The Lyin’

The Witch

The Wardrobe

A few thoughts:

• Michelle Obama, before her big speech at the Democratic National Convention this year–you know, the one where her husband accepted the nomination as the first African-American candidate in the history of our country–purchased the dress she wore during her speech at Target. For $100. And she looked breathtaking. You do the math.
• If you watched any of the videos, make sure you see the second one on the page. It’s an eye-opener. And it will send shivers up your back.
• Fox News is a pathetic waste of time. Unfortunately, they have a large following among people who refuse to do actual research and/or think for themselves. They’re trying to spin this? People are losing homes that cost less than $150,000! Way to relate to Joe Six-Pack The Plumber Hockey Moms all over this country! Yeah, lady, most folks can barely afford to fill our cars with fuel to get back and forth to work! Stay classy.
• I’m so glad I’m not a donor to the McCain campaign. I feel proud of the small amount of money I sent to Obama’s campaign because it was matched by some everyday Dave Six-Pack American just like me who believes in the guy and his vision for the future of our great country. He built his entire campaign on donations from individuals like us, not lobbyists who hope to make him just another puppet. And the guy is still wearing the same wornout shoes he’s been wearing for months. It’s okay, Barack! Head over to Kohl’s and buy yourself a new pair! It’s on me!
• That being said, THIS John McCain isn’t even a shred of the person I once said I would vote for. I have watched him transform into a fear-mongering shadow of his former self. Eight years ago, I think he would have made a great president (if only Bush hadn’t run such a nasty campaign against him) and I think we’d be in a far different situation had he won. Now, I think he’s just as–if not more–out of touch and dangerous as what Bush is. I had hoped I would never have to say that. His demeanor since winning the primary earlier this year has become more and more vile, and his appointment of Palin as his successor–God forbid–was careless, desperate and cynical.
• This election has to get over with immediately, because this vein on my forehead is about to burst.

God Bless America.

Anybody have any Excedrin? Queludes? A cave I can live in for a week and a half?

Maverick Terrorism 101

Someone in the McCain camp should invest in a dictionary.

Playing fast and loose with the facts has been right in their wheelhouse this election season, but lately their campaign has gone from mudslinging to shit-smearing in the most dangerous of ways.

Let’s start in September, back when Sarah Palin was announced as McCain’s running mate. Though his judgment in bringing a person with little experience or knowledge into the race was seen as a political ploy by most, support for his campaign received the breath of fresh air it desperately needed. Women were impressed that though it was an obvious attempt on his part to win the votes of those who supported Hillary Clinton’s race to the highest office in the land, he had chosen a woman to be his number two.

It took guts.

It took a maverick.

It took very poor judgement.

Sarah Palin is as qualified for the second-in-command gig as you or me. Her lack of experience isn’t the mind-boggling part though; it’s her supporters defense of it. 

You could dispute that Barack Obama has little experience also, and I’ll be the first to admit that truth.

There’s a very fundamental difference in the ideologies and capabilities of these two people though. Barack Obama has shown vast knowledge of foreign diplomacy, the economy, education, health care reform, and many other issues plaguing people like you and me. On all the issues that matter to me as a voter, he has a far better grasp on the reality facing the middle class than his opponent, John McCain.

As far as Palin is concerned, her knowledge of anything outside of the Alaska border is borderline frightening.

Her candidacy with John McCain reinvigorated the Republican base and made it a contest again though. In fact, immediately following McCain’s announcement and her speech at the RNC, polls showed McCain edging out Obama.

Alas, the honeymoon was over quickly. Lashing out at the media, refusing interviews, bombing those interviews she did participate in, a weak debate performance highlighted by cutesy, folksy blabbering and no real grasp of facts or solutions sent Obama’s poll numbers through the roof. The overuse of catchphrases and soundbites (I swear if I ever hear the words ‘maverick’ or ‘hockey mom’ or ‘pitbull in lipstick’ again after November 4, I’ll snap), left the wannabe-veep standing exposed as a fraud on the biggest stage in the world.

Obama’s support was furthered along by an expected but unprecedented and unfortunate economic disaster set in motion by the failed policies of the Bush administration (and sadly still supported by John McCain) and McCain’s thinly-veiled stunt in ‘halting’ his campaign to rectify the situation. It became instantly clear who was more presidential.

And can I just say this? Suspending your campaign to work on the bailout only works for you if you indeed actually stop campaigning, quit raising money, halt doing interviews and race right over to Washington to work with the committee overseeing the bill. McCain did three interviews that night, flew to Washington late the next morning, spent half a day in this hotel, sauntered over to the committee meeting and held up talks by demonstrating his ever-present confusion on the economy. The stunt might have worked if it had been implemented correctly.

I digress.

The polls didn’t look at all promising for the McCain-Palin campaign after the vice presidential debate where all the polls (save for FOX News) showed Biden winning handily. It was immediately announced by the McCain campaign that they were going negative the following week. Now, this coming from a camp that has produced some of the most negative campaigning in recent history (even by Bush’s and Rove’s standards), I feared what could be next.

And here’s where we get to the dangerous part. Forget her inexperience, poor credentials and apparent disdain for the real issues at hand here. If those weren’t enough to turn people off, they sent the most gorgeous attack dog ever out on the trail to perpetuate racial stereotypes, further dragging their campaign into the sewers.

Lately on the trail, Palin has been referring to Obama’s ‘relationship’ with William Ayers, who was on a local governing board with Obama in Chicago. In the past, Ayers had done some despicable things, no one is disputing that. The relationship though has been deemed by all accounts a moot point. Obama was eight years old when Ayers did his evil deeds (more than 40 years ago) and their relationship has been proven to be on a civil, strictly professional level, the same way you deal with crazies on governing boards in your own town.

And Sarah’s own associations have not even been brought up. Anyone else aware of her husband’s involvement in a political party in Alaska whose sole political platform was to secede Alaska from the United States? He was a very active member until the year his wife ran for governor, even attending their conventions the year before. Then he registered as an Independent. Obama couldn’t try to be more un-American than that if he tried.

Sarah Palin has painted Obama as a terrorist in a lie so bold and outrageous it would make Pinocchio top-heavy–and it’s a very dangerous statement to be making in our post-911 world.

Not only is the statement potentially dangerous for Obama politically, but physically as well. At a recent rally, Palin started her Obama-is-a-terrorist rant and shouts could be heard on the camera from the crowd.

“Terrorist!”

“Treason!”

“Kill him!”

Now, I know many McCain-Palin supporters and they’re not all on the same wavelength as these obvious wingnuts are, but as these shouts were made from the audience, Palin smiled her beautiful smile (she is gorgeous and charming, no?) and kept right along drawing more hateful, bitter chants from the angry mob. The vitriol in the auditorium was palpable.

Calls for the murder of a political figure in this country should be immediately addressed, discredited and denounced by either party. Shame should be hung over the heads of those who screech such screeds of hate, but shame should also be hung over the heads of those who encourage it.

