Wow! Here I was surfing the Web for humorous news when all I had to do was check my own local Rochester paper. Firstly, they ran the hysterical headline "Gas Smell Leads to School Evacuation." "Aw, dude! Did you do that? That's nasty man! I gotta get outta this school! Yuck. Come on, everybody, follow me. Timmy crapped himself."
But, the all time best story is about a Lanesboro police chief who last week started a fire that destroyed three historic downtown buildings. And why did the police chief start the fire? Was it an accident? Was it faulty wiring? No, he was simply trying to impress his girlfriend by starting a fire and then heroically charging to the rescue by evacuating the buildings. But wait, there's more. Apparently, he wanted a transfer to the Austin police department, and he thought a heroic act, such as saving his girlfriend (and her child) from an inferno would help improve his chances. Imagine the Austin police department now. "It says here that you torched three buildings. Hmmmmmm. Next!" Better yet, imagine the rocky road he's going to have to face with his girlfriend. "You did WHAT?!! You did over $500,000 of damage and put the lives of my child and myself in jeopardy just to impress little 'ole me? That's just the sweetest thing ever! I'll be waiting for you when you get out of jail in a hundred years or so. Don't you go setting any more fires, Tiger!! Growwwlll!" Okay, she probably won't say anything even remotely like that.
That's the funny thing with small towns. For ten years or more, the only excitement occurs when an ambulance goes down main street. Then, suddenly, somebody discovers that their quiet neighbor is a cross-dressing murderer who sings Barney the Dinosaur songs while making furniture from the skins of his victims. Who knew? Then, the local newspaper, which has consisted entirely of fruit cake recipes for the last six years, has to step up to the plate, dust off the keyboards, and actually write news for a change. Local eateries experience a booming business as townfolks flock to a common meeting place to discuss Crazy Old Joe and his cross-dressing murderous tendencies that they all knew were there but no one wanted to mention because it was rude. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. If you don't believe me, try living in a small town for a few years. Just don't buy the house next to Old Man Franklin's, I hear he's a little weird.
Okay, I'll admit it. I'm in a bit of a writing funk lately. I practically had to rake my eyes out to come up with a column last night, so have a little pity people. Hey, that would be a cool movie, "Attack of the Pity People." It would be a two hour movie consisting of a crowd of empathetic people pawing at their victims, profusely apologizing for their agonizing state in life. "Ohhhh, I'm so sorry about your cat dying. Is there anything I can do to relieve your suffering? Awwwww. Awwwwww." *shudder* What a terrifying idea.
Let's go to the news, or at least news of the weird. Here's something that will make you think twice about library dues: "Woman Jailed Over Unreturned Library Books." Apparently, a 24 year old woman with $120 in library late book fees, was jailed in Tamaqua, Penn. "So, what are you in for? Murder? Robbery?" "Nah, they got me on late charges. I thought I was one step ahead of them, but after a two hour high speed chase and shootout, they got me."
I leave for Nashville tomorrow for work. I guess I should be excited or something, but knowing that I'm going anywhere for work just kind of deflates me. I'm sure that's not the case for everyone, particularly astronauts. "Hey, Neil Armstrong. I hear you're going to be the first man to walk on the moon!" "Yeah, but it's for work. It would be different if I was doing it, you know, as a vacation thing, but every time I look back at the small disc of earth, I'm just going to be reminded about how much I hate my job."
That's it for now.
Remember the Firestone Recall
"Reinventing the Wheel" c. Ryan Rhodes, Sept. 9, 2000
It was a cool evening in Olduvai gorge many, many, many, many (and I mean many) years B.C. As twilight descended, radiating the last fainting rays of light through the dense foliage, a male figure could be seen tending to a small fire.
His name was Keldar the Hunter, a muscular hominid with a stout jaw, protruding cranium, and exceedingly bad body odor. Propped over Keldar's fire was some sort of
dead animal he found while walking earlier in the day and, as Keldar's next meal, it was fitting that it smelled much like him, even as it cooked.
As Keldar watched the grease spatter from his meal into the firepit below, he noticed a strange smooth stone amongst the glowing goals. Boredom and curiosity prompted him to reach in and pull the stone out. In that same instant, Keldar remembered the oft-forgotten lesson that fire causes pain.
