The other day, I was thinking it might be interesting to interview an important and fascinating personage and publish the result on my blog. I immediately thought of me. Who better to interview? Who better to conduct the interview? Having concluded that the answer was the same, I resolved to do it. As some of you may recall, The Captain once interviewed a black bear. This was a challenge for sure, but nothing compared to the monumental task of questioning an individual who arguably knows more about me than I do. Why, that interloper even knows about the inner personalities who inhabit my innards, with a special connection to the vulnerable self who lives in my liver. How, I wondered, would I be able to coax anything novel or sensitive out of such a subjective object? How would I be able to maintain my objectivity with the subject? Why would I willingly subject myself to such object ridicule? And would either of us be able to stop this ridiculous punning long enough to articulate a question or answer? You see my dilemma. But we both agreed to set some ground rules to make it work. Rule number one: no punning. Rule number two: no asking or answering the following question – “Have you ever had sex with a sheep?” Rule number three: I will provide myself with the list of interview questions in advance in writing so there are no surprises (Ha! The poor sap doesn’t know I can’t be trusted! Ha! Yes I do!!). Rule number four: no recording devices are allowed (I’m gonna be publishing the interview on my blog, so I’m not sure why the dumbass agreed to this one!).
Neither of us will keep you in suspense any longer. So here it is: The Captain’s groundbreaking Self Interview!
Me: You realize that no one has ever been stupid enough to allow themself to be interviewed by themself?
Me, too: I’m sorry, could you repeat the question? You couldn’t hear it.
Me: Very clever.
Me, too: Yes, very.
Me: Thank you. Now on to the first question. What is your favorite color?
Me, too: How is that relevant?
Me: You are irrelevant, therefore, all irrelevant questions are relevant
Me, too: Since I’m probably the only person who understands your bizarre thought process, I’ll answer. Red, the color of your blood should it happen to be spilled.
Me: Nice. OK, so on to the real questions. I’ll start with one that I have been asked by many people to pose. What in god’s name did your parents do to you?
Me, too: This is a two part answer. Part 1 – They cruelly conceived me between my two sisters. My older sister would routinely lure me into her room with candy while my younger sister waited out of sight behind the door, poised to trip me or box me on the ear or stab me with a filed down Barbie leg she’d removed for fun. It took years of therapy just to get me trick or treating again. I was too afraid to stick my hand inside the door to grab the candy for fear of a little old lady hiding just out of sight with a machete ready to sever my hand. Part 2 – They once left us with my Uncle, who with no provocation whipped each of us with a piece of a refrigerator gasket cut cleanly and expertly to flogging size.
Me: (Glazed look in his eye) Uh….so….sad….Well, uh, that answers that. So what were you like as a young boy?
Me, too: For starters, I was young. And painfully shy. Whenever I was introduced to a stranger, I would develop sharp pains in my gut, somewhere near my liver. In fact, it was my uncle who told me that alcohol would ease the pain, so in answer to a question you are sure to ask, I took my first drink of cheap gin at age 7. Gotta give the sadistic bastard some credit on this one, because he was right.
Me: Did you have many friends?
Me, too: If you count the hand carved wooden figures I produced in the darkness of my closet, then 23, to be exact. If not, then no.
Me: When did you first realize that you had a talent for writing?
Me,too: I’m still waiting for that realization.
Me: I think you’re pretty good, actually.
Me, too: (Sheepishly) Really? Would you like to be my friend?
Me: Honestly, I’d have to think long and hard about that one. Red flags everywhere.
Me, too: (Glumly) OK.
Me: Can you tell a funny story from your childhood?
Me, too: Didn’t I already tell you the story about my Uncle?
Me: I was thinking of a story that didn’t include any kind of corporal punishment, something happy.
Me, too: Hmmmm… well, I remember my parents were friends with a couple who had a loving little boy about the same age as me who could have been my twin. He caught a bad cold or something and died suddenly. I vividly recall how they were incredibly distraught. Their sadness lingered for years and wouldn’t leave. I felt so sorry for them. So one day I ran away from home to go and live with them to take the place of their lost son. When I showed up at their door and told them of my plan, they broke down in tears and hugged and kissed me. However, after two weeks with me, they soured on their surrogate son and called the cops to come and take me back home. But there was a silver lining. Their sadness left them, so much so that they vowed never have another child. Is that happy enough for you?
