Free Flowin’

One of the more disturbing job tasks that the workers I supervise periodically complete is observing clients submit to urine drug tests. No, I don’t mean the workers hand them the cup, they enter the bathroom, void their bladders and then bring us the sample. Oh no, we actually get the distinct pleasure of being locked inside a small bathroom with some of the grungiest, most pungent smelling individuals in our community, the smells of their seldom washed nether regions attacking our nasal passage like an unstoppable invading army. The awkward circumstances of violating another’s personal space in the most private of rooms then reaches unparalleled levels of vileness as our eyes must fix upon a stranger’s genetalia while they let loose with torrential outpourings of kidney-filtered golden solutions that cascade from their fleshy flumes into awaiting plastic receptacles, all in the name of verifying that the client provided a “legitimate” sample. Knowing that many potential employees would shy away from applying for a job that requires completing such a task, the governmental agency I work for is clever enough to omit this from the essential job functions listed on the job classification description, and instead they insert the vague statement “other job duties as assigned”, knowing they can add just about any disgusting duty they want, up to and including the aforementioned drug testing, which is little more than legalized voyeurism.

One of the greatest perks of becoming a supervisor in our agency is the greatly reduced amount of client contact, and therefore escaping the torment of urination observation. While I certainly do not revel in the misfortune of the workers who must perform this task on a repeated basis, I’m not going to lie and say that I longingly pine for the days when I was required to stare at another man’s member while he urinated into a collection vial. Although drug testing is no longer part of my normal daily routine at work, given the limited number of men that work at my particular office, I am sometimes asked by female coworkers to drug test male clients for them. A few days ago, a coworker asked me to drug test a client for them, and as I was unable to make up some excuse as to why I was so busy I could not do so (note to self: keep a bogus stack of papers that is labeled “Immediate Attention Needed” for time such as these), I agreed to test the client. I was introduced to Jim (name changed for anonymity’s sake. I know, you readers would have picked Peter. Har, har, har. I refuse to use such low brow humor in my blog. OK, who am I kidding? I am sure there will be some terribly crass humor coming up shortly). Jim seemed to be a normal enough guy, dressed in a shirt and tie, and not emitting a particularly malodorous scent, which I counted as a definite plus. I led Jim to the bathroom, confirming that he had drug tested for our agency before (I do this in case I need to explain to any drug testing virgins why the creepy employee guy is following them into the bathroom). After we entered, I closed the door behind us, and listened to the metal on metal clank that reverberated from the deadbolt with a note of finality that ricocheted between the tiled surfaces of the lavatory. I handed Jim the plastic cup to collect his sample, and he turned toward the toilet. I then heard the distinct sound of the interlocked teeth of his zipper becoming unhinged from one another, and I half expected to hear the overhead speaker spark to life with the classic adult film theme “bow chicka bow wow” and a seedy sounding baritone croon out, “Cool Ranter and Richard Fitswell star in….Bathroom Buddies 2: Toilet Time.”

The next two minutes, which seemed like two hours, included Jim staring at the wall, frustration mounting in his face as his uncooperative urethra unrelentingly held onto it’s liquid captive with a vice-like grip. My heart really went out the poor, exasperated guy as the begging began. There is really nothing sadder than a grown man pleading “come on, come on” with his stubborn, hanging appendage. If not for needing to maintain a level of professionalism, I would have summoned up my best pep rally cheerleader voice, gotten down at his waist level, and encouraged him, “Come on little Jimmy, you can do it! We’ve got urine, yes we do. We’ve got urine, how bout you!?” But instead I was relegated to helpless bystander as another two miuntes passed by at a snail’s pace.

At this point, the awkwardness of the silence was unbearable, and I tried to give Jim an out by asking if he wanted to go wait outside, drink some water, and try in a few minutes. Jim, who apparently was as stubborn as his urinary tract, and was not going to admit defeat, declined my offer and asked that I turn on the faucet. Ah yes, the old running water would certainly help I thought, and I agreed to do that. Well, it worked all right, but not for Jim. Being in the bathroom with the running water made me have to pee. I half-contemplated telling Jim to step aside, let me provide his sample, and we could just both be on our way.

Another two minutes passed, and as nice a guy Jim was, I was just about ready to be finished with our alone time. Hell, I would have massaged his kidneys and sang him a toddler’s potty song at that point if it would have helped him urinate. Jim soon gave a meager sample, and said “I managed to squeeze out a little bit.” I knew he meant he had used every ounce of energy in his pelvic muscles to expel the urine, but his statement made me think of a wild-eyed Jim choking the life out of his penis, forcefully wringing it like a barely damp rag until it released a few droplets of liquid waste product. Jim and I then parted ways, he out the front door of the office, and I back to my desk to immediately begin creating my “Immediate Attention Needed” stack of papers.

Couch Surfing 2: The Unwelcome Surfer

***You may be interested in reading my original post Stranger Danger: Bring It on Home, however it really only serves to explain the title of today's post, and is not required reading to understand the content of the post itself.  So read it, don't read it, who cares.  Sorry, feeling crabby today.***

Have you ever been scared? No, I mean absolutely terrified. Not “Oh ding dang it. I am at the back of the line and might not get tickets for opening night of the new Harry Potter movie and will be the social outcast amongst my social outcast friends” scared. I am talking about “absolutely freaked out, hair standing on edge, fight or flight in full effect, pee running down your leg, holy hell the condom broke” scared. At approximately 5:30 a.m. yesterday morning, I felt the sleep-interrupting sensation of needing to use the restroom. After using the facilities, I stumbled into the living room on my way to grab a drink of water for my parched throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a glimmer of light cascading between the door frame and my front door. I immediately cursed myself for leaving the door unlocked overnight, and figured that the bag of trash I had left on the door to be taken out in the morning had pulled down on the handle and the door had come ajar. I closed the door and then relocked it. I trudged into the kitchen, got a quick sip of water, and started to walk back to my bedroom. And then there, in the living room illuminated by a mix of moonlight and the first glimpses of sunlight, was a human figure, lying recumbent on my couch. My heart began to accelerate as I did a double take, rubbed my eyes cartoon-style to make sure I was not dreaming, and reopened them to find the shadowy figure still reclining on my sofa. I initially considered the figure might be my son “T”, but realized the individual was much taller, and this was definitely an adult individual. I immediately asked in a hushed angry whisper so as not to wake up T, “Who are you? Who the hell are you?” The slumbering individual only responded with the tell-tale “uuuunnnnn” (man, I hate trying to spell out sounds) of a teenager that refuses to be woken up for school on a Monday morning after an exhausting weekend of gallivanting about town with his friends. It was clear to me this individual was asleep, but I still stayed on guard in the event my apartment had been broken into by a team of criminals, and this individual’s partner was hiding somewhere in the apartment. I quickly scanned the other rooms in the house, and found no one else present. Being convinced that my unexpected visitor was in a deep sleep, and had no accomplice hiding in the shadows waiting to slit me from guts to gullet, I decided that I would approach him and wake him up. However, before taking a step closer, I took stock of my lack of clothing. While I had not been sleeping in the buff, awaking a sleeping individual who is obviously in the wrong place in only your undergarments is probably not the wisest of choices, and may cause unnecessary trauma. Further, if I were to awaken him and he went crazy, even though I would not be involved in a naked fist fight, more clothing would be nice if things went awry. (Side note: never get into a naked fight as a male. While you may believe you have an extra advantage as this provides you with an additional appendage with which to flail around at your opponent, doing so with any efficiency or accuracy requires the masterful hip gyrations of a world class hula-hooper. Further, even in it’s most rigid of states, it would certainly cause more pain to the attacker than the attackee if you were skillful, or lucky, enough to land a strike using this technique.)

