Things I Don’t Understand: The Handkerchief

So I’m in a local bookstore last week, waxing poetic on my laptop about midgets and JD Salinger, when this slightly-older-than-middle-aged gentleman and his equally grey female friend grab the table next to me.

He is eating a sandwich, napkin by his side. Paper napkin. He chews loudly which makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

He talks while he chews which makes my stomach turn. Then he does something I just don’t understand.

He pulls out a handkerchief from his right pant pocket, blows a bunch of snot into it, and returns it to his pocket. I don’t want to say what this makes me do, but let’s just say the search party has not found my scrotum just yet.

Can someone explain this to me?

I mean really. The guy had a NAPKIN next to his plate. Wouldn’t you forego the whole snot-in-your-pocket routine if you could? And don’t tell me he was being green. Oh and Mr. Hanky (not THAT Mr. Hanky!) did it 5 times. In 30 minutes. That borders on some sort of nasal drip, no?

Since my grandfather’s generation, we have (almost) lost the traditions of the pipe, the cloth diaper, and the bow tie (except among guys named Tucker).

Doesn’t this make more sense than any of them? Okay, cloth diapers are just gross. But the idea of blowing mucus into a cloth that you continually refold and twist and turn and return to your pocket is astoundingly disgusting.

Where is the TODAY Show expose on the grossest possible things you can do?

“Hey Al Roker, did you know every time you flush the toilet you are spewing tiny fecal particles into the air, so shut that lid!”

“(Fill in corny Al Roker comeback here, which spurs guffaws by the kiss-ass camera and production crew of the show)…Oh Ann Curry, I don’t know what it’s like in the Orient, but here in the states we love to blow snots into a raggedy cloth and put that it back in our pocket. And old women often put them up their sleeves.”

“Oh , Al, You so funny.”

“Ann, I’m serious. Look, here’s mine! Hey, Bon Jovi’s out on the plaza today. I wonder if he’ll deposit some DNA in my hanky?”

“We all can dream big,” a bored Meredith Vieira says, missing the joke because she’s counting her money.

“Is DNA is punk rock band?” Matt Lauer says, wondering where in the world he is at that moment.

So I’m calling for the end of the hanky. Maybe we could have a hanky recycling day where we trade them in to make snot-stained t-shirts for the ravaged children in Haiti. Or more cloth diapers (“Now self-sticking!”). Pre-soiled sheets for college dorm rooms.

Either way, we must end this practice of essentially snotting up our pockets. I can just imagine this poor man’s wife washing his pants. Reaching in to clean out his pockets? Cue the mouth vomit and search party.

A Small, But Measurable Loss; Why Little People Make a Big Imact

So yesterday was a very sad day. JD Salinger, one of the best writers of the century, died. And the day before, the diminutive actress Zelda Rubenstein (Poltergeist, Under the Rainbow and any other movies that required a little Jewish grandmother-type figure)passed on as well.

I’m not one to mourn famous people, especially when they were in their 90s, like Salinger. They lived a full life and, quite honestly, they haven’t contributed much to our society in recent years. So having them gone today is pretty much like having them here yesterday. And Salinger was a recluse. His death? Sad, but inevitable. Let’s all move on.

The Rubenstein thing is more disturbing. No, not because she was only 76. And not because she’s gonna shift around in her coffin like a small bag in the overhead compartment of a 747 jet. And not because she’d been starring in landmark roles recently.

It’s sad, because, I just fucking love midgets.

Now I don’t know if she was technically a midget (the tallest midget can be is 4”9’ but it doesn’t make everyone that height or less a midget. I don’t think. I don’t even know what a Milk Dud is, so why even listen to me), But it’s sad when a little person dies. It makes me sad. Why the obsession with midgets?

Well, it’s like this. Midgets, pound for pound, are the purest form of entertainment.

And you know I’m right about that.

But, they must be interspersed with normal sized folk. Otherwise, it’s just a shitshow. My brother, knowing my mini-person obsession, once bought me an all-midget Western “The Terror of Tinytown.” (I kid you not. They rode Shetland Ponies. And it’s decades old, filmed in black-and-white in 1938). I resisted viewing it for years. I didn’t want to hate it.

I hated it. I couldn’t even finish it, and it was about an hour-and-fifteen minutes long. (Is that technically classified as a “short film”) It was in more ways than one, a letdown.

And there have been documentaries about little people and there is the annual convention of little people that always seems to make its way to some news show every year, but that’s not fun. Midgets dancing with midgets ruins the visual affect. The look like swollen (or dried out) regular people and they move a little funny. Show me a 7-foot Shaq doing the Electric Slide next to a 51-inch wee person. Now THAT’s funny.

How much do I love midgets? One year, in this dead pool I’m in with about 15 other people, I drafted 75 little people of some notoriety. (Oh yes, there are plenty of midget entertainers, you betcha. And, yes, that was a casual reference to a dead pool. So what? That’s for another blog. And no I don’t have Harry Morgan. And yes Abe Vigoda is still alive. Oh and because you are wondering, yes, I did pick all the little people from the show “Little People, Big World” but spared the regular-sized siblings.)

There was actually a midget version of “The Bachelor” a few years ago. It was on Fox (shocker!) and the whole “series” was two episodes. “The Littlest Groom” aired in 2004 (I guess “Big Love” was already taken). I LOVED it. And I think any guy who religiously watches The Bachelor is, you guessed it, a douche

What I liked about it, in addition to how cute everyone was in their little dresses and tuxedo, was that after he met all the midget girls, they brought in regular women. Oh….the midget girls were not only pissed but they hurt themselves by craning their necks so high. All of them had that “Oh no you didn’t” look on their tiny childlike faces.

The only really disappointing thing, other than the show not being on every week for a four-month span, was that they NEVER asked the tall girls why they would date a midget. The honest, answer, of course is fame and notoriety, but it was like the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Okay, the 300 pound gorilla.

I think he picked a tall girl. Maybe he picked a midget. Who knows. My memory has always been short.

But the point is Zelda Rubenstein is gone. Zelda baby, you have left a big hole in the world of small entertainers. Your time on this earth was, predictably, too short.

Can't Get Change at the Post Office; Same Old, Same Old is a Time Honored Tradition

Change is everywhere. Three years ago, nobody ever heard of Twitter. A year ago, we were celebrating our new President who seems to be in a heap of trouble today. And it wasn’t so long ago that Tom DeLay was just an ordinary scumbag, not a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.


But, alas, some things never change.

Perfect example: The Post Office.

None of us LIKE to go to the Post Office. We only go because there’s a certified letter waiting for us, when we think shipping is somehow cheaper there, or we want to meet Lance Armstrong in his cute yellow shirt. (The last two NEVER happen, by the way.)

So we go. And quickly we realize that NOTHING has changed at the post office for 25 years. The first thing we do is look for the right forms. We fill them out, watching the line get longer. We panic. “Do I want Express Mail or Priority Mail? What’s the difference? Why does this form come in three different colors? Is there a color for Tuesday? Don’t they have any friggin packing tape out here? Why is there a 2007 calendar still on the wall?”

Then we battle the line, marveling at the paltry, dirty conditions that make a high school boys locker room look like Saddam’s palace. We try to find the person making the snorting sounds – you know, when someone refuses to use a tissue to blow their nose? We overhear conversations that are not appropriate for our living rooms, much less the Post Office (“I told that boy that bitch was nothin’ but trouble, her and her nose ring be bringing all kinds o’ diseases in my house.”)

