Healthcare and Horses

I can’t tell you how nice it is to receive so many letters of care here at the Bureau for Horse Recovery Center Institution Office and Sledding Museum. Everyone is so worried about Barbaro (the horse known for winning the 2006 Kentucky Derby, also known for inventing a new hair removal therapy), that we have received literally tens of letters of support. I also want to express extreme appreciation to all who have sent in money to help provide for his health care. In your letters you all acknowledged that since Barbaro was a horse (and thus only slightly human), he might not have enough funds saved for expensive surgery and recovery. And it means so much to us that you decided to give your hard earned money to him instead of something unimportant and fleeting, such as world peace, a better mouse trap, or salary raises for Congress, etc…
It’s true that Barbaro went through a very difficult procedure. His surgery lasted over six hours, taking the expertise of fifteen well-trained surgeons, thus costing over fifty-seven million dollars to complete. And that was just Sunday. For the next several months, this poor horse will undergo a series of very intense and painful (thus expensive) therapy sessions where the end result will be the ability to walk again, or at least a gentle trot. No matter the result of his recuperation, Barbaro will never race again. He is now retired and the focus for the rest of his days is being put out to stud. His owners will sell him out to high bidders so that he can impregnate young mares (known as female horses or heavy metal bands). That doesn’t sound like much of a retirement. He’ll be working harder than he ever has before, keeping all those fillies happy.

And it’s for that very reason we are spending so much time and money to make sure Barbaro has a full and complete recovery. If he is going to be what we in the horse world call “a male escort”, then he is going to need all his strength. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that each of us in the Bureau (HoMu for short) stands to make about sixty-two thousand dollars per hour. Of course it may seem that the healthcare business is stringing you along with high-priced promises of a full recovery while actually keeping you ill so that they can collect kickbacks from the drug companies, but it’s just an illusion. We are actually more interested in getting money from the insurance companies, not the drug reps.

I’m sure you don’t want to hear about your doctors, though; who by the way, I totally admire and respect. That is one industry that knows how to keep their client base. And it’s so simple; at any time they might need to “run some more tests” on you, thus turning your retirement account into their vacation fund. And what are you going to do—say no? You can’t do that, because the doctors are probably right. Have you ever tried to outsmart a doctor? It doesn’t work; they’ll just give you two bills and tell you to pay them in the morning. And don’t ever tell a doctor that they are wrong. One slip up like that will follow you for the rest of your life (that’s what medical records are for), making your average waiting time go from the length of the Jurassic age to eternity twice over.

Thankfully, that’s not the way it works for us in the veterinary field. Since animals have no concept of time, we can make them wait forever and they are content sniffing each other’s behinds and rolling around on the floor while trying to eat their tail. But you’re not interested in the waiting room habits of animals; you want to hear the details of Barabro’s condition. In layman’s terms Barbaro suffered a severe fracture of the right-hind leg bones known as the lower leg bone and the other lower leg bone. He did this by running in a race that he was expected to win, and about an eighth of the way through it, he landed on his leg awkwardly, thus snapping it nearly in half and speeding his pace up to about zero miles per hour. I guess he thought that was a good strategy to win the Preakness. It’s a good thing I only bet my car on him.

Yes, Barbaro has been in a lot of pain recently, but take solace in knowing that he is being taken care of by the best vets available (only thirteen of the fifteen surgeons bet on Barbaro for the race). We are confident that even though his chances of survival are currently only twelve percent, Barbaro will pull through. Let’s just hope none of his doctors took out a second mortgage on the race. And during the recovery phase, he will be working very hard to heal. This will include an intense schedule of sleeping, eating, and pampering for at least twelve to fifteen weeks. After of which, assuming he fully heals, he will return to his pasture and begin a lucrative career as a stud.

Therefore, we at the HoMu want you to be reassured that Barbaro will be just fine. He was a joy to work with and could tell a joke better than most dental practitioners. Don’t forget to come by and visit him, and while you’re here be sure to check out the sledding wing of the museum; there is a great exhibit called “Anatomy of a Tree Trunk”. You should stop by. Let’s all just band together and hope for the recovery of a beloved horse. Anyway, it’s been fun, but I’m going to let you go because one of the other surgeons just invited me over to his house for a special steak dinner. He said it’s a delicacy.

3 Days in Texas—3 Years to Recover

Allow me to begin this column by officially stating that my recent trip to Texas was solely for research purposes and therefore is completely tax-deductible. I would absolutely hate for Uncle Sam to get the wrong impression and think that this trip was fun—I needed a stunt double for most of it. Oh, and let me state for the record that everything I say in this column is true; in fact, each and every one of my columns are thoroughly researched and written with the fullest of journalistic integrity. That is, if you define thoroughly researched as made up in my head and journalistic integrity as writing after having a minimum of three beers. Those of you who know me know that I never make anything up; ever. So now I will begin to tell you about my Memorial Day weekend trip to the greatest state in the world—Iowa.

