some producer hide the person who had just been interviewed in the basement of the producer’s home. This was OK when there were only a few “exclusive” interviews, but as the number kept rising, things got rather crowded and gamy in the producer’s basement and interview subjects threatened to leave and give rivals of “the news” an “exclusive” story about their ordeal. Again, this is where some bright TV news consultant stepped in and decided to change the definition of an “exclusive” interview. From now on, the consultant said, it’s an “exclusive” interview if while “the news” is talking to someone, no one else is interviewing the subject at the same time. This is why nowadays you see Donald Trump doing an “exclusive” interview with Channel 4 at 7:09 a.m. and then an “exclusive” interview with Channel 5 at 7:14 a.m.

“The news” emphasizes its live, late breaking and exclusive personality by consistently beginning a report by saying, “Channel 9 has just learned…” What “the news” always forgets to say is exactly how it learned about the item. Otherwise you would hear, “Channel 9 has just learned by reading the morning newspaper that…” or “Channel 9 has just learned by watching Channel 13’s newscast that…” or “Channel 9 has just learned by taking phone calls from dozens of people that its building is on fire.”

“The news” has a tough time admitting that it makes mistakes. When a newspaper commits an error, it publishes a mea culpa in a prominent place, and it labels the atonement a “correction.” But when “the news” screws up, it doesn’t make a “correction.” Instead, the anchor comes on the air and says, “We now have an update to a story that we reported on earlier in the newscast.”

And that’s “the news.” Now stay tuned for “Entertainment Tonight.”

From whom all blessings flow

“Welcome to Pregame Preview, a weekly look inside the National Football League. Like every other Sunday show, we analyze games and make predictions. But what makes our show unique is that our prognosticator is the best in the business at picking winners and losers because, as many athletes will tell you, he really does pick who wins and who loses. Bow your heads for the one and only God.”

“Thanks.”

“Before we look at today’s action, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, let’s see how you did last week. You were once again a perfect 16-0, including that forecast of a 0-0 tie between Arizona and San Francisco. How in the holy heck did you get that one right?”

“Well, to be fair, I was the only one to know in advance that a sudden downpour would hit the Bay Area right at game time, turning the field into a quagmire. Add that to the fact that none of the players attended Sunday morning services and it was a really easy call.”

“Way to go, Fountain of All Holiness. Now on to today’s games. Dallas at Washington.”

“This is fairly straightforward. There have been 248,637 prayers for Dallas to win the game, compared with 239,518 prayers for Washington. Cowboys by a touchdown.”

“Cleveland at Pittsburgh.”

“Cleveland has a slight edge in total prayers, but Pittsburgh has four sick kids in the hospital, while Cleveland has three. Steelers by a point.”

“Crown him with many crowns, football fans. Chicago at Minnesota.”

“Minnesota has the edge at quarterback, at running back, at receiver, at linebacker, on the offensive and defensive lines, and in the secondary. But the Vikings’ kicker used my name in vain a few days ago at practice, so expect his last-minute field goal attempt to drift wide right. Bears, just barely.”

“Oakland at Miami.”

“The Raiders have four players charged with felonies. The Dolphins also have four players accused of serious crimes. None of those players are on the inactive list today. I hope you folks in Miami are prepared for a gully washer and a really, really low-scoring game.”

“The prognosticators, like sheep, are all picking Baltimore to hammer Houston. How do you see this game, Good Shepherd?”

“Baltimore’s coach is always yelling at the media for questioning his strategy during games. He tells reporters: ‘You’ve never been in the NFL. You’ve never been a football coach. You’ve never called a play. How dare you criticize what I do.’ And yet when he goes to a movie and someone asks him afterward what he thought of the film and he says something negative about it, no one ever says to him: ‘You’ve never worked in the movies. You’ve never been an actor, a screenwriter or a director. How dare you criticize what they do.’ Houston in an upset.”

“Seattle at St. Louis.”

“I don’t like the idea that the Rams make it a little tougher for me to watch their games by playing them inside a domed stadium. Seahawks in a rout.”

“Carolina at Atlanta.”

“Not only do the Falcons play inside a domed stadium, they shoot off fireworks. They might as well have the game inside a cumulus cloud. Bet everything on the Panthers.”

“Your Almightyness, I didn’t know you condone gambling.”

“When it comes to betting against a team that shoots off fireworks inside a domed stadium, forgiveness is mine, saith me.”

Raw deal

I keep reading reports that the Internet is becoming overcrowded and that if nothing is done to relieve the situation, the information superhighway will soon turn into the information parking lot at the football stadium immediately after the game.

Since my blog is contributing to the situation, allow me to offer a suggestion to unclog things a bit.

Let’s remove any Web sites containing fake nude photos of celebrities who have legitimate nude photos on other Web sites. In order not to be repetitively redundant, let’s limit fake nude photographs to those famous people who would never think of posing naked, no matter how much money you throw at them.

Wait a minute. I’m trying to think of an example.

Then again, we could do it the other way around. We could get rid of all the Web sites with real nude celebrity photos and keep only the Web sites with fake nude pictures.

From an artistic standpoint, that might be more interesting. I wouldn’t want Photoshop to declare bankruptcy sometime in the near future because weirdos no longer had a place online to display their fake nude masterpieces. Without that social outlet, these pathetic loners would just go back to what they were doing before: hacking into Web sites. That is, unless someone invented a dating service called It’s Just Lunch — With a Fellow Hacker. Then again, someone who did that would have to promote the new service with a Web site, which would probably then get hacked.

And it would be a shame if we could no longer conduct the intellectual debate about which is the most visually creative work of art: the fake nude celebrity whose real face is perfectly aligned with someone else’s nakedness so that you can’t tell it’s a hoax, or the avant garde expression in which a famous face is looking in one direction and someone’s else disrobed anatomy is pointed in the opposite direction — the double fantasy that not only is your favorite celebrity naked, but that he or she is also a contortionist.

To be honest, that’s what make most fake nude photos more of a turn-on than most real nude photos. The odd angle of the head to the rest of the body allows you to think the famous person is in the throes of ecstasy — either that or the celebrity has just hit the sidewalk after having fallen from a 14th-story window. Now you get to add one of those saucy “CSI” television show gals to your daydream. It just gets better and better.

Plus, if you keep the Web sites with fake nude photos of celebrities and get rid of the Web sites with real nude photos of the same celebrities, you open things up for more Hollywood lawsuits by famous people trying to protect what little reputation they still possess. More celebrity lawsuits mean more celebrity gossip Web sites, all of which make life a little more worth living.

But we are trying to weed out the World Wide Web to make things less crowded, so let’s establish at least one guideline.

Internet gossipers must name names.

When you’re dishing dirt on celebrities, let’s have none of these made-up names like Smelly McBelly or Thuggie McDruggie. I’m trying to relax at the end of the day by reading about the sordid doings and undoings of the rich and famous, but you’re making me rattle my brain trying to guess who Lawdy McNaughty is supposed to be. Then you ruin my fun even further by showing me the three people Nutty McSlutty definitely isn’t, which happen to be the three people in the world I most want Itchy McBitchy to be.

Hey, if you’re that worried about getting sued, get off my Internet.

You’ve got to be kidding

The manufacturing economy has evolved into the service economy. Once you had a job making a cog vital to the machine that was American industry at its finest. Now your job is to make excuses for why your convenience store requires customers to pay in advance for gasoline.

