Look It Up and Shut Up
There is no doubt about it; Google is destroying the art of barroom conversation. Thank God for Google. Bury it in a shallow grave and let’s move on with our lives.
A TV newscast on above the bar runs a feature on pandas at the Atlanta zoo.
“Pandas aren’t bears; they are in the rodent family.”
“We’re talking about ‘panda bears’ right?”
“It’s a misnomer. Anteaters are bears. Who would have guessed that?”
“Don’t change the subject. Pandas aren’t rodents.”
“They’re vegetarians.”
“Bears are omnivorous. Pandas just evolved into strict vegetarianism because they’re lazy.”
“I’m telling you, they aren’t in the ursidae family.”
“So you’re saying they’re rats? They’re six feet tall.”
“They are more like raccoons.”
“So they belong to the varmint family?”
“There is no varmint family outside of The Beverly Hillbillies, moron.”
“I’m being called a moron by someone who thinks pandas are rats.”
The TV shows a panda frolicking in the snow. A sigh settles over the bar like a foam head on a well-poured Guinness.
“You have to admit, they are cute.”
“A lot cuter than rats.”
Someone else at the bar has had enough of this happy hour drivel that is trying to pass itself off as conversation. They go over to the server station and query ‘panda’ on Google and the argument is mercifully ended.
Sports trivia arguments are shot off at the knees before they can even begin to take flight. Barry Bonds’ homerun count is spared the wishful thinking of a group of hostile detractors. It is only a few keystrokes away from undeniable accuracy. Seconds later someone finds a Web page that outlines the career trajectories of all current major league players and who among them could potentially break Hank Aaron’s homerun record. Google has become the most annoyingly knowledgeable sports geek ever to inhabit a barstool. Everyone hates the new guy but no one has the guts to challenge his sports acumen. Google is both empowering and emasculating.
Arguments over politics are buried under an avalanche of Web searches supporting both sides of every issue. Under Google’s reign of factual terror fistfights have dwindled but bar flies run the risk of being bored to death reading budget reports and trade deficit figures.
The other bar conversation taboo, religion, meets a similar horrible death on the search engine pyre. A discussion about the existence of a higher being devolves into a competition over which word will garner the most Google hits: “God” or “Atheism.” Man’s destiny has been relinquished to technology in a manner that even Isaac Asimov could never have envisioned.
Personal opinions are scuttled like so many empty rocket fuel stages as conversation flies to stratospheric lows of Google quantifiable dialogue. In a modern twist to the old “if a tree falls in the forest” philosophical quandary, we now question the existence of any bit of knowledge that can’t be found on the internet. I’m not ready to agree that cogito ergo sum but if you query it you come up with 681,000 hits.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Mister Manners
Over the course of my life I have picked up bits of wisdom that I am now ready to begin sharing with the rest of the world. Much of this insight has been acquired through tremendous personal effort, trial and error, cliff notes, forged notes, cheat sheets, purloined answer keys, cassettes tapes, diligent study, over-the-shoulder peaks, night school, imitation, invention, improvisation, correspondence courses, group therapy, private tutors, and home schooling. I will now offer this knowledge to you free of charge.
I have learned a very clever trick so that I don’t embarrass myself while out in public—at least this works in certain situations. There is no possible way that I can keep from embarrassing myself on a fairly regular basis. I have come to accept that an embarrassment-free existence isn’t going to be possible so I just try to keep my personal public humiliations to a minimum.
When talking to a woman who has a serious amount of cleavage showing I used to have a terrible time not staring directly at her breasts. I wouldn’t look and then I would try to sneak a peak and then there was always that awkward moment when I wasn’t sure whether or not she noticed that I was staring and then I would look again and “OH MY GOD WILL YOU LOOK AT THOSE!” and then I would quickly turn away, change the subject, cover my tracks, put on one of those fake glasses-nose-moustache things, and talk with a funny foreign accent in an attempt to make her think that I wasn’t looking. As you may imagine, that strategy didn’t always work very well. I have developed a new technique that I used last night for the first time and I think that I may be on to something.
I ran into a woman I know rather well who I haven’t seen in a few months. I was glad to see her and we had a lot of talking to do if we were to catch up with each other. The problem was that she was sporting quite a lot of cleavage. I know this because I looked, but I only looked for a split second even though our conversation lasted for about twenty minutes. I’m sure that you are all full of questions. How did my eyes escape the enormous gravitational-like pull emanating from her breasts? Didn’t I want to look? How could you not look? They are staring right at you. Stare back, you fool! Are Brad and Angelina going to have a baby?