The McCain campaign’s dishonorable decision (among many) following the exposure of these lies? Keep it up. It’s the only way to win the election. Sadly, he’s probably right but he’s also very wrong.

Since the advent of this terrorist talk, Obama has seen another jump in the polls. Americans (with the exception of those in the video I’m about to show you) see the terrorism tirade for what it really is: a desperate reach into the sewer in the most unpresidential fashion imaginable.

Many of us also view it as extremely racist and potentially dangerous.

The following video shows what Sarah Palin has incited with this talk. And I do have to say that I know a lot of McCain supporters who really think he is just a better candidate. I’m fine with that. That’s the political process. In talking to most of those people, I see none of this hateful nonsense. But it only takes one crazy vigilante to assassinate a presidential candidate.

The blatant ignorance and provoking cameraman aside, this video has me very worried.

Here’s why:

A month or so ago, when the Democratic National Convention was going on, a guy I know who supports McCain, saw Obama on a television set. I had expressed my support for Obama before that night, so the following comment was probably meant to bug me. And it did.

Obama appeared on said boob tube and this acquaintance of mine said, with a giant grin on his mug, “Hey! There’s the next assassination victim!” He laughed and walked away. I’ve not spoken with him since.

So, Sarah Palin can talk about terrorism all she wants, but with the angry, crazy mob she’s created with this chatter, if anything happens to Barack Obama, it’s mainly because of her own words, thoughts and deeds.

I mentioned earlier Sarah’s need for a dictionary. Here’s why.

Terrorism is defined by the Webster’s Dictionary (I don’t know if Daniel Webster was a member of the elite liberal media or not) as follows: the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, esp. for political purposes.

Barack Obama a terrorist? Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Sarah Palin and her rabid, ignorant supporters? The verdict is out on that one.

The photos were lying there on the living room floor when I arrived at the house.

I have to admit that, at first, I felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of them.

To thumb through the many stacks of family photos–either in their original development sheaths from the photo lab or in one of the many albums compiled decades before I knew any of their subjects–seemed to have the potential for monotony.

After all, there were just so many of them.

My wife Amy’s grandpa, George, was an avid photography buff. And I’m not talking in that digital-point-and-click-coolpix-everybody’s-a-photographer-now kind of way.

George was of the old school, and that’s an understatement. Even up until last year, he was using his old 35 millimeter with the fussy F-stop and aperture settings. Long ago, he’d perfected the focus and depth of field and right there were the photos to prove it.

He’d had that camera for decades and it was as much a part of him as those folks gathered in his living room, rifling through the printed results.

I sat down at the dining room table in his house in Des Moines and took on my own mission. After his children and grandchildren had gone through the photos and picked those that best represented his life of 80+ years, I worked alongside his oldest daughter, my mother-in-law, to put together photo boards for his visitation later that day.

And I learned so much that day about old George. And I learned a heckuva lot about the other George: the young version.

I never knew that guy, but greatly appreciated the version I did get to know.

My first trip to Des Moines to see Amy’s grandparents was almost six years ago. By then, Grandpa had begun a slow decline into the mind-meld of Alzheimer’s Disease. I didn’t notice anything the first time I waltzed on into their lives, but on each subsequent trip we could see a few more layers of memory peeled away and a little less physical stamina from the retired mailman.

On the way home from our recent holiday trip there, a casual conversation with Amy–his first grandchild, who also gave him his first great-grandchild–revealed what was on both of our minds, and probably on the minds of everyone else. We realized the trip we’d just made was likely the last Christmas we would spend with Gramps.

We were so glad we’d made that trip and the few that followed.

As I began adhering those photos to the green plastic boards, I learned far more than I’d ever known about George.

I, of course, knew the obvious items of note. He had a great sense of humor that became more prevalent in the three future generations of his family. A no-frills, no-nonsense kind of guy; ambitious, conservative (but not in the creepy way political Conservatives claim to be), politically conscious, a friend to the Earth, and responsible in all aspects of his life–especially financially.

In addition to all that, he was a great husband, father and grandpa. A real class act.

His type is a rarity in today’s narcissistic, I-want-it-all-and-I-want-it-now culture. In the basement of his house is proof: a deep freeze that kept their food frozen for more than 50 years.

It just goes to show they just don’t make ‘em like they used to.

I learned through the photos and stories that day about his military service, stint as a watchmaker, completion of a marathon at age 52, the prize-winning rose gardens, summers at the cabin in Duluth, the story of him bringing the china back home from Japan, a lengthy membership in the Des Moines Scuba Club, his fussbudget ways and his hands-on grandparenting skills.

And to top it all off, he actually built a darkroom in which to develop his own photos.

I found myself even more amazed than before.

His last days were impressive in themselves. He had been able to stay at home with his beloved Edna, herself fighting non-Hodgkins lymphoma, until earlier this year when she had to move him to a nursing home. And there his health began to fail him.

His living will insisted–characteristally–that no heroic medical measures be taken to save his life and after his feeding tube was removed, he hung on for two entire weeks before his body gave up. Yes, years of exercise and healthful living had kept his organs in tip-top shape.

Even his mind, which had been his struggle for years, was quite sharp during the first week off the feeding tube. He joked with his family, smiled and recalled stories from the past.

Alas, he took his last breath a Friday ago.

So as I looked through the photos of his past, I realized the photo boards were a fitting tribute to George.

What are photos, really, but mementos of a filtered reality?

The whole thing makes perfect sense.

Decades before his descent into the filtered reality know as Alzheimer’s, this man–this responsible saver of things–would commit so many of his memories to photo paper. Tangible, reusable, well-preserved memories of a reality he once knew.

Lasting memories that Alzheimer’s can’t erase.

From The Vault: Where Martha Stewart Went Wrong

I wrote this original article for the June 27, 2002, edition of The Breeze. While I too am getting sick of schlepping out all my old junk from the vault, this week has not been conducive to sitting and writing. It just hasn’t. Forgive, please. I promise original, awesome stuff here soon. This particular article is kinda special though because it won me a Nebraska Press Association award for column writing (second place still counts, right?). Enjoy, and remember my promise for new stuff soon. Oh, and I can’t believe I got away with the hooker remark toward the end. Yikes! 

Okay, I get it. There are some people who want to burn Martha Stewart at the stake.

If you don’t know the story by now, here’s a wrap-up: Congressional investigators are examining whether Martie (that’s what I call her; she calls me Davy) had inside information when she sold nearly 4000 shares of ImClone stock.

Sure, Martie is the chairwoman of the NSA–the regulatory department for this very kind of illegal activity–and the sale of said stock came but a day before the FDA announced that it decided not to consider ImClone’s application of their experimental drug, intended to combat colorectal cancer.

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

You really delude yourself enough to think Martha Stewart–who could fashion a kicky, tasteful sweater jacket out of the hide of a roadkilled skunk–hasn’t already invented her own cure for colorectal cancer?

She has. It’s called Martha’s Rootin’ Tootin’ Prune Bomb Casserole (episode 548).

