HEY, I’M ONLY 55!

It’s official: I am now less mature than my 13-year-old son. The following pieces of dialogue should be enough to convince you.

My Son: Hey Dad, what’s for dinner tonight?
Me: I believe your mother said we are having poop.

Son: Dad, you’ll never guess what this kid did at school today.
Me: Pooped in his pants?
Son: No.
Me: Threw up?
Son: No. Come on, Dad.
Me: Well, then I really don’t care.

Son: Dad, how come the dog smells like Cheerios?
Me: Because I gave her some earlier and she just farted.
Wife: Get a life, will you?

Son: Hey Dad, do we have anything for lunch?
Me: I think there’s a carton of poop in the fridge.
Son: No, seriously.
Me: I’m just kidding. There’s also a jar of pee.

HARRY POTTER? I JUST DON’T GET IT

I haven’t read the Harry Potter books, and I barely stayed awake during two of the films, so I freely admit I am no expert, and I’m sure that Potter fanatics (“Potheads?”) will take pleasure in shooting holes in my theory.

But from my brief exposure, I must state that the series just doesn’t work for me, and here’s why.

Every time Harry gets in a jam, he always resorts to the same solution for his predicament: Magic. To me, this automatically yanks all the suspense out of these stories.

I know nothing will ever happen to Harry, and that he is never really in danger, because magic will always save the day. It just seems so convenient, such a cop-out and a cheat, and that there are no restrictions or rules regarding how magic can save Harry each time.

Let’s compare this to another extremely successful franchise, the James Bond films. I am completely aware that James Bond will also get out of any tight squeeze and, like most protagonists in a series of books/films, Bond will not die. (Cash cows are rarely slaughtered.)

But here’s the difference: James Bond cannot just conveniently conjure magical powers out of nowhere; he must use his wits and strength, and deal with real people and utilize things in the real world to stay alive.

Yes, I know that it is ridiculous when Bond uses a tree limb as a snowboard to escape villains, but the point is that we have all seen tree limbs, except that Bond is creative enough to use such ordinary things in a creative way to beat the bad guys.

Harry doesn't need to be clever or outsmart anyone. When he gets in a fix, he just whips out his wand and, shazam! Problem solved.

Now don’t get me wrong. I think J.K. Rowling absolutely deserves all the money she has made from the Harry Potter books and films. And any author whose work results in millions of young people standing in line worldwide to buy a book should be given the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer Prize, a Peabody Award, the People’s Choice Award, the Zombie Chicken Award, etc., etc.

I guess some people enjoy the fantasy of being able to access magic whenever things get harry—er, hairy. But I’d rather be like a James Bond, and be resourceful enough to use whatever is handy to stay alive and--of course--get the girl.

I GAVE HER $42 AND A BAG OF DOG SHIT

Maybe some of you pet owners have experienced this, but it was a new one for me.

The veterinarian needed a fecal sample to test our Golden Retriever, Molly, for intestinal parasites.

Hey, no problem, I figured. I’ve got a whole backyard full of dog crap! Come on by, Doc, and take your pick among the variety of colors and textures. You can find the pungent piles right next to the spots of dying grass where my little princess empties her bladder every five minutes.

If only it was that easy. You see, the vet needed a fresh fecal sample that was less than four hours old.

So now I can add monitoring my dog’s bowel movements to my resume. As soon as I see her contributing her morning glory, I need to run out to the back yard and scoop up a dollop of doody.

But wait: Is there is a special kind of container in which I must place this cargo of crap? Maybe some sort of non-corrosive moon metal? The vet tells me that any container will be fine, even a baggie. OK, glad I got some clarification on that one. Saved me a trip to Petco.

For some reason, I felt ridiculous as I drove to the vet with a baggie full of dog shit on the seat next to me. (Maybe it was the seat belt. At least I could use the carpool lane.)

And then I felt doubly ridiculous when I approached the attractive young vet assistant at the counter, because then I had to explain exactly why I was there.

Assistant: Can I help you?

Me: Um, yeah. I have a fecal sample. It’s my dog’s.

(I added that last part just so there was no confusion, though now that I think about it, I wonder what my own sample would have shown. Food for thought.)

Assistant: OK.

Silence.

Me: Uh, do you want it?

Assistant: Sure.

Her beautiful azure eyes oozed with erotic ecstasy as I reached up and handed her a Ziploc bag brimming with crap.

Assistant: That will be forty-two dollars today.

I felt like I was in some weird porno movie, because in what other scenario would excrement and money be in such close proximity? Aside from my wedding night, that is.

Next time, maybe I will smear some chocolate pudding on my cash beforehand just to see her expression when I fork over the fee. Oh well, that gives me something to look forward to.

