String Cheese Article - XXXIV

Cheesy awards are a "cut" above the rest
by Aryn Corley

http://www.hcnonline.com/eastex/opinion/article_2ac360f6-be31-5f19-855f-4e8427dccfd8.html

The intrepid scientists at the Cheese Research Academy of the Pineywoods (C.R.A.P.) have once again devoted countless hours of research (and imbibing of adult beverages) to come up with the recipients of the 2011 Cheese Cutter Awards.
The Cheese Cutter Award is bestowed to those lucky few who have made the previous year seem like really bad morning breath. After all, there are thousands of awards given every year for excellence. Why not have ONE award each year for outstanding mediocrity? Remember, that without the dimness, the stars wouldn’t seem so bright. Without any further emission of greenhouse gasses, pull up a chair, grab a cold beverage, and let’s start cuttin’ cheese!
So it begins.
Chivalry isn’t dead, it just smells funny. That’s why the first award on the list goes to the Cheesiest Woman. There were plenty of opportunities to give this award. Michelle Obama gets an honorable mention for breaking protocol and hugging Queen Elizabeth. The gaffe created controversy because The Queen doesn’t even hug her husband Prince Phillip, the Duke of Edinburgh! Sarah Palin, last year’s recipient, continues to show a strong presence in this category with her “No retreat, reload” rhetoric. However, there was one woman above all others who was “Russian” to get the prize. The 2011 Winner of the Cheesiest Woman award goes to...
Anna Chapman, Russian Spy.
In June of 2010, Chapman plead guilty to the charge of failing to register as a foreign agent. Apparently, you have a permit to spy on “The Gummint”. It’s unclear as to what information she was actually collecting. It was probably something along the lines of Starbucks locations and pizza delivery schedules. It was her “girl next door” good looks that garnered her notoriety and begged the question, “Where can I get a Russian girl like that to spy on me?”
Speaking of government...
The next award is for the Cheesiest Government Action. Bloated bureaucracies and reems of red tape are the breeding grounds for great comedy. Government lulus are usually at the expense of the taxpayer. The Transportation Security Administration made a strong showing when they kicked off their Grope-A-Palooza tour to fight terrorism. All be darned if any old ladies and young children were going to smuggle contraband onto our planes. The mid-term elections could be seen as some as a clear winner. Many incumbents lost to vrtually unknown challengers with Mickey Mouse receiving well over 25 percent of the vote in many heated elections. However, there was only one government action which took the cheese in this virtual “rat race”. The 2011 Winner of the Cheesiest Government Action goes to...
the Iranian Space program.
In February, 2010, the Iranian government launched its first rocket into space. The astronauts aboard were hand chosen by the space agency from an elite group of candidates. Those with the “right stuff” included a rat, two turtles, and several worms. All were returned back to the Earth alive and given a ticker tape parade on the streets of Tehran. I heard the worms drank too much Tequila. Ahmadinejad was not only happy about his country’s successful space flight, but he was also pleased the two turtles remembered the arming sequences for a nuclear warhead. How nutty is it that a country, whose first astronaut is a rat, wins an award made from cheese?
Speaking of nuts...
Every year, we give an award for the Cheesiest Media Moment. This award is for the media who not only beat dead horses, but also beat the glue made from them. Endless coverage of the Tiger Woods scandal almost proved to be victorious. It’s too bad the philandering Tiger plays better golf than the straight-and-narrow Tiger. Who could forget the media snafu surrounding the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and Conan O’Brien? It seemed like the peacock network laid a huge egg when it moved around it’s schedule to accommodate Jay Leno, who after leaving the Tonight Show, was replaced by Conan O’Brien only to be re-replaced by Jay Leno. Still, it wasn’t enough to bring home the yellow in this category. The 2011 Winner of the Cheesiest Media Moment goes to...
World Cup Vuvuzelas.
The feel-good event of 2010, the World Cup soccer championship, was shrouded by millions of plastic trumpets being blown all at once. The result was a sound that sounded like a million angry bees chasing a buffalo stampede. Coverage of the event seemed like a two week long vuvuzela concert with an occasional soccer game thrown in. Vuvuzelas crept their way from the soccer pitch onto other programs like CSI: World Cup and Law and Order: Breach of the Peace Unit. If aliens invade our planet and try to destroy it, don’t take it personally. They’ve come for the vuvuzelas.
Speaking of mankind...
Who will get the Cheesiest Dude award? Will it be Facebook creator Mark Zuckerberg for the seemingly endless problems with user privacy and his apparent inability to give an interesting interview? Nope. Will it be Charlie Sheen who’s antics of the small screen usually (albeit allegedly) involve police, controlled substances, and the occasional hooker trapped in a hotel bathroom? Nope. The winner would have to be a man who’s not afraid to let his inner Tammy Faye Bakker out. The 2011 Winner of the Cheesiest Dude goes to....
Speaker of the House John Boehner.
The old saying “When the going gets tough, the tough cry and look like a dweeb” certainly applies to congressman Boehner. Whether it’s talking to Leslie Stahl on “60 Minutes”, giving an acceptance speech on election night, or talking about the Cowboys not making the playoffs, Boehner rarely misses the opportunity to turn on the water. For being third in line to ascend the presidency, you’d think there’d be a little more stoicism. It’s probably a good thing Boehner’s mascara is waterproof.
Speaking of kidney failure...
We’ve finally come to the last award: the Big Cheese. This award goes to that which was the most cheesy and the biggest goof of 2010. The award could have gone to those Chilean miners who, after spending 69 days trapped underground without a Justin Beiber concert, fought to be the last miner out of the mine. The award could have gone to British Petroleum for the catastrophic oil spill in the Gulf which was so massive they ran out of wildlife to soak up the oil. Luckily, there was one who was a real strikeout...
And now... the moment you’ve been waiting for. The winner of the 2010 Big Cheese award goes to...(drum roll)
The New York Yankees.(applause)
The Yankees had spent somewhere in the neighborhood of a zillion dollars to get the best baseball players in the universe. Additionally, the Almighty moved George Steinbrenner to the “more major” league. Regardless of the talent, the money, and the most expensive hot dogs in major league baseball the Yankees were unable to defend their title as World Series champions. I feel obliged to note that their “sure thing” season was brought to a screeching halt by the Texas Rangers.
Booyah!!!
That does it for the 2010 Cheese Cutter awards. I hope the coming year is just as cheesy as the last.
Please leave this article face up next to the commode.