I quickly retreated to my room to slip on a pair of shorts and a shirt. In my younger days, I collected swords, and still had two stashed on an upper ledge in my closet. As I was still uncertain of what I was going to encounter in the living room, I decided to go Feudal Lord of Japan style, and selected a samurai sword as my self-defense weapon of choice. I crept back into the living room, sword unsheathed with its hardened steel blade glistening in the early morning light. (Yes, I am trying to be heroic in my retelling of the story, but looking back, at that exact moment in time, I was still scared fecaless). The figure still lay on the couch, his position relatively unchanged, save for a leg that was now dangling off the edge. In my mind, I considered my options: 1) jump on the guy, sever his jugular with the sword and let the police sort it out, 2) grab T, run out the front door and then down the street screaming for the police like a couple of heroines escaping a blood bath at the satanic old farm house from a 1980’s horror movie or 3) just try and wake the guy without T hearing us, having him walk into the living room, and then freaking out about a stranger being in the apartment. I inched closer to the guy to attempt to wake him without totally freaking him out. I got close enough to Rip Van Winkle to observe a young, clean-shaven man in his early twenties, dressed in nice jeans, a polo shirt and dress shoes. Given his nicer clothing and “normal” appearance, I began to piece together what might have taken place. I figured this young man was an accidental, inebriated intruder, and had likely stumbled into the wrong apartment on the very night I had accidentally left my door unlocked. I set my sword out of sight so as not to scare the guy, but still within reach in case of an emergency. In a lowered volume, I said “hey man” a couple of times, and gently nudged the guy’s shoulder. His eyelids slowly peeled away from his bloodshot eyes, and I slowly and calmly explained to the young man that I had left my door open, and that he had accidentally wondered into the wrong apartment. He looked at me with a bewildered stare, and then began to look around the apartment, prompting a look of realization on his face that he had screwed up big time. He explained that he had been drinking a lot, and had no idea how he had wound up in my apartment. He went on to explain that he lived in the complex, and found it extremely strange that he stumbled into my upstairs apartment as he lives in a downstairs unit.

I told him I was just happy that he had not been a serial killer who found my door unlocked. He agreed and stated, “I could have caused some serious damage.” Thanks to a thick fog of booze and sleepiness that enveloped his tequila soaked brain, he obviously did not realize that the fortuitous outcome of the situation cut both ways. He easily could have been in a not-so-understanding apartment, pried opened his peepers and found the business end of a revolver being pointed straight at his libation laden head, while an overly anxious elderly gentlemen with an unpredictable case of Parkinson’s gingerly caressed the trigger, waiting, just waiting, for him to make a sudden move resulting in his grey matter being plastered across the living room wall. My new “friend” told me his apartment number and I guided him in the general direction. I would have loved to have helped him more, but I could not leave T in the apartment alone. And so I was forced to watch him stagger across the parking lot toward the other end of the complex while I hoped he found his way home, or at least found another comfy sofa through another accidentally unlocked door.

Wrapping Paper Is Of The Devil

I love giving gifts….absolutely love it. The excitement and jubilation on the face of the gift recipient is totally awesome. It is just the wrapping of the gift that causes me to fume to the point of inevitable internal combustion. The problem with wrapping paper is that it is so frail that at any point one gentle tug that becomes one-millionth of a pound too much force results in torn paper. Then what do you do? Sure, you could start completely over, assuming you have enough paper left, or if you don’t mind driving back to the store to get another roll because you didn’t buy two rolls like you told yourself you should because you knew this would happen. Or you could just try to force back together the fragments of paper and sloppily slap on a piece of tape in hopes no one will notice. However, this will just not work if the tear is bigger. Outside of starting over, the major strategy with the larger tear is to cut another piece of wrapping paper and patch up the gaping hole. However, as you get more and more tears, the whole thing becomes some sort of disturbing, disjointed patchwork quilt of wrapping paper. The patchwork solution also has the potential to result in a terrible gift-giving faux pas. Say you pick one of those cutesy wrapping papers for an anniversary that has inspiring words like love, hope, joy, dedication and the like written all over it. Depending on the words/letters used, the patchwork solution can result in overlapping words with unintended consequences, “Oh honey, look at this paper. How sweet. Love, joy, hoe, slut…what…what the hell kind of paper is this anyway? Cool Ranter, you ruined my anniversary.” Besides wrapping paper being ever so delicate, you can run into other problems such as: cutting the paper too small, therefore leaving you in the same conundrum as the large tear with a sizeable hole to cover up; cutting the paper too big, leaving excess paper that has no place to go, so it crumples, scrunches and bunches into a pile that you simply can do nothing with but try to mash down and apply a huge piece of tape on, wishing like holy heck’n fire that the other guests don’t start wondering why your present, which you sneakily tried to force into the corner and place under other presents, has some type of freakish goiter on its left side. So when you take into combination the potential pitfalls of using wrapping paper and a guy like me who barely has the requisite rudimentary skills required to fold one’s own clothing, wrapping a present is most assuredly never going to be a successful venture.

I had a wedding to attend yesterday, and had selected a couple of pre-designated gifts from the store’s registry a couple of weeks ago. I have wrapped many a present in my lifetime, however on nary an occasion has the resultant colorful parchment encased gift been deemed as Macy’s customer service booth worthy, much less “passable”, experiencing many, if not all, of the aforementioned gift wrapping disasters during every attempt to wrap my presents. Despite being fully self-aware of my past gift wrapping debacles, and even more cognizant of the less than cooperative nature of wrapping paper as a gift concealing medium, yesterday I went to the nearby drug store and picked out some nice wrapping paper with “wedding-related” words such as bliss, honor, and commitment inscribed on it, along with an accompanying ribbon and bow. Why didn’t I just go with the gift bag you ask? Because that is the way of the uninspired, languid gift-giver who should be disemboweled, their entrails spilling on the ground for the swine to feast upon. Ok, fine, I use them sporadically. Most often in between futile attempts to master the excruciatingly difficult art of folding a piece of paper around a square box. The pattern is usually thus: try to use wrapping paper and get handed my ass on an exquisite silver-plated platter by said wrapping paper; success with gift bag; success with gift bag; work up courage to give wrapping paper another whirl, only to have my soul pummeled yet again and my paper-folding inadequacies made apparent to all the world; gift bag success; gift bag success; Damn it, I will not let wrapping paper beat me. I am taking down this stupid wrapping paper and giving it the business….paper quickly retorts with “don’t F with me Mr. Thumbs” and promptly allows it’s infrastructure of fragile fibers to tear and shred on every corner of the present; and on and on goes the cycle infinitum. For this special occasion, I figured I would try a traditional gift presentation and try the wrapping paper once again even though I needed to complete a practically insurmountable task: wrapping not one, but two gifts.

I started with present one, and measured out what I believed was an appropriate amount of paper. I turned into Mr. Shaky Hands and cut across the length of the paper, leaving in my wake a jagged, disfigured paper edge. Well, that’s OK, I thought, I will just fold it underneath and no one will be the wiser. Of course, by folding it over, the paper was now not long enough, and I was not completely sure the roll was big enough to start over and complete my other present as well (no smart allecks out there, I did not buy the second roll while I was at the store). I guess it was patchwork solution then. I cut a hole-matching size piece of paper, and finished up the first present. Before setting the present aside, I had read the paper and made a ghastly discovery? Oh great, the overlaid words read “I hope your marriage goes down in a ball of flames.” Hmmm, what were the odds? Fine, it didn’t say that. The repaired portion actually displayed the ever-inspiring, yet cryptic, words, “hmnerh, nsdbugw, and sdbsghfdb.” Oh well, it was on the bottom and I was sure they wouldn’t notice. I then started on present number two. The piece was cut way too big, however I had enough paper left, and promptly cut another piece almost nearly as big. What kind of retard does this I thought? The next few minutes were then spent fighting with the paper, attempting to make it bend to my will, but ending up with a wrinkled, multi-folded piece of paper that looked as if a bum had crumpled it to stuff inside his shirt to keep him warm on a cold New York winter’s night. I was getting downright pissed off at this point, and decided that I would teach the paper a lesson by chopping it down to a smaller size so I could more easily manage it. My seething anger fueled a series of feverish cuts, slices and dices with my scissors, which reached a fevered pitch nearly resulting in me releasing a bone-chilling maniacal laugh like some type of deranged barber in a B-level horror movie. At this point, I really just wanted this all done. I mashed down the edges, causing several tears on the corners, and reached for the tape, only to realize that I had used the rest of the roll. Oh come on, I thought, and stomped off to the kitchen like a toddler looking for extra adhesive. Of course, the only thing I found was double stick tape, whose most glorious quality is that the best thing it sticks to is your skin, making for a wonderful time trying to hold down the wrapping paper with one hand while trying to put the tape on with the other and having to somehow separate it from your person rather than tearing it away from the paper which of course leaves large white patches of missing coloring and words on the wrapping paper. I was finally able to tape down the crumpled lump of paper on each end, repaired the tears on my pitiful looking present, and slumped down in a heap of exasperation and defeat. Not that I did such a thing at the end of all this….I am totally asking for a friend…but does throwing a scotch tape dispenser across your apartment in a fit of pure, unadulterated frustration and hatred with the ferocity of a major league baseball pitcher while letting loose with a spittle-propelled flurry of expletives constitute an anger management problem?
　

