Find familiar faces to beg for bucks

Have not received my government check, which means it’s time to send out notes appealing for big bucks.

   Dear Uncle Bill: Just a quick note expressing need and want of a huge favor. As my last living relative, except for my sister, Donna, who is a cheapskate, I wondered if I could prevail upon you to consider getting me out of the poor house. I realize neither one of us is working presently, but you haven’t worked in what is it, say 30-40 years? You haven’t lifted a finger in all that time. How do you do that? How is that even possible? Maybe the government would like to ask you the same question. Anyway, I was recalling that day at your old house up in the Catskill Mountains, yeah, during the storm. I was just a kid. Remember, I was outside on top of the side roof and you reached out and grabbed me off there like I was a sack of potatoes and pulled me inside the bathroom window, screaming at me all the while? I’m positive several people witnessed that incident. Sure, I escaped the fire-breathing lightning, but you’ve got to admit you do that child abuse these days and with a sharply dressed lawyer I could own your whole operation, whatever operation it is. So just send me enough to get by the next few months and I’ll forget I even know you.

Your nephew, Roger

    Dear Donna: Just a quick note expressing need and want of a huge favor. As my last living relative, except for our Uncle Bill, who is a cheapskate, I wondered if I could impose upon you to share a bit of your vast wealth. And no, I don’t need bail money again! Anyway, remember that time that little disgusting pervert with green teeth was following you and Sheila Farley, and I swooped in like some sort of caped crusader and belted him in the center of his ugly tummy and he folded like a suitcase, remember that? A good bodyguard these days would get big bucks for a job like that, and I was only seven years old. All I’m asking is that you share the wealth a little bit since the government hasn’t come through for me and the cupboard’s about as bare as my wallet. Maybe you can ask your lazy husband, my brother-in-law, to get off the couch, drop by an ATM, and send a few bucks to tide me over until next winter. Tell him I’m planning to visit again. Maybe that will motivate him.

Your brother, Roger

    Dear Barney:

Just a quick note expressing need and want of a huge favor. As my last living friend, who is not a world-class cheapskate like my uncle and my sister, I was hoping you could recall the many times you ate dinner at my house after your folks tossed you out. Remember those festive nights of tuna fish sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup? What childhood memories we share. You came along and mom just felt sorry for you and stuck us with soup and sandwiches. Anyway, I thought it was only fair to ask if you could see your way to send some of that dough you made from your last job, you know, the one that was in the newspaper. I know that was you. Don’t deny it. Who else would drag a cash register through the streets at 5 am? Hey, I remember giving you that idea. So I’m not asking for much, just enough to get me through the winter and into next spring. I’m tired of eating tuna and red soup all over again. And I’m having awful flashbacks.

Your last living friend, Roger

Catnapped

For 14 months she sat vigil at the corner of Main and Columbus in my tiny town watching the world go by. Then she was gone, just like that.

   In a mirthful mood, I had placed the metal kitty cat figure on the corner next to a stop sign in a bed of new gravel after weeding the overgrowth in what had become a traffic hazard. I figured seeing the kitty might trick Main Street speeders into slowing down. I believe the idea worked. The little metal statue on the street corner looked enough like a real live cat from a distance cars would slow down just in case. Also, seeing the statue might just put a smile on your face. I think that worked too.

    Then some creepy cretin decided to remove the kitty. The missing victim is black, about one foot tall. The kitty is strewn with holes so putting a candle inside will shine through at night. No scars or tattoos. No collar and no chip. Value is priceless.

    I’m hoping the kitty will be voluntarily returned, rather than I find it on my own since I am often misjudged. People think I’m sort of an Amishy guy in my soul. Cool. Level headed.  Nice. I am none of these things. If you could see my thoughts, you would know they belong on a wanted poster. That’s on a good day.

    The little statue belonged to my late mother who was living in Falun at the time of her passing. She is buried at the Falun cemetery. I mention this only because she was partial to the kitty figure and I believe she’s still walking the earth in her ghostly guise. You really don’t want to get on her wrong side.

