The Happiest People on Earth

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By Jack Edwards

The three happiest people on Earth are, in ascending order: #3. Lotteries winners (before the relatives find out), #2. Patients whose cancer tests have come back negative, and (in a dominant first position) #1. Airline passengers who have just landed after a long flight seated in the dreaded middle seat. Here are five rules to help you survive this ordeal:

1. Never, repeat, NEVER, travel in the middle seat. Ask the boarding agent if there is room on the exterior of the plane – someplace where you can get a good grip and increase your chance of survival. (Ask where that kid who made it to Hawaii rode. Ask for that spot.)

2. Mentally prepare yourself by studying The Pastor’s Guide to Preparing the Condemned Inmate for Execution.

3. Read one of Leo Buscaglia’s books about how to get in touch with your sensitive side. (To prepare for all that shoulder to shoulder contact with your two new best friends).

4. Upon sitting down, take both elbows, then jam them out and down like an NFL linebacker getting down into position. You own those armrests. They’re yours. It’s the least the world owes you.

5. If you know anyone with a serious illness who has access to coma inducing pills, raid their medicine cabinet and wash a handful down just prior to take-off. (Official Jocularious.com Warning: Consult with your doctor prior to doing this. If your doctor approves, consider having the following dream during the flight; it’s called: “The airline pays you to sit in the middle seat.”

On a more positive note, try to make the best of it. General George Patton once said, “People are always asking me, ‘General, where did you muster the fortitude to conquer the Axis Forces and bring victory to the U.S.?’ Simple, I tell them. I have always made it a point to sit in the middle seat.” Harry Houdini perfected his greatest tricks by practicing escaping from the middle seat.

I have never understood why the CIA has been willing to take the heat for waterboarding terrorists, when all they had to do was make them fly from city to city strapped into the middle seat. In particular, the middle seats immediately in front of the exit row and in front of the rear toilet – because those are very special middle seats: They don’t recline those luxurious four inches!

While I’m handing out free advice, let me give a little to the money grubbing airlines who are now charging passengers for each square of toilet paper. If you bloodsuckers really want to make extra money, take a lesson from all the science fiction movies that involve space travel. Whenever the spaceship is going to travel light-years from one galaxy to the next, the humans lie down in clear Plexiglas capsules and are put into a sleep-like state. I’m not saying that airlines should install capsules between the window and aisle seats, but they could install masks which hang on the back of the seat directly in front of them that dispenses that gas that dentists use. Put a credit card swiper next to it. You’ll make a bundle. You’d have passengers begging to sit in the middle seats. Knife fights would break out over who gets to sit in the middle seat. (Okay, I know I said this advice was free, but now that I think about it, I should at least get a coupon for a coach round-trip fare).

Well, according to the captain, it’s time to stow my laptop away. We’re beginning our descent. For the third flight in this three-leg journey, I’m going to be the happiest person in the world.

Surviving the Blue Gatorade Tsunami

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By Jack Edwards

My wife recently informed me that I’d volunteered to help out at a fundraiser. This has happened before. So far, I had narrowly survived these bouts of my wife’s generosity of my time. In this case, they needed parents to staff the concession stand at our daughter’s school during a football game. Some vague percentage of the profit would benefit some vague aspect of her cross country team – perhaps paying off the coach’s gambling debt. (Official Lawsuit Avoidance Notice: My last comment is a joke. I don’t know if the coach even plays Go Fish. The fact that he was observed sitting at the high stakes Baccarat Table at Caesars last summer proves nothing.)

It turned out that my wife had volunteered both of us. She signed us up the same night as friends of ours, who for the purposes of this column I will refer to as “Lisa” and “Dennis” because their names happen to be Lisa and Dennis.

I decided to put on a happy face. If my wife was willing to devote her time to the cause, heck, the least I could do is stand shoulder to shoulder with her. My respect for her dedication to the cause continued to grow right up to the point she disappeared. Yes, the day before the event, she hopped on a plane and took off. (Some lame excuse about needing to attend a board meeting of an organization that helps needy children in foreign countries.)

I decided to do the only thing I could. I started practicing my cough. When you call in sick you have to slip in at least one authentic sounding cough, two if it’s a really important event. This was a one cough event. Unfortunately, my wife was one step ahead of me. She had somehow developed an inkling that I might skip out. This was perhaps due to my negligently telling her that I was planning to skip out. She contacted Lisa, and they jumped into action like tag team professional wrestlers, only instead of climbing up on the ropes with folding chairs and flying off to body slam me, they used text messages.

