Parodies Lost

The End of Reincarnation?

As an aging hippie, I remember well my fascination with and intense study of the fine art of reincarnation.  Through the judicious use of various substances, I was able to track my journey through numerous lives, an illuminating if somewhat humbling experience.

For example, I spent some time as an artichoke, a rather large and impressive one if memory serves.  But as pride cometh before a fall, so too does an inability to stride prove an encumbrance when trying to avoid a pot of boiling water.  I was also for a short time an escargot which no doubt accounts for my obsession with that fine food today.  My stint as a caterpillar was also short lived—and I never knew whether, after entering that cocoon stage, I would have emerged as a lowly moth or majestic monarch—when a chickadee of all birds snapped me up as supper for her babies.  I was a cat and a dog, of course, but I won’t reveal which is higher on the incarnation chain.  And I have nothing to say about being a bonobo except that it was extremely enjoyable.

So it was a measure of concern that I read in the Thursday, March 11 New York Times about more tension between Beijing and the Dalai Lama.

In a nutshell, Mr. Lama (Dalai to his friends?) said he might not be reincarnated denying some lucky soul the chance to be the 15^th Dalai Lama.  He offered no explanation for this declaration.  Perhaps, as with Buddha, he has reached the ultimate state and is ready to join the great Mandala or Wheel of Life, invented by Peter, Paul, and Mary.  Or perhaps he’s just sick and tired of the Chinese interfering with Tibet and the Buddhist religion.  Or perhaps he’s just joking.  The article was, after all, written by Chris Buckley, although it’s not clear if it’s that Chris Buckley.Regardless, the Chinese reaction was swift and decisive, they being a swift and decisive people. 

“Zhu Weiqun, a Communist Party official who has long dealt with Tibetan issues, told reporters in Beijing on Wednesday that the Dalai Lama had, essentially, no say over whether he was reincarnated. That was ultimately for the Chinese government to decide, he said.”  Mr. Shu went on, ‘Decision-making power over the reincarnation of the Dalai Lama, and over the end or survival of this, resides in the central government of China’.”

Really?  A so-called communist government that is by definition atheist is to decide matters of Buddhism?  Now that’s power, I’ll tell you.

Now I’m not saying this is all about me, although it is my blog, but if Mr. Lama decides not to reincarnate, what does that mean for the rest of us?  I just know that my next incarnation is going to be a beaut; I’ve been working all my current life to be a good boy so the next one will be wine, women, and song.

Quel surprise!  All my good deeds may be for naught if this little old man who has a bee in his bonnet over China’s treatment of his people in Tibet declares The End of Reincarnation.  Damn.

 

 

 

Priest Pedophilia, Horse Herpes, Insulted Kings, and More

You gotta love this world.  Forget how absurd are both U.S. political parties; ignore the brain-dead far right who belittle global climate change & cling in despair to their creationist fantasies; don't waste time on twisty-headed progressives (whatever the hell that means) who righteously call for a return to the economy created by the Smoot-Hawley tariff...which made the Great Depression considerably worse.

I mean, they're all fun and worthy of our ridicule.  But a little effort reveals events that leave one slack jawed, wide eyed, and incapable of anything but astonishment that homo sapiens still persists.

Priest Pedophilia

We begin with Pope Benedict XVI (the guy on the left) who is taking this whole priest sex scandal thing very seriously.  So seriously that he appointed one of his most trusted advisers, Genoa Archbishop Angelo  Bagnasco, head of the Italian Bishops Conference, to establish a tough new worldwide policy on pedophilia.  Some of Bagnasco's priests must have misunderstood, thinking that the church was in favor of fondling children.  Father Riccardo Seppia, a 51-year-old parish priest in a village near Genoa, was arrested on May 13 not only on charges of pedophilia but illegal drugs as well.

According to Time.Com, "Seppia asked a Moroccan drug dealer to arrange sexual encounters with young and vulnerable boys.  'I do not want 16-year-old boys but younger. Fourteen-year-olds are O.K. Look for needy boys who have family issues,' he allegedly said."  (Don't you just love the word, allegedly?  "I allegedly shot him when I pulled the trigger on the gun I was allegedly holding after he allegedly slept with my alleged sister.")

To be fair, I doubt that one of the questions asked of wannabe priests is, "So, how do you feel about pedophilia?"  And even if it were, who'd answer, "It's one of my favorite past times, especially when they're younger than 16."

Horse Herpes

Did you know that horses can get herpes, or, to the medically inclined, EHV-1?  I didn't, not that it's a subject that holds particular interest for me.   (Note to faint of heart:  The following description may remind you of what you're like when you're blind, stinking drunk.)  According to KSL.Com, a media outlet in Utah, EHV-1 is highly contagious, the disease can be fatal to horses and is incurable. It is not transmitted to humans, but is spread horse-to-horse through nose contact and contaminated tack, equipment or clothing. Symptoms include fever, decreased coordination, nasal discharge, lethargy, inability to rise and leaning against a wall or fence to maintain balance.

Because of the outbreak, contestants at the Davis County Sheriff's Mounted Posse Junior Queen Contest, I assume in Utah, had to cowgirl up Thursday night without thei r mares.  As Dave Berry says, I swear I'm not making this up, instead of competing on horses, the girls trotted around the arena using as their show ponies...ready?...stick horses. 

 "It's kind of weird, but you can't really help that the disease is going around," said former queen Savanna Steed. Weird?  You betcha! She said the stick horses will test the riders' knowledge of whether they know the routine, rather than letting the horse do all the work.  Got it.

But I can't let it go at that.  There are too many great pictures...so enjoy.

 

 

 Lots more photos here.

Alas, we must move on.

Insulted Kings

I intend absolutely no disrespect when I report that an American citizen has been arrested in the great and wonderful land of Oz...sorry, Thailand...for insulting their great and powerful king...or should that be King?  The Washington Post, May 28, reports that 54-year-old Lerpong Wichaikhammet, whose name cannot easily be anagrammed, lived in the U.S. for thirty years before returning to the medically-advanced country of Thailand for treatment.  But bad Mr. LW four years ago (which is but seconds in Thai time, a country that predates the dawn of civilization) posted on his blog a link to a banned book about King Bhumibol Adulyadej, another name for which I have not the stamina to anagram.

By the way, your indubious Majesty, if you don't like the picture, blame The Huffington Post, since I stole it from them.  Other sites didn't have the right picture format.  Go figure.  But back to the story:  Arrested because of a link to a book?  I tell you, as bizarre as things are here in the good old U.S. of A., it's still a lot safer than in other places whose names I won't mention just in case I wind up there some day.  And good luck, Mr. LW.  We fellow Americans are rooting for you...just so long as it doesn't piss of his royal you-know-who.

