Something Fishy This Way Comes
Some of my new readers may be surprised to learn that I am, in fact, a Christian. I know it's kind of hard to tell, because I don't really believe in pushing my beliefs on people. Also, I'm kind of a jackass. Maybe what I need is a blog banner with one of those fish symbols on it, like you see on the back of people's cars. You know, like the song says: "They will know we are Christians by the crap we stick on the backs of our cars." I don't actually have a big problem with the fish insignia trend, but I do wonder how much thought goes  into the decision to stick something like that on one's car. First off, why the fish? I mean, I know it's an ancient Christian symbol, but hey, guess what, so is the cross. Everybody knows what the cross means. So why the fish? Historically the fish was used as a secret sign by Christians to identify themselves to each other, back when being a Christian meant persecution and possibly execution. The last time I checked the local paper, though, Christians weren't being rounded up and burned alive by the authorities in California. So to me, using the fish symbol smacks of a persecution complex. Twenty or thirty years ago, whenever this trend started, not many people would have known what the fish  meant. So it was a way for Christians to nudge-nudge-wink-wink make contact with other Christians without the heathens being any the wiser. Isn't it in Luke where Christ commands his disciples to "go and form secret societies within secular culture and communicate in code so that no one can identify you as one of my followers"? At this point, of course, the cat is out of the bag. The fish is no longer a secret symbol. And yet, it's not universally recognizable either. The fish is like the Chad Michael Murray of religious symbols. Who? half of you say. Exactly.  It also confuses me when the fish symbol has to share real estate on the back of the car with other symbols. What does it mean when you have the fish insignia along with an "I'd rather be golfing" license plate frame and a bumper sticker that says "I (heart) my Labrador"? What's the order of precedence there? Golf, Jesus, Labrador? Is it significant that directly across from the fish symbol there's a Toyota symbol? And has anyone else noticed how satanic the Toyota logo looks in that context? Just once I'd like to see a car covered entirely with a gigantic fish logo, because that's just how strongly the owner feels about his faith. I laugh at your tiny emblems! Screw resale value! I love Jesus, dammit!The other day I saw a car that had two big fish and three little fish. The meaning of this was instantly clear to me: The people in this car worshiped two big Jesuses and three little Jesuses. I  began to wonder if my lone Jesus was going to be sufficient. Look, here's how the symbol works: It stands for Jesus, not you and your Subaru Legacy-driving family. Depeche Mode lyrics notwithstanding, we don't each get our own personal Jesus. In any case, isn't it a little creepy to advertise the supposed religious affiliation of your dependent children? I mean, I'm unabashedly raising my children in the Christian faith, but if you asked me whether my six year old is a Christian, I couldn't give you an intelligent answer. Does Jesus give Nemo and Spongebob some serious competition for coolest guy ever? Oh yeah. But you're going to ask her in a few years if she's a Christian or a Nemoist. And don't get me started on the whole Jesus vs. Darwin thing. The fish with legs was funny for about the first six or seven hundred times I saw it, but then the Christians, demonstrating both their over-sensitivity and underdeveloped sense of humor, retaliated with a b  igger fish eating the Darwin fish. Because, friends, that's really what the Gospel is all about: the ultimate devouring of science by the giant, horrific Jesus-Fish. Whatever. I don't really mind if you stick a fish on the back of your car. Hell, duct tape an octopus to your tailgate if you want. All I ask is that you put some thought into what your chosen marine animal signifies to the drivers around you. Personally, I'm sticking with the hermit crab. Labels: Christianity, Driving
Congratulating Himself
 Well, this is unexpected. Last time I checked, Sarah was running away with this contest. Hmmm. But the caption with the most votes this week came from McCafferty Himself. Mr. Himself, you get to display the coveted In Your Face Award.  You'll also receive a copy of my book, Antisocial Commentary. Just email me your address. Sarah came in second, with: The girls were shocked to meet a man that even Samantha wouldn't sleep with. And in third was Shelley, with: "Hey! Is that an original Thomas Kinkade? I'm so bidding on that." Finally, here's the much-anticipated picture of my car's newly labeled mystery switch:  I've flipped the switch up and down a bunch of times, but I still haven't been able to get the light to go on. Practice, practice, practice! Thanks for your contribution, Deb. I've added you to the caption contest winners over to the right. Have a swell weekend. See you on Monday. Labels: Caption Contest Winners
Thursday Shout-out
Some good stuff that I've run across recently in my traverses through the blogosphere: First up, John Q. Casual presents Twist and Shout: The M. Night Shyamalan Story. An excerpt: M. Night: See? The ink is running! It's ruined! Water destroyed my report!
Teacher: Well that's stupid. You should have bought some better paper, or some less runny ink or something. You'd think if you went through all of this trouble, you'd make a report that wouldn't be destroyed by something as simple as water.
M. Night: Shut up. Just shut up.
Teacher: Roooooaaaaaar!!
