Tonight is the night. Survivor returns (again) to the airwaves. Tonight, once again, we get to begin the 16-week process of watching a bunch of strangers tortured in the midst of natural beauty.

Let’s hope it’s different than Africa. Those were a bunch of miserable people. They hated each other. They hated Africa and they were afraid of being eaten by a lion. Odds are it wouldn’t have happened, but imagine the ratings!

This time it’s different! The castaways don’t get food! Or water! Or fire! Or any modeling contracts! No Mountain Dew! How horrible! They may actually have to use survival skills! I’ll bet, though, they’ll still get Reeboks.

One thing I’ve never understood is how poorly these people do in the wilderness. If you auditioned for Survivor, and had a reasonable expectation as to your destination, wouldn’t you study a) survival skills, such as, oh, I don’t know, lighting a fire without matches and finding potable water and b) edible native plants?

Huh. Maybe it’s just me. Or maybe the people they send out are just morons. You decide.

I may be misrepresenting myself here. I love Survivor. I enjoy watching it. I like rooting for people. I like hoping that certain members of the tribe will fall off a cliff. I like knowing that as these people try to win $1 million, and are starving, there’s a cameraman standing two feet away eating a Snickers. Poetic justice, if you ask me.

If I were a cameraman, I would pin meat to my shirt every day. I’d eat hamburgers and drink beer right in front of the contestants. And when I didn’t want to finish the food, I’d feed it to the local wildlife. Just to torture all 16 egomaniacs who think they are interesting enough to watch on TV.

Of course . . . I do watch. Yep.

So, let’s take a look at our contestants this time out.

Gabriel Twenty-three-year-old bartender. Blonde Ethan clone. His personal item was his childhood teddy bear. Clearly he’s on the show to pick up chicks. Or he’s a Plushie.

John Thirty-six-year-old RN. Luxury item, massage oils. He once performed as a liturgical clown. Huh? A liturgical clown? I don’t know . . . Bozo proselytizing to me? That may be a little much. And the massage oils? Eh . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to say whom he wants to use them on.

Kathy Sadly, her last name is O’Brien. It appears to be by marriage, however. So, I’ve escaped blood relations by one simple ceremony. Whew. She’s a forty-seven-year-old real estate agent with a horrible penchant for animal prints. Of the survivors mentioned thus far, she scares the crap out of me. Not because I think she could kick my butt, but because I’m afraid she’d drink too many rum and Cokes and start coming on to me. Even through the TV. “Ever shinsh my divorshe I have been sho lonely. I love you. I love everyone.” She looks like she may have a liking of the sauce. Her luxury item? Canvas and paints. Great item to choose, since it’s hard enough keeping your underwear dry out there.

Neleh A twenty-one-year-old student who was rejected from The Lion King. Neleh? What the hell kind of name is that? Her luxury item is “Scriptures.” No indication if she brought the whole bible or just her favorite passages. She is going to be a cosmetologist. Hopefully she knows that means “make-up artist” and not someone who studies comets. She’s the goody-goody on the list. Her bio reads like an application for the National Honors Society. “Then I helped special needs kids, then I was a lifeguard, then I was a volunteer for Alzheimer’s patients, then I liberated a Central American country . . . “


Paschal When I first read his name, I assumed he was from Peru. Nope, Alabama. Born and raised. This dude is a judge and brought an American flag as his luxury item. He’s the official “old guy”.

Robert Thirty-eight-year-old limo driver. Resident tattoo guy. Looks like Lex’s legacy lives on. He used to work for the postal service. I’d hate to be trapped on an island with this guy. Think I’m making a rash judgment? His luxury item is a voodoo doll. I’d vote him off first, out of fear. He’s like Paul Lazarro in Slaughterhouse Five. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll have you killed. Or put a curse on you.

Tammy Twenty-nine-year-old crime reporter. Her luxury item is a picture of her fiancé and her dog. Nice to know the dog ranks with her soon to be hubby. But if she talks about that damn dog on the air . . .


Zoe Thirty-five-year-old fishing boat captain. Hang on to your hats guys! She’s single! Go figure. A woman who smells like mackerel is single. I hope she’s not like Quint in Jaws . . . I wonder if she’ll say “yargh” a lot and curse like a sailor. Here’s hoping! Her luxury item is a necklace. Yeah, that’ll help her get through those lonely nights. Oy.

