Turns out I prefer my old look. Go figure. I got so used to it, I feel like it's an extension of myself. Apparently I feel stark white and simple. Yep. That sums me up pretty well.

If anyone wants to show some artistic talent and make a template for me, I have a piece of warm Juicy Fruit as payment. It's been in my pocket all day long. Nice and sticky.

I need validation that I’m a worthwhile father. Not in the sense of Parenting magazine I’m a Super Dad Who Supports My Children and Follows All The Latest Research On Child Rearing. No, I need to be the funniest damn person in the house.

I’ve already lost Kaitlyn. She’s nearing seven and . . . I’m just a dumb boy who doesn’t understand Barbies and tea parties. I’m the guy who controls the TV and tells her not to go outside without a jacket.

That leaves Gertrude, burgeoning flower of a four-month-old baby. Her personality is currently in development and there is still time to convince her that I am the familial equivalent of Second City comedy troupe.

Gertrude is a happy baby. She is content to lie on the floor and taste whatever comes into her hands. Toys, blankets, the cat. Whatever, as long as it fits.

It’s my chance. She’s learning how to laugh and acknowledge what amuses her.

She lays on the floor, ready to be amused. I crouch down, readying my repertoire.

Funny voices. Check. Goofy faces. Check. Age old TTT (Terrible Tickle Torture). Check. Bouncy toys. Check. Various fabrics perfect for peek-a-boo. Check.

I move in for the kill, giving her my best routine. Robin Williams on his best day couldn’t match my performance. I’m brilliant. I’m letting loose with infant tested material that is sure to cause hysterical fits. I move from one form of comedy to another, ensuring that Gertrude never bores of my particular material.

Exhausted, I ready myself for my final bow.

Nothing. Maybe a crooked grin.

Mom walks in and says, “Hi Gertrude” in a high-pitched voice. Squeals of delight from my little lumpy daughter.

Son of a . . .

I’ve failed. I’m not the funniest person in the house. It’s mom. And she doesn’t even have material! She is just . . . funny.

Perhaps I should take comfort in that. Gertrude takes me seriously while Mom is a laugh a minute riot. In the future Gertrude will listen to me and blow off mom because she’s just a clown.

Not likely. I’m already being set up to be majorly screwed when both the girls are grown.

Kaitlyn: Can we have a pizza?

Me: No, we shouldn’t spend the money.

Kaitlyn: Not even for your little princesses?

Me: How many do you want? Imported from Italy?

Even Gertrude has my number. At such a young age, she’s in complete control.

Gertrude: Gooo.

Me: Here’s twenty bucks.

She’ll need that money for her therapy bills in the future. I’m sure at some point her friends will wonder why her dad is jumping around making monkey noises and screaming, “I’m funny! See! Mom’s not funny, I am!”

Why am I so intent on winning the comic approval of an infant? She can’t even control her own bowels. Of course, that’s the first rule of comedy. “Get an audience with no control of their own bodily secretions.” Of course, I always get the audiences that can’t stop sweating.

That’s all for today. I have to go try out my newest material on the cat.

I hear feline humor is the latest rage.

New look! Likey? No likey? I'm not sure.

Wish I was a designer, then I could make my own. However, not even a blind man would trust my sense of visual beauty. I can appreciate but cannot create.

At night I like to go out and look at the sky. Where I live, the star field isn’t spectacular, but I have a nice view. On clear nights, I can see the planets, as seasons allow.

When I stand out in the crisp evening air, after everyone has gone to bed, I look at those stars and my mind begins to wander . . . How many years it has taken for that light to reach my eye. The star I’m viewing may no longer exist. Who knows what is in its place now?

Are there others out there? What are they thinking right now, other than ways to give me the dreaded anal probe when they abduct me?

It amazes me that most of us walk around only aware of what exists in our field of vision. After all, the universe is as infinitely small as it is large. There are things going on all around us everyday that we either can’t see, or just won’t.

