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You Think YOUR Road Trips Are Long?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
"No, we're not there yet."
"About six more weeks."
"We're in Central Ohio."
"We should get to the Indiana border in three weeks."
"That's pretty fast, children."
"Sure it is. Wagon trains just seem to take a long time."
"We're going as fast as we can."
"Just be patient."
"Go in the back and take a nap if you're bored."
"Then get out and walk alongside!"
"I'm sorry, good wife. The children just yammer on so. It's been the same questions every day for the last month. Are we there yet? How much longer? Will we see Indians? Sarah is on my side of the wagon. Can we put the cover down? I'm tempted to make them get out and walk the rest of the way."
"That is not cruel! My father made me get out and walk next to the wagon train when I was bored. And look how well I turned out."
"*Sigh* You're probably right. Wagons weren't nearly as fast as they are now. Nor as safe. Now we all have these modern amenities like a cover and extra room for bunking down. Plus there's room for their books and their rubber ball. Everything a pioneer child could ever want."
"You know, sometimes I wonder if we spoil them. I mean, a book AND a rubber ball? When I was a boy, my brothers and I all shared a single book and we played catch with a smooth rock."
"I am not exaggerating. I can still remember how angry Joseph and James were when I lost the rock at the swimming hole. I looked for hours, but never found it again. They gave me the silent treatment for a week, and they still get upset about it after all these years."
"I'm not kidding. Let me show you. There's Joseph's wagon over there."
"Hallo, Joseph!"
"Fine, and you?"
"Good. Say, do you remember our rock we played with as boys?"
"I know. Look, I said I was sorry."
"What are you still upset about? We got a wooden ball that next Christmas."
"Oh great. Now they've gone up ahead. See, I told you they were still upset about it."
"John, Sarah, come up here and look at the scenery. It's marvelous."
"What?! It's not boring, it's wonderful. To be immersed in God's creation so fully makes me excited to be out here on the frontier."
"What do you mean, it all looks the same? Nonsense. Each tree is different and unique from every other. Why, there's a white oak, and over there is a red oak. There are a couple of pine trees, and a fir tree, and -- oh, look, a tamarack. See, all kinds of different and unique trees."
"Shh! Quiet everyone. Look over there. It's a buck. Look at the size of him.
" He's magnificent. Fetch me my rifle, son."
"Of course I'm going to shoot it. How else are we going to eat it?"
"No, I'm not going to eat boiled potatoes again. A man can only eat boiled potatoes so many times, and 27 nights in a row is too many."
"Children, go to the back and read your book."
"No, I don't want apples either. We've been eating apples for lunch ever since we met up with that Johnny Appleseed fellow back in Akron two weeks ago. The only thing I'm more tired of than potatoes is apples."
"I don't care what the doctor said about my cholesterol. The man was as fat as an ox and his breath stank of that magic potion he sold. Besides, what the heck is cholesterol anyway?"
"I did not blaspheme."
"Heck is not a bad word."
"It isn't."
"I don't care what Preacher Fairweather says. He doesn't even believe in modern music like "Oh Susanna." The man's an idiot."
"Why are we arguing about this anyway? The buck got away."
"What do you mean, good?"
"Listen, woman, I need meat. M-E-E-T, meat. If I don't get some animal flesh soon, I'll eat one of the oxen."
"What, John?"
"Didn't you go when we stopped for dinner?"
"Why not?"
"I asked you both of you had to go."
"You should have tried anyway."
"Listen, the Rules of the Trail are that when we stop the wagon, everyone has to make water.
"That means -- I am not being coarse, I'm trying to make a point. -- EVERYONE. Even you two."
"Can't you hold it for a while longer? I wasn't going to stop again until supper time."
"Fine. Just wait until we go another mile or so."
"About half an hour."
"Listen, we're making good time. I don't want to have a long delay."
"Fine, just run up ahead a few hundred yards and go. We'll catch up with you when you're done."
"And listen to your mother. If you meet any Indians, be polite and mind your manners."
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 2nd, 2005)
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I'll Just Take the Bus Instead
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
I've become quite the aficionado of GPS (Global Positioning System) devices over the past year or so. I used to look down my nose at GPS users, because I thought they were incapable of reading a real map. That all changed when I used a GPS on several long car trips.
If you've never tried GPS, you should. They beat street maps any day, because you can drive and use the thing at the same time, and folding it is a snap. And they announce your next turn well in advance ("right turn in 500 yards. . . right turn in 200 yards. . ."). They don't give you weird directions that only locals understand ("go past where the O'Shaughnessy brothers knocked over Mrs. Murphy's cow"). And they will recalculate your route if you miss a turn or go the wrong direction.
