"Rough Day? We Have Fried Bananas!"

So, I was heading to the library the other day to check out some audiobooks, and I was struck by the utter weirdness of the message that was lettered on the sign of the Thai restaurant right across the street from the library. It read: "Rough Day? We Have Fried Bananas!" I wish I had had a camera to record this oddity for all posterity, but I didn't so you'll just have to take my word for it.

However, a large number of unintentionally funny, purposefully oddball, or totally apathetic messages have made their way to the signs at restaurants all over the world, and other people were a lot better prepared than I was with a camera. I've gathered a few of these for your enjoyment. There were plenty more I could have included, but a lot of them were dirty and inappropriate for this (or anybody else's) blog. Hope you enjoy!


1)  The "Disgruntled Employee" Sign.  I'm sure a lot of us have felt the same way before, especially in our earliest, most menial jobs.

2)  The "I Never Promised You A Rose Garden" Sign.  At least they're honest about their lackluster customer service.

3)  The "Yeah, I Know The Letters Just Fell Off, But It's Still Ironically Funny" Sign.  Truth in advertising? I hope not. I like KFC!

4)  The "Eat Here At Your Own Risk" Sign.  It may be good for your soul, but may not be that great on your stomach. Consider yourself warned.

5) The "Have A Little Respect For Your Elders" Sign.  They're probably wiser than you anyway. They know that the best way to kill your business fast is to tell everyone about this sign. And get their grandchildren to post a picture of it online.

6) The "No Thank You, I'm Full" Sign.  I don't know if 15,000 Rp. is expensive or cheap, but no price is low enough for this mess. I'll pass, thanks.

7)  The "You Don't Have To Get Personal" Sign.  I know it's true, but you don't have to emphasize it. This will not make me want to eat all I can -- this will make me want to go home, curl up in a ball, and weep openly as I pine for my thinner years.

8) The "I'm Not As Dumb As You Look" Sign.  You're not fooling me! I may already be fat, but I know that Today's Special is anything but special. Take your double-talk and peddle it somewhere else. As for me, I'll be eating somewhere else.

9)  The "Was It Something We Served?" Sign.  I'm sure that's not what they meant to say, but it's still funny.

10)  The "I Don't Get Paid Enough To Do This Guy Got A New Job At Mickey D's" Sign.  'Nuff said.

 

BONUS ROUND:  The "Stop Racial Profiling Us" Sign.  This one's just wrong. Funny, but wrong!

The Good Kind Of Tired

We just got back home from a fun-filled weekend in the Raleigh/Durham area. We went to a concert last night: Lindsey McCaul and Royal Tailor opened for Matthew West and Casting Crowns. (They're all Christian bands, if you didn't know that already.) Great job by all of them! It was an awesome experience worshiping openly with thousands of other Christians. That's taking corporate worship to a whole new level. Previews of heaven? I think so.

We meandered our way around the Duke Gardens this afternoon with my sister-in-law and her hubby. Lots of lovely flowers and trees and water features. And sunshine and pollen. (More on those two later -- the sunshine and pollen, not my sister-in-law and her hubby). We climbed a magnolia tree, and took pictures to prove that it happened. We met a duck and his wife, Millard the Mallard and Henrietta the Hen. They offered us worms to eat, but we politely declined. We had nothing to offer them.

We headed back into Durham for a wonderful late lunch of pizza and arrived just in time for the last few minutes of the UNC-Chapel Hill and N.C. State basketball game. We were in a room full of people who hated Carolina (and probably loved Duke, Lord help them) and a few Wolfpack fans. Being a Carolina fan myself but not really having a dog in the race, I mostly kept quiet. Though I silently rejoiced when Carolina pulled out a dubious last-second win.

We then went back to the family's house to relax for a bit before hitting the road to come back home. I spent the next couple of hours petting a monstrously large dog who deigned to sit in my lap for a time, and a medium-sized dog who looked at me with sad eyes saying "Just one more pat on the head, please," and a just-right-sized dog who shook my hand cordially every time I said his name.

Then I was sick. Slightly violently ill, actually, though that phrase is somewhat cliche by now. I was sick again, and then again. I took some medicine and after awhile began to feel a little better. But the headache that foreshadowed the whole business persisted (and still persists as I write this). It dawned on me. I'd gotten a little too much sun at the gardens.

