Giosue'

VACATION!

Is there any more stirring moment than a Friday afternoon for the working man or woman? People who start Monday with the growl of the proverbial lion with a thorn in their paw on Friday are smiling gently as refined creatures of almost angelic proportions. They are at their happiest when the weekend looms! Actually who we are on Monday is a good gage of where we are as a society. On Friday we fulfill the potential of the human race and engage one another as we would like to be treated. That is until we leave the office. Then out on the highway the carnage begins. Who gets somewhere the fastest to reclaim the lost part of their life can look ugly especially at the beginning of the weekend. Only the drive to the office Monday morning could be worse.

Criminal statistics suggest that most individuals are victims of violence after dark. What they don’t tell you is that most such mayhem occurs between people driving to work in rush hour traffic before the sun comes up. If not overly aggressive there is certainly very entertaining creativity in the art of in-cockpit driver gestures toward fellow commuters. The faces made are tortured, precious, and comical. It is like watching the contortions of Donald Duck!

Donald’s gesticulations are similar to your boss’s at times when the vein in his neck begins to bulge. That usually happens over something as simple as
your mistakenly sending his secret computer file of girlie pictures to corporate headquarters “NO I SAID SEND THE TIT FOR TAT FILE TO MY HOME, NOT THE HOME OFFICE!!! Sheesh ya make one small flub and the old boy has a conniption!

Somewhere between Monday and Friday people have varying degrees of stress and reprieve from it. The relief is akin to how we feel when we take vacation. The behavior is nothing short of a series of weekends strung together through an entire week. If you’re not drinking and you’re on leave for a week just decompressing at home it is kind of eerie around the neighborhood. Actually it’s reminiscent of being in a desert on the moon. Your little neighborhood, which you only really know on the weekend, is no longer bustling with the buzz of assorted activity. It has become a ghost town! You are the only one there and the streets are empty except the homemaker whose husband is still able to support his wife and 2.1 children with a job at the sludge factory. You never knew there was so much money in waste! He must be wealthy and just never flaunted it. Argh! Now how do you keep up with the Jones’ after that new discovery?!

Nevertheless you get to hear the sounds of the newspaper delivery boy, sanitation workers, the mailman, and the neighborhood recluse who keeps stealing you kid’s two-wheeler from your front porch. He has secretly ridden it daily for years to the nearest store to buy himself a pack of smokes, a Slim Jim snack, a slurpee and to flirt with the counter help. He apparently is partial to foreign women with thick unrecognizable accents! You always thought the cherry slurpee stains on the bike were from your sloppy kid. Now you learn the truth! She has recluse potential!

Vacation gives you perspective whereas you get to see everyday stuff you normally miss because of work. Some of it is scary, but most of it is refreshing. If folks really knew what went on in their neighborhoods when they’re working they would stay in bed under the covers quivering at how much the usual laws of nature don’t seem to apply during the week.

You can rise above the oddity of this new world because most importantly YOU ARE OFF WORK! Nothing you’ve thought has carried that much reverence and at the same time fear since you were a child willing to give great grandmother a kiss because you knew she was gonna reward ya with bucks!. Good old reliable great grandma, her whiskers, and her money!

When we grew up our parents (our mom’s at least) knew the weekday environs and their oddities as everyday happenings. But as a culture we have forgotten stuff much like the Native Americans no longer remember how to perform their cultural rain dance. I think they’ve forgotten. Could be in those years of harsh drought when we go months not being able to water the lawn because of the lack of rainfall Native Americans are chugging from water coolers just laughing their asses off at the rest of us in some sort of self imposed cultural reparation. It’s either that or a memory lapse of how to get the sky to open by pleasing the rain god.

If you are taking time away from work to go somewhere on a trip well then this can be even more exasperating than going to the office. True the attitude is usually laid back at the beginning of the excursion. However, traveling with your kids or even worse, the in-laws, could be a harsh sanity stealing, nail on the blackboard, heart palpitating environment all it’s own.

You certainly have moments of fun but there always seems to be a Russian roulette of emotions being played on those getaways. One person it seems is always unhappy. The rest of the group is saying things like “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but what do you expect from a guy who’s favorite dwarf is grumpy,” or the guys whisper “PMS” under their breath. The journey seldom lives up to your expectation because there is always some sort of irritation. Whether it is that check-out is at dawn and check-in is at dinner time, or that the room has hangers that don’t come off the rod, it seems like you always end up with some bizarre hotel neighbors. My last trip included a lodge booked with a convention of transvestite truckers.

Traveling with my family always seems like I’m in an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. It’s pleasant and down home yes, but how relaxing can it be it when the family’s idea of take out food is going behind the shack to “blast some critters?”

No matter how your vacation turns out however there is always one grim fact. It has to end and you have to go back to work. That is even worse than a bad holiday expedition. You knew it when you first left for vacation. You counted the days. It seemed in the beginning like such a large amount of time. Then it creeps into your mind midweek that it’s half over. You give it scant thought at that time. By the second weekend you are lamenting the coming Monday. Sunday night before going back to work you end up staying awake until 3:00 a.m. just to squeeze every last ounce out of the time you deserve for yourself. The next day you’re off to work like a lion with a thorn in your paw that can barely keep its eyes open. It’s better that way though. After all what’s there to look at now that the boss’s “fun files” are gone!

