I hope you got your "Child Labor" badge.

Girl Scout Cookies are the devil.

I have a real beef with the Girl Scouts of America. As with everything, this was prompted by something in my life. Yesterday, my wife emailed me and told me that someone in her office had a daughter who was selling Girl Scout Cookies.

We've all had them at one time or another, and they're delicious*.

The problem I have with them is that the Girl Scouts of America use the actual Girl Scouts as a cheap labor force. By "cheap", I mean "Absolutely !@#$% free".

When you think of Girl Scouts, do you think of anything else they do besides sell cookies? No. I never see troops of Girl Scouts at my church going on a camping trip or doing anything besides sitting at table in the foyer hawking their goods on a Sunday.

There's nothing wrong with a fund-raiser once a year for your church, your school, or your fraternity/sorority. However, these guys are a national organization with a coordinated effort to sell cookies on a mass scale, and they are using your daughters to do it. Well, in one way or another they are using your daughters. See, what REALLY ends up happening is that the parents are too lazy to teach their daughters how to go door to door and actually sell the cookies. The parents ended up doing EXACTLY what my wife's co-worker did. They bring the sales form to the office and come around to everyone and pressure you to buy them. Or, what's worse, the parents will just buy the cookies outright and keep the daughter from ever having to go out and sell them.

I have a personal policy concerning stuff like that at work:

1. Your child must come to the office and go around and ask people to buy/donate/pledge.
2. You can help your child sell if you don't come around and ask me about it. If I ask you, then it's fine. I made the first move. You didn't pressure me.

I bought a tub of frozen cookie dough from a co-worker last year. The cookies were absolutely horrible, but I didn't care. My co-worker followed the rules above, and I'm all about helping someone out if they're not a jerk.

In the past, I've had a neighbor's kid who was a Boy Scout come to my door and sell me some caramel popcorn. I bought two tubs of it because HE did it, not his dad.

Here's the other thing about Girl Scout Cookies: If you have to sell them every year to make money, why not just produce them and sell them at Wal-Mart, or Target, or whatever? Because then they'd have to pay a portion of the sales to the store, I'm betting. With a free sales force, you don't have to do that. The web site says that approximately 70% of the sales stay with the local Girl Scout council, and a portion of that goes to the group actually selling the cookies.

This whole thing is a scam. The HQ gets 30% of the sales and they don't have to pay anyone a red cent. Oh, just FYI, in North Alabama, there's a $12 national membership fee, and the dues to your local troop dues vary. So, you pay *them* for the right to sell their cookies. Does this not seem weird to you?

Now, after reading all this, you may think I hate the Girl Scouts, and that's simply not true. I think both the Girl and Boy Scouts are great organizations, and I'd love for both of my daughters to be Girl Scouts one day, if they want to, but I will yank them out in a second if they are pressured to sell the cookies. The web site says they are not required to sell them but I suspect it's not like that in reality.




* if you like that kind of thing. Personally, I think that there should be two types of cookies in this world:

1. Home-made chocolate chip cookies, whether that means you actually made the batter or you bought one of those tubes of dough that sorority chicks (and I) am so fond of.
2. If you absolutely must have store-bought cookies, then you should eat Oreos. Oreos are delicious, fun, and good for you. *

* It's true. You read that on the internet.

The All-Encompassing Bumper Sticker

Every day on my commute to work, I see people with various stuff on the back of their car. I often wonder why people like to do that, basically evangelizing to you on whatever subject they decide to champion.

I don't have any Photoshop skills, but I think they should make a single, magnetic device that allows you to plug in whatever you want to stick on the back of your car, but it should have the following things:

The Jesus Fish / Darwin Fish / Cthulu Fish
Notice how the Muslims and the Jews don't have Jesus fish? I think there's a reason for that. You should take note and follow their lead.

A ribbon for breast cancer / spaying/neutering your pets / praying for our soldiers 
.  There's a ribbon for almost every single cause ever. Some of them I could have listed would overlap some of the other categories in this post. I've seen them for autism, color blindness, and the clap.


A part for how your precious little snowflake is an honor student at his/her Kindergarten
Being the top of your Kindergarten class is not exactly a crowning achievement. There are about a zillion Kindergartens. Logically, every one of them has to have a "best" student. So, in conclusion, nobody cares.

A "I love my sports team" section.
This is particularly bad here in Alabama. They take it to the next (and possibly the annoyingest) level. I don't care that "annoyingist" is not a word. This is my blog, not yours. Back to my point. If some of these people could completely cover their car in college sports logo stickers, they would.

