Three days without COFFEE! No need to panic! “Café 316” opens in eight minutes and all will be right with the world!

The Unknown Cartoonist is not MIA, just misplaced!

Gotta go!

Don’t Forget The Advertisers!

It’s the month of ghosts and goblins and witches and the World Series and—ahem. Sorry, got sidetracked. And vampires and werewolves. Speaking of werewolves, what’s the deal with Tyler, anyway? Find out in “Treatment,” a humorous horror story by best-selling author J.A. Konrath, author of the Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thrillers (most recently Cherry Bomb). We’re delighted to feature Mr. Konrath’s work in our pages. (Be sure to visit his website, www.jakonrath.com, to purchase books, download freebies, and learn about writing, publishing, and marketing your work.) We also welcome newcomer Denise Aisling, whose “Don’t Hijack My Halloween” is her first published piece. Other terrifying topics include the home haircut; a man who must replace the faucet in the family bathroom; limburger-garlic morning breath; the 100 billion bacteria living, partying, and reproducing on your body at this very moment; and the stereo that wouldn’t die. The horror! The horror!

“The Unshaven”: A man with a skimpy beard (Keanu Reeves) tries the rugged look, horrifying everyone he meets.

“House of Shadows”: A house grows ever darker as a husband puts off his lightbulb-changing duties. Based on true events.

“Living Hell”: Two people fall in love. Then tragedy strikes—they get married.

“I’ve Become My Mother”: A woman becomes her mother.

“The Kincaid Code”: Two detectives follow a trail of clues in a series of paintings, only to discover that America’s most popular artist is, in fact, a marketing genius.

“The Bus”: A man whose car is in the shop must rely on public transportation. Based on true events.

“Motel Hell”: A family traveling to Walt Disney World checks into a motel for the night, only to discover that the cable is out and they must talk to one another.

“House of Secrets”: A woman discovers that her husband has been using her eyebrow tweezers to pluck his nose hairs. What else doesn’t she know?

“Carnival of Lost Souls”: A man goes on a Carnival cruise ship vacation, and is bedeviled by empty, parrotlike conversation for days.

“The New Hire”: A college graduate is hired by a prestigious firm and discovers, to her horror, that they expect her to do actual work.

“Hummer 2: Buyer’s Remorse”: A man purchases a Hummer. Then gas prices top four dollars a gallon.

“When a Stranger Calls”: A man is tormented by telemarketers, even after he signs the National “Do Not Call” Registry.

“Britney’s Revenge”: A man who can’t get a pop tune out of his head goes gradually insane. Nobody cares.

“Children of the Corn”: An ex-Vaudeville star has all the children in the village repeating his cornball jokes until somebody goes seriously nuts.

“The Diet”: A teenager follows a new “Fad Diet” in a magazine, only to discover that, because of a typo, it is actually a “Fat Diet.” Can she get an appointment with her liposuctionist (i.e., her family physician) in time for prom?

“The Game”: An expatriate returns to America, only to discover that his country’s national pastime has become a drug-fueled mockery of home-run derbies, parks named for corporations, and grown men trampling kids to grab souvenirs they can sell on eBay. Fantasy.

“The Doctor”: A Ph.D. has a dark night of the soul when he realizes that he can converse for hours about the sex life of fire ants, but cannot feed a parking meter.

“The Conversation”: When her cell phone minutes run out, a girl comes to realize that she has been kidnapped and held hostage in the middle of nowhere for a week.

“The Accidental Exterminator”: A kindergarten teacher takes her students to a bounce house down the street, only to discover, too late, that it is actually a residence tented for termite extermination.

“The Haunted Skirt”: A woman buys a secondhand skirt and becomes possessed by its former owner’s penchant for tacky accessories.

“The Haunting”: A man buys a 700-square-foot house in Pacific Grove, California for a million dollars, and is haunted by what an idiot he is.

I’m a big fan of scientific knowledge, but there is one thing I would rather not know—namely that on the nineteen square feet of skin that covers my body, there are roughly 100 billion bacteria living, partying, and reproducing, all without my permission.

According to an article in the May 29th edition of the Los Angeles Times, researchers at the National Institutes of Health (NIH), who have been studying the genes of bacteria, “found that more than half [of the bacteria] belonged to one of three big groups that made them a cousin either of a bacterium that causes acne, diphtheria, or Staphylococcus aureus, the culprit behind many dangerous antibiotic-resistant infections.” Eww! Furthermore, some bacteria prefer living on the forearm, others in the armpit, the nose, etc. They apparently staked out their territories long ago. One can only imagine a scenario in which, like the Crips and the Bloods, they engaged in turf wars.

“I want the armpit,” says Diphtheria.

“No,” says, Staph, “I was here first, it’s all mine.”

“Well, why do you always get the good parts?”

However this conflict went down, the fact is that for too long they have been occupying my precious epidermis without my permission. You talk about taxation without representation; this is inhabitation without authorization. This is prime real estate here, and I think it’s high time they pay up.

“So, Staph, I hear you wanna build a shack on my forearm. That will cost you $5,000. And, you, Dip-Boy, the nose goes for fifteen grand. If you don’t like it, you can go live in the bellybutton like the other low-rent bacteria, but don’t come crying to me that you have no view, OK? You get what you pay for, you know what I mean?”

You may consider these prices to be too high, but think about it. These gangs are not going to just stay put, are they? No, they’re gonna mess around and try to roust out their neighbors until they win the patch of integument they want. There’s just no living in harmony for these guys.

We’re going to need that money for a United Nations of Bacteria (UNB) to step in and settle these epidermal disputes, and when that fails, and an all-out war has ensued, we’ll have to set up a Truth and Reconciliation Commission to calm things down and start over. We’ll need an Immigration program, too, and identity cards to make sure that foreign bacteria don’t try to muscle in. You know how those Prevotellas and those Rhodoccocci are when they get worked up.

And what exactly do we get in exchange for all this frenzied activity? We. Don’t. Know. That’s what the NIH is trying to find out, but until they do, the UNB must establish some sort of Geneva Conventions because I wouldn’t put it past the Zimmermanellas to invade the groin under the pretext of looking for “weapons of rash dessication.” They are THAT kind of nasty. Remember the athlete’s foot you had so bad in third grade that you couldn’t walk? Well, how would you like that all over your you-know-what? I didn’t think so.

All of this makes my head spin, leaving me to wonder, “Why can’t we all just get along?”

* * *

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.

“It all goes back to the time I was bitten by that werewolf.”

Dr. Booster’s pencil paused for a moment on his notepad, having only written a ‘w.’

“A werewolf?”

Tyler nodded. Booster appraised the teenager: pimples, lanky, hair a bit too long for the current style. The product of a well-to-do suburban couple.

“This is the reason your grades have gone down?”