In today’s economy, you are required to change careers at the drop of a stock market index so you can fit into the ever-changing business landscape. Your job is downsized because the company decides a computer can do it faster and cheaper. So you retrain yourself as a high-tech specialist. Then your computer job is outsourced to India. So you pack your bags and move to New Delhi. There you discover that India has been outsourced to China.

Maybe the secret to finding the career of the future isn’t anticipating a future trend and inventing a job based on what you think people will require 10 years from now. Perhaps what you need to do is to go retro, taking a moneymaking activity from your past and retooling it into a successful occupation that will sustain itself for years to come.

In other words, have you ever thought about a career as a babysitter?

I’m not talking about a person who watches somebody else’s kids for a few hours every Saturday night. I’m talking about a full-time babysitter — 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. More and more couples nowadays are working evening shifts or overnight shifts, so with a little work you should be able to put together a schedule in which you are babysitting around the clock.

To do this, you’ll have to undercut the teenage girls willing to sort of watch children between cell phone calls and bites of pizza for $7 an hour. In order to get a constant stream of clients, I suggest that you lowball these girls by charging parents $1 an hour.

Wait a minute, you’re saying. A measly $1 an hour? That’s only $24 a day. That’s only $8,760 a year. How in the holy heck can I afford anything making that paltry sum?

Hey, whine connoisseur, stop and think about this a moment. You’re going to be constantly babysitting. That means you’re going to be constantly living in someone else’s home.

That means you won’t have to pay mortgage or rent. You won’t have to pay for electricity. Or natural gas. Or water. Or trash.

You won’t have to pay for cable TV, not even HBO.

You won’t have to pay for food. Just eat whatever leftovers happen to not yet be penicillin in the parents’ refrigerator.

When your clothes get dirty, throw them into the parents’ washer and dryer.

And you won’t need a car. All you have to do is to persuade the parents you just worked for to drive you home. You don’t have to tell them that “home” is the home of the next people you’re babysitting for.

Without all those expenses, you should easily save $8,000 a year. How many of your friends with their ritzy careers put away that much money? Besides, you won’t have to retire. You’ll be able to babysit long after most of your bodily organs have been removed or replaced.

Granted, you’ll be a wanderer, a wayfarer, a vagabond — the stuff of a million poems. But you’ll be making a lot more money than any poet.

Granted, you won’t have any friends. But they would just get you in trouble by coming over to the house where you’re working and making out in the parents’ bedroom.

Granted you’ll be spending all your time with anklebiters, yardapes and crumbcrunchers. But think about the entrepreneurial example you’ll be setting for the youths of tomorrow as you sit there in your birthday suit watching “True Blood” on their parents’ TV as your clothes tumble in their parents’ dryer.

Free enterprise has never looked so proud.

My kind of town

My grocery store has a butcher, a bakery, a bank, a post office, a dry cleaner, a ticket window, a pharmacy, a hardware store, a photo shop, a card shop, a flower shop, a delicatessen, a pizzeria, a Chinese restaurant, a barbecue joint and a salad bar.

All it needs are enterprise zones and a department of rat control to be its own city.

In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if one day I learn that the City Council has voted to sell to my grocery store the rest of the town that the store doesn’t already occupy. The store manager would become the new mayor. The old mayor would become night manager in charge of floor waxing. One lawmaker would threaten to hold up the sale, citing the proximity of the children’s playground to a tall stack of canned vegetables. But he would end up voting yes when the trash disposal company he owns got a sweetheart deal on landfill space behind the toilet paper display.

For some time now, my grocery store has been expanding, taking over more and more land. It acquired the shopping center, a popular hangout for young people. It acquired the cemetery, a popular hangout for old people. It acquired the community college, forcing students to drop out of school and get jobs at the grocery store instead of getting their degrees, looking for work, then settling for jobs at the grocery store.

And the growth would get even fiercer once the grocery store acquired the city. The carwash would be transformed into the new produce department, where tomatoes and Toyotas would be spritzed regularly. The hockey arena would be turned into the new frozen food section, where every item would be guaranteed Zamboni fresh or your money back. And the ski slope would become a new storage area for shopping carts, with parking lots and insurance offices at the bottom of the hill.

But why does my grocery store expand so much, and so often?

I think it’s all because of bar code labels.

Those are the labels with the vertical lines found on every piece of merchandise in the store. When a bar code label is passed over a beam of light, it tells the checkout clerk how much the item costs.

You’ve undoubtedly noticed that when a clerk at the checkout counter scans the bar code label, she seldom passes the merchandise through just once. She usually runs it through the beam six or seven times before you hear a beep and see a price on the cash register. The veteran checkout folks have this great routine where they scan the grocery item a couple of times, stop, squint at the bar code, wipe it as if a piece of dirt or ice is getting in the way of the beam, then send the item through a few more times before the price is noted.

I had always thought this was because the bar code system was faulty. But now I suspect that the system works exactly the way the store wants it to. I think the store goes through this elaborate ruse in order to charge you six or seven times for each item you buy. Ever wonder why a box of corn flakes and a quart of milk cost you $21.49? Now you know.

But here’s the deal. Every time a piece of merchandise crosses the beam, the store’s inventory computer automatically orders a replacement item. So when a checkout clerk scans your corn flakes six times, she’s ordering six new boxes to replace the one box you’re buying.

No wonder the store keeps having to expand.

And once the grocery store owns the city, guess who gets to pay for the expansion? Taxpayers will receive their bills in the mail — no numbers, just a bar code. They will be advised to bring their tax bills to the nearest checkout counter as soon as possible.

But drive carefully. A stack of canned corn is blocking the junction of Interstate 45 and Aisle 3.

Orange you glad I suggested this?

Not only are rules meant to be broken, they were never meant to be assembled in the first place. For every rule there is an exception, and the exception proves the rule should never have been made. To show you how ridiculous rules are, look no further than the rulemakers themselves. Whether they’re running for student senate, city council, county legislature, the statehouse, Congress or the presidency, political candidates break rules so that they can be put in a position where they can make more rules. These people have the audacity to build rules that tell others how to live their lives, and the further audacity to build in loopholes so that they don’t have to follow the same rules themselves. To call a society free and law-abiding at the same time is an inherent contradiction.

Having said all that, I think it would be a good rule that for every orange cone on a road, someone must be within 50 feet of that cone actually working on that road.

When I say working, I don’t mean eating a ham sandwich or hosing off the road or carrying a sign that says “Slow.” I mean actually doing hard labor to make the road better than it was before somebody decided to lay down 20 miles of orange cones all over tarnation and slow traffic to an ant crawl on molasses.

Because this is what road construction has become: 20 miles of orange cones, reducing a multi-lane road to one lane, sometimes even half a lane, and reducing the speed of vehicles to such a point that if they were going any slower, they would be going in reverse. Which is all well and good if the end result is a wider, smoother, safer road. But there’s no way the road is going to be wider, smoother and safer if nobody is out there in the area protected by the orange cones doing something to the road.

Even if there’s somebody out there actually pretending to work on the road, do we need to shield him or her with 20 miles of orange cones? This makes as much sense as blocking off all the entrances to my neighborhood so that no one will walk into my bathroom while I’m painting it.

That’s why it’s a good idea to give every road construction worker his or her own orange cone. One worker, one cone. Two workers, two cones. Three workers, three cones. If somehow 50 people show up to do something constructive or destructive to a piece of highway, they get 50 cones. A limited number of cones can block off only a limited part of the road. No more six-lane interstates reduced to one lane. Only the part of the road being worked on at the time is cordoned off. Then when the road construction workers are done with that part of the road, they can move their cones to a new spot and work on that portion of the highway.

