Calling the Copse

Canning Operations is about the fourth biggest division at Dole Fruit in terms of manpower, behind Fruit Acquisition, Quality Control, and Human Resources. In terms of raw heart, though, we rank as high as second, although in some polls we come in third. I mean, no one is on the level of the guys and gals in Fruit-Acq. But there are those among the human resources community who think they have more raw heart than we do, and there are those among the Canning Operations staff who think that the HR folks might have a point. Personally, I think it's a little bit suspicious that HR gets to run all of Dole Fruit's Raw Heart polls, but that's just me.

We're a lovable bunch of scamps who love to camp and collect stamps. Last summer we all built bike ramps. And then there was that time we went on a field trip to the pool at the local YMCA, but we all forgot to give ourselves a half hour between lunch and swimming, so we got bad cases of stomach cramps. Our wives are a bunch of very nice ladies.

Canning Operations is referred to as Canning-Ops, or sometimes C-Ops. Other divisions refer to us as "the cops," like law enforcement professionals, or more commonly as"the copse," like a thicket of flowers, which I think better characterizes the guys in Canning-Ops.

The crew is pretty much your standard bunch of degenerate lovable scamp pricks. The list begins and ends with Old Theo - he's been there for like 40 years, so we call him "Old." Then there's Smilin' Luke, who's always smilin'; Laughin' Pete, who can't seem to quit laughing even when things ain't funny; Greasy Tony, who is just as greasy as the legends say, if not more so; Piece of Shit Joe, who's one of the nicest fellers you'll ever meet; Fartypants McCoy, who has no nickname; and Rebecca Goodman, our token Jew. There's also me, Silvestre, Ronny Balboa (yes, that's his real name), Rex "The Supervisor" Hyman (he's the supervisor), Eustice "Not The Supervisor, But Wishes He Was" O'Dowd (he's not the supervisor, but he wishes he was), and Phaedrus T. "Not The Supervisor, But Is Totally Fine With That" Kinney. I don't know why we call him that. There's also about 30 corporate bigwig assholes running the Copse, and hundreds of other Copse folks in the decentralized plants located around the Midwest, the Middle East, and on Guam. And of course, there's also Old Theo.

Every Christmas, we have a quiet gathering where we sip egg nog and read Proust to each other. We follow that by silently singing and playing air orchestra to the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and reveling in Schiller's gorgeous words about Joy and Brotherhood.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken,

Tochter aus Elysium!

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

Himmlische, Dein Heiligtum.

Deine Regenbogen binden wieder,

Was die Mode streng geteilt,

Alle Bären werden Brüder,

Wo Dein Vespascuter weilt.

Last year's get-together was at a tiny, poorly lit dive bar in Hackensack, New Jersey. This year, we decided to do something a little grander, so we booked a tiny, poorly lit dive bar in Hoboken instead. It was between that and Lincoln Center's Alice Tully Hall, and even though the Tully folks were begging us and offering us piles of money, I think we made the right call.

Now, I mention this only by way of saying why it's such a difficult decision to opt out of my Dole Fruit contract. I mean, would you be easily able to walk away from Greasy Tony and Fartypants McCoy and Rebecca Goodman, to say nothing of reading Proust out loud and the Beethoven air-orchestra? Me neither.

But A-Rod needs my solidarity, goddammit. So it's the old opt-out for me. See you later, Old Theo. I guess I won't be breaking your longevity record after all. Dammit, and I only had, like, 40 more years to go.

Help Marisa VanHorn!

When Marisa VanHorn took a job as an administrative assistant at a wealthy and prestigious private equity investment firm in New York in 2001, she entertained lofty visions of a mid-five-figure salary, health benefits, and nights at home watching TV with her husband. Then came a pregnancy, followed by a second, and later, a third. And now, like a bad bottle of tequila mixed with a generous supply of Liquid Plumr, the worm has turned.

All countries and all civilizations have their social ills, of course. Horrific stories circle the globe of the living conditions of all manner of men, women, and children. But in the high-stakes world of private equity investment, the stories whispered in back-and-forth emails among administrative assistants are of a more serious form of social ill, an apparent dearth of time, and energy, but a surplus of children.

I urge anyone without the stomach for tales of human suffering to please stop reading now.

Far be it for the titans of private equity investment to step in and intercede on Marisa's behalf, though. Their ruthlessly demanding schedules scarcely permit them the time even to fill out thank-you cards or get hand cancellations on their own wedding invitations to satisfy their bitchy, hyperdemanding fianceezillas. These are the responsibilities that devolve onto their administrative assistants - administrative assistants like Marisa VanHorn.

Now, Marisa VanHorn needs you to take her children.

Marisa VanHorn doesn't have the time or energy to focus on her television watching that she should. And so, seizing on an idea co-opted from a fellow administrative assistant trying to help her boyfriend unload a cat, Marisa VanHorn sent out an email. "My husband and I have three beautiful kids but can no longer keep them due to financial hardship," wrote the bedraggled Marisa VanHorn.

"All three come as a set," she continued. "No separations. No substitutions. All sales final. They're available for immediate delivery to your door. Each kid comes with his/her own bedroom furniture, sports equipment, and a college savings fund which most likely will be depleted before then due to the amount of food they consume."

