AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

ONLY KIDDING!  Not really.  But, seriously, it’s the perfume department at Macy’s.

“Gee Bill, like the perfume department at Macy’s is the most dangerous location ever invented.  Yeah, right, try listening to and understanding Massachusettes Marble-Mouth Mayor Maneno or Sissy Sluring Senior Senator Barney Frank, now those are treacherous situations, because if you are standing too closel, you could get violently spittled on.  I mean, seriously.  What are you thinking, Bill, you BIG silly, you.”

Look, it’s not the perfume department per se, which I think is a fancy French word meaning “all French perfume smells like Neapolitan’s armpit,” it’s the wacky women working in the perfume department who make it so positively precarious, specifically the sinister spray-happy perfume peddlers who are scurrying all over the place like crazed cockroaches after the lights go on, and whose cologne commission is based solely on how many innocent customers they could waylay and whitewash their wet weapons.

And if you don’t think a man trying to run the fragrance gauntlet and make it out of the perfume department un-perfumed isn’t as treacherous as being a passenger in a senior senators sedan, well, then you either have the IQ of a drunken bureaucrat, or you’re like a guy I know who enjoys pedicures, powdering his nose, and prancing around in drop-seat pajamas with feet in them.

So anyway, I was standing in the woman’s department at Macy’s encouraging my wife to “pick something, already!  You’ve been trying on the same (nasty word) dress since BEFORE the invention of fig leafs!”

That’s when it happened: first I felt it, and then I smelt it: (sniff) perfume, on me, a man?  How the?  What the?  When the?  Where the?  Why the?  Who the?

My initial olfactory response was that some deranged perfume fairy was flying overhead peeing on people, specifically me.  Come to find out, a deranged incontinent perfume fairy would have been a pleasant surprise compared to the actual truth. The actual truth was that I had inadvertently made my way into the outer boundary of the woman’s department, which was just inside the inner perimeter of the perfume department, placing me in dangerous perfume-spray-radius-range.

And one of the spray-happy clerks took full spraying advantage of my unplanned territorial trespass by squirting me on the side of the head several thousand times with what felt to be a fire hose, only with slightly more water pressure, all under the guise of wanting me to get a good stiff whiff of it, and then perhaps, if I wasn’t asphyxiated, purchase some of her perfume product for my wife, or girlfriend, or maybe for the guy referenced above in the ornate nightgown.

As if my scent situation wasn’t bad enough, I soon found myself surrounded—in a sharklike feeding-frenzy—by other spray-happy itchy-fingered atomizer-slinging perfume clerks all in direct competition with each other to soak patrons, and all currently with their spray nozzle crosshairs pointed in my direction.

And every time I covered my head and tried to escape, they would start squirting like crazy, and I would get flooded with fragrance.  It was just like the opening scene from “Indiana Jones And The Raiders Of The Lost Ark” when Harrison Ford, after getting the golden idle and trying to escape, stepped on the rocks and arrows started shooting out from the wall.  The resulting fragrance fog was so thick you needed a portable lighthouse to feel your way from aisle to aisle.  One minute I smelled like a man, and the next, like lily of the valley.

After a few minutes the fragrance females finally finished because their fingers were fatigued.  But they did not go far, and like stealthy cologne commandos armed with semi-automatic atomizers, they hid behind their counters, leaped out, and sprayed everything that walked by: a man, a woman, a refrigerator; if it moved, it got sprayed.

Realizing the severity of my perfuming predicament, I knew that I had to make it back into the safety of the woman’s department, and fast, or I risked being drummed out of my poker club given that the collecting cologne on my clothes would overpower their stinky sulfur smelling cigar smoke, and no self-respecting poker player would stand for that.  However, before I could reach the safety of the woman’s department, I first had to make it past this one remaining perfume princess who was standing smack dab in the middle of the odor obstacle course.

But this cologne clerk was different.  I could tell by the look in her eyes she was determined to make a sale, and if it meant drowning me during her perfume pitch process, so be it.   And lemme tell ya, this woman was packing: she had two industrial-strength spray bottles, one in each hand.  So as I, the sodbuster approached, she drew her six-shooters and began blaring both barrels.

There was a massive mist of musk, but I luckily I made it out alive, dripping wet, and trailing a visible skunky scent al la  Pepe le Pue, but I was alive, I stunk to high heaven but I was alive, nonetheless.

So anyway, join me next time where I will tell you about the time I accidentally wander into the lingerie department at Kohl’s.  But this voyage didn’t turn out as bad, because, well, as every man will admit, lingerie beats perfume any day.  (Wink)

Copyright 2009 Bll Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

What’s worse, I’m more confused than ever, if you can believe that.  And doing the simplest things like trying to figure out if Ted Kennedy would make a good lifeguard or how to order fast food fast has become a whole perilous process.  And that is why, when it comes to ordering fast food, I’ve implemented my Neanderthal point-and-grunt ordering technique, whereby I drag my knuckles up to the counter, point at a picture of a sandwich, grunt, get my food, and eat it.  This procedure is so easy a caveman or Bill Drury could do it.

This is unlike my wife’s meal gathering method, because she not only can remember what goes on a every sandwich, she can modify her meals, and by telling the person taking her order to “hold this, not so much of that, and put the patties on the side,” she is able to take a Double Whopper with cheese and transform it into a plain fish sandwich.  The woman is haunted.  She’s an alchemist extraordinaire who could teach Merlin the Magician a few “look,-nothing-up-my-sleeve” presto-chango pranks.

