Column: The Mystical, Magical Slurpee Tour

I wrote some columns a few years ago that few of you have seen. They were on the old version of the site before I redesigned it.

(Entire redesign process: [log in to Blogger] “Oooh, new templates!” [click] “Hey, where are my columns?”

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The weather forecast was wonderfully wrong today. Sixty-five degrees, sunny the whole day, and the supposed afternoon showers didn't show until nightfall. I rode my bike for an hour and a half on the local trails.

I love bike trails, but they invariably have boring names like "W&O Trail" or--when the park department wants to turn on the Shake n’ Bake--"C&O Trail."

Where is "The Trail Less Traveled"? "A Trail of Two Cities"? "T-Rail Owens?" I'm already vibrating my lips like a motorcycle when I turn corners. Silliness isn’t a problem. Reality is.

Then again, reality occasionally has its moments. After my bike ride, I was parched and went in 7-11 to buy a Slurpee. My experience, without exaggeration:

ME: "Hey, can I try the flavors? I don't know which one I want."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: "Breakfast?"

(Perhaps this is a good point to mention that I have a severe stutter and many of my conversations start with mutual confusion.)

ME: "Take two. Can I try the Slurpee flavors?"
7-11 EMPLOYEE: "Try the flavors?"
ME: "Yes!"
7-11 EMPLOYEE: [thought hard for a moment] "No?"

In my younger years, I would have left, disappointed. Not this time. One, for all I knew, he may have thought we were still talking about breakfast. Two, he made a fatal mistake. He left doubt in his voice, like a person who is asked, “Do you want me to not not punch you?” Time to repeat what I want until he caves in.

ME: "I want to try the flavors before I buy a Slurpee."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: “Um...”
ME: "I'd like to try the flavors before I buy a Slurpee."
7-11 EMPLOYEE: “Try...flavors?”

(His manager notices the commotion and comes over.)

MANAGER: "What's going on?"
7-11 EMPLOYEE (about to cry): "He wants to try the flavors."

The manager, used to serving food critics, got me a Dixie cup. The situation was over. I poured a bit of the sour strawberry. To victory. I lifted the cup up to my lips, feeling strangely uneasy, and turned around.

They were both staring at me. These two were smarter than I thought. My original plan was to sample Dixie-cup sized Slurpee flavors until I was bloated, and then dash out of the store on my bike while those suckers foot the bill. But that was a trick no pony was going to pull on them.

At first, I tried to ignore them. I sipped the sour strawberry. Tangy and very promising. I advanced towards the root beer.

MANAGER: "You don't want that. It's frozen."

It didn't look more frozen than the other frozen Slurpees, but who was I to argue? I’m not an ice technician. I grabbed the handle for cherry.

MANAGER (and let me remind you that this is not made up): "That's cherry. Why do you want to try cherry?"

I turned around and gave my biggest fake smile. They both left. But her words made me think.

Perhaps his question was not accusatory but philosophical. Why did I want to try cherry? Why did I want to try any of the flavors? Why did I want to go bike riding, or eat Cheerios for breakfast, or scratch myself in CVS but refrain from doing so because of those damn 1984-style mirrors?

It tasted good. Is that enough of an answer? I feel almost sacrilegious saying this, but...could there be more to life than Slurpees?

I thought about this until I saw Blue Raspberry.

Halloween Costume Ideas

Costume Ideas for Halloween

Halloween is more than candy. It's a chance to ignore the social norms that normally govern our lives. To push the boundaries of taste and acceptability further than you can push them the other 364 days a year. In short, if you're dressing up as a ghost or a pirate, you're wasting your one chance to be an oyster that can pop pearls out of places pearls usually don't pop.

And that place is a Nerf gun. But if a pearl-popping oyster isn't your idea of a good time (freak), one of these costumes is sure to do the trick.

Reverse Santa Claus--Don a blue Santa Claus costume. When you enter the room, say "Oh, oh oh!" and take gifts, like candlesticks, jewelry, and wallets. When people express reservations about what you're doing, wink at them and says, "Oh oh oh! Would there be a twinkle in my eye if I were really stealing these items? Oh oh oh!" Then flee to Mexico.

SpongeBox--Based on the Nickelodeon cartoon "SpongeBob," the SpongeBox costume is sure to delight both children and adults. SpongeBox is an old man in a cardboard box giving himself sponge baths.

"Bitch"--You know that really annoying person in your life who complains about everything, criticizes your looks, and tries to sleep with your boyfriend? Convince her to dress up as a witch. Then follow her around with a megaphone and yell, "Look, it's a bitch!"

Jiggolow--Dress as a Chippendale's dancer. When people ask, "Are you a gigolo?" respond, "No, I'm a jigg-o-low--cause the jiggling's down low!" Then drop a hamster down your pants.

