Humor Column
By: Ned Hickson
Siuslaw News
(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439, or visit his website at www.nedhickson.net)
Breathitt Online News Click Here
Angry? Don’t beat yourself up over it 5-18-08
Hello and welcome to another edition of our special in-depth medical feature Health Yak, which has been recognized by the U.S. Surgeon General as “extremely topical,” meaning that you should not attempt to ingest any portion of this column without first consulting your doctor.
Today we will be discussing a study that suggests as many as 16 million Americans — or roughly the number of people who never receive their appetizers during an average season of Hell’s Kitchen — suffer from periodic outbursts of anger.
I know what you’re thinking:
What makes this different from a typical outburst of anger, like when I open the air vent in my car and release a cloud of spores the size of shiitake mushrooms?
The answer, of course, is that there IS no difference, at least not until someone funds a clinical study, at which point it becomes an official “disorder” treatable by a new drug with minor side effects, such having your liver grow to the size of Shaquille O’Neal’s seat cushion.
According to Dr. Emil Coccaro of the University of Chicago’s medical school, which, as you may recall, conducted the definitive study on the yawning habits of the Tibetan mountain yak (Conclusion: After 3,000 yawns, researchers become suicidal), what used to be known as “road rage” has now escalated into a nationwide problem called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. By definition, IED involves “outbursts that are out of proportion to the situation.”
For example: Let’s say you’re at a drive-thru trying to order a bacon cheeseburger and, for the seventh-straight time, the person taking your order insists there is no one named “Macon the Sheep Herder” working there, and to please place your order. And let’s say, in frustration, you exit your vehicle and rip the image of a cheeseburger directly from the menu board and begin gnawing on it, causing those in line behind you to drive off through the patio area.
Chances are, you could be an IED sufferer.
According to Dr. Coccaro, his conclusion was based on the results of a nationwide, face-to-face survey of 9,282 adults who were scored based on their response to highly formulated and complex diagnostic observations, such as “I’m guessing most dogs would probably introduce themselves by sniffing your face.”
Amazingly, all 9,282 participants in the study were identified as IED sufferers.
“Obviously, the disorder is more widespread than we thought,” stated Coccaro, who then added, “You got a problem with that?!”
To determine if you might be an IED sufferer, answer “Yes” or “No” to each of the following scenarios:
1) When my computer crashes, I try to remain calm by thinking about the solitude and freedom of skydiving, ascending through the clouds, and then letting my computer drop from 1,800 ft. into a lake.
2) On at least one occasion, I have attempted to affect change and contact someone in our nation’s capitol by yelling at the top of my lungs.
3) I find it difficult to remain calm when, after paying $40 for gas, I have to pay another 25 cents for AIR.
4) Because I have been told it is an important social issue facing our nation, I am frustrated by my inability to really care where the heck Katie Couric goes.
And lastly,
5) Recently, I have been performing yoga as a way to limber up before handing out a good butt-whoopin’.
OK, tally your score by giving yourself one point for “No” and two points for “Yes.”
Answer key: If you took the time to actually answer any of these questions you are an IED sufferer. According to the study, you should go ahead and join the millions of Americans already on some type of anti-depressant.
And if you have a problem with that, you KNOW where you can find me!
I’ll be waiting right here in the lotus position.

Take it from me: You can’t run from static electricity 5-18-08
When I was a kid I had a book called Mysteries of the Unexplained that contained AMAZING BUT TRUE! stories aimed at stirring the imagination, eliciting a sense of wonder, and prolonging the bed-wetting experience by at least three years. I’d huddle beneath the covers with my flashlight and read about strange psychic phenomena documented by real scientists, physicists, private investigators, and the occasional freaked-out paranormal expert who, at the end of the story, usually abandoned his profession to become a plumber:
“Even now, after all these years, I can still feel those icy fingers whenever a cold breeze blows across my butt crack...”
Though the book was mostly about ghosts, aliens, strange disappearances and creepy folklore (...so stand alone in the dark, if you dare. Hold a mirror and repeat the words “Sassafras Sally.” And prepare to be slapped by a pair of wet tea bags), it was spontaneous human combustion that really got to me. I think it’s because, in my mind, ghosts, aliens, strange disappearance and folklore could all be avoided by exercising a little caution.