Now that you have all had a solid chuckle, only about an hour of my time was actually spent in Iowa. Any longer and I might have had to cut off my nose to save my face. The State of Iowa is one giant mass of pig farms, and the stench is so potent that individuals who have been dead for centuries in Europe have covered their skeletal nasal cavities for relief. I feel horrible for all those poor souls who don’t have room enough in their caskets for arm movement. Thus, thankfully, only one hour of the eighty-billion that were spent in my car this weekend was spent in Iowa. The rest of them were spent in Texas (as well as the two northern Texas colonies that call themselves states).

That’s right; Texas is huge. And it’s true what they say, everything is bigger in Texas. For example, Texas is the only state in the country to fly the state flag at the same height as the American flag, both of them being the same size. Not to mention that the state capital dome in Austin is the only one in the country that is larger than the dome in D.C. Everything in Texas is bigger; but that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily better (Texans, please put away your shotguns). After careful consideration, I’ve decided to recant my last statement out of journalistic integrity for those Texans with big shotguns and agree that everything is better in Texas also.

Where else would you find the state’s community for the blind conjoined with the state’s regional lottery community? That is a genius development strategy (or, in the words of their famous hometown President; strategery). The Dallas Cowboys have figured out a better way to get a new football stadium. They refused to perform any upkeep on their current stadium so when voters voted on whether to grant the Cowboys a new stadium, all they saw was a badly dilapidated football field. But those are only Texas landmarks; their people are simply remarkable.

The idea for this trip came from a very good friend of mine named Steven. He graciously invited me, along with a few other friends, down to his parents’ beach house that sits on a large lake on the northern border of Texas. Thanks to my particular strategery of financial planning, one compatriot and I decided to head to this beach house by way of a road trip. That means we spent twelve consecutive hours (each way) in a construction nightmare so bad it would have given R.G. LeTourneau the shakes. Despite the numerous attempts made by construction crews (“On Call 24 Minutes a Day”) to thwart our efforts, we made it to Dallas in enough time to sit in rush hour traffic. And this was all a wonderful experience, because after sitting through one Dallas traffic jam, I’ll only need to continue therapy sessions with my psychologist for an extra twenty-seven years. Somehow, though, we made it to the lake house.

This is where the fun began. In the three days I spent at the lake house, I received enough injuries to take down King Kong. Because the water was too choppy on the lake for water sports (and by the word sport, I mean ways to kill yourself), so we thought it would be fun to play games. One friend thought up some new rules to the well known sport of ultimate Frisbee. I’ll spare you the gory details, but let me say this: the main rule change consisted of the need to use your head in order to score. As if I haven’t killed enough brain cells already, I joined right in to see how quickly I could knock a few more screws loose. After that, I played a few other dangerous games, escalating to the climax game that we called “Hammock Toss”. That is where one person lays in the hammock and holds on as tight as possible while the others try to spin it as fast as possible hoping that the magic of entropy would hold true and keep the unfortunate rider in the hammock. It didn’t. Despite the fact that I probably lost two years of college education for all the damage to my brain this past weekend, I was not the craziest person in the group.

I could tell you about my buddy Steven, who though knowing that the lake water was even choppier the next day, decided anyway to take us all out and show us how to ski with one ski (though not on purpose), or how to shred all the skin off your inner arm by holding on to an inner tube being pulled behind a wave runner at forty-five miles per hour; but not even he was able to match the veracity of his older sister. I think that she is perhaps the most remarkable, yet most dangerous and scary person that I have ever met.

The day before arriving at the lake house, Becky, a young doctor just starting her own small town practice (while also being a mother of three young children) broke the pinky toe on her left foot. It was a totally freak accident, but one that would cause a normal person to take full advantage of the temporary handicap and force everyone around them to play the part of Geeves. Not Becky. On Saturday, she played kickball and had the best wipeout in our hammock game. On Sunday, she water-skied and practiced skeet shooting, and on Monday she ran the Dallas Marathon. Okay, not all of that was true. She had the second best wipeout in Hammock toss. And by the way, during the kickball game she, as pitcher, caught a ball that she had to dive for all the while holding her youngest child in her arms. She made the catch and the young boy didn’t even wake up from his nap. She either needs to be given a medal for bravery and effort or checked over for severe craziness.

All in all, I managed to return from the trip safe and sound. Granted, I have about three thousand dollars in doctor bills for patching me up from all the crazy stunts I pulled (such as nearly flipping a four-wheeler and a wave runner in the same afternoon). And believe it or not, I even helped the environment. I put enough sun-screen on to protect me and anyone else within a five mile radius from any UV exposure for the next sixteen years. At least now I know what it takes to get a good tan. I’ll make sure to repeat that next weekend, on my upcoming tax-deductible research trip to St. Louis (at least supply a little bit of journalistic…something to the masses). I’ll be trying to answer the age old question of whether or not it’s possible to buy a Miller beer at Busch Stadium, or if they arrest on request. Of course I’ll be doing it while wearing a Chicago Cubs hat, so I’m sure my chances to make friends will be plentiful. And, by the way, I can’t wait until my next opportunity to visit Steven and his family again at the lake house. I haven’t had that much fun trying to kill myself in years—but that’s because I’m a smart guy—this head of mine ain’t just a hat rack!

