Religion, bringing the reason to the season since. . . 0.

I’m vindicated at last. I’ve written many posts about people microwaving popcorn at work. The stench of burning popcorn permeates the whole floor…in some instances several floors, like mustard gas. I never thought it was dangerous but it infuriated me to the point of wanting to physically beat someone down. Well, that foul stench has been declared lethal.

“… doctors there believe they have the first case of a consumer who developed lung disease from the fumes of microwaving popcorn several times a day for years.”

Any stench that foul is bound to be lethal.

Use of the word “party” as verb.

Have you ever had good friend call up and tell you they were getting a divorce or dumping their boy/girl friend and you went on a super long rant about how you never liked them anyway, and how happy you were that finally, you'd never have to see the offensive party again, and listed a lot of really good reasons why that person was a horrible piece of shit, and added in plenty of name calling and really insulting, derogatory shit only to have them call you a few weeks later and tell you they’re getting back together?

Doh!

Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five I subscribed to Gentleman’s Quarterly. This is more of a confession than a fact. I do not repent.

I concoct very elaborate stories about myself in strange situations. If I go to a party and don’t know too many people I usually make up a cover life and go into incredible detail. A lot of people out there think they’ve met an Earl or a Duke. Others think they’ve had dinner with the foremost authority on Algonquin languages, Burmese antiquities, medieval soil analysis or the descendent of a wide range of famous Wild West types. In the past I’ve had business cards made up with various impressive credentials. My theory is that if you’re never going to see a person again, why not make up incredible characters and lives for them. Once in line at the grocery store I told the cashier that I was about to go and cheat on my wife. It was a very intense moment for the woman. Next time someone asks you what you do just give it a try. Do you think someone’s going to question you on your made up job as a falcon trainer?

I am non-confrontational and I have a hard time saying no. When I was younger I dated some girls simply because I didn’t have the heart to say no to them. It took a long time to make progress and in the end I never totally changed. Instead of saying no I would just never answer the phone or totally avoid the situation. Then they would go completely crazy and accuse me of using them or stringing them along. These berserker scenes almost always occurred in public.

I don’t usually hold a grudge because I’m forgiving by nature, but on the occasions that I do, it is cast in stone.

If I become interested a subject I will spend years becoming an expert on it. No matter the cost or research time involved.

I hate skiing. Hate it. The feel of those boots on my feet enrage me.

I’m not much of a cook. That’s an understatement, actually. There is almost nothing that I can successfully cook. I dry out eggs from fear of sammy. I burn almost anything that needs to be fried or sautéed. Things tend to be charcoal on the outside and raw in the middle. A few months ago I bought a digital meat thermometer; I thought that would really help but it hasn’t. I’d poke it onto something and all the juice would come out and the thing would read “rare” or I would get no reading at all. Then a few minutes later I’d do it again and it would say “well” and be completely dried out.

I never fared any better on the grill. I’d watch some cooking shows and I learned a little bit, things like cold meat sticks to a hot grill, but for the most part, I’ve ruined a lot of good meat. What makes this all worse is the fact that I’m somewhat of a gourmand. I know a lot about food. The fact that I know what I want and what I like and can’t cook it is starting to wear thin on me. Not that I’m going to start making complex reductions from veal bones or anything, but I should be able to grill a steak without destroying the damned thing.

Last month we decided to get a new grill and I finally fired it up this week. We got a couple of NY Strips and some potatoes and gave it a go. The first thing I notices was if you light this grill and close the lid the thing goes up to 600 degrees really, really fast. My old grill never really got hot enough. So I brushed a little olive oil on them so they wouldn’t stick, some salt and pepper and threw them on. I closed the lid and watched the temperature gauge go back to 600 degrees. When I opened the lid a few minutes later they looked like they were ready to be turned. I flipped them and gave it a few more minutes at 600.

They were perfect. Turns out it wasn’t me after all. You just need to get that bastard up to 600 degrees and keep the lid closed.

Adult suburbia is a lot like high school.

I pick my kid up from dancing lessons and other events. I’m forced to attend the odd birthday parties as well, and I’m here to tell you that high school behavior is alive and well, long after your Camaro’s been sold for scrap.

