Bweinh! Answers Your Questions

08/30/2007, 1:15 pm -- by | 5 Comments

This week marks the end of our sixth full month at bweinh.com, and over those months, you (our wonderful visitors) have seen fit to grace us with your presence tens of thousands of times. Many of you simply type in the name of our site, or perhaps click a bookmark in your browser — but there are others who find us every day at the end of a search string. It is to this last group that I devote this post.

I’ve been keeping track of some of the questions that brought you to our site and I have some answers for you!

What is the name of the man that talks at the front of the church?
Good question, good question! That man is Zed’rokh, Destroyer of Worlds, of course!

Unless you mean the man everyone else can see too, in which case it’s Rev. Johnston, and he’s asked me to remind you the restraining order is still fully in effect. Back pew, please. Cashiers’ checks only.

Can you fail Navy boot camp and what happens?
Another great question. Unfortunately, you can fail Navy boot camp. Remember our friend Job Tate and those updates he was giving us from his trip through boot camp last month? He talked about a bunch of people who flunked out because of physical or mental weakness. Yeah, it’s sad, but it can happen.

Oh, what happens to them after they fail? I’m not quite sure. I’d ask Job, but — as you’ve seen — he’s been kind of absent ever since he went to the second-level boot camp, you know, where they run the really thorough background checks to make sure you’re not joining the military to help your tiny little state secede, uh, from the inside and whatnot, learning all our secrets.

Huh. Wonder what happened to him…

Can I still get a job even though I’m on probation?
I’m glad you asked! The answer is absolutely!! There are plenty of employers willing to take a risk on a young man or woman who simply got caught up with the wrong crowd fighting at the mall, made a small mistake out on the highway, or maybe shoplifted from the local Piggly Wiggly. It’s not the end of the world to wind up on probation; just look at what Tom has made of his life!

How do you pronounce Shaalan?
Just like it’s spelled, and slowly. “Suh – hah – all – ay – ah – hall – lah – la – an – nuh.”

Remember to keep the emphasis on the A.

Ballet boot sleeping blog?
Yes, master Zed’rokh…message received…plan underway…transmission complete…

Hang In There, Bro!

08/28/2007, 10:30 am -- by | No Comments

Best of Job, March 2006.

I trust you’ve heard the story about Abdul Rahman, the Afghan who converted to Christianity from Islam, and now might be sentenced to death just for that ‘crime.’

I told my brother Joel today, while painting at the church workday, that I was hoping that either Rome or Colorado Springs (if not Washington) would dispatch an elite helicopter unit to go and get Abdul. I think this is a great notion and perhaps even cinematic — the idea of a Protestant v. Catholic Cannonball Run, to race and free Rahman from his potentially lethal captives.

I can see Dobson making up his mind to pull the trigger and do it, then changing his shoes like Mr. Rogers.

“I should wear layers,” he thinks to himself.

On the way over the Andes, the Protestant chopper breaks down, of course, and the Catholics stop only long enough — in their bejeweled Sikorsky — to gloat over and bless them. “Why don’t you ‘wiggle around like marmalade jelly’ to keep warm?!,” a cardinal gleefully shouts out, as they fly away.

But some Wycliffe translators in a nearby village help the Protestants get back on their way, and they overcome great adversity and pesky surface-to-air missiles to somehow beat Benedict’s Boys to the compound where Rahman is being held. Dobson and Joel Osteen are trapped behind some boxes, getting shot at, and things look gravely hopeless as Rahman struggles against his binds — until Rick Warren suddenly bursts through the bay doors in his Youth Group Truth Troop van, does a barrel roll out of the driver’s seat, springs up and slays everyone in the Spirit as the van hits a Jeep and explodes into a fireball.

“Yes, Rick!” Osteen yells out, pumping his fist. “Now that’s what I call Purpose Driving.”

“Amen!,” concurs Dobson, untying Rahman. The Catholic contingent shows up seconds later.

“Well, well, well,” remarks a camo-garbed Billy Graham. “I guess you Vatican’t.”

Clash of the Titans XLIII: Why I’m Hot

08/21/2007, 1:30 pm -- by | No Comments

In this corner, telling us why he’s hot, is Mims!

 And in this corner, strenuously disagreeing, is Carly Simon!

My heat is well-known and self-evident. No fair observer of American popular culture could conclude otherwise. But in my frequent travels across this great country, I have faced the obvious question, often from schoolchildren and the elderly — “Mr. Mims, just why are you so hot?”

It was for them that I wrote my hit song, a song that has captured the hearts of this country and the world, a song called simply This Is Why I’m Hot.

But I am not content to rest on my laurels and allow this song, brilliant as it is, to alone speak for me and my all-surpassing hotness. I am grateful to bweinh.com, which has so kindly allowed me to briefly summarize some of the reasons for my hotness, in what is my original and most comfortable genre — the persuasive essay.