 

2006 Summer Movie Preview

I am so excited over this summer’s movie outlook that I may wretch. No, really. Originality rules in this season of blockbusters. And it all starts with Tom Cruise’s (“Marrying a daughter near you next!”) new movie, in which he stars as a secret agent trying to keep corrupt antagonists from taking over the world. Included in the film will be explosions, car chases, gun fights, and sex. That’s never been done before! As the days get longer, the hot, new idea of making sequels will push the envelope of moviegoer patience, and will end late this fall in a brash array of explosions, car chases, gun fights and sex. I don’t want to spoil the surprise finale of this season’s big budget melodramas, but let’s just say that this movie’s leading man drinks a lot of shaken vodka martinis.

When was the last original Hollywood movie? After much extensive research, I found that it was made in 1594. It ended up flopping, but that’s just because it was pitted up against the second James Bond movie on its opening weekend. America, this is a problem. Year after year we are fed leftovers from so-called creative geniuses claiming that this season “is the best ever!” In an effort to learn from our repetitive diet of gruel, let’s discuss what we’ll be viewing this summer.

First up after Mr. Cruise is the finale of the X-Men trilogy. People with super powers will be trying to kill other people with super powers. Soon after that, the Man of Steel will make his long-awaited return to the silver screen, this time played by a former soap opera actor wearing a costume that looks more like a gigantic condom than the much beloved blue tights and red underwear. And lastly we anticipate the return of Captain Jack Sparrow, a fruity rock star turned pirate who searches the Caribbean seas for ways to be a good man and a pirate at the same time. I’m sure it will be a swashbuckling adventure with him fighting alongside Legolas (sporting short, brown hair and badly sparse facial hair), our elfin hero from the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

As we can see, Hollywood (“Striving to bring you the same movie again and again”) is lacking for original content. Thus, I am going to break out of my journalistic routine of criticizing everyone else while sitting here typing in my underwear and give our famed movie makers a new idea. I’m still not changing out of my underwear, though.

SCENE ONE
Picture an office on the ground floor of a dilapidated office building on the south side of Chicago. Inside the office sits a man, wearing a leather fedora and who hasn’t shaven in days. On the office door hangs a sign that reads “Lt. Hugh Cruise, Private Detective”. Enter the voluptuous blonde.
“Hello there, ma’am, may I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like a Big Mac extra value meal with Diet Coke and a salad shaker.”
“I’m sorry, but McDonald’s won’t be in business for another fifteen years. This is the olden days, and I am a private detective.”
“Oops! I apologize; it’s just that I haven’t eaten all day! I’m on the run from my husband, the violent drug lord Al ‘The Pacino’ Luthor. If he finds me, he’ll surely kill me! Can you help me?”
“Of course I can, but I’don’t come cheap. I have to pay rent, you know.”
“My husband has all my money. Would you like me to make love to you instead?”
“No! It’s not that kind of movie. Well, at least not until the final scene. You see, we’ll be on the beach laughing about how your dead husband killed himself while trying to kill me. Then we’ll make love under the moonlight on top of his pile of money that he foolishly left to you in his will. Why don’t you just take me out for a drink; I’m in desperate need of a Roy Rogers—shaken, not stirred.”

SCENE TWO
Our ruggedly handsome and witty protagonist rushes to the airport for a flight to British Columbia, the winter home of the notoriously evil Al Luthor. He has kidnapped his wife and is holding her for ransom until Detective Cruise turns himself in, allowing for a very elaborate and easily escapable death scene.
“Hello, and welcome to ‘No Fly Air’. May I help you?”
“Yes. I need to get on the next flight to British Columbia.”
“And which country is that in?”
“The home of the only country who failed to win a gold medal in the Olympics they hosted.”
“I’m sorry, but we don’t fly to Canada. We only have flights departing from Canada, since no one wants to go there. The lady at the next counter might be able to help you.”
Trotting over to the next counter, Hugh repeats his question. “Do you have any flights to BC?”
“We do sir. We have one departing in about an hour. One ticket will cost you $5,384,586,657.99. Would you like me to book you a seat?”
“If I have to. Do you take credit cards?”
“Yes we do.”
“Here’s my Discover card.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t take Discover.”
“Mastercard?”
“No.”
“American Express?”
“No.”
“Visa?”
“No.”
“Fine. Here’s cash.”
“Thank you sir, have a nice day.”
Forced to run through the gigantic labyrinth of airport concourses, Hugh barely makes it to the gate by the departure time. Unbeknownst to him, the flight has been delayed for two weeks.