The Art of the Wait

What is worse than going to the doctor’s office to “turn your head and cough” or hearing those immortal ear stimulating words that turns the average body to a quivering mass “put your feet up in the stirrups?” Waiting in line to do it! While spending your day in a medical office you can distract yourself in the latest magazines such as Cosmopolitan, Vogue, or Teen Scene (yea us guys really like those). Note to Doctor’s office managers MAGAZINE VARIETY PLEASE! Give me something with some teeth like Highlights kids magazine. At lease that’s challenging and reminds me of being a juvenile again when hanging around wasn’t really a conscious issue. There are no articles in Highlights about “How to get your man to say your size 18 butt looks wonderful in those size 9 pants so you feel good about yourself!” You would think that a culture that is so in tuned to having it all, and having it now, would have found a way to avoid having to stand in line!

Delay! Is there anything that moves the soul in such a way? Waiting in lines and hopping from foot to foot is a great way to pass time and the benefits are untold. I think that’s how I learned to dance! Why is it everyplace I go there is a wait? Heck you don’t even have to leave the house to spend your time waiting. If you’ve got a large family there is always a wait for bathroom time which is why the proper industrial strength bathroom door lock is so important. As you know most 5 year olds can pick nearly any door lock just by turning the knob. This is because of the supernatural lock melting mechanism hidden cleverly under the skin up their sleeves. If yours doesn’t have the power consider yourself fortunate. They do this mind you at the worst possible moment. It doesn’t matter how private or intimate the moment. The precious so and so’s can just make you just lose it. At least in the bathroom you’re in the right place!

Simply making a phone call can result in you practicing the art of the wait! Before call waiting the “busy signal was the height of disappointment. Today nothing can equal saying hello and spouting off your complaint in a well rehearsed diatribe and then realizing you’ve dialed into an automated phone system. Typically after you realize you’re talking to a machine the response goes like this:

“Thank you for calling Don and Fred’s Pulled Pork Stand. Your call is very important to us” (understood to mean: you’re a boob for interrupting our employees during our office’s big computer solitaire tournament. That is why we have you trying to talk to a mechanical disembodied voice on this end). “Due

to the great pig fiasco at Mrs. O’Leary’s Farm our representatives have been inundated with a high volume of calls. Please stay on the line and a representative will be with you shortly.” Now if I’ve managed to figure out how to maneuver through the first fourteen levels of the automation by pounding the right buttons when prompted just to get to this message I’m vested! I gotta stay with the call to find out what kind of a fiasco can befall swine. After three to five additional seconds of silence they always add information which turns out to be a twist of the knife to the most patient caller. “There are 753 calls ahead of you and your approximate wait time will be a fortnight.” I can feel the pressure building behind my eyeballs as they begin to protrude making me look like Marty Feldman on steroids.

It all started at birth. I wanted out but something akin to the Marx Brothers was running the medical team and they held me back. When they finally got the forceps (which is Latin for suction cup boxing gloves) around my head to pull me out you would have thought it was a taffy pulling contest. This made for a lifetime of bewildered people asking “who’s the baby prizefighter with the black eyes?” Of course I had to live down the stigma of being two weeks late on top of looking like Rocky Balboa after a brawl.

In my high school yearbook the theme was “the line.” I should have known that it was a foreshadowing of greater things to come. It’s not so much the fact that you have to wait your turn that is frustrating. It’s more about sharing precious moments of your life surrounded by such colorful characters. Stimulating yes but I’m beginning to wonder if the powers that be are having a good laugh. I always manage to get behind either the guy who doesn’t know what a shower is or the lady who is spending her time in line laughing. Unfortunately she’s standing by herself. It never seems that I can find the “patience is a virtue” line either. Someone is either stressed, angry, crazy, or stinky!

Typically long lines include the pressed for time guy. We’ve all been him at one time or another. When it’s not you however it looks silly. He’s hopping from foot to foot in a pressure paced tension to get to the front of the line. Usually you can see the vein bulging in his neck and even count the heartbeat pulsation if you gawk long enough. The one I chuckle at the most is the crazy dude. You know the Charles Manson look alike with the spooky stare in his eyes. He handles his time waiting in an even more tense fashion. He screams about the injustice of having this unreasonable delay for something so trivial. It’s as if he’s too important to be forced to wait behind the dregs of society in the bank line just to be able to pick up money so he can get his months supply of peanut brittle. His favorite repeated and very audible sigh is “HUMPH!” I snicker very quietly to myself so as to not upset Charlie anymore.

The wacky woman who is going over her recipe for guacamole stew (out loud I might add) while asking her imaginary friend what they want for the dinner also amusingly helps pass the time. It also reminds me that I have to pick up a quart of milk, a lime and toenail clippers at the next stop I still have to make. I breathe a deep sigh as I wait. “Great” I think, “I’m sure at the grocery store there will be another line!”

Cars From Mars

The powers that be could vote to change America’s car fleet fuel system at any time. In order to switch from dead dinosaur-goo powered propulsion to water, or air-driven engines to save the planet from the Abominable Global-Warming Monster, all Congress has to do is wave its petroleum soaked wand. Abracadabra! We could change into a gluttonous sweet-toothed, sugar-cane driven nation to fuel our cars. We would force ourselves to eat less too. Not only would it trim our waistlines but eliminating the foggy cloud resulting from fossil fuels would enable us to see angels smiling upon us and birds gleefully tweeting. Then living in such a Madison Avenue commercial could be in our future.

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods t the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. This hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

The difference between the unsightly Pacer and today’s gruesome pod-sized atmosphere- friendly designs is that the Pacer seemed to be made out of metal. The modern death traps that the industry is offering a nervous public seem too lightweight. They could fly if each passenger put an arm out of a window at the same time. That might be necessary given the limited creature comforts, such as space, that these mechanized midgets present. They do not inspire safety, or an esthetically pleasing sense of taste. They completely ignore the cool factor.

