Please help promote this podcast by telling someone about it, and especially by clicking (and getting your friends to click) the new Clean Casts button:

I plan to do a future episode with my housebuddies about our funny pet peeve or the funny trademarks we each have. If you’d like to share your own roommate/housemate/whatever pet peeves or funny stories for our show, please leave a voicemail on my listener line (859) 353-4332, or email me@theRamenNoodle.com.

I should start Podcasters Anonymous for podcasters who need help not podfading. But I refuse to podfade, especially after speaking three times at PodCamp Ohio 2! In this update, I share my recording from a recent stand-up comedy performance at a local church.

• What I do during and after the hand-shaking time of church services.
• How I feel about and answer “How are you?” questions.
• How people in the Midwest, West Virginia, California, and Texas might react to hitting a deer with their cars.
• I switched from a $230 Braun shaver to an edged razor, with no instructions!

If you’d like to help me find more outlets for some stand-up comedy performances, you have tips for helping me improve my voice acting, or you want to respond to this episode, do it here in the comments, call the listener line at (859) 353-4332, or email me@theRamenNoodle.com

Thanks for listening!

We also speculated on what might be in the final episodes of season five, as well as the story arcs of season six.

The music that many of us are familiar hearing before Cliff’s live shows is from Captain and the Kings.

We were also honored to have Smokey with us to answer some questions in a brief interview.

Please don’t expect anything serious!

In this Random Noodle Update:

• I introduce you to my housebuddy Mike and we discuss my proper title, “Lord of the Ren”; as well as why we call him the “housebuddy.” (Yes, I registered LordoftheRent.com.)
• We talk about Mike’s “on-a-whim” trip from Cincinnati to somewhere in New York and beyond.
• Why you shouldn’t dive into toilets.

Like I say each time, please leave a comment or email me@theRamenNoodle.com, or leave a voicemail at (859) 353-4332. You can also follow me on Twitter. Mike had a Twitter account once—he got it on a whim—but he never updates it and doesn’t remember what it was.

And in case you’re wondering, the closing sound effect was courtesy of Mike.

A lot has happened during the hiatus between the last episode of the Ramen Noodle and now. So before we dive into this latest episode like I don’t want to dive into my still-cold and algae-infested pool, let’s review what has happened since last November, other than December, January, February, March, and half of April. But before we do that, perhaps we should review what “hiatus” is.

As the word sounds, and mostly true to the dictionary.com definition, “hiatus” is a disease that creates fissures in the bones of broadcasters and their productions. This results in awkward gaps in the broadcast schedule. Professional medical, psychological, and astrophysical expertise is sought in attempts to fill these gaps with Silly Putty, random mumblings, single-episode-appearing invented characters that only end up buried alive, and the toasted wood shavings from the nearest Motel 8’s doorposts. Obviously, such attempts are not met with acceptance by the general following, and so, most people just pretend that nothing else was released during that time, and instead call it by its proper medical title: hiatus.

the Ramen Noodle (um, the show, that is. Not me.) has recovered from one such hiatus as well (apparently, I’m still undergoing treatment for something). These consequential gaps in this hiatus were filled with such attempts as earning my karate black belt, getting a housebuddy, upgrading my studio equipment, and, oh yeah, a new government administration change. Truly, this hiatus has been quite a mixup rather unlike the coffee-less taste of heaven that Starbucks made for me last week when I requested a caramel Frappuccino without espresso. It was good (even though it was really just an expensive, glorified milkshake). Everything that I ever believed tasted bad about a Frappuccino (sometimes called a “frap” by those in the nose) was suddenly gone when the coffee was removed. Hence proving my point that coffee tastes terrible.

So, okay, the United S of A is “under new management,” but I have yet to see policy changes that positively affect my daily life! You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I think there may be no recourse but to call for impeachment. That’s right! I want to impeach … my local post office workers.

I think I’m fully justified in calling for such action based on three grounds—well, four, if you count the ground they trample under their black-shoed feet, but this fact is already obvious, so I need not address it. (Ha ha. Get it? “Address it”? Nevermind.)

Grievance #1: Weak Leadership

Being official government representatives to me through my mailbox, I would expect strong leaders, people who can stand up for what’s right, lift the packages that aren’t light, and close my mailbox tight.

I think my post office has employed a bunch of weaklings. Almost every day that I get my mail (which works out to be split into three divisions each week: Monday and Thursday, Friday and Wednesday, and Tuesday and Saturday—I don’t check my mail any day between those), the mailbox door is left open. Come on! It really doesn’t take that much strength to close a mailbox, does it? Yes, I know that I’m a black belt and have fine-tuned my deadly mailbox-closing skills so that I can close a thousand mailboxes with just a single running-jumping-flying-spinning-roundhouse kick (which is actually easier to do than it is to say). I remember my days before karate in which closing a mailbox really took little to no effort. But for my local fence-post-office officials, this must be too much to ask.

The problems this creates are innumerable (mostly because there aren’t enough to actually number), but annoying nonetheless.

Foremost is the problem of security. Just about any local yoodle (the counterfeit form of a noodle) can put junk in my mailbox when the door is left open. I’m talking about dangerous stuff like dead squirrels, mousetraps, Whoopi cushions, Chinese take-out menus (ooh, wait! I need to look at this.) and cinnamon rice cakes (recently registered as terrorist weapons, according to the FAAAAAAAA—how many A’s are in that? Whatever.). In order to maintain this security that the government agent has blatantly ignored, I have to close the mailbox and reopen it every time before I get my mail, just to make sure it’s closed before I get my mail. This is extremely cumbersome.

When I finally lodged a complaint through the county chipmunk-catcher’s office, I received proof that the postal agents could do better if they wanted to. This proof came in the form of a sword slash through my mailbox, which completely destroyed the door. Not only did this cause a frustration in that I would have to replace this mailbox, but it also caused me great alarm to know that my post office agents are apparently carrying around swords. I guess dogs are really getting hard to control these days. Kids are too, but that’s a different story. I mean that kids are getting harder to control, not that they are carrying swords.

So after hunting in the Marts of Wal, I found a young, attractive mailbox that I nailed to the cross in my front yard. No, this was not a messianic mailbox because, to my knowledge, mailboxes do not need a savior. Well, then again, maybe they do, because that’s kind of what I’m talking about anyway. But we digress. (The “we” being me and Judas Mailbox, here, who sold the new mailbox to me for less than thirty pieces of silver! I think I got a good deal!)

