Liar, Liar Lance on Fire

            In some way or another everybody uses drugs to enhance their performance. It is the American way. Nature has dealt mankind a cruel hand in a game where the deck is often is stacked against us. We have neither wings, fangs, feathers, claws nor fur to help us get by. Instead we use our ingenuity to manufacture substances (extra-natural to ourselves) which give that little extra “nudge” to level the playing field.

            Lance Armstrong went on Oprah Winfrey’s television show to tell the world he used performance enhancing drugs. Apparently, Oprah was the last one to know.

            Welcome to the rest of the world, Lance.

            Lance Armstrong lied, and cheated to get lots of money and he could not have done it without the help of some chemicals and a lot of postage stamps. Speaking of steroids, I have to dump all of my stock in yellow spandex now that Lance Armstrong and Hulk Hogan are retired.

            While I cannot condone what he did to his own reputation and the sport of bicycles it is not surprising to me what he did. We all put a little “something-something” in the tank to get up and over the hill. Let he who is in glass house cast the first stone.

             Caffeine is the most widely used drug in the world. There are many people who simply use it to get going in the morning. Even though getting out of bed is not like winning the Tour de France, for some it is a victory nonetheless. The beverage industry rakes in billions of dollars per year selling caffeine to the masses. I used to drink a horrible liquid called Jolt Cola when I was a kid. It was purported to have twice the caffeine as other soft drinks. It was the perfect fuel for acne riddled, pre-pubescent kids who needed to sustain long periods of attention deficit disorder.

            Alcohol is widely used by musicians, politicians, clergy, and just about anyone who drives. It was once outlawed by a constitutional amendment which lasted about as long as a New Year’s resolution to become more physically fit. Lots of people use and abuse alcohol for various reasons. Some folks need it to get by while others need it to get through all the verses of “Love Shack” on karaoke night. I am not naming any names but I hear that in the right doses it can help one become a better dancer. Maybe Brad Paisley was right.

            What about the “little blue pill” that keeps grandpa from rolling out of the bed at night? Or, what about the drug that is “ready when you are” to go sit in a bathtub in a country meadow with your significant other while gnats bite? If that is not the epitome of performance enhancing drugs, then I do not know what is. Mother Nature has a vested interest in men cashing in their reproductive chips. Thanks to these little wonder drugs we have guys who are way past their prime trolling the hallways of nursing homes like zombies with their hospital gowns on backward.

            So it goes.

            Lance Armstrong did what a lot of people do when they want to get ahead of everyone else. He cheated to win and got caught. For him the cost is much greater than the rest of us who are without fame and fortune and get to enjoy the occasional cup of coffee, cold beer, or roll-in-the-hay without much of anybody caring.

            All hope is not lost for Lance. Even though he is banned from professional cycling for the next nine-trillion years he can still pursue a professional athletic career in testing treadmills.

             I have to hand it to Lance. Coming clean took a lot of ball.

           

            

I Was Off Like a Prom Dress

            I was on the dance floor flapping my arms like a wounded bird.

            I looked around at all the other people who were doing the same thing. We looked like mental patients. I think everyone was having fun.  At least they were smiling. There were no spring chickens in the whole group. I am pretty sure everyone there was going through some sort of mid-life crisis.

            I did not care that I looked like an epileptic crack head. I was having a great time and knew I had to do something to make fodder for my column. Besides, I was in a whole different state surrounded by people who had no idea who I was.

            The bad thing is I cannot dance. There is a disconnect somewhere between my brain and my feet. I remember having dance lessons at the local recreation center back home when I was much younger. The instructor would do a move and I would only have to copy it. Simple, right?

            After only a few sessions, the instructor recommended I take art class.

            How did I end up in rural Oklahoma at a Czech dance hall in Garth Brooks’ hometown? Garth was probably just as puzzled as I was.

            My sister in law decided she was going to throw herself a prom for her birthday. The theme was “enchantment under the sea” like in the movie Back to the Future. I am not going to say how old she turned. 

            Someone once told me asking a woman’s age, or telling, it is rude and bad manners. I think she might take offense to having complete strangers knowing it was her fortieth.

             My lips are sealed.

            My wife was excited when she found out there would be a prom. She was finally going to get the thing she always wanted- having me step on her toes. When she and I were dating (in the Paleozoic Era) I opted not to go to my senior prom. That disappointed her. It was to be the first of many from me in the years to come.

            At that time I was “too cool” for that. I really did not feel like going through all the trouble of renting a tuxedo, making dinner reservations, and taking a shower. I felt it was all so superficial for an iconoclastic hipster like me. I was too busy being a non-conformist with all of the other non-conformists.

            After many years and three kids later, I saw this as a chance to rewrite history. So I took time off from work to go to the prom.