Spot an alien spaceship? Run.
Worried about Sassafras Sally? Introduce her to Chi tea.
Concerned about taking a cruise through the Bermuda Triangle? Go to Disneyland and settle for the “Pirates of the Caribbean” instead.
But burst into flames in the middle of Mrs. Frump’s sixth-grade classroom, and chances are you’d be reduced to a pair of smoking sneakers long before you could acquire a hall pass and make it to a water source. Because of this fear, I mapped out the location of every fire extinguisher and water fountain at Jane Adams Elementary, and remained within eight feet of something to douse myself with throughout much of the sixth grade. Suffice it to say, except for visiting the public pool and local fire station, I missed most of my class field trips.
I’m 42 now, and, aside from “All-You-Can-Eat Frijole Night” at Jose’s Cantina, I’ve overcome my fear of spontaneously combusting.
At least until yesterday.
That’s when “Peggy” from our composition department handed me a news article about a man in Warrnambool, Australia whose clothes spontaneously built up 40,000 volts of static electricity. According to Frank Clewers, he was unaware of being a human power grid until a secretary noticed his shoes were burning a hole in the office carpet. After several awkward minutes of misinterpreting his secretary’s warnings of “You’re sizzling!” and “You’re making my hair stand up!” as sexual innuendo, Frank realized what was happening and contacted the fire department. Fire official Henry Barton believes it was the combination of Franks’ woolen shirt and synthetic nylon jacket rubbing together that created a charge “just shy of spontaneous combustion.”
I’m no electrician, but had shag carpet been involved, I doubt Frank would still be alive.
After reading about this incident, I thanked “Peggy” (whom I used to like), then slowly removed my nylon coat and wool sweater, trying to generate as little friction as possible, by cutting them from my body with a pair of scissors. That’s because I’m one of those people who’s constantly building up small amounts of static electricity. Our cat became aware of this phenomenon after rubbing on my leg once. This was followed by a loud “pop,” a blue flash, and our cat performing a hissing cartwheel.
Needless to say, thanks to “Peggy,” my condition has now escalated from minor annoyance to full-blown phobia. I no longer leave the house without a copper wire running from my undershorts to the ground, and I go through at least four cans of “Cling Free” a day.
I’m sure I’ll eventually overcome my fear again. In the meantime, I really need to finish mapping out the extinguishers and water sources in our office.

The Easter Bunny is still getting help from fathers in boxer shorts 3-25-08
Soon, in the wee hours of the morning, something magical will happen in back yards all across America as, one by one, each of them is visited by...
You guessed it!
A half-naked father hiding Easter eggs.
That’s right, the same fathers who were stomping on the roof with sleigh bells Christmas Eve will be out in the yard in their boxer shorts with an arm load of colorful eggs not long after sunrise. Their mission? Keep this tradition alive while, at the same time, trying not to step in anything that could elicit a response deemed inappropriate for Easter morning.
This generally follows a week of preparation, most of which is spent looking for the latest advancements in egg-dying technology. My parents didn’t have to worry about this. When I was a kid there was only one kit available for making Easter eggs. This kit included four colored pills that could be combined to make additional colors or, as I preferred swallowed whole and used to freak out kids in the rest room at school.
The green pill was particularly effective.
The red pill I tried only once because it gave me nightmares.
As I was growing up, there were a number of advancements in egg-dying technology. For example, the highly touted “wand” made out of thin copper, which could be used for dipping eggs without making a mess. I know this because the back of the box showed a cartoon family making lots of eggs under the watchful eye of the Easter Bunny who was saying, and I quote:
Look! No Mess!
There were a couple of things that bothered me about this.
First, it always looked like the family in the picture was being forced into coloring eggs by a brooding, six-foot-tall rabbit blocking the only exit from the kitchen. Sure, everyone was smiling, but who’s to say they weren’t just buying time until help arrived? Mysteriously, this family appeared on the back of the box for several years, and then — poof.
Gone.
I was also bothered by the fact that, despite what I’m sure must have been a rigorous testing and design process, the "wand" usually collapsed on itself and dropped the egg directly into the dye the first time you used it.
