DO NOT PASS GO!

The Monopoly Game is back at McDonalds. I know...I don't care either. But it must boost sales because it seems like forever that they've been running the same damn promotion. I remember when I was a kid I used to run across Western Avenue to the McDonalds across the street from my house and dig around in the hedges that separated the drive-thru from the parking lot. I'd find all kinds of those little game pieces in there - many of them unopened. By the end of summer, I'd have almost an entire board built, minus the winning pieces, of course. And that was always the hardest part - collecting enough pieces to know which ones were common and which ones were potential prize-winners.

Fortunately, someone else has done that legwork for me this year. Below is a list of the "money" property game pieces for this year's Monopoly game at McDonalds. Next time you peel a chip off your extra super large beverage, check it against the list below. If it's the "money' piece, hang onto that bad boy until you collect the other two common pieces to win the prize!

Mediterranean
Vermont
Virigina
Tennessee
Kentucky
Ventnor
Pennsylvania
Boardwalk
Short Line

The prizes get progressively more valuable as you work your way down the list, and the keystone pieces more difficult to find. If you do score any of these unlikely gems in your travels, head over to eBay and order up the other pieces in the set and claim your prize. Just don't forget to grease my palm for making your life a little easier. You know - a little something for the effort.

SUCCESSORIZING

Here are a couple of posters I made using the online Successories generator. I would share the link with you, but then you'd be as cool as I am...and I must guard against that.

EVEN FLOW

I just found out that "Pearl Jam" is a term used to describe a substance that is more commonly referred to as jizz.

Who knew? And I own several Pearl Jam albums!



I get the unsettling feeling my world will never be the same again.

BEHIND THE HORN

I will honk at you.

Yes, I'm that guy. The honker.

Drive like an ass and I'll let you know you're driving like an ass. Endanger my life and the lives of others, I'll lay on my wheel hard. Block traffic and I'll give you a blaring earful. Why? Because cops can't sit at every intersection to enforce every breach of basic traffic law. We need to police ourselves sometimes, and by laying on the horn I'm letting your dumb ass know I didn't appreciate your jerk move. What move? You know the move.

How about the one where the light turns red, but you figure you can chase the car in front of you into the intersection anyhow and it'll be okay. It's not okay. Red means stop. Doesn't matter if the car in front of you is moving or not. If the light is red, you stop. You don't roll out into the intersection. The reason is simple - because there's not always room on the other side and you end up blocking the whole fucking intersection! That's why. Have some common fucking sense already.

So, yes. I WILL honk at you. I will pull the front of my car right up to your driver side door in the middle of intersection you are blocking and I will honk my horn. Long and hard. You will shrug your shoulders and make words at me: "Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?"

I'll tell you what you're supposed to do. You're supposed to drive with your fucking eyes open and realize that if you can't make it all the way through the intersection, you shouldn't enter it to begin with, dumbfuck.

So eat my horn, beotch, and bask in shame. All it takes is one over-eager moron to back-up rush hour traffic for a half mile with this move. Pay afuckingttention!

SAY WHAT?

Almost as dangerous is the man who doesn't know what he doesn't know as the man who knows what he knows.

TOTAL(ITARIAN) BULLSHIT

Written by Garrison Keillor, sent by JB, and posted without permission here because I think it is important that we keep track of the people responsible for destroying our democracy one broad stroke at a time. I pray the masses hold these idiots accountable when they ask us for our vote.

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A SHAMEFUL RETREAT FROM AMERICAN VALUES

By Garrison Keillor

Tribune Media Services

I would not send my college kid off for a semester abroad if I were you. This week, we have suspended human rights in America, and what goes around comes around. Ixnay habeas corpus.

The U.S. Senate, in all its splendor and majesty, has decided that an "enemy combatant" is any non-citizen whom the president says is an enemy combatant, including your Korean greengrocer or your Swedish grandmother or your Czech au pair, and can be arrested and held for as long as authorities wish without any right of appeal to a court of law to examine the matter. If your college kid were to be arrested in Bangkok or Cairo, suspected of "crimes against the state," and held in prison, you'd assume that an American foreign service officer would be able to speak to your kid and arrange for a lawyer, but this may not be true anymore. Be forewarned.

The Senate also decided it's up to the president to decide whether it's OK to make these enemies stand naked in cold rooms for a couple days in blinding light and be beaten by interrogators. This is now purely a bureaucratic matter: The plenipotentiary stamps the file "enemy combatants" and throws the poor schnooks into prison and at his leisure he tries them by any sort of kangaroo court he wishes to assemble and they have no right to see the evidence against them, and there is no appeal. This was passed by 65 senators and will now be signed by Mr. Bush, put into effect, and in due course be thrown out by the courts.

It's good that Barry Goldwater is dead because this would have killed him. Go back to the Senate of 1964 -- Goldwater, Dirksen, Russell, McCarthy, Javits, Morse, Fulbright -- and you won't find more than 10 votes for it.

None of the men and women who voted for this bill has any right to speak in public about the rule of law anymore, or to take a high moral view of the Third Reich, or to wax poetic about the American Idea. Mark their names. Any institution of higher learning that grants honorary degrees to these people forfeits its honor. Alexander, Allard, Allen, Bennett, Bond, Brownback, Bunning, Burns, Burr, Carper, Chambliss, Coburn, Cochran, Coleman, Collins, Cornyn, Craig, Crapo, DeMint, DeWine, Dole, Domenici, Ensign, Enzi, Frist, Graham, Grassley, Gregg, Hagel, Hatch, Hutchison, Inhofe, Isakson, Johnson, Kyl, Landrieu, Lautenberg, Lieberman, Lott, Lugar, Martinez, McCain, McConnell, Menendez, Murkowski, Nelson of Florida, Nelson of Nebraska, Pryor, Roberts, Rockefeller, Salazar, Santorum, Sessions, Shelby, Smith, Specter, Stabenow, Stevens, Sununu, Talent, Thomas, Thune, Vitter, Voinovich, Warner.

To paraphrase Sir Walter Scott: Mark their names and mark them well. For them, no minstrel raptures swell. High though their titles, proud their name, boundless their wealth as wish can claim, these wretched figures shall go down to the vile dust from whence they sprung, unwept, unhonored and unsung.

Three Republican senators made a show of opposing the bill and after they'd collected all the praise they could get, they quickly folded. Why be a hero when you can be fairly sure that the Court will dispose of this piece of garbage.

If, however, the Court does not, then our country has taken a step toward totalitarianism. If the government can round up someone and never be required to explain why, then it's no longer the United States of America as you and I always understood it. Our enemies have succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. They have made us become like them.

I got some insight last week into who supports torture when I went down to Dallas to speak at Highland Park Methodist Church. It was spooky. I walked in, was met by two burly security men with walkie-talkies, and within 10 minutes was told by three people that this was the Bushes' church and that it would be better if I didn't talk about politics. I was there on a book tour for "Homegrown Democrat," but they thought it better if I didn't mention it. So I tried to make light of it: I told the audience, "I don't need to talk politics. I have no need even to be interested in politics -- I'm a citizen, I have plenty of money and my grandsons are at least 12 years away from being eligible for military service." And the audience applauded! Those were their sentiments exactly. We've got ours, and who cares?

The Methodists of Dallas can be fairly sure that none of them will be snatched off the streets, flown to Guantanamo, stripped naked, forced to stand for 48 hours in a freezing room with deafening noise, so why should they worry? It's only the Jews who are in danger, and the homosexuals and gypsies. The Christians are doing just fine. If you can't trust a Methodist with absolute power to arrest people and not have to say why, then whom can you trust?

(c) 2006 by Garrison Keillor. All rights reserved.

Distributed by Tribune Media Services, INC.

***************

RIDE 'EM AND WEEP

Here's an online quiz for which I was woefully underprepared. If there's one thing in this world I know nothing about, it's cars. Actually, if there's one thing I know NOTHING about, it's hot man love. But if there are TWO things I know nothing about, it would be hot man love and cars.

Markie T sent me this picture quiz featuring close-up shots of classic cars and the goal is to identify as many of them as you can. I am almost embarrassed to say I got zero. None. But then, another part of me is glad to have saved that part of my brain for other things, like Bingo. What do you mean it's impossible to be good at Bingo? I studied Bingo strategy for years in Tibet. I kick ASS at Bingo.

Anyhow, if you'd like to test your knowledge of classic cars, hop on in.

BEER ME, BABY, ONE MORE TIME

A friend of mine recently asked me, "Why do we drink so much?"

I thought this question deserved serious consideration, so I resolved to formulate a long response for him and post it here. There are, after all, MANY reasons we drink. But since I haven't had a lot of time to write this week, I will share with him this short answer instead:

Beer has magical properties.

LEAVING A MESSAGE

Here's something that fucking steams me.

I'm a writer by trade, so I can be hypercritical at times when reviewing the work of other professional writers, just as fellow writers likely cringe at the imperfections scattered about my meandering prose (intentionally, of course).

But one error I can forgive no longer is a faux pas in basic storytelling so prevalent it shakes me to reason's core. I'm talking about the omission of a technology that has so permanently penetrated our lives it simply cannot be ignored - and yet it IS ignored...over and over and over again.

I am talking about Caller ID.

When was the last time you actually took a call without knowing exactly who was calling? It's virtually impossible to purchase a telephone these days that doesn't come equipped with Caller ID. Business lines have them. Cell phones have them. Cordless phones have them. Most calling plans include them. Only the oldest of old people refuse to pay $3.95 for the monthly service. Caller ID has saturated the telephone service market.

