The Unauthorized Biography of Coffee

Coffee Final

By Jack Edwards

Our story begins eons ago, in prehistoric times. A dark and primitive period otherwise referred to in Archeology textbooks as 1975. During this epoch, mankind’s early ancestors with their broad, sloping foreheads and barrel shaped torsos began each day by mixing freeze-dried crystals into hot water, taking a sip, and then declaring it, “Good to the last drop.”

You can visit the coffee museum located on aisle 4 of your local supermarket and view a related artifact – a jar of Folgers coffee crystals. If you’re a “hands-on” adventurous type, you can even buy a jar and make a cup. Your beverage will cost you about a penny an ounce.

Man continued to evolve, and the part of his brain that craved caffeine (the pointy-headed, scientific term for this cranial region is the “Cafinatus-cravotomus”) continued to enlarge. He began purchasing whole coffee beans and then engaging in the arduous task of standing by for 20 seconds while the store’s complimentary grinder ground the beans to his specifications. This further reduced the cost of an ounce of coffee. If you do the math (by carrying the one and then dropping the remainder), the cost per ounce works out to FREE. In fact, the store might even owe you money.

Eventually, this part of the brain overdeveloped, leading coffee consumers to spiral down into insanity. Why, they asked themselves, should we drink our free coffee conveniently in the comfort of our own homes, when we can wait in long lines to order our coffee, then wait for our coffee, and then search desperately for a place to sit and drink our coffee?

Finally, someone stepped forward to meet this pressing need. He created a company which unleashed a salvo of mega-coffee shops throughout the U.S. and beyond. I will refer to this behemoth, which, for legal purposes (and because I don’t want a frustrated Ph.D. in Art History spitting in my “tall” cup of java), as “Wall-bucks.” (Critical disclaimer: I am specifically not referring to, or in any way making fun of, “Starbucks.” Besides, who would ever refer to Starbucks as a “behemoth”?)

Wall-bucks provided two additional advantages. At $1.80 for a 12 ounce house coffee, it allowed you to pay 14 cents per ounce – which is a real steal at only 14 times as much as you could otherwise brew it. And, it also allowed you to enjoy tipping someone a dollar who had gone out of his or her way – sometimes for as long as 10 seconds – to specially prepare your beverage.

Wall-bucks has always reminded me of the theme song to that old sixties sitcom The Beverly Hillbillies. The one where Jed was out “shootin’ for some food,” and “up from the ground” came a “bubblin’ crude. Texas tea… liquid gold.” Who could have guessed that liquid gold would turn out to be overpriced coffee?

We here at Jocularious.com work to provide our loyal readers with practical information. Information they can utilize in their daily lives (even if it is just to complain to their coworkers at the water fountain that there are no decent humor writers any more). So I journeyed to aisle 4 and purchased a jar of Folgers Crystals. I took it home and followed the directions: 1. Put a “heaping” spoonful of the crystals into a cup, 2. Add hot water, and 3. Stir. I did this and then, with saliva-dripping anticipation, I took a sip. As a result, I would suggest that Folgers add one last step: Step 4. After stirring, pour this cup of puddle water down the drain and race to the nearest Wall-bucks. I’ll cover your tip.

The Great Oklahoma Pandemic

Oklahoma final

By Jack Edwards

Think of your three favorite states. Ask others to list their three favorite states. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they will not list three states. They will list the same state, three times in a row. And that state, of course, will be Oklahoma. The Oklahoma state motto says it all: “Oklahoma – we’ve got miles of it!”

I’ve spent a lot of time in Oklahoma over the past two years. In fact, I’ve just returned. But during this last visit, I’m afraid I may have caught something. Mind you, I am not a board certified physician, but I believe I’ve correctly diagnosed my condition. It’s an incurable virus called Oklahoma-itis.

Oklahoma-itis presents the following symptoms:

  1. A continuous need for drastic changes in temperature. Almost an addiction. A deep desire for what I call “weather whiplash.” 110 degrees one day, subfreezing the next.
  2. A fundamental transformation in your body’s physiology. In the event you suffer a tragic accident and need a lifesaving blood transfusion, your body will accept barbeque sauce in lieu of whole plasma.
  3. A tendency to refer to a 200 mile gale force wind as “an afternoon breeze.”

