Dear Readers, I say I have a “blog” when, in fact, I simply write occasional rambling comic explosions and duds, always twisted, and nothing resembling that state we call “normal.” I rarely just put my thoughts directly down on paper. I find that placing a piece of paper over my laptop screen just blocks my view of the screen when I try to type. And the one time I actually tried to scribble on the paper resulted in some pretty ugly scratches to my LCD screen, so I quickly abandoned this method. But let’s be honest, thoughts like mine are much better suited to being recorded on a tool that allows me to strike out entire lengthy passages with a single keystroke. Believe it or not, I could easily fill several volumes with the thousands of thoughts I deemed too inappropriate or bizarre or incoherent to publish. While my brain and liver argue it out violently inside me, my spleen thankfully intervenes and chucks these thoughts into my deleted bin before any damage can be done. But I have been told that I can blog on my computer, so I decided to try it out by writing a Travel Blog about my trip down to Washington, DC, with my 17 year old son to look at colleges. I am sitting in my hotel bed in Arlington, VA as I write this. Pardon me if at times I seem distracted, because my son is just over yonder at the desk on his laptop and he’s holding a dialogue with several voices coming out of his computer. There’s apparently a computer program called Ventrillo that allows a group of people to talk to each other simultaneously through their computers while on-line. I guess you need a server to run the program. I thought this was kinda cool, but whenever I ask my son about some nifty thing he does with his computer, I hear things – possibly not quite legal things – so I’ve learned just to nod and say “cool” and forget I ever heard anything. Seeing as how Blogs seem like a stream of consciousness approach to writing, it’s a bit risky for me. I fear typing myself to death in an endless thought loop. Thank god I suck at typing. But I will try to at least stick to the topic, which is my trip.
The Washington Monument
You can’t visit the tourist area and not see this thing. It’s just too damn big to miss, for one thing. And for another, it’s the largest Phallus in the world. I don’t know this to be true, but I bet it got your attention. But The Captain always manages to see things his own way. If you have never been to the Mall, its design is symbolic. It’s a giant rectangle with the Capitol building at one end and the Lincoln memorial at the other, with the White House off at angle to the North and Washington’s Unit smack dab in the center. The three branches of Government are physically separated, representing the symbolic checks and balances of our government which I would have studied in High School had I ever done that sort of thing. So even though the idea of the world’s largest penis watching over our government appeals to my cruder instincts, that’s not what I saw today as I stood on the majestic mound on which this monument was erected (sorry, that just came out). I saw a giant bird. Or put another way, I see the father of our country flipping off the three branches of government. The Commander in Chief who resides in the White House gets the middle finger salute. The lawmakers in the Capitol get flipped off their hill, while Lincoln gets the Bird who shits on his monument because George is jealous that Abe got a fancy Greek building while he got…well, you know what he got. Now don’t worry all you anal retentive readers, I realize that the there is a third branch of government that has heretofore not been mentioned. There’s a reason for that. Those nine sneaky judges in silly robes are laying low in the Supreme Court building hidden inconspicuously behind the Capitol building. But alas, George’s Phallus happens to be the tallest structure in DC and George can easily spy these lawyers from the tip of his, er, monument. For them, he reserves the classical digitus impudicus because it nicely complements the classical Greek and Roman architectural touches of that building.
The District of Columbia War Memorial
I am willing to bet that even those of you who have been to DC quite often have never seen this. It is way off the beaten path, far from the crowds who walk up and down the Mall to see Lincoln’s statue and George’s penis. The only reason I even know about it was because I was taking a leisurely stroll down by the Tidal Basin admiring the beautiful, creamy white dome of the Jefferson Memorial when I fatefully glanced to the right once Thomas Jefferson was out of sight. I noticed what looked like a miniature dome mostly hidden by overgrown evergreens. Even when most of the trees were still bare, this poor step child of monuments was out of sight due to neglect and indifference. At first I thought it might be a smaller gray replica of the Jefferson Memorial, but as I approached I was able to make out the inscription on the dingy gray granite that surely once upon a time had shimmered white and proud as a memorial to all those residents of the District of Columbia who perished in World War I fighting for their country. I immediately thought of a conversation I’d just had with my son about the District of Columbia not being a full member of our collection of states. Though residents can vote for local officials and for the President, they still cannot vote for a Senator or Congressman, a thought which was echoed by a bumper sticker which recalled the reason our nation declared its Independence from England: Taxation without Representation. Poor DC. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I was sympathetic, but even so, I decided not to photograph it and waste 6MB of space on my digital camera. I felt a little guilty, but thankfully that sort of feeling never lasts more than a second or two with me. But the next time you are in DC, please visit this memorial and pay homage to our forgotten heroes, and bring a bucket of bleach solution with you.
