My Sabbath Elevator

I'm thinking of changing my blog's name from "My Masonic Apron" to "My Sabbath Elevator."

Just when you think you belong to a semi-sensible religion, you get kicked, right in the circumcision-arena.

Yes, that's right, kids-- the Big Rabbis have officially outlawed Sabbath elevators.

I'll bet you didn't even know there were such things. Well, there are. And, apparently, all-of-a-sudden, they're not good enough. No-- not kosher enough.

Or whatever.

The bad news came from the pen of Rabbi Yosef Shalom Elyashiv, who is described by the New York Times as "a revered 99-year-old scholar" and "one of the most influential voices in the Jewish world" and, if that weren't enough superlatives, why not throw in "widely considered to be one of his generation's greatest authorities on Jewish law."

Well, let me just say this: if you think this crooked, knobby-kneed handbag with nostrils isn't taking an elevator on Shabbat, you're crazy.

The ruling has thrown the Orthodox Jewish world into a tizzy, especially considering that these elevators were constructed solely for the use of Orthodox Jews on Shabbat, so that they can utilize the convenience of an electrical device without actually touching any of the buttons-- thereby allowing them not to violate Sabbath covenants. (The elevators were designed to stop at every single floor and open and close, so that no buttons need be pushed, working on the theory of, "You'll get there... eventually.")

The New York Times article I read quotes 29-year-old Yosef Ball who, with his wife, now has to climb (sorry-- "schlepp") up seven flights of stairs after synagogue on Saturday, with a baby carriage, two toddlers and three other children. Now, does this ruling seem fair to you? Apparently, God wants you to be constantly making Jewish babies, but He won't let you use the fucking Shabbat elevator to get all their crying, tired asses upstairs?

Oh, no, wait-- it's not God-- it's Rabbi McCrustyface.

And therein lies the problem. Well, one of them.

Anytime you have human beings interpreting religious law, you're going to have issues like these. And, yes, they're stupid. You want to use the elevator on Shabbat in order to facilitate your getting to and from synagogue so you can praise God and feel like you're an active participant in something larger? Go ahead. Who gives a shit? Helicopters are falling from the sky in Afghanistan. Children with swollen bellies and flies in their eyes are toppling over in Africa. Preists are fingering little boys in the confessional, and rabbis are doing it in the mikvah. And you really expect me to believe there's a God up there who gives a hot motherfuck if this poor bastard with a wife and five kids uses the goddamn Shabbat elevator on Shabbat or not?

Come on.

In case you couldn't tell, I think this entire issue is laden with stupidity, but I do think that Rabbi Elyashiv is maybe onto something that has possible legitimacy, and I think that's the issue of hypocrisy. Hypocrisy has, I feel, been like a sword of Damocles, hanging over the heads of Jewish people for a long, long time, and maybe Elyashiv is striking a blow for consistency of behavior.

See, the Orthodox community likes to have their cake and eat it, too, and maybe save some for later. Surprised?

"Well, you can't go out and get bagels on Shabbat-- but if they were made by a goy, and the water wasn't boiled on the Sabbath, and somebody else (who's a goy, too, of course) pays for them, well... then it's okay."

"Rabbi-- is having tea on Shabbat permitted? Because isn't dunking the tea bag in the water work, and aren't we to avoid all work on Shabbat?-- Well, if you just put the tea bag in and don't dunk, then it's okay."

"Gee, can I have sex on Shabbat? I mean, sex is exhausting, and shouldn't we avoid exhaustion? Well, as long as she's Jewish and she's fertile, and you've got a good shot at making another Jewish baby-- eh, it's okay. No, not just okay-- it's a mitzvah!"

Oy. You could get a headache from all the horseshit.

And maybe Rabbi Elyashiv just has a horseshit headache. Maybe he realized that stepping inside an elevator that operates on electricity constitutes the use of electricity, even if you're not pushing the fucking buttons with your own fingers, and maybe he felt it was time to strike a blow, with his gnarled, wrinkly, shaky little fist, against Orthodox Jewish hypocrisy. Maybe now the days when Orthodox Jews can benefit from modern conveniences while sliding under the radar are just a little bit gone.

Maybe Elyashiv is just saying no. No more bullshit. You're either using the elevator, or you're not. And, you know what? You're not.

I think it's also a little funny, reading about poor Yosef Ball, who made the choice to get married at 12 or whenever it was, and to have five children by 29 (and I guess that will continue until his wife's uterus falls out while overcooking chicken one night) and then wants to complain that he has to climb seven flights of stairs after synagogue. Well, you know what, pal? In the old, old days, motherfuckers walked through sandstorms in the goddamn desert to congregate to worship God. Even my father, in Israel, in the 1950s, walked eight miles with his father to go to synagogue.

I think Yosef Ball's complaints probably wouldn't hold up too well when compared to those of Job.

Frankly, I don't really care whether or not Orthodox Jews are allowed to take Shabbat elevators or not. I'm not Orthodox, and I'm thrilled about that. You know why? Because I don't have to worry about whether or not nose-picking is permitted on the Sabbath.

(By the way-- it is, as long as no nosehairs are accidentally or purposefully removed in the process, because that violates the Jewish law against cutting hair on the Sabbath.)

Seriously.

BAN IT! BAN IT!! BAN IT!!!

