Forty-three years was apparently long enough for one of America’s favorite celebrity couples, as word came last week that they were calling it quits.
I am talking, of course, about Barbara Millicent Roberts and Kenneth Carson, better known by their professional names: Barbie and Ken.
Lest you think I jest, Russell Arons, vice president of marketing for Mattel and the couple’s "business manager," was quoted in newspapers as saying that the pair "feel it’s time to spend some quality time – apart."
According to Arons, while Barbie and Ken’s "Hollywood romance has come to an end," the duo plan to remain friends. He also denied rumors that the breakup was caused by Barbie’s recent transformation into "Cali Girl," complete with deep tan, board shorts, bikini top and a new admirer in Australian boogie boarder "Blaine."
Barbie and Ken became a couple shortly after meeting on the set of a television commercial back in 1961. In fact, Arons hinted that the split was related to Ken’s reluctance to propose to the doll queen. Given the number of the times Barbie chose to model bridal gowns over the years, it was fairly obvious she had marriage on her mind. Only someone with a molded head could fail to see the signs.
Unfortunately, since the release of Arons’ statements, the pair have resorted to mudslinging in the press. I understand that Ken fired the first salvo, calling Barbie "pretty to look at, but ultimately, plastic."
Barbie fired back by pointing out Ken’s "obvious shortcomings in the manhood department."
Ken responded by implying that Barbie was "a little loose." This may have been tied to the recurring rumor that Barbie once had an affair with GI Joe.
Not to be outdone, Barbie claimed that Ken was "a stiff in bed – and not in a good way, either."
Stung by her remarks, a wounded Ken is quoted as calling Barbie "dumb as a pet rock."
When asked about rumors that he too had an affair with GI Joe, Ken offered this explanation: "Look, it was the 1970s. Us dolls were experimenting with a lot of stuff back then. Did GI Joe and I find ourselves naked in the back of my Volkswagen Microbus one night? Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it."
Meanwhile, Barbie was said to be consulting with Mattel officials regarding further changes to her image. Apparently, some of the ideas on the drawing board include redesigning her derriere to make it more "bootylicious," exposing one of her breasts at this year’s baseball all-star game and auditioning for a spot in the next edition of "Celebrity Mole."
I can’t say that this whole affair shocks me. Celebrity relationships seem destined to fail and, when they do, mudslinging is quick to follow.
But isn’t that really what we want? Messy breakups are certainly a whole lot more fun than watching our favorite celebrity couples live happily ever after or, even worse, achieve an amicable separation.
Maybe it’s a case of envy – we don’t get to experience the fame and fortune showered upon American celebrities, so we derive a wee bit of pleasure watching their personal lives fall apart.
In fact, I have a suspicion that in the bargain bin of a suburban Toys R Us somewhere in the heartland, there’s a GI Joe who’s laughing his ass off right now.
Copyright 2004 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Friday, February 27, 2004
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Some quick takes on recent events...
Item: Super Bowl halftime show leaves NFL and CBS outraged.
Apparently, NFL now stands for No Flashing League and CBS for Cover Boobies on Stage. But really, the response from all of the parties involved in the halftime exposure of Janet Jackson’s right breast, from the league and the television network to Ms. Jackson and Justin Timberlake, seems a little disingenuous to me.
Both performers were quick to blame the incident on equipment failure. Allegedly, Ms. Jackson’s red bra was the only thing the parties intended to reveal, but the “material collapsed,” allowing her boob to spring forth from its hiding place.
Now, I’ve been working on the removal of bras for nearly 30 years and I’ve never seen one of the cups simply “collapse.” And I’m sure that if one had, there wouldn’t have been a sun-shaped “nipple plate” underneath.
As for the outrage expressed by NFL and CBS officials, one wonders what they were expecting. The exposure occurred during a song and dance routine in which the performers simulated sex. The titillating performance was climaxed by Timberlake singing “I’m gonna have you naked by the end of this song,” then reaching to pull off Jackson’s “breast plate.”
Officials for the NFL and CBS apparently were okay with these events, so long as they did not result in full exposure. When the equipment “failed,” they reacted as if their wholesome halftime show had been sabotaged. Give me a break.
Item: Misspelling words on eBay can really cost you.
Nearly $25 billion worth of goods were sold on eBay last year. In case you’ve just been rescued from Gilligan’s Island, eBay is a website on which people offer items for sale, and other people bid against one-another to buy the items. When the time limit for auction expires, the highest bidder generally wins the right to purchase the item.
Many items, however, do not get nearly the number of bids one might expect. As a result, these items sell for far less than they are truly worth. The reason, in many cases, is the seller’s misspelling of the item.
For instance, a barely-used, top-of-the-line mountain bicycle might generate 50 bids, with the winner paying $500 or more for the bike. However, a barely-used, top-of-the-line mountain bycicle might generate only 3 bids, with the winner paying less than $100 for the byke.
Many people peruse the eBay listings in search of just this sort of mistake, hoping to profit from another’s bad fortune (or is it fourtune?). Personally, I think it can serve as a valuable lesson for my oldest son, who believes proper spelling is nothing but a nuisance. He might not feel that way after he sells some of his sports memorabelea on eBay to raise money for a new byke.
Item: The Cuban navy is at it again.
Last week they made another unsuccessful attempt to cross the Straits of Florida. The “they” I am speaking of is Marciel Basanta Lopez and Luis Grass Rodriguez, the two Cuban men who attempted to drive to the U.S. last summer in a 1951 Ford they had converted into something resembling a boat. This time, they used a 1959 Buick sedan, its doors welded shut, a prop attached to its drivetrain. They also brought nine other Cubans along for the ride.
Unfortunately, the U.S. Coast Guard picked them up short of their destination, sank the bright-green boatmobile, and escorted the group back to their homeland.
These guys certainly get my respect for their relentless, if slightly askew, pursuit of their goal. And if they do reach American soil one day (where U.S. policy of “wet foot, dry foot” would likely provide them with asylum), you can be sure that Hollywood will quickly enable them to achieve their American dreams.
Item: Quiznos Subs releases some strange commercials.
Have you seen the latest t.v. commercials for Quiznos Subs? In a word, they are unappetizing.
The commercials involve two singing puppets. Not necessarily a bad idea, except the puppets bear a striking resemblance to a pair of rats who have just undergone electro-shock therapy. Their eyes bulge out, and their hair is all frazzled. In the commercials, they sort of float in the air, singing about their love of Quiznos submarine sandwiches in high-pitched, nasally voices.
I don’t know about you, but I have to believe that utilizing rats in connection with a restaurant’s advertising is a pretty big no-no. Particularly when the rats appear to be strung out on drugs (though that might explain their ravenous appetites).
About the only way these commercials could get any worse would be if one of them had a boob accidentally pop out.
Copyright 2004 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Apparently, NFL now stands for No Flashing League and CBS for Cover Boobies on Stage. But really, the response from all of the parties involved in the halftime exposure of Janet Jackson’s right breast, from the league and the television network to Ms. Jackson and Justin Timberlake, seems a little disingenuous to me.
Both performers were quick to blame the incident on equipment failure. Allegedly, Ms. Jackson’s red bra was the only thing the parties intended to reveal, but the “material collapsed,” allowing her boob to spring forth from its hiding place.
Now, I’ve been working on the removal of bras for nearly 30 years and I’ve never seen one of the cups simply “collapse.” And I’m sure that if one had, there wouldn’t have been a sun-shaped “nipple plate” underneath.
As for the outrage expressed by NFL and CBS officials, one wonders what they were expecting. The exposure occurred during a song and dance routine in which the performers simulated sex. The titillating performance was climaxed by Timberlake singing “I’m gonna have you naked by the end of this song,” then reaching to pull off Jackson’s “breast plate.”
Officials for the NFL and CBS apparently were okay with these events, so long as they did not result in full exposure. When the equipment “failed,” they reacted as if their wholesome halftime show had been sabotaged. Give me a break.
Item: Misspelling words on eBay can really cost you.
Nearly $25 billion worth of goods were sold on eBay last year. In case you’ve just been rescued from Gilligan’s Island, eBay is a website on which people offer items for sale, and other people bid against one-another to buy the items. When the time limit for auction expires, the highest bidder generally wins the right to purchase the item.
Many items, however, do not get nearly the number of bids one might expect. As a result, these items sell for far less than they are truly worth. The reason, in many cases, is the seller’s misspelling of the item.
For instance, a barely-used, top-of-the-line mountain bicycle might generate 50 bids, with the winner paying $500 or more for the bike. However, a barely-used, top-of-the-line mountain bycicle might generate only 3 bids, with the winner paying less than $100 for the byke.
Many people peruse the eBay listings in search of just this sort of mistake, hoping to profit from another’s bad fortune (or is it fourtune?). Personally, I think it can serve as a valuable lesson for my oldest son, who believes proper spelling is nothing but a nuisance. He might not feel that way after he sells some of his sports memorabelea on eBay to raise money for a new byke.
Item: The Cuban navy is at it again.
Last week they made another unsuccessful attempt to cross the Straits of Florida. The “they” I am speaking of is Marciel Basanta Lopez and Luis Grass Rodriguez, the two Cuban men who attempted to drive to the U.S. last summer in a 1951 Ford they had converted into something resembling a boat. This time, they used a 1959 Buick sedan, its doors welded shut, a prop attached to its drivetrain. They also brought nine other Cubans along for the ride.
Unfortunately, the U.S. Coast Guard picked them up short of their destination, sank the bright-green boatmobile, and escorted the group back to their homeland.
These guys certainly get my respect for their relentless, if slightly askew, pursuit of their goal. And if they do reach American soil one day (where U.S. policy of “wet foot, dry foot” would likely provide them with asylum), you can be sure that Hollywood will quickly enable them to achieve their American dreams.
Item: Quiznos Subs releases some strange commercials.
Have you seen the latest t.v. commercials for Quiznos Subs? In a word, they are unappetizing.
The commercials involve two singing puppets. Not necessarily a bad idea, except the puppets bear a striking resemblance to a pair of rats who have just undergone electro-shock therapy. Their eyes bulge out, and their hair is all frazzled. In the commercials, they sort of float in the air, singing about their love of Quiznos submarine sandwiches in high-pitched, nasally voices.
I don’t know about you, but I have to believe that utilizing rats in connection with a restaurant’s advertising is a pretty big no-no. Particularly when the rats appear to be strung out on drugs (though that might explain their ravenous appetites).
About the only way these commercials could get any worse would be if one of them had a boob accidentally pop out.
Copyright 2004 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Auto Show Etiquette
Recently, I took the family to the 2004 edition of the North American International Auto Show in downtown Detroit.
As life-long residents of the Motor City, I believe its our civic duty to brave the bitter cold and swarm-like crowds to attend the annual event. Plus, the cars are pretty darn cool.
Of course, during the drive to the show, my wife and I once again laid down the law for my two sons and their tag-along friend. The ground rules include the ever-popular "Always stay within eyesight", the utilitarian "Remember to use your manors" and the hopelessly optimistic "Don’t ask us to buy you anything – particularly if it requires an owner’s manual."
Once inside the cavernous exhibition hall, the three boys adhered to our guidelines in a manner which can only be described as commendable. Unfortunately, the actions of many grown-ups in attendance left much to be desired.
As a result, the following is my brief list of rules for adults who are planning to attend an upcoming auto show in their hometown:
DO have a seat inside the various open models located on the floor.
DON’T lock yourself in, then sit for 10 minutes pretending you are engaged in a high-speed chase on the Autobahn. This is particularly apropos when people are lined up for a turn to sit in the car, and we can all see you making "Varoom! Varoom!" noises on the inside.
DO lift your three-year-old out of his stroller to give him a better look at the $80,000 Range Rover that has drawn a small crowd.
DON’T allow your three-year-old unsupervised access to the interior of said Range Rover, especially if that three-year-old has a sticky, foreign substance all over his clothing and views the lap of the unrelated adult sitting behind the wheel as nothing more than a built-in booster seat.
DO stand and politely admire your favorite car.
DON’T walk into the middle of a group of people admiring a certain model and say out-loud, "Wow, that car is butt-ugly!"
DO help yourself to the free brochures for the various production and concept cars on display.
DON’T grab enough brochures to wallpaper your den, leaving an empty box for the child waiting politely behind you.
DO ask the pretty spokesmodel standing near a concept car questions about said vehicle.
DON’T ask the pretty spokesmodel to go for a ride in your car.
DO check out the multitude of useful storage bins placed throughout the new Lincoln Navigator.
DON’T use one of said storage binds to dispose of the paper cup from your tall caramel macchiato.
DO suppress all bodily emissions while seated in a floor model with three other people you don’t know.
DON’T slip one out and then exit the car, leaving the other occupants to suffer in silence.
DO ask for your wife’s opinion of the hot, little convertible number she has secretly desired for years.
DON’T ask for your wife’s opinion of the latest minivan model, especially after she vowed to shave your head bald while you slept the last time you brought up the "M" word.
Now, one might be able to come up with additional rules if given time, but I think the preceding is a pretty good start. In fact, if auto show attendees would simply adhere to these guidelines, I am certain the event would prove to be more enjoyable for all concerned.
With that said, I need to go check the mirror to see whether my hair is starting to grow back.
Copyright 2004 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
As life-long residents of the Motor City, I believe its our civic duty to brave the bitter cold and swarm-like crowds to attend the annual event. Plus, the cars are pretty darn cool.
Of course, during the drive to the show, my wife and I once again laid down the law for my two sons and their tag-along friend. The ground rules include the ever-popular "Always stay within eyesight", the utilitarian "Remember to use your manors" and the hopelessly optimistic "Don’t ask us to buy you anything – particularly if it requires an owner’s manual."
Once inside the cavernous exhibition hall, the three boys adhered to our guidelines in a manner which can only be described as commendable. Unfortunately, the actions of many grown-ups in attendance left much to be desired.
As a result, the following is my brief list of rules for adults who are planning to attend an upcoming auto show in their hometown:
DO have a seat inside the various open models located on the floor.
DON’T lock yourself in, then sit for 10 minutes pretending you are engaged in a high-speed chase on the Autobahn. This is particularly apropos when people are lined up for a turn to sit in the car, and we can all see you making "Varoom! Varoom!" noises on the inside.
DO lift your three-year-old out of his stroller to give him a better look at the $80,000 Range Rover that has drawn a small crowd.
DON’T allow your three-year-old unsupervised access to the interior of said Range Rover, especially if that three-year-old has a sticky, foreign substance all over his clothing and views the lap of the unrelated adult sitting behind the wheel as nothing more than a built-in booster seat.
DO stand and politely admire your favorite car.
DON’T walk into the middle of a group of people admiring a certain model and say out-loud, "Wow, that car is butt-ugly!"
DO help yourself to the free brochures for the various production and concept cars on display.
