JUST ANOTHER DAY IN MY ADVENTURE-PACKED LIFE

So I go into the bank yesterday, to open up a new account. That's the best way, I've found, to balance my checkbook...just to open a new account every few months.

Anyway, I go into the bank and, you might say, I'm loaded for bear. I know how difficult these banking people can be and I'm ready for them. I've even written down some pretty snappy replies to hurl back at them when they start making trouble for me.

I'm sitting there, looking pretty stupid, if I say so myself. That's the best way to catch them offguard, just look stupid until you open your mouth and start spewing brilliance. And the young lady looks me right in the eye and says, "May I see some identification?"

"I knew it!" I exclaim.

"Excuse me," she says, acting like if she's all innocent and stuff, and pretending she has no idea what I'm talking about.

I'm ready for that. I pull out my notes and after a few seconds of searching for the right place, I retort back to her, "Where do you think we are, Arizona?" I came up with that one myself.

"I'm sorry sir, but I do need to see your I.D." She's good, I'm thinking. A little too good, if you ask me. To my disbelief, I wasn't able to shake her off her game. But, there's more in my mental arsenal. So, I look down at the paper again and find the exact right thing to say.

"That's racial profiling," I exclaim indignantly.

"But sir," she says, "I'm also white."

I admit I hadn't written down anything for that, but I'm quick, mind you, so I think for a minute or two (during which time the two of us are just kinda staring at one another) and then I say, "Yeah, sure, but you're not as white as I am."

"Very few are," she replies.

"Okay, I give up," I say. I admit it, this girl is good. I go ahead and hand her my drivers license.

Anyway, she starts punching in some numbers on the computer. I notice she's deceptively kept the screen turned so I can't see it, but I'm pretty sure she's pulled up some dossier that the bank and the government have put together on me. You do realize that all the banks in this country are controlled by the Obamas, don't you? I forget where I read that, but it was on the Internet, so it's pretty right on.

Since I believe that the best defense is a good offense, I speak up as she's pretending to enter some information on the screen. "I can explain that unpaid doctor's bill," I say.

She just looks at me as if I'm the crazy one. "Ha," I think. Actually, it may have been, "Ha, ha." She knows good and well what I'm talking about and I'm realizing that if I'm going to get the bank to let me give them my money I better do some talking and pronto.

"The doctor didn't do a very good job," I explain. You'd think that would settle it, but this girl is a tough cookie.

"I'm not sure I understand," she says, her eyes burning holes into my face. I'm starting to sweat profusely, and I don't mind admitting it.

"It was the doctor," I continue. "I always pay my doctor's bills," I explain. "But that doctor, no way. I think he took advantage of me while I was sedated."

Now that's not exactly true. Because actually, I was never sedated. But it's the in vogue thing to claim when you want to get out of a bill. I got the cable TV people to give me a $25.00 gift certificate by using that very same line. So, I'm feeling pretty good at this point. Although, the woman at the cable place wasn't nearly as good as this girl.

"Well, let's save that discussion for another day," she says.

I'm thinking that maybe she's hitting on me, so I wink at her.

She gives me this puzzled look, probably playing coy, so I give her another wink, then another with the other eye.

"Can I get you a tissue?" she asks.

"No, just my toaster oven," I reply.

"I'm not following you, sir," she says.

Admittedly, that line hasn't worked since the early sixties. Why dont' banks give away toaster ovens anymore?

"Nevermind, " I say.

"Okay," she smiles at me. "All you need to do is just sign here and we'll be done."

"Is signing this going to obligate me to pay that doctor's bill?" I ask. "Because, I won't do that. He took advantage of me." A good liar never forgets his lies. I stay on point and even if it's not working on her, I'm feeling pretty good. I heard an actress on TV this morning say something about feeling good in her skin. I think that's me.

Anyway, I digress. This banker lady pretends she doesn't even understand. "No sir," she says. "It's just your signature to protect you."

I start to point out that there's no way signing my name is going to protect me, but over the course of the past fifteen minutes, this well-trained agent for the bank/U.S. Government has worn me down. I sign my name. Count out my initial deposit of three dollars and 37 cents and head on out. It's a small victory, I'm thinking, but, nonetheless, it is a victory for the little guy.