And finally,

Miss Otis Regrets

You no doubt read about the Korean American, Eddie Jun, who wandered into North Korea last November to spread the word of Jesus.  Mann, were the North Koreans furious.  Mr. Jun had the audacity to say that Sun Yat Sen, the current ruler of North Korea (I think that's right but who has time to look this stuff up,) isn't Jesus.  Every good North Korean knows that their beloved leader is the true Jesus come back to Earth to spread joy and salvation. 

But last Friday, all it took was for Robert King, the U.S. envoy for North Korean human rights, to visit North Korea and "express regret at the  incident." 

"Oh," said the exalted ruler, "if you regret it, we'll let Mr. Jun go."

And so it goes.  Or so he goes...or will go...or something.

I love this world.  Thank you, Lord.

In Jameson Veritas

Mr. Obama, Let's Get to the Point About Circumcision

A race absolutely alien to God has invaded the land of Christians ... They have circumcised the Christians, either spreading the blood ... on the altars or pouring it into the baptismal fonts.

Thus did Pope Urban II, in the year of our Lord 1095, launch what was to become The First Crusade, the holy war against that race God didn't know — the Muslims who inhabited the sacred, mystical, holy city of Jerusalem — and whose behavior against God-fearing Christians, well, cut to the quick.

Fast forward to Monday, March 30. History repeats itself. But this time, it's not some strange religious entity stealing our manhood, our sacred privates, our foreskin. No, it's America's doctors and parents, aided and abetted by federal and state officials.

As reported by Dan Zak in The Washington Post, a group of fifty dedicated, religious, knife-less men and women marched around the White House, calling for a federal ban on newborn circumcision. Mr. Zak is no doubt one whose willie remains whole. How else to account for his snide and dismissive account of this group's activities? Yet their signs make it clear that they're serious-type people, urging our new president to act with dispatch when it comes to this barbarous act:

WHOSE PENIS?

WHOSE BODY?

WHOSE RIGHTS?

These folks know when to poke it to the man. It's Genital Integrity Awareness Week as well as National Child Abuse Prevention Month. Female circumcision has become a cause celebre, but is it not time for an upwelling of support for men? Actually, newborn male-type babies. Who will speak up for their rights?

For 914 years, good people have spoken out against this mutilation of a man's best friend, confidant, and conscience — from Popes, to the American Academy of Pediatrics, to "Marilyn Milos, a former nurse and founder of the National Organization of Circumcision Information Resource Centers," who claims that circumcision causes "premature ejaculation."

And these people are just the tip of the iceberg. Thousands, nay, perhaps millions of American men are suffering.

Yes, I'll admit it. When I was very young, perhaps a few days or weeks old, my parents agreed to have my blessed foreskin — oh, this is so hard to say — whacked off. I don't know if they took me to a doctor or a mohel (a Jewish guy with a very sharp set of knives, steady hands, and a really, really bad attitude — some would call him a prick, but that might be going too far — anyway, these mohelim conduct the barbaric "off with his head" ritual... for a small fee).

Thanks to years of therapy, countless sessions in ashrams contemplating my loss, and the unwavering support of my close friends, I have forgiven them — Mom and Dad — for they knew not what they did. But those of us, as many as 85% of boys in 1965, thankfully down to 56% a couple of years ago, who have had to live as half a man, must join forces with the brave group who braved the scorn of the media on Monday to prevent our tragedy from being visited on the unborn males in this vast country.

How can one doubt the dangers of lopping off the most important part of a man's manliness? How else can one account for the 850 million doses of Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, and other pills swallowed in just the past few years by men desperate to restore their pride?

According to the highly-respected website, Impotence-Guide.Com, "Erectile Dysfunction is caused by a lack of blood flow or a misfiring of neural signals to the penis during sexual intimacy. This restriction leaves affected men unable to sustain a natural erection allowing for penetration. More than 50% of men over the age of 40 will experience some level of ED at one point or another during their life." [Emphasis theirs, don't point at me!]

Some have called circumcision "the trauma that haunts forever." (Well, I call it that, which isn't exactly "some.") Nevertheless, that trauma, embedded deep within the neurons in our brains, is what leads to the misfiring of those signals so essential to strength, length, and fortitude.

Consider that Extenze, the all-natural, male enhancement pill that is guaranteed to make a certain part of the male anatomy longer and wider, has been swallowed over one millions times. Would men seek extra length if their original size hadn't been tampered with?

The solution is simple. Mr. President, you must act. On behalf of a crippled nation, I call upon you to take whatever action is necessary to end this century-old attack on the male-type babies of our nation. It is not too early in your term to consider your legacy. Let it be known, that when confronted with a choice between mutilation and exaltation, you rose to the occasion.

In Jameson Veritas

Technorati Tags: Christians, Cialis, circumcision, Crusades, erectile dysfunction, impotence, Levitra, Muslims, penis, Pope Urban II, premature ejaculation, Viagra
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The Kindle 2 Campaign: Success???

On March 1st, I launched my campaign to get Amazon to send me a free Kindle 2 to evaluate, even appealing to their brilliant, savant-extraordinare CEO, Jeffrey P. Bezos that such a gift would bring him great happiness.  (Desperate people will try anything)

Having successfully convinced the marketing geniuses at Jameson Irish Whiskey to send me free samples of their product, including some of the most rare and marvelous, it occurred to me that I'd perhaps developed a new skill: giftiness, the art of getting companies to send me free gifts.

After considerable thought, I decided that the Kindle 2 would be a reasonable second effort, even though I haven't freely promoted it as much as I had Jameson. 

Truth be told, I'm suspicious of any technology that might replace the printed word, but being a fair, open-minded, avaricious kind of guy, I declared a willingness to fairly evaluate the Kindle 2.  If I found it worthy of my support, I'd become a slavish promoter. 

Having made famous (sort of) my Jameson slogan, In Jameson Veritas, I offered the following to Amazon, Vita Brevis, Kindle2 Longa. 

Omigosh.  I have so much to learn from the master self-promoter, Stephen Colbert.  I never mentioned that I was such an early and frequent customer of Amazon that they sent me a mouse pad as a Christmas present.  Hey, any Amazon people reading this, make note of that please.  I'm not just an Amazon-Come-Lately!

So far, the response from Amazon has been encouraging.  No lawyer calls telling me to cease and desist or they'll put a lien on my home, a foolish gesture since it's worth about $3.45 in today's market.  And no e-mails telling me to get a life.  And no black SUVs driving by my house, stopping suspiciously, and then moving on.

Silence isn't necessarily bad.  Old Thomas Moore, when challenged by Henry VIII to support his booting out the Catholic Church and starting his own so he could get married again, responded by saying nothing.  According to British Common Law, silence means consent.  Of course, Moore got beheaded, but Henry was a bit of a lunatic, a characteristic one would never associate with anyone at Amazon.

Therefore, I take their silence as consenting to my request.