     I have gotten on her wrong side from time to time since she passed and I have regretted it and she was my mother. Imagine how she would treat a stranger.

    I realize I could report the kidnapping to the local police and a crack detective would be assigned to the case. But I prefer pursuing my own leads. The cops have enough to do without having to go after a little gutless thieving weenie.

    You might imagine that this crime is minor in the scheme of things what with serious presidential candidates discussing important subjects like hair color and the shapes of female faces. But here’s the thing: Civilization’s downward spiral begins small:

    First a small black metal cat is stolen from an unsecured corner. Then the lowdown stinky robber decides to steal morning newspapers from porches, despite the perp’s difficulty with reading. Next, an outdoor plant goes missing. Word of this crime wave gets out and spreads. Neighbors begin to worry. A neighborhood watch is formed. Armed locals can be seen marching up and down the street at night. The reputation of the neighborhood becomes seedy. Property taxes plummet. Panicked homeowners try to sell, but can’t because the word is out: This is the place metal kitties go missing. Are our local children next? The worth of the entire town slowly disintegrates. Eventually the town disappears and an unpopulated lunar-like landscape is left behind. Hollywood hears about it, makes a great movie titled “The Kitty Chronicles: Death of a Swedish Village,” and someone makes a ton of money from our collective loss.

    No one wants to be a victim especially when thoughtless buffoons leave pain or loss or a sense of invasion in their wake. Most people have been victimized in one way or another some time in their life and they’ve survived. A lot of stuff is overlooked in life as trivial, part of life’s ongoing,  annoying minutia. Then again, sometimes we should not ignore those who trespass against us. Sometimes we should stand up for truth, justice and the American way.

     Return the kitty you little creep! No questions asked. My mother will take over from there.

 

   

 

Clarifying the wants from the needs

I didn’t need anything for Christmas, but here’s what I wanted.

I wanted a three-car garage, two bays for the cars and one bay for the indoor swimming pool. That way I can swim all year. What do you think that might cost? Maybe $30,000? More?

   This is why I buy Lottery tickets every week. I started buying lottery tickets way back when Dillons still rented VCR boxes and the lottery had just begun. We’ve all heard the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. That’s what the lottery represents, but I buy into the saying that if you don’t play you can’t win. The brother-in-law always asks me to pick him up a ticket when the money overflows $300 million then he never gives me a dollar for the ticket. Something’s wrong here and I’m anticipating a nightmare of lawyers when he wins the darn thing with a ticket for which he still owes me a dollar; I have my eye on a particularly scheming lawyer to argue my end of the deal.

    I wanted an old red Ford truck. Old. I mean really old. With an engine that would scare a state trooper.  Don’t need it, but I wanted it.

    I wanted another chocolate Lab to keep me company although the daughter reminds me that animals are a commitment of one or two decades and then she reminds me of my mortality, which is like hearing about a rerun of some sort of terrifying horror show. Still, I want a Lab. Don’t need one, but I want one. Didn’t get one. That would have been free, although once they are off the showroom floor there’s the food, the treats, the toys, the fluffy bed, the vet shots, the leash, etc., not to mention the rug cleaner for the inevitable training days, which is how God tests our true love of animals. If you can get past this training without losing too many pairs of shoes or your patience, you’re halfway on your way to heaven.

    I wanted a new car. Don’t need it. The Japanese vehicle I’ve driven since 2011 still works well and keeps me in business. Still looks pretty. Wanted an update though, so that’s about $25,000, although the car I actually want costs $65,000. This car has heated front and back seats along with a heated steering wheel. I mean a heated steering wheel. C’mon folks, that’s why we’re all Americans, right? Don’t need it, but I want it.

