700 billion, 25 billion, now that’s funny! i need about $17.89 to keep Foolish Times going for six months. I decided to go to Washington for a bailout- er, I mean an economic stimulus package. I’ve learned from my fellow moguls and won’t (can’t) repeat their mistakes. No private jet, no bonuses, no lavish weekend getaways to celebrate-I mean, recuperate- from all the hard work rehearsing how to grovel. I’ll hop a freight train, eat at soup kitchens, and stay at a Holiday Inn Express.
Well, gotta run- I need to hop the 1010 out of Oakland. Stay tuned.

Happy New Year!

We’ve started the New Year with a bang here at Foolish Times—and a reminder that firecrackers are best enjoyed OUTSIDE the office. Anyway, just listen to these story titles, and tell me you don’t want to jump right in and start your New Year’s worth of Foolish reading: “Fire Training,” “The Glass Slipper and the Codpiece,” “Womentoiletopia,” “Writimus Blockosis,” and “Job Hopping in the Ancient World,” a hilarious short story by newcomer Andrew Grossman. We’ll be featuring lots of new writers this year, in fact. But don’t fret—we still have all the usual suspects: Rex, Clair Voyant, Anonymous, the Unknown Cartoonist, and Sir Henry de Tunahuna. I dare you to find a more colorful lineup in all the California Territory. Thanks for reading us so faithfully, and stay tuned: we have big plans for 2009, and anyway, you don’t want to be out of tune.

The Ring
An older gentleman walked into a jewelry store one Friday evening with a beautiful young lady at his side. He told the jeweler he was looking for a special ring for his girlfriend.

The jeweler looked through his stock and brought out a $5,000 ring.

The old man said, “No, I’d like to see something more special.”

At that statement, the jeweler went to his special stock and brought another ring over. “Here’s a stunning ring at only $40,000,” the jeweler said.

The young lady’s eyes sparkled and her whole body trembled with excitement. The old man, seeing this, said, “We’ll take it.”

The jeweler asked how payment would be made and the old man stated, “By check. I know you need to make sure my check is good, so I’ll write it now and you can call the bank Monday to verify the funds and I’ll pick the ring up Monday afternoon.”

Monday morning, the jeweler phoned the old man. “There’s no money in that account.”

“I know,” said the old man. “But let me tell you about my weekend!”

Read the rest of this article »

Dateline—Monterey, CA
We at Foolish Times have had a rare opportunity to interview the local Tom Burns, a far-thinking futurist and heretical conservationist. Mr. Burns was interviewed while on his back, wearing cowboy boots and a Speedo, making “sand angels” at Del Monte beach.
FT: Mr. Burns, we understand you have a rather controversial idea to eliminate a huge environmental problem.
TB: Indeed. It came to me while reading the Bible.
FT: Please continue.
TB: It was a beautiful day. I had had a P&J sandwich for lunch, as I recall. My cold sore was healing, and my . . .
FT: NO! Don’t start this again! Every single interview, you lose focus, ramble, and stray to some idiotic drivel!
TB: Are you having a bad day?
FT: I, for just once, would like to interview you without your nonsensical litanies. Pllleeeeeaaaaaaassssseeee!
TB: Okay, since you put it that way—I’ll behave. By the way, you’re standing on my last sand angel. Stand next to me, please.
FT: This spot okay?
TB: Yes, but don’t knock over my Coppertone.
FT:
TB: Why are you rubbing your temples?
Read the rest of this article »

When I completed my MBA degree from the Business School of Babylon, I counted on having my choice of job offers. But, this being 380 B.C., MBAs were raining from the sky like manna. The economy was bad: shipping had been down for years due to many factors—sea beasts in the Mediterranean, evil winds blowing off the Straits of Gibraltar, and the ongoing problem of too many holes in the ships with no prospect of a bailout.
At the job fair there were 500 job seekers and only three green-robed recruiters. When my turn came to interview I couldn’t take my eyes off the glinting dagger in the interviewer’s belt, and the golden tie clip he wore. The interview went by in a flash. I remember him unrolling the crinkly papyrus of my academic record as the slave girls fanned him with palmetto leaves. He sighed deeply. I held my breath and prayed that I would realize my dream of long, three-honey-wine lunches in the local bazaar and expense-account stays in the finest stables.
The recruiter gave me the once over. Only then did I realize that he was using the jawbone of an ass as a paperweight. The sundial ticked for what seemed like an entire passage of the sun across the sky. Finally, he said in a gruff voice, “We have an opening in the Giza branch … thirty shekels a week … take it or leave it.”
I jumped at the offer. I mean that literally, because there was a cloud of locusts under my chair and a definite whiff of pestilence where I had forgotten to use myrrh after showering.
Four days and three hundred hard caravan miles later, I reported for work in the Isis Corporate Park (named after the pharmaceutical king, not the goddess). That weekend I hunted for an apartment. Not having an irrigation canal on me, I had to settle for a desert dwelling. These places were the pits of the pomegranate. I’m telling you that the sand didn’t even want to live there. The good news, I thought at first, was that the Great Pyramid loomed just behind the recycling bin and the fleshpots of Cairo were but thirty miles away. When the Nile is in flood, I thought, I’ll be able to grow some nice geraniums in the window pots. I signed a two-year lease.
Work was good. My job was basically to fetch olive oil for the bosses and work with R&D on a plan to turn walking sticks into snakes and then extract milk from them.
But my home life sucked like donkey bongs. Within a week I learned why only the wretched and the wanna-be’s lived in my condo complex: pyramid skateboarders.
The sound of wooden wheels being ridden down the raspy slopes of the pyramid was enough to set my sandaled bejeweled feet to twitching. By the end of the first evening I was yelling out the unglassed window, “Come down from there, you damn kids! Who do you think you are, Sumerians?!” They were tough kids, as I learned when they set fire to my thatch utility shed.
I requested a transfer to another branch, any other branch. My boss, Tutenhishornen, was none too pleased that I, a rank junior brand manager, would have the audacity—indeed, the ramses—to want out. The day he handed me the transfer papers, he had an odd smile on his face. Knowing that I had grown up on the south side of Babylon, he said, “Well, you’re going home. Hahaha!” As I walked out the door, he gave me what is commonly known as the One-Eyed Cheer.
I took the weekend to move and get situated. Not until Monday morning at first light did I realize that I was literally living under the overhang of the Hanging Garden of Babylon. I shaved and headed out to work. On the way out I got hit in the face with what felt like a dozen knife-edged sabers. As I reeled in pain and clutched my razor-burned face, I looked up to see a freaking fern hanging down from the top of the terrace. I yelled out to anyone who could hear, “Cut back that plant!”
They didn’t. Next I was transferred to Olympia, the home of the Gods. Turns out the Gods were on a trip to Ark World. I hit town just as the locals were erecting the Great Statue of Zeus.
Olympicburg was, as you might guess, way the hell up in the mountains. It snowed like nobody’s business. I had left my rabbit fur robe back in Babylon. Every day I took the subway to work and got off at the Parthenon/Leper Park exit. Do you have any idea how much snow can accumulate on the butt of Zeus? Quite a bit, I found out one day as I was coming up the escalator just as the anal avalanche came thundering down. “How about a little offering to the Gods here?!” I yelled as I shook off the snow. The local Board of Sacrificial Lamb Farmers was not amused.
Then it was the Temple of Artemis, the Mausoleum of Maussollos at Halicarnassus, and a marketing research job at the Colossus of Rhodes. I had become a corporate gypsy. Word had gotten back to the head office that I had attitude issues.
Maybe it was the complaint I phoned into the police about the Artemis Chorus singing at the Temple after ten o’clock on a weeknight, or the crack I made about “they should call it the Mausoleum of Moussaka for all the potluck dinners they have after the funerals.” At Rhodes my boss had an inferiority complex, I think, and took it out on me. It wasn’t my fault that he was known around the office as the “Little Guy of Rhodes.”
All I know is that I found myself one day on the back streets of Alexandria. I had reached the end of the line. No one would hire me except an organic hummus firm that had me test which crackers would break when you dipped them. It was backbreaking work, and only paid about half a shekel a week.
I consoled myself that because of the warm breezes off the Mediterranean I could at least save money on lodging by sleeping on the rooftop (I also lucked out with a ten-percent-off perk on all cracked-up hummus). The first night, I had just nodded off to sleep to the soft sounds of a jazz lyre playing in a distant nightclub … when suddenly I was jerked awake by the four hundred immense candles of the Lighthouse being lit by four hundred guys with really long matches.
“Somebody turn that damn light off,” I yelled across the harbor.
As I look back now from retirement, I console myself with the thought that despite all the bad coffee, the seven a.m. meetings, the constant uprooting, and the bad choice of having a 401(k) plan entirely made up of stock in a company situated right next to Vesuvius, I can proudly say that I have been tossed out by security guards at each of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.

