tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41518172781479439042023-11-16T03:57:13.854-08:00Serious StuffHard-hitting analysis of the critical news that may determine whether you live or die.
Not really. None of this is true, but some of it may be funny.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-2534403619442064722016-03-04T22:46:00.000-08:002016-03-04T22:46:12.276-08:00Trump's dimensions at heart of GOP raceA critical question in the race for the Republican nomination for president of the United States has recently emerged, dwarfing such pedestrian issues as climate change, entitlements and corporate control of our political system.<br />
<br />
Long has it been believed that the size of a man's feet is indicative of length and girth in other parts of the male body. Now, thanks to candidate Marco Rubio, attention has centered upon the size of candidate Donald Trump's hands, which appear on television to be smaller than average for a man of his stature. Speculation has arisen that perhaps other physical characteristics of Trump might be less than impressive, size-wise.<br />
<br />
In a nationally televised debate on Thursday, Trump gravely and bravely disclosed to America that the speculation is unfounded, and that the dimensions of other, more male-specific, parts of his body are not a problem. "Guaranteed," he said.<br />
<br />
How can we be sure?<br />
<br />
I would never doubt the honesty and integrity of a human who aspires to the most powerful position in the world. Throughout history we have seen time and again an American president whose statesmanship, wisdom and honor carried the country from darkness to light and prosperity. It would be unconscionable for one to seek that office who did not possess such qualities.<br />
<br />
Yet also it is an American tenet, mostly unspoken, that the nation's president, if male, must be the embodiment of manliness. Traditionally, an indicator of such manliness has been physical dimensions, normally concealed, of an impressive size.<br />
<br />
Similarly, it is unlikely that the first female president will not also be the epitome of womanhood with physical dimensions to match. There is a reason America remembers Loni Anderson from the television show, "WKRP in Cincinnati," but few can recalll the name of the actress who played Bailey on that same program despite that she was an altogether more agreeable character.<br />
<br />
I digress, however. As the future of the nation hangs in the balance, uncertain Americans are uncomfortably asking themselves the question: How big is Trump?<br />
<br />
I humbly submit to you that the only way to lay this question to rest is to employ a technique as old as the first primitive engineering. "The Donald's" physical dimensions are an object of public scrutiny in order for him to be considered for this august role, so he must be measured.<br />
<br />
The circumstances of this endeavor must be fair to the candidate, of course. Some physical dimensions are not always the same because they have a tendency to change as the result of stimuli, and I suggest it is the stimulated dimension that should be considered by voters when making their decisions about casting their ballots.<br />
<br />
It must be discovered, as discreetly as possible, what stimulus would result in the greatest advantage for this candidate before the tape measure is employed. While pictures of his wife without clothes are not difficult to find via the Internet, I suggest that perhaps a 10-foot-by-10-foot portrait of the candidate himself might be the most effective image.<br />
<br />
Artists might be able to alter the image somewhat using graphics software to make the hands appear larger.<br />
<div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-79862512338503096582014-10-30T19:52:00.000-07:002014-10-30T19:55:06.186-07:00Landmark decision affects i-Daho, i-OwaApple Inc. got most of what it wanted in a federal lawsuit that was decided last week.<br />
<br />
<span class="paragraph-1"><br />
At issue was the company's patented "i-" trademark, which the company alleged was being used without a license by scores of products, towns, cities and even states across the United States. District Judge Andrew Stoudt agreed with the company in his ruling, but Stoudt stopped short of giving Apple everything it was asking for.<br />
<br /><br />
</span> <br />
"There can be no doubt that the 'i-' sound at the beginning of a name belongs exclusively to Apple Inc., as long as the spelling of said name corresponds to the traditional spelling of Apple products in that it uses the letter 'I' in its long pronunciation, that is to say, as long as it rhymes with 'lie' and 'rye.'" Stoudt wrote in his decision.<br />
<br />
<br />
Yet the judge denied Apple's claims that it also should be able to collect license fees for names beginning with the "eye" sound that do not begin with the letter "I."<br />
<br />
<br />
"This court is not prepared to rebrand eye-liner as 'i-Liner,' or to change eyeglasses into 'i-Glasses' at this time," wrote the judge.<br />
<br />
<br />
Most affected by the ruling will be the states of i-Daho and i-Owa, which must pay Apple 4 percent of their tax revenues for the past 10 years and will pay a 2 percent licensing fee on all future revenues as long as they continue to use Apple's trademark.<br />
<br />
<br />
Gov. C.L. "Butch" Otter of i-Daho, a Republican, hailed the ruling as "fair" and "ultimately good" for the people of his state.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yes, it will cost us over the short term to pay the licensing fees," Otter said in a frank and candid interview with this reporter. "However, how much more might i-Dahoans ultimately gain by i-Daho's association with Apple? Already, my staff is working on rolling out a new and improved i-Daho by early next year. At this point, we're calling it 'i-Daho 2.0.'"<br />
<br />
<br />
The new version of the state will offer all the same features but in a slick new portable format that is more user friendly for the average resident, the governor said. He expects that long lines will be forming in Boise days before the new state's release.<br />
<br />
<br />
Not so happy with the decision is Pete Stankler of Gumtree, Maine, whose business, formerly known as "Pete's Winter Time Icicle Removal Service," is now "Pete's Frozen Pointy Thing Removal Service."<br />
<br />
<br />
"I had to take the 'Winter Time' out of the name because it would have been way too long," Stankler said. "Unfortunately, here in Maine, we have i-Cicles nine months of the year, so now I have to work three times as much."<br />
<br />
<br />
That's not all bad, however, since the extra hours will help him pay Apple back the $58,000 he owes as his share of the court's judgment.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Missouri town of i-Beria isn't even trying to comply with the ruling. Mayor Jim Schlupp directed the city attorney to file for bankruptcy protection on Friday.<br />
<br />
<br />
"We probably could have weathered this if not for the lawsuit we lost last year, coincidentally, with the same judge," Schlupp said. "We have 741 residents who each owe $8,432 to Budweiser and Miller because we have the word 'beer' in our name."<br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Ken York is the assistant/Sunday editor of </em><em>The Daily Record. Past columns and </em><em>other writings may be viewed on </em><em>his blog at <a href="http://ken-york.blogspot.com/">http://ken-york.blogspot.com</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-78455083967525309742013-06-17T14:43:00.001-07:002013-06-17T14:43:09.448-07:00A flu remedy for Mrs.Claus<span style="font-size: medium;">
</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Got in a little trouble with my boss, Julie, last week after she saw the article about my exclusive interview with Santa Claus. I guess she was looking for a little more human-interest type stuff, and she said I should have talked to Mrs. Claus too. <br />
<br />
Well, how am I supposed to know what questions to ask if nobody tells me? I'm a reporter, not a mind reader.<br />
<br />
I grumbled a little about how unfair it all was, then retreated to my cubicle to try again. I figured I could do a phone interview this time. No sense making the Clauses make another trip to Lebanon, and I knew my car wouldn't make it to the North Pole.<br />
<br />
I reckoned I could get the phone number from Santa's agent, but the fellow wasn't returning my calls, so I looked it up on the Internet. That Internet is the handiest thing. If you haven't tried it, try it.<br />
<br />
I typed "Mrs. Santa Claus" into the search thing and a bunch of different things came up. I was surprised she had so many websites. I figured any one of them would probably have the Claus phone number, so I clicked on one.<br />
<br />
Well, I have to tell you, I was a little surprised. There was a picture of Mrs. Santa Claus there in a nightgown. I reckon it must get warmer at the North Pole in the summertime than I had thought, because that nightgown looked more like a bathing suit than anything else.<br />
<br />
But I had guessed right. There was a phone number right there. Even better than that, there was a price right next to it that said how much the long distance call would cost. It was $3.99 per minute, which seemed kind of high, but the North Pole's pretty far away, I guessed.<br />
<br />
Sometimes it surprises me that people think investigative journalism is so hard. You just have to be canny.<br />
<br />
The website wanted me to have my credit card ready when I called. I figured this was official business for the newspaper, so I went over and got the company credit card out from under Julie's phone when she wasn't looking.<br />
<br />
I wrote down the phone number and closed the window that showed the website on my computer. I know I shouldn't judge the standards of other countries like the North Pole by my own, but that picture of Mrs. Claus didn't seem decent somehow, and I didn't want somebody passing by my cubicle and getting the wrong idea.<br />
<br />
I picked up the phone and started to dial it, but then I realized I didn't know if "900" was a country code or the area code. I tried it with a "1" in front of it and it worked the first time. Mrs. Claus answered on the third ring. "Hello?"<br />
<br />
She sounded a little different than she did last week when she and Santa came to town to talk to the little kids about their Christmas wishes. Her voice was kind of deeper and breathy-like. I wondered if she had picked up some kind of a bug here in Lebanon.<br />
<br />
"Hi, Mrs. Claus, this is Ken York. Remember me, from last week?"<br />
<br />
"Oh yes," she said, still talking funny. She reminded me of our cat, Eureka Stripe, purring. "How could I ever forget?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I wondered if it'd be OK to talk to you a little bit more," I said. "Just a couple of questions. It won't take long."<br />
<br />
"I'd love to," she said. "First, do you have your credit card?"<br />
<br />
I gave her the number. She made me repeat it a couple times, then tell her what kind of card it was, what the name on the card was, what my name was, what my Social Security number was, my birth date, where I lived and other standard stuff like that. I assumed it was all required by the North Pole Phone Company.<br />
<br />
"OK then," she said eventually.<br />
<br />
The call had been going on for 14 minutes at this point. "All right," I said. "Can I ask you some questions now?"<br />
<br />
"Of course you can," she said. "But first, let me ask <i>you</i> some questions."<br />
<br />
Well, I guessed that was fair, although it wasn't usually the way the interview process worked, in my experience. "OK," I said. "Shoot."<br />
<br />
"What are you wearing?" she asked me.<br />
<br />
I thought that was a pretty strange question, but there didn't seem to be any harm in telling her. "Well, I've got on a Bill's Farm and Home cap, a plaid shirt, some blue jeans and my shoes," I said. "Oh, socks and a belt too."<br />
<br />
It sounded like she sighed. "Oh my," she said. "Wouldn't you like to get a little more comfortable?"<br />
<br />
I laughed. "Would I!" I said. "I've had this same chair since I started here five years ago. It's all right for typing, but the arms are so low if you try to take a nap in the afternoons your elbow sits too low for your hand to support your head and you get a crick in your neck. I have to keep aspirin in my desk."<br />
<br />
She didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then, "Tell me about the things you like to do."<br />
<br />
It seemed like I was the one being interviewed, but I reckoned North Pole customs must require some kind of exchange to be polite. Truthfully, I've kicked around the world some in my life, but until last week I never had any experience with North Polers. Maybe that was why I didn't exactly hit it off with Santa when we talked.<br />
<br />
"What do I like to do? Well, I guess my favorite thing is eating fried chicken and watching Star Trek," I said. I tried to regain control of the interview. "So what do you and Santa like to do for fun?"<br />
<br />
"Oh, Santa and I have a lot of fun," she said. "Sometimes we invite the elves to join us."<br />
<br />
I was willing to bet that was a good time. I had never met an elf, but by all I had read, they seemed like happy people. I could picture them all around the table in Santa's house, having dinner or playing a board game or just telling elf jokes.<br />
<br />
"We don't have any elves around here," I said with regret. "I guess the climate's too warm for 'em."<br />
<br />
"Oh, it's pretty hot here now," she said, sounding like my cat again. I wondered if they had a Casey's or something where Santa might go and get her some cough drops.<br />
<br />
"Well that's weird," I said. "I would have thought it'd be pretty cold up there."<br />
<br />
"No, it's warm, so wa-a-arm," she said. "I feel like I should take off my dress."<br />
<br />
"Either that or turn down the thermostat," I said. "On second thought, if you're feverish, you might want to bundle up."<br />
<br />
"I have SUCH a fever," she said.<br />
<br />
"Sounds like you got a pretty bad cold, maybe the flu," I said. "Do you have any honey and maybe a Kool-Aid packet of lemonade mix?"<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"This is something my grandma taught me," I said. "It's kind of a family secret."<br />
<br />
"Your grandma," she said. "Well, I've had weirder calls. OK, I've got the honey and the, um, Kool-Aid mix. What do you want me to do with them?"<br />
<br />
"Well, I know this sounds weird ..." I hesitated. Would Grandma really want me to reveal this to a stranger? But this was Mrs. Santa Claus, and she needed help. "Take three tablespoons of the honey and put it in a cup, then add half the packet of lemonade powder," I said. "Mix it up. Now, put the cup in the microwave and set it for about 20 seconds."<br />
<br />
