The Dangers of Mario Bros.

If you grew up with an 8-bit Nintendo console, then your childhood was tainted by a well-oiled propaganda machine promoting vices ranging from sodomy to the metric system. The Japanese, who were still angry about losing World War II to Godzilla, deployed Mario Bros. in 1983 as a weapon through which to bring about the downfall of the Western world. Originally, Mario Bros. was not supposed to have any abbreviations in its title since shortened words displease the emperor, but Nintendo could only translate part of the word “brothers” due to budget constraints and a desire to keep their propaganda hero away from the touchy subject of race relations. For the same reasons, the original 12-brother cast was scaled back to just two. The extra plumbers would have expanded the hero lineup well beyond the standard red and green. Each of the forgotten characters could be described by one of the following words: yellow, blue, pink, invisible, wheelchair-bound, morbidly obese, heavily irradiated, perpetually drunk, attracted to animals, and serving twenty-five to life. Here is a brief examination of a few of the characters and enemies that did make the cut for Mario Bros. and the dangers they pose to modern society.

Goomba

(Photo courtesy of http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/8/83/GoombaSMB.PNG)

Everyone over the age of sixteen knows that Goomba was the teen heartthrob of the 1980s. This is somewhat unnerving since Goombas are walking mushrooms with overgrown eyebrows. Nintendo basically taught a generation of children to procreate with fungus. Contrary to common belief, Goombas are not dumb. Most graduate from community colleges, and a few have even managed to earn master’s degrees in fields ranging from growing on rotten logs to slowly walking back and forth. In fact, the observant will notice that the word Goomba ends with the acronym “MBA.” Unfortunately, Goombas are more or less extinct thanks to Mario’s senseless multi-game murder spree.

Koopa Troopa

(Photo courtesy of http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/32/Koopa.PNG)

Koopa Troopa has always been a highly suspicious enemy because he just doesn’t seem that dangerous. I can say from personal experience that it is not very hard to jump on a turtle. Furthermore, I was disappointed to find that instead of shooting off in the distance as a deadly projectile, the shell pretty much stays where it is after making a few crunching noises. Koopa Troopa is actually an attempt by Nintendo to train the American soldiers of tomorrow to jump on reptiles, thereby making them vulnerable to the famous Japanese turtle-shaped landmine. Nintendo is also promoting its leftist agenda with this enemy since Koopa Troopa is a slang term for the masculine partner in a lesbian relationship.

Shy Guy

(Photo courtesy of http://www.mariomonsters.com/shyguy/smb2shy.jpg)

Through Shy Guy, Nintendo taught a generation of youngsters that the best way to treat social anxiety disorder is by jumping on it with an overweight Italian plumber. Maybe Shy Guy would fit in and make some friends if he stopped dressing like a serial killer. In fact, Shy Guy’s original name was “Midget Jason.” Unless he was formerly an NHL superstar, Shy Guy should have realized that wearing a hockey mask is not the best way to cover embarrassing acne. In the Mario Bros. series, Shy Guy’s main weapons include listening to emo and writing angst-filled entries on LiveJournal.

Mario

(Photo courtesy of http://colaspot.com/images/th_Mario8bit.jpg)

Any self-respecting American should be wary of Mario for two reasons. First, Mario is supposed to be an Italian plumber, yet Italy doesn’t have indoor plumbing. Second, Mario is allegedly an Italian created by a Japanese game company, yet Italy and Japan don’t even exist on the same planet. If Mario came walking down my street, I’d lock my door based on those two factors alone, but there are many more questions that have never been answered.

For instance, if Mario is supposed to be a plumber, why is he wearing overalls, the one lower body covering that makes plumber’s crack absolutely impossible? Furthermore, if he can jump fifteen feet in the air, why doesn’t he play basketball? One can only conclude that Mario had the worst high school guidance counselor on the planet – if he graduated from high school at all. There is no reason to believe that Mario has any formal education since he never demonstrates the ability to read write. In other words, Nintendo sent American children a hero who gave up a lucrative NBA deal to pursue a career as an illiterate plumber in a country without running water. The Japanese haven’t been this direct with an attempt to destroy America since they sank the Titanic.

These are just a few of the videogames that are bringing about the ruin of Western civilization. Check back tomorrow to learn the dangers posed by pinball and Chinese checkers.

Winning Arguments

Arguments have always been a difficult undertaking for me because I have the noticeable handicap of always being right. This might seem farfetched, but my permanent correctness has been confirmed by personal experience and sixteen clinical trials. The challenge lies not in being right but in convincing others of my opinionated perfection. Everyone who has ever had an argument knows all that matters is winning, regardless of how many times you have to raise your voice or file for divorce in the process. There are several levels of disagreement: 1) scholarly debate 2) passionate disagreement 3) shouting match 4) war 5) internet political forums. Here is a brief guide to winning at all these levels swiftly and with only a moderate amount of bloodshed.

If someone doesn’t agree with you, it’s probably because they can’t hear you. Repeat yourself as often as possible. If the other person didn’t agree with your position the first time, try saying the same exact thing sixteen or seventeen more times. Volume may also be a problem, so feel free to introduce a bullhorn into the conversation for effect. Several scholarly journals indicate that loudness and rightness are directly proportional. On the internet, this can be indicated typing in all caps or by screaming really, really loudly at your monitor.

One of the biggest mistakes novice debaters make is relying on the facts, which can only inhibit the creativity of your argument. Sketchy circumstantial evidence is the only valid source for debate purposes. For example, Rod Blagojevich is the governor of Illinois, and there was recently an earthquake in Indonesia. Therefore, Blagojevich causes earthquakes. Since all leaders are responsible for disasters that occur during their lifetimes, the same can be said for George Bush causing hurricanes, Jews causing September 11, and Strom Thurmond causing the dinosaurs to go extinct.

The dinosaurs went extinct because Strom Thurmond doesn’t care about prehistoric reptiles. Thanks for nothing, FEMA. (Photo courtesy of http://www.puzzlehouse.com/images/webpage/dinosaurs2.jpg)

Remember to randomly insert credible sources into your argument even though you have never seen any such sources and can barely even read. Thanks to the New York Times you know that the threat posed by illegal immigrants from Mexico pales in comparison to the threat posed by illegal immigrants from the Land of the Mole People. You also know how to fix inflation thanks to an article you read in Big Gay Men Monthly. No one will double-check you on that particular source.

Arm motions are also critical to making your point. Flail your limbs like you’re a jujitsu master with Parkinson’s Disease. If your opponent doesn’t understand how burning down Canada would help the environment, wave your arms a little harder and everything will be clear.

When all else fails, accuse the other person of throwing a fit. This argument is absolutely foolproof because in order to deny it, the other person will in fact be forced to throw a fit. This works for everything from arguing with a friend about who's going to leave a tip for the mafia enforcer to arguing a case before the Supreme Court: “Your honor, I’ll be happy to answer your question as soon as Justice Ginsburg stops throwing a fit.” That’s how Brown defeated the Board of Education of Topeka.