Every worker is responsible for his or her own orange cone. The worker brings it to the job each day, then takes it home after work. If the road worker forgets his or her cone, that person is just going to have to keep an extra-careful eye on traffic that day while jackhammering.

I realize that this plan has the potential to bring the U.S. economy to its knees. Only two manufacturing sectors are making humongous profits these days — the makers of orange cones and the makers of the GPS devices that guide you away from the areas with the orange cones. When Congress passes my orange cone law, we’re going to need some new way to use all the countless cones that no longer are needed in road construction.

My suggestion is to take all these zillions of orange cones and use them at political fundraisers. At these whirlwind events, candidates seeking public office and wealthy people seeking private access race around and collide with one another at high speed. A few orange cones reducing activity to a crawl might give the public a better look at what’s going on. And to decelerate things even more, let’s get the guy with the “Slow” sign to show up as well.

Conduct unbecoming

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t contemplate the question “What’s my purpose in life?”

Actually, that’s a truncated form of the question. What I really ask myself is: “If life is a race to see what happens first — me disappointing someone or that person disappointing me — what’s my purpose in life beyond selling that idea to the television networks as a game show? And how do I work in 26 stunning women wearing identical short skirts and carrying shiny briefcases?”

I’d like to think that everyone has a purpose in life. I’d like to think it goes even further than that — that each person is the best in the world at doing something.

That guy down the street is the best in the world at painting a house.

That woman you work with is the best in the world at staring darts at someone she dislikes.

That kid in Sweden is the best in the world at fanning out the food on his plate to make it appear to his parents that he really ate most of his green peas.

Obviously, the secret of life is to find out what you’re the best in the world at and to turn that into a profitable vocation. However, there are problems with that philosophy. For instance, let’s say you’re the best in the world at stealing cars and you happen to be in my parking lot.

Another problem with that philosophy is that often we fall in love with doing something that we’re not very good at. What if you absolutely adore music but you have no musical talent whatsoever? You can’t sing, you can’t play a guitar, you can’t play a piano, you can’t read music or write music, you can’t even come up with a song that Shakira can shake her ass at and sell a couple of million downloads of.

But you love music and you want desperately to be involved somehow in the profession of music. What in the holy heck do you do?

Simple. You become a musical conductor.

The only skills a conductor needs are to be able to wear spiffy clothes and to be able to wave his arms to and fro. When we’re watching a symphony at work, we’re led to believe that the conductor’s toing and froing has something to do with what the orchestra is performing, but how can that be?

If you’re playing a musical instrument, what are you more likely to be paying attention to — the sheet music right in front of you that tells you what notes you’re supposed to be playing or the guy in the tuxedo who looks as if he accidentally disturbed a beehive?

And imagine the distraction to the orchestra when the conductor chooses to use a baton instead of just flapping his hands. There’s enough pressure on a violinist to make every note sound assertive yet soothing without having to worry that any second now a stick is going to come flying right at her jugular vein.

Still don’t believe that musical conductors are worthless? Then think about this. When a celebrity appears with the symphony in a special guest role, what does the famous person usually do?

Does he play the harp? No.

Does he play the French horn? No.

Does he play the dopey triangle? OK, sometimes, but only because you can’t hear the stupid thing.

What does the celebrity with no musical talent whatsoever do?

He’s the guest conductor.

Vision of loveliness

Lots of people I know complain about going to the dentist, but I think going to the eye doctor is a lot worse.

When you see a dentist, your teeth get scraped and poked and polished and drilled. But you can sit back and pretend you’re not there.

But at the eye doctor, you’re heavily involved. You’re constantly answering questions, and you’re constantly having to make decisions. No pressure or anything — the only thing at stake is your ability to see.

“Which looks better: 1 … or 2?”

“Uh … 2.”

“2 … or 3?”

“Could I see them again?”

“Certainly. There’s 2 … and there’s 3.”

“They’re so close. … If I have to choose, I’ll say 2.”

And when you’re done answering all those questions, you take the prescription somewhere and get eyeglasses or contact lenses. And as you’re putting them over your eyes or into your eyes, you’re reviewing the eye exam in your mind and thinking to yourself, “You dummy, you should have said 3.”

Imagine what it would be like if a matchmaking service used the same procedure as an eye doctor:

“Which looks better: blonde … or brunette?”

“Uh … blonde.”

“Blonde … or redhead?”

“Could I see them again?”

“Certainly. There’s the blonde … and there’s the redhead.”

“It’s so hard to decide.”

“Blonde … or redhead?”

“If I have to choose, I’ll say the blonde.”

“All right. Tall … or short?”

“Tall.”

“Tall … or statuesque?”

“Tall again.”

“You’re doing great. Stacked … or proportional?”

“Please go through that again.”

“Stacked …”

“Hold it there a second.”

“Snap judgments are usually best. Otherwise, your libido will adjust.”

“I’ll go with stacked.”

“Most guys do. Real … or fake?”

“They look the same.”

“Just remember, if you choose fake and the relationship clicks, there will probably be more plastic surgery to come.”

“Real, then. No, wait. I want her to look good 20 years from now. Fake. Definitely fake.”

“Good. We’re almost done. Naughty … or nice?”

“Can’t I get both?”

“Sure. We can order you two: one for home and one for social gatherings.”

Nobel undertaking

Another year has come and gone without me winning a Nobel Prize.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. To win an award, not only do you have to do something brilliant, but somebody else who is almost as brilliant has to realize you’ve done something brilliant. How many times have you come up with a really clever idea at work only to see your boss shoot it down because he didn’t think it was all that hot? It just goes to show that it doesn’t matter how smart you are if your success depends on impressing bonebrains. See, that concept alone ought to win me a Nobel Prize. Unfortunately, they only give out the awards in six categories: medicine, physics, chemistry, economics, literature and peace. Just my luck there’s no Nobel Prize for workplace politics.

Even at that, I deserve a Nobel Prize.

Take medicine, for instance. Every year the Nobel folks hand out an award to someone who finds a link between something innocent and something awful. Write a 13,000-page report on how the chewing of gum is linked to male pattern baldness and you’ll make the front page of every newspaper in the world and you’re a cinch to pick up a Nobel. Hardly a day goes by that you don’t see researchers linking mosquitoes to global warming or Justin Verlander’s fastball to hiccups. Researchers do more linking than a sausage plant. And you see these stories and think that because of these fantastic discoveries, we’re about to see an end to global warming and hiccups. And we wait. And we wait. And we never ever see a follow-up story. Apparently, once these scientists find their precious link, they go on to something else. Well, by pointing this out, I deserve a Nobel Prize in medicine.

As for physics, the folks who win the Nobel Prize in that category merely have to invent a few words and put them together in an interesting way to bowl over the judges. The 2006 Nobel Prize in physics went to a couple of guys “for their discovery of the blackbody form and anisotropy of the cosmic microwave background radiation.” Huh? Look, I only took one physics class in my life, in college, and the only thing I remember from that course is that my professor came to class every day in sandals, even when the temperature outside was 10 below zero. That leads me to the conclusion that people bright in physics have no sensation in their feet. That discovery ought to win me a Nobel Prize. Those other guys can get some other anisotropy trophy.

Chemistry? Well, one year I got a chemistry set for Christmas and I recall combining two elements that created this sludge that ruined all my test tubes. Give me another chemistry set and a few weeks and I’m sure I can re-create that ooze and impress a Nobel Prize official or two.

Economics? Alfred Nobel, the dynamite guy, left a $9 million fund for his prizes when he died in 1896. More than a century later, the six prize winners get a total of nearly $9 million. Pointing out the curious bookkeeping that allows a endowment to continue when it ought to be depleted every year should make me a Nobel Prize winner.