<i><br />
(Editor's note: This remedy is not recommended as a treatment for a cold and/or the flu. The newspaper denies any liability resulting from its implementation and strongly cautions readers to remember this writer is the same guy who says he has Bigfoots living in his ravine.)<br />
</i>
<br />
After about $2.99 worth of long distance, she was back. "Oh, it's so gooey and hot," Mrs. Claus said. "Should I rub it all over myself now?"<br />
<br />
"No," I said. "Now, this is going to hurt a little, but you have to inhale the rest of the lemonade mix."<br />
<br />
"What?"<br />
<br />
"You know," I said. "Kind of snort it. I know it sounds stupid, but it works. Then, as soon as you do, drink the honey stuff."<br />
<br />
"You want me to snort the lemonade powder?"<br />
<br />
"Trust me," I said.<br />
<br />
She sighed, and I didn't hear anything for another $1.50 or so. Then there was a scream. It sounded like it was working just like I remembered from my painful youth.<br />
<br />
"Drink the honey stuff now!" I yelled.<br />
<br />
"You are a sick, sick man," Mrs. Claus said to me, sobbing. She hung up.<br />
<br />
Well, that went pretty well, I thought. A lot better than the interview with Sen. McCaskill.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-43913819163592577872013-05-30T10:47:00.000-07:002013-05-30T10:47:01.220-07:00How many points is a reward worth?<br />
<i>Originally published March 18, 2012</i><br />
<br />
I was pumping gas the other day at my favorite gas station, reading the various notices on the pump because I didn't have anything better to do except stare at all the other people who were pumping gas and staring at me.<br />
<br />
One of the notices on the pump told me that if I would have gone into the store and got one of their free cards, I could have swiped it before I swiped my credit card at the pump and earned some rewards.<br />
<br />
Well, now, that's something.<br />
<br />
Like Pavlov's mutts, I like a reward as much as the next person. To think all I would have to do to get one is swipe a little card, a FREE card, it just makes me feel spoiled. It's good to be an American. I bet there aren't a lot of rewards in Bolivia or the Sudan.<br />
<br />
That's not the only free thing I got last week. I drank a Coca Cola Zero, and under the bottle cap there was a little code. I got onto the Coke Internet site, plugged in the code, and bingo!<br />
<br />
Three points.<br />
<br />
FREE points, in my opinion, because when I bought the soda, I was just wanting something cold to drink. The three points were a bonus.<br />
<br />
I looked at Coke's online catalog and discovered that I could get stuff already with my three free points.<br />
<br />
Not much, just a screen saver or a sticker or something like that. If instead I saved those three points, however, I could add to them by putting in more codes. Within a year or so, if I drank enough soda, I should be able to order a free baseball cap that would allow me to advertise Coca Cola products wherever I went.<br />
<br />
People say the economy's in a mess, but I don't believe it, There's all these free points and rewards just sitting around for the taking!<br />
<br />
It's impossible to be poor in this country.<br />
<br />
I saw a TV commercial that said if I use a certain kind of credit card, I can earn rewards from them too.<br />
<br />
It didn't feel like I would be earning them, since they were just giving them to me, but that's the way they phrased it. I didn't know if the rewards could come in the form of points, or if one could trade a reward for a certain number of points, or vice versa.<br />
<br />
I was sure there must be an exchange somewhere where they post how much rewards and points are worth relative to each other.<br />
<br />
A reward sounds grander than a point, however, so I decided that until I learned otherwise, I'd figure a reward must be worth at least 10 points.<br />
<br />
If I could earn rewards and trade them for points, I could bank them with Coca Cola and get that hat faster!<br />
<br />
That would be sweet.<br />
<br />
Come to think of it, a few years ago, before they invented rewards and points, companies were giving away airline miles for just about everything. It seems to me that an airline mile must be worth at least a hundred bottle caps. Think about it, all the energy it takes to get an airplane up in the air, propel it for a mile, and then land. You couldn't pay a pilot to do that for a hundred bottle caps, so I'm thinking that my estimate, one mile equals 300 points or about 30 rewards, must be low.<br />
<br />
Joyce probably has all those old receipts that are worth miles in her purse. If I could find at least a couple hundred miles, I could probably trade them for enough points to buy that Coke cap, especially if I started collecting rewards for buying gas and using a credit card. I just had to find out where you could trade these things in for each other.<br />
<br />
I called my friend Merri at my bank, all excited.<br />
<br />
Asked her about exchange rates, and she thought I was talking about currency or something, because she started spouting stuff about pesos and euros.<br />
<br />
When I explained what I needed, she was quiet for a minute and then suggested that the post office might be the place to go.<br />
<br />
They've got little flyers up over there that talk about rewards.<br />
<br />
So I went over to the post office and, sure enough, they had some little posters on the wall. From what I could gather, if you could catch one of those fellows they had pictures of, you'd get rewards.<br />
<br />
Well, I wasn't going to do that when I could get rewards just for pumping my gas.<br />
<br />
But they did tell me what rewards are worth. Under this really ugly guy's picture, it said, "REWARD: $500."<br />
<br />
Five hundred bucks?<br />
<br />
How in the world could the gas station afford to give away $500 when I was only buying $60 worth of gas? The answer was obvious, of course: Few people must really take the time to do the research like I had.<br />
<br />
I realized I had stumbled onto a gold mine.<br />
<br />
With rewards being worth 10 points, every Coke bottle cap was worth $167 or so. I went and bought a six-pack, drank it, peed, and quit my job.<br />
<br />
I went and got one of those free cards at the gas station and drove around all day as fast as I could in first gear. Filled up three times for about $200, but I had earned three rewards, worth $1,500. The gas station wouldn't let me pay for the fillups in bottle caps, unfortunately, even after I explained the whole exchange rate thing. It wouldn't cash my rewards either.<br />
<br />
Undaunted, I called Joyce at work and told her to quit her job and start looking for airline miles in her old receipts. Every one was worth 30 rewards or $15,000, by my calculations.<br />
<br />
She was a little skeptical at first, using hurtful phrases like "another crackpot scheme" and "Is this going to be like the iguana farm?" (For the record, the iguana farm would have worked except for the humidity.)<br />
<br />
When we got home, we totaled up everything we had — points, rewards and miles — and converted it to dollars.<br />
<br />
It turned out we had about $3 million. Even better, we got back on the Coke website and found out we could now afford 1,257,368 of those cool Coke ball caps! We decided we would keep a couple thousand because I tend to go through caps pretty quickly.<br />
<br />
The rest we plan to sell for $4 each on Craigslist. We'll use that money to buy more gasoline and Coca Cola. If my math is right, we'll be billionaires before we're 60.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-28126984352338123712013-05-30T10:37:00.004-07:002013-05-30T10:37:43.304-07:00Ethel hears the Call of the Wild<br />
<i>Originally published April 29, 2012</i><br />
<br />
Jack London wrote a book more than a century ago, "The Call of the Wild." It's about this big dog named Buck that gets kidnapped and sent to Alaska to pull a sled. Great book.<br />
<br />
At the end off the book, Buck finally has found a home with a master he trusts and loves. But he keeps sensing this call from deep in the forest, and he takes longer and longer spells when he goes into the wild to run with the wolves.<br />
<br />
Finally, he chooses that life.<br />
<br />
Well, I wouldn't have expected that to happen with a chicken, but I reckon it has.<br />
<br />
Of Lucy and Ethel, our Barred Rock hens, Ethel has always been the adventurous one. No matter what haphazard attempts I've made to secure the chicken pen, every day she has jumped out, wandered around the woods for a while, then come and jumped back in the pen to roost at night.<br />
<br />
The other chickens clucked at her like they've never heard of such a thing and she ought to be ashamed, but she didn't seem to care.<br />
<br />
Starting about three weeks ago, Ethel started staying out all night. She would wander back into the yard in the afternoon and demand to be fed, then disappear again. At first we figured she must be the chicken equivalent of a teenager and tried to impose a curfew, but she ignored it.<br />
<br />
Finally, I had to face it: Ethel's hearing the Call of the Wild.<br />
<br />
She stays away for longer and longer stretches. I haven't seen her this time since last Sunday.<br />
<br />
We know she's still alive because our youngest, Sally, is able to find her eggs. Sally prances in from deep in the forest with a light brown egg gingerly held in her mouth.<br />
<br />
She takes the egg into the house and guards it on my side of the bed, growling and rolling her eyes at anybody who tries to collect it.<br />
<br />
(Just for the record, Sally is a miniature pinscher, not a human child.)<br />
<br />
You don't want to get in bed without a thorough inspection at my house. If it isn't a cool looking bug, it's the back half of a squirrel, a Bigfoot's foot or a chicken egg. We go through a lot of sheets.<br />
<br />
I have never heard of a chicken going to live with its wild distant cousins, but that must be what is happening.<br />
<br />
I imagine chickens hear a different call of the wild than dogs do. I don't think Ethel would have gotten very far running with wolves.<br />
<br />
That brings up the question of what kind of critters she really is hanging out with these days. It would be nice to think it's something dignified, like owls, but since they can fly and she can't, I doubt it.<br />
<br />
Same goes for eagles, hawks and falcons. Even if they refrained from eating her, she'd quickly get left behind.<br />
<br />
So I'm thinking Ethel must be running with turkeys.<br />
<br />
This turkey season we've been printing a lot of young-hunters-with-turkeys pictures in the newspaper. I've been waiting for somebody to submit a photo of a confused looking youth posing with a small black and white chicken, but it hasn't happened yet.<br />
<br />
Much as I would hate to lose little Ethel for good, it would be a kick to see the look on the kid's face.<br />
<br />
Until that photo comes in, I'll continue to picture her leading her pack of turkeys at a lope through the forest, their beaks upraised in defiance of law and man.<br />
<br />
Run, Ethel! Run!<br />
<br />
<i>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.</i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-25454436954026197722013-05-30T10:32:00.000-07:002013-05-30T10:32:11.630-07:00My skill commanded ingots and palaces back in the day<br />
<i>Originally published March 17, 2013 </i><br />
<br />
I nearly always know what time it is to within a couple of minutes. It's useful for amazing my lovely wife, Joyce, when we are on a car trip. She nearly always checks on her cell phone to see if I'm right, and I usually am.<br />
<br />
Talk about a totally unmarketable skill in the 21st Century. The one nearly metaphysical talent I can claim can be replaced by a three dollar Seiko. I guess it could be worse; I could have a good sense of direction, and a kid's toy compass is even cheaper.<br />
<br />
I was born in the wrong century. For many thousands of years of human history, people would have valued my skill.<br />
<br />
"Hey Pharoah, me and the boys was thinking we ought to build one of them big fancy sundials like the Phoenicians have. We're tired of being late to the feasts and whatnot."<br />
<br />
"Dog! Away with you! I already have hired this bald portly fellow in the glasses to tell time for me. I have given him many ingots and a palace to do this."<br />
<br />
The Pharoah would gesture me forward, at which point I would say, "It's 7:14 Eastern, 6:14 Central." Everybody would fall to their knees in wonder. It'd be something.<br />
<br />
Of course, we'd have to wait for Galileo or Thomas Edison or somebody to be born so we could get a chart that would convert American time to Egyptian time.<br />
<br />
I would have been useful to Native American tribes that wanted to coordinate their attack on neighboring villages. I'd have to have a helper who knew smoke signals, although I have been working on that skill. (Joyce wonders why it takes me so long outside at the burn barrel on Sundays.)<br />
<br />
Yep, just about any time up until 1950 or so, I probably could have written my own ticket. Of course, a lot of societies might have burned me at the stake because of my devil magic powers, and that wouldn't be good.<br />
<br />
Spring sprang Friday. It got up to 80 degrees here in Falcon, and it got me to thinking about what a wicked sense of humor that stupid groundhog has.<br />
<br />
Saturday would have marked the six more weeks of winter that would have ensued if the rodent had seen his shadow on Feb. 2. Since he didn't, we got our early spring - one day early.<br />
<br />
I don't like that animal, but I admit it could be because I am jealous. If I could predict the end of winter instead of tell time without a watch, I might still be able to command large quantities of ingots and adoring crowds.<br />
<br />
Technology hasn't replaced the groundhog, but his day is coming.<br />
<br />
<i>Ken York's past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.</i><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-14262686567906455782013-05-29T11:47:00.000-07:002013-05-29T11:47:10.700-07:00A brand new mule (with a diaper)<br />
<i>Originally published March 24, 2013</i><br />
<br />
As this interminable winter continues, Joyce and I have discovered a lifeline. There's this thing on television called the Game Show Network.<br />
<br />
I don't know why network executives thought people would like to see reruns of game shows from decades past. Until last week, I scoffed at the idea. Game shows are stupid enough in the present day.<br />
<br />
But somehow our TV found GSN last weekend, and we're hooked. We debate the various merits of the string of fellows who followed Richard Dawson on Family Feud (they're all lousy). We now know that we're not smarter than a fifth grader. We wonder why some sixth grader doesn't get on that show and win the million bucks. Or maybe a fifth grade teacher.<br />
