Looking around, I didn’t see anything particularly funny.  But then I realized something.  The little punks were laughing at my “outdoor work attire”.

Personally, I knew I was stylin’.  The poor twirpy kids, however, needed some help realizing that.  The truth is that I, Dave, am, well, BAD.  That’s right, I’m bad.  Don’t mess with me or I’ll run over you with my Toro Timecutter Z380 zero-turn mower (Attn: Toro Marketing Department. If you would like to pursue an Earth to Dave! sponsorship, please contact my people).

So in an effort to change the public perception of us Dads, the Earth to Dave! production team has created a public-service marketing video that is “culturally relevant” to today’s younger generation.   Watch the video and know that we Dad’s are BAD:

So next time you see me in the yard with my black socks and flip-flops on, think twice before you mess with me.

More times than not, by the time I finished, I’d look up from my imaginary podium and see something like this:

My assumption is that somewhere between the “asking the question” and the “ending the answer”, they got the information they were looking for.  To me, it was a service to provide, and I did it well.  Besides, a lot of people don’t sleep enough these days.

Recently, however, someone interrupted me half way through my answer (granted, we started talking over breakfast and it was now lunch time.  Besides, I had to pee).  This person explained that when she asked me “what happened to you?”, she meant “what specific single event took place during your lifetime that has caused you, Dave Buck, to act like a complete imbecile and someone a fraction of your actual age, versus someone with even the slightest amount of maturity, as would be appropriate for a position of your age and title?”

I couldn’t believe that someone could ask me, Dave, such a question.  I mean, look at me.  I am often quite serious.  Especially when necessary, like before racing midget motocross:

But alas, being the introspective and mature person that I am, I began some deep inward soul-searching (versus “outward soul-searching” which has to do with foods such as country-fried steak, ham hocks, chitterlings, black-eyed peas, collard greens, corn bread and grits).  Plus, since my wife was the person who asked said question, I was pretty sure it was one I needed to think about.  (Granted, the appointment she made with the shrink added a bit of urgency to getting the answer, but I digress.)

With the help of “Doctor Phillip” (who is really a great guy but I wish he would…just once…raise his voice and get worked up over something), I was able to search the deep, dark recesses of my mind (that took all of 30 seconds) and find it. The event.  The deal.  The big boom.  The turning point.  The time everything changed.  The “X factor”.  The “WOW Moment”.  The time the earth stood still.  The time for all men to come to the aid of their country.  Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!  His factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes. (I had to throw in some Charles Dickens for some dramatic effect.  Pretty impressive, huh?)

So, what was I talking about?  Someone help me out here.

OH YEAH!  The “WOW Moment”.

As “Doctor Phillip” (name has not been changed because he doesn’t know how to raise his voice or get upset at anything.  I’m thinking he liquored up before seeing me)  began to probe the deep, dark, recesses of my mind, he found something.  He exclaimed “AH HA!” and ran out of the room screaming.  Finally, he came back, even calmer and more subdued than before.  The nice guys in the white suits were with him.  They had this weird jacket thing that was not very comfortable at all, but hey, if it makes “Doctor Phillip” happy, whatever.

So what was this “AH HA!” moment?  It was an event that happened during my teen years.  My buddies and I were rather rebellious and it was during the time when I took up smoking, drinking, hanging out with the wrong crowd and riding playground merry-go-rounds.  Yes, that’s right, you heard me.  I’m not proud of it but…it’s what the real rebels do.  I know that sounds extreme, but I’m an EXTREME KIND OF GUY.  (Heck, I ride midget motocross.  Need I say more?  I didn’t think so).

So there we were…hanging out at the park, riding the…*gulp*…playground merry-go-round.  The neighbors were frightened, the neighborhood kids were all pulled inside their safe, comfortable, non-rebellious homes.  The shutters were closed and blinds drawn.  It was a dark and stormy day, and the sun turned blood red (except during the below video, as that would have made really poor video lighting conditions).  The rebels were in control of the neighborhood and there was NOTHING that would stop us.  Yeah, that’s right.  I was the ringleader, and PROUD OF IT!! There was NOTHING that was gonna get in my way of…mastering the playground merry-go-round.  Yeah, I was gonna teach it a lesson that day.  It was ME and my friend ZEKE versus…the merry-go-round.  It was a day of reckoning.  We had finally figured out how to take that merry-go-round riding to the next level. That thing didn’t know what we had in store for it but no longer would it master US.  No sir, we were going to master IT.  And it would never be the same.

These rebellious days are not days that I am proud of today.  No, I’m a better person now.  I have learned from my mistakes and turned from my rebellious days.  I’m a productive member of society and hope that, in some small way, I can repay society for all the damage and turmoil that I caused during those dark, sun-turned-to-blood days.  Yes, this is what drives me to write this column.  Perhaps, in some small way, the smiles that I generate can…perhaps…erase the many frowns that I caused that neighborhood…that merry-go-round (which I’m sure would have frowned if it could have and if it were alive and if it were a person).  I shall maintain this quest now that “Doctor Phillip” has helped me have a renewed awareness of that dark day.

I remembered that a fellow member of my rebellious gang (called the “Street Sweepers”, because we thought it’d be cool to carry brooms around.  Plus we all worked in a warehouse sweeping up rat droppings) taped this event.  I tracked him down and found him in the State Penn serving time for…yep, vandalizing a playground swing set.  I guess some people never really grew up but stayed in their rebellious ways.  Anyway, I got the video and here it is.

Before watching, I would ask that all young children, the elderly, and anyone with a weak heart please…leave the room.  This is much too graphic for you.  Again, I am not proud of these times when the Street Sweepers played havoc on the neighborhood.

Please do not try this at home. Pay special attention to me, in the red pants.

The head injury wasn’t too bad, although the doctor did tell me I have dain bramage.

So there you have it. The event.  The deal.  The big boom.  The turning point.  The time everything changed.  The “X factor”.  The “WOW Moment”.  The time the earth stood still.  The time for all men to come to the aid of their country.  Old Time, that greatest and longest established spinner of all!  His factory is a secret place, his work is noiseless, and his hands are mutes. (You can never have too much Charles Dickens, can you?)

Does everything now make more sense to you?  I thought it might.  So please, don’t wonder any more.  Just understand that I, Dave, am repaying society for my past and, in reading this article and subscribing to Earth to Dave! , you are contributing to my rehabilitation.  “Doctor Phillip” will thank you.   My wife will thank you.  Society thanks you.  (Did I mention that you can subscribe to Earth to Dave! ?  Just click the SUBSCRIBE TO E2D! button at the top of the page.  Doing so will help increase web traffic and thus my advertisers will thank you.  Just THINK about all the THANKS.  That’s, thankfully, alot of thinking about thanks, and while you might think about thanking me, think again.  Thanks comes from me for just getting you to think about thanking me for making you think.  And for that, I will be eternally thankful.)

I’d write more, but it’s time for me to put my (very uncomfortable) jacket back on.  The nice men are here waiting for me.

