I received something interesting in the mail the other day. No, not an actual letter. Who sends letters anymore? I can think of only three groups of people who send real, live, honest-to-goodness letters. They are, in no particular order:
1. The Amish
2. Career felons in the state pen
3. My grandma, who is neither Amish nor a career felon
Anyway, what I received was a magazine listing all the community activities, both adult and youth, for this summer in my city. Naturally, I leafed through the magazine. In fact, I read the entire thing. And my mind reeled with possibilities.
Did you know I can take a class on cooking Hungarian goulash? Hungarian goulash! I had no idea there were even different kinds of goulash. And why are they emphasizing Hungarian goulash? I can walk my town's sidewalks for weeks and not bump into a single Hungarian. It's like offering a class on Cajun gumbo in Grand Forks, North Dakota. It makes no sense, yet I find it oddly compelling. I may sign up.
I can also, if I were so inclined, take classes on line dancing (That sounds uncomfortably like country music), tai chi (I thought that was what you asked if you were looking for a toilet in Beijing. Am I wrong?), singing, jazzercise (I look fabulous in stretch pants. Don't tell me otherwise.), and creative drawing.
I can take classes to learn how to lower my taxes by 50 percent (This may or may not be legal. The course description doesn't go into detail.), speak conversational Spanish in six weeks, get a low-cost bone exam (See? This is why I eat a heaping bowl of ice cream every night - lots and lots of calcium. I eat so much ice cream my bones can scratch diamonds.), play cards on Friday nights with senior citizens, and learn how to waterboard my pesky neighbors while a cardboard cutout of a grinning Dick Cheney looms over my shoulder (All right, I made that last one up.).
Just as importantly, the publication is filled with activities for my children. This summer they can participate in tumbling, sidewalk drawing, cheerleading, bumper bowling, baton twirling, cartooning, theater, magic, writing camp, spelling camp, handwriting camp, and math camp.
Spelling camp? Really?
They can also take private lessons in just about every sport you can think of except for sword fighting, chainsaw juggling, and bungee jumping off the roof of the house.
I can have their entire summer schedule programmed down to the minute: this, then this, then this, then this this this this this this this.
An enlightened critic would no doubt angrily tell me that this is a chilling example of bad over-parenting. I need to let my kids be kids, the critic would huff. Stop controlling their lives. Let them play on their own. Let them explore. Shove them outside at dawn and drag them back in at dusk.
To this I say: You're nuts, Mrs. Cleaver. Stop living in 1954.
The biggest problem in Cleaverworld was Whitey and Lumpy and Eddie Haskell getting heartburn from the peanut butter sandwiches and milk Beaver's mom sent out to them. Now? There are teenagers crushing Bud Lights down at the corner park. Some other bright bulbs are spray painting graffiti on wood fences and throwing rocks at passing cars. And I think there's a registered sex offender lving two neighborhoods over.
Are you kidding? I'm not letting my kids out of my sight.
Besides, who doesn't want to learn magic? Or how to make balloon animals? That sounds a lot more wholesome than being unchaperoned over at little Billy's house duct taping the cat to his garage and peeing on his mom's petunias.
No, I think I'll be signing them up for things.
Lots of things.
And me? I'm just saving room for that Hungarian goulash.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Relationship Strife? Not Any Longer!
Our subject today is health - specifically, the healthy ways to avoid relationship strife and turmoil when it comes to celebrating special days. Let’s open the mailbag.
The first question today comes from John in New Hampton. He writes: “How many special days am I on the hook for with my wife? Between flowers and gifts and dinner for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, anniversary, and others, it’s starting to bleed me dry. What did I sign up for when I got married? What are my responsibilities?”
John, let me tell you something. I share your pain. And if this disturbing and revolting trend isn’t evidence of massive collusion between the greeting card companies, winemakers, jewelers and florists of this country, I don’t know what is. You’ll never convince me otherwise. And yet what are we supposed to do about it? Forget one of those days and you’ve got a standing date with a couch and a cold shower for the foreseeable future.
The next question is from Sandra in Racine. She writes: “Just before Valentine’s Day I was invited to one of those Romance parties with my girlfriends. You know - the kind with stuff that makes a pastor’s wife blush. I was a little nervous about going, but my friends encouraged me to buy the products - one in particular that they recommended. Can I give it to my husband as a gift, even though it’s really for my pleasure? Or would he think that’s too weird?”
Too weird? Not at all, Sandra. Let me put this in baseball terms. To a guy, sharing a bottle of wine with his honey is a slow grounder to second base. Going out to dinner is a pop out to shallow center field. Including a movie in the deal makes it a long fly out to the warning track. But a product from a Romance catalog? That’s a grand slam that not only clears the fence, it clears the light tower on top of the stadium, flies into the parking lot, and smashes into the windshield of your nasty next door neighbor’s car.
This one comes from Hector in Mankato. He writes: “My wife and I agreed that we’d just give each other cards for our anniversary. I gleefully said OK. What do you think?”