WHY GUYS SHOULDN’T LOOK AT OTHER GUYS’ FEET

I rarely ever notice what shoes someone is wearing, except when I’m interested in buying shoes for myself.

Since I recently decided that I didn’t want to wear only sneakers while I’m wearing shorts, I thought I’d look at some alternative casual footwear.

Along with shopping for shoes where I buy all my clothes (Pep Boys) I also found myself constantly looking at what shoes guys are wearing along with their shorts.

I know that’s a weird thing to do, but take comfort in the fact that I have been mentally castigating myself every time I catch myself doing this.

The logic was, of course, that if I saw something I liked, I would perhaps copy that look since I have absolutely no style of my own. I still dress the way I did in junior high, with flippers and a top hat.

My main conclusion from this extensive fieldwork is that most guys wear sandals with shorts. I do have a pair of decent sandals, but I don’t like wearing them for extended periods of time. And I certainly don’t understand how people can drive wearing sandals.

They are so floppy and flimsy, I’m concerned that my sandal would get caught on the gas pedal and I’d wind up mowing down some old folks at a farmers market. (Should I ever get charged with that, I’ll just say that my father molested me. Thanks, Casey!)

So, sandals are not an option. My choice in this was confirmed last weekend when I noticed a Starbucks patron wearing sandals. His feet were truly filthy. The bottom of his feet seemed clean enough, but the top of his feet looked like they were caked with dirt.

See, I said to myself, there’s another strike against wearing sandals. People can see how dirty your feet are.

But it was then that I noticed I was looking at the feet of an African-American.

Did I feel ashamed? Yes. Foolish? Yes. Like a racist? Yes.

Fucking sandals.

EVEN MORE THINGS WE CAN ALL AGREE ON (CAN’T WE?)

• If your nickname is “Giggles,” and you’re over 13 years old, something has gone terribly wrong.

• Whenever a character in a movie or TV show picks up a large box or sips from a paper cup, it always looks fake, like the box or the cup is just an empty prop.

• The interstitial music on NPR (the music between breaks) is consistently annoying.

• If you still believe in God or some sort of divine justice, consider this: Clarence Clemons is dead, and Phillip Garrido still lives.

• Why do people say, “Where are you at”? Do they really need to include the “at”?

• You know all those action movies in which the hero falls five stories, smashes through a wall, and then gets up with just a few grunts and a shake of the head? Exactly how much longer are we expected to suspend our disbelief?

• Can we at least all agree on good writing when we see it? When Don Draper asks Peggy Olson on “Mad Men” if she ever thinks about the baby she gave up for adoption, Peggy simply replies, “Playgrounds.”

• Whenever people say that they “built a house,” 90 percent of the time someone else did the actual building.

• On “The Biggest Loser,” morbidly obese people cry about having too much food to eat. Only in America.

• Half of the scenes in any Sundance film consist of the main character staring thoughtfully into space.

• Why do people say, “That’s too funny”? How exactly can something be too funny, like it’s dangerous or something?

WHY I WALKED OUT OF A MEETING

At some point, we all want to walk out of work-related meetings, mostly because 99.99999% of them are useless, ridiculous, and annoying.

I usually stay for the duration, partially out of optimism that maybe I’ll find something valuable, but mainly because I’ve had to give presentations myself and I know how difficult it can be.

A recent workshop I attended was called, “Empowering Students to Make a Difference,” and it was supposed to help teachers instill leadership skills in students.

Before it began, one colleague told me that this speaker was “tremendous.” I can now add that word, along with “amazing” and “phenomenal,” to my list of Words People Use to Describe Things When Actually the Opposite is True. Consider yourself warned, my friends.

This workshop began with the speaker, who was a dead ringer for Ned Flanders on “The Simpsons,” explaining that we will be moving around a lot and getting in groups during this session.



That’s like going to a play that forces the audience members to be part of the performance and interact with the characters. My feeling is: I’m in the audience, you are on stage, do your job and leave me alone.

But I stayed anyway, hoping to see something “tremendous.” Plus, I was giving my own presentation later that day and therefore didn’t want to create any bad karma.

On the walls of our meeting room, Ned had placed copies of Time magazine covers portraying famous leaders. We were instructed to write descriptive words (“Determined,” “Sincere,” “Inspirational,” etc.) on post-it notes and walk around the room and place our notes on the portraits. We were then asked to share what we wrote. (My portrait was of Abe Lincoln, and 24 of the 25 post-its said “Honest.” Wow, I bet you didn’t see that one coming.)

What was the point of this exercise? How the hell should I know?

One of the magazine covers pictured Barack Obama. As we shared what the post-its said, Ned pointed out as a side note that he didn’t vote for Obama.

I thought that was a weird thing to say in this setting, but OK. I am friendly with people of various political persuasions, but at work, I usually keep my political opinions to myself.