Gym Junkie

That’s right ladies, I will be discussing my body in this post. Fortunately, you will only have to endure the torture for a very short time until a transition into the meat and potatoes of the story. Like many of my friends, I grew up an active kid and ate fairly well, thereby staying in reasonably good shape throughout my teen years. I never had an Adonis-like body by any stretch of the imagination, but managed to keep my weight relatively under control. As I moved into my twenties, like many men, my job had become sedentary, the meals contained a few more calories and the exercise level decreased to a non-existent level. The pounds sneakily crept their way onto my frame, however the growth was at such a sluggish rate that the change would have gone relatively unnoticed save for the infrequent visits to the forever truthful, yet heartless, scale in my bathroom. Over the next few years I put on a few more pounds and simply convinced myself that women like a man with “meat on their bones” so everything was fine and dandy in my delusional brain. Although I am unable to pinpoint the exact day or even year, at some point in my late twenties or early thirties, I had the girth-related epiphany that other members of my gender have experienced for eons (or at least since the advent of the mirror). It happens as you are walking by the bathroom mirror, most typically right after getting out of the shower, and you catch a sidewise glance of your profile. In a peripheral vision of terror, you realize that sack of flab you have been sucking back in year after year has finally began to push back and it will not be restrained by your meager abdominal muscles any longer. This experience then forces men to go through at least three distinct stages: 1) Denial- “No, seriously. How did someone get a fun house mirror in here without me even noticing?”; 2) Self-Loathing- “Well fatty, looks like you went from a meaty, manly man to some guy who should be wearing a shirt that says Baby on Board or Bun in the Oven.”; and finally, 3) Acceptance of Deterioration of Physical Appearance- “I thought it was so funny when I used the line ‘Hey ladies, my eyes are up here’. Apparently, their gazes had not wander as far south as my inflated ego had convinced me of and they were gawking in awe at a whole different protrusion.”

So for the last few years I have tried, without success, to get back down to my high school, or at least college, weight. My most recent attempt at battling the bulge has included utilizing the small gym available at the apartment complex where I live. Yesterday morning, I trudged out of bed at approximately 5:30, stumbling around in a sleep-deprived stupor while searching for my workout attire. After getting dressed, grabbing a bottle of water and my trusty Iphone for musical accompaniment, I started my half-awake walk to the other end of the complex where the gym is located. In all the times that I have gone to the gym this early, I have never seen another soul utilizing the facility, however on this fateful morning, I approached the entrance at the same time as a slender, squinty-eyed, meek looking gentleman of approximately 65 years of age. Our sparsely equipped gym has two treadmills, a weight machine with several stations, one elliptical, one stationary bicycle and an extreme insurance liability that takes the form of an old, rickety 1980’s mini trampoline with uneven legs and whose outer elastic cover is haphazardly patched together with duct tape. For every prior workout session, I have utilized the elliptical for my cardio workout. I was extremely disappointed as the older gentleman ambled his way over to the elliptical, leaving me to shoot daggers at the old man while I reluctantly stepped up on the treadmill, all the while steaming at the fact that my planned workout had now been utterly ruined by Mr. Magoo. The gentlemen then began a series of disjointed, uncoordinated movements that were pitiful attempts to fight against the inertia of the stubborn, stagnant elliptical. After approximately twenty seconds, he finally was able to begin some semblance of proper elliptical usage, and then after another minute or so he promptly stepped off the machine and moved over to the stationary bike. The bike is an older model, which has the handles that move backward and forward like the handles on an elliptical when you pedal. The man clambered astride his one-wheeled, metal -framed foe and encountered the same problems that he had with the elliptical, struggling mightily to move the pedals and handles in unison. In an encore of the elliptical performance, as soon this individual started utilizing the equipment successfully, he promptly ceased after about a minute. Anti-Jack Lalanne then shuffled, shuffled, shuffled to the rear of the room and stepped cautiously onto the trampoline, where he proceeded to take two gentle bounces on the stretchy, plastic layer, taking care not to allow his feet to actually lose contact with the surface of the trampoline, and then gingerly dismounted the trampoline. It was starting to dawn on me that this unsuspecting senior citizen, for whatever reason, had brilliantly taken the “a little taste of this…a little taste of that” restaurant concept and had seamlessly transitioned it to the world of fitness by creating a veritable appetizer sampler in our cramped workout room. Weights were obviously not an option for this gentlemen as he did not even put forth an effort to try the pulley-filled apparatus in the middle of the room, and instead simply delicately ran his hand across the side of the weight machine, examining it with inquisitive eyes like Indiana Jones inspecting, for the first time, the Sacred Sword of Anzakalakabar II. Before exiting our shared environment, the man stopped at the water cooler, made a motion to grab a cup from the tiny plastic dispenser, but then dropped his hand away knowing he had not exerted enough energy to justify enjoying one single droplet of nature’s essential elixir. He slowly exited the door, went outside to the pool area which adjoins the weight room, dipped his hand in both the hot tub and swimming pool, and then completed two leisurely laps around the pool. After he left the gated pool area, I moved across the room and took possession of my mighty fitness birthright: the glorious elliptical. Approximately five minutes later, the gentleman returned, stuck his key in the door, paused, took it back out and walked away again. Well, that was strange.

This morning, I returned to the gym and began my workout without the presence of my elderly compatriot, however after I had worked up a small sweat in short fashion on the elliptical in strode the same gentlemen. He proceeded to go through almost the exact same time-limited exercise routine, leaving out the probing of the weight machine, and of course, having to substitute a struggle on the elliptical with a split-second jaunt on the treadmill as I was not about to give up my coveted spot to this yahoo. And again he went back outside, dipped his digits in the pool and hot tub, completed his two customary circumnavigations of the pool and disappeared into the cool morning air like a phantom. Have you ever talked to someone who always seems to stay thin, and you ask what they do to stay in impeccable shape? They often answer your query with the smug, “I work out a little.” Well, folks, I never believed them either until this guy came along. It was like seeing Bigfoot for the first time with your own eyes. You know these svelte poeple existed, but you just never had proof their absurd self-reported fitness methods really worked. But I had witnessed it myself : this guy was thin, was the epitome of “I work out a little” and had laid bare his sacred workout routine to me like a glorious vision over the course of the last two days. With a quick change to my normal exercise routine , and taking up the “just a little” exercise philosophy I should be back in peak physical condition in no time. A big thank you goes out to my mystery metabolism mentor, whoever you might be.

Gotta Protect It, Brother!

I was beginning to believe I was a statistical anomaly. Research shows that over 102.7% of people will be the victim of some type of crime in their lifetime ( the stat seems a little high to me too, maybe almost impossible, but who I am to question the experts. Yes, that was a joke.  I know the stat is impossible, hence the reason I made it up.), however I had never had this experience. Was it me? Was I doing something wrong not to be a part of the victim pool? And then it finally happened yesterday early in the morning. My car was broken into by what I assume was some dirty meth head looking to obliterate a window into a million tiny pieces and grab whatever their shaky, scab-covered hand could reach, which happened to be my iPod, that they could trade in for their next fix. On the off chance that said druggie actually decided to keep the iPod as an entertainment device, and did not delete my play list, I will be on the lookout for an emaciated individual scratching furiously at their puss-filled soars while twitching in time to the rhythmic beats of Justin Bieber. While everyone says don’t blame yourself, and that the person who broke into the car is the criminal, I of course have been repeatedly asking myself why I left my poor, vulnerable portable jukebox in the car in the first place. After being angry with myself for a while during the morning, I looked at the bright side of things. Yeah, that’s right, a new iPod was in my future!