M. Night: What the--!?? Teacher!? You're a bear!!!
Teacher: I have been a bear all along! Roaaarrr! Read the rest here. *****
Rickey Henderson also offers his review of Shyamalan's latest movie: As people begin killing themselves en masse, the movie quickly shifts from Shyamalan’s all too familiar stomping grounds of Philadelphia to the all too familiar Pennsylvania countryside setting that we’ve seen a bazillion times before in his movies. We wonder, does this guy ever leave the state? Is this a Roman Polanski type of situation where he’ll be arrested on sight for making shitty narcissistic movies if he travels outside the state of Pennsylvania? Read the rest here. ***** Mike from See Mike Draw has started a new project, a series of comic strips about the strange planet known as Urf. Check it out.  *****
Johnny Virgil from 15 Minute Lunch (yeah, like he needs me sending him traffic) has a funny story about a childhood trip to the zoo. *****
And finally, some of your favorite members of Humor-Blogs.com have shown up over at Predator Press. *****
That's it for today. Come back tomorrow for the caption contest results. Diesel out. Labels: Shout-Outs
Hip To Be Square
My fourth grade teacher, prompted by some juvenile witticism of mine, once said to me, "If you ever write a book, I want the first copy." I think it had occurred to me even before that time that I would probably write a book some day, but that incident gelled the notion in my mind.* I never considered the possibility that someone else in my class might beat me to the punch. My friend Glacial Spain (not his real name) recently gave me a copy of a book titled Perfect From Now On by one John Sellers.  The book, subtitled "How indie rock saved my life" is a breezy memoir of the author's belated discovery and eventual headlong plunge into the world of independent rock music. It's an enjoyable read, made more so for me because I recognize Sellers' Midwestern hometown, repressive middle school and dorky classmates -- because, well, I was one of those dorky classmates. If you pick up Perfect From Now On expecting -- as I suspect many of you will -- some hidden insights into my own origins, however, you will be disappointed. Although he mentions several of his schoolmates by name, I am not one of them. My exposure in the book is limited to two tangential references: On page 60, the author compares listening to New Order's Substance to getting drunk for the first time, elaborating in a footnote: Natural Light, with two geeky friends, in early 1987. In involved drunkenly making snow angels. I was one of the geeky friends. This happened at my house while my parents were out of town. The other reference is more telling: On page 19 Sellers notes, "Examining my current preferences, I can scarcely believe that my second concert was Huey Lewis and the News." Then, in another footnote (Sellers loves footnotes): My two friends and I sat in the sixth row, mere feet away from a drunk pip-squeak in a jean jacket who hurled halfway through "Hip to Be Square." A reaction to the music? I was one of the two geeky friends again (Sellers mercifully left out the adjective this time). What he neglected to mention is that we had wheedled our way into the sixth row because our assigned seats sucked. Thanks to people like us, the sixth row was so crammed with unwelcome immigrants that security came through checking tickets. Sellers was so convincing in his indignity at the people who had illegitimately snuck into the sixth row ("We're supposed to be here!") that the security guard didn't even bother to check our tickets. The interesting thing to me is that Sellers' jumping off point in his musical odyssey is something that still defines me as a person today. For Sellers, Huey Lewis was part of a corporate pop culture to be rebelled against, but for me, Huey was -- and remains -- the quintessential rebel and a personal hero. Sellers and I (I'm not being formal; even as kids we just called him "Sellers") were similar in a lot of ways. Quirky and bright, we were bored with school and spent a lot of our time reading comic books and writing bizarre stories. The difference between Sellers and me was that Sellers was what I call a "crossover dork." That is, although he was a dork at heart, he was capable of faking normalcy well enough to fit in with the cool kids most of the time. Sellers was a good student, reasonably athletic, and could speak intelligently about professional sports teams. By contrast, I was small and uncoordinated, couldn't force myself to fake an interest in spectator sports, and wore thick, fantastically uncool glasses. But as Matthew Broderick says in The Freshman, "There's a kind of freedom in being completely screwed." I never bothered to try to fit in because I knew it was hopeless. This wasn't much fun for me -- if it weren't for crossover dorks like Sellers and Glacial Spain, I would have been completely ostracized. But at least I was free to be who I was. Sellers, on the other hand, lived in constant fear that he would be exposed. In the book he paints this fear mostly as a result of circumstances: Any antisocial or disturbingly eccentric behavior would have got you singled out as a mutant by the kids you had to see in class every day, year after year, and, considering how pious the school administrators were trying to appear, it might even have got you expelled. Why make your time there even worse than it already was? This is essentially true; I've written about our ass-hat junior high teachers myself. But he goes on to say: There were no rebels at [our elementary school]. This is a backhanded defense of Sellers' own lack of rebelliousness, but I would argue that it's not true. Bill V., who once broke into and vandalized the school, was surely a rebel. Kyle D., who used to jump from desk to desk when the teachers weren't in the room (and who was eventually held back because of his failure to complete assignments) was a rebel. And then there was the kid who studied D&D rulebooks during class, called out the creepy math teacher for tickling the male students, and skated by with C's and D's despite his obvious intelligence. That was me. Sellers' fear of standing out intensified as we grew older. In high school he used to play dumb when the topic of Dungeons & Dragons came up, as if he had no recollection of the many Saturdays we spent in my parents' basement killing goblins and drinking Towne Club soda. To his credit, though, he never dumped me as a friend -- which is somewhat remarkable considering that I was pretty much uncool incarnate at that point.  At the same time Sellers would make absurd and arbitrary claims, as if setting up straw man personalities to see who would knock them down. It was impossible to tell which of his obsessions were real and which were fabricated: He was the first person I knew who embraced rap music, but I also clearly remember him telling me that Oliver North was an "American hero." Meanwhile, I did my best to reserve judgment on both fronts. I don't say any of this to denigrate Sellers; I'm quite certain that the social pressures he felt were very real, and his journey out of the wilderness of Huey Lewis and Duran Duran to indie bands like the Smiths and Guided By Voices is genuine as well. There's also no doubt that Sellers has a deeper knowledge of music and appreciation of the indie music scene than I have. On the other hand, I wonder if Sellers' current musical tastes are still dictated to some degree by what the cool people are doing. Sellers' complex, obsessive and (I suspect) only partially tongue-in-cheek formula for rating the greatness of a band smacks of someone who still has never quite learned to listen to music purely for the joy of music. In 1987 I listened to Huey Lewis because I related to a guy who didn't feel the need to wear leather pants or trash hotel rooms to prove his coolness. A rock star who could sing unabashedly about how uncool he was ("Now I'm playing it real straight/and yes I cut my hair/you might think I'm crazy/but I don't even care/There is no denying that/It's hip to be square") was validation of my own square rebellion. Today I still howl along with that song while barreling down I-580 on my way to work. There's simply no explanation for this behavior other than the fact that I love the song, and that it takes me back to a day when I too suspected, despite the crushing pressures of adolescence, that it was okay to be a dork. Now Sellers writes entertainment articles for Spin and GQ, and I have the ultimate dork job: writing computer software. So I suppose Sellers is still cooler than I, but there's a lot of pressure that goes along with being cool. As for me, I've come to the conclusion that Huey was right all along: It really is hip to be square. *Not long after this, that teacher made me cough up $12 for my share of a car window that Greg K. broke when he inadvisedly threw a rock near another teacher's car. A group of us had been playing in an off-limits area behind the school, so we were all held equally responsible. Always one for semantic exactitude, I pleaded not guilty on the grounds that we had been told "not to play tag behind the school." We were not, in fact, playing tag, and therefore not in violation of the rule. So my 4th grade teacher can take that $12 and buy her own damn copy. Labels: Anecdotes, Books, Music
Vote!