Reason One: I am fly.
It couldn’t be any simpler. I’m hot ’cause I’m fly. Even if you haven’t actually heard my entire song — which my agent assures me is physically impossible by this point — you are no doubt familiar with this, the central tenet of my chorus and the guiding principle for my life. As Descartes thought, as Helen Reddy was woman, as Spartacus was, well, Spartacus, so too am I, Mims, fly.

No further discussion is needed, but I will nonetheless press on.

Reason Two: I am universally popular.
I know this sounds prideful, but I would be unfaithful to my throngs of adoring worshipers if I pretended things were any different. A summary review of my first verse shows quite clearly that I attract vast support in areas as diverse as “New York,” “the Midwest,” “the Bay,” “the Chi,” and “the dirty dirty.” Can you do that? Legally?

Did you know that I make ladies bounce? What is more, my attire moves crowds from side to side! And, for goodness’ sake, my pimping has NEVER ONCE dragged!

This is why — THIS is why — THIS IS WHY I’M HOT!

Reason Three: I am fly.
Please see above.

Reason Four: Ladies love me.
I hold such sway throughout the nation that I can actually shut down stores for my own shopping pleasure (as in verse 2). As you might imagine, this is quite attractive to women!

But my warmth is not solely dependent on what I can do for the females; it’s also about what they can do for me! These things include complimenting me, staring at me, engaging in extramarital intercourse with me, or even just riding with me in my car. “All aboard,” I say!

Your love gives me wings, ladies.

And they are hot wings.

I thank you for your time.

Mr. Mims may be hot, I will admit. He makes a powerful and convincing case, if you take him at his word. But he’s left out a good deal of this story. And that’s an oversight I intend to correct immediately!

But first, let me also thank bweinh.com for giving me the chance to be relevant again, if only for the two or three days this article appears on their front page. The check is in the mail, folks!

But back to Mr. Mims. He tells you repeatedly that he’s “fly”; he says it twice in this essay and about 325 times in his song. Let’s ignore, for now, the question of what exactly it might mean to be “fly” (don’t those things breed in garbage?), and just assume he’s referring to some sort of external measure of attractiveness.

What he doesn’t tell you is that he regularly dips his hat below the level of his eyes, he has been known to wear a scarf of an apricot hue, and (in the most shocking and disturbing event of all) he frequently and intentionally watches himself gavotte!

Yes, I said gavotte!

No, I don’t know what it means either!

But that’s not the point. The point is that Mr. Mims’s popularity, his flyness, his attractiveness, his heat, if you will, is merely an invention of his own fevered mind, stewing in its own juices and grasping at any explanation for its rising temperature.

Mr. Mims is not hot, my friends — Mr. Mims is vain.

There’s no proof that song is even about him! Don’t you agree? Don’t you? Don’t you?

His travel, which he references, simply proves my point. Saratoga one week, watching horses; Nova Scotia the next, checking out the eclipse. Is this any way to maintain a relationship, Mr. Mims? Think of our children! And while I’m on the subject, do not think for one second that your admissions about extramarital intercourse will go unnoticed by my divorce lawyers!

Where was I?

Ah yes. Mr. Mims’s vanity. Forgive me for making this personal, but — I must.

Before Mr. Mims reached this pinnacle of popularity, before his name was known from “Frisco” to “the dirty dirty” or whatever, he was just my little Mimsy. My world. All the girls dreamed of being his partner, but I — I had him all to myself. He was mine. And we were so happy.

He said we were a pretty pair. He said he would never leave.

Excuse me…..

Ahem. But he threw it all away!! For “big spinners” and “getting on the floor” and “focusing on his cream” and hittin’ switches and hangin’ charms and all that gangsta-rap mumbo-jumbo gobbledygook!

What happened to my Mimsy?

What happened to us?

You’re vain, Mr. Mims. You’re SO vain.

{democracy:102}

Squeaky Clean

08/20/2007, 2:50 pm -- by | 4 Comments

At some point, and I don’t honestly remember when, I had to put some serious thought into showering. I know it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you need to think about, but applying some thought and reason toward bathing allows you to clean yourself more thoroughly and efficiently than could otherwise be possible.

Sins are gross, vile, and filthy stains that require cleaning. And while I certainly believe that, as the Bible says, whoever calls on the name of the Lord will be saved, we still have sins to deal with. You know, the process of becoming righteous… personal holiness and all that.

I’ve been a Christian for a long time now, saved at an early age, raised in a Christian home; a third-generation Christian, if you will. But I still struggle with sins in my own life. And it bothers me that after this many years, I still struggle with this problem.

I know I’m not alone, though. Everyone still struggles with sins after they are saved. So if it bothers me that I struggle after two decades of Christianity, it bothers me even more that after two MILLENNIA, Christianity is still permeated with the cancer of sin.

What have denominations been doing since the Reformation? Arguing over eternally worthless doctrinal statements, what day of the week Sunday School should be on, or whether or not ties are part of Heaven’s dress code (along with halos).