So why the fuck do people on television and in movies answer the phone like they have no idea who is calling? This has always been a pet peeve of mine - a recurring oversight I figured would correct itself over time. But it hasn't. Watch television tonight and you'll know what I'm talking about. 90% of the time, when the phone rings, the caller remains unidentified until the receiver picks up. I have identified two possible reasons for this:

1.) The writer is presuming that such a level of detail is unnecessary in telling the story and leaves it out
2.) It is necessary for the story's sake that the caller remain anonymous because if the receiver knew who it was beforehand, they wouldn't pick up the phone!

To ignore the existence of Caller ID is to deny that it has changed the way people communicate in the 21st century. And it HAS changed how we communicate. We no longer blindly answer the phone with that curious up-ending "hell-O??" These days we know who it is before we say hello, and often acknowledge the caller in answering: "What's up, dickhead?" or "Did you call to apologize? Well, forget it!"

Watch how the characters in movies do it, though. The phone rings and they all look at each other as if to silently say: "Who could THAT be?" Look at the damn caller ID, moron! But either they A.) don't use their caller ID, or B.) don't have it - both of which are completely unreasonable assumptions in this day and age. Writers need to start writing caller ID into their storylines instead of pretending we're still living in the 80's - an illusion now bolstered by the ridiculous return of skinny black pants and clogs.

Further, while I'm bitching about oversights, why don't people have answering machines in the movies? Half the time the phone keeps on ringing and ringing and ringing. This is supposed to provide a bit of drama, I suppose - but in real life, good luck making it past 4 rings without an automated message intercepting your call and prompting you to leave a message. All I want is a little realism in my entertainment.

I'm onto you, Hollywood. You'd better quit being so sloppy. I hereby demand better quality!

CHEER UP!

Things could always be worse...

GET YOUR SWERVE ON

Last year, the City of Chicago banned the use of hand-held cellular telephones, but I don't get the feeling the law has been very effective. People continue to dial and drive on a daily basis pretty much everywhere I go. I must admit, I'm guilty of it myself - although I prefer to use the handy speakerphone feature on my Q so that my hands are free to do other things. I won't appall you with the gripping details.

I do have to say, while their intentions were good, drafting and passing a law they hadn't the means to enforce was a waste of time and taxpayer money. And in my less-than-humble opinion, they failed to address the REAL problem, which was not the phone, but rather the distracted driver.

For example, on my way in to the office this morning I observed a danger far greater than the cellphone gabber: the mobile make-up studio. In my short 12-minute commute down LaSalle Street, I saw no fewer than a dozen women in their cars applying cosmetic products of some kind WHILE DRIVING - a practice that not only requires at least one hand off the wheel, but also both eyes off the road. How is chatting on the phone any more dangerous than applying mascara and lip-liner while listening to Eric & Kathy on the Mix? I'm not saying we need to ban cosmetic commuting, or that talking on a cell phone while driving isn't a big deal - I would just like to see a little more thought and consistency from the folks making the rules instead of cherrypicking hot topics to address.

In the case of the cell phone, it's not the phone that causes accidents - it's the distracted driver. Banning the use of the cell phone doesn't prevent the driver from becoming distracted by other things. Like taking off your suit jacket while driving. Doing a sudoku puzzle. Adding sugar to your McDonald's coffee. Turning around to crack the kids in the mouth. Putting hot sauce on your Beef Meximelt. There are plenty of legal activities that distract us while driving. Singling out one lends the illusion that politicians are protecting us from harm, when they're really just protecting their jobs.

The goal here is safer roads. Why should there have to be laws itemizing all activities deemed unsafe while operating a motor vehicle? Can't there be a single law that says the driver must refrain from any activities that divert attention from the act of driving? Such a sweeping edict might irk a lot of multi-tasking commuters, but if safer roads are what we're going for, wouldn't it be better than a handful of capricious laws banning arbitrary activities? Driving is a privilege, remember...not a right. That's the first thing they teach you in Driver's Education, and the first thing everybody forgets.

If we're so interested in making the roads safer, why stop at cell phones? Why not ban smoking while driving? Dropping a cellphone in your lap seems a little less likely to cause an accident than dropping a half-smoked Marlboro. Why not ban changing CDs? It diverts your eyes from the road longer than it takes to quick dial yout friend on the phone. And applying make-up directly competes with the act of driving for visual attention. By the logic invoked in a ban on cellphones, laws prohibiting these other activities would also make the roads safer - would they not? So where do we draw the line?

Safer roads are the result of increased awareness and greater responsibility on the part of the operator. But people are people, and laws are sometimes required to legislate what should be common sense. I know that I am in constant violation of the of rules of common sense. Don't stick that knife in the toaster. Don't microwave tin foil. Don't drink that expired milk. Don't leave your apartment unlocked. But such violations are primarily threats to MY well being, not the well being of others, which is why the law leaves me alone. It's those behaviors that are dangerous to others that we feel compelled to control. And so I relent that it is probably a good idea that there are laws prohibiting certain behaviors, such as the use of hand-held mobile phones, while driving.

I just wish we could be a little more thorough if we're going to tackle safer roads, because Maybelline application at 45 miles an hour frightens me a lot more than the bloke conducting business from the comfort of his Beamer.

COSTUME BALL

In this photo, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice sports this year's Halloween Costume for reporters outside of the National Center for Media Studies in Washington. She said her "StormKitty" outfit did a good job of capturing the spirit she brings to the Administration: a hard-nosed assassin with a touch of gratuitous femininity.

GAS GUZZLING HOTTIES, VOLUME 2

If I've learned one thing in my life, it's that people, by and large, are fucked up. Yes, you too. We're all completely nuts. Seriously, you'll be better off if you just admit it. There's no such thing as normal.

I need no further proof in support of this proposition than the following link.

It's a website where people send in video clips of themselves humping Hummers. Yes, the vehicles.

I don't know when this became a "thing," but it clearly points to the impending collapse of our civilization. Thanks to JD for sharing this wild ride...

(The one titled "Call On Me" is too hot for words)

OBJECTIFICATION

You know what really fucking sucks? That women in our society are treated as sex objects. I hate it. Everywhere you look women are coveted for the way they look instead of being appreciated for who they are or what they do. It's just wrong...and it's not FAIR!

Just once I'D like to be objectified for the way I look - to be judged on my physical appearance and sex appeal. To have people ignore my other qualities and say things like, "He only got that job because of the humongous bulge in his Dockers." Or, "He looks like a slut...but I'd wear those jeans, too, if I had his ass." To get whistled at just for getting into my car. To notice all the heads turn as I sashay my sizzlin' rump down the sidewalk. To get people to stop what they're doing and help me out just because, in some twisted fantasy world in their head, I may be so grateful I will decide to sleep with them.

Yeah...just ONCE I'd like to wield that kind of power. Then it's back to being all about what I do and what I drive. Oh, he's a lawyer with twin Mercedes. Oh, she's married to a doctor - drives a Land Rover. Oh, he used to play football at Purdue...nice Escalade. Oh, he's the problem gambler with the Corvette.




[Yes, I am kidding. No need to comment on my enormous package.]

TWISTED

American television takes a lot of knocks for having virtually no cultural value whatsoever. But we're not the only ones drowning in a sea of sensationalism. In fact, I'd argue that the Japanese are way beyond the Americans where crap programming is concerned.

You be the judge.

Say this tongue twister...OR ELSE!

Or else what? Tune in and find out!

CRUISING THROUGH HELL AT 4 MPH

Anyone who commutes knows that traffic can be hell. My buddy JD KNEW he was in hell when he looked up and saw the back of this school bus.

He said he got another chuckle when he noticed that, as it rounded the corner, it was a short bus. That's the one good thing about hell - you can do and say all those awful things you used to say you were going to go to hell for...and it doesn't matter because you're already there!

Like giggling at the short bus...

STREAMING AUDIO

You know what I'm REALLY good at? Pissing in the dark. An underdeveloped skill in most people, I can piss with expert precision in zero-illumination environments. I wasn't always this sharp a marksman. There was a time it took me several test blasts before I was able to hone in on the porcelain target. But now I have everything worked out.

Why would anyone want to piss in the dark? Because when you're still half asleep at four in the morning, flipping on a light switch and blasting fully dilated pupils with 75 watts can be downright painful. Sometimes you just want to meander in, piss, and meander back to bed with your eyes closed - as if sleepwalking. Makes the exercise less disruptive to an otherwise good night's rest. Here's what I do:

I take small steps up to the pot until I can feel the cold porcelain touching my shins. I adjust my position so the coldness feels equally spaced. Once centered, I take a half step back with each foot to create a little distance. I fish Nemo out of hiding, stretch him fully to clear the urethra for safe passage, direct him straight out to where I imagine the back of the bowl is, then straight down at the floor, then bring him back up half way between the two points at what I would estimate to be a 45 degree angle. I relax the smooth muscles and whiz away. As the stream hits the water, I gauge my proximity from the center by sound - like a bat echo-mapping its way through the darkness. This enables me to fine tune my stream, preventing excess mist from accumulating on the rim.

As I feel myself nearing completion, I lean forward slightly to ensure my entire unit is above the bowl, directing Nemo straight down to squeeze out those last few drops. Urination complete, I stuff him back into my boxers and reach forward to flush. From my sonar exercises I know precisely where the handle is. And then I shuffle back to bed with an empty bladder for several more hours of peaceful slumber.

THE WHEELING WALLENDA

A guy at work captured this photo yesterday of Mario Wallenda, an original member of "The Flying Wallendas." Mario was left a paraplegic by a fall over 40 years ago, but he didn't let that stop him from riding the rope again. In this picture, the 66-year-old daredevil can be seen balancing his special "sky cycle" as crosses the Chicago River.

