Blade IV
Written by David M. Muench


This isn't about the newest Wesley Snipes "vampire" movie, but the interminable developments of safety razors.

It all began with the invention of the safety razor.


"Hey," declares a bored engineer. "We can improve on this thing. Let's put on a lubricated strip, create a flexible; pivoting head, and make it ergonomic."

"Ergonomic?"

"Well, yeah. Makes it sound all European and stuff."

"Um, okay."


It didn't stop there. Soon it was two blades, and the stubbly public was jubilant.


"What's better than two?" inquires the imaginative engineer.

"Three?"

"Exactly!"


And just like that, the three-bladed razor was born. Granted, this newest entry to the hygiene department is a marvel in modern invention. Unfortunately, the razor heads are beginning to get bulky. It's quite a chore to shave those hard-to-reach areas. Hey, eyes up here, freak. I'm talking about under my nose. I have to get those two-bladed disposables to use for "detailing."

Isn't that great? I have to detail my face now.

When I think that nobody in their right mind would "improve" upon the three-bladed wonder; a delusional sociopath working for Schick invents a "four-bladed" razor entitled "Quattro 4." It sounds like a sports car. Hey, after you shave you can drive it around the block.

So you've got this four-bladed razor head the size of a small cell phone scraping down your skin, and as the blood pools on the floor at your feet you begin reminiscing about the good old days. Way back when they only had two blades.

And you never would have thought that you'd need skin grafts.

Blade IV

Blade IV
Written by David M. Muench





This isn't about the newest Wesley Snipes "vampire" movie, but the interminable developments of safety razors.

It all began with the invention of the safety razor.

"Hey," declares a bored engineer. "We can improve on this thing. Let's put on a lubricated strip, create a flexible; pivoting head, and make it ergonomic."

"Ergonomic?"

"Well, yeah. Makes it sound all European and stuff."

"Um, okay."

It didn't stop there. Soon it was two blades, and the stubbly public was jubilant.

"What's better than two?" inquires the imaginative engineer.

"Three?"

"Exactly!"

And just like that, the three-bladed razor was born. Granted, this newest entry to the hygiene department is a marvel in modern invention. Unfortunately, the razor heads are beginning to get bulky. It's quite a chore to shave those hard-to-reach areas. Hey, eyes up here, freak. I'm talking about under my nose. I have to get those two-bladed disposables to use for "detailing."

Isn't that great? I have to detail my face now.

When I think that nobody in their right mind would "improve" upon the three-bladed wonder; a delusional sociopath working for Schick invents a "four-bladed" razor entitled "Quattro 4." It sounds like a sports car. Hey, after you shave you can drive it around the block.

So you've got this four-bladed razor head the size of a small cell phone scraping down your skin, and as the blood pools on the floor at your feet you begin reminiscing about the good old days. Way back when they only had two blades.

And you never would have thought that you'd need skin grafts.

Halloween High-Jinx
Written by David M. Muench


I’m sure most of you have dressed up for Halloween, but have you donned your costume other than at a Halloween party or trick-or-treating, such as work, church, or school? I have, and those episodes have been quite memorable.

One such occasion I had a Color Theory class (back when I wanted to major in art) on Halloween and I thought it would be festive yet somehow chic to dress up for the class.
I decided to go Hillbilly, sporting a plaid flannel shirt, really tight stone-washed jeans, my brother’s old knee-high leather moccasin boots with fringes, a rope for a belt, and the coup de grace: A plastic “Arkansas Razorback” hat. Although I don’t know if “hat” is an appropriate term for an immense red plastic boar with a white “A” stenciled on the side and a hole in the bottom to accommodate an unfortunate head.

So I get to school, bound out of the car - anxious to be contributing to one of my favorite holidays – and realized as I was walking to the classroom that I was the only buffoon in costume. No, wait, in the distance I see somebody dressed as Abe Lincoln, but he’s not in my class. Well crap, it’s only a professor.

So there I was padding down the walkway with my moccasin fringes flapping against my leg and the large red plastic boar upon my head that seemed to grow larger with each step. I was vividly aware that I was drawing stares and snickers from passers by. I felt like Howard Stern walking backstage in his Fartman outfit. It seemed that for a transitory moment I was no longer an average Joe garbed in a Halloween outfit but an out-of-work actor auditioning for a part in “Deliverance Part II: The Wrath of Bubba-Khan.”

With a little effort I kept my humor about me, even reverting to a redneck vernacular while in class just to complete the overall effect (humility). After suffering through furtive glances in my direction and stifled giggles I quickly shuffled out of the room at the end of class. Carrying the plastic pig headgear I jogged back to my car and sped home.


One other Halloween a few years prior to the “redneck” event I was working at a fast food restaurant, and decided to dress up….as a woman. Exhibiting a short blonde wig and make-up applied expertly by my sister, padding for surrealistically large boobs, a gaudy necklace over my – ahem - bosom, and a horrid black granny purse the transformation was complete: I was the world’s ugliest woman. I wouldn’t have even dated me.

Arriving at work I sauntered femininely up to the restaurant (I had taken my glasses off to further beguile my co-workers) and as I neared the front door I heard one of them exclaim from inside, “Oh my GOD!”

It was a big hit. A few of my male counterparts kept fondling my breasts and one grabbed my ass, which I thought was really odd. Fortunately I found out that it was a female co-worker, but that just left me confused - yet aroused.
While I collected money at the drive-through window a few women lauded my appearance to which I replied, “Thank my surgeon.”


This next and final Halloween story can be epitomized with these words: “What the hell was I thinking?”
I was but a young lad and a neighborhood girl invited me to her church’s Halloween party. Even as a tyke I was enthralled with this “Halloween” thing. Putting on really cool costumes and getting free candy? It was the greatest thing next to Micronauts and Hot Wheels.

The invitation came as a nice surprise, and although I didn’t realize the implications of my choice in a costume, I can look back now with a smile and wonder again; “What the hell was I thinking?”
I could have been a superhero, like Superman, Batman, Aquaman, or any other “man”, and it would have been just fine. Nope, not me. I think the rationale behind my costume selection was that it was my only costume, so for the church Halloween party I made my appearance as the Dark Prince. Lucifer. Yes, folks, good ol’ David dressed up as the devil. I hear about psychological “warning signs” all the time, and let me tell you that one is now listed in the Guiness Book, baby.

I had a cheap rubber devil mask and borrowed my sister’s black cape, and my own mother actually made a tail for the costume. Not, “Gee honey, I don’t think that’s a very good idea. How about I get an old sheet and you can be a ghost?” But, “Here’s your devil tail, sweetheart. Have fun!” Yeah, have fun burning in hell! I wonder if that would be comparable to having your mother shove raw hamburger meat down your pants and sending you to go play with the bears.

It was like the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in full ensemble walking into a Snoop Dogg concert. I couldn’t understand why I was attracting negative attention. It was Halloween for crying out loud. It was only a silly costume, not a theological statement.
A priest began talking to me in some strange dialect, and all I could understand was “Get out of the child, demon!” All during the course of that night, kids frequently tugged angrily at my devil tail. Had I been older and more sardonic I could have retorted, “Keep pulling on my tail buddy and I’ll be seeing you real soon!”

Strangely enough the same neighborhood girl never again invited me to another Halloween party. In fact, I don’t think she ever invited me to anything after that.

I hope these stories provided some amusement and insight concerning Halloween costumes. Remember that what you regret in the past you may learn to appreciate later. Seize each moment with adolescent ardor and never forget what it means to have fun.

And by all means, never, ever, dress up as the devil at a church Halloween party.

Halloween Highjinx

Halloween Highjinx
Written by David M. Muench

I’m sure most of you have dressed up for Halloween, but have you donned your costume other than at a Halloween party or trick-or-treating, such as work, church, or school? I have, and those episodes have been quite memorable.

One such occasion I had a Color Theory class (back when I wanted to major in art) on Halloween and I thought it would be festive yet somehow chic to dress up for the class.
I decided to go Hillbilly, sporting a plaid flannel shirt, really tight stone-washed jeans, my brother’s old knee-high leather moccasin boots with fringes, a rope for a belt, and the coup de grace: A plastic “Arkansas Razorback” hat. Although I don’t know if “hat” is an appropriate term for an immense red plastic boar with a white “A” stenciled on the side and a hole in the bottom to accommodate an unfortunate head.

So I get to school, bound out of the car - anxious to be contributing to one of my favorite holidays – and realized as I was walking to the classroom that I was the only buffoon in costume. No, wait, in the distance I see somebody dressed as Abe Lincoln, but he’s not in my class. Well crap, it’s only a professor.

So there I was padding down the walkway with my moccasin fringes flapping against my leg and the large red plastic boar upon my head that seemed to grow larger with each step. I was vividly aware that I was drawing stares and snickers from passers by. I felt like Howard Stern walking backstage in his Fartman outfit. It seemed that for a transitory moment I was no longer an average Joe garbed in a Halloween outfit but an out-of-work actor auditioning for a part in “Deliverance Part II: The Wrath of Bubba-Khan.”

