Author Archive: Christopher Waldrop

February 26, 1999

Some people used to collect antiques, but the obsession with the past has reached a new height now as more and more people are collecting REALLY old stuff. Fossils and meteors have become the biggest collecting fad of the decade, and maybe even for a few decades to come because, let’s face it, ten more years isn’t going to add a lot of value to something that’s ten million years old. I heard someone on the radio claiming that $50,000 meteor they owned was "older than the solar system." If I’d been there, I could have pointed out that particles of hydrogen gas in our atmosphere are also older than the solar system. That lump of dirt stuck to your shoe is also older than the solar system, it’s just been recycled a few more times. And while we’re looking at old things, I’ve got an old picture of my grandfather taken during the Great Depression, another time when only a few people could afford to spend obscene amounts of money on things they had absolutely no use for. But I have to admit that fossils fascinate me just as much as the next guy, so I checked around to see how much, say, a complete tyrannosaurus rex would set me back, with shipping and handling. I didn’t find one, but I did find some lovely coprolites for between three and five thousand dollars. Coprolites are, of course, fossilized dung, and, at least according to what I’ve read, they’re "prized for their aesthetic value". The poet Charles Baudelaire found a lot of "aesthetic value" in rotting mammal corpes,but he didn’t put one in his living room, much less pay gobs of money to do so. The sad thing is that most of this stuff belongs in museums but ends up on coffee tables. Between the collectors and budget cuts, museums may soon be a thing of the past. Hey, maybe they’ll become collectors’ items.

Enjoy this week’s very old offerings.

Signs the 80’s Crowd Is Getting Older

The music that was so hip and cutting edge when we were in school is now played on "Adult Contemporary" (old fart) radio.

We’ve traded in our ultra cool spandex and tight jeans for something more comfortable and ELASTIC.

You watch teen movies from the 80s and think "I don’t remember this film looking so grainy.

That computer we thought was so high tech in "Wargames" is nothing compared to what kids are being taught with in elementary school today. (This applies both to the hacker’s computer and the computers in the missile tracking room.-CW)

Your friends can’t party like it’s 1999 anymore. They can now only party until it’s like somewhere around 9 P.M. because they have to get their kids ready for school in the morning.

We are starting to be able to identify with the lyrics to the Kenny Rogers song "Twenty Years Ago."

This ones for us guys who played guitar in bands in the 80s–Now when we try to jump up in the air while playing guitar like Eddie Van Halen, our bones pop louder than our amps.

When your niece/nephew (or child) points to one of your old 45s and asks "What is this?" (You probably get the same feeling when they point to a typewriter and say, "Where’s the screen?"-CW)

You can REALLY identify with that song by the Pursuit of Happiness "I’m An Adult Now".

Middle Age is having a choice of two temptations and choosing the one that will get you home earlier.

Then: Killer Weed
Now: Weed Killer

Then: The Grateful Dead
Now: Dr. Kevorkian

Then: Finding a new, hip joint
Now: Getting a new hip joint

Then: Moving to California because it’s cool
Now: Moving to California because it’s warm

Then: Being called into the principal’s office
Now: Storming into the principal’s office

Then: Peace Sign
Now: Mercedes Logo

Then: OJ, cutting & slashing
Now: OJ, cutting & slashing

Then: Getting your head stoned
Now: Getting your headstone

Then: "The Making of the President"
Now: The making of the President

Then: Long hair
Now: Longing for hair

Then: Acid rock
Now: Acid reflux

Then: Worrying about no one coming to your party
Now: Worrying about no one coming to your funeral

Then: Fighting to get rid of the lying President
Now: Fighting to keep the lying President

Then: The perfect high
Now: The perfect high-yield mutual fund

Then: Elvis in the army
Now: Elvis in a UFO

Then: Keg
Now: EKG

Then: Swallowing acid
Now: Swallowing antacid

Then: pothead
Now: potbelly

Then: Passing the driving test
Now: Passing the vision test

Then: Seeds and stems
Now: Roughage

Then: Popping pills, smoking joints
Now: Popping joints

Then: Our president’s struggle with Fidel
Now: Our president’s struggle with fidelity.

Then: Watching John Glenn’s historic flight with your parents
Now: Watching John Glenn’s historic flight with your kids

Then: Trying to look like Marlon Brando or Elizabeth Taylor
Now: Trying not to look like Marlon Brando or Elizabeth Taylor

February 19, 1999

One of the nice things about living in the South is religion. Unlike other more cosmpolitan places like Los Angeles, where one has the option of belonging to a splinter group of the Unitarian Pantheistic Neo-Manichean Ascetic Protestant Buddhists, or any other of about ten thousand different splinter groups, or, for that matter, not practicing any sort of religion at all, the choices are considerably narrow. In the South, you’re one of two things: a raving lunatic fundamentalist, or going to Hell.

Speaking for the faction that is going to Hell, large and diverse group though it is, I have to say that going to Hell is not as bad as it might sound. You can smoke, drink, swear, watch cable TV late at night, read horoscopes, get a tattoo, cross-breed animals, covet your neighbor’s ass, covet your neighbor’s wife, covet your neighbor’s wife’s ass, or just sit around wishing your neighbor would get some hideous terminal disease and give you his Corvette. Amazingly, this is as close as most of us who are going to Hell will come to killing anyone. Killing people seems to be a special privelege reserved for those who have complete assurance that they’re not going to Hell, but they can only do it special situations, such as when they meet someone who disagrees with them. And as for going to Hell, having seen some lists of what is required for membership, I can honestly say that all the really interesting people are either already there or are headed that way, so it can’t be that bad. Besides, according to those who seem to be "in the know", a lot of really interesting books, magazines, musical groups, movies, videos, and different religious groups came to us straight from Hell, so maybe what they really mean is that we’re just going to Los Angeles.

