Category Archives: Satire Parody

He’s Got a Ticket To Ride



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.”
“Thanks to the social controversy surrounding bathrooms, it is safe to say that we all have our minds in the toilet.”
“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.
I tried to book my bachelor’s party at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Evidently, they don’t have a keg deposit.
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?
If you take the time to count out 99 Problems, you definitely have at least one problem.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
Instagrim: A new app to send pictures of accidents.
Security experts tell you that you should change your passwords frequently. Prank experts tell you that you should change your bosses’ passwords frequently, too.
Why do they call it Grilled Cheese? I mean, what kind of answers did they get from it in an interrogation?
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.
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.’
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.
In business, the plural ‘we’ becomes both singular and second person at the first sign of blame.
“You have to give credit where credit is due.” Nice cliché, but if it is credit, who pays the interest?
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.
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.
Self-driving cars will be really dangerous for those of us who have no sense of self.
“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.”
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.
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.”


A List of Thoughts…

Not only do I bite the hand that feeds me, I kick the shins of those who clothe me.
It is true that you will never read this headline: “Agnostics declared war on South America today.” But it is equally true that you will also not read this headline, either: “Religious group had no comment on the topic.”
The greatest super-power imaginable is the ability to keep one’s trap closed in the presence of ridiculous.
They kept telling me not to bite my fingernails. Man, were they angry when I started biting theirs.
When I get confounded about the crazy stuff others might believe, I turn the TV on and see that golf is still televised. Case closed.
I’ve decided that I am going to preface every fifth comment I utter with this opener: “As the voice of unreason….
Is it wrong that each time I drive by the now-defunct Mary Maestri’s restaurant that I giggle?
“Most people don’t mind getting slapped if they deserve it. If you do it too often or without cause, you had better sleep with your doors locked and with your dog indoors.” –Old Man Chronicles

A friend recommended that I start wearing a ponytail. He didn’t understand when I replied, “Are you going to be able to sneak up behind the horse with a pair of scissors?”
“If your mom or your religion tries to teach you to hate a group of people, change churches and don’t argue with your mom. She’s supposed to be rolling her eyes at you.” – Old Man Chronicles
When people ask me, “X, what have you done today to make the world better?” I now reply, “I don’t ask rhetorical questions.”
Forget the “ring the bell for excellent service” thing. I want a place that sets a buzzer that when pressed will mimic the sound of agonized pain from a terrible experience. I guarantee that thing will get a lot of usage. (We can use Buffalo Wild Wings or Jose’s as a baseline for sheer unadulterated agony.)
I get asked, “Why do you enjoy British TV so much?” Despite the great writing and better pacing, the real reason is I like to watch characters living in a world where universal health care is always in the background, waiting.
Forget drug testing for welfare. Let’s drug test everyone who votes. And anyone wearing black socks.
“A work ethic is too often misused to make people work when they should be at home getting better. Or looking after their family when they need it. Work has its place at the table but it shouldn’t be the only guest sitting there.” -Old Man Chronicles
“Ignore what the government takes. You can spend your life watching and worrying or you can spend it down by the river, enjoying life. Government’s going to do what it does, whether you are at the river or not.” -Old Man Chronicles
Don’t argue with anyone about the difference between a ‘living wage’ and the ‘minimum wage.’ Those making above the former don’t understand the latter.
Over 2 years later, I still can’t even imagine eating eggs without having to control my gag reflex. It is amazing how one bad experience can change one’s preferences. I still manage to eat one every so often, but only by convincing myself that I’m living in the Matrix and that Neo is telling me everything tastes like chicken, anyway.
You will go far in your career if you remind yourself from time to time that your manager probably doesn’t understand what the phrase ‘big fish in a small pond’ means. Or that he is the goldfish.

If a baseball player hits a home run, I vote that we make them run the base once as is traditionally done and then make them do ANOTHER lap around the bases with style, as if they were a specific character that the crowd yells out.

As for golf, I think that 1 in every 200 balls should be explosive.

Young people are not the problem. They haven’t had time to mess up the world we are trying to hand them. Anything that’s wrong is on us, not them.
I’ve noticed that the people most in favor of mandatory military service tend to be the ones I would recommend to be deployed immediately?