And there’s always someone ahead of us in line who is somehow in a bigger rush than we are. He turns to everyone he can make eye contact with, sighs, stands with his shoulders shrugged and head disapprovingly shaking his head, all while checking his watch four times.

There’s the smelly person, though often it’s difficult to isolate the stench. There’s the mom with four kids in tow. There’s the dapper guy clearly on lunch from his very important hedge fund manager job who’s pissed off that he needs to send a baby shower gift to his wife’s college friend Suzy who is expecting twins. Note: He is very likely to be Mr. InaRush. There might even be a DMV employee who thinks it’s taking a long time.

So we slowly move along, noting there are three stations for postal workers, yet only one of them is occupied. (I will not make a postal worker joke here. Not only is it too easy and cliché, these are people I want on my side. I’m always VERY nice to them. Karma and such. Oh, and Mr. Rogers's mailman was Mr. McFeely, so it's kinda in my blood.)

So Mr. InARush gets to the counter and suddenly he appears to have the urgency of someone in those Corona commercials, lounging on the quiet shoreline, their beer easily within reach. He leans on the counter, is chatty with the clerk (about whom he was muttering about minutes before), asking about the kids and how the new Postmaster General is treating the troops. He wants to weigh his options. “Should I get two-day ground or send it overnight to arrive on a Saturday? Does that require a signature?”

Really, pal? This, besides making ME want to go postal, triggers one of my (hundreds of) pet peeves: That people who have waited a more-than-expected-time on line suddenly forget from where they came. Look , we are all in the same boat. So act with the urgency you expected from those who came before you. Thank you. That is all.

So it’s finally our turn and we half expect the post office to close. We get up there, place a crisp order “Overnight, 10:30 a.m. delivery. Waive the signature.”

“Uh, sir you filled out the yellow copy of the form. You need to fill out the pink one.”

“Uh, why?”(Said in the friendliest, most polite way. Karma, remember?)

“It’s Tuesday.”

Very well then. We retreat back to the desk with the 2007 calendar nearby. We scribble the info on the pink copy. We are done and now must do that awkward “sneak back and cut the line” maneuver, which we know triggers feeling of bloody rage in the last two people on line who don’t say anything but bore a hole in the back of our heads with their eyes.

We meekly exit, making no eye contact with anyone.

“Why couldn’t it have been a certified letter? I’m never coming back here.”

Don't be This Guy: Snarky Financial Douche Dude

I like to categorize things. I’m a little compartmental that way. Or just mental. I’m still deciding.

I had a meeting in a local hotel today (I pause while you all think of your snarky comments) and I passed a ballroom in which representatives of what I’ll kindly call a personal wealth seminar were selling their wares to ordinary people who happened to be free on a Tuesday afternoon.

I got a glimpse of the “leader” as I heard him say “we are your best option to get wealthy” and a couple of other guys stationed at the door about whom I made snap judgments. And categorized them.

They are, for lack of a better word, douches.

And, for the record, there is no better word to describe them.

I sat in the lobby for a few minutes to think, watch people, and hope my next blog subject came to me. I find that if you just open your eyes and watch people, they will provide all the comedy you need. So while I waited for lobby-dwellers to entertain me, I kept looking back at The Douche Ballroom.

This particular brand of douche, the “I am the only financial professional who knows how to balance your IRA with your money market accounts along with your portfolio to give you the maximum possible wealth, but only if you sign up today so I can meet my quota” guy makes me crazy. Particularly in this day and age, a little humility goes a long way. And, please, one extra percent on an IRA for someone who comes to a Tuesday afternoon hotel financial seminar is hardly “wealth.” It’s a vacation – maybe. Like Niagara Falls.

One guy, an aggressive balding guy who apparently has not garnered enough personal wealth to not work the door at a Tuesday afternoon lecture but does not possess the charisma to speak in the front of the room, kept coming out to talk to people who had the gall to try to return to their lives before the formal snake oil program had ended.

He confirmed his own douchery.

“It’s important to act today,” he told one woman. “You’d be amazed if you wait even a week how much money you’ll be leaving on the table.”

To another woman: “We are just inviting you to your own party.” (I’m not sure what that means, but it did remind me of some pick up lines used by fraternity brothers some years ago.)

Yet another victim: “You are worth way more than you know; Let me help you get there.” (For the record, people who measure anything in terms of “way more” are also douches. I’m sorry, balding money guy, can you show me “way more” on a bar chart or spreadsheet?)

Just listening to this guy made me want to shower. The whole “expensive silky shirt with no tie so that I’m casual but I reek of success if not some questionable cologne” routine is so easy to see through, at least for me. But that’s because I can smell a douche a mile away.

Especially when they provide me blog fodder. Now if I could only get another percentage point on my 401(k)….

Things I Just Don't Understand: Sir Paul's Post-Beatle Career

We just made it through the holiday season. And I’m happy to say I only heard “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime” piece of dung only twice. And by piece of dung, I mean a steaming heaping pile following a Mexican lunch from a street vendor and corn on the cob thrown in for good measure.

I think I’ve made myself clear.

I’ve often joked that Paul McCartney’s name should be stripped off all his Beatles songwriting credits for writing, singing, and in any way being associated with “Simply Having a Wonderful Brain Aneurism.” And this weekend, in the car, I heard “Silly Love Songs” written by Sir Paul and his band Wings.

Then it dawned on me. This is another “Thing I Don’t Understand:” Paul McCartney’s post-Beatle career. Let me sum up this "career" - we would rather hear the screams of his ex-wife while he slowly nibbled the rest of her leg off, all the way up to her torso. (Don’t roll your eyes; this is not the easy cripple joke you think it is. Okay, maybe it is.)

I think I’ve made myself clear.

“Silly Love Songs,” according to Wikipedia (so I KNOW it’s true**) was his reply to critics who said he wrote too many lightweight songs.

Let me repeat that. He was criticized for being soft. And THIS was his answer:

You'd think that people


Would have had enough


Of silly love songs


I look around me and I see it isn't so


Some people wanna fill the world


With silly love songs


And what's wrong with that?


I'd like to know


'cause here I go again


I love you, I love you

What’s wrong with that? You’re kidding right?

That’s like being the guy who waterboards a terrorist and, after his practices are called into question, he introduces a fire hose to the proceedings.

That’s like OJ introducing a line of knives so sharp they can cut barbed wire outside his prison

That’s like Michael Jackson….oh sorry, I’m told I must wait a full year after his death to make new molestation jokes.

Let me put it this way, Sir Paul: even James Taylor thinks you are a pussy.

If your edgiest/most interesting songs are “Band on the Run” and “Live and Let Die,” both of which have long stretches of estrogen that make even Ellen DeGeneres uncomfortable, then you’ve got to come back to us.

Paul, you wrote Hey Jude for the love of Pete! And Yesterday. And Blackbird. And Helter Skelter. Charles Freakin Manson, a serial killer, was influenced by Helter Skelter. Some credit the creation and growth of heavy metal to that song – and the best you got is “Silly Love Songs.”

Why did you stop using LSD and start burning incense?

I clearly don’t understand you, Sir Paul. And Craig Ferguson is right: you DO look like Angela Lansbury.