Rumor has it that the U.S. Center for Disease Control expects Oklahoma-itis to be the world’s next great pandemic. Oklahoma sits at the geographic center of the contiguous states (You know this, of course, because Oklahomans won’t shut up about it). The CDC expects the virus to spread over the country like mosquitoes at a nudist colony.

Well, here’s my heads-up to the CDC. Identifying the source of any new virus is the first step to finding a cure. And I think I found the epicenter of the Oklahoma-itis virus on my last visit. I am reasonably confident that Ground Zero is located in a suburb of Oklahoma City at a little place called Leo’s BBQ. I stopped by for a plate of barbeque because Guy Fieri fell all over himself and about had a heart attack over how great it was on an episode of Food Network’s Dinners, Drive-ins and Dives.

Here’s how to get to Leo’s. Plug the address into your iPhone and follow it blindly. Arrive at what appears to be an abandoned storage shed. Then, just as you begin whacking your iPhone because it has obviously failed you, look up and you’ll see the sign. If you don’t want to catch the bug, put your containment suit on in the parking lot prior to entering, although this will prevent you from eating, so you might was well just drive back where you came from.

Here it is:

Leo's

Once you arrive at Leo’s, here are a few tips for enjoying the experience. By this point, you’ve already crossed the line and contracted the virus, so relax and enjoy:

  1. Order everything. Leo’s actually serves a plate that contains every type of barbeque they make – the Leo’s Special. They also have a “Leo’s Special Lite,” if you’re willing to part with that much of your dignity.
  2. Dive in. To help keep your field of vision clear, there is a five-mile long roll of paper sitting on every table (not paper towels – paper towels are perforated; that’s for sissies). There’s also a 50 gallon squeeze bottle of barbeque sauce within arm’s reach. I suggest my ratio: two parts barbeque sauce to one part barbeque.
  3. Save room for the free slice of strawberry-banana cake. Yeah, it’s free. Not that you’ll have much room left in your stomach. Yes, I found space – but I’m a professional.
  4. After the meal, immediately go lie down to begin the recovery period.

As you lie there bloated, your stomach protruding in pain, half expecting contractions to begin, think of your three favorite states. You won’t be able to think of three. You’ll just think of one state, three times. And, of course, that state will be Comatose.

Nightmare at the Mold City Motel

Final Vacancy

Those of you who have not served hard time in the squalor of a third world prison will have difficultly fully grasping this story. It involves a retched ten minute nightmare I had yesterday at the Mold City Motel in Denver (my apologies to all bacterial strains of the mold community). I would use the motel’s real name except that it’s probably mob owned, and my liver is quite happy in its current location. I managed to escape the Mold City Motel alive, and (at least to my knowledge) free of any incurable diseases, like the bubonic plague.

When I am alone on a road trip, I never make hotel reservations. I have always wondered when my luck would run out, and I would end up sleeping in my car. On this trip, hotel after motel were full. It was late, and I was exhausted. I was beginning to resemble a sloth, only not as alert. More like a sloth on Valium. It was at this dire point that I had the incredible misfortune to stumble headlong into a black hole of the accommodation world – The Mold City Motel.

My lodging standards are not particularly high, picture something just beneath a 1949 Georgia county jail cell. I couldn’t imagine that any accommodations could break me. I was Teflon.

I was elated when the manager told me he had a room, and I pounced on it like a starving hog on an acorn. I knew that at sixty bucks it wouldn’t be the Taj Mahal, but I was a thirsty man in the desert. Then the manager handed me back my Visa with, I kid you not, two ratty towels rolled up and secured with a rubber band. My concern shot to DEFCON 4. It would jolt to Level 5 a few minutes later. Let me clearly express that the balance of this story is 100% true. This really happened.

I cautiously walked to my room. Along the way, I passed numerous people who appeared to be: a. drug addicts, b. drug dealers, c. professional ladies, and d. mangers of said professional ladies. Still, I assured myself that the room couldn’t be THAT bad. Tragically, I was wrong. In fact, I have only been this wrong three other times in my life. One being, at the age of eleven, having watched a Lone Ranger episode and deciding to jump off our barn onto my horse. Let’s just say that this deeply painful memory did not involve injury to the horse.