Peace? By pointing out that a dynamite guy set up a fund with a seemingly inexhaustible amount of money, I should think that would get another dynamite guy to think about his financial situation. And the more time that Jimmie “J.J.” “Dy-No-Mite” Walker spends studying his money options, the less time he’ll spend annoying the rest of us. How’s that for peace? Yeah, I know, it pales in comparison to solving the Middle East situation, but first things first.

That leaves literature, which is right in my wheelhouse, so to speak. You’d think this blog, even this essay alone, would cinch it for me. We’ll see. I figure my main competition will be the person who came up with the phrase “in my wheelhouse,” the person who invented the phrase “so to speak” and Jimmie Walker explaining to the IRS where he got all his money.

Mr. Helpful

Dear Mr. Helpful: My husband forgot to pick up his paycheck at work last Friday, and now his company says that it’s too late for him to collect his money. He was never made aware of the workplace policy in this regard. Is there something that you, a tireless consumer advocate, can do for us? — T.S.

We, and by we I mean me because I can never get anyone to assist me for free, contacted your husband’s company and demanded an explanation. A spokesman for the company said he would love to discuss the case with us, but federal privacy laws prevented him from doing so. Respectful as always about the government and its regulations, we stopped asking questions immediately. We hope you’ve learned your lesson about knowledge of company policies, especially the policies you’re not supposed to know about.

Dear Mr. Helpful: A man came to our door the other day and offered to hook us up to satellite TV for only $9.95 a month. After getting our credit card number, he tried to install a box next to our television, but he said it didn’t work. He promised he would get another box and return to our house, but it’s been two weeks now and he hasn’t come back. — E.E.

We called the phone number you gave us several times and didn’t get a reply. This is a good sign, because it indicates the man is always busy. Apparently he’s so busy that he hasn’t found time yet to list himself in the phone book or the city records. With a work ethic like that, he will have a thriving business in no time flat that you can sue.

Dear Mr. Helpful: I ordered a pair of boots online, size 10. When I got them, I found out they were too small. When I contacted the company, I was told that in the factory overseas where the boots were manufactured, none of the child laborers could count as high as 10, so they made the boots a size 6. The company refuses to take the boots back because it says they’ve been worn already. I contend that getting only three toes inside boots in an effort to put them on doesn’t constitute wearing them. — W.C.

While looking for the Web site where you ordered the boots, we came across another Web site offering a handy guide on the dos and don’ts of online shopping. It costs $59.99, but you’ll probably save that much or more by following all of its tips. The guide is published by Urchin Sweatshop Press. It should address all of your concerns.

Dear Mr. Helpful: On a trip, I checked four bags carrying all of my worldly possessions at the airline counter. When I reached my destination, my bags weren’t there. In fact, they have never turned up. The airline offered $50 in compensation. I think I should get more. As a watchdog protecting the rights of aggrieved customers, would you please pursue my interests in a vigorous and relentless fashion? — K.D.

When we called the airline, it said that the problem had been resolved. When we called you to find out if this was indeed true, there was no answer for a long time. Then we heard what seemed to be a phone hitting the floor and a person with a gag in his mouth trying to call out for help. We told this person to let you know that we had called, but we haven’t heard from you since. We can only conclude that you’re pleased with the way we solved your problem.

Dear Mr. Helpful: Your newspaper ran an ad on how people can get rich quickly. I mailed in my life savings and got back a piece of paper suggesting that I place a newspaper ad offering to show people a get-rich-quick scheme if they send me a whole bunch of money. I think I’ve been had, so I’m asking for your aid. Let me know how this turns out. — J.K.

Because of conflict-of-interest issues, ethics rules and my desire to stay warm and fed, I can’t be of any assistance. Good luck on your own. Let me know how this turns out.

There goes the bride

In every survey, women say that the quality they find sexiest in a man is a sense of humor. They then go on to say that the funniest man in the world is David Beckham.

Maybe that explains why I’m not married and why I have never been married. Surprised about that? Join the club. Numerous people have told me they can’t understand why I’m not in wedded bliss, or wedded tranquillity, or wedded tolerance even.

Grandmas are always commenting to me about how I should be married. I can’t tell if they’re just concerned about me or if their last vestiges of libido are leaking out. There isn’t a Depend product for leaking libido, is there?

My nieces ask why I’m not married. Their moms — my sisters — explain to their daughters: “Most times, a man is only lucky enough to make one woman’s dream come true. But Uncle Bill is able to fulfill every woman’s fantasy — by staying far away from all of them.”

Guys are constantly telling me that I ought to be married. I always make it a point to reply: “I can’t begin to tell you how little it means to me that someone of a different gender than Jenny McCarthy is interested in my matrimonial status.”

The interest that guys have in my personal life has made me wonder at times whether I’d be better off being gay. Then I remember a couple of things. I always switch the channel when men’s diving is on television. And as depressed as I am now, it would be twice as bad being rejected by every member of BOTH sexes.

But the biggest surprise is when a woman from my past sees me several years later, asks me if I’m married, then seems shocked when I tell her no.

“I can’t for the life of me understand why someone hasn’t fallen heads over heels in love with you and asked you to spend the rest of your life with her,” she says to me.

“Well, let’s face it, you turned me down for dates every time I asked.”

“Oh, I totally understand why I never cared the least little bit for you. But someone else — that’s hard to figure out.”

But, to the woman’s credit, she is always remorseful about rejecting me, and she always suggests an alternative relationship. No, it’s not a romance with her sister or her best friend. Rather, she tells me that I ought to have a pet.

I know she’s trying to be helpful, but I can’t help but think that what she’s really saying is that the only loving relationship I can have is one with a creature that is unable to use a doorknob.

A woman once suggested that I get a pet rabbit. Yeah, that would be the perfect thing to help me forget my lack of sex — coming home at night to an animal that thinks about multiplying more often than a convention of math professors visiting a strip club.

Here’s the strangest thing about me and marriage. Every time in my life that I’ve had a close relationship with a woman, she has married the next man she’s met. The very next guy.

There are two explanations for this.

Explanation number one: Before a woman meets me, she has been mistreated by the men in her life, so much so that she thinks all men are scum. But then I come along and show her the kindness and respect she deserves, and she realizes that there actually are men out there, like me, who are worthy of her love. With her faith restored, she gives that love to the next man who comes along.

Explanation number two: After meeting me, a woman panics at the thought that she’s going to have to spend the rest of her life fending off doofuses like myself unless she gets married to the next man who walks through the door.

Right now, I’m leaning toward explanation number two.

Why Bubbles doesn’t have a prayer

There are so many things I don’t understand about saints.

Going to heaven doesn’t automatically make you a saint. The Catholic Church has to recognize you as a saint. This is one of those instances in which the pope acts from his so-called seat of infallibility. I wonder what kind of chair the seat of infallibility is. If I were the pope, I’d make it a recliner. The really plush kind. With cupholders and a pocket for the TV and stereo remote controls. And it would be extra long so your feet wouldn’t hang off the edge. Relaxing in a chair like that, I’m sure I’d make a lot of infallible decisions.

Before the Catholic Church canonizes you as a saint, several people have to report that they saw visions of you or that they asked for a miracle and it was granted.

First, the vision thing. What’s the difference between a ghost and a saint? Does a ghostly vision frighten you and then a saintly vision come along and calm you down? And how do you tell the two visions apart? Does the ghost glow all over and the saint only glow from around the head? And what about Casper the Friendly Ghost? Is he a saint often mistaken for a ghost, or is he a ghost who didn’t read the ghost instruction manual?

