The Airport

Yesterday I was told two seemingly separate, relatively important things. First, I would be able to pick my car up from the shop the next day at around noon. And secondly, I would be driving my friend to the air port at around eight (AM.)

The math didn't line up properly, and so, eight o'clock I found myself walking out into the (quite literally) freezing morning to ride shotgun to the airport in my friend's car.

Mind you, the last time I was at the airport I was in my early teens. I've now managed to avoid it for the better part of a decade. The closest I've come to the runway is driving by the surrounding fence on the way home from a (mind-numbingly) distant interview. My last memory of the drop-off terminal came from the back seat of my mother's minivan.

For those of you who haven't utilized Orlando International in the past ever, the entrance itself is a puzzle of Rubix cube-like proportions. It can be figured out, with time, and a healthy dose of logic (some argue that there is a pattern, that has been planned, but I disagree,) so long as you do not fall pray to using your GPS (despite what it tells you, the south runway is not where you turn right.)

After you've finally figured out where the elusive path that leads to the terminals actually is, you've built up so much nervous energy that finding the correct drop off is nearly impossible. This inevitably forces you back into the vehicular maze for round two, where you place all of your Faith in the belief (and that's what it essentially equates to when driving with me) that eventually you will arrive at your destination.

Then, you (in this scenario the drafted chauffeur to the now worldly-seeming friend) have to find your way back out of the labyrinthine roadways of the airport just to find yourself back on the highway, which is where(any officer of the law or worried mother will tell you) the real problems begin. It's entirely likely that you own one of the various gadgets the electronics corporations (seemingly, in a race to cause the most car accidents in the shortest amount of time) have developed "streamlining" their products. Now we have cell phones that tell us where to go, play our music, movies and books on tape. The only way they could be more dangerous is if they also offered alcoholic drinks and pointed out really interesting bits of passing scenery at very inopportune moments.

Some of you "old pros" (I'm sure) are reading this and wondering exactly how it is I've made it this far in life if I'm having problems with a simple airport trip. Well I can assure you it's not by making rookie mistakes similar, if not exactly like:

Not going to sleep until four AM the morning you're expected to drive your friend to the airport at eight.

Not familiarizing yourself with the directions to and from your destination.

Not familiarizing yourself with your friends car before driving.

Not adjusting the mirrors, seats and various music and air-conditioning settings of said vehicle until you have already thrown yourself headfirst, salmon-like, into the upstream battle that is exiting Orlando International.

Having a nearly complete lack of knowledge of the highways near to your lifelong home.

Making mistakes like these are exactly how one (someone I certainly have nothing to do with and in no way resemble) doesn't make it past his or her twenty-fifth year, so I make absolutely sure I do not to make them.

Grandmommy's Gifts, When I'm Right, I'm Right.

Like most Christmases, this Christmas was over by the 26th, and it now being the 27th means that I only have so long to write about it before it becomes old news, or worse, old fake news.

I don't know why I was so surprised to be exactly right about something, as I so often (Ha!) am--yet again, my grandmother managed to fill up multiple boxes worth of gifts, wrap them in Holiday themed paper, and hand them over to us with a huge smile on her face while she sung out the oh-so-familiar chorus of "this Christmas is the last Christmas I'm doing." I have a feeling that just as she said that last year, and this year's Christmas still arrived with a doting Grandmother in tow, so too will next year's Christmas drag her into the Holiday festivities, kicking and screaming--or, entirely more likely, she will find herself at a garage sale, or in front of a product at a store that she knows one of her grandchildren just has to have, and she will buy that product saying: "This is the only thing I'm buying so-and-so this year. And they can just deal with getting only one gift." She is likely to repeat this process two dozen times (per grandchild) throughout the year until this happens yet again:

You might notice the very practical nature of some of these gifts. I'm relatively sure my cousin got six pairs of scissors. Well, five. I stole a pair. I think she noticed, because she gave me a very questioning look that asked: wait, you actually want one of them? Go right ahead. How do you feel about this whisk?

It might sound improper, or even borderline rude, to complain or joke about a gift, and sometimes it is, but in all seriousness, I have a paring knife sitting at the bottom of my shorts drawer, that has been sitting there since I was twelve. It's not that we don't like the gifts, it's not even that we don't need them. What it comes down to, in truth, is that she gives me and my cousins these incredibly useful packages, for that mythical day she just calls "the day you own your own home." While it may be a buyers market, none of us are, or anytime soon will be, in the market for an actual house. And yet, each and everyone of us are now the proud owners of a fully stocked and decked out gourmet kitchen, even if the kitchen itself is (and for the near future, is like to remain) entirely imaginary.

We all love these gifts, we always have and always will, and seriousness, that paring knife will find use someday, maybe even in paring, if I ever figure out what that is. It's almost impossible for us to even consider not getting "grandmommy's boxes."

The only problem with my grandmother's gift giving system (outside of the obvious storage issues that inevitably occur) is what I've come to call "the Favre Effect." Brett Favre has long been one of my favorite players in the NFL, however, it is widely known that the man throws a put ton of interceptions. When you hold the record for touchdowns, and passes thrown, it's logical that you'd also at least be "up there" on "picks" as well. My grandmother has come across this same problem, in regards to her own unique sport. Each year, every one of her many giftees receives somewhere around a half-thousand individual presents. Statistically, not every gift will be a hit. And even if the gift is perfect, it might not be entirely applicable. For example, take one of the pictures above. It is widely known that I am an avid gamer. I enjoy the video games. However, I do not now, or have not ever, owned a Zelda game. Despite my love of that particular platform, I haven't ever owned a system with that series even on it. My experience with Zelda comes entirely through friends and their respective experiences. And yet, this Christmas Eve found me the proud owner of a Zelda strategy guide. (Strategy guides being one of the five great gamer sins non-withstanding) I had no way of using this. But throwing it away, or giving it away, seems somehow wrong. Plus, I find it entirely too cute that I got a video game guide from my grandmother. She clearly had the thought process of "He plays video games. So he plays this video game." But beyond even that, the cutest thing of all (or most insulting, depending on where you sit) is that she thought, well, if he plays video games, he probably needs help. And so I came into ownership of a guide, for a game I've never touched.

However, the awesome reality of it all still remains: I'm overjoyed that my grandmother continues to think of me, it's great to know that someone does, that there is a veritable wall of love always lurking, looming, somewhere in the distance, ready to shower me with gifts and mixed statements about what I should be doing with my life and who I should vote for in the next election, with a pinch of "I love you" thrown in for good measure.

The New Big Three and Orlando's Big Deal

Today, like most days, I woke up to a barrage of text messages. Don't take that as me unabashedly telling you about how popular I am. Take it for what it is, an indication that I go to sleep when everyone else is waking up. I'm smack dab in the middle of my first REM cycle when my first wave of text messages (normally the ones asking about lunch) hit.

The messages today led me directly into a conversation that we all love to hate: sports, or more specifically, the viability of the current Miami Heat lineup, and the moves that the Orlando Magic made in the past few days.

Sports fans will say what they will about the Heat--and haven't stopped doing so since the first day LeBron put on his floaties and jumped out of the sinking ship that was (and is) the Cleveland franchise, and paddled his happy way into the warm waters of South Beach--but the Heat are proving to NBA fans and ESPN Sports Analysts alike that three superstars can play together and win games. I, personally, am still holding onto the belief that having three players of that caliber on one team will be detrimental to their overall chances at success. Regular season games are won by thirty point scores, but playoff basketball requires the complete team, it requires a solid bench--something the Heat are distinctly lacking.

The biggest problem for the Heat lies in the expectations. James, Bosh and Wade all expect a Championship, the Organization expects a Championship, and the fans not only expect one, they need one, if only to justify the soaring prices of regular season tickets in Miami. The investment (and therefore strain) that Miami, emotional and financial, has placed in (and on) these three players is extraordinary, and the requirements the players are demanding of themselves more so--if they don't turn out a Championship this season, or at the latest, next, we might see trade rumors and a talks springing up like the Huns in Mulan.

And honestly? We should. LeBron needs to be the star of the show for the chemistry of any team he's on to be right. The same could be said for Dwayne Wade, who is, in my opinion, the most underrated of the NBA superstars. The reality very well may be that the newish "Big Three" might be a little too big.

The biggest sports buzz of the week though, for any of us who still call Orlando home, lies in the Orlando Magic's series of rapid fire deals. There was some excitement, and a lot of general puzzlement, about the Vince Carter trade (you know, the one that got rid of Courtney Lee) in the first place. Now we've dished Carter to get Hedo Turkoglu (a name that only a Magic fan could pronounce with any accuracy) and Jason Richardson (a 20 points a game player.) We also traded away Gortat to Pheonix, effectively swapping three fifths of our team for thee fifths of the Suns' teams in what NBA analyst of yore call "ye ole Swaparoo."

On top of the "you take mine, I'll take yours" trade that Magic President Otis Smith worked out with the Suns, he also sent Rashad Lewis (my favorite overly-capable, under-performing professional player) for Gilbert Arenas, the troubled all-star from the more troubled Washington Wizards franchise.

I've been a huge proponent of the "We (the Magic) need a 30-point a game scorer" argument. Then, Smith, in his wisdom, waved his magic wand and made it so. Arenas alone gives the Magic a very solid chance at a legitimate playoff run, taking nothing away from the near Championship of 2009 where for a reason unknown to me, good old Skip-to-my-Lou was taken out for a fresh from injury Jameer Nelson. Picking up half of the Suns' roster and dealing the "Glass Ankle" known as Vince Carter can only be considered a bonus, even if we did lose Gortat, another famously underrated player, in the deal.

