Californians are now required to be kooks, and I don't like it

Let's play a little game. I will write a word and you say the very first thing that comes to mind. Ready?

BlueTooth.

If your first thought was despicable, stupid, annoying or kookish, then, my friends, this is why we get along.

I have disliked these ear-penetrating devices of Satan's thoughts since their inception. For a while, everybody wanted to get one because they were new, cool, hip or any other teenage colloquialism you might imagine. Heck, at one point when I upgraded my phone I was given one for free! I tried to leave it with the salesman, but he kept shoving it down my throat--figuratively, of course. So I took it. And when I walked in the door of my house, I unwrapped it, pushed the button a couple times, placed it in my ear, then threw it away.

It felt very awkward, having only one ear meddled with. It was like a little BlueTooth leprechaun was swinging in my right ear, with no partner to balance out the left. Plus, there was at the time an air of superiority with those who partook in BlueToothy adventures. I saw them the same as the guys who wear their cell phones in the clip on their belt, everywhere they go. I never understood that, either. Are you waiting for a quick-draw challenge? I have never been in a situation where one phone call was so undeniably important that it couldn't ring just one more time. For Pete's sake, every phone on the market comes with caller ID. If you did miss a call, open that mother up and hit SEND twice. That simple. You don't even have to look at the number. But I digress.

Many of you may know that as of July 1, it became illegal to talk on a cellular device of communications while driving a car in California--though it is still legal to text message, which is a thousand times more dangerous. Let's thank the kooks in congress for that one. Needless to say, I was forced to get a BlueTooth.

I know, I know. You are probably saying, "Well, why not just call somebody back after you are done driving?" The reason is fairly simple, even though I haven't completely convinced myself that it is valid. I don't have a home telephone. My cell phone is it. And noting the fact that I have recently been given a lot more freelance work, I have used my phone more than I ever would have imagined. And at this point, if I can get a call when I am driving, I'll take it. My rent depends on it.

My greatest concern, though, is that I will some day look like this guy. This guy, for those unfamiliar with the term, is a kook. He's at the dang dinner table! Why, in all of God's creation is it necessary, not only to talk on the phone, but a BlueTooth nonetheless, while you eat? Even his wife there looks annoyed. Just read her eyes. She is thinking, "Sweet Jesus, he's one of them! He looks like a successful businessman, so I'm sure she's trying to calculate how much half really is. And if I were an assuming man--which I very much am--I would also postulate that this kook wears his phone on a belt clip, even at the dinner table.

Whatever.

But one thing that really urks my 'taters is yesterday, as I was driving down the freeway, I saw a police officer talking on his cell phone. It didn't seem business-like, either. He was laughing, talking, being happy. And this annoyed me, because had the tables been turned, I would be fighting a citation. So I drove next to him. Right next to him. I threw my arm up to flag him down. He looked, cell phone still in hand, and I threw my arms up like, Hey man, what the heck?

Like I said, we were driving on the freeway, and my car is 23 years old, so when my hands went up, my steering wheel went right, then left, and played a little dodgeball with my hands. After I regained control, and wet my pants no less than three times, the officer looked at me, cell phone still in hand, and gave me the look like, Haha, asshole, we're even now.

So thanks, California, for making me a kook.

Is growing up really necessary?

There comes a certain point in life in which you wake up (usually with whiskey still on your breath) and just say, "Man, I need to grow up."

But does it happen?

I had a long night last Saturday. I have been out of college for two years now. Though in the larger context of things I know that isn't that long, however right now it feels like an eternity since I have meandered the proverbial streets of all things careless.

I'm no longer able to say, "I'm broke, I'm a student." While I may be broke, the only thing I study is my monkey-worthy data processing job.

I can no longer claim that random hallucinogenic adventures are merely classified as "experimental." I can no longer, as a supposed productive man of society, go to a barbecue , have some beers, watch a UFC pay-per-view fight, have some more beers, go out for a night on the town with the boys, drink my bodyweight in Jack and Cokes, then, go to a bar I despise and dance with girls.

