Forget Balloon Boy’s parents, I’d like to see a reality show based on the whacky misadventures of the Louisiana justice of the peace who refused to marry an interracial couple out of “concern” for the children they don’t have.
His Honor Keith Bardwell of Tangipahoa Parish said he doesn’t believe he is a racist because, well, for one thing he has had black people in his very own home and even “allowed them to use the bathroom,” for crying out loud!
Vindicated!
Not so fast. Nobody was buying the JP’s BS, and now the ACLU wants him F.I.R.E.D. ASAP.
What shocked me about JP Bardwell’s attempt to defend his actions wasn’t the inherent racism in his “I’m-not-a-racist” reply, or even that a man who thinks like him has held elected office in the United States for more than 30 years.
What shocked me is that Goober has indoor plumbing.
A reality show based on a racist could be enlightening and entertaining at the same time, in a Sammy Davis, Jr.-meets-Archie Bunker kind of way: “In this week’s episode of ‘The JP,’ hilarity ensues when a series of missteps lands Justice Goober at a Lenny Kravitz concert.”
As for Balloon Boy Falcon Heene, now there’s a child of an interracial couple Justice Bardwell can legitimately feel sorry for.
(Extra credit goes to those attentive readers who connected the dots between Archie Bunker and Lenny Kravitz.)
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Restaurant Rants: Pass The Ketchup
I put ketchup on eggs. It’s genetic. Anyway, my wife and I were in a restaurant in Tennessee, eating eggs with ketchup, when some kids in the booth behind us gasped, standing on their seats, pointing, and yelled to their parents – and half the restaurant – that a couple of Yankee freaks were putting KETCHUP on their eggs.
Until that point, I did not know I was different. Kids can be so cruel.
I hate stereotyping. But just as I had arrived at the totally unfair conclusion that the ladies in the booth across from me at lunch might have evening jobs that involve poles and bad 80s hair band music, they dumped a paper bag of crinkled dollar bills on the table and started counting them. Then, they began to discuss – loudly and in colorful terms – their pet peeves about their customers, erasing all doubt that I had misunderstood and that they, perhaps, simply worked for a vending company with a very lax dress code.
Fill the ketchup. FILL the KETCHUP! I got so irritated at lunch one day that I collected mostly-empty bottles from six tables, arranged them neatly in a circle on the table next to me, then told the confused waitress when she returned, nonchalantly, “You’re a little low on ketchup.” It was a jerky thing to do, but I’d do it again. I would.
I was in the kind of place that might employ the abovementioned dollar-bill ladies exactly one time in my life (it was a long, long time ago and I was obligated – I was in the wedding party). I spent half the night laying low and the other half chatting with a half-dressed but very sincere waitress about her Comp II class. [I was barely out of college myself, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.]
Anyway, the perky scholar said, as if embarrassed, that she was not normally a waitress. No, she was a dancer, but she had pulled a hamstring and was on “light duty” that night. It was – in that place, at that time – the single funniest thing I had ever heard, as evidenced by the $12 Bud Light coming out of my nose.
Waitress: “Would you like ketchup for your fries, honey.”
My daughter (about age 3): “Duh!”
Where does she get it?
The older I get, the more insistent I become about two things: If you don’t put the paper on the porch, I’ll read it online and you can just skip my house and credit my account. Likewise, if the salad doesn’t arrive before the main course, then don’t bring it at all. Is that so unreasonable?
And, when the waitress forgets the ketchup with my omelet, and I have to ask for it a second time, throwing off her routine, I will bet you $100 she doesn’t return until my eggs are cold. Guaranteed.
On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the kinds of places where the waitresses anticipate that you might want ketchup with your eggs are the same places you are most likely to find boisterous women counting dollar bills at the next table. Not to stereotype.
Until that point, I did not know I was different. Kids can be so cruel.
I hate stereotyping. But just as I had arrived at the totally unfair conclusion that the ladies in the booth across from me at lunch might have evening jobs that involve poles and bad 80s hair band music, they dumped a paper bag of crinkled dollar bills on the table and started counting them. Then, they began to discuss – loudly and in colorful terms – their pet peeves about their customers, erasing all doubt that I had misunderstood and that they, perhaps, simply worked for a vending company with a very lax dress code.
