Category Archives: Satire Parody

A Springdale Grocery Review From a Lunatic’s Perspective

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For anyone tempted to try the new “10Box” food store, my review is: “Don’t.”

I’m going to get some flak for this satirical review, so cut me some slack. You’ll have to decide just how much levity and tongue-in-cheek I’m applying to my words.

Springdale recently lost its PriceCutter grocery store, after we collectively realized the place had lost its soul several years ago. Over a year ago, I wrote a story about entering PriceCutter as dusk neared, in search of a pecan pie. In all honesty and without satire, I still remember the strange angst and melancholy that visit bestowed upon me.

10Box took the zombieland of PriceCutter and managed to make something equally weird. Don’t be mistaken, though, Harp’s Foods owns this new incarnation. I think it will do quite well, but for none of the reasons that the management believes to be the case. There are certain aspects of retail grocery which Harp’s excels at, especially when using stores such as the one on Gutensohn Street in Springdale as the comparison. None of the things I love about Harp’s Food Stores seem to be involved with this new business model, however. It is the NASCAR of gourmet foods.

If you have ever wondered what suffering from agoraphobia feels like, combined with the glee of being trampled by crazed shoppers training for pre-Xmas layaway triathlons, this emporium is for you. I went in the early afternoon during a weekday, not expecting to be hurled into the midst of the equivalent of a crumpled map, written in Korean and interpreted by a yodeler. If you want the full experience, I would recommend that you visit on a Saturday, between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m. It helps if you come when you haven’t slept or grabbed your first cup of coffee yet. If you have a concealed-carry permit, believe me, you will want to leave any weapons at home.

Shopping at 10Box was like waiting my turn at an intersection, except all the other drivers are told to ignore all normal social norms as they careen around the interior of the store. (And they get bonus points for filling their carts via the most erratic shopping routes possible once they are inside the store.)

Before I forget, all the workers wear purple shirts. You’ll never guess which color I had on after work today? Yes, that’s right. I’m accustomed to fielding questions from shoppers at other stores, especially Wal-Mart, but several of the patrons almost hurled themselves at me, begging me for any general information they could gather regarding an alleged 85-lb. roll of turkey sausage. I shared a couple of laughs with people, as they realized I didn’t work there. I still offered to help them find whatever item they were searching for, though. I’m not a total barbarian.

The gimmick with 10Box, other than the fact that you feel like you might actually stumble upon Rick and Michonne from “The Walking Dead” just around any aisle, is that the items in the store are already priced at cost, with a 10% unilateral charge added to all items at the register. This system is pure genius. As you all know, it is surprising how many people can’t do fractions easily. At some point, some people simply start weeping at the idea of math and being hurling every possible selection in their cart – all to avoid the admission that they don’t know if the box of shrimp they’ve collected costs more than the national debt of Peru.

10Box gets points for décor – or lack thereof. As already mentioned, they’ll get the “Walking Dead” crowd, in the literal sense and entertainment sense. When they say they don’t waste money on presentation or optics, they aren’t kidding: you can almost feel the breeze of the flea market as you peruse the aisles.

For the fans of the TV show “The Middle,” 10Box is the model I now have in mind when I picture the Heck family careening through the canned goods and produce at the mythical “Frugal Hoosier” grocery chain, where nothing gets thrown away, except your expectations.

Don’t take my word for all of this, though. I can’t be trusted as a reliable source. Please go visit 10Box yourself. Take all your kids, as many as you can find, and drive over for a visit.

Apocalypse +1

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“Make no mistake, if you sit at their table, you’re going to have to use their cards to play the game.”

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They promised me “chaos” everywhere today. I called him. He was already out there celebrating. Be like Captain * Chaos. Celebrate in victory or celebrate in loss because we are all still alive.

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I’m going to miss this election, like an old friend who spent a drunken night at my house, stole my wallet, and used my toothbrush to clean his motorcycle.

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The above picture describes the general consensus, after Hillary won the popular vote and lost the election.