Guys who thought being seen behind the wheel of a soccer-mom sporty van shudder when they see the Mork from Ork motor vehicles that salivating granola munching environmentalists seem to favor in the current crop of earth friendly autos. These cars from mars remind one of the Merry Melodies cartoons of ages past featuring Marvin the Martian. He was about as popular as the Edsel too! He didn’t drive a car, but in a turnabout with Bugs Bunny, Marvin would be the instigator of antics that the poor rabbit endured trying to save the Earth from the odd looking Martian. The zany antics come to mind when one views the designs of the “inventive offerings’ of modern earth-favorables from the auto industry. Like Marvin we might seek destruction of the earth rather than its salvation after we spend any time squished in one of these modern mechanical monstrosities. The feeling inspired by their appearance and performance is a desire to drive the ever so clean, fuel efficient, four-wheeler, off nearest cliff.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. No longer referred to as the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”

WHO'S THE DOG?

We have a new puppy in our house. A decade of fighting against the inevitable, down the drain! My mind was against a pet for so long because my daughter wasn’t old enough or responsible enough to clean up after herself let alone another living creature.

A few months ago out of sheer chance we attended a family function complete with new puppies. Damn the family! Finally mom and dad relented and consented. Alas, another hungry mouth to feed at home.

She is a loving creature, but much more of a baby than our daughter use to be in her infancy. When we leave the house and puppy stays behind. She whines like Rocker Axl Rose trying to hit notes three octaves too high. She sort of sounds like an alley cat on steroids hanging from a cliff or Rod Steward after a regular night on the town; which is kinda the same thing. I like a little noise to make sure I still have my hearing, but the only kind of high pitched whining I want to hear is one that is calling out God’s name. Its the one that always has my neighbors whispering to each other when my wife and I reappear from our house.

The new puppy follows the Mrs. Around like she’s a baby duckling. She is afraid of my manly voice, and of course she pays little attention to her true owner; our “I swear I’ll take care of her” daughter!

When we go outside the puppy must follow. When we go in the bathroom the dog is there. When we hit the sack the new addition is between us. I like a little affection as much as the next guy, but our home is quite warm so I’m not really looking for a three-dog-night. We never let our daughter sleep with us when she was a child, but the dog gets away with everything.

She chews up shoes. and doesn’t get spanked. She chews up electrical power cords, and doesn’t get electrocuted. She eats pens like they were bon-bons, and I swear she laughs at us whenever our backs are turned.

There is a critical part in the movie “When Harry Met Sally” when Harry (Billy Crystal) explains to Sally (Meg Ryan) that he slept with her out of pity, effectively ruining their friendship. He says she had looked up at him with those big sad puppy dog eyes in her moment of weakness. “What was I suppose to do?” he asks her. Is one of us supposed to be a dog in this scenario?” she boils. "Yes you are" he replies. “I’m the dog?” she says repeatedly angry, and not believing her ears. Sex for almost any reason, even pity, will get men into trouble. The same may be true in the dog world.

Outside on a leash our puppy romps after birds, barks and whines at passing dogs and longs to enjoy the good life. It puts me in mind of my own youth. The older I get the younger everyone else looks, especially women. It is a place where I can no longer go! When I was growing up all of the attractive ladies were just that, ladies. They were at least in their 20’s. As every decade has passed the sleek bodies and trim waistlines have garnered more and more of my attention. The problem is that they have gotten progressively sexier and much younger too.

Madonna and Brittany Spears are to blame for pointing out that fourteen year old Lolita's can be in every household. Now there are girls that are not even teenagers that look like those “women” I use to adore looking at when I was twelve. Unfortunately today they are the twelve year olds!

My daughter played soccer this fall and her teammates, all 10 and 11 year olds, had a higher proportion of boobs per capita than any group of girls has a right to claim. It worries me for our future, mine and the dog.

Is it wrong to notice these things, or is it more improper to be pushing sex upon our young children? Is it improper to keep introducing steroids into our food supply (beef, and pork) that causes these young girls to have bigger chests than Dolly (Parton not the family cow)? The same chemicals create little girls with tushies large enough to make Sir-Mix-A-Lot sing! heck the food contamination is spread so evenly even the boys are getting boobs!

Perhaps it is that I am observant, or maybe I’m turning into a dirty old man. The problem is that I’m not that old. Old keeps getting older, the older I get!

In the puppy’s world, owners have to be careful because the males know when a bitch comes into heart. Since I hit middle age, I have the same keen canine sense when it comes to that sort of lady. I should be worried, but I’m too preoccupied with every curve and the wiggle that goes with them.

As it turns out what I notice most now is that which is not available to me. The skirt chasing days were put to bed when I woke up from a foggish stupor uttering the words “I do.” Still in my older years I can put my sniffer to the wind and find the red hot mammas. Oh yes it is well known in my house; I’m the dog.!

Giosue'

DIRTY JOBS!

It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it” is a phrase often used regarding performing duties that are anything but pleasant. For instance being a sewer worker is not on the top of the hope lists of many, unless you are “The Honeymooner’s Ed Norton, or a member of a rodent family. The phrase is also used sarcastically for those things that are pleasant experiences. For example, waterskiing nude with Jennifer Anniston would be a welcome chore to many a man, but of course, we’d force ourself to do it.

There is actually a program on the Discovery Channel devoted to bringing you less than stellar jobs which are performed each episode by the lively host, Mike Rowe. Their program brings you such activities as working in a rock quarry, digging caves for wine, and a perennial favorite, Yak farming. Now of course there are plenty of jobs Mr. Rowe performs that involve, mud, dust, dirt and waste.