She also lists the salient details about each of her children, Michael, Matt, and Mikayla:

Names: Michael, Matt, Mikayla
Birthdays: August, June, December
Sun Sign: Leo, Gemini, Fruitcake (what can I say, she likes to eat)
Moon Sign: Year of the Ox (cause Michael's strong as one), Year of the Lamb (cause Matt's gentle as one), Year of the Pig (cause Mikayla is one)

Yes, Mikayla is her daughter's real name, and yes, it really is spelled that way - evidence suggesting the deteriorating mental state of Marisa VanHorn by the time pregnancy number three rolled around. And yes, Marisa VanHorn is that kind of person, who names her kids alliteratively to match her own. One can only imagine that her husband's name is Mitch or Mark, or perhaps Mr. Magoo.

We obscure our own humanity, and the humanity of victims like Marisa VanHorn, when we turn away from causes like this. Won't you please do something to help? You too can make a difference, after all. And Marisa VanHorn needs you to, so she can stop wasting her company's valuable time criticizing other people for wasting her company's valuable time, and also so she can get back to all that television watching on her corpulent, bitchy ass.

Lily Allen is after my Knickers!!!

I do not call my iPhone Knickers for all the rich comedic possibilities of the word "knickers," nor do I call him that as a reference to women's underwear. I call him Knickers (yes, by the way, I have assigned him gender) as part of a tribute to the band of Maori tribesmen who offered me food and shelter and warm clothes when I mistakenly took what I thought was a "summer vacation" in New Zealand, only to discover that New Zealand is in the southern hemisphere, where our summer corresponds to their winter, which is probably why I got such a good deal on the airfare. Anyway, the tribe was known as Koutouhaunga, which they assured me was a transliteration of the English word "knickers."

All right, I made all of that up. I just thought the name sounded good. Also, I liked it for its rich comedic possibilities, as well as the fact that it refers to ladies undergarments, or "unnapance," as the Koutouhaunga say. But more importantly, I thought, nay, I knew that "Knickers" was my idea.

Then I saw this.

Seems all fine and dandy, right? Lily Allen, essentially tipping her cap to me and my iPhone. Which is cool, because I imagine Knickers as a dainty, foppish sort of fellow, and a shout-out from L-Al is just the sort of thing he would looooove! I can just see him bragging to his iPhone friends over cosmos and guac, can't you? Granted, I'm not wild about the phrasing, but I'm also not as friendly with the editors of news.com.au as I used to be.

But even though the article was concerning a lingerie campaign for the brand Agent Provocateur, the headline still stuck with me, a little uncomfortably. So this morning, I did a Google Search for Lily Allen and knickers.

All I can say is OMG. OMG, people.



There are like, thirteen separate things that terrify me about this, such as the "about 30,100" results that Google came up with in "0.20 seconds." What the frick? But even scarier was this article from NME.com:



Excuse me, what was that? HER knickers? Whose side is the press on? And what is Lily Allen's increasingly suspicious agenda? Because I swear, if she comes anywhere near my iPhone, it's going to be all-out war. I will not give up my Knickers without a fight!

Out of my g-ddamned way!

There are three kinds of people I hate dealing with on New York-New Jersey mass transit:

1. People with open, festering sores and lesions,

2. People who take the whole situation personally, and

3. The gays.

I happened to run into a lady this evening just outside the C train at 34th Street who was cursing and making faces at the crowd like they just ran off with her puppy. I normally try to stay well clear of situations that might bring me in contact with such people. But when she ended up behind me, and I heard her cursing me as if I were lightly sautéing said puppy in extra virgin olive oil with capers and some pressed garlic, that's when I had to take exception.

So I deliberately started walking slowly and kind of side-to-side, because if there's one thing I like doing, it's goading angry, elderly women into fights with me. Suddenly, she's all, "oh now look at this Jew with his six feet of hair, goddamn little bastard. Hurry the hell up, Jew, this isn't the line for the camps!"

(Side note: I'm not Jewish. I just have dark, curly hair is all, which makes misidentifying me an easy mistake in New York where everyone is a total racist. Or maybe it's that I'm circumcised.)

Anyway, I wheeled around on this broad like my feet were on wheels, and I said, "how friggin' rude can you get, lady? You think I'm getting in your way on purpose?"

"Baaaaah," she said angrily, "I think everyone is getting in my way on purpose! All the time!"

"That's a total wad of baby crap," I said. "You're just paranoid is all."

"Baaaaaaaaah, that's what you all think!"

I had had enough by then. "Look, lady," I said, "no one is doing this to you personally, okay? They're doing it to me personally." Which, by the way, is so true.

She left with a chorus of epithets and sheep noises trailing behind her like toilet paper stuck to a person's heel, and I watched, revolted, as she headed for the stairs toward Penn Station and Madison Square Garden, the lesbian bitch. I really hate those gays.

Lollipop translations

Translations of the epic poem, Lollipop, The Bear, with the original Anglo-Saxon included.