The stone quickly became a source of amazement to Keldar because, unlike all the other jagged stones he'd pulled out of fires in the past, this one, with it's smooth edges, rolled a considerable distance before coming to rest. In a flash of creative inspiration, Keldar found a large boulder and began chipping and shaping it into the same smooth and round fashion. The wheel was born, although it would initially be known as "the thing Keldar did."
Although Keldar was certain his invention had the potential to transform the lives of his 15 other tribe members, reaction to "the thing Keldar did" was lukewarm at best. Undaunted, and possessing a keen mind for primitive marketing, Keldar renamed his invention "Firestone," in tribute to how he discovered the fantastic rock. He then sought out Follgorth, a neighboring tribesman who ran the only moving and postal service throughout the gorge. Follgorth's company, "Follgorth's Oduvai Relocation and Delivery" (FORD for short), was a successful venture, but Follgorth was desperate for a means by which to reduce the incredible number of employees required to stay in business.
Like Keldar, Follgorth saw the limitless possibilities of "the thing Keldar did." After a drawn out business negotiation in which Follgorth gave Keldar four of his best child-bearing daughters, a lucrative deal between FORD and Firestone was born.
Follgorth's first task was to dispose of his "dragging logs," which were more or less just logs tied together and dragged by teams of four to six men. Although they were good for moving and delivery, there was a high rate of turnover among FORD workers. However, once the "dragging logs" were equipped with four Firestones, a magical transformation took place. The "dragging logs" now required far less labor and FORD was able to reallocate its personnel and expand its service to the tribal community.
Likewise, Keldar was kept exceedingly busy, what with four Firestones required for each of FORD's "dragging logs." Indeed, Firestone eventually had a large number of employees of its own turning out an incredible number of "the things Keldar did."
The fame of Keldar and Follgorth spread throughout the land, and their wealth, likewise, seemed to know no bounds. A rough count estimated that the two men had fortunes exceeding 52 good child-bearing women, a remarkable display of wealth by any standard.
But, trouble was brewing on the horizon. Faced with an increased production quota and an upstart company started by the Goodyear tribe three gorges down, the Firestone
company started cutting corners. Rather than cutting their stones from the solid gorge wall, Firestone started pulling the more accessible rock from around the river bank. For their part, FORD knew that Firestone quality had declined, but the executives were blinded by the appeal of building their own fortunes of good child-bearing women.
However, the companies, much the like the wheels that brought them fame, began to crumble. The unstable Firestones, hewn from the cheaper but less reliable river rock, started to fail at the most inopportune time. Stories abounded about tribespeople being seriously hurt or killed while they took recreational downhill rides on FORD's "dragging logs," only to have the Firestones disintegrate from under them. One truly horrifying story circulated about Tribal Elder Morgoth careening into a tree and being flung headlong into the Olduvai gorge.
No one knows for sure what became of the FORD and Firestone companies, but one thing is certain: of all the people unearthed from Olduvai gorge, none have been found alive.
"This Little Piggy. . . " c. Ryan Rhodes, Aug. 10, 2000
Although I'm not an avid fair enthusiast, I do enjoy moseying around county and state fairgrounds when I get the chance. I like losing myself in the sights, sounds and excitement surrounding fair activities. I can even admit to visiting the assorted livestock barns on occasion. But I always approach the pig pens with a certain amount of trepidation.
Being raised within the city limits of Harmony, MN, I rarely was exposed to some of the more laborious aspects of farm life. Despite my relatively farm-free childhood, I can admit to baling hay a couple of times, running headlong into an electric fence, and being carried by a sow for about 10 feet by my groin. I've never felt the same way about the swine community since.
It was the summer before my eighth grade year and my good friend, Joe, had invited me to go camping out near his farm. At that age, the chance to go camping out in the country was a really big deal, especially when I had a horde of illicitly gained fireworks I had to dispose of before my mother found them and ran them under the sink.
Joe's father was also eager to have me come out to the farm, because it essentially meant that he would have access to another person so that chores could get done an hour ahead of schedule. However, I think he was secretly dismayed when he learned his son had invited me to go camping. At just over 90 pounds, there wasn't much I could do beyond comment on the acrid smell of pig manure. This wasn't very helpful.