Given that the window had cost much less to replace than I had anticipated, I decided I would go ahead and spend a little more money and upgrade to the iPod with the fancy touch screen, envisioning my fingers flying deftly over the screen with Chopin-like grace making selections from movies, music and more, just like my coworkers who I had covetously watched do the very same things as I stood by, never believing that I would reach the upper echelons of technology and be part of the cool kids club. So yesterday evening I traveled to the local electronics store, bought the new iPod and a thin sheet of plastic that serves as a screen protector .

This morning, I haphazardly tore apart the screen protector box, thinking I would just be opening up this bad boy and slapping it on as sweet and simple as an elementary school teacher adhering a scratch n‘ sniff sticker to a 100% spelling test. I mean seriously, how complex could this be? Well, the sight of the instructions for the six-step process of appropriate screen protector application prompted me to head right back into the kitchen for a second cup of coffee to ensure maximum attentiveness during what I was now realizing would be a labor intensive task. As if I was heading into brain surgery or working in a crime lab, I was first instructed to vigorously cleanse my hands to avoid tainting the protector with skin oils. The next step was too apply an included application solution before handling the protector to avoid fingerprints. Fingerprint concealment? I began to wonder if I had accidentally purchased the mob hit man’s starter kit. I diligently sprayed on the liquid as instructed, and then moved onto the next step of peeling the sticky, plastic saver of screens from the paper backing to which it was attached. I attempted to peel the protector from two different corners, but met with resistance as the protector stuck to the paper and began to tear away at it’s parchment partner's fragile fibers. My pulse began to quicken as anxiety overcame me and I began to wonder how long the fingerprint spray would last? Was I wasting valuable seconds engaged in an adhesive-based Armageddon, only to find that by the time I was able to gain victory over my sticky adversary that my toxic skin oils had again risen to the surface of my fingertips and were waiting, like stealthy ninjas, to ambush the pristine clarity of the screen protector. I set down the protector, once gain doused my hands in the mystical fingerprint impeding elixir, and went back to work peeling away the protector from the paper. I had no trouble this time, and gazed back at the instructions to absorb the next step, which essentially was to spray both sides of the protector with the application solution. There was even a cautionary tip advising me to make sure that I sprayed the screen protector, NOT my device. What, you mean don’t spray liquid all over my electronic device? Oh, and don’t throw it on the floor and smash it with a giant mallet either? Oh, OK.

After spraying the magical mist on the screen protector, the instructions simply stated place the adhesive side down on the front of the device and “slide into place”. I did not quite understand this, but figured that maybe the application solution somehow created a frictionless surface between the adhesive and the device to allow for this alleged “sliding” to take place. That was a negatory Ghost Rider. Once the sheet was applied, the adhesive grabbed the screen in a death embrace, thwarting any attempt at maneuvering the screen protector into the proper alignment over the face of the iPod. I peeled off the protector, reapplied the solution (mind you, at this point, I was getting quite perturbed at having to use almost all of the solution, as I had intended to save an ample amount to spray on my fingerprints to use as a forensic countermeasure just prior to throttling the methamphetamine monstrosity that broke into my car, if ever the day came that our paths were to cross), and then placed the protector back on the screen, taking extra caution to make sure it matched up perfectly to ensure that no impossible sliding was required. I followed the rest of the instructions successfully, including pressing out the moisture bubbles with what the company called a squeegee, but looked like nothing more than a square piece of plastic to me. The bottom of the instruction document read, “For more installation instructions, go to blah, blah, blah website.” Why in the hell would someone want to go get more installation instructions? Isn’t a six-step process to apply a glorified sticker to the front of an iPod enough? However, if there were more instructions, why wouldn’t you include them in the package? What kind of company withholds part of the instructions for their product? What are these mystery instructions anyway? “Do not apply protector on a Saturday. Doing so may cause your device to explode!” or maybe “Do not attempt to use application solution as a forensic countermeasure.”

“Step Right Up And Throw Away Your Future!”

OK, so I am not so naïve to believe that the vulnerable “buy me that right now” minds of young children are not the subjects of the merciless attacks launched en masse by the hordes of marketing companies that litter the capitalistic landscape, but I would hope there would be at least a smattering of integrity found amongst this group of money grubbing, brainwashing bandits. However, as I exited a store last night, my eyes gazed upon a sign that obliterated my dreams that there was an actual depth to which business owners would not sink to corrupt the youth of America. The sign was located in one of those large plastic enclosed boxes that holds a fluffy mound of stuffed animals captive which beckons any willing, adventurous soul to wager their spare change (and depending on the machine, spare dollar bills) to simply manipulate a metal claw and rescue one of the captive creatures. Of course it never is that simple, is it? I am actually convinced the claw is greased with the same goop these slimy business owners have oozing from their pores, making it nearly impossible to actually win one of the prizes and thereby increasing their profit margins to obscene levels. To those of you who would argue with me regarding the fairness of these games, and the frequency with which the player actually wins, I direct you to take a close look at the prizes available in the machines that have been present in the local arcade for the last 25 years.. Do you honestly believe those Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake dolls and stuffed Pac Man characters were just placed there last week, and not in June of 1985? And what was this ominous sign that had me in such a tizzy all you ask? As if the words (or at least the general idea) had been plucked from any number of billboards for Las Vegas, or your nearby Native American gaming venue, the sign had the following splashed against it’s colorful backdrop: “You can‘t win if you don‘t play. Over 3 million animals won last year alone.” Disgusting….absolutely revolting. The owners of these machines, whose paltry payout percentages most assuredly lie far below the average slot machine, are blatantly flaunting in our parental faces their attempts to turn our children into miniature, pre-pubescent gambling addicts. I expect that within the near future, they will be offering players club cards to any and all children, providing them the opportunity to rack up points with every dollar they slide into the greedy slot on the front of the machine. Low level players will be able to trade in their points for basic “comps” such as tiny Dixie cups filled with watered-down Kool-Aid and small bags of broken goldfish crackers. High rollers will be able to enjoy televisions brought game side to enjoy their favorite cartoons or Disney movies and will receive, free of charge, tawdry trinkets from those dull-finished metal 25 cent vending machines often found in close proximity to the high-priced currency hoarding claw machines of financial ruin. The final result of this pandering to the juvenile masses will likely be banks of these machines lining the walls of arcades with child after child whose sad, soulless eyes stare blankly into cloudy, scratched plexiglass, as they waste away their childhood by mechanically chain-chewing piece after piece of bubble gum while they feed dollar upon dollar into the machines in hopes of hitting an elusive batting-filled jackpot. My only request of the owners of what I contend are slot machines without the bothersome legal restrictions placed on those in casinos is that for now you leave our children be. I promise you that when they reach the legal gambling age, you can corrupt them all you want.

Stranger Danger: Bring It On Home

As I was zipping around in cyberspace a few days ago I happened upon the unfamiliar term “couch surfing”. I, of course, believed this to be just the latest wild addition to the litany of adrenaline junkie activities that already propagate our world. My mind immediately became satiated with images of thrill-seeking individuals of marginal mental stability precariously perched on love seats with their tendon-strained legs maintaining one foot on each arm while their psychotic sofa sleds went careening at ungodly speeds down insanely sloped city streets. A little research on the internet about couch surfing revealed that I was completely wrong about what this activity actually entailed (Readers, please excuse me as my first impression of what couch surfing was has sparked my business savvy, and I have had an amazing idea come upon me like an other-worldly vision, and must document it for future use. Note to self: Million Dollar Idea in the making...Furniture Funland. A theme park geared towards visitors who want to engage their thrill-seeking side through the use of common household furnishings. Guests can jump up and down on giant beds, zoom on a race track strapped to a rolling office chair and build gargantuan forts out of mountains of couch cushions. For the park guest who wishes to take a quiet respite and have an educational experience, a museum quality exhibit can be offered entitled The Ottoman Empire: A World History of Footstools. This idea is pure gold. Sorry to my readers for the tangent.)

