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!

Why City Buses Kick School Buses’ Butts: A Commentary On Mass Transit In America From A First-Grader’s Perspective



VS.

Unfortunately (or some would say fortunately) T’s mom and I are divorced, however our time with T is divided evenly, resulting in him spending every other weekend with me. Saturdays and Sundays can drag on quite a bit with him being trapped inside an apartment all day with only me to entertain him, as entertaining as I might be to a six year old child. It is often one of my biggest challenges every other weekend to find activities to entertain him. During one weekend sometime last year, an idea came upon me to let T experience the joy and wonderment of our city’s public transportation system, secretly in an attempt to just kill a few hours. In my hometown, public bus riding is not the regular occurrence it is in larger metropolitan areas where a portion of bus riders are professional men and women who simply want to avoid the stress of bumper to bumper traffic, and parking garages that are seriously depleted of available parking spaces. In my home town, the public transportation option is by and large reserved for those individuals of lower socioeconomic status who often cannot afford their own vehicles (those of you from my home town who are going to shower me with a cascade of boos and hisses for what you perceive as a stereotypical comment, can shut your dirty pie holes because you have evidently not come out of your ivory towers to actually experience riding a bus in our fare city, otherwise you would know that my comment is 90% accurate). Those of you who are out of town readers now have an explanation for that gasp of horror you hear coming from local home town readers who can’t believe I would chose to put my son and I in the position of carousing about town for several hours with the dregs of our local community (there, now you can all boo and hiss at me for making an intentionally inflammatory and degrading statement). Since that first ride over a year ago, we have spent several weekend days gallivanting about town on the city bus. What has actually amazed me is that T is always the one to bring up this activity. Initially, I did not really understand the attraction. Given the fact that he rides his school bus five days a week from his school to his after school program, I was simply puzzled by his affinity for the city bus. It was finally today, after he asked yet again to go for a ride on the city bus, that I attempted to put myself in the mindset of a first grade child (in maturational measurements, this was not much of a regression for me), and the whole love of the city bus became clear when it was viewed in comparison with his school bus. Sure, there is the fact that it is “something different” but I believe it is more than that. Although there are probably many more examples, the following are some of the major reasons why first grade children (or at least my first-grade child) like city buses so darn much:

 

#1 The differences are immediately noticeable as soon as the city bus stops at your curbside location. What small child is not enthralled with the hydraulic system that lowers the door of the bus to your level, negating the need to clamber inside like the high sitting school bus.  The city bus instead treats you like miniature royalty making your entrance as easy and painless as possible.

#2 Then there is the fee required. To the first grade child, any commoner can simply get on a school bus free of charge, but to ride in the upper echelons of motor coaches one must fork over some serious coinage (mind you, six quarters seems like a king’s ransom to a six year old).

#3 The next little slice of heaven comes in the form of seat selection. The ever developing elementary school mind comes to grips with the reality that they are not going to be seated by the bus driver in an act of totalitarian, iron-fisted rule, but instead they are going to be allowed to chose from a myriad of seating options. Sit on the side facing out the opposite window. Sure thing. Sit “traditional style” facing out the front window. Whatever your little heart desires. Even standing up, the ultimate taboo on the school bus, can be broken in what seems to be the Sodom and Gomorra of mass transportation. “Would I like to sit in the front today? Yes, yes I would. You know, I would like to move to an available seat in the back at the next stop. And I can, because I am the king!”

#4 What, I ask you, is one of the elementary school child’s favorite modes of transportation? That’s right, the good ol’ bicycle. There is no way the school is going to let you bring your greasy bicycle on board, but the shear giddiness exhibited by a child is immeasurable when they find out the city bus has a rack specifically attached to the front to transport their glorious two wheeled metal friend.

#5 The city bus offers a sense of absolute freedom that simply can’t be matched by the school bus. Judging on number of routes alone, the city bus offers a cornucopia of possible options that absolutely destroys the number of routes offered by any one school. Further, the child is not allowed to ride any school bus of their choosing so they can experience something different from their day to day grind. Bus #2 means you are on bus #2. You don’t just walk over and decide you are going to ride bus #7 today. The city bus, however, has no such restrictive practices, thereby opening up the greater metropolitan area for our little traveler’s exploration. (I know, a child is somewhat limited by what their parents will tolerate, but I allow my child to pick which bus route he wants to ride, thereby giving him the greatest sense of freedom).

#6 So much of a child’s life is beyond their control, including the stopping points along a school buses route. There is no choice in the matter. The bus driver stops at each point with absolutely no input from any of the sad little faces aboard. While the city bus does have definite stops, not all “stops” are necessarily stopped at, and what the elementary school-aged child soon gravitates towards is the all consuming power of the cord. From the perspective of these pint-sized power mongers, all it takes is one gentle tug, a red light flickers to life and the driver must obey their silent command. For the child, the power reversal between adult (not to mention an adult bus driver who normally has ultimate control over them on a school bus) and child results in an intoxicating blend of control and vengeance.

