My very first class in college was Communication 101. Like the vast majority of my classes, I retained very little of what was taught (chew on that oxymoron – if I can’t remember what I learned, how can I possibly know what I forgot?). But I do remember one thing, and it changed the course of my life forever: 75% of all human communication is nonverbal (note to all you anal avengers – I just made up that percentage because I can’t really remember what I was taught, so don’t bother fact checking because facts mean little to The Captain). Truth be told, I heard the same thing my senior year in high school, so I immediately switched my major to English. I knew straightaway that a Communications Major, though considered a BA, was really just BS (I have a doctorate in that). The shock waves from this explosive decision are still reverberating to this day, in the very words on this page – once an English Major always an English Major!!
Nevertheless (a word like this betrays my degree, don’t you think?), as simple and frickin’ obvious as the aforementioned aphorism may be, it does facilitate some pretty fun people watching. Observe the nonverbal language of a few humans for a while and you’ll see what I mean. Now I’ve heard it said that the beach is a great place for people watching, but I can’t say I’ve personally found this to be accurate; when there, The Captain tends to disregard humans who don’t fall into the “female and young but legal” category. Church, on the other hand, is a delicious smorgasbord of unspoken communication. A few examples to support my theory:
• The chubby prepubescent boy scratching his butt crack on his way to receive the holy bread (an irreverent pun) screams, “My flabby ass is itchy!”
• The rapt expression of the attractive, svelte, middle-aged widow in the front row whispers, “I’d like to get that dreamy young friar alone in the sacristy.”
• The tiny stream of saliva from the corner of the priest’s mouth as he takes the wine from the cherubic alter boy is a billboard with “LAWSUIT” written all over it.
• Teenage girl forced to attend church by her Holy Roller parents, gets stuck sitting next to the homeless guy who hasn’t bathed in forever. Her contorted facial expression represents the inner conflict between her suicidal and homicidal thoughts: “Either way, someone’s gonna die.”
• Cute little toddler boy four pews ahead of cute little toddler girl. Boy catches Girl’s eye. Girl smiles = “I think you’re cute.” Boy smiles and ducks behind pew = “I’m gonna play with your feelings.” Girl also ducks behind pew = “You men are all such amateurs.” Boy jumps up from behind pew with big smile = “Get a load of me, bitch!” Girl, anticipating the Boy’s maneuver, stays hidden behind the pew = “I think I’ll make him squirm in his diaper a bit.” Boy loses smile = “Why are women always late?!” Girl jumps up with big smile = “I bet your diaper’s wet.” Boy laughs = “They always come back for more.” Girl grabs female doll and waves it at the Boy and laughs = “This doll’s got more brains than you!” Boy, feeling as though his masculinity has been challenged, grabs his metallic toy fighter jet and waves it at the girl with fanfare and cute little jet noises = “I’m gone launch a heat seeking love missile straight at your heart.” Girl laughs and tosses doll aside = “This is child’s play.” Boy, in an uncontrolled burst of testosterone, sends the jet flying straight into the back of the shiny bald head of the old man sitting in front of him and draws blood = “Oh yeah, watch what I can do…oh, f*&K, my fine motor skills aren’t fully developed!” Girl grins and ducks down into her mother’s lap = “Works every time.” Boy sheepishly smiles with puppy dog eyes at the angry old man = “I just wanted to play with you – you remind me of my favorite dead grandpa.” Girl laughs = “What a Momma’s Boy!”
There’s no way I can top that last bullet point, so I think I’ll just do some nonverbal communicating to put an exclamation point on this post. You can’t see me communicating but rest assured, it’s freakin’ hilarious!!
So believe The Captain when he says: I do so have more brains than that doll!
Yours nonverbally (you wish!),
The Captain
Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Guest Blogger: The Captain's Daughter!!!!
Not only do I have a six foot two male heir who knows better than me and a seventy pound ginger who may as well be on a Lucky Charms box, but I also have female offspring--one, a teenager, and a blonde at that. Send your condolences via email.
However, she is f**king brilliant. I am betting that she will write the great American novel and support me in my not so old age. For real, she is fourteen and she is my legitimate child. So without further ado, here is the guest blog by the Captain's Daughter--I hope the first of many!
CODE RED
However, she is f**king brilliant. I am betting that she will write the great American novel and support me in my not so old age. For real, she is fourteen and she is my legitimate child. So without further ado, here is the guest blog by the Captain's Daughter--I hope the first of many!
CODE RED
Hi, my name is Code RED. Apparently, I’m an outspoken liberal and feminist who loves to debate with beings less intelligent than me. (You know them as teenage boys.) Once in English class, I got so worked up about whether or not the short story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” by James Thurber took place in a sexist time period (the 1950s), that one of my friends held up a piece of paper on which the following message was scrawled frantically in messy blue ink: “CODE RED!!” Thus, the name.
Debating what to write about for my first official blog entry was a lengthy and excruciating process. I lost countless nights of sleep, just sitting in my bed, thinking about possible topics. (Did you catch the subtle sarcasm?)
Should I write about the distance formula I recently learned in my Geometry class? Or about the new wing of lockers with that oh-so irresistible scent of a football player’s cleat after a long day of practice on the hottest day in September. (Our football program is still evolving, but the local farmer, Old McDonald, is kind enough to allow the team to share the pasture with his prize-winning cows, Daisy and Elsie.) For a half a second, I thought about explaining the scientific method, but then I realized I’d just had an aneurism. Finally, I settled on writing about the fascinating, action-packed event of the school day: lunch.
Here’s the cast of characters:
The jocks: they can’t go five minutes without throwing or kicking something at someone’s head, so because basketballs and soccer balls aren’t allowed in the cafeteria, they move onto chucking soggy goldfish and punting half-eaten PB and J sandwiches.
The fashion police: their idea of flirting is squealing when half-eaten chunks of food are launched their way from the jock table. They say things like, “Oh, Jeremy, don’t throw that at me, you’re going to stain my $350 scoop neck t-shirt.” Then seductively they’ll add, “Dry clean only.”
The drama freaks: Their table is the loudest—all those self-centered people talking—and acting—at once takes over the cafeteria.
The goths and the emos will compete to see who is more deathly. Are the goths actually suicidal, or do they just like wearing black? And do the emos actually listen to Linkin Park, or are they closet Mariah Carrey fans?
The stoners: They converse in deep, mellow tones about who has the best price for pot and the new tie-dye t-shirts they just got at the Trading Post.
The nerds: This lot discusses the mathleete competition on Saturday morning. (Yes, I’m talking about the highlight of the weekend.)
The popular, bitchy ones: They’re used to battling it out to discover who can dig up the worst dirt on the helpless girl in need of a haircut who used to be in their group but is now so whatever.
The misfits: Leftovers.
If any of the above content hurt your feelings or made you say, “Hey, that’s mean!” my response is, you must be a braniac! Or a jock that just slammed the basketball against the wall, or a stoner that just said, “Hey man, it’s all about the love, don’t be a-hatin’.”