What do I think, Hector? I think you’ve just gotten sucked in by one of the classic ruses of all time. You’re crazy if you think she’ll stick to the “one card and that’s it” agreement. There’s no way. She can’t help herself. She’ll give you a shirt, or a bottle of cologne, or a couple tickets to a hockey game, and when she sees you standing there holding nothing but a Hallmark card and a smile, she’ll look like Kathy Bates in "Misery" just before she swings the sledgehammer to break poor James Caan’s ankles: a mixture of hatred, fear, loathing, confusion, and white-hot resentment. Recognize that this was a test, Hector. A test that you nearly failed.
Let’s go to a letter from Beth in Jefferson City. Beth writes: “Is is too much to ask for my boyfriend to sit on the couch with me and watch a romantic movie? I told him I’d like to see Nights in Rodanthe.”
Well, that’s fine, Beth, but remember there’s a kind of barter system in play here. When I was a kid and my friends and I were trading football cards, I knew if I had a Walter Payton card it was worth at least two Wilbert Montgomerys. I knew a Fran Tarkenton was worth two Ken Stablers and one Steve Bartkowski. It’s the same thing with movies. If you choose a sappy Richard Gere flick, that entitles your boyfriend to two Jean Claude Van Dam movies, or one Nicholas Cage and one Vin Diesel. Be careful what you wish for.
Our last letter is from Dave in Peoria. He writes: “My son was born on my wife’s birthday. This means that for the next 18 years I’m excused from taking her out for the evening because we’ll be busy celebrating his birthday. How great is that?”
I tell you, Dave, on the scale of pure luck that ranks somewhere between moving in with a massage therapist and the police accidentally losing your urine sample after you spent a night partying with Michael Phelps. But don’t get carried away. If you think your son is going to want to celebrate his birthday with you till he’s 18, then you've watched too many "Leave it to Beaver" episodes. Wally may not have minded having cake and ice cream with his parents on his 18th birthday, but that kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore. I give your son till age 12 to find a better offer.
Thanks for the letters, everybody! Please read the following:
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I’m looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it’s a friend’s experience, maybe it’s a family member’s experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
The first question today comes from John in New Hampton. He writes: “How many special days am I on the hook for with my wife? Between flowers and gifts and dinner for her birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, anniversary, and others, it’s starting to bleed me dry. What did I sign up for when I got married? What are my responsibilities?”
John, let me tell you something. I share your pain. And if this disturbing and revolting trend isn’t evidence of massive collusion between the greeting card companies, winemakers, jewelers and florists of this country, I don’t know what is. You’ll never convince me otherwise. And yet what are we supposed to do about it? Forget one of those days and you’ve got a standing date with a couch and a cold shower for the foreseeable future.
The next question is from Sandra in Racine. She writes: “Just before Valentine’s Day I was invited to one of those Romance parties with my girlfriends. You know - the kind with stuff that makes a pastor’s wife blush. I was a little nervous about going, but my friends encouraged me to buy the products - one in particular that they recommended. Can I give it to my husband as a gift, even though it’s really for my pleasure? Or would he think that’s too weird?”
Too weird? Not at all, Sandra. Let me put this in baseball terms. To a guy, sharing a bottle of wine with his honey is a slow grounder to second base. Going out to dinner is a pop out to shallow center field. Including a movie in the deal makes it a long fly out to the warning track. But a product from a Romance catalog? That’s a grand slam that not only clears the fence, it clears the light tower on top of the stadium, flies into the parking lot, and smashes into the windshield of your nasty next door neighbor’s car.
This one comes from Hector in Mankato. He writes: “My wife and I agreed that we’d just give each other cards for our anniversary. I gleefully said OK. What do you think?”
What do I think, Hector? I think you’ve just gotten sucked in by one of the classic ruses of all time. You’re crazy if you think she’ll stick to the “one card and that’s it” agreement. There’s no way. She can’t help herself. She’ll give you a shirt, or a bottle of cologne, or a couple tickets to a hockey game, and when she sees you standing there holding nothing but a Hallmark card and a smile, she’ll look like Kathy Bates in "Misery" just before she swings the sledgehammer to break poor James Caan’s ankles: a mixture of hatred, fear, loathing, confusion, and white-hot resentment. Recognize that this was a test, Hector. A test that you nearly failed.
Let’s go to a letter from Beth in Jefferson City. Beth writes: “Is is too much to ask for my boyfriend to sit on the couch with me and watch a romantic movie? I told him I’d like to see Nights in Rodanthe.”
Well, that’s fine, Beth, but remember there’s a kind of barter system in play here. When I was a kid and my friends and I were trading football cards, I knew if I had a Walter Payton card it was worth at least two Wilbert Montgomerys. I knew a Fran Tarkenton was worth two Ken Stablers and one Steve Bartkowski. It’s the same thing with movies. If you choose a sappy Richard Gere flick, that entitles your boyfriend to two Jean Claude Van Dam movies, or one Nicholas Cage and one Vin Diesel. Be careful what you wish for.
