Dad-Brain. You know what I'm talking about.

It's not a normal brain. I call it the dad-brain. This is not to be confused with the zombie-brain, which

drives the dead body to consume living flesh. Dad-brain sees monsters that are (most likely) not there. It's not real, which is why you can't confuse it with the zombie-brain (which is TOTALLY real). If you're not a dad, you won't understand this. Moms know about dad-brain; you can tell they know when it's present by the almost constant eye-rolling that it seems to cause in them. I can usually quell dad-brain, push it far down, at least as far as it needs to be so that it doesn't actually gain control of my mouth. But sometimes I fail, and it comes forth. The dad-brain must be stopped.

It's at its worst when the kids are away, on their own - that's when the dad-brain comes out, silently, sneakily, ready to wreak havoc on my normally logical mind. Example: in August we moved our daughter into her dorm for her first year at college. Of course, that very night, dad-brain required a text to be sent to make sure the dorm monsters hadn't gotten her. She didn't respond right away, because she was in the shower. Perfectly natural, but dad-brain went all postal on me, because dad-brain does not consider showers, or any other normal excuse, a reason for non-response to a text. Dad-brain goes to DEFCON 4 in a nanosecond. Then dad-brain takes control of the fingers and texts again and again, until she responds. Surprise - she was fine. My daughter, at this point, thinks poor old dad will soon be wearing one of those nice white coats with the sleeves that connect in the back. Then dad-brain recedes into the background once again, and I become, once more, whatever passes as normal for me. But dad-brain lurks; it always is lurking.

I texted her again on the fourth night, explaining, with no small amount of pride, that I had resisted texting her the previous two nights in a row, but that I really wanted to make sure she was okay. After all, she's in a new, alien environment, sharing a room with people she met only 2 days prior, so I thought checking in was a good idea. My text asked her how she was settling in. Her text back to me read, and I quote, "Good everythings good". Which, of course, my dad-brain interpreted as, "I'm fine - gotta go, there's a naked meth party in a frat house that some guy I've never met before invited me to and I have to get to." Or perhaps, "There's a serial killer making me text 'everything's okay' so that you won't call the police". Never mind that she's a really smart girl, that we taught her better, that she can take care of herself, so there's really nothing to worry about. Dad-brain is actually zombie-like in its approach to things; single-minded, shuffling and lurching, no semblance of logical thinking present. It's one purpose: make you think the worst and act on it. Dad-brain sucks.

Dad-brain is guaranteed to make its appearance during special rites of passage: first day at daycare, first real date, driving lessons, prom, senior trip, first semester @ college, etc.. Dad-brain makes you clean a gun or sharpen a REALLY big knife at the exact same time your daughter's date is coming to pick her up. It makes you shake the date's hand hard enough to pulverize bone, so that he thinks about what that hand would feel like around his neck. It makes you say things to the date, while crushing his hand, such as, "My daughter is very special to me. I would hate for her to get hurt by someone. And, just to be clear: I watch a LOT of Criminal Minds and CSI, so I know how to hide and dispose of bodies." Dad-brain could write for really bad TV shows.

I'm hoping, that now that my kids are older, dad-brain will be making less appearances. I realize it will always be there, ready to come out and make an idiot of me, probably at the next rite of passage. I know I'm not alone in this; I could probably make billions if I could invent some kind of epi-pen for dad-brain. At the first sign of non-coherent paranoia, you'd just whip that bad boy out and jam it solidly into your thigh and hope the meds kick in before you do something massively stupid and/or fatally embarrassing to your kids. Dad-brains should be. medicated.

By the way, moms have lunatic brains, too, and for the sake of consistency, let's call them mom-brains. But since I'm not a mom, I think it would be the height of male arrogance for me to try to explain it. Plus, just thinking about trying to explain it makes my head numb. And in the interest of gender equality, I'm sure it's bad, but also pretty sure it's not as bad as dad-brain, because of testosterone. Adding testosterone to ANYTHING usually guarantees making it worse. Let's face it, you can't think of one thing that sprinkling a little testosterone into won't make measurably worse. Especially dad-brains. Peace.

6 Hours of Hell

Colonoscopy Redux

I know I've hit this topic before, but just having had my second one this morning I felt compelled to delve into it again, so I apologize for any redundancies from my first post. FYI: I didn't actually have two this morning - I had the first one last year. I'm not that masochistic. As before, most of the focus will not be on the procedure, which is really nothing, but will be on the night before, which is really something. Let's start with...

SUPPLIES
Seating: You may think you need (and will want) to sit on the toilet the whole time, but you can't (see Odor Treatment below). However, you should be within about 5 seconds of being able to get your ass on that seat. I am NOT kidding about this part. You go from mild gut discomfort to DEFCON 4 in about 3 seconds. Do whatever you can to shorten the trip. Clear a path. Warn fellow home-dwellers not to be in the path. Wear sneakers. Leave the toilet lid up. Hell, remove it, since you'll want to replace the entire toilet after this experience, anyway. You may believe you can hold on until you get yourself on the toilet, but please listen to me: YOU CAN'T. I don't care if you can crack walnuts with your anal sphincter - there is none strong enough to hold back the surge you'll experience. It's like trying to stave off a tsunami with a cotton ball.

Toilet Tissue: The picture on your left - this quantity can be purchased in any of the "big box" stores. Buy at least four of these. This should get you through the 6 hours,  if you're lucky. I strongly recommend also having a significant supply of baby wipes, the ones that are treated with aloe. If you can't lay your hands on these, you'll want...

Ice cream: Several gallons will be desired. It doesn't matter what flavor. Or brand. It doesn't matter if you're lactose-intolerant. It's not for your mouth. You figure it out.

Reading Material: Make sure your Kindle's all charged up. Binge-watch Netflix on your tablet. Buy a copy of War and Peace (trust me, you'll have the time).

Odor Treatment: Purchase at least 100 cans of Febreeze. Burn candles. Buy your family gas masks. Hang several dozen car fresheners in your bathroom. If you're even moderately friendly with your next door neighbors, advise them that they might be better off checking into a hotel.

Music: Like the Febreeze, this is not so much for you, but for anyone unlucky enough to be living with you for these 6 hours. Nobody wants to hear what you're doing in there. Turn it up.

Ear Plugs: The noises coming out of you are not fit for human ears, even though they're your noises. The music is for others; these are for you. When you're in turbo-thrust mode, you'll thank me for this.

Toilets: If you live with at least one other person, you should not attempt this if you only have one toilet in your home, because, for several hours, that toilet will be YOURS. You will need it the most, plus, no one else will want to use it (trust me, they won't even want to enter the room after your first episode) until it's been cleaned, preferably with bleach and napalm. Or replaced, as mentioned above.

TIMEFRAME
0 Hour: This is where it begins. Last chance to turn back. Although, truth be told, if you plan on keeping your colonoscopy appointment tomorrow, it will make things MUCH less unpleasant for a number of people; people who have access to medical equipment while you are sedated. You'll never be able to prove a thing. If you use the prescription, it's only super-unpleasant for you. You must drink 6 ounces of SuPrep Bowel Preparation, a nuclear-level laxative that will soon become apparent has been formulated by a terrorist organization. It actually doesn't really taste or smell all that bad, either. I imagine this is what a cocktail of anti-freeze, ammonia, Gatorade and kangaroo urine would taste like - fruity, with an oaky undertone. Doesn't matter - you'll definitely regret ingesting it later. It's like Tequila that way. By the way, you have to add 10 ounces of water to the 6 ounces of SuPrep and down it all, then drink another two 16-ounce containers of water within the next hour. That's 48 ounces in a 1-hour time frame. This allows the Medi-Prep to flush everything from your GI system, without also removing your internal organs, which is probably a good thing. By the way, if you're like me, you'll be tempted to check, when this stuff starts to work, that you HAVEN'T actually passed an organ. Don't. Please resist the urge to sneak a peek, unless you're still looking for that marble you swallowed when you were 5 - this stuff will certainly encourage it to vacate your GI tract.

