Uncle Sam

It seemed that Sam had an attitude problem, but that wasn't Sam's problem; no, that was the problem of all the ingrates and losers who constantly made Sam's life a living hell. If Sam's misanthropic tendencies were allowed to play out, furthermore, this wouldn't have even been an issue. However, and alas, this was not to be the case. Sam was forced to share his day to day existence with whom he so lovingly referred to as "the scum of the Earth." Sam, it must be pointed out, was not what one would call "a people person."

Sam was, however, a "Sam person." Oh, Sam was a big fan of Sam. It was rare that Sam could ever get enough of Sam, and on those infrequent occasions when he got a bit bored with himself, he'd think of "the scum of the Earth" and a smug expression would wash over his face. Did I mention that Sam wasn't a People Person? Anyway, to continue:

One evening, after Sam had just finished admiring his check book balance and had reread all the cloying inscriptions written to his ten-year-ago self in his old high school senior yearbook, the phone rang. Sam, it must be pointed out, was not a fan of the phone, as it required a bit too much interaction with "the scum of the Earth" for his tastes. Social norms, unfortunately, dictated that he own such an instrument, and Sam was nothing if not a creature of social norms (at least since the advent of caller ID).

Sam looked at the phone display and noticed that it was yet again "Unavailable" phoning him, and oh how he hated Unavailable. He wasn't too thrilled with people he knew, remember, so Unavailable? Unavailable was "the scum of the Earth's" handmaiden. So he hesitated.

The phone kept ringing, using that annoying electronic tone that Sam was sure the Motorola corporation had invented just to annoy one person: Sam.

ring ring ring.

Finally Sam succumbed.

"Yes?!", he practically spat into the mouthpiece.

The other side was silent for a beat or two, just long enough for what passed for Sam's patience to be tested and broken into a thousand little pieces of misanthropic shards.

"WELL?!", Sam (impatiently) barked.

"Uh... Reverend Philips? Is that you? I just wanted to tell you that the new hymnals have arrived."

"Great," Reverend Sam Philips intoned as he made a sarcastic smile at the phone handset before hanging it up so forcibly that his "World's Greatest Uncle" coffee cup fell from the nearby shelf and shattered into a thousand little pieces.

Sam always hated that coffee cup.

Whistling While You Work

So, the other day I was in the Buy Area [1] when a customer [2] sauntered in carrying the semi-usual Monday morning garbage bag full of books and other ephemera [3]. So far so good, right?

"Is that all you have to sell today?" I asked, beaming my perfect Buy-Lead beam of a smile, full of teeth and good cheer (Well, okay: I might have grinned a bit, anyway, when I greeted them).

"What, this isn't enough?", the young lad [4] replied to my ill-worded query.

"No, no", I explained, "I was just wondering if you needed help bringing in more stuff [5]" (Note: I didn't actually say "[5]", that's just another footnote (see bottom of post) for your (the reader) benefit. But to continue):

He dropped the bag on the floor, and after complaining about having to show his I.D. and being told that we'd [6] call him over the intercom in about 20 minutes asked where the bathroom was and left, presumably for bigger and better stuff.

All the while this was taking place, Jason [7] (not his real name) was whistling Mozart's complete 40th Symphony, Second Movement [8] and annoying the hell out of some employees and random passer-bys in general. His warblings were fine by me; at least he hadn't disappeared for 20 minutes on a combination smoke/bathroom/coffee shop break like my pricer, a short little guy from Guam [9] named Rickie who had to stand on one of the portable stepping stools just to reach the pricing table. No, one could question Jason's [10] choice of musical pastime, but one couldn't question his work ethic.

I got Dierdre (after I finally found her in her section, where evidently the acoustics didn't allow her to hear my plaintive calls for her over the intercom) to do the buy, I called back the customer. After only about five calls he sauntered up the the buy counter, and I made him the offer.

"Marcus [11], we can give you six dollars."

"For ALL THAT?!", he asked incredulously, gesturing at his stuff on the counter with a sweep of his hand.

I interrupted Jason's rendition of Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" in order to ask him to reevaluate the buy for me. He did so, and offered Marcus five dollars.

Marcus wasn't amused.

"But look at all of that! It's great stuff!"

"Well", Jason explained, "first of all the law book is from the 1940s, and we really have plenty of 1980s National Geographic, and most of ours don't have cat vomit on them, either. Finally, the used nine-volt batteries and the half-opened package of cocktail napkins, while nice and all, really won't sell well at this store."

Jason smiled broadly at Marcus, convinced, in his boyish innocence, that Marcus would understand.

Marcus didn't understand. Marcus pointed a stubby little finger at Jason, me, and even the diminutive Guamite who'd finally returned.

"You guys are all rip-off artists! Screw this!" he added, and then put all his stuff back in the trash bag and started for the exit. Halfway there he stopped and turned around to face us again. Rickie the Guamite hid under the pricing table.

"Do you guys buy DVDs?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah, but it depends on condition, supply, and demand" I said.

"Cool".

And then he was gone.