Defeated, I showed up. To my surprise, the time flew. My shift started at 7:30, and before I knew it, I looked at my watch and it was already 7:35.

I was relieved to find that Dennis was not given a candy-related assignment. I felt very strongly that his selling candy would be a direct conflict of interest. You see, Dennis is a dentist – a Pediatric Dentist. I would have had to have intervened.

My assignment was to stand behind the guy taking orders at the window, and when someone ordered a drink, to retrieve it. Only I didn’t need to listen to every drink order, because every drink order was the same. We had every soft drink available, but the only drink anyone ever ordered was blue Gatorade. I don’t drink Gatorade, but if I ever do, I’m going to drink the blue flavor. They must put crack cocaine in it or something. We sold gallons of it. By then end of the first quarter of the football game, we had to call the Gatorade hotline for emergency reserves. Three forklifts worked in unison offloading pallets of blue Gatorade though the back of the concession stand. We were ceremonially placing the bottles in the cooler and then retrieving them before their temperature had dropped a degree. We were serving lukewarm blue Gatorade. And the masses were guzzling it down like camels.

So, once again, I survived my wife’s generosity. But I sense that wherever she is right now, I may be volunteering for something even more challenging. So I’m doing the only thing I can. I practicing the perfect cough.

If You Want to Feed Your Family for Free – Move to Montana

Roadkill

By Jack Edwards

If I had to describe myself in one word, that word would be “omnivore.” “Omni” meaning “eats everything.” And “Vore” meaning “which is not securely nailed down.” Merriam-Webster.com defines omnivorous as, “avidly taking in everything as if devouring or consuming.” Not merely “taking in,” mind you, but “avidly taking in.” (Avidly, meaning enthusiastically, eagerly, fervently.) So, essentially, according to Merriam-Webster, I am a gigantic, snack food devouring locust. Sadly, this is true.

Omnivores eat a wide variety of meats, including the beef variety, the pork variety, and, I am now learning from reliable news sources, the roadkill variety. Lawmakers across our fruited, and apparently carcass-strewn, plains have been busily making sure we can legally announce that roadkill is “What’s for dinner!” According to a Fox News article published last year, Montana has joined about one-third of U.S. states to legalize “harvesting” roadkill. The article includes the following actual statements:

1. Roadkill “provides a leaner alternative to factory-raised meat.” (If you don’t mind the aftertaste of road tar.)

2. Certain states that allow the harvesting of roadkill require a permit. (Perhaps this is an option sportsmen can check when buying their annual hunting tag. Instead of just choosing firearm or bow, they have a third option, “Ford Taurus.”)

3. Residents in certain states are apparently just too good to eat roadkill, including: Texas, Washington, Tennessee and California. (Who would have thought that Texans were so hoity-toity?)

The article didn’t clarify whether you needed to buy the roadkill permit before or after your lucky twist of fate. I once drove from Great Falls, Montana, to Havre (also referred to in Montana as, “You can Havre”) late at night. The woman at the airport car rental kiosk told me it was a dangerous nighttime drive because of the deer. It turned out that she had a gift for understatement. Conservatively, there were about one million deer per highway mile – all staring with their beady, glowing eyeballs at me. Several times, I had to stop my car, get out and lure them off the highway with a bag of caramel corn which I had the good fortune to buy at the airport. Now that Montana has joined the civilized world, I want to go back and purchase a permit. I’ll rent a Hummer, you know, just in case I accidentally hit a deer.

A few years ago, creative entrepreneur-chefs in a small Oregon town opened a place called “The Roadkill Café,” surprisingly, it went belly up. It now appears that they were culinary geniuses ahead of their time.

For years now, I’ve been thinking of starting a bumper sticker company. This is because I feel passionately about a deeply personal and truly heartfelt message. And that message is that printing a ten cent sticker and selling it for three dollars is about as close to printing money as you can get without those goons at the Treasury Department throwing you a little surprise party which ends with them dragging you off by your ankles never to be seen or heard from again. But I digress. One of the stickers I’ve always thought would be a red hot seller would read in large bold letters, “I Brake for Animals,” and then directly below in lower case it would say, “taller than my bumper.” But now that I’ve been educated to this hip new wave of eating roadkill, while the top line of my sticker will still read, “I Brake for Animals,” the bottom line will now read, “after impact.”

