For Mothers Everywhere. But Mostly my Own.

Here's how it happened:

Step 1 - Order flowers to be delivered for Mother's Day. 

Step 2 - Realize that flowers cannot be delivered to an isolated Montana ranch on a Sunday. (Not for less than three digits, anyway.) Monday delivery will suffice.

Step 3 - Sunday: Speak with Mother on Mother's Day. Make no mention of the flowers, so as not to spoil the delayed surprise on Monday.

Step 4 - Monday AM, suddenly remember the part of the conversation where Mom said she'd be going out of town for a few days to visit friends at the lake. Cross fingers and hope the flowers arrive before she leaves.

Step 5 - Monday, late AM: Receive call from FTD telling me that the Montana region does not have the flowers used to make the bouquet I chose. Have difficulty understanding the Eastern Indian accent on the phone, but understand the difficulty of finding certain warm-weather flowers in the icy Tundra of Montana. Agree upon a substitution. 

Step 6 - Monday afternoon: Receive ANOTHER call from FTD telling me that the Montana region is OUT OF FLOWERS. All of them. Montana is out of flowers. Montana won't be getting any more flowers until Tuesday. Double check address, realize that they had it wrong. Resigned to a Tuesday delivery. Hope they get the address right.

projected (because it hasn't happened as of this writing, this is how I see the future happening):

Step 7 - Tuesday AM: flowers arrive at ranch in MT.

Step 8 - Tuesday PM: Evening weather turns sour; flowers are struck with chill and frost, begin withering process.

Step 9 - Wednesday AM: After no human presence for a day, local wildlife starts sniffing around the house. A deer cautiously approaches the flowers on the step, thinking it may have found a snack. After an exploratory nibble, the deer realizes that the flowers are frostbitten and wilted: not tasty at all. Deer runs off.

Step 10 - Wednesday day: sun comes out, weather is nice and warm. However, without any water, the wilted slightly nibbled upon flowers scorch in the sun, withering further.

Step 11 - Thursday AM: The deer, being a stupid and forgetful creature, sniffs at the flowers again, thinking that they may be food. However, after nibbling on the wilted frostbitten sun-scorched and thoroughly untasty flowers, the deer expresses its discontent by urinating upon the flowers.

Step 12 - Thursday afternoon: neighborhood dogs wander through the yard, exploring. They find the deer-urine-soaked flowers, and proceed to send a warning to the deer by establishing territory the only way dogs know how: by also peeing on the flowers.

Step 13 - Thursday PM; Mom arrives home to discover flowers. 

So if you're reading this, Mom, THAT'S why I gave you late, dead, wilted, nibbled-on piss-covered flowers for Mother's Day. 

Pet Me

I'll confess, I'm a dog person. 

I grew up on a ranch in the wilds of Montana where we always had dogs. One was smart as a whip. One was friendly as hell and loved to play, and would never engage in rough horseplay until I had rawhide leather gloves protecting my hand. And one was dumber than wood, but the sweetest creature ever to walk upon the face of the earth.

How can you not adore this guy?

So imagine my shock and surprise when, as an adult, I find myself sharing domicile with two cats. One's fat and crafty, the other is a dumb blonde. 

"I'm in a TANK!!!"

While I've come to tolerate, enjoy, and, (dare I say it?) love these two little sandshitters, apparently I'm a bad person because I still refer to them as "pets." (Seriously. Click and read the article. It's amazing.)

So, that's it, then. The nanny-state mentality of humanity has gone beyond the bounds of child-rearing and begun festering in our animal companion relationships? Perfect. 

Look, before we get too deep into this, let's get a few things straight. I'm not an animal abuser. I'm not an animal hater. I'm a fan of all (most) creatures, bright and beautiful, great and small. My respect, awe and campaigning for the rights of spiders  is well documented. 

And yes, I have resorted to physical manhandling of my animal companions. 

