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.