Being a fair-haired, fair-skinned person, I don't do too well with lots of sunshine (it doesn't even have to be that warm), and I tend to get feeling sick this way. It happened a few years ago when we went on a missions trip to Mexico. It happens nearly every time we go to the beach.

Now, finally home again, I'm killing the pain with Ibuprofen and trying to relax. It's been a long day, and already a long weekend, but it's been a good one. I'm tired, but it's the good kind of tired. The kind of tired you get from doing things you enjoy, like going to concerts, going to gardens, eating pizza. The kind of tired you also get from being sick, though that's hardly the good kind.

I committed myself to write a blog post every day, and this is one of those day where I'd just as soon skip it, but here it is. I may have bored you with this account, but having dumped my brain of its contents (at least the recent additions) I can rest now. Till tomorrow....

Short Story: "We Are Not The World: An Unresearched Report"

I had fun rewriting this one. First of all, let me say that the "theory" presented in this story is not my personal philosophy, or even anything that I agree with – it's fiction, pure and simple. This story goes out to all those smarter-than-me, know-it-all kids I used to hate back in school. You know the ones – they always had all the answers, always made the best grades on tests, and often had these wild theories about random things which they couldn't prove but you couldn't disprove either. Maybe you used to be one of these kids yourself. Or maybe you hated them too. Or at least intensely disliked them. Either way. This story is a sort of comeuppance for kids like that. And yet, this girl is still not shaken in the end. I hate her. Hopefully you will too. Enjoy!

"WE ARE NOT THE WORLD: An Unresearched Report"

Dorothea began by clearing her throat. The sound was earthy, almost primeval, originating from deep within the cavernous confines of her prodigious gut, and was amplified through the live microphone almost to obscenity. Oblivious to the scowls of premature disapproval, Dorothea glanced down at her notes and started reading:

"For thousands of years humankind has existed on this Earth. And for as many thousands of years we have attempted to determine our purpose. What does this life of ours mean? What is our reason for existence?

"There have been numerous theories regarding the meaning of life. Some would argue that we exist merely to reproduce, and thereby create numerous other creatures like ourselves. Others would contend that our sole purpose is to glorify the Creator of all life, so that we might stand before Him blameless at the Day of Judgment. Still others might say that time is a continuum and that we are constantly evolving into greater, more supernatural beings which will ultimately become part of the world itself.

"Today I stand before you to refute these and all similar theories as bogus, and to declare that I – and I alone – possess the knowledge of the meaning of all life, human and otherwise."

Dorothea gathered herself for the big reveal, amid curious chatter from her audience. They knew that nothing terribly profound or important could ever originate from the mind of Dorothea Vickers of all people. Still, they were interested in what she had to say, if for no other reason than to fuel the fires they planned to burn her with later.

Dorothea continued: "Throughout all of my studies and all of my research, I have indeed discovered the true meaning of life, and this is it. The reason we exist is to destroy ourselves."

Dorothea paused to let the truth sink in. Audible groans and snickers, along with a few gasps of disbelief, pervaded the silence. Anticipating their dissent, Dorothea raised both hands high in the air to indicate that she wished to continue without their assistance. Most disregarded her pleading gestures and continued mocking Dorothea, though their words eventually dissolved into hushed whispers. They didn't want to miss anything else she had to say.

"Before you criticize me," Dorothea cried, "please allow me to elaborate. You have all, I'm sure, heard of the universal laws of gravitation, formulated by a brilliant scientist named Mr. Isaac Newton." She paused only briefly to make sure they were still with her, and seeing a few grudgingly given nods, plodded forward. "Well, the first law of gravitation, which is commonly and appropriately referred to as 'the first law', states – and I quote – 'For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.' Unquote. While this law specifically refers to scientific actions and reactions, it can also be used to demonstrate a greater, universal truth. Mr. Newton, unbeknownst to himself, actually stumbled upon a snippet of the meaning of life here.

"Case in point: If every action requires that there must be an equal and opposite reaction, then for every birth there must also be a death. And as births and deaths are an everyday occurrence, I need not further prove this statement. I am certain that there are books somewhere where these things can be looked up, and if you choose to do so, that is your business.