<br />
The really old game shows are fun because of the prizes. One lucky contestant last week answered a question and won a brand new compact disc player stereo rack system. Oh, the good old days.<br />
<br />
It makes you wish TV had been invented a hundred years earlier so there would have been 1800s game shows that we could now watch on GSN.<br />
<br />
"We surveyed 100 farmers, and the top four answers are on the board. We asked, 'What is the worst thing about a Comanche raid on your farm during the wintertime?'"<br />
<br />
The female contestant, clad in a long dress, apron and starched white bonnet, would slap the little buzzer thing, which wouldn't go off because buzzers hadn't been invented yet. She would look to her husband for permission to speak and receive a gruff nod.<br />
<br />
Then she would answer, "They take the dried venison."<br />
<br />
"Survey says (ding) 'They take the meat!' Number one answer! Tell her what she's won, Johnny!"<br />
<br />
A voice would holler from off-stage, "Are you tired of cutting through the tough sod every spring with a hoe and a shovel? Well, say hello to your (dramatic pause) brand new mule!"<br />
<br />
At this point a blacksmith would lead a mule onto the stage.<br />
<br />
It would have on a diaper (the mule, not the blacksmith), because even in the 1800s it was gross to watch a mule poop on TV. The mule would nip the blacksmith, who would slap its head, eliciting hundreds of angry letters from PETA viewers.<br />
<br />
"Bred from the finest horse and donkey on the East Coast, this multifunction animal is capable of pulling a plow whenever it is in the mood! Then, after a long day in the fields, rub him down and hitch him to a cart for a ride through your local town! You'll be the envy of your neighbors!"<br />
<br />
The game show would need to run a little disclaimer at the bottom of the screen, letting viewers know that mule technology is considered to be witchcraft in many areas.<br />
<br />
Cart and plow not included.<br />
<br />
The contestant would look to her husband for permission, receive another gruff nod, then jump around in hysterical glee, accidentally hugging the host, who then would be beaten by the husband with a riding crop.<br />
<br />
On second thought, maybe people in the 1800s weren't ready for game shows. It might be more fun to hook your temporal scanner up to the TV via the HDMI interface and watch game shows from the future.<br />
<br />
I'm sure in the future all game show hosts will be androids who look just like the 1980s Alex Trebec, only with chrome skin like that guy on Terminator 2.<br />
<br />
"I'll take 'Ancient United States' for $100 billion, Alex231," would say the contestant, an androgynous creature with a whole-body tattoo of a human man.<br />
<br />
"The answer is, 'Obamacare.'" The contestant's tattoo would look thoughtful, then stumped, and after a couple seconds a buzzer would sound. (Strangely, it would be the exact same buzzer that's in today's game shows, a device with no other known function.)<br />
<br />
The android-Alex would look regretful and sympathetic. "Oh, I'm sorry. It was 'What evil monster arose from the sea and devoured everybody in the country in 2016, causing four Dark Ages and a zombie apocalypse?'"<br />
<br />
The contestant would slap the tattoo of a head at the top of its body. "I knew that, darn it."<br />
<br />
The show would cut away to a commercial during the penalty phase of the game as the losing contestant is dined upon by the show's crew. Even in the 2600s, it's gross to watch zombies eat somebody on TV.<br />
<br />
Come on, spring, get here. I just wrote a column about the Game Show Network, for Pete's sake.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-57946568006328356972013-05-29T11:40:00.004-07:002014-10-30T19:00:20.693-07:00Don't Care Why it's Cold. Just Want it to Stop.<br />
<i>Originally published April 13, 2013</i><br />
<br />
It's Saturday morning, in the middle of April, and there's a fire blazing merrily in the wood stove. My hands are almost too cold to type. This is starting to make me mad.<br />
<br />
You know, if I wanted to freeze in April, I'd move to Maine. I don't know if it's El Nino or La Nina this time that's causing the weather to be screwy, but whichever of those little brats is responsible needs to be switched.<br />
<br />
I know I could get a logical explanation from the weather service, but I don't want one. I don't care if the jet stream has dropped down to the planet's belly like an old man's chest. Not interested in the way arctic air masses circulate as the rotational dysfunction overlaps the temperate zones.<br />
<br />
I just want to clutch my fury in ignorance and demand that it get warm NOW. Please pardon my petulance, but it's been a long winter, and it's exhausting watching Joyce cut wood every weekend. I bet she's getting tired of it too.<br />
<br />
If you haven't shown your wife how to use your chain saw, I highly recommend it. It was cute how scared she was the first time she cut down a big tree. She points out that it was equally cute how scared I was the first time I did.<br />
<br />
Truthfully, the first one I harvested was a cedar about as big around as a child's wrist, and Joyce's first was a mature blackjack oak. But I didn't have a coach, and she did.<br />
<br />
"OK, first you want to look at how the top limbs are leaning."<br />
<br />
"I know."<br />
<br />
"Then you want to figure out where you want it to fall."<br />
<br />
"I know. I read that book too."<br />
<br />
"You'll want to notch it on the side where you want it to fall."<br />
<br />
"I know." Eyes rolled. "Then you - "An odd growling sound interrupted me, and I had to look to make sure she hadn't already started the chain saw. Luckily she hadn't, because I had some advice about how that was to be done too.<br />
<br />
Joyce has become used to my safety briefings over the years. She can't approach the stove without a "Be careful!" from me. If she's pouring boiling spaghetti into a colander in the sink, I'm hovering nearby, reminding her that it's hot. If I'm closing her car door, I have to ask, "All in?" before doing so, as if she's going to leave some appendage hanging out to be severed.<br />
<br />
I blame this worrywart behavior on two things, my dad and helping to raise a niece and nephew. To say that my father was overprotective is like saying Honey Boo Boo is mildly irritating. I was 16 and driving my '72 Maverick to work every day, but I still wasn't allowed to ride my bike in the country road, which sometimes was used by as many as seven vehicles per day.<br />
<br />
With the kids, I often found myself leaping across the room to put my hand on the corner of the coffee table if a toddler came within three feet of it. You know there is a gravitational pull between hard corners and children's heads that science has never fully explained.<br />
<br />
I don't keep a list of my top 10 shames, but number five or six would be the time I was holding my friend's baby, Sarah, on the deck of my house and the little vixen twisted in my arms and slammed her face into the deck rail, giving herself a bloody lip. Her dad, Tom, never brought the kids over again, but that might have had more to do with the desiccated fried chicken than my negligent child care skills.<br />
<br />
Tom never mentioned the incident after that, although he did let slip recently that for some reason his daughter, now in junior high, has an irrational fear of portly fellows in baseball caps. Well, that's probably healthy anyway, so I guess it all worked out.<br />
<br />
Where was I? Oh yeah, it's too cold. Sunday is predicted to be in the 70s, however, so anyone reading this is probably wondering what I'm whining about. This time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-56229169569740260742013-05-29T11:27:00.001-07:002013-05-29T11:27:15.612-07:00A not very merry interview with Mr. Claus<br />
<i>Originally published Nov. 25, 2012</i><br />
<br />
As one of the top five reporters on the staff of the Lebanon Daily Record, I pretty much get the plum assignments around here. Any time a celebrity or politician passes through town, I'm on it like tinsel on a shag carpet.<br />
<br />
So it's no surprise that I was able to wrangle the assignment from my boss when Santa Claus came to town Friday night. We had negotiated with his agent for an exclusive interview following his appearance at the LDR office during the Community Christmas Tree celebration.<br />
<br />
For a couple hours, he sat there listening to kids' Christmas wishes. Once the last tot had teetered off with its parents, the jolly old fellow leaned back on his big chair and sighed tiredly.<br />
<br />
I could tell when he asked Mrs. Claus to go start the car that he didn't intend to spend a lot of time on this interview.<br />
<br />
I noticed a dark red spot on Santa's pants leg in the vicinity of his lap. Apparently a child hadn't been able to contain his or her excitement during the short visit. I wondered how many blissfully ignorant children had sat there after that little accident.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Claus? Or may I call you Santa?" I began, introducing myself.<br />
<br />
"Mr. Claus will do," he said, studying the framed newspaper awards on the wall of the conference room-turned-Santa chamber.<br />
<br />
"Not seeing your name anywhere up there," he observed.<br />
<br />
It seemed I had caught Santa in kind of a cranky mood.<br />
<br />
I gestured toward the damp spot on his leg. "That happen a lot?"<br />
<br />
"Enough that I wear rubber scuba pants underneath the suit," Santa said. "It's murderously hot in here. Don't you people ever leave a window open?"<br />
<br />
I ignored that and got right down to my list of questions. Well, truthfully, I didn't have a list. I tend to wing it, often resulting in long pauses between questions during which I pretend to be writing something down.<br />
<br />
"First off, your agent said you're the real deal, not one of the helper Santas," I said. "Do you have any way of proving it?"<br />
<br />
Santa snorted in disdain. "Why should I? It's your article. You can look stupid by interviewing a helper Santa or claim I'm the real Santa and you got a scoop. It's bad enough having to constantly prove I exist without dealing with people who think I am an impostor."<br />
<br />
He seemed to have anger issues.<br />
<br />
I wondered if maybe Santa had been at this job a little too long. Too bad he can't retire, I thought, but his 401K probably got creamed like everybody else's in '08.<br />
<br />
To settle the issue of his identity, I leapt at him and pulled at his beard. Santa screamed in pain and batted me to the floor with a white-gloved fist. I pulled myself up warily, rubbing my sore head.<br />
<br />
Santa stood as if ready to stomp me with his shiny black boots.<br />
<br />
"Sorry," I said. "Had to be sure."<br />
<br />
"That didn't prove ANYTHING!" Santa thundered. "I could just be a regular guy with a white beard!" He took a step toward me and I backed away.<br />
<br />
"Calm down," I said. "Hey, I'm sorry I pulled your beard. Really."<br />
<br />
"Sorry doesn't cut it," Santa said, but his tone lost some of the rage, and he went back and collapsed into the chair again. "Man, this job gets to your back."<br />
<br />
This interview was going better than the one with Gov. Nixon had.<br />
<br />
"So," I said, "Why reindeer? What's up with that?"<br />
<br />
"Horses don't fly, you idiot," Santa said.<br />
<br />
"Good point," I said, pretending to write something down and trying to come up with a good question. "How long you been doing this Santa Claus gig?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Since about the 4th Century," Claus said.<br />
<br />
"Long time," I commented. "How old are you?"<br />
<br />
Santa looked exasperated. "I'll bring you a calculator next month," he said sarcastically.<br />
<br />
"You know, you're portrayed a lot nicer in Hallmark movies," I said, sick of his attitude.<br />
<br />
He grinned. "I spend a lot on PR," he said.<br />
<br />
I nodded. Made sense.<br />
<br />
"Hey, do you feel that bringing free gifts to children gives them a sense of entitlement that will hurt them in the long run by making it less likely they'll be willing to work to get the things they want in life?"<br />
<br />
"No," Santa said. "I think kids like toys. You can over-think these things."<br />
<br />
I pretended to write down something. "By the way," I said at length. "That Vertibird I got when I was 8 was totally cool. I played with that for weeks."<br />
<br />
"Actually, that was supposed to be your sister 's," Santa said.<br />
<br />
"You were getting the Easy-Bake Oven, but your dad switched them. That was the year you cussed at Vacation Bible School."<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah," I remembered. "Stupid popsicle sticks and cheap stupid glue. I don't know how anybody builds anything out of that crap."<br />
<br />
"Speaking of which, I flew over that house you and your wife are building in Falcon last year," Claus said. "I see you haven't changed much."<br />
<br />
I let that - which might have been an insult - pass. "Speaking of Joyce, she said to tell you hi," I said.<br />
<br />
A car horn honked. I looked outside the big windows of the newspaper office and saw a huge Chrysler Imperial, red of course, pulled up to the curb.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Claus was shouting something we couldn't hear and gesturing.<br />
<br />
"Gotta go," Claus said. "She's got to see her shows on the television or she's a bear to live with."<br />
<br />
"I hear ya," I said, standing and shaking his hand. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus," I said.<br />
<br />
"Likewise," he muttered, and left.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-37698854717508282742013-05-28T10:45:00.000-07:002013-05-28T10:45:50.676-07:00How come my insurance guy can't fly like Flo?<br />
I was watching football on TV last Sunday, and after somebody fumbled or threw an interception or whatever, the game stopped for a couple minutes so the network could play commercials.<br />
<br />
Shoot, I don't mind. The fellows need to catch their breath, so I might as well watch informative and often amusing messages about amazing products and services in the interim.<br />
<br />
One of my favorites is the Flying Insurance Lady, Flo. She always has some witty or novel way to hawk her company's car insurance.<br />
<br />
You wouldn't think car insurance would be so much fun, but sometimes this lady floats right up into the air next to that big sign that lets you compare your rates to those of several other companies.<br />
<br />
She's always in a big, gleaming white room with no definite boundaries, suggestive of heaven.<br />
<br />
I've covered enough government meetings as a reporter to know it's not always easy to make a dry subject interesting to the general public, but Flo nails it every time. I laugh and laugh.<br />