DON’T grab enough brochures to wallpaper your den, leaving an empty box for the child waiting politely behind you.
DO ask the pretty spokesmodel standing near a concept car questions about said vehicle.
DON’T ask the pretty spokesmodel to go for a ride in your car.
DO check out the multitude of useful storage bins placed throughout the new Lincoln Navigator.
DON’T use one of said storage binds to dispose of the paper cup from your tall caramel macchiato.
DO suppress all bodily emissions while seated in a floor model with three other people you don’t know.
DON’T slip one out and then exit the car, leaving the other occupants to suffer in silence.
DO ask for your wife’s opinion of the hot, little convertible number she has secretly desired for years.
DON’T ask for your wife’s opinion of the latest minivan model, especially after she vowed to shave your head bald while you slept the last time you brought up the "M" word.
Now, one might be able to come up with additional rules if given time, but I think the preceding is a pretty good start. In fact, if auto show attendees would simply adhere to these guidelines, I am certain the event would prove to be more enjoyable for all concerned.
With that said, I need to go check the mirror to see whether my hair is starting to grow back.
Copyright 2004 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, December 30, 2003
Is There a Mind-Reader in the House?
This is not going to be easy, but I feel it is my duty as a purveyor of goodwill between the sexes to address a long-standing misconception.
Women (and you know who you are), it is high time you realized the truth about us men: We are simple creatures, and we take what you say at face value.
I know you have suspected the "simple" part of this statement for some time now (say, from the moment you first saw us use the great outdoors as a bathroom), but let me put to rest any doubts you may have: It’s not an act.
We men are a guileless (and frequently clueless) fraternity. When you say something like, "Whatever you make for dinner will be fine," we believe you. As a result, we are flabbergasted when you berate us for serving you fish sticks and tater tots.
Apparently, you expect us to develop mind-reading capabilities as a result of taking our marriage vows. The reality is, we only become dumber.
As evidence of your unreasonable expectations, I cite a recent passage from a "Home Life" column by local newspaper scribe Marney Rich Keenan. Ms. Keenan admits that this Christmas she told her husband not to buy her anything, as they had already spent way too much money on their children’s gifts.
Then, she writes: "I knew full well at the time, of course, that I would hold it against him [if he failed to buy her a nice gift], sure to bring up ‘The Christmas You Never Got Me a Present’ at every argument heretofore, from now until kingdom come."
What gives? From a pragmatic viewpoint (yes, we men tend to be both simple and pragmatic), this kind of thinking might be considered counterproductive.
Unfortunately, it also appears to be the rule in male-female relationships. Rather than telling us exactly what you want, or explaining exactly what you are thinking, you leave us men to figure it out for ourselves.
This is a supremely bad idea. If any of you women doubt me, I suggest you recall how your guy – without any direction – figured out for himself how to get to an unfamiliar destination the last time the two of you ended up lost in the car. Gives new meaning to the phrase, "fashionably late," doesn’t it?
Of course, it also leads to the following question: Why do women persist in playing these mind-reading games with their men?
I posed this question to my wife, and she responded with a one-word answer: Romance.
Apparently, women find it romantic if their men can figure out what they want by some means (hypnosis and Sodium Pentothal come to mind) other than simply having their mates come right out and tell them.
Which brings me back to the fact that my brethren and I are too simple – too dense really – to recognize the mysterious clues you provide us for solving the riddles in your minds.
Oh, we will try and, occasionally, succeed, but more times than not we will read your signals incorrectly or (duh!) miss them entirely. Inevitably, this leads to disappointment for you and the garbage disposal for a handful of innocent little fish sticks.
So, when my wife recently broached the subject of making New Year’s resolutions, I suggested she vow to tell me what was on her mind, rather than making me guess.
"Do you really want me to do that?" she asked.
"Yep," I replied.
Then she took off the gloves and let me have it.
Of course, this led me to revise the conclusion to my hypothesis: Sometimes, things are simply better off left unsaid.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Women (and you know who you are), it is high time you realized the truth about us men: We are simple creatures, and we take what you say at face value.
I know you have suspected the "simple" part of this statement for some time now (say, from the moment you first saw us use the great outdoors as a bathroom), but let me put to rest any doubts you may have: It’s not an act.
We men are a guileless (and frequently clueless) fraternity. When you say something like, "Whatever you make for dinner will be fine," we believe you. As a result, we are flabbergasted when you berate us for serving you fish sticks and tater tots.
Apparently, you expect us to develop mind-reading capabilities as a result of taking our marriage vows. The reality is, we only become dumber.
As evidence of your unreasonable expectations, I cite a recent passage from a "Home Life" column by local newspaper scribe Marney Rich Keenan. Ms. Keenan admits that this Christmas she told her husband not to buy her anything, as they had already spent way too much money on their children’s gifts.
Then, she writes: "I knew full well at the time, of course, that I would hold it against him [if he failed to buy her a nice gift], sure to bring up ‘The Christmas You Never Got Me a Present’ at every argument heretofore, from now until kingdom come."
What gives? From a pragmatic viewpoint (yes, we men tend to be both simple and pragmatic), this kind of thinking might be considered counterproductive.
Unfortunately, it also appears to be the rule in male-female relationships. Rather than telling us exactly what you want, or explaining exactly what you are thinking, you leave us men to figure it out for ourselves.
This is a supremely bad idea. If any of you women doubt me, I suggest you recall how your guy – without any direction – figured out for himself how to get to an unfamiliar destination the last time the two of you ended up lost in the car. Gives new meaning to the phrase, "fashionably late," doesn’t it?
Of course, it also leads to the following question: Why do women persist in playing these mind-reading games with their men?
I posed this question to my wife, and she responded with a one-word answer: Romance.
Apparently, women find it romantic if their men can figure out what they want by some means (hypnosis and Sodium Pentothal come to mind) other than simply having their mates come right out and tell them.
Which brings me back to the fact that my brethren and I are too simple – too dense really – to recognize the mysterious clues you provide us for solving the riddles in your minds.
Oh, we will try and, occasionally, succeed, but more times than not we will read your signals incorrectly or (duh!) miss them entirely. Inevitably, this leads to disappointment for you and the garbage disposal for a handful of innocent little fish sticks.
So, when my wife recently broached the subject of making New Year’s resolutions, I suggested she vow to tell me what was on her mind, rather than making me guess.
"Do you really want me to do that?" she asked.
"Yep," I replied.
Then she took off the gloves and let me have it.
Of course, this led me to revise the conclusion to my hypothesis: Sometimes, things are simply better off left unsaid.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Wednesday, December 24, 2003
The Only Way to Fly
If you’ve never flown in first-class, I’ve got three words of advice for you: Don’t do it! The experience will ruin you, making it impossible to fly coach again.
Recently, I took the family to California for some much needed rest and relaxation. Due to the length of the flight and my stockpile of frequent-flyer miles, I decided to go all-out and bump our coach tickets up to first class.
The benefits began moments after entering the terminal. We stepped to the end of a lengthy line at the security checkpoint, where a security official scanned our tickets.
“Oh, you’re first-class passengers,” he noted. “Follow me.”
We did as we were told, and he led us to a separate checkpoint for those traveling in first class. Friendly faces greeted us and helping hands loaded our bags onto the x-ray conveyor. Best of all – no waiting! When they handed me back my shoes, I swear they even looked as if they had been polished.
At our departure gate, we ran into the family of a former classmate of our older son (they happened to be taking the same flight to California). As we stood talking to the parents, a female voice announced, “We are now pre-boarding all passengers sitting in first class and first class only. Those of you in the coach herd, please wait in the pen to the left of the gate.”
As we grabbed our carryons and began moving toward the gate, the other couple eyed us suspiciously.
“We used our frequent-flyer miles to move up to first class,” explained my embarrassed wife.
“I see,” said the other wife.
“Yeah, we’ve never done this before,” I added.
“Oo la la,” replied the other husband, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
Once we entered the cabin, a bevy of stewardesses immediately surrounded us, taking our coats to the first-class coat closet, storing our carryons in the overhead compartment, helping us get comfortable in the extra-wide seats.
As my boys began playing with every button and doodad in sight, a cheerful stewardess named Nancy appeared.
“I will be taking care of you during today’s flight,” she said. “Would you care for a drink?”
Across the aisle, I heard a distinguished gentleman order a glass of Chardonnay.
“Chardonnay, please,” I replied, figuring I could afford to have at least one adult beverage.
As Nancy filled my glass, I reached into my pocket for some cash.
“The beverages are complimentary in first class, sir,” she said.
“Oh, right -- I knew that.”
By the time we were an hour into our flight, I was finishing my fourth glass of “complimentary” wine and feeling no pain.
That’s when Nancy appeared to take our dinner orders.
“Tonight you have a choice of lemongrass-steamed Icelandic salmon reposed on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes and surrounded by sauteed green beans, or beef tenderloin with duxelles of Portobelo mushroom and potato scallops wrapped in filo dough and baked en terrine.”
After wiping the drool off my chin, I composed myself long enough to order the salmon.
Then I had to ask: “Just out of curiosity, what are the meal choices in coach?”
“I believe they have a choice of either Italian or turkey sub.”
“Oo la la,” I said, and the two of us shared a conspiratorial smile.
Once I had topped the meal off with a healthy slice of raspberry cheesecake, I loosened my belt and took a long sip from my little glass of Baileys.
My equally-satiated wife turned toward me, a frown creeping across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was just thinking: I’m never gonna be able to fly coach again.”
“I know. But let’s not worry about tomorrow. Let’s live for today.”
With that, I took a bite from one of the chocolate-dipped strawberries Nancy had just deposited on each of our trays and closed my eyes.
Unfortunately, the five-hour flight proved way too short, and soon we were crowded around the luggage carrousel with the peons from coach.
Our friends from home spotted us and walked over.
“So, how were the accommodations in first class?” snorted the husband.
“Oo la la,” I replied.
And I meant every word.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Recently, I took the family to California for some much needed rest and relaxation. Due to the length of the flight and my stockpile of frequent-flyer miles, I decided to go all-out and bump our coach tickets up to first class.
The benefits began moments after entering the terminal. We stepped to the end of a lengthy line at the security checkpoint, where a security official scanned our tickets.
“Oh, you’re first-class passengers,” he noted. “Follow me.”
We did as we were told, and he led us to a separate checkpoint for those traveling in first class. Friendly faces greeted us and helping hands loaded our bags onto the x-ray conveyor. Best of all – no waiting! When they handed me back my shoes, I swear they even looked as if they had been polished.
At our departure gate, we ran into the family of a former classmate of our older son (they happened to be taking the same flight to California). As we stood talking to the parents, a female voice announced, “We are now pre-boarding all passengers sitting in first class and first class only. Those of you in the coach herd, please wait in the pen to the left of the gate.”
As we grabbed our carryons and began moving toward the gate, the other couple eyed us suspiciously.
“We used our frequent-flyer miles to move up to first class,” explained my embarrassed wife.
“I see,” said the other wife.
“Yeah, we’ve never done this before,” I added.
“Oo la la,” replied the other husband, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
Once we entered the cabin, a bevy of stewardesses immediately surrounded us, taking our coats to the first-class coat closet, storing our carryons in the overhead compartment, helping us get comfortable in the extra-wide seats.
As my boys began playing with every button and doodad in sight, a cheerful stewardess named Nancy appeared.
“I will be taking care of you during today’s flight,” she said. “Would you care for a drink?”
Across the aisle, I heard a distinguished gentleman order a glass of Chardonnay.
“Chardonnay, please,” I replied, figuring I could afford to have at least one adult beverage.
As Nancy filled my glass, I reached into my pocket for some cash.
“The beverages are complimentary in first class, sir,” she said.
“Oh, right -- I knew that.”
By the time we were an hour into our flight, I was finishing my fourth glass of “complimentary” wine and feeling no pain.
That’s when Nancy appeared to take our dinner orders.
“Tonight you have a choice of lemongrass-steamed Icelandic salmon reposed on a bed of garlic mashed potatoes and surrounded by sauteed green beans, or beef tenderloin with duxelles of Portobelo mushroom and potato scallops wrapped in filo dough and baked en terrine.”
After wiping the drool off my chin, I composed myself long enough to order the salmon.
Then I had to ask: “Just out of curiosity, what are the meal choices in coach?”
“I believe they have a choice of either Italian or turkey sub.”
“Oo la la,” I said, and the two of us shared a conspiratorial smile.
Once I had topped the meal off with a healthy slice of raspberry cheesecake, I loosened my belt and took a long sip from my little glass of Baileys.
My equally-satiated wife turned toward me, a frown creeping across her face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I was just thinking: I’m never gonna be able to fly coach again.”
“I know. But let’s not worry about tomorrow. Let’s live for today.”
With that, I took a bite from one of the chocolate-dipped strawberries Nancy had just deposited on each of our trays and closed my eyes.
Unfortunately, the five-hour flight proved way too short, and soon we were crowded around the luggage carrousel with the peons from coach.
Our friends from home spotted us and walked over.
“So, how were the accommodations in first class?” snorted the husband.
“Oo la la,” I replied.
And I meant every word.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Jury Duty
My wife just received a jury duty questionnaire in the mail and asked me to help her fill it out.
Of course, she wasn’t seeking my legal expertise in order to complete the questionnaire more accurately; no, my saintly wife hoped I could insure her rejection from the juror pool.
Now many people (including yours truly) believe that it is our civic duty to serve on a jury when called.
There are many other people, however, who view it as a royal pain and go to great lengths to obtain pain relief.
Apparently, my wife is one of those.
Not one to run from a woman in need of assistance (particularly if I happen to share my bed with said woman), I agreed to look over the questionnaire and offer her some advice.
To that end, I have come up with the following proposed answers to some of the key questions in the questionnaire:
Q: Are you a citizen of the United States?
A: I don’t know, does crossing the border in the trunk of a car during the middle of the night make me a citizen?
Q: Have you ever been a law enforcement officer?
A: No, but I have made plenty of citizen arrests. Does that count?
Q: Have you served as a juror during the past 12 months?
A: No. Usually I move out of the state when I receive this notice in the mail.
Q: Do you have a permanent physical or mental disability that would interfere with or prevent you from serving as a juror?
A: No, it’s only a temporary condition that strikes whenever I sit for any length of time with a group of my peers.
Q: Have you ever been involved in a criminal suit?
A: Yes, but it was against my will.
Q: Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
A: Convicted? No.
Q: Have you ever been confined in any correctional facility or prison?
A: Confined? No, I’ve always been able to escape.
Q: Are you presently employed?
A: Yes, at the local branch of the U.S. Post Office. But I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I’ve just about had it.
Q: Any other occupations in the last 10 years?
A: Counterfeiter, safecracker, cat burglar, jaywalker.
