Not to brag or anything, but I was the second best right fielder on my Little League team back in 1974. We were the Giants. We came very close to not losing a game too badly once, and I played in that game and got a hit, which caused my fans (Mom and my sisters) to erupt into stunned, wild applause, thinking my previous season-long slump was finally over.
My talents as a right fielder were still developing as the season ended, but Vegas odds were down to 3-1 that I would catch a ball in the air at some point.
(Hint to kids: If you're afraid the ball is going to hit you in the head, back way, way up in the outfield. Then, when the ball is hit, you're sure to be able to field it on the bounce or -- better -- as it rolls to a stop, which is much less potentially disfiguring.)
What I contributed most to my team in my one-year Little League career was attitude. The incredulous stare at the umpire after a called third strike -- I patented that. I could stare for long minutes at a time, eyes glittering with hostility from beneath the scarred batting helmet, until the next batter had to shove me out of the way so the torturous struggle with futility could proceed.
Of course, I had one near-sighted eye and one far-sighted eye, so I never really saw the third strike, but the odds were that all three of them couldn't have been in the strike zone. It was Little League.
After the inevitable loss, I could hurl a bat in frustration and pound my glove furiously with the best of them. I'd sit in morose silence in the back of the truck on the way home, pretending to replay the game in my head (what I could remember, anyway -- I never paid a whole lot of attention).
I still think we would have won a couple of those games if the coach had let me pitch. While it's true that I couldn't throw a baseball very fast or far, 90 percent of a pitcher's game is mental. I still can imagine the batter shuddering at my steely-eyed gaze as I shake off the sign again and again.
The coach's son, Todd, was our star pitcher. Todd and I didn't get along. He was kind of a loudmouth who made fun of the kids who didn't play to his level. He didn't bother to hide his contempt for me, but I think he must have sensed that I had incredible baseball talent just waiting to spring forth and steal his limelight. How he jeered when I was shuffled off with the 7-year-olds for soft batting practice with a bored assistant coach. I could hit pretty good when the ball was thrown from 15 feet away, underhand.
Midway through the season, just as our lousiness was beginning to become legend around the league, Todd was playing pepper at practice one day and didn't get his glove up in time. There goes the nose. I managed to hide my glee.
As a grownup, I have compassion and sympathy that I didn't have when I was 8. I don't think I inherited that from Mom, however, because on the way home from practice, she was heard to mutter, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer kid."
Late in the season when I finally got a hit, it didn't propel me to respectability with my teammates, because by that point, we were all striking out on purpose (except the jerk, Todd) just to get the thing over with.
Back then, losing teams didn't get pizza or ice cream. We got to go home and pull weeds in the garden.
The night after the last, futile game, I lay in bed, thinking about all the missed opportunities, the things I might have done differently. Finally, I got up and went into the living room where Mom and Dad were watching TV. Bravely, I announced I wanted to play next year.
They nodded soberly.
None of us ever mentioned it again.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Athletes weigh in, figuratively speaking, on Bin Laden's demise
Originally published on May 8, 2011
Pittsburgh Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall raised the ire of some last week as he posted controversial comments on Twitter, which I gather is some Internet thing, after the death of Osama Bin Laden.
Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick quickly refuted Mendenhall’s comments on the issue. Former Chiefs quarterback Joe Montana could not be reached for comment before press time today.
Now, I have all the respect in the world for my brothers and sisters in the Major Media, of course. It seems like almost daily I learn more about how journalism is supposed to be done by paying attention to the experts in my field.
Their lesson for me this week: Pay no attention to the experts in the field. Ask athletes instead.
All these years I have kind of figured that you ought to ask questions of, seek comments from and report the opinions of people who have some kind of clue about the issues involved.
Nobody ever told me to do it that way. It was just a bad habit I fell into, I reckon.
As it turns out, instead you're supposed to go find the most deviant opinions out there and report those, no matter who they belong to.
It could be Mendenhall and Vick know a heckuva lot more about our Middle East situation than the average person. Maybe there is some international studies course requirement that college athletes must take before they are eligible for the draft.
I’m certainly not criticizing athletes who dip their big toes into the icy waters of political discourse. Why, just last year our own St. Louis Cardinals manager, Tony LaRussa, spoke out in favor of Proposition B, a ballot measure either to protect cute little puppies or to pave the way for government interference in every farm in Missouri that raises animals.
At the time, some questioned whether a fellow who might call a squeeze play on a 1-2 count with nobody out really knew enough about the issue to comment intelligently.
I knew better, of course. I imagined a team of analysts studying the issue at length, diligently researching both sides before presenting their findings to Tony. After poring over the thousands of pages of data, LaRussa arrived at his position, which he then made public.
I’d rather believe that than believe somebody shoved a microphone in his face and asked him if he were in favor of or opposed to puppies.
Well, now that I know how real journalism is supposed to be done, I’ll get right on it.
I have a call in to Cards slugger Albert Pujols to see if he’s willing to make any predictions about how the Missouri Attorney General’s lawsuit against Lebanon is going to turn out. I’ll let you know what he says.
But I’m taking this new technique beyond seeking only the expertise of athletes.
I finally got hold of Jennifer Lopez Friday, and she said the mayoral recall effort in Lebanon sounded "mean," contradicting the position of Charlie Sheen, who believes the people of Lebanon ought to smear themselves in tiger blood or something like that.