Her: “So this whole business about the Danish political cartoons is certainly getting out of hand. I heard that some Pakistani cleric has issued…”
I remember that I am supposed imagine that she is standing there completely naked and this will make me feel less self-conscious and awkward. Or am I supposed to imagine that I am not wearing clothes because to imagine her with no clothes isn’t working. I’m breaking out in hives. Then I remember that I got it all wrong. You are supposed to imagine that the people in the audience aren’t wearing any clothes when you are giving a speech. The guy who taught me this was a Shriner and thinking of a room full of naked Shriners is fairly disgusting so I start thinking about the woman in front of me again. This is definitely a bad idea so I start counting backwards from 100 to take my mind off that illicit subject.
Me: “99-98-97-96”
Her: “Huh?”
To avoid staring at her chest I fixed my eyes on a spot just above her cleavage.
Her: “What the fuck are you staring at?
Me: “I’ll tell you what I’m not staring at. I’m not staring at your cleavage. I’m too classy for that. Want to know how I’m doing it? How I’m not looking at your boobs?”
Her: “Not really.”
Me: “Come on, guess.”
Her: “Whatever you are staring at please stop. You make me feel like I have a cyst on my chest.”
No matter how uncomfortable that little exchange may have been, I still feel that I scored a victory. But not just for me, I feel that I won a battle for all of mankind in our struggle not to stare at cleavage.
I have learned a very clever trick so that I don’t embarrass myself while out in public—at least this works in certain situations. There is no possible way that I can keep from embarrassing myself on a fairly regular basis. I have come to accept that an embarrassment-free existence isn’t going to be possible so I just try to keep my personal public humiliations to a minimum.
When talking to a woman who has a serious amount of cleavage showing I used to have a terrible time not staring directly at her breasts. I wouldn’t look and then I would try to sneak a peak and then there was always that awkward moment when I wasn’t sure whether or not she noticed that I was staring and then I would look again and “OH MY GOD WILL YOU LOOK AT THOSE!” and then I would quickly turn away, change the subject, cover my tracks, put on one of those fake glasses-nose-moustache things, and talk with a funny foreign accent in an attempt to make her think that I wasn’t looking. As you may imagine, that strategy didn’t always work very well. I have developed a new technique that I used last night for the first time and I think that I may be on to something.
I ran into a woman I know rather well who I haven’t seen in a few months. I was glad to see her and we had a lot of talking to do if we were to catch up with each other. The problem was that she was sporting quite a lot of cleavage. I know this because I looked, but I only looked for a split second even though our conversation lasted for about twenty minutes. I’m sure that you are all full of questions. How did my eyes escape the enormous gravitational-like pull emanating from her breasts? Didn’t I want to look? How could you not look? They are staring right at you. Stare back, you fool! Are Brad and Angelina going to have a baby?
Her: “So this whole business about the Danish political cartoons is certainly getting out of hand. I heard that some Pakistani cleric has issued…”
I remember that I am supposed imagine that she is standing there completely naked and this will make me feel less self-conscious and awkward. Or am I supposed to imagine that I am not wearing clothes because to imagine her with no clothes isn’t working. I’m breaking out in hives. Then I remember that I got it all wrong. You are supposed to imagine that the people in the audience aren’t wearing any clothes when you are giving a speech. The guy who taught me this was a Shriner and thinking of a room full of naked Shriners is fairly disgusting so I start thinking about the woman in front of me again. This is definitely a bad idea so I start counting backwards from 100 to take my mind off that illicit subject.
Me: “99-98-97-96”
Her: “Huh?”
To avoid staring at her chest I fixed my eyes on a spot just above her cleavage.
Her: “What the fuck are you staring at?
Me: “I’ll tell you what I’m not staring at. I’m not staring at your cleavage. I’m too classy for that. Want to know how I’m doing it? How I’m not looking at your boobs?”
Her: “Not really.”
Me: “Come on, guess.”
Her: “Whatever you are staring at please stop. You make me feel like I have a cyst on my chest.”
No matter how uncomfortable that little exchange may have been, I still feel that I scored a victory. But not just for me, I feel that I won a battle for all of mankind in our struggle not to stare at cleavage.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Scratching Our Four Year Itch
Scratching Our Four Year Itch
It’s funny how the Olympics come around every four years and make Americans care about activities that haven’t crossed their minds since the last time around. It often seems like they just make up a sport out of thin air and run with it at the Olympics. Snowboard cross? Skeleton? And for those of you not near enough to the Canadian border to intercept their TV emissions, Curling? As a close neighbor to Canada I have learned to accept their little eccentric drinking game as a sport.