THE "BEER ME" DIET

FACT: A lite beer has between 70 and 100 calories, is almost all water, and the part that isn’t water is almost pure carbohydrates.

FACT: The average diet recommends a daily caloric intake of 1,200 calories for women, 1,500 for men, if you want to lose the medically safe two to three pounds a week. On the "Beer-Me" diet, that equates to at least 12 beverages a day for women, and 15 for men. A measurable goal.

FACT: The alcohol in beer is a diuretic, which causes the water to flush out almost immediately, leading to a consistent workout regimen including deep knee bends (getting out of the chair), fast walking (very good for your heart) and squats (as the case may be).

FACT: Drinking beer actually helps you sleep-even when you aren’t necessarily tired. All that added rest is certain to help any problems you may have experienced in sleep deprivation, counting calories on those other fad diets. In addition, you may experience the occasional "How did I get here?" when you wake up, which always makes for lively conversation, and possibly additional exercise if you have to sneak out and run home.

FACT: The "Beer-Me" diet is good for your heart. After just one day of consuming your required 12-15 beers, you will certainly want to consume some aspirin, which is medically proven to help prevent heart attacks.

FACT: On the "Beer-Me" diet you can eat anything you want. The only rule is that you cannot consume any food until you have consumed at least half of the day’s required beers. This way the food will probably only stay in your body a short time, until you again exercise the deep knee bends, quick walk and, this time, the "lean-over-and-hurl" stomach crunches.

FACT: Beer drinking is often done in bars, where other forms of exercise are common. Dancing, for example, is a good way to build up a thirst, as is chasing members of the opposite sex. If you really want to maximize your workout, try actually walking up to the bar, versus using a waitress. To take this to the extreme, you could even get up and get someone else a beer-perhaps someone who is newer to the diet plan than yourself.

FACT: Beer is cheaper than Jenny Craig. Based on these facts, let’s run through a given scenario for diet implementation.

CAUTION: This is a weekend diet plan, and should be attempted during the work week by only the staunchest of dieters.

MONDAY THROUGH THURSDAY: Eat junk food and basically be a slob.

FRIDAY: Feeling "huge," swing by the liquor store and stock up. Go to favorite place of beer drinking and begin the consumption process (remember 12 for women, 15 for men).

SATURDAY: Wake up (as required) and lounge around all day, feeling slightly smaller after expunging any food that you may have accidentally consumed (particularly if it involved beef jerky from 7-11). Take aspirin. Notice that you have absolutely no interest in food, anyway.

SATURDAY (p.m.): Restart cycle, noticing that your appetite has still not returned. Perhaps only meet half of your consumption goal due to an ongoing discussion with "the dog that bit you." This is a good thing, as only half-consumption means less than 1,000 calories for the day, and you still don’t feel hungry.

SUNDAY (a.m.): Wake up for mandatory sports day. This is a very convenient diet during football season, but it can be successfully implemented year-round. There is some major professional sport being played every day of the year except the day before and the day after the Major League All-Star game (fact–look it up). Consumption on this day should be paced to cover the entire day-you don’t want to peak too soon. Again you notice a lack of appetite, and are feeling thinner all the time. Don’t forget the aspirin.

MONDAY: Return to work, feeling thinner, well rested, and surprisingly mellow. Mark your log book, and begin preparation for the upcoming weekend.

Happy dieting!!!

Feburary 12, 1999

Some of you may remember an incident involving a giant ball of string, a pink toy hippo, and a seventh-storey window. (For those of you who don’t remember this incident, see the archive, June 14th, 1996.) What I failed to mention at the time was that this was an exercise in the preservation of sanity. It may be easier to believe that I was doing this because I had lost my sanity, but no, the truth is much more complicated. Almost everyone has had the experience of being caught in Friday Afternoon At The Office Slowtime, a bizarre spatio-temporal phenomenon which causes time around us to slow dramatically while we continue to move at exactly the same speed. This probably has something to do with the fact that all offices now have microwave ovens. In the old days, a standard TV dinner would take about half an hour to warm up. Now, with microwave ovens, a TV dinner only takes three minutes. But if you’ve ever been hungry and watching your food go around and around, you know that a strange thing happens. Time becomes distorted and elongated so that, regardless of what all the clocks say, it still takes half an hour for your food to warm up. (Then, of course, for reasons not even brilliant theoretical physicists will attempt to explain, the apple cobbler is boiling hot while the corn niblets are still embedded in a solid block of ice. Anyway, I was going to share with you some other creative ways for getting through the long dark Friday drag, but I seem to have run out of time.

Enjoy this week’s offerings.

A Priest wanted to raise money for his church, and seeing that there was a fortune in horse racing, he decided to purchase a horse and enter it into a race. However, at the local auction, the going price for horses was so steep that the priest ended up buying a donkey. The priest figured that since he had the donkey anyway, he would go ahead and enter it into the races. Much to his surprise, the donkey came in third.