Look, I admit it, I don’t know from “special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, and onions on a sesame seed bun.”  So I continue to point-and-grunt like an Australopithecus, which is fancy fast food talk for “pick your knuckles up off the ground and stand up straight!  You’re giving us orangutans a bad name!”

Sadly, my point-and-grunt primitive practice does not always pan out.  Take last month for instance when I was in south Philadelphia doing some stand-up.  In-between sets I decided to grab some grub, and when in south Philly, much like when in Rome, you do as the south Phillies do: you take a gondola ride and get yourself a pizza.  ONLY KIDDING!  You get yourself a “Pat’s” cheesesteak sub.

At “Pat’s” they expect you (get this) to order in a specific way—their specific way.  Ha!  And if you do not follow their strict ordering regime they will kick your butt to the curb, and they do not care if you plead or grovel, as evidenced by the fact that fannies were flying left and right to the back of the line.  And if you don’t order correctly, for all they care you can starve to death on the sidewalk.  Trust me; these guys were so serious they made the ‘Seinfeld Soup Nazi’ look like a delicate dictator by comparison.

I did not want to starve on the street.  All I wanted was a stupid cheesesteak sub.  But in order to get one I had to first master this vendor vernacular.  And from what I could muster, it all had something to do wit the words and phrases “whiz-wit,” which I think stood for “a cheesesteak with onions, peppers, mushrooms, and you can’t forget about the cheese-whiz, hence the word “whiz,” or “whiz,” which I think stood for “plain cheesesteak with cheese whiz,” or “whiz-wit-out,” which I think stood for “a cheesesteak without onions, but you kept the peppers, mushrooms, and of course cheese whiz.”

BUT I could not be sure what was what with all that “whizzing” and “witting” going on.  And short of swapping my brain with that of a donkey, moving my IQ up two points, I would never be able to get the whole “whiz-wit” thing down in time to place my order.  So I did the only thing I could do: cheat by way of scribbling “whiz-wit-out” on the palm of my hand.  And then I studied my order using the same level of intensity normally associated with one parent pretending like they do not hear the crying baby, and instead continue to fake like they are asleep so the other parent, who is also pretending like they do not hear the crying baby, and who is also continuing to fake like they are sleeping, will have to get up and administer the 2 o’clock feeding.  And both parents must concentrate real hard, because the first one who twitches is assigned the responsibility to climb out of the nice warm bed and feed the nuisance never-sleeping newborn.

Anyway, I hadn’t studied that hard since my SATs, but I’m glad I did, because before I knew it I was at the front of the line, and it was my turn to order.  I gulped a mighty gulp and stepped up to the window only to come face-to-face with a guy wearing a stone-face chiseled from granite, only slightly stonier.  Instinctively I wanted to scream and run away, but instead I blurted out: “WHIZ-WIT-OUT!”

The good news was I had passed the test, and was told to “pay up, step aside, don’t move, and wait for my order.”  The bad news was even after all that studying, I had no idea what I just ordered.  I could have requested a frog skin, maggot, and marshmallow manicotti.  But luckily, instead, I had correctly requested a large cheesesteak without onions, but with peppers, mushrooms, and of course, cheese whiz, which tasted out of this world.

Well, anyway, I have to go.  My witchcraft wife just turned a Wendy’s single with cheese into a hotdog.  Now if I can only get her to turn that hotdog into a winning Power Ball lottery ticket.  Just imagine the prestidigitation possibilities.

Copyright 2009 Billy Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

To most people, the mere thought of eating a “fish stomach” would turn their stomach with the same level of spinning normally associated with that of a hamster laced with sugar and caffeine and thus vigorously running around and around in its miniature rodent treadmill wheel thingy.

But there are others out there like, for instance, The Travel Channel’s “Gag Me With A Spoon Gourmet,” Andrew Zimmern, host of “Bizarre Foods” who lives for this kind of gross-me-out groceries.  Note: “Bizarre Foods” as defined here as food so foul not even bacteria will eat it. In fact, microorganisms have been known to hold their little noses, and in high pitched tones, as if they were all just inhaling helium, say “ick,” and scurry away.  But, according to Andrew, if you have ever dined on Thai food, which comes swimming in Thai fish sauce, like it or not, there is a 3,000% chance that you ate a fish’s stomach, because the main ingredient in Thai fish sauce is, yup, you guessed it: automobile parts.  JUST JOKING!  No, seriously, it’s fish stomachs.

Generally speaking, folks don’t spend too much time wearing about eating fish guts, that is, until they suddenly realize that at one point in their lives, say, back in 1978, during a college fraternity pledging hell week, that after drinking enough beer to fill Vice President Joe Biden’s left-wing empty skull (relax liberals, they don’t brew that much beer—ha) all the thank-you-sir-may-I-have-another pledges came down with a wicked case of the munchies, and subsequently called in Thai food take out.  When the order arrived to the frat house, not only was it swimming in Thai fish sauce, but several hundred tubs were provided as complimentary condiment, by which I mean the Thai restaurant owner was desperate to get rid of the stuff, and so he figured what better group to pawn this crap off on than a drunken gaggle of toga-wearing college students.  And the pledges, mistaking the Thai fish sauce for stale beer (to be honest, at one point in the night they mistook liquid hand soup for beer and everyone was burping bubbles) quickly made up a drinking game, and all the pledges glug, glug, glugged it down.