No, this isn't a post where I am celebrity-endorsing BAN underarm deoderant. Though, if they asked, I might do it. I mean, it's something I actually use. Unlike Sally Field who probably doesn't use Boniva.

This is a post in which I put out to my readers that we band together and unite in a concerted effort to

BAN THE USE OF THE PHRASE "LOL!"

Please, comrades. Join me.

I think I just read it one too many times. You know how it is-- camel's fucking back and everything. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty goddamn lol'd out. First of all, I can't remember the last time I read something over the internet that made me laugh-out-loud, let alone smirk derisively, and I read some funny shit. You should know, some of you out there are writing it.

The thing is, whether you're laughing-out-loud or not, the question you have to ask yourself is, do you care enough about that audible giggle or guffaw to report it to the internet, and, on that subject, do we care?

Probably not, my loves. Probably not.

Also, you know that, if you are, in fact, ringing the air with your melodious peals of laughter, I have no doubt that you, with years of formal schooling under your belt, can think of a better way to express such an expression of funny-bone-ticklin' than with a juvenile, beaten-to-death-and-beyond internetism like "lol!"

Seriously, you can do it.

Sometimes I look over Mrs. Apron's shoulder while she's on http://www.craftster.org/ and I read some of the things people write about their craft projects, and my insides curdle:

"This finish is cracking a little bit. LOL!"

"I couldn't decide whether or not to cinch the waist or add princess seams. l.o.l.!"

"i just finished making a onesie for my little nephew. it's got a bird on it. lol!"

It's got a bird on it-- lol? Are you kidding me? What, exactly, is there to lol about concerning said onesie and said bird?

That's riiiiiiiiiiiight: nothing.

If you think that's funny, go straight to the bike-helmet classroom. Do not pass "Go."

While we're on the subject of banning things, here's another coupla things I'd like to banish from the face of the earth:

* Snowflake sweaters.

* Irish step-dancing.

* Bladder dysfunction.

* Junk mail.

* Call-in radio.

* My aunt and uncle's house.

* Life insurance banner ads featuring crying children in graveyards.

* Football.

* Pimples for those of us who have successfully surpassed the age of 20.

* The Pontiac Aztek.

* Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* People who shit on each other during sex.

* Hedges.

* Airshows.

* Commercials featuring Sally Field.

* The word "ointment."

(Notice how there are no books on my list? See? I'm a reasonable guy.)

Doing What He Loved

As an avid and active supporter of law enforcement officers, I know all the rhetoric that gets automatically spewed from the uniformed talking heads that have the misfortune to be stuck behind microphones and newscameras.

"He was a cop's cop."

"He always wanted to be a police officer."

"He will never be forgotten."

"He knew the risks."

And, inevitably, "He died doing what he loved."

That one comes up a lot when a first responder dies while on-duty. "He died doing what he loved." Nobody ever questions these slogans, because, really, in the moment, you'd be looked at as kind of an asshole if you did-- but what does that really mean?

He died doing what he loved? The cop died chasing some shitbag through a slum apartment complex at 2:30 in the morning, all because the dumb prick was a wanted, armed felon and he wouldn't pull over to accept a ticket for a broken turn signal light? That was what he loved? The firefighter died falling through two stories of a house that caught fire because some stupid asshole kid was growing marijuana in the basement and didn't put the right wattage bulbs in the heat lamps? Who the hell loves that?

Even if you do die doing what you supposedly "love," does that really matter? Does that somehow take away the paralyzing fear and undeniable, irreversable dread you felt the instant you saw the guy in the oversized wifebeater turn towards you with a Tech-9 and pull the trigger? No, of course it doesn't. Platitudes like that are for the living anyway-- they're supposed to make the ones dressed in black the next day somehow feel better.

But I wonder if it really does.

I tried to think about the things that I do in my life that I love doing, and I couldn't really come up with much. I love being held by my wife, but I sure as hell wouldn't want to die like that-- that'd be kind of awkward for her, I think. I like writing, but I don't really love it, and I don't think it would sound quite right if I stroked out at the computerdfgjkdjhg;idgi;erag;agenk;sjdfnkxdg;dafkgnadskngdsa;kngfa;ksdjngkasdjlngfjkdabneg;

like that, and some numb-numb wrote an obiturary for me saying that I "died doing what I loved-- writing." Just doesn't sound right, does it?

I love trolling around ebaymotors fantasizing about purchasing old cars, but, again, would dying during that particular activity spur someone to report that I had died "doing what I loved?"

Weird.

I read an obituary today about a "semiretired financier" who died while surfing last weekend. Last weekend, you might remember, the east coast was visited by a rather unwelcomed friend named Hurricane Bill. The deceased surfer was a newbie, receiving a lesson. Obviously, this is a tragic event for his family, but the extremely long obituary made the claim that the family is "finding some solace in the fact that he died doing something he loved."

What was that, exactly? Taking insane risks? Ignoring dangerous surf warnings? Putting his life at risk and callously disregarding the family he would soon leave without its husband and father? Being a completely thoughtless schmuck?

His children, according to the article, had enough sense to pack it in early on that day. I guess they weren't prepared to die doing what they loved, or maybe they just didn't love frollicking in the Atlantic Ocean during a hurricane.

