Earth to Dave! (E2D!)

Soon it will be my birthday. Stop! Don’t sing, don’t send me a card (unless there’s going to be money in it) and don’t CONGRATULATE ME.

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,