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“It’s hard explaining in another language that the candidate for liberalism won the popular vote and lost the election. It’s exactly how you would LIKE “The Voice” to decide the winner but never does.” – X

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As each of y’all know, each President gets his official portrait done. Trump, not wanting to waste a single minute, has already privately reached out to potential artists interested in a commission to do his White House portrait. Given my immense artistic ability (the best, the absolute best), my commitment to a prompt call for service, not to mention by huge admiration for con artists, I pondered for hours, agonizing on the best possible way to capture Trump’s essence. When I finished this, tears of joy ran down my liberal cheeks as I contemplated the likelihood of being chosen from the many for this honor. I’m hearing that mine’s the best. People from all over are saying it’s going to be huge.

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Boozman Salts His Ice Cream

 

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Remember when you could really pick on someone without mud slinging? Here’s my John Boozman joke.

Boozman goes to a dermatologist and tells him, “Doc, the skin on my face is peeling really bad! What can you do for me? My opponent Conner Eldridge is a great-looking guy and I can’t have something like this during a campaign. I already look like Steve Buscemi.”

The doctor examines him, frowns several times, and leaves the room for at least 30 minutes.

“Well?” asks Boozman as the dermatologist returned, obviously reluctant to give the senator bad news.

“John, the reason your facial skin is peeling off is that it’s trying to escape the ugly.”
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PS: I’m only kidding about John Boozman being ugly.
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But I have heard rumors that he salts his ice cream before eating it. And he hated the Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act so badly that he won’t even attend a county fair for fear of a typographical mix-up. Also, when I went to buy a suit, I thought I saw him at Dillard’s, but it turned out to be a literal empty suit on the end of the aisle.
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This is the kind of political rhetoric needed in today’s climate of poison eye darts.

A Trivia/Break-In Story

The following is a true-ish account of events that took place in October, 7 years ago at the Hignite household. Although some literary license has been taken, the entirety of this story is true. (All the errors are mine.)

Mike Hignite was sitting in his living room, burning the midnight oil. The lights were dimmed to the point of invisibility, given Mike’s Batman-like ability to see in the dark. In Mike’s hands was the book, “Computational Calculus Meets Divine Interpolation.” (As you all know, Mike only sleeps 55 minutes a night.) Mike could hear the peaceful rhythm of Marjay’s infrequent and melodious snore from the bedroom not too far away. The sound reminded him of slightly upset magpies on an early spring morning.

At about 12:04 a.m. a sharp metallic sound interrupted Mike from his reading. He carefully placed his book on the table to his right, his right hand then feeling alongside his chair until his fingers encountered the miniature replica Babe Ruth baseball bat next to him.

A couple of minutes later, Mike observed a black work boot materialize at the edge of the dimly lit living room, inching its way into his field of vision. After a few seconds, he observed an entire leg follow it around, then an arm and the torso of a black-clad stranger. The intruder then crept along the wall, oblivious to Mike’s presence. Mike slowly stood upright and moved along the gap between the living room and the kitchen. In a few seconds, the intruder would literally run directly into Mike.

Instead of proceeding, the stranger fumbled around in his left pocket and found a small cylindrical object, clicking it. A beam of light shot from the flashlight and reflected on the concrete floor. Mike slowly lifted the replica Babe Ruth bat until it was high above his head. He waited. As the stranger moved the flashlight up, the beam of light shone directly on Mike’s head, bat raised above it.

Half-smiling, Mike whispered, “Boo!” in a soft voice.

At this point, the intruder screamed like a broken, strangled teakettle and froze. Mike reached over and flipped the overhead lights on. The intruder, for reasons not ascertained, screamed again.

“Have a seat over there.” Mike pointed casually at the intruder. After a moment, the intruder moved and carefully sat down in one of the dining room chairs. Mike walked over to the fridge and opened it, getting two bottles of water out. He opened one and handed it to the masked intruder. He knew the law-breaker was going to need to stay hydrated.

The intruder reached up and pulled his ski mask up and off his head, revealing a mass of curly red hair. He looked to be about 17 years old.

“How did you know I wasn’t armed?” asked the surprisingly high-pitched voice of the intruder.

“What makes you think it matters?” Mike replied.

At a loss for coherent words, the intruder simply muttered, “My name is Israel. Are you going to call the police?”

“Nah, I won’t call the police, only because they are already here.” Mike took a big gulp of water from his bottle, as Israel looked at him, confused, then around the kitchen to search for evidence that the police were, in fact, already there.