I'm sorry, but it's exceedingly difficult for me to find sympathy for this reckless individual, regardless of whether he died "doing what he loved" or not. If you have a wife and children, what you love should be them, not pursuing your own interests in a thoroughly dangerous environment for no reason at all other than your own selfish enjoyment. Granted, police officers and firefighters put themselves in harm's way every day and night, but they're doing it for the greater social good-- there is no social good in surfing during a hurricane, whether you're a beginner or an expert.

So go ahead and die doing what you love, but don't expect a nodding affirmation or a funeral wreath from me.

Boobies

So, most of you know that we recently acquired cable television in this house, for the first time in a looooooong time, as a result of the government's and HD-TV's wretched and incestuous comingling with the cable companies.

Bastards.

Much to my relief, this hasn't really altered our lifestyles all that much. We're still pretty hardcore about "The Today Show" in spite of my unalterable dislike of Meredith Vieira. Our palate/schedule still accomodates almost nightly viewings of "Jeopardy!" and semi-weekly installments of "COPS" (don't judge me!) and sometimes we'll even watch ABC World News Tonight to hear Charlie Gibson end his broadcasts with, "and I hope you had a good day,", sounding rather like Mr. Rogers. Of course, I can't imagine Mr. Rogers talking about Afghanistan wearing a $900 suit, but there we are.

I will admit that our viewing of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" has increased dynamically, and I am now intimately familiar with the episode where Mr. Crabs loses his special pre-historic dime and the one where Squidward gets his own TV show on Bikini Bottom Public Access. And I think my IQ just imploded.

Though it has not yet consumed our lives, I'm reasonably certain that having cable is going to make us stupid. I mean, sure, last night we went to the opera, and right now my wife is in bed reading a book without pictures, but this simply cannot last. I mean, Sponge Bob is fucking calling to me, people. Sooner or later, I will answer.

And quit my job.

After we did our regular six-month cleaning of our bedroom today in the sweltering heat and dog's mouth humidity, my wife, flopping on the couch to veg, found another program that will serve to destroy the few remaining synapses in our brains-- it's a show on MTV about women who are dissatisfied with their big breasts. Yes, you heard me right. Some of you deadasses out there might even already know what I'm talking about. Of course you do, you get your news not from Charlie Gibson, but from "The Daily Show" and from blogs.

Don't worry, soon I will be amongst you.

So, back to the titties, on MTV's discussion board, Kelso19 writes:

"Why doesn't MTV do a True Life - big boobs???? I personally struggle with extremely large breasts for my body.... It is probably the most frustrating thing that I have ever dealt with...No one makes anything for women who are thin with large breasts and it sucks...I would love to wear the things that my friends can wear, but I can't...I can't wear a strapless bra (They dont make them big enough), I can't wear a swim suit, if I want to wear a dress I always have to get a larger dress to fit my boobs and then get it altered to fit the rest of me.... I can't wear tank tops w/o looking HUGE...Oh and halter tops are out of the question... Everyone else loves me boobs but I have spent so much time crying b/c I can't wear 1/2 the clothes that I would like to....I really want to get my boobs reduced, but I don't have the money for it and my mom isn't always supportive of me getting a reduction...Anyway, I feel that it would be a good thing to shed light on people who are thin with breasts to big for their body....Just thought... P.S....There are more issues but I figured that I would just give a tid bit...."

Well, Dipshit19, I guess they finally heard you because, today, my wife and I were definitely flat-out on the couch watching three vapid, useless girls with with laundry bags for breasts moaning and crying about their tits for half-an-hour. Aaaand, after that was done, guess what aired next? MTV True Life: "My Boobs Are Too Small" where we got to see a Go-Go dancer from Philadelphia (yeah, way to represent da hood, Skeeter Bites!) crying about how she has to wear three push-up bras at the same time to create the illusion of cleavage for the obliteratedly drunk male clientele at her place of employment.

I know a girl who has a stump for a right hand. Can MTV do a show about her so these stupid twats can watch a show about people with real problems and then maybe they can all shut the fuck up? Seriously-- that's your big problem in life? You don't know whether to spend $15,000 on breast reduction surgery (that your insurance company won't cover because, actually, your breasts aren't really that big in the first place) or $12,000 on daily visits to a personal trainer and custom-fitted bras and tops for a year? Wow.

I don't know who's guiltier-- the dumb people on the shows, the dumb people who come up with the idea, the dumb people who produce, direct, write and edit the shows, or the dumb people who watch them.

One thing is for sure: the Kingdom of Dumbdom is at hand, and I've got a front-row seat. Just get your big tits out of the way so I can see.

What to Expect Before You're Expecting: Apparently; A Lot of Horseshit

The last time I seriously trashed someone on my blog, I got an ass-reaming. His name was Sean Hoots, a local singersongwriter, and I made the "mistake" of writing a review of a concert of his on my blog. It was my admittedly amateurish review, they were my original ideas and opinions, which I'm pretty sure I'm entitled to express in this country and, especially, on this blog. And yet, his fans found me. I think the link to that particular post got sent out on the Sean Hoots listserv, and I was inundated with comments, some of them pretty nasty, about what an asshole I was and how I didn't "get" Sean Hoots.

To them I said, "No, I get him. I just think he sucks."

You'd think that, after that unpleasantness, I'd think twice before ripping someone else to shreds.

Well, consider this sentence my second thought.

