‘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.