Signed,

(Ex-Leader of the famed “Street Sweepers”)

Uh, you don’t? Okay, well, uh….

It’s me, Dave.

Goofy guy, wears a clown wig at times?

Married to the fabulous babe he doesn’t deserve?

Has the really cute dog?

Yeah, it’s me.

Well, you’ve probably been wondering what has happened to me. I’m guessing you have formed a posse. What’s a “posse”? You apparently never watched Bonanza or Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. A “posse” is formed when the men of the town, who never seem to have jobs (or at least jobs with the requirement to, you know, stay around and work) jump on their horses and chase after someone. They are always formed at the spur of the moment (get it? “SPUR” of the moment? A little “western humor” for all of my cowboy readers out there) and by people who have the need to carry torches, even if it’s daytime. The “posse” may last for days on end and often involves “tracking”. What is “tracking”? It’s, uh, you know, where you, uh…”track” someone.

Now I know where you NASCAR fans are going with this.

NO, this is not the kind of “track” I am referring to (sheesh, work with me here, people).  I must admit, though, that there are “horses” on this kind of track.  (A little more “western humor” for my cowboy readers out there.  My (very complex and impressive) website tracking program has shown that I have a large contingent of cowboy readers out there, so excuse me as I cater to my cowboy readership.  I cannot afford to lose them, as they’re used to a lot of bull poop.)

Anyway, posses (or is it “possies”? Could a cowboy please e-mail me and let me know?) are formed when someone goes missing or has robbed a bank.  After my last article, I took my son’s piggy bank and went missing.

After almost one (friggin’) year, the posse never showed up.

HELLO?  PEOPLE?  Throw me a friggin’ bone here!

After these many months, and endless sneezing due to the dust bunnies in my downstairs closet, I finally have come out of hiding.  I’m back.

Meanwhile, I’m sure the posse my friends have formed is still out there…somewhere.  I think.  I hope.

I’ve always been a “rough and tumble” kind of guy.  For some reason, cowboys and outlaws have been my friends.  I guess it’s just the rebel in me.  I mean, come on, look at me.  I’ve got “rebel” written all over me.

As such, it stands to reason why I’ve always run with the rough crowd.  Mama was always worried about me.  During my first stint in the slammer, I wrote a poem.  Please try to get a feeling for the raw emotion and heartache:

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide,
No escape from reality
Open your eyes, Look up to the skies and see,
I’m just a poor boy, I need no sympathy,
Because I’m easy come, easy go, Little high, little low,
Any way the wind blows doesn’t really matter to me, to me
Mama I just killed a man,
Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he’s dead
Mama, life had just begun,
But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away
Mama, ooh, Didn’t mean to make you cry,
If I’m not back again this time tomorrow,
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters
Too late, my time has come,
Sends shivers down my spine, body’s aching all the time
Goodbye, ev’rybody, I’ve got to go,
Gotta leave you all behind and face the truth
Mama, ooh, I don’t want to die,
I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all
I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango
Thunderbolt and lightning, very, very fright’ning me
(Galileo) Galileo (Galileo) Galileo, Galileo figaro
Magnifico I’m just a poor boy and nobody loves me
He’s just a poor boy from a poor family,
Spare him his life from this monstrosity
Easy come, easy go, will you let me go
Bismillah! No, we will not let you go
(Let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go
(Let him go!) Bismillah! We will not let you go
(Let me go) Will not let you go
(Let me go) Will not let you go (Let me go) Ah
No, no, no, no, no, no, no

Perhaps now you understand. Perhaps now you can feel some of the pain that I felt, and why I reach out to my cowboy readers and understand why posses are formed to find me (altho the friends who formed said posse really suck at finding stuff).  Yes, there is alot more to “Dave” than the dork you’ve come to know.

Yes, as you can see, there is a rebel side to me.

Recently I received an e-mail which really summarizes the loyal Earth to Dave! fan base which missed me so badly.  Please allow me to share it with you:

======================================================

From: Citibank Online <online@citibank.com>
Subject: Citibank Online Security Message

Deer Citibank Customer,
It has ben a long time since you have sined on to Citibank Online. Reecently you or somebody else make several login atempts and reach your daily atempt limit. As additional security measure your acess to Online Banking has is limited. This Web security measure does not afect your acess to fone banking or ATM banking.

Please sine on and verify your information here. You will be abil to atempt siging on to Citibank Online within 24 hours aftur you verify your information. (You do not have to change your Pasword at this time.)
Citibank Online Customer Service

======================================================

These people were so concerned about my absence that they e-mailed me instructions for resetting all of my online banking information.  They made it so easy, too.  All I had to do was click the little blue here link, and I was able to input all of my personal financial information.  What could be easier than that?  Man, someone is a genius!  I’m glad there are people like that in this world, because we geniuses need company.

I wonder if my posse had something to do with alerting my bank?  The only question I have is “why Citibank?” I don’t even bank there.  Oh well, I’m sure my posse can explain that, if they ever get back.

Meanwhile, I promise to keep the articles coming.  (I was going to update them from my closet but someone unplugged the extension cord running across the floor and I couldn’t blow my cover).

To all you cowboy fans out there, thanks for sticking with me.  I owe ya a debt of gratitude, pardner.

With my newfound freedom I have gotten a little more hitch in my giddyup, so expect more frequent writing on my part.  I’m sure you’re all waiting with baited breath (that one is for my fishermen readers, who rank #2 behind the cowboys.  I have a very far-reaching audience.)

To the rest of you, consider throwing a saddle in the car and mosey on out to the local stables.  If you hang around long enough, you might just end up like me, forming your own posse.  I’m not sure what we’re lookin’ fer, but we’re gonna find it (unlike my buddies who apparently couldn’t find their way out of a paper sack.)  I guess we’ll go looking for the posse that is undoubtedly still looking for me…or, not.

See ya soon, pardner!

When we’re younger, we always look forward to our birthday. Why not? Heck, you get cake, people you never talked to in school but invited to your party were forced to bring you a gift, and even sing to you. These same “nameless faces” whose Moms forced to come to your party were even polite and told you what a great…er, uh…speller you were! (Whew! Almost couldn’t think of something to say…). All the while you basked in the glory of it being YOUR DAY. When it was over, you didn’t have to clean anything up. You just sat on the floor and played with all the toys your friends (and the nameless faces you invited to increase the giftage) gave you.  More legos.  New army men.  A Stretch Armstrong (yeah, we lived a simpler life back then).  Aaah, yeah. That was the life.

REALITY CHECK: As I’ve grown older, I’ve adjusted my attitude about birthdays. What is a “birthday” after all? I will tell you. A birthday is simply a death timer.  Yeah, that’s right…a slow, yearly countdown to the end of life. Gee,  there’s something to celebrate. Now I understand why my parents always grimaced when someone asked their age. Nothing like being reminded you’re an “old fogey” when you’re doing your best to forget it.