Of course, I would rather have a superstar who hadn't brought a gun into a locker room, or faked an injury to get a fellow teammate game time (although that one doesn't sound too bad.)

It's alright, it's just the Magic keeping in line with the new Orlando (and Cincinnati, if the Bengals have a say) tradition of hiring people with checkered pasts (a la George O'Leary) and minor criminal infractions.

I mean, it was just a gun. In a locker room. Well, so long as he scores thirty points a game, I'm alright with it. After all is said and done, I won't be in the locker room anytime soon.

Grandmommy's Gifts

My mother is talking to me about my Grandmother again. Or more accurately, talking to my Grandmother when I'm around (which in this case translates into the same thing.) Grandma is upset (again,) my older sister took some things (things that were also gifts) from my younger sister, and my younger sister gave them willingly. I would understand Grandma’s issue, if she were a normal person, that gave a normal amount of gifts.

But she’s not normal. She’s Grandmommy, and she is what I have come to call a "thriftaholic." She shops for deals, at garage sales and thrift stores, if it's cheap, she’s interested. My Grandmother personally kept the Salvation Army afloat from ’83-Modern Day. The day Grandma stops shopping for deals is the day we take away her car keys, her money and her cell phone (my aunts and mother are enablers to their cores.)

Don’t take this all negatively—it worked for her, a little too well. When I was five years old, I would sit down on her multi-colored carpet in front of the Christmas Tree, next to one of my cousins, and open a box I could fit my bed into (suffice it to say this was not a typical Christmas present.)

The children would spend the rest of the evening digging through our presents, trying to catalog what we got, a task, I might add, we nearly always found to be impossible unless we got incredibly general. “This is a box full of gifts,” one of us (the cousins) would say. And the rest of us would look on and say “She is wise, mine is also a box full of gifts.” Without this very political approach you could quite easily spend the rest of the year opening one Christmas gift.

I have a theory that somewhere in her house, is a secret room with about twenty or so cubbyholes, with my family's name tags taped across the top. Each one is filled to boiling over with random toys, books and gadgets. Each year, sometime in November, I imagine she goes down those stairs with as many boxes as she feels she needs, and just reaches in and pulls out whatever it takes to fill each one. She no longer has an inclination to even look at what she’s giving to whom.

This may seem like a very efficient system, but she has caught herself in what I think of as the “Thriftshopper’s Spiral of Doom that Leads into the Penny-Pincher’s Abyss." It's a Working Title. You see, she buys more than each family member needs in a year, so she is essentially buying in advance for years to come. This would work swimmingly, if she—at some point—stopped buying. But she doesn’t. Ever.

So each year, she buys half again what she actually gives each of us. So what’s the end result? Run-on gifts. You get gifts in 1994 that you were supposed to get in '93, and so on, until eventually you're getting gifts you were supposed to get three of four years previously.

So here we are, adults in our twenties and beyond, getting boxes full of action figures, Mr. Potato Head and friends-with a few priceless gems mixed in. When I was twenty, I got my older cousins gift. A ceramic vase, printed with roses and an actual gold-enameled rose. There were recipe books for women being in shape-and a small sweatshirt. Grandma claimed she didn't mix it up. I still have the vase, it holds my favorite pens.

It’s hard to say I have any actual complaints about her system. Every Christmas for 24 (and counting) years I’ve been getting a box that outweighs me (And this is no small feat! Hah! Puns!) of some of the coolest gifts you can believe. Grandmommy's boxes are always a joy to open, it’s the grab bag of Christmas. A recipe book about only PB&J, why not? A ceramic rose? Sure. The first model of camera Kodak ever made? Every year Grandma’s boxes serve as a reminder, firstly that my Grandmother is still alive, still bringing happiness to our family, and secondly that there is no such thing as a bad gift. We’ve been told since we were children, by every Christmas movie ever made, that it’s the act of giving that counts, the spirit of the Holiday. My grandmother is the pinnacle of this feeling, the epitome of what we should want to be during the Christmas—or whatever you celebrate--season.

I hope my grandmother keeps bargain shopping for the rest of her life, it's good to know someone's out there, thinking about me. And out-shopping the average Costco Corporate buyer on her slow days.

Shepard's Pie

Tonight I discovered a conundrum. One that has (most likely) been around for centuries. Mother's who can cook well, but also like to spend time with their children face it everyday, and we, the ignorant masses, never know of it.

I'm not sure if they do.

Let's take Shepard Pie Night on any old day before today: Shepard's Pie? Boring. It taste like cheese, and beef. It's like a taco, in a pot, only instead of spicy sauce, you go the A1 route. Tonight? I don't know what, exactly, it was we ate, but it was fantastic.

It tasted like I imagine most meals in Heaven, or Emeril's, taste like. It needed no extra flavors, it had vegetables and starches, meats and dairy.

It was the perfect meal. And it has been missing from my life, these many years.

And I think I know why.

Let's rewind the clock a few years. My brother and I are at the dinner table. We are both exhausted, mentally and physically. Football practice and school have tapped us out.

We sit down to the table where our little sister sits, at her smaller place, with her smaller cups and plastic plates, pouting because she thinks shes a big girl now, and she knows she deserves a bigger plate. Even though she too hates Shepard's Pie.

My brother and I will do anything to avoid eating this. But, with our father and mother looking on, we know it's impossible. We are doomed to this meal, and we know it. But, if we're going to be forced to eat it, well...they (our parents) are going to be forced to stay here far longer than is needed.

And that's how, after forty five minutes of fart jokes and name dropping high school girls and the all the drama implied, my mother would finally concede and say "Eat a few more bites."

To which we would of course respond, "Do we get desert?"

What we didn't know was that my mother? She was winning. Not only were all her children spending more time with her, but we were actually conspiring to do so.

Tonight's meal was fantastic, it was perfection topped with cheese. And took all of five minutes to eat two helpings of. She spent two hours making it, we spent 1/24th of that time eating it. And with a simple "Thanks, Mom." we were off, back to our respective dwelling or studying places.

Then again. We're older now, we're still her babies, but we aren't her babies. We're old enough to where she knows she doesn't really like us all that much.

So now, she makes the better food, knowing it will get us out of her sight faster.

Smart play, Mom. Smart play.

Mammoth Find Reveals New Facts About The Ice Age!

And all the people who truly cared, were actually at the dig site. Presumably, digging (or, if they're clever, watching other people dig while they "nurse a back injury they got in an intense game of racquetball earlier in the week.")

I don't mean to imply that fossils and prehistoric life are not interesting. In fact, I think it's fascinating that before us there were thousands of cycles of life, different and unique types of life, and even before them, thousands more. It lends a weight to our lives, a gravity, instills an urgency. It helps us find purpose, or to want to in the first place. Ancient remains always say the same thing, to me, there is more to life than survival. Life is transient. We will not always be here. Demand the best (or at least medium-rare) and don't be afraid to send it back if it's crappy. And tip your waitresses (or waiters, depending on how politically correct you feel the need to be.)

But fossils are not new. Don't take this literally, obviously they're incredibly old, but rather, the act of finding fossils is not new. It happens all the time, and has happened all the time, since the first time a human took a rock, and dug into the ground. (An instinct we still have today, we even invented a vehicle that carries around a giant shovel for us. Because digging is awesome.)

And yet, archeologists (and the community of other ists who refused to leave the sandbox) are consistently surprised when they find new fossils. As if, the idea that the planet had life before us is as amazing and new now as it was then, then being the beginning of recorded history.

This is evidence that my theory about scientists is closer to correct then I thought it was when I originally posited it (that is to say, when I first told the joke.) Scientists are essentially just rather large goldfish in human suits, large periods of lulls, with bursts of excitement, followed by an immediate forgetfulness that is so full, so utterly complete, that it mimics a Brazilian wine hangover. I can't go into my room for ten minutes without finding something I lost three years ago, and yet, the scientific community goes into a "fossil frenzy" every time we find a mastodon bone.

If a man (or woman, equal rights, people) comes stomping into town on the lead bull of a wooly-mammoth herd, I would be surprised. I would expect the scientific community to begin immediate and furious shenanigans. Because this would be awesome. But digging through last weeks trash and being surprised to find chicken bones is just plain silly.

And I know what you're thinking. "Dave, it's not that they found a mammoth fossil, it's that they found the fossils of twenty-two (or some odd) different species on this one site!"

Because in the modern world, animals don't live together in complex ecosystems of more than one or two types of animals at a time. What a fascinating, and new, discovery!

All jokes and mocking aside. The find will give us knowledge we desperately need (to know the next time we are quizzed on the ecosystems of the Ice Age.) And congratulations to all the ists out there who are involved in the dig.

And the construction worker who didn't run over it with a bulldozer, way to keep your cool, Construction Guy. The ists thank you.

Candor and a Higer Education (or at least the Possibility of one...)

There's that word again: "candor."

I'm kind of sick of it. It's not that truthfulness, or as I like to think of it, truthiness, bothers me, it's that...it's kind of frightening.

Of course, it's situational, for example, when the barista (a rather attractive girl) brings two free drinks to me in one day because "I messed this one up." or "I made extra, whoops." I'm glad for her honesty. Had she just smiled and walked away I could have spent the next three weeks mooning over her and wondering what exactly these drinks meant. Does she like me? Should I like her? How do I bring her free drinks?

However, when my mother was honest about giving me Christmas gifts because of the social morays and the religious establishment that require her to dote upon her children, well I could have done without that. (And did, my mother is an absolute doll, and would never say that. But if she had that would have really sucked.)