Those stars, to me, are so much more than flickering light thingies in the sky thing above me. They are evidence that there is something beyond me and my sphere of influence. These gigantic balls of gas are formed in ways that I will never understand, no matter how many books I read on the subject.

Stars, galaxies, other planets. My mind whirls at the possibilities of what will occur in this little universe of ours in the years to come.

We are only at the beginnings of our space faring. We may go to Mars, or discover the ability to travel among the stars. Of course, when we do we’ll probably litter all over the place and the star Sirius will become known as Disney’s Sirius.

Actually, I kind of look forward to some things . . . They’re currently working on something known as “The Space Elevator.” (Great name! Reminds me of the time I took the Giant Flying Cylinder to the Corporate Owned Park of Themed Amusements, Gifts and Hotels.) The Space Elevator will allow us to go into low orbit without a rocket. It’s long and complicated and I don’t understand it. However, that doesn’t stop me from thinking it’s cool.

Think about it, though. When space becomes commercial, how long before Disney opens Disneyland Orbit? Space Mountain in zero g!

I actually think a space theme park would be cool, though that means there will be a lot of ugly people who can’t control their kids in space. Perhaps we should only allow good parents to make the trip?

It also opens up the opportunity for people to figure out a way to live in space. After a year or two, gravity will become unbearable for them. They’ll be happiest floating outside the influence of Earth’s gravity. Could that be all that bad?

These are thoughts that float through my mind in my late evening visits with my celestial neighbors. Though I know I’ll never get to experience space myself, I’d love to leave this little marble for just a day and go out there to look. What is it like? What do the other planets look like up close? Hell, I’d be happy just to orbit the moon for a few hours. I’ve always wondered how much crap the Apollo astronauts left behind. I could go to the Earth, pick it up, and sell it on eBay!

My odd thoughts concluded, I come back into a house with is still with the calmness of my sleeping family. I walk through the dark house, look at the kids sleeping and crawl into bed with a feeling of wonderment.

I try to hold on to it for a while because, I know, by morning the wonderment will be gone. Replaced by the daily grind, the need for money, safety, health.

But, periodically through they day I’ll make rocket noises and pretend, just for a moment, that when I look out my window I’ll be magically transported to an orbiting space station held in place by the gravity of Jupiter.

Hell, I’d be happy if I looked out the window and saw a beach. But I figure, why dream small?

Once again, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts managed to not surprise me with its ability to choose the mediocre.

The Oscars is a huge night at my house. I’m a movie geek, so even though I rarely believe the best films and performances of the year were selected, I watch with baited breath. I can’t help it.

Of course, half the fun is laughing over the insanely rich wearing clothes that wouldn’t sell at a garage sale. You know they spent thousands on their clothes, but you have to wonder why. Gwyneth Paltrow was wearing what looked to be an albino nipple S&M contraption. You could clearly see her nipples through this muslin like material. Over the muslin was a horribly random grouping of black fabric that caused her anorexic body to look as though giant fat rolls were spilling out everywhere.

Worse was Cameron Diaz, who appeared to be wearing a silk bathrobe and forgot to wash and comb her hair. Frighteningly, I’ll be her clothes cost more than my car. Jennifer Lopez looked like a refugee from Charlie’s Angels, with the Ultimate Immobile Curls. I kept expecting her to break out some roller-skates and boogie to The Ohio Players.

Why they keep hiring Whoopi Goldberg is beyond me. Periodically, she’d make me chuckle, but overall she seemed to be amusing herself. I missed the smart, self-deprecating, intelligent wit of Steve Martin. Goldberg is just . . . unfunny. She was showed up by Woody Allen’s off-the-cuff standup comments regarding his appearance at the awards. His five-minute routine was by far, the funniest moment of the evening.

The awards, of course, were somewhat predictable, though poorly selected. While I enjoyed Jim Broadbent, Ian McKellan was the superior performance. He transformed himself and brought a character to life. Denzel and Halle Berry certainly deserved their awards; though Berry’s maudlin speech was a little . . . well . . . maudlin. And long. Snore. I’m just not that interested in how these actors feel, I suppose. They give no glimpse into their psyche but, rather, give you an endless stream of excuses and agent product placements.