We are all guilty of jumping on the Olympic bandwagon. Speaking of something I’d like to jump on, I must admit, the idea of a two-woman luge makes my blood boil. I don’t know if there even is such a thing, but I pray that there is and that there are videos I can download for my personal use.
By far the most popular events are the seemingly countless figure skating categories. The figure skating venue has become so popular that the discipline has been divided into two categories: figure skating and ice dancing. The bitter rivalry between participants of the two sports has sometimes led to violence. At the Winter Olympics in Park City, Utah a huge barroom brawl broke out between figure skaters and ice dancers when one of the figure skaters suggested that ice dancing was “fruity.” Athletes are now housed in separate compounds.
The appeal of figure skating is that is gives everyone the opportunity to be an armchair judge. In living rooms across America viewers who can’t even see their own toes—let alone touch them—watch the competition with one arm elbow-deep in a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and the other hand clasping a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Aw, too bad. You see dat? She faltered a bit on the landing. Dats gonna cost her. Better luck next time, honey.” These armchair umpires are one hundred times more cruel and obdurate than any East German judge during the height of the Cold War. In living rooms across America heartless viewers seem incapable of even the faintest shred of pity.
Mr. Armchair East German Judge: “His technique was flawless but his eye shadow makes him look cheap. I’d deduct for that.”
Mrs. Armchair East German Judge: “How could you fall? I’m just glad that Mary Lou Retton isn’t alive to see you shame yourself. My God, man, have some pride!”
Mr. Armchair East German Judge: “Mary Lou Retton wadn’t no figure skater and she ain't dead.”
Mrs. Armchair East German Judge: “Shut up. You know what I mean. I just couldn't think of a dead figure skater. Make yourself useful and go take the pizza rolls out of the microwave. Wash your hands first; you got Ranch Doritos powder all over them.”
This dialogue shows that we Americans are a highly competitive people. We live for this.
It’s funny how the Olympics come around every four years and make Americans care about activities that haven’t crossed their minds since the last time around. It often seems like they just make up a sport out of thin air and run with it at the Olympics. Snowboard cross? Skeleton? And for those of you not near enough to the Canadian border to intercept their TV emissions, Curling? As a close neighbor to Canada I have learned to accept their little eccentric drinking game as a sport.
We are all guilty of jumping on the Olympic bandwagon. Speaking of something I’d like to jump on, I must admit, the idea of a two-woman luge makes my blood boil. I don’t know if there even is such a thing, but I pray that there is and that there are videos I can download for my personal use.
By far the most popular events are the seemingly countless figure skating categories. The figure skating venue has become so popular that the discipline has been divided into two categories: figure skating and ice dancing. The bitter rivalry between participants of the two sports has sometimes led to violence. At the Winter Olympics in Park City, Utah a huge barroom brawl broke out between figure skaters and ice dancers when one of the figure skaters suggested that ice dancing was “fruity.” Athletes are now housed in separate compounds.
The appeal of figure skating is that is gives everyone the opportunity to be an armchair judge. In living rooms across America viewers who can’t even see their own toes—let alone touch them—watch the competition with one arm elbow-deep in a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos and the other hand clasping a Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Aw, too bad. You see dat? She faltered a bit on the landing. Dats gonna cost her. Better luck next time, honey.” These armchair umpires are one hundred times more cruel and obdurate than any East German judge during the height of the Cold War. In living rooms across America heartless viewers seem incapable of even the faintest shred of pity.
Mr. Armchair East German Judge: “His technique was flawless but his eye shadow makes him look cheap. I’d deduct for that.”
Mrs. Armchair East German Judge: “How could you fall? I’m just glad that Mary Lou Retton isn’t alive to see you shame yourself. My God, man, have some pride!”
Mr. Armchair East German Judge: “Mary Lou Retton wadn’t no figure skater and she ain't dead.”
Mrs. Armchair East German Judge: “Shut up. You know what I mean. I just couldn't think of a dead figure skater. Make yourself useful and go take the pizza rolls out of the microwave. Wash your hands first; you got Ranch Doritos powder all over them.”
This dialogue shows that we Americans are a highly competitive people. We live for this.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Vast Food Nation
Vast Food Nation
Human beings are, without a doubt, the most omnivorous animals on the planet. We are eating machines. Items that even a lowly maggot would spit out in disgust are eaten by humans with uncommon relish, but mostly without relish, just lightly salted. Parents of newborns would say that humans are good eaters. Food is the food of our nursery rhymes. Eating consumes much of our consumption. Eating eats at us throughout the day, every day. We wake up hungry and remain preoccupied with stuffing our fat faces until we go to bed. Sometimes we dream about food.