1-3 Hours: SuPrep is typically a two-stage preparation to be employed the night before your procedure; you do the first dose @ 5PM and the second at @ 9PM - double the fun!! Depending on your physiology, your diet and some other factors, you may or may not start what can rightfully be described as "evacuation" during this stage. You will experience rumblings in your GI tract, and by rumblings, I mean it will feel like a miniature armored Army division is making an incursion to your rectum. Consider that it normally takes anywhere from 36 to 60 hours for food to transit from the mouth to the anus. Now consider that this stuff will transit that same distance in, at most, a few hours - this should give you an idea of how volatile this solution is. We must never allow this to land in the hands of America's enemies. Indeed, let's just stop all the air strikes on ISIS/ISIL and spike their water with this; their threat will be eliminated in a day or two, as they beg of for toilet paper (think how much sand is out there). This is when you'll be happy you followed my directions for a clear, short, unimpeded path to the bathroom.

4-6 Hours: This stage is the equivalent of the sequel for most modern movies; generally much, much more horrible than the original. This is when you start to make the comparison to that time you had food poisoning. Now take that experience, multiply it by 10, throw in a full pack of Ex-Lax and a healthy dose of dysentery, and you'll come close to the atomic squirts you are now praying to whatever deity you believe in to please, please end.

Sometime after retiring for the night: You may believe, and have copious evidence to support that belief, that nothing else could possibly be left inside of you to be evacuated. In fact, you're probably, as I was, under the impression that food that I would eat in the future had also been eliminated. This is a self-delusion. You will wake up, suddenly, in the middle of the night, in a panic, hoping you can get to the one place you would have hoped you would not see for at least another 24 hours (or until your butt has healed) before you explode one last time. Next time I may just sleep in the bathroom.

Morning of the procedure: Congratulations! You've made it! And just when you thought NOTHING could possibly still be in your GI tract, you will go again before your trip to the hospital, then again once more just before the procedure itself. Once I was under, what happened after that could hardly be considered my fault, but I would like to formally apologize to all those in the procedure room for the inevitable last gasp that I'm sure occurred, and hope that they can forgive me. After they disinfect the room. With napalm. Peace.

Nobody's Guaranteed their "Someday"

Clocks only really tell you how much time has gone past. They don't create time. Moments in the future may not happen. "Someday" may never come.

I lost a friend and colleague yesterday. He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer a short while before I had. Another colleague recommended I contact him since we were very close in age and he was trying a newer, alternative (possibly experimental) treatment. I remember being less afraid and more mad when I was first diagnosed (which prompted my very first blog post ever). I remember the first phone call I made to him - he was so gracious, and took it upon himself to be my cheerleader. Anyone who knew him would not be surprised at all by this; this was Michael. You always felt better after speaking with him - he made it about you, not him.

His own PSA levels (the blood work indicator that prostate cancer may be an unwelcome tenant in your body) were appallingly, ridiculously high. When he told me what his levels were, I was so scared for him that I went to my go-to, which is humor. "Is that a record? Will we see you in Guinness?" He laughed, and said that he had asked his doctor the same thing, but even though the doctor had said it wasn't the highest recorded, he personally had not seen them that elevated. Neither had my doctors, when I shared his numbers, and the look on their faces should have prepared me better then for hearing of the loss today. But it didn't - one of the few things I am certain Michael and I shared, in addition to working for the same company and an overwhelming desire to help others, was optimism. My entire thought process for Michael from that point forward was that I was going to be able to tell others that I knew a guy who had scary-high PSA levels, but that he BEAT it - he's doing fine. Michael was going to be my underdog story - in case anyone with higher-than-my PSA levels asked me for support (because that's what happens - you unknowingly join a fairly large support group), I was going to be able to say, "There's this guy I know, Michael, who...".

He was supposed to beat this. Guys like Michael aren't supposed to leave this early. so much to do; so many lives still to touch. But sometimes the underdog doesn't win. Sometimes the cancer does. Sometimes all the optimism, positive thinking, prayers, etc. aren't enough.

The clock stopped for Michael yesterday. My heart goes out to his family. We've all got a clock. Make sure you're not wasting your clock's time. Make sure you're saying the things that need to be said. Tell the people you love that you love them. Hug someone. Stop putting that trip off. Don't keep waiting for "someday". And if you're male and over the age of 50 (40-45 if this runs in your family) - schedule yourself for a physical and make sure they test for this. I'd like to think Michael would agree with this. Peace.

Dishwasher

Confession: I put no thought at all into how I put items into our dishwasher. I know what you're thinking - typical male. I know I'm supposed to give this some attention, and it really does make a difference what's on the top and bottom shelves, but to be brutally honest about it, it doesn't matter at all.

It doesn't matter because I live with the dishwasher police. Just joking! <jk>  ;)
Except I'm not. My wife can be on the other side of the house, on a different floor, using the vacuum cleaner, and by the time I have the dishwasher open, she's standing behind me, watching where I'm going to place whatever dish I have in my hand. It's like when you're speeding on a wide open, straight road, with nowhere a cop could be hiding, and suddenly, there's flashing red and blue lights in your rear view mirror. To her credit, she never arrests corrects me, she now simply lets me put the dish wherever my poor, simple, male mind thinks it should go, waits until I leave, opens the dishwasher, and moves it to where it's "supposed" to go. Of course, I hear the dishwasher open, the clinking of the plates; I can even hear what she's thinking as she puts the dishes in "the right places". By the way, these places seems to change according to...well, something, I'm sure, so it's not like I can actually "learn" where it goes. It's kind of like decorating a Christmas tree, when you think the ornament looks great where you placed it - as a matter of fact, it's been in that same spot the last three Christmases - but no, not this year. Now it doesn't go there anymore; I must be an idiot.

I used to try to argue my position, much as I'd imagine an attorney would, if said attorney was embroiled in a heated legal dispute concerning the placement of dishes in the dishwasher. Considering some of the insanity I've seen in the courts lately, this is not impossible.
Me: "Aha! So you admit, that on the previously aforementioned evening in the summer of 2012, you did, indeed, with malice of forethought, actually place the bundt cake tin in the UPPER shelf, which resulted in not only the dishwasher NOT being damaged, nor any damage being incurred  by the bundt tin's associates, namely, the spatula and microwave-safe icing tool, but also the bundt tin surviving completely clean?!?!?"
Wife: "You're insane."
Me: "Answer the question, damnit!!"
Surprisingly, this did not go over well. Even though I was totally right about the bundt tin.

I'm not criticizing my wife by the way - I exhibit the same behavior myself, so that would be hypocritical. For example, we have, as I'm sure many of you have as well, a steak knife block. Since we're both right-handed, I believe the serrated blade should face to the right, so that it is not in the direction of our bodies when we remove the knife from the block. This seems logical and safe to me, but my wife, even though made aware of this, often puts them in the "wrong" way. At some point, I will mimic her dishwasher behavior, and surreptitiously turn the knives the "right" way, normally when she's not around. She's probably, at least up to this point, unaware I do this. I say "up to this point" because I am well aware that she reads my blog. So I guess I AM an idiot, after all.

But this is what married people do. She's not wrong or right, and neither am I - we just look at things differently. Then we correct each other/for each other. Without becoming angry over it. This is also a measure of the health of your relationship - if you're both doing this, and are aware the other is, and it remains a "small" thing - you have a strong, loving relationship. No one ever gets divorced over improper dishwasher loading; that's just the excuse because the larger issues remain unvoiced. Those little differences? They really don't matter at all. Except for the steak knife thing. I'm also totally right about that. Peace.

Am I Just Making Expensive Pee?

Multivitamins and supplements. I take them, but I'm always wondering: are they making me healthier, or am I just making really expensive urine?

Why do I wonder? There's just so many conflicting opinions. Healthcare professionals, and by that I mean people who work at GNC or The Vitamin Shoppe, highly recommend them, using specialized technical jargon like, "Creatine", "Branched Chain Amino Acids" and "Bro". Apparently I need pre-workout, during workout and post-workout powders/drinks/syringes if I want "to get really huge". Fortunately, these only come in 55-gallon drum sizes, so I'm pretty sure the act of carrying them to my car and into my house will help me get "huge". Or a hernia - no pain, no gain, Bro. Besides, getting huge is a young man's game - I'm just trying to neutralize the pre-death rigor-mortis that appears to have laid claim to my body.