With a little effort I kept my humor about me, even reverting to a redneck vernacular while in class just to complete the overall effect (humility). After suffering through furtive glances in my direction and stifled giggles I quickly shuffled out of the room at the end of class. Carrying the plastic pig headgear I jogged back to my car and sped home.

One other Halloween a few years prior to the “redneck” event I was working at a fast food restaurant, and decided to dress up….as a woman. Exhibiting a short blonde wig and make-up applied expertly by my sister, padding for surrealistically large boobs, a gaudy necklace over my – ahem - bosom, and a horrid black granny purse the transformation was complete: I was the world’s ugliest woman. I wouldn’t have even dated me.

Arriving at work I sauntered femininely up to the restaurant (I had taken my glasses off to further beguile my co-workers) and as I neared the front door I heard one of them exclaim from inside, “Oh my GOD!”

It was a big hit. A few of my male counterparts kept fondling my breasts and one grabbed my ass, which I thought was really odd. Fortunately I found out that it was a female co-worker, but that just left me confused - yet aroused.
While I collected money at the drive-through window a few women lauded my appearance to which I replied, “Thank my surgeon.”

This next and final Halloween story can be epitomized with these words: “What the hell was I thinking?”
I was but a young lad and a neighborhood girl invited me to her church’s Halloween party. Even as a tyke I was enthralled with this “Halloween” thing. Putting on really cool costumes and getting free candy? It was the greatest thing next to Micronauts and Hot Wheels.

The invitation came as a nice surprise, and although I didn’t realize the implications of my choice in a costume, I can look back now with a smile and wonder again; “What the hell was I thinking?”
I could have been a superhero, like Superman, Batman, Aquaman, or any other “man”, and it would have been just fine. Nope, not me. I think the rationale behind my costume selection was that it was my only costume, so for the church Halloween party I made my appearance as the Dark Prince. Lucifer. Yes, folks, good ol’ David dressed up as the devil. I hear about psychological “warning signs” all the time, and let me tell you that one is now listed in the Guiness Book, baby.

I had a cheap rubber devil mask and borrowed my sister’s black cape, and my own mother actually made a tail for the costume. Not, “Gee honey, I don’t think that’s a very good idea. How about I get an old sheet and you can be a ghost?” But, “Here’s your devil tail, sweetheart. Have fun!” Yeah, have fun burning in hell! I wonder if that would be comparable to having your mother shove raw hamburger meat down your pants and sending you to go play with the bears.

It was like the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan in full ensemble walking into a Snoop Dogg concert. I couldn’t understand why I was attracting negative attention. It was Halloween for crying out loud. It was only a silly costume, not a theological statement.
A priest began talking to me in some strange dialect, and all I could understand was “Get out of the child, demon!” All during the course of that night, kids frequently tugged angrily at my devil tail. Had I been older and more sardonic I could have retorted, “Keep pulling on my tail buddy and I’ll be seeing you real soon!”

Strangely enough the same neighborhood girl never again invited me to another Halloween party. In fact, I don’t think she ever invited me to anything after that.

I hope these stories provided some amusement and insight concerning Halloween costumes. Remember that what you regret in the past you may learn to appreciate later. Seize each moment with adolescent ardor and never forget what it means to have fun.

And by all means, never, ever, dress up as the devil at a church Halloween party.

The Amazing Exploding House
Written by David M. Muench



It began as a normal (what would pass as "normal" in our household) but stormy midafternoon. Some relatives were staying with us (Aunt Heather, cousin’s Shawn and Shannon, and "Monkey;" their odd-looking black terrier with a severe underbite); as was my sister, her husband and their baby, my brother, my mother, myself and a brutally aberrant Chihuahua who always wanted to maim me named "Chico."

I was engaged in my usual habit of drawing at the kitchen table while my aunt prepared a chicken for dinner. I have no recollection of what everybody else was doing at that time, but whatever it was pales in comparison of what everybody did after the "episode."

The storms were getting more severe and lightning was peppering the sky around us. Suddenly a bolt of lightning crashed into the back of our house, throwing the busy home into a preternatural void of sound and light. I believe it was Mick, my sister's husband, who first noticed the sparks flying from the back of our home. It was then that Mick came to the profound yet funny-as-hell conclusion that "our house was going to blow up!”

After hearing Mick's sage words and a few choice expletives, the entire household went to "DEFCON-5." You know, ballistic. So we did our best pantomime of running around like chickens with their heads cut off until Mick decided to delegate himself as the "Official Head Counter." One of the duties of this prestigious title was to stand in the hallway and launch family members out the front door. Well, actually due to the particular position the "Head Counter" was in he was not able to aim the human projectiles through the door, but I suppose being thrown against the doorjamb was close enough. It has the word "door" in it and everything. My aunt placed herself in the role of "Assistant Official Head Counter" and assumed her station on the porch, throwing the now-bruised family members off of the porch and into the stormy afternoon.

Now, let me reiterate that I don't always know why I do certain things in any given situation. This day proved to be no exception. For some reason I decided to skip my appointment with "Mick the Head Counter" and sprinted down the hallway into my mother's room. After a brief moment I realized that unless I wished to utilize one of the three windows in that general area, I wasn't going to go anywhere. I then had to turn around and zip down the hallway to get outside. With cat-like agility (which is ironic because I'm allergic to cats) I managed to escape the "Meet Mr. Doorjamb" ride and fled out the front door.

Once outside, it seemed that everybody had his or her own unique agenda. My cousin Shannon bolted up the street screaming at the top of her lungs, "Our house is going to blow up!" Repeatedly. It was reported that she had in fact broken the land speed record of a panicked human, and nearby neighbors admitted hearing a loud "boom" after Shannon had flashed by them. I could almost see tendrils of smoke on the blurs of her shoes. When Shannon later returned from her cross-country trip we learned her completely reasonable explanation of why she took flight from the house and landed a mile away at a local convenience store. She believed our combustible house would create a "domino effect" and cause all of the houses next to us to explode. Sure, that makes perfect sense.

Shawn, my other cousin, bounded (he's a big boy. "Bounded" seems appropriate) in the opposite direction and sought shelter at a neighbor's home. I ran directly across the street and planted myself on the sidewalk; heart slamming in my chest and anticipating the imminent earth-shattering explosion of our home. My brother also ran across the street, but he did something totally out of character for our bizarre family: He went into a neighbor's home and called the fire department. I swear he must have been adopted.

My aunt attempted to re-enter the "Amazing Exploding House" to save the two dogs. She was wary of the doorknob, barely touching it and drawing her hand back quickly; afraid the doorknob was going to be electrified. After finally retrieving the mongrels my aunt then suggested that they get into the car away from the house, just in case the house would cause the car to blow up. Seeing my aunt with the two dogs, my sister and her hubby get into the safety of the car, I finally unglued myself from the sidewalk and I too ran to the deceptive safety of the car as well. And thus began the "Driveway Polka.”

Mick had begun backing the car out of the driveway then was told to stop. We might get in the fire truck's way, so Mick pulled forward again. Whoops, that darned exploding house again, better back that puppy up. This continued for a few times; backing up and pulling forward. I was hysterical and saying let's get the heck outta here, then I got a light smack on the face to be quiet. Utter chaos.

When the fire department finally arrived, there were amused onlookers aplenty. I think some were actually sitting in lawn chairs and eating popcorn. We had a reputation of being entertaining, and granted, seeing the firefighters struggling over our relative's furniture cluttered in our garage was kind of amusing.

In retrospect.

Shannon had returned by then, gasping for breath and probably feeling quite dumb. After an inspection of the "Exploding House," the firemen had noted that the sparks were caused by the electrical box on our house. No immediate danger. No foundation-rocking explosions. We were finally ushered back into the house; shortly thereafter my aunt began washing the potting soil from the chicken after a plant somehow fell from the kitchen windowsill and covered the chicken with dirt. This elicited a few raised eyebrows from firemen passing through the kitchen.

My sister attributed how everybody responded to this slapstick crisis to the stress of having too many people in a house, and of other situations that were happening at that time. Honestly, I think that sounds more like an excuse, as we were subjected to other unusual events later on in life. And even though my mother was fortunate enough to be at work during this twenty-minute ordeal, she was not excluded on other family adventures.

We have grown emotionally since then, shedding our manic garbs for more intelligent and appropriate emergency responses; but we always find a seemingly sempiternal supply of humor from our past as we relive it again and again.

The Amazing Exploding House

The Amazing Exploding House
Written by David M. Muench

It began as a normal (what would pass as "normal" in our household) but stormy mid afternoon. Some relatives were staying with us (Aunt Heather, cousin’s Shawn and Shannon, and "Monkey;" their odd-looking black terrier with a severe underbite); as was my sister, her husband and their baby, my brother, my mother, myself and a brutally aberrant Chihuahua who always wanted to maim me named "Chico."

I was engaged in my usual habit of drawing at the kitchen table while my aunt prepared a chicken for dinner. I have no recollection of what everybody else was doing at that time, but whatever it was pales in comparison of what everybody did after the "episode."