GET OVER IT. How’s this: you’re all losers in your own special way. Now don’t you forget it! *Insert cheek-pinch here*
The other day, as I munched on a tuna fish sandwich, I rolled my eyes as I listened to my friends (those people who you sit with at lunch and go to the movies with but can't stand in reality) as they went on an on about guys. No don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan, but what is the point in wishing hopefully for a boyfriend if you’re not even in college yet? Dating can be fun, and having a serious relationship seems glamorous at times. Just don’t be desperate. The fact is, if you date someone in high school, chances are, you won’t marry them. Even if the relationship seems serious, you’ll just go to different colleges. OR, you’ll go to the same college. Then the little lovebirds will break up and the rest of college will be really awkward. And if by the tiny possibility you get married, you’ll probably get divorced because it just doesn’t work out. But good for you for trying. (Sorry if I just ruined your life plan…it was obviously going somewhere. Didn’t mean to crush your spirit or anything.) And for the .000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001% of the population that actually marries their high school sweet heart: hope life’s fantastic.
Of course, this isn’t supposed to discourage high school dating all together; it’s only supposed to make fun of people who sit at home, twirling their hair thinking, “if only a boy would like me.” That, or girls (and the occasional guy) who think, “if only Chad Michael Murray moved to my school.” (And was about 10 years younger.)
So anyway, back to my point: I’d rather be talking about something of importance, considering I’m a freshman in high school and dating is not on the top of priority list. It’s right below watching the Disney Channel but just above getting a manicure. Okay, maybe not THAT low…
(Can’t. Wait. For. College.)
So I’m sitting there silently when one of my friends—let’s call her Susie—says “Code Red, what do you think?” Of course, I would love to respond with “Stephen Colbert for president 2012” but that would only leave confused looks. Or more likely the “Oh, it’s just Code Red being her weird self” look. So instead I replied with, “Um, I’m a lesbian,” which got me a classic couple of eye rolls. “Code Red, be serious.”
“Honestly? This is the most pointless conversation. I don’t care that much about having a boyfriend, or about who’s dating whom, or the fact that Sharon made out with Bobby over the weekend. This town is made up of a bunch of freaks.”
That left me with the “Why do we ever ask her about anything?” question: close enough to my prediction.
At that moment, I decided I needed to hang out with the drama freaks more. They’d be too wrapped up in role-playing with each other my existence would go un-noticed. Oh, to live in a world where I was ignored. Wait. I forgot. After I answered the question, my dream came true; no one asked me my opinion on the new dress code (NO SPAGETTI STRAPS???!!! WHATEVER WILL I DO???) or the latest gossip (JENNIFER BROKE UP WITH DANIEL FOR HIS BROTHER??!! WHAT?? I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THAT HAPPENING BEFORE!!). I can’t exactly say I minded terribly.
So I guess this is the point where I should wrap this thing up. Let me just say it’s been a blast and I’d like to give a shout-out to my homegirl Stacy—you’re my life, girl, I love you, xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo TO THE THIRD POWER! (Yeah that’s right, there’s no space between ‘home’ and ‘girl.’) Thanks for allowing me to be your guest blogger/getting you really pissed off at me. It was really fun.
Believe The Captain when he says: Teenage girls are aliens.
Yours oh so proudly!!
The Captain
Thursday, November 19, 2009
The Captain Interviews Kitty Kong
In Community Theater, it is a common practice to stage an after show Q&A. After performing some cryptic post-modern one act play about the dangers of alien corn mazes, the actors sit on the front of the stage ostensibly to answer audience questions about what in hell was that all about; either that, or to allow regular patrons to pose rhetorical questions which serve no other purpose than to allow these intellectual dilettantes to publicly state their personal theories on the hidden but non-existent meaning of the play (I’m getting my Henry James on with that rambling sentence!)
In the spirit of such sharing, The Captain has graciously invited Kitty Kong, that frighteningly cute kitten from my prior post, to be part of a blog roundtable, so to speak, to ask him what it was like to be a 6 foot kitten in one of my dreams. Another first for The Captain, as I doubt very much that any writer in history has ever conducted an interview with a man sized tabby from his dreams! At first he declined, but since I own the exclusive rights to characters who appear in my dreams, I made him do it.
TC: Good morning Kitty Kong! How does one say Good Morning in Feline?
KK: Good morning.
TC: Thank you, but could you please answer the question.
KK: That was my answer. We say Good morning.
TC: Oh, right. Well, what was it like being a major player in one of my dreams?
KK: Very disconcerting, actually. You probably couldn’t see this, but from my perspective inside your dream state, I could see disturbing phantoms and hidden shadows lurking on the edge of your dream reality. Quite frankly, I felt at times as if you really aren’t clear about the distinction between fantasy and reality and that scared me. I shed some extra fur for sure.
TC: Oh Kay. We can move on…so was it difficult for a creature associated with pink ribbons and soft cuddles to play a violent murderer?
KK: Oh not at all. Most actors relish the opportunity to play a villain. It’s fun, edgy. Plus I’ve always been intrigued by risky characters. When my agent Johnny the Weasel told me there was an audition to play a serial killer in one of The Captain’s dream productions, well, I jumped - that’s pretty darn risky!
TC: Sure, but, er, you do realize that you’re just the bizarre offspring of my unstable unconscious and that there never were any interviews?
KK: Absolutely. But being a by product of your psyche, I can’t help but embellish.
TC: Seems logical. Any tricks of the trade you can share about getting into character?
KK: Just good, old fashioned homework. For this part, I wanted to observe violent animal behavior, which is problematic for a tiny, cute little kitten like me. I had to find a safe way to do it. I eventually figured out that I could sneak into the Dog Pound and parade up and down in front of the inmates to elicit the desired response. I spent hours observing, though I did need to wear a face mask to protect myself from the canine foam spittle flying around.
TC: Holy shit, that’s first rate embellishment.
KK: Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.
TC: Here’s a question I agonized over – I have to admit I’m a little afraid of what the answer might be, but I just have to know. In the dream, when I saw you kill the old lady and the two popinjays who pinched the ping pong paddles (how’s that for alliteration?), were you really killing or was that just dream special effects??
KK: Which answer will help me get another role?
TC: Damn, you are definitely one of my dream visions. OK. The truthful answer.
KK: As a manifestation of your subconscious, I’m not sure I can give a truthful answer.
TC: Arghh! I hate it when I indirectly use my psychological insights about myself against myself! Just answer the damn question Kong.
KK: Hmm. I guess I’d have to say that it was real fantasy killing. With the claws of a six foot kitten, it’s reasonable to conclude the old lady bled out after the first gash. The rest was all for dramatic effect.
TC: And very well done, I must add.
KK: Thank you.
TC: And the same is true for the burglars?
KK: Yes, but first I had to disarm them. Kittens, normally being 5 inches tall, have a natural fear of ping pong paddles. After I swatted those away, it was cake.
