The Captain has already blogged at length (a rather short length) on this topic. Though I have occasionally revisited some topics, it’s not something I do regularly, mostly because I’m too lazy to spend much time on any one subject. Plus, I’m altogether shallow and could really care less about the things on which I opine. I just like being opinionated for the sake of being opinionated, as my sisters never cease to remind me. But National Take Your Sons and Daughters to Work Day seems to inspire in me a good 30 to 45 minutes of literary pondering, a duration that dwarfs my normal attention span.
If I was honest, which I’m not, I think I’d have to admit that it’s all sour grapes; I just wish there was a corporate sponsored skip school day back in the day. But since I never had such a day, I will not suffer a bunch school aged hooligans rubbing it in my face while I plod through another dull day of drudgery in my dank, dark den of a cubicle. They should all go to school like I did, or at least learn how to really skip school like I did. But no one listens to me, and this massive social fraud will go on as planned. So what to do? What I do best, of course – instigate trouble! I propose a counter “celebration” for the same day: Take Your Neighborhood Feral Cat to Work Day.
Why feral cats? Mostly because they are cute yet wild, things that I can only dream about being. Plus, every time I see one, it looks cold, scraggly and malnourished. A day in a heated office building with free food and mind numbingly pointless activities are just what the Vet ordered. I also think it would be fun to watch the organizers chasing the kitties around and applying First Aid to the obnoxious human kids who taunt the bewildered beasts only to discover they are in fact wild animals that can bring the hurt when necessary. The other reason is that feral cats just popped into my head, eliminating the agonizing search for just the right alternative. No work was required and that felt right to me.
I’m pretty much done, since I can’t figure out where else to go with the feral cat angle, but I’m glad I wrote about them. No feral cats were harmed during the writing of this blog, a statement I can’t make about the human kids.
Believe The Captain when he says: Feral cats are cute but they bite hard, kinda like James Pattison or Edward or whatever his name is, but you didn’t hear that from me.
Yours setting out bowls of milk in the woods behind my house,
The Captain
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Deletion List
As you all know because I’ve blogged on this topic, it is quite chic these days to write a bucket list of things to do before you kick. But let’s be honest, most of the time these lists are comprised of things you can’t afford to do or things that are so dangerous that they may just kill you before that pesky cancer does. Plus, if your life was so sucky that you needed to contract a terminal illness in order to motivate yourself to have a little fun, then I have a phrase for you: too little, too late.
To my way of thinking, which is admittedly disturbed, it would be far more useful to create a Deletion List, a compilation of those events in your life that you’d like to permanently erase – a sort of twist on the Faustian contract. But instead of making a deal with Mephistopheles to do what I want for the rest of my life in exchange for my soul, I would make a deal to delete selected episodes from my human record. Makes perfect sense for yours truly, given that I’ve always done whatever I want and have already put down a cash deposit to reserve a hotel room in the City of Dis. With good reason, I’m more worried about being hunted down by living humans seeking to exact revenge for some past transgressions, real or imagined. Also, wouldn’t it be nice to remove the sting of past humiliations that haunt my dreams that provide job security for my probation officer? (A few parenthetical annotations. First, go with Geothe’s Faust over Marlowe’s – don’t ask, you’ll regret it; second, read Dante’s Inferno before you die; third, because I know you’ll never read Dante’s Inferno but will die, I’ll save you the trouble and tell you that in his masterwork, la città ch 'ha nome Dite, the City of Dis, sits at the very center of Hell and is the winner of Playboy’s “Wildest Party City” contest some 5,000 years running. Duke Sucks!)
Please be aware that I am publishing The Captain’s Deletion List at great personal risk to myself. What if the suppressed memories of past “victims” are stirred to life and prompt them to add to their Bucket Lists something like “Kill the bastard”? Or perhaps the fragile balance of The Captain’s psyche is upset and long buried nightmares are unwittingly unleashed which reduce me to a babbling, drooling imbecile left to seize in the fetal position? (This one is not quite as scary, as I often end up like this after a particularly ruckus-filled weekend.) So brace yourself, as I brace myself, for the release of The Captain’s Deletion List!
• 6th Grade. Yup, might as well remove the whole damn thing. The year I had to get glasses, braces and therapy to deal with getting whipped in the 50 yard dash on the playground by Denise Bodner in front of all my peers. I’d had a secret crush on Denise since 3rd grade. I was this (insert image of me holding my thumb and forefinger 5 centimeters apart) close to telling her when the fateful race took place. I heard years later that she got knocked up her sophomore year in trade school (beautician) and ended up marrying, at the request of her Dad’s shotgun, some loser alcoholic plumber’s apprentice before divorcing 6 months later when he learned that he wasn’t her first…or second, or third, or seventeenth. Things happen for a reason.
• The party at Phil Davis’s house junior year in high school when my penchant for picking fights over what music to play on the stereo finally came back to kick me in the face. Actually, it was the Black Belt who I challenged who kicked me in the face. Really hard. Really, really, really hard. Broke the very same hideous wire frame glasses I’d gotten in 6th grade, so it wasn’t a total loss. Plus I learned a valuable lesson: always conduct a background check on anyone you might consider fighting.
• Last weekend when I…Uh. No fuckin’ way I’m sharing that. Some of you actually know me!!
• The Who’s third farewell tour concert at Giant stadium. Made the mistake of drinking Jameson with an Irishman out of Dixie cups while stuck in traffic on the NJ Turnpike. The cups were little, I rationalized. Two bottles later we arrived at the stadium, rippin’ high. Three songs into the show I excused myself to go to the Men’s room. Three hours later my “friends,” retrieved me from a stretcher in the drunk tank, laughing at my vomit stained t-shirt. They refused to drive me back to Brooklyn until I threw away my shirt. Was forced to buy a cheesy Who T-shirt to wear on the ride back to Bensonhurst. I could not use being in high school – or college, even – as an excuse for my behavior.
• The “night of nobility” my sophomore year in college, when the “wiffle ball,” an extremely cute and horny blonde freshman girl with a head full of air propositioned me and I refused because she had a boyfriend back home. What was I thinking??!!
• My birth. Though I remember little of it, my parents were forever reminding me that for them it was quite a traumatic event. If there was a way for me to live my life without ever being born, I’d do it for Mom and Dad.