Before you get all reactionary - relax, it's cool. Dr. Drew claims that we're allowed to use incidental physical violence on our kids if it's to protect their lives. And I think that carries over to pets. So when one of the cats I reside with decides to try and bolt for the open door, you're damn straight I'm gonna clamp down on them, grabbing whatever I can (scruff of neck, haunches, even their precious tail) to keep them from getting outside. Lesser of all evils, here, kids. If I need to cause a little tail strain on one of the cats to prevent them from running out into the street and getting creamed by a car, then I'm a tugging that tail. (Euphemism not intended). And what do I get for saving the cat's life? A scratched up hand and a cat that won't come near me for a few hours. Awesome. Next time an EMT save your life, try that. Claw at his hands and then run away from him. The press will be very kind to you, I promise.

And don't gimme any of that horseshit about "what was the door doing open, anyway?" F#$% you. You weren't there. I NEEDED that pizza.

All right, irrelevant outrage aside, let's get back to the relationship with our pets/animal companions.

These two cats do not perceive me as Master or Owner. They barely perceive me as another living being. To them, I am but a tool. When they want scritchings or help up onto a high shelf, they come to me. I have the prehensile hands that can operate the mysterious venetian blinds that let the sunlight in. I can operate the hairbrush (note - MY hairbrush). I am the giant beast that makes the feathery stringly cat-toy flip around the living room. And, recently, I have become the provider of super-stinky socks, pants, and other unmentionable clothings suitable for smearing one's feline face all over. It's kinda disturbing watching a cat rub its face all over your workout underwear. (All right, so I mentioned it. Sue me).

They don't sit in my lap. They don't snuggle with me when I sleep. Hell, they rarely even purr when I give them their demanded scritchings. Because I am a non entity. I am not a part of their pack, or their pod, or whatever the hell you call a group of cats. (INTERNET RESEARCH - a group of cats (not kittens) is called a Clowder. A Clowder of Cats. Sweet dear jesus living in this world is irritating).

So knowing how the cats treat and perceive me, I'm supposed to adjust my mental paradigm so as not to be cruel to THEM? All right, I think I can get on board with this.

But I'm going a different direction. Instead of referring to my 'pets' as animal companions, I will now refer to ALL my companions, human and animal, as my 'pets.' Thus, I am a pet as well. Your pet. And I'm going to start acting accordingly. Here's what you can expect having me as your 'pet':

 I will greet you with a healthy ass-sniffing. Or perhaps simply by rubbing my body all over your shin. If there's anything about you that I find suspect, I'm going to yell at you, then run and hide.

- When you're not home, I'm going to sleep in your bed. And you'll know it, too, because I plan on exfoliating and plucking excess hair off my body and leaving it all over your pillow.

- When I'm hungry, I will tell you. Loudly.

- If we go out to dinner, and a waiter tries to take my food or drink before I've licked the plate CLEAN, I'm biting their fucking hand.

- When we go out to dinner, after I finish my food, I will do everything in my power to eat your food. (Waitasecond. I already do that. Sweet! I'm learning!)

- PISS DENOTES OWNERSHIP. If I like it, I'm peeing on it. If I piss on it, it's mine.

- At any time of my choosing, I will deem you unfit for my company, and I will ignore the hell out of you. And then when I decide I want to hang out with you again, you'd better pay attention to me or I'll yell at you. Loudly.

- Your child's sandbox just became my toilet. Deal with it.

- When visiting you in your home, if I decide I need to relieve myself, you will need to come hang out with me outside while I do my business. If you don't come outside with me, I'm shitting in your house. (*Note - if I piss in your house, see PISS DENOTES OWNERSHIP clause above).

- Speaking of shit, I will start eating it. And I will kiss you right after I eat it. 

- Also speaking of shit, if you don't talk to me for several days, I'm shitting in your fucking shoes.

And if you ever do any of these things to me, I'm gonna smack you right in your face with a rolled up newspaper.

Well, I sure feel better.  I think this new outlook on our relationship is going to be healthy and long-lasting. See? Political Correctness CAN make the world a better place.

