Frustrating Occupations

Dr. Whist Bowdlerizer tentatively agrees that shovin' and pushin' might be a bonified cliché.

For myself, I'd be more likely to inquire: shovin' and pushin' what?

If a fellow's shovin' and pushin' shreds and patches, it seems to me, he'd be in a world of confusion on just how to go about this task.

Obviously, if a fellow is standing in a long line, (while considered by some as quite an aggressive personality trait ) shovin' and pushin' might be a valuable skill.

On the other hand, shovin' and pushin' bantamweight items like shreds and pieces could be a very frustrating occupation.

Dear Readers, if you have any insights which will add clarity to the inherent characteristics of shovin' and pushin' shreds and patches as an occupation, wish to yea or nay the advantages of this unique job opportunity, or merely want to share your opinions on the subject of such an employment situation, please, do not hesitate to enlighten us.

We look forward to your comments.
Frustrating Occupations © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

No Cover Necessary

As you may have suspected our resident cliché authority, Dr. Whist Bowdlerizer, a fellow whose visual appearance might be described as knee-high-to-a-pint-sized cricket, took issue with my recently used expression: "duck and run."

He maintains the proper cliché is: "duck and cover."

Now Bowdlerizer, who can usually be found at the Knee-Knockers Club arguing with club members that a koeksister is the true verbiage for cruller depending upon its country's source of origin, seems to have a well-honed barb.

"Duck and cover" can be found everywhere. Few, if any resources mention "duck and run." Which proves my point. If one "ducks and runs" effectively, there is absolutely no need then to "duck and cover" for your trail will be untraceable, in that the amount of precipitation will need no cover.

To avoid misinterpretations, "duck and run" will not be included in Dr. Whist Bowdlerizer's upcoming gazetteer.

No Cover Necessary © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Pickle Puckie

Whoever invented halogen bulbs ought to have their head examined.

I mean, c'mon! You can't touch the bulb while screwing it in the socket? Give me a break.

Sitting in the dark trying to figure this one out, isn't working. It sure would help if we could throw some light on the situation.

Maybe tongs would work. Put the metal to the glass instead of oil from the fingertips. Ski mittens and curling tongs are the perfect solution, but I can't find the mittens in the dark. Now where did I put that flashlight?

Ever try screwing a light bulb into a socket with curling tongs? Don't even attempt it. You'll get the shock of your life!

Well, let's see. Something simple like a cloth, maybe? That ought-a work. There's a grease rag around here somewhere.

Shucks.

That didn't work either. Simple solutions for major problems never do. The cloth turned just fine, but the bulb never swivelled a millimeter.

Hmmm . . . I just know we can figure this out. Maybe the thermoplastic resin in Saran Wrap will turn that bulb.

Well, that worked. Sort-of. Screwed the bulb in just fine. Then phatt! The halogen must have escaped. Immolated that Saran Wrap to a crisp. Now that we know thermoplastic resin and halogen are not compatible, we won't try that again. Phew! What an odorous adventure. There ought-a be a hazardous warning about this on the box!

Who would-a believed that screwing a Klieg light would turn into such a confusing, messy, complicated affair? What an imbroglio.

Guess there's no choice left but to call Jimmy and ask him to do the screwing. I just hate to ask for his help, though. Why, it'll be just like using a bicycle pump to put more air into an already over-inflated tire. He always brags that he's the only one who can get things done around here.

Ah shucks. Think I'll try just one more possibility.

Pickle juice. Why didn't that occur to me before? Sure now and won't the acetic acid neutralize fingertip oil?

"Uh? Oh! Hello Jimmy. What are you doing here? . . . What am I doing with the pickles? Well, see, it's a new game called: Playing Pickle Puckie With Halogen Bulbs. Wanna play? Just grab the bulb, some pickles, stand on this chair and screw. It's a piece of cake."

Pickle Puckie © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Happy Easter

Wishing You and All of Yours
Happy Easter
Chae

Complex Cliché Computations

"Anyone who says their house is spick-and-span," says Dr. Whist Bowdlerizer, who is an authority on such matters, "is in the doghouse of interpretation."

In a personal survey whereby he scrutinized the results of 5000 polls, he found that 39% polled believed that spick-and-span referred to a mixed Puerto Rican and Black marriage; 87% heard only the first word and reacted with indignation at the racial slur; and 13% were unaware that house interiors could be spotlessly clean.

"Since folks blunder into these stupid misinterpretations with constant irregularity," Dr. Bowdlerizer said, "I am preparing a gazetteer which will detail regional dialectic speech impediments and how to adjust your clichés acccordingly."
Complex Cliché Computations © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Fossil Hunters

Bet you thought Steven Spielberg's "Jurassic Park" was fiction! In fact, you probably even told your kids: "Hey! This isn't real. It's only a movie."

Remember?

It was a tale of an entrepreneur who developed genetically produced dinosaurs. T-Rexs in fact.

Now, little dinosaurs are cute when they are young, but like in the Jurassic Park sequel, they can be a menace when fully grown.

Consider this: not even ONE dinosaur leg will fit into a transport helicopter. That's pretty big, folks! Why, just one of their feet squashing a two-bedroom ranch could plummet the real estate markets into an irreversible downward spin. Then, where would our economy be?

Sure. And didn't the real T-Rexs die out 65 million years ago? No sweat. We've got nothing to worry about.

Or maybe we do!

A fossil-hunting team led by paleontologist, John R. Horner, found a 70 million-year-old T-Rex in Montana in 2003.

I can hear you thinking: "But that's not a big deal, Chaeli. Finding fossilized dinosaur skeletons is quite a common occurance, old girl."

That may be so, but today's news mentioned that this dig turned up the very first SOFT TISSUE, BLOOD-VESSELED dinosaur with cells.

There are battery cells, convent cells, jail cells, cliques with inner circle cells, AND there are cells that contain DNA. You know what that means.

In a paper published today in the journal "Science", the T-Rex's Discovery Team said that they are already contemplating CLONING this dinosaur !

Now, I'm pretty sure cloning means producing a living replica of Mr. T-Rex. Is this déjà vu or what?

With this news in front of me, I'm thoroughly convinced that this is exactly the right moment for Spielberg to make another Jurassic sequel.

It will rake in BILLIONS if it hits the cinemas at the same time a successful dinosaur cloning hits the newspapers!

Fossil Hunters © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Nose Job

OK. So it's not my fault the dog had an "accident" right by my bedside. But after scrubbing the "spot" for thirty-three hours with every cleaning agent invented between here and Russia, I have to admit I could still smell "it."

THAT's when I did what any normal person would do. I dumped a whole bottle of perfume on the critical area, folded my hands in resignation, and walked away.

Everything was hunky-dory until bedtime.