Let’s admit it to ourselves: We are addicted to food. We just can’t seem to live without it. I have a pretty vicious habit myself. Sometimes I’ll blow more than $100 a day on food, not including tip. I’ll wake up the next morning and start all over again. Some of us have food addictions so discriminating that we have to go to meetings to try and keep things under control. Our bookstores are lined with books that address the problems we have with food.
Scientists have been lecturing us for decades on which foods we should eat and others we should avoid at all costs. Very often one study will contradict an earlier study. Fat is good, fat is bad. Meat is bad, now it’s good. Don’t eat bread; it will kill you. Bread is the staff of life. Bacon is good. Actually, I don’t think that anyone has ever said that bacon is good for you, but I am saying it right now and I’ll stick with it until proven otherwise.
A major study was released this week that said that most of what we thought made up a good diet turned out to be unfounded. This negates almost a decade of trusted nutrition information. Where I come from, when someone tells you something that later turns out to be untrue, we call that a lie. Scientists probably have their own word for it.
I have learned one thing from this recent study that I have suspected my entire adult life. I don’t think we have the slightest idea what it is that makes up the ideal human diet. Vegetarians claim that their diet is superior to those of us who eat animal flesh. People who eat low fat diets think that they are better off than the bacon consumers among us. Everyone seems to have an opinion about what we should and shouldn’t eat. They say that if you eat the wrong stuff you will die. Everyone has the right to an opinion, but few opinions have merit.
This new study makes me believe that we know a lot less about proper diets than we ever thought. I think that we should just eat anything that tastes good. That seems like a natural selection method humans can use to judge whether or not something should be ingested. Stuff that doesn’t taste good can be made eatable if you wrap it in bacon or smother it in chocolate sauce.
Human beings are, without a doubt, the most omnivorous animals on the planet. We are eating machines. Items that even a lowly maggot would spit out in disgust are eaten by humans with uncommon relish, but mostly without relish, just lightly salted. Parents of newborns would say that humans are good eaters. Food is the food of our nursery rhymes. Eating consumes much of our consumption. Eating eats at us throughout the day, every day. We wake up hungry and remain preoccupied with stuffing our fat faces until we go to bed. Sometimes we dream about food.
Let’s admit it to ourselves: We are addicted to food. We just can’t seem to live without it. I have a pretty vicious habit myself. Sometimes I’ll blow more than $100 a day on food, not including tip. I’ll wake up the next morning and start all over again. Some of us have food addictions so discriminating that we have to go to meetings to try and keep things under control. Our bookstores are lined with books that address the problems we have with food.
Scientists have been lecturing us for decades on which foods we should eat and others we should avoid at all costs. Very often one study will contradict an earlier study. Fat is good, fat is bad. Meat is bad, now it’s good. Don’t eat bread; it will kill you. Bread is the staff of life. Bacon is good. Actually, I don’t think that anyone has ever said that bacon is good for you, but I am saying it right now and I’ll stick with it until proven otherwise.
A major study was released this week that said that most of what we thought made up a good diet turned out to be unfounded. This negates almost a decade of trusted nutrition information. Where I come from, when someone tells you something that later turns out to be untrue, we call that a lie. Scientists probably have their own word for it.
I have learned one thing from this recent study that I have suspected my entire adult life. I don’t think we have the slightest idea what it is that makes up the ideal human diet. Vegetarians claim that their diet is superior to those of us who eat animal flesh. People who eat low fat diets think that they are better off than the bacon consumers among us. Everyone seems to have an opinion about what we should and shouldn’t eat. They say that if you eat the wrong stuff you will die. Everyone has the right to an opinion, but few opinions have merit.
This new study makes me believe that we know a lot less about proper diets than we ever thought. I think that we should just eat anything that tastes good. That seems like a natural selection method humans can use to judge whether or not something should be ingested. Stuff that doesn’t taste good can be made eatable if you wrap it in bacon or smother it in chocolate sauce.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Gun Safety One, Two, Three
Gun Safety One, Two, Three
In the light of current events this may be a good time to review gun safety procedures. The current event in question, for those of you out of the loop, for those of you too busy to bother reading a paper, for people too caught up in the most recent American Idol competition to have even the faintest hint of what is happening beyond the realm of mediocre singing talent, for folks who may not remember back to the beginning of this tortuously long sentence, I am referring to Vice President Dick Cheney popping a cap in his hunting partner’s face.