The room looked like a scene from a movie depicting a hotel in war torn Sierra Leone. The motif was “grime.” Everywhere. On every surface. I would compare it to a pig sty, but I’m afraid the American Swine Association would sue me for slander. There was no bathtub, just an enormous mottled stain in the shape of a bathtub. Even the stains had stains. I say “stain,” although in truth I didn’t try to rub any of it off. I was afraid that if I unrubberbanded (I had to invent this word to tell this story) a towel and rubbed a surface, there may have been significant grime transfer which might precipitate a projectile vomiting event.

The double bed had a single king-size pillow, but it only wore a standard-sized, what appeared to be previously used, pillowcase pulled onto one end. Spots on the pillow were visible through the case. A SWAT team of bacteria no doubt stood ready to spring on anyone INSANE enough to place his head on it. I pulled the blanket back to reveal a sea of spots from beneath the onion skin thick sheet. I made the mistake of rubbing a dark gray spot on the sheet and it rubbed off. Mostly.

The manager feigned shock when I handed him back my rubberbanded roll of towels and told him I was leaving. He refused to refund my money. Motel policy.

After fleeing the scene, I belatedly checked Trip Advisor on my iPhone. I stress that the following are REAL quotes from actual travelers:

“[Y]ou are seriously better off sleeping in your car.”

“My wife saw housekeeping in action. After people checked out he would make the bed without changing the sheets.”

“[T]his place should be shut down as a public menace.”

I drove off looking for a place to park, curl up in my car seat and grab a few Z’s. I awoke the next morning completely refreshed, and without a single kink in my neck. The king size bed in the well-appointed one bedroom suite I discovered while searching for a parking spot was just what the doctor ordered. True, the management had neglected to place a mint on my pillow, but I survived the hardship. Remember, I’m Teflon.

Etiquette Emergency at the Buffet

Buffet Final

By Jack Edwards

Sadly, this buffet story is disturbingly true. Every lumpy refried bean of it.

The plethora of emergencies that can arise at a buffet are endless. “Buffet” is a French word which means: “A meal eaten until the diner’s intestines explode.”

The buffet emergency I recently encountered was etiquette related. It struck without notice, and unfortunately left insufficient time for me to contact the Emily Post Institute for advice. We’ve all heard of Emily Post, but there is an organization actually called the “Emily Post Institute.” They offer advice for practically every situation: weddings, job interviews, funerals, and more recently, cage fighting (remember: always turn your head to the side before spitting out blood or teeth).

My wife and I were sponsors of a tournament at our tennis club. I say “our” tennis club, but my participation is strictly limited to walking on a tread machine 30 minutes once of month and partaking in an occasional celebratory catered buffet dinner by the pool. These dinners have all been benign until this recent buffet incident.

It was a Mexican-themed buffet: tortillas, choice of chicken or pork, along with traditional accompaniments. Everything was going swimmingly. I had just finished loading up my plate as vertically as possible without causing a scene or creating a hazard. I then carried my Mexican fiesta pillar to a nearby table. That’s when it happened. The girl serving the tortillas at the front of line suddenly dropped like a teenage delinquent boxing Mike Tyson.

I raced around the end of the buffet to render aid, but someone had beaten me to her (thank goodness). She looked unconscious, so I started trying to remember my first aid training. Unfortunately, I received my training over thirty years ago when I was a lifeguard. I reached back deep into my gray matter and an acronym hovered just beyond my grasp. ABC? A was for Airway? B was for… something…. Fortunately, a minimum of one thousand doctors are playing tennis at the club at any time. Within moments, the girl was surrounded by board certified specialists. In fact, this is true, I saw one doctor who couldn’t squeeze in though all the other doctors to see the patient. He finally shrugged and walked off.

Taking my seat again, I confronted my first dilemma. Ten feet away a girl was being provided emergency medical attention with an ambulance on the way. At the same time, my food was getting cold. I don’t need to tell you that Mexican food can get a little sloppy if it sits too long. Could I start eating? What’s the protocol in this situation? No one else seemed to be eating, just sitting around looking concerned. Of course, I was concerned too, but I can eat AND be concerned – very concerned. Being a pragmatist, and not being able to contribute in any meaningful way to the emergency, I decided to inconspicuously start eating.

