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Karl the Curmudgeon Issues a Challenge
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
I can use any word in a sentence, I boasted to Karl, as we were having a beer.
(Karl is the curmudgeon I met a few weeks ago. Turns out he had been something of a writer in his younger days, and had also appointed himself my mentor and literary guardian angel.)
"Yeah right, Kid," he snickered, wiping the foam from his snow white beard.
No really. Pick a word.
"Tetchy."
It means peevish or easily annoyed, as in Karl the Curmudgeon was rather tetchy when I made fun of his hat.
"This is my favorite hat."
What happened, the guy at the fair couldn't guess your weight? (Karl made a gesture at me as he reached for his hat.)
"How about 'ochlocracy.'"
Sure. 'Could you please spell ochlocracy?'
"That's cheating!"
Okay, 'what does ochlocracy mean?'
"That doesn't count!"
Hey look, it's an ochlocracy!
"You don't even know what it means," said Karl, plunking his beer bottle on the table.
Sure I do. It means government by the masses, or mob rule.
"How'd you know that?"
I looked it up while you were gazing lovingly at your hat.
"What?! I wasn't gazing -- never mind," Karl sighed and jammed his hat back on his head. "Let's do something tougher, Mr. Big Shot Columnist. I'll bet I can find a topic you couldn't do a column on."
Doubt it, but you're on.
"Okay. Inseams on men's trousers. What would you write about that?"
Well, I would talk about how, as men get fatter, they somehow manage to keep their same waist size, but fail to notice their inseam has gotten six inches shorter, or that they haven't had their belt around their waist since they were 18.
"That's it? That's just a fat guy column," Karl protested.
I could do a bit about how tailors hate measuring inseams of men because they might accidentally. . . touch something.
"Oh sure, jokes about a guy's privates are always A material." Karl plunked down his bottle again. "Quit relying on the standard stuff. Dig deep."
I could talk about what 'dress left' and 'dress right' mean.
"Okay, that's a start. You get a C+ for trying."
Gee thanks, Karl.
"Here's another one. Could you do one about the internal combustion engine?"
Child's play. 750 words about how the inventor was inspired by his own internal combustion after he ate beans or cabbage.
"Fart jokes?! Kid, you've been doing this for over 12 years, and you're still working with fart jokes?"
How can you have known me this long, yet still be surprised by this?
"What about something about breakfast cereal."
I could make a few cracks about the commercial where the kid is stuffing Cheerio's in his dad's pockets to help lower the dad's cholesterol. Then I could do a joke about how the dad is stuffing Porterhouse steaks into his boss' pocket to raise his. Of course, there's the old standard of the stuff kids want to eat versus the stuff parents want them to eat, with a couple of jokes about how the parents have a box of kids' cereal hidden in the pantry. And of course, I can't do a column without talking about cereal for physical problems, like constipation.
"More scatological humor?"
Just the one joke. There's all the other stuff about the parents and kids' cereal.
"Alright, you pass."
See, I told you this is easy.
"Don't get cocky, Kid. What about a column on guys who have glass-pack mufflers so their cars sound loud?"
Hmm, a little tougher.
Ha, I knew it. I stumped the Kid!
No, I'm just trying to decide whether to express novice bewilderment, or just make fun of them. You know, the 'hey everyone, look what I spent my money on' approach.
"And you could do 750 words on that?"
Glass pack mufflers and loud cars? The problem is keeping it down to 750 words. Come on, quit giving me softballs.
"Alright, I've got one. Write a column about how you write a column."
Uhh. . .
"Come on, come on!"
Well. . .
"I knew it. You can't do a column on everything. I knew you had your Achilles heel. I win!"
Give me a minute, I'll think of something.
"Nope, I win."
So what do I get if I come up with something?
"I'll buy the next three rounds."
Fine. I'll start with something like 'I can use any word in a sentence, I boasted to Karl,' and just go from there. Pay up. I'm in the mood for something imported. And expensive.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of September 1, 2006)
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Football Tea Party
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
"Okay, here are our seats. Buddy, you sit on my lap."
"Because I want him to sit on my lap."
"Because it's a father-son bonding experience."
"I know the girls want to bond with me too. That's why they're sitting on either side of me."
"They'll bond with you too. I just figured you weren't as jazzed about college football."
"Yes, I do know you could be shopping instead."
"I know. I love you too."
"Buddy, are you ready for your first Ball State football game?"
"They're going to kick it off in a minute."
"That's how they start the game. They kick off to the other team."
"The ball, Sweetie. They're going to kick off the ball."
"Off of the tee. Look really close. Do you see that black thing on the ground? That's the tee."
"No Sweetie, not a tea party. A tee. It holds the ball in place so they can kick it."
"The kicker will kick the ball as far as he can, and the other team will try to run it back to score a touchdown."