Now that we've got that out of the way, allow me to present my view of "What to Expect Before You're Expecting," by Heidi Murkoff. I'm going to leave co-author Sharon Mazel out of this, since her name is in noticeably smaller print, which leads me to believe two things:

1.) Heidi Murkoff is really in control of this boat and is therefore mostly responsible for all the things I hate about this book and

2.) Heidi Murkoff wants people talking about her in relation to this awful book, not Sharon Mazel, so she made her own name bigger. Well, Heidi, since you want the attention so bad: here it is.

If you're currently thinking about getting knocked up (or "Instant Semenized," as I like to put it) and are aware enough to want to read a little bit about pregnancy before you do the deed sans latex, I cannot discourage you enough from reading this book. If you want morning sickness to come on strong and early, fine, read it, but if eye-rolling and projectile-vomiting aren't your thing, I'd stay away from it.

It all starts off on the wrong foot. Chapter 1 begins with a subsection called "Talk the Talk."

"Are you TTC? You probably are, if you're reading this book-- yet you may not have the slightest idea of what "TTC means (it's short for "trying to conceive")."

Well, thank you very much, Rachel Ray. Why don't we just drizzle some EVOO on our dicks and pump away!? I'm really not into cutsey acronyms in a generalized way. I'm especially against them when it comes to pregnancy. Let me clue you in on something, Heidi Murkoff, pregnancy is serious. It's too serious, in fact, for your dumb fucking acronyms. I'm not "TTC." You know what I'm doing? I'm attempting to bring a new life into the world. I am attempting to nurture a new life with the woman I love more than anything and anyone else in the world. Pregnancy is not cute and it's not abbreviable. It's goddamn fucking serious, and if you're not serious enough to say "trying to conceive" out loud, then maybe you're not mature enough to be writing about it. And, maybe the naive idiots who read this tripe and gobble up all your stupid abbreviations aren't mature enough to be "TTC'ing" either. You, Heidi dear, are very much like a urologist who can't say the word "penis." Frankly, I wouldn't go to a urologist who couldn't say the word "penis." It's my penis-- it ain't no doodle-doo, biatch. Just like menstruation isn't "Aunt Flow," sexual intercourse isn't "BD" (Baby Dance) and the "Big O" isn't ovufuckinglation.

It stands for "orgasm." Ever had one?

Oh, and another thing, Heidi, dear-- my "penis" expels "semen." My "semen" contains "sperm." Here's a list of thing my body does not contain:

An "Olympic Swim Team."

"Incredible swimmers"

"Gooey goop" (seriously, I swear to God-- page 77)

Seriously-- what are you? Twelve years old? "Gooey goop?" Get ahold of yourself, crackpot. I do not have "gooey goop" or "slacker sperm" and, even if I did, I'm sure that they don't need your help getting into "Egg Land" (page 19). Oh wait, my wife doesn't have an "Egg Land" inside her body. We don't even eat "Eggland's Best."

It's sad-- people pick up this book because they're hungry for information. They're about to embark on the scariest adventure that two people can undertake. I know, it's not as scary as researching chemo treatment or coming to terms with end-of-life decisions for your parents, but it's scary, and people want information. They want good, reliable information. Not information that is found on page 83 of this book:

"So, You Think You're a Stud?

Get ready for a reality check,
courtsey of the animal kingdom.
Consider this: A male pig
ejaculates 1 pint (yes, pint) of semen
each time he mates; the average human
male ejaculates only 1/2 to 1 teaspoon
of semen. Here's another stat that may
leave you a little, well, deflated. The
average bull ejaculate contains 10 billion
sperm. In comparison, the average
healthy man's ejaculate contains 100 to 200
million sperm. But before you start feeling
sorry for yourself-- or a little envious of
those other male animals-- remember that
pigs and bulls don't get nearly as many
opportunities to mate as humans do.
So, who's the stud now?"

Um.... yeah. I don't even know how to respond to that.

Now, I realize that there are lots of women out there who think that men are retarded. That's fine. I understand that. You have a lot of examples in real life and in pop culture to support that notion. You have Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin and lots of John Goodman characters to support this notion. Here's the thing, though-- we're fifty fucking percent of procreation: period. Obviously, some women, like Heidi here, are uncomfortable with our status in that regard, and feel fit to denegrate us with embarrassing little side-commentaries like "So, You Think You're a Stud" and accusatory diatribes like "Say No to Pot Before You Say Yes to Baby" (wait-- women don't smoke pot?). What's your goal in comparing our semen to that of bulls and pigs? Is that your idea of including us-- or is that just your infantile way of having a little fun at our expense? I think probably the latter.

Here's my take on you: go fuck yourself, cunt.

I'll elaborate: I don't know who the hell you think you are, churning out this mind-mushing, inane, ill-supported garbage, but I'll bet you've made a pretty penny on unsuspecting young couples who have turned to you as some sort of authority figure on pregnancy. Call me crazy, but there's one thing I can't call you, Heidi, and that's "doctor." Nope-- no little letters after your name. You're not an OB/GYN, you're not an obstetrician, you're not a gynecologist, you're not an M.D., you're not even a Ph.D. (that stands for "PhoneyDoc," Heidi-- you know, like Dr. Phil). You're not a midwife or even a doula. At least, not that I know of... I mean, I don't know what the fuck you are-- because there's no "About the Author" section in this book, and I can't tell you how incredibly suspicious that makes me, Heidi-- very, very suspicious. I guess you were too busy thinking of nauseating acronyms like "BFP" ("Big Fat Positive" -- bleeaarrrgggh!) to think about telling us a little bit about you. I guess it's no accident, though, that you conned Charles J. Lockwood, M.D., Chair of Obstetrics, Gynecology and Reproductive Sciences at the Yale University School of Medicine to write the Foreword to your book.