• That night that I thought that Sloe Gin was real gin. Ugh.
• Freshman year in high school. Mom, whose father and brothers were raging alcoholics, happens to drive by Bill’s Package store at the precise moment I was walking out carrying a case of Molson Golden Ale for consumption at the Avalone’s house. When I got home, all she said to me is that my father will deal with me when he got home from work. Dad told me to look both ways before exiting a package store and hit the six pack of Piels a little early that evening. Mom didn’t speak to me for weeks. On second thought, delete this one from the Deletion List!
• The incident with the coat hangers at Worth’s Ladies Clothing store in the Torrington Shopping Plaza. I’m not drunk enough to tell that story and I’m working on gin & tonic number five. You can ask me about it at a happy hour some time but you’ll have to buy me a few drinks first.
Believe The Captain when he says: To quote my favorite German philosopher not named Goethe, “Nothing can be subtracted.”
Yours giving thanks for every moment of my life, even those I’m tempted to delete!
The Captain
To my way of thinking, which is admittedly disturbed, it would be far more useful to create a Deletion List, a compilation of those events in your life that you’d like to permanently erase – a sort of twist on the Faustian contract. But instead of making a deal with Mephistopheles to do what I want for the rest of my life in exchange for my soul, I would make a deal to delete selected episodes from my human record. Makes perfect sense for yours truly, given that I’ve always done whatever I want and have already put down a cash deposit to reserve a hotel room in the City of Dis. With good reason, I’m more worried about being hunted down by living humans seeking to exact revenge for some past transgressions, real or imagined. Also, wouldn’t it be nice to remove the sting of past humiliations that haunt my dreams that provide job security for my probation officer? (A few parenthetical annotations. First, go with Geothe’s Faust over Marlowe’s – don’t ask, you’ll regret it; second, read Dante’s Inferno before you die; third, because I know you’ll never read Dante’s Inferno but will die, I’ll save you the trouble and tell you that in his masterwork, la città ch 'ha nome Dite, the City of Dis, sits at the very center of Hell and is the winner of Playboy’s “Wildest Party City” contest some 5,000 years running. Duke Sucks!)
Please be aware that I am publishing The Captain’s Deletion List at great personal risk to myself. What if the suppressed memories of past “victims” are stirred to life and prompt them to add to their Bucket Lists something like “Kill the bastard”? Or perhaps the fragile balance of The Captain’s psyche is upset and long buried nightmares are unwittingly unleashed which reduce me to a babbling, drooling imbecile left to seize in the fetal position? (This one is not quite as scary, as I often end up like this after a particularly ruckus-filled weekend.) So brace yourself, as I brace myself, for the release of The Captain’s Deletion List!
• 6th Grade. Yup, might as well remove the whole damn thing. The year I had to get glasses, braces and therapy to deal with getting whipped in the 50 yard dash on the playground by Denise Bodner in front of all my peers. I’d had a secret crush on Denise since 3rd grade. I was this (insert image of me holding my thumb and forefinger 5 centimeters apart) close to telling her when the fateful race took place. I heard years later that she got knocked up her sophomore year in trade school (beautician) and ended up marrying, at the request of her Dad’s shotgun, some loser alcoholic plumber’s apprentice before divorcing 6 months later when he learned that he wasn’t her first…or second, or third, or seventeenth. Things happen for a reason.
• The party at Phil Davis’s house junior year in high school when my penchant for picking fights over what music to play on the stereo finally came back to kick me in the face. Actually, it was the Black Belt who I challenged who kicked me in the face. Really hard. Really, really, really hard. Broke the very same hideous wire frame glasses I’d gotten in 6th grade, so it wasn’t a total loss. Plus I learned a valuable lesson: always conduct a background check on anyone you might consider fighting.
• Last weekend when I…Uh. No fuckin’ way I’m sharing that. Some of you actually know me!!
• The Who’s third farewell tour concert at Giant stadium. Made the mistake of drinking Jameson with an Irishman out of Dixie cups while stuck in traffic on the NJ Turnpike. The cups were little, I rationalized. Two bottles later we arrived at the stadium, rippin’ high. Three songs into the show I excused myself to go to the Men’s room. Three hours later my “friends,” retrieved me from a stretcher in the drunk tank, laughing at my vomit stained t-shirt. They refused to drive me back to Brooklyn until I threw away my shirt. Was forced to buy a cheesy Who T-shirt to wear on the ride back to Bensonhurst. I could not use being in high school – or college, even – as an excuse for my behavior.
• The “night of nobility” my sophomore year in college, when the “wiffle ball,” an extremely cute and horny blonde freshman girl with a head full of air propositioned me and I refused because she had a boyfriend back home. What was I thinking??!!
• My birth. Though I remember little of it, my parents were forever reminding me that for them it was quite a traumatic event. If there was a way for me to live my life without ever being born, I’d do it for Mom and Dad.
• That night that I thought that Sloe Gin was real gin. Ugh.
• Freshman year in high school. Mom, whose father and brothers were raging alcoholics, happens to drive by Bill’s Package store at the precise moment I was walking out carrying a case of Molson Golden Ale for consumption at the Avalone’s house. When I got home, all she said to me is that my father will deal with me when he got home from work. Dad told me to look both ways before exiting a package store and hit the six pack of Piels a little early that evening. Mom didn’t speak to me for weeks. On second thought, delete this one from the Deletion List!
• The incident with the coat hangers at Worth’s Ladies Clothing store in the Torrington Shopping Plaza. I’m not drunk enough to tell that story and I’m working on gin & tonic number five. You can ask me about it at a happy hour some time but you’ll have to buy me a few drinks first.
Believe The Captain when he says: To quote my favorite German philosopher not named Goethe, “Nothing can be subtracted.”
Yours giving thanks for every moment of my life, even those I’m tempted to delete!
The Captain
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Captain's Quiz
By now you all have probably had at least one or two moments while reading this blog when you’ve wondered out loud: where does he get his ideas and how could Nature have gone so terribly wrong?? In true Captainesque fashion, I will answer a question with a question – or, more precisely, a series of questions. While it is true that such an approach to inquiries was in fact made famous by that ancient Greek gadfly Socrates, it is also true that Socrates is long dead and can’t sue me for plagiarism, so I have fashioned a quiz for my Myrmidons to help you understand my unique talent for seeing what others cannot, a talent some mistake for psychosis or heat stroke. So have fun answering each question.
