As the Saying Goes...

There is an old Chinese saying that goes: "He who swims in the soup ends up with noodles in his ears."

Actually, there isn't such a saying—or wasn't until now—because I just made it up. But there ought to be, don't you think?







Old Chinese proverbs are very useful because they contain lessons about life, the universe, and everything else—rather like the writings of the sagacious Douglas Adams. Douglas was not Chinese and, sadly, he did not live to be old. But had he lived longer, Chinese or not, we would all be wealthier for his wisdom and our lives would be more jolly for his humor. One might say the same of Kurt Vonnegut, but for the part about dying young (eighty-four: not too bad).

People seem to respond to old Chinese proverbs with nodding heads and knowing smiles and to remember and repeat them because they contain (or seem to contain) useful wisdom wrapped in wit and tied with concise little bows: good things in small packages that can be kept in a pocket and handed out to those who need them.

I understand that people tend to believe these old aphorisms partly because they are old and have survived the tests that time gives all ideas. They have gotten the thumbs-up of many generations, so there must be something to them and they must deserve our respect and merit our consideration.

Nevertheless, I believe we need more of them—new old Chinese sayings—because, as we all think we know, contemporary humans have small attention spans, so brevity appeals to us. Short messages, such as "Liberals are Nazi Communists," and "global warming is a fraud," are about the only kind to which we are able to give our attention these days, so some new pithy proverbs ought to be highly marketable and well received.

We also need new old Chinese sayings because the world has changed. There are probably old Chinese proverbs still on the books that are no longer meaningful or relevant to us. Take, for example: "He who plants the okra may frighten the fish." This saying perplexes contemporary Americans, as most have no idea what it means and can take no value from it.

(Full disclosure: the foregoing is not an authentic old Chinese proverb. Once again, I have just now made it up—but only because I am not sufficiently familiar with the full canon to cite a real one that is anachronistic to modern Westerners. I am sure there are plenty of them, though, and the okra and fish thing will have to do for now. I use it only to make a point, and I think it does that rather well if somewhat fraudulently.)

The point I intended to make with it is this: we could do with some new old Chinese sayings that are more relevant to our times.

For example, the ancient Chinese would never have been able to write: "When one sleeps on the Internet, a peasant in Kosovo can hear the snoring." I have not yet figured out exactly what that proverb might mean, but I know that no philosopher of old Heilongjiang province could have come up with it because Kosovo did not exist until February 17, 2008.

Now, modern American businesspeople are fond of garish and moderately witty language such as, "let's drill down on this," and "we need to facilitate cross-pollination," and "I don't have the bandwidth," and "go after the low-hanging fruit." They use this kind of metaphorical language, with no apparent embarrassment, in writing and speeches and informal chats. But these are only phrases in the off-the-shelf business-speak "toolbox" that people use to simulate sagacity and imply their membership in the International Confederation of Way Cool Business Obfuscators. No harm in that: valid motives and worthwhile pursuits, I suppose.

Imagine, though, the prestige and admiration one might enjoy by developing a habit to coin entire new platitudes: full sentences, not mere phrases; complete and tidy aphorisms, unfathomably deep and containing axiomatic meanings. To engage in such a practice might lift one, in the eyes of one's peers, from middle management functionary to philosopher king—with all the attendant rights and privileges. With time, one might gain a reputation as a maker of maxims, not a gabbering mockingbird, but a soaring inventor of the next cliché—and the one after that.

The Nation needs you, builders of platitudes, seers of sayings, oracles of adage. Go forth and speak whole truths in tiny packets. And, if you fear the prospect of embarrassment, preface your own invented wisdom with the words: "As an old Chinese proverb tells us..." No one will know.

Intelligent Selection

So I dropped into the Bar and Grille a bit ago to have a pop with the guys and the place was pretty full so I had to take a stool right next to Handel Miller. Now Handle used to clerk down at Standard Plumbing and Hardware until it closed because the new U-Do-It supermart opened up and took away all their business. Handel might have gone to work there but chose instead to retire and now he spends his days at the O.K. Barber Shop talking philosophy and politics with the boys until five o-clock when he moves over to the Bar and Grille to do the same thing.

As I climbed onto a stool I raised a finger to Manny behind the bar and he nodded and picked up a glass for my drink.

"Well, Bob, how you doin'?" asked Handel.

"Well, okay I guess, Handel and how be you?"

He thought for a while and then put his hand on my knee and leaned in real close. "I figured out you was right, Bob."

I raised a skeptical eye and waited for the next shoe to drop as Manny put a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me and sat my scotch down. "Cheers, man," he said in kind of an ironic "good luck with Handel, there, pal," kind of way.

"But," said Handel, "You was only half-right." Clunk went the shoe.

"Well, now, Handel, I am mighty glad to be batting .500 in your book, but do tell me just what it is I was right about and why only half way?"

"That E-vilution thing we was talkin' about. Remember?"