In everyday life there are some pretty monotonous work most of us have to put up with, but sweeping the floor or scrubbing the bathroom toilet with a toothbrush is about as far as it goes. Now mind you, if that sweeping involves using the family dog as the dust-mop, or utilizing your annoying little brother’s toothbrush for the bathroom, then it is not so unbearable. Actually it can involve a little bit of snickering on your part.

Traversing under the house in a crawlspace can be pretty bothersome, but its nothing compared to getting caught in your parent’s bedroom closet while searching for dad’s porno magazines or mom’s special marital aids. It’s much worse if you hear them coming, hide in the closet, and then dear ol’ mom and dad, thinking you are out of the house, decide to “get it on.” By the way, that’s the phrase that their generation used for it “back in the day.” Timeline-wise, that would be somewhere between the disappearance of the dinosaurs and the invention of dirt. Having to endure “the moves of the ancients” can be life altering if the closet is one of those with slats in the door.

One of the dirtiest jobs I ever dealt with was at gunpoint from a woman named Melissa, who practically attacked unusual parts of my body while I rested under a banyan tree in the Caribbean. Now that is pressure, but she certainly could perform being a dirty girl, and luckily finding the right dirty white boy for her antics. Not so comical but definitely a point loss for the heavenly bound.

One of the hardest jobs to achieve is to make people laugh. For every five tries you might get a snicker. Try for ten and you might get someone to really relieving stress with laughter. At my house I’m the funny one. Ever sarcastic, and with a captive audience, I can perpetrate humor upon my housemates until they either laugh, or throw me into the nearest wishing-well. Naturally the well is dry, and I’m too big for it, so once they realize their mistake, guilt will set in, and they’ll eventually have to find a troupe of Amish barn builders to gather the team of mules and pull me to safety. I know the fanfare, and it will be on every network. Until then, I’m just stuck here typing away on my laughter, trying to get a rise out of you. It’s a dirty filthy place to be working from. Then again, it’s a dirty job and somebody’s got to do it!

ROAD RAGE!

What is wrong with people? I know a little lady who thinks that yelling and screaming at people driving stupidly from behind a steering wheel is a sign of “road rage.” The latest namby-pamby coin of a phrase from doctoral eggheads looking to justify their existence, not only has turned “road rage” into an axiom, but it has pushed the concept into the American psychological lexicon. In the course of the average week, what big city commuter doesn’t have a couple of eye-popping, vein bulging gasket blowing, conniptions behind the wheel? This isn’t road-rage! It is merely the free expression of healthy ideas; mainly that the other guy needs to learn to care about us by getting the hell out of our way, or else crawl off to the shoulder and die.

This dynamic is what folks in the 1970’s, and before, simply referred to as driving. It was back in the day before seatbelts were introduced into cars. People were tough then;. even riders and children who were assured of their toughness by the hardness of their skulls bashing against dashboards all over America. Thank goodness you could put a Saint Christopher statue on your dash to watch over your bloody scalp without it being banned by politically correct anti-religious zealots! It is the great American past time to add some gentle critique on every other drivers skill level while emphasizing the high points with selected, suggestive gesturing.

Unfortunately the collegiate think-tanks have invented the concept of “anger management.” Of course “road rage” is one small portion which falls under the behemoth category of “anger management.”. You are heaped into this large category of offenders if you articulate your points of view emphatically while driving. This of course tends to frighten the timid bleeding heart, idealistic, commune-dwelling types. They are really at the heart of this big anger conspiracy. Their mommy’s didn’t hold them often enough when they were baby monkeys, and now everything scares them, including loud voices, backfiring cars, and people who disagree with them in the work place enough to staple their fingers to their desktop..

Immediately vocalizing your feelings rather than creating a pent up frustration has medical value. It is much healthier to express those feelings right away than to hold them back. Behind the wheel of a motorized, propelled, three ton vehicle, it is imperative to remain healthy! Much like the pressure cooker on a stovetop, the little safety valve of yelling and screaming through a closed window at complete strangers that just denied you a road-wise courtesy prevents maladies such as busting blood vessels that would explode and shoot your eyeballs from their sockets up against the inside of your car’s windshield. Unless you were wearing glasses, the outcome could delay arriving at your destination on time.

The real wacky ones are the drivers who stop their car, open the door and try to challenge you at your door side. Now that is taking speech into the realm of action, and is one step too far. That is how you can tell if there is really road rage. So be wary of loopy psychos that don’t know where to draw the line. The next time that some “fruit-loop” exits their vehicle to tell you how you didn’t give enough “signal time” before you changed lanes in front of him; you know you are facing road rage. As long as you keep your doors locked and your windows rolled up you should feel comfortable telling him what you think of him. Use selected fingers to dot your exclamation point. Now once he takes a swing at your window only then maybe, can you run him over!

WINKIN' LINCOLN

The Rock band “Faces” utilized a clever phrase with their 1971 album “A Wink is as Good as a Nod to a Blind Horse.” That axiom comes in handy when looking in retrospect at the gala Presidential inaugural held recently in the shadow of the Smithsonian. The astronomically priced festivities remind us of the excess found at a full blown pink-satin Rod Stewart post concert party. The Capital, where all of the important swearing-in occurred, lies at one end of the Washington Mall. Given the tons of garbage left behind, the aftermath reveals that those in attendance were surely not “earth-friendly” but rather a Styrofoam generating throng of star struck drooling followers. If you could cut through the astral plain you might have heard a few different choice words coming from the Lincoln Memorial at the other end of the Ellipse. The large white statue depicting arguably the most important U.S. President, Abraham Lincoln, could have been the place to hear after-life murmurs of a different kind of swearing.