I was happy for Randy Newman. I love the man. Though I don’t think his best song won last night (Come on, “I Love to See You Smile” and “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” never one? Hell.) his composition was clearly the best song of the evening. His bitter sarcasm was truly welcomed in our house. I love that man.

The travesties of the evening were the fact that Amelie won nothing. (I suppose it was too original.) And that Shrek beat Monsters, Inc.

Let’s get serious here. Shrek is an ugly, intermittently funny film. It is just not that great. I thought Shrek's character design was about as ugly as you can get. Plus, the characters' interaction with the background was awful. It looked like colorforms. PDI, in my book, still has a lot of work to do. They had some nice movement, but in a poor vehicle. Also thought the script wasn't as sharp as everyone said it was . . .

That's one of DreamWorks' biggest faults, actually. They are not very good at blending elements. Look at their traditional animated films and the CG elements stick out. Disney is better, but they can all learn from the techniques Brad Bird used in The Iron Giant. Almost flawless.

Jimmy Neutron is a step in a great direction as well. Stylish, well designed and not trying for a hyper reality.

For sheer artistry, beauty and damn fine story telling, Pixar deserves a thousand awards.

In the end it doesn’t matter. The movies I like will never win these awards. I enjoy art mixed with entertainment. The general public, and the academy, seem to prefer pedestrian, manipulative pastiche. I can live with that.

As long as the art survives. When the aliens arrive and enslave us, I guarantee they’ll laugh and cry at Monsters, Inc. and say that Shrek, while technically interesting, is an ugly piece of animation. They’ll wonder at the beauty of Amelie and ponder over the oddities of Moulin Rouge. They’ll think A Beautiful Mind is a worthy effort, but nothing all that exciting.

And then they’ll watch Mulholland Drive and wonder, “What the hell was that?” And David Lynch will become their leader and we’ll all start seeing midgets.

Or something . . .

Sometimes paternity is obvious without DNA tests. (By the way, that's an Elvis Costello cup.)

Sitting by my door is a real magnifying glass. Outside is the sun. What is it that makes me want to combine the two to make fire? There’s a part of me, hidden not so far beneath the surface, that makes me want to light things on fire with the magnifying glass.

Some may think it’s a sign of mental illness. As if I’m sitting around the house looking at matches and paper, fighting off an intense urge to burn down the neighborhood.

Not so. What I want to do is run up to the store and buy some army men. The green plastic kind that used to be the cornerstone of any self-respecting boy’s toy collection. I want to line up an intense battle on the sidewalk and allow one side to harness the energy of the sun to lay waste to their enemy.

With a quick focus of their giant lens, the technologically advanced army turns their foe into a giant, bubbling mass of green goo.

With great knowledge comes great power, especially if you are a green plastic man forever frozen into a pose that depicts your status in the army. Mine sweeper? That’s what you are. General? You get binoculars. Infantry? You have five choices. One: Standing and shooting. Two: Running. Three: Kneeling. Four: Crawling. Five: Sniping.

There’s no hope for advancement. No hope for promotion. Your life is defined by your body posture. Your job is predefined. There’s no complaining in these ranks. Your only hope is to have a benevolent god-like child to be the master of your fate, and to be chosen as the forces of good. Otherwise, you end up a bubbling mass of green goo.

Whatever happened to army men? I thought they’d make resurgence after their supporting role in Toy Story. But not so. Kids today, I suppose, don’t have toys that require imagination. You actually have to play with army men. A modern child needs a toy that plays with itself. With a predetermined back-story.

Army men only had a basic back-story. They are military men. Nothing else. Whatever happens is up to you.

What will literature look like in the future if kids don't know how to play? Sigh.

Maybe I put too much stock into the importance of green army men. But, they were the ultimate toys. They work inside, outside, in the bath. They were ready to deploy at a moment’s notice. No remorse, only fierce fighters.