I did. Handel had said Darwin was full of it and evolution was only a theory and a bad one at that. And I had made some irreverent remarks about the flaws in the notion of intelligent design. These are things one doesn't talk about, surely not with Handel, unless one has been at the Bar and Grille for a while and had their drinks refreshed by Manny more than a couple of times. I remembered the discussion and calculated that I'd had about three, maybe four, drinks by the time Handel had got me trying to reason with him about what science is and what religion isn't and whether intelligent design was just a crock. And now Handel was back on the subject again and I was insufficiently fortified as yet to get engaged in a conversation about it. But I had no choice.

"See, what you was right about, Bob, is mutilation could of made us go from bein' monkeys to bein' men over a long lot of years."

"Mutation," I said. "Genetic mutation."

"Right. I get that. I see your point."

"Well, now that's one for me, Handel. And I believe I'll have another. Manny?"

"So I get that everything was the same itty bitty creature way back then and the genetics got all mutilated and some of them mutilations survived and they got mutilated a little bit more. And so on. And so on. All down through the vast recipes of time."

"Yeah, that's about it in a nutshell," I replied.

"So that's why it is there's you an' me sittin' here at this bar instead of us bein' a couple monkeys up a tree."

"One way to put it," I said.

"So there ain't no supreme intelligent designer workin' it all out in advance."

"Yeah. So you agree with that," I said, "But where is it I got it only half right?"

"Now, Bob, where you are wrong is that you say it was all accidental like."

It sounded to me like Handel hadn't quite got the point, but I urged him on as Manny swapped out my empty glass for a full one. "Why's that, Handel?"

"Well, you called it 'natural selection,' right?"

I nodded.

"Well that can't be no accident, see?"

I did not see.

"Look," he explained, "I pick me my five numbers and one mega number twice a week now for, what, 10 or 15 years? I make a selection, right?"

I nodded again.

"And not once -- not ONCE in all that time did I ever pick the right ones an' win the jackpot. And it ain't just me. Why all across this great State of ours there's millions of people picking their numbers twice a week. An' sometimes, like right now, weeks and weeks'll go by and not one of those millions picks the right numbers."

"Well, Handel," I said with growing patience, "the odds are against you. I've told you that more than once."

"Exactly! So if all of us, who aren't exactly dumb as doornails can't pick the right selection, then what does it take to do that?"

He waited quite some time for an answer, but I offered none.

"A super intelligent selector, that's what."

Handel drained his drink. "See, there's this supreme being -- now I ain't sayin' it's 'God' or anythin', call it what you want -- but there's this supreme being that is an intelligent selector. An' He goes, 'Well, now, I will select this here critter because it will survive and all them others won't.' See? He knows! Nine times outa ten He is right, by golly."

He turned to squint at the teevee above the bar, seeming at once very satisfied with his logic but still intently working on the problem; you could tell he was thinking pretty hard by the way he squinted. The teevee played the Manchester Dog Show because there weren't any other sports on at the time.

Then, all of a sudden, Handel had one of those Eureka! moments and his eyes bugged out and a grin came to his face. "In fact!" he said, "He is never wrong."

I took a sip and was about to say something, but Handel slipped off his stool and stood unsteadily, preparing to leave. "You show me one critter, just one, or one single vegetable on this here Earth today that did not survive." He paused and swayed and tried to keep his balance. "Can't do it, can you?"

"Well..."

"Intelligent selection." Handle cackled a little bit and began to totter toward the door. I said, "Well, now, Handel if you want to see a whole quarter acre of plants that aren't surviving, you just come on over to my back yard."

He weaved his way toward the exit and turned back in my direction. "Well, Bob, that's because you spend too much time sprayin' and not enough prayin'." And he let out a little "Hah!" as he stumbled out the door.

The List

I must have been quite a sight when I hobbled into the Bar and Grille the other night all scrunched over from an aching back. “Well, now, Bob,” said Pat McGinty from his perch at the end of the bar, “Aren’t you a sight, all bent over like that.”

I gave a thumbs-up to Manny behind the bar and he began to fix my drink.

“So what’s the problem with you? Got an achy back or some such?” asked Pat.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “Damned back. I’ve been in pain all day and it’s killing me.”

“You take anything for it?” he asked.

I told him I had some pills at home and I planned to take one as soon as I got there and maybe that would do the trick. I said I thought maybe an ice pack would help.

Manny put my drink down on the bar and I took a sip as Pat frowned and shook his head. “These pills,” he said, “pretty strong, are they?”

Well they are pretty strong. I got them from a doctor in Mexico last time I was there and had a similar backache. This doctor specialized in treating everything from acne to broken bones with a laser. He offered me the option of three laser treatments at forty dollars American each or a bottle of pills at thirty for the lot. I had opted for the pills and not just because I’m so cheap. Pills I can understand, but a machine that shines invisible light to perform a miraculous cure was a bit beyond my skeptical nature.

“Pretty strong stuff,” I said, “They’ve done the job before.”

Pat shook his head again and advised me to have a bite to eat before taking a strong pill like that. “I’ve taken many a pill,” he said, “what with all the aches and pains I get on the job. And just about every one they say you got to have it with a meal. So I think you ought to have a little supper before you swallow one of those things.”

He was right, of course, and I remembered those were the Mexican doctor’s instructions, too. “I’ll do that, Dr. Pat,” I said, “Maybe I’ll drop by your wife’s café on my way home and get a sandwich to go.”