 Ok, folks, time to vote for your favorite caption. I'll post the winner on Friday. Thanks to all of those who let me know that I left you off my caption contest standings. I'm obviously not so good with details. I'll correct the standings shortly. And yes, I'm still planning on posting a pic of my car's clitoris. Hell, I might even wash the car. Patience, people. Here are your caption finalists: Brad "Wombat" Randall said... The women are surprised to learn that the producers have added the character of "Mr. Tiny" to the movie. scottsunderwater said... Suddenly Cynthia Nixon's cast-mates understood her sexual preference Brad said... Specs and the City Fold My Laundry Please said... Finally! A room with enough lighting that my lenses don't look perpetually dark! sage said... Hollywood has just announced a sequel to Sex in the City, staring Diesel, making his début, in “A New Found Celibacy for the City” Shelley said... "Hey! Is that an original Thomas Kinkade? I'm so bidding on that." McCafferty Himself said... John McCain agrees to be Diesel’s friend on MySpace. toadroller said... In a unique and serendipitous moment in their long and diverse friendship, all four of the girls had the very same thought at the very same time but for vastly different reasons: "Who's the stiff?" Deb on the Rocks said... It was clear that Sex and the City had jumped the shark when they introduced country-bumpkin -with-a-heart-of-gold character "Ugly Cousin Heather." sarah said... The girls were shocked to meet a man that even Samantha wouldn't sleep with. Labels: Caption Contest Poll
No (Pointing Out) Fat Chicks
My six year old daughter once said of one of the teachers at her school, "Mrs. _____ is really strong." She added, by way of clarification, "Because we can't say fat." I'm not sure where my daughter got the idea that strong is an appropriate euphemism for fat, but I'm sure I had something to do with teaching her that calling someone fat is not socially acceptable. Once, for example, when my kids were younger, I took them to Sears. While I was browsing the hardware section, they were playing I-Spy, pointing out various items in the store. "I spy something red," or "I spy something that you could use to mow your lawn," that sort of thing. I remember watching in dream-like slow motion as the escalator deposited a fantastically large woman directly in front of my children. I saw the scenario playing out in my mind before it happened, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I didn't even have time to run away and leave my children to be Sears orphans. "I spy a big fat lady!" my daughter squealed joyfully. My son, slightly older and more reserved, just giggled to himself. The woman wobbled past, shooting me a look that seemed to say, "Thanks for bringing two more horrid children into the world and making my life just that much more miserable!" I smiled sheepishly, realizing there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to improve the situation. Sure, I could make a show of scolding them, but for what? Pointing out that someone is fat? That would imply that there's something wrong with being fat, making the situation worse.  The problem is that society hasn't decided what it's going to do about fat people. We haven't decided if being fat is a disability, like not having any legs; whether it's a personal choice to be frowned upon, like smoking; or something that we can talk openly about, but only if the person admits to their condition or is a celebrity, like being gay. I've read enough Parade magazine to know it's supposedly okay for children to point out disabled people and ask questions about them. (And still, I'm always afraid that my children are going to encounter the one legless guy who didn't get the memo). But what do you do with fat people? Daughter: "Daddy, why is that lady so fat?"
Daddy: "That's a good question, honey. Why don't we ask her? I'm sure she'll appreciate your child-like honesty and curiosity."
Daughter: "Hey fat lady, why are you so fat?"
Fat Lady: "What a darling little child! I appreciate your child-like honesty and curiosity. To answer your question, I eat far too much and get very little exercise. Also, I tend to eat processed foods that are high in sugar and saturated fat. If I keep it up, there's a good chance I'll be dead by the time I'm 40. Does that answer your question, sweetie?" For some reason, I don't see the exchange going that smoothly. So now I have to explain to my children that it's okay to ask why someone has no arms, but not okay to ask why someone has eight chins. Can somebody please explain the rule of thumb here, preferably in language a six year old can understand? Recently I skimmed through a special "obesity issue" of Time magazine. Article after article detailed how we are eating too much, eating the wrong kinds of stuff and not exercising enough -- and endangering our health in the process. Then, presumably to lighten the mood, there was an article about a fat woman who had learned to accept herself the way she was, and appreciate the fact that skinny is not synonymous with healthy. Huh? Wouldn't it be great if life really worked that way? A visit to your doctor might go like this: Doctor: I'm afraid I have bad news. You're morbidly obese. You need to start eating right, get more exercise and stop smoking, or you're going to have a stroke.
Patient: Doc, I know I'm a little on the heavy side, but I've learned to accept myself. I feel really good about my body. I may not meet society's definition of beautiful, but I feel beautiful inside.
Doctor: Well, why didn't you say so! Modern medical science is rendered completely obsolete by the fact that you feel good about your condition. Why, just the other day I saw a man so euphoric about having his legs amputated that he literally flew out of the intensive care unit!
Patient: So does this mean I can keep smoking?
Doctor: That depends. Does smoking make you feel cool and help you fit in with your friends?
Patient: Absolutely!
Doctor: Then who am I to tell you to stop?
Patient: Wow, that's fantastic. You're a terrific doctor, you know that? Are you always this upbeat?
Doctor: Not always, but today I am. After all, I just found out I have stage four liver cancer!