"Therefore, if for every birth there must also be a death, then it is left to us – or rather, to me – to examine more closely the ways in which births and deaths can occur. Traffic accidents, nonfunctioning parachutes, undercooked chicken, and venomous snakes – these are just a few examples of things which are responsible for countless accidental deaths each day. According to Mr. Newton's 'first law', for every accidental death there must also be an accidental birth. Therefore, it only stands to reason that a large percentage of births each day, in particular fifty percent of all births, occur accidentally. As there are many ways in which births can occur by accident, and most of these are common knowledge, I need not elaborate further. However, if you so choose, I am sure there are books in which you can look this up also, as well as the World Wide Web which I have heard is moderately helpful in various aspects of research.

"As any daily newspaper and television news report will attest, there is also a growing trend toward intentional deaths, namely homicide and suicide. Common variations on these include patricide, infanticide, genocide, and insecticide – well, perhaps not insecticide. A joke – ha, ha!" The audience was unimpressed.

Dorothea continued: "Therefore, it only stands to reason that a large percentage of births each day, again an even fifty percent of all births, occur intentionally. Some would argue that the rate of intentional births would far outweigh the accidental births, but I – and indeed Science itself – would tend to disagree. Again, if you doubt me, please feel free to look it up. I understand there is now an electronic device called a smartphone, which is apparently quite intelligent and able to answer difficult or troubling questions. Perhaps you will find this device useful in attempting to disprove me.

"In conclusion, the...conclusion...that I have come to is this: That we are born, we live, and we die in order to die, live, and be born. This is our purpose. This is why we are here. To destroy and be destroyed.

"I am certain that not all of you will agree with my findings, and that is perfectly fine. But I can go to sleep at night knowing that my judgment is sound and my thinking is right. Can you naysayers say the same? Nay, I say!

"So, the next time you hear someone spouting off that we are gods or God, or that we are in actuality a part of the world itself, or that we have a purpose higher than ourselves and a calling beyond this life, remember these words. We are not gods or God. We are not the world. We are destroyers – of life, and of ourselves. But we will be reborn. We are always reborn. It's scientific that way."

Dorothea Vickers made a polite bow toward the speechless audience and waited perfunctorily for the applause she didn't really expect to hear. Seconds later, she exited the stage with her head held high. Proud that she had dared to speak out against everything she or anyone else had been told or taught, Dorothea smiled contentedly to herself. 

She finally knew why she was here. And now everyone would know.

128

Everybody has a favorite something, if not many favorite somethings, often for reasons known only to themselves – whether it's a favorite restaurant, a favorite color, a favorite person, or what have you. Some people have favorite numbers. Not that many people, maybe, but I'm one of them.

My favorite number is 128. Why? It's complicated. Numerous things have happened in my life in conjunction with that specific number.

I did a little research, and apparently the number 128 holds some degree of significance in history and popular culture as well. But I'll get to that in a minute.

First, I'll tell you about the number 128 as it relates to me personally.

The first really bad storm I remember that hit the area where I live happened when I was about six years old. The string of tornadoes tore through my town on January 28th (1/28/84). Whole neighborhoods not that far from my house were destroyed. It was terrible. As my parents drove me through the hardest-hit area some time later, I remember seeing forests with jagged lines of downed trees where a tornado had wended its way through with such great force and power. I remember traveling down one street in particular, and seeing that one house was destroyed, the next was fine, the next was destroyed, the next was fine, and so on. I had never seen anything like that. It was confusing to my six-year-old mind. I've never forgotten it.

The next year on the same date (1/28/85), I lost my first pet. The first three cats I ever had were Sherry, Blackie, and Tom. We adopted them as newborn kittens when their mother was struck by a car right in front of our house. The air-conditioner repairman who was working on our outside unit had found the kittens and kept them safe until my parents and I got home from work and school. Sherry lived a long time and sired (yes, he was a he!) many, many cats in the coming years. Tom lived a good long life too, and was about the size of a small dog – no wonder, since he liked to eat squirrel meat that my dad would feed him after particularly successful hunting trips. Blackie only lived about two years. On January 28th, 1985, Blackie, like his mother before him, was struck by a car and killed. It was horrifyingly sad to my seven-year-old heart. And I've never forgotten it.