The storms were getting more severe and lightning was peppering the sky around us. Suddenly a bolt of lightning crashed into the back of our house, throwing the busy home into a preternatural void of sound and light. I believe it was Mick, my sister's husband, who first noticed the sparks flying from the back of our home. It was then that Mick came to the profound yet funny-as-hell conclusion that "our house was going to blow up!”

After hearing Mick's sage words and a few choice expletives, the entire household went to "DEFCON-5." You know, ballistic. So we did our best pantomime of running around like chickens with their heads cut off until Mick decided to delegate himself as the "Official Head Counter." One of the duties of this prestigious title was to stand in the hallway and launch family members out the front door. Well, actually due to the particular position the "Head Counter" was in he was not able to aim the human projectiles through the door, but I suppose being thrown against the door jamb was close enough. It has the word "door" in it and everything. My aunt placed herself in the role of "Assistant Official Head Counter" and assumed her station on the porch, throwing the now-bruised family members off of the porch and into the stormy afternoon.

Now, let me reiterate that I don't always know why I do certain things in any given situation. This day proved to be no exception. For some reason I decided to skip my appointment with "Mick the Head Counter" and sprinted down the hallway into my mother's room. After a brief moment I realized that unless I wished to utilize one of the three windows in that general area, I wasn't going to go anywhere. I then had to turn around and zip down the hallway to get outside. With cat-like agility (which is ironic because I'm allergic to cats) I managed to escape the "Meet Mr. Door jamb" ride and fled out the front door.

Once outside, it seemed that everybody had his or her own unique agenda. My cousin Shannon bolted up the street screaming at the top of her lungs, "Our house is going to blow up!" Repeatedly. It was reported that she had in fact broken the land speed record of a panicked human, and nearby neighbors admitted hearing a loud "boom" after Shannon had flashed by them. I could almost see tendrils of smoke on the blurs of her shoes. When Shannon later returned from her cross-country trip we learned her completely reasonable explanation of why she took flight from the house and landed a mile away at a local convenience store. She believed our combustible house would create a "domino effect" and cause all of the houses next to us to explode. Sure, that makes perfect sense.

Shawn, my other cousin, bounded (he's a big boy. "Bounded" seems appropriate) in the opposite direction and sought shelter at a neighbor's home. I ran directly across the street and planted myself on the sidewalk; heart slamming in my chest and anticipating the imminent earth-shattering explosion of our home. My brother also ran across the street, but he did something totally out of character for our bizarre family: He went into a neighbor's home and called the fire department. I swear he must have been adopted.

My aunt attempted to re-enter the "Amazing Exploding House" to save the two dogs. She was wary of the doorknob, barely touching it and drawing her hand back quickly; afraid the doorknob was going to be electrified. After finally retrieving the mongrels my aunt then suggested that they get into the car away from the house, just in case the house would cause the car to blow up. Seeing my aunt with the two dogs, my sister and her hubby get into the safety of the car, I finally unglued myself from the sidewalk and I too ran to the deceptive safety of the car as well. And thus began the "Driveway Polka.”

Mick had begun backing the car out of the driveway then was told to stop. We might get in the fire truck's way, so Mick pulled forward again. Whoops, that darned exploding house again, better back that puppy up. This continued for a few times; backing up and pulling forward. I was hysterical and saying let's get the heck outta here, then I got a light smack on the face to be quiet. Utter chaos.

When the fire department finally arrived, there were amused onlookers aplenty. I think some were actually sitting in lawn chairs and eating popcorn. We had a reputation of being entertaining, and granted, seeing the firefighters struggling over our relative's furniture cluttered in our garage was kind of amusing.

In retrospect.

Shannon had returned by then, gasping for breath and probably feeling quite dumb. After an inspection of the "Exploding House," the firemen had noted that the sparks were caused by the electrical box on our house. No immediate danger. No foundation-rocking explosions. We were finally ushered back into the house; shortly thereafter my aunt began washing the potting soil from the chicken after a plant somehow fell from the kitchen windowsill and covered the chicken with dirt. This elicited a few raised eyebrows from firemen passing through the kitchen.

My sister attributed how everybody responded to this slapstick crisis to the stress of having too many people in a house, and of other situations that were happening at that time. Honestly, I think that sounds more like an excuse, as we were subjected to other unusual events later on in life. And even though my mother was fortunate enough to be at work during this twenty-minute ordeal, she was not excluded on other family adventures.

We have grown emotionally since then, shedding our manic garbs for more intelligent and appropriate emergency responses; but we always find a seemingly sempiternal supply of humor from our past as we relive it again and again.

Sunday Morning Sleepwalker
Written by David M. Muench


One of my favorite Sunday morning pastimes has been to sit at the kitchen table and read the Sunday paper. Well, okay, just the funnies, TV Guide, and the advertisements. I am quite the aficionado of the funnies and not ashamed to admit it.

Several years ago on one average Sunday morning I crawled out of bed, retrieved the paper from the driveway, and began dissecting the hulking mass of paper for My Sections.

There I sat contentedly amidst a Marmaduke and Dennis the Menace World while my brother snored heavily on the sofa in the living room. Everything else - including the empty laundry basket sitting in the kitchen nearby - was oblivious to me.
I didn’t notice my brother stirring from the living room sofa, and I was vaguely aware of his presence as he shuffled into the kitchen.

What happened next snapped me back from Hagar the Horrible to reality. My brother stood in front of the previously mentioned empty laundry basket and proceeded to urinate in it.
I remember thinking to myself: “There is no way in hell that this is actually happening.” Yet as I sat there with the Sunday paper strewn about upon the kitchen table, there he was. I asked him: “What are you doing?” Which of course was one of those Inane Questions, because I knew very well what he was doing.

He was peeing into the no-longer-empty laundry basket.

The Inane Question apparently wasn’t dumb enough, so I presented a painfully self-evident statement: “You are peeing in the laundry basket!”
That basically elicited a groggy twitch of his head, but he continued purging himself. After what seemed like five minutes he finally finished his task, and instead of returning to the sofa he found his way to his bedroom. Why he couldn’t initially find his way to the Officially Designated Toilet is beyond comprehension.

I just sat there staring at the soiled laundry basket in shock. I could not believe that had happened. I finally broke my “That didn’t really happen” spell and walked to the basket to peer inside. Maybe I thought my brother was favoring me with a really good parlor trick and I had to see for myself. As if the smell alone didn’t alert me of the truth, I also had to bump the basket with my foot to see the liquid ripple around in the basket.
I’m not sure if kicking the laundry basket was a test for viscosity or for the speed of the urine ripple rate. I did everything short of tasting it to ascertain if I actually saw my brother “draining the lizard” into the basket.

Struck by an epiphany, I came to the conclusion that yes, it was indeed pee-pee in the laundry basket. My brother had put it there. No mirrors, smoke, or trap doors were involved. He actually urinated into the laundry basket. I also determined that my brother was experiencing a severe yet embarrassing case of sleepwalking.
Cathy, Shoe, and Blondie were momentarily forgotten, and with teenage fervor I began relishing the idea of telling mom what happened. Hey, screw Family Circus and their strange dashed lines all over the cartoon, this was real entertainment.

My mom finally awoke, and right as soon as she stepped into the kitchen I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Hey mom, Doug peed in the laundry basket.”
She had the expression on her face I’m sure I had when I first witnessed the Great Laundry Basket Defilement. She replied, “What?” I repeated the statement, and she too gazed into the laundry basket.
After several minutes of deliberation she carefully carried the basket into the garage, where she announced “He’s going to clean this out himself.”

A few hours later my brother had awaken, and as he walked out to the kitchen again both my mother and I became very wary. With suppressed relief, we noted that he was actually awake and coherent. Ah, now came the best part. There is a certain joy a younger brother feels when presented with the opportunity to make the older brother squirm with abject humiliation. Unfortunately he seemed apathetic of the situation, but he did clean the laundry basket.

Much to my chagrin the incident had never been repeated (with anybody, ever…thankfully), but that surreal Sunday morning made me look at laundry baskets in a whole new way.



In Loving Memory of Douglas Muench, 1966-1992.

Revenge of the Dolls
Written by David M. Muench


It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.

After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."

I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.

As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).

Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!

I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!

Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.

Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.

We were very strange children.

"My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story"
Written by David M. Muench


As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.

It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.

Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."

Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"

Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your handbasket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.

I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."

Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.

I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.

To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.

Bald is Beautiful, baby!

Sunday Morning Sleepwalker

Sunday Morning Sleepwalker
Written by David M. Muench

One of my favorite Sunday morning pastimes has been to sit at the kitchen table and read the Sunday paper. Well, okay, just the funnies, TV Guide, and the advertisements. I am quite the aficionado of the funnies and not ashamed to admit it.

Several years ago on one average Sunday morning I crawled out of bed, retrieved the paper from the driveway, and began dissecting the hulking mass of paper for My Sections.

There I sat contentedly amidst a Marmaduke and Dennis the Menace World while my brother snored heavily on the sofa in the living room. Everything else - including the empty laundry basket sitting in the kitchen nearby - was oblivious to me.
I didn’t notice my brother stirring from the living room sofa, and I was vaguely aware of his presence as he shuffled into the kitchen.

