There is an HBO Reality Series about legal prostitution called Cathouse. We all know its pornography thinly disguised as drama. But believe it or not, that’s not my objection to this series. Fact is, as reality show concepts go, this one is as old and diseased as the profession it portrays. It’s boring. But of course I have a suggestion for a spinoff. Why not convert a nursing home to a house of prostitution and create a reality show called Geriatric Cathouse? A bunch of randy seniors evading those silly nurses and engaging in some sexy gerontology. The possibilities for humor and high drama are endless. Here are some ideas for episodes:
• Naughty Nurses
o Not what you’re thinking. On our show, attractive young Florence Nightingales walk around in sexy white nurse outfits with giant red targets on their backsides to lure the leering old men into the invisible electric fence surrounding them.
• Foreplay Follies
o Ma Bell seductively circles the visitor’s room in her scooter wearing only her wrinkled birthday suit while Grandpa shuffles loudly behind her with his walker sans Depends.
o While French kissing may be now be impossible, swapping spit lives on with the erotic denture exchange.
o Kama Sutra Sponge Bath. Practical and sexy and ideal for World Culture Wednesdays when a bunch of claw foot bath tubs are brought into the Activity Room, which is transformed into one giant Cialis commercial (still waiting to hear back from the manufacturer on our invitation to shoot a TV ad).
• Ology Role Play
o Partners take turns playing out fantasies in proctology and gynecology.
o Role reversal adds some spice – Grandpa looks sexy in stirrups. And anal sex is redefined as Grandma bends over while Grandma slips on a latex glove. Even seniors practice safe sex.
o Not to worry, as all nursing homes carry an ample supply of KY!
• Medication Mayhem
o Messy drug interactions abound after Grandpa smuggles in a case of Viagra. Grandpa soon learns to never mix Viagra with blood thinners – that is, if one can learn while in a coma.
o No fewer than seven ambulances are called to rush 7 male cast members and their six blue and swollen members to the ER after the men decide to run their own non-scientific experiment comparing Viagra and Cialis. Hilarity ensues as one cast member engages a search party to recover his lost member, which has apparently fallen off. The effort is fruitless, until it shows up inside a green Jell-O mold for the evening dessert. The ambulance is called back one more time to pump Mabel’s stomach after she accidentally swallows the missing member.
• Call of the Flatulents
o As a species, the human geriatric male has made a unique if not pleasant evolutionary adaptation in response to being caged up with a bunch of dried up post menopausal females. As young bucks, they could simply strut around like mindless apes, thumping their chests violently until a sufficiently self-destructive female was attracted. But now, with expensive life sustaining hardware implanted in their sunken chests and arthritis in their withered and bony wrists, such behavior would likely be fatal. And joints are not the only body parts that have eroded over time. Sphincter control has long since shite the bed, if you will, and flatulence is now the norm. But a group of enterprising males on our show has decided to use this development to their advantage. Like the melancholy Nightingale, they have decided to woo sexual partners by serenading them. In this ingenious adaptation, the men herd the women into the visitors room, lock the door, and then proceed to seduce them with divers exotic and erotic calls of flatulence. Before you can say “Geritol” the men are tooting and honking and trumpeting for potential mates – the Call of the Flatulents! The women, for their part, have mostly lost their olfactory senses and are hard of hearing and figure out, eventually, that they need to exchange geriatric sex (which can be performed while asleep) for freedom, and after several excruciating hours, the police are called to release the visiting family members who were locked up in error. A visit by law enforcement is always good for ratings!
OK, The Captain admits that the show is not really about a Cathouse, merely a group of elderly men and women too old to procreate, be afraid of STDs, or care about social stigmas. They can see the light at the end of the tunnel and are making a mad scramble to misbehave as often as possible before the light consumes them, so God bless them for that!
Believe The Captain when he says: walkers and canes can make interesting sex toys,
Yours praying for my soul,
The Captain
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Project Managerisms
I freely admit that I was once firmly in the camp of those who believe that Project Managers (PMs) and their minions are merely superficial sycophants sucking money from unsuspecting business hosts. But don’t repeat my mistake and assume that PMs are nothing more than Poseurs who simply like telling other people what to do. They are, but they also possess special talents (I’d say skills, except that no one actually teaches it). I am convinced that one is born a PM. They have subtle powers that you would do well not to underestimate. Now it is within the realm of possibility that this line of reasoning is a Captainesque mental construct, that my ego simply finds it more palatable to pretend that PMs make so much money because they have unique talents. Heck, even made up competency is better than none at all. But there is empirical evidence that PMs do share some common traits, what I call “Project Managerisms,” which are outlined below for your reading pleasure.
• An almost psychotic ability to manufacture self-importance. For example, a PM needs only to attend one companywide teleconference with the company CEO to feel empowered to reference said CEO by his or her first name in casual conversation, as if they’ve been bosom buddies since Kindergarten.
• It is second nature for a PM to invent superfluous terminology with meaningless acronyms and get everyone else to adopt their random creations. I am now known to total strangers at work as something called a SME, which seems to be just a notch above Smurf. The only difference is that I actually know what a Smurf is. I have been told that SME stands for Subject Matter Expert, but the fact that gaggles of PMs giggle behind my back whenever someone calls me a SME leads me to believe it stands for something more sinister, perhaps Suck the Money from this Entity. Just sayin’.