Apparently, couch surfing is where generous homeowners known as “hosts” allow travelers haling from lands both near and far to enjoy much needed slumber on their love seats, couches, chase lounges and settees free of charge instead of these budget-minded globe hoppers being forced to spend their limited bankrolls on over-priced hotel rooms. The website where I gathered my information from, whose function is to offer an online community where hosts and mooches, err travelers, can make contact with one another, also touted couch surfing as a means by which people from different cultures and backgrounds can share experiences with one another.

To be honest, all this sounds like to me is a lazy serial killer’s dream come true. So many would-be Ted Bundy’s out there have the sincere desire to commit ghastly acts upon other human beings, but simply don’t want to put out the predatory effort that is required to track down a proper victim. For these individuals, couch surfing is a “victims direct to you” type of service that is hard to pass up. Having strangers stay in your home, or staying in a stranger’s home, just doesn’t strike me as the safest activity to engage in. As if the website were reading my apprehensive thoughts, I found a link to a page that the site prepared with safety tips that were being proffered as a meager offering to mollify the feelings of trepidation a rationally-minded (I use the term loosely) person like myself would experience regarding this type of risky behavior. In the introductory portion of this section, the site stated, “Think about when you meet someone on a train. What information do you have? Just your own first impressions.” Yeah, well, I’m not going to invite some complete stranger from a train to stay on my couch, now am I (unless she is hot…but let's stay focused….and at least moderately realistic)? But I got where they were going with this. The next several sections of the safety page listed numerous alleged safeguards this website had put into place including: references (people can leave comments, both positive or negative, about hosts or travelers, so that new members can make educated decisions about the individuals in the community), vouching (according to the website, vouching “shows a strong bond between two members and is a carefully considered sign of trust. A member's vouch says that they stand behind another member and their actions. Anything that a member does, whether good or bad, reflects on those who have vouched for them, so this tool is used very carefully used.” If the description is to be believed, vouching is the promise-making equivalent of the sacred pinky swear. They even have a nifty little icon of several hands holding one another for people who have been vouched for).

This is all fine and dandy if you want a false sense of security, but let’s get real folks. All it takes is a group of serial killers to get together and start making positive references singing the other demented individuals’ praises and vouching for one another to lure you into their parlors of peril. “Oh sure, I’ll vouch for you Bill, but if the next couch surfer is a blonde that looks like my emasculating mother, I call dibs.” Another fear-soothing section was entitled report website abuse. Seems pretty useless, and a little late, to me. “Uh yes, I would like to report misuse of the website. My friend was tricked into staying with a murderer, was dismembered and unnatural acts were committed with the limbs.” “I’m sorry to hear that ma’am. Well, the first offense of website abuse is a stern written warning, but if this occurs again, we will most assuredly enforce a one month ban from the website community, and the host receives a nasty thumbs down icon.” The silliest part of all is that the last paragraph of the safety page began with a line that indicated that individual judgment was, of course, the most important safety measure of all. Really? Isn’t that the very thing you discounted at the beginning of the safety page regarding first impressions. This was just the websites way of saying, “If something goes wrong, you only have yourself to blame.” I honestly believe that the only thing that scares me even more than the serial killers lurking in every home is staying on a couch that has a mystery stain…ewwww! I think I will just stay in a happy little Motel 6 when traveling, and keep my couch stranger free.

You’re Staying Where? Motel 6? You Lucky Dog You!

Over the last two months my son and I have spent almost every other Saturday at my parents house in the country, where my mature acting six year old “T” spends most of his time developing his driving skills precariously close to my parents’ trees in a golf cart with me nervously, not to mention vainly, gripping the handrail of the runaway vehicle out of sheer terror harboring the belief that if I pull hard enough on the handrail I will be able to control our runaway death trap, with T laughing maniacally the whole time taking immense pleasure from the shocked and fearful look on my face. Despite T’s belief that he is more than capable of operating this misplaced, mayhem-inducing motor coach of the links, I only allow the “solo” driving for so long before my strong instincts of self-preservation lead to keeping at least one hand on the wheel and a foot hovering only millimeters away from the break.

Although I enjoy these little rides, I decided that this weekend we would do something different, and would take a quick weekend jaunt out of town. I had decided on visiting the Los Angeles Zoo, and then entertaining ourselves the following day at Six Flags Magic Mountain. I know all of you emotional sadists out there probably think that I am planning on taking T on some of the most aggressive, trauma inflicting, blackout inducing and projectile vomit causing rides that California has to offer as his penance for the crazy rides he makes me endure on the golf cart, but even I am not that cruel. There are many rides that cater to riders of T’s age and small stature that he is sure to enjoy, and I will end up lamenting after he forces me to ride the same slow-paced ride umpteen times that will dredge up memories of our traversing over the terrain of Disneyland seemingly ad infinitum in the monorail (Oh Mickey You're So Fine) As this was going to be a two-day trip, ample hotel accommodations were going to be needed, so I started scouring the internet for the most economic choice. Motel 6 offered the best deal, and was relatively close to both destinations, so I decided that would be our home away from home for one night.

As I was perusing the website getting ready to make my reservation, I noticed that the website offered a glimpse into my potential lodging via a short video clip featuring the specific Motel 6 we would be staying at. The video actually started with a realistic portrayal of the property, which I appreciated. An outside camera shot of the property came into focus, as the narrator described this particular Motel 6 as an “ideal resting place for road-weary travelers traversing the state or for adventuring-seeking visitors looking to enjoy the lowest room rates of any national chain.” Now that was an excellent job going to their bread and butter feature: economy hotel option. However, despite the quality start, I realized this would be the pinnacle of the presentation, and things would start to go downhill from there. The next few lines stated how they were just 8 miles from Six Flags Magic Mountain, 11 Miles from Bob Hope Airport and “…not too much further to Universal Studios and the bright lights of Hollywood.” To be precise you have to drive 20 miles to get to Hollywood. Now in my mind “not too much further” is the colloquial equivalent to “down yonder way” and “drive for just a spell”, and while I realize that in the grand scheme of things 20 miles is nothing, anyone that has driven in the herky-jerky stop-and-go traffic of Los Angeles’ hellish highways, 20 miles can seem to be an eternity. Many a time in my travels through Los Angeles, I have observed signs that read my destination was what I believed to be only a paltry amount of mileage away, however no matter how many times I switched lanes, honked, flashed inappropriate gestures, banged on the steering wheel or asked myself how such slow moving traffic was even possible, all I could hear in the back of my mind was the classic Atari sound byte of WAGA, WAGA, WAGA, WAGA that so symbolized precious moments of my life being methodically gobbled up not by a hungry ¾ yellow circle, but by the short-sighted road engineers of days gone by that failed to realize the catastrophic example of gridlock that Los Angeles would one day become.

Then the video clip really took a quick plunge for me. The cinematic masterminds behind the clips production just couldn’t help it. It’s not their fault…it’s just the way they are. Like a heroin junkie unable to resist the nagging temptation to indulge in the next fix, the makers of the clip simply could not slake their artistic urges by simply doing the clean, cheap room approach, but had to go over the top, making more out of the hotel than it is. After citing it’s proximity to Hollywood, the narrator’s voice next quipped, “This Motel 6 has a little bit of that star quality.” Uh, yeah, OK, sure it does. And as evidence of this “star quality” the video faded into the next shot and panned across the dank lobby landscape, with it’s drab colored walls, 1973 florescent lighting and one small potted plant. This place had as much panache as a 1940’s hospital with it’s alabaster skinned nurses wearing bleached white uniforms roaming off-white linoleum tiled hallways checking charts hanging from the edges of ivory colored metal framed beds. Oh yeah, this says upscale to me for sure. I had to blink twice lest I thought I had accidentally stepped foot into the foyer of some starlet’s Beverly Hills mansion. The video went on to show other “examples” of high-end boudoir amenities, such as bed spreads suitable for an eight year old (yes, the picture above is of the bed in our room, which T did emphatically describe as “awesome”). The makers of this increasingly overdramatic video then obviously realized they still needed to fill another twenty seconds of video and just started rattling off basic commonplace features contained within the rooms such as “modern bathrooms and plenty of clean towels.” Wow, actual indoor plumbing and an ample supply of non-soiled linens…my heart runneth over with joy and amazement! What’s next? Please don’t keep me in suspense. If you say you have beds with pillows and doors that lock from the inside I may pee myself from excitement. And of course they couldn’t just let it go at that and end the clip. They had to go back one more time, dig down deep, search the inner sanctum of their imaginations, wallow in their creative juices and spew forth one more ridiculous Hollywood reference, “There’s even a sunny pool area where you can lounge about like a movie star.” Oh, I am sure this is exactly the movie star pool experience. I can just see a rich, world-famous movie star surrounded by pot-bellied papas and muumuu-wearing mamas while they submerge themselves in water that has been tainted by the inconsiderate, free-flowing bladders of tantrum throwing toddlers. My suggestion, do a five second commercial, “We’re cheap, we’re relatively clean and we usually have vacancies."