When I pick my kid up from dancing I am always the only man there. The gaggle of mothers all look up when I walk in and then go back to talking amongst themselves. None of them will look me in the eye. I always nod and smile because I’m polite. They all look away. After a few minutes a couple of them will start staring at me when they think I’m not looking. And I mean stare. Like I have two heads.

Most of them pretend I’m not there at all. Like I give a shit. Every once in a while I’ll look up quickly and catch one of them staring at me and they panic and look away. This goes on week after week. Are they threatened by me? Are they wondering why their own worthless husbands can’t contribute a little more? I’ll probably never know. They have a definite pecking order as well. In fact a couple of the women are ignored as well.

Anyway, a friend of the family started taking her kid to the same dance school and now I have someone to talk to when I show up, much to the dismay of the other mothers. They are clearly pissed off by my talking to this woman. What they really need to do is relax and develop some damned social graces.

The only difference between this situation and high school is the frump factor. And a cloud of dope smoke. Most of these broads look like they’ve had the life beaten out of them. A few keep in shape but most are pretty far gone, and they’re younger than I am. Maybe that’s where the hostility comes from.

The same thing happens when I’m forced to go to a birthday party. I walk in and either all conversation stops or they pretend I’m not there. Like they’re punishing me. Do these broads think I like going to these things? Do they think I want to share they’re company? Maybe get a play date going or something? Because I’m here to tell you broads something. I don’t like you. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to see you in those horrifying clothes you wear. The sweat pants and the saggy-baggy old crap that’s hanging off of you. You all need to get your fucking hair done, learn to put on some makeup that wasn’t purchased in a Northern New Jersey drugstore and learn to sit up straight.

These women look at me like I have two heads and they’re the ones that look like they slept on the floor in their clothes all night. They’re the ones that better not get a divorce because it’s going to be CAT CITY for them.

My life is cluttered with useless people and mindless chores.

Yesterday someone was hovering in my office doorway while I was working on something complex. I couldn’t lose my place and I was trying to finish something before looking up.

“Am I bothering you?” they asked.

“Not yet,” I said.

It had the desired effect. I glanced up and saw that the person had no idea how to reply to that. Didn’t know whether to flee or not. And they cut right to the chase and it was fairly painless for me. People usually stand there and try to talk about some TV show or something before they get around to asking me the question they came in for. I guess it’s an attempt at bonding.

I don’t fraternize at work. I have a professional life and a private life and never shall they meet. I’m very polite, but I don’t share, bond, relate or participate in small talk. I smile a lot. I’m courteous. I’m professional most of the time unless someone invokes my anger with stupidity above and beyond the standard that I have come to expect.

I can’t personally take credit for the “Not yet” line. I saw it or read it somewhere, but I’ve been dying to put it to use.

In other news, Bill has already vanished, having exhausted his repertoire of items that have been inserted up his ass.

I’ve been watching The Tudors, a new series on Showtime about Henry the 8th and Ann Boleyn. Very entertaining. I had no idea how popular doggy style sex was amongst the royal court was back then.

I’m also taken with the show Cash in the Atticon BBC America. That’s where an antiques expert goes to someone’s house and rummages through all their shit to find stuff to sell at auction. Then just before the auction the idiots set reserves twice as high as the value of the item and nothing sells. It’s amazing though, the amount of Victorian and Edwardian furniture people have lying around in England. All made of walnut, mahogany and oak. And the stuff sells for less than I paid for a coffee table in a middle range furniture store. My wife now wants to visit England just for the auctions.

I’ve never been to an auction but I really need to go just for the material. People touching their noses and shit to bid versus the people holding up giant placards with their number on it. People hiding in the back and then jumping out at the end for a bid just before the hammer strikes. I’m fascinated by that stuff.

Who's the black private dick that's a sex machine to all the chicks?

Well, here we are again - Ash Wednesday, the only Holy Day in the Calendar year when you can smoke in church. And two days before Christ is beaten up by the Italians, spit on by the Hebes and then crucified by his own father. His father then forsakens him as well, adding insult to injury.

But it is also a happy time. A time for spiral hams, peeps, dyed hard-boiled eggs, patent leather shoes, frilly bonnets, jelly beans, pastels and polyester, bunnys, and of course, your annual visit to church. Ah, happy times indeed. Except the church part that is. But once you're done with all that blathering voodoo, what better than a few cocktails and a nice brunch. And to start off that brunch, or as a light snack while you get drunk, try a little Cheeses Christ. Enjoy!