Anyhootie, because of her scandalous stock sale–which she maintains had nothing to do with insider trading–people would give the soil from their daffodil gardens to see America’s sweetheart in an orange jumpsuit.

You know, that’s NOT a good thing.

I don’t like Mothra (sometimes I call her that too, but only in private) a whole lot.

I didn’t like her Daisy Petal Tossed Salad (episode 64), I hate the way her beady eyes barely mask a woman on the very verge of homicide, and I would rather give her a wooden stake through the heart than see that mop of hair on my television.

But, I think she’s fallen victim to something I find myself struggling with constantly.

She’s too perfect.

The woman is a stinkin’ genius, for the love of refrigerator magnets made from cow dung (episode 87). Can you name anyone else on Earth who can turn the world of homemaking upside-down, make it seem exciting, all the while behaving like she’s bored out of her ever-loving mind?

Do you know anyone–just off the top of your mullet–who can make an atom bomb out of dryer sheets and Palmolive (episode 007)? And your cousin Darrel doesn’t count!

Quick. Tell me the name of any other 1001-year-old woman who looks like she just turned 70? (Martha’s Age Inhibitor, episode 609.)

I think the world owes Marta (every now and then I call her that, but usually only as our safe word) a big, fat, stinky thank-you for all she’s done for the world of flowers, curtains and dishes.

Seriously, are you not thankful for the truth serum she taught you to make from Crest Whitening, Bacardi, Tetley tea and Drano (episode 440)?

If it weren’t for that serum, you’d still be hunting greedily for Aunt Edna’s last will and testament. And her dentures. (Great cleaning concoction made from Clorox, hydrochloric acid and mothballs, episode 2.)

So get off your soapbox, Hilda Homemaker! Quit complaining. Because Martha made it glamorous for you to do exactly what you’re doing right now: Sitting around the house acting like it’s a full-time job to make it pretty. Hint: It is.

Think about it. What did Maggie (every now and then I use this one, but only if Madonna’s around and things get complicated) actually go wrong?

Here’s where she went wrong: She was smart.

And that just curdles your yogurt (excellent recipe, episode 8878).

Let’s say you were Martha Stewart (which is just sacrelige if you ask me, but play along here) and CEO Sam Waskal–whom you may or may not have shared an intimate evening or two with in the dressing room at K-Mart–calls you to tell you to sell, sell, sell. Sell like hell.

What do you do? That’s right. You get on your phone with the shoulder rest you created from denim scraps from your ancestors’ pants (episode 452) and you sell.

You sell like a two-dollar Hungarian hooker who hasn’t eaten in three weeks and has to pay the pimp. That’s how it works.

That’s smart business, and unfortunately for Martha, her life is her business.

Some people say they buy her sheets, but they don’t buy her story. You know what I say to those people? I say ‘good choice of words’ (I’m a sucker for a mixed metaphor).

Martha Stewart sold her $200,000 worth of stock to avoid losing what amounts to pocket change among her ilk, and wound up losing millions for it.

Shouldn’t that be punishment enough? I mean the woman spends $200,000 a day on shampoo and conditioner for that ragamuffin haircut of hers.

For the love of everything pretty and neat, Martha literally burns $200,000 a night. (Recycled paper, lighter fluid and anthrax, episode 17.)

Plus, those beady little eyes are hiding something utterly sinister.

So get off her back.

Otherwise, I’m pointing my stubby fingers at you when she finally snaps and goes ‘homemaker’ on all of us.

From The Vault: Spring’s Bittersweet Symphony

This column originally appeared in the March 21, 2002, edition of The Breeze. In the original article I incorrectly and idiotically attributed “Bittersweet Symphony” to Third Eye Blind and I heard about it for weeks afterward. I’m taking the liberty of changing that for this here post because it seems insulting that I would attribute an awesome song like that to Stephen Jenkins. It’s practically sacrilegious actually. BTW, Amy asked me the other day about the strange photos on this here blog. Basically, when I have a topic, I hop on Google search and try to find the creepiest photo I can to match the article. This photo seems springy and symphonic. I think it also qualifies as creepy. We all win!

BTW, I updated the random thoughts and lingo posts with new stuff! They’re in blue. They’re the new blue thangs basically. 

Enjoy the article, because it’s hitting you right…about…now…

The next time you see me, I’ll likely have a ridiculous grin on my face, shamefully nappy hair and a thin stream of snot running directly into my mouth.

Nothing new, you say.

Au contrair, Corvair.

It’s Spring. That’s what’s new.

Medication has no affect on the forces I’m dealing with. Valium can’t stop the grinning. Rave can’t tame the fly-aways. Allegra can’t curb the sneezing.

I’m fine with that, my pale-faced friends. Fine as frog hair. For Spring is in the air.

Yes, Wednesday marked the official ushering in of Spring, and we are alive and well here in Utopia.

Spring to me means sunburns, haywire hay fever, blistering and/or blustery track meets, robins, funky hair, sweaty pits and windows gone ajar.

Our new season means virgin white legs burning and peeling in the sun for the first time in seven months, sunscreen neglected in camera bags for another six months and beautifully disheveled and windblown people everywhere you go.

And nothing, I mean nothing, can wipe this stupid grin off my mug.

Spring–more than anything though–reminds me of The Verve’s “Bittersweet Symphony.”

Here’s why:

When I was a junior at UNK, I had a silly little beater of a car. Those of you with memories of said car know exactly what I’m speaking of when I say ‘rice grinder’.

I loved it. It had no power windows. No power locks. No power seats. No air. No radio for quite a while. Definitely no spare tire. Who had the money for such luxuries? I could fill it up with gas every other week for $12 and drive everywhere I wanted to go. It was amazing.

I don’t even remember if it had a motor. I think I saw Smurfette running to beat hell under there when I checked the oil that one time. (Yeah, one single time. What can I say?)

Anyhootie, I digress horribly.

It seems just like 1998 when this happened (mainly cuz it was). Spring hit on the Friday we were released for a week-long break.

I wasn’t headed for Lake Havasu, the Bahamas or Cancun like the frat dudes, but you wouldn’t have known it by looking at the ludicrous smirk on my noggin.

After classes adjourned that miraculous Friday, I got in my rice-grinder car and took off for the promised land: home.

It was a perfect Spring day. The temp: 70ish. The wind 5 mp’s. The mood: pure bliss.

I knew I had found absolute rapture.

As I left the city for the reliable relaxation of the countryside, the song “Bittersweet Symphony” came on the radio. Time to soak up the sun.

As the violins kicked up, the windows rolled down. I threw on my geekiest 90s sunglasses, kicked off my shoes and plopped my left foot on the seat underneath me.

Cruising down the road, I let my arms hit the open air as the wind blew through one ear and out the other.

Spring has sprung, my friends, and it’s a beautiful symphony.

Have mercy.

Randomness Ensues

Checked my e-mail the other day and got that sudden rush of overwhelming glee I succumb to when I see a new message in there. Had a comment on the ‘other blog’ and went to check it. I was ‘tagged’ by a friend and thus forced to put 10 random things about myself on my blog. Never one to pass up some good ol’ fashioned peer pressure, I wracked my brain to come up with the 10 most entertaining random things about myself.