Sometimes writers experience a phenomenon called “writer’s block.” This is when a big block of wood or concrete is inserted into a writer’s head where his/her brain would normally be.
When that occurs, all creativity comes to an abrupt, airbag-deploying halt. Other than the sudden loss of creativity, all other mind and bodily functions continue to operate normally. The only thing more frustrating to a writer than a blank computer screen is an even blanker ________ (my writer’s block prevented me from completing that sentence.)
I’ve been told that there is nothing worse than being around a writer suffering from writer’s block. Lady Debby is usually quick to pick up the subtle signs of my writer’s block. She barely bats an eye when a thesaurus flies across the room. She’ll just shrug her shoulders when a laptop, for no apparent reason, becomes a projectile, and makes hard contact with an unforgiving wall. She has come to consider these “episodes” acceptable compensation for the privilege of being married to such a famous and prolific writer like myself. Hey, my creativity is back!
Dang, it just left again.
Because writers know they can be stricken at any time with a debilitating case of writer’s block, they always maintain an “idea box.” This is a collection of writing ideas, unfinished writing projects, motivational quotes, plus a few rejection letters from publishers, which the writer (for strictly therapeutic reasons) writes colorful responses to, then wisely chooses not to mail the “modified” version of the rejection letters back to said publishers.
If you were to gain access to a writer’s idea box, you would see what to the untrained eye appears to be just scraps of paper (various sizes, colors, textures, and scents), receipts, used envelopes, Post-it notes, napkins, and bathroom tissue (typically 2-ply to reduce ink bleed-through. I made the mistake one time of using red ink on 1-ply bathroom tissue. Several months later, while frantically searching my idea box for an idea, I came across what appeared to be a bloody tissue. And I began wondering, when did I get a bloody nose, and why did I save the evidence in my idea box?).
Usually a writer will sit down at his/her desk and try to come up with writing ideas. A writer assumes that since they are able to create literary masterpieces when sitting at their writing desk, pounding out a few simple writing ideas would be a slam-dunk. But more often than not, when you raise the idea bucket from the creative well, it’s not overflowing with ideas. If you’re lucky, there may be a single idea droplet at the bottom of the bucket, but it usually evaporates before you’re able to transfer it to paper.
Writing ideas are notorious for their bad timing. They never show up when you want them to. They prefer to drop in when you are least prepared to receive them. But you can’t ask them to come back at a more opportune time because ideas (like all creative things) are uber-sensitive and they will pout. They want you to drop everything you’re doing and beg them not to leave.
Let’s say you’re at a restaurant and you’re looking at a menu. There are lots of burger choices including a vegiburger. And you think… “I wonder if someone ever ordered a vegiburger but was served a real burger by mistake. What if you were to add a little real burger in with a vegiburger…” Then all of a sudden, an asteroid-size idea falls from the sky, through the roof of the restaurant, and lands on your head.
You know what you need to do. You’ve read the statistics. “If an asteroid-size idea falls on your head and you don’t write it down within 27 seconds of impact, 95% of the idea will disappear from your memory, but the remaining 5% will haunt you ‘til you reach your past pull date.”
So you frantically search for something to write the idea on. You grab the napkin currently protecting your utensils from the poorly wiped table. Now you need something to write with. Your only options within reach are bottles of condiments. In desperation, you grab the knife from the table and are about to start carving the idea on your arm, when you suddenly hear this angelic voice from heaven, “You gonna order or eat your arm”? You look up. It’s the waitress. And she’s holding a pen.
Everything gets a little fuzzy after that. You remember hearing shouting, immediately followed by some sort of scuffle that left teeth marks. But even as you were being escorted out of the restaurant, you couldn’t help but wear a big asteroid-size grin on your face. Because in your hand is a napkin inscribed with an idea so stupendous, that every other idea in your idea box will start referring to it as the “King Napkin Idea” (coming from a box of creative ideas, I would have expected a more…creative name). The King Napkin Idea is:
“Book idea—vegan protagonist suspects that the mob (in cahoots with a powerful meat-packing union) is forcing vegetarian food manufacturers to use animal meat as filler in tofu.”
Now when I use the term “idea box,” I don’t mean an actual container. Most writers don’t keep their ideas boxed up in…a box. They give their written ideas the freedom to explore their own creative individuality by letting them choose their own place to grow as an idea. If you enter a writer’s space, you will find scraps of paper, receipts, Post-it notes, envelopes, napkins, and bathroom tissue in drawers, on walls, on desktops, on computer screens, on cups, on lamps, and on sedentary domestic animals. You will find them everywhere except in the box labeled Writing Ideas.
So when a writer is stricken with writer’s block, as I am now, all he/she has to do is start sifting through all of the ideas that at the time seemed good enough to write down, but not good enough to write about. This is what is commonly referred to as the seed stage (actually, I’ve never heard it referred to in this way, but it makes it sound like I know what I’m talking about). The creative process is very similar to the germination process.
Let’s say you decide to plant zucchini. I don’t know why any sane person would choose to grow zucchini, but for this analogy, any seed will do. So you go to a seed store and buy a package of zucchini seeds. But since you can’t plant them until spring, you stick the package of seeds in a drawer. What is a seed? A seed is an embryo and stored food. So what you really have is a package of zucchini embryos.
So the things written down on those scraps of paper, receipts, post-it notes, envelopes, napkins, and bathroom tissue are not just ideas. They’re creative embryos. If you’re a writer, the next time someone enters your domain and makes some lame comment about the clutter, you can tell them proudly that you have hundreds of creative ideas, each in the embryonic stage of development. You don’t have to explain the fact that most, if not all, of your creative ideas have been in that same embryonic stage for so long, they’re barren, which is a polite word for saying they’re infertile and will never develop into anything more.
Germination. So now it’s spring and it’s time to plant your zucchini embryos. So you do all the right things. You dig a hole deep enough, you use healthy soil, and you keep the soil moist but not soggy. Then eventually (but not always) a root emerges from the seed (now a seedling) and starts relying on external food sources to grow.
So the germination process in writing is to take an idea and try to develop it. Let’s use the King Napkin Idea as an example. You’ll need to develop a storyline and characters. What type of novel will this be? A murder mystery? Does some unsuspecting vegan discover a human finger in his/her Thanksgiving Tofurkey? Does the mob discover the vegan protagonist searching for evidence in a meat-packing plant and torture him by forcing him to eat genuine hamburger meat from beef cows as opposed to non-genuine hamburger meat from soy cows?
There is something called a germination rate, which is basically the percentage of planted seeds that germinate from the total number of seeds planted. Let’s say you plant 100 zucchini seeds and you get 70 zucchini plants. The germination rate is 70%. If you’re a fan of zucchini, that’s a good germination rate. If you’re not a big fan of zucchini, or its offspring (zucchini bread), then 70% is a very bad germination rate. As much as it pains me to admit it, a zucchini has a far better germination rate than my writing ideas. Matter of fact, just about every variety of summer squash has a better germination rate.
But when you’re suffering from a severe case of Writimus Blockosis like I am, you have no alternative but to reach out in desperation and grab the nearest embryonic lifeline. A defibrillator aimed at resuscitating your flatlined creativity. And all it takes is just one idea….like the one on this crumpled-up piece of stationary. This one idea could be the cure. This one idea could turn into one of the greatest columns I’ve ever written. Perhaps even the greatest column ever written by anyone since the invention of …columns. The idea is… Wait, this isn’t an idea…
Dear Mr. Twede,
Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, your treatment, titled “The Vegan Detective,” is not something we are interested in pursuing at this time. We found the premise to be in very poor taste. Good luck in all your future writing endeavors.
Regards,
Palmer Gottlieb
Assistant Editor
Nadachance Publishing
Dear Mr. Gottleib,
BITE ME!!!
Regards,
Dustin Twede
***
Check out L. Dustin Twede’s website at www.ldustintwede.com. He can be reached at ddtwede@yahoo.com.