Cheeses Christ

1 pkg. Cream Cheese
½ c. Sour Cream
½ c. Ricotta Cheese
1 pkg. Lipton’s Onion Soup Mix
1 Tbs. Chives
¼ c. Pimentos Chopped

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Form into the shape of a cross. Serve with a light Eucharist, unleavened bread or Ritz crackers.

Alternatives

Cheeses, Mary and Joseph

If you’re feeling creative and have some artistic ability, double the recipe and, using your favorite picture of Joseph and the Virgin Mary, sculpt the cheese mixture into a likeness of the two. Closely place individual kernels of corn around their heads to form halos!

Update: By the way, Snooze Button Dreams doesn't have a monopoly on the "cheeses" thing. I was doing that shit years ago. Yes, I just stole from myself but that's not the point. The point is, SBD is stealing from me...from 2002. You think you assholes are so fucking clever. I guess you are - stealing five year old shit from the master. Nice!

And you're welcome.

Some moron actually spent a (relatively) considerable amount of time and effort developing paint that blocks wireless signals.

That's a wonderful idea if you live in a windowless building; ya dipshit. Do I need to paint the ceiling too? I'd bet a finski that it comes in a range of vibrant colors with oddly similar sounding names: deep charcoal, moonless midnight, and Wesley Snipes.

It also seems to have slipped by this forward-thinking product development department that houses have interior walls. So there you are painting your entire house one color, fervently preventing the hordes of hackers at your virtual gates (because your home network is, apparently, the best in the universe); and you can't even get signal in your own living room because the three rooms between your dumb ass and the antenna are covered in Information Age prophylactic. You dickass!

Still, this is probably the best alternative you have. Honestly. I mean, until someone comes up with a way for you to protect your network with a key...or maybe a password...if only there was a way!

Here’s a piece on ten of the best April Fool's Day hoaxes.

In 1996, American fast-food chain Taco Bell announced that it had bought Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, a historic symbol of American independence, from the federal government and was renaming it the Taco Liberty Bell.

How do you think that went over? Aside from the astounding fact that many, many people believed it, you have to wonder who signed off on that one. Some say there’s no bad publicity, but I envision pickup trucks and molotov cocktails converging on Taco Bell. You can never reckon what you’ll get from the “we’ll teach them a lesson” crowd in suburban America.

In 1998, a newsletter titled New Mexicans for Science and Reason carried an article that the state of Alabama had voted to change the value of pi from 3.14159 to the "Biblical value" of 3.0.

I’m pretty sure that most evangelist types are wholly ignorant of pi, but at the mere mention of the bible I bet a bunch of them jumped on the bandwagon out of faith. Regardless, when I was in school they didn’t even use the decimal form. When I was a kid pi was 22/7. It’s been brought to my attention that some people (virgin, male comic book readers) can recite upwards of three or four thousand decimals of pi from memory. My initial reaction is to set up a BB gun firing squad for these folks.

And here’s my favorite:

Noted British astronomer Patrick Moore announced on the radio in 1976 that at 9:47 am, a once-in-a-lifetime astronomical event, in which Pluto would pass behind Jupiter, would cause a gravitational alignment that would reduce the Earth's gravity. Moore told listeners that if they jumped in the air at the exact moment of the planetary alignment, they would experience a floating sensation. Hundreds of people called in to report feeling the sensation.

I simply cannot fathom the idiocy most people. These are the same people that feel better when they wave a magnet over an injury. The same people who send cash to Nigeria. The people that scald their balls with drive-through coffee.

It’s a large pool to draw from. New age hippy types, frequent customers of palm readers, people who look directly into the hose when there’s a kink in it, “Jackass” impersonators, Bermuda triangle aficionados, the “black helicopter” crowd, unemployed poets, urban myth spreaders (excluding the dog & peanut butter story), ad nausium.

On an unrelated note, the only thing that’s ever been up my ass are a doctor’s fingers. I don’t want anything in my ass. If Angelina Jolie was begging me to stick her finger in my ass during sex I would decline adamantly. It’s a personal choice—do whatever you want, just stay away from my ass. Aside from not relishing the feeling of any type of probe, no matter how many times she washed her finger I’d be consumed with watching that finger all night long and keeping it away from me. Who knows, it could put me off for weeks.