SCENE THREE
Finally arriving in BC, Hugh manages to find the secret hideout of Al Luthor. It’s at the neighborhood Applebee’s.
“You made it, Mr. Cruise. I’ve been waiting for you. For a long time, actually; I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it.”
“Of course you’d think that, Luthor, but I’m here and I’m going to stop you this time.”
“You say that every movie. Just once, I’d like to see you actually keep me from getting away.”
“Fifteenth time’s a charm.”
“We’ll see about that. Henchmen, come here!”
At Luthor’s call, two evil henchmen enter. The first, a chubby fellow wearing a running suit that looks like a tuxedo enters, brandishing a gigantic sea bass as his weapon. He has a laser beam attached to his head. The second, a woman wearing only green body paint and can transform herself into any tax law since 1996, came in with the voluptuous vixen clawed in her grasp.
“This movie’s henchmen won’t get me either, Luthor!”
“No, but they’ll temporarily capture you and lock you in an escapable cell which you’ll break out of quickly, assuming you have your pocket knife and a pair of tube socks.”
“I also brought some duct tape.”
“Away with him!”
As predicted, our hero broke out of the cell and tracked Al Luthor to a cliff overlooking the sea. The two evil henchmen tried to stop Hugh Cruise, but he outwitted them with a card trick. The vixen was thrown aside, and the two main characters prepared for the final showdown.
“You know, Hugh, before I kill you, there’s something you should know. I am your father.”
“No you’re not. My father died last year of consumption.”
“I know I’m not technically your father, but I was best friends with your real father while we grew up. I am your Godfather.”
“No!”
“Face it, it is true. Now on your guard!”
Al Luthor attacked and missed, plummeting himself off the cliff. The climax had ended and it was time for the sex scene finale. Tired and beaten up, Hugh walked over to the rescued damsel. His shirt was torn, revealing the chest of a twenty-year old body builder.
“Hugh, you’re hurt! And you have the abs of a gymnast!”
“I may be sixty-five, but I’m still making movies.”
“It’s almost sad my husband died. He was scheduled to receive an honorary doctorate in evil from Harvard next month.”
“There’s no telling if he’s dead, my lady. In fourteen previous movies, I’ve been unable to actually kill him. But that doesn’t matter; it’s time for us to make love.”
“Not yet! We forgot the explosion, car chase, and gun fight, not to mention the mandatory two hundred and seventy-seven curse words.”
“We’ll worry about that in the next movie.”

Skewers, Popcorn, and Other Things to Tar and Feather

Lately I feel as if I am in a rather intense malaise. There’s nothing right now to fight for; nothing to stand up against. Of course, I could choose to fight the good fights, against such evil foes as world hunger, terrorism, or the boy band epidemic, but to be honest those topics have become a kind of “old news”. What I need is something I can sink my teeth into—something more interesting than the zany exploits of the late Rosa Parks (I believe she’s scheduled for a sit-in at Nebraska Governor Dave Heineman’s house), but not as controversial as the European dollar (I’ll show them what they can do with their multi-colored money). No, I need to pick up the fight against something that really matters; something that will make people stop on the street when I pass by and say “Who is that?” I’m going to stand up for the fight against the terrible injustice of fiction.

Recently, an alert reader sent me an article from Fox News about the upcoming movie, The Da Vinci Code. “Anger over ‘The Da Vinci Code,’ premiering Wednesday at the Cannes Film Festival, escalated Tuesday as Christian groups from South Korea, Thailand, Greece and India planned boycotts, a hunger strike and attempts to block or shorten screenings”. It appears that numerous Christian groups are attempting to block the viewing of that movie in their respective countries. To them I say “Who are you?”

In some countries, they have even gone to the courts to try and force this movie out of the theaters. I think it’s wonderful that these groups have found something so worthwhile to spend their time on. Since the story is fictional, thus made up entirely in the author’s head, it should be banned from all places public and Dan Brown (the author of the book) should be strung up by his code-breaking fingertips to be tarred and feathered. I’ll be there, standing in the front row eating popcorn. But not the plain kind, I prefer my popcorn with salt and extra butter.

And I won’t be coming alone to the lynching either, I’ll be bringing the real culprit of this movie fiasco—Richie Cunningham. To some of you he might be known as Opie Taylor, Ron Howard, or that annoying guy who directed Russell Crowe in that movie about a crazy mathematician who won a noble prize for being a boxer during the Great Depression. But then again, Mr. Howard’s just the director. I’m personally outraged that Forrest Gump would abandon the flattop and don a shoulder-length poof as main character in The Da Vinci Code. Besides, who’s going to believe that Forrest is actually that smart? “Breaking Bible codes is like a box of chocolates; you never know who’s going to get tired of this movie quote.”

As disturbing as that news is, there are even more important things to fight against, such as the growth of the evil empire known by the public as Fox News. It’s owned by a man named Rupert Murdoch (a.k.a. Darth Vader), who is known internationally as the only man who can belch the entire alphabet while bankrupting millionaires, and break-dance to a Justin Timberlake song all at the same time. Then again, no one is really sure whether he is actually break-dancing to the song or undergoing a series of violent seizures due to intense shudders from hearing something so unmusical. Yet it’s common knowledge that Mr. Murdoch is very multi-talented. In fact, he has been very busy these days acquiring the rights to own things such as the personal web-page phenomenon Myspace (“Satisfying the porn market for the age 6-12 demographic”) as well as purchasing Hillary Clinton. The transition from Democrat to Republican just got expensive.