Is there anything like time away from the old grind? If ever you’ve been on an airplane, the experience can be as stressful as a day at the salt mine. To board your plane on time you have to arrive at the airport hours ahead of time while your jet is still refueling in Cucamonga.
If you are lucky enough to traverse the maze of a metropolitan airport, you know how much energy it takes to travel, and that’s just reaching a gate! It’s no wonder they call it a terminal! You could die by the time you get there.
There are shops filled with $7 coffee, flip-flops for $10 (you can get a bushel of ‘em for a buck at the dollar store), and my favorite, the airport bar. Getting a healthy airline-size drink (the kind that comes in a Billy Barty baby-sized bottle) can cost you twelve bucks. In my day that was a month of beer money, or a week’s worth of cover charges to Dr. Slaphappy’s massage parlor! Oh, for the good old days.
The airline industry is the only one where you can buy a product (a ticket) and get to the airport to find out that “Ooops, we sold too many tickets.” If you want to get squeezed onto the plane you’ll have to sit in the bathroom for the flight or out on the wing. Talk about your mile-high club!
You could, of course, wait in the airport for another flight. “There will be another one along shortly,” is attendant doublespeak meaning “Pull up a trash-bag pillow for a few hours, pal, and enjoy a snooze on the floor of the skid row airport hotel.” Sometimes during holidays you’ll see rows and rows of bodies on the airport floor in a kind of airport Bowery.
You’ll find yourself wheezing when you finally arrive at your gate which is usually after a mile-and-a-half jaunt. Often large airports take travelers to long-distance gates via some sort of semi-altered golf cart. That thing is always loaded with enough people to make it look like monkeys clinging to the banana tree at harvest time.
All of these honors you get to endure after you have been subjected to security! You might have anything inflicted upon you, from the shoe search given by a frustrated out-of-work porn actor tuned security wiz with a foot fetish, to a full-out strip-search by the guy who always wanted to be a proctologist but couldn’t cut it because of his oversized knuckles!
Once on the plane you have wonderful options for entertainment. The first course is the stewardess doing the crash run through to a chorus of cackles from the indifferent and sarcastic passengers. These are the same folks who will have the fear of God in their eye as they fight you for the flotation device that’s under your butt when the big nosedive comes.
Fresh food out of a can and more tiny alcohol bottles are available on board served by stewardesses who used to look like supermodels and famous actresses. Today they are tougher and though they have a pleasant smile, they’re not much fun in an enclosed space for five or ten thousand miles.
Seats that are as comfortable as a bus terminal bench and poor ventilation make your trip all the more precious. Add a few screaming babies and you’d be in steerage on the boat from ol’ Calcutta.
Of course, it’s not all bad. Modern marvels of aerospace technology have you going from coast to coast in a matter of hours. You’ll be so grateful that when you land you’ll kiss the ground under your feet after you disembark. That is, of course, until you find out that while you may be in New York, your luggage is in Denmark having a better vacation than you!
* * *
Giosue’ Santarelli is a prolific political columnist, humor columnist, and feature writer who has been scribbling for nearly 40 years. Visit his humor column website “The Devil’s Advocate” at www.devilsadvocate111.blogspot.com.