“Yeah. Instead of studying at night, I roam the neighborhood, eating squirrels.”

“I see… And how do squirrels taste, Tyler?”

“They go down dry.”

Booster wrote ‘active imagination’ on his pad.

“What makes you say you were bitten by a werewolf?”

“Because I was.”

“When did this happen?”

Tyler scratched at the pubescent hairs on his chin. “Two weeks ago. I was out at night, burying this body…”

“Burying a body?”

The boy nodded.

“Tyler, for therapy to work, we have to be honest with each other.”

“I’m being honest, Dr. Booster.”

Booster made his mouth into a tight line and wrote ‘uncooperative’ on his pad.

“Fine, Tyler. Whose body were you burying?”

“It was Crazy Harold. He was a wino that hung out in the alley behind the liquor store on Kedzie.”

“And why were you burying him?”

Tyler furrowed his brow. “I had to get rid of it. I didn’t think digging a grave would be necessary. I thought they disintegrated after getting a stake in the heart.”

Booster frowned. “Crazy Harold was a vampire?”

Tyler shifted on the couch to look at him. “You knew? Shouldn’t they turn into dust when you kill them?”

Booster glanced at the diplomas on his wall. Eight years of education, for this.

“So you’re saying you hammered a stake into Crazy Harold—”

“It was actually a broken broom handle.”

“—and then buried him.”

“In the field behind the house. And just when I finished, that’s when the werewolf got me.” Tyler lifted up his right leg and hiked up his pants. Above the sock was a raised pink scar, squiggly like an earthworm.

“That’s the bite mark?”

Tyler nodded.

“It looks old, Tyler.”

“It healed fast.”

“Your mother told me you got that scar when you were nine years old. You fell off your bike.”

Tyler blinked, then rolled his pants leg back down.

“Mom’s full of sh.’t.”

Booster wrote ‘animosity towards mother’ in his pad.

“Why do you say that, Tyler? Your mother is the one who recommended therapy, isn’t she? It seems as if she wants to help.”

“She’s not my real mother. Her and Dad were replaced by aliens.”

“Aliens?”

“They killed my parents, replaced them with duplicates. They look and sound the same, but they’re actually from another planet. I caught them, once, in their bedroom.”

Booster raised an eyebrow. “Making love?”

“Contacting the mother ship. They’re planning a full-scale invasion of earth. But I thought you wanted to know about the werewolf.”

Booster pursed his lips. WWSFD? He appealed to the picture of Sigmund hanging above the fireplace. The picture offered no answers.

“Tyler, with your consent, I’d like to try some hypnotherapy. Have you ever been hypnotized?”

“No.”

Booster dimmed the lights and sat alongside the couch. He held his pencil in front of Tyler’s face at eye level.

“Take a deep breath, then let it out. Focus on the pencil…”

It took a few minutes to bring Tyler to a state of susceptible relaxation.

“Can you hear me, Tyler?”

“Yes.”

The boy’s jaw was slack, and a thin line of drool escaped the corner of his mouth. Booster was surprised at the child’s halitosis—perhaps he had been eating squirrels after all.

“I’d like you to remember back a few weeks, when you told me about burying Crazy Harold.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me what you see.”

“It’s cold. There are a lot of rocks in the dirt, and the shovel won’t go in very far.”

Booster used his pen light to check Tyler’s pupils. Slow response. The child was under.

“What were you digging?”

“Grave. For the vampire.”

Booster frowned. He’d studied cases of patients lying under hypnosis, but had never had one on his couch. “What about the werewolf?”

“Came out of the field. It was big, had red eyes, walked on two legs.”

“And it bit you?”

“Yeah. I thought it was going to kill me, but Runs Like Stallion saved me.”

“Runs Like Stallion?”

“He’s a ghost of a Sioux brave. The field is an old Indian burial ground.”

Booster decided he’d had enough. He wrote ‘treatment’ in his notebook and went over to his desk, unlocking the top drawer. The plastic case practically leapt up at him. He took it over to Tyler.

“Tyler, your parents are tired of these stories.”

“My parents are dead.”

“No, Tyler. They aren’t dead. They care about you. That’s why they brought you to me.”

Booster opened the case. The gnerlock blinked its three eyes and crawled into Booster’s hand. It would enter Tyler’s mouth and burrow up into his brain, taking over his body.

“Soon, it will all be better. You’ll have no more worries. You’re going to be a host, Tyler, for the new dominant species on this planet. Are you scared?”

“No.”

“Open your mouth, Tyler.”

Tyler stretched his mouth wide.

Wider than humanly possible, crammed with sharp teeth.

The gnerlock nesting in Dr. Booster’s brain crawled out through his neck after the wolf decapitated the host body.

Its eleven legs beelined for the door, antennae waving hysterically, telepathically cursing that quack Freud.

Halfway there, a green ghostly foot came down on its oblong head, smashing it into the carpeting.

The Indian gave the wolf a thumbs-up, but Tyler was already leaping out the window, eyes locked on a juicy squirrel in the grass below.

* * *

J.A. Konrath is the author of six Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels thrillers, this latest of which is Cherry Bomb. His books combine hair-raising scares and suspense with laugh-out-loud comedy. Under the name Jack Kilborn, Joe published the horror novel Afraid this year. Check out his website at www.jakonrath.com.

Where, oh, where do they all come from? I work during the week, and presumed that everyone else did too. From the looks of the Interstate in the morning going into the city, the whole world commutes to downtown.

Imagine my surprise the other day when I took a day off work and had to make a trip to the local Wal-Mart. Everyone will be at work, I thought. The place will be empty. I’ll park at the front and run in and grab what I need in no time.

Wrong, wrong, oh, so wrong! The place was packed! It was almost as bad as it is on Saturday.

I was off work because I had a sick daughter. They can’t all have sick daughters! What’s their excuse? Who are these people and why are they not at work?

Well, I suppose some of them might be retired. That could explain the older folks that I saw. Really, it didn’t seem as if I saw that many seniors, though. Who are the rest of them?

Could they be women who don’t work outside the home? Housewives? But 50% of all women do work. Surely the entire population of the world that does not work could not have decided to come to Wal-Mart at the same time.

Maybe these people were on vacation? That’s not likely. Why would you spend your vacation at Wal-Mart? It’s not like it’s Disney World.

Could they be home from work because they’re sick? If you’re sick, why aren’t you at home in bed?

Who are these people?

I suppose not everyone in the world works a 9-5 job. Some people work shifts and are off during the day. But at least a third of the shift workers are sleeping during the day. That means only one-third of them could even think about going to Wal-Mart at that hour.

Maybe it is people who ARE working, or are supposed to be. Maybe they have jobs flexible enough to allow them to shop while at work. Must be nice. Hope they don’t run into their boss or they will have plenty of time to shop—maybe more than they want.

