Twin terrors pack heat to melt the defenseless
Who pack pen and pad unprepared for the senseless
Violence stealing their lives for jihad
Crimson ink spills in the name of a god
Who doubtful they know but still play the part
As if bloodlust could thrust from a purified heart.
Fault you fiends not, for almighty passion
But to fight holy war’s to receive but a ration
Of truth from the righteous, omniscient Judge
In the true courts of mercy even wicked are loved.
For your fervor is fueled for a judge most unkind
Who can’t pitch true love thus bewitching your mind
You reach out to pummel the poor infidel
Who no less deserves Paradise than you deserve Hell.
True love reaches out bearing arms open wide
As blood from His passion pours out from His side
Crying out to the nations the holy war’s through
You weren’t tuned to that station so your passion was skewed
What they printed offended, left your judgment suspended
Yet you missed the fine print of the Prophet upended
For His radical response to your foes at Hebdo
“Forgive them Father, they know not what they do.”
In past years, I have published a “fruitcake blog” at the end of the year. Here’s an excerpt from the first one three years ago, followed by some fresh (okay, semi-fresh) material!
For some reason I can’t throw away these ideas that I’ve jotted down this past year but never used. They were once great in my mind and I can’t help but think they still have some value. Like a good baker who feels confident he has been cooking up some tasty treats, it’s time to clear the crap off the table and bake some fresh goods. And so it is for this blogger and the New Year. My gift to you for reading all year (trust me, I appreciate you) is a dry, stale, crusty fruitcake, consisting of all my ideas that didn’t make the cut to become a main course. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a gem or two in this fruitcake, or as Jim Gaffigan would have it, “a skittle or a treasure map.” Bon appetit!
Walk Hard- Not
Recently I picked up a copy of Strengths Finder, a little book that helps you understand your gifts so that you can develop them into strengths. I was surprised to find that one of my gifts was not walking. It’s something I’m especially good at. I realize that not everyone can walk, and that most likely one day I won’t be able to either. I’m thankful I can walk now. And I’m pretty sure I failed to mention how good I am at it. It’s because I have more than 30 years of experience. I’ve done it everyday. You might say I’m a master. When people tell me to walk confidently, I’m like, “No sweat, bro. It’s second nature. I can walk excellently while even talking on my phone or eating a knockwurst. In fact, you should be more confident in my walking. Watch confidently.”
I’ve figured out my stellar walking record has made for a ridiculous and unrealistic expectation. I’m bound to stumble now and then and when I do, I get really bent out of shape. That’s what is so infuriating about stubbing a toe. Days and days on end I’m going from place to place without a hitch, the streak growing and growing to the admiration and applause of bystanders, until suddenly my progress is impeded by a small, immovable force which totally could’ve been avoided, had I not been so wrapped up in my own perambulatory awesomeness.
Don’t Judge a Man by His Hubcaps
What is it about hubcaps that make us prideful or depressed about our cars? When my car has all of its hubcaps, I feel put together, a gentleman of the road. I see other drivers missing a hubcap and feel sorry for them. Then my car loses a hubcap. Suddenly I feel poor, ashamed and self-conscious, as if I was driving a stolen car around with a trunk full of banned substances. Then I see a guy with no hubcaps, who probably sees my three hubcaps as an embarrassment of riches and wishes he could upgrade his jalopy to a serviceable piece of crap like mine.
The Critique of Dumb Spam
I love the reoccurring senselessness of Spam mail. Check out this email:
I’m promised a 10-second trick that will change my life, but am instructed to watch a video presentation to do so. A 10-second trick to reverse aging does not take a video presentation. It takes a sentence. “Put a bag over your head and say ‘for reals’ more.” “Make funny faces and give those face muscles some exercise.” “Go to a place with lots of skeletons around feel like a kid again.” If it only takes 10 seconds, just tell me right now. I just took twenty seconds to read your dumb email. That video should be negative 10 seconds just so I can have my time back.
