String Cheese Article - XXIV

Kids’ curiosity creates Christmas questions

by Aryn Corley
Updated: 12.22.09

Child psychologists will fist-fight each other debating whether or not it’s socially acceptable to lie to children about Santa Claus. As a general rule, I feel people should lie to children. But if we are to lie to kids about Santa, we have to get the lie straight. Conflicting stories will expose the truth and as Jack Nicholson reminded us in “A Few Good Men” we can’t handle “the truth.” Besides, it’s children who shouldn’t lie to adults because they’re short and can’t go to jail for anything.

My own kids are starting to ask some probative questions about Santa and his activities. They may be starting to figure out the holes in the story. In this article I’ll answer some of kids’ frequently asked questions. Hopefully, it can act as a guide for adults while fending off their inquisitive minds for another year.

Here are some questions from kids about Santa and Christmas in general.

• How did Santa and Mrs. Claus meet?

Santa met his wife, Gertrude, when she was working concessions at a carnival. As the story goes, she fell madly in love with Santa after he came back for his seventh helping of cotton candy. She thought he was coming back all those times to see her. Really, he’s a huge fan of cotton candy.

• Did Santa and his wife ever have any kids?

Yes. That is until they had to deal with diapers, formula, crying, and all that post natal stuff. They both agreed that dealing with children only once a year versus all year long was a better idea. Who could blame them?

• How come Santa didn’t bring some of the toys on my list?

Kids make Christmas lists that could put ransom letters to shame. Also, Santa doesn’t negotiate with terrorists. If there were items left off your list, it was probably because of something you did.

• How many elves work at the North Pole and what does Santa pay them?

Technically, Santa’s elves are undocumented workers. So, they aren’t paid a working wage and they would not qualify for medical coverage under the new healthcare plan. Living at the North Pole also gets Santa a nice little tax shelter. There aren’t any labor laws there, either.

• How can I get my parents to let me play with the manger and the animals?

Forget it. You’re parents won’t budge. My son keeps using our nativity scene as a playset for his Star Wars figures. The other day I found the three wise men bringing gifts to the baby Yoda. If you do it, my advice is don’t get caught. If you have to ask for something, forgiveness is better than permission.

• My older brother says there’s no such thing as Santa. Is that true?

Of course there’s a Santa. Who else would bring you a bunch of things you don’t want like socks and underwear? You’ll see. Besides, there’s no empirical evidence to support the existence of older brothers.

• How does Santa get into a house without a chimney?

He uses lock picks. Before Santa got into the gift business he worked as a repo man for a loan company. Locks are no obstacle for the jolly man.

• How will I know if I’m on the “nice” or “naughty” list?

If you’re on the naughty list, you’ll get an e-mail from Santa that starts off “Dear Tiger Woods...”

Merry Christmas, everyone!

String Cheese - Article XXVIII

Keep reading, we’ll keep writing

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 12.15.09

This week’s String Cheese is a bit of a departure from my usual foray into the absurd. There are plenty of things going on lately to poke fun at.

The whole Tiger Woods debacle has created an endless source of comedy fodder for the best and worst of comedians.

A couple crashes a White House dinner party and eats all the little cocktail weenies before someone questions who they are.

The war in Afghanistan is intensifying while Osama Bin Laden is hiding out as a short order cook in Roswell, New Mexico.

Brett Favre plays for the Vikings.

Instead of writing something dumb, I’d like to take the time and write a “Thank You” to all the beautiful, brilliant, intelligent and talented people who enjoy my columns.

I feel a great sense of gratitude to each reader who’s taken the time to let me know how they either laughed at my article or had difficulty reading it in the restroom.

I’ve done what I set out to do which was to intentionally provide humorous content to balance out the non-funny content unintentionally supplied by the public at large.

I’m not saying that all of the news is bad. However, there is a lot of it. At least my senselessness doesn’t hurt anyone. Well, most people aren’t hurt by it.

Of course, none of this would at all be possible without my editor Vanesa Brashier who first went out on a limb to give me a forum for my ramblings. It’s hard to grasp the amount of work she does. She not only puts three papers together, but she’s a mother, a wife, and when there’s a little extra time she sleeps.

Really though, I told her that if she didn’t run my column I would toss a sack full of live kittens into the lake. Needless to say, they sank. But she felt bad for me and decided to run my column anyway.

In case you were wondering, I got the name String Cheese from two places. First, I’m a stringer, which means that I contribute articles but I’m not anywhere nearly as astute as Wukman. Secondly, how I write is “cheesy,” so I put the two together. It was either that or an advice column called “Dear Scabby...”

Another reason why I wanted to say thanks to all my readers is because of their support for our paper. This last year has been a bad year as iconic newspapers stopped their presses and dropped off the journalistic landscape.

As we continue to compete with alternative sources of news and entertainment, I appreciate those loyal readers who continue to choose the Houston Community Newspapers. See, HCN was also smart by having a copy of the paper online so that no matter where in the world you are you can get your String Cheese articles.

So if one were thrown into a Turkish prison, at least there’s a way to stay connected back home. Believe it or not, there are people from all over the world who read our local paper!

As for my String Cheese articles, as long as someone will print them, I’ll write them. Throughout history, humor has been the looking glass for which the world is scrutinized. As life throws us curve balls, I’ll do my best to show readers how to step into the pitch and take a free base. My motto is this: humor first, spelling and grammar second, and redeeming social value, rarely.

I would also like to extend a special thanks to the Curry Brothers (Kyle and Clay) who are using my articles to teach a young hunting dog to make potty on the paper.

Again, thanks so much for your support and continued reading and I hope that you pass the Cheese along to your friends and loved ones.

If you’re interested, follow me on Twitter @ArynCorley or contact me at aryncorley@gmail.com.

Who Let the Dawg In

We decided to let the dog in because this global warming is causing temperatures to drop. In order for a coon hound to stay inside it must first be bathed. Once a dog is bathed it releases a funk that will make Ralph Lauren "ralph".

Even as I write this mini article, my dog is resting his head in my "nether regions". Apparently, this is how they say "hello". Since he knows me already, I think he's just being very forward. Of course, I had him fixed several months ago so it may be he's envious that I still have my...

Speaking of golf balls, this Tiger Woods thing is spiraling out of control. Where Tiger went wrong is he left cheating out of his pre-nup. I'm sure that his wife, Elin, wouldn't have been so upset if she'd known up front that Tiger was on the prowl. Gatorade has dropped Tiger from their ads. Nike is remaining steadfast, however. In fact, they've shown support for their pitchman by changing their slogan to "Just Deny It." Tiger will undoubtedly rebound and come back bigger and stronger than before. If he does, I hope he wears a hockey mask and carries a machete.

As the healthcare debate rages on, and more troop deployments to the Middle East are imminent, Congress is mustering to figure out how Tareq and Michaele Selahi infiltrated a white house party. As James Bond already knows, you only need two things to crash a party: a tux and a pretty girl. I bet if you rip the latex mask off of Michaele Selahi you'll find that she's actually Roger Clemens. Even if the duo are dragged in front of the lazy eye of the legislative branch, the couple plans to plead the fifth amendment. Wait, is that the one which states, " Thou shalt not enter a taxpayer funded party uninvited?"

Finally, there's a great furor over the accidental release of the TSA screener manual. The sensitive government document supposedly reveals the inner most secrets of the TSA. Now anyone can practice the ancient art of looking at an 85 year old woman and knowing if she's a terrorist. There's also a special section dealing with people who have foil wrapped cucumbers stuffed in their trousers. I wouldn't know anything about that.

Thankfully, AMTRAK doesn't use screeners. In fact, people may soon be able to carry guns in their checked bags onto a train. Finally, someone has come up with a way to deal with those obnoxious businessmen in the "quiet car".

String Cheese - Article XXVII

Don’t mock my smock

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 11.23.09

Picture this: you feel chilly and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

It’s not the type of chill felt by Eskimos or men who live with menopausal women, but it’s still pretty annoying. There’s nothing you do can stop it. You’ve turned up the thermostat. You’ve built a fire on the living room floor. You even poured jabanero sauce all over yourself. Nothing works. Thankfully, someone invented a cure.

It’s a blanket, but not just any blanket. It’s a blanket with sleeves.

It’s called a Snuggie, and like bacteria, they’re everywhere.

I wonder, though, if this is a passing fancy or the answer to the plight of thousands who don’t know how to use flannel shirts.

The commercial shows everyday folks over the age of 40 who are blissfully enjoying the comfort of a sleeved blanket. These people are so happy and warm they don’t even care that they look like Gregorian monks. I guess when you’re suffering from chill, fashion sense is the first thing to go. One of the claims in the ad is that the Snuggie is “... great for college.”