Ned couldn’t help himself, though, and his comment stuck in my craw. (Where exactly is one’s craw, anyway?) Because if he didn’t vote for Obama, that probably means he voted for… Sarah Palin!



Wait a minute. He’s conducting a leadership workshop and he voted for Palin?! (Yeah, I know John McCain was at the top of the ticket, but it was still a vote for Palin, and if he voted for a wacko third-party candidate, that was worse.)

Say what you want about Palin, but the truth is that the Time magazine covers showed people from a whole other (intelligent) universe: Einstein, JFK, Mother Teresa, Ghandi, and the like.

So, that was the first chink in his armor of credibility. Still, I stuck with him.

A few minutes later, Ned mentioned that every Friday, his wife, a teacher, would show her students a movie that provides a good example of leadership, “such as ‘Braveheart.’”

Wait a minute: Isn’t that a movie directed and starring Mel Gibson, the anti-Semitic, racist, girlfriend-beating, drunk-driving jerk-off?


Keep in mind that this is a conference about leadership, in which Ned listed Trust, Compassion, Stability, and Hope as the four reasons people follow others.

Does Gibson display any of these? And why exactly is Ned’s wife showing movies to her class every week, especially R-rated ones?

That was it for me. I’m thinking to myself, “I’m 54 years old. How many more ridiculous meetings am I going to sit through in my life, instead of doing the right thing and leaving?”

So I left, just as we were getting ready for another fascinating group activity. As I made for the door, Ned loudly bid me a sarcastic “Oh, OK, goodbye.”

And that was when I flung my feces at him. Hey, he wanted an evaluation!

GOD TOLD ME TO WRITE THIS

“God is a concept,
by which we measure our pain.”
--John Lennon

It seems like most people have it all figured out.

The majority of people find a way to process and explain everything that happens by filtering it through their chosen belief, whether it’s God, Jesus, Buddha, Mother Earth, Allah, Yoga, Scientology, the Mystic Chicken, or the Shadow Government.

Whatever comes their way, their one all-encompassing philosophy of choice seems to apply and explains everything.

Is that because drinking that particular Kool-Aid makes life easier to cope with and understand, like some sort of cosmic security blanket?


Struggling to comprehend the overwhelming injustice, violence and evil that exists in the world (in people?) can make you feel lost, alone, and frustrated. Isn’t it much easier and convenient to just have one answer—one size that fits all?

I have no such singular answer that I can stretch and manipulate to easily explain away every incomprehensible event that occurs. I wish I did.

Sometimes I envy those people because it boils life down to a much more manageable experience. Yet, most of the time, I am just too skeptical of any quick fix.

As an example, let’s take a common belief in God. Some recent events will help me illustrate what I’m talking about.

• Event #1: In God We Trust, Despite Evidence to the Contrary

You probably read the horrific story last week about the Brazilian nut who killed 12 children at point-blank range, and wounded several others, while shouting, “I am going to kill you all!”

One girl was shot in the leg, and her mother wonders if her child will ever be able to walk again. Here’s her quote:

“She’s such an active child. That’s the biggest fear I have, her not being able to walk again. But we have to trust in God.”

Amazing, isn’t it? She is still able to “trust in God” after what happened to her kid? I would imagine that she has been placing her trust in God before this happened, and yet look how that worked out! Yet, she still hangs on to this.

Is it just too scary to think that there is no superpower (Daddy?) that will take care of everything for us?

By the way, the gunman, before killing himself, left a note with these instructions:

“A follower of God must visit my grave at least once. He must pray before my grave and ask God to forgive me for what I have done.”

That’s right, he believed in God, too, and since God will forgive him, he won’t really suffer for his actions.

You might be thinking that this guy is just mentally ill…but then you would just be proving my point, wouldn’t you?

• Event #2: God Knew Drugs Were Good for Me

One week into the season, baseball player Manny Ramirez tested positive for a performance-enhancing substance and decided to retire rather than face another drug ban.

“I’m at ease,” Ramirez said. “God knows what’s best for me.”

Hmm. So, if God knows what’s best for Manny, why didn’t God step in when Manny was first considering using these drugs?

The argument, of course, is that God gave Manny free will, and it was his choice to use the drugs in the first place. I actually would tend to agree with that.

But I don’t think Manny would agree with that. And yet, when he gets busted again for the same thing, he conveniently brings in God’s name, as if He has been guiding him all his life.

• Event #3: God Made Me Lose

Matt and Christa are contestants on “Survivor” this season, and both are very Christian. Before their final one-on-one match, they each prayed to God for victory.

Matt beat Christa in the competition, and she was sent home.