After becoming a parent, I took it upon myself to find out who was responsible for this tradition. As it turns out, Germans introduced it to the Pennsylvania Dutch in the 1700s when, in an eager attempt to share their home land’s annual spring celebration, hundreds of German children began running around yelling: OSCHTER HAWS! OSCHTER HAWS!
Not knowing it was a call for the Easter Bunny, the Dutch children fled, taking their breakfast of boiled eggs with them and inspiring the first Easter egg hunt in the New World.
Eventually, the Easter Bunny tradition was embraced by the Dutch, who — like the German parents — realized it could be used as leverage against their children.
Three hundred years later, little has changed. Good girls and boys still get a visit from the Easter Bunny, and fathers still stumble outside at first light to hide colored eggs.
That said, I’ll take this opportunity to apologize to my neighbors in advance of Easter, just in case I step in anything left behind by something other than the Easter Bunny.

Green-glowing mice can help cats with night blindness 3-17-08
I can’t tell you how many nights I’ve spent lying awake, staring up at the ceiling and thinking to myself:
Gee, if only they could make a super strong mouse.
Because only THEN would there be a chance of one actually chewing its way through the ceiling and falling to its death on the bedroom floor.
I bring this up because of several readers who sent e-mails regarding science news, all of which have to do with mice, and all of which I have combined into an informative feature we’ll call:
Scientific breakthroughs that couldinspire a horror movie franchise.
We’ll begin with a story about the creation of the first “super” mouse, which was sent in by Bonnie Higgins of Bridgeton, NJ, whose good intentions, I must assume, included keeping me awake at night armed with pepper spray and a sledge hammer. According to the article, scientists in Boston have created a mouse with giant muscles, “capable of enduring rigorous exercise for extended periods of time.”
This is great news for people like me, who often worry that the traps they put out might actually kill a mouse. Now mice will not only have neck muscles thick enough to withstand the trap, but they’ll also be strong enough to re-set those traps and then throw them back at me.
If we’re going to experiment with making something super strong, why not start with something more sensible?
“Have you seen the cat?”
“Last time I saw her she was chasing a mouse.”
“Where?”
“Through that hole in the wall. I think she’s on her way to the second floor. You can probably still catch her. The studs are slowing her down.”
So who cares if mice become strong enough to open the refrigerator and get their own cheese? We can always use our superior intellect.
Of course, this is the same intellect that we’re now using to make mice smarter. This was bought to my attention by Jim Bricker of Lewiston, Idaho, who sent me an article headlined:
Geneticists Develop Big-Brained Mouse
I should clarify that this was not from the National Inquirer, and did not include a photo of a mouse with an enormous cranium writing on a chalkboard and wearing a propeller cap. According to Reuters health and science correspondent  Maggie Fox, researchers at Harvard Medical School (again in Boston) have found a way to make a mouse’s brain so large that it has to fold up—much like a human’s—in order to fit inside the skull.
After reading this, two things are clear:
1) I will not be visiting Boston anytime soon.
2) Anyone who does plan to visit Boston should do so NOW, before it succumbs to a new race of highly intelligent mice with giant muscles.
And let’s just hope none of these mice ever reaches the University of Hawaii because, if they do, they might also glow in the dark.
That’s right. According to an article sent in by Brandy Sherman of Cottage Grove, Ore., professor Anthony Perry has created an entire litter of green, glowing mice. This is very important because these mice can be utilized for things like...well...
Cats with night blindness?
The world’s most irritating night light?
How the heck should I know?
What I DO know is that I plan to buy whatever kind of cheese it tells me to.

If your name is Larry, call me; we’ve got a bad connection 3-8-08
There are three things I know about “Larry.”
He is a contractor; he lives somewhere in Multnomah County; and he has the same cell phone number that I do.
The calls started about a month ago, presumably about the time “Larry” got his contractor’s license and began making bids. Since then, he has been a busy man, picking up  jobs and making sure that his clients know they can call him any time. Day or night. For any reason at all.
Which they do — to my cell phone.