And while we’re at it, leave my balls alone too. They’re fragile.

I had been shanghaied into attending an afternoon “party” at my mother-in-law’s condo, which is populated by exclusively by people older than Moses. My wife laid down the law, that we were stuck there for at least two hours before I could “come down with the flux” or pretend to have a fever, thus extricating myself from the affair. It was rough.

As soon as I walked into the clubhouse I became depressed. Gaudy furniture, wood paneling and the smell of death. As we made our way to an empty table I looked around and took in the scene. These people were fucking old. You know what I mean. Full grown adult women shrunk down to the size of leprechauns, every third person had a walker and scattered about were a few with portable oxygen tanks.

A buffet was being set up that contained “pot luck” dishes made by the attendees. Let me first say that I don’t eat things other people have prepared behind closed doors. I will eat dinner at friend’s houses because I have known most of my friends for twenty years or more. I know their food preparation habits. I lived with some of these people and they’re clean and smart. However, under no circumstances will I eat pot luck food at work or anywhere else. Especially not shit that’s been prepared by these old bags. They looked like they could have voted for Lincoln. I couldn’t even identify some of the shit they cooked and I was sure it contained rubber gloves and morphine patches and cotton balls and who-knows-what-else.

I did drink a glass of “wine” which came from a bottle with a screw on cap; only because it was the only thing I could find to anesthetize myself from the whole affair. And if that wasn’t enough some old bastard was setting up a PA system and trying to fix the reed on a tenor saxophone. I am not making this shit up. Meanwhile I was being introduced to people as fast as they could shuffle by, which wasn’t very. It was 2:00PM and they announced that the food would be served at 3:00. That meant I had to sit there for an hour with the pre-dead. Just then the guy with the saxophone cranked up his karaoke machine and started singing along with it as if that was a fucking acceptable thing to do. And it was bad. Very bad, and very old. I felt a part of me die as belted out “Quando, Quando, Quando.” He couldn’t get with the beat, probably because he was listening to the Angel Gabriel calling him home.

I started to feel light-headed. I had another glass of “wine.” And every once in a while the old guy singing would start blowing into his saxophone and it would cut through my head like a hot knife through butter. And then the food was served.

I was determined not to get up any reason but then my mother-in-law asked me to get her a plate of food. The worst part was I knew that I could not possibly fulfill this request to her exacting specifications. So I got up and walked over and stood in the line. It was peaceful enough for a minute or two but soon the old folks realized they had forgot to push and shove and when they realized their mistake they made up for lost time with gusto. I kept getting jabbed by some guy’s walked, the leprechaun women were moving in under my arms and the whole thing was just too much to weather. Since they couldn’t see they were dropping food all over the floor and meanwhile the old bastard was blowing into his saxophone and I freaked out and went back to the table and pleaded to my wife to please, for the love of God, help me before I became wholly undone.

By the time I got home I went right to the bottle which is where I find myself still, some hours later. Forsaken.

Had buffalo meatloaf for dinner tonight and it was pretty damned good.

On an unrelated note, the next time someone at work uses the phrase, “Think outside the box,” I’m going to punch them in the windpipe and no one will be able to stop me. People think they’re so cutting edge with that, when in reality, it’s like fifteen years old.

When I hear that phrase I almost can’t control myself. I will become violent.

And then there are words that should be altogether dropped from the vernacular. Words and phrases that are passe, lame, or just sound dumb; and only make the speaker seem clueless.

'jumped the shark' - A phrase that has completed a self-fulfilling cycle so fast that the mind reels. I shouldn't even have written it here without censoring it, it's so dumb. From here on out, let's just consider it profanity. We promise not to use it in polite company, and when we have to use it (for reference only, as we do here); asterisks will be used as such: 'j*mp*d the sh*rk'.
'gobsmacking, -ly' - I don't know who came up with this, but I can't possibly imagine what kind of beatdown they recieved from the first person they spoke it to. Seriously, I keep a rusty crowbar in my trunk should someone utter this word. Consider yourselves warned.
'quiche' - Okay firstly, this word looks nothing like it sounds; which is actually a compliment because it sounds like the noise of a frog bursting, were someone to gradually squeeze it in a vise: 'Keesh!' Secondly, quiche is gross.
'stool' - This seems like an odd word to find here, no? Well, I'm only referring to a particular use here. When people refer to crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top as 'stool'; it's irksome. With all the other great variants for crap, turds, feces, shit, dung, guano, poop, number two, caca, or Carrot Top; why use the word stool? I'll tell you why, because they want to use a word without any vulgarity attached to it. Look people! It's shit, shit's vulgar!
'panties' - Now, this might just be a me thing here, but this word sounds awkward out loud. Say it: panties. It just, I don't know. When I hear myself say it, it sounds like something a pussy might say. "Oh, my panties!"