There you have it. Feel free to borrow any of these answers should you receive the same questionnaire in the mail.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Of course, she wasn’t seeking my legal expertise in order to complete the questionnaire more accurately; no, my saintly wife hoped I could insure her rejection from the juror pool.
Now many people (including yours truly) believe that it is our civic duty to serve on a jury when called.
There are many other people, however, who view it as a royal pain and go to great lengths to obtain pain relief.
Apparently, my wife is one of those.
Not one to run from a woman in need of assistance (particularly if I happen to share my bed with said woman), I agreed to look over the questionnaire and offer her some advice.
To that end, I have come up with the following proposed answers to some of the key questions in the questionnaire:
Q: Are you a citizen of the United States?
A: I don’t know, does crossing the border in the trunk of a car during the middle of the night make me a citizen?
Q: Have you ever been a law enforcement officer?
A: No, but I have made plenty of citizen arrests. Does that count?
Q: Have you served as a juror during the past 12 months?
A: No. Usually I move out of the state when I receive this notice in the mail.
Q: Do you have a permanent physical or mental disability that would interfere with or prevent you from serving as a juror?
A: No, it’s only a temporary condition that strikes whenever I sit for any length of time with a group of my peers.
Q: Have you ever been involved in a criminal suit?
A: Yes, but it was against my will.
Q: Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
A: Convicted? No.
Q: Have you ever been confined in any correctional facility or prison?
A: Confined? No, I’ve always been able to escape.
Q: Are you presently employed?
A: Yes, at the local branch of the U.S. Post Office. But I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I’ve just about had it.
Q: Any other occupations in the last 10 years?
A: Counterfeiter, safecracker, cat burglar, jaywalker.
There you have it. Feel free to borrow any of these answers should you receive the same questionnaire in the mail.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Don't try this at home
Three seconds.
Three of the longest seconds one person can ever experience. That’s the approximate length of time I was on fire last weekend.
You see, the town in which we live allows its residents to burn their leaves as a method of disposal.
On Sunday, the boys and I raked our leaves into a number of large piles. I proceeded to start a small fire out of some wood near one of the piles, then we slowly raked the leaves onto the fire. Twenty minutes later, the leaf pile was nothing but a mound of black ashes.
At the next pile, I had a brainstorm triggered by impatience: Sprinkle a little gas on top of the leaves, then light a few near the bottom and step back to watch the entire pile burn at once. Speeding up the process might enable the boys and I to finish in time to watch the end of the football game.
After ordering my sons away, I crouched down and flicked on my lighter. The moment the flame appeared, the entire pile exploded in a ball of fire that simultaneously enveloped my upper body.
My wife says the explosion was as loud as a firecracker, but I don’t recall any noise. Only heart-thumping fear.
For three seconds, I hopped about and beat at the flames in a grotesque sort of dance, while my wife and sons looked on in horror and shock.
Once the flames were doused, my trembling wife grabbed me and pulled me close. As we stood by the smoldering pile, I became aware of a pungent odor I will never fully forget – the smell of burnt skin and charred hair.
I also started to feel pain.
My face began to sting and my right hand – the one which held the lighter – started to throb. Looking down, I saw a large swatch of skin bubbling atop my hand.
Not good.
Still, I am a man, so my initial reaction was to ignore the pain and try to laugh off the incident. My wife had other ideas.
“Get in the car,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Three hours later, I left the emergency room after treatment for first and second degree burns to my face and right hand. My eyelashes and eyebrows were all but gone, and the receding of my hairline had received a big boost. Yet, had I not been wearing a long-sleeve jacket, it would likely have been worse.
Although my face and hand are now a peeling, oozing mess – similar to what one might expect from the worst sunburn imaginable – the doctor told me I should be fully recovered in two or three weeks. In fact, I may not experience any scarring from the incident.
Of course, right now I’m not a pretty sight. In a move Michael Jackson would appreciate, the end of my nose has all but fallen off. Also, my right thumb became surrounded by a blister the size of Rhode Island. It has since popped.
Still, I’ve tried to maintain my sense of humor. When my wife brought home a generic “Get Well” card Monday evening, I feigned disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I just thought Hallmark might have a section for people who set themselves on fire.”
“No,” she deadpanned, “I looked.”
If nothing else, this story should serve as a lesson in what not to do with a pile of leaves. Let’s hope Hallmark never finds a reason to add a new category to their selection of “Get Well” cards.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Three of the longest seconds one person can ever experience. That’s the approximate length of time I was on fire last weekend.
You see, the town in which we live allows its residents to burn their leaves as a method of disposal.
On Sunday, the boys and I raked our leaves into a number of large piles. I proceeded to start a small fire out of some wood near one of the piles, then we slowly raked the leaves onto the fire. Twenty minutes later, the leaf pile was nothing but a mound of black ashes.
At the next pile, I had a brainstorm triggered by impatience: Sprinkle a little gas on top of the leaves, then light a few near the bottom and step back to watch the entire pile burn at once. Speeding up the process might enable the boys and I to finish in time to watch the end of the football game.
After ordering my sons away, I crouched down and flicked on my lighter. The moment the flame appeared, the entire pile exploded in a ball of fire that simultaneously enveloped my upper body.
My wife says the explosion was as loud as a firecracker, but I don’t recall any noise. Only heart-thumping fear.
For three seconds, I hopped about and beat at the flames in a grotesque sort of dance, while my wife and sons looked on in horror and shock.
Once the flames were doused, my trembling wife grabbed me and pulled me close. As we stood by the smoldering pile, I became aware of a pungent odor I will never fully forget – the smell of burnt skin and charred hair.
I also started to feel pain.
My face began to sting and my right hand – the one which held the lighter – started to throb. Looking down, I saw a large swatch of skin bubbling atop my hand.
Not good.
Still, I am a man, so my initial reaction was to ignore the pain and try to laugh off the incident. My wife had other ideas.
“Get in the car,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Three hours later, I left the emergency room after treatment for first and second degree burns to my face and right hand. My eyelashes and eyebrows were all but gone, and the receding of my hairline had received a big boost. Yet, had I not been wearing a long-sleeve jacket, it would likely have been worse.
Although my face and hand are now a peeling, oozing mess – similar to what one might expect from the worst sunburn imaginable – the doctor told me I should be fully recovered in two or three weeks. In fact, I may not experience any scarring from the incident.
Of course, right now I’m not a pretty sight. In a move Michael Jackson would appreciate, the end of my nose has all but fallen off. Also, my right thumb became surrounded by a blister the size of Rhode Island. It has since popped.
Still, I’ve tried to maintain my sense of humor. When my wife brought home a generic “Get Well” card Monday evening, I feigned disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I just thought Hallmark might have a section for people who set themselves on fire.”
“No,” she deadpanned, “I looked.”
If nothing else, this story should serve as a lesson in what not to do with a pile of leaves. Let’s hope Hallmark never finds a reason to add a new category to their selection of “Get Well” cards.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
Trip to a Foreign Land
My wife and I traveled to a foreign country to attend a wedding this past weekend. The wedding was in Cleveland.
Okay, so maybe I exaggerate. But only a little.
You see, the residents of Ohio seem to follow strange or outdated customs, similar to what you might find when visiting a third-world country such as Canada.
For instance, a large segment of the population enjoys spending their weekends gathered together at RV camps. For the uninformed, an RV camp is any clearing around a retention pond located near the interstate. The closer to the interstate, the better.
As my wife and I made the three-hour drive early Saturday morning, we noticed countless RV camps filling up with, well, RVs. The fact that it was forty-five degrees and raining didn’t seem to matter.
What they do at these places – with names such as “Tiny’s RV Park” and “Big Al’s RV Oasis” – is anyone’s guess. Mine would be: Drink beer, eat pork rinds, play cards, talk about Ohio State football and drink beer. Then, maybe, rustle up some breakfast.
I had two additional epiphanies during the drive to Cleveland.
First, there is a stretch of highway in Toledo that will always be under repair. In fact, I believe the workers actually finish the job once a year, then immediately tear it up and start over. Sort of like an episode of “The Twilight Zone.” In fact, if you roll down your window while creeping along at 5 mph, the jackhammers actually seem to make the “doo doo, doo doo” sound of the show’s theme song.
Second, a donut fairy must drop boxes of Tim Horton’s best along the highway at five mile intervals. How else can you explain the regularity at which state troopers pop up when traversing Ohio’s interstates?
Despite these oddities, we arrived safely at the reception hall in suburban Cleveland.
It appeared we had stepped into a time warp set for 1985. The women sported “big hair”, the men wore either spiked or long hair, cigarettes dangled from numerous lips and the clothing seemed retro.
Then we noticed an armed policeman standing in the doorway. As the groom worked in law enforcement, we assumed the officer was just another guest.
Except he seemed to confiscate every envelope addressed to the bride and groom.
After questioning someone at our table, we discovered that the presence of the law was not unusual at Cleveland weddings. Apparently, receptions frequently dissolve into English soccer matches, with yelling and shoving and occasional fisticuffs.
What’s more, we were told that having an officer present helps to ensure that the newlyweds’ gifts don’t disappear during the reception.
Before we could seek out bullet-proof vests, dinner was served. The family-style meal consisted of meat, with additional sides of meat, and a small bowl of beans. Everything was covered in a mud-like gravy, including the poor beans.
An hour later, the dancing began.
Not that anyone moved all that quickly, laden as they were with a couple extra pounds of beef and one or two beans.
Still, things managed to become quite festive. The bride and groom appeared completely in love, and the guests enjoyed participating in a new-fangled dance called “The Hustle”.
Then we heard a pair of loud voices.
Across the way, the bride’s step-father was arguing with an older gentleman. Possibly, it was over hair – the step-father sported a ridiculous comb-over and the other fellow wore perhaps the worst toupee I had ever seen.
As their voices grew even louder, we discovered the issue had to do with toupee’s groping of comb-over’s wife while the two shared a dance.
Suddenly, they began to tussle, and comb-over managed to put toupee in a headlock. This also resulted in toupee losing his toupee.
Before you could clink a glass with your spoon, the police officer arrived to break up the wrestling match and escort toupee (sans hair) out of the hall.
After that, folks resumed dancing as if nothing had remarkable had taken place.
A little unnerved, my wife and I decided to call it a night and return to our hotel. We sought out the newlyweds and wished them good luck.
Based upon the way they stared into each other’s eyes, I don’t think they will need it.
Then again, I heard they were honeymooning at Big Al’s RV Oasis.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Okay, so maybe I exaggerate. But only a little.
You see, the residents of Ohio seem to follow strange or outdated customs, similar to what you might find when visiting a third-world country such as Canada.
For instance, a large segment of the population enjoys spending their weekends gathered together at RV camps. For the uninformed, an RV camp is any clearing around a retention pond located near the interstate. The closer to the interstate, the better.
As my wife and I made the three-hour drive early Saturday morning, we noticed countless RV camps filling up with, well, RVs. The fact that it was forty-five degrees and raining didn’t seem to matter.
What they do at these places – with names such as “Tiny’s RV Park” and “Big Al’s RV Oasis” – is anyone’s guess. Mine would be: Drink beer, eat pork rinds, play cards, talk about Ohio State football and drink beer. Then, maybe, rustle up some breakfast.
I had two additional epiphanies during the drive to Cleveland.
First, there is a stretch of highway in Toledo that will always be under repair. In fact, I believe the workers actually finish the job once a year, then immediately tear it up and start over. Sort of like an episode of “The Twilight Zone.” In fact, if you roll down your window while creeping along at 5 mph, the jackhammers actually seem to make the “doo doo, doo doo” sound of the show’s theme song.
Second, a donut fairy must drop boxes of Tim Horton’s best along the highway at five mile intervals. How else can you explain the regularity at which state troopers pop up when traversing Ohio’s interstates?
Despite these oddities, we arrived safely at the reception hall in suburban Cleveland.
It appeared we had stepped into a time warp set for 1985. The women sported “big hair”, the men wore either spiked or long hair, cigarettes dangled from numerous lips and the clothing seemed retro.
Then we noticed an armed policeman standing in the doorway. As the groom worked in law enforcement, we assumed the officer was just another guest.
Except he seemed to confiscate every envelope addressed to the bride and groom.
After questioning someone at our table, we discovered that the presence of the law was not unusual at Cleveland weddings. Apparently, receptions frequently dissolve into English soccer matches, with yelling and shoving and occasional fisticuffs.
What’s more, we were told that having an officer present helps to ensure that the newlyweds’ gifts don’t disappear during the reception.
Before we could seek out bullet-proof vests, dinner was served. The family-style meal consisted of meat, with additional sides of meat, and a small bowl of beans. Everything was covered in a mud-like gravy, including the poor beans.
An hour later, the dancing began.
Not that anyone moved all that quickly, laden as they were with a couple extra pounds of beef and one or two beans.
Still, things managed to become quite festive. The bride and groom appeared completely in love, and the guests enjoyed participating in a new-fangled dance called “The Hustle”.
Then we heard a pair of loud voices.
Across the way, the bride’s step-father was arguing with an older gentleman. Possibly, it was over hair – the step-father sported a ridiculous comb-over and the other fellow wore perhaps the worst toupee I had ever seen.
As their voices grew even louder, we discovered the issue had to do with toupee’s groping of comb-over’s wife while the two shared a dance.
Suddenly, they began to tussle, and comb-over managed to put toupee in a headlock. This also resulted in toupee losing his toupee.
Before you could clink a glass with your spoon, the police officer arrived to break up the wrestling match and escort toupee (sans hair) out of the hall.
After that, folks resumed dancing as if nothing had remarkable had taken place.
A little unnerved, my wife and I decided to call it a night and return to our hotel. We sought out the newlyweds and wished them good luck.
Based upon the way they stared into each other’s eyes, I don’t think they will need it.
Then again, I heard they were honeymooning at Big Al’s RV Oasis.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
The Newest Member of the Family
"Meow...Meow...MEOW!!!"
No, this isn’t the transcript of a new cat food commercial, but rather a description of my morning alarm clock.
This summer my wife brought home a kitten from a nearby feed store to serve as a surrogate buddy to my sons while they adjusted to life in a new community.
I objected to the addition on the grounds that we already had a neurotic dog and irascible cat and why would we want to upset this delicate balance by throwing a new – and possibly more eccentric – personality into the mix?
To no one’s surprise but yours truly, my argument was quickly dismissed and our pet population swelled to seven (counting the four remaining occupants of the science experiment known as my oldest son’s fish tank).
The next big decision was its name. Resigned to the fact that the furry feline was probably here to stay, I figured we could at least assign it a cool name – say, Artemis or Othello?
Too pretentious, I was told.
Then how about something tough-sounding, like Spike or Nails?
We’re not naming a new rock band, I was told,
When the cat hair settled, the new male member of the family was christened with the masculine moniker of...Mittens.