• They practice the art of meeting their fellow PM buddies all day for coffee and creating the appearance that they are hard at work. This isn’t as easy as it seems; rumor has it that PMs spend hours upon hours in front of the mirror talking to themselves and pulling faces. In fact, PMs have documented at least 66 different serious facial expressions and a dozen voice tones with gravitas for use at real pretend work. There are even apocryphal stories circulating on the corporate street about the rare PM Savant who can even channel Linda Blair from The Exorcist. I like to call these the Rasputin PMs. Scary…
• They start young. As an innocent boy growing up in the blue collar hamlet of Torrington, CT, I collected baseball cards. I played, learned and loved the nuances of our national pastime and spent years compiling a pretty nice collection. One summer, I organized my collection using a complicated rating system that took several years to devise. Each card was proudly displayed in the appropriate category based on years of study. Then, one fateful afternoon when I was out on the sandlot with my friends from the hood, my sister entered my room without permission and reorganized my collection by uniform color. Aghast upon my return, I noticed that a number of cards were missing. In tears, I confronted my sister, who stated matter-of-factly that she did me a favor by organizing my mess and throwing out the cards of left handed players because they apparently didn’t fit into her organizational plan. So long Sandy Koufax and Ted Williams!! Ah, my sister. Future Project Manager of America.
• PMs have an exceptional ability to create complicated spreadsheets with questionable purposes that only the initiated few can understand; I hear that they actually give out awards at the annual PM Convention for the most elaborate spreadsheets that purposely track items that offer NO BUSINESS VALUE WHATSOEVER – the greater the content of irrelevant information, the greater the value added. Sometimes I think I would make an excellent PM, since I have a knack for creating spreadsheets on the fly that no one can understand (including me). But I’m pretty sure that I’d never make it out of the convention alive. I learned my lesson after being invited as a “special guest” to attend the International Coven at Stonehenge, where I was slated to make a special appearance in a cauldron of boiling water. Never again…
• Venn Diagrams. PMs love them, though I suspect that PMs just randomly throw some lines and shapes on a screen, attach some made up PM descriptors, and pass them off as complex theoretical models that only a Borderline unemployed engineer on Ecstasy can interpret. I can’t prove this, of course, but the repetitive use of acronyms like LSD and STD and PCP makes me wonder. It’s like me and my High School Algebra teacher Mr. Z. I’m convinced he just scribbled random numbers inside lengthy parentheticals on the chalkboard, but, lacking a basic understanding of algebra and constantly having my drugs taken from me by bullies, I couldn’t really be sure.
• A cult-like loyalty to their own kind; nothing illustrates this like the wave of PMs who are laid off simultaneously by a bankrupt company paralyzed by lack or execution due to confusing spreadsheets and labyrinthine project plans designed only to meet artificial deadlines meant to procure bonuses for PMs. It only takes one parasite to attach itself to a new corporate host and before you know it that body is covered in leeches brought along for the ride.
To all my Project Manager friends reading this (if there any left after this post), I challenge you all to compose a rebuttal, possibly your own critique of the foibles and fabrications of those you call your “Business Customers.” I have no doubt you’d have a lot of entertaining observations!
So Believe The Captain when he says: Talking to a mirror beats talking to your teenager!
Yours wearing a Phrygian Cap,
The Captain
Ps: Trivia Challenge – why the reference to a Phrygian Cap????
• An almost psychotic ability to manufacture self-importance. For example, a PM needs only to attend one companywide teleconference with the company CEO to feel empowered to reference said CEO by his or her first name in casual conversation, as if they’ve been bosom buddies since Kindergarten.
• It is second nature for a PM to invent superfluous terminology with meaningless acronyms and get everyone else to adopt their random creations. I am now known to total strangers at work as something called a SME, which seems to be just a notch above Smurf. The only difference is that I actually know what a Smurf is. I have been told that SME stands for Subject Matter Expert, but the fact that gaggles of PMs giggle behind my back whenever someone calls me a SME leads me to believe it stands for something more sinister, perhaps Suck the Money from this Entity. Just sayin’.
• They practice the art of meeting their fellow PM buddies all day for coffee and creating the appearance that they are hard at work. This isn’t as easy as it seems; rumor has it that PMs spend hours upon hours in front of the mirror talking to themselves and pulling faces. In fact, PMs have documented at least 66 different serious facial expressions and a dozen voice tones with gravitas for use at real pretend work. There are even apocryphal stories circulating on the corporate street about the rare PM Savant who can even channel Linda Blair from The Exorcist. I like to call these the Rasputin PMs. Scary…
• They start young. As an innocent boy growing up in the blue collar hamlet of Torrington, CT, I collected baseball cards. I played, learned and loved the nuances of our national pastime and spent years compiling a pretty nice collection. One summer, I organized my collection using a complicated rating system that took several years to devise. Each card was proudly displayed in the appropriate category based on years of study. Then, one fateful afternoon when I was out on the sandlot with my friends from the hood, my sister entered my room without permission and reorganized my collection by uniform color. Aghast upon my return, I noticed that a number of cards were missing. In tears, I confronted my sister, who stated matter-of-factly that she did me a favor by organizing my mess and throwing out the cards of left handed players because they apparently didn’t fit into her organizational plan. So long Sandy Koufax and Ted Williams!! Ah, my sister. Future Project Manager of America.