I'm told there was quite a crowd there, as the stunt was arranged by a local radio station. You can see a lot of pedestrians stopped on the bridge in the distance. I'm told the tight-rope ride was rather anticlimactic - Mario reached the other side without incident. The guy who snapped this shot was disappointed, saying: "The least he could have done was wobble a little bit or something. He cruised across like it was no problem. It was kind of boring actually."

STICKS AND STONES...

Does anyone else think there's something fundamentally wrong with Islamic Fundamentalists?

Many have been calling for the Pope's execution. Yes - they want the Pope dead because of some remarks he made about the prophet Mohammed - remarks the Vatican says were taken out of context. It was actually a quote from some 13th century know-it-all no one's ever heard of. No matter - it gave Mulsims another excuse to hate westerners and declare Jihad on the non-Muslim world. Another day in the life...

This political cartoon captures the irony perfectly.

It seems to me a good chunk of the nation of Islam is perpetually on the verge of violent protest. They seem to thrive on it. At first, the Pope's remarks, which were delivered in a speech (he wishes he could take back, I'm sure) last week, only invited rebuke. Top clerics merely demanded an apology from the Pontiff. But once the apology came, suddenly it wasn't good enough. Now, nothing short of his execution will suffice. "Sorry, you quoted a dude who, centuries ago, had some disparaging things to say about Mohammed, and for that you must die." They're burning effigies of the Catholic pointman in streets all around the world. Why can't these folks just settle down already?

Now that Christianity is in the crosshairs, why don't we see bloodthirsty Roman Catholic protesters burning pictures of Mohammed in the street? Where's the call to execute radical Muslim clerics? Is this a media bias? Or is it possible that one of the fundamental differences between Islam and other world religions is an emphasis on the sword? These folks are a sensitive bunch, and passionate about their protests. Remember the cartoon controversy? Pictures and words. If I were an image consultant hired to clean up the reputation of Islamic zealots, my advice would be:

"Settle the fuck down already. This isn't good PR for you folks. You keep telling the world that Islam is supposedly a "peaceful" religion, but the proof is in the protest. Every time someone says something you don't agree with, there's worldwide outrage and chants of death to [fill-in-the-blank]. You're promoting the perception that you're not a reasonable bunch. You need a new approach here. From now on, here's your sound byte: Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words will never hurt us. That's it. No more death threats. No more riots in the street. No more holy wars. Only sticks and stones."

POLLING PLACES, SO TO SPEAK

My buddy Ed and I were talking about the ancient art of self-gratification last week when he wondered aloud how many of the United States he had "mastered," so to speak. I'd never thought of that before, but estimated my count to be somewhere around 7 or 8. Not an impressive stat for the self-proclaimed Jolly Llama of hand-to-gland combat. So Ed suggested I put the question to the public so we could get a feel for the national mean.

So? In how many of the American States have you achieved libidinal enlightenment by becoming one with yourself?

THE LAST DASH

Here's a little something sweet and sentimental for those who may have lost someone recently. It's a beautiful slide slow called The Dash. I've lost a friend and a relative in the past 6 months, so I found the thought behind this rather meaningful.

And now, if you will excuse me, I am going through pork withdrawal and need a fix.

COOL GIFT IDEAS

Stumbled upon this site accidentally this morning and thought to myself, "Gee! These would make great gifts for some people I know!"

And now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to go back to losing my hair.

GAS ATTACKS

You know what I love? Stinking up the elevator.

Here's what I do. I feel a good one locked and loaded in the ass chamber and I wait. I watch the numbers tick down (or up if that's where I'm headed) and when I'm just three floors away, I let rip. I then shake my pants a bit to work the aroma out, and exit confidently knowing the next person to step inside that ass locker is going to gag on the stench. Don't lie - I know you do it too! People fart in elevators as readily as they pick their nose in the car. It's just the natural thing to do. Elevators are already cramped, uncomfortable places - we can't help but get the urge to dish a little gas. And I, for one, don't fight it.

Have you ever stepped onto an elevator all by yourself and smelled something awful? Yeah - that was me. And the worst part is when the doors open up and someone else gets on. They immediately assume you were the one responsible for that aromatic catastrophe. And you desperately want to explain that you had nothing to do with it - that some monkey with a typewriter on the intenet was the one to blame.

But who'd believe that monkey business?

If I'm in a stinky elevator with a bunch of people, I figure I've got farte blanche to make a deposit of my own. If the air pool is already tainted, what's the point in holding back?

This whole conversation has got me worked up for my next elevator ride. Gotta run!

AYNtK - IN AND OUT AND ABOUT

Last week was a pretty good week. I started reading again for one. It’s been a while since I picked up a book and couldn’t put it down. The hook? “State of Fear” by Michael Crichton. It was a book recommended to me by Dr. “I don’t have to wear pants if I don’t want to” Faber months ago, following my review of Al Gore’s rousing documentary (I never thought I’d put THOSE words together in a sentence), “An Inconvenient Truth.” I dismissed his recommendation out of hand on the grounds that I don’t waste my time with fiction. I’m an information junkie who’s never had much patience for storytelling, and a naïve, closed-minded information junkie at that.

Turns out I had the book “State of Fear” on my bookshelf – it was a gift I forgot I’d received for Christmas. Discovered it last Friday night when my recreational options included, as usual, get drunk and pass out or read. For the first time in my life, I opted to read – and boy, am I glad I did. Couldn’t put that book down. By Sunday I was through 300 pages (which is a lot for someone who has to get up and check his fantasy scores every 20 minutes).

The storytelling is superb, and the premise is based on sound science – Crichton actually goes to the trouble of footnoting the scientific assertions of his characters so you can look them up if you want. I don’t want to spoil it for you (as I know you are going to run out tonight and buy the book), but I will recommend it highly for anyone personally invested in either side of the global warming debate. The perspective afforded by Crichton’s insight was intriguing, if a little unsettling. It’s not a masterful work of literature…but it moves quickly, and the short chapters lend the illusion you’re making good progress. That kind of positive reinforcement roped me in and got me invested. There is actually a very good chance I will finish this book – a rare accomplishment indeed.

But I did more than just read last week.

I also took an architectural tour of the city of Chicago by boat. Fascinating how the city you grew up in looks so different when you’re floating down the middle of it. I found a whole new appreciation for the massive buildings I drive past every day without a thought. It’s easy to forget that people had to design and build these enormous things – and I take them for granted because they’ve always been there. Kind of like my wonderful parents, who always find time to read AYNtK. *wink* I think all city residents should be required to take the tour on its educational merits.

I also went to the Taste of Polonia, which was a crowded Polish street festival on the city’s far northwest side. Most ethnic fests I’ve been to are opportunities for city dwellers to experience the cultural contributions of a featured/celebrated people. The Taste of Polonia, we learned, was an opportunity for Polish people to get drunk together. We were surrounded by Polish people speaking Polish, eating Polish food, reading polish magazines, and drinking Polish beer (called Okacim, which is interestingly, and appropriately, abbreviated O.K. on the bottle). No, I'm not Polish, but when in Polonia… It’s really no wonder I ended up on a dance floor later that night, cutting up rugs with eyes closed, hands jerking like pistons in a sputtering car engine. I highly recommend checking out an ethnic street festival near you.

I also saw a puppet show. No, I’m not pulling your leg. Improv Olympic (now known simply as I/O) has nightly comedy shows at their theater on Clark Street, which is just down the street from historic Wrigley Field. My buddy saw that an improv comedy puppet show entitled “Felt” was playing for just $5, so a bunch of us decided to check it out. We figured for $5,we couldn’t go wrong. That was some seriously funny shit. Probably even worth $8 or $9 – but that stays between you and me. I highly recommend improvisational puppet shows.

I've also been jogging again because my muffin top is starting to spill down to my thighs.

A THOUSAND WORDS

The Senate Intelligence Committee declassified an interesting document today.

The envelope please...

According to the Senate report on prewar intelligence on Iraq, there's NO evidence Saddam Hussein had a relationship with Abu Musab al-Zarqawi and his Al Qaeda associates. The lack of support for the Bush theory that Saddam was in league with Al Qaeda is nothing short of mindblowing considering where we are now, several years later. How did we let him talk us into this fiasco? Oh yeah, he didn't. He dictated our national interest in classic Patrick Swayze style: "It's my way or the highway."

(Where's that highway again? Oh yeah, it's coming up in a couple years.)

Actually, Bush said you're either with us or with them (the terrorists). Wow - I guess that means I'm with, er, the terrorists. That sucks! I don't want to be with the terrorists! Ugh. But I don't want to go to war for no reason either. That would only create MORE terrorists. Dammit - why didn't we have a third choice? "You're either with us, with them, or patient enough to get all of the facts before commiting troops to a cause that's as misguided as it is hopeless." I'll take C!

So now that it's "official," is the Bush echo chamber going to keep insisting the invasion was in our nation's best interest? Of course they will. The phrase "My bad!" wouldn't make for a good official State Department response. Nor would, "Oops!" Or, "That which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." How about, "Everything happens for a reason!" A lot of people already believe that - Bush ought to use it as his justification for the war. Case closed!

I'm just worried by all of this stuff I'm reading about North Korea and Iran. Clearly unimpressed by our resolve in Iraq, they've actually stepped UP their rhetoric. Wait a second - I thought by going to war in Iraq we were showing the other card-carrying members of the Axis of Evil we meant BID-NESS! Well, to borrow a phrase from death metal band, Megadeth (as I often do), "Killing is our business...and business is good!"