Let me rephrase that. I sneakily convinced a number of girls to dance with me, not because my words were smooth, but because it was loud and I was able to lean on a post. I pointed to the girl, then to the dance floor. Somehow, three girls were unintelligent enough to accept that offer. Until I started "dancing" with them. I'm very glad in my school days I had the mental presence to routinely develop bar aliases. The girls weren't dancing with me. They danced with Dr. Jacob Weinstein, professor of Ancient Jewish Literature. Otherwise the real me might be awaiting a [several] restraining orders.

Nights like that, much to my dismay, I cannot blame on being another "college night."

Two years after you graduate, doing these things are not simple young, stupid stunts. Some may refer to a person who indulges in such activities as an alcoholic, a waste of life. But yet once every couple months I decide I need to wreck myself and do such things.

At 24 years of age, I am wondering if I will ever grow up.

Why Telemarketers?

I don't recall any point in my life when I heard the words, "Golly, I want to be a telemarketer when I grow up" uttered from any set of lips. As a matter of fact, I am certain I never heard those words. But yet, we have them.

They come in all shapes and styles too. There are the cheery ones, the glum ones; those who are in their phone-sale prime, and those who work at the Post Office. And it takes a psychologically strong type of person to be successful at it. You make calls, knowing that 60% of the time you will have people slam the phone in your ear before you ever get to mention whatever penis-enhancing product or marriage-reconciling service you offer.

Have you ever called a complete stranger of a man, and tried to talk to him about potential erectile dysfunction? I have, and I wasn't even getting paid. Worst week of my life.

And to be on the other end of the line, whoooo-wheeeee. I'm gonna tells you what's up. I don't know anybody who has actually bought into a service of this nature. But the most interesting part to me is how the psychology of telemarketing has evolved. I am below illustrating a time line of the evolution of telemarketing.

Phone --> Telemarketer --> *69 --> Caller ID --> TME1 --> TME2.

TME1 (TeleMarketer Evolution #1) are those annoying calls you receive, when as soon as you pick it up, there is a slight pause before anybody says anything. Like the executives have become so wrapped up in the mind-boggling number-crunching of it all, that the computer now dials calls for you. Immediately. Allllll day.

TME2. This is the one that has a slight pause, but isn't even a person. It is a computer recording.

So, the other day I received a call. It went something like this:

me: Hello
comp: (slight pause) Hello! You need to hurry. Your vehicle's warranty is nearly expired. Press ONE to connect with a service agent who can extend your warranty right now.

The last two words, right now were announced like the Speed Boat races or Monster Truck rally guy, the one that screams "Sunday! Sunday Sunday!" in the most testosteroney voice you've ever heard.

After I heard the way he made it sound, I got excited, mostly to do with the bottle-point-five of wine i had.
"Oh crap, I need to extend my warranty!"
So I pressed ONE. After nearly a minute on hold, a [insert your choice: hick, hill-billy, oakie, redneck, goat humper, dung slinger]-voiced lady answered, in a voice much raspier than my own,
her: Make-n-model o'-yer car."
me: Uh, Toyota Ca--
her: I need the year!
me: Oh, well, it's uh, an '85. 1985 Toyota Camry.
(silence)
me: Uh, hello. Can you extend my warranty please?
(more silence)
me: Ma'm, are you there?
her: How in God's green earth does a'eighty-fi' Camry still got a warranty on 'er?
me: Oh, but the man, the man before you told me I needed one. He--hello?

It needn't be said my '85 gem is no longer under warranty. And is also needn't be said that answering the phone when I darn well shouldn't have was a bad move. I fed myself my own spoonful of shut up.

A bad day is good enough for me

We all have bad days. It's science. Things go awry, your schedule is interrupted and inevitably destroyed, and the plan you had is, by 10:00 in the morning, nothing more than a pile of ideas that once had meaning. I recently had one such day.

It was the kind of day that I woke up, but didn't feel like leaving the bed. So I lay there. When after some minutes I convinced myself that the day was mine for the taking. So I got up - eyes still groggy from the 3 hours of sleep I got. I went into the kitchen and started some coffee. Went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. What's that? New toothpaste? Oh, no, my bad. That wasn't toothpaste. That was Desitin. A man-size heap of diaper rash ointment all up in my grill.

