Of Cabbages and Kings

Of Words, Birds and Bathwater -or- Is Print Really Dead?

2010-02-08T08:31:00.009-05:00

With the Kindle, and now the introduction of the unfortunately-named iPad--

(a moniker which was supposed to call to mind a user-friendly suite of products. But which instead sounds like it should involve commercials where two women walk in a sunny field and speak confidentially about monthly discomfort)...

--Er, where was I?

Oh. Yes.... With the introduction of the Kindle and iPad, our friend the Paper Book might be viewed as having taken a hit.

But ever since ancient Egyptian best-selling authors said, "Hey, I've still got two more chapters to write and I've run completely out of wallspace. I'm feeling optimistic about that pile of dried fronds over there," the printed word has shown its ability to evolve.

Wholly-Accurate and Completely Trustworthy History of the Printed Word To-Date

Dawn of Time, noonish- First dirty limerick on cave wall well-received by early fans. Critics, however, dub it "the work of Neanderthals."

3800 BC- Ancient Sumerians develop increasingly more elaborate pictograms, these featuring familiar images of birds, bare feet, sheaves, and a man in a bowler hat with an apple in front of his face. The hieroglyphics were originally used to share religious rituals, and to pass down favorite beer recipes. Old Mesopotamia, Old Mesopotamia Lite, Pain in the Asp and Golden Sarcophagus were top award winners at the 3787 BC "Pharaoh of the Brew" competition.

3200 BC- Ancient Egyptians realize tombs are not terribly portable, growing tired of forcing slaves to roll the tomb from place to place using clever pulley and lever systems every time they want to share sports scores and the livestock market. Egyptians develop new fad of writing directly on barges and slaves.

2800 BC- Writing on stone tablets invented after space on slaves becomes limited. These tablets are portable, but heavy and prone to damage.

200 AD- Chinese win the race as Word Superpower, inventing inkblock printing on fabric two seconds before the Egyptians. Japanese adapt the technique for mass producing colorful images of big-eyed young girls in schoolgirl uniforms and brandishing superpowers.

400 AD- European monks use pulp paper to craft elaborate illuminated manuscripts with the forethought of displaying them in the British Library 1500 years later, along with Beatles lyrics on cocktail napkins.

1824 AD- Industrial revolution makes mass printing possible, creating a whole print industry including publishing houses, editors, and slush pile readers hired specifically to reject Charles Dickens' work.

1836 AD- Charles Dickens invents self-publishing. And cliffhangers.

2005 AD- Self-publishing meets the information age, allowing everyone, including your great-aunt who smells like mothballs to finally share her 1,000 page collection of incisive cat haiku.

2010 AD- iPad and Kindle demonstrate that they can go where the printed page has never gone before.... Except for the bathtub.

So as you can see, print is designed to evolve and adapt. And as human society, we must adapt with it.

Why, now that we've created a hard tablet with words printed on it, which is heavy and prone to damage, where will we go next?

My theory is we're probably just one step away from having the very walls of our homes used as a surface to receive and view all important information...

We'll learn eventually.
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Humorbloggers

Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome

2010-02-05T07:30:00.001-05:00

Heavy snow accumulation. The words escape the weatherman's lips. It reaches the ear. It travels to the brain.

And it triggers a jittery, uncontrollable need for bread and milk.

Why, even if we're so lactose intolerant we'd get irritable bowel from one lonely Milk Dud....

Even if we're Living La Vida Gluten-Free...

...We Pittsburghers still grab the keys, revv up the car and roar to the closest Giant Eagle supermarket to stock up for three months of total geographic isolation, by buying things that mold and spoil if you look at them the wrong way.

It's tradition.

So, I go to the store and, in an attempt to strike a note of stoic individuality, I buy hamburger buns and coffee creamer.

"These are not milk and bread. They are non-dairy creamer and sandwich fixin's," my shopping basket proclaims proudly. "Judge not, lest thine Wonderbread and Colteryahn 2% be judged."

And, well, while I'm there at the store, I decide I'd better just pick up some more toilet paper, too. Because what if I suddenly develop dysentery during my seclusion? Or... or... scurvy? (Does scurvy involve intestinal issues? No time to look it up, but why take chances?)

Why, I'd be forced to use... I don't know... sheets from the Pennysaver!

And not only would that clog up my drains, but the print would transfer itself in ways I'd prefer to not think about. There are just certain places on the body that do not need ads for purebred pitbull puppies decorating them.

So with toilet paper in tow, I realize I might want also to cook myself a nice hearty breakfast before digging out. To give myself the superhuman energy to move the artic ice caps that undoubtedly will be moving into my neighborhood.

And so I'll need eggs...

And bacon...

And, well, if I want toast, maybe I'll need that loaf of whole grain wheat after all...

I stack it in the basket with a furtive gaze, and in an instant, I feel a flash of chilled hands and frozen toes.

Dear God! Post-shoveling I'll want a cup of tea. Do I have tea in the house?

And in spite of some sense that there's actually stack of tea in the pantry so towering that Earl Grey himself would say "pip-pip" to it, I secure another box. Safety tea, really.

So by the time I've done, my basket is a low-rider and my 12-items-or-less has somehow transformed into the fully-stocked freezer of the Overlook Hotel.

And I can see, by the bulging grocery bags of my fellow shoppers, that I am not the only one. This behavior really needs itself a name. And I'd like to suggest "Snow Day Donner Party Overcompensation Syndrome."

I suspect it's borne of some innate fear that one day, lack of preparation and an Apocalyptic dose of Mother Nature will mean we'd be force to dine on... oh... Grandpa Al to survive.

We know deep down that even if we made it through the crisis ourselves, the post-dinner guilt of noshing on beloved relatives would kill us.

Plus, Grandpa Al is a little stringy.

It's just safer to buy the bread and milk.

____________________________

Question of the day: In your area, do you see the bread aisle pretty much cleaned out at the first sign of flurries? And are you one of those snowstorm stocker-uppers?

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Humorbloggers.com

Second Childhood with Hoveround Commercial

2010-02-03T07:30:00.001-05:00

Every time I watch the Hoveround ad-- where seniors in power chairs ride around in formation to pseudo-Beach Boys music-- it takes me back.

Back, y'know, to when I was an octogenarian with a hip fracture, and the only way to keep myself in pudding cups and hair bluing was to hit the highways on my mean, lean, geriatric machine.

(I'm like Merlin, you see. I live life backwards. I should be thin, pert, and getting my braces off in just a couple of decades.)

.....

.....

Okay, so... no.

But it does take me back! Back to my childhood in the 7os...

I see the Hoveround commercial, and it's like the smell of fresh Play-Doh suddenly gets ground into my ol-factory senses, instead of the carpeting where it belongs...

And in the back of my mind--

--The only place unaffected by the fumes of those plastic rainbow-colored bubbles we used to squeeze from a tube and blow into shapes with a straw (remember those? the chemicals from that stuff could peel your Kool-Aid mustache clean off)--

In the back of that fume-addled mind, I find myself recalling ads for Big Wheels... Power Wheels... and Sit 'n' Spins.

I can't track it down online to verify, but I swear the Sit 'n' Spin jingle sounded a lot like the Hoveround song:

"Some kids go when they Sit 'n' Spin..."

"I go, go, go on my Hoveround..."

As the word "go" in these examples can indicate both "speed" or "incontinence" equally well for either demographic, I think there might just be something to the comparison.

Something subliminal... Something saying, "Buy this for the senior you love and maybe he'll let you borrow it for some sweet jumps."

Of course, it could just be those fumes again.

So before I leave you today, I treat you to two little blasts from the past-- a 70s Big Wheel ad, and a commercial for the fun... the fumey... Super & Elastic Bubble Plastic:

PS-- If the next Hoveround ads show Grandma, Grandpa and Great-Uncle Pete doing spin-outs, popping wheelies, and jumping ramps in the bingo parlor parking lot, just remember-- you heard about it here first, folks!

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Humorbloggers

Kickin' It at the Kit-Kat Club

2010-02-01T07:35:00.007-05:00

(Flash!... Flash, flash!)

I peered over my computer monitor into the yard diagonal from mine.

One cat. (Flash!) Two cats. (Flash, flash!) Three cats. (Flash!) Five.

The flickering illumination revealed the truth of the matter. Backyard motion sensor + city's entire cat populace = kickin' disco strobe light effect and the hottest feline nightclub Pittsburgh has seen in decades.

The neighbors-- and more to the point, the neighbors' large dog-- haven't been home because their house is being renovated. Windows are ripped out. French doors sit waiting. And a deck is being built onto the back...

(Flash, flash!... "Pump up the jam, pump it up...")

...So the Kit-Kat Club All-Nite Rave Party's moved in.

It's a building site theme, natch. Lots of posts and planks for the go-go girls to perch on and shake their tails. And plenty of nooks and crannies for swingin' singles to cat around in.
Far as I can tell, the big yellow tomcat acts as bouncer. Yessir, the fur really flies if you can't pay the cover charge-- and at two mice a pop, he's raking it in.