Mike reached behind his head and from literally nowhere that could be seen with the naked eye, pulled out a badge, showing it to Israel. Israel turned ashen. Mike laid his badge on the table, next to the huge stack of mail and personal items the family insisted on tossing there as they passed by.

“I’m not going to call MORE police, if that’s what you’re afraid of. But I will make you a deal. The same deal I make with everyone who breaks into my house, if you’re interested.”

“A deal?” Israel’s look of confusion only intensified. “What kind of a deal?”

“You can choose to either go to jail tonight. Or you can play a game of trivia. If you win, I let you go and you take all the money I have in the house with you. If you lose, you go to jail.” Mike smiled in that secret way that only he and 6 unidentified CIA officials would understand. This is the point where Israel should have flung himself headfirst through the nearest window to take his chances. But he didn’t, ignorant and oblivious to what would soon face him.

“Okay, I’ll play you,” Israel said with mock confidence.

“Slow down, pardner. You’re not playing me. I’m going to wake my oldest son up. Oh – and don’t thank me. I’m not doing you any favors.” Mike downed the remainder of his water and went to wake up the genius of the house.

So, that’s how it came to pass that at 6:32 a.m. on a Tuesday morning the residents of ______ Avenue in Springdale saw the strangest of sights: a large, red-haired man dressed in black ran crying and screaming from the Hignite household. Some witnesses claim that the unknown person fleeing was whimpering, “Stay in school! Stay in school and make good choices,” as he ran away. At the door of the Hignite house stood Jackson and Mike, howling with laughter.

“Dad, I sure hope someone else breaks in soon. I love these moments!” Jackson turned and looked at his dad and winked. They laughed one last time as they shut the door, going back inside just in time to see Marjay emerge from the kitchen and exclaim, “Not again!”

 

PS: Mike is a friend of mine who is actually a police officer. Every member of the family is a genius and the scenario I describe above is what I would like to imagine occurs frequently at the Hignite Household.