Well, it’s been a long day. I plan to unwind by going on a leisurely drive through the countryside. I’ll take my F-350 4×4 Ford Pickup, the one with the reinforced steel front bumper. You know, just in case I accidentally hit a freezer full of venison.

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Underwear Wars

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By Jack Edwards

When trendsetting Americans think of weight loss, they think of three things: Diet, Exercise and, of course, Caffeine-infused underwear. Well, at least they used to think of caffeine-infused underwear, until the Federal Trade Commission gave the companies marketing these undies an atomic wedgie two weeks ago.  (FTC motto: “We spend billions saving people from their bone-numbing stupidity.”)

According to this VERY TRUE, ACTUAL QUOTE from an Associated Press article: “The Federal Trade Commission announced Monday that two companies – Norm Thompson Outfitters of Oregon and Wacoal America Inc. of New Jersey – have agreed to refund $1.5 million to consumers who bought “shapewear” that supposedly can reduce cellulite and fat because it is infused with caffeine, vitamin E and other things.”

That’s a lot of undies, infused or otherwise.

If you still don’t believe this is true, Google it on your phone. It’ll take you three-quarters of a nanosecond to confirm the disturbing accuracy of this underwear scandal, or as I have so cleverly, and capitalistically copyrighted: “Undie-Gate.”

While I admittedly lack a formal education in the field of infused underwear, I think I know where the developers of this underwear went tragically awry. They picked the wrong breakfast-related ingredient.  My answer – strawberry jam. Everybody loves strawberry jam.  As podcast superstar Adam Corolla keeps yammering on about, restaurants put an equal number of single serving strawberry jam containers on the tables as they do, for example, grape or mixed fruits, but you can never find any of the strawberry jam ones because those are what everybody wants.  All you can every find are the lousy grape.  So this obviously makes my point that strawberry jam would translate brilliantly to the underwear infusion industry.

In any event, the FTC is hanging caffeinated underwear out to dry.

The AP said that neither of the companies it mentioned in the article could be reached for comment. However, the AP did acknowledge that it had an unsubstantiated report from an anonymous source, that the CEO of Norm Thompson was unavailable for comment because his fifth grade granddaughter was currently lecturing him on the basic elements of human physiology, which lecture concluded with a sentence containing the word “bonehead.”

The AP article also including the following: “The Federal Trade Commission is accepting public comment on the proposed settlement until Oct. 29.” It’s unlikely too many people will be beating down the doors of the FTC to provide comment, in that said aggrieved consumers would have to admit that they had the IQ of sauerkraut to have bought the garments in the first place (then again, maybe these “target audience” consumers WON’T make this connection).

In the meantime, I’m not waiting until October 29th to move forward on the patent of my strawberry jam infused underwear.  My marketing plan is going to lay waste to every big underwear tycoon in North America, including competitors, such as Mr. B. V. Dees and Ms. Fruit O. Loom.  I’ll let you in on it, if you promise to keep your big yaps shut until I spring it on the unsuspecting public.  I’m going to hire the most world renowned chemist and the most world renowned nutritionist.  Then I’m going to have them stand in front of a giant photo of sexy models wearing my strawberry jam infused underwear.  I’ll have them smile warmly, yet in a professionally confident manner, while reading this script:

Famous Chemist: “Strawberry jam infused underwear….”

Famous Nutritionist, completing the sentence: “… just as effective at helping you lose those extra pounds as traditional caffeine-infused underwear.”

Talk about truth in advertising. Try to hit  me 1.5 million for that, Mr. FTC.

My Middle-aged Marathon

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By Jack Edwards

Few things are more fundamentally wholesome than a high school fundraiser – a bake sale, a bottle drive, or, in the case of my daughter’s cross country team, a forced run of out-of-shape parents over a grueling 5K race course. And if you aren’t a runner or haven’t used the metric system lately, five kilometers in miles equals three heart attacks and a stroke.

Some number of years ago, a group of demented high school runners at my daughter’s school, which should remain nameless, so I’ll only reveal its initials – Sheldon High School, hatched a cunning idea. These young minds, with as yet undiagnosed psychotic tendencies engineered a scheme to recruit unsuspecting and wholly unprepared family and friends to participate in a 5K run at the bargain price of $25, or $5 per “K.”  And, like a fungus, it spread.  I personally found out that I had signed up three days after I had signed up.  One little problem – I had not “technically” run in 35 years.  The good news was that I had four days to train.