TC: You mentioned phantoms and shadows lurking in my head. Can you elaborate on that? I’ve tried medication, prescribed and otherwise; I’ve tried Yoga and Pilates; I’ve even tried hypnotists, but they just got frustrated because they couldn’t get me to focus long enough to get me under. I just can’t get rid of my cranial ghosts. Any insight would be most appreciated, as well as guarantee you the starring role in my dream sequel.
KK: How do I say this? Dear The Captain, I think you should consider these shadows to be your Muses – your creative inspirations. Honestly, your knack for blurring reality and fantasy is frickin’ entertaining.
TC: Wow, Kitty Kong. If it was something I was capable of, I’d be speechless right now. All those years of expensive therapy and no answers. Five minutes with a six foot dream kitten and all my problems are solved. You better get back down to the Dog Pound, you’ve got to get ready to star in tonight’s dream.
KK: Thanks The Captain!!!! Meow!!
Believe The Captain when he says: Everyone should have a 6 foot Kitten!
Yours buying Kitty Litter in bulk,
The Captain
In the spirit of such sharing, The Captain has graciously invited Kitty Kong, that frighteningly cute kitten from my prior post, to be part of a blog roundtable, so to speak, to ask him what it was like to be a 6 foot kitten in one of my dreams. Another first for The Captain, as I doubt very much that any writer in history has ever conducted an interview with a man sized tabby from his dreams! At first he declined, but since I own the exclusive rights to characters who appear in my dreams, I made him do it.
TC: Good morning Kitty Kong! How does one say Good Morning in Feline?
KK: Good morning.
TC: Thank you, but could you please answer the question.
KK: That was my answer. We say Good morning.
TC: Oh, right. Well, what was it like being a major player in one of my dreams?
KK: Very disconcerting, actually. You probably couldn’t see this, but from my perspective inside your dream state, I could see disturbing phantoms and hidden shadows lurking on the edge of your dream reality. Quite frankly, I felt at times as if you really aren’t clear about the distinction between fantasy and reality and that scared me. I shed some extra fur for sure.
TC: Oh Kay. We can move on…so was it difficult for a creature associated with pink ribbons and soft cuddles to play a violent murderer?
KK: Oh not at all. Most actors relish the opportunity to play a villain. It’s fun, edgy. Plus I’ve always been intrigued by risky characters. When my agent Johnny the Weasel told me there was an audition to play a serial killer in one of The Captain’s dream productions, well, I jumped - that’s pretty darn risky!
TC: Sure, but, er, you do realize that you’re just the bizarre offspring of my unstable unconscious and that there never were any interviews?
KK: Absolutely. But being a by product of your psyche, I can’t help but embellish.
TC: Seems logical. Any tricks of the trade you can share about getting into character?
KK: Just good, old fashioned homework. For this part, I wanted to observe violent animal behavior, which is problematic for a tiny, cute little kitten like me. I had to find a safe way to do it. I eventually figured out that I could sneak into the Dog Pound and parade up and down in front of the inmates to elicit the desired response. I spent hours observing, though I did need to wear a face mask to protect myself from the canine foam spittle flying around.
TC: Holy shit, that’s first rate embellishment.
KK: Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.
TC: Here’s a question I agonized over – I have to admit I’m a little afraid of what the answer might be, but I just have to know. In the dream, when I saw you kill the old lady and the two popinjays who pinched the ping pong paddles (how’s that for alliteration?), were you really killing or was that just dream special effects??
KK: Which answer will help me get another role?
TC: Damn, you are definitely one of my dream visions. OK. The truthful answer.
KK: As a manifestation of your subconscious, I’m not sure I can give a truthful answer.
TC: Arghh! I hate it when I indirectly use my psychological insights about myself against myself! Just answer the damn question Kong.
KK: Hmm. I guess I’d have to say that it was real fantasy killing. With the claws of a six foot kitten, it’s reasonable to conclude the old lady bled out after the first gash. The rest was all for dramatic effect.
TC: And very well done, I must add.
KK: Thank you.
TC: And the same is true for the burglars?
KK: Yes, but first I had to disarm them. Kittens, normally being 5 inches tall, have a natural fear of ping pong paddles. After I swatted those away, it was cake.
TC: You mentioned phantoms and shadows lurking in my head. Can you elaborate on that? I’ve tried medication, prescribed and otherwise; I’ve tried Yoga and Pilates; I’ve even tried hypnotists, but they just got frustrated because they couldn’t get me to focus long enough to get me under. I just can’t get rid of my cranial ghosts. Any insight would be most appreciated, as well as guarantee you the starring role in my dream sequel.
KK: How do I say this? Dear The Captain, I think you should consider these shadows to be your Muses – your creative inspirations. Honestly, your knack for blurring reality and fantasy is frickin’ entertaining.
TC: Wow, Kitty Kong. If it was something I was capable of, I’d be speechless right now. All those years of expensive therapy and no answers. Five minutes with a six foot dream kitten and all my problems are solved. You better get back down to the Dog Pound, you’ve got to get ready to star in tonight’s dream.
KK: Thanks The Captain!!!! Meow!!
Believe The Captain when he says: Everyone should have a 6 foot Kitten!
Yours buying Kitty Litter in bulk,
The Captain
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Captain Dreams: How I Captured King Kong
Dreams are strange to begin with. Let’s amplify that statement by talking about The Captain’s dreams. I don’t mean utopian, fantastic, fairy tale visions of an ideal future state I can only hope to experience through drugs. No. I mean what you do when you sleep, apart from all that other stuff you do. And I don’t mean the standard dream 101 shit where you fall from a height and get a pit in your stomach and wake up just before you are splintered and splattered on jagged rocks, or one of those recurring dreams with Pamela Anderson in it which are so real you could swear you are actually awake. I’m referring to those dreams that are so bizarre and disjointed that they make The Captain’s waking state seem mundane and normal (think about that statement!). I had this dream last night, so I have to write about it this morning on the bus because: 1) I might forget the details and 2) I will confuse the dream with visions from my OCD imagination, which, by the way, requires no artificial “enhancers.”
So before I lapse into my imaginary world, here it is – What The Captain Dreamed Last Night!
The dream started as a contemporary version of that famous scene from the original King Kong movie. A dark rainy night. My dream mind pans in like an exterior camera on a woman inside her high rise apartment. I think she is standing, preoccupied by the routine task she is performing (brushing her hair? Undressing? You vote). The camera eye moves in. It’s like I’m King Kong or something. She turns around with a nervous look, sensing that someone or something is watching. I am now expecting for the camera angle to suddenly switch to inside the apartment, bracing myself for a glimpse of a giant, incredibly fake looking gorilla. But wait! The woman screams and the camera angle widens just enough see…a giant kitten on two legs…
The scene changes swiftly to a house I lived in a dozen years ago – the kitchen. Still pouring rain. I look out into the dreary night toward my next door neighbor’s house and King Kitten appears out of nowhere on the neighbors front porch, which is probably not an easy thing to do for a kitten the size of a fully grown human male. He mews and jumps, smashing straight through the front door. Through the window I can see our neighbor, a reclusive, chain smoking wisp of a woman, cowering in fear at the site of the upright kitten. There is a hiss, followed by a whir of flying fur and splattered blood.