    I wanted a paying job. Don’t need one, but I want one. An interesting professional situation, where people start your name with Mister or Professor and someone takes you to lunch at the local private club where all the service people know your name. I like a job where you can go in late and leave early, that pays well and that allows booze displayed on top of the desk even though I wouldn’t imbibe. I like an office that resembles a Mad Men set, although their clothes are atrocious. I like a job that allows sweats and ball caps, but inside where it remains cool or warm depending on the season. No outdoors work for me. I am not motivated by calluses.

    I wanted a new computer with a huge screen, but I don’t need one. I imagined a screen the size of a wall, make everything huge. Didn’t get it and don’t need it.

    I wanted an apartment on Chicago’s Gold Coast to be near the daughter various times throughout the year, but I don’t need an apartment. I can stay with her. Still, I want a pretty view of Lake Michigan. Don’t need it, but I want it. Staying at her apartment means sharing a bed with the cat. That is not my idea of a vacation.

     I wanted the usual peace in the world and health for everyone, but I can’t say I will ever get it. There is a young woman I’ve known all her life who is gripped with cancer, but is not defeated, even after years of illness. I admire her strength, her fortitude and her will. I wish I had a piece of her will power, just a teeny tiny piece and I would be a different human from the one I am.

    I wanted one of those three-wheeled motorcycles with all the chrome and do-dads. This would be an excuse to wear leather and to wear that silly German helmet with the spike on the top. Don’t need one of these vehicles, but I wanted one. Maybe red, with lots of leather satchels to carry all my important bike stuff. This would also be my reasonable excuse to finally let my hair grow into a pony tail, with tattoos not too far behind. Once I had enough hair for a ponytail I would comb it all forward to cover up the vacant lot up there. Speaking of which, I wanted a hair job, although I don’t need one. Bald men fascinate women. Ask them. I’m not joking. Would I kid you?

     I realize I really want a four-bay garage, one bay to house my rock ‘n’ roll band. Oh yeah, I want a rock ‘n’ roll band. Didn’t I say that before? Don’t need one, but I want one. Where else can a very bad drummer show off a lack of skills?

    Of all the seven deadly sins—wrath, greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy, and gluttony—

my list embraces most of them. Not a good way to start the New Year. Don’t need to pick up lots of bad karma. Draws attention to yourself. Not a good idea.

    Better to be safe than sorry.

    What I meant to say is that I’m happy as a pig in mud, got everything I need and I feel like the luckiest guy in the world. Don’t even want karma, good or bad. Keep it. Go on. Keep it all.

    Forget I mentioned anything.

    Never mind.

   Good day and good night.

    I’m not even here.

    Remember, you never even saw me.

Holiday letters of regret come in handy

Rummaging through paperwork from the family archives, I came across these communications, which may or may not be from members of my family who are more hooliganish than even I thought. The letters and notes are not dated and I don’t recall many of the folks named here, but since some of these excuses certainly sound plausible, I thought I would share them as a public service. The holidays are difficult, especially if there are expectations of us visiting relatives outside the state. If I had to cancel a visit to a relative I might use some of these excellent excuses. Feel free to use any or all portions of these notes and letters to adapt to your own circumstances in your holiday correspondence.

 Dear Uncle Buck,

I can’t come to your place on Christmas. I’m so sorry. I’m very disappointed that I won’t be able to eat Aunt Mabel’s corn-oyster-ice cream-soufflé again this year. I’ll also miss your home brew which you favor so much we generally miss you most of the afternoon anyway. I know that home brew has a kick as I learned the last time. Was that the 1966 Dodge or the 1998 Thunderbird you all found me under last time? Ha ha! That sure was a good old time.

   I also miss seeing Junior, my first cousin and friend since birth. Has he gotten to the dentist yet? A set of teeth are really going to make a difference in his life. I heard he was thinking about going to a department store for work. A full set of teeth just may help. How’s he doing on that home-schooled GED he was pursuing?

   The reason I can’t come down to arKANSAS to see your brood is simple. We’re dead broke. Like all Americans these days I’m sitting right dab in the middle of Bustedville. I don’t understand why we’re in this boat. We make the Corvette payments on time, and we don’t go out to eat but 4-5 times a week since we cut back. Baby and me both need new jeans but we’re holding off until better times.