(** Denotes that my brother, the biggest Beatles scholar that exists (at least until his wife beat him in Beatles Trivial Pursuit this weekend) will surely set the record straight and at the same time manage to voice his opinion on Wikipedia. Have at it, Sean.)

Guys I Hate, Edition One: Australian Firefighting Keanu Band Dudes!

So I’m sitting in the bookstore under the guise of “working hard,” which probably means I was on Facebook while watching people come and go. These two girls, and by girls I mean behemoths, so please don’t build them up in your mind – approach the counter.

Surely fresh off their workout, they are interested in a protein shake or a bottled water. In either case, they say to the young guy behind the counter, “Can I see your tattoo?” When I roll my eyes, he rolls up his sleeve to show off his tattoo (which he drew himself) that features the words “pride, responsibility and honor” or three other words that have no value when injected into the skin.

He then shows his other tat, another self-drawn work of art. The girls giggle something about where are the others and they all flirt and get a little red. Thankfully I’m watching my cholesterol so I had no interest in these girls, but this exchange, naturally, made me think about guys I hate.

Okay, I don’t hate the guys themselves. I hate the “gimmicks” with which they easily meet women. It’s hard enough to a ruggedly handsome, humorous, thoughtful, intelligent man such as me to meet someone, so it bothers me when guys have an automatic advantage. Let’s examine the categories here:

1. Firefighters. You wear a ratty old T-shirt to a bar that says “Podunk FD; Engine 7” and you wax poetic with your buddy: “Remember that time we raced in that building after the explosion and saved those 3-day-old kittens?” Your next decision is what you want the girl you met last night to put in your omelette. Easy.

2. Australian guys. Women, please don’t roll your eyes. You know this one is true. He doesn’t even have to be hot. Some guy in the park, the bookstore, the bar says ANYTHING with an Australian accent (and usually a British accent) and you’re DONE. “Hey, love, can you tell me where the STD cream is” he might say in the Walgreens. Your answer “I have some extra at my apartment. I have some shrimp in the freezer if you want to….” “Put one on tha barbie…” (Knees weaken)

3. Military guys. Yes, they are heroes. Yes, we owe them our freedom, even our lives and our way of life. But come on, fellas, can you possibly not leave the house in full dress. You’re free to discuss your service, or the shrapnel you took in your shin, or how you can hit a target from 25,000 feet. But please, the uniform is kryptonite for females. Can we level the playing field, or the battle field, just a little?

4. The dark, brooding, band guy. You’re not sure he has showered yet in 2010. He keeps mostly to himself. The only words he ‘speaks’ are lyrics from the jukebox that he mouths. Yet, you smile at him and suddenly all his pain, his art, and his thoughtful expressionism bubbles to the surface. He’s so feeling that you look past the fact that he’s wearing a Members Only jacket from the 80s which hasn't been washed since the 90s, and he owns one pair of jeans, which he may or may not have worn this entire week.

5. Keanu Reeves. I just don’t get this one. To say he’s a human fire hydrant is an insult to hydrants and the dogs that pee on them.

I’m sure there are other types of guys that immediately repulse me, but I’ll keep it light today. Plus I need to decide what kind of tattoo on get my arm. I was gonna go with “Hemingway” or “ESPN The Magazine” or some such literary influence. Maybe I’ll just go buy an FDNY t-shirt in the thrift shop or learn a foreign accent.

Things I Just Don't Understand: The Chalky Diner Mint

I’m a pretty bright guy. Not the smartest but not, say, Keanu Reeves. But there are certain things I will never understand. Like quantum physics, how to assemble furniture from Ikea, and the widespread appeal of George Lopez.

But this morning I discovered another small “nugget of life” that I just can’t comprehend:

The chalky diner mint.

I mean, I understand minty treats. Sure who doesn’t like the sweet little something that makes you smile and freshens your breath. But most of us have never met Kristin Chenoweth.

But the chalky diner mint, to me, doesn’t get the job done. As usual, I have several doubts and questions regarding subject, including but not limited to:

1. Why so chalky? I mean, I thought Milk Duds had the powdery treat market cornered (well the LEGAL powdery treat market). And when you are ready to bite into the chalky diner mint, it basically disappears like pixie dust in your mouth. Completely unsatisfying and, if the urban myth is true, Mikey from the Life cereal commercials, died that way.

2. What did you eat that you need a chalky diner mint? I mean, in the diner, I always play it safe.

Burger. Short stack of pancakes. Chicken noodle soup. If you’re having the beef stroganoff, the veal picatta, or ANYTHING with hollandaise sauce, your breath is the least of your problems. Your colon is about to unleash a fury you have only read about.

3. If your breath does stink, just buy gum.

4. If you need to grab a solid food with a spoon, you should know better. Soup? Sure. Cereal? Of course? A bowl of mints? Uh….I’ll pass. If you need to fish for a food like that “grab the stuffed animal” game in the diner lobby, you should just skip it.

5. EVERYONE else has touched the mints. The reason of course they have the spoon in the mints, or they place the mints in something in which Bingo numbers should be housed, is that everyone paws the mints. Old people. Married people. Little children. Single guys. Divorced women. Babies wearing diapers. Busboys. EVERYONE has touched the mints. If you want to suck the fingers of everyone who’s eaten at the diner this week, you go right ahead. (And if you do, please do not tell us about it. You sick bastard.)

Of course, the good compromise is the individually wrapped chalky diner mint. But it’s still a chalky diner mint. And it comes with unnecessary waste. I beg, I implore the diners of the world, to go to Walgreens and buy the big bag of Starlight mints. Get some Andes Candies. Even those Halloween-sized boxes of Milk Duds (if you can find them).

But please stop the madness. The chalky diner mint’s usefulness has long passed. Sometimes it’s not the first impression but the final memory that leaves the most lasting feelings. If you serve the bowl of chalky diner mints, I might be forced to eat elsewhere. Until of course I obsess about something else I do not understand. That shouldn’t take long.

Duds in Demand: Milking It for All It Is Worth

I was at a flea market in Cape Cod with a good friend of mine this summer. We split up for a few minutes. Maybe I needed a pocketknife or something equally useless; she went to get a snack.


So she texts me…. “I just saw the funniest thing…” and I reply “What?” She says “Pic coming.”

I should mention that we both suffer from Crackberry addictions. We are, in every sense of the word, enablers to one other.

So the picture arrives on my phone. It’s the snack counter. Jujubees. Starburst. Junior Mints. Sour Patch Kids. Twizzlers. The works, right? Fairly typical of your run of the mill flea market-slash-drive-in-theater. Not so fast….There is a handwritten sign in close proximity to the boxes of Mike and Ike that reads:

“Milk Duds available upon request.”

First of all, this is VERY funny. If you don’t think so, you shouldn’t continue reading. Go catch up on your back issues of Scientific American and Utne Reader.

Second of all, this raises many issues.

1. Is this a geographic phenomenon? Is there a malted milk emergency in eastern Massachusetts? Are Bostonians and their suburban counterparts obsessed with cheap chocolate surrounding blackboard chalk?

2. Is there a scientific correlation between flea markets and Milk Duds? Are those who seek to buy 10 pairs of scratchy socks for $8 somehow hardwired to cause a public ruckus due to the presence of chocolate balls?