"No Sweetie, they don't get tea after that."
"No, no cookies either."
"Look, kids, it's Charlie Cardinal."
"He's the team mascot."
"I know he doesn't look like other cardinals. A mascot is a giant character who's supposed to get the fans excited."
"Honey, what do you mean, you're not excited?"
"It's not that cold. It's 50 degrees out. Perfect football weather."
"Why didn't you bring your sweatshirt?"
"What do you mean, you look bulky? You're only 10, you don't need to worry about looking bulky."
"No, now you look cold."
"Would you rather look bulky or feel warm?"
"Luckily we came prepared. Mommy put an extra sweatshirt into her bag."
"No I didn't. I thought you did."
"I don't carry a bag."
"I keep telling you, that's not a man-bag, it's a backpack."
"There is TOO a difference!"
"Well, sissy boys carry man-bags, for one."
"Shh, the game's going to start. And it's a backpack."
"Backpack. Here, Honey, wear my jacket."
"Wow, what a return. Look at him go, Buddy! Say 'yaay!'"
"Good job."
"Okay, the Cardinals have the ball. Do you see that guy in the very back, Buddy? That's the running back. Pay close attention to him all game long."
"Because I want you to learn how to play running back."
"Because Mommy and I haven't been saving for retirement, and we're counting on you to become a professional football player."
"Yes Honey, that's why we want you to go to medical school."
"That's right, Sweetie, that's why you're going to be a tax attorney."
"Yes, they can have tea."
"Wow, what a run! Eighteen yards!"
"Watch for the screen pass, Buddy."
"That's when the running back runs to the outside, and the QB hits him with the ball."
"It means quarterback, Honey."
"No Sweetie, he's not going to actually hit him with the ball. It means he's going to throw the ball to the other guy so he can catch it."
"Well, then he runs with it until the other guys tackle him."
"No Sweetie, they don't hate him."
"Well, I suppose they don't like him either."
"Because they don't know each other."
"Yes, maybe they could be friends if they got to know each other."
"Not at a tea party."
"No, they would still tackle each other if they were friends."
"Because that's their job."
"Look, screen play! Aww, he dropped it."
"No kids, don't boo just because everyone else does."
"Because it's not polite."
"No, Buddy, they won't cry."
"No, you can't be a tackler."
"Because they don't make as much money."
"What do you mean, you don't want to be a doctor?"
"No, you can't be a cheerleader."
"Because the salaries are too low and the skirts are too high."
"What? I'm not being sexist, I'm being overprotective."
"Because I don't want men ogling my daughter."
"No Buddy, you can't be a cheerleader either."
"That's right, running back. Or a wide receiver. Those are the guys who catch long passes -- wow, like that one! First down!"
"That means they get four more tries to get a touchdown."
"I did not change the subject."
"Look, we'll talk about the kids' future after the game."
"Because it's bad luck to talk about 20 years in the future when the Cards are in scoring position."
"Okay Buddy, let's see if they throw another pass."
"That's right, the wide receiver."
"Go. Go! GO! Touchdown!! What a great pass!"
"Say 'yaay,' Buddy. Put your arms up like this and say 'TD!'"
"No, Sweetie, not tea. Would you like some hot chocolate instead?"
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 8, 2006)
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The Dangers of Daughters
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
I think it's time to start talking my daughters about the facts of life.
Now, bear in mind, I don't want to have this conversation. If I had my way, my daughters would stay locked up in the house and not be allowed to date, hang out with boys, or become young women until 10 years after I was dead.
However, my wishes have been largely unheeded by Mother Nature and the human life cycle. My daughters continue to grow older, and have begun learning more about the birds and bees. Which is a problem, since none of us have been talking about them.
I blame NBC's "Fear Factor," the reality show that forces contestants to face their fears through frightening challenges. They have death-defying races, spend time in tanks with alligators, spiders, or rats, and have to eat otherwise unedible parts of animals, like brains, intestines, and other tasty snacks.
My three children were watching a repeat episode a few days ago, where the contestants had to eat something that only reinforced my loathing for the show.
"The people on 'Fear Factor' had to eat tentacles," said my five-year-old daughter.
"That's not a big deal," I said. "That's calamari -- squid. We've had that before."
"No, daddy, DEER tentacles," she corrected.
"Yeah, they were shaped like eggs," said my ten-year-old daughter helpfully. "I didn't know what they were."
"Tentacles!" my three-year-old son shouted. "Daddy, what are tentacles?!"
I hope the heavy feeling in my chest and my numb left arm were normal for fathers whose daughters start learning about the male human body. I was caught between wanting to bust out laughing and shrieking at the top of my lungs. All I could do was grit my teeth, mumble "uh huh," and desperately wish something else would distract them.
"Ask your mother," I muttered through clenched teeth, hoping that would satisfy them until they forgot the entire conversation.
