Awareness Awareness

The more I look around, the more stickers, banners, window decals, and billboards I see clamoring for my Awareness, and it is almost always something of which I was already Aware. I have Awareness overload. Of course, the granddaddy of Awareness is AIDS Awareness. Is there a person on the planet over the age of eighteen months who is not Aware of AIDS? Or is it that the maker of the red lapel ribbon wants us to know more about AIDS? Honestly, there are a lot of things about AIDS that I wish I didn’t know, mainly related to its transmission. I understand that people get it through blood transfusions and birth, but I suspect the whole situation would be drastically improved if the people who are giving AIDS to others through blood transfusions and birth had a smidgeon of self-control. Maybe this one should be re-labeled Stop-Having-Relations-With-People-You’re-Not-Married-To Awareness.

I realize that many of you may think I have a callused soul for saying such things. You may be considering making Jerk Awareness your new cause. Go ahead – you can’t possibly be heard among all the Awareness noise.

I did some research and found a host of other Awarenessi out there. One of my favorites is Self-Injury Awareness. What? Self-Injury Awareness? Don’t those who have a problem with this already know it? It seems to me that people who burn, slash, bludgeon, or otherwise maim themselves are probably receiving within their own physiology signals that something is awry. Now, do the Self-Injury Awareness people just want me to be Aware of it so that I won’t fall prey to it? Tell you what, don’t worry about me. I’m good. I once accidentally burned off the eyelashes on my right eye – as an adult. Trust me, I don’t have a penchant for self-inflicted wounds.

There are hundreds of these out there. Stalking Awareness, Thyroid Awareness, Heartworm Awareness, Termite Awareness, Caffeine Awareness, Math Awareness, Goat Trauma Awareness, Accordion Awareness – I’m not making these up. What’s next? Hangnail Awareness? Caramel-Vanilla-Coffee-Creamer Awareness? Carpet-Tape Awareness? How about Life-Is-Hard Awareness? You know, there’s only so much attention to go around. At some point, something has to give.

Whatever happened to people just worrying about their own problems? I do have some things in my own life of which I am painfully Aware, and yet I don’t go out and publicize them. There’s Hemorrhoid Awareness. This one is genetic. My dad was a pioneer of the cause. He gave much blood, sweat, and tears for the movement – every movement, actually, until he had what he called a ‘butt-ectomy.’ And he “passed” a huge volume of this Awareness on to me. But when I personally received my first jolt of Hemorrhoid Awareness, my initial thought was not, “People need to know about this.” Rather, I was thinking, “Wow. That smarts. How am I going to keep a lid on this while walking like I have a raging diaper rash?” It never occurred to me to make it my personal mission to let the whole world know about my posterior suffering.

If you have read some of my past posts, you may also know about Beardlessness Awareness. I am only half a man. Although I do talk about it openly, I don’t try to make people cry about it or spend their free time pondering the plight of all those around the globe suffering from facial hairlessness.

I also have Elephantitis-Of-The-Nose Awareness. The kids at school pointed this one out to me when I was about twelve. Believe it or not, I did not have t-shirts made up that said, “Every year 5.3 people smother under the weight of their own noses – isn’t it time we do something?” I didn’t start a Nose Relief Fund and go shakedown total strangers for rhinoplasty. Maybe I’m unusual, but my parents taught me not to whine.

I think Webster should define Awareness as “please make my problem your problem by giving me money.” In other words, they aren’t as interested in my Awareness as they are in my money’s Awareness. What they don’t understand is that my money’s Awareness is quite over-extended as it is. There’s Self-Employment-Tax Awareness, also known as Uncle-Sam-Taking-Me-Out-Behind-The-Woodshed-For-Being-An-Entrepreneur Awareness. We have School-Loan Awareness, Mortgage Awareness, Four-Kids Awareness, Disposable-Underwear-So-My-Two-Youngest-Can-Poop-In-Their-Pants Awareness, and the greatest concern -- The-Most-Incompetent-School-District-In-The-State-Of-Ohio-Just-Passed-A-School-Levy-So-Even-Though-I-Homeschool-My-Kids-My-Mortgage-Payment-Is-Going-To-Go-Up-$50-Dollars-A-Month Awareness. Believe me, my money lays awake at night worrying because it is so Aware. It has no Awareness left to give.

So, I’ve decided to add one more Awareness to the fray, but if it catches on, it should go a long way to decreasing all the Awareness noise. It is Awareness Awareness. I want the world to know that there is way too much Awareness out there, and every human should do his or her part to end the suffering. If I can just enlist a few obnoxious, out-of-touch celebrities to make it their pet cause, it could be huge. Instead of wearing an Awareness ribbon, I’ll have them wear a chalk outline of a ribbon. But I also need your help – email this to everyone you know and let’s spread the word. If we work together, we can make a difference. We can eradicate Awareness in our lifetime.

Wal-mart - The Great Social Experiment

I’m a student of culture and human behavior. I like to observe people in their own element and I’ve found that the best place to see individuals engaging in peculiar behavior is at that behemoth of the American marketplace, the Great Satan...Wal-mart.

I personally don’t think of it as the Great Satan. I like Wal-mart. Where else are you going to get a brand name coffee-maker for $3? We recently got a Super Wal-mart about five minutes from our house. I could live there. It’s unlike any other Wal-mart I’ve ever seen. It has a very upscale feel to it without compromising any of the distinctive clientele normally associated with Wal-mart. It’s far more spacious – you can traverse the store without any real danger of being smothered by the merchandise. Plus, they carry every item currently produced in the United States and China. There is no reason to go anywhere else to buy anything, ever. Except Sam’s.