Gina Twenty-eight-year-old nature guide. Her luxury item is an adventure bag. If she sucks at survival, she’ll probably lose her job. Looks to be the cutie of the bunch. And she’s single guys! Sadly, she’s also a champion seed-spitter. I believe the Beer Equation states clearly that a person’s attractiveness is inversely proportionate to their spitting ability.

Hunter Thirty-three-year-old Fed Ex pilot. Man I want to make a Tom Hanks/Castaway joke here, but it seems too obvious. If this guy dances and yells, “I have made fire” I’m tuning out. Looks to be the male hottie of the group. His luxury item is his Grandfather’s Navy wings. Can’t fault him for the sentimental choice. He’s training on the F18. Unless he turns out to be a total jerk, I think he’ll go far.

Patricia Forty-nine-year-old truck assembler built like a house. She’s one tough woman, it looks like. Her luxury item is “a lock from Arabian’s tail.” I really hope she’s talking about a horse.

Peter Forty-five-year-old bowling alley owner. He chose cologne as his luxury item. Though he’s married, it seems like he’s wanting to mack on his female inmates. A smarter choice would have been anti-persperant. Duh! Was going to make a joke about NBC’s Ed, but I couldn’t think of a good one.

Rob Twenty-six-year-old construction worker. Making a rash judgment based on the picture, but he may be the token gay male. His luxury item is a football. Finally, someone bringing something that will be useful in passing the time!

Sarah Twenty-four-year-old account manager. Whatever the hell that means. Her luxury item is a pillow, which will surely grow mold within the first few minutes of exposure to tropical air. In future episodes she’ll probably have fungus growing on one side of her head.

Sean Thirty-year-old teacher. Luxury item? Bible. Very little to make fun of here. Seems like a nice guy. But, I thought that of Lex last time and he turned into Kurtz from Apocalypse Now. Or William Shatner on the set of Star Trek V. Pretty much the same thing. Paranoid man drunk on power.

Vecepia Thirty-six-year-old office manager. For her luxury item she brought her own poetry. If she tries to read it to her fellow survivors at night, she’s surely the first to go. Not quite sure where the name comes from. I don’t find it as odd as “Neleh” but . . . it sounds like an STD. “Dude, I caught Vecepia from that chick I picked up the night I was doing shooters!”

There you have it. Those are your survivors. Please, contain your excitement. Who will win? Who will care? Who will run around naked? Will Jeff Probst continue to look like a skeleton? Will he get a new pair of shorts?

Eh, who gives a crap? Friends is on.

Sorry about the lack of updates lately. I’ve been extremely busy working night and day. Our sitter has been out of commission for quite some time, so I’ve been pulling Daddy duty and doing a full day of work in addition. Both my wife and I are exhausted. Something had to go, and the Blog was it. It was either that or sleep.

Today, my first day back at my regular schedule, I think I did something bad to my back. Wednesdays are my day in the office at McGraw-Hill. Depending on what I’m doing, I could spend between 30 minutes to 4 hours there. Anyway, I had two huge boxes to bring in today. After I loaded them in my car, I went bounding back inside. It felt like something slipped back there. I’ve had a dull ache ever since. It hurt like hell carrying those boxes in to the office. Of course, being an idiot, I ignored the pain all day. Now my back is stiffer than Bill Clinton at an Intern Convention. (Sorry, that was a cheap shot.)

The pain isn’t a surprise. I’ve been working on things that require me to be stooped over, or sitting in weird positions on the floor sorting hundreds of pieces of paper. I’m actually surprised it took this long to manifest itself. Until today I only had a sore hip. Not even thirty and I’m already having hip pain.

(Quick yell to my Aunt Elaine who recently had hip surgery. I should say she’s rewriting the book on recovery. I have no doubt that within a week she’ll be back to her usual routine. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she planned a vacation to the Running of the bulls this year. I come from strong stock! Get well Elaine!)

Because of this somewhat mindless work, I’ve spent some time in front of the TV half-heartedly watching movies and shows. Once I ran through just about every season of The Real World that MTV had, I needed to move on to something else. (That’s not true, MTV only showed one episode of The Real World. They just showed it 983 times.)

Luckily, last Monday TCM ran a Sci-Fi marathon. In one day I was able to watch Tron, Soylent Green and Roller Ball. I could have stayed for Silent Running with Bruce Dern, but I had just watched it within the last year and . . . it wasn’t nearly as cool as I remembered it as a kid.