The next year on January 28th (1/28/86), my second grade class was gathered around a television set to watch the space shuttle Challenger take off, carrying (among others) the first school teacher to ever become an astronaut. Shortly after takeoff, we all watched in horror as the Challenger exploded into flames, killing all seven astronauts aboard. To this day, I don't remember how well or how poorly our teacher – watching the events unfold live before her very eyes – handled explaining that tragedy to our young, impressionable minds. I just know that I felt profoundly sad. Over the coming months, I would become obsessed with learning more about the crew members of the Challenger, and about NASA and space in general. In spite of what had happened, or maybe because of it, I too wanted to become an astronaut and fly to outer space. That too was a day I've never forgotten.

Other incidents where the number 128 has played a role in my life are scattered and of far less importance. I can't even give too many specific examples. Usually, it has been coincidental things, but rather creepy ones nonetheless. For instance, I'd wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and look at the clock by my bed to find that it was 1:28 AM. Stuff like that. Weird but not life-changing.

Somewhere along the way I noticed these coincidences (or whatever they are) concerning me and this random number, and I adopted it as my favorite number. Sure, it's tied in to some pretty gruesome memories, but all of them are a part of who I am. I'm not into numerology, or anything like that. A number is a number is a number. To me, it's just something interesting to think about, so I decided I would also write about it. Hope you don't mind.

Now, what significance – if any – does the number 128 have to the world in general?

Quite a few things actually...


1)  Mathematically Speaking.  I don't understand most things related to math, but for those of you who do, here goes something (whatever it means). According to whoever wrote the Wikipedia article for it, the number 128 is 2 to the seventh power. It is also "the largest number which cannot be expressed as the sum of any number of distinct squares. But it is divisible by the total number of its divisors, making it a refactorable number." But wait, there's more. "The sum of Euler's totient function over the first twenty integers is 128." Okay, if you math geeks are satisfied with that explanation, I'll move on, 'cuz I didn't understand a word of it myself.


2)  Let's Talk About Cars.  Just for a second, 'cuz I'm not one of those people who enjoys talking about cars. Mostly because I don't know what I'm talking about when I do talk about them, which makes me feel stupid – and I don't particularly enjoy feeling stupid. But I digress. Again, according to Wikipedia, from 1969 to 1985, Fiat made a car called the Fiat 128. There's a picture of that car below – ugly little sucker if you ask me. Also, apparently there is a BMW 128i convertible also (included below the Fiat), which is a much nicer looking vehicle in my opinion. And probably a lot more expensive too.

3)  In Literature.  The number 128 occasionally surfaces in literature as well. Take William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 128" for example:

How oft when thou, my music play'st
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds,
With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st

The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,

Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,

To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,

Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,

At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!

To be so tickled, they would change their state

And situation with those dancing chips,

O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,

Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips.

Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,

Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

4)  In The Bible.  There are quite a few "128" or "1:28" occurrences in the Bible, referring to specific verses, chapters, or chapters and verses. But I'll narrow it down to just five:

Psalm 128 ~ A Song Of Ascents

"Blessed are all who fear the LORD, who walk in obedience to him. You will eat the fruit of your labor; blessings and prosperity will be yours. Your wife will be like a fruitful vines within your house; your children will be like olive shoots around your table. Yes, this will be the blessing for the man who fears the LORD. May the LORD bless you from Zion; may you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life. May you live to see your children's children – peace be on Israel."

Psalm 119:128

"...And because I consider all your precepts right, I hate every wrong path."

Luke 1:28

"The angel went to her [Mary] and said, 'Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.'"

Romans 1:28

"Furthermore, just as they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, so God gave them over to a depraved mind, so that they do what ought not to be done."

I Corinthians 1:28

"God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things – and the things that are not – to nullify the things that are."