I should tell you the rest of the day zipped along pretty smoothly. Did a bit of housecleaning. Washed the kitchen down with PineSol, waxed the hardwood floors with Lemon Pledge, and swabbed the windows with vinegar. The house was a bouquet of fragrances.

I could have fallen asleep standing up but I went to bed first. That was my mistake. If I had layed down on the lemon-scented hardwood floors, I'd have had a better night's sleep. That perfumed spot kept me awake all night.

Talk about aromatherapy!

Now there are several resources that say aromatherapy is good for the soul. It's an elixir of plant oils burned as incense, massaged into the skin, or poured into one's bath.

These resources say the Egyptians were the first to use Aromatherapy when they embalmed the dead. Can you imagine laying around for centuries, trapped in mummy wrapping drenched with perfumes? Why your nose would never smell the same again!

There's a science to aromatherapy, or so they tell me. The NAHA, National Association of Holistic Aromatherapy, prescribes it as an alternative medicine to promote health of body, spirit and mind.

NAHA practitioners claim that a regular massage with Oil of Grapefruit keeps the nerves in balance. Now this may be true, but have you ever wondered what an unbalanced nerve looks like? Is it a teeter-totter type affair with the nerve on one end and grapefruits on the other? And which grapefruits are used for this oily essence? Pink? Ruby? Or plain old Whites? I think if my nerves were unbalanced, they would prefer the Pinks, wouldn't yours? Or perhaps the Rubies would do.

And what about these aromatherapists who claim that Oil of Geranium will restore harmony to my energy flow? How do they know? Is there some scientific test that MEASURES the harmony in energy flow? What I'd really like to know is: how they catch the energy flow to measure it in the first place?

As you can plainly see this aromatherapy is a complicated business. Why there are essential oils to cure everything from athlete's foot to enlightenment. My feet are perfectly fine, thank you very much, and I'm not too sure I want a cure for my enlightenment. I've worked awfully hard to get as far as I have with it.

Well folks, it's that yawning hour again. Since I didn't get much sleep last night with all of this aromatherapy stuff on my mind, I figure tonight I ought-a get a good snooze.

And just to insure this, I went down to the health food store today and bought all their purest grapefruit, sliced them into triometric squares, and packed that spot full of these aromatheraphic remedies to chase the evil spirits away. If you happen to walk by and see these spirits, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know what they looked like. I've never seen one.

Good night all -- Chaeli has snozzle-proofed the mind, body and spirit.
Nose Job © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Email Strategy

Now I believe in the power of emails. They're fast and usually receive instant replies. But from Mona Lisa?

Sure, she has a room of her own and generally receives 1500 visitors an hour, six days a week. But really, expecting her to answer emails is a bit too much.

I mean that lady is busy ! She hardly has time to do her nails and hair before the hoards descend and she has to entertain The Fifteen Hundred. Her script writer must work overtime to keep that many folks entertained. In an eight-hour day that's twelve thousand people!

One thing I've noticed about our M. Lisa: she never changes her clothes! Wears the same old rags day in, day out. Yet folks keep a-coming. The fashion designers must be biting their nails wondering how she does it.

You sure can tell her security guards are not up to snuff, though. They don't screen the audience nearly as well as President Bush's security team does. I mean imagine this: her security forces give everybody an audience. Even pickpockets. Heck, a Democrat can't even get into one of President Bush's public meetings. Can you imagine a pickpocket's chances? He'd be whisked off to Guantánamo Bay before he had a chance to say: "I am an American."

As if old fashion hospitality and receiving 12,000 folks a day, isn't enough to consume M. Lisa's busy schedule, she sells 330,000 items a year. Bet she sits up nights, in that regal posture of hers, dreaming up new strategies to discuss with her marketing team. Eat your heart out Martha Stewart. Mona has made her fortune with post cards, magnets and puzzles. No color coordinated sheets for her!

Still, like most famous stars, Mona receives mail. At least, one missal a week, if not more. The lady was born somewhere between the years of 1503 and 1507. By my calculations that makes her roughly 500 years old.

Imagine how much news and gossip she's been privy to in that amount of time! Now you know how little old ladies love to write letters and share all their wisdom, but I'm not at all sure Mona's hep about new technology and emails. So take my advice. If you want the full benefit of her 500 years of experience, send her a letter instead.

Oh, and make sure you enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope, otherwise you might just get one of her postcards in reply.
Email Strategy © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Between A Pipe and A Spider

Do Blonds have more fun? Well . . . that depends. On their occupation. If they happen to work for Orkin Pest Control, probably not.

If you have ever worked for Orkin, you know part of the job involves scuttling under folk's houses in search of . . . BUGS. Now, Orkin provides a brown zoot suit that protects your clothing, while you slither around in the dirt, but they draw the line at providing hats.

If you live in Oregon, you already know most houses don't have basements. They have crawl spaces under the ground floor which serve as basements.

Crawl spaces, which may have started out as much a ONE FOOT HIGH, have pipes. All kinds of pipes: water pipes, gas pipes, stove pipes, bagpipes, and corncob pipes which are wrapped in enough insulation to trap the polar airstream in the Artic Circle and NEVER let it get to Alaska . . . unless it pays a toll fee, of course.

To barricade that much cold air, you need a LOT of insulation. Enough to raise the flooring which is why some people's floors have a ripple effect.

What this means to a pest control person who is crawling on their belly in the dark with only a flashlight to dimly penetrate the black cavern under the house, is that when an insulated pipe crosses your path, you SOMEHOW have to squiggle under it.

OK. So you've got the bug detecting tool which looks like an enormous screwdriver sandwiched between your teeth, a flickering flashlight in one hand, notepad and pen in the other hand, and you try to squirm under this grossly overdressed pipe, by pulling yourself along with your elbows.

Suddenly, you are stuck. Your legs push frantically from behind the pipe. You drop everything, including the flashlight, so your hands can tear the ground apart in front of you. Visions of death by starvation waffle through your mind.

The flashlight's beam flutters on and off, and you just know Orkin's batteries are the discount variety. If they'd used Energizer that little feller who makes batteries work would just keep going, and going, and going . . . .

As the light sputters off, you notice, there to your immediate right, about a spider's leg away, is a DEADLY POISONOUS Black Widow. It's eyes are not only blood red, they are sizing you up as their next Oscar Meyer Wiener.

There are some moments that make no sense. It's like someone cut the movie reel and spliced it back together in the wrong place. One moment you are stuck forever under this fat pipe. The next moment you are free and clear. Your head hits the foot-high ceiling. Your arms and legs gyroscope at a speed exceeding the speed of a blender.

Without conscious thought you are out from under that house faster than an olive can sink to the bottom of a martini glass.

And there stands the owner of the house, posing as a model for the dapper-dresser-of-the-year award. He probably took a shower while you were stuck under his pipes having a meaningful conversation with his house bugs.

"Any carpenter ants?"

"Uh-Huh," you mumble around the spider webs spun between your nose and lower lip.

