The Jesster's Lab

I'm Not Above Self-Promotion

2009-03-23T15:59:00.003-05:00

Ha! You thought that I was just a normal ol' Joe Schmoe enamored with giving away free humor whenever he feels like it! Well...you were right - somewhat. I do like giving away free humor, but my name isn't Joe Schmoe, it's Jesse Frederick.

Indeed, it has been far too long since I voiced my outrageous views on this site. But it is about time I actually practice some overt self-promotion, contrary to the views of trillions of organisms frequenting the World Wide Web, including spiders, centipedes, robots, bots, bugs, viruses, wooly mammoths and sometimes humans. So here goes:

I am by occupation and training, I must confess, something other than a humor writer: an IRS secret agent. No, I'm just joking. Actually, what I meant to say was that I am a professional resume builder. I have helped literally thousands of job seekers - from entry to executive level - drastically improve their resumes, greatly sharpen their job interview skills and get the career they desire and deserve.

So...what I am getting at is this: if you are finding yourself suffering in today's job market (and many are indeed), hire an expert at helping people get the jobs they want. Hire me - your blog neighborhood resume builder.

Visit here for my website and to take advantage of my FREE example professional resumes and FREE resume tips! Also, visit my blog here to be learn more about how to get a job in today's market, read helpful articles and receive some useful tips and hints. My company is Savvy Scribe Resumes. I am a savvy resume builder willing to offer FREE resume samples. Therefore, if you want to truly be savvy in getting a job in today's dismal career market - email me, call me, visit my site. I'll give you the help you need!

Firing My Lazy Thermocouple!

2009-01-08T17:39:00.003-06:00

Today, since I am totally almost 100% overwhelmed and simply tuckered out, I am going to write a humor post. I find that when I am fatigued almost to the point of paralysis and stressed out about as much as President-elect Obama will be on January 21st, humor does me some good. And I am guessing that it will do the same for you, or else you wouldn't be reading this post, unless you are a professional jester and confused this site for a website with job postings for court jesters, which it is not.

Anyway, to start things off, I would just like to say that Ebay is amazing. I might also add that it is totally unpredictable. Which is exactly why things like bent up, used up, worn out, cheap beer bottle caps, empty egg cartons and old Choose Your Own Adventure books sell; while totally practical and useful items such as vacuum sealers, sump pumps and winter coats don't.

In case there is anyone out there with old stuff in their house (which according to my calculations is everyone except one person, namely Bill Gates), my advice to you is to not get rid of it, but rather sell the items on Ebay for a price starting at $99. There is bound to be an idiot out there out of the millions frequenting Ebay every second who is willing to lay down the electronic money to save you from having to hire a trash pickup to get rid of the goods.

Which brings me abruptly to my next point: my water heater is on strike. Actually, it seems as if more specifically it is the thermocouple, but we all know that the water heater is much larger than the thermocouple and could kick its butt and set it back in place running the current necessary if it wanted. But my water heater is lazy and doesn't want to put up the fight, which in turn forces me to forcefully lay down the law and heartlessly replace the thermocouple, which has been a buddy of the water heater's for some 20 years or so. Cruel man that I am. Handy man that is.

And what should I do with the rebel thermocouple? Throw it away, you may emphatically say! But that would be wrong, because we all know that there are some poor people in America scrapping for food and wood and water heater thermocouples, regardless of if they actually work or not. And all these poor people somehow have Internet access and frequent Ebay every second of every day because they don't have to work because good Americans are paying their bills via income taxes. And thus I can get a pretty penny for my stubborn and incorrigible thermocouple.

Alas! Gas!

2009-01-02T12:37:00.003-06:00

It has been so long since I have put a post on this blog that I don't remember how to write in humoric prose. But that's alright...this isn't about humor - it's about satire. And we all know that satire is a cousin to the grim reaper, Sonic the Hedgehog, Wile E. Coyote and Frank Caliendo (all characters created to make us laugh as a means to soothe the sharp pain in our descending colons at the expense of someone else's descending colon - especially if your name is Charles Barkley). Why? Because I said so and - unlike the retail business - the writer's always write (I mean "right" - that's my acknowledgement to all of my punilicious readers).

No, really...by now you must surely realize that I have lost my blogger touch. Or have I? Either way, that's alright because you're reading this anyway, and I am improving my mental, physical, emotional, spiritual, psychological, physiological, astronomical, gastrological health by taking stress out to the cleaners and leaving him there until I have time to run into the city to pick him up.

And if you are about to stop reading because you believe that reading this post will do nothing to increase your knowledge of Iran's WMD's, you are dead wrong. I'm about to jump into that right now, because we all know that when things are really bad around us - including the poor economy and gas prices and the Cowboy's dismal season and executives spending billions on food and a President-elect who obviously knows as much about the geopolitical playground as the lyrics to the Star Spangled Banner - it helps us to feel better when we learn something truly dreadful and life-threatening: in this case the fact that a terrorist is about to have nuclear weapons.

You would think that as butt-kicking awesome as our Navy Seals are, that we would be able to do something about that, such as having perhaps a couple of them walk into Iran with bombs wrapped around their bodies mummy style - which would probably be the best camouflage available for Iran - and walk up to the nuclear sites and actually take off the bombs and run away while the bomb blast behind them can make them dive on the ground like Harrison Ford does in action movies galore.

Or maybe the seals could do something even more awesome, such as steal the real centrifuges and replace them with centrifuges filled with rotten eggs and other foul-smelling gases, which, when Ahmadinejad comes to inspect would blow up in his face and we could maybe have a hidden camera there and broadcast it on Nightly News with Brian Williams and we would all have a good laugh and the Navy Seals would be given medals for the successful covert mission.

But that won't happen because us Americans don't know how to have a good laugh anymore or how to perform practical jokes throughout the geopolitical playground like Teddy Roosevelt and Winston Churchill did. Bummer, because I was just about ready to have a good laugh at gaseous Iran.