Even the brightest legal minds in the country are prone to childish outbursts of anger and accidentally wearing the same outfit on picture day. (Photo courtesy of http://www.bsos.umd.edu/gvpt/lawonline/US_Supreme_Court_2000.jpg)

Using these tips, the only way you’ll lose an argument is if you bet against yourself and throw the fight. Winning debates over topics that have no relevance to your life is always possible as long as you’re willing to burn your bridges along with anyone who happens to be standing on them. Just remember to accuse the judge of throwing a fit when you’re charged with arson.

The True Meaning of Memorial Day

Memorial Day is an occasion to honor those who were far less effective than ourselves at staying alive. I say “ourselves” because I assume most of my readers are among the living, mainly because this website is not certified to accommodate the undead for insurance purposes. Of all the major holidays, Memorial Day is by far the least commercialized, which is a shame because the best way to honor our veterans is by celebrating the rampant capitalism they fought to preserve. Too many Americans forget to use this weekend of remembrance to honor the material possessions that have been carelessly tossed aside in the name of consumerism. This Memorial Day, here are the material goods that I will be honoring:

The Saab

Of all the cars ever to serve in my family's fleet, the Saab was by far the greatest. It had more buttons then the space shuttle and exploded half as often. Even the European factory that built the car was unsure of what all the buttons did. By the end of the Saab’s lifespan, I was able to operate the air conditioner with some degree of consistency, but I never did find the button to make the car do my taxes. It’s just as well because it would have filled them out in German.

I couldn’t find a picture of the Saab, but this car looks kind of like it insofar as it's green and has at least four wheels. The only difference is that this car is environmentally friendly whereas the Saab was powered mostly by coal. (Photo courtesy of http://www.journalism.sfsu.edu/flux/specials/smartcar2.jpg)

In terms of speed and power, I switched to the Saab after driving a three-cylinder Geo Metro convertible. That’s like switching from a horse and buggy to a cruise missile. The Saab was originally a $35,000 car, but we got it for a tenth of that because it was ten years old and because its previous owner kept mumbling something about an Indian curse. That claim was obviously baseless, but the car did try to kill me with a tomahawk on three occasions and sometimes drove itself to casinos. Unfortunately, the Saab was not long for this world. Citing creative difference, the car committed suicide by breaking down in a fashion that would have cost more to repair than we originally paid to buy the vehicle. In honor of its faithful service, the Saab was buried in Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors.

Small Furry Animals

If you can own it, it’s a material good, which is why both animals and small children qualify for the list of former possessions that I will honor this Memorial Day. For rodents, being owned by my family is the equivalent of being drafted for the Vietnam War. Rather than going into a long and detailed account of what happened to all of the gerbils, hamsters, and guinea pigs ever to enter our possession, suffice it to say that all but the current hamster have met a violent end or disappeared altogether under less-than-mysterious circumstances. Enough small pets were forcibly evicted from captivity by my parents that Illinois now has a reproducing population of wild gerbils thanks to my family.

Pet store employees determine the sex of gerbils by looking for clues like sudden mood swings and a general inability to drive. (Photo courtesy of http://home.studenten.net/~petermaas/gerbils/images/wildkleurgerbil.jpg)

For anyone considering rodent ownership, please take the following hard-earned lessons into account: 1) Contrary to common belief, guinea pigs cannot withstand temperatures that would cause even a moist sponge to burst into flames. 2) Gerbils do not enjoy being kicked across rooms, no matter how un-sharp the opposing wall might appear. 3) Hamsters will store anything in their cheeks, including lit firecrackers. 4) A gerbil that suddenly gets fat is either preparing to die or getting ready to give birth. No matter what the guy at the pet store says, any combination of two gerbils will always be a male and a female, and they will always reproduce unless you use nature’s birth control, also known as a snake.

The Big Blue Van

I thought I’d be able think of more non-car items to include on this list, but I have the bad habit of overestimating my own abilities. The big blue van seated ten comfortably and averaged about five miles a gallon in city driving. It required a small oil refinery to make it down the driveway, but any such expenses were offset by the van’s bucket seats. When van was finally decommissioned years after we sold it, the entire vehicle was melted down save for the seats, which were used as imperial thrones by the emperor of Austria. The van also had as much internal space as a standard 747. We once lost Harry in there for a week. The only thing the van didn’t have was a bathroom, and the cup holders filled that role well enough to keep it from being a real drawback. When the time finally came to sell the beast, we gave it to a nice family who rented it out as a mansion for hobos.

The Metro

This car was so great that I published a poem about it in the SRC literary magazine, most of which I will now plagiarize in paragraph form. With the horse power of a riding lawn mower, the 1992 Geo Metro convertible was the handicap midget of the car kingdom. The three-cylinder version I owned was a rarity; most came with four for the purpose of symmetry, but in this model they took one out for the driver who could not handle speeds over fifty miles an hour. Sure, it could go faster, but when it exceeded sixty the whole frame started to shake. It was technically a sports car.

This is an actual picture of the Metro before it received its final coat of paint. (Photo courtesy of http://www.earthparade.org/SDEW_Photos/Kid_Photos/CardboardCar.jpg)

To make things better, it had a manual transmission. It hit fourth gear around thirty miles an hour, and accelerating in fifth was an exercise in patience. There was never a time when I didn’t have the gas pedal floored, and yet I never sped. It just wasn’t possible. The irony is that my parents bought the metro for me so I would be safe. They thought that slow speed equaled safe travel. In reality, the car weighed half as much as a normal vehicle and was practically made of cardboard. If I hit anything larger than a squirrel, I was guaranteed to die. I loved that car. We eventually sold the thing, but I’m told that the Metro is still out there somewhere, threatening the lives of its passengers at velocities well below the speed limit.

People across America are spending Memorial Day visiting family members and honoring veterans when what they should be doing is worshipping the consumerism that made us the great nation we are today. I’ve done my part. How about you?

Pimp My Cubicle

A cubicle is to a white collar worker as a bridge is to a troll. My friend, Jeff, is facing a dilemma about how to decorate his four-walled workspace at his summer job. As the new guy in the office, he’s approximately as well-liked as small pox on an Indian reservation. It’s imperative that he win the hearts and minds of his coworkers through a tricked-out cubicle so that his deadly contagiousness can go unnoticed. To help him and anyone else facing the same dilemma, here are a few guidelines to successfully pimping-out a cubicle.

Stuffed Animals

There are exactly two reasons to have a teddy bear in your cubicle: because you are a woman, or because you have no interest in women. Every workplace is supposed to have a gay guy. If your office doesn’t, then it’s you. A stuffed bear will only command the heterosexual respect of your coworkers if you show them the gun you used to shoot it. Explain to your officemates how you’re not technically supposed to hunt with a 105mm howitzer, but you know a guy in the parks department who was cool with it. Teddy bears in the cubicle are all right if you want to seem harmless to the ladies, but it takes an eight-foot-tall stuffed grizzly to convince them of your manly awesomeness. Consequently, this 4,000-pound conversation piece won’t leave much space inside your cubicle for you and your office chair, so you might as well give up on sitting at your desk and being productive. If your boss asks you why you haven’t done any work in two months, just point to the bear you killed with a howitzer and all will be forgiven.