I’ll say. No professor would dare fail you for wearing one in class for fear of having a spell cast on him.

The main selling point for the Snuggie is that it gives you the freedom to use your hands. I can’t count the number of times I’ve felt trapped like a bait shad laying underneath the heavy and oppressive quilt that my grandmother made with her arthritic hands. Although I’m warm and comfortable, I’m forced to work the television remote with my tongue. Plus, when I have to go to the bathroom I just go in the bed, couch, or wherever I happen to be parked.

Snuggies come in three colors: royal blue, sky blue, and secret society red. I wish they had one in solid black to go with the enormous wooden scythe I have in my garage. I could wear that black Snuggie while chopping weeds in my subdivision. However, that might be a bad idea given the number of retirees who live in the neighborhood.

While it may seem like a revolutionary idea, it’s not. People have been doing this for hundreds of years. They would take a deer and cut the head and feet out and wear the hide like a shirt. The idea worked like a charm until a bunch of guys got shot during hunting season. In Leonardo Da Vinci’s “The Last Supper,” everyone is wearing a Snuggie. Including the Big Man himself!

Whether I’m at the grocery store, the hardware store, or my local cabal, there’s a Snuggie on the shelf waiting to go home with some lucky consumer. I can’t go anywhere without seeing a Snuggie for sale.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about just stay up really late some night and watch a channel that has mindless drivel as its entertainment. That shouldn’t be hard and the Snuggie commercial isn’t easy to miss, either.

I’m glad there’s a remedy for such an affliction. Being chilly versus freezing is a terrible thing because it prolongs discomfort for an unspecified period of time. Whereas, at least when a person freezes, death brings an end to the discomfort.

All that notwithstanding, it’s extremely difficult to watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians in a semi-cryogenic state.

String Cheese - Article XXVI

Guy rules are man-datory

by Aryn Corley
Updated: 11.18.09

It takes more than rewiring to become a guy.Being a guy requires a healthy dose of macho laced with a slight touch of immaturity. I ought to know. I’ve been doing this for a few years and I’ve gotten somewhat good at it.

The recent gender re-assignment of Chastity “Chaz” Bono lead me to think about what comes next for the former female. This article is for anyone deciding to leave womanhood to wander aimlessly through the woods of “Dudeland.” It’s also important for one to know how to earn its currency: “man credit.”

Man credit is that which makes other men look at you with an approving frown and corresponding head bob. If you’ve ever been to a car show, you know what I’m talking about. I hope this information is extremely helpful to make the transition to guy-hood complete and rewarding. I realize I may be giving away some closely guarded secrets, but it’s for the ultimate good of humanity.

I think.

It’s very important for a guy to be able to handle insects and open jars. These two skills are the only things keeping us teetering on the edge of extinction. Otherwise, we’d helplessly fall into a dark chasm of obscurity filled with yummy, creamy gravy. A woman will place a long distance phone call to have a guy come over from Europe to scoop up a dead cockroach. Jars present an interesting conundrum because, technically, it is a piece of machinery. Being able to kill spiders, make babies, and open the pickles makes us guys only a tad more useful than a Swiss Army knife.

Goodbye, Prada. Hello, Mossy Oak. The bright colors of spring and the subdued hues of fall must be thrown out the window in favor of camouflage. Color coordination is very easy when you dress like a tree.The key to a guy looking nice is having a woman who knows how to tell him how ridiculous he looks when he picks his own clothes. Guys must never shop alone for apparel unless he’s buying Garanimals. Stay away from biker leather unless you actually ride a motorcycle. Loincloths are dicey. Everything goes great with a NASCAR cap.

Guys are beasts complete with hair and grunting. Beasts eat meat. Guys are no exception. If it was cool to be a vegetarian as a woman, the opposite is true for guys. If you want to instantly lose man credit, be a vegetarian who drinks flavored water. To earn copious amounts of man-cred learn how to hunt and eat the cutest animals in the forest. If you can bag Thumper, Flower, and Bambi with nothing but a chainsaw, then you are well on your way to legendary status.

Spanish television. ’Nuff said.

Confucius once said, “Man who ask for directions is lost.” Under no circumstances are guys supposed to ask for directions. Why? Simply, put... just because. Guys aren’t lost when we drive around for hours cussing and blaming city engineers for poor traffic configurations. If we hit the OnStar button in the car it’s because the woman on the other end sounds attractive. It’s hard to be lost when everything is just around the corner.

The sense of humor between women and men are at opposite ends of the spectrum. If gender reassignment is truly successful, then Will and Grace stops being funny. Lifetime television starts to become a powerful sedative. What emerges is a fascination with rude bodily functions. Even though I’m 30 years older than my son, we’ll both die laughing with every “Bronx Cheer.” When a guy has grandchildren, he is instantly imparted with the knowledge to practice the fine art of posterior-digital actuation control. Elevators suddenly become fun houses.

I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. “Uh...”, as an answer to the question “Do you know what day it is?” is a subject worthy of a doctorate thesis. I wish anyone wanting to be a guy the best of luck. Sometimes, it can get a little crazy.

However, there is one cardinal rule which must always be followed.

Leave the lid up.

String Cheese Article - XXV

Peace prize appears less noble

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 10.20.09

I know a lot of people who are confused and riled up about President Barack Obama winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

The fine folks over at the Nobel Prize Award Center claim that the President’s “intentions” for peace were good enough to award him The Prize. I think they gave it to him because they really love irony.

Who can blame them? Irony is funny. I’m a big fan of it.

As soon as the president accepted his prize, he went right back to the war room to plan the next attack on Afghanistan. This is pure comedy folks! Frankly, I think the Peace Prize should have gone to Michael Vick for his extensive work with animals. A very persuasive argument could have been made to give the award to Taylor Swift. Nothing screams “peaceful intentions” like the restraint she mustered to keep from bashing Kanye West with that microphone.

However, this isn’t he first time The Prize was sacrificed at the altar of ironic comedy.

In 2007, a Polish social worker, named Irena Sendler was nominated for her efforts by smuggling out 2,500 Jewish children from Warsaw during World War II. These kids were headed for concentration camps. So, doing what they do naturally, the Nobel Prize peeps gave the award to Al Gore for raising awareness about global warming. Say what you will about the Nazi’s stealing children, but melting ski slopes are just awful.

Most people think Ghandi won a Nobel Prize for his hunger strikes and refusals to use violence to prove a point. Sadly, he did not win a Nobel Prize for Peace. Thankfully, Yasser Arafat won one in 1994. I’d hate to think the terrorist leader would walk away from this earth empty-handed. Perhaps if Ghandi had picked up an AK-47 and instead of telling everyone to “eat nothing” he told them to “eat lead,” he’d be lauded as one of he most brutal peacemongers in history.

The 14th Dalai Lama won the Prize in 1989 partly as a tribute to Ghandi and the other part falling under the Susan Lucci Rule (14th time is the charm).

Winners of the prize receive a medal that has on one side three naked guys hugging and on the other a profile of Alfred Nobel looking like he wants to join them. The monetary award is 10 million Swedish kronor, which converts to about $23 bucks and change. Winners also receive a really classy T-shirt that reads “I’m a Nobel Laureate... you?” in Gothic lettering. All shirts are pre-shrunk, hypoallergenic and made in the USA.

Winning any Noble Prize entitles the recipient to a certain amount of bravado as well. We never hear about Nobel Prize laureates getting busted for shoplifting or getting drunk and starting bar fights because they are given a pass.

If you find yourself winning a Nobel Prize, you can pretty much stop paying for lunch. If David Letterman had won the Nobel Prize in Comedy (I wish), there wouldn’t be any scandal.

I hope this trend of awarding prizes to “controversial” figures continues. I hope it also spills over into the other Nobel categories.

Nobody deserves the Nobel Prize for Economics more than Bernie Madoff. Sylvia Browne should get the Nobel Prize for Physics because she talks to dead people. Oh, wait, that’s “Psychics” not “Physics.” My bad.

The Nobel Prize for Literature?

Well, I do know a certain humor columnist...

String Cheese - Article XXIV

Jury is out on lawyer shows

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 09.22.09

Let’s suppose, for the sake of argument, I captured a genie and she gave me one wish.

I use the pronoun “she” because I’m envisioning someone very attractive like Barbara Eden or Laura Bush. Oooh, yeah!

I digress.

Most people would have a problem deciding what to have if they were given the means to have anything in the world. Not me. I know exactly what I’d ask for.

Would I wish for more money? No. More money would launch me into a new tax bracket and make me very sad. However, it would be nice to hear from all of my long-lost relatives.