The Greatest Show On Earth

2008-09-25T15:00:00.004-05:00

And now onto an event more thrilling and breathtaking than the Beijing Olympics, the American election race and Miami's win against the Patriots combined: The 63rd Session of the United Nations General Assembly General Debate. You may be asking, What is that? But the real question is why doesn't the media show this exciting and exhilarating activity on network television? You would think that the TV stations would be scrambling at the opportunity, but instead they are playing The Price is Right, a game show which has been around for more than 50 years, including a cast of makeup monsters the same age. But that's another subject for another time.

But the 63rd Session of the United Nations General Assembly General Debate (6SUNGAGD for short) is very entertaining. More entertaining, I would say, than a nuclear bomb exploding or a WWF Royal Rumble or an emu running or Obama talking about change, all of which are very exciting to watch.

The 6SUNGAGD party is the who's who of world leaders all getting together and getting their turn to give speeches where they unanimously put down America (read the Great Satan) - who just happens to be the hospitable host nation for the event - while peppering the remainder of their monologue with words such as "peace" and "God" and "unity" and "death to America." Somehow I don't think these words fit together, but then again I'm not the leader of a terrorist sponsoring nation.

Which brings me to my next point: Why doesn't America play along? You get my drift? Every other nation under the sun, including Belize and Monaco, have a lambasting session against the United States, the lone superpower in the world (for now, until Mexico overruns our southern border and takes over all the difficult jobs at the Pentagon, such as cleaning nuclear silos and refueling aircraft carriers, therefore giving them sole power over our military).

And what do our politicians say in response? "My distinguished friends, the United States of America is doing everything within our incredible and mind-boggling power to eradicate terrorism from the face of the Earth, share the peaceful fruits of democracy and disseminate obesity. Join us, my friends, in this mission for mankind's good so we may reap the bountiful harvest of baseball." I am convinced that isn't going anywhere in getting the likes of Chavez and Ahmadinejad to put aside our differences and share breakfast cereals.

I recommend another response: "My idiotic enemies, the United States of America is 250 times more powerful than you. Our great and proud nation challenges anyone who belittles us to a cage fight with one of our ten million Midwestern farm boys who, dare I say, can drive tractors without running into people and lift entire cows with one hand. If you happen to survive that encounter, we will send you to your home country which, by the time you arrive, will be flying the Old Glory atop your presidential palaces, oil refineries and grass huts. We will teach your people to speak English and eat beef. If you feel you have been wronged, we will challenge your strongest men to an American football game, during which our players will rip out your players' kidneys at every down. Did I mention we won't share our breakfast cereals with you?" I believe this would have a much more effective effect on America's enemies. And that would also be the makings of The Greatest Show on Earth.

Of Pigs and Pecuniary Pride

2008-09-18T21:10:00.019-05:00

Today we are going to talk about economics. Not because I want to. No - I hate economics. It was my worst subject in school. Here's why.

Economics should be one of the simplest subjects at school (along with P.E. and lunch), but it isn't because it's peppered with impossible-to-comprehend terms which obviously were invented by economists: wild-eyed and fuzzy-haired number-crunchers who couldn't get a job as an accountant or auditor, and therefore - in their angry-at-all-the-world rage - invented their own language to create the impression that they were smart and confuse us humble bread-winners into unanimous awe at their supposed incredible wisdom.

Seriously. Which one of you knows what X-inefficiency means? Or Countercyclical Fiscal Policy? Or Pareto Optimal Policy? Or what is the Law of Diminishing Marginal Rate of Substitution? Do you really care? Or are you an economist? I didn't think so. (For all those curious readers and Trivial Pursuit fans, I will display the definitions at the bottom of this article.)

But let's stop harping on the economists. We all know that they do a great job trying to lie to us about how great the economy is doing on Nightly News with Brian Williams and Good Morning America when we all know we can feel the fiscal fire and brimstone descending upon us. But I suppose they do convince a minority of the population that everything is hunky-dory: mainly politicians and CEO's of major corporations, which hire them to convince them that spending more money is the key to creating wealth (more on this later).

Anyway, let's talk about the economy. It's junk. Okay, I'm glad I got that out of the way. Now onto something else - something infinitely more important - let's talk about why the economy is junk.

I am an American, and therefore I will be speaking from an American perspective. But I venture to say, reading reports from economists (yea, they're helpful for some things, such as reminding us what we already know), this is a global economic disaster just waiting for permission to play harder. But I'm going to pick on America because, frankly, we're the idiots who started the whole downward spiral. I'll tell you why.

Kids know economics because they have piggy banks. Piggy banks are one of the most incredible learning tools in the world and - in my humble opinion - should replace graphs as the most displayed prop in economic classes. This is because when a kid doesn't have money in the piggy bank, he stops spending. Take little Johny for instance. He sits back and thinks and perhaps gets a bit perturbed and cries about how life is so unfair, but he doesn't spend money, because he doesn't have it. Then he goes to dad or mom and asks if he can work so he can have some more change in the piggy bank. So he works, gets paid, puts the money in the piggy bank, thinks about what he wants to buy, and purchases it. The cycle continues.

Let's jump ahead 30 years. Little Johny is now Big John, and consequently spends about 80% of his yearly income on his wife's jewelry and kitchen appliances, while she spends the other 95% on clothing and shoes. Wait a second! That doesn't add up! And you're absolutely right, but we do it anyway! Us humans are known for doing things that don't make any logical sense whatsoever.

Enter debt, which is a word we learned when we bought our first car back in high school. We couldn't afford our dream car, so we got into debt over it. Same with college, the wedding, the honeymoon, the house, the vacations, the boat, the swimming pool, etc. You get the idea. What happened to the piggy bank? It became obsolete along with Gunsmoke, MC Hammer and the 49er's.

