Another Year Older (A Classic ShinySpeak from the jokelist on 8/11/00)
Written by David M. Muench


My birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks, and this shiny-headed freak will turn the big "31". Okay, so it's not quite that big (Oh, yeah. I'll never get tired of hearing that one), but it's one year older than "30". Come to think of it, "31" is a really lame age. Nothing really changes. It's not like turning "21", the age I could go out to different clubs (Including those of the "strip" variety) and experience the wonders of legal inebriation and real live breasteses bouncing to and fro. I'm not kidding, I was like a kid lost in Toys R' Us. I felt like I had received the Gold Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. It was Euphoria. "21" was good. "31"; nothing.

"Hey Shiny, how old are you now?"

"Why, I am 31 years-old."

"Oh."

No enthusiasm there. Just blatant ennui. It's like showing your friends a slide show of your vacation to a small town famous for its Custard Pies and the Nation's largest ear wax ball. Not that spectacular.
With a birthday comes the famous question that arises prior to said birthday:

"What do you want for your birthday?"

"Ten billion dollars, a supermodel wife, twelve beach homes across the world, a -- "

"...that we can reasonably afford without bringing unwanted attention from every law enforcement agency in North America."

"Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything."

When does that start? One day we're happily composing three-page essays of various gift ideas, and then one year we say "Oh, well, you don't have to get me anything." I don't remember when it even happened. It was like I experienced a memory lapse or coma -- no recollection of the entire gift transformation. Then they will reply: "Well, you better tell me or else you might get something you don't want." It's like they're threatening me on my birthday. Are they gonna have Cousin Luigi fit me for a pair of cement shoes and a nice swim in a nearby lake if I don't tell them what I want?
Granted, there is some veracity to them "getting me something I don't want." One Christmas my mother felt it was absolutely necessary to give me a classic black western shirt covered with several mulit-colored neon cacti. I have yet to wear it.

Cousin Luigi couldn't even force me to wear it.

Animal House (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 7/10/00. Episode 144)
Written by David M. Muench


"G'day mates! I'm gonna jump on this here croc, 'cause she's gorgeous!" Steve Irwin; Crocodile Humper. Oops, I mean "Hunter".

If you would call jumping on and abrading the crocodiles hunting. There's also Manny from the show "Extreme Contact"; a Deadhead grey-haired hippie that also enjoys wrestling with large reptilia, grabbing the dorsal fin of a hammerhead and going for a ride, or hand-feeding baracudas. What happened to shows such as "Wild Kingdom", when all they did was film the animals?

What I would like to see is for the animals to jump on Manny and Steve and go for a ride:


In the ocean.....

Hammerhead: Hey Jaws, you know that dumbass hippie human that's into bestiality; riding on us all the time?

Jaws: Yeah, what about him?

Hammerhead: Well, as he was turning away from me to swim up to his boat I jumped on him! Hahaha, you should have seen the look on his face! Scared the hell outta him! I said "Hey human, how do you like it now?!" He just made some weird noise and flailed around a lot.

Jaws: So then what did you do?

Hammerhead: Let's just say that he won't be jumping on us anymore without any arms! Bwahahahahaha!

Jaws: Hahahahaha!

Hammerhead: You know, they taste like chicken.

Jaws: What's chicken?

Hammerhead: I really don't know. I've just always wanted to say that.


Back in Australia.........


Croc 1: Hey, is that a human leg you're chewing on?

Croc 2: Mmmpffff [crunch crunch crunch] mmm-yeah......

Croc 1: That shoe looks familiar. Is it....?

Croc 2: Hell yeah it is. I got tired of that bloke Steve jumping on my arse all the time and pissin' me off. So today while he wasn't looking, I jumped on his back, grabbed his ears and said "Giddy-UP, chook!" He tried to run but I was too heavy for him. He just fell down and screamed, "Crikey!" I tell you it made my day.

Croc 1: Hahahaha! That should teach those humans to leave us alone. Say, are those slippers you're wearing?

Croc 2: Yep. 100% Steve Irwin skin.

Croc 1: You da croc!

Now that would make some great television, mate.

Morbidly gruesome, but great.

Commercial Break (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 8/9/00 )
Written by David M. Muench


There are some commercials that just unnerve me. Hey, don't get me wrong, I know it's a natural course of a woman's life. Men do understand (The way all men understand: Through many days and nights of abject trepidation and hiding the sharp, pointy objects.) and sympathize with the Nature of Women. But I think from the beginning of each commercial, they should tell the viewers -- either by a large, flashing sign -- or even a small icon in the corner that reads "Feminine Product." The commercial starts, and you see beautiful cheerleaders jumping and gyrating about, and the guys are going "Hey, now this is a really nice, wholesome commercial. They really should have more commercials exactly like this one. Every half-hour at least."
Now us guys should have a pretty good Fantasy-type visual at this point; complete with latex bed sheets and a slide. Then all of a sudden.....TAMPAX WAS THERE.

"Whoa, hey, where are you going? I've got the butter-flavored Crisco ready!"

"Sorry fantasizing freak, it's Not a Good Time."

"What? Is there a dreaming dolt in Newark you have to go see?"

"No, I mean it's 'Not a Good Time'."

"Oohhh. Okay, fine." My fantasy is destroyed by Nature. Now I'm just sitting there thinking about what I'm going to do with the slide, rubber sheets and Crisco -- completely frustrated.