So scary!
Once named, Mittens-the-cat quickly climbed to the top of my "Things I Hate" list. He bullied our older cat, tormented our submissive dog and clawed our brand new furniture. Occasionally, he hacked up a furball the size of Vermont.
But these insolent acts were nothing compared to his habit of meowing outside our bedroom door at the first signs of life on the other side.
Did I say "meowing"? I meant to say "MEOWING!".
You see, Mittens is always hungry, but he is especially hungry in the wee hours of the morning. The moment he hears my wife or I make the slightest movement, he cries.
And cries. And cries.
It’s not a sweet little kitten meow, either. It’s a long, moaning, plaintive meow that lasts a good four or five seconds -- MEEEEOOOOWWWW! Like a cat in need of an exorcist.
Or a new home.
So, you can understand my predicament the other night when I awoke at 5:30 a.m. with an urge to visit the facilities.
What if Mittens heard me?
Like a burglar, I crept into the bathroom and slowly lowered myself onto the throne. Once finished, I encountered a new dilemma: To flush, or not to flush?
Crossing my fingers, I held my breath and pushed down on the handle.
Thirty seconds later – nothing but silence.
With my mission a success, I crept back toward bed, knowing I had at least two more hours of soothing sleep ahead of me.
Reaching my destination, eyes already closed, I stepped on a squeaky cat toy that protruded from beneath the bed like some devious trap.
"Squeak, squeak..."
"Son-of-a--"
"MEEEOOOWWW!"
Following a torrent of similar cries, my wife offered up a bit of female wisdom: "You woke him, you’ve gotta feed him."
"But I never wanted the stupid cat!"
"Then why did you let us keep him?"
"What?"
"Go on. The food’s in the pantry."
So, now you can understand why I hate the furry little creature.
And as soon as he finishes napping on my lap, I’m going to tell him so.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
No, this isn’t the transcript of a new cat food commercial, but rather a description of my morning alarm clock.
This summer my wife brought home a kitten from a nearby feed store to serve as a surrogate buddy to my sons while they adjusted to life in a new community.
I objected to the addition on the grounds that we already had a neurotic dog and irascible cat and why would we want to upset this delicate balance by throwing a new – and possibly more eccentric – personality into the mix?
To no one’s surprise but yours truly, my argument was quickly dismissed and our pet population swelled to seven (counting the four remaining occupants of the science experiment known as my oldest son’s fish tank).
The next big decision was its name. Resigned to the fact that the furry feline was probably here to stay, I figured we could at least assign it a cool name – say, Artemis or Othello?
Too pretentious, I was told.
Then how about something tough-sounding, like Spike or Nails?
We’re not naming a new rock band, I was told,
When the cat hair settled, the new male member of the family was christened with the masculine moniker of...Mittens.
So scary!
Once named, Mittens-the-cat quickly climbed to the top of my "Things I Hate" list. He bullied our older cat, tormented our submissive dog and clawed our brand new furniture. Occasionally, he hacked up a furball the size of Vermont.
But these insolent acts were nothing compared to his habit of meowing outside our bedroom door at the first signs of life on the other side.
Did I say "meowing"? I meant to say "MEOWING!".
You see, Mittens is always hungry, but he is especially hungry in the wee hours of the morning. The moment he hears my wife or I make the slightest movement, he cries.
And cries. And cries.
It’s not a sweet little kitten meow, either. It’s a long, moaning, plaintive meow that lasts a good four or five seconds -- MEEEEOOOOWWWW! Like a cat in need of an exorcist.
Or a new home.
So, you can understand my predicament the other night when I awoke at 5:30 a.m. with an urge to visit the facilities.
What if Mittens heard me?
Like a burglar, I crept into the bathroom and slowly lowered myself onto the throne. Once finished, I encountered a new dilemma: To flush, or not to flush?
Crossing my fingers, I held my breath and pushed down on the handle.
Thirty seconds later – nothing but silence.
With my mission a success, I crept back toward bed, knowing I had at least two more hours of soothing sleep ahead of me.
Reaching my destination, eyes already closed, I stepped on a squeaky cat toy that protruded from beneath the bed like some devious trap.
"Squeak, squeak..."
"Son-of-a--"
"MEEEOOOWWW!"
Following a torrent of similar cries, my wife offered up a bit of female wisdom: "You woke him, you’ve gotta feed him."
"But I never wanted the stupid cat!"
"Then why did you let us keep him?"
"What?"
"Go on. The food’s in the pantry."
So, now you can understand why I hate the furry little creature.
And as soon as he finishes napping on my lap, I’m going to tell him so.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Mr. Fix-it
I need a new lawnmower.
This, of course, is not an earth-shaking development unless your lawn is beginning to resemble the plains of the Serengeti.
Mine? Well, let's put it this way -- I ventured into the backyard this weekend and nearly mistook our golden retriever for a prowling lion. After taking a second look to confirm the shaggy beast was canine rather than feline, I maneuvered past a group of grazing gazelles and headed for the garage.
Pulling out our twelve-year-old Craftsman mower, I berated the mute machine for quitting on me the month before.
"After all we've been through," I said with more than a hint of disappointment.
Actually, the engine still ran, but the "self-propelled" mechanics had suddenly stopped "propelling," turning the formerly easy-to-push cutting machine into a block of heavy metal that would have trouble moving down an Olympic ski jump.
And, of course, I'd walk naked through town before I'd drag the immobile monster across our large, hilly yard.
Still, with the cutting season nearly over, the prospect of sinking a wad of cash into a new mower thrilled me about as much as a jury-duty notice.
"Whatcha doing, Dad?"
My younger son had joined me in the garage.
"I'm about to take the old mower apart to see if I can fix it."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"What's that supposed to mean? You don't think your old man can fix things?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"Remember when you tried to put my new bike together?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So you turned it into a unicycle!"
"Did it roll, Mr. Smartypants?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, that's because it was defective."
"Actually, that's the same word used by the man at the bike store when Mom had him fix it. Except I don't think he was talking about the bike."
"Speaking of Mom, isn't she calling your name right now?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Yep. You'd better go see what she wants."
After he had disappeared, I unscrewed the plastic cover that protected the self-propelling apparatus, then stared hard at the gears and belts and suspenders. It all appeared to be in working order.
I started the engine, shifted the thing into drive.
A little arm seemed to release, a belt began to turn, then so did the gears. Still, the wheels held firm, like the derrieres of my children when seated in front of a video game.
I turned it off, then pulled on this and pushed on that. Satisfied with my efforts, I started the mower once again but, alas, no improvement.
A half-hour later, I had a badly-scraped knuckle, a cut on my thumb and a sore foot (from a well-placed kick), but the lawnmower wasn't budging.
Fortunately, my other foot was spared by my wife's call for lunch.
With my batteries recharged, I returned to the garage and, by day's end, my overgrown lawn was neat and trim.
However, if you find yourself in my hometown this week and you happen to spot a naked guy walking along the sidewalk, please look away.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
This, of course, is not an earth-shaking development unless your lawn is beginning to resemble the plains of the Serengeti.
Mine? Well, let's put it this way -- I ventured into the backyard this weekend and nearly mistook our golden retriever for a prowling lion. After taking a second look to confirm the shaggy beast was canine rather than feline, I maneuvered past a group of grazing gazelles and headed for the garage.
Pulling out our twelve-year-old Craftsman mower, I berated the mute machine for quitting on me the month before.
"After all we've been through," I said with more than a hint of disappointment.
Actually, the engine still ran, but the "self-propelled" mechanics had suddenly stopped "propelling," turning the formerly easy-to-push cutting machine into a block of heavy metal that would have trouble moving down an Olympic ski jump.
And, of course, I'd walk naked through town before I'd drag the immobile monster across our large, hilly yard.
Still, with the cutting season nearly over, the prospect of sinking a wad of cash into a new mower thrilled me about as much as a jury-duty notice.
"Whatcha doing, Dad?"
My younger son had joined me in the garage.
"I'm about to take the old mower apart to see if I can fix it."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"What's that supposed to mean? You don't think your old man can fix things?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"Remember when you tried to put my new bike together?"
"Yeah, so?"
"So you turned it into a unicycle!"
"Did it roll, Mr. Smartypants?"
"Not really."
"Oh. Well, that's because it was defective."
"Actually, that's the same word used by the man at the bike store when Mom had him fix it. Except I don't think he was talking about the bike."
"Speaking of Mom, isn't she calling your name right now?"
"I don't hear anything."
"Yep. You'd better go see what she wants."
After he had disappeared, I unscrewed the plastic cover that protected the self-propelling apparatus, then stared hard at the gears and belts and suspenders. It all appeared to be in working order.
I started the engine, shifted the thing into drive.
A little arm seemed to release, a belt began to turn, then so did the gears. Still, the wheels held firm, like the derrieres of my children when seated in front of a video game.
I turned it off, then pulled on this and pushed on that. Satisfied with my efforts, I started the mower once again but, alas, no improvement.
A half-hour later, I had a badly-scraped knuckle, a cut on my thumb and a sore foot (from a well-placed kick), but the lawnmower wasn't budging.
Fortunately, my other foot was spared by my wife's call for lunch.
With my batteries recharged, I returned to the garage and, by day's end, my overgrown lawn was neat and trim.
However, if you find yourself in my hometown this week and you happen to spot a naked guy walking along the sidewalk, please look away.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, September 22, 2003
The Octogenarian Menace
There’s an unpublicized danger lurking in our society, and something needs to be done about it before more innocent people suffer.
I’m not talking about sorority hazing, but rather a problem more widespread and worrisome; a problem that grows larger with each passing year.
I’m talking, of course, about octogenarian drivers.
Our population is quickly aging. According to the most recent census, by the year 2010 there will be two billion American drivers over the age of eighty.
Okay, I’m exaggerating slightly, but I do so in order to make the following point: We need to keep an eye on our rearview mirrors.
Only yesterday, I was running late for an appointment when I found myself stuck behind a slow-moving senior in a late model Buick Century.
How do I know the driver was an octogenarian? Because he drove the entire way with his right turn signal blinking.
That and the fact he maintained a steady 35 mph in a 50 mph zone.
With heavy traffic the opposite direction, moving around this wrinkled demon on the two-lane road was simply out of the question. Instead, I passed the time by counting backwards from one million. Slowly, and in Spanish.
But it’s not just the speed at which they drive their Lincoln Towncars and Chrysler Newports that makes them dangerous. You see, octogenarians no longer fear the Grim Reaper. Heck, the afterlife is probably a first-rate retirement home in their eyes.
As evidence, I recall a ride I took in a small commuter plan some years ago. The twenty-four-seater was scheduled to take me between the Florida cities of Jacksonville and Gainesville, then continue on to the senior Mecca of Tampa.
When I boarded the plane, every seat but mine was filled by someone’s grandparent, a graying man or woman smelling strangely of peppermint.
Cool, I thought, no crying babies on this flight.
Then we took off in the middle of a thunderstorm, and a short while later the plane took a direct hit from a bolt of lightening.
Suddenly, we began to descend at an alarming rate, and I was convinced this was to be my final flight.
Looking around the violently shaking plane, however, I saw nothing but smiling, happy faces. I think one was even whistling.
After the pilot managed to pull us out of the nosedive and we landed safely at our destination, I swear I heard one of the AARP members say, “Now I’m gonna have to pay that damn doctor’s bill.”
Proving that octogenarians are simply unfazed by the so-called “bitter end.”
That’s why, when driving, they make turns without first checking to see if traffic has cleared. Apparently, they’ve earned the right to take your lane whenever the mood strikes them, so you better just yield.
I suppose it also explains why they never even glance in their rearview mirrors when backing up. If a mailbox goes down, then it must have had it coming.
And it explains why you never see anyone under the age of fifty riding shotgun with an octogenarian driver. They’re always in the backseat, and often times they’re wearing some type of helmet.
So, when an octogenarian offers you a ride, take my advice and respectfully decline. Especially, if you catch him whistling a happy tune.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
I’m not talking about sorority hazing, but rather a problem more widespread and worrisome; a problem that grows larger with each passing year.
I’m talking, of course, about octogenarian drivers.
Our population is quickly aging. According to the most recent census, by the year 2010 there will be two billion American drivers over the age of eighty.
Okay, I’m exaggerating slightly, but I do so in order to make the following point: We need to keep an eye on our rearview mirrors.
Only yesterday, I was running late for an appointment when I found myself stuck behind a slow-moving senior in a late model Buick Century.
How do I know the driver was an octogenarian? Because he drove the entire way with his right turn signal blinking.
That and the fact he maintained a steady 35 mph in a 50 mph zone.
With heavy traffic the opposite direction, moving around this wrinkled demon on the two-lane road was simply out of the question. Instead, I passed the time by counting backwards from one million. Slowly, and in Spanish.
But it’s not just the speed at which they drive their Lincoln Towncars and Chrysler Newports that makes them dangerous. You see, octogenarians no longer fear the Grim Reaper. Heck, the afterlife is probably a first-rate retirement home in their eyes.
As evidence, I recall a ride I took in a small commuter plan some years ago. The twenty-four-seater was scheduled to take me between the Florida cities of Jacksonville and Gainesville, then continue on to the senior Mecca of Tampa.
When I boarded the plane, every seat but mine was filled by someone’s grandparent, a graying man or woman smelling strangely of peppermint.
Cool, I thought, no crying babies on this flight.
Then we took off in the middle of a thunderstorm, and a short while later the plane took a direct hit from a bolt of lightening.
Suddenly, we began to descend at an alarming rate, and I was convinced this was to be my final flight.
Looking around the violently shaking plane, however, I saw nothing but smiling, happy faces. I think one was even whistling.
After the pilot managed to pull us out of the nosedive and we landed safely at our destination, I swear I heard one of the AARP members say, “Now I’m gonna have to pay that damn doctor’s bill.”
Proving that octogenarians are simply unfazed by the so-called “bitter end.”
That’s why, when driving, they make turns without first checking to see if traffic has cleared. Apparently, they’ve earned the right to take your lane whenever the mood strikes them, so you better just yield.
I suppose it also explains why they never even glance in their rearview mirrors when backing up. If a mailbox goes down, then it must have had it coming.
And it explains why you never see anyone under the age of fifty riding shotgun with an octogenarian driver. They’re always in the backseat, and often times they’re wearing some type of helmet.
So, when an octogenarian offers you a ride, take my advice and respectfully decline. Especially, if you catch him whistling a happy tune.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Different strokes for California folks
Not too long ago my eight-year-old son asked me if we could move to California. A natural born performer with multiple talents, he had discovered that Hollywood is the epicenter of the entertainment world.
Of course, a West Coast address would also be beneficial for his old man, whose pursuit of a screenwriting career is saddled with a debilitating handicap – residence in suburban Detroit.