Me: The Captain’s version of Happy Days. I should have known better than to ask! OK, let’s try another line of questioning. How do you come up with the, er, “unique” ideas you write about?
Me, too: Oh, you know, the usual. Juniper Juice, White Crunch, Clarity, Dr. Feelgood.
Me: Never mind. How do you explain the contradiction that is The Captain? Your writing is unconventional and indicative of some sort of deep-seated disturbing overstimulation, yet you work in the staid, buttoned down corporate field of Insurance?
Me, too: Sounds like I’m overcompensating.
Me: How did we get to the topic of sex?
Me, too: We didn’t.
Me: Oh, er, right. So you believe that your “idiosyncrasies” are a reaction to the stifling work environment you experience?
Me, too: Let me put it this way. When you get a root canal, you reach for the morphine, don’t you? Well, that’s The Captain, anthropomorphized morphine.
Me: Damn that’s weird, but sadly I know exactly what you mean. Next question. Rumor has it, you keep a Black Bear in your backyard as a pet.
Me, too: Not a rumor. That’s true.
Me: How’s that working out?
Me, too: Overall, better than expected. In fact, the entire experience has had a positive impact on the stray pet population. My next door neighbors have been irresponsible, refusing to get their female dog fixed. Every freakin’ Spring, they’d be knocking on doors trying to find homes for the puppies of their promiscuous bitch. Well, after Smokey moved in, that problem went away. We haven’t seen a puppy in our neighborhood since. Plus, all the cat owners started to put their pets on a leash, dramatically reducing the number of stray cats in our part of town.
Me: Well, it’s clearly fruitless to ask you a serious question, so let me ask you one of those really stupid, trite questions that people ask when they can’t think of anything intelligent to ask. If you ran the world for a day, what one (and only one) thing would you change?
Me, too: Ha! So I get to play God.
Me: Not necessarily. You of all people should know better than to automatically posit the existence of God. I know you studied that crazy 14th Century English logician William of Occam and his lex parsimoniae, better known as Occam’s Razor. I was there! Remember the words of that slippery Franciscan? “Entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity.”
Me, too: I tried for years to forget. Thanks for reminding me, asshole. OK, so I get to run the world for a day.
Me: Thank you. Much better.
Me, too: That’s easy. I’d give that poor couple their boy back.
Me: I’m stunned. That’s a noble thought.
Me, too: Not really. If he hadn’t died, I never would have run away to live with them, and they wouldn’t have called the cops on me, and I wouldn’t have bitten that fat cop (OK, the fatter one) on the shin and been charged with assaulting a police officer and ended up with a police record and that damned Probation Officer I reference so often in my writing.
Me: Wait, I’m confused. Weren’t you a little boy when this happened? Your criminal record should have been wiped clean.
Me, too: Well, I waited a little while before I actually went to live with them.
Me: How long is a little while?
Me, too: Er, 10 years.
Me: And they took you in?
Me, too: I told you they were distraught. Initially they thought I was their son come back to life. I did look just like him. After a couple weeks, they snapped out of their psychosis when they realized I wasn’t actually their son.
Me: That would explain why your parents never came after you.
Me, too: Thanks for resurrecting that pain.
Me: Hey, it hurts me, too!
Me, too: But it’s still a happy ending. They were finally able to move beyond their grief.
Me: Excellent point.
Me, too: I knew you’d understand.
Me: Thanks.
Me, too: Shit. Smokey broke out and is chasing that husky teenage girl from down the street again. He’s in heat. Gotta run!!
Believe The Captain when he says: If you must bite a cop, do it before your 16th birthday!