Womentoiletopia

At some point, everyone experiences something life-changing. Sometimes it’s because of a traumatic event, sometimes it’s because you’ve read a really neat book, and sometimes it’s because you suddenly discover you’re not hard of hearing, you just needed to cut your hair.
My life-changing event happened because I was in public and had to go to the bathroom.
Using a public bathroom is uncomfortable enough, partially because you never know who’s going to be in there*, partially because you have no idea where the facilities are, but mainly because there’s always the chance that something life-changing will happen and you certainly don’t want it to happen in a public bathroom.
My life-changing event happened when I walked by the women’s bathroom and the door was open.
I froze. It was like one of those movies where a portal opens to another dimension. I’ve never seen that dimension—Womentoiletopia. I had no idea what it was like in there. Would there be pyramids? Would there be cyborgs? Would Charlton Heston be screaming “You blew it up!” at the Statue of Liberty?
Can’t look, can’t look, can’t look, ran through my head because in modern America, Womentoiletopia is actually called the Sexual Harassment Zone, so I wasn’t supposed to look.
I looked.
To a guy who’s minding his own business, not intending to walk by the women’s restroom and finding the door open, this is like getting free tickets to a ball game. It’s an invitation. I had to RSVP by looking. So, unless I’d opened that door with my mind …
Wait, I didn’t open the door with my mind, did I? No, I’m pretty sure I was thinking about football.
… I was perfectly safe from any potential lawsuits or slaps to the face.
There was, thankfully, a wall separating my view from the place where the women come in to do their business, so what I saw was mostly a flat barrier of pale green. Mostly. Inside the door and sticking out from a corner were, for some odd reason, a desk and a chair. A desk and a chair?
This was my life-changing event. A guy’s bathroom is white and gray with plenty of porcelain. Occasionally the local sports page will be tacked up in front of the urinals out of extreme courtesy, and it’s usually a bit on the cool side. The only chairs are ones with handles and there are no desks anywhere.
Ladies, what do you do in public bathrooms? Your taxes? Do you write long letters to old friends about how clean the facility is and, Jane, you really should drive down here and try it? Or is it an emergency desk? Did I miss the sign, “In case of mice or rapid overflow, jump here”?
I stood for a second in the kind of baffled state grazing animals get whenever they see anything at all.
What possible use could a desk and chair have in a women’s toilet? And what was I, as a guy, missing out on? Maybe a public bathroom is the best possible place for filling out personal property assessment forms and I’ve been missing out all these years.
I snapped out of my daze and walked away from the open door before I got arrested.
But I had to ask, what other things are in women’s bathrooms that should be in other parts of the building?
The answers I received bothered me.
Some women’s bathrooms have a couch, others have comfortable chairs and end tables for holding up books and magazines and ferns.
These are not bathrooms. They’re lounges. Stick a wet bar in one and it would be a members-only club.
Ladies, I’m sorry I saw Womentoiletopia, but your world doesn’t belong to my universe. I’d like you to put it back in whatever dimension it came from … or at least keep the door shut.
*About 10 years ago in a public bathroom, former St. Louis Cardinal offensive lineman and NFL Hall of Famer Dan Dierdorf stepped up to the urinal next to mine. It wasn’t the fact that someone famous was standing next to me in a bathroom that made me uncomfortable; it was just an odd place to ask for an autograph. I told him no.
* * *
Jason’s book of ghost stories, “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to the Show-Me State’s Most Spirited Spots,” is available from amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com or tsup.truman.edu. Visit Jason’s Web site, www.jasonoffutt.com, for his other books.

What’s in the stars for the New Year?

While I admit my zodiac is bit cracked, I have nevertheless consulted the stars to deliver a personalized astrological prediction just for the readers of this column.
Any resemblance to an actual horoscope reading is purely coincidental, and I will not be responsible for accidents or incidents based on my celestial satire.
AIRES—Your adventurous spirit will take you down many roads, mainly because you will not stop to ask for directions. You will probably never get to where you are going, but at least you can say, “I did it my way.”
TAURUS—As your sign suggests, you are full of bull and often show it by leaving the herd to buy lottery tickets. You are concerned with money and material things, which is probably why you have a mailbox full of junk mail.
GEMINI—You rely on your instincts, which is a good thing, unless you are acting on your instincts in public. Although you are willing to negotiate with police officers, you have learned to accept your ticket with a smile and exit quickly at the first opportunity.
CANCER—You are sensitive and caring and always try to help people, even when they don’t want to be helped. If that’s the way they want to be, just concentrate on your own career. Use your shrewdness to get ahead and then you can say, “I told you so!” with a clear conscience.
LEO—You want to be the center of attention and sometimes act as if you have a male enhancement patch on your ego. Try to talk about something other than yourself, if possible, and your friends may forgive you—even though your best friend might always be your mirror.
VIRGO—You are so efficient that you refold your underwear, reorganize the closet, and make the bed twice—and that’s before breakfast. Use your energy on things that matter and you will go further in life, even though you will be wearing wrinkled underwear when you get there.
LIBRA—You try to keep your life in balance—20 percent fun, 10 percent study, 20 percent play, 20 percent work, 10 percent commute, 10 percent making excuses, and 10 percent using your charm to get someone else to balance all this for you.
SCORPIO—It’s the same story, over and over, and it’s always about you. Tell us a new story before we begin to think you are senile. Of course, it’s hard to change. We know it’s hard to change. You’ve already told us, remember?
SAGITTARIUS—Generous and good-natured, you will give away the shirt off your back. Try to be a bit more rational, a little less generous, and go buy yourself a new shirt. Yes, light blue will be fine. Thank you for asking.
CAPRICORN—They have a name for people who work too hard—workaholic. Get out of the rut you have put yourself in and take a little time for romance. And don’t work so hard at being romantic that you become obsessed. There could be a word for that too.
AQUARIUS—Always looking to the future, planning ahead—try to live in the present for a change. Let your insurance agent take care of your future. Oh, you are an insurance agent? It that case, don’t let me interrupt.
PISCES—You are a loving and overly caring person. Don’t let people take advantage of your good nature. (Present company excepted.) Would you hand me the remote control? A pillow would be nice, and would you mind rubbing my back first?
For an even more personalized reading, hit your head with a hammer and read the stars for yourself.
That will be $20, please.
* * *
Sheila Moss, Humor Columnist
www.humorcolumnist.com

51 Days

A bartender is sitting behind the bar on a typical day, when the door bursts open and in come four exuberant blondes. They come up to the bar, order five bottles of champagne and ten glasses, and take their order over to a large table.
The corks are popped, the glasses are filled, and they begin toasting and chanting, “51 days, 51 days, 51 days!”
Soon, three more blondes arrive, take up their drinks, and the chanting grows… “51 days, 51 days, 51 days!”
Two more blondes show up and soon their voices are heard as well: “51 days, 51 days, 51 days!”
Finally, the tenth blonde comes in with a picture under her arm. She walks over to the table, sets the picture in the middle, and the table erupts. Up jump the others, they begin dancing around the table, exchanging high-fives, all the while chanting “51 days, 51 days, 51 days!”
The bartender can’t contain his curiosity any longer, so he walks over to the table. There in the center is a beautifully framed child’s puzzle of the Cookie Monster.
When the frenzy dies down a little bit, the bartender asks one of the blondes, “What’s all the chanting and celebration about?”
The blonde who brought in the picture pipes up. “Everyone thinks that blondes are dumb and they make fun of us,” she said. “So, we decided to set the record straight. Ten of us got together, bought that puzzle, and put it together. The side of the box said ‘2-4 years,’ but we put it together in 51 days!”