I’ve done very little sailing in my day, but I’m a huge fan of nautical terminology. I’ve decided to start using some nautical terms at every opportunity.

Some of my favorites:

Yaw
Scuppers
Gunwale
Belay
Abeam
Thwartships

And of course, my favorite: Coxswain.

I encourage everyone to throw the word coxswain into as many conversations as possible, especially in the workplace. I believe the correct pronunciation is “Cox’n” but the phonetic pronunciation works well too.

It was a fair enough question.

“You are, without a doubt, the most critical person I have ever met,” my wife continued.

“You criticize everything and everyone.”

“It’s not always negative,” I replied. “I simply call them as I see them.”

We were watching American Idol and when one of the cheeseballs started singing I said that he sucked.

“How could you judge him so fast? He just opened his mouth…it couldn’t have been more than one or two seconds!”

“I set the bar very high—for other people.”

It may have been the best line I’d ever used.

People who put two spaces after a period.

That’s from the caveman days, people. In the days of typeset printing and typewriters you needed two spaces because the fonts were non-proportional. Nowadays, most fonts are indeed proportional (except maybe Courier). That extra space is useless.

Please stop now.

Paranoia Strikes Deep

Last week I decided to clean our home office. No business gets done in here, but it’s where we pay the bills, the computers in here and it’s got a big desk and filing cabinets. Over the past year I noticed a giant pile of papers was stacking up in a corner. Since it was my wife’s doing I left it alone for a long, long time. And last week, in an effort to clean up and find our tax receipts I took a look at the papers. They were credit card statements, water bills, electric bill, et cetera. They all had a date written on them of when they had been paid. It seems my wife is good at paying bills on time, but not so good at filing the records.

I flipped through and saw they went all the way back to 2005. Then I looked in the filing cabinets and saw why they weren’t filed. Every folder was completely jam packed. And you can’t just throw that shit away because of account numbers, social security numbers, et. al.

Since our shredder is so old I thought I’d upgrade to a level 3 shredder because I’m a paranoid and I always assume the worst. So I empty out all the files, make new folders and whatnot and by the time I’m done I have a stack of papers waist high that all need shredding. The new shredder supposedly takes ten sheets at a time so I load in five and it almost grinds to a fucking halt. Come to find when they say ten sheets at a time they’re reffering to tissue paper. So I start loading these things in and the machine starts cagging and shutting itself down after every fifteen sheets or so and you have to wait thirty minutes for it to cool down. So while I’m waiting for it to cool down I start looking in the closet and I find these boxes and when I open them up I see that they are all documents that need to be shredded. Six boxes in all. I was almost in tears by then, because the whole process is so painfully slow and once I start something there’s no stopping me.

After a brief analysis I realized that we had every bank statement, investment portfolio statement and retire fund statement since 1992. They were fairly thick and every page had a social on it. In addition we had saved every single credit card statement, water bill, electric bill, insurance, mortgage, cable, cars—you name it—going back for fifteen years or so. Every single pay stub I ever got as an adult, plus two because the wife saved hers as well. Fifteen years, times two statements per month is over 700 pay stubs to shred. Not including all the credit card convenience checks that we would never use and those things come in the mail every day.

I had the shredder cranked up like a lawn mower. In fact, I got the old one out was using two at a time. It sounded like I was mulching fucking trees up here. And every time I emptied the bin on the shredder I was engulfed in a huge cloud of paper dust. Soon the dust was everywhere. I had to change the all the filters in the house once a day. I was sneezing and coughing paper dust. Meanwhile the shredders kept running and I kept pouring oil in and when they overheated I would use the time to lug big plastic bags of the confetti down to the garage and line them up against the wall.
Yesterday I shredded the last document. And in today’s mail I received a bunch of credit card checks that I’ll never use. Now I’ve got the shredder set up right there in the kitchen. 90% of the mail will go directly in the damned thing. I never, ever want to go through this again. It was a shitty, shitty ordeal.