Does this mean that God liked Matt better? Didn’t they both pray for victory? Will Christa now become an atheist? I’m sure these cool kids would answer “no” to both questions, and they will find a way to twist their views so that they are at peace, there is no free will, and that Santa Claus is watching over all of us.

To Sum Up:
Considering these three examples I have described here, in which peoples’ beliefs in a higher power seem to backfire on them—and yet they still continue to believe—I can come to at least one conclusion, even though it may be a cliché:

You can’t have it both ways, people.

Life is made up of your own personal choices, and it’s a cop-out and a shirking of responsibility to attribute everything to God…or Allah…or Buddha…or whomever.

And if you have never heard the song, “God,” by John Lennon, by all means seek it out immediately.

LIFE’S TOO SHORT FOR THIS

As I begin to round the corner to my mid-50s, I find myself dwelling in the morose alleyways of my brain and reassessing how I am spending the dwindling years of my life. Namely, I need to be more selective about what I watch on TV.

For the past year, whenever I found myself comatose in front of the electronic teat, I asked myself, “What other, more constructive things could I be doing with whatever precious time I have left?”

Perhaps I could get involved in a humanitarian cause, write a great novel, read the classics, or maybe have a deep, meaningful conversation with the lovely Mrs. Jerry K. (OK, I’m just kidding about that last one, but you get the idea.)

After several minutes of soul-searching, I decided that instead of wasting precious prime-time hours watching TV, I am going to utilize my time much more wisely by writing about TV.

Specifically, here are the TV shows that I have stopped watching, and the reasons why.

• American Idol:
First of all, I’m convinced that the weirdos who audition at the beginning of each season are just doing it as a joke or a dare. Secondly, the singers are all atrocious in that they all use that same Mariah Carey-esque gimmicky vocal theatrics that are completely devoid of any real emotion or soul. Thirdly, I’ve learned that the audience members have to prove themselves in a humiliating mock-game-show audition before they are deemed loud and enthusiastic and idiotic enough to be allowed into the theater.

• V:
How can anyone take one look at Anna, the main alien leader and spokesperson, and not realize immediately that she is completely evil? But aside from that, NOTHING EVER HAPPENS.

• Jersey Shore:
At first, this was the ultimate guilty pleasure/train wreck that requires a shower after each episode. Like most reality shows, we watch so that we can feel superior, but now the joke’s on us, because these kids are all now richer than we will ever be. These jerk-offs ended up making us feel like suckers.

• Chuck:
When this show began, it was about a nerdy guy who is accidentally forced to become a secret agent. He would stumble about and pine after the hot blonde secret agent, and that was something the average schmo could identify with. Now, Chuck is a super-agent with a cool new haircut and he bangs that hot chick in every episode. Why should we care?

• Glee:
Look, I’m totally in favor of gay rights, I’ve worked with gay people all my life, and I believe there’s no reason they shouldn’t be allowed to marry and equally feel our pain. But this show is just way too gay for me. I mean, Hell-o! If I hear their version of “Don’t Stop Believin’” one more time, my head will explode. It’s a shitty song to begin with, and should only be played during the bottom of the ninth inning of a baseball game, if at all. This show is almost grating enough for me to become un-infatuated with Gwyneth Paltrow, who is the ultimate shiksha goddess ice princess and every Jewish guy’s fantasy. (I said almost.)

Other TV shows I’ve stopped watching because (a) each episode is basically the same, and, again (b) NOTHING EVER HAPPENS:
Top Chef
Burn Notice
Dangerous Housewives
The Biggest Loser

So, what will I keep watching?
Boardwalk Empire
True Blood
Weeds
Breaking Bad
The Walking Dead
Men of a Certain Age
Fringe (especially the third season)
The Daily Show and The Colbert Report (the best written comedy shows on TV)
Mad Men (the best written, best acted, best looking show on TV)

What say you, dear readers? What TV shows have you stopped watching, or will continue to watch?

THINGS I WISH MY 12-YEAR-OLD KID WOULD SAY

• “The first book in this series was so good, I can hardly wait to read the next five!”

• “I’m going to turn off my iPod and my cell phone for the weekend so I can concentrate on doing extra credit work in Algebra.”

• “I finished all of my chores, Dad. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

• “I’m going to go brush my teeth and get ready for bed.”

• “I’m going to take the dog for a walk. Be back in an hour.”

• “I don’t need my allowance this week, Dad. You’ve spent plenty on me already.”

• “Pass the broccoli, please.”

• “I’m going to stay after school for tutoring this week so I can raise my grades.”

• “I don’t want to see that movie, Dad. It’s rated R. Why don’t you and Mom go see it, and I’ll stay home?”

• “Good night, Dad. I love you.”

AM I A RACIST?