Fill the ketchup. FILL the KETCHUP! I got so irritated at lunch one day that I collected mostly-empty bottles from six tables, arranged them neatly in a circle on the table next to me, then told the confused waitress when she returned, nonchalantly, “You’re a little low on ketchup.” It was a jerky thing to do, but I’d do it again. I would.
I was in the kind of place that might employ the abovementioned dollar-bill ladies exactly one time in my life (it was a long, long time ago and I was obligated – I was in the wedding party). I spent half the night laying low and the other half chatting with a half-dressed but very sincere waitress about her Comp II class. [I was barely out of college myself, so it wasn’t as creepy as it sounds.]
Anyway, the perky scholar said, as if embarrassed, that she was not normally a waitress. No, she was a dancer, but she had pulled a hamstring and was on “light duty” that night. It was – in that place, at that time – the single funniest thing I had ever heard, as evidenced by the $12 Bud Light coming out of my nose.
Waitress: “Would you like ketchup for your fries, honey.”
My daughter (about age 3): “Duh!”
Where does she get it?
The older I get, the more insistent I become about two things: If you don’t put the paper on the porch, I’ll read it online and you can just skip my house and credit my account. Likewise, if the salad doesn’t arrive before the main course, then don’t bring it at all. Is that so unreasonable?
And, when the waitress forgets the ketchup with my omelet, and I have to ask for it a second time, throwing off her routine, I will bet you $100 she doesn’t return until my eggs are cold. Guaranteed.
On the other hand, I’ve noticed that the kinds of places where the waitresses anticipate that you might want ketchup with your eggs are the same places you are most likely to find boisterous women counting dollar bills at the next table. Not to stereotype.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Letters No. 1
Dear Faceless Corporation,
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 29, 2009. Is this some kind of freaking joke? Seriously, who taught you people how to write?
According to your correspondence, I am either A) about to be evicted or, B) nominated for a Nobel Prize. It was unclear. I’m sure even you can understand why this might concern me.
Why not save a few trees and just say what's on your mind. I don’t think either of us wants me to call your 1-800 number for clarification, getting angrier and angrier as your auto-attendant system transfers me seven times before delivering me – now cranked up to a homicidal rage – to YOU. Do we?
Here's a little free advice about how to structure future letters.
1) Tell me first what happened or what is going to happen, and what it means to me.
Example: “The house is on fire. You are in danger. “
2) Tell me, very clearly, what you want me to do, or what my options are.
Example: “Run.”
3) Would it kill you to pretend to care?
4) Grovel, deflect blame, cover your ass – whatever you need to do – only after telling me what I need to know-slash-do. This is less important because I’m probably not going to read it, anyway, but if it makes you feel better, knock yourself out.
I hope this letter was helpful. I value our relationship. OK, I was kidding around there; we don’t have a relationship.
Love,
Scott
Dear Acer Group, Inc.,
I'm typing this letter on one of your Acer POS netbooks, which are really cute, but...
I'm sure you know by now that the unfortunate clustering of the arrow/Pg Up/Pg Dn/Home/End keys was not the smartest idea you ever had. Right? So, I don't have to tell you.
Still, I was wondering: does your 90-day warranty cover the replacement cost of my picture window?
Luv U Bunches,
Scott
Let me put something out there, just for discussion, that might help prevent further damage to your personal brand. Just to think about. You might - I think you know I'm just looking out for your best interest here - you might not want to cheat on your wife with subordinates less than half your age. Just a suggestion. I may be wrong.
Keep your World Wide Pants on, Dave, LOL. (You can use that one if you want to.)
Scott
Dear President Ahmadinejad,
The new suits look good, Mahmoud. Didn’t you get the tie I sent?
Say, you might want to lighten up a little over there. Just sayin’. The rocket thing – not cool. People are already pissed about the election.
You know I’m always straight with you, bro. That whole “the holocaust never happened” thing is a little out there. People don’t always get you.
Still up for some beer pong on Thursday?
Call/text.
Scott
Dear Glenn Beck,
The gargoyle in the red hat will emerge from the lagoon on Labor Day. Please send sardines.
Keep your head down, dude. We’re praying for you.
FreakyFreddy57@AOL.com
Dear Mr. Wldozskiwicz,
Thank you for your recent letter. We here at Carpenter Communications place great value on the input we receive from stakeholders such as you.