It was kind of hard to understand what he was saying.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Pittsburgh Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall raised the ire of some last week as he posted controversial comments on Twitter, which I gather is some Internet thing, after the death of Osama Bin Laden.
Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick quickly refuted Mendenhall’s comments on the issue. Former Chiefs quarterback Joe Montana could not be reached for comment before press time today.
Now, I have all the respect in the world for my brothers and sisters in the Major Media, of course. It seems like almost daily I learn more about how journalism is supposed to be done by paying attention to the experts in my field.
Their lesson for me this week: Pay no attention to the experts in the field. Ask athletes instead.
All these years I have kind of figured that you ought to ask questions of, seek comments from and report the opinions of people who have some kind of clue about the issues involved.
Nobody ever told me to do it that way. It was just a bad habit I fell into, I reckon.
As it turns out, instead you're supposed to go find the most deviant opinions out there and report those, no matter who they belong to.
It could be Mendenhall and Vick know a heckuva lot more about our Middle East situation than the average person. Maybe there is some international studies course requirement that college athletes must take before they are eligible for the draft.
I’m certainly not criticizing athletes who dip their big toes into the icy waters of political discourse. Why, just last year our own St. Louis Cardinals manager, Tony LaRussa, spoke out in favor of Proposition B, a ballot measure either to protect cute little puppies or to pave the way for government interference in every farm in Missouri that raises animals.
At the time, some questioned whether a fellow who might call a squeeze play on a 1-2 count with nobody out really knew enough about the issue to comment intelligently.
I knew better, of course. I imagined a team of analysts studying the issue at length, diligently researching both sides before presenting their findings to Tony. After poring over the thousands of pages of data, LaRussa arrived at his position, which he then made public.
I’d rather believe that than believe somebody shoved a microphone in his face and asked him if he were in favor of or opposed to puppies.
Well, now that I know how real journalism is supposed to be done, I’ll get right on it.
I have a call in to Cards slugger Albert Pujols to see if he’s willing to make any predictions about how the Missouri Attorney General’s lawsuit against Lebanon is going to turn out. I’ll let you know what he says.
But I’m taking this new technique beyond seeking only the expertise of athletes.
I finally got hold of Jennifer Lopez Friday, and she said the mayoral recall effort in Lebanon sounded "mean," contradicting the position of Charlie Sheen, who believes the people of Lebanon ought to smear themselves in tiger blood or something like that.
It was kind of hard to understand what he was saying.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
We will waste no part of the potato
They sat around the board room table in expensive suits, sipping lattes, waiting for the CEO's presentation. Their fake hair was made from the pelts of deceased animals, as were their shoes. It bothered few of them that their teeth-whitening procedures cost more than average families spend on food in a year.
Finally, the CEO arrived and touched the panel at the end of the long, mahogany table. A section of the wall containing comfortable, dark-bound books slid aside to reveal a screen, and the powerpoint presentation began.
"You all probably recognize this," he said without preamble. "It's a potato."
True to his words, a potato had appeared on the screen, revolving slowly, seemingly suspended in mid-air against a brilliant white background. A few irregular recessed areas were on its surface.
For a moment, the potato revolved and no one spoke. The only sound was the quiet "tch tch" of a guy at the end who was typing on his Blackberry.
"To this point, our efforts to maximize the efficiency of the potato have been hampered by its outer covering, commonly called the 'skin,'" said the CEO. "Every potato ever processed in our facilities has gone through a de-skinning operation, which some call 'peeling.'"
A hand shot up at the back of the room. The CEO nodded irritably at the questioner.
"What do we use the potatoes for?" asked the board member. "Are they a meat substitute of some sort?"
"No," the CEO said shortly. "We peel them, cut them up into pieces and fry them. This simple potato --" He stabbed at the image on the screen with a laser pointer. "This vegetable is the source of our french fries -- which actually are not French at all, or so our production executives tell me."
The board member nodded, comprehension dawning. A few grunts around the polished table indicated satisfaction that the source of the fries was not European.
"Watch," the CEO ordered and tapped a key. Suddenly, on the screen, the outer covering of the potato fell away, revealing its white, naked, inner core. "We lose 8.4 percent, on average, of every potato we process. Why? Because we peel them."
Shocked gasps sounded around the table. A new graphic, a chart, appeared on the screen. A figure at the bottom was flashing in red. Cries of despair rang out.
"That's right," the CEO said grimly. "Over the years, our company has lost $27.6 billion in potato peels."
A man at the far end fainted dead away. The CEO nodded to attendants who lined the walls, well away from the table, and two of them sprang forward and gently carried the unconscious board member out through the expansive, carved double doors. Other servants took advantage of the break to refresh the lattes of those who remained.
"What can we do?" a woman with an alligator-skin purse cried. "Can't we use something besides these potatoes?"
The CEO shook his head. "We've field-tested products using other sources that do not have to have their outer coverings removed. The french-fried celery sticks were the worst, even though we provided small packets of artificial peanut butter to make them edible," he said. "I'm afraid we are stuck with the potato."
Another board member, the vice-chairman, spoke up. "I'm sure these potatoes can be genetically modified not to produce these skins," she said. "Glenn, get Monsanto for me." An assistant pulled out a cell phone and tapped on its face.
"We already called them," said the CEO grimly. "They were already working on it. But not for us. For McDonalds."