• PMs have an exceptional ability to create complicated spreadsheets with questionable purposes that only the initiated few can understand; I hear that they actually give out awards at the annual PM Convention for the most elaborate spreadsheets that purposely track items that offer NO BUSINESS VALUE WHATSOEVER – the greater the content of irrelevant information, the greater the value added. Sometimes I think I would make an excellent PM, since I have a knack for creating spreadsheets on the fly that no one can understand (including me). But I’m pretty sure that I’d never make it out of the convention alive. I learned my lesson after being invited as a “special guest” to attend the International Coven at Stonehenge, where I was slated to make a special appearance in a cauldron of boiling water. Never again…
• Venn Diagrams. PMs love them, though I suspect that PMs just randomly throw some lines and shapes on a screen, attach some made up PM descriptors, and pass them off as complex theoretical models that only a Borderline unemployed engineer on Ecstasy can interpret. I can’t prove this, of course, but the repetitive use of acronyms like LSD and STD and PCP makes me wonder. It’s like me and my High School Algebra teacher Mr. Z. I’m convinced he just scribbled random numbers inside lengthy parentheticals on the chalkboard, but, lacking a basic understanding of algebra and constantly having my drugs taken from me by bullies, I couldn’t really be sure.
• A cult-like loyalty to their own kind; nothing illustrates this like the wave of PMs who are laid off simultaneously by a bankrupt company paralyzed by lack or execution due to confusing spreadsheets and labyrinthine project plans designed only to meet artificial deadlines meant to procure bonuses for PMs. It only takes one parasite to attach itself to a new corporate host and before you know it that body is covered in leeches brought along for the ride.
To all my Project Manager friends reading this (if there any left after this post), I challenge you all to compose a rebuttal, possibly your own critique of the foibles and fabrications of those you call your “Business Customers.” I have no doubt you’d have a lot of entertaining observations!
So Believe The Captain when he says: Talking to a mirror beats talking to your teenager!
Yours wearing a Phrygian Cap,
The Captain
Ps: Trivia Challenge – why the reference to a Phrygian Cap????
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Sky Mall Time Capsule
Remember that 6th grade social studies project where you and your classmates assembled a limited assortment of objects that told the story of your generation to bury in a Time Capsule for the archaeologists and anthropologists of tomorrow to uncover and deride us for our cultural silliness? I always thought the contrived nature of the experiment rendered it meaningless, because such a limited sampling could not possibly provide future historians with enough data to draw any hard conclusions. But after my flight to Orlando recently, I have reversed course, having found the quintessential Time Capsule filler – the Sky Mall Magazine! Anyone who’s ever taken a commercial jetliner in the USA has read Sky Mall.
Why, you ask, such an unconventional publication, as opposed to the more traditional offerings of Playboy or Penthouse? Two reasons. First, it’s free. Think about it. Who’d pay for Sky Mall?? Second, the sex theme is old and tired, with the ancient Romans perfecting heterosexual licentiousness and the Greeks bringing up the rear for the homo-erotic piece (pun intended). OK, there is a third reason. It’s a perfect microcosm of the world’s very first Consumer-based Civilization. Our true nature is revealed in the crap that we buy and sell and Sky Mall has a little bit of everything and then some.
So if I was a 25th century archaeologist digging through the ruins of the Consumer Civilization and uncovered The Captain’s Time Capsule and read through Sky Mall, what might I conclude about my ancestors?? Well, I spent an inordinate amount of time actually reading Sky Mall recently (just like I used to actually read the insightful and informative articles in Playboy), so I can answer that question – this is my blog, after all.
• Human beings systematically treated pets better than they treated each other.
o Luxury Pet Residence (OK, it’s really just a metal cage with a pillow floor and some mahogany trim slapped on it); half of the world’s human children go to bed cold and hungry, but for $400 Fido can crash in style in his luxury dog condo, munching on bacon flavored doggy treats – bacon flavored!!!. Add the Orthopedic Comfy Couch for only $170.
o It was once customary to take one’s dog outside of the human dwelling to do his duty in the woods or in the corner of the neighbor’s yard, but sometime in the 21st century it became fashionable to buy artificial pooping turf to keep inside the house for Lassie to shit upon. Yes, I’m talking about the Indoor Dog Restroom. Below is the add, word for word; not because I’m being lazy, but because it’s just so damned funny it needs no commentary or embellishment.
Indoor Dog Restroom
This mat-and-tray system gives dogs a place to relieve themselves when they can't get outside for respite. Ideal for high rise-dwelling dogs, when owners aren't home, or even just for times of harsh weather, this ingenious system uses a mat made of antimicrobial, porous artificial turf that gives off an organic scent to attract dogs, so they can be taught quickly that it is an acceptable spot for relieving themselves.
