Another Reason To Fear Them

On today’s episode of “Inroads in Science: Still No Cure for Cancer”, we bring you an article in Discover Magazine that says that clowns are apparently a leading cause of pregnancy.  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, it would not surprise me to learn that Deb either made that up or, once again, has misinterpreted a critical piece of statistical information. But you’d be wrong. Sort of.

Holiday Spirit: New Jersey Edition

Peace on Earth, goodwill toward men.

Source: Rich DeSantis/NJ Star-Ledger

Unless you are the owner of a six-foot, plastic porch Santa singing Christmas songs on a loop.  Then, screw you.

… And Then His Head Exploded

“Best Mug Shot of All Time” Award goes to Art Taylor, an 18-year-old from Masschusetts who allegedly swallowed an entire bag of cocaine after being stopped by police for a minor traffic violation:

Newsflash

I’m very pleased to announce that on January 3, 2011, I will be stepping into the formidable, size-12 shoes of Jim Horne and Patrick Merrell, who have done an excellent job of discussing the New York Times Crossword puzzle for the past few years on the Wordplay blog.

This is a new adventure for me, and I am thrilled to be a part of the New York Times team.

I sincerely thank the entire puzzle community for their support and friendship, and even if you are not a puzzle solver, I hope you will come join the party!

That’s My Air You’re Breathing

Hearty congratulations to Angeles Duran of Galicia, Spain, who has not only single-handedly solved the world’s economic crisis, but has also come up with a most excellent way to monetize her crazy.

Ms. Duran, who owns the Sun, is graciously donating the majority of royalties she earns from our usage of her star to the Spanish government, and has selflessly decided to keep only 10% of the aforementioned earnings for herself.

Port Authority: A Cultural Oasis

Lest anyone accuse the Port Authority Bus Terminal (“Most of Our Restrooms Are No Longer Infested”) of shirking their responsibility for contributing to the reputation of New York City as a cultural hotspot, I present today’s offering: The World Arm Wrestling Championships.

The photo shows the stand off between the United States and Poland, which, if I am not mistaken, is also how we defeated the Axis powers in World War II.

An Intelligent and Carefully Thought-Out Appeal. Yo.

At some point in the near future, we will hopefully have advanced far enough as a species so that it is no longer considered funny to watch mature, white men in lab coats trying to rap. But today is not that day.

Ladles and gentlemints, meet Dr. Jonathan Garlick, my new hero. Dr. Garlick is a research scientist who hopes to garner support for stem cell research by making it understandable and non-threatening to those who oppose it. His preferred method of communication?  Why, dropping the dopest rhymes, of course.

Break it down for us, Dr. Garlick:

Space: The Freebase Frontier

There’s been a lot of talk in the press recently about ‘helicopter’ parents, or those people who need to control their kids’ lives to the extent that they influence every educational decision that the kids should really be learning to make on their own.  I’m not like that. As far as I’m concerned, my children will be free to study whatever they wish when they get to college, so long as they bear in mind that they need to be good, productive people who leave the world a better place than they found it, and by that I mean that they don’t keep coming to me for money.

I will say, however, that I fully intend to have a discussion with them if either one tells me that they are interested in going into the sciences, because a career in science is clearly not what it used to be. When I was growing up, we had respect for scientists; scientists were the brilliant innovators, the deep thinkers who, as children, probably gathered with their friends, looked up into the night sky and pondered aloud, “I wonder what that tastes like.”

As a kid, of course, that kind of statement can make your social life go one of two ways. Either you become a brilliant scientist because your friends avoid you, which leaves you lots of time for studying, or you become very popular and get invited to parties as the kid that people introduce as “Bobby, the guy who will eat anything for cash.” But from what I’ve been reading at least, the sciences are now a haven for people who are a tad obsessed with the size of their rockets and are most likely dabbling in pharmaceuticals.

I say this because of an article I read recently about a group of astronomers in Bonn who have discovered that the Milky Way galaxy tastes like raspberries. I have no problem with this from a gastronomic point of view — I’m a fruit lover from way back — although I am wondering (1) exactly how this helps us as a species, and (2) what the hell they are smoking.