Things to Consider For Friday

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Just as you shouldn’t use a fork to adjust a toaster, it is inadvisable to attempt to relax and meditate using music from the “Rocky” training montages as background music.
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It occurred to me yesterday that weather forecasts could be immensely improved if they were delivered in poetic prose – and especially so if viewers could call in an read it that way. The weather, unlike the news, doesn’t really need explanation or editorialized: let’s stop being so unimaginative with it.
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It’s still surprising that when your mind is bent or troubled, you see things in plain sight you’ve never noticed. I had that out-of-body visual sensation this morning, driving down Butterfield Coach Road and saw an interesting tree house. It’s always been there, year after year, waiting for me to see it, much less admire it. Today, though, it clicked and my first thought was that I was hallucinating it.
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As devoted you might be to reason and logic, trust me; there is always an idiot behind you making rabbit-ear fingers or a face that could best be characterized as “Steve Buscemi.”
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Among the reasons that the accusation of prejudice stings is that it is subjective to the viewer – and definitely to the accused. It’s a hat no one willingly sees themselves wearing.
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One of the most delicious sensations in life is that feeling you get when you shout a warning repeatedly, only to be ignored – and then the stuff hits the fan and everyone is running around in pandemonium asking, “Why didn’t we see this coming?” And you, of course, think, “Why didn’t you listen to me when I told you it was coming?”
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When someone tells you have no common sense, the real message is that they alone possess it.
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A friend of mine, Jorge, was going through some battles with anxiety. He swallowed his pride and signed up for emergency counseling, only to find out when he called that it would be a minimum of 2-3 weeks before he could see anyone. He then went to his doctor’s office and explained his situation. They told him, “Oh, you can’t see any doctor for anxiety, stress, or depression, you have to wait for a regular appointment with YOUR doctor.” Jorge, without hesitation replied, “It’s a good thing I’m not at the literal end of my rope or in danger or anything.” True story, too.
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Many secularists aren’t necessarily nervous about just a blurred line between church and state, it is just that they wish they could put it to a vote as to which religion gets to the be the one calling the shots. There’s a huge difference in being Catholic and the belief systems which enjoy handling live snakes and living without electricity. Everyone is convinced their religion, denomination or faithview is the singular answer for everyone, if they would only just listen. It is precisely the breadth and wealth of differing views that makes overlap of society and faith almost impossible.
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I think every phone system should have a “Bingo” option. When you press # for “Bingo,” all the possible extensions get randomized and your calls goes to literally anyone at the company, even the startled janitor who didn’t even know he had a phone in the broom closet. On the other hand, I think that there should be an option to send a shock directly to the CEO’s ear if the phone system is difficult to use.
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Of the 100 + ancestry family trees I’ve done, few of those requesting investigation had American Indian ancestors I could verify. Investigating the tendency to believe one has Indian heritage uncovered an entire sociological backdrop which many have written about. I’ve had several people insist they have such ancestry and I feel bad for them because usually, I know that before I even start researching that the road will probably dead-end. To be clear, it is not necessarily because their family stories might not be true, but because it is nigh on impossible to prove, even with DNA, if you don’t already have a decent trail to prove it.
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PS: for those who have trusted me to do their family trees, I have learned much and been greatly rewarded in so many unexpected ways as I discovered a vast interconnection between all of us. It’s been an honor to find hidden family members, write stories that literally define our cultural history, and connect people to forgotten pieces in their pasts. For most of us, we are much closer than we know, even down to our chromosomes.
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I think the world can be generally categorized based on the likelihood of whether you agree or disagree with this statement: “My instruction manual for life is always subject to change, based on complicated yet logical criteria.” -x
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If ever elected to be President, on my first day I will make good on my pledge to hire a cadre of people smarter than me – and then listen to them. While social issues will always take precedence, the best ideas will always get the most attention. Politics comes last. And we will have a great lunch, because people feel more human when they are sitting around a table or couch, eating, laughing, and thinking. In fact, that’s what we need: a national lunch hour.
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I wish I had a billion dollars, because you can be certain that I would do the craziest, most fun things to the people I know. A friend of mine mentioned she had twice entered the wrong vehicle and that all red vans were subject to her inadvertently entering them. If I had crazy money, I would secretly place about 50 vehicles similar to hers at her work and film her reaction as she exited. Likewise, I’d wait until she was driving somewhere and upon my signal, 50 of them would surround her and follow her everywhere she went.
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As an aging middle-aged white man, I can’t tell you how ecstatic it makes me feel to know that I have not followed the worn steps of my contemporaries by rejecting new and different music. Thinking that music declined at a certain point is the surest indicator that life is shrinking away from you.
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I knew that the civilization was bad because they didn’t provide A-1 Sauce when they burned people at the stake. Get some class, people.
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The weird thing I’ve learned again: if I write something that amuses me, it is going to be amusing to a certain % of other people, too. Unlike normal people, I don’t ever get writer’s block, either, which may or may not be a good thing. You can’t trust either the criticism or the applause, not in a pure motivational sense – and you should never underestimate how many are watchers, never joining the conversation.
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(The rest is one observational chain of thought…)
People tend to say that you can’t step into the same river twice. Each step I take, each forward motion reinforces this idea of the indefatigable progress of ‘me.’ But I do sometimes look into this river and realize that currents have pulled me backwards, away from whoever I think I am.

I believe one powerful draw of great literature, television or cinema is that it can create a new universe in our heads. The imaginary people inhabiting those worlds effortlessly teach us new things and hold an infinite variety of mirrors for us. When those characters rejoice or suffer, we feel their pain. We can’t help but to relate to them as though they are people we might meet if we open the door suddenly, finding them on our doorsteps. We hope we find them there. It’s not only a testament to the skill and creativity of the people who’ve created those worlds, but also to the gift of our own imaginations.

As we see them behave stupidly or with malice, we call them hypocrites. It is only later that it occurs to us that we might be recognizing our own ignorance in their actions.

As I age, I of course succumb to the temptation to read a cherished book again or to watch television or movies with an older eye. At times, the surprise I feel steals my breath, and with such unexpected vigor that I can only shake my head. That surprise when revisiting old characters is proof that I have also changed, one imperceptible bit at a time, relentlessly. The characters seem deeper and more connected to me because I have also underwent deviations, hopefully due to a rich, full life.

A Story Which Ends Unexpectedly and Well

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My friend John and I went to watch a BMX and skateboarding exhibition, the first Springdale has hosted in years. It’s not normally my thing (because a good outing always involves copious food in my book) but John once daringly participated in both sports and insisted that I accompany him to relive old memories. It was much more fun than I had anticipated, in part due to John knowing several of the professionals participating. After the main event, John and I were invited to a private riding park outside of Tontitown.