Patient: Awesome! Now I'm not a doctor, but in the forties Time magazine was putting the Nazis on its cover. The equivalent threat today is evidently ten-year-olds with ice cream cones. To my knowledge, Time never ran an essay about how the Netherlands was "feeling really good" about being overrun by the German war machine.  As one of America's premier cultural commentators, I feel some obligation to help society come to terms with fat people. And yet, as a relatively thin person, I'm a little reluctant to do so. Last time I weighed in on the issue (ha!), I got a lot of hate mail. (Granted, my advice consisted mostly of telling fat people to cover up so as to not nauseate me). So I'm stuck with leaving the matter in the hands of people like Camryn Manheim, the fat chick from The Practice, who wrote a book called Wake Up, I'm Fat!I haven't read the book (it's got a fat chick on the cover, for crying out loud!), but presumably it's about how we're supposed to accept Camryn Mahheim's obesity and love her for who she is. And yet, somehow I suspect that she resents being referred to as "the fat chick from The Practice." So we're left to guess what language we are allowed to use to refer to people like Camryn Manheim (the brash, annoying chick from The Practice? The loud, irritating lesbian from The Practice? The chick on The Practice who, when averaged with Lara Flynn Boyle, would make a normal looking woman?) And I have to continue to try to explain to my children why it's okay to point out some conditions but not others, which can have strange results. Daughter: "Daddy, why does that man have no legs?"
Daddy: "I don't know, honey. Why don't you ask him?"
Daughter: "Sir, why don't you have any legs?"
Legless Man: "Well, sweetie, I had to have my legs chopped off with a saw."
Daughter: "Why?"
Legless Man: "I had something called diabetes. You see, I used to eat way too much, and then...."
Daddy: "I spy something red!" Labels: Anecdotes, Family, TV
Caption Contest: Sex and the City
You know the rules. Submit your caption in the comments. Mrs. Diesel and I will pick our ten favorites and post them in a poll on Tuesday. The winner gets a copy of my book, Antisocial Commentary: From the Secret Files of the Mattress Police. I've also started listing the current contest standings over on the right (below the Recent Inspectors). My record keeping leaves something to be desired, so let me know if I missed you or got your total number of wins wrong. See you on Monday! Labels: Caption Contest
All In Favor of a Heliocentric Solar System Say "Aye!"
It always puzzles me when someone talks about the conflict between science and religion. I’m a religious person and I also believe in the value of science, yet I’ve never experienced any conflict. I feel like I must be doing one of them wrong. As I see it, there are five main systems that shape the Western world. These are: Science, democracy, capitalism, religion, and American Idol. Everybody seems to think that the world is headed toward more of all of these things – all of them, that is, except for religion. Religion, for some reason, is always seen as the runt of the litter, doomed to lose out to its more robust siblings. And yet, if I were to pick the two systems that are most likely to come into conflict (putting aside American Idol), it wouldn’t be science and religion. It would be science and democracy. Think about it: Science is all about facts. Facts are brutal and unyielding. They are what they are, regardless of how anyone feels about it. Democracy, on the other hand, is all about opinions. You don’t have to have a shred of evidence to support your choice at the ballot box. And once you vote somebody in, they are in no way bound to act according to reason, facts or logic. They just do whatever feels right to them, based on any number of possibly completely irrelevant factors. It seems inevitable that these two systems will butt heads. The EPA is a case in point.  Where it gets really weird is when people start combining the two systems. For example, when you ask somebody how they know that global warming is a serious problem, they will most likely rattle off some statistic about how many scientists agree that it’s a serious problem. Huh? I thought science was about presenting facts and testing hypotheses. Now we’re favoring scientific theories based on sheer numbers? It reminds me of the old joke about the kindergartener who brought a puppy to school for show and tell. The class couldn’t decide whether the puppy was a boy or a girl, so they voted on it. The problem, of course, is that voting doesn’t do a damn thing to change the facts of the situation. If the people voting don’t have any basis for voting one way or another, all you’re getting is a collective guess. Well, hell, I can do that. Who needs scientists? Remember those Trident commercials about how “four out of five dentists we surveyed recommended Trident for their patients who chew gum”? What a ringing endorsement that was, huh? They preselected a bunch of dentists and basically said to them, “Well, yes, we know gum is bad for you, but if one of your patients insisted on chewing gum, would you recommend chewing sugarless gum, such as, say, Trident?” And they still couldn’t get the fifth guy to buckle! That dentist had some balls, I tell you. In the seventeenth century, four out of five dentists thought the sun revolved around the earth. Too bad the fifth one was a guy by the name of Galileo, bitches.  If we’re really serious about the science-democracy mashup, we should make it into a reality show like, well, American Idol. You start out with ten thousand scientists from across the country, each with competing views on global warming, and gradually eliminate them by, um, denying them tenure or something. We can work out the details later. But the important thing is that the winner will get to determine our policy on global warming. Hopefully it will be someone with a good head on his or her shoulders, who is also cute as a button, much like Kelly Clarkson. But if the winner is the scientific equivalent of William Hung, then we’ll just have to deal with it, even if it means living in aluminum huts and driving coal powered submarines for a year. Asking ten thousand scientists what to do about global warming is like asking ten thousand lawyers what to do about Roe versus Wade. Where do you even find ten thousand scientists? I think you probably have to lower the bar to anyone who owns a white lab coat to get those kinds of numbers. I mean, there’s no independent qualification of scientists, is there? Anybody who spends their weekends mixing hair gel with silly putty in the garage in an attempt to make Flubber can call themselves a scientist. Which brings me to my point: These so-called “scientists” have far too much power in our society. We need to level the playing field a bit. To that end, I’m starting a scientific institute called, um, the Mattress Police Institute for the Advancement of Scientific Missions of Awesomeness, also known as MIASMA (the ‘P’ is silent). To work at MIASMA, you must: 1) Own a white lab coat, or intend to buy one when you have the money
2) Believe in the advancement of Science through Scientific Missions of Awesomeness
3) Believe that no list is complete without at least three items  To apply to MIASMA, simply leave a comment below. Once you are accepted into MIASMA, you are considered an official Scientist, and may weigh in on important matters such as global warming, global cooling, and global staying-about-the-same-ing. Together, we can ensure that science gets the injection of pure democracy that it needs in order to keep our interest. I look forward to working with you to make/keep our planet a comfortable temperature. Long live science! Death to the unbelievers! (Oh, and I’ve made another banner. You don’t have to use the banner to be a staff scientist at MIASMA, but it will look good on your review. I know, you already have the Huey Lewis banner, the Humor-Blogs banner, the Antisocial Commentary banner and the Grundir banner, but you really need this one too. Because it’s all sciencey and stuff.) Labels: Christianity, Current Events