That is not to say that Lincoln wouldn’t like Obama, or the people he attracts, he probably would. The pair does share some connections. Both now belong to quite an exclusive club consisting of a mere 44 males. No it is not a Dumbo-sized ear club for men! All the President’s have been men of course. It sounds a bit sexist, but why would anyone want to be ruled by an administration headed by a woman anyway? Heck that would be just like being married! Perhaps that is the reason that both Hilary and Sarah bumped their noggins on that glass ceiling.

The similarities between Abe and Barrack don’t simply end with the fact that both of these bean-poles are from Illinois. With a little make up and some straw they could be used in corn fields to scare crows. Lincoln’s tall gangly countenance reminds us that his hideously large sized ears were the things holding up those top-hats. The current large-lobe challenged President hasn’t yet discovered the virtue of hats, but nevertheless has magically been deemed qualified to be placed among the D.C. marble. This, despite the fact that he hasn’t even served a hundred days yet! Lincoln had to put up with Mary Todd, but still gave it his all. Obama merely gave us a good campaign and some wild dancing on Oprah. Still, there were no less that 3 commercial products depicting smiling Barack on coins, plates and guacamole dip.

No freshman rookie gets their face plastered on the Mount Rushmore of Mexican dishes until he has done phenomenal feats such as inventing the sombrero. Occasionally however, along comes a personality so revered that the entire population takes a siesta for four years, or the cacophony inverts so loudly that the poles reverse. Obama is just such a figure. In his case no one is sleeping because the grating noise of well wishers is loud enough to make a grown man squint.

So would the man who freed the slaves be happy about America’s election of a man of color? In Honest Abe’s case, there is no telling if his response to Obama’s ascension is a wince of distain, or an approving wink to go with the invisible nod. To the masses who are the blind horses in all of this, it doesn’t matter because once you are big enough to be pictured on food, it doesn’t matter how well sighted the horse. All that matters is that we giddy up!

C'MON EVERYBODY, EXERCISE!

I have a theory as to why America has gotten so obese! Even our children have become little porkers. I can’t remember more than one person in my elementary school class that was overweight all of those years ago. Of course that one poor little fat kid that we nicknamed “Hunky Chunky Monkey” was excoriated ruthlessly by the rest of us thinner children in the name of comic relief. The only thing more interesting to talk about was Alana. She was the only other classmate aside from the chunky one who required a bra. She was popular because her chest was fat not despite it.

The rise in per capita weight within the citizenry coincides with the decline of the teen pregnancy rate. Kids are binging still, but no longer upon one another. In the 1980’s carnal snacking was quite the rage and created unwanted babies at an alarming rate. Kids were plopped onto the planet by unwed child-mothers who had the bodies of sticks and all of the sensuality of salmon swimming upstream. Somehow the boy population in those days didn’t need anything more than to share their testosterone with nearest shapeless girl as a societal pressure relief valve.

This phenomenon is not that different than what you find in marriages today. At the beginning, newlyweds are bumping and grinding like rabbits. You can tell who’s a recently married couple by simply taking a walk around the neighborhood on a few successive nights. The houses you hear all of those strange noises coming from all of the time are the ones with the bride and groom actively romping through their pleasure room. Listen long enough and you’ll hear performing feats of spectacular delight with a repertoire befitting its own chapter in the Kama Sutra. It may sound like she is being knifed, or he is doing a mad- bull stuck in a tar pit imitation, but really those are just the sound of true love (or some sloppy rendering, pleasures of the flesh).

Once the children start arriving for a couple the libido death knell is sounded. The ladies usually lose interest; the men forget what made them famous in the courtship, and focus more on how to land their lips around the tip of a long neck bottle of beer rather than around their woman in the same seductive way.

Then after a period of time, couples start to swallow all of the pent up sexual frustration. Just because there is no getting-it-on in great frequency anymore doesn’t mean the hormones don’t still rage. Fools start to consume their frustration in various forms of food and drink. To excess they go as they replace their favorite well positioned activities with a different sensory stimulation geared toward the taste buds. With the world of processed high fat foods the next thing you find is that the 9 months of gestation is replaced by 9 months of ingestion resulting in that mound above your waistline; it isn’t a baby either, it’s a beer belly.

If you want to find the most sexually frustrated folks in the neighborhood check out the largest ones. They are making their moves on a box of frosted flakes, a bowl of ice cream, a load of Oreo cookies, and a box of donuts instead of upon their spouse. You’ll notice that the ones gaining weight are on the down slope of the Saturday night love-machine frolics, while the ones getting in shape are rolling in the hay most often. Note that silent skinny person in the neighborhood; they don’t talk ‘cause their hoarse from all of that midnight vocalization between the sheets. They’re happy and making it, laughing all the way to the Lovin’ Time’s store for more supplies.

Staying in shape certainly means more than it use to in our modern society and now you know where one needs to be to properly exercise your mind, body and your demons. The bedroom is America’s gymnasium and playground. More couples need to get back to that regular role-playing slurp-sounding, great-to-be-alive style of exercise.

Christmas Magic

How does a fat man get down a skinny chimney? Some of us barely fit through the front door! Well of course its Christmas magic. When you were a youngster anything was possible. The world was full of wonder, and excitement except when Aunt Gertrude came to town with her penchant for over-squeezing cheek pinching. The didn’t know her own strength vise grip was only outdone by the uncountable whiskers on her chin! Then, it was run for the nearest closet under the stairs and hope they didn’t miss you.

