I always thought jury duty was something you could politely decline. Like fruitcake. But recently, being summoned, I discovered that “jury service is not voluntary but a civic duty imposed upon all citizens pursuant to civil code section 204.”

Desperate, I called my shrink for a note.

“It’s jury duty, Jason. You can’t plead insanity.”

Pursuant to civil code section 204, I called the court and requested a one-time postponement, which the county clerk took personally.

“You’re not happy with the date, Mr. Love? Well, when would this be convenient?”

“How about never? Does never work for you?”

It’s not that I’m unpatriotic; it’s that I HAVE A JOB. Now I’m just spit-ballin’ here, but why not direct some of that 18-digit tax revenue to professional jurors, people who are at home watching Court TV anyway. Certainly they are more qualified than a man who, for a living, writes fart jokes.

Day Of Reckoning

One of the reasons I work at home is that I’m not good at being on time. On jury day I would have been on time—Scout’s Honor—but traffic backed up to my driveway.

I checked in with the county clerk, who seemed to be growing moss from the fluorescent lighting.

“Is there a reason you’re late, Mr. Love?”

“Yes, ma’am. Overpopulation.”

She led me to The Assembly Room, which squirmed with other abductees. Some gossiped over coffee; others read the funny pages, wondering why we don’t call them the “now and then mildly amusing pages.” So it goes.

After Reprogramming, we were free to graze in the courtyard. I traveled my bellybutton with tiny instruments while lawyers passed by in Armani and Hugo Boss. Just as I nodded off, a voice crackled over the intercom: “All jurors report to The Assembly Room. All jurors…”

We filed in cautiously, the way you do before your own execution.

“Cindy Sponzo?”

“Here.”

“Jason Love?”

Silence.

“Jason Love?”

Silence.

“May I remind everyone that if you leave the grounds, you will be re-summoned for a full day of service.”

“Here.”

Hardship

We, The Chosen, sat in Courtroom 21 staring at the defendant, who tried to sober up and look like a puppy. The trumpets sounded and in walked—on my oath—Judge Smiley. He said the trial would take one week despite the fact that the defendant was obviously guilty. The mood was somber, and I, for one, feel that it’s time to bring back the court jester.

Then they got to the part that everyone was waiting for: “Is there any reason why you, the juror, cannot sit on this trial?”

I decided to follow the advice I found in “Playboy” (let this be a lesson to you men who don’t read the articles):

“Your honor, serving on this jury would make it impossible for me to pay my bills.”

Judge Smiley squinted as if he had heard that one before—verbatim. The others pleaded their cases in turn. One woman sobbed that her husband was sick in the hospital. I knew I should have cried.

The judge then huddled with Armani and Hugo Boss while I fiddled with my pen cap. Snap on, snap off, snap on, snap off. Finally, the judge read his verdicts.

“Jason Love … excused for hardship.”

I let out a Robert-Blake-sized gasp and wanted to hug my neighbor. Come on, man—I’ve been acquitted!

I walked out to a setting sun, released by civil code section 204. If all goes well, I will never again be that close to prison.

Children: Don’t take my attitude to heart. I resist jury duty only because there are people in this world who cannot go even one day without fart jokes. American justice is the best in the world, full of checks and balances and county clerks who will grow moss to protect your freedom.

Just remember that jurors are in court all day, so you’ll want to pack a lunch. I might suggest fruitcake.

My amiga Yahaira wanted to show me her homeland, the Dominican Republic, where 62,000 of her relatives live. We met them all at the airport, a metric ton of strangers hugging me as their own.

The DR comes in two parts: There is Santo Domingo, which rivals the finest capitals in terms of lodging, culture, and streets so clean you could eat off them; then there is the rest of the country, which is like that minus the lodging, the culture, and the streets.

There was no time to sightsee, though, because I was having a near-death experience called Driving in the DR. I’m just saying that the country could benefit greatly from painting lines on the road.