To be absolutely fair, what they actually discovered was the existence of a gas called ethyl formate, which gives raspberries their flavor. But because the Universe has a sense of humor, they also discovered the existence in the same cloud of a deadly chemical called propyl cyanide. I am paraphrasing here, but those two chemicals, along with some other molecules, could very well create what one of the scientists referred to as ‘Deadly Space Raspberries’, which would also have made a terrific nemesis on Star Trek (“Mah engines can’t make enough Dilithium Whipped Cream to hold them back, Cap’n…”) But my point is, this is what a degree in the sciences does to you.

So when my kids come to me and tell me that they want to major in Ultimate Frisbee with a minor in Beer Pong, it will be A-OK with me. Better that than astronomy.

It’s Smart To Vote

So I voted.

I hope all of you got out and cast your vote as well in whatever way you saw fit. That’s not meant to be a partisan remark (some of you might know that I had a family member running in the local election.) It’s just that we here in Springfield tend to be a fairly dispersed lot, and a community is only a community when its citizens act together to keep moving forward.

Like I said, this is not meant to be a lesson in civics. My job, as I understand it, is to point out the things that don’t always make sense and, if the Humor Gods are working with me, make them even worse. It’s not a job for the faint of heart, but by golly someone has to do it.

Anyway, after voting for my choice of candidates, I noticed that there was a referendum up for vote. I would like to tell you what that referendum was, except that I was clearly not smart enough to understand it. I read this thing five times all the way through, just like they tell you to do on the SATs, and I still didn’t know (a) what the matter up for vote was, (2) whether I was supposed to be for it or against it, and (iii) whether I should just call my parents and apologize for wasting the money they spent on my college education.

I think the problem is that these matters are written by politicians, many of whom have spent far more time in school than I have. It’s not that I’m not educated; I graduated from college (thanks, Mom and Dad!), read multiple newspapers each day and watch CNN. I even watch C-SPAN whenever I’ve had too much coffee and need to be lulled off the ledge.

But it’s easy to get the feeling that these referendum-writers are hoping to both impress and confuse voters by throwing just about every word in existence into the question, and it winds up sounding like this:

“In so far as the Regulatory Frottage agrees that the state-mandated control of the assessment by-laws can be predicated twice monthly by the impartially judicial flyswatters – and it wouldn’t be too much to ask, now would it? – the administrative and financial adverbs hereby release to the public, a priori, or, for those of us who didn’t attend Law School, “manipedi,” several reams of paper that no one in their right mind will ever read.”

Below that are four buttons, which read as follows:

a) Yes

b) No

c) I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?

d) I’m not smart enough to vote.

But it’s OK, because nowhere in the Constitution does it say that you have to understand what it is you’re voting for. All our forefathers asked was that we get out there and do it.

(Reprinted with permission from my column, “Next Exit” in The Springfield Patch, November 2, 2010)

Always Tip Your Waitstaff

OK, quiz time:

Hands up those of you who have ever purchased a shirt or gotten a tattoo with mysterious characters in a foreign language because you were told that it meant something wise and Zen-like that would show the world just how cool you really are.

And how many of you avoided just that sort of purchase because you were secretly afraid that those mysterious foreign characters really said something like “The wearer of this garment/bearer of this tattoo is an incredible douche who not only rejects the precepts of our Dear Leader but also cavorts with donkeys”?

That’s what I thought.

Better safe than sorry, I say, because we Americans don’t have such a great relationship with other cultures that we can afford to piss them off any more than we already have. We’re loud, we’re rude, and we show an incredible amount of disrespect for anyone we perceive to be beneath us, like people who have jobs in the service industries. The phrase “gone postal” didn’t come from nowhere.

My point is, you never know when you’re going to run into a disgruntled serviceperson (are there many gruntled ones?)  Unless you have a fetish for having people spit in your food, there is very little downside to being nice to the person who returns your meal to the chef for the third time — facing imminent death by meat cleaver — because your peas are touching your meatloaf.