As far as the true magic of the season, it rests in all of our traditions. Who can get through it without a couple of good size turkeys making the ultimate sacrifice? This of course is so that we can sit our overstuffed carcasses in front of an oversized flat screen plasma TV and nod off, resting upon our oversized double chins during special football games. As usual the teams are a pair; one superior display of talent against a group that plays like a collection of women from the Red Hat Society. Nevertheless the whole family laying about the hovel like they were a bunch of tired basset hounds back after a long day’s hunt is pretty typical. It’s sort of a Norman Rockwell meets the Beverly Hillbillies; picturesque but not exactly inspiring of Christmas’ past.

The erosion of the true holiday’s message, giving each other gold and frankincense (no one can seem to find myrrh anymore), has been gradual, steady and to benefit of Mr. Claus’ celebrity status. Here’s a guy who invades your home (breaking and entering), dressed in a red furry suit (fashion disaster), and not only does he not take anything, but he leaves you stuff (insanity). Of course in our materialistic society, he’s going to be a right popular ol’ elf! His mode of transportation is also out of this world too (space alien). How does one get a gig like this? Imagine working one day a year, giving stuff away to the needy and the greedy, and being revered more than Brittany Spear’s silicone implanted trailer trash play humps: sounds like every youngsters dream!

As an adult of course things are a bit different. You become a bit more jaded, cynical and the closets are no longer big enough to hide from unwanted hairy-faced family. As a matter of fact people can get so swept up by the holiday that they actually sit and talk with Aunt Gertie now, pretending as if her face full of hair is not a good conversation starter. The magic may still be there and you can view it in the wonder-filled eyes of your snot-nosed children; they’re sort of just like you use to before adulthood transformed you into a neurotic shell-shocked whimpering remnant of your former self.

The traditions are still wonderful though a bit more varied, diluted, or disappointing. Stockings are still hung and by the chimney with care but mistletoe for instance, is something that’s missing. For countless Christmas’ as a child the “love bush” hung in the doorway so that when guests came over like Aunt Gertie with her face of stubble she could righteously expect a lip-smacking welcome. It was after all the closest she got to intimacy after Uncle Herbie up and perished in that mysterious backyard mineshaft disaster. All they ever found of him was his little black book, the one with five stars next to that mysterious girls name (Bambi) written in lipstick. However, today when you need decent noticeable size mistletoe vegetation, you can’t find the stuff to hang up anymore. Too bad because there are finally some good looking neighbors worth planting one on and you’re interested to see if they offer egg-nog induced tongue action..

Yet, despite it all we still find a quiet moment on Christmas Eve. Usually it is 3:00am after the last minute round of midnight madness shopping at the all night 7-11 (yeah, Slurpees and meat snacks for everyone’s stocking). When the wheezing from all of the rushing around has finally died down, we can reflect on the real meaning of the holiday; never getting what you really wanted!

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You see if you look hard enough some things don’t change throughout your entire life whether its prickly facial encounters or the roundness of a fat man in the room on Christmas - never mind that he is now your husband instead of your father. The presents may be smaller; the joy a bit more tempered yet there is magic just the same. The Christmas tree blinks its silent message in the stillness as you reach to place the last of the presents under the tree before Santa shows up.

Of course reaching under the tree with your face in the bottom branches sort of reminds you of kissing Aunt Gertrude and her pine needle whiskers. You may shudder, but it’s really the chill of an ol’ familiar feeling.

CARS FROM MARS

The powers that be could vote to change America’s car fleet fuel system at any time. In order to switch from dead dinosaur-goo powered propulsion to water, or air-driven engines to save the planet from the Abominable Global-Warming Monster, all Congress has to do is wave its petroleum soaked wand. Abracadabra! We could change into a gluttonous sweet-toothed, sugar-cane driven nation to fuel our cars. We would force ourselves to eat less too. Not only would it trim our waistlines but eliminating the foggy cloud resulting from fossil fuels would enable us to see angels smiling upon us and birds gleefully tweeting. Then living in such a Madison Avenue commercial could be in our future.

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods at the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. The hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

The difference between the unsightly Pacer and today’s gruesome pod-sized atmosphere- friendly designs is that the Pacer seemed to be made out of metal. The modern death traps that the industry is offering a nervous public seem too lightweight. They could fly if each passenger put an arm out of a window at the same time. That might be necessary given the limited creature comforts, such as space, that these mechanized midgets present. They do not inspire safety, or an esthetically pleasing sense of taste. They completely ignore the cool factor.

Guys who thought being seen behind the wheel of a soccer-mom sporty van shudder when they see the Mork from Ork motor vehicles that salivating granola munching environmentalists seem to favor in the current crop of earth friendly autos. These cars from mars remind one of the Merry Melodies cartoons of ages past featuring Marvin the Martian. He was about as popular as the Edsel too! He didn’t drive a car, but in a turnabout with Bugs Bunny, Marvin would be the instigator of antics that the poor rabbit endured trying to save the Earth from the odd looking Martian. The zany antics come to mind when one views the designs of the “inventive offerings’ of modern earth-favorables from the auto industry. Like Marvin we might seek destruction of the earth rather than its salvation after we spend any time squished in one of these modern mechanical monstrosities. The feeling inspired by their appearance and performance is a desire to drive the ever so clean, fuel efficient, four-wheeler, off of the nearest cliff.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. We won't have to refer to the car of the future as being the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”

THE NEW AMERICAN BIRD!