Speaking of which, I suppose some people are unemployed. I know the unemployment rate is higher than ever. Even if you are unemployed and don’t have any money, I suppose you have to buy a few things.

Some people are disabled and cannot work. I see them riding around in three-wheel carts. A few might be on welfare or in some sort of government program that provides support too. Some could be college students who are not in class all day.

Some people are self-employed and can do what they want to do. However, unless they are buying something for the business, I still need to question their motivation for shopping instead of working.

Maybe they are all independently wealthy and don’t have to work. Yeah, right, and that’s why they are at Wal-Mart instead of Neiman Marcus.

Now that I think of it, someone has to be shopping during the day or else the stores would be closed. It must be an assortment of people who keep the stores almost as crammed during the day as they are on the weekend.

I just had the idea that no one would be there because I am never home to see the day people, those who do not have to cram living into the weekend.

The shock of it all.

There is life out there while I’m at work. The world goes right on without me at a rip-snorting pace. They don’t know I’m elsewhere slaving away and don’t even miss me. They go right on living as if I don’t exist.

Come to think of it, I don’t miss them either.

* * *

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss

www.humorcolumnist.com

Having never kept an actual journal, Mollen writes these columns in retrospect. For each column, he chooses a different day in his lifetime, and writes about it as though it were today. A particular entry may be about a day last week, or Halloween 1980, or the day he was born. Some of you may be asking, “But how would he have been able to write a journal entry on the day he was born?” To you, Mollen says: “Lighten up. It’s a humor column.”

Comedy Blackout at Friendly’s

Journal entry: July 8, 1989 (age 20)

Today was the hottest day of the summer, and the Friendly’s Restaurant on the Vestal Parkway was jammed. I was manning my usual station at the cash register, where I act as head cashier and host. I say “manning,” despite the fact that I am forced to stand in front of a large sign that says, “Welcome! Hostess will seat you.”

The heat of a summer Saturday night brought out a surly mob of Fribble addicts. Our maximum capacity is 75 people, so the line at the door took on the character of the outside of Studio 54, circa 1978. Outfits were judged, names were dropped, and money was exchanged. This was the place to be tonight.

But the wait in the buggy dampness soured the customers’ moods before they sat down. As I seated each party, my corporate pleasantries were met with a stony silence. Occasionally, I caught a muttered “wassup,” but most people just dispensed with formalities and started wordlessly pointing at pictures of brownie sundaes, their mouths open in a state of heat-exhausted anticipation.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

The entire parkway was lost in a blackout. It was 9:30 p.m., so the restaurant was now completely dark. For several minutes, a hush fell over the patrons. People were whispering, as though they were up past their bedtime at a sleepover. One patron was enjoying his hot fudge sundae a bit too audibly, leading to murmurs about manners, barnyards and feedbags. But the prevailing sound was silence. No one seemed to know what the proper etiquette is when you are in a crowded public place that has unexpectedly gone completely black.

When the lights finally came back on, the silence held. Realizing that I was the only person in the room who was standing, I suddenly felt very conspicuous. With the eyes of a hundred strangers on me, I instinctively looked down at my chest, threw up my arms, and yelled, “MY JEWELS! They’ve been stolen!”

Having seen many Batman episodes and Charlie Chan movies, it seemed like the thing to do. But the deepening silence in the room told me otherwise. A few people looked at me quizzically, and slowly everyone turned their attention back to their waffle cones. Hot fudge guy returned his face to the bottom of his ice cream trough.

I looked to my co-worker and friend, Gretchen Phelps, for some kind of support. If ever a guy needed a sympathy laugh, it was now. She walked past, with her eyebrows raised archly, and said, “Nice one, Tim.”

I was completely alone in a crowded room, wearing a nametag. It’s going to be a long summer.

* * *

Tim Mollen is a syndicated humor columnist. He is also fond of jam. You can contact him or read more of his work at www.timmollen.com.

The other day, I installed a new faucet in the family bathroom. Well, to be quite honest, it wasn’t the other day (singular); it was the other days (plural). It’s safe to assume that Lady Debby didn’t marry me for my handyman abilities. Matter of fact, we can’t even use the “handyman” fantasy during playtime because it’s too much of a stretch even for then. I have my own theory about why my wife married me, but I’m reluctant to ask in fear she would say something like, “I married you because you were a nice guy” or “Because I was desperate and aimed at the slowest-moving target.”

I have always been plagued by the “nice guy” curse. I had a girlfriend once, whose parting words to me were, “You’re such a nice guy. You’re going to make someone a great husband some day.” Ouch. In other words, the only reason I would make a great husband was because I made such a lame boyfriend. She should have just finished me off with a power kick to my groin.

I have a toolbox. That toolbox contains every tool I own—except the specific one I need at any given time—which I know I have, because I remember seeing it in the toolbox when I didn’t need it. The name brand on my tools is very recognizable. They’re quality tools—and they know it. I’m sure they sit restlessly in the toolbox complaining about their lack of use; and even worse, about being used by an unhandyman like me. They probably had big dreams of being owned by a car mechanic or a carpenter.

Guys have a variety of ways to define their manliness. For some, it’s owning a truck. For others, it’s the number of toys they own that require trailers (that have to be towed by a truck). For others, it’s the size of their workshop. I don’t own a truck or toys that require trailers. I don’t even have a workshop. But I do own a toolbox (with arrogant tools).

The struggle I have with doing odd jobs around the house is that I refuse to make a career out of doing them. If it’s a five-minute job, like changing a light bulb, I’ll usually do it after only five nags from Lady Debby. Do you have a method you use to determine the priority of your to-do list? Or more appropriately, does your wife have a method she uses to prioritize your to-do list?

Like most wives, Lady Debby uses the SNW (Standard Nagging Wife) approach. I think if she were to perform a parametric analysis on this, she will likely find that the nagging wife approach is a very ineffective method. There are odd jobs that Lady Debby has been nagging me about for years that will likely never get done. This is because of a little thing I like to call “motivation.” If it’s an easy job, I’ll do it just to end the nagging. But if it’s a really tough job that could potentially alter my life expectancy, I’m likely to suffer with the nagging until I’ve detected the nagging frequency Lady Debby is using, then I tune her out.

I have always thought a better method for my wife to use is the “Negotiating for Favor” method. Let me give you an example of the difference between these two methods.

Nagging Method:

Lady Debby: “Honey, the sink is clogged, can you fix it?”

Dustin: “Yes, dear.”

(Continue watching game. Time passes.)

Lady Debby: “Honey, the sink is still clogged, can you fix it?”

Dustin: “Yes, dear.”

(Continue watching game. Time passes.)

Lady Debby: “Honey, the sink is still clogged, can you fix it?”

Dustin: “Yes, dear.”

(Continue watching game. Time passes.)

Lady Debby: “Honey, the sink is still clogged, can you fix it?”

