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It Means Pepperoni, Sausage, Anchovies
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Some readers may have heard me quietly lament my recent 39th birthday ("Oh my Gawwwwd! I'm getting oooooolllddd!!"), and complain that I'm getting too old for a lot of things like stuffing myself with pizza and beer without thinking about my cholesterol.
But that's nothing compared to the staggering news I received a few weeks ago, when I was told I was old enough to get "that" test. You know, the one that all men should get, but typically don't.
I was at a health fair, speaking with Linda, a nurse from a local cancer center. Her organization was offering free prostate screenings, so I asked her about prostate exams.
(In case you didn't know, the prostate gland is part of the male reproductive system, and prostate cancer affects one out of every six men. Law & Order's Jerry Orbach died from it.)
I had heard chilling tales about The Test, which is more commonly known as "The Finger Test." Men everywhere get the shudders whenever they think about The Test.
I asked Linda, "Isn't there a new prostate test that men could get?"
"Sure, the PSA" she said. "It's The Other Test."
I assumed that since most wives continually nag their husbands to get their prostate checked, it was some sort of compromise test that stood for "Please Stop Asking." It actually stands for Prostate Specific Antigen, which means it checks for a specific protein that usually signals the onset of prostate cancer.
"How old should a man be to get the PSA?" I asked, afraid to hear the answer.
"Typically 40 years old."
I sighed with relief. "Good, I just turned 39 a couple of weeks ago."
"Then you're the right age. You should get it."
D'OH! I was crestfallen. In just five short words, I was suddenly The Right Age. Old enough to get The Other Test.
"It's just a blood test, right?" I asked desperately.
"Yes. But there's also the DRE." She saw my confused look. "Digital rectal exam."
Despite the name, this one – thankfully – has nothing to do with computers. In this case, digital refers to the doctor's finger, or digit.
"But I can put that one off for a while, right?"
"Yes, men should get the DRE when they turn 50. But it's still pretty nice when you can get the PSA and DRE together," she said.
I accused her of making up a new meaning to the word "nice," but she explained. "The cure rate for prostate cancer is nearly 100% if it's caught early enough. But the trick is to catch it, because men don't like to get checked."
"Of course not," I explained. "Men don't like to talk about their feelings. What makes you think they want to talk about their plumbing?"
And that's the problem. Men don't talk about the health of their prostate, so we joke about it, laughing like little kids who heard a new potty word. We joke to cover up our discomfort, much like I've done for the past 504 words.
I debated whether to get the PSA since I was only 39, technically one year away from being The Right Age. But that argument was settled when I learned one of the other risk factors: if you have a family history of prostate cancer, you're at a higher risk of getting it yourself. Unfortunately we never knew my grandfather's medical history, so my dad has gotten his checked every year. I figured I'd better play it safe and do the same.
So I had my blood drawn for my first-ever PSA. I was both proud and a little sad. I was proud at my new-found responsibility, and sad that I was no longer a carefree young man who could take his prostate for granted.
But I hit an emotional valley a week later, when I noticed the bruise on my arm from where they drew my blood. That had never happened before.
"What's that?" my wife asked me.
"That's where they took my blood," I pouted.
"For your PSA test? Why do you have a bruise?"
I sobbed inwardly. "Because I'm old enough to get a PSA test."
"So?"
"So it takes longer to heal when you get older!"
She patted my arm in sympathy. "Well, at least you know you're alright."
She had a point, so I decided to count my blessings. I still had 11 more years in which scientists could come up with a new, less invasive test.
I just hope it involves pizza.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of August 4th, 2006)
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My Kingdom for a Curmudgeon
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Regular readers of former Chicago Tribune columnist Mike Royko will remember Slats Grobnik, a curmudgeonly character who espoused less-than-popular views on certain controversial issues. These views were somewhat, but not too far, out in left or right field, depending on which side Grobnik supported. He gave voice to the viewpoints you secretly agreed with, but knew better than to espouse in polite company.
Like non-smokers who secretly believe militant anti-smokers are taking things a bit too far. Democrats who think the Teachers' Union is whiny. Republicans who think Big Oil is greedy. Barry Bonds haters who still watch every pitch so they can see history being made.
Speaking of sports, sports writer and pencil mustache aficionado Frank Deford has his own sports curmudgeon called – what else? – The Sports Curmudgeon. This curmudgeon will growl and gnash his teeth about his less-than-popular views about the sports world that would otherwise generate a lot of hate mail if Frank wrote about these opinions himself.
Dave Barry may have his Astute Readers. Bruce Cameron may have his Eight Simple Rules. Robert Novak may have his anonymous White House sources who reveal confidential information that endanger the lives of other Americans. But none of them have a curmudgeon.
Unfortunately, neither do I. And I need one.
I recently began searching for my own curmudgeon, someone to growl their own opinions on everything wrong with the world today. So I placed an ad in my local paper.
"Wanted: Grizzled, opinionated loudmouth to express his views on controversial topics. No idea too outrageous. Free beer. Must supply own cigars."