Would I wish for immortality? No way. The thought of sitting in a post apocalyptic wasteland explaining to a cockroach about how Paula Abdul had gotten elected president, then launched a whole arsenal of nuclear missiles at the world in a final act of retribution against Simon Cowell, to me, is depressing. Yet, not as much as the thought of the cockroach actually finding the whole story interesting.

If I had the power to wish for anything in the world, anything at all, I’d wish for one thing: another lawyer show on television.

I think this would be a very thoughtful wish. Sure. World peace would be a noble thing to ask for, but when everyone’s not fighting how are we going to be entertained? Ending world hunger is pointless when those villages and shanty towns don’t even have cable television. As soon as you take away a person’s hunger, that person will fight you for control of the remote.

In the morass of mindless entertainment, there has got to be room for at least one more lawyer show.

Every channel has a lawyer show these days.

My kids were watching Sesame Street the other day and Big Bird was being cross examined by Oscar the Grouch.

There’s also a new show called “Law and Order: Mattress Tag Unit.” I don’t know what the onomatopoeia is for the Law and Order show but it sounds to me like: “CHONG CHONG!”

My wife likes a show called “Drop Dead Diva.” It’s about the ghost of a woman who comes back into another woman’s body and practices law. Wow. A loophole around the state bar exam. Why pay for years of law school when all it takes is a metaphysical mix-up? If I were to be reincarnated, I would probably come back as a set of veterinarian’s latex gloves. The really long ones.

Anyway, my law show would be better than anything ever seen on television. It would be in real time, too. Forty-five minutes plus commercials is way too soon for legal disputes to be settled. The episode regarding copyright infringement would last at least seven years.

In Hollywood, there’s an old adage: Too many chefs spoil the broth. But, if one of those chef’s is Charo — it’s all good!

I’d have Charo and a cast of about a hundred actors (all of whom have legal troubles of their own. Yes, I’m talking to you Gary Coleman) all pretending to be attorneys. The difference between a mob and an ensemble is subtle. Since the show would also need to appeal to a younger generation, at least one of the lawyers would be a vampire.

Finally, my show would have take place in some hip and trendy place. New York, Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, and Seattle have all been played out as story locations. Still, there remains one place which has yet to be tapped by the legal profession.

The moon.

String Cheese - Article XXIII

Bomber orders shot of Scotch and freedom

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 09.03.09

Go easy on the Scots.

Recently, the Scottish government decided to release from prison a Libyan terrorist named Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi because he’s been diagnosed with terminal prostate cancer. The Scottish medical professionals have only given him three months to live.

The convicted terrorist was tossed into the hoosegow for the bombing murder of 259 people aboard Pan Am Flight 103, over Lockerbie, Scotland, on December 21, 1988. The sentence was life imprisonment.

Usually when someone is sentenced to life imprisonment, at least in America, it means that you are going to be eating really bad jailhouse food and kissing your “cellie” goodnight until you give up the ghost. Your chances of getting out of prison are about as good as NASA offering Paris Hilton a full-time job.

However, the Scots have a loophole. Apparently, if you’re convicted of a heinous crime, and are sentenced to life imprisonment, you must remain in prison for the remainder of your days or until you develop prostate cancer. Whichever comes first. It’s a lot like a car warranty.

The Scottish National Party claims they released Abbie the Terrorist to return to his homeland of Libya on the grounds that they felt compassionate toward him.

Wow. That was nice.

I wonder if Abbie was given a complimentary Sean Connery DVD or a shirt that reads “I did prison time in Scotland and all I got was this lousy T-shirt... and cancer.”

As a result, there has been an outcry of anger directed toward the Scottish government for this action, which some are calling “The DOH! heard ’round the world.” The blogosphere and Twitter are blazing with people encouraging others to boycott Scotland by not traveling there and to trade in Scotch whiskey for Budweiser.

How is it that the Scots are able to show compassion for such a vile criminal? William Wallace, the champion of Scottish independence, and Mad Max look-alike, was one of the most fierce and ruthless adversaries the Brits ever knew. Compassion was not in his vocabulary. If he knew what was going on, he'd drop a haggis from under his kilt.

Before focusing on what a terrible PR blunder this is for the Scots, we must remember the things that made them so important in the first place.

Scotland is the birthplace of golf. Some guy thought it would be better to hit a ball with a small stick instead of tossing it into a hole. As a result, Scottish retirees had something to keep themselves occupied.

Scotland is also the home of the Loch Ness monster. There’s nothing like a local mystery critter to bring a little tourism to the area. Personally, I think the Loch Ness monster is nothing more than a Sasquatch with a sock on its hand. Totally fake.

Finally, if the Scots hadn’t come up with that cool, see-through tape, Christmas would be a total drag. Although, I must admit, it’s really funny to watch a kid try and open a present completely bound in duct tape.

Before we serve the Scots their heaping helping of crow, we’ve got to let the bagpipes warm up.

String Cheese - Article XXII

Assassins are rarely a hit

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 08.11.09

For the most part, hiring a hitman is a bad idea.

If you’re reading this article and thinking about hiring some goon, don’t. Goons can’t to do anything right.

Hitfolk are a bad idea.

They’re a bad idea because it makes the employer very interesting to government watchdog groups like the FBI, Secret Service, and local law enforcement, to name a few. The idea of a hitman also tends to make the target very angry indeed. For those out of the loop, the second worst gift one person can give to another is death.

The first is the official Barack Obama Chia Head.

Recently, a Florida woman was arrested for allegedly hiring a hitman to “rub out” her newly-wed husband of six months. I use the word “allegedly” in the same manner which Saddam Hussein was “allegedly” a madman. Fortunately for the young groom, the hitman was actually an undercover cop. Even more fortunate is the fact that the target of the plot won’t have to eat that nasty, freezer bitten top layer of wedding cake. I’m sure the poor sod was waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the bushes and tell him that he’d been “punk’d” after he’d heard the news that his new bride really wanted to add emphasis to the part of their vows which stated “‘til death do us part.”

What would drive a person to such depravity? It has to be one of two things: money or an insatiable desire to be mercilessly interrogated by the police. Either way, the young woman had no idea she was being set up like a bowling pin and about to be knocked down. Come to think of it, she was about as smart as a bowling pin.

Whether or not we choose to admit it, we sometimes wish bad on other people. It usually happens during rush hour. However, asking around the quilting bee for someone to “86” their significant other is a whole new level of dumb.

Furthermore, these idiots think they can go to Craigslist, Ebay, or Priceline to find someone to do their dirty work. It’s no accident that “murder-for-hire” has been conveniently omitted from the business listings in the phone book.

I blame television for romanticizing hitpersons (gender inclusive language). They are often portrayed as street level thugs who have the answers to every problem, work at a bargain, and usually have a really great tan. From a writer’s perspective, a hitman is just what the doctor ordered for jazzing up an otherwise tired storyline. Remember, when Beaver Cleaver made friends with that guy in the mob? How about the time Laura Ingalls hired a hitman to “whack” Nellie Olsen to make Walnut Grove a better place to live? The hitman has become a part of American pop culture.

There is an immensely popular series of video games titled “Hitman.”

My kids love a book titled “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Sleeps With the Fishes.”

One of my favorite Norman Rockwell paintings is a cute little tableau called “First Hit: Badaboom Badabing.”

The sad reality is in the 21st century, there are still people using 13th century logic to find a solution for their own problems.

What’s even more sad is if this young woman really wanted to end her new husband’s life, she could’ve just stayed with him.

String Cheese - Article XXI

Yearly event is full of bull

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 08.05.09

I can’t think of very many things that are more dumb than the annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain.

The event, which takes place every July, to put it bluntly, is on par with stealing copper, trying to catch a train with one’s teeth, or talking to Michael Moore while covered in Hershey’s syrup.

Every year people flock to this little town to run down a crowded, slippery street while being chased by several hundred pounds of angry hamburger.

Apparently, the town council of Pamplona doesn’t care what happens to the participants or any property and also has an extremely iron-clad insurance policy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the local emergency room gets some kind of kickback from the event’s organizers.

The ER doc is probably the one who bought the bulls from the local FFA Chapter.

There’s only speculation as to when, or even why, the event got started in the first place. If I had to guess, I’d say there were some drunks who didn’t know how to handle an angry bull and thought they could tire it out by letting it chase them down the street. The rest is history.

I’m a fan of adrenaline producing activity. Every year, my family and I go to Sea World to cheat death in a very controlled environment complete with refreshments and a gift shop.

While the threat of death is relatively low, it still exists. Heat exhaustion is a serious matter. However, dying from dehydration pales in comparison to being impaled by a bad tempered bovine who never really got over the fact that his uncle ended up as a Louis Vuitton handbag. On the other hand, if they were steers I’d totally understand why they’re so angry.