The quiz will be True or False, because that somehow seems fitting. So without further ado, here comes more evidence of my overt narcissism: The Captain’s Autobiographical Pop Quiz!! (The answers to each question are directly below the question in white font so they are magically invisible! To view the answer, simply highlight the space beneath the question.)
TRUE or FALSE
1. The Captain was actually born a black baby who only became white after his mother accidentally left him at the sea shore as a young waif, alone and exposed to the powerful summer sun, bleaching him to the tender pinkish white complexion he currently wears. When pressed, his mother claims it was an accident.
FALSE: The part about being a black baby, at least.
2. The Captain owns a rough woolen Black Watch Kilt from the Boer Wars that chafes his privates when the humidity is high.
TRUE: The Captain did some Scottish drumming for a bagpipe band back in the day and was assigned a musty, moth eaten kilt that was actually used in the second Boer War (I looked it up and it was a real war and it took place from 1899 to 1902).
3. Britney Spears is The Captain’s Love Child, the product of a secret, drunken tryst with Pamela Anderson.
FALSE: Unfortunately.
4. The Captain can translate three, count ‘em, three dead languages: Latin, Koine Greek, and ancient Hebrew.
TRUE: Living languages require that you learn to speak them, which is way too much work.
5. The Captain once studied to become a Lutheran Minster at the Lutheran Theological Seminary, where he studied Koine Greek and ancient Hebrew (hint, hint).
TRUE: For the record, Lutherans do not require their Ministers to be celibate and encourage home brewing, so this one is not as shocking as you’d think. After completing my second year, however, I abruptly ended this pursuit when someone told me I would be required to refrain from profanity and work every Sunday.
6. With a Master’s Degree in Social Work, The Captain is technically qualified to put a shingle on his door and counsel YOU! Chew on that one!!
TRUE: Still qualified and willing to offer a special discounted rate to my Myrmidons. Call 1-800-SUKITUP today!
7. The Captain was the drummer for the one hit wonder garage band called “Garage Band.” Garage Band performed one show at the Torringford Middle School Sock Hop and was hit with a barrage of tomatoes from the audience. No wonder we never got another gig.
TRUE: Sometimes I wonder what might have been, even if no one who ever heard us play ever did.
8. Became the first toddler ever to crawl to the summit of Mount Everest.
FALSE: If you don’t count my imagination.
9. The Captain once served as a member of his town’s Zoning
TRUE: Regrettably. I know Bucket Lists are all the rage these days, but I wish it was possible to have a Deletion List, where you can go back and delete certain things from your past. This would be near the top for me, right up there with my stint at Miss Janet’s School of Dance and that tragic recital at the Warner Theater. I have not tap danced since that day and never will.
10. Had a pet Tarantula in college named Boris (to this day I swear some disgruntled dorm mates kidnapped and killed the gentle spider over Spring Break my junior year).
TRUE: Still have a difficult time talking about it…
11. The Captain once went to Appalachia during his senior year in college to work with poor for a week and got to meet some real life hillbillies.
TRUE: Note to self. Add “Being groped under the table by hillbilly girl” to the Deletion List.
12. The Captain was Suspended his senior year in high school for writing a biting satirical piece on the National Honor Society members.
FALSE: I hated writing back then. I bet you wish the same held true today!!
So what was your score? The first time I took The Captain’s quiz, I scored a 70, which, I would remind you all, is a passing grade! In twelve subsequent attempts, my scores improved. Still shooting for a perfect score – I always answer TRUE for question 3, secretly hoping this explains one of the blackouts from that time in my life.
Believe The Captain when he says: unlike most of my blogs, this one’s more true than false this time!
Yours studiously,
Professor The Captain
The quiz will be True or False, because that somehow seems fitting. So without further ado, here comes more evidence of my overt narcissism: The Captain’s Autobiographical Pop Quiz!! (The answers to each question are directly below the question in white font so they are magically invisible! To view the answer, simply highlight the space beneath the question.)
TRUE or FALSE
1. The Captain was actually born a black baby who only became white after his mother accidentally left him at the sea shore as a young waif, alone and exposed to the powerful summer sun, bleaching him to the tender pinkish white complexion he currently wears. When pressed, his mother claims it was an accident.
FALSE: The part about being a black baby, at least.
2. The Captain owns a rough woolen Black Watch Kilt from the Boer Wars that chafes his privates when the humidity is high.
TRUE: The Captain did some Scottish drumming for a bagpipe band back in the day and was assigned a musty, moth eaten kilt that was actually used in the second Boer War (I looked it up and it was a real war and it took place from 1899 to 1902).
3. Britney Spears is The Captain’s Love Child, the product of a secret, drunken tryst with Pamela Anderson.
FALSE: Unfortunately.
4. The Captain can translate three, count ‘em, three dead languages: Latin, Koine Greek, and ancient Hebrew.
TRUE: Living languages require that you learn to speak them, which is way too much work.
5. The Captain once studied to become a Lutheran Minster at the Lutheran Theological Seminary, where he studied Koine Greek and ancient Hebrew (hint, hint).
TRUE: For the record, Lutherans do not require their Ministers to be celibate and encourage home brewing, so this one is not as shocking as you’d think. After completing my second year, however, I abruptly ended this pursuit when someone told me I would be required to refrain from profanity and work every Sunday.
6. With a Master’s Degree in Social Work, The Captain is technically qualified to put a shingle on his door and counsel YOU! Chew on that one!!
TRUE: Still qualified and willing to offer a special discounted rate to my Myrmidons. Call 1-800-SUKITUP today!
7. The Captain was the drummer for the one hit wonder garage band called “Garage Band.” Garage Band performed one show at the Torringford Middle School Sock Hop and was hit with a barrage of tomatoes from the audience. No wonder we never got another gig.
TRUE: Sometimes I wonder what might have been, even if no one who ever heard us play ever did.
8. Became the first toddler ever to crawl to the summit of Mount Everest.
FALSE: If you don’t count my imagination.