That Guy--You know that guy who was, like, in Short Circuit, and then he starred in that baby movie with those two other guys? Dress like him.

Popeye the Siamese Sailor Man--Get a friend. One of you is dressed as a sailor. The other just likes spinach.

The Great Beardini--Three weeks before Halloween, stop shaving. Don a black veil. On Halloween, remove your veil and say, "Ta da!"

Magic Breasts Woman--Construct a pair of fake breasts that can be controlled remotely. When a man ogles your chest, slowly move your breasts together until they pass each other and switch positions. Then get a friend to slap the guy on the back, permanently making him cross-eyed.

T-Shirto--Wear dozens of T-shirts over your body: legs, arms, torso, and naughty bits. Don a red cap, or a garbage bag if you're going ghetto. When people ask you what you are, say "I am T-Shirtoooo!" If they ask what your super powers are, say "I am T-Shirtoooo!" Repeat until they go away. (Note: This is currently my top idea for a Halloween costume.)

A Letter to Juicy Juice

Suspiciously, as if they know their scam is up, the Juicy Juice web site stopped working when I went to email them this letter. I'll send it later and let you know if they respond.

Misleading Misleading

I was surprised to find out that Grape Juicy Juice is not 100% grape juice. In fact, it's not even close. The company added just enough grape juice to die the mixture purple.

This is Wrong. If you buy a bottle of grape juice, you would expect it to be a mixture of grape juice and water, right? So when you buy a bottle of Grape Juicy Juice, a name that advertises, right on the bottle, more juiciness than your regular 100% grape juice, they're raising the bar. That bar is at 19'6", and Sven Gzevoltz isn't going to pole vault to the gold on Gatorade.

At the absolute minimum, one would expect 100% grape juice, at that merely ordinary 100% would only be justifiable if this unfermented wine were made up of powerful Schwarzenegger atoms that gave it a richer, more powerful flavor than competing juice. One could even reasonably expect super-saturated juice, like 150% or 200% juice, as if the Schwarzenegger atoms got drunk and made the water molecules flee to escape their repeated fondling.

Yet this "Juicy" Juice, or as I'll call it in a letter to their customer service office, "Purple Urine Acid," falls so short of its name that the juice mocks it.

New Column

It's a TV show pitch I wrote a while ago called, "Abraham Lincoln and His All-Star Friends." It's not currently in development, so if there are any producers out there who want to snatch it up, let me know!
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Abraham Lincoln and his All-Star Friends

Abraham Lincoln and his All-Star Friends is a half-hour sitcom that is almost exactly like Seinfeld, except Abraham Lincoln is Jerry, Bigfoot is George, a talking chicken is Elaine, and Voltaire is Kramer.

Abe, Bigfoot, Henrietta, and Voltaire all live in Topeka, Kansas, which looks exactly like New York. (In Episode 7, a passer-by will tell the gang, "Hey buddy, you're not in Kansas anymore." The gang will then start referring to the area as New York.) Abraham works at Starbucks during the day, and tries to make it as an amateur rapper at night. Each episode starts off with a short rap by Abraham that sets the stage for the show.

A Note
Abraham Lincoln's voice is not affected in any way. It stands out no more than the voice of the average Joe. It also compares favorably with unaverage Joes.

Other Characters
Bigfoot
Bigfoot, to put it mildly, is extraordinarily lazy. He attributes his laziness to his large size and "slow metabolism" but, as his mother often points out, the Yeti already owns two publishing homes and a beach home in Hawaii. Bigfoot puts most his energy into avoiding discomfort. When driving on a hot day, he will match the speed of an adjacent bus so he can stay in the bus' shade. In one episode, he plots to get a larger office because those offices have larger desks, and he has to curl in a ball when he sleeps under his current desk.

Bigfoot also falls in love very frequently. The bounce of a woman's hair or the twirl of her skirt is enough to make him smitten. Unfortunately, Bigfoot has a Big Mouth, and his dating skills leave much to be desired.

Henrietta
Besides the fact that she is dressed as a chicken in a business suit, Henrietta is the most down-to-Earth of the gang. She is the archetypal independent woman: we never see her parents, she stands up to people, and she's not shy about speaking her mind. The men she is attracted to always have a quirk about them (e.g. picks their ears, makes horse sounds in bed, only thinks about her during non-working hours.) Without Henrietta, Voltaire and Bigfoot would have blown themselves up or got thrown in jail a long time ago.

Voltaire
Absent-minded, almost brilliant, and bumbling, Voltaire is passionately engaged one moment and lost in his own fantasies the next. His thoughts are often discombobulated and scattered, and he goes on long-winded monologues about his latest fanciful theory. He spends much of his time trying to get his crazy theories to work (like "If everyone on the street uses a yellow umbrella, the rain will think it is raining on the sun. This will confuse the rain and it will start raining upwards.")

