Knucklehead!

The Best and the Worst: Fast Food Menu Items

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 22:58:00 +0000

Okay, I'll just come right out and say it, I eat way too much fast food. I could make a lot of excuses for my poor eating habits like my job keeps me so busy I only have time to grab a quick lunch, or I'm not a very good cook, or fast food is a cheap way to fill my belly. All those things are true, but if we're going to be completely honest about it, I just really, really like a good burger. Or a burrito. And fries. Given my experience with the quick-cuisine industry, I'm happy to share with you the best and the worst of what our fast food chains have to offer.

THE BEST

1. Double Double (In-N-Out Burger)

This one is a no-brainer. For those of you not on the West Coast, In-N-Out Burger makes the greatest hamburgers known to man, and the Double Double is their crown jewel. Two patties, two slices of cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and secret sauce. Simple, yet perfect. And while that's the "basic" formula for the Double Double, there's a whole "underground" menu available for those of us in the know. First of all, there is no limit on the number of patties and cheese slices you can order -- the 3x3, the 4x4, whatever you want. Legend has it that someone once ordered a 100x100 for a party, at the everyday low price of $98. "Animal Style" burgers (my personal favorite) are made with a mustard-grilled burger, sauce, tomatoes, pickles, and grilled onions, the "Flying Dutchman" is just the meat and cheese with no bun. Whatever your preference, In-N-Out Burger is the best of the best.

2. Macho Combination Burrito (Del Taco)

When my family first moved to California my Aunt Judy, who lived in Hollywood at the time, introduced me to the Macho Combo and I've been a fan ever since. It weighs about fifteen pounds (okay, maybe not that much but it seems like it when it's sitting in your belly), contains beef, beans, veggies, two kinds of hot sauce and sour cream, and is mucho delicioso. I get mine with no sour cream or green sauce, and with extra red sauce. Like I said, these things are enormous. A grizzly bear could hibernate for an entire winter after eating just one. Of course, his farts would wipe out a small village.

3. Homestyle Chicken Filet (Wendy's)

I'm not a huge fan of fast food chicken sandwiches, but I'll make an exception with Wendy's. There's nothing at all fancy about it -- just a breaded chicken breast, lettuce, tomato, and mayonaisse -- but the chicken is always juicy. Pair this up with a cup of Wendy's chili and a chocolate Frosty and that's one heck of a lunch. Back in the 80's I worked at Wendy's during the infamous "Where's the Beef" era and when it got close to closing time, a couple of us would drop a few chicken breasts into the fryer hoping that there would be "leftovers" when it came time to lock up. They made a great late-night snack.

4. Cole Slaw (KFC)

Cole slaw is an interesting dish. My mom's recipe is absolutely delicious, while the stuff you get in the deli section of Stater Brothers supermarket tastes like lawn clippings soaked in tepid dishwater. There's just no industry standard for cole slaw. But if there were, Kentucky Fried Chicken's entry would most definitely be the one to shoot for. If KFC existed on Mount Olympus, Zeus and Apollo would've shunned ambrosia and nectar in favor of cole slaw and crispy Snackers.

5. French Fries (McDonald's)

McDonald's French Fries are the Beatles of the fast food industry. The best, without any competitors even close to attaining their pure and unquestioned greatness. I don't know what the McRecipe is for their fries, but my guess is that a key ingredient is crack because once you eat one, you just keep eating and eating and eating. In my forty-plus years of McDonald's customership, I can honestly tell you I've never thrown away a single fry, not even the burned and cripsy McRejects. I would have no problem whatsoever with McDonald's creating a fifth size for their French Fries -- small, medium, large, Super Size, and Infinity. A bargain at any price.

THE WORST

1. Chicken McNuggets (McDonald's)

It amazes me that the same group of chefs who came up with the world's greatest French Fries also created the single most disgusting lumps of crap to ever grace a McMenu (have I worn out the McJokes yet? I believe I have.). Seriously, the Chicken McNuggets are so terrible that I once saw a few hundred hens and roosters picketing outside the McDonald's corporate headquarters. But let's not kid ourselves here. If you believe that McNuggets are made with 100% pure chicken, you probably also think Joan Rivers has never had plastic surgery. The first clue that something's not right in McDonaldland is the nuggets only come in three McShapes (yeah, I went there again): a rough circle, kidney-shaped, and something that vaguely resembles one of Santa Claus's boots. Whatever the shape, the one constant is their taste which can best be described as spongy cardboard. No amount of barbecue sauce can make up for that.

2. Taco (Jack in the Box)

A basic rule of thumb in the fast food industry is this: If the word "taco" doesn't appear in the name of your restaurant, you have no business making tacos. Nowhere is this more obvious than at Jack in the Box. Jack's tacos are unique in the fact that aside from the cheese and vegetables, they come "preformed" as a frozen taco shell with a lump of meat/sauce/seasonings wedged inside. This is deep-fried, pried open by the "cook" and filled with lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. More often than not, the shell ends up limp and soggy, dripping grease and recently-thawed beef juice all over the place. Since they taste like sewage, the mess is simply not worth it.

3. Whopper (Burger King)

When a restaurant chain dubs itself the burger "king", you'd expect it to serve burgers that go beyond the level of mediocre. The Whopper isn't an especially horrible hamburger, but it's hardly exceptional. Besides, it's made with mayonnaise as a standard ingredient. Oh sure, I could "have it my way" and simply tell them to hold the mayo, but what's the point? The fact that they even considered using mayonnaise on a burger kills their credibility from the get-go. If we were to look at all the major fast food chains in the country (and we're going to come fairly close), I doubt we could rank Burger King's hamburgers in the top ten. It takes more than flame-broiling, that's for damn sure.

4. Big Carl/Big Shef (Carl's Jr./Hardee's)

Not too long ago, Carl's Jr. (Hardees in some parts of the country) came up with a burger called the "Big Carl" designed to compete with -- or more accurately, copy -- the Big Mac. Two all beef patties, special sauce, etc., etc., with the only difference being its larger size. I've had a couple Big Carls and to tell you the truth, they're pretty decent. But they're not quite the Big Mac. But all that's beside the point. I have no respect for a restaurant that shamelessly rips off one of its rivals. It's like that commercial where the creepy Burger King guy sneaks into McDonald's at night and steals the blueprint for the Egg McMuffin. There's a reason other companies steal from Mickey D's. It's because they know they're not as good. Just a bunch of sore McLosers (I just can't seem to help myself).

5. French Fries (In-N-Out Burger)

Remember when I mentioned the McDonald's paradox, how odd it is that the company that makes the best fries on the planet also makes repulsive chicken nuggets? In-N-Out Burger has a similar situation, only in reverse. They make incredible hamburgers, but their fries flat-out suck. The problem is simple. In-N-Out makes its French fries from actual potatoes and nothing else, if you can believe it. You can see the employees over by the fryers, slicing the spuds and submerging them in the grease. They leave out all the tasty additives and preservatives (like the crack they use at McD's, for example). In a perfect world, In-N-Out would merge with McDonald's and serve Double Double cheeseburgers with McFries.

But with my luck, they'd go with In-N-Out fries and Chicken McNuggets.

d

Bagels and Ice

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Mon, 30 Aug 2010 20:06:00 +0000

It was 9:00 on Sunday morning. I was in that sleep-purgatory between "totally unconscious" and "groggy and incoherent" when Theresa nudged me (and by "nudged" I of course mean blasted me in the ribcage with a Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson-approved People's Elbow). "I think you should get me breakfast," she said, batting her eyes sweetly.

"I should, huh?"

"Yes. You have two choices."

"Is one of the choices going back to sleep and dealing with your breakfast in an hour?" I asked hopefully.

"No."

"Didn't think so. What do you want?"

"Well, you can go to Vons and get some cheese bagels or if you don't want to get out of the car, just run through a drive through and get Egg McMuffins and hash browns or something."

"All right, bagels sound good actually."

"Oh, and one more thing . . . "

Whenever Theresa sends me on an errand, no matter how small, it almost always includes a "one more thing" addendum. For example, "Chris, we need to go pick up the mail and oh, there's one more thing, we should probably go to Target." Never mind that Target is nowhere near the post office, and Theresa's trips to Target are more exhausting and complex than most Arctic expeditions. The "one more thing" addendum has no such restrictions, nor is it limited to only ONE more thing. In our world, therefore, it's not uncommon for a ten-minute milk run to include a dozen one-more-things and end up killing most of a weekend.

"Oh, one more thing, while you're there you can pick up a bag of ice for tonight." In our household, we normally drink our sodas right from the can. But we were having friends over for dinner and we always assume that our guests (as well as the rest of Western civilization) will be a bit more sophisticated than we are. Thus, the ice.

So I went to Vons Supermarket and headed first to the bakery section. The bagels were packaged neatly in sleeves of six, so I grabbed a sleeve of cheddar and a sleeve of cheddar-jalapeno (my favorite) and went off in search of the ice.

That's when the trouble started.

We only needed a small bag of ice cubes, the five-pounder. All I could find, though, were the 20-pound bags, the five-pound blocks, and a couple five-pound bags of "lime-flavored" ice cubes. So here were my options:

1. Buy the lime ice cubes and then play dumb when everyone asked "Why does my diet Dr. Pepper taste weird?"

2. Buy the ice block and spend a couple hours chipping the hell out of it with an ice pick, which I do not own in the first place.

3. Go with the 20-pound bag and hope it fit in our freezer, or divvy up the ice in to Ziploc bags.

I went with the 20-pounder.

I should mention at this point that I completely realized this was going to be far too much ice. In a last-ditch effort to find the right size bag, I did something that I normally would never consider: I asked a store employee for assistance.

"Excuse me, Chuck?" The checker's name was Chuck. It said so right there on his name tag.

"Yes, can I help you?"

"You wouldn't happen to have a smaller bag of ice somewhere, would you? I'm just hosting a small dinner gathering, not building an igloo."

"Actually, no. We just changed over to a new ice company, and we're not getting the smaller bags until next week."

Ice company? I've never thought about that. Imagine . . .

What do you do?

I work for the Mr. Chill Ice Company.

Really? What's your job there?

I'm in the water distribution department.

What does that entail?

I pour water into trays.

And then what?

Then the pre-freeze transport department takes the trays to the freezer guys.

That has to be the most pressure-free job on the planet. Unless the freezers break.

I thanked Chuck for his assistance, paid for the ice and the bagels, and headed home.

Theresa was in the kitchen when I arrived. "Jeez, did you get enough ice? There's no way that's going to fit in the freezer."

I told her the story, from lime-flavored ice cubes to Chuck. And then I opened the freezer and tried to squeeze the bag of ice in. Surprisingly, it sort of fit. We only had to transfer a couple of Ziploc bags worth of cubes.

And then she saw the bagels.

"They didn't have any fresh ones?" Theresa asked, with an obvious look of disappointment on her face. Now, had I been thinking quickly, I would have seen the trouble ahead and said no, they were all out of fresh bagels. But I'm not that smart.

"What do you mean, fresh ones?"

"Well, the fresh bagels are right there in the display and you put them in paper bags. The ones that are pre-wrapped in plastic -- like these -- are usually a day old. Did they have any in the display?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay, and?"

"And I apparently screwed up by getting the conveniently pre-wrapped ones?"

"Yes you did. I guess that's the last time I send you to the store for something."

But I think we all know that's a lie. There's always one more thing.

d

I Think I Ran Over Arnold the Pig

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 15:18:00 +0000

Every time I hear the theme to "Green Acres" my butt clenches and I break out into a cold sweat.

Thanks very much, Mr. Raymond.

Archie Raymond was my Drivers' Education teacher, and he had this habit of singing "Green Acres" during our behind-the-wheel training. He'd even punctuate the melody with a quick "bomp bomp" on the dashboard. This annoying distraction did nothing to improve the car-handling skills of our trio of would-be Mario Andrettis.

"Okay, time to hit the road ladies," said Mr. Raymond. "Who wants to go first?"

"1-2-3 NOT IT!" called Donny Duncan, bottom-of-the-high-school-food-chain dweeb with the coke-bottle glasses.

"NOT IT!" I echoed.

"Pussies," said Rick Mustain. Rick was a sophomore jock, admired by some, despised by everyone else. But more to the point, since Rick's parents were divorced, and Rick's dad got wrapped up in the whole "gotta show m'boy what a cool father he has" phase, Rick had already been driving for two years. Dear ol' dad had given him access to the Camaro right around the time he'd given him access to the Old Milwaukee.

Mustain got behind the wheel of the 1982 Ford Fairmont, revved the engine a few times, and we screeched out of he Cowtown High parking lot.

"Greeeeeeen Acres is the place to be . . . "

With minimal coaching from Mr. Raymond, Mustain merged into the flow of traffic and cruised the freeway. Although I couldn't see the speedometer from my vantage point in the back seat, it seemed like we had a pretty good chance of qualifying for the pole at Daytona.

" . . . keep Manhattan just give me that countrysiiiide."

As Donny battled car-sickness, Mustain exited the freeway, and pulled into the K-Mart parking lot so we could switch drivers.

"Okay Duncan, you're up," said Mr. Raymond.

"Me? Why do I have to go next?"

"Just get in the driver's seat, Candyass," said Mustain, as he drilled Donny in the chest with the car keys.

"Ow!" Donny rubbed his right nipple as he bent over to get the keys from the pavement.

The poor bastard. Donny was only taking drivers' ed because it was a requirement, not because he had any interest in actually operating a motor vehicle. If Donny had his druthers, he'd happily pedal his Schwinn or ride shotgun in his mom's minivan till he was eligible for Social Security.

Donny immediately drove over the curb as he misjudged the width of the parking lot exit.

"Neeeew York is where I'd ratha stay . . . I get allergic smelling hay . . . "

We proceeded down Palomino Avenue at the breakneck speed of fifteen miles per hour. A kid on a skateboard whizzed by.

Mr. Raymond had Donny enter the freeway. We accelerated to about thirty, completely monopolizing the slow lane. For the next fifteen minutes (two miles) Mustain and I played a game of "Count How Many People Give Us the Finger".

"Right there! The old geezer in the next lane!" called Mustain as a twenty-five foot Buick blew our doors in.

"You sure she wasn't just pointing at us?"

"No, man, she flipped us off. Her arthritis makes it look weird, though."

"There's another one, the guy on the Harley," I said.

"Check it out . . . a double bird from the kid in the back of that station wagon."

". . . darlin' I love ya but give me Park Avenue . . . "

Donny managed to get off the freeway, and we headed into a residential neighborhood to practice parallel parking. We found a reasonably empty side street, and Mr. Raymond set up a couple orange cones.

Which Donny promptly crushed. Repeatedly.

You've heard of a U-turn and a K-turn? Well, Donny Duncan invented what could best be described as the "asterisk turn".

Forward, reverse, forward, reverse, hit the curb, forward . . .

Once he finally got parallel parked, we changed places and I was responsible for getting us back to the high school via surface streets. I did a fair job, kept up with traffic, obeyed all traffic regulations, and to the best of my knowledge avoided getting flipped off by any road-raging grandmothers.

Mustain, though, spent the whole ride back alternately punching Donny in the arm and giving me wet willies in my left ear.

"Mr. Raymond, can you tell Mustain to knock it off?" whined Donny.

"Ah, shut up, ya little fairy," countered Mustain.

"Green Acres we are therrrre . . . Ba dump ba dump bump, BOMP BOMP!"

s

Heckling Shirley Temple

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 19 Aug 2010 23:32:00 +0000

Back in the late 1980's, I was an assistant manager of a movie theater in Pasadena, California. The theater was located on Colorado Blvd., which as you may know, is the route for the annual Tournament of Roses Parade. One year, a bunch of us decided that it would be fun to spend New Year's Eve in the theater, and then watch the parade from the roof the next morning..
Now, I don't remember reading anything in the United Artists Employee Handbook specifically prohibiting the use of the theater premises for an overnight New Year's bash, complete with private showings of first-run movies, informal bar service and sleeping accommodations, but then again, whoever wrote the handbook could probably not have anticipated such a thing occurring.
.
On New Year's Eve 1988, such a thing occurred.
.
The theater was open on December 31, so it was business as usual until closing time. The last "official" movie of the evening ended at 11:30, and the paying customers were out by 11:45.
.
The "bar" opened at midnight.
.
The concession stand was equipped with refrigerators and ice bins, which on this night were perfect for keeping the beer cold. Mixed drinks were also available for those of that persuasion. On Rose Parade Eve, tourists start lining up along the route early, so the streets outside the theater were packed. This provided an outstanding fundraising (read: beer money) opportunity, as the theater restrooms were much more comfortable and convenient than the port-a-potties provided by the City of Pasadena. You'd be surprised how many people will pay $2 a shot to take a crap on a clean toilet. And then pay $5 for a beer on the way out.
.
It's pretty hard to run a full-sized Christie movie projector while under the influence, but as it turns out, not impossible. I cranked up a couple of films, and our invited guests enjoyed some free entertainment for the evening. At about 4:00 AM, we all pretty much sacked out in the projection room, a pile of exhausted, drunken idiots.
.

One of our employees was a 19-year old by the name of Roger Boon. Roger, quite simply, is the funniest human being I have ever known in my life. He never took anything seriously, found humor in absolutely any situation, heck, he even looked like a giant cartoon. Remember "The Crusher" from the Bugs Bunny episode "Rabbit Punch"? Dead ringer.
.
One evening, out of sheer boredom, Roger decided that he would spend his entire shift walking like a one-year old. Weight forward, knees locked, goofy-ass smile on his face. He even fell a couple times, just to add authenticity. It was hilarious.

Another time, he noticed that a customer was trying to enter the theater on the "wrong side" where the three sets of glass double doors were locked so they could only be used to exit. As the customer tried unsuccessfully to open the doors from the outside, Roger, instead of helping, counted the failed attempts in the voice of "The Count" from Sesame Street.

"ONE! ONE LOCKED DOOR! AAH! AAH! AAH!"