Howitzers are not the most practical weapon for bear hunting. That honor goes to napalm, with charter buses coming in a close second. (Photo courtesy of http://www.bearpaw.ab.ca/images/largebear_2000/bear10_2000.jpg)

Action Figures

One common misconception about action figures is that they are the male equivalent of teddy bears. In reality, if you have ninja turtles on your desk, you are either a twelve-year-old or a predator of twelve-year-olds. The one exception is action figures who imitate historical figures. A batman figurine is bad, but a Margaret Thatcher figurine is the fast track to a promotion. Other suitable likenesses for action figures include known terrorists and anyone ever featured in a TV commercial. Make your Osama Bin Laden action figure fight Jared from Subway. If possible, pressure your coworkers into placing bets on the fight. Determine the winner by seeing which one can last longer in the office microwave.

Potted Plants

Like you, your office plant will spend its days withering away under artificial light. A dying fern isn’t going to impress anyone, so I recommend planting sweet corn, the benefits of which are too numerous to name. Since individual pots aren’t going to yield much at harvest time, cover the floor of your cubicle with sod and plow it like a field. When your crop reaches maturity, you’ll be hidden by a wall of corn. This will enable you to freely take naps or smoke the marijuana you planted in the corner. As a bonus, your coworkers will suddenly want to be your friend at harvest time. You can change that by hurling ears of corn at everyone who walks by your four-walled field.

Only the smell of pot distinguishes this cubicle from a standard farm field. (Photo courtesy of http://www.austingurl.com/images/corn.jpg)

Family Photos

Since nobody at work likes you, you choose to plaster your cubicle walls with pictures of the people who are forced to love you by default. This approach is only impressive if the pictures are of families other than your own. No one will question your methods, especially if you are still hiding behind a wall of corn.

Live Raccoon

This is the crown jewel of cubicle décor. Take a personal day to capture a live raccoon using only your natural charm and a butterfly net. This feat will demonstrate to your coworkers that you have incredible dexterity and way too much free time. Once you’ve got the animal, put it in a cardboard box and seal it in with masking tape. This may spur questions like “Why does your cubicle stink?” and “Is there a live raccoon in that box?” Plead ignorance. If anyone asks, you don’t even have a box. Inevitably, raccoons seem to escape their cardboard prisons. When it gets out, scream that you’ve been robbed and start making accusations against your coworkers as they succumb to raccoon bites. During any follow-up police investigations, insist that all the damage was caused by a rogue graphing calculator. It’s the perfect crime.

Mother Nature herself could not have created a more perfect habitat for wild animals and random crap you bought on EBay. (Photo courtesy of http://www.fivestarpack.com/images/white%20box.jpg)

These are just a few guidelines to successfully decorating your cubicle. Your four-walled workspace is your only means to self-expression during the soul-crushing experience that is your career. Use it wisely.

Beards in the Workplace

Like most nights, I spent the better part of this evening discussing my stock portfolio with several attorneys and a fat guy who we bring along for diversity purposes. As we prepared to part ways, one of my good lawyer friends – the one with the overbite who looks like he has rabies – mentioned beards, the greatest controversy in the workplace since Congress mandated that daily coffee breaks be replaced with pro-Nazi rallies. There was a time when bountiful facial hair was about as acceptable as replacing the office stapler with a nail gun, but today lots of professionals grow full beards, like the Amish and certain breeds of goats. Those who embark on the difficult journey to bearded glory should be aware that there are still risks involved. Equal opportunity laws prevent businesses from judging employees based on race, age, or gender, but facial hair discrimination is both legal and fun. Also, bearded employees are often poached for their luxurious manes. To minimize these risks, read the employee handbook carefully and stay away from coworkers with high-powered rifles.

Nail guns are an impractical substitute for the standard stapler but an excellent aid for solving problems in the human resources department. (Photo courtesy of http://www.argos.co.uk/wcsstore/argos/images/7017058A61IFN127859M.JPG)

The key to growing a beard is announcing your intentions to the world. Any sissy can skip shaving for a week or two, but it takes a man to swear before God and country that he will have a beard three cubits in length and two bushels in volume by next Thursday. Such an announcement should be accompanied by a gentlemanly wager in which the winner gets free beer and the loser gets encased in carbonite.

Producing enough hair to fill two bushel baskets is a feat seldom achieved by man or sheep. (Photo courtesy of http://bardenhomes.com/media/history/bushelbasket.jpg)

Avoiding the razor is actually more complex than it seems. Any non-shaver will go through several stages before reaching the prestigious rank of bearded manliness. In the first stage, your facial stubble makes you appear dirty and possibly cancerous. You don’t look like you’re trying to grow a beard, but you don’t look like you’re trying to shower either. Avoid contact with other human beings during this stage or wear an artificial facial hair aid, which is commonly referred to as a face toupee or training beard. Wearing a face toupee is like taking steroids in baseball, which means there are absolutely no consequences and everybody does it. These artificial aids will give you an Abraham Lincoln-caliber beard until your real facial hair crosses the one cubit mark.

In stage two, your real beard-in-training becomes dangerous. Be careful putting on soft clothing because your stubble now functions exactly like Velcro. This is a good time to start home improvement projects because you can use your face to sand down even the roughest pieces of wood. Prevent others from touching your face since your stubble would cut them and probably give them tetanus.

In stage three, your facial hair consumes everything above your shoulders. This jump from deadly stubble to facial hair forest is sudden and is often accompanied by a loud popping sound. Eating becomes difficult at this point since it is often impossible to locate your mouth beneath the tangled mass that is your beard. Even if a few morsels of food make it to your esophagus, they will be accompanied by handful upon handful of human hair. My college roommate for the last two years is one of the few people I’ve ever met who has been able to reach this point. He looks like the wolf man, only hairier and less personable. He generally decides to shave when he starts coughing up hairballs the size of his fist.

This is an actual picture of a roommate shortly after he shaved. (Photo courtesy of http://thegalleryofmonstertoys.com/60swing/donpostwolfman.jpg)

After school specials concerning facial hair and the creation of several competitive beard-growing leagues have both made beards more acceptable in the working world, but there is much room for improvement. Bearded men are still forced to move to the back of the bus, and bearded women are still embraced by only the loneliest of men. Unlike third-stage beard growth, changes in societal attitudes concerning facial hair do not happen in an instant. With a little understanding, however, we can all work together towards a hairier tomorrow.

Public Relations

One of the ongoing news stories I’ve been responsible for covering lately is a dispute between a major insurance company and a hospital chain. After reading the press releases from both sides, I have decided that I could do much better at spinning the facts to mean the exact opposite of the truth through the complex process known as public relations. Here are a few press releases I would have written if I had been in the right public relations department at a few critical and possibly fictional moments in history.

March 23, 1989:

Exxon is proud to announce a new program to distribute free oil from the Exxon Valdez to low-income wildlife creatures in and around Prince William Sound. Oil offers numerous benefits to disadvantaged animals in the region. White seals normally stand out like search lights on moonless nights, making them vulnerable to predators and batman; now, a black coat of oil provides these aquatic mammals with the perfect camouflage for even the darkest conditions. Predators will benefit as well. If a killer whale does manage to consume one of these oil-enhanced seals, the predator’s innards will be lined with a layer of the finest crude oil, enabling its organs to run more efficiently and with less friction. In fact, crude oil in the intestines of a whale functions exactly like motor oil in the engine of a car.