Yours and Yours,
The Captain
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Captain's Guide to Parenting Teens
As you have been reminded by this author on many an occasion, I am an expert on all things – period. Of course, The Captain is being facetious or, as some of you point out with aplomb, full of feces. However, if I was a teenager – any teenager – and made the claim to be omniscient, no parent of said teen would bat an eyelash. It is the teenager’s God given right to know all and be right about everything regardless of factual support.
Two of my three legitimate children have managed to live long enough to reach this precious developmental stage. The odds of them both living out their teen years while under my care are long, but that doesn’t deter either one from gambling their existence on a daily basis. With one of each (meaning male and female), I can offer guidance to my readers on the best way to parent teenagers and stay out of jail. So here comes The Captain’s Guide to Parenting Teens
Teenage Girls
• To make the challenge fun, create a Playbill. Members of the teenage girl’s biological family only get minor roles, however. Her friends get the major parts, while the most degraded characters are played by the parents. In this way, you can officially acknowledge the drama that is the very essence of a teenage girl’s existence. It won’t do anything to diffuse the teen theatrics, but it might help you as a parent keep your sanity.
• Even when you are right and can marshal an army of facts to support your unpopular parental decisions, you will still always be wrong - always; and when you actually are wrong, you will be reminded of this by your daughter – all the time. She once used the word “stupid” 132 times in a single paragraph to describe what she thought of my humble suggestion to wear a winter jacket in subzero temperatures.
• I recommend getting a dog. That way, when you are being subjected to yet another teen lecture on the misguided and utterly stupid rules you randomly apply to your biological inmate, you can simply turn to the dog and say things like, “My, there’s a cold draft in here.” Or “Don’t you need to go outside and pee, or something?” And “Remind me to purchase those sound proof building materials, will you?”
• The only way to ensure that your teenage daughter does not wear too much makeup is to hide it from her. This will drive her nuts. But if you really want to get her goat, then wear her makeup. I know my daughter hates it when I do that. When she found out, she told me just to throw it all away. Mission accomplished!
• Your very existence is “embarrassing.” Given this fact, don’t hesitate to do what The Captain does and get out of the minivan to sing Elton John songs in a falsetto in front of your daughter and all her friends when you pick her up from school. If you must be an embarrassment, you might as well be a good one.
Teenage Boys
• Every bit as frustrating as girls, but much more simple to deal with. You will only ever get two reactions from your teenage son when attempting to parent him. The vast majority of time, you will get a sarcastic laugh or smirk followed by a “Sure, whatever” and no attempt whatsoever to comply with your authority. When they get really good at this, they are even capable of subtlety, making their response seem almost sincere. On rare occasions, you will get an explosion of testosterone accompanied by ranting and raving and chest thumping and cussing and door slamming punctuated by no attempt whatsoever to comply with your authority.
• Given what we know about teenage boys, you as a parent need only learn a handful of responses, such as:
o “Make your own meal.”
o “Don’t you need me to drive you on your date?”
o “You can buy your own car.” Unless your son is one of those mathematical savants who pulls in six figures playing on-line poker and can pay cash for a BMW, this will usually get his attention – at least on the nights he has a date.
o “If you don’t clean your room, I’ll tell your girlfriend what you do in the bathroom.” Setting aside all discussion of its legality, extortion is an effective motivator.
o “How come you can’t be more like your sister?” This only works because he’s so busy communicating electronically with his friends, he has no idea we don’t actually wish for this.
Believe The Captain when he says: I am sooooooooooooooooo stupid!!!!!!!!!!
Yours hiding the makeup and the car keys,
The Captain
Two of my three legitimate children have managed to live long enough to reach this precious developmental stage. The odds of them both living out their teen years while under my care are long, but that doesn’t deter either one from gambling their existence on a daily basis. With one of each (meaning male and female), I can offer guidance to my readers on the best way to parent teenagers and stay out of jail. So here comes The Captain’s Guide to Parenting Teens
Teenage Girls
• To make the challenge fun, create a Playbill. Members of the teenage girl’s biological family only get minor roles, however. Her friends get the major parts, while the most degraded characters are played by the parents. In this way, you can officially acknowledge the drama that is the very essence of a teenage girl’s existence. It won’t do anything to diffuse the teen theatrics, but it might help you as a parent keep your sanity.