RIP Heritage Inn


RIP Brinkley Heritage Inn…

No sane person wept about the loss of the Brinkley Heritage Inn a couple of weekends ago. It burned on my birthday, which is a cosmic sign of some sort. I didn’t hear of the loss until yesterday. Some people report they witnessed Lucifer’s shadow escaping the billowing columns of smoke and flame. Most weren’t looking up, however, as they were undoubtedly watching the ground closely for whatever might run out of the fires. For every good thing that might have come from Brinkley, the presence of this horrendous reputation-killing hotel confirmed every stereotype for such places. This hotel should have been fire-bombed by the Air Force at least ten years ago. I can’t imagine the firefighters called to contain the blaze really wanted to do anything to stop the burn. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see them throwing additional materials into the flames to ensure nothing rose from the ashes.

True story: you know the place is rough when you hear a gunshot and everyone with a concealed carry permit or even an illegal handgun runs toward the building, hoping to find an excuse to fire back and kill someone inside the hotel. It looked like the first take of a Quentin Tarantino film. (This hotel was one of the few places you get both meth and bedbugs within 5 minutes of entering.)

Even though thousands of people made the grievous mistake of attempting to stay there over the years, the Heritage Inn won’t be remembered as a quiet place of peace. It could have easily been used as a training ground for police needing to learn the urban tactics of the common criminal or by the ATF doing raids. GhostHunters wouldn’t film there – even the unfortunate ghosts residing there were armed and perfecting their own brand of meth. It is true that places like this need to exist, but I was in awe through the years that this particular Hell was allowed to exist directly off the interstate, openly defying Health and Safety laws and being the source of so much human misery.

Among the amenities of this hotel, one could experience the joy and passion of needing to climb through the window to get into your own room when no key was available. Dog lover? Stay near the room dedicated entirely to holding other tenants dogs, left loose and clawing the walls down to the studs. The scent of the area was quite fragrant, too. Several people reported feces in the bathtub when they got a room there. I’m not sure what level of crazy you have to be in to relieve yourself in the bathtub – or how a hotel would fail to notice that particular thing and then fix it. I guess they at least picked up the missing fingers and soaked up the pools of blood before renting the room?

You could sit in the back where the RV area was, watching the police drive by slowly, but never stopping. If you watched closely, you could watch drug deals, domestic abuse, and all the activity you would normally see on “Cops” the TV show, with the exception of the police not actually daring to climb out of their vehicles. It wouldn’t be uncommon to get a flat from a hypodermic needle or hear random screams – and not the pleasure kind either; no, these screams were snatched from the bowels of deepest human misery and amplified on the dirty concrete walls.

To the rear of the property behind the RV area was the abandoned hull of the saddest Wal-Mart to have existed in the history of retail. Not incidentally, that Wal-Mart had the distinction of having the worst bathroom I had ever personally experienced, and that includes even the time I was helping dad with a septic tank and fell in up to my waist. The Wal-Mart closed, leaving the Heritage Inn to remain, holding forlorn watch over the exit from I-40.

To those who accidentally pulled off I-40 from exhaustion, hoping to find a peaceful place to lay their heads, I say “thank you” to all of you who wrote some of the best reviews over the years. Your horror and disgust at some of the things you complained about was amusing. I’m sorry for your suffering of course, but be gladdened that your abject terror was enough to make me laugh. I could never write satire better than those who shared their horror stories disguised as reviews.

Now that the building has burned, if you read reviews online, most of them express joy that the place finally died. Most echo the sentiment that burning was the perfect end to such an imperfect and hideous business.

Here are review excerpts:
“…In summation, if you’re into sketchy sex, killing things, and a grim, hopeless, overall disconcerting vibe, maybe this is totally the place for you…” – “…I got back in my van and kept driving through the storm. I’d rather risk lightning than a stray bullet any day…” – “…Do not stay here. Avoid it like the plague. Because you might actually catch the plague at this dump…” – “…I opened the room door and was startled by the resemblance to decor right out of Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I count myself among the survivors of the Heritage Inn….” – “…Go here, if you dare or are writing a horror screenplay…Heritage Inn at Brinkley, Arkansas is alright if you like fighting. And crack deals and homicide…” – “While I am interested in crime scene investigation, I had never dreamed that I would be able to sleep in an actual crime scene…” – “Two of the filthiest prostitutes I’ve ever seen walked passed me and two kids. My little boy literally screamed a little when he looked at them. I watched one of the other long-term tenants kick the rat-trap around as I unloaded my car… We stayed in our room for about 15 minutes, long enough to hear dogs howling in pain and what sounded like a gunshot followed by screams and then muffled crying…” – “…and the lobby attendant looked like he was from a dumpster…”