According to the Seattle Times, “Media mogul Rupert Murdoch, whose Fox News Channel and other conservative news outlets have been skewering Hillary Rodham Clinton for years, will host a summer fundraiser for the Democratic senator, mystifying some observers and enraging others.” This absolutely drives me batty. Who does a skewer anymore? Everyone knows that barbecue is all the rage today. If his fundraiser is going to be successful, he better take the skewer off the menu. Concerning the choice of menu, Liberal blogger David Sirota complained: “The brazenness of this move is almost too much to stomach.” Oh well, I guess that’s what you get from a man who break dances to Justin Timberlake.

Now that I think about it, my malaise is simmering down to a low-level boredom, yet which can easily be brought up to a boil at the mere thought of getting on another airplane. Where else are Americans willing to pay so much to be herded in and out of tiny cylindrical tubes with wings, all the while at the leisure of the flight attendant? This topic may just be enough to make me explode, but that would cause quite a mess. I’ll save that for another column, but before I go, let me persuade you to join the fight for the most important cause known to humanity—something that effects more Americans than can be counted: spontaneous combustion. It can happen anytime, anywhere, and for seemingly no reason at all (yet I would avoid lighting a match near Aunt Betty after she spent two hours in the bathroom turning her hair into a permanent sculpture). It could even happen to…..BOOM

Phil’s Guide to Dating and/or Pet Grooming

Note: Do not try these activities at home; certain death may occur.

Let me begin this week’s column by stating that I am currently single and in no way bitter—I look forward to owning a dog in the future. But I do consider myself somewhat of an expert in these topics, as I have personally broken-up with many women and managed not to kill any of the pets I’ve had (unless you count fish; as far as they are concerned, I’m the kiss-of-death). Yet I have stared certain doom in the eye numerous times in both arenas, and I am here to tell you they are not all that different. Chances are you will have permanent scarring due to your counterparts excessive use of claws (just keep them away from your eyes). And ladies, this advice is for you as well, as men’s claws can be just as sharp if not trimmed properly.

At this point, you are probably thinking I am a total loon for suggesting that the pre-marriage ritual in humans is the same as grooming your domesticated animal. You’re right; I am a loon. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are similar activities. Here are some examples: 1) the end product is never the same as the plan you set out to create, and 2) you’ll always smell different at the end of the night. Before you brand me a lunatic, let me explain. It all starts a long time ago, around the same the Christian conservatives popped on the scene.

Back in the days of Emperor Constantine, the thought of having an animal in the house was a crazy notion. So was dating. But one day, one of the Emperor’s wives decided she was lonely and wanted to have a companion. Yet since there was such a strong economy for eunuchs, unemployment was low and there were none available. He decided instead to have his servants tame a fox that had been caught while hunting for rabbits. At the same time, Emperor Constantine thought it would be a good idea to become a Christian (“Controlling Your Government for You”) and change the face of politics for the rest of eternity. This conversion angered one of his other wives, who was upset because that would mean she’d have to start cooking beans so they could go to the church pot-luck dinner. That made the Emperor wish he had actually gotten to know his wives before marriage through casual, social experiences instead of arranging the marriages with other foreign heads-of-state. Thus, the concepts of dating and pet grooming appeared almost simultaneously.

The next big wave of changes came in the middle ages when a leader of an Amazonian tribe decided to get married. Soon after the honeymoon, she became annoyed because her home always smelled of elderberries after her husband returned from a hunt. She figured it was because of the dog that never left her husband’s side. As an idea to help fix this problem, she implored her new man to bathe his hunting dog and clip its hair to a shorter length, hoping that would alleviate the odor. This allowed her to be in the same room as the dog, but her husband’s smell grew to resemble an old bowling shoe left in overly humid conditions. She quickly began to wish she had found a mate via the help of her friends—or at least an online dating service—instead of making a political deal with the neighboring tribe to marry their leader’s youngest and sloppiest son. Dating and pet grooming have come a long way since then, both becoming very popular rituals (except in Canada, where both Amazon women and soap are illegal). There would not be another major trend shift until the late 1990s, when a man named Joshua Harris revolutionized the world of dating. His work had absolutely nothing to do with grooming your pet, but groomers didn’t have to wait long for changes of their own.

Mr. Harris did this by writing a book. I won’t reveal the name of that book, but let’s just say he’s kissed dating good-bye forever; though I am sure not by choice. He wrote it to be a guide to dating for Christian teenagers, but its impact has permeated through the fabric of society’s relationship habits. His book proposed a new idea to dating, which is to not date anyone at all until you get married; and only then under close supervision. A person first decides exactly what they want in a partner, then waits for that one person to hit him or her over the head and drag them home. His belief is that you can determine your life partner, not by getting to know them, but by observing them from a distance (preferably with binoculars). There should be absolutely no physical, visual, audible, or emotional contact until the veil is raised. The only thing he left out was how many cows you were to receive in the dowry.