The first challenge I faced was that the closest thing I had to running shoes were a pair of leather wingtips, which feature all the impact absorbency of granite. So my wife took me (yes, like I’m ten) to a specialty running store.

A female clerk approached us and asked if she could help. Of note is that it was 100 degrees outside, and she was wearing a giant stocking cap.  No, it wasn’t 100 degrees inside, but it was like talking to someone at the North Pole who was wearing a bikini.  She told me to walk across the room while she kneeled down like she was lining up a putt – except she was looking at my feet.  Understand that I had no idea who this woman was.  I wasn’t 100% certain she even worked at the store.  Then she stood and announced that I was rolling my ankles.  She told me that the solution was a pair of running shoes that will push my retirement back three to five years.

Upon arriving home, I immediately announced that I was going on a run. My run consisted of bolting from my driveway like Prefontaine and maintaining a blistering pace for a full five yards before remembering that the final remnants of my knee cartilage parted company with me during the Carter administration.

Finally, the Big Day arrived.

My wife and I arrived for the race thirty minutes early. People were jogging around warming up.  I walked slowly to the check-in table, strategically reserving my energy for the race.  I signed in, they issued me my “bib” (the paper number you pin to the front of your shirt so they can confirm you came in last).  After a period of milling about, we lined up (or really “grouped up”) behind the starting line.  I positioned myself toward the back, so I wouldn’t get run over by all the skinny moms who had a take-no-prisoners gleam in their eyes – one of which was my wife.

The race was pleasant enough with the high school team members lined up along the race to make sure we didn’t accidently veer off course and end up sitting in a bar someplace. Their common refrain being, “Keep it up!  You’re doing great!” which was code for, “We can’t believe you’re still alive!”

I managed to “finish strong.” I blazed down the homestretch into the shoot like a lightning bolt as a result of my clever strategy of walking long stretches of the course along the way.  As proud as I was with my performance, however, next year, I’m begging them to hold a bake sale.

 

The Great Chicago Toilet Massacre

Outhouse Final

By Jack Edwards

I don’t know why we humans are so fascinated with toilets. But we are. It’s in our DNA. From the first time a Neanderthal dug a small hole in the ground and presented it with beaming pride to his Neanderthal wife, we have found few items of greater interest. This is especially true of toilets with unusual features. World literature is replete with toilet stories, and I’m about to add another. But first, a couple of toilet related items.

I recently took a road trip and stopped at a rural rest area – a small park featuring a cement block restroom with a pit toilet. It must have been 15 feet from the toilet rim down to “ground zero.” I immediately thought, ‘Wow, and someone who carelessly lets his cell phone slip into the water of a regular toilet thinks he has a problem.’ Imagine trying to fish that out! (Note to self: Consider a start-up company aimed at fishing people’s cell phones from pit toilets. Slap 800 number stickers throughout. Charge a bundle).

I was watching a baseball game last summer and noticed a row of porta-potties lined up next to the field. In large letters across each one was the company’s name: United Toilets. Struck me as a little too corporate. Frank’s Toilets, San-it-tory Toilets, okay. But United? Was this a multinational outhouse conglomerate?

So, back to Chicago, and the great toilet massacre.

I’m cruising from one gate to the next at O’Hare Airport. And as with any public building, it has its pluses and minuses. On one hand, the entire complex has a grand total of one electrical outlet. It’s located on concourse K. The line to use it is longer than the main runway. On the other hand, it has those neat toilets that automatically slide a new plastic toilet seat protector over the seat after each use. Naturally, I had to make time to enjoy this feature.

I slipped into a restroom and found a stall. I briefly admired the slick unit prior to taking position. Then, after completing my assignment, I stood and turned around to see it do its thing. But nothing. Nadda. The electronic eye should have flushed it, but it didn’t. So, not wanting to leave without watching the plastic sleeve slider show, I pushed the little black button.

