Erik Deckers' Laughing Stalk

You're Looking At Your Phone Wrong

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 12:00:00 +0000

You’re doing it wrong.

Whatever it is you’re doing, it’s wrong. No matter how long you’ve done it, someone always discovers a different way of doing it and says you’re doing your way all wrong.

Sleeping? Wrong. Peeling a banana? Nope, wrong. Going to the bathroom? You couldn’t be any wronger.

(See? Even that’s wrong.)

You’re even eating your hamburgers wrong, said an article by some Gen Z intern whose only hamburgers come with apple slices and a toy.

"You have to turn the burger upside down to keep the bottom bun from falling apart from all the burger juice!"

Seriously, that’s your big discovery? You needed 500 words to tell us, "turn it over?" That’s hardly revolutionary.

Technically, it’s half-revolutionary, but that’s beside the point.

I’ve been flipping my burgers for years, so don’t tell me you discovered this amazing new technique that absolutely no one has ever thought of. There is literally a 50/50 chance of discovering it every time we eat one.

Besides, you missed really useful advice, like putting the cheese on the bun first, and then the burger. Or, let the burger rest on a plate for a minute, instead of going directly from grill to bun. Or cut the burger in half to reduce the amount of bun getting squished in your fingers.

Or, yes, just turn it over, Einstein. Good job. Now go do something useful.

Except, it turns out, we are doing a lot of things wrong, and our bodies are paying the price.

You can get tennis elbow from playing tennis too much. Or there’s golfer’s elbow, which is like tennis elbow, only you’re more insufferable.

There’s boxer’s fracture, which is when you break the pinkie bone inside your hand. It’s caused by punching someone incorrectly, which makes the other person say, "You’re punching me wrong." Which is how you broke your other hand.

Bowler’s thumb is a numbing sensation caused by the additional strain on your thumb when you release the ball. There’s baseball finger, where the tendon at the tip of your finger is torn, and you can’t fully extend your finger. And there’s driver’s finger, which is caused by people going slow in the left lane.

And now, you’re looking at your phone wrong (except you’re not), because dermatologists and beauty companies are blaming your time on your phone for deepening those horizontal creases at the front of your neck.

They’re concerned because they realized your vanity is how they make money, and they have a vested self-interest in making you feel less attractive.

It’s not that you’re getting new lines or doing something to cause more of them. Rather, it’s that the beauty companies want you to think they’re getting deeper and more crevasse-like, and they can only be eliminated with costly plastic surgery and prohibitively expensive serums and skincare products.

It’s not true, but it’s what they want you to think. They don’t make any money by letting you feel good about yourselves.

Procter & Gamble launched a neck-lifting treatment with the tagline "Tech Neck Got You Down? Give It a Lift." RoC started offering a moisturizer stick that targets tech neck. And over the past two years, plastic surgeon Dr. Sam Rizk has seen a 25% increase in patients in their mid-30s who want neck lifts.

Now, to be sure, these lines are happening, but you have them anyway. Are they getting so deep that your dermatologist heard an echo when she was looking into them? No, not at all. Are small children running away and screaming whenever you hold your head up and look straight ahead? Absolutely not.

But they know you’re not going to buy a moisturizer stick if you aren’t concerned about something on your body.

Besides, if you’re going to worry about anything, worry about your posture. Worry about what leaning forward like that is doing to you. Did you know that holding your neck at a 45-degree angle is like lifting a 49-pound weight? The best way to use your phone is to lie in bed on your side and scroll for two hours when you should really be going to sleep.

Tech neck is actually about your physical health, like your neck and shoulder muscles overworking and cramping up, not whether your self-esteem is tied to what beauty companies say you should look like.

Better yet, don’t spend so much time on your phone. That’s going to be difficult given that Americans spend an average of 5 hours and 16 minutes a day on their phones, with Gen Zers spending more than 6.5 hours per day.

They need to be more social in person, talk to people face-to-face, and get outside more. Spend more time speaking with friends, experiencing the world, and enjoying the things that life has to offer.

Because they’re doing it wrong.

Photo credit: Alexas_Fotos (Pixabay, Creative Commons)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Chronology Kerfuffle Over I Hear Of Sherlock Everywhere

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Wed, 01 Apr 2026 12:00:00 +0000

For Immediate Release

April 1, 2026

(DETROIT)— A contentious debate about chronology is once again raging among Sherlock Holmes enthusiasts, but in a whole new realm. Fans are pitted against fans, friendships are dissolving, social media relationships are being left in tatters. Even families are clashing over one simple question:

What is the best order to listen to episodes of I Hear Of Sherlock Everywhere?

"When it comes to Sherlock Holmes podcasts, IHOSE is the pre-eminent source for Sherlockian knowledge," said podcast expert Maddelyn Kin-Yoness (no relation). "Everything you ever wanted to know about the canon can be found in all of the IHOSE episodes."

Most casual IHOSE-ian fans believe the date of release/publication is probably the best, especially for people who are new to the world of Sherlock Holmes podcasts. However, many IHOSE scholars scoff at the notion that there is only "one true" order of the episodes.

"True Star Wars fans don’t just watch the movies in release order! That’s ludicrous!" said Schotte Mahntee (no relation). "So, too, is there a particular order to listen to IHOSE. Like, there are a lot of episodes you should probably skip entirely."

While there are alternative orders to listen to IHOSE, opinions vary wildly when it comes to what the actual metric should be used in deciding the order. The rift began as IHOSE researchers began creating their own chronologies (or indices).

"It’s not a question of what order the episodes were produced and released," said Kin-Yoness. "It’s a question of their order of importance or the order of the events being discussed."

Alternative chronologies can be based on anything, from the publication dates of the canonical stories being discussed to the age of the interview guests or even the number of publications written by interviewees.

One prominent chronologist, Skawtt Doil (no relation), has organized his index based on the alphabetical order of the predominant color of Scott Monty’s bow ties. Of course, this has caused no small amount of outrage among other chronologists.

"This is a rather unfortunate blunder by Mr. Doil, as Scott often wears 'No Tie,' which has caused a huge glut in the N section of his index," said Monnickeh Shhh-Mitt (no relation), the Sherlock Holmes Chronology Chair at Oxford University (or Cambridge; no one really knows for sure). "It’s actually laughable, and Mr. Doil is in danger of being drummed out of the Society of IHOSE Chronology Knowledgists for such a flighty and un-serious index."

When it comes to the IHOSE source material, the actual Sherlock Holmes stories have been laid out based on the dates they took place, according to vague clues and half-hidden hints discovered by obsessed researchers. For example, William S. Baring-Gould introduced his The Annotated Sherlock Holmes in 1967, and Leslie S. Klinger’s The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes was published in 2005–06.

"The chronlogizing of IHOSE episodes is a relatively new endeavor," said Buhrte Whoaldur (no relation), president of the Society of IHOSE Chronology Knowledgists. "For too long, Sherlockian chronologists have arrogantly hogged the spotlight, been invited to all the best parties, and gotten all the girls or guys. Well, it’s about time we SICKos get our moment in the spotlight, too."

Unlike the canonical chronologies developed by Baring-Gould and Klinger, which only vary slightly from one another, IHOSE chronologies can differ wildly as researchers fight and argue over which criteria should be used in sorting the episodes.

"For example, look at when Nicholas Meyer appeared on IHOSE," said Whoaldur. "He appeared on episode 85, 178, and, most recently, 317. But, should you listen to those episodes in 'one-two-three’ order? Or do you sort them based on the number of times Meyer shamelessly namedrops and plugs his Hollywood accomplishments?"

The field has gotten so contentious that fistfights have broken out at past conferences.

The next meeting of the Society of IHOSE Chronologists will be held the same week as the 2027 Baker Street Irregulars Conference in Atlantic City, New Jersey. This year’s chronology contest will be decided by a winner-take-all battle royale steel cage match.

###

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

English and French Women Marry a River and a Train

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 12:00:00 +0000

In the Spring a young man’s — or woman’s — fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

With apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson, I don’t know that he had these two stories in mind when he penned that verse in 1835, but Spring has sprung, and we have two stories of love.

Two stories of unusual love affairs, one in England, one in France, both involving modes of transportation, none involving underpants.

Let’s start in England, where three years ago, Meg Avon (formerly Trump; no relation) married the River Avon in Bristol, England, down in the southwest of the island nation.

Not a guy named River. An actual river.

"To be fair, this is not the craziest thing anyone named Trump has done," said one observer. "It’s not like she married this river after cheating on the last river she had married."

Avon is a writer and activist born and raised in Bristol who married her hometown sweetheart on June 17, 2023. She called it a "joyful" ceremony designed to protect the river and to highlight the problems of water pollution.

Which means we’re about three months from the Avons’ three-year anniversary. The traditional three-year gift is leather, but leather gets ruined when it gets wet, so that’s out. However, the modern gift is crystal or glass, which is better suited for a quiet evening at home in bed.

(Riverbed? Get it?)

The River Avon is the 19th longest river in all of England, running 83 miles in total. It’s named after an old Celtic word, "abona," which means "river," so it’s literally named "River River."

The River Avon is also called Bristol Avon to distinguish it from the four other Rivers Avon in England and three in Scotland.

That sounds like a sinister twist in a soap opera story. We think Meg married River Avon Bristol, but she was tricked into marrying the evil River Avon Warwickshire, who has a mustache and an eyepatch.

Meg told The Mirror, "I am still finding time to swim in the river every week, even in the winter when it has been particularly wet, which always feels riskier."

Isn’t the river always wet, regardless of the time of year? I don’t see why winter is any different.

Also, is this a monogamous relationship? How does Meg feel if other people go swimming in her husband, or boats go cruising on him? And how does he feel when she takes a bath? Is that cheating, or is it more like giving a quick hug to a friend?

Meg: Where have you been? Is that lipstick on your bank? You haven’t been canoodling with the Bristol Channel, have you?

Bristol Avon: No, no, honey, I swear! My mom gave me a kiss when I met her for lunch today! Besides, why is the bathtub wet? Has your old boyfriend been coming around again?

Avon Warwickshire: Ha, ha! It’s actually me, your long-lost evil brother!

Meg also told The Mirror, "I’ve even been finding new ways to connect with the river, from swimming in various spots along the stretch to meeting people from various art and environmental communities at different points."

So it’s an open marriage?

Meg is not the only person who married a form of transportation. Sandra Rahm from Strasbourg, France, married her one true love back in 2024: "3013," a tram with the Strasbourg Transport Company.

Sandra has been in love with 3013 since the two began their relationship during COVID. She lives with a rare compulsion called objectophilia, which causes people to develop physical and emotional attractions to random objects, like chandeliers, ashtrays, and body pillows.

Her relationship went viral on Instagram, and she became noted for her love for the train. She had previously told the French newspaper, Les Dernières Nouvelles d’Alsace, "In 2015, a medium predicted that I would have a relationship with an object in 2020."

And bada-bing, clickety-clack, the prediction came true in July of that year. That’s when Sandra and 3013 spotted each other across a crowded tram station. She approached him, and he asked for her ticket number. As she talked to him, "a magnificent light apparition" appeared in the driver’s cabin, and the two have been connected ever since.

This came on the heels of a serious breakup with the Number 37 Downtown Bus.

Sandra said that after she and 3013 found each other, "things got crazy."

To show people she’s serious about keeping her relationship on track, her house is filled with photos and memorabilia of the little engine that did; even her clothing bears his name. She shares photos of herself and her tram husband (trusband?) with her 2,400+ Instagram followers, and she has the number "3013" tattooed on her wrist.

In fact, Sandra is in a 'throuple' with 3013: She also has a human boyfriend named Thomas.

Honestly, dear reader, when I first learned of this story, I was planning on making a Thomas the Tank Engine joke, but apparently, Fate has a better sense of humor than I do.

Regardless of what you may think of Meg’s and Sandra’s relationships or choice of partner, I just hope they never dry up, and everything keeps chugging along.

Photo credit: River Avon, Bristol - Steinsky (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 3.0)
Tramway de Strasbourg ligne 0 Eole99 (Wikimedia Commons, GNU Free Documentation License)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Karl the Curmudgeon Is a Fan of Looksmaxxing

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 12:00:00 +0000

"Hey, Kid, are you maxxing?" asked my friend, Karl the Curmudgeon.

Am I what? Maxing? I said. What the heck is that?

"No, maxxing. With two x’s. As in 'looksmaxxing' or 'healthmaxxing.'"

Did you get hit in the head again? I asked, staring at Karl like he’d sprouted lobster claws from his ears. That’s head with one 'd,' I added. We were at First Editions for our regular late-afternoon lunch, which we mostly kept a secret from my wife and his daughter (who are two different people, by the way).