There’s a phenomena in my neighborhood that I just don’t understand. I see it every day driving in and out. People open their garage doors, set a lawn chair just inside the open door, and stare into the street. Are they on patrol? Whatever, I wish they would go inside and seal themselves in like I do. I don’t like a lot of activity near my abode. Perhaps the cold weather will drive them in where they belong.

I get run off the road at least three times a week. When I finally chase the culprits down, without exception, they are all talking on a cell phone.

On a similar but different note, I’m finding it more difficult every day to merge onto the freeway. It seems that people would just as soon run you into the concrete wall or off an embankment rather than let you just get on the road. I’ve noticed that people speed up to 75 or 85 MPH just to make sure you don’t get on in front of them. Because I don’t relish dying in a burning car wreck, I am forced to speed up and get in anyway, only to find that they then back off to their usual 50 MPH after you’ve safely managed to merge. They must be horribly disappointed.

I recently started watching Dog, The Bounty Hunter. I’m absolutely fascinated by it. I’ve always been interested in freak shows and it qualifies. There is so much wrong with this on so many levels.

Grilled cheese sandwiches rock.

My kid got walkie-talkies for Christmas and they have been commandeered by me and my wife. If one of us is upstairs and one is downstairs we usually have to scream to be heard. Even if she’s in the bedroom downstairs and I’m in the living room it used to be a screaming match. Now it’s a thing of beauty.

“Momma Bear, you got your ears on?”

Exasperated: “What now?”

“What’s the status of those cookies I’m waiting for?”

“Shut up, I’m bringing the damned things now.”

I had to go to the mall today to get my kid some new sneakers. So I’m standing there in the sneaker store waiting to be helped when the screaming started.

I looked over and saw a guy, looked to be about forty years old, raising his voice to a young woman who worked there. I didn’t think much of it at first, but got louder and louder and I walked over to see exactly what was going on. I have a nose for this kind of thing…I generally know when violence is about to occur. And I could tell by the sound of this guy’s voice that he was pretty close.

I walked up and saw that the guy was pointing his finger in the woman’s face and screaming, in an absolute rage, about the return policy. I looked around and saw two other employees, both high school age, and both looked terrified. I looked back to the guy, who was screaming even louder at this point, and I didn’t see any bulges, but he still could have had a gun. By now the woman was really scared. I have some experience in these things and I knew this guy was not in control of himself. It was a blind rage.

I have rules about getting involved in other people’s business. I generally don’t. This had nothing to do with me. If I got involved and things got physical there could be problems—like a lawsuit. But the overriding factor for me was the fact that this asshole was threatening a woman and she was scared shitless. I simply can’t tolerate that.

The woman walked behind the sales counter to put some distance between her and the nutcase and when the guy started following her around the counter and I knew what was coming next. I closed the gap instantly so I was right behind him. The woman looked at me pleadingly and I mimicked holding a telephone and mouthed, “Security.”

She went for the phone and the guy went for her. I was literally twelve inched behind him and he had no idea.

“That’s far enough, Chief.”

He turned and found me standing on his heels and went pale. He was off balance and I had several choices, although the most appealing was swinging my elbow across his jaw so it would have to be wired for six weeks or so. I had a second to decide to strike or not. I used restraint.

“The lady asked you to leave.”

He just stared at me.

“One way or another, you’re going out the door. Choose now.”

He left without saying a word. I realized at that point that there was zero tension in my body. I was completely relaxed, which isn’t always the case in an adrenaline type situation. From experience I can tell you that in a relaxed state during a physical altercation you can do some amazing things. That guy will probably never know how close he came to the worst day of his life.

I really don’t like violence. In fact I abhor violence, but if my kid wasn’t there he’d still be in the emergency room.

I haven’t been in a situation like that in many years. I was taught that if all someone understands is violence, then give them violence. And beat them so severely that they never bother another peaceful living soul again.

And I thought about that, because just like on TV I flashed back to my teacher explaining that philosophy to me. It was twenty years ago, but in an instant I there again. The scene was so vivid I could smell the cup of tea he was always sipping from. And in another instant I was back standing there in the store with the asshole standing in front of me. It was like time travel.