Half the people drive mopeds, which makes gridlock smell like one big lawnmower accident. If you don’t have a moped, you are forced to—enter Psycho music—take the bus.

For me, buses have always been a novelty, a place you end up after Jaeger Bombs. In the DR, buses are big business. The drivers, who own the buses, don’t see space the way we do—one rump per seat—but as possibility-per-cubic-inch. Children are placed on laps, parents’ and otherwise, and when they run out of seats, you get a folding chair.

To maximize the volume of trips, buses go 100 mph even around corners. Drivers don’t stop at intersections but do honk as a professional courtesy. I clawed the stuffing out of my seat trying to keep the bus upright. Honk! Honk!

At Tia’s house, a boy hugged my leg and said, “Yayson, how you like ride?”

I unclawed my bags and said, “I don’t.”

Tia dabbed the mosquito bites on my forehead. I could still hear the clerk at the fishing store: “This here repellant is 28% deet, and no creepy-crawly can stand that kinda deet.”

PSA: Island mosquitoes are hip to the whole deet thing. One landed ON MY CAN OF REPELLENT.

Something else I learned in the DR: Just because it’s 200 degrees outside doesn’t mean it can’t rain. The tropical sun visits everyone individually, sitting on their laps at times, but does nothing about the drizzle. Dominicans have learned to live with the humidity, but now and then you’ll catch one screaming at the sky just for a minute.

Tia invited us to sleep in her room. “Bueno,” she said, opening the door to gale-force winds. Tia’s ceiling fan was set on Tornado and could not be turned off. It had been raging like this for months. The base had, in fact, come apart from the ceiling and stayed in place by faith alone. It’s not easy falling asleep in a Cuisinart.

At seven a.m. we awoke to a breakfast bonfire. Once that smoke hit the squall in our bedroom, it was like being gassed out by SWAT. We would have woken up anyway on account of the merengue music.

Tia was dance-cooking in her slippers, smiling for no reason at all. Her daughter danced on a chair. Tia caught me staring and asked me to join. I thanked her but no. She seemed okay with that as she grabbed my waist and waltzed me into the living room, where the family took turns teaching the gringo to lighten up.

Next day, Tia sent us by bus—gulp—to Gracia’s house in el campo, where mangos grow like crazy, through cracks in the street if you’re not careful. Children eat them without leaving the trees. Their mothers yell at the kids to come down but don’t really mean it. (Have you ever cleaned mango from a child’s ear?)

In the jungle, electricity comes and goes. One moment you’re dancing full-blast to Fulanito; next moment you’re feeling your way back to the candles. Our warmest moments came, in fact, in the dark when we shucked beans with flickering faces.

Water was also hit and miss. I had always taken water for granted, like fresh air or reruns of The Simpsons. In the DR you learn that water is precious, especially when you go to flush the toilet. So it goes.

Some days we bathed in a river replete with shampoo, conditioner, and real-not-rubber duckies. Gracia waded by after the soap.

“You live here often?” I asked.

Gracia put her arm around me and smiled, the most she said all day. Gracia is madrina, or godmother, to 50 children, three of whom live in her home. Her house doubles as a church, where people come to pray without knocking.

On the riverbank, Gracia emptied her hamper: rice and beans, chicken from the coop, creamed corn for dessert. And just when life couldn’t get better, she handed me a juice with umbrella on top. Take that, Club Med.

In the DR, you are not allowed to meet people without eating. It’s part of the handshake: grip with one hand, munch with the other. Dominicans don’t like to hear that you’re not hungry. In fact, don’t even show up thin.

We gained numbers on the walk home, as Gracia introduced us to everyone she knew, dogs included. Cousin Maria opened her door and said, “Siantese,” which means “sit,” or more specifically, “sit and eat.” And out came the chicken feet, a delicacy in the DR. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my travels, it’s to stay away from the “delicacies.”

It had never occurred to me to eat the knuckles of a bird. Maybe I had never been hungry enough. Children gathered to watch my face, smiling, snapping photos. I’d say that it tasted like chicken, but it was more like gristle or latex or Denny’s.