I sat and drank lemonade while John experimented with a couple of his old moves, doing reverses and flips. With reluctance, John did small moves. As his confidence returned, he moved faster and with more agility. After a few minutes of tomfoolery, a younger rider unexpectedly fell in front of John as he was about to exit a ramp. John attempted to avoid crushing him by yanking his bike to the right, jumping away from it and the fallen rider. Unfortunately for him, he went across the barrier fence, tumbled and fell. He didn’t move. As always, my first thought was that he was milking the situation as a prank. After several seconds, however, I knew that something terrible had happened.

I climbed over the fence and kneeled next to John. When he landed, his helmet partially protected him but a long, narrow bolt used to anchor posts pierced John’s right temple. Blood was everywhere. I couldn’t gauge how much of the anchor bolt protruded from the concrete and into John’s head. I heard mumbled shouts of “Call 9-1-1” and disorganized shouts of disbelief. The paramedics arrived in less than 10 minutes and expertly got him out. The bolt had penetrated at least 3 inches into John’s brain. I feared the worst, as the blood dried on my arms.

I spent half the night waiting in the hospital as doctors and nurses came and went, machines were wheeled in and out, and hurried, nervous people whirled around me. About 6:45 the next morning, a nurse broke the rules and let me enter John’s room. As I walked up to the bed, counting the numerous cables, tubes and paraphernalia coming out of John’s body, I opened the blinds to allow the coming sunrise to illuminate the room. I pulled up the usual uncomfortable hospital chair designed for no one to sit in for long. Just as I was about to sit down, John’s eyes opened.

I could tell he was about to speak, so I hit the nurse’s button. About 15 times, as from experience I knew the room would have to be on fire to get immediate help.

Hours later, John was sitting up in his bed, alert and joking about the accident. One of the paramedics who had helped him came in to see if he was okay, after hearing the incredible news he had survived and was awake. John’s eyes grew wide as the paramedic took a moment to show John how deeply the bolt had entered his brain. John reached up to lightly touch his temple where it had entered.

John, like most typical guys, wanted to know when he could get out of the hospital. Even though he had survived being impaled through the head, the only thing that interested him was a pizza and some television watching. He spent the day asking everyone when he could go home.

The primary doctor returned around 8:30 p.m. He told John how lucky he was to be alive, much less awake and aware of his surroundings.

The doctor took out his computer tablet and dragged some images around, turning it so that both John and I could see it. It was an image of John’s pierced skull, with a dark tunnel angling in from the skull and into John’s brain.

“You don’t know how lucky you are, John,” Dr. Marcos said. “It could have been much, much worse.” I could tell he meant it.

“How bad?” John timidly asked.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Marcos pointed to another image on the tablet and said with great solemnity, “One millimeter in either direction, and you would have been voting for Donald Trump.”
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(It seemed worthwhile to not limit myself to the same tired joke, so I wrote the story just for the punchline. Imaginary John is safe, sleeping on his imaginary couch in my mind…. PS: You can change the last line of my joke to pick on Hillary, if you want…)

The Donald Trump Song

(The song is 2:43 long.)

I wrote this song myself; if it isn’t obvious, this was a labor of satire, humor and my expression of my dislike for the candidate. (I prefer creative criticism to the banal which floods our lives…)

I think if you listen to the end, you will be surprised by the uplifting message at the end.

Regards, X

 

Update:

“That hat tells me everything I need to know – and most of it unintentionally.” -X (Thanks to everyone who got a righteous kick out of my Trump song. Several people didn’t want to advertise their political views on social media…)

 

 