It was a good exercise actually. I not only learned some things about myself, but actually ended up finding that those little things that peeve me about good ol’ Dave are actually kind of amusing and endearing.

Maybe I should get to know myself a little better more often.

I decided I was done with ten that day, and I kept them pretty light since they were on the family blog. Not like this is edgy by any means, but as compared to the family blog, it is. Here’s a list of random admittances from yours truly. In no particular order of importance or relevance to human nature:

• I tend to ramble.
• Robin Williams is possibly the most annoying person in the world to me.
• I won’t share covers with another person, including my wife (who really would be the only person I’d share a blanket with; let’s just get THAT out of the way, k-thanks). The pocket in the middle of two people creates a draft that I just cannot tolerate. Plus, everyone else is a bunch of cover hogs. There, I said it.
• I think I’d make a great politician. ME for president.
• I have to check my friends’ and family members’ blogs once every day. Sometimes more depending on the time constraints of my life on any given day.
• When people don’t leave comments on my blog when I know they were there I sometimes take it personally. I’m getting over that though, because commenting is exhausting and time-consuming. In fact, it’s about one-millionth as time-consuming and one-trillionth as exhausting as actual blogging. Whatev. Ingrates.
• I would love to have dinner with Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama. I’d knock their heads together really hard and send them on their way.
• I either have to have socks on when I go to bed or they have to be off. It actually just depends on the day whether or not they must–or must not–be on. Is that neurotic?
• I feel sorry for people who make their whole lives about their work. And I know I drive them crazy because I think your work is just an extension of yourself, not the definition of yourself. Oh, and it pays the bills. Yeah, there’s that.
• I wish I lived closer to family, but at the same time I’m relieved I don’t. I can be a huge pain in the ass, and I realize that our relationships would be far different than they are now if I planted myself in their backyards.
• I secretly want about four kids, but we have only the financial means and room for about two. I’d settle for three.
• I also secretly want to just have Jack, but realize that’s selfish.
• Grown men with long hair kind of creep me out. Unless I know them.
• I can sing every word of about three Reba McEntire albums, thanks to my little sister.
• I think Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie seem kinda sad.
• I can’t wear a watch because I can’t stand wrist sweat.
• I own every single Sheryl Crow album (seven total and then some), but can only listen to the first three all the way through.
• If you had told me five years ago I’d be remodeling our house myself (with some much-needed help from others; I know my limits), I would have laughed in your face.
• I check on my son at least three times per night.
• I talk to my wife five or six times a day on our cell phones. Sometimes I’ll call her and she won’t answer, so I’ll just keep trying. Then she’ll call back and ask why I called, and I don’t have an answer. I think the answer is truly “I just like to hear your voice.”
• I love/hate it when Amy and Jack are napping because it means the house is quiet. It’s a weird feeling.
• I wish I’d finished college, but know I will someday. I just need to figure out what it is I want to do for the rest of my life. (Besides be awesome.)
• I like to make people feel good. Sometimes doing something for someone else will make me feel great for months. I think I’ll do that more often than every millenium or so now that I think about it.
• I love the fact that my grandma gives me her Guideposts magazines. I read them cover to cover and tear up on almost every story.
• Snickerdoodle doubles as my favorite cookie and my favorite word.
• I broke my nose at a party trying to do the Karate Kid crane kick. My knee hit my nose. And I am completely inflexible. I believe angels had a hand in that.
• The first thing I notice when I pick up a piece of paper is the number of wrong spellings and typos. It’s a gift and a curse.
• I am scared to death of getting in an auto accident with my son in the car. So much so that I have nightmares about it.
• My toenails are often way too long because I can’t stand to clip them. They aren’t right now because I just did it the other day.
• I am petrified of taking my shirt off in public. Always have been.
• I wish I’d gotten to know my grandpa better. He was such a great guy.
• I loved the 90s.
• I’ve never had a cavity or broken bone.
• I realize I’ll probably have this same haircut for the rest of my life. That gives me such comfort.
• I am probably one of the most sentimental people on Earth. Commercials can make me cry.
• I sometimes think I would benefit from a daily dose of Ritalin. No joke.
• I thank God that my parents didn’t give me everything I wanted when I was younger. Otherwise, I’d still be taking care of a monkey probably.
• I can’t blow my nose. It’s not that it’s impossible, I just can’t stand feeling snot sliding out my schnozz. I have probably blown my nose seven times in my entire life, and those were only in emergency sitchos.
• I absolutely cannot sit in a car without my seatbelt on and won’t allow anyone else in my car without theirs buckled either.
• I love those creepy little marshmallow Peeps.
• I’m not a fan of Jack Nicholson. There’s just something very unnerving about him and it has nothing to do with his movies.
• I was disappointed by the third “Spiderman” movie. Very disappointed.
• I haven’t swam in a lake for years because I am terrified of open water. It’s the fish. They freak me out.
• My initials are DMV. Nice. My parents should have named me Dentist Michael. Then I could remind everyone of the two places they hate to go! (I actually think it’s cool, but I like to tease.)
• I am painfully inflexible. I have never, I repeat NEVER, been able to touch my toes with my legs straight.
• I am extremely ticklish.
• I like to cuddle, but only on my own terms.
• If I could wear flip flops all year long, I would. Which is weird because I have hideous feet. They are terrifying. Worse than Hobbit feet.
• It takes me three days to grow a five o’clock shadow.
• My dream job is to stay at home and write all day. My second dream job is to be a stay-at-home dad and maybe take care of other peep’s kids too for an income. I’m not kidding. I think kids are cool. Even other people’s kids.
• I think coaching volleyball kind of ruined me on the sport.
• Spring would be my fave season if I didn’t have hayfever so bad. Because of this reason alone, my favorite season is fall.
• I don’t like it when old men tell wisenheimer jokes that take forever to punchline. I always feel like an actor on a stage, pretending to act interested while I’m smiling on the outside but my mind is racing with anxiety. Then when the lame-o punchline hits, I feel obliged to laugh really hard and it always feels forced and obvious. But I guess, old men with bad jokes are people too, so I should just get over it and laugh away. But I hate it. For the record.
• Improper usage of grammar incites rage in me. Prime examples are people who use prepositions at the end of EVERY sentence, people who say the word ‘agreeance’ (it’s agreement, stupid ass). Last but not least, I cannot stand it when people say ‘myself’ instead of ‘me’! For examps, “Just so we’re in agreeance here, the people who are going to be at the event are April, Johnny and myself, right? Where are you going to be at?” It hurt my brain to type that, just so you know.
• This is going to sound creepy, but I hate ground beef. Yep, reading that statement again makes me sound creepy. Just so nobody goes apeshit on Oprah here, I eat my fair share of steak and roast.
• I’m competitive to a fault, but in a really strange way. Number one, I don’t like to be the very best (not like THAT ever happens). I don’t like the attention, expectation, and work that being the very best brings. It makes me stressed and embarassed. But if I’m the worst at something, it makes me feel HORRIBLE. So, for those reasons, I am excited and happy to be right at average or above average. Is that sad?

