I overheard my wife having a strange conversation on the phone the other day. She was talking with her longtime friend Amy about how she thought purchasing the specially designed doggie couch might be a bit extreme.

“But it’s so cute, Shannon,” Amy said, trying to sway my wife into agreeing it would be a good purchase. Read the rest of this article »

Men are considerably stronger than women, right? That’s what I’ve always thought. Physically speaking, our gender has a leg up on our female companions. It’s a simple matter of biology. Pound for pound, men are just built stronger than women. This is not to suggest there aren’t some women who can out bench press many of the guys I know (myself included).
I’ll admit there are a few women who have actually been blessed at birth with superior physical prowess. And unbeknownst to me, my own mother and loving wife are apparently among the chosen few. Let me explain.
Driving in the car with my mom this afternoon, I made a comment about how much stronger I felt since hitting the gym again.
“Me too,” she concurred.
“Yeah, your muscles will get stronger from weight training,” I replied. “And you seem pretty powerful too . . . for a girl.”
Oops. Wish I could get those last couple of words back. Not a great idea to walk the line of sexism while talking to your mother. It was too late though. The can of worms was already busted wide open.
“What’s that supposed to mean, young man? I was strong enough to go through childbirth three separate times with you boys. Show me a man who can handle that,” she stated firmly.
“True. Not many men would take something that extreme quite so well. But I think that’s more a matter of mental toughness than it is a matter of raw brute force.”
“I guess so,” she reluctantly agreed.
Mom didn’t want to admit it, but she saw where I was coming from. Sure, women of the world have to endure probably the worst physical pain in existence when it comes to popping out little ones. But when it comes to brute force, let’s just say that the World’s Strongest Man competition isn’t coed. I rest my case.
While on the subject of barbarianism, I made another mistake by mentioning the time my wife and I won back-to-back arm-wrestling matches at a friendly outdoor barbecue. First, in a stunning move, I pulled out an unexpected victory against my buddy Todd. He wrestled in high school (though not the arm variety) and was notoriously strong though admittedly out of shape. I, on the other hand, had been working out for a couple years solid and was in the best shape of my life. Still, Todd outweighed me by probably thirty pounds. It was one of the greatest sports victories of my life.
Next up was Shannon. In an equally surprising upset, she demolished Todd’s girlfriend with ease, giving us the proud title of King and Queen Arm Wrestling Champions of Bryan’s Weekend BBQ. Who says watching “Over the Top” (an obscure Sylvester Stallone movie) for days on end doesn’t pay? I told her it would be worth it someday. It remains one of our proudest moments.
“She does sound pretty tough,” mom said with a wry look upon her face.
“Uh-oh, I know what you’re thinking. You can forget it. There’s no way Shannon would ever arm wrestle you. Not in a million years. And besides, if you somehow did convince her to go toe-to-toe with you, she’d never put her back into it. She’d never forgive herself if she knocked you off your chair and you broke a hip or something.”
My mother has always had a strong competitive streak in her. And Shannon is exactly the same way. Many years of tennis has made this would-be gentle lady into a ferocious competitor unable to accept defeat. That’s why I knew she wouldn’t bite. If she ever sat down at the table she would be immediately confronted with an awful dilemma. Part of her would desire victory, regardless of the cost. But the softer, gentler side would not want to inflict physical or emotional pain on her mother-in-law. So she abstains. Smart girl.
What I can’t seem to get my head around is why either of them is concerned about muscularity anyway. It’s perfectly okay to be feminine in my book. Some might suggest it’s even quite natural. Why any woman would want to be more like us guys is beyond me. All that physical activity makes us very smelly. Shannon knows this because she makes comments about my rotten stench all the time.
But my guy friends couldn’t care less. For example, you’ll never catch a guy telling another guy, “Hey Jim, you smell especially foul today. Don’t you have something to cover that up? Here, try some of my after-workout body spray. It’s Essence of Water Lily, the newest fragrance from Old Spice. Simply divine.”
What all this amounts to is this: There are genetically wired differences in the two genders. Personally, though, I don’t think it’s a cause for feeling inadequate. We should celebrate our uniqueness and the wonderful gifts God has given to each of us. Men are inclined to strenuous physical activity. That’s why we are assigned the labor-intensive tasks of mowing the grass and taking out the trash. And females are typically assigned more nurturing roles (I’m already in hot water with my mom so I’ll refrain from listing examples here). It’s all part of the master plan.
It’s not that you gals can’t do these things. But why on earth would you want to? I’d much rather breast-feed the baby than build a new fence. Sure, there’s the occasional biting to deal with once junior grows teeth, but otherwise it seems like a wonderful bonding experience. The only way I’m ever bonding with our new fence is if I accidentally nail my thumb to one of the boards.
I realize that by now some of you ladies may be up in arms about my lack of sensitivity with regard to this issue. What did you expect? I’m a guy, remember? I’m not supposed to tiptoe around people’s feelings. It’s against my genetics. They call it being in touch with your feminine side for a reason. It’s unnatural. And we could never get away with referring to a woman lifting weights or chopping wood as “getting in touch with her masculine side.” Besides, such a phrase would mean something altogether different in man-speak anyway.
My point is this: Men are men. Women are women. It’s the natural order of things. Embrace it and your life will be much simpler. Fight against it and chances are you’ll eventually break down crying (not very manly, by the way). So be thankful for the gender God chose for you. He made you that way for a reason. Besides, trying to be something you’re not is an exercise in futility. And I’m pretty sure I can beat both my mom and my wife in an arm-wrestling match . . . put together.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Read more at www.TheRedneckReview.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