I know I’ve put thought into showering because I shower well — I come out of the shower clean, I don’t stink at the end of the day, and I’m relatively well-groomed. By examining the end product, you can tell I have a good process. Can the same be said for some Christian denominations? Spiritually, Christians are washed by the blood of Christ, the Spirit, and by the soap of the Word, right? Is their metaphorical showering doing them any good after they leave church?

Catholics — First, enter a booth and tell your priest what kind of dirt you have on you and where it is. Though you have a bar of soap at home, fully wrapped, you shouldn’t open it because laity couldn’t possibly understand how to use it properly. As you leave the booth, he’ll remind you to ask people, long since dead, who were clean while they lived, to bathe on your behalf.

Pentecostals — Cram as many people as you can into a tent and turn on the shower heads. Get them all riled up: running around in circles, flopping around on the tiled floor, working up a good sweat. Don’t bother learning how to use the soap: the apostles ’tweren’t learn-ed neither! Eventually somebody will show up with a snake. Just go with it.

Baptists — Which type? Does your congregation use the “King Jesus Version” of soap or are they “Nearly Inspired Version” heretics? How long, specifically, should you spend in the shower? Should you wash the right hand, the left hand, or your chest first? What temperature should the water be? For as many complaints or differences of opinion you may have, you can find a Baptist congregation out there tailor-made to your spiritual hissy-fits. Northern, Southern, Conservative, Cooperative, Primitive, Independent, General Associative, Regional, Ecumenical, American (sorry Mike), Progressive… you name it, we got it.

Me? I’d just like to stay grounded in the Word, submitted in the Spirit, and never too proud to see how I’m nothing without Him.

All-Time Fantasy One-Liners, Part Two

07/31/2007, 2:00 pm -- by | No Comments

From the Best of Job, January 2006. Part one is here. This edition is unattributed, to protect the guilty.

“While I have never run a cash register before, I will take over for you now because I am sure this is the only way I will leave here still clinging to youth, and the only way to ensure your employer, Wal*Mart, will actually profit on my purchases. Go have a smoke.”

“Perhaps it is best that we settle this political discussion/traffic dispute with a game of ping-pong.”

“You want directions to Killington? Sure. First you go to the Gap, then you go to the Picklebarrel nightclub. From there, go to the Picklebarrel parking lot. Once there, punch the guy from New Jersey in the mouth for looking at your girlfriend “wrong.” Be careful, that’s a confusing intersection. Take a left on the Breathalyzer, then duck your head to get into the back of the police car. Finally, curl up in the fetal position inside your cell while your frat buddies call home to get your folks to bail you out. Oh wait, my bad. I did that all backwards.”

“Perhaps the vice grip I have on this bag of Sun Chips is an indication I am famished and do not want to share them with you.”

“The increased dosage of makeup on your face doesn’t disguise the fact you are rapidly aging, but rather exposes to a greater extent your insecurity, and the massive desperation you now feel for never reproducing or otherwise validating your existence on Earth. But you do smell nice.”

“Ma’am? Your service here today did not call for a tip. In fact, you ran a deficit; that is why I am keeping your pen.”

“When I said you could use my cell phone, I didn’t think you’d be using it in an extended network to trade recipes with the girlfriend you plan to break up with at the end of the week, once you get your car back from the mechanic.”

Clash of the Titans X: The Pope and Billy Graham!

07/20/2007, 12:00 pm -- by | 4 Comments

Originally printed April 3, here’s a real interfaith dialogue!

In this corner, supporting Pope Benedict, is Mike J!

 And in this corner, backing Billy Graham, is Job!

Sit down, Billy. The Holy Father is about to educate your behind.

Seriously, let’s think about this, people. In one corner, you have a backwoods preacher from the American South. Quite a dandy in his early days, Billy donned the white bucks and powder blue sportcoats for Youth for Christ rallies as far back as the 1940s. Two whole generations of evangelical women cursed Ruth Bell under their breath for shattering their dreams and taking Billy off the market. Even today, women admire him and men want to be him; pianists want to play for him, and even Michael W. Smith and dcTalk knew they had hit the big time when Billy Graham asked them to play for a “youth night” in a late ’90s California crusade.

All of this makes Graham a beloved figure, a bona-fide American religious folk hero.

It does not make for a worthy battle.

Because in the other corner, resplendent in papal garb, his robes billowing proudly behind him, his miter defiantly piercing the sky, is Pope Benedict XVI, born Joseph Alois Ratzinger.

He’s not a folk hero. He’s a junkyard dog.

He was known universally as the Vatican’s “doctrinal watchdog” prior to his selection as the 265th pope of the Catholic Church. And as if his international reputation were not enough, the Catholics that knew him best, the ones from his native Germany, referred to him as Der Panzer Kardinal — “the Tank Cardinal.” Why? Because he’s such a ruthless defender of the faith.