When carrying firearms you should always remember the life-saving adage “Safety First!” These are certainly words to live by but are not always practical when you are hunting. Think about it. How seriously should you take a phrase like “words to live by” when you are hunting, which by definition means that you are out to kill shit? As sensible as the advice to put safety first may be, this can be hard to do when you have a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. If you are also trying to smoke a joint you can pretty much forget about any of this “safety first” nonsense. Are you a recreational hunter or a juggler? Most hunters would agree that a mishap with a shotgun is preferable to dropping a half-full bottle of decent whiskey.
So if you throw booze or drugs into the firearms mix about as good as you can hope to do is to put safety second. “Safety Second” isn’t nearly as catchy as “Safety First” but it’s probably good enough for government work. Let’s face it; America has lost a lot of status in recent years. These days you almost never hear crowds of unruly Americans shouting jingoistic chants of “We’re number one,” so perhaps “Safety Second” is more appropriate for our place in the new world order. Besides, if you are drunk, or stoned, or both, chances are that you won’t hit anything if you discharge a firearm accidentally. It’s hard enough to hit anything while you are sober—not that hunters are ever sober.
There is no way in hell that gun safety should ever fall below third in your personal queue of priorities. Even in this era of diminished American standards, I don’t think that it is unreasonable to keep safety third. But then again, if you are as rich and powerful as the vice president, you can file safety as far down the list as you want. In no way am I implying that Cheney was trying to relight a joint when he shot his buddy, or that he was juggling a shotgun in one hand and a fifth of moderately-priced Kentucky bourbon in the other—he probably has a secret service agent to carry his booze and light his blunt for him.
After reading what I have written thus far I feel like I am trying to come across as some sort of gun safety Nazi. I don’t want to take all of the fun out of shooting by running around screaming, “Be careful, man.” Part of the fun with firearms is shooting anything that doesn’t move, and then shooting anything that does move until it stops moving. If you shoot something enough times it actually will disappear. Cheney only shot his pal once, so only a small part of his face disappeared. Shooting stuff is fun. Why do you think that “blast” is synonymous with “fun?”
I defy anyone to point out anything fun in safety.
In the light of current events this may be a good time to review gun safety procedures. The current event in question, for those of you out of the loop, for those of you too busy to bother reading a paper, for people too caught up in the most recent American Idol competition to have even the faintest hint of what is happening beyond the realm of mediocre singing talent, for folks who may not remember back to the beginning of this tortuously long sentence, I am referring to Vice President Dick Cheney popping a cap in his hunting partner’s face.
When carrying firearms you should always remember the life-saving adage “Safety First!” These are certainly words to live by but are not always practical when you are hunting. Think about it. How seriously should you take a phrase like “words to live by” when you are hunting, which by definition means that you are out to kill shit? As sensible as the advice to put safety first may be, this can be hard to do when you have a shotgun in one hand and a bottle of Jack Daniels in the other. If you are also trying to smoke a joint you can pretty much forget about any of this “safety first” nonsense. Are you a recreational hunter or a juggler? Most hunters would agree that a mishap with a shotgun is preferable to dropping a half-full bottle of decent whiskey.
So if you throw booze or drugs into the firearms mix about as good as you can hope to do is to put safety second. “Safety Second” isn’t nearly as catchy as “Safety First” but it’s probably good enough for government work. Let’s face it; America has lost a lot of status in recent years. These days you almost never hear crowds of unruly Americans shouting jingoistic chants of “We’re number one,” so perhaps “Safety Second” is more appropriate for our place in the new world order. Besides, if you are drunk, or stoned, or both, chances are that you won’t hit anything if you discharge a firearm accidentally. It’s hard enough to hit anything while you are sober—not that hunters are ever sober.
There is no way in hell that gun safety should ever fall below third in your personal queue of priorities. Even in this era of diminished American standards, I don’t think that it is unreasonable to keep safety third. But then again, if you are as rich and powerful as the vice president, you can file safety as far down the list as you want. In no way am I implying that Cheney was trying to relight a joint when he shot his buddy, or that he was juggling a shotgun in one hand and a fifth of moderately-priced Kentucky bourbon in the other—he probably has a secret service agent to carry his booze and light his blunt for him.
After reading what I have written thus far I feel like I am trying to come across as some sort of gun safety Nazi. I don’t want to take all of the fun out of shooting by running around screaming, “Be careful, man.” Part of the fun with firearms is shooting anything that doesn’t move, and then shooting anything that does move until it stops moving. If you shoot something enough times it actually will disappear. Cheney only shot his pal once, so only a small part of his face disappeared. Shooting stuff is fun. Why do you think that “blast” is synonymous with “fun?”
I defy anyone to point out anything fun in safety.
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