A new-age philosophy section
"Not all who wander are lost". Yeah? Well you will be when I slam into your car, beat you senseless, and drag you into the woods while you are unconscious.
"Coexist" written in the various religious symbols. Sweetie (and it's almost always a girl), if people could get along religiously, there wouldn't be a United States.

A low-class saying section
"Tailgate me and I'll flick a booger on your windshield". "Don't like my driving? Dial 1-800-EAT-!@#$".
I asked the cops and they told me it's okay if you run these people off the road, preferably into a very deep ravine.

A college fraternity/sorority section
You're 39. Give it up. Read the quarterly magazine and keep telling yourself how much softer they've gotten on pledges.

A "My other car is" section.
No, it's not a Lamborghini, Bentley or even an X-Wing, tool.Well, *yours* is not. I actually own an X-Wing Fighter.If you'll excuse me, I'm worrying about those towers and not worrying about those fighters.

An oval-shaped section for some random letters that nobody knows.
Seriously, does anyone know what these letters are? Initials? Airport codes? WHAT?!!! I've seen one that says "OBX" which, I THINK stands for Outer Banks, but I'm not sure. There's no X in those words anywhere. Those stickers are for idiots. You really need to tell us where you went on vacation via a bumper sticker?

A "13.1" or a "26.2" section
Congrats. Your grasp of floating point numbers is staggering. I think these things refer to a half or a whole marathon... but... you... have... them... on... your... car... which... you.... are.... driving...



In closing, I don't have any bumper stickers on my car. I refuse to put them on there, even if my marathon-running 3-year-old daughter with who Captain of her platoon and is social chairman of Theta Pi Beta is, in fact first in her Kindergarten class.

You're hot.... Grandma.

It's that time of year again.

No, not specifically the Christmas season, but the Christmas Sweater Vest Season.

Oh, don't sit there and act like you don't know what I'm talking about.

For the life of me, I can't figure out why women (and in some rare cases, men) during the holiday season would even dare think of wearing something like this:

But still, they persist.

I mean, there are exceptions to every rule. If you are, in fact, a grandmother, then you get a little reprieve. If you are 40 or younger, ladies,  well, let me say that the men-folk ain't lining up at your door.

Now, there is a certain class of people, 40 or younger, mostly women, who are accustomed to wearing sweater vests. You know who you are. You are setting a bad example for our youth, standing in front of the classroom non-verbally communicating to our little girls that it's okay to wear something like this.

This morning, as I was walking up the stairs at work, I saw a woman wearing a Christmas sweater vest that was arguably more hideous than the picture I linked here. I wanted to stop and confront her right on the stairs. By "confront" I mean "Push her down".

Let's take a look at the pros and cons of wearing this:

Pros:

None

Cons:

1. Doesn't keep you warm as IT HAS NO SLEEVES, and in most cases, is knitted, so it's pretty lightweight. It's the practical equivalent of a man's necktie. No. Purpose. Whatsoever.
2. Speaking of not having sleeves, a large majority of the women who wear these, should never be sleeveless. Ever.
   
3. It's a nonverbal warning to men: "If you talk to me, I will regale you with stories of how I dress up my cats in elf outfits so we can take our Christmas photos at Sears."
4. It's not flattering at all. In fact, I don't think there's ever been a sweater vest that's ever been flattering, not even Flattery McFlattering's Super-Flattering Sweater Vests.
5. It's not even as "cute" as you think it is. It's dorky, and trust me, I know dorky.

Oh, to all the males out there reading this, you're not off the hook either. If you wear a Christmas tie, you are an idiot, for many of the same reasons mentioned above. If your wife gives you Christmas tie this year, divorce her, because she's probably got a Christmas sweater vest in her closet.

I guess while we're on the subject, it's probably a good time to mention the right time for wearing a sweater vest: Never. There are numerous occasions where the clothing industry has seen fit to produce sweater vests for purchase. Most notable among these are Halloween, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, The Fourth of July and any other named calendar day. I'm sure there's an Arbor Day sweater vest out there, and that some woman has the date (http://www.arbor-day.net/arbor-day-state-dates.htm) marked down, just waiting to unleash that special brand of Hell upon us.

Trippin' on Vacation.

Vacation? I think not.


This Thanksgiving, we decided to go visit my brother, who lives in perhaps the most horrible state in the union: Texas. There are two places in the U.S. which vie for my hatred. New York (the city, not the state) is the other one. But, this post isn't about that. It just lets you know that we got off to a bad start by going there in the first place.