Speaking of fashion, the traditional garb for running with the bulls is all white except for a small red kerchief tied around the neck. Keeping one’s clothes white while running for one’s life must be a bothersome task. The all white must be so that the blood shows up easier. It’s popular belief that the color red angers the bulls, but really they hate anything that’s dressed like a busboy.

I guess the event lends itself to using bulls. There wouldn’t nearly be as many cool You Tube videos of the annual “Running of the Turtles.” A spectacle like that could take weeks! Although, I think the “Slithering of the Cobras” is sure to draw a crowd.

Nothing like that could exist here in the United States. As litigious as our society has become the Running of the Bulls would be immediately followed by the Suing of the Bulls, then followed by the Appeal of the Bulls, finally capped by the Undisclosed Settlement of he Bulls.

The whole thing would last for years.

In New Orleans every year there is a mock bull running where the participants dress the part and are chased by the local roller derby team called - you guessed it - the Bulls. For the stragglers, the roller derby girls carry foam core bats to give a little “encouragement” on the backside.

Whether one decides to tempt fate in Pamplona or tempt a really beefy roller derby girl named “Fate” in New Orleans, one thing is certain: Where there’s bulls, there’s plenty of bull... Well, you get the idea.

String Cheese Article - XX

A Little Note Goes A Long Way

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 07.15.09

Recently someone, or something, left a note on the windshield of my truck. Because I’m not sure if the creature that left the note for me is either human, or inhuman, or vertebrate, or invertebrate, I’ll refer to it simply as “It.”

My choice of pronoun is inclusive out of the utmost respect for all living creatures. Anyway, It left a note chiding me for my parking skills. A little known fact about humor columnists is that we’re notoriously bad at parking.

Nevertheless, I took due diligence in making sure that I hadn’t parked behind a sign, which instructed the whole world not to. The whole purpose is to keep a rather small boat launch from being blocked. There was enough space behind the sign for an impromptu meeting of the Clay Aiken fan club.

At first I was confused as to why the note was left for me. Perhaps the note was meant for someone else? The note was also unsigned, which prevented me from going straight to the source and getting clarification on the matter. It also used appallingly bad grammar and sub-standard sentence structure. Maybe, It hadn’t done well in school.

I showed the note to two other objective people who were just as perplexed as I about the nature of the correspondence. They both read the note, chuckled, and both shook their heads disapprovingly.

“Is this for real?,” they asked.

The only scenario I could fathom was that as It was either slithering along, or riding by in a golf cart, It cast a googly, bloodshot eye on what it thought was a violation of the holy canon of Its existence: the sub-division by laws.

Just as the Holy Bible, The Koran, The Talmud, and the Book of Mormon were delivered to humanity for its own salvation, so are the covenants and deed restrictions delivered to those poor souls who want to live with pink flamingos in their yards.

Strict adherence to the mantra of manicured grass, pet containment, and report-thy-neighbor is the pathway to peace and prosperity.

As I pondered the note further, my perspective began to shift. The note wasn’t left for me. It was left for It. Rather than being a testament to boorish and vapid penmanship, the note itself was a cry for help.

It is not happy.

On a weekend when families were spending time together in joyous fellowship with kids running around in the yard, spitting watermelon seeds, and celebrating the independence of our great country, It was preoccupied with my parking job.

It probably had a family that wished that It would pay more attention to them. Perhaps It is at a point in its life where it feels inadequate or maybe even unneeded. It probably feels that it has nothing left to contribute to this world other than carbon dioxide and vitriol.

While that may be the case, the catty little note It left me offered no solutions to the problem. Regardless, I’d still like to bake It a cake and tell It how helpful it was to me.

After all, the note did help me get past my writer’s block.

STRING CHEESE ARTICLE - XVIIII

SCHOOL AVATARS REPRESENT KOOKIENESS
by Aryn Corley
7/7/2009

High school mascots are an iconic part of American culture. In Texas, more especially, our mascots hold an almost religious significance. They are the avatars of a time when we're discovering who we are, learning how to drive, and growing new hair in weird places. They not only embody a school's team spirit, but sells lots of t-shirts locally.
Most Texas schools are represented by some variation of malfeasant wildlife which possesses a certain ferocity or a really cool costume. In Texas, the most common mascots are eagles, bulldogs, and bobcats. These three are considered the "Holy Trinity" of Texas high school mascots.

The idea of a high school mascot usually follows a simple formula:

Phrase (Home of the...) + Adjective (Fighting) + Plural Noun (Titans) = Mascot.

Try it. It works!

Be warned. The adjective you use makes a big difference.
How discouraging would one's first day of school be if the phrase," Home of the Lactating Tigers" was written on the side of the gym?

Not every school follows this formula. In fact, some schools have downright wierd examples for their mascots.

We have some in Texas. Since page space is at a premium, I'll only list a few examples. These mascots which come to mind are ones that I remember from "Friday Night Finals"; a scoreboard show on the Voice of Southwestern Agriculture radio network. For the record, I am a San Angelo Central High Bobcat. For those who are unfamiliar, the bobcat is a wild cat that chokes on hairballs. Furthermore, this particular cat often "chokes" during the playoffs.
In the hill country, is a little town named Rotan (no, not the big bird that fought Godzilla). Rotan High School's mascot is the Yellowhammer. At first, I thought it was a carpenter that dropped his tool in the commode. Apparently, it's a bird with black and yellow feathers. I imagine the school's colors of orange and white are merely a technicality. If you stare at the logo for a long time then look away, the image burned into your rods and cones may be yellow and black. Who knows?
In Hamlin, you'll find the locals rooting for the Pied Pipers. To my knowledge, this mascot is not only a reference to a fictional character, but may be the only mascot in Texas wearing a cape. Don't let the logo fool you. That dude in the green tights knows where to put that flute if you make him/her angry. The Pied Piper is not one to be trifled with. Especially if you are a rat!
In the small town of Itasca, in Hill county, residents cheer for their Wampus Cats. According to Cherokee Indian folklore, a woman was transformed into the dreadful six-legged half woman half mountain cat by a shaman after she overheard them telling sacred stories. Whatever. As a result, the wampus cat howls, snarls, and wreaks general havoc about the countryside every 28 days.

There are many more unique mascots; too many more to mention here. I just hope that if any new high schools, or any other institution of higher learning (Britney Spears Tech, perhaps?) are built, I get asked to be the one to decide what the mascot is going to be. I would lay to rest the hackneyed macots of yesteryear and usher in a new set of modern of school spirit.

For example, flesh eating bacteria is a fine thing for a school's mascot. It's small, devastating, and fatal. What school's chess team wouldn't want to be represented by such a devious mascot? How would you like to be the team that comes back saying, "We got beaten by the flesh eating bacteria"? Tourists who see the words on the water tower reading, "Flesh Eating Bacteria country" might think twice about stopping or setting up residence.

Although, it might make homecoming a little icky.

Toll House Dysentery - Nestle Recalls Cookie Dough Products

The food maker on Friday voluntarily recalled its Toll House refrigerated cookie dough products after a number of illnesses were reported by those who ate the dough raw. View Original Article

I know people who eat raw cookie dough. I don't eat raw cookie dough for the simple fact that it can give you worms. Although, if I were going to the electric chair, I might eat raw cookie dough so everyone could have some cookies later. ;)

Blogged with the Flock Browser

String Cheese - Article XVIII

Time is right for monkeying around

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 06.17.09

The world is on the brink of collapse.

Our economy is shaky. Crime is on the rise.

North Korea and Iran are playing with “nuke-ular” bombs.

Global pandemics are poised to kill millions of people.

Dancing with the Stars is a hit.

Who is going to save humanity from utter destruction?

Enter: the Sea Monkeys.

Is there some wisdom that we can learn from these tiny creatures? Maybe they can teach us something about the world we live in.

Mankind’s only hope may rest with the tiny, wacky-good fun loving little brine shrimp known as Artemia NYOS (New York Ocean Science laboratory). As a kid, I would see the advertisements for Sea Monkeys in comic books, kid magazines, or at truck stop bathrooms. The ads depicted the whole Sea Monkey family: Dad, Mom, Junior, Lil’ Sis, and pet smiling and waiting for legions of kids to release them from cryostasis.

Sea Monkeys seem like very happy little creatures. Why not? They don’t have to worry about holding down a job, social acceptance, or personal hygiene. They really don’t have to worry about much of anything.

When one’s daily schedule involves only swimming and mating, there leaves very little room to be depressed. As an added bonus, female Sea Monkeys can self-fertilize their own eggs by a process called parthenogenesis.