But us little normal people peons aren't the only ones living outside our means. A conversation about debt cannot honestly be spoken without bringing up the United States government. What is it now? Close to $10 trillion and counting with the war against terror, failed investment banking bailouts, and White House dinners raking up. But that doesn't matter, because according to economics (at least what I learned in class), the stronger economy is the one which spends the most. Wow! Eye opening and amazing! That's what I should be doing to be in a better state financially. What a bunch of ludicrousy!

So now we are getting to the crux of the matter. This is really why I hate economics. The word has simply become an excuse for trying to make the numbers work when we know they don't - when we are spending more than we are bringing in - when we are living like a prince and only making the pauper's income. And don't get me wrong: the average American is quite wealthy. But even wealthy has its limits. Even the most affluent kings and businessmen and governments throughout history have dug themselves into financial pits in the name of extravagance and unchecked spending.

Which brings me to another point while I'm on the subject of ranting about economics: budget surplus. Americans will remember the days under the Clinton administration when the budget surplus was flouted as an amazing thing. Wow! We finally as a national government started raking in more dough than we dished out! And that is a step in the right direction. But while we were celebrating about how great our economy was, we almost forgot about the few trillion dollar debt still over our heads. It's still there, people. We can't just ignore it and hope it passes away like summer.

And this leads me to my final rant: People, stop blaming the economists and government. Government, stop blaming the people. Everyone, stop blaming the system. What's all this talk about the system anyway? It's like we're in the Matrix or something. Get real, people! The only system there really is is your habitual system of living outside your means!

So if you happen to be an economist, a government treasury worker, a CEO of a major corporation, or just a normal person, consider this: get a piggy bank. For a change start paying off the debt you have racked up. Take responsibility for your fiscal mismanagement. Get back to the days of pigs and pecuniary pride.

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Answers to pop quiz economic questions in article above:

- X-inefficiency - The underperformance of a firm that has a monopoly position.

- Countercyclical Fiscal Policy -Fiscal policy in which the government offsets any change in aggregate expenditures that would create a business.

- Pareto Optimal Policy - Policy that benefits some people and hurts no one.

- Law of Diminishing Marginal Rate of Substitution - As you get more and more of a good, if some of that good is taken away, then the marginal addition of another good you need to keep you on your indifference curve gets less and less.

War Against the Underground Bees Part III

2008-09-11T20:55:00.003-05:00

This is Part III of an entertaining, true-story, 3-part series about two young boys and their war against the underground bees. (And, yes, one of the boys was me.) If you're breaking into the middle of the story, feel free to read Part I and Part II below. _________________________________________

The next morning, as the sun peeked its bright pink head over the trees on the horizon, I began my trek back to the rivals' fort. Corey quickly came to meet me. “I have an awesome idea!” he loudly whispered with the barely-contained excitement of a calculating megalomaniac about to conquer the world. My friend then moved his sinister eyes and starred at the water hose. It didn’t take long for me to get the hint.

“Of course, that is it! This is the way to gain victory against the bees. Just flood them out.” I could hardly contain myself. Could it really be that easy? Was the war really a hair’s breadth from being over, and in our favor?

I snatched the end of the hose and lodged it into the entrance of the bee’s underground lair. Then, wearing his famous Cheshire cat grin, Corey turned the water on full blast. Like water bursting through a damaged dam, a torrent of watery death spewed out of the nozzle and into the bee colony megalopolis.

Bees began to rapidly assemble around the entryway in total disarray. And we, being much more keen and farsighted than we had been in our previous attack, stood a safe distance from the deluge. The bees were absolutely helpless. They could do nothing in response to our upping the ante. If we couldn’t defeat our foes in combat, we would resort to a much crueler method of warfare—genocidal terrorism. We would eradicate every vestige of civilization that they had—flood their city, exterminate much of their population, assassinate their beloved queen. It would soon be over for the insects’ empire in my friend’s backyard.

We ran inside Corey’s house for a premature victory celebration. The latest battle had been well devised and executed with Napoleon-like genius. I can’t remember exactly how we reveled in our supremacy, but we reveled like young boys would, giddy as ever, full of young pride (and probably Oreo's in hand). We had vanquished a vast colony of bees with the use of one weapon—our nuclear bomb—the water hose. We had no remorse, no second thoughts, no pity. The only thing on our mind was “victory at all costs.” I headed home that afternoon with a smug winner’s smile on my face.

I walked to Corey’s house the next morning to follow up on the news of our victory. I was shocked to find out that he had been grounded because he had forgotten to turn off the water which was used to flood the bees. His sister, who had answered the door, told me about how her dad had walked off of the back porch that morning and stepped onto soggy, wet soil. He was totally speechless when he found out that the water hose had been running throughout the night. Speechless, that is, until he found Corey. Overkill had been achieved on a couple of accounts.

I remember surveying the destruction that we had caused. What once had been a beautiful, active backyard full of various living organisms busily accomplishing their duties and giving back to their natural habitat and ecosystem had now become a drab, dead swampland—wasted and empty. It was no longer bustling with abundance and vibrance. It had actually become quite boring, and for a young boy, boredom is a terrible scourge to be avoided at all costs.

Ironically, it was us heartless and warmongering boys who had created this “new and improved” boring landscape without the “evil” bees. What had they done, after all? Perhaps it was the fact that they were wholeheartedly toiling to make our world a better place to live in—pollinating flowers and creating honey—that led us to our dastardly deed: erasing their existence from the face of the earth. Or maybe it was their harmonious and orderly system that made us jealous of their abundance. Could we have been such ruthless and sadistic humans to simply do it for the pleasure? How dare us!

I began to feel utterly horrible. It felt as if a dark and sinister cloud of guilt was hovering over my head, soon to release a powerful thunderstorm of self-remorse. I continued to review the damage the deluge had created. “Why?” I asked myself. As I laid sight on the remains of the once bustling-with-activity metropolis of the bees, I began to taste the bitterness of this victory. I knew the memory of this day of infamy would remain forever in my mind.

