the married life.

I think most people have a repertoire of jokes, stories or comical observations that they catalog and use whenever a suitable situation or conversation topic arises. I am no exception. I’ve recycled my same old jokes for years, in each circumstance basking in the laughter they trigger. Unfortunately, the passage of time has shown some of my favorite old jests to be ill suited or no longer as funny, applicable, or poignant as they once were. Therefore, with this post I officially announce the retirement of one of my classic situational jokes, the gist of which is elaborated below:

Within about ten minutes of being married I was already sick and tired of the oft repeated and marginally sincere question, “So, how’s the married life?” Soon, I graduated from offering a vague and positive response to a more perplexing and intentionally discomforting one. When someone would ask “So, how’s the married life?” I’d pause and gaze at my feet before replying in a most downtrodden though matter-of-fact tone “It was alright.” Without exception, my crafty response would send the asker into a fit of analysis: “Alright? Was?!” Feeling grossly unsure regarding my marital status and inconveniently uninformed of any tumultuousness that would’ve necessitated such a speedy dissolution, the asker would stand for a few long, pregnant moments of silence, searching for some yet evasive words with which to salvage the conversation. Feeling justified in my attempts to punish those who pose such hackneyed questions, I would offer no branch with which my comrade could pull himself from his conversational quicksand. Rather, I would soak in the moment, invigorated by the awkward silence I’d manufactured.

Godspeed little quip. You have served me well.

why i hesitate to ever hire a painting crew.

One time I saw this thing on NBC’s Dateline about panhandlers that drive BMW’s. Ever since, I’ve been really ambivalent about giving money to beggars. I was so affected by that piece of hard-hitting journalism that I can no longer as much as drive by one of the many tousled, pee-soaked, cardboard sign-touting homeless guys that stand guard at our freeway exits without wondering if he isn’t in reality some flashy investment banker or the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. And though my faith in humanity has been crushed by Stone Phillips and his gang of sensationalistic underlings, I still want to help out where help is genuinely needed. So I’ve adopted a policy of still offering money to homeless individuals, but only to those homeless individuals that don’t ask.

So if you’re homeless and minding your own business in the shade of the decorative landscaping adjacent to Bashas’ or busily constructing a fort from discarded mattresses in a vacant lot, you can bet your shopping cart I’m going to offer a little help. I always feel really good about assuming the role of benefactor, however meagerly. And my beneficiary is often taken aback by the unsolicited financial donation and together we rejoice. Except for that one time that I, with a small wad of cash in my extended hand, approached a truly disheveled-looking fellow in the parking lot of Milano’s who turned out to be a painter walking home from a long day’s work and not a homeless transient. On that occasion, no one rejoiced. But one of us was angrily sworn at.

(I hope I never run into that guy. That would be really uncomfortable).

I will be your undoing Tom from Astoria.

Parade magazine does this thing where they print a captionless cartoon and ask their readership to invent a clever caption. Here's last months cartoon:



The winning caption read: "You're waiting for Wonder Woman? I'm waiting for Wonder Woman!"

I am personally of the opinion that my caption is leagues better. It is as follows: "Have you ever had that dream where you're rescuing someone and you look down and you don't have any underwear on the outside of your pants?"

Despite the tardiness of my entry, I sent an e-mail to Parade demanding that they dethrone the old winner (one Tom Camastra from Astoria, New York) and crown me in his stead. I await their reply.

litter.

I’ve long appreciated the portable nature of some of God’s tastier creations. The banana, for example, is specifically designed to be enjoyed en route. Its thick skin protects the delicious insides from damage and just begs to liven up my painfully dull brown lunch bag with its bright yellowiness. This magical fruit’s usefulness doubles when enjoyed behind the wheel; not only does it serve as conveniently self-packaged sustenance, but also as a declaration to other motorists of one’s own superiority due to a commitment to healthful snacking.

However, as soon as the banana is consumed, the peel’s former glory is abruptly forgotten. The skin that was once a marvelous example of God’s handiwork quickly transforms into slimy, rottening trash adding unnecessary grossness to a cup holder that is already lined with a layer of goo that fluctuates between melty and hard depending on the temperature. The idea of allowing such a disgusting instrument to even momentarily linger in my car’s cabin is too much to bear. It is at this point that my Super Mario Cart reflex sets in and I expel the banana peel from my car via sunroof, creating a serious hazard for any Koopas or Toadstools driving behind me.

Almost this precise scenario transpired some months ago while Angela rode passenger in my car. The very moment my rear view mirror showed the discarded peel colliding with the roadway behind us, Angela set into a wicked tongue-lashing cast passionately at my side of the car: “What do you think you’re doing?! That’s littering! You can’t litter!”

“Litter? That’s not litter” I replied. “It’s a banana peel. It’s completely biodegradable. I’m sure in ten minutes some bird will be using it to build a nest for its chicks.” Well aware that Angela is a complete sucker for applying the human family dynamic to animals and objects, I pursued this course. “Sure. It’s Monday. They’ll probably do it together as a family home evening activity. It’s all good. Don’t worry.”

