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Never Trust a Goat by Tracy Farr Smashwords Edition * * * Published By Tracy Farr at Smashwords Never Trust a Goat Copyright 2009 Tracy Farr * * * Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. * * * Contents Never Trust a Goat When Life is Getting You Down, Just Fiddle Be All That You Can Be – Eat Soup The Peanut Butter Debacle of '09 The World Could Use a Few More Banjo Players The Theory of Relative Stupidity What a Day! I Think I'll Go For a Waltz! The Blob is Here to Stay Yes You Can, and With a Mini-Van Some People Were Just Born to Ramble My 'Sweet Ride' is a Yellow School Bus What's a Few Percentages Between Friends? If We Could Talk to the Animals, I'd Run! Learning Your Lessons the Bus Driver Way If We Are What We Eat, We're in Trouble If a French Woman Can Do It, Why Not I? Hey, Mac! Can You Spare an Apple? I Hate to Complain, But Not Really I'm The Man Who Stares at Goats And Now It's Time For My Annual Post-Turkey Day Apology I Do Not Snore, But That's Just My Opinion The Five Christmas-shopping "Rules of Engagement" All I Want For Christmas is… * * * Never Trust a Goat I have three goats – a mamma and two twin daughters. I bought them from a little girl who knocked on my door one day, asking if I'd like to buy some goats. And since goats like to eat grass, I figured that I'd let them eat it (instead of me having to mow it), leaving me free to nap on the couch. I give a lot of credence to napping on the couch, especially when I'm supposed to be doing yard work. I actually enjoy watching my goats, but the only reason they tolerate me is because I bring them food every now and then. If it wasn't for the food, they'd steal the credit card right out of my wallet, and head for the mall to hang out with their little goat friends and eat Chinese food. It's a good thing they can't drive, but I suspect while I'm asleep they're secretly learning how. I've had these goats for almost a year now, and although they haven't learned a thing from me, I have learned plenty from them. Goats are sneaky. Don't trust them. They'll look you right in the eye as if to say, "You're my best friend," but when you turn your back, they'll head-butt you and start eating your new khaki pants. Sounds like people I know, but that's a different story. Goats are noisy when they're hungry, and they're always hungry. Their cries sound like the cries of children in pain – and the goats know it. Don't go running outside to see what's causing them agony. It's a trap. And they know how to build excellent traps. Never give your goats a name. They never come when you call, so why go through the hassle. Besides, if you get tired of the goats and decide to barbecue them next Friday night for your visiting relatives from El Paso, who's going to want to sit down to a plate full of Sassy or Hoppy? It's best to feed goats things like carrots, lettuce, and bananas, but never three-week-old chocolate cake. If you do, they'll stop eating the grass – and can you really blame them? No animal in its right mind would gladly munch on weeds and poison ivy after eating three-week-old chocolate cake. I know I wouldn't. And if the goats stop eating grass, that means you have to mow it, which defeats the purpose of having goats in the first place. Never turn your back on a goat. They have sharp horns. You may consider a simple impaling as mere playfulness, but I guarantee they mean to draw blood – and lots of it. They don't want you towering over them. They want you on the ground, writhing in agony, your life's blood pouring out of gaping wounds. As you look up at them, you'll notice their teeth are bigger than you thought. And why are they so big? "The better to eat you with, my dear." Goats can escape anything. Go ahead, pen them in as tightly as you can. Put little handcuffs around their little legs, put a burlap sack over their heads, throw them in a locked chest, bury the chest six feet deep, pour concrete in the hole, and park your car over the top. The goats will be out by morning, eating the neighbor's prized tomatoes – the ones your neighbor had planned to exhibit at the county fair. Neighbors are very protective about their prized tomatoes. It's best to have your checkbook handy when they come to visit. Goats don't like standing out in the rain. They look so sad if they have to. So, you go to Lowe's, buy some materials, draw up some plans and build them a goat shed. The goats love it and stand under it every time it rains, which gives you a wonderful sense of accomplishment. When it's not raining, and the goats get bored of eating grass, they start eating the shed until it falls down. Goats don't have a grateful bone in their bodies. I'd eat my goats, but I promised the little girl who sold them to me that I wouldn't. Which leads me to the last thing I've learned: Never make promises to little girls selling goats. They're in cahoots with each other. * * * When Life is Getting You Down, Just Fiddle There comes a time in a man's life when he wakes up one morning, feels his bones creak as he gets out of bed, and realizes his tree-climbing days are just about over. He feels old, he feels tired, he looks like he hasn't slept in days, and the monotony of every day life is an anchor that keeps dragging him further and further down into the abyss. It's at that moment that a man decides his life would look a whole lot better from the saddle of a brand new Harley Davidson Fat Boy – a black one, with straight pipes kicking out un-godly decibels of thunder, with the optional Biker Babe attached and holding on for dear life. Yes indeed! Sometimes you need a bit of spice in your life to make it through the day. But I say a Bike and a Babe might not be the most prudent way to go about it. In my opinion, if a man really wants to add some flavor to his meal, what he truly needs is a fiddle – a down-to-earth, honest to goodness, low-tech, cat scratching, fingernails-on-chalkboard, wife yelling "Get that thing out of my house before I lose my ever-loving mind" fiddle. Poppycock you say? Nonsense you say? You think I'm full of hot air, gibberish, gabble rubbish, and baloney? Maybe so, but I bet you good money that if you were to give a man the choice between a Harley/Biker Babe and a fiddle, he'd choose the Harley/Biker Babe every time – but only because that's what society demands of him. Deep in his heart he yearns to play fiddle. Just ask him. He'll lie to you, of course, but you and I know the truth. (WORDS OF ADVICE: If you decide after reading this essay that you indeed need a fiddle, keep in mind that your local music store will try to sell you a violin instead. Don't let them. Stand your ground. Tell them you weren't born yesterday. You want a fiddle, and you won't leave until they sell you one. Now, back to our story.) Like I was saying, when a man has sunk so low as to think a Harley and a Biker Babe will make life worth living again, that's the time he desperately needs a fiddle – even though he'll resist with all the man-ness he can muster. And why does he need it? Because learning to play one makes you realize that your life isn't as bad as it could be. You know that boss you can't stand? You'll be hugging his neck after five minutes of trying to hold a fiddle. You know all that paperwork that's been piling up on your desk? You'll be eager to tackle it after a day of trying to correctly hold a bow. You know that guy in the next cubicle who plays his Rap Music so loud it can be heard even through his headphones? You'll be begging him to turn up the music after a week of listening to yourself scratch out a melody on the fiddle. There are not many things worse than listening to a beginner fiddle player. Someone learning to play bagpipes comes to mind, as well as stepping in cat vomit in the middle of the night, Macaroni and Cheese Pizza, and Oprah. But after that, I'm hard pressed to think of anything else. Playing the fiddle is one of those things that takes time to learn. Some people develop the skill quickly, while others keep scratching until the day they die and their relatives are happy to put them in their grave – along with the fiddle. But when it's all said and done, and you've accomplished what you've set out to do, you'll feel as if you could leap tall buildings in a single bound; you'll feel more powerful than a locomotive; you'll feel as if you can run faster than a speeding bullet. And when you finally have this unimaginable feeling of invincibility, that's the time you head over to your friendly neighborhood Harley shop, pick out a sweet ride, and take your pick of Biker Babes. And what about the little woman at home? No need to worry. You're invincible! Besides, she's been debating on whether to kick you out of the house or shoot you ever since the day you brought home that fiddle. She'll be happy to see you go. She might even pack you a lunch. * * * Be All That You Can Be – Eat Soup There's a lot being said in the media these days about the Washington bailout of the auto industry, but not a lot being said about soup. That's right, I said soup! And I know there's a reason for it – why one is more important than the other – but for the life of me I can't figure it out. The goal of running a successful auto business is simple and uncomplicated – sell a lot of cars, make a ton of cash. But the importance of eating a hot bowl of soup is not so straightforward; there's so much more meaning attached to it than just obtaining nourishment. Eating soup is about learning life lessons. It's about knowing who you are, where you've been and where you're going. Soup makes you remember that you're no better than the rest of us, that even though you went off to college and got your fancy job, you're still one of us, will always be one of us, and don't you forget it. Soup was good enough for your mother and me, it was good enough for your grandparents, your aunts, uncles and cousins, and don't think you're too good for it, because you're not. Now sit down and eat your soup before it gets cold, and don't slurp it. I'd bet my Dodge Mini-Van that all those auto executives grew up eating some kind of soup; however, they took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. They went off to college, got good jobs, moved up the corporate ladder, and started eating new things like sushi and crab-stuffed artichoke hearts. They bought fancy cars, ate at fine restaurants, went to places like Morocco and Abu Dhabi, spent more money on valet parking than you or I will ever make in our lifetimes – and completely forgot about the simple joy of eating soup. Richard Wagoner, the CEO of General Motors, grew up in Richmond, Virginia, where I'm pert-near positive he had soup at one time or another. I can just imagine him coming in from an afternoon of playing basketball, and sitting down to a steaming bowl of Grilled Sirloin Steak Soup with Hearty Vegetables. He was a kid who wasn't thinking about year-end bonuses or flying off to Europe on a company jet. He was just imagining how good the next spoonful was going to be, and he hoped there was enough for seconds. Chrysler CEO Robert Nardelli was born in Old Forge, Pennsylvania, where I'm sure every now and then he came home with a runny nose, fever, and a sore throat. He didn't know anything about the IRS, tax reports, 401ks and the "bottom line." He only knew his mom was going to make him feel better by fixing him a piping-hot bowl of homemade Chicken Noodle Soup with maybe a cracker or two crumbled on top. And what about Alan Mulally, CEO of Ford? Yes, he was born in California, but he went to college in Kansas – home of straight shootin', level-headed, down-to-earth soup eaters. He might not have arrived in Kansas as an aficionado of Old Fashioned Vegetable Beef Soup, but I bet he left there as one. It makes sense that throughout the ages a lot of famous people enjoyed eating soup – people like Michelangelo who probably ate Potato Soup while painting the Sistine Chapel; da Vinci, who might have gotten Mona Lisa to smile by promising her a bowl of Split Pea Soup if she'd pose for just a few more hours; George Washington, who more than likely dreamed about a bowl of Brunswick Stew as he crossed the Delaware; Beethoven, who no doubt sipped on bouillabaisse while