Pat thought a sandwich would be well advised, but in his opinion the right thing to eat would be the chicken tetrazzini that his wife had on special that day. “That’s a better meal for supper than a sandwich,” he said, “Not that her sandwiches aren’t good, but for supper I’d sure recommend the chicken.” He took a swallow of his beer and went on, “It’s only eight or nine bucks, so for a couple dollars more than a sandwich you get a regular meal. And it comes with French bread.”

“Well, Pat,” I said, taking out my scratch pad, “I’ll make a note of that, ‘chicken tetrazzini.’”

“Then take your pill, not before,” said Pat, draining his beer.

For his free medical advice I bought Pat another beer and told Manny I’d go again myself, not wanting the Irishman to have to drink alone. “Then I’ll put on an ice pack after the pill,” I said, “That sometimes gives me a little relief.”

We clicked our glasses and sipped our drinks. “You know,” I said, “sometimes a soak in the hot tub works, too.”

“Well,” said Pat, “I’d do the hot tub before the ice pack. Then I’d go to bed and by morning, why, you’ll probably feel just fine.”

I sure hoped so. With the wife gone for a few days I had a lot of chores to do around the house, plus my regular work. When I thought about all that, I remembered I had to feed the dog when I got home and we were a little low on kibble. “Geez,” I said, “I have to go by the market and pick up some dog food on the way home.”

“Seems like you have quite a full night ahead of you, Bob,” said Pat.

Now I am well known around my house for the lists I make of things to do. In fact it is a matter of some amusement for my wife. Every Saturday morning I jot down a list of chores for the weekend, just so I remember what has to be done. When I head to the market or the hardware store I make a list of everything I need to buy. If it isn’t on the list, it doesn’t get done or it doesn’t get bought. There’s a better chance it will if it’s on the list. Not a one hundred percent chance, mind you, but better than even.

“You’ve got that right, Pat,” I said. “Maybe I ought to write this stuff down.”

“In order,” said Pat.

“In order to what?” I asked.

“I mean, you ought to write it down in the order you need to do it. Otherwise you could take your pill before you eat or put the ice pack on before you get in the hot tub.”

He sure had a point. My list for the night was already started with the words “chicken tetrazzini” so I picked up there and added the next item: “dog food.” Then I wrote on separate lines, “eat supper, pill, hot tub, ice.”

“Now, Bob,” said Pat as he looked at my list, “you’re not going to forget to go to bed if it isn’t on your list, are you?”

I laughed as though Pat were pulling my leg, and I wrote “bed” at the bottom of the list.

“Good,” he said. “And I believe I’m ready for another beer and it’s my turn to buy so drink up.”

Manny brought us two more and asked, “What is it you two are working on over here?”

Pat explained that I had a big night ahead of me with a lot of things to do and I was making a list just so I would not forget anything.

“Good idea,” said Manny. “I see it says ‘chicken tetrazzini’ here at number one. So what is it about chicken tetrazzini?”

Well, Manny had a good point; the noun was missing a verb. “I’m going to pick some up at that Chat ‘N Chew on the way home,” I explained.

“Oh. Gotcha.” said Manny. “I just didn’t know. Kind of unclear, if you ask me. But, hey, it’s your list.”

So I squeezed in the words “pick up” before “chicken tetrazzini.”

Pat was impressed by Manny’s contribution to the effort and looked hard at the list for other possible improvements. “Dog food,” he said. “So what about the dog food? You gonna buy it, or you gonna give it to the dog?”

“Now, Pat,” I said, “That seems pretty clear; I got no dog food so I am gonna have to buy it, now aren’t I.”

“Well,” he said, “Long as you know what it means. It ain’t my list, it’s yours.” He took a long draw on his beer. “But if it was me, I’d say, ‘buy dog food.’ Just to be for sure.”

So I wrote “buy” ahead of dog food. “Is ‘eat supper’ clear enough for you fellows?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s pretty straightforward,” said Pat.

“Some of your best writing,” said Manny, “but what is this ‘pill’ thing?”

I told Manny about my bad back and how I was going to take a pill and he offered his sympathy and his opinion that, if I planned to take a pill I ought to write down ‘take’ or there might be some confusion as to whether this was something else I was supposed to buy or an instruction to myself to swallow some medicine.

“Take” went in ahead of pill.

“If you need ice, “ said Manny, “you can take that off your list here because I can give you a bag here from behind the bar.”

I told him I had plenty of ice at home and knew the recipe to make some if I should run short. “I’m going to put an ice pack on my back,” I said. “That’s what ‘ice’ is for.”

“Could a’ had me fooled,” said Manny. “But, you know, it’s your list. It’s just that…”

“Okay, Manny. You are the editor of this piece here, you and Pat, so if you say I ought to write down ‘put ice pack on back,’ then that’s what I will do.” I made the correction as suggested, but it was kind of difficult to write the words small enough to fit in, yet large enough to be legible.