I am suddenly distracted by my son running up from the basement, followed by two laughing, well dressed burglars carrying the ping pong paddles they chose to steal (leaving behind the PS2 – remember, this is 12 years ago – and then bolting out the side door. They head straight toward our neighbors house, presumably to steal some balls to go with the paddles. Son and I briefly debate whether or not we have a moral obligation to warn the burglars about Kitten Kong. We conclude, “F*&K No!” and simply watch as Thing 1 and Thing 2 enter the house, apparently not the least bit curious about the smashed in door. They spy our dismembered neighbor and before they can overcome their stupor, King Kitten does what’s expected and mauls them both on the spot.
King Kitten, with a full tummy and blood matted fur, retires to the front porch. Son and me watch him stand contentedly licking his paws clean and then, true to his feline pedigree, sits down and sets to work on his balls. Cats will be cats! Son and me marvel at the meticulous manner in which KK grooms himself (I ask you. Who else writes a sentence like this?!!)
Suddenly, the hair on Kitty Kong’s back stands on end and his ears begin to twitch. Something has him scared. He stood up and bolted straight for our house! A dark shadow was chasing him. Son and me hugged each other goodbye. Our time had surely come. KK gamboled straight in through the side door (apparently the front paws of felines that haunt my dreams have developed the fine motor skills needed to open doors). Before we had time to piss our pants a second giant, mature female Cat followed KK through the kitchen and down into the basement! Not wanting to press our luck, we ran out the door and hid behind the bushes on the side of the house.
For some strange reason, even though only several dream minutes had passed, it was now daylight. Overcast, but the rain had stopped. Oh, and half our neighborhood had decided to gather there as well, theorizing about the strange and dangerous turn of events. The apocalypse perhaps, only no one could recall any mention of giant cats in the Book of Revelation. Maybe government experiments gone bad. LSD, suggested another. This seemed to have some promise in my opinion, but before I could make my case, the side door was violently kicked open and the Mature female was carrying Kitty Kong in her jaws by the scruff of his neck. She marched straight past us, looking pretty pissed and disappeared into the woods with Kitty Kong, immobile in her vice grip and looking nothing like the dangerous panther from earlier in the dream, in tow.
Now there is bright sunlight and laughter as one of the neighbors explains that Kitty Kong was nothing more than a giant, upright unruly kitten who needed to be disciplined by Mommy Cat, who took care of that – the neighborhood was now safe again. Of course, this made no sense whatsoever, but, heck, I was dreaming so I bought it. It’s interesting how the shades of light and the weather represented the primitive emotions I was experiencing. OK. I made that up. But the way we figured it, KK had taken care of a couple of knucklehead burglars for us. And since nobody really cared for my next door neighbor, no tears were shed.
For some inexplicable reason, the entire neighborhood decides to take a walk together in my backyard, which has expanded magically into lush green meadows being overrun by the floodwaters from the earlier rain. I have to admit that somewhere deep in my subconscious I was afraid I might wet the bed with all this freakin water! I think this is the reason I decided to head back home with son. And when we arrived at our side door, who did we find waiting for us?? Mommy Cat and Kitty Kong, only this time they were cute, cuddly normal sized pussies. I scooped up Kitty Kong and held him in my arms. I had captured King Kong – and he was purring!!!
Believe The Captain when he says: Cats are master groomers!
Yours petting the pussy…cat,
The Captain
So before I lapse into my imaginary world, here it is – What The Captain Dreamed Last Night!
The dream started as a contemporary version of that famous scene from the original King Kong movie. A dark rainy night. My dream mind pans in like an exterior camera on a woman inside her high rise apartment. I think she is standing, preoccupied by the routine task she is performing (brushing her hair? Undressing? You vote). The camera eye moves in. It’s like I’m King Kong or something. She turns around with a nervous look, sensing that someone or something is watching. I am now expecting for the camera angle to suddenly switch to inside the apartment, bracing myself for a glimpse of a giant, incredibly fake looking gorilla. But wait! The woman screams and the camera angle widens just enough see…a giant kitten on two legs…
The scene changes swiftly to a house I lived in a dozen years ago – the kitchen. Still pouring rain. I look out into the dreary night toward my next door neighbor’s house and King Kitten appears out of nowhere on the neighbors front porch, which is probably not an easy thing to do for a kitten the size of a fully grown human male. He mews and jumps, smashing straight through the front door. Through the window I can see our neighbor, a reclusive, chain smoking wisp of a woman, cowering in fear at the site of the upright kitten. There is a hiss, followed by a whir of flying fur and splattered blood.
I am suddenly distracted by my son running up from the basement, followed by two laughing, well dressed burglars carrying the ping pong paddles they chose to steal (leaving behind the PS2 – remember, this is 12 years ago – and then bolting out the side door. They head straight toward our neighbors house, presumably to steal some balls to go with the paddles. Son and I briefly debate whether or not we have a moral obligation to warn the burglars about Kitten Kong. We conclude, “F*&K No!” and simply watch as Thing 1 and Thing 2 enter the house, apparently not the least bit curious about the smashed in door. They spy our dismembered neighbor and before they can overcome their stupor, King Kitten does what’s expected and mauls them both on the spot.
King Kitten, with a full tummy and blood matted fur, retires to the front porch. Son and me watch him stand contentedly licking his paws clean and then, true to his feline pedigree, sits down and sets to work on his balls. Cats will be cats! Son and me marvel at the meticulous manner in which KK grooms himself (I ask you. Who else writes a sentence like this?!!)
Suddenly, the hair on Kitty Kong’s back stands on end and his ears begin to twitch. Something has him scared. He stood up and bolted straight for our house! A dark shadow was chasing him. Son and me hugged each other goodbye. Our time had surely come. KK gamboled straight in through the side door (apparently the front paws of felines that haunt my dreams have developed the fine motor skills needed to open doors). Before we had time to piss our pants a second giant, mature female Cat followed KK through the kitchen and down into the basement! Not wanting to press our luck, we ran out the door and hid behind the bushes on the side of the house.
For some strange reason, even though only several dream minutes had passed, it was now daylight. Overcast, but the rain had stopped. Oh, and half our neighborhood had decided to gather there as well, theorizing about the strange and dangerous turn of events. The apocalypse perhaps, only no one could recall any mention of giant cats in the Book of Revelation. Maybe government experiments gone bad. LSD, suggested another. This seemed to have some promise in my opinion, but before I could make my case, the side door was violently kicked open and the Mature female was carrying Kitty Kong in her jaws by the scruff of his neck. She marched straight past us, looking pretty pissed and disappeared into the woods with Kitty Kong, immobile in her vice grip and looking nothing like the dangerous panther from earlier in the dream, in tow.