What female Sea Monkeys fail to realize is that without male Sea Monkeys, they’ll never be able to open jars.

Sea Monkeys aren’t known for aberrant behavior in any way. I combed through several thousand pages of court documents looking for any occasion where a Sea Monkey, or perhaps a gang of them, has run afoul of the law. Nothing.

As far as I know, no Sea Monkey has ever been called into military service either. I wonder if they know about the Montgomery G.I. Bill?

Growing the little buggers is apparently pretty easy. So easy in fact, you’d have to be a humor columnist to mess it up. It’s much like making a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Just add water. Although, I wouldn’t advise boiling them.

However, they might taste really good when heaped with mounds of cheddar. After all, Sea Monkeys are shrimp. But, because of their size, it would take several hundred thousand of them to make a decent fettuccine.

The Official Sea Monkey website (www.sea-monkey.com) has everything that any Sea Monkey enthusiast needs to get started. It’s important to use the right stuff if you decide you’re going to grow Sea Monkeys. Maybe when my kids get a little older we’ll try to grow some Sea Monkeys and add a tad bit more happiness to the world.

Although, I do have a fond memory of my own about the whole Sea Monkey experience.

I got some as a gift one time back in the late 70’s. The tank got cracked during shipping so I had the bright idea of using a Mason jar. I added the water and the “Instant Life” packet, set the jar on the counter, then went outside. I came back to find my mother hand drying the makeshift Sea Monkey realm.

“What happened to my Sea Monkeys?”

“Is that what all that crud was in here? Don’t use my jars,” mom said disapprovingly.

My poor Sea Monkeys were given death by the woman who gave me life. My Sea Monkeys taught me about something very important that exists in this world.

Irony.

New Computer Set Up

I just got a new computer thanks to the lovely Andrea, who pulled some strings with one of her clients (from the radio station). She was getting way tired of my putting my tentacles on her laptop. It's been kind of a hassle getting this machine caught up. I'm running Windows 7 RC and it is just FANTASTIC!
Also, I have new septic lines in the back yard so my septic water won't be in the front yard anymore. TRA is happy, which makes my neighbors happy, which makes me happy.
Thanks to all of you who read this blog and continue to read my colums. I appreciate being the sole source of nonsense in your life.
Cheers.

String Cheese - Article XXVII

Cars may soon miss best parts

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 06.02.09

The recent economical slump and waning consumer confidence are putting the brakes on the American automotive industry. The closures of several hundred auto dealerships, coupled with parked auto sales, may signal the collapse of one of this country’s most important institutions.

Of course, I’m referring to the automotive accessory industry.

It’s depressing me to think that if American cars drop off the face of the earth, there won’t be a need for window decals of Calvin, from the comic strip Calvin and Hobbes, urinating on some automobile logo. I shudder at the thought of seeing a huge pair of metallic testicles dragging the ground behind a Smart Car. Whole forests of little air freshener pine trees will be neglected. Fuzzy dice would grow even fuzzier!

It would truly be a bummer for your Hummer.

Part of the “American Dream” is owning a really large car, or truck, that gets terrible gas mileage, then adorning it with all kinds of accoutrements, which not only make a statement about who you are, but are completely unnecessary.

I wish I had bought stock in a vinyl window decal manufacturing company. East Texas alone could have made me a millionaire. Everywhere I go, there is plenty to read on the backs of people’s windows. College rivalries are played out with declarations of “Saw ’Em Off” and “Reveille: The Other White Meat.” I have seen quite a lot of trucks with the words “Ain’t Skeer’d” plastered across the rear window.

However, I’ve yet to see anyone proudly declare the words “Kan’t Spel.”

When Henry Ford made the Model-T, his reason was to have something on which to put his bumper stickers. There’s a sweatshop somewhere in Arkansas where out-of-work comedians are churning out insightful quips for our traffic-jam entertainment. I bet it’s right next to the fortune cookie laboratory. If it weren’t for bumper stickers, the achievements of hundreds of honor students would go unnoticed. It’s also useful to know if someone is going to brake for that centaur standing in the roadway.

It wasn’t all that long ago when it seemed like everyone had those annoying “on board” signs hanging in their windows. To be different, I used to hang a HAZMAT placard in my window with the words “HAZARDOUS WASTE” printed on it. That one sure helped me get through rush-hour traffic!

The Great Chrome Mines of Green Bay, Wisconsin, would surely close as well. The little kids who work in those mines would be left without insurance and without their normal wage of copious amounts of Mountain Dew. The chrome from those mines are primarily used to make spinner rims for recreational and military vehicles. Spinner rims create the illusion that the tire is continuing to move while the car is stopped. While they’re utterly absurd, the military has a practical use for them. While the enemy combatants are shaking their heads in disgust, our boys launch a rocket and the battle is won. Hoo-ah!

If the President has any more stimulus money, I hope he can throw out a couple billion more to a charity that can really use the money.

The Dashboard Hula Girl Relief Fund comes to mind.

String Cheese Article - Twenty Six

Waiting is the end of the line

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 05.12.09

Everywhere I go there is one. When I see one, I go the other way. I can go halfway across the country and there’ll be another one, maybe two. In fact, they’re all over the world. Across all cultures and socioeconomic strata people love them and want to be a part of them. Some people love to make their own.

Personally, I detest them.

I hate lines.

A line will either drain you of your time or money. Oftentimes it’s both.

As a species, there must be something in our biological code that compels use to stand behind another person and wait for something. Whether it’s a need for human companionship or Hannah Montana tickets, it never ceases to amaze me just how long people are willing to wait in line. I’m not very good at it because it requires a level of patience and self-discipline that I lack.

Every time I end up in a line, I start feeling like David Banner just before he morphs into the Incredible Hulk. Sadly, I’ve never been exposed to gamma radiation. So, the only thing I’m capable of morphing into is the Incredulous Sulk.

I don’t understand how people can do it.

People will stand in line to wait for some of the craziest things. Lately, it seems that when there is a new video game system to come out, legions of techno-nerds will line up for days prior to the release so they can be the first ones to get their hands on that little piece of digital heaven.

Science fiction fans will often dress up in costume and hold impromptu conventions while they wait in line for movie tickets to go on sale. I often wonder if these people’s bosses wish they could show that kind of dedication at work. This is all based on the assumption that the guy who dressed like a mangy Wookie actually has a job.

My earliest recollection of line-waiting goes all the way back to my days in elementary school. On field trips, we would be herded from place to place like a company of incorrigible munchkins. The only instructions we were given was to line up and stay quiet. It was oppressive. However, I wasn’t going to let that ruin my trip to the meat packing plant. It was worth jumping out of line to go talk with anyone wearing pigtails.

During my time in the military, I wasted a lot of time examining the backs of people’s heads. So much time, I should’ve gotten college credit hours. In basic training, we would march (in line) to the chow hall, wait for chow (in line), then go back and wait at the barracks (in line).

On one particular day, my drill sergeant was giving me all kinds of maternal attention. After all, for six weeks, he was a real mother. Anyway, he asked me what I was being trained for. The response he was looking for was “killer,” “blood thirsty,” “rabid Hun,” or any other gear of war. When I shouted, “I’m being trained to wait in line, sergeant!,” I almost got a snicker from him. The standard price for almost making your drill sergeant lose his military bearing is about 100,000 push-ups. Thankfully, they had an installment plan.

The next time you see one of our young soldiers, sailors, marines, or airmen, thank them for the incredible amount of line waiting it takes to preserve this country’s freedom.

The main problem with waiting in lines is the complete lack of entertainment. Lines, by their nature, just aren’t fun. This is exactly why places like Six Flags and Disney World have rides. It gives you something to do between the times that you wait in line! Even Wal-Mart has televisions to take your mind off the fact that you’re waiting in line and there are 20 empty unmanned registers.

My wife likes to talk to people when she’s waiting in line. For her, it’s a social event. She could be waiting in line and then suddenly have everyone singing “How Great Thou Art.” It’s creepy. My dad despises line waiting. I think I get that from him. The two of us were waiting for three hours for a shuttle one time. We were both so livid that we didn’t talk for the next eight hours. Luckily, most of that was sleep time.

I guess there’s no avoiding it. As long as there are people on this planet, there will be a line to stand in.

I just hope that wherever we go from here, they have turnstiles.

The MEH factor

Please be sure to check out The MEH factor @ http://themehfactor.blogspot.com.
This is a blog site where I write pithy satirical comment about things in the media that make people say "meh". Basically, it's stuff that people don't care about. The purpose is to stimulate critical thinking about the things that we are fed from the media.
It's barnyard journalism at it's finest!