I think they should make commercials about Men products.... Here comes Sven, a blonde Swedish Adonis with a bronze tan, sparkling blue eyes, glimmering white teeth, jogging down a beach with rippling muscles thrashing under his skin -- and we're talking a rippling fest here. His nostrils are even rippling. Now the women (And some men) are looking at this living cover of a Harlequin novel, developing their own fantasy (I don't ask, so I don't know), when suddenly...BLUE STAR JOCK ITCH OINTMENT WAS THERE.

"Mmmm, the site of you with that smelly cream on your hoo-ha just drives me wild....."

No, I don't think that phrase will ever be uttered in this universe. Don't even get me going with the Tucks Medicated Pads commercials.

Body Language (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 2/16/01)
Written by David M. Muench

When two people walk past each other; different things can occur. If they're strangers, they may smile at one another and say "hi", or do a quick head-jerk upwards as if to say "What's up". Sometimes one may quickly turn to look at a trash can off to the side with rapt attention to avoid any kind of exchange with the oncoming stranger.
The latter two usually being a Guy Thing.

Other body language I've noticed, and it's an involuntary response, is when you walk past a coworker and just raise your eyebrows. After the initial "good morning" or "what's up" or even "hey dumbass, you're late" of the day, there's nothing more salutatious to say. Afterwards when you pass by each other, you raise your eyebrows and twist your mouth as if to say with exaggerated exasperation, "Oh well." At least that's how I seem to translate the facial contortion.

The next time you're at work, see if you don't habitually do that. Then try to make the passing-by interchange more interesting. Lick your lips seductively, and run your fingers across your apparel-covered nipples. Do your best impression of Chris Farley and sing "Fat guy in little coooooaat." Glare maniacally and mutter something about "They'll all pay in their own blood for what they did to me..." Grab your crotch and squeal like Michael Jackson. Grab their crotch and squeal like a pig.

Now excuse me while I go look intently at this garbage can over here.

Luv is a Many Censored Thing (A ShinySpeak classic lovingly embraced from the jokelist on - 12/8/00 )
Written by David M. Muench

I've realized that when we end our e-mails, some of us make a conscious effort to choose the appopriate closing"endearment", and spelling can mean the difference between platonic ennui and "you're stalking me, aren't you." I'm going to use the word "Love" for this observation.

Some of us might actually sign the e-mail: "Love; [your name here]". It's pretty much a basic e-mail close. It can delineate a closeness to the recipient, or it could perhaps be just "your thing". Sometimes that "L" word can be overwhelming, so we use "Luv" as a substitute; just so it seems frivolous and not at all serious. The following is what I think the meanings are behind some of the "L-Word" combinations:

L: One single letter to replace "love". It could also possibly be"Later" or "Loser", depending on who the recipient is. This closing endearment is a popular one for guys, as to use any combination of the whole "L" word might create an uncomfortable, commitable feeling. Like tight underwear chaffing you on a hot day.

Luv ya: A popular closing endearment. The mere fact that it's not spelled correctly automatically means it's meant as a friendly farewell. Unless the person has a secret crush. It can be used between girl and a guy, or even a girl and a girl. It's a very, very rare thing for two heterosexual guys to exchange that particular endearment.

Love ya: A little more friendlier, but making that "conscious effort" to misspell "you" is another attempt at employing a playful "Hey, you're my friend...and that's it" endearment. Again, on a deeper level it could mean stronger feelings, as the word "love" is spelled correctly.

Luv you: Like "Love ya", except "love" is spelled wrong, maybe signifying an innate fear of the actual "L" word, or that person just couldn't commit to a more intimate farewell. Or they really can't spell "love".

Love you: You are definitely pushing the platonic envelope with this one. This closing phrase is just one letter ( "i" ) shy of exposing your true feelings with those "three-little-words". Unless of course you're family.

I Love you: Defcon 5, baby. If you're not e-mailing a family member, you've got some strong feelings rising to the surface about your "buddy". If you deny it, then I'm Brad Pitt. The next time you write an e-mail, think about how you close it with any given person and how you feel about them. Does it change the way you spell?

Twister and Shout (A ShinySpeak classic from the jokelist on 5/18/01 )
Written by David M. Muench


Have you seen the movie "Twister?" Well, Oklahomans see it every time a tornado or five develops in Central Oklahoma. We don't get a brief weather break informing us of the impending tornadic weather. It's a major "news break" event for Oklahoma.
Whatever you were watching prior to the weather bulletin, you can pretty much forget about it as the weather gurus are going to be on for awhile, with no commercial break.
There could be a program interruption by the EBS alerting the citizens of the United States that World War III has begun; or an asteroid the size of Canada (Or Mimi Bobek's undergarments)will be colliding with Earth in five minutes, but by golly if there just happens to be tornadoes in central Oklahoma at the same time the local news stations will break in those last remaining minutes;right up until the planet gets vaporized.

Not only do the local stations have meteorological technology like NexRad, Doppler, Viper, Sneezy and Grumpy, but also each television station has about twelve storm-spotting teams chasing the storms and reporting their every movement; rotation or otherwise. It's kinda like "Big Brother" for tornadoes. If it were possible for a wall cloud to take a crap, the storm spotters would notice it, capture it on video and send it via microwave to the station for all of us to see.
There are also news helicopters that fly around the tornadoes with live video feed. You know, for the viewers at home that just don't appreciate the lower angle of live feed from the ground units. So now we have all this excessive information from radars, ground units, air units, Law & Order: Special Victims Unit, and a representative from the Psychic Friends Networkholding on line three at Channel 9.
I'm thinking to myself, "Is this really necessary? Is it not possible to just tell us where the tornado is currently and where it's headed without creating a major theatrical production which results in freaking out my mother?"