• Even when you are right and can marshal an army of facts to support your unpopular parental decisions, you will still always be wrong - always; and when you actually are wrong, you will be reminded of this by your daughter – all the time. She once used the word “stupid” 132 times in a single paragraph to describe what she thought of my humble suggestion to wear a winter jacket in subzero temperatures.
• I recommend getting a dog. That way, when you are being subjected to yet another teen lecture on the misguided and utterly stupid rules you randomly apply to your biological inmate, you can simply turn to the dog and say things like, “My, there’s a cold draft in here.” Or “Don’t you need to go outside and pee, or something?” And “Remind me to purchase those sound proof building materials, will you?”
• The only way to ensure that your teenage daughter does not wear too much makeup is to hide it from her. This will drive her nuts. But if you really want to get her goat, then wear her makeup. I know my daughter hates it when I do that. When she found out, she told me just to throw it all away. Mission accomplished!
• Your very existence is “embarrassing.” Given this fact, don’t hesitate to do what The Captain does and get out of the minivan to sing Elton John songs in a falsetto in front of your daughter and all her friends when you pick her up from school. If you must be an embarrassment, you might as well be a good one.
Teenage Boys
• Every bit as frustrating as girls, but much more simple to deal with. You will only ever get two reactions from your teenage son when attempting to parent him. The vast majority of time, you will get a sarcastic laugh or smirk followed by a “Sure, whatever” and no attempt whatsoever to comply with your authority. When they get really good at this, they are even capable of subtlety, making their response seem almost sincere. On rare occasions, you will get an explosion of testosterone accompanied by ranting and raving and chest thumping and cussing and door slamming punctuated by no attempt whatsoever to comply with your authority.
• Given what we know about teenage boys, you as a parent need only learn a handful of responses, such as:
o “Make your own meal.”
o “Don’t you need me to drive you on your date?”
o “You can buy your own car.” Unless your son is one of those mathematical savants who pulls in six figures playing on-line poker and can pay cash for a BMW, this will usually get his attention – at least on the nights he has a date.
o “If you don’t clean your room, I’ll tell your girlfriend what you do in the bathroom.” Setting aside all discussion of its legality, extortion is an effective motivator.
o “How come you can’t be more like your sister?” This only works because he’s so busy communicating electronically with his friends, he has no idea we don’t actually wish for this.
Believe The Captain when he says: I am sooooooooooooooooo stupid!!!!!!!!!!
Yours hiding the makeup and the car keys,
The Captain
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Support the Jimmy Fund
Friend of The Captain and loyal Myrmidon Bob Martin is riding his bike a shitload of miles to raise money for the Jimmy Fund. Support Bob in this worthy cause. To make a donation by credit card, please click on the PMC website at
http://www.pmc.org/, click Make a Donation – On-Line Giving – Credit
Cards, E-Gifts, Sponsor One Rider with One Donation, enter my e-gift ID
(RM0167) or my name (Robert Martin), enter gift amount and select,
“Click here to sponsor this person..”
http://www.pmc.org/, click Make a Donation – On-Line Giving – Credit
Cards, E-Gifts, Sponsor One Rider with One Donation, enter my e-gift ID
(RM0167) or my name (Robert Martin), enter gift amount and select,
“Click here to sponsor this person..”
No Cussing Week
The Captain Saves America
I know that’s a pretty audacious statement, but what else did you expect from me? But read my commentary in bold below and see if you disagree.