Our last letter is from Dave in Peoria. He writes: “My son was born on my wife’s birthday. This means that for the next 18 years I’m excused from taking her out for the evening because we’ll be busy celebrating his birthday. How great is that?”
I tell you, Dave, on the scale of pure luck that ranks somewhere between moving in with a massage therapist and the police accidentally losing your urine sample after you spent a night partying with Michael Phelps. But don’t get carried away. If you think your son is going to want to celebrate his birthday with you till he’s 18, then you've watched too many "Leave it to Beaver" episodes. Wally may not have minded having cake and ice cream with his parents on his 18th birthday, but that kind of thing doesn’t happen anymore. I give your son till age 12 to find a better offer.
Thanks for the letters, everybody! Please read the following:
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I’m looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it’s a friend’s experience, maybe it’s a family member’s experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
Needed: Interesting Wedding Stories for a Book
Needed: Interesting stories about weddings for possible inclusion in a book by Midwest Today writer Tim Pearson. I'm looking for stories that are funny, poignant, touching, heart-rending, disastrous, or just unique in their own special way. No story is too small or too short. I need stories about proposals, engagements, planning the wedding, the ceremonies themselves, the receptions, and the honeymoons. Maybe this is your own experience, maybe it's a friend's experience, maybe it's a family member's experience. Help me out and be part of creating a book! Contact Tim Pearson at tim.pearson@mchsi.com.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
The Man on the Road
This one isn't funny.
Homelessness isn't funny. Down-on-your-luck isn't funny. Teaching fear and loathing to children isn't funny either.
Off to our right stood a man.
He wore a ratty old coat, and a baseball cap that had seen better days. His boots were scuffed and muddy. His pants had holes through both knees. They didn't fit particularly well either.
Long, stringy hair stuck out from under the hat. It had been brown once upon a time. Now it was flecked with gray, tangled, unkempt.
I didn't know the last time he'd shaved. Or washed. Probably he didn't know either.
We weren't close enough to smell him. If we had been, he would have smelled like - what? A dumpster? A ditch? An overpass? A urine-soaked park bench?
His face was the weathered color of autumn cabbage and had crags deep enough to plant corn.
He held a cardboard sign in front of him. It read, "U.S. vet. Any help is appreciated. God bless."
I looked at him for a few moments, wondering if I should say anything to the two boys in the back seat. One of them beat me to it.
"Don't give him any money," said my son's friend. "He's just a stupid man who wants drugs."
We were on our way to a 3rd-grade soccer game, the boys and I. We were waiting at a traffic light just off the interstate in a suburb of Des Moines. The man stood at the bottom of the exit ramp.
"What?" I said.
The same boy answered. "My dad says he's just a stupid man who wants money so he can buy drugs."
None of the other drivers at the light were looking at the man. In fact, they were making an exaggerated effort not to - gripping the wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead, face rigid.
I wasn't sure what to say.
So I dipped my toe in the water carefully. I'm not sure it's fair to call him stupid, I explained. We don't know what his circumstances are. Maybe he lost his home. Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he lost his family.
Nope, my son's friend insisted. He wants drugs. He's dumb and he wants drugs and he's dangerous.
That's unfair, I tried again. We don't know anything about this man. He's probably hungry. He's probably thirsty. Look at him. If he had $5 he'd spend it on a sandwich, not a pinch of marijuana.
"My dad says someone like that is stupid," the boy said stubbornly.
I let it go. Who wants to argue with an 8-year old boy?
The light changed and the traffic moved ahead. Nobody rolled down a window and held out a dollar bill. Nobody gave him a candy bar. Nobody gave him an apple. Nobody gave him anything.
Not even a friendly wave.
Neither did I, now that I think about it.
I looked back as I drove away.
The man looked so sad.
Homelessness isn't funny. Down-on-your-luck isn't funny. Teaching fear and loathing to children isn't funny either.
Off to our right stood a man.
He wore a ratty old coat, and a baseball cap that had seen better days. His boots were scuffed and muddy. His pants had holes through both knees. They didn't fit particularly well either.
Long, stringy hair stuck out from under the hat. It had been brown once upon a time. Now it was flecked with gray, tangled, unkempt.
I didn't know the last time he'd shaved. Or washed. Probably he didn't know either.
We weren't close enough to smell him. If we had been, he would have smelled like - what? A dumpster? A ditch? An overpass? A urine-soaked park bench?
His face was the weathered color of autumn cabbage and had crags deep enough to plant corn.
He held a cardboard sign in front of him. It read, "U.S. vet. Any help is appreciated. God bless."
I looked at him for a few moments, wondering if I should say anything to the two boys in the back seat. One of them beat me to it.
"Don't give him any money," said my son's friend. "He's just a stupid man who wants drugs."