Tastes Like Chicken

Sitting on the couch last night stuffing my face full of candy, I reached a surprising conclusion. There, gripped firmly between my thumb and index finger, was one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of the 21st century. I’m referring, of course, to Jelly Belly’s gourmet jellybeans. Each hardened sugary piece is carefully crafted to mimic a variety of real-life flavors, guaranteed to delight even the most discriminating palate.

Flavors range from the more common Cinnamon and Watermelon, to the highly unusual tastes like Caramel Apple and Jalepeno. I know, I know. Who the heck wants to eat candy that tastes like Caramel Apple? I sure don’t. But they make ‘em. Something I didn’t realize was how incredibly specific many of the flavors are these days. Back when I was a kid, candy came in three flavors: red, yellow, and purple. And we didn’t care. As long as we got our sugar fix we were good. Not today.

Kids these days are trick-or-treating for flavors like Crushed Pineapple and A&W Root Beer. Few people realize their own taste buds are completely capable of distinguishing the difference between the sliced and crushed variations of this wonderful fruit. Especially when the taste has been recreated in the form of a small piece of candy. Nor do they understand that chewing on a generic-flavored root beer jellybean (instead of the A&W brand) is absolute torture. In that case, why bother eating them at all?

I have to admit, having all those options to choose from is kind of nice. And since they carry them down at the local dollar store (we are on a strict recession budget), Shannon splurged and bought a couple bags. Unfortunately, paying a mere buck for this candy is apparently not enough to include the flavor chart that’s usually printed on the back of the bag. It’s kind of like eating a potluck dinner, or perhaps a grab bag of fruity (and sometimes vegetably) goodness. So we settled down into a nice little game of name that jellybean.

Grabbing a big handful, I went first. “Mine tastes like a bowl of strawberry ice cream mixed together with hearty vegetable beef stew. Yum. Your turn, babe,” I said to my wife, hoping she too could experience the three-ring circus of seasonings dancing around my tongue.

It didn’t take us long to discover that while some flavors worked perfectly together (Peanut Butter and Grape Jelly), others were not exactly a match made in heaven (Licorice and Bubble Gum). And without the benefit of that increasingly more valuable flavor chart, we were on our own. Rational thought eventually prevailed and we began eating each miniature candy one at a time. Smart move. My son was up next.

“What does that one taste like, honey?” my wife asked Cody as he chewed on a multi-colored jellybean.

“Chicken,” he said without hesitation.

Strange. Then again, why wouldn’t it taste like chicken? Everything else does. As a matter of fact, the company could probably save a boatload of cash making every jellybean in the bag taste that way. How would anybody ever know the difference?

“What flavor do you have, honey?” you might ask your significant other.

“I’m not sure. It’s gray, with yellow specks, orange polka dots, and what appear to be bright red zebra-like stripes across one side. But the taste seems strangely familiar. I know. It must be tuna casserole. Either that or chicken.”

“Bingo. Right again. Man, you are really good at this game.”