I held the interviews in a local tavern so I could watch the curmudgeons in their natural habitat.
I started with the first candidate. "Is darts a sport, or just a game?"
"Just a GAME?" he bellowed in a strong Irish accent. " JUST a game?! Listen sonny, I'll take you over me bleedin' knee if you ever say darts is 'just' a game again! When I was yer age, I was killin' bears wit nuttin' more than a tin pot and a handful of darts."
Hmmm, a definite Maybe.
The next one: "Who's the worst of the last four presidents?"
"They're all terrible! We haven't had a good president since Grover Cleveland!"
True, but I was vigorously opposed to Cleveland's stance on the Pullman Strike of 1894, so this guy went into the No pile.
A third: "What comes to mind when I say Microsoft?"
"Freemasons! They're poisoning our water with fluoride to control our minds!"
Another Maybe. What about the next candidate?
"What do you think of Barry Bonds?"
"Anyone who's ever seen the guy play knows he's on the juice. If those morons running baseball truly cared about the sport more than the revenues, they would have booted him years ago. But they made their bed, so now they can lie in it."
Hmmm, looks promising. Let's try a follow-up question.
"So you think Bonds is hitting all those dingers because he's on steroids?"
"Nah, it's the hand signals I send him through my TV."
Uh-oh.
After several more hours of Nos and Maybes, I was ready to give up. Not one definite Yes in the bunch. I leaned back and closed my eyes, and considered the possibilities of hiring a Whippersnapper instead. I looked up again when I heard a chair scoot and a mug clunk down on the table.
The guy looked vaguely like Santa Claus with a full white beard, a fisherman's cap on his head, and a blue work shirt. Sort of Hemingway-esque.
"You look beat, Kid," he growled. "What's the matter?"
"I thought this would be a whole lot easier."
"What would?"
"Interviews. I'm trying to find a mature, experienced opinion leader who's willing to share his thoughts on current events."
"Oh, you mean a Curmudgeon."
I sat up. "Exactly."
"Heck, Kid, you're nearly old enough to be a Curmudgeon yourself."
"Watch it, old man, I'm half your age."
He cackled into his beer. "You're alright, Kid. You're alright."
I decided anyone who called me Kid couldn't be half bad. I explained what I was looking for and what I needed him to do.
"And you'll provide the beer?"
"Yep. You interested?"
"It's a deal."
"Great," I said, signaling for another round. "What do you think of the whole Brad Pitt - Angelina Jolie baby thing?"
"Someone needs to spay and neuter them both before they procreate again!"
This was going to be the start of a great relationship.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of August 11th, 2006)
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Take Two Pills and . . . Uhhhh
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
"You can't fix stupid," claims stand-up comic Ron White.
White says that while people can get face lifts, tummy tucks, and boob jobs to look younger, there's just no operation, procedure, or pill that will make a person smarter.
Until now.
German scientists may have shattered White's theory in early August, when they announced they had improved the short term memory of mice and fruit flies with the world's first "anti-stupid" pill.
According to a Reuters article, the pill "helps stabilize short-term memory and improve attentiveness." The scientist, Dr. Hans-Hilger Ropers, director of the Max-Planck Institute for Molecular Genetics in Berlin, hopes to test it on humans one day. But right now, it only reduces short-term memory loss in mice and fruit flies.
That's too bad, because a pill that improves short-term memory would be a Godsend for many people, including me, who suffer from the occasional short-term memory lapses.
The anti-stupid pill works by "thwarting hyperactivity in certain brain nerve cells," the net result of which is improved short-term memory and attentiveness in mice and fruit flies.
As I read the article, I thought of all the benefits a pill like this would have for humans. How many of us have wandered into a room and immediately forgotten why we were there in the first place? Wouldn't it be great to just pop one of these pills into your mouth and instantly remember what you were there for? (Of course, this would be a problem if you were going in the room specifically to get the pills.)
You could also use the pill if you were at a store, and suddenly forgot what you were supposed to buy. Rather than smacking yourself on the forehead and mumbling something about a "senior moment," you could instead take one of these pills. Then you would instantly remember you were supposed to buy mouse traps and fly strips.
As an added bonus, the pill also increases attentiveness, which is often a problem for small children who generally have very short attention spans and are easily distracted by - hey look, balloons!
Unfortunately, the media wasn't providing much information on these wonderful new pills. They were too busy reporting on organized attacks by an army of super-intelligent mice and fruit flies. So I decided to call Dr. Ropers in Germany to find out more about his amazing discovery.
"Hello? I'd like a large pepperoni and sausage pizza with extra cheese," I said. "And a large Coke."
The voice on the other end sighed. "Ve don't haf any pizza."
"Why? Did you run out?"
"Let me guess. Zis is Erik Deckers, und you vant to know about ze pill for short-term memory loss, ja?"
"That's amazing! How did you know?"
"Because zis is ze third time you haf called us."
"Dr. Ropers? Is that you?"
The voice sighed again. "Ja."
"When did you start selling pizza? What happened to the science thing?"