What happened next snapped me back from Hagar the Horrible to reality. My brother stood in front of the previously mentioned empty laundry basket and proceeded to urinate in it.
I remember thinking to myself: “There is no way in hell that this is actually happening.” Yet as I sat there with the Sunday paper strewn about upon the kitchen table, there he was. I asked him: “What are you doing?” Which of course was one of those Inane Questions, because I knew very well what he was doing.

He was peeing into the no-longer-empty laundry basket.

The Inane Question apparently wasn’t dumb enough, so I presented a painfully self-evident statement: “You are peeing in the laundry basket!”
That basically elicited a groggy twitch of his head, but he continued purging himself. After what seemed like five minutes he finally finished his task, and instead of returning to the sofa he found his way to his bedroom. Why he couldn’t initially find his way to the Officially Designated Toilet is beyond comprehension.

I just sat there staring at the soiled laundry basket in shock. I could not believe that had happened. I finally broke my “That didn’t really happen” spell and walked to the basket to peer inside. Maybe I thought my brother was favoring me with a really good parlor trick and I had to see for myself. As if the smell alone didn’t alert me of the truth, I also had to bump the basket with my foot to see the liquid ripple around in the basket.
I’m not sure if kicking the laundry basket was a test for viscosity or for the speed of the urine ripple rate. I did everything short of tasting it to ascertain if I actually saw my brother “draining the lizard” into the basket.

Struck by an epiphany, I came to the conclusion that yes, it was indeed pee-pee in the laundry basket. My brother had put it there. No mirrors, smoke, or trap doors were involved. He actually urinated into the laundry basket. I also determined that my brother was experiencing a severe yet embarrassing case of sleepwalking.
Cathy, Shoe, and Blondie were momentarily forgotten, and with teenage fervor I began relishing the idea of telling mom what happened. Hey, screw Family Circus and their strange dashed lines all over the cartoon, this was real entertainment.

My mom finally awoke, and right as soon as she stepped into the kitchen I couldn’t hold it in any longer: “Hey mom, Doug peed in the laundry basket.”
She had the expression on her face I’m sure I had when I first witnessed the Great Laundry Basket Defilement. She replied, “What?” I repeated the statement, and she too gazed into the laundry basket.
After several minutes of deliberation she carefully carried the basket into the garage, where she announced “He’s going to clean this out himself.”

A few hours later my brother had awaken, and as he walked out to the kitchen again both my mother and I became very wary. With suppressed relief, we noted that he was actually awake and coherent. Ah, now came the best part. There is a certain joy a younger brother feels when presented with the opportunity to make the older brother squirm with abject humiliation. Unfortunately he seemed apathetic of the situation, but he did clean the laundry basket.

Much to my chagrin the incident had never been repeated (with anybody, ever…thankfully), but that surreal Sunday morning made me look at laundry baskets in a whole new way.

In Loving Memory of Douglas Muench, 1966-1992.

Revenge of the Dolls

Revenge of the Dolls
Written by David M. Muench


It was many years ago, I was perhaps five years old, and as usual I was being a nuisance to every other human being in my proximity. Usually my siblings. My sister was assisting my brother with homework in her bedroom, and for some unfathomable reason I was intent on bothering the Hades out of them. That whole "five-years-old" thing I suppose. Exhausted from repeated attempts to get rid of me, they had finally devised a devious scheme of revenge.

After I had left the room once again, my brother and sister had gathered up her dolls and lined them up facing the door. As I returned for a Scheduled Annoyance I noticed the dolls and inquired (as five-year-olds would do) what they were doing there. My sister replied, "They're tired of you coming in here, so they are going to get you."

I of course was torn between denial and terror and ran to mom in the kitchen and informed her of the nefarious doll attack. Mom was attempting to stifle laughter, though at the time I didn’t know this as my mother informed me many years later. Mom told me to go on and play.

As I was reporting the demonic dolls to my mom, my brother and sister proceeded to move the dolls from out of my sister's bedroom and out into the hallway, facing towards the way I would return (if I did).

Frustrated with mom's ennui, I trotted back towards my sister's bedroom and had gotten only about halfway down the hall when I froze in my tiny tracks. Good GOD, my brother and sister were right! The dolls were after me, and they were getting closer!

I let out a shriek of terror and went airborne to my now-perturbed mother and screamed to her that those dolls are gonna get me!

Tired of the mind game, my mother finally put a stop to the advancing dolls, telling an uproariously laughing son and daughter to "knock it off. Now."
So they acquiesced to mom’s demand and stopped scaring the hell out of me. For the time being.

Although I had the last laugh. A few years later my brother and I had a habit of interchanging the heads of my sister's dolls, which provided hours of amusement for us. We’d put Ironman’s head on Barbie and other such nonsense. Not only did my brother and I enjoy watching our sister go from serene to psychotic in a split-second, but also we unknowingly developed cross-gender toys.

We were very strange children.

My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story

"My Naked Pate: the Shiny Happy Head Story"
Written by David M. Muench

As a teenager I was oblivious of any "follicularly-challenged" issues concerning myself. I had hair, damnit. Not only that, I was working out regularly; looking good and feeling good. It wasn't until I was about twenty-years-old when I realized that my forehead began to grow larger. In retrospect I don't recall being overtly ballistic and calling Sy Sperling every day of the week. You know, he's not only the president.
I wasn't really enjoying the scenario, but I accepted it, mainly because my father was bald.

It was a very gradual metamorphosis from having to worry about "bad hair" days to my "Look everybody! It's George Costanza!" days. Sure, I even had my "Gallagher" days when I grew my hair out longer in back as a Last Hoorah, and wondered why I never possessed a Sledge-O-Matic.

Every single man or woman has been gibed by friends with an exorbitant amount of bald jokes. I particularly enjoy when they pretend to fix their "hair" in the reflection of my expansive forehead. Gee, that never gets old. We've pretty much heard them all. Heck, we've even cut ourselves down. We have also retorted with "Yeah, it's a solar panel for a sex machine baby!" Or one of my favorites: "My hair fell off after hitting the headboard too much."

Truth be known, it can be downright painful. All of a sudden we're Lepers. Or at least we feel that we are. Such as the symbolic "Cutting of Samson's Hair" we feel our masculinity or femininity has been torn from our very souls. Yeah, I wouldn't mind having hair like Fabio; and what really irks me is when people that actually do have hair like Fabio shave their heads. It's like they're saying "Ha-ha. Now watch it grow back full and thick! Oooo, look here, chrome dome, a real hairline!"

Yeah, thanks buddy. Here's your hand basket and One Way Ticket. Now get lost.

I've considered using Rogaine or getting a hair transplant, but I didn't. What I did was venture forth to the Realm of the Extreme. No, I'm still a guy. Not that extreme. Last year after an inebriating night of clubbing (no baby seals were hurt) my buddy and I decided that I should shave my head. Naturally anything sounds reasonable to somebody that only an hour ago that night placed a beer label on his forehead saying; "It's the patch, I'm trying to quit."

Wow! After the task was completed, it was a very surreal feeling. I kept rubbing my head, and thinking to myself "Did I really do this?" That next morning I woke up and placed my hand on the top of my head and thought "Oh, man. I really did this!" It took awhile for my family to accept it with open minds, but now they know it's just who I am. My friends were very quick to accept it, telling me that I had the perfect head to be bald, and that I should have done this a long time ago. They also said it looked very sexy (my "female" friends said that thank you); even better than what my head used to look like. That is exactly what I needed. Another amazing thing happened: The bald jokes almost ceased completely. Almost.

I created the name "Shiny Happy Head" with the help of the REM song "Shiny Happy People", which I thought was very apt nom de plume for me. I also have the website "shinyhappyhead.com" The website focuses not on my shiny, happy head, but in making others smile and laugh; as I no longer dwell on being bald. I now like a clean-shaven head, and it's a plus when women at clubs walk by and rub my shiny, happy head. What can I say, apparently it's a good luck thing.

To the guys that are married and lament about losing your hair; get over it! You have somebody! Do you realize how fortunate you are to have someone to share the rest of your life with that accepts you for who you are? Stop focusing on what you don't have, and start appreciating what you do have.

Bald is Beautiful, baby!

Error Code: Kiss My Ass, AOL
Written by David M. Muench


When I was attempting to mail out my jokelist the other day, this error message kept popping up; not permitting me to send out my mail:


"Mail cannot be sent at this time, error code: RS"


Hmmm. "Error code: RS." I'm clueless. Usually when I click "Send Now," my mail is sent. A cute little box even pops up informing me that my mail has indeed been sent.

Now suddenly I get that ambiguous error message and I'm supposed to know what the hell it is. Naturally I think it's AOL on cyber-crack yet again and will only be a brief aberration. Uh, no, folks. I finally acquiesced to contacting AOL and ask them what the funky monkey shit HELL was going on.

On the inside.

They asked me if I had any hyperlinks in the e-mail I was sending.
Since it was my jokelist, I said, "yes, quite a few."
This is the reply, verbatim:

"The error code you're getting is caused by a hyperlink that contains a
numeric web site address. Most spammers use this to spread
Spam on the Internet. AOL's anti Spam controls are filtering these
to block unwanted e-mail delivered to your mailbox."