Crap. I have to go. The third infantry is on the move and Charlie Company needs to set up the Ultra-Violet Ray of Death. Our very lives depend upon their success.

Hey! Ho! Let’s Go!

Before I bore you with the mundanities of my life and, believe me they are many, I wanted to thank a certain Troll King for reassuring me about nuclear weapons. I still don’t like the idea, but at least I know that the government says “We’ll use nuclear weapons” the same way an 18 year old says, “I have a massive schlong.”

I went to apply for Gertrude's Social Security card today. A year ago, this wouldn’t have been all of that odd of an experience, except when the federal agent asks you when you’d like your child fitted for the tracking chip. But these days, when everyone is a potential enemy of the state, it was surreal.

The office is in a non-descript suburban building. Three floors high, so as to not impede the view of the wealthy suburbanites who want to see the sky. Those suburbanites who want to ignore the fact that there is life outside of their tiny parcel of land they pay illegal immigrants to maintain.

When I was walking to the building, I felt the same way I feel when I go to the bank. A simple act. Nothing more than turning in a form, smiling and leaving.

Walking through the door I was greeted by a security officer. One who, by the looks of it, would be more secure seated at the counter of a Krispy Kreme. His shirt alone took more fabric to manufacture than my entire outfit.

I was searched, including emptying my pockets. It dawned on me, as he was looking at my six dimes and the scrap of paper containing twelve letters which were important at the time I wrote them, but now seemed to be a cryptic code.

I expected Mr. Security agent to ask, “LG PEP ON GR PEP? And what the hell does that mean Mr. O’Brien. If that is your real name. Huh? What are you trying to pull? I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to strip.”

He jovially looked over my belongings and told me that Denise would be with me shortly.

And she was. Happily. Hardly the type you’d expect to work at a federal building.

But that’s the thing. It’s a federal building, of sorts. I was standing in the middle of a representative space of my government, my country. It had never dawned on me that anyone would want to harm anyone within 100 miles of me.

Of course, that’s what people think every morning in Israel before people start exploding. There’s a moment of peace, with coffee and the morning paper, before average people think, “I wonder who will explode today?”

But, apparently, people do want to harm these kind federal workers. There was a sign on the wall that read, “It is a federal offense to kill, kidnap, forcibly assault, or intimidate an federal employee while they are representing the government.” Or something like that. It had never occurred to me that anyone would want to harm Denise for any reason.

But two things occurred to me about that sign. 1. Isn’t it always some sort of offense to kill someone? Regardless of whether it’s a state, city or federal crime, it’s a crime. And a bad one, at that.

2. Is it possible to passively assault someone?

It’ seems that everyone is concerned about safety these days. Even Dominoes Pizza. I received a flyer in the mail recently that stated that Dominoes is “Fast, Safe and Friendly.”

Safe? Of course. These are the pizza people, not the mafia. They bring me hot, cheesy goodness. Why would they want to hurt me? They are the harbingers of cholesterol. If anything, I should ask them why they didn’t stop me from ordering.

“Fast, Safe and Friendly” made me feel as though I was going to order an escort. They don’t hang out all night, carry diseases and hey, they don’t insult your perverted ways. “Yeah, I’d like the Big Helpin’s Special. Make that a blonde and a brunette with . . . oh, leather.”

Or maybe all their drivers wear condoms at all times. Who knows?

When I got home, I had to make a merge file. A large one. Quite boring, but a necessary evil. As I was typing, I noticed one name.

Don Torok. I figure he’s either an Orc or a Klingon. Either way, I’m never going to piss of Mr. Torok. Torok! Choy Chu!

I don’t know. It was a pretty normal day. Nothing happened. Nothing. Except that I’ve started a music project entitled “The Art of the Hey.” It will contain only songs that feature the word “hey.” Fun.

I am officially boring. Which would explain why I’m obsessed with Snozzleberries.

A good snozzleberry in the morning, and one at night, really eases the mind.