Pat took some offense to my tone. “Well, Bob, we’re not tryin’ to be littie-airy critics, here, we just want to be sure you can make sense of this here list of yours when you get yourself home after a few pops here at the Bar and Grille. Just tryin’ to be helpful, you know.”

“My bad,” I said, “No offense taken and just to prove it, this one’s on me and Manny you have yourself one of those Patron’s you like.”

None of us said much for the next few minutes as Pat and I sucked on our drinks and Manny shot down his jigger of Patron and went to the other end of the bar to greet a new customer. When he came back, Manny noticed Pat’s wrinkled brow and asked what he was thinking.

“Well, you know boys,” he said, “I think we’ve got Bob here a fine list now with not too many ambiguities that could lead to major disaster.”

I was relieved, but he went on, “Not too many,” he said. “Except for this item of ‘hot tub.’”

Manny and I both leaned over the list to see what Pat was talking about.

“You see,” said Pat, “here we got another of those noun things without it’s got a verb. Is that what you call it, Bob, a ‘verb’?”

Now that Pat had pointed it out, the oversight was terribly obvious. There sat the phrase “hot tub” without the company of a single other word or phrase expressing action, existence, or occurrence. Unlike the other items on the list that had been carefully revised for clarity, ‘hot tub’ was completely without predicate.

“This will not do,” said Manny. “What is it that you’re trying to say here about the hot tub? You need to think about that, Bob, it seems to me.”

“Well, I’m going to sit in it, you crazy bastards. What do you think I’m going to do with it?”

“If that’s what you mean, Bob,” said Pat, “then why don’t you say so? You need to articulate these things. As it stands, the phrase is vague. It’s a veritable swamp of vagueness.”

I suggested that two words do not a swamp make, but Manny offered the opinion, “only as an amateur at these kinds of things, but an avid reader,” that “hot tub” by itself lacked energy and could use some “goosing-up.”

By this time I needed to go to the men’s room, so I handed my pen to Pat and said he and Manny should just have at it while I relieved myself and I’d see what they came up with.

When I came back into the bar they had moved to a table and had called some of the other expert regulars in to offer opinions on diction, syntax, and subject-predicate agreement. Dolores was fussing with her hair and defending her opinion that the passive voice was not in all cases impermissible, while Reverend Mike argued the virtues of parallel construction.

Before I reached the table I realized that my back felt much better; I was no longer hunched over and felt only a minor discomfort – not the intense pain I’d experienced all day. I put a twenty and a ten on the bar, drained my drink, crunched an ice cube, and walked happily out the door.

I never got to read the final draft of my to do list, but I’ve heard that Manny has it pinned to the wall behind the bar, and I’ll have to drop by there in the next day or two to see how the thing came out.

But first I really do have to pick up some kibble for the dog.

The Honoree

So I am sitting in my office this afternoon waiting for an important phone call regarding the possibility of maybe actually getting some paying work, when the phone rings and I pick it up and this voice says, "Well, now, Mr. Kasaley..."

And of course I know that when they say "Mister" it is probably not a call I want to take and when they mispronounce my name so badly I know it is a call I will want to end as quickly as possible. But I nevertheless admitted, "Yes?"

"Mr. Kasaley," this woman says, "I am calling on behalf of Congressman So-and-So..." And I think, "Oh, boy, here it comes. How much do they want?"

"I am delighted to let you know..." And now I am very sure I want to end the call right now. "I am delighted to let you know that you have just been nominated..." Oh boy.

"...You have just been nominated by the Congressman on behalf of the Republican Party..." So I figure maybe they want to draft me up again and shoot me off to Iraq or something, but no.

"...on behalf of the Republican Party to be named as a member of the True and Solid Patriotic American Honorary Council of Honorees."

And I said, "The what?"

And she continued, "I am sure you must be thrilled and delighted with this great honor which you will be receiving in gratitude for all your many years of support of the United States of America as a true and solidly patriotic American Citizen of the private type. Right?"

"Well, now," I replied, "I am not quite sure exactly what it is you are talking about here, Missy."

And she responded with, "Well, Mr. uhhh... Kaliseyaly, you are in luck because I have here this recorded message from the Congressman which I would like to play for you and which will only take a moment of your valuable time. And then we can talk about you getting this great honor and all."

And I said, "Well, now, did the Congressman make this tape there in the prison, or did he make it before they threw him in the clink, or is he (I shudder at the thought) out on parole already?"

And she said, "Ummm.... What was that?"

And I said, "Well, never mind. But the fact is I really don't care to hear from the Congressman just now -- or ever, if you really want to know."

And she said, "Well, now Mr. uhhh... Kasiliylaly, why is that if I may ask?"

And I said, "That is because I am an anarchist."

There was a pause and I could hear some pages being flipped over on her end of the line, and then she said, "You are a what? What is that?"

I repeated that I was an anarchist and I asked her if she knew what a liberal was. She allowed as she did know what a liberal was, so what did that have to do with it? So I informed her that an anarchist is somebody who is very much more liberal than a liberal.

"So... you are a Democrat?"

"No, I am an anarchist. You see," I went on, "We anarchists don't believe in any kind of government at all. And furthermore we believe that all the Congressmen and -women that are not currently residing in a Federal Penitentiary ought to be put in one right away unless the laws of their State permit them to be shot on sight instead."