Best of MP: Book 'Em
It's Tuesday, so it must be time for another Best of Mattress Police post. Today's post comes from August of 2007, back when I had time to troll the interwebs looking for pictures of Tara Reid. Enjoy. I think Barnes and Noble is on to me. I think they've figured out that I'm one of those people who just browses through books for an hour, leaves them on the wrong shelf, and then walks out without buying anything. How else can you explain the fact that the alarm goes off every time I enter the store?  I've gotten into the habit of holding up my hands and shouting "It's just me!" whenever I walk into the store, which is usually pretty effective at negating suspicions. Except, of course, on those rare occasions when the alarm doesn't go off for some reason, in which case it has precisely the opposite effect. Funny how a preemptive declaration of harmlessness freaks people right out. One time I carried a book from Barnes and Noble into Starbucks next door, picked up a coffee, then brought the book back into the store, at which point the alarm went off. An employee shot me an accusatory look. I sheepishly held up the book, demonstrating my willingness to cooperate. "You can't take books out of the store," she said. "Apparently I can take books out of the store," I replied. "What I can't do, at least without getting a lot of unwanted attention, is to bring books back into the store." She clearly wanted to punish me in some way, but couldn't settle on her next course of action. "Do you... want me to take the book back into Starbucks?" I said. "I promise not to bring it back into the store this time." She grumbled something and walked off. You just can't satisfy some people. I don't know how Barnes and Noble makes any money. Actually, I have my suspicions. I think they make all their money on those "bargain items" at the front of the store. You know the stuff I'm talking about: those oversized books and boxed "kits" that promise to teach you everything you need to know to get started with Feng Shui or drawing manga characters or mastering the art of the tarot. I find these displays fascinating, because they're like a smörgåsbord* of lifestyle options. I like how they are always marked down from $19.95 to $14.95 or something. I imagine a young woman walking out of the store with her girlfriend, clutching one of those boxes. Woman 1: I thought you were going to convert to Buddhism.
Woman 2: I was, but Calligraphy was on sale.  Barnes and Noble has something for everybody, including people who hate to read. The last time I was there I saw an audio book of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. Now that's niche marketing. It's the book for people who want to hear someone read a movie to them. Guy 1: You know what I really loved about Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines?
Guy 2: The hot chick terminator?
Guy 1: No...
Guy 2: Arnold Schwarzenegger kicking ass?
Guy 1: No...
Guy 2: The awesome effects?
Guy 1: No...
Guy 2: The ever perky Claire Daines, in her best role since My So-Called Life?
Guy 1: No...
Guy 2: Okay, I give up. What did you love about Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines?
Guy 1: The lyrical dialogue and rich thematic subtext. It's too bad I never learned how to read.
Guy 2: Ooh, have I got a book for you!
 Every time I go to Barnes and Noble I have to spend half an hour browsing through the "humor" section. As a humor writer, this is therapeutic for me. Just when I start to feel a little guilty about shamelessly hawking my own book in every one of my posts, I pick up a book that is made up of 80 pages of "lessons" gleaned from Napoleon Dynamite -- one per page. The book was priced at $9.95, even though it looked like it had been written over a long weekend by a hungover middle schooler. Most of the books in the "humor" section are so painfully unfunny that they made me want to go to the literature section to take in a few pages of The Brothers Karamazov just to lighten my mood a bit. Not that there aren't any funny books there -- This book made me chuckle, and the Deep Thoughts collections are always good for some laughs. And of course there are books by the old pros, like Dave Barry and Woody Allen. But generally speaking, if you want to see something funny, you're better off browsing through some of the books they're trying to pawn off as "serious." For example, I always find the "...for Dummies" books amusing. Well, mostly what I find amusing is the ambiguity of the titles. Fishing for Dummies, for example, sounds pretty cool. I have to admit that catching a dummy would be more exciting than landing a trout. Plus, dummies are way easier to gut. And when you're done cleaning your dummy, you can rely on your trusty copy of Sewing for Dummies to help you stitch your dummy back up so that it's suitable for hanging in your den.  And if the Dummies books are too advanced for you, there are also books for Complete Idiots. There's The Complete Idiot's Guide to Sex, The Complete Idiot's Guide to Accounting, and The Complete Idiot's Guide to Astrology -- which, now that I think about it, is redundant. Some day I'm going to launch a line of books for people who are too dumb for the Complete Idiot books. I'm going to call them ________ for Total F---ing Retards Who Can't Even Read So they Don't Know this Book is Filled Entirely With Lyrics from Def Leppard Songs. I'm not even going to bother to fill in the blank in the title, because what difference is it going to make? I'll just change the color of the cover once a month to indicate that a new edition has been released. I'd love to write more, but I've got to go smuggle some more copies of Antisocial Commentary into the "summer reading" section. *I'd like to thank the developers of the Firefox web browser for "correcting" my spelling by adding those funky alien symbols to that word. Labels: Best of MP
I’m an Internet Stalker!
Every week a couple dozen new bloggers sign up to be listed on Humor-Blogs.com. I used to review every site to determine whether it qualified as a humor blog, but it didn’t take me long to realize that this was an impossible task. Sadly, a lot of people are so bad at being funny that it’s almost impossible to determine whether they are even trying. So lately all I do is visit the site to determine (1) whether it is a blog, and (2) whether it has a link to Humor-Blogs.com. Oh, and I also check for nudity (which is only appropriate on a humor blog if the subject is fat) and what I consider “grossly inappropriate content.” I rarely reject someone for content reasons, but it does happen. The other day I rejected a site that had jokes about, among other things, infant sodomy [Shudder]. I have an automated system where I can send a “welcome aboard” email to bloggers whose sites meet those criteria, or a rejection email in case they don’t. The rejection email explains why the blogger’s site was rejected and what to do about it. Generally that’s the end of it, but occasionally the rejected blogger will email me back. Often this results in an edifying discussion about how Humor-Blogs.com works exactly, after which the blogger either adds a link and joins the site or we part amicably. Sometimes neither of these happens. Sometimes the exchange goes like this one. (I've changed the blogger's name to avoid further angering her.) Hi,
Your web site, [Strikingly Original Blog Title], was rejected for inclusion on Humor-Blogs.com because we were unable to find a link to Humor-Blogs.com on your website. If you have added a link to Humor-Blogs.com and we missed it, we apologize. Please make sure that the link is on the main page of your blog (not a separate 'links' page), and that our site's name and url are spelled and formatted correctly, and then RESUBMIT your site to http://humor-blogs.com/JoinLanding.aspx. You can respond to this email if you want, but there's a pretty good chance that will irritate us.