<br />
My car insurance guy, Ralph, is down the street from my office. He also is a pretty amusing guy, but I've never seen him float up in the air. I'm thinking about switching companies.<br />
<br />
To be fair, I only stop in at Ralph's once or twice a month to say hello, so I could be missing some floating.<br />
<br />
I wonder if car insurance guys cringe when they watch that commercial where the SUV crashes through a stone wall and emerges in slow motion, without a scratch, on the other side. I'm thinking that must work on the same principle used by the karate fellows who can break bricks with a single chop.<br />
<br />
When I was in college, a friend of mine was really into Tae Kwon Do. This was long before "Walker: Texas Ranger," so he was a relatively rare specimen. His nickname was "Ninja."<br />
<br />
We both attended a speech class in which one assignment was to give a speech that demonstrated how to do something. I chose as my topic "How to Give a Speech Without Any Preparation Whatsoever."<br />
<br />
Ninja chose "How to Break Boards With Your Bare Hands."<br />
<br />
Ninja hammered those boards for about 10 minutes, then, red-handed and red-faced, sat down. He still got a better grade than my D, and I don't remember which of us got more laughs.<br />
<br />
What bothers me about that crashing-through-awall commercial is that there's no disclaimer or warning message. It doesn't say "Professional driver, closed course" or "Don't try this at home."<br />
<br />
Now, I am surely not in favor of more government regulations to thwart the success of businesses, but there ought to be a law. I bet there are people on the other side of the Mississippi who are driving into stone walls all over the place because of that commercial.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, the Earth has a carrying capacity of about two billion humans once the fossil fuels run out, so we have to get rid of about five billion between now and then. I reckon the people who drive their cars into walls on purpose might as well go first. I hope they're showing that commercial in other countries too.<br />
<br />
I own a little SUV, and I reckon I could drive it into a brick wall real fast, but I don't know how to drive in slow motion on the other side, so I haven't tried it.<br />
<br />
Well, that's not strictly true. I have one spark plug wire that keeps popping off, and when it does that, I kind of drive in slow motion up the hill out of Twin Bridges, which can frustrate the folks behind me a little bit.<br />
<br />
When you hit middle age, you become one of the people who is driving a hair slower than the average anyway. Either that, or people are just in more of a hurry these days.<br />
<br />
This is an in-between age in which the older folks in front of you are going too slow and the younger folks behind you think you are.<br />
<br />
My wife and I make up little stories about the people driving in front of us on the way to town.<br />
<br />
"Looks like Esther and Nathaniel got hold of Trish's keys again," I'll say, and Joyce will come back with something like, "Yep. There ain't a nursing home that can hold 'em."<br />
<br />
We keep ourselves entertained and I avoid pounding the steering wheel in frustration.<br />
<br />
I do worry about Flo.<br />
<br />
She's always so chipper when she's floating around and comparing rates, but if you look close, there's sadness in those eyes.<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-71011421414749869232013-05-28T10:39:00.000-07:002013-05-28T10:39:42.795-07:00Seeking sense in underwear patterns<div>
My awesome wife, Joyce, buys my clothes. I haven't purchased as much as a sock for myself in more than a decade. This frees me up for things like worrying about the Cincinnati Bengals, which really requires a good bit of my time during the fall and winter.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you saw last Monday night's game, you'll understand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not too long ago, Joyce noticed that some of my undergarments were in sorry shape, so she bought a new bag of boxers. It had six pairs in it. One of the designs is camouflage.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, I am not picky about undergarments. I figure the occasion is pretty rare for them to be revealed to anyone else, or at least it would be if I could remember to wear my belt every day. So the pattern of the underwear isn't very important to me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I can't imagine a situation in which, dressed only in my underwear, I will ever need to blend into the surrounding underbrush. Yet I know the end of civilization is nigh, and it's hard to predict what situations might confront us in the post-apocalyptic world to come.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Still, camouflage-patterned underwear makes no sense to me.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I suppose a soldier who is picky about matching clothes - even if they don't show - might like my camouflage underwear. Well, I don't mean he or she would specifically like mine; I imagine he or she would rather have their own.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't still have my battle-dress uniforms from my Army days, or I could wear them on the one day a week I wear the camouflage underwear. I might forget my belt on purpose that day just so folks would know how pattern-coordinated I am.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To be truthful, on the day after my release from the Army in 1990, there was an incident involving a cleared area, uniforms, gasoline and a match, followed by hysterical glee and dancing, that eliminated my BDUs for good.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I saved a field jacket, which my dad wore when riding his motorcycle for a couple years. Luckily, we have the same last name.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You wonder what think tank came up with the idea of camouflage-patterned underwear. I reckon every combination of stripes, polka-dots and hearts already had been used. They couldn't just use Homer Simpson's face repeated to make a pattern, because everyone already has a pair like that, unless they're poor.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Maybe it was a specific incident that generated the idea. Some underwear designer probably was camping with his or her family, went to use the bathroom in the great outdoors, and was spotted by something or someone because they did not blend in well enough, leading to red-faced embarrassment or an attack by a bear.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Some day I may encounter a situation in which these underwear save my life. And, luckily, one of the other patterns is also a camouflage design, but in blues, grays and whites instead of greens, browns and blacks. So I'll be covered (pun intended) during the wintertime too.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
***</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Did you ever notice that when you're going through kind of a rough patch, and the nice people around you are sympathetically asking if there is anything they can do, and you say you'd like a sandwich, they almost never go get you one? In fact, they get a little huffy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-58149846284562302152013-05-28T10:15:00.002-07:002014-10-30T19:08:31.210-07:00Kind of like Christmas' evil twin<br />
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The judge was a tough one, tough but fair, according to the courthouse scuttlebutt. I reckoned I needed to establish right off that I knew what was what. I had been brushing up on my Latin.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Your Honor, <i>ipso facto,</i> if it please the court, I'm the defendant," I answered when my name was called.</div>
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<br /></div>
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His honor stared at me and I sat down. </div>
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***</div>
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<br /></div>
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I get sued a lot.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It must be my winning personality coupled with my inability to pay all the bills I have. A certain hospital system in Springfield is suing me, annually. Getting sued once a year is like Christmas's evil twin.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I write a lot of articles about court cases, and I've read every John Grisham book at least twice, except for that one about the painted house. All my experience lumped together probably amounts to at least the equivalent of a night school law degree, so I'm representing myself this time around. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I figure I'll somehow wind up in Witness Protection with millions in a Cayman Island bank account by the time it's all said and done. That's how most of the Grisham books end, unless somebody gets shot.</div>
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<br /></div>
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***</div>
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<br /></div>
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The other fella, the lawyer representing the hospital, started bad-mouthing me right away, whining to His Honor about how I had run up all these medical bills and never paid them.</div>
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<br /></div>
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"I object!" I hollered. "Your Honor, I would like everything that guy just said to be stricken from the record! This ain't nothing but a <i>scandulum magnatum</i>."</div>
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<br /></div>
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The judge seemed a little surprised. I reckoned he never figured he would have a near-expert amateur litigator to contend with. I hadn't spent the 90s watching Matlock five times a week for nothing.</div>
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"You know this isn't a trial, right?" he asked me. </div>
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Well, that was true. It was a shame, too, because I had a great opening statement I had practiced all night. I couldn't wait to tell everybody they can't handle the truth. I sat down again.</div>
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"Now," His Honor said, shuffling some papers up there on the bench. "Mr. York, are you disputing that you owe this amount to the plaintiff?"</div>
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I stood up again. "Your Honor, before I answer that, at this time I would like to request a brief recess to confer with my client," I said.</div>
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The judge eyed me. "But you're representing yourself," he said.</div>
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"Well, that's so, but I think I should have the same right to a recess everybody else gets," I said reasonably. "You'll remember in Cagney versus Lacey, 1992, it was determined that — "</div>
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"Cagney versus Lacey? Now you're just making stuff up," the judge snapped.</div>
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Caught. I had figured citing nonexistent precedents would go unnoticed in just a hearing. "Well, maybe it was called something else," I mumbled. "Blame my <i>loco parentis</i>." I sat down.</div>
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"Loco something," the judge muttered. It gave me an idea.</div>
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"Your Honor," I said, standing up again. "I'm not sure my client is competent to stand trial. I'd like to request a full battery of psychiatric tests before we proceed."</div>
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"But you're representing yourself!" the judge said again, sounding a little impatient now.</div>
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"Correct, Your Honor," I said. "And if I am found to be mentally incompetent, my client will have grounds for appeal because of ineffective assistance of counsel."</div>
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"I'm pretty much ready to rule on that one right now," His Honor said. "Just answer yes or no, OK? Do you owe these guys this money? The truth, now."</div>
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He was asking for it. "You can't handle —"</div>
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"STOP!" His Honor thundered, glaring. "If I have to hear that one more time —"</div>
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"Your Honor, I feel I should take the Fifth at this point," I said. "And I'd like to get it on the record that I have not been properly Mirandized," I added.</div>
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"You can't take the Fifth. This isn't a criminal proceeding," the judge said.</div>
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"I disagree, Your Honor," I said. "If I had just walked into the hospital and taken as much money as I owe those guys, you'd have my <i>habeas corpus </i>in jail."</div>
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"Aha! So you <i>do</i> owe the money. Pay it," the judge ordered.</div>
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I was undone by all the legal trickery. I left the courtroom, my mind already racing with my strategy for the appeal.</div>
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***</div>
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All right, all right, this didn't really happen. Calm down.</div>