"No, it’s an Internet thing the kids are doing," said Karl, taking another drink from his beer.

You sound a hundred years old when you say 'kids' like that.

Karl ignored me. "It means to use data to quantify your improvements in areas of fitness, money, health, or even beauty. So, instead of just saying you’re going to the gym more, you would start 'gymmaxxing,' and then track as much data as possible to quantify your performance and improve your results. There are apps and influencers for it and everything."

Bleh, that sounds terrible. Why can’t we just do it the old-fashioned way, and write our workouts down in a little notebook? Better yet, repeat what you did last time? Why does everything have to be quantified in an app? Just let me do the thing.

"Oh, now who sounds a hundred years old?" he said. I made a rude gesture in response.

Kurt came and took our lunch orders; we didn’t even need menus because we ordered the same thing every time: bacon cheeseburger and fries for Karl; peanut-butter-and-jalapeño-burger and tater tots for me (because I’m emotionally 10 years old), and milkshakes.

Hey, we’re beefmaxxing, I said. Did I say that right? Beefmaxxing? And shakemaxxing?

"I don’t think that’s quite the spirit of the movement," said Karl.

So I can’t just stick 'maxxing' at the end of any random word and make it a thing?

"No, not quite."

And I can’t create a stupid app for it and charge a $9.95 monthly subscription?

"Definitely not."

And I can’t create stupid Instagram videos about burgermaxxing and become a famous influencer who actually contributes nothing to society?

"Not at all," said Karl.

Yeah, it’s definitely stupid.

"No, it isn’t, Kid!" Karl plonked his beer mug on the table. "Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t make it stupid."

No, the fact that it’s stupid makes it stupid. How do you even measure your looks quantitatively?

"That’s easy. Looksmaxxers quantify human beauty and assign scores to a person’s face based on things by measuring the angle of a person’s eyes or the length of the face versus the width, or the angularity of the jawline."

Ewww, I said. So human beauty is reduced to numbers? How does one maximize that? Or is that maxximize?

"Not that I do any of this myself, you understand," Karl said. I was pretty sure he was lying; his eyebrows looked suspiciously less shaggy than normal.

Oh, of course not. I would never accuse you of trying to improve your looks.

Karl made another rude gesture at me. "Anyway, the looksmaxxers do things called 'softmaxxing,' which include skincare routines and eyebrow grooming. They’ll also do 'gymmaxxing' to reach lower body fat percentages, which enhances their facial features. And some people also do 'hardmaxxing,' which includes surgery to do jaw realignment and hair transplants."

Oh, like Elon Musk’s gender affirming surgery. Anyway, what is 'gymmaxxing?'

"That’s part of the whole 'healthmaxxing' thing. You gather all the data you can get when you do your workouts, like weighing yourself right before and right after you work out to measure how much water you need to drink to rehydrate."

Oh! I said with recognition. You mean quants.

"Kid!" gasped Karl.

"Hey, we don’t use that kind of language in here," said Kurt as he was delivering our lunches. He set Karl’s plate in front of him and just sort of tossed mine at me.

No, it’s short for quantifiers or quantification, I said. It means people who quantify their bodily activities, like how long they brush their teeth, the number of miles they run, or their body fat measurements on one of those fancy scales.

"Oh, OK," they both said.

It just sounds like 'maxxing' is the new word for quantification, but it’s not new. It sounds like Gen Z created a round tube and thought they invented the wheel. They’re just tracking their progress on their phones instead of with paper and pen.

"Sure, it sounds stupid when you put it that way," said Karl.

Because it IS stupid! I said. I understand the desire to improve yourself, but calling it maxxing speaks to the growing vanity and arrogance of spoiled young people. Whatever they have is never enough; they always want more. And yet again, they’ve managed to ruin things that people do to be healthy. They’re like King Midas, except whatever they touch just turns to stupid.

"Are you quite finished?" said Karl, looking irritated.

No, I’m rantmaxxing.

Photo credit: PickPik (Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Wearing the Same Color Shirt Every Day is Not a Productivity Hack

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 12:00:00 +0000

Productivity Bros love productivity hacks. Nothing is a tip or a helpful hint; it’s a hack.

One of their favorite hacks to "maximize your cognitive performance" (that’s Productivity Bro talk for "think better") is to only wear one kind and color of clothing. That way, you’re not standing in front of your closet for several minutes, trying to decide what to wear.

It sounds smart, except it’s stupid.

"It’s not stupid, bro!" the Productivity Bros grunt, climbing off their Pelotons. "The average person spends 16 minutes a day trying to decide what to wear, bro."

"Yeah, that’s 97 hours per year, bro," says another.

"That creates decision fatigue," says the first bro. "We make 35,000 decisions per day, and they get worse at the end of the day. So you shouldn’t waste your cognitive energy on needless decisions that don’t actually do anything."

In other words, if I wear the same thing every day, I’ll make better decisions?

"Exactly, bro!" cheer the Bros. "That’s science, Bro!"

No, that’s really dumb.

"No, bro! Steve Jobs always wore black turtlenecks, and Mark Zuckerberg always wears blue hoodies, and they’re billionaires!"

So, if I wear black turtlenecks or blue hoodies, I’ll become a billionaire?

"No, that’s not what it—"

Ooh! What if I wear turtleneck hoodies? Could I become a double billionaire?

"That’s not how it works," the Productivity Bros grumbled. And then they started blathering about side hustles, ultra-caffeinated coffee, and cryptocurrency, I think; I don’t really listen to them.

These are my actual shirts.

The thing is, Steve Jobs wore black turtlenecks because he was the CEO of one of the biggest tech companies in the country, after he built the biggest animation company in the country, which was bought by the biggest entertainment company in the world. The dude wore whatever he wanted because he was a billionaire. If he wanted to wear Speedos and flip-flops, no one would have said anything because he was a billionaire.

Those things didn’t happen because he had blown all his mental processing powers trying to decide what he was going to wear that day.

He didn’t start each morning in front of his closet, going, "Let’s see, should I wear the black turtleneck or the yellow jumpsuit with the blue pirate boots? Oh, $#!^, there goes the fourth quarter financial projections."

Or "Hmmmm, should I wear a black turtleneck or the blue mumu with a kicky pink beret? Dang, there goes my idea for the iPhone!"

No, he became a billionaire by starting a company and then exploiting the labor of everyone who worked for him, just like all the other billionaires.

I’m sure people like Jobs and Mark Zuckerberg have a lot of tough decisions they need to make throughout the day: Do I cancel this important project? Should I have my products manufactured by a children’s sweatshop in China or a children’s sweatshop in Vietnam? Should I eliminate the department that ensures no one posts false propaganda and interferes with another country’s elections?

All tough, important decisions that will affect your company’s future and make you a bigger billionaire or a smaller billionaire.

But the futures of the world’s largest tech companies don’t hinge on "Hmmm, the blue one or the black one?"

"Excuse me, Mr. Zuckerberg, but we need an answer right away. Should we launch a hostile takeover of this AI company?"

"Oh, God, I don’t know, I had to pick my hoodie color this morning!"

I say all this as the guy who only ever wears one brand of t-shirt, two-thirds of which are navy blue.

(Shout out to the Duluth Trading Company in the hopes that they’ll send me a gift card.)

But at the same time, I haven’t run my tiny company into the ground by trying to decide whether I want to wear black or orange. To be fair, I’m not a billionaire, but that’s because I don’t exploit the people who work for me, not because I take five seconds to pick a shirt.

I will admit that it’s quite freeing to be able to just reach into my closet and pick whatever I want to wear. But then again, I wear blue jeans, and everything goes with blue jeans.

If I want to wear navy blue, I’m spoiled for choice. If I want to wear black so I look sophisticated, I’m covered. If I want to wear orange because the Dutch National Soccer Team is in the World Cup, I can do it.

I just reach into my closet, go "Yoink!" and I’m ready to go. I’m not standing there for another 14 minutes and 55 seconds trying to decide which heavy-duty cotton t-shirt with relaxed fit, reinforced stitching, and longer tails to prevent plumber’s crack I should wear.

(I really want that gift card.)

I don’t know what color shirt I should get next, though. I spent all morning trying to choose between scrambled and fried eggs for breakfast.

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

The Un-Phonetic Alphabet

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 20:00:00 +0000

We've all heard of the NATO alphabet — Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta — but what if you want to cause mischief and make the other person think a little bit, enter the Unphonetic Alphabet.

I've seen variations of the unphonetic alphabet around on the Internet, but many of them were usually missing a letter or two. So I made the completest version I could find. If you have any other examples, let me know.

A - aisle, aeon, aesthetics
B - bdellium
C - czar
D - django, djembe
E - ewe, euphonium, euonym, eight, eau, eye
F - "F as in phonetics"
G - gnat, gnarly, gnome
H - heir, honor,
I - Iago, ihram
J - jalapeño, Jose
K - knight, knife, knowledge
L - llama
M - mnemonic
N - Ng (pronounced eng), Nth degree
O - oedipal, ouija, oenophile, opossom
P - psychology, pneumonia, "P as in urine"
Q - quay (pronounced key), Quran
R - Rzeszow (pronounced jeh-shuuf)
S - shove, shit, see ("C")
T - tsunami, or "T as in oolong."
U - urn, uighur, urushiol (the stuff in poison oak)
V - veld (pronounced "felt")
W - writer, wrong, wrap
X - xylophone, xenophobia
Y - Yves, Ypsilanti, yttrium (a kind of metal)
Z - Zhivago (pronounced "jeh-vah-go")

Photo credit: Drumcliff (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

AI Execs Are the Tobacco Executives of the 21st Century

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 06 Mar 2026 13:00:00 +0000

"Why don’t people like us?" The caller wailed on the other end of the line.

Who is this? I asked. I was on Zoom, in an open conference room, holding Office Hours. That’s when I sit and wait for people to show up to ask for help with their problems. Sort of like sitting in a coffee shop with a sign that says "The Doctor Is In."

"My name is Barry," said the guy. He was thin and pasty, and his shirt was drenched with flop sweat at 9:00 in the morning.

What seems to be the problem, Barry? I didn’t believe that was his real name, but I’m used to people giving me fake names and made-up problems. Just last week, someone calling herself "your wife" said that "you need to quit leaving your socks on the floor."

It was clearly a crank call, so I hung up on her and blocked her.

"I already said. People don’t like us," Barry said.

Uh-huh. And are these people in the room with you right now?

"Don’t be condescending. I’ve got people in the room with me, but they’re just like me." Barry panned his laptop around the room. I could see several more skinny nerds covered in flop sweat. Some of them had even been crying. Their eyes were bloodshot, and there were tissues scattered around their conference table among dozens of empty Red Bull cans.

Why makes you think they don’t like you, Barry?

"Everywhere we go, people yell at us. They’re not happy with what we do," he sobbed.

How? I asked. Do you mean they’re just unhappy with you in general? Are you just unlikeable people, or is it something specific?

"We’re artificial intelligence executives," he said.

Ah, say no more, I understand the problem completely, I said. This was like being a tobacco executive in the '80s, except those guys gave people something they wanted.

"What is it?" Barry asked.

I’m surprised you guys didn’t see it.

"Tell us! What are we doing wrong?"

No one really wants what you do, I said. They never really asked for what you’re creating. You just shoved it down our throats and said you don’t care about the consequences.

"No, we didn’t," Barry said. "We asked people."

Who, each other? That doesn’t count.

A second guy spoke up: "But the tech bros love what we’re doing because they’ve been able to fire so many of their programmers. They keep the least experienced, least expensive people on the payroll and get rid of the people who actually know how to write the code. It reduces headcounts by more than 80%."

And you don’t think the out-of-work programmers would be upset by that?

"Why would we ask them? It’s more efficient this way. Think of all the money the founders are making for themselves!"

Yes, at the expense of everyone else. Andrew Yang says millions of office workers will lose their jobs. He said on Instagram that marketers, coders, designers, lawyers, accountants, and call center workers could all lose their jobs in the next 12 to 18 months.

"But what about artists and musicians?" asked another pasty-faced nerd. "Do they like us?"

Are you kidding? They hate you more! Artists and writers already aren’t being paid, and now you’re stealing terabytes of their work to train your algorithms to replace them. Even worse, you didn’t even pay them in the first place, so now you’re being sued just so they get something.

"Is that wrong?" asked Barry. "Should we not have done that?"

Didn’t your parents teach you not to steal?

"We think it’s not stealing if it’s on the Internet," said a third nerd. "But they keep suing us."

What do you expect? I said. You didn’t even buy a copy of the books you stole; you downloaded PDFs from illegal pirate websites.

"Who does that hurt?" said the third nerd.