This post is about the difference between a 'trip' and a 'vacation. My brother's little boy has a birthday around this time and my wife, loving thing she is, decided it would be the family thing to do to stop off in Mississippi and pick up my parents for one big happy vacation to Texas. This is the point and time that you, the reader, should be worried.


How do you define a vacation?


Webster's defines it as such:

1. a respite or a time of respite from something
2. a period spent away from home or business in travel or recreation

... among other things.


I define it as:

A. A period of time longer than 3 days.(in other words, 3 day weekends do not count as a vacation)
B. Having no responsibility whatsoever during the aforementioned period of time.
C. Having nothing that can cause you stress during that time. i.e., it's relaxing.


This is different from a 'trip', which doesn't have to meet any of the criteria above.

Let me give you a couple of examples:

Example 1
Trip: What you make when you have to appear in court for that speeding ticket you got in Canada because you were reading the M.P.H instead of the K.P.H.


Vacation: What you do after you've convinced the Canadian authorities that it was a complete accident.

Example 2
Trip: What a person in the military makes to a foriegn country when the government says they have to.
Vacation: George W. Bush's entire 8 years in office.


So, let's start at the beginning, where the trouble began. (T, in this story = Thanksgiving)

T-2 days:

Since we needed some extra space to be able to transport the four of us, plus my parents and their luggage, my wife decided (notice a pattern here? She decides a lot. I think that might be the source of my trouble) to borrow her parents' Honda Odyssey. (Point B: we were responsible for another person's vehicle) If you are not familiar with car makes and models, this is perhaps the make/model which will give the impression to all women who see him that the man driving it is sterile. I once had a co-worker say to me: "It's hard to look cool in a minivan."

Amen, brother.


T-1 day (Monday):

I have to drive to work on Monday in the minivan. A minivan is the sign you've given up trying and have been domesticated.


T-2 days (Tuesday):


I drove the thing to work again, and I left work around 4:00 to get home and leave for my parents' house. It's about a 4.5 to 5 hour trip. We have an agreement with the kids. They don't get to watch DVDs on short trips, which are typically 45 minutes or less. So, this trip meant they got to break out the kid movies. The kids are 3 and 1, respectively, which means there are a lot of high-pitched voices and squeals on the DVDs. If I had it my way, the high-pitched voices and squeals would be indicative of the pain the characters were going through as I tortured them slowly to death, which is pretty much what was happening to me.

T-1 (Wednesday):

We get up early, and are out the door by 7:45. That means we didn't get to sleep late, after working 8-ish hours the day before and travelling 5 hours. Fantastic.

The trip to Texas from my parents' house is 7 hours if you never pee and you never eat. I have a wife (female) and two daughters (also female) and a mother (conveniently, female). The 'never having to pee' thing is right out the window. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be so upset if they could just pee right out the window. It'd make the trip shorter. You can always run the car through a carwash, but you can never get back that time.



Now, the trip to Texas is pretty straightforward if there's no construction, and there wasn't. But, and this is a big 'but' (just like mine was after 7 hours of riding) when we got to the exit we usually take to my brother's house, there WAS construction, which my brother (as is typical) forgot to tell us. Thinking that we just hadn't seen the exit yet, we pushed on. This proved to be an unwise choice as we went all the way into Dallas and had to go up I-75 until we got to McKinney, which is were my brother lives.


Let me just tell you: I-75 on the day before Thanksgiving is a nightmarish Hell that you never want to experience.


What would have been a 7 hour trip, turned into 10 hours. Also, did I mention I'm not really fond of Texas?



T (urkey Day):

We get to my brother's house that morning and I commence to drinking whatever was available. I might have had isopropyl rubbing alcohol at one point. I didn't care. I was sore from riding in a MINIVAN FOR TEN FREAKING HOURS THE DAY BEFORE. "We're going on a trip in our favorite rocketship... zooming through the skies, Little Einsteins" (this is the part in my memory where I come up out of the water, (a la Chuck Norris in Missing In Action) with an M-60  and I just rip those little bastards a new one)



It's about this time where my brother decides that I need him to help cook the turkey. At this point, we should revisit points "B" and "C" in my definition of a vacation. If I have to help cook the turkey (which we were frying by the way) then that means that I'm partly responsible for the success of the Thanksgiving meal.


As to point "C", there is much stress in cooking. If you do it wrong, people hate you. If you do it right, you're a hero.

The turkey was cooked to perfection. I'm a hero.