Plus, they've got some pretty diverse musical acts going on there. Some rising star a cappella boy bands... Some three-part-harmony girl groups...

And then there's the grey-and-white wannabe out there in the zoot suit singing "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby?" along with bass accompaniment. No one's told him the neo-Swing movement died out in the 90s. But hey, he's persistent. Who knows-- maybe with his help, it'll have nine lives, too.

But I could swear I heard him out there practicing Brian Setzer's "Stray Cat Strut."

So now I'm wondering what's going to happen when the construction is done and the neighbors and their dog move back in.

These folks are going to come back to find rancid cartons of kahlua and cream... hairballs swaying gently in the breeze... and catnip bongs under the hedge. They're going to want to use their deck, but every time they barbeque there's going to be this vague scent of urine, upchucked Friskies and stale mice.

And what of the the Kit-Kat Club's patrons? Well, with Fido back in town, they'll have to relocate. Yes, somewhere in the city, alone in the moonlight, they'll smile at the old days; it was beautiful then.

Well, maybe they'll can find themselves a nice junkyard, low on rent, and high on acoustics where they can give the Kit-Kat Club some new life.

And if not... hey... at least they'll have memories.

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Humorbloggers

Dr. Slaw: the Google Search Phrase Psychologist

2010-01-29T07:45:00.005-05:00

Looking through the Google search terms that reach this blog is a little like rooting out the public's deeply buried desires and shivering, jagged fears. Ones that have otherwise shied from the light of day.

It's the place where the people of Webland feel safe and free to search for answers in their most starkly insecure moments...

Some of them not even involving poop, women licking things, or the Jonas Brothers.

Scanning these terms, our blog mascot, Old King Cole Slaw, indicated he felt he could help many of these poor, lost individuals.

Apparently, in between representing Of Cabbages and Kings, he has been slaving away to get his Psychology doctorate from the SFIHHSF. That is-- Steve Freud's International House of Head Shrinking and Flapjacks.

His last assignment involved creating his own inkblot charts using filo dough and jam. I have to say, they were delicious.

And since we are about nothing more than helping and guiding here and spreading vast amounts of misinformation -- I have asked our leafy-green brain expert to examine some of the searches that reached Cabbages this last week, and give his professional opinion. I'm terribly excited about it!

So without further ado-- I bring you Dr. Slaw and our real-life Google search visitor patients:

"What famous dead person would hang out with me? quiz"
Dr. Slaw: You are looking for love in all the wrong places. Clinging to fame and expecting it to rub off on you is not the answer. Celebrity is fleeting. If you are looking for friends, finding famous dead people to share the good times with you is highly unrealistic and possibly delusional.

I recommend digging up some long-dead relatives and trying to work things out with them first. There is less hired security to overcome, for one. And once you gain confidence in dealing with them, then you might feel secure enough to move on to department store mannequins, Furbies, and drunk Steelers fans enjoying the "I love you man" phase of their buzz.

"Murder by Slap Chop"
Dr. Slaw: Murder by Slap Chop is never the way to effectively work out your problems. First of all, you would have to cut the body into very, very tiny pieces in order to get it into the Slap Chop, making double the work for yourself.

Secondly, a consumer group test on KDKA showed that the Slap Chop plastic guard can actually break apart, leaving tiny plastic shards in the item you're chopping. So even if you could Slap Chop someone to death, this would give any forensics experts a clear clue to the weapon used. I would not recommend it. Stick to arsenic, if you must; it's a classic.

"Clichés wrecking people's vocabulary"
Dr. Slaw: Why are you fixated on this? First of all, I don't believe this is true. But secondly, remember, every time you point a finger at someone else, there are three fingers pointing back at you. There is no 'I' in 'team'. And it's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game. You have to love yourself before you can love others. Now, move along sonny, you bother me.

"Does tony the tiger live in shepherd"
Dr. Slaw: You, my friend, seem to have trouble separating fiction from reality. You are unable to see how your delusions and your wish-fullfillment are affecting your perceptions, and this is bound to bring you disappointment. Let me explain this to you: Shepherd exists only in your mind. There is no Shepherd. Once you can come to grips with that, you will be better able to enjoy life.

"Which parts of the cabbage do the clones come from?"
Dr. Slaw: Er... I believe these are not cabbages you are seeing; they're Brussels Sprouts.... Yeah, that's it. Brussels Sprouts. But -- (ahem)-- enough about me, let's talk about you. How much do you know about the cabbage clone invasion and where did you hear about—

Oh, I'm so sorry, Dr. Slaw, that's all the time we have. Thank you so much for your fine work today. I wish you the best of luck with your second career. I believe you've helped the Internet become a more mentally healthy place, one Google searcher at a time.

And really, this wouldn't be the first time a vegetable gave psychological advice. I mean, I've seen clips of Dr. Phil.

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Humorbloggers

Black Spike Heels and a Red Sombrero

2010-01-27T07:34:00.007-05:00

I slapped "Sombrero Guy" down on the table. But then she raised me one ""Hallelujah Lady."

This is a running joke I have with my hairstylist. I work in a very off-beat, bohemian part of town. Her salon is in the mall. There is much Fascinating Humanity in each. And every visit, we routinely swap tales of real-life characters we've encountered like cards in a rummy game.

Our office receptionist keeps me looped in to our local interest. Her clear view of the city sidewalk is a little like being in one of those mini-subs which explores the dark, little-charted depths of the ocean. She's constantly encountering all sorts of amazing new species.

Some with fins and frills to lure in unsuspecting prey...

Some with remarkable communication capabilities and elaborate self-defense rituals...

Some unexpectedly excreting bodily fluids back into the environment...

And others showcasing intriguing mating approaches.

Some are also completely off their nut.

"Sombrero Guy is here! Sombrero Guy is here!" This was my receptionist friend through the inner-office phone. Sombrero Guy's reputation preceded him. I knew the tales, but had not witnessed his self-expressive styling for myself. I ran the two flights downstairs.

By the time I got there, I could just make out a slim figure in the distance. A stringy, knobby man, in denim mens' acid-washed Bermuda shorts, a rumpled t-shirt, a giant red sombrero...

And teetering in shiny black stilettos.

It made a statement.

Mostly, we think the statement is, "I get dressed while very, very strung out."

The "Hallelujah Lady," on the other hand, comes to walk around the mall in the mornings accompanied by her constant exercise buddy, Jesus Christ.

Now, I have heard people say the phrase, "I walk with the Lord." But up until now, I wasn't aware that it actually involved laps and a pedometer.

Anyway, maybe it's from feeling the burn, the freedom from those extra calories, the endorphins, or maybe the Son of God is an even tougher motivator than personal trainer Jillian Michaels...

But not long into her circuit of the mall, the Hallelujah Lady will be out there, praising Jesus, waving her arms (burning off even more calories) and her shouts of joy echo off the store fronts and through the food court.

People turn and stare. The hairstylists all peer out to watch. And the Hallelujah Lady carries on, undeterred, exercising-- or perhaps exorcising-- both Body and Soul.

Well, I do realize that for her sheer enthusiasm, Hallelujah Lady is going to be an awfully tough one to beat for my next hair appointment. But I have hope. Recent coworker witnesses have documented sightings of a new local lifeform...

A guy who commutes on a uni-cycle during rush-hour while playing guitar.

We've thought a lot about this, internally. And the best we can determine is that clearly, he needs the guitar, given unicycles do not, in fact, have a sound-system built in.

And a boring old iPod, well... it just wouldn't have the same atmosphere, would it?

Hats off to that! Or, well... sombreros, if you've got 'em.
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Humorbloggers

WWMD: What Would MacGyver Do?

2010-01-25T07:38:00.012-05:00

Technical whiz. Humanitarian. Mediator. Mullet fashionista... In the 1980s, MacGyver was many a teenaged girl's Renaissance Man.

At least, among my circle of friends.

I was reminded of this recently, as conversation with some of these same friends-- recently reconnected due to the Seven Degrees of Separation Known As Facebook Stalking-- drifted back to the Swiss-Army superman we'd loved so well.

It was really only a matter of time.

MacGyver had absolutely topped our list of 80s heroes. Michael Knight of Knight Rider wasn't bad, but somehow deep-down we knew any guy who'd wear a black leather Member's Only jacket every single day, and whose best friend was his car, was just not relationship material.

I'd had a mysterious crush on Mike Nesmith of the Monkees-- the sarcasm, southern accent, sideburns and green wool hat was an acquired taste, I'll admit.

Harrison Ford was a particular favorite, too-- at least once I overcame the Kid-Brain Observational Barrier that prevented me from realizing Han Solo and Indiana Jones were actually played by the same person. (I don't exactly recall why it took me so long to figure this out. I can only say it was the same inconsistent value-assessment issue that caused me to think that Roddy McDowall was the Greatest Actor Ever because he played Cornelius in the Planet of the Apes films. I couldn't understand why he wasn't earning Oscars for this.)