Fantasy. Obsession. Insatiability. An electrifying, mesmerizing relationship for months on end. Out of this grew a savage addiction to streetcorner proselytes, nocturnal prognostications and—it shames me to say—wildly erotic polls. Erotic IS the word for “capricious,” right??
Then, in early November, the lengthy rapture coupled with an imploding economy. Kapow! An abyss of deflated confidence, shrinking reserves, and a manic desperation to shore up sagging hopes with something bolder than a weak string of puny adjectives.
Do we crave one whopping grand stimulus package??! You betcha!! (wink wink) Gosh darn it, we want a stimulus to increase the average bar graph by three to four inches!!
Oh, the heartbreak of…ELECTILE DYSFUNCTION.
There, there, Honey. It’s okay. Millions of Americans suffer from ED—the inability to maintain the emotional and intellectual arousal experienced during an election. ED can strike any registered voter involved in the electile process. Common symptoms include feeling flat, weak, ineffectual, and unable to sustain optimal performance beyond the voting booth. The resulting anxiety erodes motivation and perpetuates the cycle.
No need for shame or blame. Electile dysfunction can result from physical causes. Voting booths generally accommodate persons of average size, and certain individuals may indeed be physically too large, while others are simply too short to reach the levers.
Perhaps, the cause is a blockage in the flow of traffic, or a malfunction of the voting equipment. This begs the question: Does the ED of one Siamese twin affect the other? For answers to this and other concerns, don’t let embarrassment keep you from talking with your city clerk.
ED occasionally manifests as a lopsided election. Settle down, that’s enough snickering. Those of you who find this image amusing have perhaps not yet suffered through a lengthy, hotly contested election while maintaining a bias skewed impossibly to the right or the left. The pain of this imbalance lingers long after the election is over. Be patient with yourself and those you love, because regaining a more centrist position is a slow and difficult process.
ED also correlates to aging. Older folks may need incentive to get in a voting mood, as well as assistance in staying focused and awake during the election process. Arthritis may inhibit them from properly grasping the ballots or from exploring new political positions.
Please, let’s look beyond our own selfish needs and help others to achieve a vigorous, satisfying election. Sure, a few whiny souls may insist that their youthful elections were far superior. In light of our common temptation to embellish or fabricate such memories, however, the AMA denounces that belief as total cuckoo bananas. Moreover, most people agree that even a brief election is way better than none at all.
This posits the question: Can an election ever last too long?? The last campaign did seem endless. For some voters, size is paramount to a satisfying election, while others care more about performance. This author believes that the merits of keeping a good book at hand cannot be overstated. Even within an extended election process, however, the act of voting is relatively brief. If you experience an election lasting longer than four hours, contact your city clerk.
Behaviorists detect symptoms of ED by observing voters’ smiles or scowls as a measure of personal satisfaction in their election experiences. But not all clues are so obvious. Why, just last November my hearing aids picked up the barest hint of electile anomaly from a nearby voting booth—loud moans, feral grunts, and a final howling “Yeeehaaaa!”A tad more data than one cares to know.
Anecdotal evidence suggests that some men find a good election helps them to sleep well. Conversely, tired women often report a desire to sleep through the whole damn thing.
Either way, we have much to accomplish before our next election comes along. Let’s enjoy the down time while it lasts.
Copyright © 2009 by Mary Tompsett
* * *
Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.

Christmas was over, the empty bottles from the New Year’s Eve party lay strewn about the living room, and the Christmas tree stood quietly dehydrating in the living room corner. All that could be cleaned up later, perhaps by July or August, but I had bigger fish to fry: I needed a New Year’s Resolution.
“Rex, we need a commitment to change something in our lives . . . something noble, something far-reaching, something easy. Wanna’ give up Costco pizza?” Rex doesn’t have a firm grasp on the English language, but he pieced the words together and diluted the meaning to its lowest common denominator: no pizza. A look of horror registered on his face.
“Okay, okay. You’re right. Let’s not bite off more that we can chew; no pun intended.” The look of horror receded from his face and the look of a concerned small black Dachshund returned.
“Exercise! We can start a regimented exercise program! What do you think?” The communication was too complex for him to crack. He needed a Rosetta Stone of human to dog. I had to break it down by showing him. I laid him down on his back and forced him with one hand on his stomach and one underneath him to do a sit-up. Sit-ups did not appeal to Rex. As a matter of fact, he growled at me and bared his teeth. I didn’t need a Rosetta Stone of dog to human to figure that one out. Rex wanted no part of a regimented exercise program.
“Okay, then, let’s see. Hmmmmmm. How about yoga? Want me to show you how to do the Triloka position? A girl showed it to me in the bathroom of some dingy beer joint one night. Dakota was her name, as I recall. Her equilibrium was off a little that night from the seventeen beers she had consumed. She lost her balance and hit her head on the urinal. Chipped a tooth and broke a heel in the fall. Never even got her phone number. And then, you won’t believe this Rex, and then she . . .”
Rex walked away from me. Perhaps the Dakota story was too much for him to handle. Perhaps he was bored. Perhaps he had better things to do.
“Rex. Come back here. We need a resolution! How about if we resolve to find a cure for hiccups? We resolve to really, really try to appreciate Britney Spears? NAFTA? Reruns of ‘Dallas’?”
Rex was not tempted by the choices. He continued to saunter out into the kitchen. Perhaps he was unburdened by the challenge to make a New Year’s resolution. Perhaps Christmas and New Year’s were just regular days for him; nothing special, nothing worse than any other day. Perhaps the simplicity of his life left him unfettered by the concepts of “holiday” or “religious season.” Perhaps his lifescape was so seamless he needed no mental constructs to create a life WITH meaning because his life was complete in and of itself.
There he sat in the kitchen. No problems. No concerns. A vapid stare at his empty food bowl offered, maybe, a point of focus to interact with this convoluted world. Here is a little dog that is so uncomplicated and so socially free, he walks up to strange girl dogs on the sidewalk and sniffs their naughty parts. Now that’s living the good life.
I stared at his empty food bowl with him for a few moments. I tried to imagine walking up to a good-looking woman, a total stranger, on the sidewalk and . . .
“REX!!! I’ve just made MY resolution!!!”