And the most interesting thing is that since it’s a new fancy Wal-mart we have the people from the better parts of town coming here. It’s like a grand social experiment. These higher class folks in Springboro didn’t want the Super Wal-mart there because they didn’t want us Franklinites crossing under the highway into their safe haven. But now that the Super Wal-mart is in Franklin, they drive here to shop. Packing heat no doubt, but coming nonetheless. So it’s a miniature melting pot. You can see pickup trucks with tractor tires and vulgar logos parked right next to the Lexus SUV’s with the back-window decal shrine to the children athletes. It’s Hanes meets Versace. Old Sam Walton has proven that rock bottom prices can bring the world together.

In spite of the higher class element, our new Super Wal-mart has all the same theme nights you’ll find at the normal Wal-mart. You have Emaciated Chain-smoker Tuesdays. This is where you’ll see 65-pound old women buying beer and cigarettes for their still dependent grown sons who invariably sport high-top tennis shoes, jeans with holes in the knees, permed mullets, and tattered 10-year-old Brooks and Dunn t-shirts. Then there are Spandex-clad Morbid Obesity Thursdays. These can prove to be more than you bargained for depending on whether or not you’ve eaten. But no matter what, you can count on the envelope being pushed in the category of unabashed displays of immodesty by those least qualified to do so. And finally, you have Stomach-turning Public Displays of Affection Saturdays. I try to avoid Saturdays. As should you. For the Springboroans, I guess Wal-mart represents a bit of a catch-22. Going there makes them sick, and not going there and therefore paying double somewhere else makes them sick. I just enjoy knowing that I could see something truly memorable at any moment.

One of my professors in college told a story about one of his more memorable visits. He got in line behind a large woman in a pink moo-moo whose only objective was to get some change. Her grandson was tugging at her garment saying, “Granny, I gotta [PG-rated word for defecate].” Finally, the lady yelled, “Would you shut up – I’m tryin’ to bust a hunnerd!” The child took that as his cue to take necessary action right where he stood, after which he announced, “Granny, I don’t gotta [defecate] anymore.” The professor promptly changed checkout lines.

My wife recently came home from a late night trip to the Super Wal-mart and told me of an interesting conversation she had with a cashier. Upon arrival at the cash register, she asked the employee if she had had a good day. The cashier began her soliloquy with, “Working here just ain’t what people think it is.” Apparently, the glamour is a mere façade. The woman then proceeded to relay the day’s trying events.

My wife is very friendly and caring toward people and when she says “how are you?” to a total stranger, she means it. I used to. I don’t do it anymore. Well, I don’t do it at Wal-mart anymore. I’ve had a couple of bad experiences. I found that asking that question to a Wal-mart cashier can result in a perception of intimacy on the cashier’s part, making them feel completely comfortable doing one of two things, a) telling me intensely personal things about themselves, or b) asking me intensely personal questions about myself. And sometimes both.

I have to wonder what kind of training is involved in being a Wal-mart cashier. Is it simply the technical aspects of the job, such as pushing all the little buttons and working the microphone and credit card machine? Or do they attempt to instill any kind of people skills? I don’t mean any offense to anyone who works at Wal-mart or who loves someone who works at Wal-mart. I myself am a confessing social cripple, so I’m not judging anyone. I’m sure Wal-mart has some top notch people working for them, its just that I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting any of them.

Whatever training they receive, one thing is certain: the cashiers are taught that whenever a young adult male comes through the checkout with a pregnancy test, this particular item is an ideal conversation starter. They pounce every time.

I’m a sensitive, understanding husband. So when my wife asks me to pick up a pregnancy test, I have no problem with it. I guess this is partially because I’m so sensitive and understanding and partially because I’ve done it several hundred times. We’ve spent countless hours, dollars, and cc’s of urine on these things over the years. Ironically, it seems to be the one item that Sam’s doesn’t offer 50 for a dollar. Man, if ever there was something we needed in bulk. We always take several a day starting several days before there is any medical possibility of getting an accurate result. I say “we” because I am so sensitive and understanding.

However, I am not so sensitive and understanding that I want to talk to perfect strangers about it. And yet, I keep getting the opportunity to do so. At Wal-mart. The first time, as the cashier was ringing up my stuff, her eyes quickly locked onto the most personal item on the conveyor, prompting her to say, “Oh, do you think you might be pregnant?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you want to be pregnant or not?”

As this gal had some lungs, customers in both adjacent lanes glanced over to check out the Incredible Pregnant Man. I thought that if I answered under my breath with a short, clipped, one-syllable answer, she would get the picture and move on. So, I said quietly, “Want.”

Her hint receptor malfunctioned. “Have you been trying?”

“Just trying to get out of here.”

“Is this your first?”

I’m a Christian man. It’s against my faith and upbringing to be overtly rude to people. So I just decided to answer her questions, pay, and run out of the store. Half a dozen questions and nervous ticks later, the exchange was over and I was able to leave.

Of course, I went home and replayed the scene for my wife. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to need medical attention. When she could talk again, she apologized that I was forced to endure such an uncomfortable situation.

Unfortunately, that situation was straight-up Emily Post compared to the next. I went in to pick up yet another round of tests. I was also purchasing a bicycle for my son’s birthday, so I hoped that the larger, more expensive item would serve as a diversion and I would be able to get out of there without a foray into the most private area of my life. Circumstances would have none of it. I was right that the bicycle would get immediate attention. What I did not bargain for is that the bicycle would be missing a price tag, prompting the cashier to call for a price check, which provided her with five extra minutes to notice the tests and initiate the most awkward conversation of my life. My previous Wal-mart pregnancy test grilling had prepared me somewhat for the personal questions. She stayed with the script for a while, then started to ad lib.