9. The Captain once served as a member of his town’s Zoning
TRUE: Regrettably. I know Bucket Lists are all the rage these days, but I wish it was possible to have a Deletion List, where you can go back and delete certain things from your past. This would be near the top for me, right up there with my stint at Miss Janet’s School of Dance and that tragic recital at the Warner Theater. I have not tap danced since that day and never will.
10. Had a pet Tarantula in college named Boris (to this day I swear some disgruntled dorm mates kidnapped and killed the gentle spider over Spring Break my junior year).
TRUE: Still have a difficult time talking about it…
11. The Captain once went to Appalachia during his senior year in college to work with poor for a week and got to meet some real life hillbillies.
TRUE: Note to self. Add “Being groped under the table by hillbilly girl” to the Deletion List.
12. The Captain was Suspended his senior year in high school for writing a biting satirical piece on the National Honor Society members.
FALSE: I hated writing back then. I bet you wish the same held true today!!
So what was your score? The first time I took The Captain’s quiz, I scored a 70, which, I would remind you all, is a passing grade! In twelve subsequent attempts, my scores improved. Still shooting for a perfect score – I always answer TRUE for question 3, secretly hoping this explains one of the blackouts from that time in my life.
Believe The Captain when he says: unlike most of my blogs, this one’s more true than false this time!
Yours studiously,
Professor The Captain
Sunday, March 27, 2011
I get my best ideas by accident, which is good news and bad news. Good because you don’t need to work hard to have accidents; bad because you can’t pick and choose between the good and the bad, as my auto insurer will surely agree. However, many of The Captain’s blogs have been born quietly and accidentally while showering, eating lunch with coworkers, or wetting the bed (not at the same time btw) , which falls into the category of “bad accident” or “too drunk to wake up.” So it is with this piece, as its theme just sort of developed over lunch conversation with some friends from work. And like many other blogs, this one is an artistic extension of an earlier piece, which means that my ideas are either aesthetically pregnant or half baked pieces of shite. You choose (but keep your choice to yourself). Some of you may remember the Roof Monkey, the highly trained and underpaid insurance professional (kinda like me), who climbs on roofs, takes measurements and photos, and provides companionship for lonely claims adjusters (HR had fun writing up corporate guidelines defining appropriate human/simian companionship; wild monkey sex – fun fetish or felony?). As it turns out, the Roof Monkey was just the beginning. Taking a queue from the soul-less bean counters who run behemoth financial institutions (into the ground) and earn exorbitant bonuses for shipping American jobs overseas, I propose a revolutionary new concept which I hope will propel me to a pay band where I too can be eligible for an outrageous bonus. Out with “Outsourcing” and in with “Outspecieing.” Sorry homo sapiens, but the future of the corporate workforce is to be found in the non-human animal kingdom. It’s perfect. Animals can be legally enslaved, never unionize, are willing to work for food (and cheap, dry, crappy tasting food at that!) and can be cross bred to suit the specific needs of a given profession. Right about now, the Chinese Communist Party is getting very nervous. Once my workforce breeding program is in full swing, millions of Chinese will be out of their 25 cents a day jobs. As part of my monomaniacal plan to take over the world, I propose to build “Outspecies World,” a state of the art breeding and training facility to create new animal hybrids that would make Darwin jealous. Before long, human labor as we know it will be extinct, all goods and services will be animal produced, leaving humans to forge peace and harmony and live happily ever after in a Utopia, courtesy of our animal friends. So here they come – the Outspecies!! • Flying monkeys. Frank Baum was ahead of his time on this one. And now, given the scientific advances in the fields of genetic engineering and neurology, we have the ability to breed capuchins with bald eagles to create a highly mobile and compliant new workforce which does not fall under the auspices of any governmental agency – the Tea Party oughta love that!. And since most monkeys are more intelligent than your average Tea Partier, our new work species will be able to move into white collar jobs currently held by intellectual elitists (another win for the TP). This is where the neuroscience comes in. Though monkeys are highly trainable, they also possess some sort of bizarre Monkey Free Will and at times become non-compliant and randomly destroy property and injure humans. The solution is simple: insert a micro chip in the monkey’s brain that allows entrepreneurs like myself to maintain absolute control of the monkey’s behavior via remote control (just take the remote away from me before I get too drunk, as being owner of a flying monkey makes me strictly liable for any acts I may or may not have directed it to perform. Put another way: Cover your butts!). • Koala Pit Bull Mix – Soft, cute, cuddly and ready to tuck your kids into bed, but also fierce, protective and able to quickly dispatch any home invasion attempts. Keeping our children safe and warm! Will need to go through several dozen generations to work out the kinks, like Koalapit reading little Suzy a bedtime story right before she becomes his bedtime snack. This could take some time given the notoriously slow procreative pace of the Koala species; typical Koala foreplay can last for four to six weeks, with documented cases of some commitment phobic males taking 2 months to reach first base. The Pit Bull mating habit of seeing, mounting, distributing, and dismounting in less than 30 seconds could potentially compensate for any delays, however. Those Koala females won’t know what hit them. By the time they turn around to defend their virtue, the horny little terrier will already be on its third Koala bitch. • Pit Viper Peacock Mix – Finally, we can rid ourselves of the dreaded CEO, as these creatures possess the necessary sliminess, venom and overinflated ego to run even the world’s largest financial institutions. But here’s the best part: the only bonus they require is a mirror and the occasional rabbit for lunch, meaning the profits are free to be shared with the people who actually do all the work! • Two Headed Lizard Spineless Lemming Mix – Finally, we can really fire all the politicians and let these creatures lead our federal and state bureaucracies. Two heads, forked tongues. Gives new meaning to speaking out of both sides of their mouth, but with absolutely no backbone to challenge voters on important political issues. • Speaking of multiplying body parts, imagine the possibilities of human/animal hybrids. The Octopus/Human combination is particularly appealing. Manpus would have 8 hands with which to get busy pleasuring several women at once, or perhaps multiple orifices on a single female. To be fair and balanced, we will need to breed a human female with an animal species with 8 nipples in order to keep Manpus’s hands occupied. OK. This is wrong on many levels and challenges the overall legality of my master plan, but gotta shake things up once in a while. • Gerbil Horse Mix – A gerbil hung like a horse. World’s most daring animated sex toy! Tom Cruise has preordered 300 of these suckers! • Cats and Dogs – Throw conventional wisdom to the wind! A feline/canine merger would produce one awesome butler. While dogs have traditionally fetched libations for their masters, they’ve lacked the coordination in their front paws possessed by cats to actually crack open and pour said libations. Imagine going to a bar and sending your cute furry butler to deliver complimentary drinks to the ladies. By the time you arrive to take credit, the heavy petting has already begun! Believe The Captain when he says: RC Flying Monkeys are not for children. Yours winning the human race, The Captain
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Geriatric Cathouse
There is an HBO Reality Series about legal prostitution called Cathouse. We all know its pornography thinly disguised as drama. But believe it or not, that’s not my objection to this series. Fact is, as reality show concepts go, this one is as old and diseased as the profession it portrays. It’s boring. But of course I have a suggestion for a spinoff. Why not convert a nursing home to a house of prostitution and create a reality show called Geriatric Cathouse? A bunch of randy seniors evading those silly nurses and engaging in some sexy gerontology. The possibilities for humor and high drama are endless. Here are some ideas for episodes:
• Naughty Nurses
o Not what you’re thinking. On our show, attractive young Florence Nightingales walk around in sexy white nurse outfits with giant red targets on their backsides to lure the leering old men into the invisible electric fence surrounding them.