5)  The Year 128.  Like the current year, 128 A.D. (or whatever initials they're using for years these days) was a leap year. At the time, it was known as the Year of the Consulship of Calpurnius and Libo, which is as good a name for a year as anything I could come up with, I suppose. That year, Hadrian's Wall (commissioned by then-current Roman emperor Hadrian himself) was was completed, as was the Pantheon in Rome. Apparently, it was a good year to be in construction! In the Korean peninsula, King Gaeru of Baekje succeeded to the throne. Good for him, I know he had been really hoping that would happen soon. Unfortunately, King Giru of Baekje had to die for Gaeru to get the job. Oh, well...


 
6)  January 28th In History.  Other significant events that happened on 1/28 in history include, but are not limited to, the following:  the Diet of Worms began in 1521 in Germany (it's not what it sounds like -- Google it!); Henry VIII died in 1547, succeeded by his son Edward VI, the first Protestant ruler of England; Horace Walpole coined the word "serendipity" in a letter to Horace Mann in 1754 (possibly the most significant letter in history between two men named Horace); Pride And Prejudice was first published in the United Kingdom in 1813; the world's largest snowflakes were reported in a snowstorm in Fort Keogh, Montana (they were 15" wide by 8" thick!); the U.S. Coast Guard was created in 1915; the first municipally owned streetcars took to the streets in San Francisco in 1917; and Elvis Presley made his first U.S. TV appearance in 1956.

Sharing a birthday on January 28th were, or are: Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225); painter Jackson Pollock (1912); actor/director Alan Alda (1936); televangelist Creflo Dollar (1962); singer Sarah McLachlan (1968); and baseball player Jermaine Dye (1974), among others.


 7)  128 Café.  Apparently, there's a whole restaurant named after my favorite number. I can't believe I missed this place when I visited Saint Paul a couple of years ago! If I ever get back up that way, I'll have to check it out. Look at those ribs!

Short Story: "The Man Without A Town"

I know, I know, another short story – UGH! – but I think you'll like this one. It's a little humorous, a little sad, but ultimately rewarding. I think so at least. It's a little bit longer than my typical story, but still not too long to read in one sitting. Enjoy!

THE MAN WITHOUT A TOWN

Buster Ackland lived in a two-story, Victorian-style house on the corner of 3rd Street and MacMillan Drive. You know the place, I'm sure. It's the house with all the junk in the front yard – pink flamingos, lavish birdbaths, lawn furniture – you name it. Buster never did have any taste.

As you know, Roxburg is a quiet, peaceful town. Just like in that old cliché, everyone here knows everyone else here. And everyone surely knows Buster Ackland. Since retiring from the bottling company six years ago, Buster has been anything but a recluse. In fact, he's been somewhat of a town nuisance.

I know you've only been in town a few weeks, but I'll bet you've already heard a story or two about old Buster's eccentricities from the local gossips. I know folks are prone to exaggeration; but there's probably a bit of truth to everything you've heard, even if does seem unbelievable.

**************

Mr. Rice, the boarder who's spent the past six weeks living in Buster's house, was telling me just the other day about Buster's morning routine. Apparently, Buster would wake up every morning at precisely a quarter till six – no alarm clock, he'd just wake up. That wasn't too unusual, since Buster had risen at the same time every day for years when he worked at the bottling company.

But here's where it gets a little strange. See, Buster's only got the one bathroom in the house, and it was situated right across the hall from the room where Mr. Rice slept with his door open. Well, Buster would get out of bed and head straight to the bathroom and take a nice, long shower. Only thing is, he never bothered to take off his pajamas! Mr. Rice said that Buster would come out of the bathroom, still fully clothed but wrapped in a towel, dripping from head to toe.

The next time Mr. Rice would see him would be when Buster passed by, dressed in his finest three-piece suit, heading toward the door to take his morning walk.

**************

If you happened to see Buster strolling the streets of Roxburg, he might seem to you to be a very pleasant fellow indeed. He always stopped to pat dogs and small children on the head, he never jaywalked, and he always tipped his hat to the ladies.

But beneath this carefully constructed charade of competence, Buster was a mess – and we all knew it. Everyone in town, at one time or another, has been affected by Buster's absentminded antics.

**************

You might have heard about the fire at Mr. Dawber's hardware store last March. We all thought Mr. Dawber had set it himself. Business had been slow, and he aimed to collect on the insurance money – or so we thought. But if that were true, wouldn't Dawber have burned down more than just the storage room?