Our Engineering Dept. is checking into the physical feasibility of your suggestion about what we can do with our “juvenile/elitist/communist drivel.” The sketches you sent were very helpful.
Get well soon,
Scott
I am in receipt of your letter dated September 29, 2009. Is this some kind of freaking joke? Seriously, who taught you people how to write?
According to your correspondence, I am either A) about to be evicted or, B) nominated for a Nobel Prize. It was unclear. I’m sure even you can understand why this might concern me.
Why not save a few trees and just say what's on your mind. I don’t think either of us wants me to call your 1-800 number for clarification, getting angrier and angrier as your auto-attendant system transfers me seven times before delivering me – now cranked up to a homicidal rage – to YOU. Do we?
Here's a little free advice about how to structure future letters.
1) Tell me first what happened or what is going to happen, and what it means to me.
Example: “The house is on fire. You are in danger. “
2) Tell me, very clearly, what you want me to do, or what my options are.
Example: “Run.”
3) Would it kill you to pretend to care?
4) Grovel, deflect blame, cover your ass – whatever you need to do – only after telling me what I need to know-slash-do. This is less important because I’m probably not going to read it, anyway, but if it makes you feel better, knock yourself out.
I hope this letter was helpful. I value our relationship. OK, I was kidding around there; we don’t have a relationship.
Love,
Scott
# # #
Dear Acer Group, Inc.,
I'm typing this letter on one of your Acer POS netbooks, which are really cute, but...
I'm sure you know by now that the unfortunate clustering of the arrow/Pg Up/Pg Dn/Home/End keys was not the smartest idea you ever had. Right? So, I don't have to tell you.
Still, I was wondering: does your 90-day warranty cover the replacement cost of my picture window?
Luv U Bunches,
Scott
# # #
Dear David Letterman,
As a public relations professional, I’d just like to tell you what a great job you’ve done handling you’re recent image problem. Telling your audience about the blackmail and the underlying affairs so they would hear the news from you first was a smart move. Poking fun at yourself was very effective, too (careful not to overdo it!).
Let me put something out there, just for discussion, that might help prevent further damage to your personal brand. Just to think about. You might - I think you know I'm just looking out for your best interest here - you might not want to cheat on your wife with subordinates less than half your age. Just a suggestion. I may be wrong.
Keep your World Wide Pants on, Dave, LOL. (You can use that one if you want to.)
Scott
# # #
Dear President Ahmadinejad,
The new suits look good, Mahmoud. Didn’t you get the tie I sent?
Say, you might want to lighten up a little over there. Just sayin’. The rocket thing – not cool. People are already pissed about the election.
You know I’m always straight with you, bro. That whole “the holocaust never happened” thing is a little out there. People don’t always get you.
Still up for some beer pong on Thursday?
Call/text.
Scott
# # #
Dear Glenn Beck,
The gargoyle in the red hat will emerge from the lagoon on Labor Day. Please send sardines.
Keep your head down, dude. We’re praying for you.
FreakyFreddy57@AOL.com
# # #
Dear Mr. Wldozskiwicz,
Thank you for your recent letter. We here at Carpenter Communications place great value on the input we receive from stakeholders such as you.
Our Engineering Dept. is checking into the physical feasibility of your suggestion about what we can do with our “juvenile/elitist/communist drivel.” The sketches you sent were very helpful.
Get well soon,
Scott
Friday, October 09, 2009
Gun Racks And Sweater Vests
I lead a pretty stable, suburban 9-to-5, cranky-middle-aged-male kind of life. Mow the lawn on the weekends, wear my slippers to the gas station, talk back to the news and complain about the neighbor who always BANGS THE DAMN GATE when he comes and goes UPTEEN TIMES A NIGHT.
But I also live distinctly different, simultaneous lives, the inhabitants of which do not know about each other.
In one life, I hang with cigar-chomping outdoor types who fish, hunt, swear and complain about the government.
In another life, I consort with people who ride bikes, spout Latin names for flowers, drive hours in their hybrid cars to look at birds and, well, complain about the government.