What'd you do? Promise him a BFC (Big Fat Check)?

Want to know What to Expect Before You're Expecting? A terrible book written by an emotionally immature, puerile, ridiculous woman who TOHA (Talks Out Her Ass). If I were co-author Sharon Mazel, who I'm sure was consistently ignored throughout the "writing process" I would have said, "Hey, Heidi: thanks for putting my name on the cover in a font half the size of yours. Can you take it off instead?"

When a Dog Enters Your Life...

Finley padded awkwardly into my life well over six years ago now. I had never owned anything larger, furrier or cuter than a guinea pig before, but I know I will always be a dog owner.

He's a funny little bastard. Tonight, my wife and I were giggling as we watched him consume his dinner lazily on his belly, like an opium-hazed prostitute. I'll bet you didn't know that's how opium-hazed prostitutes consume their dinners. Well, that's why you come to My Masonic Apron, isn't it-- for the edumacation?

Of course, owning a dog isn't all giggles and opium. It's hard work, too. Why, just the other day I picked up his feces. Twice!

Dog ownership is nothing if not expensive, as any dog owner who does more with his dog than lock him in the basement knows. It's even expensive if you ignore half of what the veterinarian says, like that echocardiogram and sonic ultrasound we were supposed to get for Finley. Hmmm... pass.

And then there are those legendary dog farts. Finley's, I feel, are especially eye-watering because of his specific dietary supplements. Evidently, dog food mixed with soy milk and broccoli has a remarkably high sulphur yield. I have had my nostril-hair singed off on more than one occasion by his ass-puckering stenchlettes.

Finley's especially nice to have around in the wintertime, when his fur-laden, elevated body temperature, 70 pound mass cuddles up against us in the frigid night. In the summertime, I kind of forget why we have him sometimes. Until, of course, I catch a glimpse of those beautiful, shimmering green eyes staring up at me with that soulful look that says, "Daddy, I Can Haz Soy Milk?"

You might think that the worst part about owning a dog is the vet bills. Or the stenchlettes. But it's neither of these things. It's the people you encounter when you're out and about with your dog. As Sartre so eloquently and succinctly said, "Hell is other people." It's certainly not dogs.

If you dislike people, you might be tempted to go get a dog. But beware, your contact with people will only increase after you acquire the canine, because they attract people. If you want to repel people, get a Fran Dresher and walk her around your neighborhood. Trust me, no one will bother you. Get a dog, though, and they won't stop coming near you, and they won't shut the fuck up.

In case you couldn't tell, I'm not really that into people. I didn't realize that my human-to-human contact levels would be significantly on the rise after I acquired Finley. Had I known this would happen, I might have reconsidered this new relationship. Before I got Finley, people generally knew instinctively to stay away from me when I was out walking around. I kind of skulk when I walk. I usually have my hands thrust deep into my pockets, my head is thrown forward like an aggressive hood ornament, my brow is furrowed as if I were concentrating on something (I'm usually not) and I walk at an inordinately rapid clip, whether I have somewhere important to be or not. Needless to say, I'm not the kind of person you'd see on the street and say "hi!" to. You'd be too concerned I might give you the finger or start yelling at you in some Arabic tongue.

Now that I have Finley, the scowl and the brow don't seem to deter anybody from accosting me with some time-wasting greeting, a blather or two about the weather, or an inane question or ill-conceived comment about the dog. I never know how to respond to these questions or statements, and I always end up saying something stupid because I'm embarrassed for them. I'm embarrassed that 6 year old children and 65-year-old retirees come up to me and ask "Is he a boy or a girl?"

I always want to answer-- "Why do you want to know? Are you single?"

I mean-- what the fuck is the difference to you whether my dog is a boy or a girl? I realize that there's not much you can reasonably ask about a dog ("Does he have all his original teeth?" sounds very strange) but, why do you have to ask anything at all? When you see someone walking with their spouse, you wouldn't stop them and go, "Hi-- do you believe all this rain we've been getting? Man! So, are you guys married or are you just fuck-buddies?" I mean, seriously-- what's with the questions? Leave me and the dog alone.

Oh, and he's a boy. Wanna suck his dick?

The other question we get about Finley a lot is "Is he old?" People ask this question because Finley is gray and people are conditioned to associate the color gray with oldness, the same way Catholics associate Ritz crackers with Jesus. Again-- why do you want to know? Do you want to help him cross the street so you can get a Boy Scout Merit Badge? Are you going to give him a prostate exam? Do you want to know if he has an Advance Directive? Maybe you're trying to buddy up to him in his autumn years so he'll leave you his collar in his will. You sick bastard. I don't want to picture you wearing his collar. That's disgusting.

Easily, though, the greatest indignity that any dog owner must suffer is the shame and ignominy that comes when your dog has his face buried in the crotch of a visiting human who is also a dog owner, and you must endure that most trite, automatic, idiotic, embarrassed and embarrassing of statements,

"Oh, he must smell my dog!" And it takes every ounce of jaw-clenching, teeth-grinding self-restraint to refrain from replying,

"No, he smells your pussy."