String Cheese - Article Twenty Five

Eco-Friendly Can Be Eco-Crazy

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 5.2.09

What kind of gift am I supposed to give to someone for Earth Day?

I suppose that a small glob of plutonium would be terribly inappropriate. Maybe a more acceptable gift would be one that is not only environmentally friendly, but would not leave any long-term detrimental effects.

Cow dung comes to mind.

Gaylord Nelson, a US senator from Wisconsin, created Earth Day to address the concern of global overpopulation and the detrimental effect that it can have on the environment. The environment, like everything else, gets really messed up when you start adding more people to it. Like every great idea that came out of the 60’s, it gave folk singers more material.

While I’m neither an opponent of responsible environmentalism nor an opponent of well-reasoned conservation of our natural resources, there are aspects of the Earth Day phenomenon/craze, which makes me turn a little “green.”

During the week of April 22, every year, we get treated to a media blitz of “green” public service announcements, news, and shows with an environmental spin. I refuse to believe that Matt Lauer going “commando” on the Today show is somehow saving the environment. Whether it kills baby seals or not, deodorant made from chemicals is usually always a good thing.

Madison Avenue is even getting in on the craze. Product logos and wrappers are green along with the money that goes into the pockets of companies touting themselves as “Earth safe.” Consumers will pay extra for something if they feel like their money is being used for a worthy cause. Frankly, I don’t care for “green” toilet paper.

I like white, thank you very much.

So if being the most environmentally conscientious earthling only lasts for 24 hours, what happens during the remaining 8,736 hours of the year (non-Leap)? It’s during this large hunk of time that people love to dump their trash in the national forest or dump motor oil and unused appliances into local creeks. Responsible stewardship of our natural resources should be every day. However, I suppose that if we had Earth Year we’d come up with an Apathy Day to break up the monotony.

Finally, there is much debate about the existence of global warming. Some arguments claim that it is an actual phenomenon while others think it’s the environmentalists pushing forward their agenda. The thought of being able to wear shorts in the dead of winter in Minnesota is actually appealing to me. If polar bears can live in the Texas heat, then why can’t the rest of the globe?

Not everything organic is good for the earth or the people on it. Sunlight is heralded as a wonderful source of alternative energy, plus it gives George Hamilton spooky caramel luster. It also gives us the pleasure of fighting skin cancer if we don’t use sunscreen. By the way, sunscreen is topical and not oral. Rub it on yourself, but not on your bagel.

To really make an environmental impact, we have to make a yearlong commitment for a lifetime. Not just for one day. Use a broom instead of a leaf blower, or skip to work instead of driving.

I guess the best gift for Earth Day that anyone can give is a willingness to look past the hype and to do what he or she can within reasonable limits.

Celebrate Earth Day the best way you know how.

I think I’m going to give a cow a nice big plate of beans.

What to write about next....

The ideas that I choose to write about come to me like the blowing wind. Sometimes, I have to grab anything I can write on to jot it down quickly before I forget. Luckily, I keep a pen with me for when my muse decides to hit me with a brick. I'm batting around the ideas of lines, cooking shows, and internet memes as ideas for my next topic.

I think I might write about the little catterpillars my kids have grown as part of their Clover Kids project. It would be more interesting to wait and see what happens to them. Right now, they are smack dab in the middle of their three month life cycle.

My new article will be up tomorrow. It's about Earth Day.

Have fun.

String Cheese - Article Twenty Four

Facebook facilitates social ‘nutworking’

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 04.07.09

I absolutely refuse to get a Facebook page.

I think my refusal stems from the fact that there are people out there who may want me to repay them for lunch or gas money. Still, I don’t think I want the ghosts of my past being able to visit me.

My wife has one. Not a ghost, but a Facebook page. She’s really enjoyed getting the opportunity to reconnect with people with whom she went to school. Seriously, I think she gets a kick out of seeing how time has been particularly unkind to the “popular” crowd.

I just don’t care to take that walk down amnesia lane.

For instance, I’d hate to have my ex-girlfriend from 10th grade find me, then demand to know why I broke up with her to go out with some “mystery girl.” Even though it’s been almost 20 years, she’d still be upset if I told her it was her sister.

I know my chemistry teacher would love to finally find out how I was able to almost ace his final exam thereby cementing myself a passing grade.

Sorry. A magician never reveals his tricks. Neither does a kid who must pass chemistry to keep driving his Camaro.

I know I’d be sorely depressed if one of my friends sent me a message on Facebook saying, “Remember that cool idea we had for curing athlete’s foot using a cheese grater? I’ve made millions off that patent!” I wouldn’t handle it very well.

Besides, I don’t want to hear about how fat I’ve gotten over time.

Up to this point, I’ve kept in contact with every school chum that I’ve wanted to keep in contact with. Which is none.

However, I’m not a total isolationist.

I have a Twitter account that keeps me connected with total strangers. For the uninitiated, Twitter is a micro-blog service that lets users tell the rest of the world what they are doing in under 140 characters. Those little posts are called “Tweets.” It’s a fantastic way to let the world know what you’re having for breakfast or smelling in your office.

I like Twitter because one doesn’t have to be so personal. I mostly enjoy reading about what other people are doing halfway around the world. Actress Demi Moore is constantly flooding my inbox with pictures and Tweets about whatever else is going on in her life.

I like the idea of moving forward and making new friends.

If any of you readers out there join Twitter, look for me. My name is @ArynCorley.

I like spreading total nonsense about the Twitterverse.

I’m pretty good at that.

String Cheese Article - Twenty Three

Monkey See... Monkey Die.

by Aryn Corley

Normally, I reserve this column for things of a nonsensical and mildly humorous nature. I even use this column as a launch pad for completely fabricated stories.

But today, I feel I must use this article as forum to eulogize a dear friend.

As I was perusing the Texas Legislature’s website looking for laws legalizing off-track betting on hamster racing, I found some sad news.

On 18 March 2009, SR 448 was read into the rolls of the State Senate announcing the untimely death of Kambula the Gorilla, from the Fort Worth Zoo.

I was saddened by this news, but I also felt a little guilty for not having stayed in touch with Kambula after we’d graduated from high school.

Kambula and I were from the same village in the western lowlands just outside the shores of Lake Pupucaca, in Madagascar. We went to different elementary and middle schools, so we didn’t meet until we were freshmen.

As some seniors were hazing me during my first week of school, I remember a gorilla coming from out of nowhere and sending those kids flying into lockers and making them scatter. As a token of my appreciation, I gave the gorilla my bandana. I read somewhere once that monkeys love bandanas.

From that moment on, Kambula and I became best pals.

Kam, or as I liked to call him, “Donkey Kong”, used to love showing off for the cheerleaders. They loved it when he’d pick up cars or just chew on a stick. The football coaches all wanted him to play, but Kam wouldn’t stop deflating the balls. He said it was fun like popping packing bubbles.

Kam was more of an artist than an athlete. We both joined the band. I played a trumpet while he played three bass drums. You should’ve heard that big monkey play! When you’re doing drum rolls, it helps to have thumbs on your feet.

We also went on a double date one time. We took our dates to Showbiz Pizza, and then went to see Gorillas in the Mist. Kam got misty so we left early. He always had a crush on Sigourney Weaver. Luckily, we found some barrels that he could throw at an Italian plumber. That seemed to cheer him up.

Kam and I tried out for and were cast in the high school drama department’s production of King Kong. I was cast as a villager and Kam was cast as Faye Wray! Kam would confide to me later, at a keg party, that he’d kept the dress he wore in the play and would try it on from time to time. 

To each his own.

He and I had made big plans for ourselves for when we graduated from high school. We both said we’d either go to law school and become high-powered attorneys or go work in a slaughterhouse. Alas, the best laid plans of men and gorillas…

After graduation, I joined the military and Kam went to the zoo. We always said we’d stay in touch, but the days turned into weeks and the weeks into years. Before I knew it, I had a family of my own and a career. Kam was happy where he was swinging on tires, mating with several female gorillas, and making faces at tourists.

Even though time had passed, and I hadn’t spoken to him in a long time, there is still a place in my heart for him. I know that right now, wherever he is, he’s going completely ape.

See ya, Kam. Say “Hi” to Chuck Darwin for me.

NEW BLOG TITLE

I changed the name of my blog from Confessions... to The Cheese Factor. I think it accurately expresses the focus of the site which is primarily to archive my String Cheese articles. Furthermore, it will give me the lattitude to exercise a little more freedom of speech.

Singin' in the Rain

It's rained for the past two days.

It's also been cold.

The whole weather situation has me craving steak and kidney pie with a small dallop of Branston Pickle. 