Huh. So "error code: RS" is supposed to tell me that I've got some numeric website URL in my e-mail, and that I should take steps to remove the hyperlink code and send it as text-only. Oh, sure, makes perfect sense to me.

For example, this is the single, little URL that was causing me the grief:

http://195.92.224.73/j20/content/host.asp

See the IP address in that darn ole URL? AOL will no longer allow you to send it as a link, such as this.

Error Code: Kiss My Ass, AOL

Error Code: Kiss My Ass, AOL
Written by David M. Muench

When I was attempting to mail out my jokelist the other day, this error message kept popping up; not permitting me to send out my mail:

"Mail cannot be sent at this time, error code: RS"

Hmmm. "Error code: RS." I'm clueless. Usually when I click "Send Now," my mail is sent. A cute little box even pops up informing me that my mail has indeed been sent.

Now suddenly I get that ambiguous error message and I'm supposed to know what the hell it is. Naturally I think it's AOL on cyber-crack yet again and will only be a brief aberration. Uh, no, folks. I finally acquiesced to contacting AOL and ask them what the funky monkey shit HELL was going on.

On the inside.

They asked me if I had any hyperlinks in the e-mail I was sending.
Since it was my jokelist, I said, "Uh, yes, quite a few."
This is the reply, verbatim:

"The error code you're getting is caused by a hyperlink that contains a
numeric web site address. Most spammers use this to spread
Spam on the Internet. AOL's anti Spam controls are filtering these
to block unwanted e-mail delivered to your mailbox."

Huh. So "error code: RS" is supposed to tell me that I've got some numeric website URL in my e-mail, and that I should take steps to remove the hyperlink code and send it as text-only. Oh, sure, makes perfect sense to me.

For example, this is the single, little URL that was causing me the grief:

http://195.92.224.73/j20/content/host.asp

See the IP address in that darn ole URL? AOL will no longer allow you to send it as a link, such as this.

The Solo Artist Visits the Theater
Written by David M. Muench


Why do people have issues about going to the movies by themselves? Aside from the fact that such an act seems to delineate a type of loneliness; perhaps even a metaphorical "L" appears on the forehead of that "one ticket, please" individual.

The other day a friend and I were all set to see The Hulk - I even purchased tickets online one day prior to the engagement. The day approaches, and what happens? The friend cancels at the last minute. Initially I contemplate my scenario, maybe I'll call somebody else to go with me; but I don't know of anyone that shares my predilection for The Hulk.

So I sullenly drive to the theater in the mall to refund the two tickets, but then I thought "Hey, why can't I just see it by myself? People do that, don't they?" Sure they do. So I refunded only one ticket and made my way to the snack counter for a medium popcorn and a drink. The fact that I was seeing a movie "alone" didn't really affect me until I was in the large theater, trying to find a good seat to watch the mean green guy.

The normally easy undertaking of located the ideal movie throne was somehow made into an arduous task when I had nobody to ask, "where do you want to sit?" or to argue "no, that's too close" or "that's too far away." I almost asked a stranger where they thought I should sit. I found what appeared was a good spot, and shortly before the movie began another Solo Movie Watcher walked down the aisle and plopped down about four seats from me. At that point I notice that I'm not the only one who is watching a movie alone. I'm also realizing that I have apparently become a beacon to others as another guy walks past me and the other guy and sits down by himself as well.

After that, I felt a little more relaxed knowing that I wasn't the only "single" there. I mean c'mon, if we can watch a DVD at home by ourselves, why should the theater be any different? People that go to movies alone don't have leprosy or SARS. Why, we're cool, normal people just like everybody else!

Then the guy four seats down laughed loudly, made odd guttural noises and gasps throughout the movie. I was like "Oh, great. You're giving us Movie Soloists a bad rep. Stifle yourself, freakshow." I thought maybe those who weren't alone were now expecting me to "perform" some act of oddness. Not wanting to disappoint them, I made a low ululating noise that sounded like a large mammal's mating call. Hey, I watch Discovery. I know these things.

If that wasn't bad enough I had the uncanny luck of sitting in front of a Kicker. Oh, you know the Kickers. They are about seven or eight years-old and have gorged about three pounds of sugar-saturated candy even before the movie started. Once the movie starts, so does the intermittent kicking, fidgeting, and other related inhuman spasms. At one point I had to turn around and politely ask the parents to remove their child from my head.

I successfully made it through the movie without being jeered and heckled about watching a movie alone. No stones thrown, no local news coverage, no organized protests against me or Commander Freakshow for watching a movie without a movie companion. It was actually a pleasant experience. Granted, it hasn't completely broken my stigma of seeing a movie alone, but it put a pretty good dent in it.


** Just a note; it's amusing how when two guys go see a movie they have to have an empty seat between them. It's like a symbol of our macho-I'm-not-gay-I-love-women manliness. But of course our excuse is, "Dude, it's just where we put our popcorn." **

The Solo Artist Visits the Theater

The Solo Artist Visits the Theater

Written by David M. Muench

Why do people have issues about going to the movies by themselves? Aside from the fact that such an act seems to delineate a type of loneliness; perhaps even a metaphorical "L" appears on the forehead of that "one ticket, please" individual.

The other day a friend and I were all set to see The Hulk - I even purchased tickets online one day prior to the engagement. The day approaches, and what happens? The friend cancels at the last minute. Initially I contemplate my scenario, maybe I'll call somebody else to go with me; but I don't know of anyone that shares my predilection for The Hulk.

So I sullenly drive to the theater in the mall to refund the two tickets, but then I thought "Hey, why can't I just see it by myself? People do that, don't they?" Sure they do. So I refunded only one ticket and made my way to the snack counter for a medium popcorn and a drink. The fact that I was seeing a movie "alone" didn't really affect me until I was in the large theater, trying to find a good seat to watch the mean green guy.

The normally easy undertaking of located the ideal movie throne was somehow made into an arduous task when I had nobody to ask, "where do you want to sit?" or to argue "no, that's too close" or "that's too far away." I almost asked a stranger where they thought I should sit. I found what appeared was a good spot, and shortly before the movie began another Solo Movie Watcher walked down the aisle and plopped down about four seats from me. At that point I notice that I'm not the only one who is watching a movie alone. I'm also realizing that I have apparently become a beacon to others as another guy walks past me and the other guy and sits down by himself as well.

After that, I felt a little more relaxed knowing that I wasn't the only "single" there. I mean c'mon, if we can watch a DVD at home by ourselves, why should the theater be any different? People that go to movies alone don't have leprosy or SARS. Why, we're cool, normal people just like everybody else!

Then the guy four seats down laughed loudly, made odd guttural noises and gasps throughout the movie. I was like "Oh, great. You're giving us Movie Soloists a bad rep. Stifle yourself, freakshow." I thought maybe those who weren't alone were now expecting me to "perform" some act of oddness. Not wanting to disappoint them, I made a low ululating noise that sounded like a large mammal's mating call. Hey, I watch Discovery. I know these things.

If that wasn't bad enough I had the uncanny luck of sitting in front of a Kicker. Oh, you know the Kickers. They are about seven or eight years-old and have gorged about three pounds of sugar-saturated candy even before the movie started. Once the movie starts, so does the intermittent kicking, fidgeting, and other related inhuman spasms. At one point I had to turn around and politely ask the parents to remove their child from my head.

I successfully made it through the movie without being jeered and heckled about watching a movie alone. No stones thrown, no local news coverage, no organized protests against me or Commander Freakshow for watching a movie without a movie companion. It was actually a pleasant experience. Granted, it hasn't completely broken my stigma of seeing a movie alone, but it put a pretty good dent in it.

** Side note: it's amusing how when two guys go see a movie they have to have an empty seat between them. It's like a symbol of our macho-I'm-not-gay-I-love-women manliness. But of course our excuse is, "Dude, it's just where we put our popcorn." **

Fur Factor
Written by David M. Muench


This morning on the way to the gym, my headlights illuminated a cute widdle fuzzy rabbit scampering across the road. Had I been going any faster I would have made a nice rabbit stew on my tires.

I've come to the conclusion that animals don't hasten across the road directly in front of vehicles because they're stupid, they do it for the same reason people bunjee jump, skydive, climb Mount Everest, get married - they love the adrenaline rush. Think about it, how boring would it be if all you had to do in life was to lick yourself, eat vegetation, canned food or rodents, and sleep? Aside from the two tasks that might be appealing to some of you, such tasks will give you a bad case of doldrums faster than you can say "watching paint dry."

So these furry fun-seekers devise ways to make their short lives more fulfilling (and even shorter); such as walking in front of large dogs, rednecks wielding firearms, kids holding rocks, and moving vehicles. What can be more enthralling than that? Sure, some of them lose the game by becoming somebody's dinner or decoration, but many of them "have what it takes" to make it to the Big League. Run with the Big Dogs (slight pun intended). The Olympics of Furry Animals: Hunting Season.