Harken Ye to this Proclamation

This is a big day.

John & Kate (of "John & Kate + 8," but who are we kidding-- you already knew that, right? OMG! LMT!) are making their "big announcement" tonight.

I can barely stand it.

They've teasing our little cocklettes all weekend with this little tantalizing tongue-carrot since they had their PR rep state on Friday that, on Monday, they'd be making an announcement that will "affect both of them and all of their children and will hopefully bring peace to everyone."

Everyone? Even in Tehran? At first, I didn't think that Iran would permit shows like "John & Kate + 8" on Iranian television, but then I thought, wait a minute-- their mission is to get their people to hate us. And what easier way to accomplish that could there be than to flood Iranian airwaves with fatuous, inane drivel like "The King of Queens," "Rachel Ray," and "John & Kate + 8?" Put enough people in front of a boob tube constantly running shit like that and there'll be lines of people snaking around the block chomping at the bit to fly planes into our buildings.

Anyway, I just can't imagine what their big announcement is going to be. It's probably something lame like they're getting a divorce. Like, big fucking surprise. And also, like, way to be original. Everybody gets divorced-- who gives a shit? The only thing that could be potentially exciting is watching DHS take all their kids away because neither of them are competent enough to parent one child, let alone eight. I would enjoy watching that.

Though I realize that their announcement is probably going to be something mundane like a divorce announcement, I couldn't help hoping that it was going to be something really cool like that they've decided to do an on-air murder/suicide pact. Or that they were both actually the opposite gender and that they're going to have sex-reassignment surgery, also on air. Or that they've decided to pursue different career options-- he's going to pilot hot air balloons over the Pacific Northwest, she's going to become a champion ice-fisher.

Maybe the announcement has less to do with them and more to do with the kids. Maybe they've decided to sell all the kids on E-bay. If you win two or more, do you think they'd combine shipping to the United States & Canada? They strike me as the kind of folks that would combine shipping.

Somewhere, though, somewhere deep down in the tendrils and the coils of my tiny little, tired old brain, I had another glimmer of a notion of a thought about what their little announcement might be. Maybe.... just maybe... maybe this idea, this strange little idea they've had to instill some peace and tranquility in their lives and the lives of their children is to.... not be on television anymore....

Can it be?

Can they really have figured it out? Did they somehow get bitten on the tushie by the enlightenment bug and henceforth realize that whatever monies they're receiving from TLC and whatever noteriety (none of it's any good anyway) just isn't worth it at the cost of their children's future? Is it really possible that these two douchebags have seen the light?

Nah.

That bitch is just becoming an ice-fisher. And I hope she catches a big one.

The Problem Is Right Under Your Nose

First of all, there have been requests by a couple of my readers for a pictoral representation of my nose after I made several unflattering references to it a couple posts ago.

Well, since I do whatever you whackjobs want, here it is:

Satisfied?

Good. Now we can all move on with our lives.

Sheesh.

Attention all black-lunged bastards (that may have been Mulder's greatest line ever, by the way) the Food & Drug Administration is soon going to be in charge of overseeing cigarette companies. I can just see Benson & Hedges quaking in their boots.

"Oh, no! Not the FDA! We're so scared to be regulated by the same people who lord over Centrum Cardio and Tucks Medicated Pads!"

Maybe, though, those mothafuckas should be scared.

The new regulations that are being set up aren't going to bode well for the tobacco industry, whose once-powerful lobby apparently needs a dose or two of Levitra these days. The colorful and large displays that right now grace the local CVS and Walgreens will soon be gone, replaced by black & white text-only advertising. The warning labels will now be even more ominous than before, and every single ingredient will have to be listed. (I wonder if the cigarette boxes will now have to contain calorie counts and sodium levels.) Warnings on cigarette boxes will now take up 3/4ths of the entire box, leaving no room for Joe Camel, the Marlboro Man or Betty White or whomever they've got advertising ciggysticky these days.

Also, stores that are located 1000 feet away from a school won't be able to advertise that they sell cigarettes. Bummer.

Here's the thing: this is all window-dressing, and I guess that's why Big Tobacco isn't sweating its leaves about this too much. All of these new regulations don't change the fact that an addictive product is being peddled to people who are already hooked. It wouldn't matter if cigarette packets just bore the word "DEATH" in 36-point font. It just doesn't matter. If you think people who smoke crack don't know it's going to kill them, um, then you probably haven't smoked crack lately.

I was at Rite-Aid this morning and the woman in front of me wanted a pack of Benson & Hedges Premium Filter. The hen-pecked, blue-vested clerk was having trouble locating that particular iteration of cigarette. There were Benson & Hedges Special Filters, Benson & Hedges Deluxe Ultra Lights, Benson & Hedges Golds, Benson & Hedges Gold 20s, Benson & Hedges Menthol Milds. But this crackhead wanted her Premium Filters, and her knuckles were turning white as she was gripping onto her car keys with enough force to cause herself an aneurysm or stigmata. I thought she was going to pop a gasket when, finally, the clerk found her goddamn cancer-twigs. Praise be.

At another drug store this morning (I was running errands for work-- hey, at least I wasn't wasting away in front of the Xerox machine at Staples) I stood behind a grammaw who had just purchased a carton of cigarettes. Like most addicts, she was a regular at her locale of choice. Had she been a heroin addict, this pharmacy would be her street corner. An alkie, her Cheers. The clerk addressed her by name and advised her to, "Watch out for that heat out there" and encouraged her to, "take care of yourself."