The next day the local sports section of the paper carried the headline "PRIEST’S ASS SHOWS". The priest was so pleased with the donkey that he entered it in the races again the following day. This time the donkey won! The next day the local paper read "PRIEST’S ASS OUT IN FRONT". The bishop was so upset with this publicity that he told the priest not to enter the donkey in another race. The headline that day read "BISHOP SCRATCHES PRIEST’S ASS". This was too much for the bishop, so he ordered the priest to get rid of the animal at once. Not surprisingly, the headlines reported "RACING PRIEST LOSES HIS ASS". The bishop was horrified, but figured that was the end of the matter. Unfortunately, the priest disposed of the donkey by giving it to the nearby convent. So, the local paper was able to report "NUN HAS BEST ASS IN TOWN". The bishop fainted! He informed the nun that she would have to dispose of the donkey immediately. She found a farmer who was willing to buy the animal for $10. The next day the headlines stated "NUN PEDDLES ASS FOR TEN BUCKS".

They buried the bishop that afternoon, and on the day following the funeral, the headlines read "TOO MUCH ASS RESPONSIBLE FOR BISHOP’S DEATH."

The Mr. Right Rejection Letter Form

Dear [____rejectee’s name here_____],

I regret to inform you that you have been eliminated from further contention as Mr. Right. As you are probably aware, the competition was exceedingly tough and dozens of well-qualified candidates such as yourself also failed to make the final cut. I will, however, keep your name on file should an opening become available. So that you may find better success in your future romantic endeavors, please allow me to offer the following reason(s) you were disqualified from the competition:

[Check all those that apply]

___ Your breasts are bigger than mine.

___ Your last name is objectionable. I can’t imagine taking it, hyphenating it, or subjecting my children to it.

___ The fact that our finest dining experience to date has been at McDonald’s reveals a thriftiness that I find unappealing.

___ Your inadvertent admission that you "buy condoms by the truckload" indicates that you may be interested in me for something other than my personality.

___ You failed the 20 Question Rule, i.e., I asked you 20 questions about yourself before you asked me one.

___ Your legs are skinnier than mine. If you can FIT into my pants, then you can’t GET into my pants.

___ Your "Putting on a few, aren’t you babe?" comment, given the 9-months pregnant size of your beer gut, was inappropriate.

___ You failed the credit check.

___ I find your inability to fix my car extraordinarily unappealing.

___ The fact that your apartment has been condemned reveals an inherent slovenliness that I fear is unbreakable.

___ The phrase "My Mother" has popped up far too often in conversation.

___ You still live with your parents.

___ You mention your ex-girlfriend’s name more than you mention mine.

___ Three words: Size does matter.

Sincerely,

[Your name here]

February 5, 1999

Despite my strong belief in the First Amendment (for reasons that should be obvious) I’ve finally decided to get on the wagon with several other people who also have a strong belief in the First Amendment but who at the same time see nothing wrong with declaring certain words "off limits". Words of the past have included share, fuzzy, nifty, and dude, and such useful phrases as "happy camper", "don’t have a cow, man", and any form of the suggestion that you take something and put it somewhere or do something with it. Luckily some other banned phrases, such as "gag me with a [insert object of choice here]" died a natural death, but individual words can be so insidious we can’t count on them to do this. So here’s my one "off limits" word for 1999 (although I think we’d all prefer that it be a permanent removal): TOTALLY. Not long ago this word was used exclusively by people between the ages of 11 and 19, and occasionally by older people who were either being sarcastic or trying to convince their kids that they were more hip than anyone with kids has a right to be. In a recent commercial, though, I heard a man who was old enough to be my father say something was "totally affordable". The invasion of this word has gone too far. First of all, someone that old should not use the word "totally" to describe anything and, second, someone who considers side-impact air bags to be a greater priority than stereo equipment, a string of flashing lights around the license plate, or other rad accessories, should know that using the word "totally" is going to sound, well, bogus. So let’s stop the madness. If you’re over the age of 19 and think you’re about to say "totally", try falling back on some words from simpler times like "very", or "completely", or "wholly". Words like "utterly" sound funny enough that you can use them to your advantage in a business meeting. Finally, if you are under the age of 19, maybe you too should think about trying other words. Face it: when you use "totally" to modify anything, you sound unmitigatedly lame.

Enjoy this week’s offerings.

ADULTS: Group of people Mom longs to communicate with after several hours of talking in small words about topics like "who touched who first"

AIRPLANE: What Mom impersonates to get a 1-yr.-old to eat strained beets.

ALIEN: What Mom would suspect had invaded her house if she spotted a child- sized creature cleaning up after itself.

APPLE: Nutritious lunch time dessert which children will trade for cupcakes.

BABY: 1. Dad, when he gets a cold. 2. Mom’s youngest child, even if he’s 42.

BATHROOM: a room used by the entire family, believed by all except Mom to be self-cleaning.

BECAUSE: Mom’s reason for having kids do things which can’t be explained logically.

ZUCCHINI: Vegetable which can be baked, boiled, fried or steamed before kids refuse to eat it.

A young shepard became quite renowned for his storytelling and decided to travel in the desert, sharing his wise gospel with all those he met. He walked barefoot everywhere, to the point his feet became quite thick and hard. He also was a spiritual person. Even when he was not on a hunger strike, he did not eat much and became quite trim and frail. Furthermore because his diet consisted entirely of grubs and dirt, he ended up with very bad breath. Therefore he came to be known as a: "Super calloused fragile mystic, plagued with haltosis."