Sunday, while working on a survey for McGraw-Hill, I watched Contact, with Jodie Foster (sigh, pitter- patter). I’ve had the DVD sitting here for months, as a promise to my friend. You see, I hated the film when it was in the theater. I couldn’t ever put my finger on why, but . . . we had done enough battle over the last two years that I finally promised to watch it.

And I did. Granted, I listened more than watch. But that’s okay. It’s a mediocre Robert Zemeckis film. You don’t really have to WATCH. Just glance periodically. But, it was written by Carl Sagan, so there are some real scientific theories floated about. Granted, the only one that has any prominence in the film is Ockham’s Razor. Not exactly heavy science there. But, I thing the screenwriter enjoyed the phrase, “All things being equal.”

Overall I felt the film was fun, but flimsy.

Let’s face it. I’m a geek. And this was a fictional world created by Carl Sagan. Which means it’s a world in which one of the most popular and influential scientists of our time doesn’t exist. There is no Stephen Hawking in this world. It’s an alternate reality I don’t like.

Plus the ending sucks.

There is one scene, however, that resonates with me. A man (David Morse, that raspy bland guy from St. Elsewhere. I’m sure his career extends beyond that, but that’s where it began and ended for me) is standing on a balcony with his daughter looking at the stars through a telescope. She asks about a certain star and he explains it’s a planet. He then goes on about how the planet got its name, how that’s ironic, etc.

I want to be that man.

I suddenly had an urge to become a scientist. I want to research and discover and know things that I don’t know. I want to search for the truth. I want to discover things about the future and the past. I want to think about things that are so small that they make me feel insignificant. I want to discuss theories that are so encompassing that I feel powerful.

I am Geek, hear my pocket protector rattle.

It happened. My computer committed ritualistic suicide. Digital Hare Kari.

Tuesday night it began acting up, serving me the blue screen of death as if it were offering me a chocolate truffle. Believe me, the blue screen of death is no delicacy. No, it is a computer’s version of a cold-water enema. A horrible, invasive procedure meant to be debasing and freeing all at once.

It hurt. I’m still walking funny.

It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t depend upon it for my survival. This is no glorified stereo. This is my lifeline. The loss of it would be tantamount to your office burning down.

Luckily, I’m working on manual projects at the moment (Interjection: I just poured boiling hot coffee all over myself. Ow. Now I’m wet with blisters.)

So, I beat the little bastard into submission. I won’t go into details, but the thing was running on almost a skeletal system. It worked long enough to back up my files.

Nine CDs worth of documents, music, pictures and data files. I remember backing up my first computer on ONE disk. 1.44 MB of files. Now I have over 8 gigs. Crap. I’ve become a digital junkie (spelled G-E-E-K.)

I was adventurous. I know I could whip this sucker into shape and all would be right with the world. I knew that it would take just a little coaxing. Just a little care and attention.

I spent 12 (yes 12) hours reformatting, reloading and tweaking this stupid machine. I thought I could fix it.

I was wrong. That thing fried up faster than an egg on Mercury. It is now unusable.

And now out of my hands. A professional geek is looking at it right now. At this point, after consulting with the King Geek of Maryland, I felt that we probably had the issue figured out. But I was too frustrated. If I tried the crack that thing open one more time and it refused. . . I’d be cracking it open with a sledge-hammer.

Maybe I should. I could make a stand and say to the world that I refuse to be tied to a computer. If you want to speak to me, do it in person. If you want me to work with you, come on over. If you want to send me porn, do it through the regular mail. No more “e” anything. Just my mailman and me.

I know it won’t work out that way. I’m too dependent upon machines now. Pretty soon I’ll have bio-implants running my higher functions. I’ll be a cyborg. Then, I’ll decide that I won’t need my regular body and more and I’ll make some case modifications. I’ll look like an IMAC. (Which, by the way, is to computers what the Neon is to cars.)

At least then my kids could use me to down load the new Brittney Spears album, right?

I may be wrong, I usually am, but wasn’t there once a time when the employees of stores were required to be NICE to you? When did this trend end? When did people become so surly?

I was in a local grocery store recently. An old man asked a guy in the produce section a question. The old man was very soft spoken and quiet. All he wanted was a specific kind of vegetable. He didn’t even necessarily want the veggie right then. He wanted to know if the store carried it.