I don't approach my mailbox with excitement and anxiety.  Nor do I race out when the UPS or Fedex trucks come rolling by, although I confess I do keep an eye out for them.  Hey, it takes time for someone to do the paperwork and get the order moving.

So I want to take this opportunity to thank Mr. Bezos and the good people at Amazon for their generosity and their confidence that'll I'll find the Kindle 2 superior to traditional books. Thank You.

In Jameson Veritas
Vita Brevis, Kindle2 Longa

Technorati Tags: Amazon, giftiness, Henry VIII, Jameson Irish Whiskey, Jeffrey Bezos, Kindle2, Stephen Colbert, Thomas Moore
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We Launch The "Send Me A Kindle 2" Campaign

For those of you unfamiliar with my newly discovered giftiness, learned at the feet of the master of shameless self-promotion, the great Stephen Colbert, you might want to quickly peruse two articles trumpeting my success in getting the good folks at Jameson Irish Whiskey to reward me for my long-term support via my tag line, In Jameson Veritas.  First.  Second.  (Latest news:  I’ve received Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve, an extraordinary whiskey that rivals the finest cognacs, and I have been assured other premium Jameson products are on the way.)

I have spent the last few months pondering my next move.  I considered Ferrari, but even if I were able to convince them to send me one, I probably couldn’t afford the upkeep.  How about a nice 42” HDTV with a Bose surround sound system?  Good choice.  Likelihood of success, minimal.  A Wii would be great, but I discovered years ago that those games had advanced far beyond my aging abilities.

Last Thanksgiving, at a friend’s house, I discovered that she owned a Kindle.  I scoffed and sneered in my best condescending fashion.  Books are books, not electronic bits and bytes held in a small device.  Books are to be cherished.  One stands before a well-stocked book shelf and is at peace with the world.  Running fingers over the bindings in search of something to read or simply remembering fondly the joy of reading a certain work would be lost if the book shelves were bare and all one had was a 8" x 5.3" x 0.36"…gizmo.  While I do have CD players, I also still have my turntable and vinyl albums, most older than Amazon itself (although, if I must be honest, playing records is a pain in the ass).

Amazon claims that Kindle 2 holds 1500 books, but of what good are those books if you can’t see them, pick them up, and feel their life flow?  Kindle for me?  Never.  Alas, even as I pontificated about how Kindle was the harbinger of the end of modern society as we know it, there was another part of me greedily eyeing that little toy, wanting to play with it, discover its secrets, get lost in its hypnotic embrace.

Ok, I love gadgets.  I’ve paralyzed my computer more times than I can count downloading programs and gadgets and gizmos and whatever, most of which I discovered were of minimal interest…and many of which turned my hard drive into mush.  But I still love them, reading any story about the latest cool Google tool, the newest ad-ins for Outlook or Internet Explorer, the dizzying capabilities of new cell phones, the continual, brilliant innovations at Amazon.com.  (See…plug.)

Last week, on “The Colbert Report,” Mr. Colbert made an offhanded comment about the new Kindle, saying that he’ll be waiting.  I’m sure the people at Amazon learned of that and, even as we speak—or I write, are in heated discussions about whether and when to send their newest product to the Master.

I, sadly, have no award-winning TV show from which to launch my “Send Me A Kindle 2” campaign and must rely on blogging to convince the Amazonians that winning over a hardcore book lover would be an incredible coup, one that they could use in advertising and promotions to infiltrate the secret cabal of book lovers who’ve sworn blood oaths to never step onto that slippery slope into technoland. 

There’s another issue to overcome.  The Jameson generosity came after I’d already demonstrated my slavish devotion to their product, and In Kindle Veritas doesn’t quite have the same je ne sais quois as In Jameson Veritas, does it?  Plus, my loyalty and appreciation to the Jameson gods shall never be compromised.  Finally, even if I could find a good tag line, such as Gimme A Kindle or Vita Brevis, Kindle 2 Longa (very loosely, Life is Short, Kindle Lives Forever), how would it look to have two tag lines for every article and comment? 

That actually is not a rhetorical question.  Are two taglines gauche?  Would I become an object of ridicule and contempt?  Would I no longer be taken seriously as a serious observer of serious political and social issues?  Your thoughts about this vexing problem are welcome.

At the least, I shall state plainly for all (at Amazon) to see:  I will give your Kindle 2 a fair test, despite my bias for real books, and, if converted, will accept the baptismal Kindle rites and become not just a true believer but a shameless promoter of the product and how it will heal all the ills of modern society.  Books?  Pshaw!  Who needs them?  They take up room, they get dusty, most fall apart if you read them more than five or six times.  And you can never find the one you want, especially if your bride wants to display them based on size, color, and hard vs. soft cover.

So, how about it, Amazon?  Given my sad economic straits, I cannot afford to buy one.  Just putting food on the table for my bride, myself, and our 21-year-old Siamese is difficult enough—particularly because this seven-pound monster eats more than the two of us combined.  I have confidence that our President will turn the economy around no later than 2018, but that’s a little long to wait.  I’m a boomer.  I need instant gratification.  

Take a risk, Jeffrey P. Bezos, Amazon’s Founder and Chief Executive Officer, and direct your minions to send me a Kindle 2 post haste.  You have nothing to lose, but everything to gain.  (That sounds familiarly like some stupid TV advertisement, but I can’t remember which one.)  And if you hesitate, consider that heart-warming old standard made famous by Jimmy Durante, “Make Someone Happy.”  It ends with “…and you will be happy too.” You deserve happiness, and, Lord knows, money—even billions and billions and billions of money—won’t make you happy. 

With deep humility, I am willing to be the agent of your improved sense of well being.

Thank you for your consideration.  

In Jameson Veritas
Vita Brevis, Kindle2 Longa

Technorati Tags: giftiness, Stephen Colbert, Jameson, Kindle2, Jeffrey Bezos, Amazon, In Jameson Veritas
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Take That, Stephen Colbert! Jameson Delivers, Part Two

Dear Reader, To fully understand this extraordinary challenge to Stephen Colbert's brilliant, blatant self-promotional skills, I urge you to first read the first two articles in this series: article one and article two. Or, ignore them. After all, it's not Shakespeare.

As promised by my angel of cirrhosis, Shelley Lewis, PR pro extraordinare of The Thomas Collective (one can't help but wonder, collective of what? I hope dear Shelley isn't being held captive)... anyway, Shelley arranged for me to speak with a most delightful representative of Jameson Irish Whiskey, Frankie Pezzella. Hardly an Irish lass, as she'll admit, and, despite my best efforts to drag her into dangerous territory, she demonstrated time and time again her ability to avoid the lures dangling in front of her.

She is, on the other hand, a bright, charming, delightful person with a sparkling sense of humor... in that she laughed at my jokes.

I approached the interview carefully. I had specific wants in mind, although I knew it would be strategically inadvisable to blurt them out. So I began our phone interview with an approach straight out of Miss Mannners.*

First of all, I must thank you for the case of Jameson and the bottle of Midleton.