Evidently trying to determine exactly when the test would begin to be effective for my wife and I, she began to inquire about...things. I’m doing my best to be discreet here. You know what I’m talking about. My blank stare gave her the perfect opening to transition from personal questions to personal stories about herself. She offered painfully detailed information about a new innovative pregnancy test that she had recently used, how the test is administered (which was unlike any other test of which I was aware), and finally, its time relation to the precipitating event. All of these details were delivered in the 1st person point of view.

As my father-in-law would say, I wanted to poke out my mind’s eye.

What seemed like hours later, the transaction was complete and I robotically drove home to wash my ears out with scalding water. After more prolonged hysterical laughter, my wife managed another apology. I now buy our pregnancy tests at Walgreens.

Anyway, I’ve got to go. My wife needs some Rubbermaid tubs...from Wal-mart.

Sensible Suggestions for Behavior Modification in the California Penal System

I was watching a prison documentary on the History Channel the other day. I’m not quite sure what attracts me to these prison shows. Even though I’m petrified of prison, I can’t get enough of it on TV.

I was the same way when I was a kid. I loved the Incredible Hulk, but he scared the daylights out of me. I would watch the entire show from behind the couch, absolutely riveted. Ever since then I’ve had Hulk nightmares on a regular basis. I’m 32-years-old and still dream that I’m in my childhood home and I can see him walking in the yard toward the house. Of course, I freak out, run to my parents’ bedroom, and hide under the bed. He always knows precisely where I am. No rifling through drawers, no peeking into closets or behind the shower curtain. He just comes straight over to the bed and tosses it off of me. You’d think I’d have learned by now to try another hiding place. While he’s demolishing the bed, I run out into the garage, as always, and hide in the rear floorboard of my mom’s car. Each time, just as he is peeling back the roof of the car, I wake up, right on the tippy-toe edge of soiling myself.

The frequency of the dreams hasn’t decreased as I’ve gotten older; I’ve just added new dreams to the repertoire. Quite often he chases me along the tops of those huge shelves at Sam’s Club. It’s awesome that I can jump from shelf to shelf, but it doesn’t matter how fast I go, he’s right on my heels and eventually starts throwing pallets of baked beans at me. But the worst dream has only happened once – my parents rented a castle to throw me a birthday party. All my friends and family are there, but guess who my folks invited without telling me? Yes. And he has no interest in eating cake or opening presents, he just wants to chase me all over the castle.

And yet, I love him.

So, maybe I’m just wired to be intensely interested in that which terrifies me. But prison scares me far worse than the Hulk. I’m sure this is common knowledge, but slightly-built white males with no ability to grow facial hair, as a general rule, don’t fare very well in prison. I wouldn’t last five minutes. White boys are free game for any ethnic group. If you don’t know karate, your personal space is going to be violated. A lot. I’ve never been in anything resembling a physical altercation and I doubt my suitors would be willing to settle the matter with a friendly game of chess, so odds are that I would be a nice little toy for the whole inmate population.

For that reason, prison is a huge motivator for me. I will never break the law. If I was ever framed for something and sentenced to the pen, I would take that as a word from the Lord, “It’s time to come home.” Now, my friend Rick would be fine. Even though he may be a hair shorter than me, he loves to fight and is quite good at it. Apparently, if you can just mess somebody up on your first day, people won’t bother you after that (about which Rick would have mixed emotions.) Now that I think about it, I’d probably be fine in prison as long as I could talk whoever framed me into framing Rick, too. He could protect me and I could give him free toiletries.

But anyway, I’ve learned over the last few shows that California has a serious overpopulation problem in their prisons. They’ve got more people in prison than in college, or something crazy like that. Looks like the three-strikes thing is backfiring. Some of their cells are so packed they can’t even fit their entertainment centers in them anymore. It’s hell on earth. Even with all the racial unrest, all the prisoners are of one mind on one thing – the overcrowding problem is a problem.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel sorry for them. I’m just puzzled – how is it that anyone in California has more than one strike? Especially the little white guys. I’m telling you, if I had to go to prison and somehow survived, I’d be Ritchie Cunningham when I got out. I’d be doing community service just because. Bake sales, Habitat for Humanity, nursing drunks back to health, you name it. I’d be as straight as an arrow, friends.

But you wouldn’t believe how many interviews I’ve seen with people fresh out of prison talking about how it would be so much easier to be back on the inside. Help me understand this. I realize that leisure is addictive, but please, there are at least a few cons to being in the big house. No pun. How about being stabbed with a toothbrush out on the playground? (By the way, guess how they get the toothbrush out to the playground? It ain’t in an overnight bag.) How about thrice daily sexual assaults? How about trying to use the toilet with everybody in the cell block staring at you? Call me crazy, but given the choice, I’m fairly certain I would opt for freedom.

But they keep coming back. I saw this one guy who averaged less than twenty-four hours of freedom in between each of his incarcerations. This is getting out of hand. What kind of negative incentive do these people need in order to keep the law? No one seems to have any ideas.

So, I’ve got some proposals. First of all, these lifers who have been convicted of murder, rape, or child molestation by conclusive DNA evidence just need to be rubbed out. You choose the method. And don’t give me the ‘the death penalty doesn’t work as a deterrent’ speech. If the folks on the west coast don’t have the stomach to do it themselves, outsource to Texas. They specialize.