And Johnny Depp as Tom Hanson of 21 Jump Street was a perennial on that list, prized not just because of his innate Depp-ness, but because that show was actually preachy enough it got my mom's Stamp of Approval.

But MacGyver.... Among my friends and I, MacGyver was a unifier. Someone we could all agree on.

Discussions around the lunch table covered all the normal drool-drenched fluff that hormonally-charged teenaged girls would dwell on. But inevitably, we would linger on MacGyver's impressive problem solving skills.

Yes, while boys would debate who would win in a fight, Superman or Batman, we would evaluate how our favorite TV hunks would get out of various jams.

"Who would be able to break out of prison first, Michael Knight or MacGyver?"

"Michael Knight would just call K.I.T.T. who would roll through the brick wall and bust him out."

"Yeah, but then the cops would know he broke out and be looking for him right away. MacGyver would weave his paper napkin from his meals into a super-tight string, and use it to either get the keys to his cell, or fashion it into an elaborate pulley-winch system, which used physics to bend the bars enough for him to get through."

(Science class was always disappointing to us, and I blame MacGyver. We never did cover making a bomb out of chewing gum, a can of baked beans, an aerosol hairspray can and a lighter. He set an example our teachers couldn't hope to live up to.)

In fact, no one quite compared. The A-Team members needed the whole team, a blowtorch and large plates of metal that happened to be lying around once a week, 15 minutes from the end of every program.

Magnum P.I. had personal connections.

Remington Steele had luck and Laura.

The Six-Million-Dollar Man had superpowers and a price tag.

Yes, when compared side-by-side to our other heroes, it seemed MacGyver was the only one who could get by entirely on his own innate wit and mechanical skill.

If we were stuck on a deserted island with only one TV leading man, we all agreed, you couldn't do much better than being stranded with MacGyver.

Plus, he's the only character from my youth that's had the distinction of becoming a verb.

Note: this post is dedicated to my high school lunch table friends, and was MacGyvered together from Grape Fruit Roll-Ups, duct tape, Superglue and a lot of coffee.

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Humorbloggers

Shiny New Groups for Irrational Loathing

2010-01-22T07:41:00.009-05:00

I don't know whether it's the crappy economy... the unemployment rate... the natural disasters... or the fact Tom DeLay dropped out of Dancing with the Stars. But lately, doesn't it seem like people are just looking for someone, anyone, to take the brunt of the blame for life's ailments?

Read the user comments on any news story, pop by any forum, and you'll see an outpouring of Advanced Scapegoatism and undiffused public rage. Yes, this is where race, government, political parties, sexual orientation, religion, atheism, sports, uppity weather, inconvenient fault lines and-- as I learned yesterday-- we women who are apparently too stupid to be allowed to drive because we cause men to speed, run red lights, and drive recklessly (we are so kooky that way)-- all get a nice thrashing.

Basically, the idea translates to "anyone who's not me sucks fish eyeballs."

So I was thinking this morning, the problem is, we're rapidly running out of folks who already haven't been bashed into throbbing bruised masses. It's getting cliche. Yep, we need to spread the irrational loathing around a little. Show our versatility. Why, there are whole obscure groups who haven't gotten theirs yet!

Why should we limit ourselves?

So I have some suggestions for those of us who need to project, deflect, and let off a little steam.

Flat-pack Furniture Manufacturers. Feel the country is falling apart? Well, it's probably because of a poorly die-cut cam-hole, and a loose cam-screw due to those irresponsible, corner-cutting, pre-drilled-hole-missing, flat-pack furniture manufacturers. Those furniture manufacturers are so smug, laughing all the way to the bank as they give us instructions in ancient Babylonian along with diagrams with all parts marked " Q." This is why our economy fell apart, I bet. Not because so much of this furniture isn't made in America, but because it's held together with wooden pegs in peg-holes twice their size.

Department Store Mannequins. The conceited bastards. They stand around all day expecting us to fawn over them when what are they-- pressed wood and a little paint? They're taking away the jobs that real people could be doing, because we wouldn't complain at all at standing 24-hours-a-day with our hips jutting out a foot before the rest of our bodies. And plus, they set a completely unrealistic example for us about what we're supposed to look like. We would all have perfect hair if we could wear wigs. Our makeup would never run if it were painted on. And the clothes-- don't even get me started on the clothes! All our clothes would fit perfectly if we walked around with them pinned in the back to give a more slimming, fitted appearance. They must be stopped.

Images that Come in Photo Frames. The artistically-shot Wonder of the World... The smiling, loving couple... The beautiful flawless family where the kids haven't cut their own bangs and the dog doesn't have gas. Yes you, Photo Frame Images, set a standard of camaraderie and elitist taste that conflicts with the viewpoint of millions of Americans. You need to bring it down to earth. Why don't you show us a black-and-white photo of that abandoned meth lab down the street, or the new county courthouse they just built downtown? Now that's Real Art. Why don't you show Carl and Myrna grinning, fresh from the WalMart dentist? Why do you insist on shoving these unrealistic representations of life we're never going to see and wouldn't want to, even if we won the lottery and not just because Stan here isn't allowed to fly because he accidentally got himself a file at the FBI for that small bomb threat joke he called into the Rent-a-Center last year so he could have the day off?

Goats. They're eating up all of our resources. For instance, tin cans that could be recycled instead end up in the gullet of a four-stomached beast that expects us to cater to its needs. Not only that, as the blogger of Nanny Goats in Panties will attest, they're taking over our media. A recent post on her site proves, innocent people are just trying to get news and entertainment from blogs like hers, when suddenly they are, out of the blue, with no warning whatsoever except for a blog title called Nanny Goats in Panties and a header filled with goats, showing us not the hard information and non-goat-related laughs we demand. But the occasional funny goat picture. It's mind control, I tell you! They should, at the very least, have warnings like peanuts packets that bear the words "May Contain Peanuts." Live goat-free or die!

Well, these are just a few of the groups that I think safely have it coming. But, of course, you all are free to come up with your own groups that are blissfully going about their own business but are just asking for a good needling.

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Humorbloggers

The Land of Lost Ideas

2010-01-20T07:31:00.017-05:00

The idea was there, then gone. Somewhere between "Hey, that would make a good a blog post" and "Oooh, look! The coffee's done! Slurp!" the idea had just enough time to make a clean getaway.

Which got me wondering, exactly where do these ideas go when they vanish like that?

Well, extensive in-depth research— okay, maybe five seconds on Google, though with some really canny search-term jockeying— revealed the truth, which I will share with you today.

Forgotten ideas go to Evernon.

Evernon, for those who don't have a map handy, is not in any specific spot, really, but it's located just a little to the left of everywhere. You can get there by grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil and then drawing a blank. But that's actually a lot harder than it looks.

You can also get there via a few known portals.

A popular portal to Evernon is located along the Washington DC. beltway. Who doesn't know someone who's gotten lost there at one point or another-- only to find themselves suddenly, mysteriously, intersecting the turn-off they need with no real idea of where they went wrong, or how they got back on track?

Another path to Evernon lies in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, connected to Old Babcock Road, New Babcock Road, North Babcock Boulevard, Babcock the Middle, and Formerly Known as a Babcock but Now Call Me "Jeff" Lane.

If you have an area in your hometown where you inevitably get turned around, disoriented and lost, that is very likely an on-ramp to Evernon.

Now you know.

Evernon contains a number of different towns and it is the place where all missing things go.

In these rolling hills, dales, valleys and laundromats, you will find all of those AWOL socks from your laundry basket.

You might discover that pen you were sure you had in your pocket but which seemed to have vanished into thin air.

You'll find all the calories manufacturers remove from foodstuffs in order to make them "Light," "Fit," or "Fat-Free."

You'll find sections containing those hours you lost during that particularly good party...

The hair you recall having but which seems to have vacated for more fertile pastures...

And the weight you worked off with that special all-pimiento diet last year.

As evidenced by that last point-- and your regained 10 pounds-- the portal to the areas around Evernon is, in-fact, two-way.

So, I still have hope that my lost idea may come back to me someday. In the meantime, I seem to have misplaced my post ending, but I did find a lost sock.

Ah, well. It doesn't pay to get greedy.

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Humorbloggers
Humor-blogs

Gross Hunters- Ghost Hunters Tribute Parody

2010-01-17T11:30:00.003-05:00

Gross Hunters follows the work of C.R.A.P.s (the Crud and Residue Analysis Partnership), a team of parapsychologists-by-day and amateur public health inspectors-by-night.

Their mission? To search for concrete evidence of the filthiest hotels and grossest historic landmarks in the country.

Meet C.R.A.P.s co-founder, Jayden Baldgai:

(Note: NOT a lifelike photo of Knuckleheadhumor's blog host, "Mr. Knucklehead," though resemblance is eerie)

JAYDEN: "Here we are at Le Chateau D'Isasteur, rumored to be New Orleans' most disgusting hotel. Guests claim a child-sized cockroach roams these halls at night.

"Others say a terrifying face appears in the bathroom mirrors, made completely of toothpaste residue and spit. It's our job to disprove it before the Board of Health sweeps in and closes 'em down. We'll see what we find."