"Hey, you people in Milkytitty and Chippi-poopoo counties, a tornado is coming your way. Take cover."

With that terse sentence, I know what to do. I also know that there are no counties in Oklahoma by those names, but that's beside the point. The next time a tornado ventures close enough to make the local news stations begin their "weather show," I'll pop in the movie "Twister." Sure, that movie is humorously idiotic, but at least I can look at Helen Hunt in a tight, soaked white tank top.

And if a cow happens to fly through my window, I'll know it's time to take cover.

MedSpeak (A ShinySpeak classic taken from the jokelist on 4/13/01 )
Written by David M. Muench


Have you ever engaged in a conversation with a friend concerning their job, say, in the medical field? Do you even understand what the hell they're talking about? It's like trying to understand a foreigner struggling with broken English. You just have to smile and nod. Unless it's a serious subject, then looking grim and nodding will do just fine.

For example, this would be a conversation between my roommate Ken and I:

Ken: I had this patient today that was going into severe FTD. It was really bad.We had to call in an SUV tech to ovulate his dilithium trombone.


Shiny: Wow. Sounds serious. [Nodding and looking grim]


Ken: It was. Fortunately we had a knick-knack paddy-whack available and were able to stabilize his esphyloxzrplo-m-o-u-s-e.


Shiny: Well give the dog a bone.


Ken: Huh?


Shiny: Uh, nothing.


I don't have a clue. The fun-filled gory stories are interesting too, such as when he harvested a heart from a cadaver (At what point does the corpse/dead body graduate to "cadaver?" Is there a ceremony or review involved?) and told me about it. Do they think using agricultural terms like "harvested" lessens the gruesomeness of the procedure? And Ken actually tries to coax me into going into the medical field. Yeah, sure thing Skippy.
If I were meant to look inside somebody, I would have been born with x-ray vision.


The medical "what in the hell are you saying?" terminology stuff doesn't stop with mere conversations concerning his days at work. It extends to evening television, too.
If we watch a movie or a television show that has even a nanosecond clip of a scene involving something medically related, Ken has to point out what they're doing wrong.

It begins with Ken chuckling complacently, and I'm lost, wondering what it was I missed that was remotely humorous. All I see is a dying man is hooked up to a kajillion tubes, wires, and a wood lathe; being consoled by a hot, busty nurse named Sheila. He then informs me that he was amused because "they're doing it wrong." Now comes what I think is really the funny part.

He'll ask me, "What's wrong with this picture?" The only thing I could adequately surmise is, "Um, the hot nurse isn't naked yet?"
"No. The roaming deflatulator should only be used when his testicular marsupials are at a 45-degree angle."

Then he'll laugh again like it's the most ludicrous thing he's ever seen. And I'm still just wondering when that hot, busty nurse is going to get naked.

What if I were a sex therapist? We could be sitting around watching a pornographic video (Not like we, uh, do that) and I suddenly emit a smug guffaw, and claim they're doing it wrong. Then I'd ask, "What's wrong with this picture, Ken?"

"Um, one of the twelve naked hot nurses hasn't spread enough lime Jell-O on her body?"

"No. That guy's left hand needs to be two inches below her left buttock, and look at her leg. It should be at a 45-degree angle. Ha-ha-ha.That's just ludicrous."

And Ken is just wondering if he has enough lime Jell-O.

Nothin' But the Tooth (A ShinySpeak classic "extracted" from the jokelist on 3/23/01 )
Written by David M. Muench

Many people aren't too crazy about visiting the dentist. As a child I wasn't any different. They even had to give me Valium prior to going. Oh, sure, the"goofy gas" was kinda cool; and one time while under the nitrous oxide I felt as if I were wearing only underwear and sinking into the chair.Valium and nitrous. There's nothing like a child having an acid trip. It's been many years since my last visit, but last week I found myself needing to get a tooth repaired, and so I reluctantly made the appointment.

Now that I'm older, more mature and sensible, I can now go to the dentist's office with an inordinate amount of bravado and saunter in exuding ennui and confidence. And then I hear the drill. I think going to the dentist would be more appealing if the drills didn't give the feeling of walking into a body shop. I almost expect the dentist to be sporting coveralls emblazoned with a gaudy name patch, wiping tooth debris and blood from his hands on a shop rag, grabbing a clipboard from a hook in the wall, calling my name and promptly washing his hands with a petroleum hand cleaner before starting on another "job". At least the drills could emit a sort of laughing noise, or sound like a Smurf singing for crying out loud.

Once I was in The Chair (Not unlike "Ole Sparky") I listened to the dentist prattle with a regular patient in the adjoining room, wondering how dentists understand them while working on the patient's teeth. I bet they could even understand Charlie Brown's parents.

The Orthodontal Torture Master finally started on me after a few injections of Novocain; telling me that if I felt any pain to raise my left hand. I told him I'd raise the dead if I had to. He just narrowed his eyes and said "If you only knew." I'm not sure what he meant, but I prayed for my soul anyway.

First he used a Disemboweling Scraper of Doom to rip away tooth decay, or to remove my mandible, I couldn't tell which. After the Torture Master cursed my large tongue (He dubbed it "Beast") he had to call in the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to help hold aside this large slab of Beast. Then he applied the Super Sonic Diamond-Tipped Brain Tissue Collecting Drill to the damaged tooth, which resulted in pain and my left hand shooting up. I almost took the armrest with me.

