Close Encounters of the Idiot Kind

Do you walk into a store and stop two steps inside the doorway so the man behind you trips himself trying not to run into you, falls to the side on his arm snapping the radius bone which breaks through the skin and stabs him in the eye leaving him blinded and unable to work so he has to move in with his daughter who is a vegan that does yoga for 3 hours each morning and doesn't own a TV? Do you drive 15 miles below the speed limit until the driver behind you falls asleep, runs their car off the road into a tree which collapses onto oncoming traffic blocking the road so an ambulance carrying a man who has fallen and broke his arm which stabbed him in the eye can't get through to the hospital? In general, do you behave as if the world revolves around you and no one else's life matters? Then you may have "You're a Fucking Idiot Syndrome".


Doctors have only recently done the first comprehensive studies on YAFIS but have already identified millions who suffer from it, including nearly every person you encounter on any given day.

The spread of YAFIS is alarming. Formerly normal people wake up one morning and have overnight become idiots. The day before they would never dream of standing in a grocery store aisle with their cart sideways thus taking up the entire lane. Then one morning they do it without even thinking and when asked politely to move aside they instead hire Gloria Allred who was in the next aisle buying granola and US Weekly. By Tuesday you're embroiled in a civil lawsuit when all you wanted was a box of Pop Tarts.

How do we combat YAFIS? Sadly there are no good alternatives at this time. Many have taken up arms and shot the idiots they encounter but when examined these people were found to have an alternate version of YAFIS called "Extremist Idiot Disorder" or "Republicanism". Others have tried reasoning with an idiot only to feel after as if their brains had melted and leaked out through their nose. A new study by the Harvard School of Psychology has identified these people as having yet another off-shoot of YAFIS, "Bleeding Heart Disease" or "Liberalism".

So where, as a society, do we go from here? Do we all build compounds, listen to Hank Williams Jr. records and eat meat-like products from a can? Do we bring back talk shows like Phil Donahue so we can work through our collective problems in daily televised therapy sessions paid for by male enhancement pills and diet supplements?

No. The solution lies within us. It isn't found in Eastern philosophy or Western nihilism. Each of us, as individuals, need to promise one another we will do better. We will be considerate of others and understand that we are not alone.

If that doesn't work there's always flippin' 'em the bird and shouting "What are ya, a fuckin’ idiot?"

A Foodie Fairytale

Dilly Dan was a pickle man, selling his gherkins and garlics on the corner of 1st avenue and 12th street. His cart was in the shape of a dill and he wore a uniform of all green, down to his socks and shoes. Dan lived for pickles. He ate them at every meal, canned them, sold them and slept on a green pillow.

All was green and briny in Dan’s world until the day a new food cart opened for business across the street.

Funnel Fran was a funnel cake girl, a fourth generation food cart vendor. Her great grandfather Penny Candy Stan the Cheap Candy Man opened a cart on 4th avenue in 1932 selling licorice, bubble gum and ribbon candy. Fran’s grandfather Corndog Bob operated his cart throughout Central Park. He passed the cart onto his son, Fran’s dad, who transformed into Apple Pie Peter whose pies were known all over the five boroughs.

Funnel Fran opened her cart across the street from Dilly Dan on a warm July morning. It only took until the afternoon for Funnel Fran to be out of ingredients. The local people were crazy for her cakes. Meanwhile, Dan had only sold one pickle, a Texas Dill to a small child who took a bite and dropped it down the storm drain.

That evening Dilly Dan concocted a plan to get his business back from Funnel Fran. Dilly Dan was a big fan of plans as well as cheese in a can, spray tans and ’64 Chevy oil pans. When Dan made his way to 1st avenue the next morning he was sans cans, tans or pans. In his mind he carried only his plan. And in his arms he carried a 5 gallon drum of pickle brine.

He found Fran hard at work inside her cart. She had four plastic containers each filled with her famous funnel cake batter. Dan needed to distract his rival so he set her cart on fire. While Fran sprayed the flames with an extinguisher, Dan snuck into the cart to pour his pickle brine into the funnel cake batter. Dan stirred the juice into the batter until you couldn’t tell it was there.