Several years ago, after I kicked Carl to the curb (oh, I had my reasons, believe-you-me), I did what I always do when I’m in pain. I ate seven squares of dark chocolate (70% cacao) and surfed the internet.
I was suddenly interested in Cinderella. To my amazement, I found out she was born in ninth-century China, which no doubt explains the foot-fetish thing, what with the tiny slipper and all.
Now headquartered at Disneyland, this blood-sucking tick has infected the entire civilized world, especially the souls of women, with the notion that if we’re only nice enough, patient enough, and pretty enough, we will be rewarded with a wonderful man who will take good care of us forever. Right.
Anyway, what seemed obvious then was that the fairytale had less to do with Cinderella than it did with Prince Charming and his sense of entitlement. He was entitled to have women mutilate themselves for a chance to receive his hand in marriage. Remember the two ugly step-sisters and their attempts to cut off their heels and/or toes (what’s a few digits more or less?) so they could shove their size elevens into the precious size four slippers? You can’t get much more entitled than that.
But, what of the other story, the one that hasn’t yet surfaced?
In this as-yet-to-be-discovered tale, Prince Charming is just an ordinary working-class guy named Ralph who happens to wangle an invitation to the Grand Ball given by Cinderella, the most fair and wealthy Princess in the land. She has let it be known that she is available to dance the dance of mating.
During the evening’s festivities, after waltzing with our handsome Ralph, she falls in love. However, just before midnight, our Ralphie disappears. Fleeing the castle grounds he notices too late that he’s lost his codpiece. Oh well, can’t turn back now. His Golden Coach is already resuming its original identity as a kumquat.
Cinderella is so distraught that, upon finding his codpiece on the ballroom floor, she sends out her minions to scour the countryside to locate the man who captured her heart and whose member fits neatly into the leather pouch.
All the Prince-wannabes are so eager for a chance to be chosen by the Princess that they attempt to fool the minions. The more amply endowed of the men whack off a few inches, believing they might then be able to squeeze into the goat-skin pouch, while others, their under-endowed brothers, resort to strapping sausages onto their organs in order to ensure a snug fit. Alas, they are one-by-one found out to be frauds.
The search gradually widens and finally the party of minions arrives at the orchard where our lowly Ralph is high up in an apricot tree. His master tells the minions, “You needn’t bother with old Ralphie here, he couldn’t possibly be the one you seek.” Hearing this, Ralph smoothes back his hair.
The minions reply, “Oh, no, sir, we must check every member in the land; our lady has so decreed.” The master, not wanting to lose his head or anything, reluctantly calls out to Ralph. “Hey, boy, come down here, they want to look you over, posthaste.”
Ralph slowly descends from the ladder and faces the minions. They hand him the codpiece and watch in amazement as he slips into it. A perfect fit! “Voila! The Prince has been found!”
Ralph is whisked away forthwith to Cinderella in a golden coach and they are married in a lavish non-denominational ceremony. No more apricot picking for our dear Ralphie.
The lovely Cinderella asks no more of him than that he be faithful, submissive, and beautiful forever—and that he satisfy her every sexual desire while at the same time, of course, showering her with dark chocolate!
* * *
Rosie Sorenson is an award-wining writer whose work has appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the San Francisco Chronicle, the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review, and other publications. Her new photo essay book, They Had Me at Meow: Tails of Love from the Homeless Cats of Buster Hollow, is about her thirteen years of loving and being loved by a colony of smart, funny feral cats. To learn more and to purchase the book, please visit her website: www.theyhadmeatmeow.com.

Fire Training

I’ve been attracted to fire from an early age, when dad caught me “mowing” the lawn with a blowtorch.
“I don’t care if it is a controlled burn; you get your butt inside.”
Only recently, when firemen trained in my area, did I learn what dad already knew: Fire is evil.
Training took place at five houses condemned to burn because they were built sometime during the Mesozoic Era. The battalion chief, who oversaw the drill with a stoic air, Constantine at war, said something about PSI, GPM, NFL. From all accounts, they’d be burning things.
The men paired off for assignments: ventilation, support, and—gulp—lying down inside a house WHILE IT BURNED! That person was properly called the “dummy.” So it goes.
The captain’s face turned grim: “It is not macho when someone melts their helmet. Injuries do not impress me. I want you on your bellies.”
You can see why Prometheus, having stolen fire from the gods, was sentenced to have his liver eaten out daily while Mariah Carey played in the background. And why did Prometheus take the blame when, in the same book, we see fire-breathing dragons? I hate plot holes.
Some years later the hippies would set fire to just about everything: draft cards, bras, dolls, several metric tons of controlled flora.
And let’s not forget the Keebler Elves Incident of ‘98: “I don’t know what we were thinking, baking inside a tree!”
Zeus had seen it all coming.
Back at our drill, Constantine praised the men who had worked overtime to prep the location, and they all marched off to their posts. I made like a tree and stood there.
After 30 minutes of bullhorn, they finally got to the good part: “Fire in the hole!”
I plugged my ears for an explosion while the Ignition Group calmly walked inside and dropped a flame on the “class A combustibles”—haystacks, plywood, U.S. currency.
I wonder if an incense factory has ever burned down. Could you see the eleven o’clock news? “And while this fire has caused millions of dollars in damage, the city smells terrific!”
Captain Phil waved me over to House Three. I looked around to make sure he wasn’t crazy. Yes, he nodded, come on up. Did I mention that the house next-door was on fire? I climbed the ladder with that giddy feeling you get on your first field trip, only this blew away the post office.
Across the street, commoners gathered like moths at Lamps Plus. The fire truck blasted three times: last call to get the hell out. I took in the blaze a moment longer, knowing I would never again, with any luck, be so close. The dragon crackled and hissed, spitting cinders our way.
“Once it gets like that,” said Phil, “we just surround and drown. It’s all over.”
Until then, I always imagined that I could run into a burning house and save someone’s life. Now I’m not so sure. I would at least have to know what kind of person it is. See a resume or something.
The firemen de-sooted over Gatorade and smeared charcoal on their faces every time they wiped. You have to admire people who, for our safety, put themselves in a position to die regardless of their plans for the rest of the day.
Constantine applauded his troops for a job well done. A few stayed behind to babysit the hot spots, which could smolder for a week if left unattended. Don’t worry, dad. It’s a controlled burn.
* * *
Jason Love is an award-winning humor columnist, stand-up comedian, and author of “Snapshots: The Big Picture,” available at Amazon.com. Check out more of his work at www.jasonlove.com.