I received another shot of Novocain Light (The crap just wasn't working), and he switched to his slower speed Bone Rattling Brain Damage Drill to inflict yet more abuse and cause me to wet myself. I'm sure that was on purpose. I wanted another shot, but the Torture Master proceeded to tell me about how my endorphins were rushing through my body because of my apprehension, rendering the painkiller useless. I thought to myself "Screw your excuses, Lucifer, and give me some more damn painkiller."

I said "Oh. I see."


After enduring the harrowing procedure of getting a simple filling put in, I returned to the counter to pay. The Torture Master made it a point to tell the Dominatrix Dental Assistant to write "Nitrous Oxide" on my file for the next time because of the Beast tongue and endorphin-whatever problems. Then with a glimmer of manic glee in his eyes, the Torture Master said "See you soon, my hapless minion."

I'm not sure what he meant by that either, but I haven't stopped praying.

Halloween Hijinx Strikes Back (A ShinySpeak classic lifted from the jokelist on 10/26/01)
Written by David M. Muench

Ah Halloween. Earlier in my life I've found that Halloween was one of the most bountiful holidays ever, aside from Christmas and Easter. Heck, even with those two we had to count on a judgmental fat guy flying around in a sleigh and some mutant rabbit to deliver our goods. Both holidays requiring non-casual "C'mon Mooooommm, this tie is choking me!" clothing. But with Halloween, we are the masters of our own destiny. We don't have to wear uncomfortably strange pastel jackets with matching pants and a tie wide enough to park a bus.
Granted, the wolfman mask didn't have adequate eye holes causing us to bump into things, and was also a bit warm - steaming hot really - but good golly we looked cool wearing 'em!

"Grrrrr! OUCH! Damn tree."

It got to the point when we would only put the masks on when we were actually at the porch of each house.

We were like the postal carriers: Rain nor snow nor gloom of night did not deter us from getting free candy by going to the homes of complete strangers and saying the magic phrase:
"Trick-or-Treat!"
A neighborhood boy even went as far as changing costumes and visited the same houses
to get even more candy, something we considered to be a brilliant move, wondering why we haven't thought of it.

Then after pounding the pavement for what seemed like miles (Which in fact were miles) we returned home and spread out our loot, sorting out the good stuff (Chocolate "anything"), and grimacing at the bad stuff (A neighborhood dentist had the audacity to give out toothbrushes! The nerve! ). Unfortunately a few years went by and some sicko-freaks had to go and spoil one of the greatest holidays a kid could ever have and put needles and razor blades in the candy. So from then on our parents insisted that we had to inspect our candy before we crammed it into our mouths, which takes away some of the unadulterated bliss of the whole thoughtless cramming thing.

For kids, the fun doesn't stop with eating the chocolate. After repeated chocolate-eating we had discovered that for every action, there's an opposite and equal reaction. Well, at that time we had no idea what that meant, but we did discover that chocolate made us fart. Big time. I recall one night after a Halloween Neighborhood Candy Expedition my brother, some neighborhood kid, and I had a "farting contest." Yes, as kids we were easily amused and tell me, what can be more amusing than a bunch of kids farting incessantly in an enclosed area? It's like a Kodak Moment. But really smelly.

But then as fast as the trick-or-treating started, it was over. We were suddenly "too old" to even think the words "trick-or-treat." Chocolate-powered flatulence has lost its luster (however beer-powered flatulence still provides hours of entertainment) and it was time to move on to the next level of Halloween: The desecration of jack-o'-lanterns, flaming bags of dog poop on porches, toilet paper in the trees, and scaring the hell out of the little kids.
Soon those mean-spirited pranks seem menial, and suddenly we're old enough to go to costume parties while watching underaged drinkers puke their guts out. And that stage can continue far into your twenties, afterwards you get married, have your own family and continue the Halloween tradition with your own kids. Then another Halloween cycle begins.

So enjoy Halloween with yourselves, and embrace the wholesome trick-or-treating with your kids. Just make sure you open some windows when they get back.

Unmentionable Shopping (A ShinySpeak classic from jokelist Episode 231, 2/21/02)
Written by David M. Muench

When the bungee cord begins to draw blood around my waist (that darn elastic band
broke five years ago) I decide it's due time for some new underwear.
For most men it's a simple act that is marked with remarkable brevity. Look at the package (no pun intended). If it looks like what we want, the size is right, and the colors aren't too weird, we'll get them.
My girlfriend and I spent a few hours at the mall last Saturday, and she decided she needed some new "sexy" underwear. I'm guessing that takes considerable more time than grabbin' a bag of "Hanes Her Way", because we circled the "Sexy Underwear Round Table" for fifteen minutes. Naturally I was elected to hold her previously selected Sexy Bra and Sexy Shirt. There's not a manly enough way to hold Sexy Women's stuff, so I held the Sexy Bra to my chest and inquired to Kate, "How does it look?" Unfortunately another woman overheard me and stated, "It looks fabulous on you!" Not one to be outdone, I retorted, "Well it's too bad I don't wear underwear," leaving Kate red-faced and gasping for breath. After the twentieth orbit around the Sexy Underwear Round Table and asking me my preference (they don't sell edible pizza-flavored thongs), we were finally done.