After 3 minutes of dry-heaving and an uncomfortable washcloth scrub-down, I rinsed my mouth out with Listerine. And repeated. And rinsed, and repeated again.

By this time my taste buds had been wiped out in the oral genocide I had just survived, so I couldn't taste my eggs or oatmeal. Coffee, the only real reason I wake up every morning, had just finished brewing. So I grabbed a glass and sat down to my tasteless food. But I tasted the coffee.

Decaf. Shenanigans. In my haphazard sobriety I had grabbed the wrong beans. For reference, there is a taste difference. I hate decaf.

Eventually I made it to work. This is one of those jobs where nobody is able to think for themselves. Literally. It's like I am praised for having more than two firing neurons. So I walk in and attempt to be cheery - nobody needs to hear my sorrow stories. I stare blankly at my computer screen for about 15 minutes and in the middle of a forgettable daydream it hits me. If the worst of the day hadn't yet happened, I was genuinely curious to see what it had to bring. So I fantasized the next couple hours what unbearable things could happen. All sorts of complex situations and equations -- some involving people I had never met, and were actually probably not even real. I began taking bets with and against myself.

And then the worst came.

The worst thing about that day, was that everything else throughout the day went according to plan and schedule. It was the most fluid remainder of a day I have experienced in years. And that depressed the hell out of me. But boy was it a wild ride. Always in anticipation - expecting, hoping, waiting. Then nothing.

All I could do was laugh about it. It's funny; sometimes the worst days can be the most enjoyable. As long as the voices in my head tell me it's gonna be okay.

Immaturity seems to get the best of me

Some things, no matter my age, will always be funny. I am talking about things like midgets, boy bands and social security. Though, other things capture my interest.

Call me an immature asshole with nothing better to do (I have been called worse), but every time I hear the term "wiener," I can't help but to giggle.

Wiener.

Who came up with such a stupid name for a man's piece? And who's bright idea was it to create ballpark franks of somewhat similar size and color? and also to refer to them as wieners?

"Yeah, I'd like a wiener, please."

I hope this is only said at a hot dog stand. If it is in your local watering hole, there may well be a problem with this. Who is saying it? If it is a woman, she is laying it on much too thick. If it is a man, well, he just may scare every other man around him, except the guy in the corner wearing a pink bandanna and flailing his arms while he karaokes "Footloose." I've seen it all. Throw in a pair of cutoff denims and a round of pina coladas, and your diva self will be sure to make an entrance. And I digress.

But seriously, don't play with your wiener.

How do you not laugh?

I also got to thinking about fire, and why it is so funny. Sure, people often lose their homes, their memories. But there is often humor surrounding the situation. Disaster is nature's secret medicine. Terrible things happen, and all you can do is laugh hysterically. Like when you see a squirrel with a burned tail.

Yeah, I'm sure it probably hurt. But why was the squirrel waiting around so long? Squirrels don't hibernate, so I know the little fella was awake. Maybe he was stashing some food.

Or, what I think really happens, maybe the little squirrel young'ns ran off and Mr. and the Mrs. finally had a little time to themselves. You know, maybe they got to tail-locking the good old-fashioned way, up in a tree somewhere. Things started to get hot. Oh yeah, they were hot. And then WHAMMY!

They wanted to continue but the flames wouldn't allow it. Time to grab some nuts for the road? Nope. Where did the kids go? Well, I hope they met up with Aunt Millie in the big Oak on the other side of the park.

"Well," the man squirrel said. "Looks like our exhibitionist days are just beginning."

The Mrs. Squirrel only smiled...her vocal chords were destroyed by the superheated air, which tickled the Mr's fancy. And nobody knows if they ever found their squirrel children...

Frivolous lawsuits lead to stupid citizens, especially on airplanes

I like flying. Not that it is sooo much fun, but it is convenient. Granted, people always talk about how bad the waits are and how slow the security checkpoint is. You might also hear when there is a whiteout blizzard in Wisconsin and your flight had to be redirected, one of the flight's 300-something passengers, who always seem to think the airline is picking on them, start screaming at the terminal attendant.