January 29, 1999

Earlier this week I heard a science show on the radio that was so amazingly informative I had to share it with you. So, for something a little different this week, here’s a transcript of some of the best programming public radio can offer: (Begin catchy, repetitive, synthetic theme music) Direct from the radio, it’s the Write In A Science Question And A Retired High School Science Teacher Will Answer It. This week our question is from Jim in North Dakota, who wants to know if he can find satellite pictures of his house on the internet. Well Jim, for our listeners who might not be familiar with satellites, here’s a little background information: from the dawn of time people have looked to the sky and wondered what those little bright dots were, and why the sun and moon moved around in the sky. Wacky! The Mayans and Egyptians were among the earliest people to track the movements of the sun, moon, and stars, but, for the most part, people remained completely ignorant about everything, and burned anyone who discovered anything relevant. Even in the twentieth century, people believed space was filled with a substance they called ether. This is not to be confused with the stuff Freud and other medieval doctors used to give patients until they found out it was bad for you. Wait, that’s cocaine. Well, earlier in this century the Wright Brothers actually developed a machine that could fly. Then in 1926 Robert Goddard launched a liquid-fuel powered rocket. This started the Space Race. Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today. Tune in tomorrow when I’ll answer questions about attention deficit disorder. (Begin catchy, repetitive, synthetic theme music.)

Enjoy this week’s slightly more educational offerings.

Excerpts from actual letters sent to landlords

1. "The toilet is blocked and we cannot bathe the children until it is cleared."

2. "I want some repairs done to my stove as it has backfired and burnt my knob off."

3. "This is to let you know that there is a smell coming from the man next door."

4. "I am writing on behalf of my sink, which is running away from the wall."

5. "I request your permission to remove my drawers in the kitchen."

6. "Our lavatory seat is broken in half and is now in three pieces."

7. "Will you please send someone to mend our cracked sidewalk. Yesterday my wife tripped on it and is now pregnant."

8. "Will you please send a man to look at my water, it is a funny color and not fit to drink."

9. "Would you please send a man to repair my downspout. I am an old page pensioner and need it straight away."

10. "When the workmen were here they put their tools in my wife’s new drawers and made a mess. Please send men with clean tools to finish the job and keep my wife happy."

(Note: I’m forwarding the following before it’s too late and I have to update the title to "You Know You Work In The 00’s", although for most of us this is already true.)

You Know You Work In the ’90s When….

20. Cleaning up the dining area means getting the fast food bags out of the back seat of your car.

1. You think a "half-day" means leaving at 5 o’clock.

January 22, 1999

This is true: Every year a mysterious stranger leaves roses and a bottle of cognac on the grave of Edgar Allan Poe on January 19th, Poe’s birthday. The ritual always takes place between midnight and five a.m. and has now been going on for fifty years, since it was begun in 1949, Poe’s 140th birthday. I thought I should do something to mark this special occasion, so here’s an almost-unknown work on an extremely important subject by the man himself:

The Mammoth Squash

Green and specked with spots of golden,
Never since the ages olden–
Since the days of Cain and Abel,
Never such a vegetable,
So with odors sweetest laden
Thus in our halls appearance made in.
Who–oh! who in kindness sent thee
To afford my soul nepenthe?

Rude men seeing thee, say "Gosh!
‘Tis a most enormous squash!"
But the one who peers within,
Knowledge of himself to win,
Says, while total silence reigns,
Silence, from the Stygian shore–
(Grim silence, darkling o’er)
"This may perchance be but the skull
Of Arthur Cleveland Coxe* so dull–
Its streaked, yellow flesh–his brains."

(An Episcopalian minister. Why Poe wanted to squash him is a mystery–at least to me. For more information, see The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe, edited by James A. Harrison, v.7, pg.236.-CW) Enjoy this week’s other offerings.

On a ski lift in Taos, NM:
‘No jumping from the lift. Survivors will be prosecuted.’

I went to a little hole in the wall restaurant:
the sign read: Women are not served here…
You have to bring your own.

Think about it:

30. If marriage were outlawed, only outlaws would have inlaws.

January 15, 1999

Who came up with the idea of wind chill? Weather reporters always say something like, "With this high pressure front, the current temperature is 30 degrees, but the wind chill makes that feel like negative 47." Did I hear that correctly? Are they really saying "feels like" every time they talk about wind chill? And yet no one seems to question this. Most of us, I hope, would question any doctor who took our temperature with a thermometer and felt our forehead, and declared, "Your real temperature is 98.6, but you feel like you’re running a fever of 110. I’m going to put you on heavy antibiotics." (And this would probably happen every time since all the doctors I’ve ever known had cold hands. Either doctors are really reptiles, or they all spend too much time with their hands in the refrigerator where they keep urine samples.) I know meteorological science has made extraordinary advances in the past few years, but a machine that can not only tell us what the actual temperature is and what the temperature FEELS LIKE must be a pretty amazing piece of technology. Of course there isn’t anything that advanced, so the meteorologists must just be making it up. Like the doctors, they probably judge the wind chill by stepping outside for a couple of minutes. So why don’t they just tell us what they’re thinking? "Folks, the temperature out there is 20 degrees, but with the wind chill it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey. So keep your tongue and lips away from fire hydrants, metal poles, and train tracks." Hey, it beats trying to figure out what all those H’s and L’s mean.