Rickie got up from under the pricing table, Dierdre went back to hide in her section, and Jason[12] regaled anyone who would listen with the first twelve verses of Dylan's "Shelter From The Storm".

I drank my now tepid coffee.

footnotes:

[1] That area of the store where we make offers for stuff that the general public brings to us. Sometimes from their own homes, not always from dumpsters or abandoned VFW centers.
[2] either a buyer or seller; in this case, a seller. Sellers sometimes complain that a given book costs too much, buyers often complain we don't pay enough for their books.
[3] a fancy word for "junk"
[4] Young but over 18
[5] See [3] above
[6] "we'd" = me
[7] Not his real name, to protect the innocent as well as the guilty
[8] The "Jupiter Symphony", opus 34
[9] A US Territory somewhere in the Pacific. They don't have to pay income taxes.
[10] Again, not his real name
[11] That is his real name, however.
[12] How many times do I have to say it? It's not his real name.
[13] There was no [13]. Pay attention

The One About The Marmot

Several days ago I came upon a polecat, a ferret if you will (and even if you won't), sunning himself on the pavement behind a 7-11 in my neighborhood.

"Well, hello there, Mr. Ferret", I said.

The ferret said nothing in return (being a dumb animal and all), and instead returned my greeting made in good cheer and fellowship with what I swear was a look of contempt on its weasel-like face.

I looked for a nearby rock with which to chunk at said rodent, but found nothing but half-degraded cigarette filters and mutilated Big Gulp(tm) lids. Realizing I'd met my match, I shoved my hands in my pockets and walked home, forcing thoughts of gloating polecats out of my mind.

It was hard.

But I digress.

The point is, just what the hell is a marmot? Anyway, here's another tune:

Make It Last

(a favorite of C i n d y ' s, so it has that going for it).

Christmas Presents Past

So everyone and their brother knows that Jesus got three presents for his first Christmas: Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Setting aside the question as to just what the hell myrrh is for the moment, I have a question. What became of these gifts?

First of all, you'd think that with the gold Ma and Pa Christ could have finally left the stable and rented an actual room in the inn. I don't care if the inn keeper claimed there were no vacancies; you know how inn keepers are. I'm betting that if a gold sovereign had been slipped surreptitiously to the manager on duty a room would have "suddenly" become available. Plus, they'd still have had gold left over to purchase some pay for view movies or whatever.

Furthermore, if they'd invested some of the gold I'm quite sure that Jesus could have gone to a respectable university (I hear Judea Polytechnic was a fine school back then) instead of having to become an apprentice to a carpenter. Sure, carpenters can make good money, but there's always the problem of union dues, etc. If he'd graduated and gotten a real job, moreover, I'm betting he could have afforded to just bring the damned wine to that wedding in Cana instead of having to resort to cheap parlor tricks.

Now let's unset aside the question of what myrrh is. Wikipedia informs me that is

...a red-brown resinous material, the dried sap of the tree Commiphora myrrha, native to Somalia and the eastern parts of Ethiopia.

So that clears that up.

I'm guessing the Christs didn't know what the hell it was, either, and probably fed it to the goat or something.

But that still leaves the frankincense. What happened to the frankincense? We never hear of it again in the Gospels, so I'm guessing that maybe they regifted it or something. For all we know, John the Baptist got a shitload of frankincense for his first birthday or something. Who knows.

This is why no one has ever written the perfect time travel story

I had no way of knowing that the first time I met Jesse would be our third meeting. To be fair, the first first time I met Jesse it was our first meeting, but through the quirks and twists of quantum physics and time travel, eventually our "first" meeting would end up being our third and final meeting. Our last first meeting was our third first meeting. Our fourth meeting, or rather our fourth first meeting, did not even occur at all, for Jesse of course never showed up at the Starbucks on the corner of Frankford and Old Denton that day in that time line. I guess, then, that you can't even call it a fourth meeting at all, since in the time line that encapsulates this narrative it never occurred. I'd seen to that by making sure Jesse didn't survive into any of my future time lines, though it took me three attempts to accomplish this.

The world is a better place without Jesse, but I guess you only have my word on that. Of course, perhaps all my work was for naught, and like some ironic Twilight Zone episode it will turn out that the world without Jesse is actually worse than the world with him. Maybe, as a result of my fiddling and tinkering with bifurcating universes, our future will now be one where giant Praying Mantises take over the UN and enslave the human race... but I was willing to take my chances. And if the worst comes to pass and we do have to pay tithes to our insect overlords, you can at least take solace with the knowledge that in a different time line/universe that is not the case.

Of course, in that future you still have to contend with Jesse.

You're welcome.

Ponderings

Does anyone else ever wonder what it would be like to open up the vegetable crisper drawer in the fridge and see a small family of albino rats living in there? Not a big family... say three or four "individuals". Okay, here's another scenario: you open up the crisper and you find a small family of regularly-pigmented rats in there. Would your reaction be any different?

That, my friends, is a microcosm of the racism we see in the world right there.

Okay, now forget the rats. Let's say there's a small band of woodland elves living, not in your crisper drawer, but inside the lint trap of the clothes dryer. It doesn't matter what their hair color is, in case you're wondering.