The rest of the day was uneventful.

The Monty Hall Problem

This problem originated when it was sent in to Parade Magazine and was published in the column of Marilyn vos Savant on September 9, 1990.

Savant was touted as the person with the highest I.Q. in Guinness Book of World Records, and while the actual value of her I.Q. is in dispute (as are all I.Q. values), I think we can stipulate that this broad’s pretty goddamned smart.

The question is based on the old game show, Let’s Make A Deal, whose host was named Monty Hall. It goes like this:

Suppose you're on a game show, and you're given the choice of three doors: Behind one door is a car; behind the others, goats. You pick a door, say No. 1, and the host, who knows what's behind the doors, opens another door, say No. 3, which has a goat. He then says to you, "Do you want to pick door No. 2?" Is it to your advantage to switch your choice?

So basically, you’re given a choice between three doors. Two goats and one car. The host opens a door you did not pick and shows you a goat. There are two doors left, the one you picked and the one you didn’t. One has a goat behind it, the other has a car. The host then asks if you want to change your pick. What do you think?

It’s a 50%-50% chance right?

Actually, it’s not. If you change your pick you actually improve your odds of winning from ½ to 2/3.

Savant got a shitload of letters from professors all over the place claiming she was an idiot. Of course, in the end, she was right.

You cannot ignore the past here like you can with a coin flip. You originally had a 1/3 chance of winning, but by switching your choice you improve to 2/3 chance to win.

The contestant should choose to switch to the remaining door. The chance of winning the car is doubled when the player switches to another door rather than sticking with the original choice. The reason for this is that to win the car by sticking with the original choice, the player must choose the door with the car first, and the probability of initially choosing the car is one in three. Whereas, to win the car by switching, the player must originally choose a door with a goat first, and the probability of choosing a goat door first is two in three.

If you’re still confused, and it took a while for it to sink in for me, the solutions and aids to understanding can be found here.

I was nine, maybe ten years old at the time. A family member living in SE Asia was moving to another location and was forced to part with their dog. We got a long letter about the dog and finally the thing was shipped around the world in a small cage and my parents picked it up at Kennedy airport while I was at school one day.

My excitement level was high. I really wanted a dog and now I was finally getting one. When I got home from school there was no evidence of a dog. I ran through the house looking everywhere and there was simply no sign of the thing. My father was out back watering the lawn. I noticed a bandage on his hand.

“Where’s the dog?”

“Somewhere in the house,” he said.

“Look,” he continued,” I need to tell you how it is. This animal was trapped in a cage for a long time as it flew around the world. It’s afraid. Who knows what the hell happened to it on those planes, but you need to stay away from him for a while. He’s on edge. Just leave him alone for a few days.”

“Okay. I understand. What happened to your hand?”

“Sammy bit me.” Sammy was the dog’s name.

I went back in the house to look for the dog. I at least had to look at the thing. I didn’t even know what kind of dog it was. A room to room search produced no results and soon I was reduced to looking closets and whatnot. Finally, I found the dog lying far underneath a sofa hiding. I still couldn’t see what the hell it looked like. It seemed to be a large, hairy ball. I stuck my head under there as close as I could. He started growling. I spoke to him in a soothing voice and reached my hand in. I was sure that if I could just pet him he would understand that he had a friend. Just as my hand reached him he lunged for it. It was like a fucking crocodile. I snatched my hand away just in time—I mean it was close. I backed off.

I was disillusioned. My new friend turned out to be a goddamned vicious beast. A goddamned ocelot. I still didn’t even know what I was looking at. It was just a big hairy monster.

I left the thing alone for a few days. I didn’t even see it around the house. It was about a week later when I came home from school and saw it in the yard that realized it might be a normal dog after all. I opened the gate and it didn’t run away so I picked up a stick and threw it and Sammy brought it back. He let me pet him. He seemed to pretty happy. And that night he jumped up on my bed and slept with me.

Sammy and I became inseparable. He would wait by the fence every day for me to get home from school. When he saw me coming he would go berserk. Sammy turned out to be a great dog. I kept trying to find out what kind of a dog it was but I didn’t have much luck. None of my friends had ever seen anything like it either. Sammy didn’t mind my friends as long as they didn’t get too close. Any threatening gesture and Sammy would lunge at them. He was very protective. In fact, if my parents so much as raised their voice to me Sammy started growling at them. And that big bastard could be scary.