And so on. Or…

Negotiating for Favor Method:

Lady Debby: “Honey, the sink is clogged. If you play plumber, I’ll play frisky

housewife.”

Dustin: “Let me grab my toolbox.”

See how easy that is? Negotiating for favor is a win/win situation. Especially since it rarely requires any negotiating. All your wife has to do is discover your weakness. Let me further illustrate what I’m talking about.

Lady Debby: “Honey, I’d like you to completely remodel the house. If you do, I’ll let you buy a truck.”

Dustin: “Not a chance.”

Lady Debby: “Honey, I’d like you to completely remodel the house. If you do, I’ll let you buy a toy that requires a trailer that requires a truck.”

Dustin: “I’m not that easy.”

Lady Debby: “Honey, I’d like you to completely remodel the house. If you do, I’ll let you convert your toolbox into a workshop.”

Dustin: “Give it up.”

Lady Debby: “Honey, I’d like you to completely remodel the house. If you do, I’ll let you watch me bathe.”

Dustin: “Where’s my tool belt?”

And by the time I realize that I could have watched her bathe without having to completely remodel the house, I will have already demolished two supporting and one load-bearing wall.

So back to the faucet. I didn’t have anything against the current faucet, but apparently it had done something to fall out of favor with you-know-who. So Lady Debby and I make the pilgrimage to one of these home improvement stores.

You know which stores I’m talking about, don’t you? We used to call them warehouses. It used to be that customers weren’t allowed in warehouses—only employees. If you decided to purchase something bigger than a mailbox, you told the hardware store employee who called a hardware warehouse employee. In five or ten minutes the hardware warehouse employee would magically appear from behind swinging doors with your purchase in tow. He even helped secure it to the top of your car. The reason John Q. Public was not allowed behind the swinging doors was because of something called “forklift traffic.” The fear was that if a customer were to be run over by a forklift, they could be severely injured, killed, or even worse—they (or their next of kin) could sue the store.

Now when you walk into one of these warehouse stores, you immediately become both the hardware store employee and the hardware warehouse employee. This saves the company heaping piles of money, which they in turn pass directly on to…yeah, right. On average, these warehouse hardware stores carry about 45,348,321 items. My problem seems to be that I always need the 45,348,322nd item, which is not available. Sometimes, if I’m living right, I’ll actually be successful in tracking down someone wearing an apron and name tag.

The conversation goes something like this:

Dustin: “I’m looking for a widget adapter.”

Apron Man: “Aisle 2,385.”

Dustin: “I was there three hours ago. I couldn’t find the one I needed.”

This is when I reach into a plastic grocery bag and pull out the old broken-down widget adapter and hand it to Apron Man. Apron Man and I then catch a bus and arrive at aisle 2,385 seventeen minutes later. Apron Man begins comparing the old adapter to the 2,741 adapters on the shelf.

Apron Man: “We don’t carry that particular adapter. I’d suggest you go to your local specialty hardware store. They may carry it.”

Dustin: “I’d like to do that. But they permanently closed their doors three minutes after your grand opening.”

The biggest complaint I have with these warehouse stores is that they cater to women. In the good old days, you’d walk into a hardware store looking for a faucet, and there’d be two or three to choose from. Within fifteen minutes you would have picked out a faucet, paid for it, driven home, and begun the installation process. This was easily accomplished because women never showed an interest in going to hardware stores. It was a guy place. During a typical visit to a hardware store of yesteryear, the hardware store employee helping you would have:

*Allowed you to enjoy an unhealthy dose of second-hand smoke.

*Offered you a cup of dark, bitter, lukewarm coffee in a styrofoam cup.

*Told several off-color jokes.

*Looked at the deck design you sketched on a napkin and given you several pointers that cut your cost and build time in half.

*Told another off-color joke as he loaded the lumber into, and on top of, your station wagon.

Now wives insist on going with their husbands to these warehouse stores because they no longer trust their husbands to make the right selection. They had confidence that we could choose from three faucets, but not 1,384. That’s because guys use the two-criteria decision method. Is it the right size? Is it cheap? Women use a completely different selection method. Is it pretty? Does it match the towels? Does it match the wallpaper? Does it match the shower curtain? What will my friends think of the faucet? Can I use the faucet as a launching point to justify completely remodeling the bathroom? It’s pretty safe to assume that you’ll walk out of there with a significantly more extravagant (and expensive) faucet—and a much happier wife. And in big-picture thinking, that’s a good thing.

So I’m down underneath the bathroom cabinet trying to remove the old faucet. I’ve randomly selected tools from my toolbox, hoping one of them will quit looking at himself in the vanity mirror just long enough to be of some use. Unfortunately, things are not going well. The old faucet is upset with me. As far as he’s concerned, he still does what he is supposed to do. Provide water on demand. But I believe in being honest (especially if it points the blame in someone else’s direction), so I inform him that the lady of the house thinks he’s too old, tarnished, and corroded to be of any use anymore. Then the faucet, being even more brutally honest than me, says, “So why is she keeping you around”?

“Because I’m a nice guy.”

* * *

Check out L. Dustin Twede’s website at www.ldustintwede.com. He can be reached at ddtwede@yahoo.com.

Pillow Talk

I awoke on my back in bed that Saturday morning with an eight-pound weight on my chest. As my eyes came into focus, I noticed Rex perched on my sternum. He struck a regal Sphinx pose: parallel legs outstretched in front, stoic look on the face, and a casual wagging tail. (Historic note—the Sphinx does not have a casual wagging tail.)

As I cleared my throat to speak, I remembered that I’d had heaps of Limburger cheese and several cloves of fresh garlic on my home-made pizza last night. Perhaps my breath would be somewhat revolting to my bed companion. Once, when Kathy “Chesty” McCormack had spent the night and I’d had Limburger Garlic pizza the night before, my morning greeting to her, as she lay in bed moaning from a hellacious hangover, was apparently offensive to her.

As I romantically lilted, “Hey, babe, brace yourself. This will only take a minute or two,” my stinky, cheesey, garlicy breath wafted over to her side of the bed. Evidently, even in her clouded tequila state of mind, the pungent aroma of Limburger and garlic weakened her constitution to the point that she rolled out of bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up on the carpet. That put the kybosh on my romantic intentions. (Barely.)

I cleaned her up and took her home. We finally broke up the night she showed up for my Bastille Day party and got wasted on French absinthe. I found her out on the sidewalk, naked, quoting Shakespeare in Pig Latin to anyone who cared to listen. So much for Chesty. Boy, but she sure could . . . well, I don’t need to go into that here.

So. Rex was on my rib cage staring at me intently. Do I cover my mouth so as not to offend him with my breath, or do I just blast him with it? After all, he eats cat turds and digs up and rolls in dead fish parts when Mr. Hendricks buries them in his yard. So why be dainty with him?