Cheers!
Diesel
Yes well, sorry if this irritates you but when I went over there and saw that the first thing a viewer would see when linking to Humor Blogs' homepage was stuff like "Cock Blocking Since 2004" and "Found Shit" and "Wiping Butts Since 1998" I reconsidered my desire for inclusion in your "community" because I want my blog to be family-friendly.
Plus which, none of that is funny, in my opinion.
Thanks anyway!
Suzy Blogger
Hi Suzy,
I can't control who signs up for the site. I only reject sites that don't link to H-B, or that have grossly inappropriate content. Sorry the site doesn't meet your needs.
Cheers,
Diesel
Clearly we have differing views on what constitutes grossly inappropriate.
Suzy Blogger
All I know is that if wiping butts is inappropriate at your house, I don't want to come over. :)
Diesel
Well, at least YOU attempt to be a comedian.
Suzy Blogger
Always attempting, yes. That's me.
Seriously, this whole Humor-Blogs site has blown way out of my control. I never had any policies in place to say "No, you can't have 'shit' in your blog title," so I just had to kind of let things slide. I'm sure some people are offended, but whatever. Nobody's going to die from seeing the word 'shit' in print.
Are they? (He asked ominously)
Diesel
Well, you know, you said a few minutes ago that you can't control who signs up on the site ... but obviously you can because you denied me that dubious privilege.
And that is perfectly fine. I have no problem with that but don't tell me you can't control it because you are controlling it.
And no, maybe people won't die from reading that word, but it is my firm belief that something does die when people cease to care about the kind of language they use in public [Yes, but maybe it’s something bad that dies, like a ridiculously uptight harpy, or that trend where women wear their pants tucked into brown leather boots? - Diesel]. When I started blogging I decided I wouldn't be part of that.
Suzy Blogger
What I said was:
"I can't control who signs up for the site. I only reject sites that don't link to H-B, or that have grossly inappropriate content."
In other words, I have some very minimal rules that I enforce. I used to go through the sites very carefully and try to determine whether they qualified as "humor blogs." But after a while I realized that I couldn't even tell half the time when somebody is trying to be funny. It's all so subjective. The same thing goes for offensiveness. A site not having a link, however, is very clear cut.
Diesel
You know what? I'd appreciate it if you would leave me alone.
Suzy Blogger
I can’t help but feel that I have been a little part of crushing Suzy’s dream of being the most popular humorless dingbat on the interwebs. Man, you really can’t make this shit up. Labels: Blogging, Humor-blogs.com, Jerks
He Puts it WHERE?!
While Diesel is taking a well-deserved break from blogging this week, we present to you a special series of guest posts, lovingly entitled "Meet the Real Diesel."
This post was, believe it or not, written by Diesel's actual mother.
I think Diesel (not his real name) was about four or five at the time. He was cheerfully splashing in the tub when he looked up and said, “Mom, where do babies come from?” Well, I’d had a long, hard day, and I’d been ready to coast through the evening unchallenged. But, I thought, this is important. Don’t blow it. I considered myself an intelligent, fairly well-educated person, so I knew how I should handle this. Answer the questions honestly, but don’t volunteer information beyond what the kid is asking for. His older brother had never asked me such a question. I took a deep breath and then said (casually, I hoped), “they grow inside the mommy’s tummy.” “How do they get in there?” “Well, they grow from an egg.” “What does the daddy do?” “Um, let’s be sure we wash behind your ears. The sperm from the daddy gets together with the egg in the mommy, and then the baby starts to grow.” “How does the sperm get from the daddy into the mommy?” Will this kid never quit? How much information does a four-year-old need!? I gave it my best shot: “When a man and a woman really love each other they get very close together, and. . ." I heard myself saying it all, as simply and truthfully as I could, no euphemisms, no cute substitutions for the names of body parts. I looked into the water and waited for a response. Diesel scrunched up his nose in disgust and blurted, “Why would they want to do that?” Another deep breath. “Oh, someday, when you’re older you’ll understand why.” Diesel pensively dragged his palms through the tepid water. Had I screwed up the interview after all? Given too much information? Would the rest of this innocent boy’s childhood be devoted to trying to understand the strange passions and messy physical realities that lead to parenthood? Diesel lifted one hand out of the water and looked at it. “How come my fingers get all wrinkly when I take a bath?” “I don’t know. Let’s dry you off and get you to bed.” Labels: Guest Post
Diesel Begins
While Diesel is taking a well-deserved break from blogging this week, we present to you a special series of guest posts, lovingly entitled "Meet the Real Diesel."
Today's guest blogger is Joel from Crummy Church Signs.
Hi, everyone. I thought that since Diesel's away this week, it might be nice if we could take a sneak peek into Diesel's past; perhaps if we could see the formative forces behind our resident comic genius in his early years, we might better understand the insanity behind some of these posts of his. With that in mind, I recently held an interview with his parents, Mom and Pop Diesel. Well....sort of. The transcript follows. Joel: Good morning, Mom and Pop Diesel. I'm hoping that this interview will shed some light on our blogging friend Diesel from Mattress Police. Mom Diesel: Actually, Pop's not here right now. He’s out killing gophers. Or maybe building a fountain. Or taking pictures of his car. I’m never sure what he’s up to. Joel: Oh...well, I'm really just trying to see if there's anything in Diesel's past that might explain some of his antics on his blog. Mom Diesel: Sure. Let's see, where can I start? Well, first of all... (huge crashing sound in background). Joel: What was that?!? Are you OK? Mom Diesel: Oh...yes. Sorry. That was just a light fixture falling out of the ceiling. Pop Diesel's been in the process of building our home for the past....what, 19 years now? It seems to never end...( long, almost wistful pause) Anyhow, where were we? Joel: Anything in Diesel's past that can help explain the Mattress Police? Mom Diesel: Of course, right. Perhaps...(sound of knocking at the door)...Oh, I'm so sorry. Excuse me while I answer the door. Mom Diesel: Hello...