L.A. To Proclaim 'No Cussing Week'
KTLA News
March 1, 2009
LOS ANGELES – If you notice things are a little quieter this week in L.A. County, there's a simple explanation. It's all because it's "No Cussing Week" in Los Angeles. There are 3.8 million people living in LA; let’s assume that the average American cusses 16.7 times a day (this calculation is The Captain’s almost scientific extrapolation from the following “facts”: a survey conducted in England found that Britons swore on average 14 times a day; since America was a colony of England, and since it goes without saying that we are bigger and better than them, and factoring in the prevalence of west coast rappers in the City of Angels – now there’s an oxymoron! – then adjusting for multi-regression variance, whatever that is, we arrive at 16.7; I originally came up with the whole number of 16 by arbitrarily adding a deuce but tacked on the .7 because it sounds more impressive; this may have been my longest parenthetical ever!!!!); so if you multiply that number (16.7) by 3.8 million, that comes to 63,460,000 profanities. Taken a step further, if we conservatively posit 2 words per profanity (F*&k You, A*s Hole, Sh*t Face, etc.), we are now up to nearly 127 million words subtracted from the weekly verbal interaction in sunny Southern California. So even so jaded a skeptic as The Captain is forced to agree that things were indeed a little quieter.
It all started with 15 year old McKay Hatch of South Pasadena who founded the "No Cussing Club" at his school. McKay also founded the “Sobriety Club”, “Abstinence America” and “Mormons 90210”. He hopes his effort to clear the air will catch on and it just might.
On Tuesday, the Los Angeles board of Supervisors is scheduled to issue a proclamation by Supervisor Michael Antonovich making the first week in March "No Cussing Week". Here’s some irony: Did you know that “Antonovich” means “Up Your An*s” in some difficult to pronounce Balkan language?
There are no penalties if you slip, but Antonovich says "it's a good reminder for all of us, not just young people to be respectful of one another and watch the words we use". How can you run an effective program without penalties? I suggest each offender be forced to visit the LA PD Evidence room and consume/ingest/inject/inhale one controlled substance for each cuss. I’m sure LA’s finest will be happy to show them how it’s done.
The county isn't the first entity to try to put the lid on swearing. Hatch's hometown of South Pasadena declared itself a cuss-free zone for a week last March, and two years ago a high school in Canada threatened to suspend repeat cussers. Ah, I knew it. All this insanity started in Canada!
Hatch said he hopes "no cussing" will expland (this typo appeared in the original story) beyond his hometown and across the globe. I find this a bit rich since “I have a last name for a first name” McKay stole the idea from the Canadians, who to this day insist they live in a sovereign nation.
"Next year I want to try to get California to have a cuss-free week. And then, who knows, maybe worldwide," said the 10th grader, who believes if people treat each other with more civility they can better work together to solve bigger problems. If the Governator can manage to legalize marijuana, perhaps a mellower California can take the lead in this misguided effort. And it’s clear that Hatch is no Protestant; if he was, he’d understand that Original Sin has corrupted humanity beyond earthly repair and his efforts are in vain and exceedingly annoying.
Hatch said his campaign began about the time he hit seventh grade and noticed his friends beginning to swear, something his family didn't allow. Note to friends of McKay Hatch: Get that boy drunk and take him to the Bunny Ranch – pronto!
He formed the "No Cussing Club" and invited others to join. Soon the group had a Web site, bright orange T-shirts, a hip hop theme song and inquiries from all over from people interested in joining. He estimates 20,000 people have formed similar clubs. Sad. And there’s no way that’s a real Hip Hop song with no profanity in it.
"It's not about forcing anyone to stop, just to bring awareness," he says of the movement. "If you can do a week without cussing, maybe you can do two weeks. And then maybe a month." The Captain cannot sit idly by and let this happen. In a rare lucid moment, a group of Canadians must have hatched this plot to weaken America and overthrow our government. So I appeal to all you true Americans: Don’t let those f*&kin’ Canadians get away with this sh*t!!! It is your patriotic duty to cuss as early and as often every day for the rest of your lives!
Believe The Captain when he says: “F*&K those Canadian Sh*theads!
Yours a true patriotic A*shole,
The Cavalier Cusser aka The Captain
I know that’s a pretty audacious statement, but what else did you expect from me? But read my commentary in bold below and see if you disagree.