‘Tis The Season

Remember when the term “seasonal” used to be used to describe items, most commonly food, that were unique or special in some way, typically sold in a time-limited fashion and often brought about wonderful personal memories that are tied to certain times of the year? Yeah, I remember that too, and it was how I would have described the term until about three hours ago when, at the local supermarket, every special significance I had attached to the word had been torn asunder and scattered into the perfectly climate controlled air. On the coffee aisle, a looming display of “special roast” coffees dominated the last six feet of available product space. What began as a simple moment of browsing, as I had no intent to buy any coffee on this particular trip, turned into 30 to 45 seconds of coffee chaos as I became more and more incredulous over the packaging used by the particular coffee product on display. Many coffee makers sell grounds that are typically associated with certain seasons, such as pumpkin latte or gingerbread, for example, and I have no qualms with those fine folks. What I had a problem with was this company slapping the term “seasonal blend” on every one of their more than twenty flavors. Their offerings included such alleged “seasonal” products as Vanilla Hazelnut, Carmel Chai, Chocolate Mint and Chocolate Banana. This was the most ridiculous thing I had seen since being exposed to Soyrizo, a soy-based chorizo product, a few weeks ago at another store. To try and dupe the public into buying something by putting the moniker “seasonal” on all your flavors is nothing short of a dubious attempt at separating consumers from their hard-earned money. Now I will admit that maybe some of these flavors may stir special memories in the recesses of your brain, but to use the term “seasonal” is very misleading. Last time I checked none of these ingredients were grown or offered at only certain times of the year, nor are they tied to any significant holidays (however, I guess it is possible that this company is based on a small island nation where each March 3^rd, all inhabitants smear a chocolate-banana based sauce all over one another’s naked, writhing bodies, and then they proceed to hurl themselves down a giant slip-n-slide in observation of some local holiday, and therefore in their country a flavor such as Chocolate Banana would hold some special significance). What really got my dander up was that right across the aisle were more flavors from this very same company, however these plain packages were not emblazoned with the magical “seasonal” description. They were such flavors as hazelnut, chocolate, caramel and vanilla. So apparently, by themselves these flavors are commonplace palate pleasing pretenders encased in blasé wrappers not worthy of much fanfare, however once you combine two of these flavors…..KAPOW, ZING, BOOM, ZOWIE, you now have jazzed up java that is worthy of being called seasonal.

If that was not enough, then there was the desperate attempt by this sham of a company to plaster a couple of names across some of their other “seasonal” flavors that could be tied to holidays, but whose titles made absolutely no sense. The first was Chocolate Bunny, which I suppose is appropriate for Easter time, which is now upon us. But given that chocolate bunnies taste the same as chocolate bars, chocolate trucks, chocolate razor blades or anything else you can make a chocolate mold of, how this would taste different from their chocolate coffee across the aisle escaped me. Their was no description of the flavor on the side of the package for you to glean any insight as to the possible tongue tantalizing taste of the coffee. Who knows, maybe it did really taste like chocolate bunny. Maybe the side of the package should have said: “Some say a rabbit’s foot is lucky. How about giving yourself an extra boost of luck? Every bag of 16 oz. Chocolate Bunny Coffee contains perfectly roasted beans that have been infused with the real taste of chocolate and then soaked in the ground up nuggets of rabbit carcasses from at least eight road kill hares for a burst of real bunny flavor in every cup. Find a whole whisker or partial nose in any bag of Chocolate Bunny Coffee, and win a free Bug’s Bunny DVD.” A few packages away from Chocolate Bunny was, I kid you not, Leprechaun Blend, whose package was also devoid of a flavor description. OK, this was just now getting downright dumb. A) We are over a month past St. Patrick’s Day and probably more importantly B) What the hell does Leprechaun Blend taste like? I cannot fathom what this coffee would taste like from that cryptic name. From title alone, my best guess is that it tastes like an amalgam of diminutive imaginary people and green felt derbies. So, if we can please just go back to saving the term “seasonal” for things like strawberry pie, turkey and eggnog, I would have my faith restored in this once sacred term.

Jury Duty: Constitutionally Encouraged Vigilante Justice, AKA The Common Man’s Opportunity To Take Out The Garbage

It’s that time of year again for me to perform my civic duty. Gentle spring rains are feeding thirsty flowers that are beginning to bloom, rainbows topped with dancing unicorns are arcing across the sky and I hold the fate of a man’s life in my hands like a fragile egg, deciding whether to cradle it gently and protect it or to squish it mercilessly between my fingers letting it’s gooey innards plummet to the ground in a splattering pool of disappointment, regret and maladaptive life choices. So maybe my dramatic interpretation of jury duty does not match yours, and statistically speaking, it is much more common to plant yourself in an uncomfortable seat all day in a veritable Perry Mason purgatory and be excused at the end of the day than to actually get the chance to be an active participant in our judicial system. Well, if nothing else, at least you get out of work for the day. Most people dread jury duty and would prefer to have a root canal it seems. As I entered the jury service reception area today, I noticed that the court system understands the disdain jurors often have for being required to spend a day of their lives waiting around and has made some valiant efforts (he said in a sarcastic tone) to show their appreciation for the cogs that make the gears of the grinding justice system turn. Plastered on several walls were elementary school caliber drawings that said things like, “We love (picture of a pink heart) our jurors” and “You are appreciated.” I am not sure if the court employees forced their young children to produce these well-meaning, but ineffective, paper pats on the back or if upper management made the already overworked clerks painstakingly replicate, at a small child's skill level, this overly patronizing handiwork. Forget the banners, and maybe let’s try a free lunch to show your appreciation or even a complimentary soda from the vending machine would be nice. But instead of those little goodies, what we get at jury duty are feeble attempts to help us pass the time. For those jurors who are not wise enough to bring a book, handheld entertainment device or MP3 player, jury services offers up such winning diversions as old magazine, puzzles with missing pieces and incomplete card decks to make for the most frustrating game of solitaire you have ever experienced. I even noticed something new today on the counter to keep my mind busy: The amazing civics match game work sheet. Are you flippin’ kidding me? This thing had several constitutional laws, and then accompanying amendments you were supposed to match. Just staring at the thing, which was printed on ominous green paper, immediately transported me back to eleventh grade government class, third period, with Mr. O. My palms began to get sweaty as I realized I hadn’t studied, and that little punk, K.C. the class nerd, was totally engaged in a move I had dubbed the “bomb shelter” where he tightly tucked his head inside folded arms, making a perfect, impenetrable dome over his paper, preventing any wandering eyes from glimpsing even the tiniest sliver of a bubbled-in answer. A quick shake of the head, and I was back in the jury services waiting room. I cautiously stepped back away from the flashback inducing worksheets and found an empty seat to wait out the day in.