College Mascots
That last blog seemed a bit too boring for me, referencing history and shit. So I am returning to my comfort zone: silly human behavior. I understand that college mascots have a long and storied history. But after visiting three colleges in two days, I think things have gone way too far. Let’s start with the University of Maryland Terrapin. Terrapin is a fancy name for a turtle. I don’t see the appeal of a slow, ugly quadruped, I really don’t. But that really isn’t relevant to the story. It seems that every school mascot gets a statue. So as part of our tour, the ridiculously perky tour guides made every member of the group rub the snout of the large bronze turtle for good luck. Like sheep, we all did. And clearly so did everybody else because his nose was more shiny than the rest of him. Well, more than most of him. Some invisible compulsion drove The Captain to walk behind the turtle and lo and behold he had a shiny tail. I opened my mouth to ask…but thankfully for the normal people on the tour (pretty much everybody else) thought better of it. One more thing to research on the Internet!
So it was on to George Washington University and the Colonials! Colonials actually makes sense for this school. Yet, they still felt the need to place a statue of an animal on a busy street corner in downtown Washington DC. You will never guess what the animal is in a million years so I’m just gonna tell you that it’s a hippo. The tour guide told some lame story about a former University President who made an impulse buy and brought home a large bronze statue of a hippopotamus, which is derived from the Latin words for Horse and River. Yes, I took three painful years of Latin in high school just so I could explain this to you! (The etymological origins of the word are actually Greek, but if I had told you this then I could never have penned that last sentence.) Well, the President’s wife unbelievably refuses to allow our River Horse into her home and before you know it, our donated statue was affixed to a concrete block in the center of the GW campus. And yes, once again, we all rubbed his stupid shiny nose, much to the amusement of the matriculated students walking past. I started to walk behind the Hippo to take a peak but decided at the last second that it would be better for all involved if I didn’t. That one, thankfully, will remain a mystery.
Today we stood within the Ivy covered walls of Georgetown University, which had its unique perspective on these matters. Yes, there was another bronze statue right in the center of the beautiful campus green; not of an animal but of the University founder, some old, constipated looking guy in academic robes sitting on a chair with books stacked underneath. The tour guide explained that the original statue never had books under the chair. Rather, students from days of yore would take their books at the end of the year and stack them under the old guy’s chair as a joke. It would rain and the books would get musty and smell, so finally the school added the permanent bronze books to put and end to these collegial shenanigans. All I could think was: what a freaking boring story. But it got worse. For some unthinkable reason, he goes on to explain how Georgetown students are called “Hoyas.” Apparently, back in the day when football was played with leather helmets and many of the students at the all male Jesuit school were studying to be priests, they somehow thought that it would be swell fun to combine a Greek word with a Roman word to describe the team’s defensive line, which was like a “Hoya Saxa” which roughly translates to “Rock Wall.” I started to doze off so before I fell over from boredom I walked behind the statue of old constipated and lo and behold, the piece of his ass sticking out the back of the chair was shinier than the rest of him! I hailed a passing student and asked him about this and he just laughed and shook his head and said, “Sorry, I graduate in three months.” End of story, so to speak.
So believe The Captain when he says: If college mascots could talk, many careers would be ruined.”
Yours at my wit’s end!
The Captain
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Captain Talks Insurance
I’ve called myself an Insurance professional. I’ve also been known to embellish. I do in fact work for an insurance company. And though my work has been called amateurish, they do pay me in legal tender to do it, so, like an athlete, I qualify as a professional. But please don’t ask me what I do for a living and I promise not to ask you to read your insurance policy.
They sent me away down South for three weeks when I first started working just so I could study insurance policies. But here I am, twelve years later, and I still can’t quite figure out what they mean. They are written in English. Or at least, I recognize most of the words as English words, with some foreign looking ones interspersed. I am going to try and define for you some of these foreign sounding words using practical, real life analogies to test my mettle as a true Insurance professional. So here it comes: The Captain’s real life parable of Insurance terminology.
The Parable of Dumbass and his “Friends”
Remember when you were in High School and the pressure to have a girlfriend was greater than the need to actually like her? You complained to all your friends about the human Peril and all the damage she was doing to your psyche until one concerned comrade agreed to take on your pain one Friday evening by taking her off your hands. This is called Indemnification. And remember how they went to the movies and she went straight into his hands, literally? This was the payment for the promise to take on your pain, or what we in the biz call Premium. And remember how they went back to her parent’s bedroom and did it and were so hammered they forgot to use birth control? Shortly thereafter a Paternity claim ensued. And even though he never intended for this to happen, your buddy was now committed to paying that claim. In fancy Insurance language, this poor bastard was Estopped. And remember how pissed you were at your other friends who so generously supplied the Wild Irish Rose used by the Estopped? How you tried to exact revenge on them only to discover that the right to Subrogate now legally belonged to – no freakin’ kidding – the Estopped? And how you planned for weeks to exact revenge on the Estopped and the Peril and ambushed them at a Lamaze class with water balloons and an M80? And how they made a claim against your parents’ Homeowners Liability policy and how the claim was denied because it was an Intentional Act? And how Mom and Dad kicked your sorry butt out on the street?