The Crime Of Miss Jane Marple

I've done some research and have come to a startling conclusion that may force Scotland Yard to reopen dozens of murder cases. After reading several books and doing some thinking, I'm pretty sure that I've discovered that a famous women who is loved by millions across the world is, in fact, a cold-blooded killer.

Who is this murderous bitch, you ask? None other than Miss Jane Marple.

Oh, she was clever. She let her unsuspecting victims believe she was just some "old pussy" as the British used to say decades ago... a frail, somewhat gaga little old woman who wouldn't hurt a fly. She'd get herself invited to various country manors, or guilt her poor unsuspecting nephew Raymond into sending her on some cruise or vacation, and then she'd go to work. Oh, she'd appear to just be sitting there knitting, but she'd be plotting. Oh yes, she'd be plotting.

I started to suspect when it dawned on me that it strained the laws of probability to believe that Miss Jane Marple just happened to be on the scene of so many murders, at least twelve major "events", some of which had more than one murder occurring (the second and sometimes even third murder often occuring towards the end of the account, when one suspected that perhaps the author was running out of plot). What are the odds, I ask you, that one little old bitty would just happen to be on the scene of so many murders? They'd be pretty high if she was simply an innocent bystander. If she was really a serial killer, however, it all starts to make sense.

I noticed that even for an old lady Miss Marple took a lot of naps. I mean damn, she was always going off to her hotel room or bedroom or state room or whatever to doze for a couple of hours. Almost luncheon? Well, time for a quick nap. Lunch is over? Okay, time to snooze a bit until afternoon tea. Oh, we're going to go for a hike or excursion or play croquet after dinner? Fine, but first a bit of a lie-down is in order. I mean, come on.

Now why is this "dear" old lady sleeping so much? Is knitting that tiring? I think not. Rather, I think dear Miss Marple is not sleeping at all. No, I fear that when she professes to be napping she's really out garroting, shooting, or poisoning someone. It's the only logical conclusion.

I know this must be a shock to those of you who have always looked upon this monster as some sort of dear Aunt or something. However, facts are facts, and the sooner you realize that Jane Marple was someone who's true nature makes Hannibal Lector seem like a hungry boy scout, the better.

And don't get me started on that nosy Belgian...

Ask The Answer Man

1. Who Was Jack The Ripper?

I've done a lot of research on the subject, and discovered the answer: He was some dude named Derek Lembarckle. So now you know.

2. Using the 12 notes of the western musical scale, how many hit songs are possible?

Exactly 17,561. Okay, 17,562 if you count stuff by The Knack.

3. Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

Clearly the egg. The chicken didn't evolve (or "get off Noah's ark" for those of you who believe that the earth is only 6000 years old) until much later than many egg-laying animals. The dinosaurs, for example, were laying eggs for millions and millions of years before the chicken was even a gleam in the eye of the chicken's most closely related ancestor.

4. Who was Woodward and Bernstein's Deep Throat?

Okay, you'll have to trust me, but I knew it was Felt and was ready to tell you years ago when that damned Felt himself beat me to it a couple of years ago. But I could have told you it was him! Really!

5. Is it true that the hand is quicker than the eye?

I'm disproving this right now. If I wasn't so lazy I'd vid it and post it, but I am so lazy. Therefore, let me try to explain: Imagine me blinking really fast. Okay. Now, imagine that while I'm doing that, I'm holding up my right hand and really quickly pressing my forefinger and thumb together and then separating them and then repeating this as fast as I can. You could see that obviously my eyelids can blink at a much faster rate than my fingers can open and close. Ergo, No. The hand is not quicker than the eye.

Fish and Ponds

A saying/adage that bothers me is

"would you rather be a big fish in a little pond or a little fish in a big pond?"

To me it's a non-starter, as I don't want to be a fish at all. Why do I have to be a fish? If I have to be something aquatic, maybe I'd opt to be an otter (it's a "playful water mammal" according to the crosswords). But are we really obligated to pick an aquatic animal? Why not, say, a wood tick?

"Would you rather be a wood tick on a big animal or a big wood tick on a little animal?"

...or something.

Okay, maybe I could be a fish, but I'd never live in a pond. I'd want to live in an aquarium with one of those treasure chests or sunken old ship playscapes. It would have to have an under gravel filter, too but that's getting ahead of ourselves.

Maybe I'd want to be a kangaroo.

Letters Of Debt

I don't understand why it's "IOU". Shouldn't it really be "IOY"? What's up with that.

A Realignment

Okay, that's it. I'm completely fed up and unexcited by any of the potential Democratic candidates for president. I mean Barack? Not black enough, and kind of style over substance. Plus his name sounds awfully muslimy. Edwards? How could I vote for a man who'd put his own career ahead of his ailing wife? Hillary? I don't know... too... womanish. I think during these times of The Terrorist Menace we need at *least* one Y chromosome sitting in the oval office. If not two.

So who does that leave me with?

Mitt Romney. He's my man. And if Newt is his running mate, so much the better.