For many more years Corey and I would chum around in his backyard. I always hoped that the bees would return to their now desolate abode. They never did. It seems they had learned their lesson: Never construct a city within the vicinity of young boys. It seems we had also learned our lesson: Never take lightly the horrible power and destructive force of water, and never use it without a noble and righteous cause, such as watering the plants that bees pollinate.

War Against the Underground Bees Part II

2008-09-04T22:04:00.008-05:00

This is Part II of an entertaining, true-story, 3-part series about two young boys and their war against the underground bees. (And, yes, one of the boys was me.) If you're breaking into the middle of the story, feel free to read Part I below. _________________________________________

The next morning, about the same time that early birds get their worms, I ran over to what I expected to be a defunct bee colony. Corey was already there, and much to our amazement and chagrin, so were the bees! They had done the impossible. Our staunch foes had dug a completely new hole into their hidden hideout—overnight!

This was too much for the two of us. The bees’ marvel totally humbled us in their presence. They had scored a significant victory in our war. These bumbling, instinctive insects had one-upped us. We could almost hear their hearty laughter as we stood there in dismay. We were not about to leave this gaping hole in our self-pride. In our fierce rage (and witless stupidity), we quickly found some sticks and charged the bees with the enmity of a mother bear ferociously attacking any threat to her cubs. In the heat of our anger, all control and logic was lost. We began to swish and swash our ineffective weapons around in a futile effort to murder every bee within stick length. At first, they didn’t seem to notice. Then, they began to take interest in our obvious, barbarous wrath. They may have been amused by our doltish gallivanting, because they did nothing in response. Finally, however, they took action.

Our impulsive counter-offensive attack resulted in the first casualty of the war on our side. My comrade-in-arms dropped his weapon and screamed with the agony of a man horrifically wounded in combat. He hastily retreated into his house, which left me incredibly outnumbered! It was now only a solitary 10-year-old against all the forces that the winged warriors could muster. Like the final man at the Battle of the Little Bighorn, I put forth a stalwart and gallant effort with my skinny stick to gain revenge for my fallen compatriot. Even the greatest trooper, however, eventually encounters his Achilles’ heel. The wound which the bees inflicted upon me sent me dashing away like a dog with its tail between its legs. The second battle was over, and the bees were yet again victorious.

After the nasty puncture was treated professionally by my mother, I spent the rest of the afternoon and that night recovering from it. The next day would be revenge of the highest degree against my new archenemies, the bees. Sleep was an elusive shadow as I lay awake in bed, eagerly anticipating the day of reckoning.

To Be Continued...

War Against the Underground Bees Part I

2008-08-28T21:08:00.015-05:00

This is Part I of an entertaining, true-story, 3-part series about two young boys and their war against the underground bees. (And, yes, one of the boys was me.)

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“There is a colony of underground bees in my backyard and they must be killed!” This emphatic statement made by my neighbor, Corey, was the spark that ignited our imperialistic tendencies into action.

Being young boys in elementary school with an influence from G.I. Joe and He-man, we were full of an innate desire to kill creatures, destroy structures, and eradicate populations. But we weren’t heartless brutes who would murder without reason. This was going to be a preemptive strike upon the bee nation within our boundaries. After all, my sister was deathly allergic to the creatures. Within the chasm-like labyrinth of our young, warmongering minds we reasoned that this attack would actually be in the business of saving lives (i.e., my sister’s).

I was thoroughly convinced of the need for war in an instant. We began to stealthily advance into the region now taken by the bees behind the shed. It was as if adventure, with a whisper and a wave of her hand, was beckoning us to the boarding station of this odyssey.

The bees’ capital was impressive. These winged pollinators buzzed in and out of the only entrance into the city, swiftly scurrying to and fro, each carrying out his particular task. It was an amazing sight to behold. It reminded me of an orderly highway system stretching further than the eye could see on one side and then leading into a tunnel on the other. If we had not already declared war on these mindless insects we probably would have continued to stand there in awe, jaws dropped and all, of their grand civilization in busy and precise progress.

However, the fact that we were at war with these bees fanned the fierce flames in our minds all the more. How could we have allowed such a prolific empire to form right under our noses? It needed to be uprooted—and now. Like Alaric the Visogoth sacking the great metropolis of Rome, we had visions of desolating this powerful hymenoptera realm.

After briefly discussing our military strategies, we decided upon what we thought would easily and absolutely end their beedom. Corey found a heavy stone which was the perfect size to clog the hole and shoved it into the only inlet to the underground metropolis. The swift-paced traffic flow came to an abrupt halt as bewildered worker bees immediately began to gather around the stubborn boulder. My friend began to snicker. Like a shrewd businessman, he gleefully rubbed his hands together. The battle was over, it seemed, even before the winged warriors knew what was happening.

To Be Continued.....

Free Blinking Lights!!!

2008-08-21T20:34:00.022-05:00

What follows is what goes through my mind when I see these dumb blinking Internet ads which look like they've drunk way too much coffee!!!

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Congratulations!!!!! You are the umpteenth visitor to our website which includes absolutely no useful information whatsoever! In recognition of this amazing feat of actually viewing our hideous web page for more than a millisecond, we would like to reward you with the Umpteenth Visitor’s Award, which presently happens to be a spasmodically and erratically blinking epileptic seizure-inducing web banner!!!*

If you happen to be stupid enough to click on the neon-colored flashing web link, you may be awarded any one of a million gifts which we tried giving away to poor, starving children in Africa; but they didn’t want any of them because they couldn’t eat plastic. So you get this incredible opportunity to enjoy translucent plastic boxes the size of dominoes, perfect for storing your Mexican jumping beans collection in.**

And that’s not all!!! We will even throw in a random piece of packing paper we found somewhere deep in the recesses of our shipping department, personally autographed by a starving African child (the very same one that rejected your plastic box, perhaps).***

Also remember you have the perfect chance to brag to your friends, family and coworkers because you were the Special Umpteenth Visitor to our website and won gifts heads of state would store either deep in their treasure rooms or in Switzerland deposit boxes.**** (Just don’t inform them of certain details, such as our web address or the gifts you received from us or about the fact that you gave us your SS number without thinking twice, because they will laugh at you and call you a dork. Don’t ask us why. If you ask why, we reserve the right to invade your home with our very own SWAT team while you are sleeping and confiscate the gifts. You wouldn’t want that, would you? Didn’t think so!)