The customer proceeded to the next set of doors. He pulled the handle . . .

"TWO! TWO LOCKED DOORS! AAH! AAH! AAH!"

On to the third and final set. The poor sap was going for the fumblebuck trifecta.

"THREE! THREE BEAUTIFUL LOCKED DOORS! AAH! AAH! AAH!"

Anyway, we crashed out on New Year's Eve, and were still sound asleep when the parade was ready to start. Meanwhile Roger, who I don't think even bothered to go to sleep, had found the bull horn that we sometimes used for crowd control and appointed himself as our unofficial (and certainly unrequested) wakeup call.

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! THE PARADE IS ABOUT TO BEGIN! WAKE UP I SAY!"

We wanted to kill him. So, hungover and groggy, we dragged ourselves up to the roof of the theater. Roger, still armed with his trusty bull horn, began heckling the Tournament of Roses Parade.

"IS THAT YOUR FLOAT, OR DID THE EQUESTRIAN TEAM AHEAD OF YOU FORGET TO CLEAN UP AFTER THEMSELVES?"

"HEY, SECOND TROMBONE PLAYER, YOU SUCK! AND YOU'RE OUT OF STEP, TOO! GET WITH THE PROGRAM, YOU SCHMUCK!"

"I SAW THREE OF THOSE ROSE PRINCESSES OUT ON HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD LAST NIGHT! THANKS FOR A GREAT TIME, HONEY!"

At one point a guy on the street yelled up at Roger telling him to, and I think I'm quoting this correctly, "Shut up with the bull horn, you asshole."

Roger, though, was impossible to fluster. "OH, LIKE YOU WOULDN'T DO THIS IF YOU HAD ONE!"

The Tournament of Roses Grand Marshal that year was none other than Shirley Temple. Well, when Shirley came by in the convertible, waving at the crowd, big smile on her face, one could say that she was ill-prepared for her meeting with the horn-toting Mr. Boon.

"OH MY GOD IT'S SHIRLEY TEMPLE! HEY SHIRLEY!"

Ms. Temple looked around confused, like Governor Connelly after the first shot rang out in Dealey Plaza.

"UP HERE ON THE ROOF!"

Finally, she spotted Roger and waved sweetly. Frankly, I wish she'd have shot him the bird. How funny would THAT have been?

"YOU'RE PRETTY HOT FOR AN OLD BROAD, SHIRLEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING LATER?"

She blew him a kiss and winked. Roger just about fainted.
.
When the parade ended, we were completely exhausted, still somewhat hungover and nauseous, and ready to call it a day.
.
But it was time to open the theater for business.

d

A Harry-ed Evening in L.A.

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 22:13:00 +0000

Ever since I was young, my father always impressed upon me the importance of being punctual. "On time is late, early is on time" was among his favorite sayings. Once I asked him, "Uh, dad, if on time is late, and early is on time, then what would 'late' be?" His reply?

"Unacceptable."

Because of this, whenever I'm going somewhere -- a baseball game, work, the opera (not that I have any intention of going to the opera, but if I did, this point would be just as applicable) -- I make sure to leave early enough so that if an emergency strikes en route, I will still arrive at my destination in time for the first pitch (or the beginning of my work day, or whatever comes first at an opera). Ninety-nine percent of the time, nothing goes wrong and I get where I'm going with plenty of time to spare. This, however, drives my fiance Theresa nuts because for some reason she can't seem to understand the advantage of getting to the stadium two hours before the game starts.

I know. Women.

So anyway, last night I took Theresa to the Hollywood Bowl to see Harry Connick, Jr. The concert was scheduled for 8:30, and the Bowl is about 75 miles from our home. I factored in the time variables like stopping for dinner, getting gas (for the car, not from the dinner), and Friday traffic in the greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. Next, I added extra time in the event of, let's say, a monsoon suddenly sweeping through Alhambra. Using the "Real Time to Dad Time" conversion chart, I determined that we should leave our house at 4:00.

"Four o'clock?" asked Theresa. "So we'll get to the Bowl with about three hours to kill. Why do we have to leave so early?"

"You still don't get this, do you?"

"Yeah, yeah, early is late, on time is early, allow time in case a giant Acme anvil falls on our heads, whatever."

"It's on time is late, early is . . . forget it, just get in the car."

"Fine."

(editor's note: When a woman says "fine", it doesn't mean she agrees with you. All it means is that she's now going to spend the entire car ride plotting how she's going to bug the shit out of you when you're sitting around at the Hollywood Bowl for three hours waiting for the show to start).

So we left the house, swung by a gas station, and about halfway through our journey, we stopped at Marie Callender's in West Covina for dinner. I had built in to our schedule a 27-minute wait for a table, but as it turns out the wait was only five minutes. We picked up some extra time . . . awesome. (In case you're interested in such things, I had the chicken pot pie, Theresa had . . . to be honest, I don't remember what the hell she ordered. Guys don't pay attention to stuff like that. Well that's not entirely true, if she'd ordered something really expensive like the filet mignon or duck l'orange, I'm sure I'd have noticed. But since that wasn't the case, she probably had a burger or something. On another note, I'm currently attempting to set a literary record for the world's longest parenthetical comment that in no way relates to the main point of the article).

A "light traffic day" on the Hollywood Freeway

We hit the transition from the San Bernardino Freeway (I-10) to the Hollywood Freeway (CA-101) at about 6:30. For those of you unfamiliar with Southern California geography in general or the freeway system in particular, this left us with about ten miles to go before the Hollywood Bowl exit. Since the Hollywood Freeway is a bumper-to-bumper clusterfuck even at two o'clock on a Wednesday morning, you can imagine the absolute joy we had sitting there during the Friday commute.

It was at this point that my car stalled.

Due to the threat of potential litigation, I am not at liberty to tell you the make and model of my piece of shit car which crapped out on the Hollywood Freeway. Let's just say that the first part is also the last name of an actor who starred in the Indiana Jones movies, and the second part is the zodiac sign represented by a male cow.

Recently I have had a bit of difficulty with the Indy Male Cow, specifically, it's been leaking some sort of fluid from the undercarriage. I took it in to my mechanic Roger a few weeks ago and explained the situation. He asked, "well, what's it leaking?" I have to be honest here. I am about as schooled in automotive maintenance and repair as Paris Hilton is in particle physics. This being the case, for all I knew my car was leaking maple syrup. Recognizing the befuddled look on my face, Roger changed the question from "fill in the blank" to "multiple choice."

"It's probably oil or transmission fluid," he said.

"Oh, it's oil," I replied, not because I knew that to be the case, but because I don't have the foggiest clue what transmission fluid is. If I'd guessed "transmission fluid" and then Roger asked me a follow up question like, "do you usually use regular or low-fat transmission fluid?" I would've looked like a complete idiot.

When I picked up the car, Roger told me that it had been leaking, you guessed it, transmission fluid and that he replaced the gasket head valve socket (or something like that) and that should take care of the problem. Well, a week ago, I noticed that the car was still leaking something (it's GOTTA be oil this time, right?) but I haven't had the chance to take it back to Roger yet.

Hmm. What could that mean?

Okay, so there we were, stalled out on the Hollywood Freeway. I restarted the car without a problem, but I noticed that there was a red light on my dashboard in the shape of a magic genie lamp with a little raindrop coming out of the tip. I assumed this was a sign that I should put more oil in the car. We got off at the next exit and started looking for a gas station, or maybe a convenience store. Once again, for those of you who may have a mental image of Hollywood that includes movie studios, palatial theaters and glistening beaches, I have to tell you that it's not all like that. It's not even mostly like that. A significant portion of the Hollywood area is basically, and here I'm understating it a bit, a filthy, gang-infested, poverty-stricken, stench-ridden hive of scumbags and freakazoids that isn't a fit for cockroaches, much less innocent out-of-towners with car trouble.

That's the part we were in.

We turned off the exit ramp and made a left on Run For Your Life Blvd., hoping to find a gas station that didn't look like the U.S. Air Force had used it for bomb practice. We couldn't find any. A few blocks later, though, we came across a CVS Pharmacy. I parked the car which, thank God, hadn't stalled since we'd left the freeway. Walking to the drug store, Theresa and I gave two dollars to a rough-looking, shelter-impaired individual because we thought it was very considerate of him to have actually asked for the money as opposed to beating the shit out of us and taking it, which was probably Plan B.

I bought two quarts of oil, returned to the car, and opened the hood. You're probably thinking, "there's no way in hell he's going to know where to pour the oil," but as it turns out there's a screw-off cap in the engine that has the exact same picture as the light that was blinking on my dashboard. Using the same picture-matching strategy that I employed with my Grrrr-Animals outfits in kindergarten, I completed the oil-replacement procedure and we were on our way.

We made it to the Hollywood Bowl without further incident, at which point the parking nightmare began. The Bowl uses a "stacked parking" system that was invented in 1939 by Heinz Von Karzarkramden, an alcoholic German with a raging case of syphilis and an IQ of 63. In this parking arrangement, cars are parked bumper to bumper, row after row, resembling, well, the Hollywood Freeway. What this means, simply, is that you're boxed in for the night and when the show's over, you don't leave until everyone next to, behind, and in front of you has already departed. We pulled in to our spot at 7:50.

That's right, even with all the problems, we were still in time to get snacks and find our seats with time to spare.

Dad 1, Theresa, 0.

The Hollywood Bowl is a great concert venue with beautiful scenery, excellent acoustics and, most nights, gorgeous weather. The only complaint I have is that the seating is less than comfortable. I'm sure that the fancy-schmancy boxes down front are much better, but we were out in the cheaper sections. There aren't individual seats, just benches with your "seat" number carved into the back. Apparently, these bleachers were built and labeled during the pre-fast food era of American history, because there were six of us crammed into "seats" 1-10. Suffice it to say, it was a cozy evening at the Bowl.

Harry Connick was outstanding, by the way. His on-stage banter alone was worth the price of admission. He told hilarious stories about show business (including his involvement with When Harry Met Sally...) and put on one hell of a show. The music of course was incredible, using both Harry's own jazz band and the string section of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. When you stop to think about it, the music business is incredibly unfair. You look at pop stars with next to no talent making bazillions of dollars (I'm looking at YOU, Justin Bieber), and then you see relative nobodies like Harry's lead trumpet player Kevin Bryan playing their asses off just to make a decent living, well, it's pretty sad.

Harry himself, though, earns every dollar of his multi-millions. He did several jazz standards like "It Had to Be You" and "For Once in My Life," along with more contemporary songs including the Beatles' "And I Love Her". Harry didn't ask me to do this, but I'm going to plug his new CD for him anyway. It's called "Your Songs" and it's a nice balance of the genres I mentioned above. Of particular interest to non-jazz fans would be his covers of Billy Joel's "Just the Way You Are" and Elton John's "Your Song". It's a truly fabulous collection.

I should know. Theresa and I listened to the entire CD four times while we were waiting to get out of the parking lot.

d

Blind Squirrel Finds Acorn

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 04:55:00 +0000

Last weekend, against my better judgment, I went to see the latest Will Ferrell movie, a spoof of cop films entitled The Other Guys. I entered the theater with very low expectations due to the fact that every other movie that Ferrell's been in has, for lack of a better term, sucked giant sweaty hippopotamus testicles. But since the previews for The Other Guys contained a few laughs, and the supporting cast of Mark Wahlberg, Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne Johnson looked promising, I decided to throw caution to the wind and check it out.

And what do you know, the blind squirrel found an acorn.

Don't get me wrong, The Other Guys will not be a featured film at Cannes, nor will it garner any Academy Award nominations, but it was surprisingly not-terrible. The first half hour alone was funnier than any four other Ferrell movies combined (five if Anchorman is one of them). Wahlberg is excellent in an angry, smoldering counterpoint to Ferrell's well-meaning buffoon, and Ferrell himself avoids (for the most part) over-playing scenes and being an annoying asshole in general. I can't believe I'm writing this, but if we're going to be honest here, he was actually pretty good.

Warning: Spoilers to follow.

By far the funniest scene was when Ferrell takes Wahlberg to his house to meet his wife, played by the ridiculously hot Eva Mendes. Eva enters the living room, and Ferrell introduces her to Wahlberg saying, "Yeah, this is Sylvia, the ball and chain. Forgive her for her sloppy appearance." Mendes was wearing a low-cut dress that was absolutely stunning, but Ferrell keeps criticizing her appearance, her cooking, everything about her. Wahlberg is flabbergasted. "No, seriously, who is she?" he asks, refusing to believe that this knockout could possibly be married to his idiot partner. The scene goes on, with Wahlberg continuing to ask, "C'mon, really. Who is she?" I can't really do it justice in written form, but Wahlberg is absolutely hysterical in his disbelief.

As part of the Wahlberg character's backstory, he is constantly being reminded of his greatest career screw up, specifically, shooting Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter in the leg. This earned him the nickname "The Yankee Clipper," and his fellow officers never let him forget it. One great line: "You shoulda shot A-rod!"

So anyway, it seems like Ferrell CAN make a funny movie every so often. While it's not great by any stretch, compared to the rest of the Will Ferrell collection, it's Citizen Kane. Definitely worth seeing.

Oh, one last thing. If you're a fan of Dwayne Johnson or Samuel L. Jackson and are planning to see this movie because they're in it, don't bother. Their total screen time is maybe ten minutes (a funny ten minutes, but then they're gone).

s

Hot for Teacher

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 14:29:00 +0000

The bell rang in room 302, signaling the beginning of seventh period. It was the first day of the new semester, so we sat anywhere we wanted, ready for Health Education for Freshmen. The teacher entered the classroom, and half the class turned into drooling idiots.

The male half.

Miss Rankin was a first-year teacher fresh out of college, 23 years-old, and absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. Dark hair, stunningly exotic beauty, and a body that caused more than one mid-hallway student collision. Assigning a knockout like Miss Rankin to a class full of pimply ninth graders just coming to grips with the whole boy-girl thing was a dubious decision on the part of the school's administration.

The course went well, at first. Topics like the respiratory system, hygiene, drug and alcohol awareness, and fitness went off without a hitch. Sure, there were times when our attention wavered, like in the spring, when Miss Rankin (or as we now referred to her in private, "Miss Spankin'") sported the more comfortable garments in her wardrobe. More comfortable for her, that is. For us guys, not so much, but we sure enjoyed the scenery.

The trouble really began when we got to Chapter Seven: Human Reproduction. Miss Rankin was about to become a babe in the hormonal woods.

Regardless of the circumstances, words like "penis", "vagina", "erection," and "intercourse" always elicit giggles, jokes, and snickers from ninth-grade boys, and a chorus of "would you guys just grow up?" from ninth-grade girls. When those same words are spoken by your mind-bogglingly hot teacher, it changes the game entirely. We were essentially earning a grade for sitting through an obscene phone call.

"Now, when a man experiences sexual arousal, blood flows to the penis causing an erection," she purred.

Yeah . . . um . . . we know, Miss Spankin'. We know.

"During intercourse, when a man is fully aroused, semen is ejaculated . . . "

Keep talkin', baby, keep talkin' . . .

"Any questions so far?"

Okay, let me back up for a second. I said this was a freshman health class, but I forgot to tell you about Kenny "Ladies" Mann. Kenny was actually a junior, but since he'd flunked the course on his first two attempts, well, here he was again. Third time's a charm? Perhaps. "Ladies" Mann was your prototypical big-man-on-campus. Star wide receiver on the football team, dated cheerleaders (and not always on an individual basis), and was adored by students and teachers alike. Given his life experiences, Kenny knew the freshman health material inside and out (literally, in some instances), and he had no problem asking probing questions to get deeper into the subject matter.

"Uh, yes, Miss Rankin?" Kenny began. "Since you, ya know, brought it up, what would you say is the average size of an erect penis?"

"Studies say that it's anywhere from five and a half to six and a half inches, Kenny."

"Really? That's it? Cool. Does size matter? I mean, in your experience."

Miss Rankin was on thin ice here. Once she started in on "her experience," all hell would break loose in the classroom. On the other hand, she couldn't really get mad at Kenny because, after all, he was asking a legitimate question based on the content of the lecture.

"Well, leaving my personal experiences out of it, the common opinion is that a caring, compassionate partner can provide a fulfilling experience regardless of physical endowments."

You gotta hand it to her, she was really giving it a hell of a go. But Kenny wasn't about to let her off the hook just yet.

"Okay, sure, but all things being equal, Miss Rankin, would a woman get more pleasure from a caring, compassionate little dude or a caring, compassionate stallion?"

"Kenny, it's really a matter of personal taste and I'm not going to get into it with you kids. Let's move on, shall we?"

"Okay, that brings up another thing. Since you mentioned 'taste' . . . "

"THAT'S ENOUGH, KENNY!"

The following year, sex ed was taught by a male teacher to the guys and by a female teacher to the girls. Really, it had to happen sooner or later. But for that one year, those of us in Miss Spankin's class were treated to the most erotic high school experience you could get without getting suspended.

Or arrested, even.

j

Come Fly With Me

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 09:46:00 +0000

Dad with one of his masterpieces, 2010

As parents, we often wonder what our kids are going to remember most about their childhoods. Will it be the five-thousand dollar trip to Disney World? The weekend we spend camping at Yosemite? Or will it be something more simple, like tossing a baseball around in the backyard or mother-daughter sewing lessons at JoAnn's Fabrics (and yes, I realize I'm perpetuating a couple gender stereotypes here . . . sue me). Judging from my own childhood, it's not the big things that stick in the memory, it's the small stuff.

When you're a kid, you tend to get involved with whatever interests and hobbies your parents have. If your dad is an expert fisherman, chances are excellent that you're going to spend some time with him sitting in a leaky metal boat yanking gafftop catfish out of Lake Pontchartrain. If your mom's into cooking, she'll probably teach you a few of her favorite recipes so you can make a platter of pot-stickers or maybe a nice pan of walnut brownies to take to school and share with your classmates and get beaten up at lunch time because Anthony Pantuccio doesn't appreciate the culinary arts and thinks that "cookin' is for girls and candy-ass little wimps."