After everyone had checked in, they played this little video about the joys of serving on a jury and even had former jurors, the three existing ones they could find, that recounted how wonderful their jury experience had been. The video was supposed to leave you feeling thankful about being selected for jury duty and that you should be eternally grateful for being the lucky person to find the one puzzle that actually has all 400 pieces (yeah, sure it has all 400 pieces….too bad they are from seven different puzzles). One of the last lines of the video stated that some jurors even continue to stay in touch with each other long after jury duty is completed. Really? For what purpose? To relive the grisly details of a 1997 double homicide where they sentenced a man to death? These ghastly reunions probably involve two jurors meeting for lunch, with one juror wanting to talk about the traumatic feelings that he has battled for the last 14 years over the case with someone who has a shared experience, while all the other guy ends up doing is expressing his feelings of aloofness for the court process, reveling in only the goriest aspects of the case and making overly-detailed admissions of juror misconduct: “Hey Sam, it is great you could meet me here today. I have thought of nothing but this case for so many years now. Just wanted to see how others were doing with it.” “You’ve got it Bill. Wouldn’t have missed our little together. This place has the greatest curly fries. Speaking of curly fries drenched in ketchup, remember those cool pictures of victim #2 with his bloody entrails spread all over the living room floor?” “Uh, yeah, actually I can’t get them out of my head. As much as I tried to focus on the testimony during the case, those pictures kept coming back to the forefront of my mind.  I even still have nightmares about them.” “Well, that’s a big suckeroo for you I guess. As for testimony, I only listened to about 35% of their ramblings. I spent most of the trial staring at juror number 12’s hot legs. You remember her?” “Oh sure. I remember her. She was the last holdout with a not guilty verdict for several days, and then had that weird change of heart and immediately flipped to guilty to give us our unanimous decision.” “You can thank me for that one, big guy. On day number eight of deliberations, I was getting tired of being cooped up in that tiny room, so I took good ol’12 to the janitor’s closet, let her get inside my legal briefs and bang my gavel while I explored her judge’s chamber if you know what I mean. After that, she was willing to go along with whatever I wanted.” “What the hell man, you can’t do that. I can’t believe this. We sentenced a man to death for the love of…..” “Whoa up there cowboy. Don’t you fret about that. He was guilty for sure. Had those beady little eyes just like in the movies.” “I’m outta here!.” “OK man. Good to see you. If you’re not gonna take your fries, can I have them?”

While I was waiting for a panel to be announced over the intercom over the next few hours, I saw three separate people sit down, and then eventually move away, from a woman sitting in the row across from me about ten feet away. The woman’s repulsive quality that drove away her would-be seat neighbors could have been the constant sneezing, followed by a vicious snort and then the wiping of the remaining expelled sticky nasal juices on her long sleeved shirt. Or perhaps it was the 1980’s guitar rock she had blasting from her dollar store headphones that failed miserably at containing the wailing six string, while the large blonde nest of hair befitting the era of her musical selection sitting atop of her hardened 45 year-old face bounced along to the pumping rhythm filling her eardrums that had been damaged by many years of following the bands of her heyday from one concert venue to the next in some sort of groupie gypsy parade.

As I sat staring at this woman trying to decipher exactly which Motley Crue song she was listening to, something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. When I looked straight across from me, I realized that the man who was directly across from me, sitting only approximately three to four feet away, had decided to lean back in his chair and stretch his legs out as far as possible, placing his feet in obvious violation of the socially established, although admittedly invisible, personal space line of demarcation. This guy was close enough that a feeling of anxiety came over me as I feared being violated and becoming a victim of forced footsies. You are probably wondering what I did to deserve this. What was I wearing some of you may be asking. Well, I shall have you know I am no foot tease. I was wearing what I consider to be the cobbler’s chastity belt: a pair of plain black dress shoes. No open toed sandals displaying my fabulously formed phalanges or backless clogs exposing my heavenly heels to tempt this pervert. The man must have sensed my disgust for his disturbing predilection, and slowly withdrew his feet towards his person.

Approximately ten minutes later, my name was called for a panel being sent to an outlying community with a small population. I began to revel in this opportunity, immediately fancying myself a modern day traveling judge like those from the days of the cowboys, dispensing my own brand of rural justice. But alas, my dreams of power were crushed when, after one and a half days of uneventful jury selection during which my name was not randomly called to even participate in the voir dire, both attorneys agreed on a jury and I was unable to take my place among the elite twelve (everyone knows that the thirteenth member, the alternate, is nothing more than a second class citizen who almost never gets to participate in the deliberation, and is therefore basically the judicial equivalent of the last picked in a game of elementary school kickball). And with baited breath I must now wait another full year for my opportunity to teach a dirt bag a lesson. Oh how being forced to tarry tortures my soul!

Payroll Cashin’ Meets Tax Code Bashin’

With less than two weeks left before April 15, 2011, many American citizens are beginning to experience the first pangs of anxiety related to their unfinished taxes. They are easy to spot: slovenly procrastinators feverishly looking through folders for old donation receipts, wondering if any valuable tax forms were thrown away with what they believed was junk mail and knowing, just knowing, this year they are going to be facing a “tax due” bill that they can’t pay because little Suzy was begrudgingly forced into ballet and gymnastics by her parents in a feeble attempt to keep Suzy on pace with the Jones children, was adorned with braces (on her baby teeth no less) and was outfitted in the finest designer clothing made for 7 year olds when she would have been just as happy with the modest garment offerings available from any number of discount clothing stores. This torturous two weeks of anxious behavior, fear and worry is the closest equivalent experience adults have to the elementary school child’s “pee pee” dance. It was on my way home today that I saw a new offering for those still in need of tax preparation services. Just when I believed nothing could further damage the American financial institution’s already threadbare moral fabric, a sign outside one of those paycheck cashing/payday loan places was gloriously displayed in banner form across their marquee indicating that they now offered tax preparation. When did this happen? I understand that companies are struggling to make money in the current economic downturn (heck, I even addressed it in my last post. One’s own blog shamelessly plugged by oneself…check), and are trying to offer more and more services to attract customers, but just because you give people money for their paychecks does not mean you are now qualified to start acting like a full-service financial firm . I mean, I cut my steak with a knife at home, but that does not entitle me to hang a shingle off my apartment balcony touting my services as some sort of rouge home based discount slaughterhouse, skirting the stringent regulations of the FDA. In all actuality, I am sure they have licensed tax preparers, but for me these establishments still have remaining credibility issues that would cause me to steer away from them for such services.

For one, has anyone noticed the layout of these places. The one in nearest proximity to my residence contains two chairs, the counter and a solitary computer. Then there is the ominous looking door serving as a passageway to the sacred “back room” where I am certain financial malpractice is being engaged in by slide rule wielding, green visor wearing evil book keepers who are laughing maniacally as they engage in book doctoring, false employee tax reporting and all other manner of monetary mayhem. The mere physical arrangement of the establishment gives an appearance that they are half-expecting some type of raid by the FBI, and with all of the businesses belongings practically being able to fit into the back of a sub-compact car, they have the ability to…POOF!….disappear as if they never existed like some type of other-worldly accounting apparition.

The second thing that makes me question these places’ credibility is their obvious disregard for their customers' financial well-being as evidenced by their exorbitant fees. I understand you are a company providing a service, and the customer has the choice of utilizing your services, but to take a person who is obviously in a difficult financial position and tightening the screws even further by charging interest on the level of the interest charged by mob-related bookies on outstanding gambling debts, then maybe you need to do some gross tuning of your moral compass.

My most concerning issue arose when I saw two other signs that said “We offer refund anticipation loan checks” and “Tax check cashing for only 2%.” So let me get this straight, you prepare the taxes, you offer checks they can get in store instantly, and you offer to cash the checks for a small fee, which the client is most assuredly going to do out of convenience. Can you say conflict of interest? What this means is that the bigger refund they get you, the more money they make from their 2% fee. This arrangement is certain to lead to the most liberal tax preparation ever, and will most certainly cause you problems. I can just see how the tax preparation would go with, for example, the guy who likes to frequent the gentlemen’s club, “Well, let’s see, when we were talking earlier you asked if you can write off entertainment expenses. What did you mean?” "Err, um, like a gentlemen's club for example."  “Yes, well, you can’t exactly write off visits to the strip clubs sir, but let me ask you this: Did you have a favorite dancer who you gave a significant amount of cash to?” "Ah yes, Bubbles.  A lovely young lady working her way through college." “Well sir, I can tell you this, if you can get her last name for me, I think we just found another dependent we can claim. And you know, I think we even have a double dip opportunity here. If she had any type of faucet or pipe leak, we will go ahead and write that down as you contributing to the Red Cross Flood Relief Program as well. Alrighty then, now that we are on a roll, why don’t we get the values for your donated items to charitable contributions. You tell me about those clothes you gave to Goodwill…they were all designer names and were in perfect condition, right……….”  My best advice is to seek out a reputable tax preparation company. Uncle Sam already sticks it to you in taxes folks. There is simply no sense in getting double-teamed this year by visiting one of these places as well.