Spiders are the New Bacon

Spiders have become the new Bacon.

A few years ago, the internets discovered something that a select few of us have known for years: Bacon is Awesome. I've always known Bacon is Awesome, so this wasn't news to me. I've even been witness to a Bacon Conversion. Back in the my college days of the 90s, I was at a late night greasy spoon diner with a couple of vegetarian friends who happened to be Jewish (Orthodoxy Level: Unknown). One of the other people in our group had ordered breakfast, and decided that he couldn't finish his Bacon. The Veggie-Tribers, in a rather interesting move of social responsibility, chose to finish the Bacon, because the only thing worse than killing a piggy for food is to kill the piggy and NOT eat the food, thus wasting its sacrifice. I was inclined to accept their justification, and not give them any flak for the semi-common hypocrisy that we see from our Veggie friends.

And then they demanded three more orders of Bacon and promptly wolfed it down. In one fell swoop, the Compelling Power of Bacon caused them to simultaneously renounce their religious beliefs and choose to engage in the barbaric practice of carnivorism. I witnessed this conversion first hand, so you don't need to spout the praises of Bacon to me.

The past few years has seen a veritable and commendable Bacon Explosion. Not only has it become universally accepted that it's the world's most perfect food, but clever researchers have begun experimenting with the idea of combining Bacon with other consumables to create smorgasbord of delicious goodness. Bacon chocolate, Bacon gum, Bacon breath mints, even Bacon beer. (Yes, that last one does indeed exist). And Bacon has become something of an internet meme, synonymous with awesomeness in food achievement. You can't travel more than one or two pages without finding somebody on a soapbox talking about how wonderful it is. You can all relax. We know. 

I'm starting to see the same thing with Spiders. 

Not so much that Spiders are awesome, or that they go great with any meal. Chocolate-covered Spiders? No thanks? Spider beer? Probably not. (But I would like to try Spider Fried Rice, someday). Rather, the world seems to be embracing the idea that Spiders are APOCALYPTIC. If bees dying en masse is a sign of the end of the world, then many people believe that the world shall be destroyed by rampaging mobs of Spiders who will crawl in your mouth when you sleep, lay eggs in your hair, and drain your IRA accounts. But their presence on the internets is skyrocketing. 

On the local level, I know a guy who couldn't stand near a computer if a picture of a spider was on it. I have another friend who has willingly SCUBA-dived with sharks and manta rays, leapt out of a perfectly good airplane, but loses all motor function when faced with a spider in his bathroom. Another friend recently started a Facebook panic by posting this picture on his wall:

A Spider in its natural habitat: A Velour Couch

The ensuing commentary of creeped-outedness spread far and wide, despite the fact that this Spider is likely no bigger than one's thumbnail. Yes, it looks HUGE, but that's totally a misperception caused by the angle of the camera. That's not Spiderzilla, people. It's just a little 8-legged dude searching for a tasty buggy snack. 

And the Arachnaparanoia is working its way beyond my odd little social group. Cracked posted an article touting the danger of Spiders. Scientists have discovered a species of Spider that could totally have been an extra in Gladiator. And, most recently, Mazda recalled over 50,000 cars due to a Yellow Sac Spider infestation. (Heh. Sac.)

This is how racism and bigotry starts.

I'll admit, I'm a Spider fan. I grew up fascinated by those little buggers. I had a pet tarantula. Even before acquiring my first Spiderman comic book, as a wee lad I could tell you all sorts of silly Spider facts. For example:

- Unlike insects, Spiders only have 2 body parts (the cephalathorax and the abdomen). 

- While most Spiders have 8 eyes, some only have 6.

- In addition to their 8 legs, most Spiders also have 2 shorter arms called pedipalp.

- Spiders are nature's Vampire: they won't eat dead flesh. Their first bite paralyzes their prey, which they'll wrap up and save for dinnertime. When it's time to eat, they'll inject another does of venom into their food, liquifying the insides, which they'll gleefully slurp out like a little cricket milkshake. (Can Spiderman do THAT?)