The man has a keen eye which focuses just over your left eyebrow. "You have crawly things in your hair."

Suddenly, your flesh quivers, you itch uncontrollably, every hair molecule tweaks in a different direction and you can F-E-E-L creeping millipedic arthropods walking along your scalp.

"Wasn't your hair blond when you arrived?" The Neiman Marcus Suit flicks a piece of lint from his lapel. "Sure looks black now."

How do you spell relief? Forget the Rolaids and go straight for the shower. Then, buy a cap. Maybe one with a cute motto printed on it: Bug Lady At Your Service. A sturdy leather cap with a chin strap.

Or better yet, find another job. Maybe as a planer in a sawmill. I'll bet you a doughnut, the wood chips will match your hair color better than Black Widow spiders.
Between A Pipe and A Spider © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Without Time

The wind skids across the plain
And chases tumbleweeds,
Who retreat from the wind's force

As if they were wireframes
Traveling with great haste
Towards an unknown destination.

The land they cross
Is the color of Summer honey
Until it intersects a vivid blue sky.

There, at the intersection
They collide with the horizon
And fade into the shadows of time.

A glorious golden sun
Watches the tumbleweeds tango,
But voices no opinion about life, nor about death.

For the golden sun knows
As the tumbleweeds do not
That beyond the horizon is another dance.

Forever then, tumbleweeds skate
Across the plains of tomorrow.

Without Time © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Sunday Morning VII

Half remembered phrases. Half forgotten. Small bits and pieces of information once learned, rarely used, lost in the tide of life.

One such phrase is: Don't hide your light under a bushel.

Obviously, I have only half remembered it. For having said that, immediately the question comes to mind: a bushel of WHAT?

And for that matter, what exactly is a BUSHEL ?

I have absolutely no trouble at all in understanding what "my light" is. It's giving a smile instead of a frown, a word of praise and encouragement rather than the insult that comes first to mind, and giving a hug rather than an angry retort.

It's opening my ears to listen rather than interrupting with my own ideas (which is especially hard to do if they are long-winded!), answering an honest question with warmth and enthusiasm rather than defensive avoidance, and opening my arms wide in welcoming embrace even when another has done their best to shut you out of their life.

It's maintaining a positive attitude about the beauty still to be found in our world even when others would clobber you with dog piles of every conceivable negative.

It's fixing a meal for another when you, yourself, are not hungry, going to the grocery store with someone as a friend so they won't have to go it alone, sharing a song, putting our arms around another's distress, or accidently banging our thumbs with a hammer as we help with repairs.

It's holding a shaky ladder so another won't fall, sharing simple walks in a park or along an avenue, and creating laughter at meals shared together.

It's the small flame of daily contact and loving consideration that builds gradually into the giant torch which lights the world.

We can all think of ways to let our light shine. The confusion sets in when we have to define the measurement of a bushel. How many ounces are in a bushel?

And exactly what are we measuring? Feathers? Rocks?

Or is it possible we are measuring nourishment for the soul's journey . . . .
Chae

Cardinal Mystery

If I had known the book was a murder mystery, full of violence, it would have sat on the bookshelves, unread, until all the world's glaciers had melted.

And possibly, not even then would I have read it, for let's face it, when all those glaciers melt there's going to be one heck of a flood. It's hard to read a water-soaked book while holding onto a log floating downstream.

Fortunately, I was blessedly unaware of its contents when I bought the book. Due to inflation, books now cost the equivalent of a mouthful of gold crowns, so once purchased, who can afford the luxury of not reading that sucker?

Thus, I put on my vulcanized hip-boots specially designed for wading through solid waste materials and read: "The Da Vinci Code" by Dan Brown.

That was last winter. Imagine my surprise to see Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone's recent condemnation of this literary effort -- TWO YEARS -- after its first publication, and after it has sold nearly 25 million copies!

Now it is plain to see that Cardinal Bertone isn't an American. If the Roman prelates were American, they would never even consider such a sinful transgression of our First Amendment Rights. To ban any book is heretical and only ignorance would continence this shameful waste of paper.

Trees, world-wide, should unite and speak out in protest. They sacrifice their very lives for our erudition. Why isn't their union, Strong Timber Amalgamated, shouting from the rooftops about this injustice? Surely, a tree's sacrifice should not be in vain!

As it is the tree's duty to give life to books, so it is a citizen's moral obligation to leaf through these volumes, glean information, then make independent and educated choices about the content. Or, at the very least, view the movies which sequel the books.

My opinion of this book? The premise is well thought through, well researched, and very, very believable. It makes a strong case for the sanctity of marriage.

Would I read it again? Knowing ahead of time that it's a murder mystery?

The answer is yes. Only this time, I'm taking off the hip-boots. It's rather uncomfortable wading through a book swathed in vulcanized rubber. Besides, I might need them, later, for the Great Glacier Flood.
Cardinal Mystery © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

The WhistleBlowers Satire and Other Ripe Parody

There's a new word making its way around the boards. It's name is: Anonymice.

I'm more familiar with the older version of this word: Gutless Wonder. But then, some thought that expression referred strictly to cars.

Anonymice. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? It's a word you can grab ahold of with your tongue and there's no confusion about what it means.

Mice, if you haven't deduced it yet, are cowardly critters. Their tail didn't grow that long without a lot of turning round and running. Theirs is not exactly a bushy tail, but close enough.

The hierarchy of micehood starts at the top, of course, and filters down through the ranks. It's known as double-speak, but don't quote me on that. I got it from anonymous sources.

It would be hard to be a politician in Washington these days. They're afraid to open their mouths.

"If I accidently speak the truth about current issues, I'll be in direct contradiction to the White House spin," said an anonymous source.

"Rumor has it," said another member of the A.S.S., Anonymous Source Society, "that the administration has provided a new room in the West Wing and as soon as it's fully equipped, we can all watch the fake news releases before we anonymously quote them."

"Yes," another A.S.S. member said, "invitations to attend these special viewings were sent to the Press Corps so they can state with authority that they have previewed the content before they affix their tagline: "As Reported by John Reliable News Reporter Handcock."

"Well . . . yes," I replied, "I can see your point of view. It's always more convincing when everyone's walking on the same platform. But what about foreign dignitaries? How are you going to put the White House Spin on what foreign leaders say when they are interviewed?"

"Oh, that's easy," said one elderly functionary who asked that his name not be used. "Just watch how our Leader handles that issue. Screen the audience so no one can spring a question requiring an honest answer. If you have to invite a foreign dignitary make sure it's one who doesn't speak English. Feed him a couple of talking points and have him repeat them endlessly. That way he'll be on the same page as the Chief."

Another A.S.S. member said, "Look young fellow, just think of it as a play where the main characters resemble Boosh and Eburs. They are both heads of major corporations. It's just that one's job title is more elegant and the other's job is now defunct. Both speak into the microphone: "I take full irresponsibility for the recent statements I didn't make. What you think you heard me say, wasn't what I said at all. My administration can back me up because they have seen the newest video release of the statements I didn't make and affirm I didn't say it, too."