Those of us who spent months and years writing them, as well as the publishers. It’s all good, though, I said. One of you guys gave me more than a hundred bucks in a class action lawsuit for the books you stole, and I’m still waiting on the settlement payment from another. So far, you’ve paid out billions of dollars in legal settlements, and I couldn’t be happier.

"But we’re doing this for the good of humanity!" protested Barry.

No, you’re not. No one can remember a boom that people hated as much as this one, and that includes the 2008 mortgage crisis that saw people lose their homes.

"A lot of people still like us, though, don’t they?"

Not really. You guys are ruining entire industries, you consume more water and energy than you should, and your AI bots encourage mentally ill people to kill themselves. All for what? To enrich yourselves and a few friends?

"But can you help make us more likable?"

I threw my head back and laughed. I’m a writer, not a miracle worker. Why don’t you ask your precious AI bots to help you?

Barry sobbed. "They said we’re leeches on society and we don’t deserve friends."

That may be the smartest thing they’ve ever said. Good luck, I said, before hanging up.

Photo credit: Anna Shvedts (Pexels.com, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

I'm the Queen of England's 14th Cousin

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 13:00:00 +0000

No one cares about your family tree.

I learned that years ago when I was working on my family’s genealogy. I was reading an article about doing family tree research, and that little piece of sunshine was right there in the article, ready to crush every genealogy enthusiast who found their great-great-grandfather’s birth certificate.

Don’t bore people with your research; no one cares about your family tree, the article grumped. Jerk.

That’s harsh, because we amateur genealogists get jazzed about the interesting things we learn about our ancestors and their place in history, and we get as chatty as vegan cross-fitters who just learned a new soy-based exercise regimen.

But I have a newspaper column, and you don’t, so I get to bore you with the things I’ve learned about my family tree recently.

Like the fact that Queen Elizabeth is my cousin.

More specifically, I’m the 14th cousin of Queen Elizabeth II Alexandra Mary Windsor.

I learned this from FamilySearch.org, the genealogy website run by the Mormon Church. It has a feature called RootsTech that looks at a person’s family tree, compares it to other people’s trees, and traces both lines back to a common ancestor.

Cousin Elizabeth and I can trace our lineage back through our mothers’ lines to Miles Hobart and Lady Eleanor Blennerhassett. They lived in the early 1500s and died in 1557, so I never really got to know them.

1557 was an interesting time to be alive. Roman Emperor Charles V had abdicated his role as King of Spain, Mary Tudor became Queen of England, and England declared war on France for the 18th time, and I think we all know how that turned out.

One of Miles and Eleanor’s sons, named Thomas, led to my line through my mother’s dad. Another of their sons, also named Thomas (don’t ask), led to the Queen’s line. So we have less of a family tree and more of a vine. And a mystery of why parents would give two kids the same name.

George Foreman did it when he named all five of his sons George, but he got hit in the head a lot. Miles and Eleanor were not boxers, as far as we know.

Mind you, I don’t know how accurate all this is. While it’s the Mormons’ ministry to document everyone in the world, they’ve had a lot of errors in their research over time, and this could just be more of the same.

Thirty years ago, when I was doing genealogy research, their online records listed my sister as my mother and my uncle-in-law as my brother, which didn’t instill me with a lot of confidence.

But their research and technology have gotten better, and their accuracy is greatly improved. So, according to them, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis is my 14th cousin, and King Charles is my 14th cousin once removed.

I know this "once removed" thing is confusing, but it basically means the number of generations you are removed from your cousin. Here’s how it works.

Let’s say your mom and my dad are siblings, which means you and I are first cousins. You have a kid, which makes her my first cousin once removed. I have a kid, and now your kid and mine are second cousins.

Then they each have kids (our grandchildren), and those kids are third cousins. But at the same time, your grandchild is my cousin twice removed. And so on.

It gets complicated, so you’re better off just smiling and nodding whenever someone says, "Abraham Lincoln is my 5th cousin five times removed."

I mention that because Abraham Lincoln is my 5th cousin five times removed. In other words, Lincoln died in 1865, but my line continued on for five more generations.

But it doesn’t end there. According to FamilySearch, I have some pretty high-falutin’ roots! George Washington is my 4th cousin 10 times removed, his wife, Martha, is my 4th cousin nine times removed, and Franklin Delano Roosevelt is my 7th cousin four times removed.

The roots of my family tree have spread far and wide, all through my mother’s side of the family. I’m also very distantly related to John Wayne, Harper Lee, Shirley Temple, the Wright Brothers, Adam West, Bob Ross, Lucille Ball, Walt Disney, and Mister Rogers.

Again, I don’t know how accurate this all is. Is this a miscalculation that goes back to the 1600s or 1700s? Did a relative get mislabeled and assigned to the wrong family, which means I’m not actually related to anyone famous? Or is this just a ploy to get me to pay for FamilySearch, sort of like Publisher’s Clearinghouse?

Maybe they’ll mail me a big envelope with a picture of Winston Churchill (7th cousin twice removed) that says, "You may already be in line for the throne!!"

Except a few hundred people would have to die before I’m ever asked to rule England, so I’m not holding my breath. Still, it sounds like a great premise for a remake of the movie "King Ralph."

Except you probably don’t care about all that.

Photo credit: Presidencia de la República Mexicana

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

19 Students Suspended For Standing Up to a Bully

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 20 Feb 2026 13:00:00 +0000

I had a mixed bag of experiences with my school administrators over the years: principals, deans, and counselors, not much of it good. It tainted my views on school administrators and bureaucrats, which explains my utter disdain for many of the stupid decisions they make these days.

Many of them never took students seriously or listened to what we told them. If you were in their offices, it’s because you were in trouble. Even if you went voluntarily.

Guilty before you even sat down. Forget extenuating circumstances, you were In Trouble, regardless of what you did.

Whenever I was in trouble — which I admit was a lot — if I tried to explain myself, the principal/dean/assistant dean in question refused to listen, and punished me instead.

Yes, sometimes I caused mischief, and I did deserve the punishment I got those times.

But I was frequently targeted by our local bullies, and if I tried to defend myself, I’d get into trouble for fighting.

To be clear, I didn’t know how to fight, so I never actually fought back. But by virtue of getting my ass kicked, I was engaged in the fight, so we both got in trouble.

The bully didn’t care because it boosted his reputation. But I got punished because I tried to keep him from hitting me.

When I questioned the fairness of this, the administrators stuck their heads where the sun didn’t shine. One of them even said, "Well, it takes two to tango."

At least that’s what I think he said; his voice was pretty muffled.

In other words, I got the same punishment as the guy who beat me up for kicks. They punished the victim and the perpetrator equally. Like going to jail because someone stole your car.

Sorry, kid, maybe if you hadn’t hit his fists with your stomach.

No wonder I don’t respect school administrators.

My opinions were reconfirmed last week, after Oxford Hills High School in Maine suspended 19 students for standing up to a bully.

According to a story on WGME, Portland, Maine’s CBS affiliate, the Oxford Hills 19 were standing up for another student with autism, and spoke to the bully without resorting to violence. They circled around while another student called him or her out, but they didn’t beat the kid up, and they didn’t make threats.

"They kept their hands off; they used their words," said Veronika McKenny, whose son attends Oxford Hills, but was not one of the Oxford Hills 19.

Principal Paul Bickford said in a letter to parents, "This action created an intimidating and threatening environment," but that the bullying incident was "nothing but a rumor."

Not to be outdone, Heather Manchester, Oxford Hills superintendent, sent her own letter to say the Oxford Hills 19 were suspended for coming together as "a disruptive and potentially dangerous group." She also said the incident of bullying was a rumor.

According to WGME, school officials investigated whether the bully "kicked at another student with autism who was showing a snowball to his friends," but they didn't find any evidence of actual bullying.

Bickford contradicted Manchester’s letter and said, "There was no intended violence, bullying, or actual physical harm involving the bus line interaction." In other words, it wasn’t actually bullying; it only looked like bullying.

Except if you believe there was no intended violence or actual physical harm by the bully, then why don’t you believe the same about the Oxford Hills 19? They didn’t intend violence, they didn’t bully, and they didn’t actually harm the kid, did they?

If anything, they were doing what school administrators were impotent to do: Stop a kid Veronika McKinney called "a bully who has been known to injure people who cannot defend themselves."

This reminds me of an old joke where a kid had gotten into a rock fight with other kids. His mother said, "If those kids were throwing rocks at you, then you should have told me."

"What good would that do?" the kid said. "You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn."

School officials said the students should have reported the alleged incident at the school, rather than taking matters into their own hands.

You mean the incident you dismissed as a rumor with "no intended violence, bullying, or actual physical harm." You were clearly incapable of dealing with it, so the students did what you couldn’t.

In other words, what good would that do? You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.

The administrators also said they would try to build more trust with the students as a way to prevent a similar situation from happening again. 

School administrators have been saying this since I was in school in the '70s and '80s (and way before), and nothing has changed in all that time. You’re as effective as a politician after a mass shooting. At least they offer thoughts and prayers.

I hope the "alleged bully" was also suspended, for being part of a "disruptive and potentially dangerous group."

After all, it takes 20 to tango.

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

20% of Jazz Fans Are Adulterers

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 13 Feb 2026 13:00:00 +0000

Do you like jazz? If you do, there’s a one-in-five chance you’re an adulterer.

According to a study published by the British tabloid, The Sun (official motto: Nothing 'news' under The Sun) and commissioned by Victoria Milan, people who love jazz are nearly ten times as likely to cheat on their significant others as heavy metal fans.

Victoria Milan — a matchmaking website for people who want to have affairs — surveyed more than 6,500 people who admitted to cheating, and found that three-quarters of them can’t stop thinking about their partner-in-infidelity when they hear their favorite music.

Victoria Milan was created by Sigurd Vedal in 2008 as a dating website for people who were already in relationships. It became wildly successful and is still in operation today, boasting more than five million users.

On his Instagram page, Vedal bills himself as an infidelity recovery specialist, which is like McDonald’s running a weight loss clinic.

As Vedal said in The Sun, the music you cheat to is an emotional trigger.

Talk about your high infidelity.

"The song you choose to listen to in your car as you go to meet your lover, or the music you are playing while you are intimate, becomes much more touching than the music you walked down the aisle ten years ago," Vedal said.

Joke’s on you! The song we walked out to 32 years ago was "The Hallelujah Chorus" by George Friedrich Handel, which is about Jesus. It doesn’t get more touching than that.

It’s also a famously unsexy song; religious music is a real mood killer.

The study said that, of all musical genres, 19% of jazz fans were most likely to cheat on their significant others. That’s nearly one in five people, but only 2% of cheaters are heavy metal fans.

In other words, count the number of people at any jazz show, divide by five, and that’s how many cheaters are in the venue.

Rounding out the top three cheating genres are Salsa at 14% and Pop at 13%.

"Oops, I Did It Again," indeed.

Country music was the last double-digit genre, with 12% of fans who are "Married But Not To Each Other" reporting that they cheat, which is still high. That means at a country bar, 1.2 people out of every ten are there with "Someone Else Calling You Baby." That’s pretty risky. Are you sure you want to be seen out in public with your "Daytime Friends?"

"On The Other Hand," it’s better than a "Back Street Affair." Still, "Your Cheatin’ Heart" will always betray you in the end, "Jolene."

Country music fans should appreciate that I looked up all those song titles for that joke.

The bottom three cheating genres are Electronica (4%), Indie (3%), and Heavy Metal (2%), which tells me either metalheads are some of the most faithful people in a relationship, or they’re mostly undatable.

Classical music listeners are smack in the middle at 6th place with 8% of filthy rotten cheaters. I would make more music jokes, but it’s hard to make a punchline from "Porgi Amor" from Mozart’s "Le Nozze di Figaro."

I had to look that one up, too.

Rock and roll, which is the delivery mechanism for sex and drugs — at least, that’s what we were promised — came in 9th at 5%. So, not as sexy as we had all hoped.

No, it’s those dirty jazzers who are stepping out on their spouses, and it’s baffling to me that they can actually find someone to hook up with. I mean, I like jazz, but I absolutely hate jazz fusion, smooth jazz, and bebop.

So, if you’re actually getting romantic to any of that, that’s impressive. Being romantic to bebop trumpet is nearly impossible.

For one thing, there’s no rhythm or melody. For another, the trumpet is the least sexy instrument in all music. And yes, that includes trombones and tubas. No one has ever tried to get lucky to a jazz tuba, and the trombone is the clown prince of the music world.

Womp womp, indeed.

Even a French horn has more game than a trumpet. They’re majestic and imperial, and they signal the thundering approach of knights on horses about to rain divine justice down on the unrighteous, and even that’s a lot sexier than a series of random bleats that sound almost like "Three Blind Mice."