My father's favorite hobby was building and flying control-line model airplanes, so on most weekends I would sit with him in our basement, looking on as he assembled another Flight Streak or Ringmaster. Dad would spend hour after hour sanding balsa wood and cutting MonoKote (a plastic covering for the wings) while I offered helpful comments like "paint a shark mouth on that one," "make a plane that looks like the Red Baron's," and "wow, this glue smells kinda weird."

"Combat" plane in flight

Dad was also an expert model airplane pilot, and I loved going with him to Mountain View Park where a "flying field" had been built specifically for control-line planes. Dad could do all sorts of tricks -- loops, figure eights, flying upside-down -- and I never tired of watching him and the rest of the members of his club show off their new planes. Every so often they'd hold contests, kind of like a Model Airplane Olympics with different events to challenge the competitors' skill. Balloon Burst required the flyers to guide their plane over a bar and then bring it down to pop balloons that were set up on sticks. Limbo was just what you'd imagine, they'd have to fly lower and lower with each lap to get under the bar.

Everyone's favorite event, though, was Combat, which pitted the flyers against each other one-on-one. Two planes went up at the same time, and the object was to cut a crepe-paper streamer that was tied to the tail of your opponent's plane (while he tried to cut yours). We'd watch as the planes dipped, dove and swooped all over the place, streamers flapping behind them. It's amazing that the two guys flying didn't get all tangled up in the control lines. There was this one guy Pete who, while being really good at Combat, was sort of an obnoxious braggart. Whenever he won, he'd hold his plane in the air and bellow, "Gotta put another notch in the ol' fuselage (we were little, so we didn't giggle at the possible double-entendre). On a less significant, but infinitely more disturbing level, whenever Pete flew his planes, his ill-fitting pants would sag, subjecting on-lookers to an unwanted glimpse of his ample butt crack. For those reasons, among others, during Pete's Combat matches most people rooted for the other guy. No matter who was competing, though, all the kids watching had one secret wish: To see the two planes smash into each other and bust apart in mid-air. But that hardly ever happened. And of course, whenever a battle ended, we'd run out into the circle and gather the cut-up streamers as souvenirs.

I was five years old when Dad built me a plane of my own, a red and yellow Ringmaster Junior. He taught me to fly one step at a time. First, Dad had me practice spinning around in circles so I'd be able to fly the plane without getting dizzy. This was important because, whether you're maneuvering a Ringmaster through a series of loops or piloting a Boeing 747 across the Pacific, the last thing you want to do when flying a plane is puke all over yourself. Once I was able to spin for a few minutes without falling over, we went out to the field for my first "hands on" lesson. To begin with, Dad would start the plane, get it off the ground and then turn the handle over to me so I could fly it for a while. When the engine started to sputter, I'd hand the controls back so he could land the plane safely. After a couple weeks of that, when I was comfortable keeping the plane airborne, he let me take over the landings. The trick here was to ease the plane down little by little so the wheels just kissed the pavement. My first couple tries were a bit rough; one time I brought the Ringmaster down in the grass, another time I bounced the thing about six times before it came to a stop. But, somehow, I managed to avoid disaster.

Until it came time for me to learn take-offs.

"Okay, Chris, remember. You just give the handle a little bit of "up", and when it gets high enough just straighten it back out. Once you're level, just fly it like usual and you already know how to land it. Ready?"

"Yep! All set!" I ran out to the center circle and picked up the handle while Dad primed and started the engine. When it fired up, he looked out at me, waiting for the signal to release the plane. With a buzz in my stomach, I waved my hand.

The plane rolled along the pavement. I gave it some "up", and a smile came to my face as the Ringmaster rose into the air. I was flying!

I knew there was a next step, but I couldn't remember what it was. The plane just kept going up . . . and up . . . and then it was directly over my head. And then "up" became "down", and my beautiful Ringmaster Junior slammed into the asphalt bursting into a mushroom cloud of yellow silk and red-painted balsa wood. I looked at my Dad, who undoubtedly realized he had about a five-second window before I burst into tears. He put his hands in his back pockets and trotted out to me, like a baseball manager heading to the mound to yank a pitcher who'd given up a 500-foot grand slam. He clapped his hands, with a big smile on his face.

"All right! You're an official pilot!"

"No I'm not," I said, sniffling. "I just killed my plane."

"Ah, that happens to everybody. I've destroyed about twenty of 'em."

"Really?"

Dad crouched down to my level, and looked me in the eye. "Sure, that's how you learn. Know what you did wrong?"

"Not really. I gave it 'up' just like you said."

"And then what?"

"And then the plane crashed."

"Did you give it a little 'down' to straighten it out again?"

A ha! That was the problem. "Um, no, I forgot that part."

"Well, there you go. Remember next time."

"Okay, I will." He mussed my hair as we walked over to inspect the carnage. It wasn't pretty.

"Aw, Dad, look. It's all smashed into little pieces," I said. "You can fix it, right?"

Not my plane, but isn't that a vicious-looking mouth?

"I dunno, Chris, this one looks like it's had about enough. We might just have to build you a brand new one."

As we gathered up the splintered balsa wood, the crumpled wings, and the busted propeller, I remembered something my Dad had always said after he'd crashed one of his own aircraft: You can always build another plane. I pictured the two of us sitting together in our basement, assembling a brand new Flight Streak to replace my shattered Ringmaster Junior. I wasn't sure what I wanted the new one to look like, but I did have one request.

"Can you paint a shark mouth on it?"

d

Welcome to Mount St. Giggles

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Mon, 02 Aug 2010 16:13:00 +0000

By popular request (okay, two people asked), I've dug this one out of the archives. If you missed it the first time (and judging by the whopping THREE comments, you did) I hope you'll enjoy it this time around.

"Your mother is gone. You boys are gonna have to go with the clown."

So said the teenaged girl in the maroon Mount St. Mary's Academy polo shirt, Jenny, according to the gold name badge fastened above her developing right ta-ta.

My mother dragged my brothers and I, against our will, to a Cub Scout Den Mothers' Training Seminar, and everyone was gathering in the school's main foyer. Mom stepped out for just a minute, or so we thought, leaving us wandering around alone. Eric, Bobby, and I waited, confused, having no idea what we were supposed to do or where we were supposed to go. Mom had somehow neglected to provide us with a game plan. With limited options, and against our better judgment, we ignored the time-honored "don't go with strangers" warning and followed Giggles McYukyuk (or whatever his name was) down the hallway, and into a large classroom.

For the first hour or so, everything was somewhat normal. Our greasepaint-wearing abductor had apparently taken us to the free daycare provided by the Cub Scout seminar's organizers. It would've been nice if Mom had prepared us for this, but being the resilient pre-teens that we were, we adapted. There were lots of kids our age, so we played games, watched TV, and Jenny helped us with a variety of arts and crafts. Giggles was in high spirits as well. He helped out with the crafts, led a rousing game of "Simon Says," and he even possessed a couple standard clown skills, including obscure balloon animal sculpture.

"Okay, youse kids," said Giggles. "Who wants a squid?"

"I do! I do!" screamed everybody.

Giggles inflated a round, full-sized balloon, and then fastened six long balloons which represented the tentacles. Then, using a black marker, he added two gigantic eyes. It actually looked pretty good.

Right around noon, things started getting weird. Not only had Mom forgotten to tell us about the plans for our supervision, she also failed to provide us with lunch. This realization sent my youngest brother Bobby into a hyper-ventilating fit of hysteria, screaming something about starving to death and not wanting to eat bugs. Fortunately, Jenny had access to the Mount St. Mary's Academy kitchen and was able to rustle us up a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She even sprung for a couple sodas from the vending machine. We sat under the trees outside with our stale P.B. and J. and flat Fresca, gazing with envy at the kids who were munching on chicken salad, Fritos, Hostess cupcakes, and a wide array of other kids-whose-moms-love-them lunch fare.

Giggles, meanwhile, was leaning against the fence chain-smoking unfiltered Camels. His medication had apparently worn off and his attitude was deflating faster than one of his balloon critters. During lunch, a cute little seven year-old asked to see a magic trick, and Giggles responded with a surly, "Not now, kid, I'm on break."

Nice.

After lunch, we went back inside and watched TV for a while, wondering how Mom could've possibly forgotten about us for this long. Had she been kidnapped? Did Giggles have an accomplice? Around 4:00, Jenny began cleaning up the toys and art supplies while Giggles paced back and forth - makeup smeared, curly wig all askew, muttering something about getting home to see the rabbits. One-by-one, parents arrived to pick up their children.

Mrs. Snyder arrived to pick up her son Joey.

Mr. Berkshire picked up Patrick.

Mrs. Franks picked up the twins, Oscar and Mayer.

And then there were three. A trio of panicky brothers, shaking in their Keds, trying to avoid making eye contact with the neurotic clown.

Four-fifteen came and went with no sign of Mom. Four-thirty. Four forty-five.

That's when we huddled up and decided to make a break for it. Since Mom had dropped us off in the foyer, we figured that we'd better head back that way. When Jenny went into the side room to put the cleaning supplies away, we made our move. I held the door open as Bobby and Eric dashed out into the hallway. I followed, shutting the door behind me. We made it! Freedom!

Well, not so fast. Giggles must've heard the door close, because before we'd even gotten twenty yards down the hall, we heard his size-38 Buster Browns flopping on the linoleum. He called out after us, "Hey, youse kids, get back here! You ain't s'posed ta leave till your ma shows up!" Terrified, we kicked it into a higher gear and flew around the corner . . .

. . . and there was Mom. Bobby slammed into her leg, and hid behind her as Giggles skidded to a stop.

"Are you their Ma?" asked the clown.

"Yes, I'm sorry I'm late. I had to help clean up. Do I need to sign them out or anything?"

"Nah, that's okay. See ya."

"Bye. Say goodbye to the clown, boys."

Eric and I mumbled our goodbyes. Bobby gave him the finger.

We let Mom have it on the car ride home.

"You didn't tell us there was gonna be a clown!"

"I had to eat a stupid peanut butter sandwich! I HATE peanut butter!"

"We were the last ones picked up! Don't you love us anymore?" Eric was the master of the guilt trip.

I don't remember Mom ever giving us an explanation for this traumatic event, hell, to her it may have just been another meeting. But to us it was an afternoon in the Giggles McYukyuk House of Horrors. "Permanent scarring" isn't the right phrase, but it's the first one that comes to mind.

I'll probably forgive Mom someday. Probably.

d

Blame Kindergarten

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 23:03:00 +0000

For as long as I can remember, people have been asking me the same question. It's a question that seems simple at first, but it's actually kind of complex. I've had the question asked with a degree of pity, I've had it shouted at me in a fit of blind rage. It's been asked by friends and family, and on more than one occasion (such as the time I accidentally dumped an entire buffet table on a group of college professors) it's been asked by complete strangers. The question's been accompanied by terms of affection, such as "sweetie" or "honey," and it's been followed by streams of profanity like "you fucking asshole" and "God dammit, you clumsy brain-dead moron, now I'm covered in clam dip!" But finally, after many years of pondering, I've been able to answer the question that's been asked of me my entire life:

The question being . . . "What is wrong with you?"

The short answer is "quite a lot." But it's not my fault, no, no it isn't. There is only one person to blame for all my quirks, screw-ups, annoying habits, and personality flaws.

I'm speaking of course about my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Fisk.

The year was 1970. The Beatles had just called it quits, Apollo 13 narrowly averted disaster, and in Staten Island a child was born who would one day change the course of television history -- Ricky Schroder. While all of that was taking place, a 63-year old dragon lady named Abigail Fisk went about her daily business of tormenting a classroom full of kindergartners.

Mrs. Fisk was tall and spindly with gray hair, and glasses so thick the New York Rangers could've used the lenses as practice pucks. She probably would have been a good teacher, though, were it not for one minor detail.

She hated children.

While most kindergarten teachers are kind, nurturing, motherly types who do everything in their power to get students excited about the whole going-to-school experience, Mrs. Fisk was just the opposite. Simply put, and here I am being kind, she was a bitter, evil, heartless, soul-sucking bitch. She not only got us kids to hate school, she made us despise everything associated with it. We hated the alphabet, we hated crayons, we hated Curious George and the man in the yellow freaking hat. In our classroom, the Keebler chocolate-covered graham crackers tasted like painted cardboard and the milk was always curdled.

Because the local elementary school was over-crowded, our kindergarten classroom was located in a nearby firehouse. You're probably thinking, "Wow, that must've been cool for the kids, getting to see fire engines and meet fire fighters and maybe even feed dog biscuits to a sweet old dalmatian named Sparky." You're not even close. No matter how many times we asked Mrs. Fisk if we could go look at the fire trucks and maybe ring the bell, she never let us. Not once. And we knew they were parked right there in the attached garage because we saw them drive out whenever the alarm went off. Who the hell can concentrate on counting when there's a really awesome red fire truck in the very next room? Not me, that's for sure.

All the kids in my class lived in the same neighborhood, which was within walking distance of the firehouse. On rainy days, we'd all show up in our yellow raincoats and thick rubber galoshes. One boy in our class, a shrimp of a kid named Thomas, could never manage to get his galoshes off. This created a significant problem for Thomas for two reasons. First, Mrs. Fisk had a steadfast rule that stated, "all coats, jackets, boots, and other outdoor garments are to be kept in the cloak room at all times," and second, it was her personal belief that, and I quote, "Five-year old children are more than capable of dressing and undressing themselves." While that was mostly true, it was not the case when it came to Thomas and his galoshes. No matter how many times Thomas asked, crying, "Mrs. Fisk, can you help me take these off?" she would always reply, "You're a big boy, Thomas, you can do it yourself." But he couldn't, so every rainy morning Thomas sat dripping wet on the floor of the cloak room while his two best friends Eddie and Mark tugged and pulled at his galoshes until they came off, at which point Eddie and Mark flew across the cloak room and slammed into the far wall. After regaining consciousness, they reached into Thomas's galoshes and removed his tennis shoes which had come off as well. God forbid that his shoes had become untied because Mrs. Fisk wouldn't help with that either, and no one in our class knew how to tie shoes except Elizabeth . . . and she hated boys. In the land of kids with no manual dexterity, the shoe-tying girl is queen. Most of the time, though, Thomas's shoes stayed tied and he was pretty good at slipping them back on without having to untie them.

Like most teachers, Mrs. Fisk assigned specific weekly jobs to students in the class. "Line leader," "paper passer" and "milk monitor" were positions of prestige, highly coveted by everyone. Other jobs, though, you simply didn't want to get saddled with. The worst of the lot was "eraser cleaner." In the era before white boards and dry-erase markers, classrooms came equipped with blackboards, chalk, and felt erasers. At the end of each day, the "eraser cleaner" had to take all six erasers out behind the firehouse (you couldn't see the fire trucks from there either, dammit) and slap them together until all the chalk dust was gone. Since we were five, this task was harder than you'd think so the "eraser cleaner" always ended up with white chalk dust in his eyes, on his clothes, in his hair . . . basically he looked like a powdered doughnut with feet. And what did you get as a reward? A bath when you got home.

Mrs. Fisk assigned these jobs at random, rather than by any particular skill set possessed by individual students. This only presented a problem when Zolton got the job of "cookie monitor." Zolton Blomfeld was a year older than the rest of us, and he looked exactly like a kid named Zolton Blomfeld should look. He was three and a half feet tall by three and a half feet wide, had a gigantic head bursting with curly red hair, and he smelled like cheese. When it was his job to pass out the cookies, Zolton helped himself to as many Chips Ahoys or Nilla Wafers as he wanted while skipping other kids entirely (and I'll point out here that while the overall gloom in Mrs. Fisk's class caused even cookies to lose their flavor, they were still cookies and as such, we wanted them). Anyway, it was always traumatizing for the kids who Zolton skipped on his cookie-distribution rounds, but there was nothing they could do about it because Mrs. Fisk had another steadfast rule which said, "Don't be a tattletale." This pretty much gave Zolton free reign, because unless Mrs. Fisk actually caught Zolton in the act, he'd get away with his cookie swiping. Witness statements amounted to tattling and were therefore inadmissible. While this "don't tell me your problems" approach is just terrible for a teacher to have, it could be much worse. Imagine if Mrs. Fisk worked as a 911 dispatcher:

"911, what's your emergency?"

"HELP! A GUY BROKE INTO OUR HOUSE AND SLAUGHTERED MY FAMILY WITH A MACHETE! I'M HIDING IN MY BEDROOM AND HE'S TRYING TO BREAK DOWN THE DOOR!"

"Don't be such a tattletale."

*click*

To sum up, during my year in firehouse kindergarten, I learned that adults won't help you even if your galoshes are stuck, if someone treats you like crap you just have to deal with it, and no matter how hard you work you'll still end up having to clean erasers. These are the building blocks upon which my psyche was formed. So the next time you think to yourself, "Damn, what the hell is WRONG with that guy?" . . . now you know.

It's Mrs. Fisk's fault.

The Best and the Worst: Product Spokespersons

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 28 Jul 2010 10:20:00 +0000

If you were in charge of marketing for your company, you'd want to make sure that the spokesperson in your television commercials was someone that would make your product appealing, someone that the general public would view as entertaining, or trustworthy, or (let's be honest) scorchingly hot. You would not, for example, choose Christopher Walken to be the face of OshKosh children's clothing, nor would you name Mike Tyson as the cornerstone of your "Welcome to the History Channel" ad campaign. Selecting just the right actor, celebrity, or even a specially-created fictional personality is absolutely critical in the success of your company's public relations and marketing.

With that in mind, let's take a look at the best and the worst of what TV commercials have to offer.

THE BAD

1. Flo (Progressive Insurance)

This bitch is so artificially perky and genuinely annoying that I wouldn't buy Progressive insurance if they offered a free policy and agreed to mow my front lawn every week. Seriously, I could toss Flo into a friggin' wood chipper and whistle "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah" as the machine chewed her scrawny ass to bits.