We were on our way to a 3rd-grade soccer game, the boys and I. We were waiting at a traffic light just off the interstate in a suburb of Des Moines. The man stood at the bottom of the exit ramp.
"What?" I said.
The same boy answered. "My dad says he's just a stupid man who wants money so he can buy drugs."
None of the other drivers at the light were looking at the man. In fact, they were making an exaggerated effort not to - gripping the wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead, face rigid.
I wasn't sure what to say.
So I dipped my toe in the water carefully. I'm not sure it's fair to call him stupid, I explained. We don't know what his circumstances are. Maybe he lost his home. Maybe he lost his job. Maybe he lost his family.
Nope, my son's friend insisted. He wants drugs. He's dumb and he wants drugs and he's dangerous.
That's unfair, I tried again. We don't know anything about this man. He's probably hungry. He's probably thirsty. Look at him. If he had $5 he'd spend it on a sandwich, not a pinch of marijuana.
"My dad says someone like that is stupid," the boy said stubbornly.
I let it go. Who wants to argue with an 8-year old boy?
The light changed and the traffic moved ahead. Nobody rolled down a window and held out a dollar bill. Nobody gave him a candy bar. Nobody gave him an apple. Nobody gave him anything.
Not even a friendly wave.
Neither did I, now that I think about it.
I looked back as I drove away.
The man looked so sad.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Door Ding Ding-A-Lings
I don't ask much when I drop off my kids at school. The following situations are unacceptable: 1. Open gunfire on the sidewalk between renegade teachers. 2. Signs that read, "All parents will be strip-searched before entering building." 3. Other signs that read, "It is strongly recommended that you get a rabies shot when you leave this place." 4. Fourth graders in a booth advertising nipple piercings. 5. The principal waving goodbye to her parole officer. 6. Random hugs from a troupe of clowns and mimes.
And, of course, door dings.
It's a close call between the clowns and mimes and the door dings.
Up until a few months ago I didn't worry about door dings because I drove a Saturn. It was plastic and aluminum and nearly indestructible, plus at 215,000 miles I could have traded it straight-up for a three-ringed binder and a packet of #2 pencils and come out ahead on the deal.
Now, however, I drive a 2006 Toyota Corolla and I worry more. I worry because of cars like the silver Taurus that pulled in next to me this morning in the school parking lot. The boy in the back, probably 10 years old or so, quickly shot his door open.
Wham! It smashed into the side of my car, driver's side rear door.
I got out to have a look. And there it was, a good ol' ding with a scratch to boot. I looked at the boy reproachfully as he and his mother approached to get a closer look. I rubbed on the scratch with my thumb and waited for them to say something.
And she did. She said, "Well, that's not as bad as people usually give me."
I looked up in astonishment as they turned to walk toward the school entrance. That was it. No "Sorry about that, my son has an inner ear infection and his coordination is way off." No "We apologize, we just heard on the radio that our house was on fire." No "Oops, I was distracted because my mom was telling me that she's entering alcohol rehab this afternoon."
Nothing. Just a view of their backsides as they walked into the school.
My kids and I followed soon after. I was in a grouchy mood, and I railed against bad children, and worse parents, and how with an upbringing like that there was no doubt in my mind that the kid would end up no good. By the time we got to their classrooms, I had that kid wallowing in the seedy underbelly of society - behind bars, dealing meth, pimping, robbing girl scouts, beating up old ladies, etc. That kid, I was convinced, was Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Unabomber all rolled into one foul package.
My son went down the hallway to put his backpack away while I got my daughter settled in. When he came back he said, "Dad, I saw that kid who hit your car. He told me to tell you that he was really sorry."
Oh.
I guess I overreacted. And I guess that restored my faith in the basic goodness of people.
But I still have that door ding. And I still hate clowns and mimes.
And, of course, door dings.
It's a close call between the clowns and mimes and the door dings.
Up until a few months ago I didn't worry about door dings because I drove a Saturn. It was plastic and aluminum and nearly indestructible, plus at 215,000 miles I could have traded it straight-up for a three-ringed binder and a packet of #2 pencils and come out ahead on the deal.
Now, however, I drive a 2006 Toyota Corolla and I worry more. I worry because of cars like the silver Taurus that pulled in next to me this morning in the school parking lot. The boy in the back, probably 10 years old or so, quickly shot his door open.
Wham! It smashed into the side of my car, driver's side rear door.
I got out to have a look. And there it was, a good ol' ding with a scratch to boot. I looked at the boy reproachfully as he and his mother approached to get a closer look. I rubbed on the scratch with my thumb and waited for them to say something.
And she did. She said, "Well, that's not as bad as people usually give me."
I looked up in astonishment as they turned to walk toward the school entrance. That was it. No "Sorry about that, my son has an inner ear infection and his coordination is way off." No "We apologize, we just heard on the radio that our house was on fire." No "Oops, I was distracted because my mom was telling me that she's entering alcohol rehab this afternoon."