    I hate to ask, but in the generosity of the season I was wondering if you could see your way clear to send a little help my way. I’d ask my old man if he was still with us, but he  doesn’t make much producing car plates over at the state pen.

   The reason I need dough is that I’ve got a few problems. Baby’s in jail. I don’t understand how my wife got to jail, but they said she was in the car with some drifter at the time she was arrested. I suspected she may have been kidnapped, but no one’s given me details. Anyway, Baby’s in jail and we’re trying to get her out for the holidays. It’ll cost $500 and we can’t bond the house since we’re renting. So there’s that.

   The other thing is the busted furnace. The landlord said we busted it trying to roast that deer kill I found over on Highway 35. Otherwise, we’re doing OK so far. I rigged up the barbecue in the living room and opened that window so we don’t get poisoned and it works for the most part. But we need a part for the furnace that’ll cost $236.50.

   I sure hope you come through for us. Maybe you could sell that Thunderbird. It sure would be nice to have Baby out for the holidays. Hope to hear from you.

Sincerely,

Your loving nephew Perry

 

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,

 I fear I must reveal that I cannot be with you for the holidays though I wish I could, but I can’t because I’m trying to dry out in the city jail after being picked up for speeding and not stopping when I was told to, although I don’t remember any of that and remember things completely differently, but like it was a dream that is now a nightmare because the bunk here smells mightily and my roommates are not friendly but threatening and I can’t sleep because I fear they are after me in the love sense, which is not my way, so I am sending you this note to allow you time to organize a box or two of goodies to send me here at the jail.

Thanks,

Brad

 Dear Mom and Dad,

I cannot come home from college this Christmas. I have volunteered for charitable work in Boston so will miss out on all the family doings. Please tell Aunt Stella not to mail me her Slumgummy pie as it really melts in the mail and gets over everything. The last time the pie exploded in my room and I can still see some on the ceiling here. I have met a boy. His name is Jimmy. He lives in the Boston area, but that’s not why I’m going there. It’s only a coincidence. He lives in a big house with an indoor pool, and all his rooms have bear rugs. I can’t believe how soft bear rugs feel. I mean I can only imagine. Anyway, Jimmy’s parents must be rich. They are in Morocco for the holidays. I think that’s near Germany or Holland, so it’s far away. Jimmy will also be doing charitable work is the only reason I mention him. He’s invited some of us to his house for Christmas, but I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it. Anyway, I’m late for geography (I had to take it over again, remember?), and then off to my Bowling Club. I got a strike last week, my first. Please tell everyone.

Love and kisses,

Melissa

 

Dear Sheriff,

Just a brief note to let you know I won’t be returning to the county facility. I have left the country so I will miss my court date as well. I know I told you I would see you during the holidays, but I lied. It’s that simple. Anyway, I wanted to share with you the news that I have met and married a beautiful woman from Russia, who responded to my letters in search of a bride. Had I not met Katya I would readily return to the facility since I figured I would get released following my trial or at least not receive much of a sentence. After all, no one pays their property taxes anymore so why should I be singled out? The deal is just sell the trailer and keep the proceeds. I hope that will square me up with the county. If it doesn’t, well, tough donuts! I don’t care. I am in love and we have enough food for the week. I hope you and the Mrs. are well. I very much enjoyed her singing during my stay in the facility and her fine work on the tambourine. I also thought her Jello recipes were superb. It had never occurred to me to have Jello for breakfast. I guess you learn something new every day. Bye for now, or as Katya says, VyeVye, darlink!

Sylvester

  

 There are many more letters, but I hope the ones I chose prove to be of some use to you. I know they work for me. I’ve already gotten 12 invitations for the holidays so I will be very busy writing letters of regret over the holidays. Which is why I won’t be answering the phone if you call.