That’s it! The old material is done. You can sit back, swig some Pepto and digest this fruity feast and rest assured I’m bringing the heat with fresh stuff in the new year. Happy New Year!
The night is etched in my memory as the most vivid of my childhood, perhaps my life.
I first recall walking along the road of my hometown, gazing up at the skies. In those days we were all looking up, as we witnessed a particular star that seemed to hover over our little town with marvelous illumination. It hadn’t been too long since the night the star first appeared, causing a great commotion. And again tonight, ahead of me on the road, was a similar commotion.
As I approached, several men were hurriedly dismounting their beasts, wasting little time to return their sights skyward. Most nights it would be hard to descry these men from where I was, but this night was quite different. The light shone brightly upon their faces, making out every contour that formed their magnificent smiles. Each of them was squinting, and I supposed the tears they shed were caused by something greater than the gleam of starlight. I remember their laughs, hearty and nervous, as though they’d reached a long-sought treasure but were not sure what it would mean when they actually beheld it. They were embracing. One of them shouted something and the rest nodded, lifted their robes from the dusty earth, and began to dance.
I was just a small lad then, so my curiosity beckoned me to inquire of them what was happening. When I got near, one of them noticed me and lit up as if I was the very person he wanted to see. He was a small man, clothed in magisterial yet dusty attire. He knelt down and softly placed his hands on my little shoulders. I distinctly recall the way he asked me if I knew what what happening, as if he had some news he couldn’t keep to himself. I shook my head, and he began to explain what he believed about the star and the long journey he and his friends took to find it. I remember him chuckling and shaking his head as he described everything. He could hardly seem to believe what he was telling me.
At last, he pointed to the house ahead. He told me a king lived there, a king whose coming was foretold centuries before, a king whom my ancestors had long awaited, a king who somehow, in this tiny town where little ever happened, was born in these days. He said that I must go with him and his friends to meet the king. I looked at his friends and it was then I noticed each of them gripping packages they seemed keen not to drop. The man placed his arm around me and as we began to walk, he withdrew his own package from his robe. He told me that each of them brought their very best gift to lay before the king.
As we approached the house, I remember becoming anxious. I had never met a king. I knew nothing of proper manners, my clothes were tattered and smelled of sheep’s pen, and I had brought nothing to give. I decided that if I was let into the house, I would stand back near the door while the men gave the king their gifts.
I came to the door with the man and his friends, and their excited clamoring stopped. A great hush now enveloped them and they swayed back and forth in nervous anticipation. The door slowly opened, revealing an old woman who greeted and whispered us inside. As we walked in, we came upon a very young woman, sitting and holding a baby boy. I presumed he was the king by observing the men step forward and kneel down before him. One man stared at the boy, trembling in wonder. Others placed their faces in their hands. For a time the room was silent but for the sound of some sniffling and deep sighs.
After a few moments, the thick smell of incense and oils filled the room. The men were presenting their gifts. I studied each ornate jar and box that was offered, revealing contents with fragrances so fine or minerals so pristine that I could not imagine their value. Each man bowed and placed his gift at the mother and boy’s feet. The boy quietly observed each gift being presented, while his mother graciously nodded in appreciation. The men stepped back, huddling together and gazing upon the boy with glee and adoration.
I too stepped back, embarrassed by the generous gift giving, hoping I could stay hidden in the shadows. I’ll never forget it was then the child’s mother looked up at me. Her slightest gesture summoned me forth, and I stood before the king.
I wanted to apologize for my appearance. Yet it struck me that the king and his mother wore clothes similar to mine. They looked much more like me than the men who had brought me there. A strange feeling came over me that this king was somehow common like me. So I finally spoke, and told the little king that I was a poor boy too. I admitted that I had no gift to give. Nothing fit for a king, anyway.
Feeling helpless and ashamed, I put my head down. And as I did, I noticed the small drum in my hand, which I seemed to have forgotten. It was then that I had an idea. Perhaps the little king would like a song! I looked up at him and asked if I could play for him on my drum. The king’s mother gently nodded, and I started to rap. Pa-rum.