Put a Sock In It! (A ShinySpeak classic from my jokelist; Episode 124, 6/14/02)
Written by David M. Muench

Have any of you done something embarrassing and tried to "play it off," like jogging after tripping over a curb, or pretend to be rubbing your nose when somebody catches you "diggin' for fool's gold?"
While I was at Blockbuster Video one day I had walked around for five minutes when stepped back on something. I looked down at my foot to see what exactly I was stepping on and was puzzled to see some black cloth lump under my foot.It didn't help my bewilderment when I saw that this black thing seemed to be coming out of the leg of my pants.
With mounting horror I knew what had happened to my missing black sock. It was attempting to abandon my pants. I don't know why I was so mortified about a sock coming out of my pants. I've had fabric softener sheets appear out of my pant leg like a cheap magician many times. Maybe I didn't want anybody to think I was, um, "enhancing the package." No, I wasn't.
So I casually swept my foot over the sock and just stood there, pretending to be extremely interested in a DVD of which I don't even remember the name.
Fortunately the store wasn't too busy, and when nobody was looking I reached down casually and pulled the damn thing out of my pant leg and shoved it in my pocket. It's amazing how much damage could be done to your Cool Factor when you have a black sock hanging out of your pants.

Damn that static cling.

Body Cleansing Thingies (ShinySpeak classic lifted straight from the jokelist, Thu Jan 24, 2002)
Written by David M. Muench


My girlfriend gave me a body cleanser thingy, what most people may call exfoliating cleansing pads. I think. It's my first experience with this showering apparatus, and initially I was curious. I turned it over, poked at it, squeezed it, pulled it, and smelled it. I was like early man discovering fire. I even grunted a few times and bellowed a guttural howl in case a rival clan member wandered into the shower attempting to steal it from me.

Satisfied, I squeezed some liquid soap specially made for Body Cleanser Thingies and started "cleansing" myself. At once I felt sympathetic to the thousands of dishes I've washed over the years with a scrubbing pad. For eons my body has been conditioned to using a soft wash cloth, and suddenly I shocked my epidermal system by using a pot scrubber.
I should have gradually eased into it, like nicotine patches. Start with maybe sandpaper, work through steel wool and then finally to barbed wire. I think the alternate definition for "exfoliate" is "will need emergency skin grafting soon."
But people say it's good for the skin, so I guess I'll keep using it. Although I'm not sure how much use it'll be if the skin in question is shredded and lying around the shower drain.

Then the other day Kate and I went to Wally World and happened upon other such exfoliating pads, though they wanted to call them "Poufs." I thought, "Who the hell are they kidding?"Surprisingly, they were actually softer than mine.
I tried to pickout a nice, masculine "pouf," which is rather difficult, since they're all so darn, um, pouffy. To be pleasing to men, the Pouf should be attached to a case of beer and/or be in the shape of a breast.

Every heterosexual male would keep about a dozen in the shower at one time. Devoid of such choices, I opted for a manly hunter green color; even has the word "hunter" in it.

Whoa, Horsey!
Written by David M. Muench

I have absolutely nothing against animals. Most of them I love. Especially with a little seasoning and barbecue sauce. There is one animal, though, that holds a special place in my heart. I am speaking of course of the horse. Equus caballus. Death on four hooves.

It was a warm, spring morning in '95. My girlfriend and I enjoyed a wild, inebriated night of camping with some friends at a local lake in which I had learned a harsh lesson in mixing beer with the "Hard Stuff." I evacuated the contents of my stomach before turning in, and the morning light brought with it a hangover from the bowels of Hell.

Later on that day my girlfriend thought it would be "fun" to ride horses at the lake. My head was still punishing me from my lack in judgement the prior evening, but I still acquiesced to her idea.
We drove to the stables where they had the horse rides. The cowboys asked what our level of equestrian expertise was. My girlfirend had been around horses before, so she was an old hand. Me? The last time I was on a horse was with my sister in '76 - and that horse had gastrointestinal issues.
The cowboys then chose the horses that are comparable to your skill level. My girlfriend had a spirited beast who was named Flash, or Lightning. You know, something really cool.
I had an old horse with one hoof in the glue factory door who went by the name of "Okie". I even think that the hoof in question may have been prosthetic.

After a brief "driving" lesson we were off on the trail with the other "concrete cowpokes".

I admit, about five minutes into the ride I was actually enjoying the loping gait of Ol' Okie. My mind conjured up images of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, lumbering on the trails; a six-shooter on my hip and my steely eyes squinting against the harsh glare of the sun (or in this case, last night's hangover). Since my girlfriend had a "steed for speed" she frequently bursted ahead, while me and Okie plodded along the trail. A few times Okie was feeling his oats and started to break into a trot, but fearing his demise (and mine as well) I pulled back on the reigns a bit to slow the old codger down.
Along the trails were signs emblazoned with arrows directing the flow of traffic, which kind of killed the fantasy of the Old West. I assume those arrows were meant for us as I wouldn't imagine the horses could discern an arrow from an apple.

My girlfriend and I came to a fork in the road; and in the 1800's I'm sure we would rely on instinct to know which trail to take. Fortunately it was the 1990's and there was a sign with an arrow pointing to the right. Pulling the reigns to the right I then realized that the old horse may also be afflicted with a mild case of Alzheimer's, because he started to turn left. If that wasn't bad enough, there was some sort of motorized vehicle coming down that left path. I was thinking "Great, Okie is going to get spooked and either have a heart attack and collapse on me or throw my city boy ass off onto the ground."
Normally in the old Westerns it's the guy that gallops in on the horse to save the damsel in distress. Nope, not this day. With the grace and speed of a jockey my girlfriend races in front of Okie and successfully turns him in the right direction. If that wasn't bad enough, that motorized vehicle was a four-wheeler driven by one of the cowboys, and he witnessed this heroic "rescue" of a man and horse gone astray.
All I could do is smile sheepishly and say, "thanks, honey." I no longer fantasized about being that old rough and tumble cowboy of the West as I continued the rest of the ride with my head hung a little lower, but still keeping my humor as I joked "Gee, it's kinda bad when the woman has to rescue the man."