After selling her the equivalent of slow-release TNT-- watch out for the rain? Take care of yourself? Why bother with such niceties? I would have said, "Why don't you try the Guns & Ammo shop down the street and save yourself a lot of time?" But I don't work at a drug store, and there are no guns & ammo shops where I live. There are, however, gourmet pet food boutiques and high end automobile accessory shops.

I think people who smoke should be allowed to do whatever the hell they want to themselves, but I don't think we as a society should be tricking ourselves into thinking that anything we do is going to make a damn bit of difference. Trying to scare the bejesus out of smokers with warnings like, "Smoking Will Turn Your Unborn Baby into Adam Sandler" or "Smoking Cigarettes is About as Intelligent as Sucking on a Hog's Anus" or "Stop Smoking, All the Girls Think You're a Fucking D-Bag" just doesn't work. Seriously, FDA: scaring people doesn't work. If people scared easier, nobody would fly on airplanes, get in elevators, attend NASCAR races, pick their scabs, or fuck girls from Des Moines.

This just in: People Don't Scare Easily-- They're Too Dumb.

The only thing that motivates people is money so, until a pack of cigarettes costs $187.50, we're still going to have an assload of black-lunged bastards running around our college campuses and our sidewalks. I'd love a society where only people with Oprah-sized bankrolls could afford to smoke habitually. Frankly, we could do with a few less multibillionaires.

So let's just forget about trying to scare people, okay? Let's just insult them. I want to see legislation passed enabling the FDA to require cigarette manufacturers to emblazon cigarette their cigarette packs with

"YOU'RE A DUMB TWATLICK. GO SMOKE ON THAT."

It's Not Nice, It's Not Clean, It's Just... Dear Apron

You know the drill by now. I get writer's block and turn to the societal dregs who write to Abigail Van Buren with their petty, ridiculous problems, and I put my own snarky little spin on the reply. I apologize to Ms. Van Buren for stepping on her toes but, honey, you suck.

DEAR APRON:

I'm a 21-year-old woman who just moved back home after two years of living and learning on my own. My family has been wonderful to accept me back into their home until I finish my studies in a few months, after which I assume I'll be getting a job and my own place.

I have an amazing boyfriend, "Jordan," with whom I would love to spend some nights. I'm afraid if I do I would be disrespecting my parents' wishes -- my father is a preacher -- but at the same time I feel restricted because I got used to being on my own and doing what I wanted.

I know a few months doesn't sound like a long time, but what if I can't get a job right away and have to stay here longer? Jordan and I aren't ready to move in together, but we'd like some overnight visits. What do you think? -- GROWN-UP GIRL IN KENTUCKY

DEAR WHOREBAG:

I didn't realize that "grown-up girls" still needed to ask their Daddys' permission before fucking their trashy boyfriends, even in Kentucky. I realize that playing bedtime bonkos in your cramped little family trailer could get kind of awkward for everyone, particularly if you're a screamer and/or a quieffer, but I would think that most Kentucky families wouldn't mind so much, some might even jump right in and join you!

Furthermore, I have no doubt that your father, "the preacher" has seen and done far more scintillating things in the confessional or the robing room than you and Jordan could ever dream up, even if you had the latest edition of "The Joy of Sex" and the Kama Sutra at your fingertippies-- so I wouldn't sweat old Daddykins too much. Unless... oh.

Now I get it.

Jordan is black-- as in Air Jordan.

Uh-oh.

Well, now I see where the problem lies. You see, Whorebag, in Kentucky, things work a little differently than they do in the rest of the civilized world. If Jordan looked more like Larry Byrd, I have no doubt that Reverend Dadd-o would have no problem with you shimmy-shaking the night away together. But, you know what they say: Jim Crow just says "no!"

Sweetheart, I know you want fuckie, that's natural for a twenty-one-year-old slut like yourself, but I think, while you're still living under Father's septic tank, you're going to have to intimately acquaint yourself with a hand-held shower head. A white one.

DEAR APRON:

I am a man who, for 46 years, has been celebrating my birthday on Aug. 31. I recently took a trip to Northern California to visit my older sister. While we were talking about our birthdays and our late parents, my sister dropped a bombshell. She informed me that my birthday was NOT Aug. 31, but actually Sept. 1 -- like hers.

As you can imagine, I was shocked. Why would my own mother lie to me about something as important as my own date of birth? Mom even went so far as to have the doctor change the date on my birth certificate! My two older brothers confirmed it.
I am devastated at the dishonesty. Why would a mother do such a thing? Celebrating my birthday will never be the same again. -- SEARCHING FOR ANSWERS IN SYRACUSE

DEAR LOSER:

Are you serious? You're seriously wasting my time with this horseshit? August 31st, September 1st-- what's the fucking difference? I mean, fine, you now know that you were not actually born on the date when, in 1976, George Harrison was found guilty of plagiarizing "My Sweet Lord." Now you know you were born on the date when, in 1865, Joseph Lister performed the first antiseptic surgery.

Do you see what I mean? It doesn't fucking matter. Stop being such a baby. Do you realize that there is genocide in Darfur, that this country is in the midst of two wars? That there is a goddamn recession with historic job loss? That Chrysler is dead? Come back to me when you have a real problem. Until then, go lick your own asshole. Oh, and happy birthday, schmucko.