PEOPLE, LET ME TELL YOU 'BOUT MY BEST FRIEND

I'm not sure who it was that came up with the old saying, "Dog is man's best friend." Maybe, Ben Franklin, but don't quote me on that. Anyway, whoever it was, I'm pretty sure he didn't check with the dogs on that. And, I can tell you positively that I know one man with whom dogs are not best friends. That man, as you may have guessed, is me.

Now, don't get me wrong. I don't hate dogs. Some of them I really enjoy. My wife has a really great black lab, Toby. I get along fine with Toby, but best friends? I hardly think so. For starters, we have so little in common. He likes to sniff my groin. I have no intention of returning the favor. The only thing, really, that the two of us have in common is that we both sleep with my wife.

That wasn't exactly my idea. It's something the two of them worked out. Sleeping with a dog is not something that I would ever choose to do, except maybe if I were stranded in the Arctic and needed the warmth. Even then, I would have to decide how much I truly wanted to keep on living.

Actually, my wife has two labs. Toby is okay. He's a pretty loyal dog, although his breath leaves something to be desired. But Tory, the female, would definitely not qualify as a passing acquaintance, much less a best friend. I don't know what my wife loves about that dog. I suggested one time that we not keep Tory. She loves to dig under the fence and run away. She howls all night long, and she whines constantly. And the dog is even worse.

Anyway, all seriousness aside. I asked my wife about giving Tory away, perhaps to someone we really didn't like all that well. "Oh no!" my wife exclaimed. "We couldn't get rid of Tory. Toby would miss her too much."

"So, let me see if I understand this," I said to my wife. "Toby is your pet and Tory is Toby's pet?" See didn't see the humor in that.

But, just talking dogs in general, I'm not really sure how one could conclude they were man's best friend. For instance, my idea of a best friend is not one who equates my carpeting to a roll of Charmin.

Have you ever put on a pair of socks that were soaked in dog drool? Disgusting! What best friend would do that?

Have you ever had to apologize to your neighbors because your best friend had just picked up their cat in her teeth and shaken it nearly to death? In my little world, best friends don't let best friends go through that.

And, it's not just me. I'm sure Toby and Tory don't consider me their best friend either. Friendship is based on trust. And those two don't trust me at all. For instance, they've been in the house for ten years. In those ten years, I have never attacked them with the vacuum cleaner. And yet, every time I turn the vacuum on, they yelp as if their lives are in jeopardy and run out of the house. I try to reason with them. "Hey," I say, "it's just the vacuum. It's not going to hurt you." But they act as if I'm speaking Greek to them.

My idea of a best friend is someone who can sit down with and share a drink at the end of the day. Toby and Tory's water bucket is disgusting. Two or three sips from that is the best I can do.

And I refuse to join them in drinking from the toilet. There are basically two reasons I would never drink from a toilet. Number one...and number two.

So, as far as truly bonding with dogs goes, it just ain't gonna happen. I'll pat them on the head. I'll throw 'em a bone, but this being best buds is out of the question. Besides if I were going to choose a non-human as a best friend, I know what I'd choose.

Yes, I already have a best friend. It's always there for me, ready to immediately respond to my most basic needs. It brings me so much joy without asking hardly anything in return. Of course, as you may have guessed, my best friend is the remote. It's always there at my side, at my beck and call, and best of all, it never sniffs my groin.

THE QUESTIONS OF AN OLD MAN

Contrary to popular opinion, I read. And, unlike Sarah Palin, I don't mind telling you what I read. When it comes to keeping up with the news and staying informed on world events, there is, of course, no finer online source than Wikipedia. Virtually everything I've ever needed to know comes from either reading Wikipedia or watching the Andy Griffith Show.

Hence, it should come as no surprise that someone who keeps up with world and national events as keenly as do I, should occasionally have some questions about what's going on in the world. There's so much controversy these days, so much bickering and name-calling. It's all so much fun, but it does leave me scratching my head, as well as that really hard-to-reach spot right under that bone at the top of your back that sticks out. I'm not sure what it's called. But right under there itches quite a bit.

Anyway, I figured that maybe some of you, out there in what I like to call Virtual Reality Land, might be able to help me out. You know, give me some answers to those tricky questions. So, here goes:

1) Some people are saying that the new Supreme Court nominee is gay. When a blogger posted that on the CBS website, a lot of people got really upset with the blogger. CBS even took the blog down or at least eliminated that line. Wikipedia wasn't clear on that one and Andy is just too old to ask these days. Anyway, if being gay is no more unacceptable than being left-handed (that's what I've read and heard numerous times), why do people get so upset when they or someone else might wrongfully be accused of being gay? You see, I'm openly left-handed. I came out of the closet back in the first grade (where I had been kissing a first-grade girl, I add proudly). But, if I were right-handed (you know, normal) and someone accused me of being left-handed, I don't think I'd be so upset about it.