This might explain why some people go way overboard in trying to “stay young”. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve seen them. The 70 year old woman who has had multiple lifts, tucks, stretches, “enhancements” and other plastic surgeries to look like she’s still 16 years old.  I’m sorry, but Granny’s “Double D’s” need to be Grannys “at her knees“.  That’s just the way life goes, you know?

While these people seem to think they look “good”, the rest of society enjoys a good snicker (and I’m not talking the candy bar).  What you end up with is something like this:

Actually, I guess the above photo doesn’t look as bad since she still has some years to, well, “rearrange things”.  But when the person is older, it’s just, well, wrong:

Now, maybe it’s just me but I’m thinking this person (we’ll call her “Joan”) could have spent her money more wisely.  I’m quite impressed with the hand-drawn eyebrows, however.  Do you know how hard it is to keep the curves consistent? That takes a seriously steady hand, you know.  Not that I know anything about this, however.  I’m just making an observation based on, you know, assumption.  I have no experience with makeup or anything like that, so don’t go assuming I’ve worn any or have had any fascination with it at all.  That is just simply not true, so get off my case!!!  (Deep cleansing breaths.)

Now, where was I? Oh yes.  Some people seem to age more gracefully than others, without relying on surgery.  Take, for instance, my friend “Mike”.  I use quotes for “Mike” because I want you to think that’s not his real name, even though it is.  I would never tell you, however, that his last name is Galusha.  THAT would be crazy.

Anyway, “Mike” has aged pretty gracefully.  He just celebrated his 62nd birthday, but he’d tell you he’s a lot younger.  I’m one of only two people that he’s confided in, telling us both that he lied on his employment application.  The other, his wife “Mary”  (again, not her real name, even though it is), would never disclose her husband’s age.  Why? Because she’s 30 years his junior, and people would think “Mike” is a bit of a creep.  Anyway, “Mike” is a very capable guy, despite being, well….”old”.  I made a point not to congratulate him on his birthday, for fear that he’s somewhat sensitive to it.  That’s what friends do.  Plus, I was afraid he’d pummel me.

Mike was in the Navy.  He probably still fits into the little white sailor uniform thingy that he used to wear.  I don’t know what he did in the Navy, but I’m sure it was important…maybe “swabbing the deck”, or possibly even “battening down the hatches”.  Regardless, he took those (often overlooked) skills and puts them to work in an airline.   He now does some (often overlooked) stuff for an airline, but I have no real idea what he does.  Every time I stop by his office, he’s gone.  He does have some real impressive charts and stuff on his wall, but someone told me those are left over from the last guy who was in that office (who used to be a Marine, by the way.  I know this because there were a lot of stick figures drawn on them).  Regardless, “Mike” has taken good care of himself and serves as an inspiration to those of us who, albeit much,  much younger, look up to him for his experience in life, being all old and everything.

Here’s a recent picture of “Mike”, who again is not really named “Mike”, or “Galusha”:

Notice that “Mike” is holding two dumbells rather effortlessly while smiling so pretty.  He makes it look so easy, for an 0ld geezer.  That’s exactly why I would never mess with him.  Anyway, Mike likes to talk a lot about his “six pack”, but based on the “work” he’s been doing lately (while out of the office, I guess), I’d say he’s not referring to his physique.  Regardless, Mike is an inspiration to most, er, some, well, to ME.  Happy Birthday Mike (did I just use my outside voice?)

So why do we fight aging yet insist on “celebrating” birthdays?  I don’t get it.  Why don’t we celebrate things like warts?  We never want warts, but we get them anyway.  Why not throw a “wart party”, and have people come over, bring gifts like “Mercurochrome”, “Bactine”, “Hydrocortisone” or duct tape.

“Duct tape?!”  you say?

Yes, duct tape.  Everyone knows duct tape can take care of warts (duh).

“The affected area is covered with duct tape during the night. In the morning the area is bathed and cleaned with an abrasive object, such as pumice stone. This procedure must be repeated for several weeks.”  (Courtesy of “Over the Counter Wart Removal Medication” by Steve Janovic, a guy who apparently has way too much time on his wart-riddled hands.)

Anyway, if you don’t want to handle your warts THAT way, try this:



Ewww.   Interesting music to go with a sort of self-mutilation video.  Now, somehow I digressed.  Where was I?

Oh yes, wart parties.  You can invite all your (ugly) friends over and compare warts.  After comparing warts, have some wart-shaped cupcakes, play “pin the wart on the witch’s nose” and other such party games.  Meanwhile the “attractive people” who were not invited will be standing at your window, noses pressed to the glass, just  wishing they were inside, getting in on the wart action, and eating wart cakes.  Take THAT, attractive people!! (I love getting revenge.  This has nothing at all to do with my younger years, so please do not assume I was not considered an “attractive person” or was, in any way, made fun of by said “attractive people”, so don’t go making any assumptions about them and the crappy way they treated me!!!)  Deep, cleansing breaths, Dave.

So, where was I? Oh yes…WART PARTIES!  Why not?  Yeah, I know…these things never seem to materialize.  It’s just some “pie in the sky” idea.  Forgive me.  People often remind me I’m an “outside the box thinker”.  It’s a gift, and my cross to bear.

But when wart parties catch on, I want some credit.

So while guys like “Mike” age gracefully, people like me would just assume we forget the whole “birthday thing”.  It’s really not that much fun anyway.  Why, just last year, my birthday “party” went like this:

(Cake is presented to Dave)

(Family sings a poorly-executed and barely audible rendition of “Happy Birthday to You”, while the flames grow larger and more wax melts onto the cake, which is made with diet cake mix, and strategically-placed, super-secret flax seed.)

(Dog howls due to the poorly-executed and barely audible rendition of “Happy Birthday to You”).

(Flames burn down to cake-level and begin to melt the zero-calorie, zero-transfat frosting).

(Dave closes eyes and makes wish:  I wish this was a real cake).

(Dave blows out candles, but accidentally drools on the cake.  Family is extremely grossed out).

(Dave gets knife and fork, decides to try to eat cake).

Wife: “Uh, you’re not going to have a piece, are you?”

Dave: “Well, yeah, I uh, was”.

Wife: “Have you weighed yourself lately?”

(Super slim and ultra-healthy) wife then serves cake to the kids while Dave enjoys a lowfat yogurt.

Yeah kids, that’s the “birthday party” you have to look forward to. Death timer, T-Minus and just a few years before, well, you know.

I have a nephew who I will call “Brandon” (again, let’s pretend that’s not his real name…even though it is…because he’s very easily embarrassed and would just die if he knew I was talking about him.  Heck, how many “Brandon’s” are there out there?  Tons of ‘em, so I don’t know what he’s all fired up about.  Heck, unless everyone knew his last name was “Bryditzki”, nobody could possibly know I was talking about him.  Sheesh, some people are just waaaay too paranoid).  Anyway, “Brandon” taught me a newer version of the birthday song.  I like it much better.  It goes like this:

“Happy Biiiirthday.  Happy Biiiiirthday.