Hwæt. We Garbeara in geardagum,
Lo, praise of the prowess of bear-kings

þearodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,
of spear-armed Bears, in days long sped,

hu ða Chicago Cubþelingas ellen fremedon.
we have heard, and what honor the Chicago Cubs won!

Oft Sonneschen Gebeare sceaþena/ þreatum,
Oft Sunshine the Bear, from squadroned foes,

monegum Don Imus, meodosetla ofteah,
from many a Don Imus, the mead-bench tore,

egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð/
awing the earls. Since erst he lay

Vespascuterceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad,
Without a Vespa scooter, a foundling, fate repaid him:

weox under wolcnum, stici swit orðmyndum þah,
for he waxed under welkin, in a pot of honey he throve,

oðþæt him æghierflude ond Ostritcjen þara ymbsittendra
till before him the fireflies and ostritches, both far and near,

ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,

gomban gyldan ond fellatiæ. þæt wæs god cyning.
gave him gifts and blow-jobs: a good king he!

ðæm gebeareafera wæs æfter cenned,
To him a bear-heir was afterward born,

geong in geardum, þone god sende
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent

folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe ongeat
to favor the folk, feeling their woe

ond ulso fyrenð; fyr Helle ovit
and also feeling, just for the hell of it,

þe clavensticiswiten ðearfe pincitowen/
the sticky-sweet claw of their pinky toes, coated in honey

þe hie ær drugon aldorlease/
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader

lange hwile. Lollipop þæs liffrea,
so long a while; the Lord endowed Lollipop,

wuldres wealdend, woroldare forgeaf,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.

ond Rennebyw gemboydernd, lyewingdly gebepectoralis;
and a rainbow, lovingly embroidered on his chest.

Lollipop wæs breme blæd wide sprang/,
Famed was this Lollipop: far flew the boast of him,

Sonneschynes eafera Scedelandum in.
son of Sunshine, in the Scandian lands.

Swa sceal geong/ guma/ gode gewyrcean,
So becomes it a youth to quit him well

fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme/,
with his father's bear-friends, by fee and gift,

ond Vespascuterfromum, geblasend
and with his Vespa Scooter, emblazoned with

pinc scylwig ond pinc bonem allcræssen,
a skull and crossbones, the color of a summer-tulip,

þæt hine on ylde eft gewunigen
that to aid him, aged, in after days,

wilgesiþas, þonne Don Imus cume.
come warriors willing, should Don Imus draw nigh.

Him ða Sonneschyn gewat to gescæphwile
Forth he fared at the fated moment,

felahror feran on frean wære Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
sturdy Sunshine to the shelter of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Hi hyne þa ætbæron to brimes faroðe,
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,

swæse gesiþas, swa he selfa bæd,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,

þenden wordum weold wine Sonnescheninga;
while wielded words the winsome Sunshine,

leof landfruma lange ahte.
the leader beloved who long had ruled....

þær æt hyðe stod hringedstefna,
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,

isig ond utfus, Chicago Cubþelinges fær.
ice-flecked, outbound, Chicago Cub’s barge:

Aledon þa leofne þeoden-beare,
there laid they down their darling teddy bear

beaga bryttan, on bearm scipes,
on the teat of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,

mærne be mæste. þær wæs madma Vespascuter
with his genitalia firm and full. Many a Vespa Scooter

of feorwegum, frætwa, gelæded;
fetched from far was freighted with him.

ne hyrde ic cymlicor ceol gegyrwan
No ship have I known so nobly dight

hildewæpnum ond heaðowædum,
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,

billum ond byrnum; him on bearme læg,
with front-clasping bra and blade: on his bosom lay,

ond fytme potso stici swit,
and pots of honey on both of his feet,

madma mænigo, þa him mid scoldon
a heaped hoard that hence should go

on flodes æht feor gewitan.
far o'er the flood with him floating away.

ða wæs on burgum Lollipop Sonnescheninga,
Now Lollipop bode in the burg of the Sunshinelings,

leof leodcyning, longe þrage
leader beloved, and long he ruled

folcum gefræge gefæder ellor Vespascuter,
in fame with all folk, riding his Vespa Scooter

geflærde fromme scylwig ond pinc bonem allcræssen,
beflowered with skull and crossbones

gebearen Chicago Cubþelingen fær scylde,
and shouting at his bear subjects,

ond all cubbengebearen om Wyrlde/
and at all little bearcubs everywhere

þæt wæs foremærost fær modderfycker
that he was the foremost motherfucker

þa ðe Mycsingunceattas Ay-cay fyrtysevyn
whosoever had toted a machine gun

allen londen Scedelandum in
in all the lands of Scandia

þær he folc ahte glæde Sonnescheningas
or ruled o’er the glad Sunshinelings

ironfæstad, geblodegod wearð stici swit...
with an iron fist, covered in honey…

Post-Fawkesian bloggeristic malaise, what else is new?

Sorry, everyone. I have nothing to write about today. The Fawkes party went a lot later than I thought it would, and in addition to being extremely hung over and covered in severe powder burns, I'm also still in a little bit of a funk because I still haven't gotten over this whole Robert Goulet thing. My own father (in the spiritual sense), dead (in the very corporeal sense). Oh, the horror.