For violent offenders who don’t fit the criteria above, make them watch Oprah and Dr. Phil reruns 12 hours a day. They’ll either be so sissified that you couldn’t pay them to hurt somebody or they’ll be so nuts that the State of California will get a handsome return on all the belts and shoelaces provided to the prison system. Either way, there’ll be a little more elbow room out at Pelican Bay.

All non-violent offenders don’t even need to go to prison. Per se. There are over 550 Cracker Barrel Old Country Stores in the United States of America. I don’t know if it’s still the case, but at one time they had no qualms about hiring the sick and seedy. Just make these people wait tables there, double shifts seven days a week for the duration of their sentence – and don’t allow them to eat the food. Trust me, you have never seen reform like this program will bring.

Then all the prisons in California will be under-populated. Trump can turn them into luxury rehab centers for Hollywood, which will help to address the other great California overcrowding problem.

I may run for President.

We Don't Believe in Milk

My parents came over to baby-sit last night so that my wife and I could get our Christmas shopping done. We had been gone about an hour when we got a phone call from my dad informing us that 50% of our kids were puking. Awesome. My favorite time for people to vomit is when I'm not there. So, not only was I out having a great time with my wife, but my kids were getting the barfing out of the way while I was gone. I love this time of year.

When we got home the kids were in bed, so we watched The Bourne Ultimatum while my wife wrapped presents. A grand evening. About five minutes before the climax, a figure appeared out of the darkness of our peripheral vision. We turned and saw our oldest standing there, as white as rice, with a thick ivory paste covering his pajama top. He calmly said, "I need to be cleaned up." My wife immediately jumped into action, taking him into the laundry room, removing his shirt and scrubbing off the debris in the utility sink. He was standing next to her getting in a few more violent heaves.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with my hands. I was aware that there was another crime scene to be processed upstairs, but summoning the fortitude to volunteer for the job proved quite a hurdle. But after watching the two of them in the thick of it for a few moments, cold shame took over and I whispered, "Do you want me to take his sheets off the bed?" Unfortunately, she heard me and replied in the affirmative.

Here we go. I started up the stairs, careful to watch my step just in case he had left a trail. As I turned the corner into the boys' room, the odor hit me like a 200-pound cadaver. I don’t know if I can do this. Pressing on, I began to gingerly remove the sheets from the top bunk, taking great pains to not see or touch anything foreign, and making a conscious effort to breathe through my mouth. In order to pull the sheets off the back corner, I had to stand on the bottom bunk, at which point I let down my guard and caught sight of the vast landscape of half-digested macaroni and cheese.

Ooh-ho-ho mmmmommy dearest. When I came to, my wife was carrying the soiled bedding out the door and into the kitchen. She scrubbed that vile, biohazardous material off every square inch of every last blanket, sheet, and pillow case. No latex gloves, no haz-mat suit, and no Vicks VapoRub smeared on her upper lip to combat the smell. She simply washed her hands and said, "Let's go finish the movie." If this woman isn't the RoboCop of motherhood then I don't know anything.

So, we're probably going to have to take the kids to the doctor. That is, we get to go pay someone to treat us like imbeciles. Don't get me wrong - I like doctors. But our pediatric group for some reason always sticks us with a nurse practitioner. I feel like asking, "What? My co-pay's not good enough for a real doctor?" What a racket – get someone with half your education to do all of your job for a third of the salary while you burn down stogies out on the golf course. I don't remember the last time we saw a bona fide pediatrician. A couple of months ago, I took our oldest in and they didn't even give us our standard nurse practitioner - they sent in a trainee. I had to coach this poor person through the exam.

“Umm, I don’t think his sore throat is down there.”
“Yeah, he’s about to black out – you might not want to bear down so hard.”
“No, no, no - orally.”

It's getting to the point that I truly expect to one day see my kids being treated by someone with all the medical training of a pipefitter.

“Yes, I’m sorry, but we’re all out of medical professionals today. Instead, you’re pride and joy will be seeing Vern from JiffyLube in room 4. Oh, wait-- That’s right – I forgot, he had to go home early today – he injured himself with a tongue depressor. That leaves... Zokta, the witchdoctor... or Pepe, the recovering internet predator. Pepe could fit you in around noon. Shall I put you down?”

The educational downgrading of the personnel examining the kids makes the treatment we get even harder to take. At our son’s checkup after his second birthday, we had our first encounter with the nurse practitioner. Apparently, she had just gotten out of the nurse practitioner academy because she was spraying musk like a skunk in a lion’s den, peppering us with questions about his care, and reacting with varying intensities of disapproval with each answer.

My wife’s patience began to wane as the nurse started to ask our son questions. “Jackson? Jackson? Can you look at me?”

He just continued playing with the instruments on the wall, at which point she slowly turned around with eyes bulging, stared incredulously at my wife for several seconds, then asked with spitting contempt, “Does . . . he . . . understand . . . what . . . I’m . . . saying . . . to . . . him?”

“He understands – he just doesn’t like you.”

She asked a few more questions, tapped a few more body parts, and just generally acted as if we weren’t fit to care for a gold fish and our son had the motor skills and cognition of a brain-dead ape.

His checkup the following year was sweet vindication. He had blossomed and was quite intelligent. At that point, the n.p. had nothing to criticize about him, so she turned her disdain solely upon us.

Now each visit to the “doctor” ends up being a quest to quickly and cleanly bat away any condescending questions so that we can just get the medicine we need. We start out the appointment feeling quite cooperative, but by the end we’re Fort Knox – you ain’t getting anything out of us.

“Has he had a flu shot yet this year?”

“No, ma’am.”

“May I ask why?”

“I guess.”