Damn horse.

Attack of the Killer Wasps!
Written by David M. Muench


Okay, admit it. You've all done your share of "Man I Hope Nobody Was Watching Me Be Stupid" moments. Being an equally fallible human being with an overactive imagination I too have done things that defy the laws of common sense.

I was returning from yet another bromidic day at work. As I was walking up to the porch I warily eyed a particularly large mud-built wasp nest anchored next to a window overlooking the porch. I counted approximately five wasps flitting to and from their home - some pulsating angrily (they might have actually been quite content, but I wasn't about to get close enough to see if any of them were grinning) in and out of their nest.

As I stood there transfixed by that spectacle I was reminded of a time some years back when I was stung by a couple of equally "angry" wasps. I don't have any severe allergic reactions to their sting, but I would prefer to avoid the painful sting and itching afterward.

Coming out of my nostalgic reverie I finally mounted the first porch step - never breaking eye contact with that nest nor its residents. Suddenly I felt a strong buzzing sensation on my hip, and I did what any sane-minded individual would do in that situation. I completely "wigged out" and flailed wildly at my hip, trying to annihilate the enormous Amazonian Killer Wasp that had attacked me.

It wasn't until after the fourth or fifth slap did I register my hand contacting a hard object, causing my hip slight discomfort with each panicked swing of my arm. Puzzled, I allowed myself a quick glance down at the besieged area I realized with growing humiliation that I had violently assaulted my pager, which was unfortunately set on "vibrate."

Cursing myself I shook my head with chagrined disbelief and looked around to see if my Departure From Sanity had been witnessed by bemused neighbors. Fortunately for me, it wasn't. I then assessed the damage inflicted on my defenseless pager, checked to see who the bastard was that paged me, and then immediately set the pager to an audible beep.

Yes indeed, after that day I had found yet another reason to abhor wasps.

Enter Sandman
Written by David M. Muench



picture from "the buckets"




I've had many "night terrors" similar to that; happening soon after I nod off - when I'm
on the razor-thin precipice between sleep and consciousness.
In my dreaming mind's eye, I've seen huge Spider Things drop down from the ceiling or a large, black snakes straight from Hades that have surreptitiously slinked its way to my jugular.

Naturally I don't wake up in a start, quickly realizing it was my imagination on methamphetamines, and gracefully fall back into peaceful slumber.

Noooo.

I have grabbed, swatted, kicked, and pummeled these "threats" that are -
in some primordial portion of my brain - as real as the nose on my face.

Sometimes I can make it as far as the floor beside the bed, gasping for breath with my
heart pounding against my ribcage after a tumultuous tussle with an evil nemesis in the form
of a giant python. A few other times I have even ventured to my bedroom light switch;
defiantly slamming it upward to flood the dastardly demons with a cleansing, holy light that only a 60 watt light bulb can bring.

Amusingly, the light also has a cleansing effect on my brain as well; and as I stand there
in my boxers, squinting against the harsh light while poised in a clumsy Tae Kwon Do
iron horse stance ready to defend myself, I realize that there really wasn't a dastardly demon.
Just a demented dumbass opening up a can of whoop ass on his comforter.

I shake my head in disbelief, flick the light back off, climb back into bed, and try to forget
that ever happened.

My Cashier Was From Mars There I was in the checkout line at a local grocery store. The cashier, a gangly "Revenge of the Nerds" teen with oversized glasses, began sliding my items across the scanner while I established the usual "Nice weather we're having" type of patron banter with him.
"So how's it going today?" I began affably enough. I swear that's how this particular conversation began. Boy Scout's honor.

The Nerd Checker (you know, I think I actually found 'Waldo') answered that he was ready to get off work, and then stated that he was ready for a career. "Oh yeah? What are you wanting to do?" I pressed. "Well, I like building things and blowing things up," replied the now-suspicious Geek Squad member. My eyebrows slightly raised, I cautiously answered, "Oookay." At this point I was cursing myself for even beginning any sort of conversation with this kid, but it was too late to turn back now. I was committed to talking to him until he handed me my receipt and bid me a "nice day."
"So you like building things and blowing things up, huh?" I started again, hoping that maybe I misunderstood him, and what he really liked doing was playing "EverQuest," reciting the Klingon dictionary by heart, or even collecting trading cards featuring Bill Gates and Stephen Hawking. Sure, that's what he must have said.

"Yeah. If I could have a job building things that would be great, but I like demolishing things too."

Damn. "Huh. So maybe you could be in a demolition squad, or an explosives expert in the army."

"Yeah, I could. I think it would be cool to blow up a star."

At this point there was a customer in line behind me, and the customer and I exchanged a nervous glance and a quick smirk with each other.

I shot back, "I don't think it would be possible to 'blow up' a star."

Not one to be outdone, Mini Kaczynski responded as he handed me my receipt, "if I could stop the fusion process of the star I could blow it up."