But I don't mind it. I kind of enjoy being around a bunch of people I don't know. Because in my day-to-day life, there is never really a chance for me to be alone and just think about me. I know, I know, you are all depressed on my behalf. But fear not. Because I enjoy a little alone time. And where better than in a sea of unfamiliar faces? If my flight is delayed, I simply make a phone call, pretending to the person on the other line that I am really annoyed and sad I won't be wherever it is I am going on time. Then I go to the bar.

I have a drink. What's that? Still more time? I have [many] another drink[s]. And that is cool.

I usually end up talking to some guy who claims to have been working alongside the founder of Yahoo! or Sony (I have truly met multiple persons who claim such fame) and get to bullshit about bullshit for a while. As you might have seen in other posts about (often family) vacations - namely Disneyland, or as I might be inclined to call it, Satan's Crotch - my vacations consist of crowded schedules and little time to really vacate. That's why this, this precious time alone amongst total strangers, is my time to escape.

Then you get on the plane.

It's the same drill. People sitting in the waiting area of their gate, all seats taken except the two surrounding the old guy in the corner that looks like he could molest anybody who crosses his path, and the cheery, often Asian, terminal attendant gets on the speakerphone.

"Thank you passengers of --- Airlines, flight --- to ---. We will now begin boarding for our premier passengers, rows 1-6."

So you see people start to get up and move. But out of a blue sky, like a streaker running through a packed football stadium, EVERYBODY jumps up and rushes to be in line. But to no avail. It doesn't matter. Most airlines have assigned seating, and for a good flippin' reason. So this kind of chaos doesn't exist. But still, at the sound of the peppy attendant's voice, people grab their bags, children and whatever newspaper they found on the seat next to them and jump in line. Reminds me of cattle obediently following the desire of the horseback-mounted man snapping a whip. Moo, motherf'ers. Moo.

Then, some 23 minutes later your row is called to board. So you walk down the creepy E.T.-esque hallway, waiting to be taken by men in white bubbly suits. But instead you wait in line. Then, even though you look like an adult and a reasonable person should reasonably assume you know how to count, the flight attendant takes your ticket and points you in the only direction available other than First Class. "Oh, really? seat 64DD is down this way? Who knew?" So you make your way down the rows, everybody watching you. Some people would be embarrassed to find out their zippers were down. Not me. I would give them something to appreciate (laugh at).

So you sit down in-between the stereotypical white-haired cocky, asshole 65 year-old "gentle"man and the 30-something guy, often wearing a baseball cap, trying to make funnies with the flight attendants, who are never impressed. Then the torture begins.

The five minute spiel about the same, dim-witted shit you always hear. For crimany sakes, they have an attendant SHOW you how to buckle a god-blessed buckle! Natural selection, dummies. If you can't figure it out, it's one less body I'll have to think about when we touch ground, in any capacity. They also mention that "The cabin is pressurized for your convenience and safety." Really? Convenience and safety? I don't think it is so much convenience. They try to riddle our minds with their supposed 'good intentions'. Because when the plane reaches 37,000 feet in elevation, ain't nobody in that mother gonna be breathing without a pressurized cabin. But it would be cool though...because you could have one beer and be completely tossed. But you would also be dead. So don't try it. And they try to fool you by having flight attendants with ultra-sexy voices. Every red-blooded man has a fantasy somewhere in his libido about a hot stewardess. The commies at the FAA realized this and screened applicants based on voice-sexiness. Because when dudes get horny, they listen. Then there are the pictures.

I mean, blinking lights are cool, when under the influence of psychedelic mushrooms, but not when they blink and 'beep' every 5 freaking minutes. "Well, we just reached our destination altitude, so the lights are off." ...five minutes later...""Well, we have encountered some turbulence so please remain seated, and buckled." My thought: if this mother crashes, there is no way I am surviving. So I'm going down in comfort.

And let's be COMPLETELY real, does ANYBODY really think that it is OK to smoke in a plane? Anybody? I mean, honestly. Turn off those stupid lights. If I honestly saw somebody lighting up on a plane, I couldn't even be mad. That would be the ballsiest person I would have ever met. And I would have enjoyed it. And while on the subject, if even mentally-disabled persons know not to smoke on the plane, then why would anybody think it is OK to smoke in the BATHROOM? Are those signs necessary? I want to know how many times airlines have been sued for people getting hurt because when they crashed their seatbelt wasn't on, and it was the airline's fault they weren't wearing it. I would also like to know how many times (in the past 30 years) people have smoked on airplanes, and more so, in the bathrooms?