The cell phone snapped shut. Dead silence reigned at the name of the most hated competitor.
"We have another solution," the CEO said. "Production says it can easily modify its processing facilities to cut the potatoes with the peels intact. There will be a small capital outlay, several hundred million, for reprogramming, but it can be done."
The vice chairman nodded. "That makes sense," she said. "Why did we ever start peeling them in the first place?"
The CEO shook his head. "That, I can't tell you," he said. "It was the 60s. It was a crazy time in the industry. McDonalds was peeling, Burger Chef was peeling, so we peeled. We did have the sense to save slicing costs by making our french fries bigger than those of the competition. Not to toot my own horn too much, but that was my idea, back when I was a regional vice president."
Sighs and murmurs of appreciation came from one and all.
The CEO continued. "Our problem is that the outer covering has a bitter taste. No one likes it except health nuts who believe the peel has more nutritional value than the core."
Even this short comment about nutritional value proved to be intensely boring. Four board member immediately fell asleep and were carried out, two of them snoring loudly. The rest drank furiously from their mugs, fighting drowsiness with caffeine.
"Marketing believes there may be a way to create demand for these unpeeled fried potatoes," the CEO said, hurrying on to recapture the interest of the board members. "They want to call it 'natural' or 'organic.' The genius of it is that the peel actually is part of the vegetable, not something we added chemically. We have our legal department talking to the FDA about whether we can use 'organic,' but 'natural' is a lock."
"Won't it still taste bad?" asked a man halfway down the table. Those around him frowned at him. He blushed.
"We've thought of that, too," said the CEO, smiling indulgently. "Research and Development has found that if you add enough salt, the bitterness is virtually undetectable. We're going to make that part of the marketing campaign by explaining the saltiness away, saying we're using sea salt."
Confused looks greeted this. "How is that better?" asked a board member tentatively.
The chief executive's smile grew. "It's not. It doesn't really matter, but it sounds exotic."
One woman started it, but the clapping was contagious, and soon all the board members were standing, pushing away the leather covered boardroom chairs. Some shook their fists in the air, whooping, while others pulled out their portable devices and issued orders to buy more of their stock.
The meeting ended in a unanimous, enthusiastic vote to proceed with the "natural" french fries salted from the sea. A few of the board members, as they were leaving, followed the tradition of leaping to touch the portrait of Dave that hung above the boardroom doors.
Ken York's column appears weekly in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.
Friday, May 13, 2011
A sneak peek at the Bin Laden journals
Last week, authorities revealed that the personal journals of Osama Bin Laden were part of the haul when U.S. forces stormed the compound in Pakistan and killed him.
I quickly obtained copies of some of these journals from secret sources in the CIA.
***
July 17, 2005
Dear Diary,
Good news! My second wife, Alimah, has said she is pregnant again. She is truly blessed of Allah and will bear me my 72nd child. This is Alimah's seventh.
Imam Abdul-Hakim has allayed my worries about how this could have come to pass. As I have told you before, dear diary, it has been many years since I have been able to partake of some aspects of my marriages, so I have questioned how my wives seem constantly to be with child.
The good imam tells me, however, that this is the way with the most faithful of Mohammad's followers. Allah just blesses them and blesses them.
That is why the imams all spend so much time in the compound close to the wives, I suspect. They must enjoy being so near to the holy miracles.
This truly is a day for good news. The Freedom Fighters beat the Infidels, 18-4, in the championship game of the Al Qaeda Intramural Softball League today. I myself hit two home runs and made some good plays in the field at shortstop. Allah be praised!
— OBL
Sept. 26, 2008
Dear Diary,
It hurts so much to write in this position! I am kneeling on my mat in the mosque, facing Mecca. When I went to pray yesterday morning, I threw out my back and cannot get up.
As the leader of a major terrorist network, it would be embarrassing to admit my weakness to the men. I have told them that I am continuing to pray to Allah for the destruction of the infidels. They take my occasional cries of pain as signs that I am communing with holy forces.
What makes it worse is that this is our week with the grandchildren. Khaliq and Rafi have been playing leapfrog over me for about 30 hours now. I would like to have them whipped, but then I would have to put up with Najat's whining for weeks.
Because of all this, I am falling behind on my production schedule for my video to be released on the eve of the American election. It may have to end up being a Christmas special, Allah willing.
— OBL
Aug. 6, 2010
Dear Diary,
Farid hogged the qawwrama at lunch again today. The doctor keeps telling me I should eat and keep my strength up, but how can I when that beardless dog dips his filthy fat fingers into the bowl and grabs everything before I have a chance?
If he weren't my fourth wife's third brother, Farid would be cleaning cesspits in Iraq for a living. Instead he sits around the firing range all day, drinking tea and making fun of the heroic freedom fighters who are training to destroy the infidels.
I try not to be overly suspicious, dear diary, but sometimes I suspect that Farid is not as loyal as he should be. It seems odd to me that he has been sent on six suicide missions and he always comes back. I admit his excuses have seemed valid, but no one else has ever returned from more than two.
Allah forgive me, but I could have killed Farid last week when he made that giant arrow out of rocks, pointing to the compound. It probably seemed pretty funny at the time, I suppose, but even the ignorant blasphemous infidel Americans probably can follow such an arrow in their hated helicopters, and it would have been easy for them to see it with their cursed predator drones!