Perhaps the old mailbox just couldn’t stay closed very well, but I knew, based on my extensive in-store research and user-testing, that my new mailbox could close and remain shut.

No more than a few days after mounting the new beauty, I could see that door was not being shut all the way. Hence the proof of my theory, the local government post office agents are weaklings and can’t conjure up enough strength to close one mailbox. Hence my call for their impeachment!

Grievance #B—or 2: Broken Promises

What happened to that whole “rain, sleet, hail, and snow”-not-preventing-my-mail-from-being-delivered thing? While they may claim such heroism (despite not being strong enough to close my mailbox!), they break their promises far too easily. If I leave so much as a leaf or a single flake of snow between my mailbox and the street, the agent freaks out and runs away in tears as if they’d just been forced to see Open Season 2. In other words, it gets pretty ugly. Open Season 2 was pretty ugly, too. Hmm. Maybe this explains the ugly, gray snow we see along the roadsides in winter.

Grievance letter tres—er, three, like #3 (yeah, sorry if that startled you by coming up earlier than you expected. That last one was short.): Inability to Read

I’m often amazed, not only by how many people pronounce the T in “often,” but also by how little reading my post office handler apparently does. Quite frequently, I get my neighbor’s mail, even though my mailbox is in front of my house, and their mailbox is in front of their house (I suspect this was intentional). And both of us even have our addresses on our mailboxes (including zip codes, in case the postal agent is really lost, which would explain part of the problem). Maybe the agent is trying to make me socialize more with those people that live next to me. I really don’t need to—wait … there are people in that house next to me? Wait … there’s a house next to me? When did this happen? I must investigate this! Well, I’ll do that after this episode.

Where was I? Oh yes! Tacos! The key to making great tacos is to layer the cheese between the hot ground beef and hot rerefried beans so that the cheese melts. And then put the sour cream on before the lettuce, so that the lettuce doesn’t stick to the sour—what? That’s not what we were talking about? Well, you’re absolutely right! I was the only one talking. What’s that? Ooh. Good point! If I’m the only one talking, then who is supposedly talking to me right now? Yeah, true, I could be reading a letter you wrote to me from the future.

Hey! Speaking of letters, have I told you about my mailbox problems? My local government post office agent representative person (myLGPOARP, for short, maybe?) can’t seem to get something straight. That is, who lives here. I keep getting these child services letters from the state for someone that I think lived here during the days of the Roman Empire. Well, you know what happened to the Roman Empire, so this is now the Ramen Empire! So let it be podcasted, so let it be done! (And I just registered “theRamenEmpire.com.” I’m such a webby.)

The excessive amount of mail to the former emperors was getting rather annoying. So, instead of just throwing them away (the letters, that is. I’ve already thrown away those former emperors. Or is the correct term “banished”?), I decided to do the intelligent thing (yes, it sometimes takes me a while to chose the intelligent thing over the dumb thing, but that’s what makes me the Ramen Noodle. And no, you may not claim that as my new slogan. It can be yours.) and started circling the dead-or-not-person’s name and writing in big, black, marker, “Not at address.”

That wasn’t working, so I added the extra step to let that entire state know, “Not at address. Return to sender.”

But still, the envelopes stream in faster than the butter melts in the Artic. So I started expressing some of my irritation, “Not at address. Return to sender. Stop delivering.”

And still, they couldn’t get it through their see-ya-(that’s “CIA” for you uninformed, which is probably the rest of us)-brainwashed skulls that the person they were trying to reach was no longer at the address. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, I’m not even sure if that person is still alive! Are Huey, Dewey, and Louie still alive? A miss them.

So it was time to turn up the heat (after all, it is still cold outside) and start getting compensation for the wasted time. The last envelope that I returned to my post office handler read, “Not at address. Return to sender. Stop delivering. Further deliveries will incur a $1-per-item charge.”

One of two things will happen. Either they will finally get the picture—although I didn’t send them a picture. Maybe I should’ve done that because a picture is worth a thousand words. Hmm—or I will soon be filthy rich. Actually, maybe I’m grateful for those incompetent post office people now!

But then again, there are those other letters I get. “Current resident”? Yeah, he doesn’t live here anymore, either.

Thanks for listening (or reading if you refuse to listen to all the work I put into the podcast). I’d love to hear from you! Leave a comment on this episode, leave a rating and review in iTunes, leave a voicemail at 859-353-4332, email me@theRamenNoodle.com, or leave sanity by following me on Twitter.

Also check out my new podcast Are You Just Watching to learn “critical thinking for the entertained Christian.”

If you need a website designed or hosted, contact my sponsor D.Joseph Design.

For “current resident,” I’m the Ramen Noodle. Thanks for listening and I hope to hear from you soon!

I hate to borrow a phrase from Digg, but it really applies here: “Title says it all.” I passed my black belt test and I’ve included the recording that I had played while I performed a kata at the graduation ceremony.

Please welcome me back to the podcasting saddle! I’ve had good reasons for being on hiatus: primarily, I test for my karate black belt this Saturday, March 21!

To show my commitment to this podcast and the new podcast I’m about to launch, I purchased some new equipment from Cliff Ravenscraft of GSPN and Podcast Answer Man (he’s not paying me to say that, I’m just doing it out of genuine gratefulness), and I give a live unboxing in the show!

And like I always say, please comment on the website or email me, rate the show in iTunes, follow me on Twitter, produced and sponsored by D.Joseph Design, blah, blah, blah. Okay, I want to get this thing posted!

A cup of tea during my cold that didn’t go so well.

CAUTION: If cold-based noises gross you out, then you probably don’t want to listen to this episode.

If you enjoy the Ramen Noodle, please leave a comment on the website, leave a rating and review in iTunes, or email me your questions or comments. And you can leave all sanity behind by following me on Twitter.

the Ramen Noodle is produced and sponsored by D.Joseph Design.

But in the mean time, I’m writing my speach for inauguration day. I hope you can be here to hear it!

I have my third cold in two months, but because I’m insanely dedicated to my insanity, I decided that the show must go on! You may regret hearing how bad I sound when I have a cold.

If you enjoy the Ramen Noodle, please leave a comment on the website, a rating and review in iTunes, or email me your questions to be answered in a future episode (like Kory did!). You can also stalk me on Twitter.

the Ramen Noodle is produced and sponsored by D.Joseph Design.