But it didn't end there. Not more than 12 hours later, my wife reported that my oldest daughter asked where babies came from.
We had discussed this at length while our eldest was still a toddler. I reminded her of our agreed-upon solution.
"Just answer the question she asked. Tell her babies come from their mommy's tummy," I said.
"No, she already knew that," said my wife. "She wants to know how they get in there in the first place."
That feeling in my chest and arm flared up again.
I knew this day would come. It's been hanging over my head ever since I knew our first child was going to be a girl. Back then, I swore I would do everything I could to protect her from marriage, dating, and those awkward teen years when young boys wonder why I glare menacingly at them whenever they look at my daughters.
Now Mother Nature is having her own little laugh at my expense and discomfort. "Ah, you have forgotten much from your own childhood," she seems to laugh at me.
My own sex education was delivered with one simple word: "Here."
When I was 11 years old, my mother handed me the childhood classic, "Where Did I Come From?" the book that described sex like "being tickled, but only much better."
It described the entire birthing process, from the sly wink the man gives to the woman, all the way through through the entire gestation, followed by the birth and breast feeding. Other than that, I figured things out on my own.
This was the '70s, where sex education was learned on the playground and from books our mothers gave us. It's so much different from the 21st century, where kids learn about sex from TV, the Internet, movies, magazines, radio, their friends, Victoria's Secret catalogs, and if they're lucky, parents who wonder how to explain "like being tickled, but much better" to a ten-year-old who struts around the house, singing "Oops I Did It Again."
We've tried to shelter our own kids from this. They don't listen to pop music, we don't buy skimpy clothes, and we limit their television watching to shows like "The Strict Abstinence Gang" and "Father Knows What Boys Want, So You're Never Leaving the House."
It doesn't seem to be working. Now they're learning about "deer tentacles" and that only boy deer have them. They've figured out that if babies come from a mommy's tummy, something must have put them in there. And nothing I do seems to stop it. So I guess all I can do is go with the flow and make sure they learn it in a safe, educational environment.
"Hey kids, let's go visit Grandma and see if she has any of my old books!"
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 15, 2006)
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How To Raise a Spoiled Child
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
"Children need boooundarieees," child psychologists harangue in that sing-songy, whiny voice that annoys the crap out of me. "They need limits on what they're allowed to dooooo."
I wholeheartedly agree. I am a firm believer in setting boundaries as a way to help children grow. My own kids have learned the Basic Rules for Getting Along in the Deckers' House: be respectful to others, never hit your siblings, and never, ever cheer against the Colts.
After all, testing and learning boundaries are how children find out what they can and can't do. They learn they're not allowed to touch a hot stove, run out in traffic, or stick their hand in a strange dog's mouth. And the best way to teach a child not to do these things is with a sharp "no," before the kid actually does them. It's how kids learn to get along in the world.
Unless you live in the Australian part of the world.
It seems administrators of some day care centers in the Land Down Under have decreed that teachers are no longer allowed to tell students "no" or "don't." Why? Because it "hinders their development."
(I'm especially interested in how they relayed this information themselves without using the forbidden words. "You can no longer-- dangit. Please don't -- $@&#!")
How does telling a child they can't do something hinder their development? I mean, it's one thing to tell people not to lock their kids in the closet because they took the last beer. But what are you supposed to do if your kids are about to do something terrifyingly dangerous?
The administrators instead want the teachers to say "stop." Okay, I'll buy that. If a kid is about to whack another kid on the head with a cricket bat, "stop" will work just fine. But that's about it. We still need the word "no," just to function in every day life.
There's no such thing as a "yes or stop" question. If someone asks you to marry them, "stop" is not one of the choices. "Can I have $20?" cannot be answered with "stop." And what will happen to manners? When your grandmother offers you a third helping of her Tuna Surprise, are you supposed to say "stop, thank you?"
Young Student: Mrs. Murphy, can I set fire to the toy box?
Mrs. Murphy: Ummm. . . stop?
Young Student: Okay, then can I climb up on the roof and pretend I'm Superman?
Mrs. Murphy: Uhhhh . . .
Mission accomplished, I suppose. The student is able to continue on with his development most assuredly unhindered, although his physical growth will be stunted for the next three years. So what's a broken leg to a child who feels emotionally nurtured and fulfilled?
Is that the end of it? Of course not. There's ALWAYS more when it comes to politically correct administrators in positions of authority. Aussie teachers are now also forbidden from saying "good boy" or "good girl," because it's sexist.
Sexist?! What's sexist about calling a boy a boy, or a girl a girl? Sure, you don't call someone over the age of 18 a boy or girl, but before that, it's open season. You call them boys and girls because, well, they're boys and girls.
Instead, the soft-heads running the asylum want teachers to say "congratulations."