And finally, don’t forget to continue to visit our website 569,387 times a day as to increase your chances to win another Umpteenth Visitor’s Award (which next time may be Mexican jumping beans which Mexican kids rejected because they didn’t jump, but still make good goulashes). Thank you for your continued support. Your Internet naíveté pays for our site.

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* = Only while supplies last. And we cannot be held responsible if you do get a seizure. Our doctors say you will be fine, so if you do get a seizure we will sue you for saying that our doctor is a liar.

** = These supplies will last, because we lied and actually have more like a zillion (not a million) of them.

*** = We cannot confirm the veracity of this statement, but we do know that elephant tusks make great bar stool legs... Wait a second! Did I say that out loud? We are not responsible for the statement we just made, nor does it reflect our beliefs or actions toward elephants in anyway. Although they make great stew... Doooooohhhhhh!!!

**** = This statement may or may not be true. We don't really care, though, because you will not be able to find us because we are as elusive as a Trojan virus. Ha!

Retarded. Insane. Whatever.

2008-08-14T20:24:00.015-05:00

Retarded. You heard that word a million times in elementary school. That's what you called someone who was acting "weird" or "different" or not like the "cool people" who had their jeans tightrolled snugger than a blood pressure cuff.

When you called someone "retarded," you knew you were in the "cool group." Unless you happened to call a "cool person" "retarded." This would guarantee you being tossed into the boy's room trash can. I know this from experience.

When I was a boy in grade school, I was not "cool." This was because I wore Wrangler jeans and Spaulding high tops. Everyone who has been in grade school in America (or perhaps anywhere else - I don't know) knows I am telling the truth. If you weren't sporting Levi Strauss denims and Nike basketball shoes, you were automatically thrown into an inferior caste. And so I was.

But I was not one of those young pushovers who would just sit back and let the bullies treat me like I was lower than the lint in an earthworm's belly button. I would fight back by saying things to the bullies like "I have more hair on my chest than you" or "Your momma's so fat she has to iron her pants in the driveway" or "You're retarded." And that would result in me being tossed into the trash can like I was a used-up can of Cheez Whiz. Then they added insult upon injury by calling me "retarded" and taking my Bubble Tape.

Then I grew up. This was when workplace and grocery store bullies began to call me something else - something much more dark and sinister - the ultimate insult to a grownup. To be called "retarded" as a grown up is a bit juvenile and we all have a laugh and say, "Ha, ha! That was a good one! That brought me back to New Kids on the Block, Beetlejuice and $1.20 a gallon gas prices." But when someone pulls out the word "insane" toward us grownups...well...that's a different story.

Us grownups don't like being called "insane." The disdain for this word originates from the Dark Ages in Europe, when the Catholic Church would burn anyone who was remotely smart, labeling them "insane" because they would prove "heretical" things such as that apples grow on trees and that llamas spit. Us grownups don't like being burned alive today just as "heretics" didn't back then, so the word "insane" still makes us cringe.

But I never was one to go along with the grain of society (remember, I mocked bullies to their faces and called their "mommas" "fat"), so I don't really give a care if people call me "insane." I stay sane when people call me "insane" by thinking of the names of numerous influential people who were labeled "insane" by their contemporaries: Socrates, Jesus the Christ, Galileo, Copernicus, Joan of Arc, etc. These were all called "insane" by inferiors who happened to be living in their age. And retrospect is the judge that we can use to determine who was really "insane."

Perhaps some of those people were indeed "insane." But what made their names known hundreds or even thousands of years later? They stood up against the high rollers of their time, whether it were the people-burning Catholic Church or bullies with tightrolled jeans. They may have gotten burned alive or thrown in the trash can, but at least antiquity has remembered them because they stood up for what they believed was right, no matter what the consequences.

So I say this: Retarded. Insane. Whatever. I don't give a care what people think. If "insanity" is what society shuns because some big-to-do, larger-than-life nincompoop moron says it's "uncool," then I choose insanity! And give me back my Bubble Tape!

Tiananmen, Tanks and Table Tennis

2008-08-07T22:30:00.006-05:00

'Tis the time to throw javelins. And I'm not talking about the presidential race. Although you may have a point there. You know how American presidents traditionally toss the first pitch at baseball games. (Why? I have no idea. If you know, feel free to let me know because I'm curious since we all know they can't throw worth beans.) Well, why don't we tweak that tradition just a bit and kick off track and field meets with the heave of a javelin from America's Chief Executive? Two reasons why that wouldn't work: (1) that would be about as flagrant a security risk as having the president ride a Greyhound bus in traffic like an everyday citizen and (2) there is nowhere near the fans at track and field events as at baseball games, so it wouldn't be worth the effort of bringing the 500-person entourage, including hair stylists and hired applauders.

Anyway, I am talking about the Summer Olympics! Yes! I have barely been able to keep myself together for the past four years since the 2004 Summer Olympics ended in...whatever city that was. And that one swimmer dude (American) was breaking records left and right about as easily and frequently as drinking beer in Maryland. And that's about all I remember, besides the fact that I just couldn't wait for the next one to come around, so I could make fun of the synchronized swimmers waving their legs in the air like drowning pink flamingoes.

But the real reason I've been looking forward to this year's Olympics is because of its location: Beijing, China. This is a very exciting time for the Chinese people, I am sure, because the last time the Olympics were there was way back over 2,000 years ago when Great Wall Building and Grand Canal Digging were events. This is not to be confused with the European Olympic games from around that time period, especially in Athens, where events consisted of running around naked with a javelin in hand until falling down dead, and posthumously having an unedible, leafy crown placed on the head, which withered faster than the winner's dead body.