Now all that’s left is figuring out whether it’s fried, barbecued, or maybe boneless skinless breast for the more health conscious among us. Who knew that even jellybeans taste like chicken? I for one sure didn’t. And apparently, neither does the U.S. military.

Can you imagine the excitement when they realize the potential of these little babies? Hold onto your camos boys, the MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) is about to undergo a major facelift. Sure to lighten the load on those long hikes through enemy territory, the taste combinations are truly unlimited. Thinking of that barbecue back home? No sweat, just combine the Wood Smoke, Pork Butt, and Coleslaw flavors in your mouth. Round out the meal with your choice of Sweet Potato Soufflé, Potato Salad, or Green Bean Casserole. And don’t forget to wash it all down with a nice tall glass of Sweet Tea (add Lemon jellybeans to taste).

In the end, though, all jellybeans not only look alike but they taste the same too. We can always still pretend we’re eating those exotic flavors. Unless, of course, we actually are eating a chicken-flavored Jelly Belly. That would be weird. In that case, I wonder if it would actually taste like a red jellybean. Or maybe purple. I’m kind of over this whole jellybeans-that-taste-like-chicken thing anyway. I’m more interested to find out if those brilliant scientific minds can ever figure out how to make chicken taste like a jellybean instead. Now that would be something.

***

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Read more at www.TheRedneckReview.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

“Bickering with relatives is no longer limited to the Christmas holidays in my family. It now provides us with year-round entertainment.”

We survived yet another family vacation last week. Each summer, for the past four years, we have embarked on a journey to the Sunshine State for some fun and relaxation. And prior to packing up the suitcases, I thought this was a wonderful idea. Getting a break from the daily grind can truly refresh a person’s energy. And reenergizing our spirit was just what the doctor ordered.
For the record, this was not a throw-the-wife-and-kids-in-the-car kind of excursion. The last few years we have unknowingly been part of my mother’s personal social experiment. By coordinating our trip with members of our extended family, she reasoned that more people would exponentially increase the amount of fun. Sadly, this does not always work. Especially when the “more people” share a chromosome or two.
Anyone who has a family will understand what I mean. But mom was very persuasive in getting this new tradition off the ground. As a matter of fact, this summer marks the fourth such “vacation reunion” in a row. Who knew it had so much staying power? Bickering with relatives is no longer limited to the Christmas holidays in my family. It now provides us with year-round entertainment.
Personally, I believe my mother was secretly planning a new reality TV show when she first made the suggestion. I really hate to accuse dear old mom of something so self-serving. But it was just so strange to see her with the video camera peering around the lifeguard stand, or crouching behind empty beach chairs to get a sneaky shot.
And to think we actually gave it to her as an early birthday present. Talk about putting a loaded gun in the criminal’s hand. Oh well. Lesson learned.
The strangest of her surprisingly intricate techniques involved a snorkel, some duct tape, and a camouflage wet suit (the ocean variety of course). She even had the silhouette of a shark included for good measure. Touché.
To add to the drama we were headed back to the same beach as last year. In this way, we’d be more comfortable with our environment and far more likely to throw the proverbial sand in each other’s face. Or worse.
I remember once during the first year’s inauguration ceremony (Mom’s idea), my Uncle Paul dumped Kevin’s full Budweiser all over the beach. It even got on the fireworks. Turns out it was only an accident (he spilled his own too) but it made for some great footage watching my cousins struggling to take the knife out of Kevin’s hand. Thank goodness it was only beer that was spilled that afternoon.
Needless to say, getting together so many strong personalities in one place is a surefire recipe for disaster. And I’m sure that’s exactly what my mother had in mind. But this year she didn’t stop there.
As an added twist to the weeklong drama fest, she made sure we visited New Smyrna Beach for the second consecutive year. I thought this a bit odd and eventually decided to Google it, just in case. What I discovered hit me like a ton of bricks. Those images burned so deep into my eyes I thought I’d never forget them.
“Babe,” I said to Shannon, “you might want to check this out.” My wife walked over and found me staring open-mouthed at the computer screen.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Did you know that New Smyrna Beach just so happens to be the shark attack capital of the entire world?”
“No, I had no idea. I wonder why your mom never mentioned it.”
“I know why. Suspense. It makes for good television.”
“Must you over exaggerate everything?” my wife said, rolling her eyes.
“Yep. Bad DNA, I guess. But that only validates my point,” I replied.
“I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense.” And with that she walked out of the room.
Whatever the truth of the situation may be, when it comes to having a limb chomped off by the most fearsome predator in the ocean, I will admit to being a little chicken. Or even a lot chicken. But maybe Shannon was right. Maybe I really was overreacting. Besides, we somehow managed to survive last year’s trip without incident.
Talk about an amazing stroke of luck. In fact, we didn’t even see a single surfer get mauled the entire vacation. So I figured there was now at least an equal chance of getting attacked by a shark as being struck by a bolt of lightning. I decided it best not to press our luck.
Don’t get me wrong. I love to gamble. Far too many nights have found me playing poker with buddies late into the night. So I don’t mind taking chances. But not when the ante is the loss of a foot or getting a nub for an arm. Not interested. I’ll stick to the blackjack table, thank you very much.
In the end, my mother’s plan failed miserably. Everyone had a wonderful time at the beach. And nobody seemed too bothered by the ever-present danger of being swallowed up by the sea merchants of death. Even I got over my fear eventually and enjoyed my time down at the beach. I wouldn’t go near the water, mind you. But I had a fantastic time not going swimming, not kayaking, and not surfing. It was a hoot.
So try as she might, the drama this year was nowhere to be found. We got along together beautifully. You might say it was like we were one big happy family. I guess we showed her.