Join me as I celebrate and honor the potentially last moment of silence before my housemate arrives.

No, it really won’t be bad. You know I’m just having fun. He’ll laugh, too, when he hears it.

I tried “grilling” burgers on a skillet, which didn’t turn out well.

Kory, from Antioch, California, wrote in to ask:

Dear Ramen Noodle,

I have had a noodle problem, when I buy at Costco it is 40% less for a big case of Ramen Noodles but half are beef favored and everyone in the house like chicken flavor more so what do I do with the beef flavored? I haven’t tried bullion yet.

Kory

Listen to the episode to hear my response to Kory’s problem.

If you enjoy the Ramen Noodle, please leave a comment on the website, a rating and review in iTunes, or email me your questions to be answered in a future episode (like Kory did!). You can also stalk me on Twitter.

the Ramen Noodle is produced and sponsored by D.Joseph Design.

I was offered basic cable TV for free … but was it really free? This may be a little bit of a rant on a nonexistent soapbox, but maybe you’ll enjoy it.

If you enjoy the Ramen Noodle, please leave a comment on the website, a rating and review in iTunes, or email me your questions to be answered in a future episode (like one person did!). You can also stalk me on Twitter.

the Ramen Noodle is produced and sponsored by D.Joseph Design—with a brand new website!

I love freebies! But often, these freebies come at the price of a good story. Listen to a couple of my fun freebie experiences.

Do you want to get free DVD rentals from RedBox? Then subscribe to Inside Redbox.

If you enjoy the Ramen Noodle, please comment on the website, email me, or leave a comment in iTunes. You can also stalk me on Twitter.

(The previous post had the wrong MP3 attached. This is the correct one!)

Sell-by dates, a secret just between you and me, and my peanut butter predicts the end of the world. Listen or download now!

I’m back and—last time I checked—I’m still alive, so it’s time for the Ramen Noodle, episode 7 for November 3, 2008: The True Election Solution.

My fellow Americans, I come to you out of the deepness of my heart (because God knows if I came to you out of the deepness of my pockets—well, you’d get quite a shallow show—and if you’re reading this, you missed me having fun with “shallow show”). In the pit of my stomach, not only do I have leftovers of some chicken that I’m not sure that I had thoroughly cooked, but I also have a real concern about the elections this Tuesday.

A lot of people are saying that America’s future hangs in the balance with the 2008 presidential race. First of all, let’s consider the deeper meaning of that statement: “hangs in the balance.” Honestly, I just can’t see how this can be possible in any situation. Is “the balance” a place like Weight Watchers or Zune’s nebulous “the social”? If so, is this really a bad thing? America, after all, could stand to lose a few pounds.

Or is this somehow a visual metaphor? Even then, balance is not even a slight fear for a hanging item. Do people go to the circus to see a tightrope hanger? NO! Big deal. There’s nothing special or even remotely exciting about hanging in the balance. Even ye olde pirates who was hanged would agree that balance is the least of their worries. Arrgh! Perhaps we should, instead, say that America’s future stands in the balance. But then again, if it’s standing in the balance, then I’d say things are going pretty well. But I digress (do you really ever know me not to digress?).

There are a lot of important issues to be decided in this election, and both major candidates, Obama and Pali—I mean McCain, have their unique and mostly mutually exclusive solutions. My friends, I have discovered the one and only solution to all of our problems. This solution extends across party lines and into the core of the issues like an arrow strikes into the heart of its victim.

My solution … is ramen noodles.

Yeah, yeah, laugh if you want. But I just can’t believe how silent all of the candidates have been on this! We need a reformed campaign to push the ramen noodle platform! What? You don’t believe ramen noodles are the solution? Then allow me to prove it to you by outlining my simple plan.

The Economic Crisis

Despite President W’s failed attempts at keeping the gas prices high and instead being responsible for the unbelievable drop in the value of gasoline, we do truly find ourselves in a crisis of dollar-bill proportions!

How did we get in this mess? It’s not like we were crawling across the playset slide before our dad was done putting it together and we stuck our hands in some dog mess and then ran to our mom with hand outstretched saying, “Look it!” Ugh! That was a traumatic event in my childhood. But the real reality is simple: we defied the laws of gravity and threw up more credit cards and loans than money that would fall from the sky into our purses and wallets.

Anybody with a mind for a brain would recognize that we need to reduce spending. But it takes someone with a really bright noodle to know how we can do that. My friends, I have that solution. We need to stop eating—you thought I was going to stop there, didn’t you?—extravagant meals and instead drop down to the ramen noodle diet. Consider that the average home meal costs $2.00–$2.50 per person, while fast-food is often twice that, and sit-down meals at restaurants are at least three times the cost or closer to the price of a small car! How much do ramen noodles cost? Only 15–25 cents—those are pennies, baby!—and even better if you buy them in bulk. (That is, from the right places! I’ve discovered that Meijer’s bulk price for a box of ramen noodles is more expensive than buying the same number of individual packages.)

So if even the most-scrupulous budgeting family switches to strictly a ramen-noodle-diet, they could reduce their food bills by more than 90%! I don’t have time to describe all the ways ramen noodles can feed you, including desert for the more exotic, but just take my word for it until a future episode … at which point you’ll still have to take my word for it.

With more than 90% of what Americans normally pay for food being stuck back in their pockets, they can much more quickly pay off that bad debt. The trillion or so dollars of national debt? Gone in one year!

Oil Dependency

I’m reading through the ingredients of chicken-flavored Nissin Top Ramen Oodles of Noodles, and although several types of oil are listed, you have to realize that very, very little oil was used in the making of each three-ounce package. Certainly less oil than fried chicken!

By supporting the ramen noodle platform, we would greatly decrease our everyday demand for oil and potentially totally diminish our dependency on foreign oil providers.

The Environment

Most ramen noodles come packaged in plastic that stretches out to about a 7×7-inch piece. This and the seasoning packet are the only waste produced by the meal. (Directly, that is. And I’ll address the seasoning packet later.) Consider the cooking process: hot water. That’s it, dude! Remember all that water you wasted when you drained your spaghetti? Not so with ramen noodles! That water is a vital part of the standard ramen noodle meal, and none of it gets wasted in the kitchen sink.

Most homemade meals involve a lot of utensils, measuring cups, mixers, and dishes in the cooking process. What do you need for ramen noodles? Nothing more than a bowl and a spoon. But if you’re Chuck Norris, which all but one of you aren’t, you don’t even need the bowl. Either way, you save the time and natural and unnatural resources required for cleanup by supporting the ramen noodle platform.