He’s Got a Ticket To Ride

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Since moving from one side of Springdale to the other, I relish no longer traversing the jurisdiction of one small town in particular, which I will call TownBetween. While there are several fine officers there, it is strange to me that so many hilariously cringe-worthy stories continue to originate from there – yet, the fans of this police force vainly try to insist that there isn’t a problem, and that if you aren’t breaking the law, you have nothing to fear. Let me be the first to argue this point: where there is smoke, there is fire, and where there are short haircuts with batons and blank ticket books, there is trouble. Reputation once lost takes an insurmountable level of work to regain. When I drive through TownBetween, I constantly tap my brake, even if I’m driving so slowly that skateboarders are passing me. I look closely at the roadside, scanning intensely for either properly designated police vehicles, or million dollar Hummers and dark, deeply tinted ninja attack force vehicles paid for and maintained through what I can only to presume to be black magic. I worry that I won’t be able to show my papers quickly enough, as if I am trying to illegally cross a border during WWII. I won’t have to wipe my rear brake lights with a polishing cloth, in case the officers of TownBetween need a proposed reason to pull me over, nor will I need to use lab equipment to check my headlight brightness, tint thickness, or tread depth. Paranoia is a required trait for daily travel there and a CSI forensics degree will be helpful to you if you foolishly drive through there with any regularity. I don’t want to feel as if I’ll be in the basement of a hidden jail somewhere awaiting extradition to Poland.

One of the best aspects of moving across Springdale is that my exposure to TownBetween has lessened. I don’t want this to be an indictment of other departments, of course, but comparisons inevitably lead to less-than-stellar commentary. I love Springdale and I have never had a direct issue with a Fayetteville police office, even when I was really young and stupid. I’m old and stupid now, of course. I wrote this a couple of weeks after moving across town. Recent articles and comments lead me to realize that it’s still something a lot of people talk about. A car salesman yesterday told me he will never drive across TownBetween, and not just because he is Latino. He said driving there makes him feel like he is in a police lineup, waiting to be grabbed and asked a hundred personal questions, all of them implied accusations. His friends and family feel the same way.

Every department is comprised of individuals, each with his or her own idea of process and decorum. Above and beyond that, however, is an ideal which governs the entire police force. Reputation is a hard-earned coin and not all local law enforcement is administrated with an equal insistence on professionalism and courtesy. You can be the best officer on the roster in a department with a maligned reputation and your efforts will be difficult to trust. But even the “least officer” in a department characterized by a commitment to professionalism will be given the benefit of the doubt. That same “least officer,” reports to a command structure that will not condone or tolerate less than ideal behavior. As a citizen, this is how we learn to trust the police – one interaction at a time. An officer might make a poor decision or act hastily, but his or her peers and superiors will move to make it right. I don’t mind a little confusion or delay if I know I can trust it work out with consistency and fairness. Springdale’s officers represent the spectrum of their community. Mistakes will happen and great departments like Springdale won’t worsen a problem through concealment or deceit; if officers acted that way in the distant past, it might have squeaked by, but not any longer.

When I drive in Springdale, I do not flinch or instinctively hit the brake with so much force that my spare tire flies through the backseat. I expect that every officer I see is operating under a sense of priority and expediency. I also don’t imagine scenarios wherein there is doubt to automatically be interpreted in the most unfavorable light toward me. The police are here to keep us safe and to help us. It doesn’t occur to me that there might be quotas, or that the municipal court is going to do anything other than listen to any potential case to get to the bottom of the issues at hand. I won’t be getting emails from the police chief, ones which like they were written by a third-grader with both writer’s cramp and a lack of oxygen in the room.

When I discuss TownBetween with normal people, the predominant attitude is “Ugh, that place?” Many of these people aren’t miscreants such as me. They are doctors, lawyers, and teachers. They didn’t secretly get together and erroneously decide by cabal that they were going to detest driving in and through TownBetween. Most of the detractors are perplexed because only through sheer accidental geography were they there to begin with. Had a better route been available, they would have availed themselves to it. Guess what? Now many of them refuse to drive through TownBetween, no matter what the circumstances. It’s easier to avoid the bully than to fix the problem. That is what much of Northwest Arkansas does. Meanwhile, TownBetween insists the fog there is brought in by the outsiders and that only those breaking the law complain. (Yes, and you only need aspirin when you have a headache.)

I didn’t intend to water-down any compliment of the Springdale police as a result of my comedic derision of TownBetween. I was attempting to inelegantly say that I look forward to crossing the boundaries of TownBetween with must less frequency. If I want to live dangerously, I will instead stay home and rip the tags off my mattresses. I’ll stay in my borders of Springdale with more glee, waving at the officers I pass, knowing that they won’t assume the worst of us all. I’ve also noted a strange absence of military-style vehicles here.  It has been very nice these last few months not needing to drive through TownBetween if I don’t want to.

