88 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
have just learned that the column I wrote earlier this year about my first date has been nominated for an award.\nThis blows my mind. If I knew I could get awards for telling embarrassing facts about myself when I was younger, I would have started doing this long ago.\nInstead, I took the traditional route to fame and glory by trying out for sports teams and running for student government positions.\nBoth were miserable failures.\nMy junior year of high school, I deluded myself into thinking that I could make the varsity basketball team. I had never tried out for an athletic team before. In other words, this is like Saddam Hussein starting his own cable gourmet cooking show and expecting it to be an instant success. (This week on "Cooking With Saddam," we'll learn how to really spice up that boring meatloaf your mother used to make.) \nThere is a reason the editor of the high school newspaper generally is also not on the basketball team. It turned out being able to write does not automatically mean you have supreme skills on the court, much to my disappointment. The things you learn in high school. (I also learned during my four-year tenure there that being the editor of the newspaper does not equate to having a long list of girls wanting to ask you out. I really should have read that list of fringe benefits that came with the job more clearly.)\nAnyway, it turned out I didn't quite have what it takes to be an athlete, so I decided to try student government.\nThe person running against me for treasurer was none other than one of the most popular cheerleaders in school. Undaunted, I made tens of campaign ads espousing my qualities in quotes I totally made up such as "Joe Grace saved my baby...he'd make a great treasurer" and "Joe Grace brought my country out of economic ruin...I'd vote for him."\nIt turned out humor does not beat out a beautiful blonde wearing a short skirt. I learned so much in high school.\nI basically gave up on fame and glory after that and decided to stick with what had always worked for me...making fun of myself. I never expected to get anything for it besides a few fingers pointing at me as I walked by random people.\nFinger 1: Isn't that the guy who admitted to having his stomach growl so loudly in class that the girl next to him jumped five feet out of her seat?\n Finger 2: Yeah, we better stop pointing, though. He might write about us.\nWow, that was beyond absurd. I'm proud of myself.\n But it seems my dedication to completely embarrassing myself is finally paying dividends. The very fact that I was nominated really says something. My guess is that it says the people who chose my column took a few too many hits off the hookah (Blatant Propaganda: see my last column at www.idsnews.com if you want to learn what this wonderful word means) during the nomination process. \nOh well, I thank them anyway.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
During Thanksgiving break, I, like most of my fellow students, did ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. \nIt was wonderful. Unfortunately, my resolve to do ABSOLUTELY NOTHING has continued into the first few days back from break. Thus, not only did I turn in my Russian history paper two days late, I also did not write a column this week.\nFortunately, I have a solution.\nThe following column is one of my favorites I wrote during my freshman year at the University of Southern Indiana. May it be a warning to all you who do not heed the call of a sumptuous, hearty breakfast.\nThe Scenario: I'm sitting in sociology class minding my own business trying to listen to the professor.\nThe Problem: I skipped breakfast this morning. But hunger is the least of my problems. My main predicament is that my stomach has decided to voice its opinion about being empty:\n(yurk).\nWhew. Only a small growl that nobody seemed to have noticed. Maybe it will go away on its own.\nYurk.\nHmm. Or maybe it won't. I look around and see that everyone is still paying attention to the professor. I decide to try holding my breath for as long as possible in hopes that it will tame my increasingly wild stomach.\nYUrk. \nLearned something new. Hunger pangs cannot be solved the same way as hiccups. The person next to me turns her head and looks hesitatingly at me for a second. I give her a look which basically says, "Who, me?"\nYURk. \nThat answers her question. Along with everyone else's within a five-seat radius of me. Time to adjust my hat down as far as possible to cover my face, which has decided to emulate a chameleon on a red corvette. I try holding my stomach, thinking a little pressure might stop my tummy's fervent protests.\nYURK!\nWell, ____! (Insert expletive of choice.) I have now officially been deemed the most annoying person on the planet Earth. I am also now in full turtle shell mode with my head entirely tucked inside of my sweatshirt. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home." I click my heels together, but nothing. There is never a pair of ruby slippers around when you really need them.\nYURKK!\nWhen the extra "K" comes in play, it is widely recognized that you are in serious trouble. I am lucky there aren't any wild animals lurking around, because I am almost positive that the sounds emanating from my stomach are extremely similar to most mating calls. The poor souls sitting near me are trying desperately to ignore the fervent cries of an untamed stomach bouncing all around them.\nYURKKK!\nFat chance. I hear a few people sigh, and wonder if they are from disgust or pity.\nYURKKKK!\nDefinitely disgust. But before they can form a lynch mob, the professor dismisses the class, allowing me to escape as quickly as possible. On the way out of the classroom, I occasionally look over my shoulder for lynch mobs and wild animals. \nThe Destination: The nearest snack machine.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
This should be a movie.\nMy roommate, Jakob, and I are driving south on Ind. 57 in a beat up Cougar heading toward Evansville Sunday around midnight on a quest to surprise his girlfriend for their six-month anniversary.\nThe movie would be called, "Two Idiots on the Road When They Should Be Sleeping Because One of Them Has a Class at 8 a.m. the Next Day."\nBut we're in college, and this is the perfect time to be an idiot.\nIt seems I'm the bigger idiot of the two because there is no good reason why I should even be on this road trip. I'm like Thelma from Thelma and Louise, except for the fact I'm not a "naive housewife burdened with a negligent, sexist husband" (That quote is from Yahoo! movies. Don't sue me.)\nBut my roommate asked me to go because he didn't want to drive a total of five hours there and back by himself, and I have nothing remotely close to logical reasoning -- so I agreed.\nWell, here we are on the "open" Indiana road, which smells like a lovely mixture of oil and farm animals. A huge bag of Doritos sits in my lap, and we have enough Mountain Dew between us to cause the ADA (Something Dentist Something) to agree that four out of five dentists think we are complete idiots.\nThere's a smirk on Jakob's face the entire trip. It's the grin of a guy who knows he's going to get some tonight...I mean the simple smile of a guy who's in love and can't wait to see his girlfriend for some innocent hand holding. Yeah, that's what I meant.\nWe arrive in Evansville around 2 a.m. and immediately head to Wal-Mart so Jakob can buy an anniversary present (a sickeningly adorable stuffed kitten that purrs when you pet it).\nThen it's on to his girlfriend's apartment. Jakob is more excited than me at a REO Speedwagon concert. And that's saying something. Probably something I didn't want to admit.\nIt's only a five-minute drive to her place, but it took Jakob about five seconds to get there. After the car stops at the destination, I remind myself to go back to Wal-Mart's parking lot later to search for my stomach and hope the giant scary bouncing smiley face didn't eat it first.\nWe walk up the stairs with our loot. Jakob is carrying a stuffed kitten, and I'm lugging my blankets and pillows since lucky me gets to sleep on a strange couch tonight.\nThe enormous amount of blankets I was carrying prevent me from seeing the momentous meeting, but from the excited squeals of joy I heard, I can tell that the scene would have made me sick to my stomach if it was still inside of me rather than in a parking lot being chased by an giant scary bouncing smiley face. \nIt wouldn't have really made me sick to my stomach. It probably would have put a smile on my face even. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a happy ending.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
I'm bored.\nThis isn't right. Joe Grace is not supposed to get bored. Joe Grace is supposed to be chasing wild chipmunks. Joe Grace is supposed to be rolling down hills collecting chiggers on his merry way. Joe Grace is not supposed to be writing in the third person -- but he is doing it anyway.\nI am suffering from an extreme bout of summer laziness, and it's not even officially summer yet. This must stop. It's just not okay to lie around all day wondering about things like, "If I let my fingernails grow out long enough, will I no longer need to use a fork?"\nI suppose I could get a job to supplement the eight dollars a week I make with the IDS, but that would require leaving my house, and I can't see that happening any time soon. There's nothing quite like living at home to completely zap all the energy out of you. Yesterday, I actually took three naps. One day that will be in the Guinness Book of Pathetic Records.