Doctors, those "other" healthcare professionals, who think they know everything because they've gone to higher-education institutions for a decade or so, can name every bone in the human body, and amassed enough student-loan debt to exceed our national debt, won't really weigh in on the matter. Except Dr. Oz, of course. who, among other "miracles", suggests we drink a special green coffee (that means the beans aren't roasted, so obviously they have magical powers) because it will help us lose weight, re-grow hair, get Congress to actually DO something and bring peace to our planet. And we should trust him, because:

1. he's a doctor
2. he's got his own TV show
3. he's endorsed by Oprah 
4. he's got a REALLY cool name

Here's the other thing I can't figure out - they sell multivitamins, right? Which have somewhere upwards of 357,000 different vitamins at potencies of more than 50,000 times what the RDA is, all in...ONE PILL. But I can also buy pills that are composed, supposedly, of just ONE of those 357,000 vitamins, and somehow, they can actually be LARGER than the multivitamin - how is that even possible? This is a question, along with, how can you possibly fit 4 normal-sized adults in a Fiat 500, that needs to be answered.

One of the supplements I take is Omega-3. Well, actually, it's SUPER Omega-3; which is obviously WAY better than NORMAL Omega-3. If they came out with a Super-Duper Omega-3, you know I'd be all over that bad boy. The Omega-3 I take has no fish oil in it even though I know fish oil is considered the Captain America of Omega-3 supplements. That's because fish oil burps, which are inevitable when taking fish oil capsules, taste like, you guessed it, fish oil. Actually, they taste like the fish vomit from a fish that has eaten several fish that have ingested fish oil capsules. I imagine you could come close to the same experience gargling with the oil that sardines are packed in, followed by rubbing anchovies over your lips after working a 10 hour day at a fish market. Really - a fish oil burp can make you want to rip your own face off. People in your immediate vicinity, and by that I mean a 2-block radius, also want to rip their own faces off.

The multivitamin I take, while not causing toxic burps, does turn my urine an interesting color. I imagine I could get the same effect by sucking on a yellow highlighter for several hours. And again, it's hard to figure out if I'm doing myself any good, or am I just throwing money down the toilet, literally.

Hey, if I eat asparagus every day as well, I can get nearly glow-in-the-dark, strange smelling, and expensive urine. Throw in some fish oil capsules, weaponize it to be delivered via drone strikes, and we can rule the world. A better world, through the targeted delivery of multivitamins and supplements. Peace.

Hiking (aka eating bugs)

I love hiking - communing with nature, being with my wife, getting exercise (I can earn almost an entire day's worth of extra calories on a 3-4 hour hike, which allows me to have a fast-food shake or decaf/mocha/cappa-frappa/caramel/vanilla bean/double espresso latte), seeing nature in all its glory - what's not to like? I'll tell you: bugs. Yes, I understand, bugs are part of nature, but seriously, am I the most interesting thing in the forest? You'd think so, the way they swarm all over me. Both my wife and I sprayed ourselves quite liberally with enough insect repellent before the hike to easily kill Mothra (age check). She's not getting bothered at all, but I killed about 200 mosquitoes within the first 5 minutes of our hike. 200 mosquitoes doesn't sound like a lot until you realize you've inhaled easily the same amount. Sure, they're protein, but how many would you have to eat to even get 1 gram of protein? I mean, have you ever seen a fat bat? Didn't think so. Re-applying the insect repellent didn't seem to help, but at least I got to apply more toxic chemicals to my skin. Yay, me.

I'm not sure anyone really knows how many insects exist. But I don't think I'm being too conservative when I estimate that number at 7,342,803,777,144. I'm sure you're thinking I'm exaggerating, but it's even worse: that's PER person. If you consider their life, it's no wonder they're so annoying; they're born, they eat, annoy humans (sometimes that's also eating), create more bugs (sometimes THAT includes humans as well - yuck), then repeat until death. You can't tell me they're not an alien race, bent on humanity's destruction. They suck. Literally. They suck your blood, burrow under your skin, lay eggs, bite you, sting you - some of them even VOMIT into you.  That's right, it's not bad enough that the little bastards suck your blood - no, some of them actually THROW UP into you. Those kinds are basically the frat boys of the insect world, going from frat party (human) to frat party (next human), drinking and throwing up. You're like a walking "kegger" to them. Yum.

However, the ones that really bother me are those that dive-bomb your head, repeatedly, sounding like mini B-52's. They seem intent on getting inside your ear, or really, any cranial orifice, I presume so they can burrow into your brain and eat it. That's right - zombie bugs. But they're not the kind of zombies we're used to from Hollywood, the kind you could outrun while in a wheelchair as they lurch about. No, these FLY and are so fast you can't even see them, let alone outrun them. They're supersonic zombie bugs. And there's BILLIONS of them. BILLIONS. You can't outrun that, you can only flail awkwardly and repeatedly as they laugh at you (other hikers, even though similarly pestered, will also laugh at you). I can imagine their little insect huddles: "Hey, look - humans! Let's go have some fun. Let's split up - you 450 million, you go for the ears, you 600 million, take the eyes, and the rest of us will try to go up their noses and mate. Okay, let's synchronize watches. Crap! We don't have watches!! Just go - DIVE, DIVE, DIVE!!"

So why do I continue to hike? For all the reasons I listed initially, and then, there's this. This. This isn't something you find laying on your couch, tweeting, texting or facebooking (or even blogging). This has no equal in the electronic world. This is nature. This is priceless. This is beauty. Peace.

Diet Crazes (Crazies)

I'm just SO sick and tired of being barraged with the latest "new" way to: lose weight/get rock-hard abs/get rid of the 40 lbs of undigested meat you've been carrying in your intestines for decades. Every week there's a "new" way to get the body you want, when it's really pretty simple: stop eating crap.

Breaking News: A new berry, found in the excrement of the red-butted baboon, is thought to have spectacular weight-loss properties that may benefit humans. "We're very excited about this", said local scientist Pierre Ahmafraud (and by scientist we mean someone wearing a white lab coat). "We noticed right away that this particular berry (named the Gottasquat berry) seemed to be found only in the largest piles of baboon feces. I don't think it's

too much of a scientific leap to theorize that because it accompanies large poops - and I'm trying to use laymen's terms here - it goes without saying, even though I'm saying it, that the berry is likely a super cleanser. We think this will be of tremendous help to millions of obese Americans, particularly those fond of consuming berries extracted from primate fecal matter." Several companies are vying for rights to the berries, although production and marketing may be tricky. "Production initially seemed like the biggest hurdle; the berries in their natural state are indigestible by humans. It's the digestive process of the baboons that makes them viable for use in humans. It would be very expensive to sit around waiting for the baboons to eliminate and then have an employee sort through the feces. They just don't eat enough to produce the volume required to fit the need." Scientists believe they have it figured out, however. "We're planning on feeding the baboons a diet of cheeseburgers, fries, soda and 1,00 calorie coffees - you know, basically the average American diet - and slip the berries into the cheeseburger. We're also adding Ex-Lax in a dose 10-20 times the recommended dosage to everything in the diet to increase the frequency of the bowel movements." When asked if they didn't expect the baboons to reject cheeseburgers with berries hidden in them, the scientists responded, "They've been selling cheeseburgers by the BILLIONS to Americans that contain less than 40% meat and NO ONE questions what the other 60% is made up of - why would you think the baboons would notice?" The marketing departments are already abuzz with coming up with new product names. One that was leaked by an anonymous marketing person was: "Babpoop". Filling the position of "feces-sorter" is also expected to be problematic, even in this economy.