A Quick Glossary Of Terms

I’m fully aware of the fact that I’m a guy whose sometimes hard to read. And more often than not, I’m even harder to talk to. Notsomuch because of my general aloof malaise, but because I use some of the most wicked ridiculous slang ever. For those of you just reacquainting yourselves with my writing, I’d like to make it easier understand my jargs. The following is a list of terms I may or may not use in my writing. I currently use most of them in my regular everyday speech, but know they don’t always translate to normal peeps. This is a brief list of the ones I can think of right now. I’ll update this post regularly with ones I remember as they pop out m’ mouth. And, no, I’m not taking credit for all of them. I’m not a complete genius. Just about 97% genius.

Enjoy:

adorkable – a contraction using the words adorable and dorky.

usage: That horrifying duet with Celine Dion and a computer-generated Elvis on Idol last year was completely adorkable. What were they thinking?!

all up in m’ grill – the word grill describes a person’s front, usually meaning face. ‘all up in’ means…well it all pretty much means you getting all up in my face, yo.

usage: Okay, I understand you’re upset because I’m a million times more awesome than you could ever dream to be, but that gives you no excuse to get all up in m’ grill.

and baby Jesus cried – an awkward pause filler to be used after going on a negative tirade.

usage: I got up late this morning, slipped getting out of the shower, found out the hard way that we’re out of toilet paper, forgot my cell phone so couldn’t call anyone when my car got a flat, and I was late for flippin’ work….pause…and baby Jesus cried….

anticipointment — When you’re looking forward to something forev and then when it happens, it kinda makes you feel all empty inside.

usage: I was stoked to see that new Spiderman movie, but after sitting there through a few mere moments of it, I knew right then and there that I was in for a severe anticipointment.

anyhootie – to be used in place of ‘anyhow’

usage: Anyhootie, I was calling because I wondered if you’d go ahead and drink up a warm glass of shut the hell up.

the ballz — the neatest thing ever

usage: Ron Burgundy was the ballz.

the Baysides — something that happens that reminds you of an adorkable “Saved By The Bell” episode

usage: OMG, when you were freaking out because you were on way too many caffeine pills and you started wigging out and singing “I’m so excited, I’m so excited, I’m so…scared!”…yeah, right there, I totes got a major case of The Baysides.

blamestorming — when people sit around and think up reasons why everything is everyone else’s fault

usage: Hillary Clinton must have had a massive blamestorming session before she went on TV and wigged out about Obama’s campaign mailers in Ohio. Dang!

Blanky McBlankerson – I don’t actually say ‘Blanky McBlankerson’ but use words to fill in the blanks. Often to describe an obvious trait or action of another person.

usage: Would you look at Bleachy McBlonderson over there? She is buttering up to Bossy McDoucherson in a really obvs way, huh? She’s all up in his grill! Too bad he’s already dating Idiotstick McMentallyHandicapped, huh?

Brills Clinton – short for brilliant

usage: Your idea to shut your mouth was totes Brills Clinton. You should mos def keep that up!

Broseph — my brother’s name was Joseph, hence the blending of bro and Joseph.

usage: You thrashed my chopper, Broseph!

Busboomed — The origin of this word comes from when Dani Busboom was the setter for the Huskers. Girl couldn’t get a single set to the right spot on the court. So now when we play volleyball, whenever someone gets a wonky touch on the ball, it’s referred to as ‘busbooming’ the ball. For the record, Dani is an extraordinary person and athlete, but a setter she was not.

usage: I wouldn’t have called for a 1 if I’d known you were gonna busboom my set that bad. Jeeps, man, were you setting Shaquille O’Neal? Get out of my face right now.

Caucasia – the homeland.

usage: I sure can’t wait to visit Caucasia one day to meet all my Caucasian ancestors.

celebutard — A strange blend of two words if you really think about it. First of all, they’re both waning social groups. Everyone can be a celebrity now thanks to the advent of reality TV, and no one calls naturally mentally handicapped people that one word anymore. Now the word ‘tard is used to describe someone who has the ability to think logically and intelligently, but chooses to live a vapid lifestyle devoid of any real emotion, compassion or clear, rational thought.

usage: I’m sick of all these freaking celebutards like Paris Hilton and Anna Nicole Smith being shown on CNN day in and day out. If either of these ridiculous losers had done anything worth reporting on, I’d understand. But being empty soulless wastelands of drugs, booze, money and semen is nothing of which to be proud.

chickenlicker — my wife and I often make up ridiculous, semi-disturbing pet names for each other. This is one I dreamt up for her one day.

usage: Good morning, you little chickenlicker. ::SLAP::

consties – a more polite and socially acceptable way to exclaim that you have hard poo that gives you cramps and bloating.

usage: Sorry if I make short, frequent trips to the can today, y’all. I’m severely consties and I’m just hoping the cork’ll pop here soon.

craptain – a person in authority who has no business being there.

usage: Donald Rumsfeld was craptain of the military for quite a while. Now he’s not. Rejoice, amen.

crikels – the word crikey with a letter L on the end and pluralized, basically.

usage: Crikels, I’ve got a case of consties for the ages, Broseph. Hollah!

dadditude – a dad acting like a psycho.

usage: Sometimes when I’m in a store and see creepy people looking at my kid, I get a severe case of dadditude and immediately remove my son from the premises. No apologies or explanations will ever be given for this behavior. Deal with it.

d-bag – a Summer’s Eve Hefty Sack

usage: Donald Trump is such a monstrous d-bag. I hope his beautiful new wife gives him a case of the herps.

deal pickle – this is something I only say to my wife because she’s probably the only one who gets it. Her dad used to say to her, “it’s a deal, pickle” and it was a thing…that’s all I know because the first time she said it to me, I looked at her with a befuddlement and wonder unbeknownst to mankind. I probably looked at her like she turned into a unicorn-leprechaun hybrid in front of my very eyes.

usage: It’s a deal, pickle. (If you were paying attention, you’d already know that by now…)

dece – short for decent. This word was brought into my life by none other than the incomparable Emily Ann.

usage: Sorry, I don’t think Mandy Moore is hot. I will say she’s dece though.