Joining Jayden on this night's C.R.A.P.s investigation is:

Graham Friggen- C.R.A.P.s Co-Founder...

Afraid-of-Everything-But-Bugs-Vermin-and-Dirt Dude -- Tech Manager

Overly-Excitable Guy -- Comic Relief/Equipment Misplacer/ScapeGoat

And Random-Trainee-Chick-We'll-Never-See-Again-But-Wearing-a-Tank-Top -- Eye Candy

We join the C.R.A.P.s team at Chateau D'Isasteur, after a lengthy roadtrip involving witty banter and strategically-filmed bickering.

GRAHAM: "Okay, here we are in room 237, where witnesses claim they've seen the giant cockroach.

"Also, one guest said she was trying to sleep in here when she felt a cold spot. She looked down and realized the bedspread was so filthy, it was actually trying to crawl off the bed.

"So we're going to use our heat sensors and motion detectors tonight and see if we can recreate that."

CUT TO: critical evidence-gathering sequence involving:

Grainy, jostling footage
Cast members saying "Dude, did you hear that?" 47 times
Tense soundtrack music coincidentally blocking out what the cast just heard
Cameras swinging the opposite direction of what the main cast seems to be seeing
And something triggering the motion detectors, which initially seems like a giant cockroach but turns out to be Overly-Excitable Guy helping himself to the mini-bar.

After last night's thrilling recording session, C.R.A.P.s leave the site and Dude and Guy review the collected footage.

GUY (gasps, points to the screen with shaky finger): "Dude, what's that?!"

DUDE (yawns disinterestedly): "Ghost."

GUY (trembling with excitement): "Dude, over there, isn't that--?!"

DUDE (nibbles a fingernail): "Free-roaming, full-torso, vaporous apparition...

"Didn't Jayden tell you to stop wasting his time with those when we're on a public health job, man? Save it for the day job, would ya? You'll just piss him off."

GUY: "Dude, but look, what the hell is that?"

DUDE (leaps up, almost knocks over chair): "Whoa! Now that Jayden and Graham are gonna wanna see!"

CUT TO: Jayden, Graham, Dude and Guy as they gather around the high-tech equipment in preparation for the Reveal:

DUDE (pointing at the computer monitor): "Now here, we have just a bunch of orbs, which indicate electrical energy that could be, you know, conclusive evidence of paranormal activity, blah, blah, blah...

"And here's that unexplained apparition I was telling you about with the fangs that tried to eat Guy. But here's what I really wanted to show you..."

JAYDEN: "Look at all those dust particles and bugs that initially appear like giant circles photoshopped into the footage! This is terrific, Guy... Dude. Great job! We have something really awesome to show the client."

Celebratory manly fist-bumping occurs following a fine Gross Hunters tradition.

GUY: "We also have an EVP for you to listen to."

GRAHAM: "Electronic Vacuuming Phenomena?"

GUY: "Yeah, this was when the maid was in the room working. Take a listen."

A deep, spine-chilling male voice emanates from the recorder over the vacuuming sound:

"I will swallow your soullllllllll."

GUY: "Hear those clicks under the horrifying otherworldly voice that just made me wet myself? Yeah, those clicks mean that that vacuum the maid is using just doesn't have enough suction...

"In a room of that size, with as much test debris as we put down there, man, you should be hearing a lot more grit and grime rattling through that tube."

JAYDEN (nods): "This house is unclean."

Cut to Jayden and Graham with the owner of Chateau D'Isasteur, Mr. Jethro Tully.

JAYDEN: "While we didn't catch footage of the cockroach, the toothpaste face, or the moving bedspread guests were talking about, we did test and find a dresser which actually turned out to be made entirely of dust and pea-soup vomit...

"It also looks like your maid needs a new vacuum cleaner, that one is clogged...

"Oh, and by the way, it seems the entire place is completely haunted with malevolent spirits who want to destroy you...

"But, anyway, you're gonna want to get that vomit dresser out of there before the actual board of health shows up."

MR. TULLY (looking grateful and shaking their hands): "Thank you, C.R.A.P.s, for giving me the chance to fix the problems here and continue my business."

Cut to Jayden and Graham in the C.R.A.P.s van, driving back home.

GRAHAM: "Well, I think we really helped Mr. Tully out this weekend. Hey, while I think of it, where's Guy? I didn't see him get in the other van with Dude."

JAYDEN: "He got eaten by the thing in 237 when he was packing up the equipment."

GRAHAM:" Oh. That kinda sucks. I hope they moved out that vomit dresser first."

JAYDEN: "Yeah, they did, it's cool."

GRAHAM (nods): "Where to next?"

JAYDEN: "Where-ever the voiceover narrator they splice in later tells us."

VOICEOVER NARRATOR SPLICED IN LATER: "Next week on Gross Hunters, Jayden, Graham and the C.R.A.P.s team scour the famous House of Mud tourist attraction and see if lives up to its name...

"And Jayden and Graham get a surprise phonecall from New Orleans. Has Guy been regurgitated by the thing in 237 along with a second vomit dresser? Will he ever officially be off the C.R.A.P.s team?..

"Find out all the dirt, on the next breath-taking episode of Gross Hunters!"

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Duel Two: Trucker Granny's Revenge

2010-01-15T07:30:00.001-05:00

The old lady crept along the analgesics aisle with her shopping cart like the lead villain in a mummy movie.

And not one of those sleek, hyper-drive new CGI mummies, either. Oh no, we're talking Old School, plodding, 2-miles-an-hour, long-deceased, vengeful yet been-around-the-block-enough-they're-waiting-for-you-to-fall-and-break-an-ankle, pharaoh-type mummies here.

The ones who'll off you when they're good and ready.

I thought nothing of it at the time.

I assumed her, quite wrongly, to be just your average elderly lady. The kind with bladder control concerns. And gout. And arthritis from knitting her cats legwarmers.

And then I made the mistake that would cost me.

I had five minutes before I needed to be back at work. And I ducked around her.

Well...

Have you ever seen Spielberg's Duel with Dennis Weaver?

Dennis Weaver is a businessman driving on a desolate Western road. He needs to get to a meeting quickly. So he passes this slow-moving, large, mud-spattered gasoline truck-- just one simple action, something that happens a million times on the roads every day.

Unfortunately, the driver is two gears short of a well-wired gearbox.

And because of this single pass... this simple gesture... this one moment in time he cannot take back... that unseen driver begins a relentless mission to eliminate Dennis Weaver from America's roadways and make him go "splat."

I'm telling you all this because I suspect Duel was actually based on a real-life story, and that this old lady was actually the driver of that truck.

I don't know whether it was the speed with which I went around her. Or a snotty clack of my plastic shopping basket. Or an impertinent squeak of my shoes on the grocery store floor.

But this old lady let me get ahead of her in the aisle just enough for a false sense of security. And that's when she changed-- shedding her Sweet, Grandmotherly, Octogenarian Disguise and transforming into Trucker Granny from Hell.

Yes, I had no sooner headed on my way, and began to think about things back at the office, when the old woman put on an astounding, rattling burst of speed, plowed the shopping cart forward and...

Rammed it hard into the back of me, catching the ol' Achilles heel and the less firm parts of my nether-regions.

The cart clanked and jarred. I tripped forward, catching myself. Fellow shoppers witnessed, wide-eyed.

And I have to tell you, it was at that moment, there was a part of me that was really impressed-- though not necessarily my ankle tendon which was throbbing a bossanova of pain.

I mean, not often do you underestimate someone so thoroughly as to have your impression proven completely and utterly wrong-- and with physical assault, no less.

And when I turned to look at her and said a pointed, "Hey!" (a brilliant comeback considering the surprise circumstances), Granny had transformed once more. Only now she had become also blind and deaf.

She could not hear my indignant, "Hey."

She could not see me before her. She just smiled smugly, steadfastly refusing to meet my gaze.

The turbo which she had relied on only moments before had burnt out, but she was storing up... for later I think.

Yes, Trucker Granny had earned a notch on her shopping cart handlebar.

She had made a glorious shining statement against the pushy, uppity young'ns of the world. She had taken a stand for batty, damn-well-gonna-do-what-I-please seniors everywhere.

I imagine I wasn't her first victim.

And I'm willing to bet, I was not the last.

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Will Paint for Food

2010-01-13T07:28:00.020-05:00

I popped into a Starving Artist art sale over the weekend-- y'know, just to keep my finger on the pulse of the Undernourished Illustrator niche-- and I came to realize something very exciting:

I could starve, too!

Yes, indeed, I believe I have finally found a potential market for my beloved painting hobby! Like my still-lifes of four rose heads and three stems...

My wonky shadowing, my trite and unnaturally bent figures...

My one-step-away-from-Elvis-on-velvet, only without the Elvis... or the velvet because that stuff's expensive...

Even my "Moody Blue Pepper Amid Monochrome Eggplant and Artichoke" which symbolizes the isolation that individuals feel when tossed into an urban, hustle-bustle society and...