Now to the point: To speak with candor, I am afraid. Not in that pull the sheets up over my head, hide behind my mother's skirts kind of way. Not even in the go buy a shotgun kind of way. But in that, freeze in your tracks, unsure of what to do next, kind of way.

You see, this week has seen me sign up for the GRE (short for: oh my God, I Really have to get moving with my life Exam.) and begin researching what I want to go to school for.

So far I've come up with:
Journalism: Because I don't want a real job, and I figure I can just do this, but have credentials.
Communications: Because not enough schools have Journalism, and I don't want a real job, and I figure I can...
Political Science: Because I hate myself.
Underwater Basket Weaving: It's better than open-air basket weaving any day of the week, yo.
Scriptwriting: Because I want to be popular with people my mother would hate.
Womens Studies: Someone has to understand women. (Right?)

I really only got anywhere with researching the Journalism and or Communications schools, and I was fascinated but what I found: I'm ridiculously under qualified. (You see, candor is scary.)

But, on a high note, the schools that offer these programs (outside of Plain Jane UCF) are in really awesome places.

New York University offers programs in Writing and Mass Communications // Media Relations for people who are much smarter and wealthier than I am.

New Orleans University offers a Journalism and Communications for people who are much more fun than I am.

The University of Nevada, Las Vegas offers a top ranked Communications school for people with much more self-discipline than I have.

The University of Alabama has a (reportedly) great program for people that like Alabama.

England...well apparently every school in England offers a Journalism Masters, because America doesn't and the Brits love thumbing their collective noses at us.

Newcastle University, Australia: Where I want to go because anything with Newcastle in the name has to be amazing.

Now I just have to write a letter of purpose to any and all of these schools. Which could be really fascinating. What am I going to say? "I like trying to make people laugh. But I cant guarantee it." I think that line is missing a certain academic quality.

This is what I imagine my letter would look like, if I were to be truthful.

Dear Dean of Students, and or Head of the Journalism Department,

My name is David Start and I want to be a humorist. Seeing as you offer no classes in this subject, I would very much like to get into your school's illustrious program so I can sit next to a stronger (in regards to academics because, I mean, come on.) student and give his or her project a running commentary and wrap up any and all assignments with an in-depth comedic analysis, while also doggedly trying to make any and all of my prospective Professors chuckle and or kick me out of his or her class due to my (hopefully funny) antics.

Please let me into your school. I promise I will only waste twenty to twenty-two hours of every day on frivolous ideas and awkwardly timed jokes. (I won't even post all of these on the internet, because that is perilously close to work.)

If you don't accept me, could you please send this letter, my resume and my transcripts over to the Head of the Political Science department?

If I can't learn to get paid for my humorous take on the World, I'd really love to get paid sit around and talk shit about politicians all day. (That's called a Political Correspondent or Analyst, I believe.)

Thank you for your time,
David Start

P.S. Enclosed in this letter is a whoopie cushion and a webcam. You know what to do.

P.P.S. If you are possibly a Dean and or Head of Department, even a Professor of a school I may or may not attend, I absolutely do not feel this way about obtaining a higher education.

P.P.P.S. Unless you feel that way, then I totally do.

You Can't Cry Upside Down

It has taken me years of searching and thousands of (someone else’s) dollars, but I have finally found it, it being the answer to the World’s sadness. Crying is officially a thing of the past (so long as someone strong is nearby.) My sister has recently broken up with (and subsequently gotten back together with, broken up with again, and reunited again) her boyfriend. My sister is at the age where this is not out of the ordinary, in fact it is expected (we took bets, I owe my Dad something I’m sure.)

My sister is a teenager (as you might have guessed) and as such, is incredibly hormonal, to the point of ridiculousness. I managed to go my entire life without being around women that cried (excepting my mom around anything resembling a small child doing, quite frankly, anything), and then my life exploded into a river of tears, seemingly, out of nowhere. I’ve since found myself distinctly lacking the crying girlfriend, but she was immediately (and quite forcefully) replaced by the teary eyed sister. She can cry about anything. My mother wants her to do laundry, but tells her more than once? She cries. Her boyfriend can’t come over on a Saturday because he has a baseball game? She cries. She got a bad grade on a test she didn’t study for? She cries. It’s raining? She cries. The show Doc got canceled? She cries. (It was canceled six years ago.)

Yesterday, during one of her spouts, I went a different direction with my reaction (insert something about a forest and a path less traveled), I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder. This may seem cruel at first, but imagine my surprise when…she stopped crying! I didn’t quite believe it so I kept her up there for awhile more to make sure my ears weren’t deceiving me. They weren’t! She said to me “David! Put me down, I can’t cry upside down!”

Victory.

Sweet, sweet victory.

I looked at my mother, and I could see that she too, had no idea what had just happened. She was as bewildered as my sister at my joy. “Don’t you see! Don’t you see!?” I yelled. “We’ve done it! The World will be a happy place!”

My mother cut to the core of the problem relatively quickly, “But, David,” she said, “just because people aren’t crying, doesn’t mean they’re happy.”

“But Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom,” I responded, “now we don’t have to hear their unhappiness.”

And then, I could see she finally understood.

She had raised an asshole.

“David,” my sister said, “put me down, I’m choking on my tears.”

A Debate about Gravity

My friend Michael is what one could call a "science enthusiast." One could actually say "science zealot" and not be too far off. But he occasionally finds me gems (and or fodder for my blog.) Like this one:

If you don't want to read it, I'll go ahead and explain it. A teachers assistant at the University of Wisconsin (for a Philosophy class, so let's not give him too hard of a time) was explaining Descartes to his students when he came up with a metaphor (incorrectly) using the moon, and of course (being a philosopher) a pen. (A writer would surely have used a Kindle, and hoped to see it float away, never to be thought of again, or, if he were Dave Barry, he would have used a toilet in his metaphor.)

The metaphor went as follows: "A pen always falls when you drop it on Earth, but it would just float away if you let go of it on the Moon." The point of his simile was to show the class that things don't always happen the way we think they will. He should have launched into a rant about women and how this one time, he bought his girlfriend a beautiful gold necklace with a diamond heart in the center. And instead of thanking him she ran into her room and cried for two hours because the necklace reminded her of a heart her best friend in middle school drew for her right before she moved away never to be seen or heard from again and she still hasn't quite gotten over the trauma of the whole ordeal, but really baby, she said later, it was a thoughtful gift, and she never wore it and left him three months later, and the damn thing cost over two hundred dollars. (You see, sometimes things don't end up how you think they will class!) Instead, he told the students (essentially) that gravity doesn't exist on the moon.

The man who wrote this article, who went unnamed (he's a professor of physics now, so go him), raised his hand (and dropped his jaw) to question the TA. You see, due to the fact that the moon is, in fact, a rather large celestial body, it does have gravity. Actually, if you were to make a chart of it, the moon's gravity would come up somewhere between the seriousness a situation FOX news wants you to believe something is, and how serious the situation actually is.

When the TA was challenged with the question: "then why didn't the astronauts float away?" He replied, apparently with confidence, "Because they wore heavy boots." Oh of course, heavy boots.

A fun fact for any of you who haven't ever opened a 7th grade science book: In zero gravity, which this TA believes the moon to be in (based on his earlier pen assumption), weight not only doesn't matter, it doesn't exist. Strictly speaking it's only mass--remember that time in any space-set movie ever when the guy/girl in the space suit pushes the insanely heavy object away from his/her space craft with his/her broken pinky finger? By that logic (closer to factual), wearing heavy boots would only make it harder for the astronaut to board the spaceship in the first place.

The really inane part about all of this is that the professor (the one who wrote the article, not the Physics uninitiated Philosophy TA) later created a test involving that exact question (why didn't the astronauts on the moon land away--worse, it was multiple choice.) I won't go into the details (you can read the link), but suffice it to say, a higher number than expected failed (and a percentage even asked if material they hadn't studied for would be on the next test--because that was totally unfair.)

Now, you may be asking yourself: "Dave, why do you care? You're not a scientist and this isn't a "science blog." You're a humorist, or at best (or worst) a political satirist."

Well, questioning reader, the answer is simple: The people who answered this question wrong, well...they vote. And will continue to do so for the rest of my (and probably yours) life.

Let that sink in for a moment.

Yeah, now you're with me. Heavy boots indeed.

(I'd like to point out that I'm a super hypocrite. Not in regards to a basic understanding of gravity, but rather to the earlier comment about the Kindle. I so want one. It just seems easier. Downside? I'm pompous. I enjoy owning a library. A digital library doesn't impress literary women, no siree Bob.)

Cheesy Times at the Dave Effect

"Eat more cheese!" the man said to himself.
"No, wait..." he paused, looking in the mirror, "don't eat more cheese."
"Dude, it's just cheese."
"Stop talking to me like that! I can feel my arm hurting."
"That's just in your head!"
"Really?"
"No. It's probably you're heart. You eat entirely too much cheese..."
"But, but...you told me to.
"Of course I did. I work for the U.S.D.A and it's good for the economy."

This is a (possibly) real conversation had between a man (possibly) employed by the U.S.D.A. or Dairy Management (a government non-profit concerned with the growth of the dairy industry) and (possibly) himself.

I find the current out pouring of food advertisements interesting, and not just because I love to eat things that will eventually kill me, but also because they seem so similar. Almost as if Taco Bell, Dominoes, Burger King and all of their competitors were using the same recipe for success. Imagine my surprise when I found out they were: Dairy Management. The company that could be responsible for letting you get so much of your daily saturated fat (say 3/4 of your expected daily intake) so easily (say in one taco, or a few slices of pizza.)