    Otherwise, have a memorable Christmas, with or without your relatives. 

Sit down to eat, drink and travel

I don’t like to travel. Never have. That’s why they invented the Travel Channel. For me, traveling is like going to Colorado. Once you’ve seen one mountain you’ve essentially seen them all. That’s about a ten-minute experience and a life-long memory.

    I know people love to travel and good for them. Travel is a huge business world-wide. It just doesn’t interest everyone. I get worked up if I have to drive over to Yoder.

   I remember going to Colorado with lots of film one summer and when we returned I had rolls and rolls of film developed and when the prints came out it looked as if we had photographed the same mountain over and over. I was not amused.

   My rich sister just got back from Mexico. She told me she saw something earth-shaking and unique while avoiding drug cartels and serial murderers. She visited a salon where people in search of pedicures placed their feet in a bowl full of tiny fish. The fish are employed to bite the dead skin off feet. I realized this is one of the many reasons I am not rich. This sort of exercise is lost on me, so why have a bunch of cash to waste just for the opportunity to feed fish with my feet. Just consider the mind it required to come up with that practice. Somebody certainly has a lot of time on his hands. It’s no wonder Mexico is a homicidal wasteland.

    According to the Central Intelligence Agency, “Since 2007, Mexico's powerful drug-trafficking organizations have engaged in bloody feuding, resulting in tens of thousands of drug-related homicides.”

    That’s just the place I’d like to go. Bring your friends. Better yet, bring your enemies. If you ever wanted to bump someone off, what better way to do it? Invite your really aggravating neighbors to come along on your trip and once there invite them down for a pedicure and then let the fish and the cartels do your dirty work for you.

   I recently traveled to Chicago. I had no choice. My daughter ordered me to go up there. All I learned after four days was that Chicago taxis list a bunch of fees and fines on a little plastic list on the backseat for the passenger. The most interesting item was “Cab vomit cleanup fee $50.” I immediately wondered if I were traveling in one of Chicago’s premier vomit cabs. I would have asked the driver but he was listening to loud foreign music and talking on his cell phone and no doubt texting as well, by the haphazard way he was driving.

     While I was in Chicago I had the best hamburger on the planet at the Rosebud Restaurant, which is just up the street from The Drake Hotel. The Drake, by the way, has some old-fashioned stuff. In their Palm Court every afternoon they hold a Ladies Tea, and any day of the week women show up in their Sunday best to hang out with one another, drink tea and gobble pastries. I attended and seated myself at the back of the well-appointed room.

    Suddenly I was listening to “Somewhere over the Rainbow” played by a harpist in a sultry black gown who was performing in front of an enormous running fountain.  This was better than therapy or liquor. It was the sort of momentary escape that soothes the soul, except I remembered I was in Chicago, a city that breeds gangsters like rabbits. The thought made me glad I had picked a seat against a wall in the corner so as to observe any funny business. After all, to date Chicago has reported 2,361 people who have been shot, 408 of them killed.  Funny how none of the travel ads note such mind-numbing numbers.

    I’ve considered traveling to exotic places: the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids, the former Berlin Wall, and the Amazon. But the hassles always outweigh the rewards.   

    Anyway, anyone who travels these days carries a phone around just to show off their last trip. Like it or not, once the subject comes up, the person with the phone has your attention and shows you photo after photo of a desert: fine, beautiful, endless white sands, hundreds of photos that sure look a lot alike. And then once you’ve experienced every detail of their last trip, for dessert they want to show you cute cat photos they found on the internet (always an in-depth entertainment), or photos of their grandkids. Here’s where I get into lots of trouble. Show me a grandkid on your phone and I’ll usually provide a reaction. “Holy mackerel,” I might say, “Honestly, that kid’s actually uglier than the last one.” This is why I have few friends.

    I’m usually very adept at interrupting my visitors and getting out of there but I’ve not mastered a good smooth excuse to remove myself without being rude while enduring an endless display of travel photos. I’ve considered keeling over while screaming “call 911!”, but I know the ambulance folks have better things to do.