Dilly Dan snuck away to watch from the shadows as Fran’s business was ruined when she sold funnel cakes that tasted like pickles. However, to Dan’s astonishment, people loved them. Fran couldn’t make them fast enough. The line at her cart stretched across the road, blocking traffic. Drivers abandoned their cars to purchase a Funnel Fran funnel cake.

Dan got in line himself and purchased one of Fran’s confections. As he ate it he fell into a state of bliss he didn’t know existed. The combination of the sweetness of the sugar, the thickness of the dough and the tartness of the pickle juice made for a flavor that outshone pork rinds, fried Oreos and pheasant broiled in a white wine reduction and covered in mango hollandaise sauce.

Dan looked at Fran with her frizzy blond hair, crooked smile and giant, mannish hands and realized he was falling in love. As he ate his funnel cake he envisioned the two of them working side by side in their carts selling pickles, cakes, pickle flavored cakes, cake flavored pickles, and assorted souvenir hats, shirts, bumper stickers, iPad cases, nasal inhalers, lunch meats, lemon reamers, cutlery, hair clips, antiperspirant, window decals, combustion engines, flower vases, front end loaders, breakfast cereal, balloons, alpacas, finely crafted furniture, ceramic mugs, notebooks, pocket watches and sunglasses. Lots of sunglasses.

Dilly Dan wandered the streets until the end of the day. When Fran finally put out her closed sign, Dan approached the exhausted confectioner. He introduced himself as Dilly Dan the pickle man. Fran smiled shyly.

“I’ve seen you with your cart,” she said.

Dan smiled back and told her how much he loved her funnel cake. Fran thanked him but explained she didn’t even know how they got that flavor.

“I’d love to sell more,” she said, “but I don’t know how I did it.”

“I can help you with that,” Dan told Fran. “You could say it was my recipe.”

Dan explained how that morning he had been angry with Fran for taking his business. Using animated hand motions he described his love of plans, cans and tans and how he executed his plan at 8 a.m. by setting her cart on fire then sneaking in and pouring pickle juice in the batter. Dan continued his story and was at the point of the souvenir combustion engines when Fran punched him in the face. Repeatedly.

Dilly Dan was a pickle man until he lost all his teeth and his eyes swelled shut and that cut on the bridge of his nose wouldn’t stop bleeding and his ear drum perforated and his brain swelled inside his skull . . .

Put Me in Coach

The rock band KISS has recently bought themselves an Arena Football league team and named them after themselves, the LA Kiss. I did some research and found out they aren’t the only musicians getting into the sports ownership business:

Lady Gaga and members of the Goo Goo Dolls worked together to purchase a minor league soccer team based out of Washington State. The Walla Walla Ga Ga Goo Goos are playing in their first season but struggling. Many fans are blaming their uniforms. The Gaga designed ensemble includes a loin cloth over a pair of metallic Speedos, blue and silver body paint in lieu of a shirt, cleats with six inch heals and pinched toes, and atop their heads a cap with a 3 foot replica of the space needle.

Boston bad boy Steven Tyler purchased an independent league baseball team: The Plymouth Ak-Ak-Ak-Ows. Some of their promotional attempts to attract fans have had poor results: A free ounce of marijuana to the first 100 ticket holders ended with 100 arrests by Plymouth police and “Lost in a Barbiturate Haze Night” sent 27 people to the local hospital. On the field, the team itself took a cue from its owner by tying multi-colored scarves to the end of their bats while hitting and there is 31% more crotch grabbing in an Ak-Ak-Ak-Ow game than in any other.

Pop songstress Taylor Swift bought a majority stake in a minor league basketball team, the Nashville Exes. The team started out strong, winning their first 8 games. Since then, however, Taylor has dated the entire starting five and an assistant coach causing a lot of hurt feelings and bad publicity. “I knew something was wrong on our third date,” said point guard Web “The Comet” Jordan. “All during dinner I was telling her about my favorite movies and she was writing a song chorus rhyming comet with vomit.” The team is currently riding a 13 game losing streak but Taylor has another number 1 CD with “Songs from Half Court”.