As you might have already guessed, I was one of those pledges—BURP—there goes another bubble.  And I did glug down my fair share of Thai fish sauce—about three quarts worth, which if you do the math equates to approximately 9 fish stomachs.  So, today, just having realized what I drank back then, my humorist response, much like the sentiments delivered from our friendly bacteria buddies, would be to say “ick,” because “ick” is not only bacteria speak expressing microbial disgust, it is also an abbreviation normally used by humorists when they find out that some 30 odd years earlier they drank approximately 9 fish stomachs.  And so “ick” roughly translated from humorist speak into non-humorist speak means:

“YOU’VE GOT TO BE (NASTY WORD) KIDDING ME!  A FISH’S STOMACH!   WHAT THE, YOU HAVE TO BE, I MEAN SERIOUSLY!  WHY DOESN’T ANYONE TELL ME ABOUT FISH GUTS BEFORE I ATE THAI FOOD!  THIS WAS NOT ON THE MENU; NOT EVEN IN FINE PRINT.  NO MENTION WHATSOEVER ABOUT FISH’S STOMACH!   NOT ONE STINKIN’ FISH’S STOMACH WORD.  OH, SURE THEY OPENLY MENTIONED FISH, BUT NOTHING ABOUT FISH’S STOMACH!  YOU’D THINK THIS MINOR MENU MORSEL WOULD REQUIRE SOME LEVEL OF MENTIONING TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC, RIGHT?  EVIDENTLY, WRONG!  NOT A SYLLABLE!  AAAAAAAAHHHHH!   SPIT!  SPIT!  SPIT!  WHO’S GOT THE STOMACH PUMP?  I NEED IT NOW, RIGHT NOW, RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!  I HAVE TO PUMP THE FISH STOMACH OUT OF MY STOMACH!  WHA!  WHA!  WHA!  MOMMY MAKE IT STOP!”

But my point in this week’s column is not about consuming fish stomachs; it’s about, well, I forgot what my point is about because I keep thinking about CONSUMING FISH STOMACHS!  Oh, I remember: my point is that during office staff meetings, my seat assignment is RIGHT next to the office suck-up who, in every staff meeting, whenever the boss asks a question, has to quickly raise his hand and begin violently waving and thrashing his hands around as if trying to fight off a swam of killer bees.   And he grunts: “OOO, OOO, OOO!” As if to say “Pick Me!”

With his hand in the air all the time and the accompanying “OOOOing,” the boss is permanently fixated on him, and thus on me, too.  So I have to sit there and pretend to be awake, alert, paying attention, taking copious notes, and overall eagerly interested in whatever it is the boss is babbling about—when I am so NOT.

What really frosts my codpiece is that all of my other co-workers don’t have to pay attention—none, zip, zilch, nada.   Nope, they are out of the line of sight and out of the boss’s crosshairs.  However, old dingle berry and I are on center stage with the spotlight shining brightly overhead.  And my co-workers can sit back, relax, and begin perfecting that head bobbing thing, wherein first their eyes start to close, then their mouths open, then their heads start to fall backwards, they suddenly awake, jerk their heads forward, and begin all over again.  This can be seen going on throughout the entire meeting, all around the room.  And if Scottie had beamed you down to the earth’s surface, and if you walked into this meeting, you would swear you had stumbled upon a secret organization practicing to become human Pez dispensers.

Anyway, that’s it for this week.  Join me again next time where I will discuss how, just yesterday, I stopped at a gas station, handed the clerk $15.00 for pump number #2.  Then it took me 40 seconds to pump $14.65 worth of gas into my tank.  This sounds like a reasonable amount of time.  BUT at the $14.65 level, the pumping mechanism slowed way down to a trickle, as if the hose had suddenly developed an enlarged prostrate.  And then it took me more time to pump in the remaining $.35 cents than it would take for President Obama to form an intelligent coherent non-scripted non-teleprompter non-um-um-um-containing unrehearsed response to an off-the-cuff question posed by, say, a right-winger like yours truly.

EXAMPLE

Date Line: Wednesday, April 8, 2009.  President Obama is about to hold a press conference to talk about housing.

Me: “President Obama.  What are you going to do about those Somali pirates who boarded a US vassal, kidnapped the captain, actually he volunteered to go to save his shipmates, and now the pirates are holding a gun to his head?”

President Obama: “Guys, Guys, Guys; we are here to talk about housing.”

There is still hope for us, my fellow good Americans, because remember I am running for president in 2012.  Go to the campaign section of my website and vote for me.  Below are but a few of my planned cabinet appointees:

-       Vice President Who Comes Complete With A Functioning Brain And The Ability To Construct And Articulate Actual Sentences: Rush Limbaugh

-       Department Of State And A Damn Fine Looking Woman If I Do Say So: Secretary Sara Palin

-       Department Of No One Screws With The US Defense: Secretary Newt Gingrich

-       Department Of The Low Taxes, Controlled Spending, Zero Borrowing, And Limited printing of money Treasury: Secretary Donald Trump

-       Department Of Don’t Come Across Our Boarders Unless We First Ask You Or You Will Be Returned In A Pine Box Homeland Security: Secretary Ted Nugent

-       Department Of Ripping Liberals New A-Holes And Looking Really Good While Doing It: Secretary Ann Coulter

-       Department Of Plain Good Old Commons Sense: Secretary Glenn Beck

-       Department Of NO Spin And Of Justice: Secretary Bill O’Reilly

-       White House Razor Sharp Tongue Bring It ON Be-ooo-tch Spokesperson: Jay Severin

Copyright © 2009 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

NOTE: Removing and replacing the drivetrain is a relatively straight forward procedure.  But changing an air freshener can be tricky business, because if you are NOT careful you will touch said air freshener with your bare skin, and you will then smell like pine for upwards of six months, which will drive the local squirrel community nutty.  And the squirrels will then begin wildly chasing you around in a frantic effort to be the first to stash their nuts into any of a number of your anatomical orifices, one in particular—because this is a family newspaper and all I will not get too much into detail here other than to say it might result in some level of discomfort for you, especially if you attempt to sit down.