Dixie Chick – to lose one’s favor by speaking your mind freely and honestly, without regret.

usage: Listen, I know I’m probably going to Dixie Chick myself by saying this, but I think John McCain is the devil. Oh, and your blouse is as ugly as Barbara Bush’s buttcheeks. Yeah, I went there.

eleventy-seven – the only number that trumps infinity

usage: Listen, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you eleventy-seven times, I do not wish to partake in your discussion on the NASCAR race the other day.

fudge monkeys – a more pleasant F word.

usage: Oh, FUDGE MONKEYS, I forgot my stupid cell phone.

fun-strating – fun and frustrating all at once, and don’t think that’s impossible. It happens.

usage: The first time I played my niece in tennis on the Wii, it was one of the most fun-strating experiences of my life.

gag a maggot – to be reserved for those times when something is so disgusting, mere words cannot describe the sheer horror of the sight.

usage: You know that time right after Rosie O’Donnell came out and she quit her show? She got that gag-a-maggot haircut? Remember? What WAS that?!

ghetto gold – Amy and I started saying this after an eppy of ‘Sex and the City’ when Samantha used it. It means anything brassy or made of a crappy gold.

usage: They have a great house, but what’s with all the ghetto gold fixtures? Looks like Liberace’s ass.

go fig – pretty much the laziest possible way to show ambivalence.

usage: Oh, look, they just traded in their brand new car for something even more showy. And, look, it’s a freakin’ hillbilly parade float (see Hummer). Go fig.

hairlarious — I actually just said this one today. We were driving along and looked over and this chick’s hair was so big it took up almost the whole front seat of her car. No kidding. Amy and I just started laughing uncontrollably. That’s when it slipped out…

usage: OMG, did you see her? That was hairlarious!

heebs – the recognition that something either disgusts or delights a person, typically either raising the hair on said person’s neck or causing them to get the goosies.

usage: I got double heebs the other day when I heard the Star Spangled Banner sung beautifully but during the song looked over and saw a dude with lunchtime shrapnel stuck in his molestor-stache.  

Hilarious Clinton – when something is funny, it’s not quite enough to just say it’s funny. If it’s truly funny, it can be one of the following: Hilarious Clinton, Hilarious Duff or Hilarious Banks. Hilarious Graves only works with people from the homeland.

usage: Did you see the mullet on that chick? I would say it was hairlarious but that word hasn’t been invented by Dave yet, so I’m just gonna say it was Hilarious Clinton as hell!

hungered – a longer and more obnoxious version of the word hungry, as if a longer, more obnoxious version were needed.

usage: I’m so hungered right now I could eat something I don’t like to eat! Yeah, it’s THAT bad!

Jebus Chrysanthemums – figure it out for yourself, folks.

usage: Jebus Chrysanthemums, this Meg Ryan flick is making me want to commit Armageddon!

Kiss me, I’m Caucasian! – I said this to Amy once. It’s incredibly weird.

usage: Kiss me, I’m Caucasian! (pretty much nothing else needed there…)

lactivist – women who take the breastfeeding thing a bit to far.

usage: Man, she’s pissing me off, acting like if you don’t breastfeed him until he’s 18 that he’ll drop out of college and become a methhead. These lactivists need to take it down a notch! Kiss me, I’m Caucasian! (didn’t work, did it?)

licious – a suffix to be added to the end of pretty much ANY word.

usage: Britney Spears is mental-licious!

magical – I don’t EVER use this word and neither should any self-respecting human being. Seriously.

usage: Isn’t it magical how perfect those two are for each other. Look, they’re rubbing their wedding cake in each other’s faces! How magical…::click…click…blam!::

marvsees – a cuter way than hungered to say you’re hungry. It gets it’s meaning from the phrase ‘starvin Marvin’ but shortens it in quite possibly the most genius way known to mankind!

usage: “I’m so marvsees right now, I might actually eat something besides a rock of crack,” said Whitney Houston. “Nope, never mind. It was a doody bubble.”

molestor-stache – any cheesy Tom-Selleck type mustache that brings to mind the photos you see in the paper of the guy arrested with his creepy plaid shirt, bug-eye glasses and of course, the molestor-stache.

usage: Dude, when’d you start sporting such a wicked creepy molestor-stache? Shave, bro. You’re creeping us out.

mooseknuckle – the male version of camel toe.

usage: Um, I’m only saying this because I love you, but you need to change, dude. You’ve got some wicked mooseknuckle going on. Seriously, I think I can see an outline. Yep…time to change…

my ninjas – my peeps

usage: You go on ahead. I’m just gonna stay put and kick it with my ninjas here. You know…keep it real…

nuggetlover – yet another endearing name I dreamed up for my lovely wife.

usage: Love you, Nuggetlover.

obvs – the laziest way possible in which to type ‘obviously’…phew…that was exhausting typing that WHOLE word!

usage: I’m obvs not going to type that whole word again. That was extraordinarily exhausting!

occasz – again, my lazy nature rears it’s beautiful head. I use this word instead of ‘occasionally’ and it totes works.

usage: Question: Do you ever wonder why Ryan Seacrest has become famous at all since he’s absolutely, mind-numbingly, gratingly cloying and horrible? Answer: Occasz, but I don’t sweat it, bro.

old lady ash – this phrase is kind of ageist but it’s something we’ve said since way back when. It describes when a person is too busy doing something else, so a long ash forms on their cigarette and they’re talking away and going on a tangent but no one in the room can concentrate on anything else because that dang ash is just hanging off their cigarette and pretty much everyone is watching to see when it’s gonna fall. And it always does.

usage: Okay, I’m trying to listen to you and all, but I just have to say this with all respect–you have severe old lady ash and I can’t concentrate on the words coming out of your yapper. Wait…why are you smoking in here, doctor? And just where is my spleen? You. Dirty. Weasel. Curses! Foiled again!

presh – once again I prove how very lazy I am. Presh is simply short for ‘precious’.

usage: Look at you, still reading all these ridiculous glossary terms. Aren’t you just presh?

redick – another good one thanks to Emily. She shortened the word ridiculous, a four-syllable honker, into only two syllables, and it’s become fun to say again! Thanks for saving that word for me, Emily, and possibly all of mankind in the process!

usage: This glossary of terms is completely redick.

rock star parking – a great parking spot. when you get this parking spot, you hollah ‘rock star’! This came from my beautiful wife who got me started on saying it.

usage: I got the spot right beside the handicappers! ROCK STAR!

roll like hose – pretty much means ‘let’s go now’

usage: You guys ready to go to Wal-Mart now? Well then…let’s roll like hose.

sass master – a master of the art of sassing back

usage: Well, just listen to you, just being a little sass-master! What do you have to say for yourselves? I can’t hear you! (Answer back: We love you, Miss Hannigan!)

shnikes – an exclamation that means pretty much nothin’

usage: Oh, shnikes, I accidentally stepped on a leprechaun. Now I’m going to have to scrape green blood off my shoes.

shrapnel – when you’re talking and food or spittle flies from your yapper, that’s called shrapnel.

usage:  I was paying close attention to what you were saying, then became entranced by your old lady ash, but then was hit by some saliva shrapnel, and now I’m just not listening at all. Wait, doctor, where’s my liver? You. Dirty. Trickster. I just fell for the oldest trick in the book!

since ‘Nam – I believe the incomparable Carson Watt got me started on saying this. It simply means a long time ago.

usage: I love Peeps, but I haven’t eaten them since ‘Nam.