I remember my first several hits felt awkward; I was already messing up and struggling to find the beat. Pa-rum-rum. I tuned my ear to find the right sound, and discerned another sound that seemed to be coming from outside. Indeed, it was the sound of hooves stomping— an easy, soothing beat which had calmed me all of my life. The beats started to form a rhythm. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.
It was then that I distinctly remember the uneasy feeling of everyone’s eyes upon me. I closed my eyes, focused, and the rat-a-tat quickened. Rum-pum-pum-pum. Rum-pum-pum-pum. Others were listening, but I was just playing for the king. I hoped the king thought my drumming was good; I was playing my best. Rum-pum-pum-pum. Rum-pum-pum-pum. I continued rhythmically rapping, and I opened my eyes to look at the king.
Then he smiled at me. Me and my drum.
Though he was just a baby boy, his smile flooded my heart with joy. I remember from that moment everything changed. No longer did I worry about messing up… No longer did I try to impress him… I simply played to please him. Suddenly my hands flicked effortlessly, thumping the leather at a rate beyond my own perceived capability. The great rhythm was born and filled the room with smooth, sweet bursts of sound. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum! Rum-pum-pum-pum! Rum-pum-pum-pum!
A rush of glory came over me, when at the pinnacle of my effort, the chorus began. The ox and lamb stomped and bleated with rapture. The men clapped, bellowing shouts of a foreign tongue and raising their hands towards the king. The king’s mother closed her eyes and began to sing soft words over her child. The king looked into my eyes, his face full of light, and he giggled with delight, as though no offering could have pleased him more. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum! Rum-pum-pum-pum! Rum-pum-pum-pum!
That was many years ago. Since then, countless stories have filled the land about this king and the things he did. And so I’ve given you my story, the story of the night I met my King, with nothing to give— and He rejoiced over me.
By now everyone has seen the Direct TV commercials featuring Rob Lowe with a humorous, debased version of himself. The first ones to air featured “super-creepy Rob Lowe”— a leather-clad, unkempt derelict who has cable. While the commercials are indeed hilarious, they frightfully reveal the very slim distance of looking put-together and handsome and looking like the dregs of society. Let’s be honest, Rob Lowe is about as handsome as they get. He is a better version of Ken the Barbie Doll. But with a little makeup and wardrobe change, he looks like the kind of guy who goes to the rec center with binoculars to “watch folks swim.”
Is it not scary how close we all are to being a creepy version of ourselves? It really wouldn’t take very much for me. For starters, I’m not immune to bad clothes. I have bad pants, shirts and jackets as part of my wardrobe right now. They don’t surface often, but if we get slack on the wash around here they could easily find their way on to my person. Suddenly I’m out in my front yard with worn-out sweat pants, a crumply V-neck and a hat with a regrettable label. In no time the neighbors are shooing their cats in and closing their blinds while my property value plummets.
But even if my wardrobe remained tight, my facial hair alone could propel me to instant creepy status. If I gave Movember a go you would understand this. I don’t grow a formidable, bushy mustache but more of a sad whisker village whose few residents live way too far apart from one another. Simply living in a society replete with razors drastically reduces creeper prevalence. We can all be grateful this Thanksgiving for the blade that finds my upper lip region.
Truly though, we can be completely polished with dapper attire and impeccable grooming but if our voice and tone are whacky, people will step away. All it takes is a bad cold. Either your throat gets all deep and raspy and you sound like you’re due for another sneaky smoke break, or you lose your voice and speak in little whispers like everything you’re saying is some grand secret. Either way, you’ll be viewed unfavorably and likely suspected of creeperdom.
So the next time you laugh at the Rob Lowe Direct TV commercials, take heed to keep your stuff tight because you’re not as far as you think from becoming your own doppelcreeper.