Thus sayeth The Captain: Aramaic is easier to interpret than an Insurance policy.
Yours with all new friends,
The Captain
They sent me away down South for three weeks when I first started working just so I could study insurance policies. But here I am, twelve years later, and I still can’t quite figure out what they mean. They are written in English. Or at least, I recognize most of the words as English words, with some foreign looking ones interspersed. I am going to try and define for you some of these foreign sounding words using practical, real life analogies to test my mettle as a true Insurance professional. So here it comes: The Captain’s real life parable of Insurance terminology.
The Parable of Dumbass and his “Friends”
Remember when you were in High School and the pressure to have a girlfriend was greater than the need to actually like her? You complained to all your friends about the human Peril and all the damage she was doing to your psyche until one concerned comrade agreed to take on your pain one Friday evening by taking her off your hands. This is called Indemnification. And remember how they went to the movies and she went straight into his hands, literally? This was the payment for the promise to take on your pain, or what we in the biz call Premium. And remember how they went back to her parent’s bedroom and did it and were so hammered they forgot to use birth control? Shortly thereafter a Paternity claim ensued. And even though he never intended for this to happen, your buddy was now committed to paying that claim. In fancy Insurance language, this poor bastard was Estopped. And remember how pissed you were at your other friends who so generously supplied the Wild Irish Rose used by the Estopped? How you tried to exact revenge on them only to discover that the right to Subrogate now legally belonged to – no freakin’ kidding – the Estopped? And how you planned for weeks to exact revenge on the Estopped and the Peril and ambushed them at a Lamaze class with water balloons and an M80? And how they made a claim against your parents’ Homeowners Liability policy and how the claim was denied because it was an Intentional Act? And how Mom and Dad kicked your sorry butt out on the street?
Thus sayeth The Captain: Aramaic is easier to interpret than an Insurance policy.
Yours with all new friends,
The Captain
Thursday, January 15, 2009
The Captain's Lecture on Economics
If you haven’t heard, a young American woman by the name of Natalie Dylan is auctioning off her virginity to the highest bidder to pay for college. As of this keystroke, the bidding has reached an astounding $3.7 million. My initial reaction was to auction off something of myself in hopes of fetching seven figures so I can afford to go out and buy some decent gin. After all, Natalie Dylan and I have much in common. She’s young, attractive, a virgin, and uses an alias. I use an alias and am just a handful of clumsy rolls in the hay beyond virginity. Plus, having already paid off my college loans, I figure I’m ahead of the game. However, reality, the bane of my existence, intervened in the guise of my bathroom mirror, and sex was ruled out. So what do I have to offer? I could auction off an original piece of literature with my signature wit, quirky humor and utter detachment from what is normal and decent. But then I realized that I already give it away for free on the internet. Oh well. Easy come, easy go.
But my demon compulsions are at it again and I feel the need to offer a social commentary rant related to our entrepreneurial virgin, or at least Mr. diseased liver wants to. But my indignation is not moral. I have no bone to pick with prostitution, the oldest profession. The Captain applauds Natalie Dylan for her provocative Capitalist coup - $3.7 million. My concern, purely altruistic, is with the diminution of the American economic IQ as epitomized by our high bidder. The case of Natalie Dylan flies in the face of that most basic of economic laws: supply and demand. So into virgin territory I dive with The Captain’s first ever lecture on economic theory!
The Captain’s First Time Economic Lecture OR Why the price of Natalie Dylan’s hymen is artificially inflated.
Even if Natalie could offer proof of her virginity, her condition is hardly rare in Southern California given the high incidence rate of the wildly popular Virginity Restoration surgery; demographically, 40 year old female virgins are the fastest growing segment of the population, thus the supply side is oversaturated and should drive down the price of virgin sex.
Though one could argue for a slight upward price adjustment based on Natalie’s status as a brunette, there is still a slut, excuse me, glut of attractive young women who reside in Southern California who would do it for a fixed price of three figures. Further complicating matters are the limited number of women who fail to charge anything at all, claiming they enjoy it.
Studies show that the first sexual experience for women is often awkward and uncomfortable. From the female perspective, this factor should drive up the price; however, the market (men) is unable to differentiate (tell the difference), so the price remains stable.
Market behavior, and in this case Natalie’s bed sheets, will typically fluctuate up and down. And though Natalie’s first time will undoubtedly be the high point of our Market chart, we must not forget the downward trend of all her subsequent meaningless sexual encounters with emotionally stunted males represented by the dots which fall below the x axis.
So based on the above, we must reach the elementary conclusion that the John willing to pay $3.7 million to have sex with Natalie is the NY Yankee of Johns, outrageously outbidding himself for her professional services, and should be required to take Economics 101 classes.