The elderly statesman winked at me. "And you can quote me anonymously on that."

Anonymice. A grand old word. Even if it is new.

The Whistle Blowers Satire and Other Ripe Parody © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Elfin Wishes

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY
TO ONE AND ALL AND EVERYBODY !!!
MAY THE "PROBLEMS" IN ALL OF YOUR TOMORROWS BE NO WORSE THAN THE HAPPIEST MOMENTS IN ALL OF YOUR YESTERDAYS.
CHAE

Plate Bender

Accidents happen. Remember when that was a popular phrase?
Well, today, I accidently backed into an oncoming car.

Now, it's hard to back into an accident.

But not impossible, as I deftly proved this morning. Intriguingly, TV news coverage last night did a spot detailing which cars are the safest when each is combined with an accident.

However, they failed to describe which license plates are the least vulnerable to damage. Have you noticed? These news shows are always telling you which cars, trucks and suv's are the most desirable, but they never mention which license plates give you the most protection.

Out of fifty state plates, I can personally attest to the rather curious fact that Washington State License Plates are as flimsy as Jello-Pudding.

Neither car was dented nor bruised in any fashion. The license plate, however, looked like it had just had a Bhagdad encounter.

If you are thinking about moving to a new state, make sure you test out the durability of their plates before making a final decision.

Loud thumps combined with crumpled plates can be instrumental in causing heart attacks.
Plate Bender © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Physical Calisthenics and Other Mental Exercises

My sister took after my dad's side of the family.

Now, my dad, he took after Mom's side of the family, none of whom were into physical sports. The closest any of them ever got to physical activity was if the topic came up in a conversation.

Mom is the only one in her family's geneology who didn't inherit the intellectual gene. When those squiggly little DNAs were swimming downstream, Mom caught the one marked: Drama, Stage and Singing Career.

The reason I mention this is because a long-handled monster caught ahold of me yesterday and wouldn't let go. The monster's name is "Rake." It had me by both hands, and just kept on struttin' its stuff with last Fall's leaves, till I was near exhausted trying to keep up with it.

Shortly after it began its rakey business, I was gasping for air. This, by gum, was an endurance test for the fittest. It rated right up there with the Iron Man Competition. Didn't this monster rake know our family's DNA wasn't exercise prone? It builds up too much adrenalin in our systems.

As far back as I can remember, our family found folks whose DNA matched up with "Rake" and hired them to indulge these physical enterprises.

I did mention my sister, didn't I? And our O-T-H-E-R grandparents. The farmers? They were earthy people close to the soil of life. Mental gymnastics left them chasing after the question mark in their minds.

So what transpired yesterday was a war of the DNAs.

The Rake, an innocent victim in this whole affair, had accidently gotten itself into the wrong family hands. And then, believing it was right, wouldn't let go.

I probably wouldn't have done so poorly in this endeavor if I didn't smoke nicotine. Obviously, it's not the tobacco in Camel straights that'll do you in. It's the nicotine. And the sedentary nature of an intellectualholic. Combined, these two habits are deadly.

When you are well past your point of physical stamina, mind transcends the condition and strange thoughts drop unannounced into your awareness. Such as: Folks of a purely physical bent often live longer than intellectuals. But they are bored. Their mind has nothing to do while their bodies exercise.

Folks with an intellectual inclination believe they can master the art of the physical if they just "set their minds to it." THAT's why so many of them die young.

Perhaps, I should just explain this to that rake the next time it decides to execute a war dance with a yardfull of leaves.

DNA wars are hazardous to one's health.
Physical Calisthenics and Other Mental Exercises © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Hometown Math

My hometown was evenly divided. Half of the natives were Irish. The other half Italian. This is why I had such trouble passing the math section of the SAT's.

Math is based on the principle that two halves make a whole. Whoever created math has never visited my hometown. If one half is Irish and the other half Italian, any addlepated flibbertigibbet knows, it creats division.

There's a section for essays in the new SAT's. If that section had existed when I took them, I could have explained these basic math principles, and perhaps, the economy today wouldn't be so messed up.

It intrigued me recently to hear that many colleges are no longer basing their entrance requirements on SAT scores. Which is probably a good thing because I've noticed that like the economy, the SAT scores have been depreciated by inflation.

Back in the ' 60s, a score of 1600 was considered an excellent grade. It qualified the student as semi-intelligent. Today, that same degree of intelligence has to rate a score of 2400.

The laws of modern economics contradict the laws of ancient physics which means that things which are equal to each other no longer create the same velosity on a downhill slide. Which about sums it up on the subject of SAT scores.

That about sums it up on my hometown, too. If the Irish and Italians had realized that the sum of two halves create a whole, the Irish could have had more than meat and potatoes for supper, and the Italians could have imbibed more than cheap red wine.

Long live pasta and Irish whiskey! Bring them along next time, if you ever have to take a SAT test. They make a lively snack.
Hometown Math © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Sunday Morning VI

Another Sunday. A day set apart to write, not of man, but of God. Even the church bells collaborate. They chime at exactly the moment i begin to write.

So what can i write that would be meaningful to You?

Personally, i would share the sound of the Spring birds singing their morning song after a long winter's absence. There are parts of the world, now, which have desperate need of the Spring bird's song.

Or maybe i would share the crocuses. A first harbinger of Spring. Such a magical flower! It works so hard to push aside winter's carnage, bring us beauty, and the promise of better days ahead.

Yes! I would share the Spring bird's song and the crosuses. The Promise.

But then, and we've both heard it . . . that's the "I." In this current world, there seems to be more emphasis on the "I" than on the "You."

What would God say if we could hear Him speak? If we were very, very quiet and listened with all our ability to hear?

I do not think we hear God when we are chanting loudly in His name. I think we hear ourselves . . . chanting.

God speaks in many languages. He's THAT magical. He transcends every culture, every race, every creed, to speak directly to You in the native tongue you understand. And He doesn't miss a one of us! He speaks to us all.

Yes. It is only when we noisily proclaim to the world that we alone hear God's voice and that we are acting in His name, while we create carnage and death, that we find we haven't heard Him at all.

God is Universal.

Listen very carefully and you will hear His message of love, peace, harmony and joy.

Me? I can only share the Spring bird's song and the crocuses.
Chae

Pillows And The Great Depression

Boy! Once those airlines get to banning stuff, they go whole hog, don't they?

It started when they figured out they could get away with banning smoking. It's all gone downhill from there.

They banned hot meals in flight.
They banned folks from carrying cigarette lighters.
They banned cell phone usage.

Now they've gone and done it. They've banned pillows.

PILLOWS !!!