Now there is bright sunlight and laughter as one of the neighbors explains that Kitty Kong was nothing more than a giant, upright unruly kitten who needed to be disciplined by Mommy Cat, who took care of that – the neighborhood was now safe again. Of course, this made no sense whatsoever, but, heck, I was dreaming so I bought it. It’s interesting how the shades of light and the weather represented the primitive emotions I was experiencing. OK. I made that up. But the way we figured it, KK had taken care of a couple of knucklehead burglars for us. And since nobody really cared for my next door neighbor, no tears were shed.
For some inexplicable reason, the entire neighborhood decides to take a walk together in my backyard, which has expanded magically into lush green meadows being overrun by the floodwaters from the earlier rain. I have to admit that somewhere deep in my subconscious I was afraid I might wet the bed with all this freakin water! I think this is the reason I decided to head back home with son. And when we arrived at our side door, who did we find waiting for us?? Mommy Cat and Kitty Kong, only this time they were cute, cuddly normal sized pussies. I scooped up Kitty Kong and held him in my arms. I had captured King Kong – and he was purring!!!
Believe The Captain when he says: Cats are master groomers!
Yours petting the pussy…cat,
The Captain
Monday, November 16, 2009
Why Is It??
Why is it that:
· I always get a dirty look when, in a public place, I ask someone how his case of Herpes Simplex 1 is doing??
· I am existentially bothered by the fact the word “Gay” is no longer in my literary arsenal just because no one these days knows the original meaning of the word? I’m just dying to write a sentence like “As we celestial travelers wend our way through our temporal bonds, we flit forward with minds nimble and hearts gay!” but I can’t!
· I’m OK with the use of the word “Lesbian.” Perhaps because it has remained more or less etymologically pure, as all you armchair Philologists out there can attest (for all you armchair imbeciles, this means its meaning has not changed much over time). But the more likely answer is: because I’m a guy!!
· I even know what the frick a Philologist is in the first place??! Hint: a Philologist is someone who, due to some social maladjustment or congenital defect, is interested in knowing how and why a slang word like “frick” comes into being.
· You’re still reading this?
· People think Lucille Ball is funny but Curly is not? (For the answer to this and many other questions, see my post “Boys and Girls are Different” http://thefloorcaptain.blogspot.com/2009/06/boys-and-girls-are-differentreally.html)
· My sarcasm didn’t register, because you are still reading this??
· I write?? (That’s easy. My insurance stopped paying for my therapy, which should be obvious by now.)
Believe The Captain when he says: Desi Arnaz was a masochist!
Yours sniffing my nosegay (hah, I snuck it in!),
The Captain
· I always get a dirty look when, in a public place, I ask someone how his case of Herpes Simplex 1 is doing??
· I am existentially bothered by the fact the word “Gay” is no longer in my literary arsenal just because no one these days knows the original meaning of the word? I’m just dying to write a sentence like “As we celestial travelers wend our way through our temporal bonds, we flit forward with minds nimble and hearts gay!” but I can’t!
· I’m OK with the use of the word “Lesbian.” Perhaps because it has remained more or less etymologically pure, as all you armchair Philologists out there can attest (for all you armchair imbeciles, this means its meaning has not changed much over time). But the more likely answer is: because I’m a guy!!
· I even know what the frick a Philologist is in the first place??! Hint: a Philologist is someone who, due to some social maladjustment or congenital defect, is interested in knowing how and why a slang word like “frick” comes into being.
· You’re still reading this?
· People think Lucille Ball is funny but Curly is not? (For the answer to this and many other questions, see my post “Boys and Girls are Different” http://thefloorcaptain.blogspot.com/2009/06/boys-and-girls-are-differentreally.html)
· My sarcasm didn’t register, because you are still reading this??
· I write?? (That’s easy. My insurance stopped paying for my therapy, which should be obvious by now.)
Believe The Captain when he says: Desi Arnaz was a masochist!
Yours sniffing my nosegay (hah, I snuck it in!),
The Captain
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Ways to Drop the F Bomb
Warning: The following passage contains very naughty words, phrases, idioms, and sentences. If you are offended by profanity, you probably aren’t reading this. But if by chance you are, you might want to navigate back to redbook.com.
Still reading, eh? Well, it feels good to be naughty every now and again. Enjoy!
The Captain has a degree in English Literature. If you haven’t noticed (this is for my comatose readers), I wear my diploma like a badge of honor, which gets really uncomfortable at times since its fairly large and permanently cemented in a stiff cardboard frame by some unidentified sticky substance. All substances aside, I do love words. I could propose a cheesy contest and ask you all to guess what The Captain’s all-time favorite word is. This would be a trick question, though, because most of you would guess the “F” word. However, the real answer is “The,” the definite article, mostly because it is a word that I have usurped from the English language and used as a clever and emphatic prefix for my Pseudonym. I am no ordinary captain; I am THE Captain, the genuine and most definite article with an obsessive compulsion for alliterative punning (see what I mean!). That being said in way too many words, my second favorite word is the incendiary F Bomb, because it’s the most f*&kin’ versatile word ever. Let me write to you about this.
Ways to Drop the F Bomb
1) Verb in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k You!”
2) Noun in a Declarative Sentence: “She’s a cool f*&k.” Note: Simply interchanging adjectives dramatically changes the meaning of the above sentence and effectively illustrates the incredible diversity of our favorite word. For example, replace “cool” with “great” and you see what I mean.
3) Noun phrase modifier in a Declarative sentence: “He is f*&ked up.” Drop the itty bitty word “up” and we once again have a completely different reading.
4) Expression of awe in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k.”
5) Adverb in an Interrogative Sentence: “What are you f*&king doing?”
6) Simple adjective in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&king b*&ch!”
7) Verb in an Interrogative Sentence: “Wanna f*&k?”
8) Expression of extreme anger in an Exclamatory Mono-word Sentence: “F*&k!”
9) Inflection matters. The subtlest change in inflection can dramatically alter the meaning:
She’s a good “f*&k.” or “She’s a good f*&k.”
“F*&k me!” or “F*&k me.”
10) Multiple uses in a tongue twister: “The f*&cking stupid f*&k who f*&cking f*&ked that f*&cking idiot is f*&cked up.”
Believe The Captain when he says: Never screw when you can f*&k!
Yours from my B 52,
The Captain
Still reading, eh? Well, it feels good to be naughty every now and again. Enjoy!
The Captain has a degree in English Literature. If you haven’t noticed (this is for my comatose readers), I wear my diploma like a badge of honor, which gets really uncomfortable at times since its fairly large and permanently cemented in a stiff cardboard frame by some unidentified sticky substance. All substances aside, I do love words. I could propose a cheesy contest and ask you all to guess what The Captain’s all-time favorite word is. This would be a trick question, though, because most of you would guess the “F” word. However, the real answer is “The,” the definite article, mostly because it is a word that I have usurped from the English language and used as a clever and emphatic prefix for my Pseudonym. I am no ordinary captain; I am THE Captain, the genuine and most definite article with an obsessive compulsion for alliterative punning (see what I mean!). That being said in way too many words, my second favorite word is the incendiary F Bomb, because it’s the most f*&kin’ versatile word ever. Let me write to you about this.