Give a man or woman a weapon with the purpose of killing animals and I'll show you comedy. A co-worker regaled me with a story that seemed to be inspired by Elmer Fudd. Except that one involved an illusive turkey and an inexperienced bow hunter. Summarized he was blasted with wind and a cold rain while he hunkered behind a tree for fifteen minutes. Afterward he had his bow drawn in the direction he thought a turkey would appear, but he was proven wrong and startled when one walked up behind him and warbled loudly. From twenty yards away he pulled back and let the arrow sail effortlessly through the air toward the apathetic fowl. Humorously, the arrow struck a small branch, causing it to ricochet into a tree fifty yards away. The adrenaline-laden turkey happily fled, leaving the bow hunter empty-handed and searching for his arrow.

The next time an animal runs in the path of your vehicle, don't slow down. In fact, speed up. It'll boost their adrenaline level and they'll thank you for it later.

Fur Factor

Fur Factor
Written by David M. Muench

This morning on the way to the gym, my headlights illuminated a cute widdle fuzzy rabbit scampering across the road. Had I been going any faster I would have made a nice rabbit stew on my tires. Hossenfeffer anyone?

I've come to the conclusion that animals don't hasten across the road directly in front of vehicles because they're stupid, they do it for the same reason people bunjee jump, skydive, climb Mount Everest, get married - they love the adrenaline rush. Think about it, how boring would it be if all you had to do in life was to lick yourself, eat vegetation, canned food or rodents, and sleep? Aside from the two tasks that might be appealing to some of you, such tasks will give you a bad case of doldrums faster than you can say "watching paint dry."

So these furry fun-seekers devise ways to make their short lives more fulfilling (and even shorter); such as walking in front of large dogs, rednecks wielding firearms, kids holding rocks, and moving vehicles. What can be more enthralling than that? Sure, some of them lose the game by becoming somebody's dinner or decoration, but many of them "have what it takes" to make it to the Big League. Run with the Big Dogs (slight pun intended). The Olympics of Furry Animals: Hunting Season.

Give a man or woman a weapon with the purpose of killing animals and I'll show you comedy. A co-worker regaled me with a story that seemed to be inspired by Elmer Fudd. Except that one involved an illusive turkey and an inexperienced bow hunter.

This bow hunter (We'll call him Phil. Because that's his name.  Phil) was out hunting for turkeys on a very cold morning.  After awhile he was blasted with wind and a cold rain, so he hunkered behind a tree until the weather marginally improved.  In the distance he heard the call of a turkey, so using his razor-sharp hunter's instinct he had his bow drawn in the direction he thought a turkey would appear.  Unfortunately he was proven wrong and was immediately startled when one walked up behind him and warbled loudly. Swinging around from twenty yards away he pulled back and let the arrow sail effortlessly through the air toward the apathetic fowl. Humorously, the arrow struck a small branch, causing it to ricochet into a tree fifty yards away. The adrenaline-laden turkey happily fled, leaving the bow hunter empty-handed and searching for his arrow.

The next time an animal runs in the path of your vehicle, don't slow down. In fact, speed up. It'll boost their adrenaline level and they'll thank you for it later.

Driving Me Crazy
Written by David M. Muench


Do you remember the trials and tribulations of Drivers Ed? Who can forget those wacky films; one about the fictitious adorable teen couple who drank too much and died a tragic death, or the very graphic film showing decapitated, mutilated accident victims (I hope nobody is eating right now) complete with horrific wailing. Amazingly enough, we still wanted to drive after that.

Our generation was lucky to have the professional Drivers Ed course at a local college; with an oval track for "highway" driving, a skid pan, several special "roads" that resembled fast-food drive-thru lanes from hell. Each dilapidated vehicle had special radios in which the "tower" can communicate to each driver, according to the number on the car. For example, at one point while I cruised around the oval track my radio crackled "SLOW DOWN!", an effective command to slow me down, not to mention scare the shit out of me. The skid pan course was equally enthralling, which was a large black-topped area that was kept wet with several sprinklers. The idea of the skid pan was to "floor it" while the Instructor in the car would slam on the brake on the wet surface and I had to maintain control of the car. The good news: I was able to handle the car as it came to a complete stop. The bad news: The car stopped next to a sprinkler stream, soaking my Instructor. He wasn't too happy.

The "scare tactics" didn't stop there. We also had these ancient "simulators" which contained sensors that detected the actions of each driver according to the driving simulation film, sending that information to a main system. The films (a sad scene at that: It was the mid-eighties and the video depicted vehicles from the mid-seventies) prepared us for quick braking, turning, merging, signaling, and accelerating. One day during Driving Simulation, we were practicing emergency braking as the "video car" ahead of us suddenly stopped. As several brake pedals were being slammed down, the "Ha-Ha, I'm So Damn Funny" Driving Simulator Instructor simultaneously dropped a hubcap on the hard floor, creating a cacophony that caused the entire class to collectively shriek, yell, gasp, and/or have an entirely different kind of accident.

The class final was the Extended Drive, which involved driving all the way into Oklahoma City. It was only ten miles or so, but to us Road Rookies it was comparable to a coast-to-coast endeavor. I was first behind the wheel; taking the car all the way into downtown Oklahoma City. From there, another Rookie took the wheel, and to our delight we were fervently given the "bird" by a disgruntled transient as we drove around downtown. To make the day even better, the driving instructor treated us all to drinks at Sonic when we completed our driving.

Today, as a seasoned driver who long-abandoned the "ten-and-two" driving style, I smirk whenever I see a car emblazoned with "Student Driver" decals. I think of all the fun and apprehension that filled me during my summer at Drivers Ed, and how nervous I was during my first time behind the wheel on real roads. Then I'll quickly cut in front of the Road Rookie, teaching them a lesson in emergency braking.
And teaching them to be an asshole like myself and to continue the tradition.

Driving Me Crazy

Driving Me Crazy

Written by David M. Muench

Do you remember the trials and tribulations of Drivers Ed? Who can forget those wacky films; one about the fictitious adorable teen couple who drank too much and died a tragic death, or the very graphic film showing decapitated, mutilated accident victims (I hope nobody is eating right now) complete with horrific wailing. Amazingly enough, we still wanted to drive after that.

Our generation was lucky to have the professional Drivers Ed course at a local college; with an oval track for "highway" driving, a skid pan, several special "roads" that resembled fast-food drive-thru lanes from hell. Each dilapidated vehicle had special radios in which the "tower" can communicate to each driver, according to the number on the car. For example, at one point while I cruised around the oval track my radio crackled "SLOW DOWN!", an effective command to slow me down, not to mention scare the shit out of me. The skid pan course was equally enthralling, which was a large black-topped area that was kept wet with several sprinklers. The idea of the skid pan was to "floor it" while the Instructor in the car would slam on the brake on the wet surface and I had to maintain control of the car. The good news: I was able to handle the car as it came to a complete stop. The bad news: The car stopped next to a sprinkler stream, soaking my Instructor. He wasn't too happy.

The "scare tactics" didn't stop there. We also had these ancient "simulators" which contained sensors that detected the actions of each driver according to the driving simulation film, sending that information to a main system. The films (a sad scene at that: It was the mid-eighties and the video depicted vehicles from the mid-seventies) prepared us for quick braking, turning, merging, signaling, and accelerating. One day during Driving Simulation, we were practicing emergency braking as the "video car" ahead of us suddenly stopped. As several brake pedals were being slammed down, the "Ha-Ha, I'm So Damn Funny" Driving Simulator Instructor simultaneously dropped a hubcap on the hard floor, creating a cacophony that caused the entire class to collectively shriek, yell, gasp, and/or have an entirely different kind of accident.

The class final was the Extended Drive, which involved driving all the way into Oklahoma City. It was only ten miles or so, but to us Road Rookies it was comparable to a coast-to-coast endeavor. I was first behind the wheel; taking the car all the way into downtown Oklahoma City. From there, another Rookie took the wheel, and to our delight we were fervently given the "bird" by a disgruntled transient as we drove around downtown. To make the day even better, the driving instructor treated us all to drinks at Sonic when we completed our driving.

Today, as a seasoned driver who long-abandoned the "ten-and-two" driving style, I smirk whenever I see a car emblazoned with "Student Driver" decals. I think of all the fun and apprehension that filled me during my summer at Drivers Ed, and how nervous I was during my first time behind the wheel on real roads. Then I'll quickly cut in front of the Road Rookie, teaching them a lesson in emergency braking.

And teaching them to be an asshole like myself and to continue the tradition.

An Effective Commercial
Written by David M. Muench


I was lounging in the living room portraying King Spud of all couch potatoes with my neural transmitters set to "zone out" while watching a television show. The usual commercial came on - advertising bath soap or laundry soap, I don't remember which one. Then in the middle of that innocuous commercial, the biggest damned cockroach I had ever seen crawls across the screen, taunting me. I furrowed my brow into a classic perplexed look, maybe an unconscious effort to kick up my neural transmitters from "zone out" to "Yo, Potato Head, go over to the screen and annihilate that abomination!"