Cue Ice T: On with the body count!

By this administration's vaunted logic, we must now invade every nation that poses an indirect threat to our national security - since the direct threat was, at best exaggerated, and at worst completely fabricated. And that's a pretty long list of nations who pose an indirect threat, starting with Fred & Ethel: Mexico and Canada. Did you know a majority of Canadians actually believe the U.S. is at least partially responsible for 911! Those are fightin' words in the Oval Office. Heigh ho, heigh ho - it's off to war we go!

[try whistling this]

Better order your fatigues now so you're sure to get your size.





Amazing how a single photo can sum up the Bush Administration policy on pretty much everything.

Bush on the environment...
Bush on the Constitution...
Bush on foreign policy...
Bush on middle-class taxpayers...

DOGS AND PARENTS AGREE

Sending the kids back to school is fucking great!

JIFFY LUBED

My buddy Wetnap (don't ask) sent me this news expose on the popular oil change chain Jiffy Lube. The jig is up! Apparently, these folks are serial scam artists. 5 out of 9 Jiffy Lube locations recommended and charged for work they didn't do. And it seemed the franchise general managers were completely aware it was going on!

Great investigative reporting, complete with Stossel style confrontations and hidden cameras. A fun few minutes if you've got 'em.

Thanks to da nap, and oh yeah, caveat emptor!

WE CARE WHY?

Yes - it's a fucking baby. Bald with balled up fists. It cries a lot. And craps without warning.

People have been having them for a long time. As long, in fact, as people have been around.

I was one once. As I suspect were you. I doubt either of us made it to the cover of a magazine, though. What's all the fuss about anyhow? Why is this child so newsworthy? Because she was born with a gold spoon in her mouth, or because our culture is hopelessly obsessed with celebrity?

And what's with that name? If you've got the last name Cruise (which is not his original surname, incidentally), you may as well have a little fun with it. How about Caribbean Cruise? People could just call her Carrie for short. Or Control Cruise? I imagine it would look nice on a directory: Cruise, Control. Or what about Motley? Kickstart my heart! Here are all of my favorite alternatives:

Caribbean
Control
Motley
Booze
Carnival
Midnight
Princess
J
Ground
Missile
Casino

But, alas, Suri it is. And good for them. Now go make me another movie, dammit! Or at the very least insult another pill-popping celebrity. This whole procreation routine isn't impressing me. At least the picture is on the cover of the right magazine. Vanity Fair is right!

FANTASY GUYLAND

I have a problem. I am living in a fantasy world.

Fantasy football world, to be precise.

The problem is that I can't tell people "no" when they ask me to join their league. I am a fantasy sports junkie and I reflexively accept every invitation I receive. This year I may have gone too far.

This year I am in 9 leagues.

Okay, it's not as bad as it sounds. They're not all full-scale fantasy leagues with drafts and player rosters and trades. Just most of them. Here's an inventory of my NFL-season-related activities. I'm in 1 Yahoo Fantasy football PLUS league, 3 Yahoo Fantasy Football standard leagues, 1 CBS Sportsline fantasy football league, 1 Yahoo survivor football Pick'em league, 1 Yahoo Salary Cap Fantasy Football League, 1 PoolHost survivor football Pick'em league, and 1 PoolHost standard football pick'em league. It's a lot to keep track of, but I'm committed to being competitive, especially when I've got $$ riding on most of these.

I actually need a Spreadsheet to keep track of my teams, strategies, and activities. It's a full time job, let me tell you. I don't know when I'm going to find the time to actually WORK. Besides bathroom breaks, of course.

Now, if you will excuse me, I need to prepare for my final draft of the season by pre-ranking the league's top 250 players. Shouldn't take but a couple hours...

SCAM ALERT!

My good friend in corrections sent me a "heads up" to share with any guy friends who may be regular Home Depot customers. Since I am all about sharing, I figured I would post his warning here for everyone. This is a relatively new scam that I was unfamiliar with.

**********

Over the last month I became a victim of a clever scam while out shopping. Simply going out to get supplies has turned out to be quite traumatic. Don't be naive enough to think it couldn't happen to you. Here's how the scam works:

Two seriously good-looking 18 or 19-year-old girls come over to your car as you are loading your shopping.

They both start wiping your windshield with a rag and Windex, with their breasts almost falling out of their skimpy T-shirts.

When you thank them and offer them a tip, they say, "No," and instead ask you for a ride to another Home Depot. You agree and they get in the back seat. On the way, they start having sex with each other. Then one of them climbs over into the front seat and performs oral sex on you, while the other one steals your wallet.

I had my wallet stolen July 4th, 9th, 10th, twice on the 15th, 17th, 20th, and three times just yesterday.

Again - please beware!!

**************

Thanks to KH for passing this along. I am heading to Home Depot now to investigate...

FYI

I just wanted you to know that, as I type this post, I am completely naked.

It feels good to strut around in the nude like this, lounging about without a care in the world, hoping nobody decides to come into the office this late.

BE AFRAID...BE VERY AFRAID!

Do you remember where you were on September 11th? Do you remember what you did? Of course you do - we all do!

I went to work that morning just like I did every morning - hungover. The weather was cool, but sunny in Champaign, Illinois - so I hoofed it. I didn't hear anything about the twin towers until around 9:30 CST. I hadn't yet made my rounds of the news websites. No one had called me to share their disbelief. I hadn't been in my car to listen to the radio. And because I was late for work, again, I didn't even have time to flip the tube on. I was completely in the dark about the whole thing until I saw a bunch of coworkers huddled around a tiny television at the office.

'What's going on?" I asked. They all turned and looked at me as if to say, "That wasn't funny." But I wasn't joking. I really had no idea. After realizing what was going on, I headed straight for the office fridge and uncapped a Corona. If we were under attack, I wanted to be sure I was properly sedated. And as the rest of the day unfolded, we all found it difficult to do anything but stare at the images. Yeah...I remember September 11th like it was yesterday.

So what's with this new ad campaign asking us to remember? Yeah - an advertising campaign created to remind us how awful we felt that morning. But do we really need an ad campaign to remind us?

Here’s a link to an article by a guy who has some pretty strong feelings about these ads. Why do we need an ad campaign to remind us of September 11th?

The answer, of course, is that we don't. But there are some people in this country who are willing to spend a lot of money to keep those horrible events at the forefront of our national psyche - people who stand to gain politically from the promotion of fear.

Having us relive that day is not a public service. We remember it just fine and we're not going to forget it. This campaign is clearly a shameless attempt to garner support for a hawkish foreign policy agenda built upon the dangerous and costly premise that we need to pre-emptively invade every country that has the potential to arm terrorists with weapons, by which logic we would need to invade every nation on the planet.

Instead of chasing our problems overseas with bombs and infantry, perhaps we should consider developing alternative forms of energy so we can pull out of the Middle East altogether and let the terrorists shift their attention and ire to the industrious Chinese.

MAYBE THEIR OWNERS SHOULD BE FIXED, TOO

I'll admit it. When I was a kid, I loved dressing up the family dog in "people" clothes. I'd patiently work with the family collie mix, Pixie, until she was all decked out in her Sunday best (usually something from my sister's closet). Or I'd outfit her with a Chicago Bears jersey, pair of Reeboks, and Blueblocker sunglasses. Yeah - I had a ton of fun pretending my dog was the punky QB, Jim McMahon. I'd even arrange photo shoots using dad's Polaroid camera, trying to get her pose like the Heisman trophy.

But I was 11 years old.

Here's a site full of pictures, taken presumably by adults, of dressed up pets. The guy who has posted these humiliating pet pics isn't awarding the owners any praise for their effort. He's actually convinced they are mentally disturbed and has included some nice captions alongside the photos.

See for youself what these dogs might say to their owners if only they could speak.

Many laughs.

GREEN IS LOOKING BETTER EVERY DAY

It has been stated that the American people vote not with their hearts and minds, but with their wallets. If this is the case, I am looking forward to seeing some fresh faces in Congress this November. Some greener faces.

Here's some food for thought where your wallet is concerned:

On the day Bush was inaugurated, 1/20/2001, the average price of gasoline was $1.66/gallon. Remember when we thought THAT was outrageous? (I don't either, but I'm sure I was bitching about it) Yesterday I filled up at $3.66/gallon. I'm also having a hard time finding a fucking loaf of bread for under $2. When the price of gas goes up, the price of EVERYTHING goes up. The raise you thought you were getting? Sorry - that money had to be moved over to pay for the sudden jump in transportation costs.

Unfortunately, the invasion of an oil-rich nation (that had no WMDs, no ties to terrorism, and posed no immediate threat to our safety) did not help bring the cost of gas down any. In a country whose economic welfare is tethered to the availability of oil, a spike in prices like this simply can't be good for business. In just 6 years, the cost of getting from here to there has more than doubled. And that's all we do in this country - we get from here to there. And from there to here. And sometimes from somewhere to nowhere and back. We are movers. Drivers. Commuters. Travelers. Round, round, get around, we get around.

And nobody walks anywhere anymore (just look at our waistlines). We can't! We all live in the suburbs. What percentage of the American workforce lives within walking distance of work? We are a historical anomoly. Since man first started earning a wage for a hard day's work he has slept no further than a short hike to work. To the farm. To the mine. To the factory. To the shop.

This is a radical change in the way societies live, work, and function - a change afforded us by the availability of cheap oil. And now that we're all so spread out, oil suddenly isn't so cheap anymore. Sadly, we have no choice pay it or move. Gotta get to work, right? Gotta get to the doctor. Gotta get to the store. Gotta visit the family.