Dairy Management has recently partnered with quite a few under performing companies, such as Dominoes, with the goal of improving the U.S. economy via the dairy market. And no one could argue that this has failed. In fact, it's so successful that it's starting to worry the U.S.D.A., the organization that commissioned the smaller Dairy Management group to begin operations on expanding the dairy industry in the first place.

Here's the problem as far as the U.S.D.A. sees it: Americans are getting fat. (I will use myself as a rather credible, if declining, example of this fact.)

Here's another problem as far as the U.S.D.A. sees it: Americans are getting poor. And still getting fat.

I guess at the point they realized this, the problem wasn't really theirs to solve anymore. In fact the difficulty probably lies in America's addiction to fast food, cafe beverages and various forms of sugary consumables, and the fact that a high percentage of these eats and treats are dairy doesn't mean that if dairy farmers and companies ceased producing absolutely anything unhealthy that American's would suddenly start eating better and jogging to work.

The problem isn't that we eat far too much cheese. This is not new information. We eat over three times as much cheese (and therefore saturated fats) now than we did in 1978. This didn't creep up on us or come out of left field. American kids were raised on the happy meal and this has had adverse effects (if you want to talk like a lawyer.) What I mean by that is kids are getting fat. Childhood obesity is never funny. Except in the Goonies. And Goldberg from the Mighty Ducks, or the catcher from the Sandlot, or...(what is wrong with us?)

The truly befuddling part of the whole enterprise is how the problem should be dealt with. Obviously the average American can not be allowed to decide for themselves, advertisement executives and medical professionals have seen to that, so the government has to step in somewhere. (Right? Vote on it. I'll be the guy at the polls, I'll be the bearded guy sitting alone.)

What is truly interesting is the double standard that the government has had to pursue. On the one hand, the government is responsible (or at least held responsible) for the economy. While at the same time, is also responsible (held) for the health and well being of its people.

In effect, we've forced the government to create an organization that pushes a product to help the economy, create something to sell, companies to sell it, etc., and watch the money finally begin flowing into the market again. While at the very same time, creating an organization (within the same branch: Agricultural in this case) that deals with the negative results of what they're pushing.

The U.S.D.A and Dairy Management's relationship is a lot like what would happen if drug dealers invested in rehab centers.

Things You Can Learn by Watching the Animated Film Hercules with a Seventh Grade Class

1) Seventh graders don't like musicals. Or rather, they don't like the songs in musicals, being quiet during musicals, or learning anything from musicals. The best you can get from them is that, they will, very grudgingly, accept that musicals exist, and possibly keep their eyes open and focused in the general direction of the screen, if only to keep themselves informed on when they should open their mouths to mock the characters pouring out their souls on screen. Every time a new song came on, I had to brace myself for the onslaught of the collective sigh that suddenly overtook the classroom.

2) American students have no background information on anything myth related. (If it wasn't in Clash of the Titans, they don't know it.) Not only do they not know what a demigod or Greek myth is (I'm relatively sure they thought Hercules' name was actually Kevin Sorbo and that he would later go onto captain a star ship called the Andromeda or something along those lines.)

3) All American students watch Family Guy:
No American students know who Hades is (beyond incorrectly labeling him the lord of Hell, and thinking he is Satan) but, ironically, all American students know who James Woods (the voice of Hades) is. "Oh, a piece of candy" was the joke of the week.

4) The fake watch salesman, a popular joke of my youth, is dead and buried. It has gone the way of the DoDo and been replaced by "the flasher." There is a scene, in the first half of Hercules where a man springs in front of Herc in the city of Thebes and throws his cloak open wide..."wanna' buy a sun dial?" I remember this joke, I remember seeing this movie. I distinctly remember not thinking "that guy is about to show his junk to Hercules!" Each class very audibly gasped in surprise or said "eeeeeew" when this scene played out. Humor has definitely shifted in the past ten years, and this joke didn't make the cut. In fact, now, it's mildly offensive (or terrifying.)

5) Disney does what it wants. If you watch a movie such as Hercules with your kids, or younger siblings, you don't really think about how entirely inaccurate the movie is in regards to Greek culture and mythology and you just enjoy the movie and the song and dance routines therein.

However, when you are in a class, and expected to answer questions on said movie, you realize that Disney got just about everything wrong when considering the myth as it was originally told.(Some examples are as follows:)

REAL MYTH:
Mother: Alcemene
Status: Demigod
Events: Murders his own children in a sorcery induced rage.
Muses: Nine goddesses of the arts.
Twelve Labors: Twelve hardest tasks known to man.
Titans: Zeus' parents.Former Lords of The Universe.
Timeline: Hercules proceeds the more common, and human, heroes such as Achilles and Jason.

Disney's version:
Mother: Hera
Status: god
Events: Turned into a super strong mortal by a potion Hades concocted.
Muses: Five black gospel singers.
Twelve Labors: Hades minions.
Titans: Hades minions.
Timeline: Hercules is trained by a goat and comes along well after a string of lesser heroes, and apparently, the Battle of Troy.


These are just a few of the incongruities that had to be addressed, in some manner, during the movie. I felt it was unwise to get into things like "no Greek god would ever be depicted to have pecs that big" (in regards to Zeus.) Or, "why was Hera mad? Well, you see, Zeus was a cheater. He cheated. Infidelity and all that...no, Fidelity is the name of a bank...look Zeus loved women and women loved Zeus. Moving on."

6) Seventh graders have no concept of historical time lines. I give you the case of: Heracles vs. Hercules. When explaining that the Roman's being the totally awesome, yet distinctly creativity lacking imperialists that they were, just jacked the Greek god's right out from under the Greek's (decidedly conquered) noses, I had to explain ideas like:

1) Greek language vs. Roman language
2) The Renaissance: A fascination with "the classics" led to Renaissance scholars discovering planets, and naming them after the Roman gods, not, as one of my seventh graders succinctly put it: "So, uhm, the Romans named their gods after the planets...right?"
3) "Troy was more than a movie with Brad Pitt in it, and the original story--the Illiad--no not the Alien, no not the Idiot, the Ill--the guys who...are you laughing at Trojan because a condom company? Really? Guuuuuys....the story had much great ramifica--again with the laughter, really?"

"Ha. Ha. you said ram."

The Decline of the Fortune Cookie

There was a time when Fortune Cookies had tiny little fortunes inside. These fortunes were an integral part of the Chinese food experience. They told you about life, happiness, love, deceit, betrayal and which lotto numbers to play (they still do that.)

These days Fortune Cookies are less fortune, and more everyday advice. "Today you will find happiness in the World" has changed to "If you work hard at it, you can find happiness." (Sometimes they use a farming metaphor, but as my grasp on agriculture extends as far as picking the weeds around my parents grapefruit tree, I rarely get what they're saying.) But, alas, this is assuming you get a fortune in the first place. Twice now I've opened my after meal cookie to find it quite fortuneless. Certainly a third such incident would spell my doom. (My father has had similar luck with the moist towelettes you can find at any wing joint, but this normally only results in him not smelling of lemon after dinner.)

I'm not asking for specific fortunes here. I don't want to read about how after this meal I will walk into the parking lot, stub my toe on the sidewalk, fall headfirst into a passing car, luckily survive, only to be subsequently sued by the driver who whacked his spine out of alignment in an effort to avoid hitting me. I don't want to know this because I have a fear of self fulfilling prophecy.

However, the mini-advice column that the modern day fortune cookie has become is quite depressing. Half of the fun of eating Chinese was reading about the possibilities of your future (and saying "in bed" after reading a fortune.) They've taken that away from us by giving us structured (and rather bland) sentences with metaphors that make little sense to anyone who doesn't speak Engrish.

Further more, tonight's meal (Chinese) was accompanied by a fortune that I could not read.I don't even live in Miami! Honestly, I'm not actually too grumpy with the fortune being in Spanish, the plaza I ate in happens to be one with quite a few Latino shops, and one of the facts of living in Florida is that the population is diverse. Rather, what really irks me, is that they still weren't fortunes. The two fortunes, if you didn't read them, translate into: "Do you feel lucky?" (A question, you'll notice.) And "Laziness is the key to their poverty." (Which just strikes me as a generalization and borderline racist...and again...not a fortune.)

At this point I'm questioning the entire concept. Who do you go to about these things? Where can I file my complaints? Is there a Fortune Cookie Committee somewhere that oversees Fortune Cookie affairs? Makes sure that all fortunes are up to date and steeped with some kind of mysticism? Or is this a worldwide conspiracy against the concept of fortunes? If I wanted really lame advice, I would just ask my...well I wouldn't go eat Chinese food for it.

I want to sue for false advertising.

WikiLeaks and Why I Don't Like Them

This is going to be a rather short, and unfunny posting.

Not only am I pressed for time, but I find this particular subject to be a little ridiculous and I can't find humor in it. Today WikiLeaks has begun (or finished by this time) the leak of over 380,000 classified documents regarding the war in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The question of journalistic integrity is brought to light here. I understand the World (and therefore it's People) do need, on occasion, to see the truth around them. It is difficult, near impossible, to correctly decide what is for the public eye and what should remain secret. The debate over Public Domain and classified missions/details to our History (as a nation) will always be in question. The Government has to decide what is relevant while the people have to decide what is just. Do we need to know which men informed on the Mafia? Probably not. Would the remains of the Mafia love to know which of their former members snitched? Most definitely. Us, the People, having said information puts those informants lives and the lives of their children in direct danger, and therefore we do not need to know.