3. Are the Milk Duds readily available at night, during the drive in? And if so, do they hide other sweets? Do movie goers have Twizzler cravings? Do guys named Ike clean out the candy counter because they feel they have not been properly compensated?

4. What would happen if the Milk Duds were out for all to see? It all comes back to the basic question: Why do you need to keep them BEHIND the counter? What has happened in the past that has resulted in such severe tactics? Has there been gang-related Milk Dud activity? Or if we put them out, do the terrorists win?

5. If they keep the Milk Duds in the same place as the Playboy magazines, do you really want to eat them?

So since that day I make a point to scour all the candy counters I pass. Are there Milk Duds? What else is missing? I don’t have a sweet tooth (though I can suck down a big bag of Twizzlers pretty quickly. But not the chocolate ones. That’s just plain gross.)

And, don’t you know it, on occasion, the Milk Duds are missing. But there has yet to be (another) sign that you must ask nicely (say the “Magic Word”) to acquire said Duds.

So while this is not a matter of national security, as far as we know at least, I would like you to join The Great Milk Dud Caper. I have trouble letting things go, but please amuse me here, as I try to solve the Milk Dud Conundrum. Scour your local candy counter. Ask the movie theater clerk about candy trends. Hang back and observe at flea markets. Use the word “milk” in casual conversation. Note the reaction. Ratchet it up to “dud” or, if you’re really confident just blurt out “Milk Duds” and observe. Join the fight for answers. Join our quest. Free the Milk Duds!

Oh how does the DMV suck? Let us count the ways.....

We all know the DMV sucks. That is no surprise.

The surprise is that the DMV doesn’t seem to know that everyone knows it sucks. Or they don’t care. I like to pretend it’s the former, for at least the removes vindictiveness from the process. And that makes me feel better. Somehow.

So the story starts at 1 a.m. in a town called Wilton. Wilton, for those of you not from Connecticut, is Native American for “So rich I live where you can actually see stars and, sometimes, a bear.” It’s rich. Not much happens. Except for rampant teenage drug use and aldutery. But we don’t talk about those things here. And the cops there don’t have much to do. Except, apparently, harass motorists and supply them with misinformation.

Here's the quick story: Family party. Few drinks. Not severe. 1 a.m. Sirens. Sir you’re speeding. Whatever. License. Registration. Wait. Wait more. Sir, your license is supended. Officer that’s impossible. Have you been drinking? Sobriety test? Suspended you say? Tell me more.

Yes my license was suspended, but I didn’t know. Stemmed from a year old seat-belt ticket in New York City. A seat belt violation! There’s no hate crime or crane collapse to worry about? Grrrr. Anyway, I couldn’t pay that ticket online due to a misspelling of my name by the cops. But no, they are not dumb.

So while I awaited my court date and settled up the suspension question (8 business days, handled by mail. Went seamlessly - Only the postal system can shine in the shadow of the DMV) I needed to obtain a non-driver state ID, also issued at DMV. Ug.

Line 1: Information line. Which turned out to be the lack-of-information-but-heres-the-form-you –need line. Okay, at least I’m moving forward

Line 2: Type your name onto this touch-screen computer that 15,000 Connecticut residents have touched since the last time Windex was in the budget. Okay, that’s cool, the picture part is done.

Line 3: Find out you don’t have the proper documentation by an unforgiving DMV employee. (But if you can go get a copy of your birth certificate today, you can bypass lines 1 and 2. Uh, what part of I don’t have my license don’t you understand)

(Go get my birth certificate; return hours later to line 3)

Line 3, Part II: Welcome back honey, what do we have here. Two copies of birth certificate. Excellent. Give me all your papers, and go to the license renewal line. I’m gonna give them all your documents. Huh? You’re keeping my birth certificate? Thank God I got two!

Line 4: License renewal line. With 45 of my closest friends. Hmm, that girl is cute. Yeah….you get your license at age 16… Well, her mom is cute. 45 friends, 75 minutes. Could be worse. I’ll have my ID when I’m up there.

Line 4.5 License renewal discussion (by the way, the license renewal line irony has not escaped me). Okay, everything’s here. We got your birth certificate (but a ha, I have two!), forms are good. Take a seat, doll, and we’ll call you up to have your picture taken

Okay, this is the part I don’t get. I took my picture. It was on line 2, remember, earlier today. I see the copy of my picture there and, might I say, I look kind of dashing.

Baby doll, that’s for internal DMV purposes, so we know it’s you handing in your forms.

Uh, don’t you have like the last five drivers license photos of me? Look, it’s the freshman 15! Right there!

They’ll call your name when it’s your turn

Well, it’s my turn after 45 of my closest friends have their picture taken. That one’s kind of cute right? No, the mom!

Wait

Wait

Wait more

Sigh.

Wait.

Shit, was she before me or after me?

Who the hell is that guy? Where’s he been hiding

Wait

Mr. McFreeley?

Really? Where do you see the R in my last name. Just call McFeeley and smirk to suppress the laugh like everyone else. This is not Brett Favre where you can play games with the alphabet.

Behind the line. Look straight at the camera. No, honey, straight on. Not at an angle.

But. But that’s my good side. See, no wandering eye.

Straight on honey.

Grrrr.

Wait with my 45 closest friends. Maybe that girl is 18. I could ask to see her new license. Then mom would get pissed. Damn. Decisions, decisions

Wait

Wait

What time is sundown anyway. I’m so hungry I could eat that fat guy over there. Or maybe that pen chained to the desk over there.

McFreeley

Ug. But wait – that means I’m done!

Grab the non-license ID from the license renewal photographer/bureaucrat

Hey, I’m a handsome devil.

So that was it. Seven lines, and seven hours (not including the birth certificate side trip) later I had my loser-you-lost-your-license-because-New-York-AND-Connecticut-DMVs-fucked-up state ID

My question remains. Well two questions. DMV – don’t you know your reputation? Wait, don’t answer that. Second question – why take my picture twice in the SAME DAY when you could have saved me two and a half hours of my life (that will be 400 dollars in lost work please – ha!) because of your “procedure”

I swear I need to run the world. Then you couldn’t get your license til you were 18. Only thing worse than bureaucracy is ambiguity.

Of Course You Love Your Kids; Now Get The Hell Out of My Way

Anyone who knows me even a little knows that little tiny stupid things really annoy the crap out of me. Lie, cheat, abuse my pets – no problem. But a handmade sign that uses incorrect punctuation – that shit will have me muttering under my breath for days. Sometimes weeks.

So it’s with that backdrop I tell you about one of my biggest pet peeves. I’ve been walking a lot over the past week or so (another blog for another time) and I’ve noticed on more than one local street the sign that makes my blood boil every time.

“Please drive slowly We Love Our Children.”

This sign is wrong for so many reasons. Let us count them:

1. As you see, the sign never specifically says "love" but uses the heart symbol. Clearly the sign must have been created by an Irish Catholic family that couldn't use the actual word "love" to describe family members. But if Jesus was around the block, those four letters would have been in bold, capital letters, underlined two times.

2. You assume I’m driving too fast. Okay, that’s a fair assumption for me personally (another blog for another time). But you assume everyone who reads the sign is driving too fast.

3. If said driver is driving too fast, would you: a) hope he takes his eyes off the road to read a street sign with more words than almost any other sign you can imagine, or b) watch the road where your careless children might be carelessly riding their crappy scooters you bought them for Christmas at TJ Maxx.