Breaking News: HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) being upstaged by HIIT (High Intensity Injury Trauma). A new study, released by the Richard Simmons Institute for Aerobics and Short Shorts, revealed that the new fitness craze, HIIT, while initially quickly producing remarkable results, tends to see a plateauing after the first few weeks. Orthopedic doctors quickly identified the cause for the "plateau" as a result of actually having to cease exercising due to the unusually high rate of ligament, muscle and tendon tears, broken bones, internal hemorrhaging and

in one case, a dislocated chest (the first ever known in medical history), injuries commonly associated with the new fitness craze. For those unfamiliar with HIIT, it typically involves overturning truck tires (while still attached to the trucks for the more advanced), working out with ropes (ropes usually used to moor battleships), and less typically, rhino-tipping. However, HIIT zealots brush off that theory and claim their participants aren't doing enough, and most people don't have a high enough pain threshold to "get really ripped, bro". "We blame the participants", states Crosspit owner/trainer and "Pain Should Just be Ignored" author Kirk Lattissimus. "These wussies start slacking at the first sign of pain. Pain's just your body's way of telling you that you're doing the right thing. That's the signal that they need to step it up and work through the pain to reach that next level of fitness. That's why our motto is, "If it ain't tearin', that swimsuit you won't be wearin'!" When asked what he thought of the medical community's outrage over his suggestion that people exercise past the point of tearing connective tissue, Kirk's response was, "When's the last time you met a medical professional who could bench 400 lbs.? Think they're really qualified to make those kind of judgements?" When asked if he felt responsible for possibly encouraging people to push themselves to a point where they may get a permanent, debilitating injury, Kirk replied, "I don't answer questions from dweebs who don't do Burpees, bro. Drop and give me 20."

Breaking News: New Cleanse Diet reportedly also eliminates several organs, boosting weight loss gains.  A new cleanse diet sweeping the nation, claiming to clean out years of undigested meat and jello shots and thus help you immediately drop weight and inches, seems to be causing an

added "benefit": losing unwanted/unneeded organs. Based on several patients's reports (after admission to local emergency rooms) of large, "organ-like" feces found in their toilets nanoseconds after drinking the wildly popular "Lavender Rooter", it was noted upon ultrasound analysis that many had lost not only all undigested food stuffs in their intestines, but also part of those intestines, kidneys, gall bladders, appendixes, pancreases, ovaries and in one case, a testicle. Medical professionals are sounding the alarm on the dangers of this new "cleanser", but the users are less concerned. One patient stated, "I haven't been able to fit into a size 12 in YEARS! I still have one kidney, so what's the big deal? Being able to see my toes again, while still being able to shovel anything I want into my mouth is TOTALLY worth it!" Another patient, who asked to remain anonymous, begged to differ. "I miss my testicle. It's like I've lost one of two close friends." That patient's wife was unavailable for comment as she had to be resuscitated after passing out from a sudden laughing fit.

Seriously, if you want to lose weight, it's pretty simple. But it's not easy, and therein lies the rub; we want the easy/quick fix that requires the least amount of energy and/or willpower. And we're willing to pay for special food, drinks, cleanses, wraps, exercise devices, pills, surgeries, etc. to achieve it. But you only need four things:

1. A little knowledge - knowing what foods are good/bad (hint: if it's processed and will not decompose for 10 years, it's probably "bad"), what kind of calories you're consuming, and a clear realization of what a "serving size" is.
2. A little math - this is the easy part: burning more calories than you consume = losing weight. So either eat less, exercise more, or, ideally, do both at the same time.
3. A way to track what you're eating/burning - tons of apps/devices out there that will help you with this, but you have to be honest and diligent. The one I use is a free app called MyFitnessPal, and it is simple to use and works and syncs on all platforms (smartphones, PC's and tablets). I highly recommend it.
4. A little willpower - this is by far the hardest part. But if it's important to you, you'll do it. But don't fall into the trap of losing weight/inches "for" an event/season/etc.. Don't diet - change your lifestyle, and you'll find it's far easier to maintain your weight than constantly re-losing it. Peace.
   

What Kind of Cleaning Fluid Are You? I'm Benzene.

Can we just please all agree to stop with the Facebook quizzes? The first couple were entertaining, but I believe the "jumping the shark" level has been breached. No one cares which Dwarf you are, what kind of toe fungus you are, what kind of spice (unless you're a former Spice Girl, and then...do tell, girlfriend!!) you are, etc.. Move on, it's over, time for a new Facebook activity to eventually annoy the 99% of us that don't give damn about any of these quizzes or other activities (game-players, I'm talking to you). If I know you personally, I already know which member of the Brady Bunch you are. If I don't know you personally, I don't want to know. I mean, c'mon, does anyone really WANT to be Marsha Brady? And who would post that? I'm pretty sure whoever gets Gandalf (and why does spell-check want to turn Gandalf into "Ugandan"?) in the "What LOTR Character Are You?" quiz proudly displays their wizard class - but does anyone really post that they're Gollum? I think not.

Then there's the passive-aggressive behavior on the internet. It's like the "share if you love your son/daughter/dominatrix/etc." meme posts, with the directive to post if you also love your (insert noun here) - suggesting that those who don't share don't love their (insert noun here). Seriously - when you post those kinds of memes, it makes me wonder if the opposite is true. Not to mention the religious ones, don't even get me started on those. An omnipotent deity (note: NOT Zuckerberg) has a Facebook page (which means they also have an email address - yeah, let that one sink in for a minute) - I don't think so.

Same goes for the offline world (yes, there is one) as in bumper stickers, like: "I brake for animals". So you infer that the rest of us that don't publicly proclaim the willingness to cause a rear-end collision to save a possum are actively seeking to run them down? And I fully recognize that there are people out there who do, but I hope they're in the minority (and likely also members of Congress). It's like the "Baby on Board" placards, designed initially with the intent to alert other drivers to drive more carefully, because let's face it, except for possibly the people also trying to run down animals, NO ONE wants to injure a baby. But that's not the effect those signs have, if you're one of the people still sporting them - people will drive the same unfocused, distracted, dangerous manner that they always did - what it did was make us very wary of YOU and get as far away from you as possible. The hard truth is, if you have a newborn and/or very young child, we can assume a few things about you:

1. You haven't slept. Since your child was born. You can no longer discern any difference between the physical and dream world, since the dream world is reserved for people who actually sleep. You've basically become a zombie, replacing the flesh-eating part with a diaper-changing role. Which is a perfect segue to:
2. The odor of mustard-colored baby poop has lodged itself permanently in your nose (we can tell by the look on your face). THAT alone would make anyone irritable. AND suicidal.
3. You've lost the ability to speak conversationally with adults. Sometimes it's subtle, like slipping in words like "potty" or "sippy cup". Other times it's worse; you'll be at a business lunch and unconsciously wipe a little smudge of salad dressing from the corner of your client's mouth or wet your fingers with your saliva and try to tame that cowlick. Yeah - stop doing that. It creeps us out.
4. You've heard "The Wheels in the Bus Go Round and Round" so many times that even when it's no longer playing, you hear it. The thought of driving at high speed into a bridge abutment to make it stop occurs to you every 15 or 20 seconds. Your fellow drivers find this worrisome.

So back to the original point of this post before I went all tangential on you: please let's all agree to stop with the Facebook quizzes. Otherwise you leave me no option other than to block you. Especially if you're Marsha Brady. Or Gollum. And while we're at it, stop with the game requests. For those, I won't just block you, I'll go all Liam Neesom on you - hunt you, find you, etc. I have a very select set of skills. Peace.

Yoga - The Final Frontier

So, we're doing yoga. I've done it before, when I was much younger, and really enjoyed it. But now I'm 55 and have the flexibility of your average house cat. If your house cat was dead. In rigor mortis. And frozen. You get the idea. I also had far fewer major injuries back then, although, to be honest, I'd have to go to my pre-5 year-old days to have NO major injuries. Such is life. So what does a 55 year-old with reconstructions of both shoulders, both knees, multiple dislocations and a giant chuck of titanium in one leg where the bone used to be practice? Why, something that requires you to put your limbs and joints into positions not normally found outside of Guantanamo Bay "enhanced interrogation" rooms. Perfect.

Our teacher, an incredibly lithe young woman (who apparently has been born without bones,

ligaments, tendons - basically anything that would prevent a human person from tying themselves into a knot), starts our session, which is in a dimly lit room that contains a full-wall mirror, which thankfully, I cannot see myself in due to the dimness of the lighting coupled with my poor vision. I shall soon learn to view my inability to see myself as a small gift and can only wish the same for my fellow practitioners.