Hits for Aging Baby Boomers

Some of the artists of the 60’s and 70’s are revising their hits with new lyrics to accommodate aging baby boomers.
They include:
Herman’s Hermits—Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Walker
Ringo Starr—I Get By With a Little Help from Depends
The Bee Gees—How Can You Mend a Broken Hip
Bobby Darin—Splish, Splash, I Was Havin’ a Flash
Roberta Flack—The First Time Ever I Forgot Your Face
Johnny Nash—I Can’t See Clearly Now
Paul Simon—Fifty Ways to Lose Your Liver
The Commodores—Once, Twice, Three Times to the Bathroom
Marvin Gaye—Heard It Through the Grape Nuts
Procol Harem—A Whiter Shade of Hair
Leo Sayer—You Make Me Feel Like Napping
The Temptations—Papa’s Got a Kidney Stone
Abba—Denture Queen
Helen Reddy—I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore
Leslie Gore—It’s My Procedure, and I’ll Cry If I Want To
And my favorite:
Willie Nelson—On the Commode Again

Bailouts Explained

Young Chuck in Montana bought a horse from a farmer for $100. The farmer agreed to deliver the horse the next day. The next day he drove up and said, “Sorry, son, but I have some bad news. The horse died.”
Chuck replied, “Well, then, just give me my money back.”
The farmer said, “Can’t do that. I went and spent it already.”
Chuck said, “Ok, then, just bring me the dead horse.”
The farmer asked, “What ya gonna do with him?”
Chuck said, “I’m going to raffle him off.”
The farmer said, “You can’t raffle off a dead horse!”
Chuck said, “Sure I can. Watch me. I just won’t tell any body he’s dead.”
A month later, the farmer met up with Chuck and asked, “What happened with that dead horse?”
Chuck said, “I raffled him off. I sold 500 tickets at two dollars apiece and made a profit of $998.”
The farmer said, “Didn’t anyone complain?”
Chuck said, “Just the guy who won. So I gave him his two dollars back.”
Chuck now works for the government. He was the one who figured out how to “bail us out.”

Comments Made in the Year 1955 (Only 53 Years Ago!)

“I’ll tell you one thing, if things keep going the way they are, it’s going to be impossible to buy a week’s groceries for $20.”
“Have you seen the new cars coming out next year? It won’t be long before $2,000 will only buy a used one.”
“If cigarettes keep going up in price, I’m going to quit. Twenty-five cents a pack is ridiculous.”
“Did you hear the post office is thinking about charging 10 cents just to mail a letter?”
“If they raise the minimum wage to $1.00, nobody will be able to hire outside help at the store.”
“When I first started driving, who would have thought gas would someday cost 29 cents a gallon? Guess we’d be better off leaving the car in the garage.”
“I’m afraid to send my kids to the movies anymore. Ever since they let Clark Gable get by with saying “damn” in “Gone With The Wind,” it seems every new movie has either “hell” or “damn” in it.”
“I read the other day where some scientist thinks it’s possible to put a man on the moon by the end of the century. They even have some fellows they call astronauts preparing for it down in Texas.”
“Did you see where some baseball player just signed a contract for $75,000 a year just to play ball? It wouldn’t surprise me if someday they’ll be making more than the President.”
“I never thought I’d see the day all our kitchen appliances would be electric. They’re even making electric typewriters now.”
“It’s too bad things are so tough nowadays. I see where a few married women are having to work to make ends meet.”
“It won’t be long before young couples are going to have to hire someone to watch their kids so they can both work.”
“I’m afraid the Volkswagen car is going to open the door to a whole lot of foreign business.”
“Thank goodness I won’t live to see the day when the Government takes half our income in taxes. I sometimes wonder if we’re electing the best people to government.”
“The drive-in restaurant is convenient in nice weather, but I seriously doubt they will ever catch on.”
“There is no sense going on short trips anymore for a weekend. It costs nearly $15 a night to stay in a hotel.”
“No one can afford to be sick anymore. At $35 a day in the hospital, it’s too rich for my blood.”
“If they think I’ll pay 50 cents for a hair cut, forget it.”

Gentle Thoughts for Today

When I’m feeling down, I like to whistle. It makes the neighbor’s dog run to the end of his chain and gag himself.
A penny saved is a government oversight.
The real art of conversation is not only to say the right thing at the right time, but also to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.
The older you get, the tougher it is to lose weight, because by then your body and your fat have gotten to be really good friends.
The easiest way to find something lost around the house is to buy a replacement.
He who hesitates is probably right.
Did you ever notice that the Roman Numerals for forty (40) are “XL”?
If you think there is good in everybody, you haven’t met everybody.
If you can smile when things go wrong, you have someone in mind to blame.
The sole purpose of a child’s middle name is so he can tell when he’s really in trouble.
There’s always a lot to be thankful for if you take time to look for it. For example, I am sitting here thinking how nice it is that wrinkles don’t hurt.
Did you ever notice that when you put the two words “The” and “IRS” together, it spells “Theirs”?
Eventually you will reach a point when you stop lying about your age and start bragging about it.
The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.
Some people try to turn back their odometers. Not me. I want people to know why I look this way. I’ve traveled a long way and some of the roads weren’t paved.
When you are dissatisfied and would like to go back to youth, think of Algebra.
You know you are getting old when everything either dries up or leaks.
One of the many things no one tells you about aging is that it is such a nice change from being young.
Being young is beautiful, but being old is comfortable.
First you forget names, then you forget faces. Then you forget to pull up your zipper. It’s worse when you forget to pull it down.
Long ago when men cursed and beat the ground with sticks, it was called witchcraft. Today, it’s called golf.
Lord, keep your arm around my shoulder and your hand over my mouth. Amen.