Remember the controversial Bush tax cut we got several years ago? The one where the government sent us all checks in the mail? I think I have officially given all of it, and then some, back to the oil companies - who are posting record profits quarter after financial quarter, by the way. Conservative economic advisors in closed-door meetings with oil execs call that "ooze-down economics."

Green is the color of the future, my friends, and the sooner we get there, the better off we'll be. All of us, and in more ways than one. To sustain our modern lifestyles, marked by the freedom to live and work wherever we choose, a luxury to which we have grown so accustomed, we need to find more cost-efficient ways of getting around. Period. And they are right before our eyes. The electric-hybrid car. Solar power. Ethanol. Hydrogen fuel. And many others in development. Other industrialized nations are way ahead of us in exploring breakthrough technologies, but we lag far behind thanks to the self-sustaining oil lobby and the short-sighted interests of those we have trusted to make smart decisions on our behalf. But they have betrayed us, and for this we must rise up and take back the power to shape our collective destiny.

Go ahead and vote with your wallet. In this case, it's also better for your lungs.

We can do this if we can get the politicians married to big oil OUT OF OFFICE. Maybe it's 10% of them. Maybe it's half. Maybe it's all of them. But we have the power to make it happen. Turn off the televised ads pitching the same horseshit this fall and look up the truth on your own. It's out there.

No, it's not going to be easy being green...but it will be a lot cheaper and healthier in the long run.

OCCAM'S KEYS

Here’s a story for your files. A couple of months ago, I joined some friends in Wisconsin for a short camping trip. We drove up on Saturday afternoon, played beanbags and beach volleyball near Castle Rock Lake, and fired up some flame-broiled burgers over an open pit in the rain. It was a relaxing, if wet, break from the breakneck pace of 21st century civilization.

Sunday morning I woke up around 8am, climbed out of my tent, and stumbled into the woods to pee. Everything was completely soaking wet from a night of steady rain. When I finished steaming up a patch of leaves at the base of a pine tree, I meandered back to camp and started packing things down.

I deflated my air mattress, packed up my wet clothes and started loading everything into the back seat of my car. I then set to the task of airing out my rainguard prior to rolling it up with the tent. Everything would need to be dried out once I was back home, but I wanted it to be as dry as possible before stashing it in my car for the journey back. I folded up the tent and stepped on the air pockets, flattening them for the next fold. I looked around at the rest of the site to be sure we weren’t leaving anything behind. Everyone else was busily packing down as well, mildly hungover and relatively quiet.

That’s when my car honked.

Everybody looked up to see who dared break the silence on this dreary Sunday morning. I walked over to my car, which I had been slowly filling with things for the past half hour and saw that the theft-deterrent system was blinking inside. Strange, I thought, since that doesn’t come on unless the car is locked. I looked in the backseat and saw my overnight bag – the bag I routinely pack my keys in when camping. I was suddenly afraid to try the door handle. If it was locked, with the keys inside my bag inside the car, how was I going to get home?

My camp-mates gathered about me as I speculated as to why the car honked.

“Okay – which one of you assclowns has my keys? Very funny, Joke’s over.”

Everyone just started at me vacuously. Not a smile in the bunch. I turned back to the car and tried the handle. It was locked. I frantically ran around the car. They were ALL locked. Why would the keys lock themselves in the car? Did the 2006 Passat come with a safety feature I didn't know about? I knew that if I didn’t open the car door within 30 seconds of remotely unlocking it, it would lock itself. Perhaps I had remotely unlocked it unknowingly, stowed the keys inside the car, and after 30 seconds it had locked itself. Was that even possible, and if so, who was the German engineer behind that bit of brilliance?

It started to rain softly again. No one knew what to do or say. I was on the outside of my car looking in, 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday morning, deep in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin. I couldn’t LEAVE the car here, I thought. I would need to get in somehow. I began writing a very nasty letter to Volkswagen in my head.

I told the others to keep packing down and that I would be back. I started hoofing it up the gravel road to the highway. From there I walked another quarter mile to an intersection where a recreational park station was situated. I walked up the ramp on the side of the trailer, unsure how they were going to help, but in dire need of some. An older woman with orange hair and thick glasses met me at the counter.

“Hi,” I said nervously. “I’m camping a short ways down the road over here and somehow my keys got locked inside of my car. I was wondering if there’s anyone here who would be able to help me get them.”

“Where are you?” she asked sternly.

“Right over that way,” I said, pointing in the direction of my useless automobile. “About a quarter mile across the highway.”

“Across the highway? Oh, we got nothing to do with that.”

“I know – it’s private land. But it’s right over there and I don’t know who else to go to. Isn’t there someone here I could talk to?”

“I don’t know who. Sounds like you need a locksmith.” And with that bit of wisdom she hefted a yellow pages book out from under the counter and dropped it on the glass top between us.

“Can’t the police help me? Maybe we could call them. It’s MY car – I just locked the keys inside.”

“Police ain’t gonna do nothing about that. You need a locksmith.”

“Okay, then. Let’s see.” I nervously rifled through the pages until I found a few numbers. The addresses were all foreign to me, so I asked which one was closest.

“That one there’s about an hour away. But on Sunday morning? Good luck.”

“How about this one?” I asked.

“That’s another 15 minutes past the first one.”

“Which is the closest one here?” I said, spinning the book around so she could give me her best estimate.

“I’d say this one right here – it’s about 35 miles away. But on a Sunday morning? I don’t know.”

“Right. Sunday. Okay. So, is there any chance I can use your phone?” She looked into the back room behind her where her toothless son was gabbing away about paintball efficiency and said, “Sorry. Only got one line.”

I left the trailer and headed back to my car, certain that she could not have been less helpful.

I returned to camp and gave a progress report, which was to say that no progress had been made. I noticed that the others had been kind enough to finish rolling up my tent and rainguard while I had been off searching for help, and I thanked them. They offered me a ham sandwich and asked what I wanted to do. I really had no idea.

I fished my cellphone out of my pocket to see whether it had any battery power left and if I could get a signal. Fortunately, I had a couple of bars and enough strength to access the mobile web via Verizon Wireless’s broadband network. In a couple of minutes I had a Google window open and was looking up Volkswagen dealerships in Wisconsin. They might be able to help me get out of this sticky situation.

Unfortunately, car dealerships are closed on Sunday – so that search was an exercise in futility. Then I remembered that, with my lease, I enjoy emergency roadside assistance 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year through Volkswagen! Of course, the number to call was on a card in the glove compartment, safely stored, very dry, inside the car.

Things were not looking good.

That’s when we resorted to plan B – which was actually plan AAA. A fellow camper and friend mentioned that he had AAA. As a member, he too received emergency roadside assistance – and if he told them he was a passenger in MY car, he heard they would come help us. He dialed them up and explained that we had locked our keys in the car and needed a locksmith. He then described our location to the best of his ability. He was then put on hold for about 15 minutes while the AAA customer service representative tried to hunt down a locksmith willing and able to drive into the middle of no where to break us into my car.

By this time, everyone else was packed up and ready to go. We made ham sandwiches and stood around in a circle eating them. I told them they could leave whenever they wanted and that I would figure something out. I still had my cellphone and credit cards, so I would be okay. They told me they had no intention of abandoning me there, and that we’d figure out something together. Friends rule.

“You did check your pockets, right?” someone asked jokingly. Of course I had. That was the first place I looked. In fact, I’d been checking my pockets every 2 minutes since the car had locked itself to be sure I didn’t have them. I panicked at the thought of having gone through all of this only to discover they were in my pocket. So I dug around again and assured everyone they were not. They were in my overnight bag in the car, I said. My EVIL car, with a bad temper and a mind of its own. I actually wondered how safe it was to be standing there, half expecting it would hear us talking about it, rev up the engine, and start mowing us down two at a time in the clearing.

AAA finally returned to the line to inform us that a truck was on its way. I was saved! We cleaned up and loaded the remaining gear into the cars, save my tent and rainguard, and the bean bag boards – which we decided we would play out on the highway until the tow truck arrived. That way he’d know where to turn and find us.

The locksmith showed up a half hour later in a tow truck and it appeared very possible that he had just put himself to bed (or more likely a couch) when AAA had called him. This mattered not to us, so long as he would be able to help me rescue the keys my car was holding hostage.

He began with some very basic locksmith tools, sliding metal rods inside the passenger doorframe to unlock the door manually. Discovering that the Passat has no manual door locks, he abandoned this strategy in favor of a bigger metal rod – this one designed to force the door handle open from the inside. When this rod didn’t work, we all started fidgeting nervously. My car clearly had no intention of giving up its contents without a fight. Made me feel safer about leaving things in it in the future – but pretty fucking helpless here.

The locksmith took his bass fishing baseball cap off, scratched his greasy hair, and stumbled back to his truck. After several minutes of digging around under the seats, he emerged with a third tool set. This one resembled a blood pressure arm band and squeeze ball attached to a heating pad. He used the metal rods to jimmy the door open about a half-inch, then slid the pad inside. He pumped and pumped the pad using the squeeze ball until it inflated, widening the doorjamb crevasse. He then inserted another metal rod and this time was able to pull the door handle open.

The door swung out and the Passat started beeping noisily, rhythmically, over and over again. It was not happy. We hit the automatic locks to unlock the other doors, but the automatic locks were disabled. So I leaned across and pushed open the driver side door, then reached around and pushed open the doors to the back seat. At once, we all entered the vehicle in search of the missing keys. Beep. Beep. Beep. I grabbed my bag and reached inside the pocket to pull them out. Beep.