Smoke-arina Witt – by now I’m sure you’re all familiar with world-renowned figure skater Katarina Witt (pronounced Vitt). Well, one day, way back when, I walked up to someone I love who had a cig in their hand, and called her that.

usage: Whassup, Smoke-arina Witt?

snaggles – when someone is just in one of those moods, they often just have a case of these.

usage: Oh, I’m sorry. I was just going to talk to you like normal people talk to each other. You know…in a nice, even, calm, kind tone. My bad. No. MY bad. I insist. I had no idea you woke up this morning with such a nasty case of the snaggles.

tastic – another suffix to be added to the end of ANY word.

usage: Britney Spears is trash-tastic!

totes — a shortened form of the word ‘totally’.

usage: Do you think Barbara Walters drinks the blood of interns, Dave? Totes.

whatev – a much snarkier way to say ‘whatever’

usage: I never once said anything about Amanda Bynes being the best actress of the 21st century. Whatev!

Whitey Ford sings the blues – I said this once at a track meet because everyone was teasing me about being incredibly pale. I looked up and said, “I know. I’m Whitey Ford sings the blues!” Which is the title of Everlast’s only album! I’m a genius!

usage: I need to get some sun this weekend. I’m Whitey Ford sings the blues! And a genius!

wonky – a better way to describe something kind of off-kilter.

usage: If I met Paris Hilton and had a pen and pad, I wouldn’t ask for an autograph. No, I’d use the pen to stab her in her wonky eye. Then I’d use the pad to dab up the blood from my cuffs.

An Open Letter To Hillary And Barack

Listen up you two, because I’m not saying it again.

You’re both walking a very fine line with those of us who vividly remember the 2000 presidential election as one of the darkest, most undemocratic days on record. Hillary, try if you may to remember what it felt like when your hubby’s veep lost out on an election because the Supreme Court ruled in favor of George W. Bush.

You may recall Al Gore won the popular vote, albeit by a shred, but Dipstick Magee won the most according to the Electoral College, (my least favorite college of all time). It all came down to Florida, where Bush’s brother was governor, and The Supremes handed Florida over to Dinglenuts before all the votes were even counted.

Think back to what it felt like to watch more than half the country have their votes voided by a group of partisan hacks.

Sucked, didn’t it?

Flash forward to present day. This presidential primary battle ultimately decides which of you will represent the party of fairness, equality and democracy in November. One of you will have the honor of defeating that lousy McCain guy (aka Bush Light) in the fall.

Trust me, I understand that both of you have a lot riding on this. That fact is lost on no one.

Hillary, you’ve been after this particular crown since you crowned in your mother’s womb–or at least ever since Ma and Pa Rodham dressed you up in your very first pantsuit. We’ve all heard your story: you attended Wellesley College and was a member of the Young Republicans, Dorothy Hamill Haircut Chapter. Later, you crossed on over from the dark side to become a Dem. It’s a cool story.

You’ve been mastering political doublespeak since ‘Nam, for the love of crikey. Even during your own husband’s presidency, when all the talk was about cigars, Monica, the Starr Report, impeachment, Vince Foster, Gennifer Flowers and every other scandal du jour, you could always be counted on to give the most perfect politically-responsible responses ever.

In other words, you’ve been training for this campaign since the dawn of time. Every single last word that’s left your mouth in the past 30 years has been in direct correlation to this very campaign. You’ve done your training. And though I’m pretty pro-Obama (or Probama in lazy-American lingo), you make a VERY strong case for yourself.

You’re a brilliant, incredible, tenacious soul who really should have been a shoo-in for the nom. Dang it, Hillary, I love you for every last thing you stand for, but you’re a tad short on ‘sparkle’.

Let me explain.

Simply put, here in the good ol’ US of A, we’re easily distracted by and attracted to shiny things and big ideas.

And that’s how we’ve arrived at you, Mr. Obama. You are the very definition of phenomenon and you certainly have that ‘sparkle’.

Absolutely no qualifications, absolutely no policies, but you make an amazing case for the Obama brand. You’re the handsome black man who wants to change America, starting with Washington first. And after eons of listening to bi-partisan hacks cut each other down politically, it’s refreshing to hear your take on future America: a country where both sides work together WITH their president to help the American people.

You want to be THAT president. No one ever wants to be that president, so forgive us for our amazement with your idea.

You are just the shiny thing this election country needs right now. You alone are getting young people interested in politics again. Instead of worrying about what Britney is  smoking, snorting, shooting or popping, they’re taking an interest in the people who can actually make policy decisions that affect everyday Americans like me. There are millions of young people registering to vote because of you, the amazing black man, and it bodes well for this nation and the party itself.

Obama, your message is brilliant. Hillary, your ideas could help the common man.

However, the two of you are going to ruin this election for the rest of us if you’re not careful. I, for one, cringe at the thought of a repeat of either 2000 or 2004, so pay close attention here.

Hillary, by acting like a ragamuffin control freak fembot with wonderful plans for our country and sadistic plans for this primary, you are sinking into a scary territory. You and Bill both have succeeded in bringing race into this race, trying to sleaze up Obama’s image when your own is still bearing the tarnish from the past 16 years, and you seem to be fine with pretending it’s okay that another bunch of nimwits (the superdelegates) get to decide who gets OUR nomination.

In other words, you’re starting to creep people out.

And Obama, you’re not so innocent yourself. Stop acting like you know you’re a phenomenon, and please stop acting like Florida and Michigan can’t possibly count. Convince your party leaders to hold another primary in both states so that these people get to count. Then go down and campaign there like you did everywhere else. Hell, take Oprah with you.

But don’t pretend their votes don’t matter. Because pretending as though their votes don’t matter is like saying my vote doesn’t matter. And that torques me.

We (me and every other voter) got you both where you are now and without us, you’re both sunk in November–when hopefully you’ll be running on the same ticket anyway. Without all those people who joined our party to vote for either of you, the Electoral College will split in an unfortunate way that favors Crazy McTortureLover in November.

So knock it off you two. You’re representing the people. I truly believe you both want to help the American people. But you’re not going to get there as kamikazes. 

Now, I’m going to let you go here soon, but I have some requests before I’m done. 

Number one, you both need to continue to be awesome. Talk about the issues. Talk about how you want us all to have affordable health care, how you want to stimulate our economy by getting us the hell out of Iraq (they’re one in the same, folks) and how you want every American to benefit from a government that actually gives a rat’s turd about them. Be genuine, be sincere, but stop trying to undermine each other. You’re going to need each other later.

Talk about what you want to do for us. That’s what we care about right now.

And so help me God, if these kids go back to giving a crap about Britney, I will hold you both personally responsible.

 From The Vault: A Budding Writer Waiting To Bud

This post was originally published in the Wauneta Breeze (aka The Best Small Town Newspaper In The World) on August 22, 2002. I don’t remember writing it, but recently rediscovered it in the stack of old newspapers my sister gave me. I worked for The Breeze from 2000-2002, and still consider it to be one of my fave jobs ev. BTW, this was written approximately four months after Amy and I met and a month before I started coaching volleyball. This sucker actually contains a shout-out to Ben Affleck and Jen Lopez so you know it’s the genuine article from dos-aught-aught-dos. Enjoy.