I had no pity for Farid as I ordered him out into the scorching sun to move the stones so the arrow pointed in the opposite direction. Let the hated infidels make of that what they will!
— OBL
***
All right, I admit it. Those aren't really Bin Laden's journals. I made the whole thing up.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
I quickly obtained copies of some of these journals from secret sources in the CIA.
***
July 17, 2005
Dear Diary,
Good news! My second wife, Alimah, has said she is pregnant again. She is truly blessed of Allah and will bear me my 72nd child. This is Alimah's seventh.
Imam Abdul-Hakim has allayed my worries about how this could have come to pass. As I have told you before, dear diary, it has been many years since I have been able to partake of some aspects of my marriages, so I have questioned how my wives seem constantly to be with child.
The good imam tells me, however, that this is the way with the most faithful of Mohammad's followers. Allah just blesses them and blesses them.
That is why the imams all spend so much time in the compound close to the wives, I suspect. They must enjoy being so near to the holy miracles.
This truly is a day for good news. The Freedom Fighters beat the Infidels, 18-4, in the championship game of the Al Qaeda Intramural Softball League today. I myself hit two home runs and made some good plays in the field at shortstop. Allah be praised!
— OBL
Sept. 26, 2008
Dear Diary,
It hurts so much to write in this position! I am kneeling on my mat in the mosque, facing Mecca. When I went to pray yesterday morning, I threw out my back and cannot get up.
As the leader of a major terrorist network, it would be embarrassing to admit my weakness to the men. I have told them that I am continuing to pray to Allah for the destruction of the infidels. They take my occasional cries of pain as signs that I am communing with holy forces.
What makes it worse is that this is our week with the grandchildren. Khaliq and Rafi have been playing leapfrog over me for about 30 hours now. I would like to have them whipped, but then I would have to put up with Najat's whining for weeks.
Because of all this, I am falling behind on my production schedule for my video to be released on the eve of the American election. It may have to end up being a Christmas special, Allah willing.
— OBL
Aug. 6, 2010
Dear Diary,
Farid hogged the qawwrama at lunch again today. The doctor keeps telling me I should eat and keep my strength up, but how can I when that beardless dog dips his filthy fat fingers into the bowl and grabs everything before I have a chance?
If he weren't my fourth wife's third brother, Farid would be cleaning cesspits in Iraq for a living. Instead he sits around the firing range all day, drinking tea and making fun of the heroic freedom fighters who are training to destroy the infidels.
I try not to be overly suspicious, dear diary, but sometimes I suspect that Farid is not as loyal as he should be. It seems odd to me that he has been sent on six suicide missions and he always comes back. I admit his excuses have seemed valid, but no one else has ever returned from more than two.
Allah forgive me, but I could have killed Farid last week when he made that giant arrow out of rocks, pointing to the compound. It probably seemed pretty funny at the time, I suppose, but even the ignorant blasphemous infidel Americans probably can follow such an arrow in their hated helicopters, and it would have been easy for them to see it with their cursed predator drones!
I had no pity for Farid as I ordered him out into the scorching sun to move the stones so the arrow pointed in the opposite direction. Let the hated infidels make of that what they will!
— OBL
***
All right, I admit it. Those aren't really Bin Laden's journals. I made the whole thing up.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Tiller trouble, nice people and the Falcon chain saw massacre
Try dealing with a certain retail store which I'll call S - after they've messed up your order for a rototiller part.
There's a little rubber seat that fits down inside a tube in the carburetor of my rototiller. A needle valve gets pushed into it when there's enough gasoline in the carburetor. The valve closes off the gas supply, then opens again when more is needed.
Simple, right?
I got my tiller manual, realized I couldn't order the rubber seat without the needle valve, ordered the kit, waited three days, got the package, opened the box, got my valve.
No little rubber seat was in the box.
Because I had days ahead of me with plenty of time to beat my bloody, battered head against an unyielding brick wall, I e-mailed customer service.
Days went by as the S - think tank worked diligently to figure out how in the world I could have ordered the wrong part. I picture them in my mind at S - World Headquarters, dozens of lab-coat-wearing people with clipboards feeding data into a monstrous mainframe deep in the basement.
I'm sure every once in a while, one of 'em hollers, "Eureka! I've got it!" Then he consults his readouts again and says, "Oh, wait - Never mind. I didn't consider the abrogation of the square root of x minus y-cubed."
In our lengthy correspondence, I just keep repeating the part number, swearing it's the right part, even using ALL CAPITAL LETTERS at times to try to get my point across.
Just send me the part I ordered, I beg. It's not complicated. (It's probably only fair to admit that my recent letters have gotten a little sarcastic.)
A demand for my money back was met with a reproachful, earnest response that made me feel guilty.
After all, they are trying so hard to help me, you would think I could be a little grateful.
Somehow, we'll get to the bottom of this, they vow, if it's the last thing we ever do. "Click-beep-click-hum-chugga-beep-chugga" goes the mainframe as it contemplates my crisis, analyzing the myriad possibilities.
In the meantime, I found an old, discarded lawn mower of the same brand as my tiller down in the ravine on our place. Took apart the carburetor, got the rubber seat, put it in the tiller carb.
It still doesn't run right, but it's better.
S - still wants me to send them the serial number off my tiller, the model number, the engine model number and my grandmother's Social Security number.