Still, my wife and I have given the matter serious consideration and, after weighing the pros and cons, we decided to stay put.
This did not sit well with my youngest: "How do you expect me to get a part in the next ‘Spy Kids’ movie?"
He will be happy when he learns that a recent development has got me thinking differently.
You see, I really want to vote in California’s gubernatorial recall election, which is scheduled for October 7.
In case you just snapped out of a lengthy coma – does Hallmark make a card for such occasions? – the slate of candidates who have thrown their hats into the ring (in the case of one candidate, make that a watermelon) would fill the booking agent at the Conan O’Brien show with envy.
First up on the ballot is the "Terminator" himself, Ahhhnold Schwahhhzenegger. I understand that "Vote for me, or I will break you!" is his official campaign slogan. And every campaign speech is destined to end with "I’ll be back!"
Also on the ballot are Hustler Magazine publisher Larry Flynt (he describes himself as "a smut peddler who cares"), porn star Mary Carey (an anti-gun activist, she announced a "porno-for-pistols" program), Hollywood personality Angelyne (author of the intellectual thriller, "The Bra that ate LA") and obnoxious comedian and fruit abuser Gallagher.
But the guy who would get my vote, hands-down, is former child star and current security guard, Gary Coleman. Famous for his role as Arnold Jackson on the 1980s hit, "Different Strokes," the diminutive Coleman now pops up regularly on "Star Dates," a reality train-wreck show in which ordinary people go on dates with washed-up celebs.
I imagine a debate between Ahhhnold and Gary Coleman might go something like this:
Moderator: "Mr. Schwarzenegger, please make an opening statement."
Ahhnold: "Alright. Vote for me because I will pump up California’s economy."
Coleman: "Speaking up pumping something up, what about all those claims of sexual harrassment by your former assistants."
Ahhnold: "Hey, shorty, at least I can afford to hire assistants to harrass."
Coleman: "Good point, Willis."
Ahhnold: "Willis?"
Moderator: "Okay, okay. Mr. Coleman, will you please make your opening statment."
Coleman: "Gotcha, chief. All you people should vote for me because I’ll reduce your taxes."
Ahhnold: "I heard your tax relief plan is based on height."
Coleman: "Yep. The taller the taxpayer, the higher the tax bracket."
Ahhnold: "What about beautiful muscles? Do you get a deduction if you have them?"
Coleman: "Nope."
Ahhnold: "Then I will squash your tax plan – and you too!"
Coleman: "Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?"
Coleman proceeds to mug for the camera, while Ahhnold looks behind him for this mysterious "Willis" fellow.
With that, Coleman would be declared the winner and move on to debate the merits of physical comedy with Gallagher.
A talented screenwriter couldn’t make up something this good. It’s better than a "Jerry Springer" episode in which husbands confront wives who have been working as undercover FBI strippers while secretly engaging in illicit affairs with their transvestite third cousins.
Only in America can voters recall a career politician and replace him with the "Govinator". I imagine many Minnesotans are rejoicing at the prospect that this development may lead the rest of the country to forget the fact that a professional wrestler occupies the governor’s mansion in their state.
All of which has me thinking that my wife and I should reconsider our position on family residency. After all, I just read that Gary Coleman is looking for a speech writer.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Of course, a West Coast address would also be beneficial for his old man, whose pursuit of a screenwriting career is saddled with a debilitating handicap – residence in suburban Detroit.
Still, my wife and I have given the matter serious consideration and, after weighing the pros and cons, we decided to stay put.
This did not sit well with my youngest: "How do you expect me to get a part in the next ‘Spy Kids’ movie?"
He will be happy when he learns that a recent development has got me thinking differently.
You see, I really want to vote in California’s gubernatorial recall election, which is scheduled for October 7.
In case you just snapped out of a lengthy coma – does Hallmark make a card for such occasions? – the slate of candidates who have thrown their hats into the ring (in the case of one candidate, make that a watermelon) would fill the booking agent at the Conan O’Brien show with envy.
First up on the ballot is the "Terminator" himself, Ahhhnold Schwahhhzenegger. I understand that "Vote for me, or I will break you!" is his official campaign slogan. And every campaign speech is destined to end with "I’ll be back!"
Also on the ballot are Hustler Magazine publisher Larry Flynt (he describes himself as "a smut peddler who cares"), porn star Mary Carey (an anti-gun activist, she announced a "porno-for-pistols" program), Hollywood personality Angelyne (author of the intellectual thriller, "The Bra that ate LA") and obnoxious comedian and fruit abuser Gallagher.
But the guy who would get my vote, hands-down, is former child star and current security guard, Gary Coleman. Famous for his role as Arnold Jackson on the 1980s hit, "Different Strokes," the diminutive Coleman now pops up regularly on "Star Dates," a reality train-wreck show in which ordinary people go on dates with washed-up celebs.
I imagine a debate between Ahhhnold and Gary Coleman might go something like this:
Moderator: "Mr. Schwarzenegger, please make an opening statement."
Ahhnold: "Alright. Vote for me because I will pump up California’s economy."
Coleman: "Speaking up pumping something up, what about all those claims of sexual harrassment by your former assistants."
Ahhnold: "Hey, shorty, at least I can afford to hire assistants to harrass."
Coleman: "Good point, Willis."
Ahhnold: "Willis?"
Moderator: "Okay, okay. Mr. Coleman, will you please make your opening statment."
Coleman: "Gotcha, chief. All you people should vote for me because I’ll reduce your taxes."
Ahhnold: "I heard your tax relief plan is based on height."
Coleman: "Yep. The taller the taxpayer, the higher the tax bracket."
Ahhnold: "What about beautiful muscles? Do you get a deduction if you have them?"
Coleman: "Nope."
Ahhnold: "Then I will squash your tax plan – and you too!"
Coleman: "Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?"
Coleman proceeds to mug for the camera, while Ahhnold looks behind him for this mysterious "Willis" fellow.
With that, Coleman would be declared the winner and move on to debate the merits of physical comedy with Gallagher.
A talented screenwriter couldn’t make up something this good. It’s better than a "Jerry Springer" episode in which husbands confront wives who have been working as undercover FBI strippers while secretly engaging in illicit affairs with their transvestite third cousins.
Only in America can voters recall a career politician and replace him with the "Govinator". I imagine many Minnesotans are rejoicing at the prospect that this development may lead the rest of the country to forget the fact that a professional wrestler occupies the governor’s mansion in their state.
All of which has me thinking that my wife and I should reconsider our position on family residency. After all, I just read that Gary Coleman is looking for a speech writer.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Wednesday, July 30, 2003
The Cuban navy fails again
In case you missed it, last week a group of Cubans attempted to make the ninety-mile journey across the Florida Straits to freedom in America using a 1951 Chevy truck.
For those of you who failed geography in school, the Florida Straits happen to be a body of water between the coast of Florida and communist Cuba.
It seems the twelve, would-be emigrants strapped empty, fifty-five gallon drums to the sides of the bright-green truck, added a small, neon-yellow shelter to its bed and stuck a propeller onto the driveshaft. Of course, they also left the tires on.
The pilot of a military plane spotted the truck, driver behind the wheel, chugging through the Straits at eight mph and reported the unusual sight (after blinking a half-dozen times, no doubt) to the Coast Guard. A short while later, a Coast Guard cutter picked up the Cubans about forty miles from their destination.
After ordering the skipper and his crew aboard, the Coast Guard sank the truck and transported the twelve back to Cuba. The decision was made in accordance with the U.S. immigration policy of “wet foot, dry foot” – Cubans who manage to reach U.S. soil are allowed to stay, but those picked up at sea are returned to their homeland.
Coast Guard Petty Officer Ryan Doss is quoted as saying, “We’ve seen (Cubans on) surfboards, pieces of Styrofoam, bathtubs, refrigerators. But never an automobile.”
This episode raises a number of interesting questions, including:
- How bad must conditions be in Cuba to drive its citizens to attempt to “drive” to America?
Luis: “Hey, Carlos, aren’t you tired of watching these stinking reruns of 1980s’ American t.v. shows?
Carlos: “Yeah, but what can we do about it?”
Luis: “I’m thinking about escaping to America so I can get cable.”
Carlos: “But how are you gonna get there, Luis?”
Luis: “I’m gonna drive there in my bright-green truck.”
Carlos: “But it’s across open water.”
Luis: “So what’s your point?”
Carlos: “You’re gonna need a neon-yellow shelter in the back.”
- How does one navigate a ‘51 Chevy truck across the Florida Straits?
Carlos: “Hey, Luis, don’t you think we should have stopped and asked directions back there.”
Luis: “Back where?”
Carlos: “Back at that island where all those big people were being chased by little people and yelling, ‘Take me with you!’”
Luis: “Oh, you mean Disney’s Castaway Cay.”
- When the Cubans saw the Coast Guard ship bearing down on them, did they gun the motor and attempt to outrun the “law”? If so, it would bring new meaning to the term, “police chase.”
Coast Guard: “Pull over and prepare to be boarded!”
Luis: “You’ll never catch me, Cutter!”
Coast Guard: “No? We’ve got your license plate number!”
Luis: “Oh, damn! Carlos, you were supposed to take that off!”
Carlos: “Oops.”
- What would have happened had the Cubans actually made it to shore?
Irving: “Martha, did you see that?”
Martha: “See what?”
Irving: “A bright-green truck filled with Cubans just drove out of the ocean and headed across the beach.”
Martha: “Irv – did you forget to take your medicine again?”
- Where was General Motors Corporation in all this?
1st GM VP: “Hey, we gotta get our hands on that bright-green truck.”
2nd GM VP: “You mean the one used by those Cubans to try to escape from communist oppression?”
1st GM VP: “That’s the one.”
2nd GM VP: “What do you want with that?”
1st GM VP: “It could be the centerpiece of a whole, new ad campaign. The heck with that ‘built Ford tough’ crap. We could say our vehicles are so tough, they can even cross the Straits of Florida.”
2nd GM VP: “But the truck didn’t make it.”
1st GM VP: “Oh, yeah...But it did get twenty nautical miles to the gallon!”
In the end, the Cubans struck out in their bid for freedom. Based solely upon creativity, I think we should have let them stay in America. It would have been the humane thing to do.
After all, one can only watch so many reruns of “The Love Boat.”
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All Rights Reserved.
For those of you who failed geography in school, the Florida Straits happen to be a body of water between the coast of Florida and communist Cuba.
It seems the twelve, would-be emigrants strapped empty, fifty-five gallon drums to the sides of the bright-green truck, added a small, neon-yellow shelter to its bed and stuck a propeller onto the driveshaft. Of course, they also left the tires on.
The pilot of a military plane spotted the truck, driver behind the wheel, chugging through the Straits at eight mph and reported the unusual sight (after blinking a half-dozen times, no doubt) to the Coast Guard. A short while later, a Coast Guard cutter picked up the Cubans about forty miles from their destination.
After ordering the skipper and his crew aboard, the Coast Guard sank the truck and transported the twelve back to Cuba. The decision was made in accordance with the U.S. immigration policy of “wet foot, dry foot” – Cubans who manage to reach U.S. soil are allowed to stay, but those picked up at sea are returned to their homeland.
Coast Guard Petty Officer Ryan Doss is quoted as saying, “We’ve seen (Cubans on) surfboards, pieces of Styrofoam, bathtubs, refrigerators. But never an automobile.”
This episode raises a number of interesting questions, including:
- How bad must conditions be in Cuba to drive its citizens to attempt to “drive” to America?
Luis: “Hey, Carlos, aren’t you tired of watching these stinking reruns of 1980s’ American t.v. shows?
Carlos: “Yeah, but what can we do about it?”
Luis: “I’m thinking about escaping to America so I can get cable.”
Carlos: “But how are you gonna get there, Luis?”
Luis: “I’m gonna drive there in my bright-green truck.”
Carlos: “But it’s across open water.”
Luis: “So what’s your point?”
Carlos: “You’re gonna need a neon-yellow shelter in the back.”
- How does one navigate a ‘51 Chevy truck across the Florida Straits?
Carlos: “Hey, Luis, don’t you think we should have stopped and asked directions back there.”
Luis: “Back where?”
Carlos: “Back at that island where all those big people were being chased by little people and yelling, ‘Take me with you!’”
Luis: “Oh, you mean Disney’s Castaway Cay.”
- When the Cubans saw the Coast Guard ship bearing down on them, did they gun the motor and attempt to outrun the “law”? If so, it would bring new meaning to the term, “police chase.”
Coast Guard: “Pull over and prepare to be boarded!”
Luis: “You’ll never catch me, Cutter!”
Coast Guard: “No? We’ve got your license plate number!”
Luis: “Oh, damn! Carlos, you were supposed to take that off!”
Carlos: “Oops.”
- What would have happened had the Cubans actually made it to shore?
Irving: “Martha, did you see that?”
Martha: “See what?”
Irving: “A bright-green truck filled with Cubans just drove out of the ocean and headed across the beach.”
Martha: “Irv – did you forget to take your medicine again?”
- Where was General Motors Corporation in all this?
1st GM VP: “Hey, we gotta get our hands on that bright-green truck.”
2nd GM VP: “You mean the one used by those Cubans to try to escape from communist oppression?”
1st GM VP: “That’s the one.”
2nd GM VP: “What do you want with that?”
1st GM VP: “It could be the centerpiece of a whole, new ad campaign. The heck with that ‘built Ford tough’ crap. We could say our vehicles are so tough, they can even cross the Straits of Florida.”
2nd GM VP: “But the truck didn’t make it.”
1st GM VP: “Oh, yeah...But it did get twenty nautical miles to the gallon!”
In the end, the Cubans struck out in their bid for freedom. Based solely upon creativity, I think we should have let them stay in America. It would have been the humane thing to do.
After all, one can only watch so many reruns of “The Love Boat.”
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All Rights Reserved.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
Gotta have that pizza pie
It finally happened.
After years of health warnings concerning the foods we eat – red meat increases the risk of developing cancer, fish is filled with mercury, ice cream causes brain freezes – this week the dinner tables were turned.
Italian scientists announced Monday that people who regularly gorge themselves on pizza – eating the equivalent of nearly two whole pies per week – had a significantly reduced incidence of certain cancers during their lives.
The news seems too good to be true. Sort of like that whole, “bald is beautiful” thing.
The researchers cited the antioxidant benefits of tomato sauce, the fiber content of dough and the nutrients in many of the toppings as a possible explanation for their findings. The fact that they wore white chef’s hats with their lab coats should not discredit them in the least.
Indeed, I say these scientists just gave new meaning to the word, “ciao”.