With that I exchanged another furtive glance with the customer behind me and I said, "You know, I think I'll just wait for the movie." The customer laughed, and I strode away (very briskly) with my laden shopping cart, thankful to leave that odd conversation behind.

Crashing Miss Daisy
Written by David M. Muench


Automobile accidents aren't fun, especially when they happen to you or a loved one. But it's a common part of life. It's like taking your first compulsory Official Tumble from your bicycle promptly after your father removed the training wheels because he thought it would "build character". Heck, I've had a couple of fender benders
in the past. But my mishaps pale in comparison to the collision experienced by my mother; Sharon Kenievel.

"I think I'll go visit my daughter," fancied my Mom on a particularly nice summer day. She ambled into her Wally Wagon and proceeded to drive the short distance to her daughter Julie's house. Everything was going fine, until she reached Julie's neighborhood. Mom turned from the main street and onto a residential road. To this day it's still unclear what had averted "Ms. Kenievel's" attention from the road. It was either the radio or the climate controls. As the road began to curve, my mother's car, well, didn't. It stayed true to its course. In the path was a curb. Immediately beyond that; a large, brick mailbox.

The impact of the front wheels striking the curb caused her station wagon to vault into the air. It was comparable to the General Lee, an orange blur defying gravity with a rebel yell and a horn blaring the "Dixie" ditty. But it wasn't a '69 Dodge Charger, it was a brown '85 Dodge Aries station wagon. No mischievous Duke boy behind the wheel either, but my wide-eyed, aging mother. And the "rebel yell" was probably more of a guttural noise and a string of expletives that would have made Ozzy Osbourne blush.

Unfortunately for my mother, she didn't clear any obstacles and land safely on the other side like a scripted 80's television show. She struck the behemoth brick mailbox with a tremendous force - smashing the stanchion and sending the fragments skyward. The car came to a grinding halt in that resident's driveway, lying parallel to the street. The entire front end was ruined, the windshield had more cracks than a plumbers convention, and fluids poured inexorably from the irreparable vehicle.

Amazingly, amid the dust and debris, Mom suffered only a few bruises. Sure, I was terrified after learning about the accident, but my worry was quickly allayed when I found out her injuries were minor. Although her intense chagrin was the one scar that didn't quickly fade. And when that shame finally did wane, we all had a big laugh. Everything from "Dukes of Hazzard" to "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" was mentioned.

And let me tell you this, if "Fear Factor" ever does a special "geriatric" show, my Mom will be there.

A Not So Privy Privy
Written by David M. Muench

An online friend recently sent me these pictures with the following text:


Here's a picture of a public toilet in Switzerland that's made entirely out of one-way glass. No one can see you in there, but when you are inside, it looks like you're sitting in a clear glass box.







A few years ago I too experienced an over-exposed facility. But this one was in a local deli called "City Bites". After locating the bathroom sign I strode briskly (I reeeally had to go) to the door, noticing the large bank of mirrors covering the outside wall.

I stepped into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, and immediately discovered that the bank of mirrors was the wall. Eyes wide, I froze in my tracks. "What the hell kind of freaky exhibitionist bathroom is this?" I muttered to myself. I could see every single patron in the dining area. Never in my adult life have I had to experience urinating in front of complete strangers that didn't involve alcohol and strippers. It didn't matter that they couldn't see me. What did matter is that I could see them.

Trying to quell the uneasiness, I approached the toilet while eyeing a young woman walking perilously close to the mirrored wall. I nearly blurted out, "Hey, I'm trying to pee here!" I knew that nobody could actually see me, but that didn't stop me from bending my knees down as far as I could go without urinating on my legs. In my pitifully contorted state I couldn't help but think of the comically physical antics of Mr. Bean. Although I've never seen an episode called "Mr. Bean Urinates In a One-Way Mirrored Bathroom."

By the time I had finally assuaged myself that it's safe to let loose I resembled some sort of odd, cubist sculpture rendered by an artist on acid. No matter how uncomfortable you are, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

So I went.

After completing this unecessarily arduous task I exited the bathroom posthaste and left the deli - never to return again. Mind you, I still use public facilities, but the only damned mirrors I see better be on the inside, without a view.

The Enamel Ranger
Written by David M. Muench


I bought a Colgate toothbrush the other day, and I'm astounded by the deluge of dental products that now exist. The toothbrush I purchased is a multi-colored ergonomic model that indubitably has the same drag coefficients as an F-16. It's like I'm brushing my teeth with a Power Ranger.

And the toothbrush package has a number in the corner. The one I bought has "57." I looked at all the packages at the store, and they all had different numbers. What the hell is that? Lottery numbers? Being the inquisitive guy I am, I went to Colgate.com to see if I could locate the answer to my mind-boggling query.

What I discovered is that they have eight different kinds of "manual" toothbrushes. They actually have one called the Colgate Navigator. Navigator? What are you going to do, get lost going to your mouth? "Damn it, I shoved the toothbrush up my ass again. I knew I should have bought the Colgate Navigator!"

And there's a Colgate Total Professional, which is good, because I don't want to put something that's not a total professional in my mouth. To cover all bases, they should sell a brush called Colgate Complete Idiot, ideal for those who put toothbrushes up their asses.

The Colgate Extra Clean toothbrush contrives the idea that the other models are lacking in the clean department. But with this new "Extra Clean" toothbrush you can get that extra special level of clean.

There are a few more, but I digress. I did find out that I have an "Active Angle" brush (I think the inactive angle brush just sits on the couch watching television all day).

And I never ascertained the meaning behind that freakin' number.