Some of us were ready to bud before the world was prepared for our beauty.

It was in elementary school that I learned I was a genius.

Given a writing assignment, any required length or topic, I could turn what was once a mundane idea into something that moved people.

Like literary Ex-Lax.

I could write summer vacation stories that would make Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck green with envy.

My classmates’ lives were often turned upside-down by tales that stimulated their minds and touched them spiritually.

Granted, the only thing I had to do to stimulate those little trolls back then was sneak the word ‘poop’ into the assignment, but stimulated they were, thankyouverymuch.

My teachers thought of me as the Boy Genius Of The School. They’ll deny it, but I heard it through the grapevine that I was the topic du jour on many different occasions.

At any rate, I knew I was smart and that’s probably all that matters in this world.

On my most modest day, I thought myself to be a budding writer–a person who could and would one day do great things with his God-granted talents.

That very day would come in 1984 when I put together the greatest story ever told in the history of the world. I was of the tender age of seven and the brilliance you’re each and every one accustomed to seeing every week on these pages flowed through me like…um…cold water…through…um…a spigot…or…um…a faucet-type thingy that sounds more posh than a spigot…

At first, I believed it to be diarrhea or heartburn, but later discovered it to be a story inside my heart just waiting to be told. (Now you know what I go through every week.)

I didn’t have a muse other than my genius self. In fact, I don’t know what exactly inspired me to do such a great thing with my seven-year life–probably just the boy in the mirror. Heck, folks, I didn’t even have legible penmanship.

But do you know what I did? I sat my wee little hiney down and placed a pen in my right hand, mainly because writing with my left hand would have been pretentiously austentatious, and–more importantly–impossible.

Anyhootie, I wrote a story that day–and not just any story, Maurie. It was the story of a boy who awoke one dark night to a noise that originated in the kitchen of his home. Thinking it was his parents, he went to investigate the sound.

Lo and behold, Arnold, when he passed his parents’ room, they were fast asleep. Suspense set into the house. Fear set into the boy. Boredom set into my readers.

As the boy approached the kitchen, he discovered the source of the sleep-rattling sound: his cat was doing the dishes. The boy went back to bed, Fred.

Now, I only gave you a quick synopsis of the story, but as you can see it was innovative and gripping–especially when jotted on a piece of scrap paper by a second-grade boy with barely-decipherable handwriting.

Reading it aloud and seeing how quickly I lost the interest and respect of everyone within earshot, I decided this work of literary genius HAD to be published.

That very day, I mailed my masterpiece to “Highlights” magazine for children. I was so sure it would be published that I didn’t even make copies of it. I figured I’d have plenty of copies of the actual printed story enclosed in the countless cards of congratulations I would inevitably receive.

I kicked back and waited. The suspense was enough to kill me. I nearly flunked out of grade school because of it. (It was either that or the whole monkey bar incident. I’ll let you make that call.)

Then, one day, to my delight, the mailbox contained a letter from “Highlights” mag. It read:

“Mary, I need you to do me a huge favor. I need you to let this idiot kid down easy. Write him a quick letter explaining that while we appreciate his submission, we will not be publishing his story. I know you’ve never had to do this before, but this is too childish and rank even for US to publish. I mean, Mary, this kid is a moron, and that’s putting it nicely. Hopefully, he’ll still subscribe, but will be so devastated he won’t ever submit anything ever again. I mean, this story is awful, Mary. I’ll save you the anguish of reading it. It’s been shredded, needless to say. Only after reading it to the content board and us all having quite a laugh!

Hey, let me know if you’re going with me to Joe Mama’s tomorrow night. I hear there’s a cute barkeep there now!

P.S.– Whatever you do, don’t send this piece of paper with the actual letter, okay? Thanks, Mary. I owe you one. I didn’t have the energy after reading it to actually compose a letter of my own. It was THAT bad!”

They just didn’t understand that I was but a bud, which would one day bloom to beauty.

I’m budding now, baby.

Take a whiff.

30 Things I Didn’t Really Know For Sure Until I Was 30

My wife turned 30 last week. I turned last April. In pondering our ages, I wonder how much truth there is to the theory of ‘older and wiser’. The following are some truths I know to be self-evident now that I’m 30.

•  Don’t cook bacon naked.
• All politicians tend to be crooked and egotistical. There are only varying degrees of obviousness.
• There is never a perfect time to have a baby. You will never be completely ready. On the other hand, if you’re not ready to jump into parenthood with both feet, do the world a favor: DON’T BREED.
• Your picture is on God’s fridge. Mine is on the devil’s dartboard.

•  Regularity is like air and sex. They’re all no big deal until they’re gone.
•  Those who believe that childhood is just great preparation for life are often surprised to learn that childhood is indeed one of the most imporant parts of life.
• Never (and just allow me to repeat this: NEVER) allow yourself to agree with any of the following people: telemarketers, salesmen, televangelists, avid Bush supporters or anyone wearing a fanny pack.
• You know you’ve matured a bit when you feel too old to watch VH1.
• Feet, though ugly and heinous, come in very handy. They will walk you right out of some very ugly situations.
• When one door closes, bust open a window.
• There will always be someone willing and able to put you down, regardless of anything you try to do to avoid it. Continue to remind yourself that those folks are about as relevant as a Michael Jackson parenting book.
• Behaving with ignorance will earn you only one type of friend: the common idiot.
• You never really appreciate how skinny you once were until you’re not anymore.
• Before you fall in love with someone, make sure you monitor how they treat any of the following: babies, the elderly, waitresses and animals.
• There’s nothing more American or un-American as the way we elect our president.
• Historically speaking, when people lie, they tend to make a habit of it. Keep a mental inventory.
• Stand up proud. Unless you’re on a bus. In that case, sit down and shut up.
• Gossips make for the most brutal enemies. Unfortunately, they make worse friends.
• Personal hygiene can make or break you. Find the happy medium between slobbish and snobbish.
• Exercise love. Love exercise.
• Take time to smell the roses. Unless you’re late.
• Immigration is a touchy subject. Discuss only in carefully-chosen company.
• You can’t trust a dog to guard your food.
• I believe that the way a person pays a babysitter, in combination with their gross monthly income and what they drive, says a great deal about them. I may be wrong, but I know I’m right.
• There are two kinds of dads out there: the kind that is involved and readily available to serve as a giving, caring adult guide…and the other kind. I feel sorry for those who fall into the ‘other kind’ bracket.
• Drunk words are sober thoughts. That means if you insult a member of my family at my 30th birthday party after a few too many drinks, you can pretty much kiss my ass. Yeah, you.
• Anyone who uses God’s will to explain war is just plain wrong.
• If you actually care about what a celebrity is doing on any given day, you need to reassess your priorities. Ahem…CNN…you may want to make a note of that…
• Choose your life mate carefully. I did, but I had to wait a while.
• I have an unusually high number of laugh lines for a 30-year-old man. What a blessing.