• Foreplay Follies
o Ma Bell seductively circles the visitor’s room in her scooter wearing only her wrinkled birthday suit while Grandpa shuffles loudly behind her with his walker sans Depends.
o While French kissing may be now be impossible, swapping spit lives on with the erotic denture exchange.
o Kama Sutra Sponge Bath. Practical and sexy and ideal for World Culture Wednesdays when a bunch of claw foot bath tubs are brought into the Activity Room, which is transformed into one giant Cialis commercial (still waiting to hear back from the manufacturer on our invitation to shoot a TV ad).
• Ology Role Play
o Partners take turns playing out fantasies in proctology and gynecology.
o Role reversal adds some spice – Grandpa looks sexy in stirrups. And anal sex is redefined as Grandma bends over while Grandma slips on a latex glove. Even seniors practice safe sex.
o Not to worry, as all nursing homes carry an ample supply of KY!
• Medication Mayhem
o Messy drug interactions abound after Grandpa smuggles in a case of Viagra. Grandpa soon learns to never mix Viagra with blood thinners – that is, if one can learn while in a coma.
o No fewer than seven ambulances are called to rush 7 male cast members and their six blue and swollen members to the ER after the men decide to run their own non-scientific experiment comparing Viagra and Cialis. Hilarity ensues as one cast member engages a search party to recover his lost member, which has apparently fallen off. The effort is fruitless, until it shows up inside a green Jell-O mold for the evening dessert. The ambulance is called back one more time to pump Mabel’s stomach after she accidentally swallows the missing member.
• Call of the Flatulents
o As a species, the human geriatric male has made a unique if not pleasant evolutionary adaptation in response to being caged up with a bunch of dried up post menopausal females. As young bucks, they could simply strut around like mindless apes, thumping their chests violently until a sufficiently self-destructive female was attracted. But now, with expensive life sustaining hardware implanted in their sunken chests and arthritis in their withered and bony wrists, such behavior would likely be fatal. And joints are not the only body parts that have eroded over time. Sphincter control has long since shite the bed, if you will, and flatulence is now the norm. But a group of enterprising males on our show has decided to use this development to their advantage. Like the melancholy Nightingale, they have decided to woo sexual partners by serenading them. In this ingenious adaptation, the men herd the women into the visitors room, lock the door, and then proceed to seduce them with divers exotic and erotic calls of flatulence. Before you can say “Geritol” the men are tooting and honking and trumpeting for potential mates – the Call of the Flatulents! The women, for their part, have mostly lost their olfactory senses and are hard of hearing and figure out, eventually, that they need to exchange geriatric sex (which can be performed while asleep) for freedom, and after several excruciating hours, the police are called to release the visiting family members who were locked up in error. A visit by law enforcement is always good for ratings!
OK, The Captain admits that the show is not really about a Cathouse, merely a group of elderly men and women too old to procreate, be afraid of STDs, or care about social stigmas. They can see the light at the end of the tunnel and are making a mad scramble to misbehave as often as possible before the light consumes them, so God bless them for that!
Believe The Captain when he says: walkers and canes can make interesting sex toys,
Yours praying for my soul,
The Captain
• Naughty Nurses
o Not what you’re thinking. On our show, attractive young Florence Nightingales walk around in sexy white nurse outfits with giant red targets on their backsides to lure the leering old men into the invisible electric fence surrounding them.
• Foreplay Follies
o Ma Bell seductively circles the visitor’s room in her scooter wearing only her wrinkled birthday suit while Grandpa shuffles loudly behind her with his walker sans Depends.
o While French kissing may be now be impossible, swapping spit lives on with the erotic denture exchange.
o Kama Sutra Sponge Bath. Practical and sexy and ideal for World Culture Wednesdays when a bunch of claw foot bath tubs are brought into the Activity Room, which is transformed into one giant Cialis commercial (still waiting to hear back from the manufacturer on our invitation to shoot a TV ad).
• Ology Role Play
o Partners take turns playing out fantasies in proctology and gynecology.
o Role reversal adds some spice – Grandpa looks sexy in stirrups. And anal sex is redefined as Grandma bends over while Grandma slips on a latex glove. Even seniors practice safe sex.
o Not to worry, as all nursing homes carry an ample supply of KY!
• Medication Mayhem
o Messy drug interactions abound after Grandpa smuggles in a case of Viagra. Grandpa soon learns to never mix Viagra with blood thinners – that is, if one can learn while in a coma.
o No fewer than seven ambulances are called to rush 7 male cast members and their six blue and swollen members to the ER after the men decide to run their own non-scientific experiment comparing Viagra and Cialis. Hilarity ensues as one cast member engages a search party to recover his lost member, which has apparently fallen off. The effort is fruitless, until it shows up inside a green Jell-O mold for the evening dessert. The ambulance is called back one more time to pump Mabel’s stomach after she accidentally swallows the missing member.