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<i>Ken York is the assistant/Sunday editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. </i></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-33689166988226210502012-03-03T19:41:00.000-08:002014-10-30T19:23:27.089-07:00Guns, tomatoes and government goons<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Let me apologize in advance to the people who read this column every Sunday hoping for a little levity about Bigfoots, aliens and such. I’m afraid my subject this week is no laughing matter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once this newspaper is published on Sunday, Feb. 26, 2012, I may not be heard from again. I’m hoping that, in appreciation for my alerting you to the horrible danger you are in, someone will remember to ask the musicians to play “Rhymes and Reasons” by John Denver at my tasteful outdoor memorial service, should the government allow one to be held. I would also like bagpipes — no more than seven — to play something rousing and patriotic after the 21-gun salute, if it’s not too much trouble.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know you are asking why the government would provide soldiers for a 21-gun salute if it’s not inclined to allow the memorial service in the first place. Well, it probably won’t. I imagine a few of my friends and family will volunteer to serve as the honor guard. Just bring whatever guns you happen to have laying around, and please drill somewhat beforehand so as not to disrupt the sombre occasion with clumsiness and inadvertent firing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Probably it would be a good idea not to invite the relatives with whom my branch of the family is currently feudin’ if there are going to be a lot of guns there, but that’s your call.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have no particular fancy for flowers, but I understand if you all wish to show your deep and abiding grief by laying garlands of roses — blue, please — across the base of the white and gray marble monolith which I expect will tower — quite against my wishes, as I am a humble sort — over the assembled grieving mobs. Under the etched words, “Our greatest hero, Ken York, was taken too soon by the goons of Homeland Security who could not allow the truth,” I hope you will find comfort and solace for your loss.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My friend and colleague, Fines Massey, may be delivering a few short remarks, possibly referring at times to the binder which I have provided him. Please do not be put off by his attire should he choose to wear that of a priest; his ordination is legitimate, according to the website from which I procured it for $17.95.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I doubt there will be any remains to dispose of, but if there are, my wife, Joyce, knows my wishes. I would like to be composted, of course. A return to the earth from which man was crafted is my intent.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It’s not a difficult process; just dump the remains on the ground and throw some leaves, sawdust and whatever kitchen scraps you might have on the pile. You’ll have to turn it with a pitchfork once every couple days and liberally apply compost activator. As you know, urine is the best compost activator, plus it adds nitrogen to the mix, which is always good. I can’t imagine there will be any shortage of donors.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I suppose if I could choose, I would ask that the finished compost be used to grow heirloom tomatoes. Brandywines are still my favorite, but I find Arkansas Traveler is also a good tomato. I doubt I’ll be able to dissuade you all from gathering on the anniversary of my demise each year and solemnly consuming a tomato sandwich with lots of mayonnaise on very fresh white bread. It’s pretty good if you slap a fried egg on there, too, and a couple slices of crisp bacon can make you forget you are grieving.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I must be realistic and recognize that my passing may move many in the community to push for a name change for our little Ozarks city at some point. I beg you not to do so, but if you do, please consider that “York City” would be a logical choice, even if at some far flung future date its origin should be so obscured by time’s passage as to cause many to believe it to be the original for which New York City was named. There’s certainly nothing you or I can do to prevent that here in the 21st Century.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I digress. Now, as the bottom of this column edges ever closer, I come to the dire news which I must impart:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Homeland Security is replacing us, one by one, with robots that will do the bidding of its secret masters. Arm yourselves with squirtguns, for they haven’t yet waterproofed their malefic creations, so they short out easily. Squirt everyone you know, and then run! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jumper cables attached to the ears may also destroy the robots, but be careful not to do this to someone who might be human, as they get angry and slap you repeatedly. I also should mention that Joyce wasn’t a robot as of Friday.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.</i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-780200226910477692012-02-25T11:42:00.003-08:002014-10-30T19:16:25.001-07:00Monkeys don't try to spare your feelingsI hope when the aliens come they can’t read our minds.<br />
<br />
You nice people probably wouldn’t have a problem. Your first reaction to any situation is invariably positive, wholesome and, if need be, sympathetic. I can’t help but compare your positivity and goodness with my own sarcasm and downright uncharitable nature.<br />
<br />
If someone tells a nice person that Aunt Jill has passed away, he coos something like, “Poor thing! She’s with the Lord now.”<br />
<br />
When I’m told the same thing, my first thought is “How can you tell?” or “Not surprised, since she’s been saying she’s dying for 50 years.”<br />
<br />
I don’t say those things aloud — anymore. Instead I mumble something like, “Poor thing. She’s with the Lord now.”<br />
<br />
Telepathic aliens would nail me to the wall for the things I don’t say. (Unless they had taken the time to get to know Aunt Jill, that is.)<br />
<br />
I have a young friend, Paula, who is so nice that probably her first, unexpressed thought is actually nicer than what she comes out and says. I think she censors herself the other way, probably because people in the past have suspected sarcasm where there was none. She always find the good in people, looks on the bright side, turns the other cheek and blah blah blah. I’ve tried to get her depressed and cynical about the world, but it never takes.<br />
<br />
Mind-reading aliens could be a little dangerous. The last thing I need is a little green guy named Skirzuk following me into Walmart and telling everybody what I really think of them.<br />
<br />
He’d point at a woman and say, “You’re wearing pajama pants? In a store? What happened, did you accidentally sleep in your dress clothes?” He’d point at a guy and say, “That dude’s balder than I am, and that rug ain’t fooling anybody. Get a hat, you loser.”<br />
<br />
That would get me beat up a lot. What’s worse, when the people came to beat me up, Skirzuk would tell them that despite my impressive defensive posture, I don’t really know kung fu.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the world might be a better place with Skirzuk and his intergalactic cronies running around. They say honesty is the best policy. We might get to a point where we no longer need Skirzuk’s clan. Folks would just say what was on their minds naturally without considering the consequences, like I assume monkeys must do. I have never had a monkey try to spare my feelings.<br />
<br />
I’m guessing a lot of our leaders wouldn’t get re-elected, but the tar and feathers industries might experience a boom, and that means jobs, jobs, jobs!<br />
<br />
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***</div>
<br />
Joyce and I have a new grandson on the way, and we’re coming up with potential names. The last name starts with a “Z,” so we’re all coming up with “Z” first names (I’m not sure why). My submission, “Zebulon,” has been rejected, but that’s no big deal, since the primary role of the step-grandfather is to dub the poor child with a nickname that sticks despite the wishes of the unfortunate parents.<br />
<br />
I pointed out to Joyce that the little guy is going to have the initials, “Z.Z.,” which could prove very funny should he ever suffer from narcolepsy.<br />
<br />
You have to be careful with the initials when you’re working with a “Z.” You can’t name him “Edward” or “Ethan,” because if he grows up to be a little gullible everyone will call him “EZ.” Likewise, you can’t name him “Ken” or “Keith,” because if he marches to the beat of a different drummer, people will laugh and say he’s “KZ.”<br />
<br />
“Ulysses” is out, unless you want Homeland Security watching “Uzi” all his life.<br />
<br />
I think anything starting with an “F” or “S” is safe, but I have to think about it some more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-77505490227405470302012-02-07T21:48:00.000-08:002014-10-30T19:26:02.567-07:00Why is the gov't secretly making beer for Bigfoots?I like reading on the Outdoors page of our local newspaper every Thursday about the critter of the week, usually one that's rare or endangered. But while the article always gives a lot of info about habitat, lifespan and whatnot, it almost never has a recipe.<br />
<br />
I'm not saying I would ever intentionally hunt down a protected species, knock it on the head and throw it in the deep fryer. I'm just saying if I should happen to stumble across a recently deceased Bigfoot, I'd like to know the best way to handle the opportunity.<br />
<br />
Nobody on the Internet has a decent Bigfoot recipe. I think that's why our little corner of the Ozarks is overrun.<br />
<br />
I can't claim I've seen any around our place myself, but they're there. When your min-pins start barking every 10 minutes for what seems like no reason, you've either got a Bigfoot problem or your little dogs are stupid.<br />
<br />
I admit to wondering whether it wasn't the dogs being a little daffy, but there's other evidence. Seems like whenever Joyce and I both have to work, when we get home, some critter has dragged trash all over the place.<br />
<br />
Bigfoots are partial to potato chip bags, peanut butter jars and styrofoam cups, and sometimes they play mean tricks. We've found Gizmo, the matriarch of our canine clan, with a peanut butter jar stuck on her head more than once.<br />
<br />
The reason I know it must be Bigfoots is that the mess is both inside the house - usually on my side of the bed - and outside. No animal without opposable thumbs would be able to open the door.<br />
<br />
I think Bigfoots also terrorize the chickens when we're not home. Thelma, Louise, Lucy and Ethel all show symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. No matter what you do around them, they're convinced you're trying to kill them.<br />
<br />
Try to fill their water dish outside, and they go flapping and squawking away in a panic. Scatter some feed in their pen and they almost have heart attacks. "Aaaahh! He's trying to kill us! Again!"<br />
<br />
I can't imagine that they're idiot chickens. They've all done well on standardized tests, at least the multiple choice parts. Ethel's the only one who's any good at essay questions. We home-school.<br />
<br />
Something has those chickens scared, and it's Bigfoots, mark my words.<br />
<br />
There's a recipe on the Internet for Bigfoot burgers, but it calls for ground beef. What kind of idiot makes Bigfoot burgers out of dead cow meat? I wrote an angry letter to the website, but I haven't heard back.<br />
<br />
Lots of recipes are out there for Bigfoot beer. The only thing that I can think is that those recipes must come from some secret government program.<br />
<br />
It only makes sense. A normal person like you and me would take pictures if we captured a Bigfoot long enough for it to taste-test beer. Probably, once the Bigfoot was a little tipsy, we'd put it in a dress and try to teach it to ride a bicycle or something. Or let it loose in the courthouse. Oh man, I would pay to see that.<br />
<br />
Come on, you know you would too.<br />
<br />
Whatever we did with it would no doubt make the papers, if not CNN. Since that hasn't happened, the Bigfoot beer brewers have to be the only ones in the world humorless enough to get a Bigfoot drunk and not eventually break some kind of law.<br />
<br />
That just screams "secret government program" to me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-35909429357992689072012-01-30T22:05:00.000-08:002012-01-30T22:07:52.127-08:00Heroic columnist sacrifices morning donuts to spread wisdomSometimes I'm just walking down the street on the way from the office to the courthouse to see if any of the county office holders have donuts this morning and I'm stopped by a total stranger who recognizes me as the guy who writes that seldom-understandable but totally hilarious column in the local newspaper.<br />
<br />
"Hey," the person says. "You're that guy in the hat."<br />
<br />
I don't always realize right away that the person is talking about the mug shot in the newspaper which shows me in a hat.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say. "I'm the guy in the pants and shirt, too. But then, so are you. Have a great day."<br />
<br />
Sometimes the person looks down at himself, nods in new understanding, and allows me to continue on. On those occasions, it's likely the person really is just acknowledging that I am wearing a hat when the person sees me on the street. It's helpful on those days during which I have forgotten how I am dressed.<br />
<br />
Other times, however, I am detained further. "No, I mean in the newspaper. You're that guy with the hat in the newspaper."<br />
<br />
When the person says that, it's difficult to confuse the source of the recognition. Of all the guys whose faces appear in the newspaper, I am the only one in a hat.<br />
<br />
Bill O'Reilly, Kirk Pearce, David Sirota, Bob Clark, Fines Massey, Francis Skalicky -- All those guys shamelessly flaunt their full heads of hair in their mug shots in their respective columns. To them, I just want to say, get over yourselves.<br />
<br />
So you've got hair. I lived only 26 miles from Cincinnati when the Big Red Machine won the Series back-to-back in '75 and '76. Who would you rather be?<br />
<br />
Book reviewer Roberta Page looks pretty good in that sombrero she usually wears when she comes into the office, but she doesn't wear it in her mug shot. So I'm the only hatted head in the newspaper.<br />
<br />
When people on the street say I'm the guy in the newspaper with a hat, I know they must have seen my column. I immediately check their hands for weapons.<br />
<br />
"Oh," I say nervously. "Well, thanks for reading, or at least for looking at the pictures. And I'm not going to pick on Indi-- I mean, Native Americans any more. I'm unarmed, by the way, and the sheriff's only two blocks that way."<br />
<br />
"No, no, no, it's good," the person says sometimes without pulling a knife. "You're really funny. How do you come up with that stuff?"<br />
<br />
<em>(Editor's note: We suspect everything up to this point in this column has been a lie, kind of a long-winded introduction to whatever is coming. We apologize, but this columnist works Saturdays, so it's more trouble than it's worth to fire him.)</em><br />
<br />
"How do I come up with this stuff? I'm glad you asked," I say. Motioning, I entice my companion to join me, sitting on the curb with our feet in the gutter, and I explain how humor works.<br />
<br />
Jokes are written backwards, I explain. You start with a punch line and build a path to it. The easiest is the venerable knock-knock joke. About anything that ends with an "oo" sound can be made into a knock-knock joke easily.<br />