In honor of Martin Luther King on his birthday, I thought I’d share this little anecdote that led me to ask the above question. Read it, and then you can decide for yourself.

My son has played basketball for the city junior league for several years. Before the season begins, each kid tries out so that the coaches can score them and create balanced teams.

At least that’s the pretense. The reality is that most coaches already know the kids and the parents and create the strongest teams they can. If you are not part of this clique, your kid ends up on the shitty team. Guess who’s not part of this clique?

So, we begin each season on a positive note, hoping that our team will win at least a couple of games. About half way through the season, however, I end up driving a dejected kid to the game while he sighs, “We’re just gonna lose anyway.”

At the first practice session, we get to size up each team member, and hope springs eternal that there will be at least a couple of standout players.

Last year, for the first time, there was an African-American kid on my son’s team. My immediate thought was, “All right! Maybe we’ll have a chance now!”

Well, it turned out that this kid was by far the worst player on the team. How bad was he? I barely know anything about basketball, and it was even obvious to me that this kid was terrible.

I was confused. Just because this kid was black, I expected him to be a great basketball player, and then when it turned out he wasn’t, I just couldn’t comprehend it. What a rip-off!

On top of that, the best player on the team was actually a skinny, short Asian kid. I was dumbfounded. “Wait a minute—The black kid is the worst player and the little Asian kid is the best player? What the hell is going on here?”

Then I began asking myself, why would I automatically assume that a black kid would be good at basketball?

What if I was black and had no interest in basketball? Would people always want to talk basketball with me, and then be disappointed when they found out I had no interest in the game at all?

Or what if I was an Asian kid and really loved basketball? Would everyone just ridicule me because there aren’t many Asian basketball players and I should really be focusing on math?

Or what if I was Jewish? Would gentiles always ask me about Mideast politics, or the meaning of certain Jewish holidays, figuring that I’m expected to know everything about them just because they’re Jewish topics?

Wait a minute…I am Jewish and gentiles do ask me that stuff!

Do their questions make them racist? Do my assumptions about the basketball players make me a racist? You be the judge.

Sayonara and Shalom.

IT GETS WORSE

Not to start off the New Year on a negative note or anything (why, I would never do that!), but today I am here to tell you something that nobody else will: The Truth About Having Kids.

And here it is: Enjoy your children while they’re young, because by the time they hit 12, it’s over baby.

What’s over, exactly? Let’s see…

Their wide-eyed innocence. Kissing you good night, or just kissing or hugging you for no reason at all. Talking to you excitedly about their friends and what happened that day. Looking to you for protection and guidance.

And what can you expect when your child enters the “tween” stage?

To them, everything is lame and sucks, especially YOU. You are now an embarrassment who says and does everything wrong. If you’re lucky, your children will treat your every action and utterance with either massive eye-rolling or the silent treatment, or both.

When they were little, you only had to worry about your children simply being healthy and safe, and you could pretty much control that.

Now, you have to be concerned about some serious stuff: safe sex; who your children pick as friends and as girlfriends/boyfriends; grades (which really count now); the cost of college; driving; car insurance; too much TV; too much Internet; too much texting; too much video gaming.

And speaking of media, you will no longer have any use for Yo Gabba Gabba, or Barney, or The Wiggles, or Bob the Builder. That stuff probably drives you up the wall now, but one day you’ll find yourself longing for the days when your kids watched it over and over again. It was pure and sweet and harmless.

Once they become tweens, they will become attracted to R-rated movies, videos and music. And even if you don’t let inappropriate media in the house, your children will find it or get exposed to it one way or another.

Remember how you would sometimes catch your little ones doing something wrong? When you caught them, they looked so guilty and their tears would come flowing.

Well, when they get older, you hear about their misdeeds second-hand—from their friends, from other parents, or maybe even from school officials.

Any semblance of control you thought you once had is now gone. If you don’t believe me, take a good look at those groups of 12- to 17-year-old boys and girls the next time you’re at the mall or a fast-food joint. That is what your little baby will become, and there is nothing you can do about it! If that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, you’re still getting high on the fumes of Baby Wipes.

Then the day finally comes when you hear that your precious little angel is saying (or texting) the F-word. And that’s when you know it’s really over. Your bundle of joy has turned into just another a-hole…just like you were at that age.

So, enjoy your little ones while you can, but now you know the truth about having kids.

Come to think of it, no one ever tells you The Truth About Being Married, either, but that’s a topic for another day. Here’s a hint, though: look at the title of this blog posting.

Oh, and Happy New Year!

MY FAVORITE QUOTES OF THE YEAR

Between Jerry K Jr. and me, as I was walking out the door:
Me: I’ll be back in 15 minutes. I need to get some gas.
Jerry K Jr.: Why?