Sickness, Sadness and Despair,

People dying everywhere

Pass the cake cuz I don’t care,

Happy Biiiiirthday”.

–By “Brandon Bryditzki” (not his real name…remember? Nudge nudge, wink wink).

The way I look at it, that’s just a more fitting song.  I mean, let’s call a spade a spade.  By the way, does that saying refer to a digging or gardening tool?  I’ve never really understood what that meant.  Why would you call a spade something else?  Would you say “Hey, I’ve got some roots to dig up over here.  Pass me that….uh…phleggenbottom, would ya?”  I’ve never done that, but obviously people have, because it’s a very common saying.  But I digress (I tend to do that now and then).

So, take heed, birthday children.  The parties will take on new significance when your belly begins to droop over your belt, the only hair that still grows is out of your ears and nose, and life’s biggest “pain in the neck” is uh, the pain…in..your…neck.

For all you “Mikes” out there who seem to defy the laws of aging (at least when Photoshopped), I just have one thing to say:

“Wow. You have a really good plastic surgeon! Do you have his card?”

I guess if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  Besides, it seems to be working for Barry, and the chicks still dig Barry.  I wonder if he eats flax seed?  But I digress.

With the recent financial meltdown and the multiple attempts by Congress to “stimulate” the economy, there has been much talk of legislative “pork”.

As an American and member of the Federation of American Taxpayers who Love, Admire and Relish Dining on Pork Innards and Gumbo (otherwise known more commonly as FAT LARD PIG),  I take great offense to the many derogatory, inflammatory, negatory and purgatorious references to “pork”.  (I have no idea what I just said, but you get the point).  The constant reference to “pork” as a negative financial expenditure inserted into a ridiculously stupidly-large “economical bailout package” (oops…did I say that?) is downright unfair.  Since when have we begun picking on poor Porky Pig?   This is a real predicament, and perfectly preposterous.  I’m very pis….er, uh…upset about this.

Since the beginning of time, mankind has always referred to our swine brethren in only the fondest of terms:

Thor:   Me going out.

Mrs. Thor:   Where you go?

Thor:  Work to bring home bacon.

Mrs. Thor:   Bring home milk too.   Me having tennis club over to cave for tea and crumpets.

Thor:  Ugh.  Me hate milking Brontosaurus.

Many years later, right after the famed first flight at Kitty Hawk, Wilbur and Orville Wright were discussing the payment of a debt:

Wilbur:  Dude, you owe me ten bucks.

Orville:  For what?!

Wilbur:  You said you’d pay me ten bucks if I flew it.  You were chicken!

Orville:  Was NOT.

Wilbur:   Yes you were. You’re the one that had the goggles on and right before departure time had to go change your britches.   If you don’t pay up, I’m gonna tell that reporter from TMZ.com.

Orville:  I’ll pay up when pigs fly.

Little did the Wright brothers know that decades later, after a pig’s brief exposure to radiation, the debt would have to be paid by their third step-cousins, six times removed, Sid and Clancey Right of Batesville,  Alabama.  The proof came after a photographer snapped this photo:

Many years ago, several owners of Harley Davidson motorcyles, one of America’s most beloved icons, formed the “Harley Owner’s Group”, otherwise known as “HOG”.

Suddenly, it was even fashionable to be a member of “HOG”.

Well, maybe not always.

Still, the bovine community was actually embraced by the American society.  It became a normal occurance to see pigs taking part in daily activities with their human counterparts.  You’d see them in the supermarket.  What, hello??  Anyone ever heard of “Piggly Wiggly”?  Well, that’s where you could take your pig shopping! Where else would you buy a pig his or her, you know, pig stuff.  Duh!

I remember as a young child seeing pigs in the yards, pigs at the dinner table (the ones in my house were named Diane and Debbie.  I expect to find out very soon if my sisters read this column), pigs riding on the child seat of a mom’s bicycle, and pigs in the community pool.

(By the way, when you see a pig in the pool, and shortly thereafter you see what appears to be a jumbo-sized Hershey bar—like you get at Christmas—floating by, GET OUT.)  Yeah, being a kid in Alabama was really a great experience!  Y’all really missed out on a lot.

So what in pigs’ name happened??!  Somewhere along the line, however, pigs began to acquire negative connotations.  People began to refer to others as “pigs”.

Henrietta Bigolbottom, a researcher at the National Institute for Pig Protection & Limits on Executions (otherwise known as…uh, nah…never mind), has performed extensive historical research on this dramatic turning point in human history when pigs were no longer considered “vogue”.  In a recent article in their organization’s journal “The Ring”, Ms Bigolbottom was intereviewed extensively on this subject:

Pigs used to be our friends, until we realized they get dirty. Then we started saying “you’re filthy as a pig”.  That’s pretty much the turning point I guess.

Okaaaay, thanks Henrietta.  My guess is the government paid for that study too.

Since then, pigs have lost the respect they deserve.  Many have resorted on their own to change the public’s perceptions of their being “dirty, filthy animals”:

Despite their best efforts, the bovine species has sunken to the lowest of lows:  politicians now rely on the word “pork” to describe what they themselves create for their own interests while bemoaning the very existance of the same.

Hmmm….let me think about this.

What if I created a really great dessert…the “Flaming E2D Flombay”.  The dessert tastes heavenly while being loaded with the unhealthiest of ingredients.  Each slice has, oh let’s say 6000 calories.  The dessert is eaten as fast as it’s made, and anyone who has it has to have more…including me (I really like desserts, but my wife no longer lets me eat stuff that doesn’t have flax seed and other rabbit food “secretly” hidden inside.  Only she–*ahem!*–knows about said ingredients, even tho I have snooped and found them in her cupboard and keep “accidentally” pouring it down the drain, but I digress.  I do that a lot.  You’ve probably noticed.  That’s one of my faults.  Do these pants make my butt look big?).

Eventually, we all become gi-normously huge, bloated and very ill from the ingredients.  I begin to tell everyone how terribly bad “Flaming E2D Flombay” is, while simultaneously cranking it out of my newly-built-and-taxpayer-funds-paid-state-of-the-art factory (which has a room dedicated to me, Dave, because I love myself so much.  You should see the statue.  Feel free to stop by sometime and take a picture next to “Dave”…for $10 bucks of course).

The more I complain, the more “Flaming E2D Flombay” I produce, the more I eat, the sicker I get, and the richer I get.  The richer I get, the more I produce the dessert, and the louder I complain, and the sicker I get….etc.  You get the picture.

This “pork”, as they call it, is equally as unhealthy, except your kids will pay the price.  Now we’re talkin’! I can crank out the Flombay and eat to my hearts’ content, while putting on my “sad and concerned face” whilst discussing how “terrible” the Flombay is.

Dave:  “This terrible Flombay is ruining our lives!  We need to do something about it!

Reporter:  “Uh, Mister Earth, uh….to Dave, um, aren’t you making the Flombay??”

(Dave’s assistant, with the aviator sunglasses, earpiece and watch that he talks into, whispers something in his ear).