Global Warming

This is such a hot topic that I’ve mostly given it the cold shoulder. My personal studies lead me to believe that the media’s version of global warming is about as real as Santa Clause, except without the reindeer—we think we see presents under the tree, but was it really some fat guy discriminatingly climbing through chimneys, or was it dad and mom? At least in my family, I never was sure who did all the chimney-climbing, but I always knew that those presents were from real people in my family, not some myth of CNNic proportions.

But despite what opinions there are to explain global warming, I think we can all agree that global warming is caused by rising temperatures. And my ramen noodle platform solves that problem as well.

For the non-Chuck Norrises, there are really just two ways to cook ramen noodles: on the stove or in the microwave. My plan would be for us to only use the microwave. Just about three or four minutes of radiation and you’re done! By not using the stovetop or the oven, you’re preventing gob-loads of heat from going into the atmosphere and causing global warming.

Healthcare

People often complain about the amount of MSG found in oriental foods like ramen noodles. But this is really a solution rather than a problem. Look, if everyone was eating the same thing, we’d all get the same sicknesses. And if we all got the same sicknesses, then our doctors could stop wasting time writing unreadable notes and instead all focus on the same diseases that everyone would have, so healthcare costs would dramatically decrease.

And as long as I’ve mention MSG, which I don’t make a big habit of doing, can someone please explain something to me? At the grocery store, you’ll see all these spices on a rack: “contains no MSG,” “no MSG,” “no MSG,” “no MSG.” And then what’s right next to all of these spices? MSG. Huh?

World Peace

It’s a real struggle to a get a bunch of people who all speak different languages, have different moral systems, use different currencies, follow different religions, and come from totally different cultures to agree—just at the local Wal-Mart (seriously, you should see my local Wal-Mart). Putting this on a global scale not only means a big-time profit for Wal-Mart, but also a huge challenge for political leaders who would probably rather spend their time at Wal-Mart eating free samples.

If you haven’t noticed, and most bachelor/ettes probably haven’t, ramen noodles come in all sorts of flavors: regular, spicy, roasted, Cajun, mushroom—and that’s just for chicken! There are also flavors like beef, shrimp, oriental, and cat. With all of these flavors, is there really any need for our countries to keep fighting? Problem solved.

Terrorism

Okay, maybe some radicals won’t get it and will continue to fight because they think chicken mushroom ramen noodles are infidels. For these terrorists, my ramen noodle platform also provides the solution. Remember those seasoning packets? Those are made out of—well, I don’t really know quite what that aluminumesque stuff is, but I’m sure we could melt it down into bullets to take care of the terrorists.

So, you see? I truly believe with all of my noodle that this is the only solution to the pressing political issues. When you visit the polls this Tuesday, or when you go back to vote a second and third and forth time (you know, “vote early, vote often!”), don’t think about those nitty-gritty details, you look for which candidate supports the ramen noodle platform, because America’s last hope hangs … by a ramen noodle … and … in the balance.

If you like the podcast, please consider writing a review in iTunes. And now that I’m back, I’d love to hear from you! So either leave a comment on the website, theRamenNoodle.com, or email me. And you can stalk me through Twitter.

In all seriousness, please go participate in America’s future by voting in this election.

Today

One year ago today,
A thought that I wish … I could say,
“I had the strength to cast down
In submission to the Lord’s crown.”

One year ago today,
A temptation to trust … or betray.
But I gave into the fear
Because I could not stand another tear.

One year ago today,
A choice for God’s … or my way.
But I chose poorly and did wrong
And didn’t let God make me strong.

One year ago today,
A command that I … didn’t obey.
To wait on God’s plan,
Instead of taking it in my own hand.

One year ago today,
A regret that, for my life … will stay.
I was foolish to not realize,
The tears I would bring to others’ eyes.

But …

On this today,
I awoke and made my choice
No longer to punish myself
But in the Cross to rejoice.

On this today,
I am forgiven for all.
And, upheld by His hand,
To never again fall.

On this today,
God has separated my sin
As far as east is from west,
And He has cleansed me within.

On this today,
The mercies of before,
Are replaced with brand new
Lovingkindness even more!

On this today,
He promises to take
These ashes I’ve made
And into beauty make.

On this today,
I stand on the valley’s other side
Knowing that I am still
My Lord’s precious bride.

On this today,
My tears of sorrow have been turned
Into tears of joy
Over all that I have learned.

On this today,
I can humbly proclaim
I’m saved by His grace
And the power of His name.

On this today,
My eyes to heaven are raised
Beholding the glory of God,
Who alone is worthy to be praised.

On this today,
God has blotted out my sin,
And given me the power
To be alive again.

On this today,
I trust in my Yahweh Rophe
To heal and forgive
And give me a new life to live.

On this today,
I can put away my sorrow,
For I know that no matter what,
God loves me always today … and forever tomorrow!

It’s summer time and we all like to stay cool and yet save money. Listen to my friend Jeremy and me discuss six money-saving tips for keeping your home and yourself cool in the hot weather.

1. Leave the refrigerator open
2. Turn on the oven and leave it open
3. Place ice cubes around the house—I rewrote my note on this one! You have to listen to understand why
4. Upgrade CRTs and old TVs to flat-panels
5. Install mist-makers or leave the showers running on cold water instead
6. Buy a pool

Special thanks to those who hung out in the Ustream chatroom as we tried to broadcast live:

• D.G. Hollums from The Guys Podcast, Generally Speaking About the Church, and on Twitter
• My new friend from Podcamp Ohio, Doctor Anonymous, also on Twitter
• And some others who gave up when we were having problems, or who stayed and may not want to be named

You can follow me on Twitter, theRamenNoodle; and follow Jeremy, Phlegon.

This episode of Random Noodle Update was sponsored by D.Joseph Design.

In case you haven’t figured it out already, I’m on Twitter: twitter.com/theRamenNoodle.

I’ll be back in the podcasting saddle this week.