Believe The Captain when he says,
Sex is free with a free hand,
Yours typing singlehandedly,
The Captain
But my demon compulsions are at it again and I feel the need to offer a social commentary rant related to our entrepreneurial virgin, or at least Mr. diseased liver wants to. But my indignation is not moral. I have no bone to pick with prostitution, the oldest profession. The Captain applauds Natalie Dylan for her provocative Capitalist coup - $3.7 million. My concern, purely altruistic, is with the diminution of the American economic IQ as epitomized by our high bidder. The case of Natalie Dylan flies in the face of that most basic of economic laws: supply and demand. So into virgin territory I dive with The Captain’s first ever lecture on economic theory!
The Captain’s First Time Economic Lecture OR Why the price of Natalie Dylan’s hymen is artificially inflated.
Even if Natalie could offer proof of her virginity, her condition is hardly rare in Southern California given the high incidence rate of the wildly popular Virginity Restoration surgery; demographically, 40 year old female virgins are the fastest growing segment of the population, thus the supply side is oversaturated and should drive down the price of virgin sex.
Though one could argue for a slight upward price adjustment based on Natalie’s status as a brunette, there is still a slut, excuse me, glut of attractive young women who reside in Southern California who would do it for a fixed price of three figures. Further complicating matters are the limited number of women who fail to charge anything at all, claiming they enjoy it.
Studies show that the first sexual experience for women is often awkward and uncomfortable. From the female perspective, this factor should drive up the price; however, the market (men) is unable to differentiate (tell the difference), so the price remains stable.
Market behavior, and in this case Natalie’s bed sheets, will typically fluctuate up and down. And though Natalie’s first time will undoubtedly be the high point of our Market chart, we must not forget the downward trend of all her subsequent meaningless sexual encounters with emotionally stunted males represented by the dots which fall below the x axis.
So based on the above, we must reach the elementary conclusion that the John willing to pay $3.7 million to have sex with Natalie is the NY Yankee of Johns, outrageously outbidding himself for her professional services, and should be required to take Economics 101 classes.
Believe The Captain when he says,
Sex is free with a free hand,
Yours typing singlehandedly,
The Captain
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Dear The Captain
Dear The Captain:
Recently I went on vacation for two weeks and had to find someone to take care of my dog Blarney while I was away. My so-called best friend offered to come and feed him twice a day, and also agreed to bring him to the adjoining park to do his business. Blarney also likes to run around loose in the park. On one such outing while Blarney was getting his exercise my supposed friend suffered a heart attack and a good Samaritan called an ambulance. My friend was taken to the hospital. As I understand it, she maintained full consciousness during the entire trip. Don't you think she might have mentioned to somebody that there was a yellow Lab running about in the park unattended?
I am home from vacation now, and my fair weather friend is fully recovered, but Blarney is still on the loose. Is there some kind of legal action I can take against this moron who agreed to care for my pet and completely screwed up?
Missing Blarney
Dear Missing Blarney,
Good dogs are hard to find, while “friends” with heart conditions are a dime a dozen. Just a hunch, but have you checked your friend’s house for signs of Blarney? This whole story could be nothing more than a twisted but creative ploy to steal your dog. My Claims Adjuster antennae are telling me to ask for a copy of the ambulance bill. I’d love to know how your friend responds to this request. If she hems and haws, you’re on to something. If she drops dead of a heart attack, you never wrote to me.
Yours harking back to my life as a marginally trained Claims Investigator,
The Captain
Dear The Captain:
I recently had a coughing fit and was mortified when it triggered an equal but opposite reaction. What I mean is, I broke wind while coughing. It was all completely uncontrollable and caused everyone in the room to laugh hysterically at my expense. Okay, I sucked it up and got on with my life, but now I am wondering: am I the only one who has this condition? I would like to take a survey but it's rather a delicate question and probably much too personal to quiz friends and relatives as to whether they involuntarily fart while coughing, sneezing, vomiting, or lifting heavy items. And if I am the only one, is there anything I can do about it?
Signed,
Oops, pardon me
Dear Windbreaker,
You’ve got it all wrong. The fart is one of the most reliable laugh triggers ever released. I have heard stories of individuals who practice for hours on end just to be able to break wind on demand. So rest assured, your condition is not only common, but desirable. In your case, I’d recommend carrying around a turkey feather to induce a cough upon request and a pack of matches to provide a little extra dramatic “flare.” So be proud and by all means practice. If you’re friends or relatives don’t like it, you can quickly send them scrambling with a little tickle of the throat and a flick of a match!
Yours ever longwinded,
The Captain
Recently I went on vacation for two weeks and had to find someone to take care of my dog Blarney while I was away. My so-called best friend offered to come and feed him twice a day, and also agreed to bring him to the adjoining park to do his business. Blarney also likes to run around loose in the park. On one such outing while Blarney was getting his exercise my supposed friend suffered a heart attack and a good Samaritan called an ambulance. My friend was taken to the hospital. As I understand it, she maintained full consciousness during the entire trip. Don't you think she might have mentioned to somebody that there was a yellow Lab running about in the park unattended?