The mat sits on top of a plastic insert which allows liquid to drain into the included tray for easy clean-up. The turf yarn is a unique construction specially designed for use with dogs, and its antimicrobial composition helps prevent odors. The tray is easy to empty and can hold up to two gallons of liquid. 2" H x 30" W x 20" L. (6-1/2 lbs.)
o There are two possible conclusions to be drawn from this historical development: one is that humans had evolved to the point where a highly developed sense of smell was no longer needed for survival; another is that humans had long before reached their intellectual peak and their brains had already turned to mush.
• Human beings got off on sports as opposed to each other.
o Whereas there was a gadget or useless decorative item for every sports team imaginable (they were selling decrepit seats from an old, torn down church called Cathedral Yankee Stadium), there were no posters or videos of attractive naked humans for sale. Back in the day, masturbation was inspired by Miss January, or Mister February; now, kids do it to life sized posters of their favorite ne’er grew up sports hero. I liked our way better. Still do.
o Giant NFL Inflatable Bubba. It’s real. Professional football and prison sex coming to a bedroom or hidden basement chamber near you. The beginning of the end for Consumer Civilization (once again, pun intended).
• Finally, perhaps humans of my time gave up the ghost of sanity, blurring – nay, detonating – the line between survival and socialization.
o My favorite example of this is Wrenchware Flatware – tools that double as flatware, or vice versa, made from drop forged stainless steel. Get a three piece setting for only $27!
So believe The Captain when he asks: Does a bear shit in the woods? And answers: Yes! On the gold encrusted Woodland Bear Throne available exclusively through Sky Mall!
Yours pouring kitty litter on my Yankee Stadium Cathedral seat,
The Captain
The Indoor Dog Restroom aka the end of Consumer Civilization as we know it.
Why, you ask, such an unconventional publication, as opposed to the more traditional offerings of Playboy or Penthouse? Two reasons. First, it’s free. Think about it. Who’d pay for Sky Mall?? Second, the sex theme is old and tired, with the ancient Romans perfecting heterosexual licentiousness and the Greeks bringing up the rear for the homo-erotic piece (pun intended). OK, there is a third reason. It’s a perfect microcosm of the world’s very first Consumer-based Civilization. Our true nature is revealed in the crap that we buy and sell and Sky Mall has a little bit of everything and then some.
So if I was a 25th century archaeologist digging through the ruins of the Consumer Civilization and uncovered The Captain’s Time Capsule and read through Sky Mall, what might I conclude about my ancestors?? Well, I spent an inordinate amount of time actually reading Sky Mall recently (just like I used to actually read the insightful and informative articles in Playboy), so I can answer that question – this is my blog, after all.
• Human beings systematically treated pets better than they treated each other.
o Luxury Pet Residence (OK, it’s really just a metal cage with a pillow floor and some mahogany trim slapped on it); half of the world’s human children go to bed cold and hungry, but for $400 Fido can crash in style in his luxury dog condo, munching on bacon flavored doggy treats – bacon flavored!!!. Add the Orthopedic Comfy Couch for only $170.
o It was once customary to take one’s dog outside of the human dwelling to do his duty in the woods or in the corner of the neighbor’s yard, but sometime in the 21st century it became fashionable to buy artificial pooping turf to keep inside the house for Lassie to shit upon. Yes, I’m talking about the Indoor Dog Restroom. Below is the add, word for word; not because I’m being lazy, but because it’s just so damned funny it needs no commentary or embellishment.
Indoor Dog Restroom
This mat-and-tray system gives dogs a place to relieve themselves when they can't get outside for respite. Ideal for high rise-dwelling dogs, when owners aren't home, or even just for times of harsh weather, this ingenious system uses a mat made of antimicrobial, porous artificial turf that gives off an organic scent to attract dogs, so they can be taught quickly that it is an acceptable spot for relieving themselves.
The mat sits on top of a plastic insert which allows liquid to drain into the included tray for easy clean-up. The turf yarn is a unique construction specially designed for use with dogs, and its antimicrobial composition helps prevent odors. The tray is easy to empty and can hold up to two gallons of liquid. 2" H x 30" W x 20" L. (6-1/2 lbs.)
o There are two possible conclusions to be drawn from this historical development: one is that humans had evolved to the point where a highly developed sense of smell was no longer needed for survival; another is that humans had long before reached their intellectual peak and their brains had already turned to mush.
• Human beings got off on sports as opposed to each other.
o Whereas there was a gadget or useless decorative item for every sports team imaginable (they were selling decrepit seats from an old, torn down church called Cathedral Yankee Stadium), there were no posters or videos of attractive naked humans for sale. Back in the day, masturbation was inspired by Miss January, or Mister February; now, kids do it to life sized posters of their favorite ne’er grew up sports hero. I liked our way better. Still do.
o Giant NFL Inflatable Bubba. It’s real. Professional football and prison sex coming to a bedroom or hidden basement chamber near you. The beginning of the end for Consumer Civilization (once again, pun intended).