I say this because of a BBC piece I read about an “unidentified Western couple” who thought they were enjoying a meaningful renewal of their wedding vows in the colorful and mystical Maldivian tradition, but instead are led through a ceremony that clearly leads me to believe that the staff had major issues not only with Westerners, but with the resort management as well.

The video, which appeared on YouTube, looks innocent enough. The bride is beautifully dressed in white and carries a bouquet. Both she and the groom follow the celebrant, who shows them how to hold up their hands in the traditional Maldivian prayer position. On the table in front of the celebrant are two rings and what appear to be official marriage documents.

What actually happened is the marital equivalent of the t-shirt/tattoo. The celebrant turned out to be a waiter at the resort, instead of a priest. What the couple thought were marriage documents turned out to be the resort staff’s employment contracts, and as the poor couple smile blissfully at him, the celebrant lets loose with a barrage of abuse in his native tongue.  I won’t dignify him by printing his speech here, but let’s just say that he questions the validity of, among other things, the lineage of their children, their dietary habits, and the frequency with which the couple might or might not have been checked for STDs. After leading them to a clearing to plant coconut trees, he waxes eloquently about the bride’s breasts. The celebrant’s fellow staff members try to suppress their smirks, some not too successfully.

Eventually, these men were arrested, and the resort and government officials are said to be instituting strict guidelines for wedding ceremonies in the future. They are highly embarrassed, and hope that people will continue to come to the beautiful Maldives Islands not only for vow renewals, but also, except for a few bad apples, for their tradition of hospitality.

I would go. It looks like a beautiful place. And I would make sure to leave my waiter a very generous tip.

The Frog and I

I don’t think I would be guilty of understatement if I said that the Frog and I don’t see eye to eye. She’s been living with us for more than six years now, and as far as I’m concerned, she’s already overstayed her welcome by a good five and a half years. I’ve even tried offloading her onto the owners of the old Fin ‘N Fur pet store on Morris Avenue, but as soon as they saw what I was carrying, they closed up shop.

Granted, indulging my kids’ passion for the animal kingdom is part of my job as a mom. We have a dog, and we even had an adorable hamster who, like all good houseguests, had the good sense to depart to the Big Hamster Wheel In The Sky after a year and a half. But as She Who Is In Charge of Pet Maintenance, Hygiene and Training, my general philosophy is that the grumpier the pet is or the harder it is to take care of, the shorter their stay in my household should be.

Originally, the Frog-That-Won’t-Die came to our home in an attempt to introduce my daughter to—Creationists, please cover your ears—the Miracle of Evolution. At the time, it was a tiny, adorable tadpole: it floated merrily around a fist-sized tank, twirling it’s little tail over it’s head and consuming the tadpole food that cost more than a pound of Colombian coffee and could only be purchased from the company that sent us the tadpole. Sure enough, after consuming a fair amount of the very expensive tadpole food, she absorbed her tail, grew legs and arms, and proceeded to take over my life in what I consider to be a fairly aggressive manner for a frog.

The literature that came with the tadpole says that the resulting Frog is supposed to grow no bigger than a half dollar and is generally thought to be fairly short-lived. Not a bad deal, I thought, considering that you also get a lesson in biology for good measure.

I see now that the company was lying to me. At the point where the Frog grew to the length of a whole dollar bill, bit me on a regular basis when I tried to clean the tank and looked like it might just outlive me, I called their customer service department and politely inquired as to whether they had perhaps gotten their information wrong.

“Did you put the frog in a larger tank?” the bored customer service rep asked.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “She looked so cramped in the ‘Tadpole Box-O’-Fun’. It’s barely larger than a postage stamp.”

“Never put the frog in a larger tank,” the rep droned, sounding strangely like she was reading from a script.  I began to wonder how many times a day she read this warning to the unsuspecting parents who only wanted to share some educational bonding time with their kids. “Your adorable aquatic pet will increase in size in direct proportion to the size of its home.  Also, do not feed it after midnight.”