I am home from vacation now, and my fair weather friend is fully recovered, but Blarney is still on the loose. Is there some kind of legal action I can take against this moron who agreed to care for my pet and completely screwed up?
Missing Blarney
Dear Missing Blarney,
Good dogs are hard to find, while “friends” with heart conditions are a dime a dozen. Just a hunch, but have you checked your friend’s house for signs of Blarney? This whole story could be nothing more than a twisted but creative ploy to steal your dog. My Claims Adjuster antennae are telling me to ask for a copy of the ambulance bill. I’d love to know how your friend responds to this request. If she hems and haws, you’re on to something. If she drops dead of a heart attack, you never wrote to me.
Yours harking back to my life as a marginally trained Claims Investigator,
The Captain
Dear The Captain:
I recently had a coughing fit and was mortified when it triggered an equal but opposite reaction. What I mean is, I broke wind while coughing. It was all completely uncontrollable and caused everyone in the room to laugh hysterically at my expense. Okay, I sucked it up and got on with my life, but now I am wondering: am I the only one who has this condition? I would like to take a survey but it's rather a delicate question and probably much too personal to quiz friends and relatives as to whether they involuntarily fart while coughing, sneezing, vomiting, or lifting heavy items. And if I am the only one, is there anything I can do about it?
Signed,
Oops, pardon me
Dear Windbreaker,
You’ve got it all wrong. The fart is one of the most reliable laugh triggers ever released. I have heard stories of individuals who practice for hours on end just to be able to break wind on demand. So rest assured, your condition is not only common, but desirable. In your case, I’d recommend carrying around a turkey feather to induce a cough upon request and a pack of matches to provide a little extra dramatic “flare.” So be proud and by all means practice. If you’re friends or relatives don’t like it, you can quickly send them scrambling with a little tickle of the throat and a flick of a match!
Yours ever longwinded,
The Captain
Sunday, December 21, 2008
If You Work Hard, You Can Become Anything You Want
Exposing myths is my job. Though I don’t get paid to do this, The Captain gladly accepts monetary contributions for making the world a better place in my mind. Being no ordinary fool, I only solicit hard currency even though my contributions are “soft” or, as some of my sober readers have pointed out without prompting, imaginary. If you feel a snide, clever response to my solicitation is called for, by all means make a comment on my blog. Otherwise, pay attention, because what I am about to say is of the utmost urgency and gravity to me or, to put it bluntly, utterly unimportant (If you’re counting, that’s two instances of consonance in the same sentence using the letter “u”; in fact, if you really are counting, please go take your medication right this instant because that ain’t normal.)!
Who has not been given the obligatory parental lecture about working hard so you can give credence to a rather trite Army recruiting commercial? Be all that you can be. If you just work hard, you can become anything you want. To that, The Captain says “Hum Bugger”! Dear old Dad – God rest his soul so weary with bearing the cross of parenting The Captain – always said “Work hard and you can be anything you want, son, even President. Find something you’re good at and become the best at it.” There is both falsehood and truth in his words. So here come some myth exploding bullet points of Wisdom from The Captain!
The Captain’s Reasons Why Hard Work Is Overrated
· It’s hard; I’d much prefer success and wealth to come easily.
· It’s simply not true that you can be whatever you want if you simply work hard. Here are some examples:
o I can never be an engineer; I worked like a dog at algebra – extra help after school from the teacher, tutors, stimulants – but my brain is not wired for it. My father was an engineer but those genes skipped over The Captain – thanks for nothing Pop.
o No matter how much I toil, I can never be an astronaut. Someone please explain to me why my cavities preclude me from blasting off into space?!
o I can never be a track star. In sixth grade, the number one recess activity was the 100 yard “Battle of the Sexes” dash along the painted white line on the pavement separating the boys and girls on the playground. Girl on one side, boy on the other. Mano a Donna. I trained for months for my end of the year showdown with Denise Bodner, the speedy girl who lived two houses down from me in the hood. I ran stairs. I ran with weights. I ran like Dick fleeing Jane and her deadly cooties. By the time June rolled around, I was in the best shape of my young life. But the girl still kicked my ass. Enough said on this painful topic.
o Lotto. Wealth awaits those who work hard in school, slave away at work, and invest their earnings wisely. But if that’s not appealing to you, throw a few bucks down for a Lottery ticket while you’re at the convenience store picking up some beef jerky and a pack of Marlboros to smoke while you watch the big game on the big screen TV in your double wide with the satellite dish. Bingo – a multimillionaire is born!
o President is also out of the question; you might manage to get yourself hired at Burger King with a criminal record, but not at the White Castle in Washington, DC!