Anyway, fixing your car by yourself is pretty much impossible nowadays because you need a PhD in Applied Automotive Design just to be able to figure out how to open the hood.  And this is because some corporate automotive CEO suit, who has been bullied by EVERYONE since being a fetus, and who hates EVERYONE, and who wants to get back at EVERYONE, has done so by putting escaped Nazi war criminals in charge of designing automobiles and writing user’s manual; user’s manuals which are so thick Godzilla could not rip one in half even with the help of a chainsaw; user’s manuals which are so criminally complicated it’s virtually impossible to figure out how to fix a fuse.

EXAMPLE

The user’s manual “fix-a-fuse” instructions state:  “In order to snake your way around all the other engine-equipment clutter and reach the fuse box—Ha!  Good Luck!—you must be a certified circus contortionist, have twenty-eight-inch long fingers, be related to Henry Ford, own an auto body shop, and have the know-how to disassemble an entire vehicle, including the paintjob.”

So, whenever we have mechanical problems we are forced to deal with automotive mechanics.  And your standard mechanics are a nasty lot who are in cahoots with the Nazis, and who have the nasty Nazi habit of ALWAYS giving the car-owners the worse-case scenarios about their broken automobiles.

EXAMPLE

“You think it’s just a rattle.  But it isn’t.  Basically, everything in your car is broken, including your Christmas tree air freshener.  And it will take at least six hundred weeks to get the parts to fix your car, that is, if I can locate the parts, which I don’t think I can.  But if I do, the amount to fix your car will be slightly more expensive than what it costs to keep the Federal Government supplied in enough red tape to allow them to bog down every piece of important legislation, to include banning low-fat potato chips.  But that’s only my over-inflated estimate, so don’t quote me, because it’s going to cost you much, much more.”

I know what I’m talking about; we just bought a new mini van, and after buying it I drove it 19-feet across the street to a gas station to top off the tank, because dealers ONLY give you enough gas so you can drive out of their sight and out of their mind, and I found myself engaged in a conversation with the mechanic.

“Sir, I know it’s none of my business but it sounds like you need a new engine. “

“A new engine?”

“And a transmission, electrical system, and a new Christmas tree air freshener.”

“The mini van is brand spanking new.  I just bought eight seconds ago from that dealer right across the street.” (Point)

When a mechanic realizes he’s about to lose a sale, they will begin to introduce guilt by mentioning the safety factor of your family and tossing out potential dangers that can result due to your obvious Scrooge-like cheapness.

“Well, if that was my vehicle I would not be driving my family around in that hunk of junk, especially if I had kids.  Do you have children?”

“Yeah, I have kids.”

“You do realize your entire brake system is about to explode?”

“Explode?  I’ve used the brakes once, to stop in here for some gas.”

“Hey, listen; you do what you want to do. But if your brakes fail, well, who am I to say anything?  After all, it isn’t my family’s lives that are in jeopardy.”

I’m sick of cars and even sicker of mechanics, but unfortunately I need both.

Well, I’m running late for my ninth guilt brake overhaul of the week, which according to my mechanic, who’s in the process of purchasing a new mansion, complete with a moat, “you can never be too safe, and don’t put a price on your family’s safety, well, at least not until my mansion’s mortgage has been paid off.”

Copyright 2009 William E. Drury Jr.,  All Rights Reserved.

It frosts my weenie when I go to get a “simple” cup of “simple” coffee from one of those “simple” coffee franchise places, like, for example, oh I don’t know, say, the one who’s name rhymes simply with “Ptarbucks.”  Now, stay with me on this.  Work with me.  Focus.  Okay, so, coffee franchise sell (are ya ready?) coffee.  This, you would think, should come as no great surprise to anyone, to include dull-witted mutated mothballs.  And I mean that in a nice way.

So, I go to “Ptarbucks,” and find that, generally speaking, I stand in line at “Ptarbucks” long enough for my feet to sprout roots; which firmly plant me into the ground.  And this occurs because, generally speaking, the three hundred and twelve people standing behind the counter, who are employed at “Ptarbucks” which is a place which sells COFFEE (d’uh) collectively only know THREE solid word of English, by which I mean “no comprende ingles,” and are trying to hand me a piece of tile off of the floor.

I stand their and begin pointing and pointing and pointing so many times at what I actually want.  This does nothing, and I might just as well rip my arm out of the socket and throw it as what I actually want.  But, I generally only toss one of my shoes at what it is I want, and then and ONLY then does the gaggle behind the counter suddenly and collectively realize that I DO NOT want a piece of the flooring, but rather, I, for some strange unknown reason want, get this: COFFEE!   Eventually, one of the illiterate elite prepares the coffee; hands me the coffee; I leave the shop, and make it ALL the way 4,000 light years back to my office.