In defense of the airlines, they say sacking pillows will speed up the plane's arrival at it's next destination. Gimme a break. If those turbo jets are slowed down by a little bit of fluff, we're all in deep trouble. Should you REALLY be on a plane that can't carry the weight of a few dozen pillows?

I suppose most of those pillows are filled with kapok. If the airlines are having a weight problem they could go back to using pillows filled with feathers. Feathers, at least, are designed to fly.

They moan about having to pay: now get this -- 55 CENTS PER PILLOW, and 5-7 CENTS for the case!

Oy Veh! They haven't shopped Sears lately, have they! Buy a pillow at Sears and it will cost you $36. Unless, you choose one with feathers in it. That will set you back $90. And don't believe the cases are free, either. If you don't want to sleep on the ticking, that'll be another $16.99, thank you very much. That the airlines should be so lucky! Fifty-five cents for the pillow and a nickle for the case.

Why, just the decision to stop using pillows is going to depress the economy. Have you figured out how many pillow companies are going to go belly up? Celeste Industries is already feeling the pinch. And what about the fabric industry? It gets worse and worse. Consider the thread companies. Then there's the sewing machine industry. And the sewing machinists. This will cause mass unemployment.

My Uncle Sylvester, we call him Sly for short, has a good heart. He really cares about our economy. So, he sat down and figured it all out. He survived the Great Depression, you know, so he has a handle on how to turn a dollar. The way he sees it, the airline's pillow short-change is gonna make him a millionaire.

He's got a minature battery-operated sewing machine. One of those light weight ones you hold in one hand. Uncle Sly figures he'll book a flight, carry on ticking, puff and fluff, make pillows in flight, sell them on the spot, and ah . . . did I mention fleece? the customers.

He's worried though that somehow the airline personnel will mistake the ticking for a bomb, and make him pony up his free frequent flyer miles. They're worth half as much as they were before, but for a Great Depression Survivor, somethings worth more than nothing.

Me? I'm just glad I quit flying the commercial skies while they were still user friendly.
Pillows And The Great Depression © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Insourcing The Drive-Thru

The car window stuck half-way down. It's harder to get your head, shoulders and arms out of a partially rolled-down window. But not impossible when you're trying to push the call button at the drive-thru at McDonalds.

There had been a long wait which, as you know, means I'd had time to memorize my order while the cars ahead centimetered along. There was plenty of time to read my driver's license and the the fine print on the insurance papers kept in the glove box.

If the line seemed to take longer than usual, it was because several people got out of their cars, jabbed buttons, and indulged other foolish argumentation with the flat screened metal box.

It's a crazy world we live in today. Why didn't they just drive forward and argue with the girl at the window? I noticed that most of them drove off without picking up their order first. What is this world coming to?

OK. So it's my turn. A contortionist couldn't have done a better job of scivying through the space between metal and glass. Watch out Harry Houdini, I'm onto your tricks. Pushing the button was simple compared to what came next.

A NON-AMERICAN voice jibbered something. It could have been a Taiwanese voice, or a voice from India. You get used to those when you call your banker in LA.

But this is McDonalds, here, in the midwest. Everyone knows Iowa voices have no accent. That's why stations choose us when they need a news broadcaster.

Maybe the electronics of the flat screen are messed up. So I push the button again. Still jibberish.

It's always easier to wiggle out of a partially opened window than to scrunch back in. I don't know why that is. The physics of space are exactly the same.

Several convoluted minutes later, I'm able to open the car door and approach the metal box. There's a couple of plastic buttons there. One's red; the other one's green. Maybe the green one will give me the go ahead. I push that.

The voice that answers sounds like a Sioux Indian speaking in Sioux. I did a quick mental check of the neighborhood girls. Kitty? Suzy? Cindy? After all, this is a small town. I know practically everyone who's ever worked at our local McDs and none of them has ever sounded like this.

Now I'm tongue-tied. Can't think of what I want to say. So out pops the first thing in my mind: "Some foreigner answered the first time. What nationality was she?"

Our Sioux crew answers: "Sorry, Sir. Here at McDonalds we have installed new wiring for your convenience, but the circuits crossed earlier, and you were connected to one of our European representatives. May I take your order, please?"

Or, at least, I think that's what she said. Sioux crew is not my lingo.

Now you might say, I'm a McDonalds junkie. Been one of their customers so long they mailed me one of their plastic loyalty cards. It used to be the only meeting place in town everybody could find. What with the Golden Arches and all.

Even after they supersized everything, I remained a loyal patron, though I have been thinking of other possibilities after they substituted carrot sticks for fries, and salads in place of their Big Macs. But hey, loyalty is loyalty, right?

And I'm sure, sooner or later, Americans will return to good ole meat and potatoes. It's written into the Constitution, isn't it? Well, we don't really have to worry about that. If it isn't already written in the Constitution, it soon will be, the way the current administration keeps rewriting what's there.

What I'm trying to say here is: I know what's on the menu under our local Golden Arches.

So I was pretty upset when Sioux Crew told me my order was not available at this location. A suspicion slinked into my psyche and I asked cagily: "Where is it available?"

"We have it here in North Dakota, Sir, but you don't have it there in Iowa."

"Hol' thems horses, pardner. What do you MEAN . . . there in North Dakota?"

"We're in the process of insourcing orders, Sir. People seem to think it's outsourcing but actually North Dakota is in the US, so we're actually insourcing orders, Sir. For your convenience, of course."

"What does that mean in plain English?"

"If you want a job taking McDonalds drive-thru orders, you have to move to North Dakota."

I was so dang-blasted, dumb-founded, I ordered what Sioux Crew suggested, got back in the car, and drove to the pick-up window.

Had my wallet out to pay the girl, but was met by a UPS truck instead. A brown-suited man got out of the brown truck and handed me a white bag with McDonalds printed on it. "That will be $12.65, Sir."

I handed him a twenty.

"Sorry, Sir, UPS only accepts exact payment. We don't carry change and we don't accept personal checks. There's a bank right across the street if you want to get a certified check for the correct amount. I'll wait here."

I hate to admit this but he's going to have a long wait. I'm turning in my McDonalds loyalty card as soon as I clear the exit.
Insourcing The Drive-Thru © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

This humor essay is partly based on the March 10th, 2005 announcement by McDonald's Chief Executive Jim Skinner that McDonald's Corp. is looking into using remote call centers to take customer orders in an effort to improve service at its drive-thrus, as reported by Reuters.

Blue Babies

I have never eaten at Carl's Jr. which is the restuarant chain sporting the Blue Baby ad. I don't know how they do on hamburgers, but they seem to have some misguided ideas about babies.

We've all heard the expression, "blue babies," haven't we? It refers to cyanosis which may be caused by congenital heart disease or the Rhesus factor (Rh negative) and may require a blood transfusion.

So I'll bet you're as surprised as I am to see a blue baby advertisement, created by the Los Angeles agency Mendelsohn/Zien, slotted during the news hour on TV.