This is when IT happened. Up rose a swell of water – a tsunami that made the flood that lifted Noah’s Ark look tame. The tide was rapidly rising toward the rim with no sign of stopping, and I was trapped. My luggage was between me and the stall door. As the water edged to the rim, I desperately lifted my suitcase and swung around to escape. I managed to slip through the door just as the wave crested over the edge. Water poured down and flooded the floor in all directions. A man’s voice from the next stall cried out, “Oh my God!” as the tide rushed his feet. (If I had the means to save him, I would have. But, alas, I was without the means. It was every man for himself). Chaos ensued. People everywhere screamed and fled for their lives. I swept past the stunned face of a bathroom attendant (Motto: We run toward the sound of danger). It was like that scene in the first Mission Impossible movie where Tom Cruise breaks the giant fish tank and then runs for it. In fact, exactly like that. I will concede that I probably didn’t look as debonair as Tom did as I turned the corner out of the madness and back onto the concourse.

As my plane lifted off the runway bound for the land of the (far) less interesting toilets, I must admit that those fancy O’Hare contraptions had lost their appeal. I am now actively working to find investors for my enterprise: United Phone Recovery, Inc. – “You sink’em, we spulink’em.”

My Dad’s Weekend Extravaganza

Dad's Weekend

By Jack Edwards

My daughter attends a university which is conveniently located two thousand miles away. This year, I didn’t think I’d be able to attend “Dad’s Weekend” until the last minute, which meant that scheduling flights was a challenge, but luckily, I was able to book an airline itinerary which only included 25 legs. The good news is that when I finally landed in Tulsa, it was raining.

My daughter belongs to a sorority at Oklahoma State University, the name of which I cannot disclose, but its initials are Kappa Kappa Gamma. She and her sisters took preparing for this weekend very seriously. Meetings were held. Plans were made. They agonized over how they should best use those precious final few hours on the Friday evening before their fathers arrived the next day. Then they put that plan into action. And that plan involved attending an all-night toga party.

If you look up “Dad’s Weekend” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, it says: “The visit a father makes to his child’s college, where he experiences both PTSD flashbacks and a deep longing to be a student again.”

The big day began with a complimentary lunch at the sorority house. It was a football game day, so the menu was tailgating fare. Hotdogs, hamburgers, traditional sides. It was all every tasty and lovely. At the same time, as I munched down my meal, I couldn’t help but calculate the cost of my hotdog at just north of $20,000. (But who’s counting?)

Later we attended the game. Security at Boone Pickens Stadium was tighter than a tick in a pig’s ear. The security lady at the front entrance made me lift my baseball cap. She thought I might be hiding something. I’m not kidding. She made me show her my bald spot. Though in her defense, my bald spot is getting pretty shiny these days, and I’m sure that a clever terrorist might be able to configure a chain of strategically placed middle-aged men throughout the stadium and bounce a laser beam from one bald spot to another, building up a concentration of energy that led to a horrific catastrophe.

Following the game, a traditional problem emerged. Both parent and child want to take off and recreate into the late night hours, but, for too many reasons to list, certainly not together. And that instinct is for the best. Case-in-point is a friend of mine who I will refer to as “Tom,” because his name happens to be Tom. Tom attended a Dad’s weekend at his daughter’s college in Minnesota. He decided to join in his daughter’s postgame celebratory activities. And he, being the only celebrant over the age of 21, ended up buying the beer. What happened next is best summarized in the arresting officer’s police report: “As smoke billowed out of the upper window of the apartment building and a flood of inebriated occupants fled into the night, emergency first responders heard a low crying sound emitting from the building. They strapped on their respirators and reentered the blazing structure. Once back inside, they discovered a small herd of pigmy goats trapped in a rear bathroom. All the goats were treated and released.” Tom later pled down to a misdemeanor charge of Animal Endangerment and got probation. His law license was suspended by his state Bar association for 90 days.

All kidding aside, Oklahoma State University is a first rate institution. And Kappa Kappa Gamma is, in my bias opinion, the finest sorority in the country. But I’m not kidding when I repeat that that hotdog I cost me $20,000. It’s a good thing that it went down smoothly.

My Hawaiian Moon Retirement

Hawaiian Moon

By Jack Edwards

A traditional Chinese curse has become popular in America. I discovered, however, as a result of my in-depth research on my iPhone (a full two seconds) that this “traditional Chinese curse” is about as Chinese as Irish Potato Stew. Nevertheless, it goes: “May you live in interesting times.” And we certainly do. Our nation’s economy has all the stability of a twelve foot skiff in a Category 5 hurricane. This has made retirement planning, to put it euphemistically, “challenging” (code for “impossible”).