Regardless, Joe's dad decided that would be a good day to move a large pregnant sow from a free range pen to the farrowing barn about 60 yards away. Joe took me over to look at the sow we were going to move. This animal was so big, I thought a buffalo had mistakenly entered the pen. To top it off, the beast was covered in mud and pig manure, which made it look like it had recently risen from a fresh grave. I was scared.
Joe's dad emerged from the farrowing barn with a length of gate and three broom handles that looked like they had been thrown into the Grand Canyon twice. I was informed that, if the sow developed an attitude, I was to give it a couple of whacks on the snout. After a few quick practice swings, I was feeling more unsure of myself than ever.
Joe's dad then handed me the length of gate and told me to use it to keep the sow from getting around me. After another quick glance at the sow in question, I wasn't sure the entire Minnesota National Guard could keep that sow from getting around me.
With Joe standing about 15 feet away from me with his own broomstick and gate, his dad worked his way into the pen to isolate the pregnant sow and guide her into our little makeshift gateway. After about 20 seconds of his dad whooping and hollering and whacking the backside of the sow with his broomstick, the sow came cruising out of the pen with pure irritation flashing in her eyes. As luck would have it, she focused 150 percent of her irritation on me. And I knew it.
In a display of dexterity never before seen by a hog, this sow reared up briefly on its hind legs and pivoted its attack directly at me. I remember seeing Joe's face at that instant. His eyes seemed to say, "I wonder what kind of flowers his family is going to put on his casket."
I wasn't licked yet: I still had my broomstick. Milliseconds before impact, I brought my broomstick down as hard as I could on the back of the sow's neck. Although the broomstick broke neatly in half, the sow acted as if I had simply scratched an itch that had been bothering it for awhile. In the next instant, the sow's snout forced its way through my gate and slammed squarely into my groin. It was at this point that the physics behind my 90 pound body versus an infinitely heavy and strong sow became painfully evident. With a flick of the sow's massive head, I found myself balancing precariously by my groin just inches away from the gnashing jaws of a very irritated sow. There was no way this could end in my favor.
After riding the fulcrum of the sow's snout for about ten feet, the beast changed direction slightly and slammed me soundly on the gravel drive. I struck my head so hard I finally saw those stars I had seen so often in cartoons. In a parting insult, the sow planted its left hoof squarely on my stomach, knocking what little wind I had left from my body. Drifting in and out of consciousness while gripping half a broomstick, I couldn't for the life of me understand the appeal of farming.
As I writhed and moaned and kicked up gravel dust, wondering for all the world if I would ever father children, Joe's dad sauntered up and stated with a matter-of-fact voice tinged with contempt, "You let the sow get by you, huh?"
So, to all you avid fair goers and 4-H enthusiasts, I salute you, and I offer up these words of wisdom: Bring along an extra broomstick. You just may need it.
"Middle East Madness" c. Ryan Rhodes, April 10, 2002
Crazy Hassan: If you follow news the way I do, you know that the Palestinian and Israeli situation is unlikely to be resolved any time soon. The Israelis attack with helicopters and tanks, and we Palestinians retaliate by blowing ourselves up in large crowds. It's madness, I tell you, madness; and wherever madness goes, I, Crazy Hassan, follow.
Failed Suicide Bomber: Three years ago, I tried to detonate myself with a clumsy contraption hidden in a duffel bag outside of a busy Israeli office building. Instead of blowing up and making me a martyr, the duffel bag erupted into flame, singeing my hair and landing me here in prison. If only I had a more reliable explosive. If only.
Crazy Hassan: Are your suicide detonations as effective as you would like? At Crazy Hassan's, we've drastically improved the efficiency of our bombs. Now, the last moments of your life need not be wasted worrying whether you can bring down an entire shopping center. At Crazy Hassan's, our explosions are INSANE!
Satisfied Customer #1: Before Crazy Hassan, there was no way I would ever consider blowing myself up, unless I was guaranteed to take at least 15 Israelis with me. Now, thanks to Crazy Hassan, I'm poised to kill scores of innocent civilians aboard this very bus. Thanks Crazy Hassan!!
*BOOM*
Crazy Hassan: Thank you, brainwashed fundamentalist!! Not only are our bombs designed to instantly atomize your body just before your journey to Allah, they also annihilate anything within a 30 foot radius. So, you can rest easy before you rest forever.