The Hansons, for example, call whenever they change their mind about what color tile to use around the bidet in their new bathroom. For the Gilmores, deciding between cedar shakes or aluminum siding requires at least one consultation a day. And the Reyboulds are still contemplating the ripple effect of kitchen cabinets without knobs. Mrs. Reybould thinks knobs would make their kitchen look more inviting; Mr. Reybould believes not having knobs would stymie their 2-year-old and keep him out of the cabinets for at least another year.
Over the course of the last month, I’ve gone from politely explaining that there is no “Larry” at this number, to a more direct approach, which is that “Larry” died — killed in a freak shop-vac accident that was a gruesome, yet impressive, testimonial to the workmanship of Black & Decker products.
I was certain that this tragic revelation would solve my problems. That was until the calls started up again, no doubt after “Larry’s” apparent resurrection from a 3-gallon-capacity shop-vac canister.
This left me only one choice.
When the Hansons called this afternoon asking for advice from “Larry” about their decision to use apricot-colored tile around the bidet in their new bathroom, I told them, as their contractor, they could save themselves a tidy sum of money by simply purchasing a better brand of toilet paper.
Click — dial tone.
One down.
For the Gilmores, who were still agonizing over the decision between cedar shakes or aluminum siding, I suggested ditching the house for a double-wide trailer covered in simulated wood paneling and accented with a fence made out of used shipping pallets.
Click — dial tone.
Two down.
The next time the phone rang, I snatched it up on the first ring.
“Larry speaking.”
It was the Reyboulds, looking for help on reaching a final decision about those kitchen cabinet knobs.
“It seems to me that the perfect combination would be something inviting and deceptively hard to open,” I said, and heard the Reyboulds agree. “Might I suggest installing some beautiful ceramic knobs on your cabinets, then nailing the doors completely shut.”
Mrs. Reybould hesitated before asking, “And where are we supposed to store our dishes?”
“Hey, I’m offering a solution! If you want to bicker over functionality, find another contractor!” I snapped.
There was an awkward silence before Mr. Reybould grabbed the phone. “What kind of nails would you suggest?”
Click — dial tone.
Though I hung up on them I do plan on calling them back at some point.
In the meantime, if “Larry” happens to be reading this, please call me so we can straighten this whole mess out.
You know the number.

Computer acting up? Back-hand it with an antistatic wrist strap 2-29-07
Today, we will be covering basic troubleshooting techniques for your computer. By the end of this column, you will know how to identify a problem within your system, and then determine whether you can:
a) Fix it yourself, or
b) Save yourself the trouble by taking your computer somewhere and shooting it.
To begin with, most of us have absolutely no idea how a computer works. This is illustrated by the fact that, when there’s a problem, we get really mad and yell at the monitor.
This is sort of like yelling at the refrigerator because the container we thought was “Cool Whip” actually turned out to be refried beans left over from last year’s Cinco De Mayo party.
The fact is, refrigerators and computer monitors are just boxes filled with stuff coming from somewhere else; over time, improper maintenance can result in something that really stinks.
One of the reasons we know so little about computers is because they keep making them easier and easier to use. This in turn makes them harder and harder to understand because, as technology makes things smaller and smaller, there’s less and less actual STUFF inside. Right now, you can still look in and see a few wires and some solder melted onto a plastic motherboard, which makes it possible to at least PRETEND you understand what’s going on:
You see! If I take a piece of aluminum foil and touch this part to that shiny blob over there I can AAAAAGH!
At the current rate of technology, that’s all going to change as ever-increasing macro-technology scales down the internal components of personal computers. This means we need to take better care of our current computers so that we can pretend to understand them for as long as possible. It does not require being able to tear apart and reassemble your entire PC system. In fact, a recent study conducted by Falcon Safety Products, Inc., showed that 70 percent of computer malfunctions are simply caused by...
You guessed it:
People shooting their computers.
No. Actually, according to a nationwide survey of 1,300 computer technicians, most computer malfunctions were caused by things like food, dead rodents, cockroach nests, and, in the case of one Pittsburg, Calif., technician, “a stash of marijuana” that mostly effected the computer’s memory.
This brings us to how to clean your computer. You will need an antistatic wrist strap, a can of compressed air, and, if at all possible, a drug-sniffing dog.