• Call of the Flatulents
o As a species, the human geriatric male has made a unique if not pleasant evolutionary adaptation in response to being caged up with a bunch of dried up post menopausal females. As young bucks, they could simply strut around like mindless apes, thumping their chests violently until a sufficiently self-destructive female was attracted. But now, with expensive life sustaining hardware implanted in their sunken chests and arthritis in their withered and bony wrists, such behavior would likely be fatal. And joints are not the only body parts that have eroded over time. Sphincter control has long since shite the bed, if you will, and flatulence is now the norm. But a group of enterprising males on our show has decided to use this development to their advantage. Like the melancholy Nightingale, they have decided to woo sexual partners by serenading them. In this ingenious adaptation, the men herd the women into the visitors room, lock the door, and then proceed to seduce them with divers exotic and erotic calls of flatulence. Before you can say “Geritol” the men are tooting and honking and trumpeting for potential mates – the Call of the Flatulents! The women, for their part, have mostly lost their olfactory senses and are hard of hearing and figure out, eventually, that they need to exchange geriatric sex (which can be performed while asleep) for freedom, and after several excruciating hours, the police are called to release the visiting family members who were locked up in error. A visit by law enforcement is always good for ratings!
OK, The Captain admits that the show is not really about a Cathouse, merely a group of elderly men and women too old to procreate, be afraid of STDs, or care about social stigmas. They can see the light at the end of the tunnel and are making a mad scramble to misbehave as often as possible before the light consumes them, so God bless them for that!
Believe The Captain when he says: walkers and canes can make interesting sex toys,
Yours praying for my soul,
The Captain
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Project Managerisms
I freely admit that I was once firmly in the camp of those who believe that Project Managers (PMs) and their minions are merely superficial sycophants sucking money from unsuspecting business hosts. But don’t repeat my mistake and assume that PMs are nothing more than Poseurs who simply like telling other people what to do. They are, but they also possess special talents (I’d say skills, except that no one actually teaches it). I am convinced that one is born a PM. They have subtle powers that you would do well not to underestimate. Now it is within the realm of possibility that this line of reasoning is a Captainesque mental construct, that my ego simply finds it more palatable to pretend that PMs make so much money because they have unique talents. Heck, even made up competency is better than none at all. But there is empirical evidence that PMs do share some common traits, what I call “Project Managerisms,” which are outlined below for your reading pleasure.
• An almost psychotic ability to manufacture self-importance. For example, a PM needs only to attend one companywide teleconference with the company CEO to feel empowered to reference said CEO by his or her first name in casual conversation, as if they’ve been bosom buddies since Kindergarten.
• It is second nature for a PM to invent superfluous terminology with meaningless acronyms and get everyone else to adopt their random creations. I am now known to total strangers at work as something called a SME, which seems to be just a notch above Smurf. The only difference is that I actually know what a Smurf is. I have been told that SME stands for Subject Matter Expert, but the fact that gaggles of PMs giggle behind my back whenever someone calls me a SME leads me to believe it stands for something more sinister, perhaps Suck the Money from this Entity. Just sayin’.
• They practice the art of meeting their fellow PM buddies all day for coffee and creating the appearance that they are hard at work. This isn’t as easy as it seems; rumor has it that PMs spend hours upon hours in front of the mirror talking to themselves and pulling faces. In fact, PMs have documented at least 66 different serious facial expressions and a dozen voice tones with gravitas for use at real pretend work. There are even apocryphal stories circulating on the corporate street about the rare PM Savant who can even channel Linda Blair from The Exorcist. I like to call these the Rasputin PMs. Scary…
• They start young. As an innocent boy growing up in the blue collar hamlet of Torrington, CT, I collected baseball cards. I played, learned and loved the nuances of our national pastime and spent years compiling a pretty nice collection. One summer, I organized my collection using a complicated rating system that took several years to devise. Each card was proudly displayed in the appropriate category based on years of study. Then, one fateful afternoon when I was out on the sandlot with my friends from the hood, my sister entered my room without permission and reorganized my collection by uniform color. Aghast upon my return, I noticed that a number of cards were missing. In tears, I confronted my sister, who stated matter-of-factly that she did me a favor by organizing my mess and throwing out the cards of left handed players because they apparently didn’t fit into her organizational plan. So long Sandy Koufax and Ted Williams!! Ah, my sister. Future Project Manager of America.
• PMs have an exceptional ability to create complicated spreadsheets with questionable purposes that only the initiated few can understand; I hear that they actually give out awards at the annual PM Convention for the most elaborate spreadsheets that purposely track items that offer NO BUSINESS VALUE WHATSOEVER – the greater the content of irrelevant information, the greater the value added. Sometimes I think I would make an excellent PM, since I have a knack for creating spreadsheets on the fly that no one can understand (including me). But I’m pretty sure that I’d never make it out of the convention alive. I learned my lesson after being invited as a “special guest” to attend the International Coven at Stonehenge, where I was slated to make a special appearance in a cauldron of boiling water. Never again…
• Venn Diagrams. PMs love them, though I suspect that PMs just randomly throw some lines and shapes on a screen, attach some made up PM descriptors, and pass them off as complex theoretical models that only a Borderline unemployed engineer on Ecstasy can interpret. I can’t prove this, of course, but the repetitive use of acronyms like LSD and STD and PCP makes me wonder. It’s like me and my High School Algebra teacher Mr. Z. I’m convinced he just scribbled random numbers inside lengthy parentheticals on the chalkboard, but, lacking a basic understanding of algebra and constantly having my drugs taken from me by bullies, I couldn’t really be sure.
• A cult-like loyalty to their own kind; nothing illustrates this like the wave of PMs who are laid off simultaneously by a bankrupt company paralyzed by lack or execution due to confusing spreadsheets and labyrinthine project plans designed only to meet artificial deadlines meant to procure bonuses for PMs. It only takes one parasite to attach itself to a new corporate host and before you know it that body is covered in leeches brought along for the ride.
To all my Project Manager friends reading this (if there any left after this post), I challenge you all to compose a rebuttal, possibly your own critique of the foibles and fabrications of those you call your “Business Customers.” I have no doubt you’d have a lot of entertaining observations!