The Creature Under the Trailer
Written by David M. Muench

Ah, summer. The gentle kiss of summer's sun - yeah, right - more like the fiery tongue scorching the dry, cracked Oklahoma earth. Summer days are best for swimming, working on your sunburn, and lazing indoors while sipping iced tea in front of the comforting glow of the television with the air conditioning on "Arctic." Summer nights, however, are filled with catching fireflies, taking long walks, and scaring small children.

August, 2001. It was to be a week of fun in the (blazing) sun at the lake home of Julie and Leath; my sister and brother-in-law. And by "home" I mean trailer, at a private trailer park. It's a nearly new trailer, with all of the amenities. TV, DVD player, stereo, recliners, sleeper sofa, refrigerator, air conditioning - the works. We're talkin' the 'burbs version of "camping out." My nephew and niece - Bryan and Meaghan - were there as well.

It was an ideal week: During the day we were boating out to the beach, frolicking in the water; and by night we sat on the covered porch listening to chirrups and hoots of the nocturnal creatures; playing card or dice games. Boredom got the best of my sister and I, so we fabricated a "ghost story" to entertain ourselves and to unnerve our skittish 13-year-old nephew. Meaghan, 11, seemed rather apathetic with this whole "ghost" business.

Bryan and I slept in the two beds in the back bedroom that faced the wooded area. As he lay in the bed closest to the window, I surreptitiously scratched the wall, and lightly rapped my knuckle against the faux wood paneling as I feigned sleep. I could hear him shifting restlessly in bed, and it was all I could do to suppress a laugh.

The next morning Bryan's bed was empty. It seems he heard "strange noises" coming from outside and he promptly sprinted to the living room and slept in one of the recliners. "Hmm," I muttered curiously. "I wonder if it had anything to do with that ghost."

That night my sister and I conspired together - we could do more damage that way. She and I set out to walk her dogs, which was something we were going to do anyway. Bryan and Meaghan were left alone in the trailer playing with their toys and watching television. Upon returning I raced around to the back of the trailer with a few pieces of gravel in hand and tossed them on the roof.

Then Julie and I pretended to be "running from something" as we crashed into the door breathlessly, slamming and locking it behind us. I peered wide-eyed out the small window in the door, scanning the inky night for a nonexistent threat. Curious, Bryan and Meaghan asked what was wrong. My sister and I glanced nervously at each other and said shakily, "nothing." We were evil, I know. Julie and I then grabbed the flashlight and reluctantly stated that "we saw something out there," and coaxed Bryan and Meaghan to join us.

Once outside, I splashed the flashlight's beam across the ground in an erratic, haphazard manner. I aimed the beam around the trailer's skirting and muttered, "I think there's something in there." While smiling to myself I heard a distinct "thump" against the skirting. I furrowed my brows in a perplexed look and thought "damn, I'm starting to freak myself out now." In a hushed voice I inquired, "Did you hear that?" A couple grunts of acknowledgement.

Shining the flashlight in the area where I heard the noise, I began to wonder if I really did want to find out what bumped against the trailer skirting. That's when it happened. Without warning - some hideous, fanged creature leapt into the flashlight's beam capturing it's abominable horns, glaring eyes and long, clawed legs. I let out a gasp and jerked back, knowing I was in imminent danger of becoming frog food.

Yes, it was a small frog about the size of my thumb. No claws, horns, or fangs. But I just know that thing was glaring at me. Feeling foolish, I chuckled and tried to regain my aloof masculinity while my heart was still doing aerobics. Our devious "scare tactic" backfired, with me as the hapless victim.

The remaining days at the lake I dispensed with the talk of ghosts and goblins, and instead enjoyed the languid days sharing laughs and recreation with Bryan and Meaghan. You know, it's amazing how a brush with death can put things into perspective and make you appreciate life.

Even if that "brush" was just a small frog.

It's Showtime!
Written by David M. Muench

Joan of Arcadia no longer rules Friday nights. Sorry, God, but you've been ousted by an acerbic young woman who communicates with inanimate objects and a quirky cop with an extraordinary ability of deduction and to shamelessly make a fool out of himself in public.

Wonderfalls features the attractive Caroline Dhavernas (Out Cold) as Jaye Tyler, a "pathological narcissist" who has developed a preternatural ability to communicate with inanimate objects - everything from a deformed wax lion to a bronze monkey statuette. Naturally only Jaye can hear and see these anthropomorphized items talk, so it stands to reason that she might in fact be losing her mind. But it's the uncanny advice and instructions given by these objects (much like "God" on Joan of Arcadia) for Jaye to follow accordingly that lends a bit of credibility and invites us into her world.

Wonderfalls is definitely geared for adults, as the language and context is a bit on the risqué side. The humor, however, is scathingly witty; and a full cast of equally funny and dysfunctional characters makes this new show a winner in my book. Look for it on Fox, Friday's at 9/8 central.


Touching Evil is USA Network's new show starring Jeffrey Donovan as David Creegan.

After a near-fatal gunshot wound to the head and year-long pyschological care, Creegan returns to the new OSC (Organized and Serial Crime) Unit, a rapid-response, elite crime investigation squad. Unfortunately the accident left him virtually shameless, easily agitated, and stubborn. On the plus side, he has a heightened ability of deduction.

Touching Evil is a bit of a misnomer given the circumstances, as this is a deliciously funny and intense ride into a mind of an anomalous headcase. Look for it on the USA network, Friday nights at 10/9 central.