The truth is, Buster Ackland set that fire. Not intentionally, mind you, but he was nonetheless responsible. As we learned later, Buster had been sneaking in the back door at night and using Dawber's storage room as his own personal game room. Buster would bring his chess set or a board game, and always a deck of cards – and he would play by candlelight. Lord only knows why Buster's own house wasn't a good enough place to play.

Well, that night Buster fell asleep playing a game of solitaire, and when he woke up the room was ablaze. He tried to put the fire out by swatting at the flames with his Monopoly box, but that only served to ramp it up even more. He high-tailed it out of there, stopping only to call 911 anonymously from a pay phone down the street.

He later confessed what had happened to Mr. Dawber, and the "sympathetic" store owner agreed not to press charges as long as Buster provided him with a third of his social security check each month for the next six months. And Buster, that old fool, agreed to the deal.

**************

Griffin Hennessey is still coping with the after-effects of Buster's lack of judgment. About six weeks ago, Buster came in to eat at Hennessey's Bar & Grill. When it came time to pay the check, Buster realized that he was a dollar and a half short of the total. Old Ackland begged to be allowed to charge the rest on account, and Hennessey – a good man if not a great businessman – reluctantly gave in.

Buster was so overjoyed at Hennessey's generosity that he felt compelled to tell everyone he met in town what had happened. Since then, an astonishing number of Hennessey's customers have conveniently come up "just a little short" of cash to pay for their meals, and Hennessey has felt obligated to extend the same courtesy to all his customers that he did one time for Buster. As a result, Hennessey is now losing more money than he is making.

**************

Being new to town, I'm sure you probably got a visit from Buster Ackland the first or second day after you arrived. He always made it a point to greet newcomers with a plate of vegetables he'd collected from gardens around the neighborhood. (Well, collected is one way of saying it – stolen would probably be more accurate, though Buster would have never thought of it that way himself.)

Buster probably strolled up to your house, rapped ferociously on the door, and as soon as you opened it he greeted you with the finest buck-toothed grin he could muster up. I would even bet money he was wearing his lime green suit – he called it his "visiting duds" – with that hideous paisley tie that didn't match anything.

Then, if you were so kind as to invite him in, Buster likely stepped just inside the door, flung his hat to the floor, and shook his mop of yellow-tinged silver hair back and forth like a wet dog. You're probably still trying to get the smell of old man sweat out of your clothes and living room furniture, aren't you?

**************

One thing's for sure – if you met Buster once, you would never forget him.  In spite of the man's obvious shortcomings and his continual, bumbling antics, we all tolerated the old coot. But that was about as far as it went.

He did have his good points, I suppose. In addition to his genial personality, Buster Ackland went to church twice every Sunday and every Wednesday night – though no one dared sit next to him. He gave a portion of his monthly check not only to the church but also to other local charities.

So why did he have to cause so much trouble? Truthfully, I don't really think he could help it.

**************

Now I am left with the dubious task of having to write Buster's obituary notice. Being editor-in-chief of the Roxburg Informer, I generally save some of the more important jobs for myself. When I heard about Buster's passing last night, I knew the task would rest on my shoulders.

What do you say about such a man? In a small town such as ours, gentle lies would only be hypocrisy. Yet the truth is harsher than any lie I could formulate. So here it is, for lack of better words, and more time to prepare:

Mitchell "Buster" Ackland, 71, of 100 MacMillan Drive, died Thursday, February 26th, in his sleep. He is survived only by the town that could not love him – his one true joy, Roxburg. Visitation is from 7:00 to 10:00 PM tonight at Matthews' Funeral Home. I'll be there – and so should you, citizens of Roxburg. All is forgiven.

Flash Fiction: "Scummy Butterscotch"

Happy Tuesday! As I rewrite my old stories and come up with ideas for new ones, I'd like to keep testing the waters now and then to see what you think. This one's silly, I know, but it's supposed to be. If you didn't know me better, Reader, you might think this was a standard blog post rant for me. But I actually wrote this little story years ago, long before I even knew what a blog was. And certain elements of the story, which is written in first person, do not in fact describe me personally (I'm specifically referring to the last phrase in the third paragraph). Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. As always, I welcome your comments and/or suggestions....