Yes, I just recited all that from memory. Didn't even have to fact-check on wikipedia.

Spiders like to take their ladySpider friends around town in Little Dune Buggies.

I get the fact that y'all are gonna look down on me for being the guy who captures Spiders with a glass and piece of paper in order to send them outside. Most people would just squish them while dancing up and down yelling "eww eww eww!" But I have to honor the agreement I have with SPiders: I won't squish you, so long as you don't crawl on me. If you crawl on me, you're gonna get squished. And subsequently, you won't bite me unless I poke my finger in your face. If I do that, then I deserve to get bit. It's a decent arrangement that has worked out well so far. Don't worry. I'm smart enough not to do like THIS guy.

Those rules also don't apply to the Black Widow (bitch), the Brown Recluse (fiddly f@#$er), or the lesser known MOST DANGEROUS SPIDER IN THE WORLD: The Brazilian Wandering Spider (known for being highly aggressive and hitching rides in bunches of bananas). Those Spiders are jerks, and deserve to be jumped up and down on. 

*Careful, though. Being the badasses they are, these mean Spiders are resilient. We once emptied a can of Raid on a Black Widow. After about 10 minutes of trying to shake the excess liquid off her fat ass, she flipped us off and headed North. I think she's in Sequim these days.

But aside from those Asshole Spiders, I think it necessary to point out why y'all need to relax and understand all the good that Spiders do for us.

- The Internets: Right now, you're on the World Wide Web. We've named the most marvelous technological achievement of the past few decades after a Spider's HOUSE.  It's not the World Wide Hive. Or the World Wide Beaver Dam. (Imagine trying to do a search from wwbd.google.com. You'd lose precious pico-seconds when trying to stalk your ex). 

This is a really shitty visual metaphor for the internets.

- Spiderman: Look, Batman can't do whatever a bat can. Superman can't do whatever the hell a super can do. Yes, Superman is more popular, and yes, Batman is the goddamn Batman, but neither of them inspired a Broadway flop. 

- Fantasy Movies: All the good/successful fantasy movies have Spiders in them. Harry Potter? Spiders. Lord of the Rings? Giant Spider. Krull? Giant Spider. Aragon? No Spiders. In the Name of the King? No Spiders. The Ewok Movie? Giant Spiders. (Crap. That last one may not help my case). 

This dude totally made Qui Gon Jinn's and Hagrid's careers.

So rather than participate in this hatred and fear of Spiders, I say do unto them as you would do unto Bacon. Embrace them (figuratively, not literally). Admire them. And join my cause in petitioning for what would be the greatest iOS video game mod ever: ANGRY SPIDERS!

Just imagine mapping in pictures of your enemies and flinging Spiders at them!

Seriously, how awesome would Angry Spiders be? Join the cause. Make it happen.

And stop squishing those wonderful little 8-legged magnificent bastards!

Super Powers

I was recently asked what one superpower I would pick if I had the choice. It's a not uncommon theoretical question, and I'm sure I probably decided on one when asked years ago, but I can't remember it now. (So, clearly it wasn't the ability of total recall. Or maybe it was. Eh.)

After a bit of musing, I decided upon flight. Not so much for the ability to soar amongst the clouds and get from one place to another quickly, but rather as a counter to a somewhat debilitating fear of heights. See, if I could fly, being REALLY HIGH UP wouldn't paralyze me with fear. Because hey! I can fly! 

It was immediately pointed that even if I could fly, my fear wouldn't necessarily go away. But I'll stand by my choice, because if I could fly, AND I was still afraid of heights, that'd be hilarious. The world would be graced by me flitting about overhead, emitting bloodcurdling screams. And every time I needed to fly somewhere, before take off I'd have to schedule in at least twenty minutes for crouching on the ground, hugging the gracious earth, crying "I don't wanna" over and over again. 