She thought about that a little while and then she said, "Well if you do not care to listen to this very nice tape recorded message I am sure the Congressman will be mighty disappointed, but perhaps we can just talk about this honor you will be getting as a nominee."

I said, "Well, now, Missy, I am not exactly experienced so much at getting any kind of honor and I don't recall ever being a nominee, so I would like to know something about what this entails. And I do have a specific question for you."

"Well, now, Mr. Klazkey, what would that question be?"

And I said, "Does this mean I have to go hunting with the Vice President?"

She said she didn't think that was a requirement. But I told her I'd appreciate it if she'd hang up and ask her supervisor -- just to be sure -- and call me back once she found out.

Too Much Sex

So the other day Lizzy sees on a teevee entertainment show called "Good Morning America" that there's a whole lot of kids coming up in the latest generation that are not going around having sex and that don't intend to have sex until they are incarcerated behind the bars of marriage.

According to Lizzy, the teevee personality who talked about this bit of shocking information said some social pseudo-scientists had cleverly dubbed this cohort "Generation Pure."

I guess that's a play on the designation "Generation X" which was given to the gang of youths who were becoming socially active in the 1960s and who, according to a 1964 British study, "sleep together before they are married, don't believe in God, dislike the Queen and don't respect parents." Sounds about right, as I remember those days.

Many of my peers back then didn't believe in God, and while quite a few might have had some respect for their own parents not many thought much of parents as a species. As for the Queen of England, I suspect that was more a concern in the British Isles, but on the sleeping-together-out-of-wedlock thing, most of us, both here and abroad, did not feel it happened quite often enough.

Anyway, Lizzy's report of the teevee's report of the pseudo-scientists' report got folks down at the Bar & Grille talking about this whole sex thing and some of the patrons offered up some doubt that very many young folks had been bit by the purity bug and further surmised that the whole thing was just a bit of teevee sin-sationalism. Then one of them went so far as to raise the contrary proposition that there was just too much sex going on these days so any movement toward purity, any movement at all, was a good sign.

Kenny's big head wobbled around a bit and his walrus body slumped back with a thud against the brass rail that demarked the never-used cocktail waitress station and when everybody looked over in his direction he plopped his shot glass down, slapped his other hand on the bar and bellowed, "Too much sex!" And waited for a response.

Everybody got real quiet and checked around to see what might stand between themselves and the door, then scanned one another's faces for advice on whether this might not be a good time to go home for dinner. After a moment or two I raised my glass to Kenny and offered a loud toast, "You are right there, Kenny, boy. Here's a toast: To Much Sex!"

After a few "here-here's," the night's stool-side seminar drew to a close with some rude comments whose purpose was to prove the commentators' virility, and ultimately ended with the general agreement that teevee was mostly horse-leavings anyway but there wasn't much harm in people thinking that folks were having too much sex these days.

Well since that night I have given some thought to what little I remember of that conversation down at the Bar and Grille and, while I sure don't want to cross Kenny or any other large and inebriated people who might agree with him, I have come to the conclusion that most people don't have sex often enough.

I think whenever they are moved by the impulse people ought to just go right ahead and have some. The more the better. Just so long as they don't do it in such a place or such a manner as might bring embarrassment to observers who are not in a position to derive benefit from the act themselves. (I do make another exception regarding people who are not sufficiently mature to understand and handle the emotional consequences of their activities, but only in the case of performances involving more than one person.)

For those who don't get moved by the impulse often enough (say, less than a few times a day), there are cures for that and I believe people ought to be encouraged to seek them, use them, and get on with the getting on of it.

I've found that sex is the sort of thing that improves dramatically with practice and with a modicum of dedication to its perfection. I have read professional opinions in ladies magazines and elsewhere that support that finding. So folks should know that the doing of it can lead, with not a great deal of effort or inconvenience, to the greater enjoyment of it and, thence, to the doing of even more of it. And I think that's a very excellent idea and the perfect outcome.

Of course there are natural limits arising from conflicting human needs for sleep and food and from social and economic necessities, but heck, not many people are going to exceed those limits to the point of fornicating to death.

So just let 'em be. Let 'em at it. Far better to be giving and/or deriving physical pleasure than to be inflicting pain and suffering on others. If all those I-raqy terrorists and Palestinian suicide bombers would spend more time with their pants down maybe there wouldn't be enough hours in the day to strap on a vest-full of explosives. Or maybe they would be grinnin' so much they would not feel the kind of free-floating animosity that brings one to that kind of act. Or maybe if they had enough virgins (or otherwise) in the here and now they wouldn't consider the rumored (and most likely fictitious) rewards of martyrdom to be so darned attractive.

I say we should all go for it as much as possible and without the slightest tickle of guilt. The world would be a much better place and folks would be more relaxed and the only ones to suffer might be the pharmaceutical companies that make anti-depressants and sleeping pills. And even those outfits could just switch over to cures for erectile dysfunction so that virile men could do something more than fling footballs through tire-swings, or cures for whatever the female equivalent is. Or—during the transitional period—smelling salts for the suffering religious fundamentalists who probably get laid plenty at home or the office or behind the pulpit but faint dead away when they hear about consenting unmarried adults doing whatever it is they might do in the privacy of their own homes, cars, or recreational vehicles. Big money potential in that last one.