But you don’t have to take my word for it! Ask the late Father Jacques Dupuis (if you could), or Sri Lankan theologian Tissa Balasuriya. The former had the temerity to suggest that God was active in non-Christian religious traditions, the latter the unmitigated gall to refuse to sign a Vatican-approved statement of faith. Dupuis wound up trashed in a document Ratzinger wrote; Balasuriya was excommunicated, before the ever-gentlemanly Pope John Paul II restored him to the church.

You can mess with a guy named Billy. You cannot mess with a Ratzinger. You wind up trashed, excommunicated…or worse.

The man’s first papal encyclical was entitled Deus Caritas Est — “God is love.” Notably absent was any statement of Benedict’s own feelings. The obvious message: God is love, and Benedict ain’t.

The man is a flat-out papal bull.

The very notion that Pope Benedict could somehow best Billy Graham is so ludicrous I almost asked to be recused. No chance in heaven! Benny’s only advantage is that if he gouged Graham’s eyes or hit below the belt, he could absolve himself on the spot while the Rev. filed all that messy Grace paperwork.

But I still don’t see it. Graham didn’t win prominence by an ancient tradition of selection by peers; he received it by the eons-old tradition of selection by God. And Graham’s a natural fighter; whether Nixon or Parkinson’s, he handles his problems personally with sleeves rolled up and pride rolled down. So l’approvazione, papa, lo porta! Let’s go to the arena floor…

In this corner, at a holy 210 — the man who put “I can” in Vatican, the Stonin’ Roman…Germany’s own Joseph A. Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI!!!

And in this corner, weighing in at a lanky 205 — The Master Pastor, The Great Wheaton Beatin’…Charlotte’s own Rev. William F. Graham, Jr.!!!

*ding ding ding*

“Look at Graham charge from his corner! I haven’t seen anything like this since Joel Osteen fought the Dalai Lama in that New Delhi kick-boxing match last June! The Pope is on the ropes, medallions flying everywhere!!”

“Bob, this is tough to watch. I think Ratzinger forgot to drink his holy water, and he’s gonna need a miracle.”

“Graham continues his crusade! An uppercut to the the Father’s midsection and a roundhouse to the nose!!!”

“Bob, it appears the Rev. is nailing all 95 theses to Ratzinger’s chin tonight! I’ll bet the Pope wishes he were still a Cardinal so he could fly far, far away!”

“Good call, Gary. Ooh, a stiff right hook from Graham, and the Pope falls to his knees in exhaustion — or is it prayer to Joseph? Patron saint of lost causes?!”

“Pope Benedict XV felt that one!”

“Hold the chariot, Gary, the Pontiff is up and he’s going after Graham with fury in his eyes!!! The Catholics here are yelling ‘inquisition, inquisition,’ as Benedict rains blow after blow on Graham’s head and body.”

“Wow, Bob! Nothing apocryphal about that last punch! But it’s amazing how Graham’s hair stays right in place!”

“Is that LA Looks he’s got in there?”

“If I gambled, I’d go with Dep, Bob.”

“Golly Gee! Now the Protestants are up as Graham delivers punishing blows to the caretaker Pope!! Everyone’s a Calvinist tonight; this is pure destiny!! The Pope is down for the count!!!!”

*ding ding ding*

“And it’s over — Graham by knockout!”

{democracy:16}

Counting Crows Lyrics You Don’t Want to Quote to Undercover Officers

07/19/2007, 2:30 pm -- by | No Comments

Best of Steve, February 2005.

1 — I’m gonna set fire to this city.

2 — If you wrap yourself in daffodils, I will wrap myself in pain.

3 — We can talk a while, baby; we can take it nice and slow.

4 — I was wasted in the afternoon, waiting on a train.

5 — Cut up Maria! Show me some of that Spanish dancing!!

6 — I’ll be your engine driver in a bunny suit, if you dress me up in pink and white. We may be just a little fuzzy ’bout it later tonight.

7 — She can’t stop shaking — and I can’t stop touching her.

8 — They’re gonna make a movie from the things that they find crawling ’round my brain. I wish I was a girl.

Put Your Pride on the Shelf…

07/17/2007, 10:30 am -- by | 1 Comment

Best of Job, from January 2006.

There was a Filipino party at the house last night. They set up a table full of the food I’ve grown accustomed to eating and making — lots of seafood, rice, and dishes with ingredients you have to travel to New Jersey to find. And after a little while everyone congregated in the living room for karaoke.

Filipinos love karaoke.

It’s our Scrabble, touch football and conversation over coffee, all rolled into one, and while they are an unflappably gregarious, gentle and generous bunch, they unleash their competitive nature in the world of sing-a-longs.

The karaoke microphone, which plugs right into the TV, is an elaborate machine, holding the lyrics of hundreds of songs and images of the Philippines. After each performance it scores you based on your knowledge of the lyrics and rhythm, whether you hit all the notes, and your stamina. 100 is the highest possible score. Everyone sang for one round, then the top half moved onto the next round. From twenty initial attempts, I made the top ten — then I made the top five.