he composed his Fifth Symphony; Orville and Wilbur Wright who perhaps celebrated their first flight by sharing a pot of Vegetable Soup; and John Glenn who conceivably asked for a bowl of Old Fashioned Potato Ham Chowder after returning to Earth. And what about Sasha and Malia Obama? When it gets cold in Washington this winter, I can practically guarantee they'll sit down with their mom and dad and feast on grilled-cheese sandwiches and bowls of hot Tomato Soup. And can you blame them? Wagoner, Nardelli and Mulally may have more money than me, but I've got a large bubbling pot of New England Clam Chowder sitting on the stove top not just waiting to be served, but begging to be served. And by my calculation, that beats being in a bunch of hot water any day. * * * The Peanut Butter Debacle of '09 Microsoft is cutting jobs, the auto industry is in dire straights, airlines are flying fewer flights, and Starbucks is closing stores everywhere. I would say our economy is now officially in shambles. Good thing we can still count on peanut butter to get us through these trying times. NEWS FLASH: Due to the possibility of salmonella contamination, the Food and Drug Administration recently recalled 400 kinds of cakes, cookies and other products made with peanut butter in one of the largest product recalls in history. Okay, now we're in trouble! "But Mommy, we're out of peanut butter," Little Johnny said at the Super-Duper Mega Mart. "Aren't we going to get some more?" "Not this week, honey. Let's try Pimento Cheese. Better yet, how about some Soy Burgers?" Attention shoppers: Management has pulled SOME peanut butter products from our shelves due to a recall. This recall does not affect major brands such as Jif, Skippy and Peter Pan. In fact, if you're interested in helping out our American economy, you might think about buying a jar or two – or three or four. Thank you for shopping at Super-Duper Mega Mart. After hearing the store's announcement, Little Johnny's mother picks up a jar of Peter Pan Honey Roast Creamy Peanut Butter, glances at the ingredient label, but puts it back on the shelf. If some peanut butter is bad, she reasons, how can we trust the rest of them? FUTURE HISTORY TEACHER: For more than 200 years, America was one of the foremost nations on our planet – that is until the early part of the 21st Century. Does anybody know what happened in our country during that time? Anybody? FUTURE LITTLE JOHNNY: My great, great, grandmother didn't buy peanut butter during the Peanut Butter Debacle of '09, and America's economy collapsed. And that's why we eat Marmite today instead of peanut butter. HISTORY TEACHER: Well, it wasn't just her fault, but you're right. Not all peanut butter was unsafe to eat, but people back then didn't want to take chances. And when the peanut butter industry collapsed, it caused the jelly industry to fold, which affected farmers, pickers, truckers, and a whole lot of other people who depended on peanut butter for a living. The Multi-Billion Dollar Peanut Butter Bailout was supposed to help, but it ended up being too little, too late. "Mr. President, without a bailout for our industry, children all over this great country of ours will be deprived of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and if our business goes under, so goes the country," said the Head Peanut Butter CEO. "Please Daddy, can you help them?" cried Sasha Obama. "I haven't had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in so long, and you know how much I love them. And can I have a horse?" "These times call for sacrifices from all of us, but sacrificing a staple of American culture is out of the question," said President Obama. "Who do I make the check out to?" A lot of us hard-working families have tried to shelter our children from all this economic mess, but without peanut butter on the menu, our children are going to figure something's amiss, and when they do, we'll have to level with them. And this is what our children will say one day about growing up in America: "Oh yes, I remember 2009 like it was yesterday. That was the year of the great Peanut Butter Debacle. We begged and begged for anything with peanut butter in it, but there was none to be found. You kids just don't know how good you have it today. Back then, we suffered." "Tell us another story, Grandpa. Tell us about sitting around the television to watch the TV Queen." "Not right now child, I'm getting tired. Why don't you go and play outside?" And Oprah, the TV Queen said: "And how does that make you feel, hearing your children express their feelings about how they feel about the loss of peanut butter?" Random audience member: "Betrayed! Betrayed by our government; betrayed by those who are supposed to look after the safety of our food supply; and betrayed by the Peanut Butter CEOs who only cared about the 'bottom line,' at the expense of our children." "I feel your pain," Oprah, the TV Queen said. "Tomorrow on our show, we'll discuss 257 ways to get your man away from the TV and into bed. That's next time on Oprah." And the world keeps spinning. * * * The World Could Use a Few More Banjo Players Sometimes, while I'm at home waiting for the mail to come, I take my mind out for a walk, give it some leash, and follow along the best I can. For instance, just the other morning I was wondering why anybody would want to spend their lives learning to play the trombone when they could play the banjo instead. All that pushing and pulling (on a bunch of pipe that looks like it should be connected to a toilet) just makes me seasick. And where does the slide go when the trombone player pulls it in? Does he swallow it like a sword swallower? I know it doesn't exit out the back of his head because that would be noticeable – and a little bit messy. There is nothing messy about a banjo. Banjos make people smile. Trombones make people duck. Flute players, on the other hand, make people nervous. I've noticed that flute players are way too serious. You can't kid around with a flute player because they'll think you're being serious, too. They also can't tell funny stories. They think they can, but they can't – which is actually pretty hilarious. I'm also surprised they don't keel over from all the air they keep exhaling. You and I would probably hyperventilate if we tried to play a flute, and it would serve us right. I bet you can find at least 537 flute players in every town in America. You'd be lucky to find eight banjo players living in those same towns. The flute players would either be practicing or shopping at the mall. The banjo players would be at Dairy Queen or the Hot Link Palace, talking about football. Speaking of trumpet players (which we weren't but I hope you won't hold it against me), whenever trumpet players pick up their horns and start blowing on them, they look like their heads are about to explode. They shut their eyes tight, their faces turn blood red, they sweat all over the place, and when they're finished, their lips look like they just came out of a meat grinder. Migraine headaches, aneurisms and Tylenol Extra Strength were unheard of until the trumpet was invented. Banjo players never have headaches – indigestion, yes; headaches, no. That's why they never leave home without a bottle or two of Tums. Trumpet players watch their diet. Banjo players abuse theirs. But enough about trumpets. Let's talk about the saxophone. Everybody wants to play the saxophone – until they try to play one. That's when they find out they have to put a piece of wood in their mouth, suck on it for awhile, and then blow on it until it squeaks. It's about then that they wish they'd chosen to play the banjo. You don't have to put a banjo in your mouth and suck on it. You'd probably be arrested in some states for even trying. Saxophone players hold their instruments by way of a neck strap. The neck strap keeps them from setting down their instrument and forgetting where they put it. Banjo players also hold their instrument by way of a strap, but let's not compare apples with oranges. Penny Whistles and Tin Whistles are the same instrument but with different names. I don't know why they're called Penny Whistles because they cost more than a penny. I do know why they're called Tin Whistles – only a person with a Tin Ear could enjoy playing one. Banjos, on the other hand, are only called banjos. It's less confusing that way. I think more people should play the banjo. They have a distinctive sound, they make people smile, and they connect us to a less complicated past – a past when we could drive to Alabama playing a banjo on our knee without worrying about a cop pulling us over to give us a lecture on safety issues concerning playing a banjo while driving (which, no matter what you've heard, I categorically deny ever doing). In conclusion, I have the utmost respect for anyone who can play a musical instrument. It takes a lot of intelligence, dedication and talent to make one sound the way it's supposed to. But these day, I think the world could use a few more banjo players – people who laugh a lot, don't stress about the small stuff, and are always optimistic about the future. And since I have nothing more to add, I won't. * * * The Theory of Relative Stupidity My fellow friends, colleagues, and members of the scientific community, after many years of study, research, supposition, postulation, conjecture, and a lot of late-night dictionary diving to find a bunch of really big words, I hereby present to you the sum of my life's work in thesis form titled, "The Theory of Relative Stupidity." But before we can thoroughly explore this subject, it is first necessary to examine and define certain terminology used in this Theory in order for us to approach the subject with commonality. I have no idea what any of that just meant, but it sounded smart. First and foremost is the word "Theory" – a noun used to indicate a hypothesis, a conjecture, speculation, or more plainly, a guess. Anyone can have a theory about anything. I once had a theory that if I constantly told my brother he was stupid, he'd turn out that way. My theory was wrong. Plus, he punched me in the eye to prove it. Next is the word "Relative" – a word that means comparative and qualified, but it could also be used to describe my Aunt Edna in El Paso. A lot of English words have more than one meaning, and that's why most students hate their English classes. Finally, we have the word "Stupidity" – a word that pertains to all things foolish, idiotic, foolhardy, inane, and plain silly. Most people use this word without really knowing its origin, but this thesis will not deal with origins; to do so would be lengthy and downright stupid. The words "of" and "the" are extra words we don't really need. Think of them as additional government employees – the ones who just stand around watching the others work. Now that we have defined a common terminology, let's take a closer look at "The Theory of Relative Stupidity." In plain English, "The Theory of Relative Stupidity" postulates that any form of inanity will, when placed at specific coordinates upon a timeline in a third-dimensional space-time continuum, be viewed upon as sensible until it is viewed from a different set of coordinates along the same timeline. In even plainer English, some ideas seem good at the time, but usually turn out not to be. To prove my point, I present these three examples: Example No. 1: You would never stoop so low as to get your hands dirty while replacing the head gasket on a vintage Jeep. Your brother, on the other hand, loves everything mechanical and would prefer to repair the engine himself than take it to a "professional." You think it's your duty to tell him he's being stupid. He slaps you in the ear with a monkey wrench, causing you to forget everything since last Tuesday. Weeks later, your brother has a working vintage Jeep that didn't cost him an arm and a leg to fix. You, realizing that was a stupid thing to say to your brother, just want your ears to stop ringing. Example No. 2: You think it is reasonable to tell your brother that it's a stupid idea for him to move to Montana to become a sheep herder. As he pulls out his bullwhip and chases you around the barn, you realize telling him was a stupid idea. He goes to