    The worst trip I ever had was aboard a Greyhound Bus. I worked in the baggage department of Greyhound, so my trips were discounted. I traveled to Newport, Rhode Island, to attend the famous jazz festival there. Since I sat at the back of the bus, I sucked in fumes all the way from New York to the festival, which gave me the worst headache of my life. After an hour or so, I returned to the bus depot to await the morning bus. I sat most of the night observing a prostitute and a sailor making eyes at one another. That proved to be better entertainment than the festival. Returning home, I swore off bus travel.

    There are really only two things I’d like to see. One is an oozing volcano rich in running lava; the other is the icebergs of the Antarctic. I would need to travel to see either one of them, but it’s not like either one is a cab ride away. They both require some heavy- duty travel; then there’s the passport, the reservations, the packing, the planning, the calling of everyone on the planet to help with last minute chores, parking the cat, getting cash, buying a camera phone, learning how to use it; and then, of course, there is the planning for the return. Many people make the mistake of coming back on the Sunday before they return to work. That’s bad business. You need wind-down time during which you can arrange your lava photos or pix of icebergs to stir the imaginations of your friends.

    Humans need a vacation after their vacation and most of us don’t have the time for that. We can’t wait to get back to work to wow our colleagues with photos or get to the family reunion to show off pictures of our latest adventure.

    I say stay home and avoid the hassles. Get a library card and check out a picture book and camp out in your easy chair. Chances are you won’t get arrested or shot. You might get a headache, but the trip is worth the price of admission. Anyway, that’s one of the many sacrifices you make when you travel. 

Are experts smarter than you are?

I have decided to pursue a new career as a TV expert.

    You might have noticed that television talk shows have now adopted a five-person forum for any and all subjects. There is the host and four experts who comment on the news of the day. These folks are so smart it doesn’t matter whether the conversation is about the Ebola outbreak in the world or how to remove stains from silky shirts. These folks are the ones to call.

    Some folks seem to have their own place in the TV expert world. I’ve seen Sen. John McCain on so many programs, I have wondered from time to time if he isn’t really the president while that Barack guy is merely a placeholder. McCain will answer any question put to him.

    Being a TV expert would offer a number of adventures. Surely they will gain huge amounts of weight since many of these shows now offer a table full of pastries no one seems to eat. I would not only eat the pastries between my talking ditties, I’d bring an extra bag to take the leftovers home. These are tough times and pastries should never be wasted. A country that wastes pastries is a country on the decline. Take it from me. The Expert.

   I am struck mostly by the range of information and opinions these TV experts seem to possess. I’m an honors graduate of a small college (so small we could not afford school colors!), and I know a lot (if I say so myself), enough to convince some people I know more than I really do, which makes me, according to Webster’s Dictionary, a blowhard, which is the best definition I’ve found of a newspaper columnist. And yet it’s a little difficult to be an expert in national politics, while also being a competent observer of military maneuvers in Botswana, understanding the range of reality shows starring little people, as well as race relations in Boston, knowing who is the best Scrabble player on the U.S. Supreme Court, being able to quote oil prices nationwide, and have an in-depth knowledge of the better brands of mustard.

    I don’t know how much these so-called experts earn per show, but I suspect they are paid by the number of words they speak, since everyone speaks at the same time.

    We don’t really know these TV people’s true expertise because they are introduced swiftly and innocuously, meaning in a manner that is uninteresting, not stimulating, nor significant.

    For example, the host will say, “I’d like to welcome Dr. Martin Leatherbrain from Louisiana State University’s Legal and Ethics Department, whose recent efforts resulted in the release from prison of two men who spent the last twenty years on death row. He will be talking today about the high price of produce, especially oranges.

     “Also, welcome to Ian Everwhite, whose background in race relations is so extensive he changed his name to represent his expertise. He is here today to discuss the national debt and the decline of film parts starring Richard Gere. Mr. Everwhite once met a former girlfriend of Mr. Gere’s and actually met the actor himself at a cocktail party.”