4. The sign assumes the driver does not love his or her children, or perhaps nieces and nephews, but that the unique caring individuals who dwell on these particular streets have this loving commitment to their offspring that most parents do not share. Give me a break.

5. What if you don’t love your children equally? Or you realize the youngest one is a complete turd-on-a-stick? Will you trick that child into walking dead on into oncoming traffic? Will you put up a sign that says “If you see this loser child, step on it and have at it, Speed Racer?”

6. It’s not an official traffic sign and therefore is probably illegal. But loving your children is such a nice warm sentiment, we won’t ever blow the whistle.

7. It’s very limiting, suggesting only children are prone to automobile accident victimization? How about “We love our Depends-wearing, moth-ball-smelling, whisky-smellling grandparents who think they are walking down the Boulevard to the speakeasy before they take in a burlesque show?” Or “We got a retard on the block. He’s not technically a child but one day last week he bit a social worker, a neighbor and the head off a dead bird in the same day. Take it easy, okay?” Or “We are a bunch of newlyweds on this block and we don’t yet resent our spouses or ask ‘what if Jimmy Burke did kiss me at prom’ so could you keep our love whole by being careful on our street?”

8. And it’s just too damn passive-aggressive. And that might make the Catholic- or Jewish-guilt ridden child like myself (uh that would be Catholic; I never looked good in a yarmulke) unknowingly lead-footed on that skinny pedal. And the amount of guilt stored up could result in a crash involving not only your perfect children but both your white haired grandparents and Special Fred, especially if he’s hugging the tree into which my Pathfinder careens.

9. Oh yeah, and it absolves all parents on the street from being responsible and watching their children. It encourages “Gabby was out of work for two weeks and came back with killer bosooms” kind of gossip by neighborhood mothers; it allows 6 dads on the block to stand over one barbecue to supervise the intensity of a charcoal fire, work that requires a can of Pabst Piss Ribbon or whatever cheap swill that your neighbor Steve brings to your house while he stocks his fridge with Stella Artois. This sign allows people the false confidence that allows them to use “But I was in watching The View. Scott Peterson’s girlfriend was on” as an excuse for their beautiful shining child getting scraped off the grill of a Chevy Silverado.

So there you have it. Nine solid reasons to speed up in one of those " our children" neighborhoods. Good luck and Godspeed. Lots of Godspeed!

Fine, Don't be My Imaginary Friend! I'm Not Mad -- Really!

The world, it is safe to say, is a strange place. It is getting stranger by the day, even with the death of Michael Jackson (chimps and children DO breather easier however).

Technology is changing our lives before our very eyes. I, for one, have embraced the social media (sites like Facebook and Twitter). Why, you ask? Why, thank you for asking. Two reasons:

1. I crave attention
2. It's better than doing work.

(If you are a client of mine, I mean the work of other clients, of course)

But the social media can create some sticky situations, for sure.

My Facebook account was recently suspended indefinitely. I tried to find out but I got a canned email that said basically "It could be one of the reasons listed below, and we may or may not reply to tell you about your case."

Nice.

They didn't end up telling me, but I think it's because I blogged about feces. It is a mini-obsession of mine ("how many times do you go everyday?" "what color is your poo usually?" "It felt a lot bigger than it looked!").

Who knows where my account went. In any case, I had to start from scratch and build another profile. I had 450 "friends" on my account. I use the quotes around friends because none of them were Jennifer Aniston. Mmmmm, my best friend.

So...I found out when you start an account on Facebook, you can only send friend invites to a certain number of people before the vigilant Facebook police tell you literally "to slow down" or "face suspension."

See -- that's what I'm talking about -- a little warning. What a concept!

So people found themselves not on my friends list. Which means their walls no longer contained references to poop, retarded people (sorry handicapable?), midgets (sorry, little people), or dumb people (sorry - Yankee fans).

Quite frankly, their lives went dark.

So I kept getting these e-mails from very good friends.

"Uh, dude. I'm not sure if you're angry with me and my wife, but we noticed you un-friended us on Facebook. If there's something wrong, you know you can always call. Okay, you can text us and we'll have a two hour conversation instead of five minutes, but you know what I mean. Be in touch, love, Skippy."

Okay, I have no friends named Skippy. But I might just have a buddy Jif.

So I've been in this crazy holding pattern of remembering whom I had befriended on Facebook 1 and whom still awaits an invite on Facebook 2. Meanwhile I've been heavily Tweeting..... "Um, no Ma, tweeting is not a sin. Even if you're not married. You see, there are these things, called Tweets and they must be 140 characters long....No, not like Disney characters... Never mind. Want another Nilla wafer?"

So if you thought you were no longer my friend, well, you're better off keeping it that way. But if you don't see me on your Facebook page, look me up, send a request. Or if you want to follow me on Twitter, I'm at www.Twitter.com/TomMcFeeley.

You'll like me better on Twitter. You're limited to 140 characters (or 1 character -- Grumpy), so Twitter is ideal because people can only handle me in small doses anyway.

And, no I'm not mad at you. Unless you don't laugh at my jokes. Then I'll have to inundate you with Lil' Green Patch requests.

No ma, I'm not giving away lilypads....It's this thing -- Oh never mind....

R.I.P Gloria -- Now Can I Turn off the Heat in This Foyer??

I've shared this with many of you, and I mentioned it in my last blog, but it does deserve its own post.

My neighbor, Gloria, passed away in late May. She was 83.

You remember Gloria from my blog posts:

"Meet the Neighbors: The Golden Years" - http://tommymac71.blogspot.com/2008/09/meet-neighbors-golden-years.html

"Say It Ain't So: My Girl Gloria is Cheating On Me" - http://tommymac71.blogspot.com/2009/03/say-it-aint-so-glo-my-girl-gloria-is.html

"Love Notes from Gloria" -- http://tommymac71.blogspot.com/2009/04/love-notes-from-gloria.html

I cleaned her car off in the snow. I bought her cheap wine and made sure to give her the exact change. I "fixed" her answering machine, in reality erasing the messages when the inbox was full. I even mistakenly bought her a Christmas gift once, when it turns out the other old lady neighbor was the one who left me a snowflake pencil and what i think were bath beads.

She went into the hospital for a procedure (remember the note about hoping the doctor knew what he was doing) that I didn't care to ask about, for I feared knowing too much about this woman. The procedure went well, but she suffered a fatal heart attack 3 days later in the hospital.

I found out when a couple, which turned out to be her son and daughter in law, were taking grocery bags of food from Gloria's apartment to their mini-van. They had trash bags also which I assumed contained clothes and other possessions. I thought it was a bad sign, but that maybe she was in a rehab facility or nursing home. She was having a lot of trouble climbing the stairs to her unit lately.