Now the miracle thing. What exactly constitutes a miracle? Does it have to be something extraordinary, like the Cubs winning the World Series? In that case, does the Cubs manager automatically become a saint even if he isn’t dead yet? Or is any activity in which a saint is invoked and success is achieved considered a miracle? If I yell out, “Fred, get me out of this traffic jam in the next five minutes,” and I get out of it in four minutes, can I write to the pope to canonize anybody on his list named Fred? And if more than one Fred has died recently, which Fred gets credit for interceding on my behalf? Furthermore, if I yell out, “Come on, dammit, stop raining,” and the rain suddenly stops, will the next Litany of the Saints sound like this: “St. Sylvester, pray for us. St. Gregory, pray for us. St. Dammit, pray for us”?

As I said before, just because you’re in heaven doesn’t automatically make you a saint. So while you’re in heaven waiting for the pope to recognize you as a saint, what are you called? If you don’t have any title at all, that would make for some awkward conversations:

“Hi, St. Benedict.”

“Hi … uh … Dave.”

Speaking of names, why isn’t there a St. Dave? Or a St. Mabel? Or a St. Larry? Or a St. Bubbles? Probably because people are embarrassed to ask for heavenly help from a Bubbles.

Do the saints and the saint wannabes stay in separate neighborhoods of heaven? That seems awfully discriminatory, so non-heaven. But you’d think that at the very least the saints would stay in ritzier quarters than the non-saints. You’d think that the saints would dine at the heavenly equivalents of The Ivy and Spago, while the non-saints would dine at the heavenly equivalents of Denny’s and Wendy’s. Otherwise, what’s the advantage of being a saint?

Saints are constantly being bombarded by pleas to make somebody’s grandma well or help somebody find his car keys or get somebody a date with the girl on Page 33 of Maxim. Meanwhile, the non-saints are in heaven, where everything is perfect, and nobody is bugging them at all. Comparatively speaking, the non-saints would seem to have the better deal. So I figure that the saints must have better perks to make up for all the prayers.

Besides, the saints have to live in a section of heaven closer to God, because when earthlings bug the saints to intercede for them, they need a short route to the Almighty’s office to make their pleas. That would suggest that saints live in a neighborhood with better trash pickup.

After all, cleanliness is next to godliness.

The facts of pro-life

I’d like to offer some help to those of you in the pro-life movement.

Having that never-say-die attitude must weigh on you. You try to shrug it off, saying that it’s just another cross to bear. And that must be tricky, bearing crosses and being pro-life at the same time.

A lot of the trouble stems from that label of yours. It must be hard to call yourself pro-life when the other side refuses to call itself anti-life. That has to throw a wet blanket on any debate wanting to quickly deteriorate into a name-calling contest.

What’s especially frustrating is that the anti side of the phraseology ledger far outweighs the pro side.

We have anti-aircraft weapons, but no pro-aircraft weapons. We have anti-virus software, but no pro-virus software. We have anti-venom, but no pro-venom. Which makes sense, since the creation and promotion of pro-venom would have to be the undertaking of a group of anti-life advocates, and there aren’t any.

Face it, even the most extreme pro-lifers out there have a hard time labeling their opponents anti-lifers. Saying that would make you sound pro-ignorance and pro-repugnance. Nobody in her right mind would say someone was anti-life. OK, Ann Coulter would say it, but that proves my point.

And it must be difficult to explain to people exactly what being pro-life means. It should mean that in any life-and-death situation, you’re foursquare in favor of life, but it’s much more complicated than that.

You’re pro-life, but many of you favor the death penalty. You despise people killing people so much that you want to kill the killers. You oppose giving them a sentence of life in prison. Yet you call yourself pro-life.

Many of you enjoy boxing. Yet there’s always a chance that a guy will get punched really, really hard and he’ll buy the farm. I bet it’s hard for you to explain being both pro-life and pro-farm.

It’s even harder than explaining how the purchase of agricultural acreage equates itself with dying. Aren’t farmers in the business of providing food so people don’t buy the farm? And if somebody on a farm buys the farm, doesn’t that make it less likely that someone else will want to purchase the farm?

As I said, it’s hard for you pro-lifers to defend your cause. So I want to help. All you need to do is give me your undying support for the following proposal:

Let’s reduce the speed limit to 10 miles per hour.

That’s right, 10 miles per hour. On every highway. On every avenue. On every boulevard. On every street. On every thoroughfare. There would be no road anywhere where you could drive faster than 10 miles per hour.

Why? Because you could almost guarantee that no one would die in a traffic accident. You don’t hear about many fatal crashes involving a Buick going 8 miles per hour colliding with a Ford going 6 miles per hour. Oh, perhaps the drivers would fatally beat each other up or shoot each other to death afterward, but technically that’s not considered a fatal crash. Yep, you could save thousands upon thousands of lives a year by instituting a speed limit of 10 miles per hour.

But wait a minute, I hear you pro-lifers saying. That would be crazy, even crazier than Ann Coulter, you say. Nobody could get anywhere in any sort of hurry driving only 10 miles per hour, you say. Life is wonderful, you say, but sometimes the pursuit of happiness requires us to compromise for the sake of convenience.

To which an abortion rights advocate would reply: I couldn’t agree more.

Gratitude in B flat

If you’re the kind of person who needs constant praise as motivation, you should think about being in country music.

No profession rewards its people more often than country music, not even the fast-food joint of 12 employees where every year Ned is the January employee of the month, Sue is the February employee of the month, Clete is the March employee of the month and so on.

Here are some of the awards shows you get to experience as a country music star:

The CMA Awards.

The CMT Music Awards.

The Academy of Country Music Awards.

The Canadian Country Music Awards.

The Country Music Awards of Australia.

The Inspirational Country Music Awards.

The Grammy Awards.

The American Music Awards.

The ASCAP Country Music Awards.

The BMI Country Awards.

The People’s Choice Awards.

The Billboard Music Awards.

For a while, I thought the hip-hop community was the closest-knit group in music. Nobody ever performs a rap song by himself or herself. It’s always Beyonce featuring Jay-Z, or Ice Cube featuring Snoop Dogg, or 50 Cent featuring Snoop Dogg, or Dr. Dre featuring Snoop Dogg. Fo shizzle, Snoop Dogg shows up on more rap recordings than the word “bitches.”

But nobody outdoes the lovefest of country music, especially when it comes time to hand out trophies.

Which leads me to ask this question: If country music artists are constantly going from awards show to awards show, where do they find the time to record new songs that can qualify for the following year’s award presentations?

Here’s the only way they can do it. Country music folks must take with them to every awards show a producer, engineers and backup musicians. These people wait for the artist’s name to be announced as the winner of an award — song of the year, album of the year, male vocalist of the year, female vocalist of the year, group of the year, most improved entertainer of the year. (Actually, it’s only the bowling industry that hands out trophies recognizing improvement. No other group believes so emphatically in incremental positive reinforcement.)

As the artists head up to the stage to get their award, the producer, engineers and backup musicians get ready. When the trophy is presented and the artists reach the microphone to give their acceptance speech, the engineers roll the tape, the musicians start playing and the award winners start singing.

Then a year later, at the next round of round-the-clock country music awards, the nominees for song of the year are:

“I’d Like to Thank My Gardener and My Wife for Both Leaving Me.”

“Darling, This Statue With No Face and No Gonads Sure Does Remind Me of You.”

“George Strait Deserves This More Than Me, But I Deserved Two Awards That He Got, So Tough Toenails, George.”