Young Man's Voice: I'm here to edge the sidewalk like you asked. Why do I have to do this again?
Mom Diesel: You don't. I can find someone else if you...
Young Man's Voice: And why are you only paying me $8 an hour?
Mom Diesel: Because you've proven your willingness to work for us for $8 an hour previously.
Young Man's Voice: Oh.
Mom Diesel: Look, the edger's in the garage. Watch out for the hobbits. Let me know when you're done.
Mom Diesel: Joel, I'm so sorry. Joel: No, it's fine. Mom Diesel: Back to the question: We did move around a lot in Diesel's childhood. Pop Diesel had a lot of different jobs early on. There were too many incompetent bosses to count, and too few jobs that matched Pop's unique skill set. Finally Pop settled on a job with a huge multinational corporation doing something he wasn't even remotely trained to do. Joel: OK...I dunno if that's the type of information I'm really looking for, though. The readers all want to know: What makes Diesel, Diesel? Mom Diesel: OK...hold on, I've got a call on another line. Can you wait a second? Joel: Yeah, sure. (waits 15 minutes, then hangs up and calls back)Mom Diesel: Hello? Joel: This is Joel...from the interview? Mom Diesel: Oh! Right! Sorry...while we were interviewing I was giving a piano lesson, baking a batch of cookies, vacuuming the living room, and filling out our taxes. I guess sometimes I take on a few too many projects at once! (Sound of smoke alarm in background) ACK! The cookies! Joel: That's OK. Look, I'm running out of time and was just wondering if there was anything else you could think of that might have made Diesel the mad genius he is today. Mom Diesel: I just don't know, Joel. We were a pretty normal All-American family. We lived in a partially built house with Thomas Kinkade paintings on the walls. We spent our weekends at the Home Depot or shooting clay pigeons at the range. We let him read comic books and watch science fiction. We always had good, wholesome music playing on the hi-fi, like that wonderful Huey Lewis. The only thing that stands out from his childhood is how unorganized and dysfunctional his sock drawer was. Joel: Well, Mom Diesel, I guess that just shows that comic genius can arise out of the most unexpected circumstances. Have a nice day. Mom Diesel: Goodbye, Joel. Well, there you have it. Our friend Diesel's current state of comic genius is simply unexplainable. Clearly neither genetic nor a product of environment, let us just remain thankful that we have been blessed by his presence. We are fortunate enough to live in the era of Diesel, so let's not question his origins any longer. Clearly, he is an enigma beyond our meager understanding.Labels: Guest Post
Mr. Sunshine
While Diesel is taking a well-deserved break from blogging this week, we present to you a special series of guest posts, lovingly entitled "Meet the Real Diesel."Today's guest blogger is a man known only as Glacial Spain. Rumor has it that Glacial Spain has been friends with Diesel for nearly 30 years, so presumably he has some serious mental deficiency and should not be trusted.
Oh. Hi! I, uh, wasn't expecting anyone to show up. Diesel asked me to look after the place while he was out, so here I am, just having a look around. So... Do you want some raisins? There's plenty to go around. Help yourself. D won't mind. Before he left he said, “Yo G! Help yourself to the raisins.” So it's all cool. Apparently I'm supposed to provide you with a window into the “real” Diesel. In case you haven't figured it out already, I haven't quite gotten around to doing that yet. “Mostly I expect people to just make stuff up, but in your case you don't have to,” was the way he put it. I did write this whole big long testament of My Life with Diesel, which was maybe funny if you had been there, but it read like an encyclopedia. If I could sum it up with a simple illustration, this is what it would look like:  That wasn't the 1,000 words I was hoping for. I'd better explain. One day back in fifth grade, during lunch recess, I was trying to impress a girl who liked horses. I tried to draw a horse on the chalkboard for her, but she wasn't impressed. That's when Diesel stepped in. Much to my chagrin, he picked up the chalk and added that dude up there on the left, smoking a cigarette, sitting on my horse. As for the guy on the right, that's Mr. Sunshine. Diesel drew him in an art class. The actual size is about 18” x 24.” One night in college I was roused from my sleep by a tap at my second floor bedroom window. When I turned the light on, Mr. Sunshine was there, looking back at me through the glass. We spent an inordinate amount of time in fifth grade drawing pictures like that one on the left. Then we drew pictures of torture chambers, and of Death decapitating people. We wrote goofy stories, played Dungeons & Dragons (R.I.P. Gary Gygax), teased his little brother and played Asteroids on his Atari 2600 until the score flipped back to zero, at about 4 a.m. You get the idea. We hung around together in high school, and Diesel developed an unnatural affinity for Huey Lewis' music. Whatever you've read here in the past about Huey is all real. Maybe. Honestly, I'm not in a position to judge because I spent those years being haunted by U2's Bad.* We lived together for a few years in college. We never shared a room, though. I don't know about Diesel, but for me the reason was that he's messy as hell and I'm obsessively tidy. I'm one of those “a place for everything and everything in its place” types, and a good part of my brain is dedicated to knowing where my shit is. Diesel, on the other hand, is always looking for his shit. “Where did I put that? I just had it in my hand a second ago!” I do that too sometimes, but for Diesel I'm guessing it's an hourly occurrence. He probably even dreams about misplacing things. In Diesel's case the tradeoff for such inefficiency with tangible, real world objects is heightened powers of creativity, an efficiency with abstract concepts, if you will. It was always Diesel who took the lead in our imaginative pursuits.** He'd invent a story and I'd follow. I got pretty good at rewording things. I'll leave you with one more anecdote. When we were kids, Diesel's dad decided to paint the bathroom in their house. He took the mirror above the sink down and set it aside while he worked. That three foot diameter mirror was an opportunity just waiting, waiting for its moment of glory. Diesel and I found the mirror sitting there and carried it outside. Diesel lived in a house at the top of a high, steep hill. A busy, four lane road ran past his house at the bottom of the hill. Across the street, about a hundred yards away, a guy was pushing a lawnmower around his oversized lawn. In school, catching the sun's rays on one's wristwatch and aiming them at the teacher's forehead is fun enough, but with a three foot mirror... This poor guy was pushing his mower with one hand and shielding his eyes with the other. And what could he do? Nuthin'. He gestured at us, and even started across the street once. There was no way he could have caught us, though, because by the time he had crossed the street and climbed the hill, we'd have been long gone. Poor guy. We had a blast. Well, I hope this has been real enough for you. Which reminds me: before I leave I should scatter some raisins around the floor, make it look like the cat got into them. Ciao, GS * "Do you mean Michael Jackson's Bad? Or U2's Boy?" "No, U2 had a song called 'Bad.'" "Oh, ok. Then it should be in quotes, not italicized." "That's your job." "Ok, I'll be sure to change it." **But not in a queer way. - Diesel Labels: Guest Post
Diesel's Summer Vacation
While Diesel is taking a well-deserved break from blogging this week, we present to you a special series of guest posts, lovingly entitled "Meet the Real Diesel."Today's guest blogger is Snuppy, aka "Crazy Aunt Bea," formerly of Central Snark, whose special bond with Diesel has transcended time, space and several restraining orders. Enjoy.