***

“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

“Haggling (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge.”

“Quick, turn right here!” my wife shouted unexpectedly on our way home from church last Sunday.
“Where?” I replied, trying my best to comply with her ever-so-polite request.
“Right there,” she shouted, grabbing the steering wheel herself to assist me.
“Thanks for the help,” I said sarcastically. “You almost took out two mailboxes and a stop sign. There are laws against that kind of thing, you know. Plus, the kids are in the car too. Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Stop overreacting. There was nobody coming in the other lane. And besides, we merely grazed the side of that fence. You can be so dramatic sometimes. Really. Anyway, we simply had to make that turn. Didn’t you see the sign?”
“Nope. Guess I missed it paying attention to oncoming traffic,” I said, still a little rattled at her passenger-seat driving.
As I regained my composure, I realized what my dear, sweet wife was talking about. Coming up on our left-hand side was another one. The words “GARAGE SALE TODAY” were hand-written in black magic marker on a piece of white poster board. I should have known. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized our swerving vehicle had taken out the sign on the corner.
“Nice job, hon,” I said (again with heavy sarcasm). “You took out their nice homemade sign with your craziness.”
“Oh, relax,” Shannon said. “We’ll pick it up on the way back. And this will help us avoid some of the competition. At least for this yard sale.”
The competition my wife spoke of was the other people attending the sale. Her fear, of course, was that they would either beat her to the “good stuff” or eliminate her ability to barter. If another person wants the same item you do, she reasoned, the owner would be unlikely to come off their price. In the worst-case scenario, it may even turn into a bidding war. This is more like an auction and, as my wife is quick to point out, the odds shift heavily toward the “house.”
And “haggling” (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn’t want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge. Often, you can shave at least a dollar or more off your day’s booty with even a modest effort to wheel and deal. It’s very rewarding.
“You sure know an awful lot about garage sale-ing” (perfectly acceptable slang) I said, only half joking.
Truth be told, she often comes home from such escapades with a whole box full of these valuable treasures. DVDs, toys for the kids, board games, and anything else you could imagine. I must admit, she did find some pretty cool stuff at those darn things. And it’s all so cheap. But it just isn’t my cup of tea.
My one and only attempt at bargain hunting came on the way home from my brother’s house early one Saturday afternoon. Noticing a nice, brightly colored sign in an affluent neighborhood, I decided to try my luck. It was awful. My fatal flaw, as my wife later pointed out, was that I arrived way too late to find anything worthwhile. All the best stuff is usually gone by nine o’clock or so. Apparently, if you want to score a hardly used weight bench for under thirty bucks, you have to get up pretty early in the morning. Deals like that simply don’t make it past lunchtime.
“Everyone knows that,” my wife stated flatly.
Everyone, that is, except me. I had no idea the extreme these people will go to to get a good deal. For all I knew, my wife enjoyed getting up at five in the morning every weekend. I never dreamed this so-called competition really does exist. But they do. And they are relentless in their hunt for value. Some are even known to camp out all night at the bigger “neighborhood” garage sales in hopes of being the first to arrive. I guess it’s true what they say: one man’s junk truly is another man’s treasure. I think from now on I’ll leave this area to my wife’s unquestionable expertise. I just hope she leaves the driving to me.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