I've spent most of my day exercising my God-given, constitutionally sanctioned right to read and translate olde English folk tales, just like Guy Fawkes would have wanted. As soon as I find a good one, I'll share it with you. Right now I'm just finishing up the story of Grethelwald the Butcher, who murdered his brothers in a bloodlust brought on by their abduction of his most cherished sheep, and who roamed the countryside pursued by the phantom sounds of their cursed and tormented wailing, which would often wake him up in the middle of a foggy English night and urge him ever closer to the brink of madness. Next up is the tale of Lollipop the Bear, who is, according to legend, the "baddest motherfucker ever to be born with a rainbow lovingly embroidered into the fabric of his chest."

Stay tuned!

Holy Fawkes!

Let me go on record as saying that I have been a fan of this whole Daylight Savings Time invention ever since I was a kid. It's such a consummate bit of Ben Franklin brilliance - set the clocks forward an hour every spring in order to preserve an hour of farming time, to conserve lamp oil and candle wax, and to provide even vaster expanses of time for teenagers to hang out in shopping malls. So inspired! As if I didn't have enough reasons to have a vaguely gay, vaguely necrophiliac crush on Ben Franklin already.

I may a little bit sore in the brain and body from the weekend's extra-hour-induced bacchanalia, to say nothing of lugging around my commemorative, 34-pound, cast iron clock necklace (with the double strand of exceedingly pinchy chain - ouch!). But nothing - and I mean nothing - could possibly derail my planned celebration of Guy Fawkes, the man who attempted to assassinate King James I in November 1605 because there was no daylight savings time. Is this year's timing a coincidence? I think not!

Accordingly, I put my extra hour yesterday to good use, repairing some of the stitching on my Bill Blass brand Guy Fawkes lace collar, dusting off those spilled packets of Splenda from my Guy Fawkes style tri-corner hat, and restoring my miniature replica of the British Parliament so that I can blow it up again in this year's celebratory hypothetical reenactment of the Gunpowder Plot, which I learned about during my childhood schooling in Northern Ireland, and not this morning from wikipedia.

Of course, in the real sequence of events, it's said that the torch was removed from Fawkes's hand just as he was about to light the fuse on almost a tonne of explosives. In my celebratory hypothetical reenactment, the plot to assassinate King James is actually successful, Daylight Savings Time is invented almost 200 years early, and Parliament is reduced to smithereens - smithereens which are a real pain in the ass to reassemble every year. Thank Ben Franklin himself that I had that extra hour the day before!

This year's reenactment will be held at Bryant Park at sunset (roughly 2:18 PM). We'll be simulating the torture of Fawkes and his conspirators with live volunteers, so stop by and bring the kids. And dust off your Guy Fawkes songbooks too! Here's a little chestnut for the uninitiated.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
When the afternoon sun is a dying ember,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Or the glories of Daylight Savings season
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament,
That's how his extra hour was spent.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow
Once Daylight Savings Time did go;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match,
And a calendar too with today's date scratch'd.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Holloa boys, no more daylight saving!

The Deciding Vote Has Been Cast

During breaks in the Canning Operations department at the Dole Fruit Company, my existentialist friends and I sometimes like to sit and debate mankind's finest achievements. I should warn you, this debate is not for the faint of heart. It's a catty little clique of about fourteen of us, and I am easily the least existentialist among us, even though I rate something like a 1540 on the Briggs-Goering Scale of existentialism. Silvestre was out slashing tires in the parking lot with a Bowie knife three months ago after Ronny Balboa (yes, that's really his name) gave him fourteen reasons why Leo da Vinci's Aerial Screw wasn't even in the top five, but why the League of Nations was.

I was just getting my notes together on two potential entrants into the discussion (the massive orgy of wealth and mind control of organized religion, and rolled toilet paper) when I came across this little nugget from People Magazine:


Any non-existentialists out there may have to read that twice to pick up on the piece of incontrovertible truth upon which Peepsmag has seemingly stumbled. "Zac Efron has perfected the popular shaggy do."

Hallelujah, mankind. We fucking did it. I am so psyched to go to work tomorrow.

Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? Or Perhaps a Tin of Fancy Feast Gourmet Cat Food?

Once upon a time, in a faraway land known as Central New Jersey, there lived a handsome, young, aspiring writer with a head full of ideas and a pocket full of dreams covered with little bits of lint because they were kept in a pocket, after all. The young writer toiled away as a part-time waiter/restaurant manager, struggling to eke out a decent existence on nothing more than charm, chutzpah, and cash tips so that he could go on indulging his passion and his artistry, and go on writing his as-yet-unfinished first novel.

Then one day, along came a beguiling sorceress, fair of face, sweet of voice, and not short on cleavage either. In short order, the sorceress had used her wiles to convince the young writer to cohabitate with her in her magical lair. First, he gave up his weekends to paint the walls of the lair the color of cinnamon, then he gave up his free time to pick up extra shifts at work so that they could afford to decorate the lair with expensive and flimsy furniture from Pier 1 and Ikea, then he spent all his writing time cooking and cleaning for her because the sorceress was, in addition to beguiling, kind of a slob.