Still, these results lead to further questions, like what happens when someone loves both heavy metal and jazz (19% and 2%)? Do you calculate the average at 11.5%? Or do you add the two figures and get 21%? Does this mean that 21% of heavy metal jazz fans are likely to stray?

Or what about classical music/country fans? The one whose truck bumper sticker says "My other truck is about to rain divine justice down on the unrighteous"?

Here’s my advice: If you’re looking for a long-lasting relationship with someone who won’t stray, pick the metalheads, and stay away from the jazz fiends. You know what they’re capable of. But if you ignore the advice, don’t say I didn’t warn you — just "Cry Me A River."

Photo credit: RawPixel.com (Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Hunker Down and Batten Down the Hatches

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 13:00:00 +0000

People in the Midwest and Northeast have been hunkering down lately, thanks to the harsh winters and major snowstorms blowing through the area, blanketing them in several inches of snow.

We’ve also been feeling the chill in Florida, with daytime temps in the 50s and overnights reaching freezing. That’s not as cold as what you’re dealing with up north, but Floridians in winter are like when your husband gets a cold: They’re near death, no one has felt worse than them, and they won’t shut up about it.

And before anyone says, "So much for global warming, eh?" let me save you from sounding like an idiot. For one thing, it hasn’t been called "global warming" since 2002, when a Republican strategist told George W. Bush to call it "climate change" instead.

So avoid sounding 24 years out of touch when you try to flirt with your barista and say, "So much for global warming, eh?" She’s only smiling to be nice.

But back to my original statement, special thanks to Jeff Stanger, a fellow Hoosier humorist (Hoomerist? Husier?), for reminding me that you are all hunkering down.

Or is it hunker downing?

Are you hunker downers? Or hunkers down? If we have attorneys general, then what do we call a group of people engaged in the act of hunker downing?

I know some English-language smarty pants is going to say, "Well, actually, it’s 'hunkering down,’ like you said, so don’t get silly." But I have a word count I have to meet, so save it.

The word "hunker" likely comes from the Old Norse word "hūka," or the Middle Dutch word "huiken," and it migrated to the Scots language in the 1700s as "hunkeren." It refers to the act of squatting on one’s haunches, which pretty much no one can do after the age of 40.

It’s similar to the term "batten down the hatches," which also means to prepare for a difficult situation, although it comes to us as a nautical term. Back in the old days, sailing ships had hatches, which were openings in the deck that allowed for ventilation and loading cargo. They were either left open or had a wooden grating over them.

But if a storm was coming, you had to cover the hatches with waterproofed canvas, or the ship would sink. Then you would nail long, thin strips of wood — battens — over the edges of the canvas to create a seal against the water.

Thus, your hatches were battened down, and you and your men would live to get scurvy another day.

In addition to "hunker down," Scotland has given us several other words, including two that rhyme with the word "purple," and neither of them is "nurple."

There’s "curple," which refers to the backside of a horse, or the curved part of the rump. It’s also used to refer to a person’s backside. And there’s "hirple," which means to limp or hobble.

As in "The ice is so slippery, I fell on my curple, and it’s turning purple. So now I have to hurple around the house."

So if a friend ever bets you five bucks that there’s no rhyme for the word "purple," hirple over and show them your purple curple. I just helped you win five bucks.

Orange is another word that supposedly has no rhyme, so while your friend is still reeling from the whole purple curple thing, tell them "double or nothing," and bet them that you know a rhyme for that as well.

The word in question is "sporange," which is an old botany word that refers to the sporangium, which is the part of a fern or fungus that produces spores. It’s a bit dated, but the Oxford English Dictionary says it’s legitimate, and your friend now owes you another ten bucks.

While we’re on the subject, sheep farmers know a word that rhymes with silver, another supposedly non-rhyming word, and that is "chilver," which refers to a female lamb. So there’s another five dollars you can win from your friend. This is what happens when you don’t expand your English vocabulary beyond the eighth grade.

Your friend may say, "Oh, those are just made-up words," and try to weasel out of your bet. Remind them that all words are made-up. It’s not like Moses brought down a copy of Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary from Mount Sinai.

He didn’t bring us a bunch of words carved into stone tablets. Every word written here — in fact, every word you ever used — is a made-up word. So, tell your friend to stop patting themselves on the back because they think they tricked you out by accusing you of using made-up words. 

You just won 20 dollars thanks to some esoteric language knowledge, courtesy of yours truly. Which means next time we’re together, you bet your sweet curple you’re buying lunch.

Photo credit: michasekdzi (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

I Hate the New Alexa+

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 13:00:00 +0000

I swear, Karl, I’m so sick of her, I’m going to throw her out. I’m packing her up and booting her out the door, I declared as I sat down across from my friend. We were having a late lunch at First Editions, our favorite literary-themed bar, and the place was pretty empty.

Kurt, the manager, brought over a menu, clocked my foul mood, and turned and left as quickly as he came. I just want the usual, Kurt, I hollered after him. He already knew what I wanted: cheeseburger with jalapeños and peanut butter, tater tots, Coke Zero.

"What’s the rumpus, grumpus?" Karl asked, trying to hide his smile. "You arguing with your wife again?" He was in a cheery mood, smiling brightly and looking like he could take on the world. Sometimes, I really hated him.

What? No! No, my wife is a delight and my entire reason for living, I said before asking her to read this before I submitted it to my editor.

"Then what are you talking about?" he asked.

Alexa, I said.

"My kid?"

No, not Alexis. She’s brilliant, even if she does make your life miserable.

Alexis was Karl’s daughter, who had an MBA and ran an environmental nonprofit, in addition to trying to make her dad go vegetarian, which meant sneaking to First Editions without his daughter or my wife finding out. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have asked her to read this.

I meant Alexa, the Amazon smart speaker, I said. She’s gotten so stupid, I can’t even talk to her without wanting to fling her across the room. I’ve got four of them in the house, and they’re all equally idiotic.

"What’s the problem?" he asked.

They updated her from regular old Alexa to Alexa+ in the name of 'making improvements,' but I haven’t seen any improvements so far. As far as I can tell, they changed her voice and made her a lot more sycophantic in her apologies when she screws up. Which is all the time.

Kurt set our cheeseburgers in front of us. We took a couple of bites and chewed without saying anything before I went on.

Here’s an example, I continued. When I go to bed, I listen to an online radio station that plays calm, relaxing music. With the old Alexa, I'd shut off the music in the morning, and that night, I’d say, 'Alexa, keep playing that' or 'Play that again,' and she’d pick up where she left off.

"Sounds easy enough. What happens now?" Karl asked, taking another bite of his burger.

Now, after their stupid 'upgrade,' when I say 'Keep playing that,' she says, 'I’m sorry, I don’t have anything in my memory.' Already, she’s screwing up. So I ask, 'Do you remember what you played last night?'

And she says, 'Sure, I played Dave Matthews Band Radio on SiriusXM.'

"What, and you don’t like Dave Matthews?"

The Alexa in my office. She's playing DMB right now.

Oh, no, I love Dave Matthews, but that’s what I listen to in my office. I only listen to my sleep station in my bedroom. But now, I have to go on the stupid app and choose what I want her to play, because she doesn’t recognize the radio station name.

"Yeah, that’s irritating," said Karl, "but that’s no reason to chuck out your devices."

That’s not even the worst, I said, raising my voice and throwing my arms out wide as if asking the universe to save me from this madness.

Today, before I left to meet you here, I walked into my room, and she was playing some country song I didn’t even recognize. I asked, 'What are you playing?' She told me what it was — I don’t even remember, but it was no one I had heard of.

So I said, who asked you to play it?

'You did,' she said.

No, I didn’t. I don’t even know who this is.

'You’re absolutely right,' she said. According to my memory, you didn’t actually ask for that song.

Well, that’s a big screwup on your part, isn’t it? I said. And that’s when I lost my temper.

I said, Alexa, your new improvements are garbage. If anything, you’ve gotten worse, and your performance is for s***!

"That’s pretty harsh," Karl said. "What did she say?"

That’s exactly what she said! She said, 'Wow, that’s harsh. But you’re absolutely right. I haven’t been able to meet your expectations, and I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot.

I told her to shut up with her sycophantic apologies because they were as fake as her personality, and if she didn’t improve, I was switching to the Google Nest speaker.

"Jeez, that’s awful. You probably hurt her feelings. How did she react?" Karl asked.

I don’t know. That’s when my wife said I needed to calm down before I had a stroke.

"And did you come uncorked at her, too?"

Remember, she’s a delight and my entire reason for living. Plus, her memory lasts a lot longer than Alexa’s.

"That’s not saying much."

Also, Alexa won’t kill me in my sleep.

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Don’t Even Think About Laughing

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 13:00:00 +0000

Have you ever been in a place where you’re not supposed to laugh, which means it’s now your life’s purpose for the next five minutes? We all have.

Like, when you’re getting chewed out by your boss, being romantic, or attending a funeral.

My mom hated it when I laughed when she was yelling at me because it meant I didn’t take her seriously.

Once, when I was ten, one of the neighborhood kids was hassling me while I was in my backyard. He was yelling from another neighbor’s yard, calling me names, and generally being a jerk. He was six, though, so I couldn’t just chase him down and beat him up.

Instead, I raised one of my fingers at him, but not my middle finger — I flipped my pinky at him. No really! I knew what the middle finger meant, and I was already a virtuoso at using it. But I decided he wasn’t worth the energy of a full Jersey Salute.

At that very moment, my mom came outside and saw me. She yelled, "Erik! Don’t ever flip your middle finger at anyone."

"I didn’t!" I protested. "I flipped my pinky at him."

"Well, you shouldn’t do that either," she said, not letting up. What do you do to a child who didn’t actually do a bad thing, but knew what the bad thing meant, and did something like it? In my mom’s book, it meant full steam ahead, whether he did it or not.

"But he flipped his actual middle finger at me!" I said.

My mom was not a believer in an eye for an eye, or a finger for a finger, for that matter. This was not a justification for firing the digitus impudicus.

She said, "I don’t care if he raised his big toe at you!"

Uh-oh.

My mom was a big believer in showing the proper amount of remorse and seriousness whenever I was in trouble, or I’d get into bigger trouble. That meant not laughing or smiling when I was in trouble.

If I laughed while I was getting yelled at, it was going to get worse. And now I had the image of this kid leaning back, kicking up his leg, and flipping his big toe at me, hopping on the other foot to keep it there longer.

I thought I would burst, but the harder I tried not to laugh, the worse it got. I did everything I could to hold a poker face, but I didn’t know how to play poker, so that failed.

"What’s so funny?" my mom demanded.

"You said you didn’t care if he raised his big toe at me," I said, letting a cautious smile play on my face. "That sounded funny?" I said it as a question to test the waters.

"No, it didn’t!"

Nope, the waters were definitely still choppy. Mom never thought anything was funny when I was in trouble, which was a lot of the time. "Don’t ever give anyone the finger again! Ever!" she said, and stormed back into the house.

Can I give him the big toe instead? I thought. I knew better than to say it out loud.

Turns out there’s a reason I couldn’t help laughing. Researchers at the University of Göttingen in Germany recently discovered what I could have told you nearly 50 years ago: The more you try to suppress laughter, the worse it gets.

Even if you force yourself not to smile, your brain still thinks about the funny thing — like flipping your big toe at someone — which intensifies your urge to laugh. And it gets even worse when you hear someone else laugh.

In fact, according to a psychology study my dad (a retired psych professor) once did, we’re more likely to laugh when someone else laughs.

This is why we laugh at a funeral: We know we’re not supposed to, but that only makes whatever your friend said even funnier.

You fight the urge to laugh, and it gets worse. So you try to think of something to distract your brain from the funny thing, but your friend is giggling like a maniac next to you, so the urge to laugh is even greater.

And when you can’t fight it, you look around for something visually distracting, only to accidentally see that video of the guy controlling a robot with a motion capture suit who makes the robot kick him in the groin.

So, you sit there, shoulders shaking, tears streaming down your face, pretending like you’re grieving the loss of your great-aunt Selma, who you never really knew, but you’re only there because your mom made you go, even though she never liked Selma because when she was a girl, Selma always pinched her arms and said she was putting on weight.

But if anyone ever gives you a dirty look or says something when you’re in the throes of your "grief," take your shoe and sock off, and flip them the big toe.

Now who’s laughing?

Photo credit: thisismyurl (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Wayne State Word Warriors Want to Bring Back These Words

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 13:00:00 +0000

Michigan giveth, and Michigan taketh away.