Montana without your blessing and becomes the Sheep King of the West. You, thinking that he might be on to something, buy some goats, but it's just not the same. And finally, Example No. 3: You, being the oldest, believe it logical that you should also be the strongest, tallest, fastest and most witty. You also believe it is your right to tell your brother he will never amount to much. When he finally catches you, picks you up, throws you down on the ground and makes a joke about how you now look and sound just like a chicken that didn't quite make it across the road, you realize it was pretty stupid to say anything to his face when you could have used e-mail instead. In conclusion, "The Theory of Relative Stupidity" describes how we humans are more perceptive of our own stupidity after the fact than before the fact. But that's a good thing, because without it, we wouldn't have the ability to laugh at ourselves or the absurdities of living. So, to echo the words of that famous American, Patrick Henry, I say, "Give me stupidity, or give me death." On second thought, that was a pretty stupid thing to say. * * * What a Day! I Think I'll Go For a Waltz! After a long, grueling day at work, there is nothing that can soothe the soul better than a good old fashioned waltz. Eating a Stuffed Crust Barbecue Pizza while watching reruns of "Rawhide" comes mighty close, but when we're talking about mental health, close isn't good enough. Waltzing is quickly becoming the exercise of choice for people all across the nation, and even though it may be hard to believe, men are coming out in droves to participate – secretly of course, but in droves, nonetheless. Most men enjoy waltzing, but preferably at home when no one else is around. And if they say they don't, they're lying. Go ahead ladies – ask the man in your life how he plans to spend his Saturday while you're off at the mall. To your face, he'll tell you he's going to spend the afternoon with his "buds" watching the big NASCAR race, but as soon as you're out the door and down the street, he's going to put on a little Strauss and let his inner dancer come out of the closet. (FYI: Putting on "a little Strauss" refers to the 19th Century composer who is affectionately known as "The Waltz King." It is not a piece of skimpy clothing from Victoria's Secret your husband puts on when you're not at home.) Did you know that a five or ten minute brisk waltz offers the same health benefits as walking to the kitchen to make a jumbo sub sandwich with Pepper Jack cheese and Sweet Dill Relish? That's why I'm surprised Oprah hasn't touted it as one of the ten best ways to lose weight and maintain a healthy lifestyle. I guess she hasn't tried it. I suppose the Samba or the Rumba offers a more intense cardio workout, but that means more sweat. People who waltz would rather keep sweating to a minimum. Besides, those Latin dances require tight clothing, tan skin, and fake foreign accents – and for us red-blooded American men, that's a no-no. I prefer waltzing over jogging because you basically get to stay in one place (I choose in front of the TV) and there's no chance of getting lost. Sure, you might get off beat every now and then, but that's better than jogging half way across the country and not knowing how to get back. Besides the health benefits, another reason people are jumping on the Waltzing Bandwagon is because of its low cost. There's nothing to buy, no equipment to set up, and it doesn't require specific clothing, as do bicycling or Sumo wrestling. You can waltz in your pajamas, and I much prefer it that way. Waltzing also doesn't require expensive shoes. A person can waltz in their socks if they want to, and for rookies, that's usually the best option. (It saves wear and tear on a dance partner's toes.) I predict the waltz will one day be all the rage of the exercise world. Mr. T and Regis Filbin will star in 30-minute info-mercials about Aerobic Waltzing, and health professionals will design a Waltzing Diet that is guaranteed to shed unwanted pounds in 30 days or your money back. But wait – if you call our 1-800 number within the next 10 minutes, we'll include our brand new "Waltzing Abs" video exercise program that is a sure-fire way of giving you abs of steel – or at least, aluminum. Phone now. Our operators are standing by to take your call. Yes, friends and neighbors, waltzing is the way to a new and better us. And trust me – we need it. * * * The Blob is Here to Stay Scientists have recently discovered an immense blob living on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. This blob is so dense, light can't penetrate through it; so massive, it devours everything else around it. But since it's not fuzzy purple yet, I might have it for lunch. In case you haven't been to school in a long time and have forgotten, the word "blob" is a scientific word defined as a "coalesced mass of unrecognizable icky stuff that might be edible, but consumption is not recommended without killing it first with a truck load of Tabasco Sauce." The blob in my refrigerator looks like it would laugh in the face of Tabasco Sauce. I'm not exactly sure what this blob started out as – maybe a half-eaten slice of cheesecake; maybe leftover broccoli. Whatever it was, it has learned to adapt, to conquer, to multiply and divide, to work complex algebraic equations. It is self-aware, it is sentient, but most importantly, it emits nauseating smells as a self-defense mechanism. NEWS UPDATE: I've just returned from the refrigerator where I embarked on a mission to rescue the sliced ham and Pepper Jack cheese because it's lunch time and I'm really hungry. The blob took no notice of me. It was too busy painting graffiti on the walls. Gang signs. Things like, "Mold-siders are best," "No carrots allowed," and "Touch me and I'll envelop you with deadly embryonic microorganisms!" Surprisingly, it has a good command of the English language. Unidentifiable blobs are not new to mankind. Hollywood made a movie called "The Blob" back in 1958 that starred Steve McQueen before he was picky about his movies. The movie's theme song, "The Blob," was one of Burt Bacharach's first hits. It went something like this: "Beware of The Blob! It creeps, and leaps, and glides and slides. Across the floor, right through the door. And all around the wall. A splotch, a blotch. Be careful of The Blob!" Grammy Award winning material, don't you think? In 1964, Marvel Comics introduced a new super villain named The Blob who fought against the X-Men. Blob's real name was Fred J. Dukes. He was born in Lubbock, Texas, was a circus performer, and was a member of the Brotherhood of Evil Mutants III – which I'm sure doesn't surprise you one bit. Unlike Wolverine, who was all buffed up with really cool knives and a Hollywood movie deal, The Blob was fat, mean and really ugly, and is pretty much forgotten about these days. So, let's continue to forget about him and move right along. In 1994, strange blobs (in no way related to Blob the super villain) fell from the sky across Washington state. It was reported that people who touched the blobs got sick. Dogs and cats that came in contact with the stuff even died. More mysterious still, there were reports of UFOs and black helicopters seen in the area right before the blobs fell. And I know these reports are true because I read it on the Internet – the place where all serious journalists go to do research. More recently, astronomers found an enormous blob in deep space which may have a massive black hole at its center. It's 12.9 billion light years away from Earth, and 55,000 light years wide. Astronomers even gave it a name – Himiko. Of course, they didn't ask the blob for approval – they just did it on their own. A space blob billions of light years away really can't throw a fuss about the name it's been given. I'd give my blob a name, but it's right in the next room and probably knows Kung Fu. Which begs the question, if a blob had its choice of names, would it want to be called Blob? Maybe it would prefer James or Toby. How about something snazzy like Maximillian? My guess is it would probably choose Spike or "Globule of Death," then grow a Mohawk and get a tattoo. Mankind knows very little about blobs. There are no college courses in Blobatomy; there is no community need for a Bloberinarian or a Blobecologist. But maybe there should be. Maybe the study of Blobology would give us a better understanding of blobs; their culture and way of life. Because folks, let's face it – they're not going away. They're here to stay. And I know this because I just looked in my refrigerator and the "Globule of Death" is digging foxholes and putting up concertina wire. * * * Yes You Can, and With a Mini-Van A friend once told me there was no way I could get a load of 2x4s, some roofing paper, shingles, assorted nails and screws, and a 4x8 sheet of plywood in the back of my Mini-Van. Of course I looked him right in the eye and said, "Well I know that! You didn't think I was actually going to try it, did you? What do you think I am – an idiot?" As soon as my friend left, I put on a hat, some dark shades, and drove my Mini-Van to the lumberyard. I needed some materials for building a goat shed, and the Mini-Van was the only form of transportation I had available. To make a long story short enough to fit in this particular spot of the newspaper, I was able to gather up all my materials, get it home, and build the goat shed without anybody suspecting I used a Mini-Van. Now, being the community-oriented guy that I am, and knowing there must be at least two other guys who are just like me (needing to do some manly work but having only a non-manly vehicle in which to do it), I hereby present some tips to make it all work for you: 1. Before you head out to the lumberyard (or hardware store, or wherever other men driving trucks gather), put on a hat, some dark shades, and only leave your house when you're pretty sure your friends are at home and nowhere near the lumberyard (or wherever). If a friend does catch you there, just say you're out of chainsaws and need to buy a couple, and then head back home and start your project another day. 2. When you get to the lumberyard, park as far away from the building as you can. You don't want strangers to see you trying to put that much stuff, especially the plywood, in the back of your Mini-Van. 3. While you're gathering up your lumber and supplies, look confident – like you have a truck parked outside. Think positive. Try to put out of your mind that something (like the plywood) might not fit. 4. At the checkout counter, if the cashier asks if you need any help loading your purchases, you tell her, "I'm a man. Men have trucks. Thanks, but no thanks!" 5. Once you head out to the parking lot, don't walk straight to your Mini-Van. Head for a nearby truck – any truck will do – to give the impression you would never go to the lumberyard in anything less. At the last minute, veer off to the Mini-Van, making sure to stay hidden behind the plywood. 6. If you're lucky, no one will see you trying to shove your supplies into the Mini-Van. If you're NOT lucky, a good Samaritan will show up to offer assistance. Be polite, let the good Samaritan help, shake his hand when all is said and done, but don't be surprised if he doesn't stick around for small talk. He'll be in a hurry to get home so he can tell his wife, "You'll never believe what I just saw at the lumberyard." 7. Most of your supplies will fit nicely in the back of the Mini-Van, but the plywood is another matter. More than likely you'll have to push the plywood all the way up to the windshield where it will overhang the front seats. Driving shouldn't be a problem as long as you move your seat way back, duck down behind the steering wheel, and drive like a Low Rider. 8. Pray a cop doesn't pull you over. 9. Watch out for potholes and railroad crossings. Every bump you hit will cause the plywood, which is over your head, to bounce up and slap you on the noggin like it was trying to make a point, such as, "You won't do this again, will ya! (bounce, SLAP!) Next time you'll use a truck, won't ya! (bounce, WHAMO!) Right about now you're feeling like an idiot, aren't ya! (bounce, SMACK! CONCUSSION!)." 