#7 The city bus is an opportunity to become acquainted with new and interesting individuals. Day after day, the child rides the school bus with the same children, and talking of only the latest and greatest toys and cartoons becomes tiresome from time to time. The child’s longing for varied experiences can be met by riding on the city bus and hearing a cacophony of those “special” adult-only words, and provides and opportunity to eavesdrop on great conversations like, “I am gonna whoop my kid's ass if he did not do his homework”, “I got so f'd up on meth last night” and “I told my boyfriend if he wanted to put it in there, he could go see a hooker.”

Ah, seeing things from the mindset of a young child has actually been quite an eye-opening experience. I think I may just stay here for a while.

B*#ch Slapped By Flu Karma

The clock says 3:18 a.m. as I begin today’s…err….tonight’s…err…this morning’s blog. Although my eyes are straining to stay open, I feel compelled to make a written record of my missteps so I can review it in the future to avoid certain peril when similar circumstances arise. Let’s roll back the time machine to yesterday morning, at approximately 6:55 a.m. doing my normal routine getting T, my son, ready for school. I asked T what he wanted for breakfast, and in typical fashion, he ignored me. And in further typical fashion, I asked two more times, and was met with silence. I made my inquiry into his morning food selection a fourth time, having raised my voice to about a 7, which equates to moderately pissed off parent level. T evidentially sensed that I was getting perturbed by his non-responsiveness, and answered “I’m thinking.” The actual translation of what he had said is “I heard you the first three times, now leave me alone”, and while to a six-year old child, this may serves as an appropriate response, it only resulted in me becoming even more angered at him as it did not move me any closer to dispensing with the morning’s culinary task. T then began to complain that his throat was hurting. I really did not have time for this. We were already slightly behind schedule to get to school timely, and now a suspicious report of gullet-related discomfort. I tried to act like I had not heard him (engaging in a little juvenile tit for tat if you will for his non-cooperative behavior earlier), and told him we would be having French toast sticks for breakfast. T became adamant that he could not eat because his throat hurt, and he asked for a cough drop. I acquiesced to his request, and retrieved a piece of hardened, throat soothing elixir from the medicine cabinet, all the while eyeing the clock in the front room, now definitely being convinced I would not be getting to work on time after taking him to school. A few minutes later, I heard a crunching noise, and knew that T had completed the “sucking” phase of the lozenge. I presented T with a plate of hastily warmed up French toast sticks, told him to start eating, and quickly scampered off to my bedroom so as to not even give him the slightest opportunity to start clamoring about how his throat still hurt. T eventually ate three out of the four French toast sticks, and we actually made it to our destinations of work and school on time without any more complaints about his aching larynx. (eyes…getting…so…heavy…must…sleep. The remainder of this blog was penned some fifteen hours after I initially began it.)

After a stressful day of work, I picked up T from his after school program. On the way home, T exclaimed, “Good, tomorrow is Friday. That way I only have to go to school one more day.” There was no mention of his pained esophagus, and he asked to go the local gathering point of skateboarding juvenile delinquents otherwise knows as the nearest public park. After playing for 45 minutes, T had still not made mention of his sore throat, and I figured we were good as gold. After getting home, I made the rookie parent mistake of asking how his throat was feeling. T then went into what I believe to have been an Oscar-winning performance for his role as a tortured soul in “The Boy With the Excruciating Esophagus.” T began to whimper like a scared puppy and pointed to his throat to indicate the source of his discomfort. I asked several times over the next hour about what he wanted for dinner (and was having serious feelings of deja vu, likely stemming from the morning’s Breakfast Brawl 2011), however every idea I proposed for dinner was shot down with the same explanation that swallowing would hurt his throat. Realizing that our dinner-time dilemma had devolved into a seemingly frictionless non-stop merry-go-round of meal proposal and subsequent food denial, I told T that he should just take a bath, and maybe his throat would feel better. As T was in the bath, I talked to him about his homework for school that he needed to turn in the following day. T stated in an “it is so obvious you should know this” tone of voice, “I don’t think I will be going to school tomorrow because my throat hurts too bad.” My mental recording of my day immediately cued up to his comment when I picked him up from his after school program in which he commented about being required to go to school only one more day. It is probably due to the fact that in my profession I am surrounded by dishonest people (the clients, not the employees, although there are some sketchy employees) that I have become jaded about people’s honesty, and immediately concluded that my son was concocting a plan for getting out of school. As T finished up his bath, I even text messaged his mother alerting her to what I perceived to be his conniving ways.