“Speaking of feeding, how much is she supposed to eat?  She seems very… hearty.”

“Your adorable, educational, aquatic friend can eat up to an ounce of Friendly Frog granules each day,” the rep went on. “You can even teach it tricks to perform for its food.”

“Let me tell you about tricks,” I said, starting to get a little annoyed. “This frog is in the habit of grabbing the little plastic granule spoon out of my hand, swimming to the bottom of the tank and trying to mate with it. My kids may be scarred for life.”

“Do not allow your kids to be scarred for life…” she said, as the sound of a nail file scratched in the background.

I hung up and resigned myself to the fact that I might have to make provisions for the Frog in my will.

Anybody want a Frog?

(Reprinted with permission from The Springfield Patch, 2010)

The More You Know: Criminal Edition

If you are enjoying your freedom, do not go up to a police officer and ask him to check whether you have any outstanding arrest warrants.

You’re welcome.

That’s Nothing…

… We have over 400 of them.

Brazil Votes Clown Into Congress

Those Wacky Japanese People: Fetish Edition

The Japanese have worked hard in the past to surpass us as a world power, and while I personally don’t have a problem with being colonized by the country that brought us both Godzilla AND sake, I’m seriously concerned that their lack of success is making them crack under the strain.

Things haven’t been going well for them lately, and instead of thinking about how to get themselves back into play as an economic force to be reckoned with, they seem to be spending a lot of time exploring their feminine side. It’s understandable. It certainly beats trying to bolster the yen, which, from what I hear, is largely a thankless job anyway. But there is a fine line between healthy curiosity and just plain weird, and now they’ve sailed over that line in a pair of hot air balloons.

A while back I told you about a machine that had been invented in Japan that was supposed to teach men what it felt like to get a period. I have to say I was pretty disappointed. Instead of developing a machine that could be seen as a decent representation of one of the Miracles of Nature, as it was called in my middle school health class, this machine essentially pees down the man’s leg, forcing him to lurch around like a large, mutant, faux-menstrual Betsy Wetsy.  Sure, some of us can relate to that large and mutant feeling at that time of the month, but my point here is that there is a HELL OF A LOT THEY LEFT OUT.

You’d think they’d be satisfied with that, wouldn’t you, but they’re not. After convincing themselves that a woman’s menstrual cycle was a damp yet relatively painless cakewalk, they’ve moved on up, so to speak, to wondering what it would feel like to be the owner of a pair of breasts.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Daiso Inflatables:

I can’t embed the video, but it’s certainly interesting, so here’s the link: http://vimeo.com/1601461

You’re welcome.

Where’s My Can Of Home Fries?

Proof that the Universe loves us and wants us to be happy, or an evil experiment to determine that we don’t actually need real food to survive?

Discuss.

Bacon. Flavored. Pancakes. In a can. (Courtesy of Gizmodo.com)

Well, At Least They’re Giving Us A Head’s Up Now

Back-To-School Night Blues

Now that our kids are safely ensconced in their classes, let’s all take a moment to thank the courageous Springfield teaching professionals who risk life, limb and sanity every day in order to give our children an education. These people welcome our children into their lives, open their eyes to different ways of thinking and, most importantly, give us adults roughly six, child-free hours each day in which we can have a coherent thought.  I work from home, so for my money, that alone is worth my property tax bill.

And don’t think for a second that the kids aren’t benefitting.  On the very first day my son, D., came home with this important Life Lesson:

“My Comm. Arts teacher read us a story today.”

“That’s wonderful. What was the gist of the story?”

“Always be nice.”

“Was that it? Nothing else?”

He thought for a second. “Always be nice or you’ll get Detention.”

So don’t tell me the kids aren’t learning.

The only thing I have a complaint about is the exercise in masochism called Back-To-School Night. Every year like clockwork, I get an e-mail from D.’s school, cheerfully informing me that his school would be happy to introduce me to his teachers and show me all of the exciting adventures he has as he makes his way through his day at school.