This one occurred when Jerry K Jr. was getting ready to go to bed. Please understand that the only ones in the room were our dog, him and myself.
Me: Did you brush your teeth?
Jerry K Jr.: Who, me?

During a school field trip last year, a male student returned from the restroom with his zipper down.
Female teacher: Andrew, your fly is down.
Andrew: Why do you have to look down there, Miss?

Mrs. Jerry K to Jerry K Jr., while he was being particularly annoying at 6:00 am:
“Why do you have to do everything I hate?”

I saw a dad with his small son at Costco. The boy was dangling his leg out of the shopping cart. Exasperated, the dad smacked the boy’s leg, and said:
“I’m going to have to spank you, because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

MY NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS

• No more high-fiving of any kind. I actually saw two women high-five each other because they both got their periods on the same day. Kind of takes away the whole meaning of the high-five, don’t you think?

• Eat more Nutella.

• Determine once and for all if Ricky Martin and Elton John are gay.

• Perfect Aunt Flossie’s kasha recipe.

• Stop going to Best Buy, rearranging the DVDs, and then complaining to the manager that they are disorganized.

• Try to understand why receptionists at spas and massage parlors are always so tense.

• Avoid using the phrase, “There you go.”

• Transition from having fun only with chicken parts to having fun with the entire chicken.

• More licking.

“DOES YOUR WIFE READ YOUR BLOG?”

Here at the lavish Fun with Chickens headquarters, I get thousands of emails every day asking the same question: “Does your wife read your blog?”

The answer, simply, is no.

Since I began this blog back in the early ‘70s, we both somehow knew immediately that it would not be a good idea if she read it.

This instinctive agreement is difficult to explain, but maybe this little anecdote will shed some light.

This morning at breakfast, Mrs. Jerry K mentioned that she really likes the song, “Billionaire.”

I explained how much I hated that song. “I even wrote about it in my blog. He says he wants to be a billionaire, and my reaction is, well, who wouldn’t?”

A contemptuous look was aimed at yours truly…so of course I wisely continued.

“Then he says he wants to meet Oprah. Right! What are they gonna talk about—dieting? Their love of Maya Angelou’s poetry?”

Contempt then turned to disgust, as she said, “THAT’S what you write about in your blog?”

…And THAT, dear friends, is why it's best if my wife doesn’t read my blog.

THE DECEPTIVE LURE OF BEING HOMELESS

I know this makes little sense, but I often envy homeless people.

Many was the time I would see them sleeping peacefully under a freeway overpass, and admire how little they had to worry about.

No worries about paying the mortgage, or having the latest smart phone. No getting pissed off every time the cable TV bill arrives, and pondering for the billionth time whether you should be spending so much money on so many channels.

No frustration over the latest car repair bill or car insurance payment. No wondering how you will afford the latest clothes or electronic gadget your kid is coveting.

Some people even pay a monthly fee for a storage unit to house all the useless junk that they never use.

Of course, I could go on and on.

What a blissful life the homeless must have, I tell myself, freed from all these superficial burdens.

They can just go from place to place, no strings attached, and sleep under the stars. They aren’t tied down, working the same routine day after day and kissing the boss’ ass just to keep everyone happy and struggle to maintain a lifestyle.

The homeless must look at us and think we’re suckers.

But then I take a closer look, and realize that most of these homeless guys actually do have material possessions.

They are usually pushing around a rusty, rickety shopping cart that’s like their own personal storage unit. I’m not sure what exactly they have in those carts, but there must be some pretty useful items if they want to remain tied down to it.

Where is the freedom from material possessions that I was so romantically envying whenever I saw these people? Could it be that they are actually enslaved to this crap just like the rest of it, but on a more, shall we say modest, level?

I remember I once even saw two homeless ladies in a McDonald’s both pushing their shopping carts and greedily eyeing each other’s stuff while guarding their own carts.

So not only are they tied down to this junk just like we are, they also have to worry about it being stolen, just like we do.

So I guess even if we want a simple life free of monthly bills, a numbing routine, and all the crushing consumerism, there is some need within us, regardless of income, that makes us end up with obtaining, and being enslaved by, material possessions.

Sigh. Homelessness isn’t the answer after all. There really is no escape.

A JET SKI? I DON’T GET IT

Every summer, my family spends a week at a lake that is filled with boaters, swimmers, water-skiers, and jet skiers.

(The water itself is a greenish brew of fish crap, duck poop, swimmers’ pee, and oil from the aforementioned boats, but that’s another story.)

On the first morning, I awake at 8 a.m. At that time, civilized people should be doing one of three things:
1. Sleeping
2. Having coffee and reading the morning newspaper
3. Exercising (walking or running)

But as I look out from the deck of our lakefront rental, I actually see people riding their jet skis at 8 a.m.!