Dave:  “Well, I’d love to discuss this further, but my landscaper and events planner are having an argument with the contractor installing the infinity pool at my summer home, so we’ll have to chat later…buh bye!  Driver?!  Where’s my Driver??!  You just can’t find good help any more…”

So, lovers of pork, we find ourselves in the mud, with the politicians, trying desperately to resurrect our beloved bovine brethren (oh crap, that means cows). What the heck, protect the cows too!!! (That’ll keep the dreaded CowCoalition off our backs, too).  Rise up!  Defend the hogs, cows, you know, whoever!  Unite!  Let us march to our nation’s capital and demand JUSTICE FOR…PIGS AND THEIR BRETHREN!

Justice for the pigs!  It’s the American Way.

If you’d care to donate to the Pig Defense Fun, rest assured we’ll put it in the proper file (the PDF file….get it?  A little computer nerd humor there).

Just e-mail PDF@earthtodave.com (this one’s for the spammers who harvest e-mail addresses off of websites…they’ll get a bounce-back which, in my mind, means I get to spam the spammers!  I’m a genius!).

Together in pig unity,

One such thing is brussel sprouts.  Notice that, regardless of race, gender, culture or location on the globe, the reaction to eating a brussel sprout is always the same:

China Reaction

Belgium Grandpa Guy

Clown Lady

One such thing is man’s innate desire to….be a moron.  It’s what we do, and we’re very good at it.  Make no mistake about it…males posess much more of the Moron Factor, but females are not immune to it.  They just display it in different ways, such as:

• Marrying a guy that, during the dating process, proves to have a very high Moron Factor.
• Using tears after doing something especially moronic seems to not only lessen her Moron Factor consequences, but also make the male counterpart more aware of his Moron Factor for giving said female a hard time about her (what he thought was obvious but is now not so sure) Moron Factor.   (This in no way has anything to do with the three  times my wife rear-ended other vehicles and I got mad at her for not telling me until I found the damage three weeks later.  Love you honey…smooch smooch).
• Hooking up with a guy who is not only not in the same league as she is, but doesn’t even deserve to share the same personal space as her (I hope my wife doesn’t read this, because reminding her of this causes her to bang her head on her computer and I just got it fixed.)  Case in point:

Hello? Need I say more??

The Moron Factor does seem to especially take center stage among males when mechanical contraptions are involved.  What is it that causes us to do stupid things with machines?  Why are we drawn to use machines in ways in which they were not initially designed?  What causes us to do stupid stuff with said machines, often knowing that it will result in getting seriously killed? 

Easy.  Because we cannot resist.  See, scientists have proven that the Moron Factor is directly related to a medical condition called “Seriosis Dain Bramage-itis“.  This medical condition causes the following to take place:

1. Nerve impulses from Brain infected with Seriousis Dain Bramage-itis creates self-destructive mental images to run through said brain.  Often these impulses are triggered by visually sighting a mechanical contraption.
2. Nerve impulses bypass the cognitive-reasoning center of the brain. This sub-condition of Seriousis Dain Bramage-itis is called “Lako Commonsensitis“. 
3. Nerve impulses travel directly to the motor-skill center of the brain, causing the various bodily limbs to begin acting on the mental images which triggered said impulses.  Soon the act is being carried out.
4. As the act is carried out, the Lako Commonsensitis brain center is triggered, causing the following verbal pattern to be manifested in the vocal cords:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!!

Take, for example, the following video.  Notice that the Lako Commonsensitis is not outwardly manifested until well after the video taping is completed:

Because this is a human condition that is often seen in Americans, one can assume this condition is largely a “Stupid American” condition.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  It is simply because of the relative ease with which we Americans are able to obtain various mechanical devices that we have made a rather large name for ourselves, Moronity-Speaking. 

The truth of the matter is that the Moron Factor, and the medical conditions behind it, are alive and well in every corner of the world.  While American’s might strap rockets onto 1963 Chevrolet Impalas and drive them at 373 mph towards a canyon wall (which seemed to be plenty far away until, well, traveling 373 mph), our Turkish friends strap said rockets onto 1963 Schwinn-copy bicycles.  While not traveling at 373 mph, 88 mph is plenty fast on a bike with half it’s wheel spokes missing.  In other words, the Moron Factor knows no enemies.  It’s all simply relative.

Still don’t believe me?  Enjoy this video and you’ll see what I mean:

Yes, the Moron Factor, whether exhibited by males or females, is readily displayed on a daily basis and, I dare say, probably in your own life in such frequency.    You cannot escape it.  Simply embrace it.  I have.

It’s good to be me.  It’s my wife I feel sorry for.

Only the savviest of Olympiad spectators, like myself, dug deep and found the true heartwarming stories of Olympic competitors who, despite all odds, persevered and did their very best. While they may not have been part of a “Dream Team” or won the umpteenth Gold medal for their country, their stories are nonetheless truly inspiring.

So in the spirit of the Olympic Games, I’d like to tell you about one such competitor: Paulette Hunt from the United States.

Paulette Hunt was born in Pekoopskie, Michigan, the daughter of hard-working blue-collar parents, Dear and Turkey. Growing up, Pauletta was often described as “slow” and was a bit clumsy. To add to her difficulties, her parents refused to change their names, resulting in Paulette being the object of much ridicule. Also, Paulette could never be honestly described as “attractive”. In fact, she was down right ugly. Many times she was mistaken for a boy! In an effort to help their daughter gain confidence, Dee and Turkey enrolled their daughter in gymnastics.

Initially, Paulette struggled with her gymnastics, often her routines being described as the “blue mat face plant”. Undeterred, Pauletta continued to practice day and night. Her “face plant” routines became not only routine, but somewhat entertaining. In short time and by word of mouth, Paulette became somewhat of a local celebrity. In an effort to be more credible as a competitor, she changed her name to Paulette Huntinova, because every good gymnast had a weird name that was hard to pronounce, she figured.

Soon Paulette was winning competitions across the country. She was, however, still mistaken by many, including commentators, as a male gymnast. Paulette, however, did not let this bother her. She was often quoted as saying “I are let my gymnastics do the talking, so me not worry”. At some events, where the judges and commentators could not fathom that she was a girl, she’d use the name “Paul Hunt”. It didn’t matter…as long as she could display her gymnastic prowess, that was all that mattered.

Paulette had found herself. She enjoyed thrilling audiences at gymnastic meets with her amazing ability to survive horrendous impacts with mats, poles, balance beams, bars, viewing stands, drinking fountains, other gymnasts and even the judges tables. She was a star! Deer and Turkey were quite proud.

There was only one thing alluding Paulette’s storied career: an Olympic medal…or, at least, an Olympic performance (Paulette learned to set realistic goals.)

After many years of competition and much blood, sweat and tears (mostly blood, actually), she made the Olympic Gymnastics team. Her dream would come true in Beijing.