I know what you are thinking: “X is exaggerating again.” But I’m not. Because of my mom, I spent time near this hotel. The picture on this post is of a Housekeeping cart. It’s an old Wal-Mart shopping cart. You can see the vacuum cleaner, which they rarely used, on the back. The towels in the top are dirty and the ones in the lower basket are ‘clean.’ This picture conveys everything you need to know and allows you to extrapolate the sheer magnitude of crazy that the Heritage Inn conveyed. You can google the pictures and reviews if you want.

I hope that Brinkley decides to allow nothing else to be built upon the ruins of the Heritage Inn. It should be memorialized as a disaster area, left vacant, serving as a warning to travelers and citizens alike.

Best April Fools’ Day Story Ever

bill qualls

A Bill Qualls Baseball Story as told by X

I remember this day as if it were thirteen Thursday ago. It was the perfect late-April day for tomfoolery. That day was one of the best pranks ever perpetrated by any person in the history of the world. April Fools’ Day comes and inevitably evokes memories of this epic day. Had I not been there, I would have never believed such a prank was even possible.

Bill Qualls (top row, first on right) had come by and picked me up to go watch his friends and family play ball. Even though their jerseys all had “A’s” emblazoned on them, judging by their apparent prowess, I would have opted to name them the “B’s” or “C’s.”

Since all the adults were tired from working, they voted that I should be the pitcher for both teams. Because Miller Lite had interfered with a few of the adult’s speed and balance, they had moved me to within 15 feet of home plate. I felt like the Germans must have when the Allied Forces burst into Berlin, facing the barrels of a million rifles.

I decided to play a prank on the batting team, given the volume of ridicule and mockery they were lobbing my way. As I gestured to those playing the field to come up for a conference near the mound, everyone in the infield and outfield ran up to me and I told them my plan. We never imagined it would possibly work. We were like a motley group of idiot savants, embarking on a road trip in which no one knew how to read a map.

Kenny went up to bat and at my signal, I threw the ball as fast as I could. Or I pretended to. Like a game of distract-the-dog at the park, Kenny didn’t realize that I had in fact not thrown the ball at all. Jake, who was the catcher, hit his fist into his glove as if the ball had landed there. Bill yelled “Strike 1” from the side and then laughed. I reared back and threw another pretend fastball. (The batter should have noted that no one had the thrown the first ball back to me. I guess Miller Lite had loosened his reasoning skills enough already.) Kenny swung with all his might, spinning around home plate dizzily. Bill again yelled and shouted “Strike 2.” Kenny then demonstrated his command of every dirty word in the English language and several from Central America. He had already bragged that his batting average was “7,” whatever that meant.

As I threw the ball the third time, Bill was ready and waiting behind the plate and to the left, next to a wooden utility pole holding the electrical wire leading to the box behind the bleachers. As Kenny swung, Bill solidly hit the wooden pole with his own bat, mimicking the echo of a hit at home plate.

Everyone in the outfield starting screaming “Home Run,” or “Fly Ball.” Kenny, who hadn’t hit anything at all, couldn’t tell where the ball was. (It was still in my glove.) His own team hollering “Idiot” was drowned out by ‘my’ team, all of whom were running back and forth, looking upward to the sky, trying to get a bead on the nonexistent ball that was both going over the fence for a home run AND about to be caught for an out against Kenny. The guys looking skyward and prancing around under the invisible baseball now remind me of a ballet company being slightly electrocuted.

Kenny threw his bat and started running the bases. Even as he rounded second base, he didn’t seem to notice that the ball must be in Earth’s orbit at this point, given that so many seconds had passed since he ‘hit’ the ball. He ran even faster, although his idea of a straight line looked more like the stream of water coming out of a hose on a summer afternoon – that is to say, all over the place.