I can't send them the serial number off my tiller. I bought it secondhand from a guy on a motorcycle in the dead of night. It didn't come with a vehicle history report, if you know what I mean.
I ain't saying there's anything in its past I don't want people to know about. All I'm saying is you don't go looking under rocks if you don't like bugs, you don't bite into a persimmon to find out if it's ripe, and you don't poke your nose onto the stove burner to find out if it's hot yet.
***
The Nice Person of the Week Award goes to the lady who let two guys in front of her at the checkout at Smitty's at lunchtime on Wednesday. She had a bunch of coupons, she said, and each of us behind her was buying only one item.
It's little things that can make or break a day. In Ohio, you don't let people in front of you in line. That's why on average Missourians have 100 extra good days per year, according to statistics I just made up.
***
Joyce cut down her first tree, a blackjack oak, with the chain saw last week. It fell right where she wanted it.
I'm just afraid she might have enjoyed it too much. One of these nights I'm going to go home and find out that - like Laura Ingalls - I've moved from The Big Woods to a Little House on the Prairie.
That's kind of funny, because for five years I've had justify the homicide of every tree we've cut down on our place. Now Joyce realizes how much fun the wanton carnage can be.
***
My condolences to the family of Larry Mahan of Lebanon, who died last week.
Philosopher, inventor, author, husband, father, grandfather and friend, you'll be missed.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Sticks and stones may break my bones
Originally published April 10, 2011
A squirrel in the tree limbs above where I stood must have gotten a whiff, because he fell down, dead, at my feet. Huh, I thought. I reckon that surgeon general fella was right.
Suddenly sirens blared and 17 police and highway patrol cruisers came screeching out of nowhere. The officers tasered me repeatedly, and as I was flopping around on the ground (still puffing my smoke, somehow), they explained that it's no longer legal to smoke within two miles of anyone under 14.
The officers all were wearing haz-mat gear with scuba tanks and Darth Vader masks. I guess their insurance doesn't cover them if they happen to inhale and get contaminated while arresting a smoker.
They carted me off to the nonsmoking jail, where I sit today, scratching these pitiful words with a nail on the moldy wall of my dank, lonely cell. Could really use a cigarette.
All right, none of that really happened.
What really happened after the squirrel fell dead was this kid — from whom I intentionally had distanced myself in order to avoid offending — saw me light up and came running over, pointing.
"Smoker!" he hollered in the tone squealers in World War II Germany must have used to identify Jewish people. I looked around to see if he were backed up by a torch-and-pitchfork wielding mob or maybe some SS officers, but none were visible.
"I hate smokers," the kid sneered, glaring.
I should have hanged my head in shame. Instead, I retorted, "Well, I don't like kids with fat lips," drew back my hand and ... you know. The sniveling little creature crawled away, wiser for the experience. The chief and the rest of the tribe nodded approvingly.
All right, that didn't really happen either.
Instead I mumbled something, embarrassed. The disgusted child walked away, or perhaps he floated away on a cloud of moral superiority as the setting sun reflected prettily on his halo.
I've been thinking about what I should have said to the little beast all week. Things like, "It takes one to know one" and "Sticks and stones ..." That would have got him good.
I do seriously wonder whether his parents and teachers have taught him that it's OK to be so rude to someone if you're doing it to a smoker. That's a little disturbing, if so. Is he allowed to loudly and publicly denounce people who have other weaknesses, such as overeating? I bet he hates fat people too.
Why stop there?
They should send the little monster after caffeine junkies and people who can't stop scratching lottery tickets.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Remember the good old days before the White Man came when all the grownups were allowed to discipline the kids in the camp when they needed it?
I was covering the election at the county courthouse Tuesday evening, wandering around the lawn on the annex side, taking pictures of the young volunteers who were helping the election judges carry the boxes of ballots in to be counted.
A break of a few minutes came between arriving ballots. Cognizant that as a smoker I am a third class citizen, I stepped far, far away from any other humans and lighted a cigarette.
A squirrel in the tree limbs above where I stood must have gotten a whiff, because he fell down, dead, at my feet. Huh, I thought. I reckon that surgeon general fella was right.
Suddenly sirens blared and 17 police and highway patrol cruisers came screeching out of nowhere. The officers tasered me repeatedly, and as I was flopping around on the ground (still puffing my smoke, somehow), they explained that it's no longer legal to smoke within two miles of anyone under 14.
The officers all were wearing haz-mat gear with scuba tanks and Darth Vader masks. I guess their insurance doesn't cover them if they happen to inhale and get contaminated while arresting a smoker.
They carted me off to the nonsmoking jail, where I sit today, scratching these pitiful words with a nail on the moldy wall of my dank, lonely cell. Could really use a cigarette.
All right, none of that really happened.
What really happened after the squirrel fell dead was this kid — from whom I intentionally had distanced myself in order to avoid offending — saw me light up and came running over, pointing.
"Smoker!" he hollered in the tone squealers in World War II Germany must have used to identify Jewish people. I looked around to see if he were backed up by a torch-and-pitchfork wielding mob or maybe some SS officers, but none were visible.
"I hate smokers," the kid sneered, glaring.
I should have hanged my head in shame. Instead, I retorted, "Well, I don't like kids with fat lips," drew back my hand and ... you know. The sniveling little creature crawled away, wiser for the experience. The chief and the rest of the tribe nodded approvingly.