That same trend has appeared in pet grooming as well. It used to be that a woman would get to know her pet before choosing a trendy seasonal outfit to put on it (before you label me a sexist for saying that only women buy clothes for their pets, I ask you to show me one receipt of a man buying a Halloween costume for his dog—in an all male world, he would be placed in front of a firing squad). Now, instead of basing the outfit on the personality of the pet, today it’s popular to pick out pet clothes before you get the pet. That’s like buying a computer game before starting a new job (you should at least know what kind of computer you will have at work). I would like to thank Mr. Harris for this. Seriously. Personally, I think this is pointless, and have thus decided that I don’t want to date anymore; I have too many doggie sweaters in my closet already. One of these days, I’m just going to find a woman, make her my best friend, and marry her. Maybe her father will offer me his old doggie sweaters as a dowry. I’ll just add them to my own collection.
Or perhaps I’m better off just getting a dog. A boston terrier would look really cool in a leather jacket, don’t you think?

Ask Mr. Fix-it Guy

Over the last several days I have received many angry letters from readers who were upset over a statement I made in my previous column—the one about taxes. I know exactly how you feel. I would be upset too if I had just learned that the government requires us to pay taxes! It’s a good thing my readers pay attention to the outside world. Actually they were complaining about my depiction of Republicans and Democrats; the former being all-too-ready to kill a harmless, defenseless, disease-infested rat, and the latter jumping up on a chair to avoid it, yet desiring to let it live and name it Rusty. Before I get into today’s topic, allow me to apologize.

The death threats are right; my depiction of our nation’s political parties is off-center. Allow me to correct this mistake. The Republicans wouldn’t be trying to kill the rat; they would be unleashing about 10 tons of nuclear weapons on it, while the Democrats give over their bedrooms so that the rat may be as comfortable as possible. Of course, the Green Party is pounding on the front door, screaming “Let me in! Let me in!” And that brings us to our topic of today…home-improvement.

Spring is upon us and just as every other home-owner in our credit-breathing country, I want to improve my home—except that I don’t live in one, I rent an apartment. So, in reality, I am no help. But before you go running off to that gigantic warehouse depot, listen to some timely advice. I want to help you make the wise decisions that are necessary in order for you to get worked over properly by the inspector when you try to sell your home. That’s why I’ve decided to bring in everyone’s favorite home-improvement guru, Bob Vila. No, wait, he’s unavailable. I believe it has something to do with an unfortunate mobbing incident outside of a Barnes and Noble on his latest book signing tour. Instead, let me introduce you to America’s second favorite home-improvement maniac, Mr. Fix-it Guy. He is going to respond to your questions using the always-popular question and answer format.

Mr. Fix-it Guy, I want to improve my home (mainly because my wife keeps threatening to make me sleep with the dog if I don’t), but it’s hard for me to get excited about home-improvement when the prices are so high. What can I do to save money while improving my home? That’s easy! Most people think that in order to “do the best job” you have to hire a contractor or landscaper to do the work for you. I say that’s poppycock. Everyone has the ability to do it themselves. So what if your lawn turns into a spawning ground for countless insects and rodents, that’s the way Mother Nature intended it. And if you’re putting in a fire-place, a few large holes in key places can make the difference. You’ll be able do anything if you have the right tools.

Mr. Fix-it Person (I prefer to use non gender-specific terms so I can always be politically correct), I want to build a porch off my back door. What steps do I need to take so that I do it right? Hire a contractor.

Mr. Fix-it Guy, I am an incredibly rich, over-paid executive who likes to waste money. I want to redecorate my home. What do you recommend I do? Allow me to give a plug to the best furniture store out there for the over-paid money wasters—Nebraska Furniture Mart (“I’m afraid I can’t answer that for you, let me find a supervisor.”). This retail establishment is phenomenal at making you pay insane amounts of money and somehow managing to not give you any product in return. I’m just impressed that they found a more efficient way to throw money away than just throwing it away.

Mr. Fix-it Guy, what’s the difference between a load-bearing wall and a “stud” behind the dry wall? That is a great question. Imagine the load-bearing wall is like Wal-Mart (“We’ll be taking over your small town next!”). You wish you could get rid of it so you can turn your basement into suburban pool hall, yet it’s not going anywhere. Of course, you always find yourself going to it at three in the morning for a late-night snack craze. The “stud” is more like Hollywood. It’s there, but if it weren’t, you’d never know the difference.

Mr. Fix-it Guy, are you available for private contracts? Absolutely! I am available any time, except for Monday-Sunday. My prices are on average with other contractors, but I give you the added advantage of never having to actually deal with me. I make you feel like I was never there. When it comes to payment, I require it upfront. I found that if I waited until the job was finished before collecting the bill, I would have to work a lot harder. I take checks, cash, and all major credit cards (except for Discover, that’s a fake company set up by the National Football League so they can spy on their viewers).