While Paulette Hunt’s Olympic performances did not capture her a medal, she was able to demonstrate her unique abilities to the world. Her performances not only captivated the audience, they caused a few hearts to stop beating for a moment…Paulette’s performances were…well, a bit unusual.

As a service to the Olympics and my audience, I have a few video clips to share with you. These are the three events that Paulette participated in. Note that even the Olympic commentators, while obviously enjoying Paulette’s performance, still mistook her for a male gymnast.

Here’s Paulette’s performance on the balance beam, a very challenging event:

Now watch as Paulette demonstrates incredible use of the floor during her floor exercise:

And lastly, here is Paulette’s uneven bars routine…simply spectacular, with unusual use of the support structure for the bars—ingenious!

As you can see, Paulette’s athletic abilities speak for themselves. I bet you didn’t see that on the highlight reels, did you? Obviously you need to rely on trustworthy news and research organizations to find these things for you…like Earth to Dave! Don’t thank me. That’s what I’m here for.

As I’ve shown, it’s clear that you cannot adequately experience the Olympic Games by viewing a few highlights or watching the closing ceremonies. Yes, if you dig deep and beyond the headlines, you will find the truly heartwarming stories that more accurately portray the Olympic Spirit, without all the “flash” and “pizazz” of the “professional” athletes with all of their endorsements.

So next time you hear about Mark Phelps and his 6 Gold medals in fencing, or Michael Jordan’s part in the USA Basketball team’s capturing the bronze in Beijing, just remember there are true athletes, like Paulette Hunt, er…Huntinova, the unsung heroes of the Olympic Games.

Anyway, our company forecasters were doing the same—making their own predictions, often with different (and probably more precise) results. After careful analysis, everyone was confident of the path of the storm. “Preparations” had been made at certain cities for flights to be canceled and passengers to be rebooked on other flights.

Then, everyone waited.

And waited.

And the “hurricane” was suddenly being referred to as a “tropical storm”, without much adieu.

And then the first photos surfaced. The damage to the southern tip of Florida was extensive:

As you can see, the weather forecasters were right on…er, not.

Various computer “models” predicted the path of the storm to pass over Florida, while others predicted it would sweep slightly west and impact the state of Oregon. It is a very complicated science, and one that we could not possibly understand. Our job is to “prepare”.

What does it mean to adequately “prepare” for these violent acts of Mother Nature?

Simple. Buy lots of gas, drive to the store and buy every last bottle of water you can find, then go home and use scrap plywood, kitchen tables, plastic or your neighbor’s hammock to cover the windows. Then you need to grab approximately 14 yards of aluminum foil, tightly wrap it around your head and make a curley-cue twisty top approximately four feed above your head, making you look somewhat like a Hershey’s kiss. Next, get a flashlight and sit in the bathtub. You, my friend, are now “prepared”. He he he. Your neighbors are CLUELESS. If only they had your, uh…”preparedness”. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.

From the above photo we are able to determine that the owner of the home did NOT prepare adequately. ANYONE knows you DO NOT leave cans of soda on your deck! Why? Because they can become projectiles which can impregnate themselves in your next door neighbor’s automobile, which has no wheels and sits on blocks. And ANYONE knows that this can be a problem.  Why? Because it can knock the vehicle off of the blocks and ANYONE knows that a vehicle with no wheels that has been knocked off of it’s blocks will NEVER be moved. Thus, any hope you had that the owner of said vehicle will walk out in his bathrobe, survey the “damage”, shrug and begin to smoke while sitting on the pile of scrap metal placed next to said vehicle. Yes sir, you had better get used to that wheel-less vehicle. THAT’S why you don’t leave soda cans sitting out on your porch when storms approach.  DUH!

Other people “prepare” for storms in different ways. Some see the approaching storms as some kind of weird “challenge” to their intellect. We often refer to these type of people as “Einstein” or “Rocket Scientists”. I have no idea why, however, as generally when one is referred to as “Einstein” or a “Rocket Scientist”, it is in a derogatory sense. This often makes me feel bad for Einstein’s relatives, or those whose husbands, fathers, aunts, uncles, or children are Rocket Scientists (not cousins, though. I draw the line there).  If your Dad was a Rocket Scientist, how would YOU like it if you overheard someone say “Oh great job you friggin’ rocket scientist!!” and stomped off? If it were me, I’d run home and get my Dad’s Eloodian Q-36 Modulator and let ‘em have it! Yeah, that’s right. You heard me. I’d really let ‘em HAVE IT! Man, I feel better already.

And what about Adelphius Einstein, Albert’s great-great-great-second-cousin’s-nephew’s-uncle?  He no doubt takes it VERY personally when someone says “Way to go EINSTEIN!!” to some guy after he accidentally pushes a piano out of a twentieth story window onto a crowd of people below.  Imagine how HE feels.  Yeah, maybe you’ll think about Adelphius next time YOU are tempted to say something like that.  Sheesh, stop and think about him, would ya?

But as I have mentioned, these “Einsteins” and “Rocket Scientists” decide to do moronic things out in the weather when they SHOULD be gathering hammocks, scrap plywood, aluminum foil and flashlights (after discarding all soda cans located on the front porch, of course). Recently, one of these Rocket Scientists decided that the approaching storm, and gale force winds associated with it, would be the perfect opportunity to…go “kite boarding”. This activity entails standing on a surf board type of apparatus and, with the aid of a large, uncontrollable kite, zipping across shark-infested waters and, with the simple tug of the kite, smoothly sailing above the water when the shark attempts to eat your lower extremities. It’s all very exciting. The wind, however, is generally…well, not “hurricane force” during standard kite-boarding outings. Said “hurricane force” winds can take your kite and make it “loosey goosey”. This is official Kite Boarder jargon for “completely uncontrollable” and “potentially deadly” and can result in “dain bramage”.

As a case in point, here is one Rocket Scientist who was “preparing” in his own way:

As you can see, he got a little “loosey goosey”.

A little known fact is that even if you are in an area that is NOT forcasted to be in the path of an approaching storm, you should immediately “prepare”. If, however, you live in an area that is forcasted to be in the path of an approaching storm, my advice is to simply take it easy. Chances are, nothing will happen anyway. Much like my wife waits for a loud buzzer and shock treatment to be applied through her driver’s seat when the engine oil is near zero (despite the flashing red light), if it’s really a serious storm, you’ll probably hear sirens, screams and wind sounds that are often compared to the sound of an approaching freight train. At that point, it might be advisable to stroll into the house, don the aluminum foil hats and begin “preparations”. If, after spending a few minutes in the bathtub, you look up and do not see the sky, consider yourself safe.

So as the weather forecasters use their lame-o “computer models”, you can rest easy. You’ll have plenty of time to “prepare”. The airlines “prepare”. The government agencies “prepare”. Your neighbor might even “prepare” by actually tying his bath robe around his waist in case a breeze suddenly stirs up (we don’t want to think about what’s under the robe). You can just sit on the porch in your rocking chair, sipping on your soda, waiting for the sirens, screams and freight train. You can rest easy knowing you were “prepared”.