I stood between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, amazed at the spectacle of a grown man being duped into believing that he had hit a home run just by the sound of a bat thumping on a wooden pole.

In what seemed to be two minutes of Kenny running the bases, he rounded home plate. As his foot touched the base, I noticed that Bill had been standing near the utility pole along the fence, holding another baseball in one hand and a lighter glowing red with flame in the other. (This was not part of my plan.) The flame was burning the side of the baseball against his glove. He then quickly hurled the burned baseball as far as he could to right field. John caught it lazily and shouted, “I caught it. My god that thing must have been half a mile in space.”

Kenny stopped a few feet away from home and turned toward John, who was now running toward him, waving the ball he had just ‘caught’ after about two minutes in the air. John started excitedly shouting, “Look, I caught it! It went so high it got burned in the atmosphere.”

Kenny just stared at him, unable to comprehend what was happening. John tossed him the ball as he jogged past me and neared home.

Kenny caught the ball and stared in wonder at the white ball, now covered with black streaks and feeling extremely warm. He sniffed it and said “No way, man!” in a voice resembling both that of Rod Serling from “The Twilight Zone” and Cheech Marin.

We watched in awe as Kenny turned the ball over and over in his hand, his head turned slightly sideways, as if he were holding a chicken with four heads.

In unison, we all burst out in laughter, watching as Kenny admired his “Ball From Outer Space.”

Bill took a bow and smiled.


Jury Duty At Last



When I was very young, I tried repeatedly to get jury duty. Probably due to my asinine name, I couldn’t manage it. I remember the look of incredulity one of the federal court employees gave me when I asked her how to get on jury duty. One would have thought I asked her to cut my hair by peeling the scalp off my head. I guess asking for jury duty wasn’t something a normal person aspired to? The same result occurred at the county level. I’m pretty sure they were laughing at me when I exited the clerk’s office after inquiring.

No one wanted me. I felt like Spiderman must have felt when he showed up at the crime scene suffering from terrible diarrhea.

After years of thinking nothing more of it, I got the dreaded Jury Duty Notice in the mail recently. I could also hear the universe laughing maniacally at my shock when I opened the notice. I’m not sure the government knows what kind of nutcase they are inviting to be a part of the process, but if they want me to play the part of dutiful citizen, I will vainly try to keep a straight face while doing so. I may very well be wearing a fake mustache, but I will have a straight face.

Let’s be honest, would any of you want me sitting in a jury deciding your fate? I didn’t think so. I would come in 5th in a three-man race for ‘Most Reasonable.’

In what universe is it sensible to invite ME to jury duty? If called to trial, I am going to object loudly for both sides, bring my own handcuffs, as well as consume large quantities of beans for every meal. I may also chew on garlic tablets at every opportunity. To paraphrase Zach Galifianakis, I might also sit quietly with my eyes on either the prosecutor or litigant’s attorney and say “Oh bullcrap” quietly each time they make a point. I’m also going to wear a different wig each day until someone notices.

I have a real problem deciding a person’s freedom. Monetary claims are one thing, but I have always said I’m not comfortable being involved in cases where jail is a possibility. (For the defendant, not me, although given my irreverence, I may very well be behind bars for a big list of reasons, the least of which might be contempt of court.)

Anyone with a critical eye can see that money is the single biggest determinant of outcome for lawsuits, whether criminal or civil. Eyewitness testimony is unreliable, our memory is nothing like we imagine it to be, and impartiality is what we claim we have all the while believing in nonsense such as horoscopes and the political process being fair. The ability of our legal system to restrict our ability to see and hear all the evidence is almost total. As in life, we think we know what we are talking about because we saw a two-minute clip about it on the Ellen show one afternoon. We’ll all seen too many courtroom dramas and heard too many cases where nothing turns out to be as it seemed. Trials are massively complicated affairs that should be left to the experts.

I feel very sympathetic to those without means being required to perform jury duty. Not all employers encourage or treat those chosen for jury duty appropriately. It disrupts one’s life, the ability to care for one’s family, not to mention gives some of those who can’t get out of it a terrible attitude. Remember that when you are watching a real jury sitting in the box, frowning and fidgeting, desperately waiting to get behind closed doors and find a way to give someone the death penalty. Just for not returning a library book.