• Finally, perhaps humans of my time gave up the ghost of sanity, blurring – nay, detonating – the line between survival and socialization.
o My favorite example of this is Wrenchware Flatware – tools that double as flatware, or vice versa, made from drop forged stainless steel. Get a three piece setting for only $27!
So believe The Captain when he asks: Does a bear shit in the woods? And answers: Yes! On the gold encrusted Woodland Bear Throne available exclusively through Sky Mall!
Yours pouring kitty litter on my Yankee Stadium Cathedral seat,
The Captain
The Indoor Dog Restroom aka the end of Consumer Civilization as we know it.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Annoying Things Parents Share About Their Children
My hand is raised on this one; I write about my offspring whether you want to hear about them or not. I enjoy teasing them (my daughter would call it “torturing.” She once tried to get a restraining order to keep me away from her when in the presence of her friends but lost because “tells embarrassingly bad jokes” is not a valid legal reason to grant one) and writing is just one more way to do it. Admittedly, most parents never taunt their biological children publicly in a blog by making vague allusions to unknown bastard step siblings that may or may not be real, so I can at least claim to be original. But no doubt there have been times while reading this blog when you’ve thought to yourself: “Why would I give a flying f*ck about the fact that The Captain has a child who depicts gruesome and twisted images in his driveway chalk art?” Then again, you probably just thought: “That makes perfect sense.” But you know what I’m talking about. Parents who just have to drop into every conversation the fact that little Johnny is captain of the football team or that little Suzy is captain of the cheerleaders and is dating the captain of the football team, conveniently omitting the fact that Johnny and Suzy are both their kids, unless you are from West Virginia, in which case it’s OK. But in light of the topic, I will not resort to the didactic style I am so in love with; this time, I will simply produce bullet points not with the aim of instructing but with the goal of making fun of all of the parents you and I know who waste our time bragging on their kids. So here they are: The Captain’s List of Annoying Things Parents Share About Their Kids!!
• “My Daughter is so stressed about writing her Valedictorian speech.”
o There are several ways to effectively respond to this and prevent the onslaught of boasting that is bound to follow. The first is a simple bit of sarcasm, something like: “Oh yeah, I can relate. My son is stressed about passing gym so he can graduate.” Not particularly clever or subtle, but shuts down the conversation nonetheless. Or you could try something a little more fun, such as: “Oh my god, I understand. My son is having the same problem with his speech.” This will elicit the desired response, “Oh, he’s his school’s Valedictorian as well?” But you’re ready with, “(LOL) Oh gosh, no. The clod doesn’t know a Valedictorian from a Vegetarian. His psychologist said the meds were supposed to take care of the delusions, like the one about being Harvard’s Valedictorian. I guess not!” And finally, I wouldn’t be The Captain if I didn’t suggest something twisted, like, “Well, it’s actually a speech he has to give to the Probation board on why it’s inappropriate to obsess over high achieving female students.”
• “My son’s Beemer convertible is in the shop again – I never should have bought him that car for his birthday; I should have gone with the Audi.”
o My reply might resemble: “I know. Kids and their vehicles – what a pain. I just got my kid some reflectors for his Schwinn – cost me ten freakin’ bucks! But I guess it’s worth it. Who wants to have to go pick him up at the ER at 3 in the morning when he’s out delivering his special papers?”
• “I’m gonna have to buy a bigger trophy case for junior!”
o My retort: “I think it’s supposed to be warm this weekend,” because it’s fun to witness the look of disappointment on the braggart’s face when I fail to take the bait and ask why!
• “Genie’s math teacher is way too hard a grader…blah…blah…blah…and those mean girls keep picking on her…blah…blah…blah…talked me out of pressing charges…blah…blah…blah…can you believe it?”
o In cases like this try, “I’m sorry, I was reading a text from my dentist – what was that?” and then walk away quickly without looking up.
• “My daughter really finds it annoying when total strangers walk up to her and tell her she’s beautiful.”
o My comeback would be, “I hear ya, nobody wants delusional junkies approaching them out of the blue.”
• “I hate it when I have to choose between my daughter’s piano recital and my son’s All-Star hockey game.”
o Throw them off balance with: “Lucky you; my choice is usually Juvenile Review Board meeting or Monday Night Raw – tough decision, I know!”
• “Biff is not your ordinary child.” Me: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You know, they do remarkable things these days with psychotropic drugs.” Or, “With a name like that it’s no wonder!”!
Believe The Captain when he says: For the record, my three children are all legitimate.
Yours proud of my kids, who have horns and graze in my backyard,
The Captain
• “My Daughter is so stressed about writing her Valedictorian speech.”
o There are several ways to effectively respond to this and prevent the onslaught of boasting that is bound to follow. The first is a simple bit of sarcasm, something like: “Oh yeah, I can relate. My son is stressed about passing gym so he can graduate.” Not particularly clever or subtle, but shuts down the conversation nonetheless. Or you could try something a little more fun, such as: “Oh my god, I understand. My son is having the same problem with his speech.” This will elicit the desired response, “Oh, he’s his school’s Valedictorian as well?” But you’re ready with, “(LOL) Oh gosh, no. The clod doesn’t know a Valedictorian from a Vegetarian. His psychologist said the meds were supposed to take care of the delusions, like the one about being Harvard’s Valedictorian. I guess not!” And finally, I wouldn’t be The Captain if I didn’t suggest something twisted, like, “Well, it’s actually a speech he has to give to the Probation board on why it’s inappropriate to obsess over high achieving female students.”