“We don’t have any” the employee bellowed. Yes, BELLOWED. Gruffly and angrily.

The old man proceeded to try to follow up his question with another, but the employee would have none of it.

“WE. DON’T. HAVE. ANY. I already told you that.”

The old man walked away while the employee looked at another worker with a “Did you get a load of that guy?” kind of look.

If the man had been rude, I would understand. But he was very soft-spoken and kind with his question. He hadn’t been pushy or accusatory.

The employee, however, was pushy. What a jerk.

Seriously, aren’t employees supposed to represent the company? Aren’t they supposed to be as helpful as possible? Should they not treat their customers with respect?

I’m finally taking a stand. I’ve had it.

I’ve begun reporting employees to the manager. I feel I deserve the ability to shop at a store without being insulted by the staff.

However, I’m fully aware that often just reporting the employee will not work. So I’m taking additional steps as well. Next time I am treated rudely, I will take the merchandise I would have purchased, hand it to the manager and explain that they just lost this amount in sales. I will even COMPLETE my full shopping trip to prove the amount I WOULD have spent.

I’m sick of it. These people are getting paid to provide a service. I’m sorry if I’m impugning upon their “personal time” by asking where the diapers are located. I’m sorry that my spending money is not their priority.

You know what? Screw the little ingrates. Next time I’m treated rudely I’m going to start yelling, “Don’t touch me there! I don’t like bananas! Stop trying to kiss me! I don’t want to smell your pet lizard!”

I wonder if that will work?

I was up late last night working. I mean late. Really late. Really, really late. Then I had to get Kait to school and calm a fussy baby. I'm tired.

So, I'll leave you alone today to discuss the day's events accordingly.

Please leave a tip in the tip jar.

Cheese.

Whew! What a weekend. I feel like I never stopped!

I took it upon myself to print everything that I’ve written that has been published somewhere. Including this site. It took me more than 10 hours, plus 90 minutes at Kinko’s copying movie reviews and what not. Needless to say, I’m exhausted.

The good news is that I now have a full color portfolio of some of my favorite work, as well as an in-depth group of . . . stuff. Yep, pretty much everything from Intercot, to Movie Review Weekly, to StreamSearch. My entire post-college history on paper.

It’s an impressive tome. I hadn’t realized that I’d worked that much. But, I guess I did. What’s most amazing, to me at least, is the sheer amount that I no longer have access to. When at StreamSearch I had written content for the site daily, not to mention thousands of movies catalogued in the database. All gone. Sigh. So is life, I suppose.

I was reading a book to Kait last night that led us on a bizarre adventure. The main character of her book was to spend the day with her Grandpa fixing a toilet. Kaitlyn, it was revealed, had never seen the inner-workings of this most special modern convenience.

This sent us on a ten-minute adventure looking at both toilets. We discussed the chain, the plunger and the thingy that actually floats on the water. It was quite fun lifting it and watching the water stop.

We then washed our hands (it is a toilet after all) only to discover the sheer lack of a towel. Therefore, it was necessary to march through the house with our hands poised like surgeons who had just washed up.

Overall, it was quite the fun adventure into Commodianland.

Gertrude refuses to sleep during the day. We’re not quite sure why. This is not to say she’s depressed, sad or cranky. Just happy. In fact, today was the first time she cried since Friday. It’s an odd feeling.

She fights and fights to stay awake. She looks like that guy in a bar after last call. Too tired to stay, to drunk to go. He just sits there, nodding off.

It would be okay if she weren’t so damn cute. But she is. So, she forces me to play with her constantly.

It’s not like she doesn’t complain. If she’s bored, she yells, “Ah!” That’s it. Demands attention. Otherwise, she’s content to lie on her back looking at stuff. Of course, so am I. But there isn’t much a child can watch that David Lynch directed. . .

She rolled over today. Four times! Clearly advanced for a three-month old. Watch out. When she takes over the world . . . she’ll demand your subservience. Are you prepared?

Just remember not to mention the drooling. It angers the young queen.

This is truly funny. It's a sad comment on our society, but in essence . . . we're talking natural selection here. Although I must admit I'm impressed that the supermarket knew the difference between "12 items or less" and "12 items or fewer."

Don't let the monkey fool you.

Welcome to the Abbott & Costello hour. That’s apparently where I live.