The Exxon Valdez embarks on its charity mission to Prince William Sound. Without Exxon’s help, beavers and ducks never could have afforded the luxury of therapeutic oil baths. (Photo courtesy http://www.valdezlink.com/evos/media-rdn/exxon_valdez_crop.jpg)

Additionally, an insulating layer of oil now prevents geese and other aquatic fowl from flying, thereby protecting those animals from dangers in the skies such as low-flying jets and surface-to-air missiles. The oil benefits mankind as well. Any hunter wishing to procure a goose needs only to apply a match to his oil-laden quarry; the animal will then cook itself quickly and thoroughly in a brilliant but environmentally-friendly fireball. Since wildlife poverty is an ongoing problem, Exxon has decided to make this oil available to animals in the waters of Prince William Sound for the next several decades, thereby creating a better world for the wildlife of tomorrow.

Sincerely,

Exxon Public Relations Department

The Exxon Valdez oil spill gave ducks a chance to show off their previously unknown role as nature’s sponges. (Photo courtesy of http://www.godrej.com/gstory/change/2004/novdec/photos/Exxon1.jpg)

For immediate public release:

Earlier today a misunderstanding arose concerning Sen. Harrison Carter during an FBI sting operation. Contrary to media reports, the senator was not accepting a bribe; he was providing orphaned money with a home. Over his career, Carter has successfully raised many such briefcases full of hundred dollar bills from their disadvantaged origins as dirty green paper to their final maturity as fancy yachts and sports cars. As the media has already reported, Sen. Carter did not intend to raise this particular briefcase of money on his own. Instead, he hoped to place it in the care of Iranian officials so that they might help the disadvantaged money recognize its true potential in the form of heavily enriched uranium. The senator thanks the FBI for being concerned with the welfare of the money but insists that any further investigation be dropped since the senator is a humble man who does not wish the merits of his good deed to be further rewarded by attracting the attention of the voting public.

Sincerely,

Campaign Manager for Sen. Harrison Carter

Orphaned money comes from all denominations, but bigots are quick to point out that it most commonly originates in families of small, unmarked bills. (Photo courtesy of http://sweetchillisauce.com/ntales/nPhotos/money2.jpg)

To whom it may concern:

Recently, Cleaning Solutions, Inc., failed to properly list all of the features available in our latest line of detergents. After using our critically-acclaimed Super Suds Stain Remover, several customers reported side effects ranging from slightly faded clothing to instant death. Some media outlets have reported that Cleaning Solutions, Inc., accidentally added weapons-grade plutonium to the detergent; this is incorrect. Rather than entering the detergent in an unnoticed accident, the plutonium was added to the cleaning product deliberately through random, unplanned events of which we were not aware before the product shipped. It was our error to not list the plutonium as an active ingredient in Super Suds Stain Remover, but the radioactive element was added with the good of the customer in mind. To better serve our discerning patrons, Cleaning Solutions, Inc., enabled this particular detergent to emit lethal levels of radiation to destroy stains at their source, like chemotherapy for your clothing. Unfortunately, the source of many of theses stains are human beings, whom the detergent then attacks and destroys as though they are malicious cancer cells. The problem, then, is dirty people, not a dangerous product.

Sincerely,

Spokesman for Cleaning Solutions, Inc.

Man harnessed the power of fire so that he might survive the cold. Man mastered the atom so that he might have a clean shirt for casual Friday. (Photo courtesy of http://www.corrosioncost.com/government/nuclear/nuclear2.gif)

Based on the excellence of the above press releases, I would be a natural success in the field of public relations. Unfortunately, I quit an internship at the Saint Roderick's College public relations department because it was approximately the worst job I have ever held. That’s saying a lot considering my recent employments stints as a fast food employee, janitor, and chemical weapons test dummy.

Surprise Graduation

Today I got blindsided by a surprise graduation. It wasn’t even the good kind of surprise graduation where you get called up on stage in front of your friends, family, and various barnyard acquaintances only to hear “Andrew Jefferson Ford… will not be graduating.” If there was an actual chance of humiliation, graduations would be more popular than NASCAR. It’d be even better with some sort of wildcard race where even the valedictorian could fail if he didn’t beat the spread, and by fail I mean get sold into slavery. Amazingly, none of those things happened at the eighth-grade graduation of my sister, Liza.

The whole situation was a surprise because I didn’t make the connection that I’d be forced to attend such a non-event. I’ve never understood why anyone would celebrate an eighth-grade graduation since it’s a mandatory accomplishment. Students are required by law to attend school until they’re 16, so even if a kid failed at age 13, he’d still have three more chances to pass before he could drop out of school. Even kids in juvenile detention facilities are forced to take classes through junior high, so the absolute only way someone could not pass the eighth-grade would be by committing a serious enough crime to be tried as an adult. In essence, anyone who gets excited about an eighth-grade graduation is really saying “hurray for not being a convicted felon.”

The only thing more mind-boggling than the ceremony is the dress code. If I was dressing for what I believed to be a major academic milestone, I’d wear something a bit nicer than a blue tarp with a piece of cardboard for a hat. The tarp would be a great choice if graduation ceremonies involved eating ribs or watching a guy smash watermelons, but as it stands neither of those will be incorporated until academic institutions finally embrace wildcard rules. As for the cardboard hat, its only purpose is protecting one’s head from deadly falling objects, like other falling cardboard hats. The graduation hat toss seems to be a self-sustaining problem, but then again so is letting your kid live long enough to graduate.

It didn’t help that we had to watch the tarp children for a full two hours since Catholics feel the need to tack a mass onto everything. Somewhere along the line, some religious figure decided that all graduations, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, and court marshals need to be improved by being extended for a full hour. I don’t mind the regularly-scheduled church events because I made a deal with God: I go to mass every Sunday and He pays for cable. But sometimes I think that rather than flatter God, all these extra masses are just annoying Him. I mean the guy has heard it all before. I know that when Dirk starts repeating himself, we make him sleep in the garage, so I can only assume that God reacts in the same way. I’m not sure why we add a mass to all formal ceremonies, but I suspect it has to do with the fact that God wouldn’t find the ceremony without mass, thereby forcing the eighth-graders to graduate as godless heathens. This scenario is obviously stupid since God can find any place with the help of Mapquest.

I guess mass didn’t extend the ceremony enough because there was this whole achievements recognition period afterwards. Virtually every kid was acknowledged for something, but you could tell that school officials were really trying to build self-esteem with the last few. The kids who missed the big awards were asked to stand and be acknowledged for accomplishments such as showing up to graduation and occasionally dressing themselves without causing bodily harm to themselves or others. After the last few kids received their awards, it was time to start the actual graduation – a surprisingly-long and arduous process. In case you haven’t heard, kids today have three names, and the principal read every single one of them. For future purposes, children should be referred to only by their first names with an added adjective if absolutely necessary. “David tall” and “Dana covered-with-chiggers” would be much more efficient than the current system.