Famous and Infamous Quotes

Sometimes, when I look at my children, I say to myself, “Lillian, you should have remained a virgin.”
—Lillian Carter (mother of Jimmy Carter)
I had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: “No good in a bed, but fine against a wall.”
—Eleanor Roosevelt
Last week, I stated this woman was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. I have since been visited by her sister, and now wish to withdraw that statement.
—Mark Twain
The secret of a good sermon is to have a good beginning and a good ending; and to have the two as close together as possible.
—George Burns
Santa Claus has the right idea. Visit people only once a year.
—Victor Borge
Be careful about reading health books. You may die of a misprint.
—Mark Twain
By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.
—Socrates
I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury.
—Groucho Marx
My wife has a slight impediment in her speech. Every now and then she stops to breathe.
—Jimmy Durante
I have never hated a man enough to give his diamonds back.
—Zsa Zsa Gabor
Only Irish coffee provides in a single glass all four essential food groups: alcohol, caffeine, sugar, and fat.
—Alex Levine
My luck is so bad that if I bought a cemetery, people would stop dying.
—Rodney Dangerfield
Money can’t buy you happiness. But it does bring you a more pleasant form of misery.
—Spike Milligan
Until I was thirteen, I thought my name was Shut Up.
—Joe Namath
I don’t feel old. I don’t feel anything until noon. Then it’s time for my nap.
—Bob Hope
I never drink water because of the disgusting things that fish do in it.
—W. C. Fields
We could certainly slow the aging process down if it had to work its way through Congress.
—Will Rogers
Don’t worry about avoiding temptation. As you grow older, it will avoid you.
—Winston Churchill
Maybe it’s true that life begins at fifty. But everything else starts to wear out, fall out, or spread out.
—Phyllis Diller
By the time a man is wise enough to watch his step, he’s too old to go anywhere.
—Billy Crystal

Dear Will,
I’m thinking of making a New Year’s resolution this year that will really make a difference in my life. But I’m coming up short with ideas.
You see, I can’t really think of anything about me that needs changing. I pretty much have my act together. But I know I’m probably not perfect because no one is. At least that’s what everyone says all the time. (Please note that I have never said that.)
Could you help me figure out a New Year’s resolution so I can put a little extra polish and shine on my life?
Thanks, Will, you’re the best.
Signed,
Challenged to Improve… in Carmel

Dear Challenged to Improve… in Carmel,
OK, this is a code red emergency, Carmel. Quarantine may be warranted here in order to prevent massive numbers of Foolish Times readers from becoming violently ill.
A New Year’s resolution is certainly in order and should be made ASAP. My first instinct is that it should be something like… “I vow to completely change everything about myself starting the day before yesterday.”
However, there is a slight possibility that the sort of awe-inspiring ego inflation you are currently experiencing is not quite as bad as it looks. It may be just a temporary phenomenon.
In that case, it is most likely a simple, less severe compensatory condition caused by a preceding period of obsessive self-doubt from which you simply need a break.
If that’s what’s happening here, Carmel, then I would say a little harmless grandiosity and deluded self image might not be so bad. Maybe it could even be healthy. But I would recommend a little more creativity. It could enhance the whole process.
What could be the harm in, let’s say, thinking for awhile that you’re the president of the United States or something like that? As long as you keep it more or less to yourself I don’t have a problem with it.
It’s quite a nice little all-natural chemical rush feeling, that kind of power, Carmel. Who cares if it’s true or not? It doesn’t matter. Your body doesn’t know the difference. You’re the only real president as far as it’s concerned.
Or, spending a little time as a Greek god or goddess is also a good lift. Get ready for some residual benefits in the way of some awesome tingling in both your temples and your loins if you go there, Carmel.
I hope you’re paying attention to what I’m telling you here, Carmel. Don’t be some little fraidy cat when it comes to your imagination. It’s really all you’ve got if you think about it.
But then, reading your question again… it worries me, Carmel. This cry for help in finding anything wrong with you… it’s pretty serious. I’m afraid if you don’t do something about it right away, it could lead to a deadly outbreak of Ohpleaseitis that could wipe out millions.
You need to figure out a way to come back down to earth and resume more rational levels of sublimated self-loathing and guilt that most properly acculturated people live with every day, and in fact build their lives upon.
Perhaps you should consider joining a support group for closet underdogs. Not only could you get the help you need but you could probably also connect with some pretty big people.
Just make sure you wear enough bling to the first meeting. You don’t want to give off a first impression of pretense by dressing down. You’re going to need these people; don’t insult them by showing progress on the first date.
Any hint of humility you portray at this point could blow up in your face. This is not the time to reveal any earthbound tendencies toward personal enlightenment or self-truth.
And for god sakes keep your nose up, Carmel. You will be faced with some fierce competition, so you need to hold your ground. Hmm, maybe we’ve hit on something here. How about this for a resolution:
Before the year 2009 is out, you will undergo a little plastic surgery; a rhinoplasty that will permanently place your nose to a fixed and prominent upright position. This should leave you feeling quite polished, Carmel.
OK, I think that’s all I have for you on this one. I just read your question again and I think I may be coming down with something.

Need good solid bogus advice or special answers to questionable questions? Will Fargo may be reached at <WillFargo@foolishtimes.net>

You know who you are. Every morning you pull up next door to pick up my neighbor for work. But instead of getting out of the car and ringing his doorbell, you sit there and lay on the horn. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
Such a lovely sound! I look forward to it every day. How else would I know how early in the morning it was if you weren’t sitting out there blaring your horn repeatedly like an easily amused moron? HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. How fun! HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
My neighbor knows you’re coming to pick him up. But for some reason he’s never out there. HONNNNKKKK. So he must enjoy the sound too. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. He must consider it one of the day’s blessings, like the sound of a child laughing or a kitten mewing. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
Of course, you could get out of your car and ring the doorbell. You’ve heard of doorbells, right? They don’t make a HONNNNKKKK sound, but they’re still pretty fascinating. They make a lovely little note that can only be heard inside a house. It’s more of a private sound between you and your friend. Some would say it’s more considerate than sitting out there in your car and HONNNNKKKK laying on the horn like a HONNNNKKKK idiot.
By the way, you do know that the car horn is supposed to be used for emergencies, right? Not for HONNNNKKKKing to let people know you’re too lazy to get out of the car and ring a doorbell.
Don’t you enjoy all the HONNNNKKKKs going on in this piece? Isn’t it lovely and HONNNNKKKK beautiful to hear all these HONNNNKKKKs going on when you’re HONNNNKKKK trying to read? HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
Imagine how lovely it is when you’re trying to sleep! HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
If you love it so much, you should HONNNNKKKK make yourself a relaxation CD full of HONNNNKKKK HONNNNKKKK HONNNNKKKKs to put yourself to sleep at night. Why don’t you do that? Oh, that’s right. Because it’s annoying. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
In fact, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d find irritating HONNNNKKKK if someone were doing it to you. Why, if it were you, you’d probably call the police, wouldn’t you? HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
But nobody’s doing it to you, and you don’t care about anyone else, right? So HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
Hey, I’m glad to hear you HONNNNKKKKing every day, because it reminds me of the lack of common courtesy most people have. You illustrate the lost concept of thinking of others besides yourself. For example, right now, I’m thinking of you. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK. HONNNNKKKK.
I hope you keep it up, I really HONNNNKKKK do. Because one of these HONNNNKKKK days I’m going to call the police. And when they don’t show up, I’m going to come out there and tell you to go HONNNNKKKK yourself. Heck, I might even HONNNNKKKK you right in the HONNNNKKKK.
And boy. That will feel HONNNNKKKKing good.