No sir, nobody is going to call YOU Einstein!

Hey, what’s that noise? It sounds like a train, doesn’t it? Nah, it’s probably nothing.

As the summer progresses on, many of us find ourselves outdoors enjoying the sun, working outside in the garden, mowing the lawn, and washing the car. And if you’re like me, many of us find ourselves outdoors WATCHING other people work outside in the sun, working in the garden, mowing the lawn and washing my car whilst enjoying a cold glass of iced tea. Regardless of the reasons for being outside, it might be a good idea to remember that other creatures have the same idea (although if I catch them drinking my iced tea, they’re toast. Not the bread kind. The dead kind.)

With the recent emphasis on “Global Warming”, I thought it would be appropriate to consult an expert on this subject. Recently I had the pleasure of speaking to Dr. Hugh Jass from the National Institute for the Study of Creatures that Like Summer (NISCLS). Dr. Jass is an expert in this field. If “Global Warming” is a reality, it only stands to reason that we should become more familiar with creatures that are drawn to warm climates. Dr. Jass is a Distinguished Fellow at the Berlin Institute of Global Science and Climate Analysis Management (BIGSCAM) and Global Warming expert. I spent several hours with Dr. Jass who was kind enough to share his wisdom with us so that we can be prepared for the summer creatures that we are sure to encounter.

First, Dr. Jass cautioned us that this topic can often become nauseating. For this reason, you may want to avoid eating anything for a period of one week before continuing this article. Okay, I’ll wait.

Welcome back. You look like crap.

Anyway, thanks for stopping by. Please start at the beginning and hurry back to this point, as Dr. Hugh Jass cannot be kept waiting (for a number of reasons, to include that he has been eating french fries and donuts since you’ve been gone. I suggested he change his first name to “Hugh-er”).

Now, the first creature that every one of us has probably seen is referred to as “giganteous buttus gone wildeous” and is seen in habitats in which it does not belong. Why or how these creatures are drawn to this particular habitat is still very much a mystery. What is also a mystery is that Dr. Huge Jass doesn’t seem to think this is unusual. Anyway, here is a photo of one of these species, taken during feeding time (which, apparently , is not hard to do):

Now as already mentioned, these species are often found in places they don’t belong, but I think I will leave it at that. The best way to deal with these species is to simply, well, NOT STARE.

Now, to digress for just a minute…for those of you who consider the above “inconsiderate” or “politically uncorrect”, my response is simply “get over it”. You see, each one of us is different, and beautiful in our own way (at least that’s what my Mom kept reassuring me as a kid.) Each one of us, however, should know our own personal “limits”. Take, for example, ME. I should NEVER EVER be seen in a speedo:

Enough said? Yeah, I thought so. Let’s move on…

Second, in many places of the world, the summer-like heat associated with “Global Warming” is often a magnet for another species known as “snakeous disgustinguous”. This species, much like the one above, enjoys sunning itself in the hot sun, often in less-than-desirable places. Depending on the species itself, this creature can be very dangerous and even deadly. Here is a video taken by Mrs. Hugh Jass literally right before she passed away:

Now, when encountered, it is recommended that you first “think happy thoughts”. Whenever I run across this species, I imagine it is a very long “Ball Park Frank” that simply rolled out of a huge hot dog bun. Obviously you wouldn’t pick it up, and you certainly wouldn’t eat it. And of course a Ball Park Frank doesn’t eat your miniature poodle “Tinkerbell” or have fangs the size of knitting needles. Nor does it shed it’s outer “frank skin” and leave it behind for your children to play with (blech! Thus, the title). And of course it doesn’t coil itself up in a little frankfurter Cinabon until you stumble across it and have your leg taken off. Other than that, it’s just like a Ball Park Frank. So think happy thoughts as you stand petrified in front of it, yelling at your wife, children, neighbors or the fire department 31 miles away to save you.

Recently I received a photograph of a friend who was called the house of his buddy, who was in said position, staring at the Ball Park Cinabon Frank, coiled up and ready to swallow him whole. Obviously a student of Dr. Hugh Jass’s research, said friend, who we will fictitiously refer to as “Chris”, calmly screamed out at the top of his lungs until his neighbors 4 blocks away called for help. The help was the legendary “Snake Hunter”, Steve W.

Steve W. is a legend in these parts. With nothing but his bear hands, an Indiana Jones-style whip, a knife at his side and, oh yeah, a 63-foot long snake-grabber thingy, Steve appeared and in no time at all, the “snakeous disgustinguous” was captured. Next, armed with the 63-foot long snake-grabber thingy, the Snake Hunter beat the crap out of it against a tree. Once assured it was relatively safe, the Snake Hunter set up barricades for the onlookers, signed a few autographs then with the camera crew in tow, got on his hands and knees and approached the deadly creature, still in the jaws of the 63-foot snake-grabber thingy. As he approached the specimen from the rear, he pounced.

“CRIKEY! This little buggah, if alive, could have easily swallowed me whole, and with one drop of venom, Chris here would have melted like buttah on the sidewalk!”

(Chris, the way, was fine, when a local scientist informed him it was a common Garden Snake, which is not deadly. The Snake Hunter, however, insisted otherwise.) Here’s a photo of the incident:

(Copyright 2008 Snake Hunter Productions. All Rights Reserved. Please do not Photoshop or deface this photo, and please keep in mind both of these guys also happen to be my bosses. They are really really, I mean REALLY great guys. Really. I mean that. Seriously. Not just because they could fire me if they see this.)

Thirdly, Dr. Jass cautions us all to be on the lookout for a species called “maximus ginormous mosquito-us”.

This species is especially attracted to any living organism, especially of the human type, to feed on it’s blood and spread infectous diseases. Other than that, it’s no big deal. Again, simply “think happy thoughts”. Imagine the creature is simply an insect-version of a cute little puppy, taking a little drink from it’s bowl. Then smash the little booger, while giving a karate “hi-yah!” yell. It’s very therapeutic.

Lastly, Dr. Jass issued a stern warning to avoid, at all costs, the following species. He is called “sweatius cookimus”.

Often times we may not see the cook who is carefully preparing our meal. In my mind, this poses a problem.

“How are we to be on the lookout for “sweatius cookimus” when we cannot always see him”, I asked.

“Taste your food”, he replied. “If it’s too salty or the food is runny, chances are a “sweatius cookimus” is nearby”.

If this is the case, do not panic. Dr. Jass has developed a simple home-treatment plan. Simply go home and take a shower. In fact, take several showers. Then take another shower. Afterwards, consider eating a bar of soap. Follow it with a swig of Hydrogen Peroxide. Then try not to think about “sweatius cookimus”. If you do, repeat the treatment.