On the plus side, the graduation gave me something to write about, but this blog entry, like the eighth-graders themselves, was a disappointment. In order to add some topical variety, I attempted to write this entire blog entry without using the words “God” or “genitalia.” Thanks to that last sentence, I have now failed on both counts.

Bob Hope Academy Reunion

I’m 20 years old, which means I’m about one-tenth of the way through my life. Like most old-timers, I spend the majority of my day producing a fragrance known in the scientific community as “old people funk.” Researchers have long theorized about why old people create this smell, but it turns out that it’s a warning to keep people away much like the colors on a poison dart frog or the phrase “woman problems” in any context. Anyone who encounters “old people funk” faces an increased risk of hearing uninteresting stories beginning with one of three phrases: 1) “Back in my day…” 2) “That used to be…” 3) “One time I stepped in…” Beware of situations where all three are used at once: “See that Wal-Mart? Back in my day, that used to be a pasture filled with eight-track players and dinosaurs. One time I stepped steaming pile of stegosaurus and ruined a good pair of penny loafers.”

In the future, old people funk may be abandoned in favor of hanging warning signs on the backs of the elderly as is already done with slow-moving farm equipment. (Photo courtesy of http://gabbyattic.com/truepix/old%20people%20sign.jpg)

Yesterday, this entire website was filled with old person funk. It was visited by none other than an alumnus from the Bob Hope Academy for Brilliance and Black Magic, my beloved alma mater for grades two through unknown. I strongly suspect that it was none other than fellow cross country heavy man Elijah “I-Thought-It-Was-Consensual” Lincoln or James “I-Was-A-President” Polk, both of whom were in my graduating class.

One thing that amazes me in my twilight years is that many of the youngsters of today have never even heard of the Bob Hope academy or its sister institution, the M.C. Hammer College of Medicine and Superior Waffle Craftsmanship. Every year I lose a few more details about my time at BHABBM, but what I lack in accuracy I make up for with persistence and an irrational hatred for Nebraska. The Hope school followed the philosophy that children learn best though hands-on experience, especially when that experience involves getting beaten with burlap sacks full of metal door knobs. While most others schools tried to prepare me for college by teaching me to read and write, the Hope institution wanted to prepare students for the number of scenarios in higher education which I’d be assaulted with a large collection of door-opening devices. Now that I’m a senior in college, I can honestly say that I’ve been required to do the reading in college exactly the same number of times that I’ve beaten with a sack of doorknobs, which is two and a half according to my transcript.

Burlap sacks can be used as a weapon when filled with items other than doorknobs. Two other choice fillers include oranges and a blend of bricks and kittens. (Photo courtesy of http://www.slvdweller.com/archives/images/burlap_potato_sack.jpg)

Getting into BHABBM wasn’t easy. I was once left unsupervised in a room with some Legos and a pair of mittens. Eight minutes later, I somehow ended up in the emergency room missing three fingers and several key organs. That’s how they knew I was tough enough to get into the academy.

Some of the Hope school’s teaching methods were a bit unorthodox by western standards. Instead of giving us reading buddies, they shelled us with mortars. Rather than playing the basketball game “horse,” we were armed with pair of basketballs and told us to slay and eat a horse, which wouldn’t have been so bad were it not for the fact that the horse was actually a pile of rusty nails. And rather than getting grades, we earned a rating on a grid of numbers and foreign foods. I graduated with 6 Fajita, although Elijah barely made it out with a 5 Raspberry Crêpe. The reason our final grades were so different is that our final exam consisted of resurrecting a famous dead person and challenging them to a boxing match. Elijah chose to fight Muhammad Ali. I chose Emily Dickinson.

Emily Dickinson may look like a pushover, but she lasted two rounds longer than Edgar Allen Poe. (Photo courtesy of http://www.lucidcafe.com/library/95dec/95decgifs/dickinson.gif)

BHABBM is perhaps best known for its athletic department. Our mascot was the fighting eunuch because the man who can’t be hit in the groin is invincible. That’s why all modern soldiers are armed with protective cups made of Kevlar that are rated to sustain a direct hit from a cruise missile. Dog tags are no longer necessary because combat casualties can be identified solely by their immaculately-preserved genitalia.

This has been a fun and highly truthful trip down memory lane. For any others wishing to share their memories from the Bob Hope Academy of Brilliance and Black Magic, join me for an uncomfortably-emotional reunion in the comment section.

Tooth Fairy

If I had to quantify the number of relatives in town for Harry’s graduation using metric units, I would have to describe it as somewhere between a boatload and a buttload. To entertain the numerous cousins present for the event, we turned to the time-tested tradition of challenging the boundaries of safety and commonsense. The trampoline says it has a limit of 300 pounds, so we felt comfortable taking it well beyond the 700-pound mark – the point at which its users are guaranteed serious injury, death, and a totally sweep jumps. We had plenty of all three. In our defense, if mankind didn’t push the limits of safety and commonsense, we never would have landed on the moon or found out that little kids really do explode in the microwave. It’s not as bad as it sounds since we adopted Fernando from Ecuador so he technically wasn’t human.

As for the trampoline, no one was hurt except Dirk, and we’re selling him to a sweatshop anyway. Thanks to everyone who voted. Poopster unanimously won the popularity contest, but that wasn’t too hard since only two votes were cast. You people don’t deserve democracy. On a side note, further experience with the dog has revealed that a more accurate name would be Squirtster since Poopster implies a level of solidity that the animal has yet to achieve. I’m not going to go into how I learned this, but suffice it say that it was not a positive learning experience. Also, Poopster’s head is too big for his body, so his best trick is getting slightly off balanced and then doing a face-plant. He does this trick at least two dozen times every time he tries to walk across the room.

The only person who could do a better trick was Dirk, who hit his mouth on the side of the trampoline and then ran into the house crying. No one followed, but I later pelted him with rocks for being such a sissy. Back in my day, we used to lose handfuls of teeth at a time playing games like “Chew on the Metal Pipe” and “Scurvy.”

To console Dirk, my parents decided to perpetuate the lie of the tooth fairy, a creature that sneaks into the bedrooms of small children and steals their medical waste in exchange for pocket change. Apparently “fairy” is a nice way of saying “pedophile.” If you’re going to expose your kids to child molesters, you could at least adjust for inflation. A quarter a tooth just isn’t going to cut it in today’s world, especially when Dirk will earn at least half that every week while working in Guatemala.

The tooth fairy looks a lot like this, only twenty years older and named Bill. (Photo courtesy of http://lisavictoria.net/Images/Fantasy/Full/toothfairy.jpg)

The myth of the tooth fairy might be horrible, but it’s hardly the worst lie we tell our children. Most children are tricked into believing in Santa, the Easter Bunny, and a loving God. If God really loved children, he wouldn’t have made them so fun to hit them with cars. The Easter Bunny, on the other hand, loves children, but only to use as carrion to feed his thousands and thousands of carnivorous bunny hatchlings. Oddly, parents are willing to celebrate this fictional creature while completely ignoring real magical creatures like the Computer Slowdown Gnome and the Unfortunately-Timed Erection Fairy.