“Holy crap!” The words slipped out of my mouth before I had time to think.
“Holy crap?” my wife repeated back to me. “That’s what you have to say about us having another baby?”
I couldn’t help it. It’s the only thing I could muster through the shock. My mind and body had suddenly gone completely numb. Under the circumstances, I think I was doing pretty well just to maintain consciousness. This was, after all, our third child and our little girl is still just a baby as far as I’m concerned. Taking care of two is enough of a challenge. Did we really need to stack the odds against us by having a third?
“Now babe, I don’t mean to seem unsupportive. I’m just trying to absorb what this means,” I replied sympathetically.
“I know. It’s a lot to take in for me too,” my wife said calmly.
“I mean, have you considered the fact that once the new baby arrives we’ll actually be outnumbered by our children?” I continued. “How long do you think it’ll take before Cody starts using that situation to his advantage? I’m afraid we may well have unknowingly sowed the seeds of an impending civil war.”
“Why must you exaggerate everything? Cody isn’t going to start anything with us. He’s going to be the best big brother ever,” my wife stated with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.
“I have no doubt about that. But where you and I fit in the picture is still up for debate. At least we have a little time before his newfound infantry learns how to walk.”
“Yes. Thank heavens for that,” Shannon replied sarcastically. “I don’t know why you can’t drop the joking for even a minute. The pregnancy test is still in my hand, for goodness’ sake.”
“That reminds me. When I picked that up at the store for you today, I noticed the box indicated an effectiveness of over 99%,” I said inquisitively.
“That’s true, the home tests are extremely accurate nowadays,” she replied.
“Right. Then I noticed they were usually sold in packs of two. Kind of strange, don’t you think? If the manufacturer actually believes their own claim, less than one in a hundred women would need a second test. Unless, of course, the other one is included to give the mommy-to-be a head start on a new scrapbook. You didn’t happen to see any stickers fall out when you opened the box, did you?”
“You really can’t stop, can you? Just for a second I wish you’d be serious.”
The truth is, my baby factory of a wife was making a very good point. It appears there is actually a time when sarcasm may be inappropriate. Who knew? I was a word-wielding force of destruction upon learning about her first two pregnancies. But Shannon, for some reason, seemed more concerned about this one. So I backed off, at least for the moment.
“I’m just a little scared right now that’s all,” my wife said, revealing her feelings of vulnerability to me.
“I know, babe. It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. But you know, it does answer my question about what the future holds for the little tots.”
“It does?” she asked, somewhat confused.
“Sure. Think about it. We obviously have a trio of future Olympic medal winners on our hands,” I stated with the utmost confidence.
“Oh Lord, I’m afraid to ask. What on Earth do you mean by that?” Shannon said unenthusiastically.
“Let’s see. For all three babies I barely touched you. As a result, my success rate has to set some kind of record or something. That means my little swimmers must be simply amazing. Imagine what they can do when they get to the one hundred meter breaststroke!”
“Please stop talking now,” my wife said as she tried in vain to avoid my ridiculous explanation.
“Babe, you know how much Cody loves the water. I think we need to get them swimming lessons immediately. Though it looks like they don’t need any, just a few years of practice. Then it’s gold medal city, baby!”
“You are absolutely insane,” she said.
“You married me,” I replied.
“Don’t remind me,” Shannon shot back, ending our banter temporarily.
After I got the joking completely out of my system (it took a while), we settled into a nice embrace as we thought about having a new baby in our future. I’ll admit the idea is scary. There is no telling what’s in store for us around the bend. But that really isn’t much different from yesterday, is it?
So, we’re going to roll with the changes and provide the newest addition to the Basham clan with as much love and support as humanly possible. We have to do something to prevent him/her from joining Cody’s growing army of infants. He gets stronger every day. Heaven help us.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.
Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

Kyle Farnsworth is a relief pitcher for the famed New York Yankees major league baseball team. That is, until he was traded to the Tigers in a late-season move to improve their chances of making the playoffs.

At this point, anything less than another World Series championship for the Yanks would be considered a failure. So they decided it was time to make a move. Sadly, Mr. Farnsworth took the news rather hard.