Within the leaked documents (almost half a million all told) are things regarding torture in Iraq (done by Iraqi military but known about by the US, apparently a blind eye was turned) but also things regarding troop movements and Iraqi informants helping our soldiers identify threats and try to end hostilities with the least threat of death possible.

Should the American people, and the Citizens of the World, have the knowledge of what has gone on in this war? Of course. Basic Human Rights (a concept that some, a la Starship Troopers consider a myth) have been, or rather have possibly been ignored, and as such something should be done. There may not be even the possibility of placing blame on one man, group or organization, but knowledge of these crimes may help prevent them in the future.

However, this does not detract from the fact that what the people at WikiLeaks have done is wrong. It is, sadly, in-debatable. If something you release, as a journalist claiming the pursuit of the ever mythical "Truth," directly causes someones death (in a way that doesn't involve a Trial by his Peers...and a Judge) then you have done wrong. That is essentially what has happened here, or at least that's what many governments and even other news agencies fear has happened. Some of the documents released have the names, full names, of informants involved in certain operations, some of them ongoing. This information cannot have any positive effects for the people named, or any of the American or Coalition troops involved in the conflict.

All this has done is put the lives of thousands of soldiers, and hundreds of Iraqi civilians, in danger. And for what? Journalistic Integrity? Is this the Journalism that follows around the stars of Jersey Shore? The people who make Snooki...Snooki...famous? The same people that lashed out at Rev. Terry Jones for his planned book burning and all the danger it could have caused turn around and do this?

Life is full of hypocrites, it's our nature to hate what we do and do what we hate. But sometimes, it's so plainly visible that it's inexcusable.

I believe that we, the People, had the right to know about what is going on in this war that we have been dragged into, without our permission or request. (The argument for the 2001 Terror Attacks being the cause of the conlfict can obviously be stated at this point, but as Osama bin-Laden, the man widely regarded as the perpetrator of said attacks is not the focus of the current conflict, the debate loses some of it's gumption.) However, I feel that, as citizens, we can wait. Our desire to know about the nature of this war should never override our desire to see it ended peaceably, with as little violence and killing as possible.

No, I don't want to see American soldiers coming home in body bags because of some website that has decided it can, quite literally, make it's bones by leaking classified files. No, I don't want to see concerned Iraqi citizens with a desire to see Freedom in their land denied their right to live with said rights and benefits.

I don't even want the Insurgents, fighting for their declining way of life to die. These are real men and women here. And though, at the moment they might be holding AK-47's or M4's, next year they could be pushing grocery carts and holding babies.

Life may not be sacred, but it's worth a chance, it's worth more than the quick thrill of hidden knowledge.

In closing, I want everyone to understand that I in no way condone any of the negative acts that these documents most certainly allege, if not prove, have happened in the Middle East (and whatever else they manage to have gotten a hold of.) My argument is simply that the their is a time and place for it, and in the case of a life in death issue such as war... well the time is well after the victor has been named and around the time the official History books are going into print.

Sleep is Overrated, at least, Sleep Technology is.

I've long held issue with the term "sleep like a baby." I haven't had my own yet, but I've been around enough in my time to bust this particular myth.

Babies don't sleep like babies.

Babies are fickle creatures. They sleep on a schedule that only works as a case to prove entropy. Go on a four hour drive and your child will cry, mumble, talk, whine, scream and poop for three hours and fifty nine minutes. The minute, the second, you pull into your driveway they're asleep. And not a deep sleep. They're not catching serious "z's." No. If you try to pick them up and move them, it's over. They're back to crying, mumbling, talking, whining, screaming and pooping. Only now they're tired and hungry too.

And this is just the experience I have had imparted in my memory. (That is to say, my mother tells me this was how I was.) My sister rarely slept through the night, and absolutely detested her childhood room. She didn't like the distance between her and the rest of the family. Bedtime was a silly joke played by my hopeful parents (on themselves.)

This didn't stop her from sleeping. Not at all. The moment I sat down on the couch, in would wander a grumpy toddler, empty bottle in hand and pouty eyes looking straight ahead. Without any provocation or even an "is it cool if I..." lead in sentence, up she would climb and plop right down on my chest. Asleep before her drool filled cheeks touched my shirt. This style of napping kept up for a year or so (or about 40 ruined t-shirts later.)

I bring this all up because my sleep schedule has been unnatural bordering on unholy of late. Despite a one or two o'clock bedtime, I consistently find myself not being able to sleep until four and five am. (Sometime after Family Guy is over, but before the NUMB3RS reruns are done.) You know, that time when all the late night commercials hit the air.

This week's commercial of choice has been "the Sleep Number" bed. The revolutionary technology that we've been hearing about for the past decade. I'm not sure how this concept works. They use words like "new" and "modern" but the first Sleep Number mattress commercial I saw came on right after a "Clap-On" ad back in the nineties.

The problem with this whole system for me is that I've rarely met someone with whom bed comfort is the issue. Beds are comfortable, by nature. We are a race of beings who at one point slept on rocks (in some cases still do), we sleep under the stars and on shaking boats, comfort isn't the problem (often.) Now you find a bed that will read to me, sooth my worries and pay my taxes, and you might just have yourself a new customer.

We could call it the "Therapists Couch...bed!" Throw in some of that astronaut foam, and charge triple. After all, memory foam is the brand new, revolutionary sleep technology of the space age.

You know, the one that started in the fifties.

300-pound Chimp escapes, but don't worry, I'm OK.

Headline reads: 300-POUND CHIMP RUNS AMOK IN KANSAS CITY.

My mother, presumably reading from work while she enjoys a decaf coffee, probably of the pumpkin spice variety, spits her fall specialty brew out all over her computer screen, maybe hitting her boss whose standing behind it, watching her every move.

"Dang it, Sandy!" he says, using a report to wipe off his newly re-stained tie, "this tie already had its stains right where I liked them! What was that for?"

My mother, recovering responds, "My son is loose in Kansas City! I have to get there right away!"

A few text messages and gentle reassurances later, I manage to convince her that they were serious, it was a real 300-pound chimpanzee running around, not I. I have an alibi, I was getting the flu shot, or as I like to call it, my annual reminder that I am not cut out for tattoos (it still kind of stings, but I'm ignoring it, I want to appear manly, and I chose to wear a Ghost Buster's shirt today, I can't do that and whine about a shot.)

Earlier in my posting days, you might remember that I wrote a very long, and very jumpy article that at one point hinted at alligators being owned as house hold pets. We Floridians understand the inherent danger in owning a dinosaur as a pet, and so generally, we refrain (excepting for those guys who make the utterly terrible Gatorland commercials, they probably own a few.)

However, what self-respecting child has ever not wanted to own a monkey? That's right. This chimp was "owned" and the neighborhood dwellers who were privy to it's "rampage" were, if not acquainted with, then at least familiar with the animal. I think the problem was the owners misunderstanding of the term "monkey."

Yes. Owning a monkey would be cool. Aside from the odd problem with voice control and bathroom habits, there is a high percentage chance that owning a monkey could be the coolest thing ever. But a chimpanzee is a primate, they are little men. They use tools, argue with each other, and people, they dislike attitude, can out weightlift Arnold and play a mean game of Thumb War. You do not own something like this. If anything you share living space.

When a pet gets past 300-pounds and doesn't live in a barn, the general reaction is fear. As the police officers who had to handle the scene probably would agree with. Police Chief Jim Corwin described it as a "bizarre lunch hour."

After being shot with a tranquilizer dart, officers claimed that Sue (the chimp) climbed into a tree and evaded further shots while hassling them with taunts about their manhood ("you hairless apes can't do better than that?") and throwing their darts back at them, goading them on with their own ineffectiveness.

A pet monkey would never do that. A pet monkey would come out of the tree with nothing but an offer of a banana or a cute pirate hat, to go with it's already awesome monkey sized sword.

Those just goes to show that owning primates is wrong.

Because they get big, and if you try to dress them up like a pirate, they run away and beat up other people's cars.

I Want to Not Burn Things Too!

I am going to make an important announcement.

Are you ready?

Are you overwhelmed with excitement?

Well here it is: tonight, I will use my grill. And I won't be burning Qurans.

Now where is my free car? (A 2011 Hyundai Accent, to be precise.)

This might seem like an awkward line of thinking, one colluded with an overbearing amount of Capitalism and misplaced charity, but it's an actual story. If you read the news, ever, or even just stop in to peek at my blog, you're probably aware of the story of the Rev. Terry Jones, Gainseville's friendly neighborhood Grill Master (sacred texts a specialty.) He had threatened to practice his culinary art on the Quran about a month back, and has since (famously) backed off.

A lot of people stood up and complained (before sitting back down and flicking over to NFL preseason) about the planned burnings, but only one man (company) decided to stand up and give him things to back off. Brad Benson Hyundai of New Brunswick, New Jersey reportedly offered the Reverend a brand-spanking-new Hyundai Accent if the Reverend would simply not burn the Qurans.

This whole concept is a bit hazy for me. I'm trying to follow it. Here's what I have so far: Terrorist attack in 2001. Nine years later a massive protest breaks out against some Americans of Islamic faith who want to build (expand an already existing) cultural center that happens to be close to Ground Zero (although similar protests arose against a center being built in Tennessee so apparently being close to Ground Zero can be accurately defined as "being on the same continent as.")In response to this onslaught of Islamic (in the words of Newt Gingrich) "stealth jihadism" a Reverend in Gainseville decides the best defense against this new threat is a good offense, or the burning a bunch of books. At this point I'm not really agreeing with anything, but I can almost follow the logic, twisted and dark as it is. Here's where I lose my train of thought: despite repeated pleas from the White House, Congress, local college students, three legged alligators and General Petraeus, Rev. Jones was strongly considering moving on with his debilitating attack on ancient literature. Then, in comes my personal hero Hyundai and solves the whole thing with the oldest trick known to man. Bartering. (And free things.)