(Actually, I just wanted to try out my Pthalo Blue.)

...Well, it all has new possibility through this creative community!

All this time, I felt my meager handicrafts should be stacked in the dark basement to be kept watch over by the spiders. (They'll let me know if it floods, communicating through a series of web messages and Morse Code.)

But now, now I see these works of art could be brought to the surface-- the Morloks that they are-- and served up to a ravenous public!

Oh, you should have seen the crowds at the sale, friends! People of every age, swarming the aisles of stacked canvases, surveying the overlooked artistic masterpieces with a keen eye.

Here, a pseudo-European café scene in vivid, expressionist smears of orange, browns and yellows. Clearly communicating the intrigue of foreign delights... and runny egg.

And there, a lighthouse, lonely in the distance, sloping somewhat leftward into a rocky crag, making a statement about time, age, and using a ruler in a hurry.

To the right, a panel reminiscent of Monet's Waterlillies, ideal for those who cannot afford $2.99 for the actual Monet poster, but still want to stir the envy of elite, art-savvy friends...

And to the left, images of the Eiffel Tower, as if plucked from the very easel of a Left Bank Parisienne herself... You could almost smell the fresh baked baguette... the fromage... the, er, Gérard Depardieu.

Yes, these and more were examined, appraised, and considered for their own unique qualities by local connaisseurs of the finer things in life. Like whether they would match the couch...

Whether the lighthouse scene was the right size, or the Van Gogh Starry Night knockoff was more "Them"...

Whether the pink acryllic goddess fresco in marker-outlined profile had enough of a Roman nose to match the Roman spa tub freshly installed.

Yes, it was a day of critical decisions in the art world for my fellow Pittsburghers.

I admit, I left there feeling just a tad overwhelmed. Here, united in one place, was so much hope... soul... potential to tie the whole room together. Well, it left me with a brand new perspective on creative passion and on the brave drive to succeed in spite of the odds...

Also, the percentage of attendees who likely enjoyed lawn gnomes in their yards.

Things to think about, friends. Things to think about.

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The Second-Degree Murder of Raggedy Ann

2010-01-10T11:00:00.004-05:00

Raggedy Ann died in a freak microwaving accident. Call me callous, but it was not until I was well into adulthood that I was reminded of this tragic event.

In fact, only as I sorted through old toys for charity, did sight of the Brother Raggedy unleash the ugly, terrifying truth I had blocked out for so many years.

His sister Ann would not be among these bags and boxes.

Raggedy Ann was dead.

Ann and Andy had been a rather mismatched set from the beginning. Ann was a tall girl-- lean, lanky, and towering above her brother.

Together they looked like a stuffed Sonny and Cher. And, following the tradition, it was Ann who got all the attention.

Ann also suffered from female pattern baldness. So my mother would dutifully re-wig her with whatever color yarn she had handy.

By my kindergarten year, Ann looked less like Cher and more like Courtney Love-- a sticky, smeared, and faded strawberry-blond.

Then she succumbed to further indignity, when Grandpa sat on her.

I can admit it now; it was my frantic attempt to save her from smothering (the Aged Relative was not known for his exemplary hygiene) that inadvertently detached her arm, and triggered her true downward spiral.

I waited fearfully, while Mom put Ann in rehab. Under her skillful hands, Ann was stitched-up, washed, coiffed, detoxed and just about ready to begin life anew. I was overjoyed.

But Ann was also still drenched. A day went by... another... and repeated tumbles in the dryer, and even summer sunbathing on the porch, didn't encourage her ultimate recovery. I was five and I was anxious.

And that’s when Mom decided to speed-dry her in the microwave.

I should emphasize that in the mid-70s, microwaves were still rare and mysterious things. Shadowy and mystical... Akin to Sea Monkeys, StarWars and the high-tech visual delights of Atari Pong.

Mom's logic was that if a microwave could cook a baked potato in seven minutes, it could surely dry some cotton hussy with sporadic alopecia. And it might have worked, too. Only, see, microwaves cook from the inside out and Ann’s insides were, we later learned, sawdust.

Black smoke pouring from the appliance signaled the beginning of the end for our Ann.

In seconds, our dining room smelled like a bonfire. Flames shot from Raggedy Ann’s chest, licking the microwave’s inner roof. The smoke detector squawked like a dying goose. Mom shrieked, tossed baking soda on the doll and patted her down like Kurt Russell in Backdraft. Ann was carried out smoldering.

My mother made a final, noble attempt to resuscitate Raggedy Ann. A denim patch went over the spot where the fatal heartburn had taken place. And we went through the motions of redrawing her facial features with magic marker.

But she still reeked of burnt wood and scorched cotton. And her face was just wet enough so that her markered lips bled into a crooked, post-mortem sneer.

It was time to face facts: Raggedy Ann was no more. We put her in a grocery bag and I watched from the window as Mom set her out with the trash.

I never got another Ann. It would have been disrespectful. But when the Adult Me picked up Andy and added him to the donation bag, I had to wonder...

How on earth did I ever explain to him that his sister, who went in for a simple makeover procedure, ended up dead and dumped at the side of the road?

To this day he probably figures it was a mob hit.

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Old Fogey Ranting

2010-01-08T07:58:00.006-05:00

Old. I am. Officially.

And worse, I am Old and Cranky. A two-fer.

At age 38, I have somehow transformed into that bitter, judgmental old biddy who waves a cane at the damned whippersnappers and laments what happened to the good old days.

The days when we ate lead paint and enjoyed its crunchy burst-in-your-mouth flavor. The time we, at any moment, could be pitched through the windshield like a spiral-cut ham, due to our lack of safety belts and car seats.

I have become this person.

I realized I had become Great-Aunt Gertrude of Fogeyland when I went for Chinese food, and I found myself staring steely-eyed at the teen at the next table.

It was family bonding time there for Teen. An evening out for fried rice and family moments. But was Teen talking about her day? Was Teen passing the lettuce wraps?

Teen was texting.

And texting.

And texting.

Twenty minutes, Teen sat at that table in a Cone of Silence, texting.

Then she put it down.

And picked up the portable video game player.

Now, I know the world has moved on from the sepia-toned days I was a kid. I mean, just the fact that poo-brown corduroy split-skirts are no longer a wardrobe staple is a sign of that. (One case, for the better, I admit.)

But if I'd brought even, in Fogey Terms, a book-- that's one of those papery things with words printed on it where you have to turn the pages, in a time of history known as "B.K."-- Before Kindle"--

Anyway, if I'd brought one of those Kindle precursors to read at the dinner table as a kid?...

Man, that thing would have been whipped out of my hand so fast, I would have thought Superman was turning the Earth backwards on its axis again. (1978 Superman: The Movie reference. Non-fogies exempt from understanding this.)

When I was a kid, we had to sit there at the dinner table with the Old Fogeys, be bored to tears, and pretend to like it.

There was no disconnecting from the Mandatory Family Fun. Oh, sure, you still hated it. You'd rather have punctured your brain with a Crazy Straw through the ear. (Fogey Reference #2.) But hating it was a part of growing up, learning to behave, treating others with, dare I say, respect.

So you endured. You found other, more creative ways to entertain yourself. Like tying your straw wrapper into exotic shapes and lobbing them at your siblings. Or strategically planning how much of your vegetables you could smear around your plate to make it look like you'd actually eaten some of them.

But you certainly didn't openly block out your parents with, y'know, fun.

So I've found myself wondering what's going to happen to a generation who's been entertained every second of the day, every day. Kids who have never had the opportunity to be bored out of their well-pierced skulls, in order to be polite to other people.

Will they grow up happy, well-adjusted multi-taskers?

Or develop into those coworkers with the attention span of a fruit-fly on speed? Ones who stand up and shout, "Score!" at the high point of your company presentation because they finally racked up one-bazillion point on Mario Brothers 5000, now with Hologram Mushroom Action?

I don't know. But being a Fogey, I've now exhausted myself with the idea.

Time to go get my shawl and my 400 cats and make sure the LifeAlert machine's turned on, and have a nice nap. Later, I might crank up the Ford (Fogey Reference #3) and see about some more Chinese food.

That fried rice is a nice, easy chew on the dentures.

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The Snow Removal High Impact Workout

2010-01-06T07:45:00.005-05:00

Now, in just four sets of 10 to 45 minutes a day, you can shape up... slim down... and pinch sciatic nerves like never before!

Welcome to the Snow Removal High Impact Workout!

How do you do it? It's simple!..

Just grab our specially-designed ergonomic snow relocation device and push, push, push your way to rock-hard abs...

Stronger, sexier arms...

And smoother skin, exfoliated the natural way-- through rock salt abrasion and 60-mile-per-hour winds!

Unlike other workouts, where one boring session is supposed to burn calories for the whole day, with the Snow Removal High Impact Workout, you get an exhilarating exercise session up to four or more times a day!

Before work....

Before you hop in your car for lunchtime errands....

Back in the car for the commute home...

And before you settle in for the evening!