Nothing. Just a view of their backsides as they walked into the school.
My kids and I followed soon after. I was in a grouchy mood, and I railed against bad children, and worse parents, and how with an upbringing like that there was no doubt in my mind that the kid would end up no good. By the time we got to their classrooms, I had that kid wallowing in the seedy underbelly of society - behind bars, dealing meth, pimping, robbing girl scouts, beating up old ladies, etc. That kid, I was convinced, was Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer and the Unabomber all rolled into one foul package.
My son went down the hallway to put his backpack away while I got my daughter settled in. When he came back he said, "Dad, I saw that kid who hit your car. He told me to tell you that he was really sorry."
Oh.
I guess I overreacted. And I guess that restored my faith in the basic goodness of people.
But I still have that door ding. And I still hate clowns and mimes.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Reading McCain's mind
Thanks to some fantastic new technology, we were able to actually read John McCain's mind backstage as he listened to and watched Sarah Palin's speech last night.
The following are some samples:
"All right...hmmm...what's on TV tonight? ...Golden Girls - that's a fun show...hmmm...hey, M*A*S*H - that Hotlips was quite a tasty little number, wasn't she?...Seinfeld? Never heard of it...well, wait a minute...what's this? What's all this commotion? Look at all those people doing...Oh! Oh! Now I remember!"
"Wow! They really like that lady speaking. I wish I knew who she was. Haven't I met her somewhere before?"
"My lord, is she hot."
"Alaska? She's from Alaska? I thought the sheet said Arizona!"
"I wonder why she wears her hair like that. She looks like a school teacher. Or a librarian. Or a school librarian."
"...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."
"Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. YES! YES! YES!"
"My lord, is she hot."
"Boy, oh boy, is she taking shots at Barack Obama. That's really funny. I mean, she is really giving Barack Obama some sharp zings. Ha Ha!...Ha Ha!...wait a minute. I can't remember. Who the heck is Barack Obama?"
"This is really cutting into my Wheel of Fortune time."
"I love when the crowd screams 'USA! USA! USA!' at the top of their lungs during every break in her speech. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And look at that lady in the front row with the funny red, white and blue hat. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And I love how they just hauled away a protester just now. That means Republicans are really patriotic. God, I love being patriotic."
"Aw, man...she's a hunter? That's not good. I was always afraid Dick Cheney was going to blast me in the face."
"Note to self: move her desk into the Oval Office, right next to mine. Or maybe we could share desks. And share chairs. And brush each other's hair."
"Why do they keep showing Cindy so much on the television? Hey...she's here? Right here in St. Paul? Who's taking care of our houses?"
"Holy cow, this Palin chick's got a lot of kids! Let's see...one, two, three, four...ahhh...ahhh...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."
"Has anyone got a blanket? I'm way chilly here."
"Damn straight I was a prisoner of war."
"Boy, her daughter is a little chunky...What? What the...? She's pregnant? Pregnant? First I've heard of it! Why didn't anybody tell me?"
"I wonder who the father is. I bet it's Edwards."
"I don't know why I ate that onion blossom for dinner. It's given me the winds something awful."
"My lord, is she hot."
"Taxes, values, family, blah, blah, blah. Why isn't she saying anything more about me being a prisoner of war? Doesn't she know I was a prisoner of war? Not everybody is a prisoner of war, you know. That guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. And that guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. Hey, you...usher...let me tell you about me being a prisoner of war."
"I hope there aren't any gays in her family."
"They really cheered when she mentioned God just now. Someone find my speechwriter and make sure he puts the word God in my speech. At least half a dozen times. No...make that a clean dozen."
"When I go out on stage when she's done am I allowed to hug her? I really want to hug her. I really want to...no. That would be creepy. Really creepy...I don't care. I'm totally going to hug her."
"My bottom really itches. It itches bad. Dang onion blossom. Is anyone looking at me? Anyone? Can I move in for a quick scratch?...I'm doing it...there...oh yeah...all better."
"That can't be right. She's been governor for how long? How long?"
"I wonder where she lives in Arizona?"
"Hey...where is that Lawrence Welk music coming from? Now that's a beat I can get down to!"
"At least she hasn't said...NO! NO! Why did she mention George Bush? Abort! Abort!"
"I have bunions older than her."
"Boy I REALLY hope she doesn't have any gays in the family. That would be awkward. Well, if she does, I'll just tell people the guy fell off the beam because his high school refused to teach creationism in science class. That's why he turned gay. They'll buy it."
"Why couldn't we have our convention at an outdoor stadium like that other guy did?...What was his name again?"
"I wonder why they call that fella an 'African-American.' I always learned it as 'colored.'"
"Troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...Maybe I can make a song out of it. What rhymes with troop surge? Loop dirge? Croup urge? Group merge? Soup barge? I'll sing it to the tune of 'Climb Every Mountain.'"
"My lord, she's hot."
"Thank goodness she hasn't mentioned that other war that's not going very well. Let's see, where was that war again? Pakistan? Turkmenistan? Uzbekistan? Ah...it probably doesn't matter."
"When is she going to be done? I'm feeling...I'm feeling...ahh...ahhh...zzz..zzz."
The following are some samples:
"All right...hmmm...what's on TV tonight? ...Golden Girls - that's a fun show...hmmm...hey, M*A*S*H - that Hotlips was quite a tasty little number, wasn't she?...Seinfeld? Never heard of it...well, wait a minute...what's this? What's all this commotion? Look at all those people doing...Oh! Oh! Now I remember!"
"Wow! They really like that lady speaking. I wish I knew who she was. Haven't I met her somewhere before?"
"My lord, is she hot."
"Alaska? She's from Alaska? I thought the sheet said Arizona!"
"I wonder why she wears her hair like that. She looks like a school teacher. Or a librarian. Or a school librarian."
"...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."
"Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. Please mention that I was a prisoner of war. YES! YES! YES!"
"My lord, is she hot."
"Boy, oh boy, is she taking shots at Barack Obama. That's really funny. I mean, she is really giving Barack Obama some sharp zings. Ha Ha!...Ha Ha!...wait a minute. I can't remember. Who the heck is Barack Obama?"
"This is really cutting into my Wheel of Fortune time."
"I love when the crowd screams 'USA! USA! USA!' at the top of their lungs during every break in her speech. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And look at that lady in the front row with the funny red, white and blue hat. That means Republicans are really patriotic. And I love how they just hauled away a protester just now. That means Republicans are really patriotic. God, I love being patriotic."
"Aw, man...she's a hunter? That's not good. I was always afraid Dick Cheney was going to blast me in the face."
"Note to self: move her desk into the Oval Office, right next to mine. Or maybe we could share desks. And share chairs. And brush each other's hair."
"Why do they keep showing Cindy so much on the television? Hey...she's here? Right here in St. Paul? Who's taking care of our houses?"
"Holy cow, this Palin chick's got a lot of kids! Let's see...one, two, three, four...ahhh...ahhh...must...take...nap...zzz...zzz."
"Has anyone got a blanket? I'm way chilly here."
"Damn straight I was a prisoner of war."
"Boy, her daughter is a little chunky...What? What the...? She's pregnant? Pregnant? First I've heard of it! Why didn't anybody tell me?"
"I wonder who the father is. I bet it's Edwards."
"I don't know why I ate that onion blossom for dinner. It's given me the winds something awful."
"My lord, is she hot."
"Taxes, values, family, blah, blah, blah. Why isn't she saying anything more about me being a prisoner of war? Doesn't she know I was a prisoner of war? Not everybody is a prisoner of war, you know. That guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. And that guy over there wasn't a prisoner of war. Hey, you...usher...let me tell you about me being a prisoner of war."
"I hope there aren't any gays in her family."
"They really cheered when she mentioned God just now. Someone find my speechwriter and make sure he puts the word God in my speech. At least half a dozen times. No...make that a clean dozen."
"When I go out on stage when she's done am I allowed to hug her? I really want to hug her. I really want to...no. That would be creepy. Really creepy...I don't care. I'm totally going to hug her."
"My bottom really itches. It itches bad. Dang onion blossom. Is anyone looking at me? Anyone? Can I move in for a quick scratch?...I'm doing it...there...oh yeah...all better."
"That can't be right. She's been governor for how long? How long?"
"I wonder where she lives in Arizona?"
"Hey...where is that Lawrence Welk music coming from? Now that's a beat I can get down to!"
"At least she hasn't said...NO! NO! Why did she mention George Bush? Abort! Abort!"
"I have bunions older than her."
"Boy I REALLY hope she doesn't have any gays in the family. That would be awkward. Well, if she does, I'll just tell people the guy fell off the beam because his high school refused to teach creationism in science class. That's why he turned gay. They'll buy it."
"Why couldn't we have our convention at an outdoor stadium like that other guy did?...What was his name again?"
"I wonder why they call that fella an 'African-American.' I always learned it as 'colored.'"
"Troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...troop surge...Maybe I can make a song out of it. What rhymes with troop surge? Loop dirge? Croup urge? Group merge? Soup barge? I'll sing it to the tune of 'Climb Every Mountain.'"
"My lord, she's hot."
"Thank goodness she hasn't mentioned that other war that's not going very well. Let's see, where was that war again? Pakistan? Turkmenistan? Uzbekistan? Ah...it probably doesn't matter."
"When is she going to be done? I'm feeling...I'm feeling...ahh...ahhh...zzz..zzz."
Thursday, August 21, 2008
President Bush at the Olympics
First of all, I need to say something about President Bush's interview with Bob Costas in Beijing just after the Opening Ceremonies. Bob Costas has won a zillion Emmys, he's smart, well-spoken, and has full command of the English language. He's imperturbable, always efficiently coiffed, and has an IQ about 80 points higher than Bush.