"Lay down in 'Shinvinyatoyotamazdadu' position" (which apparently means lay on your back with your eyes closed), "and breathe deeply." This I can do, except I call it 'sleeping', and I'm not usually on a thin mat on a wooden floor surrounded by so many people, but, whatever. I begin to think, 'okay, this isn't too bad at all'... and then the class actually starts. "Now I want you to bring your right knee up to your chest and slip the strap around the arch of your right foot." I have a sudden memory of a cheap hotel room and a snickering locksmith removing handcuffs, but I shrug that off and center myself. "Now straighten your right leg and pull on the straps, bringing your foot towards your head while keeping your leg straight, spread your toes and point with the ball of your foot - you should feel a slight pull in the back of your thigh." And by "slight pull" she apparently means someone pouring lighter fluid on your hamstring and setting it afire. "Now, allow your foot to slowly drop to the right side and then begin to pull it as high up as you can towards your head." I'm seeing a pattern here - why does she want my foot near my head - I certainly don't want my foot anywhere NEAR my nose! "Just remember, the goal is to eventually be able to do this move while standing." Riiiight. The involuntary guffaw escapes me before I can restrain it, but I cover it by ending it in "ooohhhmmmmmm". Really? I'm supposed to do this while standing; I'm still mastering drinking while standing. But, I'm a positive guy, so I'm sure, that with many years of practice, I may be able to do this. Once. Let's save time and have the ambulance squad already there when I attempt it, shall we? Better yet, maybe I should just attempt this right in the hospital ER and cut out the middlemen.

Later on, we get to a more complicated move, possibly named 'Vishrasuburulinguinewasha', but at this point I've experienced so many head-rushes that my instructor looks like a 6-armed emu/elephant, so I'm pretty sure I misunderstood what it's called and in fact thought she sneezed. Anyway, this pose consists of performing a number of things simultaneously, yoga multi-tasking, if you will, which explains why I'm the only male in the class. Although I AM pulling off the yoga pants really well, or at least MUCH better than some who don't understand that even lycra has a stretching limit. Back to the pose: I'm supposed to adopt a wide, straight-leg stance, with my left foot pointed forward and my right foot pointed outward, making sure the heel and ball of my right foot are aligned with the arch in my left foot, keeping my spine straight by extending my tailbone towards the floor (whatever the hell THAT means), and keeping my torso "squared". I believe the police should adopt this part for their roadside sobriety tests - they could fund their entire annual budget within a month. "While taking a deep inhalation, pull your lower abdomen in towards your spine, grip the floor with your toes while simultaneously pulling inner left foot and right heel towards one another to "root" yourself to the mat." Sounds complicated, but, triumphantly, I do it, and my brief moment of joyous accomplishment is shattered upon learning that we have not yet even done "the move"; we have merely gotten into the starting position. Clearly this deception is why firearms are banned from yoga studios. This is called "warrior pose", which I mentally decide should be called "dead warrior pose", since it is painfully apparent that I am completely open to attack from many, many angles. But I digress.

From our starting position, we are now told to "bend your right knee to a 90 degree angle while inhaling" - wait, when was I supposed to have exhaled? - "and reach with your left hand and grasp your shin, your ankle, or your foot. Now rotate your left hand towards the ceiling while turning your torso and look up to the ceiling, pulling in your abdomen to your spine" - this is called 'charging the core' which I have also mentally renamed 'trying not to fart', since that burrito I ate before class clearly has plans on revealing itself, and soon, probably violently - "and hold that position for 5 breaths." I'm also pretty sure that at some point in the class I was supposed to exhale earlier, but I think I passed out before breath #2. At least that's what the EMT's told me, while fanning away the ghost of my burrito.

Namaste.

Big Lot Stores

I like big lot stores. Mostly I like the ability to get my shopping done while having new tires put on my car, getting my oil changed and a lube job, getting new eyeglasses, and coming soon, having a colonoscopy performed. Hopefully they use a different lube than the automotive service area. I'm also a fan of being able to buy an entire year's supply of toilet tissue in a single visit.

Of course, there's some things I don't like about big lot stores. And by "some things', I mean: people.

I know we're all raised differently; but I'd like to think there are basic tenets of parenting that are universal: be considerate of others, be kind, it's not all about you, etc. That's the way I was raised. I don't recall my parents following that with, "Unless, of course, you're in a big lot store - then you can be a totally rude moron." Obviously, big lot stores did not exist for my parents; I remember mom driving to 3 or 4 different grocery stores. Not because she couldn't purchase everything in one store; she did so because the milk in the other store was $0.01 cheaper than the other store. None us had the heart to tell her that because our family's vehicle got the same gas mileage as a Sherman tank (probably because it weighed as much), that she ate up that savings just by starting the car.

One might assume that, given that one had to park far enough from the entrance that one is in an entirely

different zip code, that the store may be a wee bit crowded. Surely upon entering said store, one must realize that, apparently, the entire population of Asia has decided to go shopping at the exact same time as one has. And by now, I hope that you are as tired of reading "one" and I am of typing it.

One of my favorites are the people who go around lunch or dinner time, often both, on both days of the weekend, with the goal of feeding their entire extended family from the sampler trays; blocking aisles is, naturally, optional, but rarely passed on. Giving YOU a dirty look because you had the temerity to ask them to move their cart so you can proceed down the aisle, appears, however, mandatory. These attempts to provide daily nourishment for your family is exactly why stores like BJ's and Costco close on Thanksgiving; they're not stupid.

You may run into them later (quite possibly days later), at the checkout lines, where they realize that they are in a cash-only aisle, and convince one of the managers to make a special case for them since they've already scanned their 2,000+ items. Or the math-challenged shoppers who are ahead of you at the express lane, which CLEARLY says "8 items or less"with their 32 items, and then appear confused as to what that means: "Oh, I thought multiples of 8 were also okay".

It's not all bad, though. Even if I don't need to pick up any on that particular visit, I will cruise the feminine hygiene products aisle, simply to amuse myself by watching the dazed husbands trying to locate the exact product for their womenfolk from a selection that spans an entire aisle, from the floor to the 30-foot ceiling. I believe there may actually be less species of insects on the planet than there are choices from this aisle. I try, from their appearance, to determine what phase they are in. Usually it begins with shock - a widening of the eyes, a slowly turning head as they take in the enormity of the task of selection ahead of them, knowing they will ultimately fail to purchase the correct one, resulting in their being sent back into this horror show, in a big lot store version of Groundhog Day. Some are in frustration phase, muttering curses under their breath, punctuated by words such as, "super", "maxi", "flexi-wings", "odor control". Then there's the defeated stage, where they have utterly given up - they look as if they have aged 5 years in the half-hour they just spent, and are now, finally, degraded to asking a passing female for help (because the odds of finding an employee to help you are equal to you finding your desired product). And none of them, ever, will make eye contact with another male in that aisle. Ever. I do feel bad for them, and sometimes, but not always, will tell them my trick: take a pic on your cell phone and just match the packaging. This works like a charm, until, of course, they change the packaging, and then I am also shuffling about muttering words like, "super-absorbent", while drooling and trying to force my eyes to focus..

You'll have to excuse me now, since I have things to do, people to see. Colonscopy/lube jobs to schedule. Lubricants to choose. Peace.

Groin Tackle

On December 2, 2013, tight end Vernon Davis of the San Francisco 49ers was tackled by St. Louis Ram safety T. J. McDonald. BY THE GROIN. Watching an NFL player get tackled in his most sensitive area (surprisingly, not his bank account), as unpleasant as it was to watch, had to pale in comparison to actually having another player tackle you by grabbing your groin and dragging you down. Sure, this is perfectly acceptable in the dentist's office, where you reach over and grab the dentist and say, "We're not going to hurt each other, are we?", but on the football field? C'mon, man. That kind of behavior has no place in a civilized sport, where, until recently, it was perfectly acceptable to charge full speed with your head down and spear another player in their head, spleen or spine with your helmet. I mean, we're not animals, are we?

There should be a penalty for this, and it should be devastating: like making the offender watch 16 straight hours of C-SPAN. Or perhaps rooming with Dennis Rodman for a week (here or in North Korea, I don't think it really matters). Or appearing in a Miley Cyrus video. Listen, we're okay with brain damage, lacerated internal organs, spinal cord injuries, etc., but you have to draw the line somewhere, and I think it should be drawn directly around the groinage area.