<br />
Take, for example, "shoe." With the "oo" sound, all you have to do is come up with something that ends in the "shuh" sound for the name of the person knocking.<br />
<br />
It doesn't have to be funny. The funny part is that you trick the person into saying something like, "Have you see my shoe?"<br />
<br />
But don't do it like this: "Knock-knock."<br />
<br />
"Who's there?"<br />
<br />
"Have you seen my shuh."<br />
<br />
This doesn't work because the door-answerer can guess it and doesn't get tricked. But if you substitute "Ahviyah Seenmush" as the knocker's name, the result can be glorious!<br />
<br />
"Knock-knock."<br />
<br />
"Who's there?"<br />
<br />
"Ahviyah Seenmush."<br />
<br />
"Ahviyah Seenmush who?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, it's right there on your foot, you stupid moron!"<br />
<br />
(c. 1974 Ken York. All rights reserved.)<br />
<br />
That one has cracked up generations of third graders throughout the U.S., and several fifth and sixth graders in Arkansas and South Dakota.<br />
<br />
<em>(Editor's note: The opinions expressed by columnists absolutely do not reflect the opinions of the newspaper. We love and respect our four Arkansas subscribers. We don't know anyone from South Dakota, but we're sure they're fine people who eventually might become readers if we REFRAIN FROM INSULTING THEM.)</em><br />
<br />
Another standard form is the "What do you call a ..." joke. My best joke of all time is, "What do you call a dandelion climbing up a rope?" The answer is, " A self-rising flower."<br />
<br />
Get it? Flower? Like, self-rising flour? Get it?<br />
<br />
I came up with that one when I was a teenager, watching Mom bread some unidentifiable pork pieces for frying. The flour is kind of bland-tasting until it's been fried in lard, by the way, and no one knows why. It's weird because lard by itself is also bland-tasting, but when you combine the two and add meat -- magic!<br />
<br />
Any word you can change to sound like something else is the nucleus of a joke. "Lunch meat" becomes "launch meat," which is the punch line to every astronaut's sandwich joke I have ever told, and there have been many.<br />
<br />
As I explain the science of humor to these people, often I see the light of comprehension dawning in their eyes. Some of those folks have gone on to have brilliant careers, using the tools I gave them.<br />
<br />
In their younger days, Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock, Ellen Degeneris, Larry the Cable Guy, Bob Hope, Jeff Dunham and countless others all have sat beside me on that curb to glean what they could and take it out into the world. <br />
<br />
I guess I'm kind of like a humor guru, like an aescetic old man in a cave on a mountain who sits, Native-American-style before a blazing fire, waiting for young grasshoppers to make that climb to attain wisdom. Figuratively speaking, I mean, since we're really just sitting on the side of Commercial Street with wet feet if it's been raining.<br />
<br />
<em>(Editor's note: We can't prove it, but we're pretty sure Bob Hope never came to Lebanon, God rest him. The rest of it could be true, though.)</em><br />
<br />
Humbly, I don't try to blackmail those guys into giving me a bunch of their money because I taught them everything they know, at least not since Larry stomped on my kidneys and Ellen threatened to marry my sister.<br />
<br />
My reward is just feeling good for being able to make the world a little funnier place.<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>(Editor's note: Funnier? We didn't realize this was supposed to be a humor column. Cancel the assignments for the articles on the aliens and Bigfoots. This guy's full of crap.)</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-12246325649268656372011-12-17T20:07:00.000-08:002014-10-30T20:14:26.141-07:00I truly do think I hate Martha StewartJust for the record - and this tip is for all you married fellows out there - it's almost never good policy to say a woman's name (besides your wife's) in your sleep. It inevitably leads to a conversation you probably don't want to have.<br />
<br /><br />
This happened to me. Friday night, I was cozily asleep beneath two thick blankets, probably with a dog in front of my stomach and another behind my knees. Apparently, however, it wasn't visions of sugar plums that were dancing in my head.<br />
<br /><br />
Saturday morning, Joyce told me what I had said, quite lucidly, between my episodes of log-sawing.<br />
Now, it's probably good policy, if you're going to say another woman's name in your sleep, to pick one that you dislike, one that no one in the world could ever accuse you of having secret feelings for.<br />
<br /><br />
At least I got that part right.<br />
<br /><br />
According to Joyce, in my sleep, I said, "Martha Stewart's dead! What are we going to do?"<br />
<br /><br />
I seemed quite aggrieved, not sarcastic at all, Joyce said. I remember nothing of it.<br />
<br /><br />
When she told me this as we were driving to work Saturday, I could only burst out laughing. Martha Stewart? It might as well have been Leona Helmsley.<br />
<br /><br />
That didn't keep me from breaking into a light sweat, however. No matter how innocent you are, when you are confronted with evidence implicating you, particularly when that evidence comes from your own subconscious mind, it's natural to get nervous, I think.<br />
<br /><br />
I really, really do hate Martha Stewart. Really. So why was I dreaming about her? Joyce must be wondering that, too.<br />
<br /><br />
"I hate Martha Stewart," I told Joyce, maybe a little too loudly, just to make sure she heard me.<br />
<br /><br />
It was a conversation we had had before. Neither of us can tolerate anyone who worries about matching curtains and napkins.<br />
<br /><br />
Joyce also laughed about it, so it looks like I'm OK. We agreed there was no telling what is going on inside a human head. I made sure I brought up the sleep-talking a couple more times on the way to work, just so Joyce wouldn't think I was avoiding the subject.<br />
<br /><br />
The name I uttered really couldn't have been better than that of Martha Stewart, from my perspective. Not only is she snooty about linens, but she's a crooked cheater on her stocks. Martha Stewart singlehandedly brought down K-Mart, if you ask me.<br />
<br /><br />
If Martha Stewart and I were shipwrecked on a desert island for 30 years, my marriage vows would be entirely safe. Martha wouldn't be, though, since I probably would bash her brains in with a rock and eat her on day two, maybe before even trying to catch any fish.<br />
<br /><br />
I need to say a little prayer of thanks that I didn't sleep-talk about Oprah or Judge Judy. Both of them are pretty cool (and I'm saying this with strictly platonic admiration), so I think I would be in a lot of trouble.<br />
<br /><br />
I figure if I write an entire column about how much I hate Martha Stewart, I pretty much should be in the clear with my understanding, forgiving wife. I might mention this again next week, just to nail it down and get all this behind us once and for all.<br />
<br /><br />
In the meantime, I'm going to have to keep it colder in the house so I can justify covering my head with the blankets so Joyce doesn't see the duct tape over my mouth.<br />
<br /><br />
I probably won't be able to sleep anyway, though. I'm not going to be able to stop asking myself, what if - deep, deep down - I really do like Martha Stewart?<br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-10421674869721597732011-12-17T18:22:00.000-08:002014-10-30T19:13:40.442-07:00Teach the 1-percenters to reproduce<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman', 'new york', times, serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">All the Occupy folks have got it wrong.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I've decided that America's troubles derive from a lack of fertility at the top. Seriously, all us 99-percenters have no trouble reproducing, sometimes, probably, a little too much. Statisticians say we'll be 99.3-percenters before the end of 2014.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Back during the '60s, we might have been 75 or 78 percenters, but since then, our group has apparently grown wildly while the super-rich people, sadly, have been unable to maintain their numbers.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We ridicule the 1-percenters as elite, crazy-moneyed tyrants when actually they are just kind of bad at getting the opposite sex to give them the time of day, if you know what I mean. You would think the billions of dollars they have would help, but no.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Maybe they should ask their maids and butlers about how all that stuff is supposed to work. I think ivy-league prep schools ought to offer some kind of education on the matter, but I reckon them boys are too busy teaching Latin and Machiavelli and all that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That's why I have set up a non-profit foundation to provide instructional videos to the elite wealthy guys and gals who need them the most. We couldn't afford to hire moonlighting health class teachers or commission animated birds and bees for the videos, so we just compiled stuff we found on the Internet that more or less pertains to the subject.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So far, the foundation has managed to anonymously mail more than three educational VCR tapes to the richest people in America.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm hoping that the video effort will stimulate an increase in the number of babies born with silver spoons in their mouths during the next few years. When those kids grow up, there will be a huge increase in demand for maids, butlers, gardeners, waiters with exotic accents and sychophants, and that means jobs, jobs, jobs!</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We'll be 98-percenters within three generations, if my math is right.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It really makes me paranoid that not one of my bosses has ever uttered a word about whether I am allowed to attempt to write a column for the newspaper. It's an eerie, 16-month silence, now.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As many angry phone calls and irate letters and as much general derision on the local Internet forum as I have generated, I would have expected someone to say something, either in support or admonition.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Instead, I go to work every day and everyone pretends everything is fine. Just fine.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">***</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Not to brag, but Joyce and I now have an outhouse with electricity. Over the summer, we built a cute little shed with an actual wood floor and put a light in there.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I know, I know -- It's only going to make my property taxes skyrocket, but I managed to hide the structure partially behind some pieces of a satellite dish I salvaged from a dumpster last year, so I don't think the county assessor has been able to see it from the road so far.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thanks to my pals, the Mayans, it's not going to matter if he sees it next year. We're all going to swallowed by moon-sized intergalactic fish before the next tax bill comes due.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-28909084307448180872011-12-17T18:16:00.000-08:002014-10-30T19:28:35.064-07:00Fun things to do with caution tape<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px;"></span><br />
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There's a roll of caution tape in the back of my car, calling to me.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Joyce found it at a yard sale a few weeks ago. She didn't buy it for any particular reason except that she knew I would want it. I think it cost a dollar.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was thinking about using it last week on the bottom step of the house, which finally had broken all the way. Instead of fixing the step, it would be funny just to string up the tape.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The only one besides us who would have seen it would have been Dad, who visits us most Sundays. Truthfully, the busted step was kind of his fault, in a way. I would have fixed it two months ago, but every week he has provided a progress report on its demise.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">September: "That bottom step's getting a little loose."</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">October: "I almost fell coming up them steps. That bottom one's awful loose."</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">November: "I see he ain't got around to getting that step fixed. Somebody's going to break a leg."</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">December: "That bottom step's gone. Did you see that step's gone? Is he gonna fix it?"</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dad tends to ask Joyce about my intentions while I'm sitting right there at the table across from him. Sometimes I feel like answering, "I don't know what he's planning to do about it."</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I don't know about you and your dad, but when mine says "north" I head south. It's been that way since I was 10 or so. That doesn't mean I haven't had cause to admit he was right at least half the time.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The caution tape on the step would have given him apoplexy.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But the little dogs prevailed upon my better nature Saturday morning. Gizzy and Gadget couldn't make the initial leap to get onto the second step, so we were having to go outside and get them every time we let them in.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(The little dogs believe an hour has been wasted if they haven't been out and back in at least three times.)</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So now that the step is fixed (and I can't wait until Dad sees it Sunday), I don't know what to do with the caution tape, but I have ideas.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My first thought was to caution-tape the cubicle of my colleague, Fines. I could have done it Saturday afternoon so his week could start off on the right foot Monday morning. I'm off Mondays, so I would have missed his reaction, though.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I guess it would be fun to just string caution tape across any door in town and wait to see how the people who want to go in and out react to it. Would a family not cross its own threshold if caution tape were blocking the way? How long would they wait?</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It's probably illegal to use caution tape for a practical joke. If we were allowed to do that, then people would no longer respect caution tape, and they'd be falling down open manholes and into wet concrete all over the place.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">***</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I zoomed in as far as possible on the new legislative district map on the state's website and discovered my house is cut in half. Indeed, the line runs right down the middle of the bed. Joyce, Eureka Stripe and Gizmo are in the 129th District, and Ben, Gadget, Sally and I are in the 123rd.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You can't tell me it's a coincidence that the only two bleeding heart liberals in Falcon are now in different districts. This is proof of the kind of gerrymandering that the judicial panel was supposed to protect us against. It's obvious to me that Joyce and I must have intimidated the powers that be as a cohesive voting bloc.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The good news is that if somebody we don't like gets elected in 2012 in one of the districts, we can just move the bed.</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">***</span></div>
