Jocularious.com

My Dad’s Weekend Extravaganza

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

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

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.

__________

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

The Unauthorized Biography of Coffee

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

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:

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.
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.
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:

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:

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.
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.
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.
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

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

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

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:

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

By Jack Edwards

Last Friday marked the 238^th anniversary of the founding of our great country. The 200^th back in 1976 was a big one. The 250^th should be a real barn-burner too. The 238^th? 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 238^th 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:

No fireworks that can leave the ground (though they may spin at a leisurely speed, but only in a clockwise direction).
No fireworks that that can be heard from more than 6 ½ inches from the point of explosion.
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:

Drink a twelve pack of Budweiser and wander aimless through a crowd of young children while waving a 500-degree-tipped sparkler.
Set off a 12 mile string of firecrackers that causes people to use the neighbor-ratting hotline to summon emergency medical personnel.
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 238^th the old fashion way, the way our forefathers would have celebrated it – watching a rerun of Hawaii Five-O.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: