String Cheese - Article Eighteen

Singers often sing in star-bangled manner

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 12.15.08

I hate watching someone butcher our national anthem. Whether it’s at a social event, sports game, or kid’s birthday party, when the performer steps up to the mic, I don’t know whether to feel patriotism or dread. It’s amazing to me that a song, depending on the success of the performance, can leave you feeling happy about America or wanting to kill the singer.

When massacred, the national anthem could inspire a hostile crowd to chant, “Eat the performer!” Okay, mob cannibalism is a little extreme. However, a riot is not entirely out of the question.

When Francis Scott Key was watching Fort McHenry getting pummeled by British warships, he grabbed his pen and starting jotting down some words. After all, if you can’t fight... write. Ironically, Key’s college roommate was with him and dictated to Key most of the events of the battle. He was an Argentinian kid named Jose who also wore very thick glasses. Several times during the skirmish Key would ask his friend, “Jose, can you see?”

The rest is history. Sort of.

The Star Spangled Banner is considered to be one of the most difficult songs to sing. Although, it’s not nearly as difficult to sing as Staying Alive by the Bee-Gees.

There seems to be some confusion regarding the correct protocol when the song is performed. Some people put their hands over their hearts while some keep their hands down to their sides. I find myself often putting my hands over my ears.

When I was in the military, we had to stand at attention, salute, and face the music at the end of every business day on post. Of course, if you were indoors this wasn’t necessary.

One day a kid in my unit, [ironically] named Scheer, almost scalped himself completely as he hit his head on a low metal beam supporting a stairway landing as he tried to run inside before the music played. Needless to say he saw stars, stripes, and paramedics.

When I was overseas, we had to wait for the host country’s anthem to play before ours. I sure was glad that no country ever adopted Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung.”

If you want to browse an interesting collection of mangled performances of our country’s anthem, then look no further than You Tube. You can relive every excruciating moment of Roseanne Barr’s rendition or go way back to see Jose Feliciano’s version, which caused him to go blind. Not really. My favorite is Michael Bolton, who had to look at a cheat-card because he forgot the lyrics. Judging from the crowd’s reaction, they wanted his spleen with their nachos.

Those videos illustrate the point I made. Anyone can sing the song out of tune, but forget the words and it’s off the gallows with you.

For all would-be National Anthem singers I make this plea: learn the tune and don’t forget the words.

By the way, the words are “... perilous fight.”

A “...perilous flight” is what you get when the pilot falls asleep.

Jump, Jive, and Wail!

Happy Holidays.

I've got another cheese posting tomorrow. Hunting season has had me pretty busy, lately. Three weeks to go. Whew. I think I can make it.

A fellow police officer was killed in the line of duty in Houston just two days ago. In fact, the incident occurred not far from where I work my "EJ". When things like that happen it really makes me extra careful and paranoid.

ITMT, I'm going to West Texas to visit relatives. Oddly enough, they live right down the road from that polygamist compound that was raided (Ironically, by co-workers of mine). I may do some updates from the road. It largely depends on the type of cell service I can get way out there. 

Thanks for checking in with me and I will have a new article up tomorrow.

When you get a chance, check out videos by Brian Setzer on You Tube. That lucky bastard got all of my guitar playing ability when I was in line waiting on a sense of humor.

Nuts.

String Cheese- Article Seventeen

Kids’ games drive some parents batty
By ARYN CORLEY
In any given city on any given school night, pint-sized warriors take the field to match skills and attention disorders.Tee ball was created as a contest of genetic superiority. There isn’t a better way to metaphorically declare “my kid is better than your kid” than to have them on a baseball field wondering just what the heck to do next.
Pageants would be a lot better if only they had more contact.
Sometimes I wonder whether or not the game is really meant for the younsters or us parents.
If the game were truly for the kids, the parents would be asked to leave. Heck, instead of T-ball it could be called something else like “Play-in-the-antbed ball” or “Hey-look-it’s-a-plane ball.” If you really want a kid to become interested in aviation, put him or her in the outfield. Game time is the perfect time for amateur botanists to examine specimens.
Getting two dozen kids to play an organized game is like herding cats. You’d probably have an easier time brokering a peace deal between the Israelis and the Palestinians.I love it because it drives parents crazy.
At one of my son’s games, I watched the parents instead of the kiddos. It was definitely worth the price of admission.At first I thought the moms and dads were cheering, but as I listened closer those cheers sounded more like helpless pleas.
“Throw to first!,” one mom yelled.
“Run, run, run!,”, a dad bellowed.
“Stop picking your nose!,” cried a legal guardian.
It was not long before exasperated parents began to threaten their kids. People’s children were going to bed early and having video games taken away left and right. Let’s face it — fear is the substance of childhood. Without it, being a kid would be meaningless.The mere possibility of my parents ending my existence kept me always striving to hide the evidence.
Some of the parents yelled out to their offspring. They shouted names like “Forrest,” “Bo,” and “Hunter.” It seemed less like a T-ball game and more like a trip to Gander Mountain.
It’s also easy to tell which kids have an aptitude for the game. Any kid who actually watches the ball is way ahead of the curve. If the ball looked more like the Death Star (a spherical weapon of mass destruction from the movie Star Wars), my spawn would be interested in it.
A kid’s only saving grace for a lackluster performance is batting. An infield homer washes away many sins. Saying a kid hit like a girl used to be an insult. However, these days the girls are the ones who are batting the runners in.
Ruth, the Babe?
Thankfully, nobody keeps score. Good thing. Otherwise, it would be hard for the bookies to work out the point spread.

String Cheese- Article Sixteen

Halloween Memories Can Be Frightening
by Aryn Corley

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays.
When I was a kid I'd enjoy dressing up in strange costumes and accosting my neighbors for something sweet and bad for my teeth. My parents weren't at all concerned with the pagan origins of the holiday. Also, we didn't have a whole lot of cash laying around to spend on costumes.
They just thought it was funny to watch me dress up like some low-budget ghoul. In fact, the operating budget carried just enough money to buy one bag of candy and that was to go to other kids who came to my house.
Life is so cruel.
I didn't know it at the time, but it was no coincidence that we always got the candy my dad liked and it was usually gone by the time kids started arriving.
Anyway, back to my costumes.
Other kids were dressing up as pirates, sports figures, some even as biblical characters. Some of them had elaborate get-ups that were store bought.
Not I.
I always had to be whatever was laying around the house. Ed Wood would've been proud of me. There was no rhyme nor reason to my look. It defied explanation. People would ask me what my costume was and I would just shrug. I was the "Dunno" for many Halloweens.
One year I had green oatmeal stuck to my face. My mom got the brilliant idea of mixing oatmeal with green food coloring and globbing it all over my kisser. I looked as if Linda Blair tried to give me a makeover.As I went from house to house I got some very strange looks.
"What are you supposed to be young man?"
"I dunno."
"You look like someone puked their breakfast all over your face."
To add insult to injury, the guy dumped about a pound of candy corn into my small bag. Ugh.
The streets of Hell are paved with candy corn.
I dragged that sack around like a bag full of fossilized dinosaur droppings. At least my dad was excited about my take."Candy corn! My favorite!" he exclaimed.
Now that I'm a parent, I've decided to spare my children the indignity of roaming the neighborhood as a pile of dirty laundry. Ironically, my father runs a chain of stores which sell, of all things, Halloween costumes. My kids received some really cool things from grandpas store. The Darth Vader costume that came was pretty elaborate and the lightsaber that goes with it is pretty cool too. Where was all that stuff when I was a kid?
Life is so cruel.
It's just as well that they got fancy commercial costumes for Halloween. I probably would have dressed them up as something completely inappropriate like an Al-Queda operative or Monica Lewinsky (dress not included).We probably won't go trick-or-treating in the traditional sense. Creeping around in the dark dressed as 12 point buck is a recipe for getting shot around these parts. We'll probably end up going to the kids' school or to some other local gathering. Maybe the kids would like to go to a bar that night.
Those kids have it so easy.

Twitterpated

There is a website called TWITTER which lets users post small messages and stuff. It's kind of like text messaging. These days communication happens very quickly.
If you join TWITTER. Be sure to 'follow' user named ArynCorley.
That's me.

STRING CHEESE NOMINATED FOR SNA AWARD

*BREAKING NEWS*

My String Cheese Article Nobody Loves Love Bugs Like Lovebugs Love Bugs has been nominated for two Suburban Newspapers of America (http://www.suburban-news.org/Default.aspx) awards for Best Opinion Column and Best Headline.

Wow!

This should entitle me to a line item veto of "honey-do" lists.

String Cheese- Article Fifteen

Desperate times call for desperate recipes

BY ARYN CORLEY

As I view the photographs of the devastation caused by Hurricane Ike, I’m reminded of my kids’ rooms. The chaos and disorder of both can be overwhelming. Luckily, we didn’t suffer any damage and nobody was seriously injured. Thankfully, many of my friends came out of this storm with only a few trees down.

As with all natural disasters, there’s the time afterward when we scratch our heads and say to ourselves, “Now what?”

The hurricane damage in Southeast Texas ruined many planned events like Brad Paisley’s concert and the Texans football game. You know things are bad when the NFL has to reschedule a game. The Lord himself could come back to take us home right at halftime during the Super Bowl, and the NFL will ask him to kindly wait until the end of the game. That’s after checking to see if he’d bought a ticket.

However, East Texans weren’t going to let a little wind damage and power outage put a damper on doing what East Texans seem to do best: drinking and grilling.

The silver lining to this dark cloud is that we love food and whether it’s a hurricane, tornado, earthquake or flash flood, we’re going to “get our grub on.”

In the moments leading up to the storm, I saw hundreds of people scrambling around making preparations. I consistently saw the same things in the shopping carts as they rolled by: hot dogs, buns, chips and beer. It looked like people were getting prepared for an Astros game than a hurricane.

Liquor store parking lots looked like airports as scores of people were clamoring about to get in and out.

When the lights went out, the fires started. Across the county, the smell of lighter fluid wafted from one end to the other. After all, there was a fresh supply of smoking wood laying all over the place. For the next several days, barbecuing broke out instead of riots and hysteria.

It was pure heaven.

Everywhere I turned, someone was either sticking a rib in my mouth or stuffing a piece of grilled chicken in my shirt pocket.

People started cooking the meat from their freezers in order to prevent it from going to waste. Filet mignons that had been reserved for a special occasion had now become casualties of the storm. Where there’s barbecue, the beer is soon to flow.

At the POD (or point of distribution, as it was called), where I was working to hand out water and MREs, we were also doling out bags of ice like they were melting. Well, they were actually. As car after car came through, we popped open coolers to find they were filled with several different brands of sudsy brew. Nothing will keep the froth on a Miller Lite longneck bottle like a bag or two of government ice.

Let’s face it. When you’re dealing with insurance companies, you’re going need a drink. There’s no better time to “tie-one-on” than when your place is already trashed.

One guy even asked me if FEMA was going to bring any beer to the POD.

Fat chance.

Alas, all good things come to an end. The power coming back on was a bittersweet reunion. I wanted to ask SHECO if they could hold off on the power restoration.

At least until I could get some more jalapeno-stuffed dove breasts and a Miller Lite.

Our Country is in Peril

World economies are collapsing.
Consumer confidence is at the lowest levels in recent history.
Large companies are needing billion dollar bailouts.
All of this pales in comparison to the bombshell that I just heard on the news:

INJURY FORCES MAY-TREANOR OFF 'DANCING WITH THE STARS'

This is officially the end of the world.

String Cheese- Article Forteen

Nobody loves bugs like Lovebugs love bugs

Lovebug swarms this year are worse than normal, but hopefully they will be gone in a few days.

By ARYN CORLEY

Published: 09.08.08

The lovebugs are here.

Ick.

Quite frankly, I’m tired of their in-flight orgy getting all over my windshield. Would someone please tell these hedonistic little buggers to get a room? For Pete’s sake, there are kids watching!

Imagine spending the whole of your adult life (2, maybe 3 days, tops) being attached at the rump to your soulmate in coital flight when the both of you are suddenly smooshed on the front grill of a Peterbilt truck. Or worse yet, a Hyundai.

Sounds romantic doesn’t it?

Twice every year we’re treated to about a gazillion little black bugs and their “love fest.” Maybe they wouldn’t be so bad if they were a little more love and a lot less bug.

Some poking around on the Internet revealed interesting information about our amorous little guests.

If you want to really “bug” your entomology friends, use the term “love bug” instead of “lovebug.” As it turns out, lovebugs are actually flies and not really bugs at all. They belong to the order Diptera. I think that’s Latin for “annoying.”

True bugs belong to the order Hemiptera, which means “Honey, will you pick up that bug and throw it away because I’m afraid to touch it? And if you put it on me, I’m going to kill you!”

If you want the origins of the two words, you’ll have to consult an etymologist. Oh, the bureaucracy!

There’s an urban legend that suggests lovebugs were a genetic experiment gone wrong. According to the legend, the insects were created by the University of Florida to feed on mosquitoes. This notion is manifestly absurd because everyone knows that the University of Florida uses it’s genetic engineering lab to make football players.

Growing up in West Texas, I never saw too many lovebugs.

In fact, I saw quite a lot of “hate bugs,” which is just about anything with a stinger or a set of claws. Lovebugs like this area because of all the moisture we get here. The humidity reminds them of a day spa.

Surely, the Creator has a purpose for these creatures other than to answer the prayers of car wash owners and Turtle Wax representatives.

As it turns out, He does have a reason for them. The larvae feed on thatch, which is grass that lays on the ground and decays. In England, it’s your roof. They eat the buildup of organic matter in the environment, which means they are a necessary part of a healthy ecosystem.

They aren’t so necessary if you ride a Harley and smile a lot.

Lovebugs don’t have many natural enemies. Insectivores generally shy away from them because they taste acidic. My compliments go to the research scientist who actually got the insectivores to stop eating long enough to fill out a customer feedback card. If I had to choose the number one killer of lovebugs, it would be a toss-up between Ford and Chevy.

Occasionally, I’ll encounter a lovebug that’s all by itself. Those bugs are the most interesting to me and the one’s for whom I probably have the most affection. These iconoclastic little rebels have decided not to give in to peer pressure and have made a conscious effort to commit themselves to abstinence.

Or they might live an alternative lifestyle.

Lovebugs are the perfect metaphor for our own cycle of life. We mature, we mate, and then we end up on the metaphysical windshield. The process continues until time immemorial.

Thankfully, their visit is brief.

Pretty soon they’ll be gone and we can get back to the business of worrying about the things that don’t really matter in our lives.

I must admit though, I’m a little envious of any bug that gets the milk without having to buy the cow!

Soccer Has Leg Up on other Sports

by Aryn Corley

I don’t know what is going on with me right now, but I just can’t get enough soccer.

Maybe it’s because I played soccer as a kid, maybe it’s in my Latino blood. It could be because I told my son if he didn’t play soccer and score any goals, I’d buy something for his sister with his college fund. Right now I’m a soccer junkie and it’s driving my friends and family crazy.

Many of my friends don’t even follow sports. They tend to gravitate towards activities that involve shooting stuff. Talking soccer with them is like trying to explain a Playboy magazine to a blind guy.

The mere mention of the start of the Barclay’s Premier League brings a look on their faces that could only be described as “bored spitless.” By the way, the Premier League started on Aug. 16 and runs for nine months. Go, Manchester United!

Still, I don’t understand what’s not to like about soccer. The rules are simple: don’t use your hands while kicking a ball around for 90 minutes until you or someone else accidentally scores a goal. A goal is worth one point, which is very helpful to the mathematically challenged.

If the referee decides you need a warning, you get a yellow card. If the referee decides you’re stealing his oxygen, you get a red card, which removes you from the game and also alerts the valet to bring your car. Nobody even has to say a word.

Knowing this, it’s easy to see why it’s a very popular sport.

I will admit there are some shortcomings to the sport. Ties should be broken by a fistfight. To allow a game to end in a 0-0 tie is a disservice to fans of the sport. The whole purpose of sports is to pit winners against losers. The absence of cheerleaders at soccer games is a detriment. Let’s face it, the NY Jets have some really great cheerleaders. Otherwise, how would they sell out games?

My favorite thing about watching soccer on television are the announcers. It’s become an unofficial custom to shout “Goal!” and hold it as long as possible. There’s an announcer guy on Telemundo (Spanish-speaking television station) who can say “Goal!” for at least 40 seconds. In television land, that is a commercial and a half!

It usually goes something like this:

“Bladda bladda Lopez bladda bladda... bladda.... bladda bladda... GOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLL!

Try doing that in any other profession.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, your test results show you have a brain TOOOOOOOOOOOOMERRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!“

I’ve been trying to catch the Olympic soccer coverage on television, but the games are always on just after I lose consciousness. I get the results from the Internet, then download the highlights from You Tube. It makes me feel like a psychic.

Lately, I’ve been trolling E-Bay and buying soccer shirts on the cheap.

“Stop buying soccer shirts,” my wife tells me. “You have one for every day of the week.”

Meanwhile, I have no room in the closet for my new shirts because her clothes take up too much space. Don’t even get me started on the shoes.

One of my favorites is my jersey for the Guadalajara Chivas (translated: The Goats). On the front, in big red letters, is the word “BIMBO.” Bimbo is the world’s third largest bakery and is based in Mexico City.

However, she won’t go with me in public when I’m wearing that shirt.

I guess she doesn’t want to be seen with a goat.

Some interesting news...

RICE STRIKES MISSILE DEAL WITH POLAND
WARSAW, Poland (TxNews)- The United States and Polish governments signed an agreement allowing US missiles to be housed in Poland, making the Russians incredibly pissed off.U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and Polish Foreign Minister Radek Sikorski both pumped their fists and "whooped" several times after signing the treaty. Rice and Sikorski winked and elbow jabbed each other as they told the press that the missiles would only be used "... for defense. Yeah. That's it."The deal calls for the US to supply roughly 100 ballistic missiles and the Polish would supply the 10,000 infantrymen needed to carry them to their intended targets. Additionally, Poland has promised it will ship several bus loads of young teenage girls to West Texas.In Official statement released by the Kremlin's Soviet Press Secretary, Ivan Toczerkov, Russian President Dmitry Medvedev said," Whatever."Calls placed to 'Shamu' still have not been returned.

PHELPS UPS BID FOR WORLD DOMINATION
SAN ANTONIO(TxNews)- U.S. Olympic swimming champion, Michael Phelps, announced on Tuesday, he wants to race 'Shamu' to decide once and for all who is the fastest swimming mammal on Earth.
"Breaking world records is great. But, I'm ready for some REAL competition!" said the 23 year old man-porpoise.
Phelps won eight Olympic gold medals for swimming at the 2008 Olympic games in Beijing. He currently holds 4 world records and is tied with U.S. Olympic swimming champion Mark Spitz for most medals won in a single games competition.
'Shamu' was unavailable for comment. Calls to Sea World San Antonio, a subsidiary of Anheiser-Busch, were not immediately returned.
"I'm gonna spank me some whale ass," said Phelps confidently.
The date and venue have yet to be set.

Dirty Jobs and Helplessness

There are people out there who do the sickest things imaginable. One of them is plumbing.
Plumbers are often times unsung heroes doing a thankless job.
To go into a stranger's house and dally around with the disease nexus of the whole home takes dedication that I don't have.
Furthermore, you have to sometimes go when the weather is the worst.
I'm waiting on a plumber to come fix a toilet in my house that is possessed by demons. At the same time, there's a pretty sensational thunderstorm going on outside.
My hat is off for the poor soul that who not only has to deal with my crap, but also might get hit by lightning as well.
Keith, you're my hero.

String Cheese - Article Twelve

Nothing stinks like gas prices
by Aryn Corley

Unless you’ve been living under a rock (or in Iraq, for that matter), you don’t need me to tell you the price of gas is too freakin’ high.While “Big Oil” is posting record profits every quarter, we, the American people, have to find new and creative ways to get from Point A to Point B.

Lately, I’ve been seeing lots of people riding horses. It’s funny to think we’ve come full circle and are once again relying on our equine friends. Man has used horses to get around for thousands of years. Why should we quit now?While I don’t mind people riding horses down the middle of town on a busy day, I just wish they had blinkers on their backsides. Sometimes it’s hard to tell when one is turning.
Mobility scooters have become popular recently with the older set. Some of these things can zip along at almost 10 miles per hour! I hope they’ll have scooter races at the new motorsports park. Not only are they battery-powered, but they’re also quiet and clean for the environment. No harmful fumes to peck away at the ozone layer.

That is, of course, unless the driver has eaten enchiladas for lunch.

It worries me though when I see an octogenarian with a Tony Stewart complex driving one of these things on a paved road. If you get hit by one of these things, you may have to go to the clinic to have it removed. I’m hoping if I make it to 80, the hovercraft will have been perfected.

The high price of gasoline has also sparked dialogue about the research and development of alternative fuels. Bio-diesel is a term that’s been kicked around in the news lately as a possible source of alternative fuel. Basically, your car’s engine is modified to run using vegetable oil. There’s actually something kind of cool about the idea of driving a French fryer. If this catches on, McDonald’s might install pumps in its drive-through. Willie Nelson’s tour bus apparently runs on bio-diesel. Some of his fans say that it’s harder to find his tour bus now because it smells like French fries instead of “Hippie Lettuce.”

Electricity is always an option, but for some reason people don’t like the idea of having to put in all those “AA” batteries. The average automobile would take about 10,000 of those little guys. Another problem with electric cars is power. If you live 20 miles away from work, you’d be hard pressed to find an extension cord that long. There is one plus though. To jump-start an electric car, instead of using those annoying cables, just drag your feet across shag carpeting, then touch it.

Youch!

While all of these things are a step in the right direction toward quelling or dependence on fossil fuels, they still miss the mark. I’m not an engineer or a research scientist. However, I think I have an idea that will revolutionize the petroleum industry and usher in a new era of American ingenuity.

(Drum roll)

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: the BS engine.

(Thunderous applause)

The concept is very simple: an engine that runs on BS. Everywhere in our great country, thousands of tons of BS are generated every day. There’s so much BS, it’s unreal. The average American spends most of their day at work and at home wading through BS. In fact, our government practically runs on it already. There has got to be a useful application for all of the BS in the world. Ironically, it’s BS that’s driving up the price of gas. With a BS engine, the typical American family could continuously fill it up without ever having to spend a single penny on fuel.

Whether the BS came from work, home, or television, it wouldn’t matter where the BS came from because it would all work the same. Airplanes could even be outfitted with these engines. Imagine the possibility. After all, no place generates BS quite like an airport.

Some may think my humble idea is a joke, but I’m dead dog serious. Remember, it was the disbelievers and the “naysayers” who laughed at Thomas Edison when he invented Viagra.

I’ll be the first person on my block to have a car that’s totally powered by BS. And I already have the perfect fuel — String Cheese articles!

The World According to Gar

Bowfishing rocks! Nuff' said.

RSS Feed Thingy

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String Cheese- Article Eleven

'Five Stars' Can't Outshine Lone Star
by Aryn Corley

There’s no place like East Texas.

I recently attended a wedding in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The picturesque mountains there provide a stunning backdrop to the surge of “cookie cutter” housing developments going on in the area. It was nice to visit during a time when there wasn’t any danger of freezing off parts of my body.

The wedding itself was held at the historical Broadmoor Hotel. The Broadmoor Hotel is a very nice, top-of-the-line five star establishment. To the rest of the world, it’s a place of luxury and elegance. To us East Texans, it’s a whole lot bigger than Wal-Mart.

In the front of the hotel, valets were scurrying around parking people’s cars while bellhops were rushing around taking care of the luggage. I saw one lady who had so many bags I thought she was moving there! A guy in a turkey-pee yellow colored jacket and hat asked me if he could take my car. He was the either the nicest car jacker ever or he worked for ABC’s Wild World of Sports.

I handed him the keys, then my wife, kids, and I cautiously entered the enormous building.

Inside the hotel, everything was ornately decorated. The floors sparkled and the brass shined like the rails outside of the Walls Unit in Huntsville. It was also filled with thousands of things any 2-year-old would love to get their tiny “raccoon fingers” on. On the wall hung a picture of a disdainful old man who looked like he was about to shoot lasers out of his eyes. It was one of those creepy pictures where the eyes seem to follow you as you move around.

I approached a long wooden counter top where two people were smiling and looking at me. I slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and said, “Bartender, I’ll have a Shirley Temple!” Their faces suddenly looked like that old man in the picture. “This is the registration desk, sir. Libations are served in the hotel bar on the mezzanine level.”

Mezzanine? Libations? I was starting to feel like Jed Clampett.

The hotel bar has a patio area overlooking a small lake filled with swans, geese, and several other varieties of waterfowl. I sat at a table and was approached by a man dressed like a bus driver. I asked what the special for the day was and he told me it was Duck A L’orange.

“I’ll believe I’ll have that one right there,” I said, pointing to a bloated swan.

His face started to look like those two people at the registration desk. He walked away and I never saw him again. He must’ve been a ghost.

Suddenly, I realized my wife and kids were nowhere to be seen. When my children are quiet, they’re usually up to no good. It didn’t take me long to find my two heathen cave children throwing peppermints at a poor squirrel sitting on a planter. I couldn’t decide who was more foolish, the kids for trying to bag a squirrel using hotel candy or the squirrel for taking it. As it turns out, my wife had run to the restroom, leaving them unattended. She’d gotten sick when she saw a woman carrying an actual Hermes “Birkin” handbag. The price of those hag bags is more than my Chevy pick-up truck!

After the wedding, we ate in The Penrose Room. For those who like fine dining and excellent quality food and service, this place is like heaven. For those who are more into seven-layer burritos and Route 44 Dr. Peppers with vanilla, then this is a little piece of hell.

My 5-year-old is such a picky eater that I couldn’t imagine why he wouldn’t want a Caesar salad. To him it “smells like feet.” My wife couldn’t get over how much the six-course meal cost. It affected her so much, she had to go back to the ladies room for another round of disbelief.

My 2-year-old declared she had to go to the toilet too. Anyone who’s ever potty trained a kid knows when they say that, you have about five seconds to respond. I scooped up my child and headed for the bathroom. I hadn’t gotten very far before a very official man wearing a bus driver’s supervisor uniform stopped me.

“Excuse, me sir. You have to have a jacket on when you come into the ballroom,” he said curtly.

I paused. Then very politely I responded.

“ I don’t have a jacket anymore because I donated it to a homeless guy who really needed it. Unless you want this 2-year-old to drop wolf-bait on your dance floor, I recommend you letting us pass.”

The nice man glared at me and stepped aside. He must’ve been related to that old grouch in the picture in the lobby.

Not long after that encounter we left. The Broadmoor Hotel is a nice place, and I recommend everyone to see it and stay there if you have the dough. Be warned! I don’t think it’s a place for the redneck crowd. Since being in East Texas, I’ve grown accustomed to the unrefined and uncomplicated way we live here in the Piney Woods.

Some people may call it uncivilized. I call it home.

UPDATE: It seems that bears read String Cheese too. I bet they let him slide on the jacket...
http://www.denverpost.com/rapids/ci_10070899

The "Lonliest Man in the World"

As I was fleeing from Houston today during rush hour traffic, I was listening to Dave Moody (of Sirius NASCAR radio channel 128) talk about Jessie White (http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=3747).
For those of you who don't know, Jessie White was the ORIGINAL Maytag repairman. Sadly Mr. White died in JAN of 1997. He was 79 years old.
On FEB 26, 1996, I was on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and appeared on camera with Mr. White for a bit called "Midnight Confessions". My punishment for heckling Bill and Hillary Clinton (along with British Prime Minister John Major and his wife; sorry.) was to play solitaire with the Maytag Repairman.
He was a nice guy and told me that the key to winning at solitaire was "... to cheat." He chomped on a cigar and feebly laid the cards on the table backstage. When the show returned from commercial break, we were there playing cards.
As far as I know, this was the last time Mr. White was seen alive on television.
So what does this get me? Nothing.
However, it's not often that you get to meet a pop-culture icon in person. It's even more rare to have shared his last comedic endeavor with the rest of the world.
Rest in Peace, Mr. White.

Extra Cheese

I think I'll also use this space for articles which might not make regular print. Here, I don't have to worry too much about advertisers getting angry. I'll try to keep the profianity to a minimum as well. Have fun!

New Research Gives New Meaning to ‘Watermelon Thump’
by Aryn Corley

There has been much ballyhoo lately about a study, which came out of College Station recently. In it, Dr. Bhimu Patil, director of Texas A&M’s Fruit and Vegetable Improvement Center, claims that certain ingredients found naturally in watermelons may have a “Viagra” like effect.
Hold on. Let me get this straight. There’s a Fruit and Vegetable Improvement Center at Texas A&M?
According to Dr. Patil, watermelons may be more beneficial that just something sweet to eat on a hot summer day. The ingredient –citrulline- helps blood vessels to relax. Much like Viagra does.
Viagra is a drug which enhances male erectile dysfunction. It was developed during WW2 as a way to keep G.I.’s from rolling out of their bunk beds. Back then it was called “Operation Kickstand”.
Just when nature had dealt grandpa his last card, Viagra put him back in the game with a full.. er… deck.
Sadly, Dr. Patil didn’t elaborate on just how many watermelons you had to eat to make Mr. Johnson and the Juice Crew motivated.
Luckily, a friend of mine grows watermelons. So, I decided to do a week long study of my own just to find out what would happen. For this experiment, I ate Charlston Grey watermelons from Polk County, Texas. Here’s how it went:
Monday – ate about five pounds worth of melon. No viagra effect. More like Coors effect. I’ve peed more than Seabiscuit!
Tuesday – ate another five pounds. No effect. My stool looked like Darth Vaders lightsaber. It was glowing and red.
Wednesday – I upped the dosage to seven pounds of watermelon. Still no effect. Although, I did call my wife several times to see what she was doing.
Thursday- Ate another seven pounds. Dreamed about Dolly Parton carrying two huge Black Diamond melons in a bag. No effect.
Friday- Upped dosage. Ate ten pounds of watermelon. Had to change into pants. Too drafty outside for shorts. No effect.
Saturday- Ten pounds consumed. Started hearing voices. Seeing green. Must go lie down.
Sunday- Awoke in the morning to a house in shambles. There are large holes in the walls and things were knocked off the table. I must have sleepwalked. Plus, I’m sore.

Well, there you have it. I dunno what it was, but I can tell you it’s nice to have a break from watermelon for a little while.
If watermelons act like Viagra, I wonder what kumquats are good for?

String Cheese - Article Ten

Tomatoes Ripe for Revolution!
by Aryn Corley

The end is near.
It’s time to pack up our earthly belongings and get ready for that sweet chariot to “swing low.” When the tomatoes have had their way with us, there will be nothing left but roaches, our ghosts, and two plumbers trying to videotape us.
The recent salmonella outbreak among our nation’s tomato crop is nothing short of a well-coordinated terrorist attack. The tomatoes are tired of us and they aren’t taking it anymore.
Could their hatred of humanity be justified?
Millions and millions of tomatoes are slaughtered every year to satisfy humanity’s insatiable appetite. It seems the tomato is destined for one thing: food. Scores of tomatoes have worked hard to reach their full potential only to end up as a garnish. Or worse yet, a little rose on a food display in some country club.
Tomatoes have to brave extreme temperatures, disease and ravenous insects to even get a chance to compete in this world. Life is pretty bad when PETA activists have no ethical dilemma about eating you.
Before the attack, we had a wonderful relationship with our vegetable cousin, the tomato. Our two species have much in common. Both have many of which are rotten. We both have mushy insides. We were both kicked out of a garden.
Our popular culture is littered with tributes to the tomato. Country singer Guy Clark sung praises about “Homegrown Tomatoes.” Author Fannie Flagg (yep, from the “Match Game”) wrote a book called “Fried Green Tomatoes,” which was later made into a movie that seemed to seep with estrogen. And who could forget the eerily prophetic, John De Bello classic, “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes?”
Just up the road, a small town called Jacksonville has its whole identity wrapped up in the tomato. The local high school, whose mascot is the “Fightin’ Indian,” plays its home games at the Tomato Bowl. They even have an annual Tomato Fest on the second Saturday in June. Someone needs to warn the citizens of Jacksonville to this new threat!
In Eastern Spain, in a small town named Bunol, on the last Wednesday in August, La Tomatina breaks out and the town is fully engulfed in a tomato war for about two hours. When the tomato carnage is over, the streets look like the aftermath of the Battle of Del Monte.
It should come as no surprise that these insidious insurgent tomatoes tried to get one of their own nested in the highest office of our government. Senator John Kerry’s wife, Theresa Heinz Kerry, currently holds the patent to ketchup. Thankfully, Bush “stole” the election and kept the White House from getting stained.
It’s hard to see just where things went wrong.
This animosity toward us may be the result of our inability to properly categorize tomatoes as fruits. Since the tomato grows from the ovary of the plant and contains the seeds within it’s a fruit. Vegetables are generally the extraneous edible parts of a plant (e.g. cabbage leaves). If you really want to blow your mind, try figuring out if a banana is a fruit or an herb. Thankfully, bananas are dumb or else they’d develop nukes and let us really have it.
Right now the tomatoes are winning. If we are to combat this menace we can’t let these foul fruits dictate how we live our lives. If we start taking tomatoes off the menu, what’s next? We can’t give in to the hysteria. The government is invariably going to add another color to the already recondite terror alert. In the War Room at the Pentagon, some general will be yelling, “Take us to Def Con Prego!”
If there is to be an epic battle in Texas, between man and tomato, I’m going to the Alamo to make my last stand. When the historical (or hysterical) commission erects a monument, it will read: “‘Lettuce’ remember the bravery of those who endeavored to ‘squash’ such evil tomatoes, and whose ‘thyme’ was cut so short. May they rest in ‘peas.’”

Family Trip

We finally made it to Colorado!
It was an arduous task driving straight through for the better part of sixteen hours. While making this trip, several things became clear to me. If the kids in the Donner Party were fighting in the back seat, I totally understand why they were eaten.
We're accustomed to making this trek in the winter time. It was a novelty to make the trip without freezing off the protruding parts of our bodies. It was also a delight to see the parched beauty of the American west in all of its splendor. As we rolled through the mountain pass at Raton, New Mexico, I could just imagine the settlers screaming, " If I have to tell you one more time to stop picking at each other, I'm pulling this wagon over and you're going to walk the rest of the way!"
Today, as in pioneer days, cell coverage sucks.
Also, until now, I never understood why dad farted in the car.
Revenge.

String Cheese - Article Nine

Proper Gratuity just 'TIP' of the Iceberg
by Aryn Corley

Chances are, you know someone who’s done it at least once.
You can definitely get better at it with a little practice.
After it’s done, I sometimes feel good.
Sometimes, I think I did it too much.
Of course, I’m talking about tipping.
As long as there are people on the planet. the custom of kicking back a little extra coin for service will remain. It’s unclear where the custom originated.
I’ve heard that the word “tips” is an acronym for “to insure proper service.” I’ve also heard that it refers to tipping the scales in one’s favor. Despite the shady etymology of the word, the practice leaves me wondering just what the heck am I supposed to do?
I’ve gotten better at it, but it’s cost me a lot of money and trouble.
I was in a situation not too long ago where I was unsure if I should tip the nice lady driving the airport shuttle. After she dropped me off she stood there looking at me as if I’d forgotten something. Luckily, I played stupid. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pack of gum.
“Want some?” She got back on the shuttle and drove off without a word. I guess she didn’t like spearmint.
The most likely place you’re going to tip is at a restaurant. Hotels, airports, barbershops and valet parking are other places where tipping is generally accepted. Crack dealers are not entitled to tips mainly because they fail to report their earnings to the IRS.
I’m going to lay down three very simple suggestions to act as a guide. Please keep in mind these are only suggestions.
First suggestion: Reward good work with your tip. If you get great service, let that person know with a couple of Washingtons and an “Honest Abe.” Be sure it’s the paper kind and not quarters and nickels. Conversely, if the service stinks, don’t reward it. I used to leave cruddy tips for cruddy service in the base of an inverted water glass. It’s an old magician’s trick where a glass is left upside down on a table full of water. I would only do this if I got terrible service and I knew I wasn’t coming back.
Second suggestion: Tip what you feel is appropriate. The general consensus is that 15 percent is generally acceptable for restaurant service. I figure about $.75 per $5 dollars of the bill. I will usually round the bill up or down to the nearest five. Skycaps, valets, bellhops and pizza delivery personnel can get by with a couple of bucks tip. If you’re staying in Armenia and the valet parks your car, it’s totally acceptable to tip him a goat.
Third suggestion: Don’t feel obligated to tip. Don’t get suckered by “guilt cans” left at the front of the cash register at some fine establishments. I thought about walking into some of these places and putting my own can out that reads “FREE STUFF.” Nobody likes to get “stiffed” or be a “stiff.” A “stiff” is someone who doesn’t pay a tip and not getting paid a tip is called getting “stiffed.” When I worked as a waiter, I got stiffed a couple of times. It happens.
Because of instant gratuity on groups larger than eight or more, I’ll only go out with a group of seven or less. The smaller group of us that dines together usually ends up giving a bigger tip than we would have if our other friends had not been forced to wait outside!
Tipping should be on your terms with what you feel is acceptable, how much is acceptable, and if it’s appropriate. It’s nice to give a little extra to those who have gone above and beyond to help you. I hope that these simple suggestions take some of the pain out of kissing your cash goodbye.
Remember what the leper said to his urologist, “You can keep the tip.”

String Cheese - Article Eight

Ghost Shows are Lacking Real Spirit
by Aryn Corley

The other night I was flipping through the channels trying to find something that would rot my brain. Since I have satellite television, it wasn’t going to be very difficult.

I wasn’t in the mood for pre-pubescent karaoke contests, nor did I really want to see nitwits living in a house together. I wanted to watch something that was going to make me yell at the screen.

Luckily, my digital surfboard landed me on a program called “Ghost Hunters.”

Just from seeing the title, I figured it was going to be about two dudes sitting in a blind waiting to shoot some hapless ghost that wanders into a baited area.

Boy, was I wrong!

“Ghost Hunters” is a reality-type program featuring two plumbers and their buddies conducting paranormal investigations with hi-tech gadgets. While these guys are out chasing spooks, some poor parapsychologist is busy with a drain snake trying to “fish out” a child’s rubber ducky from a clogged toilet.

I’m a firm believer that facts must never encroach upon entertainment value under any circumstances. To me, watching these guys bumbling around in the dark is entertaining. However, I just wish these guys could be a little more skeptical in their approach to investigating these “hauntings.”

The evidence collected so far from these types of investigations paints a grim picture of the afterlife. If these programs are to be believed, we can assume that we become complete idiots after we die.

After watching this show, I’ve drawn some conclusions about our friends who didn’t listen to Carol Anne and stayed away from the light in “Poltergeist.”

Ghosts are completely inept when it comes to communicating with the living. Their lack of vocal ability has made them so angry they throw things about and play with the thermostat. On many occasions, one of the “investigators” reports feeling a cold spot in the room. Had the guy felt warm, he probably would have chalked it up to menopause.

Ghosts also have a tendency to haunt really depressing places. In one show, the ghost hunters went to a building supposedly haunted by people who’d gone insane.

As it turns out, the building was once a Department of Motor Vehicles office. Rest assured, ghosts won’t be caught dead at Disneyland or Fiesta Texas. If they are there, they’re probably with some group on a theme day.

Regardless, of their disembodied natures, ghosts apparently still have some sense of decorum and have the decency to wear clothes when they go about their daily activities. Nothing could be more disturbing than seeing the ghostly figure of Ulysses S. Grant walking around without his pants on. Every single person reporting a ghost sighting can usually tell gender and mode of dress.

It’s comforting to know that there’s a celestial second hand store waiting to outfit the recently departed as they make their way through limbo. I just hope when it’s my time I’ll have shoes that’ll match my handbag.

Ghosts tend to be very introverted. They don’t like to be photographed, videotaped or sketched. Every time someone comes in with a camera, the ghost fails to appear. What are they afraid of? It’s not like the camera’s going to add 10 pounds of ectoplasm. Yet, they shy away from the camera like hillbillies at a soap convention.

Sadly, as I watch this show, I quickly realize that these guys aren’t doing any better than anyone else nor are they gathering any compelling new evidence to support the existence of ghosts. They barely had me believing they were actually plumbers!

Too bad.

If ghosts do exist I’d like for them to tell me about what happens on the “other side.” If I’m going to need to bring a towel, I’d like to know beforehand. Besides, who wouldn’t want to see Elvis in concert just one more time? (On a side note: I’d possess Demi Moore over Whoopi Goldberg any day of the week!)

Having all I could stand, I turned off the television and decided it would be better instead to go slam my fingers in a door. While I don’t believe in the existence of ghosts and haunted houses, I did remember a strange occurrence I had at a local restaurant a while back.

A very pale man dressed as a waiter came to my table, took my order, then disappeared. I never saw him again.

Had he brought me the chicken I ordered it may have been a “poultry-geist.”

String Cheese Article- Number Seven

It's 5 'o'Clock-Where's Your Shadow?
by Aryn Corley

Shaving is an art.
Shortly after Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden, Eve turned to Adam and said, “ I don’t like your stubble. You need to shave.”
Not to be outdone, Adam responded with, “ Well at least my legs don’t look like Chewbacca.”
As I lather up in the mornings, preparing myself for my own depilation, I often think about how mankind has embarked on a quest to rid itself of unwanted body hair.
For men, facial hair has been a matter personal identity as well as social acceptance. What adolescent boy hasn’t waited for that one “starter hair” hair to come in and usher him into manhood? However, 20 years later that same boy finds it a real hassle to shave every morning and wishes those hairs were on top of his head. Sadly, both his job and the woman who gets his paycheck demand it.
Nowadays, it’s more common to see men clean-shaven. Even moustaches have taken a holiday. Even fewer still are faces with a full-on beard. Imagine what Grizzly Adams would be like without that big bushy beard. He’d probably look like a weirdo and get mauled by that bear. If the Quaker Oats guy had just a tad more facial hair, he’d look a lot less like Barbara Bush.
For women, clean-shaven is highly encouraged. There’s nothing more discouraging than snuggling with a woman who’s got the whole ZZ Top thing going. Women even take it a step further doing crazy things with their eyebrows. It kills me to see a woman who’s removed her eyebrows completely only to draw them on crookedly with a pencil. I once worked with a woman who drew her eyebrows on in such a way it looked like she was in a perpetual state of surprise. Every time I’d talk to her, I’d catch myself opening my eyes really wide and hiking my unibrow as high as it would go.
The methods for removing hair are as varied and creative as anything you’d find in the London Dungeon.
I remember a little device called an “Epilady” that my mom had lying around the house. Basically, it was a spring on a handle. While I never used it, I distinctly remember my mom cussing like a longshoreman and chucking that thing out into the yard after about the tenth time she used it.
Late night television ads show nice looking women using goop, lasers, electrolysis, and other hi-tech means of distancing themselves from their mammalian heritage. Some of this James Bond stuff can cost hundreds of dollars. Actually, it might be cheaper to expose oneself directly to uranium.
Luckily for us guys, the choices are few: duct tape or a razor.
I saw an advertisement recently featuring Tiger Woods and the latest razor that looked like a tiny set of vertical blinds on a stick. Who is he kidding? Tiger Woods has got so much cash he can pay his hair to stop growing!
When I was in the military, I had to shave every morning. The Department of Defense philosophy is to look your best when bringing ferocious audacity to the enemy. Many of my cohorts would bring rechargeable electric razors with them out into the field. It was always funny to see these guys pool their intellect as they tried figure out how to recharge the darned things.
Personally, I like living on the edge.
When I shave, I use an “old skool” straight razor. There’s something kind of cool about shaving with an instrument primarily used by serial killers. With each stroke along my neck, I hear Johnny Depp singing songs from the movie “Sweeney Todd.”
I have to very careful about what I’m doing. Otherwise, my face ends up looking like a B-17 after a bombing run over Germany.
Departmental policy not withstanding, I have to shave because I can’t grow facial hair. Previous attempts at growing some resulted in me looking like a Chia Pet with a bad case of mange. Too bad. I could’ve been a great third world dictator if I were more hirsute.
As I finish the last of my three S’s, I notice my son watching me with the same morbid fascination that brings people to NASCAR races. He wants to see someone get hurt.
I turn to my son and share with him the wisdom of screenwriter, and all-around kooky guy, Samuel Hoffenstein:
“Babies haven’t any hair
Old men’s heads are just as bare
Between the cradle and the grave
Lie a haircut and a shave.”
“You’re weird,” he says politely.

Vote for Me!

Please go to Archery Talk and give me five stars for my article. I'm in it to win some archery equipment. If I win, you can have some deer jerky from the deer I kill with the bow if I win. Just follow the link below. Vote early and vote often.

http://www.archerytalkblog.com/?p=273

Bows and Arrows

While I wouldn't consider myself an archer, per se, I do own a compond bow and use it for hunting. Furthermore, I'm also into bow fishing as well.
Someone asked me, "Doesn't shooting fish with an arrow seem a bit unfair to you?"
I replied," No, it doesn't. On the other hand, the price of gas these days is terribly unfair."
My economic stimulus check is being put to good use since I bought another bow with a portion of that money. I just bought a Browning Impulse bow fishing bow.
Coincidentally, I bought this Impulse bow on the spur of the moment. Not really. I'd been looking for another bow to use for bow fishing.
I can't wait for it to get here. It's going to be great!
In the meantime, I found an archery website that is holding a writing contest. They claim to be giving some bows away.
I think I'll toss my hat into the ring for that one. To buy a bow is one thing. To win one is the best.
Wish me luck!

NEWS FLASH!!!!

There is video of a certain Possum Cop. Thanks to News 8 of Austin.

http://www.news8austin.com/content/your_news/default.asp?ArID=158126

Be sure to watch the whole thing. They save the best for last. Bear in mind that I was also about 20 pounds heavier then. That's after what the camera adds, of course.
To see it, click on the "watch video" in that little box. You'll have to turn off the pop-up blockers to see it.

Enjoy!

String Cheese Article - Number Six

2008 Olympics: The Year of the Rat
by Aryn Corley

Let the games begin.
In August of 2008, the games of the 29th Olympiad will be held in Beijing, China, amid the tumultuous masses unable to finish their third helping of General Tso’s chicken.
However, the games are already mired in controversy like a child’s toy slathered with generous helpings of lead-based paint.
The hullabaloo centers on China and its disaffection for Tibet. For those “out-of-the-loop,” Tibet is a province of China, which wants its independence and has no bikini team.
Strangely and probably due to Tibet’s Hollywood cheerleader, Richard Gere, Tibet is the world’s largest renter of the movie “Pretty Woman.”
Activists groups are calling for a boycott of the Olympics because of China’s harsh treatment of the Tibetan people. China’s reaction toward Tibet is the same as ours would be if Louisiana wanted its independence from the US.
Nevermind.
The Chinese may be a little heavy-handed in the way they mete out justice, but it keeps the graffiti off that big wall.
Some people think the International Olympic Committee made a big mistake by selecting China as a host nation for the Olympics. Such a blunder should be worthy of the IOC to change its initials to mean “Interfering with Original Coke.” The Olympic Torch relay has even been cut short, or outright canceled, in some cities because of safety concerns. I’m sure there’s a joke about the Olympic flame being in San Francisco, but I just can’t think of one.
Personally, I see the proverbial glass as half full of germs and bacteria. I’m fiendishly optimistic about the games being held in the country that pioneered gunpowder, fire drills and water torture.
I can just picture the opening ceremonies. The athletes from the other countries come running into the stadium in pure horror while tanks and “goose-stepping” army men escort the Chinese National Team. The Olympic flame would then be lit by one huge nuclear missile while the Chinese discus champ, Hu Flung Pu, looks on in patriotic wonder.
Then, all the malcontent youth could go get a Mao Tse-tung piercing?
I’m hoping there’ll be modifications to some of the games. You know, to make things a little more interesting. Who wouldn’t like to see 10 meter platform diver Jessica Livingston do an inward dive into a tank full of hammerhead sharks? Instead of a baton, the runners of the 4 x 100 meter relay can pass an egg roll.
If you come in last place for any of the events, it’s off to the stockade. The Chinese really have an opportunity to add a little flavor to the otherwise inherently drab Olympic competition.
I would love some brand new events to be added to the Olympic games. For example, there’s rickshaw driving. How cool would it be to see Dale Earnhardt Jr. win a gold medal for pulling tourists around an oval track for four hours? Instead of javelins, why not throw a chopstick to see how far it will go? I would suggest cat herding, but, as I understand it to be, cats are hard to find just roaming the streets there.
Of course the Olympics wouldn’t be the same without the blatant commercialism that comes with it. I fully expect Olympic sponsors to embrace the Chinese. I can totally see General Electric running ads like: “G.E., we bring good things to life. Flip the switch. It’s dead again.” Maybe we’d be fortunate to see a Wrigley’s gum ad, which proclaims, “Double your torture. Double your fun.” What could be more heartwarming than the ads showing the hundreds of underpaid workers laboring in a sweatshop making shoes for the Olympians with the words underneath reading: “Just Do It”?
The Olympics are an opportunity for nations to unite for a common purpose: to pit their steroid users against ours. The games shouldn’t be politicized or be used as a forum to bring about change. That’s what wars are for. The games are just that: games. Besides, if China does a good job with these Olympics, maybe the IOC could hold the next ones in Iraq.
I can’t help but recall the wisdom of that great Chinese philosopher and fortune cookie scribe, Confucius, who said, “ Man who eat crackers in bed wake up feeling crumby.”

Marathon Man

I'm running a marathon. Let me rephrase that... I want to run a marathon.
Why?
It's for my own personal glory. There's nothing I can do to make my missus love me any more or my kids listen to me any less so... why not?
Since mid-march we went to Nashville and that put a kink in my training. I've also been recovering from illness the past week. This means that I'm back on a training schedule as of TODAY.
I'd be lying if I said I'm motivated to run. I'm not. I'm having to psyche myself up as I write this.
Would you, dear reader, do me favor? Please leave some encouragement for me so that when I don't feel like running, I can look at them and get motivated.
My mind says it's a good thing. My body says, : Oh, hell no!"
Thanks for all of your help.

String Cheese Article - Number Five

Never Fear, Political Underdogs are Here!
by Aryn Corley

I’m sick of politics.

To me, the presidential race is like a 10-day-old Thanksgiving turkey; it’s a cold, bland bird that’s outlived its usefulness and has little or no appeal. Much like Joan Rivers.

Just kidding, Joan. Can we talk?

With the way these candidates are taking shots at each other, Obama, Clinton, and McCain should be renamed Moe, Larry, and Curley, respectively. I must admit, though, I’d find the presidential debates more interesting if there was more eye-poking and a pie-in-the-face, or two. A town hall meeting would be the perfect place for the “Niagara Falls” bit.

Lately, the “Big Three” have been saying things, which weren’t exactly truthful. The candidates have “misspoke” regularly about their qualifications. It must be a virus. Personally, I enjoy the apologies and retractions. There’s been so much tap dancing that Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, and Gregory Hines have all been rolling in their graves.

Sadly, they’ve failed miserably at inspiring me to vote for them. Come to think of it, they’ve all failed miserably at bribing me to vote for them. Who else is there to capture the hearts and whines of the American people?

I like rooting for an underdog.

Our country was founded by underdogs. Bookies went broke covering the bets on the Revolutionary War. Written in the Bible is the story of a young man who slew a giant who had a severe allergy to being hit with rocks.

If we didn’t like underdogs, Rambo wouldn’t be popular.

So, I did some searching around the net on a quest for the political underdog for whom my vote will most likely be cast. I wanted to find an “Average Joe” who tossed his or her hat in the political ring the same way a bug slams itself into a windshield.

It’s all or nothing.

I’ve narrowed my search down to the following three candidates who I feel are honest, willing to do what’s best for the country, and maybe a little odd.

The first candidate for president is a representative of the Vampires, Witches, and Pagans Party named Jonathan Albert “The Impaler” Sharkey. Mr. Sharkey and his Death Dealers (sounds like a ‘50’s band, eh?) will impale terrorists, drug dealers, and other criminals along with the police. As a practicing Satanist, you can bet prayer breakfasts will probably be a little freaky. I can totally picture this guy traveling around the country breaking hands and dropping babies.

The next guy, Lee L. Mercer, is a Houstonian, and is running for President to put a stop to the “Eye Spy Community-Military Intelligence (All Three).” It seems that the government put chips in our brains, which would explain why I sometimes dream about Doritos. Mr. Mercer vows to put an end to all this cloak and dagger stuff. Mercer would create such governmental entities like “The United States of America’s United States Department of Justice’s Research and Development Department” and “The United States of America’s United States Department of Defense’s Research and Development Department.” I’m sure the United States Department of Redundancy Department is sure to follow.

This final candidate is not in the same league as the previous two. I’m only including him because he’s got a great sense of humor, has a very slick-looking website, and his last name says it all. Steve Kissing (www.kissing4prez.org) declares “World Peace? Don’t look at me. I’m hoping to be president, not God.” You get the idea. If elected, Mr. Kissing promises that he and his wife will inaugurate the Lincoln bedroom properly. A politician who has relations with his wife? No way! The thing I found the most impressive about Mr. Kissing, besides his prompt response to my e-mail, is he’s the only third party candidate whose website didn’t have any grammatical or punctuation errors.

Truly a sign of insanity.

I’m glad to see there are everyday people who are running for president and being a part of the democratic process. They may not have a snowball’s chance, but neither did any of us when we were born. These folks are underdogs and I wish them all the best.

This discussion of underdogs reminds me of what Harry Truman once said: “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

String Cheese Article - Number Four

Thinking Terrorism? Try Again.
by Aryn Corley

I hate to fly.
It used to be a fun experience for me, but not anymore. My personal beef with Osama Bin Hidin’ is that he ruined it for me. I’ve even lost my taste for cruddy peanuts. To show my appreciation, I’d like to beat him senseless about the head with a pig’s leg.
No hard feelings.
My wife and I recently took a flight to Nashville. While I was looking forward to embarrassing her in another state with my antics, I wasn’t thrilled about the ordeal that was to occur at the hands of the Air Gestapo known as the TSA.
TSA stands for “This Stinks Already.”
Sadly, the jerks that hijacked those planes on 9/11 looked more like Mexicans than they did Swedes. It’s even sadder for me, because they all looked like my cousins.
The result: I get to enjoy an “extra” level of customer service that TSA has to offer.
Let’s face it: I probably look like a terrorist. An airport is not a good place for a brown guy, carrying a bag, hopped up on Starbucks. It makes people nervous.
My Hawaiian shirt is a dead giveaway. Nobody wears those anymore.
As I waited for my molestation, I watched the people and their facial expressions. The people standing in line looked like a snapshot of America — people from all over the globe hating to wait. Nobody seemed happy. The people in line looked like they were upset and the people with the white shirts looked like they wanted to club the people in line.
Maybe a huge block of government cheese would cheer things up?
I felt somewhat vindicated when I saw an elderly woman off to the side getting the “treatment.” She looked embarrassed to be spread-eagle in front of everyone. I remember thinking, “Al Qaeda must have one heck of a pension plan!” I bet they didn’t let her on the plane with her Ensure.
It is a liquid after all.
When it was my turn, I assumed the position and didn’t even use a fake Arabic accent like I had in the past. It seems that the sense of humor that used to predominate the airline industry went right out the window with our feeling of security. Jokes at the airport are about as welcome as the Hari Krishnas. Airports are now a comedic wasteland.
Gone are the days when you could win a bet by trying to sneak a foil-covered cucumber through the metal detector.
At first the whole affair was disconcerting, but now I find solace in the awkward groping of a complete stranger. It reminded me of the military physical I had to get before shipping off to basic training. The only difference is the absence of Dr. Extradigits poking around in my nether-regions.
The government sure knows how to make a guy feel special.
I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid and I know that these are the times we live in. I can’t question why the State of Texas gives me a gun, yet Uncle Sam doesn’t want me carrying a tube of toothpaste in my carry-on bags. If I have to strip to my boxers for the peace of mind of my fellow citizens, so be it.
But I don’t have to like it.
Please don’t think I’m bashing the TSA employees for having to enforce rules and regulations that seem to fly in the face of logic and reason. The government specializes in not making sense. I understand those men and women have a job to do and, if given the choice, they’d rather get paid for taking eight-hour coffee breaks.
In the war on common sense, I’m with the good guys.
After my shakedown, the TSA screener seemed cold and unfazed. No bomb this time. Maybe next time I’ll tape a bass or two to my chest. You know. Just to shake things up a little.
As I was investing myself of what I had been divested, I turned and saw a mom and baby being put through the same paces. To me, the only destruction this child looked capable of causing was in his diaper. As Momma was getting checked, he cried. Not to be fooling with the pair, the screener waived them on.
I made a note to myself.
The next time I fly, wear a diaper and cry a lot.

Going... Going... Gone.

Last night Penn Jillette was given the boot from Dancing with the Stars.
What a bummer.
He's a really cool guy and very entertaining to watch performing live. If you're ever in Las Vegas, stop by the Rio All Suites Hotel and Casino (https://www.harrahs.com/casinos/rio/hotel-casino/property-home.shtml), go to the Penn and Teller Theater (http://www.pennandteller.com/), and see one heck of a show.
When you see Penn, tell him I sent you.

Letter to Me

Brother Brad Paisley (http://www.bradpaisley.com/) has a song titled Letter to Me which can be heard on most country stations like KSAM 101.7 in Huntsville, TX. (http://www.ksam1017.com/)
It's a touching song about a man who writes his younger self a letter and gives him good advice.
I got to thinking. If I could write a letter to me, it would go something like this:
"Dear Clueless,
This is your future self. I know you don't believe it, but don't worry about the space time continuum right now. I just wanted to let you know that your winning lottery numbers are...."

String Cheese - Article Three

Texas Talk Tickles Tongues
by Aryn Corley

Us Texans talk funny.
When we speak, we use words like a monkey wielding a battle-axe. The Queen’s English becomes a hostage to our use of idiomatic expressions, bad grammar and completely made-up words.
To people who are non-Texan (God blessem), we probably sound like a bunch of people who just don’t care what the heck we say and how we say it.
They’re right.
In 2004, famous Texan Dan Rather made news of his own when he flexed his “Tex” while covering the presidential elections. His expressions were so colorful, it made the rest of the country go, “Huh?” As the night went on, he tried to top himself by coming up with more “Texisms.” My favorite quote of his was his reference to John Kerry’s impending loss.
“No question now that Kerry’s rapidly reaching the point where he’s got his back to the wall, his shirttail is on fire, and the bill collector’s knocking at the door.”
That sure is a lot nicer than saying, “Sucks to be Kerry!”
For the past eight years, fellow Texan and president, George “Dubya” Bush, has been a golden goose for comedians with his use of our native tongue.
Who cares if he uses the word “folks” more than 20 times during a press conference?
So what if he says “See” at the beginning of many sentences.
He can say whatever he wants because he’s “The Decider.”
Sometimes, after many shots of tequila, I can hear my third grade teacher teetering on the edge of insanity as she chides us for using the word “ain’t.” Ain’t is a perfectly acceptable word to many Texans, but bugs the heck out of spell-checker software. Right now as I’m typing, that cute little paper clip guy is dousing himself with gasoline.
Too bad I ain’t got no matches.
“Y’all” is a portmanteau of the words “you” and “all.” It’s much easier to say and much less cheesy than saying “youz guyz.” I’ve heard many non-Texans (God blessem) say “y’all” and is generally accepted as a uniquely Texan word.
It’s a very friendly word.
When used with the word “fixin’,” we give others the impression that we, as Texans, are people who are willing and ready to get the job done.
Y’all are fixin’ to find out why they call me “Stanky.”
My favorite though is our ability to make words out of thin air. Way too often has the English language failed miserably at providing just the right word for the right situation. If your truck is stuck in a ditch, chances are it’s “caddy-whompussed.” Try explaining that one to the Indian guy on the tech support line.
It’s like putting lingerie on a water buffalo.
I was having a conversation with someone the other day and it was mentioned that a wheelbarrow had “tumped” over. To say the wheelbarrow spilled its contents wasn’t enough. When the word “tumped” was introduced, it was understood between us Texans that not only did the wheelbarrow spill its contents, but the contents caught fire, burned to the ground and then the ashes blew away in a tornado.
“Dyuntoo” is a word that I’m guilty of using way too frequently. Usually, when I say this, it means, “Please rethink what you are asking me to do because I’d rather roll around nekkid on a pile of broken glass.”
For example:
“Hey, honey. Let’s go to the ballet tonight.”
“Dyuntoo?” [Also translates into: “Do you want to?”
I like how we feel it’s necessary to bless a person before we say something bad about them. By blessing a person, all the negativity you’re about to heap upon them is canceled out. The rule is the person you are blessing can’t be standing there.
I’ve tried to explain this to my non-Texan friends (God blessem).
No matter what we say and how we say it’s generally friendly in nature. People who visit our great state tend to pick up our language quickly and usually have no problems conversing with us.
So, the next time you cross paths with someone from somewhere else, strike up a conversation and give them a little taste of Texas.
Dyuntoo?

Here come da PIG!

I just finished putting a large Boston butt on the grill to make my first ever attempt at Memphis style pulled pork. I had some when Brooke and I were in Tennessee and I loved it!
We have lots of feral pigs around here which increases the availability of great BBQ meat.
This particular pig had the misfortune of meeting Brian Scott. Unfortunate, of course, for the pig. I, on the other hand, benefitted nicely.
I have the grill setup for indirect grilling. The roast is only about ten pounds so I figure it'll only take about four hours to fully cook. It should be ready by lunchtime. The pig is seasoned with sea salt and coarse black pepper all over it. The fat side is down.
My wife says I'm the "meat master". Hopefully, this is one thing she was talking about.
If you want to increase your own grilling prowess buy and study any of the BBQ books put out by Stephen Raichlen. Please visit his website at http://www.barbecuebible.com/.

UPDATE: Home run! The pig was a huge success. My infidel children even liked it! This marks the first time in a long while that peanut butter and jelly weren't called in to pinch hit.
Here's the deal:

• Pork shoulder: 6-8 pounds. cooked at 275 degrees for about 4 hours. halfway through wrap with aluminum foil.
• Sauce: 1 1/2 cup of apple cider vinegar mixed with 1 cup of ketchup. mix and add water for desired consistency. add black pepper, salt, and brown sugar to taste. bring mixture to a boil, then let simmer (covered) for about 15 minutes. Serve hot or at room temperature.

String Cheese- Article Two

This Article May Be Hazardous to Your Health
by Aryn Corley

Warning: This article contains humor, which is known in the state of California to cause amusement. Read at your own risk.

Life is so much better now that we have warning labels to protect us. They’ve been the single most important invention since air freshener. Without these little nuggets of wisdom, we’d be in the next taxicab headed for extinction.
It’s easy to imagine Neanderthal man walking around hitting random stuff with his war club until someone told him, “Ugh.Ugh. [Use only as directed]”
Thus, the warning label was born.
I love them. They remind me of a mother’s kiss. Mom’s kisses made any injury feel better. A kid could have a lawn dart embedded in his skull and only a kiss from momma would make it feel better.
Warning labels make the throbbing ache caused by common sense go away.
In my freezer are a couple of ice packs used for sprained ankles, practical jokes, etc. On the outside of the package, in bold letters, reads, “Not fit for human consumption.”
Had it not been for the warning label, I might have cut open the pack and used it to chill the microwaved poodle I was going to eat.
How about that little packet of sweetener that comes with many electronics? It’s a good thing I put it in my tea because it clearly warns, “Do not eat.”
Cold medicines warn users from operating heavy machinery because it makes people drowsy. Thankfully, one can still operate a chainsaw while being totally bombed on Nyquil. It’s the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, “Woops, I just cut my leg off!” medicine.
I’ve seen many warning labels written in different languages. Apparently, swallowing nickel-cadmium batteries is a global epidemic. If I had paid attention in my Swahili 101 class in college, there would be nothing lost in the translation.
My wife bought a curling iron recently and the instruction booklet had several warnings printed therein. My favorite one was, “For external use only.”
I feel obliged to mention that in order to use a curling iron effectively, one must first master the toaster.
The most disturbing thing about virtually all of these warnings is their insistence about keeping away from children. It’s almost as if they know about children’s insatiable desire to tempt fate. When the Grim Reaper comes to baby sit, that kid better be as far away as possible! I found this same warning on the back of a bottle of baby wash! Luckily, I have a pressure washer with a long wand.
As silly as some of these warnings are, I’m sure they’ve saved thousands of lives. It’s possible the warning label might actually have a negative impact on natural selection. We’re the only species on the planet that allows for survival of the unfit. Take that, Darwin!
It’s too bad there aren’t warning labels for more practical aspects of life.
How cool would it be to be in a store where the sign reads, “Cashier is rude and will probably shortchange you?”
If anything is more deserving of a warning label it’s love. I imagine the label would probably read something like this: Love has been shown to be addictive and may cause harmful side effects such as nausea, diarrhea, blindness, loss of cash, heartburn, and rationalization. If symptoms persist, contact an attorney.
Just think of how easy dating would be. You meet someone and the tag hanging from his or her shirtsleeve reads, “This person gives crummy gifts, doesn’t flush, and is cheap.”
The whole purpose of warning labels is to provide people with helpful and useful information. Sadly, it seems they merely overstate the obvious. A box of rat poison warns, “Harmful is swallowed.” It would be hardly effective as a poison if it weren’t. Generally, if a powder is non-poisonous, it goes on top of spaghetti.
Maybe we’ve evolved to the point that our survival instincts are virtually non-existent. We must be told that there is no lifeguard on duty when we don’t see Pamela Anderson poised to save us. Furthermore, our litigious society demands that caveats be provided to the lower five percent of the population who can’t figure it out.
I think I’ll start a think tank for this elite group of folks.
I’ll call it “DENSA”.

String Cheese - Article One

TEXAS HIGHWAYS END OF THE ROAD FOR SOME ANIMALS
By Aryn Corley

I was driving home the other day when an armadillo with a death wish haplessly wandered in front of my truck. I don’t know if it was my cat-like reflexes or many years of playing racing video games, but I managed to miss the roving speed bump.
However, a few miles down the road it seemed an opossum wasn’t so lucky. Of course, he could have been faking it.
The whole experience got me to wondering, though.
What’s going on with all the roadkill?
Anyone who drives in Texas, in any direction, doesn’t have to travel very far before they encounter a nice sloppy pile of “road pizza”. There’s a virtual menagerie of mangled Michelin meat made of the finest cuts of skunk, deer, rabbit, and the occasional feral pig.
Their littered corpses are a testament to the lack of safety programs in the animal kingdom.
Of the many wild animals in Texas, it seems armadillos and raccoons are the unluckiest of the whole bunch.
I must admit, armadillos look like the result of a lurid affair between a turtle and a rat. They’re ugly and have skin problems. Armadillos don’t look like intelligent animals. Really. How smart is the smartest Armadillo? To anyone’s knowledge, no armadillo has ever solved an equation. If it has, it’s been conspicuously quiet about it. Armadillos (There’s no “e” Mr. Quayle.) aren’t particularly ambitious, either. The only armadillo that really ever amounted to anything was the one in the video for The Clash’s song Rock the Casbah.
I think the real problem for armadillos lies in the false sense of security their armor provides them. They think by rolling up into a ball they’ll be saved from imminent peril. A predator attacks: roll into a ball. The stock market crashes: roll into a ball. Your wife says she’s pregnant: roll into a ball. What a way to cope with reality! If I roll into a ball, my kids will kick me through a goal post.
I’ve heard of armadillos standing up in the middle of the road as the halogens-‘o’-fate race toward them and while doing their best DeNiro saying, “You want a piece of me?”
Apparently, the word “’dodge” on the front of the grill guard doesn’t seem like a good suggestion. Maybe armadillos can’t read.
So what's a raccoon’s excuse?
The bandit mask on a raccoon’s face suggests that it’s a clever creature. Raccoons are notorious for their thievery and ability to manipulate objects like hasps and latches. Yet, the subtle intricacy of crossing the road escapes them. This suggests to me that raccoons are dumb. Okay, maybe dumb is too harsh of a word. Let’s say they’re idiots.
A raccoon will look both ways before wandering into an area where it hopes to purloin something. However, it won’t look twice before darting into the road with reckless abandon.
Perhaps the opposite side of the freeway is the raccoon equivalent to the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. It gets so focused on “The Prize” it forgets simple things like traffic. I don’t think animals are capable of having epiphanies. If they were, hunting and fishing would become moot. I would love to be there when the adventurous raccoon ends its harrowing odyssey across farm-to-market hell to arrive at its inevitable conclusion: “All that… for this?!” Not only is the grass not greener, but its got to make it back across to warn the others. It almost makes the return when it’s suddenly hit by karma then by truckma.
It’s no surprise to me that such an idiot would make a very fine hat.
Conspiracy theorists would argue that there is a more sinister reason for this “racco-dillo
cleansing”. Could it be that buzzards are somehow involved? How convenient is it to only dine on the deceased? All buzzards do is fly around in their cabals patiently waiting for the next serving of “pavement pie”. All the while, they are the ones that come out smelling like a rose. Very rarely will you see a buzzard feasting on a dead buzzard. I guess it’s a matter of professional courtesy. What a pack of vultures!
My wife recently had her trip to West Texas extended when a kamikaze bobcat hurled itself in front of her Chevy Malibu. Her car got messed up pretty bad and the cat ended up as “street sausage”. There was no other explanation for what that bobcat did except to say it probably had a history of mental illness.
Luckily for me, my story has a happy ending. No humans were hurt and the armadillo lumbered back to the brush from where it came. As the simple beast disappeared into my rearview mirror I remember thinking, “Thank God the dinosaurs are dead.”

CRS 39 - Country goodness

I went the Country Radio Seminar in Nashville with my wife, and country music programming legend Brooke Addams (http://www.ksam1017.com/), who was ready to smash me with a beer bottle by day two.
Let's see... what happened at CRS?

• Garth Brooks laughed when I made silly gestures to him after an appearance.
• I saved everyone's life at an awards ceremony when an amplifier caught on fire. Standard fee for saving Charlie Daniels' life: $0.
  
• Brad Paisley talked to me after I flashed him my badge at the end of his song Mr. Policeman. He gave me a pick. BTW, Mr. Paisley, I can write you a speeding ticket.
• I met Celebrity Apprentice stars Trace Adkins, Nellie Galan, Tiffany Fallon, Merilu Henner, and Omarosa. Omarosa made me "pinkie swear" not to tell anyone that she's really a nice person. No kidding. She's cool. Her fashion tips made me a lot less dorky at CRS.
• Stephen Cochran has got to be one of the coolest country stars. He's the real deal too. Check out his site and his music. (http://stephencochran.musiccitynetworks.com/)
• My apologies to Bucky Covington (http://buckycovington.musiccitynetworks.com/) for making shadow puppets on his shirt while he was singing on stage. I only did it to make this guy laugh. (http://www.k99country.com/pages/bigfrank.html)
  

We had a great time and met some fantastic people. Special thanks to Joe Jarvis (http://www.kickscountry.com) for laughing at my dumbness.