Once you have these items, you can remove the housing from your computer and use your antistatic wrist strap to begin cleaning. Depending on what you find inside, you can utilize the alligator clip attached to the wrist strap as either 1) a conductor to keep static electricity from discharging into the sensitive internal circuitry of your computer, or 2) a way to keep from burning your fingers.
Once this phase of cleaning has been completed, use the can of compressed air to blow out particles in some of those hard-to-get-to places—such as the nostrils of a drug-sniffing dog.
Repeat this process at least twice a year, or, depending on your situation, as often as you’d like for the next 3 to 5 years.
By then, of course, it will be time to get a new computer.

Planning your wedding? Register for duct tape 2-21-08
Once you are officially engaged, the first person to know, outside of immediate family and friends, is the postal delivery person. That’s because, on a daily basis, this person must find a way to stuff 800 pounds of free wedding catalogues into your mailbox. This is accomplished with careful folding, efficient use of space, and a potato masher.
And sometimes duct tape.
(Helpful tip: If you come home to find your mailbox being held shut with duct tape, avoid potential tragedy by making an anonymous call to your local bomb squad and letting them detonate your mailbox for you; now that you have found that special someone to share your life with, don’t take a chance on having that life cut short by flying shrapnel from Modern Bride.)
Like many couples, we are planning our wedding with the help of a detailed checklist. This checklist is set up chronologically to help ensure you know, at any given time, that you are always six months behind. In fact, the only way to keep from falling behind schedule is to begin planning the wedding as soon as your date is set. Naturally, if your date doesn’t go well, then you probably shouldn’t be getting married anyway. I should point out that we recently obtained our helpful checklist while attending a wedding show…
…That sound you just heard was every male reader simultaneously flipping the page in search of something more interesting, such as “10 Easy Steps to Identifying Tofu Curd.” I say this because, according to a survey conducted at the wedding show we attended, only 1-in-3 men admitted they wanted to be there. I know this survey was accurate because I actually met the other two men while they were staring at the tulle display. They were clearly not happy.
“There’s nothing left,” said Chuck. “Not even a hammer.”
“Next year I’m getting here earlier,” said Bob.
Those of you with keen deductive reasoning skills have now realized I was the one man who actually wanted to be there. That’s because, in addition to loving my fiancé and enjoying time together no matter what we are doing, I also knew this was another important step in our relationship. I needed to show her she could count on me; that I wanted to be a part of each step; even if it meant sampling every frozen margarita machine at the wedding show — several times if necessary. To further demonstrate my commitment, I also ate cake samples, cookies, brownies, chocolates shaped like wedding bells and doves, and something I thought was a puff pastry but was actually birdseed wrapped in vellum.
(Helpful tip: In addition to being a beautiful material for veils, tulle is also extremely absorbent.)
As much as I’d like to talk more about the wedding show, I really need to go. Our mail person is here and I see she’s pulling out more duct tape.

Full-contact bowling could get more men to yell at their TVs 2-16-08
Like millions of other red-blooded, unathletic men across America, I spent a good portion of Super bowl Sunday sitting on the couch, eating handfuls of assorted snack foods, and whining every time a player from my team made even the teeniest mistake. It didn’t matter that these men were performing feats of athletic skill I can only achieve in my dreams (after which I usually wake up with a pulled groin muscle.) And it didn’t matter that each of these men possesses more muscle mass than my entire body weight plus a mid-sized SUV. The reason these things didn’t matter to us men is because we knew THOSE men couldn’t actually hear us. If they could, then Super Bowl parties as we know them would cease to exist:
“Did you see number fourty-two?! That idiot completely missed the tackle!”
“Hey, Bill — I think he’s looking at you.”
“What...?”
“Try moving over by the cheese dip — oh yeah, he’s definitely looking right at you.”
“What’s he holding up?”
“I think it’s some kind of fancy GPS device.”
“Why’s he smiling like that?”
“Quick, Bill! Change the channel!”
This obvious exaggeration was done to make a point, which is that, aside from leaving for work one morning and being tackled through the screen door by a 310-pound linebacker, nothing can keep a man from shouting at the TV during a sporting event.
