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. ;)

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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.