String Cheese Article - XXXIII

Christmas: It’s the fraught that counts

Posted: Tuesday, December 21, 2010 1:10 am

Christmas is only a couple of days away and I’m woefully negligent in getting my Christmas shopping done.

Sure, I could blame it on some external cause and come up with an excuse like “I can’t stand holiday crowds” or “I don’t have enough ammo to go Christmas shopping.” Truthfully, I’ve been afraid to give the crummiest gift.

If there was a country on this planet full of people who give cheap and thoughtless gifts, I would be their leader. It’s not that I intend to give Christmas presents that nobody likes, it’s just that I seem to pick the one’s the people really don’t want.

For example, a female friend of mine had a very small child who suffered from colic and cried quite a lot. Not her, but the child. Anyway, I decided to give her a box full of clean, hypoallergenic rags for Christmas. She had no idea why I had given them to her and she couldn’t figure out what they were for. I told her if she got tired of the kid crying she could stuff one of those cloths in its mouth.

Whoops. It wasn’t until I had a colicky baby of my own that I realized how insensitive I was.

I have to admit though, the rag trick works.

I guess I could re-gift an item. That seems to be the trend these days. I once got a Chia Pet from a friend and the tag read, “Ken, you are a great guy.” As I look around my hovel, I don’t see anything that could be re-gifted without seeming totally obvious.

Let’s see. I have loads of squirrel meat that would make a nice stocking stuffer. Who doesn’t wake up on Christmas morning with a hankering for some squirrel stew? I have many rolls of “environmentally friendly” toilet paper. On second thought, I better keep those. I know! I have several bottles of Amoxicillin left over from the last time I had a really nasty sinus infection. That would be a nice gift considering how expensive prescription drugs have gotten.

Whoever said, “It’s better to give than to receive” obviously never received anything. That saying puts an incredible amount of responsibility on the giver. Logically, if it were truly better to receive than give, then the flu would be more popular.