Oh, you're welcome. Have you been enjoying it?

Absolutely, although I haven’t touched the Midleton yet. It's still in its box. I take it out from time to time, admire it, say a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of Jameson. After all, it's not something you just open and slug down.

You're definitely one who knows how to enjoy their Jameson. [First indication that she's really good at her job.]

Besides thanking you, I want you to know that I'm committed to continuing to promote Jameson. I'll do whatever I can to help out. By the way, what is your job there?

I'm a senior brand manager on Jameson.

What’s that mean? [This sounds good. Senior is a good title. Maybe this is the person who has the authority to improve my giftiness.]

We work with the brand director in the States and with the Irish distillers in Ireland. [We??? There's more than one? That's not good.] A senior brand manager handles marketing, promotion, and public relations. We work across the board to increase Jameson's share of voice and sales volume.

How’d you get your job?

Well, I'd known Jameson well and had been working in spirits for a long time. There was an opening to work for Jameson, and I asked for it.

Yeah, sure. Come on, how’d you really get that job?

I interviewed for it like everyone else.

So it appears that you're not going to tell me the truth, huh? You're going to stick to the party line. I guess you don’t want to get anybody at Jameson in trouble.

No, no, no… it's not the party line. There's no big story.

[Obviously, there's a really big story here, a scandal that could propel me to the front page of the National Enquirer. But I tread carefully. Do a little research and nail her on the second interview.]

I’ll accept that. By the way, are there any of your jobs available? I mean, I've done public relations for a long time. I can market. So you got any marketing jobs for me?

Not at the moment, but you never know when we’re going to be expanding the staff, the team. But what you're doing is pretty important as an advocate of Jameson and spreading the word. Really, you are on the team.

[She is so slick. What a smart transition. I'm part of the team — the free, volunteer team. No wonder she's a senior brand manager.]

Yeah, I’m on the team, but I think there's more I can do. For example, I was thinking what a terrific marketing move it would be to make me Jameson's international spokesperson.

Wow, that is... that’s an impressive title. [She's laughing, but is it a laugh of delight or derision? Only time will tell.]

Yeah, I thought so too. Look, if that's asking too much, maybe just the spokesperson for northern Virginia. I’m not proud.

Mmmm. [She laughs, but I'm not sure...Hmmm.] You know what?

What?

I don’t think we have that position, but I’ll talk to the powers that be. I can’t promise you anything, but I think it’s an interesting prospect. It’s beyond my authority though.

[I wonder if it's truly beyond her authority or if this is a just a polite brush-off. What would Stephen Colbert do in this situation? I know. Change the subject and introduce a really big idea.]

So, you folks don’t do TV advertising.

Not at the moment…

I look good on TV, I really do. I’ve done a lot of TV, and I make up well with the right wig and clothes. I could be terrific on TV, particularly with the things you don’t talk about, like the curative properties of Jameson. [Voila, a really big idea. Let her reject his one!]

Oh, you think there are curative properties for Jameson?

You don’t?

[Whoa. I hear something knocking on my door. Could it be opportunity... like a new way to promote the brand? Wait a minute. I'll check. Rats, it was someone trying to get me to sign some stupid petition to save a moose that Sarah Palin shot. Like that's my problem.]

I know that Jameson tastes great.

Hey, Frankie, apple juice tastes great. Cherries taste great. Even beets, cooked correctly, taste great. That’s not one of your better promotional slogans: Jameson Tastes Great. Face it, lots of things taste great.

So how did you discover a taste for Jameson? [Note how cleverly she changes the subject. This woman is a master of managing interviews.]

Many years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I went to a friend's house, and they gave me a taste. Truth be told, it's similar to how marijuana leads to heroin — it was that kind of thing. One taste and I was hooked, absolutely shackled. It satisfies that primal need for exactly the right blend of herbs and spices — whatever the hell goes in it — that the cave man in us requires, or the cave woman as the case might be. [Okay, let's see how good she really is.] You know, I've tried other Irish whiskeys, and I've got a question. Why does Jameson taste better than Bushmills?

I like Jameson for the taste. It’s really smooth, the triple distillation process, the quality that Irish distillers and blenders ensure in every step of the process, and the ingredients. Jameson really controls the process from grain to glass every step of the way.

So you're saying that the Bushmills people are sloppy?

I’m not saying that. I’m saying that the Jameson people are working off a recipe that John Jameson created back in 1780, and they've stayed true to that. I don’t say anything about anything except Jameson because that’s what I know.

So you won’t get into a discussion of why Jameson is better… a direct comparison with other Irish whiskeys?

No, that’s not my thing. You can draw your own comparisons.

You know, a lack of confrontation makes for lousy copy.

[Laughing... nervously perhaps?] We’re just talking among friends here. [Friends? Yeah, all my Internet friends.]

Oh no, this is going on Blogcritics and my blog, and I’m going to promote the hell out of it all over the Internet to all 23 of my faithful readers.

[Okay, enough Mr. Nice Guy. Let's get to the important stuff before I lose what few readers I may have snookered.]

You remember how red wine sales went up when they found it does all sorts of wonderful things for you? We need the same shtick for Jameson. Have you guys done any studies to see if there are health benefits associated with drinking massive quantities of your product?

Not that I know of, but that’s not my area of expertise. I can check into it and let you know, because that’s an interesting area.

(Come on, Frankie, it's not like I just fell off the public relations rutabaga truck. I've used that trick thousands of time. So has Sarah Palin for god's sake.)

Here's another option. It's a lot cheaper. I could just make up health studies that claim that drinking Jameson not only improves your heart, liver, and brain functions, but it makes you a kinder, gentler person. Best of all, it grows hair on bald heads. Then I could promote that.

[Now this is a nervous laugh.] Well, you know, well, that’s your choice, I can’t support or deny that because I don’t know…

You don’t want to go to jail?

I really want to keep my job because I do love it.

So you’re not a big risk taker when it comes to completely fabricated health studies?

I really love my job [Ah ha! I'm getting to her, I can tell. She's starting to repeat herself. Obviously there was no media training for this line of inquiry.] So there are certain things I won’t do unless I know for sure.

[Time to turn to something that'll ease her tension. So I ask her about her job.]

The second week on the job, I went to Ireland for the launch of Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve.

Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve? I’ve never even heard of it.

Ah… it is the pinnacle of Jameson. It’s a new brand that we launched earlier in the year. Our four master distillers took the rarest spirits that we have and created this beautiful, beautiful tasting blend.

How does it compare to Midleton? [What's going on here? I thought I'd scored a coup with them sending me all that booze, but they were holding out on me.]

It has a different taste profile. Midleton is a combination of our master distillers' favorite blends and spirits, while the Reserve has our finest and oldest whiskeys in it, they’re between 19 and 24 years old.