Ways to Drop the F Bomb
1) Verb in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k You!”
2) Noun in a Declarative Sentence: “She’s a cool f*&k.” Note: Simply interchanging adjectives dramatically changes the meaning of the above sentence and effectively illustrates the incredible diversity of our favorite word. For example, replace “cool” with “great” and you see what I mean.
3) Noun phrase modifier in a Declarative sentence: “He is f*&ked up.” Drop the itty bitty word “up” and we once again have a completely different reading.
4) Expression of awe in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&k.”
5) Adverb in an Interrogative Sentence: “What are you f*&king doing?”
6) Simple adjective in an Exclamatory Sentence: “F*&king b*&ch!”
7) Verb in an Interrogative Sentence: “Wanna f*&k?”
8) Expression of extreme anger in an Exclamatory Mono-word Sentence: “F*&k!”
9) Inflection matters. The subtlest change in inflection can dramatically alter the meaning:
She’s a good “f*&k.” or “She’s a good f*&k.”
“F*&k me!” or “F*&k me.”
10) Multiple uses in a tongue twister: “The f*&cking stupid f*&k who f*&cking f*&ked that f*&cking idiot is f*&cked up.”
Believe The Captain when he says: Never screw when you can f*&k!
Yours from my B 52,
The Captain
Monday, November 9, 2009
The Captain's Geology Lesson
Even the nerdiest activity becomes an adventure when The Captain is involved. Why just yesterday yours truly went on a Geological hike on Land Trust property with 10 year old Son of the Captain (SOC). The only thing standing between this event and the Geek Hall of Fame was the lack of Wizard and/or Dragon costumes. At first glance, I thought we may have had some but then I realized by the smell of moth balls and the numerous canes that the surprisingly large crowd was composed mostly of senior citizens – those weren’t costumes, just the latest fashions from the prior century. But no biggie; father and son swore an oath never to tell anyone we were there and all would be good.
The Hike Leader was a second career insurance professional who in a former life was a real geologist (I kid you not!!). He gave an introductory speech, showing us a multi-colored geological map that was supposed to somehow help us understand the gobbledygook that was flowing like magma from his piehole. One of the canes raised his, er, cane, and asked our guide if we might possibly see some fossils on our hike. I whispered to SOC that this was easy - all he had to do was turn to either side and look at his neighbors. SOC shushed me. I get that a lot. He also had that “Oh my god I can’t believe my father roped me into doing this!” look on his face, which I instantly recognized and fearlessly addressed: “Don’t write it off just yet. Don’t you wanna see how the Geritol Gang is gonna hike up the side of a mountain?” Came the swift reply: “What for? I’ve seen you try this a dozen times before.” Chip off of the old block, that SOB… I mean SOC.
Watching this geriatric train get rolling brought back fond memories from my freshman year in college, when I lived in a dorm room that overlooked the train tracks that run along the majestic Hudson River. The freight trains would stretch for miles and occasionally stop in the area. It took a good 15 minutes to get that one of those suckers rolling again from a standing position, much like our “Walks on Three Legs” tribe trying to loco mote out of the gravel parking lot and down the steep, narrow path into the woods below. Slippery leaves covered the path down to the rocky stream bed, where the path meandered through damp, treacherous rounded rocks which, I learned from our guide, had been “moved” there by a glacier some millions of years ago, about the time some of our party had been born. Our route was the perfect storm for a tidal wave of senior disaster. Good thing I had the local EMT Rescue company on speed dial, courtesy of the injury prone SOC.
Our Geologist stopped at a large rock by the stream and took out his little hammer tool to break off a chunk of this glacial deposit to illustrate the composition. He muttered a bunch of stuff that didn’t register until I heard the phrase “size matters,” at which time I perked up and began listening. Apparently the size of the something or other “mites” means something, which to me meant I lost interest again. After assisting a dozen or so folks over a bridge, we began our ascent up the hill. Our guide told us that millions of years ago, there were mountain peaks in Connecticut that surpassed those in the Himalayans today. Looking at our crew, that little hill in front of us might as well be Mount Everest. But up we went. I got stuck behind an emaciated 90 year old guy with ski poles and black spandex pants, so I quickly ducked off trail to protect my son from this gruesome sight.
Apparently the rocks of geological interest were a good ways above, so as we inched our way up, SOC and I began to pass the time by whistling through acorn caps or blades of grass. A hippie graybeard saw this and came over to share stories from his youth. SOC especially liked the one about how the children of mountain men used to fashion pipes out of acorns and pack them with special herbs and smoke ‘em all day long. Three beautifully crafted pipes later, we arrived at the peak. Apparently we’d missed the right turn we should have made and wandered off the path clear into the next town over. A middle aged woman with a thick German accent then decides to pipe up and tell the group that she saw the yellow trail marker about a half hour earlier. “I knew there vos somethink wrong!” Dozens of angry, droopy eyes stared up at her from this pack of arthritic coyotes. I swear I heard someone mumble “Damn Krauts” under his breath. I’m sure the pack would have been howling if not for the wheezing. So after an impromptu lecture from our fearful guide, we scuffled, scraped, and slid back down the hill, canes awhirling, ‘til we made it to the trail marker our Deutsch tourist identified.
By this point in the hike, SOC was now seeking out hippie graybeard, as he was the most entertaining and educational part of this event for him. I had no idea how many natural herbs there were right in our own backyard that one can eat, brew, and stick in an acorn pipe! Note to self. Add the following items to SOC’s Christmas list: Bowie knife, hemp, very tiny glass vials, and a package of Zig Zag.
At last we arrived at a cliff formation which, we were told, was the geological mother lode. These rocks were “in place,” which is to say not moved by glaciers, and were almost a billion years old, as evidenced by the fact they had more severe edges and tilted to the southeast, which is also an excellent description of my late, chain smoking grandmother, who might also accurately be described as “glacial.” So amusing myself by imagining us as Lilliputians planning to steal cigarettes from a fiending Grandma Gulliver, I was able to daydream through the last lecture of our hike without the aid of alcohol. SOC was till chatting excitedly with Grizzly Adams, so all was good.
Miraculously, each and every creeky car of the Little Train That Wheezed managed to make it back to the parking lot without derailing. Who says all rocks stay in place?! Pockets stuffed with all manner of souvenirs from nature, courtesy of Hippie Guy, we made our way back to the car and, eventually, civilization.
Believe The Captain when he says: Now I know the real reason squirrels collect acorns!