Unfortunately, gifts are incredibly scrutinized by the receiver and are seen as benchmarks for how well you like a person or not. Can you imagine how much hate mail I got when I gave all of my law enforcement friends their own copy of “Brokeback Mountain?”

Whoever said, “It’s the thought that counts” never gave any copies of “Brokeback Mountain” to a bunch of cops. I’m still trying to pay off those tickets.

Probably, I’ll just have to lay low until this whole Christmas thing blows over. I’ll just tell my friends I was abducted by aliens and I’ll get them gifts on Columbus Day.

Besides, if any of them really want to unwrap something from me on Christmas morning I’ll get them a dozen tamales.

I hope that each and every one of you have a very Cheesy Christmas!

String Cheese Article - XXXII

Whine made from fresh gropes

Posted: Tuesday, November 30, 2010 11:33 am | Updated: 9:15 am, Wed Dec 1, 2010.

By ARYN CORLEY

It seems the war on terror is going to some very dark places. In fact, it’s going to places where the sun doesn’t shine.

The Transportation Security Administration (TSA), our country’s first line of defense against the “farces of evil,” has recently implemented invasive pat-downs and “see-thru” scanners to fight the global war on privacy.

If they happen to thwart terrorism, then that’s a bonus.

These new scanners penetrate clothing in order to allow highly trained voyeurs to determine if sneaky passengers are trying to smuggle foil-wrapped cucumbers onto the plane. Basically, these machines are doing what teenage boys have been doing for centuries.

For people who wish to “opt out” of being bombarded by carcinogenic X-rays, there’s the tactile technique, which is a blend of creepy touching and perverse petting.

The new procedures have only been in place for a couple of weeks and already the horror stories are hitting the Internet. One news website reported that a passenger named Thomas Sawyer had his colostomy bag broken by one of these crazy pat-downs.

I guess the TSA is very serious about not allowing liquids in carry-ons.

In Providence, Rhode Island, Channel 10 News interviewed a a breast cancer survivor who said the TSA screener was moving her prosthetic breast all over the place.

These searches, with new and improved invasiveness, wouldn’t have been implemented without first being tried by the politicians who support it. Right? Well, not exactly. Hillary Clinton admitted on Face the Nation that she wouldn’t be screened if she could “avoid it.”

I wonder if Bill would have a go.

If you recall, from my fourth String Cheese article (April 2008), I gave my reasons for hating to fly. Sadly, I look like a terrorist sometimes when I wear a turban at the airport. I get an extra level of screening because I look like a Hispanic Arab. Personally, I want the pat-down. It makes me feel like I’m back in Saigon.

Too bad I’ve never been to Saigon.

With all of the fun the TSA is having, I can’t understand why they can’t fill screener positions? I saw a recruitment poster that read they were “...looking for a few good hands.”

Although, I’m very happy with my present employment as a part time ne’er-do-well, a career as a “passenger handler” sounds very lucrative and a great addition to my resumé. Especially since Al-Quida announced they were going to start smuggling weapons of mass destruction in the bras of Norwegian supermodels.

The more I think about it, the more Greyhound sounds preferable. At least at a bus station, one expects some creep to put their hands on you.

At least were moving “forward” in the war on terror. However, winning the war on common sense seems hopeless.

I'm Drawing A Thumbprint Tree

My sister asked me to draw a Thumb Print Tree for her wedding guests to use as a sign in sheet. They'll put their thumb prints on the tree to make the "leaves". I hope she likes it. ;)

String Cheese - Article XXXI

Chilean miners aren't getting the shaft
by Aryn Corley

The only thing worse than listening to a time share presentation would be being trapped in a Chilean mine. Actually, it would be worse if one was trapped in a Chilean time share with minors.

However, that's the subject for another article.

As of this writing, there are 33 souls trapped a little more than half a mile below the ground in a mine in Chile. To put that into perspective, Jared from Subway would have to lower two thirds of his intestines into the hole in order to get them out. Yum! Judging from the pictures and video I've seen on the Internet, the miners seem to be taking it in stride. They're smiling, mugging for the camera, and walking around shirtless like a third-world Lorenzo Lamas.

There's a waterfall under there so it's not like those guys are stinking up the place. They have a television so they can stay up date on their favorite show “Jersey Shore”. The miners say they can really identify with fellow subterranean life form “Snooki”.