Hey! Ho! Let’s Go!

The snozzleberries taste like snozzleberries!

I'll be back later today with an actual update. Sorry for the back up. I've been doing this thing called "work". I built an online store. That was a lot of work. Oy!

Random thought theater today . . .

First of all, a follow-up on my depressing rant from Friday. No, I don’t feel any better. I feel worse, actually. My kids are too damn cute to grow up in a radioactive world. They don’t need third arms!

But, I was considering humanity and its capacity for destruction and creation. It seems we have an odd dichotomy. We discover an amazing technology and we try to figure out how to use it to destroy things. I’m waiting for the day when we can use a calculator to kill people.

Technology should be used to make our lives better. Easier. It should answer questions and open new doors. It should raise questions. It should entice and engage the intellect. Instead, if we don’t use it to download porn, create first person shooters (the only kind of video game I’m good at. Should I be concerned?) or, to use the most over-used phrase of the last decade, “weapons of mass destruction.”

How do we exactly define “mass destruction.” At one time incendiary devices, like dynamite could cause mass destruction. Look at Dresden during WWII. Not a single weapon of mass destruction used there. Yet, the city was leveled and hundreds of thousands of people died. Whose idea was it to improve upon the science behind that? “Hey George? These gazillion megaton bombs are cool, but we need more!”

Where does mass destruction begin? This whole war on terrorism started with commercial airliners. Are they weapons of mass destruction? No . . . I guess not, so 3,000 isn’t the magic number.

Cruise missiles, clearly aren’t, since we use them regularly. It seems weapons inspectors and politicos focus on germ warfare, biological warfare and gas canisters. But . . . it doesn’t seem that nerve gas can kill more than a cruise missile. Maybe it’ll kill slowly . . . but, mass destruction?

It seems to be human nature to want to kill as many people as possible.

I've always said the most dangerous discovery man ever made was fire. When it was discovered, people used it for warmth, comfort and to make their meat taste a little better. Eventually someone discovered that fire burned people and could be used to extort their will out of others. Then it was discovered that homes could be willingly destroyed with it. Luckily, it sat dormant for many years. One day man discovered he could contain the fires in a little capsule that propelled metal into other bodies. But even that was not enough. Man needed to kill on grand scales. So, he captured the power of fire in a cylinder and dropped it on others. Many hundreds could be killed that way. But even that was not enough. Man eventually figured out the power in the energy of fire. He split that power and was able to discover that he could kill hundreds of thousands at one time, and poison their land to boot.

So what is mass destruction? Mass murder usually involves more than two people, so shouldn’t we hold weapons to that criterion?

Hell, a person could probably only kill one other person with their hands in a reasonable amount of time, so all weapons cause mass destruction. Plus, if you look at the lifecycle of any weapon, over time . . . mass destruction.

For that matter, why does mass destruction involve death? Could we not also include bulldozers, cars, wrecking balls and two-year-olds as weapons of mass destruction?

Can’t you see it? Our enemies send a gaggle of irritable two-year olds to invade us. We take pity and take them in. Within a year, the two-year olds have torn our favorite books, taken our CDs out and scratched them all and put their lunch in the VCR because it looked hungry.

Sorry for the mood today. It’s cold and rainy outside and I’ve lost my faith in humanity. Just another day at the O’Brien household.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have kids now and my priorities have changed, but I find myself more and more disturbed by wars, conflicts, and terrorism and general acts of violence.

Just this past week Israel and Palestine have tried to kill everyone in sight, Andrea Yates was convicted of killing her kids to “save” them from her bad mothering and it’s been discovered that the US is thinking about using small, tactical nuclear weapons (or “cute nukes”) in some arenas of war.

Back up the pumpkin Cinderella. What? What the hell is going on? Have we all lost our minds? What’s going on around here? Can we not inhabit this small blue-green orb without choking it, and ourselves, to death? Is it impossible to inhabit the same space as other human beings without having some sort of bloodthirsty, murderous intent?