To make ironing more masculine,and after considering a TV show question from the Hardcore Christian Gamer podcast, I started watching MacGyver for free through CBS’s website, and then Adobe Media Player. Join the fun:

• I referenced the garage-door incident of Episode 3
• Need to review “elite bachelornessity“?
• MacGyver streaming on CBS.com
• Get Adobe Media Player to easily watch lots of shows

A new show will be added to the Ramen Noodle. I’m calling it Random Noodle Updates. In this episode, I cover:

• Introduction to the new show.
• I’m purchasing varieties of chicken-flavored ramen noodles for a future smack-down. Do you have suggestions?
• Please leave comments on this site or give me ratings and comments in iTunes. You may be eligible for future giveaways if you leave comments in iTunes.
• I purchased a new microphone and Behringer 1204 mixer that should drastically improve recording quality. What do you think?
• Please check the nonpodcasted entries on the website:
  • Pizza-Box Tower (Garfield comic)
  • Bachelor Pad Theme Restaurant
  • Five Rejected Names for a Single-Serving Meal Product

1. Quiet Evenings
2. Me & the Kitties
3. Lonesome Bites
4. Monomunches
5. Singles…for Life!

From Garfield on GoComics.

Our bodies need hydration. Most bachelors get this hydration from a single source: Mountain Dew. (This, by the way, is not a paid advertisement so please do not buy anything from Mountain Dew until they give me money. That’s right! I’m holding you ransom for Mountain Dew. Uh, that is, for them to pay me. I don’t want them sending Mountain Dew to me—I really can’t stand the green stuff myself.)

I, however, get my hydration from a healthier source: A&W’s Sparkling Vanilla Cream S—um, I mean water … yeah. I get my humor from the soda—or “pop” as some of you call it—but my hydration really comes from water. Mmm! I love water! I dream about water. I cleanse my clothes in water. I capture water and collect it in little bottles, even carrying some of these wherever I go, sometimes even taking water on beautiful walks in the park. I decorate water with little rocks and fish in big, glass display cases in my house and connect little filters to keep it pristine under a fluorescent light. I even bathe in water!

I love water so much that I have a special system just to keep water comfortably warm. I have a huge hole in my backyard where I collect as much water as I can, and then feed it special vitamins and minerals to keep it healthy and then I … I … swim in it … and I … jump into it with reckless abandon. And my cares of this world float away on water’s back. When weather gets cold, I cover water with a giant blanket and tuck it in with love until the next season.

But alas! Ours is a wishy-washy relationship. More on the wishy side than the washy. At times, I fear that water does not love me in return. These are the chronicles of my war with water.

Part One

Ever since the local mayor told me that I could no longer live and conduct my graphic design business under the interstate bridge, I have moved from cardboard box to cardboard box, struggling to find somewhere that suited my needs. Although I found many cardboard boxes wired for electricity and even indoor plumbing, the broadband monsters must’ve deemed the cardboard box market too small to extend their high-speed services to me, despite my offering to move onto company property.

Thus, I was left with no choice but to buy my own house. I had familiarized myself with the housing market (which mostly involved ensuring my ability to distinguish between houses and public parks), I interviewed several realtors (they needed to indentify a house, too!), and I began shopping. (Oh! That reminds me. I need to go grocery shopping again soon. I’m out of chicken-flavored ramen noodles; I have only the more-exotic flavors left in my pantry.)

I eventually found a great house. Not only did this house have high-speed internet available, but in the backyard was a modest-sized, in-ground swimming pool! I knew this would give me extra points in my struggle to achieve “elite bachelornessity,” so I bought the house. (Listen to episode 4 to learn about “elite bachelornessity.”)

The former tenet did not take good care of the pool at all—he was probably some Mountain-Dew drinking loser who thought the pool was a meteor impact crater from a martian rock. Not only was this evident from the drained pool and resulting destroyed liner, but there was something dead in what little water existed in the pool. It was very hard to tell what this creature had once been—all I could see was soaked hair and a bloated body.

(It’s at this time that I’d like to remind my listeners (or those slackos who read my podcasts rather than listen to them—you guys are missing cool audio features like this: __[really cool audio feature]__) that this portion of the podcast is best enjoyed on an empty stomach. If your stomach isn’t empty now, it may be within a few minutes.)

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered what would happen if I threw a cat into a pool, but I never thought to remove the cat after the experiment. Perhaps this was the same flawed logic as that of this home’s former resident. In any case, I now know what happens to a cat if you throw it into a pool. But then again, I’m not even sure if this was a cat.

The backyard stank, but not overly so. It was almost bearable, if for just a few moments. This dead animal was only a preview of things to come. And for ease of telling the remainder of this story, and to make it easier for my listeners with weak constitutions, let’s call this dead whatever-it-was animal … Edna, which stands for “extremely dead, nauseous animal.”

After I had a contract to purchase this house, but before the closing date, I decided that Edna just had to go. She just couldn’t continuing hanging around my new home—actually, I guess she did more floating than hanging. Whatever the case, I tried to figure out how to get rid of Edna.

In a stroke of sheer brilliance—or utter stupidity, it’s hard to tell the difference at times—I stopped by the house after work one day. In my business-casual attire, I strolled to the backyard to negotiate a severance plan with Edna. Either she pulls herself back together and climbs out of there, or we do things the hard way. Unfortunately for both of us, Edna refused to reason, so I reached for the swimming pool net.

I’m not sure if it ever occurred to me that I’d have to do something with the body once I dealt with Edna. But throwing caution—and my last breath of clean oxygen— to the wind, I extended the pool net into the brown water in attempts to capture Edna.

I’ve never had much luck with fishing. It always seemed that no matter how far I cast the line, no matter how much bait I put on the hook, and no matter how patiently I waited, I could never catch a fish. This day proved no different—except that I wasn’t fishing for a fish this time. I guess that’s different.

The net dipped into the murky water and slowly, quietly drifted toward Edna. My hope was to catch her by surprise. If it wasn’t for the long piece of flesh (presumably her former tail) on one end, I wouldn’t have known which way Edna was looking.

SNATCH! I had her! Or did I? I tried to lift up, but Edna was too heavy! So I thrust the net deeper into the water and pulled it up under her. But this time, Edna pulled a nasty one from her bag of tricks. Rather than simply sinking into my net, Edna kind of … spread out over the water. But that wasn’t all! You think skunks and your uncle smell bad when they let one go, Edna was a thousand times worse times a thousand dead animals times a thousand pig farms times a thousand rotten eggs times sewage plant gravy.

Immediately, my eyes begin to water, my stomach began to twist, my throat began to contort, and my saliva became thin. If I didn’t get out of there, I knew I would toss my noodles.