This quickly created dilemma number. The ambulance was taking forever (thankfully, the girl was now conscious), but I had finished my plate. The other servers were still standing at their station. Amazingly, the woman serving next to the girl never missed a beat. She just kept spooning out the pork to the people in line who kept marching along for a time, but people stopped getting in line. This left me uncertain. Should I step up for round two? I debated this to myself for a minute before coming to my decision. I would wait until they carried the poor girl off in the ambulance before I got back in line – and even then, I would make sure I was the SECOND person in line.

The next day, I wrote to the Emily Post Institute about this etiquette dilemma; however, it brings me sadness to tell you that the Institute wrote back (in a timely manner) that it must unfortunately decline my request for assistance, as it was currently addressing a backlog of pressing etiquette needs. The letter included an example: A seventeen-year-old boy was in a dispute with his mother over how far his pants could hang down at a formal wedding. He felt they could hang to just above his knees. The Emily Post Institute was assembling a team to work around the clock to address this cutting-edge issue with precedential consequences.

This left me to my own etiquette devices. So I’ve taken time to reflect on my buffet question. In retrospect, I’ve decided that I exercised poor taste, and I deeply regret my actions.   I should have waited until TWO people had joined the buffet line.

My Near Death Crater Lake Experience

Crater Lake Final

By Jack Edwards

My family recently hosted a visit from one of my daughter’s college friends. I’ll refer to her as “Whitney” because her name happens to be Whitney. My daughter wanted to take her friend to visit Crater Lake National Park, but this posed a problem – Crater Lake is about three hours from our home, and it is difficult to drive and sleep at the same time. In order to obtain proper rest prior to her arrival at the lake, my daughter ingeniously invited the rest of our family along. This allowed me to enjoy driving the 145 miles over winding mountainous roads while she fell into a coma in the back seat.

Crater Lake is to Oregon as the Statue of Liberty is to New York. State law strictly forbids any local resident to visit these attractions unaccompanied by an out-of-state visitor. Whitney is from Tulsa.  When we arrived at the entrance, we announced that we had an out-of-state visitor, and after the park ranger inspected her identification, he let us enter.

The most important thing to remember about any national park is that it is a safe haven for wildlife. Even for ferocious species such as mountain lions, black bears, wolverines and, of course, bees. I know this because at our first stop when we got out of the car to gaze across the serene vista of crystal blue water, all of a sudden, and completely without notice, Whitney began waving her arms in a helicopter fashion and running off in a zigzag pattern, which, of course, is the international signal for Bee Attack. It turned out that it wasn’t so much of an actual Bee Attack as it was an actual bee sighting. You nature lovers will be relieved to learn that this wild and majestic bee was not harmed in any way, and in fact, had only gotten within about 75 feet of Whitney when she sprung into the required defensive action.

It was following this first stop that we made a critical mistake. One that almost cost us our lives – we failed to turn around and leave immediately. Due to this err, we naively continued on. Not because we wanted to, but because eons of genetic human evolution required us to venture forward to the nucleus of this natural wonder. The technical term for this “nucleus” is The Gift Shop.

The problem with our not turning around and retreating from the lake, and following our gravitational instinct was that to get there, we had to travel along “Rim Drive.” Rim Drive leads to (and this is its real name) “Rim Village.”

Rim Drive consists of almost a full 1 ¾ traffic lanes. At numerous points, it’s difficult to ignore the fact that not only does the road lack any shoulder, it also lacks a guardrail to prevent your vehicle from plunging over a 1000 feet sheer vertical drop-off. And not only does the road lack a shoulder, at places, there is actually a “negative shoulder” (i.e. it lacks even a full fog line to mark the beginning of your final decent to certain death). I would prefer to run in a zigzag pattern from a mountain lion than face this ribbon of asphalt ever again.

But it was all worth it, because we arrived safely at Rim Village, where we immediately visited the Rim Gift Shop. While the vista across the lake was awe inspiring, it did not compare to the panorama inside the gift shop: Garage sale items as far as the eye could see.