    The host continues, “I would also like to welcome our longtime colleague Amy Wormwood, a political strategist whose new book, “Where Am I and Why Am I Here?” hits the bookshelves Monday.

    “Finally, a very special welcome to Senator John McCain, who is here on short notice since our scheduled guest, Racebaiter Johnson, was apparently arrested by federal authorities as he crossed the state line en route to our studio this morning. I don’t know what charges Racebaiter faces, but I have scheduled an appearance by him next week, which should make for an exciting show.”

    The host generally is as mysterious as the guests. There is no bio of these people. They could all be residents of the Witness Protection Program, for all we know, but they are always ready to explore any subject on the face of the earth.     

   The last humans able to discuss any and all subjects were folks like Socrates and Aristotle and Donald Trump, although I meant they were able to discuss things intelligently, so knock off that last name. And yet, even smart experts like Aristotle would not do well on modern television, which operates according to the clock. I can imagine the chatty host addressing Aristotle: “OK, Ari, before we go to break. What exactly is the meaning of life? We have twenty seconds.”

    The only expert whose qualifications are readily understandable and somewhat believable are the guests who show up in jungle hats and goofy shorts from zoos around the country. They appear with huge snakes across their necks or holding a mongoose or tiny bears. We assume they know something about animals because they are dressed for the part and they’ve not been killed even though a lethal animal is hugging their leg.

    Most other TV experts all have the same dress code. The men show up in suits as if they are about to attend a job interview and the women look like they are off to church once they have finished yapping in the studio. Oddly enough, you might see the same experts on various shows on the same day, which only means they are sending their children to fancy schools and need the extra cash.

    I don’t begrudge anyone a job. But these so-called experts have had their time and have made little difference in the national discourse. They don’t process information. They more or less mumble facts that don’t make any sense whatsoever and rarely present a cogent argument pro or con. In fact, these talking heads on all sides have accomplished nothing but mucking up the gears of democracy so deeply, the country is split down the middle. It’s time to change the formats.

     If you’re not going to employ experts, then employ regular people. They’re entitled to have an opinion and since expertise is really beside the point, then open up the show so the rest of us can shoot off our mouths.  I realize this is what the Internet offers. But it’s always nice to match a face with an opinion.

    Regular people have as much a right as anyone to sound silly and look stupid on television. You don’t have to be an expert.

   Obviously, I need to buy some new ties.

Rest your eyes, save America!

There are two ways to improve America’s economy.

The first way is to establish the nap in the workplace. I know, I know. Herbert, your co-worker snores. Or Sabetha, the cute one, drools. Or Oscar, the fat one, talks in his sleep and since he’s Serbian no one can understand the words. You have learned these incredibly interesting facts over the years by listening to people at lunch or being around them when they unofficially napped while the boss was gone.

    Let’s face it. You nap anyway. There’s no human on earth who has never nodded off at a meeting, in front of a computer, or even while awaiting a lucrative sale in front of the ladies shoe counter while Mrs. Highbottom decides which of the twenty boxes on the floor she intends to take home.

    And by the way, when Mrs. Highbottom hits the road with her new shoes, believe me, she’s heading home for a quick nap.

    If Americans want to beat the Russkies or the Chinese at world economic domination, more work isn’t the answer. Better work is the answer.

   I would begin by asking job candidates at their interview whether they sleep at work. If one of them says yes, either that candidate’s a dunce or an incredibly thoughtful person who simply cannot tell a lie. Hire the dude or dudette immediately.

   A nap is a quick 20-minute to a half-hour escape from work. You rest your brain.

    Installing naps into your company’s list of perks also offers a new way to honor good workers. Instead of giving them cheap watches that fall apart in a month, you can give them new firm pillows to use at work. The pillowcase is optional unless you want to put the company logo on it, that way the employee can be further programmed about the company even during sleep.