I let loose. “Good morning, Rexie.” He quivered briefly, but quickly recovered from the onslaught of my horrid breath. “Ready for breakfast?” The noxious gasses had taken their toll. Usually he can’t wait for me to feed him, but now, enveloped in a toxic fog, he had apparently lost his appetite.

“Ready for a big bowl of those Bark-Right Kibbles? Maybe a little of my leftover Mexican Three-Alarm Meatloaf?” He started to bob and weave in the fusillade of the repulsive thunderheads of Limburger Garlic nerve gas. He fell off the bed onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up. Just like Chesty. Mercy.

I cleaned him up and sat him back on the bed on my way to the bathroom. I had to fix my breath—the Jehovah’s Witnesses usually stop by on Saturday morning, and I certainly didn’t want them to end up on my porch in the fetal position throwing up all over themselves.

“Be right there, Rexie. Steady yourself. Breathe deeply. I don’t have a brown paper bag to breathe deeply into, but you could breathe deeply into one of my socks. No, forget that. That’s not a good idea in your condition. Let me brush my teeth and gargle and I’ll be right back.” I don’t know if he heard me or not; I didn’t hear any deep breathing.

The brushing didn’t help. The mouthwash didn’t work either. Baking soda! That’s supposed to get rid of smells! I went into the kitchen, got the box of baking soda, tipped back my head, and filled my mouth completely with the white powder. Now that’s a sensation that is hard to describe.

I walked back into the bedroom to check on Rex. Of course the baking soda mixed immediately with my saliva, which turned the baking soda into a mouthful of saline mush.

Rex looked at me. I must have looked like a hamster with my bulging cheeks full of the salty load of baking soda. I had been breathing through my nose, but needed more air. In my gyrations to get more air, I sucked a little down my throat, setting off more sensations that one can only experience with a mouth full of baking soda. The salty glob slid down my esophagus and into my stomach: I needed to get this stuff out of my mouth. Now.

Before I could get to the bathroom to spit it out, I dropped to my knees next to the bed, fell over onto the floor, in the fetal position, and threw up all over myself. Once it was over and I had composed myself, I sat up.

On the edge of the bed was Rex in a regal Sphinx pose, looking at me, casually wagging his tail.

No . . . more . . . Limburger . . . Garlic . . . pizza!

* * *

Tom and / or Rex can be reached at burns100@earthlink.net.

Stereo Type

My neighbor across the street—the one who flies a pirate flag—is playing his music again. The volume is set on eleven.

It’s never good music either; it’s always angry shouting by groups like Death Ass or Vomit. The musicians, who may or may not be on the same song, play extra loud so they can’t hear themselves suck.

My Dominican in-laws call it “white noise.”

The other neighbors don’t seem to mind. That’s because they are several hundred years old and have learned from the news that if you confront people, they will murder you. Besides, the neighbors can always cut their hearing aids.

The racket poses more of a problem if you are, say, TRYING TO WRITE.

Music, like the cell phone, can’t be entrusted to everyone. Too many people suffer from that disease where you mature only one year for every four you’re alive. They may look like average citizens, but they have no concept of Other.

And Vomit kept on screaming.

I considered phoning the police, but they still haven’t shown up from my last call, which went something like this:

“I’d like to report a break-in.”

“Was anything stolen?”

“Yes, my serenity.”

And it went downhill from there. The operator had asked about the volume of the music—in decibels. I told her it was on eleven.

Nothing.

So I made the following argument:

When a neighbor’s music creates waves in my fish bowl, that is too many decibels. What if everyone on my block, in the city, on the planet, played their music like that? It would be worse than global warming: It would be global Vomit.

And she made the following counterargument:

“Aren’t you the guy who had problems with the pirate flag?”

So it goes.

In my town it’s cool for cars to have a System, which is to say enough bass to communicate with aliens. The object, it seems, is to be so obnoxious that girls don’t notice your appearance. Last week a teen drove by “bumping” so loud that it set off a car alarm, which in turn made siren noises like a police car THAT WOULD NEVER ARRIVE.

The part that hurts the lining of my stomach is that everyone’s okay with it. We’re like a bunch of store owners who don’t mind a little shoplifting so long as there’s no conflict.

What could I do but tackle the issue myself?

I parked my car in front of Bill’s house, where, after weighing the options, I laid into my car horn. You’d be surprised at how that calls attention.

Bill appeared surprisingly soon. “You got a problem, man?”

“No,” I shouted over the honking.

He leaned into my window, and the terror made my horn stop. Maybe I had taken this journalism thing too far.

In sweet and tender tones, I explained. “I’m sitting at home with the windows closed, and all I can hear is your music.”

“Looks to me like you’re sitting in your car.”

That joke killed in the third grade.

I said, “If it’s okay for you to play your music that loud, I figured that it would be okay for me to sit here and honk my horn. Musically speaking.”

This seemed to confuse Bill, who withdrew from smelling distance. Having processed the data, he said that if I had an f-ing blank with his g-damn blank, then I’d g-damn f-ing better f g h f s.

On the bright side, he didn’t throw feces.

I apologized for the stunt, adding my intention to perform similar tests across town for a story I’m writing (blatant lie triggered by posttraumatic stress disorder). Sensing fame and fortune, Bill asked when the story would appear. I promised to bring him a copy, praying that he doesn’t find someone to read it to him.

For those of you suffering from neighbor noise, DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. I am an experienced groveler and still only barely escaped with my face. I recommend instead calling the police and, no matter how it hurts, refrain from making smart-ass remarks. It’s only a matter of time before you’ll need them to come and clean up the Vomit.

* * *

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.

Ever face the unthinkable? I imagine it happens at least once in everyone’s life. For me, the unthinkable almost happened the October of my daughter’s first-grade year: I almost lost my Halloween spirit.

I deem this unthinkable because I have always loved Halloween. I don’t mean that I found it amusing or a great way to collect junk food; I mean that I LUUUUVVED it. The thrill continues unabated in spite of the gray hair and crow’s feet, making the reprise of a witch costume easier every year. The source of this affection remains unknown to me, but I see no need to ask questions. I should spend as much time on my child’s costume as my own, but I’m fortunate to have an ingratiating family.

So what almost killed a love so deep? It all began with a well-intentioned trip to the pumpkin patch.

October’s end was around the corner, and we’d yet to have any decent weather for said venture. I had a favorite local farm stand when it came to cider: Westmill Farm. Let the record show that Halloween is the only time I ever throw over a dry martini for apple cider; truer love has never been found. I had to hit Westmill’s for my cider, so I thought we might as well go there for our pumpkins and autumn entertainment.