Our next stop was Cheetwood Trail. This is a 1.1 mile hiking trail down to the edge of the lake. It contains approximately one million switch backs punctuated with signs that on first glance appeared to read: “Do not throw rocks onto hikers below.” I imagined that visitors, driven insane by navigating Rim Drive, lost their minds by the time they reached Cheetwood Trail and became homicidal. I don’t know. But the federal government took the time and my money to put these signs up, so the problem had to be real. Several times, when there were other hikers near me, I couldn’t resisted looking up and yelling out randomly, “Hey, stop throwing rocks down on me!” Here is the actual sign:

Crater Lake Sign

Luckily, our entire hiking party survived the harrowing vertical trek without ever being struck by a rock thrown from above, or giving in to our more base instincts and throwing one ourselves. Most importantly, my daughter arrived home from the trip satisfied of accomplishing her goal of showing Whitney Crater Lake, and most importantly, refreshed from her final three hour nap.

___________________

WAIT!  You’re not done yet.  Earn good karma!  Please comment and share on Facebook, Twitter or your other favorite apps.

Subscribe!

It’s free and easy, and each new Jocularious column will arrive in your inbox.

It’s a Three Minute Vacation for your Brain.

______________________________

Also-

Check out these great books:

The Lawyer’s Song: Navigating the legal wilderness –

https://buff.ly/2K41Tax

Seven Rules for the College Playground –

https://buff.ly/2IqXxgn

Seven Secrets You Need to Know to Hire the Right Lawyer –

https://buff.ly/2roFIov

 

My Fourth of July Crackdown

Crackdown Final

By Jack Edwards

Last Friday marked the 238th anniversary of the founding of our great country. The 200th back in 1976 was a big one. The 250th should be a real barn-burner too. The 238th? It’s a number void of personality. It’s the numerical equivalent of vanilla ice cream. It’s the kind of strange anniversary number that if the founding fathers were still with us, wandering around in their swanky knickers and waving their quill pens, they might have decided to just stay home and watch a rerun of Hawaiian Five-O.

The majority of Americans celebrated the 238th in one way or another. Most used the traditional method of celebrating our freedom from tyranny, more specifically – attempting to burn down their neighborhood. In my town, unpatriotic people (probably demonic Communists who hate kittens) have been complaining about this noisy tradition. And at least one of them must have contributed heavily to the Mayor’s reelection campaign, because all of a sudden the local police started dispensing press releases like napkins at a pizzeria announcing that they were going to spend 75% of their annual budget enforcing a special fireworks crackdown (no pun intended). Mayor Grinch had struck a heavy blow at the very heart of our patriotic yearning to blow stuff up. (I’m not sure of the connection between the Fourth of July and the detonation of explosives. I’ve always assumed it’s an annual reminder to Great Britain that if they give us any more trouble, we will give them, as my mother often threatened, “something to really cry about.”

The new rules include:

  1. No fireworks that can leave the ground (though they may spin at a leisurely speed, but only in a clockwise direction).
  2. No fireworks that that can be heard from more than 6 ½ inches from the point of explosion.
  3. No “fire-related” fireworks.

And the city has set up (this is true), a hotline (although I don’t think they are aware of their pun) so law abiding residents can rat off their neighbors. Yes. In my city, you can celebrate your freedom by anonymously dropping the dime on your friends next door.

It will remain perfectly legal, however, to:

  1. Drink a twelve pack of Budweiser and wander aimless through a crowd of young children while waving a 500-degree-tipped sparkler.
  2. Set off a 12 mile string of firecrackers that causes people to use the neighbor-ratting hotline to summon emergency medical personnel.
  3. Literally, light your pants on fire.

As states go, mine has very strict fireworks laws. Conveniently, our neighboring states’ legislators are a bunch of pyros. But even the more powerful explosives that our neighboring states offer aren’t good enough for the fireworks aficionados in my neighborhood. These champions of freedom have apparently developed ties to rebel forces in Syria. I saw one guy down the street standing next to a barbeque with what appeared to be a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile.

And yes, if you care to ask, I too joined in the celebration. Don’t think for a moment that I lack the appropriate celebratory spirit that made our country the beacon of hope and freedom that shines throughout the world. I celebrated the 238th the old fashion way, the way our forefathers would have celebrated it – watching a rerun of Hawaii Five-O.

 

Five Secrets for Surviving a Garage Sale

Garage Sale

By Jack Edwards

Garage sale season is upon us. Time to clean out those closets and let total strangers pick through your castoff housewares, kitchenwares and underwears. However, as a veteran operator of several of these hillbilly storefronts, allow me to share Five Secrets for Surviving a Garage Sale.