10. When you get home, take two aspirin and put some ice on your head. When the dizziness goes away, unload all your supplies, pick up the latest edition of the newspaper, and start scanning the classifieds for a used truck! Well, there you have it. Next time, we'll discuss how to transport three goats in the back of your Mini-Van without having to clean up a ton of goat poop. * * * Some People Were Just Born to Ramble Contrary to what you might think, it's actually pretty easy for a writer to sit down and write about a subject that most people find interesting, such as poodles or projectile vomiting. But when it comes to writing something interesting about absolutely nothing at all – well, buddy, that's when the going gets tough. Any monkey can write about politicians or movie stars or fancy cars being driven by highfaluting people who have more dollars than sense (or cents), but it takes a rare talent who can ramble on and on about something like goat poop and make it sound as important as a presidential address, but without the smell. Now, I'm not saying that I'm one of those "rare talents," but just the other day, while I was lounging on the couch being practically worthless, I suddenly realized that I'm as insightful as a tree stump, but boy can I talk and write a bunch of nonsense when the need arises. I guess you could say I was born to be a ramblin' man, but if you actually did say it – or worse, sang it – then you'd have to define exactly what kind of ramblin' man I happen to be. Am I the kind of rambler who travels around the globe, moving here and there all willy-nilly like, soaking in everything I see and hear and smell like there's no deodorant? Or am I the kind of rambler who keeps moving his mouth without any thought to what's coming out, or why, or who might be listening, or not? I would like to think I was the former, but I have come to terms with the fact that I'm the latter. Yes, I am rambler. I know this because I can see it in people's eyes. I can see it when they start looking at their watches, wondering why they don't have an important meeting to go to, or an appointment which would help them make a graceful exit, stage right. Out of desperation, they pretend to have phone calls: "Oh, I apologize. My cell is buzzing and this is an important call. It's probably the President. Please excuse me." And some just flat out lie: "That's very interesting. We should discuss this more. Have your people call my people and I'm sure they'll be able to get together and have a lovely lunch while talking about whatever it is you've been talking about. Ok? Ok." Well, I guess that would be okay if I actually had "people," but people like me don't have "people." We have cats and goats and John Deere lawnmowers and a whole lot of stuff up in the attic that we have practically no use for, but we keep it anyways just for when we might need it. Just in case. But we don't have "people." How do people have "people" anyways? And what do these "people" do? More importantly, do they mind being called "people," as in "my people" or "your people"? I would think it would be insulting to be known as somebody's "people." But that's just me. Maybe they're okay with it. I don't think I would be. I'm not much of a "people" person. People don't like being waylaid by a ramblin' man in Wal-Mart. It's not the best thing that can happen to a person. The rambler rambles on about this and that, or something or another, while your carton of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream melts right out of the carton and onto the floor. And then somebody has to clean it up, but it's not going to be you because it wasn't your fault in the first place. But does the rambler realize that your ice cream is melting? Of course not. He just keeps on talking and talking and talking like that's what you came to Wal-Mart for – to see him and listen to every single thought and idea that ever entered and then exited his little itty-bitty pea-sized brain. Ramblers are a nuisance, a bother, an irritation and a pain in the you-know-what. They should apologize for being who and what they are – and say it with feeling! (Angie, I am so sorry I talked your ears off the other day in Wal-Mart while your ice cream melted. But I was impressed how your two young boys just bustled about, getting everything on your shopping list and bringing it back to your cart. They certainly came in handy. It was nice to see you again. Keep in touch.) * * * My 'Sweet Ride' is a Yellow School Bus I'm proud to say that I'm a school bus driver. Not only that, but last year one of my riders gave me a certificate that says I'm the greatest bus driver in the world – which makes me an Award-Winning School Bus Driver. The certificate is hanging up in my office. Feel free to drop by and see it. Being an Award-Winning School Bus Driver is not all glamour and paparazzi. Yes, there are perks that come with the job (I'm still searching for mine), but there's also a certain amount of responsibility that comes with the reward. Bus drivers have to be friendly and ready to wipe up liquid motion sickness at a moment's notice. Bus drivers have to be welcoming, but ready to give students the "evil eye" when they're not following the rules. Bus drivers have to understand a little bit of child psychology, be able to work under pressure, and have the ability to tune out distractions while keeping their eyes and ears open for Little Johnny who loves to use his markers to color on things – especially other riders. And bus drivers have to carry an extra bottle of deodorant with them because driving a bus is a sweaty job, and stinky school bus drivers don't get certificates. Driving a school bus is not for everybody, and to be a school bus driver is to be practically superhuman but without the cape and spandex. That's why I'm surprised there aren't more movies made about them. "In a land where time has stood still, where American values are as deep-rooted as the Rockies, there lives a man who is more than what he appears to be. His name is Bud Randle. He drives a school bus twice a day, but he's hiding a secret that will soon amaze all his friends and neighbors. And in the end, he will save us all. Transport Pictures presents Johnny Depp in a Peter Jackson film – 'Mr. Bus Driver: The Movie.' Coming to a theater near you.!" I'd gladly pay my money to see a movie like that, and I might even spring for some hot-buttered popcorn and an ice-cold soda pop. Wouldn't you? Driving a bus doesn't have the greatest of reputations. The buses rarely have air conditioning, the heaters barely work in the winter, they're slow, the engines are loud, the brakes squeal, the children sometimes get noisy and obnoxious, and dealing with a bunch of hot, sweaty kids on a hot, sweaty day is worse than having a root canal without medication. But other than that, it's not too bad – especially if you have a Little Emily onboard. "Mr. Bus Driver, why are you whistling? Whistling isn't allowed on the bus," said Little Emily. "Who says whistling isn't allowed on the bus?" asked Mr. Bus Driver. "I did," said Little Emily. "You did? So, you mean when I'm happy, I can't whistle?" "Well, I guess I can make an exception. But just this once," she said. Little Emily has plans for her life. Maybe she's going to be a nurse, or a lawyer, or the CEO of a global financial institution that will decide whether or not I should get the loan I need to one day take my family to Europe for the trip of a lifetime. Who knows? What matters today is that she doesn't mind riding to school on the bus. She's been doing it since kindergarten. It's just a morning and afternoon ritual that will continue until she can drive herself to school. But until that time, she relies on me, the bus driver, to get her there safely so she can become the person she's meant to be. So like I was saying, driving a school bus is a big responsibility. Not everybody can do it, but those who can should be respected, admired, and valued as important members of our society. And the best way that you can show your appreciation for the thankless job these school bus drivers do is to remember two things: 1) Stop when you see their red lights flashing. There's a Little Emily on every bus, and they all want to grow up safe and sound; and 2) Bus drivers love to eat. A couple of glazed donuts or an apple fritter in a bag is sometimes better than money. Now, if you'll excuse me – I've got riders to pick up. * * * What's a Few Percentages Between Friends? I've noticed that 95 percent of Americans who quote percentages are just making them up about 87 percent of the time, but since it's all math (and the rest of us hate math) we believe them, which makes us pretty darn stupid. Politicians are the worst about "percentage dropping," followed by sportscasters and wives with lazy husbands. "I guarantee that when Charlotte's husband is home, he's out in the yard 92 percent of the time cutting the grass, and the other 8 percent he's in the kitchen doing the dishes. And how do you spend 92 percent of your time at home? Lounging on the couch watching NASCAR – or snoring. I have no idea what you do the other 8 percent of the time, and frankly, I don't want to know. Do you see something wrong with this picture? Well, do ya?" To be honest, I must admit that 45 percent of those exact words have never been spoken to me in that precise order by anybody in particular at my house on a Saturday afternoon. I just made it up. Honestly. So, shall we continue? I think it would be safe to say that 98 percent of all politicians, whether they be foreign or domestic, have at one time or another quoted figures and statistics that are slightly wide of the mark. They use these numbers to support their position (whether it be vertical or horizontal) because it's a requirement of being in office. "I do solemnly swear to uphold the principles of our constitution 97 percent of the time; to serve 51 percent of my constituency because majority rules in a democracy; to wrap my arguments in obscure details and data; and to never let my good judgment be influenced by piles of dirty money, unless it increases my take-home pay by 180 percent and there's only a 2 percent chance of being caught. So help me God." Before going on I must admit that 50 percent of the politicians I have met in my lifetime were good, honest, hard-working Americans. The other guy reminded me of a used car salesman. "I just want you to know that 96 percent of the people who walk through our lot believe this car, this one right here, is a piece of junk. They don't even give it a second look. But I'm here to tell you they're wrong. Our mechanics gave 110 percent of their time and effort to make this car the Cinderella of the lot. And if you buy it right here, right now, right this minute, I'll drop that sticker price by 38 percent – and I don't do that for just anybody. So, you want to take it for a test drive?" Before going on I must admit that 50 percent of the used car dealers I have met in my lifetime were good, honest, hard-working Americans. The other guy reminded me of a politician. When it comes to numbers, only sportscasters have earned my trust. Their jobs are built upon facts and figures, statistics and averages, hits and runs, steroids and dog fights. Ninety-nine percent of them could give Einstein a run for his money, which wouldn't be that hard considering he's dead. "Ivan 'Pudge' Rodriguez, 14-time All-Star catcher and 13-time Golden Glove winner, let a bouncing ball pass him on Wednesday, giving the Minnesota Twins a two-game sweep over the Rangers which pulled the Twins within 5 ½ games behind Detroit despite being four games under .500." (I know it's not rocket science, but it sounds pert near close.) To make matters worse, there is a sub-class to "percentage droppers." I refer to them as the "point five-ers." Not only do they talk in percentages, but they talk in fractions of percentages. These people are dangerous. Avoid them if you can, run if you have absolutely have no other choice. "You are not going to believe the product I'm going to show you today. It's 100 percent clean, it's 100 percent useful, it's 100 percent cost effective, and only 21.5 percent of the population know about it. That's right, I said 21.5 percent. Surprised? You should be. But for