Bush is...well, he's Bush. And I always react with a certain amount of glee when I see him in an unscripted situation: no teleprompters to read off of, no handlers whispering lines in his ear. It's just fantastic. I always expect him to come off like Billy Bob Thornton in "Sling Blade."
He didn't disappoint.
My second favorite moment was when he was talking about the President of Russia, and blatantly mispronounced his name. Now, I know Medvedev isn't a softball like Smith or Jones, but it's not impossible either. I tried it myself and got the hang of it after a try or two. I don't think it's asking too much for the President of the United States to know how to say the names of important people.
My single favorite moment was when Costas was asking Bush about a number of the ills facing our country - the mortgage crisis, skyrocketing national debt, low consumer confidence, the high price of food, etc. Bush interrupted to say that he didn't think America had those kinds of problems. Then he said things would be a whole lot better if China had more churches.
Costas had no idea how to respond. As soon as he could, he took it to a commercial break.
Priceless.
In honor of our President, here is my actual running diary of his activities during the Opening Ceremonies. The cameras only showed him a handful of times, unfortunately.
0:24 Bush makes his entrance into the stadium, dressed rather dapper in a sharp gray suit and a red tie. He shuffles down the stadium steps with Laura hanging onto his right arm. Amazingly, no one seems to notice him. Or cares to notice him. Not a single head turns as he passes by. He shakes hands with his next-door seat mates, a pleasant looking Chinese couple. Then he shakes hands with a bald guy in front of him who already seems sweaty. They sit down. A tall man suddenly comes into the picture. He's so tall we can't see his head on the screen. All we do know for sure is that he's standing with his crotch about three inches from Laura's face. Laura, looking uncomfortable, decides that she'd rather crane her neck back 90 degrees to look at his face rather than stare directly into his crotch. Meanwhile, Bob Costas, who can't think of anything interesting to say about W, talks about how smart W's father was.
0:41 A huge crowd of children walks onto the floor of the stadium, carrying the flag of China. The camera shifts to Bush, who is leaning across Laura to talk to Vladimir Putin. I can't read their lips very accurately, but I think it went something like this:
Bush: "Vlad, how's it hanging?"
Putin: "Fine. You know we invaded Georgia today."
Bush: "You did?"
Putin: "Yep."
Bush: "Well, alrighty then. Thank god South Carolina's OK."
1:48 The athletes of Turkmenistan march in, all dressed vaguely like Fidel Castro. Bush is shown watching intently through binoculars. This shows you what a huge sports fan Bush is. Clinton would have been scoping out a cute Chinese usher through his binoculars.
2:19 The India contingent strolls by. Meanwhile, Bush couldn't look more bored. He's taken off his suit coat and is sitting practically spread-eagled in his chair. He glares at his watch. Laura, who doesn't appear to be sitting spread-eagled, is staring blankly into space and checks her watch as soon as she sees her husband check his.
2:32 A small group of Iraqis marches in. The crowd gives them an enormous cheer. Bush gives them polite applause, clapping like his palms hurt. Laura, on the other hand, claps with wild, giddy enthusiasm, a strange grin on her face, like someone's tickling her from behind. As soon as W stops clapping, she stops clapping.
2:42 Suriname is in now. Pan to Bush, who looks slightly confused. Where's Suriname? Laura's hands are hidden behind the head of the woman sitting in front of her. She could be knitting for all I know.
2:55 Now it's Puerto Rico's turn. Bush is back to the binoculars. Does he ever let Laura take a turn with the binoculars? Everone around them in the stands is fanning themselves, trying to stay cool in the Beijing heat. Not the Bushes. And does W ever sit with his legs together? Good grief, his knees are sticking out so far he's practically tripping everyone going past him on the steps.
3:01 Here come the Americans! Love the outfits - dark blue blazers with sharp white hats. One of the Lost Boys of Sudan, Lopez Lomong, is the flag bearer. An inspired choice. The symbolism, of course, is poignant. The Bush administration has done next to nothing about the horrors of Darfur other than mouth a few half-hearted condemnations. Seeing the Americans, Bush quickly leaps to his feet, grabbing his jacket and buttoning it up. Because he knows the cameras are on him now for sure, he grabs a small American flag from somewhere and begins shaking it with his right hand, like he's a little boy watching a Memorial Day parade in Galena.
3:05 The camera catches Bush, still standing and shaking his flag, cackling like someone just told him a joke. No one else appears to be laughing. Certainly not Laura, who doesn't appear to have said anything all night long.
3:10 Thailand is marching in now. The Parade of Nations is almost over, thank goodness. Bush is clearly near the end of his rope. He's back to sitting with his knees flung out to the sides. What's with that position? Has he just had hernia surgery? He's still got the little U.S. flag in his hand, except now he's banging it against his right thigh in utter boredom and glaring straight ahead, the furrows in his forehead so deep you could plant corn.
That's it. I'm looking forward to seeing Bush at the World Series.