The absolute worst of the Progressive commercials (and they're all pretty damn irritating) is the one where she responds with a grating "DISCOUNT!" to everything a potential customer says. Are you a safe driver? DISCOUNT! Do you own a home? DISCOUNT! Do you want to whack me in the head with a Ping seven-iron? DISCOUNT!

And what's with that name, "Flo"? No one under the age of sixty is named "Flo," in fact, the name pretty much died out when the TV show Alice went off the air. Come to think of it, that Flo was just as obnoxious as the insurance lady and they even kind of look alike.

2. Clara Peller (Wendy's)

We've got to go back to the mid-1980's for our next P.R. nightmare, the infamous "Where's the Beef?" lady Clara Peller. I was unfortunate enough to have actually been working at Wendy's during this campaign, and let me tell you, you have no idea how absolutely infuriating it was to have every other customer ask "Where's the Beef?!" at the drive-through window. I must've heard that phrase fifty times a shift, and every single time, the douchebag who said it thought it was the funniest thing since Ex-lax brownies.

At the time, the Wendy's people were quick to point out that Ms. Peller was not a trained actress, in fact, she was working as a manicurist on a commercial set when someone thought that her unique voice would make her perfect for ad work. Whoever that person is, I hope he dies a slow painful death involving red ants, or maybe piranha.

Anyway, for about a year, you couldn't get away from the phrase "WHERE'S THE BEEF?!" Walter "Three Electoral Votes" Mondale even used the slogan in his Democratic Primary battle against Gary Hart. Let's face it, if Walter Mondale thinks your ad campaign is cool, it's time to fire your advertising agency.

3. Burger King (Burger King . . . duh)

Okay, to start with, the creation of the "Burger King" character is such a blatant rip off of "Jack" from Jack in the Box, that whoever came up with the idea should be ashamed of himself. But beyond that, this guy is just plain creepy. His facial expression never changes, he doesn't talk, and he's not even entertaining. In various commercials, he breaks into someone's home and scares the shit out of him, infiltrates McDonald's headquarters and steals their hamburger recipe (have we no shame?), and I believe in one spot the Burger King sneaks into an animal shelter and suffocates a dozen golden retriever puppies. He's not a burger magnate, he's a psychopath. Have it my way, you say? Okay, my way is to get rid of this freakish whack job and replace him with, well, pretty much anyone. Except Flo the Insurance Lady.

4. Mr. Six (Six Flags)

Okay, the Six Flags commercials might be regional, so if you have no idea who this idiot is, consider your self lucky. "Mr. Six" looks like the love child of George Burns and that turtle from the Bugs Bunny cartoons and doesn't do much besides dance around like a maniac. I guess the sight of an old man dancing is supposed to be funny, but it's really, really sad. He's not even an old man, he's a young guy wearing a rubber face and a pair of Harry Caray's old eyeglasses.

Naming this guy "Mr. Six" was a stroke of idiocy. I mean, really, is that the best they could come up with? What was THAT writers' meeting like?

"Okay, we've got to think of a name for this guy. Hmmmm. It's for Six Flags Amusement Parks . . . "

"I've got it! How about Mr. Amusement Park?"

"Not bad, let's keep that in mind. Anyone else?"

"Roller Coaster Guy?"

"Mr. Flags?"

"Wait! Call off the dogs! The search is over . . . we'll call him . . . Mister Six! Get it? SIX Flags?"

"Murphy, you're a genius! Let's go have lunch."

The most recent Six Flags ad campaign has Mr. Six comparing mundane activities like tossing a ball of yarn to your cat (ONE FLAG!) with riding a Six Flags roller coaster like X or Deja Vu (SIX FLAGS!). Originally, the star of these commercials was an Asian dude, but apparently someone complained that his cheers of "ONE FRAG!", "SIX FRAGS" was a racist stereotype. Too bad, because I actually thought that guy was pretty funny. Mr. Six, on the other hand, is just weird.

5. Mr. Whipple (Charmin)

We're going "old school" on this one.

Mr. Whipple was a grocer (I think) who had an almost obsessive attitude toward protecting his store's supply of Charmin toilet tissue from potential squeezers. Whenever one of Whipple's female customers picked up a package of Charmin, she couldn't resist the temptation to squeeze it because Charmin is so ridiculously soft and squeezable. Whipple, for whatever reason, had a problem with this and would glare at these women and snarl, "Hey, bitches, don't squeeze my fuckin' Charmin." Okay, maybe he didn't put it quite that way but he wanted to. You could see it in his eyes.

Personally, I think Mr. Whipple should've gotten together with Rosie, the "Quicker Picker Upper" lady from the Bounty paper towel commercials. They would've been a match made in paper goods heaven.

THE GOOD

1. Jack (Jack in the Box)

In my mind, this is the best of the best. Whoever thought of taking a completely ridiculous character like a jack-in-the-box and turning him into a serious (yet whimsical) CEO deserves a spot right next to Karl Malden in the Television Commercial Hall of Fame. Honestly, who would ever think of making a clown their company's Chief Executive Officer?

Okay, BP, good point.

Yeah, Enron too, I forgot about them.

Still, this guy is simply awesome. From giving that stoner kid a discount on his tacos to sitting at his desk making his sandwiches talk, Jack is the very embodiment of sound leadership. His implementation of "Bowl Haircut Day" to promote the Jack-in-the-Box breakfast bowls was brilliant.

I'd work for him any day.

2. The Most Interesting Man in the World (Dos Equis)

The debonair Dos Equis representative is truly a man's man (but the ladies love him too). He once had an awkward moment just to see how it feels. He speaks French . . . in Russian. Even his enemies list him as their emergency contact. His personality is so magnetic, he can't carry credit cards. He never says that anything tastes like chicken . . . not even chicken. He lives vicariously through himself. He's a lover not a fighter, but he's also a fighter so don't get any ideas. Chuck Norris carries a picture of him in his wallet.

This is what endorsing a product is all about. The Most Interesting Man Alive gives Dos Equis (a mediocre to above average beer at best) credibility. He doesn't always drink beer, but when he does, he prefers Dos Equis. And therefore, so should you.

3. Rapping Hamsters (Kia)

I'll be the first to admit it, there is no logical reason whatsoever that I should like these guys. I hate hip-hop, I don't like hamsters, and I would never in a million years purchase a Kia Soul (or any other Kia, for that matter). But the Hamstars are friggin' hilarious. Sure, they're a little bit racist and gangster, but watching those fat furry bodies dance to the catchy lyrics "You can get with this, you can get with that . . . doo-dah-dippity . . . " makes me smile every time. I especially dig the one in the white hoodie. He's got some moves.

4. Caveman (Geico)

As time's gone on these commercials have gotten less and less clever, but when they first hit the airwaves the originality and humor was almost revolutionary. It started out with a basic idea, Geico.com is so simple even a caveman can do it. The point is made, and if it went no further, no one would've cared. But then, cut to a restaurant where the Geico representative is being forced to apologize to a couple Neanderthals (or maybe Australopithicusses, they never really specify) who were offended by the insulting catch phrase. The banter is priceless.

"Seriously, we apologize. We had no idea you guys were still around."

"Yeah, next time maybe do a little research."

"Are you gentlemen ready to order?"

"I'll have the roast duck with mango salsa."

"I don't have much of an appetite."

A few of the other caveman spots were clever, but none ever matched the pure genius of the original. Classic.

5. Sonny the Cuckoo (Cocoa Puffs)

Okay, perhaps he came across as a hopped-up cereal junkie. Some kids may have even found him frightening. But when it comes to simplifying your message, you just can't get any clearer than "I'm cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs." Sonny will live forever in my memory because back in the mid-80's, when I was working as a salesmen at Radio Shack, my boss who we'll call Bob (because that was his name) would use the phrase "Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs" in almost any situation.

"Bob, this lady wants to return her Realistic tape recorder because the rewind button doesn't work."

"Well, that just makes me cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs."

"Bob, any chance we could get an increase in our sales commission this month?"

"What are you, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs?"

"Hey, Bob, Jennifer called in sick again."

"That woman is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs."

On and on it went.

Cereal companies have always been pretty good at creating friendly and charming characters -- Tony the Tiger, Dig 'Em the Frog, Cap'n Crunch, etc. -- but Sonny was neither friendly nor charming. He was just plain nuts.

And that's why we love him.

d

What Ever Happened To . . . The Grinch?

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 08:25:00 +0000

Stanley "The Grinch" Wadsworth spent the first thirty or so years of his life terrorizing Whoville from his decrepit cave atop Mount Crumpet, in the state of Who Hampshire. Most of the time, he merely played innocent pranks on the Whos, like removing all the city's stop signs or cutting all the Who-television cables. Other times, though, when he was in a particularly Grinchy mood, he became much more dastardly and, dare I say, psychotic. The best example of this is the incident in 1969 when the Grinch poisoned the Whoville water supply, resulting in 12 Who-deaths.

His most well-documented attack on the Whos, though, came on Christmas Eve, 1971 when he committed a series of home-invasion robberies. The Grinch had a long-standing hatred of the Whos and their propensity for celebrating the Christmas season by singing obnoxious Who-carols and festooning their entire village with tinsel, wreaths, mistletoe, and other traditional Christmas paraphernalia. It should be noted, however, that not all Whos participated in this holiday cheer-fest. The Who Jews, for example, did not celebrate Christmas at all. Instead, they would light their menorahs and exchange gifts on the eight nights of Who-nukkah.

It was on that fateful Christmas Eve that the Grinch met his future wife, Cindy Lou Who. Dressed as Santa Claus, the Grinch broke into the home of Cindy Lou (a cute little Who, who was no more than two) and attempted to steal the family's presents as well as their Christmas tree. Cindy Lou caught him in the act, but The Grinch fed the gullible Who-kid a line of bullshit about taking the tree back to his workshop to fix a light that had burned out. The naive Cindy Lou bought his story, and the Grinch went on about his Grinchly business.

As the story goes, the Whos barely even noticed that their homes had been ransacked and their presents and decorations were gone. They simply joined hands in the village square and continued with the Holiday Whoo-pla. The Grinch couldn't believe it. What was the use of being a despicable bastard if your victims didn't get all freaked out about your evildoing? Upon hearing the Whos break into a rousing rendition of the holiday classic "Wah Who Doray, Wah Who Doray, Welcome Christmas Christmas Day," he realized that maybe, just maybe, Christmas was about more than just presents, it was about family, and friends, and the Who-spirit.

Who-nukkah, however, still sucked.

After the holiday bonding with the Whos, the Grinch's heart grew three sizes and he became a model citizen in Whoville (although he kept his residence on Mount Crumpet, because there's not much of a real estate market for decrepit old caves). He was elected to the Whoville City Council, he opened a small "handyman" shop, and he and his dog Max could be found at many Whoville parties and events. Finally, in 1989, he married 21-year old Cindy Lou Who, the girl who he'd tricked on that Christmas Eve long ago.

The marriage was not well-received by the Who-population as a whole, primarily because of the age difference between the bride and groom. The Grinch was now pushing fifty, and many Whos spoke out against the so-called "cradle robbery."

"Cindy Lou was always a sweet girl, but she was incredibly naive," said her brother Yuno Who. "When the Grinch softened up that Christmas, she started to worship the guy. Yeah, he seemed to be pretty nice after all that, but everyone knew he had that dark side. No one can change THAT much, and I never really forgave him for swiping our family's Who-Hash and Whoberry pie. Cindy Lou, though, the older she got the more she adored him. I tried to tell her that he was too old for her, that she didn't know what she was getting herself into, but it was no use. She was determined to marry the guy."

After a wonderful honeymoon on the island of Oa-who, the Grinch and Cindy Lou were happy for awhile, but before long the difference in their ages proved to be an impossible obstacle to overcome. The Grinch did not age gracefully, and the youthful and exuberant Cindy Lou began to crave excitement. One night, while working her waitressing shift at Who-ters, she met a 22-year old surfing champion named Troy Watt. One thing led to another, and Cindy Lou started seeing Watt on a regular basis. It didn't take long for the Grinch to become suspicious.

"So, where have you been?" he asked one night, as Cindy Lou arrived home three hours after her shift ended.

"I can't hide this from you anymore," she said, refusing to make eye contact. "I'm having an affair."

"WHAT?!?"

This stunned Cindy Lou. "Oh Stanley. How did you know?"

"Know about what?"

"Yeah, him. That's the guy I've been seeing."

"Who?"

"No, it's not a Who. It's a regular human."

"What is?"

"Yes. Watt is a human."

The Grinch was befuddled. "Look, all I'm asking is what's the name of this guy you're sleeping with."

"That's right. Watt is his name." Cindy Lou started crying.

"Why are you asking ME? How the hell would I know?"

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you. Watt is the name of the guy I'm sleeping with."

"I'm asking YOU! What's his name?"

"That IS the guy's name!"

"What is?"

"Yes."

"So let me ask one more time, you're sleeping with who?"

"No, Watt is not a Who."

"Isn't he?"

"Hee? Wait, why are you bringing him up? Hee is just a friend." It was true. Jimmy Hee was a Who who Cindy Lou knew, and their close friendship grew from the time they were two. They were life-long pals, more like brother and sister, really.

"Who is just a friend?"

"Hee is. And yes, Hee is a Who," said Cindy Lou.

"Okay, so now you're saying that he's just a friend?"

"Hee has always been a friend."

"Then what's the name of the guy you're banging?"

"Right. I'm sleeping with Watt and Hee's just a friend."

The Grinch could feel the blood boiling in his veins. "He's not just a friend if you're SLEEPING WITH HIM, DAMMIT!"

"Hee's not the one I'm sleeping with, Watt is!"

"WHAT?"

"Right."

"What's his name? The guy you're nailing?"

"Exactly," said Cindy Lou, calming down a bit. "Now you've got it. I'm glad that's off my chest."

"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT WE'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

"I'm having an affair, I just told you."

"With . . . who?"

"No! With Watt! The Who, Hee, is just a friend!"

"Okay," said the Grinch, exasperated. "Let's start this again. Tell me the name of the guy you're sleeping with."

"Watt."

"TELL ME THE NAME OF THE GUY . . . "

"That's his name!"

"What's his name?"

"Yes."

"Let's try it this way," said the Grinch. "Suppose one night I come home early from work and catch you in the act. I bust through the bedroom door and I see you doing . . . what?"

"Now that's the first thing you've said right."

"I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. You're doing what?"

"Yes, dear, I'm doing Watt. Sometimes Watt does it to me."

"What does it to you?"

"Sure. And, if I may say so, he does it pretty damn well."

"Fine, forget it then bitch, don't tell me. I don't give a shit who the bastard is. We're finished, Cindy Lou 'Ho! Get the hell out of my cave!"

Wisely, she did just that. That was the last she or any of the Whos heard of the Grinch.

For about a month and a half.

Losing his dear Cindy Lou caused the Grinch's heart to not only return to its original diminutive size, but to shrink one size smaller to the point that it resembled a shriveled up Monukka raisin and, even more significantly, he lost his fucking mind. One night, he and his dog Max were sitting in the cave doing shots of Who-quila when the Grinch started singing to himself.

"Wah Who, Doray, Wah Who Doray Cindy Lou's a fucking whore.
Wah Who Doray, Wah Who Floray, kill some Whos and kill some more."

Okay, so he was no Cole Porter.

The Grinch and Max headed down to Whoville, where they wandered around in smoldering rage. The Grinch was smoldering, that is. Max, on the other hand, really didn't give a damn. He was about 231 in dog years by this point and it was all he could do to not shit on the sidewalk (though the Grinch would definitely have been okay with that sort of thing, especially on the streets of fucking Whoville).

As they passed the corner of Horton Street and Lorax Blvd., the Grinch noticed a young couple smoking and giggling on the patio of a Who-kah Bar. It was Cindy Lou and Jimmy "Just a Friend" Hee! Without a word, the Grinch pulled out a Seuss and Wesson nine-millimeter semi-automatic and popped Jimmy in the back of the head. Hee died instantly, while Max lost control of his bowels. Cindy Lou just looked at her ex-husband and cried, "Why, Stanley, why? Why did you murder my friend Jimmy? Why?"

He shot her in the chest.

Stan "The Grinch" Wadsworth was convicted of multiple Who-icide and sentenced to life in prison. Compared to his cave on Mount Crumpet, this was an upgrade in lifestyle. He died in 2001 of natural causes, which is to say, another inmate shanked him.

Max is currently the mascot of the Whoville Fire Department.
d

s

Locard's Exchange Principle

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 08:24:00 +0000

Edmond Locard was a pioneer in the field of forensic science, and became known as the "Sherlock Holmes of France." While that may seem like a bit of a back-handed compliment, like being called the "Wayne Gretzky of India" or the "Eddie Van Halen of Amish Country", Locard did indeed develop the very foundation on which modern crime scene investigation is constructed. The arrogantly-named Locard's Exchange Principle states, "with contact between two items, there will be an exchange." In basic terms, this means that whenever an individual (most commonly the perpetrator of a crime) interacts with the crime scene or the victim, there will be an exchange of evidence between the perpetrator and the scene/victim.

The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to psychos living or dead is purely coincidental. No, really. I promise.

It was ten-fifteen, on a chilly evening in downtown Boston. Jennifer Reynolds and two of her girlfriends left the AMC Theater after thoroughly enjoying Sex and the City 2 for the fourth time. One of the friends suggested that the three of them get something to eat, but Jennifer said no, she had to get up early for work in the morning, but the other two should go on ahead. This was an unfortunate decision on Jennifer's part because if she had gone with her friends to grab a bite, she would've enjoyed a tasty hamburger and a strawberry milkshake instead of what she ended up getting, which was murdered.