"SCUMMY BUTTERSCOTCH"

There are three things I love to hate – mummy movies, crummy people, and scummy butterscotch – and not necessarily in that order.

You may think I'm a little peculiar, but I would beg to differ. In fact, I am a lot peculiar. 

I'm picky when it comes to cars (I prefer foreign), food (I prefer spicy), and women (I prefer foreign and spicy).

I have to set my radio at precisely the right volume – not too low, but not too loud either. Driving safely requires my undivided attention.

I won't work out at the gym on Mondays; that's when the buffest guys and ladies show up to pump iron. I don't need that kind of insecurity.

But on these three things in particular I am the most vehemently opinionated.

First of all, I don't see the point of mummy movies. Who in their right minds, or even in their insanely twisted minds, would be horrified at the sight of a man-like creature wrapped in full-body Band-Aids? Seriously, no matter how loud it growls and snarls at me, I can't help thinking, Okay, bandages mean injuries, injuries denote weakness, and weakness means I'm definitely getting out of this alive. Where's the fear factor in that?

And even if I can convince myself that beneath all that wrapping lies a truly frightening being and I can rationalize running from the creature, what are the odds that it can even come close to catching me? I mean, one little snag and that sucker's a snowball rolling uphill. Am I right?

Secondly, you've got your crummy people. Before there's any misunderstanding, let me give you my definition of "crummy" just so we're on the same page here. "Crummy" is an adjective used to describe a specific type of behavior in which a person responds unreasonably in comparison to the way they are being treated.

Case in point. I toil away my days at a retail gift shop. Now when I'm doing my job I don't always feel cheery, and sometimes when we're swamped with business, I don't have time to put on my happy face. But one thing I always strive for is to do whatever it takes to make the customer happy.

So when the little blue-haired lady wants me to locate a medium-sized jewel box with blue flowers painted on top, I'm going to do my best to find her that box, or something close enough to it that she goes home happy. But if I don't happen to stock a medium-sized jewel box with blue flowers painted on top, and I can't find anything remotely akin to it, I'll apologize for being unable to help her and politely suggest another store nearby where she might try to locate one.

Then the little blue-haired lady can react in one of two ways. She can be a sweetheart and reply, "Well, thank you for checking, dear, I'll certainly try someplace else." Or she can be crummy and say, "A fat lot of good that does me! I'll bet you've got a dozen or more of 'em in the back room, and you just don't want to sell me one! I want to speak to your manager – NOW!"

Sad but true, crummy people walk among us every day. And while they may not strike fear into the hearts of moviegoers like mummies inexplicably do, they certainly have the power to hurt people, which makes them just as much of a menace as any monster Hollywood could create.

I've saved the worst for last. Scummy butterscotch.

There's nothing I hate more than unwrapping a scrumptious-looking piece of butterscotch and popping it into my mouth, only to find that it's old, scummy, and nasty-tasting.

You can never tell about butterscotch until you actually try it; and once you've done so and discovered you have a bad piece, it totally ruins your butterscotch craving.

It should be a federal law that all pieces of butterscotch should have a freshness date stamped in edible ink on the candy itself. It should also be a crime – preferably punishable by death or dismemberment – for anyone to sell out-of-date (and therefore scummy) butterscotch.

Please understand that I am making a specific distinction here. Chocolate candy is entirely different. You can eat a piece of old chocolate candy long after it goes out of date and never know any better. I once ate a chocolate Easter bunny that had been sitting in the bottom of my refrigerator for five years, and I couldn't tell the difference between it and a chocolate bar I bought yesterday.

But butterscotch is no laughing matter.

I generally put up with the things I despise, because I don't have the resources to implement the necessary changes. But together we can make a difference. 

If we boycott mummy movies, they'll eventually stop making them and the only thing we'll have to fear will be fear itself.

If we imprison crummy people, then everyone we interact with each day will be nice to us. We'll live in harmony with all people, we'll teach the world to sing, and all that other hippie-dippie stuff.

And if we outlaw scummy butterscotch, we'll never have to weather a sweet-tooth craving unfulfilled. We'll all be fat and happy. And what a wonderful world that will be.