Migrant Farm Workers: These poor bastards work like dogs in the dirty, sweaty fields and all they get for their trouble is a little bit of cash and some measly trips to the mall in retired school buses painted a conspicuous power blue.
Snow: The harder I shovel it, the faster it falls!
Now Dad wasn’t all wrong, however. I have found a niche for which I can claim some success. Though I suspect that when he asked me “Can’t you give me a straight answer just once without embellishing?” he never envisioned that his words would one day be the inspiration for the literary and highly fictional character you all know and love as The Captain!
Believe The Captain when he says: Be like most people and become something less than what you hoped to be and unburden yourself of those annoying expectations!
Yours already there,
The Captain
Who has not been given the obligatory parental lecture about working hard so you can give credence to a rather trite Army recruiting commercial? Be all that you can be. If you just work hard, you can become anything you want. To that, The Captain says “Hum Bugger”! Dear old Dad – God rest his soul so weary with bearing the cross of parenting The Captain – always said “Work hard and you can be anything you want, son, even President. Find something you’re good at and become the best at it.” There is both falsehood and truth in his words. So here come some myth exploding bullet points of Wisdom from The Captain!
The Captain’s Reasons Why Hard Work Is Overrated
· It’s hard; I’d much prefer success and wealth to come easily.
· It’s simply not true that you can be whatever you want if you simply work hard. Here are some examples:
o I can never be an engineer; I worked like a dog at algebra – extra help after school from the teacher, tutors, stimulants – but my brain is not wired for it. My father was an engineer but those genes skipped over The Captain – thanks for nothing Pop.
o No matter how much I toil, I can never be an astronaut. Someone please explain to me why my cavities preclude me from blasting off into space?!
o I can never be a track star. In sixth grade, the number one recess activity was the 100 yard “Battle of the Sexes” dash along the painted white line on the pavement separating the boys and girls on the playground. Girl on one side, boy on the other. Mano a Donna. I trained for months for my end of the year showdown with Denise Bodner, the speedy girl who lived two houses down from me in the hood. I ran stairs. I ran with weights. I ran like Dick fleeing Jane and her deadly cooties. By the time June rolled around, I was in the best shape of my young life. But the girl still kicked my ass. Enough said on this painful topic.
o Lotto. Wealth awaits those who work hard in school, slave away at work, and invest their earnings wisely. But if that’s not appealing to you, throw a few bucks down for a Lottery ticket while you’re at the convenience store picking up some beef jerky and a pack of Marlboros to smoke while you watch the big game on the big screen TV in your double wide with the satellite dish. Bingo – a multimillionaire is born!
o President is also out of the question; you might manage to get yourself hired at Burger King with a criminal record, but not at the White Castle in Washington, DC!
Migrant Farm Workers: These poor bastards work like dogs in the dirty, sweaty fields and all they get for their trouble is a little bit of cash and some measly trips to the mall in retired school buses painted a conspicuous power blue.
Snow: The harder I shovel it, the faster it falls!
Now Dad wasn’t all wrong, however. I have found a niche for which I can claim some success. Though I suspect that when he asked me “Can’t you give me a straight answer just once without embellishing?” he never envisioned that his words would one day be the inspiration for the literary and highly fictional character you all know and love as The Captain!
Believe The Captain when he says: Be like most people and become something less than what you hoped to be and unburden yourself of those annoying expectations!
Yours already there,
The Captain
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
The Captain's IQ Quiz
The Captain’s IQ Quiz for the Cerebrally Challenged (a multiple choice quiz because that was always my favorite kind – other than the unannounced essay quiz.)
1. A Macaw is:
a. A Unicorn in heat
b. A Native American tribe that was driven from Fall River, MA, by drunk European settlers
c. A large colorful parrot
d. All of the above
2. Chourico is:
a. Slang for an Insurance Slut
b. The scientific name for moldy Portuguese sausage
c. A Mexican parlor game played with a piñata, tequila, and strippers
d. A Guatemalan folk dance
3. Ike is:
a. Tina Turner’s makeup artist
b. A nickname for the US President Dwight D. Eisenhower
c. Official name given to the 2008 Hurricane that struck the Gulf Coast in September
d. All of the above
4. Table Tennis is:
a. The formal name for Ping Pong
b. A sport played with paddles and a small white ball (sometimes while standing drunk on the table)
c. An activity used by Forest Gump to keep his hands occupied.
d. Tennis for Lilliputians
5. The Insurance profession is:
a. God’s way of punishing people who couldn’t decide what they wanted to do when they grow up
b. A popular work destination for the Witness Protection Program
c. Like moving the bowels – a necessary but malodorous function.
d. The new Hell
Bonus Question!