In fact, that's the coolest things about a GPS. If you miss a turn, it will -- in a very calm and relaxing voice -- say, "Off route. Recalculating." And then it tells you the new route you should take.
Of course, this gets a little annoying if you already know where you're going, but you don't want to take the route the GPS tells you. Then it just gets monotonous.
That's the big problem with GPS receivers. They have no personality or flair. No funny voices or hilarious sound effects. So I'm making a recommendation to all GPS manufacturers to start including different personalities into their devices. Put the fun back into electronic navigation.
For example, there's the Passive-Aggressive personality. Say you missed your turn for the third time in a row. The P-A GPS would shout "What the heck are you doing?! You missed your stupid turn again! My mother was right about you! Pull over and ask for directions!" until you got to your destination.
Or you could even get celebrity personalities, like:
- Former Indiana University basketball coach Bobby Knight: "You call that a left turn?! That was crap! If you don't get your head out of your butt, I'm going to get someone else to drive this car and you'll ride with the soccer moms!"
- President George W. Bush: "I know more of you wanted to turn left back there, but I think it's within the car's best interest to turn right instead, so I'm doing what I want."
- Folk-rock singer Bob Dylan: "How many roads must a man drive down, before you can -- that was your turn back there."
- NASCAR driver Jeff Gordon: "Turn left. Turn left again. Go straight for 1.5 miles. Now turn left, and left again. Now pull in here for some gas."
- Shock jock Howard Stern: "Hey, let's get that chick in the next car to take her top off."
- Televangelist and 700 Club founder Pat Robertson: "That other driver thinks we're going to run him off the road? Fine, let's give him what he wants and run him off the road. No, wait, I didn't really say that. The radio took what I said out of context and misinterpreted it."
- Humor columnist Dave Barry - "You have three choices, you can turn left in 300 yards, buy one of my books, or pick your nose and flick the booger onto your GPS. Personally, I think 'Boogers on My GPS' would be a great name for a rock band."
- TV reality show 'COPS': "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to take a left turn in 300 yards. Sir? Sir, you have to take a -- Sir! Take a left turn, sir. Sir, take a -- he's turning right. LET'S GO, LET'S GO! All units, we've got a right turner here. All units converge on this location!"
- NFL Announcer John Madden: "You'll want to take a left turn up here in 399 yards. Say, that reminds me of the 2003 Green Bay Packers - Oakland Raiders game, when Brett Favre threw for 399 yards and 4 touchdowns. That Brett Favre sure is a joy to watch -- hey, that was your turn -- I mean, here's a guy who nearly retired at the end of 2004 and -- oops, where are we?"
- Famed gonzo journalist and whacked-out drug addict Hunter S. Thompson: Turn left in 300 yards and merge into the -- AAGH! Bats! Bats! Get 'em off me!!
Okay, on second thought, this is all a bad idea. Instead I'll just have the soothing sounds of my wife's voice telling me where to turn or that I'm driving too fast. Oh wait, I already have that.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 9th, 2005)
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I Can Even Use a Power Saw
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
Ever since we moved into our house 11 years ago, I've enjoyed working on it. Building and insulating the walls, putting up drywall, and watching my wife paint.
We finished off the upstairs and the basement with her parents' help, and I learned the manly art of bashing my own thumb with a hammer. In fact, I got so good at it that I find I enjoy working with my hands, beyond just typing on the computer.
Some days, I even fancy myself capable of doing this on a daily basis. I can just imagine what it would be like to earn a living, doing what I do on the weekends: drink beer, putter around in the garage, clean it a bit, drink more beer, and watch football on TV.
Sadly, there is more to being a contractor than that. It's not as much football watching, which is bad, but a lot more beer drinking, which is good, unless you're using a power nailer.
The problem with doing this kind of work is that it really can damage a Guy's hands. Whenever I think, "wouldn't this be fun to do everyday?" I remember what my hands looked like when I was finishing the upstairs of my house six years ago.
Every week brought a new scratch, scrape, scar, or bandage. I began to look like a walking triage unit, and personal injury attorneys followed me in the grocery store.
A hand's scars are a historical road map. They show us where we've been, what we've done, and the total screwups we've made when handling sharp objects. There's the scar where I cut myself with my dad's hunting knife, the scar where I cut myself with a kitchen knife, and the scar where I cut myself with a utility knife while cutting some drywall. Apparently, I have serious issues with knives.