Enjoy this week’s medium cool offerings.

Advice for Yankees Moving South

1. Save all manner of bacon grease. You will be instructed later how to use it.

2. If you forget a Southerner’s name, refer to him (or her) as "Bubba." You have a 75% chance of being right.

3. Just because you can drive on snow and ice does not mean we can. Stay home the two days of the year it snows.

4. If you do run your car into a ditch, don’t panic. Four men in the cab of a four wheel drive with a 12-pack of beer and a tow chain will be along shortly. Don’t try to help them. Just stay out of their way. This is what they live for.

5. Don’t be surprised to find movie rentals and bait in the same store.

6. Do not buy food at the movie store.

7. If it can’t be fried in bacon grease, it ain’t worth cooking, let alone eating.

8. Remember: "Y’all" is singular. "All y’all" is plural. "All y’all’s" is plural possessive.

9. Get used to hearing, "You ain’t from around here, are you?"

10. Don’t be worried that you don’t understand anyone. They don’t understand you either.

11. The proper pronunciation you learned in school is no longer proper.

12. Be advised: The "He needed killin’" defense is valid here.

13. If attending a funeral in the South, remember, we stay until the last shovel of dirt is thrown on and the tent is torn down.

14. If you hear a Southerner exclaim, "Hey, y’all, watch this!" stay out of his way. These are likely the last words he will ever say.

15. Most Southerners do not use turn signals, and they ignore those who do. In fact, if you see a signal blinking on a car with a Southern license plate, you may rest assured that it was on when the car was purchased.

16. Northerners can be identified by the spit on the inside of their car’s windshield that comes from yelling at other drivers.

17. Satellite dishes are very popular in the South. When you purchase one it is to be positioned directly in front of your trailer. This is logical bearing in mind that the dish cost considerably more than the trailer and should, therefore, be displayed.

18. Tornadoes and Southerners going through a divorce have a lot in common. In either case, you know someone is going to lose a trailer.

19. Florida is not considered a Southern State. There are far more Yankees than Southerners living there.

20. If you are cursing the person driving 15 mph in a 55 mph zone, directly in the middle of the road, remember, many folks learned to drive on a model of vehicle known as John Deere, and this is the proper speed and lane position for the vehicle.

The following are actual stories told to travel agents (and you wonder why US citizens generally score less than the rest of the world on geography)…

A client called in inquiring about a package to Hawaii. After going over all the cost info, she asked, "would it be cheaper to fly to California and then take the train to Hawaii?"

I got a call from a woman who wanted to go to Cape Town. I started to explain the length of the flight and the passport information when she interrupted me with "I’m not trying to make you look stupid, but Cape Town is in Massachusetts." Without trying to make her look like the stupid one, I calmly explained, "Cape Cod is in Massachusetts, Cape Town is in Africa." Her response? ….click.

A secretary called in looking for hotel in Los Angeles. She gave me various names off a list, none of which I could find. I finally had her fax me the list. To my surprise, it was a list of hotels in New Orleans, Louisiana. She thought the LA stood for Los Angeles, and that New Orleans was a suburb of L.A. Worst of all, when I called her back, she was not even embarrassed.

A man called, furious about a Florida package we did. I asked what was wrong with the vacation in Orlando. He said he was expecting an ocean-view room. I tried to explain that is not possible, since Orlando is in the middle of the state. He replied, "Don’t lie to me. I looked on the map and Florida is a very thin state."

I got a call from a man who asked, "is it possible to see England from Canada?" I said, "No." He said, "but they look so close on the map."

Another man called and asked if he could rent a car in Dallas. When I pulled up the reservation, I noticed he had a 1-hour layover in Dallas. When I asked him why he wanted to rent a car, he said, "I heard Dallas was a big airport, and I need a car to drive between the gates to save time."

A nice lady just called. She needed to know how it was possible that her flight from Detroit left at 8:20am and got into Chicago at 8:33am.I tried to explain that Michigan was an hour ahead of Illinois, but she could not understand the concept of time zones. Finally I told her the plane went very fast, and she bought that!

A woman called and asked, "Do airlines put your physical description on your bag so they know who’s luggage belongs to who?" I said, "No, why do you ask?" She replied, "Well, when I checked in with the airline, they put a tag on my luggage that said FAT, and I’m overweight, is there any connection?" After putting her on hold for a minute while I "looked into it" ( I was actually laughing) I came back and explained the city code for Fresno is FAT, and that the airline was just putting a destination tag on her luggage.

I just got off the phone with a man who asked, "How do I know which plane to get on?" I asked him what exactly he meant, to which he replied, "I was told my flight number is 823, but none of these damn planes have numbers on them."

A woman called and said, " I need to fly to Pepsi-Cola on one of those computer planes." I asked if she meant to fly to Pensacola on a commuter plane. She said, "Yea, whatever."

A businessman called and had a question about the documents he needed in order to fly to China. After a lengthy discussion about passports, I reminded him he needed a visa. "Oh no I don’t, I’ve been to China many times and never had to have one of those." I double checked, and sure enough, his stay required a visa. When I told him this he said, "Look, I’ve been to China four times and every time they have accepted my American Express."