<div style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: 15px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: initial; outline-width: 0px; padding-bottom: 18px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I guess I'll just use that caution tape as a garland for the Christmas tree when we get around to putting it up.</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-52950991185436558772011-12-10T20:02:00.000-08:002014-10-30T20:14:26.144-07:00I’m counting on the MayansLet's just assume the Mayans are right, and the Earth is going to explode or get hit by a comet or get drawn into a black hole on Dec. 21, 2012.<br />
<br /><br />
As a person who puts off Christmas shopping until absolutely the last possible instant, I'm going out with money in my pocket while all you nauseatingly conscientious people who believe in prior planning and scheduling are going to be really fumed.<br />
<br /><br />
I'm getting in my "I told you so" in advance, here.<br />
<br /><br />
I can think of few things worse than going through all the blood, sweat and tears of preparing for Christmas and then having the Earth's atmosphere sucked away by bug-shaped aliens or whatever four days beforehand.<br />
<br /><br />
There is an upside to knowing when Doomsday is scheduled to occur. You think I'm not going to be taking out loans and living large during the next year? I'll have a fishing boat, indoor plumbing and maybe even a car with air conditioning during the summer. I'll eat everything fried, since there's no sense worrying about your cholesterol when there's a giant bullseye on your planet.<br />
<br /><br />
For our Mayan readers, I know I have been critical of your people in this column in the past. Now, however, I am fully behind you and your prediction of global devastation.<br />
<br /><br />
Of course, all the "experts" are saying the Mayans never really predicted Doomsday. They just ran out of days on the 5,126-year calendar. It's just going to be the beginning of the next cycle.<br />
<br /><br />
Yeah, right. What else would the "experts" say? They're all secretly backed by the government, which doesn't want everyone to panic.<br />
<br /><br />
I never understood that characteristic of the government in the movies. Why would the government care if people panicked or not? It's not like keeping a cool head is going to protect anybody from the end of the world.<br />
<br /><br />
I guess staying calm is a little more dignified than running around in circles, waving your arms and screaming, however. And much less tiring.<br />
<br /><br />
Just once in an end-of-the-world movie, I want to see the president get on TV and say, "Well, if any of y'all haven't panicked yet, it's probably about that time."<br />
<br /><br />
When the time comes for worldwide panic, it's going to be handy for people to have experience with bloodthirsty, violent, screaming mobs of crazy people, so obviously you Black Friday shoppers and Cleveland Browns fans are going to have an advantage over the rest of us.<br />
<br /><br />
Probably humanity should concentrate on leaving something behind for alien archaeologists to discover a few billion years from now. DVDs of the complete series of Gilligan's Island, all the J.R.R. Tolkien books and the frozen, sleeping body of Albert Pujols should be launched in a space capsule for storage on the moon. Preferably before the start of the baseball season.<br />
<em><br /></em><br />
<em>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his <a data-mce-href="http://ken-york.blogspot.com/" href="http://ken-york.blogspot.com/">blog</a> at <a data-mce-href="http://ken-york.blogspot.com/" href="http://ken-york.blogspot.com/">http://ken-york.blogspot.com/</a>.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-65221740141600481782011-12-03T23:25:00.000-08:002011-12-17T18:11:48.966-08:00Six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppenceI was thinking this week about all the traditions begun by The First Thanksgiving.<br />
<br />
I reckon what happened was the Native Americans came out of the woods and brought maize and deer and pumpkin pies, and they had a big feast with the Puritan Pilgrims.<br />
<br />
You kind of wonder what those long-ago Native Americans were thinking.<br />
<br />
"Hey Chief, the braves are kind of hankering for a party."<br />
<br />
"Well, why not? Where should we have it?"<br />
<br />
"We were thinking we'd all head over to that settlement of the white demons. You know, take some food and kind of welcome them to the neighborhood."<br />
<br />
"Sounds good!"<br />
<br />
That leaves me scratching my head, frankly. Surely there were more fun creatures to party with, even in pre-colonial America, than Puritans. At least you can teach otters and wolves to do funny tricks.<br />
<br />
Relations were pretty good between the newcomers and the natives that day. There was one tense moment just before dinner when a pan of corn was set too close to the fire and started to pop. The braves grabbed for their tomahawks and bows, looking around wildly, figuring it was a musket attack. When they figured it out, everybody had a good laugh except the Puritans, who considered mirth to be a sin.<br />
<br />
<em>(And that, children, is how the first popcorn was invented, as far as you know.)</em><br />
<br />
Everybody ate their fill Thursday night and then collapsed, tight as ticks, into their blankets around the fires. Once in a while, the braves would sneak off into the woods for a hit off the peace pipe, upon which the Puritans frowned. The Puritans frowned at a lot of things, such as noisy belches, and it had been a pretty big dinner, so there was some frowning going on, but things stayed peaceful.<br />
<br />
What the history books seldom mention, however, is that the onset of trouble between the two races all can be traced back to that first Black Friday.<br />
<br />
It was around five o'clock in the morning when the commotion started. During the night, the Pilgrims had stealthily snuck out to their ship, the Mayflower, and brought back carts and carts full of stuff. Now, two hours before dawn, cute little Puritan kids in bonnets and short pants paraded through the camp site, waking up the Native Americans by beating spoons on pot lids and hollering.<br />
<br />
"What in the name of the Great Spirit ..?" the chief muttered, coming awake in his blankets. He sat up, realizing he still had a half-eaten roast turkey leg in his hand. He took a reflexive bite and looked around, chewing in amazement.<br />
<br />
<em>(Editor's note: Portions of this column may not be historically accurate.)</em><br />
<br />
Those enterprising Pilgrims had been busy. They'd cut up the sails from the Mayflower to make banners and streamers. Little groups of carts were scattered all over the place, each under a sign that advertised goods. "Miles Standish's Colored Bead Emporium" was right next to "Gov. Wm. Bradford's Real Indian Arrowheads." There were deep discounts on everything, especially the latest designer loincloths.<br />
<br />
Prices had really been slashed. I would tell you how low they were, but you wouldn't believe me.<br />
<br />
The Pilgrims had even whittled some big shopping carts out of hickory limbs, using sawn trees for wheels. Those primitive carts didn't have a little seat on them where you could put a kid, but it didn't matter, because in those days the Native Americans carried their younguns around in little sacks on their backs or just let them run around barefoot.<br />
<br />
Well, despite the early hour, the Native Americans just couldn't pass up those deals. And the Pilgrims kept reminding them there were only 32 shopping days until Christmas.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before all the Native Americans had shopping carts and were dashing among the vendors, trying to be first in line to get the greatest bargains. A few folks got trampled and there were some broken bones, so it was lucky there was a cart offering splints at "60 PERCENT OFF RETAIL!"<br />
<br />
The crazy-mad shopping frenzy lasted for hours until finally the Native Americans were ready to check out. They got in long lines and stood there, wondering what came next.<br />
<br />
Prudence, the lady who was checking people out, looked at her first customer. "That'll be six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence," she said. "Would you like to donate a farthing to the Humane Society today?"<br />
<br />
The problem was the Native Americans didn't have any money. The Pilgrims hemmed and hawed, and finally Gov. Bradford told them that it was really against policy, but he reckoned they could put their stuff in layaway and pay a little at a time. Or they were welcome to fill out credit applications.<br />
<br />
The chief, however, was a proud fellow, and somewhat wiley. For all the purchases, he offered the Pilgrims the area now known as Massachusetts, which is a name derived from the Native American phrase, "Can you believe these idiots think you can actually <em>own </em>land?"<br />
<br />
As they pushed their laden, rickety shopping carts through the forest on the way back to their village, the Native Americans were laughing their heads off, although some were a little miffed that the Pilgrims hadn't offered to send any leftovers home with them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-19904938102784822112011-12-03T22:59:00.000-08:002011-12-03T23:02:18.082-08:00What do the aliens think of electric sinks?Things that seem unnecessary include busy signals with a voice-over telling you the number you dialed is busy.<br />
<br />
<div class=" hnews hentry item" id="blox-story-frame"><div class="entry-content" id="blox-story-text">Historically, a busy signal has meant just that. Call me brash, but when I hear a busy signal, I go ahead and go out on a limb and make the assumption that the line is busy.<br />
<br />
It might be worth the voice-over if the busy-signal message offered some sort of consolation. "We're sorry, but the number you dialed seems to be busy. Please don't take it personally. If the person you are trying to call knew you were trying to call them, we are sure they would get off the phone."<br />
<br />
That would make me feel a lot better.<br />
<br />
I still get the regular, good-old-fashioned busy signal when I try to dial my own extension from my phone in the office. There's no voice-over, no matter how many times I try it.<br />
(My boss, Julie, probably thinks I'm slacking instead of performing research.)<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Busy signal messages are not the only unnecessary things we have nowadays. Don't get me started on all the stuff that used to operate just fine that now, for some reason, requires electricity.<br />
<br />
Sinks and toilets are the dumbest. Have we become too stupid to operate plumbing by ourselves in the 21st Century?<br />
<br />
Our forefathers used to turn on the faucet, wash their hands, then turn off the faucet. They used a little handle on the sink to control the flow, even to mix hot and cold water to produce warm water of the desired temperature.<br />
<br />
No company has yet designed an automatic electric sink in which the water will stay on long enough for you to wash your hands thoroughly. You end up waving your soapy mitts back and forth in front of the little sensor, trying to get the water to come back on. Then you do the same dance again in front of the electric sensor on the hand-dryer.<br />
<br />
I wonder what the aliens who are watching us think of us sometimes. I'm a little embarrassed for Earth.<br />
<br />
I'm thinking about painting "NONE OF THIS WAS MY IDEA" on the steel roof of our little house in the woods.<br />
<br />
Toilets also used to be manual devices. A little chrome handle could be flipped downward when a flush was required. Now a sensor can tell when you sit down and then again when you get up.<br />
<br />
Do you honestly think Homeland Security doesn't have access to that information?<br />
<br />
Can openers used to be manual devices. Now most are electric. The electric ones don't work any better, oddly. But the manual ones they sell now don't work as well as the ones they sold 50 years ago. I don't know why.<br />
<br />
I think we should be going in the other direction, truthfully. I want a hand-cranked microwave oven. And windup-car technology has been around for generations, but it's never been applied to any vehicles much bigger than a matchbox.<br />
<br />