I grew up in the midst of a world that was terrified by MAD, or mutually assured destruction. This was the grand idea that kept us and other countries from using nuclear weapons. Doing so would essentially be a murder-suicide pact.

Though it was cold comfort, we could at least rest assured that we could assume that there was no nation on the Earth that was that stupid, arrogant or insane. (Granted, history has proven that there are governments out there who are stupid, arrogant and insane.)

In sixth grade, I would lay awake at night terrified. Not by bullies. Not by adolescent torture, but of waking up one morning, seeing a flash and watching my loved ones melt. Worse yet, I’d have visions of a post-apocalyptic world where every day was an excruciating exercise in radiation poisoning. The world would kill us one by one.

But we’d still have cockroaches and Keith Richards.

Now, in a world where a few men with ordinary household objects, rental trucks and innocent bystanders, can cause death and destruction my own country is considering the possible use of the most destructive force on the planet.

Nuclear bombs are the bomb that keeps on bombing.

These new “cute nukes” are low yield bombs. The radiation and explosion is only a fraction of the old school nuclear weapons. They can, I am told, reduce collateral damage.

Collateral damage, for those of you not playing modern warfare at home, is the new way of saying, “whoops, people were killed while they were buying bananas at the market.” It’s the nice way for any country, faction or rebel group to say they killed the wrong people.

But even cute nukes contain radiation. They will poison the bombsite for generations. Taint the air, the water, and the soil. Children will grow up sick, or worse because of these tactical weapons. Generations after whatever conflict caused the use of a nuclear weapon is over, people who weren’t involved will still be paying the price for the sins of their forefathers.

Right now the government is going after a lead smelter in Missouri that managed to poison not only the soil of a small town, but all the houses in the vicinity. There are children in that town who are growing up with lead poisoning. A problem we should have corrected decades ago when we figured out lead was dangerous.

However, a small radioactive site can kill more brain cells than Budweiser at a WWF event. And trust me, Budweiser REALLY has to look for those brain cells.

Even worse still, is that at least I can count on the US not to use the cute nukes because a Canadian crossed the border into Wisconsin or threw up at Niagara Falls. But can the same be said of India? Pakistan? Iraq? North Korea? I don’t know?

I just don’t understand. Why are humans like this? Why can’t we be like monkeys? You make me mad, I throw my feces at you. Look, the world is trying to kill us as it is. If the Earth doesn’t shake violently and swallow you, spew molten rock on your home or blow your roof off with tornado, consider yourself lucky. We don’t need to help nature. Biology does a fine job at finding a way to end human life. Do we really need to give it any help?

I look around me everyday and see these wonderful reasons to live. My children. Full of wonder and a joy for knowledge, they are the future of our world. Let’s hope that somewhere, there are other rational people looking at their children with the same wonder.

And when they’re old enough I’m going to sit them down and say, “Honey, I’m so sorry. We didn’t mean to make this mess. We were just too mean and stupid to figure out what we were doing in time. But now’s your chance. Make the world a better place. We tried, but all we came up with was ‘Nsync and the Ronco Food Dehydrator. Neither came in handy in the end. Use your curiosity and generosity and figure out where we went wrong.”

Blog? What blog? Oh yes. This one.

Full schedule this week. All sorts of things going on. The least of which is our sitter is getting ready to squirt a pup. So, we're on Red Alert for child care.

Plus, I've been on heavy daddy duty for several days. I'm tired.

But, I had beer on Saturday. I can't complain.

Parenting is a tough job. You have to worry about the health and welfare of your children. Whether it’s outside influences, or illness or safety issues, parenting is a non-stop series of jolts, jumps, fears and issues that you can’t shake.

But since the birth of Gertrude there is only one thing that has me waking up in a cold sweat at night. Only one thing that makes me wonder if this whole parenting thing is worth it. Will she be able to survive this stage of childhood? Will I?

It’s the music on her baby light symphony toy. From Beethoven to “This Old Man” this thing plays music with flashing lights non-stop. Tuneless, joyless, electronic versions of classical and children’s songs blared out at an uncontrollable volume.