Canadian rockers Rush have become the owners of a minor league hockey team, the Yukon Snowdogs. As lifelong fans of the sport, this was a dream come true for Geddy Lee, Neil Peart and Alex Lifeson. To help gain attendance the band wrote a team song that’s played before every game. The tune, titled “Epithet for a Dying Sport: Suite Bobby Orr, Opus 243 (Drop the Puck)” has caused consternation among fans however, as it is 23 minutes long with lyrics in three different languages as well as references to Tolkien’s The Silmarillion and ancient Indian myths. Hockey is never mentioned.

These are just a few of the examples I found. Bruce Springsteen has bought himself a professional dodge ball team, U2 own a third tier tetherball franchise and rapper Flo Rida has a jai alai team called the Or Lando Playas. The list goes on and on thanks to KISS.

The Mighty Johns

The other day I watched a movie called Invisible Invaders. It was made in 1959 starring B movie stalwart John Agar and some other "so-you-think-you’re-an-actor" actors. I love these 1950s sci if movies. There's something about them that speaks to me, but let's be honest, on a competence level these are adults working at about a 3rd grade level.

This blog contains spoilers so if you were planning on watching this masterpiece on a special occasion in your warm pajamas with some soft brie cheese and a box of your favorite wine, stop reading NOW.

Invisible Invaders tells the heart warming story of a race of aliens that took over Earth's moon and now live there. Earthlings, with their rockets and nuclear bombs and easy bake ovens have become too advanced so they decide to conquer us. This is all told in one dull blob of exposition by one of the aliens to an Earth scientist. The alien is actually invisible but it inhabits the dead body of a scientist who’s played by John “I briefly had a respectable career” Carradine. The alien gives the scientist 24 hours to convince the world to surrender or be destroyed.

For some reason we humans refused to believe there were ancient invisible aliens living on the moon who wanted to enslave us. Go figure. The invasion begins with the aliens inhabiting dead bodies to wreak havoc on the world. They do this by setting fires and blowing up bridges and buildings. This being a film shot on a budget of $85 and a can of cheeseballs, this is all shown as zombies walking slowly on a sound stage followed by cut-in stock footage of firemen fighting a blaze or something blowing up. This movie is only 68 minutes long and 15-20 minutes is borrowed from other sources. The same images are used repeatedly. Intense, quality film making.

Something that bothered me was why they needed to inhabit the bodies at all. The John Carradine alien made a huge deal about them being invisible, so why make themselves visible? Why not pull all of your shenanigans while invisible? No explanation is given for this little question.

Eventually John Agar’s army major and two scientists end up locked in a military facility to protect themselves from the radioactive alien zombies. The scientists are tasked with finding a way to fight the aliens. The smarter of the two (and that’s not saying much since the other one has the IQ of a sea anemone) needs to study one of the aliens but that means capturing one. To engage this plan, John Agar needs to go outside among the radioactivity so he dons his protective suit which is a pair of painters’ pants and a bee keepers’ mask.

The first attempt to catch an alien goes awry so a second attempt is made. Agar has to take the dumber scientist out with him. When the doctor protests that there’s only one radiation suit, Agar assures him that the cab of the truck will protect him. I was expecting a thick, heavy military vehicle with a lead-lined cab. Nope, it’s Grandpa’s pick-up truck, the one he uses to transport the chickens to market. And let’s say for argument’s sake it does protect you from radiation, when Agar opens the door to get out, aren’t you now negating the protection by allowing radiation inside? Yes. Yes, you are.

The movie goes on for a while longer, ends abruptly and stupidly with more useless stock footage and sub plots never resolved. The important thing to remember though is that after the inevitable nuclear holocaust, the earth will be repopulated by the only survivors: painters, bee keepers and Ford F-150 owners. Very sad.

I Was Over There, Now I'm Over Here

I went away for a while, but now I’m back.

Please, please, the applause isn’t necessary. I’m glad to return . . . a standing ovation? That’s a bit much. Sit down.

Is that music? You hired a band to play for my return? Wow. I don’t know what to say. Yeah, they’re good, sounds a little like Aerosmith.

My God, champagne? Really, I don’t drink. Ok, to be polite I’ll have one glass.

Who’s that talking? The Mayor of the Internet? I didn’t even know there was such a person. He’s giving a speech about me? I don’t think that’s at all necessary, although, did he just use the word “aplomb”? Nice.