“If I’d Known There Was Gonna Be a Teleprompter, I Wouldn’t Have Had Eyelid Surgery This Morning.”

“I Sure Hope We Hold Next Year’s Show in a Place With Better Acoustics.”

You’re welcomegiving

To those of you who have taken the time out of your busy schedules to read my blog, I’d like to say: Thank you.

But then you would be tempted to reply: You’re welcome.

And I would be prompted to say in return: Welcome to what?

Am I welcome to come visit you, stay at your home, sleep on your guest bed and raid your refrigerator night and day?

Am I welcome to make goo-goo eyes at your sister if the spirit moves me, or better yet if my legs move me to sit next to her legs?

Am I welcome to borrow money from you if I need a loan because instead of making money from gainful employment I’m hanging out at your home and making goo-goo eyes at your sis?

Or are you saying that I’m welcome to thank you anytime I feel like it? Gee, that takes all the fun out of thanking somebody, knowing not only that you anticipate the thanks but also that you’ve given it a nonconditional seal of approval.

Perhaps you’re saying that you welcome more entries to this blog. I should be flattered, but maybe you’re also implying that you welcome a change in future essays. Maybe you’re saying: In 50 percent of the essays you were a humorist and in the other 50 percent you were just a writer. Could you adjust that ratio to 70-30 in the future?

And just because you say “You’re welcome” shouldn’t make me think it’s a positive comment. Tom Jones still gets welcomed on stage in Vegas by women throwing him their underwear. How do I know you’re not welcoming me by throwing me Depends?

What if you’re being cynical? What if you’re actually saying: You’re welcome to try writing a book, you author wannabe, but you’ll be thrilled if someone merely borrows it from the library and doesn’t return it until the day that it’s due back. You’ll be delighted if it shows up at bookstores not in the section “Best Sellers” or the section “Just Out” or the section “It’s Here If You Want It,” but in the pile of books in the corner labeled “Just Ate a Panini And Ran Out of Napkins? Dry Your Hands On These Pages.”

And if someone has worn out his welcome, then thanks you for something, what do you say then? You were welcome? You used to be welcome? You’re post-welcome?

Then again, you might have second thoughts and welcome that person back into your good graces. Then what do you say? You’re welcome again? You’re rewelcome? If you say “Welcome back,” you’re risking legal trouble from John Sebastian and Gabe Kaplan.

So if you can’t say, “You’re welcome,” what do you say when you hear “Thank you”?

Let’s not play that game where you reply, “No. Thank you,” and the thanker reiterates, “No. Thank you,” and you up the ante to “NO. Thank YOU,” and the next thing you know you’re rolling around on the floor with the other person’s noggin in a headlock.

Or you could reply, “Likewise,” which would cause me to probably remark, “Likewise, I’m sure,” which would force you to say, “Sounds awful cocky if you ask me,” which would compel me to reply, “Who’s asking you?” and fisticuffs would ensue.

Or you could answer, “No problem,” which would make me have to ask, “Should there have been a problem?” and honesty would have us clobbering each other in no time flat.

Despite all the advances in civilization we’ve undergone, I guess we’ve yet to find a good way to reply to “Thank you.” Although I think if you invited me to your home right now to meet your sister Charlize Theron, you would be taking a giant step forward in solving the problem.

Thanks.

Wrestling with a query

Just when you’re all written out upon the completion of your book, you have to write something else — a query letter.

A query letter is sent to publishers and agents to ask them if they want to read the next literary masterpiece. It’s considered gauche in literary circles to just send your unsolicited manuscript to someone, unless you’re a rude bugger like John Grisham or Stephenie Meyer.

A query letter is supposed to do several things. It summarizes the subject matter. It explains why your manuscript is a fresh and exciting angle on the subject. It presents your credentials as a writer. It tells the publisher or editor why you are uniquely qualified to write about that subject. It details why the publisher or editor is uniquely qualified to handle your work. It shows that you understand what others have previously written about your subject. It describes who your target audience is. It indicates how long your manuscript is.

Oh, one other thing: It’s supposed to be brief.

Describing your target audience is especially difficult. If you tell publishers and literary agents that your target audience is everyone, they will reply, “Too broad.” If you tell them your target audience is everyone who can read, they will reply, “Too narrow.”

When the rejection notices start piling up, you realize that you need help in composing the ideal query letter. You followed advice from books and Web sites, but to no avail. Then it occurs to you that none of these so-called experts was a big-time author and that you would be much better off getting the advice of someone whose book had made a best-seller list.

Scanning the list, you notice that quite a few best-selling authors happen to be professional wrestlers. A wrestler hardly fits the stereotype of a literary genius, so the secret to his success must have been his query letter. This is exactly the kind of person who can help you.

As luck would have it, a nearby store a few days later is holding a book signing for a professional wrestler. You decide to wait in line for him to autograph your book, and then, when you’re face to face with him, to ask for advice about writing a query letter.

The bookstore is crowded with people — well, to be more precise, wrestling fans. They are raucous and loud, yelling to their hero terms of endearment such as “Mangle!”

The wrestler soon appears, all 6 feet 10 inches and 375 pounds of him, and the place gets even nuttier. Amid all this boisterous behavior, you feel uncomfortable, but determined nevertheless, as you wait in line to get your book signed.

As you reach the front, the place is ear-shatteringly noisy, but as you give the wrestler your book to sign, you size up this sizable human being, summon up your courage and ask him your question:

“What did you write in your query letter?”

“I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

“Your query letter.”

“What was that again?”

“YOUR QUERY!!!”

You wake up three days later in a hospital room, things going in and out of you as if you’re a home entertainment system. When you finally reach the point where you can sustain consciousness for a while, the doctor explains that the wrestler, mistakenly thinking that you had questioned his sexual preference, lifted you with one hand wrapped around your neck, threw you through the table where he was signing books and elbow-dropped you 47 times.

On the bright side, several publishers and agents call your hospital room asking you about writing a book about your experience, no query letter necessary.

With apologies to Clement Moore

As I wandered up and down the aisles of the store, stopping every so often to admire an item, then sighing aloud and moving on, I had the growing sensation someone was watching me.

Great, I thought to myself. Instead of being joyful this Christmas season, I’m downright paranoid. I should probably leave before I drive myself nuts.

But the carols playing in the background couldn’t quite cover up the lively and quick steps that I heard sneaking behind me. So I spun around. And what to my wondering eyes should appear than a plump man in a red suit.

“Merry Christmas, my boy,” said the man with a wink in his eye.

“I’m afraid it’s not very merry,” I replied with another deep sigh.

“Oh dear,” said the man, his jolly expression replaced with concern as he stroked his beard white as snow. “I bet I know what the problem is. I’ve seen you moving aimlessly throughout the store, often looking at and holding merchandise, but never taking it with you to buy it. You must be down on your luck this holiday and unable to afford anything.”

“No, that’s not the case at all,” I told the rosy-cheeked fellow with a nose just as red. “I have money. I could buy anything in this store that I wanted.”

“So what’s the problem?” the man in the red suit asked, pulling the pipe from his teeth.

“My sister is in charge of organizing Christmas in our family,” I explained, momentarily distracted by the pipe smoke encircling the man’s head like a wreath. “Her schedule is so hectic that she insisted we give her our Christmas lists early this year.”

“How early?” asked the man, twisting his broad face ever so slightly.

“August.”

“My, that is early,” chuckled the chubby fellow, his belly shaking like a bowlful of jelly.