The keys were not there. Beep.

I emptied the contents of the bag out on the wet ground as the car continued beeping loudly. I checked my pockets again. I knew they were in that car. Beep. Beep. Beep. The locksmith looked at me, then turned and spit into the woods.

“Are they in the glove box?” someone asked.

“The trunk?” Beep.

“Under the seat?” Beep.

“The center console?” Beep.

We tore through the contents of the car. Beep. Beep. We searched the ground around the car. We opened the trunk. Fished around under the seats. Unloaded all of the gear I’d stashed in the back seat until finally, we realized where they were. Beep. Beep.

At once, we all turned our heads away from the car and looked back at the smoldering campfire. Beep. Beep. Next to it on the ground was a rolled up tent and rainguard. We all raced over in a mad dash to make the beeping stop. Unfolding the tent, we dug around inside until we felt the familiar metal of a set of keys. They’d been hanging in one of the mesh pockets inside the tent and I’d forgotten to take them out before taking the tent down.

Somehow, as I had been stamping the air out of the tent, I had inadvertently hit the “lock” button on my remote car lock. The car had beeped at me to let me know I had locked it, but instead of putting two and two together, I chose to assume that the car was possessed by a poltergeist who was very unhappy with the grade of fuel I had been putting in it.

We hit the alarm button on the remote key lock and the car stopped beeping. The locksmith was already on his way back up the gravel path to his tow truck, surely cursing the idiot campers from Illinois who do this to him at least once a year. I stood in the middle of a collapsed, wet tent holding my keys in my hand – not my proudest moment. My car looked at me sadly from across the clearing, all of its doors, trunk, glove, and console wide open. It had been violated unnecessarily.

I sheepishly apologized for the misadventure and was forgiven in a chorus of laughter. This was not something I would live down, I thought. I piled all of my crap back into the car and set off for the long, drive back – upon which I decided to fill ‘er up with Premium. I also decided to program Volkswagen road assistance into my cellphone in the event I should ever actually lock my keys in my car.

All things being equal, the simplest explanation is usally the correct one.

Oh yeah... and I am an idiot.

INSTALLING SOME HIGH-FIBER OPTICS

Are people always asking you why you're so damn happy all the time?

Me neither.

What's the deal with that? Why aren't more people more happy? We know what makes us happy, don't we? And we know what makes us unhappy, right? So why are so many people still so unhappy so much of the time? I've got a theory on this, and I'm putting it to the test as we speak.

One word: FIBER

That's right. Fiber is the secret to happiness. I'm not kidding. As you know, there are few things in life as satsifying as a steady, seamless evacuation. You know what I'm talking about. The kind you can feel has been coming on for awhile, but you hold off until just the right moment to let it go. Like baking bread, a good loaf of crap is a delicate thing. Pull the trigger too early and you've got a soft, doughy mess. Let it bake too long and it turns hard and black like coal. The timing of a fantastic loaf of crap is essential - but so are the ingredients.

Fiber is like yeast. It makes sure your loaves are rising properly. Make sure you get enough and things will move along effortlessly. Get too little and you end up with a colon full of flatbread. I've been noticing recently that whenever I'm in a sour mood, it's almost always because I'm constipated. Additionally, I always feel great after a good crap. ALWAYS. So if regularity enhances mood, then the goal would be to promote regularity. And this is done primarily through diet. In other words, consume more fiber!

Here's something I didn't realize until I went on a serious fiber-hunting mission. Most mass-producted commercial breads don't contain a significant amount of fiber! And here I grew up thinking fiber came from the bread/grains/cereal portion of the food pyramid. I was turning over plastic loaves at the grocery store the other day and was shocked to find that even most of the WHEAT breads had 1g of fiber or less per serving. That's essentially nothing. Why the hell even bother eating it?

According to nutritionists, 2 grams of fiber per serving is the minimum amount of fiber content that has any meaning at all to your intestinal tract. And with everything so processed these days, it's not easy to find that kind of fiber content - believe me. You have to eat things like fruits and vegetables (I force myself now), nuts (certain nuts), and baked beans (which have the side benefit of producing intestinal gas, which I LOVE letting go).

And cereal? I thought for sure cereal would be loaded with fiber. Nope. Most cereal is actually loaded with sugar and contains very little fiber. But if you look at enough box panels, you can find a few with 2, 3, 4 or more grams of fiber per serving. That's the shit you're looking for, pardon the expression, and is usually found on the top shelf above all the colorful boxes strategically placed at eye level for kids.

Friends, I can't tell you what the addition of a little fiber has done for my mood. I'm loose as a goose - and we've all seen what geese can do to a black-top parking lot.

Example? Here's one. I actually karaoked Friday night for the first time in 13 years! I'm usually the uptight chump in the corner who refuses to make an ass out of himself. Not Friday. Assdom beckoned and I heeded the call! I belted out an up tempo rendition of Mack the Knife that brought the entire house down. No joke. I couldn't believe it. My Terryoake act was met with applause, whistles, and high fives as I stepped off the stage - and not because I had turned it into a cabaret strip tease act. Complete strangers were actually congratulating me on a job well done.

Fiber.

Check your labels. Look for the whole grain breads and cereals with 2g of fiber or more per serving. Load up on nuts and beans. And eat your veggies!

Your lower GI will thank me.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BABY

to me!

Yeah, that's right. Old as the hills. Moving on in age. Entering the twilight of my youth. Actually, did that about a decade ago.

Last Thursday I celebrated another spin around our glorious sun with a trip to Six Flags Great America. Birthday celebrations are really for the kids, so I figured why not spend mine pretending I still am one? I had a blast whipping around on roller coasters and other rides, eating junk food, and playing carnival games. I even pouted a little bit when it was time to leave, stamping my foot, crossing my arms, and screaming, "No! I'm not leaving and you can't make me."

After being removed by security, I fell asleep in the car on the way home and had to be carried into the house.

Okay - so that's not quite how it went. But I did have a great time and highly recommend you connect with your inner child next time you notice the digits turning over. In the week since I've been jamming that old Cracker tune "Happy Birthday to Me" over and over again in my car. Man, were those guys fucked up or what?

Love the lyrics:

I was having a good sleep
in my car
In the...parking lot of the
Showboat Casino hotel

I say, "I remember you
you drive like a PTA mother"
You brought me draft beer
in a plastic cup

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today

Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you

Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today
I'm feeling thankful
for the small things...today

I remember you
I crashed your wedding
With some...orange crepe paper
and some Halloween candy

And sometimes
I wish I were Catholic
I don't know why
I guess I'm happy to see your face
at a time like this

Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy...Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
and to you-ah

Happy Birthday, baby, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me
Happy Birthday, to me


****

That shit kills me every time.

Anyhow, I'm feeling thankful for the small things today. For example, the little hair I still have left on my head. My little sister. The little sized cans of Coke they're making now that are the perfect serving size for me. Little By Little, that kick ass Oasis tune. And, of course, the little bit of time you share with me every once in a while when you are bored out of your skull and wondering what that silly monkey has typed up recently.

Just some nonsense about a penis pump and a photograph of a roving horde of naked people. You know - the usual.

THE EXTRA FRIENDLY SKIES

Here is the scene from just outside of Washington Dulles International Airport in Virginia where Federal officials have instituted its controversial new pre-flight screening policy. Passengers can be seen abandoning their carry-on luggage so that it can be inspected by police dogs while spot cavity searches are performed. A spokesperson for the Department of Homeland Security said the skies will be much safer when all airports conform to this strict new policy, and denied speculation that the added inconvenience of stripping completely naked will discourage people from flying.

"It's been a pretty smooth transition so far. A few erections here and there caused a stir initially, but for the most part everything has gone according to plan. And no terrorist incidents, which is always the most important thing."

I AM 1,073,578,660 SECONDS OLD!

Wow. I had no idea. That's got to be wrong because I've been counting out loud for two days now and I passed that number a couple hours ago.

Check out this kick ass birthday calendar site. It has all kinds of information about the day and year you were born.

It even listed my birth tree. Yeah - a fucking tree! I had no idea I had a birth tree. It's like being adopted and finding out who your real parents were. Actually, it's probably nothing like that. But it was exciting. Check it out for yourself.


I am a Leo, born on a Thursday, and my life path number is an 8. I have no idea what that means, but I really get along with 6's apparently. Oh yeah, and then there's my tree.

Cedar, the Confidence. Of rare beauty, knows how to adapt, likes luxury, of good health not in the least shy, tends to look down on others, self-confident, determined, impatient, wants to impress others, many talents, industrious, healthy, optimism, waiting for the one true love, able to make quick decisions.

CHUMPS WITH PUMPS

You're going to love this one.

Mardin Amin was arrested at Chicago's O'Hare Airport after joking that bag inspectors had discovered a "bomb" in his luggage. The object in question turned out to be a penis pump. It's not mine, baby - I swear!

According to news sources, a female security guard was rifling through his things when she identified the foreign, suspect object. She asked Mardin what it was and claims he told her it was "a bomb." So she asked him again to identify the object and, again, he explained that it was a bomb. Mardin, who was traveling with his mother to Turkey, was promptly arrested and now faces prison time. Like most men would, Mardin chose to get arrested for plotting a terrorist attack rather than admit to owning a penis pump. Really, baby - it's not my bag!

And all in front of his poor mother!

The defense's side of the story is a little different. They argue that Mardin had actually whispered "a pump," under his breath so as not to draw attention to the fact that his penis was in training. When asked a second time, he again said it was "a pump," but the security guard mistook "a pump" for "a bomb" and placed him in custody. I must admit that this version of the story does sound more plausible than the first one. Why couldn't he have just explained to her what it was for?