Lest you think this is purely a football thing, let me assure you, it is not. It happens in other sports as well, albeit with less frequency as the opportunities to grope each other are pretty high in football. I assure you this happens in basketball all the time, having played the game myself and thus been the gropee, and it probably happens in Hockey, Rugby and maybe even Curling (although the cold weather makes this more difficult). They don't do this in Baseball since they're already grabbing themselves incessantly, in a manner not at all unlike monkeys grooming themselves. Hockey fights are the most advantageous time for gropage to occur, when the gloves come off, since trying to grab someone in their nether region with those gloves on is like trying to eat soup with chopsticks. In Rugby, scrums are likely the best time to grope, but I think the technical term in that sport is "asking for a date".

I believe the NFL should create a penalty for this, and I'm thinking an eye for an eye - the offending player should also be hit big time in a very sensitive area. And this time I AM talking about their bank account. And wouldn't you love to hear the ref announce a "groinage infraction"? You know you would. Peace.

Space Invaders

No, not the old video arcade game where you could zap the invaders with your laser cannon.

I'm talking about those people that seem to have to be right up in your face to talk to you. I mean, literally, IN YOUR FACE. Which, in itself, is bad enough, but when their breath smells like what two warthogs in heat smells like (don't ask why I know two warthogs in heat smell like - I've been advised by legal counsel not to explain), it transcends discomfort and winds up triggering your flight or fight response. Much like you'd experience if you encountered a dangerous animal. Or a United States Congressman. Pick flight, since fight only brings you in even closer contact with them.

Who ARE these people? You know almost immediately when you've encountered one - a conversation starts with a reasonable, respectable buffer zone between you, then they start slowly, inexorably advancing on you, like a zombie (who hasn't lost their ability to speak, sadly). You back up a step, then they close the gap by two steps, like the round boulder from Indiana Jones' Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or the perfume/cologne snipers in your larger department stores - and why is it illegal to punch those little scent assassins? I just don't understand our justice system. But, I digress. Back to the face-talkers.

Why does it always seem that these face-talkers are always taller than you? So that you can count the cavities in their upper teeth before passing out (see warthog reference, above)? Or is it that you can now admire their luxuriant nose hair up close, which is often so out of control that you'd have to get in their with a commercial-grade weed whacker to make a dent in that National Geographic-level foliage? Maybe they shouldn't clean it up - perhaps the next wonder drug may come from that nasal rain forest. They could be hiding the next erectile dysfunction or hair loss drug - you know, the important drugs, not something frivolous like a breast cancer drug. Could be there's even an endangered lemur or two hanging out in there as well. Better safe than sorry and save the napalm.

There's only a few sure-fire methods of getting away from these space invaders...and I'm going to share some with my readers. One of my favorites is to fake a stroke - very effective, but since you can only use this once on a person (unless they're really stupid - not an unheard-of complimentary trait of space invaders), it should be saved for a space invader that's a relative stranger. Unless, of course, it's at Thanksgiving or some other family function, where it doubles the escape value. Another way is to explosively vomit on them. I'm talking full-on exorcist-level projectile vomiting. Works every time, and can be used again on the same person; just blame it on food poisoning, or eating White Castle or Hot Pockets. Or you could fire Tic-Tacs rapid-fire into their mouth - c'mon, they're so close you can hardly miss - until they get the message.

Or, of course, you could also just fire a laser cannon at them from your space ship. Peace.

The Fan - A Cautionary Tale of Bad Behavior and Porta-Potties

Fans. The lifeblood of any sport. Without fans, there would be no arenas, multi-million dollar salaries, sports agents, televised sports events, etc. No superstars, nor their DUI's, arrests for illegally carrying guns (sometimes shooting others with them, sometimes shooting themselves), fines for testing positive for controlled substances. Speaking of televised sports events, I'm not referring to things like bass fishing, curling, or even golf - those are sports events in much the same way that Monsanto is an organic agriculture firm. I really can't understand why anyone wants to watch these things, let alone do them. They are basically 98% waiting for something interesting to happen; something I don't desire on a sports channel. This is why we have C-SPAN (okay, that's 99.95% waiting for something interesting to happen). And no activity involving a broom can ever be considered a sport - I'm talking to you, curling. That's just housekeeping. With rocks. On ice. Meh.

And fans come in many varieties: good, bad, indifferent and truly embarrassing. Good fans, predictably, even though desirable (especially to be within earshot of), would be, by definition, boring. They cheer for their teams, don't argue calls, never criticize the coach and wish only the best for the other team. I say "would be", because they do not exist, at least in my experience. They may have all committed suicide. Bad fans, however, are out in great quantities, are MUCH more interesting, and come in different varieties:

The "referee" fan. This guy knows more about the rules of whatever game he's watching than any human being, ever. They have super-vision, allowing them to see what we mere mortals (and the trained referees) missed. Unsurprisingly, their own team never commits a penalty, foul or similar infraction, but the opposing team is guilty on virtually every single play. This is also the same fan, who, after having watched their kid play soccer for the last 15 years, STILL does not understand the concept of the offside penalty, and hasn't even heard of "advantage" - but they will gleefully scream offsides after every goal by the opposing team, as if it will magically erase the score. When asked why they don't go and get their referee license since they know the sport so well, usually tell you they don't have the time, which is code for: I can't pass the licensing test.

The "connected" fan. They are the opposite of the "living vicariously through my children" fan. Easy to spot, these fans either have their heads buried in their mobile devices or are deeply involved in a conversation (having nothing whatsoever to do with the sporting event they are attending) with another "connected" fan. Truly gifted connected fans can do both simultaneously. They are thereby able to claim that they attend their children's games, without the annoyance of ever having actually watched any of them. These are the fans who are completely unaware that something has occurred until the cheering or booing begins, and then are suddenly interested: "What happended?" "Your son just broke both his legs trying to bicycle-kick the ball." "Oh, I'm sure he'll be okay - excuse me, I have to look up what a bicycle-kick is." These fans don't really bother anyone else, and are usually taken care of via karma. Karma, at least in the soccer games I've attended, is when this fan, sitting 5 feet from the field of play in their folding chair while their attention is focused on their phone, gets hit soundly in the side of the face by a soccer ball traveling upwards of 900 miles per hour, usually knocking the parent to the ground and disintegrating the phone. Typically it will have been kicked by the fan's offspring; atypically, while the child performs a bicycle kick.

The "living vicariously through my children" fan. We all know this guy (it's usually a guy, but sometimes it's a woman, and for some reason, they're actually worse) - it's all negative criticism with no positive feedback: "How could you miss that catch?", "Hey, why don't you open your eyes?" "C'mon, get up, you're not hurt - if you can't see bone, it''s not broken!", etc. It's a pretty safe bet this kind of fan SUCKED when they played, but convinced their kids they themselves were the equivalent of Peyton Manning when they played. If they played at all. They pray their kids never run into one of their former classmates, otherwise the jig's up: "Your dad? On the football team? Seriously? He was always too high to play!". They are bellicose, to the point where they appear not to even require inhaling; it just is one long endless stream of profanity-laced criticism. They are totally focused on the game, and have trained themselves not to blink for long periods of time so as not to miss a single moment of play. Almost every statement begins with, "When I played...". No one likes to be near them, except, of course, others of their ilk, but everyone else will do almost anything to be away from them, including, but not limited to, sitting atop the porta-potty. Get a few of these fans in the same spot and there will likely be suicidal drownings in those porta-potties. But not at curling matches - they usually just wander out onto the ice into oblivion. Those medieval Scotts knew how to handle adversity in a socially acceptable way. Peace.

Bunco - A Man's Perspective

My wife hosted Bunco at our house the other night. Bunco is a dice game 12 women play under the guise of playing a dice game. What it really is is an excuse to get together. And eat. And talk. And talk. And talk. If some dice get thrown during this 3-4 hour event, well, you know, sometimes that's gonna happen. It's really about having a good time - if you're a woman. If you're a man, it's basically the 5th inner circle of hell.

Don't get me wrong - I love women. Especially my wife. But no one ("no one" being code for: man) wants 12 women in their house at once without their accompanying spouses. Said spouses are required to constantly distract their women by doing normal ("normal" being code for: disgusting) men things, such as groin-scratching, burping and even more odorous and odious bodily functions. Without the husbands there, 12 women will focus on the one guy there, and you don't want it to be you. It's kind of like the interns following the doctor around on rounds to your room: "Here's Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith thought it would be a good idea to operate a chainsaw while chugging a case of beer. How's the groin feeling today, Mr. Smith? Which one of you would like to change his dressing?".