Tripping on tryptophan, I laid down in the middle of the floor and took a semi-nap. In the haze of half-sleep, I overheard that we were celebrating my nephew's birthday the following day at the zoo.


Back at the hotel, after giving the girls their baths, the wife and I cuddle on the couch for a rare moment of silence. I turned to her and said "Were you gonna tell me that we were going to go to the zoo?" to which she feigned ignorance and said "I told you. I'm sure I told you. I'm positive I told you".


T+1 (Friday):


She didn't tell me.


As a bonus we need to leave early so we can make it to the zoo in time to feed the giraffes at 10:15. We didn't make it, so we got up early for nuh-thin. (point C: stress).


I'm thinking to myself. Sweet, the Dallas Zoo. This should rock. What's that? We're going where? The Gainesville Zoo? Where, in the name of all that's holy, is Gainesville, Texas? I'll tell you where: It's in the third ring of Hell. Seriously, we drove for a solid hour to find this zoo. I think we were actually in Oklahoma, but who can be sure. It all looks the same out there.


But, back to point at hand: Who knew Gainesville had a zoo? I swear to you that there was a cat someone had spray-painted with white and black stripes and stuck it in the zebra exhibit. Zebras meow, don't they? The cat-buffalo and the cat-giraffe were easily as captivating. One thing that nobody seemed to either care about, or just plain didn't notice was that the coyote exhibit was DIRECTLY next to the roadrunner exhibit. The only thing that was missing was the faux train tunnel painted on the wall with a sign reading "Free Bird Seed" pointing to a pile on the ground. Or, maybe they should have had a box of Acme Rocket Powered Roller Skates sitting on the ground, half opened. Either way, they missed out on comedy gold.


The highlight of the day was the awesome total wood playground outside the zoo. All I could think about was putting that red stuff on my kid's finger after she got her 75th splinter. Some of Gainesville's finest residents had brought their crotchfruit out to the park to apparently air them out. My favorite people were the two women who couldn't be bothered to stop smoking as they pushed their infants in the swing. I think the infants were smoking too.


After all that, the plan was to head back to my brother's house, where we would have some cake and ice cream. On our way back, we decided to stop by the new house of one of our old neighbors from Plano. They moved to a new house in Argyle, Texas. Argyle? Yes, like the sock. We get to their house (which was really nice, by the way) and they show us around to the back yard where they have two pet.... donkeys. If the day could have gotten any more weird, it just had.


Back at my brother's, I notice that my throat is beginning to feel scratchy and my nose is stopping up. Great. Just friggin' wonderful. What a way to top off a perfect week. I'm sick.


T+2 (Saturday):

I wake up with a pile of crud in my nose that feels as big as the pile of dead bodies the Spartans killed in the move "300" which I had caught on TNT the night before. In the shower, after a couple of loogies, I felt somewhat better, but the terror was just about to begin. I had a 7 hour trip to Mississippi with my parents and two toddlers. "We're going on a trip in our favorite rocketship... zooming through the skies, Little Einsteins" DIE. DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE YOU LITTLE CLASSICAL MUSIC-PLAYING BASTARDS! (the Little Einsteins, not my kids)


I thought it might be nice to let the wife drive for a bit, and maybe I could read a bit and relax. I climbed into the back of the Honda Odyssey, and let me tell you... if we want to find out where Osama Bin Laden is, put Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in the back of an Odyssey with no leg room and that S.O.B. will be talking faster than Quentin Tarantino after a case of Red Bulls. Seriously, the Geneva Conventions specifically made mention of the third row seat of the Odyssey. Never mind that the Odyssey didn't exist at the time. Those guys were some serious foward thinkers.


Finally, FINALLY, we made it back to Mississippi. I was so tired of driving that I started entertaining the notion of just swerving off the road with us all to end the misery. Riiiiiiight. Don't tell me you haven't done it. You know you been sitting at a baseball game with your best friend in the world and you've thought "I wonder what would happen if I pushed him off this balcony..." No? Mea culpa.


T+3 (Sunday):

We get up and get on the road at around 9:30. Again, it's about 4 and a half to 5 hours back home, but we had to stop and drop off the Pimpalicious Odyssey back at the in-laws'. Well, we had to eat, so we stopped at the fine, fine eatery known as Steve Barnhill's Southern Fresh Buffet, where you can get fried catfish, fried chicken, fried potatoes and fried salad. Being that I'm in the rural South, I had the good (or bad, depending on how you look at it) fortune to overhear this half of a lovely African-American lady's conversation with a person in the buffet line: (and I'm not making this up):

My brotha got put in jail on Wednesday.
And den, he got put in jail again last night.
I don't know, he crazy.
Do ya'll got any honey mustard?