I threw the net into the yard and ran as fast as I could back to the front yard. But I found no relief! The stench was so horridly strong, that I could still smell it in the front yard. I could see a need for relandscaping in the near future as plants in my future front yard, and the neighbors’ front yards all along the street began to wither as if bowing under Edna’s odorous presence.

Edna’s stinky stubbornness proved to be a problem that I could not solve alone. So, the next day, I called in the experts: the Environmental Protection Agency. I explained the problem to them, trying to frame this as a hazard to the environment and possible detriment to Earth’s longevity, but they told me the worst thing that I could hear, “Soldier, you’re just gonna have to deal with this yourself.”

Homeland security didn’t understand the terror Edna brought, the NSA said that Edna posed no threat, the CIA said that dead Edna could tell no tales, the local police were too busy with Betsy the cow, the FBI went on a raid to find Edna’s kidnappers, and the local library agent said that the only book to have a solution for my problem was already checked out. Even my real estate agent turned his back on me, saying that he couldn’t blow his cover.

Thus, I alone began plotting how to evict Edna. Once I had moved in to my new home, I ran several errands to buy the necessary material, checked the weather reports, and scheduled my offensive.

On that Saturday morning, the Sun wasn’t too high and the air was still. The cooler temperature would help keep Edna’s stench to a minimum. It was time and I was armed for battle.

I wore my dirty-work clothes, in case Edna decided to fling body parts at me; and I doused a red handkerchief in some of the flavored dish soap from episode 1 and wrapped the cloth around my face to protect my acute senses of taste and smell from Edna’s not-so-cute influence. This time, a shovel was my weapon of choice, and several of the thickest trash bags that I could find would be my way of protecting you, my listeners. (See? I care about you!)

Instead of taking the higher ground in my war against Edna, I climbed into the dried shallow end of the pool to come to a near-level battleground with my enemy.

I arranged one trash bag for a quick deposit and then grabbed my shovel. Edna cautiously drifted toward me to see what was going on. She saw the trash bag and the shovel hidden behind my back! But before she could effect her escape, I thrust the shovel under her and began to struggle to pull her out. She resisted with all the strength in what remained of her body. Edna was heavy, but not heavy enough for my two-liter-bottle-strengthened arms. The attack was quick, and I had her bagged—literally.

But one bag would not be enough to contain this would-be escape artist. So I tightly tied that one bag, and then tied it into another bag, and then put that bag into another bag, and then put that bag into another bag, and then put that bag into another bag. Each bag being tightly locked. Despite these seemingly extraneous security layers, Edna still screamed nauseating protests.

Being assured that Edna wasn’t going anywhere, I locked her in yet another container to be picked up by the only government agency available to transfer my prisoner. This Rumpke representative came the following Monday morning and took Edna away, all without knowing that he was transporting a prisoner more deadly (or maybe just more dead) than anyone he’s ever seen before.

Having removed the threat, I called the CIA cleanup crew to replace the pool so that no one would ever know what happened here. But this was only the first battle in my war with water.

As you will hear every now and then, I consider myself to be an “elite bachelor.” Now, stop it! Don’t laugh! I worked hard to ascend the meaningless ranks of bachelorhood to make it to this pristine position. My only disappointment at this level is that it just doesn’t pay what it should. In fact, it doesn’t pay at all. Unless you count the sympathy gifts that I receive from friends who are leaving town. But sometimes, I suspect their family conversation is something like, “Honey? What should we do with this junk? Goodwill won’t accept it.” “Oh, that’s easy. Give it to that bachelor. He’ll take anything!”

I hope that you don’t listen to this podcast just because you have a boring life. If so, the following may make your life even worse. Let’s consider some etymology. (Psst! That means “word history.”)

The word “bachelor” is originally from the Old French bacheler (say it like you’re throwing up, and it’ll sound French—“bacheler—gag”), which meant “knight bachelor.” The word was stolen by the English, who cleaned up the French vomit, and was used in reference to one belonging to the lowest stage of knighthood. (The word was used in such reference, not the vomit. I don’t know what they did with the vomit.) These lowly knights were either too poor or too young to achieve anything that great. Basically, these were the bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking slime of what was otherwise an esteemed ’hood o’ da k-night.

Although the word has been bounced around between cultures for hundreds of years, like a giant game of vocabularic volleyball, I think we can all agree that the meaning has not changed much.

Bachelors commonly can’t afford life, are too young to retire (despite their feelings that they deserve such pension), don’t know the difference between the oven and the dishwasher, tend to be messy, have a wardrobe consisting of usually only one basic color (resulting from washing everything together), and often congregate like rats with fellow bachelors in a cheap apartment (call a “bachelor pad”).

The average bachelor diet usually consists of 20% pizza, 20% fast food, 10% chips, 40% Mountain Dew, and the remaining 10% is usually indistinguishable, extraterrestrial, or something you would rather not know about and is probably not intended for human consumption. About 97.3% of most common bachelors are not married or at all involved with a girl. Maybe they resort to bachelorhood because they can’t get a girl. As if those five boxes of moldy pizza under the bed provide some comfort in their solace. But my personal theory is that they often can’t get a girl because there exists a quantum barrier between bachelorhood and marriage. Very few bachelors survive the crossing over. … Think about it.

I thank my lucky rubber duckies that I’ve made it through Bachelor Boot Camp. I properly separate my clothes for washing, which means no pink underwear; I shop for groceries based on price, not caffeine content or ability to double as a weapon; my couch doesn’t crunch from Doritos chips (who, by the way, do not sponsor this podcast, so don’t buy anything from them until they do sponsor me!); there is no pizza monster culturing under my bed; I can cook without using a microwave, a drive-through, or a phone to call the local pizza joint; and I have my own house, which contains more than bean bag furniture and scattered dirty laundry. This combination has earned me the irrelevant title of “Elite Bachelor.”

But as things go, Elite Bachelor is still at least one rank below Most-Eligible Bachelor. Sigh. I think it’s obvious that I’m quite hopeless when it’s the office astrophysicist who gets introduced as our company’s “Most-Eligible Bachelor.”

I wonder how hard it would be to try for another promotion. What would it take? Millions of dollars in the bank? Unrecognizably dressing up like a pirate? Highlighting my hair?

You may not believe me, but there actually was a time when girls were practically beating down my door to—Oh wait! That was when I fell asleep in the bathtub and my mom was calling through the door to remind me that it was bed time. Um … so that one doesn’t count.