Once we met everyone that Gracia knew, we visited the graveyard to meet everyone she used to know. The tombs looked like dusty chests of drawers, one slot per relative. La Vieja kissed the top drawer and sighed.

I haven’t mentioned La Vieja? That’s Yahaira’s grandma, the cause of all these people. When you meet “The Old One,” you bow as you might to Don Corleone and say, “‘Cion, Grandmother.” Then she gives you benediciones, or blessings.

When I met La Vieja, she grabbed my neck with both hands, scrunched her face into a leathery smile, and recited the Bible from Genesis. Then we sat on the porch and told stories over rice and beans. “Siantese, siantese.”

Whatever Dominicans lack in fancy cars and iPods, they more than make up for in time. Returning by bus to the airport, I saw men playing dominoes, women laughing by the mailbox, children growing mangos from their ears.

These people had taken me in as their own, no questions asked, and if we had stayed any longer, they would have squeezed me into their chest of drawers.

Which was very much on my mind as I steered the bus with my seat cushion. HONK! HONK!

* * *

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.

Is it just me, or are TVs taking over the universe? They’re popping up in gas stations, waiting rooms, supermarkets, banks, beauty salons, HOTEL BATHROOMS. I myself don’t need a bathroom TV because I keep one in my underwear.

“For those of you who owned a Walkman and were at least mildly aware of the Watchman, Sony brings you … The Crotchman.”

The locker room at 24-Hour Fitness plays two TVs at the same time, which is kind of like being raped in the ears. Last week it was Fox versus ETV…

“Oprah lost 16 pounds to Al Qeada, who destroyed the Grammy chances of our nation’s leaders in their incestuous love triangle. Call now!”

One night I got trapped with “The Biggest Loser,” a reality show named after the people who watch it. The important thing is that we are never, for one second, without a talking head.

One day you’ll go to leave a room and the TV will stand up tall like Julius Caesar and say, “Don’t you give your back to ME!”

At Friday’s, I saw a husband and wife watching TV over one another’s heads. Makes you wonder how they got together in the first place.

“Well, I stretched my neck to see American Idol; she thought I was looking at her; and uh, the rest is history.”

My cousin placed his baby’s crib beside the TV because the baby found it comforting. We all look forward to junior’s first word: “Toyotathon!”

We can’t even sit down to Thanksgiving without a football game in the background. FYI, remote control goes INSIDE the soup spoon.

Even when you mute the TV, it types out a transcript like a tyrant refusing to be gagged. “Don’t … you give … your back … to ME.”

On the bright side, people are reading again. So it goes.

Albertson’s supermarket plays tabloid TV above the magazine rack, and I, for one, am embarrassed to know what Jennifer thinks of Angelina. High school never ends.

And commercials. Sigh. They say TV is free, but we pay for it every time we hum a jingle. Somewhere in the distance, the Dalai Lama is in the lotus position trying to not think about what he’d do for a Klondike bar.

In concert, John Mellencamp began the song “Cherry Bomb” by saying, “I hope this one’s good enough to someday be on a Pop Tarts commercial.”

And let me tell you, it takes a big man to admit that he paid to see John Cougar Mellencamp.

Have you ever walked in on children who’ve stayed up all night watching TV? Their eyes gloss over with that soulless, homogenized look of certain congressmen. Finally they pass out, remote control in hand, while their clicker finger amazingly keeps changing channels.

At least they’re not watching daytime TV, pork rinds for the brain.

“Yes, yer honor, he did gone slap me in fronta his ho’ girlfriend.”

On “General Hospital,” I saw a doctor being played by someone like Keanu Reeves, only stoned-er.

“Don’t make me compromise the ethicality of this hospital, dude.”

That’s why we call them soap operas: Because afterward you need to shower. And if you ever find yourself bleeding to death in the ER, it’s because your doctor is groping a candy striper with whose sister he is unwittingly having a baby.