It’s such a petty thing, karaoke on a Saturday night with a bunch of immigrants, most over 65, but I admit my competitive juices were absolutely boiling.

I wanted to win this one for the States.

I went first of the new top 5. My voice, never truly strong or good, had taken a serious beating on Sinatra’s “My Way,” so I knew I needed to try a song by a hack. But the Mick Jagger offerings were slim and I didn’t trust my ability with “Start Me Up.” “Semi- Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind appealed to me, but that’s a long, breath-taking song.

So I took the dive and went with Elvis. “All Shook Up” is not as easy as it seems. I had to keep going and going — the lyrics crash right into each other and take little interesting curves. But it’s a quick song, and when the dust settled, I had scored a 94, a new high for the evening. I was competing with only the best now, but they were a little shaken by my knowledge of the King — I think every country thinks Elvis is exclusively theirs. Like a young Jane Goodall, I had earned their respect.

Pepsi went for the kill on “Hero” by Mariah Carey, scoring a 96. She takes voice lessons, you see. Remi took a dive on Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.” Eliminated. Lourdes butchered “Unchained Melody,” while Louis did a respectable “Let It Be.”

And so there were three.

I felt scared. Alone. I wanted to tag out. But suddenly a ghostly apparition of a young Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, and that other dude appeared. “Bring the victory home, Job…bring the victory home,” they softly whispered. I knew what I had to do.

Flipping through the song book I had seen “Song 2” by Blur; you know, the “Woo hoo!” song. I felt confident. No one in the room had ever heard it and they all sat in stunned silence as I screamed out “Woo-hoo!” every other second on my way to a 93.

Pepsi sang a song I’d never heard before, but owned a really pretty chorus that said “you were twenty-five minutes too late” or something. She hit a home run — another 93.

Louis, a 40-something from Manila, tried a Tagalog song, and he too scored a 93. This meant a re-do.

My throat was tired. I’m a weak one. I didn’t want to have to do it, but I dove way back into my youth and sang “I Just Called To Say I Love You” by Stevie Wonder. It was a breeze — 93. Pepsi sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I thought was a cheap shot, but earned her a 95. When Louis bailed on his Lionel Richie attempt, I was in the finals.

Aged 26, red in the face, sore in the throat — and locked in pathetic mortal combat with a 14-year-old girl, slyly smiling to herself.

She had a bunch of fans who oohed and ahhed her every note; I had an imagined peanut gallery of deceased forefathers, one of whom I couldn’t even accurately identify. I hung my head in shame. I’m pathetic. But my self-loathing demanded vindication. I was gonna ice this chick once and for all.

My shame was enhanced when she graciously agreed to go first (giving my pipes a little more rest) and did a positively moving version of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

98.

Ouch. I would need my ‘A’ game like never before.

The entire room giggled in delight. They knew I couldn’t beat a 98. I had been outgunned, outclassed. Throttled. It was time to hang it up, bogsok naneman.

But not so fast… There was one last place I could go to get help in this great and epic fight. One final Alamo in my defense of America’s honor. One last hope to get a good meal and get myself clean.

That’s right…

The YMCA.

The karaoke singer’s Nirvana. When I punched the code in and it popped up on the TV, the entire room grew hushed. Did I dare? Did I dare to go there? Would I truly go through with it?

I would. And I did.

“Young man,” and the fire was lit. I went in guns blazing. I could feel the disco beat, I could sense the mirror ball flashing across my skin. Every note, every sound, every pulse and every ounce of pure melody swam through my veins.

For one magical moment I was gay.

Everyone in the room clung to the walls, furniture, each other…whatever was available. They rode the waves of my performance, crashing into the surf of this sonic adventure.

And then the last note faded away. We all caught our breath and stared at the screen for the score.

65.

Forgive me, America…..

Clash of the Titans XXXVII: Deal or No Deal?

07/10/2007, 12:00 pm -- by | 3 Comments

In this corner, saying “No deal!”, is your heart!

 And in this corner, yelling “Deal!”, is your brain!

What?? I don’t understand why the offer went down. I think the offer should be higher than that, but I don’t know.

Dad, what do you think?

You know, that is a lot of money, but it’s still too low. That’s not what I came here for. I came here to make my dreams come true and you know something, Howie? My dreams are bigger than that! Right?? That just isn’t going to make it! I’ve come too far! I’ve come too far!

The banker has to know I mean business. There’s still a case with a big amount out there. If I open just one more case… I’m thinking maybe one more case. Yeah. One more.

Mom, what’s your opinion? Yeah?

Oh, boy, that is a lot of money, Howie. Yeah, I know I don’t have a safety net. Oh boy… Honey? What should I do?

I just have a good feeling about my case. I’ve got a good feeling with this one. It’s lucky. It’s the number of my great-aunt’s wedding anniversary with her second husband.