It wasn’t so bad when we were in control. But that’s not the case anymore. Gertrude, in her ever-expanding grasp of the world, now understands how to turn the thing on. And once it’s on, there is no turning it off until it decides that the baby is sated or the parents are a pile of drooling goo in the corner.

It starts with a 20 second snippet of Fur Elise. Then it moves on to Frere Jaques, I’m a Little Tea Pot and on and on and on. I tell you . . . I hate that friggin' tea pot.

Gertrude coos with contentment. She smiles and drools and kicks her feet. And when it’s all over . . . she starts it again.

Late at night, when the lights are off and the kids are asleep, I close my eyes. And I see the flashing lights and hear the music over and over and over and over again. I wake up screaming.

And it’ only going to get worse. We have Baby Van Gough, Richard Scarry’s ABCs, Barney and The Wiggles to look forward to.

So today, I’ve strapped Gertrude in her pumpkin seat. She’s facing the stereo with Rubber Soul on repeat. On the television is an endless display of famous scenes from classic films. In her hands is the remote control.

Before I get into the meat of my ire today, I’d like to point out that I’ve added links to the websites of some of my friends. Visit them and enjoy their weirdness for all that it is. Maybe if you visit Idoru enough Mr. P will actually put something up there.

Yesterday’s blog was the first in the history of Confessions of a Geek that warrants a follow up discussion. No, I will not discuss the further adventures of Tooth Brush Man (who is currently taking on the Paper Towel industry for making rolls that have different counts of sheets). Rather, I think it’s time we uncover the horror that is the Hot Dog and Bun cartels.

Oh yes. Cartel.

Many comics have pointed out in the past that hot dogs and buns are available in different quantiies. One may think this is a ploy by both industries for you to buy high quantities of both products in order to correct the disparity. It would be foolish of you to think such a thing.

No, this is an all out war between the two industries. A war that may never end.

Back in 1904, the two industries worked hand in hand. Together, the bakers and the sausage makers forged two empires across the plains of America. They fed the average American’s hunger for processed, highly sodium injected, cow lips and anuses.

Peace between the two camps reigned for ages. Until 1973. That was when Phineas T. Barker, hot dog bun magnate, introduced the eight bun-per-package product that has become the mainstay of the industry. He dropped the price of each package by a paltry sum and managed to eek out additional profit from the fattened, baseball addled consumers.

(Rumor has it that it was a case of infidelity. In the ultimate irony, Baker’s wife had been found in the arms of hot dog czar, Charlie Freedle.)

The hot dog industry had no recourse. They knew they were backed into a corner. They knew it would take five packages of buns to match their four packages. But, there was no way they could change their dog count without cutting into profits.

In 1986, a tubular engineer at Oscar Meyer made a major structural break through. He found it was possible to increase the length of a hot dog without changing the circumference and still retain structural meat integrity. He called it, “The Bun-Length Hot Dog.” Oscar Meyer paid him greatly for his invention, placed a bas-relief of his face next to that of the man who invented the cheese injection process and he retired to a sunny beach in Florida.

But all would not remain rosy in the world of hot dogs. Soon the bun industry figured out a way to increase the length of their buns without sacrificing net weight. As an added bonus, they created what is known in the industry as the “Bun Mop”. That is the little flap of extra bread that is attached to each bun. With this addition, consumers could easily clean up any condiments that fell outside of the bun “load zone”.

Once again, the bun was longer than the dog. The cart was leading the horse.

It has been a long time since the longer than dog bun was released to the public. And yet, there has been no response from the meat industry. Why? Where are the clever meat engineers? Have they gone the way of the buffalo? Are they no longer working in beef by-products? Have they moved on?

Or is it something worse? Perhaps we have reached the outer limits of hot dog lengthening technology.

I, for one, will be watching these two industries closely. Something must break. It has been nearly two decades since the bun industry fired a shot across the bow of the hot doc industry.