For the past few weeks, my wife and I have been tackling major projects around the house, and my hands look like I've been wrestling a sack of nettles. I have cuts on my fingers from an errant hacksaw, a few poison ivy blisters, and a couple of scratches from God only knows what. And this was a good week.
But Guys wear their scars like badges of honor. Stupid, I-wasn't-paying-attention-and-sliced-my-hand-with-my-utility-knife scars. Big hey-want-to-see-what-a-hot-drill-bit-can-do-to-human-flesh scars. And we parade them around for others to see.
When most non-Guys (i.e. "Men") injure themselves, they will carefully clean the wound with Bactine, put some antibiotic ointment on it, and put a clean bandage on it every day. They also get their wives to "kiss it and make it all better." Guys, on the other hand, will only put a small Band-Aid on the wound to make sure they don't get blood in their nachos. Afterward, they take it off so people will ask them about it at work the next day.
Mildly concerned co-worker: Eww, gross! What did you do to your hand?
Guy: Oh that? That's just a scratch. I was building a new storage shed out of some pine logs and plywood. I guess one of the pieces got away from me, because it slipped and gashed my hand up pretty good. I just wrapped a little duct tape around it and kept working.
Other Guy: What are you talking about? I was over at your house, and you were cutting little rosettes into some baby redskin potatoes, and you sliced your hand on that little bitty paring knife. You cried like a baby and insisted I take you to the emergency room.
Guy: Yeah? Well, now you can forget about me making that lobster bisque and pasta bolognese for your birthday!
But Guys take pride in their scars, because we earned them. We performed the labor, we put ourselves at risk, and we made the gross error that nearly lopped off a finger or severed an artery. These aren't self-inflicted little scratches that we made to look cool. That would be like buying pre-torn jeans, like some non-Guys I could name. Guys just don't fake injuries. We may lie about them, but we'd never fake them.
We'd never intentionally drop lumber on our foot. We'd never try to injure ourselves with a sharp chisel. And we'd never overdramatize a groin injury and then purposely get suspended from training camp as a way to try to leverage a better contract than the 7-year-$49-million contract our moron of an agent made us sign the year before.
Not that I'm pointing a finger or anything. It's still too painful to move after I whacked it with a hammer.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 16th, 2005)
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Yeah? Well, I DOUBLE Dare You!
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
Erik is out of the office this week, so we're taking advantage of his absence to tell one of the stories that totally embarrass him.
I don't know what it is with teenagers these days.
For one thing, they make me feel old, especially when I say Old Geezer things like "I don't know what it is with teenagers these days."
They're so awkward and gangly, but are eager to take on the entire world. A dangerous, yet humorous combination.
I saw a perfect example a few days ago. I was at a stoplight, behind several cars, and saw a 14-year-old kid walking on the sidewalk with his girlfriend. Someone a few cars ahead must have said something to the kid, because he turned around and shot a dirty look at the passenger.
He held his arms out wide, as if to say, "You wanna piece of me?!" and shouted something at the other car. Then, with as much macho swaggering as he could manage, he turned around -- WHAM! -- right into a light pole.
As I laughed uproariously, and nearly missed my green light, I thought about when I was growing up. I never would have done anything like this. Not because I was some noble pacifist who didn't believe in violence. It was because I couldn't fight.
I lived by the "He who hides and runs away, lives to hide and run away again" rule. I learned at an early age that humor was a better defense, and if that didn't work. . . let's just say that my instinct for self-preservation lead to a semi-successful ten year career as a bicycle racer.
I can remember vividly the first time I discovered the humor defense. That's because I've relived the nightmare every day for the past 30 years.
My friend Eddie and I were at the bike rack one day after school, when two other kids started hassling us. I couldn't tell you what it was about or who they were. All I can remember is the four of us standing around, threatening to beat the crap out of each other for some imagined insult. It was like a kids' fight scene from "The Andy Griffith Show."
"I dare you to cross this line."
"No, I dare YOU to cross this line."
"You go first.
"No, YOU go first."
"Point of order. In Robert's Rules of Playground Order, the person who is dared first must accept the challenge on the floor, before another challenge is made."
"Really? I thought Robert's Rules were amended last year to allow an escalated dare to supersede the previous dare."
And so on.
But somewhere in all our challenges of "I'll kick your butt," "No, I'll kick YOUR butt," the word "kick" somehow managed to become to "pick."
These new, more powerful taunts were volleyed about with further promises of pain and violence. But I, being the wimpiest of the bunch, wisely kept my mouth shut to avoid further trouble.
"I'll pick your eye!" shouted one of the kids.
"Oh yeah? I'll pick your head!" shouted Eddie.