January 7, 1999

The new year is here, and, as usual, it arrived just in time. Any longer with the old year, and we would have suffered a complete collapse. Plus, if the old year decided to hang around, no one would really be sure when it was leaving, and everyone would wander around occasionally chanting, "TEN! NINE! EIGHT!…" just hoping they’d get it at the right time. Actually what most people don’t realize is that each year is about six hours too long, which is why we have those pesky leap years. Since the next leap year won’t be coming up for a while, I’ll save all the things I have to say about it. The only way to really be certain when the year actually ends is to observe Earth from outer space, but it’s better to go along with what everyone thinks is the end of the old year and the beginning of the new, because here is where all the good parties are. They do have parties in space, on the Mir station, but they have bigger things to celebrate than a new year. For instance, when the oxygen stops draining into space, that’s usually considered a good thing to celebrate. Then the parties get too wild, and somebody accidentally breaks the orbital control panel with a wrench, and the whole thing starts all over again. That’s why it’s better to celebrate anything here on Earth, especially the New Year. Or if we ever find out that our oxygen is draining into space and then stops, we can celebrate that too. Enjoy this week’s offerings.

December 8: 6:00 PM. It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses Print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9: We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the Whole World? Moving here was the best idea I’ve ever had. Shoveled for the first time in years and felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life.

December 12: The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment. My neighbor tells me not to worry, we’ll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we’ll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I’ll never want to see snow again. I don’t think that’s possible. Bob is such a nice man. I’m glad he’s our neighbor.

December 14: Snow, lovely snow! 8" last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn’t realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I’ll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn’t huff and puff so.

December 15: 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4×4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife’s car and 2 extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that’s silly. We aren’t in Alaska, after all.

December 16: Ice storm this morning. Fell on my ass on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like hell. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17: Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for 5 hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should’ve bought a wood stove, but won’t admit it to her. God I hate it when she’s right. I can’t believe I’m freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20: Electricity’s back on, but had another 14" of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling. Took all day. Goddamn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they’re too busy playing hockey. I think they’re lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower and they’re out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they’re lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he’s lying.

December 22: Bob was right about a white Christmas because 13 more inches of the white shit fell today, and it’s so cold it probably won’t melt till August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel and then I had to piss. By the time I got undressed, pissed and dressed again. I was too tired to shovel. Tried to hire Bob who has a plow on his truck for the rest of the winter; but he says he’s too busy. I think the asshole is lying.

December 23: Only 2" of snow today. And it warmed up to 0. The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What is she…nuts??? Why didn’t she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she did but I think she’s lying.

December 24: 6". Snow packed so hard by snowplow, l broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son of a bitch who drives that snowplow, Ill drag him through the snow by his balls. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow allover where I’ve just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was busy watching for the goddamn snowplow.

December 25: Merry Christmas. 20 more inches of the goddamned slop tonight. Snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. God I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she’s an idiot. If I have to watch "It’s a Wonderful Life" one more time, I’m going to kill her.

December 26: Still snowed in. Why the hell did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She’s really getting on my nerves.

December 27: Temperature dropped to -30 and the pipes froze.

December 28: Warmed up to above -50. Still snowed in. THE WENCH is driving me crazy!!!

December 29: 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That’s the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30: Roof caved in. The snow plow driver is suing me for a million dollars for the bump on his head. The wife went home to her mother. 9" predicted.

December 31: Set fire to what’s left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8: I feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

1. A stunned, bewildered idiot will stand at the intersection of two or more major traffic aisles so as to cause the most inconvenience to passers-by who do know where they are going.

2. Such idiot will be carrying at least one bag capable of comfortably holding a ’57 Buick, and will make sudden, random turns so as to fling the bag into the shins (or worse) of passers-by.

3. When such idiot is intercepted by family and/or friends and removed from the location, they will be replaced by a freshly bewildered idiot within 2.5 minutes, maximum.

4. No matter how many signs (or how big they are) the store puts up clearly announcing "NO RETURNS OR EXCHANGES DEC 26 or 27" there will be no less than 5 morons crowded into every cashier’s line who figure this rule couldn’t possibly apply to them. And they’ll be pretty huffy about it, too.

5. Nitwits who can clearly afford baby sitters (either that, or they’re shoplifting the 5 high-end DVD players under their arm) will have the curious impression that Boxing Day shopping is exactly the sort of bonding event their squalling 3-week-old offspring wants most to do in this life.

6. The parking lot of any store over 300 square meters will contain no less than 17 Sport Utility Vehicles with dogs pretending to be ready to drive off at a moment’s notice. When the supervising human does return, odds are 50:50 that the dog will occupy said human’s lap as driving commences. Especially if the dog is the size of a Saturn Launch Vehicle.

7. No idiot driving a SUV has any grasp of the physical size of the vehicle, with the result being that parking them involves manoeuvers hitherto unaccomplished by the entire Kirov Ballet.

8. Imbeciles paying for purchases of Items Necessary to Life (consumer electronics, compact disks, angora sweaters..) with $50 bills will be constantly complaining about the state of abject poverty they live in.

9. Seven hours before closing time December 24, Wal-Mart will start setting up displays of huge saccharine Valentine’s Bears, eachclutching oversized satin hearts. (I actually SAW this happen.)