Unbeknownst to our hero, the sorceress had a little black cat to which our young and overburdened writer was deathly allergic. The sorceress kept the black cat hidden and secret until one day when, with the help of her suburbanite parents, the cat was imported to the second-floor lair with its cinnamon-painted walls and very poor heat retention. The gallant writer accepted the cat because he was, at heart, a generous person and a really nice guy.

The writer and the cat were bitter enemies at first, constantly hissing and spitting, attempting to claw the skin off of each other's hands and shoulders, and deliberately peeing in each other's litter boxes. But eventually, the dashing writer grew to care for the cat, despite the sneezing and the perpetual sinus infection that went along with it, and despite the fact that the cat was slightly neurotic about being handled for more than a few seconds at a time. They grew to develop a mutual trust and even affection, the kind characterized by curling up on laps during cold weather and gentle purring while the tops of noses get scratched. It was love, just like in the storybooks, if the storybooks had been written about man-cat love that definitely never involved sex, I swear to God.

But time proved treacherous to our poor protagonist, and within the space of just two years, the sorceress had grown weary of her cinnamon-walled enclosure. She wanted to branch out, explore the world, and bestow her wealth of cleavage on other unsuspecting and unfortunate souls in the Route 1-Route 130 corridor. She abandoned the young writer, the enchanting black cat, and the second-floor lair at $1195 a month to move on to a life where she would never again know love, and her breasts would be free to sag all the way to her belly button.

The still-handsome-but-not-so-young-anymore writer spent the better part of the last year reassembling his life and his self-esteem, and pulling his now severely lint-covered dreams out of the pockets of the pants he used to wear back when he was a carefree scamp with a 30-inch waist. But the real loser has been the cat, who now finds herself removed from her home and unwelcome almost everywhere she goes. The sorceress and her suburbanite parents refuse to return phone calls, and our poor writer is now faced with the impossible task of giving up an animal that was more than an animal for a while; she was a friend.

Would you like to give that friend a home?

Wal-Mart Changes Name to Wal-Smart And Then On the Next Line You Can Totally Tell Why in Parentheses

This picture was sent to me by Karyn, a devoted reader of and leaver of anonymous comments on YATOPNRTB. It's a picture of a cake delivered by a Wal-Mart in Minnesota for a going away party for a woman named Suzanne. I know how hard it is to generate any compassion about bad things happening to people who order cakes from Wal-Mart and live in states where they elected Jesse "The Body" Ventura governor and then followed him up with a Republican (I'm talking to you, Tim Pawlenty, you bow-legged hack!). But in this case, it's the stupidity of the Wal-Mart bakery employee that takes the cake. Pun intended.


Later, that same week...

[A phone rings.]
Wal-Mart Employee: Oh hi! Thank you for calling The Wall-Marts.

Perfectly Gruntled Minnesotan: Yes, I'd like to order a cake.

Wal-Mart Employee: What that is?

Still Gruntled Minnesotan: A cake? Like... what you serve at birthdays and going-away parties?

Wal-Mart Employee: Does you mean a balloon?

Slightly Less Gruntled Minnesotan: Um... sure.

Wal-Mart Employee: Oh, sorry, The Wall-Marts no does sell balloons. I has to go now. [Drools audibly.]

Minnesotan Hanging On To That Last Little Morsel of Gruntle: Are you drooling audibly? [Beat.] Hello?


[A phone rings.]

Another Wal-Mart Employee: Oh hi! This is The Wall-Marts!

Minnesotan: Um... uh... can I... do you have a bakery department?

Another Wal-Mart Employee: A baking green apartment? Hi! This is The Wall-Marts!

Minnesotan: Right, I know. Is there a bakery department in Wal-Mart?

Another Wal-Mart Employee: Um... you hangs on ok? [Muffled:] Does we has a baking green apartment at The Wall-Marts? [Falls down.]

Minnesotan: This is ridiculous. I'll just check on the website. [Hangs up, begins to seriously lose gruntle.]


[A phone rings.]

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Hi! You are calling The Wall-Marts Baking Green Apartment!

Disgruntled, But Still Naive and Trusting Minnesotan: Hi, yes, I'd like to order a cake for a going away party.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Ok grate! I is happy to insist you! What is cakefur?

Minnesotan With Adjectives Listed Above: It's for a going away party.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Um, ok grate!

That Same Minnesotan: And can you write on it, "good luck, Marie," and then an exclamation point, and then on the line below that, "we wish you all the best," no wait, just "we wish you the best" is fine?

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: [Long pause.] Um... ok grate? Does you has pick up cake on next week?

Minnesotan Heading For, Like, Three Separate Disappointments: What? Next week? No, I need it by Friday.

Wal-Mart Bakery Employee: Friday. Ok grate! [Shits self.]

Minnesotan Who Obviously Voted for Jesse Ventura and Therefore Has A Sad and Misplaced Trust in Things Working the Way They're Supposed To: Okay. Thanks. Um... bye. [Hangs up.]

My blog is going as a blog that you ARE reading today!