I should clarify that not all sporting events fuel a man’s primal need to yell at the TV. One example is bowling. The reason is simple: There’s no element of physical danger involved. True, there’s always the underlying risk of someone’s fingers getting pinched between two bowling balls, but it just doesn’t evoke the same level of danger as it would if bowlers had to actually compete for the ball in a tip-off before each frame:
“...The ball goes UP-and-now-down, off the head of Czechoslovakia's Sirius Kunkussion, and onto the foot of Floppy Sesamoid, who is now gasping for air from the hand blower...”
It’s pretty much the same thing for golf and tennis; no real danger involved. And even though golf does use exciting terms like Water Hazard! Sand Trap! and Sudden Death!, we all know the only real danger is if someone forgets to pack a sweater for the senior tour.
However, in both sports, a few well-placed scorpions could make all the difference:
“What a beautiful shot by Tiger, eh Tom?”
“Yes it was, Frank, but he seems a little hesitant to get his ball.”
“Well, Tom, Tiger’s a smart young man. He knows there’s a good chance that one of the three remaining scorpion hazards is probably in that cup.”
“That’s a good point. But remember: He does still have one last caddy-option left. The question, of course, is whether to use him here, or save him for the sand trap.”
Or tennis:
“In case you’re just tuning in, it’s advantage Agassi, which means Chang must win this next point if he wants to stay alive — no easy feat, I must say.
“That’s right, Tom. As you can see, they have just released the scorpions on Chang’s side of the court. One wrong step, and he could — WHOA! I think we’ve just lost another ball boy...”
Now, before I get a bunch of angry letters from bowlers, tennis players, golfers and scorpions, I just want to say that I have nothing but the utmost respect for those sports (and for scorpions in general.) The last thing I want to do is offend anyone with a racket, golf club, or good enough aim with a bowling ball to drop a 7-10 split.
Especially since we just had the screen door fixed.

Frozen lima beans: The gift that keeps on gagging
It was 78 years ago that Clarence Birdseye, inspired by ancient food preservation methods used by Arctic Eskimos, made history by introducing the very first frozen food option: “Savory Caribou on a Stick.”
Though his first selection was met with little enthusiasm, Birdseye persisted, and eventually created a line of frozen vegetables that many of us are still gagging on today. I, for one, am still unable to walk past lima beans in the frozen food section without getting the dry heaves. This reaction stems from my childhood, and a spoonful of lima beans I’ve been trying to swallow since 1973.
Which isn’t to say all frozen food experiences have to be terrible. When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait for Mom to pull my Libbyland “Sundown Supper” from the oven. That’s because the makers of Libbyland provided enough games, toys and other distractions that, for all I knew, I was eating breaded eel.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I remember seeing an actual eel on the cover of the Libbyland box. This should have sent my childhood gag reflex into high alert. And it probably would have if not for the fact that this particular eel was wearing a cowboy hat and spurs. It didn’t matter that a sea creature leading a wagon train through the high plains made no sense whatsoever. Or that the cowboy cook was a prairie dog who appeared to be stirring a pot of buzzard beaks. What mattered was that each dinner came with a packet of “Milk Magic” that turned my milk the color of gangrene and, even more importantly, grossed my mother out.
With those fond memories in mind, I went looking for the same kind of frozen dinner excitement for my own children. This led me to a collection of entrees that are either (a) the ultimate example of truth in advertising, or (b) menu items submitted by Hannibal Lecter.
The first thing I found was something called Jurassic Fried Chicken, which, for all I knew, meant really, really old fried chicken. I also grabbed Cheese Blaster Mac & Cheese, a Carnival Corn Dog meal, and, against my better judgement, Bug Hunt Fun Nuggets. The idea was to cook all four meals and let the kids have a frozen dinner buffet. This plan began to fade once I actually started reading through the meal descriptions, beginning with the Carnival Corn Dog: “A batter-dipped Frank made with chicken, pork and beef on a stick.”
In this case, it wasn’t the combination of meats that concerned me; it was the fact that “Frank” was capitalized.