“She said she had to get the Christmas lists of all the family members organized and sent out on e-mail before school began and before football season started and before her fall campaign at work and before Halloween occupied her time and before Thanksgiving rolled around and before basketball season got under way.”

“So you turned in your Christmas list early,” said the man in the red suit, his droll little mouth drawn up like a bow. “That means you’re not rushing about like many of the people in the store scrambling to put together a last-minute list. I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is that my sister demanded a lengthy list of potential Christmas gifts,” I pointed out. “Every time I turned in a list, she told me it wasn’t long enough. I ended up putting on there everything that I could ever hope to want, and then some.”

“Then you should have an incredible Christmas,” said the man, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah, Christmas will be terrific. But until then, if I see something in this store that I want, I can’t have it.”

“Why not?” asked the man, laying his finger aside of his nose.

“Because it’s on my Christmas list. I’d love to buy some of this stuff right now, take it home and play with it immediately, but I might find myself on Christmas morning opening a package with the same thing in it. And what am I supposed to say to my family then? ‘Gee, I already have this. Give me the receipt and I’ll return it.’ You realize what kind of argument that’ll start?”

“I’m terribly sorry, my boy,” said the man in the red suit.

“That’s OK, Santa.”

“Oh, I’m not Santa. I’m the store detective. Now if you’re just going around touching stuff with no intentions of buying anything, get the hell out of my store.”

The curse of Christmas

Think about it. We haven’t had a new curse word added to the language in a long time.

Look up the “seven dirty words” in the dictionary and you’ll see that only one of them originated as late as the mid 20th century, and that word is an amalgamation of two words that had their start long before then.

Some people might say that’s a good thing. It’s comforting to know that curse words are so steeped in tradition.

Perhaps they’re right. But on the other hand, all this age is beginning to show. Let’s face it, curse words don’t have nearly the shock value they once had. Like most people who get up in age, they’ve lost a few miles off their fastball.

Curse words are gradually becoming more and more a part of the regular language. The mild ones are a staple of prime time television nowadays, and you can hear the extreme ones on network TV as well if you stay up late enough. Pretty soon they’ll be OK to say at 10 p.m., then 8 p.m., then 6 p.m. — it’s like watching the Waterford crystal ball dropping in Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

I mean, once upon a time it was every Catholic schoolboy’s shrouded dream to say such a word in front of a Catholic priest and watch the shock ensue. Judging from the news, however, it turns out that priests have done a lot more shocking of schoolboys than vice versa.

And some people have probably gotten bored with traditional curse words. We try to spice things up with new combinations. For instance, some people don’t just say “damn” and “hell,” but “damnittohell,” which is a nice way to complete the thought.

Plus, you have to admit that if you’re an atheist who disdains potty talk, respects mothers and lives by the standard that not only is it impolite to kiss and tell, but to tell about all the stuff after the first kiss, it’s mighty difficult to curse.

It sure would be nice to come up with a few new curse words for these people, as well as the people who still find it uncomfortable to use the current set of expletives. What are these people going to do when the time comes for them to slam their hand in a car door?

We need to create a new set of curse words.

And while we’re at it, we need to come up with a few new Christmas songs, too.

Like expletives, we haven’t had an original Christmas song come along in a long time.

With all the talented songwriters out there, you would think that someone would have written a new yuletide tune by now. Instead, if they ever sing a holiday song, they reach out for a classic: “Frosty the Snowman,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “Deck the Halls.”

They’ll even choose to sing a lesser-known song like “Good King Wenceslas” before deciding to write a new Christmas anthem.

Some people might say that’s a good thing. It’s comforting to know that Christmas songs are so steeped in tradition.

Perhaps they’re right. But it wouldn’t hurt to prod some of our most talented songwriters into coming up with a few new holiday tunes.

So here’s my idea to take care of both these problems.

Let’s use famous words from these old-time Christmas songs as a new set of curse words. Once they’re fully incorporated into the language, contemporary songwriters will be forced to write new holiday songs, because it isn’t nice to curse in a Christmas song.

And the next time you slam your hand in a car door, you won’t bore yourself with tired expletives. Instead you’ll roar: “Frosty! Rudolph! WENCESLAS!!!”

It’s gonna take a lotto love

In the lottery game of Powerball, five white balls are selected out of a drum containing 59 balls, and one red ball is selected out a separate drum containing 39 balls. To win the grand prize jackpot, you have to correctly guess all six numbers.

A math major would tell you there are 195,249,053 ways to lose.

And the math major would be wrong. Let me share with you the 195,249,054th way to lose at Powerball.

It involves a son having a discussion about the lottery with his parents in anticipation of the drawing, with the jackpot at $120 million. The discussion begins innocently enough with a friendly debate over strategy.

The parents choose the same six numbers each time, six numbers that correspond to the six birthdays in the family. Let’s say that the birthdays are January 17, February 22, April 14, June 28, September 5 and November 30. So the parents each time out pick the lottery numbers 5, 14, 17, 22 and 28, with 30 as the powerball.

The father, who dabbles as a quail hunter, likens this approach to pointing a shotgun at one spot and firing multiple times without moving the weapon. The father says this is the best way to bag a quail.

The son, on the other hand, allows the computer to pick the numbers, and thus selects different numbers each time he plays Powerball.

The son likens his approach to moving a shotgun all over the place while firing at quail. The son says the father’s approach depends on the quail, which has to fly into the path of a shot fired from a perfectly still hunter, while his approach depends on the hunter, who has to ascertain the flight path of the quail and suddenly curtail it.

The son says he’d rather depend on the hunter than the quail.

The father ends the debate with two words: Dick Cheney.

The debate has eaten up the time before the drawing of the Powerball numbers. All eyes and ears are on the television as the numbers begin to be announced.

“If me and your mom win the jackpot,” the father says, “we’re going to split the money with you kids.”

The first number is 28.

“That’s $20 million for each of you,” the father says.

The second number is 17.

“What do you plan to do if you win the jackpot?” the father asks the son.

The third number is 14.

“If I win the jackpot?” asks the son.

The fourth number is 22.

“Yeah, if you win the jackpot, what will you do with the $120 million?” the father asks.

The fifth number is 5.

The son finally answers: “I’ll pay your way to come visit me at Christmas at my palatial mansion in Hawaii.”

The Powerball number is 30.

You would think that without snow, Christmas isn’t Christmas, but the yuletide season flows through Hawaii like a warm breeze. The son, in Minnesota, can almost feel that warm breeze looking at the postcard sent to him from Hawaii by the rest of his family, who figured out that $120 million can be split five ways instead of six without the need of a math major.

Breaking the ice habit

When it comes to ice, everybody needs to cool it.

Go to a fast-food restaurant and order a drink and you get a cup overflowing with ice. Fast-food restaurants give out so much ice that when global warming destroys all the icebergs, we won’t be doomed after all, because the folks from McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Taco Bell can hurry to the poles, replenish the ice caps and still have plenty of ice left over to screw you over with your next drink.

Whenever the fast-food folks attempt to cram a modicum of liquid inside my ice-laden cup, I’m reminded of the game Plinko on the TV show “The Price Is Right.” The contestant stands at the top of the Plinko board and drops a chip inside a board full of pegs. As the chip falls toward the bottom of the board, it bounces off the pegs, which shoot the chip in all sorts of directions. Time stands still on the otherwise fast-paced “The Price Is Right” as the contestant watches the chip go left, right, even defy gravity and go up. It takes an eternity for the stupid chip to hit the bottom slot and show how much money the contestant has won.