Somehow though, Voltaire always ends up being the one person who doesn't come worse off from his crazy theories.

Episode Samples
Episode 1: "What's in a Name?"
Abraham Lincoln rapping career has stalled, and he hasn't had a chance to make it to the big time. Voltaire suggests the problem is his stage name, "Slammin' Abrahamin'". The gang brainstorms new names without much success. Meanwhile, Abraham's girlfriend (Terri Hatcher) develops a sneaking suspicion that Abraham doesn't know the nickname she got for her special talent in bed.

At the end of the episode, she challenges Abraham to say her nickname, and walks out in a huff when he offers some pitiful guesses. Before she leaves, she gives him her name: "Legs." Abraham loses a babe, but the name gives him the 'A Ha!" moment for the perfect stage name: "Green Eggs and Abraham."

Episode 2: "Cock a Doodle Doo"
Henrietta is fed up with the glass ceiling at Turkey Incorporated. Although she often scrambles to cover for her bosses' screw-ups, she is invisible to the old boys club, the members of which consider her ideas "preposterous."

For instance, after four quarters of falling profits, she unsuccessfully tries to get Turkey Inc. to expand its product beyond turkeys ("But then we wouldn't be Turkey Inc.!") Voltaire suggests she gets fired and applies for a job as "Henry", dressed as a man. The plan works almost too well. She shoots up the corporate ladder in days and gets invited to a steam bath with the board. Bigfoot comes along and tries to "cover" for her.

Episode 5: "Who Has Time For Love?"
Bigfoot falls in love with Dessiré, a cute girl who works in the dark backroom of a doughnut shop. Bigfoot asks Abraham for a few love pointers. Abraham, knowing Bigfoot is setting himself up to get his heart broken, gives cynical advice in an attempt to discourage him.

"Average Joes can't compete
With guys on the street.
If you want to have the honeys /
you gotta have the money."

Short on cash but long on desire, Bigfoot asks Henrietta and Voltaire for some advice on how to make money fast and without actually doing much work. Henrietta suggests investing in a hot stock her uncle clued her in about yesterday. Voltaire suggests making a time machine, traveling 1000 years to the past, and putting a Nordic coin in a bank account. Bigfoot dismisses Voltaire's crazy scheme and calls his parents to wire him some money for, uh, "an operation to replace his appendix."

Bigfoot gets the money the next day and is about to call his broker when Voltaire visits him …in a brand-new suit, Nordic battle shield, and matching Rolodex watch.

Bigfoot runs to an antique shop and uses all his money to buy a Nordic coin. He gets back and gives the coin to Voltaire. That's when he realizes Voltaire hasn't actually tried his time machine yet--he just borrowed these items from a friend because his theory is that he needs these three objects for his time machine to work. The time machine doesn't work.

Just when things couldn't get any worse, Bigfoot's parents come with "Get Well" balloons and homemade soup for a surprise visit. They also want to see Bigfoot's appendix scar.

Episode 10: "A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse."
Episode 10 will be written entirely in iambic pentameter. This will not be announced or promoted in any way.

Episode 13: "Lucky Day"
In a first for a broadcast sitcom, the show will decide to run for only 13 episodes. In an escalating series of fortunes and misfortunes that end with the four of them sentenced to be "normal", this episode will completely tie up any loose ends in a way that precludes even the slightest possibility that the show will continue. Although some would question this strategy, this detail will probably not be the "sticking point" for getting this show to air.

The pilot script is already written, and not by monkeys. I can provide it upon request.

(Note: Image of Lincoln stolen from kid on Internet.)

EXPIRD

After living in Maryland for my whole life, I moved to Virginia two years ago. I have found out that it’s a decent place to live as long as you live 25 miles from the alpha waves emitting from the sanity beacon behind the Washington Monument—waves that induce people to buy single-digit numbers of shotguns and occasionally vote Democratic.

Yet I still have my Maryland plates and registration, somehow dodging the once-a-month visits the police make to my neighborhood to round up the DMV delinquents. The story of why I haven’t changed my registration is a complicated one mixed with nostalgia, laziness, and frugality. Okay, it’s not complicated at all. I’m a cheap, lazy bastard. And if you think it’s foolish to put off buying something that you’re going to have to purchase eventually, go complain to my teeth.

My time may be up soon though. A few days ago, as I walked home from my car, I saw a police officer give a ticket to a driver for having an expired registration. Hmm. My car was parked right across the street from the forlorn driver. I hopped up the steps to my townhouse, put down my groceries, counted to 30, left, whistled a jaunty tune as I skipped pass the officer and back to my car, and then SCARED THE POOP OUT OF A SQUIRREL AS I RACED BACK TO MARYLAND.