To alleviate some of their boredom, the miners entertain themselves by playing games. With the interconnectedness of the mine tunnels, coupled with the infinite darkness, they've been playing a wicked game of “Marco Polo” for the last several days. Just imagine the fun those guys could have had if only someone had the foresight to bring night vision goggles and a paintball gun.

These guys are having no shortage of things to eat either. Food is being delivered to them in a nice convenient tube. If I won the lottery tomorrow, I would totally install a “pizza pipeline” and have warm pie extruded directly to me from Big Lou's Pizza of San Antonio.

Most fascinating to me is the revelation that one of the miners has his wife AND girlfriend topside awaiting his return. I think his name is El Tigre Bosque (that's Spanish for “Tiger Woods”). As a general rule, wives and girlfriends shouldn't find out about each other. They tend to get upset when they do. If the miners were politicians it wouldn't be an issue. Admittedly, I fail to give proper credit to Chilean miners when I ponder careers that really attract the ladies. The next time I'm trying to impress a woman, I'll ditch my rap about being a secret agent for the government and go with the story about being the guy who holds the flashlight.

The capitol of Chile is Santiago. This isn't important information for this article, albeit a nice non-sequitur.

I hope someone down in that cold, dark, lonely cavern of despair is feeling the creative urge to write. A cavern, thirty three miners, and a tube dropping meat is a recipe for the greatest sitcom, ever! If the sitcom doesn't pan out, an off-broadway musical starring Neal Patrick Harris would be absolutely fabulous.

Sincerely, I hope every single one of those guys makes it out of that tunnel alive and makes it back to see wives, girlfriends, and whoever else wants to give them cigarettes.

Although, I think if I were in Chile I'd probably take my chances underground. The surface is where all the problems are.

String Cheese - Article XXX

 

Thumbing ride comes with a hitch

by Aryn Corley

Updated: 08.24.10

Recently I was driving through the beautiful back roads of East Texas admiring the flora, the fauna, and the occasional dumped appliance.

More importantly, I was late for work. As I sped along, I noticed a man standing on the side of the road with his thumb held out.

The sight reminded me of a recently published article in Psychology Today which reported the results of a study by a French psychologist who found that women with larger chest sizes have an easier time finding rides when hitchhiking.

I wonder why that is? The most interesting thing for me is the idea that French psychologists actually get paid for measuring stuff like that.

Maybe I should have been a French psychologist.

The guy looked haggard and beleaguered from the heat. After all, the heat index had risen to a balmy 275 degrees. He had an overstuffed backpack laying at his feet and probably smelled like he'd just been to a Grateful Dead concert. If Where's Waldo and Grizzly Adams had a kid, it would look like this guy.

The man was a hitchhiker. He needed to get somewhere.

Feeling sorry for the dude, I pulled over. He heaved up his bag on his shoulder and started toward my truck. As he wearily trudged toward me, I began to remember all the things I was ever told about hitchhikers.

Whether the stories are true, or urban legends, there is a kind of mystique that surrounds those who, for one reason or another, travel the country with reckless abandon, allowing themselves to be placed at the mercy of complete strangers.

In popular culture, hitchhikers hold an iconic status. They embody our freedom of movement and self-determination. Whether it's Jack Kerouac's classic book titled “On the Road,” Janis Joplin's edgy vocals on “Me and Bobby McGee,” or Rutger Hauer's disturbing performance in “The Hitcher,” hitchhiking has become synonymous with adventure.

When I hear the word “hitchhiker,” I almost always think of a Ford Prefect and Zaphod Beeblebrox from “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.”

Stories from urban lore tell about nefarious hitchhikers who wish nothing more than to wreak havoc on naive drivers. There's the story about the guy who stopped to pick up a hitchhiker, then changed his mind after hearing a radio report about a “hook-handed” homicidal maniac. When the man arrived home, he was quite shocked to find, hanging from his door handle, a hook!

Then there's the other story about the girl who asks for a ride home, only to have the driver discover she'd vanished. I've had women vanish themselves from my car before and it's a real bummer.

Once, I thought it would be a good idea to try hitchhiking from London to Paris. Since both towns are in Texas, I figured it would be easy.