            I needed to rent a tuxedo. I have only worn a tuxedo on a handful of occasions and each time the tuxedo was over-sized  I looked like a shrunken James Bond without all the cool gadgets. Since my wife wore a black, “spicy” dress that made her look like Rita Hayworth I had to wear something comparable.

            Lucky for me they had a zoot suit that matched. A “zoot suit” is an over-sized suit that was very popular in the forties among the Latino set. Imagine my surprise when the guy was measuring my inseam for a suit that purposely does not fit!

            My tux was nice. The shoes were made for a dwarf. So, I ordered a new pair and the correct ones arrived without incident. My wife and I showed up at the party looking like Rita Hayworth and Al Capone.

            Everyone else wore retro clothing from the early 80’s. There were mullets and high-sprayed Aqua Net bangs everywhere. We were the only ones who went an additional forty years earlier. It was not so bad since the venue had not changed since the thirties.

            On the night, I only knocked my wife down one time. I think I may have done the moonwalk. I had come full circle. Of the things on the “woulda-coulda-shoulda” list I can cross off going to the prom. I did it. We had such a great time.

            In a hundred years when my progeny lay flowers on my grave, I hope this article explains my epitaph.

“Dance? Nay.”         

                        

Life's Journey

Great games like this only come along once and awhile.

I can't remember the last time I was emotionally moved to the extent that Journey has made me.

This game has simple controls, beautiful HD graphics (which are simple), and a musical score that is on par with Mozart's The Magic Flute.

What is it that makes this game so great and revolutionary?

Quite simply... life. I won't go into too much detail, because to do so would spoil the game and ruin the emotional aspect of the game. However, if you finish this game with dry eyes, then you have no soul.

Author's note: I would like to thank Austin Wintory (@awintory), Journey's composer, for being incredibly accessible to fans of this game and just a great guy!

...generation gap.

     I was shocked when my Juvenile Units, all three of them, bailed on me.

     I was so happy to see that Netflix had added this fine gem of a movie (Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band)  to their streaming library. It was one of my favorite's growing up as a kid. It has everything a kid could want: bright colors, great music, and corny special effects. Sadly, it had NOTHING of what critics wanted and was (and probably still is) regarded as a box office "flop". 

     Nevertheless, I wanted them to watch it and get the same nostalgic feeling I get when I see George Burns singing "Fixing A Hole". I was ready to share with them a piece of my history.

     What I got from them was the same revulsion as when I tried to make them watch "Xanadu". It turns out they were not at all interested in seeing Peter Frampton, the Bee Gees, or Steve Martin performing the Beatles' songs. They actually had the audacity to go downstairs and read books! 

     So, there I was. The cheese stands alone.

     I guess the younger generation will always have a distaste for the things their parents liked. 

    That's okay. 

    Twenty years from now, I'll have the last laugh when my grandchildren will be hiding in the bushes to keep from having to watch Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Clue.

I was making a joke about Col. Mustard on Facebook when it occurred to me that we don't have the game Clue here at our house. I used to play that game ad naseum and it's solely responsible for my career in law enforcement. It's a very basic "if-then" game of applying logic. I used to be pretty good at it. Especially when I peeked at the cards before putting them in the little envelope.
I would always wonder what crime took place in the mansion. Was it rape? Murder? Pirating DVDs? Either way it was up to me to pin it on one of the characters.
Mrs. White, Miss Scarlett, Mrs. Peacock, Mr. Green, Prof. Plum, and Col. Mustard were all guilty of something.
I would like to get this game to play with my kids but I'm afraid that updates to modernize the game may have ruined it. For example, instead of solving a crime you have to try and determine who is Miss Scarlett's "baby daddy". Or, perhaps charging one of the characters with a crime kicks off a very long, secondary game called "Due Process".
Regardless, it's way more funner than "Scrabble".

textbooks.

     I can't think of a better way to spend my hard earned money than to buy a textbook. They're so heavy and jam packed with such great information, I plan on giving them out as Christmas gifts. When I went back to school to get my master's degree I bristled with joy at the prospect of spending $300 dollars on a book about organizational structure. 

     Even though they instantly depreciate in value they still hold their value as a domestic chock block. I'm proud of my library of out-of-date, scholarly information that is stored in my shed collecting dust. I know the silverfish love it too! I'm certain that I'll need my COBALT Made Easy book from my computer programming course from the early 1990s. I regularly use my Principles of Child Psychology, 3rd Edition, to make the baby's booster seat a little taller at the table. 

     Recently, I bought my current textbook on Kindle. However, it's just not the same. It's WAAY too easy to press a button and go from strategic human resources management to 1001 awesomely great fart jokes. I hope, in spite of technological advances, overpriced textbooks stay around for a long time. At least, I hope they are still around when I publish mine...

no noise.