Here's an experiment to try on your friends. Go to one of them whom you know is right-handed and suggest that they might be left-handed. See how mad they get. You'll have to admit, especially if you try this at home, that my question is a valid one.

2) Even the mention of the subject of my next question gets some people up in arms. But, I'm going to come right out and mention it...illegal immigrants. There I said it. I'm really not so sure why so many are so upset about the new Arizona law. Many are suggesting that the police will use it as an excuse to abuse immigrants or even natural-born Americans who are of Hispanic descent. My first question on this subject is, why assume the worst? With all the attention called to the law and the possible abuses attached to it, I'm pretty sure that the police in Arizona are going to realize they're under a microscope here. My guess is that even any who might be prone to abuse will bend over backwards (figuratively speaking) to avoid any possibility of an accusation.

Secondly, why all the uproar about about showing papers? Every time in the last twenty years or so, that I've started working for a new employer, I've had to show papers and I'm the most American looking person in the world, if you consider pasty-white as being American. There have been times when I didn't have my papers on me. Never has an employer slapped me around. Now, I've been slapped around by employers, don't get me wrong, but never for not having papers. I always went down to the paper-getting offices and got new papers. I never thought about getting other pasty-white people together and protesting. I just did it. So, why all the turmoil?

3) My last question is kind of about immigration as well. I'm just wondering why these days everything has to be in Spanish. If I use an ATM, or call some customer service department, I have to choose "1" for English. Once I had to choose "2" for English. That really steamed me. If I were in Mexico, I could see choosing "2" or even "3" or "4" or "10" for that matter for English, but, hey this is the United States of America.

I don't think I should have to be forced to read stuff in Spanish if I don't want to. I got a new electronic gadget the other day. I think it was one of those new-fangled alarm clocks. Anyway, I opened the instruction book and my first thought was, "why is this book so thick just for an alarm clock?" Anyway, I started reading the instructions and nothing was making any sense to me. I got alarmed (get the pun). I'm thinking what's wrong with me? Why can't I understand simple instructions? Then I realized that I'm reading the Spanish instructions. The English instructions were on the other pages. I had to turn the instruction book upside down and backwards to read English. Seems to me that, at the very least, the Spanish-speaking people should have to turn the book upside down and around. But, I won't protest that just now.

Why has it come to this? If our forefathers had been troublemakers, just think about it. Pepsi bottles would be in English, Italian, German, Greek, and probably Spanish as well. Instruction books for the rabbit ears would have been too big to pack in the box the ears came in.

Were those immigrants of yesteryear mistreated? I don't think so. I think they came over here and realized that if they were going to make it, they had to learn English. I guess they feel foolish today. If they had waited about 80 years or so, they could have avoided that ordeal altogether.

Anyway, those are my questions. Please don't hate me for asking them. I'm not some sort of bigot or racist. I'm just a poor old man with questions and what's so wrong about that?

O Versus the Volcano

President Obama wanted to go to Poland, to attend the funeral services for that country's President, who, along with his wife and 95 others perished in a plane crash last week. He really did. After all, that's what Presidents do for one another.

And, obviously, no one can blame Mr. Obama for that Icelandic volcano. Well, I guess there are some who might try and blame him. But, we all know the cause is, yes, you guessed it, global warming.

But, anyway, back to the President. After that dad-blasted volcano put an end to his travel plans (to the funeral), Obama did what any self-respecting President would do. He turned to his own religious rituals. Yes, since a trip to Poland was out of the question, our President payed homage to Poland's President by playing a round of golf.

Golf is a rather religious event to many. It's where throngs of the faithful spend their Sunday mornings, often engaged in prayer, it would appear. And, while I don't know politics from a hole in the ground, it does seem that many Presidents have been devout, practicing golfers.  

Indeed, there are many similarities between golf and other religions. The Catholics have their confessions. Golfers have their mulligans.  They're kind of similar, don't you think.

The Catholics have their share of scandals. Golf has Tiger Woods. Do you see a pattern here?