the unbelievable initial low cost of $37.95, you won't be classified as a 'backwoods boob' like 78.5 percent of the population. You'll be in the 21.5 percent group, and we take all major credit cards." Just to let you know, 92.5 percent of the stuff that comes out of my mouth is made up. The other 7.5 percent may be true, but why take the chance? * * * If We Could Talk to the Animals, I'd Run! While a lot of very intelligent people are weighing in on health care, socialized medicine and obscenely high insurance rates, cows don't give it a second thought. In fact, I'm sure if someone were to even mention those things to a cow, it would look him straight in the eye and say, "Moo," and really mean it. Cows chew their cud, swat at flies, and never once worry about the things we worry about – which makes them pretty smart in my opinion. Sure, they eventually end up tasting mighty delicious on a plate with a bit of A1 Sauce, but up until that very moment, they don't have a care in the world. Scientists are now discovering that a lot of animals, just like cows, are more intelligent than we originally thought. No, they're not smart enough to get your kid an A in calculus, but neither am I, which doesn't prove a thing, so let's continue with some absolutely true stories about smart animals. Did you hear the one about the bird and the worm? The worm was floating in a glass of water, but because the water level was too low, the bird couldn't reach it. Scientists gave the bird some stones, and before you could say, "nevermore," the bird dropped the stones in the water, raising the water level and bringing the worm within easy reach. If scientists were to put me in a room with a pile of rocks and a vat of water, and floating on the water was a cheeseburger – medium well but slightly out of my reach – I doubt very seriously I'd think of using the rocks to raise the water level. I might jump in, especially if it was an Angus Burger, but using rocks is for the birds. So, how did this bird get so smart? Is it possible a new species of thinking, reasoning creatures that are able to use new math are gathering just under our noses? And if they are, why can't we smell them? Don't ask me – go ask your mother. And then there's the story about the chimps that can make and use tools (I usually buy and lose mine). They make spears out of tree limbs, jab them into other creatures and then eat them – which makes me have "Planet of the Apes" nightmares because it sounds less like they're making tools, and more like they're making weapons. Dolphins, on the other hand, are too sneaky to need tools. A dolphin was trained to bring up trash from his tank. Whenever he brought up trash, he was fed a "treat.". One day, when the tank looked clean, the dolphin appeared with trash in his mouth, got his treat, but raised the suspicion of his trainer. The trainer discovered that the dolphin had made a cache of trash. Not only that, but instead of bringing up whole pieces, he was tearing off just bits of the trash, thus making his cache a long-lasting stash of trash. And what did this prove? That dolphins are sneaky – didn't I already say that? Finally, there's a cat in my house and goats in my yard that are living proof that animals are smarter than we give them credit for. The cat meows at the door and I get up to let her out. I don't want to. I fight against it. But the cat has trained me so well that I just give in and do what I'm told. Life is so much easier (and there's less cat poop on the carpet) when you do what you're told. As for the goats: When the goats get out of their pen, I rattle a bucket of feed at them, they start following me, and I feed them when they get back into their pen. But the last time they escaped, I only had cat food. When I rattled the cat food at them, they followed, but refused to eat it. Minutes later, the goats were out again, but when I rattled the cat food, they just stared at me as if they were saying, "Listen my fine fellow, your entrées are very upsetting to our stomachs and we prefer to dine instead on these succulent weeds and grasses. So be a good fellow, run along and make sure our Cadillac is ready when we are." It sounded a whole lot like, "Baaaaaah" to my ears – but what do I know? I'm not as smart as a goat! * * * Learning Your Lessons the Bus Driver Way It takes a special kind of person to drive a school bus. Not just any Joe or Jane can do it, and most of us wouldn't even try. But those who feel the calling – those who dare to get behind the big wheel and travel the back roads with a busload of young people who believe a school bus is just recess on wheels – well, those people end up learning a lot of life lessons, and are reminded of them each and every day. 1. The first thing a school bus driver learns is that to be early is to be on time, and to be on time is to be late – but that only applies for cranking up the school bus. On the route, everything changes: to be early is to be yelled at because the kids aren't ready, and to be late is okay, but not too late, because then the riders start to freak out and wonder if they've missed the bus. Time is both a friend and an enemy. You can't get more, but you'll never have less than what's given to you. It's best to use it wisely. 2. The next thing a school bus driver learns is not to judge a person by the house they come out of. Some kids live in big houses with landscaped yards and nicely-trimmed hedges. Some kids live in small houses with yards that haven't been mowed in months, with washing machines and toilets peeking out from behind the weeds. Nice "things" don't guarantee nice people. Sometimes the most polite and helpful riders come from the "wrong side of the tracks." 3. A school bus driver learns that sometimes passing the buck is not an option. Yes, a driver's job includes keeping an eye on the road, insuring the riders get to where they're going safely. But it is also the driver's job to keep an eye on Little Johnny who looks like he wants to take out his Elmer's Glue and squeeze a glob of it into Little Susie's hair before he gets home. "It's not my job" is a phrase spoken by people who don't care. "Sit down, turn around, and put that stuff back in your backpack before I turn this bus around and take you back to your momma" is a phrase that has "love" glued all over it. 4. A school bus driver can learn a lot from squirrels. Most squirrels have one goal – to dart across the road in front of a school bus without getting flattened like a pancake. But some of those little buggers stop in the middle of the road and get all wishy-washy about which way to run. It's funny to watch from the driver's seat, but I'm sure those little squirrels are scared out of their ever-loving minds. Having a goal, or direction, is the key to success. Being all "willy-nilly" is the surest way of getting squashed. 5. A school bus driver learns that it's best not to drink a lot of coffee before heading off on a route. Some of those roads are long and bumpy, and when the bladder calls, it does not want to be denied. But a driver can't just stop the bus and "take care of business" with kids on board, and not very many families will open up their homes to let a crazy bus driver use "the facilities." It's best to "take care of business" before the business takes care of you. 6. And finally, one of the most important things a bus driver learns is patience. Patience for kids who remember they left their backpack in the house and they'll "be right back." Patience for getting behind a tractor that can only go 10 mph. Patience for kids who fall asleep and miss their stop. Patience for Little Emily who is singing "Jingle Bells" over and over again, and she only knows the first verse. If you search for the word "patience" in the dictionary, it will refer you to "school bus driver." I've been driving a school bus for almost 20 years. Some days are good; some days not so much. But every day is a learning experience. As a matter of fact, just the other day I learned that a cow can be vengeful, sarcastic and down-right rude when it has to get up from its dry, comfortable resting place on the road, just because a school bus comes along. But that's another story. * * * If We Are What We Eat, We're in Trouble A man's ability to invent new and tasty food combinations is what separates us from other forms of creatures, namely women. Men have this innate need to try something new, daring, and "out of the box." Women, on the other hand, have this innate need to tell us we're vile and disgusting. I submit that some of the tastiest food combinations that are enjoyed today were invented by a guy with an idea and a wife who thought it was sickening. The guy threw a few things together, thought it tasted unique, let his wife have a bite, who immediately barfed it up all over his shoes. And then the guy got smart and told only his guy friends (after he wiped off his shoes), who told their friends, and so on and so on. Sushi is probably a prime example, as well as chocolate-covered crickets. "Harold, there are dead crickets all over the porch. Why don't you get off the couch and do something with them? They're disgusting and I want them gone before the Robertsons come over to dinner. Harold, did you hear me? And I don't care if you despise the Robertsons. Now hop to it, mister! And I mean now!" I firmly believe that inventiveness is one part inspiration, two parts perspiration, five parts nagging and four parts revenge. Speaking of new ideas, I like to think that I'm the one who invented the "Waffle Sandwich." I was standing in the kitchen one day, looking at bare cupboards, when I found a package of frozen waffles and some lunchmeat in the refrigerator. Well, one plus one equals two, and in a jiffy I had a respectable Waffle Sandwich. Next time, instead of lunch meat, I might try a fried egg, or maybe tuna fish. The choices are almost endless. Combining two completely un-combinable food items into one delectable dish is the hallmark of genius (or blocked bowels, not sure which). And think of the possibilities – melted Gummy Bears over rice; beer and Frosted Flakes; coffee beans sprinkled on top of vanilla ice cream; or a chef salad with brown gravy poured on top. Who knows, your favorite restaurant may serve these crazy food combos one day – and you'll actually like it. "Good evening, my name is Charles, and I'll be your waiter for this evening. Tonight's special includes Potato Wedges filled with a sweet banana-egg swirl for starters; Armadillo on the Half Shell glazed in a special Sushi vinaigrette; green peppers, spinach and caramel-covered lima beans sautéed in a spicy sauerkraut juice; and for desert, your choice of Chocolate-Covered Suckfish, Liver-Meringue Pie, or Fudge & Oyster Sorbet. Now, who'd like the special?" I'd probably go for the burger and fries myself, but that's just me. Another thing us guys like to do when were not playing Mad Scientist with last night's leftovers is to figure out ways to eat normal food items but in manly "I've got to eat this fast or I'll be late" kind of ways. For example, sandwiches: If I don't have much time for lunch but I really want a sandwich, I'll stuff a few slices of ham in my mouth, cram in a slice of cheese, and then suck on a spoonful of mayonnaise just to keep things lubricated. If I have time, I might shovel in some lettuce and tomato, but usually I don't. So, with all those "sandwich makings" in my mouth, I can carry on with all the other things I need to do and nobody knows any different (unless they find me lying on the floor, choking to death – which would pretty much give me away). Here's something you can try in the safety of your own home, especially if you like Banana Pudding as much as I do, but never have the time to make it: 1) Take a big bite of banana; 2) shove a couple of Vanilla Wafers into your mouth; 3) then close your eyes and chew. If you try hard enough, you can almost imagine you're eating a soft, creamy Banana Pudding, just like your grandma use to make. When all is said and done, men have this unquenchable thirst to explore, to invent, to test out new and somewhat disgusting things solely to freak out the women folk. And it is this need to explore, invent, and repulse that makes us who we are – Men! Need I say more? It's