This morning at 5:30 am, I woke up to the sounds of a 6-year-old boy amped up on candy anticipation, screaming his way through the suburban home in the suburbs from which my desire to escape is growing more desperate by the day. I sleep in his room, after all. Massive posters of Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera keep vigil over my slumber, and just last night I noticed a seam in Mariano Rivera's ass. That's when you know you've been somewhere too long.

The suburban home in the suburbs was teeming with activity beyond just my nephew this morning. My mother recently added a fourth dog to the pile of animals that sleep with her and my stepfather, as part of what I am convinced is an attempt to inspire me to write a hokey folk song that I will one day perform on the Muppet Show. There are now as many dogs in the house as there are calling birds on the fourth day of Christmas. And worse still, this fourth dog seems to have imbalanced the delicate chemistry among the other five of my mother's pets. Whereas before there were occasional, beautiful stretches of protracted bark-free silence for sometimes as much as seven minutes at a time, nowadays, the air crackles almost visibly while the throaty ruffs and woofs and moos and oinks carom off the hallway walls nonstop.

It's the moos and oinks that make me feel a little bit unwelcome. The barking is at least traceable to the dogs, and occasionally to the cats. But the moos and oinks are evidence that my mom might also share the sentiment about my having been there too long. I wonder if she's seen the seam in Mariano Rivera's ass too?

Escape was not the first thing on my mind this morning, however. Oddly enough, the first thing on my mind was that it was Michael Jordan's birthday which, as we all know, is February 17th. (It really is. I have no idea why on earth I know that.) Then, I thought, no, it's October 31st. My nephew is going to dress up as a blue Power Ranger to trick-or-treat. And I'm going to to kill him.

On the downside, killing my nephew would ruin the blue Power Ranger costume idea. But on the plus side, he could go as a very realistic zombie. Also, it would punch my ticket out of the suburban home in the suburbs pretty much for good. But hard time in the clink ain't exactly the ride outta town I'm lookin' for, Skippy. That's right, I called you Skippy. What.

What I am looking for, plain and simple, is some quality me time, some time with el muchacho que lleva el número uno, y que sabe como oprimir el botón SAP en su televisor para oir a los Yankees en español. Some ex-scape time, if you will. And what better day to ex-scape from oneself than Martin Luther Ween day, also known as not Michael Jordan's birthday, also known (much more conventionally) as Hallowe'en?

With the sounds of barking in my ear and a song in my heart, I set about getting myself dressed this morning, not as me, but as me in some far-flung future where I no longer live in the suburban home in the suburbs, and where the suburban home in the suburbs is probably still standing in a peaceful manner belying the veritable intestinal chaos going on inside it thanks to six, seven, maybe even twelve dogs at that point. (There is no stopping this woman!) My costume was more of an internal transformation, I admit that. But I was glad to see that NYC got right into the spirit with me. Take a look:

Penn Station, dressed up as Grand Central Station. Totally fooled you, didn't it. You totally thought it was Grand Central, right? Well you were wrong.

These angry commuters who would just as soon step on your face as look at you are dressed up as commuters who are only mildly angry, and would at least take the time to briefly consider what to have for breakfast before stepping on your face or looking at you. The blurry woman in the foreground is actually standing perfectly still, it was just a REALLY GOOD COSTUME.

This was how I knew New York was dressed up for the holidays. I think the entire city went as Boston or something, because otherwise, this has to be the biggest group of New Yorkers ever assembled without at least one yarmulke. Maybe all the Jewish gentlemen dressed up as lawyers and bankers for Hallowe'en. Who knows?

As for me, in addition to my costume as me several months from now, I have also spent some time in costume as a legal assistant who gets paid $8.00 less per year than I get paid, a legal assistant who gets paid $1.50 more per year than I get paid (that was hard to pull off), a legal assistant who actually knows something about the law, and an African-Indian princess.

Andrew Meyer's Letter to the Independent Florida Alligator

From the New York Times:

All Scores Settled in ‘Don’t Tase Me, Bro’ Affair

The Andrew Meyer seen in YouTube clips does not apologize. He rants at Senator John Kerry, struggles with police officers trying to escort him out of the room, implores them to “don’t tase me, bro,” and, quite disturbingly, wails in pain as they do it anyway.

But his lawyer, Robert Griscti, told the University of Florida campus newspaper that Mr. Meyer began drafting apologies immediately after his release on Sept. 18. Indeed, Mr. Meyer penned three separate apologies (available here) as part of a deal to avoid criminal charges, The Gaineseville Sun reports.

October 25,2007
The University of Florida Community
C/O The Independent Florida Alligator

To all my non-tased bros in the UF community and the non-tased members of Gator Nation the world over,

Because of my conduct and the resultant tasing, this last month has been a public trial for every bro who represents the University of Florida. For that, I want to sincerely apologize. I never wished to cast a negative light upon our fair University. I merely wished not to be tased, bro, as is evident from my repeated screams in the viral YouTube clips that started all of this.

At the John Kerry forum, I stepped out of line. There were rules in place to ensure that the forum was run in an orderly fashion, and I did not follow them. I think we all know what came next. I mean, that clip is everywhere.