"Uh-uh. I'll pick your stomach!" shouted the other kid.
I decided I had heard enough to master this new threat, and offered my own menacing contribution to the pending melee.
"Oh yeah?! I'll pick your nose!"
It was like a nerdy-looking stranger had walked into a biker bar. Everything fell silent. All conversation and outdoor noises stopped, and 20 pairs of eyes locked onto me.
Eddie and our two opponents burst out laughing so hard, they nearly wet themselves. No longer was I one-half of an unstoppable team of whirling third grade mayhem. Now I was the dorky kid who threatened to go on a booger hunt in the middle of a fight.
The three of them laughed so much, they could barely stand. They did manage to squeak out several more jokes at my expense, like what I expected to find, and whether I had any other areas I wanted to pick.
So I did what any good comedian will do: end on a high note and leave them wanting more. I climbed on my bike and rode away as fast as I could, my face burning hotter than a steel forge. And while this pretty much put an end to any possibility of ever becoming a playground pugilist, it did launch me into my career as a humorist, and a possible career as a diplomat.
This could be a great way to bring peace to the Middle East.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 23rd, 2005)
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WARNING: Top Secret Column
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
I wanted to be a spy when I was a kid. I wanted to drive around in cool cars, wear sharp suits, drink vodka martinis, and have beautiful women throw themselves at me, a la James Bond. After I watched my first Bond movie, I was convinced of the awesome power of suits and vodka martinis.
I knew I would be a good spy, because at age nine, my friend Eric Pratt and I snuck around the neighborhood on summer nights, trying to annoy all of our neighbors who were actually enemy spies. We didn't know who they were spying for, only that they were enemy spies. As we saw it, it was our patriotic duty to thwart these ne'er-do-wells from their villainy. (That was also our battle cry.)
We were pretty good at it too. We snuck around from backyard to backyard, and not once did we ever get caught. Oh sure, the occasional dog would bark at us, but that's to be expected when they're highly trained enemy attack dogs. Those Scottish Terriers can be extremely vicious.
Eric's and my spying efforts were based on the ability to ring people's doorbells and run away without getting caught. We got good enough at it that we could do 15 doorbells in a single night. We had a few close calls, like the people who answered their door too quickly, or the people we rang three times in a row. But other than that, we were careful planners who plotted our escape routes and meeting points before each ring.
We eventually had to stop after the parents of one of our so-called "friends" ratted us out after we hit his house one night when he couldn't go out with us. But my dreams of being a spy never died.
When I was 13 years old, I got a book about spies. It was a behind-the-scenes look at what spies did and how they were recruited. There was even a test that I could take to see if I had the temperament to be a spy. I figured out that by answering 'C' to all the questions, I would achieve the ideal score for a spy. And it only took me three tries to do it. The problem was, I didn't know who to tell about my test score or that it showed that I was qualified to drive cool cars and sleep with beautiful women. So I thought about writing a letter.
"Dear CIA, I took a test in the 'Handbook for Spies' book recently. I'm sure you're familiar with the book, since it was written by someone in your line of work. I achieved a score of 82 on the test, which said that I would make an ideal spy. Do you have an opening for any agents? If so, could you please tell me where to get my suits and car? Sincerely yours, [Name stricken for security purposes]."
However, I decided against this approach, since an enemy spy might intercept my letter at the post office. That, and I didn't have the CIA's address.
But I was undeterred. I continued reading James Bond books and watching his movies. I even bought a plastic gun that fired suction cup darts, because it looked like the kind of gun Bond carried. For hours, I practiced concealing it, pulling it out quickly, and making difficult shots in my room. The end result was that if I ever came face to face with an enemy spy who could be killed with a suction cup dart from six feet away, I had nothing to worry about.
That all changed when I finally read a newspaper article about spies, and how James Bond basically over-glamorized the spy business. "It's not really like that," the article said. "It's all about sitting in windowless rooms, analyzing information. You never get to drive cool cars, and beautiful women don't throw themselves at you on a daily basis."
That article popped my dream of becoming a spy like a balloon on broken glass. I was adrift, without any motivation or long-term goals for weeks. But soon, I was embarked on a new career. One of glamour, intrigue, and even more beautiful women. Thanks to the TV show, "Magnum P.I.," I had a new goal in life.
"Dear Private Eye Agency, I would like to be a private investigator. I am very good at gathering secrets, and I already know how to shoot a plastic Walther PPK. Do you have an opening for any investigators? If so, could you please tell me where I could pick up my red Ferrari? Sincerely, [Name stricken for security purposes]."
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 30th, 2005)
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