As Jennifer walked, alone, to the parking garage across the street, she was followed by the notorious serial killer The Watertown Whacko (cue haunting violin music). Just as Jennifer reached out to open the driver's side door to her 2005 Ford Mustang, the Whacko clubbed her over the head with a sawed off Louisville Slugger, Rico Petrocelli model. Having rendered poor Jennifer unconscious, the Whacko then strangled her to death with a length of rope and violated her corpse repeatedly. When the deed was done, he fled the scene and went home where he put on a pair of his mother's pantyhose, slathered himself in Fluffernutter, and watched reruns of the The Three Stooges while pleasuring himself.

You don't pick up a nickname like "The Watertown Whacko" by being polite and charming.

Which brings us back to Locard and his exchange principle.

The detectives and forensic team investigating the Jennifer Reynolds murder would undoubtedly discover a great deal of physical evidence. The Watertown Whacko is a disorganized killer, a man of opportunity rather than a meticulous planner. Among other things, meticulous planners do not, as a rule, slather themselves in Fluffernutter because it's a sticky substance that's difficult to wash off. They opt instead for a slicker lubricant, perhaps margarine, maybe vegetable oil.

Anyway, because the Whacko is careless, he exchanged a good deal of evidence with Jennifer. He left semen (unless he used a condom, but let's face it, he probably didn't), hair, fibers from his clothing, spittle, and other microscopic DNA evidence on the bludgeoned and strangled carcass. Conversely, he also picked up evidence -- strands of Jennifer's blond hair and other fibers, in addition to matted blood on the Rico Petrocelli baseball bat and microscopic DNA on the rope.

The Whacko also exchanged evidence with the crime scene itself, leaving fingerprints on Jennifer's Mustang, footprints on the floor of the parking garage, and perhaps picking up pebbles and dirt in the treads of his sneakers.

All of this evidence would be collected and analyzed by law enforcement officers, and hopefully the Watertown Whacko could be identified, located, and brought to justice. I'm thinking "death by flaying" would not be too extreme a punishment.

So that's Locard's Exchange Principle in a somewhat over-sized nutshell. But it makes me wonder, could this principle be applied in areas outside of forensic science?

Every day, we come in contact with hundreds of other people. I don't mean physical contact, necessarily, I'm talking about conversations, verbal exchanges, even brief smiles or quizzical glances while in line at the grocery store. Is it possible to encounter another human being and NOT have some sort of exchange take place?

A few weeks ago, I was at a local Subway restaurant. I ordered my usual, the Italian BMT, and when I got to the register to pay, the cashier told me that it was covered, the lady in front of me had taken care of it. By the time I turned around to thank her, she had already left. Since I already had my credit card out, I figured I'd continue the gesture by paying for the meatball sub the guy behind me was ordering. I took my sandwich and sat down at one of the tables, and it was then that I witnessed something truly inspiring.

The guy that I had treated decided to pay for the next lady's sandwich.

Who then, in turn, paid for the couple behind her.

This simple act of generosity was repeated six more times , the streak ending only when a customer ordered eight sandwiches for himself and his co-workers. The guy whose "turn" it was looked at him and said with a chuckle, "Okay, I'm nice, but I'm not THAT nice." It got a big laugh from the customers as well as the Subway employees (or, as they like to be called, "sandwich artists").

My point is this. That series of exchanges certainly brightened my day, as I'm sure it did for everyone else who was there, and it reinforced the sometimes-dying belief that people are, by nature, good. It's a lunch that I'll never forget.

Think about the exchanges we have with each other hundreds of times a day. Saying "good morning" to a stranger on the street. Flipping the bird to the asshole that cuts you off in traffic. Reading your kids a bedtime story and tucking them in. Some of these exchanges will be remembered forever, some forgotten almost immediately, but they're exchanges all the same.

The next time you walk in to the bank, order your morning coffee, take your seat on the bus, show up at work in the morning . . . you're going to interact with another person. It's unavoidable.

What kind of evidence will you leave?

How Many Missippis?

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 17 Jul 2010 08:27:00 +0000

I ran full speed down Runyon Avenue, Mike the Whip in hot pursuit. Mike's top speed was just a bit quicker than mine, so even though I'd managed to get a couple steps ahead of him, the gap was closing. As instructed, I made a hard left at Old Man Wagner's beat up Chrysler Imperial and I looked back just in time to see a rough-looking teenager named Donny fire a bullet right at me. I took it in the gut.

"Touchdown! Burned you on that one, Mike!" I yelled.

"Yeah, yeah, just kick off and we'll see who gets burnt next time."

"Suckers walk," I said. According to the Official Runyon Avenue Street Touch Football Rule Book (5th Edition), after scoring a touchdown, the offensive team was permitted to do the Ickey Shuffle, Billy "White Shoes" Johnson's Funky Chicken, or whatever celebratory touchdown gyrations they chose while the defense they'd scored upon had to drag their sorry asses down to the other end of the "field" to receive the ensuing kickoff. Hence the term, "suckers walk".

Mike trudged back down the street, while Donny and I did a triumphant "Can-Can".

Street football has many variations, most of which are dependent upon the number of players on hand. Sometimes, like in the game I just told you about, there were only three players. It was me vs. Mike the Whip, with Donny acting as "steady quarterback"[1]. The steady quarterback was a player designated to be the QB for both teams, and was used when you had an odd number of kids. For example, if five guys showed up to play, the teams might be me and Mike against Donny and Paul, with Robbie as steady quarterback.

Of course, these games were usually somewhat rigged, depending on who was pissed off at whom that week. One time a guy named Kenny was the steady quarterback the same week Mike the Whip had stolen his girlfriend. I beat Mike that day by a score of 84-0. Here's Kenny's statistical summary for the game:

As QB for Mike: 0-33 passing, 0 TD's, 12 interceptions
As QB for me: 22-27 passing, 10 TD's, 0 interceptions

Since everyone got to be steady quarterback eventually, those things kind of evened out in the long run.

Street football in my neighborhood was basically intended to be a three-on-three game, although two-on-two would also work. If more kids than that showed up, we just headed to the ball field and played tackle. The basic structure of our three-on-three worked like this:

Two telephone poles, about 25 yards apart, were the goal lines. Just about halfway between the telephone poles, in front of the Smiths' house, there was a scrawny little tree that served as our first down marker. If your offensive drive started deep in your own territory, once you passed the scrawny tree, you got a new set of downs to work with.

On your offensive team, you had a quarterback and two wide receivers. Since it was touch football, and because Runyon Avenue wasn't wide enough to allow for the old fashioned Green Bay Packers power sweep, the passing game dominated. On defense, you had a defensive lineman (or "rusher") and two defensive backs who covered the receivers. Since there was no offensive line to block the rusher, he instead had to count Mississippis.[2] You know, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi, etc." Sometimes the rules required the rusher to count five Mississippis before charging in, sometimes it was three. Or, if the quarterback was younger than ten years old or if he threw like a girl (I'm looking at YOU, Gordon Pluchinsky), ten Mississippis were granted. This gave the quarterback a realistic amount of time to drop back and locate a receiver. Over the years, or maybe it was that way from the very beginning, the defensive linemen, in their haste to sack the quarterback, abbreviated Mississippi to the quicker "Missippi."

It was because of the Missippi rule that a kid named Randy hated to play defensive line. You see, Randy had a stuttering problem, so by the time he made it all the way to "four Muh-muh-muhsippi, five Muh-muh-muh-muhsippi," the quarterback had not only completed a touchdown pass, he'd gone into his house, made a glass of Nestle's Quik, and returned in time to finish the Touchdown Hokey Pokey with his teammates.

This reminds me of another story. In the winter, Randy would always wear a knit New York Giants hat, with a fluffy blue and red pom pom, or "beanie", on top. One morning on the school bus, Mike the Whip kept flicking the beanie, which drove Randy nuts. Finally, he turned around and yelled, "Hey! Quit flicking my buh-buh-beanie!" Naturally this cracked everyone up, and from then on no one's winter hat had a beanie on top, they had bubba beanies.

The standard touch football playbook was pretty simple. The receivers ran patterns like the "button-hook", the "square in", and the "run straight downfield until you get to the trash can and turn around, I'll fake it to you, and then go long". The quarterback would wait till a receiver got open (hopefully prior to "five Missippi") and try to hit him with the pass.

One Saturday morning in January, with the temperature hovering in the mid-20's, we had a good game going. It was me, Paul and Randy against Donny, Robbie and Mike (not Mike the Whip, another Mike. Our neighborhood had several Mikes, and about four Joeys). My team was on defense.

"Okay, I said. I'll cover Robbie, Paul cover Mike, and Randy, you rush the QB."

"Aw, muh-muh-man! Why do I gotta ruh-rush?"

"Because you're too slow to cover either of the receivers," I said. In the spirit of fair play, though, I asked Donny if we could change the rules a little.

"Hey! Donny! If Randy rushes, can he just count three Missippis? It's not fair to make him count five, it'll take a friggin' hour!"

"Hell no!" called Donny from the huddle. "It's five Missippis! You don't like it, just let Jiggly Mouth cover Mike or Robbie and someone else rush."

Clearly, the spirit of fair play did not exist on Runyon Avenue.

"Sorry, Randy, you're rushing."

Donny broke the huddle and brought his team to the line. Mike was split wide left, Robbie wide right. Donny barked out the signals.

"Down! Set! Blue 47! Blue 47! HIKE!"

"ONE MUH-MUH-MUH . . ."

Robbie took off on a fly pattern, while Mike cut across the middle. When he tried to stop short, though, he hit a patch of ice and fell to the ground, at which point his jacket broke.

It didn't rip. It didn't tear.

It broke.

Mike was wearing one of those 1977-edition NFL jackets (Redskins, if I recall correctly) designed to look like your standard varsity jacket. Felt, with the imitation leather (or as it's more commonly known, plastic) sleeves. As cold as it was that day, when Mike fell arm-first onto the frozen street, the plastic simply cracked, all the way around. After we laughed our asses off for a few minutes, Mike pulled off the broken sleeve and we played on.

Years later, Randy tried out for the high school football team. Because of his size (and the fact that he moved about as quickly as, say, a glacier) the coach put him on the defensive line. According to legend, during the first intra-squad practice game, Randy stepped up to the line of scrimmage, looked at the quarterback and asked, "How muh-many muh-muh-sippis?" Not missing a beat, the quarterback replied, "Five."

The center snapped the ball, and Randy stood up and started counting, "One muh-muh-muh-sippi . . . ", at which point the offensive tackle planted him into the turf. Having learned his lesson, Randy lined up for the next play with fire in his eyes. Abandoning the Missippi-counting entirely, on the next play he tossed aside two blockers and sacked the quarterback with a flourish. I don't know if he then did the Ickey Shuffle, but he should've.

Randy, Donny, and another kid from our neighborhood named Mark all went on to have a fairly successful high school football careers. With the skills they'd developed in the Runyon Avenue Street Football League, no one was really surprised. And of course, they always remembered football's Golden Rule.

Namely, try not to piss off the steady quarterback.

[1] In some neighborhoods, this position was called the "all-time quarterback". But those were the neighborhoods where all the douchebags lived.
[2] In those same neighborhoods, "alligators".

d

OCD: Obsessive Compulsive Dog

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 14 Jul 2010 08:26:00 +0000

Dogs as a group are pretty stupid. Or to put it another way, if someday the human race becomes extinct and the rest of the animal kingdom gets together to elect a leader based on intelligence, the winning candidate would most likely be a dolphin, a well-trained chimp, or possibly even a home-schooled Palomino horse, but definitely not a dog. In fact, the dogs would probably not even be aware that an election had taken place, as they'd still be trying to figure out why their food dish was empty and no one was throwing the tennis ball for them to fetch.

This is not meant as an insult to dogs, by the way. They have lots of redeeming qualities such as loyalty and playfulness, and it's kind of fun to watch them run around in confusion when you pretend to throw the tennis ball. But let's be honest here, if dogs were any dumber, they be cats. Or reality television stars.

You won't be surprised to learn at this point that I am not a dog lover. I am, at best, a dog liker. This means that while I have formed a tentative cohabitation agreement with the two dogs that live in my home, I'm not particularly fond of the rest of the species. And in the case of some breeds (I'm looking at YOU, poodles), I have what would best be described as outright loathing.

Which brings us to my cocker spaniel named Munson.

I got Munson (who's named after the greatest catcher in baseball history) about three years ago when he sort of wore out his welcome with his previous family. From what I understand, Munson didn't get along with another one of the family's pets which was a potbellied pig. One day, the family came home to find that the pig had escaped his outdoor pen and wandered in through the dog door. One thing led to another and, without putting too fine a point on it, let's just say that Munson enjoyed a healthy portion of ham that evening.

So yeah, Munson is pretty cool. He's no genius, but he seems to have things figured out around here. He's able to distinguish between indoors and outdoors when it comes to doing his business, he's an accomplished fetch player (though the "return" part is hit-or-miss), and he is consistently able to outwit the other dog in our home, Newton, when it comes to finding and then hiding the best toys. To be completely fair, though, this isn't real impressive. Newton is, even by dog standards, a bit of a dunce.

Over the past several months, though, I've come to the conclusion that Munson has obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). Sufferers of OCD have certain behaviors that they MUST perform, otherwise they will, and here I use the medical terminology, go all batshit. For example, some people with OCD wash their hands hundreds of times a day because they are obsessed with cleanliness. Others have to have things organized a certain way, some have rituals like tapping a door five times before closing it, and in one bizarre case (I'm not making this up) a guy had to go thorough the motion of wiping off his hands whenever he saw an El Camino or even heard the WORDS "El Camino."

Munson's case isn't that extreme, but he's still kinda quirky.

When he eats his dinner, he won't eat it directly from the doggie dish. He takes a mouthful of food, carries it over to his bed or into another room, drops it out on the floor and then eats it, one kibble at a time. He then goes back to the doggie dish and repeats the process. As for his drinking, he's not real fond of the water dish, but he has no problem drinking from the swimming pool. Chlorine with a slight hint of suntan lotion, the great taste dogs love.

Another example, he always has to lay down or sleep in a corner of a room. Not on the bed, not in the middle of the floor. It has to be a corner. And he normally gathers up all his toys and surrounds himself with them. The rubber teddy bear. The stuffed bone. Even the squeaky pig which, given his sordid past, is kind of ironic.

He's also a compulsive digger. This is somewhat annoying when he's tearing up the back yard, but it's hilarious when he's on the tile floor in the kitchen. He gets the front paws going real fast, to the point where he looks like Wile E. Coyote spinning his feet in place, trying to avoid plunging to the bottom of a canyon.

For all his idiosyncrasies though, Munson's about as good a dog as one could hope for. He's not going to be performing on America's Smartest Canines or anything, but on the other hand, he doesn't eat his own poop. He's one of the family, and I'd be remiss if I didn't mention his single greatest quality:

He's not a friggin' poodle.

d

TV's Biggest Douchebags

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 09:19:00 +0000

Have you ever been watching a television show and had the irresistible desire to punch a character in the face? Who hasn't, right? Well, today we're going to take a look at the ten biggest douchebags in television history. To be clear about this, I'm not talking about the actors who played them (although in some cases the actor himself was actually a bigger douchebag than the character -- I'm looking at YOU, Dustin Diamond).

First, though, we need to establish the criteria. To be considered a true television douchebag, one must fall into at least one of the following categories:

Category A: Takes Excessive Abuse
Douchebags of this type take mountains of crap from pretty much everyone they come in contact with. Name-calling, physical violence, embarrassing pranks, they've seen it all. They have no backbone and therefore serve as doormats for their antagonists. In short, they're a statue in a world of pigeons.

Category B: An Over-inflated Self-image
These guys think that they're charming, attractive, and intelligent while everyone else on the planet just thinks they're dorks.

Category C: Flat-out Geeky
Here we're talking about your stereotypical geeks, complete with goofy glasses, highwater pants, pocket protectors, perhaps a lisp. This is compounded by the fact that generally speaking, these guys have no idea just how dorky they really are. Note: This category does not apply to those geeks who are fully aware that they're geeks and are comfortable with it (see "Sheldon, Big Bang Theory").

Category D: Incredibly Annoying
It might be a squeaky voice, maybe it's a particularly grating catch and over-used catch phrase, or perhaps it's just an excessively perky attitude, but these douchebags do nothing but annoy the crap out of basically everyone. You would cheerfully bludgeon them to death with a pipe wrench.

Category E: Sponges
These douchebags are completely unable to support themselves emotionally or financially and exist solely by mooching off the system or other people. Sometimes they express gratitude to those supporting them, but more often they don't . . . it's just take, take, take and whine, whine, whine.

Anyway, without further ado, here are the top ten, in reverse order:

10. Arnold Horshack (Welcome Back, Kotter)
Douchebag Category: A, C, D

Even among the misfit, remedial class criminals known as the Sweathogs, Arnold was the bottom-feeder. He constantly took crap from Barbarino and Epstein and would do anything they said in an attempt to be accepted by the group. His laugh was reminiscent of a seal with a bronchial infection, and whenever he thought he new the answer to one of Mr. Kotter's questions, he'd raise his hand and shout "OOH! OOH!" like he was giving birth.

Still, Arnold did have sort of an endearing quality about him, and every so often he got the upper hand with his tormentors . . . so he wasn't a complete douchebag. Still, he was in high school and carried a lunch box. There's just no getting past that.

9. Ralph Malph (Happy Days)
Douchebag Category: B, D

When you're the dorkiest member of a group that includes someone named Potsie, not much else really needs to be said. Richie was the smart one, Fonzie was the cool one, Potsie could at least sing. Ralph always thought of himself as a comedian, but let's be honest, he wasn't all that funny. His humor basically revolved around tired one-liners and recycled Vaudeville routines, and his tendency to claim "I still got it" didn't fool anyone. He never had "it". Hell, the funniest thing about him was his name . . . Ralph Malph. Seriously, what kind of parents would do that to a kid? The thing is, Ralph's father was named Mickey (don't believe me? Click here.) so the Malph family had obviously been screwed up for generations.