“Okay, why?”

“The worst flu I ever got was right after getting a flu shot.”

“Well, you know a three-year-old’s body can’t handle the flu like yours can. But if you want to play Russian roulette with your son’s eternity, I can’t stop you.”

“Last winter none of us took anything but Flintstone vitamins and for the first time in our history there wasn’t so much as a sniffle in our house from November to May. Prior to that, if one or all of us got a flu shot, our home became a temporary satellite for the CDC. Now, those results may not pass peer review, but they’re good enough for morons like us.”

“Fine. Has he been drinking at least 16 ounces of milk per day?”

“We don’t believe in milk.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a religious thing – we don’t like to talk about it. Any more questions?”

“Will he be getting his next round of vaccinations?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“As I mentioned a moment ago, we’re morons. And we hate our children.”

There should be a small bit of grace granted to a parent who has successfully kept a child - or four – breathing until his third birthday. Somehow, in spite of our never having gone to nurse practitioner school, we’ve managed to keep the kids alive. We just put food in one end, get rid of what comes out the other, and give copious hugs.

I accept the fact that in this life we all have our burdens to bear. It just seems to me that the worst thing about my kids being sick should be the puke, not the doctor’s office.

Slap-fight on the World Stage

I made an interesting connection the other day. I was watching one of the presidential debates, listening to them bicker, posture, and sulk, and I had a flashback to earlier in the day when my three oldest were fighting about who was going to get to use the squiggly straw for lunch. I was struck by the realization that the behavior I’m trying to eradicate in my children is the same thing I see in all the people who aspire to be the leader of the greatest nation in the world. Tattling. Lying. Boasting. Name-calling. Finger pointing. Whining. Pouting. Given such a consistent parallel, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that these candidates also poop in their pants and eat their boogers.

I have this picture in my mind of Giuliani crouching in the corner of my living room, red-faced, forcing out a grunt through clenched teeth. “Rudy – you’re supposed to do that in the potty, aren’t you? Someone’s not getting dessert tonight.”

“Obama, don’t eat that! Do not eat that!”

Really, the essential difference between the candidates and my three-year-old is their vocabulary – my son knows how to say please and thank you. Is it not amazing that we are poised to elect an overgrown brat to be the leader of the free world?

You know, if you think about it, running for President is inherently narcissistic. Essentially, what these folks are saying is, “Of all the people in the world, I’m the best and brightest.” Can anyone so quick to self-promote really be a self-less servant of the people? Is it logical to believe that people with a life-long history of cut-throat ladder-climbing have all at once adopted an ‘others first’ mentality?

Look at the way they campaign. As they say things like, “I just want to help people” and “no one should have to live a life without dreams,” they are simultaneously giving their opponents a knee-to-the-groin/foot-stomp combo. These debates have all the civility of a no-rules cockfight. Imagine if you or I behaved this way at work or in the neighborhood. We’d be ostracized.

- “Yeah, Doug’s lawn looks good, but what he’s not telling you is that he uses foreign fertilizer. I use only 100% union made American compost.”

- “While my co-worker is slinging mud here, I think the American people would like to know why he continues to park in my parking space.”

- “Okay, let’s think about this. Yesterday, he wanted a Dr. Pepper during his break. But today, he’s drinking a Coke. I ask you this: Can this company really afford another four years with this flip-flopper as my supervisor?”

It really all comes down to the fact that if you want to win, you’ve got to be the most effective slanderer and braggart, while at the same time convincing the most people that you are a bastion of virtue. They don’t even realize how ridiculous they look and sound.

“Don’t let my filthy riches fool you – I love poor people. I’ve always loved poor people. I probably know...oh, goodness...three or even four of them by name.”

“There is an appalling lack of principled leadership in the records of my opponents. As I was just saying to my third wife with whom I cheated on my second wife, 'It’s really sad to see the deficit of moral integrity exhibited by all these other leaders.'”

“The health care system is broken. You know, if there’s one thing I learned while making my millions fleecing the medical community in landmark malpractice suits, it’s that health care must be fixed.”

“Global warming! Global warming! Just think of all the energy that could have been saved if this President hadn’t turned a blind eye to the problem and forced me to use foreign oil to heat my 7.3million square foot Tahoe summer home.”

I want to hear someone shoot straight about why they want the job.

“Why do you want to be President?”

“Well, to be completely honest with you, I’m a self-important windbag, I love power, and I think you and everyone else are morons and I know better than you what is good for you. Can I count on your vote?”

Now that’s a candidate I could get behind – he may have the same character as all the rest of them, but at least he’s honest about it. They all have their own reason – they just pretend it’s above board.

Truthfully, I’d love to be the President, but not for the power and attention. I just think Air Force One is awesome – apparently, you automatically get your own bomber jacket. Plus, I would have my own theater in the White House. Dream come true. And I’ve always wanted to be best friends with a Secret Service Agent. I swear, I wouldn’t get anything done with those guys around. I have a good friend who’s a cop and I know I drive him crazy asking about his job. It would be ten times worse with the Secret Service:

“So, seriously? You’d take a bullet for me? What about a head shot? How do you guys train for that sort of thing?”

“What kind of gun do you carry? Does everybody carry the same kind or do you get to pick your own? Cool. Hey, do you think maybe I could carry one? – I swear, I wouldn’t say a word to anyone.”

“So, have you ever killed a counterfeiter? What’s the worst thing you ever did to a perp? You guys know karate?”

“Hey, let’s go down to my theater and watch In The Line of Fire.”