I think it's because of the oil company lobby.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-57023606382117261022011-07-03T10:53:00.000-07:002011-07-03T10:53:55.963-07:00I don't think I really have 89 'friends'<center><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Originally published May 29, 2011, in the Lebanon Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo.</em></span></center><center><strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></strong></center><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm on Facebook, but I don't really know why. The only thing I like about it is the ability to "poke" people.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In case you're not an initiate, I'll explain. When you sign up for this thing on the Internet called "Facebook," you'll get a bunch of "friends." I don't know why this is so, but it is. I can't remember how it happened to me, but as of now I have 89 "friends," and I'm a Facebook lightweight. Some of my "friends" have hundreds of friends.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I can't remember the names of 20 people in real life, much less 89.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Looking through the list, however, I can't find anyone I don't know to some degree. The funny thing is, if we met on the street, many of us might not recognize each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">But I know what many of them had for breakfast every day last week. I know what their plans are for the weekend and whether they're feeling down in the dumps.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's crazy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Facebook gives me faith that America still is the land of the indolent, jam-packed with people who have way too much time on their hands. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">For all the talk of our fast-paced, modern society, people still get on the computer and "LOL" at each other all day and all night.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Some of my "friends" are very busy people, but they still have time for Facebook. What do they do there? They relate every casual little detail of their lives ad nauseum.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">For example, some guy got on Facebook last week and was ecstatic about the great hot dog he had for lunch.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then the next day, the guy reported he had gone and got the same hot dog again for lunch. Did anyone care? Not likely.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">(Well, all right, I'll admit it: </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">That was me. But it was really a great hot dog. I walked down the street from the office and ordered a Mexican Dog. It has guacamole, cilantro, onions, tomatoes, cheese sauce and jalapenos.) </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Facebook gets on my nerves because people who will hide their troubles beneath a veneer of cheeriness in real life will expose every little ache, pain and whine on Facebook.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm still in favor of putting up a strong front, suffering in silence, that sort of thing. I rarely offer sympathy, and I don't offer to pray for people who have a sprained finger. I'm a terrible Facebooker.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">There are perks to Facebook, however. One of my "friends" is a state representative, for example. I didn't ask this state rep to be my "friend" because I need to get some legislation passed. I know him, but we've never watched baseball together or even had lunch, so it wasn't because of a close personal relationship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I asked him to be my "friend" because I wanted to have the ability to "poke" him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Poking is not real. There is neither a finger nor a stick involved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Facebook just tells you that you have been "poked" and gives you the option to "poke back."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">When he accepted my "friend" request, I LOL'd, because now I have the ability to "poke" a person who is important and get the somber Facebook message: "You have poked Darrell Pollock. He will be informed of this on his home page."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I would never poke Darrell Pollock in real life. I haven't poked him on Facebook either, but it's fun to know I could if I wanted.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Speaking of pokers, there is a guy who used to be a city political figure who didn't run for re-election in April.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">He said he wanted to spend more time with his wife and family and concentrate on his career - but that was just a smokescreen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now instead of helping to run Lebanon, he has more time to poke people on Facebook.</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed at www.ken-york.blogspot.com. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-38693905579438452412011-07-03T10:33:00.000-07:002014-10-30T18:24:44.187-07:00The road to becoming Terrorist CupidI'm one of the stupid people in the world who never are able to resist a dare. I think that's what contributed to the current condition of my head.<br />
<br />
A month or so ago, I accidentally got a very short haircut. Well, the barber did exactly what I asked, and if I was a little shocked by the results, there really is no one else to blame. I admit to having fun during the course of the next few days, going up to the folks who work in my building and asking them if they wanted to see something really scary, then removing my hat.<br />
<br />
It's amazing I get any work done at all, truthfully.<br />
<br />
Now, it should be understood that the reason for that short haircut was the economy. I can't stand the idea of forking over ten bucks a month for personal grooming. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I grab the orange-handled scissors and go hack at it myself out in the yard. Once it's sufficiently trashed, I ask Joyce if she'll "even up the back." Probably it would make more sense if she just did the whole job, but unless she's confronted with a disaster and must take action, she's not overly eager to cut my hair. <br />
<br />
When I do get a pro to do it, I want to get my money's worth and not have to come back for three months.<br />
<br />
Dire predictions from my boss and coworkers followed me home the day of the ultra-haircut. Joyce was going to make me sleep outside with the chickens until it grew back some, they said. I tried not to let that hurt my feelings.<br />
<br />
Of course Joyce was fine with it. I suspect it's not the outside of my head that retains its ability to frighten her. "You might as well go ahead and shave it," she said.<br />
<br />
So we're back to the dare. Did I have the guts?<br />
<br />
The amount of courage involved would be considerable, despite the fact that I constantly wear a baseball cap in public. Occasions exist in which I must remove my cap, however, like during the Pledge of Allegiance, the National Anthem and prayers.<br />
<br />
If you are a reporter who covers local government meetings in the Ozarks, you get to remove your hat a lot. You Easterners and Yankees may be offended, but that's how we roll.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYEuYVyO1nZtKkq2N47LaSzmjcB8JHXyga1ntL7UKm6_-DrTvKqajNY6N6QNZSWEnM2lj5CAzviXj4Q2DmIOqhEZU7SF87bA7IrfqptyBL-G0HBJxB5XEVmRgocrq4_2QCFhNZ_rlIws/s1600/cupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIYEuYVyO1nZtKkq2N47LaSzmjcB8JHXyga1ntL7UKm6_-DrTvKqajNY6N6QNZSWEnM2lj5CAzviXj4Q2DmIOqhEZU7SF87bA7IrfqptyBL-G0HBJxB5XEVmRgocrq4_2QCFhNZ_rlIws/s320/cupid.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist's representation only. <br />
No one really knows what Cupid looks like.</td></tr>
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Saturday I shaved my head totally bald. Joyce talked me into keeping the eyebrows.<br />
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It's not as easy as it sounds. It took about 30 minutes and 10 disposable razors. Halfway through, I thought we had run out of razors. Wild stubs of soapy hair stuck in odd patches all over my head. Joyce, in horror, offered to go to the store and get more razors. Then we found some old ones in a drawer.<br />
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"I like it," Joyce said after the job was done. I took one look in a mirror and saw Terrorist Cupid. I haven't looked again. <br />
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It's a long weekend, and as I type this Sunday, there are about 44 hours remaining for it to grow back before I go to work Tuesday. Already there is prickly stubble to be felt when I run my hand over it, which I can't stop doing. My head is developing a five-o'clock shadow.<br />
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Tuesday morning, there is a county commission meeting. If I go in a little late, I'll miss the Pledge and the prayer, so I can keep the cap on. <br />
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<em>Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He and his wife, Joyce, live in the Ozark woods as far away from other people as they can get.</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4151817278147943904.post-11257812639093413922011-06-06T08:46:00.000-07:002014-10-30T18:28:37.628-07:00Chicken pushers and the racism of Thelma and Louise<i>Originally published May 22, 2011, in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.</i><br />
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Well, if you would have told me this a week ago, I would have argued with you, but now I’ve got to face the truth. My chickens are racists.<br />
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I always thought they swung a little toward the liberal, which by tradition would have made them accepting and loving of everyone and everything, even axe-murderers and the like. (Whoops, that was a serious faux pas. You try not to mention axes to chickens. They get agitated.)<br />
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Joyce and I thought Thelma and Louise must be kind of liberal because they seem to be, shall we say, differently oriented. Well, what would you think if you saw two lady chickens living together in a house with no fellas ever around? <br />
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Hey, I’m not judging. I bang on the chicken house before I go in to feed every morning, not necessarily because I am afraid to see something that might be better left private. It just makes sense to avoid things you really don’t want to know. <br />
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It’s the same reason you don’t look under rocks if you don’t like bugs and you don’t give the serial number of your rototiller to the manufacturer if you’re not really sure where it came from.<br />
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All right, all right, I know I am stereotyping horribly when I suggest that differently oriented chickens are probably liberal. I’m sure there are some Lesbians for Limbaugh out there who probably will take issue with this column. If I’m not here next week, you’ll know they rode into town on Harleys in their Dittohead leather jackets and got me.<br />
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We got Thelma and Louise, our two Rhode Island Reds, last year from our friends who are chicken pushers. The police won’t let them within 300 feet of a playground if they are wearing raincoats that seem to be leaking feathers.<br />
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They got us hooked with a “taste.” <br />
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They had more hens than they needed, so they offered us a couple, free of charge. The first ones are always free, you know.<br />
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Neither Joyce nor I had managed a poultry operation for several decades, but I proceeded with my usual planning and preparation. Before going to get our chickens, I constructed a state-of-the-art henhouse with passive solar heat, exemplary cross-ventilation and luxurious nests with an automated egg-gathering robot. We purchased feed and installed an automatic watering system. Security would be provided by a private contractor that specializes in defense against hawk and neighbor dog attacks.<br />
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Well, all right, we really didn’t do any of that stuff. We just went and got the chickens. Our friends lent us a pet carrier to take them home in because we hadn’t even thought that far ahead.<br />
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On the way home, we agreed several times that the chickens were cute and funny, but we avoided the subject of where they would live and what they might eat.<br />
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For a couple days they lived in the pet carrier on the freezer in the house. The dogs, who are used to us packing in odd creatures, just rolled their eyes in resignation and went back to chewing up dead things on my side of the bed.<br />
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We got a box built onto the side of the shed, stapled a tarp roof onto the plywood and fenced in a little area for them to peck around in. Turned ‘em loose. They seemed happy.<br />
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Unfortunately, they keep laying eggs. As I write this, there are four dozen sitting in the fridge. We don’t eat that many eggs, and Thelma and Louise were depressingly productive even during the winter.<br />
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That said, it may come as a surprise that we couldn’t wait to get more chickens. We’ve become addicted.<br />
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Our chicken source approached me one day when nobody else was around and whispered that she and her husband had gotten their hands on six Barred Rock chicks. “Primo stock,” she said in a low voice, looking around nervously to make sure no one else could hear. “This is good stuff.”<br />
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If I had been wearing a wire for the Chicken Enforcement Agency, she would have been busted right there.<br />
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Joyce went and picked up the new hens last Saturday. Sunday morning, we released them into the pen to watch Thelma and Louise welcome their new friends, Lucy and Ethel.<br />
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The welcome wasn’t warm.<br />
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The little black and white hens stick together. The big red hens stick together. The big red hens terrorize the little black and white hens, driving them away from the feed and water. Several times a day, Joyce or I quote Rodney King at them: “Why can’t we all just get along?” <br />
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At night, Thelma and Louise crouch, clucking furiously, together on the south side of the roost in the chicken house. Lucy and Ethel, quivering in terror, huddle on the nests or wedged between the water container and the wall. <br />
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It bothers us to see them all so unhappy. I’ve tried playing my old Al Franken Air America tapes for them to teach them some good old-fashioned liberal tolerance. They just squawk and squabble more. The only difference I’ve seen is that they seem more in favor of taxing and spending.<br />
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The poultry experts we’ve consulted assure us they’ll settle down after a while and get along better. Until then, I reckon we’ll just have a henhouse divided by racial hatred and oppression.<br />
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<i>Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission. </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0