For a fleeting moment I was overcome with intelligence, and elected to investigate the extent of their offerings. I called Westmill’s and talked with a lady who assured me they had hayrides. They had pumpkin picking. They didn’t just have a maze; they had FOUR mazes: a stone maze, a nautical rope maze, a corn labyrinth (excellent—a MAIZE maze), and a haystack maze. A bag of popcorn came with the price of your admission. Thinking I had just scored the proverbial Halloween coup, I could hear my batwing socks squeaking from my bureau. Then it happened: that sinking moment when one is exposed to the fine print and particulars.

The mazes, she added, were not open during the week; only weekends. This made it tough to wrangle up some Moms and No-Longer-Tots for an after-SCHOOL outing. The mazes and hayrides were not even open to bus groups during the week. (I didn’t have a bus handy, but I just had to know.) These things weren’t even open mid-week in the last week of October. At $8/head, with a peak season of only six weeks, forgive me if the marketing genius of this policy completely escaped me.

The best part was the warmth of the conversation. This Party-On-The-Other-End-Of-The-Line was at least three Krabbie Patties over the limit. She interrupted me incessantly, with a rudeness that would make a DMV agent consider an Insolence Refresher Course. My baser side wanted to say, “You know, where I come from, your pitiful farm would be considered Westmill Garden, OK? Maybe even Westmill Window Box.” (What can I say? Alliteration just jazzes me.) I took the high road on that point, but I did get in a zinger or two before all was said and done. The gods of fair play were smiling upon me; my morning coffee buzz had almost worn off, and my short fuse had me in fine sparring mode.

When I finally succeeded in cutting off her interruptions, I blurted out my final question: “IF I only come with three or four kids, what do you have that they can do?”

“NOTHING,” she said.

“Nothing?” I gasped.

“NOTHING,” she droned.

“They can’t pick pumpkins?”

“NO; that’s part of the hayride. Well, they can pick pumpkins off the lot here at the store,” she graciously offered. Is that like buying clothes off the rack, I wondered? I do that all the time. Sorry, I’m not buying your old generic pumpkins when you refuse to let me pick the Prada ones.

It spiraled down the slippery slope from there. Suffice it to say, we picked our pumpkins elsewhere in first grade. We went back to Arwell Farm, home of happy Halloweens past and a simpler way of life. The hayride was bumpy, but my painkiller saw me through. We picked pumpkins from the field and off the rack. We even hit the wooden sets for picture-taking. How could I have forgotten that little touch? My favorite will always be the Bridezilla with cleavage for which many a woman would kill. I’m still trying to figure that one out—though it looks great on me.

It wasn’t a crisp, bright autumn Friday; it was rainy, cold, and hip-deep with mud. You could feel the breath of November as the sun laid itself to rest. Still, my spirits weren’t dampened; they were born anew, lit from within like my daughter’s carved creations. There’s definitely satisfaction in surviving sabotage.

As for the “lady” at Westmill’s? Rumor has it she’s left a trail of broken Halloween spirits as wide as Smith County itself. But mine will never be counted among them. I may have briefly stumbled once, but in the end, nobody hijacks my Halloween.

Copyright 2009 Denise Aisling

* * *

Denise Aisling is an independent bond trader when she’s not freelance writing, singing with her church choir, or volunteering at her daughter’s grammar school. For Ms. Aisling, writing came by way of evolution: a creative balance to analytical trading, and an emotional outlet for the challenging times in life. She also found it was a great way to make herself laugh.

Editor’s note: As the Limerick Wars of 2009 draw to a close, mainly because the Giants appear to be out of the pennant race, this month’s limerick offerings feature a dialogue of sorts between Gene, Gene, The Limerick Machine and Birdman.

To the Birdman

I’m posing this question to you

because your logic is straight on and true

I send it to you Birdman

Because you are a great wordman

Is a Limerick just an Irish Haiku?

—Gene, Gene, The Limerick Machine

Birdman responds with a haiku and a limerick:

It’s universal

Haiku for those as steady

and gifted as you.

To the Machine

A special fine wordman is Gene

A virtual limerick machine.

He’ll bring in some sass

Then add some class,

Thus his poems are truly Supreme.

—Birdman

And Gene observes:

Being a publisher is tough

And the payoff is not nearly enough

but the stuff I’ve been sending

and the Birdman has been rending

Is really damn good stuff

—Gene, Gene, The Limerick Machine

Hi, friends. My name is Fannie Frugal, and I’m here to answer a few of your questions on how to trim the fat from your budget. Following are some examples of the people I have helped so far. Perhaps these tips might be of help to you too as you attempt to manage your household budget. Or not.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: In an attempt to cut back on our spending, we fired our housekeeper and I am now doing the housework. However, I’m a busy career woman and I don’t have a lot of time to spend cleaning. Can you give me some tips that will save me time? —NO TIME TO CLEAN IN WASHINGTON

DEAR MISS NO TIME: Have I got some great tips for you. First of all, forget housecleaning. It is a waste of time, especially if you have kids. Instead, keep the cleaning supplies sitting beside your front door. Whenever a visitor comes, grab a dust rag and a can of furniture polish before you answer the door. Wave the dust rag around and your visitor will assume that you have been cleaning.

If the same person visits twice in the same week, answer the door with a bottle of window cleaner and a roll of paper towels in your hand. Say something witty like, “Ha-ha-ha, you caught me cleaning again.”

Of course your house will be a pig sty, but you will manage to be at work on time each day, and your visitors will never know the difference. Probably.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: I’ve heard that one can make a lot of money raising and selling birds. So I’ve decided to go into the bird business as a way to make some extra money. I bought two bags of bird seed and sowed them in my garden two weeks ago. I’ve been watering them twice a day but still I see no sign of any bird sprouts. Do you think I got some bad seeds or am I overwatering them? —BRAINY BIRD IDEA

DEAR BIRD BRAIN: I’m guessing it will be a while before they start to grow. And no, I don’t think overwatering is the problem. Did you read the directions on the bird seed bag?

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: To save money, we have stopped taking our dogs to the groomer. While we have saved quite a bit of money by doing this, the dogs are beginning to smell up the house. Do you have any tips to help get rid of pet odors? —STINKY HOUSE IN FRESNO

DEAR STINKY: First of all, perhaps you might want to bathe the dogs yourself. If this isn’t an option, there are several great air fresheners on the market that will help eliminate pet odors. There are sprays, carpet powders, plug-ins, and scented candles. Personally I prefer scented candles. They come in many shapes and scents. My favorite scent is “Baked Apple Pie.” Twenty minutes after lighting one of these candles, your whole house will smell like you’ve just baked a pie with a dog in it.

DEAR MISS FRUGAL: My wife and I have decided to raise our own chickens this year, for the eggs as well as the meat. We bought one hundred baby chicks and plowed up our back yard. What we need to know is should we plant the baby chicks with their heads up or down? —PICKING CHICKENS IN MILWAUKEE

DEAR CHICKEN PICKER: Raising chickens is a very difficult task. In light of this I am sending someone to assist you and your wife with the planting. They will arrive at your house this afternoon wearing white coats and they will bring along jackets with wrap-around sleeves for both you and your wife.