What’s more, it is entirely possible this development is merely the tip of the iceberg lettuce. The scientific community may soon announce that:
- eating fried chicken dramatically improves one’s eyesight;
- devouring mash potatoes and gravy increases one’s flexibility;
- chomping on chocolate bars drastically reduces the risk of gingivitis;
- nibbling on lard unclogs one’s arteries; and
- pigging out on Chinese food not only heightens one’s memory, it enables the diner to tell the fortune of total strangers.
Okay, that last one may be pushing it a bit. I couldn’t help but become a little giddy, since pizza just happens to be one of my favorite meals. I love it in every shape known to man – round, square, deep dish, trapezoid – and in practically every variety – Dominoes, Little Caesars, Hungry Howies, etc.
I eat pizza hot, cold, fresh and leftover. I scrape the cheese off the cardboard box and treat my son’s discarded crust like a delicacy.
Now, based upon Italian research, it actually turns out I’m not eating enough of it. This has got to be the greatest discovery since the microwave oven and Slurpies.
Of course, I immediately vow to increase my family’s pizza consumption by at least two pies per week. I know I won’t get any argument from my sons.
It also occurs to me that the greater the amount of toppings decorating the pizza surface, the greater the health benefits. As a result, I further vow to order my pies with more options than a top-of-the-line Fiat. For the health benefits.
As I’m about to make a third vow concerning double cheese, my wife walks in.
“Why are you so happy?” she inquires, suspicion dripping off her tongue.
I show her the news item.
“Interesting...” she says.
I can see her wheels spinning. I consider engaging the brakes, but it’s too late.
“So most of these test subjects lived their entire lives without being afflicted with cancer?”
“Yeah, so?” comes my weak reply.
“I bet eating all that pizza caused them to become grossly overweight, leading to heart disease, diabetes and other problems. Of course, that would probably shorten their lives to the point where they died before they could be diagnosed with cancer.”
Kaboom!
My hopes and dreams suddenly pop like a large cheese bubble.
“You don’t know that,” I say with little conviction.
“Then go and eat a pizza a day,” she says, walking out of the room. “Prove me wrong.”
You know, I might just do that. Right after I shave my head bald.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
After years of health warnings concerning the foods we eat – red meat increases the risk of developing cancer, fish is filled with mercury, ice cream causes brain freezes – this week the dinner tables were turned.
Italian scientists announced Monday that people who regularly gorge themselves on pizza – eating the equivalent of nearly two whole pies per week – had a significantly reduced incidence of certain cancers during their lives.
The news seems too good to be true. Sort of like that whole, “bald is beautiful” thing.
The researchers cited the antioxidant benefits of tomato sauce, the fiber content of dough and the nutrients in many of the toppings as a possible explanation for their findings. The fact that they wore white chef’s hats with their lab coats should not discredit them in the least.
Indeed, I say these scientists just gave new meaning to the word, “ciao”.
What’s more, it is entirely possible this development is merely the tip of the iceberg lettuce. The scientific community may soon announce that:
- eating fried chicken dramatically improves one’s eyesight;
- devouring mash potatoes and gravy increases one’s flexibility;
- chomping on chocolate bars drastically reduces the risk of gingivitis;
- nibbling on lard unclogs one’s arteries; and
- pigging out on Chinese food not only heightens one’s memory, it enables the diner to tell the fortune of total strangers.
Okay, that last one may be pushing it a bit. I couldn’t help but become a little giddy, since pizza just happens to be one of my favorite meals. I love it in every shape known to man – round, square, deep dish, trapezoid – and in practically every variety – Dominoes, Little Caesars, Hungry Howies, etc.
I eat pizza hot, cold, fresh and leftover. I scrape the cheese off the cardboard box and treat my son’s discarded crust like a delicacy.
Now, based upon Italian research, it actually turns out I’m not eating enough of it. This has got to be the greatest discovery since the microwave oven and Slurpies.
Of course, I immediately vow to increase my family’s pizza consumption by at least two pies per week. I know I won’t get any argument from my sons.
It also occurs to me that the greater the amount of toppings decorating the pizza surface, the greater the health benefits. As a result, I further vow to order my pies with more options than a top-of-the-line Fiat. For the health benefits.
As I’m about to make a third vow concerning double cheese, my wife walks in.
“Why are you so happy?” she inquires, suspicion dripping off her tongue.
I show her the news item.
“Interesting...” she says.
I can see her wheels spinning. I consider engaging the brakes, but it’s too late.
“So most of these test subjects lived their entire lives without being afflicted with cancer?”
“Yeah, so?” comes my weak reply.
“I bet eating all that pizza caused them to become grossly overweight, leading to heart disease, diabetes and other problems. Of course, that would probably shorten their lives to the point where they died before they could be diagnosed with cancer.”
Kaboom!
My hopes and dreams suddenly pop like a large cheese bubble.
“You don’t know that,” I say with little conviction.
“Then go and eat a pizza a day,” she says, walking out of the room. “Prove me wrong.”
You know, I might just do that. Right after I shave my head bald.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
A trip down memory lane
They grow up fast, don't they?
My oldest son is a mere month away from the tenth anniversary of his birth. Baby Elvis, as we nicknamed him back then due to his thick dark hair and long sideburns, now watches "Sports Center" religiously and dreams of the type of car he will purchase when he signs his first professional sports contract.
On Sunday, I drove him to the campus of Eastern Michigan University to attend his first overnight sports camp. A five-day, four-night training program established for advanced-level soccer players, the camp included room and board in an authentic, soon-to-be-condemned freshman dormitory.
As we lugged his bags down the narrow hallway to his room, I began to have flashbacks to my first days as a freshman, many moons (and beers) ago.
When I left for college, disco was dying and new wave music was actually "new." Yet some things can still trigger a vivid recollection, things like the pungent, musty odor I detected the moment I walked into my son’s dorm room.
"Wow. I’d forgotten what these rooms smell like."
"You didn’t go here, Dad."
"No, but believe me – dorm rooms all smell the same."
"You mean, gross?"
"You’ll get used to it. In fact, once the year is up, you’ll actually find you miss the smell."
"Yeah, except I’m only gonna be here for five days."
"Oh, right. Well, maybe you won’t get used to it."
I busied myself by helping unpack the month’s worth of clothes, sundries and snacks his mother had packed for him. The kid had more pairs of boxer shorts than K-Mart. He could probably change hourly and still not fully deplete his supply.
"Mom went a little crazy, eh?"
"Dad, you packed my boxers. Remember?"
"Hey – better safe than sorry."
"If you say so."
Soon, music was blaring from his boom box and kids were strolling in to say "Yo" and munch on his snacks.
I sat in the corner and tried to make sense of the memories and emotions racing through my mind.
"You okay, Dad?"
"What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking about the past. And the future."
"You mean when I go to college?"
"Yeah."
"So what was your first day of college like?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yep."
I considered telling him about how my anxiety had led me to go to a party with some kids I had just met and, wanting desperately to fit in, to drink way too much alcohol.
Before I could decide on my answer, one of the camp’s coaches stuck his head in the room to fetch the boys for their orientation meeting.
I gave him a hug goodbye and headed for my car.
Then next evening I returned, partly to bring him the alarm clock he’d forgotten, partly to see how he’d done that first night.
As it turned out, he’d woken up in the middle of the night with a bout of nauseousness that eventually led to an hour of clutching the toilet and vomiting. Mild food poisoning was the diagnosis.
"I’ve been okay all day today," he said in response to my concerned expression.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I’m sure."
We sat together for a moment without saying a word.
"Hey," I said, "remember when you asked me what my first day of college was like?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, now you know."
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
My oldest son is a mere month away from the tenth anniversary of his birth. Baby Elvis, as we nicknamed him back then due to his thick dark hair and long sideburns, now watches "Sports Center" religiously and dreams of the type of car he will purchase when he signs his first professional sports contract.
On Sunday, I drove him to the campus of Eastern Michigan University to attend his first overnight sports camp. A five-day, four-night training program established for advanced-level soccer players, the camp included room and board in an authentic, soon-to-be-condemned freshman dormitory.
As we lugged his bags down the narrow hallway to his room, I began to have flashbacks to my first days as a freshman, many moons (and beers) ago.
When I left for college, disco was dying and new wave music was actually "new." Yet some things can still trigger a vivid recollection, things like the pungent, musty odor I detected the moment I walked into my son’s dorm room.
"Wow. I’d forgotten what these rooms smell like."
"You didn’t go here, Dad."
"No, but believe me – dorm rooms all smell the same."
"You mean, gross?"
"You’ll get used to it. In fact, once the year is up, you’ll actually find you miss the smell."
"Yeah, except I’m only gonna be here for five days."
"Oh, right. Well, maybe you won’t get used to it."
I busied myself by helping unpack the month’s worth of clothes, sundries and snacks his mother had packed for him. The kid had more pairs of boxer shorts than K-Mart. He could probably change hourly and still not fully deplete his supply.
"Mom went a little crazy, eh?"
"Dad, you packed my boxers. Remember?"
"Hey – better safe than sorry."
"If you say so."
Soon, music was blaring from his boom box and kids were strolling in to say "Yo" and munch on his snacks.
I sat in the corner and tried to make sense of the memories and emotions racing through my mind.
"You okay, Dad?"
"What? Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking about the past. And the future."
"You mean when I go to college?"
"Yeah."
"So what was your first day of college like?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"Yep."
I considered telling him about how my anxiety had led me to go to a party with some kids I had just met and, wanting desperately to fit in, to drink way too much alcohol.
Before I could decide on my answer, one of the camp’s coaches stuck his head in the room to fetch the boys for their orientation meeting.
I gave him a hug goodbye and headed for my car.
Then next evening I returned, partly to bring him the alarm clock he’d forgotten, partly to see how he’d done that first night.
As it turned out, he’d woken up in the middle of the night with a bout of nauseousness that eventually led to an hour of clutching the toilet and vomiting. Mild food poisoning was the diagnosis.
"I’ve been okay all day today," he said in response to my concerned expression.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I’m sure."
We sat together for a moment without saying a word.
"Hey," I said, "remember when you asked me what my first day of college was like?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, now you know."
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
The quest for the Holy Grail
In the quest to find our version of the Holy Grail – that perfect combination of community, schools, neighborhood, house and lot – we recently moved to the small town of Milford, Michigan.
And like any good quest, we endured our share of trials and tribulations.
The Trial of the Boxes.
To save a little money, we decided to move all of our boxed items, leaving only those items likely to cause a hernia for the moving company. During the four days between our closing and moving dates, we transported countless boxes to the new house.
Each night, I surveyed the remaining boxes and smiled, knowing we had made a significant dent in the pile.
But each morning, I shockingly discovered the pile had managed to multiply, like rabbits on Viagra.
Ripping open one of the boxes, I recoiled from a paper cut that nearly severed one finger.
"Yow!"
"What now?" came the curt response from my harried wife.
"I almost cut my finger off on this box top!"
She examined the injury.
"It’s just a little flesh wound," she said. "It’s not even bleeding."
"Yet!"
My pain grew as I looked inside the offending box. It contained items that hadn’t been "unboxed" since our last move, some four years before.
Or even longer.
"Dear?" I said, sucking on my finger.
"What?"
"Do we really need this Oriental dinner set?"
"Yes. It was a wedding gift from a good friend of mine."
"But it hasn’t been out of the box since our wedding night."
At this point she opened a nearby box and pulled out a college text book.
"And what about your old Human Anatomy text book?"
"What about it?"
"Hey, if you don’t know human anatomy by now... ."
Ouch.
The Trial of the Well.
My wife and I were raised on city water. Cold, clear, chemical-filled city water.
Boy, do we miss it.
The water in our new home originates from a well.
As a result, it tastes funny.
But the worst quality of our water is, undoubtedly, the smell.
Actually, it reminds me of my childhood.
One year, my mother forced us to hand-paint hardboiled eggs. Then, on Easter morning, my brother and I received orders to search for the eggs, as the "Easter Bunny" had hid them around the house during the night. This might have been fun, if not for the fact that I had begun shaving earlier in the year.
Three months later, on an especially hot summer day, I began to detect an odor that seemed to originate behind our t.v. cabinet. An odor so foul, it made tears run down my face as I drew closer to it. An odor that seemed almost inhuman.
Peeking behind the cabinet, I discovered a partially decomposed blob marked with a small skull and crossbones. During the time it took me to run to the bathroom and vomit, I realized the offensive odor came from one of the Easter eggs I had painted three months before.
The smell of our well water bears a striking resemblance to that Easter egg "blob".
People in the neighborhood claim we’ll get used to it.
I think they’re missing the point.
The Trial of the Cable.
The first two weeks after we moved, we had neither television nor internet service. The prior owners had used a satellite dish for television, and – gasp! – dial-up service for their internet access.
As our family had no experience with a satellite dish – "Daddy, can we use it to contact aliens?" – and little desire to go from high-speed internet service to painfully-slow dial-up, we contacted the local cable company.
"Of course we can provide you with cable television and high-speed internet, sir. This is the new millennium."
Two weeks later, we were still stuck in the old millennium.
Meanwhile, my sons were on the verge of nervous breakdowns.
"Dad, if I have to watch this stinkin’ video one more time, I’m gonna hunt down Spongebob and squeeze every last drop of water from his little yellow body!"
"Then how about playing a board game with your brother?"
He looked at me like I was from another planet (summoned here by the neighbor’s satellite dish, no doubt).
"Okay. Let me see what I can do."
I located an ancient pair of rabbit ears and attached them to the one television in the house that was old enough to accept them.
"What’s that?" asked my boys.
"It’s called an antenna. It’s what we used to watch television when I was a kid, before cable."
"So then it doesn’t need electricity?"
"Very funny."
I turned on the television and managed to locate a fuzzy version of ABC. It might have been a professional bowling tournament. Or, possibly, "The Wizard of Oz." I’m not really sure.
All I could make out were a pair of red shoes.
My kids were so disgusted, they actually went to their room and began to read.
Eventually, we broke down and ordered satellite television and dial-up internet service.
Life is once again taking on some semblance of normalcy.
Meanwhile, my wife has threatened me with great bodily harm should I ever express a desire to move again.
Which is a shame, really, since it appears the backyard may not fit the inground pool I’ve sort of had my eye on...
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
And like any good quest, we endured our share of trials and tribulations.
The Trial of the Boxes.
To save a little money, we decided to move all of our boxed items, leaving only those items likely to cause a hernia for the moving company. During the four days between our closing and moving dates, we transported countless boxes to the new house.
Each night, I surveyed the remaining boxes and smiled, knowing we had made a significant dent in the pile.
But each morning, I shockingly discovered the pile had managed to multiply, like rabbits on Viagra.
Ripping open one of the boxes, I recoiled from a paper cut that nearly severed one finger.
"Yow!"
"What now?" came the curt response from my harried wife.
"I almost cut my finger off on this box top!"
She examined the injury.
"It’s just a little flesh wound," she said. "It’s not even bleeding."
"Yet!"