[Okay, no more Mr. Subtle.]How come I didn’t get a bottle of that?

Well, that’s a good question. We didn’t know you then.

Ah, so it was Shelley who arranged the case?

Yes.

So is Shelley getting a promotion or a bonus out of this?

[Deftly avoiding the question.] We knew that you loved Midleton, so Shelley sent you bottle of that.

[Gotta keep the pressure up. She's as slippery as an eel coated in Crisco.] Let's return to this Jameson Rare Vintage Reserve. That's another reason why you need me to be your international spokesperson because I don’t think anybody knows about this.

I’m sure more people could know about it. We’ll have to get you to try it and enjoy it. There aren’t that many bottles out there; we don’t have a lot here in the States, and, during the process of making it, a good portion evaporates and goes up to the angels.

[Another good reason to fake a strong affinity for God.]

There may be a surprise coming for your soon. [Did she really say that? Let me check the tape again. YES!]

That’d be good. I'll be checking the UPS and FedEx trucks every day. Excuse me, let me run out and see. Rats, not yet. By the way, I'm not crazy about Jameson 12-year-old.

Have you tried Jameson Gold?

I’ve never seen Jameson Gold. [These bastards have been keeping me in the dark. Maybe it's time for a new slogan.]

That’s a new launch… it's a 15-year-old. But the 18-year-old is my favorite.

[Feebly] Eighteen-year-old?

There's Jameson regular; 12-year-old; gold, which is a little more spicy, woodier, matured in virgin oak barrels; 18-year-old, which is my personal favorite; Jameson Rare Vintage Reserve, and the line of Midleton.

[By this point, I can barely speak. Hell, I can barely breathe. Who knew? How could I have lived in so much ignorance for so long? Colbert never would have been so naive.]

I have to tell you, I'm a little concerned about brand dilution. Plus, you're not out there letting people know what a harvest of plenty is available. That's why you need me to be your international spokesperson. [Am I pushing this too hard?]

I can understand your concern because we have so much out there, but I don’t see that as an issue because everybody likes something a little bit different. And you're not going to drink your 18-year-old every day, you'll wait for the right time and people to drink it with.

[Going for the kill. No pain, no gain.] You know, if you sent me a full collection of your entire brand list, I could do a taste test and report on that. I could write about the subtle differences among them.

Well, I don’t see that as being an issue at all, not at all.

[Trying to speak without squeaking.] Really?

No. In fact, if I was coming down anytime soon, I’d be there and do a taste test with you.

[You mean I'd have to share?]

[Let's get her off this visiting and sharing bullshit idea.] About my tag line, In Jameson Veritas. I’m wondering, it would be a powerful slogan for Jameson. Are you guys willing to pay me outrageous royalties for its use? I would be honored to sell it to you for a lot of money.

You know, I can’t speak to that one… interesting proposition.

[Speak, speak, my little fish circling the bright lure.] Think of the ads.

It’s one of those things I’ll have to get back to you on.

[She may be nice, but if I'm going to get what I want, I need to escalate this thing.]

Yeah, you know, I probably should talk to the president of Jameson because a lot of this is high-level promotional stuff, and I need a decision-maker to make me wealthy and keep me continually slathered in Jameson.

Yeah… I can take care of sending you other products, but you're asking me really tough questions, and I don’t have the authority to make a decision, but I’ll raise it up the line.

[Well, at least I may get some more product.]

I understand. You know, really, all of this is simply designed to help you guys. I am completely dedicated to helping Jameson, and I have absolutely no personal financial stake in this other than I want a lot of money.

[There's a lot more, but certain topics shouldn't be discussed on the Internet.]

I don’t want to take up too much more of your time, but if you can get back to me on these important issues like increasing my wealth... I mean improving promotional opportunities for Jameson, that’d be great.

I will definitely raise those questions and get back to you as soon as I can.

And if they want to interview me, I can come up to New York, or if they want to fly me to Ireland, first class of course, I can do that at the drop of a hat, because international spokesperson is a big job, I understand that.

Yeah, I’ve not heard of that title before, but it’s an interesting proposition.

You can tell them I’m 6' 2", very slim, buff I think is the word, dress real well, dark hair, kind of like a Sean Connery type.

But no Irish accent.

Hey, that's not a problem. I can work one up pretty quickly.

Would that be authentic?

Authenticity is something other people have to worry about. Lass, we’re not looking for authenticity, we’re looking for sales.

Oh… you make me laugh. [Great, but it's not getting me what I want. Laugh is cheap, my dear.]

It’s the truth. But if they do fly me to Ireland, make sure they’ve had lots to drink before they meet me because that way they might actually believe I’m 6' 2" and buff and all the rest, young, vibrant… the kind of guy who can sell to the 30- and 40-year-olds. Wait, unless we do a grandfather thing. That’s it, the noble sage offering the Jameson wisdom of the ages to the young and innocent.

[Somewhat dryly.] The noble sage. Well, I love that you're so much of a fan and promoter of Jameson. And I’ll definitely raise these issues.

Okay, but don’t do it at your peril. Be safe about it. [But be vigorous and pushy and demanding and indefatigable.)

End of interview, sort of.

In Jameson Veritas

*Actual interview edited for clarity, flow, and to make me sound as clever as possible

Technorati Tags: giftiness, Jameson Irish Whiskey, Midleton, Miss Manners, Sarah Palin, Stephen Colbert
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Take That, Stephen Colbert. Jameson Delivers! Part One

(Dear Reader, to fully understand the extraordinary events described below, I urge you to first read this article.)

Yesterday, a day like any other, had been toodling along nicely. No nasty financial surprises, no visit by IRS tax auditors or Homeland Security goons in black cars, black suits, and black moods, no attacks by rabid squirrels desperately seeking substitutes for acorns (which seem to have disappeared in this area...but that's a different story.)

As I blithely check my junk e-mail file, because I am a careful tech-type person, my eyes wander down the list of offers of discount drugs, sex toys to create pleasure for my wife the likes of which she'd never imagined, notices of people looking for me, and the like, and I see an e-mail from one Shelley Lewis. I don't know her. Then I look at the subject.

 

Holy ghosts of Christmas Future, that's my official tagline.  It can't be spam.  Has my appeal to the Masters of Irish Whiskey been heard?  Is this...kismet?

I gingerly click on it to read the message.  Suddenly, Stephen Colbert is no longer the sole master of insane self-promotion.  I, a humble scribe, known to few and beloved by even fewer, have bested Colbert at his own game.  Read it and weep, Stephen (if I may call you Stephen, now that we're equals.)  Here's her e-mail.

Hi Mark,

I do the public relations for Jameson Irish Whiskey in the U.S. and although we can’t offer you the position of international spokesperson, we would like to send you that case of Jameson and bottle of Midleton Very Rare. Can you please let me know where we should send it?