10. Any mall containing a theatre will have an aroma of popcorn frying in rancid canola emanating into the hall. The smell will be strong enough to gag a badger. And patrons will buy it at prices per ounce greater than those for top sirloin, under the impression it’s somehow "healthy" for them, and that the 4 tablespoons of salt on it somehow don’t count.

December 18, 1998

Okay, I was going to write about the unseasonably warm weather we’ve been having, and the kind of office insanity inspired by this weather, an insanity which caused me to blow up a surgical glove like a balloon and send it flying out of a seventh-storey window, but, as always happens with the weather, right when I was planning to comment on it, it became seasonably cold. In fact the change was so dramatic it’s caused me to write unbelievably long run-on sentences and use strange words like "seasonably". So, in keeping with the winter weather, here’s a little story from my childhood: I once had a really bad cold that kept me up most of the night coughing, so my mother made up a batch of what she called Aunt Chloe’s Cough and Congestion Curative. The recipe was simple: a cup of honey, a cup of lemon juice, and a shot of whisky. It wasn’t much whisky, but it was enough that I stopped wearing scarves and recklessly endangered my throat anytime there was cold weather. One day, for reasons I can’t remember, I was staying with my grandmother the teetotaller. Because I’d been without Aunt Chloe’s miracle elixir for several hours, I coughing as though my lungs were going to come out through my nose. My grandmother asked, "Are you taking anything for that?" I made the mistake of telling my grandmother about Aunt Chloe’s recipe, or, as she translated it, "Satan’s syrup." After throwing around several colorful antiquated expressions such as "ruination" and "seasonably", she ran to the phone. She then spent several hours on the phone with my father who averted a very ugly child custody battle by explaining to her that what I was taking had less alcohol than most cough medicines on the market at the time. This was true, too. When I was growing up, cough medicines had about the same alcohol content as tequila and had a few other pleasant ingredients like codeine and essence of wormwood. They didn’t cure coughs, but hey, with a cocktail like that, coughing would be the last of your worries. Home remedies, are, of course, always best, especially since most cough syrup companies have now changed their formulas to make them less tempting to people in twelve-step programs. Now they just taste like bubblegum and grape soda. There’s a moral in there somewhere, but you’ll have to figure it out for yourself. I feel a cold coming on.

Enjoy this week’s offerings, and, since you’ll all be spending time with your families rather than your computers next week (or at the very least using your computers to try out all those cool new programs Santa left under your tree) have a wonderful holiday. By the time you hear from me again, we’ll be partying like it’s 1999.

A LITTLE-KNOWN CHRISTMAS FACT

One particular Christmas season a long time ago, Santa was getting ready for his annual trip … but there were problems everywhere.

Four of his elves got sick, and the trainee elves did not produce the toys as fast as the regular ones so Santa was beginning to feel the pressure of being behind schedule.

Then Mrs. Claus told Santa that her mom was coming to visit.This stressed Santa even more.

When he went to harness the reindeer, he found that three of them were about to give birth and two had jumped the fence and were out, heaven knows where. More stress.

Then when he began to load the sleigh one of the boards cracked and the toy bag fell to the ground and scattered the toys.

So, frustrated, Santa went into the house for a cup of coffee and a shot of whiskey. When he went to the cupboard, he discovered that the elves had hid the liquor and there was nothing to drink. In his frustration, he accidentally dropped the coffee pot and it broke into hundreds of little pieces all over the kitchen floor. He went to get the broom and found that mice had eaten the straw it was made from.

Just then the doorbell rang and Santa cussed on his way to the door. He opened the door and there was a little angel with a great big Christmas tree. The angel said, very cheerfully, "Merry Christmas Santa. Isn’t it just a lovely day? I have a beautiful tree for you. Isn’t it just a lovely tree? Where would you like me to stick it?"

Thus began the tradition of the little angel on top of the Christmas tree.

Twas The Night Before Christmas

‘Twas the nocturnal segment of the diurnal period preceding the annual Yuletide celebration, and throughout our place of residence, kinetic activity was not in evidence among the possessors of this potential, including that species of domestic rodent known as Mus musculus. Hosiery was meticulously suspended from the forward edge of the wood burning caloric apparatus, pursuant to our anticipatory pleasure regarding an imminent visitation from an eccentric philanthropist among whose folkloric appellations is the honorific title of St. Nicholas.

The prepubescent siblings, comfortably ensconced in their respective accommodations of repose, were experiencing subconscious visual hallucinations of variegated fruit confections moving rhythmically through their cerebrums. My conjugal partner and I, attired in our nocturnal head coverings, were about to take slumberous advantage of the hibernal darkness when upon the avenaceous exterior portion of the grounds there ascended such a cacophony of dissonance that I felt compelled to arise with alacrity from my place of repose for the purpose of ascertaining the precise source thereof.

Hastening to the casement, I forthwith opened the barriers sealing this fenestration, noting thereupon that the lunar brilliance without, reflected as it was on the surface of a recent crystalline precipitation, might be said to rival that of the solar meridian itself – thus permitting my incredulous optical sensory organs to behold a miniature airborne runnered conveyance drawn by eight diminutive specimens of the genus Rangifer, piloted by a minuscule, aged chauffeur so ebullient and nimble that it became instantly apparent to me that he was indeed our anticipated caller. With his ungulate motive power travelling at what may possibly have been more vertiginous velocity than patriotic alar predators, he vociferated loudly, expelled breath musically through contracted labia, and addressed each of the octet by his or her respective cognomen – "Now Dasher, now Dancer…" et al. – guiding them to the uppermost exterior level of our abode, through which structure I could readily distinguish the concatenations of each of the 32 cloven pedal extremities.