TownBetween can continue on its merry way, reinforcing many of the horrid stereotypes that motorists hurl toward the Barney Fife little towns scattered across Arkansas. I’ll be over here, hoping for the day when the little town grows up and gets a police force like the one Springdale has – or gets assimilated by one of the bigger and better police forces.

Meanwhile, I’d propose a bypass around TownBetween, since we can’t dig it up and move it to the 19th century where it would fit in better. I’d like to remind them all that just because you can write a ticket, doesn’t mean you should.  I once got a hilariously bad email from the Chief in TownBetween. He was insisting he couldn’t force his officers to the right thing, even when he knew they hadn’t acted appropriately.

Wednesday or Bust

You should keep an iron in your car and near your desk at work. You can use it to remove wrinkles, make a Panini, or wrap the cord around your hand and go Chuck Norris on anyone who attacks you. Additional plus: if you are bored, you can hide it under your desk and when people ask you where it went, you can just shrug and tell them, “I don’t know, I must be low on iron.”
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“Thanks to the social controversy surrounding bathrooms, it is safe to say that we all have our minds in the toilet.”
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“There’s a lot happening in Springdale!” (Ad campaign.) Yes, and I’d appreciate it if you could take it down a notch. Some of us are trying to live one moment at a time in this consumer economy.
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I tried to book my bachelor’s party at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Evidently, they don’t have a keg deposit.
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I’d like just one superhero to resist the temptation to worry about a costume. If you’ve got superpowers, who cares if you can sew?
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If you take the time to count out 99 Problems, you definitely have at least one problem.
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I don’t know why, but I would be fascinated to watch Sarah Palin learn to speak Japanese. It just seems like the most entertaining idea in the world.
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I tried to put on a band-aid on a deep puncture last Thursday. I didn’t do it right. Technically, my effort itself was just a band-aid.
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I’m not saying my food took a long time to get the table at the new restaurant, just that it took long enough for me to establish voter residency in New Jersey by the time I ate.
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“You only fail if you don’t try.” Not true. You fail like a Bush presidency even when you work your butt off, sometimes. Success is another way to describe the process by which you arrive just one step past all your failures.
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If your boss has a terrible nickname that no one uses in his/her presence, it is a certainty that the nickname is accurate, in the same opposite way that no car salesman who calls himself “Honest” is.
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Instagrim: A new app to send pictures of accidents.
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Security experts tell you that you should change your passwords frequently. Prank experts tell you that you should change your bosses’ passwords frequently, too.
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Why do they call it Grilled Cheese? I mean, what kind of answers did they get from it in an interrogation?
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They always tell me to go out and enjoy the sunset. They never tell me to come inside and enjoy the waterfall in the toilet when it flushes. Both are the most human of experiences.
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Getting a truck is the equivalent of winning the favor lottery. Except your friends and family are the ones who win. “I bought a new truck,” he said, full of excitement. Flash forward 5 years, after he’s had to help 345 friends move, transport something, or haul wood as a ‘small favor.’
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The truth is that you will always be sniped by people don’t have a full deck. Instead of playing the poker hand they play, throw down an Uno card and act like you’ve won. If not, you’re gonna end up crazy, because those with lower wattage bulbs have an endless supply of Gump to replenish their supply.
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In business, the plural ‘we’ becomes both singular and second person at the first sign of blame.
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“You have to give credit where credit is due.” Nice cliché, but if it is credit, who pays the interest?
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Motivational business poster: No matter how difficult the task, the number of obstacles or how big the lack of funds, there is a manager willing to tell you to do it.
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An employee is someone who is often incapable of being trusted to decide how to do his own job, as judged by someone incapable of being able to do his own work.
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Self-driving cars will be really dangerous for those of us who have no sense of self.
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“How will action movies work in the future if all cars are self-driving?” Someone asked this the other day, being clever. I replied, “They will now literally be cars chasing instead of a car chase.”
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The studio wasn’t happy with my last script. They paid me to write a horror movie. The plot was all about algebra in our daily lives.
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In a recent meeting, my boss handed me a stack of printed excel spreadsheets and told me to figure them out. I handed them to the guy on the right, telling him to do it. He objected, asking why I thought he needed to do it. “Because in school, they always instructed you to Solve for X.”