Gone are the days of simply plugging a percentage of your monthly income into a mutual fund and resting assured that your golden years will be, well, “golden.” At this point, most Americans are hoping for bronze.  We will hear more of this in the future: “I’m looking forward to spending my Bronze Years traveling the country in my 1983 Dodge Caravan.” Our predicament is due in large part to the “synergy” between the self-sacrificing, “Country-First” investment bankers on Wall Street and our hardworking “public servants” in Washington. (Notice how skillfully I referred to both investment bankers and elected officials without relying on words like “crooks” or “buffoons”). As a result, everyone needs a Plan B for retirement.

The first three retirement alternatives that come to mind, of course, are:

1. Winning America’s Got Talent. (Especially, if you own a small dog with a big personality).

2. Winning the lottery. (Remember, like everything else, winning the lottery takes hard work and dedication. You can’t just throw a dollar at Megabucks and expect to win right off the bat. You need a winning strategy, like plowing a significant percentage of your monthly paycheck in pursuit of the big win. It’s only a “game” to amateurs; treat it like a business.)

3. “Winning” a long federal prison sentence. (Like every financial plan, this has its pros and cons (no pun intended). On one hand, you get medical and dental – well, extractions. On the other, you only get to visit your grandchildren every third weekend).

I’ve decided to go in a slightly different direction. It involves strategically implanting myself into the epicenter of the multibillion dollar retail industry, placing myself in a key position at the very hub of the American economic engine. Specially, I intend to work at a mall kiosk.

This position meets all of my prerequisites:

1. It’s a warm place, sheltered from the weather. (Remember – I’ll be old and cranky, even crankier than I am now – yes, that is possible.)

2. My workstation will be close to a bathroom. (Handy for any “Code Red” events.)

And

3. I can slip over to the food court during my breaks to grab free samples of teriyaki chicken.

Of course, I don’t have to man a kiosk. There are a number of attractive positions at the mall. I could be a spritzer at a department store, man the dis-information center or pick up used trays in the food court.

I have no intention of jumping at the first opportunity. Several specific positions have caught my eye, specifically, the Hawaiian Moon lotion kiosk.

Working for Hawaiian Moon would allow me to enjoy two distinct pleasures. First, I get to witness the look of pleasure as each shopper rubs the free sample in their hands. And second, I get to see the bolt of shock flash in their eyes when I tell them it’s a thousand dollars an ounce. (Okay, before Hawaiian Moon files a slander suit against me, let me say this officially and unequivocally: Hawaiian Moon lotion costs less than a thousand dollars and ounce.)

Humm. Hopefully, this gentle ribbing won’t cost me my retirement plan. I really don’t want to pick up those trays.

The Homebuyer’s Guide to Cracking the Code

 

House Final

By Jack Edwards

The first step in selling a home is for the owner to hand over the keys of his three bedroom, two bath ranch to a real estate agent who then floods the market with ads describing it as the Palace of Versailles. Real estate agents know that the average homebuyer is looking for a sweeping estate, complete with covered portico, vaulted entry and a guest wing, but sadly can only afford a refrigerator box with aluminum windows. This is why agents occasionally (always) do some mild puffing (flagrant lying) when describing a property. Below is a helpful list of real estate marketing terms and their definitions:

1. “Enjoy the tranquility” = Enjoy sitting in traffic during your daily commute.

Start looking for a used Prius now, because the distance to whatever little Appalachia outside your city limits where this home is located is going to be grinding.

2. “Breathtaking view” = You can’t afford it.

In fact, don’t finish reading the rest of the ad. You’re just torturing yourself. Let’s face it, the only view you’re going to get is one overlooking your neighbor’s unkempt above-ground pool.

3. “Must see interior” = Disregard the squalid eyesore of an exterior with all the curb appeal of a mud hut.

B.U.R.P. (the Bureau of Unified Real estate Professionals) requires that this phrase be included in any advertisement for a home which might otherwise be mistaken from the street as the local solid waste management facility.

4. “Walk to shopping” = Bring your earplugs to prevent hearing damage from the 24/7 traffic noise.

You’ll also find the term “sustainable lifestyle” used liberally in ads for these properties. This is also code for “your friends will have to park a mile and a half away because your new place is tucked in tighter than a tick in a pig’s ear.” Key word for your new housing development: Density.