Yeah, right.

I stood out on the side of US 377 for many hours. Cars sped past me without giving me a second glance. There was something about me which was making me less attractive for pick-up. Although, I must say the Border Patrol agent who interrogated me for several hours was a really nice fellow.

Finally coming to my senses, I decided not to give the guy a ride and sped away, leaving the hitchhiker on the side of the road in a cloud of dust and scattered gravel.

As I looked in the rear view mirror, I saw him cursing me loudly and violently waving his hook in the air.

It suddenly dawned on me why I decided not to pick him up.

His chest was too small.

String Cheese - Article XXIX

Tome reveals nothing to me

By ARYN CORLEY

Updated: 07.27.10

I was digging around in my shed looking for something to help me get rid of all the junk piled up inside. More specifically, what I needed was inside of a book.

I just knew that the people from the television show “Hoarders” were going to be kicking in my door demanding I dispose of it all. Worse yet, I figured the two women from “How Clean Is Your House” would invade my place to add insult to injury. Poring over the totes, boxes, and bags made me feel as though I was rooting around in the burial chamber of a very unpopular pharaoh.

As I sorted through my piles of meaningful refuse, I found a box marked “HS.” I opened it to discover it was a box of my wife’s high school mementos. It was a big box and it was full!

She was the girl in high school who got good grades and was involved in many clubs and activities. She was in National Honor Society, Who’s Who, 4-H, and the Mickey Mouse club. Inside the box were ribbons, plaques, trophies and other pieces of molded plastic that validated her athletic, as well as academic, achievements.

Basically, she was my high school antithesis. It’s a good thing I married her. You know what they say, “Keep your friends close and your enemies bound by matrimony.” Anyway, I marked the box for disposal and moved on.

The next box was much smaller, about one quarter of the size, and had geckos and roaches pouring out of it. Inside was a yearbook and a letter jacket.

Ah, yes. This was my box of high school memorabilia.

I achieved very little in high school. In fact, I was lucky to have made it out when I did. Unfortunately for me, there were no certificates for those who served the most detention. Failing math classes was something for which I received the most recognition.

Inside the box was my letter jacket from high school. While my friends managed to letter in some form athletic event, I found a way to get a letter jacket without really doing anything.

I lettered in drama. I may have not been able to throw a football, but I could make myself cry on command!

Someday, my children will be bored senseless hearing stories about my glory days as a “thespian.” There, I said it.

Regarding the letter jacket, no girl would ever be caught wearing it. Well, no girl would wear it unless I bribed her with wine coolers. I jammed my hand into the pocket to see if there was anything left of any value. The only thing I found was an old library fine slip for an overdue book titled, “Conquering Procrastination.” At least the jacket has some value as it provides shelter for many small reptiles.

I would have tried it on, except that I’m about 30 pounds heavier now than I was then.

Oink. Oink.

I picked up the yearbook in the bottom of the box. It’s pages were crusty and yellowed; just like the day I’d gotten it. I thumbed through the yearbook while glancing at the faces of the clueless within its pages.

I felt like I was perusing a mug shot catalogue of the world’s dumbest acne riddled criminals. I turned to my own yearbook photo and looked at my former self. I saw a kid who was wracked with puberty and had a really large head. My long hair suggested a rebellious spirit and aloof attitude. In reality, I lacked self confidence and was afraid of being rejected by girls. So little has changed. We didn’t know it then, but we were all having a bad hair day. The ‘80’s were pretty much a whole decade of unapologetic bad hair.

I flipped to the back of the yearbook where I had some of my friends sign and leave their nuggets of prophetic wisdom. One friend wrote, “See you next year!” Judging from my algebra scores back then, that was a very real possibility.

Another friend wrote, “You’re a crazy guy.” I think this friend went on to be a mental health counselor. The most prophetic was from Tina, who wrote,” Stay funny and you’ll go far.” She was right. I’m currently miles away from where I grew up. My sense of humor forced me to uproot and leave town.

It’s hard to believe that 20 years has passed since that time. Compared to the kid in that book, I have more wrinkles, more fat, and a bit more funny. If I had the chance to do it all over again, I’d stay put. I dropped the book in the box and put it on the shelf.

Finally, I’d found what I was looking for: a book of matches.