I don't want anyone (even me) to place undue criticism on the Rev. Jones, he (or his secretary) has said that he will be giving the car to a Muslim charity. The man not only possesses and excess of moral fiber, but a mustache that would make Wyatt Earp blush and bandits fear.

In closing, I would just like to extend this offer to Brad Benson Hyundai, or any other dealer of things, I will not burn whatever it is you want me to not burn in a very public manner, for a measly compensation of at least $13,600 (the going price of a Hyundai Accent.)

Gainseville Again

This weekend an opportunity managed to find me (or my friend Michael's mother, but she couldn't take it, so it found me as it's fallback.) I got Gator tickets. That's the team name for the University of Florida, for those of you who hate sports. This particular event was football, as is right, and just. They played the Kentucky Wildcats, arguably the worst team in the SEC.

To get me to Gainseville is a bit of a chore. I'm very much like a toddler (right in the middle of his "terrible twos.") I kick and scream, and drag my feet, and if you try to pick me up I go limp so quickly that you drop me. And then I'm hurt, and crying, and it's a whole thing. You might think this is crazy, what's so bad about Gainseville? It's not the city. Or even the school. It's the drive. First off, I am a completely social animal, and being alone, with no one to talk to for over an hour gets me physically ill (or when I'm driving, sleepy.) Every time I find myself on a highway, I think about those brave men, truckers, and their twenty hour drives. I can't even imagine surviving that job. As soon as I reach the city limits I'm drowsy and the seat is really comfortable, and the sun always seems to be shining at that angle that just screams nap (even at night.)

I've found answers to my problem, but if I am lucky enough to have a passenger, they tend to hate my solutions. I either need a stimulating conversation (known in my family as a "good old fashion throwdown" and or argument) or really loud music that I can sing to. This results in me playing the same thirty or so songs both ways, singing at the top of my lungs (I have a passable singing voice, but when I'm all slouched in my seat, it just sounds like I'm yelling at the other cars about love and souls and upbeat girls from New York.)

I went to the University of Central Florida, and have never been to a college football game that wasn't either them playing, or at the Citrus Bowl. Even for bowl games, the Citrus Bowl is so large, that it's nearly impossible to fill. I didn't understand what a UF game would actually be like. First off, I wore my comfy shoes for the drive up. Which, was a wise decision. For the car portion of the weekend. Then I was informed that I would be walking to the stadium, a grim reality that didn't truly set in until we had been walking for fifteen minutes, and Michael told me (smiling in his thick souled leather shoes) that we were still another fifteen minutes away. And this ignored the stark and haunting truth that we would have to walk around the entire stadium to get to the tailgate, and then again to get to our seats. Suffice it to say my feet took a beating, and have not yet forgiven me for my crimes against them. What really got me was all of the women, walking the same walk in sandals. I asked my feet what the problem was, and they were like "Dude, you're huge." I agreed and just dealt with the pain for the rest of the evening (by complaining as often as possible to Michael with edgy statements like "Ouch, my feet really hurt.")

After a few runs at the tailgate's food and alcohol, we made our way to our seats. Although, to be fair, I shouldn't really call them "seats." The spot itself was an absolute gem. Thirty five yard line, sixty rows up, perfect view of the entire game. But calling the places where we found ourselves seats implies that Michael and I are about a hundred pounds, after a fully clothed jump in a nearby pond. If Michael wasn't six foot four, he might have been OK, but the fact that my size can be compared to a compact car without much loss of accuracy might allow you to grasp the truth, we weren't going to be comfortable. However, I took solace in the fact that neither would my neighbors, and we could all be uncomfortable together, like a family, only with less yelling (at each other, but the referees were going to get it) and financial worry.

We were not on the student side, which was good, because we could at least attempt to sit down. The student section doesn't actually need seats, they all just stand on them (despite the constant reminders from the announcers that this activity is considered dangerous, and serious injury may result.) That allows for quite the sight for anyone in viewing distance, 30,000 college kids standing up and shouting, singing and yelling cheers. Coming from a school whose football program's rich history can be summed up with two words: "Daunte Culpepper," I wasn't ready for the raging bull that is a University of Florida home game. The entire campus seemed to have gotten the same idea in their heads when they woke up: Mainly, go outside and watch football there. Every available stretch of grass had a tent and a television, red cups and blue cups and even a few white ones (however the owners of said white cups were generally shunned and looked upon with distaste) presumably filled with liquid with a high alcohol content.

The game itself left a little to be desired (for Kentucky) and ended with a large margin of victory for the Gators. However, watching them live allowed me to watch ever play with a little more focus (without the "last" button I found myself being forced to watch the same channel, i.e. the field, the entire game.) In the interest of allowing this column to age like fine wine, I won't get into who they play or when and how I think the Gators have relatively little chance of going to the National Title this season, instead I'll say this: Their offensive line doesn't seem to like their running backs. As soon as one of these poor runners took the hand off, the line seemed to fall apart. Like old french bread, they just crumbled and flaked and missed even the slightest hint of an opportunity to hit someone (something you can do and get away with in football.) This means that if the running back isn't shifty as a thief in the night, he's going to get hit. Hard. Defensive lineman are not small guys, and they do not love tap (running backs.) At first, one is inclined to think "Wow, the UF offensive line is very bad, and should not be feared." But this is not true. As soon as Burton steps in to take a snap (this is the kid widely regarded to be the next, if much smaller, Tim Tebow) the offensive line grew six inches and was able to bench at least two hundred pounds more than they could a few seconds before. At least that's what it looked like. Out of nowhere the defensive unit for Kentucky was getting thrown around like rag dolls, and chewed on like tasty morsels. Burton ended with six touchdowns on the night. So either, they (the offensive line) really like Burton, or they really hate running backs. There's probably a middle ground, some common denominator, but if so, I couldn't see it. The Tebow era taught them that blocking for a quarter back was good, and the Percy Harvin era taught them that blocking for a running back was meaningless, he's just going to out run your opponent and therefore your block anyway.

Woe is the life of the UF running back today. Or more specifically, on Saturdays.

Idealists are having a Tea Party!

Ah, populism. Stick it to the man. Gotta' love idealists. (Actually, you don't. At all.)

Idealism, in every day life, is a lot like optimism. Everyone wants to be an idealist. But we all realize we can't, because that's not real, and to quote Yoda: "Work, that will not." (He never said that, but were he involved in politics, i.e. Attack of the Clones, he probably would.)

But at the very same time, being a realist sucks, so we tend to dance in this political middle ground where we don't actually know what to do all the time. We call this state of dancing "being a Moderate." (Because not knowing what to do all the time is actually a human characteristic, and is OK.) And it's what works. Sure, idealists (Who are wrong, about nearly everything.) call us "fence sitters" and say we have no opinions of our own. But, like I said, idealists are wrong. About everything. See, here's the thing. In life, so many unique situations come at us, so quickly, that we can feel like we are under a constant attack. Sometimes, the security blanket we need is the 100% certainty that it is someone else's fault. At this point, joining a grass roots political movement, liberal or conservative, begins to make a lot of sense. All they do is functionally point fingers at their opposite numbers, blame them from everything from the State of the Economy to the death of Christ, and claim that everything good in the world has come from their ideas and Dolph Lundgren movies. Political idealist are a lot like fundamentalists in religion. They believe in a concept so wholeheartedly, so fully, that it consumes them. They simply cannot understand how you (A moderate.) don't agree with them. And because you don't, you are deemed ignorant. (After about two nights of news reports and talk show interviews, begins to sound more and more like unholy.)

The truly baffling thing about idealists is that they are, and I stress this, the minority. And yet somehow, they always end up getting the most air time, and the longest speeches. Every time one side gets a majority in Congress, up springs a new extremist group, pushing to get them replaced in the next elections, with candidates who will make everything better. (Despite over 100 years of this, nothing ever seems to get better, at least according to the growing number of protest groups and extremist parties.)

Enter the Tea Party "Protest" Movement. A group of right wing hippies against "big government." They are a grass roots movement who favor the saying "Don't tread on me." Despite the fact that they are funded by some of the richest men in America, mainly the Koch brothers. (Don't have time to read two blogs? Essentially, the men that fund the Tea Party are at the heart of big business in America. They are so mind numbingly concerned with their profits that they are against public schools.) The deep irony here is that the people that accept this money, are self proclaimed "Christian mothers." They never stop saying that they are doing this so their children can have a better country to live in. Really? By taking money by men like these? (Read about Palin, or O'Donnell, listen to one Tea Party protest, and experience the heart stopping irony of who actually funds them.)

O'Donnel, the newest white woman to run for politics on the Republican billet, has had a string of victories over Democratic nominees, and says this is due to the country "finally waking up." She ignores the fact that men like Sal Russo, savvy politicos who have been behind many of the Republican extreme right wing victories over the past 50 years, have spent nearly a quarter of a million dollars on political smear campaigns against her opponents. (Ignoring the fact the O'Donnell very publicly lied about her education, and has had a string of incredibly bad publicity incidents due to her views on sexual education. I.E. She thinks masturbation is wrong, she thinks AIDS research funding should be lowered because it promotes bad behavior, and she thinks that condoms won't work in preventing STD's. Yes, she's against condoms.)