This made the whole Bug Hunt Fun Nuggets concept of “finding” processed nuggets in the shape of insects a little hard to swallow. And to be honest, I had my concerns about how my eight-year-old son’s intestinal tract would react to a meal that included the term “Cheese Blaster.”
Of course, none of these concerns mattered to my kids; all that mattered to them was that Dad was grossed out.
Things probably would’ve ended there. But I felt obligated, as a concerned father, to show them my lima beans.

Cold medicine: The key to true introspection 1-31-08
I’d like to start by apologizing for this column.
Technically speaking, I’m still writing it. However, given the volume of cold medication I have consumed, and keeping in mind that I have finally given in and, as a time saving measure, moved my workstation to the commode, there’s a good chance my current location is exactly where this column is headed. Making matters worse, the laptop I’m using is about 10 years old. Getting it open was like shucking a Pismo clam. After opening it, I realized it’s the very same model that caused panic aboard a flight to Miami when it overheated and singed the thighs of an intoxicated businessman.
True, I am not on a plane. Yet there are still some frightening similarities:
I am under the influence of Codeine.
I am in a seated position.
And if this morning was any indication, I won’t be leaving my seat for the next few hours.
The upside is that if my laptop should suddenly burst into flames, unlike that unfortunate business traveler, I’ll have the option of quickly extinguishing myself by removing the lid to the toilet tank and jumping inside.
(Did I mention I’m on Codeine?)
The good thing about getting sick is that it has forced me to slow down for a day.
I have time to reflect on things.
Be introspective.
For example, while sitting here, I’ve discovered that static electricity from this laptop makes the hair on my legs stand up. Chances are, I never would have made this discovery at work. At least, not without receiving a warning slip.
I’ve also come to realize that by pressing our toilet plunger to the floor, then carefully manipulating the exchange of air while simultaneously working the plunger up and down in a breathing pattern, I can make it sound like Darth Vader with a really bad head cold.
Again, had I been at work, it’s likely this would have gone undiscovered (Although I can’t say for sure).
(Have I mentioned that I’m on Codeine?)
Yep, it’s just me, my thoughts, and the frequent spray of air freshener in our small, unventilated bathroom. The fact is, the longer I sit here reflecting, spraying and medicating, the less I care about slowly growing numb from the waist down. Especially if it means having an opportunity to reflect on some fundamental questions, such as why I’ve never noticed there’s a spot in our wallpaper pattern that resembles Tina Fey?
I like Tina Fey.
But to be honest, I’m getting a little tired of her staring.
I’m also noticing some other things for the first time. I’m not going to get into them here; it would probably sound a little crazy. Suffice it to say, once I’m feeling better, we will be changing the wallpaper, shower curtain, and quite possibly the floor tiles.
What I will tell you is that I’ve noticed our bathroom has an underlying aroma. Something that smells like, I don’t know...
Searing flesh?
Hold on a second.
OK, I’m back.
Just a little problem with my laptop.
The good news is, I was able to put the flames out before any serious damage was done to my thighs. The bad news is, I had to move to the upstairs bathroom because the downstairs commode is no longer functional.
If I’d installed a low-flow toilet, things might have turned out differently.
Just ask Tina Fey.
She saw the whole thing.

Loosen up with the help of bio-engineered yogurt 1-24-08
It’s that time again when I am faced with the difficult task of sorting through news tips sent in by readers and, after careful consideration, deciding whether to change my mailing address.
Based on what I’ve received over the last several weeks, it’s clear that in the wake of events like the latest political polls, the surprise resignation of White House staff member [Editor: Please insert latest member here], and Iran’s increasing threat to become a nuclear power “Capable of rivaling the U.S., or at least parts of New Jersey,” there has been one subject on the minds of readers from California to Alberta, Canada.
And that subject, as you’ve probably guessed, is “irregularity.”
I have received multiple tips about an important nationwide study sponsored by the Dannon Company, which concluded residents of Orlando, Fla., are — and we’re not pointing fingers here — the most constipated Americans in the country. In fairness, some say the study is inconclusive since, in many cases, researchers were chased out of Disney World restrooms by security before the surveys could be completed.
The only thing both sides seem to agree on is that Ex-Lax is kicking itself for not conducting the study first.