When I introduced myself as the next door neighbor, the daughter in law said "Oh, you're the wine guy!" I told some neighbors about Gloria and I attended the wake. Some of the things I heard and learned:

* Neighbor: "Oh, you were her wine guy. I was the grocery girl. I think someone else was the mail guy but I can't be sure."
* Relative at the wake: "Oh, you're the wine guy. She loved you! Tom? Tom McSeeley, right? (Close enough)
* Gloria's birthday was September 11, 1925. I feel such a sadness for anyone born on that day. I hate being born on Dec 21, for selfish reasons, but Sept. 11 is worse, and far more sad.
* Gloria had some hot granddaughters and extended family. I stayed at the wake for about a half hour, despite not knowing anyone. During that time I wondered about the etiquette for flirting at a wake. Surely SOMEONE has met SOMEONE else while mourning, no?
* More than one person literally walked in an out of the funeral home in under 3 minutes! Sign the book, kiss a few cheeks, mutter a few "sorry for your losses" I'm sorry, this isn't speed waking. Pay a little respect and turn off the mini-van's engine.

My first memory of Gloria came before I even met her. I moved into my apartment two years ago on Memorial Day weekend. It was a good 85 muggy degrees outside. When I walked in the foyer leading to our units, the heat was on, full blast. It must have been 100 degrees.

I turned it down.
She turned it up
I turned it down.
She turned it up.
I turned it down.
She left a note to keep the heat on so she won't be cold while waiting for her rides.

Okay, sauna/foyer it is. I just hope I don't have to pay for that.

So the day she went in the hospital, it was a warm day. The foyer was about 4 degrees cooler than the sun. I turned the heat off, knowing she was gone for a few days.

It was the last time anyone touched the heat. And she's gone. Her note is still there.

Rest in Peace, Gloria.
And Rest in Warmth

May -- The Dryest Month of the Year. Well, THIS Year

I'm not the smartest guy going. I know this. Sometimes as soon as I say something, I immediately wish my words had a little string on the end of them, so I can pull them back in. (Never mind, the string on the end made me think of tampons and.....ew)

Anyway, my good friend Jeff was going to visit a brand new doctor in late April. Over our weekly breakfast, he tells me he wants to build good healthy habits, drop a few pounds and get reinvigorated. Sounded like a good idea to me.

So I made one of the dumbest suggestions. Ever.

"Well why don't we go on the wagon for the month of May," I said. "We'll give up drinking and try to build some good habits."

My egg-white ommelette tasted like crap that day, by the way. My mouth got dry, and not the way I like it to.

So we did. May came and we stopped drinking. A few days in Jeff asks "You meant getting drunk, right? Like we can have a couple of drinks, but no more getting tanked, for the month."

"Jeff," I began to reason with him with my new, clean mind. "if you're drinking you NEVER think you're tanked. Unless you've lost the feeling in your legs, and you'd probably blame that on your belt anyway."

Sure, drying out for a month sounds like a great idea. But picking THIS particular month didn't make much sense. Consider:

* May had five weekends. FIVE. That's like 10 percent of the weekends for the WHOLE year.
* I was invited to two birthday parties in May, including a 40th birthday barbecue. Ug.
* Mother's Day. Extended family time. I even babysat my two nieces for a whole day and didn't cave.
* Golf season. I'm not good when I'm focused. Lose a couple brain cells, lose a couple strokes.
* Memorial Day. I felt un-American by not honoring our fallen veterans by getting a little lubed up on imported beers.
* My next door neighbor Gloria died late in the month. I wanted to at least hoist a very cheap glass of read wine in her honor, but I settled on a few prayers.
* Baseball. I have about 18 lonely beers in my fridge. Every day another Met got hurt. It wasn't looking so good. I needed liquid company!

My cousin always goes dry in February. He says it's so he knows he CAN give it up for health reasons if someday he needed to. But, let's face it -- February is the softest month of the year. Shortest month, barely any sports (though the Super Bowl is now played in February, but still)

I didn't tell many people about this "experiment." Frankly, I got tired of hearing "YOU gave up DRINKING. For a MONTH!? Are you dying?"

Those who know both Jeff and I wondered who would crack first. We never even bet on it, we both decided to just do it, and believed we both could, so we never considered betting. Me not considering competing!! Can you believe it!

May came. May went. No alcoholic beverage touched my lips.

It wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought. So what did I learn?

* Water is your friend. I feel like a freakin' fish I drank so many gallons of water;
* Hangovers suck. Most mornings I was rested, refreshed. It was weird. I almost liked it.
* Finishing something is way harder than starting it. The last week was hell. I think my Bombay Sapphire was literally calling my name. Oh, BS, I'll be there soon.
* My ADD is not solely attributable to Heineken. I still forgot stuff. Woo hoo! I think....
* Bars actually charge you to drink seltzer water? One place stuck me for $3.50. And no free refills!!! Hell for that kind of money, I should have been drinking a G&T at half the pace!
*Susan Boyle really is ugly. Drunk or sober.

So today is June 1. It's almost 2 p.m. No liquid lunch, no shakes, no hives (other than the one on the deck the bees built)

So cheers to me! Gifts of gin, Heineken mini-kegs and Advil are currently being accepted.

What is a "Road Game" and other pressing fecal matters....

Death, taxes and potty humor. They are the constants I'm finding out.

So I write about how full of it I am (yes, 1.68 pounds) and I get alllll sorts of feedback. Most of it came offline because people are still shy about talking about fecal matter publicly. Seems there are a lot of questions. So, let's get to it. This weeks edition of Tom Talks Shit.

Q: What exactly is a 'road game?'

A road game, as you might imagine, is when you relieve yourself away from home. At work, at a friend's house, on an airplane, at a Chuck E. Cheese. Hell, it could be in the woods.

Q: Is it natural to feel uncomfortable partaking in, um, a 'road game?'

While it is quite uncommon to feel some level of angst, guilt, discomfort or even shhh! (constipation), the act itself is among the most natural of human functions.

I have a friend we'll call Bean since, well, that's what we call him. He refuses to, under almost any circumstance, visit a foreign bowl. I'm not talking about letting fly in China or Italy. I'm talking about ANY road game. I think it's a germ issue, though there is clearly overall discomfort.

This guy will work a double shift and hold it all day just so he can make a home deposit. I think he's crazy. If you have a family heriloom that needs to be protected, Bean's your guy. He can tuck away anything in safety for an extended period.

Now I get that. There are some horribly disgusting places that are disguised as restrooms. I would have to be nearly dead to use a gas station toilet, for example. Airports are a tough call, especially if you are about to board a flight. What's worse -- a couple germs on the cheeks or having stomach cramps while sitting next to Jobba The Hut on a flight to Vegas? "Uh, no prune juice for me, thank you very much!"

Q: How long is too long to hold it? How many times a day should one 'drop the kids at the pool?'

Ah, one of life's big mysteries....One of the ongoing debates that Bean and I enjoy.

I think it's easy. "Three meals, three times," right? I mean you don't want your PB&J running up against your pork loin now do you? Or your brown rice and your egg whites. Then you get in a whole Rodney King situation in your colon and NOBODY wants that.

But because I don't know everything... (I'll pause while you get over your shock)... I turned to a professional nutritionist, whom we'll call Alison Held because, well that's her name. Here was Alison's take:

"2 or 3 times daily is optimal. Only once is not ideal at all."

There you have it. Three Meals, Three Times. Maybe I do know it all.

Q: What is the deal with corn?

I know!!! What IS the deal with corn? I don't really know (okay, I did look it up but it's too scientific for a humor blog. The only funny thing about science, in history, was Beaker the Muppet. But I DO know this. We should make houses and space shuttles out of kernels of corn.