I’m pretty sure no one wants to get rich quickly anymore.
To “get rich quick” used to be a personal finance buzz phrase producing over-exuberance that left us thinking if we could push a few magical buttons, we’d become financial gods in about five minutes. Truly, getting rich is pretty hard, so the thought that we could accomplish it while napping and sipping beach drinks was pretty appealing. So naturally, gurus and hucksters alike swarmed in to promote to the masses their ideal of how in a few finger snaps we could get wads and wads of cheddar. And by golly we ate it up.
Until…none of us got rich quickly. We didn’t even get rich slowly. We didn’t even get rich. If you take into account the dumb-ass books and seminars we attended, we actually got poorer! What we really learned was how to waste time and get poor.
So we got skeptical. The dreamy notion of getting rich quickly was supplanted with the not-as-fun yet realistic notion that we were more likely to get duped quickly. The formerly appealing term “get rich quickly” was subsequently derided and associated with schemes and trickery. Yet, there was still something to that “get rich” part.
We still wanted to get rich, but figured it actually required doing at least one productive human activity, and probably many. Once again, the gurus resurfaced with new, more realistic ways of getting rich. There’s the popular Get Rich Slowly blog, appealing to a steady, reasonable approach to personal finance and offers no help to NBA lottery picks and mobsters. Jim Cramer’s new book”Get Rich Carefully” has a title insinuating there are pitfalls to getting rich, not the least of which is becoming a psycho market junky like Cramer. These resources, among others, appear to be popping up everywhere, and I can only imagine what “get rich” idea will be en vogue next.
Get Rich, Haphazardly– This one is for those who’d like to craft their personal finance strategy around trying to win the lottery. Budgets are burdensome and buying tickets when we get our pack of smokes is so much easier. Trips to the bank are wasteful while trips to the gas station are requisite habits for fostering financial independence.
Get Rich, Hilariously– Offers ideas to become great at something obscure like the World’s Greatest Hot Dog Eater or NFL punter.
Get Rich, Invisibly– Gives tips on how to maintain a low profile publicly while swimming laps in a Scrooge McDuck coin pool privately.
Get Rich, Surprisingly– Teaches you odd ways to amass a fortune such as becoming a yard sale Craig’s List king, or honing uncanny abilities with a metal detector.
Get Rich, Apparently– Tells you nothing about how to build wealth but everything about how to look wealthy. Take a wild ride on the consumer debt express. Get a new Mercedez for your teen and buy a craft beer at a hockey game you crazy SOB.
There’s a plan for me
Dramatic destiny
Of whose eyes do see
Isn’t clear to me.
Is it the Universe
The vague cosmic Nurse
Pushing me head first
Into the wayward hearse?
Is it Nirvanic force
The still and silent horse
Promising soul divorce
If I ride its course?
Is it Nothingness
The non-tactile bliss
Giving me the diss
Of justice amiss?
Are they the gods afar
The pantheon of war
Some if I do ignore
Shall strike me lame and poor?
Is it the single Maker
The celestial baker
Whose homage few the taker
Leaving a globe of fakers?
Why are these eyes so distant
Not a pair insistent
Their stories inconsistent
Who shall pursue persistent?
Is there a presence nearer
Calling the falling hearer
Dissonant voice made clearer
‘Stead some vacuous terror?
Or could ever a man
Deliver such a plan
Taking my whole life’s span
From where it first began?
Couldn’t be less than general
To fight my plan from seminal
Couldn’t be less than sage
To orchestrate the age
Couldn’t be less than seer
Forecasting all my fear
Couldn’t be less than flawless
Making just the lawless
Couldn’t be less than rabbi
Teaching my tale better than I
Couldn’t be less than priest
Fixing each fragile piece
Couldn’t be less than king
Great might to do such thing.
But would he know the loss suffered
My hurt that’s not buffered
My shame that’s not covered
My joys undiscovered?
Would he respect the rejection
My miss of perfection
My hopeless direction
My endless reflection?