Angela’s mind may have gone spiraling into a world of highly spiritual bird families, but mine stayed focused on litter. Never had I considered that a banana peel might be considered litter. It’s just a peel; completely natural, and biodegradable. How could such a thing be litter? If I hadn’t eaten the banana out of the middle and rather discarded the peel with the banana still attached, that wouldn’t constitute litter—just an unfortunately misplaced banana. Such a situation would make of me a victim, not a perpetrator. If a banana peel is litter, then what isn’t litter? Can I throw nothing from a moving car with being branded a litter bug?

The rest of our drive was silent, Angela infatuated with her vision of bird families and I grappling with the philosophical definition and ramifications of litter: “What exactly is litter? Certainly, all reasoning parties would uniformly deem an empty soda can discarded at a public square to be litter. But what if that soda can were full? Or an iPod? I doubt anyone would complain if the public square was lined with free soda or iPods. Is it monetary value then that determines whether or not a discarded thing constitutes litter? If so, then what exact value draws the line between litter and non-litter? Five cents? Ten cents? In that case, pennies themselves would be considered litter, making the United States government the largest litter distributor of them all. Furthermore, doesn’t such a value-based definition of litter necessitate that those police officers who issue citations for littering receive training in small item and litter appraisal. We can’t have them issuing tickets all willy-nilly."

Presently, I believe the only way to come to any certain conclusion would be to actually engage in the intentional discarding of a number of items in the direct presence of an on-duty police officer and see which items lead to citation and which do not. Those items which yield citations could be classified as litter. Those items that do not yield citation could be classified as misplaced property. I very much trust this method of engaging in a questionable activity in the direct presence of a police officer as a way to determine the legality of that questionable activity, for by it I came to discover that tickling an on-duty police officer against his will leads to citation almost every time.

finders, keepers; losers, weepers.

Finders keepers: a policy that really screws blind people.

What axiom will the seeing public next invent to torment the world's blind community—“Kick a seeing eye dog"? It's despicable.

wrestling.

You hear a lot about people wrestling animals, but I’m not really into that. Some guys might think it’s cool or manly to put a crocodile in a full-nelson, but I just think full-nelsons are uncomfortable, regardless of species.

It’s not so much that I would be worried about my personal safety if I wrestled a crocodile; it’s more a matter of the Golden Rule. I wouldn’t want to be walking down the street, minding my own business, and some crocodile gets all up in my grill and puts me in a headlock. “I have places to go, Mr. Crocodile. I don’t just have time to stop and wrestle whenever you feel like it.”

I guess I just figure that since I wouldn’t appreciate an impromptu wrestling match, I probably shouldn’t impose an impromptu wrestling match on others. It's common courtesy.

momma didn't raise no fuel.

In hopes of cashing in on the hard work of others, investors are ever watchful for the next big out-of-nowhere-but-hugely-lucrative stock. When the next Microsoft, Xerox or Tickle-Me-Elmo stock does come along, they’ll be there, savagely shaking their clenched fists from which protrude wads of cash like green tops of carrots emerging from soil. Most likely, however, the vast majority of investor hopefuls will arrive just a little too late; the prize will have already been pillaged by another who by now is sailing away in his new yacht called something like “Buy Lo Sail Hi” or “The Investour.”

Fortunately, I’ve found an alternate way to hit it big. Simple and surefire, today’s most lucrative cash cow has been under our collective nose for well over a half century, all the while remaining grossly under utilized. It has an impeccable history of constant appreciation in value and shows no signs of relenting. And whether we like it or not, it is eternally attached directly to the veins of every red-blooded American. It’s gasoline. And it’s going to make me rich.

What did you pay for gas today? $3.80? $3.85? $3.90? Shucks, that's a full $1.50 more than you paid last year at this time. Who knows what gas will go for next year —$5.00? $6.00? Maybe we will stop using dollars altogether and just start trading precious family heirlooms for gas.

So I’ve got a plan. While you’re sitting there moaning about the price of gas, I’m buying it all up. Right this minute I have thirty-four hundred gallons of gas sitting in my garage. My attic is chock-full of the stuff. It’s starting to leak through the ceiling. Yesterday, Angela and I built a fort out of the canisters we’ve been storing in our bedroom and watched the new half live-action Alvin and the Chipmunks movie on her laptop surrounded by gallon after gallon of the very liquid gold that will most certainly secure our future.

Then next year, when gas prices are utterly astronomical, I will open up The Gas Hole, the Hardison family gas station. Gas that I purchased and stored in 2008 for $3.80 will sell for seven or eight bucks in 2009. Sure, my lack of pumps and nozzles and other typical gas station paraphernalia might take some time for customers to get used to, but when I’m in position to undercut all the major gas chains by twenty cents per gallon, people won’t mind scooping their gas with a ladle from a horse trough in my garage. Life will be good.