But times have changed. We - humankind as a whole - are much more civilized today. Gone are the barbaric days of running around on dirty tracks, kicking up dust for miles, naked (although ladies' beach volleyball comes pretty close). We have kissed goodbye the years of trying to break records without the aid of performance enhancing drugs. And we can consider behind us the times when victors were euphoric about having the Green Giant wreath placed on their heads. Which is exactly why we are having the Olympics in China this summer - we're just that civilized.

Think about it. What better way to show we're civilized than to have the Olympics in China: Home of the Repressed. I mean, wasn't it just less than 20 years ago that democracy and peace-loving students were mashed beneath the treads of army tanks? Now that sounds like an interesting new Olympic event to me. Have a stadium or field or something with barriers around it with hundreds of young adults trapped inside, screaming and running for their lives from the massive tanks barrelling down upon them as they try to find some cover, kind of like the chariot races of old Rome.

But that wouldn't happen today, because we are all more civilized and respectful of human life than we were back in 1989. Ha! (Did I just say that outloud. Excuse me.) Which is exactly why the nations of the world will unite in Beijing, China for some fun, peaceful, friendly, stimulating, sporstmanlike Olympic games while the rest of the world falls apart around them like a soggy cake - we're just that civilized.

And I've heard China - in preparation for the events - has been vacuuming up the air in Beijing (all that's left of it) to make it just that much more challenging to protest. You see, they don't want to be tempted to use the tanks again, not with all the world watching. Which is why it has just come to my attention that athletes will be allowed to hold their breath during their competitions. But the Chinese are used to cities without air - they're just that civilized.

Which brings me to my final point: Will China finally win a medal in basketball? My prediction is yes. With Yao Ming and the smog on their side, how can't they? Unless they're spending all their time preparing for the table tennis games, which they have owned for the last 5,000 years. Or maybe military tank exercises, just in case the smog doesn't halt protests. But that wouldn't be civilized.

Made in the Third Grade

2008-07-31T19:50:00.010-05:00

Everything you need to know about life you learned in kindergarten. So say a number of well-meaning people who obviously know absolutely nothing about today's world.

Seriously. You remember kindergarten. What did you learn? Sharing, making friends, obeying rules, playing fair, eating all the food on your plate, finger painting, nose picking—nothing about life in today's real world (besides maybe nose picking). No, those things, ladies and gentlemen, you actually learned in third grade.

You see, somewhere along the line between kindergarten and third grade, a seed begins to germinate and take root in the mind of children. This seed eventually grows into a tree we grownups term “maturity” or "grownupism" or “the right to stay up and watch what I want on TV when I want without anyone telling me to go to bed or else” or "I get to choose for myself what is right and wrong."

Kindergarteners and first graders are actually sweet, innocent, sharing, caring, fair playing, finger painting, nose pickers embarking on an intense journey of transformation and metamorphosis into the species of insane man-eating, vile, loathsome, selfish monsters also known as grownups. This odyssey is called life. We speak of and accelerate this character-altering sojourn when we say things to our pre-third graders like, “When are you going to grow up?” or “Can’t you imitate a mannequin for even five minutes?” or “Stop having fun with your Legos and start doing something productive like making biological weapons.”

Then we grownups go on doing our thing—imitating third graders—all the while hoping our kids will catch on to our "good traits" and say something like, “Greetings, master of the castle. May I please have the distinct honor of serving you by taking out the trash?” Little do we realize that if they were to truly imitate us (good and bad), they would be mumbling something under their breath as they walk away like, “I hope a piano falls on your head,” and connivingly con the two-year-old into taking out the trash for them while they sit in their bedroom reading comic books and eating bonbons. But that’s jumping ahead of the story, because the child is a kindergartener and has not yet "matured."

Enter third grade. It is a bountiful and abundant year for the grownup tree. It is the year when teachers and parents and the government all finally unite and decide to water and fertilize the maturity garden.

Third grade is like a miniature societal system where maturing children learn how to cope and thrive in the grownup’s dog-eat-dog world. It’s where the child’s imagination and all that the youthful mind dreams of doing or achieving gets squashed on the ceiling of aspiration’s repression like mac and cheese. It’s a demanding and rigorous boot camp created for developing the “mature” fruits of the grownup tree: lying, cheating, stealing, back-stabbing, bigotry, hypocrisy, pride, selfishness and a whole slew of other skills we grownups call “necessary traits for success in today's world.” Prior to third grade, kids just wanted to be and make others around them happy (case in point, the 20,000 apples the teacher has on her desk at any given time during the year).

For me, third grade started out innocent enough with everyone outrageously friendly as Barbie on vacation. By the end of the school year, however, it was like an overcrowded refugee camp with four Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s threatening to beat up everyone with their weapons of class destruction (WCD’s), one Saddam Hussein who tortured boys on the playground, one George Bush Jr. who declared war on the axis of evil, but stopped after knocking off Saddam because the teacher said to play fair, three Rob Walton’s with oodles of cash from dad, three Madeleine Albright’s who had the brains but no looks, three Miss South Carolina’s who had the looks but no brains, three Bill Clinton’s who—no matter what they were accused of—said they didn’t do it, two Jesse Jackson’s who blamed their grades on their race and ten John Q. Taxpayer’s who mostly observed the insanity around them and said, “Wow. I think I’m going to stay out of the way, act like everything is fine, do my homework and continue living outside my means by buying Hostess donuts from the snack bar.”

You who remember third grade know I’m speaking the truth. It’s a breeding ground for rank grownupism. And because we grownups are society’s pedagogues, the ugly cycle continues its menacing course generation after generation. It’s never going to stop until we stop acting like third graders, start acting like kindergarteners and for a change really grow up.

Oodles of Neons

2008-07-24T20:28:00.009-05:00

As I recently walked through the mall, the first thing that came to my attention was the first thing that comes to most anyone’s attention as they walk through the mall: whatever overpriced product happens to be displayed on the neon-colored signs.