8. Danny Partridge (The Partridge Family)
Douchebag Category: B

I'm convinced that Danny Partridge was the inspiration for the phrase "beat him like a red-headed stepchild." Not that Shirley wasn't his real mom, but now that I think about it, there sure were a lot of different hair colors among the Partridge kids, weren't there?

Anyway, Danny spent most of his time screwing with older brother Keith who was trying to do nothing more than write moderately catchy 70's rock songs and nail all the teeny-boppers he could. Danny thought he was clever, but he was actually just a hippie version of Eddie Haskell, someone just begging to get the shit beat out of him.

And did anyone else notice that it took him almost two full seasons to realize that you don't strum an electric bass, you pluck it?

7. Mike Brady (The Brady Bunch)
Douchebag Category: None specifically, he's just an all-around douche.

I will admit to a certain degree of bias in my inclusion of Mike Brady on this list, simply because the actor who played him, Robert Reed, was a complete and utter asshole in real life. I know this from personal experience. Here's the story . . . of a dick named Bob Reed.

It was 1988, I was working at a movie theater in Pasadena. Robert Reed came in to watch some movie, I forget what it was, but for the sake of argument we'll say it was Steel Magnolias. Halfway through the previews, Reed comes storming out of the theater and confronts me by the ticket booth.

"Are you going to turn down the fucking volume in there, or are we all going to go fucking deaf?" asked the man who once chastised his son Greg for sneaking a goat up to his room. Not "Excuse me, but the sound in theater five is a bit loud," not "Would you mind turning the sound down just a tad." Just a barrage of F-bombs.

The character Mike Brady was a douche also, for many reasons. The episode where he and Sam get busted for illegal parking while dressed up in their Prince Charming and Dopey costumes comes immediately to mind.

6. J. J. Evans (Good Times)
Douchebag Category: A, B, C, D

Lots of TV's misfits had a delusional perception of themselves, but J.J. Evans was the most self-deluded of them all. He thought he was cool -- no, check that, he thought he was DYN-O-MITE! -- but he was basically just a ghetto version of Screech (more on him in a few minutes). His sister Thelma and little brother Michael were both much cooler than J.J. and everyone knew it.

To be completely fair about it, though, it wasn't all J.J.'s fault. Given his physical stature, approximately six feet tall and weighing in at about 58 pounds, the guy was pretty much a walking cartoon. He looked like he went to the blood bank and forgot to say "when". He was so skinny he had to wear scuba fins in the shower just to keep from slipping down the drain. When he turned sideways, he was invisible.

You get the idea.

5. Cliff Claven (Cheers)
Douchebag Category: A, B

A veritable encyclopedia of arcane knowledge, Cliff pestered the patrons of Cheers and endured their constant ridicule with grace and dignity. The height, or rather, the depth of Cliff's douchbagginess came during his appearance on the show Jeopardy! With an insurmountable lead heading into Final Jeopardy, all Cliff had to do was not bet everything he had, and he was a sure winner. However, Cliff HAD bet everything and when he responded to the Jeopardy answer "Archibald Leach, Bernard Schwarz, and Lucille LeSueur" with "Who are three people who have never been in my kitchen?", he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.

His buddy Norm was not surprised.

4. Ted Mosby (How I Met Your Mother)
Douchebag Category: B

Ted shares an apartment with his ex-girlfriend, and as a result, gets a front row seat when she brings home guys that are way better-looking and cooler than he is. And he's okay with this. Some might call that attitude mature and honorable, but who do they think they're kidding? He's a douche. Plus, he comes off like he thinks he's better than his friends simply because he's a college "professor" and can use big words from time to time. Yeah, he's basically a nice guy, but there are plenty of nice douchebags around. Most of them are waiters.

3. Stanley Roper (Three's Company)
Douchebag Category: A, D

Leaving aside the fact that this guy was a homophobe before the word even existed, Roper was simply the most annoying and obnoxious landlord ever, or at least until Norman Fell left the show and was replaced by Don Knotts. Imagine THAT audition.

KNOTTS: How about if I just recycle all my Barney Fife bits?

PRODUCERS: You can keep the stupid grin and the snorting, but aside from that, you'll have to come up with something new.

KNOTTS: Okay, all right. Can I dress like a pimp?

PRODUCERS: You can dress like a 70-year old white dweeb would THINK a pimp dresses.

KNOTTS: Awesome. I'll go get my white patent leather shoes.

Anyway, Roper has got to be the only male character in TV history who consciously avoided sex. Now granted, his wife wasn't exactly Farrah Fawcett, but you'd think that he'd want to shut off the lights and go for it every once in a while.

Jack, Janet, and Chrissy were constantly putting things over on Roper, most commonly trying to assure him that Jack was gay. This, of course, led to Roper's mocking Jack by doing a little fairy dance. Political correctness was still about a decade away.

Oh, and one more thing. Whenever Roper said something he thought was funny, he looked right into the camera and grinned like an idiot. Again, a pipe wrench would've been handy right then.

2. Screech (Saved By the Bell)
Douchebag Category: A, C, D

Also known as "The White Urkel," Screech Powers was a member of a peer group that, in the real world, would have had absolutely nothing to do with him. Oh, sure, Slater would've beaten the shit out of him on a weekly basis, and maybe Zack would've played humiliating pranks on him, but there never would've been anything even remotely resembling friendship between these guys. And the hot girls? Forget about it. Dorks like Screech don't have normal friends in high school. Hey, I don't make the rules. If I did, all high school band members would be allowed to have the cheerleader of his choice for an evening of wanton lust, retroactive to 1983. Are you out there, Lisa DeAngelis?

1. Alan Harper (Two and a Half Men)
Douchebag Category: A, D, E

Okay, Alan got kicked out by his bitch of a wife, and then moved in with his brother Charlie. Fine. But the way Alan takes advantage of his brother's generosity enjoying a Malibu beach house, maid service, and free baby-sitting while never offering to kick in some cash once in a while, well, it's disgraceful. Charlie would be well within his rights to kick the shit out of Alan every Friday night at 7:00. One particular case comes to mind. Charlie, for some reason or other, owes Alan about twenty bucks. When Charlie is slow with the repayment, Alan takes it upon himself to siphon gas out of Charlie's car to cover the value.

That, my friends, is major league douchebag activity right there. Never mind that you're living rent-free in a million dollar home, Alan, go ahead and be a dick about twenty dollars.

And Alan gets trampled by everyone. Charlie, his ex, Berta the housekeeper, his other ex (who doesn't have enough brain-power to light a refrigerator bulb), and even his son Jake. For that reason, as well as many others, Alan Harper earns the title of "Television's Biggest Douchebag". Congratulations, Alan, your winner's check is in the mail.

Sure it is.

Feel free to add to this list in the comments section, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

d

Hoarders: The Shampoo Edition

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 08:21:00 +0000

As you may recall, a few days ago I wrote about the oppression and disrespect that bald men (or, as we prefer to be called, "Shiny-Americans") have been putting up with for years. We hear it from our friends and co-workers, we get ridiculed out in public, and even the mainstream media has gotten into the act with hairist caricatures like Mr. Clean. I thought I'd gotten all that "anti-bald" frustration out of my system, but apparently not, because this morning I was the target of prejudice right in my own home.

I was getting dressed when Theresa called to me from the shower. "Chris, can you go out to the hall cabinet and get me a new bottle of hair conditioner?"

First of all, what the hell is "hair conditioner"? I vaguely remember shampoo, as I used it regularly until it became unnecessary in the mid-90's. But more importantly here, what about my goddamn feelings? Would you send a legless man down to Footlocker to pick you out a nice new pair of Air Jordans? I doubt it. When I opened the cabinet, though, I forgot all about Theresa's insensitivity because this is what I saw:

I mean, holy freaking crap, what is all that stuff? Shampoo, hand soap, body gel, body wash (which is apparently not the same thing as body gel), air fresheners, hand lotion, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. My God, she's a hoarder! There's so much junk in there that if disaster were to strike leaving us trapped in our home, and assuming that we still had running water, Theresa's hair would be able to maintain its luster and bounce until approximately the year 2028.

Even so, I couldn't find the friggin' hair conditioner anywhere. Oh, and please be advised that the large bottle of white stuff in the very front of the picture is NOT conditioner, it's shampoo. That's important later on in the story.

"What's taking you so long out there?" hollered Theresa from the shower.

"I'm navigating my way through the Valley of the Lotions, give me a second!"

After knocking over a half-dozen squirters of hand soap and a couple hair sprays, I was able to locate a bottle of Alberto VO5 grapefruit mandarin splash Vitaburst volumizing conditioner which, according to the bottle, is bursting with vitamins B, C, and E. I'm not making that up, it actually says, "bursting with vitamins B, C, and E." The bottle also says "new", but given the ridiculous amount of shit Theresa has in the cabinet, this bottle may very well have been purchased in 1993.

I took the bottle to Theresa. "You find it?"

"Yeah, all the way in the friggin' back." We then engaged in the conversation that inspired this rant.

She then went to the cabinet and said, "Look, there's a bottle of conditioner right here in the front, I don't know how you missed it." This was an attempt to either make me feel stupid or make herself feel better about the fact that she basically runs a shampoo museum.

"Let me see that," I said.

She handed me the bottle, a smug look upon her face.

I read the label. Suave coconut shampoo.

"Look here," I said triumphantly. "SHAMPOO!"

"Oh," she said.

Damn right, "oh". Somebody got sham-punked.

d

Say it Loud, I'm Bald and I'm Proud!

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 03 Jul 2010 08:37:00 +0000

I quote from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.:

" . . . when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

One can hardly argue the point Dr. King was making here, specifically, humans have been granted certain basic rights and those rights should apply to everyone regardless of race, creed, color, or religion. In fact, King went so far as to list specific groups of people -- blacks, whites, Jews, etc. -- to leave no doubt that he meant everyone, EVERYONE, should be "free at last." But despite his efforts to the contrary, he did in fact overlook one group of Americans, the group that has undoubtedly suffered through generations of oppression, strife, prejudice, and ridicule.

I'm speaking of course about bald people, or as we prefer to be called, Shiny-Americans.

Baldy-hating is everywhere. A couple weeks ago, I noticed that my secretary was having a particularly rough morning, the paperwork was piling up, the general public was being a general public nuisance. To be nice, I got her a cup of coffee and said, "How's things going there, Annette? Everything okay?" Just being supportive, really, like a good boss should. But instead of appreciating my kindness, she fired an offensive slur my way.

"Yeah, it's just been a little hectic. I've been pulling my hair out trying to get this paperwork finished."

Pulling her hair out? Oh, that's real nice, just throw it in my face, why don't you? Yeah, I get it, ha, ha, Chris, you don't HAVE any hair to pull out. Well, I'm going to remember this when it comes time to write her job evaluation, that's for sure.

And that sort of thing happens all the time. Someone will come into my office and say, "I'm just going to drop this on your desk and then I'll be out of your hair."

You insensitive asshole! Would you walk up to a quadriplegic and extend your hand for him to shake? Wave to Stevie Wonder across a crowded room? Have a deaf guy paged over the Dodger Stadium public address system? Of course not. But you'll have no problem telling a Shiny-American that you'll "be out of his hair in just a minute."

Nice.

Here's another thing. When you hairy-headed freaks start whining about your "bad hair day," it makes me want to whack you across the forehead with a Louisville Slugger. Complaining to a Shiny-American about a "bad hair day" is like telling a starving Ethiopian kid that the porterhouse steak you had last night was a bit undercooked. At best, it's thoughtless. If you ask me, though, it's downright cruel. I'm going to say this one time, and I expect all of you to make a note of it: No day with hair is a "bad hair day." Appreciate what you have, for someday it may be gone.

Hairism has also found its way into the mainstream media. While civil rights activists have lobbied against racist caricatures like Aunt Jemima, the "Yo quiero Taco Bell" dog, and the Asian guy who did the Six Flags commercials, apparently no one has a problem with the most offensive stereotyping of Shiny-Americans ever perpetuated.

This guy.

What, my head is shiny so that means I'm supposed to scrub your bathroom? My impeccable cranial hygiene makes me the perfect candidate to polish your kitchen counters? It's time to stop labeling people simply because of their hair (or lack thereof).

I am proud to be a Shiny-American, and refuse to conform to the expectations of the majority. I look with disdain upon products such as Rogaine, intended to make us feel like we must have hair if we are to be considered "whole." I will not wear a toupee, nor will I subject myself to mutilating surgery such as plugs or implants. I am a proud, strong, bald man and I will not be shamed into defacing my dignified dome.

It's time to to take a stand and fight for the rights of follically-impaired individuals everywhere. That's why I am declaring July to be National Bald History Month, so we can take time to appreciate the contributions that Shiny-Americans have made to our country. Great men like Dwight Eisenhower and James Garfield proved that you don't need gorgeous flowing locks to be elected President of the United States. The Blue Man Group showed how joining together with other bald people can lead to great success and acceptance. Michael Jordan became a successful athlete while overcoming two social obstacles, being a Shiny-American and also being very, very tall.

Bald History Month can be celebrated in a number of ways starting, of course, with a national holiday on July 11 in honor of Yul Brynner's birthday. In the Broadway musical The King and I, Mr. Brynner was one of the first stage performers to use his baldness as a trademark, paving the way for future Shiny-American actors like Telly Savalas, Patrick Stewart, Bruce Willis, and Elmer Fudd.

For those of you who have been blessed with a full head of hair, take a moment this month to connect with your Shiny-American friends. Tell them that you understand their plight, and maybe offer to help apply the sunscreen to the hard-to-reach spots on their noggins. Get to know the person underneath that gleaming melon, see him for who he is rather than as a target for tired old jokes.

And to my reflective-skulled brethren, I say this:

Let us not wallow in the valley of hair despair, I say to you today, my friends.

Even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow and tolerate insulting names like "chrome-dome" and "cue ball", I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American Dream.

I have a dream that one day this hair-obsessed nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed, "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day in the hair salons of West Hollywood, the sons of Shiny-Americans and the sons of hair stylists will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that my two children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the the lustrous hair which adorns their heads, but by the content of their character.

I have a dream.

When Batman Met Joker . . .

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 08:53:00 +0000

Although the world of film and television is, for the most part, completely fictional, every so often their worlds intersect. My favorite example of this is an episode of Happy Days when Howard and Marion Cunningham have just attended the movie The Music Man. As they're leaving the theater, Marion says to Howard, "I think the little boy in that movie looked just like Richie." The joke here, of course, is that the "little boy" in the movie was played by Ronny Howard, who also played the Cunningham's son Richie.

Another example. In Sleepless in Seattle, one of the main plot points is that the female characters are romantically obsessed with the film An Affair to Remember. Meg Ryan and her friends can't even discuss this movie without bursting into tears. Of course, the funniest moment in Sleepless comes when Tom Hanks, imitating Rita Wilson's teary summary of the Cary Grant classic, breaks down crying as he and his buddy discuss The Dirty Dozen.

Anyway, the reason I bring all that up is because just the other night I was watching The Dark Knight on cable. There's a scene when Batman is interrogating the Joker (played brilliantly by Heath Ledger) that goes something like this:

Batman: Then why do you want to kill me?

The Joker: I don't want to kill you! What would I do without you? Go back to ripping off mob dealers? No. No. You . . . you complete me.

So my question is this:

When the hell did the frigging Joker have the time or inclination to go see Jerry Maguire? It just seems a little, I don't know, anachronistic to me. Did the Joker, in full makeup and neurosis, drive over to the Gotham City AMC, purchase a large buttered popcorn and a box of Raisinets, then sit down and enjoy the romantic entanglements of a sports agent and his love-struck assistant? Doesn't really seem like his type of movie, to say the least. Nightmare on Elm Street, sure, I'll buy that. Maybe even some underground Nazi war movie. Hard core porn wouldn't surprise me at all.

But Jerry Maguire?

Imagine if the Joker had instead drawn his inspiration from other chick flicks, like When Harry Met Sally.

Batman: Why do you want to kill me?

Joker: I don't want to kill you! What would I do without you? I love doing battle with you. I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

This would be funnier if you could hear me talking and if I could do a passable Joker impression, but I think you get the idea.

Kind of makes me want to see a Dark Knight prequel, so we get a better look into the Joker's backstory. Maybe he used to be a sappy sort of guy, you know, pre-dementia. Maybe he took his wife out to quiet restaurants, ordered the finest champagne, and then took her out on the town. Maybe on the weekends they'd make muffins together, take long walks on the beach, and then go home and watch Casablanca on their DVD player. Until one day, EL SNAPPO! He becomes the Joker, goes on a homicidal rampage, and quotes Tom Cruise.

Weirder things have happened, I suppose.

d

Will Power Didn't Stand a Chance

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Mon, 28 Jun 2010 09:13:00 +0000

It's summertime once again, and as usual I'm trying to drop a few pounds so I look decent at the beach. Not that I ever go to the beach, but I think you understand what I'm trying to say. To be clear about this, and admittedly there may be an element of denial in play here, I do not consider myself to be a "fat person." As I've said before, I am still comfortably on the "bald guy" side of the "fat guy/bald guy scale." For those of you unfamiliar with this system, here's how it works. If I were sitting at Starbucks drinking my Tazo Chai Creme Frapuccino and you happened to glance my way, your initial thought would be, "Hey, look at that bald guy over there." Therefore, I am a bald guy who could stand to lose a few pounds. If your first thought was, "Hey, check out that fat tub of goo," well, that's another story entirely.

Anyway, in my ongoing effort to remain on the "bald guy" side of the equation, I have started yet another diet. My fiance Theresa has decided to join me in this endeavor. So the other morning, she asked me the simple question, "What are you having for lunch?"

"I dunno, probably yogurt and maybe some tuna," I said.

"Oh."

"What do you mean, 'oh'?"

"Well, we need to go to the grocery store to pick up dog food so I thought maybe we could stop somewhere for lunch."