And the one thing that nobody ever thinks about with the flight superpower: speed. How fast will I be able to fly? Can I break the Mach barrier? Will I be limited to the speed of a one-engine Cessna? Or maybe the modest top speed of my trusty Honda? I mean, if we ignore all the aerodynamic issues about speed and lift, the logical conclusion would be that I could only achieve the same speed I can achieve on the ground. But even then, how would I propel myself? Without something solid to deal with the whole inverse-energy thing, could I even move at all? We're not even talking the ability to hover, here. Hover implies a certain amount of control. Without something to appease the gods of physics, I'm thinking the best I could do is float. 

So, great. My chosen ability to fly has demoted me to being the Human Blimp. I'll have to buy a really REALLY baggy outfit, get a corporate tire sponsorship, and be at the mercy of the wind. That's totally gonna help me in my quest to foil crime. (Somebody tell me - why didn't I choose invisibility?) 

At least I'll get a decent view of sporting events. 

The funny thing is, we all already have our own low-level superpowers, developed through the repetition of minute tasks in daily life. Typically speaking, these are quite useless. Some were consciously acquired. Some came quite by accident. And, no, I'm not talking genetic anomalies, like being able to roll your tongue. I have creepy arm tendons, but that's not from practice. 

I don't know what's creepier: the tendon thing, or the bulbous size of my hand. 

So, without further ado, I present some examples of worthless superpowers I've developed, and maybe you have, too! Follow along for fun!

Vulcan Greeting (and Inverted Vulcan): When in grade school back in the day, being able to do this was something of a nifty trick. Many an hour was wasted amongst my childhood cohorts and I holding our ring and pinky fingers together, trying to develop the muscle and tendon control to greet each other in a spacey way. The inverse (fat W) is also tricky. These days, twisting and holding your fingers like this in class would probably get you expelled for making gang signs. (Interesting query - do young up and coming gang bangers have to go through this with their fingers. Kinda silly picturing them twisting their fingers around in frustration before going out and putting a cap in somebody's ass). 

And don't poo-poo this one as a stupid easy trick. For the untrained, it's not as easy as it looks. They even made fun of that fact in the Star Trek movie with the guy who didn't eat a pig because it could say "Baah Ram Ewe!"

The Raised Eyebrow: Another one from Spock (dammit, Nimoy! How did you inject your mannerisms so thoroughly into our childhood?) that required a fair bit of manual muscle training. Hours were spent in front of the mirror, holding one eyebrow up, developing and training the forehead muscles for minute control over one's eyebrows. The happy result - the ability to exude indignation or confusion with nar' a word spoken! (See also - Hugh Jackman as Wolverine).

I call this the Eye Paddy Touch.
Steve Jobs is sooo gonna sue me.

Eyeball Touching: This one is really only good for ick factor. But it is rad. Anybody who wears or has worn contacts is perfectly capable of reaching up and touching their own eyeball. Hell, some of us can even push and squish it around, making everyone in the room go "eeewww!" Disclaimer - to be fair, you really SHOULDN'T do this, even if you can. There's all sorts of gross stuff on your fingers which would LOVE to settle in and incubate in your eye. And the gods help you if you have jackass friends who find it funny to 'accidentally' bump your arm while touching your own eye. Jerks.

Crossing One Eye: Utterly useless; but really damn cool, no?

The Girlfriend's fantasy, or mine?

Touching Hot Things: All right, this isn't mine. But I'm aware of it because my girlfriend has it, and she uses it all the time in front of me. After years of working for a coffee shop, she's effectively deadened all the nerves in her hands, allowing her to reach into BOILING HOT WATER. It's like I have my very own Pris from Blade Runner, but without the acrobatics and burning desire to murder me in my sleep (so far as I know). 

It does suck when we're tag teaming the dishes, though. I like to wash dishes at the 'kill microbe' temperature. She prefers 'scald all the flesh off of one's hands' temperature. It's all right, though: You all know the old trick about breaking dishes to avoid having to wash them? Try washing dishes as the flesh sluffs off your hands: you'll totally get a pass. 