So Believe The Captain when he says: Talking to a mirror beats talking to your teenager!
Yours wearing a Phrygian Cap,
The Captain
Ps: Trivia Challenge – why the reference to a Phrygian Cap????
• An almost psychotic ability to manufacture self-importance. For example, a PM needs only to attend one companywide teleconference with the company CEO to feel empowered to reference said CEO by his or her first name in casual conversation, as if they’ve been bosom buddies since Kindergarten.
• It is second nature for a PM to invent superfluous terminology with meaningless acronyms and get everyone else to adopt their random creations. I am now known to total strangers at work as something called a SME, which seems to be just a notch above Smurf. The only difference is that I actually know what a Smurf is. I have been told that SME stands for Subject Matter Expert, but the fact that gaggles of PMs giggle behind my back whenever someone calls me a SME leads me to believe it stands for something more sinister, perhaps Suck the Money from this Entity. Just sayin’.
• They practice the art of meeting their fellow PM buddies all day for coffee and creating the appearance that they are hard at work. This isn’t as easy as it seems; rumor has it that PMs spend hours upon hours in front of the mirror talking to themselves and pulling faces. In fact, PMs have documented at least 66 different serious facial expressions and a dozen voice tones with gravitas for use at real pretend work. There are even apocryphal stories circulating on the corporate street about the rare PM Savant who can even channel Linda Blair from The Exorcist. I like to call these the Rasputin PMs. Scary…
• They start young. As an innocent boy growing up in the blue collar hamlet of Torrington, CT, I collected baseball cards. I played, learned and loved the nuances of our national pastime and spent years compiling a pretty nice collection. One summer, I organized my collection using a complicated rating system that took several years to devise. Each card was proudly displayed in the appropriate category based on years of study. Then, one fateful afternoon when I was out on the sandlot with my friends from the hood, my sister entered my room without permission and reorganized my collection by uniform color. Aghast upon my return, I noticed that a number of cards were missing. In tears, I confronted my sister, who stated matter-of-factly that she did me a favor by organizing my mess and throwing out the cards of left handed players because they apparently didn’t fit into her organizational plan. So long Sandy Koufax and Ted Williams!! Ah, my sister. Future Project Manager of America.
• PMs have an exceptional ability to create complicated spreadsheets with questionable purposes that only the initiated few can understand; I hear that they actually give out awards at the annual PM Convention for the most elaborate spreadsheets that purposely track items that offer NO BUSINESS VALUE WHATSOEVER – the greater the content of irrelevant information, the greater the value added. Sometimes I think I would make an excellent PM, since I have a knack for creating spreadsheets on the fly that no one can understand (including me). But I’m pretty sure that I’d never make it out of the convention alive. I learned my lesson after being invited as a “special guest” to attend the International Coven at Stonehenge, where I was slated to make a special appearance in a cauldron of boiling water. Never again…
• Venn Diagrams. PMs love them, though I suspect that PMs just randomly throw some lines and shapes on a screen, attach some made up PM descriptors, and pass them off as complex theoretical models that only a Borderline unemployed engineer on Ecstasy can interpret. I can’t prove this, of course, but the repetitive use of acronyms like LSD and STD and PCP makes me wonder. It’s like me and my High School Algebra teacher Mr. Z. I’m convinced he just scribbled random numbers inside lengthy parentheticals on the chalkboard, but, lacking a basic understanding of algebra and constantly having my drugs taken from me by bullies, I couldn’t really be sure.
• A cult-like loyalty to their own kind; nothing illustrates this like the wave of PMs who are laid off simultaneously by a bankrupt company paralyzed by lack or execution due to confusing spreadsheets and labyrinthine project plans designed only to meet artificial deadlines meant to procure bonuses for PMs. It only takes one parasite to attach itself to a new corporate host and before you know it that body is covered in leeches brought along for the ride.
To all my Project Manager friends reading this (if there any left after this post), I challenge you all to compose a rebuttal, possibly your own critique of the foibles and fabrications of those you call your “Business Customers.” I have no doubt you’d have a lot of entertaining observations!
So Believe The Captain when he says: Talking to a mirror beats talking to your teenager!
Yours wearing a Phrygian Cap,
The Captain
Ps: Trivia Challenge – why the reference to a Phrygian Cap????
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sky Mall Time Capsule
Remember that 6th grade social studies project where you and your classmates assembled a limited assortment of objects that told the story of your generation to bury in a Time Capsule for the archaeologists and anthropologists of tomorrow to uncover and deride us for our cultural silliness? I always thought the contrived nature of the experiment rendered it meaningless, because such a limited sampling could not possibly provide future historians with enough data to draw any hard conclusions. But after my flight to Orlando recently, I have reversed course, having found the quintessential Time Capsule filler – the Sky Mall Magazine! Anyone who’s ever taken a commercial jetliner in the USA has read Sky Mall.
Why, you ask, such an unconventional publication, as opposed to the more traditional offerings of Playboy or Penthouse? Two reasons. First, it’s free. Think about it. Who’d pay for Sky Mall?? Second, the sex theme is old and tired, with the ancient Romans perfecting heterosexual licentiousness and the Greeks bringing up the rear for the homo-erotic piece (pun intended). OK, there is a third reason. It’s a perfect microcosm of the world’s very first Consumer-based Civilization. Our true nature is revealed in the crap that we buy and sell and Sky Mall has a little bit of everything and then some.
So if I was a 25th century archaeologist digging through the ruins of the Consumer Civilization and uncovered The Captain’s Time Capsule and read through Sky Mall, what might I conclude about my ancestors?? Well, I spent an inordinate amount of time actually reading Sky Mall recently (just like I used to actually read the insightful and informative articles in Playboy), so I can answer that question – this is my blog, after all.
• Human beings systematically treated pets better than they treated each other.
o Luxury Pet Residence (OK, it’s really just a metal cage with a pillow floor and some mahogany trim slapped on it); half of the world’s human children go to bed cold and hungry, but for $400 Fido can crash in style in his luxury dog condo, munching on bacon flavored doggy treats – bacon flavored!!!. Add the Orthopedic Comfy Couch for only $170.
o It was once customary to take one’s dog outside of the human dwelling to do his duty in the woods or in the corner of the neighbor’s yard, but sometime in the 21st century it became fashionable to buy artificial pooping turf to keep inside the house for Lassie to shit upon. Yes, I’m talking about the Indoor Dog Restroom. Below is the add, word for word; not because I’m being lazy, but because it’s just so damned funny it needs no commentary or embellishment.