Yours from the comfort of my motorized Lazy Boy recliner,
The Captain
The Hike Leader was a second career insurance professional who in a former life was a real geologist (I kid you not!!). He gave an introductory speech, showing us a multi-colored geological map that was supposed to somehow help us understand the gobbledygook that was flowing like magma from his piehole. One of the canes raised his, er, cane, and asked our guide if we might possibly see some fossils on our hike. I whispered to SOC that this was easy - all he had to do was turn to either side and look at his neighbors. SOC shushed me. I get that a lot. He also had that “Oh my god I can’t believe my father roped me into doing this!” look on his face, which I instantly recognized and fearlessly addressed: “Don’t write it off just yet. Don’t you wanna see how the Geritol Gang is gonna hike up the side of a mountain?” Came the swift reply: “What for? I’ve seen you try this a dozen times before.” Chip off of the old block, that SOB… I mean SOC.
Watching this geriatric train get rolling brought back fond memories from my freshman year in college, when I lived in a dorm room that overlooked the train tracks that run along the majestic Hudson River. The freight trains would stretch for miles and occasionally stop in the area. It took a good 15 minutes to get that one of those suckers rolling again from a standing position, much like our “Walks on Three Legs” tribe trying to loco mote out of the gravel parking lot and down the steep, narrow path into the woods below. Slippery leaves covered the path down to the rocky stream bed, where the path meandered through damp, treacherous rounded rocks which, I learned from our guide, had been “moved” there by a glacier some millions of years ago, about the time some of our party had been born. Our route was the perfect storm for a tidal wave of senior disaster. Good thing I had the local EMT Rescue company on speed dial, courtesy of the injury prone SOC.
Our Geologist stopped at a large rock by the stream and took out his little hammer tool to break off a chunk of this glacial deposit to illustrate the composition. He muttered a bunch of stuff that didn’t register until I heard the phrase “size matters,” at which time I perked up and began listening. Apparently the size of the something or other “mites” means something, which to me meant I lost interest again. After assisting a dozen or so folks over a bridge, we began our ascent up the hill. Our guide told us that millions of years ago, there were mountain peaks in Connecticut that surpassed those in the Himalayans today. Looking at our crew, that little hill in front of us might as well be Mount Everest. But up we went. I got stuck behind an emaciated 90 year old guy with ski poles and black spandex pants, so I quickly ducked off trail to protect my son from this gruesome sight.
Apparently the rocks of geological interest were a good ways above, so as we inched our way up, SOC and I began to pass the time by whistling through acorn caps or blades of grass. A hippie graybeard saw this and came over to share stories from his youth. SOC especially liked the one about how the children of mountain men used to fashion pipes out of acorns and pack them with special herbs and smoke ‘em all day long. Three beautifully crafted pipes later, we arrived at the peak. Apparently we’d missed the right turn we should have made and wandered off the path clear into the next town over. A middle aged woman with a thick German accent then decides to pipe up and tell the group that she saw the yellow trail marker about a half hour earlier. “I knew there vos somethink wrong!” Dozens of angry, droopy eyes stared up at her from this pack of arthritic coyotes. I swear I heard someone mumble “Damn Krauts” under his breath. I’m sure the pack would have been howling if not for the wheezing. So after an impromptu lecture from our fearful guide, we scuffled, scraped, and slid back down the hill, canes awhirling, ‘til we made it to the trail marker our Deutsch tourist identified.
By this point in the hike, SOC was now seeking out hippie graybeard, as he was the most entertaining and educational part of this event for him. I had no idea how many natural herbs there were right in our own backyard that one can eat, brew, and stick in an acorn pipe! Note to self. Add the following items to SOC’s Christmas list: Bowie knife, hemp, very tiny glass vials, and a package of Zig Zag.
At last we arrived at a cliff formation which, we were told, was the geological mother lode. These rocks were “in place,” which is to say not moved by glaciers, and were almost a billion years old, as evidenced by the fact they had more severe edges and tilted to the southeast, which is also an excellent description of my late, chain smoking grandmother, who might also accurately be described as “glacial.” So amusing myself by imagining us as Lilliputians planning to steal cigarettes from a fiending Grandma Gulliver, I was able to daydream through the last lecture of our hike without the aid of alcohol. SOC was till chatting excitedly with Grizzly Adams, so all was good.
Miraculously, each and every creeky car of the Little Train That Wheezed managed to make it back to the parking lot without derailing. Who says all rocks stay in place?! Pockets stuffed with all manner of souvenirs from nature, courtesy of Hippie Guy, we made our way back to the car and, eventually, civilization.
Believe The Captain when he says: Now I know the real reason squirrels collect acorns!
Yours from the comfort of my motorized Lazy Boy recliner,
The Captain
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Roof Monkey
This is my idea, so no one steal it. Since most of the time people treat the sewage that spills from my brain as if it’s radioactive, this declaration would not normally be necessary. But in this case, my idea is so freakin’ good that I want to patent it – only I don’t yet have the slightest idea how! Until then, hands off!
I am not ashamed to admit that the concept was borrowed from an invention called the Roof Robot, a mechanical device spawned by Insurance companies to handle roof damage claims. The robot climbs onto roofs and takes measurements and photos to assess the damage on pitches far too dangerous for the average, overweight claims adjuster. Well, the thing breaks down a lot and is expensive to build and repair, so the Roof Robot has yet to catch on.
While discussing the merits of such a machine with coworkers one day, I had my Eureka moment – the Roof Monkey! Same basic idea as the robot, only cheaper and more versatile. I am talking a cute little monkey similar to the Organ Grinder monkey or Rally Monkey (I hear he’s been layed off and is available but a bit of a Prima Dona). Absolutely no chimps, because Focus Group studies seem to indicate that creatures known to maul human beings could frighten the customers. But think of it. Monkeys are already being used as home companions for Quadriplegics; so climbing on a few roofs and taking a few measurements and photos should be a piece of cake – or should I say banana – for the Roof Monkey. And you can do all this for peanuts – literally! I understand that the countries where these little suckers come from are dirt poor and chock full of poachers with hungry children, so they should come cheap. I’m also told they potty train well and can be a blast at parties or when you are out drinking with friends or strangers. Plus, they’re Babe magnets! Puppies are cuddly and adorable, I’ll give you that. But can a puppy dance and pick pockets? Can a puppy install a hidden camera? Can a puppy make a Martini to order? Can a puppy, on queue, amble up to an attractive woman at the bar and flash the “please pet me” puppy dog eyes and wait there obediently until you show up with a complimentary drink??!! I think not!
Now I’m not saying that there won’t be pitfalls. Primates, in general, can’t always be trusted. But I’m guessing the pros outweigh the cons. But just to be sure, The Captain has drawn up Pro and Con lists to help make my decision.
Roof Monkey Pros
· Climbing is second nature to monkeys. Enormous savings potential for Insurance companies by completely eliminating the need to purchase expensive, safe ladders for their employees; factor in the reduction in Workers Compensation payout, and this is a financial boon.