I remember when I was in England the weather was always wet and chilly. When I look at pictures of me back then I sure was pale. At least by Mexican standards. It's days like this I wish I could just zip over to London for a small visit.

Blimey.

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth

Saturday night I spent most of the night in the emergency room.
While I was on patrol, I got one of those strange parental feelings. I called my wife because I hadn't heard from her all day and I knew she was taking the kids with her to the radio station.
When I got her on the phone she sounded frantic. She told me she was going to the hospital because my daughter needed to be looked at.
Once again, my three year old stunt girl banged her face on a solid object. This time it was a doozy.
There are two types of phone calls I dread getting regarding this girl. The first one deals with any injury. The second has more to do with the one call you get from the county jail.
When I got to the emergency room I knew it was bad because they let me go right in without wanting to see my insurance card. They were in the "Trauma 2" room, which also gave me a pretty good idea about the situation.
When I came in I saw my daughter on a gurney with blood all over her face, my wife about to pass out, and my son with his eyes darting about wondering if he was going to be next in line for shots.
The doctor came in and did his assessment, then had a PA stitch her up with two stitches in her bottom lip. She didn't cry nearly as bad as I did when I got the bill.
On 3/2/09 she went to the dentist and had her two front teeth pulled. There was no use in letting them stay. My wife was upset at first, but I reminded her that most of the girls in East Texas are missing their front teeth anyway. The doctor put her two little pearly incisors in a little plastic container for posterity. I think I'll have them made into earrings and give them to her on her 18th birthday.
UPDATE: My daughter is totally milking the sympathy. She loves the attention and having chocolate shakes for dinner. She says she can't wait to lose more teeth so she can get more money from the Tooth Fairy.

String Cheese - Article Twenty Two

Two take Texas-sized

bite out of Big Apple

by ARYN CORLEY

“Watch out! You’re gonna kill someone!”

When I heard my wife shout those words to our cab driver, it was then I realized that we were really in New York City. However, our driver didn’t understand much English so her plea had fallen on uncomprehending ears. As the cab dodged in and out of traffic like Emmitt Smith running through the Steeler’s defensive line, I wondered if we’d properly completed our will. After a short ride we were dumped at our destination in Queens.

Queens, New York, is not exactly a tourist destination. It’s much like Pointblank, only slightly bigger. At least the hotel was free. There didn’t seem to be any insects because the rats had eaten them all. The hotel where we stayed (name withheld because I can’t write in Arabic) was probably very nice about the same time Fleetwood Mac was big.

Being from Texas, distance is a strange thing. We drive everywhere because nothing is close by. In a big city like New York, a “block” is actually a unit of measure. It’s about as long as a football field. So when the bell captain (funny, our hotel had no bell nor steeple for that matter) said the subway station was five blocks away, that sounded really close.

Normally, walking five hundred yards doesn’t bother me unless it’s in extremely cold weather. New York in February is pretty darn close to winter. It’s perfect weather for hanging deer meat or just dying from hypothermia. Texans have no business being in the cold. Which is why we invented the jalapeno.

Texans also have no business traveling on the subway system. It’s very easy to tell a Texan in the subway station. We’re the ones who say, “Which train is this?” It took us a couple of days to figure out the trains don’t run from point A to point B. I think a few times we accidentally ended up where we needed to be.

While we were there, we visited my sister. She lives in an apartment in Manhattan. I never realized just how living in such a huge city is different than living in the country. When I look out my window, I see a beautiful shot of Lake Livingston. When I looked out my sister’s window, I saw a half-naked woman staring at me with bewilderment. She was probably wondering why my nose was flattened on the glass.

I have to say, though, the food was amazing. We Texans are blessed with good food. So are New Yorkers. My wife and I ate in a Chinese restaurant one evening. We had no idea what we ordered other than it was fried and the wait staff was very interested to see if we were going to puke. We also had some fantastic Greek food. They rolled their eyes at us when we ordered two “Ji-Rohs.” They also looked at us like they’d never heard of Dr. Pepper!

Sadly, we never made it out to ground zero and my fear of heights automatically ruled out the Empire State building. We were able to see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. I was finally able to satisfy my curiosity as to what the Statue of Liberty wears underneath her toga. You can see it if you go around behind the statue itself. I’m not telling what it is though. It’s a secret.

Ellis Island was a sobering testament to the people who came to this country looking for a better way of life. Several thousand immigrants came here with nothing but a few dollars in their pockets and desire to make it in this country. Fortunately, they had a restaurant, souvenir shop, and plenty of exhibits to keep them busy.

After a few days of blistering cold and almost getting run over by busses and taxis, it was time for us to come home. In a way I was saddened our trip wasn’t a couple of days longer. The general level of friendliness and hospitality we were shown while we were there pleasantly surprised me. New Yorkers are stereotypically viewed as rude, arrogant, and brash. We must not have been in the right part of the city.

Now, I have a better understanding of all those shirts I saw which read: I “heart” New York.

String Cheese - Article Twenty One

Telemarketers talk jive with turkey

By ARYN CORLEY

Without fail, usually around dinnertime, the phone rings. I make my way through a minefield of children’s toys, discarded clothing, and oddly shaped furniture to grab the phone before the caller hangs up.

Could it be a long lost relative wanting to add me to their will?

Could it be the tax office calling to say they made a mistake and my taxes are being lowered?

Perhaps, the governor needs to appoint me as the executive director of the Texas Department of Nonsense.

When I answer the phone I’m immediately disappointed.

“Hello, Mr. Carley,” says the gruff female voice. “Have you thought about your funeral arrangements? What would happen if you were to pass away tomorrow?”

For starters, I wouldn’t have telemarketers bothering me anymore.

I suspect that only mere minutes after Alexander Graham Bell made his historic first phone call, his new device rang and on the other end was a nice lady from Bolivia trying to sell him identity theft insurance. Always the sucker for Bolivian women, Bell agreed and a new era of telephone solicitation was ushered in.

Thanks, Alex.

Anyone aspiring to make a living as a telemarketer must have stalwart determination and a healthy appetite for rejection. It’s the perfect job for people who love to take “no” for an answer. Telemarketer training is also an arduous task. Trainees are kept in small cages and are fed very little food and water while listening to the constant drone of dial tones. The training is so intense it makes the Navy SEALs seem like the Boy Scouts!

How else can someone perform this job without going completely bananas?

I had a telemarketing job once. I worked for a company that tried to sign people up for welding school. It was this job that taught me about the many different ways one can get cussed out over the phone. I lasted one week before I called in and said I couldn’t come to work any more because of my “eardrum infection.”

Since then I’ve been very courteous to telemarketers. However, they’re not exempt from my petty torments.

A children’s book club once called begging me to order more wholesome, family-oriented books for my dear children. When the telemarketer on the other end of the phone line asked me if I was the man of the house I responded negatively.

“I’m only the man after the REAL man leaves.” There was a gasp, and then the line went dead. Needless to say, my children never received the full set of the Dr. Seuss collection.

I’ve learned that credit card companies get very nervous when you speak with a Middle Eastern accent and start asking about frequent flyer miles and untraceable one-way tickets.

I also get many telephone surveys. Those don’t count as telemarketing because they’re asking for something that is not only free, but totally worthless: my opinion. A little skew never hurt anyone.

Regardless of the inconvenience that telemarketers cause, I’m never rude. I always remain polite and whenever possible I try to glean as much information as I can about the telemarketers themselves.

One girl from Toronto, Canada, told me all about the trouble she was having with her sister. Even though I wasn’t going to buy additional life insurance, I was glad I was able to provide her with an ear that would listen to what she really had to say.

Still, there is a part of me that can’t help itself when a telemarketer calls.

“Hello, is Mr. Conley there?” the man asks.

“ Sorry. A bear mauled him earlier today! ,” I respond cheerfully.

“Can I take a message?”

What's eating Gilbert Gator?

If you happen to find yourself wondering what to do with all that great alligator meat. Here's a nice recipe for you.

Gator Sauce Piquant

3-4 lbs gator meat cut into 1/2" cubes (if no gator, substitute any small reptile)
1 large bell pepper - diced
1 med yellow onion - diced
1 bunch of green onions - chopped
1 cup celery - chopped
1 can Rotel tomato and chiles
1 can stewed tomatoes
Tony Chacheres seasoning to taste
2 bay leaves
2 tbsp parsley
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp salt
Tabasco to taste
Worcester Sauce
Soy sauce
2 cups rice
2 cans tomato sauce 6 oz.