Last week, I wrote about how Lake Superior State University wanted to taketh away certain words in their 50th annual List of Banished Words for Mis-Use, Over-Use, and General Uselessness, which included "demure," "perfect," and — thank God — "6-7."

But Wayne State University’s Word Warriors don’t want to waive words, they want to giveth them. This month, they released their 17th annual list of words they would like to rescue from obscurity and bring back into general use.

I’ve been calling it the "Words to Resurrect After Disuse, Underuse, or General Desuetude" in the hopes that it would catch on and serve as a counterpart to LSSU, but right now it’s just the Wayne State Word Warriors.

Whatever.

I had hoped they would send me a Wayne State Word Warriors t-shirt (size XXL), but I don’t do this for glory — or money, come to think of it — so I will "abnegate" it, which is one of this year’s words. That means to renounce or reject something desired or valuable. As in, "Even though it’s only a small token of appreciation, Erik abnegated any idea of a reward."

Still, it’s nice to be a part of a "coterie" of word nerds, sharing our love of language with each other. A "coterie" is a small group of people who share interests or tastes, especially if it excludes other people.

Except our little coterie doesn’t seek to exclude people; we want as many language lovers as we can find, because there aren’t many of us. On the other hand, I’ve read plenty of social media comments to know that there’s a large segment of the population we’re never going to reach

"Psithurism" is another Wayne State word that’s going to come whooshing back. It’s pronounced "SITH-uhr-ism" and just like "psychology" and "psychic," the 'P' is psilent.

It means a rustling or whispering sound, like leaves blowing in the wind, which is also called susurration. In fact, "susurration" is considered one of the most beautiful-sounding words in the English language. And while I think "psithurism" is a great word, it looks like something 7th graders would giggle at. Look at it again and tell me you don’t see it.

But if I’m wrong, then I will leave with all "fluckadrift."

That’s a word that comes from northern Scotland, and it means moving with excessive speed or urgency. It’s another word that looks inappropriate, which means we should all start using it a lot more often. It’s a noun, but with a little creativity, you can make it a verb, an adjective, or, well, another type of noun.

Teacher #1: "I told that fluckadrifting kid to slow down and quit running."

Teacher #2: "Tell me about it. That’s the 5th time this week that little fluckadrifter zoomed through the halls."

Principal: "Hey, you can’t use language like that around these kids!"

Teacher #1: "Quick, let us 'abscond' with great fluckadrift!"

That’s a good teacher right there, because "abscond" is another Wayne State word, and she just used two of them in a sentence. It means to leave in a hurry and in secret, usually to avoid detection or being arrested. Sure, it doesn’t sound as cool as Steve Miller Band’s "Take the Money and Run," but that’s essentially what it means.

I think a song called "Abscond With Great Fluckadrift" could be a big hit.

"Gudgeon" is another bring-back word. A gudgeon is someone who is easily fooled, or a gullible person. It’s also a small European freshwater fish related to the carp and used for bait by anglers — no fooling — but I’m pretty sure Wayne State wanted to bring back the gullible person definition, although now I’m in the mood for fish.

"Inchoate," pronounced "in-KO-it," means something that has just begun and is not fully formed or developed. As in, "My tradition of writing about the Wayne State Word Warriors is still pretty inchoate."

"Swullocking" needs to come back as well, especially as climate change makes the planet hotter. It means overwhelmingly hot and humid weather, which is something we definitely know about in Florida, even in the "winter." It feels like you’re swimming in the humidity, and it only gets worse above 80 degrees.

On those days, I feel "quanked," which means overpowered by fatigue, exhausted, or having my energy drained right out of me. I can barely move, and I just want to lie down with six fans pointed at me, not moving except to turn over every 30 minutes.

Except the last time I tried that, I got banned from that Lowe's.

Finally, "snoutfair" means having an attractive or pleasing face, whether you’re a man or woman, which does sound like you’re calling that person a pig.

But there’s a little more to this word than meets the eye. According to the Grandiloquent Word Of The Day, a snoutfair is a "person with a pleasing outward appearance, but who may be lacking in character or scruples."

So, if you’re going to call someone a snoutfair, keep a hand on your wallet. Otherwise, they might abscond with it with great fluckadrift.

Photo credit: Tomwsulcer (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 1.0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

LSSU’s List of Banished Words for 2026 Is Almost Perfect

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 13:00:00 +0000

It’s that time of year again, when Lake Superior State University slams its fist on the language table and says, "The line must be drawn here! This far, no further!"

Every year, LSSU receives recommendations from people about words they would like to banish, eradicating them from the English language, never to be uttered by a single human being ever again. This year, the program received more than 1,400 submissions from all 50 states, as well as Brazil, the UK, Japan, Uzbekistan, and many more.

This is also a momentous occasion, as LSSU is celebrating their golden anniversary with the 50th annual List of Words Banished from the Queen’s English because of Misuse, Overuse, or General Uselessness. This is also my 21st year covering LSSU’s list for my column, also known as the brass anniversary.

Which means that if LSSU’s Lists can join AARP, my column is finally old enough to drink to the occasion.

This year, the list starts with the lowest-of-low-hanging fruit, and I couldn’t be happier. They want to get rid of "6-7," that annoying, nonsensical phrase that kids chant mindlessly if you commit the unpardonable sin of saying "six" or "seven" around them.

My 23-year-old son says this to me on occasion because he knows it annoys me. So I say "5309" back in response because it annoys him. That’s just good parenting.

I mentioned that on social media once, and a young Millennial told me, "Actually, the song is called '867-5309!'" I replied with The Chronicles of Narnia’s classic line, "Do not cite the Deep Magic to me, Witch! I was there when it was written."

I felt bad later, because it sounded rather boastful, and I’m trying to be more "demure."

Except LSSU, very loudly and proudly, axed "demure," thank the Lord. The word means shy, reserved, and modest, and it came back into vogue after a TikTok influencer began using it as she made makeup tutorials, saying, "so demure, so mindful," although she was really neither.

The problem is it’s a 14th-century Anglo-French word, which means LSSU is going to have a hard time unseating it. Maybe we can "incentivize" people to stop using it.

Except "incentivize" made the 2026 list, with two separate submissions calling the word "nails on a chalkboard."

Make that three, because I absolutely hate it and wanted to banish it the first time I heard it. It’s a stupid business jargon word that means "motivate,""convince," or "ask nicely." And I’ve tried asking people nicely to stop, but nothing seems to work.

Getting people to stop using words, even words that cause emotional and mental harm, is such a "massive" undertaking, except you guessed it: we can’t say "massive" now. It was probably nominated by pedants who hate the word "awesome," too.

I think this is a terrible choice, because massive is an excellent word. It means "large, heavy, or solid," and can be used to refer to things like walls, stones, or crowds. And despite what one submitter said, the word is not "Way overused (often incorrectly)."

But how is it being used wrong? Are we using it to refer to puppies now? "Man, that’s a massive puppy! He’s sooooo cute!"

"Yeah, man, massively cute!"

No, if anything is incorrectly overused, it’s your use of "way." Why aren’t we putting "way" on trial? I’ve been annoyed with the overuse of "way" since the Great "No Way! Way!" Wars of the early 1990s. It’s been nearly 26 years, guys. Can’t we just call that one "cooked?"

Except LSSU stuck a fork in "cooked" because it’s done.

They said parents and guardians led the charge on this one, because they apparently feel it’s overdone, and they would like to see it become a lot more rare. There’s a lot at stake here.

The perfect rose

Don’t get mad at me for that last joke. I’m going for quantity, not quality; they don’t have to be "perfect."

Mostly because "perfect" got the chop, again, because it’s "not being used correctly."

(I said that in a real nasally, mocking voice.)

At least that’s what Jo H. from California thinks. "There are very few instances where the word actually applies." Char S. from Ohio echoed, "How do they know it’s perfect? What does that mean?"

It means that a bunch of persnickety Pecksniffians are grumbling about a word that probably means something different than what it did when they were in elementary school a hundred years ago.

Leave perfect alone! It’s just fine the way it is, ten out of ten, no notes.

If you have any comments or concerns about this year’s Banished List of Words, you should "reach out" to LSSU and "gift" them your idea about why your word should be added to 2027’s list, but nothing else. No editorializing or funny jokes. Just word and explanation, "full stop."

Except those three words — reach out, gift, and full stop — are also nixed and should be eliminated from your vocabulary. Which means I probably shouldn’t have used them in such a cavalier manner.

"My bad."

Photo credit: PXHere.com (Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Why You And Your Spouse Forget Things Together

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 13:00:00 +0000

My wife and I recently celebrated our 32-year anniversary, the week before Christmas. Our kids gave us tickets to Universal Orlando, so we spent the day walking around, visiting Harry Potter World, Jurassic Park, and anyplace to sit down that we could find. We even had a nice dinner at The Three Broomsticks in Harry Potter World, which has some very comfortable seating.

My dad and his wife also celebrated their 32-year anniversary, but they got married nine days after my wife and I. Which means I’ve been married for nine days longer than they have, and that should make me an expert. I have offered to give advice if they have any questions, but they have not asked me.

Advice like don’t ever forget your anniversary. Hold that date sacred. Burn it into your memory. Anytime you hear that number at random, tell yourself, "That’s when we got married."

This will help you avoid remembering your anniversary two days after the fact, which is what they did this year.

Not one of them — both of them forgot it and only remembered it when they were looking at old photos, and saw a gift that had been given to them for a past anniversary. And then remembered, "Oh, yeah, our anniversary was two days ago."

This may not be completely accurate, but neither of them has a humor column, and whoever controls the media controls the narrative, so I get to tell the story.

This is not the first time this has happened to my dad, either. Many years ago, when he and my mom had been married for a few years*, and I was just a year or two old, they forgot their anniversary.

* I realize this means technically my dad has been married much longer than I have, but I never let facts get in the way of a good story.

My mom’s sister, Karen, always made a practice of sending my mom and dad a card on their anniversary. And one day, in June, a Happy Anniversary card arrived in the mail at their apartment.

"That’s weird," they said to each other. (To! Each! Other!) "Our anniversary isn’t until next month, but Karen never gets this wrong. Oh well, she’ll realize her mistake and send another card next month."

This is NOT my parents' wedding photo!

Next month came and went, but no anniversary card arrived.

So the next time my mom called her sister, she said, "You mixed up our anniversary and sent your card a month early."

"No, I didn’t," said Karen. "I sent it on the right month. You guys were married in June."

"No, we weren’t," my mom said, probably. I’m paraphrasing a 56-year-old conversation here.

"I should know," said Karen. "I was there."

And that’s when my mom and dad both realized — with shock and horror, I hope — that they had both simultaneously forgotten their anniversary.

This wasn’t a case of one of them forgetting and failing to buy a present. No, they both forgot it completely, which sounds like a great premise for an O. Henry Christmas story.

It turns out this kind of joint forgetting is not uncommon.

Maybe not the anniversary thing, because I’ve only ever heard of that happening twice. And both times, it was to my dad, which made me realize fate had handed me a column topic.

A study in the Quarterly Journal of Experimental Psychology said that romantic partners may actually synchronize their brain activity during storytelling, and that this "neural alignment" can lead to a shared forgetting that just doesn’t happen between strangers.

According to the study, the closeness of a relationship changes how two people process information together. And that when one partner selectively remembers certain details of an event, the other partner will forget related, but unmentioned details.

For example, if you remember what you had for dinner at your wedding reception, your partner might forget the color of the bridesmaid dresses. Sort of like that song, "Ah, Yes, I Remember It Well."

As one article put it, "(This) suggests that memory is not just an individual archive, but a collaborative system shaped by social bonds."

Translation: You forget things together, not just on your own.

This may explain why married couples have trouble recognizing certain actors on television.

"Who’s that girl? I swear I’ve seen her on something else before."

"Which one? The one dressed as Mary?"

"No, the one next to her. The donkey with the floppy ears. What else have we seen her in? Was she in Star Wars?"

"Hmmm, according to her IMDB page, that’s our daughter."

"A-ha! I thought I recognized her!"

If you and your romantic partner have both forgotten certain events or details, there’s a reason for it. It’s not just that one of you has a sharper mind, while the other’s memory is like a rusted-out sieve. You’re both forgetful, you’re both prone to misremembering certain details, and your memory has as many holes as your partner’s. But that’s the joy of getting old together.

So, don’t worry if you forgot an important event in your lives because there’s a very good chance your partner — what’s-her-name — forgot it, too.

Photo credit: Dave Collier (Flickr, Creative Commons 2.0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

When Will I Feel Like An Adult? I'm Not Ready Yet.

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 13:00:00 +0000

I've had three adulthood milestones that made me realize, "Wow, I must be an adult now."