• “My son’s Beemer convertible is in the shop again – I never should have bought him that car for his birthday; I should have gone with the Audi.”
o My reply might resemble: “I know. Kids and their vehicles – what a pain. I just got my kid some reflectors for his Schwinn – cost me ten freakin’ bucks! But I guess it’s worth it. Who wants to have to go pick him up at the ER at 3 in the morning when he’s out delivering his special papers?”
• “I’m gonna have to buy a bigger trophy case for junior!”
o My retort: “I think it’s supposed to be warm this weekend,” because it’s fun to witness the look of disappointment on the braggart’s face when I fail to take the bait and ask why!
• “Genie’s math teacher is way too hard a grader…blah…blah…blah…and those mean girls keep picking on her…blah…blah…blah…talked me out of pressing charges…blah…blah…blah…can you believe it?”
o In cases like this try, “I’m sorry, I was reading a text from my dentist – what was that?” and then walk away quickly without looking up.
• “My daughter really finds it annoying when total strangers walk up to her and tell her she’s beautiful.”
o My comeback would be, “I hear ya, nobody wants delusional junkies approaching them out of the blue.”
• “I hate it when I have to choose between my daughter’s piano recital and my son’s All-Star hockey game.”
o Throw them off balance with: “Lucky you; my choice is usually Juvenile Review Board meeting or Monday Night Raw – tough decision, I know!”
• “Biff is not your ordinary child.” Me: “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You know, they do remarkable things these days with psychotropic drugs.” Or, “With a name like that it’s no wonder!”!
Believe The Captain when he says: For the record, my three children are all legitimate.
Yours proud of my kids, who have horns and graze in my backyard,
The Captain
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Things You Should NEVER do on Facebook
I admit, I am not a big Facebook user; frankly, I’m not all that interested in the daily activities of my life, so why would anyone else be? I make an exception for those of you waiting for this high speed train of a life to derail, in which case, I understand. But I do love the stories about people who get in big trouble after indiscriminately posting incriminating things about their narcissistic selves on Facebook. I swear that high school photo of me and the monkey in the sauna on Facebook was all just a big misunderstanding and was the real reason I was rejected by Yale, a theory that some like to poke holes in, claiming that way back in that day the PC hadn’t even been invented yet, let alone social networking (we used to call this a Keg Party)…but once again I digress. So even though it is patently false to suggest that the monkey has been in counseling ever since, I feel that, having been a victim of Facebook tomfoolery, I can do some good by giving my readers some helpful advice about what NEVER to do on Facebook.
· Never post homemade videos of your minor surgical procedures on Facebook, especially root canals and colonoscopies.
· Never post in bold print on 37 separate occasions over a 36 hour period rumors you know to be untrue about your boss being a gay heroin addict with a bellybutton fetish on Facebook when 250 of your “friends” are coworkers, including your boss.
· Never post pictures of yourself engaged in the following activities:
o Felonies
o Select Misdemeanors, i.e. painting graffiti on the Police Station holding cell walls.
· Never fib about your Relationship status. People talk…
· Never pose as another person on Facebook without doing your due diligence…like knowing that they are a black belt in Karate or a Gold Medal winning Archer or the son of a mobster, or a pedophile. NEVER
· Never have just one Facebook page. Have one for your family, one for your coworkers, and one for your friends under an assumed name that no search engine can ever track back to your true identity – let’s call this your Vegas identity.
· Never try and secretly join Justin Bieber’s Facebook page. It will get out…
· Never click on the ad about the Chinese herbal aphrodisiac tea…don’t ask.
· Never assume your mother doesn’t know what Facebook is or doesn’t know how to pose as you and regale the internet with childhood adventures about your bedwetting, your tap dancing recital where you sang, tapped, and stumbled your way through “Who Ate the Chicken in the Chicken Chow Mein,” and your childhood obsession with Mrs. Brady from The Brady Bunch (all my friends liked Marcia and Jan, but I preferred a mature woman).
· And finally, NEVER poke your Grandmother…it’s just not right.
Believe The Captain when he says: What happens on the internet, stays on the internet.
Yours deactivating my webcam,
The Captain
· Never post homemade videos of your minor surgical procedures on Facebook, especially root canals and colonoscopies.
· Never post in bold print on 37 separate occasions over a 36 hour period rumors you know to be untrue about your boss being a gay heroin addict with a bellybutton fetish on Facebook when 250 of your “friends” are coworkers, including your boss.
· Never post pictures of yourself engaged in the following activities:
o Felonies
o Select Misdemeanors, i.e. painting graffiti on the Police Station holding cell walls.
· Never fib about your Relationship status. People talk…
· Never pose as another person on Facebook without doing your due diligence…like knowing that they are a black belt in Karate or a Gold Medal winning Archer or the son of a mobster, or a pedophile. NEVER
· Never have just one Facebook page. Have one for your family, one for your coworkers, and one for your friends under an assumed name that no search engine can ever track back to your true identity – let’s call this your Vegas identity.