After finishing up his bath, and getting his pajamas on, T came and snuggled up next to me on the couch. He then told me that his stomach now hurt. I told him that was probably because his nutrient deprived stomach was revolting against his stubbornness towards food, and was now beginning to growl at him. T started to have tears gather in the corner of his eyes as he whaled “I’m starving”, but then immediately followed this with the puzzling statement “I think I am going to throw up.” I hurried T into the bathroom, where he stood solemnly for the next minute or so in front of the toilet with nothing spewing violently from his mouth. I walked into my bedroom, and then heard him urinating into the toilet. He then yelled out, “I guess I just had to go pee. My stomach feels great now.” Oh, for the love of Pete’s sake I thought. I read T a story, put him in bed, and settled in on the couch for what I anticipated to be a relaxing evening of television viewing followed by a night of rejuvenating slumber. The rest of the evening was uneventful and stress free as anticipated, however it was sometime between 10:45 p.m. when I laid my head on my pillow and 2:15 a.m that the dastardly deities who maintain domain over the world’s diseases had decided that my heartless minimization of my child’s pain and scoffing at the possibility that he was ill had reached an unbearable level. It was during these hours that a viral attack had been unleashed on my child’s corporal being by these vindictive spirits in order to teach me a lesson. T came into my bedroom at 2:15 a.m. and reported that he had to go to the bathroom. The bathroom light sprung to life as he flipped the switch, but instead of hearing a stream of cascading urine echoing in the ceramic receptacle, my auditory senses were assaulted by the unmistakable guttural utterances that proceed the forceful ejection of undigested food particles mixed with gut juices. Poor little T’s stomach was really giving him the business, and I could do nothing but feel so sorry for him. After getting him cleaned up, we went into the living room and he curled up in a pitiful ball on the couch. T asked if I had any Sprite or Saltine crackers as we had used these items as all-important sustenance during his last bout of vomiting a few months earlier. I told him that we did not have either, so we got dressed up, and headed to the nearest all-night convenience store to purchase supplies.  I was in an old t-shirt, gym shorts and flip-flops, while Tyler was in his pajamas still.  We looked like the classic trailer park family you see at Wal-Mart at like 10:00 on a Thursday night.  The only difference is that we were on an emergency run, while I always get the feeling, based upon their leisurely pace, that the Wal-Mart family does this on a regular basis for entertainment. We entered the store, quickly picked up our needed items, and strolled up to the counter. Lo and behold there behind the counter was the same jackass who became famous in a past blog (You talkin' to me?) for treating me like an insignificant nuisance while he chatted away on his blue tooth. Tonight, Mr. Inconsiderate was auditorially au naturel, but even without his precious communication device glued to his head, he was just as rude as before. He did not verbally acknowledge us, but used the least energy possible and gave the same indifferent head nod he had used during my prior visit. I felt a little pity for the poor guy as I contemplated the possibility that he was not being rude, and rather that he was afflicted with WNS (Weak Neck Syndrome, formerly known as LANS or Lazy Ass Neck Syndrome until the ACLU filed suit against the medical community for using such a "...heartless and degrading label for a very serious condition.") The possibility of this horrible disease affecting this poor man quickly disintegrated when his head snapped around when a new customer entered the store. OK, so we were back at square one with him being a genuine a-hole. The transaction concluded with him mumbling our total at a barely audible level, and then failing to utter a simple thank you. As soon as T and I re-entered the apartment he vomited again in a plastic bowl that had been set out on the coffee table for the specific purpose of catching flying, chunky, foul-smelling debris so that he could avoid the long trek to the bathroom when nausea overcame him and to avoid the risk of the carpet becoming the victim of a regurgitated rain storm. The next two hours included T puking two more times, followed by a few episodes of unproductive retching, all the while passing the time watching the wonderful animated film, Despicable Me, whose title seemed so fitting for the situation.

T finally fell asleep on the couch around 4:45, and instead of risking waking him up by placing him in his bed, I retrieved my pillow and blanket from my bed, along with my alarm clock, and set up camp on the hard, unforgiving living room floor so as to be present in the event he woke up again and was unfamiliar with his surroundings. I spent the next 30-45 minutes struggling to find a comfortable position, and somehow managed to drift off to sleep for about 1 ½ hours before being startled awake by my blaring alarm clock which also woke up T, who was none to happy about being stirred from his short lived sleep. T eventually stayed home from school, and spent the day with his mom. I somehow struggled through the work day, my listless movements and sore back a nagging reminder of my arduous night. I promise from this day forth that in deference to the Germ Gods, I shall never again question the veracity of my child’s statements regarding the condition of his health! (let’s hope that insincere token promise keeps me from getting this nasty little bug)

****Blog Update (some 8 hours after originally posting):  My throat is starting to hurt.  Oh Germ Gods, I have offended you.  Please have mercy on me.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!