5. “Light filled” = Prepare to buy Windex at Costco by the gross.

The same conversation occurs whenever one of these homes is shown:

Prospective homebuyer saying with a chuckle, “Wow, I’ll be cleaning windows all day!”

Real estate agent deflecting, “Oh, I don’t think it’ll take that much time.” And then quickly adding gaily, “I’ll come over and help you! Ha, ha!” A line of saliva sliding down the corner of her mouth in anticipation of finally unloading this albatross.

6. “Efficiency Condo”* = Bathe, wash your dishes in the kitchen sink, and watch your favorite sitcom all from the comfort of your “living area.”

*See also, “Cozy” = All the spatial freedom of a hen in an egg factory.

7. “Unique” = Run!

Mankind has spent eons strategically moving up the homeowner ladder from caves, to huts to well-insulated, temperature controlled, comfortable environments. That’s what you want. “Unique” is code for the introduction of some sort of cave-like element into an otherwise (and I say this with all sensitivity) Normal house. Go with normal.

By the way, did I mention that I just put my house up for sale? It’s a beautiful property with a sweeping view (of my neighbor’s compost pile). It has a “feeling of spaciousness” (which is amazing since it has the square footage of a Walmart “do-it-yourself” storage shed – in fact, at one point, it may have been a Walmart storage shed). You’ll enjoy many of the unique features (such as a broken kitchen exhaust fan and the Russian roulette garage door which responds to the remote one out of three tries). Hurry! Two other couples have expressed Very Serious interest, so you should Race down and make an offer Immediately.

Parenting Fundamentals – Lesson One

Parenting is difficult. It requires numerous skills, not the least of which is gazing into the innocent little eyes of your child and telling a big, fat lie. Unfortunately, not everyone is born with this skill.

When my wife and I were preparing for our first child, we bought a copy of Dr. Spock’s Baby and Child Care Book.  (No, not that Spock. That was “Mr. Spock” from Star Trek. Dr. Spock was Mr. Spock’s younger brother.)  One big problem – nowhere in the book does he explain how to lie to your kids. At first, I thought our copy was missing a page. Did he just forget? Was his editor hung-over the day he proofread the manuscript?

Before any of you purists climb onto your high horses, I’d like to take you on a walk down memory lane. Here is an example of how my parent’s lying to me played a critical role in my development. To do this, I must introduce Brownie the Cow.

I grew up in a logging town.  We had a few acres, and my parents bought calves which we raised. We named each one, and my favorite was Brownie, who, not surprisingly, was brown. One day, Brownie disappeared under mysterious circumstances.  Coincidentally, our freezer became brimming with beef. When I asked my mother where Brownie went, she made a critical error – SHE TOLD ME THE TRUTH! The tears flowed like Niagara Falls.

Fortunately, I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. Each time I sat down for dinner, I would tearfully ask, “Is that Brownie?” And my mother answered in a steadfast voice, “No.” Now, that’s what I call responsible parenting.

Later, I was able to observe my oldest sister, put these skills to good use. In her young adulthood, she found herself with two kids and an unruly dog. Now, I cannot state the following with what one might call “actual knowledge,” and I was the one who bought that Brownie story night after night, but I’m pretty sure what I’m about to tell you is another example of “good parental lying.”

One day I visit my sister and the dog is gone. My young niece and nephew explain to me that it went to live on a farm. Keep in mind that this is in Oregon. The zoning laws are draconian. Land use regulations prohibit people from buying a few acres and starting a little farm. As a result, there just aren’t that many farms. So right off the bat, I’m suspicious. I’m young and single at the time and have no kids. I haven’t pondered the importance yet of lying to children. So I express my skepticism to my young niece and nephew. And WHAM, my sister slams into the conversation like a marine hitting the beach at Normandy, strongly attesting to the accuracy of the farm story. Then the kids, sensing that Mom is under siege, chime in with their support. I push back a bit, grilling the kids, then let it go.  (“No,” they had not seen the farm. “No,” they were not told the location of the farm.)

So, here is the short and sweet on laying on the baloney to your kids: Keep it tight. Any unnecessary details will come back to bite you later when you mix them up: “The dog’s on the farm.” And, a flat affect greatly enhances believability: “No. It’s not Brownie.” In conclusion, Dr. Spock’s brother Mr. Spock would agree that there are times when lying to your kids is absolutely the right thing to do. In fact, it’s logical.

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