My pain grew as I looked inside the offending box. It contained items that hadn’t been "unboxed" since our last move, some four years before.
Or even longer.
"Dear?" I said, sucking on my finger.
"What?"
"Do we really need this Oriental dinner set?"
"Yes. It was a wedding gift from a good friend of mine."
"But it hasn’t been out of the box since our wedding night."
At this point she opened a nearby box and pulled out a college text book.
"And what about your old Human Anatomy text book?"
"What about it?"
"Hey, if you don’t know human anatomy by now... ."
Ouch.
The Trial of the Well.
My wife and I were raised on city water. Cold, clear, chemical-filled city water.
Boy, do we miss it.
The water in our new home originates from a well.
As a result, it tastes funny.
But the worst quality of our water is, undoubtedly, the smell.
Actually, it reminds me of my childhood.
One year, my mother forced us to hand-paint hardboiled eggs. Then, on Easter morning, my brother and I received orders to search for the eggs, as the "Easter Bunny" had hid them around the house during the night. This might have been fun, if not for the fact that I had begun shaving earlier in the year.
Three months later, on an especially hot summer day, I began to detect an odor that seemed to originate behind our t.v. cabinet. An odor so foul, it made tears run down my face as I drew closer to it. An odor that seemed almost inhuman.
Peeking behind the cabinet, I discovered a partially decomposed blob marked with a small skull and crossbones. During the time it took me to run to the bathroom and vomit, I realized the offensive odor came from one of the Easter eggs I had painted three months before.
The smell of our well water bears a striking resemblance to that Easter egg "blob".
People in the neighborhood claim we’ll get used to it.
I think they’re missing the point.
The Trial of the Cable.
The first two weeks after we moved, we had neither television nor internet service. The prior owners had used a satellite dish for television, and – gasp! – dial-up service for their internet access.
As our family had no experience with a satellite dish – "Daddy, can we use it to contact aliens?" – and little desire to go from high-speed internet service to painfully-slow dial-up, we contacted the local cable company.
"Of course we can provide you with cable television and high-speed internet, sir. This is the new millennium."
Two weeks later, we were still stuck in the old millennium.
Meanwhile, my sons were on the verge of nervous breakdowns.
"Dad, if I have to watch this stinkin’ video one more time, I’m gonna hunt down Spongebob and squeeze every last drop of water from his little yellow body!"
"Then how about playing a board game with your brother?"
He looked at me like I was from another planet (summoned here by the neighbor’s satellite dish, no doubt).
"Okay. Let me see what I can do."
I located an ancient pair of rabbit ears and attached them to the one television in the house that was old enough to accept them.
"What’s that?" asked my boys.
"It’s called an antenna. It’s what we used to watch television when I was a kid, before cable."
"So then it doesn’t need electricity?"
"Very funny."
I turned on the television and managed to locate a fuzzy version of ABC. It might have been a professional bowling tournament. Or, possibly, "The Wizard of Oz." I’m not really sure.
All I could make out were a pair of red shoes.
My kids were so disgusted, they actually went to their room and began to read.
Eventually, we broke down and ordered satellite television and dial-up internet service.
Life is once again taking on some semblance of normalcy.
Meanwhile, my wife has threatened me with great bodily harm should I ever express a desire to move again.
Which is a shame, really, since it appears the backyard may not fit the inground pool I’ve sort of had my eye on...
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Tuesday, June 03, 2003
Beware the surly humor columnist
I’m in a bad mood today.
Unwittingly, I trapped a raccoon in our garage last night when I closed the garage door. It proceeded to rip up the rubber strip along the bottom of the door, some drywall, a bag of garbage and various other items that got in its way.
Then, as if to add insult to injury, it urinated on my baseball mitt. Man, was I pissed!
Apparently, the masked rodent isn’t a fan of our national pastime. Maybe that's why we have teams with nicknames such as the Tigers, Orioles and Marlins, but no Raccoons.
While the nocturnal little devil did his dirty work, I slept the sleep of the dead in our bedroom upstairs. I seem to recall waking at one point in order to yell at the dog which -- oddly enough -- was barking fiercely near the door leading into the garage, but I never heard anything that might warn me of the predicament in our garage.
As a result, I feel like using today’s column to perform a little ranting and raving. And possibly a little raving and ranting.
Here are some other things that have bothered me of late:
The issue with money.
The other day I stopped at a gas station to purchase a fountain drink. I think the price came to ninety-four cents, including tax, and I handed the clerk the only thing I had in my pocket -- a twenty-dollar bill.
Instead of change, I received a dirty look. "Do you have anything smaller?" the clerk inquired, a disgusted tone evident in her voice.
"No," I answered weakly.
The clerk paused long enough to make me believe she was going to reject my purchase. Meanwhile, the people in line behind me began clearing their throats.
Finally, the clerk let out a heavy sigh and proceeded to make change.
I left quickly after pocketing $19.06, in the process nearly tripping over the tail I had wrapped between my legs.
Now this was not the first time I have encountered such a situation, so I ask you: When did the twenty dollar bill become classified as something other than valid legal tender in this country?
While I was asleep, did Congress pass a law prohibiting the use of twenties in transactions involving a purchase price of less than a dollar?
If not, and assuming the twenty is still good currency, then I would like to tell America’s cashiers to save their scornful frowns and insolent sighs for someone who really deserves it -- like the guy who decides to do his weekly grocery shopping in the gas station mini-mart.
Oh, yeah…And have a nice day!
The problem with spelling bees.
Last week I decided to take a little break from working on my latest screenplay, so I grabbed a bag of chips, hunkered down in my favorite chair and flipped on ESPN to watch a little sports television.
What I found instead was a bunch of pimple-faced middle-school kids agonizing over the spelling of words such as "gnathonic," "rhathymia," "dipnoous" and "hypozeuxis". Turns out the sports network decided to broadcast the 2003 National Spelling Bee.
Now, I’m completely in favor of encouraging children to improve their spelling skills, but do we really need to know who can spell "pococurante" (the word which 13-year-old Sai Gunturi spelled to win this year’s Bee) correctly?
Even more perplexing, why was ESPN broadcasting the competition? According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, "sport" is defined as "a physical activity engaged in for pleasure." Not only was there very little physical activity on display, but from the look on many of the faces the Bee was inducing the opposite of pleasure. A more apt description might be "dolor" (defined as "mental suffering or anguish").
By the way, "pococurante" means "nonchalant or indifferent", which might describe how I felt about the opportunity to watch this year’s Bee.
And how about those automated telephone answering systems?
We are moving next week, so I have been struggling to take care of the many tasks associated with such a momentous event. Among the many calls I placed last week was a call to the electric company to disconnect our current service and establish service at our new house.
Of course, my call triggered the company’s automated answering system, possibly the worst invention of the last thirty years. Here is what I heard:
"If you are calling to report a problem with your service, press one. If you are calling to report a downed power line, press two. If you are calling regarding your current statement, press three. If you are calling to disconnect your current service, press four. If you are calling to establish new service, press five. If you would like to hear this menu repeated in Spanish, press six. For all other calls, press seven."
After hearing these choices, I was left with two questions: First, what number do I press to both disconnect current service and establish new service -- four-and-a-half? Second, if I only speak Spanish, how would I know to press six?
Eventually I pressed four and heard: "You are being transferred to a customer service representative. Your call may be monitored as a quality control measure. Your estimated wait time is twelve minutes."
After listening to about twenty minutes of elevator music (thank goodness my phone has a hands-free option), a live voice said "Hello".
"Oh, hi. I’m calling because I’m moving, and I need to disconnect my current service and start up service at my new home."
"New service start-up is a different department. I’ll transfer you."
"But--"
Back to the elevator music, but not before I was told that my estimated wait time was now "sixteen minutes."
Needless to say, I spent an entire morning changing my electrical service.
Yet, it still caused me less dolor than buying a fountain drink with a twenty-dollar bill.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Unwittingly, I trapped a raccoon in our garage last night when I closed the garage door. It proceeded to rip up the rubber strip along the bottom of the door, some drywall, a bag of garbage and various other items that got in its way.
Then, as if to add insult to injury, it urinated on my baseball mitt. Man, was I pissed!
Apparently, the masked rodent isn’t a fan of our national pastime. Maybe that's why we have teams with nicknames such as the Tigers, Orioles and Marlins, but no Raccoons.
While the nocturnal little devil did his dirty work, I slept the sleep of the dead in our bedroom upstairs. I seem to recall waking at one point in order to yell at the dog which -- oddly enough -- was barking fiercely near the door leading into the garage, but I never heard anything that might warn me of the predicament in our garage.
As a result, I feel like using today’s column to perform a little ranting and raving. And possibly a little raving and ranting.
Here are some other things that have bothered me of late:
The issue with money.
The other day I stopped at a gas station to purchase a fountain drink. I think the price came to ninety-four cents, including tax, and I handed the clerk the only thing I had in my pocket -- a twenty-dollar bill.
Instead of change, I received a dirty look. "Do you have anything smaller?" the clerk inquired, a disgusted tone evident in her voice.
"No," I answered weakly.
The clerk paused long enough to make me believe she was going to reject my purchase. Meanwhile, the people in line behind me began clearing their throats.
Finally, the clerk let out a heavy sigh and proceeded to make change.
I left quickly after pocketing $19.06, in the process nearly tripping over the tail I had wrapped between my legs.
Now this was not the first time I have encountered such a situation, so I ask you: When did the twenty dollar bill become classified as something other than valid legal tender in this country?
While I was asleep, did Congress pass a law prohibiting the use of twenties in transactions involving a purchase price of less than a dollar?
If not, and assuming the twenty is still good currency, then I would like to tell America’s cashiers to save their scornful frowns and insolent sighs for someone who really deserves it -- like the guy who decides to do his weekly grocery shopping in the gas station mini-mart.
Oh, yeah…And have a nice day!
The problem with spelling bees.
Last week I decided to take a little break from working on my latest screenplay, so I grabbed a bag of chips, hunkered down in my favorite chair and flipped on ESPN to watch a little sports television.
What I found instead was a bunch of pimple-faced middle-school kids agonizing over the spelling of words such as "gnathonic," "rhathymia," "dipnoous" and "hypozeuxis". Turns out the sports network decided to broadcast the 2003 National Spelling Bee.
Now, I’m completely in favor of encouraging children to improve their spelling skills, but do we really need to know who can spell "pococurante" (the word which 13-year-old Sai Gunturi spelled to win this year’s Bee) correctly?
Even more perplexing, why was ESPN broadcasting the competition? According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, "sport" is defined as "a physical activity engaged in for pleasure." Not only was there very little physical activity on display, but from the look on many of the faces the Bee was inducing the opposite of pleasure. A more apt description might be "dolor" (defined as "mental suffering or anguish").
By the way, "pococurante" means "nonchalant or indifferent", which might describe how I felt about the opportunity to watch this year’s Bee.
And how about those automated telephone answering systems?
We are moving next week, so I have been struggling to take care of the many tasks associated with such a momentous event. Among the many calls I placed last week was a call to the electric company to disconnect our current service and establish service at our new house.
Of course, my call triggered the company’s automated answering system, possibly the worst invention of the last thirty years. Here is what I heard:
"If you are calling to report a problem with your service, press one. If you are calling to report a downed power line, press two. If you are calling regarding your current statement, press three. If you are calling to disconnect your current service, press four. If you are calling to establish new service, press five. If you would like to hear this menu repeated in Spanish, press six. For all other calls, press seven."
After hearing these choices, I was left with two questions: First, what number do I press to both disconnect current service and establish new service -- four-and-a-half? Second, if I only speak Spanish, how would I know to press six?
Eventually I pressed four and heard: "You are being transferred to a customer service representative. Your call may be monitored as a quality control measure. Your estimated wait time is twelve minutes."
After listening to about twenty minutes of elevator music (thank goodness my phone has a hands-free option), a live voice said "Hello".
"Oh, hi. I’m calling because I’m moving, and I need to disconnect my current service and start up service at my new home."
"New service start-up is a different department. I’ll transfer you."
"But--"
Back to the elevator music, but not before I was told that my estimated wait time was now "sixteen minutes."
Needless to say, I spent an entire morning changing my electrical service.
Yet, it still caused me less dolor than buying a fountain drink with a twenty-dollar bill.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, May 19, 2003
TAKE ME OUT OF THE BALLGAME...
My sons have never seen me play ball.
Like most guys my age -- birth certificate says 42, voice in head says 32 -- I grew up playing baseball. Little League diamond, neighborhood park, backyard -- wherever there was a patch of grass and a handful of kids, a game might break out.
Of course, once I reached adulthood, the game was called “slow-pitch softball”, but many of the same techniques applied: Hit, catch, throw, argue with the umpire...
At the time I met my wife, I played on three different “beer league” teams. Which isn’t to say we weren’t serious about the game -- we were plenty serious (even if one of the teams was named “Hairy Fishnuts”).
We organized preseason practices, wore color-coordinated uniforms, talked smack to the opposing players.
“The batter’s got no stick, pitch! Just groove one in there and see if he can touch it! That’s right, serve him a little meat on a platter, pitch! I’m bettin’ this guy’s a vegetarian!”
Once I put on the band of gold, however, I quickly realized there was more to life than work and softball. So I cut back to two teams.
Then, with the arrival of my firstborn, I cut back to one team. This was my oldest group of friends, and the team itself dated back more than ten years. Yet, the guys were all becoming immersed in their families and, a couple years later, we decided to hang up our cleats for good.
Now, my oldest boy is nearly ten and a pitcher on his Little League team. I truly enjoy watching him play the game of my youth. It always triggers a flood of fond memories.
But this past weekend, something else was triggered. My wife and I attended a 40th birthday luncheon (that’s what middle-aged adults do, apparently) for the wife of one of my old softball cronies and former college roommate.
Sitting there nursing our beers, the guys began reminiscing about the old softball team. Ah, those were the days.
Of course, it didn’t take long before someone suggested we put the team back together (not unlike the Blues Brothers, I thought).
“Maybe we could join one of those over-forty leagues,” he said.
And that’s when it hit me: My sons have never seen their old man play ball.
Nope, they’ve never seen me attempt to stretch a single into a pulled hamstring. They’ve never seen me leave a six-inch patch of skin sliding on the concrete-like infield dirt. They’ve never seen me take a called third strike and slink slowly back to the dugout. They’ve never seen me roam the outfield, occasionally turning routine pop-ups into triples. They’ve never seen me overthrow the cut-off man, his backup, and the fence behind the dugout in one fell swoop.
Come to think of it, you guys go on without me. I think I’ll just leave the cleats hanging up in the garage.
After all, I wouldn’t want to upset the spider that’s built a fancy web in them.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Like most guys my age -- birth certificate says 42, voice in head says 32 -- I grew up playing baseball. Little League diamond, neighborhood park, backyard -- wherever there was a patch of grass and a handful of kids, a game might break out.