Dishwashing is my Gom Jabbar.
It separates me from the animals.

So there's what I've got. Now it's YOUR turn! Ponder your own personal low level superpowers, and amaze me.

Beer Made Me Smart(er)

I frequently am referred to as the Smartest Man in the Room. This isn't a title I gave myself, but one that others bestowed upon me, one that I freely accept and frequently prove the validity of. (Yes, the Smartest Man in the Room CAN end a sentence with a preposition!) The Smartest Man in the Room isn't necessarily someone with Einstein or Sagan or Hawking level understanding of complex concepts. The Smartest Man in the Room is the one in the room who, when faced with a problem or challenge, is able to iterate the simplest and most logical solution to the problem. When several people are sitting around, trying to fix a computer glitch or change a flat tire, the Smartest Man in the Room is the one who plugs the computer in or find the jack in the trunk. Sometimes we are called upon to do things that are slightly more complex or pull a piece of trivia or knowledge out of the ether, but we always step up to the task.

It should be noted that a large part of my moniker of being the Smartest Man in the Room stems not from any sort of advanced knowledge or problem solving skills, but from Vocal Mastery. I'm blessed with a loud voice. I sound like I'm yelling when I'm not yelling. And when I DO yell, the heavens quiver. I also have the ability to fire off comments with the perfect mix of snide arrogance, derisive angst, and exasperation at the stupidity of others. It's a finely-honed technique, and it's so crippling to the weak-minded that even when I'm wrong, you'll think I'm right. I'm a master debater and cunning linguist, and stubborn as a beaver. (Okay, I think the metaphor is 'badger,' not 'beaver,' but I needed a simile that evoked a similar sexual entendre.) It also helps that I've gotten really good at quickly looking things up on the Internet.

That is one HAWT badger!

Thus, I am the Smartest Man in the Room. 

But being the SMiR can be debilitating. See, when one already knows everything, one's ability to learn is diminished. And because the damn world keeps changing and evolving, one will occasionally encounter a gap in one's knowledge that has an adverse effect on one's life. 

I'll give you an example of what I'm talking about.

About I year ago, I was introduced to the world of Craft Brew Beers. It's like micro-brew, but even more specialized. The beer is aged in different types of barrels and they add all sorts of silly flavors to it. It's not unlike what happened to coffee in the 90s, although instead of a shot of Italian Flavoring, the beer needs to age in whatever ridiculous container it's in, so the process does show a little bit more commitment. We have our very own on-the-rise craft brewing company here in SoCal, and a childhood friend who lives in the Midwest has demanded that I attend all sorts of various beer tasting events and parties so that he may live vicariously through me. I'm like his Proxy High Class Alcoholic.

I'll freely admit, most of the beers are bloody awful. Some of them are like cough syrup, some are like bathroom potpourri, and there are a couple that taste like warmed-over ass. My BeerPimp assures me that these flavors are what the aficionados of Craft Beers love and appreciate, but I disagree. I'd rather vomit from drinking too much beer than vomit after the first taste of some god-awful concoction.

That's not to say all the beers fall into this category of epic awfulness. One of the advantages of being a Craft Brewer is the sheer variety of options you can generate. And I've found a trio of beers from this brewery (cleverly named The Bruery) that have expanded my beer enjoyment beyond my once limited pallet of Guinness and Moose Drool. 

Rugbrod is easily acquired at many places here in the SoCal area. Mischief isn't quite as common, but one can get bottles of it if one knows where to look. 7 Grain Saison is a different beast, and that's where we come back to the whole Danger of Being the Smartest Man in the Room problem.

7 Grain Saison is available as a draft only beer. That is to say, one can NOT get a bottle of it and take home to drink while watching a tear-inducing man flick like Braveheart or the South Park Movie (seriously, it gets me every time).

"Goodbye you guys!" (SOB!)