All right, that didn't really happen either.
Instead I mumbled something, embarrassed. The disgusted child walked away, or perhaps he floated away on a cloud of moral superiority as the setting sun reflected prettily on his halo.
I've been thinking about what I should have said to the little beast all week. Things like, "It takes one to know one" and "Sticks and stones ..." That would have got him good.
I do seriously wonder whether his parents and teachers have taught him that it's OK to be so rude to someone if you're doing it to a smoker. That's a little disturbing, if so. Is he allowed to loudly and publicly denounce people who have other weaknesses, such as overeating? I bet he hates fat people too.
Why stop there?
They should send the little monster after caffeine junkies and people who can't stop scratching lottery tickets.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
The possible headlines of an April fool
Originally published April 3, 2011
Made it through another April Fool's Day. This time, it was close.
Some aspects of my job make this particular holiday perilous. Normally, I am unsupervised as I craft the front page of The Daily Record's Sunday edition. I literally could put anything I wanted on it.
I've known since my first day at the newspaper that the year April 1 falls on a Sunday, I'll probably be hunting a job on Monday.
C'mon, admit it. You'd do it too.
The possibilities are endless. Headline ideas include:
"CITY LEADER REVEALED TO BE SPACE ALIEN: THIS EXPLAINS A LOT, SAYS COUNCILMAN"
That would be a good one, and utterly believable.
"YORK WINS LOTTERY, PURCHASES WORLD PEACE" I like that one too.
"GILA MONSTER THREATENS PHILLIPSBURG"
"SUN EXPLODES: EFFECTS WILL COME MONDAY, SAY SCIENTISTS"
"ROTARY DECLARES WAR ON KIWANIS: DOZENS DIE IN PREDAWN RAID"
"RESEARCHERS DISCOVER COWS POSSESSED BY DEMONS"
I dislike cows. They've been known to attack without warning. Cud-chewing devils. The black ones are impossible to see when you're driving home on a dark state highway at night. But that's a story for another day.
"DIRT-EATING CHILD EXHIBITS MENTAL POWERS" I'm sure I could find a picture of an anonymous grubby little urchin on the Internet to run with that story.
"AYRES, CLAIR FINALLY TO WED" Just giving you a hard time, Jon and Paula.
"PEARCE LEADS COUP AT DAILY RECORD; HUNDREDS SLAIN" Kirk Pearce might get a kick out of that one, but my bosses might not.
Last week, Julie the editor was planning to take off on Friday. That would have left me doing Page One that day. After I pointed out the date, she decided to come on in to work.
You'd think she doesn't trust me. Heh heh.
Still, I tried to talk her into putting a little blurb on the front page that day:
"Find the untrue news story in this edition and you could win $1,000!" The joke, of course, would have been that some of our more credulous readers might have scoured the newspaper for the fake April Fools story.
It would have been interesting to field the calls and see which real news stories the readers found unbelievable.
Of course, it would have stopped being funny if they had really found one and I had to fork over the cash myself. How do you explain that one to your wife?
Uh oh. Guess what day April 1 falls on in 2012? I better get that resume updated.
***
I had a nice visit at the office a week or so ago from a lovely elderly lady whom I'll refer to as Mrs.
P. I went to the reception area to greet her, hand outstretched.
"Oh, I'm a hugger," she said, and hugged me. "I'm a kisser too," she said wickedly, and I stepped back.
It turns out Mrs. P thinks some of the things I write are funny.
"You must have kind of a twisted sense of humor," I told her honestly. She wasn't offended. Her daughter also is a little warped, she admitted.
"Bet that gets her in a lot of trouble," I said. Mrs. P indicated she could sure tell me some stories about that child.
I assumed then it was my opinion column that Mrs. P finds funny, but now I'm not so sure. I should have asked. What if it's my news articles that people are laughing at?
Would anybody tell me?
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
In search of the best disabling phobia
Whose idea was that, anyway?
Let's throw all our retirement money into the stock market instead of saving it in an interest bearing pension fund. That way, we'll be one recession away from having to work until we're 110.
On the plus side, stocks will go up and make rich people happy, so I guess it all works out fine.
Ain't none of us going to be able to retire unless we cheat.
Myself, I'm researching different disabilities to see if I have any that might qualify me for Social Security before I turn 90. I found a handy list of phobias on the Internet at www.blifaloo.com, and I'm thinking about developing a few as soon as I hit 55.
I'm fairly sure I already have some, such as teratrophobia — the fear of monsters. I thought everybody had that one. That's what monsters are for, isn't it?
I know for a fact I have tonsurephobia, which is the fear of haircuts. Actually, it's the fear of being in a public place like a barber shop and having to take off my hat that bothers me. Don't tell anybody, but the treeline on my head is a little lower than it used to be.
What if there were peladophobics in the shop? They fear bald people. There could be a riot.
Here's a funny one: Sesquipedalophobia is the fear of long words. Are you listening, Alanis Morissette? That's irony.
Pentheraphobia is the fear of your mother-in-law. Batrachophobia is something little boys take advantage of when they chase little girls with frogs. I don't think either of those would get the government to give me free money, though.
One that looks pretty easy to fake is chirophobia, the fear of hands. I'll be going into the interview with the case worker, and when she introduces herself and offers her hand, I'll start screaming and slobbering. If that doesn't work, I'll kick off my shoes and show a little briophobia, foot fear. They'll throw money at me to get me to leave.