I also stumbled upon this discovery/science project. I have imbibed an adult beverage or two in my day. I happen to really like Guinness. (I know, it's like tar. Take my friend Jimmy O's advice. Drink two pints and then tell me it sucks. You can't.) So one night I'm drinking Guinness at a barbecue where there is obviously corn on the cob. Now, when I say I was drinking Guinness, I mean you could line I-95 with the amount of tar I consumed.

So, next day, after a home game, I take a glance before the flush (Come on, you KNOW you do it too) and it was almost black and infused with corn. I call it the Bumble Bee, but I can never get the stripes of corn in a perfect row. But, like a Rubik's Cube, I know have something to try to solve, to form the perfect Bumble Bee.

Oh, I'm sorry, am I talking out loud? Oops. Maybe I've more than answered your questions.

Until next time, this is Dr. Feces -- signing off. I "gotta go" anyway!

How Full of (Sh)it is Tom Anyway????

So I've been told I'm full of it. Okay, I've been told I'm flat out full of shit. (Yes, it was probably YOU who said it.)

But recently, I wondered......hmmm. HOW full of it/shit am I? How does one measure this?

Then, in an awkward place, I found my answer.

I was a guest in someone's home and I had to urinate, or "tinkle" as we said as kids. I'm not sure why parents and kids make up cute words for pee. Just call it pee, right?

Anyway, I embarked on Mission Tinkle in someone else's home. I walked in their tastefully decorated bathroom. It was like a library with a toilet. Which, I thought, wouldn't be such a bad thing. We would all read more if the toilet was in the room where all the books were. At least we'd make it through the first chapter. And, let's face it, if you like the first chapter you're gonna read the rest of the book. I wonder if the Reading Is Fundamental people have thought of this approach. Is that group still around or is RIF RIP. (This is how my mind works. You wonder why I'm always tired?)

Mission Tinkle...Yes that's right. So I begin the fumbling around (zipper, raising the toilet seat, etc.) and something catches my eye which, of course, gets my brain to thinking.

A digital scale in the bathroom.

Now these scales are the devil. If you think you're 175 pounds it will tell you 175.8 and then you're forced to mentally round up, or to allow for your 5 pound jeans.

I remember 175 pounds. My junior year in high school was so much fun.

So the scale....I look at it, and realize I do need to do more than pee. I needed to do "Number Three" (I could never remember the numbers; which was number one, which was number two, so I created a number 3, for when you have to do both.)

But, of course the problem was I was a visitor in someone else's bathroom. A "road game" is either uncomfortable for the visitor or socially frowned upon by just about everyone. (Unless it's a relative's house, then you can let 'er fly anytime. And take great pleasure in doing so.)

I needed to know, I decided.

So I weighed myself before making the deposit. Then I read a chapter of whatever was available. Then I stepped on the digital scale again. (Please tell me I'm not the only one who's ever done this. If I owned a digital scale, I would do this every time I had a "home game.")

So what was the result? Drum roll please (there's a rim shot joke in there somewhere, right?)

1.68 pounds

So, if I were 175 pounds let's say, the 175.8 could have been (oh I shouldn't have had the cheesecake), but instead I would have REALLY been 174.12 pounds (look out bitches, I'm fit and trim).

So does 1.68 fecal pounds dictate "full of shit?" I don't really know because, I've never weighed other people's dumps. Nor have I asked about it. Kind of a delicate issue, and you need a digital scale. But the few friends I've told this story too seem to think it's a lot. But like the adage of your shit don't stink, I think people underestimate the bulkiness of their waste matter.

I'm sure there is a website where you can enter your weight. I guess I'm not THAT caught up in my ranking against the median weight of my personal dung that I would search for such a resource.

The long and the short of it (actually it was kind of dense, not particularly long or short) is that I STILL don't know how full of shit I am. I just know I left skidmarks in a really nice bathroom. I wonder if they noticed.....

Love notes from Gloria

You've all read about Gloria, the 84-year-old neighbor (see this post: http://tommymac71.blogspot.com/2009/03/say-it-aint-so-glo-my-girl-gloria-is.html).

She knocks on my door yesterday. "Tommy! Tommy! Are you in there? Are you sleeping?" I had just come out of the shower (hmmm. Impeccable timing or opportunistic vixen?) so I was dressed only in my skivvies and a t-shirt. Throw on some jeans and answer the door:

Gloria: Oh, you ARE there. Were you sleeping?
Me: No, I was just in the show---. Uh, I was getting dressed.
Gloria: Oh, you're going out?
Me: Yes, but I won't be home til the evening.
Glo: Perfect. Can you get me some wine?
(Now, I've done this for her; fetched two large bottle of red swine, I mean wine, that she favors, so this isn't an unusal request)
Me: Sure.
(Long, uncomfortable silence ensues. Me wondering: 1. What was the cheap brand again? 2. Where's my money you needy wench?)
Her: Oh, they know what I like.
Me: (Thinking: 1. Who are "they" exactly. I'm now a psychic and I know where you buy your wine now? 2. Where is my money you needy wench?)

(Did I mention I'm not a nice person. I don't think I'm hell material, but I'm not Gandhi. Yes, I tend to eat quite well).

So I figure I can remember the bottle when I see it. It will be the biggest bottle for $5.99 in the joint. And I know the approximate location of said wine)

So, an hour or so later I leave for my afternoon meetings and appointments (I gotta work to support Gloria's drinking habits.) There is a note outside my front door. And $15 in cash.

Now Gloria is 84, as I said. She sometimes leaves notes "Open this" for her goose-neck Clorox toilet cleanser or "I'm sorry you didn't clean off my car yesterday (in the snow)."

Direct, to the point.

But here is the note from yesterday:

"Tom: 2 of these (note next to empty bottle of Livingston Burgundy Reserve Red Swine, I mean Wine.)

Thank you for taking garbage out. *

I'm waiting for the doctor to tell me when he's going to do the job. **

See you later. I'm going to go for the mail. I hope I make it." ***

Okay, after resisting the urge to swallow every capsule, tablet, drug and cleansing product in my condo, I thought the following things from this note.....

* I had no choice but to take the garbage out. Gloria leaves the foyer at about...hmmm... 100 degrees, so she's warm while waiting for the taxi pick-up most days. Even during the summer. (Anyone who's been here knows I am NOT exaggerating). I usually take her garbage out anyway, but this day she left the garbage outside her door in the morning. When I left that evening, her garbage included: an empty tuna fish can and an empty (I think) cottage cheese container.
Okay, I mentioned the 100 degree thing, right? Blistering heat. Tuna fish. Cottage cheese. You get the idea. I had no choice to take out the garbage or else risk the smell of hot vomit when I got home.
I'll wait while you go vomit yourself too.

** Um, Gloria and I talk once in a while but I don't know her last name, how many children she has, where she was born. None of that. Our conversations are limited to the length of time I can stand breathing in 100 degree air, or until she asks me my cat's name ("Fumbles" I tell her, followed by her saying "Hello Tumbles." This has happened five times already). These conversations last about 38 seconds or roughly the amount of time my first layer of skin takes to melt.
So what's with this too-much-information note about the doctor and doing the job?? Uh, I got nothin' Glo Worm. Usually a line that includes "doctor finishing the job" would be ripe for humor, or adult movies. But this was kinda sad in a "maybe you shouldn't be drinking shit wine" kind of way.