Yes, with the Snow Removal High Impact Workout, you'll be sweeping, sweating, and shoveling your way to the cut body you'd always dreamed of.

It's the perfect way to fulfill all those New Year's Resolutions to lose weight, look great, and not get sued by fallen pedestrians.

Plus, the Snow Removal High Impact Workout comes with this easy-to-understand instructional video starring renowned fitness trainer Maxie Gluteus, who not only has helped thousands lose weight using this unique method, but her signature unnatural tan makes her easy to locate in a snow bank!

So why wait? Those walks won't shovel themselves. That car can't look like a snowdrift forever. Don't hibernate! Liberate! Order your Snow Removal High Impact Workout in 16 easy payments of $19.95 today!

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First Airport Goes Nude in the War on Terrorism

2010-01-03T06:00:00.002-05:00

By Penny Penn-Schyll
Nashville Star-Sun-Post-Reporter

NASHVILLE, TN-- Responding to the thwarted terrorist attack on Northwest Airlines Flight 253, the Bettie Page Memorial Regional Airport and Discount Lingerie Outlet, outside Nashville, has taken an innovative step toward passenger safety: mandatory nudity in all terminals and departing flights.

Dubbed the BareTrans Program®, now passengers experience travel in the buff, beginning at airport security checkpoints. Upon disrobing, all clothing must be stowed in airtight Spacebags® and will be scanned for prohibited substances. The bagged clothing must then fit completely inside a carry-on bag. This is hermetically-sealed by trained security using Hermet™ (patent pending), duct tape and those twisty-ties they put in toy packaging. There is a fee of $15 per bag, and bags must remain sealed until passengers reach their final destination.

Other changes have been made to accommodate the new, more rigorous safety requirements:

Temperatures in the terminal have been adjusted to a consistent 75 degrees.
Disposable plastic covers are now available for hygienic airport seating, and can be purchased from the airport shop at just $5.00 per cover.
And the Hooligans' Family Restaurant will no longer serve its Sizzle-n-Spice Fajitas due to potential spatter injury and class action lawsuit.

With the elimination of pockets and carry-on bag access, post-security money-handling is now prohibitive. Passengers must pre-pay for any food, beverages or souvenier items they predict they might possibly consider purchasing in the airport or in-flight.

Passengers estimate their total future purchases at Check-in and receive a bar-coded hand-stamp for that amount. As purchases are made, each item's cost is debited from the passenger's pre-paid account by simply scanning the barcode.

While airport officials indicate the new program is still in transition, passengers do seem to like the sense of safety the BareTrans Program provides.

"Fer 75 years, ain't nobody seen me nekkid but Doc Graham and my husband Everett here," said traveler Emmeline Dodd, age 94, off to visit her baby sister Margaret, 90, in Tuscon.

"But if it takes me givin' half o' the county a cootch-show in order to keep the good ol' U.S. of A. safe, why, I'll do the patriotic thing and make my privates public fer Uncle Sam."

Mrs. Dodd's uncle, Sam Johnson, age 102, declined to comment.

With the early success of the BareTrans Program, travelers can expect airports across the nation to follow their lead. Hanes Community Airport in Thredbaya, Maine, is currently implementing a variation of the program, called the "Tightie Flightie Initiative." While the process remains largely unchanged, passengers may retain their undergargements throughout the course of travel.

But officials at Bettie Page Memorial call the Tightie Flightie plan "risky."

"When you have terrorists willing to stow WMDs in their BVDs, you just can't take chances on things like personal privacy, dignity and Victoria's Secret," explained airport public relations manager, Buffy Bethune.

"We have a new slogan here at Betty Page Regional: 'Bare in the Air Gets You There.' And we stand behind that. Well, not directly behind. But more to the side. With our eyes averted. Politely."

For information on these and other security programs in your area, please contact your local airport.

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We All Live in a Red 'Check Engine' Light

2009-12-31T08:57:00.018-05:00

A warning light came on in my car. One of those mysterious little graphics that-- to the Automotively Unschooled such as myself-- are more frightening by the fact that they're lit, than any idea what the frig it's supposed to symbollize.

"Crikey-moses, I think my personal exploration submarine is going to blow!"

Realizing there probably wasn't enough room under the spare tire for a hidden marine submersible--- disappointing: I'd had my heart set on seeing those transparent fish who are their own flashlights-- I dug out the owner's manual.

It turns out the meaning of the warning sensor is actually more convoluted than a 60s psychedelic musical cartoon based around an excess of Liverpudlians cohabitating in a sunny steel shark.

In fact, it could indicate any one of the following:

Meaning One:
Something is wrong with your emissions. Which means something is wrong with your engine. Or transaxle. Or exhaust, intake, or fuel system. Possibly air freshener.

Which means your car will either stall out on a four-lane highway where you become instant paté-in-a-can for packs of very lost dingoes... Or, you'll make it to the mechanics only to learn everything but the cupholders are ruined, and you owe them your first born child and/or spun gold as payment.

Meaning Two:
The engine, which has tragically bad aim when it's been drinking heavily (especially the cheap stuff), has misfired. Giving itself a flesh wound. This may or may not require service, depending on how macho it is. VW Bugs will ask for floral-printed Band-Aids (ouchless) and a hug from the nearest maintenance man. Dodge Rams will only cry on the inside.

Meaning Three:
The emissions system is simply confused and cranky. The car may be feeling the effects of a loose gas cap. Rain might be frizzing its electrics. Its gas tank might be queasy from a new brand of fuel. Or the car might be held sway by the light of a full moon and Team Jacob. If the latter, druids should be called in to make the light go off. Though, it may go off on its own, after it's had a good cry.

Or not.

But maybe.

So you could wait.

Or you could explode in a fiery ball of flame and rubber Hello Kitty floormats.

Your call, really.

The funny thing is, as far as I can tell, the information on the problem is really no different than the Service Engine Soon light. I've written about that before. Does the Mini-Sub-looking icon indicate a greater level of peril than the big square "Service Engine Soon" icon?

Or does it simply mean that when I finally bow to the power of the light and take my car in, the mechanic will tell me it has... oh, I don't know... a small case of the Blue Meanies...

...And that "that'll be $700 Meanie-Extraction-and-Light-Resetting, Ma'am"?

If the last one's the case, I might just tell them to leave the Meanies there. I like company for my commutes. As long as they wouldn't go screwing with my stereo, we'd be cool.

And speaking of music. All together now... Everybody...

"We all live in a red 'Check Engine' light...
Red 'Check Engine' light...
Red 'Check Engine' light..."

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New Year's Resolutions for Somebody Else

2009-12-30T07:30:00.011-05:00

Well, last year, I'd posted about the things I resolved not to do for 2009.

This year, I've decided to post suggested New Year's Resolutions for people who are not, in fact, me.

See, I know me. I know that I could vow to... oh... eat fewer french fries. Or to exercise for two hours every day. Or to own only one pair of black shoes at a time.

But I also know I'll have forgotten about each and every one of those resolutions by the Ides of March. (Partly, it's because I get distracted, wondering when we stopped using the word "ides" to mean mid-month-- I mean, no one ever tells you your credit card bill is due "ides-ish.")

So, I figure if I want to make some resolutions that are going to fall through anyway, I might as well make them for someone else. Someone who can really use them.

Like this:

Charlie Sheen. Charlie... dude. Enough with the hookers and wife-beating and weaponry. It's getting old and boring, like Viagra jokes on a long-drawn-out sitcom. (Not that you know anything about that.) Surprise us for 2010. Join a cult or organized religious group or something. It could even successfully spill over into your series: "Two and a Half Monks." You're good at physical comedy, so the vow of silence shouldn't be a problem, plus, it will cut costs in the writing department. Think about it.

People Who Comment Passionately on News Sites. Did you know that you can make your paranoid rants, non sequiter commentary, and parroted talking points in reaction to news articles even more effective? Well, you can! For 2010, consider learning to spell "losers" and "riddance." "Looser" is what happens to your waistband when you drop a pants size. And "riddens" is just an overzealous misapplication of Hooked on Phonics. Calling a group of people "loosers" is, perhaps, not the way to establish the intellectual credibility you're seeking. I mean, I know you could also avoid name-calling completely and debate the actual issues like an adult. But I recognize that's probably asking a lot. It's "losers." Good "riddance" to them. And you're welcome.

Spammers. Spammers, I understand you're really devoted to your craft. I know you are desperate to have your unsubtle sales messaging nestled into the comments section of my blogs like a happily feasting tick on an overweight Golden Retriever. But did you know that even if, for some reason, I accidentally approve one of those nuggets of nonsense, when you place it on a blog where the audience doesn't read Japanese... or Russian... or French.... or ancient Mesopotamian.... you are, in fact, wasting a spam? So for 2010, why not resolve to actually, oh, do some research on the blogs you're spamming? Spam English-speaking blogs in English. Japanese in Japanese. Don't insert comments responding to a post about technology, when the post is actually about green beans. This is not to say I'll ever approve your comments. But at least you can say you've elevated your game. And that should make you feel all warm and gooey inside. Again, like that tick.