Ben Franklin, the consummate in-depth thinker, all around colonial genius and well rounded panty-chaser is about to be proven insightful once more. Living in a time without Rogain (note his bald head on the $100 bill) and knickers, the “creator extraordinaire” laid down his own personality template. I’m not just talking about the sex drive of an old man sliding his hands on supple naked lady-ness well into his eighties. The history suggests he may have had long term vision, and it wasn’t because of his new fangled invention (wire rimmed eye glasses).

The leaders of his day struggled for a Declaration of Independence while Franklin was one of the proponents of creating a national emblem befitting of the colonies heritage and traditions. You might think it would be a “wild hare” given its proclivity to reproduce almost as much as Franklin himself. The Philadelphian and most popular founding father pictured on U.S. money that was never a President however, wanted the national bird to be the turkey.

How could such an gifted man propose that a bird willing to stand with its head stretched in the air facing skyward, mouth opened catching raindrops until the damn thing drowns was indicative of America. Did he really think it resembled anything of the America he helped to birth? The answer is that his insight was long and far reaching though a bit muddled by lacey bodices.

The feathery gobbler after all was an emblem of all that was good in America between original settlers and the Native Americans they found when Europeans landed on her shores. Given the source, you might have expected the back of the $100 bill to picture a brothel instead of Independence Hall. Nevertheless Franklin was a man of passion decision, opinion, and as it turns out extra sensory perception (ESP).

Look around yourself today. Culturally you will notice little resemblance to even the 1980’s. The traditions have been sliding down the proverbial slippery slope for at least that long. It is almost as if we are virgins that have plunked down our first $25 waiting to see what kind of whore and bottle of booze it will buy us. We are as oblivious as Tom the Turkey; ever satisfied to keep overstuffing ourselves. The country is drunk with success, pomp and circumstance, singing glory to ourselves while the lumberjack sharpens his Thanksgiving Day ax right before our eyes.

The bald eagle surely symbolized the more than two hundred years reflecting America’s rugged individualism that carried the nation. Today that eagle is much more of a turkey. The eagle a fierce-looking, domineering hunter ever vigilant to guard and defend her territory once survived on its wits. The sustenance upon the weak and more venerable of Mother Nature’s domain had been replaced by a sniveling whiney geekish kind of existence. A country that was once John Wayne has become a society of Don Knotts.

Today one can conclude that maybe Franklin had it right, we were destined to be a nation of turkey’s not eagles! He might have been stimulated by our loose moral values in the name of sexual gratification, but he likely wouldn’t have enjoyed the last 20 years of American politics.

In the movie 1776 John Adams (played by William Daniels) moans to Franklin (William De Silva) that he would be forgotten by posterity. He muses that Franklin will be credited for its success. “Franklin did this, and Franklin did that.” Adams states. “Franklin smoked the ground and out popped George Washington on his horse. Then he, Franklin, and the horse defeated the British all by themselves. Franklin responds “I like it!” He is remembered as a serious man with a sense of humor. Until about 200 years after the fathers founded the country it seemed likely that men with so much on the ball, like Franklin would be perfect candidates for President.

Most recently, that eagle had to be rescued by Ronald Reagan. In a mere short 20 years since the country has once again molted turkishly. It now waddles around the holding pen at Thanksgiving time waiting for the much talked-about grand feast; still not realizing that it is the guest of honor on the table not at it.

Franklin and his extensive hanky panky would have been right in fighting for a Rhode Island Red emblem. For today’s sexually charged culture both our propensity for nakedness and all things foul are two enduring legacies of the American dream. Maybe Franklin who liked women’s legs more, saw through the history of mankind enough to know that one day our sturdy cowboy haunches would end up as turkey legs.

ANOTHER F-ING HOLIDAY!

After all of those years of mutual assured destruction, duck and cover jingles in the classroom, and downright dreaded doom of cold war reality, there is finally something about Russia to be admired. The headline in the Denver Post from late summer said it all! Russians get day off to procreate, then win prizes. It almost makes one want to become a communist.

As the story goes the Russian region of Ulyanovsk is fighting the Russian trend of a population decline. More Russians are dying than being born. That might have cause great cheer 30 years ago, but today the solution is inspiring. Russia has one-seventh of the worlds land mass, but only141 million people occupy the space. This region is offering a unique way for folks to give birth to “a patriot” on Russia’s national day.

Their procreation day dubbed the “Day of Conception” is September 12th. Who could argue with a holiday for something called the National Day of Conception, no matter when it’s celebrated? I can almost guarantee that 99 44/100% of the male population of the U.S. would line up the night before to participate in that holiday! On top of that if you give birth on Independence Day you stand a chance of winning prizes! Last year’s Russian couple collected an SUV. Others won TV’s, refrigerators, washing machines, and the like. In America such an SUV could be manufactured on a strictly limited basis. Produce only one of them a year for the contest winner and it will be deemed an instant “classic”. Of course the SUV could be produced by any car company as long as the model has a name like “the Sexcapade”, or we could just give the winner a hummer….again. Imagine finally being able to claim a trophy for your bedroom antics!

The U.S. would go wild for that especially if that means we get a “day off”, so to speak. Imagine the sounds around your neighborhood as everybody did their part and “pitched in.” Not only would it be rhythmic, but it would probably prove melodic and ear-plug worthy if the neighbor’s are anything like the people at my house. The holiday would be guaranteed to surpass Halloween and all of the others combined with the exception of Christmas. Christmas is mainly for children anyway so why not give the adults that are still young at heart their own humping holiday?