Well, that’s it for today, folks. This is Fanny Frugal saying “Ta-Ta for now.” Remember, haste makes waste and a penny saved is worth its weight in copper.

October birthdays: Your birthday bash gets out of control. Unfortunately, “The Great Pumpkin made me do it” is not a defense that will hold up in court.

ARIES (3/21-4/19): Your annual tradition of the Haunted Maze comes to an end after a neighborhood kid gets lost in all the junk in your garage.

TAURUS (4/20-5/20): Perhaps spending $350 on your Halloween costume was a mistake, especially since it isn’t flame retardant and you’ve been invited to a bonfire.

GEMINI (5/21-6/21): While it’s certainly good to take an interest in many different things, you won’t win first prize at a costume party by dressing up as Frankenstein and Abe Lincoln’s love child.

CANCER (6/22-7/22): Hold off on legally changing your name to “Count Dracula” after drinking spiked punch, even if your great-grandfather did emigrate from Transylvania.

LEO (7/23-8/22): While you like to be the center of attention, there’s good attention and bad attention, and I think you know which kind you’ll get by “casting spells” on your nosy neighbor.

VIRGO (8/23-9/22): The children might not appreciate your need to create order out of chaos by standing on the corner directing trick-or-treat foot traffic.

LIBRA (9/23-10/22): Your attempts to convince trick-or-treaters that “we should all just get along” will fail when you have one candy bar and are faced with ten kids on your doorstep.

SCORPIO (10/23-11/21): Your quest for truth and honesty should not lead you to tell five-year-old trick-or-treaters that their costumes are merely a feeble attempt to hide from their true selves.

SAGITTARIUS (11/22-12/21): You will not derive any great meaning from the experience of eating a whole bag of leftover Three Musketeers bars.

CAPRICORN (12/22-1/19): Although you may view being a ghost at Halloween as meaningless drudgery within a conformist setting, sometimes it’s still the cheapest, fastest costume.

AQUARIUS (1/20-2/18): Don’t plan on a long-term relationship with your date for the costume party—that wart on her nose is real.

PISCES (2/19-3/20): No, dear Pisces, “Bah, humbug” does not apply to Halloween; that’s Christmas.

There are people who treat budgeting like guys treat going to the doctor—it’s not serious until they slip in all the blood. My wife isn’t one of those people. She treats budgeting like she was the doctor, specifically, a proctologist.

Therefore our household runs successfully and happily—I stress that, happily—on 42 cents a month. That’s not what’s left over, the 42 cents is what our budget allows us to spend. It gets kind of tricky at the grocery store.

There is, she’s found, an inexpensive way to get through life. The occasional coupon is nice, as are yard sales, auctions, pawnshops, the 30-minute pizza delivery rule (especially if you’ve given your neighbor’s address then claim you didn’t), regifting, and watching movies by peeping through people’s windows.

OK, so she’s not like that at all, except the coupons, yard sales, auctions, pawnshops, and regifting. I won’t let her read the rest of this, she might get ideas.

But, as much money as she saves buying expired canned goods and bulk asparagus, I’m right now putting a stop to one of her money-saving practices—haircuts.

“I need a haircut,” I said one day—out loud, apparently after experiencing a head injury that made me forget Husband Rule No. 1: Don’t talk, ever—ever. Nodding and mumbling are good enough to get you through most situations in life. “You think you can do it?”

She smiled.

There are only four types of haircuts in our family:

1) My two-year-old daughter’s haircut, which is imaginary. My wife is content to allow my little girl to look like a Sasquatch when she wakes up because cutting her hair would be against some religious tenet I’m not familiar with. I can’t tell you what my daughter looks like, only that I’m sure she’s cute.

2) My four-year-old son’s, who goes to a stylist and gets the kind of haircut girls on The CW programs would squeal over.

3) My wife’s. I can’t complain. No, seriously, I can’t and won’t complain. I’m not that stupid.

4) Mine.

“Sure. I can do it,” she said and, much like a teenage girl at a “Twilight” movie, I cried like a baby. And that was before she started. After the first cut, things got worse; I cried like a Frenchman.

At first glance, the sheep shears (picked up no doubt at a Mennonite garage sale, or barn sale, or wagon sale, or whatever) did a pretty nice job. Oh, sure, I don’t think I’d have gotten a blue ribbon at the fair, but the haircut was passable. My hair was short—really short—but that was fine. And … then I noticed the rest. Damn those mirrors.

“Aaaaaaaaaa,” I screamed.

The area around my ears looked a lot like a European map during a war, and not a particularly popular war at that.

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked in a way that sounded like she had no idea one side of my head was completely bald whereas the other side had a smiley face cut into it.

“My ears.”

“Oh, yeah. I hoped you wouldn’t see that,” she said. “But it’s OK. Those spots are on the side of your head.”

Well, I thought. (I wasn’t going to say anything out loud. She was still holding a sharp object.) Some people are going to look at the side of my head and ask what punk band I’m in. Maybe I should tell them “The Screaming Wussies.”

Early in our relationship—before the marriage, before the kids, before the monthly 42-cent limit on spending—my wife wanted me to give her a nickname. Well, I did. From here on out, regardless of any improvement in hair-cutting skills, regardless of convincing me to ever let her approach me with something sharp ever again, regardless of how drunk I get, she’s not just my wife, she’s The Butcher.

At least my haircut fit into our budget. It was free.

* * *

Jason Offutt is an award-winning humorist who also writes stuff scary enough you’ll wet your pants. You can order Jason’s books on the paranormal, “Darkness Walks: The Shadow People Among Us,” and “Haunted Missouri: A Ghostly Guide to Missouri’s Most Spirited Spots,” at jasonoffuttbooks.blogspot.com.

A blue-haired lady outside of church squinted at the tiny inscription on my dangle earrings. “Oh my, is that a prayer?” she asked, and peered closer. “Let me guess, a sacred quote?” Um, not exactly. They’re old rabies tags, bless Muffin’s soul.

At this writing, our leaders continue to duke it out over health care reform: accessibility, cost, competition, blah blah blah. Yo! People! Over here! I have the most bestest answer! Why does no one ever listen to me? Okay, okay, stupid question.

Think. Who do we know that, in minutes, can examine a skin rash and immediately recommend what foods to avoid? Who sells a ten-day dose of antibiotic for $10?? Who will do a total hip transplant for a measley five grand??!! Best of all, who ALWAYS gives free treats??