I find this utterly confusing.

What exactly is this compulsion to get up so early and feel the need to jet ski? Is it really so fascinating that you just can’t wait to get up on that thing and zip around the lake?

Actually, I don’t understand the whole jet ski thing at all.

It’s not like your jet ski is taking you on some sort of adventure. You are not going to unexpectedly encounter some beautiful waterfalls or wildlife.

It’s a lake. You are basically riding in a circle. A lake is pretty enough, but one end of it looks just like the other.

Then again, all these kinds of activities hit me the same way. I will usually try anything once. I’ve rented a jet ski and I’ve rented a boat. But after you experience jet skiing or boating one time, what is the point of doing it again?

Sure, going on a jet ski is fun, but once I’ve tried it, what will I gain from doing it again? Is the second or third time on a jet ski going to be that much different from the first? Will it be more fun? No, it will be exactly the same experience.

What I find completely baffling is that some people will actually buy their own jet ski and drag it up to a lake every chance they get. Of course, that also involves getting a trailer for the jet ski, along with a vehicle capable of towing everything.

And then when you are home, you have to store all this stuff somewhere. Is it some sort of status thing to proudly display this bitchen jet ski in your driveway?

All I know is that sure is a lot of expense and effort for doing something that is really the same thing every time you do it.

Here’s a thought: Instead of spending money on the exact same activity, why not do something different each vacation? Maybe a little hiking at a national park, or exploring a new city?

But a jet ski? Come on!

ONLINE SHORTHAND FOR THOSE OF THE JEWISH PERSUASION

OMG=Oh My Goy

LOL=Lox on Latkes

WTF=Who’s The Faigeleh?

WTK=Where’s The Kasha?

IMHO=In My Hebrew Opinion

ROTFL=Rye On Toast Filled with Lox

LMAO=Lox on Matzo And Onions

IDK=I’m Davening over your Kugel

SAZ=Such A Zetz

IGSN=I’ve Got Such Naches

MT=Mazel Tov

MTPPP=Mazel Tov Poi Poi Poi

And of course…

TKCFTHG=The Kindala Can’t Find The Hanukah Gelt

BUSH & OPRAH: THE UNAIRED TRANSCRIPT

Oprah: Some of you may be familiar with our guest today. He was the President of the United States who will be fondly remembered for dismantling the previous eight years of American prosperity. Please welcome former President George W. Bush!

(A smattering of polite applause from robotic housewives.)

Bush: Thank you, Okra.

Oprah: Now, I understand you have a new book out, Mr. President, entitled, “Decision Points,” but that was not the original title.

Bush: That’s correct. I wanted to call the book, “I’m The Decider Because I’m The One Who Decided,” and the publisher said he loved it, but that it just wouldn’t fit on the cover. I looked into his eyes and saw his heart, along with a couple of other organs, and concluded that he was being honest with me, so we went with “Decision Points.”


Oprah: I pretended to read your book for the purposes of this interview. Could you discuss one of your earliest childhood memories that helped forge your warped view of the world?

Bush: Well, I’ll never forget the day when my mother—

Oprah: That’s the scary one who looks like a man, right, Mr. President?

Bush: Yes, that’s right. She is one feisty lady. I’ll never forget the time she showed me a jar containing her miscarried fetus. I believe I named it "Fetus."

Oprah: And was that an “aha moment” for you?

Bush: Absolutely. It was then that I decided—because I am the Decider, after all—that I would do everything in my power to prevent all women from having abortions so that I would never again accidentally see a fetus in a jar.

Oprah: Mr. President, while my make-up crew was shellacking my face for five hours before we went on the air, I overheard one of them say that you never foresaw the impeding financial meltdown.

Bush: That is true, Oatmeal. But on the other hand, I am proud to say that during my presidency, I had some extraordinary vacations and became an authority on the Craftsman 42cc 18" Gas Chain Saw. Let me tell you, that’s a fine American product.

Oprah: Last night I was laying on the bed in my pajamas and eating some cashews, which I still feel guilty about, and I overheard one of my Filipino concubines mention that you flew over Louisiana in Air Force One instead of landing to see first-hand the devastation left by Hurricane Katrina.

Bush: Yes, that did not look good, I admit. But you must understand, Upchuck, there were a lot of really angry black people down there, and they were especially pissed off at me. But on the other hand, one of my staff members recently told me that our current President is black, and I think that’s fantastic.



Oprah: I hear you, girlfriend! Woooo! Now, I was speaking to Maya Angelou and Deepak Chopra earlier today, and Deepak mentioned that you said one of the lowest points of your presidency was when Kanye West said that you don’t like black people.

Bush: Well, your friend Deepdish is correct, because, unlike most people in Texas, I am not a racist. In fact, I have been shit-faced drunk with the blacks many times.