Yasser Arafat: There was a time when we had to work with time-consuming and often unfulfilling peace negotiations. Now, thanks to Crazy Hassan, we can make our point by wantonly snuffing out the lives of men, women and children who previously thought it was safe to perform simple tasks like grocery or clothes shopping. Thank you Crazy Hassan!!
Crazy Hassan: Thank you, Yasser Arafat!! Peace negotiations? What are those? Is that what U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell is talking about? Well, remember, you can't spell Powell without POW! And you're guaranteed plenty of POW with Crazy Hassan's new line of C4 suicide belts. These stylish, yet concealed, self-detonation devices can slip by even the strictest security. And you can accomplish all this at Crazy Hassan's blow out prices!
Satisfied Customer #2: I always wanted to be a martyr for the Palestinian cause, and the promise of having 23 wives in Allah's realm has been greatly alluring since I was a child, but I've never been able to afford it until Crazy Hassan. Now, here I am, strapped with 25 pounds of high explosives, waiting for this Israeli school to release students for the day, and it only cost me pennies per ounce of C4. Thanks Crazy Hassan!!
*BOOM*
Crazy Hassan: Thank you, brainwashed fundamentalist!! And let's not forget the women out there. Although I, Crazy Hassan, am wary of giving women too many freedoms, I open my arms and doors to those women who want to further the Palestinian cause by violently ending their existence. Crazy Hassan's offers a wide array of suicide belts for the female figure, including sensual nitroglycerin negligees. Truly, in our bid to liberate the Holy Land, anything goes.
Ariel Sharon: There was a time when I thought the Hebrew Biblical claim on Israel would easily be enforced through a technological military and omnipresent army. It just makes sense. But these suicide bombers just don't make any sense. They blow up here and they blow up there. They blow up everywhere. I may despise suicide bombers, but hats off to you Crazy Hassan.
Crazy Hassan: Huh? Was someone talking to me? You must forgive me, but I'm rather deaf to any voice other than that of the Palestinian cause, particularly if it's the voice of Israeli infidels. You've seen the utter devastation you can achieve using my bombs, and now you can be part of the new craze sweeping the militant Palestinian branches. Don't settle for peace when you can settle in pieces. Visit Crazy Hassan's today!!
I must consult the news for inspiration today since my brain is not functioning properly. From the "Life just totally isn't fair" department, we have yet another story about N'Sync singer Lance Bass and his bid to travel to the international space station. "Would-be space traveler Lance Bass, a member of the pop band N'Sync, said he passed his first round of medical tests last month when he spent several days being poked and prodded by Russian space program doctors." I can hear legions of giddy teenage girls saying in unison "I wish I was a Russian space program doctor!" Seriously, the more I hear about this, the more sickened I get. Why does this two-stepping, over-hyped musical hack even get half a chance to go into space? Granted, I'm all for sending all of N'Sync into outer space, but I would expect them to be jettisoned from the spacecraft where the vacuum of the void would cause their blood to boil and then they'd pop. They are pop stars after all. Another question enters my mind: what poor journalist has to cover the "Lance Bass Space" beat? Who did he/she anger to get cast down to reporting on third rate news stories like this? And why does MSNBC.COM feel as if it has to give such a non-story a bullet? Argh! On a lighter note, the situation in the Middle East is still going strong. Let's send Lance Bass to the Middle East, you know, strapped with some sort of high explosive. More later.
I may be rushing the season today by wearing a tee-shirt, but I just couldn't take one more consecutive day wearing a long sleeve shirt. I want sun. I want green grass, green trees and everything else spring-related. One tell-tale sign of spring is an increase in my own personal libido. Last night, I paid just a tad too much attention to one of my female roommates prancing up the stairs from the basement. Must. . . avert. . . eyes. . . from. . . forbidden. . . roommate. . . behind. How in the world did Jack Tripper maintain his self-control?