Bush is...well, he's Bush. And I always react with a certain amount of glee when I see him in an unscripted situation: no teleprompters to read off of, no handlers whispering lines in his ear. It's just fantastic. I always expect him to come off like Billy Bob Thornton in "Sling Blade."
He didn't disappoint.
My second favorite moment was when he was talking about the President of Russia, and blatantly mispronounced his name. Now, I know Medvedev isn't a softball like Smith or Jones, but it's not impossible either. I tried it myself and got the hang of it after a try or two. I don't think it's asking too much for the President of the United States to know how to say the names of important people.
My single favorite moment was when Costas was asking Bush about a number of the ills facing our country - the mortgage crisis, skyrocketing national debt, low consumer confidence, the high price of food, etc. Bush interrupted to say that he didn't think America had those kinds of problems. Then he said things would be a whole lot better if China had more churches.
Costas had no idea how to respond. As soon as he could, he took it to a commercial break.
Priceless.
In honor of our President, here is my actual running diary of his activities during the Opening Ceremonies. The cameras only showed him a handful of times, unfortunately.
0:24 Bush makes his entrance into the stadium, dressed rather dapper in a sharp gray suit and a red tie. He shuffles down the stadium steps with Laura hanging onto his right arm. Amazingly, no one seems to notice him. Or cares to notice him. Not a single head turns as he passes by. He shakes hands with his next-door seat mates, a pleasant looking Chinese couple. Then he shakes hands with a bald guy in front of him who already seems sweaty. They sit down. A tall man suddenly comes into the picture. He's so tall we can't see his head on the screen. All we do know for sure is that he's standing with his crotch about three inches from Laura's face. Laura, looking uncomfortable, decides that she'd rather crane her neck back 90 degrees to look at his face rather than stare directly into his crotch. Meanwhile, Bob Costas, who can't think of anything interesting to say about W, talks about how smart W's father was.
0:41 A huge crowd of children walks onto the floor of the stadium, carrying the flag of China. The camera shifts to Bush, who is leaning across Laura to talk to Vladimir Putin. I can't read their lips very accurately, but I think it went something like this:
Bush: "Vlad, how's it hanging?"
Putin: "Fine. You know we invaded Georgia today."
Bush: "You did?"
Putin: "Yep."
Bush: "Well, alrighty then. Thank god South Carolina's OK."
1:48 The athletes of Turkmenistan march in, all dressed vaguely like Fidel Castro. Bush is shown watching intently through binoculars. This shows you what a huge sports fan Bush is. Clinton would have been scoping out a cute Chinese usher through his binoculars.
2:19 The India contingent strolls by. Meanwhile, Bush couldn't look more bored. He's taken off his suit coat and is sitting practically spread-eagled in his chair. He glares at his watch. Laura, who doesn't appear to be sitting spread-eagled, is staring blankly into space and checks her watch as soon as she sees her husband check his.
2:32 A small group of Iraqis marches in. The crowd gives them an enormous cheer. Bush gives them polite applause, clapping like his palms hurt. Laura, on the other hand, claps with wild, giddy enthusiasm, a strange grin on her face, like someone's tickling her from behind. As soon as W stops clapping, she stops clapping.
2:42 Suriname is in now. Pan to Bush, who looks slightly confused. Where's Suriname? Laura's hands are hidden behind the head of the woman sitting in front of her. She could be knitting for all I know.
2:55 Now it's Puerto Rico's turn. Bush is back to the binoculars. Does he ever let Laura take a turn with the binoculars? Everone around them in the stands is fanning themselves, trying to stay cool in the Beijing heat. Not the Bushes. And does W ever sit with his legs together? Good grief, his knees are sticking out so far he's practically tripping everyone going past him on the steps.
3:01 Here come the Americans! Love the outfits - dark blue blazers with sharp white hats. One of the Lost Boys of Sudan, Lopez Lomong, is the flag bearer. An inspired choice. The symbolism, of course, is poignant. The Bush administration has done next to nothing about the horrors of Darfur other than mouth a few half-hearted condemnations. Seeing the Americans, Bush quickly leaps to his feet, grabbing his jacket and buttoning it up. Because he knows the cameras are on him now for sure, he grabs a small American flag from somewhere and begins shaking it with his right hand, like he's a little boy watching a Memorial Day parade in Galena.
3:05 The camera catches Bush, still standing and shaking his flag, cackling like someone just told him a joke. No one else appears to be laughing. Certainly not Laura, who doesn't appear to have said anything all night long.
3:10 Thailand is marching in now. The Parade of Nations is almost over, thank goodness. Bush is clearly near the end of his rope. He's back to sitting with his knees flung out to the sides. What's with that position? Has he just had hernia surgery? He's still got the little U.S. flag in his hand, except now he's banging it against his right thigh in utter boredom and glaring straight ahead, the furrows in his forehead so deep you could plant corn.
That's it. I'm looking forward to seeing Bush at the World Series.
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