Would he have eyes like me
To see what I see
To get my grief and glee
My longing to be free
From this distant plan
From this unknown clan
Whose idols span
Over all the land?
And if he did would I
Have the guts to try
To follow this great guide
And have our souls abide
As he leads me forth
Into a life of worth
Going beyond this Earth
Into eternal mirth?
This past week my parents gifted my son with a karaoke machine for his birthday. Before my Mom bought this one, she bought another one that was, well, kind of effeminate. The machine had lots of pink and even though the logo included a skull, it was donning a pink bow. Mom agreed with us that the machine was a tad too girly, so she returned the machine for something more gender-neutral. And Hudson is totally rocking out to his new toy. Sweet.
But Mom’s first purchase made me think. Hudson is so cool, could he have pulled off the girly karaoke machine? I mean, wouldn’t that have been so rock star of him to be like, “Yeah, I’ll rock out to a machine with a skull and a pink bow. ‘Cause that’s edgy.”? Or, does a pink bow overstep the boundary of edginess and move the rocker into the uncool or humiliating category? It’s hard to know. Whether growing long silky hair, dressing up like a girl, or using flowers in your band’s logo, rockers have historically found ways of making “non-dude” things cool and edgy. Which made me think, what things can not even rock stars make edgy?
Kittens- Wildcats and even adult cats are permissible, but the kitten is rightfully verboten. You can call yourself Def Leopard and conjure images of a predatory feline who’s pissed off that he can’t hear. You can put “Cougar” in the middle of your name like John Mellancamp and shockingly get away with it. But you probably can’t put a big-eyed, purring kitten pawing at a ball of yarn on your album cover. Or even call your band Kitty Thrasher, which is just tasteless.
Poodles- Three Dog Night and Temple of the Dog produced solid canine imagery, but this dog is so stereotyped as froufrou that nothing but ridicule could come from its use. The only way maybe it could pass as rocking is if the poodle was attacking its equally froufrou owner. Even then, the most savage beast in the world can’t be taken seriously with little pink bows in its hair.
Mermen- The reason you’ve never seen mermen associated with rock is because they can’t disassociate themselves from mermaids. Now mermaids would actually work, because they can be sexy. But really mermen are generally seen as non-sexy mermaids. They are like really girly man fish. And girly man fish most certainly do not rock.
Tutus- Lionel Richie penned “Ballerina Girl” but I’ve never seen a rock act cover it.
Crochet- “HELLO CLEVELAND! ARE YOU READY TO HAVE YOUR EYES GOUGED OUT WITH NEEDLES AS WE THREAD YOU INTO A CHECKERED QUILT OF DESPAIR?!?!?” Not. Very. Rocky.
Truly though, you’ve reached the rock pinnacle if you can take something perceived as girly or kiddish and make it edgy. So congrats to Guns and Roses, Queen, and K.I.S.S. We salute you.
Can you think something not even a rock star could make edgy, or a rock star who has totally gotten away with something?
I want you to imagine you inviting me over to your house. I ring the bell, your dog barks, you open the door and let me in. As I walk in, I start to look around and laugh a few times. Then I say something like “whew, that’s a problem.” Then I laugh a little more and say, “yep, that could cost you a thousand bucks to replace.” Would you be laughing? Of course not. Would you care to shove a pair of pliers up my sniffer? Probably and rightfully so.
Which is why I’m so frustrated by service professionals who come to my house and think my problems are kind of funny. Has that happened to you? Over the years, there have been several instances where I feel like I’m a character in a joke.
I’m sure most of the time, the intentions are harmless. Service professionals are amused by what they see, and they also want us to feel comfortable with what they do. But when it comes to doing work and spending money on my house, I’m in no mood to yuck it up like I’m watching Looney Tunes.