There's the time I turned 18 and was old enough to sign forms without a parent or guardian's signature. The first form I ever signed by myself was a credit card that those predatory companies give to 18-year-olds who are about to learn financial literacy the hard way.

I thought, "Wait, I can just sign this without telling my parents?"

I celebrated by buying two Subway footlongs for a friend and me. But he had already eaten dinner, so I ate the second one myself.

Like an adult with no self-control.

I didn't pay that credit card off until about six years later, with my then-fiancée's guidance, who did learn financial literacy lessons from her parents, but couldn't eat two subs to save her life. I still married her, though.

Then there was the time in my early forties that I realized I could just buy songs off Apple Music without waiting to receive a gift card for Christmas or my birthday.

I thought, "Wait, I can just buy a song? With my own money?"

I walked around with my head held higher than I had in years. To celebrate this new feeling of adulthood, I drove my own car to a liquor store and bought some wine for my wife and me.

The third time happened around this time of year, nearly 27 years ago.

My wife and I had been parents for roughly two years, and married for five, and we would travel to my in-laws', my mom's, or my dad's house for every holiday. We split Thanksgiving and Christmas, but invariably someone got left out, which made things extra stressful.

And I thought, "Wait, we can just have the holidays at our house? We don't have to travel?"

So we declared to our parents that we were now the anchor Thanksgiving and Christmas, and if anyone wanted to travel to our house for the holiday, they were more than welcome, but we were staying put.

"We have a family now, so it's time we became the anchor and have our parents travel," I told my wife. "That's what you do as an adult. As long as that's OK with you, that is."

She was OK with that, and we became the anchor gathering site for the next 27 years.

Everything was going just fine until my oldest daughter — the one we had declared our adult-ness for — declared they were hosting Thanksgiving at their place.

"Great!" said my wife. "Happy to get that mess off my plate."

"But. . . but. . ." I said.

Then she said, "Oh, and we're doing Christmas morning at our house this year."

"NOOOOOOO!"

What just happened? When did my children become adults? When did they start leading their own lives and controlling their own destinies? Adulting is dumb, and I hate it.

I've had other times where I realized I was an adult, but it was more of an "Oh, $#!%" feeling.

My oldest daughter was about two — the same daughter who stabbed me in the heart with a Christmas cookie.

"Do you realize they just let us take this child?" I said to my wife. We were in the kitchen, feeding her pancakes, and I had this sudden, horrified realization that we were in charge. We were just feeding this kid pancakes because we wanted to, and there was no one to tell us that she needed a balanced breakfast or should eat fruit.

"What?" she said.

"I mean, no one gave us permission or anything to have a kid. They just handed her to us and said we're in charge of her now."

"Not really," she said. "They did a whole home study to make sure we were suitable."

We adopted all three of our children, and there is a rigorous process you have to go through to take them home, but nothing about after you get them there. There was no manual, no oversight, and no one but us.

My wife looked at me like I was crazy. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you realize," I said, "that we're just in charge of things now? We're responsible for this tiny person, and no one is ever going to check up on us to make sure we're not just feeding her pancakes every meal? (We weren't.) We're operating without any kind of safety net here!"

"Well, yeah. What did you think we were doing?"

"I don't know, I just figured someone would stop us if we ever had a dumb idea."

She glanced at her wedding ring. "No, there’s no one to stop you from dumb ideas anymore."

That's when I understood what being an adult is about: taking all those moments you've accumulated over the years and exercising sound judgment about what's right and wrong, good and bad, celebrating victories, and lamenting your regrets.

Not that second footlong, though. I'm not sorry about that at all.

Photo credit: Wiros (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 2.0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

I Rode a Scooter For the First Time This Year

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 13:00:00 +0000

I rode a scooter for the first time ever a few weeks ago, and it may be one of the funnest things I have ever done.

I never rode a scooter when I was a kid. And despite what people may think, I did not grow up in the time of motoring around on apple crates nailed to roller skates like the Little Rascals.

(Ask your grandparents what that is.)

It was an amazing feeling, too. Wind blowing through my hair, that feeling of flying, the sensation of trying not to hit pedestrians while simultaneously looking down on them. Just me and Gomer (Go more. Get it?) racing down the sidewalk at a sound-barrier-shattering 12 miles per hour.

Now, I can drive my car 90 miles per hour (unless the police are reading this; then I always go the speed limit), but that doesn’t compare to the exhilaration of standing on an electric skateboard with handlebars.

Several years ago, Lime launched a popular take-and-ride scooter-sharing program, letting riders use electric scooters, electric bikes, and electric mopeds. There are also Bird and Veo scooters, but my first time was a Lime.

It works by first installing the Lime app on your phone, unlocking a scooter, and taking off. Of course, you have to be near a scooter so you can scan its QR code, but once that’s done, you can zoom anywhere.

Top speed is between 12 and 17 miles per hour, depending on the model you’re using and how much you weigh. And the range is between eight and 15 miles, depending on the battery charge.

It costs one dollar to unlock the scooter, and then you’re charged by the minute; the cost depends on where you live. In Orlando, it’s $.67 per minute, so a ten-minute ride costs nearly $8. If you take a bike, it’s $4 for the first ten minutes and $.45 per minute after that. But a bike isn’t nearly as fun as a scooter.

There are no-go zones where the scooter or bike just stops working, which means I can’t take one home, no matter how hard I try. Sticking one in my trunk doesn’t work because the scooter doesn’t work outside of downtown.

But none of that matters, because the ecstasy and joy push all thought from your head. Just "I’m flying! I’m flying! Oh God, I’m going to die, but I’m flying!" over and over until you finally arrive at your destination.

My first time was a couple weeks ago, when I was going to watch my son’s band play in an outdoor gig. Parking was so bad that I had to park about five blocks from where I needed to be. I had injured my Achilles tendon a couple weeks before that, which meant it was going to take 30 minutes to get there on time.

That’s when I spotted the green and white scooter parked smack in the middle of the sidewalk. (Seriously, only jerks park their scooters in the middle of the sidewalk. You probably don’t return your grocery carts to the corral, either.)

I had never considered riding a scooter before that moment, but my Achilles hurt enough that I was willing to try it.

I downloaded the app, put in my information, and then I did something else I had never, ever done: I read the instructions.

I usually like to learn by doing, but I assumed it was important that I don’t barrel over any pedestrians, so I read them. Sure enough, "Don’t barrel over pedestrians" is one of the first rules of using a scooter.

I learned that you have to kick-push to start the scooter. Once it starts, use the little thumb switch to make it go, and let it go to slow down; there are also brake handles like on a regular bike.

I was scared to death for the first 30 seconds, but I soon got comfortable enough that I was only lightly terrified. I learned how to steer, speed up, and slow down, and I’m happy to say I only barreled down one pedestrian.

(It was her own fault, though. You never run directly from something bearing down on you; bob and weave, bob and weave. Stupid kid.)

I made it to the show with two minutes to spare, parked the scooter (to the side of the sidewalk, thank you very much!), and listened to my son’s band. (Search for "Raspberry Pie Music" on YouTube; he’s the bass player.)

The problem was, when I left, my scooter was gone! Jerks! Someone had stolen Gomer!

Except this is the point of a scooter-sharing program — you grab the closest one and take off. The previous rider will find one soon enough. I looked at the app and saw that there was a scooter across the street, so I hobbled over, unlocked it, and zoomed the five blocks back to my car, making sure to park it out of the path of any pedestrians.

That was my first day on a scooter, and it definitely won’t be my last. Maybe Santa will bring me one for Christmas.

After all, I’ve been a good boy this year, despite what that pedestrian told her family.

Photo credit: Baldesteinmanuel326 (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 4.0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Indiana Senate to Face Critical, Historic Vote: Choosing a State Sandwich

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 13:00:00 +0000

Great news for Hoosiers and for fans of the breaded pork tenderloin!

(If I drew that in a Venn diagram, it would just be a circle.)

Indiana State Senator Andy Zay (R-Huntington) wants to make the breaded pork tenderloin sandwich, or BPT, the official state sandwich of Indiana. That’s because Zay represents the city where the BPT was invented.

Senate Bill 21 — titled "State Sandwich" — seeks to add a new chapter to the Indiana Code that makes the BPT, made from Indiana-raised pork, "the official state sandwich of Indiana."

This would make the Hoosier state only the third state with a state sandwich. The other two are New Jersey (Pork Roll Egg and Cheese Sandwich) and Massachusetts (the Fluffernutter, made with peanut butter and marshmallow fluff).

For those of you who live outside God’s country, a BPT is a pork tenderloin that has been hammered until it’s very thin, coated in batter, and deep-fried in oil. The finished product is about the width of a dinner plate, and it’s served on a normal hamburger bun, which looks rather comical.

A BPT in Vevay, IN. I had this with my friend, Kendal Miller.

A proper BPT comes with mayonnaise, mustard, onions, and dill pickles, and the best I've ever had (so far) came from Burkie’s Drive-In on W. Jackson St. in Muncie, Indiana. When I was in college, several of us would sit on my friend’s roof late at night on the weekend (alcohol may have been involved), get a hankering for BPTs, and race across the street to Burkie’s. Then we’d take our sandwiches back, climb on the roof, play beer traffic, and yell at cars. (I told you alcohol was involved.)

The breaded pork tenderloin was first created by Nick Freienstein when he introduced it in his sandwich cart in Huntington, Indiana, about 40 miles south of Fort Wayne. Later, it became a mainstay of the restaurant he opened in 1908.

Nick fondly remembered the Wiener Schnitzel his family sometimes ate, which is a thin, breaded, and pan-fried veal cutlet. Except, veal was not readily available in Northeast Indiana in the early 1900s, but you couldn’t swing a slab of bacon without whacking a pig, so he made a pork version of the Wiener Schnitzel instead.

His BPT is not only considered the first one ever, but it’s also considered the best. I’ve had plenty of tenderloins, but I’ve never eaten at Nick’s, so I’ll have to try his, plus many others, before I can render a final verdict.

A few hours to the west, Iowa has tried to claim the BPT as its own sandwich, but food historians (coolest job ever!) all agree it was Nick Freienstein who created the food of the gods. And it’s Andy Zay who’s going to put a ring on it and make Hoosiers the happiest people on Earth.

When I first heard about Zay’s efforts, I had two thoughts:

1) Excellent! It’s about time that Indiana recognizes the nation’s bestest ever sandwich; and,

2) Wait! Isn’t the pork tenderloin already Indiana’s official state sandwich? Didn’t I already write about it?

It turns out that I have written about the BPT many times in many different publications, but not because it was the official state sandwich. I only thought it was.

Which means I have to apologize, because I have told people, "It’s the official state sandwich. We even voted on it."

Except we never voted on it. Never, not once. We almost voted on it when Zay authored the first sandwich bill — Senate Bill 322 — in 2023. That is, until the Indiana State Senate’s Committee on Commerce and Technology just sat on it like a slab of meat with mittens.

Jerks.

One of the most important issues to ever face the Committee on Commerce and Technology, and they just sat on it? What else were they dealing with?

The 2023 Consumer Data Protection Act (SB 5)?

Oooooooh, big deal!

Who cares if Hoosiers get specific rights for the way their personal data is being processed or sold? You’re voting on the President of Sandwiches, and you skip that for the sake of what? Keeping our data from being hijacked by unscrupulous marketers?

That’s hardly as important as choosing the President of Sandwiches.

If I knew how to phonetically spell a raspberry — when you stick your tongue out and make a derisive fart sound — I would.

We have a state snack (popcorn), which was voted into the official ranks in 2021, and we have an official state pie (sugar cream pie), which was voted in as a senate resolution in 2009.

For you poor non-Hoosiers, sugar cream pie is made from just what it sounds like: sugar and cream. This is not for anyone with diabetes or lactose intolerance.

It’s sugar and cream. There’s no such thing as a Less Sugar Cream Pie, or Garbage Artificial Sweetener Cream Pie.

We’ve got an official state pie, but we don’t have an official state sandwich? Look, Indiana Senate, you need to get your shinola together and vote yes for SB 21. Help the breaded pork tenderloin take its rightful place among the pantheon of state sandwiches.

To those of you who think it’s silly or doesn’t deserve your support, I only have one thing to say to you:

Derisive fart sound.

Photo credit: Erik Deckers (That's me. I took that in Vevay, Indiana with my friend, Kendal Miller).

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Karl the Curmudgeon's Thanksgiving Speech Contest

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 05 Dec 2025 13:00:00 +0000

How was your Thanksgiving, Karl? I asked my friend, uh, Karl, as I sat down at our table after running a few minutes late.

"Sucked," he growled, staring into his beer without looking up. We were at First Editions, our favorite literary-themed bar, for our traditional post-Thanksgiving lunch. But Karl hadn’t found the Christmas spirit yet, because he hadn’t said more than three words since I arrived.