DEAR APRON:

I am being married in October and asked my matron of honor's daughter "Crystal" to sing at my wedding. However, she has not yet bothered to learn the song we requested.

Another young woman at our church has a much better voice, already knows the words and has offered to sing for us. I want to tell my friend that Crystal isn't taking this seriously and I would like to hire the other singer, but I'm afraid she will be offended. How do I approach this subject? -- NERVOUS BRIDE IN SOUTH CAROLINA

DEAR NERVOUS:

Correction, you're not a "nervous bride," you're, at the very least, a "nervous bride-to-be." Actually, you're more a "pain-in-the-fucking-ass bride-to-be," but I guess that just doesn't read as well, does it? It must be really taxing for all you mental midgets out there to come up with succinct pseudonymns that accurately sum up who you are and where you're from-- especially those of you who try to be all clever and alliterative. You lot probably spend hours coming up with this crap. It must be nice to be unemployed.

What were we talking about? Oh, right-- your silly little wedding.

Pain-in-the-ass, listen carefully: if I'm as good a judge of character as I think I am, you're probably having Crystal sing one of three songs: "The Wind Beneath My Wings," "Everything I Do, I Do It For You," or "Total Eclipse of the Heart." If this is the plan, please stop and think about what you are doing to your guests.

By the way, I'm pretty sure Crystal is pregnant with your fiance's baby. I think she wrote to me last week.

Comics, Comments & Chowderheads

We all have morning routines.

Part of my wife's morning routine is going to http://gocomics.com/ to read the stimulating offerings of some of America's most noteworthy doodlers.

She reads two comics daily: FoxTrot and For Better or For Worse.

It's nice, I think, for gocomics to put comics online for those of us who are too cheap and/or too young to purchase an actual newspaper. It's kind of sad, being in that age and income bracket-- some of my favorite memories of childhood revolved around eating cereal around the dining room table with my sister while getting milk droplets on the comic pages while my father screamed at us for "goddamn crunching" our Cinnamon Toast Crunch or whatever it was too loudly. But, those days are over, and thank God for the internet.

Anyway, not only does gocomics provide a place for you to catch up on the latest antics of G. B. Trudeau's highbrow clan and that sassy black kid from Boondocks, it also allows you to create an account, an avatar and this, then, enables you to leave comments under the comic of your choice after you've finished reading it.

Now why, one might wonder, would you want to do that exactly? Is it because you're bored? Perhaps unemployed? Maybe the power of Christ compels you? Maybe you just love to comment. If that's the case, then get your fat fucking asses over here-- stop wasting time leaving a note every time Hobbes makes a hiney-burp.

Seriously-- why do we need a place to comment on comics webpages? What is it, exactly, about the daily happenings of Paige, Jason, the iguana, and Peter's blind girlfriend that moves people to spend time commenting on? Not only do people comment on the comics, but they engage in discourse and, sometimes, heated argument over a storyline, plot device or piece of dialogue in one of the comics. I mean: look at yourselves. You're commenting... on a comic. You're investing yourselves deeply enough to make an emotional reply based on the products of somebody else's imagination.

Is it just me, or is that a cry for help?

They leave comments for each other, they debate, the interpolate and extrapolate, they take it all far too seriously. Not only that, they leave comments for the cartoonists-- as if Bill Amend or Berkley Breathead (no, it's not pronounced that way) were trolling gocomics regularly, thirsting for the sentiments, requests, criticisms and comments spewed forth from the avatars of their fans. Word to the wise: they don't.

At least... I hope they don't.

Commenting on internet pages is an interesting phenomenon. Everybody wants their voices heard, and the internet, with its endless amounts of space provides room for everyone. This is good and bad. I don't want to talk out of both sides of my mouth, because, well, here I am, but still I feel like not every website in the universe needs a comment function (please comment on this).

Another example is newspaper websites.

You might be too young to remember this, but there once was a time that, if you read an article that moved you or that you didn't like, if something in a newspaper story caught your ire or your fancy, you took fifteen minutes out of your day to compose a letter to the editor. If said letter was even slightly articulate, remotely timely and/or partially logical, in a day or two, it might actually wind up in print in the Editorial/Opinion Page. This, dear children, is how people used to make their voices heard. Now, every slackass shitstain with an IP address and at least one free hand can make an offensive, idiotic, irrelevant, oftentimes abusive comment on a newspaper's webpage.

The Oakland Tribune's website has the following message before each of its comment sections:

"Please keep your comments respectful of others by avoiding name-calling and other inappropriate remarks."

You're tempted to think, is that really necessary? Are we little children? Can we really not be trusted to behave ourselves on the online comment section of a newspaper? Must we be told to "avoid name-calling and other inappropriate remarks?"

Name-calling?

Really?

Really.

I'd post some of the unbelievably obscene, ridiculous, hurtful and just plain fucking stupid comments people made after the four police officers in Oakland were gunned down, but why give these questionable individuals more webspace than they deserve?

I know we all have things to say, and that we're all just dying to be heard, but can't we find more constructive ways to speak our minds than by commenting on the quality of the birthday gift Andy Fox got for her husband-- or by spewing racist venom all over America's failing newspaper websites?

I mean, just who's listening anyway?