I'll go into a detailed explanation of the rules of Bunco for you: there aren't any. At least not that I could discern. Oh, I'm sure there are official rules, somewhere, but I couldn't figure out what they were. A lot of time seemed to be spent getting the ladies to move from one table to another, signaled by the ringing of a bell, which is totally ignored. You see, there's 3 tables set up with 4 ladies at each table. After a round of Bunco is completed (we just don't have enough space here to explain THAT), some of the ladies from each table are supposed to move to one of the other tables, while others remain at their present table, but have to move to a different seat at that table. It's much like musical chairs, except everyone's on crack. And deaf.

If one of the ladies can't make it to a Bunco night, the other players can either play a "ghost" at the missing chair, or better yet, get a substitute player. Sometimes, the extremely gullible husband of the woman hosting Bunco will be invited to play. Don't do it. Make up an excuse - changing the oil on the car, re-siding the house, shaving your head with a cheese grater - anything. I'm joking, of course - it wasn't that bad. But it does now rank lower than the cheese grater. And they call you a "dice monkey". I'm serious.

The scoring in Bunco is interesting and seems to depend upon the phase of the moon, the average speed of an English swallow in flight and pi. There can be ties, which are settled by swordplay. Just kidding - if there was swordplay involved, men would be playing this. Depending on your definition of the term "swordplay", dice may not even be needed. (You'll have to Google this if that doesn't make sense to you - don't make me go there.) The game ends when all the food is gone, or the number of Bunco's scored is greater than the square root of of dessert, whichever comes first. Peace.

Jimmy's Facebook guidelines

Okay, moving away from the cancer theme.

I'm on Facebook. A LOT. Also, as part of my job responsibilities, I teach social media to our real estate agents, so I've done quite a bit of research on this to be able to sound lucid, and I think I have a pretty good handle on good practices. The following is NOT part of what I normally teach, just my observations on some some things people (at least those over the age of 25) should stop doing on Facebook, IMHO.

Do NOT like your own post, comment, or uploaded pic/video. We know you like it, because, duh, you posted it, didn't you?. Liking any of the aforementioned makes you a tool. It's like complimenting yourself, which is narcissistic, unless you're a member of Congress; then it's okay. I'm smart enough to know that. See? That was me, being a tool. Don't be a tool. Develop some tool-radar.

Drama posts - just say no. You know what these are; those cryptic, vague cries for attention. They're easy to spot: "I'm having the worst day", or "Something terrible just happened", or "Nobody will ever love me", or some variant. Don't post them, and whatever you do, don't ever respond to them - that's what they want, and you're just enabling that behavior. Well-meaning responses are typically: "Oh, no, what happened?", "Oh please call me", "I'm here for you", etc. Warning: if you keep responding this way, they will keep posting these types of desperate, attention-begging posts. If you must respond, please do so in a way that makes them stop. Here's some suggested responses: "You know you still owe me money, right?", "Call me, the test results are back and we need to tell your wife to get tested", or "I have an investment opportunity you can't afford to miss, but only for the first 100 people who private message me". Those may sound callous, but trust me, the sooner we get these people to stop posting drama posts, the happier we'll all be. Trust me.

Selfies - those photos you take of yourself with your phone, usually in a mirror, to be used, in theory, as a sexy profile pic. Couple of tips on this one, starting with turning off the flash - that's just distracting. Let's try not to do this in the bathroom (yes, I know, that's where the BIG mirror is), but if you must, let's keep the shots of the toilet in the background to a minimum. More critically, let's keep it to zero if someone's actually using it. Nobody wants to see that, although there are entire websites devoted to just those kind of selfies. Making a duck face (excessively pursing your lips) is fine. If you're 13. And have low self-esteem. Otherwise, you just look silly (see: above). They do, too, but they're 13, so, you know, it's okay.

Take a decent photo if you're going to post it, for Pete's sake. I shouldn't have to figure out if that's a picture of your kid at the waterpark or a three-toed sloth giving birth. Tag it with who's in it and a location - don't make us guess, it's awkward: "Oh that's a lovely shot of possibly your child whose name I can't remember in some place I don't recognize". And if your camera does not take good pictures in low-light situations, stop posting them. I've seen people post pics that seemed to be taken in a black hole, only darker. You may know that it's a shot of your wife in the movie theatre, but to us, it's just a unfocused, disembodied head, floating, apparition-like, in an even darker room. That's just spooky.

Food photos. Stop. Just stop. Seriously. Nobody cares anymore. If it's a remarkably exotic meal with an outstanding presentation - fine. That's not something most of have seen/will see, so that makes it interesting. I've seen about a billion pictures of burgers and fries - I believe we all know what they look like by now - we got it, thanks, no more visual aids are necessary. Same thing with shots of soup, chili  and/or meth cooking on the stove - I try scratching my screen, but, nothing, no aroma at all. Maybe it works on the new iPad Air, but on a laptop, nothing. It's frustrating, so stop it. It's almost like you're saying, "Look at this delicious food I'm making that you can't have". The people who comment that it "looks so good"? They're just your friends humoring you, but they're thinking what I'm thinking.

I trust you liked this latest blog post. I think it's excellent.

Hope your tool-radar went off. Peace.

Road to Recovery

Part of my recovery is to walk - basically as much as I can, and I do. I walk all around my small town, which allows me to see things you normally don't see while driving. Interesting things. Confusing things. Scary things.

What's scary? The things people do while driving. Can't tell you how many people are using their cell phones while driving, but that's no surprise. Some are blatant about it, holding their phones right on top of the steering wheel; some keep it in their laps, because someone driving while smiling at their crotch fools...well, no one, really. I've seen people eating, drinking, even shaving. How that woman got her leg up on the dashboard, I'll never know. Maybe I don't want to. And the eating - really? Soup? You're eating soup while driving? Cereal? Seriously? What's next - barbecuing while driving? I'm actually surprised Keurig hasn't come out with an automotive one-cup coffee machine yet. My favorite is when they do all these at the same time. Usually I see this from my vantage point of hiding behind a telephone pole or sturdy tree for safety, because these people are really scary, and I refuse to die by someone else's stupidity; I insist I die by my own stupidity (and I've come close).

What's confusing? Why the high school kids suddenly lose the learned skill of crossing the street safely. I mean, some of them look like insurance scam artists hoping for a payday. They don't even look before crossing, often from between parked cars, or even better giant SUV's (crosswalk? what's a crosswalk?); it's like they're TRYING to get hit. I mean, c'mon, kids, your SAT scores can't be THAT bad. You have so much to look forward to; crushing college loan debts, a position in the fast food industry, living with your parents until you're 40, the latest release of HALO, etc.. I've talked to my daughter, who is a senior, and she's equally perplexed. Personally, I blame the Pythagorean theorem; I remember it causing some suicidal thoughts in high school. I even think we lost a kid to calculus one year. Math kills.

What's interesting? Basically, people, again. I find people fascinating. I've seen people, on my walks, who refuse to make eye contact, clutch their bag a little tighter, even cross the street (of course, that only makes me want to cross the street to see what happens next) as I approach them. I mean, I'm mid-50's, gray hair, wear glasses, 5' 7" tall, usually have a smile on my face - I don't believe I offer that an intimidating a presence. And this was even happening immediately after my surgery, where I was shuffling along at a blistering pace of possibly 10 yards an hour, basically slow enough for the old school zombies to catch and devour me (remember, I'm now prostate-free, so, you know, less calories). The current zombies move much faster, something I'm not happy about as your ability to run fast is inversely proportional to your aging process. But I'm not worried about the zombies getting me because I'm a realist. I'm pretty sure it'll be the shaving, cereal-eating, texting and mascara-applying driver in the weapons-grade Hummer.
Peace.

Leakage? I don't have no stinkin' leakage...

When they remove your catheter, 7-14 days after surgery (9 days for me), they send you home. In. A. Diaper. Thaaat's right - a diaper. I can't imagine why some men equate this surgery with losing your manhood. There's absolutely nothing emasculating about having to wear a diaper. Except there is. Totally.