probably best not to! * * * If a French Woman Can Do It, Why Not I? I have finally come to a decision – I've decided to suck it up, bite the bullet and lose a bit of weight before some fisherman spots me and tries to harpoon me for Sunday brunch. I may only lose an ounce or two in my quest for thinness (I tend to set my goals low when it comes to extra-curricular physical exertion), but by golly, I'm going to do it this time; not like last time when I got it in my mind to be healthy and thin, and then got it right out of my mind when I found a gallon of Cookies & Cream ice cream in the freezer, and you know there's no way I can let a gallon of ice cream stay unopened for something as silly as wanting to look more like Jack LaLanne instead of Moby Dick. And what has inspired me to change my ways and tonnage? The answer is French Women. According to a review I read on an article about the book "French Women Don't Get Fat: The Secret of Eating for Pleasure" by Mireille Guiliano, French women never set foot inside gyms or fitness centers and they are still skinny. No treadmills, no stationary bikes, no weights, and no puking up their guts after trying to run a mile like they could when they were younger but were horribly mistaken and will never do it again (not saying that happened to me, but just saying). Did you hear me? French Women, no gym, they eat what they want and they're still skinny! And that's coming from Mireille Guiliano, a French woman, and you'd think she'd know. Of course French Women do other things to remain so slender, like walking a lot and eating in moderation, but I just skipped over that section of the review of the article about the book. The important detail is they DON'T work out at a gym. Gyms are sad, smelly places where young people with a lot of energy go to sweat, because they look good while sweating; whereas old people just look like sad, sweaty old people trying to ward off the Grim Reaper for a couple more years without blowing a knee or a hip. Of course, I have no idea if a gym is sad or smelly because I've never stepped inside of one; but if I did, the "behind my back" conversation would probably go something like this: "Poor guy. Practically looks dead already. Hey, we better keep an eye on him while he's walking that treadmill. I bet his heart is ready to go at any moment. And wouldn't that ruin a good day of healthy sweating for the rest of us?" The first person who thought of opening up a commercial fitness center was a genius; right up there with Einstein, Gates and Richard James, the inventor of the Slinky. All he had to do was find a building, buy some exercise equipment, invite people to come and pay money to sweat, and convince his wife he wasn't crazy (the hardest part). And if that isn't genius, I don't know what is. But back to French Women – French Women don't sweat. Well, what I mean is they don't sweat off the pounds by going to the gym, and since they don't shave their legs and underarms either (just like me), I might as well give this "not going to the gym to lose weight" thing a try. So here's my plan: Starting Monday, I'm going to walk briskly to the couch, sit down, put my feet up and hold them there until I've finished the newspaper. Then I'll stand up, walk briskly to the icebox, do five reps of scooping Cookies & Cream into a bowl (maybe seven reps if I feel energetic), walk briskly back to the couch, sit down, put my feet up again, and hold them there for as long as I can get away with it, then relax. And then I'm going to write my own book. I think I will call it, "Fat Men Who Sit on the Couch and Idolize Skinny French Women for their Workout Regime; A Guide to Better Health and Eating Without Worrying That Your Arteries Are About to Explode." Me and French Women – we know how to feel the burn! * * * Hey, Mac! Can You Spare an Apple? After all these years of wanting a MacBook Pro, but also hearing about all the reasons why we can't afford one and how we could use that money for better purposes (like food and new shoes), I've finally gotten up the gumption to throw caution to the wind and order one behind my wife's back. So, here's the plan: One day soon I'm going to call in sick to work (only you and I will know I'm faking it), and when my wife steps out the door to take our daughter to school, I'm going to crank up the PC and do a bit of online shopping. Before you know it, and better yet, before SHE knows it, I'll be an Apple user and I'll kiss this old PC goodbye. "But wait! Won't she know something's up when she sees the credit card bill and it's maxed out even more than it is now?" Yes! And that's why I'm going to use a credit card she doesn't know I have. One I use only for emergencies, like buying new computer stuff, or banjos. The bill comes to me, I pay the bill, nobody's the wiser, and I'm a happy camper! This is going to be great! I just love those Apple commercials, and to actually have a Mac in my house is going to be a dream come true. "Hold on there, bucko! Won't she know something's a bit different when she sits down to the PC and notices it's not a PC anymore? Aren't the two as different as night and day?" Aha! You're right! I best keep the PC where it is and hide the Apple under the bed, or maybe in my sock drawer. That way, I can sneak off to the bedroom, close and lock the door, and play with my new computer to my heart's content or until she knocks on the door wanting to know what I'm doing in there, and then I'll have to shove it back into the sock drawer. But I'll still have a Mac! I'll just have to be sneaky about having it, that's all. I've always balked at buying a Mac in the past because the price seems so high. You could buy two PCs for the price of one Apple, and that always seemed like a sound argument for not getting one. But I saw one the other day, up close and personal, saw what it could do, and now my heart is set on one and my heart shall not be denied. No sir! No denying the heart this time! "Excuse me, but since FedEx or UPS will be delivering it – to your home – won't she be a bit suspicious when the truck comes rolling down your driveway? And what happens if you're not at home when it's delivered? I can just see her now, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, foot tapping on the floor, waiting for you to open the door and explain what's in the little box with the apple on the side." You know, you're right! I think I'll have it delivered to my work. Just put my work's mailing address on it, in care of me, and then she'll truly never know about it. That way, I can play with the Mac on break times, or during lunch, or maybe go to work early or stay late, and she'll have no earthly clue. She won't see the bill, she won't see the UPS truck, and she won't find the Mac hidden in the sock drawer. It's perfect. I'm going to have it delivered to work! "So, what about those weekends when your Mac is at work and you're at home? Isn't it kind of useless to order a new computer and only get to play with it when there's very little time to play with it?" Hmmmm. That's possible. So how about this: I'll bring it home and tell my wife that it's part of a technology-based training program to get us employees used to using Macs because we're transitioning away from PCs. I'll tell her it's not even mine, that I'm just borrowing it for awhile. And if I use big technology-type words, she might not even know what I'm talking about. Yep! That's what I'm going to do. Order me a Mac. Start doing all the cool things those other cool Mac users do. And nobody will know but me – and you. You'll keep my secret, won't you? * * * I Hate to Complain, But Not Really Don't you just hate it when people say things like: "Did you know there are only 47 more shopping days left before Christmas? I've already done all my shopping and now I'm starting to work on my Christmas cards. Nothing says Christmas like gorgeous Christmas cards, don't you think? I do my shopping all throughout the year – buying things on sale, buying things even though I'm not sure who I might give it to – so when December comes around I can sit back, relax and concentrate on other things like what kind of candy to fix, or pies to bake – and I watch all those other people go bonkers with their last-minute-Christmas-shopping binges! It's crazy, don't you think?" Well, actually, I do my Christmas shopping at the last possible second. I don't even remember what a Christmas card looks like anymore. And I buy my pecan pies at Brookshire's. Lady, it's YOU that's crazy. But not as crazy as people who say: "Nope. I hardly watch TV at all. Well, I do watch reruns of CSI and I try not to miss the news at 6 and 10 because it's important to know what's going on in the world, but that's about it. I watch the History Channel and the Discovery Channel, but that's not like watching real TV – it's more educational. And sometimes I watch the Food Network, depending on what kind of recipes they're cooking (I especially like those shows that use cast-iron Dutch ovens), but other than that I hardly watch any TV at all. I do watch NASCAR, but that's different." Sure, we believe you. I don't watch television either, but that's because I don't have cable or satellite and can't receive the digital signal the government practically guaranteed I'd be able to get. But am I complaining? You bet I am. I'm not like some people who say: "Now, you know me, I'm not a complainer; even if someone took the last package of Double Stuf Oreos and the store didn't have any more, I wouldn't complain. That's just the kind of person I am. No complaints out of me. No sirree! BUT, I cannot believe they preempted my favorite TV show for a presidential address. I'd write to my congressman, but he probably wouldn't care because he's on "their" side. He was probably glued to the TV making notes of everything the president was saying. And am I ever going to know who shot Dorothy Mae's stepsister's father-in-law's twin brother? Not in this lifetime! But I won't complain about it. Not me!" Oh, please! If my favorite store didn't have Double Stuf Oreos, I'd complain with every ounce of strength in my body. And then I'd never go to that store again. I'd probably start a campaign to run the store out of town. So don't tell me you don't complain. You sound just like those people who say: "Now, you know me, I never gossip about anybody, and may I be struck by lightning if I ever bad-mouth a soul, but if you haven't heard the latest about Mr. X and Mr. Z, then honey, I don't know where you've been. I hear they've both bought motorcycles – Harleys, I think they are – and they ride around town in leather jackets making all sorts of noise. Probably trying to pick up young hussies that don't know the difference between night and day. And do you know how old those men are? Older than you and me, let me tell ya'. Old enough to know better. Old enough to know they should be at home, painting the house or fixing dripping faucets like they're supposed to. Their poor wives must be swimming in tears. But don't tell anybody. This is just between you and me." Excuse me, but I heard every word. Now, can you please stop? You're making me nauseous. Finally, don't you hate it when writers start writing about all the things they hate, but they don't offer any solutions? And you and I know they have no business complaining because they probably do things that make us complain about THEM – like forgetting to wash their hands after they pee, or leaving the lunch meat on the counter all day, or not taking out the trash, or practicing banjo even though the neighbors have taken out a restraining order against them doing it. But do they chastise themselves? Heavens no! They sit in their comfortable writing chairs, all cozy and warm behind their laptops, spewing out stuff they have no business spewing, when they should be out feeding the goats, or something. Not that I'm complaining, mind ya'. * * * I'm The Man Who Stares at Goats I thought about writing a review on George Clooney's new movie "The Men Who Stared at Goats," but since that would involve research and note-taking (things that are clearly associated with doing work) I said, "Forget that!" and took a nap on the couch instead. Besides, watching men stare at goats can't be all that