I turn off the gym’s locker room TVs every time I go and feel sorry for the guy who ever tries to stop me, because that will be a long, emotional conversation. I fantasize about smashing the TV, but then I remember Gandhi and Martin Luther King and the cost of bail.

When I can’t reach the TVs, I dress as quickly as possible to minimize the damage:

“Local militia extend money-back guarantees to cheating housewives for their overtime victory in prescription coverage. Call now!”

Then I go home and shower for a long, long time.

* * *

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.

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.

Bingo

“Let’s go to bingo!”

“Um. Okay.”

I didn’t know that young people could play bingo. I thought there was an age minimum, a picture of grandma reading, “You must be this old to enter building.”

As we pulled into the church parking lot, I wondered how gambling fit into the scripture. And what it had to do with the farmer’s dog. And why the woman beside me had shown up in curlers. Did bingo catch her unawares? I mean, at that point you may as well carry a toothbrush.

Regulars bided their time with raffle tickets, scratchers, odds on the trifecta…

“Do you have a dabber?” said the cashier.

“Isn’t that a personal question?”

She pointed to the dabbers in the cafe, where they sold hot dogs, nachos—any number of foods that aren’t useful to your body. I bought a pink dabber for my teammate, Yahaira, which meant that I’d have pink bangs before the night was over.

Across the table, a frizzy woman played 16 cards at once. I don’t know what she was on—I’m not a pharmacist—but she muttered to herself as might a small animal if it had the power of speech. I was afraid that if she didn’t hit a bingo soon, she’d jump onto the table and rob us all at gunpoint.

The bingomaster announced the first game: Winnemucca on the brown four-on. “You’ll need a hardway bingo on three of the four cards.”

I looked for explanation to Yahaira, who said, “And Bingo was his name-o.”

The bingomaster called numbers quickly before the natives could organize against him. I was still looking for my “brown four-on” when a woman screamed, “BINGO!”

Three hundred people cursed the winner with her stupid little … rabbit feet. A bingo marshal verified her numbers, and the caller displayed the “crying ball” so that people could get more angry. One man said horrible things about Gosh.

Yahaira placed a spell on our sheets to will us a victory. Her shaman’s dance ended with pink dabber on my forehead. So it goes.

As the night wore on, I became known as Mr. One-Away. The word “bingo” made my stomach knot up and knuckles turn white. And in the midst of the torment, I realized something: You’ve either got the winning card or you don’t. Why turn it into a striptease? We could draw numbers out of a hat and save me the ulcer.

Same thing with slot machines: Instead of cherries and sevens, why not little messages: “You win.” “You lose.” “Go home.” “Get help.”

By night’s end I was out eighty bucks, which is fine because I was just going to blow that money on food and shelter anyway. I’m not old enough to cross dabbers with women who scan 16 cards at once like Robocop. And every time they scream “bingo,” a little part inside me dies.

So I gave up bingo in favor of more familiar forms of gambling, beginning with hot dogs and nachos.

* * *

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.

Sports

It’s that time again-time to isolate half of you by talking about sports. It’s just that sports is the only thing on TV that doesn’t make me want to jump out a window.

My addiction started early, in pee wee soccer. When you’re four feet tall, you don’t understand the rules, per se; you just know that if you kick the ball in a forwardly direction, those big people will stop yelling at you.

I watch the British Premiere League just for the brogue: “Newcastlefordshireham takes a commanding one-to-nil lead, and the players, in a fit of unbridled joy, doff their sweaters.”

That’s the Shakespeare of sports, isn’t it? Maybe that’s why there’s so much drama when a player gets fouled.

“Forsooth, with spikes mine enemy hath struck! To bleed or not to bleed?”

I had one of those dads who’d practice his swings in public. Sometimes baseball, sometimes golf. Once in a while he’d shoot a free throw. As a kid, all you can do is hope that no one is looking. I’m just glad that he wasn’t into gymnastics.