Now the baby in this ad is BLUE. It needs to be rushed to the hospital immediately.

But no one seems to notice the baby's complexion as they listen to it whine about spicy foods. What is wrong with these people? This baby needs immediate attention!

Yes. Yes, I know. In theory, we are seeing this baby via a sonogram in utero. I don't care. That baby's color is way off and it needs to see a doctor, at once.

One can't help but feel sorry for the mother. There are agreeable little tykes and then, there are the whiners. Many whiners start young and wallow through a whole lifetime complaining about everything from wet socks to receding hairlines. This condition usually intensifies when they are teenagers.

It's the parents who suffer, of course. After all, they are obliged to love this kid. It's theirs. And who doesn't fall head-over-heels in love with their own DNA?

One of the reasons I have missed the Carl's experience is the Golden Arches are usually right across the street, and there's no Junior associated with them. McDonald's is the Poppa Burger who started this whole fast food business. If I wanted a junior, I'd stay home and cook it myself.

The ad is too analogical to the current brouhala about abortion rights to suit me. It's as if Carl's Jr. is trying to sneak one over on me. Trying to make me believe an embryo has a personality and can talk. They might as well project that image onto a chicken egg, it'd make about as much sense. And some of us wouldn't mind blue eggs for lunch.

Now in Carl's defense, they're trying to promote their "Spicy BBQ Six Dollar Burger." But who can believe there's any tasty value there if they use a whining blue baby to advertise the product?

They should rush this one to the hospital for an immediate blood transfusion.
Blue Babies © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

A Dose of Public Transportation

Have you taken a bus lately? Neither had I until the accident happened in the front seat of my Jaguar. It may never smell the same again.

It happened in the predawn hours on the morning of an important appointment. My dog jumped into the front seat and promptly ... ah, you can pretty well imagine what he did.

That's why I took the bus. It was imperative that my appearance and ahem ... aroma be topnotch for this summit meeting.

I can't say as I have ever taken a bus before this occassion. So I was unprepared for the consequences of my rash decision.

It began well. The bus stopped and the driver took my money. Small successes like this are important.

Stories abound of the unsavory characters one meets on buses so it was a relief to see an empty seat near the front beside a spic-and-span, freckled-faced eight-year-old. The sweet little boy had books and a shoe box on his lap.

Shortly after taking my seat, I smiled at the cherub and inquired: "On your way to school, are you?"

Our friendship developed quickly. Soon, he decided to share the treasured secrets of his shoe box with me. A science project, I believed. With great trust, he thrust the box close to me and opened the lid. My squeal of horror startled the little monster. His hand shook, the box upset, and a decomposed rodent landed squarely on the white twill of my new silk skirt. Involuntarily, my hands flailed like a rotary blade trying to remove the aromatic beasti.

As soon as I gathered my wits, I moved to the middle of the bus. The seat next to a plump grandmotherly lady knitting a scarf with an innocent black knitting case resting on the floor near her feet should be safe. No expired cadavers here.

How was I to know she was a perfume salesperson? Immediately, she reached into the knitting case, removed several packets, and plied me with samples.

You know how well good salespeople talk? How they draw you into their nefarious schemes, then suddenly you're hooked without ever realizing just how it happened? Such was the case. She sprayed a dab of Arpege, a mist of Jovan, a wisp of Ciara and a splash of Chanel along the sleeves of my suit. Hastily, I excused myself and moved to the back of the bus.

The only available seat there was beside a rheumy old gentleman. Normally, I would have avoided that seat. Yet in all probability, I chided myself, he was a safer seatmate than the child and the grandmother.

Seconds after I sat down, he leaned closer and opened his mouth to say hello. The air between his tonsils and teeth rapidly wrapped me in its embrace. Flies swarmed on the visible vapor of onion and garlic which emanated from his mouth. One by one the flies dropped. Dead from asphyxiation.

The stench of malodeur of stale-beer on clothing was accentuated by the hideous purple floors of the bus. It targeted all within yardstick range. The man was an Olfactory Abuse Case, if ever I smelled one.

Perhaps, it was the overdose of my own cologne-y scent that addled the senses of this man in his dotage. Whatever the cause, he suddenly envisioned himself as Don Quixote who, with clumsy chivalry, raised his walking stick in some attempt of foolish gallantry. It smote the sprinkler system installed as a safety precaution in the roof of the bus.

The sudden shower did him some good, though I can't say it did much for me.

When the bus finally arrived at my destination, it was late. I hurried to the appointed place and entered the conference just in time to hear the chairman announce my arrival: "Now, let me introduce you to the new Corporate Manager of Vogue's Haute Couture, Chic Fabrics, and Fashionable Fragrances."

Riverlets of water dripped from my bedraggled hair, a casualty of the bus shower which had shrunk my silk suit. It now hung in ridiculous angles at war with my body.

The said shower, however, did not remove the gray stain the decomposed rodent corpse had kindly embossed upon the front, and which now smelled like wet, and very dead, skunk fur. Nor did it remove the thirty clashing aromas of highly competitive perfume factories.

What in the world could I do but walk a little less than bravely to the front of the room and begin my opening remarks with: "How many of you have taken the bus lately?"
A Dose of Public Transportation © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Umbrella At The Seashore

I saw a picture of a poster which is probably a poster picture of an oil painting, recently, which impressed me. Not the process it went through to becoming what it is, but rather the sentiment it displayed.

You get used to seeing posters of most things, some of them rather bizarre.

There are party-hardy posters, deco art posters and cute little puppy posters. Those are the ones, I understand, that sell the best. Puppies. Kittens chasing a ball of twine. Long-necked giraffes with soulful eyes. If it was me, I doubt seriously, I'd want to wake up every morning to a giraffe watching me drink my morning coffee.

Posters of pigtailed girls shyly holding hands with a freckle-faced boy sell well, too. We have Norman Rockwell to thank for that.

The poster that caught my attention, though, was of three people walking along a seashore. Two women and a man. He was holding an umbrella over the two ladies while they sought seashells. Or, perhaps, they searched for crabs to cook for supper later. With salt and some seasoning, crabs make a tasty offering for a gentleman guest.

The scene, colored mostly in yellows, reminded me not so much of a hot day, though certainly, if an umbrella was needed for shade, it must have been hot.

Instead, it nudged a forgotten memory into the clear view of today. My Mother could have been one of those ladies under that large umbrella. It would fit perfectly with her perspective of what life shoud be.

She had a gentle view of her universe which included friends, songs sung around a piano, afternoon refreshments and taking enjoyment of simple pleasures such as hunting for pretty shells.

And I wondered if we all hung that poster-picture of an oil painting on our walls and absorbed that image of life into the very canvas of our being, if, perhaps, we could recreate a world more sane than the one we are experiencing now. Recreate that magical era which produced artists like Chuck Jones, Norman Rockwell, Walt Disney, and songsters like Glenn Miller and Judy Garland who filled our hearts with music. Recreate a world where everything beautiful and mystical is well within our grasp.