But seriously now, I do remember random, unknown internet girls who would instant-message me, telling me how “hot” I was. Those were the days! Unfortunately for me, I was not the “guy in orange” from the dating website—or maybe that was unfortunate for them. Indeed, it was all a cyber mixup of world wide web proportions.

*BOOM* *BOOM* *BOOM* Oh … hi, all of you iron-pumping, poor knights. No, no. I didn’t mean that! No, no. I didn’t mean that I’m better than you, I simply meant—wait. What are you doing. No! NO! Not the—

Hi. Are you still there? Yeah, I’m pretty beat up. But I like these little white pills they’re giving me. They taste kind of like ramen noodles! But … without the seasoning packets. Eew!

This has been safety and security awareness week at work. This is the one week in the year that all of the staff members are expected to be safe, I guess to somehow make up for the other fifty-one weeks of not being safe. I think that “security awareness” has something to do with knowing that the stock market is made up of these things called “securities”(?) and that it somehow makes my home safer from the neighborhood bully? But I digress.

Yesterday, I sat in an a “home security” class in which the speaker told us how we can make our homes more dangerous to would-be burglars (we also learned the family tree of “burglars,” “robbers,” and “thieves”—fascinating stuff!). Inspired by this class, I took a fresh scent look at my home to see where I could diminish its curb appeal to those who want to get closer than the curb. I found a few things here and there that I could consider. But really, my home was quite secure!

That night, as I lay just almost asleep in bed, with the rain gently pattering upon the moist ground outside, I slowly drifted into a mindless state of—BOOM! I was startled with what sounded and felt like lightning striking my house. But it couldn’t have been lightning because there was no thunder.

Having just learned about burglaries and home security, I suspected the worst—I had a door-busting uninvited guest intending to rob me of my collection of rare seasoning packets and noodle sculptures! Alert and now fully awake, I grabbed my wireless phone and predialed 911. Now that I look back, I don’t really know how this would have helped me when I faced the burglar. Was I going to press Send and hand the phone to him saying, “Here, this is for you”? Would I have called the emergency services once I had collected enough personal information from my visiting criminal to properly ID him? Or was I planning to use my phone’s theft-deterrent system like in that super bowl commercial? Oh wait. I didn’t include that in my phone plan. Grr.

I cautiously stepped out of my room while still in my yellow rubber ducky PJs with complimentary red slippers. I had the thought to grab a weapon—a knife, a metal hanger, a belt—but then hoped that my mere presence could be enough to scare off any attacker. Hey! It works on other people during the day when I look presentable, so the effect has got to be multiplied at night!

A quick sweep through my house revealed no broken windows, no busted-down doors, and nothing overly suspicious outside my window—not even some flying kid waiting to see if I cut off my toe. (That’s a reference to the popular Heroes TV show, in case you didn’t get it. I know. I know. That’s okay. Yes, I’m also wondering why Mr. Muggles didn’t go eat the toe. And no, I don’t know where it is anymore. Maybe Clair kept it in a little box like some kids keep their baby teeth?)

So if I wasn’t burglarized, then my next suspicion was that something had blown up. All of my PCs were turned off, my HVAC wasn’t set, the refrigerator looked fine (albeit somewhat tempting at this late hour), and I didn’t smell smoke. Then I remembered that I had something going in the dryer downstairs. I rushed down to see what was wrong, but nothing turned up. In last hopes of finding some criminal to beat up on this fine evening, I checked the garage.

There it was, clasping to what looked like iron rope, ready to strangle me! We starred each other down for what seemed like a short eternity of less than a minute. We had come to an impasse. Either I would die, or I’d have a very hard time opening my garage door in the morning. Yeah, that’s right. One of the springs had popped.

Now, I have to give kudos to my friend who conducted the home inspection before I bought my house. He warned me about my garage door springs and suggested that I install safety cables, which I only got around to doing about two months ago. Thankfully, this safety cable saved my beautiful car from losing its beauty. It would have been a terrible shame to see her glossy finish scraped or her transparent windows shattered. It brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it.

Um … what was this podcast about? Oh yes! Bathroom scale!

So now I need to repair my garage door. I successfully removed my car from the garage—how I did this will remain my trade secret, but you can buy my video on it for only $19.95 + S/H.

I made a trip to a local hardware store directly after work. In my naivety, I somehow assumed that there would be only one kind of garage door spring. Unfortunately, this was not the case. I found several different springs made for garage doors weighing 70, 110, 120, 130, 140, 150, and 160 pounds, and each weight limit had two or three different tones that were supposed to harmonize with the garage door opener I had. Not knowing which spring set I needed, I had to go back home to determine the weight of my garage door.

By now, you should know that I’m not your average bachelor. In fact, I’m not anyone’s bachelor. Because if I was someone’s bachelor, then I really wouldn’t be a bachelor anymore. I’ll delve into this theology in a different episode. Probably the one that was supposed to be tonight’s release.

Anyway, I knew that an easy, and totally geeky way to measure my garage door would be to use my bathroom scale. After all, it works great for my handsome figure, why wouldn’t it work on an ugly old garage door as well? (Um … let’s not discuss the similarities between those two. … Seriously! STOP IT!)

I carefully opened the garage door, safely removed the one remaining spring, and retrieved my bathroom scale. You have to understand that this wasn’t just any boring bathroom scale—not at all! This was a thing of … perfection! It was obviously digital (like I’d buy anything that isn’t digital?), told me my weight, body fat ratio, and hydration levels! It also remembered my age, gender, and how athletic I was, in case I forgot any of these and needed to be reminded.

The bathroom scale was reverently placed in the landing location of the garage door. Almost as if an offering of peace and loyalty to my garage door. Certainly, this was one of the smartest ideas I’d had in quite a while. Then I pulled the red handle …

The door detached from the powered opener with no problem at all. I began to slowly lower the door onto the scale. But this is when my great idea mutated into a bad idea like … like … well, I can’t think of anything quirky to say right here, so I’ll just keep moving right along.

The first foot wasn’t bad at all, but in the next couple inches, I could feel the garage door’s arrogance coming out against me. There was just one more inch to go … until the weight of the door overpowered my own, poorly balanced weight and the whatever-it-weighs door came crashing down on my bathroom scale.

I’ve seen those old, Mark IV 1980s movies about the rapture. You know, “Thief in the Night,” “Mark of the Beast,” and all of those. So I was not unfamiliar with decapitation. But when that garage door struck into the heart of my $30 bathroom scale, something died inside of me. And apparently, something also died inside of the scale.