"Ve are not doing ze. . . pizza thing. Ve are still scientists."
"So you're just moonlighting at a pizza place? Trying to make a few extra bucks, huh? Tell you what, Doc, you should check into this anti-stupid pill I was reading about. If you could invent one of those, man, you'd be rich!"
"Guten abend, Herr Deckers. I must go now."
"Thank you, Dr. Ropers. You've been a big help."
"You're velcome. I'll talk to you in five minutes."
I finally managed to get Dr. Ropers to give me some additional information, although he insisted they were out of pizza. I hope the delivery truck shows up soon, because otherwise he's going to lose a lot of customers.
According to Dr. Ropers, the initial fly tests were very tough, because most of the flies couldn't swallow the pill before their 24-hour life cycle was up, while those that did manage to swallow it died instantly.
But eventually, the scientists found a way around the problem, so the mice and fruit flies (did I mention this only works on mice and fruit flies?) were able to take the drug. The end result is that the test subjects could accurately remember eight pizza orders placed during a regular dinner rush.
Think about it, no more losing your car keys, forgetting important phone numbers, or losing your car keys. With the new anti-stupid pill, you'll be able to avoid those embarrassing senior moments, instantly recall past conversations with German scientists, and not get distracted by - yay, SpongeBob SquarePants is on!
That's Dr. Pizza's Anti-Stupid Pills. Now available in mice or fruit fly flavor.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of August 18th, 2006)
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There Goes the Solar System
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Quick, name the nine planets.
If you're like most people, you ran through the list with ease: Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. You probably even know the mnemonic to help you remember: My Very Excellent Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizzas.
But if you're one of those smarmy, self-righteous planet purists, like the scientists of the International Astronomical Union, you scoffed at the notion of nine planets.
"Pluto?! That's not a proper planet. It's just a big ball of dirt and ice."
And if you're one those people, then I have a bone to pick with you.
You ruined our solar system!
This past Thursday, 2,500 members of the International Astronomical Union took it upon themselves to decide that tiny Pluto was no longer worthy of the mantle of "planet." Instead, it's now a "dwarf planet," which really isn't a planet, so much as a planette. It's a folding metal chair in a galaxy of leather recliners.
These self-appointed planetary pundits gathered in Prague, Czech Republic and kick Pluto out of the planet club, citing its small size and lack of a proper orbit.
"It's big, round, and orbits the sun. What's to argue about?" Pluto supporters argued.
"That's true," the Pluto haters said, "but so do comets, asteroids, and Star Jones. Does that mean they're planets?"
They argued that the current definition of a planet allowed too many of the non-planetary objects into the list.
"So?" another faction said. "We think a planet should be at least 500 miles in diameter, have a mass of one-12,000th of the Earth, and have enough of its own gravity to be sphere shaped."
This bold move would have introduced three more new planets: Ceres, between Earth and Mars; Charon, which is in a planetary tag team with Pluto; and Xena, which lies beyond Pluto.
Twelve planets, not nine.
My Very Excellent Mother Cheryl Just Served Us Nine Pizzas Chicken Xylophone.
"The problem is," the Pluto haters said, "this new, looser definition would actually allow other objects in too, which would bring the total to 50."
So the knee-jerk naysayers ripped apart the Ceres/Charon/Xena proposal, and rewrote it to create a tighter definition of what a planet was. They said it must have, among other things, cleared the neighborhood around its orbit. In other words, it has to be the dominant body in its area, which means that Star Jones still has a chance at astronomical immortality.
"Oh, and it can't be called Pluto," said a footnote.
It's so obvious to us Pluto pals that the definition was written not only to block out the three potential newcomers, but to also blackball our beloved little planet. Pluto was automatically disqualified by this definition, because its orbit overlaps with Neptune's.
So who are these people that have granted themselves dominion over the stars? Who decreed that less than five percent of the world's astronomers could decide the fate of the heavens themselves, redefine our entire solar system, and ruin one of the best mnemonics ever created?
I think the International Astronomers Union has just gotten a little taste of power, and they're going to find they like it too much to let go.
What will this do to the rest of the galaxy? Do these self-appointed arbiters of planet-ness get to determine whether something is an entire solar system? Will they lop off the right arm of the Milky Way galaxy just because someone prefers left-handers?
So what if I formed the International Pluto Supporters Union (IPSU) , and voted on whether the International Astronomers Unions are just a bunch of pickle heads? Let's see how they like it. Maybe we'll just have a big conference and get all kinds of media coverage while we argue back and forth over whether they're pickle heads or doody heads.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I don't mean to lash out like that. I'm just so upset that the Littlest Planet has been lost to a bunch of uptight scientists. The four-year-old boy of the solar system -- complete with teddy bear, little overalls, and a cute lisp -- has just been sent to the galactic orphanage by a bunch of hard-hearted greybeards, and my heart is broken.
Somebody had better come up with a good reason to let Pluto back into the planetary lineup. Because my very excellent mother just called us Plutonians for dinner, and now there's no pizza.
And that makes us really grouchy.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of August 25th, 2006)
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