That’s all the time we have for today, but make sure to thank Mr. Fix-it Guy for coming and sharing his wisdom. I certainly learned a lot, and I even hired him to paint my apartment for me, but he seems to be running out the door now rather quickly.

“Hey, come back here, I just gave you my credit card!” Oh well, I’ll try to catch up to him. Those contractors are wily characters.

My Literary License Should Be Revoked

I write humor columns.  I feel I should clarify this, as there have been numerous responses to some of my previous columns, stating a moderate level of worry about some of my “anecdotal one-liners”.  Apparently, some people feel that I am trying to push a hidden agenda behind the humor.  Let me say this: they are absolutely correct.  Since my code has been cracked (Dan Brown would be proud of you), I will honestly and straightforwardly let you all in on my secret agenda.  My goal is world domination.  And my plan is to take over the planet by placing subliminal, subversive messages in my humor columns, and gradually, over say forty or fifty years, the world will know me as their all-knowing ruler (I suggest President Bush raise the security level to chartreuse).

Actually, I’m kidding.  It will probably take more like sixty-five years for the subliminal messages to take effect.  Okay, I’m not planning to take over the world (but I may go after France, I hear they’re not big on fighting).  In truth, my first paragraph was a joke, except of course for the first sentence.  Then again, a few of you may have thought that was a joke as well.  Since I care so much about my adoring fan base, I wanted to help make sure that each perfectly-timed (I have yet to time a joke right), witty (rarely are my jokes witty) statement does not go unnoticed.   In order to help everyone know when I am making a joke, I am going to discuss two recent news items, one of which is very serious and should not be made light of, while the other would be well-suited for a punch-line at an orthodontist convention.  Hopefully the juxtaposition of these two stories will make it possible to understand the idiom of my own personal humor.  The first story is about proposed Nebraska legislation to segregate public schools.  Since this is a very serious topic, I will make no jokes and report it as an actual journalist (which means that there will be no “potty” jokes; though I can’t guarantee I won’t use the word “snozberries”).

Lately, the Omaha Public School District has been engaged in a debate over district re-alignment.  Their goal is to annex the Millard and Elkhorn school districts, thus making Omaha “One City, One School District”.  To me, that sounds very similar to Adolf Hitler “One World, One Style of Moustache”.  I can’t believe this is being fought in our state’s mini-congress (“Trying to be as useless as the real Congress”), but it gets worse.  In a reactionary measure, one of the city districts gave an opposing proposition for Omaha to split the current public school district into three separate districts, based upon locality.  There would be a west Omaha district, as well as a south and a north, and what school your child went to was dependant upon your location in the city.  Basically, this would divide Omaha into three different races.  And this week it was passed and signed by the Governor!  Personally, I think this is a wonderful idea.  I mean, segregation worked before (just ask Rosa Parks), and maybe it could work again!   But I don’t think it should be divided by race.  I think it should be divided by extra-curricular activities.  I grew up in Omaha, and although this is not a geographical or racial distinction, I think the best way to keep similar people together is to separate students by their favorite activity.  Here are a few suggestions for activity separation: athletes (“2+2=my jock strap”), nerds (“Pocket Protectors and Their Validity in Today’s World Market”), rebels, and budding pornographers.  That probably wouldn’t work (everyone would want to be in the budding pornographers district), but I doubt anything will change soon anyway, because Nebraska’s legislature is very good at imitating their national counter-part.

This brings me to my next important story.  A few years ago, Dan Brown wrote a novel entitled The DaVinci Code.    Since I know that most of my readers prefer truth to lies, I doubt many of you have read his fiction, but none-the-less it has stirred up controversy.  This is mainly due to the fact that he scented the pages in his book to smell like marijuana to entice more readers.  Actually, it’s because this summer his book will be presented by Hollywood on the silver screen.  The reason people are upset about this is because many citizens in this country feel that Dan Brown overstepped his literary license by adding things to The Bible in order to fit his story (prepare the tar and feathers).  His plot has something to do with the protagonist using secret codes found in The Bible to solve a murder mystery.  How dare an author make up something to use in a fictional story!  This absolutely appalls me.  Not once in my writings have I ever made up something just to sell copies, and as an author, I feel he should be banned from writing for the rest of his life.  He should become a journalist.

I think it is a horrible crime on humanity when authors twist real events in order to make the story work.  The sad truth is that nearly everyone does it.  In fact, this treachery even goes back to John Wayne.  His military performances had no basis in reality; if they did, not one country would have dared to oppose “The Duke”.  And everyone knows that when King Kong made his real life appearance in the thirties, the stage was set up outside on the river, not in a theater on Broadway!  I definitely believe that Dan Brown’s literary license should be revoked.  And while they’re at it, they should probably take mine away as well.  I admit to you that I did tell a lie (only one) in this column.  The pages in The DaVinci Code were not scented like marijuana; that would be ludicrous.  They were flavored with snozberries.  Really, taste it.  I’m not making it up.