*** The mail is literally 20 feet from our foyer. Look lady, I removed the steamy bag of garbage (by bag I mean the little plastic shopping bags that old people use for trash containment. And next time Glo Glo, can you tie it up at least?). And I'm buying the wine. Don't guilt trip me into the mail thing. Just because my name is Mr. McFeeley doesn't mean I'm a mail delivery expert. My uncle did that crap with that cheesy Mr. Rodgers til he had to go postal on the Neighborhood of Make Believe. It wasn't pretty. Or make believe.

And, besides Glo Stick, if I do this mail thing, then it's gonna be "Can you reach that can of 10 year old pea soup. I'm just so weak, I can't do it" or "Come change my light bulb. It's so dark and I'm so weak. And I can't even see the can of soup I'm going to ask you to grab for me." And we all know what will happen. My sweaty hands in your 105 degree condo will drop the can of soup, hit you in the head, and then I'll have to somehow call your family (if you have one) or go to the emergency room with you. At least the ER will be more comfortable.

So later in the day I leave the wine outside her door (with the two dollars change. She asked me once where her $1.17 in change was, though never offered extra money when I bought one extra bottle of swine, I mean wine), and I barely get into my place when she swoops up the wine and the money.

I haven't heard from her since then. Given the daily treks to the mailbox, the vague doctor/job reference and the hope I make it crap, who knows if she got to finish either of the bottles yet.

I won't get worried until I smell rotting cottage cheese -- from INSIDE her condo. Or, is that REALLY cottage cheese that's rotting????

Wow, I AM going to hell afterall. I hope they dont' serve Livingston Burgundy Reserve Red Swine.

I'm Not Always Nice, But Am I Going to Hell?

So yesterday on my Facebook page, I posted something you might call "mean." Okay it wasn't nice, but I was joking.

It said something to the effect of: "I think Susan Boyle is just Taylor Hicks in drag.....I'm sorry, but she's just too ugly to look at."

Okay, definitely not kind, but come on....She's only famous BECAUSE she is ugly. And she's only famous because she's ugly because we, as a society, have made attractiveness as important as talent in determining celebrity.

So, in my opinion, this "uplifting" and "touching" story is a non-story. It's our own fault it's a story.

And, by the way, if you put Taylor Hicks in a dress.....that's what he would look like. I'm sorry, I'm not wrong about this.

So, seconds after I post it, I was the object of a online firestorm. People, and by people I mean women, were shocked and appalled. They called me mean and said everyone's been called ugly or fat in their lives and this was such a good story blah blah blah.

The underlying message? "You're the devil."

So then I thought "wait a minute, AM I going to hell? ME????"

Personally I don't believe there is a heaven or a hell. I think it's a cool religious fable to "teach" us to be good. I think you become a rotting corpse or some ashes over your favorite park or body of water, or bar. Other possibilities might include afterlives as a dictator, a frog, or a porn star.

But I wondered, wheh my time comes, how the interview for heaven might go.......

St. Peter: Ah, Tom McFeeley. I've been waiting for this day. I was afraid you'd come on my day off. When St. Patrick gets the gate, he lets all the Irish dudes in. Except those who had pet snakes.

Me: It's okay. I'm not that fond of St. Patrick's Day. I hope he doesn't read blogs. But, hey, you get days off?

St. Peter: Dude, it's heaven. The benefits up here are ungodly. Ooops, I keep saying that. But, we have lots to talk about. Would you like a seat in the heavenly recliner? There's a cold Heineken in the cup holder.

Me: A recliner? Outside the gates? Cold beer waiting? Sweet.

St. Peter: If it's that good outside the gates, imagine what it's like inside.

Me: Strippers?

St. Peter: If you get in, you'll find out. Now let's talk about this Susan Boyle thing.

Me: Pete, I'm really sorry. I was kinda tired that day. I was tired of the whole Susan Boyle thing. You see, it's only because she's ug -

Pete: Relax, McFeeley. It was freakin' funny. Taylor Hicks? That's just genius. But don't worry about that one. God made her ugly as a test.

Me: A test? What are you talking about?

Pete: Yeah, first God invented boils. On the feet. He thought it was funny, but you guys got all medical about it and didn't get the humor. Then he sent you Peter Boyle. Now that guy was odd, and very funny. And you still didn't get the joke. Well Gene Wilder, he got it. "Puttin' on the Ritz?" Pure genius. The big G loves that scene. We have a big party planned for Mr. Wilder upon is arrival.

Me: Peter Boyle is funny.

Pete: WAS funny.

Me: Oh, yeah he died.....Wait, he just died....Then we discover Susan Boyle. Is there a pl--

P: There is always a plan my man. Now you're getting it. She's 49 and never been kissed? Never did the tickle pickle, come on. Could we put ANYMORE fish in the sea. Clearly we just invented her this year.

Me; Yeah, otherwise she might have ended up with William Hung huh? (I chuckle)

P: Yeah, William Hung was St. Alyousius's idea. I'm telling you, you give a saint a fucked up name and he fights through it with good humor. It's like naming a boy Cody or Courtney or one of those other bullshit 21st century names.

Me: Yeah, I didn't have kids when I was married.

P: Thank GOD for that.

Me: Well, I guess you can. Where is the big guy?

P: Around the corner, but you gotta take an angel quite a distance. The G-man can't wait for Hefner to get here. God's pad makes the Playboy Manson look like a Studio Apartment.....Now, let's move onto the real business....We liked the Susan Boyle thing. Your appreciation of Stephen Lynch is somewhat disturbing. But that song about him waiting for his AIDS test? Funny stuff. So is there anything you wanna tell me?

Me: Uh, I once almost set a willow tree on fire when I was five. I let my brother take the fall for something I did. Though I did try to bring him some dessert.

P: Oh, how noble of you, you little rat.

Me: Uh, I once cheated my Mom when she was my English teacher and the girl I had a crush on to win a chocolate bar.

P: A Whatchamacallit, right?

Me: Yeah.

P: Good choice. What about that day you hooked up with a woman at a bar after you walked your blind date to her car and came back? Or letting that crazy girl in college think your friend was a warlock? Or your ongoing childhood attempts to put your cat in the toilet?

Me: The hardest thing to do, shoving a cat in the toilet. Those cats are strong creatures.

P: Well, you ain't going in the morality hall of fame. But you do help your elderly neighbor. You're good to your Mom. You generally go out of your way to help people, though the vast majority of them are attractive women.... But you make people laugh and laughter is slightly less important than oxygen. And we do think your idea of Special Olympians playing college mascots in basketball, though rough around the edges, does have potential. Both financial and economic. Good thinkng.

Me: So....I'm in?

P: Yes, you get in. Let me find the right key here. You'd think we have one entrance, but everytime a baker arrives, Gandhi just attacks him. That is one hungry dude.

Me: (trying to hug St. Peter), Thank you so much. I really appreci-

P: ---- oh stop with that. Orientation is at noon. You do have to shower first.

Me: Well...what....where are my clothes.

P: Dude, it's heaven. Only the front gate guy has to wear a robe. We go au naturale up here.

Me: Sweeeeet!

And then I wake up and realize I'm definitely headed to hell. I mean who tries to stuff a cat in a toilet...Oh yeah, my brother Sean tried it too. We're both going to hell. That's how our cat Oogie would prefer it. Yes, Oogie, don't ask. I'll tell you about it in hell.