I can do this! I can do this! It takes guts to win this game! Let’s do it! Who does the banker think he’s dealing with? I didn’t come here to go home with that amount! I came here for the big money! He can’t intimidate me! I’m not taking a lowball offer!

I came here with nothing, so I have nothing to lose. We’re going all the way, Howie!

No Deal!

Well, let’s think about this logically for just a minute. Sure, there’s a case worth $400,000 still available, but realistically, my best-case scenario is going home with half of that, since if I ever got it down to that case and one of the remaining low amounts, there’s no way I’d pass up a guaranteed $200,000 for a fifty-fifty shot at $400,000.

Furthermore, with five cases remaining, the odds are against me getting down to two without knocking the $400,000 out of play. Even if I dodge the $400,000 this time, the offer won’t increase that significantly with just one more case gone.

And with each case opened, I’m increasing that risk for a potential reward that is actually smaller than it appears, since again, I won’t go home with any more than $200,000.

Oh, and also, the highest amount among the other remaining four cases is $300 — so if I lose the $400,000, I’m basically going home with nothing. That seems to me like it would be a rather disappointing result to my game show experience, regardless of my financial status beforehand.

Certainly more disappointing than “settling” for tens of thousands instead of a million.

I’d love to go home with more, but that doesn’t change the facts. Models might lie, Howie, but numbers don’t.

Deal.

{democracy:80}

Wanted: 1 Ninja

07/10/2007, 10:00 am -- by | 2 Comments

Best of Job, December 2005

I need a ninja to do various ninja-type things, and assist me on several missions.

You don’t need to know all the deadly arts but I would like for you to be able to kill a man with one punch to the neck, efficiently disembowel any living thing, swiftly detach a foe’s tendon using just your thumb and forefinger, make a decent grilled cheese sandwich, and provide your own throwing stars.

You must be a multi-tasking human weapon, though, because I will not be exclusively asking for lethality from you. In any given 40-hour week, I might require my ninja to do some banking for me, maybe some light landscaping.

The right ninja can even be disowned from his master for bringing great dishonor to himself and the entire ninja caste, sentenced (in truth, doomed) to wander the Earth in shame.

I’m cool with that — you got shame, I got game…

Are you my ninja?

This is a full-time position with a fast-moving, rapidly-growing outfit that has tripled its enemy production threefold in the past year alone!

If you want to work in a fun, team-oriented and vengeful environment, then drop off an application and a lock of my hair you took without me knowing today!

What Kind of Animal is a Salmon (and other mysteries)?

07/6/2007, 1:00 pm -- by | 2 Comments

Life is filled with the unknown. There are literally vast reservoirs of untapped knowledge lapping noisily at the corners of our minds, slowly leeching into our world, tantalizing us with glimpses of unrevealed wisdom — available, but slightly out of reach. Here are a few questions that have plagued me of late.

What’s so special about Wisconsin?
Every time I get a new credit card offer in the mail and read the fine print, I run across some statement like: “Residents of Wisconsin may also have other rights not specifically mentioned in this agreement.” I can’t help but wonder — why?

I confess my knowledge of Wisconsin is somewhat limited. I know the capital is Madison because my older sister made me play the Capitals Game for hours as a kid. I know they launched a short-lived tourism campaign with the slogan “SMELL OUR DAIRY AIR!” If you know any French, you know why it was short-lived. I’m pretty sure they had a pro wrestler as a governor, and I know they possess both an upper and lower peninsula, making them one of only two Canadian provinces with a bicameral legislature (the other is Oregon). All interesting stuff, but nothing that warrants special arrangements for their residents!

Does trans fat exist?
A panel of experts, including my wife, daughter, son-in-law, me, and Boots & Wally (our dogs), have examined every package of food bought and consumed in this household since December, and we have yet to find a package that does not say “0 Grams of trans fat” in big letters across the top.

Is there really such a thing as trans fat, or is it just a marketing ploy designed to encourage us to buy otherwise unhealthy products? “Look honey, these Twinkies have no trans fat! Let’s get some!” When I see my doctor again in two weeks, and he wants to talk about my A1C1 being high, my cholesterol being way out of whack, and my triglyceride count skyrocketing, I plan to tell him, “Yeah. That may be true — but I have not had one gram of trans fat since our last appointment, pal! That should count for something!”

And last, but not least, what kind of an animal is a salmon?
I think it’s a trick question. According to experts, every animal can be placed in one of two genuses: Imbecilus Caninus (meaning dog-like thing) or Felinum Treacherousus (meaning cat-like thing).

Canines are known for their friendliness to humans, attributed mostly to their poor memory. This allows them to constantly greet you with great enthusiasm, as though youve been gone for years, while in fact you just chastised them with a rolled-up newspaper 5 minutes ago for getting in the trash and peeing on your favorite house plant. Felines, on the other hand, are known for their cold, aloof personality and a penchant for leaving dead rodents at the back door. I have never seen a salmon exhibit any of these behaviors.