"It is a device used for blowing things up."

On second thought...

I just want to know why he needed to pack it in his carry-on bag. Every time I try to use mine mid-flight the attendants tell me to put it away.

DENIED!

Pluto was stripped of its planet status today, rendering all science books written since 1918 obsolete. Can you believe that?

One day you're a planet, the next day you're not. Kind of like Star Jones.

Let's hope this deplanetization stops here, because Earth could be next! Then what will we call ourselves? "Planet" Earth would no longer fit. It would be something like Orbiting Chunk of Matter Earth. Doesn't have quite the same ring.

Fellow Earlthlings, fret not - for your status as planetary dwellars has been secured. After all, we're the ones calling the shots. We can kick Jupiter, the largest of them all, right out of the Planet Club if we want to - and they couldn't do anything about it! Hell yeah! Scary, but I imagine this is what Dick Cheney sounds like behind closed doors.

Totally off topic, I have verified for you that Paul Wolfowitz is NOT the antichrist. My grandmother once declared this and I was so moved by her stoic prescience I had to look into the matter. Turns out the antichrist will be young and dashing, without children, and hail from Europe. So Paul is off the hook.

IT JUST DAWNED ON ME

No one's ever mistaken me for a genius.


They've actually been right every time!

SURVIVOR MEETS THE AMAZING RACE?

Oh Mylanta! Have you seen what my favorite television show is doing this season??? They've completely lost their fucking minds.

Survivor is planning a new "twist" to Season 13, set in the Cook Islands (scheduled to premiere on September 14th), and it's a controversial one. They're dividing up the tribes by race.

For the first time, 20 castaways will be divided up into 4 teams by ethnic background. There will be the White team, the African-American team, the Hispanic team, and the Asian American team. Is anyone else cringing at the discomfort this is likely to create? I can't imagine how this is going to unfold, but it can't be good. Can it?

I know this may sound like another one of my far-fetched brainchildren taken to absurd heights, but I assure you the report is true. It was announced on this morning's Early Show and the controversial concept has already got people talking. As a series-long fan of the show, I'll likely watch out of unwavering loyalty, but I must admit I have my reservations. The entire stunt seems like a cheap way to create tension, drama, and - of course - ratings, at the potential expense of racial harmony. But Producer Mark Burnett is a reality programming wizard, so perhaps I ought to give him the benefit of the doubt until I've seen how this touchy twist is handled. I just can't help but have questions.

Are viewers supposed to be "rooting" for their race? Are we supposed to be analyzing the truths and misconceptions behind racial stereotypes? And how are we to view this objectively, denying our many prejudices? It feels awkard to even think about.

Interestingly, they chose not to have an Arab/Muslim American team. We can only imagine the politically incorrect ways producers might have envisioned that playing out. Suicide drownings. Jungle Jihad. Booby-trapped immunity challenges. A deadly "merge." Better we stick to races we can SAFELY stereotype in today's delicate political climate.

I think the key here, as is the case in most reality shows, will be in the editing. How will they cram three days of footage into 50 minutes? Past contestants have complained they were unfairly portrayed by selective editing. What will they choose to show us THIS season? What exactly are they hoping will be revealed? That we're all really the same when facing the elements? Or that the stereotypes are true? Let me tackle the controversy head on by establishing some of those now.

The White team: This is the control group by which to measure the other groups: plenty of in-fighting, lying, and ego clashes.

The African-American team: Fares poorly in water challenges, quicker and stronger in other challenges, lazy around camp

The Hispanic team: Super hard-working, tight-knit group, will have the nicest looking camp, lacks leadership

The Asian-American team: Exceptional problem-solving skills, proud, hard-working, but can't steer the damn raft for shit

These lists, which I offer in jest, could go on and on given all of the racial stereotypes prevalent in society today. Is this season's "twist" meant to expose them, or crush them underfoot?

We'll all know soon enough - when the tribe has spoken...

COCKTALE ANYONE?

A businessman in India admitted himself to a New Delhi hospital this week to have his penis removed. One of them, anyhow.

The “gifted” 24-year-old reportedly had an extremely rare medical condition called diphallus, or penile duplication. What made his case even harder to swallow, pardon the visual, was the fact that both of his members were, ahem, sexually active. In most cases of diphallus, as I am sure you are well aware, one of the limbs is for decoration only. But apparently this guy always delivered a double shipment of wood, likely to the surprise and exasperation of a very confused partner.

According to reports, he wanted to get married and have a “normal” sex life, hence his cutback in the cock department. There are only around 100 reported cases of diphallus in the world, making it extremely rare. It is known to occur among one in around 5.5 million men. So this guy is literally one a million…or five million, as it happens.

And for some reason I can’t help but think of the future this guy could have had in porn, starting with his own line of films:

Doublefucker Productions

Featuring:

Two For the Honey

Linkin’ Logjam

Double Sixes

Dueling Handjobs

Twice as Hard

Cock & Awe

Wonder Twins

Two the Hard Way

Salami Sandwich

The Daily Double

The DoublePecker

Johnson & Johnson

PLACEBO AFFECTIONS

Researchers of the placebo effect have been looking into the mysterious power of positive thinking. It turns out that belief actually alters brain chemistry, enabling patients who THINK they are receiving medical treatment to get better, even if they are taking little more than a sugar pill. Another way of looking at it: you're not really sick until you believe you are.

People who look on the bright side tend to be healthier and live longer than their pessimistic counter parts. Is it because healthier people tend to be happier, or because keeping a positive frame of mind staves off illness and depression?

Recent studies have revealed that anticipation of relief from a placebo can be enough to improve someone's condition. I find it curious that a society so obsessed with pharmaceutical answers doesn't really need drugs at all. At least not in the capacity that we think we do. Certainly, some drugs are able to do what they say they do - but at what cost? I tend to error on the side of Tom Cruise here (which pretty much makes me insane, I know)...drugs in many cases are more harmful than they are helpful and should only be taken when absolutely necessary.

For most everything else, that pill isn't what's making you feel better - it's the BELIEF that the pill is making you better that's really making the difference. The pill, meanwhile, is altering your biochemistry in ways nature never intended.

Check out this article on the placebo effect for more.

Meanwhile, turn that frown upside down!

TRICKS OF THE TRADE

Here’s an extremely revealing look into the mysterious world of magic.

DOES ANYBODY REALLY KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?

According to statistics, Americans work harder than any other industrialized people – and more than our medieval ancestors! The reason is simple. Getting ahead in our material world is based upon the idea that the sky is the limit. You get paid for the work you do, so if you agree to do more work, you can get more money. Have five jobs if you want. Go nuts. But money's not the valuable commodity. There's something infinitely more precious than money - and people are spending all of it chasing down money.

Did you know that Americans work, on average, nearly 9 weeks more every single year than our Western European counterparts? It may prompt you to ask the question, as it did me, “What the fuck is wrong with us?”

But that’s America. We’re addicted to work.

In advertising, which is both a mirror and shaper of culture, happiness is tethered to the consumption of material goods. In subdivisions from sea to sparkling sea, achievement is measured in purchase power. Status is determined by what you have, not what you do. The people we need the most, it seems, are the ones who get paid the least. Our values are more than a little askew, if you ask me.

My dad once explained that people get paid what they’re worth to whoever is paying them. I considered that bit of wisdom incredibly simple advice, yet profoundly true. People are commodities like anything else, and worth what someone is willing to pay for them. But I’ve found that’s not entirely true in the case of human resources – most people are either getting paid more or less than they are actually worth to the company for which they work.

I know from past experience that I have been both undervalued and overvalued. At my first job I did not bill enough hours to pay my salary – which was pretty damn meager to begin with, as salaries at first jobs typically are. I actually hung onto to that position for far longer than the agency should have kept me on, largely because I am a likeable person. My boss had actually told me over lunch one day that he couldn’t envision ever firing me because I was “cool.” Of course, 7 months of sitting around with nothing to do later, he had to let me go. I was a little hurt at the time, but in hindsight I understand.

At my next agency, I worked hard to prove the true measure of my worth. I busted my ass and made myself an indispensable piece of the company puzzle. And when I marched in to ask for a 10K raise, I got it. And when I ended up leaving a year and half later, they wanted to know if there were anything they could do financially to change my mind. Turns out I had been worth more to them than they were paying me – which was a bittersweet thing to discover. Sweet because it meant I had been valued and my contributions appreciated; bitter because I’d missed out on a lot of dinero.

But that’s the market system at work – people getting paid what they are worth. And, sadly, unless you have the nuts to march in and ask for a raise, you probably won’t find out what you’re really worth until the day you leave. That’s when they call, raise, or fold.

According to polls and surveys, most people believe they are not getting paid what they are worth. It’s hard to put an exact number on something like that, but the general consensus is that whatever our salary is, it should be more. I don’t know where this sense of entitlement comes from, but it’s pretty widespread. I think it comes from the fact that we see other people doing well around us and believe we should be doing just as well, if not better.

“Can you believe they just got a brand new Mercedes? What does he do that’s so important? I’m more important than that guy. I should have a new Mercedes, too!”

And this logic makes us unhappy at work. The fact is, society and the business world value different professions more than others. It’s not that other people are more or less deserving of their salaries, it’s that they are willing and able to perform different corporate functions. Take sales, for example. You can make an absolute killing in sales if you’re willing and able to do it. Sales people can make 2X-4X more in a year than I do, which has prompted me to wonder if I chose the wrong profession. But the fact is, I am not willing OR able to hold a position in sales (largely because I hate people). Sales is a tough gig, which is why those who can do it well are so well rewarded.