It may sound ridiculous, but you’d at least know where I stand. As it is, you have to diagram the real candidates’ sentences to nail down what they’re saying on any of the issues:

“You know, I’m glad to be asked this question yet again, which I think I’ve clearly answered a hundred times before. When it comes to gun control, do as I say, not holding me to what I’ve said you should do, while I’m doing something wholely other than what I’ve implied one might do when faced with a situation similar to yours or mine, should the previously mentioned contingencies prove to be applicable.”

“Mmm, yes, immigration. Well, Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown and Jill came tumbling after. So, I think we’ve got to keep that in mind.”

I want someone who is completely unashamed of his own views:

“What’s your platform?”

“The death penalty.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“I’d be happy to. The only thing I’m really passionate about is killing criminals. Executing murderers is a good first step, but there’s far more work to be done. Rapists, child molesters, kidnappers, and those teen punks who bashed my mailbox with a baseball bat - all need to be lit up.”

Of course, I know I’m asking for way too much honesty and humility from these people. All I know is that after listening to the Presidential debates, I’m toying with the idea of putting up my three-year-old as a write-in.

Now, That's More Like It

I'm the one taking it easy. This is my in-your-face celebration of my yard's demise. I'm king for the next four months.

Ding-Dong, The Grass is Dead

I woke up yesterday morning to my beautiful wife announcing the most glorious news of the year: Snow, Snow, Snow. This is the annual highlight I long for from that moment every Spring when I first crank up that infernal green slave-master in my backyard. Yes, friends, today is a wonderful day. The grass is dead.

As some of you know, I am an avid indoorsman, a lover of all activities coinciding with conditioned air. I trace it back to my upbringing in Texas. It's hot in Texas. Have you ever heard someone say, "Well, it's hot, but at least its a dry heat," implying that somehow the dryness makes it more tolerable? These poor fools must have never been to Texas, because if they had, they would never say such a silly thing. The heat in Texas is as dry as brimstone, but it will still make you wish you had never been born. Why do all the illegals choose Arizona, New Mexico, and Nevada as their doorway to a better life? Because even Mexicans can't stand the heat in Texas.

I was younger than most when my dad shouldered me with the lawn mowing responsibilities. My grandfather had bought us this huge beast of a riding lawnmower. I'll never forget that machine. Dad explained that the right pedal was the "go," and the left one was the "mow." I had to stand on them simultaneously while pulling up on the steering wheel for leverage. It required a posture similar to water skiing. After a quick heads-up about rattlesnakes, dad fired 'er up and sent me on my way. The first time all the other men in the neighborhood saw this toddler making laps, and my dad drinking a sweating glass of iced tea on the porch swing, they all at once summoned their own sons to see if they, too, had been blessed with a mowing prodigy. When I was half-way done with the front yard my mom brought me a sippy cup of Gatorade and lay me down on the freshly cut grass to change my diaper.

Because of all the attention I was getting, Dad had to start making me mow at night until I was a little older. The child services people work a very strict 8 to 5. Dad figured as long as I waited until 7, we (he) were safe.

When I finally began to mow during the day on a regular basis, I must have been about 8 years old. That is when the seeds of hatred for the outdoors were sown in my heart. You see, I found that the discomfort of the Texas heat was compounded by a little problem I have - I'm a sweater. I don't mean that I am a winter garment, but someone who sweats often and profusely with or without a good reason. Two minutes into the mow I looked like I'd been given a swirly.

You know, I have to wonder if it was the Texas heat that made me a heavy sweater, rather than yet another of my dad's undesirable recessive traits. It may be that Texas is so hot that my sweat glands will be playing catch-up for the rest of my life. Either way, I now associate mowing with blistering heat and a socially-handicapping propensity to sweat.

That's why today I consider the grass in my yard to be my mortal enemy who for 8 months of the year owns me, forcing me out of my element into the harsh outer world. The agony of mowing is even worse now since I'm in far worse physical shape than I was back then. The neighbors still watch me mow but not for the same reason. They gather together across the street and place not-so-friendly wagers on how long it will take me to wither.

"I've got ten that says he makes it half an hour this time before he lays down in the garage."

"Are you nuts? It's 89 degrees and there's no wind. If he goes twenty it'll be on the news."

"Yeah, but look - he's starting on the big hill while he's fresh. Statistically, he always does better when he starts on that side."

"But not when he's wearing a black t-shirt."

"Oh, yeah."

"You gotta trust me - I'm up 600 bucks this year. Look - he hasn't even made one full pass and he's already heaving. Someone's taking a ride in an ambulance today."

I've already decided that when the kids are grown and gone, my wife and I are going to either purchase a modest condo in Antarctica or buy a dinghy and sail the seven seas for the rest of our days, far away from the man-made Hades that is the suburban lawn culture. I do not belong here.

If I could sow my property with salt I'd do it in a heartbeat. What a glorious thing a gravel pit or AstroTurf lawn would be. But the city and my wife insist on actual grass. All I know is that all the while I'm cutting the grass, God's words to Adam in Genesis 3 ring in my head like a death knell: "Cursed is the ground because of you." Indeed.

So, of course, winter is my time. It's the four months of the year when the rest of the population is almost as white as I am, and the only time I go outside is to get into my car. If you'll excuse me, my winter wonderland has arrived and I've got some living to do. Ding-Dong, the grass is dead.

Humility, Demonic Oppression, and My First Car

"It wasn't supposed to be this way."

But I guess most things don't turn out the way you first expected. Still, this was way beyond anything I could have imagined.

It started five years earlier in 1994 as I was preparing to go away to college. I had saved $1,400 for a car and needed to find one quick. Those two components - very little money and very little time - gave me very little confidence that I was going to find a vehicle good for anything other than disposing of a body in the Ohio River.