The Newest American Hero

07/6/2007, 9:15 am -- by | 2 Comments

This year, for the first time, I watched the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Contest. It wasn’t so much an intentional decision as it was happenstance — I turned on the TV just as it was coming on.

I already knew some of the backstory leading up to the event. Kobayashi, the longtime Japanese champion of the event (by large margins, for several years running) was being challenged by American Joey Chestnut, who had broken the world record in another contest a few weeks back. News then leaked of a Kobayashi jaw injury and possible withdrawal, leading many to wonder if he was ducking competition or preparing excuses. Kobayashi apparently then had acupuncture and showed up ready to compete.

As the event began and these two men raced to a lead on the rest of the field at a record-setting pace, I had a hard time watching. I’m a bit squeamish by nature and the contortions of the human body necessary to consume a hot dog and bun every eleven seconds are perverse to observe. At the same time it was riveting — I couldn’t stop watching.

I focused mainly on the graphic that continually updated the score, averting my eyes from a direct view of such significant self-abuse. After what seemed like an interminable period of forced gluttony, Chestnut had built a lead of five hotdogs and seemed to be in control. Then I looked at the clock and saw there were more than eight minutes remaining. Twelve minutes is a long time to eat without stopping.

The drama built until, with less than a minute left, Kobayashi had come back to tie, and the two men matched each other dog for horrible dog. But then, in the closing seconds, Kobayashi suffered a “reversal.” I’ll spare you too many details, but must mention that this great competitor continued to try to reverse this reversal, even after the bell had sounded and spitting seemed a far more desirable option. After the judges consulted instant replay — I almost wish I was kidding — Kobayashi was given a small penalty and Chestnut was officially victorious, 66 to 63. Both men shattered the previous contest record of 53½, as well as the former world record of 59½.

But perhaps the best part of the entire spectacle was the announcing. Regarding Joey Chestnut, one announcer remarked, “You Google ‘American hero’ tomorrow, you’re going to get Abe Lincoln, possibly Neil Armstrong, Taylor Hicks, and of course this man — Joey Chestnut.”

That’s right. American heroes — the man some consider the greatest American president, the first man on the moon, the American Idol winner from two seasons ago, and a guy with great control of his upper abdominal muscles. That about covers it. (Incidentally, actually Googling ‘American hero’ yields results for the TV show The Greatest American Hero, Ronald Reagan, and of course, G.I. Joe).

Aside from repeatedly calling Chestnut an American hero — even before the contest was over — and referring to his triumph as the greatest moment in the history of American sport, the announcers really kept things in perspective. But it was all part of the extravaganza, and as Joey Chestnut stood there smiling and sweating, stomach roiling, draped in our flag and basking in the adoration, I couldn’t help but find the whole thing uniquely, absurdly, and comically liberating.

Evil eBay

07/3/2007, 12:00 pm -- by | 1 Comment

From the Best of Job, December 2005.

Me Evil eBay.

Every now and then Good eBay make mistake. Good eBay change mind about bid. It look like Good eBay actually going to win guitar Good eBay bid on! Turn out Good eBay doesn’t want guitar. Oh no! What Good eBay going to do?

You need me take blame? I take blame for Good eBay. Good eBay don’t want to lose perfect feedback rating!

Evil eBay has completely different email address and hometown than Good eBay. But in fact, we both same person. I gladly take blame for Good eBay. I outbid Good eBay to take load off Good eBay’s bidding shoulders. That what Evil eBay do.

Oh no! Argh. Some guy in Oregon sell you book but when it come it not actually book you bid on? And when you wrote him he write back and say “tough break”?

This make Evil eBay turn into Angry eBay. Evil eBay begin long, protracted war on guy in Oregon. Evil eBay employ all tools in proverbial Evil eBay toolbox.

He “bid” $600 on antique hutch. He pretend to be “Wesley Smithson” from Huntington, CT. He never even been to Huntington, but Evil eBay sure it lovely town. Lovely town full of hard-working, honest-bidding people.

When “bid” over, Wesley Smithson disappear like person in scary movie. Like person in Witness Protection Program. Wesley Smithson start new life.

Guy in Oregon very sad. Guy in Oregon must start over. Happy bidding, Hutch Boy.

Evil eBay say “tough break.”

Evil eBay been all over world. Evil eBay even live in Nepal for few days. Evil eBay bid 300 Rupees on espresso machine for Buddhist temple. Evil eBay not saddened by exorbitant shipping and handling charge. Evil eBay simply could not care any less. Evil eBay get tuckered out not caring.

Evil eBay Protestant, not Buddhist, silly goose.

That what Evil eBay do.

Dispatches from the Future

07/2/2007, 10:00 am -- by | No Comments

GUN CONTROL DEBATE SHIFTS TO THE HOUSE
Washington, D.C.