The Easter Bunny’s hobbies include painting eggs and eating drifters along I-74. (Photo courtesy of http://www.thecabin.net/images/041501/_easter_bunny.jpg)

Now that the family has cleared out, updates will be daily again. I have to be careful what I write on here, though, because they know about the site after reading a few of my articles from school. If you ever want to create an awkward situation, try sitting around while your grandma reads articles in which you advocate the male period and using the elderly as firewood.

New Arrival

The new pet arrived today, and I was disappointed to find that it wasn’t a possum or even a muskrat. It was a puppy.

It weighs two pounds and fits inside a standard-sized Pringle can, which is where it sleeps at night. Dogs are usually named after their most obvious physical attribute. I call ours Poopster, although I’ve been told that other family members refer to him as Kipper on occasion.

The arrival of Poopster has set up an epic duel with my youngest brother for the title of most pampered animal in the house. Behold the contenders:

Figure A: Poopster, the most amazing dog on the planet. His adorableness factor destroyed two cameras.

Figure B: Some kid. I think his name is Dirk. When I sit down, he climbs on people's backs because he thinks he’s a mountain goat.

Each contender has pros and cons. Poopster needs puppy chow twice a day and is learning to use a litter box. He is worth $800, or $400 per pound.

Dirk asks lots of questions and needs three meals a day. He recently learned to wipe his own butt. He weighs 44 pounds and is worth $75,000 on the black market if sold by the organ. He can’t fit inside a Pringle can, but he does live in my closet.

In terms of maintenance, my vote goes to Poopster. We never forget to walk the dog, but we sometimes forget to feed the kid.

“But Mom, we just fed Dirk last week” is a common expression in my house.

In terms of functionality, Poopster pulls ahead again. Smalls dogs are useful tools for everyone from Korean cooks to the president of the United States. Just picture the following primetime speech: “My fellow Americans, today in Iraq 200 U.S. soldiers died in the highest-casualty incident in U.S. history involving non-combat-related erotic chaffing. Here’s a picture of a puppy.”

By this point, no one will remember who got chaffed to death by what. Puppies are the reason that no one remembers when Bob Dole ate a bus full of kindergarteners.

Puppies are also a useful currency. The price of gold and child organs fluctuates too much to be useful as a reserve currency, but the value of Yorkshire terriers has been stable for the last decade. Puppies are accepted at most restaurants and vending machines, although it will take some persistence to fit them in the coin slot.

Everyone is coming into town today for Harry’s graduation, so I don’t have time to write much more. Vote in the comment section for whether Poopster or Dirk should become the most valued member of the household. The winner will be lavished with dog treats. The loser will be sent to work in a sweatshop in Guatemala.

Becoming a Religious Mastermind

The most important part of Christianity is humility, especially when it means humbling others with my incredible accomplishments. In this instance, my accomplishment was setting a school record by scoring a 96 on my Peoria Diocese religious exit exam. If you have ever met me, you’re aware of this fact because I constantly bring it up during casual conversation, class presentations, and job interviews. When I applied for my current job, I calmly explained to the interviewer that scoring a 96 meant I was four percent away from being the new Jesus. Unfortunately I fell a little short of a perfect score, which makes me the vice messiah, also known as the bastard son of God. It sounds like a bad deal until you realize that God had to pay child for me support until I was 18. He paid me mostly in nachos.

Nachos are the currency of God. He used to pay with salvation, but it didn't taste very good with cheese. (Photo courtesy of http://www.e-cookbooks.net/mousepad/nachos.jpg)

It’s a shame that I didn’t get to be a full savior because I would have been way less lame than the current Jesus. To make things easier to remember, I’d cut six of the Beatitudes and then modify the last two to make them more practical: 1. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for God will foreclose on their souls and send their freeloading butts straight to hell. 2. Blessed are the peacemakers, for anti-war rallies give God a chance to kill all the hippies at once. I would also make sin tax-deductible.

Anyone can claim to be the vice messiah, but I have the know-how to back it up. To demonstrate my extensive knowledge of religion, here are some true or false questions from the study guide for Michael’s religion final. Watch as I score somewhere in the neighborhood of 114 percent without the aid of extra credit because all things are possible with the bastard son of God:

Answer True or False and Explain Why

1. God permitted Israel to fall because the people worshiped false gods. A: False. Israel fell because God invented gravity. He did this in response to the rampant Jewish crime of weightless usury.

2. Herod’s Temple was more glorious than Solomon’s. A: False. Herod’s penis was more glorious than Solomon’s. Solomon had the most glorious temple to compensate.

Solomon built a massive door on his temple to mask his massive insecurities. Herod built a massive door on his temple to allow his massive genitalia to fit inside (Photo courtesy of http://www.jewishappleseed.org/apple/images/temple.jpg)

3. The devil has finally stopped fighting against the kingdom of heaven. A: True. Today the devil only fights against the kingdom of Azeroth, the fictional setting for the MMORPG World of Warcraft. It’s hard to commit acts of unspeakable evil on earth when you have to raid dungeons with a level 60 lawful good paladin who goes by the name Pony_Dancer235.

4. Jesus changed water into wine at the request of his mother. A: False. Jesus turned water into beer at the request of his frat. The son of God wasn’t so much miraculous as he was cheap. He could have easily afforded to simply buy the boozes; everyone could tell because he drove a Lexus.

5. It’s harder for people attracted to worldly goods to enter the kingdom of heaven. A: False. It’s easier for these people to enter the kingdom of heaven assuming that one of their worldly goods is a rocket car or a really tall set of stairs.

6. When the temple was finally finished, Solomon had the priests bring the Ark of the Covenant to the temple. A: False. When the shore batteries were finally finished, Solomon had the priests sink the ark of Noah because Solomon really hated ducks.

7. In the kingdom of God, the last will be first. A: False. In the kingdom of God, the last will be run over by slow-moving minivans.

God used to run over the last with slow-moving apocalyptic horsemen, but he ran out of oats. When gas prices get too high, He’ll probably switch to using scooters. (Photo courtesy of http://www.cristianoviaggi.com/img/G_minivan.jpg)

8. Jonah was in the belly of a whale for three days and three nights. A: False. Jonah was in a studio apartment for three years. He was evicted when he could no longer make the rent, which is understandable since God pays his prophets in nachos.

9. To answer the question “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus told the parable of the house built on rock. A: False. To answer the question of “Who is my baby’s daddy?” Jesus told the parable of using protection. Thankfully for me, God never took his advice.

10. According to Isaiah, Galilee would be made glorious in a later time. A: True. Isaiah accurately predicted the coming of the mini-mall and all-you-can-eat taco night at Mexican restaurants in Galilee. The glory of these events surpassed that of both the temple of Solomon and Herod’s penis.

If you scored below an 80 percent on these questions, you would have been stoned in the time before Vatican II. Luckily for you, Pope John Paul II saw to it that the dumb would be spared so that they could be used to pull farm implements for the glory of God.

As for those of you who dominated the test, extensive religious knowledge brings great privileges. For example, when the priest offers me the Eucharist, I usually respond, “That’s okay. I’ll make my own.” Also, if you ask God, he’ll probably give you some nachos.