Cut meat into 1/2" cubes, season lightly with Tony's and garlic powder. Saute in heavy pot until brown. Add 3 cups of water and simmer 20 minutes. Add onion, celery, bell pepper, Rotel, and stew tomatoes. Cook on medium heat for about 30 minutes; stirring often. Add 2 bay leaves and parsley. Cook on low heat 15 additional minutes, remove bay leaves and add Worcester sauce, soy sauce, and Tabasco sauce to taste. Add 2 cans of tomato sauce; stirring often. Cook 2 cups of rice or enough to feed six adults.
(courtesy of Robert Englund, Port Acres, TX, from Alligators in Texas, Texas Parks and Wildlife, 2005)

Twitterpated

I'm hooked on this Twitter thing. I've found it to be a great way to network and get people reading my columns. . If you want to follow my "tweets" just go to http://www.twitter.com and create a free account. Look for ArynCorley. Then follow. It's so easy!
As an added bonus, I've subscribed to TwitPic so I can share some of my interesting photos with the rest of the world.
My sincerest thanks to all of you who read my stuff and tell others about it.

SNA AWARD WINNING COLUMNIST

I won a Surburban Newspapers of America Award for my headline I wrote for my lovebug article! Hopefully, this will be the first of many.

http://www.hcnonline.com/articles/2009/01/31/cleveland_advocate/news/0609advocate_wins_awards_ca.txt

ASP Westward LP

Houston Community Newspapers, Cleveland Advocate-HCN

Cleveland, TX

3rd Place, Classes A/B Combined

CATEGORY 6-Best Headline

Nobody Loves Bugs by Aryn Conley*

*mispelled; should read 'Corley'.

Please read the article below:
Nobody Loves Bugs Like Lovebugs Love Bugs
http://aryncorley.blogspot.com/2008/09/string-cheese-article-thirteen.html

Thanks.

Lucky Stars with Nigel

I play a character on the radio named "Nigel". We do the bit on Wednesdays at about 7:50 a.m. CST. He's a British psychic who gives horrible horroscopes. If you're interested in hearing the bit just click the following link:

http://www.livingston.net/classichits/audio.php

Here are the Lucky Stars for 1-28-2009.

Taurus: Your friends are important to you. Especially the one who stays on the couch.

Virgo: You may need to take time out of your day to deal with your mate or someone else who really annoys you.

Scorpio: Someone is going to ask a question which will totally boggle your mind. It will most likely be "Would you like to upsize that?"

Aquarius: Finacnial information isn't as helpful as usual today. Not to worry. Just keep putting your ATM card into the machine until it runs out of funny green paper.

Feng Shui Tip of the Day:

     If you want to "un-muddy" the waters of your life... flush.

String Cheese - Article Twenty

Some greetings are hands-on experiences

By ARYN CORLEY

As long as there have been homosapiens pretending to be people, they’ve needed a way to greet one another. Since hind end sniffing was monopolized by canines, the handshake was developed.

Trust me. It’s a good thing. Otherwise, walking into the front doors at church on Sunday morning would be pretty weird.

Accepted as a universal sign of good will, the handshake is one of those gestures that spans across cultures and breaks down language barriers. Just like sticking out your tongue fourteen times and humming “nanny nanny boo-boo.”

Although the meaning of the handshake is relatively unambiguous, not all handshakes are created equal. In fact, the handshake you get is as much a unique characteristic of the person giving it as their signature.

In Texas, you’re most likely to get a firm handshake from just about everyone including newborns. I think it’s a reflection of our friendly nature. Personally, I like firm handshakes. Especially from women 30 or older.

However, if you go anywhere else you’re likely to get what I call a “sick clam.”

The “sick clam” is that kind of half handshake where the other person barley pinches the tips of your fingers with a cold, clammy hand. The whole affair makes me feel creepy like I’ve just been gummed by an 80-year-old mollusk.

Conversely, I don’t like having the “tortilla press” applied to me either.

The “tortilla press” is where the giver is less concerned with your well-being and more concerned about squishing your hand into one flat uniform piece like a tortilla. It seems like the more your face turns purple and your eyes water, the harder the other person squeezes. Luckily, it’s only men who do this. Otherwise, the resultant swift kick to the [deleted] wouldn’t be as effective.

Recently, I was talking to a friendly 18-year-old person from inner-city Houston. The handshake started off normal enough, but quickly morphed into a series of manual somersaults and machinations that made me feel like I was in a dance routine rather than just saying, “Hello.” By the time it was over, I felt confused about what had just happened, yet refreshed that I’d gotten such a workout. It was all I could do just to follow along. I call that handshake “The Simon Sez.”

Fist bumping has become popular lately. This is accomplished by two people who don’t want the commitment and intimacy of a legitimate handshake, but want something more substantial than a “high five.”

Too bad. I really liked the high five.

It was about the only way you could slap someone in public without getting the police involved. The downside to the “high five” is that it needed to be rehearsed at least 15 times. There’s nothing more embarrassing, or funny, about seeing two people awkwardly miss each other’s hands and landing right on the other person’s forehead.

Howie Mandel, host of NBC television’s insipid game show “Deal, or No Deal,” prefers not to shake hands with people because he’s afraid of germs. He opts instead for a trendy fist bump. Sadly, Howie doesn’t know about the Fistodollas bacillus germs that are spread by fist bumping and causes impotence and baldness. Ironically, most deals are closed with a handshake.

Of course, it’s almost impossible to engage someone in a handshake without making a few gaffs.

I once tried to shake hands with a guy who was missing an arm. Oops. Wrong hand.

In some cultures, shaking with the wrong hand could prove to be very insulting.

Generally speaking, one shouldn’t try to shake hands with the dead.

Regardless, handshakes have been around for hundreds of years and will be around for hundreds more. Perhaps, the best policy is simply to keep our hands to ourselves.

Speaking of handshakes, try this riddle:

Suppose six people shake hands with each other. How many handshakes are there?

Hint: The answer is somewhere in this article.

Have fun!

String Cheese - Article Nineteen

Old promises help ring in New Year

By ARYN CORLEY

Someone asked me a question just the other day.

“What’s your New Year’s Resolution?“

I stared back at the person with an utterly blank look on my face.

Honestly, I really haven’t given it much thought. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I made a New Year’s Resolution. It’s not that I’m perfect and could do without self-improvement. I’d love to have another set of arms. I could probably do something to make myself better in some way.

But why?

Most folks make New Year’s Resolutions to give themselves a goal to work forward to in the coming year. According the usa.gov website, among the most popular resolutions people make every year are pledging to quit smoking, saving more money, getting fit, and reducing stress. While those are admirable and somewhat lofty goals for some people, I don’t know if any of those goals are realistic. Sadly, I don’t know of anyone who has ever bragged about keeping a New Year’s Resolution. It seems resolutions are doomed to fail and meet their peril only mere hours after their declaration.

Much like a celebrity marriage.

If you listen carefully, you can hear the desperate cries of help from these poor resolutions as they go careening off the cliff of human nature and smashing onto the rocks of our collective pathological behavior below.

There goes one now. Did you hear it?

Do we unnecessarily set ourselves up for failure? I feel sympathetic to people who try to quit smoking. Just when the smoker has gone several weeks without “sparking up,” a precipitating factor occurs which facilitates a craving for a nice, slow drag on a cancer stick. Usually around tax time.

I used to be a smoker myself and found quitting to be very difficult. However, my decision to quit wasn’t made out of a hackneyed attempt to follow tradition. Rather, I needed to stop smoking because it was expensive and, according to my wife, I looked like an idiot with my cigarette dangling precariously on my lip like some kind of third-rate James Dean.

So, instead of lighting a cigarette when I get stressed out, I opt for banging baby hamsters with a large hardcover book.

Not really.

Breaking a resolution must make people feel bad. Nobody likes to fail. That is, of course, anybody outside of government service. Starting off the year with one strike against you is depressing. That’s pretty bad if you’ve made a resolution not to be depressed.

Instead of making silly resolutions to eliminate some aspect of our personality, why not make a resolution that will enhance it? It’s our imperfections that add flavor to who we are as people. It gives our lives meaning. If people were perfect, marriage would be pointless.

Instead of declaring to stop biting fingernails, declare that fingernails must be bitten with chocolate on them.

I also see no harm in making an easy to follow and universally acceptable resolution. For instance, it would be difficult to find anyone who would disagree with a resolution stating one would use more hand sanitizer. From a public health perspective, that’s a very good resolution to have.

The bottom line is that resolutions, whether they’re genuine, or just a feeble attempt to get a member of the opposite sex to acknowledge your existence, should be well thought out and attainable. Otherwise, you’ll beat yourself up all year long.

After a brief pause, I responded to the person I was talking to.

“This year,” I said. “I’m not making any more bad jokes.”

Whoops.

There goes another one...