L.A. To Proclaim 'No Cussing Week'
KTLA News
March 1, 2009
LOS ANGELES – If you notice things are a little quieter this week in L.A. County, there's a simple explanation. It's all because it's "No Cussing Week" in Los Angeles. There are 3.8 million people living in LA; let’s assume that the average American cusses 16.7 times a day (this calculation is The Captain’s almost scientific extrapolation from the following “facts”: a survey conducted in England found that Britons swore on average 14 times a day; since America was a colony of England, and since it goes without saying that we are bigger and better than them, and factoring in the prevalence of west coast rappers in the City of Angels – now there’s an oxymoron! – then adjusting for multi-regression variance, whatever that is, we arrive at 16.7; I originally came up with the whole number of 16 by arbitrarily adding a deuce but tacked on the .7 because it sounds more impressive; this may have been my longest parenthetical ever!!!!); so if you multiply that number (16.7) by 3.8 million, that comes to 63,460,000 profanities. Taken a step further, if we conservatively posit 2 words per profanity (F*&k You, A*s Hole, Sh*t Face, etc.), we are now up to nearly 127 million words subtracted from the weekly verbal interaction in sunny Southern California. So even so jaded a skeptic as The Captain is forced to agree that things were indeed a little quieter.
It all started with 15 year old McKay Hatch of South Pasadena who founded the "No Cussing Club" at his school. McKay also founded the “Sobriety Club”, “Abstinence America” and “Mormons 90210”. He hopes his effort to clear the air will catch on and it just might.
On Tuesday, the Los Angeles board of Supervisors is scheduled to issue a proclamation by Supervisor Michael Antonovich making the first week in March "No Cussing Week". Here’s some irony: Did you know that “Antonovich” means “Up Your An*s” in some difficult to pronounce Balkan language?
There are no penalties if you slip, but Antonovich says "it's a good reminder for all of us, not just young people to be respectful of one another and watch the words we use". How can you run an effective program without penalties? I suggest each offender be forced to visit the LA PD Evidence room and consume/ingest/inject/inhale one controlled substance for each cuss. I’m sure LA’s finest will be happy to show them how it’s done.
The county isn't the first entity to try to put the lid on swearing. Hatch's hometown of South Pasadena declared itself a cuss-free zone for a week last March, and two years ago a high school in Canada threatened to suspend repeat cussers. Ah, I knew it. All this insanity started in Canada!
Hatch said he hopes "no cussing" will expland (this typo appeared in the original story) beyond his hometown and across the globe. I find this a bit rich since “I have a last name for a first name” McKay stole the idea from the Canadians, who to this day insist they live in a sovereign nation.
"Next year I want to try to get California to have a cuss-free week. And then, who knows, maybe worldwide," said the 10th grader, who believes if people treat each other with more civility they can better work together to solve bigger problems. If the Governator can manage to legalize marijuana, perhaps a mellower California can take the lead in this misguided effort. And it’s clear that Hatch is no Protestant; if he was, he’d understand that Original Sin has corrupted humanity beyond earthly repair and his efforts are in vain and exceedingly annoying.
Hatch said his campaign began about the time he hit seventh grade and noticed his friends beginning to swear, something his family didn't allow. Note to friends of McKay Hatch: Get that boy drunk and take him to the Bunny Ranch – pronto!
He formed the "No Cussing Club" and invited others to join. Soon the group had a Web site, bright orange T-shirts, a hip hop theme song and inquiries from all over from people interested in joining. He estimates 20,000 people have formed similar clubs. Sad. And there’s no way that’s a real Hip Hop song with no profanity in it.
"It's not about forcing anyone to stop, just to bring awareness," he says of the movement. "If you can do a week without cussing, maybe you can do two weeks. And then maybe a month." The Captain cannot sit idly by and let this happen. In a rare lucid moment, a group of Canadians must have hatched this plot to weaken America and overthrow our government. So I appeal to all you true Americans: Don’t let those f*&kin’ Canadians get away with this sh*t!!! It is your patriotic duty to cuss as early and as often every day for the rest of your lives!
Believe The Captain when he says: “F*&K those Canadian Sh*theads!
Yours a true patriotic A*shole,
The Cavalier Cusser aka The Captain
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Captain's Travel Blog
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
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
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
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