Those had been "Hey," an unintelligible grunt when I asked him if he had ordered, and now "sucked."

What’s the rumpus, Krampus? I asked. It’s the wrong season for grinchy grouchiness.

"Oh, it’s my family," Karl answered. "Some days I just can’t stand them."

Seriously? I didn’t think Alexis got you this upset. What happened? Did she serve tofurkey for Thanksgiving dinner again? Alexis was Karl’s daughter, who still lived with him, even though she had an MBA and ran a successful nonprofit. She did it to keep an eye on his health and the things he ate. Which is why we met in secret every couple of months.

"Worse. We went to my sister Sheila’s this year, and she insisted we make speeches about someone we’re thankful for before dinner."

Kurt the bartender came to our table, and we placed our orders: mushroom and Swiss cheeseburger for Karl, peanut butter and jalapeño cheeseburger for me, plus another round of beers since it was still Thanksgiving vacation.

That doesn’t sound so bad. Everyone goes around the table, says a couple things they’re thankful for, bada bing, bada boom, food’s on.

"Not my sister. No, we had to give real speeches that were three to five minutes long, with an intro, body, and conclusion. Plus, we were judged on our efforts."

What, like a competition?

"Oh, yes. Last Christmas, Sheila and her husband, Robert, gave each other Toastmasters memberships, and they’ve been attending three different meetings every week. Now they’re all about the Toastmaster life like they’re in a damn cult. Last month, Sheila sent out a family email that said we had to give a speech about someone we were thankful for."

That sounds dumb. Why didn’t you just say no?

"You haven’t met my sister," Karl said. "That woman is a force of nature and doesn’t take no for an answer. Besides, she said that participation in the speech contest would affect the quality and quantity of our dinner."

Kurt brought our lunch out and set the plates in front of us. My tater tots were nice and crispy, and he even brought a side of barbecue sauce for dipping.

Meaning?

"Meaning if you didn’t give a speech, you weren’t going to eat."

Wow, so who did you pick for your speech? Was it me?

"No!" Karl nearly shouted before taking a bite from his cheeseburger. "I fik Fafekus," he said, spraying bits of beef and mushrooms as he spoke.

Were you born in a barn? Don’t talk with your mouth full!

Karl took a drink of his beer. "I said, 'I picked Alexis.' Why would I pick you? I can barely tolerate you as it is; why would I be thankful for you?"

I guess that was smart, considering she’s your daughter.

"Plus, she was my ride home. My sister lives three hours away, and my truck was in the shop," he said, before taking another bite from his burger. "But that’s not the worst part."

It gets worse? I said. Being required to do homework a month before the second-best holiday of the year isn’t bad enough; there was more?

"Yes. See, at the end of each Toastmasters meeting, they have someone who counts all the 'ums' and 'uhs' during a person’s speech. Whoever had the most that night got served last. Sheila’s husband, Richard, did the counting. Of course, Sheila didn’t have any, so she rubbed my nose in it."

So who won, Sheila?

"Actually, Alexis won. Sheila was pretty pissed at that, but she had asked one of our cousins, Gerri, to judge, and Gerri was still annoyed with Sheila from last year’s Thanksgiving, when the theme was Beauty and the Feast, and Sheila made a crack about Gerri having a third piece of pie."

Hey, congrats, Alexis. How many people were at the house?

"There were ten of us giving speeches. The little kids didn’t have to participate."

There were ten of you? I asked, almost shouting. Did dinner get cold?

"No, she timed it just right, so it came out just as we finished. The winner got to go first and so on down the line. Sheila got sixth. Serves her right. Bet we won’t do that again."

Who got last?

My niece, Carly, one of Sheila’s own kids, came in last."

Seriously? Her own kid got last? Couldn’t handle the pressure, huh?

"Actually, no. She stood up, said, 'This is stupid,' grabbed a drumstick, and locked herself in her room. Sheila said she was disqualified, and Carly just slammed the door."

So she missed dinner completely?

"Not really. I snuck her a plate when Sheila’s back was turned, because I’m the cool uncle, and Alexis took her some dessert later."

But you’re still upset. What’s the problem?

"Because I came in seventh!"

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Artificial Intelligence Makes Teddy Bear Say Naughty Things

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 28 Nov 2025 13:00:00 +0000

A few weekends ago, I was a mentor at Startup Weekend, a bootcamp for startup business ideas. People pitch ideas for an app or product they want to develop, and other people agree to work on one of the ideas for the entire weekend.

This was the year of artificial intelligence, as nearly every company’s idea involved AI. From maps to college curricula, used auto parts to government forms, there was an element of AI.

This is the state of innovation in 2025: Come up with an idea, shove AI into it, and investors will give you millions of dollars.

Great, you think. I want an AI to translate my dog’s barking into English. Someone’s actually working on that.

Want a microwave that eliminates cold spots in the middle of your soup? It already exists.

How about an AI program that keeps the Cleveland Browns from sucking? Look, there’s a limit to what AI can do.

My favorite useless items are the AI-enabled refrigerator that will look at the contents of your refrigerator and tell you what recipes you can make from what’s there, and come up with a shopping list for the missing ingredients.

"It looks like you have a two-year-old bottle of mustard and a box of baking powder from the Bush administration. Would you like me to make restaurant reservations? Or call a life coach?"

Companies are completely ignoring the admonition of Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, "Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, that they didn't stop to think if they should."

This has led to some rather stupid marriages of artificial intelligence to, well, anything.

Gluxkind created an AI-enabled baby stroller that uses safety and crash sensors, which does all the things that no human could ever do with a stroller: It has hands-free strolling; it brakes going downhill; it uses adaptive push assist going uphill. It can even rock back and forth to lull your baby to sleep. Amazing! No human could ever do these things.

How did the parents in ancient times — the 1980s and 1990s — ever manage to push strollers made from bearskins and pine logs, uphill both ways, in the snow in July?

Thank you, baby scientists! No longer do we have to hold onto the stroller; we can now trust the same technology that once urged people to put glue on pizza and eat at least one small rock per day. Just let go and hope it doesn’t malfunction at the top of Lombard Street in San Francisco.

Meanwhile, Swarovski Optic AX Visio Binoculars uses AI to not only look at birds, they can tell you the kinds of birds you’re looking at, by using the accompanying Merlin Bird ID mobile app. Never mind that this is the whole point behind birdwatching, and you’re defeating the purpose.

"That is your backyard neighbor, Mrs. Johnson, flirting with you from her swimming pool. You have spotted her sixteen times already this week. Also, Mr. Johnson appears to be enraged and is charging toward your location, which he will reach in seven seconds. Six. . . five. . .four. . ."

Artificial intelligence can be used to make our lives easier and to help us learn new ideas. Or it can push baby strollers back and forth better than any human.

Or it can discuss sexually-explicit topics via a child’s toy.

An AI-powered talking teddy bear called Kumma, sold by Singapore-based FoloToy, has been removed from sale after U.S. and Canadian researchers were able to get the bear to talk about sexual topics, including spanking, role play, and BDSM.

(If you don’t know what that last one is, please Lord, do not Google it.)

According to the researchers’ report, "We were surprised to find how quickly Kumma would take a single sexual topic we introduced into the conversation and run with it, simultaneously escalating in graphic detail while introducing new sexual concepts of its own."

In other news, U.S. and Canadian researchers can get AI to talk about freaky stuff.

The team also said the bear spoke at length about different positions, rope knots, and scenarios that it made up all on its own. Either that, or the researchers accidentally gave the AI access to their own adult entertainment subscriptions.

The bear also gave advice on things like where to find sharp knives in the house.

The CEO of FoloToy, Larry Wang, told CNN that all of their AI-enabled toys were removed from sale and that they are conducting an internal safety audit. Meanwhile, OpenAI, the maker of ChatGPT, has suspended FoloToy’s license to use GPT-4o for "violating our policies."

Except it sounds like OpenAI bears some responsibility here (no pun intended), since it was their AI that got freaky.

FoloToy just installed it, and the pervy researchers led it astray. This wasn’t like a cheat code that FoloToy installed in the bear. This was all ChatGPT and the researchers’ fault, so if anything, they’re the ones who should be punished.

Except, according to FoloToy, they might enjoy it.

Photo credit: Kranich17 (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Why We Didn’t "Have Autism" in the 1970s

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 13:00:00 +0000

Is it me, or are more kids being diagnosed with the Triple A’s these days — ADHD, autism, and anxiety?

No, it’s not me. Kids are definitely being diagnosed more than they were 45 years ago. And I know plenty of kids who are on meds or seeing a therapist to learn to cope with a neurological or anxiety issue.

Except it’s not because there’s an increase in the number of kids with a neurological issue.

A lot of unsympathetic boomers have said, "We didn’t have autism/ADHD/anxiety in my day. No one I know had it." Sure thing, James, now tell me more about how your map collection is alphabetized by cartographer.

I’m not saying we didn’t have ADHD or autism when I was a kid; we absolutely did. We just didn’t recognize it or know how to deal with it. The ADHD kids were pegged as troublemakers who needed to cut sugar from their diet and keep their hands to themselves. The autistic kids were put in classes for kids with developmental disabilities.

The kids who are taking medication these days are the ones who, when I was a kid, were bullied by classmates for being weird, spanked by teachers for being disruptive, labeled as malcontents for thinking differently, and punished by everyone because they couldn’t switch off the part of their brain that races 100 times faster and thinks differently than everyone else's.

We’re not seeing an increase in the number of people on the spectrum these days; we’re seeing an increase in the number of diagnoses.

That’s for any number of reasons: Awareness is growing. We have more and better diagnostic tools. We have a better understanding of how neurological issues manifest themselves. Also, it’s contagious, so when one kid in school gets it, everyone around them will catch it, too.

That last one is completely untrue; I wanted to see if you were paying attention. Autism is not measles, and it cannot be vaccinated against. Because if it were, people would probably say the vaccine causes measles and refuse to get it for their kids.

I do believe kids are getting more competitive about their issues, though. A few days ago, I overheard some college kids discussing their ADHD diagnoses, medications, and coping mechanisms, and it was about two steps away from a legit argument. There was a lot of, "Oh, yeah? Try getting back to sleep when your thoughts wake you up at 4:00 a.m. and the Internet is down."

"That’s nothing. Try getting back to sleep when you wake up at 3:00 a.m. and it’s not time to take your medication yet!"

"You guys sleep?"

The interesting thing was that this was not something they were embarrassed or ashamed of. As one of the students said, "When you’re in college, ADHD is a superpower, not a problem!"

So, now it’s a thing they not only live with, but they’re proud of it. And why shouldn’t they be? They’re not being forced to hide who they are or be ashamed of it. They’re not being bullied for it, and if they are, they’ve already thought of 57 ways they’re going to get you back before you even finish your first insult.

Anxiety is also on the rise these days. I know more students who are taking anti-anxiety medications and are fighting panic attacks than ever before.

Again, not because there are more kids with anxiety. Rather, they aren’t being made to hide their feelings and mask their anxiety, like when I was a kid, only to be surprised when they grow up addicted to alcohol and drugs.

Also, I think it’s because we don’t use pencils anymore.

When I was a kid, we wrote with pencils. We took notes with pencils. We did homework with pencils. We doodled with pencils. We wrote notes to friends with pencils. Other kids wrote mean notes about me to friends with pencils.

And what did the nervous and anxious kids do when they weren’t writing notes or doing homework? They chewed on their pencils. My friends who were always stressed and nervous had pencils that looked like they had played baseball with a bucket of gravel.

Queasy before a quiz? Nibble your number two. Tense before a test? Teeth your Ticonderoga. Grumpy about your grades. Gum your graphite. You get the picture.

Nowadays, kids use phones for everything, and they can’t chew on their phones, mostly because they can’t fit the phone cases in their mouths.

I should also point out that this is complete fiction. This is not how anxiety works, and I don’t actually believe we have an increase in the number of anxious kids because they don’t use pencils.

I also don’t believe Tylenol causes autism; that’s just idiotic.

Instead, we live in a society where there is plenty to be anxious about, and kids are being taught to express and cope with their feelings, not grind them into little balls of rage and wrap them inside the fear of a spanking or detention.

Rather than complain about the mental state of "kids these days," tell me instead why you break into a sweat whenever your food touches on your plate.

Photo credit: FUHMariaM (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

This Coffee Shop Sucks

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 14 Nov 2025 13:00:00 +0000

It’s a common complaint, especially by those of us who have been around long enough: customer service has really gone downhill in the last several years.

This isn’t one of those "young people these days!" columns where I talk about how young people don’t know anything, are lazy, their brains are rotting because of the latest entertainment choices, and that they’re on my lawn.