Student: Mrs. Murphy, I didn't set fire to the toy box!
Mrs. Murphy: Thank you, Kenneth. You're a very. . . congratulations.
Look, I'm all for letting children develop unhindered. Let them paint pink skies and orange grass. Let them have imaginary friends and talk to stuffed animals. That's unhindered development. But refusing to establish boundaries -- or making them paper-thin -- is a poor way to help a child grown into a well-adjusted adult.
If you want a kid to grow up normally, they need to get used to hearing "no" once in a while. They're going to hear it when they're adults, so you might as well get them used to hearing it when they're kids. No you can't have ice cream. No, you didn't get the job. No, you can't move back home.
The world is already filled with too many spoiled brats who didn't hear "no" and "don't" enough when they were young. Now they're grown up with kids of their own, and those kids will only turn out more spoiled than their parents, especially if they're in the Australian day care system.
So, to the Australian day care administrators, let me say: No, don't take away the one tool a teacher could use to set a kid straight.
What's that? You'll think about it? Congratulations, you're all good boys and girls!
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 22, 2006)
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Coffee Card Craze
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
I'm cuckoo for coffee cards. You know, the little cards that get punched, stamped, or marked whenever you buy a cup of coffee or latté at your favorite local coffee shop. (Not Starbucks though -- they don't believe in rewarding customer loyalty). After nine or ten stamps, you get a free cup of your favorite beverage.
If you're smart, you buy the small, cheap lattés to fill up the card, and then go all out for the super mega double white chocolate mocha with your freebie. But if you're not smart, you get the same old thing you do every day, in which case I have to ask why even bother with the card. You're not a real coffee card connoisseur.
Coffee card collectors are fanatical about their cards. We jealously guard each stamp with the desperation of an addict, frantically looking all around, guarding against anyone who might steal our just rewards. I have a friend whose wife kept making off with his cards, before he finally realized where they all went and took them back from her.
Their divorce is final next month.
Coffee cards are a trophy for us. They're evidence of our crowning glory, showing the world we have successfully hunted down and conquered our daily coffee quotient. It's the badge of honor that shows our little victory to our fellow coffee fiends.
Hunter #1: Hey, Burly Jim! What'd you bag today?
Hunter #2: Hey, Big Earl. I nailed a Vanilla Nut half-caf with sprinkles. How about you?
Hunter #1: I took down one o' them decaf Pumpkin Spice mochas with skim milk and cinnamon. That makes seven stamps for me!
Hunter #2: Ooh, that's great. My wife stole my last card, so I'm only up to four on this one.
I've got a bad habit of collecting cards from any coffee shop I visit during my travels. I figure, with one stamp, I'm one-tenth closer to a free beverage of my choosing, so why waste it? You never know when you'll be back in Grand Forks, North Dakota nine more times. I keep the cards in my wallet for as long as possible, until I tip over when I sit down, then I transfer them to a special business card wallet I use just for my cards. I haven't been able to close it properly in two years.
What is it about us coffee fiends and our coffee cards? What drives us to get our stamps and then hoist our trophies over our heads and bay at the moon? Is it the victory? The sense of accomplishment? Maybe we had a childhood dream of getting a free coffee every two weeks for the rest of our adult lives. I mean, it can't be for the savings, because I'm only saving 12 cents a day.
But even though it's very little, I fight and clamor for every stamp I'm owed. I gnash my teeth in agony if I've forgotten my card, and a friend says "Oh, give me his stamp then." But I have been known to stamp swipe myself, so I can't really complain.
In fact, my friends and I have swiped so many stamps, we've come up with our own rules to stamp swiping, carefully developed after lengthy discussions and near fisticuffs.
Rule #1 - If someone buys your coffee, they get the stamp. This is even true if they loan you the money because you forgot your wallet that day.
Rule #2 - If someone asks you to get a cup of coffee for them because they don't have time, you can have their stamp, even if they paid for the coffee.
Rule #3 - It's perfectly acceptable to claim the stamp of another customer who doesn't normally collect stamps, assuming you don't mind being seen with them in public.
Rule #4 - If you have forgotten your card, you can donate your stamp to a friend.
Rule #5 - Completely ignore Rule #4. No one follows Rule #4.
I don't know what drives us to obsess about our coffee cards, like a baseball card collector searching for that elusive Barry Bonds pre-steroids rookie card. Why do we put so much effort and energy into collecting something that, at the end of the day, is still only worth $3.50, $4.00 tops? We've pondered the question at length, but can never come up with a suitable answer. We usually get too fatigued from a lack of caffeine and have to go back to the shop for a refill.
If you can answer that question, I'll send you a coffee card from my favorite local shop with seven stamps on it. Don't worry, it's not mine. I swiped it from a friend.
I told him his wife took it.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of September 29, 2006)
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