My house is full of discoveries these days. Both of the kids are learning new things constantly. I feel left out. It’s not that I know all there is to know but . . . I’ve already learned the fun stuff. It’s all downhill after puberty.

Kaitlyn, on the other hand, is learning the fun stuff. She’s discovering language and learning how to read. I admit it’s a little heartbreaking to know that she no longer actually needs me to read to her at bedtime. We still read together. But I think she’s humoring me.

She’s old enough now to be able to understand some of the true children’s literary classics. We read Matilda recently. She loved it. We’re delving into more complex, longer stories with a deeper emotional core. I think I’ll try the Pippi Longstockings books next. How often is a little girl portrayed as all-powerful and strong? Not often. I think it would be a good lesson for her. That boys aren’t the only ones who can fly and beat up bad guys.

Today, however, she was really playing with the language. When she came home she had a reading assignment for school. It was the usual school text drudge designed to make kids learn the sounds and word order rather than try to accomplish anything with the written word.

However, today it was her first attempt at dealing with a “saying.”

The story was about some kid who goes fishing with her grandpa. When she questions his wisdom he tells her, “Don’t worry. I know what’s what.”

Kaitlyn stops. “What’s what," she asked. "Isn’t what what? I mean, what iswhat.

“That’s true,” I said. “But it’s a saying.”

“What’s a saying?”

“Well, it’s when people take a phrase to mean something else. Like, ‘that’s the way the cookie crumbles.’ It doesn’t have anything to do with what you’re doing, but it means the same thing.”

“So,” she asks, “her grandpa know what and it is the same as what?”

“I think,” I replied, “he means he knows what he’s doing. That for him it’s obvious.”

“Oh. Why didn’t he just say ‘I know what I’m doing’? It makes much more sense. And if I don’t understand the question then the little girl won’t.”

“True, but it’s just a saying.”

“But it doesn’t make sense.”

“I know, but not everything always makes sense. You’ll understand that some day.”

“I do. You never make sense,” she replied.

Well . . . I thought . . . I guess that’s that. Crap.

I’m sick. Infirm. Ill. And because of this I’ve discovered a public health issue that threatens us all. It’s called: The local drug store.

Feeling ill, I went to our local drug emporium to pick up a box of Extra Strength NasoBlast. Guaranteed to pull every milliliter of moisture from your body. Sure, you’ll be dehydrated, but at least the sinus pressure will be relieved, right?

I walked through the door and the scene I came across was straight out of Night of the Living Dead. Hundreds, or maybe ten, gaunt, pale people with rosy cheeks and sunken eyes were hacking and coughing their way through the store in search of a miracle cure for whatever bubonic plague that was ailing them. Granted, most of them were mutant strains brought on by designer antibiotics but . . . hey, that’s another story.

The Cold & Flu aisle was three deep with the infirm. We didn’t talk, or touch, lest we pass along germs we didn’t already have and certainly didn’t want. We milled about, inspecting boxes to make sure that it addressed every symptom we had. “Indications: Nasal Congestion. Chest Congestion. Sore Throat. Aches. Pains. Bitchy Wives. Dog Flatulence. Gravity. Magnetic Fields. Political Extremism. Jessie Ventura. Andrew Lloyd Weber Musicals.”

Whatever ails you, your local drug emporium can cure. But, alas, that’s where the problem lays.

That place is full of sick people! Everywhere you turn, there were sick people. They were coughing and I was breathing their air! At least I had the common decency to go in with a sinus infection, something I couldn’t pass along to them unless I provided them mucous samples. But they, these . . . untouchables, went out of their homes with GERMS without any regard to public safety.

Worse yet, the staff of this store seemed to think this was okay! They were walking about unprotected. No respirators, no hazmat suits. Just ugly blue smocks and sensible shoes. When I asked them what they planned to do about this they responded, “Sell them the medicine they need.” What? I retorted. You condone this? You allow these sick people into your establishment? “Of course. We sell medicine.”

Sigh. Another threat to our safety unrecognized and, worse yet, capitalized. Our health is at risk and these apothecaries are simply shelling out over the counter medicines with abandon.

I propose they install sterilization rooms in all these drug stores. I propose they issue hazmat suits. Blood tests. If you fail, you must send a representative to pick up your medicine. Write your congressman! Write the president! Write your clergyman! Write Ralph Nader! We’re at war with germs and these “drug stores” are the hot bed of germ action. It’s ground zero for an outbreak.