There are too many people who are retired, independently capable of duty, or not able to work but who possess the mental faculty to be on juries for us to continue to mandate jury duty.

And it will be me, confusing the perplexed jurors stuck in the room with me, who is to blame when a one-day trial results in a six-week jury deliberation and $12,000 dining bill for the county.

We’ll all finally come out of the jury room and then quietly line up in the box. The judge will ask with great solemnity: “Have you reached a verdict?” At which point the fatigued foreman will rise, open a crumpled envelope and say, “Yes, we the jury find X Teri guilty of gross ignorance and stupidity and sentence him to jail instead of the defendant.” And a great applause will erupt while all the jurors weep in relief.

And as the judge commences to bang his gavel to close the proceedings, I will jump up to the bench and hold a single nail underneath his gavel, so that when it arcs down and hammers, it will drive the nail halfway into the judge’s desk. It’s something I’ve always aspired to, especially when I used to watch Judge Ito in the O.J. case. I could then gleefully say “He nailed it.”

I really did get a 3 month sentence (I mean to say ‘term’) of jury duty. I’ll do the best I can and although I am joking about it, I will do what I can to follow all instructions from the court. Like the Army though, my motto is “Be All You Can Be.” That’s dangerous advice for weirdos.

I will faithfully listen with great caution and remind myself that we are wrong about so much that failing to take it seriously can cause harm to people who have done nothing to injure me. But if the prosecutor paces in front of me too much, I am going to lick my lips provocatively at him or her until he or she forgets what in blazes was being said. And if he walks to close, I’m definitely going to trip him or her while mumbling, “That was for Marcia Clark.” Thanks


Good Mooning America



I want to see an a.m. show titled “Good Mooning America.” It would feature people around the U.S. mooning the camera before their first cup of coffee. Theme song: “Bad Moon Rising” by CCR. Let’s face it, everyone would think it was stupid, but totally watch. And it would force people to read carefully.

Atypical Typical

Dr. Oz. Does anyone else think he is the 2nd creepiest guy in the world? I keep looking online on Interpol to see if I can match his picture to known offenders around the world. I feel like that French detective in “Hannibal.”


I’m going to start posing with my cans of tuna and bbq potato chips in the parking lot. Give these deer hunters a run for their money. PS: Don’t go in the store in full camo and face meshnet. They think you are there for something else entirely. Even if you are ‘hunting’ chips.

deer hunters


Not all advice is good – and no truth applies to all people: Someone who didn’t know me said “Do what your mom would do.” After the high-speed chase and meeting all those police officers, they gave me a set of steel bracelets and insisted on putting me up for the night. They even asked for my autograph and asked me a bunch of questions, like they were interested in me. Thanks, mom.



No more Natural Food Stores. Henceforth, only Super-Natural Food Stores for me.


Really, you can start a martial arts studio anywhere. Just rent a room, then start punching and kicking people while talking in a smooth, even macho voice. Judo is just fancy slapping and some legwork. With a monthly fee. And goofy pants.

x judo shop

Using Facebook’s “Create Page” For Amusement

Facebook is a feature-rich social media platform. Used properly, it can open up a world of content and opportunity.

Of course, I’d rather use it to amuse myself. Toward that end, I periodically create a page and use it to promote whatever craziness I can devise. It’s easy to set a new page up in a just a few minutes. I’ve found, however, that the more time spent making it look authentic adds to the fun when people begin to find it and comment on it.

Like any effort, you get as good as you give.

The more creative the content, the more perplexed your accidental visitors seem to get, especially if you add real business information to the pages. For addresses, I usually find a real street address which no longer has a structure on it. Just put on your creativity hat and you can devise clever means to provide a phone number, web presence and photos.

If humor is your goal, it is staggering how much snark and jab you can pack into satire and parody without drawing the ire a personal Facebook page might.

For this particular one, I created a fake hair salon, “Hair To Displease You,” and insisted we all had cosmology licenses, which can give you the wrong impression if you’re not paying attention. My posts were mostly social commentary disguised as specialty haircuts or goofiness associated with the issues of customer service a business might encounter.

You can google for interesting sites, too. There are a lot of them, covering just about any topic you can imagine.