I could qualify for disability payments if I were a lumberjack and had hylophobia, the fear of forests, or if I were a truck driver with hodophobia, the fear of traveling by roads, or if I were a priest with papaphobia, the fear of the pope.
I would like to see that one demonstrated, really. Can you imagine the look on His Holiness's face if someone started screeching in terror when he came into the room?
It's hard to find a phobia that fits my job. There's graphophobia, the fear of writing, but if I had that I could still design pages and take pictures, so it wouldn't totally get me out of work. The more general ergophobia, the fear of all work, might do it.
Come to think of it, I think I already have that one, too.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
The talking cat and the 'Fishmen'
Joyce found the little orphan wandering around in a Lebanon street late one Saturday night while I was in the newspaper's print plant, watching the press guys perform their alchemical magic to produce a newspaper.
Joyce came walking into the plant with the little furball cupped in her hands and the "Can we keep it?" look on her face.
"You hate cats," I said.
"Look. It rubbed its face on my finger. It's so cute!" she said, and we became cat parents.
We already had three min pins and a Walmart parking lot special (the AKC is considering making that an official breed). I reckoned one more critter wouldn't make that much difference.
When we carted the mewling little beast home, the dogs just sighed and rolled their eyes when we weren't looking. They weren't impressed, but they didn't eat her.
Like I say, she's been raised by dogs. Last week she was sleeping on the dresser, and it must have been a good dream, because she was wagging her tail. That looks a little weird on a cat. We can't afford counseling for her, though.
When the dogs go outside to chase Bigfoots, Stripe goes too. She handles the ones that climb trees to escape the dogs, or so I assume.
I recommend getting a cat who acts like a dog. She's endlessly amusing and a pretty good conversationalist, but only on certain subjects.
"Hey Stripe, when do you want your milk?" "Now."
"What did Mommy say when she stubbed her toe?" "Ow."
"Who is your favorite Chinese communist?" "Mao."
None of the dogs can carry on a conversation like that. Once in a while the big dog, Ben, will complain a little about how rough he has it. It's hard to disagree with him, because his big shaggy tail is Stripe's favorite toy.
He dares not wag it when she's within 50 feet.
Stripe has fit in well in the household. She and our youngest, Sally, have a system. Stripe kills things — mice, moles, wolves and whatnot — and Sally brings them in the house and chews them up on my side of the bed.
(Sally's one of the min pins - not a human child.)
They all just think it's hysterical when I forget to look under the covers before I lie down.
***
OK, I laughed out loud at the convenience store sign offering free coffee that says, "Welcome Fishmen."
Yes, I know "Fishermen" probably didn't fit on the sign, but "Fishmen" is just funny.
I'm picturing carpheaded fellows wandering around the store's parking lot with steaming styrofoam cups.
***
The best quote of the week is from my dad. He and Joyce were discussing a relative whom we've never met.
"She's on Facebook," Joyce told him.
"Well, the way she was raised, I'm not surprised that's where she ended up," Dad said.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
There's no February in Heaven
A 30-day February would result in an 84 percent increase in the number of violent crimes per year, according to statistics I just invented. A 31-day February would cause all our heads to spontaneously explode.
At least this isn't a Leap Year. Years with even one extra day in February are horrible.
You'll notice that all our worst presidents have been elected during years with 29 February days. You would think for the sake of the country, somebody would notice and change the schedule.
More Americans have been defeated at the Olympics during Leap Years than any other years. Coincidence?
I don't think so.
If the Mayans had any mercy, they would have ended their calendar on Jan. 31, 2012, instead of in December.
We're going to have to live through one more 29-day February before the world ends. Stupid Mayans.
In Heaven, there will be no February, and January will be shorter too.
Otherwise, they won't be able to call it Heaven. In Hell, February has 36 days usually and 37 in Leap Years. If that isn't enough to get you back into church, brother, I can't help you.
What do you do in February?
Once the Super Bowl's played, there are no decent sports (unless you like the one where the players prance around on an indoor wooden court in short pants. No thanks).
Well, at least there's Valentine's Day. Here's a good idea; let's stick the holiday where you're supposed to express your love and devotion to that special someone right in themiddle of the month that has you and that special someone in terrible moods and experiencing debilitating cabin fever.
More people go to emergency rooms after being pelted by chocolates on Valentine's Day than on any other day of the year. (Hint to husbands: Chocolate covered cherries don't leave a scar like chocolate covered nuts do.)
I bet Hitler was born during February. No, I looked it up. It was April. Should have been February.
Paris Hilton, Pauly Shore and Charles Barkley all were born during February. That's what February has contributed to our culture. (I'm ignoring the fact that the Father of Our Country was born during February simply because I don't want to give February any credit. Call me biased if you want.)
February is the hardest month both to spell and pronounce.
No one in the history of the world ever has uttered the phrase, "It's so nice here in February." No one looks forward to February. Bears sleep through February because they have more sense than monkeys.
But according to February-born Charles Darwin, we're not descended from bears, so we're not allowed to hibernate.
Did you know that "Mubarak" is the Egyptian word for "February?" The Western media has totally misunderstood what those protests are all about.
***
Speaking of the screwed up media, a radio news person gave this report early Thursday: Sperm that has been frozen for 20 years was used to produce a litter of Great Dane puppies, so the mother ended up having puppies long after she was dead.