Listen.
Do you hear that? 
Silence.
If it's not golden, it certainly has a nice shiny color that attracts monkeys.
As I type this post it's quiet here except for the rhythmic tapping of my keyboard keys and gentle whirring of my computer fan.
My tympanic membranes are overly stimulated with music, people talking, kids screaming, cell phones ringing, and the list goes on.
It's nice when it all just suddenly vanishes and I can finally sit here with that tiny little voice in my head. It's the voice that says, "Does it make sense that your toothbrushes are less than a foot away from where everyone drops 'wolf-bait'?"
This must be what Buddha felt like when he was in his bodhi spot.
That is, until someone disturbed him by trying to rub his round belly for good luck. Still, it's nice to have a few moments just to sit in repose.
Ah, peace and quiet.

<Note: No sooner had I written this last sentence when my cell phone blasted an alert which scared the crap out of me!>

unionization.

I received the above note from my son, Juvenile Unit One, who was obviously upset with my oppressive demand that he wear pants. The weather was cold outside and I was only looking out for his best interest while also proactively keeping child protective services from having to do any extra work on my account. I'm good like that.
Needless to say, I was shocked.
A strike? Who does this kid think he is? Norma Rae? I had no idea that he had joined a union. I also knew that he didn't know the state of Texas is a right-to-work state which makes me an at-will parent. Still, a work stoppage meant that pets wouldn't get fed, vegetables would go uneaten, and little nubbin' teeth would grow fuzz from neglect. As the CEO, CFO, and ASS of the Corley Family, LLC., I had to act.
I made a compromise: he would wear pants and I wouldn't kill him.
Even a child knows the power, impact, and necessity of making a stand to correct the wrongs of the world. In his mind this note was a binding, legal document in full force and effect... and I had been served. Of course, this is the same kid that laps up salsa straight from the bowl like a puppy.

babysitting.

Whether it's a family member, friend, or complete stranger, the need to look after the safety and well being of an underdeveloped human being will be thrust upon you. Should you find yourself in this situation remember the cardinal rule of babysitting:

Don't KILL the child.

Sadly, the news reports are cluttered with stories of negligent caregivers whose actions meant doom for those in their care. If you plan ahead you can avoid many of the pitfalls that arise when babysitting.

For example, the word "NO" is the easiest and most effective way to avoid babysitting. In fact, the very same word can be used to avoid many different types of situations from giving people rides to staying out of time share programs.

Children are like gremlins. You mustn't get them wet, expose them to direct sunlight, and never feed them after midnight.

Adhering to this simple principle should make babysitting a breeze. Of course, if all else fails, there's plenty of day laborers who are ready, willing, and able. Good luck!

They call me "Dances with Facebook"

    “I will never join Facebook,” I had once declared with great hubris.

     I wasn’t going to be a “joiner”. I was immune to the hype. Several of my friends even asked me why I wasn’t on Facebook. I was too good for that. Nope. I wasn’t going to go there.

     I was determined to be the guy who stood firm in his little cabin on the side of Mt. Saint Helens while his neighbors waved goodbye on their way out of town. All while smoked billowed from its snowy peak.

     To quote one of my Facebook friends, “I caved.”

     After setting up my account, I was amazed to find the number of people that I actually know who were on there. It was almost as if Facebook was saying, “Where the hell have you been? You’re late.” I was nearly as shocked as the people who suddenly found my friend request in their in-box.

     The prodigal son had returned and everyone wanted to comment on it.

     I have been on Twitter for some time (@ArynCorley) so I’m not a total social media neophyte. I have this really great blog where I can produce and archive my rants. But, “Da’ Book” is a whole different animal altogether. I can see why people spend countless hours at work and at home sponging bandwidth to stay connected with people who were once avatars of their own memories.

     It’s great to see photos of people whom I haven’t seen in many years. My highly developed observational skills suggest to me that we all get a few wrinkles as we get older.

     I’m still trying to figure some things out. I haven’t “poked” anyone yet. I think I should probably restrict to only poking my wife so I don’t cause any hurt feelings and accusations of extra-marital poking. Tagging people in photographs seems to be a key feature. I haven’t done that yet. The “like” button is a handy little feature. It’s like when you get a “thumbs-up” from your proctologist. People like when they are liked.

     When I get a message about someone posting something on my wall, it reminds me of Paint Rock and how those paintings were like the “old skool” version of Facebook. If you wanted to leave a message on someone’s wall, you would just paint a buffalo, crow, or little dancing guy to tell them what you wanted them to know. 

     Here we are in the 21^st century using computers to do some 12^th century stuff.

     In some way, Facebook plays into that most basic of human needs: to have the rest of the tribe actually give a darn about us. 

     Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some poking to do.

Office Supplies are a Steal For Some

The bible reads, “Thou shalt not steal.”

The Qur'an reads, “As to the thief (man or woman) let their hands be cut off, retaliation for what they did, a punishment from Allah.”

The sign at Jerry’s Meat Emporium reads, “Steal from me, and I’ll _____ your sister.”

Stealing is understood, by just about every culture on the planet, as the wrong thing to do. There are harsh sentences for those who steal. In some cases, States have allowed citizens to use deadly force to keep their possessions from being taken. Alarm companies make millions of dollars annually by giving people the peace of mind that someone cares about their stuff getting stolen. Stealing is a great way to make people feel badly.

I think there needs to be an asterisk place at the end of the above statements. “Thou shalt not steal” should include the caveat: does not apply to office supplies.

Webster’s defines stealing as, “to take the property of another wrongfully…” The Texas Penal Code defines theft as “…unlawfully appropriates property with intent to deprive the owner of property.” However, when it comes to office supplies, our attitudes shy away from this definition. If you steal your neighbor’s lawnmower you’re a thief. If you steal your neighbor’s pen, then you’re still a neighbor.

Stealing office supplies is a lot like cheating on a diet: everyone does it, yet no-one wants to talk about it or admit it. I don’t think people place a whole lot of value in office supplies. Regardless, they must be worth something. Otherwise, Staples and Office Depot loss prevention officers wouldn’t tackle you and beat you senseless for trying to purloin Post-It notes.

Try calling the police to make a report about a stolen paperclip and you’ll find yourself being the comedic relief at the next Christmas banquet.

Pens are like the Chevy Silverado of the office supply world. They are getting “jacked” all of the time. You can tell if a place has a high pen theft rate by the type of object used to keep the pen on the premises. I once used a pen in a gas station that was cable locked to a cinder block. That wasn’t nearly as bad as the transmission “pumpkin” that was attached to the bathroom key!
Still, it would be tough to get a jury of twelve people to send someone to jail for this.
Are there any real consequences for stealing office supplies?
Who knows?

But, I’m sure there is a small section in Hell reserved especially for those with no hands and a stapler in their pocket.

Writer's Blockade Closes Harbor of Ideas

Could this be writer's block?  

I’ve heard of it before, but I didn’t think it could happen to me. Let’s see. What are the symptoms.

Uninspired? Check.

Lack of creativity? Check.

Do I feel like my brain is constipated? Yep.

Wow. I think I have writer’s block. That’s not good though. A very bad case of writer’s block is what caused the character Jack Torrence to go “off his rocker” in The Shining.

How did it happen? I don’t think I hit my head on anything and I certainly don’t remember getting killed. Maybe this is what happens to people when they start writing and getting lots of creative juices flowing. Eventually, your muse takes a vacation and leaves you stranded like a jilted bride.

Actually, I have been doing lots of writing. My police reports are always keeping me busy. However, there is very little room for creativity. I try to make them somewhat enjoyable to read whenever I have room to flex my creative muscles. I have to be careful NOT to inject too much humor. Otherwise, I may seem flippant.

 “My investigation has determined the horse wandered into the roadway where it was struck by a large delivery truck. The blood and guts strewn on the roadway made a nice maple leaf pattern that reminded me of Winnipeg. Ironically, the truck was hauling glue.”

See?

 I’ve done some writing for school too. Essays and analytical type stuff. I think my professor appreciates the humor I inject into my writing. One of the downsides to being a college professor has to be the new batch of terrible writing that is generated for class. It’s like an unending harvest of dreck. The subject matter can be a bit dry when writing about such things as leadership principles. When asked for a term paper, “What makes a good leader?” I wrote of the importance of knowing when to say, “Yes, dear.” Also remembering to leave the toilet seat down is a key component of effective leadership.

I guess the only way out of writer’s block is to just start writing. If the ideas are there they will penetrate the membrane and release themselves. It’s a matter of taking the time to sit down and start hammering out words. Ah, that feels much better. J

If you can't stand the heat...

The air conditioning went out. My house is now a "sweat lodge". I understand that people pay great money for sauna treatments and the like. However, I'm not one of them.
Don't get me wrong. I prefer the hot to the cold. I just don't like it so hot that I need carrots and potatoes in my pockets.
To add insult to injury, the system needs to replaced completely. It's going to cost a wad of cash to replace. Compared to replacing an air conditioning system, it's cheaper to go to college! I would do without it if I could. Everyone in my house could stand to sweat off a few pounds anyway; particularly the baby. I just can't wrap my head around the idea of going to Brownsville to cool off.
I'm reminded of the adage, "If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen."
I would re-write it to read, "If you can't stand the heat, then you haven't been here long enough."

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.