No, one must venture out into the world and find a bar or pub that actually serves the 7 Grain. And even if one is a resourceful smartest man in the room, it can be something of a feat to find a bar that carries such goodness. For months, my 7 Grain consumption was limited to the occasional beer tasting event. I couldn't have a bottle of my very own. I couldn't share it with my friends. I couldn't use it as yet another tool in my arsenal of weening my girlfriend off of fruity chick drinks.  My life was a mire of incomplete, and I walked through the world, a hollow shell of a human being.

Until I was introduced to the Growler.

I'd seen the word thrown around various tastings and parties. I even ALMOST once inquired about what a Growler was when I saw it on the menu at said Bruery. But, Because I was the smartest man in the room, I'd simply assumed it was an over-sized glass reserved for the uber-alcoholics or the Craft Beer secret handshake society. After all, I had nothing else to learn.

Turns out, a Growler is an oversized resealable jug, designed for filling with one's beer of choice to take away from a Craft Brew tasting room to enjoy at one's leisure.

Read that again. And then I freely accept any laughing and pointing that you wish to partake in.

A GODDAMN BOTTLE FOR TAKE-OUT BEER? REALLY? I've been wandering this Earth like some beer-deprived nomad for months, chasing that Holy Grail Chimera of 7 Grain that I can carry with me throughout my adventures, and it was available the whole damn time in the form of an easily acquired Growler? I was a hair's-breadth away from selling my soul to the Beer Devil for a taste of this goodness in my own home, and all it takes is $15 for what's known as a Growler Fill. They even make what's called a Growler cover - a nifty thermal lined bag for carrying your filled Growler hither and yon. Why the hell didn't any of you tell me about this earlier?

So there you go. I learned something new. And it's all thanks to beer.

NOW I'm the Smartest Man in the Room. 

Bench Warrant

Ah, the Morning Commute. Where I gleefully sip on my Jamba Smoothie while bouncing back and forth between NPR and AM talk radio. (It's a great way to start one's day in an emotionally balanced state of mind - seriously, I don't know whether to make out with a rainbow or militantly deport illegal immigrants). And while coaxing my 4 cylinder raging best of horsepower through the crawly stop and go of LA traffic, I'm frequently vexed by a recurring question: what on Earth would I do if I got a Traffic Citation? Or a DUI? Or had a Personal Injury? 

Then I discovered this guy:

I blocked out his last name because I can't pronounce it

Clearly this man is a professional. How can I tell? Because he's USING A TELEPHONE! An OLD-SCHOOL TELEPHONE THAT CONNECTS WITH A CORD! My God this guy is good. And look at him - he's not even TALKING on the phone. He's just sitting there, listening. Which means if I call him with my woes of illegal driving activity or some sort of personal injury, I know he'll listen, he'll REALLY LISTEN to what I have to say. And look at the size of that watch!

This ad is rad. (Hey, I'm a poet and didn't realize it!) 

We know he has a phone number, because he has a phone. But he's taken it a step further with a TOLL FREE phone number! So very useful, as I have one of those rare calling plans where my cell phone charges me for long distance calls (-not true). And he doesn't want me to waste my time in court, because he knows my time is better spent out in the world, getting DUIs, Traffic Citations, and accruing Personal Injuries. 

In fact, I think it should be my goal to get all three at the same time. 

My only complaint about this Commander General Prince's (seriously, look up 'Amir' on the internets; this guy is such a Boss that his very name is BOSS) ad is the placement. Bus benches are very prominent, but what happens if there's some creepy bum type or internet meme sitting on the bench, blocking his vital contact info?

If this sandwich makes me sick, where will I find a lawyer to help me sue?

Karmic Disclaimer - For this bit of mockery, I freely accept that in the near future, I'll lose my cell phone, have a Personal Injury and/or Traffic Citation, and Keanu will steal my girlfriend.

Astrology got it Wrong. Again.

With all the chaos going on about how everyone's astrological sign is now wrong, I decided to do a bit of scientific research to see what all the hulabaloo was about. Turns out, even the NEW starsign breakdown is wrong. My research shows a little something different. READ ON...!