· Never try and secretly join Justin Bieber’s Facebook page. It will get out…
· Never click on the ad about the Chinese herbal aphrodisiac tea…don’t ask.
· Never assume your mother doesn’t know what Facebook is or doesn’t know how to pose as you and regale the internet with childhood adventures about your bedwetting, your tap dancing recital where you sang, tapped, and stumbled your way through “Who Ate the Chicken in the Chicken Chow Mein,” and your childhood obsession with Mrs. Brady from The Brady Bunch (all my friends liked Marcia and Jan, but I preferred a mature woman).
· And finally, NEVER poke your Grandmother…it’s just not right.
Believe The Captain when he says: What happens on the internet, stays on the internet.
Yours deactivating my webcam,
The Captain
Monday, November 1, 2010
Lies Our Parents Told Us
The Captain is no amateur when it comes to fibbing and fabricating, so I am eminently qualified to vouch for the veracity of those pearls of wisdom our parents liked to dispense whenever they decided to drop a life lesson on us. It’s kinda sad to think that our Moms and Dads lied to us, but, unlike the big one about Santa, most never came with some really cool gifts, just some unappealing prescriptions, such as “floss twice a day”. When I was a kid, I had trouble tying my danged shoe laces so there was no friggin' way I had the dexterity to grab hold of some slippery plastic thread well enough to reach inside my jabbering jaws and run it back and forth between the tiny gaps in my teeth that I couldn’t even see. Recently, my satanic dental hygienist told me that failing to floss could lead to a heart attack. I told her that if I was gonna give myself a heart attack I sure as hell wouldn’t do it with floss but with red meat and fried food. She didn’t think that was funny. As anyone with parents knows, there are many more where this came from. Let’s put them to rest once and for all.
· You need five servings of fruits and vegetables every day to grow up big and strong. Really? Then why is that it that 6’ 3” 220 lb. Bobby from down the street, who was raised on Pop Tarts and Tater Tots, was so much bigger and stronger than my skinny ass and would squish me like a bug every football practice and date cheerleaders and get athletic scholarship offers when I all I got for eating those goddamned apples was a little green worm and a seat on my pants??
· If you don’t go to sleep right away, the bogeyman with 3 inch rotting yellow incisors and a razor sharp bowie knife will slip out from underneath your bed to cut open your abdomen and devour your spleen and kidneys and then yank out your large intestine to wrap around your neck and squeeze the life right out of you. OK. Maybe only my parents said things like this, which explains a lot, but threats to get children to sleep are completely ineffective nonetheless.
· If someone slaps you on the back violently while your eyes are crossed, your eyes will stay permanently crossed. Nope. Me and the older boys in my hood must have made the little neighborhood kids cross their eyes a million times to test this theory. No permanently crossed eyes, just some redness and the occasional contusion; in fact, none of the little snitches ever had any difficulty with their sight as they were able to provide a visual ID each and every time their overprotective parents would put us in a lineup.
· Pretty girls like boys who are smart. But the smart boys all know the truth. Pretty girls like assholes.
· Swallowing a tablespoon of Cod Liver oil makes you healthy. In my experience, swallowing Cod Liver oil makes you vomit.
· Adversity builds character. For real? Adversity just plain sucks.
· Cheaters Never Prosper – unless you have the initials C.E.O. after your name, in which case cheaters prosper outrageously.
· Lying to your parents about that broken Ming Vase will only get you in more trouble. Of course, if you happen to be the favorite child, then it works like a charm, especially when you blame it on the Black Sheep of the family, right Sis?!!
· You can’t get pregnant if you do it during a full moon. True, unless you forget to use birth control, right Sis?! Btw, lying about having sex is not a form of birth control…
· You don’t need to get drunk to have fun. Could be true, I just wouldn’t know ;)
Believe The Captain when he says: My new title is The Captain, CEO (Chief Embellishment Officer).
Yours waiting for my bonus,
The Captain, CEO
· You need five servings of fruits and vegetables every day to grow up big and strong. Really? Then why is that it that 6’ 3” 220 lb. Bobby from down the street, who was raised on Pop Tarts and Tater Tots, was so much bigger and stronger than my skinny ass and would squish me like a bug every football practice and date cheerleaders and get athletic scholarship offers when I all I got for eating those goddamned apples was a little green worm and a seat on my pants??
· If you don’t go to sleep right away, the bogeyman with 3 inch rotting yellow incisors and a razor sharp bowie knife will slip out from underneath your bed to cut open your abdomen and devour your spleen and kidneys and then yank out your large intestine to wrap around your neck and squeeze the life right out of you. OK. Maybe only my parents said things like this, which explains a lot, but threats to get children to sleep are completely ineffective nonetheless.
· If someone slaps you on the back violently while your eyes are crossed, your eyes will stay permanently crossed. Nope. Me and the older boys in my hood must have made the little neighborhood kids cross their eyes a million times to test this theory. No permanently crossed eyes, just some redness and the occasional contusion; in fact, none of the little snitches ever had any difficulty with their sight as they were able to provide a visual ID each and every time their overprotective parents would put us in a lineup.