Diesel's Summer VacationDiesel was the prettiest little girl I ever did see. Despite her dirty face, impossibly short hair, and the fact she wore dingy dungarees over a torn tee shirt, I could tell from the moment I shoved her inside my car that she was a child worth investing time, money, and bath salts on. And believe you me, I went about doing just that during the summer young Diesel spent with me on the ancestral family farm, located on the outskirts of Pixley, California. Like all children in new surroundings, Diesel -- or Dee Dee, as I preferred to call her -- was initially timid, and just a tad terrified. Truth be told, I was a little surprised by all the fuss she made when I picked her up at the bus stop, but knew she’d settle down once she got used to the smell in the back of my station wagon. Still, the drive home wasn’t without drama, and more than a few tears. Dee Dee claimed she was in the wrong place. She also claimed – and this part tickled me to no end – that she wasn’t a girl at all, but a little boy! What an imagination, that kid. I never ceased to delight in the stories she made up about robots, wizards, and men dressed up like bats, and had high hopes she’d one day become a librarian. Sadly, thanks to something called “new math” and her inability to grasp the nuances of Dodge Ball, Dee Dee never made it past the 3rd grade. But, as I so often do when thinking of clumsy, stupid children and/or things that get my panties get in a wad, I digress. This story is about someone named Dee Dee, the prettiest little girl I ever did see, and how she and I spent one hot summer bonding over bundt cake, burlap, and bug spray. As one might expect, Dee Dee fell into a deep slumber her first night on the farm. I knew she was tuckered out after her long trip, and figured it wouldn’t hurt to give her a sip or two of my sherry just to help the sleeping process along. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I poked her with the sharp end of my cane at 4:30 the next morning. Dee Dee stretched out in her tiny bed looking just like our lazy barn cat, Faleero, following a night of drunk monkey loving with a tomcat named Turd. Of course, Turd is beside the point. The point is Dee Dee, also known as Diane, who was the prettiest little girl I ever did see, and how she came to embrace pink bonnets and Barbie dolls, despite her penchant for blue jeans and habit of standing up whenever she had to pee. What a joy to see Dina's bright-yet-squinty eyes as she rubbed them in disbelief when I showed her how to slop the pigs. She let out a horrific screech I suspect folks could hear all the way down in Bakersfield! Oh, she was a feisty one, that child, but I didn’t care because I knew as soon as I saw her sink into the mud and/or a deep depression that she’d settle into life on the farm soon enough. I also thought she’d feel better once she got herself cleaned up and properly dressed – two things I expected to happen as soon as her chores were done and she’d polished off a hearty meal of loquats, gruel sandwiches and unsweetened lemonade. Being modest in nature, precious little Dina -- or was it Dana? -- insisted upon bathing in private. This was, of course, out of the question, and not only because the bath tub was in the middle of the kitchen floor. I patiently explained to Dana that I’d learned early on that I could save all kinds of time and energy if I cleaned the vegetables and/or slaughtered poultry while taking my bath. I also attempted to impress upon Daisy what a big mistake it was for nosy little girls to ask so many annoying questions. As she leaned over to pull off her pants, I couldn’t help but notice a teensy piece of flesh hanging down between her two rosy cheeks. Upon further examination, I was shocked right out of my hairnet to discover a large-yet-unassuming wart positioned directly atop ‘o her privates. “Where’s my paring knife?” was all I had time to mutter before sprinting out the back door in order to wrestle Debbie to the ground. I may have been past my prime, but trust me, I was spry. Spry like a 3-legged dog chasing after a 2-legged rabbit, and that’s saying a lot. But what 5-legged animal chases have to do with a child whose name I can't quite recall but was the prettiest little girl I ever did see, will become clear to me after my nap and/or I finish telling this story, whichever comes first. For the sake of argument and/or the aforementioned nap, let’s just say I not only caught Dodo, but managed to apply a poultice of poison ivy and dingleberries to the bump on her crotcheral area, only to discover -- much to my horror -- that the more "it" was rubbed, the bigger "it" got. Now I hadn’t just fallen off a turnip truck, so I knew this was the work of the Devil himself, and, as such, would not be easily cast off. I told Denise it would be best for her immortal soul if she took care of the problem herself. And, being the good and God-fearing child she was, she worked long and hard, day in and day out, to do just that. Neither agricultural spraying nor heat wave nor lack of wart-removing ointment could keep that child from the task in hand. Not that her masterful efforts to abate the problem did any good, mind you, but at least she gave it her best shot. More things happened after that, but perhaps those stories should be saved for another day. Suffice to say that pretty little girl and I shared many laughs throughout the summer, usually at her expense. Now, I can’t be sure, but I could swear I heard Dorothy tell the sheriff – who’d mysteriously appeared on my front porch in the middle of the night to collect my beloved niece – that the days she’d spent on my humble farm had bee |