6. The square root of π is:
a. I have no effin clue
b. Huh?
c. Irrelevant
d. A trick question
Answer Key
1. C (tastes like chicken)
2. B, if you believe in junk science, which I do
3. D (Though A is a cheap shot for sure)
4. A (And you thought it was B!)
5. A, B, C, or D
Bonus Question
6. A, B, C, or D
Each correct answer is worth 20 points. As questions 5 and 6 each had 4 correct answers to choose from, even the dimmest of wits (aka Dwits) should score at least 40. Good news for morons who still managed to score a big fat 0 (neither E nor any subsequent letter in the Alphabet would ever be correct); regardless of the score, your status as a moron is safe.
Believe The Captain when he says: Shetland Ponies are not Unicorns, so don’t bother to “borrow” one from the local circus farm and try to hide it in your back yard – they have no magical powers and are not invisible; AND a D average equals a diploma
Yours with a “solid” D plus average,
The Captain
1. A Macaw is:
a. A Unicorn in heat
b. A Native American tribe that was driven from Fall River, MA, by drunk European settlers
c. A large colorful parrot
d. All of the above
2. Chourico is:
a. Slang for an Insurance Slut
b. The scientific name for moldy Portuguese sausage
c. A Mexican parlor game played with a piñata, tequila, and strippers
d. A Guatemalan folk dance
3. Ike is:
a. Tina Turner’s makeup artist
b. A nickname for the US President Dwight D. Eisenhower
c. Official name given to the 2008 Hurricane that struck the Gulf Coast in September
d. All of the above
4. Table Tennis is:
a. The formal name for Ping Pong
b. A sport played with paddles and a small white ball (sometimes while standing drunk on the table)
c. An activity used by Forest Gump to keep his hands occupied.
d. Tennis for Lilliputians
5. The Insurance profession is:
a. God’s way of punishing people who couldn’t decide what they wanted to do when they grow up
b. A popular work destination for the Witness Protection Program
c. Like moving the bowels – a necessary but malodorous function.
d. The new Hell
Bonus Question!
6. The square root of π is:
a. I have no effin clue
b. Huh?
c. Irrelevant
d. A trick question
Answer Key
1. C (tastes like chicken)
2. B, if you believe in junk science, which I do
3. D (Though A is a cheap shot for sure)
4. A (And you thought it was B!)
5. A, B, C, or D
Bonus Question
6. A, B, C, or D
Each correct answer is worth 20 points. As questions 5 and 6 each had 4 correct answers to choose from, even the dimmest of wits (aka Dwits) should score at least 40. Good news for morons who still managed to score a big fat 0 (neither E nor any subsequent letter in the Alphabet would ever be correct); regardless of the score, your status as a moron is safe.
Believe The Captain when he says: Shetland Ponies are not Unicorns, so don’t bother to “borrow” one from the local circus farm and try to hide it in your back yard – they have no magical powers and are not invisible; AND a D average equals a diploma
Yours with a “solid” D plus average,
The Captain
Friday, November 28, 2008
The Captain, Evolution, and Sexuality
Discussing sex with your kids is always an adventure – at least it is for The Captain, though I am guessing people of all generations consider a conversation with yours truly adventuresome. While riding in the car the other day with my three legitimate children, my 16 year old son and self-professed atheist began an interesting conversation about science and religion, which somehow took a wrong turn down a side discussion alley about sex (and it wasn’t even me but my 13 year old daughter who brought it up). He was discussing a scientific theory that stated that Bisexual human beings have an evolutionary advantage over Heterosexual and Homosexual humans. He claimed it was based on actual research. I did not verbalize the thoughts that popped into my head about how such an experiment might be conducted as my 9 year old son was in the car – he doesn’t need any ideas. But I was intrigued.
So I shared a story about a very heated debate I once witnessed while attending a class that was part of the Certification training for the CT Sexual Assault Crisis hotline (yes, a true story and no, I do not have the time or space here to explain – perhaps another time). The topic was sexual assault in the Gay and Lesbian communities. I was listening quietly (for once I had nothing to offer) when a woman stood up and announced that she was Bisexual and suggested that future training include Bisexuality in the discussion. This seemed like a logical suggestion to me, which should have been a dead giveaway that something was about to go awry – which it did. Immediately, a group of angry homosexuals pounced on this poor woman. Gays and Lesbians alike began screaming that there is no such thing as a Bisexual. She must be a Lesbian in denial! She must be confused, a victim of right wing religious propaganda insisting that homosexuality is a mortal sin! I woke right up. Being a male, I am genetically predisposed to enjoy a good catfight, and here a doozy was brewing between a bunch of lesbians and a Bisexual woman (who was drop dead gorgeous, by the way)! However, my enthusiasm was soon tempered by the very real possibility of the pissy Gay men jumping to the fray. Much to my chagrin, the dismayed training facilitator soon recovered her wits and was able to restore order before anything really interesting developed.