Keep in mind, I'm not mocking. This isn't a case of blasphemy. I'm simply defending the President. Some have criticized him for playing golf, when he was supposed to be at a funeral. My point is that Mr. Obama did turn to his religion for some degree of solace. And it's a form of worship in which he has proven to be more devoted, more spiritual, if you will, than just about any President that's putted before him.

While some have been unduly rough on the President's choice of worship, I think I have chosen the fairway to look at it. I think Mr. Obama is to be lauded for the depth of his devotion. As soon as he realized that Jeremiah Wright was wrong (approximately 20 years), our President converted, abandoning a course that had guided him for years, for another coarse in life. And, while I am very apolitical, I can only say well done, sir. It's no wonder that I've heard so many, especially on Fox News, referring to Mr. Obama as a fore-year President.

They Don't Shoot Horses, Do They?

You know how when you're watching a Western movie (in this era of political correctness) and the horses fall down, and at the end of the movie there's this disclaimer, "No animals were injured in the making of this movie."  You know what I mean?

Now, when you see that do you feel all fuzzy inside and thank the powers that be that those horses weren't tripped up or anything? I used to do that too. I used to walk out of the movie house and be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "Steve, you'd never want to see a horse hurt, would you?"  And then I'd answer myself and say, "No, I wouldn't." It was all very upbuilding to me.

But I started thinking. If they are not knocking horses down or tripping them up, then what's happening.  I don't think it's some sort of Shrek-like computer animation. I think the horses are being made to fall. Now, maybe they can train a horse to fall on cue. But, even so, how do we really know that no horses were injured?  I'm thinking that some of those horses are bound to be sore the next day at the very least. 

But as I got to thinking about horses falling, I got to thinking about something else. You know how when you're watching some Law and Order crime drama and there's a baby in the scene and the baby (in the storyline) has been traumatized? And, you know how the baby seems to cry on cue?  I mean somebody has got to be making that baby cry.  And yet, at the end of the movie there's no disclaimer saying that no babies were harmed in the making of that movie.

So what does that tell you? It tells me a few things.

1) The people who make these movies  must know that a lot more people are worried about harming animals than they are about harming babies.

2) These same people must be harming children. I mean think about it. They make the babies cry. They make no promise that they didn't have to hurt the kid to make him cry. 

3) Hollywood producers are deliberately harming babies.

So, what are you going to do about that?  I've presented the evidence. I laid out my argument, brilliantly, if I must say so myself.  The truth is staring you right in the face.

I feel pretty confident that after most of you have gone back and re-read this blog carefully, you're going to do the only thing a progressive thinking American could do. You're going to get on your computer and you're going to start sending emails. And you're going to let anyone who will listen know that you're on to them. You're going to tell these big-time Hollywood types to stop hurting horses and lying about it.

And you'll feel much better about yourself for having done so.

Thank You Al Gore. You Keep Us Warm

 People are forever coming up to me and saying things like, “Steve, you're just so deep,” or, “Steve, you think too deeply for your own good,” or stuff like that.

I always humbly reply, “Aw, shucks.” And then I blush. I can blush at will, you know.

Anyway, I do have to admit that sometimes, when I put my mind to it, I can come up with some pretty brilliant ideas. And, I've done it again. Here's what I've figured out: Al Gore is actually largely responsible for global warming. He caused it. No, wait. I can prove it.

Think about it. Doesn't increased electrical consumption have something to do with it? I'm sure I read that somewhere. And I'm not talking about how much electricity Al Gore uses in his big house. I think people who can afford big houses should live in them, and, hey, you got to keep a light on.

No, I'm talking about something much more than one house. Here's where my depth comes in. Didn't Al Gore invent the Internet? I think so. He said it and I don't think he would lie about something as important as that. I think I may have even read it at Wikipedia. So you know it has to be true.

Now if it weren't for the Internet, how many computers would be on right now? Mine probably wouldn't. I don't get up at 5:00 in the morning to play Solitaire. Not anymore. But I will get up to see the NASA picture of the day, or to watch some kid in Ohio, on You Tube, who can play a selection from Chopin with his armpit.

And I have Al Gore to thank for that. Bless his heart. Without him, how would I know that the sun set yesterday at 7:27 pm? Or that Haiku is 5 syllables, then 7, then 5?