Well, I’m going to  . . . what? A gift? You didn’t have to buy me anything. Yes, the wrapping is lovely. Ok, ok, I’ll open it. It’s a book, great, I love to read. Let’s see “Blogging for Complete Idiots”. Uh . . . thanks, I guess.

This was nice but now I have to . . . what now. A parade? That’s absolutely too much. Good God are those giraffes? Oh no, clowns. You know how I feel about clowns, get them out of here. What are they juggling? Live cobras? Are you insane? Well, yes, I admit they are putting on quite a show and the tall one is striking with his orange/blue Mohawk but, holy shit one of them just got bitten! He dropped the snake, someone stop the band! Tell them to back off, please. Stop the tuba players. Stop! You’re going to run into the clowns, look out. Shit! The snakes are loose! Cobras! Run! Someone help the French horn player, she’s stuck in a bass drum. Two more clowns are down, get the snake handlers!

Oh my God, where did that car come from? It’s running down the woodwinds and . . .  yep, there goes the last of the clowns. Who’s driving that thing? After party entertainment and it’s not just a car, but a time machine? Holy crap it’s a DeLorean. How did you . . . wait, someone is getting out, who is it?

Bill Hicks, Stevie Ray Vaughn and the Hee Haw Honeys.

It’s good to be back.

The Blood Test Shuffle

The following is based on a true story:

The sign read:

Welcome to the Memorial Hospital Lab. Please follow our simple 31 step process to register to see one of our phlebotomists. Thank you.

Step 1: On your left you will find a sign-in sheet. Please write your name on the next available line. If the sheet is full we will bring a new sheet out at some point between our mid-morning break and when Dottie comes down from the second floor to gossip about the doctors. More than likely we’ll throw the filled sheet away without making sure that everyone on it has been registered so your best bet is to sign your name on any piece of paper you see as well as the wall, the vinyl seats and the registrar’s arm.

Step 2: Sit and wait. Settle in because it will be awhile. If you have a sleeping bag or small tent feel free to set it up, although we ask no campfires in the building. Hot plates can be plugged in to the wall outlets.

Step 3: When someone who came in after you gets called before you, and it will happen, please respond in one of the following ways:

a.       Silently fume to yourself as it happens

b.      Give the registrar a dirty look and throw your arms in the air hoping that this will adequately display your displeasure.

c.       Jump up from your seat and yell “What the hell? I was here before him.”

Please do not do the following:

a.       Pull out a 9mm handgun to shoot the staff before shooting yourself

b.      Overturn the furniture while shouting “I’ll burn this motherfucker to the ground!”

c.       Make monkey noises and gestures while pretending you work for the lab

Step 4: When your name is finally called proceed to the registrar’s office and take a seat. For the next 32 minutes we will ask you the same questions we asked on your last visit. Even though we input your info into our computer system, it is not retained. Yes, we know this is the purpose of using electronic health records but apparently we are doing something wrong. It’s also likely the registrar is a part time person and will not know how to use the registering program properly so will need to get help from someone else a minimum of 4 times. She will also need to make a copy of every piece of identification you have ever owned including ones you do not actually have with you and a few you possessed in a past life.

Step 5: The registrar will print out many copies of your information. One for you, one for the phlebotomist, one for the hospital administration, one for the insurance company, one for the NSA, one for the department of health, and one that will be carelessly thrown into a dumpster where it will be found by a homeless person who will sell your social security number for $15.

Step 6: The registrar may or may not give you an arm band. If you receive one, place it around your wrist and take a seat in the seating area again to wait for the phlebotomist to notice that you are wearing the magic arm band. If you don’t receive an armband, and some of you won’t because remember the registrars are only part-time, sit and wait while thinking to yourself “Hey, why didn’t I get an armband like that woman over there?” When she gets taken back to have her blood drawn before you see Step 3 for the proper way to react.

Step 7: Walk up to the phlebotomist and ask when it will be your turn. When she asks where your armband is inform her you didn’t receive one. When she asks if you took a number from the revolving pickle barrel, say no. She will inform you that that’s ok because we have discontinued use of the take-a-number system anyway. When she asks if you pre-registered say no. When she asks if you registered, say yes. When she asks if you’ve post-registered answer “Huh?” If she asks “Is it safe?” walk away quickly and find security. When she sighs heavily and asks “Do you really need your blood drawn today?” say yes and she will most likely assist you. However if she simply walks away please go back to Step 1 and begin again.