Much Ado About Omaha

I live in Omaha, Nebraska (by the way, Katie Couric, Nebraska is in the United States, not Uzbekistan), and I’m supposed to tell you how great a place it is to visit. But before you rush over to your local banker and withdrawal all your money just to run out on the road and throw it in the face of some random driver who is swerving to hit you, hear me out. Omaha is not a big deal. Omaha is, in fact, the littlest deal I can think of. You are all honest, hard-working type individuals, relentlessly skimming away the profits of your bureaucratic and uselessly large corporations, and I want to level with all of you who dream of visiting the bustling tourist trap that is Omaha. It’s nothing special. Sure, we have the eighth largest concert venue in the world and are home to one of the best underground music scenes in the country, but that’s nothing! The people in this town all speak in one large, audible voice and with all their hearts want to tell you “meh”.

Despite the urges of countless Omaha denizens, many of you may have already cashed in your frequent flyer miles and ditched out on extended family vacations in order to enjoy the lush humidity and over-sized nests of mosquitoes in this fair town, but stop now and heed my crucial advice: don’t come to Omaha! Anyone who’s lived here longer than a nano second will tell you exactly the same thing: “There’s nothing to do in this town.” You may try to squash their apathy with a well-timed comment about the College World Series, or retort with the fact that Omaha’s theater community is where many of Hollywood’s best and brightest call home. Listen to the locals; they’re right and they care (despite their complete lack of interest). Allow me to suggest a top-notch summer activity that will accomplish the same goal as a real vacation: it will deplete every penny you have and leave you feeling completely exhausted, frustrated and stressed-out.

Instead of visiting the historic Old Market, or relaxing at one of the numerous high-class country clubs that Omaha provides, stay at home and try out a new awesome summer idea: plan a fake wedding! What better way is there to take away any chance of peace and comfort that an unplanned summer might provide, and use of every cent in your checking account at the same time? You are probably thinking to yourself that planning a wedding may be splendid fun, but you’re concerned because then you’d actually have to spend the rest of your life with the other person. Well folks, this is no longer a problem!

Thanks to a reader of mine named Dorothy Harris who sent me a wonderful article from the Dennison Sun Times (“Always a Dull Moment”) in Dennison, Iowa, I learned of a woman who, every July for the past fifteen years, planned and hosted a spectacular wedding ceremony and reception in her back-yard. Never was one detail missed. The cake was the richest and most delicate chocolate, covered in a frosting that looked as if it were pulled from a cloud. Flowers guided you along a path of exquisite beauty, and everyone danced until the sun rose the following morning. Here’s the key to her success: she’s not married, nor has she ever been. At her weddings, there is no actual marriage! The “service” part of the wedding encompasses a lovely reading of the dinner menu, to be held later. And your guests won’t care if there’s no actual nuptials; most likely they are just there for the free drinks.

Thus, I have a lovely suggestion for you. Get engaged! Who cares if you never actually make it down the aisle, you’ll gain more enjoyment planning the wedding than actually attending it. Trust me, I’ve done it twice and it’s way more fun than chasing your inebriated uncle through the park while trying to get him to put his pants back on. So this summer, instead of wasting your time by miserably pacing through the exhibits at the Joslyn Art Museum, or sulking through a dramatic performance of Romeo and Juilet at Shakespeare on the Green, go find yourself that all-important boyfriend or girlfriend and propose. Shop for the perfect dress, interview every caterer in town, scream your way through seventeen different florists, and then break up with your significant other just before you say “I do”. Your guests will be singing your praises all the way through the eighty-fifth box of supermarket champagne. There is no better or more deeply enriching way to pass the dog days of summer; that is unless you can get hired as Dan Rather’s replacement on the CBS Evening News (“Knowledge of current events is optional”).

So what should you do with your summer this year? The truth is I don’t really care. Actually, that’s not true. Despite there being absolutely no reason to visit my home town, I hope you come. I hope everyone comes. I hope that so many people visit Omaha that our streets turn into clogged arteries making my blood pressure rise high enough to make an aneurism seem like a day at the beach. And I hope you see me, which you will, as I will be the guy stuck in traffic next to you on the interstate screaming at the top of his lungs while our friends on the road construction crew (“your tax dollars at play”) take their mandatory fifteen minute break (which oddly enough occurs every ten minutes). I look forward to seeing you, and who knows, maybe we’ll get along and decide to kick off this summer of fun by planning a wedding together. Don’t worry, we’ll break up before any papers are signed, and you’ll be back home by the end of the summer; tired, angry and missing your twelve inch by twelve inch cubicle. And just like with every broken engagement, your passionate hatred of me will keep you warm through those long winter months. It will be absolutely wonderful.

After a second thought, maybe I’ll just go to France. I think that’s somewhere off the coast of Australia.

Graphic Design Projects

Here are some projects I created on while taking some graphic design classes. Adobe is not too hard to learn with a little patience. The first is a photo of my niece. Redrawn from that picture into a computer image.


This next one is a Hollywood favorite, Kate Beckinsale.

As you can see, I got better with practice (Aly’s was done after first learning on Kate).