Jon Gosselin. As the clock hits midnight on New Year's Eve and it ticks through those very first fifteen minutes of 2010, look around you, Jon. Notice the lack of TV cameras directed at you. Observe the place where groupies do not drool. Think about those first fifteen minutes of this new decade. Recognize they are not very much like those fifteen minutes of fame you had back in 2009. And then resolve to stop trying to get them back with manufactured drama that comes off like it's been scripted by a high schooler whose watched too many Melrose Place reruns. Yup, Jon, it's time you leave the attention-getting-with-no-observable-talent to Paris Hilton. It's her Niche Super Power. There can be only One. Move along, sonny.

Well, those are the main Resolutions I'd wanted to offer up. I suppose, in reading this over, I really should step forward, and resolve something myself. Like to be less sarcastic for 2010. But---

Hey, did you ever wonder why we only ever hear about "ides" in relation to March? Did Shakespeare completely corner the market on "ides"?

Oh, sorry-- what was I saying before?

Well, nevermind. Happy New Year to you all! And thanks for helping to make it a great 2009!

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Weather or Not

2009-12-28T07:26:00.006-05:00

I've been wondering just at what point it is that we, as humans, transition into amateur meteorologists. I mean, is it a gradual thing or does it hit all at once?

One day, do you check the Weather Channel, and then the next you're watching it with your morning coffee? In two months, are you collecting barometers? And then before you know it, are you installing green screens, Doppler Radar and weather pickles in your entertainment room?

Or is it an instant Coming of Age moment, where they hand you your retirement watch and ask you:

"What do you plan to do with all your free time now, Bill?"

And (if your name happens to be Bill) you say:

"Why, I think I'm going to monitor precipitation and daily highs and lows in an obsessive-compulsive manner, Chet!"

(If the guy you were talking to happens to be named Chet.)

I say all this because it seems that, within the last few years, my dad-- who is retired, lives basically in Upper Margaritaville and has nowhere specific to be at any given moment--- has developed Weather Channel Addiction.

I had suspected this was going on, as each time I speak to him in our weekly catch-up phone call, from hundreds of miles away he recounts me with what my own weather is doing. Like some meteorological Carnac the Magnificent.

But I really notice it when he comes to visit and is Weather Channel-Free for a few days. By about Day Two, his hands are shaking... The fingers on his remote control hand are breaking out in hives... He's looking at the sky, his left eye twitching...

I ignore this for a while, because I am basically Evil. So he starts making vague hints.

"Are those cumulo-nimbuses coming in there? I wonder what that means."

(Cue ominous music.)

Then half-way through a movie, he can bear it no longer.

"Can we just put on TWC for a minute? Please? Just a minute. Just a little five-day-forecast. See what's happening at your Aunt Jean's. And Key West. And Iceland. I'll turn it off after that. I promise. I don't know what it's doing in Zimbabwe."

I thought he was going to slip into a seizure when he asked if the thermometer outside the kitchen window worked and I said I didn't know, I never really looked at it.

I would say this is an isolated case, but my best friend's parents have a similar fixation.

Not only do they monitor what it's doing outside with pinpoint accuracy, but they write it down as part of some log, along with rainfall totals.

My friend has told them many times that there are whole groups of Almanac People to take care of this task-- that history isn't relying on them specifically to trot out their spiral bound notebook and let us know there was a light frost on October 29, 1984 with a low of 31 degrees. But it's made no impression.

So as I get older, I wait for the moment that I, too, transition from a gal who just wants to know if I'll need to dig my car out for the morning commute, to an unpaid weatherperson with a deep passion for the total snowfall in the Rockies... which Tropical Storm is brewing in Barbados... and how many inches of rain I can expect on Sunday, as I watch it from the house.

If I ever start a blog post telling regular readers what the weather is doing in your areas based on your IP addresses, you'll know I've succumbed.

Compulsive meteorology affects one in seven. It's up to us to resist the high pressure front of weather addiction.

Question of the day: do you have a weather bug in your family?

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Doctor Who Versus the Daleks Verus the Dickens Christmas Village

2009-12-23T04:45:00.000-05:00

Who stands tall (or at least disproportionately out of scale) when the Dickens Christmas Village in the living room is overrun by invaders from another planet? Why, our dashing Doctor Who, of course!

Last year, it was All Silent on the Porcelain Dickensian London Landmarks. But this year, Daleks have developed a fleet of evil green minions....
Okay, so they LOOK like Christmas bottle brush trees. But what better way to infiltrate and conquer a sleeping city during the holidays than to disguise your crazed robot machines as docile holiday firs?

As a space ship hovers above Big Ben, casting inordinate glare over Doctor Who-- which looks strikingly like an over-exposed camera flash but really isn't at all in the least, move along please-- the Doctor prepares his battle plan...

He's hoping to keep the potential peril under wraps from the general populace as long as possible. Though he suspects even bustling, absorbed, energetically-shopping Londoners might eventually notice the crashed flying saucer on the Tower Bridge...

Remarkable how advanced alien technology resembles two styrofoam dinner plates glued together, isn't it?

"What do you think, Rose?" begins the Doctor. "How long before they start to get suspicious that it's going to be yet another year the world nearly ends on Christmas?"

"Two, three hours tops," Rose suggests, peering thoughtfully at the scene below. "Think I have enough time to pick up some tea for my mum at Harrods? I'm not quite done shopping."

"Focus, Rose. Focus."

The TARDIS-- which is not, in any way, a DVD storage box my friend Scoobie made for me, even though it is completely filled with awesome-- waits by, ready to leap into action at the Doctor's command.

Will everyone at St. Martin-in-the-Fields cathedral be exterminated before they can finish their brass rubbings and tea in the crypt?...

Will the alien villaness Cassandra turn the Dalek pine trees against the Daleks for her own nefarious purposes... Or at least for a really freshly pine-scented space ship?...

Will Rose be the last human left in London, and have to take over the duties as Queen and do all of that bored waving?
And the biggest question of all...

How long will it take my dad to realize that the standard Christmas Dickens village has been wholly invaded by alien lifeforms this year?

Stay tuned, Friends of Cabbages! And happy holidays!
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Doggs and Reindeer Living Together, Mass Hysteria

2009-12-21T07:36:00.014-05:00

(Part of the Humor Bloggers Christmas Carnival)

I'd pretty much pooh-poohed all the paranoid blather about 2012 being the End of the World As We Know It...

Until this morning. Because I do believe I saw evidence we're headed that way.

I was flipping channels, enjoying my beloved morning java, and there on my television screen was Martha Stewart and Snoop-Dogg, making holiday brownies together in jarring, surreal camaraderie-- and rapping about it.

Martha Stewart. Rapping.

Snoop-Dogg. Baking.

This alone may be proof that something decidedly strange is up with the Universe.

For me, however, all else remains per the holiday norm. For instance, the Annual Christmas Self-Crippling is well underway.

Yes, nothing suggests a festive holiday like spending it twisted and hobbled like a cross-dressing Tiny Tim with a gland disorder!

I'm not sure why exactly, but every year at this time, I feel compelled to spread Holiday Perfection to all corners of my home-- and apparently mostly those that require ladders and Twister-like contortionist skillz to reach them.

The fact is, my father will be the main person to see this Winter Wonderland of Interior Excess.

And this is a man whose feels he's really home-cooked when nuking instructions exceed three minutes...

A fellow whose most-used dishes come on a roll labeled "Brawny."

There really isn't a lot of pressure here.

Christmas won't skip to next door just because one wayward dust bunny isn't wearing a Santa hat.

Ebeneezer Scrooge won't humbug for all eternity if I don't get the Dickens Village set up this year.

The world will not end if the sugarplums are not moshing away in La-La Land.

If anything, the world ends when Snoop-Dogg starts telling us how to get the perfect glaze on the ham we smoked in our own smokehouse.

The gig is over when Martha starts her program with "Yo, yo, yo, peeps! S to the A to the N-T-A!"

But alas, I still find myself thinking-- if I could only uncover some way to wrap festive holiday lights around the electric heating pad I will be strapped to for the next five days, I could truly multitask.

Some things never change, I suppose.

Hail to your mommas.
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The Dead Blog Memorial Wall and Rave Party

2009-12-18T07:31:00.009-05:00

They fill our weekly routines with joy, laughter, knowledge.... And then, too soon, they are gone... Vanished suddenly from our lives like pretty much any Joss Whedon series on FOX.

Yes, I'm talking about blogs. The ones that draw you in, that engage you, only to die a silent premature death.

Sometimes it's because that bossy Offline Life steps in and pulls the plug.

Sometimes inspiration drains from blogging like ice cold, soapy bath water.

Sometimes existentialism cold-cocks the blogger with the ham-fisted hand of "Why frikkin' bother?"

But no matter what the reason, we readers mourn. And we mourn alone!