"Okay," I said. "How about Subway?" A happy medium, I thought. Filling, tasty, somewhat within the limits of my diet.

"Sure, I guess."

So we went to the market and bought the dog food. On the way back to the car, Theresa noticed a Baskin Robbins in the same shopping center.

"Hey, I've been wanting to try out that Baseball Nut Sundae," she said.

Let me explain something real quick. Dieting is not all that difficult for me. I can resist temptation. However, when Major Temptation joins forces with Master Sergeant Theresa, well, that's more than I can handle. It's impossible to fight the Battle of the Bulge on two fronts.

"Fine," I said. "Let's go get some ice cream. But if that Baseball Nut Sundae comes in a protective cup, I'm outta there."

"You sure you don't mind putting off the diet another day?" she asked. After all that, it's now my decision.

"Yeah, why the hell not?"

So we had the sundaes. Still, if we stayed on our diet the rest of the day and did an extra session at the gym, it'd probably be fine. We got in the car headed over to Subway.

"Oooh, look," said Theresa. "Let's go to Sonic Burgers!"

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, doesn't that sound great?"

Anything you say, Sergeant. Private Spineless reporting for duty.

I pulled into the Sonic drive-thru and ordered our meals. She got the burger and Tater Tots, I got the double cheeseburger and Tater Tots. Jenny Craig, kiss my fat ass.

Speaking of Jenny Craig, I forgot to mention that just last week Theresa spent a not insignificant amount of money on Jenny Craig food. Packages of granola bars, low-calorie meals, and healthy desserts gathered dust in our pantry while Theresa and I stuffed our faces with burgers and ice cream. But I digress.

As we were in the drive-thru waiting to pay, Theresa said to me, "Hey, you've got a weird pocket of fat right there."

Now, I was looking out the window so I didn't know what specific "pocket of fat" she was looking at. Sadly, there were a couple different possibilities. Still, after basically brow-beating me into the ice cream and burgers, I was in no mood to hear about my excess blubber.

"You didn't just say that," I replied.

"Maybe I didn't say it exactly the right way."

"Oh, no, it's fine. How could anyone possibly misconstrue the phrase 'weird-looking pocket of fat'? And what pocket of fat, if I may ask, are you referring to?"

"Right there, on your hand. Look."

Apparently, she thought that the fleshy part of my hand between my thumb and index finger could stand to drop a couple pounds. I didn't react well.

"Let me get this straight," I said, voice rising slightly. "I wanted to have yogurt for lunch. Then I compromised and agreed we'd go to Subway. THEN you talked me into ice cream and THEN you wanted to come here to Sonic. And now you have the nerve to say my fucking hands are too fat!? Well, excuse me, maybe I can watch infomercials tonight and see if Suzanne Somers is selling the Thumb-Master or something so I can slim them down a bit!" I snatched my change from the hand of a completely innocent and unsuspecting cashier. Great, now I'm a fat asshole.

Theresa was somewhat taken aback by my outrage. "Maybe it's just muscle. Yes, I'm sure that's what it is, muscle. You're so strong."

"Yeah, shut up and finish your Tater Tots."

s

Renegades, We Had it Made (Part III)

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 10:47:00 +0000

Click to read: Part I Part II

"What made you guys want to see Styx, anyway?" asked Eric. "They were pretty cheesy, even for the 80's." Eric never did like the Top 40 stuff, he was more into the hair-and-spandex bands like Def Leppard, Quiet Riot, and Twisted Sister.

"Cheesy? Are you kidding?" I said. "Styx was pretty complex as far as their songwriting went. And they could rock when they wanted to."

"Oh yeah, right," said Eric. Brutally mocking the vocal stylings of Dennis DeYoung, he started crooning:

"I'm sailing awaaaaay, set an open course for the Virgin Sea . . . "

Bobby and Katy passionately joined in. "Cause I've got to be freeeeeee, free to face the life that's ahead of me."

"Okay, okay," I said. "I didn't say ALL their songs rocked. But that was the kind of band I was listening to back then. Styx, Journey, Foreigner . . . "

"Like I said, the cheesy bands," said Eric.

Obviously we had a difference of opinion on what constituted the best of the 80's, but we did agree that the New Wave movement sucked. None of us could stand Duran Duran, or even worse, Culture Club. Boy George, I really DID want to hurt him.

"So anyway, the concert started, and the show was outstanding. Lasers, special effects, I mean, they were no KISS but . . . "

Styx put on a great show covering their classics like "Blue Collar Man" and "Crystal Ball" as well as some stuff off of their newest album, including the cheesy ballad "Babe". Dennis DeYoung came to the front of the stage, the lights went down, and he laid it on thick. "Babe I'm leavin', I must be on my way. The time is drawing near . . . "

Throughout the audience, Bics were flicked. Women cried, men yawned, the fat guy in the Queen shirt who had commandeered Brian's seat continued snoring.

"I don't know why that song is so damn popular," I said, as the final notes dissipated amidst the pot smoke. "That's probably my LEAST favorite of all their songs."

"Yeah, mine too," said Brian, "but every album needs a ballad. Plus, it's a good make-out song."

"Speaking of which, how's it going with Lisa?" She was the senior that Brian was dating. Since we were only freshman, this was a very big deal. "You get to second base yet?"

"Second base? Are you kidding me? You do know she drives, right? After the party at Williamson's house last week we drove over to the park and I hit an inside-the-car home run."

"Bullshit."

"Whatever you say, Chris."

I pretended not to believe him, but he just had that look. I knew he was telling the truth, the lucky bastard.

Onstage, Styx blasted the opening riff of "Eddie" which finally woke up Fat Guy. He looked around, completely befuddled.

"What the fu - where am I?" he said to no one in particular.

"You're in my seat, that's where you are," yelled Brian, trying to be heard over the music.

Fat Guy stood up and wobbled, then sat back down. He tried it again. Staggering past us, he said, "Sorry, man, got kinda fucked up and lost." For a minute it looked like he was going to make it out to the concourse, but then he took a turn for the worse. He listed slightly to his right, steadied himself by grabbing the back of an unoccupied seat, and then he gloriously ejected the contents of his stomach all over the occupants of section 402, row G, who immediately scattered.

Styx didn't seem to notice, and continued with the music.

"That's gross," said Katy.

"You have no idea," I said. "It was mostly beer, but he'd obviously had a couple hot dogs before the concert. There was puke everywhere, on the seats, dripping down the steps, it got in this one dude's hair. The Madison Square Garden crew came over and tried to clean it up, but there was only so much they could do . . ."

We did our best to ignore the blended aromas of weed and vomit while we enjoyed the rest of the show. After three encores it was all over, and we headed back down to the trains. This time, of course, the station was much more crowded, but we found our train without much trouble.

"Remember," I told Brian, "we've got to make that connection in Newark again."

"Yeah, and we have to find a pay phone when we get there so I can let my sister know when to pick us up."

We arrived in Newark at about 11:00 and checked the train schedule to see when we'd be getting back to Bound Brook, our final destination. We found the bank of pay phones and Brian dropped in a couple quarters.

"Hi Jen, it's me . . . we're at the station in Newark . . . yeah, the concert was great . . . we gotta get going so we don't miss the train, but we need you to pick us up at 11:50 . . . okay, thanks. See ya."

"We good?" I asked.

"Yeah, she'll be there. Where do we gotta go?"

"Track six, down the escalators."

We hustled down and caught the train with just a couple minutes to spare, and we arrived home right on schedule. Jennifer was waiting.

"Hi guys, how was the concert?" she asked.

"Great," I said. "Except for the fat guy that barfed on everybody."

"You kiddin'? I thought that was the best part," said Brian. He told his sister the whole story.

We'd decided early on that once we got home from the concert I would spend the night at Brian's house. When we got in Jen's car, she gave us an accusatory look.

"You guys smell like weed," said Jennifer. "You weren't getting loaded, were you?"

"No, but the smoke was everywhere. Is it obvious?" asked Brian.

"Yeah, when we get home I'll put yours and Chris's clothes in the laundry so they're clean in the morning." For a sister, Jen was pretty cool.

Brian's bedroom had a separate entrance, so we snuck into the house without being noticed by his parents who were asleep anyway. I borrowed a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from Brian so Jen could throw our clothes in the wash.

"You guys are gonna have to stay up so you can put your stuff in the dryer," she said.

"No problem," said Brian. "We're gonna be wired for a while yet anyway."

He turned on the TV and hooked up his Atari. "Wanna play Kaboom?" he asked.

"Sure."

The next morning we got up early. I changed back into my clothes from the night before, no longer smelling like I'd just left a party at Bob Marley's. Jen gave me a ride home. When I walked in my front door, my mom was sitting in the living room watching TV and hooking a rug. Her latest hobby.

"You're home early," she said.

"Yeah, Brian was going somewhere with his family so his sister dropped me off."

"So, what did you guys do last night?"

"Ahhh . . . nothin'. Just played video games."

"I can't believe you had the nerve to even try that," said Mom as she cleared away the rest of the dessert dishes.

"Neither could we, actually. We talked about it for the next couple weeks, we were sure that either you guys or his parents were going to find out somehow."

"I'm surprised his sister didn't rat you out," said Bobby.

"Nah, she was cool. Besides, I think Brian had so much dirt on her that she pretty much had to keep her mouth shut. The hardest part was not telling anyone else . . . "

For the next few weeks, Brian and I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. We knew Jen wasn't going to spill the beans, though. Over the previous Christmas break, while their parents were out of town, she and her friends had a party at their house. Brian wasn't supposed to be there either, he was staying with another friend but he'd forgotten something and stopped by to get it, only to find Jen and about twenty of her friends tapping four kegs and a bunch of local frat boys. He assured her that he'd never snitch to their folks, but it was a pretty valuable bit of information to have handy.

The toughest part was not telling any of our friends about the concert. There's no way we could've kept the story from spreading and sooner or later our parents would've heard. As far as I know, our secret stayed between the two of us (three, if you count Jen) until I was an adult, when I shared it with my family over several slices of Grandma's lemon cheese pie.

THE END

Grandma Ruth's Lemon Cheese Pie Recipe

1 small package lemon Jello

1 cup boiling water

3 T. lemon juice

Dissolve Jello in water, add lemon juice and let cool.

One 8 oz. package Philadelphia Cream Cheese-softened

1 cup sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1 large can evaporated milk--chilled

2 Graham cracker crusts (You can use the prepared ones, but Grandma Ruth made her own with 1/2 lb. Graham crackers crushed and mixed in 1/4 cup melted butter or margarine and press into pie pan).

In mixer, cream together cream cheese, sugar and vanilla until fluffy.

Add in COOLED Jello and mix well by hand.

In separate bowl, whip evaporated milk until it makes peaks. Then fold into cheese/Jello mixture. Pour into crusts and chill.

Renegades, We Had it Made (Part II)

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 09:37:00 +0000

To read Part I, click here.

"Okay, now that's the part that freaks me out," said Mom. "The two of you alone on the streets of New York. Anything could've happened, I'm surprised you didn't end up wandering around Times Square."

"No, no, we were never actually out on the street," I said. In spite of how it may seem, our venture into the big city wasn't as dangerous as you might think, although if either of my teenagers tried it at age fifteen I'd have killed them. Penn Station is located directly underneath Madison Square Garden, so to get from the train platform to the arena is just a matter of a few escalator rides. I explained that to Mom, but it didn't really put her mind at ease.

"Oh, right, because a crowded New York train station is completely safe," said Mom. She cut a generous slice of pie and handed it to me. You can keep your damn pumpkin, my mom's lemon cheese pie (using Grandma Ruth's legendary recipe) should be enshrined in the Pastry Hall of Fame.

"Are we talking about the subways?" asked Katy. "Because I've heard stories . . . "

"Subway system's different," said my father. "If they tried that, it would've been a whole different situation, especially in the 80's before Giuliani cleaned up the city. The trains were much safer although I'm with your mother, you guys were pretty dumb."

"Okay, granted, but it's not like we were asking directions from the hookers on 42nd Street."'

"Hey, what did I say about the hookers?" asked Bobby. "Ix-nay."

"So anyway, we got off the train and . . . "

We got off the train and headed to the escalators, which took us directly up into the lobby of Madison Square Garden. We were a little early so we bought a couple hot pretzels and browsed the merchandise kiosks.

"Hey, check out that one," said Brian, pointing to to Official Styx Cornerstone Tour t-shirt. It was a black shirt with the Styx logo on the front, along with a picture of the band. On the back was a list of all the concert dates, from March 13 (Chicago) to September 21 (Los Angeles).

You know, like every other concert shirt you've ever seen.

"Yeah, that's pretty cool," I said, "but twelve bucks? That's insane, how do they get off charging that much for one t-shirt?"

"I know, but think about how jealous everyone's gonna be at school when they see us . . . "

He stopped mid-sentence, as the obvious smacked him in the forehead. "Wait a minute," he said. "What are we thinking? We can't get t-shirts, or a program, or anything. How would we explain it to our parents?"

I pondered that for a minute, trying to figure out if we could maybe tell our folks that someone else got them for us, or try to keep them hidden for a while. Nothing really made sense, though, if we took physical evidence home with us we'd just be asking to get busted. It sucked, but I realized Brian was right.

"Yeah, you're right," I said. "Damn, those are cool shirts though."

We headed to the doors so we could get to our seats before it got too crazy.

"You have the tickets, right?" I asked.

"Shit, no! I thought you had them! What the hell are we gonna . . ."

"Relax, Bri, I'm just messin' with ya again." I couldn't help myself, he was so gullible. Like at school when he couldn't remember someone's name (which was often). He'd see a girl that he wanted to hit on, and he'd ask me what her name was. I'd always -- ALWAYS -- give him the wrong name so when he went over and said Hi, Stacy! the reply would be something like Yeah, thanks a lot, Brian. My name's Amy. Jeez! He fell for it every single time.

"Okay, where are we sitting?" he asked.

I took the tickets out of my wallet. "Looks like we're in section 402, row E." We entered the arena, and headed to up to our seats. And when I say up, I mean an "we need two oxygen tanks and a sherpa" up. I think we were actually closer to the stage when we were waiting for the train in Newark. The opening band, The Now, was about halfway through their collection of terrible New Wave-influenced crap when I noticed a funky smell wafting its way up in the rafters which is to say, our seats.

"You smell that?" I asked.

"What, the marijuana?" said Brian.

"Is that what it is?"

My father interrupted the story, a suspicious look on his face. "Okay, you said this didn't involve drugs."

"Yeah, I forgot about this part because we weren't actually doing drugs, we just smelled the pot. We didn't see anyone who was smoking it, but the smell was everywhere." Having polished off my lemon cheese pie, I handed Mom the empty plate.

"Another piece?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Anyone else?"

Eric and Bobby signed up for seconds while Dad and Katy groaned their refusals. Mom served me and my brothers and then rejoined us at the table.

"Okay," I said, "so Brian told me that it was marijuana that we were smelling. I don't think he'd ever smoked it himself, but he recognized it right away . . . "

As far as I knew, Brian's experience with marijuana was minimal at best. He'd never talked about it, and given our friendship, I'm sure it would've come up at some point. However, he did have his older sister Jennifer and a 22-year old brother so I guess he'd been exposed to it, at least indirectly.

The Now wandered their way thorough their last song, and the crowd went mild. Even by opening act standards, these guys sucked. They were a lot like The Police, if Sting suffered a mild stroke, drummer Stewart Copeland lost the feeling in his left hand, and guitarist Andy Summers was replaced by the top three finishers in an Elvis Costello look-alike contest, all playing keyboards. Badly.

"Man, I'm getting hungry again," said Brian, as the house lights came up for intermission.

"Me too," I said. We had never heard the term "contact high" before, but in retrospect we were probably suffering from second-hand munchies. We headed out to the concession stand and got in a very long line. After what seemed like forever, we ordered a couple burgers and sodas and took them back to our seats. When we arrived back in section 402, row E, however, Brian had a Goldilocks and the Three Bears moment.

"Dude, look. Someone's sleeping in my seat."

Passed out, to be precise. Our intruder had an enormous belly peeking out from underneath a faded Queen t-shirt, and a face cratered with acne scars. He was snoring.

"What are we gonna do with this guy?" I asked.

"I'm gonna wake him up," said Brian. "HEY! FAT GUY! WAKE UP AND MOVE YOUR ASS, THIS IS MY SEAT!"

Fat Guy didn't stir, if anything his snoring got louder.

"Screw it," I said. "Just leave him alone, the row's not full anyway. Besides, when Styx comes out everyone's gonna be standing."

Just as I said that, the lights went down, the crowd went nuts, and a voice boomed over the loudspeakers . . .

"HELLO NEW YORK CITY! PLEASE WELCOME . . . STYX!"

They led off with "Renegade".

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

d

Renegades, We Had it Made (Part I)

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 19 Jun 2010 11:51:00 +0000

It was about twelve years ago on Thanksgiving when my parents learned the truth about their oldest child, their charming, compassionate, law-abiding son who never did anything to dishonor the family. The golden child, really, the one who spent every waking moment setting a good example for his brothers Eric and Bobby, and his baby sister Katy.

I'm speaking of course about myself.

We were all sitting around the dinner table scarfing down turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and Mom's famous green bean casserole, the one she makes with French's french fried onions. On most holidays, our family enjoyed reminiscing about our respective childhoods, funny stories from the past. Dad told the one about Eric talking his way out of a beating with the phrase, "You wouldn't hit your own kid, would ya?" and Mom reminded us of the time Bobby and our cousin Jay destroyed a ceramic gnome that was minding its own business in the neighbors' garden.

Not wanting me to be left out of the fun, Eric said, "There's gotta be a story about Chris getting in trouble, what are we forgetting about?"

Mom stuck up for me. "He's never really done anything all that bad, not that I can remember."

"Not that I got caught at, anyway," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dad.

"Okay," I said. "There is one thing I've never told you guys, but the statute of limitations on grounding has to have run out by now, right? I'm thirty-three, you can't punish me for this."