Indoor Dog Restroom
This mat-and-tray system gives dogs a place to relieve themselves when they can't get outside for respite. Ideal for high rise-dwelling dogs, when owners aren't home, or even just for times of harsh weather, this ingenious system uses a mat made of antimicrobial, porous artificial turf that gives off an organic scent to attract dogs, so they can be taught quickly that it is an acceptable spot for relieving themselves.
The mat sits on top of a plastic insert which allows liquid to drain into the included tray for easy clean-up. The turf yarn is a unique construction specially designed for use with dogs, and its antimicrobial composition helps prevent odors. The tray is easy to empty and can hold up to two gallons of liquid. 2" H x 30" W x 20" L. (6-1/2 lbs.)
o There are two possible conclusions to be drawn from this historical development: one is that humans had evolved to the point where a highly developed sense of smell was no longer needed for survival; another is that humans had long before reached their intellectual peak and their brains had already turned to mush.
• Human beings got off on sports as opposed to each other.
o Whereas there was a gadget or useless decorative item for every sports team imaginable (they were selling decrepit seats from an old, torn down church called Cathedral Yankee Stadium), there were no posters or videos of attractive naked humans for sale. Back in the day, masturbation was inspired by Miss January, or Mister February; now, kids do it to life sized posters of their favorite ne’er grew up sports hero. I liked our way better. Still do.
o Giant NFL Inflatable Bubba. It’s real. Professional football and prison sex coming to a bedroom or hidden basement chamber near you. The beginning of the end for Consumer Civilization (once again, pun intended).
• Finally, perhaps humans of my time gave up the ghost of sanity, blurring – nay, detonating – the line between survival and socialization.
o My favorite example of this is Wrenchware Flatware – tools that double as flatware, or vice versa, made from drop forged stainless steel. Get a three piece setting for only $27!
So believe The Captain when he asks: Does a bear shit in the woods? And answers: Yes! On the gold encrusted Woodland Bear Throne available exclusively through Sky Mall!
Yours pouring kitty litter on my Yankee Stadium Cathedral seat,
The Captain
The Indoor Dog Restroom aka the end of Consumer Civilization as we know it.
Why, you ask, such an unconventional publication, as opposed to the more traditional offerings of Playboy or Penthouse? Two reasons. First, it’s free. Think about it. Who’d pay for Sky Mall?? Second, the sex theme is old and tired, with the ancient Romans perfecting heterosexual licentiousness and the Greeks bringing up the rear for the homo-erotic piece (pun intended). OK, there is a third reason. It’s a perfect microcosm of the world’s very first Consumer-based Civilization. Our true nature is revealed in the crap that we buy and sell and Sky Mall has a little bit of everything and then some.
So if I was a 25th century archaeologist digging through the ruins of the Consumer Civilization and uncovered The Captain’s Time Capsule and read through Sky Mall, what might I conclude about my ancestors?? Well, I spent an inordinate amount of time actually reading Sky Mall recently (just like I used to actually read the insightful and informative articles in Playboy), so I can answer that question – this is my blog, after all.
• Human beings systematically treated pets better than they treated each other.
o Luxury Pet Residence (OK, it’s really just a metal cage with a pillow floor and some mahogany trim slapped on it); half of the world’s human children go to bed cold and hungry, but for $400 Fido can crash in style in his luxury dog condo, munching on bacon flavored doggy treats – bacon flavored!!!. Add the Orthopedic Comfy Couch for only $170.
o It was once customary to take one’s dog outside of the human dwelling to do his duty in the woods or in the corner of the neighbor’s yard, but sometime in the 21st century it became fashionable to buy artificial pooping turf to keep inside the house for Lassie to shit upon. Yes, I’m talking about the Indoor Dog Restroom. Below is the add, word for word; not because I’m being lazy, but because it’s just so damned funny it needs no commentary or embellishment.
Indoor Dog Restroom
This mat-and-tray system gives dogs a place to relieve themselves when they can't get outside for respite. Ideal for high rise-dwelling dogs, when owners aren't home, or even just for times of harsh weather, this ingenious system uses a mat made of antimicrobial, porous artificial turf that gives off an organic scent to attract dogs, so they can be taught quickly that it is an acceptable spot for relieving themselves.
The mat sits on top of a plastic insert which allows liquid to drain into the included tray for easy clean-up. The turf yarn is a unique construction specially designed for use with dogs, and its antimicrobial composition helps prevent odors. The tray is easy to empty and can hold up to two gallons of liquid. 2" H x 30" W x 20" L. (6-1/2 lbs.)
o There are two possible conclusions to be drawn from this historical development: one is that humans had evolved to the point where a highly developed sense of smell was no longer needed for survival; another is that humans had long before reached their intellectual peak and their brains had already turned to mush.
• Human beings got off on sports as opposed to each other.
o Whereas there was a gadget or useless decorative item for every sports team imaginable (they were selling decrepit seats from an old, torn down church called Cathedral Yankee Stadium), there were no posters or videos of attractive naked humans for sale. Back in the day, masturbation was inspired by Miss January, or Mister February; now, kids do it to life sized posters of their favorite ne’er grew up sports hero. I liked our way better. Still do.
o Giant NFL Inflatable Bubba. It’s real. Professional football and prison sex coming to a bedroom or hidden basement chamber near you. The beginning of the end for Consumer Civilization (once again, pun intended).
• Finally, perhaps humans of my time gave up the ghost of sanity, blurring – nay, detonating – the line between survival and socialization.
o My favorite example of this is Wrenchware Flatware – tools that double as flatware, or vice versa, made from drop forged stainless steel. Get a three piece setting for only $27!
So believe The Captain when he asks: Does a bear shit in the woods? And answers: Yes! On the gold encrusted Woodland Bear Throne available exclusively through Sky Mall!
Yours pouring kitty litter on my Yankee Stadium Cathedral seat,
The Captain
The Indoor Dog Restroom aka the end of Consumer Civilization as we know it.
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