Once there I attempt to innocently pull back that little white plastic tab thingy to expose the drinking hole thingy.  And then I attempt to bend back and press the end of the little white plastic tab thingy into the little white plastic tab thingy holder.  BUT, the lid collapses and gets jacked-up.  SO, I fight to remove the caved-in lid and to get the lid back on the cup.  AND then I try AGAIN to secure the little white plastic tab thingy into the little white plastic tab thingy HOLDER!  AND after I finally get the little white plastic tab thingy securely into the little white plastic tab thingy holder, I take a sip, the lid slips off, and coffee, which is slightly hotter than magma streams down MY face.

Naturally, I press down on the lid to secure it in place, and more lava coffee pours onto my hand, and NOW I have 9th degree burns on MY face and on MY hand!  And after I get out of the burn clinic, I take another sip of MY coffee, which now has it’s lid firmly held in place with duct tape and rivets, and I realize that they DID NOT give me a French Vanilla which I ordered, but rather they gave me (nasty word) HAZELNUT which tastes, well, like NUTS, and I HATE nuts that is why I ordered French (nasty word) vanilla and NOT HAZELNUT!

However, this is NOT the point of this week’s column.  The point of this week’s column centers on something vitally important: owning two different vehicles, because what dopes owns two of the exact same vehicles, unless, of course, the dope has the short-term memory normally associated with that of a cardboard cutout of toothbrush.  And if they are two different vehicles, it stands to reason that they will be equipped with TOTALLY different dashboard configurations, hence two different vehicles.

 WARNING: when you go from one TOTALLY different dashboard configuration to another TOTALLY different dashboard configuration, AND you attempt to perform a normal dashboard function (e.g., turn on the radio) this simple normal function, because ALL radio switches are NOT located in the same location in ALL vehicles, and so when you turn the “alleged” radio knob to the “alleged” “on” position, you might find yourself accelerating up to 900 miles an hour while still in your garage.  But this is a rare occurrence, usually happening to those clueless cretins who have about as much business being behind a steering wheel as a bag full of wet hamsters.

Okay, so, anyway, I have been typing for a while; I need a break and a cup of coffee.  Luckily I am in Boston today typing my column, and just across the street is a “Ptarbucks.”  It’s 11:55 in the morning, nobody is in line, and there are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…300 “workers” behind the counter.  That means I should be in and out by noon 2179.

So, join me again in the 22nd century where we will discuss the finer points of how, back in 2009, I fixed the hole in my garage door which was shaped like my van NOT my car.

 Copyright © 2009 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

Anyway, when disciplining my Doug I have to be quick, because he has the nasty habit of getting me involved in negotiating everything with him, and I do mean everything.  It’s like living with Perry Mason.

As a result of his prosecuting prowess, he’s never sentenced without us first having to go through deliberations, complete with cross-examinations, witnesses, police line-ups, exhibits, and motives, which basically results in me getting a headache.  And all I wanted to do was to hand down a quick punishment, and get back to watching The Discovery Channel’s “Dirty Jobs” hosted by Mike Rowe.  BUT, OH NO, NOT WITH LITTLE LARRY LAWYER IN THE HOUSE!

The sound of a gavel being banged on the bench.

“Court is in session.  Doug, I told you to clean your room and you didn’t, so I sentence you to no TV, no video games, and no computer for the rest of the night.  Now go away, Mike’s back on.”

“Dad, oops, I mean ‘your honor,’ take a chill pill.  This nation is based on being innocent until proven guilty.”

“Your room was dirty; I told you to clean it; it is still dirty, and so you’re guilty.”

“Well, perhaps, but let’s at least make the crime fit the punishment.”

“The what?  Fit the what?”

“Since you only told me to do one thing, that would be to clean my room, and I did not do that one thing, then I should only have one thing taken away.”

“I—”

“I just rented a new SpongeBob video game from Blockbusters.  That would be exhibit ‘A,’ which cost money, my money.  So suspending my video game time is not only unconstitutional it’s a crime.  And unless you want to go to jail mister, I mean ‘your honor,’ taking away my video game is out of the question.”

“But—”

“And the Spike Channel is running some new MXC shows tonight, so giving me a time out on my TV privileges must also be taken off of the bargaining table.”

“Hey—”

“That leaves the computer, which needs a new hard drive, screen, and mouse pad.  Take that away, which is a punishment that fits the crime.  I rest my case.”

“I have a headache.  Case closed.  Court is adjourned.”

The sound of a gavel being banged on the bench.

Now, with my daughter, things are handled much differently, because she’s a girl, and girls employ an anti-punishment tactic: crying.  Girls cry at the drop of a hat, even if they have nothing to cry about; even if they are JUST crying to get out of assorted punishments, especially those girls who have entered puberty with the vengeance of a runaway freight train wearing ponytails, like my daughter.

The problem with being a daddy and having your little girl turn into a weeping waterfall right in front of your eyes is that you, daddy, will put up a good front, well, at first.  But you will eventually cave in, because as the crying increases in noise, intensity, and frequency, your ability to NOT cave in decreases.

Let’s be honest here: you know you will cave in.  She knows you will cave in.  Everyone knows the caving in is coming.  But you can’t cave in.  There can be NO caving, because if you do cave, you are doomed to a lifetime of caving.

By the way, where do little girls learn to cry on demand?  Who teaches them such treacherous tactics?  Ask my wife.  Never mind.  Like I said, she lies a lot.