I’ve had a partial-class of training in CPR, so I went to work. The first vital sign I detected was a flashing *Err* *Err* *Err* on the digital readout. But try as I might, I just couldn’t get the little guy back to full breath.

After some labor, I did manage to get the display working again. I stood on it as a test. I’d get interesting results ranging from 170 pounds to 240 pounds, and back again, bouncing around sporadically like the little boy in the Family Circus comic strip. Standing perfectly still, I’d weigh 166.8 … 172.1 … 170.3 … 180.2 and so on. So either I was undergoing some incredible molecular change that was affecting my body mass, or my bathroom scale had given up the ghost and these were just muscular spasms.

My garage door still isn’t repaired yet, because I’ll need a new scale before I can know which spring to buy. In the meantime, another lesson learned: good idea, poor execution.

Please understand me. Just because you use a key for whatever key-purpose for which you would use said or otherwise unsaid key, doesn’t mean that you are necessarily a sissy. But in my personal opinion, for which I am only mostly responsible … until further notice, I think that it’s a little sissy for me to use a key. Why? Because in our high-tech world of frivolous gadgets, the traditional metal key is such an ancient way to unlock stuff. Give me a laser signature, voice recognizer, fingerprint reader, retina scanner, DNA decoder, dental record analyzer, or, better yet, an OpenID-compatible login field, and I’ll be happy. But a key?

One evening, I decided to try these new technologies in my own home. Having my vast array of culinary skills, I threw a frozen pizza in the oven for dinner. Instead of staring into the oven window gazing longingly at my food—which, by the way, does not harm your eyes like staring into a microwave does because an oven is much slower than a microwave, so your eyesight dies much slower—I went outside to open my pool for the upcoming summer.

I have to admit here that I’m a geek. But you could probably already tell. I almost always have at least two items with LCD screens and wireless capabilities at all time. Perhaps my electronics give me a sense of security. And it’s that sense of security that makes me dislike traditional keys. So this particular evening, my technical arrogance prompted me to walk outside and proclaim to the world my independence from old-fashioned things like keys … by forgetting to unlock my door handle and leaving my key inside, and all of those cool, high-tech ways of unlocking stuff back at their respective retailers.

Yes, I was locked out.

I once read in one of those cute “life’s lessons” booklets something like this, “Give a house key to three of your friends. If you can’t trust them with a house key, get new friends.” So that is exactly what I did. I ditched all of my friends and got a great deal on some preowned models down at Goodwill—oh wait. Wrong thing. No, I really did give a key to a couple friends. (If I didn’t give one to you, then, well, maybe I was out of keys, or maybe I’m still carrying it in my pocket like I did for four months to give to another of my friends, or maybe I have some other good reason, which a real friend really would not ask about anyway.)

I called one of these friends who drives past my neighborhood on his way home from work. He said he could certainly help, and that he was fifteen minutes away. Perfect. I thought, because my pizza had about seventeen minutes to go. I’d get into the house just in time to pull the hot cheese pizza out of the oven.

Unfortunately, my friend was asked to “briefly” help someone else. That took ten minutes. By the time he did get to my house, my pizza was a charcoal-flavored chip.

Since that event, I have never locked myself out of the house again. But I still secure my house well enough that I can’t get in without a key, which was recently tested by a former housemate who locked himself out and had to wait until I got back home at 11:30 PM to get back in and go to bed.

Thus, old-fashioned means call for old-fashion techniques. I now have some keys hidden in convenient places that I can access. Go ahead and try to find it.

Um … no. That wasn’t it. Yes, that is real doggy poo. And ancient Chinese proverb say, “Man with doggy poo on hands not worthy of trust.” So no house key for you!

Lest I give the impression I don’t know noon from the middle of the day, I want to say upfront that I am familiar with the technology affectionately known as “dishwasher.” Many times, I have loaded, run, and unloaded a dishwasher without having to reference the manual. Yes, I have skills. During my first time living as a bachelor, I either had no dishes worthy of a dishwasher, or no dishwasher. But when I bought my own dishwasher (with attached house) and acquired enough kitchenware to fill a dishwasher, I called my all-knowing, all-caring, Mahha Mom for her professional opinion of what goo (or goop, depending upon your upbringing) that I should get for my dishwasher. She recommended a brand, which will remain unnamed until they offer me money to advertise for them (yes, Palmolive, you should give me money).

I found several flavors of the dish goop, so I took my time to decide which one smelled the least feminine. This is important to a bachelor. There can be nothing worse than watching a 100%-guy movie with lots of explosions, and then one of the guys asks out loud, “Who smells like … lavender?” So I picked a flavor that would avoid such awkwardness, bought a bottle, and brought it home; satisfied that it was, in fact, on sale too!

My dishes were already rinsed and waiting in the dishwasher for the holy goop to wash them of their uncleanness. I filled both compartments with the appropriate amount of the apple-flavored stuff, set the washer to the appropriate settings, and retired to my computer desk with a celebratory can of soda. I had accomplished much—I had proven my worth to this house, and my dominance over the lower intelligence known as dishwasher.

After about half an hour, I went upstairs to grab a snack from the kitchen, or maybe I was going to gloat over my success to the emptiness of the dining room. Whatever the case, I stepped into the kitchen, and immediately experienced a wonderful tingling sensation that made me swell up with pride—that is, until I realized that it was actually my socks that were swelling up with water. I looked down and saw a beautiful atmosphere of fluffy, white suds-clouds blanketing my floor. I mentally cataloged the different cloud types—mostly stratus and cumulus formations.

As enjoyable as this experience was, I knew that my dishwasher had no “clean my whole kitchen for me” setting. So I made another call to my personal expert.

In her very gracious and compassionate manner, she laughed at me and set me straight. My mistake? I had purchased dish soap rather than dishwasher detergent. Apparently, there is a difference. Those companies really should make the difference more obvious for people like me—bachelors, that is. In order to prevent future confusion, I recommended that the company relabel their dishwasher detergent as “stick this in your dishwasher” and their dish soap products as “This is not dishwasher detergent.” I’m still waiting for a reply. Maybe I would have heard back sooner if I hadn’t folded the letter up as a paper airplane and flown it through the clouds of my floor, which resulted in a unfortunate crash and several paper airplane men missing in action. Their paper families have been contacted.