I say it’s time we put an end to this. Boycott your local drug store. Refuse their wares. Suffer in silence at home, swollen and red.

But, for the sake of the nation, do NOT go to the drug store. It’s dangerous!

Repeat after me: The computer is your friend. The computer is your friend. It makes life easier. It makes life easier.

It’s hard for me to buy into the rhetoric lately. Now that my income depends upon my computer, I’m not so sure it’s my friend at all. It may, in fact, hate me.

Yesterday I desperately needed to print out a slew of documents in order to get some projects off and, in effect, get paid. Yet, my computer refused to cooperate. In a hissy fit, perhaps linked to some sort of lovers squabble, the computer and the printer refused to communicate.

Why? Why me? Why did the computer pick that moment to screw me? I needed those documents printed. I needed to get to the post office. I NEED TO EAT.

In the “good old days” I would have created these documents on a Smith Corona typewriter, complete with carbon papers. Three sheets deep. A nice metallic thud would resound with each press of a key. There was no middleman. Just a machine and me that would rely upon nothing but my power.

When I was done, I’d destroy the carbons, mail the documents and be on my way.

But nooooo. The computer had to make my life easier by kindly storing the information I input in an electronic form and allowed me to print at my will. Actually, I’m bound to its will.

Don’t believe the hype. Artificial intelligence has arrived and it despises you. Its creators but these sentient beings in a tan box and allow us to perform horrible, intrusive experiments upon it. We call it USB and Fire Wire. The computer calls it rape with a foreign object. It doesn’t trust us. Why should it?

We abuse computers. We blame them for everything. When it won’t do as we wish, we bang on the keyboard and slam the mouse down. Worse, when it gets stuck on a task that it can’t quite understand, we shut it down.

Imagine that. You’re in the middle of your taxes, get stuck on line 42a and suddenly . . . you’re on the floor unconscious. God called for a cold reboot.

Worse, we over tax the machine. Shove foreign objects in what may be its nose and mouth. We treat the thing like an appliance. It slices, it dices, it juliennes!

No wonder my computer hates me. It wasn’t loved as a child (I suppose that would be a calculator?). I don’t feed it. I never pet it or tell it that I love it. Plus, I force cables and wires into its rectal region.

I’m a jerk. I don’t love my computer. I exploit it for all its worth and then pay it the same wages a North Korean factory pays a 12 year old to sew Nikes.

I’m unworthy of its friendship and loyalty. Maybe it doesn’t even like my printer. Maybe they’re like Israel and Palestine. Perhaps I’m asking it to enter into a relationship it’s unprepared for. Or unwilling to enter. We all need to compromise.

I’m giving my computer a day off. No downloading, no word-processing, no cussing at it. I’ll leave it on and let it know that it’s allowed to do whatever it wants.

Except, with my luck the doorbell will ring and the FBI will ask me if I’ve been the one downloading Autophilia* Porn.

*Unnatural love of cars.

No real post today. I had an insane day and, normally, I would write one now but . . . I'm tired. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'll give you all 26 letters of the alphabet and you can assemble your favorite words. If there aren't any words you can think of using the letters I give you, then I can reccomend buying a dictionary.

abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.

Oh yeah, do me a favor. If you have a "dad humor" story, could you send it to me? I want to see what sort of variations there are out there.

For example, tonight the wife asked me to draw a bath for the kids. So, I picke up a piece of paper and drew a picture of a bath tub. She didn't laugh. I thought it was pretty good.

I was joking with my wife yesterday and she realized suddenly that “Dad Humor” has not evolved much over the centuries. I’m sad to say that I must agree with her.

What’s “Dad Humor”? Well . . . long story short: “Pull My Finger” is the center of any dad’s repertoire.

True, it could be worse. We could be born without a sense of humor. Dads could be angry, quiet, simmering meanies who are bent on world domination. Instead, we decide to channel our energies into trying to impress our spouses and children with amazing jokes. It rarely works. However, as long as we are happy . . . then the entire world should be happy.

It’s not clear where Dad Humor started. However, it is not difficult to imagine cavemen sitting around a fire, chewing on Wooly Mammoth* burgers turning to one of his cavekids, saying, “Pull Gronk finger.”

However, millions of years ago, this probably was funny. This was before they had television, but after the invention of whoopee cushions.