And this is the reality with political idealist movements, the reality that forces me to consistently align myself against them, even in defense of administrations I'm not particularly fond of: these idealists don't care who funds their message, or what they're really saying, all they care about is that people they disagree with are hurt, that their opinions and messages are discredited.

This is not how the political system should work. This is not what a democracy is. We shouldn't make others look bad, but make ourselves look better. Other people's opinions matter, otherwise we would still serve the King. Being ignorant of your own groups goals, and not questioning what it is that you are doing, better defines a cult than a political party. It is absurd to not have anything to say for yourself, but have a myriad of thins to say against someone else.

Politicians and political groups constantly miss the point. Governments do not exist for the sake of Government. (Yes, bureaucracies lead us, and their own members, to believe that, but I assure you, it's not the case.) Government is about the people, about what's best for the nation. And that includes more than just Christians, whites, blacks and people who think reality TV is "totally cool." Politics are about being inclusive, about working together to find the best solution for all of us, and if you can't agree with that, you don't belong in office.

That's not saying don't get together and protest, don't share your beliefs. We need that as a country. Sure, I don't want to hear it, but that's my prerogative. I just don't believe people like Palin and O'Donnell, people who want to force their views upon the people, should be allowed in office. Have your say, get a talk show, throw your rhetoric over the air waves, that is your right as an American. But don't pretend that way of life is best for everyone.

Next up: The Pope's visit to Britain a success! Only 10,000 people protested, and Germany didn't invade!

The Demon Tooth and the Root Canal Experience

I cannot feel my teeth. Logic dictates that this means I could, in fact, feel my teeth before. How is it that I have never noticed this? I notice similar things, for example, I noticed that I cannot feel my hair, unless someone is pulling it. I can always feel my knee, because, despite the normal aging expectations of the human body, my knee has steadily out-aged me and is now nearing its fiftieth year.

I came to this understanding when I went to sleep, or more accurately, when I tried to sleep. I never quite succeeded in this goal, because my tooth insisted, painfully, that I remain awake. And so my nights took a collegiate turn. As you might expect, the toothache party didn’t stop the next evening.

After the second night came to its much appreciated end, I decided I had a serious (and possibly paranormal) problem. Clearly my tooth had been possessed by an evil spirit. My father, however, assured me that this wasn't the case. He insisted that I had something called an "abscess" and that I would probably need a "root canal." Being raised in a heavily sitcom influenced era, I understood these phrases to be inherently painful, and as such, I instinctively feared them.

I knew what I needed—but there was no shaman available, so I called my dentist instead. He (his assistant) told me to come in the next morning. One more night should be easy enough to handle (it wasn’t.)

Imagine my relief the next morning, after several x-rays and a series of commands where I was directed to “bite down and hold,” when I discovered that I wouldn't have to have a root canal. "You see," my dentist explained to me, "You already have a root canal. A root canal is actually a part of your tooth. It's the inside, it's also known as the dental pulp, and it’s how your teeth actually grow. Once the teeth are mature, the dental pulp begins to function as sensory nerves. (It also serves as a relaxing vacation spot for microbial infections, and therefore intense and abundant amounts of pain.) What we're going to do is actually called endodontic therapy."

Of course I had no idea what he meant, but going by my earlier interpretation of root canal I decided that making the phrase more complicated and adding the word "therapy" (a word clearly intended to soothe) to the end could only be synonymous with "more pain."

Next, he told me he needed to drill into my tooth, and take said dental pulp out. After he was through with that, he would proceed to fill my recently pulp-vacated tooth with what can accurately and quite scientifically be called "melty goop." He assured me I wouldn’t feel a thing, Novocain, it turns out, is a very successful anesthetic.

Somewhere between him discussing drilling into my tooth with the same offhanded attitude one could expect to hear in regards to the weather and sticking rather large needles into my rather fleshy gums, I began to regret my earlier decision to stop looking for a shaman, or at least an apprentice exorcist.
However, one look at my dentist's tools and I realized that I had, against the odds, found my man. He had scissors, pokers and scrapers, various needles and a lighter (a tool whose purpose I could only assume, was to light things on fire—in my mouth), shaman indeed.

A couple Sports Center reruns later, (subtitled, by what I can only assume to be a third grader on his fifth espresso of the morning) my dentist had waved his magic wand six times (that's code for stabbing me in my gums with the previously mentioned needles—six times) and I no longer felt my teeth. (Or my lips, left cheek or tongue.)

It is an odd sensation, having something inside one of your teeth, and vibrating at high speeds. I felt no actual pain (that would come later), just the standard discomfort of having two people leaning over me while waving around tools that could also be considered weapons. Had my hands been strapped to the chair, the movie might have taken a darker turn.

Instead of that horror scenario, he wrapped up his exorcism with the professional grace and speed expected of a high class dentist (shaman.) and told me in the smiliest manner possible that he would see me again in three weeks. Of course, he had just made two hundred dollars (beyond the deductable) and had been the one holding the drill (and the lighter.)

In amendment to this article, I find it to be important to note, that my father, unknown to me, traveled to my very dentist (Shaman.) later that afternoon for his very own appointment. I'm not calling this a guarantee, but let's call it likely (Outside of Mayberry, NC.) that my father and I are the first father son combo to get a root canal (Endodontic therapy.) on the same day, by the same dentist, (And Dental Assistant.)in the same chair, (Presumably with the same, hopefully cleaned, tools. Including the lighter.)on the same (And I'm not kidding about this.) tooth. (Not exact same, for all of you literals out there, but rather, the same tooth position.)

Follow Dave's adventures in dentistry three weeks from now in: the Demon Tooth 2: The Crown

Hugs on Holidays, that !@$#'s Important!

Sometimes you don't need the World to supply you with news. Sometimes it happens right on the home-front. Sadly, this is normally the type of news we want to avoid. Sure, this isn't always the case, there's the baby news, getting married news, the cousin won the Lottery (but probably won't share, because you're like barely first cousins.) news and such. OK. So to be fair, news is balanced. However, this weekends news was of the variety none of us wanted to receive, but weren't particularly surprised when we got. Great Grandma Vera had passed on.

No on is upset about her death. Not in the traditional sense. We'll miss her, and the one's who knew her best (my grandmother, mother...etc) they'll think of her quite often, sometimes fondly, sometimes not. But me? All I remember are hugs at Christmas (Which always leads directly into thoughts about fruit cake, which I still haven't the slightest idea to why, exactly, it's called fruit cake. Is there actually any fruit in it? Debatable.) and the occasional phone call. (To my mother. I was like 10 and probably even more annoying to talk to than I am now. Have your doubts? Lose them.)

So today, rather than taking my normal 10 minute trek to the bookstore, I huddled into the car with my father, mother and little sister, and buckled in for the two and a half hour journey to Jacksonville, where my grandmother lived most, if not all, of her life.

I have no interest in the Jacksonville area. it's home to a football team I've never really liked, a girl I'm crazy about, and a smell that I can't quite comprehend, (I'm told it's a pulp factory? I'm not even sure what that phrase means.) but it's definitely not my place.

Funerals have always freaked me out. And not for the standard reasons. I don't mind death. I've understood, or believed (People get so upset when you say things with clarity and confidence. Well, if they say something different the same way, that is.) that death isn't really that big of a deal to the deathee. My great grandmother doesn't (More than likely.) care that we showed up to watch her interred. She might have appreciated the thought before hand...but, in general (I hope we can all agree.) funerals are for those left behind. They're chances to say good bye and chances to get some closure, or at least the illusion of it.

I didn't really know what to say goodbye to. Grandma Vera was 98. I hadn't seen her for years, and even then, she just sat on the couch and chatted, very, very slowly, with my grandmother and the other adults. To me she had always been hard evidence that people, do in fact, get old, (A fact that, if you looked at my mother and her sisters, you may deny.) with the comfort in knowing it won't be anytime soon. She was someone to hug and say "I love you" to for vague reasons and familial propriety. (That doesn't make the love any less true, but maybe a tad less meaningful.)

So I said goodbye to a woman I barely knew, but still loved. I chatted with family members that I had forgotten I had, and tried to be a comfort to my grandmother, who has been much more than someone to hug on Christmas.

But, to say that this funeral was bland or smooth would be a lie. First, it's Florida. And for those of you who don't know, Florida doesn't have seasons. Rather, it has a State of Being. And that State of Being is "Muggy." (If you live in Miami it's "Muggy & Mugged." A two for one deal if there ever was one.) In the vein of all great lineman (That's an overweight athlete, for those of us who haven't turned on their TV's in the fall, ever.) I sweated so profusely that I'm pretty sure I have to burn the shirt I was wearing.

I got to walk around a cemetery, which was a solid mix between incredibly interesting and terrifying creepy. Every time a cloud passed overhead I expected the zombie horde to come screaming out, and every time the Sun glared off a windshield or someone's glasses I expected Steven Seagal to jump out from behind one of the headstones, guns blazing. Of course, none of these things happened. (But what if they had? What if they had?) Rather, we had the oldest living women I've ever met, fall--in what seemed like slow-motion. Miraculously she managed to land in one of two spots in the entire area that didn't have a headstone or plot marker, and was relatively unscathed. (She was damn sure she had ruined the whole funeral, we'd probably have to start over.)

To make that situation worse, her daughter was not entirely in the know about what we'll call "common cemetery protocol." Well, neither was the Old Woman herself, but if she wasn't 100, she was fast approaching it, she can be forgiven. The plot where my great grand parents were buried is right by her neighbors plots (the Old Woman's husband had already gone on.) Apparently, a salesman had gotten the bright idea to go door to door selling the "doorway to Heaven." (Yeah, I just went "Salesman Speak" on you.) He must have made a, pardon the pun, killing on my Grandmother's block.