“Sara, I need a backhoe to get to your closet.  I told you to clean your room, but you chose not to, so little lady, you can’t go to the “Sad Café” dance tonight.”

Cry

“That’s enough of that.”

Cry, Cry, Cry.

“Listen, crying and tears DO NOT work on daddy.”

Cry, Cry, Cry, Cry, Cry.

“Maybe next time you will learn to listen when you are told to do something.”

CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!  CRY!

“Okay, Okay, Okay, enough already, enough with the crying.  You can go.  Just stop crying.  Sheesh.”

Anyway, join me again next week were we will discuss other underhanded daddy-manipulation habits that my daughter has picked up from, oh, I don’t know, I’m guessing off the street from some sneaky fairy, because according to my wife, she knows nothing about nothing, and that’s her story and she’s sticking to it.

Case closed.

Copyright 2009 Bill Drury. All Rights Reserved.

Take for example our Cocker Spaniel and Poodle mix named “Bella” (a.k.a. “Dawg”) who resembles a throw rug with eyeballs and a tail.   Before Bella will do her business, she MUST first sniff every piece of grass in the northern hemisphere, twice, because God forbid if she ever did her business in the wrong spot.  And then she MUST spin herself around-and-around-and-around in ever-tightening concentric circles in what looks to be a determined effort to corkscrew herself all the way through to China.

And for Bella to find just the right spot can take several weeks, sometimes years.  So, while she is sniffing and spinning, I’m standing on the porch patiently, gently, softly cheering her on to do her thing, like any good dog-loving master would do.

Me: “Bella!  You four-legged-flea-bag!   Let’s go…TODAY!  Don’t make a career out of it!  Enough already with the sniffing and spinning—GO ALREADY!  Get it done with!  I’m late for work, you mutt!”  (Point and tap watch).

Bella: “Oh, yeah, well, you try doing your business behind the garage next to the propane tank with the cute Shiatsu next door watching your every move out their picture window.  Not to mention some lunatic standing on the porch tapping his watch and yelling at you.  And another thing; these weeds tickle.   What do you say you stop pestering me and instead cut the grass?  That might help matters, don’t ya think?”

Then there’s “Pebbles,” (a.k.a. “Rat Dog”) an almost five-pound Yorkshire Terrier and Poodle mix, who is best described as being a scrawny nervous shaky hairball with an attitude and teeth.  In fact she shivers, shakes, and trembles so much you would swear that someone removed her blood and replaced it with caffeine.

Now Pebbles, on the other paw, takes way less time to do her business than Bella, which is a good thing.  But she also gives us way less of a warning, and therefore we have way less of a reaction time to react when she needs to do her business, which are bad things.

Basically she barks, waits 1/1,000,000,000,000th of a nanosecond, and then squats at your feet.  I’m totally serious here.  She will look at you, bark, and if you don’t immediately leap from wherever you are, scoop her up in a Walter Payton fumbled football-like fashion, and make a mad dash for the nearest end zone, you’ll be knee-deep in doo-doo.

Okay, you’re right; I might be exaggerating just a little.  Given Pebble’s puny size, admittedly, Pebbles’ “deposits” don’t amount to much, but what little doo-doo she does do is always deposited in just the right longitudinal latitudinal landmine location for me to step directly in.  Thank you very much, Rat Dog.

Anyway, let me leave you with this important warning that has absolutely nothing to do with the content of the column above, but it is about dogs: if you decided to own two dogs, make sure that they are both roughly the same size and weight.  And the reason for this is centered on the activity of “patting.”

If you own a medium-sized dog that weighs roughly 30 pounds, you can pat this dog with some nice sturdy pats to its back, which will result in some nice sturdy tail-wags requesting for more “loving” from its master.  However, if your miniature-sized dog that weighs approximately negative 3 ounces, wanders by while you are patting the medium-sized dog, and you momentarily forget that you are patting the medium-sized dog and start patting the miniature-sized dog with the same nice sturdy pats to its back like the ones you were delivering to the medium-sized dog, you run the risk of accidentally pounding the miniature-sized dog into a furry flapjack, which will then have to be scraped off of the living room floor with a spatula while your wife and kids yell at you for “playing too rough with the little dog!”  Not that I’ve ever mistakenly done this before or anything.

Copyright 2009 William Drury.   All Rights Reserved.

Then there are other people out there, like me, who require a body cast for a hangnail; people, like me, who will leap into their cars and drive straight to their doctor’s office if they even so much as see a picture of someone with a thermometer in their mouth fearing that THEY, by which I mean ME, will now have become contaminated with whatever horrible terrible life-threatening disease the person with the thermometer sticking out of their mouth has.  Look, in my defense, I’m the kind of preventive maintenance sort of guy who will ask, yes ask, for my doctor to snap on the old rubber glove.  Remember: think preventative maintenance.

Hey, the way I figure I’d rather have my doctor shove his finger into my backside and root around exhibiting the same level of enthusiasm normally associated with a intoxicated vagrant frantically attempting to remove a wedged quarter out of a payphone than to wake up one day only to find that my prostrate has now successfully grown large enough for the Department of the Interior to officially award my prostrate with its own zip code.

Look, suffering the discomfort and embarrassment of having a person in a white smock with a stethoscope around their neck with their finger forever jammed up your normally “exit only orifice” practicing a new violent form of sign language in your column is much better than having to pee 400 times a second with LITTLE to NOTHING coming out.  I know T.M.I.