exciting because if it were, I'd have a line of people paying good money to watch me watch MY goats, but they don't, so I didn't, and now I've forgotten what I was talking about. Oh, yes! Goats. In the beginning, God created all the fish in the sea, all the birds in the sky, all the creatures that live on dry land, and when He was done He said, "It is good, but I'm not so sure about those goats. Somebody needs to keep an eye them." Thus, God created Adam, who became the first Man Who Stared at Goats. Getting back to the movie; since I haven't seen it yet, and probably won't because I'm too cheap to spend the money (you just can't go to the movies without buying an ice-cold fountain drink and a large tub of hot-buttered popcorn – that would be simply un-American), I've decided to present my OWN version called "The Man Who Stares at Goats," in my own backyard, with shows starting at 1:15, 3:45 and 5:50, and it only costs $1. Every seat is a good one, but it's BYOP (bring your own popcorn). Goats can be interesting to watch as long as you have a comfortable chair, a tall glass of iced tea, and a good book to read. But they're even MORE interesting to watch when you're not watching them at all. That's when all the Little Goat Mysteries occur; the ones that can never be solved. Goat Mystery No. 1 – Why are the goats on my porch? And how did they get there? There are no discernable signs of a Goat Breakout – no tunnels under the fence, no Goat Getaway Car circling the pen – so how did they do it? Did they just sprout wings and fly themselves out? And if so, who paid for the flying lessons because it certainly was not me! Goat Mystery No. 2 – Why are the goats staring at me like that? What exactly are they thinking? Is it possible they are using Goat Telepathy, to lull me into a sense of okay-ness, but when I turn my back they'll disappear in a puff of smoke like a Goat Jedi Knight? And if so, where do they put their light sabers, because I don't think they have any pockets. Goat Mystery No. 3 – Why do the goats prefer to chew on my new khaki pants when they have good, green grass to munch on? If they like khaki, would they also like flannel? What about car parts? If I parked my old truck in the goat pen, would it be gone after a week? And if so, would it give the goats constipation? Goat Mystery No. 4 – Sometimes when I don't want to go outside to watch the goats, I stare at them through the window – and they know it. But how? Certainly they can't see me. Do they have an innate Goat Sixth Sense that makes the hair under their chiny-chin-chin stand up when they're being watched? And Goat Mystery No. 5 – If I shine a flashlight at my goats and their eyes shine, why does it give me the willies? A cat's eyes does the same thing, but it's not as creepy. Shining Goat Eyes make you believe that if you slowly back away, you'll be okay, but if you turn and run, those little buggers will chase you down, gore you in the leg, drag you to the ground by your khaki pants, and feast upon every ounce of eatable you! But I like my goats. They're funny. Sometimes they're a bit noisy. Sometimes they head-butt each other like goats are known to do. Sometimes they escape and we find them walking down the road trying to catch a ride with the neighbors. Sometimes they look at me as if they're saying, "You can't MAKE me do anything, mister!" And sometimes I just want to take them to the nearest butcher shop and fill my freezer with goat sausage and stew meat. But I don't, because I am The Man Who Stares at Goats – rated PG for sometimes thinking really bad thoughts about them, but not very often. * * * And Now It's Time For My Annual Post-Turkey Day Apology Dear Mother-in-law: I'm so sorry I ruined your Thanksgiving dinner this year. I thought you knew that I hate being put on the spot, trying to express what I'm thankful for in front of a room full of other people. But please believe me when I say I had absolutely no intention of saying, "I'm thankful for not living any closer to my in-laws." You've got to believe me that it was just nerves. I know this might be hard to imagine, but between the time I knew it was my turn, and the moment I opened my mouth to speak, the following thoughts flashed through my itty-bitty brain: I could say, "I'm really thankful for my goats not escaping this week, and so are you, because if they had, we would have brought something else instead of the chicken casserole." No, wait a minute, I can't mention "goats" and "casserole" in the same sentence. We're just about to eat, and if I do, some of them won't. Okay, how about this: "I'm thankful that the turkey did not become our national emblem like Benjamin Franklin wanted. Can you imagine heating up leftover bald eagle for supper tomorrow? It'd probably be a little tough, but I wouldn't be surprised if it tasted just like chicken." Okay, maybe not that either. Let's try to stay away from mentioning food. "I'm thankful that our little town voted 'No' against the local sale of beer and wine, because that means if I want a brewsky, I have to drive to the next little town, but before I get there, I always forget why I was going there in the first place, so I just fill up my car with gas, keep heading west and hope I remember what I went out to get by the time I get to where I was supposed to be going in the first place. But I never do, so I stop off at the Bass Pro Shop to look for fishing lures, because I've realized that I've become an old man who doesn't own a stinking-huge tackle box full of lures, and just the thought of that actually made me cry the other day. So I need to start doing something about it before I'm dead and gone, because if I don't, it'll be too late, and then I won't care." Well, that's a bit long isn't it? Besides, I can't admit that I don't own a tackle box. What would the father-in-law say? What would the brother-in-law say? They would look down upon me with more scorn than they already do, even with it being Thanksgiving. Nope, no mention of tackle boxes today. So how about coming up with something short and sweet like: "I'm thankful for Thanksgiving!" You've got to be kidding! Everybody else will be spilling their guts about how thankful they are for family, and health, and good times, and friends – and you're going to be thankful for Thanksgiving? How pathetic. I know, I'll say something completely "off the wall." They'll know I'm joking, it'll break the ice a little bit, and everything will be peachy-keen! But what? But what? Oh, but what? So, all those ideas went through my brain right before I opened my mouth to say, "I'm thankful for not living any closer to my in-laws." And when I saw all those jaws drop open in shock, and then didn't hear one bit of laughter, and then felt this sharp pain in my side from the fork your daughter was stabbing me with, I thought: "Oops!" Dear Mother-in-law: I'm thankful that you're such an understanding mother-in-law and that over the years you've always forgiven the foolish things that I have said and done. If you'll forgive me just one more time, I promise I'll never come to your house again, I'll never invite you over to mine, and I will never talk bad about you in front of the children. So, how about it? Do we have a deal? (CLARIFICATION: The above essay is a work of fiction. I have an absolutely wonderful mother-in-law who will not be offended in the least that I've made her the butt of my joke in a story that hopefully she'll NEVER know about or read – which would be something I could truly be thankful for.) * * * I Do Not Snore, But That's Just My Opinion I do not snore. Yes, there are times I make sounds like a Harley-Davidson Fat Boy doing 85 mph down the interstate, but I don't consider that snoring. That's wishful dreaming with sound effects. Of course, nobody else in my family appreciates the roar of my straight pipes pumping out 110 decibels of pure awesomeness while I'm napping on the couch. Therefore, to appease them before they resort to stuffing a cat down my throat, I recently tried to muffle my pipes – maybe bring it down to a Honda hum – and this is the record of my attempt: First Night, Attempt No. 1 – I believed that through sheer willpower alone, I could stop snoring just by thinking about it. So, starting a couple of hours before bedtime, I thought of nothing else except, "I will not snore. I will not snore. I will not snore. I wonder if it's too late to order a pizza? I will not snore." And I slowly drifted off to slumber land. Results – I had a dream that I was cruising down the highway, my Harley pipes belching out massive amounts of thunder, when a giant June bug smacked me in the face. When I woke up, my wife smacked me again, just for good measure. Advice from Julie – "If you really want to quit snoring, you could exercise 3-4 times a week, cut out sugar, and lose 20 lbs (not that you NEED to lose 20 lbs). Worked like a charm for me." Second Night, Attempt No. 2 – Since duct tape can fix anything, I stuck a sock in my mouth, then duct taped my mouth closed. I repeated the "I will not snore" mantra of the previous night, and eventually dozed off to sleep. Results – I had a terrible dream that the mafia abducted, bound and gagged me, then threw me in the East River! Somehow I untied myself and made it back to the surface before running out of air. When I woke up, I wasn't breathing (I guess the sock idea wasn't all that smart), but my wife stopped jabbing me in the ribs long enough to help me rip the duct tape off my face. She looked mighty pleased to do it, too. Luckily, I still have my beard. Question – If a man snores in the woods and his wife isn't around to jab him in the ribs, did he really snore? Answer from Sherry, a fellow writer: "Given the radius that such noise can travel, yes!" Sherry lives in Beaumont because it's just out of earshot of my snoring. Third Night, Attempt No. 3 – The only thing left to try was not sleeping at all. I believed if I drank lots of coffee and didn't worry about peeing like a horse for the next week and a half, I could stay awake all night and not snore, thus giving my wife a break from all that smacking and jabbing. Mixed Results – I didn't snore all night, but I fell asleep on the couch after lunch and had a nightmare that I was being interviewed by Oprah but couldn't hear the questions because we were at a biker rally and I really needed to pee. When I woke up, there was a tape recorder on my chest with a note that said, "Hit play." I pressed the button, listened, and thought, "If I ever do have a Harley, THAT'S what I want it to sound like!" The following is an exchange between me and a few well-meaning friends. JANICE: Have you ever gotten a sleep study? I sleep now that hubby has a C-pap machine. ME: C-Pap! C-Pap nod off on couch! C-Pap's mouth open up! Hear Pap roar! Everybody run for cover! CHRIS: Try Breathe Right Strips. ME: Oh, I'm breathing right -- the problem is you can measure the volume in decibels! RICHARD: I used to have sleep apnea, all gone with the weight loss. Never felt better! ME: If I die from sleep apnea, I want my epitaph to read, "We're sorry to see him pass, but maybe now we can get some sleep." ALICE: Bless your wife's heart. She hasn't slept in a week from all that snoring! ME: Let's be honest – she hasn't slept in 25 years, and that's probably why she's a lot crankier than I am! Conclusion – My study has decisively proven that I do not snore when I'm awake. But, in the interest of others, I shall follow Julie's and Richard's advice to exercise a bit and lose the excess tonnage. Until then, I might live longer if I slept out in a tent – somewhere deep in the woods, far away from elbows. * * * The Five Christmas shopping 'Rules of Engagement' Christmas is creeping up on us again, and that means it's time to brave the wild indoor shopping centers and outlet malls with the hope of getting some serious Christmas shopping done without being crushed to death in Aisle No. 9 during a Blue Light Special. But do you think I'm worried? Nosirree! I've got a plan, and as long as I stick to it, I will not die! My plan is to do all my shopping on Christmas Eve, hitting the stores with military-like precision: attack, attack, attack, take no prisoners, and don't charge anything until you see the whites of their eyes. And