The first, and by FAR the most important rule to remember when planning a garage sale is this:

1.  “Do not, under any circumstances, have a garage sale.”

I’m serious. Forget the whole idea. It’s insane. Short of being a pauper trying to scrape up enough money for granny’s lifesaving operation, don’t stoop to this sub-minimum wage endeavor. In fact, don’t even do it if you’re that desperate pauper. If you’re lucky, you’ll make enough for the paper gown they give granny at check-in. Life is too short to haggle over a slightly used Snicker doodle scented candle.

The whole notion of a garage sale is a mystery to me. I am unfamiliar with the customs of most other countries, especially ones ending with “istan.” And frankly, as I discover on a daily basis, I am also unfamiliar with more than a few of my own country’s. So I don’t know if garage sales are an American thing, or an everywhere thing, much less an “istan” thing. For example, I am wholly at a loss to tell you whether babushkas in Russia arrange their USSR memorabilia in front of their dachas for a weekend sale.

In the good ole US of A, spreading your tarnished kitchenware, dust covered sporting goods and broken electronics across your driveway is as American as apple pie, baseball and Snuggies (which, by the way, you’ll never find at a garage sale, because – trust me on this one – Snuggies are the greatest invention since the combustible engine).

I will continue with my list of Garage Sale Secrets in the spirit of the Greek philosopher Plato, who once said, “Wise is the man who listens to those who came before him, before putting price stickers on his used tunics.” So, we continue:

2.   “Beef up security.”

I suggest renting Seal Team 6. Position, at a minimum, one sniper on the roof. And if you actually have a garage, bolt the door and board up any exterior windows with tempered sheets of steel. Garage sale customers are like locusts, they arrive without notice and consume everything in their path. They’ll be hovering outside your garage knocking on the door at sunrise minus 30 minutes.

3.  “Just say no.”

Of course, the “Just say no” rule originated with Nancy Reagan; however, she adapted it to garage sale use after her husband left office. This was due to the 95% phenomenon. Let me explain. Garage sale customers fall into two categories: Type A – Bored but otherwise normal people too cheap to spring for a matinee movie ticket (5%), and Type B – People who look like they last combed their hair 12 years ago who leave their rusted-out Dodge Caravan (still running) parked blocking your driveway (95%). Type B people identify themselves by repeatedly picking up items and asking obnoxious questions. Example: Lady with most of her hair leaning starboard from sleeping the night before lifting a stack of plastic Hello Kitty cups, “What year were these made?” Suggested answer, “No.”

4.  “Periodically yell out ‘Everything is negotiable! No UNREASONABLE offer rejected!’”

The suggested interval to yell this is every 3 ½ minutes. Remember, you are going to haul all of your leftover treasures to Goodwill at the end of this extravaganza anyway. Save yourself the lower back pain.

5.  “Accept every offer.”

This is an exception to the “Just Say No” rule above, otherwise called the “Just say yes” rule. Whether it’s a quarter or a dollar, Goodwill and/or the dump don’t pay. If one of your valued customers has it in his hands and verbalize an interest in hauling it off in his rusty Caravan, make sure he leaves with it – even if you have to toss it through his open car window as he drives away.

Now that you have sadly wasted several precious minutes of your life reading secret rules 2 through 5, for your own peace of mind and general wellbeing, go back and read Rule 1 again. The lady at Goodwill is eagerly awaiting your stack of used underwear.

Attack of the Reverse Home Mortgage

Final Retirement

By Jack Edwards

It’s time for another edition of the always popular, News from the Neighborhood. This is where we wander out into the wild and untamed lands of upper-middleclass Suburbia to explore strange and exotic cultures and experience foreign “points of view,” such as the Fishman family, featured in our last edition that begins stringing Christmas lights on their multi-level ranch home in mid-July.

In this edition, we meet Bill and Jolene who live just down the street from me in the forest green Victorian. The couple is currently recovering from the shock that their retirement “nest egg” just developed a crack. They learned last week that Bill’s elderly parents had decided to take advantage of a Reverse Home Mortgage. The couple knew that Bill’s parents respected actor and Senator Fred Thompson. In fact, they have several of his movies recorded on VHS. As everyone knows, Fred Thompson has been touting the Reverse Home Mortgage program on television every five seconds, encouraging elderly Americans to use their home equity to enjoy their golden years.