I happen to have a loose personal connection to this particular ballplayer. I went to high school with his older brother. And as luck would have it, he also attended my alma mater (I never graduated college) with my younger brother and cousins. They say he was a bit of a jerk back then. He was apparently very conceited about his athletic ability, especially after getting drafted into the Bigs.

So it was interesting to see how fate had turned the tables on him, serving up a great big piece of humble pie.

Tuning in to the baseball highlights on ESPN (a normal occurrence around my house even though the Braves are having a rough season), I saw this grown man crying on national television. The idea of leaving seems to have hit him pretty hard. I’m not quite sure why, though. Being raised in the south myself, I could understand crying if I got traded TO the Yankees. But not if I found out I was LEAVING New York.

News like that would be cause for a celebration. “Fire up the grill honey,” I’d say. “All my rowdy friends are coming over tonight. Let’s make sure there’s plenty of barbecue and Budweiser for everyone.”

For the life of me I just couldn’t figure out why a home-grown Southern boy would be so upset that he’d be moved to tears over leaving the Bronx. It just doesn’t make sense. They don’t have sweet tea anywhere. And have you ever tried to stir sugar into an ice-cold glass of un-sweet tea? You end up with a swirl of what looks like sand art circling the bottom of your glass. Stir some more, more swirling. Nothing dissolves. It just doesn’t work.

I also bet you can’t find a Waffle House up there to save your life. How anybody can survive without scattered, smothered, and covered hash browns is beyond me.

Or maybe Mr. Farnsworth just never got the memo about crying in baseball. Last time I checked it wasn’t a co-ed sport. He might be more comfortable playing softball instead.

On second thought, those young gals are pretty tough too. Quitting baseball altogether and taking up a hobby may be the best thing for this tortured soul. Perhaps he can find inner peace and happiness with a crochet needle in his hand. I hear it’s making a comeback.

Poor thing. I hope his buddies have the good sense to revoke his man card temporarily until he gets his head together.

Truth be told, Kyle is actually a very tough guy. He is always getting into fights on the diamond and, as a result, is the last guy I’d have ever thought would be crying on television. Punching someone, yes. Crying, no. But it is nice to see that he’s human after all.

And although I’m giving him some ribbing here, there’s no doubt in my mind he is a macho kind of dude. In all seriousness, he is just as entitled to an emotional moment as the rest of us. His just happened to be broadcast for the world to see.

All of this nonsense got me thinking. As men we are taught we aren’t supposed to cry. At least that’s what my father taught me. “You gotta be tough to make it in this world,” he’d say. And to some extent he was right. However, there are a few occasions I have found when it’s perfectly acceptable for a grown man to cry. To avoid any further confusion (and potential embarrassment), I have listed them below as a quick reference guide the next time you guys get the urge to tear up.

Death of a loved one—this can also include animals, but is limited to pets you have owned for more than a year. Also, rodents being held captive against their will (hamsters, gerbils, etc.) do not count.

Spiritual experiences—to be clear, a trip to Disney or the state fair is not considered spiritual. Eating the best barbecue sandwich you’ve ever had, however, will earn you the right to a sniffle or two.

Sustaining a broken bone—a much different cry than the others, any extreme pain can result in tears streaming down a man’s face. These are not emotionally driven, however, and a strict time limit is in place to preserve his dignity.

Birth of a child—a new baby coming into the world is an emotional experience. When this happens in your family there is little doubt a tear or two will come to your eye. This is perfectly acceptable and does nothing to diminish your manhood in the slightest. But this does not mean you can sit around watching the birthing channel all day with a box of Kleenex. In that case I would recommend you seek therapy immediately.

Getting kicked in the gonads—this one goes without saying. Receiving a swift shot to this region of the body will bring anyone to their knees. In fact, it’s actually how the expression, “That’s enough to make a grown man cry,” originated. Some poor guy got kicked in the pants and voilà, a new expression was born.

So you see, grown men do cry. Sometimes. It just isn’t in our nature to turn on the faucet at the drop of the hat. Well, not all of us anyway. I guess some guys are just more in touch with their feminine side than others. But that doesn’t make them bad people. It just makes them sissies. And that’s perfectly fine by me. Let’s just keep it out of baseball from now on, shall we?