PANTHERAS: January 20 - February 16
You're a very gregarious and outgoing person. You enjoy your friends, and share with them often. You enjoy exercise, and take great care to maintain your personal appearance. Despite being physically fit, you're not suited to team sports or conventional athletic activities. You'll fit better on the cheerleading squad than the football team. Practicing loud protracted compliments will serve you well. Retro in style, you're more comfortable in an ascot than a suit.

CUCKOUS: February 16 - March 11

While known as an enjoyable loose cannon and life of the party due to your wacky antics, be careful with certain substances. Becoming accustomed or addicted to things could lead to emotional explosions or prolonged depressive episodes. Surround yourself with support, not enablers.

FORTUNAE: March 11 - April 18

Of all the sings on this list, you're the most likely to believe in astrology. You're a very superstitious type who puts a great deal of importance into traditional icons like the stars, the moon, clovers, horseshoes, and rainbows. A colorful personality, you don't like bland hues. Naturally suspicious of others, you live in constant fear of others stealing your worldly goods. But remember, it's not paranoia if they're really after you!

LEPUS: April 18 - May 13

Even though you possess an energetic and silly personality, beware of the trappings of entitlement. You're at risk of believing the world owes you something, and could easily fall into a life of crime and petty larceny. Remember, earning for oneself is better than taking that which belongs to others! Your naive and occasionally immature attitude makes you long for youthful pursuits, things generally recognized as being for kids. 

APISIA: May 13 - June 21

You know what you like, almost as if you were born to it. A natural temptress, you entice others to join your passions, because, after all, obsession loves company. A natural poet, your speech will be littered with alliteration and rhyme.

SOL: June 21 - July 20

Your life will be an exercise in duality. Not in the contradictory sense, but in that you'll have an obsession with having two of everything. Two kids. Two cars. Two houses. (If you want two spouses, perhaps consider a move to Utah?) Friends and family will enjoy your generosity when giving everything twice, but it will cause them to wonder why ONE isn't enough. 

SCHNOZ: July 21 - August 10

Possessing strong intuition and an almost preternatural olfactory sense, you're a champion at leading others to what they seek. Career success will be found in either an investigatory profession, or perhaps a jungle guide. Beware of self-esteem issues, however, as your large nasal organ could cause some body image issues. 

CAPO: August 10 - September 16

A born seafarer, you'll find success in either a military or civilian water-based career. While many of your friends and acquaintances view you as adequate most of the time, you will have moments when they positively adore you. Despite your many friends on the land, the sea is your first mistress. Beware staying out of contact for extended periods of time, or your landlubber friends may begin to worry, and possibly overreact in their search efforts. And watch out for other seafarers looking to kidnap you.

HYLIDAE: March 11 - April 18

You are a very cool customer. Things tend to go your way, so you don't stress in the face of obstacles. After all, obstacles are easy to avoid or hop over, and keeping a smooth demeanor makes you all the more attractive for it. Expect quite a few kisses in your life.

MONSTARO: September 16 - October 30

Those born under this sign will feel shunned by the world, mostly due to some perceived physical deformity (be in abnormal orthodontia, an excess of body hair, a certain ethereal quality, or the feeling that one's body doesn't fit together properly). But there's hope - a sparkling personality can win others over. If you get too wrapped up in yourself, no one will remember you.

TRES SONAS: October 30 - November 29

You're a frenetic person, always in motion. Some may confuse this as a multiple personality issue, be sure to have regular psychological updates to make sure their fears are unfounded. You love the hustle and bustle of life, and are generally uncomfortable around silence. If overwhelmed by quiet, expect to make your own comforting noise, be it tapping your fingers, stomping your feet, or pinching the bubbles in bubblewrap.

ROCKFRUIT: November 29 - Jan. 20

Not only is your personality derivative, but you'll sell out at first opportunity. Even though you have a jealous and possessive personality, sharing with one's best friend is a good thing.