Spurred on by the shocking June 14 assassination attempt on Lewis Mitchner, Undersecretary of State for Human-Cyborg Relations, the gun control debate has resurfaced in the House.

The newest proposal would ban all “semi-automatic” tactical lasers and laser cannons, as well as any device that uses mitochondrial drift to specifically target human beings.

“These types of gigawatt-range tactical lasers are built for one purpose, and one purpose only,” a newly revived Mitchner said, in a special visit to the floor of the House. “The complete sublimation of human flesh.”

The Undersecretary was traveling through sections of southern Florida, overseeing the excavation of the former “Florida Keys” from the Atlantic Ocean when he was struck by an assassin’s beam. Mitchner was flown by a fully-automated Air Force helicopter to a reclamation station moored over the remains of downtown Miami. From there, he was transferred to a Cyborg processing facility and transferred into a synthetic body. He was 53.

Earlier in the day, Technocrats in the Senate passed a bill similar to the one proposed in the House by a margin of 63-57. Senate Majority Leader @@Cyrux//014 (T) praised today’s vote, calling the outcome “within acceptable parameters.”

Critics of the measure were outraged. At a press conference on the steps of the Reagan National Monument, Cyberian leader Brock13zzz called the measure an “insult” to “law-abiding humans and cyborgs alike, who only seek to be left alone to practice sport shooting and avian incineration.”

Adding insult to injury, critics were denied a protest permit by the MPD. A spokeswoman for the department cited failure to provide an environmental impact study as the reason for the denial.

Clash of the Titans XXXIV: This Hurts Me…

06/29/2007, 11:00 am -- by | No Comments

In this corner, arguing that this will hurt her more than it hurts you, is Felix’s mom!

 And in this corner, claiming that you don’t understand how much this hurts, is Felix!

Felix, I am very, very disappointed in you. It seems like we’ve had this discussion over and over again, and you say you’re listening, but I’m just not seeing the changes in behavior that would show me you’re paying any attention at all.

Your father and I have discussed it, as well as your grandparents, nursery- school teacher, your therapist, my guru, and your father’s attorney, and we’ve come to the conclusion that the next step is going to have to be a spanking.

I hate to have to do this, and I’m so very sorry we’ve come to this point, but remember — this hurts me more than it hurts you.

No, no, there’s no use trying to convince me otherwise — I mean it, little mister. I’m telling you the truth. When I see my only son, my little prince, behaving the way you do, throwing Mr. Whiskers at your sister while she’s sleeping and hiding Mommy’s “special” pill bottle under the porcelain Buddha, well, it just breaks my heart, Felix. And it only makes it harder on me when I’m forced to punish you physically, because I’m your mommy, and that’s a really special thing, and a mommy doesn’t want to ever cause her little boy pain and, and —

Do you see this, Felix? Do you see what this is doing to your Mommy?

Oh sweet Krishna, I need a drink.

*sigh*

Where was I?

The pain! The pain, Felix, the pain I feel when you feel pain, or when I make you feel pain, well, that pain, it feels worse than any pain you feel at the same time. Because at that time, I feel both pains. Your pain *and* my pain.

It hurts me.

Inside.

Do you see?

Oh, forget it, just assume the position already.

Ouch! This really, really hurts! I mean, we both knew going into this that it wouldn’t be a walk in the park, but seriously! I’m sure you have the best motives, and I know you’re not enjoying the whole corporal punishment thing, but I honestly don’t think you understand how much this hurts!

What’s that you’ve got there, a willow switch? I didn’t even think they still MADE those! And have you been working out? That vacuuming/laundry gig you’ve got going must really work the shoulders and arms, because things are starting to get a little hazy.

Dude, are you winding up? You’re really getting the wrist into it, I can tell you’ve done this before.

Judging from the lack of obvious exertion, your cardio conditioning can’t be too shabby either. I’ve been considering going to a Capoeira class with a couple guys from playgroup, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to take myself seriously afterwards. I mean, dance-fighting? That scene’s a little too West Side Story for this cat — Great Caesar’s Ghost, that one really brought me back! I admire your technique, but no amount of psychic disappointment in my behavior or regret at the steps you’re taking to correct it can compare to the excruciating physical pain I’m experiencing.

It’s bad enough you had to give me this freaking name, now you rake me over the coals in the name of societal norming?

Could we possibly take a break? I could really use an ice-pack, or maybe a children’s aspirin? Heck, with the sound drubbing you’re doling out back there, I might even need something a little stronger! Bring on the extra- strength Tylenol, while I still have the muscle control to swallow it! What with the levels of agony you’re inflicting, I’m on the verge of unconsciousness. The room is spinning, and: what? You’re done? That was it? Well of all the wimpy — I mean, that was, bar none, the worst experience of my entire life! And I assure you, whatever I was supposed to be learning through this process, it’s all in there. Peace.

{democracy:76}

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