Admit it. You just can’t escape the constant, relentless, anxiety-spawning barrage of commercialism. Not today. Not in any modernized part of the world (which is everywhere on this Earth besides Antarctica; parts of Africa, Asia and South America; and Arkansas). Not with oodles of neon advertisements which practically blind you with the same intensity of staring up at a solar eclipse without nuclear blast-safe sunglasses.

Bolder, brighter, bigger. Oodles of neons. And I’m getting fed up with all of it. If you are as well, I propose we the consumers take a united stand on the united front of turning our backs to the neon signs in a manner similar to John Wayne walking away from the bad guy in the movie The Cowboys—which was with a calm, cool, and collected "I'm not afraid of having a bare knuckle brawl with you even though you have a gun and I don't" demeanor.

You may say, “Yes, but John Wayne was killed after he did that in the movie. Are we going to have to face the same fate as The Duke? I don't know if it's worth it. Besides, my credit card has a large enough credit limit on it for me to purchase 10 nuclear submarines and the Neushwanstein Castle. Must I really turn big consumer business down?” These are good questions and concerns, because we all know that every time a consumer has stood up and resisted purchasing against an overly-friendly salesperson, he or she was asked to "try one more garment on," reluctantly walked into the fitting room, came out about 3 minutes later, and eagerly strode straight up to the cash register to purchase the $3,000 name-brand, pumpkin-orange gown or suit which visibly was not their color. Obviously, we must admit there was some foul play going on in the fitting room to change the consumer's mind like that - perhaps a 300-pound hitman with a .45 caliber and a thick Italian accent. That’s why us consumers buy about anything at elegant stores regardless of the price: we don’t want to end up a victim of a Michael Corleone-style “You didn’t take the offer you couldn’t refuse” mattress war.

But signs are different. We don’t buy signs. They were created by big consumer business fairies to hypnotize us into buying whatever is advertised in flashy, in-your-face neon colors on the sign. Then they get us where they want us, walking with our hands out in front of us with money in them like a zombie into the mall. Yes, we consumers have a big job in front of us. We have to resist the hypnotic pull of the neon signs. But we don't have to be worried about being brutally murdered by shadow mafia hitmen coming out of the neon-colored woodwork if we don’t decide to drop everything and purchase that $150,000 diamond, titanium, gold, kryptonite Rolex watch which Roger Federer wore every time he received the Wimbledon plate, which was advertised in an obnoxiously flamboyant manner on the sign. Just resist and run before the Sicilians find out.

And then there is the number-one cause of car accidents on interstate highways within 10 miles of shopping malls and Olive Garden restaurants: billboards. Personally, I believe the driver shouldn’t have a problem avoiding temptation from the sign, no matter how appealing it may be. The driver should be looking at the road. Of course, this is true unless the driver happens to be a female between the ages of 16-40. Otherwise it is the passenger (again, usually female between the ages of 16-40) who does the tempting, like Eve did to Adam concerning the forbidden fruit. And it is usually at this time that the male driver looks up to see what is on the billboard and ends up crashing the car and - thankfully for us men - cutting the shopping trip short. However, these accidents are too often fatal.

Therefore, I believe billboards should be banned by the American government. Or at least they should have a Surgeon General-like warning on them so the female passenger can say something like: “Wow! Look at that billboard. Can we stop at… Wait a second! Don’t look at the billboard! The Surgeon General says there is a 51% chance of getting into a fatal accident if female passengers get their male drivers to glance up from the road and onto the sign! And I really need to get to JCPenney's today!” Thus disaster would have been averted.

But I doubt the American government will ever get involved, unless it has something to do with receiving trillions of dollars to pay for new White House draperies and cushier chairs in the Capital building, which it doesn’t. So it is up to us consumers to make a united stand against oodles of neons by not responding to the flashy signs—but rather coolly, calmly, collectively striding away and buying only what we need, like John Wayne would.

I Propose a New Electoral College!

2008-07-17T18:16:00.006-05:00

I learned many important things about our American government in middle school civics, such as the fact that the American people don’t actually choose their President. No, that decision is made by a school called the Electoral College, a near relative to Clown College.

This was very revolutionary to my young teenage mind, considering the fact that I had always been taught that government was “of the people, by the people, for the people, or else we will all perish from the Earth and miss out on next week’s episode of American Idol” (Today's English paraphrased version of Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address). But in middle school I found there was actually a university made up of students who were president makers and breakers.

I imagined it to be some sort of secret Skull and Bones-type of society made up of Bilderberg’s, Rockefeller’s and Bush’s who did all their cogitating and conniving over who would be the next president behind locked 12 foot thick solid oak doors somewhere twenty miles beneath the Pentagon with endless supplies of cigars and brandy to aid their thinking faculties. Then, when a decision was made, smoke would billow out of the Pentagon’s chimneys, confusing journalists the world over whether it was actually black or white, thus forcing the Florida Supreme Court to choose the president, which in turn would cause Al Gore to try to convince the American people that the Constitution was not in fact created, but rather evolved, which would in turn lead to the growing popularity of a previously insignificant character named Chad.

However, my mind had not yet matured enough to realize that the whole electing situation was far worse than I had thought. The electoral college was in fact not made up of competent decision-makers, but moles. This is true because (a) they make their decisions underground, (b) they are buddies of government officials voted into office by government officials, namely state legislatures and (c) no one has any idea what their names are. As we can see, this is not a pretty picture, which is why 50% of the American people are not satisfied with the person who becomes president, while the other 50% lament the fact that they didn’t take the time to vote in the first place.

But my mind has matured a bit more since those naïve middle school days, back when I actually thought taxes were used to pay off the federal debt. I therefore have a proposition. We the people do have a choice! We just have to make it! We vote in our state representatives, don’t we? Who do they represent? You and me! And if they don’t, then we can either vote them out of office or secretly poison their bedtime sedatives (Article II, Section 2, Clause 134).