"Well, let's wait and see," said Mom. "You know, I think I still have your Hot Wheels tracks around here somewhere." When we were kids, our orange Hot Wheels tracks were our mom's weapon of choice when it came to administering parental discipline. It worked, those things stung like hell.

"Hold on, Chris, are we going to be sorry you told us about whatever it is?" asked Dad. "You didn't get herpes from a hooker in Tijuana or something, did you?"

"No, that was Bobby," said Eric, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Hey, ix-nay on the ookers-hay!" said Bobby.

"Nah," I said, "it's nothing that horrible. Nothing illegal, no drugs. Just something you didn't really need to know about at the time."

"Okay then," said Dad. "Let's have it."

"All right. It was when we were still living in New Jersey, I was fifteen . . . "

My best friend Brian and I were sitting in his bedroom playing video games. He'd just gotten an Atari, the brand-new, state of the art system, and we were taking turns at a game called Kaboom where a villain who looked like the Hamburglar dropped bombs that you had to catch in little swimming pools. There was a knock at the bedroom door.

"Can I come in?"

It was Brian's older sister Jennifer, 20 years old with a body that would make Suzanne Somers dress in a gunny sack for the rest of her life.

"I got those Styx tickets you guys wanted."

"Holy shit, are you serious?" asked Brian. We had asked her if she could get us tickets, but we were basically just bull-shitting, as usual. It was more like, hey, wouldn't it be cool to go see Styx? Neither of us had been to a concert before, and we'd given absolutely no thought as to the logistics involved.

"Yep, here they are." She handed me the envelope. I opened it up and saw two tickets that read:

STYX

Madison Square Garden
Saturday, April 5, 1980
7:30 PM

"Wait, Jen, there's only two tickets here," said Brian. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"No, why?"

"Uh, well, how are we supposed to get there?"

Fortunately, I'd had some experience making the trip from New Jersey to Madison Square Garden. From the time I was about five, my Aunt Patti took me on regular trips into the city to see the Harlem Globetrotters, Disney on Parade, and the Ringling Brothers Circus. All of these events were at the Garden, and I knew we could take the train to New York without much trouble. We hatched a plan.

It started off with the old, "you tell your parents you're spending the night at my house, and I'll tell my parents I'm staying at yours" trick. If we got together on the Saturday afternoon of the concert, our folks wouldn't expect to see us again until Sunday morning at the earliest. Jennifer agreed to drop us off at the Bound Brook train station late Saturday afternoon, and pick us up that night, after the concert. The rest was up to us.

"My God, you've got to be kidding me," said Mom, as she took the lemon cheese pies out of the refrigerator. "You two actually took the train by yourselves?"

"Yeah, I knew what I was doing, though. Remember, Aunt Patti used to take us all the time. Besides, we were fifteen. It's not like we were a couple of nine-year olds."

"It's different by yourself though, dude," said Bobby. "You're lucky you didn't get mugged."

"You DIDN'T get mugged, did you?" asked Katy.

"Nah, we were fine. We were never even outside for more than a couple minutes . . . "

We bought our train tickets at the Bound Brook station and waited on the platform. The train was almost empty, just a couple in their twenties and an old guy in a cardigan sweater. No one that looked like Son of Sam or Bernie Goetz.

"So now what?" asked Brian. He'd never taken the train into the city before, so he was depending entirely on me. He didn't seem nervous about it, though. He wasn't the kind of kid who got worked up about anything, really. He was in ninth grade and his girlfriend was a senior. Self-confidence was not a problem.

"In about half an hour we're gonna get to Newark. We have to change trains there, which isn't usually a problem but we might have to hustle to make the connection."

"What if we miss it?"

"Well, then we're screwed. We'll have to spend the night at the train station and go home tomorrow."

"WHAT?"

"Nah, I'm just messin' with you. Trains come by every twenty minutes, we'll just catch the next one. We got plenty of time, worst case scenario we miss the opening act."

At fifteen, I was completely cool with the possibility of missing the connection. When I was younger and traveling with Aunt Patti, though, the mere thought of being left at the station terrified me. I thought we really would have to spend the night and sleep on benches or something. One time on the way home from the circus, we missed the connection, by only a couple seconds. In fact, as the train pulled away, the conductor looked right at me as I stood on the platform screaming "STOP THE TRAIN! STOP THE TRAIN!" He didn't stop the train and I didn't stop crying, not for twenty minutes until the next train arrived. Even at six, I felt sort of stupid.

Brian and I arrived in Newark and checked the connection schedule. "Looks like we've got about ten minutes," I said. Our train's gonna be on Track Two, that's down a level. Let's go." He followed me down the escalator, and we made the connection with no problem.

The second leg of the trip, from Newark to Penn Station, was a quick one. Before we knew it, we were in New York City.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

d

What Ever Happened To . . . The Little Engine That Could?

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Wed, 16 Jun 2010 08:33:00 +0000

It was a beautiful morning in Toyland. The dolls were singing, the teddy bears were smiling, and the Slinkies . . . well, the Slinkies weren't doing much of anything because for the most part they're a bunch of lazy bastards. Meanwhile, on the other side of Mount Whiteman, hundreds of good little boys and girls (and a couple of obnoxious brats whose sense of entitlement was truly disgusting) eagerly awaited the arrival of toys and goodies scheduled for that afternoon.

The train was loaded and ready to go. As it pulled away from the station, however, Ellsbury the Engine sustained an injury which caused him to grind to a halt.

"Hey, Ellsbury, what the hell's going on up there?" hollered Raggedy Andy. He was an impatient asshole to begin with, and since Raggedy Ann had gone over the mountain a week earlier, he'd been anticipating their reunion with lust in his nether regions. He was going to loosen her stitching tonight, that was for damn sure.

"I think I snapped a connecting rod!" cried Ellsbury. "I can't move!"

"Well shit," said Rollo the Clown, snuffing out a Marlboro on the sole of his size 38 Chuck Taylor sneaker. "Someone get this worthless sack of nuts and bolts off the track while I flag down another engine to take us over the mountain."

A few minutes later, a passenger engine pulled up.

"Hey, bro, how about giving us a lift over the mountain?" asked Rollo. "Ellsbury crapped out before we even got fifty yards so we're pretty much screwed."

"Piss off, clown, I only pull passenger cars. You and G.I. Joe can sit out here all night for all I care."

As the passenger engine sped away, Rollo gave him the finger.

A rough-looking freight engine came by next. Rollo decided to try a more diplomatic approach this time. "Why, hello there, Mr. Freight Engine. We seem to be in a bit of a pickle here, as you can see. Would you mind hooking up to our train here and taking us over the mountain? We'd be ever so grateful."

"Aaaaaaaaaah!" screamed the freight engine. Like 99% of the world's population, he was scared to death of clowns because they're friggin' creepy, so he chugged off without looking back.

"I hate it when that happens," muttered Rollo, lighting up another cigarette. Off in the distance, he noticed a small-but-enthusiastic-looking engine heading their way. It was Phillip, the train yard rookie. With all the other engines dispatched to their usual duties, Phillip was the toys' last hope. Rollo couldn't risk blowing this one.

"Hey, Barbie!" he yelled. "Get your ass out here!" He quickly briefed her on the situation.

"No problem, Rollo," said Barbie. "I'll take care of it." She adjusted her outfit into "full slut" mode, and stood by the tracks. Phillip went from 50 MPH to a dead stop in about half a second, sparks spraying from his wheels.

"How YOU doin'?" he said.

Barbie laid it on thick. "We're in so much trouble," she sobbed. "Our engine, who isn't nearly as strong or as good-looking as you, he broke down and now we can't get over the mountain. The good boys and girls won't be getting any toys for a long time if we can't get there. Do you think you could help us?"

"I think I can," he said, half to himself.

"Oh, I'm SURE you can," purred Barbie. "You're the best."

Phillip never would have admitted it, especially not to Barbie, but he wasn't sure he could pull this one off. He was the new engine in town and had never gone over the mountain before, not even alone. With a fully-loaded train of cargo, Phillip was afraid his crankshaft had made a bet his power supply couldn't cover. Well, no turning back now, he'd have to give it his best shot.

And faster than you can say "all aboard," they were off.

Phillip kept chanting his confidence-building mantra all the way up the mountain. "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . " It wasn't easy, but with maximum effort (and sultry encouragement from STD Barbie, who was painting her nails in the engineer's seat), he made it to the top. At the summit, he beamed with pride and all the way down he boasted, "I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could." Phillip had saved the day and when he pulled into the station, the toys disembarked and showed their appreciation by hosing him off and giving him a good scrub. Barbie polished his smoke stack.

For the next several months, Phillip was the "Big Engine in Train Yard." He was well-liked by the other locomotives, and they'd taken to calling him "The Little Engine That Could". His confidence was sky-high, as he was assigned to all the important shipments in a five-county region. But after a while, Phillip's ego spun out of control and he started acting like he was "all that and a boxcar full of iPads." That's when the steel-toed boot of reality kicked him square in the ball bearings.

One morning, Phillip was hooked up to fifty cars loaded with brand-new Porsches. This was, by far, the heaviest and most expensive shipment he'd ever been responsible for.

"You up for this one, Phil?" asked the train yard captain.

"I think I can, Joe. I think I can."

"Well, that's good enough for me," replied Joe.

As it turned out, Phillip was wrong. About halfway up the mountain, he started slowing down. "I hope I can, I hope I can, I hope I can . . . "

Two minutes later, as he was being dragged backwards down the hill, his screams became even less confident. "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!"

The ensuing damage was reminiscent of Hurricane Katrina if, instead of wind and rain, Katrina had pelted the Gulf region with a torrent of train parts and mangled sports cars. Carreras burst into flame, Boxsters bounced down the hillside, Phillip himself was pitched into a cow pasture where he landed at the feet of a startled Holstein.

When he returned to the train yard, he was no longer a hero. He was a laughing stock.

"Hey, look! Here comes The Cocky Engine That Couldn't!"

"I think he sucks, I think he sucks, I think he sucks!"

Locomotives can be a bunch of assholes when they put their minds to it.

After the Porsche Incident, Phillip's confidence was shaken. He became irritable, and refused to pull any load that was more than a couple flatcars, preferring instead to transport cargo that was inexpensive and had limited desirability. Things like throw pillows, lawn furniture, DVD's of "The Office". Joe the Train Yard Captain grew frustrated with his defiance.

"Come on, Phil," said Joe one day. "Snap out of it. Today's run is just a few oil tankers, it'll be easy."

"Leave me the hell alone, Joe. I'm not going to do it."

"What, are you saying you can't?"

"No. I think I can. But I don't want to and you can't make me."

That's how he came to be known as "The Oppositional-Defiant Engine That Wouldn't".

No one has much use for a freight engine with a shitty attitude, so the train company had no choice but to sell Phillip to a local zoo where he spent the rest of his days giving kiddie rides to snot-nosed children eating cotton candy. Then, in July 2005, a circus act came to town to give a special performance at the very zoo where Phillip worked. That's when the engine noticed an old friend approaching.

"Rollo, how the hell are you?" asked Phillip.

"Dude, what the fuck?" replied the clown. "How'd you end up doing this shit?"

Phillip told him the story.

"Damn," said Rollo. "Isn't this a little humiliating? You look like a beaten-down pile of garbage. Have some pride, man, you're better than this."

"You know, I used to feel that way, but the hell with it," said Phillip. "Right now, I'm just The Apathetic Engine That Doesn't Give a Damn."

Phillip the Freight Engine broke down for good in 2008. All of his metal parts were recycled, and no one knows for sure what became of him. But his old friend Rollo has a theory:

"I think he's cans. I think he's cans. I think he's cans."[1]

[1] I apologize. That's just awful.

d

The Day I Became a Thespian

knuckleheadhumor@gmail.com (Chris) — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 10:40:00 +0000

"What do you mean 'Andrew quit'?" asked Miss Goodhue. English teacher from eight to three, drama director after school, she was at her wit's end on this particular afternoon, working feverishly to keep the 1982 production of Murder Near the LaRue Morgue from falling apart.

"He quit," repeated Andrew's best friend Steve, who was a member of the stage crew. "He said he can't memorize the lines, and he doesn't want to be in the play any more."

"He does realize that opening night is a week from this Friday, right?"

"Yeah, that's why he quit. There's not enough time for him to learn his part. I told him that it would suck to just bail on everyone but, you know, he didn't give a shit . . . sorry, I mean, he didn't care."

Onstage, the rest of the cast muttered random phrases like "what an asshole" and "I can't believe this crap" as it dawned on Miss Goodhue that she now had to find some dumb sucker to step into the pivotal role of Manny the Mugger on short notice.

I happened to be at this rehearsal, not because I had any interest in acting -- I didn't -- but my girlfriend Tanya was playing the lead and I usually went to the after-school rehearsals with her, to wait around so we could get something to eat after. Amazing how early in life we become "whipped," isn't it?

Anyway, I was sitting in the back of the theater, somewhat amused by the predicament that Andrew's irresponsibility was causing, when all of a sudden I noticed everyone onstage looking my way. Tanya said something to Miss Goodhue, and then walked back and sat down next to me.

"So, Chris, what are you doing next weekend?"

"Uh, I was gonna come see your show on Friday night, other than that, who knows?"

"Miss Goodhue wants me to ask if you wanna be in the play."

"Forget about it. I've never acted in my life." That wasn't exactly true. I did have a co-starring role as a French hen in the Hazelwood School first grade production of The Twelve Days of Christmas. I got to wear a beret, a plastic beak, and a cute little phony mustache. But there was no real acting involved, outside of shouting the phrase THREE FRENCH HENS ten times, and I was pretty sure that experience wouldn't help me much in the current situation. "Thanks for asking, but I'm not interested. Sorry."

"C'mon, it'll be easy. You've been at all the rehearsals, you know the part, Manny the Murderer. And hey, you're from Jersey, you already have the accent!"

"Let me see if I get this. I've never been in a play before. I've got a week to memorize the part. And I'll have what, four rehearsals before opening night?"

"Five. There's rehearsal this Saturday."

"That's crazy. I mean, if I studied real hard I might be able to do okay, but I don't know." I really was giving it some thought. But then all the worst-case scenarios popped into my head. Freezing up onstage, forgetting my lines, having to wear that stupid stage makeup.

"Nah, never mind, I was right the first time. Forget about it."

"Chris, please," Tanya said. "There's no one else who could possibly learn the part."

"What about Steve? He's been at the rehearsals and he's Andrew's friend. It would serve him right for hanging out with that douchebag in the first place."

"You're kidding, right? Steve still hasn't memorized the Pledge of Allegiance." It was true, he hadn't. Among other things, he still thought it went "One nation, under God, invisible . . . "

By this time, Miss Goodhue had come back to join us. "So, what do you say, Chris? Are you up for it? We could really use your help."

I was going to lose this battle, I could feel it. Miss Goodhue was one of my favorite teachers, and with Tanya giving me the will-breaking "make you do anything" eyes, it was like trying to fight off the United States Marine Corps with a Wiffle Ball bat. And if we're going to be completely honest about it, I've never really had much of an issue with being the center of attention.

"Give me the damn script."

Tanya and a couple other cast members helped me work on my lines at lunch, after school, and on one occasion, during Mr. Schrodetzki's mind-numbing chemistry class. By the time the Saturday rehearsal rolled around, I had most of it under control. A couple all-nighters over the weekend, and not only did I feel like I was completely prepared, I was even getting into the character. I played Manny as if he were a low-level goon in the Corleone family. Since I'd just moved from New Jersey to California five months earlier, it wasn't that much of a stretch.

An excerpt:

MANNY: Look, Granny, I gotta hide 'dis body somewheres, and your basement's as good a place as any.
GRANNY: You can't hide it here, Manny, someone's going to call the cops.
GRANNY'S PARROT: Call the cops! Call the cops! Call the cops!
MANNY: Just back off and lemme take care a 'dis, Granny. And if dat boid don't shut up, I'm gonna stuff a pilla wid it."

So opening night comes, and Act I is going well. Manny is an audience favorite, with the laughs rolling at all the right places. In fact, all the actors were doing a great job. The only glitch came at the hands of Stage Hand Steve, who had been given the incredibly easy, no-possible-way-you-can-screw-this-up task of pulling the ropes that opened and closed the curtain.

Steve's cue at the end of Act I was when Manny says the line, "I swear, I'm gonna moider dat boid." See, Granny's parrot served as one of Manny's foils, yakking constantly and attracting unwanted attention from the neighbors and the police. The thing is, Manny threatens to kill the boid several times during the course of Act I, which apparently caused Steve's over-taxed brain to short-circuit. Thus, when Manny (me) said a different line, "Keep talkin', ya stupid boid, and I'm gonna blast your freakin' beak off," Steve became confused and closed the curtain.

About a scene and a half too soon. Way to go, Steve.

The audience got really quiet because, clearly, something was amiss. Maybe it was the timing of the scene, maybe it was the panicked look on the faces of the actors, but it was obvious that the curtain was not supposed to come down at this point. Since it was just me and Tanya (who was playing Granny) onstage at the time, I looked at her and said, "Okay, I've got this. We'll have Steve open the curtain, I'll say something funny, and we'll just go on like nothing happened."

"You sure?"

"What choice do we have?"

I looked over at Steve, who was still unaware that there was a problem, and said, "Open the curtain."

"Huh?"

"Steve, open the curtain," said Tanya. "You messed up. Just open it."

The curtain went back up and the audience settled down. I ad-libbed the next line.

"And anudder ting, Granny, not only am I gonna whack that stupid boid, I'm gonna put a couple bullets in the freakin' moron who closed da coitain in da middle of da freakin' show!"

The audience exploded with laughter, and the rest of the show went off with no further problems.

I had so much fun doing Murder Near the LaRue Morgue that I decided to audition for another play later in the year. I did well enough to be cast in the leading role, in which I had to dress up like (I'm not kidding) a sweet old grandmother.

A story for another time, perhaps.

d