Just Do It! That's what I say. Do it PLENTY, and encourage all your friends to do the same, with or without your generous assistance. But if they need help, why, step up and volunteer like a real friend. Give 'em a hand, if that's the part they want. Help folks out, because believe me people just don't get enough sex and they ought to have a great deal more of it.

Now, on the other hand, what people have too much of is babies.

"Fact" Finding

Here is an example of how you can find support on the Internet for virtually any belief you may hold. After an argument with my brother-in-law, with whom I share a residence, I found several articles on the important topic of our discussion: the proper way to install a roll of toilet paper. 

Most of the Web "experts" declared that the proper way  is the "over the top" method, supporting the B-I-L's stance on the subject. My preference though, due to years of habit, is the "under" method—the way my Mama taught me.

Undaunted, I continued researching until I landed on an article by Brian Mathis on his blog. I now consider Brian, who writes about technology, to be a renowned authority on this vital subject. And I consider myself fully vindicated, even though one site I viewed had surveyed its users and reported they preferred the "over" method by about 10:1.

Sad News From YouTube

Quelle dommage!

The Light Bulb

Everything is too difficult these days.

I had some work done on my car a couple weeks ago and they told me that one of the four brake lights was burned out so they removed it but did not have a replacement in stock as they don't see a lot of cars like mine. Carlos gave me the burned out bulb so I could see it was burned out and said, "Well, Bob, bring 'er on back down here tomorrow or the next day and we'll stick a new one in there for ya. No charge."

So I went back a couple days later in my other car to get the brakes on that one fixed because they were making an awful noise. And after they fixed the brakes and I paid them 787 dollars for that, I figured I could just take the new bulb home and stick it in the other car myself, so I said, "Say, Carlos, I seem to recall you owe me a bulb for my other car." And Carlos said, "Well, Bob, you got me dead to rights there, ol' buddy, but we kinda forgot to get a new one for ya. Now what number was that ol' burnt-out bulb we took out of 'er the other day? "

So I said, "I don't exactly know, Carlos, 'cause I left the bulb at home." And Carlos said, "Well, Bob, when you get home you just give us a call and give me the number and I'll get a new one and you can come on back down and we'll put 'er in there for ya."

So I started to drive home and got about half a block and the brakes were making an awful noise even more awful than the noise they were making before. Plus the brake pedal went all the way to the floor before the car would even think about stopping. This did not seem quite right.

So I turned around and drove back to the car place and when I drove in Carlos said, "Whoa!, Bob that don't sound right! I think you got a problem with them brakes we fixed." And I said, "You know, Carlos, I thought the same thing myself."

So Carlos had the boys check 'er out and, sure enough, they kinda forgot to do a thing or two when they fixed the brakes earlier that day, so Carlos said, "Well, Bob, just have a seat in there in the waiting room with the big fuzzy TV and the artificial coffee machine and watch Fox News and have a cup of artificial coffee on us while we make 'er right for ya."

So after half an hour or so of "Fair and Balanced" Carlos came into the waiting room and said, "Well, Bob, she's all done now and sorry about the trouble. And there's no more to pay than the 787 dollars you already paid." And I think he thought I was supposed to think he was being pretty generous about that.

So I got on home late for supper and I found the old bulb on the dresser under the cat and I called up the shop and this voice said, "Well, now, we're closed up and won't be open until tomorrow morning so give us a call back then."

Next morning I put the old bulb in the pocket of my old jeans and went to work and when I got there I picked up the phone and dialed up my old buddy Carlos and when he answered I said, "Howdy, Carlos, this is Bob and I got that bulb here to give you the number." And he said, "Bob? Well, now, what Bob is that and what bulb are you talking about?"

So I told him the story just like I told you and he said, "Oh, yeah. Bob. I remember now. So what was the number on that bulb and I'll order one up for ya." And I reached down into the pocket of my jeans. Now there is a reason I don't often wear those jeans even though they are my favorite pair and that has to do with the fact that there is a little hole in the pocket of those jeans that small things, say the size of a brake light bulb, can slip through and never be seen again except by some guy walking down the street who says, "Well, now, lookit this, what have we here? Why it seems to be a burnt-out bulb of some kind."

So I said to Carlos, "You know Carlos, there seems to be a little complication here and I guess I don't really have that bulb any more." And Carlos said, "Well, Bob, you can just pull out one of the other bulbs and read the number off of it and it'll be the same number."

But I did not have that car with me at the office, of course, so I said, " I'll get back to you on that tomorrow or so, Carlos." And Carlos said, "Good enough, Bob. We are here to serve you."

So when I got home I went down in the garage and I took another brake light bulb out of the car and went back upstairs and called up Carlos and he happened to be there and he said, "Well, Bob, I'll order up that bulb and you can come on down here tomorrow afternoon and we'll put 'er in there for ya."