I enjoy boxing despite the glaring lack of ball. I actually trained for and got my butt kicked by a 16-year-old. It was like he was hitting me from both sides at the same time. My mom had to watch through her fingers: “Use your words, honey. Use your words!”

Baseball is good as background music. The nice thing is that if you miss anything, your team will play several more games before the day is over. My buddy Jake was taping a game, and I wondered, When is he going to watch it? When the next one’s on?

I like to go to the stadium, be a part of the spectacle. It’s strange, though, singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” when you’re already there.

I can’t do basketball on account of the fouls … “Johnson takes the inbound pass and is fouled. Baker dribbles to the base line and is fouled. Bryant shoots a free throw and is fouled (Smith gave him a dirty look).”

Why don’t we just give the ball to the referees and let THEM play?

Who, by the way, is choosing these uniforms? We’ve got full-grown men running around in bumble-bee yellow and soccer-mom teal. If I were in charge, my team would shave their heads and play in prison uniforms. Tell me that wouldn’t chill the opponent.

Football is swell, but here’s what I don’t get: What do field goals have to do with football? Here’s a team that scratches and claws and bleeds its way down field, and when they finally get within view of the end zone, they call in the kicker.

He’s not even watching the game; he’s on the sideline chatting up the cheerleaders. He puts out his cigarette, grabs a random helmet, and ENDS THE GAME! A game that he doesn’t even understand. He may as well come in and do archery or pee for distance. So it goes.

We watch the Super Bowl at my mom’s house, where there’s NFL festooning and football-shaped cookies. Sometimes Mom walks in wearing her commemorative Super Bowl T-shirt to say, “Look at my team. Buncha friggen bums.” She doesn’t know anything about the game; she’s just cursing to be festive.

“Mom, it’s the pregame show. Go back to your cookies.”

Men will turn anything into a contest: surfing, walking, hot-dog eating. In Beaver, Oklahoma, you’ll find the championship cow chip toss, which is like the Olympic discus, only the fans don’t stand so close.

In a pinch, we’ll even watch WWF. Whenever I get angry at baseball calls, I remember wrestling referees, who routinely overlook folding chairs to the back of the head.

So ladies, if you live with a sports fan, don’t fight it. That only makes things worse. Allow your man his sweaty little soap opera; let him get it out of his system. When the game is over, he’ll return fresh and invigorated, ready to mow the lawn.

Unless, of course, there are people on TV talking about sports, in which case you’ll probably lose him again.

* * *

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.

by Jason Love,
Syndicated Humor Columnist 

Driving

When people see me drive, they have questions. For example, “What kind of idiot are you?”

Well, I’m not the kind who keeps passing cars on the onramp until it becomes a merging crisis.

I’m also not the kind with 10,000-lumen headlights that make you feel like you’re being abducted by alien spacecraft.

What kind of idiot am I? I’m the multitask idiot who can’t stay between the lines. Seriously, I’m ready for those plastic tubes they use for bumper bowling.

I might keep my hands in the 10:00-2:00 position if traffic weren’t forever trapped in road repair. By my house, they’ve been working on the boulevard since Ford announced assembly-line construction.

The other day we sat for so long that I learned a new song on the harmonica (seriously): “Oh, when the saints … come marching in …”

Then, of course, drivers go into warp speed trying to make up the time. Police can’t figure out who to stop anymore.

“I pulled you over because you’re the only one I could catch up with.”

We keep seeing those electronic signs that show your speed in case you don’t have an odometer. If the state really wants to slow us down, they should display the cost of the ticket.

“Your speed is … $150.”

I myself could use a speed minimum. People zoom by me not because they’re late but out of principle. Sometimes they pull up beside me to see what I look like-add it to their Idiot Profile. I always want to ask for Grey Poupon.

During my only accident, as a teen, I demolished a streetlight that was clearly at fault. The airbag hurt more than anything. If I were a parent, I’d fill the airbags with fake blood to drive home the lesson.