Jumping from roommates to grandmothers (*shudder* what a disturbing image), I met my grandmother for dinner yesterday after work. She was at the Mayo Clinic for her annual battery of tests. She's always fascinating to talk with, and I got a free meal out of it, so I won all around. I had chicken alfredo, and the portion that arrived would have given a whale digestive difficulty. So much food. It was tasty, of course, but I vowed to go running as soon as I got back home. So, I got back home and took a nap from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. Then, mustering all my resolve, I managed to get outside and run my usual three mile trek, complete with vomit inducing hills. No vomit, but boy did I sweat. No surprise there. The girls in my hapkido class have taken to calling me Puddles, which I assure you is in referrence to my sweating and has nothing to do with shoddy bladder control.
I'm also once again facing my column dilemma this week. What to write about? What to write about? I'm sure something will come to me. One kind reader (Tina, you know who you are), said I should write a newspaper column about my plans for summer vacations. I think I'll tweak her idea and just write a story about my plans for summer in general. When I get to it, I have no idea. For now, lunch break is over. Back to work. Only 38 more years to retirement. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
I really want to write something funny today, but you just never know what to expect with a daily blog. When in doubt, consult the news. According to a new study, as many as 1,400 college students die due to alcohol related accident each year, or, as one astute and overly dramatic psychology professor put it, "Half the World Trade Center casualties are happening every year in our colleges." That's right, folks; welcome to the post-Sept. 11 world, where all casualty studies shall be weighed against those lost at the WTC. In reference to the WWII holocaust, for example, instead of saying "over three million Jews were murdered in Nazi-controlled Europe," we are now to put that number in WTC perspective: "Jews, numbering over 1,000 times the people lost in the World Trade Center, were murdered in Nazi-controlled Europe." But I'm getting off track here. Year after year, readers are subjected to a string of alcohol in campus studies that are pretty much carbon copies of each other ("The study does not say whether the problems are increasing or decreasing. A Harvard School of Public Health survey released last month reported that more students are abstaining from alcohol, but levels of binge drinking — having at least four or five drinks at a sitting — are the same as in the early 1990s). Instead, news agencies should just provide free screenings of "Animal House" at the same time each year and follow up each showing with an important looking guy with a clipboard who says, "and so you see, that's where we're at today."
As for me personally, my IBM job is sending me to Nashville this weekend for a three day technology conference. So, if anyone out there has any suggestion as to what I could do during my free time in Nashville, I'm all ears.
Um, okay, I just had one of those revelations that will undoubtedly change my world outlook. Apparently, kitty litter is "mined." I did not know this. I'm not sure what I thought cat litter actually was, but I guess I assumed it was some sort of synthetic substance specifically engineered to make cat waste clump up and hide odors. It simply did not occur to me that such a substance could occur naturally. Myself, I would have a tough time admitting that I'm a kitty litter miner. Now, gold mining, that's different: the rugged look of a bedraggled gold miner hidden behind a thick beard, his eyes worn by countless dashed hopes; that's mining. Somehow, wielding a pick axe in the name of feline freshness just lacks something. Eureka, I have found a rich vein of Fresh Step!!
On a note that hits closer to home, IBM today warned of a sharp downturn in earnings. As an IBM employee who has already been considerably jostled around by IBM during this recession, this news does not bode well. IBM has done everything with the personnel short of asking us to work for free. Layoffs and pay cuts have been an omnipresent specter for months. Now this. Red alert, red alert. Abandon ship. Women and news editors first.
I sometimes wonder if journalists today are just getting too lazy. Granted, I'm a lazy journalist, but I don't really matter. When I visit a Web page looking for news, and a headline reads "Bush says, 'I meant what I said,'" I just don't know what to think. At least when Clinton spoke, he prompted us to delve into deep topics, such as the true meaning of the word "is." But now we have Bush, spewing forth a sentence that sounds remarkably like my mother when she caught me sneaking back downstairs after sending me to my room as a child.
The end of another weekend. I'd like to say I accomplished great things, but I didn't, unless you consider sleeping until noon or later accomplishing something great. I also washed my car. Yes sir, it was a pretty big day. I'm watching The American President for possibly the 23rd time. I can't help it. It's like some sort of cinematic drug. Of course, I can't get enough of the The West Wing either. Must be an indication that I'm going to be president some day. I guess I have to start waking up before noon on weekends then. Crap. I think I received my tax return. It was wired into my checking account. It was sort of anticlimactic. I must now watch the Simpsons. Yep. Once I'm president, the state of the union address will consist entirely of Homer Simpson sound bites. I can't wait.