I believe in "attacking at dawn," when there's little resistance because nobody else is stupid enough to get up that early just to go shopping. Yes, I believe the best time for shopping maneuvers at the local Mega Store is when there are only four people in the building – me, Barbara at the cash register, and the two stock boys in the back who always seem to be asleep. At any other time, those two would follow me around, making me "hit the dirt" every time they lob a bag of potato chips or toilet paper over my head. But, even that's preferable to being surrounded by a horde of mothers, their screaming children and Zombie-like Husbands. Beware – Zombie Men are everywhere! They gather at supermarkets and malls this time of year, and, given half a chance, they will suck the life right out of you. Zombie Men are easy to spot: They hunch over their shopping carts, their eyes downcast in order to avoid eye contact with strangers. Their feet shuffle as they walk, and if you listen closely, you can hear them mumble things like, "Yes dear," and "Whatever you say, dear," and "I don't give a rip, dear," and "I mean, they look fresh to me, dear." Zombie Men used to be regular guys – men who went to the feed store, who tore apart engines for fun, who always had venison in the freezer. But somewhere along the way, they started pushing shopping carts for their wives – wives who are always agitated, jittery, looking for the best bargain, picking up this can of soup, comparing it with that can of soup, finally putting both cans of soup in the cart, telling her Zombie Husband to speed up, slow down, grab that box of cake mix, "No! Not that one! The store brand because it's cheaper." "Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear." Sometimes when the Zombie Men accidentally look up, I see in their faces a wish for me to put a bullet right between their eyes, just to end their suffering. But I have to look away. There is nothing I can do for them. When I go shopping, I leave my pistol at home. So, to make sure that I never have to endure crowds, bargain-hunting wives, yelling children, and Zombie Men, I adhere to the following Five Christmas Shopping "Rules of Engagement." If you can benefit from it, fine. If not, don't blame me: 1. Make a list of items you need to procure (military term that means "acquire"). Do not leave your Fort without a list. To do so, and be stuck trying to decide between the George Foreman Grill or a baby Rat Terrier, would mean certain "death by indecision." 2. Before you make your list, scout out (another military term that means "reconnoiter") what size your honey wears, because to buy a 20 when she really needs a 10 means certain "death by fuming." 3. With list in hand, attack at dawn, or as soon as the front door is open. If the store is having a "50 Percent Off Everything Starting at Dawn" sale, then Retreat! Retreat! Retreat!. 4. Once safely inside the store, quickly commandeer a cart. If someone else is using it at the time – well, spoils of war. With acquired cart, head to the ADM (Area of Desired Merchandise), probe the area, acquire your target, lock and load your cart, then head to the extraction zone (somewhere around Cashier No. 4) making no contact with the general population. 5. The only time you can breathe a sigh of relief is when you are safely out of the Combat Zone and back at your Fort. Count your acquisitions (a military word for "booty" which is a pirate word for "loot"), then conceal it under the bed or some other safe place that nobody would dare clean for fear of "death by dust." And that my friends is the key to safe holiday shopping. I wish you the best of luck. Remember, if you follow the rules, you WILL survive! * * * All I Want For Christmas is... Dear Santa, All I really want and need this Christmas is a fishing lure. Just one. And it doesn't matter what color or size. Okay, maybe I need two – just so they can keep each other company. You see, I recently discovered that I've become an old man without any fishing stuff, and I have no idea how that happened. No fishing lures, no bobbers, no hooks; just a beat-up old fishing pole with the string all kinked up, and I'm not even sure where it is. In fact, I'm pretty desperate to have several new lures, and maybe, if it's not too much trouble, a metal tackle box to put them in. Why? Because I don't want to see the sad little faces of my grandkids (I don't have any yet. I'm just planning for the future) when I have to explain to them that Grump-Pa (that's what I'm going to call myself) can't take them fishing. They'll be devastated, and I don't blame them. "Grump-Pa, will you take me fishing today? Please? Oh, purty, purty please?" "Well, Sport," (that's what I'm going to call my grandson – Sport), "Well, you see, Grump-Pa doesn't have any fishing stuff. Maybe next time when you come over I'll..." Of course Sport won't be listening. Instead, he'll be mumbling something like, "I like my favorite grandpa better. You're just a grump." Having a tackle box full of lures that a little kid can rummage through is one of the keys to being "The Favorite Grandpa." But Santa, if you don't fill my stocking with all kinds of lures, and throw that tackle box under the tree for good measure, I'll never make it. I'll just be "The Other Grandpa" for the rest of my life. And by the way, since you can't go fishing with just a tackle box full of lures, what would you say about adding a new fishing pole to my list? You know, to take the place of the one that's all messed up, but I can't find. It would just be too sad if my grandson came over and I had to tell him: "Well, Sport, you see it's like this: I was going to take you fishing, but I can't find my fishing pole. I've searched this whole house up and down, but..." Of course the boy won't be listening. Instead, he'll probably interrupt me and say something like, "You didn't plan this 'going fishing with your grandson' thing very well, did ya? My favorite grandpa, he knows how to take me fishing." So, Santa, you can see I'm in a bit of a jam. I have no lures, no tackle box, no fishing pole, and if I don't get started right away, I'll just be a loser in the eyes of my rude little grandson. And you don't want that to happen, do you? That's why I'm thinking maybe two fishing poles and two tackle boxes would be better. One set for me, and one for the kid. "Oh, Grump-Pa, you have a fishing pole for me, too? And a tackle box full of fishing lures so we can go fishing? That's great! You'd be my favorite grandpa if it wasn't for one thing. Where's your boat? My favorite grandpa has a boat, and he takes me fishing in it all the time." Well, I know this is asking for the moon, but I don't suppose you'd be so kind as to maybe bring me a boat along with those lures? It doesn't have to be a big one – maybe just a canoe. Or maybe one of those blowup kinds. I don't know, just something that will put me in the good graces of my future little ungrateful "I Want To Go Fishing With My Favorite Grandpa, And You're Not It" grandson. And if you do bring me a boat, it probably goes without saying that I'll also need a depth finder as well as a trolling motor. I don't want to fish on the water all day with the little brat and not catch anything, and I'll need that motor to get me back on shore lickety-split when he starts piping up about how his "Favorite Grandpa" always knows where the fish are. On second thought Santa, don't bring me anything. All this talk about grandkids has put me out of the Christmas spirit. In fact, the only thing that could perk me up now is a brand new 52-inch plasma high definition television with surround sound and a yearly subscription to the NASCAR Channel. And I promise I only need one! # # # Thank you for reading "Never Trust a Goat." Tracy Farr is a writer, teacher, friend of goats, a banjo player, and school bus driver. Please visit Tracy Farr at his following websites: http://www.stinkycreektexas.com http://www.busno6.com http://www.tracyfarr.net You can also follow Tracy at http://twitter.com/tracyfarr
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Sinus Rinse
I will preface this by saying that I have had hayfever/allergies all of my life and was diagnosed with asthma about 5 years ago. I have a couple of inhalers, but I just hate the idea of being dependent on them, especially because one of them is a steroid based inhaler. On the other hand, I really enjoy breathing, LOL.
You can stop reading here if you don't want to talk about yucky stuff (my friends and family think it's yucky).
A couple of weeks ago I got an ad in the mail from a new store in our area called Elephant Pharm. Something called a Neti Pot caught my eye and caused me to do a little web search. Apparently it's not something new, but centuries old, but I had never heard about it. Kind of looks like a little teapot and holds about 8 ounces of water (you add salt to the water). I even found a demonstration on YouTube.
The idea is that your sinuses are a filter for the air you breathe and lots of yucky stuff ends up in them. You lean forward over the sink and warm salt water is poured into one nostril, circulates through your sinuses and exits the other nostril, clearing them of dust, pollen and bacteria. I convinced myself that I wanted to give this a try and found one at a local drugstore. But right next to the Neti Pots were another type of sinus rinse using a squeeze bottle. I ended up buying that one. I've made it a part of my morning routine I am amazed at the difference I feel.
I'm wondering how this has been around for so long and I never heard of it. Have any of you heard of sinus rinsing? Do any of you do it?
I used a similar contraption that my allergist gave me to help clear me out. I've got to be the only person that has had a bad side effect from using it. About two weeks after daily use, I developed the worst sinus infection of my life. I think the contraption actually caused the bacteria/virus to spread to areas of my sinus cavity that normally would have been spared. For me, it didn't clean out the bacteria just spread it around at least that's what I think happened. I get sinus infections with face pain often, but I have never been in so much sinus/face pain in my life. I woke up in tears and wanted to rip my face off. Obviously, it could have been just one heck of a coincidence... but I have never gone back to using it.
I've been doing nasal irrigation for about eight years. For me, it works better than any pill or decongestant spray, and I no longer use them. When I do need to spray, I just use a saline spray. Washing all that garbage and bacteria from my sinuses relieves the pressure and lets me heal much faster.
I don't have a Neti Pot, I just snort up the solution from a spoon. I've got a couple of those sinus rinse kits, but haven't tried them yet.
Oprah just had a show where a doctor(?) explained them. They had a person from the audience demonstrate the use over a bucket while we all watched. (Eeeeew.)
Supposedly if one does the netti pot daily you can stop taking all the meds for allergies and sinus problems.
I would be afraid to try one, and worried about just what Carla35 said happened to her.
Supposedly using a netti pot is a daily routine in some counties just like brushing and flossing.
I bought something similiar several years ago, called a nasal douche. I have stuffiness/allergies all the time and will get terrible sinus headaches. You have to get used to using it, not tip your head back as the directions say but to the side and slightly back as the person did on Oprah. I don't use mine all the time but when I feel the tenderness or have a headache that won't go away with one Tyneol, I use it for a few days and it does help.
You have to be careful - the concentration of salt in the water is important. If you don't use enough or any then you dry out your nasal passages and you can end up with another infection. Too much and it burns really bad when you use it.
I think it is a useful product when done right. I have seen the kits and that is now what my allergy doctor recommends since it has the correct % of salt, but they are expensive to my thinking.
Carla - maybe you did push your infection back up further. Did you hold you head back or to the side.

subset: commoncrawl