Fond Memories From French Class

Hi. My name is Chuck Gilbert, and I’m a recovering French student.

In my dreams, I sometimes still conjugate verbs like “faire,” which means “to do,” and “fromage,” which means “to cheese.” I cheesed four years of French classes. My court-imposed dairy ban doesn’t expire till next March.

Cheese is third most common cause of death in France. The first two are syphilis and Germany. (Photo courtesy of http://travel.discovery.com/destinations/australia/photogallery/gallery/cheese.jpg)

No one but my French teacher ever believed that learning French had a purpose, but other subjects faired much better. Spanish was useful for extracurricular activities like bullfighting, watching reruns of Speedy Gonzalez, and bragging about the Spanish American War. English was obviously useful because there was always I chance that I might run into somebody from England. While it is unlikely that such person would ever reach American shores, there were always rumors that the islanders had learned to swim. We know now that the British never undertook any such activity because they were too busy digging the Chunnel and misspelling words like “color.”

French was a completely fruitless subject, but foreign languages in general aren’t very useful because they can only be used in certain parts of the world. Math and science don’t change too much based on location, except in Kansas where they don’t believe in evolution and Canada where they don’t believe in the number six. French, however, triumphed over the competition in the battle of uselessness – the only known victory in French history. Even in the polarized political landscape of today, the lameness of France is the only thing that absolutely everyone can agree on, including the French, who riot against the suck-factor of their own country every 45 minutes.

Rioting is an acceptable form of self-expression in France, much like being a suicide bomber is an acceptable form of self-expression for the Salvation Army. No one mugs a donation-collecting Santa with a bomb belt, except for maybe superman or David Blaine as long he doesn’t have to hold his breath. Christmas robberies aside, the French are very fond of dealing with serious social problems by torching other people’s cars. It’s a shame that we unenlightened Americans can’t similarly learn to deal with major issues like immigration or high gas prices through the random destruction of personal property. The next time someone asks how to stop people from crossing our southern border, I’ll follow French logic and suggest that we burn down Milwaukee. It turns out that rioting can solve every known problem including the problem of rioting, mainly because every car in France will eventually be burned and the rioters will have nothing left to do but become productive members of society and possibly take a shower.

Fire is the most deadly weapon in France. God help them if they ever discover the wheel. (Photo courtesy of http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/pictures/ROU01.htm)

The one thing I learned in French class is that people in France think they’re better than everyone else, which is hard to believe since as a general rule you can’t claim that you possess the highest culture in the world if you don’t own a bar of soap. This might sound like a stereotype, but after spending four years staring at the pictures in a French textbook that I couldn’t read, I have determined that the French are either the most unhygienic people in the world or that this particular textbook had a policy of only photographing people with visible stink lines. After a typical French lesson from that book, I had to wash my hands.

The hardest French quiz I ever took only had one question: “True of false: this is a picture of a horse.” (http://www.hipposandrhinos.com/ugly.jpg)

The cultural divide between America and France, also known as the grime barrier, prevented me from learning much about the language, but I did pick up a few words here or there. My favorites were the cognates, which are words that are spelled the same in English as they are in French. “Un hotdog” means “a hotdog” or “a dog that is moderately on fire” just like it does in America. Other French phrases don’t translate as well, such as the standard French goodbye. “A tout à l’heure” is the loose equivalent of “I’ll toot a whore,” which is not an acceptable greeting or wise pastime in English. In fact, even whistling a whore is strongly discouraged in this country, although drumming a whore is acceptable if done in the context of a percussion section for an orchestra.

The worst part about French is that it’s the most nasally language on the planet. In German, you could say “I think I’ll pick some daisies” and it would come out as deep, guttural command that could intimidate even the most hearty of foreigners. It’s a little known fact that the Germans actually used this technique to talk their way into Poland. The French, however, sound like effeminate school boys, which makes the country a paradise for child molestations. It doesn’t help that as a culture, everyone in France smokes, eats small portions, and avoids exercise like it’s some sort of non-French wine. My freshman year, the French teacher assured us that even a paraplegic with Down syndrome could take a mob of Frenchmen in the fair fight. We actually tested this out, but the French won by knocking over Wheelchair Johnny with a volley of overpriced baguettes. While we were saddened by his loss, he was handicap so we just went to a farm and got a replacement.

Those are the only fond memories I have from 720 class periods of non-learning known as high school French. I had to take a moment to reminisce about them because Mitchell is taking his French final today. I know many of you are disappointed because you only come here to see shirtless pictures of Harry, but odd pictures of the Gilbert family will again grace this blog in the next few days. Tomorrow, we’re getting some sort of furry creature as a pet. I think it’s a possum.

Dumb Kids and Family Photos

After conducting two years worth of interviews, I’ve finally determined that children are dumb. I use the term “child” loosely to describe anyone younger or shorter than myself. There is a good chance that your grandparents are stupid kids in my eyes, but God made me tall for a reason: so that I could avoid eye contact in awkward situations by looking over short people’s heads. That trick got me through all of high school.

Besides the noticeable handicap for being short, kids just aren’t good interview subjects. Every time I have ever asked anyone between the ages of five and 17 to comment on something, I get one of two responses: “it was cool” or “it was fun.” Requests for elaboration are met with befuddled stares or quiet whimpering depending on whether or not I’ve rewarded their lack of articulation with a swift kick to the shin. And believe me, kicking children in the shin is covered under freedom of the press. Journalists enjoy many other privileges denied to the ignorant masses such as the right to bear arms in airports and kindergartens and the right to retract the right to vote from others, also known as the right to unvote.

Surprisingly, my many rights and privileges as a man of the written word brought me no closer to answering the question at hand. In order to understand the lack of articulation in children, I needed the advice of someone slightly shorter and less hygienic then myself. As luck would have it, I was walking to the conservatory when I stumbled upon my brother Harry, who was in his usual pose: shirtless and deep in thought.

Harry always wears a newspaper helmet because he was a successful samurai before the Republicans ruined the economy. He has an impressive insight into the minds of children because he is somewhere between the age of five and 37 and often dominates little kids at manly tasks like reaching tall shelves and playing Neopets. After several minutes of discussion, we came to no consensus on why children are dumb but agreed that his first pose was really lame. Harry decided that he could do better.

In this picture, Harry is preparing to attack the foosball table. His eyes are filled with determination and the unpleasant gasses that perpetually waft from various parts of his body. In a typical samurai battle, his white skin would blind his enemies, giving him the edge he needs to enable his all-encompassing apathy overcome the other side. Eventually, all the samurai would go home to play Neopets and Harry would win by default.

At this point in the conversation, Harry was too busy being an unemployed samurai to hold a productive discussion, so I convinced him to refocus and try again.

Unfortunately, when Harry thinks hard, he must fight his only non-samurai enemy: constipation. The battle did not go well. As you can see in the picture, one of his eyes is ready to explode as he grimaces in pain at what must certainly be a deadly payload. That’s the point where I fled the room. I can only assume that there were no survivors.

This brush with death reminded me of the obituaries I see everyday. It turns out that only two things in life matter: being a war veteran and having lots of children. For whatever reason, obituaries never contain other useful information like your high score in Neopets or how many people you were taller than. Since winning the game of life comes down to having children, and since I am a natural winner in every conceivable way, I will definitely procreate no matter how retarded kids may be.