In other parts of the world-and by that I mean the Dominican Republic-there are no rules at all. You just plow your way through intersections by car or bike or bull. (Note: If you are on a bull, red is not a good color for stop.)

Compare to America, where cameras catch you with the panicky look you have on those surprise photos at the end of a roller coaster. So it goes.

Soon there will be a ban on text-messaging, which is kind of like proving thoughtcrime.

“No, officer, I wasn’t texting; I was balancing my checkbook. Totally different.”

I don’t mind giving up messaging so long as I can eat salad, wrap presents, tweeze my eyebrows, and steer with my knee in the 6:00 position.

I’ve finished entire novels sitting at stoplights. I know-that’s a lot of writing! I used to get nervous about missing the green but find that the person behind me almost always gives a sound queue. Sometimes they indicate that I’m number one.

My driving gets worse when I follow directions. Half the time I get them from this guy:

“You turn left at the blue car, but if the car isn’t there, look for a maple tree with the broken branch…”

Or sometimes this guy: “You go north on Fifth Street, then south-southeast on West Third.”

“Left or right, man. I don’t carry a compass.”

So, yes, I’m saving up for a GPS. I want the kind that you can program with celebrity voices. Can you imagine Robert De Niro’s…

“What, am I stupid?! I told you to turn back there. Don’t make me freakin’ recalculate.”

I myself can’t have extra buttons in the car; I’ve got ADHD (which is, by the way, an unfairly long acronym for that disorder). Have you ever been driving and suddenly realize that you can’t remember the past ten miles? That’s what it’s like: I don’t drive so much as I end up places.

I know it’s wrong to steer by Braille and that I, like all drivers, hold the public well-being in my little pinky … or knee or whatever. For this reason, I’ve decided to cut back on in-car activities and focus on one thing at a time. I’m starting with the music.

“Oh, when the saints … come marching in…”

* * *

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.