I am not entirely sure why I thought this story was relevant to the discussion other than my admitted penchant for non sequiturs; I probably thought it might be a clever diversion, but the offspring of The Captain are on to me, and my daughter asked me what I would do if one my children turned out to be Gay, Lesbian or Bisexual? In typical fashion, I responded that, as a parent, I am categorically, emphatically and morally against parents having sex with their children. My daughter, who is accustomed to her Father’s twisted and disjointed stabs at humorous distraction, replied as she always does: “Daddy, that is so sick!” laughing through her words of mock indignation. But she plied on, repeating her question. I answered that I was offended by her exclusion of Asexual human beings in her query. What about those people who, like the poet Morrissey, claim to have no sexual drive whatsoever? “Answer the question” came the reply. The damn kid is relentless. So I told her that I would love her no matter what. That shut her up!
Meanwhile, my oldest son was waiting patiently to share some of the research findings. For example, there are hermaphroditic fish which turn male or female in response to the prevailing natural stress of their environment. I said “Huh?” He explained that if there was a shortage of females, then a male could “convert” to the feminine, or vice versa, so the fish could continue to reproduce to ensure survival. Or when food for a particular species is scarce, rather than continue to reproduce at the same rate, the number of homosexual relationships increases so that the number of offspring decreases so that no member of the species will ever starve to death.
I pondered the above and reached the inevitable conclusion and announced to my brood that I should not be surprised if they all turned out to be homosexual. I know Mother Nature and there is no way she’d let my kids pass on to future generations the defective genes they inherited from their father. Oh well, I’ll certainly be saving on Christmas gifts for the grand kids! My 9 year old Ginger (slightly condescending slang for red headed people) meanwhile, who was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the conversation, announced that he was very annoyed by the fact that he’d have to break the news to the 17 or so girls who “liked” him that they would need to look elsewhere for a boy with whom to lip kiss. He then announced that he was a Lesbian.
Believe The Captain when he says: “The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son!
Yours a victim of evolutionary theory,
The Captain
So I shared a story about a very heated debate I once witnessed while attending a class that was part of the Certification training for the CT Sexual Assault Crisis hotline (yes, a true story and no, I do not have the time or space here to explain – perhaps another time). The topic was sexual assault in the Gay and Lesbian communities. I was listening quietly (for once I had nothing to offer) when a woman stood up and announced that she was Bisexual and suggested that future training include Bisexuality in the discussion. This seemed like a logical suggestion to me, which should have been a dead giveaway that something was about to go awry – which it did. Immediately, a group of angry homosexuals pounced on this poor woman. Gays and Lesbians alike began screaming that there is no such thing as a Bisexual. She must be a Lesbian in denial! She must be confused, a victim of right wing religious propaganda insisting that homosexuality is a mortal sin! I woke right up. Being a male, I am genetically predisposed to enjoy a good catfight, and here a doozy was brewing between a bunch of lesbians and a Bisexual woman (who was drop dead gorgeous, by the way)! However, my enthusiasm was soon tempered by the very real possibility of the pissy Gay men jumping to the fray. Much to my chagrin, the dismayed training facilitator soon recovered her wits and was able to restore order before anything really interesting developed.
I am not entirely sure why I thought this story was relevant to the discussion other than my admitted penchant for non sequiturs; I probably thought it might be a clever diversion, but the offspring of The Captain are on to me, and my daughter asked me what I would do if one my children turned out to be Gay, Lesbian or Bisexual? In typical fashion, I responded that, as a parent, I am categorically, emphatically and morally against parents having sex with their children. My daughter, who is accustomed to her Father’s twisted and disjointed stabs at humorous distraction, replied as she always does: “Daddy, that is so sick!” laughing through her words of mock indignation. But she plied on, repeating her question. I answered that I was offended by her exclusion of Asexual human beings in her query. What about those people who, like the poet Morrissey, claim to have no sexual drive whatsoever? “Answer the question” came the reply. The damn kid is relentless. So I told her that I would love her no matter what. That shut her up!
Meanwhile, my oldest son was waiting patiently to share some of the research findings. For example, there are hermaphroditic fish which turn male or female in response to the prevailing natural stress of their environment. I said “Huh?” He explained that if there was a shortage of females, then a male could “convert” to the feminine, or vice versa, so the fish could continue to reproduce to ensure survival. Or when food for a particular species is scarce, rather than continue to reproduce at the same rate, the number of homosexual relationships increases so that the number of offspring decreases so that no member of the species will ever starve to death.
I pondered the above and reached the inevitable conclusion and announced to my brood that I should not be surprised if they all turned out to be homosexual. I know Mother Nature and there is no way she’d let my kids pass on to future generations the defective genes they inherited from their father. Oh well, I’ll certainly be saving on Christmas gifts for the grand kids! My 9 year old Ginger (slightly condescending slang for red headed people) meanwhile, who was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the conversation, announced that he was very annoyed by the fact that he’d have to break the news to the 17 or so girls who “liked” him that they would need to look elsewhere for a boy with whom to lip kiss. He then announced that he was a Lesbian.
Believe The Captain when he says: “The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son!
Yours a victim of evolutionary theory,
The Captain
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