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.