Of course, once I reached adulthood, the game was called “slow-pitch softball”, but many of the same techniques applied: Hit, catch, throw, argue with the umpire...
At the time I met my wife, I played on three different “beer league” teams. Which isn’t to say we weren’t serious about the game -- we were plenty serious (even if one of the teams was named “Hairy Fishnuts”).
We organized preseason practices, wore color-coordinated uniforms, talked smack to the opposing players.
“The batter’s got no stick, pitch! Just groove one in there and see if he can touch it! That’s right, serve him a little meat on a platter, pitch! I’m bettin’ this guy’s a vegetarian!”
Once I put on the band of gold, however, I quickly realized there was more to life than work and softball. So I cut back to two teams.
Then, with the arrival of my firstborn, I cut back to one team. This was my oldest group of friends, and the team itself dated back more than ten years. Yet, the guys were all becoming immersed in their families and, a couple years later, we decided to hang up our cleats for good.
Now, my oldest boy is nearly ten and a pitcher on his Little League team. I truly enjoy watching him play the game of my youth. It always triggers a flood of fond memories.
But this past weekend, something else was triggered. My wife and I attended a 40th birthday luncheon (that’s what middle-aged adults do, apparently) for the wife of one of my old softball cronies and former college roommate.
Sitting there nursing our beers, the guys began reminiscing about the old softball team. Ah, those were the days.
Of course, it didn’t take long before someone suggested we put the team back together (not unlike the Blues Brothers, I thought).
“Maybe we could join one of those over-forty leagues,” he said.
And that’s when it hit me: My sons have never seen their old man play ball.
Nope, they’ve never seen me attempt to stretch a single into a pulled hamstring. They’ve never seen me leave a six-inch patch of skin sliding on the concrete-like infield dirt. They’ve never seen me take a called third strike and slink slowly back to the dugout. They’ve never seen me roam the outfield, occasionally turning routine pop-ups into triples. They’ve never seen me overthrow the cut-off man, his backup, and the fence behind the dugout in one fell swoop.
Come to think of it, you guys go on without me. I think I’ll just leave the cleats hanging up in the garage.
After all, I wouldn’t want to upset the spider that’s built a fancy web in them.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Battle of the sexes moves to the bathroom
This may come as a surprise, but I’m not a very observant person. If you don’t believe me, just ask my wife.
A typical conversation between us is likely to go something like this:
She: Are you saving that pile of newspapers for a reason?
Me: What pile of newspapers?
She: The pile in the living room that your sons have been hiding behind during their game of hide-and-seek.
Me (looking into living room): Oh, wow…I never noticed it before.
She: And?
Me: It does make a pretty good hiding place.
Or something like this:
She: I love that you folded the laundry, but I think you’re ready to move on to putting it away as well.
Me (lying on our bed watching t.v.): What? I forgot to put it away?
She: Uh, yeah. You’re lying on top of it. Or hadn’t you noticed?
Me: No I’m not--er--that’s where my argyle socks are. I was looking for them earlier…
Now, after twelve years of marriage, my wife has grudgingly arrived at the following conclusion: If I don’t see something, then it doesn’t exist in my world.
Not that she’s happy about it, but she’s learned to adapt.
For instance, if she wants me to do something (say, clean the bathrooms, which always look fine to me), she knows she is better off asking me to do it than expecting me to notice the problem and break out the cleaning supplies.
Yet, even though she has achieved this major breakthrough (and without professional counseling, I might add), she still likes to test me on occasion, as if hoping to find that I have undergone a sudden, unexplained transformation. Sort of like Spiderman’s Peter Parker, only without the tights and superpowers.
Just last week, she left a sponge and a bottle of Tilex on the floor in front of the shower. Apparently, she expected me to spray the inside of the shower and scrub away the mildew that had started to form on the tile and grout.
Well, I just stepped around the items getting in and out of the shower. I did this on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
Of course, I probably noticed the bottle and sponge in passing, but it simply failed to register that they had been set there for me to use to clean the shower.
By Friday morning, the love-of-my-life couldn’t take it any more.
She: You see that bottle and sponge by the shower door?
Me (looking over): Yeah?
She: Did it ever occur to you to use them to clean the inside of the shower?
Me: Why -- is it dirty?
She: Yes.
Me: But how can it be dirty if there’s hot water and soap splashing about inside?
She (dragging me by the arm): Come here.
After picking up the sponge and Tilex, she opens the shower door and points at one corner.
She: You see that brownish stuff on the grout?
Me: Yeah.
She: That’s mildew. It needs to be cleaned off every once in awhile.
Me: So why didn’t you just ask me to clean the shower?
She: Because I shouldn’t have to ask you. You should just--
Me: Read your mind?
She: No.
Her tone wasn’t very convincing.
Me: In case you’ve forgotten, it’s pretty difficult to read another person’s mind. In fact, I challenge you to tell me what I’m thinking right now.
At this point I learned a very valuable lesson: Don’t patronize your wife while she’s holding a bottle of Tilex. Unless, of course, you need some mildew cleaned off your face.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
A typical conversation between us is likely to go something like this:
She: Are you saving that pile of newspapers for a reason?
Me: What pile of newspapers?
She: The pile in the living room that your sons have been hiding behind during their game of hide-and-seek.
Me (looking into living room): Oh, wow…I never noticed it before.
She: And?
Me: It does make a pretty good hiding place.
Or something like this:
She: I love that you folded the laundry, but I think you’re ready to move on to putting it away as well.
Me (lying on our bed watching t.v.): What? I forgot to put it away?
She: Uh, yeah. You’re lying on top of it. Or hadn’t you noticed?
Me: No I’m not--er--that’s where my argyle socks are. I was looking for them earlier…
Now, after twelve years of marriage, my wife has grudgingly arrived at the following conclusion: If I don’t see something, then it doesn’t exist in my world.
Not that she’s happy about it, but she’s learned to adapt.
For instance, if she wants me to do something (say, clean the bathrooms, which always look fine to me), she knows she is better off asking me to do it than expecting me to notice the problem and break out the cleaning supplies.
Yet, even though she has achieved this major breakthrough (and without professional counseling, I might add), she still likes to test me on occasion, as if hoping to find that I have undergone a sudden, unexplained transformation. Sort of like Spiderman’s Peter Parker, only without the tights and superpowers.
Just last week, she left a sponge and a bottle of Tilex on the floor in front of the shower. Apparently, she expected me to spray the inside of the shower and scrub away the mildew that had started to form on the tile and grout.
Well, I just stepped around the items getting in and out of the shower. I did this on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
Of course, I probably noticed the bottle and sponge in passing, but it simply failed to register that they had been set there for me to use to clean the shower.
By Friday morning, the love-of-my-life couldn’t take it any more.
She: You see that bottle and sponge by the shower door?
Me (looking over): Yeah?
She: Did it ever occur to you to use them to clean the inside of the shower?
Me: Why -- is it dirty?
She: Yes.
Me: But how can it be dirty if there’s hot water and soap splashing about inside?
She (dragging me by the arm): Come here.
After picking up the sponge and Tilex, she opens the shower door and points at one corner.
She: You see that brownish stuff on the grout?
Me: Yeah.
She: That’s mildew. It needs to be cleaned off every once in awhile.
Me: So why didn’t you just ask me to clean the shower?
She: Because I shouldn’t have to ask you. You should just--
Me: Read your mind?
She: No.
Her tone wasn’t very convincing.
Me: In case you’ve forgotten, it’s pretty difficult to read another person’s mind. In fact, I challenge you to tell me what I’m thinking right now.
At this point I learned a very valuable lesson: Don’t patronize your wife while she’s holding a bottle of Tilex. Unless, of course, you need some mildew cleaned off your face.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Monday, May 05, 2003
America’s biggest knuckleheads
I just discovered you can purchase a deck of Iraq’s Most Wanted playing cards on the Internet. This is the same infamous deck of fifty-five cards that the U.S. Department of Defense recently issued to aid in capturing Sadam Hussein (Ace of Spades) and his cronies.
An authentic deck will set you back about $100 (if interested, check out any of the popular online auction sites), while replica decks are being hawked for as little as $5.95, not including shipping and handling.
Because of their novelty, I’m thinking about acquiring a replica deck for myself. They would certainly liven up poker night.
The cards have also inspired me to create my own version, at least in the figurative sense. Thus, I give the top twelve cards in my deck of The Biggest Knuckleheads in America.
The “Queens”:
Winona Ryder - “I make millions of dollars per film, but none of it can buy me the thrill I get when shoplifting scarves at Saks!”
Martha Stewart - “I make millions of dollars per year from my lifestyle empire, but none of it can buy me the thrill I get when engaging in insider trading and otherwise screwing the poor saps who buy stock in my company!”
Natalie Maines - “I make millions of dollars per year from sales of Dixie Chicks records, but it can’t buy me anything that tastes near as good as my own foot.”
Pamela Lee - Changes breast size as often as she changes hair styles. After buying a home with Kid Rock in Metro Detroit, sends letters to local restaurants imploring them to “go vegetarian”. Included on the list: Lafayette Coney Island.
The “Kings”:
Larry Eustachy - The head basketball coach at Iowa State University and married father of two, Eustachy is facing almost certain termination for getting drunk at more than one off-campus, student party and planting unwanted kisses on the faces of various coeds while having his picture snapped. His defense: “My players do it all the time. I was just trying to fit in.”
Mike Price - The head football coach at the University of Alabama and married father of three was fired after visiting a strip joint, taking one of the “dancers” back to his hotel room and allowing her to charge $1,000 in room service. Hired away from Washington State University this winter, Price’s stupidity will prevent him from ever coaching a game for the Crimson Tide. Asked if his actions were worth the negative consequences, he answered, “Just barely.”
Geraldo Rivera - Violated military rules by revealing secret details of U.S. troop movements while drawing a map in the sand on Fox News. Later apologized, claiming he didn’t know any better. Also claimed to be Napoleon in a former life.
Peter Arnett - Fired by NBC as a war correspondent after providing indirect encouragement to Sadam’s regime early in the war by stating that U.S. war efforts were failing during an interview on Iraqi television. Later hired as national media director by France.
The “Aces”:
Mike Tyson (Ace of Clubs) - Biting the ear off an opponent while getting beat up during a boxing match may possibly be the worst case of poor sportsmanship in the history of athletics. I could go on and on, but I kind of like my ears…
Bobby Knight (Ace of Hearts) - Has made a career out of boorish behavior. After countless acts of verbal and physical abuse, he was finally fired by Indiana University after choking a student heckler. Now suing the school for wrongful termination, claiming he should have had an opportunity to finish the heckler off.
Michael Jackson (Ace of Diamonds) - More talent than God, but blew it on young boys and self-mutilation. Being sued by Barbara Walters for emotional distress after his nose fell off during an interview. Claims he shouldn’t be held responsible for dangling a baby over a hotel balcony, as he was dared by Bubbles the Chimp.
O.J. (Ace of Spades) - The king of denial, O.J. is like some warped, evil cartoon character. Acts as if people stare at him because he was once a famous athlete. Can’t figure out why neighbors continuously move away. Most recently in the news when teenage daughter Sydney called 911 in tears after he verbally abused her. I have one word of advice for Sydney: RUN!
There you have it -- the top twelve cards in my deck of America’s Biggest Knuckleheads. On sale soon at an Internet site near you.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
An authentic deck will set you back about $100 (if interested, check out any of the popular online auction sites), while replica decks are being hawked for as little as $5.95, not including shipping and handling.
Because of their novelty, I’m thinking about acquiring a replica deck for myself. They would certainly liven up poker night.
The cards have also inspired me to create my own version, at least in the figurative sense. Thus, I give the top twelve cards in my deck of The Biggest Knuckleheads in America.
The “Queens”:
Winona Ryder - “I make millions of dollars per film, but none of it can buy me the thrill I get when shoplifting scarves at Saks!”
Martha Stewart - “I make millions of dollars per year from my lifestyle empire, but none of it can buy me the thrill I get when engaging in insider trading and otherwise screwing the poor saps who buy stock in my company!”
Natalie Maines - “I make millions of dollars per year from sales of Dixie Chicks records, but it can’t buy me anything that tastes near as good as my own foot.”
Pamela Lee - Changes breast size as often as she changes hair styles. After buying a home with Kid Rock in Metro Detroit, sends letters to local restaurants imploring them to “go vegetarian”. Included on the list: Lafayette Coney Island.
The “Kings”:
Larry Eustachy - The head basketball coach at Iowa State University and married father of two, Eustachy is facing almost certain termination for getting drunk at more than one off-campus, student party and planting unwanted kisses on the faces of various coeds while having his picture snapped. His defense: “My players do it all the time. I was just trying to fit in.”
Mike Price - The head football coach at the University of Alabama and married father of three was fired after visiting a strip joint, taking one of the “dancers” back to his hotel room and allowing her to charge $1,000 in room service. Hired away from Washington State University this winter, Price’s stupidity will prevent him from ever coaching a game for the Crimson Tide. Asked if his actions were worth the negative consequences, he answered, “Just barely.”
Geraldo Rivera - Violated military rules by revealing secret details of U.S. troop movements while drawing a map in the sand on Fox News. Later apologized, claiming he didn’t know any better. Also claimed to be Napoleon in a former life.
Peter Arnett - Fired by NBC as a war correspondent after providing indirect encouragement to Sadam’s regime early in the war by stating that U.S. war efforts were failing during an interview on Iraqi television. Later hired as national media director by France.
The “Aces”:
Mike Tyson (Ace of Clubs) - Biting the ear off an opponent while getting beat up during a boxing match may possibly be the worst case of poor sportsmanship in the history of athletics. I could go on and on, but I kind of like my ears…
Bobby Knight (Ace of Hearts) - Has made a career out of boorish behavior. After countless acts of verbal and physical abuse, he was finally fired by Indiana University after choking a student heckler. Now suing the school for wrongful termination, claiming he should have had an opportunity to finish the heckler off.
Michael Jackson (Ace of Diamonds) - More talent than God, but blew it on young boys and self-mutilation. Being sued by Barbara Walters for emotional distress after his nose fell off during an interview. Claims he shouldn’t be held responsible for dangling a baby over a hotel balcony, as he was dared by Bubbles the Chimp.
O.J. (Ace of Spades) - The king of denial, O.J. is like some warped, evil cartoon character. Acts as if people stare at him because he was once a famous athlete. Can’t figure out why neighbors continuously move away. Most recently in the news when teenage daughter Sydney called 911 in tears after he verbally abused her. I have one word of advice for Sydney: RUN!
There you have it -- the top twelve cards in my deck of America’s Biggest Knuckleheads. On sale soon at an Internet site near you.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