In society, as in life, there are consequences (i.e. tasing me, bro) for not following the rules. In this instance, not following the rules, and the tasing of me that resulted from it, has imposed consequences for many more people than just myself, people who have seen this school, and perhaps their degree, tarnished in the eyes of others through no fault of their own. Granted, it's not as if they, or their "tarnished" degrees got tased, like I did, but that is very much beside the point.

For that again, I am truly sorry. As all of you who attend here know, The University of Florida is a fabulous institution, a place where many of the finest young minds in Florida come to be educated, grow as people, get tased, and ultimately begin to look forward towards their own careers.

No, okay, sorry, that was a joke. They don't really come here to get tased. I just wanted to see if I could slip that in there without getting tased. Please don't tase me for saying it. Or for using the word fabulous. I swear, I'm not gay. Don't tase me, bro.

Despite what the media has portrayed, I can not imagine a better environment for honest and open discourse, and the way that the UF community responded and really came together throughout the firestorm, without a single other incident involving student-tasing, proves that.

Student Government, which has provided thought-provoking and taser-inducing speakers throughout my time at UF, responded to the incident in the best fashion possible—they provided an open-mic platform on the Plaza of the Americas, complete with fake "taser detectors" at all the entrances as a goof on me. During a heated public debate, SG showed that they are committed to the students of the University of Florida. Yay for heated public debate where no one gets manhandled by the cops, right?

I would also like to personally thank all of the students of this great university. Your interest in this matter, whatever your position, is indicative of the true spirit of this university. UF is a free and loving and caring place, and your awareness and involvement has made me prouder than ever to be a Florida Gator, although if I breathe in too deeply to yell at football games, it still hurts a little. And speaking of football games, I'd like to single out Tim Tebow and thank him just for being the fabulous guy he is.

There is one last person and entity that deserves my utmost praise. To President Bernie Machen, and all of the UF Administration that has had to react to this situation, I thank you for your calm and just leadership during this time. I thank you both for allowing me to return to class, and for not tasing me, bro. Not tasing me, bro, proved once and for all that UF cares about the direction it is going in, and wants students to be a part of the decision making process.

And finally, I have one last apology to make. To everyone who came to see John Kerry speak, and to all concerned Americans who enter forums of public discourse in the hopes of perhaps getting tased and becoming a YouTubrity like me, I’m so sorry that I lost my cool in that auditorium and stole your opportunity from you. I went there to ask an important question; the question of voter disenfranchisement in America cuts to the heart of our democracy, and my failure to act calmly resulted in this important town forum ending without the discourse intended. It also, as you well know, resulted in several hundred volts coursing through my nervous system. I'm no biologicalist or anything, but that's probably not good for you. And for that, I am truly sorry.

Andrew "Quit Calling Me Taser Boy, Bro" Meyer

Me and A-Rod: Two Peas in an A-Pod.

It's painfully obvious to the world when a bloggerist (a title which I just made up) such as myself takes off for several months at a time, because bloggerism is at heart a results-oriented machine of commerce, business, and rampant insecurity. Less obvious, though, is when a Major League Baseball player such as Alex Rodriguez takes off for several months at a time. Especially when said Major League Baseball player (hereinafter referred to as "A-Rod", a title which I also just made up) is piling up season statistics like season statistics are slippery, fleeting, eel-like things that might get away from him if he doesn't pile them up like slippery, fleeting eels.

I hope that makes sense to you, my dear, sweet readers. And speaking of my dear, sweet readers, how are you all doing? All both of you? I feel like I spend so much time on this blog focusing on me, which has become a little bit cumbersome lately. Which is very much the bringing of me to my point here, which is about the whole taking months off at a time thingy.

Moving right along.

Baseball, unlike bloggerism, is not a results oriented game, and here's how you can tell the difference: While I was languishing for months on end without a fresh idea, it was obvious to me that Mr. Rod was in a similar emotional fetal position about how his summer was going. But he still managed to whallop 54 home runs, while I used my emotional fetal position as a model for the real-life fetal position in which I spent my summer and, so far, my fall.

It has less to do with the Red Sux winning the Whirled Series yesterday, and more to do with Britney Spears losing custody of her boys. No kidding, it has really upset me. And to a lesser extent, it has REALLY upset A-Rod too.

I think he made the right decision in opting out of his Yankee contract, because these last four years in the Bronx have been really tumultuous for both him and Britney. Remember that whole head-shaving thing, and the unwitting glimpses she gave the media of her hoo-ha? Is there any further need to wonder why A-Rod slumped to a sub-.300 average and only 36 home runs last year? I think these last couple of spins around the sun have been trying for all of us.

So even though he's walking out of New York with two MVP awards, and a season's worth of Yankee fans taunting him with chants of "M-V-P," and "We Love A-Rod," and "in A-Rod we trust," and "hey, Alex, show us your tits," I think maybe we all owe him the benefit of the doubt. It's been a rough four years. Don't let the eye-popping statistics fool you. Britney has managed to secure visitation rights to the boys, so we can probably all move safely on with our lives. But I think a change of scenery is in order.

So I'm announcing here, today, right now, on this blog that you are the only person not reading, that I am opting out of my contract with Dole Fruit, and relocating to Mackinac Island, Michigan. See you all on bicycles.