Reaching Your Full Financial Potential

* Note: This blog is best read out loud in the style of (enter the name of your favorite motivational speaker, infomercial pitchman or carnival game-running individual with inbred rat-like features).
** Note 2: This post is obviously meant for satirical purposes. I would never actually suggest taking advantage of the elderly. Anyone with sensitivities to the plight of the elderly may wish to stop reading now, or should at least remember that the purpose behind the blog is satire.

Hey there everybody! Cool Ranter here. I am soooo glad you decided to join me today for what is sure to be a life changing experience. I want to officially welcome you to the Advanced Money Maximizer seminar. Now, I am seeing a lot of faces out there that I remember from Money Maximizer 101, where we delved into some basic practices that can help struggling companies and organizations fight the woes of our current economic recession. While those tips offered in the introductory course are a good start, I decided to develop the advanced course for those individuals who have no qualms with making some marginally legal decisions and foregoing their personal ethics to achieve pumped up profits, ramped up revenue and a bolstered bottom line. For our current course, I like to take examples of local organizations who have taken some tentative infant steps towards increasing their profits, and then give “outside of the box” ideas for how they can achieve unparalleled financial success, leaving upper management saying “Millionaires? F those guys. I’m a gazillionaire.” So are you revved up and ready to go everyone? I...can’t…..hear….you!!! All right, let’s do this thing!

My motivation for today’s presentation came during a recent trip to the local hospital’s gift shop. As soon as I entered the gift shop, a decrepit elderly women struggled up from her stool behind the counter, and offered a pleasant enough greeting. As I returned a token greeting in kind, mostly due to expectations of behavior dictated by social mores, my eyes caught a glimpse of such and such’s name tag, which denoted her status as a volunteer. Now this is what I’m talking about folks. The use of volunteers is a great way to minimize the outlay of salaries and benefits. Further, because they are not “real employees”, volunteers are not covered under employee right’s laws, and therefore if they start causing you trouble, give you a sideways glance, object to overt sexual harassment or maintain their belief that they are entitled to breaks or a lunch period, you can simply dump them without having to wage a costly legal battle regarding unfair termination. While the hospital was on the right track, how can this situation be maximized? That’s right, staff as many positions as possible with volunteers. There are large masses of elderly folk out there that are looking for a meaning in life, and would love to volunteer for positions within your organization. The extra profit that can be generated by having 40-50% of your organization staffed by volunteers is ridiculous. The only real cost these individuals represent to the company are through worker’s compensation contributions, which you can have an easily duped elderly person waive at the time of employment. This specific issue is covered more in my summer series of courses entitled “Liability Law Loopholes.” I hear some of you in the back saying, “What about volunteer employee turnover?” Sure, you are going to get a fair amount of volunteers saying, “I don’t get paid enough to put up with this crap. Heck, I don’t get paid at all!” My solution? More volunteer employees of course. Depending on the size of your organization, I would suggest keeping a back stock of 25-50 volunteer employees simply wandering the halls doing general janitorial work until they are needed as replacements. Heck, keep 100-200. What does it matter, they are costing you nothing. I mean, am I right? Ha, ha, ha (overdramatic laugh implied)!

As I meandered down the counter in the gift shop, I noticed a sign next to the register which had two lines. The bottom line, which was something inconsequential, is not of importance. The thing that got my gears greased and the wheels spinning at full speed were the first line that stated “No Change”. Now the hospital was once again on the right track. They obviously are stating that they do not make change for anyone coming into the store without a purchase being made. This saves on electricity to open the register, and encourages the purchasing of products in order to obtain any type of change. Granted, this tactic is fine for itty bitty profit bumps, but to kick this up a notch, I suggest using this same exact verbiage to mean there is no coin “change” given. So say your customer’s total is $1.37, and they give you a five. You give them back $3.00, and the remaining 67 cents is profit. You can legally tell the customer they were forewarned via the sign by the register that there is no change, and they have absolutely no recourse. Want to go EXTREME PROFIT POWER? Can I get an amen brother? Darn right you want to be a monetary glutton. Oink, oink, baby! Once again, the same sign is used, however this means absolutely no change is to be given. Simply add a small line at the bottom in 4-point font that says no returns, and you have a full proof plan. That candy bar and soda is $2, but the customer only has a twenty. Kaching, kaching! Quickly and deftly stick the twenty in the drawer, and hand the customer their worthless receipt. Any complaints? The customer is simply given the finger. No, not that that finger folks (another overdramatic laugh). An unwavering index finger simply guides them to the sign that is in plain view. Even if a customer tries to complain, they can be directed to a manager, who is, you guessed it, another volunteer. Once our amateur manager volunteer, who was probably thrilled to get the manager position without any prior retail experience, gets an earful from the irate customer, it is likely they will just walk out of the store, leaving the customer no one to complain to, and resulting in an extra $18 profit.

My final minute or so in the store entailed me taking a gander at the plethora of crappy gifts that the store was attempting to pawn off on emotionally distraught customers. I had to give the store management a standing ovation in my head when my eyes fell upon, at a price of $10.95, a small stuffed bear attached to the top of a small, clear plastic box filled ¾ full with those cheap red and white mints and butterscotch discs. It was quite apparent that management had simply instructed all employees to save their mints and butterscotch discs when they ate out, and maybe even grab a few extra from the vulnerable basket sitting next to the register at the restaurant, to be sold in the gift shop. It is hard to improve on selling something you got for nothing at a lucrative price. My only suggestion for improvement on this tactic is to introduce variety for the clientele. There are numerous other opportunities to obtain free items to sell. For example, at your next restaurant visit, stuff into your purse: a napkin (unused is preferred); your silverware; and packets of salt, pepper, ketchup, sugar or any other condiments available. So you are feeling guilty about taking the silverware? Look at this folks, those chicken strips you paid $9.95 for really only cost about $2.30, so you are practically entitled to take their ten cent silverware. In fact, the silverware they use cost them so little, it is actually more expensive for them to wash them than to buy new ones, so they are probably thrown away anyway. Would I lie to you? Come on, this is Cool Ranter you are dealing with. Once you have packaged these items in your plastic box, and thrown in a mint for good measure, you are on your way to offering your customers the all inclusive Culinary Accoutrement Kit. It is imperative that all volunteers learn to up sale this item by saying accoutrements with a French accent, as let’s face it, French stuff just sounds nice and fancy making it more desirable. And how about for those individuals who enjoy different types of food. The Culinary Accoutrement Kit can be customized to fit the food tastes of most individuals: for the Chinese food lover, replace the silverware with chopsticks, the condiments with soy sauce and the mint with a fortune cookie, all of which can be obtained for free at most fast food Chinese establishments; for the Italian food fan, simply throw in the last leftover breadstick from your meal; and for Mexican food fans, fast food taco sauce packets and some chips and salsa from a sit down restaurant. Both the breadsticks and chips with salsa are virtually unlimited at most restaurants, so feel free to stock up during your visit. I would simply suggest that you ask for more of those items before finishing your entrée to dissuade dirty looks from your server. Well, folks, that about concludes our time for today. I saw several of you out there nodding your head in agreement with many of the ideas I threw out there today. For those of you who thought these were wonderful ideas, and believe that your $199 entrance fee to the seminar was well woth the money, please tell a friend.  In addition, for those of you who were enlightened by this seminar, I would also encourage you to visit my kiosk in the foyer or visit me online at coolrantersmagicbeans.com for a special opportunity to buy some life altering legumes. Thank you and goodnight!