So I prayed. I prayed that the Lord would bless me with a great deal on a vehicle that could get me from Nashville to Dayton and back - 700-miles round trip - every couple of weeks for the rest of my life. A tall order. But faith can move mountains, right?

In this case, faith moved a mountain of proverbial horse dung and buried me with it. But not all at once . . . it was one bowel movement at a time, slowly so that I didn't realize it was happening until finally the weight was cutting off my airway and the stench was a part of my essence.

In 1986, General Motors produced 138,000 units of the Buick Somerset. Many a night I have cursed the heads of that corporation for not stopping at 137,999. I had never heard of a Buick Somerset. That should have tipped me off, I guess, but I was young. A widow at my church was remarrying and her new husband - ironically, an engineer for GM - wanted to sell her Somerset and buy her a new vehicle. How much did they want for her old 1986 Buick Somerset?

$1,400.

The car was flawless. White paint without a hint of rust - no small feat after an eight year tenure in Ohio - new tires, and a removable stereo to prevent theft. And she drove like a dream. Remember the over-the-top power-steering on vehicles back in the eighties, where you could do figure 8's by only touching the steering wheel with the very tip of your pinkie? Yes. I loved it. The price was right and the car was in excellent shape - God had answered my prayer.

I actually do believe God answered my prayer. It's just that He wasn't interested in making me happy. He wanted to make me humble. Really, really humble.

So I bought the car, thanking the Lord all the way home. I slept like a baby that night. The next morning I got up and decided to take a joy ride in my very first car.

It wouldn't start. Hmm. That's strange. Oh, well. The car's eight years old. It's not gonna be perfect. It's probably the battery. A quick trip to Auto Zone confirmed that the battery was bad. No big deal. $40 dollars and I'm on my way.

One week later, on my first Sunday in college, I got up early to meet some family friends at their church. On the way, I noticed that the cassette tape I was listening to was slowing down. The voices of the singers went from tenor to bass in about 7 seconds and the car started to feel a bit sluggish. Another 7 seconds and I was straining to pull the car to the shoulder, every hint of that glorious power-steering seemingly gone forever, and praying desperately that inertia would carry me to the nearest gas station. The inertia came up about 1.5 miles short.

I was in a new city, had no life experience, knew nothing about cars, and had no earthly clue what to do. My parents were 330 miles away. Which didn't really matter since the only human in the universe with a cell phone was Captain Kirk. No pay phones in sight.

Then God's providential hand appeared and bailed me out. A car pulled over in front of me and a woman got out, walked back to my car, and asked if I needed a ride. I said yes and she asked where I was headed.

"To church."

"What church?"

"I don't know the name. I just know its on this road."

"Well, you can come to church with us."

Us? I couldn't see anyone else in her car. I got out and walked to the passenger side of her car and saw that there was a toddler in the back in a car seat. That's when I knew that God was looking out for me. What woman in her right mind gets out of her car and offers a ride to a total stranger when she has a baby in the back seat of her car?

We got to the church and I immediately ran into the friends I was supposed to meet. The Good Samaritan lady just happened to go to the same church as my friends.

Makes you feel warm inside, doesn't it? Happy ending, right? Not really. God really was at work here, but knowing what is coming, I can tell you that there is some grand irony in the mix. You see, God was just getting warmed up on the humility thing. He was still stretching. We're still on the front end of a five year lesson here. I'm convinced God's help that day was benevolent, but at the same time He was also keeping me in the game so that I could absorb a few more kidney punches to the ego.

As I write this, a large part of me wishes I had left that car on the side of the road and just taken the $1,400 haircut. I'm sure Greyhound offers service from Nashville to Dayton. The bus would have offered me reliable transportation and a little human interaction. Far less heartache, embarrassment, and physical injury. But I went back to the car. My friend Bobby determined it was the alternator, which I guess is somewhere under the hood. Another $80 and I'm on my way.

So far, just normal car trouble right? Well, buckle up. No pun. Things are about to get freaky.

Fast forward to that summer. I notice a foul stench coming from the back seat. I looked back there and found standing liquid in the rear driver side floorboard. I assumed one of my sisters had spilled a Coke and not had the decency to clean it up. The stifling summer heat and mildew had caused a seriously offensive aroma. All the cadaver dogs in the Midwest must have been freaking out. My dad, who himself has a bloodhound's sense of smell, felt a marked urgency to rectify the situation.

Of course, our first solution was simply to soak up the liquid, which turned out to not be Coke, but dirty water. The liquid returned. We soaked it up again. The liquid returned again. We absolutely could not detect where the water was coming from. After a few days of this, the wretched smell was preventing dad from sleeping at night and he suggested a more aggressive course of action: we tear out the rear driver side floorboard carpet and therefore remove the breeding ground for that hellish mildew. Even if water returned, at least there would be no mildew. I could just make it part of my routine to sop it up every day.

So that's what we did. I have to say, it was a tad embarrassing to have bare metal in the floorboard back there, but I accepted my lot, realizing that appearance isn't everything and that this situation was indeed preferable to the smell of death that precipitated it.

Here comes the freaky part. Water never again filled the rear driver side floorboard - it filled the rear passenger side floorboard. Are you following this? No moisture ever again on the driver side . . . a constant pool of water on the previously completely dry passenger side.

I have a flare for hyperbole. Mild embellishment can make a story far more enjoyable to the speaker as well as the listener. But I stand before God right here and now and tell you with a clear conscience that every word of this is true.