As I retracted my cranium from its erstwhile location, and was performing a 180-degree pivot, our distinguished visitant achieved – with utmost celerity and via a downward leap – entry by way of the smoke passage. He was clad entirely in animal pelts soiled by the ebony residue from oxidations of carboniferous fuels which had accumulated on the walls thereof. His resemblance to a street vendor I attributed largely to the plethora of assorted playthings which he bore dorsally in a commodious cloth receptacle.

His orbs were scintillant with reflected luminosity, while his submaxillary dermal indentations gave every evidence of engaging amiability. The capillaries of his malar regions and nasal appurtenance were engorged with blood which suffused the subcutaneous layers, the former approximating the coloration of Albion’s floral emblem, the latter that of the Prunus avium, or sweet cherry. His amusing sub- and supralabials resembled nothing so much as a common loop knot, and their ambient hirsute facial adornment appeared like small, tabular and columnar crystals of frozen water.

Clenched firmly between his incisors was a smoking piece whose grey fumes, forming a tenuous ellipse about his occiput, were suggestive of a decorative seasonal circlet of holly. His visage was wider than it was high, and when he waxed audibly mirthful, his corpulent abdominal region undulated in the manner of impectinated fruit syrup in a hemispherical container. He was, in short, neither more nor less than an obese, jocund, multigenarian gnome, the optical perception of whom rendered me visibly frolicsome despite every effort to refrain from so being. By rapidly lowering and then elevating one eyelid and rotating his head slightly to one side, he indicated that trepidation on my part was groundless.

Without utterance and with dispatch, he commenced filling the aforementioned appended hosiery with various of the aforementioned articles of merchandise extracted from his aforementioned previously dorsally transported cloth receptacle. Upon completion of this task, he executed an abrupt about- face, placed a single manual digit in lateral juxtaposition to his olfactory organ, inclined his cranium forward in a gesture of leave-taking, and forthwith effected his egress by renegotiating (in reverse) the smoke passage. He then propelled himself in a short vector onto his conveyance, directed a musical expulsion of air through his contracted oral sphincter to the antlered quadrupeds of burden, and proceeded to soar aloft in a movement hitherto observable chiefly among the seed-bearing portions of a common weed. But I overheard his parting exclamation, audible immediately prior to his vehiculation beyond the limits of visibility: "Ecstatic Yuletide to the planetary constituency, and to that self same assemblage, my sincerest wishes for a salubriously beneficial and gratifyingly pleasurable period between sunset and dawn."

December 11, 1998

It’s that time of year again. The holidays are brought on earlier every year as marketing gurus attempt to counteract the effects of global warming with fake snow, fake fireplaces, and, most importantly, fake goodwill. Some new traditions have begun emerging, among them the mad scramble for interactive toys that are teaching a whole generation that human relationships are completely unnecessary so long as you have enough batteries to light up southern Albania for a year. One of the older traditions that I consistently miss (in the sense of "avoid" rather than "pine for") is the employer-sponsored holiday party. From what I’ve heard, the party here gets worse every year. A few years ago the gift given everyone at the door was a tin can with six chocolate chip cookies. This year it was a multicultural calendar, which just proves that trying to offend no one really does offend everyone. In the next few years the party itself is expected to be replaced by a celebratory committee who will visit various departments passing out brightly colored boxes of landfill. One person proudly told me that, in thirty years, she has never attended the big holiday party. "Those things are always a madhouse," she told me, "and besides, I can buy my own cookies." The amazing thing is she learned this despite having grown up without interactive toys.

Martha Stewart’s Christmas letter to Erma Bombeck:

Hi Erma,

This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to.

Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom, and made a blanket in peaches and mauves.

Then to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it, from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room.

By then, it was time to start making the place mats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I’m serving the old standard Stewart twelve-course breakfast, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: I didn’t have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand.

Before I moved the table into the dining room, I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling.

Then, while the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.

Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes on the dress I’m wearing for breakfast.

I’ll get out the sled and drive this note to the post office as soon as the glue dries on the envelope I’ll be making. Hope my breakfast guests don’t stay too long, I have 40,000 cranberries to string with bay leaves before my speaking engagement at noon. It’s a good thing.

Love, Martha Stewart

P.S. When I made the ribbon for this typewriter, I used 1/8-inch gold gauze. I soaked the gauze in a mixture of white grapes and blackberries which I grew, picked, and crushed last week just for fun.

Erma Bombeck’s Response:

Dear Martha,

I’m writing this on the back of an old shopping list, pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains.

I’m 20 minutes late getting my daughter up for school, packing a lunch with one hand, on the phone with the dog pound, seems old Ruff needs bailing out, again. Burnt my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries, how DO they do that?

Still can’t find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes, tried using an old disposable razor . . . trashed the tablecloth.

Tried that cranberry thing, frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave.

Oh, and don’t use Fruity Pebbles as a substitute in that Rice Krispie snowball recipe, unless you happen to like a disgusting shade that resembles puke!

The smoke alarm is going off, talk to ya later.

Love, Erma