\nEverybody needs a project to do over the summer. Something to invigorate the soul, lift up the spirit, quench the mind and most importantly waste time until school starts full-time again. My original plan was to see how many times I could beat solitaire, but I had to delete that evil game off my computer when I started to fantasize about playing it during class toward the end of the semester. I don't need a therapist to tell me there's something inherently wrong about mixing fantasies and card games. So there went that plan.\nLuckily, the wonderful people at Voron Communications are just as bored as I am and created a website dedicated to giving advice to bored students on summer vacation. (Yes, Voron would most definitely be a great name for a cartoon bad guy. He would have fur, fangs and Mickey Mouse ears. Very terrifying.)\n1. Maintain good habits/develop self-discipline: If taking naps three times a day is a good habit, I've got this one in the proverbial bag of sleeping dust. I'm not really sure how one goes about developing self-discipline, but if it has anything to do with the Fox Network, I am so there. (Next week on Fox: When Humor Columnists Attack)\n2. Organize yourself: The stuff lying on my floor is clutter. The stuff lying on my desk is important clutter. Organization.\n3. Determine personal goals: I hope one day to get the theme song to, "I Dream of Genie" completely out of my head.\n4. Conduct a career search: Let's see. Job openings for professional humor columnists. Oh, wait. There aren't any. I'm in a field with zero demand. There is probably more need for professional mongoose trainers. Maybe I should consider a career change. I could be the president of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Inc. The business cards alone would make the job worthwhile. \n5. Practice teamwork: My stuffed bear will nap at the end of the bed. My stuffed dog will nap on my desk chair. I'll nap in the middle of the bed. And my cat will nap on the stuffed bear. Teamwork.\n6. Create something: The last time I was allowed to have glue and scissors at the same time, Director of Homeland Security, Tom Ridge, put the nation on yellow alert. For the good of the country, I should not be allowed near arts and crafts.\n7. Learn self-defense: Here is my money. Please go away. Self-defense.\nIf those seven ideas don't cure summertime boredom, you can always chase chipmunks. Or Tom Ridge.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
Father's Day is rapidly approaching and that has got me thinking. First, should I get my Dad a card commemorating what a great job I think he has done over the years or the doll with the beer belly that burps when you squeeze its head? \nSecond, I've come to the realization that I'm biologically (though fortunately not socially) capable of bringing a child of my own into this world.\nLuckily, before that can happen, I need to work up the nerve to ask someone on a date, then get to know said person, then ask her to be my girlfriend, then get to know her some more, then ask her to be my wife, then sit around and wait a couple of years while "we" try to figure out if the wedding cake should have five or six layers, then get married, then get a secure job, then buy a plant and see if I can keep it alive for a year because anybody who kills an organism that only needs sunlight and water to survive should not be allowed within 20 feet of individuals who believe that food is best consumed by osmosis through the face -- and maybe then I'll be ready to have a child which should put me at the ripe age of 337.\nStill, the fact that I could have a child if only sperm had the ability to jump out of men's belly buttons and impregnate women casually passing by frightens me terribly and forces me to wonder if there has ever been a science fiction novel written on super sperm. If there has been a book written on this topic, I hereby decree that God should destroy the world tomorrow.\nSeriously, I'm looking forward to fatherhood. Who doesn't want a chance to create a miniature version of themselves? I can happily imagine a son at my age.\nSon: Dad, I kissed a chimpanzee today!\nMe: Way to go, Son!\nBut, there is always the off chance that something could go terribly wrong in my wife's womb, and I'm prepared to face the horrible fact that the creature coming out of the woman I've chosen to spend my life with could very well be a hairy ape-man ... or a daughter. \nMy daughter will hate me. Mainly because after hanging out with guys for 20 years, there is not a chance in Hades that I am going to let my daughter within 100 yards of any member of the male species until she is ... you guessed it ... 337 years old. Then I might allow her to shake hands with one. \nMight.\nBeing a father is a special privilege and a huge responsibility. You have to make sure your children don't develop any bad habits like nose-picking or watching "The O'Reilly Factor." You have to teach your children the difference between right and wrong and ice cream and yogurt. You have to ensure your children never figure out that cooties don't really exist. It's a lot of responsibility.\nFortunately, I've had a great father to pattern myself after, and I'm not too worried about it. Plus, I can always blame anything they do wrong on their mother who will undoubtedly wonder every day why she married someone who thinks chimpanzee-kissing is an integral part of child development. Which it is.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