The two cannot remain silent for long.

Long time, no blog. Obviously I’ve been mourning the loss of my Fargo snow globe. It was a sad day. Everyone should join me in my sadness. Last night, I was tallying my billable hours for February and it simply exploded. Sadness covers the land.

Good news! The computer is back and moving at lightening speeds! I’ve never been happier. Okay, that’s not true. I’ve never been more suspicious. This was the third time it died. One more and I bring out the shotgun.

So, I’ve been following the news. Escalations in the violence in the Middle East, more American deaths in Afghanistan, rumors of a nuclear threat on New York.

I keep looking at my infant daughter thinking, “Maybe you can fix this some day, huh? Generations have tried, but greed, stupidity and arrogance have gotten the better of us. Maybe your generation can learn how to inhabit this little planet without choking it with smoke, radiation and hatred.” She spit up. Not great art, but great criticism.

I feel guilty for leaving this world to my children. Though it is not of my making, and certainly not what I want, those who are in charge of this planet can’t seem to get it together. Maybe Gertrude will develop a superpower and stop all this crap.

All of this has made me forget the little things I used to worry about. You know the $9.99 adage, “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff.”

Well . . . Last week I was reading Ann Landers. Or was it Dear Abby? I’m not sure it matters. Anyway, there was a letter from a concerned citizen who wanted to expose a heinous corporate crime far worse than Enron or the fact that Sony still pays Michael Jackson. This crime could have reverberations for generations to come. We should rebel. REBEL! Do not let this capitalistic pig dogs destroy our traditional American way of life!

What is this crime? His brand new toothbrush does not fit into the standard size toothbrush holder in his bathroom. Oh yes, you heard correctly. Modern toothbrush technology has advanced to such a state that it can no longer be held in place by antiquated bathroom technology.

Who, he wondered, is behind this? Who would do such a thing? What was wrong with the original size of the toothbrush? Hell, why did we have to switch to paste? Powder worked just fine.

Okay, so, I can understand this guy getting upset when he brings his brand new toothbrush home. Here he was, trying to obtain the height of dental hygiene while trying to avoid getting carpal tunnel syndrome. He bought the most ergonomic toothbrush that would reach his back teeth without straining his elbow tendons.

Damn! It doesn’t fit in the toothbrush holder!

And that’s where my ire would have ended. It’s possible, to show my anger to the industry, I would have bent the toothbrush a little. To disrespect these bathroom fixture Nazis. Perhaps I would have wondered if the fixture manufacturers and toothbrush manufacturers were in cahoots.

Can you see the meeting? A smoky room filled with fat, pale men. One side with gleaming teeth. They sit down and discuss how they can squeeze the last few cents of disposable income from the unsuspecting American public. Why, of course! Change the size of the toothbrush! Then all the dupes and morons will have to buy new bathroom fixtures! And you can’t just buy one bathroom fixture! No! You have to get a new set! Everything has to match! I’ll bet they even swapped stock under the table.

It’s not the fact that this guy was upset that bothered me. I understand his feelings, actually. However, he was so incensed that he felt the need to ALERT THE MEDIA.

I’m not sure if he’s noticed, but there are plenty of other issues to get passionate about. I’m sure there are issues in his own community that could stand some action on his part. Maybe he could lead a beautification crew. Maybe he could crack down on litter in the streets. Perhaps he could volunteer his time with troubled youth.

Screw that. My toothbrush is too big!

Hmm. I wonder why this world I’m handing off to Gertrude and Kaitlyn is so screwed up?

I don’t think they’ll have a problem handling it, though. With the new size of toothbrushes, their forearms will be powerfully strong. I have ever confidence they can cure the injustice of it all. Maybe they’ll start with the fact that hot dogs come in packages of ten and buns in packages of eight.

Those bastards!

RIP Fargo Snow Globe
1996-2002
Goodbye old friend. You've sat on every desk I've ever occupied. Now, alas, our time together is over. May you find peace in the tchotchke afterlife.