· Pretty girls like boys who are smart. But the smart boys all know the truth. Pretty girls like assholes.
· Swallowing a tablespoon of Cod Liver oil makes you healthy. In my experience, swallowing Cod Liver oil makes you vomit.
· Adversity builds character. For real? Adversity just plain sucks.
· Cheaters Never Prosper – unless you have the initials C.E.O. after your name, in which case cheaters prosper outrageously.
· Lying to your parents about that broken Ming Vase will only get you in more trouble. Of course, if you happen to be the favorite child, then it works like a charm, especially when you blame it on the Black Sheep of the family, right Sis?!!
· You can’t get pregnant if you do it during a full moon. True, unless you forget to use birth control, right Sis?! Btw, lying about having sex is not a form of birth control…
· You don’t need to get drunk to have fun. Could be true, I just wouldn’t know ;)
Believe The Captain when he says: My new title is The Captain, CEO (Chief Embellishment Officer).
Yours waiting for my bonus,
The Captain, CEO
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Homework Ate My Daughter
I love language, and most especially, the ambiguity and elasticity of thought symbols constructed of the randomly assigned collection of lines and squiggles we call alphabets. Language is a metaphor for The Captain: I love myself; I’m ambiguous and elastic in my thinking, especially when it comes to reality; and I am constructed of randomly assigned genes, which, when depicted on paper by scientists, look a lot like a bunch of lines and squiggles. I was recently reminded of this when I arrived home from work one day and went to greet my teenage daughter with a kiss and a hug. “Not now, I’m doing my homework!” Licking my wounds, I retreated, scribbling notes about the encounter to use for my blog. There was a time, not that long ago, when I would have been greeted with an enthusiastic “Hi Daddy!” to go along with a great big hug and kiss. What changed? Right then and there the perfect metaphor for this moment fell out of the sky and smacked me in my brain: homework.
Home and Work. Use these words separately and you have two separate thoughts. As I toil at work for a lifeless Insurance company, I long for quittin’ time, when I get to go home and relax after a full day of work. But as I was reminded by my encounter with my daughter, the world is set upon its head for children if you combine them to create a new word: homework, the bane of all students. After a hard day of texting and learning, students must come home and do their homework. All the unpleasant memories came rushing back like flashbacks after a blackout. Homework sucks the life and happiness right out of you.
I remember the rush of adrenalin when my 7th grade teacher taught us about child labor laws. I went straight home and told my parents that child labor laws prohibit them from making me do my homework, and ran up the street to share my revelation with my friends, who all joined me in the streets for a celebratory game of kickball! But the air was kicked out of me the very next day when I was called into the Principal’s office for a meeting with my parents and history teacher, who deflated me by explaining that child labor laws do not, in fact, apply to public schools. But I learned a valuable lesson that day. Children have no rights and adults are lying bastards.
So all these years later, now (debatably) an adult, as I sat there feeling sorry for myself, I experienced something strange and new. I believe the word for it is empathy. It wasn’t me (though, admittedly, sometimes it is); the homework ate my daughter! I realize that one day, my daughter will be regurgitated to me and the pleasant greetings will return. Armed with this new feeling and a new word, I walked gently up to my daughter, braced myself, and gave her a great big hug…and I think I caught a glimpse of the tiniest of smiles.
Believe The Captain when he says: Beware when home and work hook up.
Yours drumming up a game of adult kickball – because I can!
The Captain
You can't blame it on this guy!
Home and Work. Use these words separately and you have two separate thoughts. As I toil at work for a lifeless Insurance company, I long for quittin’ time, when I get to go home and relax after a full day of work. But as I was reminded by my encounter with my daughter, the world is set upon its head for children if you combine them to create a new word: homework, the bane of all students. After a hard day of texting and learning, students must come home and do their homework. All the unpleasant memories came rushing back like flashbacks after a blackout. Homework sucks the life and happiness right out of you.
I remember the rush of adrenalin when my 7th grade teacher taught us about child labor laws. I went straight home and told my parents that child labor laws prohibit them from making me do my homework, and ran up the street to share my revelation with my friends, who all joined me in the streets for a celebratory game of kickball! But the air was kicked out of me the very next day when I was called into the Principal’s office for a meeting with my parents and history teacher, who deflated me by explaining that child labor laws do not, in fact, apply to public schools. But I learned a valuable lesson that day. Children have no rights and adults are lying bastards.
So all these years later, now (debatably) an adult, as I sat there feeling sorry for myself, I experienced something strange and new. I believe the word for it is empathy. It wasn’t me (though, admittedly, sometimes it is); the homework ate my daughter! I realize that one day, my daughter will be regurgitated to me and the pleasant greetings will return. Armed with this new feeling and a new word, I walked gently up to my daughter, braced myself, and gave her a great big hug…and I think I caught a glimpse of the tiniest of smiles.
Believe The Captain when he says: Beware when home and work hook up.
Yours drumming up a game of adult kickball – because I can!
The Captain
You can't blame it on this guy!
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