Finally, we got our cars switched back out and headed back to Birmingham. We arrived around 4:30-ish and I got everything unloaded.





It's been a hell of a week. I need a vacation.

The Angel Tree Scam

Okay, first and foremost, let me say I've done no research into this, no fact-checking, no nothing. So, don't come to me with your whining.

I was watching the wife wrap some presents for a kid whose name she got from our Angel Tree, and it made me think...

First, there are about 2 gazillion Angel Trees in my immediate circle. The church has one, the office has one, the mall has one, etc...

Now, I'm sure there are many kids who are in need, but this isn't about them. This is about the possibility of a scam.

Have we ever really checked to see that the actual children are receiving the goods that we are purchasing for them? As humans who have the ability to help the poor, we are obligated to do so, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't do some basic auditing of this system.

When we purchase these gifts, to whom are we giving them? Are they being put in a warehouse somewhere and distributed to the kids later? I hope so. If not, who is getting them? Are they, in turn, re-selling our gifts?

Again, we can and should give, but we should do it responsibly.

Just food for thought.

That took balls.

I've had this one waiting for a while because I couldn't think of how to finish it. I wrote this while I was on vacation back in June...

------------------------------------

We got to our hotel today, and, after getting settled in, I turned on the TV. I'm flipping channels, and I see what has to be the best commercial ever. Better than the Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman? Yep. Better than the Slap Chop? Absolutley, and you'll even love this guy's nuts too. Why? Because they're safe.

I've always said: "A safe scrotum is a happy scrotum." Okay, I haven't always said it, but I just did, so when someone tries to scoop me on that little gem, you'll know.

I am, of course, talking about the Nutty Buddy athletic cup supporter for men. Ha ha, you say, nobody would make something called that.

http://www.nuttybuddy.com/

Oh snap! I think you just got told.

Yes, the Nutty Buddy. Fun for the whole family you plan on having one day. In the infomercial, they are, and I'm not joking, using one of those machines that they have at batting cages that fling baseballs at you so that you can practice your swing, except they're firing it at a guy's coin purse. He just stands there to prove how awesome the Nutty Buddy is at protecting nad central.

As an interesting aside, when I was in my early teens, I was at a buddy's house with my brother. My brother is about 5 years younger than me and pretty gullible. My buddy had his athletic cup sitting on the floor of his bedroom, and I told my brother that it was a gas mask. I don't have to go on, do I? This may be why my brother doesn't trust me. Who knows? I'll always have that memory.

Okay, so back to the main point: the name of this... thing. I think there are probably many other great and wonderful names for an athletic supporter.

1. The Cock Blocker. Oh come now, you didn't see that one coming?
2. Dick in a Box. That one might be taken already.
3. The Junk Trunk
4. BallSafe.
   

Edit: When I tried the link today, it wasn't working, but if you google "Nutty Buddy", you'll see what I'm talking about.

Pick your battles

Several months ago, some overly-irritated person on my floor in my office decided to put up a sign above the coffee machine in the break room that says:

"Please do not use the hot water while the brew cycle is running".

Seriously, people? This is what you have to complain about? THIS bothered you so much you had to put a sign up?

Now, some explanation is probably in order. First, the water doesn't STOP running when you use the hot water spigot; it just chokes off the flow for a bit. Second, it's not like we're brewing rare coffee beans. This is the combination coffee/manure mixture that's the cheapest version that companies can give to the employees for free. Third, does anyone really know the difference? The answer is a resounding "no".

This sign has exactly the opposite effect with me. If you had never said anything, I wouldn't bother, but now that it's up there, I make it a point to do it, even when other people are around.

This reminds me of the break room at my former job. One day, this dude was making a fresh carafe of coffee, and it was sometime in the afternoon, if I recall. Anyway, this was one of those coffee makers that brews it into a warming carafe and not into a pot. So, this dude was in the break room having a nice chat with his buddy. The coffee was in the middle of the brew cycle and I just walked up and helped myself to a cup. Now, bear in mind that the first couple of cups that are brewed are very strong, as all the water hasn't had time to fill in yet. That was the way I liked it. The guys looks at me after I filled my cup and said, snarkily, "We were waiting on that." I looked at him square in the eyes and said in my most indifferent voice... "Okay." Then I walked away from him.

I think therapists ought to include that in their list of things to do to decrease stress.