· Monkeys are cute, which is not something that can be said about many Insurance Adjusters.
· Unlike those lying Homeless bastards at Highway exit ramps, monkeys really will work for food. Plus, a monkey’s idea of a fringe benefit is a ripe yellow banana or a good de-lousing.
· Dogs may fetch balls and sticks, but Monkeys can fetch tools, laptops, car keys, not to mention beer, ice, Doritos, and party favors.
· Roof Monkeys have prehensile tails, which can hold an extra tool or beverage. Can you say “Three fisted drinker!”?
· Monkeys can be trained to “borrow” product from Liquor stores and have an uncanny knack for eluding curious law enforcement professionals (conveniently, monkeys are not fingerprinted and thus will never show up in the FBI criminal database).
· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Monkeys are not fussy about who they live with. They have even been known to cohabitate with grown men who wear bright yellow cowboy suits to match their giant yellow 10 gallon hats.
Roof Monkey Cons
· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Some Roof Monkeys will smoke in the house and there’s little an owner can do about it because monkeys know you won’t ever be able to catch ‘em.
· Sometimes, Roof Monkeys are confused about work monkey time and play monkey time. You have to be careful about this. The last thing you want to have happen when visiting a customer’s home is have an attractive young female answer the door and have Roof Monkey pull out a wad of dollar bills and attempt to tuck them into the customer’s thong.
· Roof Monkeys stink worse than my Aunt Edna and, just like puppies and Aunt Edna, hate to bathe.
· Roof Monkeys have sharp teeth.
· Like humans, Roof Monkeys are individuals with a wide variety of personalities. Always have a psychological profile conducted on a Roof Monkey before committing to one. If not, you might wake up one day and realize you are living with the monkey version of your mother or ex-spouse.
· Monkeys are natural mimics, so you will need to train your monkey never to mimic any behavior he may have seen you exhibit at 3 AM on any given Saturday morning. It would not do to have a customer witness the Roof Monkey playing with his “tool” or fashioning a loin cloth out of the bathroom curtain.
Upon further review, the tally is a bit closer than I originally thought it might be. Nevertheless, The Captain believes that, with proper training, inviting a Roof Monkey into your home is, on balance, a worthwhile endeavor. After all, if he does something untoward to a customer or drinking colleague, you can simply flash him the secret signal to pull the sad puppy face and all will be forgiven!
Believe The Captain when he says: Wearing a bright yellow suit is suspect!
Yours researching Patent Law,
The Captain
I am not ashamed to admit that the concept was borrowed from an invention called the Roof Robot, a mechanical device spawned by Insurance companies to handle roof damage claims. The robot climbs onto roofs and takes measurements and photos to assess the damage on pitches far too dangerous for the average, overweight claims adjuster. Well, the thing breaks down a lot and is expensive to build and repair, so the Roof Robot has yet to catch on.
While discussing the merits of such a machine with coworkers one day, I had my Eureka moment – the Roof Monkey! Same basic idea as the robot, only cheaper and more versatile. I am talking a cute little monkey similar to the Organ Grinder monkey or Rally Monkey (I hear he’s been layed off and is available but a bit of a Prima Dona). Absolutely no chimps, because Focus Group studies seem to indicate that creatures known to maul human beings could frighten the customers. But think of it. Monkeys are already being used as home companions for Quadriplegics; so climbing on a few roofs and taking a few measurements and photos should be a piece of cake – or should I say banana – for the Roof Monkey. And you can do all this for peanuts – literally! I understand that the countries where these little suckers come from are dirt poor and chock full of poachers with hungry children, so they should come cheap. I’m also told they potty train well and can be a blast at parties or when you are out drinking with friends or strangers. Plus, they’re Babe magnets! Puppies are cuddly and adorable, I’ll give you that. But can a puppy dance and pick pockets? Can a puppy install a hidden camera? Can a puppy make a Martini to order? Can a puppy, on queue, amble up to an attractive woman at the bar and flash the “please pet me” puppy dog eyes and wait there obediently until you show up with a complimentary drink??!! I think not!
Now I’m not saying that there won’t be pitfalls. Primates, in general, can’t always be trusted. But I’m guessing the pros outweigh the cons. But just to be sure, The Captain has drawn up Pro and Con lists to help make my decision.
Roof Monkey Pros
· Climbing is second nature to monkeys. Enormous savings potential for Insurance companies by completely eliminating the need to purchase expensive, safe ladders for their employees; factor in the reduction in Workers Compensation payout, and this is a financial boon.
· Monkeys are cute, which is not something that can be said about many Insurance Adjusters.
· Unlike those lying Homeless bastards at Highway exit ramps, monkeys really will work for food. Plus, a monkey’s idea of a fringe benefit is a ripe yellow banana or a good de-lousing.
· Dogs may fetch balls and sticks, but Monkeys can fetch tools, laptops, car keys, not to mention beer, ice, Doritos, and party favors.
· Roof Monkeys have prehensile tails, which can hold an extra tool or beverage. Can you say “Three fisted drinker!”?
· Monkeys can be trained to “borrow” product from Liquor stores and have an uncanny knack for eluding curious law enforcement professionals (conveniently, monkeys are not fingerprinted and thus will never show up in the FBI criminal database).
· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Monkeys are not fussy about who they live with. They have even been known to cohabitate with grown men who wear bright yellow cowboy suits to match their giant yellow 10 gallon hats.
Roof Monkey Cons
· Monkeys will always have worse breath than their owners.
· Some Roof Monkeys will smoke in the house and there’s little an owner can do about it because monkeys know you won’t ever be able to catch ‘em.
· Sometimes, Roof Monkeys are confused about work monkey time and play monkey time. You have to be careful about this. The last thing you want to have happen when visiting a customer’s home is have an attractive young female answer the door and have Roof Monkey pull out a wad of dollar bills and attempt to tuck them into the customer’s thong.
· Roof Monkeys stink worse than my Aunt Edna and, just like puppies and Aunt Edna, hate to bathe.
· Roof Monkeys have sharp teeth.
· Like humans, Roof Monkeys are individuals with a wide variety of personalities. Always have a psychological profile conducted on a Roof Monkey before committing to one. If not, you might wake up one day and realize you are living with the monkey version of your mother or ex-spouse.
· Monkeys are natural mimics, so you will need to train your monkey never to mimic any behavior he may have seen you exhibit at 3 AM on any given Saturday morning. It would not do to have a customer witness the Roof Monkey playing with his “tool” or fashioning a loin cloth out of the bathroom curtain.
Upon further review, the tally is a bit closer than I originally thought it might be. Nevertheless, The Captain believes that, with proper training, inviting a Roof Monkey into your home is, on balance, a worthwhile endeavor. After all, if he does something untoward to a customer or drinking colleague, you can simply flash him the secret signal to pull the sad puppy face and all will be forgiven!
Believe The Captain when he says: Wearing a bright yellow suit is suspect!
Yours researching Patent Law,
The Captain
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