One thing I’ve noticed is that most of the people in the top 1% tend to share a pretty similar professional background. That doesn’t mean they’re smarter or more deserving or performing a more vital job – it just means that the company they work for values their contribution a lot more. So then it’s really no wonder that the people who get paid the most in America are people who turn money into more money, protect money, and use legal loopholes to find money: corporate officers, financial brokers, real estate magnates, investment bankers, corporate lawyers, and the like – the suit and tie kings of capitalization, if you will.

While we all agree that teachers are vitally important, too – I think the proof is in the paycheck.

Money matters more than education.

Why? Because money is what sustains us now. Aside from a handful of Amish communities, few Americans are self-sufficient enough to meet all of their needs on their own. Money means access to food, clothes, and shelter. And the more money you have, the better food, clothes, and shelter you can get – from a pantry-sized apartment in the projects to a high-rise penthouse downtown.

There are basically four ways a person can come about money:

- Win it – A rare and wonderful way
- Inherit it – The family way
- Steal it – The dishonest way
- Earn it – The good, old-fashioned way

Winning it. From slot machines to sports betting to online poker rooms to the State Lottery, there’s no shortage of people hoping to win a chunk of change. But winning enough money to sustain a comfortable lifestyle is not common, and most people know better than to expect they will win enough money to quit working. Plus, what’s enough money to quit working these days anyhow? A million bucks sure won’t get what it used to. A nice house in a nice Chicago neighborhood goes for a million bucks these days.

Inheriting it. One of the most bankrupting facts of life is that you can’t take your fortune to the afterlife. So people bequeath their estates to surviving loved ones in an effort to ensure their money, and loved ones, are well taken care of. To those fortunate enough to be born into money, the rules to the American game are a little different. Working is often optional, as large sums of money have a way of multiplying on their own. A good financial advisor and a trust fund are all one needs to enjoy a life of celebrity, designer drugs, high fashion, and cosmetic enhancements.

On inheriting it. I knew a guy named Nick who strolled into our office every day looking for someone to go out to lunch with. He’d stand at your desk for an hour talking about his weekend as if you had as little to do as he did. Nick had a trust fund he knew was maturing in a couple of years. In an effort to teach Nick the value of a dollar, his parents demanded that he take a job somewhere doing something. He took a job doing nothing and, instead, made it impossible for other people to work by standing at their desk and talking about his weekend. My boss once uttered as Nick left for lunch without us, “Man, if that guy didn’t eat he’d have nothing to do.” I remember I was envious of Nick then, but at least I had something to do – and a good reason to do it.

Stealing it. Some people find ways to scam other people out of their money, with or without them knowing it. From massive corporate heists like the Enron scandal to a good, old-fashioned smash and grab, there sure are plenty of ways to steal. As long as there has been money there have been people willing to take it from us. We live in a nation of laws, which, sadly, some believe are meant to be broken.

Earning it. We work hard so we have the freedom to go places, and to buy nicer things, and to live in bigger, better homes, and to provide our children with more than what we had growing up. But are we ever really satisfied? Where do our aspirations end? What’s good enough?

Everywhere you look, the message to our children is that money makes people happy. More money equals more access and better things – which must mean more happiness, right? But money doesn’t really make people happy. Money actually makes it harder for people to enjoy the things that used to make them happy. It’s really no wonder 9 out of 10 kids prefer the Chicken Soft Taco at Taco Bell to the Filet Oscar at Smith & Wollensky. The value of eating either meal is the same to a kid because eating is about being hungry and doing something about it. It’s not about being able to afford the experience of an expensive piece of meat.

As I get older, the things around me get nicer and nicer. A nicer car. Nicer clothes. Nicer meals at nicer restaurants. I used to get a great deal of satisfaction out of things that cost significantly less money – but now I find little satisfaction in those same things because I keep upgrading to something “better.” Could I be as happy now living in the place I was living in just 5 years ago? Eating at the same places I ate 5 years ago? Driving the same car I had 5 years ago? My tastes keep maturing, and getting more expensive as I become accustomed to a higher standard of living.

Today I drink expensive imported beer, drive an expensive imported car, eat at expensive 4-star restaurants, and buy expensive brand-name clothes I’d never even heard of five years ago. I guess that’s the American dream. I guess I’m supposed to feel “better off” now than I was then. But am I really? Is it easier for me to find happiness now than it was then?

Every once in a while I like reverting back to the simple life. I like turning off all of the games and gadgets. I’ll take a walk over to the beach with a crossword puzzle, sit on a breaker, and just be for a couple of hours. I’ll listen to the waves. I’ll admire the horizon. I’ll let the wind have its way with what little hair I have left and actually be completely happy doing it – happy having an experience that costs me nothing.

It’s in moments like these that I can appreciate the value of a commodity far more precious than money. It’s a commodity we are born with, spend so much of during childhood just having fun, but come to appreciate less and less as we get older.

It's called TIME.

You can’t win it.
You can’t inherit it.
You can’t steal it.
And you can’t earn it by working any harder.

All you can do it enjoy it while you’ve got it and hope there’s enough left to do everything you hope to do while you’re here – in this roller-coaster filled amusement park called life.

MIDDLE EASTERN HALF TIME REPORT

The fighting in the Middle East stopped this week, if only for a little while. Both Israel and the Hezbollah guerillas agreed to the conditions of a UN-brokered cease fire, which basically means you can get up and go to the bathroom because the second half won’t start for another 15 minutes.

If you watch cable news, you’re likely aware that both sides are using this break in the action to claim victory. Hezbollah is passing out candy to children in the streets of Lebanon bragging about how they repelled the evil Israelis. Israel, meanwhile, is reporting that it has destroyed most of Hezbollah’s operational infrastructure. The only thing that appears certain in the wake of this PR war is that hostilities will resume, and likely sooner than later. Hezbollah's infrastructure may have been weakened, but thanks to the Israeli military campaign in Lebanon, its numbers have certainly grown. And because it's been receiving a steady supply of arms from Syria and Iran, the odds of Hezbollah going away are somewhere in near the odds of Rob Schnieder starring in a box office smash.

Certainly, Israel has done much damage to Hezbollah. You can't drop that many bombs on so small a country and not hit a few bad guys here and there. But Hezbollah has achieved a more important victory here in resisting the Israelis long enough to warrant a ceasefire. Indeed, these mischievous Muslim crusaders are proving harder to get rid of than Joe Liebermann.

Another problem for Israel now is the mess they made in Lebanon, which is eerily reminiscent of the mess the U.S. made in Iraq. A more advanced nation rolls in with tanks and planes to battle terrorists and ends up completely destroying the homes and infrastructure of an innocent civilian population. This is not in the handbook on how to win people over and make friends. It's termed collateral damage, incidental death and destruction we accept as a necessary byproduct of ensuring our own safety and protection. I guess the logic there is, "Better their innocent civilians than ours." And as I sip my warm coffee in my air conditioned office here, thousands of miles away from the perils in the Middle East, I find it really hard to argue with that logic - even if something deep down inside doesn't feel right. Maybe I should have stopped after that second cup.

This is the frustration of fighting an enemy that hides among the innocent. They exploit the rules of engagement to their advantage and end up winning the favor of the very people they are endangering because of the perception that the larger “aggressor” is indiscriminately blanket bombing everything in sight. We, as civilians on the other side, assume that Israel and the U.S. have exercised restraint in their respective anti-terror campaigns, but it’s hard to believe sometimes when you see tens of thousands of people returning to rubble they used to call “home.” I keep wondering what we need to do to get those people on OUR side - because that's the key. Bombing them doesn't seem to be working. They're not all terrorists - but they end up sympathizing with the terrorists. Especially when hegemonist world powers demonstrate more interest in their nation's resources than their people.

Maybe a couple million free free iPODs would help.

I didn't think so.

CAN I SEE YOUR ID PLEASE?

Folks are meeting in Prague this week to determine whether or not to keep Pluto on the short list of planetary worthiness.

Nearly 2,500 astronomers from 75 countries are trying to come up with a once-and-for-all definition of what makes a planet a planet. And their decision could cost Pluto its job!

For most of us, the solar system has always had nine planets. That’s what they taught us back in grammar school – and that’s how many clay balls we included in our space mobile at the science fair. But then recently scientists discovered a heavenly body larger than Pluto a little farther out and they've been going around in circles ever since. Does the solar system have 10 planets, or do we revoke Pluto’s membership and trim the list to 8?

The problem with adding this extra planet (her name is Xena, by the way), is that there are actually plenty more where she came from. So by adding a 10th, we’d actually be letting in all sorts of cosmic riff-raff and planetary poseurs. To control the kind of company we keep within the confines of our solar system, some scientists are recommending we draw the line after Neptune - making a clean break based on size.

But why cut Pluto if it's already planet? Because Pluto’s status has always been questionable. It’s actually smaller than the moon! The problem with kicking Pluto out is that most people LIKE Pluto. And don’t forget Pluto’s neighbors. If Pluto gets the boot, Neptune and Uranus have threatened to leave, too. So some scientists say it’s better to keep Pluto on as an honorary planet, even if it lacks the heavenly luster we like in a solid, rocky mass of revolving ice.

I know what you’re thinking – good thing someone else is in charge of making the really tough decisions. If planets smaller than Pluto are let into the solar club, then we’re looking at including up to 44 more planets! It could get crowded up in here.

DID YOU KNOW?

Did you know that the Sears Tower is so big it has its own ZIP code? True story.

And, it takes two full months to wash all of its windows. Two whole months. By the time I'm done I have to start all over again!