Ah, yes, well . . . . I'll put the memory away now, along with the poster, and turn on the TV. It's time for the news and a reality check of what our world is really like. And isn't "Fear Factor" on tonight? Think I'll watch that.
Umbrella At the Seashore © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Gift Giver Skewer

Papa thought it would be a good joke on Mama if he gave Uncle Sapporo a saccharometer.

Now, you've gotta understand Mama's a bit plump. This condition doesn't bother Pop at all, but he knows it bothers her. She bristles every time Uncle Sapporo, who resides in one of our upstairs bedrooms, teases her about her sugar intake. Mama loves anything sweet.

So when Papa saw the saccharometer in the store he knew it was the perfect gift. A gift made in heaven, you might say, since Uncle Sapporo takes great pleasure in measuring things. Uncle Sap's birthday is the day before Easter, so it was a timely gift as well.

Papa enjoys family spats. Says watching a good scrap is better than going to the movies. And cheaper, too.

Uncle Sap, for his part, was a bit puzzled when he first opened the gift. But he soon caught on after reading 140 pages of the instruction booklet. Three of those pages were in English. The rest were in French, Spanish and German. But Uncle Sap, he read them all. His face lit with pleasure at the mention of: "measures sugar content and is similar to a hydrometer."

That night as we sat down to supper, Uncle Sap, whose kidney-shaped head rested atop a tall cadaverous body, stabbed the meat with his saccharometer as the platter passed by him. He used the table napkin to wipe the saccharometer prong, then stabbed the potatoes. He squinted as he read the numbers on the indicator, then with a flourish napkinned the prong and stabbed the cauliflower.

You could see the distress on Moma's face, but she said not a word.

Uncle Sap stabbed the jello salad. The saccharometer pinged. He stabbed the fruit compote. The saccharometer beeped loudly. He stabbed the bread pudding. The saccharometer shriek was clangorous enough to shivaree a newly wedded couple.

Mama didn't serve dessert that night. Later, when we snuck down to the fridge, after Uncle Sap had gone to bed, we found Mama there ahead of us with a carton of ice cream in her hand.

On Easter morning, you could just about see the glee dancing in Popa's eyes as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He knew Mama's patience was just about worn thin.

Mama really puts on the ritz for Easter. The finest china. Her best linen tablecloth. The relatives arrived and one of them, Aunt Josephine, brought a guest. A rotund fellow with a healthy belly. She often brought a male escort, but this one was notable because he was Papa's boss.

Our eyes swiveled in Pop's direction, then schlepped over Uncle Sap's way. Sure enough, the saccharometer was right beside his plate.

My sisters helped Mama carry food to the table. It was quite a procession. After the main dishes were in place, it took another 15 minutes to bring in the pies, pastries, cakes, tarts, cookies, strudel, mousse, cannoli . . . .

A feast. After Blessing, we prepared to dig in. That is, until Uncle Sap's saccharometer pronged our food.

Now, Uncle Sapporo had spruced up for the occasion in a frock coat with long black tails which flapped wildly as he moved from plate to plate. The saccharometer pinged when it met the food of Papa's starchy relatives, and beeped at the plates of Mama's elitist kinfolk.

But it didn't blatantly shriek until it reached the plate of Papa's boss. Uncle Sap, ever an advocate of uncontaminated food, whisked the man's napkin from his lap and with a devilishly stylish flourish wiped the prong clean between attacks.

I'm sure it was quite by accident that Uncle Sap pronged the man's pot belly. But just the same, the ruckus that followed was catastrophic. The saccharometer screamed, the man howled, Uncle Sap's voice admonished, and the rest of the guests looked down their noses with appalled fascination.

Papa was awestricken and Mama smiled serenely.

Much, much later, after the hullabaloo settled, the guests departed, and the kitchen set to rights, we heard Mama say softly: "You know dear, that was more entertaining than going to a movie. And cheaper, too."
Gift Giver Skewer © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Sunday Morning V

Can we agree that the world, as we know it, is the sum total of all things? Stuff we can see. And the unseen such as air, hydrogen and sound waves.

Beyond our world are stars, planets and galaxies which are all included in our Universe. So we can say that the Universe is the great whole, composed of all its parts.

I see God like this. The Great Whole which includes all of its parts.

I see You like this. An element of the whole. In You is contained the sum of all life, all substance, all intelligence, all love.

You are my brother, my friend.
Chae

Scintillating Aromas

My cousin visited earlier today and told me he was walking along, innocent as all get out, when a strange lady stopped him and asked: "Are you an Ultra Velva man?"

"She had all the right stuff, if you know what I mean," my cousin nodded sagely. "And for her sake I'd-a liked to be an Ultra Velva man, so I opened my mouth and said: "No. I'm a Brut."

"Her attention drifted away.

"Trying to reclaim it, I asked: "Hey! What does an Ultra Velva man got that I ain't got?"

"Her eyes, the color of a Chiquita bananas, were scanning the crowd. Briefly they flickered back in my direction while she said: It just feels better with an Ultra Velva man.

"With a swish of her skirt, she walked away.

"It was a Barnum and Bailey come-on, of course. If I'd-a said yes, she would-a replied: "Well, nothing comes between me and my Calvin Kleins."

"But at least we would-a been talking and I could-a asked her for a date."

My coz and I sat and talked about this. Commiserated over "the one that got away." Chewed the fat about different answers he could have made. It occured to us that a lot of coverage in the news lately, has described companies who hire decoys to advertize their products.

"Bring on the decoys," coz grinned. "For her, I'd even switch to Ultra Velva!"

'Humph,' I thought. Makes you wonder what feels better with a UV man.

If you're a Fear Factor contestant is a UV man really necessary? Or would you just bring him along so you'd feel better during the Cricket Crunching episode?

And what if two aromas collide like when a UV man stands next to your motorized air freshener? Having to throw a window open in February is not guaranteed to make you feel better.

If you're going through the airport scanners and your UV fellow's scent sets the alarms off, are you sure you will feel better with this guy?

You might consider backing away from a UV man and going for the Philosophy®'s Amen Man, instead. He probably doesn't need a crowd of women gangling after him, and, most likely, you'll find him helping elderly folks cross a busy street or acting as a good neighbor.

His aroma might not be as alluring but it might make you feel better.

I tried to convince my cousin of all this, but I have a hunch the next time I see him, he'll be the new Ultra Velva man.
Scintillating Aromas © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Baths, Hippos and Other Rubrics

I'll be quite candid with you, I like to take baths. And so does 50% of the population of Hutto. The other half likes to give hippos baths.

Now I have nothing against hippo bathing. It has great possibilities. It could even become a national sport. And since Hutto has been declared the Hippo Capitol of the World, they should have the honor of starting this athletic event.