Since July 4th is our day of Independence, 9 months prior would be October 4th. That just so happens to be my wife’s birthday so it works doubly well for me. Who wouldn’t want to have their birthday off from work in order to lather up? I mean on your birthday you practically have to be in a coma not to get lucky! Even comatose patience sometimes “get some” depending on the quality of care of the nursing home they’ve been placed in unwittingly.

A day off for carnal knowledge as a goal sounds much more American than Russian. It also sounds like any night in every singles bar, but this would be different. It would be the duty of every citizen to “give it their all” for the good America’s future. It would be your duty damn it, your duty! Even the weirdo’s, grosso’s, fatso’s, and the freakishly hideous would have a sporting chance. Think of it as a holiday you’d be eager to celebrate; akin to those desperate last moments of your life. How else would you want to spend that time other than going out with a bang?

As the years go by, this annual holiday would give the U.S. all of the little rugrats that it will need to someday pay and reconstitute a sagging Social Security system. We’ll grow are way out of the looming Social Security crisis. The government for generations to come will be able to keep dipping their corrupt hands into the Social Security Fund, all because of our newly found holiday. We won’t have to worry about worker-to-retiree ratios anymore, or how much money is in the fund. When there are enough of the little buggers born, then we could curtail the program or give out condoms. No need to cut benefits, or raise premiums. Heck we could probably lower the cost to each of us. This is after all the country that gave us the sexual revolution, the pill, aids, Madonna, Brittany Spears, Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and a cast of Hollywood tramps dedicated to flaunting the human form; especially without underpants.

The years that October 4th would fall on a Wednesday would give new meaning to the phrase “Hump Day”. In any event the only way to traverse the ills of this country is through a national procreation day. Grow, grow, grow should be our chant. That is the same tune sung by many women any night of the week in most married person’s bedrooms around the country. The guy’s part of the process is like that of the blind man on the corner, only there’s no cup, no pencils; just an equal amount of begging. In a few years I’m sure the day destined to be the happiest of all holidays will carry it’s own slogan; something like “National Procreation Day, America’s favorite F-ing holiday!”

THE SEASON OF FEAR!

The Season of Fear
By Giosue Santarelli

When was the last time that you had a good scare? Don’t count the kind of bone chilling that has you reviewing at your depleted 401K account and looking for the nearest bolder to tie around your neck. Halloween rolls around every year and as dependable as the decline of the stock market in the fall, autumn’s ghoulish goblins conjure up all sorts of haunts.

So many years ago when trick or treating was more simplistic, so were the kids and their imaginations. Jumping out from behind a bush could make a youngster scale the nearest tree in two seconds flat, but spending time with crazy Aunt Helen was a more dicey experience. Her propensity to wear oversized droopy stockings always made her appear as if she had elephant-skin legs, not to mention her propensity to leave the bathroom door open at the worst possible time. If you thought Halloween was frightening, that kind of stuff could scare the heebie geebies out of you.

The fall is our time to fear. It seems to parallel hurricane season. Perhaps it is the winds of change blowing in the remnants of old dead sea-faring pirates ashore. Their spirits, which have found no rest (and no buries treasure), stir up frightful notions. Those pesky Jack Sparrow look-a-likes are everywhere leading up to the end of October. You wouldn’t want Johnny Depp showing up at your house either. He’s always got a far away look in his eyes and his demeanor can be more like Edward Scissor Hands than the regular guy next door. Here’s a guy who prefers to live in France, a place that has even more ancient haunts and creepy castles than the U.S. How sane is that?

The season of fear often starts during back to school shopping. Candy corn often starts the trend. Can there be anything more Hellish than candy corn or more frightening than the prospect of having to eat more than a hand full of the sickeningly sweet harvest colored confection? I think I still have some candy corn from my trick or treating days back in 1966. The stuff never goes away! It is like the cockroach of candy. It has always been around and would probably survive a nuclear holocaust.

Scary displays of skeletons that only use to be available in the school science lab show up in store aisles too. Something that looks like Ferdinand the peg-leg sailor who donated his old dried carcass to medical science so that he’d have enough money to be buried shows up regularly in the Halloween displays. What kind of a school accepts a peg leg skeleton anyway? Of course old Ferdie would have preferred to be buried at sea, but he splurged his after-life money on big bottles of booze and wenches with big boobs. That is why skeletons always look as if they are smiling!

Pumpkins show up in stores as if they belong there. In decades past there were simple triangular eyes, nose and a few teeth in a hastily engraved mouth. Today there are kits with elaborate templates that require more carving skill than Jack the Ripper. With the right kit you can make your Jack-O-Lantern look like Vincent Price in the aftermath of a Michael Jackson video. Now that’s scary!

If you’re cable connected there are plenty of ghostly shows about real life encounters with spirits and other deceased wanderers. These programs often look like they were filmed by the same demented crew from the Blair Witch Project. Some whole networks are devoted to paranormal and use night-vision film to record much of their eerie atmosphere. It is like watching a reality show version of Poltergeist, only it is filled with delusional story tellers named Bubba and Lorleen. It always seems that their haunted houses are in the country highlighted with cold spots and of particular interest is the camera taking parapsychologists who make the Ghost Busters look like intellectual geniuses. These shysters can somehow always find a plethora of slightly deranged citizens to let you know about their basement rattlings or how the ghost of their dead uncle Clyde knocks on the ceiling from the attic space twice a night because he’s looking for his missing pooch, hector. These characters of course display no action at all when the camera is in place. Watching those folks can send a shiver down your spine when you realize that they are the very people listed in political surveys as “likely voters.’ Now that reveals something really scary this Halloween season!