I'm not kidding. The guy really said that.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Recalling the Blizzard of Aught Eleven
I have to say I was a little disappointed. I looked out the kitchen window frequently on Tuesday, and at no time did the outhouse disappear in a whiteout. I went outside a couple of times and had no need to keep in contact with the house so I didn't wander off, directionless, into the storm.
As blizzards go, it was pretty weak, really. But it'll be more fun years from now.
"I remember back in aught-eleven when the big blizzard hit. We was buried under 26 feet of snow in under an hour," I'll say. "Back then we were tougher. That was back before all the fancy nuclear hover-buses you kids got today. We didn't have any goldurn geodesic domes with controlled climates."
I'll spin the yarn just as I'll recall it happening by then.
"Joyce had to go out to get some wood for the stove, so I tied a chain around her so she wouldn't get blowed away," I'll say. "She got two steps out the door and the wind took her! I hauled on that chain like I was flyin' a kite and finally got 'er landed."
Truthfully, none of that happened, but I intend to be a lying old codger.
"Went out the next day and found the cows all froze in the field. Tried to pick 'em up with the tractor forks under their bellies and their legs broke off.
"Next July they was still froze, so I just strung some wire on 'em and used 'em for fence posts."
I don't actually have any cows or a tractor, but you can't make the fence post lie with chicken legs. They're just not tall enough.
"Back then, we didn't have none of these dang materializers to bring us our goods. If you wanted somethin', you got out and went to a store, by cracky."
I certainly intend to say "by cracky" a lot, but I'm not sure what it means.
"'Round the eighth day after the storm, we was out of macaroni and cheese, so I hitched the min-pins up to the sled and we took off across the tundra. Once in a while you'd see a little hole in the snow with smoke coming out of it. There was houses down there buried under all that snow, 'see."
I doubt anybody will still be listening by that point in the tale, but you can bet there'll be two or three other codgers sitting there nodding, saying yup, that's just how it was.
Once you hit middle age, codgerhood is just about all you have to look forward to.
***
Joyce and I, longtime Steelers fans, appreciate the show of support in the Lebanon area for our favorite NFL team now that the Super Bowl is upon us. You see yellow and black jackets and pennants everywhere.
I have to wonder, though, why some of the jackets are labeled as "Jackets," but none of the pennants are labeled as "Pennants." In fact, some of the pennants are labeled as "Jackets."
I'm sorry that earlier in this column I used the SB term. Apparently that's a tightly held trademark now. Commercials on TV and the radio all week have been about stocking up for the "Big Game."
Everybody's afraid to say "Super Bowl." Oops. There it is again. I am in so much trouble.
I wonder if I say "Super Bowl" again if the NFL will sue me thrice or just have multiple counts in the same lawsuit?
Super Bowl, Super Bowl, Super Bowl!
In for a penny, in for a pound, I reckon.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Why does 'Barack' keep e-mailing my wife?
Ever since he got elected, President Barack Obama has been e-mailing both of us, usually about once or twice a month. I can tell they're personal letters because he always uses our first names, and he always signs them, "Barack."
(Truthfully, he's not that great a letter writer. All he ever talks about is Congress and politics and hope and stuff. How are the kids? Did he get a flu shot? Is the dog trained yet? He never says.)
Joyce says they're canned letters, and he probably writes the same thing to everybody.
Like I'm going to believe that.
It's true that the letters he writes to her seem identical to the ones I get, but I detect a quiet emphasis on certain phrases, a use of punctuation that hints at something more.
I guess we must have made some kind of impression when we met then-Sen. Obama at the Bell Restaurant in the spring of 2008. He hugged her right in front of me that day. I thought about asking him to step outside, but the Secret Service guys and Sen. Claire McCaskill were right there.
Michelle has only written to me once. I didn't write back — It's not fitting to have a private correspondence with the wife of one of your friends, although Barack doesn't seemed to have learned that fine point of etiquette, since he keeps writing to Joyce.
You would think he would at least mention it when he writes to me, something like, "as I wrote to Joyce yesterday." Unless in his mind there's something going on that I shouldn't know about.
I'm not really worried. Joyce doesn't like tall, good-looking guys. But it bothers me that Barack would jeopardize our friendship over what can only be an infatuation.
I'm not saying that the President of the United States is pursuing my wife. I'm just saying that if another fellow were writing her personal notes all the time like he does, and if another fellow had hugged her in front of CNN and the Washington Post like he did, I'd probably have something to say about that.
Of course, I don't mind being on a first-name basis with the President of the United States. I admit I'll name-drop sometimes in the middle of a conversation: "Yeah, Barack was telling me the same thing last week." Stuff like that.
***
I confess that I am probably the reason for the failure of the Lottery Pig. The porcelain, porcine creature sits, dejected, atop the shelf over my boss's desk. On Tuesday, everyone at The Daily Record who bought a Mega Millions ticket rubbed the Lottery Pig for luck.
Whenever I touch Joyce's scratch-off tickets, they lose. I buy them and carry them out to the car using a napkin to avoid contamination. It irks the clerks at the convenience store. They think I'm afraid of germs or something. I've stopped trying to explain.
But I rubbed the Lottery Pig Tuesday, rendering it ineffective, and none of us won hundreds of millions of dollars.
If only I could figure out some way to use my powers for good.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
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