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

It’s not every day a guy gets to talk to an old friend he hasn’t heard from in over fifteen years. At least it didn’t used to be. I guess Facebook is changing that pretty quickly. It probably won’t be long before people never even lose touch in the first place. But for me, Internet or not, it’s still a pretty great day when something like this occurs. And that’s exactly what happened to me this afternoon.

Through a strange online version of the Kevin Bacon game, my old high school buddy Luis found me on this gigantic social network. Now I already knew Facebook was huge. But I had no idea just how huge. It turns out that my old friend relocated to Colombia some fifteen years ago and has been living there ever since. I realize that’s not exactly a stone’s throw from Georgia, but at least it’s still within driving distance. So it can’t be all that bad. Besides, I’ve heard South Carolina is a beautiful state.

After a few quick digital exchanges, I came to understand that my pal had actually left the United States completely. Right after graduation he packed up his stuff and took off for the cocaine-exporting capital of the world (as I remember he was incredibly ambitious). It seems “The Colombian Connection,” as we called him jokingly back in school, was finally earning his reputation.

If this had taken place say, a generation ago, there is very little chance we would have ever been reunited. But now thanks to Facebook (and of course Al Gore—father of the Internet), it appeared our destinies were intertwined once again. Believe it or not, he didn’t stumble onto the website during a weekend excursion back to the States. It seems the image on their homepage depicting the entire world being connected wasn’t such a stretch after all. After speaking with Luis further I came to realize that Colombia is a much nicer place than we tend to give it credit for.

“So why in the world did you ever leave the South, man?” I asked him, wondering why anyone would do such a thing.

“Might want to check your map, buddy. I’m a bit farther south than you are,” he replied.

“You know what I mean,” I said, determined to get to the bottom of this perplexing mystery.

“Well, I must admit I do sometimes miss that good ol’ Southern cooking. Your mom made a mean raccoon meatloaf,” he replied, reminiscently.

“I know. It’s to die for.”

“But I finally just got tired of all the B.S. living stateside. Heck, I hear it’s gotten so bad up there lately that Obama is considering renaming it the B.S. of A. if it doesn’t get better soon. I hope he gets free boots as a perk for being the president. There’s no doubt he’s knee deep in you-know-what right now.”

“Yeah, I see your point.” My friend was right. Our country, the same one many in my family served for so proudly, was now on the brink of total disaster. He obviously saw this coming a long time ago and hightailed it out of here. It’s amazing, you think you know someone and never even realize they have psychic ability.

“So I moved down here. People think it’s so dangerous. But I’ve lived here for fifteen years and haven’t even been mugged once,” he said emphatically.

This was indeed something to be proud of. During that time I’ve lived in the U.S. and actually have been held at gunpoint. Granted, I don’t carry a shotgun strapped across my back for a trip to the local grocery store, but I’m not against it. There’s something to be said for preemptive measures.

Logically speaking, my buddy was making quite a case for his decision. Creeping into my own mind was the possibility of packing up the family and moving down there myself. Sure there’s the drug smuggling, blazing equatorial heat, and guerrillas waging war in the streets to contend with. But my son has been training to be a Ninja since he could walk. He just turned four and between the two of us I’m sure we could keep his mother and sister safe.

“Ya’ll got any jobs down there?” I inquired, figuring even if Shannon wouldn’t make the move I might still be able to commute somehow.

“A few. That is, if you don’t mind packing up ‘cargo’ planes. Why, do you want to move down here or something?”

Then I remembered. My dang red hair was a problem. Not the hair itself but rather the pasty white complexion that comes with it. I get a third-degree burn from mowing the grass with my shirt off. There’s no way I could handle Columbia.

“It did cross my mind. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s just not realistic. But I have to say it was great hearing from you, man.”

“Same here. If you ever change your mind, let me know. By the way, I see that you’re now doing well as a writer. Congratulations. I see that sarcasm of yours is finally paying off.”

“Well, I am a writer, but as far as the ‘doing well’ part and it ‘paying off,’ I’m still working on it. But I would love to send you a copy of the new book when it comes out.”

“That would be great! You might have to pay a pretty penny, though. Getting stuff from the States to Columbia is usually not very easy (funny how they seem to have no trouble at all getting stuff out).”

“I’ll see what I can do. It was great talking to you, Luis. Take care, buddy.”

“You too. Stay in touch.”