“All you need is a copy of your son and/or daughter’s schedule, and we will do the rest.  What fun you will have, as you breeze through your child’s classes and chat with his and/or her teachers!” the e-mail cheerfully informs me.

On the surface, Back-To-School Night is a cheerful, P.T.A.-pastry-filled event that is supposed to give us parents a thrilling glimpse into the daily lives of our little students. In reality, I suspect that the teachers use Back-To-School Night as a way to have fun with us. What they don’t tell you is that the schedules are abbreviated to about one nanosecond of their normal length, the classrooms are at different ends of the school, the crowds of confused parents in the hallways requires more agile parents to surf the hallways like a mosh pit, the teachers, just for fun, have decided to all trade classrooms for the night, and all of the bathrooms are closed.  I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking that this might be a form of retribution for the fact that they have suffered a stunning loss in funding over the past few years and are apparently at the point where they are selling their plasma to buy classroom supplies. With everything they’ve gone through, I frankly wouldn’t blame them if they set booby traps. It’s not a profession for the faint-of-heart, and if it makes them feel better to play this annual prank on us, well, I say go for it. We’re ready.

I can always tell which parents are at Back-To-School Night for the first time, because they are the ones who show up with just a copy of their child’s schedule and hopeful plans to meet every single one of the adults their child interacts with during the day, including the janitorial staff.

But the first rule of Back-To-School Night, as they say, is that we don’t talk about Back-To-School Night. The second rule is that we bring the proper survival equipment, like a reliable GPS system for locating the classrooms which appear to be numbered randomly; comfortable running shoes for getting to each class on time; high-protein snacks for endurance; and the Xanax-tipped blow darts for slowing down the occasional reluctant teacher who might be edging his and/or her way toward the door.

The veteran Back-To-School Night parents among us know that the first-timers haven’t got a chance, but we’re not going to help them out. Let them learn like we did: in the mosh pits of Back-To-School Night.

(Reprinted with permission from my column, “Next Exit” on springfield.patch.com, ©2010)

Will This Be On The Final Exam?

As part of a high school social studies class on world belief systems, students were taken to a synagogue, a gospel music performance, a mosque and a Hindu temple.

See if you can guess which part of the curriculum everyone seems to have had a problem with.

Alberta, Canada: Our New BFF

Dear Alberta,

Hey, how are you?  Did you have a good summer?  Ours was pretty hot, what with the global warming thing. Not that we’re feeling sorry for ourselves, but how come it only seems to hit us down here in North America? Ha ha.  Sorry, you guys are still part of good old N. A. too, right?

Listen, we know it’s been a while since we’ve been in touch, but we wanted to thank you for the clever Times Square ads.  We couldn’t have been more surprised to hear from you, frankly, and then you totally punk us by dropping those signs in the middle of New York City.  Beauty, eh?  Do you guys still say that?

Our BFFs

So… oil in Canada!  Maybe we weren’t exactly paying attention, because we’re pretty sure you mentioned it once or twice in the past, but way to go!

We know we’ve been really busy lately and have been hanging a lot with the Middle East, but just between you and us they’ve gotten way too uppity for our tastes recently.  Oh, and can you say TWO-FACED?!  We have put just about everything we had into that friendship, and what have they done for us?  Do they ever pick up a cheque?  We spend and we spend on them and everytime we think things are going well, their psycho brothers come along and blow something up and guess who has to clean up the mess?  Man, it gets our toques in a twist.  Hosers.

Anyway, we just wanted to say hi and let you all know that anytime you wanted to take off for some beers and back bacon with us, we’re totally there.  Please.

Your BFF,

The United States of America

Pass Me Some of That There Jumbo Shrimp

Sitting down?  Good.  Maintain a steady grip on your armrests, because this one might hurt your brain.

An Italian economist interviewed by CNBC Europe says we now appear to be entering what he calls a “Growth Recession.”  Yes, I thought of George Carlin’s oxymorons routine, too.