Now it was kind of complicated to get that bulb out of the car the way they make those things these days, so I figured I'd just let the boys down at the shop put both those bulbs back in there, the one that was burned out and the good one that had supplied the number.

So the next day I drove the car with both missing brake light bulbs to the office and I left work early and went over to the shop and Carlos wasn't there. So I said to one of Carlos's boys, "Hello there. I'm Bob and Carlos said he ordered a bulb for my car and you boys would put it in there for me, but I don't see Carlos around here this afternoon."

And one of Carlos's boys, the tall one with the beard and the deep voice, said, "Well, now sir, you are right on the money on that one; Carlos is not here and I don't know nothin' about this bulb you are talkin' about and from the looks of that car we don't normally have those bulbs and we would have to order it up for ya." So I said, "But you see Carlos said he already ordered up a bulb so it must be around here someplace."

And as he was just about to shake his head another one of Carlos's boys who was busy wiping the grease off his hands with a dirty red rag said, "You know I think the man is right because I heard Carlos say he got that bulb and he put it in the office on his desk in there in case this man come back to get the bulb put in."

And a third one of Carlos's boys joined the circle of us standing around a grease spot there in the middle of the shop and he said, "That's right. That bulb is in Carlos's office because I seen it in there myself just after lunch."

And the first one made kind of a humming sound and thought about that while he took a pack of smokes out of his shirt pocket and put one in his mouth. And after he lit it up and took a suck of his smoke he said, "Well now that's a good thing." And then he coughed a bit before he went on, "but the bad thing is, you see, Carlos's office is all locked up now and he won't be back until Tuesday, you see, because he is off fishing until then."

Now of course nobody had a spare key for Carlos's office and I said that did not seem like a very smart way to run a business and they all agreed that, no, that wasn't a good idea but that was how Carlos wanted it: only one key and that one in Carlos's pocket.

So when Tuesday rolled around I drove the car with the two brake lights missing over to Carlos's shop and he said, "Well now, Bob, where you been? I got this brake light here for 'ya, so pull 'er right up into the bay here and we'll stick 'er in there for 'ya."

And I said, "Well, thank you Carlos I'm glad to hear that and I wonder if you got the time to stick in the other bulb I pulled out of there to check the number." And Carlos said he sure did and that would be no problem at all.

So as I asked him if he'd caught any fish I reached down into the pocket of my favorite old jeans.

And then I said to Carlos, "Well, now, Carlos, you wouldn't happen to have another one of those bulbs now would you? And Carlos said, "Well, no, just this one. But I could order one for 'ya."

Big Betty

Eddie deRoos has been famous around here for a while because of his big chicken.

It sits in a nest out by the highway nodding its head and every minute or two it raises its left wing and wags it around. You can't miss it. A twenty foot tall chicken, wagging a wing, is not something you pass without taking notice, and that's the point. It was meant to advertise "The Coop" -- a joint that was known for its fried chicken, fries and home-brewed beer until it burned down last April.

The big hen is all that remains of the place and some folks think it's outlived whatever usefulness it once had. Many of those have always been less than fond of what they called "The Monster Chicken," or "The Big Duck," and agree with the local paper's original review of the thing, which was headlined: "DeRoos-ter lays an egg."

Others think the bird ought to be preserved and they've started a "Save the Chicken" foundation to raise the necessary funds and encourage the County to exercise imminent domain over the property on which the chicken sits, make the hen a landmark, and pay for its upkeep. DeRoos is ambivalent about the idea because he's moved on to other, bigger, things.

I ran into Eddie down at Martha's Koffee Kup the other day and when I slid into the booth across from him I asked what news he had about the chicken and the controversy surrounding it.

DeRoos is a tall, lanky man nearing fifty, with an angular face, bad teeth, and curly blond hair. His long eyelashes flutter over darting eyes, and you'd expect a kind of intensity about a man that looks like that. But Eddie speaks softly and moves like a fellow who has all the time in the world and no place special to go.

"Well, now, Bob," he said, "It sure does have folks up in arms, and I suppose that is one of the things that real art is supposed to do."

I reiterated to Eddie that I had always been fond of the thing and always made a point to take visitors for a drive down the highway so they could appreciate it, even if that meant going out of my way.

DeRoos wondered if "going out of my way" meant I never had any intention of treating my guests to dinner at The Coop, and I had to admit that was the case. "Well, Eddie, fried foods don't sit right with me, you know, and besides -- just between us -- I tried their beer once and found it to be a little bit anemic."

"See, that's the problem," said Eddie. "The whole idea was to get folks into the place to spend some money and use up some of the beer they made there. And from that perspective it was a colossal failure. Why in all my years as a commercial artist I never did have a failure of such proportions."

I held up a hand and caught Martha's eye to let her know I could use some coffee and she got the point right away. "And you, Mister deRoos? More coffee?" She poured me a cup, refilled his and asked if we needed anything else but we told her we were good.

"Actually, though, Bob," Eddie said as he poured the first of three packets of sweetener in his cup, "Maybe the problem wasn't with the big chicken but with the product."

"You think?" I said.