    Do you really think those Kansas State Troopers are watching you speed down the highway when they are parked in the median of the road? Please. They are taking a snooze. And good for them. Shooting bad guys requires an alert lawman. Take a nap there, Sheriff Bubba, and rest up for the real big events. I approve.

   Like many workers, State Troopers carry a significant burden. They are loaded up with guns, ammo, pepper spray, vest, clubs, lip gloss, nail clippers, jellybeans, hand mirror, and that silly hat, which all add up to big-time weight. Try to carry all that stuff around every day and you’ll need a snooze most afternoons.

    Anyway, a nap would do wonders for your boss, especially if he or she is one of those maniacal power brokers who spend their days trying to make your life more miserable than it need be. Even if a nap only takes a little bestiality out of the boss, then the time used is not wasted.

    And since you’ve napped as well, you’re strong enough to continue taking the boss’s awful abuse.

    By the way, wouldn’t it be great if there were a public shame spot on the internet where all bad bosses could be exposed for what rotten bums they are? Why should you spend half your life being abused when a little exposure on line could alert other higher-ups in your company about how cruel and small some supervisors are? Power does corrupt, you see, and many of us simply don’t know how to use the authority we suddenly receive.

    The second way to help America’s economy is by adopting official mental health days into your company’s list of perks. Say three days per year. This gives you permission to call up the boss, tell him/her exactly what you think of him/her—screaming is optional—and informing the company that you are taking a mental health day tomorrow and if they don’t like it they can lump it. This action provides two things: it proves beyond measure that you are a bit of a wacko in the mental department, which gives you official cover for your outburst, and secondly, allows you to do openly what you do secretly—get tired of working and staying home by calling in sick. Official Mental Health Days relieve workers and relieve co-workers of having to be around a person who is burning out or burning up. People who are rested and happy rarely purchase oversized firearms and bring them to work. They would rather bring in a pillow to rest their weary head during naptime.

    Work naps will help unemployment as well. Companies will have to hire sleep monitors who can read workers to sleep, using nursery tales, Biblical verses, or better yet, have them read the boss’s pointless memos. That ought to accelerate naps big time.

   For example, consider this boss’s note: Happy Holidays. We have changed the holiday turkey give-away. Instead of picking up a turkey and seeing me dressed up in the company’s bird outfit, employees will now receive a coupon for a free turkey in their mailboxes. You will have to show identification to the mailroom before your coupon is released and please sign the form provided. Please pick up the coupons Friday between 2:27 pm and 3:34 pm, so as not to interrupt the workday anymore than is necessary.  If you have any objections—religious, political or social—to turkeys, please see Miss Wescott in HR. I believe she has some chicken coupons as substitutes. She will be leaving early Friday for a convention, so please let her know ASAP, or, as soon as possible. I would like to thank the members of the Turkey Committee for their hard work in establishing this year’s turkey give-away. You know who you are.

     I would humbly suggest cutting this column from your paper and secretly place it on your boss’s desk, or under his or her windshield wiper. Put a Hershey’s Kiss next to it. Next time you come in contact with your boss, just yawn and excuse yourself. Before you leave, say something inappropriate, but say it as if it were a mistake, like a twitch or an involuntary outburst—like you’re a little nuts. It will get the boss thinking, which, in my experience, is progress. 

    Since I am unemployed, I get a mental health day every day, as well as a nap. Yet, hitting all these keys on my keyboard is just exhausting. I’m going to take a nap now. Later I’m getting my monthly pedicure and manicure. I need to rest up for that. I’ll need to go through the mail later, which is tedious and dangerous since the letter opener is a sharp object and then there are the possibilities of papers cuts, which can be very dirty and toxic. Afterwards, someone might want to come over for tea or coffee, which takes tolerance and good judgment on my part. Then I have to entertain them and I probably don’t like them in the first place. Just thinking about all this is exhausting. Maybe I need to find a job.  I wonder if the State Troopers take old guys. Just a thought.