Writers, truck drivers, lawyers, factory workers, a surprisingly large number of nurses, students, teachers, retirees; health nuts and fat guys; Catholics, Jews, Methodists, agnostics (an evangelical or two, maybe an atheist in the mix); black, white, Latino, Middle Eastern (mental note: make more Asian friends); hopelessly optimistic and irreparably cynical. From gun racks to sweater vests, my circle of friends and acquaintances covers the range from redneck to erudite.
It’s all one life to me, but it does amuse me to think of a house party where all my Facebook/Twitter/Linkedin friends meet each other for the first time.
(The closest I’ve ever come to such an eclectic gathering was the surprise birthday party my wife threw for me in which members of my extended family mingled with my coworkers in a surreal scene that reminded me of the Country Music Awards.)
I’m sure such a party would go OK. My friends are a polite bunch. And I like to think we could find some common ground.
Most of my friends love the outdoors, to some degree. Some call themselves “environmentalists,” a term that would make others cringe. So, let’s just say we’re all conservationists. Agreed?
The government. OK, we all hate the government, except, of course when the government’s doing what we want it to do, like picking up our trash or saving our lives or giving someone else a ticket. I think if we just talk about “the government” without partisan labels, we’ll be fine.
Abortion? No middle ground there. But why would that come up?
Puppies! Pretty sure all my friends like puppies.
Race? Religion? Racists aren’t welcome in any my lives or my house, and I think all my friends, religious and non-religious, are pretty tolerant grownups. No problems anticipated there.
The beer/wine, carnivore/veg-head factions will self-select and pick neutral corners. No intervention needed on my part.
That just leaves healthcare reform and immigration. Those could be tough. Better steer the Glenn Beck fans to the basement and the Rachel Maddow crowd to the kitchen. The Lou Dobbs folks are on their own. If there’s a Michael Savage fan in the crowd, he can stay out in the yard because nobody will know what the hell he’s talking about, anyway.
OK, I think we can make this work. As long as nobody brings up concealed carry laws or gay marriage, in which case, I’m changing the subject to puppies.
But I also live distinctly different, simultaneous lives, the inhabitants of which do not know about each other.
In one life, I hang with cigar-chomping outdoor types who fish, hunt, swear and complain about the government.
In another life, I consort with people who ride bikes, spout Latin names for flowers, drive hours in their hybrid cars to look at birds and, well, complain about the government.
Writers, truck drivers, lawyers, factory workers, a surprisingly large number of nurses, students, teachers, retirees; health nuts and fat guys; Catholics, Jews, Methodists, agnostics (an evangelical or two, maybe an atheist in the mix); black, white, Latino, Middle Eastern (mental note: make more Asian friends); hopelessly optimistic and irreparably cynical. From gun racks to sweater vests, my circle of friends and acquaintances covers the range from redneck to erudite.
It’s all one life to me, but it does amuse me to think of a house party where all my Facebook/Twitter/Linkedin friends meet each other for the first time.
(The closest I’ve ever come to such an eclectic gathering was the surprise birthday party my wife threw for me in which members of my extended family mingled with my coworkers in a surreal scene that reminded me of the Country Music Awards.)
I’m sure such a party would go OK. My friends are a polite bunch. And I like to think we could find some common ground.
Most of my friends love the outdoors, to some degree. Some call themselves “environmentalists,” a term that would make others cringe. So, let’s just say we’re all conservationists. Agreed?
The government. OK, we all hate the government, except, of course when the government’s doing what we want it to do, like picking up our trash or saving our lives or giving someone else a ticket. I think if we just talk about “the government” without partisan labels, we’ll be fine.
Abortion? No middle ground there. But why would that come up?
Puppies! Pretty sure all my friends like puppies.
Race? Religion? Racists aren’t welcome in any my lives or my house, and I think all my friends, religious and non-religious, are pretty tolerant grownups. No problems anticipated there.
The beer/wine, carnivore/veg-head factions will self-select and pick neutral corners. No intervention needed on my part.
That just leaves healthcare reform and immigration. Those could be tough. Better steer the Glenn Beck fans to the basement and the Rachel Maddow crowd to the kitchen. The Lou Dobbs folks are on their own. If there’s a Michael Savage fan in the crowd, he can stay out in the yard because nobody will know what the hell he’s talking about, anyway.
OK, I think we can make this work. As long as nobody brings up concealed carry laws or gay marriage, in which case, I’m changing the subject to puppies.
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