According to Dannon, the 50-city survey was conducted in honor of its new Activia yogurt, which is designed to help with irregularity. I’m no scientist, but I think I can explain how this works. Let’s say I’m visiting Orlando. Naturally, I become constipated almost immediately. Following the advice of my hotel maid, an observant woman who has noticed my toilet paper has remained sealed for the last three days, I purchase a tub of Activia yogurt and begin shoveling spoonfuls into my mouth at a rate generally reserved for super-sized meals.
Nearing the completion of my yogurt, I read the side panel on my container and discover I have just consumed a product “specially designed to survive passage through the digestive system, arriving into the large intestine as a live bacteria culture.”
It is in this moment — while poised with a mouthful of fruit flavored, bio-engineered bacterium — I can feel Activia working to eliminate my constipation by effectively scaring the - - [fecal matter] - - out of me.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no organic health food crusader. Truth be told, I have nightmares about the world’s tofu supply becoming self aware. The difference is that tofu’s rise to power will come naturally, based on its own merits, and the development of what I suspect will be a large curd army. Should this happen, it will be through the process of “natural selection,” and not the result of bio-engineering gone wrong within — and I’m speaking purely in metaphoric terms — mankind’s collective large intestine.
Unlike tofu proliferation, we have a choice when it comes to ingesting stool softening bacteria. One solution:
Climb a glacier.
According to a study conducted by Alaska epidemiologist Joe McLaughlin, one in three climbers who ascend the Kahiltna Glacier are stricken with diarrhea.
Again, like the makers of Ex-Lax, executives at Charmin are kicking themselves.
My point is this: Solving Orlando’s constipation crisis by introducing bio-engineered yogurt, in my opinion, seems a little drastic. Especially when we could take a more “natural” approach by introducing Orlandons to an ice pick and sending them up a glacier. I tried contacting Orlando mayor Buddy Dyer about this.
Unfortunately, all the lines were backed up.

Don’t forget the cat when taking down the Christmas tree 1-17-08
Packing up the Christmas decorations is never easy. Not only because it means the official end of the holiday season, but also because it means it’s time to pry the cat out of the Christmas tree.
What makes this process especially difficult is sap. You see, it’s not until after spending the better part of December attached to the mid-section of our tree that our cat realizes she can no longer retract her claws.
A few years ago, this actually resulted in a front page story in the Weekly World News under the headline:
Holiday tree sprouts cat tumor!
It’s not like we haven’t tried to keep this tragedy from happening. In fact, we’ve even taken our cat to a pet psychologist, thinking that maybe she suffers from a traumatic experience that is somehow triggered by the site of Christmas trees — such as an unresolved conflict with a strand of tinsel.
After six weeks of therapy (equal to eight years in cat time), the only thing the doctor was able to tell us for certain was that our cat had been Shirley MacLaine in a previous life, which, according to him, isn’t all that unusual.
In short: He had no explanation for her behavior.
This, of course, led to my own — admittedly  less scientific — diagnosis, which is that our cat is crazy. This forced us to take drastic measures this year in hopes of avoiding another appearance in the tabloids. To achieve this, we came up with the idea of spraying our entire tree with WD-40. Initially, this seemed to be the answer as we watched our cat slide down the trunk and into the water bowl. But as we soon discovered, while WD-40 kept our cat out of the tree, it also kept any ornaments from staying on for more than six seconds.
This left us with a handful of desperate ideas, such as moving one of our stereo speakers under the tree and playing “Dogs Barking Jingle Bells” 24 hours a day.
That idea was dropped pretty quickly.
After six barks, to be exact.
We also toyed with the idea of decorating a dogwood tree, the logic being that a cat wouldn’t go near a tree with the word “dog” in its name. That suggestion was nixed after my daughter pointed out I’d first have to teach our cat to read.
What all of this is leading up to is something you’ve probably already guessed, which is that, once again, the Christmas tree in our living room will remain there until it is completely brown and withered, and the sap has weakened enough that our cat can safely be detached.
In the meantime, we have already begun planning for next year, when we’ll try to coax our cat to move high enough on the tree that we can use her as a top ornament.