But, I’ve always been a slight hypochondriac.  Take last week for instance, Wednesday morning; I looked in the mirror ONLY to come face-to-face with a red mark on my face.  Now, if you are categorized by the Institute of Mental Health as “normal,” you’d think nothing of a red mark on your face.  BUT if you have been categorized by the Institute of Mental Health as “an escaped mental patient,” like me, your brain will ONLY give you two choices: 1) you have razor rash which is basically nothing and you will be fine, or D) you have managed to acquire a rare form of Amazonian Jungle Rot and your face will slide off of your skull before you can say “AAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

And I don’t mind talking about my aliments in great nauseating detail to total strangers who pass by me on the street, and who, just being polite, might smile and say “how are you?” But instead of just replying with “okay and you” I corner them and provide them with WAAAAAYYYYY more information than they need or care to be hearing.  This, I realize is NOT normal socially acceptable behavior, but I’m a little bit on the nutty side.

EXAMPLE

Total Stranger:  “Hi, how are you today?”

Me: “I have projectile diarrhea.”

Total Stranger: “What?”

Me:  “Ruined three pairs of underwear on the way to work this morning.  They’re in the glove compartment along with a piece of my small intestine.”

Total stranger looks at his watch

Total Stranger:  “Oh, would you look at the time.  I—”

Me:  “Interestingly, it was red and black, and it was in a plaid pattern.  Funny, I don’t remember eating a kilt.”

Moment of silence

Total Stranger:  “Sorry, about that, but, a, everything else is okay, right?  Okay, see ya.”

Me:  “Scurvy.”

Total Stranger:  “Scurvy?”

Me:  “Yup, and rickets.”

Total Stranger: “Scurvy AND rickets?”

Me:  “Aha, oh, and bubonic plauge.”

Total Stranger:  “I think I better sit down.”

Sadly, because I am somewhat melodramatic when it comes to me being sick; it has put me in a pickle with my wife, as made evidenced by the fact that she didn’t believe me last night when I told her that I was no-kidding-around seriously dying from a bullet wound.  Okay, technically I hadn’t actually located the bullet hole on my body at that point. BUT the rapper gangster on the television news had one in the center of his forehead.  And everyone knows that bullet wounds are highly contagious, which means I definitely had one around here somewhere.  (Pat.  Search.  Pat.  Search.  Pat.)

Anyway, join me again next time when I will jump topics and tell you about the time I made the HUGE mistake of going food shopping when I was hungry and came home with a Keg of Mountain Dew and a 700 pound bag M&Ms.

Copyright © 2009 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

The scientific community has spent HUGE gobs of time and money developing sophisticated, delicate, and highly precise Doppler weather detection equipment which can be sitting in Minnesota and detect and decipher a miniscule molecule of mist in Moscow.  BUT many people still rely heavily on some rat (a.k.a. Phil) seeing its shadow to calculate when winter will come to an end.  There is just something wrong about this on many rat dropping levels.

These Kool-Aid drinking sewer rat supporters have even made a special day out of worshiping Phil’s forecast, an exclusive day which they affectionately refer to as: “Groundhog Day.”   Along with “Groundhog Day,” they have (ready for this one) invented a “Groundhog Club.”  Yes, you read that one right.  And on “Groundhog Day,” one of the members of the “Groundhog Club,” as tradition holds, dresses up in a top hat and tuxedo, plucks poor old hibernating Phil out of his nice warm stump, and bends him in half in an attempt to force Phil to find his shadow.

Yup, every February 2nd, upwards of 6,000 people equipped with way too much time on their hands, descend on Punxsutawney Pennsylvania to annoy this rat, and to find out when winter will end.  As an outsider looking in, it has become apparent to me that their strong held belief that a rat can provide an accurately forecast might have something to do with the fact that all 6,000 of these people are genetically RELATED, and all are currently clinging to one family tree containing less branches than can be found on a flagpole.

BUT even the media takes this rat’s rationale to heart, as evidenced by that fact that they give significant amount of airtime to ol’ Phil’s furry forecast.  Even trained meteorologists base their future forecasts and fortunes on Phil’s prediction.

EXAMPLE

Meteorologist: “According to my PhD, historical data, current weather models, and our brand spanking new 8 gazillion dollar Doppler radar, which is sitting on top of the Channel 7 building right now, we have less than six weeks of winter to go.”

News Reporter: “Are you absolutely certain?  If farmers plant their crops too soon, the snow will pile up, the crops will die, and so will the entire population of Punxsutawney.”

Meteorologist: “Relax, our new radar is fail proof.  Seriously, you think I’d risk the lives of the entire population of Punxsutawney unless I was absolutely no-question certain of the upcoming conditions?”

News Reporter: “Well—”

Meteorologist: “Plus, a rat just saw his shadow.”

News Reporter:  “Oh, well, if a rat just saw his shadow, then that’s a different thing altogether.  We can risk everyone’s life now.  Let’s all go plant some corn, everyone.”

The whole groundhog things seems a bit archaic to me.  And this has a lot to do with the fact that I usually try to kill rats with a stick versus taking their word, or more accurately their silhouette, on whether or not I should keep on my snowshoes or break out the suntan lotion.

But that’s probably just me being insensitive and overly harsh and judgmental to the local rodent population, who, for the record, every February 2nd, gather in the nearby woods, watch on, and laugh themselves into fits of convolution at the 6,100 morons who believe that Phil; yes, Phil, who barely made it out of 3rd grade; yes, Phil, who spent most of that year sitting in a corner wearing a dunce hat; yes, Phil, who doesn’t know a cloud from an obo, is now the darling of the day, and passing along precious and precise precipitation predictions.