After several hours of discussion with Dr. Jass, it is apparent that, “Global Warming”, while dangerous in and of itself, poses many other pitfalls that are often overlooked. Thankfully we have experts like Dr. Hugh Jass to keep us straight. So next time you’re at the beach, try not to stare at the “giganteous buttus gone wildeous”. If you encounter a “snakeous disgustinguous”, imagine it’s a frankfurter, stay calm and call Steve, the Snake Hunter. Keep an eye out for the swarms of “maximus ginormous mosquito-us” (think “little puppy”) and keep the bars of soap ready for the “sweatius cookimus”. Armed with this information, you are now further prepared to live in this new, warmer world.

One might think this “Global Warming” phenomenon is making this world a scary place to live in. On the contrary, knowledge is power. Now that you have it, what should you do? Simple. Crank the air conditioning, board the windows and hide.

You might want to get something to eat. You still look like crap.

Blech!

Stay cool.

I’ve had enough.

I can’t stand it.

Yep, you guessed it. Election time.

The television commercials are commanding the air waves. The candidates are posturing for your vote. The “spin masters” are twisting the news every which way. The news is filled with poll results, and the talking heads spend hours debating which candidate for President will win in November.

Last night I spent an hour trying to find something…anything…else to watch. It was either “The Situation Room” (what is a “situation room”, anyway?) or “Crossfire” (A military show I think). Other than that, I really had only one other choice. I made my stand. I didn’t become another statistic for the news shows. I watched, and recorded, my favorite TV commercial and replayed it for an hour. Here it is:

Now, why would I want to watch an INFOMERCIAL instead of something else. Well, that’s easy. I need to get a life.

No, actually, that’s not true. I have one. What I meant to say is that I find it, well…fascinating.

Take, for instance, the fact that this infomercial is undoubtedly one of the cheesiest, low-budget commercials you will ever see. Notice the set. It consists of a counter top and a colored backdrop. Price? $150 including materials. “Vince”, the host with the funny accent, took a standard blue polo shirt ($7.36 at Walmart, “The low price leader”…copyright 2008 Walmart, Inc. Benton, AR, all rights reserved. <—just being careful…they like to sue people) to an embroidery shop and had the words “Sham Wow” embroidered onto it. Price? $20. Next, they had to buy a glass bowl for catching the liquid contents of the ShamWow after being squeezed. Price? $5 at the Dollar Store. Notice, however, that Vince is a bit “clumsy” in squeezing the contents of the ShamWow into the bowl. I am guessing he was just nervous. He is, after all, just a rookie. (They couldn’t afford Billy Mays, the bearded guy who has hawked everything from “CLR—Calcium, Lyme & Rust Remover” to “Oxy Clean” to the “Hercules Hook”. He was MUCH too pricey. Plus, he got some “Mighty Putty” in his hair and had to shave his head.) The problem, however, is the repeated liquid spills bubbled the formica counter top which later required repair. Expensive mistake Vince. Cost of repairs? $300. The producers were NOT impressed.

The next thing I notice is that the company couldn’t even afford to get ol’ Vince a skin-tone microphone. Instead, they bought a big honkin’ cheap mic from Radio Shack and made do. Vince seems oblivious to the fact that the big black thing wrapped around his head is VERY distracting and makes him look like the guy at the carnival who tries to get you to spend $30 throwing rings onto coke bottles so you can win the $4 stuffed Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle stuffed animal. But alas, Vince sports the Radio Shack microphone with pride, even as he addresses the “camera guy”.

This leads me to my third observation. When have you ever heard a guy in a commercial speak to, yet alone refer to, the “camera guy”? Isn’t this a television faux pau? Oh poor Vince, he must have really had a rough time filming this commercial.

So adding up all the expenses of making this commercial including Vince’s clumsy mistake, we can see the producers spent a total of $482.36, plus Vince’s take for his pitch-man work: unlimited ShamWows and a new microphone for any future gigs he’d get as a result of his first infomercial.

But the manufacturer of the ShamWow is smiling all the way to the bank. They are selling German-made (?) shammies faster than they can make them (in Germany? And that makes them better? If they were made there, wouldn’t they be called “ShamVerks” or something more German-sounding? I have a hard time believing that someone named Klaus would call his product “ShamWow”, but I digress).

Americans eat up this type of product. They see it as the answer to their spillage problems. It will make life easier. Yes, the ShamWow is the hope for the future:

Hank: “Gladys, get me the phone. I just watched this ShamWow commercial, and it’s amazing. When I spill my denture cleaner on the carpet, I can just sop it up with ShamWow!”

Gladys: “You mean it’ll soak it up…even through…the carpet??”

Hank: “Yep, just saw it with my own eyes. Plus, you can roll your wet blouse in it and wear it right away!”

Gladys: “I cannot tell you how many times I’ve needed something like that! Here’s the phone! Order it now and put a move on it! They’ll probably sell out!!”

Hank: “Yeah, they probably sold ‘em all…to the camera guy.”

The listener is encouraged to “call now and get this SECOND ShamWow free!” but you always have to call “in the next ten minutes because we can’t do this all day”. But, uh, they ALWAYS say that. What’s up with that? Yet people run for the phone, hoping the ten minutes haven’t yet expired.

Yes, Americans are hungry for anything “good”. That’s why the election season is so wacky. (How’s that for a segue?)

How can a candidate promise “Change you can count on” but not only have nothing specific to propose, but no experience to prove his ability to do so? But alas, the crowds gather and rally around a slick motto and smooth delivery. The stadiums fill, people faint, and the news is all abuzz of the candidate promising “change”. Nothing specific, just “change”.

For those of you thinking this is a political rant for a certain candidate, think again. The other side consists of a guy who, for years, made his opinions, values and decisions known, only to reinvent himself to get elected. Looks like HE is into “change” too.

All of this can cause one to become disillusioned and give up on the system. Not me. No sir, I’m not giving up. When you can’t beat ‘em, JOIN ‘em! I’m announcing my candidacy for office. Yes, that’s right.

EARTH TO DAVE! ANNOUNCES:
(drum roll please)

VOTE DAVE FOR 2008!

I promise that I will CHANGE the way things are done in Washington!

I promise that you will see a CHANGE right before your own eyes!

I promise that whenever you buy a soft drink in a vending machine, you will find CHANGE in the coin tray.

Yes, that’s right…Vote Dave Buck for…uh…you know, CHANGE.

If you think this is just a columnist blowing smoke, think again. My candidacy is already gaining steam. People are talking and word is spreading fast that there is now a THIRD viable candidate in the race. Don’t believe me? Just watch this recent news story from Channel 3 here in Atlanta:

See? My candidacy is taking off!

And now, you can join the revolution. Vote “Dave” in November. Just write my name on the ballot. If you use one of those electronic voting booth thingies and don’t know how to write in my name, just hike yourself up onto the booth and say the following very loudly:

“I WANT TO VOTE FOR DAVE!! I DEMAND A DAVE VOTE! YOU GOT THAT, CAMERA GUY?!”

When I am elected, I will use my newfound authority to issue a Presidential Pardon on your behalf. Of course, those things do take time, so while you wait I will see to it your prison food is made better.

Now THAT’s change you can count on! “You’ll be saying WOW every time”.