Oprah: But Mr. President, wouldn’t you agree that a lower point would be the fact that many American soldiers lost their lives in a war that we had no business starting? A war that was justified based on faulty, cherry-picked intelligence, and which has cost America billions of dollars?

Bush: All I can say is that racist remark really hurt my feelings, and since I am the Decider, that was the low point.

Oprah: Thank you for joining us, Mr. President, and I think I speak for everybody when I say thank God you can’t run for a third term and completely fuck us over.

Bush: Thank you for those kind words, Opie.

DON'T EAT THIS OR THAT!

Here is the definitive list of foods with names featuring two words that should never go together, and that you should therefore never eat.

They also make great pet names for your spouse, lover, or otherwise significant other-person.

Eggplant
(I’m not technically a botanist, but I still don’t think eggs come from plants.)

Carrot Cake
(Why would I want something healthy ruining a perfectly good piece of cake?)

Cheese Cake
(Cheese on a sandwich? Sounds delicious. On my pizza? Bring it! In a cake? I don’t think so.)

Steak Tartar
(Isn’t tartar that stuff the dentist scrapes off your teeth? Hey, let’s put some on our ribeye!)

Butt Roast
(Just think of your butt, and all that entails, and then eat it.)

Butt Roast, Bone In
(No comment.)

Chicken Nuggets
(Nugget-anything is never a good sign.)

Chicken Tenders
(How did they get that tender? I don’t want to know. Good stripper name, though.)

Meat Loaf
(Sounds too casual.)

Meat Balls
(Yeah, let’s grind up this dead flesh and form it into balls!)

Melon Balls
(If I were a melon, I’d object to being forced into this unnatural shape.)

Baby Back Ribs
(Jeffrey Dahmer’s favorite meal.)

Tater Tots
(See above.)

Chocolate Mousse
(Don’t people put mousse in their hair?)

NEVER LET MY MOTHER MAKE YOU A SANDWICH

Are you hungry, tatela? I can make you a sandwich.

OK, sure.

What would you like? I have salami, ham, and turkey.

Turkey would be fine.

Or if you want, you can have all three together.

No, just turkey is OK.

Or I can put two together. You can have just salami and turkey, or salami and ham, or ham and turkey if you like.

Nah, turkey alone is fine.

Are you sure?

Yeah.

OK. Let’s see. I have oven roasted turkey and low sodium turkey. Which would you like?

Just regular oven roasted turkey is fine.

What kind of bread would you like?

What do you have?

I think I only have wheat bread.

Well, then I guess I’ll have wheat.

I did have some rye bread, but I think your brother ate it all.

It’s all right, we can go with the wheat.

I might have a bagel in the freezer. Do you want me to look?

No, wheat bread is fine.

It’s really no trouble.

No, wheat will be fine.

OK, suit yourself. Do you want anything on it? I have mustard and mayonnaise.

I’ll take some mustard.

I have Grey Poupon and French’s.

French’s is good.

Are you sure? The Grey Poupon is very good.

No thanks, I just like boring old yellow mustard.

Suit yourself, tateleh. But it would be nice if you tried something different once in a while. That was the problem I had with all you kids growing up. That’s why it was impossible to feed you.

Yeah, I know.

Do you want a lot of mustard, or just a little?

Just a little, spread evenly, would be great.

You got it. You said you wanted turkey, right?

Right.

Would you like some cheese?

Sure.

What kind of cheese would you like?

Well, what do you have?

I have Swiss, American, and Cheddar.

I’ll have American.

You want American cheese on a turkey sandwich? Feh! Are you sure?

Yeah, I’m sure.

OK, it’s your sandwich. American it is. How many slices would you like?

Two is good.

OK, two. Do you want the cheese first, or the turkey first?

Surprise me.

Well, you need to tell me, because I prefer the turkey first but you may not like it that way.

Turkey first is fine.

OK, how many slices of turkey did you want?

I dunno. Three, I guess.

OK. Wheat bread, three slices of turkey, two slices of American—you’re sure you want American cheese?

Yes.

All right. Would you like some lettuce?

That would be great.

I also have some feckockteh alfalfa sprouts that your crazy sister left here.

No thanks. Lettuce is good.

OK, there we are. Would you like the crusts cut off? You always liked the crusts cut off when you were a little boy.

Mom, I’m 54.

Oy, don’t remind me. So, leave the crusts on?

Yes, please.

All right. Would you like me to cut it?

Yeah.

Would you like it cut in diagonally, or just in half?

Cut in half is fine.

OK, here you go, tateleh. Would you like something to drink, or some chips with that?

(Since the headline of this post mentioned only the sandwich, I will spare you the complexities of getting chips and a drink, but I think you can guess what happened.)