A big, fat thank you to Jacoby Ellsbury

Wow, can you believe how worked up we all got way back during the 2007 World Series when Taco Bell announced that free taco giveaway thing if someone stole a base, and then Jacoby Ellsbury stole a base in game 2? Remember how all those streets and middle schools got renamed, and the mayors of all towns everywhere signed declarations praising Taco Bell and its parent corporation, Yum Brands, Inc.? And then how it all went bad and there were those taco riots, and people were stealing other people's free tacos at knifepoint by like 3:30 in the afternoon on Taco Tuesday, and how big tacos were burned in effigy while children cried in their mothers' arms? Remember all that footage of those crying children and those burning taco effigies on the news? And remember how some of us were pissed that they weren't giving away something better, like a bucket of KFC chicken or free copies of Adobe Photoshop, and how we lobbied Congress and got that resolution passed condemning Taco Bell and Major League Baseball (and those assholes from Yum Brands, Inc. too) for having such a rotten idea in the first place?

Me neither.

In other news, free tacos!

The biggest sand trap in Ocean City, Maryland (also known as "the state of Delaware")

What does it mean when a beachful of rednecks from the Delaware-Maryland border have the common sense to use SUVs with air let out of the tires for driving on the sandy roads, while two young gentlemen educated at a major northeastern university take a Honda Civic and end up spending an hour digging a two-foot-deep pit with the front-wheel drive until they're rescued by another redneck - this one armed with a truck-mounted winch - to pull them 50 feet to safety for the bargain price of $100.00?

I'll tell you what it means. It means I spent last weekend golfing in Ocean City, where such things are par for the course. Pun intended.

It also means that in the midst of 36 holes in which we managed to successfully steer clear of every on-course sand trap, my friend Laszlo and I got marooned in more than our fair share of beach on Saturday morning, which coincides oddly with the fact that, between the two of us, we had only one sand wedge. Perhaps it was the golfing gods themselves exacting revenge on us for such an act of hubris. "One sand wedge between two people? Blasphemy! Strand them on a beach access road in the hot midday sun in metrosexual clothing! Let them put those history and communication degrees to good use!"

The golf gods can be so cruel.

Basically, what happened was this: we golfed Friday and Sunday. Saturday was an off-day for half of the group, so Laszlo and I decided to drive up to Rehoboth Beach and check out the outlet stores at 11:30 in the morning. After a lively discussion about the distance from Ocean City to Rehoboth Beach, I yanked my iPhone (whose name is Knickers, by the way) out of my pocket and started doing some Google Maps work, made more complicated by the lack of included GPS.

I'm talking to you, Steve Jobs. If that is your real name.

I heard Laszlo say, "ooh, let's turn off here while you're looking." But, thanks to the painfully slow Edge network, I still had my eyes trained on Knickers when I heard him add, "this sand looks pretty soft. We should probably turn around."

I pulled my head out of my Knickers, but it was too late. Like a horny walrus errantly chasing after a PT Cruiser driving along a coast road during ebb tide, we were beached.

Here are some pictures:

This is after we had been digging for 45 minutes.

This is Laszlo operating the jack, while Knickers and I stand idly by, documenting the process for posterity. Before you go thinking I'm some sort of heartless jerk, though, take a look at the two men standing in the background. What you probably can't see from this resolution is that both of them are frowning, which is only because their facial muscles were so exhausted from laughing at us already.

This is the tow truck that came to rescue us. Laszlo claims he pulled us 20 feet, although it was really more like 50. 50 feet at $100 equals $2 per foot towed. I'm no mathematician, but that seems like a lot compared to, say AAA, which offers three miles of free towing for its initial membership fee of $59.95 annually.

This is a picture of Abe Vigoda.

$100.00 for 50 feet. And the friendly state parks official who didn't lift a finger of his sculpted muscularity to help us also informed us that we were lucky not to have gotten a ticket, which would have cost us $45 or $50. He said, "$45 or $50," which sounded an awful lot to me like he was just going to pull an amount out of thin air. In fact, a lot of the characters in the episode seemed extemporaneous and smug about getting us out, like the no-toothed gentleman in the teal GMC truck who showed up with a tow rope just after the hapless park ranger had committed us to using the towing service. The timing could not have been less sincere.

Incidentally, I spoke to Sarah after the show was over. Sarah is my new girlfriend, who just happens to be from Maryland. Her advice? "You could try letting some air out of the tires." So brilliant. So timely. I almost wonder if she wasn't in on the whole thing...

Update (10/25/07, 9:16PM)

Sarah wasn't involved. I retract that statement. See, there's no need to go calling your park police friends in Delaware, okay, sweetie?

Return of the Banantelope News (But for how long?...)

I don't often bother publicizing it when I remember to update YATOPNRTB's sister site, Now Is The Time For All Good Antelopes to Come to the Aid of Their Banana, but it's just been so rare lately that I pretty much figure people have stopped reading. What, like none of those people have ever run a website for four years with only sporadic posts, then taken four months off for no good reason and re-emerged with a three-paragraph fake news story? Is that really a reason to give up on me?

Okay, fine, it is. But since I updated NITTFAGATCTTAOTB, I think maybe you should swing by.

That is all.