In Jameson Veritas,
Shelley
--
Shelley Lewis
The Thomas Collective

I call the bride over, and I can see a new respect and admiration growing in her eyes as she reads the message.  Then we both laugh our asses off.  I mean, this has to be real.  My newest bestest friend, Shelley, gives her address and phone number. 

It is too late to call her, but first thing this morning, I'm on the phone.  Even had she not arranged this gift (oh how sad is the English language that all I must call this is a gift.  A scarf is a gift; new pajamas are a gift; Colbert's IPod was a gift.  Nay, this sublime offer transcends giftiness...words fail.)  Where was I?  Oh, yeah, she was a charming woman who acknowledged she had the best job in the whole world as her firm does public relations for Jameson in the U.S.

I wanted to interview her, but, good PR person as she is, she demurred and offered to arrange an interview with a real Jameson person.

And so it goes.  Soon, I will report on the conversation with this representative from the nectar of the gods.  I will let you, my faithless readers, know if I can convince them that I would be an excellent international spokesperson for Jameson...or if not international, perhaps in the Commonwealth of Virginia.  And, last but certainly not least, I will reveal my next giftiness scheme.  Of course, In Jameson Veritas will remain my tagline for eternity or death, whichever comes first, but there must be other ways to wheedle free stuff from companies.

Stay tuned.  And, to Mr. Colbert, don't look back.  I may be closing in on you.

In Jameson Veritas  

Technorati Tags: giftiness, Jameson Irish Whiskey, Midleton Very Rare, Stephen Colbert
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Stephen Colbert & Jameson Irish Whiskey: I Learn From The Master

Comedy Central’s Stephen Colbert is perhaps the most successful self promoter in the history of the human race.  All others are but pale copies of his masterful manipulation of the cosmic realm. 

 

When he wanted to run for president, he got Doritos to fund his campaign; likewise, Doritos footed the bill when he wanted to spent a week in Pennsylvania during the Democratic primary.  All Colbert had to do was munch Doritos on his set for a few days.  If Doritos hadn’t been in the tank for him, they could have demanded he appear on stage covered in chips tastefully pasted all over his body with scantily clad men & women artfully pulling one after another off and eating them.  Now that would have been a reasonable trade off.

He whined for a year to get an Apple IPhone…and they finally gave him one.  His DNA is in space, he’s got a spider, an eagle, a worm, a lethal virus, a terrorist group (Colbert’s Commies), and the Dahli Llama’s first kid named for him.  He even had his picture hung in the National Portrait Gallery in D.C.

 

I don’t know what he promised Marvel Comics, but they’ve become enslaved to the Colbert

hypnotic gaze.  Those who thought his presidential campaign dead might be surprised to find that Spiderman thinks it’s alive and well.

 

In the Amazing Spider Man #573, “Spiderman & Stephen Colbert Team Up,” comes the line, "I might be wrong, but I don't believe Spider-Man's really into endorsing anyone for the White House," stated Peter Parker. "It shouldn't matter what Spidey thinks of the guy; it's up to the public to decide if Colbert can handle all the great power and responsibility that being President entails."

 

And for those of you who think Obama really won the election, here’s Marvel’s take on it.

 

 

 

When he wins two Peabodies and an Emmy (for best writing, not best show…neener, neener, neener,) he not only displays them endlessly, he demands to know if guests, such as authors who can’t win emmys, have won any.  Then he proudly points to his.  (Since Colbert will never read this, I will say it was a well deserved Emmy; it may be the best written comedy show on TV.)

 

Not finally, but enough is enough, his website, Colbert Nation, isn’t even part of Comedy Central’s site—it’s a stand alone one.  What chutzpa.  What arrogance.  What brilliant promotion of his ever-rising brand…the rat.

 

Why am I, you might ask, a humble scribe in search of an agent—while Colbert’s book, I Am American and So Can You, hits the best sellers list—railing against the unfairness of so many doing so much for Colbert for so little?

 

Blame Jameson Irish whiskey.  For many months, when I was an editor, frequent contributor, and commenter on BlogCritics, (BC) a self-described “sinister cabal of superior writers,” my tagline was In Jameson Veritas.  It followed every post, every comment.  I praised the virtues of this fine whiskey time and time again.

And I, modest and self-effacing, never asked for a sou in return, whatever a sou is.  Had Jameson offered to make me its international spokesperson, I would have gladly accepted.  Had they sent me a case of Jameson, or even better, Middleton, the sine qua non (Latin for the best shit in the world) of Irish whiskeys, I would have gratefully accepted.

Even an e-mail from some low-level lackey saying, “hey, thanks for the free plugs, sucker,” would have at least demonstrated that they recognized my devotion to their brand.

But no, nothing, nada, nihilism…

And then, for reasons known only to a few medical specialists, I left the warm world of BlogCritics and returned to my humble cave in the mountains just outside D.C.  Many months later, I decided to check out my own friends at BC, and, to my amazement, shock, chagrin—o.k., I’ll cut down on the hysterics—I found that Jameson was actually advertising on the site.

They were spending money trying to push their liver-melting brand of fire water, and there was not even the least recognition that I had been responsible.  (While I’m ranting again, let it be known that I didn’t receive a percentage from BC for their new revenue.  That would have been a generous gesture, don’t you think?)

However, when the Jameson execs realized that their product was no longer being promoted frequently and freely—since I wasn’t there—they pulled their ads.

But now I return, albeit slowly to BlogCritics.  The Curmudgeon-At-Large still ends his posts and comments with In Jameson Veritas, but, let me warn you Jameson, I am taking a page from the book of the Great Stephen Colbert.  Nothing is for free anymore.  Make me an offer, or I may begin using In Bushmills Veritas.  So there.  The die is cast.  The glove has been thrown down.  The lamb is being led to the slaughter.

I think this is going to work…unless, of course, Jameson and Bushmills Irish whiskeys are made by the same brewer.  If that’s the case, I’m screwed.

Hmm.  I wonder if The MacCallan single-malt scotch whiskey is looking for an international spokesperson?

Curmudgeon-At-Large

In Jameson Veritas

Technorati Tags: Apple IPhone, Comedy Central, Doritos, humor, satire, Jameson Irish Whiskey, politics, Stephen Colbert
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Thoughts On Some Important Issues

Jews and Muslims aren't allowed to eat pork.  God's pretty adamant about that.  Pork bad.  God good.  Easy enough to understand.  Except, Jews, Muslims, and Christians all worship the same God, and Christians can eat pork.  So, did they get some kind of dispensation from God that Jews & Muslims aren't privy to?  It can't be Jesus, since, one, he was Jewish, and two, Muslims revere him as a pretty cool guy.  Maybe all Christians are going to hell, at least the ones who eat pork. 