What a great day. I was reconnected with a long-lost friend and now have a viable option should things get worse for us here. That reminds me, I need to get a passport. I should probably ask my brother if I could borrow his jet ski. And it might be a good idea to hit the shooting range a couple times this summer. It’s better to be prepared for the worst and hope for the best, I always say.

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

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.

* * *

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)

A quick glance at the news on Yahoo.com yesterday and I noticed something truly amazing. It seems that a highly esteemed group of eggheads at UCLA has discovered a 13 million-digit prime number. That’s right. By harnessing the power of many hardly used computers around the globe, this gang of hardcore mathematicians has unearthed this unbelievable number.

For those of you who don’t already know, prime numbers are those that are only divisible by themselves and the number 1. Three, 7, and 11 are some of the smaller ones. The higher you go, the harder it is to prove. Therein lies the accomplishment. A prime number of such gargantuan size was previously unheard of in the world of mathematics. Now, thanks to this group in California, a new benchmark has been achieved. It is truly a great day in American history.

Some of you may think our precious computing resources might be better utilized on more relevant projects. Shrinking the national deficit, creating an alternative fuel source, or even figuring out which really did come first, the chicken or the egg, might rank a tad bit higher on your “to do” list. Obviously, you have your priorities out of whack. These other problems are merely temporary. This is history we’re talking about. It’s that big.

By being the first to find this diamond in the rough, these bright young minds have positioned themselves well to receive a $100,000 prize. The money, awarded by the EFF (which I believe stands for Enormous Flushing of Funding) will undoubtedly be used to help them find the next big one. Seems like they’re caught up in a never-ending cycle of uselessness to me.

Now I don’t want to get everyone too excited, but I’ve also gotten wind that this 13 million-digit mega number is going to be published early next year. Being a bit of a math geek myself, I can’t wait to see it. I have crunched a few numbers and discovered that if the average word has eight letters, and there are roughly four hundred words to a page, this behemoth number would take up 4,062.5 pages (without commas).

I hear they’re going to offer it in volumes, making it easier (or actually possible) for people to lift. I’ll have to toss out the old Encyclopedia Britannica set to make room, but man, will it be worth it. I can’t wait to see my four-year-old son’s face when we cuddle up to read at bedtime. It’s like The Never Ending Story, only with numbers. He’s going to be so excited.

What really strikes me about the whole future-altering discovery is how much time they spent discovering such a thing in the first place. They could have easily published a different 13 million-digit number at random (a feat in and of itself) and passed it off as being prime. After all, who would ever know the difference? Nobody else out there is piggybacking computing power from the Internet in an effort to find it. Nobody else really cares, either. We’re all too busy wondering how high gas is going to go and which country will be the first one blown off the map in WW III.

With the $100,000 uncontested prize firmly in their grasp, maybe they could redirect some of that brainpower to more relevant projects. For instance, nobody knows with mathematical certainty which email program is better, Yahoo, Hotmail, or the trendy new Gmail from Google. Isn’t there some kind of computer-based algorithm that could be used to figure it out? Right now I’m just guessing and it’s driving me mad.

Also, we still don’t know how many individual grains of sand are on the average beach. How’s a guy supposed to enjoy the ocean like that? And for the love of humanity, would it be too much to ask that they figure out exactly when the Earth is coming to an end? Seriously.

Obviously, there are more important things these brainiacs could be doing with their time. But the biggest prime number the world has ever known is not without benefit. No, it is not the secret to unlocking lightning-fast Internet speed. Nor does it hold the key to running cars on seawater, creating world peace, or inhabiting the moon.

What prime numbers do provide, however, is the backbone that allows encrypted data to travel across the Internet securely. To you and me, that means we can buy stuff from Amazon.com and not worry that someone will steal our credit card number. So, to be fair, prime numbers serve their purpose. I’m just not sure we need one 13 million digits long to get the job done.

With all the challenges we are facing as a nation these days, it is encouraging to see we haven’t lost sight of our priorities. As the world grows stranger by the day, we as Americans are proudly stating that we will not go quietly into the night. We will prevail. If there is something insignificant, irrelevant, or otherwise completely uninteresting, we will spare nothing to find it. Those who thought the United States’ days as a global superpower were numbered had better think again. And they had better start thinking in prime numbers.

***

“Got a Minute?”

An eclectic collection of humor articles, this masterpiece of southern writing is widely used as the perfectly-portable-potty-partner.

Visit www.brentbasham.com. (Free autograph for a limited time!)