“It hit us like a ton of bricks,” said Jolene. “We stopped by for Sunday dinner, and there they were. Brochures. Cruise lines, motorhomes, European tours.”

“I saw one for a timeshare in Puerto Vallarta,” added Bill in an exasperated tone. “Neither one of them can handle spicy Mexican food. They’ve lost their minds.”

“The sad thing is,” Jolene explained, “they were so content. They owned their home free and clear, and they always managed to make ends meet with Social Security.”

“That Craftsman home of theirs sits smack dab in the University District. It’s worth a mint. I can’t believe they fell victim to that shyster Thompson with his slick commercials and confident reassurance that they would never lose their home.”

“It’s devastating,” said Jolene. “Their Craftsman was the cornerstone of our retirement plan. Both of them have cardiac failure in their family histories. There’s almost no chance either will linger with a chronic illness that will eat away at their savings.”

“They’ll drop like rocks,” Bill agreed flatly.

“Surely you have a Plan B,” I asked.

“Well,” Bill began glancing over at his wife. “We do, but it’s a distance second choice to the Bonanza of living off the sale of that Craftsman.”

“Prison,” said Jolene.

“What?” I asked.

“Prison. I don’t know if you noticed, but the government has been spending a bundle on new prisons. And they come with full medical and dental.”

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy,” added Bill, “but we’ve been looking around. We’d have to live apart, but several states allow conjugal visits. We’re looking into that. Of course, we’d like minimum security.”

“And a nice view,” said Jolene.

“We’re thinking bank robbery. That’d be a win-win. If we get away free and clear, we enjoy the loot. If we get caught, welcome Plan B,” Bill explained.

The couple paused and sat silently, reflecting on their sudden change in circumstance.

“That damned that Fred Thompson,” Bill shook his head.

“Damn him to hell,” added Jolene.

And with that, I slinked away to check on how the Fishmans were coming along with the lights.

World Famous Epidemic

World Famous Epidemic

By Jack Edwards

A realization recently struck me harder than a five pound ham to the side of the head.   A real whopper. Now, I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so you may have heretofore already been aware of this problem. An epidemic has spread across our country faster than California Chrome lost the Belmont. However, in the same spirit that John F. Kennedy urged our country to supersede those Russian Commies in space exploration and be the first nation to land a man on Marilyn Monroe, I call on our collective American “know how” to stop this plague. I am, of course, referring to businesses exclaiming that their clam chowder, or other consumable, is “World Famous.” Case in point is a business I will refer to as “Mo’s,” because the restaurant is called Mo’s, and because it claims that its clam chowder is “World Famous.” Really? Let’s survey a few folks in Grand Rapids about that. Apparently, the distinction is up for grabs. In a perfect world, with the noted exception of Idaho’s World Famous Potatoes, we shouldn’t being seeing many World Famous claims.

Not far behind the whole “World Famous” epidemic, is the abuse of the term “World’s Best.” No joke, there is a company called “World’s Best Cat Litter.” They even trademarked the name. In New York, there is a food truck named the “World’s Best Sandwich Truck,” which, in a sad and ironic twist of fate, has a Yelp rating of 3 ½ out of 5 stars. And there appears to be a real knife fight going on over who makes the World’s Best cheese. More specifically, some company called Beecher’s Cheeses claims to sell the “World’s Best Mac & Cheese.” Surely the Federal Trade Commission mandates that any company making such a bold claim first engage in a rigorous course of peer-reviewed studies and survey of imperial data. Well, either that, or some guy named Hal hocking cat litter suddenly yells, “Eureka! (He’s old school) I’ve got an idea; let’s say it’s the World’s Best! That’ll make’m beat a path to our door! Or litter box… whatever.” Rumor has it that a company in Lubbock, Texas, is considering giving the “World’s Best Cat Litter” company a run for its money using ITS newly trademarked brand: “The UNIVERSE’S Best Cat Litter!” And, yes, they will feature alien felines in slick Madison Avenue style ads in magazines such as, Cat Leisure, Cats Are My Sole Reason for Living, and Cats Are People Too. But I digress. Back to my main point.