This woman, Kitty, I believe, decided she would look for her future resting place. I can't imagine why anyone would want to see this. Ever. I understand it needs to be done. Buy the plot, put money aside for your funeral, be responsible to those you leave behind. But, isn't that something you do, and then never talk about again ever? I thought that's why parents had children Today. Cheap labor and someone to take care of all of their stuff when they finally (Don't read into this Mom and Dad.) pass on. Kitty's daughter, no shame in her game, was doggedly determined to show her mother where her husband had been buried. (*TAP TAP TAP* "Mom! I'm hitting Daddy! I'm hitting Daddy!") And her mother, bless her, looked at her husband's grave marker and said "Oh look! There's my spot." (While she stood, literally on top of, her future grave.) Before she plodded her way back to her daughter's car.

I wasn't sure how to handle the situation. Until I locked eyes with my cousin and aunt, who had been staring at me, waiting, knowing that when I looked over, I wouldn't be able to hold it any longer. Suffice it to say I found a very good reason to be somewhere else. Quick, fast and in a hurry. (Admittedly, the two women probably would have laughed too. They wouldn't really comprehend they "why" of it all. But damn it, they'd be laughing.)

I won't get into the ride home because, who wants to hear that stuff? Much less be forced to read about it? (A lumber truck rolled over on the high way and it took us like an hour to get by. Ha!)

I think the real message here, at least that I want to understand for myself, is this: Our time on this planet is limited. Believe it or not. It's hard to cherish every moment with those you love, (Hell, it's hard to cherish even a few of those moments, sometimes.) and it's hard to look at life with a consistently positive attitude. But, life shouldn't be something that you "struggle on" with. Something you "push through." Take your time. Enjoy it. Make sure you have people in your life that you get to hug on holidays. Make sure you can say "I love you" to them for more than the childlike fear of getting popped by your mother, or because you know you should. I'm not saying do this: http://xkcd.com/791/, but you totally should.

Let's Hop Ignorances!

Our most recent debate has done little to stop the common European (in response to anything American) slogan "Damn Americans, ignorant pigs." from being shouted on high, from all the lofty places throughout their old-timey nations. So what if you have the Eiffel Tower? Big Ben? Notre Dame? We have book burnings (Rev. Jones has [sense my last article] downgraded it the protest to a 'no' then right back up into the murky waters of 'maybe.') and conservative stance on gay rights! So conservative in fact that we (I'm calling the Government "we" for the sake of this article) go right past "hate monger" and into "awkwardly Republican." In America, we won't even let our gays (yes, I'm claiming you, gays, as Americans. Take that.) die for us.

The U.S. Armed Forces have operated under the "Don't ask, don't tell." motif for the past 10 years.(Don't quote the 10 years thing. It just sounds good. I imagine the policy has been around as long as the Military. Kind of goes with the territory of "not telling.") In other words, if you're a homosexual, and you want to be a soldier...don't be honest about being gay, until your done being honest about your love of country. As far as the military is concerned, the two ideals can't coincide. If you feel the need to tell the world, or your fellow serviceman, you're going to get whatever the military calls "getting fired." (Discharged? Ewww. You can't see it, but I'm scrunching up my nose.)

The Log Cabin Republicans, a 19,000 member strong group filed a lawsuit to stop the ban back in 2004, and now the Courts are coming over to their side. U.S. District Judge Virginia Phillips has ruled that the bans were unconstitutional and have a "direct and deleterious" effect on the military. I'm not so sure the Military as a group cares either way, few Americans that aren't actually gay get into the debate. We've very much become a "yeah, what's it to me?" kind of people. Most of the people I know that actually aren't homosexual, but are pro-gay rights go about it in a very Family Guy kind of way, "They have the right to be miserable too." Obviously gay men and women in life and death situations need to handle themselves with restraint that a straight serviceman would rarely have to deal with, especially in combat/intense situations. I'm sure, if I were a soldier, and my squad-mate was gay, him falling in love with me mid-mission could cause some grief. However, the frequency of this can't be that high, if it has, in fact, happened. However, the rate of "firings" is quite frequent. So much so it has it's very own stat. The Log Cabin Republicans claim that over 13,000 Armed Forces members have lost their jobs to the ban on homosexuality.

That's enough people to man over 100 U.S.S Sea Tiger wannabes. (The Sea Tiger was the submarine in the film Operation Petticoat. [You still don't get it? It was a pink submarine, man! Get down with Cinema!]) We could even have a gay battalion, and following all of the racist and ignorant policies the Army has enacted over the years, they could be the modern military's 100th Battalion, 442nd infantry, only with better complexions and snazzier uniforms. (Those were the Japanese-Americans, who despite fighting their brethren, and despite some of them having their families in internment camps back home, still went over seas in WWII, kicked ass, and took names. Like bosses.)

The argument over gay marriage in the U.S. may continue for the next hundred years, it will probably continue so long as their are dominant religions in our nation. But we've had legislation against biases in the work place for decades, the Military is just another workplace. Albeit a one with more honor, more danger, and a willingness to die for one's country that few other jobs require. If a homosexual person wants to serve their country, what right do we (especially the majority of us, you know, the ones who have never served) have to tell them they can't. Whether we like it or not, or more importantly, whether they like it or not, this is their country too.

How to Mess up a Saturday Cookout

Steps to throwing a really bad cookout:
1) Cooking Quarans, rather than steak.
2) Televising it.
3) When the President(of the Unites States) asks you to "keep it down," you crank it up to an eleven.
4) Claim the cookout is for really elevated, yet wholly ignorant purposes. (We're grilling to protest Vegan-ism. Woooohoo processed food!)
5) Have more food than people. (50 members of the Church, 200 Quarans to be burned...math. Math. Use it.)
6) Have an unbalanced menu, and imply you won't. (This is the the "Understanding other People's Eating Habits and Choices Grill-out. What's on the menu? Hamburgers. Now shut up and eat.)

What am I talking about? Well. Read on. (No, seriously. Read on. I explain it.)

Talking about religion is something I normally like to avoid. It, much like mobs, hidden sidearms and gun cases (normally refurbished refrigerators with chains around them) frighten me. Oddly enough, if you you're famous (whooo-boy, glad I missed that train) and you talk about religion, good chance that mobs, people with hidden sidearms, and people that own gun fridges, might just come after you. Or at least write you very angry letters. About how they fully intend on coming after you. (So long as their boss gives them Saturday off.)

But when a story like the recent "Quran Burnings" or, at this point, threat of Quaran burnings, comes up, I feel that distinct urge (Journalistic calling?) to get up, drive to the bookstore, sit back down and write something. If you who don't know the story, I'll go ahead and throw down. A man, a preacher (some would say a leader of a Church.) has decided that the best way to honor the memories of those who died on September 11th, 2001, would be to burn a bunch of Quarans, he also wants to protest fundamentalist Islamic culture. (I would use the word incite. But incite, protest, who can tell the difference these days?)

The Reverend in question, Terry Jones of, and I'm not kidding you here with the name of his Church, Dove World Outreach Center, (In some circles known as "The Holy Place of Irony") has now ignored requests from both the White House and General Petraeus, (For those of you out of the know, he's the guy who runs the military in Afghanistan. Not just ours mind you, NATO too.) to not do this. A church of around 50 members (you're not misreading that number) has now incited the anger of a nation, and most likely a large portion of the Muslim faith. (Which is awesome, because there's only like a billion Muslim people in the world. I've always wanted to know what it's like to be hated by around a tenth of the Earth's population.)

I have a litany of issues here, but I'll start with the easiest one. They are aiming this at fundamentalist Muslims. The type who burn American flags and commit suicide in very loud ways on very crowded buses. And I get that they feel something should be done, I feel the same way. But, at what point is burning books the answer? First off, did these people miss the whole Nazi thing? Did they skip history class? Burning knowledge is not the answer. More importantly, what would Christians do, and I'm not talking about your Lone Wolves, or rabid Militant groups that live in the backwoods of Montana (A state mainly known for its frontwoods.) here, I'm talking about your bread and butter, meat and potato, mom and pop Christians, what would they do, if a group of Muslims burned the Bible? (Now this is a weird hypothetical question, as the Bible is generally included as one of the Muslim's holy texts, just not the holy text.) I'm pretty sure that would be a good way to, in Today's lingo, start some shit.

But this, to me, is the most important part. Forget all of the ignorance that it's taking for these people to even come up with this idea. Forget all of the stubbornness it takes to ignore the President and the Government when they condemn your planned actions. That's a lot like your mom disapproving of your girlfriend, and the party you're going to Friday night at the Quad, I get it. No, what kills me is that these people are ignoring the opinions of the man who is leading our troops in the Middle East. The man who is responsible for their lives. If he believes that this could endanger the lives of the over 150,000 soldiers and citizens we have serving over seas, than your 50 person grill-out needs to find a different way to protest.

Support their message, or don't. But when someone knowingly puts a soldier's life in danger, he had better be a commanding officer. These people are a book burning away from going down in history. And not in that "we burn bras (but not really) for women's rights!" kind of way.

And what's worse? They're from Florida. Really? Why can't we catch a break? I promise you (You being the rest of the United States and the World) we aren't all like this. I know, I know. You're thinking, "well what about the Bush election?" And all I can say is that I voted for Kerry on a whim, which at that time, was a huge thing for me. (Voting was a whim in the first place.) At what point did Florida replace Arkansas and Mississippi as the place to go for stupid? Don't take that out of context Mississippians and Arkansans. The rest of the country still knows you're stupid. Now they're just including us too.