These are just a few of the things I've learned, indirectly from Al Gore. But, alas (I hope I used that word right. I've been wanting to use it for quite some time), such wonders come with a price. In this case, the price is increased electrical usage. Now take me and multiply me times 1.7 billion Internet users worldwide (learned that from the Internet, too). Now, take that number and multiply by 55 kilowatt-hours of use. That's a typical, maybe modest estimate I found at a website, which, I might add, was only accessible to me because of Mr. Gore. So, take 55 kilowatt-hours and multiply by 1.7 billion and you get 93,500,000,000 kilowat-hours a year of electricity.

Now could that cause global warming? I'm not sure because I couldn't find anything on the Internet to tell me. So, I'll go out on a pretty big limb here and say, yes indeed. It definitely would cause global warming.

But, before you Al Gore fans get all up in arms, which according to allwords.com means, “(idiom) angry,” let me explain. I'm not denigrating our former Vice-President, and, according to some, almost President. I'm thanking him for causing global warming.

What? You're probably asking yourself as you scratch your head. Calm down and hear me out. Before global warming, yes, before there was an Internet, what were scientists warning us about? Now, you're beginning to nod your head in wonderment, aren't you? Yes, it was global cooling. Just 35 years ago or so, that's all we heard about.

Now, if I had my choice of global cooling or global warming, I'd take global warming. I mean we're not talking about the earth hurtling into the sun and frying us to a crisp. We're only talking enough warming to turn New York city into a tropical Atlantic island. And, when you think about it, what's so bad about that. I bet there are many New Yorkers, who, especially after this winter, wish they lived in the Bahamas. Soon they will, sort of.

So, the way I look at it, Al Gore saved us from freezing. And, at the same time, he provided us with a tool that helps me to know the difference between “hurtling” and “hurdling.” I dont know about you, but I'm grateful.

Anyway, I gotta get off of here. I'm going outside and plant me a grove of banana trees. And, next year, every time I go out back and pick me a deliciously fresh banana, I'm going to say a little thank you to Mr. Al Gore.

GEE, MY HAIR SMELLS HORRIFIC

 You know, I always am amazed when someone sniffs a carton of bad milk, makes a horrible face, and says “Yuk. Smell this.” Even more amazingly, I actually stick my nose in the carton and take a big whiff. And, it's not just me. I think we're all intrigued by horrible odors...drawn to them, if you will.

So, if I'm right about that, many of you may well be enticed by my request. Sniff my hair please. That's not some kinky plea. I just want you to confirm that my hair really stinks. No, it's not a dirty, stinky smell. It's a clean, stinky smell. Perhaps I had better explain.

My wife loves creams and goos and lotions and elixirs and shampoos and all that stuff, and the more exotic, the better. She spent a two-week vacation at an Aveda store once. So, it was not surprising that when she returned from a recent business trip, she brought back a bunch of new goo from some sort of organic type goo store.

Included among her finds was a round cake of soap that's really shampoo that you smear all over your head and it lathers up. It lathers beautifully, but it stinks. I think it's called Mildew or maybe just Doo. But it smells like cigarette smoke.

She used it the other night and I thought I was going to have to evacuate my home. So, when she handed it to me, while I was in the shower this morning, I was somewhat hesitant to use it. In fact, I begged her not to make me use it.

“Use it,” she demanded. “It's good for dandruff.” As if I have dandruff.

“But it stinks,” I tell her meekly, in my typical meek manner.

“You can always rinse and use some conditioner,” she assured me.

So I used it. It was horrible. The steam from the hot water mixed with the stuff and sent a whiff of something terrible right up my nose. I was gagging so much that I could hardly reach for the conditioner. It's her conditioner and guess what it's called. Go ahead.

Tree Sap. That's right. Her conditioner is tree sap. So, I mix the tree sap in with the cake of horror and what do I get? Well, let me paint a word picture to help you get the essence of what I smell like. Picture, if you will, a lovely little cabin in the woods. Listen as the birds chirp a cheery good morning. See the little winding stone walkway leading up to the little cabin. Did you notice the butterflies around the lovely little flower garden?

Now, picture that beautiful little cabin going up in smoke. Whoof. In an instant, the log cabin is reduced to a smoldering heap. Imagine what that cabin smells like as you sift through the ruins, trying to find anything that might be salvaged.

Your lungs are filling up quickly with a putridness, right? Well, that's me. So, if you run in to me today, please come up and say, “hello.” And, please sniff my hair. Pretty yucky, huh?