"See, some guy who was a big-time New York advertiser said once that nothing can kill a bad product faster than good advertising. Get everybody to try it by building up their expectations, and if the product don't deliver... Well, they run to the hills and you never see 'em again."

We agreed that the failure of The Coop was not the fault of the Big Chicken, and maybe the fire was the best thing that ever happened to the place.

"Yeah," said Eddie, "I guess it was a blessing in disguise. They didn't have to go belly-up. Blame the old water heater or wiring or whatever it was started that fire."

I asked Eddie if he'd decided to come down one way or the other on the "Save the Chicken" issue, and he replied that it still didn't much matter to him because his mind, these days, was elsewhere. And when I asked him just exactly where his mind was, he reached down under the table and brought up a rolled-up set of plans for his next work of commercial art.

"This, here, is the next big thing," he said, as I moved my coffee cup aside to make room for the plans. "This here is gonna make folks forget about the Big Chicken altogether, if I can get 'er built somehow. 'Cause this here is my opus maximus." He leaned across the table in my direction, "That's Latin for my "biggest work."

It was magnificent. I should say "she" was magnificent. She looked a bit like Wonder Woman but, instead of wearing red, white and blue in a patriotic motif she was dressed in khaki shorts and a t-shirt with a Shell Oil Company logo above her left breast. There was a baseball cap on her head and it featured an identical logo. The way she was drawn she seemed to be waving her right hand and in her left she held a placard reading "V-Power."

"My goodness," I said, "And what exactly is 'V-Power?'"

Eddie said he wasn't quite sure, but thought it had something to do with a kind of gasoline, and it didn't matter anyway because the whole Shell Oil Company thing was just an example of the possibilities for Big Betty.

"And you call her 'Big Betty' because why?"

"Well she's big, of course, forty-two feet tall, and the 'Betty' is just for the alliteration. 'Big Betty.' I think it has a kind of ring to it."

It did have a ring to it and it sounded a lot less comical than "Big Chicken." Yes, this was a serious work and I could see why deRoos considered it his opus maximus. "So," I asked, "Do you have a commission for this? Have you shown it to Shell?"

Eddie said, no, while it had been his original intention to approach the Shell Oil Company he had not been able to get in the door there nor at their advertising agency and he had pretty much decided on a different approach this time around. "She's gonna be for rent, like a standard billboard. See, I plan to build her and install her down the highway near where the Big Chicken is by the Christmas tree farm. I talked with Daryl about that already and he's good to go, for a piece of the business."

Daryl had been a schoolmate of Eddie and a few years ago he had inherited the family's nursery and turned it into a Christmas tree farm and, in the fall, a pumpkin patch. He had always been a promoter and was good at dreaming up ways of attracting attention to his various business ventures. Some pumpkin patches, for example, offered pony rides to kids, but Daryl did not think that was sufficiently imaginative. So he bought out a failing circus and moved the exotic animals to the nursery and offered the kiddies a chance to ride a camel or a llama or an elephant. Daryl was one of the prime movers behind the "Save the Chicken" organization, not because he was a connoisseur of chickens or commercial art but because he thought the attraction was good for business.

"See, Betty's clothes can come off and you can dress her up any way you want to." Eddie flipped the plans to the next page and there was Betty dressed up like a United Airlines flight attendant holding a plane ticket in her left hand.

When I nodded and said, "United..." Eddie turned the page and there she was outfitted like a FedEx delivery person holding up that company's familiar overnight envelope.

"Now, her right hand," Eddie explained, "that's always waving, nice and friendly. But you can put whatever you want in the left one. And, like I said, her clothes come off."

I told Eddie that was something I'd pay money to see, as Betty was quite the looker and very healthy around the chest.

"That's what I'm countin' on," said Eddie. "See, she's gonna attract a lot of attention when she's all decked out like a service station attendant or a FedEx gal or whatever." He noted that, while it wasn't apparent from the drawings, she also winked her right eye in a slow, seductive kind of way, "But the real publicity comes when we change her clothes."

Eddie figured every teevee station and newspaper would send a photographer out to grab a shot of Betty whenever she was getting changed. "Being as she is a perfect woman, anatomically speaking, I figure her tits are gonna be flashed on every teevee screen and splashed on the front page of every feature section whenever we strip her down and give her a new identity."

I thought about that for a moment and it did seem to be a likely scenario, but I had to ask, "Well, now, Eddie, if she is as you say 'anatomically perfect' there is another part of that anatomy that might not be too apropos for a family newspaper or the six o'clock news. So, might that work against you? Just a bit?"

Eddie grinned and, vigorously shaking his head, he flipped to the last page of his plans. There was Betty, standing as before but naked from the waist up. Her breasts were something to behold; perfectly formed and as pretty as a pair of three-foot diameter breasts could ever be. And in front of her, hiding whatever there was below her waist, was an enormous three-paneled Victorian dressing room screen decorated with pink cherubs and iris blossoms. Betty's feet could be seen below the screen and surrounding them, laying on the ground, was an enormous pair of bright red lace panties.

"You see, Bob," said Eddie, "Sometimes it's better to leave things to the imagination."

"Yes," I said as I finished my coffee and slid out of the booth, "The imagination is a wonderful thing."