These signs are here because of people suing simply for money, not for the sake of there being something wrong. Like the lady who sued McDonald's for $1 million because she burned herself on coffee, which, as a reasonable person would see it, is hot. It's hot! These stupid signs, not only on airplanes but everywhere (a simple Google search will verify this) are making citizens stupider. The less we think the better off we'll be, right? No, dumbasses. Well, actually there are a lot of dumb people in this world. But can't the semi-intelligent ones get a special pass or something? Like a membership card to the local Blockbuster?

I blame frivolous lawsuits and the pansy airline executives who give into this horse turd for the perpetuating stupidity of citizens. Shame on you. You make the dumb dumber, and the not-so-dumb, marginally less not-so-dumb marginally dumber. What? Exactly. This is your spoonful of shut up.

Children and cow bells

Children can be cute. Children can be demonic. Children are as much a pleasure as they are a nuisance. For some people the joys of children outweigh the trouble. For others, there are child leashes.

Just to clarify, I don't have children. One day I would like to, just not right now. Financially speaking, it's just not a good time for me. I don't want to have to join any government-sponsored programs just to get by with Huggies and Pedialyte. No way. If by chance I did have a child, the little attention monger would be using week-old newspaper and be suckling on breasts for nutrition (because we all know it will be way too long before they get to do it again). People always complain about having to wake up in the middle of the night to nurse a crying infant back to sleep, sacrificing their own sanity. Not me. I say, give the little fella a teaspoon (tablespoon for oversize babies) of Jack Daniels. It'll put hair on his (or her) chest. God knows it doesn't have any on its head, poor little bugger.

Even then, I feel I am being somewhat presumptuous. Aside from the financial burden rearing a child brings, I would have to find somebody willing to copulate with yours truly - an event that seems to only happen when Jupiter's 60-something moons align, and even then it has to be a leap year. But don't feel bad for me. No. No. Because that is Jack Daniels' second use, persuasion of the female mind. I would like to be married to the person who one day bears my child, but God knows it's hard enough getting her in the sack. So I guess I'll take what I can get.

But let's just assume that the moons do align and my seed comes to fruition. And I am on a welfare-esque program. I know I will be a good father. I will teach them things I was never taught. I will have tea parties (hopefully only if it's a girl) and teach the boy how to throw a baseball. But before I can do those things to really connect to the little lad or lassie, when they are in that stage where they just run around and scream for no reason, they will be on a leash. On an evening walk, have Fido in the left hand and Junior in the right. My recent trip to Disneyland gave substantial validity to this thought process. There are those little hellians that run a muck with their little mouse-ear hats, you know, the ones who are always reported kidnapped. Then there are the well-behaved ones, those that when they get a little rowdy you just give a quick tug and let them know who's boss.

But heed this warning. It is very possible that this will create a level of codependency that many find uncomfortable. Eventually it could lead to a separation anxiety. And this is bad. Why? I'll tell you. Say you and the Mrs. want to have your biannual adult time. You are both enjoying yourselves (or so she makes you think) when, mid-thrust, out of your peripheral you see your child standing in the doorway. Jaw dropped, with a look of confusion and fear, watching his parents do the proverbial it.

This is why in addition to leashes, your children should also wear cowbells. That way, when you are trying to conquer a move you saw in your latest XXX rental, you can hear the walking contraceptive coming down the hall. This is the perfect opportunity to train your children by granting them responsibility. Simply yell, "Go make some macaroni and cheese!" or something adult-like, maybe start the barbecue or sharpening the kitchen knives.

This is sure to build the foundation of a trusting, healthy relationship with your child, even though you weren't ready to have one in the first place.

Pappy McSlappy is not a licensed therapist, nor does he have any children. He has always imagined himself to be more a "cool uncle" than influential father. He does however stand 6'2", have washboard abs and a six-figure salary. No, that was a lie. He has none of the above.