by Jason Love,
Syndicated Humor Columnist

The Wide, Wide World of Competitive Eating

Ever since curling found its way into the Olympics, our concept of sport has so devolved that ESPN is now televising darts. Call me old-fashioned, but when I turn on ESPN and people are throwing darts, they had better be aiming at each other.
Where could they possibly go from here? Steam room endurance? Tiddlywinks? …
Answer: competitive eating.
In 2007 ESPN will broadcast four eating contests, including Nathan’s International Hot Dog Eating Contest, which this year I watched with keen interest … beside my barf bag.
Nathan’s is sanctioned by the International Federation of Competitive Eating, which also handles, among other foods, crab cake, baked beans, butter (just butter), spam, tiramisu, and-brace yourself, PETA-cow brains.
At least with cow brains you know what you’re getting. Scientists still don’t understand what holds a hot dog together. Right now they are focusing on a reaction between shoe polish and tripe.
Of course, one cannot talk hot dogs without mentioning undisputed champion of the world, Japan’s greatest pride outside of Mount Fuji, Takeru “The Tsunami” … Kobayashi.
In terms of consecutive world titles, you’ve got Lance Armstrong, Martina Navratilova, the ’59-’66 Boston Celtics, and Takeru Kobayashi, who not only wins every year but often laps the competition (and by that I mean lifts them up with his tongue).
Yet Koby could pass as a wrestler: stony biceps, trim waist, that orange-blonde hair that looks so natural on Japanese men. Certainly this wasn’t the record-holder for hot dogs, lobster rolls, hamburgers, bratwurst, rice balls, and cow brains.
IFOCE president George Shea, who promotes his events the old-fashioned way-in a straw hat-stomached my questions.
“We’re seeing a changing of the guard,” he said. “The older, heavier eater is being replaced by athletes like Koby.”
Enter femme phenom Sonya Thomas, who, for her Tinkerbell physique, can eat ten percent of her body weight in a sitting. Sonya has outgorged 300-pound men to win titles in tacos, ravioli, chicken nuggets, jambalaya, and pulled pork sandwiches.
Having seen frankfurter sludge ooze out of eaters’ nostrils, I can only shudder at the thought of pulled pork sandwich.
I had to get closer, but not so close that I lost a finger.
“Crazy Legs” Conti received me like a professor … wearing dreadlocks. Conti has gobbled his way onto The Today Show, CNN, The Sopranos, Emeril, Good Morning America; and he even beat David Letterman in an oyster-eating challenge (459 to 3).
Stay tuned for the 2007 documentary, “Crazy Legs Conti: Zen and the Art of Competitive Eating.”
“So how does one eat 459 oysters without spewing on national TV?”
“The stomach can fill up,” said Legs, “but the mind never can.”
I could just see Crazy Legs training in a swamp next to Yoda: “Hmm, the bile strong with this one is.”
Tim “Eater X” Janus, who competes in face paint to intimidate the others, actually sees a sport psychologist. Sure, you laugh, but do you hold the world record for cannoli and tiramisu?
Sonya Thomas takes a more bare-bones approach: “I just focus, focus, focus.”
Needless to say, none of these people are welcome at Home Town Buffet.
Every food poses it own challenge (example: butter is made of butter), but hot dogs are eaten in one of three ways: 1. The Solomon Method, breaking the dogs in half; 2. Tokyo Style, eating wiener and bun separately; and 3. Dunk ‘n Dip, soaking the meat in what appears to be sewer water.
I’m not sure which method is favored by Miss Manners.
By IFOCE policy, regurgitation-”remnants”-amounts to disqualification. Koby’s 2005 victory was stained by controversy over remnants, a clear-cut cry for instant replay.
“And here, Bob, you can see the projectile splooging out of Koby’s ear and-stop the tape-yes, bouncing on the table.”
Some say that Koby lines his intestines with aloe; others suggest that his stomach was surgically altered by the Japanese government, still sore for losing ground in car production.
Koby’s translator just acts like he doesn’t understand the questions. So it goes.
The only American to keep up with Takeru Kobayashi is Joey “Jaws” Chestnut from San Jose, California. Joey actually led Nathan’s 2006 hot dog contest by two links until, in the tenth minute, he got the “nitrate sweats” and convulsed in a way that made you look around for an ambulance.
Koby, in contrast, found his rhythm, at which point you just had to sit back and let the man do what the good Lord intended him to do. But with 30,000 people chanting his name, Joey pushed to the end, clinging faithfully to advice from a friend … “The stomach can fill up, but the mind never can.”
By the twelfth minute, Joey could only shake the meat down seagull-like, falling short by 1¾ franks. And as hard as it must be to finish second, Joey could take comfort in the fact that he was not the guy measuring the ¼ hot dogs.
My favorite part was the six-foot mascot Frankster, who kept massaging the backs of the eaters. Can you imagine eating 30 hot dogs and then, in a swoon, turning around to find a giant hot dog rubbing your shoulders? Bad trip, man.
When the horn sounded, Koby and Joey raised their fingers in the universal vomit gesture before Kobe wiped his nostril sludge and lifted his shirt for the belly shot. It looked like he had a bun in the oven. 53¾ buns, to be exact.
Frankster waved goodbye to the scattering crowd, which would never eat again. The contestants were free to slink back to their tents and discharge bodily gases. Koby would let go a belch, Joey would burp a little louder, Sonya would break wind, and before you knew it ESPN would be there with television cameras.