Anyway, I’ve also been thinking a lot about another vitally important topic, which I am also very fuzzy on: how the newly elected president of the United States thinks that purchasing condoms for the masses can stimulate and kick start the floundering economy.  Look, it is a well-known fact that condoms and stimulation goes hand in glove, or is that foot in sock, or WAIT head in hat, or well, more like, something into something, but you catch my pornographic point.

BUT, hey, maybe the president is thinking that the more condoms used, the more smoking will take place afterword’s, and the more smoking which takes place afterword’s would bring in gobs of much needed cigarette luxury taxes thus stimulating both the economy, and, well, you know.  Hey, I’m all for stimulation, and so is Phil who’s currently sitting in the corner wearing a condom on his head with the word “Dunce” stenciled to it.

Copyright © 2009 Bill Drury.  All Rights Reserved.

But now in the middle of middle-age, if I so much as sneeze too hard I run the risk of wickedly wrenching something out of whack and winding up in traction.  And it’s bad enough to be in traction, but at least if you got there as a result of some really cool neat Evel Knievel-like daredevil accident, well then, that’s one thing like, for example, the skier on the opening scene from “The Wide World Of Sports,” who goes crashing down the mountain.  Now that’s a cool injury.  But if you burp and rupture a rib, I mean how humiliating, especially if you have to tell some young punk kid how you, the geezer on the block—A.K.A. “Old Man Drury,” got injured.

Example

“Hey Joey?”

“Yes, Mr. Drury?”

“How did you break your leg, arm, and shoulder?”

“Gee Mr. Drury, this morning I was riding my bike and I got hit from behind by an eighteen-wheeler.  I was then dragged for seventy-eight miles over a gravel road which was littered with porcupines and cactus; finally I was able to roll out from under the speeding truck only to be attacked by a polar bear.  But I’m feeling much better and the doctor says I’ll be completely healed by noon.”

“Cool.”

“What about you, Mr. Drury?  What’s with the body cast?  Did you get into a really cool neat head-on collision or maybe you were skydiving and your parachute didn’t open.  Yeah, I bet that what it was, right, Mr. Drury?  Huh?”

“I hiccupped and blew out my back.  My doctor says I’ll be in this body cast until at the year 3087 around noonish.”

Moment of silence

“Okay then…er…a, sorry to hear that (snicker) Mr. Drury.  I hope you feel better.”  (giggle)

See what I’m saying?  Humiliating.

Anyway it’s hard to admit but the sad truth is that I’m falling apart.  Everything in my body hurts; everything on my body is in pain; it’s hard to chew, it’s difficult to swallow; it’s a nightmare to go to the bathroom, it’s challenging to walk, and forget about “you know what.”  I’d wink at you right now to emphasize my meaning of “you know what” but I’m afraid I’d cripple myself.

But before the onset of middle age I’d routinely leap off of various pieces of household appliances—including the dog—to initiate a “romantic rendezvous.” Now, any unplanned movements like, for example, getting onto the actual bed itself can result in “situation-ceasing-seizures,” putting an immediate halt to the “activities.”  Evidently, holding one’s back, stumbling around the bedroom emitting blood-curdling cries of pain, and screaming “PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEONE SHOOT YOU!” has the potential to ruin the “mood.”

My hearing, too, has gone downhill since the onslaught of this middle-age-metabolism-meltdown.  As a consequence, every conversation in our home turns into a shouting match, especially at the dinner table where people who are sitting only inches away from me end up screaming at the top of their lungs, over emphasizing words, repeating themselves, pointing, and finally constructing together highly creative strings of swears, all in a sad unproductive attempt to get ME to pass THEM the potatoes!

Example

“Pass the potatoes, please.”

“What?”

“Pass the potatoes.” (Point)

“Huh?”

“Pass the pooootattttttttoessssssZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZaaaaA!”

“What?”

“PASS THE POTATOES! POTATOES! POTATOES!”

“Huh?”

“PASS THE BLEEP, BLEEPETY, BLEEPING P-O-T-A-T-O-E-SSSSSSSSSSA!”

“What?”

It seems like it was only yesterday when I was a young strong man, a manly man’s manly man.  Back in the day I was faster than a speeding quarterback; more powerful than an entire defensive line, able to leap and block the tallest of field goal attempts with a single bound.  Now disguised as mild-mannered Bill Drury who lives daily on the planet, I’m busy rubbing Ben Gay® onto my feet; massaging Rogaine® into my scalp, and dabbing Preparation-H® on my butt.

Sadly, after typing 689 words, I need to stop because middle age has caused my fingers and wrists to become arthritic, and they are starting to cramp up oljalvv aljgflac l ahjcoao[ja5805jl and I’m loosing the ability to control usojgopgl; j what I’m typing oajodsauof 0985wj cl;jc ; and my neck is getting stiff from holding it in the same spot @@@DFGUJg[0m i0 for more than three seconds, which is forcing my head 098qtojuo to fall towards the keypad hhgauyFFR$#%444y I can’t stop lauoalan ujqfjljl 0opv jluj help! 911 hjjytrhhyhyhjjkkklbhjhdddddddzrstzsrhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiffffffffffffffffffffffff

Copyright 2008 William Drury, All Rights Reserved