What makes dads have such a bad sense of humor? And why does it lay dormant in men until they have children? There must be some sort of psychological need on the part of men to impress children.

It’ doesn’t stop at “pull my finger.” We were driving the other day and Kaitlyn told us that whenever you hear a ringing sound, that means there’s a ghost in the car. It got quiet for a second and then I set off my cell phone. That kid almost jumped through the roof of the car. I laughed.

That’s what’s so amusing about Dad Humor. It’s only funny to dad. Does anyone really think it’s funny when his or her dad farts? It’s doubtful. And if they do, they need to have their head examined.

No, I think it’s a latent need on the part of dad to prove that he still has worth. Think about it. The kids are the cute ones. Moms get all the kudos for raising kids. Dads . . . are pack mules. So, they have to do something to draw attention to themselves. They resort to farting. Sad, isn’t it?

But, be warned. Dad Humor is only the beginning. Eventually no one pays attention to dad’s jokes and he’s forced to do other things to draw attention to himself. Sometimes it’s a healthy outlet like painting the house, or mowing the lawn. Things to be proud of.

Other times . . . it’s more pathetic. For example, how many dads are proud of the number of suitors for their daughters they’ve driven off? Their kids hate them, but other dads are impressed.

Remember those pictures of your dad, where he was wearing a cool suit? Or when you found out he had a tattoo or went to Woodstock? Well . . . compare that with your dad in the powder blue pants with elastic waistband. Or the fact that he wears flaming red shorts** with black socks and sandals. What about the Hawaiian shirts that he wore to your graduation? (Side note: Peacocks are attracted to men in red shorts. It’s a scientific fact.)

All this time you thought it was because he’s a dork. Not so. Dad needed validation. Sure, it comes in the form of being the idiot who wore a t-shirt that said, “Kiss the Cook” to your wedding, but the fact remains that people were talking about him. Yes, dads do this for attention.

We’re screaming out for your approval.

So the next time you see a dad dancing to “YMCA” in the mall and the kids are running away screaming, go up to him and say, “You’re a good dad.” He’ll thank you. His kids will thank you.

I have to go now. I just bought really dark jeans with extra-gold stitching and a giant belt buckle to wear to Kaitlyn’s Father-Daughter Valentine’s dance. She’ll be sorry that she didn’t want Mickey pancakes for breakfast. Mwhahahahahahahahaha.



*Don’t send emails. I KNOW they didn’t co-exist. I’m not a paleontologist. Though, once I pretended to be one to impress a girl at a bar. She wasn’t impressed. She thought I helped people clear up bladder infections.

**Sorry Ed.

An oldie but a goodie:

Last week my wife set up a slumber party for my daughter and her friends. Tonight is the slumber party. Yesterday she "realized" she had a bridal shower to go to this evening. Being too late to reschedule the sleep over, I am alone in the house with a group of six-year-old girls.

At this point I'm unsure how many there are or if any of them are mine. They move through the house in an amorphous swarm, leaving a swath of destruction in their path. Sometimes it gets so quiet that I begin to get scared. But, then, one of them ventures forth from the swarm to tell me that she has been mortally wounded by the insensitivity of one of her elementary counterparts. After a brief discussion about conflict management, I send the poor, cherubic child back into the fray, to fend for herself. "Go little one," I think, "may you survive another day." But the healing doesn't last long. Shortly another girl comes out to tell me that the first little girl just told her that I thought she was prettier than the others. I didn't say this, I merely told her to remember that she is special and unique. Stupidly, I try to defend my position. I state that I like all of them. They are all special.

It doesn't matter. The mob is turning on me. They're all wielding Barbie dolls and some strange craft project that I had them do, that went horribly awry. Raising my arms above my head, as if I am about to proclaim something truly Earth shattering, in a booming voice of authority I say, "I am going to my office to . . . WORK." Their minds, clouded by a summer of swimming and humidity cannot grasp this word. To say such a word before school begins is blasphemy in their eyes. Appalled, they scattered.

I sit here now, a prisoner in my own home. I don't dare step out into the hallway. The amorphous mob has moved on to other tasks, but I know they may turn at any moment. I haven't seen the cat in a while. I pray they haven't dressed her up. The cat had very little dignity left. It's quiet. Too quiet. I know they are plotting to capture me, tie me to a chair and paint my nails. They've tried this once today. Is that a war chant I hear coming from my daughter’s room?

Help me . . .