By Jason Love

Population

We’ve heard some bleak reviews of the human race, but deep down I think that people are generally… everywhere. Especially during rush hour.
It’s not that people are bad; we’re just a little bit squished. Remember sixth-grade science?
“See, Jimmy, as the rat population grows too dense, the animals start to abuse each other.”
Meanwhile, in the parking lot, someone was breaking into teacher’s car.
The TV people remind us to carpool, recycle, chew ABC gum, etc., and while I’ll do my part, we could trade in all of these PSA’s for one overriding memo: Quit having so many children.
Remember the show “Eight Is Enough”? Eight children is not enough; it’s way too friggen many. I live by a dock where every day new cars, still in their wrapper, drive off the boat and into gridlock. That’s their first experience in the U.S.
How long till we have yo-yo girls working the freeway? “Cigarettes… Candy… Soda…”
If California falls into the sea, it won’t be from earthquakes but from sheer human tonnage. Seriously. When Californians say we have a front yard, we mean it literally: three feet.
How come you need a license to drive and fish and style hair, but anyone, even Rosie O’Donnell, can bear an unlimited number of children? My cousin has a baby every time she needs attention.
“Look what I made!”
“That’s nice, honey. Put it in the crib with the others.”
I know a man whose parents had 20 children and don’t know where half of them are. Trapped in gridlock, presumably. Maybe it’s time for some kind of child-bearing parameters. One baby per 30 I.Q. points? If you can’t spell “vasectomy”… ?
Consider that I myself come from a large extended family, people who don’t use birth control because it isn’t “natural.” Of course, they’re also so old-fashioned, they still believe the world is flat. So it goes.
When the Iowa couple had septuplets, we called it a miracle, but the woman was freebasing fertility pills. She could have gotten pregnant being downwind from sex.
Is anyone else uneasy with Dr. Moreau in the lab? Rumor has it that humans have already been cloned and that zombie-like creatures with heavy brows and crude worldviews await their turn to run for office.
I once attended a meeting for in vitro fertilization. The doctor wielded his lab coat as one might a cape.
“And once we transfer the embryo, aspirate the follicles, and align your ovulation with my golf schedule-voilà, nature’s little miracle.”
In days agone, we had lots of children to ensure our survival; now we have to stop having lots of children for the same reason. If nothing else, think about Santa Claus. You know he’s campaigning for zero population growth.
It’s just that if we go on like this, it’s going to lead to more pollution, more rat brutality, and ultimately a land rush in Arizona, where people will fight like crazy over their new beachfront property.
* * *
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.

My mom has always been creative. A long time ago-back when “Saturday Night Live” was funny-she’d decorate cakes to look like soccer fields, pyramids, women endowed with Hostess Sno-Balls.You lost your innocence early in my home.

Mom works for the bank-THE bank-so her creative urges surface through cracks in the sidewalk. She mostly takes it out on the holidays.

At Christmas her tree is so burdened with ornaments that it leans to one side like Joe Cocker and children place the star on top without even stretching. Read the rest of this article »

Someone suggested that I take a long walk on a short pier…

“You need to lighten up, man.”

That was Yahaira. She used to be my wife; now she’s my best friend (she got demoted after our divorce). Yahaira lives down the street, and we gossip through the night about our love lives.

“Let’s have an adventure,” she said.

And what made more sense than overnight camping for two people who don’t own a tent. We borrowed supplies from an over-trusting neighbor and arrived at the campground shortly after eleven … p.m.

“We got a little lost,” said Yahaira. Read the rest of this article »

It was a typical day—chop wood, carry water—when I got a pop-up from Symantec: “Your Norton virus definitions are about to expire. Renew now?”

I thought virus definitions went on forever like the giant tortoise or Dick Clark. Evidently, they have to be renewed any time Norton demands “payment.”

The Internet was such a good idea on paper. Now we tiptoe through the day afraid of spyware and macros and worms—oh, my. It’s enough to make you become a plumber.

What do hackers get out of the virus anyway? They’re not even around to enjoy their evil. It’s like ordering a pizza to someone else’s house:
“I’ll bet they’re opening the door right now … I’ll just bet …” Read the rest of this article »

Due to technical difficulty, I scheduled with Dr. Klope a sperm count. Talk about tedious jobs. Can you see that poor guy over the microscope?
“1,634… 1,635… wait, did I count that one?”

Dr. Klope had one opening, eight a.m., which is way too early for sperm. A man might wake up with driftwood on his beach, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to make a fire. It’s usually noon before I can swing a French kiss. Read the rest of this article »