So, I propose that “we the people” contact our state representatives 275,984,103 times a day about who should be accepted to Electoral College. This will indeed intrigue our representatives, because usually us gullible American’s don’t give a care about Electoral College. But times have changed, because—as we can visibly see from the presidential campaign this summer—none of the presidential contenders are competent enough to rule a superpower in a dangerous and volatile and violent and WMD-infested world.

Thus the Founding Fathers, with the foresight and wisdom of 2,000 owls, placed these guidelines within the Constitution directing what sort of people should become members of the Electoral College: “But no Senator or Representative, or Person holding an Office of Trust or Profit under the United States, shall be appointed an Elector.”

Thus enter the new electors, specifically hand-picked “of the people, by the people, for the people, through the scared-out-of-their-wits-of-being-poisoned state representatives.” But who should we choose to make this momentous decision? Of course, people who know how to rule a superpower in a dangerous and volatile and violent and WMD-infested world, such as champion Risk and Sid Meier’s Civilization players. Perhaps even the one and only Sid Meier himself.

Seriously, who else could do it? These strategy game champion players know what it takes to put terrorists in their place, implement order in a chaotic world and invade Kamchatka from Alaska. They sure as beans should know how to choose a president. Perhaps, while we’re on the subject, we should consider changing the name of Electoral College to something more interest-arresting to middle school civics students like World Dominion College or Strategy War Games Champions College or Give Us A President Who Knows How To Kick The Tar Out Of Iran, Syria, North Korea and Kamchatca College. I don’t know—I guess we can leave that decision in the hands of our newly elected and quite competent electors. Perhaps then our young boys will want to be "electors" when they grow up.

So let’s stand up, America! Perhaps we will even get to see our names in middle school civics books 20 years down the road. Maybe we’ll be known as the generation who finally made Electoral College understandable for teens and simpler for civics instructors to teach. Who knows—maybe we can get Sid Meier to run for president.

An Expert's Solution to America's Problems

2008-07-11T16:58:00.007-05:00

According to many of America’s highly recognized and lowly intelligent experts, the greatest threat to American security (besides global warming) is America’s own military. This is true because, and I quote, “Our army is broken.” So said Lawrence J. Korb, a senior fellow at the Center for American Progress, an official-sounding club for Harvard graduates who couldn’t find high paying occupations.

This is interesting because I guess I simply assumed that certain threats such as global terrorism or WMDs or the economy or Conan O’Brien’s hair were at the top of America’s Most Unwanted Threats list. Silly me.

Obviously I am not a Harvard-bred expert. But since the overwhelming majority of American experts have Thai noodles and curry for brains and still somehow never fail to dazzle and awe us Americans watching Nightly News when Brian Williams states, “And now hold onto your seats as we intently listen to the sage and magical words of this evening’s Ivy League graduated expert” (could just as well said “wizard”), I will therefore proclaim myself one. You might want to sit down, if you are not already, because words from self-proclaimed experts have a tendency to make some people faint with wonderment, and I will not be held responsible for you crashing face first into your computer screen.

As all greatly recognized experts do, I am compelled to begin with a problem. This is not hard. Where do I start? Wow! Is this what experts feel like every time they are about to state a problem?! This smart?!

Anyway, these are a few of the humongous issues looming over America today, which I expertly came up with: oil, Iran and Asian carp.

Let’s begin with oil prices since it’s the easiest issue to pin a culprit to. We all know who to blame for insanely over-priced oil: caribou. This is because a little more than five years ago a bill barely passed through the Senate which rejected any chance of drilling for oil within the boundaries of the vast Alaskan wildlife refuges, which collectively are about the size of all of Asia. How this actually was possible has been a very well-hidden secret. The truth is, where the Republicans had pro-oil lobbyists and billions of dollars, the Democrats had herds of caribou and trillions of tons of snow. The polar bears also offered their services—doing the dirty work, such as eating oil company employees entering the no-drill zone. This was all performed at the behest of the caribou, however. So they are to blame.

Next we have Iran, the molding leftover from the axis of evil meal that no one wants to eat. They are a serious threat to America, obviously, because they are next door neighbors to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Turkmenistan, Nuclearwaristan, and the Arabian Sea—all who either are or should be invaded by the U.S. So we can see that Iran is a threat to our society, seeing that they also have so much oil that they use it as a frequently served cafeteria meal in the grade schools, and that the caribou stole ours in Alaska. Add uranium and Russian scientists to the mix, and you have a baseball, apple pie and Hollywood threatening salmagundi.

Which brings me to my third threat: Asian carp. I read an article about how they are at this very moment invading North America more effectively than the French did in the 17th century—which isn’t saying much—and breaking fishermen’s noses along the way. This is no joke. According to the same article, these Asian sea monsters can get up to over 100 pounds in weight and jump out of the water as high as 15 feet, injuring anglers in the process, which I can’t exactly hold against them, being that it was obviously in self-defense. According to the same article and Wikipedia, they eat so much plankton that within a decade the entire United States will be an oversized desert. But don’t let their name fool you—Asia is not to blame (although I am sure China encouraged them). We can blame our own homegrown Arkansas fish farmers, whose crude manner of ranching was no match for the Asians’ technologically advanced methods of escape.

Now, unlike most experts, I am going to give you solutions. I propose we sign a peace pact with the caribou—which would also include their polar bear hitmen—and Asian carp. Then naturalize them so we can draft them into our armed forces and replace our “broken army” and navy with the well rested Alaskan Wildlife Battalion and Leaping Leviathans Task Force. The caribou can take command and administrative positions in Iraq, and the polar bears can again do the dirty work, like eating would-be suicide bombers and invading Iran. The carp would focus on blockading Iran from the sea and confiscating all oil transports. This would pay for our entire Middle East invasion and also lower gas prices at home, so we can spend more money on Harvard expert degrees.