Two Jews get off a bus.  One of the funniest opening lines I've ever heard--you probably have to hear it.  But I never heard the rest of the joke.  It finally dawned on me why it's so funny.  Jews don't ride buses.  Think of it, Two nuns get off a bus; two Lithuanians get off a bus; two Presbyterians get off a bus.  None of them are funny.  Why?  They're all known to ride buses. 

You always bite the one you love.

Why is Tuscaloosa funny but Schenectady isn't?

How many fat guys does it take to screw in a light bulb?  Give up?  I have no idea...I just lost over 20 pounds.

My bride woke herself up laughing wildly last week at a joke she'd made in her sleep.  I slipped on Poly-ethyl and into Ethyl Polly.  I laughed my ass off when she told me, but so far, we're the only one's who think it's funny.  How good are your sleep jokes, wiseass?

So, I went to the doctor the other day, and he told me I was going to have to stop masturbating. "Why, I asked, my eyesight's still pretty good?"  "Because I have to examine you."  Badabing. (With thanks to my brother-in-law.)

Know why there aren't any Presbyterian jokes?  Because Presbyterian has five syllables--way too long to sustain humor.  Of course, Lithuanian is also five syllables and it's funny as hell--at least to me.

There you have it.  Not much, but first post in ages.  The old brain actually may be coming back.

Politicians: Real or Not—You Decide

Only 5,702,400 seconds left until election day, give or take a few hundred, and the suspense is...well, the suspense is leaving me feeling like a chipmunk trapped under a log by a weasel with a craving for fresh chipmunk meat. It’s a problem of timing, when you think about it. The weasel can’t get at you and eventually will wander off seeking some other creature to devour. But weasels are sly devils. What if it only pretends to wander off? Or what if you can’t hear it, and you stay there forever, and then you die of hunger?

But I digress. Remember in Jurassic Park when old what’s his name talks about his flea circus? No? Well, then stop reading and go somewhere else, kid, you’re bothering me. Anyway, I was thinking about politicians and that story popped into my head like a hollow-point 45 bullet. (I really shouldn’t use gun analogies; I have no idea if that’s right or not, but you should get the point.) Kaboom! (There, that’s better.)

Kids would tell their mommies, “Oh, look mommy, can you see the flea on the trapeze?” Except there weren’t any fleas. It was all smoke and magic. So the guy, you know, British actor, very famous, in “The Great Escape,” decides to build real dinosaurs.

Stay with me. I think I may be taking this someplace interesting.

Politicians. Invisible fleas. What if there really aren’t any politicians? What if, just like, oh hell, I’ll call him Moe, in Jurassic Park, someone constructed this elaborate circus called Politicalville with buildings and monuments in every city, town, and village in America, and then rigged it to make it look like things were happening. But ‘tis all an illusion. Bush, Hillary, Rummy...the whole lot of them down to the local dog catcher in Tuscaloosa...they don’t exist. Things happen, and, pea brains that we are, we buy into the illusion.

Wow. Then Bush couldn’t have stolen the election in Florida in Ohio because there is no Bush.

Clinton couldn’t have had sex with that woman because neither of them exists.

Katherine Harris won’t be able to run for President and send all non-Christians to the ovens because, yay, she isn’t real.

We’re talking some great illusionist here, I’m telling you. Little political fleas with red coats, little political fleas with blue coats, some with top hats and spats, others with cowboy boots and thick belts. Honest fleas and dastardly devil fleas. Liberal fleas and conservative fleas. We see them all. We argue about them until our brains are so addled we’re not even sure on which side of the debate we started—and all for naught.

Lord, what fools these mortals be.

Since they don’t exist, we should just ignore them, right? Fight the illusion. Bring down that man behind the curtain pretending to be the Great and Powerful Oz. Can you imagine how wonderful life would be if we all just jettisoned politics and politicians from our little minds and went about our days saying hello to one another, helping little old ladies across the street, eating and drinking Jameson with our friends.

Face it. Who starts the wars? Politicians.
Who created slavery? Politicians.
Who tries to separate us into classes and creeds and colors and sizes and shapes? Politicians.
Who sets people against one another over trivial matters than only a kumquat would take seriously? Politicians.

We’re talking Eden here, folks. Unless, of course, the great illusionist decides that fleas aren’t good enough and starts cloning real politicians. Yikes, are we then up the creek without the proverbial canoe or what? So our only chance is to deny the illusion now, and the bad man will go away.

This is so simple. Why didn’t someone think of it before? If politicians don’t exist, then the weasel that has me trapped under this log doesn’t exist either. I think I’ll just wander out and go back to...

Technorati Tags: politicians, illusions, Bush, Hillary, Rumsfeld, Clinton, Katherine Harris
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For God's Sake, Floss

Floss? Did he say "floss?" We're going to read some putz writing about the value of flossing? This is some cool dude writing about how the world is coming to an end because everything too's weird, and he's writing about dental hygiene?

Sure, sneer, you young whippersnappers. "It'll never happen to me, I'm invincible." Ach, I can hear you now. "Hey, I floss every night. Slip it in, slip it out, rinse it around, and spit it all about."

No, I say! Don't let what happened to me happen to you. It is a dark tale, filled with pain, blood, torture, restraints, and no naked women...but you must read it anyway.  For those of you who are faint of heart, take some good dope, but read it you must.  Learn it you must.  Feel the force, Luke.  (Oops, wrong post.)

Chapter I

A year or so ago, I do my thrice annual visit to dentist (smoke & drink coffee & we're talking stains that steel wool couldn't remove), I'm told I have receding gums.  Say what?  I have a receding hairline (actually, it's more of a depression than a recession, but that's another story) but what the hell are receding gums?  Are my teeth slowly going to get loose and fall out, I ask?

"Yes," says my dentist.

When I awaken from the dead faint, he begins a months-long process of deep cleaning, which involves jack hammers, pick axes, and nary a Percocet in sight.  But, alas, while he corrects many of the problems, there are a few areas that he can't fix.

"I want a periodontist to take a look at these," he says.  Hell, how bad can it be.  I've had two root canals, and, other than boring, once you get enough Novocaine, there's no pain at all. 

Chapter 2

Okay, so it takes me three months to get up the courage to call the D.D.S., P.A., Periodontics; for now we'll call him Bugsy.  His receptionist is charming, funny... hey they have something opening up tomorrow for a first consult.  No problem.  See you then.

Sheesh.  People make such a big deal about these things.  How bad can it be?

What can I say about Bugsy?  A gentleman, great sense of humor, wonderful relations with his staff, treats you with respect.  He's already got my x-rays and is raving about my long roots and strong bones.

"Good thing, too," he says.  "Otherwise, every tooth in your mouth would have come falling out by now.  Grind your teeth often?"

"Only when I'm alive," I say.

He pokes and prods and actually takes video to show me the inside of my mouth.  Like this is something I've waited my whole life to see.  I'm a pre-Crest baby.  I have more cavities than teeth.  Why in the world would I want to see the inside of my mouth? 

