A brand new mule (with a diaper)

Originally published March 24, 2013

As this interminable winter continues, Joyce and I have discovered a lifeline. There's this thing on television called the Game Show Network.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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?'"

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.

Then she would answer, "They take the dried venison."

"Survey says (ding) 'They take the meat!' Number one answer! Tell her what she's won, Johnny!"

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!"

At this point a blacksmith would lead a mule onto the stage.

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.

"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!"

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.

Cart and plow not included.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

"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.)

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?'"

The contestant would slap the tattoo of a head at the top of its body. "I knew that, darn it."

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.

Come on, spring, get here. I just wrote a column about the Game Show Network, for Pete's sake.

Don't Care Why it's Cold. Just Want it to Stop.

Originally published April 13, 2013

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"OK, first you want to look at how the top limbs are leaning."

"I know."

"Then you want to figure out where you want it to fall."

"I know. I read that book too."

"You'll want to notch it on the side where you want it to fall."

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A not very merry interview with Mr. Claus

Originally published Nov. 25, 2012

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Mr. Claus? Or may I call you Santa?" I began, introducing myself.

"Mr. Claus will do," he said, studying the framed newspaper awards on the wall of the conference room-turned-Santa chamber.

"Not seeing your name anywhere up there," he observed.

It seemed I had caught Santa in kind of a cranky mood.

I gestured toward the damp spot on his leg. "That happen a lot?"

"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?"

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.

"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?"

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."

He seemed to have anger issues.

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.

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.

Santa stood as if ready to stomp me with his shiny black boots.

"Sorry," I said. "Had to be sure."

"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.

"Calm down," I said. "Hey, I'm sorry I pulled your beard. Really."

"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."

This interview was going better than the one with Gov. Nixon had.

"So," I said, "Why reindeer? What's up with that?"

"Horses don't fly, you idiot," Santa said.

"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.

"Since about the 4th Century," Claus said.

"Long time," I commented. "How old are you?"

Santa looked exasperated. "I'll bring you a calculator next month," he said sarcastically.

"You know, you're portrayed a lot nicer in Hallmark movies," I said, sick of his attitude.

He grinned. "I spend a lot on PR," he said.

I nodded. Made sense.

"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?"

"No," Santa said. "I think kids like toys. You can over-think these things."

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."

"Actually, that was supposed to be your sister 's," Santa said.

"You were getting the Easy-Bake Oven, but your dad switched them. That was the year you cussed at Vacation Bible School."

"Oh yeah," I remembered. "Stupid popsicle sticks and cheap stupid glue. I don't know how anybody builds anything out of that crap."

"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."

I let that - which might have been an insult - pass. "Speaking of Joyce, she said to tell you hi," I said.

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.

Mrs. Claus was shouting something we couldn't hear and gesturing.

"Gotta go," Claus said. "She's got to see her shows on the television or she's a bear to live with."

"I hear ya," I said, standing and shaking his hand. "Merry Christmas, Mr. Claus," I said.

"Likewise," he muttered, and left.

How come my insurance guy can't fly like Flo?

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.

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.

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.

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.

She's always in a big, gleaming white room with no definite boundaries, suggestive of heaven.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

Ninja chose "How to Break Boards With Your Bare Hands."

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My wife and I make up little stories about the people driving in front of us on the way to town.

"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."

We keep ourselves entertained and I avoid pounding the steering wheel in frustration.

I do worry about Flo.

She's always so chipper when she's floating around and comparing rates, but if you look close, there's sadness in those eyes.

Seeking sense in underwear patterns

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.

If you saw last Monday night's game, you'll understand.

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.

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.

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.

Still, camouflage-patterned underwear makes no sense to me.

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.

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.

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.

I saved a field jacket, which my dad wore when riding his motorcycle for a couple years. Luckily, we have the same last name.

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.

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.

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.

***

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.

Kind of like Christmas' evil twin

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.

"Your Honor, ipso facto, if it please the court, I'm the defendant," I answered when my name was called.

His honor stared at me and I sat down. 

***

I get sued a lot.

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.

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. 

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.

***

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.

"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 scandulum magnatum."

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.

"You know this isn't a trial, right?" he asked me. 

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.

"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?"

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.

The judge eyed me. "But you're representing yourself," he said.

"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 — "

"Cagney versus Lacey? Now you're just making stuff up," the judge snapped.

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 loco parentis." I sat down.

"Loco something," the judge muttered. It gave me an idea.

"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."

"But you're representing yourself!" the judge said again, sounding a little impatient now.

"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."

"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."

He was asking for it. "You can't handle —"

"STOP!" His Honor thundered, glaring. "If I have to hear that one more time —"

"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.

"You can't take the Fifth. This isn't a criminal proceeding," the judge said.

"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 habeas corpus in jail."

"Aha! So you do owe the money. Pay it," the judge ordered.

I was undone by all the legal trickery. I left the courtroom, my mind already racing with my strategy for the appeal.

***

All right, all right, this didn't really happen. Calm down.

Ken York is the assistant/Sunday editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. 

Guns, tomatoes and government goons

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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


But I digress. Now, as the bottom of this column edges ever closer, I come to the dire news which I must impart:


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! 


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.


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/.