Simultaneously with my increased brain activity, I blurted out the International phrase of bewilderment: "What the hell?" Perhaps not the most effective countermeasure to a crisis, but appropriate nonetheless. In fact, I was so puzzled by this new development that I was unable to remove myself from the couch to kill that sucker. If a troop of dancing mice starting doing a Broadway number on top of my head, I would have reacted in a similar way. About the time I had started to finally stand up, a man donning an Orkin uniform and wielding a spray bottle appeared on the screen and successfully killed the intruder. As the large bug fell from the screen, I almost expected to see it drop on the living room floor.

That, my friend, is an effective commercial.

An Effective Commercial

An Effective Commercial
Written by David M. Muench


I was lounging in the living room portraying King Spud of all couch potatoes with my neural transmitters set to "zone out" while watching a television show. The usual commercial came on - advertising bath soap or laundry soap, I don't remember which one. Then in the middle of that innocuous commercial, the biggest damned cockroach I had ever seen crawls across the screen, taunting me. I furrowed my brow into a classic perplexed look, maybe an unconscious effort to kick up my neural transmitters from "zone out" to "Yo, Potato Head, go over to the screen and annihilate that abomination!"

Simultaneously with my increased brain activity, I blurted out the International phrase of bewilderment: "What the fuck?" Perhaps not the most effective countermeasure to a crisis, but appropriate nonetheless. In fact, I was so puzzled by this new development that I was unable to remove myself from the couch to kill that sucker. If a troop of dancing mice starting doing a Broadway number on top of my head, I would have reacted in a similar way. About the time I had started to finally stand up, a man donning an Orkin uniform and wielding a spray bottle appeared on the screen and successfully killed the intruder. As the large bug fell from the screen, I almost expected to see it drop on the living room floor.

That, my friend, is an effective commercial.

Ugly People Getting Lucky!
Written by David M. Muench


Monica Lewinsky is set to host a new reality-based (yeah, sure) show on Fox called "Mr. Personality," in which twenty men must vie for the attention of one lucky(?) lady. The catch, is that all twenty men are wearing masks. This woman must base her decision on charm and personality. She may or may not engage in the "Crocodile Dundee Crotch Grab" to check the man's package, but other than that, it's all personality. And maybe a peek into his wallet to check for a Platinum Credit Card or his checkbook to see what his bank balance is, but after that, it's all personality.

I admit, the premise of the show is rather appealing. I'm getting tired of all of the "Hey, I Don't Have a Single Brain Cell, But I'm Pretty, So Date Me!" shows that have become a prevalent plot amongst reality dating/marriage shows. Finally, a show that's based on the true, unadulterated qualities of what we should be looking for in a person. The "inner beauty" which has become ambiguous against callow and superficial predilections.

And then Shiny removes his mask, only to hear her blurt out, "Oh dear god WHY ME?!"

Miss Lewinsky has also been tentatively scheduled to make a cameo appearance on "The West Wing," but what her role might be is still unknown.

Okay, I just made that one up, but am I the only one who would find that amusing?

Ugly People Getting Lucky!

Ugly People Getting Lucky!
Written by David M. Muench

Monica Lewinsky is set to host a new reality-based (yeah, sure) show on Fox called "Mr. Personality," in which twenty men must vie for the attention of one lucky(?) lady. The catch, is that all twenty men are wearing masks. This woman must base her decision on charm and personality. She may or may not engage in the "Crocodile Dundee Crotch Grab" to check the man's package, but other than that, it's all personality. And maybe a peek into his wallet to check for a Platinum Credit Card or his checkbook to see what his bank balance is, but after that, it's all personality.

I admit, the premise of the show is rather appealing. I'm getting tired of all of the "Hey, I Don't Have a Single Brain Cell, But I'm Pretty, So Date Me!" shows that have become a prevalent plot amongst reality dating/marriage shows. Finally, a show that's based on the true, unadulterated qualities of what we should be looking for in a person. The "inner beauty" which has become ambiguous against callow and superficial predilections.

And then Shiny removes his mask, only to hear her blurt out, "Oh dear god WHY ME?!"

Miss Lewinsky has also been tentatively scheduled to make a cameo appearance on "The West Wing," but what her role might be is still unknown.

Okay, I just made that one up, but am I the only one who would find that amusing?

Disinformant of Iraq
Written by David M. Muench


If any of you have been following the continuing coverage of Operation: Iraqi Freedom, you probably have seen this Iraqi Shmuck on Iraqi TV: Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf. Talk about a huge title misnomer.

Today, April 7th, American and Coalition Forces pushed through into Southern Baghdad and have acquired Saddam's presidential palace. There are pictures even. The Iraqi "Information" Minister (yeah, that's a misnomer too...) rebuked this claim with "there is no presence of American infidels in the city of Baghdad, at all...." During the course of the war this "Information Minister" has made similar remarks refuting something so damn axiomatic that I can almost taste the truth! This compulsive liar had the audacity to claim that the thousands of Iraqi prisoners who "capitulated" were in fact Iraqi civilians donning military uniforms for propaganda purposes.

Incidentally, these are two words I hope to never hear again for as long as I live: Capitulate and Propaganda.

Say what you want about Bush, but this al-Sahhaf guy is worse than Jon Lovitz's character "Mr. Liar" from SNL. How is al-Sahhaf going to explain the images of American and Coalition Forces walking through Saddam's battered presidential palace?

"Ha! The American's are using an elaborate movie set taken from Hollywood. Oh, and speaking of Hollywood, I'd like to thank my buddies Marty Sheen and Michael Moore for all of their indefatigable support, and they'll soon be receiving an honorary beret and novelty can of Sarin, which makes a lovely conversation piece."

Minister al-Sahhaf, do you really think the American and Coalition Forces are going to take the time and energy to erect an exact replica of Saddam's presidential palace?

"The Americans are sick in their minds! They will do anything to shroud the truth!"


Yes, this was another lambasting from the Disinformation Minister regarding US Troops charging into Baghdad. He said we had "sick minds." The joke will be on him when he claims that the US grenades that have been propelled up his ass are in fact giant, explosive hemorrhoids; and are in "no way related to those sick, American infid - " BOOM!




"You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein?
Because he hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret.
He is French, people."
-Conan O'Brien

Disinformant of Iraq

Disinformant of Iraq
Written by David M. Muench


If any of you have been following the continuing coverage of Operation: Iraqi Freedom, you probably have seen this Iraqi Shmuck on Iraqi TV: Iraqi Information Minister Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf. Talk about a huge title misnomer.

Today, April 7th, American and Coalition Forces pushed through into Southern Baghdad and have acquired Saddam's presidential palace. There are pictures even. The Iraqi "Information" Minister (yeah, that's a misnomer too...) rebuked this claim with "there is no presence of American infidels in the city of Baghdad, at all...." During the course of the war this "Information Minister" has made similar remarks refuting something so damn axiomatic that I can almost taste the truth! This compulsive liar had the audacity to claim that the thousands of Iraqi prisoners who "capitulated" were in fact Iraqi civilians donning military uniforms for propaganda purposes.

Incidentally, these are two words I hope to never hear again for as long as I live: Capitulate and Propaganda.

Say what you want about Bush, but this al-Sahhaf guy is worse than Jon Lovitz's character "Mr. Liar" from SNL. How is al-Sahhaf going to explain the images of American and Coalition Forces walking through Saddam's battered presidential palace?

"Ha! The American's are using an elaborate movie set taken from Hollywood. Oh, and speaking of Hollywood, I'd like to thank my buddies Marty Sheen and Michael Moore for all of their indefatigable support, and they'll soon be receiving an honorary beret and novelty can of Sarin, which makes a lovely conversation piece."

Minister al-Sahhaf, do you really think the American and Coalition Forces are going to take the time and energy to erect an exact replica of Saddam's presidential palace?

"The Americans are sick in their minds! They will do anything to shroud the truth!"

Yes, this was another lambasting from the Disinformation Minister regarding US Troops charging into Baghdad. He said we had "sick minds." The joke will be on him when he claims that the US grenades that have been propelled up his ass are in fact giant, explosive hemorrhoids; and are in "no way related to those sick, American infid - " BOOM!

"You know why the French don't want to bomb Saddam Hussein?
Because he hates America, he loves mistresses and wears a beret.
He is French, people."
-Conan O'Brien

Smart Tactics For a Scary Show
Written by David M. Muench


Move over Spy TV and Candid Camera; it's time for a new evolution of hidden camera fun. The SciFi Channel introduced a new show Friday night called Scare Tactics; hosted by Shannen Doherty.

No, that's not the scary part. Think of this show as a practical joke taken to the extreme; with plenty of screaming and soiled underpants. The viewer (that's you) lives vicariously through the fear and terror of the practical joke victims, and we get to point and laugh; secretly thankful that it's not us. The "events" are taken from urban legends and popular scary movies and put into play with actors and the victim's friends; sometimes even Doherty plays a part in a twisted plot.

Here's an episode synopsis of the first show:

UFO Abduction
Partygoers in a limo are attacked by an enraged alien creature.

Firing Range
There's trouble on a firing range when an unsuspecting weapons-tester blows up Shannen Doherty's uncle.

Buried Alive
A man is shocked when his friend is trapped in a coffin and accidentally buried alive.

Camp Kill
Camp counselors in a remote mountain cabin find themselves hunted by a psychopathic killer.