But no more! Because Of Cabbages and Kings has created the Dead Blog Memorial Wall and Rave Party. Yes, that's right!--now we have the perfect Interwebz spot for honoring those blogs and former bloggers that served their readers, and served well-- until their creation snuffed it like a groundhog on a six-lane highway.

Find the closure you need while remembering your favorite deceased blogs-- simply leave a comment here. Tacky virtual plastic shrines are welcome.

So take off your coat, grab a cup of your favorite libation, and join in the party. Let's celebrate the Creativity That Was and the Blogs That Now Aren't!

I'll start us off in the comments section with a couple of my own most-missed blogs.

(PS- Please take your shoes off if you plan to dance on the virtual tables... I just had them polished.)

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Eau de Terrier Blanc: A Unique Fragrance

2009-12-16T07:30:00.002-05:00

Lisa's post over at Boondock Ramblings--- about the eye-watering stench of one of her cats-- reminded me of my four-legged friend, Fritz.

Now Fritz was a past landlord's dog, a large and cheerful white terrier. Because he traded on looks over brains-- (that dog made Goofy look like Stephen Hawking after a couple of cups of coffee)-- Fritz was the lovable idiot you just felt compelled to pet.

The mental negligence I understood. That was from one too many concussions. Each day, I would leave for work where Fritz would race me to the metal gate, and skid out head-first into it.

"Bong!"

Each evening, he would see me returning home and do the same.

"Clang!"

You had to admire his enthusiasm, if not his coordination.

But the smell, now that was a mysterious phenomenon that simply hadn't made it into the Natural Wonders list yet.

And it wasn't one I would notice right away, no. But it would sidle up-- an aroma of pure, unabashed, eternal, deep-radiating, primeval Dogocity. The kind that would wrap its yellow-green tendrils around the ol-factory senses... and hump the heck outta them.

It didn't matter if he'd just been to the groomers, either. Fritz would return all fluffy white, trimmed and joyous, a clean bandanna slung jauntily around his neck. And a brief affectionate pat on the head would leave traces of a gagging canine stink that multiple hand-washings, handiwipes, sandpaper and sulfuric acid would not remove.

Now Fritz's mother, Henrietta, lived down the street. She was an outside dog, calm, mild-mannered and grateful for any speck of attention anyone gave her.

And, one day, it occurred to me that Henrietta might serve as a decent control group to test the Fritz Foulness problem. Was this mysterious Puppy Putrescence something to do with the breed, the family line, or just Fritz himself?

I was determined to find out!

So as I approached the lady dog with my daily greeting, it was this time I paused. And petted...

And, um, sniffed. Deeply.

It occurred to me later that anyone watching out their windows might find it a little odd to see someone stop, play with, and then sniff someone's dog.

They might consider it equally strange to see that person leave, energetically sniffing their own hand and making mental notes of it.

Ah, but much out of the ordinary must be done in the name of Science! We didn't see Alexander Fleming recoiling from penicillin and crying, "Eeew! What's that green stuff? Gross! Take it away!"

No. He said, "Hm! Jolly! Someday people will be over-medicating with this."

And I learned something important from my little experiment, too. I learned that the all-weather female, four-wheel-drive model of the great Fritzmeister was completely odor-free.

Now, I haven't expanded the experiment to other terriers of this type, because, well, I got bored.

Also, I have sinus problems.

Also-also, I don't want to be known as "Crazy Dog Sniffer."

But I think it's reasonably safe to say that the problem was uniquely Fritz' own. Was it some gland issue? Some evolutionary glitch? An unfortunate designer dog signature fragrance choice?

We may never know.

If only it could have been used for the powers of Good. Harnessed in the right hands, I believe Eau de Terrier Blanc could have reshaped today's on-the-ground warfare. Concentrated and formed into exploding capsules, the enemy would be rendered completely incapacitated for miles. And nobody would ever have to get hurt.

I'd say there might even be a Peace Prize in that!... (And hey, we've seen those things handed out for less.)

Pass the handiwipes.

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Mr. Toad's Driver Re-Education Program

2009-12-14T07:31:00.015-05:00

Good morning, Class! And welcome to The Wild Wood Driver Re-Education Program and Speed Addiction Management.

I am Mr. Toad, and I'll be your teacher for this re-training course.

Now, like each of you, I have committed some... erm... minor infractions of the law on our local roadways. But l am here today to show you that it is possible to become 100% rehabilitated! (And possibly work off your debt to society in a teaching capacity.)

How?

Through a clever three-step regimen of Visualization, Desensitization, and Messing About In Boats.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why, Toad, but you are a creature of superior intelligence and wealth, with good friends willing to do a motorcar intervention for you. And I am a mere thick, friendless human who had an issue with road rage, speed and/or car-jacking. How am I to live up to the example you set?"

Well, just keep in mind, we are not holding you up to lofty Toad Standards, and that should alleviate any pressure you might feel.

Now: Visualization and Desensitization. (We'll get to Messing About in Boats once mine is back from the shop.) But I assure you, once you complete this part of the course, you will see a motorcar, you will sit in a motorcar, but any need for speed will be vanished from your heart like an Alpha Romeo in a straightaway!

Look here up on the projector screen, and what do you see?

Why, yes, that's right, class-- it's a photo of a Lamborghini Murcielago in sunshine yellow! Notice its aerodynamic styling. Consider its four-wheel-drive.

Picture yourself behind the wheel... All those lovely, blinking controls before you, just waiting for your next move... Sitting in its plush, ergonomic seating...

Is-- is-- is it getting warm in here?... Could someone just pop open that window please? Thank you.

Now imagine you're turning the key in the ignition... Your flipper pressing down on that gas pedal and you're giving it a few revs.... Now do you really want to see if it can go from 0 to 65 in 3.4 seconds?

In mere moments, the Wild Wood Constabulary would be hot on your trail, as you leave destruction and devastation in your wake...

As you go on to break the hearts of your friends, who simply don't understand the beauty and power of motorcars like you do.

Who really don't appreciate the feel of the wind on one's skin and the landscape roaring past so that you feel nothing could stop you... Certainly not a few pathetic, underpaid bobbies with no sense of fun and...

Ahem.

No.

You don't want to test its turbo. Instead you imagine yourself easing gently away from the curb. Safely. With no special agenda. (yawn) You look around you. You feel the calm. You listen to the purr of the engine.

The engine...

What you do not do is you don't think how much louder that engine could roar if it were pushed up to its ripping 211 miles per hour as you tear across hill and dale, kicking up dust and overturning milk carts, tearing across the bridges, watching your neighbors leap aside to safety as your eye catches sight of that horn...

Oh, that glorious, shining, melodic horn! And you take one hand from the wheel and you reach and as you press it your heart gives a thrill as you hear its beautiful, beautiful voice singing out:

"POOOT! POOTT! POOT, POOOOT!!"

Hahahahahahahahahaha!

Er.

(Click)

Here is a photo of a Geo Metro...

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Santa Was a Jerk

2009-12-11T07:54:00.006-05:00

Okay. It's finally out there. I've said it once and I'll say it again:

Santa was a jerk.

No, no, not to me. To Rudolph. And I think because of his position and influence and the potential for coal-filled stockings, we let the Fat Man's open discrimination and self-interest slide long enough.

I mean, the evidence is clear and we've all witnessed it. Santa takes one look at Rudolph's glowing nose and does he tell the other reindeer to lay off with the name-calling?

Does he use this as a teachable moment to explain how some clay stop-motion reindeer have lightbulb noses and some don't, but that we're all equal in Santa's eyes?

Does he instate an inclusive reindeer games policy?

No. He's as bad as the rest of them. He makes a mockery of Rudolph's nose. And then-- only when he realizes that the shiny schnoz could suit his own needs-- then he uses Rudolph by conning him into a high-risk flight.

No "I was wrong, Rudolph."

No "I will no longer support discriminatory practices in this workplace, Rudolph."

No "Please don't find an elf who secretly desires to be a lawyer and then sue the red knickers off me, Rudolph."

Nope. Nothing.

And Rudolph, raised in an atmosphere of ostracism and low self-esteem, totally takes it without a single, "Oh, so ya like me now, huh? Well, it's a little late for that, Nicky-boy."

No, Rudolph's just grateful for Santa's acknowledgment, the poor deer.

It's a sad, dysfunctional situation if ever I saw one, and frankly, I've totally lost respect for Mr. HoHoHo.

So this year, I'm skipping the milk and cookies for the Fat Man. Instead, I'm leaving some deer treats and this note.

Santa:

Please give these reindeer num-nums to Rudolph, and you can skip the presents for me this year. It's bad enough you're running an elf-labor sweatshop--

And you're clearly violating copyright laws by replicating toys that actual corporations hold the trademarks on and passing them off as legit--

But your Equal Opportunity policies stink, too.

So go ahead and give me coal if you dare. With the current rates on fossil fuels, I'll be making out all right.

-Jenn

I think if enough of us leave notes like this, Santa might be forced to pay attention and do something about it. Fair is fair. Let's show Mr. Naughty-or-Nice that we can't be bribed into silence anymore!

Who's with me?

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