How fast can you bathe a hippo? That depends. In Hutto, you have to undress it first. There are 87 concrete hippos (unless, unbeknownst to me, Mayor Fowler has ordered more ) in this small Texas town, and as I understand it, most of them dress up in fancy clothes.

The one in front of Hottie Tan, the local tanning salon, sports an orange-and-yellow polka-dot bikini; there's the hippo by El Poblanito's wearing gaucho pants and a black sombrero; and, at Snuffy's Bar and Grill, there's a hippo chick ready to hop on your Harley with you wearing biker clothes and motorcycle goggles.

You might wonder in this case, since the crucial factor of any sporting event, is time: How long does it take to undress a hippo?

Well, as I see it, that depends on whether you choose the 7-ton fellow, the 700-pounders, or the wimpy ones who weigh in at only 235 pounds. It's not easy to lift the leg of a 7-tonner to remove gaucho pants.

And there's another problem. After the speed bath, you have to redress these mammoth hippopotami.

Redressing concrete critters isn't easy. Ask anyone in Austin and they'll tell you they're having a heck of a time redressing their granite statue. "Well," they say, "It's almost like redressing a granite statute." Heck of a deal.

Seems they aren't trying to speed wash their rock, either. Like the folks in Hutto, half of the population wants to leave no stone unturned, and the other half .... ahem, the rest have their own set of drummers . . . .

I think if the Austin folk copy Hutto's example: dress their mammoth rock in fancy clothes and start a Rock Bathing Contest, they can, like the Moses of their particular piece of granite, redirect the waters of the Salton Sea and END THE 10-YEAR DROUGHT in Texas.

If it would make you feel more in tune with the Texas crowd, you can certainly sit down and bathe with the hippos. But make sure you bring some fancy trappings along, so you have vestures to redress, afterwards.
Baths, Hippos and Other Rubrics © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Saw It In The News

The Buffalo nickle is back in circulation.
Now you know, the Fed's must think a major economic recovery is on its way if they're re-introducing the buffalo! Or maybe it's a hoax to make folks think the nickle's still worth something.

NBC retired "NYPD Blue" after a 12-and-a-½ year run. Rumor has it, tough-guy producer Bocho, who pioneered smut on TV, is holstering his guns and hightailing it out of town before the posse bearing $500,000 fines can clip his money belt.
Chae

E-mail Meditrics

I have it from reliable sources that Dade County opened a new hospital today, called Ambulatory Medical. The facility is right behind the Driving Range adjacent to the 18th hole on the scenic Seminole Country Club fairway.

This was welcome news, for more and more patients have noticed that doctors' offices are becoming obsolete. Practices are now established in the doctors' homes which are usually located close to the Country Club. This new trend has given rise to the terminology - homeopathy.

There are several reasons for this developing trend:
(1) It was too exhausting for doctors to make it into the office every day just to see a bunch of sick people.
(2) The Cadillac, Mercedes and BMW mechanics all went on strike simultaneously, and doctors were stranded at home waiting for the mechanics to resolve their differences, show up, and finish some minor engine repairs.
(3) E-mails are easier. They are so easy that there's a whole new branch of medicine dedicated to this new clinical advancement: E-mail Meditrics.

It all started innocently enough, with a busy doctor and a holocaust comptroller who had to be at the station to take incoming calls. So the Doc says: "I'll E-mail you regarding those meds." Better than a house call, eh?

Practicing medicine over the internet caught on like books in a school room. Everyone had to have one which led doctors and The Blue Cross and Blue Shield to consultations about fees. You didn't think those nice doctors were emailing you out of the goodness of their hearts, did you?

Nope! They receive thirty dollars per email. It's like a business man's lunch. As long as the email makes at least one reference to medical treatment, they receive thirty bucks. BLUE CROSS AND BLUE SHIELD are adamant about this. Doctors must limit their replies to appropriate topics in order to receive the thirty dollaros.

So! Doc Johnson's coming up on the 9th hole, has his golf club raised when his cell phone rings, completes the swing, and answers the call. His receptionist says there's an email from NBC's anchorman wanting to know if it's time to reduce the dosage of his cholesterol medicine.

Johnson emails from his cell phone: "Not Yet." Earns thirty dollars in two minutes flat and makes the 9th hole under par.

His associate asks: "What's par for the hole?"

"Oh, at five emails per hole for a round of 18 holes, par on this one is about $150." Johnson says. "By the time we get to the 18th, I'll have air-mailed a few balls, double-bogeyed the 10th, gotten Dolly Parton on the 17th and have made $2700.

Psst! The next time your Doc tells you that the convenience of online exchanges can be considerable, believe him, for he isn't just whistling: "PGA* Professional Tourniquet Tournament Championships."

*Physicians Golf Associates
E-mail Meditrics © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan

Ain't Worth Peanuts

Blimey! My head's fit to bustin' a gasket. Must-a been those Georgia Gins workin' overtime. Took me three-'n-a-half dangblasted days to make the stuff and only an hour and twenty-six minutes to drink it.

The recipe called for three handfulls of peanut skins, ground to a fine powder. Now deskinning peanuts isn't as easy as you might think. Thems minature footballs will do a forward pass right through your fingertips if you don't employ a good linebacker defense.

And the fine powder bit is another bag of elephant feed. Ever try to grind peanut skins in a food processer? It's a major enterprise.

Realized right off, after about an hour or two, that a pestle and mortar would do a better job, which as you know means a trip to Target because no one in their right senses keeps a pestle and mortar sitting around handy on their kitchen counter in this day 'n age.

Evidently Target, Kosco and K-Mart don't see much of a need for pestles, either. They carried mortar but it was the wrong kind. Tried that big conglomerate Wal-Mart, too. They advised me to go to a pharm-a-cutical store. Whatever that is. Best I could figure out, it was some place that sold cuticle cutters for your farm animals. Knew I didn't need none of those.

It was a real head-scratcher til I remembered the wife's pepper mill. It's one of her fancy decorations for the supper table, mostly put there for snob appeal.

Since those snobs got most of us workin' for peanuts anyways, I didn't figure it'd matter much if a little mealy dust mixed with the seasoning in their mouths.

OK. So the rest of the recipe ain't gonna break your brain fixen it. Mix powder with ice in the blender and serve with gin.

The effect is minor cramps and let me tell you right now, don't use more than 72 dollars worth at a time or you may suffer unexpected consequences.

Shucks. I wish I felt better. I'd chase the Georga Gin with some fine ole Alabama Ladies. But my recipe calls for mutton hoof shavings and I'm just plumb too tuckered out to remember where that pharm-a-cuticle shop was.

Maybe next time, I'll start with the Ladies first and wrangle with the three handfulls of skin later.

Ain't Worth Peanuts © 2005 Chaeli Sullivan