See, now doesn't that sound like fun? Unless you're the victim of the heart-palpitating prank. So far, I like this series; and as long nobody files a lawsuit or has a heart attack it should have a good run. But unfortunately this isn't the first "fright-eliciting" reality type show. That honor belongs to ABC's "The View."

Smart Tactics For a Scary Show

Smart Tactics For a Scary Show
Written by David M. Muench


Move over Spy TV and Candid Camera; it's time for a new evolution of hidden camera fun. The SciFi Channel introduced a new show Friday night called Scare Tactics; hosted by Shannen Doherty.

No, that's not the scary part. Think of this show as a practical joke taken to the extreme; with plenty of screaming and soiled underpants. The viewer (that's you) lives vicariously through the fear and terror of the practical joke victims, and we get to point and laugh; secretly thankful that it's not us. The "events" are taken from urban legends and popular scary movies and put into play with actors and the victim's friends; sometimes even Doherty plays a part in a twisted plot.

Here's an episode synopsis of the first show:

UFO Abduction
Partygoers in a limo are attacked by an enraged alien creature.

Firing Range
There's trouble on a firing range when an unsuspecting weapons-tester blows up Shannen Doherty's uncle.

Buried Alive
A man is shocked when his friend is trapped in a coffin and accidentally buried alive.

Camp Kill
Camp counselors in a remote mountain cabin find themselves hunted by a psychopathic killer.

See, now doesn't that sound like fun? Unless you're the victim of the heart-palpitating prank. So far, I like this series; and as long nobody files a lawsuit or has a heart attack it should have a good run. But unfortunately this isn't the first "fright-eliciting" reality type show. That honor belongs to ABC's "The View."

Why Your Girlfriend Shouldn't Drink (or) Why Your Girlfriend Should Drink and Invite Her Hot Girlfriends
Written by David M. Muench


What is it about women kissing each other that entrances the guys? Now, I'm talking about the hot, sexy, "hey-man-I-saw-this-on-a-porno-once" women that may have been on "Baywatch" at one time. For example, The Kiss is a photographic montage of women kissing, most of them sexy, many of them drunk.

Some kisses are best described as kissing a relative, and other lip-locks you're wondering if one or both of them are regurgitating into each other's mouth. Tasty analogy, huh. In some of those pictures you'll see a guy standing next to them, with a classic Keanu Reeves "Whoa..." expression on their face. It's the initial face of shock. Then after the camera flash and the kiss this photogenic guy grins and says to his friend, "dude, did you see that?" Yes, he did. He may have been engaged in a conversation with another guy about Edlebrock manifolds or WWE Wrestling, and then the internal Women Kissing Warning System alerts him of "activity," causing him to immediately turn around and focus on the subjects in question.

You don't see two (straight) guys kissing when they've had their share of Long Island Iced Teas. I have never leaned over to my equally inebriated buddy and said, "Yo, Ken, come over here and kiss me, you drunk-ass fool. And use some tongue." No, that's not going to happen, no matter how much alcohol I have imbibed.

So what is this combination of alcohol and women? Is it some kind of chemical reaction between the "Sex on the Beach" beverage and pheromones? Does alcohol pervert the effects of the intrinsic attraction between men and women?

But more importantly, who the hell cares? "Bartender, another round for 'em...on me!"

Men Are Pigs, and We Like It

Why Your Girlfriend Shouldn't Drink (or) Why Your Girlfriend Should Drink and Invite Her Hot Girlfriends
Written by David M. Muench

What is it about women kissing each other that entrances the guys? Now, I'm talking about the hot, sexy, "hey-man-I-saw-this-on-a-porno-once" women that may have been on "Baywatch" at one time. For example, The Kiss is a photographic montage of women kissing, most of them sexy, many of them drunk.

Some kisses are best described as kissing a relative, and other lip-locks you're wondering if one or both of them are regurgitating into each other's mouth. Tasty analogy, huh. In some of those pictures you'll see a guy standing next to them, with a classic Keanu Reeves "Whoa..." expression on their face. It's the initial face of shock. Then after the camera flash and the kiss this photogenic guy grins and says to his friend, "dude, did you see that?" Yes, he did. He may have been engaged in a conversation with another guy about Edlebrock manifolds or WWE Wrestling, and then the internal Women Kissing Warning System alerts him of "activity," causing him to immediately turn around and focus on the subjects in question.

You don't see two (straight) guys kissing when they've had their share of Long Island Iced Teas. I have never leaned over to my equally inebriated buddy and said, "Yo, Ken, come over here and kiss me, you drunk-ass fool. And use some tongue." No, that's not going to happen, no matter how much alcohol I have imbibed.

So what is this combination of alcohol and women? Is it some kind of chemical reaction between the "Sex on the Beach" beverage and pheromones? Does alcohol pervert the effects of the intrinsic attraction between men and women?

But more importantly, who the hell cares? "Bartender, another round for 'em...on me!"

Guaranteed to INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS
Written by David M. Muench

I don't know which ex-girlfriend these spammers are talking to, but they'd better knock it off.

America Online is notorious about blocking the wrong kind of spam. "You mean there's a good kind of spam?" you ask. Damn straight, bucko. It's called a subscription to an eZine, such as a newsletter or jokelist. "Subscribing" means this e-mail is not unsolicited, people actually have to subscribe to it in order to receive it. The primordial gits at AOL have apparently surmised "Yahoo!Groups" to be one of them. A friend of mine and I both have jokelists through Yahoo!Groups, and both of our most recent mailings were apparently "blocked" by America Online.

This same friend commented that she still gets the "INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS" e-mails in her AOL e-mail box, but not her jokelist.

True, Yahoo!Groups does have an "Opt-Out" option in the "Privacy" section; which is defaulted for those who sign up for a Yahoo! ID to receive these third-party ads. And there's something called "Web beacons," which has nothing to do with rescue teams being able to locate you after your computer crashes. Those beacons are little "gifs" that keep track of users on a webpage, and you can opt out of that too.

So if you're one of the unlucky AOLers (myself included) who haven't received their e-mail from Yahoo!Groups, or another group mailing list, I'd suggest you contact AOL Corporate and get medieval on their buttocks.

Guaranteed to INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS

Guaranteed to INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS
Written by David M. Muench

I don't know which ex-girlfriend these spammers are talking to, but they'd better knock it off.

America Online is notorious about blocking the wrong kind of spam. "You mean there's a good kind of spam?" you ask. Damn straight, bucko. It's called a subscription to an eZine, such as a newsletter or jokelist. "Subscribing" means this e-mail is not unsolicited, people actually have to subscribe to it in order to receive it. The primordial gits at AOL have apparently surmised "Yahoo!Groups" to be one of them. A friend of mine and I both have jokelists through Yahoo!Groups, and both of our most recent mailings were apparently "blocked" by America Online.

This same friend commented that she still gets the "INCREASE THE SIZE OF YOUR PENIS" e-mails in her AOL e-mail box, but not her jokelist.

True, Yahoo!Groups does have an "Opt-Out" option in the "Privacy" section; which is defaulted for those who sign up for a Yahoo! ID to receive these third-party ads. And there's something called "Web beacons," which has nothing to do with rescue teams being able to locate you after your computer crashes. Those beacons are little "gifs" that keep track of users on a webpage, and you can opt out of that too.

So if you're one of the unlucky AOLers (myself included) who haven't received their e-mail from Yahoo!Groups, or another group mailing list, I'd suggest you contact AOL Corporate and get medieval on their buttocks.

Mr. Goodbody Vs. Michelin Man
Written by David M. Muench


Three weeks ago I began yet another episode of "It's My Body and I'll Cry If I Want to" gym pursuits. It's been an ongoing battle ever since I ceased "pumping iron" regularly back in '97. In '99, I began doing Tae Bo and joined Gold's Gym. My shape improved dramatically with Tae Bo, but I went to the gym only about five times during the whole year of 1999. At the end of that year, not only did I stop going to the gym, but my Tae Bo sessions went the way of the dying elephant as well. Without the horrid smell of decomposition.

Once again, I have joined a local gym in order to break the vicious cycle of "bald, fat, and ugly." To date, I have been maintaining a regular regiment of cardio and circuit weight training, and after the third week I was able to tell EMSA I wouldn't need them waiting outside the gym.
And it's difficult being "The New Guy" in a gym. No matter how confident you saunter, it's like a neon sign is hovering over you that says "New Guy," much like an online multiplayer game.

On my first day to the gym, I approached this very unusual machine that was sitting in the back of the cardio room. It was rather small and awkward, but I didn't want to seem like a New Guy and not know what the hell I was doing. I positioned myself on it and tried to locate the buttons for resistance levels, time, and program. I only saw one switch, so I pushed it. The obviously foreign machine roared to life and started moving across the floor towards other populated machines, which at once startled me because this was the first stationary contraption that wasn't stationary. I tried to steer away from the innocent people while at the same time realizing that the only use this exercise machine had was to increase your heartrate to dangerous levels.
At this point a man ran up to the errant machine and clicked the switch, then suggested that I would probably get a better workout on an actual exercise machine than on the floor waxer. I agreed, then walked quickly out of the room.