Thank you for visiting Memorial Hospital.

Under Pressure

The stress ball had a smiley face painted on it. While I worked it stared down at me from a shelf. I didn’t even remember it was there until I would reach up for a pen or lean back in my chair to stretch and catch a glimpse of the wide, grinning mouth. It was a benign presence in my life until the morning it started talking to me:

I cut off a guy’s foot once with the wheels of a rickshaw when I lived in Hong Kong.

Have you ever eaten Ritz crackers with dried squid on top? It’s not good but can come in handy when you need quick appetizers for a party.

I’ve never been kayaking. Always wanted to.

Dollar to donuts is a strange expression. All things being equal I’d rather have a bagel and buffalo head nickel.

This world will bleed from its eyes when the acid rain of the gods falls from the sky to burn away the unrighteous and the feral and if you don’t want to be one of the unholy undead then bow down before me in unrepentant supplication

Uh . . . what? I’ll admit when the ball first spoke to me it was a little weird, but since it wasn’t saying anything important, I learned to live with it. One day it recited a great recipe for chicken and sautéed mushrooms in a white wine reduction. Another day it did a complete play-by-play of the previous night’s Phillies game. I tuned it in when I wanted to and out when I needed to. And then it said this one afternoon:

You will be judged not by gods or demons, myths or facts, illusions or reality, but by the lightning strikes that scar the earth

Yeaaaahhh. When I looked at the ball it stared back at me with the same expression it always had. I picked it up, threw it against the wall and the smile stayed. As an experiment I put it away in a drawer but I could still hear it.

Falafel is a funny word. Falafel falafel falafel falafel falafel falafel falafel

I was parasailing once in Cabo and the rope broke. I floated away, smashed into a building and broke like six bones. I spent a year in the hospital, and then sued Jungle Jim’s Ocean o’ Thrills for a nice settlement. Blew the money on Turtlewax, leather shoes and a hooker named Patti. True story.

Is there anything better than reruns of T.J. Hooker? I think not.

The reign of man endeth when the alpha and omega become one to rule this planet with a bloodbath of the unsound, a symphony of wails for the children of dirt and a self-righteous uncoupling of the serpent and the priestess

I was baffled at this point. There were less and less knock-knock jokes and more apocalyptic warnings. But when I looked out my window the Sun was still shining, the Earth was still turning and the rabbits were still eating my portulaca from the garden. I decided to talk back to the ball . . . which turned out to be a mistake as well.

Me: Soooo . . . what’s with all the threats lately?

Stress Ball: Oh, now you want to talk? I’ve only been trying to hold a conversation with you for almost a year.

Me: Well . . .

Stress Ball: I knew you could hear me. You think I didn’t see the looks or hear the laughs when I told a Bruce Jenner joke?

Me: Look . . .

Stress Ball: I know my mile-wide smile is creepy. Yeah, my purpose is for you to squeeze me as hard as you can to relieve your stress, but what about mine? Compressing my foam like that is dangerous. The doctors tell me I may have internal damage but I can’t do anything about it because I don’t have insurance. Obamacare doesn’t cover rubber balls. The inanimate object lobby in Washington isn’t a strong one, it’s hard to get a senator on your side when you try and talk with him but he thinks he’s hearing voices from all the cocaine he’s been smoking and the girl who’s with him doesn’t want to get involved because she’s married to a foreign diplomat and could be deported. The other girl, the one hiding in the bathroom, she’s so paranoid she thinks the voice she hears is coming from her own belly button and she sticks her finger in there to shut it up. She screams in pain which makes the first girl scream and now the senator is naked with pillows over his ears yelling “turn it off, turn it off” right before he leaps into the door and knocks himself out cold. The married girl grabs the rest of the coke and tries to leave only to find her husband at the door berating her in Portuguese and it’s now that the other girl runs from the bathroom with a bloody finger, crying about the millipedes crawling from her navel. Cut to the senator’s body guard who’s been getting oral sex from the front desk clerk and just now realizes things have gone very wrong . . .

I threw the ball out into the street and watched a dog come by and take it. I feel a lot less stress already.