Call me crazy, but I think these businesses are going in the wrong direction. When you’re visiting some Podunk city for the first time and see a pizza shop claiming to make the World’s Best pizza, the first thing that pop’s into your head isn’t the anticipation of sinking your teeth into the World’s Best pizza, it’s the sorrow that that it too, like New York’s World’s Best Sandwich Truck, likely claims a full 3 ½ stars on Yelp. So, here’s my idea. Now, mind you, I don’t have a degree in Marketing, but my brother-in-law, who I’ll refer to as “Tony,” because his name is Tony, does have one. My idea: Instead of being an also ran in the “World’s Best” race, do a one-eighty. Yeah, the “World’s Worst.” For example, Bob’s Burger Shack, featuring the “World’s Worst Fries.” Or, Mary’s Pie Shop, featuring the “World’s Worst Crust.” I’m going to run it by Tony the next time I see him.

In the meantime, I’ll get back to working on my “World’s Best, World Famous Jocularious.com Column, featuring the World’s Worst Grammar.”

My Sleep Number Journey

Sleep Number

By Jack Edwards

My wife announced recently that our bed was hurting her back. She told me that she had visited a Sleep Number store, and that we should consider getting one. So I reluctantly accompanied her to check it out. Of course, it isn’t just a store, it’s a sleep laboratory that sells state of the art sleep systems to solve every sleep problem – real or imagined. After explaining that their beds were beautifully upholstered air mattresses, our sales rep told us that the key to this “technology” was determining how firm we should inflate our side of the bed. He had us lay down on their test bed. A big screen TV was mounted at the foot of the bed, so we could watch our number go up or down as he helped us calculate our “sleep numbers.” After concluding this process and then answering a series of other highly scientific sleep-related questions, our representative was able to determine that my Sleep Number was $8,000. Actually, he said mine was 35, and my wife’s was 60. I told the sales rep that I’d think about it, which he accurately took to mean that I was never coming back.

We went back home, and after climbing onto our current, non-scientific mattress, I announced I had determined my real Sleep Number, it was called “paid for.” My one-liner didn’t go over well in the room. (Tip to you young comedians: Always “read the room” before doing any edgy material).

I will confess, that prior to trading the Sleep Number company my youngest child for one of their beds, I was slightly suspicious of my wife’s claim that our current bed was hurting her back. About two years ago, she announced that the position of the gas pedal in her car was hurting her ankle. She visited a number of dealerships to determine whether any of their vehicles had gas pedals with a more appropriate, less “ankle injuring” placement. Surprisingly, it turned out that several premium models had engineered the placement of their gas pedals at the “perfect angle.” Problem solved.

Along with the bed, we decided to get a feature that lets us pretend we’re in the hospital. Both ends of the bed raise up. I thought for sure that I was going to love this feature, because I love to read in bed, and I could stop piling up all those pillows to let me sit up at the right angle. Well, the first night with the Sleep Number I realized that I had made a serious miscalculation. You see, when I read in bed, I like to keep a beverage on my nightstand. I read a lot of thrillers, and this can be very dehydrating. Only, big problem, when the back of my bed moves up, it lifts me forward and away from my nightstand. My nightstand is now conveniently located at a 45 degree angle behind me. It’s a circus contortion act to reach my glass.

My wife has also taken to raising my side of the bed at a slight angle to keep me from snoring, which I don’t do. And I am convinced that sleeping at this angle is preventing sufficient blood to travel to my brain at night and thus making me more stupid. In fact, I’ve started coming up with stupid ideas. Case in point, since using this bed, I have been considering starting a company that uses giraffes to clean out gutters.

When our bed first arrived, my wife told me that she asked Sleep Number to include a brand new feature. I got excited and thought I was getting some newfangled deep heat massage unit, but my short-lived excitement collided with reality. The new feature was a high-tech computer system that recorded how well we slept. I already knew how well I slept. But when the technicians arrived to install the contraption, they connected it to the internet. This, naturally, made me immediately suspicious that the NSA had found some dirt on Sleep Number’s CEO, and it was now ordering him to pipeline America’s sleeping patterns to them for God knows what nefarious constitutionally-offending purpose. I would be busy writing my representatives in Congress to complain, but I currently have new fish to fry. My wife told me yesterday that the knob on the front door of our house was hurting her wrist.