Although my obituary will prove that I was the greatest man ever to live, I am also a man of reason. I only intend to have children to prove my fertility and manliness, so I’ll probably stop after having 45 and 50 kids. Like all good parents, I’ll let my children be raised by a pack of stray dogs so that they can learn the importance of fighting to become the alpha male and of sniffing other dogs in inappropriate places. The latter will prepare my children for years of butt patting after high school sporting events, where thinly veiled homoeroticism is the true key to victory. The alpha male factor is important because I only have enough love for one child at most, so I’ll wait to see which kid becomes the leader of the stray dogs and then reward him with a flea collar and a high power rifle. I’m not sure when America turned it’s back on giving deadly weapons to neglected children, but it’s definitely time to return to our proud heritage.

After being such a model parent, my obituary will read something like this: “Chuck was a veteran of the War of Kicking Dumb Kids in the Shin. He also single-handedly repopulated Spain. He will be missed by his seventeen supermodel wives and his many, many bags of money.”

I should have all of these objectives accomplished by tomorrow, although I might have to pull an all-nighter to do it. That factors out to conceiving approximately fifteen children every second and a half, so the only thing that can stop me from becoming the greatest man ever to live is friction.

Crime in the Afternoon

By 3 p.m., most people in the newsroom have left for the day, leaving only the ragtag afternoon crew to man the frontlines of our war of journalistic irrelevance. I’ve never been present for the full afternoon shift, but I’ve heard that it ends sometime around 8 p.m. That would explain why most of its members don’t resemble journalists so much as they do creatures of the night like vampires and prostitutes – the kind you want to pay just to avoid having sex with. As far as I know, this hooker prevention insurance is still illegal in Illinois, so if you must swing by the newsroom at night, wear a chastity belt made of garlic.

Avoiding the sunlight for too long can lead to strange adaptations like vampire fangs and a stupid-looking hair cut. (Photo courtesy of http://www.maskworld.com/pix/make-up/characters/10006-vampire-forehead.jpg)

I actually like the afternoon crew because there’s so few people in it, leaving me free to pursue various acts of tomfoolery like sitting listlessly at my desk and walking downstairs to get a drink of water. At the end of my life, I’m sure that such moments will make it into my memoir right next to the chapter about how the only place I could find runners capable of matching my speed was at the Kentucky Derby. Seabiscuit had the heart of champion and the flanks of a thousand cans of dog food, which was about all he was good for after I out kicked him on the back stretch.

The best part about the afternoon shift besides making threatening references to long-dead race horses is listening to the police scanner. The fact that we only turn the thing on in the afternoon tells me two things. First, no crime happens in the morning. Late nights of successful thuggery will exhaust even the most energetic criminals. If one of these outlaws does manage to climb out of bed and hobble over to a 7/11, he’s much less likely to rob the place than he is to buy a breakfast burrito and be on his way. If the criminal justice system spent less time incarcerating repeat offenders and more time giving them breakfast burritos, we’d have just as much crime but all our criminals would have serious cholesterol problems.

The second thing the presence of the police scanner tells me about the afternoon shift is that it is comprised of men and women of action. These journalists are kind of like ambulance chasers, except instead of trying to get a massive cash settlement to split with the victims they just use the tragedy to fill space in the paper without bowing down to any pesky notions of victim entitlement. The members of the afternoon shift might not rush out to the scene of the robbery or forest fire or John Steinbeck killer novel attack, but there’s a chance that they’ll call someone at the police or fire department just to confirm that it’d be a waste of their time to actually go outside and figure out what’s going on. After so many years of newspaper reporting, these journalist know to filter out the unimportant things like petty vandalism and Of Mice and Men running amuck in the business district while paying attention to the big stories like loitering.

John Steinbeck never cared when one of his novels unleashed the grapes of wrath on an unsuspecting civilian population. He was the most deadly author of American literature since Walt Whitman convinced the nation to smoke his leaves of grass. (Photo courtesy of http://www.libarts.ucok.edu/english/faculty/hochenauer/photo-steinbeck.jpg)

After listening intently to the police scanner for a couple of days, I’ve realized that shows like “Cops” and “Real TV” don’t quite capture the full drama of videotaped crime as it unfolds. Sure, you get to see the fiery crash at the end of the high speed car chase through oncoming traffic and intermittent dragon attacks, but where’s the back story? Just to show how complex and exciting crime can be, I’m going to walk you through one developing story that came across the scanner this afternoon.

1:47 p.m. “Two white males in dark sweatshirts are loitering outside of Walden Books on Fourth and Madison. Unit 238, please respond.”

That simple message contains a lot of information. First, there’s two suspects, so they’re obviously part of some sort of organized loitering racket. The dark sweatshirts prove that they’re either ninjas who think it’s still too cold to don the dark T-shirt of summer or Goth kids with a strong dislike for buttons. Either way, they should be shot on sight.

2:16 p.m. “The manager at Walden Books just reported that the two loiterers are still present. Unit 238, please proceed to Fourth and Madison.”

Loitering for a full 29 minutes demonstrates a level of planning and dedication well beyond anything regular police officers can stop. Unfortunately, the charter in this city forbids the deployment of the SWAT team until the loitering passes the 37-minute mark. For now, Walden Books will just have to lock its doors as Unit 238 stalls for desperately needed time. Six minutes later, a report comes across the radio from the officers after they arrive at the scene.

2:39 p.m. “The two lurkers are now urinating in the ally. Officer down! Officer down!”

The situation has just become tragic, but the for the nine people in this city tuned in to the broadcast, those police scanners just paid for themselves. Ambitious amateur radio enthusiasts could easily turn a profit by looting the bodies of the chilly ninjas or button-phobic Goth kids, whichever they may have been. None of this will make it into the newspaper, but you take my word that these sort of things happen everyday.

This is especially true of gas stations, which cause crime in the same way that air causes breathing. If there were no more gas stations, there would be no more crime because hoodlums would have nothing to rob at 10:45 p.m. You don’t get onto “Real TV” by sneaking into someone’s house and taking a VCR. You get there by robbing a convenience store with a face mask made from a five-gallon bucket with the eye holes drilled in the wrong places. Then the security cameras get the footage as some 110-pound Asian gas station attendant introduces bucket man to the ancient Chinese art of getting beaten with a dirty mop. Sure, the criminal heard there were some mop-fighting black belts in the area, but he thought his fortress of bucketude would protect him from the wooden-handled fury of quasi-cleanliness. The video of him being introduced to the floor scrubbing tool of justice proves otherwise.

After a mop has touched a bathroom floor, it is considered to be a biological weapon by the Geneva Convention. At the end of World War II, the Nazis were frighteningly close to deploying an entire brigade of combat mops. (Photo courtesy of http://www.reliablecp.com/images/contec/el_mop.jpg)

In hindsight, the police scanner is really just for entertainment purposes. We’d probably be better off reading about these crimes the next morning in a better newspaper, but the newsroom is not yet ready for my radical but brilliant methods of reform.