Them: Here, put this on.
Me: What is it?
Them: It's a diaper.
Me: I know. I'm just trying to determine if I'm hallucinating. Do I really need to wear this?
Them: Well, you've been catheterized for 9 days, and you'll need to relearn bladder control. These will help you get home without ruining your car seat.
Me: That's very thoughtful.. Can I have a pair without Hello Kitty on them?
Them: Man up, cowboy. Here's take some of these, as well.
Me: What the hell are these?
Them: They're sanitary pads. Do you know how to use them?
Me: You may have noticed, since you just removed my catheter, that I'm not female. So, no.
Them: My apologies.
Me: S'okay, the thong probably threw you.
Them: Yes...thongs and sanitary pads are probably not the most efficient combination.
Me: Understood. I don't often get to show my junk to others while my wife is present, so I saw this happening completely different in my mind. Wrong again. Say, these things look like giant Swiffer wet mop pads. Surely I don't wear these WITH the diaper - seems like major overkill...
Them: No, the diaper is just to get you home and are recommended for sleep  periods. You can use the sanitary pads during the day - if you find you're not leaking too much, you may even want to try using one of your wife's pads since they're smaller and more comfortable. (this last part said with a smile)
Me: So my goal is to go from diapers, to sanitary pads, to my wife's female-parts pads? I actually buy those for my wife at BJ's - do I want wings or non-wings, flexi, regular or super, scented or unscented, etc...
Them: Are you being serious?
Me: I'm standing here in a diaper and thong. I'm shocked you're still paying attention to me at all.
Them: This isn't the worst I have seen.
Me: I'm not sure what you're paid, but I'm certain it's not enough.
Them: Thank you. Perhaps you could put some pants on now.
Me: We're talking about me wearing diapers and using my wife's monthly pads. We are well past the point where either of us should be embarrassed, wouldn't you say?
Them: True. But I do find the Hello Kitty print distracting.
Me: Touche'.
Peace.

I'm catheter-free!! (and no longer allowed on the couch)

Yes indeedy, the catheter has been removed. I'm thrilled, but also feeling somewhat vulnerable. How could this make me feel vulnerable, you ask? Picture this - I'm taking one of my recuperative walks. I get accosted by a bad guy. I'm still weak, stomach still distended and sore, and I'm not supposed to be exerting any force that exceeds lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. I'm pretty much helpless.

But, had I still had my catheter and accompanying bag, I could swiftly detach the bag from my leg and smack my assailant across the face with it. It would likely burst when it strikes him. That's right, he's now covered in someone else's urine. He doesn't recover from that, he doesn't continue the fight - basically, he'll have to set himself on fire to ever feel clean again. There's really no other option.

Think of how society could benefit from this - instead of tasers, police would have catheter bags. Instead of tear gas - urine mist. Instead of nuclear payloads, fit a missile with several hundred gallons of urine. Tea party members of Congress acting like adolescents - well, you get the idea. We could even rate the strengths - vegan would be mild, asparagus eaters would be moderate, those not hydrating enough: commercial strength. Labeling them shouldn't be an issue since Monsanto's not involved.

This could trickle (sorry) into so many areas of our lives. At a sporting event? Maybe a MLB game, but dreading the incredibly long lines at the restrooms (not to mention the unsanitary conditions), and also not wanting to miss any of the game? Problem solved. What about tailgating? Now you won't have to miss one of your buddies vomiting into the back of someone else's pickup truck before the game even starts. It's all good. When I think of all the money parents spend on karate lessons for their kids, when a simple catheter solves so many problems - self defense, bed-wetting, having to stop every 30 minutes on car trips, hell, just the amount of time saved cleaning bathroom toilets (for families with boys) would be worth it. I can't believe no one has thought of this before. You're welcome. Peace.

Post Surgery Post (see what I did there?)

The ninjas have been officially evicted. Pathology results in early next week, but all looked good and went well. For those with lower TMI limits, now might be a good time to stop reading, although I have spared the rest of you accompanying pics.

Possible side effects of the surgery: some swelling in the groin area. That's like saying if you run into a burning house you may experience heat. Holy crap. The boys look like they were on a McDonald's diet for the last 3 years. If your groin could be termed obese, mine is morbidly so. And the color - oh my, you don't find this shade of purple much outside the eggplant display at a farmer's market. It's like the Elephant Man and Barney had a child, and it became my groin. Needless to say, there's discomfort involved, but the good news is that can helped by elevating them. They suggest a rolled towel. I was thinking of a wheelbarrow. I'm exaggerating; I'm sure a softball catcher's mitt would work, and be eminently appropriate.

Let's move north. Anesthesia has a side effect of putting your digestive tract to sleep. It needs to reboot, to start itself back up, otherwise you have a whole new problem to deal with. What it really does is turn you into a 90 year-old man, looking forward to a good bowel movement with the same excitement as a 6 year-old on Christmas morning, who finds out his parents are actually masochists who wrap empty boxes, delighting each time their precocious child registers that look of confusion and disappointment. I was that 90 year-old. I was that 6 year-old.

To help this digestive reboot along, they recommend both small, frequent meals and walking as much as possible. Neither of which I'm in the mood to do. The eating? I have no appetite at all. The walking? You must not have read paragraph 2. But I do both anyway, since I'm a good patient and I know this will help. Someone told me their husband thought they saw me walking the other day; he told her I looked like I was limping. I didn't have the heart to tell her on the phone I was actually waddling, nor why. I imagine in a few more days I'll be looking like the Penguin from Batman. Quack, Quack. Peace.

Buh-bye, Cancer

So this my last day with cancer. I'll be having surgery tomorrow and they're doing it robotically. That's right, robots - which, if you think about it, are just precursors to terminators. True, they're really, really early model terminators: pre-Schwarzenegger versions.

These robots will probably be more like a Sheldon Cooper version of terminators; really smart but not much of a physical threat. But still - robots. How cool is that? Although, robots against cancer - not much of a fight, is it? Poor cancer, you never had a chance. But I will not be sorry to see you go.

You have to appreciate how cancer multiplies recklessly, takes over other systems, destroys everything it can until, if not removed, finally consumes the very host that sustains it. It's like Congress that way, only not as bad. Or evil. Or selfish. 2014's coming up folks...let's not forget the Congressional approval rating is currently below that of... cancer.

But back to me-  it's my last day to use cancer as an excuse. And I have been. Seriously - for everything; at work, at home, during traffic stops, etc. I know that sounds callous, but it works.
"Sorry I'm late, but... I have cancer."
"Oh, did you want that last piece of pizza? I was going to eat it, because, you know... cancer."
"Sorry I was doing 75 mph in the shoulder, but..." well, you get the idea. Even my daughter was jumping on the bandwagon:
Me: "I won't it make to your game today, Sweetie, because..."
Her: "I know... cancer." You have learned well, grasshopper. My eyes well up.

So, day before/of surgery instructions/fun. Eat light - got it, I'll forego the slice of anemic tomato on my triple cheeseburger with bacon. I can sacrifice. Stop taking NSAIDs (Aleve, Motrin, Advil, etc.) because they can cause bleeding. Wouldn't want any bleeding in surgery - got it. I notice marijuana's not on that list. Not that I use it, but - good to know. "No eating or drinking after midnight the night before your surgery." Oh well, so no marijuana and subsequent ravaging of the supermarket's cookie aisle @ 3AM - got it. Again, not that I use it. Marijuana, not the supermarket. Hey, quick digression: here's a tip to let you know if someone knows ANYTHING about what they're talking about (this applies to many things, but especially those things technological): if they put "the" in front of it, they don't know much about it. Witness: "Is she on the drugs?" "Oh yes, I use the Facebook all the time." "I don't like the Obama." You're welcome.

Wait a minute - back up here. No coffee in the morning before surgery? Are you freaking kidding me?!?!? No no no, Memorial Sloan-Kettering - now you've gone too far. I must have my morning java. It's the secret elixir that makes me human each day. My wife tries not to make eye contact with me until that first sip. She's a very wise woman.Without coffee, you shouldn't even be operating on me - a veterinarian should, and only then after having  tranquilized and muzzled me. There better be something caffeinated added to that IV. Just sayin'. Peace.