One afternoon I came home from school and Sammy wasn’t there. I was worried and ran into the house looking for my old man.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“Your mother took him to the vet or something. They’ll be back.”

I was lying on my bed when I heard the car door slam. I heard Sammy running down the hall towards my room and I opened the door and got the shock of my life. Sammy had been shaved down. All the fur was gone and he was about half the size he was before. And worse than that—he was a poodle. He had been shaped into one of those French poodles that you see on TV. I didn’t know what to say or what to do. He was going crazy, excited to see me and everything and I reached down and started to pet him but it was all too much. All too much.

I got over the fact that Sammy was a poodle. It came down to the fact that he was the same dog as before, but with a fucked up haircut. But when people asked me what kind of dog I had I never really answered. I just mumbled something. And when I was out walking the dog I felt like ass. But in the end Sammy was my friend. I guess it was no fault of his. Last night I had a dream that Sammy was still alive. And I woke up and felt a weight against me in bed I reached down to pet him, but it was my wife lying against me, not Sammy. It was a cruel way to wake up. But now the story is told and I feel somewhat better about the whole thing. Poodle or not, he was a goddamned vicious beast.

I was watching the football game.

"Daddy, what are tampons?"

"I have no idea, sweetie. Ask your Mom when she gets home."

It appears as if collecting African babies is all the rage in Hollywood.

Famous people with too much money have been doing wacky shit from the outset and no one seems to have learned any lessons yet. Most of you are probably too young to remember the Beatles and the Maharishi. The Maharishi was the leader of a money grubbing cult of sorts. His schtick was transcendental meditation. It was all the rage with the hip crowd.

The Beatles, along with a group of Hollywood idiots were lured to India to study transcendental meditation from the great master, after of course, coming up with certified checks. It lasted about a week before they got bored and the Maharishi was caught trying to fondle Mia Farrow. Some people never see it coming.

Since then many an Hollywood idiot has jumped aboard any bandwagon that was in range of them. One of the latest rages has been the kabbalah. If you don’t know what that is you’re not alone. Neither do half the people learning it. Some tout it as Jewish mysticism, some as fortune telling and others as an ancient secret to life. Aleister Crowley based his whole black magic thing around it. Regardless, Hollywood is now filled with teachers of whatever it is and the rich and famous are running their lives around it. At least until they get bored, which is already happening. Then it will be on to something else. Like collecting African children.

Famous idiots with too much money are now flying to Africa and picking what they like from a flesh and blood line up of children. I don’t want to suggest that’s like a slave auction or anything, but it’s like a fucking slave auction. If one more Hollywood idiot does this I predict it will become a national craze. And I predict that right now Paris Hilton is thinking about it. After all, it would be so cute, just like the tiny little dog she carries around in her purse. Until these people start getting bored, like they did with meditation, kabbalah, etcetera. Then these kids will be regulated to the guest house and the nanny until their old enough to start robbing liquor stores.

Meanwhile, this thing is still on the upswing. African baby acquisition has at least another year before the charm wears off. Pretty soon when you lease a new car it will come with satellite radio and a one year old African kid (with approved credit).

Last week I sat on a plane for five hours contemplating suicide. The only food available was tiny bags of pretzels. There was a baby in front of me crying non-stop. The armrest fight with my neighbor, a phlegmy cougher, was goddamned brutal. Delays kept us sitting on the tarmac for an hour before takeoff and when we arrived there was no gate for us so we sat there like idiots for another thirty minutes. I got to thinking how this could be improved upon and I think some of these ideas have potential:

The first thing they need to do is rip out some of the seats and install a craps table. Maybe a couple of black jack tables as well. Nothing takes the sting out of boredom like casino gambling.

A roast beef carving station.

A bar. Sitting there waiting for a drink while they stop at every seat on the way to pass out tiny cups of soda is more than inconvenient. It’s torture. How about a bar where I can walk up and order a cocktail or knock back a couple of boilermakers?

An adults only section.

All of the above are not only good solutions to the problems that travelers face on a daily basis, but they’re also alternate revenue streams. How hard could it be to make this happen?