"I just had a cancellation for opening tomorrow morning," he says.  "Why don't we start with your front tooth?"

(Had I known, it wouldn't be a surprise about cancellations.  What's surprising is that anyone would actually keep an appointment...but that comes later.)

Okey dokey, I say.  Somewhere I hear this baaaaaaa and the sharpening of knives.

Chapter 3

It's morning.  I arrive.  People couldn't be nicer.  I sit in a comfortable chair.  Bugsy walks in, pats me on the arm, asks how I'm doing, then his assistant walks in, pats me on the arm, asks how I'm going, and before I know it, there are leather restraints on my wrists.  They quickly restrain my legs.  Then they put a cage over my face that has eye slits, a nose hole and a hole for my mouth. 

I feel like Hannible Lechter, and I hate liver.

"Uh, fellas," I say.  "Are you sure all this is necessary?"

"Trust me," Roy says, "I'm a professional.  I'm going to be cutting deep into your gums and if you make a sudden move, I could slip and take out one of your eyes."

Then I notice he's humming.  It's a tune I know.  What a minute, it's the Steve Martin song from "Little Shop of Horrors," "Yes I'm a dentist, because I love the pain I inflict, da da dee dee da....."

"Excuse me, sir, but I just remembered I have an important meeting with a client," I try.

"Too late, my dear boy," he says holding up a needle the size of that thing in Seattle.

Now, most times, getting Novocaine shots aren't too bad, but when they do it in the front of your mouth, think about somebody taking a screw driver and inserting it... never mind, I can't go on.  Just trust me, it hurts like hell.  But within an hour, everything is numb, and he goes to work, humming along.  I can feel him cutting, but there's no pain.  Except that he seems to be doing a lot of cutting for just one small gum over one tooth. 

And he periodically stops to take more video shots.  I'm going to love this, I know.

Then he starts scraping.  At one point, he grabs a pick axe, he's got his foot on my arm for leverage, and he hacking away like a madman and the nurse is shooting water into my mouth to put out the flames.  There's still no pain in my mouth, but I suddenly realize I'm going to have to paint eyebrows over my eyes until the hair grows back in. 

I start struggling to get loose.  That was a mistake.

"Oops.  Shit."

"Wa da ya mea, oos..it?" I managed to gurgle.

Bugsy shook his head.  "Well, there were gobs of old bacteria and tartar collected up on the underside of your brain pan, so I was scraping away to make everything nice and clean..."  He hesitated.

"Ya?"

"Well, when you moved, the pick axe may have penetrated the bone and cut into your Cerebellum."

Try saying that with a mouth full of fingers and tools and clamps and braces.

"at ad?" I asked.

"Bad?"

"Ya."

He scratched his head with the pick axe.  "Well, it depends on what part of it I got.  It coordinates fine movement--you're not a diamond cutter are you?"

"No."

"Phew.  It also controls balance, equilibrium, and muscle tone."

"En ill e ow?" I stammered.

"Eh?" he asked.

"Hen hill he hoe?" I tried.

"Oh, well, as soon as I've sewn you up, and we undo the restraints, we'll know pretty quick."

Chapter 4

I stayed pretty still after that, despite Bugsy's occasional, "wows," and "would you look at that," and "oh, gonna need to bone graft there."

The last part's pretty cool -- they get this cadaver, grind up his, or her bones -- and them jam them into a space in your head where bone's supposed to be.  Then they sing some sacred prayers and sprinkle Holy Dental Water over you, and the whole thing is supposed to come together.

Three hours and two more shots of Novocaine later, they took off my mask, untied my arms and legs, and the nurse began to hose down my body which was covered in blood and tissue.

"Not to worry," Bugsy said, smiling.  "We've got a helluva blow dryer in the next room."

Needless to say, I was still a big groggy, but I let him help me up, and he had me go through the kind of exercises Gene Wilder put the monster through in "Young Frankenstein."  Luckily, we didn't have to do "Puttin' on the Ritz."  I was all wet and still dizzy.

"I don't think there's any major brain damage," he said seriously.

"How agout nimor brine dermage?" I asked.

"Nothing anyone would notice," he said. "So you want to see the pictures.  I'll tell you, that was one hell of an operation."  Before I could say no or throw up on him, he's showing me the inside of my mouth sliced open like a butterflyed shrimp with my spinal chord and brain pan exposed.  Then he showed me what it looked like all sewn up. 

He sat me back into the chair and proceeded to put some kind of sticky glue all over the front and back of my front teeth.  "This'll protect you against infection," he said.  "Come back in a week."

"Your shire there'd northing wong wit me?"

"Absolutely positive.  You don't seem a bit different from when you walked in."

Epilogue

So...how much of the above do you think was real, and how much in jest, they wonder?  Well, the doc was Roy Eskow, and, obviously, I'd never use his real name if he'd been that bad, although he can't sue me because I've kidnapped his Lionel train set which is his pride and joy.

The truth is, boys and girls, that it wasn't painful.  It was long, it was disgusting, and it's true that my good roots and bone structure saved my ass...not to mention my teeth.  And it all started because I was a regular flosser -- once a week, once a month...whatever.

Roy Eskow is one of the gentlest, funniest, best docs I've ever met.  I actually am looking forward to the two more operations he's going to have to do.  Oh, bullshit, I'd rather just go drinking with the guy.  But, floss, baby, floss.  Just once a day.  As the good doc explained, use a C or a U motion around the teeth and gently saw back and forth moving up the tooth.  Gently.  Plaque is very soft -- unless you let it sit there for weeks.

Also, in the spirit of giving you information you never wanted to know, plaque is nothing more than bacteria shit.  If that's not reason enough to floss, I don't know what is.

He says he didn't knick my Cerebellum, and I believe him.  The twitches are much better now, and I can actually eat soup with a spoon without watching it fall into my lap.  And he does have a helluva whole-body dryer in the next room.  I left dry as a bone.

Technorati Tags: Periodontist, oral surgery, dentist, flossing, teeth, oral hygiene, gum disease
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Forget Bush, Look at the Baby

I can't do it.  I can't write about the stupid inaugural and the celebration of freedom and liberty, liberty and freedom, freedom and liberty that made Bush sound like a feedback loop gone beserk.

It would be too easy...cheap shots...to say, "Yo, George, er, Mr. President, freedom and liberty begin at home."  Or, "How about freedom and liberty for all the poor schmucks once suspected of being terrorists but now no longer of any intelligence value or suspected of being terrorists but still in military prisons?"  Or, "How about freedom and liberty for millions of Americans held hostage by outrageous health care costs, imprisoned in their own homes by gangs spreading like kudzu, or unending poverty?"

Nah.  Cheap shots.  Too easy.

So, on the light side...well, rather on the very heavy side, news from Brazil.