Okay, I didn’t actually go to another state, but I did drive to the library and enter a state of sorts…the state of learning. Okay, I didn’t actually learn anything. I spent an hour reading X-Men graphic novels. But I did learn a valuable lesson from today’s experience: SEE YOU IN AUGUST, COPPER!

Actually, now that I think about it, I hope not to see you in August. But if I do see you in August, I HOPE TO SEE YOU AND NOT BE YOU!

Scratch that. If I were you, I would never get a ticket. Also, I would have a club to beat cockroaches and nails. If you were me, you’d sleep in until noon and then arrest a gang of Cheerios. “Into the hole, perpetrators!”

So I hope to see you and be you, because if I am you, I will see you in the mirror when I wake up and mousse my spiky hair.

But if I can’t be you, and I have to see you, I hope our meeting is brief, and your view of me is restricted to my backside entering a car with dented Maryland plates. I will think of you at the library as Wolverine lunges at his opponent from a tree, his arms spread eagle, a bird with metal wings.

Lying About Robots College

I called Montgomery College's bookstore, located in Maryland, a few days ago. The voicemail rattled off a list of choices. Just as I was about to press '2' and miss the opportunity of a lifetime, I heard,

"Press 0 to speak to an automated attendant."

Automated attendant? A robot! The future is here! I almost ejaculated over my collection of Issac Asimov books. 0, 0, 0!

"There is no automated attendant this time."

Hold on a minute. Now, I don't know a lot about robots. But I do know that they work 23/7, with an hour to lube them and to check that they haven't gone crazy.

Do you see what MC is doing? They're posing regular employees as robots and, we can deduce, forcing them to talk in stilted voices and wave their arms in a worried manner.

That's wrong for robots, and even more wrong for non-robots. It's also something I cannot watch while sitting idly by.

"
Subject: 01000001001000000110001101101111011011010111
00000110110001100001011010010110111001110100
[translate]

Dear Ms. Tammy Shawver,

I recently called your bookstore and was shocked, surprised, saddened, chagrined, flummoxed, and anti-delighted to find that you tease customers with the siren's call of the future but do not indeed deliver.

I am of course talking about your claim to "Press 0 to speak to an automated attendant", i.e. a robot. Yet when I pressed 0--repeatedly--the promised robot was not to be found.

I ask you, where is the robot? Where is Tibor, Robby, R2D2, Data, Number 5, Crow T., Gorog, or Vicki? Where is the rigid thinking, the tender humanity? The beeps, the boops, and most of all, the blips.

This is the moment to define yourself. Are you Montgomery College, or Lying About Robots College? Do you have a B.S. in engineering, or a B.A. in BS? Do you have a master's degree in truth, or an honorary doctorate in deception?

Please employ real robots in your store as soon as possible. Robots are our friends and we should not deny them a place in our society. I AM NOT A NUT. Nuts don't realize the possibility that they are nuts.

Sincerely,
Cashew Johnson

Spider Songs

As I was leafing through the phone book, I spotted this message from the Hello Answering Service. "Thanks to you, it's been over 75 years."

Finally. Validation for my theory that I led two past lives, one as a newspaper boy from 1917-1931, until I was gunned down in the streets of Chicago by pressuring Capone's righthand man to buy a copy of the Sentinel. 'Come on, Mister." I pleaded. "It's the story of the year!" I yelled the headline: "CAPONE ARRESTED FOR TAX FRAUD! AND HE'S A PUSSY!"

In my second life, 1933-1974 (two-year new life waiting period), I worked as a struggling web page designer. I would gather spiders in the wood, increase their intelligence by dipping them in mercury (pharmacist's instructions), and wait for them to spin pages of elegant poetry. The plan worked beautifully. One of their poems:

Meat with Wings

Hello, Meat with Wings.
How I would like to meet you
to whisper in your ear,
come near, come near.
Love I will bring,
songs I will sing,
as I massage your wings
and caress you, dear.
You are so much more
than Meat with Wings.
Come near, come near.

I gathered their poems for a collection, "64 poems by 8 spiders and a water insect who looks like a spider, and writes more beautifully than the spiders, at least until they ate him".

As the 64th poem was being composed, a young bum knocked on my door and asked if I knew of a place he could stay on that rainy night. Before I could answer, he said "Thanks", walked in with his muddy shoes and fell asleep on my couch.

We chatted when he woke to raid my fridge. He was gone the next day with my spiders and my poems. That bum, Jack Kerouac, stole my life's work, added some drug references, and became famous. I attended all his readings and gave him the evil eye until his death in 1969. I succumbed five years later to toxic poisoning.