Yes, my darlings—vets! No, I speak not of our returning warriors, but of the freckled young fella who cured Mew-Mew’s hairball impaction, and the gray-haired gal who sweet-talked Rocky onto the exam table and then…eeek!…neutered him. With a little legislative tweaking we too could enjoy hassle-free, affordable care from skilled providers wearing Porky Pig scrubs! If I’m gonna go rabid in a town hall meeting, I want someone who can treat me later.

Not only do veterinarians offer diverse skills, but we all know they have way better magazines. Ooh, and those grossly cool heartworm posters! In a vet’s office, communication is pretty darn transparent: Sit! Stay! Pay! And everyone agrees it’s gonna hurt big-time when the doc calls for assistance, and in bounces a perky, pony-tailed helper in welding mitts and a face shield.

Why should animals get all the perks? We have a right to take our medications stuffed in specially designed snacks! And no more fumbling with prescription bottles; at last, a loved one can sneak up from behind, restrain you in a fleece throw, and massage your throat till you swallow the blasted pill. Good girrrrrrrrrl!!!!! Lord knows, after abdominal surgery, we all harbor secret fantasies about wearing one of those huge funnel collars. Some of us. I do.

Speaking of stitches, let’s hope vets will learn to take smaller ones and switch to clear thread. Personally, I’m tired of ladling on concealing makeup over the “train track” of coarse black threads jutting from my forehead.

Of course, a vet care option will tweak a few societal norms. To wit, no more humping patients in the waiting room. Yeah, tootsie cakes, this means you! Also, the large platform scale by the front desk has to go. Come to think of it, we’ll need lower exam tables. I don’t know about you, but when vaulting onto slippery stainless steel, I find it increasingly difficult to stick the landing with any grace.

Small animal vets often implant computer chip IDs, which will be invaluable to those of you with memory problems. Such confusion often…uh…what was I saying? And hey, nothing cures the Monday blahs faster than a refreshing flea dip! Don’t you just love that slick, parasite-free tingle??

On the other hand, a large animal vet has some appeal. Imagine how intelligent—not to mention slim—we’ll look to someone who’s been wrestling livestock all day! But frankly, I’m afeared that the moment I spot my doc pulling on those thick, elbow-length rubber gloves, I will FREAK OUT!!

So, I’ve selected a zoo vet—someone adept in treating body lice on primates, and rope burns from the tire swings, and who will remove my unsightly knuckle calluses. The first appointment will be for a chip implant and flea bath. I’m tellin’ ya, this is healthcare we can all agree on…(get ready)…Chips and Dip!!

I almost forgot. As a new patient, I’ll also receive a free 500 lb. bag of Purina Croc Chow! The leg-size kibble comes in either Original Zebra recipe or Capsized Canoeist gourmet blend.

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.

Friendship 2.0

Will you be my friend? That’s the latest question zipping around the Internet these days. No doubt if you have a pulse you have at least heard about Facebook.com. This interesting little website is one of many categorized as a social network. And it seems to be a race to get as many “friends” as possible. For those new to this sort of thing, allow me to clarify a few points to help you better socialize in cyberspace.

The concept of friendship is defined a little looser in the world of Facebook. You see, everyone who views your profile can see exactly how many (and who) you are “friends” with. As a result, the traditional definition of being someone’s friend has changed. I’ve taken the liberty of including a new definition (soon to be included on Wikipedia.com, another discussion entirely) of what I call Friendship 2.0.

Friendship 2.0: Anyone you can find online with whom you can at least remember their first name (or last but not necessarily both), or attended your high school at least one of the years you were there, or the name of your Little League team, or that was in your elementary school class with you, or used to play tennis with your brother’s best friend’s little sister before they moved away to Michigan the year you turned seven.

All of these are appropriate and perfectly acceptable to be added as “friends” on your Facebook profile. In fact, the only exceptions are known felons (unless of course you served time with them or know someone who knows someone who did), real-life pirates (which rarely comes up due to the lack of a reliable Internet connection in the middle of the Atlantic), and ex-girlfriends or boyfriends (whichever you happen to prefer). Adding the latter will undoubtedly be viewed as a desperate attempt to superficially inflate your friend count. And behavior like that just can’t be tolerated.

This online social network is a curious animal indeed. People do all kinds of fun things that were previously impossible on the Internet. Why, just yesterday I got into a food fight with my wife on there. She threw something like some spaghetti at me. Flung a bowl full of oatmeal right at her. It didn’t have much effect, mind you, since it was only virtual oatmeal. The next morning proved much more entertaining when I used the real thing. She seemed really angry. But then I reminded her, “Don’t get mad at me honey. You started it.”

There are, however, a few changes I’d like to see implemented to fully enjoy this newfangled community.

Reject friend requests: A buddy and I were discussing this just yesterday. He was frustrated that he keeps getting friend requests from people he barely knew in high school. Can you believe that? And to make it worse, the only way he could call them out was to accept the request. Otherwise, the only option he had was to ignore it. But this friend likes to speak his mind. He’s also new to Facebook and the protocol involved. So he e-mailed them asking for a way to reject friend requests in style.

Deleting “friends”: Forget about that friend-count nonsense. If someone ticks you off, pull the plug. You can always add them back when you make up. Ignoring someone just doesn’t have the same effect if you can still see their every move on Facebook.

Eliminate “over-posting”: This is a practice I refer to for people who give WAY too many updates about their daily activities. For some reason these are exactly the same people who have absolutely nothing going on in their lives. For the record, I do NOT want a play-by-play of you making a peanut butter sandwich. I’ve made them. It’s not too exciting when I do it either.

Get rid of causes altogether: At first the idea of supporting a cause in a social network seems like a great idea. Then you find out that there are as many causes as there are people and that “supporting” them means clicking the yes button. Another issue is that they can get you into trouble if you aren’t careful. A close friend’s wife sent me a request to join the “support animal rights” group. I gladly accepted with the reply, “I am joining this cause because I believe animals have rights too. The right to be my dinner.” I thought it was funny. I guess I underestimated how important this cause was to her. This was an honest mistake on my part, but removing the “cause” segment of the website would put an end to such tragedies once and for all.

This list is obviously not all-inclusive, but it’s a start. With the right feedback this Internet giant can become something even greater in time. Lots of little web geeks are working tirelessly to make it happen. But the site is utterly useless without us. There is already something like 150 million people on the site and it’s projected to grow to over 5 gazillion by the end of next month.

Yes, things have definitely changed since I was young. Virtually every social action that can be done in real life is now a “reality” on the net. People are dating, doing the dirty, and “hanging out” with their buddies. It’s crazy. I remember when the world used to be much simpler. If you wanted to be friends with someone, you just went out to a movie or something. Or played a round of putt-putt golf. Maybe went outside and threw a baseball in the backyard. You know, something with real live personal interaction. Admittedly, these activities restricted our ability to be super popular. There simply wasn’t enough room in our yard to accommodate 300 people. But then again, I kind of liked it that way.

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