The only thing that rivals Plinko as a game show time killer is the spinning of the wheel on “Wheel of Fortune.” In fact, my two great game show fantasies in life are:

To move the Plinko pegs just close enough so that the chip stops in the middle of the board and never hits the bottom.

To sneak in just before a taping of “Wheel of Fortune” and lubricate the wheel so that when Pat Sajak sends it spinning, it doesn’t stop until the half hour is over.

Obviously, the fast-food joints know that ice costs a heck of a lot less than the soft drink sharing space inside the cup. But considering the Plinkoesque time involved filling a cup full of ice with liquid, I wonder if the amount saved is worth it. Especially when you consider how much soft drink is lost because the liquid splashes on the ice and falls out of the cup.

It’s like pouring milk on a bowl of Frosted Flakes cereal in the morning. No matter how close to the bowl you get with the milk container and how delicately you attempt to pour, the milk hits the flakes and bounces away. Five percent of the milk ends up inside the cereal bowl dampening the flakes and 95 percent ends up on the kitchen table.

Maybe that’s why more and more fast-food establishments now hand the customer the cup and give that person the responsibility to fill it. The customer has a golden opportunity to give ice the cold shoulder and get the full value of soft drink.

But given this choice, almost every customer routinely heads to the soft drink dispenser and proceeds to fill the cup with ice. Customers love ice. And they don’t stop pushing the cup against the ice dispenser when it reaches the top. They let the ice overflow, as if they’re thinking to themselves: You know, some of this is bound to melt, so I’d better get extra.

But the extra ice just hits the floor and creates conditions so slippery that traffic reporters after the morning rush hour send their helicopters over to fast-food places. And nobody from the restaurant ever comes over to clean up the ice rink that’s formed on the floor. The only thing that melts the ice are the bowls of hot soup that fall off trays as people go into slides around the ice dispenser.

And yet after all this, customers still feel the need to fill their cups to the brim and beyond with ice before getting their drink. Which brings me to the ultimate point of this diatribe.

The soft drink is already cold. It’s been sitting in a refrigerated container for hours. Ice can’t help it along any more. That’s why when you finish the drink, all the ice is still there for you to chew on, to suck on, to do ice sculptures on, to choke on, to keep choking on because your would-be rescuers keep slipping on the ice that’s fallen all around you.

All of which is unnecessary. Because the soft drink is already cold.

Homework assignments

History: Memorize Chapter 12. Every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every page. We will test your ability to memorize by asking you to repeat parts of the chapter word for word in class. We could test your understanding of the material by merely asking you to read the chapter and then asking you to tell us what it said in your own words, but understanding isn’t what we’re after here. We want you to memorize, because the ability to memorize shows how smart you are. After all, the only creatures who memorize things constantly are parrots and actors, and we all know they’re tons smarter than people who have books in their offices that they constantly have to use to look up stuff.

Government: In order to learn about the executive branch, we want you to build a replica of the White House. Tell your mom that there are great supplies at the hobby store on McGee Street, which coincidentally is owned by a friend of the husband of the school board president. Tell your mom to go there and buy the best Styrofoam, the best cotton balls, the best toothpicks and the best paint. And, by all means, be sure to get the best glue — the stuff that gets you high the minute you open it up. If your mom tries to scrimp a bit, tell her that Joey’s mom is spending top dollar on his White House supplies and that if Joey’s project looks much better than your project, you’ll be embarrassed and your low self-esteem will stay with you your entire life. At that rate, if you’re not careful, you might someday even become a government teacher. And by all means, remind your mom that this is YOUR project, not hers, and that you’re the one supposedly learning here. But at the same time, bring up the low self-esteem issue again and then sit back and relax while you watch your mom go to town building the White House. Oh, in case you’re wondering how building the White House teaches you anything functional about government, well, rumor has it that George W. Bush once got his mom to build him a White House, and look where that got him.

Math: Instead of adding, subtracting, multiplying and dividing, skills you might need throughout your life, we’re going to have some fun. Your assignment is to dress up like Albert Einstein. This will require another visit to a hobby store — just a reminder, but that store on McGee Street is a good one to go to. Now, technically, Einstein was a physicist, not a mathematician, but we looked up a bunch of mathematicians on the Internet and they didn’t look nearly as goofy and didn’t require nearly as much stuff from the hobby store as Einstein. When you get up in front of class dressed as Albert, don’t waste your time trying to explain any of his famous equations. We’ll be much more entertained if your hair is unruly and you speak with a thick accent.

Geography: Each one of you will be assigned a different country. You then have to bring to class a food from that country. If you get France, you’ll probably want to bring french fries, even though “french” refers to the way the potatoes are cut and not the country of France. But since your fellow classmates all love french fries, you’ll get an A anyway. While we’re sampling all of this international cuisine, you might think we would get out a map and show you where the countries are located. But then our maps would get greasy, and the school district budget for maps is really tight because we’re still paying off the three superintendents we’ve fired in the past three years.

Math again: We’re feeling guilty about spending so much time having you dress up like Einstein and so little time learning about how to do real math. So we’ve added an assignment: Build a calculator. We’ve already told the hobby store on McGee Street to be expecting you. And tell your mom to quit whining about how much her fingers hurt.

Above all else

A politician says that the economy is a priority.

Business expansion is a big priority.

More jobs are a huge priority.

At the same time, jobs that pay well are a tremendous priority.

To that end, education must be a high priority.

Because children, our most valuable resource, are our highest priority.

Ending poverty, therefore, remains a major priority.

But reforming our welfare system continues to be a chief priority.

The politician says that’s because the preservation of family values is a significant priority.

And keeping families together is a vital priority.

In that regard, making sure parents don’t need to spend extra time away from home at their workplace in order to pay for the high cost of gasoline has become a key priority.

So crafting a sound energy strategy is a critical priority.

Looking for alternative sources of fuel is a crucial priority.

Building cars that are fuel efficient has to be a serious priority.

And while making this transition, guaranteeing that domestic automakers aren’t destroyed by foreign competition is an urgent priority.

The global energy situation, after all, is a pivotal component of foreign policy, a priority of the utmost concern.

The bottom line of foreign policy, however, is bringing peace and freedom to lands around the world, a priority uppermost in people’s minds.

Which is why punishing terrorism is a developing priority.

Preventing radicals from damaging democracies is a growing priority.

Protecting our interests abroad from the threat of destruction is a rising priority.

Promoting negotiations as a means of lasting change instead of the use of violence is an emerging priority.

Prosecuting those who influence by fear is an escalating priority.

Eliminating terror is not only an international priority, but also a domestic priority.

The safety of our people, the politician insists, is a leading priority.

Is there anything more important than securing our borders from the dangers of illegal outsiders?

Is there anything more important than watching our waterways and inspecting our ports?

Is there anything more important than guarding our skies from the possibility of attacks from our enemies?

No, nothing is more important. Except for perhaps security within our homes. Knowing that what we eat and drink is free from contamination. Knowing that the drugs we take aren’t the least bit harmful. Knowing that the merchandise we buy won’t injure us because of shoddy manufacturing and sloppy inspections.

For those reasons and more, a strong consumer watchdog agency within our government is an absolute priority.

And what about the air that we breathe? What about the lakes, rivers and oceans? What about the land around us? Without a clean environment, nothing else matters. That must be our first priority.

But we can’t regulate ourselves to the point where individual liberties are lost. Maintaining those liberties is our number one priority.

Which is why, the politician says, you must vote for me so I can fight for your rights. And right now raising millions of dollars to run a successful campaign is my top priority.

The ability of a politician to prioritize is second to none. A close second.

Something the other day