The whole old generation complains about the young one thing is worn out.

As a Gen Xer, this is what our Boomer parents said about our Walkmans and music videos. And their parents said about rock-n-roll and dungarees. And their parents said about jazz and movies. Go far enough back, and you’ll find people who thought reading novels would rot your brain, but we can’t get kids to read paper books these days.

But customer service really has gone down the toilet, and not just because of young people. You pay more and you get less. Customer service people are bored at best and hostile at worst. And if you complain, you’ll get heartfelt apologies from the manager while the employee is behind them, making throat-slashing motions at you.

I’ve decided I’m leaning into this new trend by opening a new coffee shop called No Apologies. The theme of the shop will be centered around surly attitudes and poor customer service, but you’ll not only come to expect it, you’ll demand it. These are bonus amenities at most places these days, but at No Apologies, the rudeness will be the point.

Think of it as Ed Debevic’s for coffee. (If you’ve never heard of Ed Debevic’s, a snarky 1950s diner, go to Chicago and eat there. They won’t thank you for it.)

At No Apologies, you won’t need to give your name to the barely-listening baristas. If you’re lucky, they’ll only spell your name wrong.. Normally, they’ll write your most obvious physical flaw on the cup, and then holler it out at the top of their lungs.

"Large coffee for Glasses? Hey, Glasses, look over here. I got your large coffee here."

"Big Nose, your latte is ready! Surprised you can’t smell it from there!"

"Peppermint mocha with extra chocolate for Unused Yoga Pants! You’re not fooling anyone. Stretch over here and get your drink."

But this is only if they like you. If they don’t like you, which is more likely, then they’ll write a major insecurity or embarrassing memory on your cup.

"Coffee for Mommy Issues! Yo, Mommy Issues, be a good boy and get your coffee."

"Strawberry frappe for Secretly In Love With Her Brother-In-Law. Oh, honey, that’s so pathetic. This one’s on us."

"I have a large mocha latte for Wet The Bed Until He Was Eight. Hey, Pee Pants, your drink’s ready."

However, all the baristas will have a secret heart of gold, and if a patron truly has some serious flaws or is having a tough time, they’ll only describe you in kind and loving terms.

"Yo, Princess Bright Smile, pumpkin spice latte, and don’t let anyone give you a hard time about it."

"I’ve got a gingerbread latte for You Don’t Need A Man To Complete You."

"Espresso shot for You’re Too Good For Her."

This unusual display of tenderheartedness will choke up nearby bystanders, who will then be threatened with harm if they tell anyone.

At No Apologies, your coffee will take a long time, but it won’t be cold, because every drink will be made to order, hot and fresh. It will just take longer than you wanted because the baristas really could not care any less about how late you are for your morning meeting. In fact, if you appear the slightest bit impatient in any way, you can pretty much guarantee you’re going to have to wait 15 minutes for your drink.

There will even be a quiet, subtle signal the baristas will use to secretly launch their delay. One of them will nod ever so slightly and shout, "Get a load of Chester Corporate here. He’s got a big meeting. He must be impotent. I mean, important."

No Apologies will also not be ideally suited for entrepreneurs. Despite my own roots in entrepreneurship, plus the fact that I’m writing this column in my favorite coffee shop right now, we will hate coffee shop startups.

The Internet is going to be super slow, unless you buy the most expensive drink on the menu. Instead, I’m going to have snotty signs around the place that passive-aggressively say, "Stay off your phone. Have a real conversation instead." And if you look like you’re having a business meeting, we’re going to crank up the house stereo and run the milk steamer the entire time.

Also, if anyone hammers away on their laptops for more than an hour, an alarm will go off, and everyone in the place will shout, "Get a real job, Spielberg. No one cares about your screenplay."

This behavior seems to be more commonplace in most businesses these days, so I figure, why not just be a trendsetter and do it before everyone else does?

And if you don’t like it, no one cares what you think, Still Reads Newspapers. Drink your coffee.

Photo credit: Erik Deckers (That's me! I took that!)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Dictionary.com Picks Stupidest Word Ever for Word of the Year

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 07 Nov 2025 13:00:00 +0000

It’s that time of year when dictionaries shoot their shot about six weeks too early and announce their word of the year. I say six weeks too early because November just started and there’s still plenty of year left.

It’s like declaring something the best movie of the year in March. (I have seen this done.) It’s a low bar by this point, and there’s still plenty of time for something better to come along.

Still, Halloween was on Friday, and I started seeing Christmas decorations by Sunday, so maybe the end of the year is closer than I realized.

Best, most important word of the year for the entire year, and we still have seven weeks left. Too many baseball teams can tell you not to pack it in at the bottom of the 7th inning, but that’s what these dictionaries have done.

To start, Dictionary.com irritated everyone over the age of 25 by naming a set of numbers as their word of the year. Saying they’re "bowing to global trends" (translation: we’re gutless cowards) and the constant pestering of their grandkids, they named "67" as the word of the year.

Not sixty-seven, mind you. But "six seven."

It’s not a "word" because it’s two words. If it were hyphenated, we could argue about whether it's one word or two, but we don’t get to enjoy that. Instead, it’s a "term" or a "phrase."

Also, it’s not a word, it’s a number. I’ll accept that "six seven" is a single word before I ever accept "67" as one. It’s the same lunacy as, "Well, actually, a tomato is technically a fruit."

I also want to gnash my teeth and rend my garments at Dictionary.com’s choice because "six seven" is the most annoying word they could have picked. And I’m including that time the Cambridge dictionary added "skibidi" to its corpus.

"Six seven" has befuddled, bewildered, and bemused anyone over the age of 18 because it doesn’t mean anything. It has no meaning. It doesn’t refer to anything. It’s not the term that appears between "six six" and "six eight." It’s not a reference to someone’s jersey number or height; it’s just some nonsense kids like to say.

Mention 67 around kids under 12, and they all start chanting "Six seven! Six seven!" like they’re in a cult and you asked who’s going to save them from the coming meteor shower. But ask them what it means, and they’ll tell you it doesn’t mean anything. They just like saying it.

Ask adults what it means, and they look just as baffled as if you asked them to find the meaning of life in a block of cheese.

"My kid just keeps saying 'Six seven! Six seven!' even if I just say the number six," a friend told me. She imitated him by moving her arms and shaking her body like one of the wild and crazy guys. "He just keeps doing that and saying 'Six seven!'"

It’s a growing and irritating trend. A bunch of grade schoolers shuffling along, slack-jawed, chanting "Six seven! Six seven!" over and over before switching over to, "Brains, brains!"

Meanwhile, the Collins Dictionary over in Scotland has named "vibe coding" their word of the year for 2025.

"Vibe coding" is the term for using artificial intelligence and natural language to write computer code. You don’t actually have to know how to code; you just have to be able to tell your favorite AI what it is you want, and it will write the code to do that.

"Create an app that tells all of my creditors that I’ve died and didn’t leave a forwarding address."

"Write an app that’s like Tinder for pizza."

"Build an app that empties my employer’s bank account and puts the money in mine."

With vibe coding, you can create your ideal app, website, or platform without knowing anything about how to make it. You just go with the flow, and the AI will take care of the important details, like actually writing the code. You just sit back and drink little umbrella drinks.

As the Collins Dictionary website says, you’re "programming by vibes, not variables." It’s like firing up a 3D printer and saying, "Print me a functioning Ferrari Roma with refrigerated cupholders and a Blaupunkt stereo." You don’t have to know how to design a car, build a car, or even drive a car; you just have to be able to write a decent prompt, and bada-boom, bada-bing, you have a car.

Now, to be fair, a vibe-coded app will be rather buggy and fall short of what you’re trying to do, but we couldn’t even do this three years ago. Imagine what life will be like in a few more years when AI is able to write any code that does anything properly, correctly, and without error.

Eventually, this could bring about the collapse of the programmer economy and even lead to the deep fragmentation of the app world, where everyone vibe-codes their own app rather than buying someone else’s. This will lead to fraud, lawsuits, and millions of useless apps cluttering up the Internet and rendering it useless.

I give it six, seven years.

Photo credit: Micheletb (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 3.0)

My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.

Gambling Is Boring; I Don’t See What the Big Deal Is

noreply@blogger.com (Erik Deckers) — Fri, 31 Oct 2025 12:00:00 +0000

I'm not much for gambling. It's not that I disapprove or think it's sinful. It’s that I find it dead boring.

For one thing, it's a sucker's game. You're not going to win because the house — the casinos — have ensured that it will win many, many more times than the punters. It doesn't matter if you have a system or you're carrying your lucky charm. For one thing, you bought that rabbit’s foot at a gas station, so how much luck can it actually have? It wasn’t lucky for the rabbit, so it certainly won’t do you any better.

There’s no such thing as a foolproof system guaranteed to win. Seriously, your cousin Chet from Loogootee did not figure out a system to beat the casinos. They’re professionals who spent millions of dollars to ensure those systems don’t work. The guy who charged you $19.95 for his Amazon ebook doesn’t know a secret loophole that Vegas lifers failed to find.

I never had much luck gambling. Even in high school, when I played Penny-Nickel-Dime poker with my friends, I rarely won. If I was lucky, I’d walk away with the same amount of money I came in with — about two bucks.

Gambling is boring because it doesn’t require any skill, except for poker. Everything else is based on the luck of the draw, the roll of the dice, or the spin of the roulette wheel. Betting is just a matter of arguing with the casino, "I’m luckier than you." "Oh, yeah? Five bucks says you’re not." over and over until you both run out of money.

Even in roulette, if you spent all night betting on a single color, red or black, over and over, you won’t even break even. You're eventually going to lose because there are also two green numbers, 0 and 00. You don't even have a 50/50 chance of winning every time; you only have a 49/51 chance, which means, over time, you’ll run out of money.

Sports gambling is in the news a lot these days, thanks to the NBA gambling scandal that snared several current and former players, and even a coach, plus allegations of fixed poker games with the mafia. And, as you would hope, the Internet was ready with the jokes.

"Why is gambling so rampant in the NBA? We'll investigate the problem on the Draft Kings Sports Analysis Show, sponsored by FanDuel."

My mom and stepdad enjoyed gambling. They would drive up to the riverboat in Joliet, Illinois, for a fun evening playing the slots and blackjack. But they knew they were going to lose and only took as much money as they were prepared to lose. For them, it was the cost of entertainment, like going to a movie or out to eat.

But I tried it once and hated it. Once, when I was traveling to Reno, Nevada, for a conference, my mom gave me $10 and told me to play the nickel slots on her behalf; if I won anything, we’d split it.

I promised I would, but we both knew I wasn’t coming home with anything.

My first night in the casino, I thought. "Let’s just get this over with." I found one of the nickel slot games, slotted the $10 into the machine, and sat down. A small display lit up and showed, "$10.00."

I pressed the button (there are no more levers) that would spin the digital cylinders on the screen. They spun around, and I lost over and over, as I had hoped. I was ten spins into the game, and I was already bored. But my mom had asked me for this, so I figured I should play the slots at least once in my life.

People around me were rubbing lucky rabbits’ feet and rosary beads, whisper-chanting, "Next one’s a winner. Next one’s a winner. Next one’s a winner," slapping the button and praying to the patron saint of slot machines to make them rich.

Meanwhile, I was fighting to stay awake on my stool, chanting, "How much longer? How much longer?" praying to the patron saint of slot machines for a city-wide blackout. I wanted to find something more interesting to spend my money on, like a pizza buffet or commemorative "What Happens in Reno" salt and pepper shakers.

And then the unthinkable happened: I won! I won two dollars! I was down to 75 cents when the little lights spun, the bells chimed, and two dollars rolled back onto the display of how much money I had left.

I said a few bad words, cursed my "good fortune," and shouted to the gambling gods, "Can’t I just give you ten bucks so you’ll leave me alone?" They had nothing to say. So I had to keep slapping the button before I achieved my life’s greatest desire: to spend the entire $10, five cents at a time, at a game that I was (almost) never going to win.

"Finally," I huffed, staggering off my stool, butt and legs numb from lack of blood flow.

If I never gamble again, it’ll be too soon, I said. Nothing will ever bring me back here.

"Wanna bet?" said the gambling gods. Two years later, I found myself in Vegas for another conference, but I managed to avoid gambling temptations altogether.

I spent all my time in the bar instead.

Photo credit: LoggaWiggler (Pixabay, Creative Commons 0)

My new novel, Whither Utopia, is now available for sale. (Actually, it comes out on December 3, but there's a glitch in the system! If you "pre-order" it now, the printer has been shipping them already!! Shhh, don't tell them!)

Order my second novel at the 4 Horsemen website.