Like the guy two years ago who came to fix a toilet leak and laughed at my duct tape job. Oh forgive me man, is that not what you would’ve done? Because you’re a professional plumber who spends time around toilets ALL DAY? I bet you would’ve pulled out the perfect toilet tool and got that puppy back in order pronto. Congrats sir on your crapper repair acumen. I just love inviting random dudes into my house to look at my toilet, laugh, fix the problem in eight seconds and then charge me $150. Woohoo, now we’re having a good time. Why don’t you open that lid and consider what I really feel like right now?
There was also the bug man, who found a termite mound five feet from my house under a splash block. No lie, he guffawed and then said he had to take a picture for his manager. Oh yes please, and print out out for your break room bulletin board with a picture of my loser face beside it. Here’s the poor soul who has a termite army declaring war on his house. Then, he actually had the gall to recommend a $1,000 termite solution. That’s hilarious. Let me chug this Coke and spew it all over myself because I can’t contain my bellowing mirth. I’ll be right back with my magical piggy bank that’s primed to be shattered for this very occasion. And you wanna stay for drinks? We can talk about how bugs are invading the planet and my home will be a disintegrated pile of rubble in a short matter of time.
Basically, when a pro comes to my home to fix a problem, I want sympathy. They need to know that no matter how much I like people, there are 10 million things I’d rather do than have one come to my house, freak out my dog, take up my space and empty my bank account. Truly, I’m grateful for service pros, but just one time before breaking the bad news I would love for one to shed a tear and say, “Man, I’m sorry. This is the worst part of my job.”
Do you wish your workplace was cool? Like, you could walk into the office and be greeted by a robot offering you an expresso? A quick stop by the break room on steroids, where you consume free bonbons from a magical chocolate dispenser and put on special glasses because the morning news report on the projector screen is in IMAX. And then on to your desk (just past the game room, entertainment room, and relaxation room) where you ensconce yourself in a La-Z-Boy recliner, have Ana the Swedish supermodel massage your shoulders into soup, and begin sorting your emails as “gift certificates from boss” and “gift certificates from boss’s boss.”
Yeah right.
But it’s 2014, most of us don’t work at a paper mill anymore, and we millennials and Gen Yers expect our workplace to have a few toys. But I’m hear to tell you that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, yes, a ping pong table at work sounds ethereal. But when you’re playing ping pong at work at 6 on a Friday, you’re still AT WORK AT 6 ON A FRIDAY.
And there are lots of things like this, things all of us assume would be neat to have at work but really just blur the lines of the office and home. So here are three “cool” things my workplace is missing that I’m OK with:
1. Video Games- This is a really good idea for an office setting never. You can’t have something that fun so close to activities that can be rather mundane. Either I can fill out the TPS report or I can go pretend to fight a monster. Well unless I am allergic to having fun, I’m going to go fight a pretend monster every time. And when I’m not fighting him, the mundane task will seem that much more life-suckingly cumbersome. Plus, gamers have no self-control. If you give him, like, his favorite thing to do in the whole world he is going to abuse it. Yes, the office will be more fun. But when you swing by the entertainment room and see Zach and Dylan noshing Doritos, pounding Five Hour Energys and stinking like stale gym socks, you’ll realize why nothing has gotten done in three days.
2. Beer- It might surprise you to hear that I wouldn’t want beer at my workplace. But if there is time for a beer, then there is time to go home. Or a bar. Or somewhere I can relax without hearing my inbox ding. And there would probably be a rule like you couldn’t have one until after 5. But that’s like sitting in a bar all day and not being able to have a beer.
3. Dog- There’s nothing like a furry friend to keep us company and serve as our resident mascot. But am I willing to put up with a dog at home and at work? I’m really not interested in being late for a meeting because I stepped in something. I don’t want to tell a customer she needs to speak up because Fido is incessantly barking at a Spandexed man riding a scooter outside. I don’t want to be on the brink of an epic idea and lose it because of an unexpected and forceful snout into my crotch. Fido, STAY home.
Do you wish your workplace had something cool? Let me know what it is so that I can depress you back to reality. That’s why I’m here.