We went through the motions again - couldn't detect the source and couldn't keep it dry - and finally resorted to the same solution with the passenger's side: we tore out the carpet.

I then had no carpet in the back. It was noticeable. My attitude toward the vehicle was changing. At one time, I had been proud of this car. Not anymore. But I realized it was just a car and it got me where I needed to go. So I was humbled, but thankful.

The day after the second scalping, I went out to see if it had worked. I peered through the window into the back seat and felt a wave of relief as I found that there was no water in the floorboard. Hallelujah. I went around to get in and go to work, and as I sat down a shimmering light caught my eye - it was the sun's reflection dancing on the surface of a brand new pool of water in the front passenger side floorboard.

I audibly rebuked Satan. This was clearly supernatural. Again, no clue where it was coming from. Again, we were forced to tear out the carpet.

And again . . . the water found a new home.

Follow the pattern. Rear driver side floorboard. Rear passenger side floorboard. Front passenger side floorboard... Hmm. What's next? Where do we go from here? I'm afraid so. The circle was completed. I just went ahead and tore out the carpet underneath my feet since in the other three places the water had never come back once the carpet was gone. And that's where the demon juice broke with tradition.

From that day forward, there was standing water in the front driver side floorboard. I humbly accepted defeat and resigned myself to this character building element of my life. No big deal. I just had to learn to drive with my feet perched on the interior walls of the floorboard.

By the time I went back to school in the fall, all was routine. Then one day I went out to the car to go somewhere. I don't recall where I was headed - my destination is not what I remember about that day. What I do remember is the advent of the singularly most publicly humiliating quirk of this cursed machine. When I cranked the engine, it made a sound that initially had me completely convinced that someone was being stabbed to death with a railroad spike under the hood of my car. After the fight-or-flight response began to subside, I realized that the noise was far too loud to be a human in the throes of death. Far too loud.

Everyone within earshot - that is, every soul in the greater Nashville area - simultaneously turned their entire body in my direction in utter horror. At that point I had a full-blown episode. I needed world class mechanical and spiritual assistance ASAP. I didn't know whether to shut the car off and take the walk of shame back to my dorm, passing the glances of total rejection from all my peers, or floor it, get off campus, and pray that the car would warm up and taper off the ear-piercing screech.

To my relief, the noise did decrescendo after a few minutes. However, the next time I started the car, I learned that the screech, too, would become a hallmark right along with the perpetual swampland under the pedals. The mechanically-inclined could offer me no diagnosis or remedy.

That winter my illusions about a rust-free exterior were removed from me. Paint began chipping away like the skin of a leper in July, revealing a rust-ridden shell of a vehicle. After that, the careless entering and exiting of the automobile would require an immediate trip to UrgentCare for a tetanus shot.

For a while after that, it was just small things...small things that began to show a pattern. I noticed that of each of the features of the car that came in pairs, only one member of each pair was working. Two headlights - only one lighting up. Two windshield wipers - only one wiping. Two stereo speakers - only one hissing. Two rear shock absorbers - only one absorbing. It was as though the car had suffered a stroke and only the driver's side was still functioning. But at that point I had already decided, I'm not spending another dime on this beast, I'll drive it 'as is' until a government official declares it unfit for public travel.

I have a theory about what caused the next problem. I trace it back to the extended period of time with water in the floorboard. The constant moisture in the air caused the headliner to peel away from the roof so that it lay on my head like a terrycloth bedsheet, flattening my hair and rendering my rearview mirror completely irrelevant. A staple gun fixed the problem. For a time. But again the moisture had so weakened the fibers of the headliner that the staples eventually tore all the way through, returning my head-blanket and obscuring my rearview. Not to be beaten, I jabbed a coat hanger into the molding around the roof directly above my head, like a huge paper clip holding the blanket off of my head. I still couldn't see out the back window, but at least I wasn't dealing with constant static in my hair.

I was pretty calloused by that point. The screeching, the swamp, the giant do-rag, the stroke-induced paralysis - none of this affected me. I was numb to the pain. I had no memory of the blessed machine I had bought years before. There was only my master, the Hellcat.

We now come to the climax. One day during our last winter in Nashville, there was snow on the ground and ice on the streets, so I got ready a little early so I could defrost the Hellcat. I went out and cranked it up, once again breaking the noise ordinance via the ubiquitous cacophony that had become virtually inaudible to my desensitized ears. The ice was quite thick so I decided to assist the defrost by scraping the windows. My wife had our ice-scraper with her in our good car, so I went back into the apartment, retrieved a metal spatula, and started chipping away. Oddly, even when I was satisfied that there was no more ice on the windshield, I still could not see through the glass.

And then I knew. Condensation from the foot-bath in the floorboard had frozen on the inside of the windshield. Picture, if you will, this scene. I am sitting inside the loudest man-made object in Tennessee shrouded in a red canopy with my feet clinging to the sides of the floorboard as I scrape ice from the inside of the windshield.

When I could see through the glass, I buckled up and started off for work. Since I was running late by now, I had not taken the time to calculate the final implications of the internal ice scenario. Because the defrost was still on, melted ice was dripping down into the dashboard . . . the dashboard housing all my digital gauges. They didn't last long, but simply flickered three or four times and then expired for eternity. From then on, I had no idea how fast I was going, how much gas I had, or when to get my next oil change.

I then muttered quietly and to myself, "It wasn't supposed to be this way." It was the conclusion of a long, slow death of pride.

In the summer of '99, after disclosing all it's deficiencies, I sold the Hellcat to some desperate soul for $550 and laughed myself sore all the way to the bank.

Finally, I had gotten the great deal I prayed for.