It's truly amazing how watching a few episodes of the The Learning Channel's Trading Spaces can delude someone (namely me) into thinking he or she is the next Martha Stewart (minus the one-way ticket to jail of course).\nFor those of you unfortunate souls who have never seen this delightful show (those of you with a life in other words), Trading Spaces is wonderful for exactly two reasons. First, it proves that with a measly $1,000, anyone can take a hideous-looking room and turn it into an extremely hideous looking room. Second, this is perfectly okay because you are decorating a neighbor's room and therefore (prepare for a shock) not your own.\nUnfortunately, the neighbors whose room you are decorating and who you have known for at least 10 years, are concurrently redoing one of your rooms and you just know they still hold a grudge over that time your dachshund poopied on their prized magnolias.\nSo, when I found out that a friend was moving into a new apartment, I decided this would be a great opportunity to test out my newly learned interior decorating skills. Little did I know that a few days later this decision would land me in the shower mat aisle of Wal-Mart pondering whether the giant foot or Spongebob Squarepants would best fit the décor of his bathroom.\nLuckily, I had the help of his ex-girlfriend, and fellow Trading Spaces aficionado, to assist me in the tough choices like this. We actually paced around his empty apartment discussing important decorating matters like should the overall scheme be Country Kaleidoscope or Georgie Visits the Zoo and if it's psychotic to want to put ivy on the bathroom walls. My friend's input consisted of insisting that Blink-182 must be represented in every room.\nThe furniture was the best part. You know you've watched way too much Trading Spaces when you look at a couch for the first time and exclaim, "That couch needs a slip cover!" His couch really does, though. It looks as if the 70s barfed it up and then a big, furry white cat with an extreme shedding problem laid on it for about a century. So, it was off to Wal-Mart to buy a large-enough sheet to cover it.\nOne should never go to Wal-Mart while cheaply redecorating a college student's apartment. Suddenly, things you have never noticed before in a store magically appear and you hear yourself proclaiming things like "Hey, look at that china set!" Or, "I didn't know dish rags came in different colors." Or, my personal favorite, "Sir, can you help me find where the doilies are located?"\nSomehow, we were finally able to dislodge ourselves from Wal-Mart and returned back to my friend's new pad to transform a depressing, bleak apartment into a vibrant, fun-filled apartment. I would like to be able to say that we were completely successful in our endeavor and that the both of us have received calls from Trading Spaces asking us to join the show. But, then I would be a filthy liar, and we all know where filthy liars go, and we all know who's already there (Martha Stewart).\n"It looks…um…different," my friend said about the finished product, which is friendspeak for "I'm going to sneak into your room one night and strangle you with a slip cover."\nIt seems like interior decorating isn't my call in life, but I'm okay with that. I've recently started to get into the Crocodile Hunter, and it looks a lot easier than decorating. So until next time, G'day mate.
(07/25/02 8:23pm)
I'm about to turn 21.\nI'm supposed to be excited.\nInstead, I'm scared out of my mind.\nFirst, my mom is planning the party, which brings back terrifying childhood recollections of "Pin the tail on the nose of whoever is on this month's Vogue cover" and "Bobbing for tennis balls." I know that my mother shouldn't be in charge, but if my friends did the planning, I fear I'd end up in a Mexican prison with a one-legged midget named Raul. Since my Spanish is a little rusty, I don't think I want that.\nMe: Donde es la casa de Pepe. Por favor. Guten Tag! Aloha!\nRaul: Guard!\nBut the party is the least of my concerns.\nTurning 21 means that I'll officially be an adult. Those of you who regularly read my columns know that I have no business becoming an adult. My last purchase was a Scooby Doo coloring book. My idea of a good time is playing in the pool with an alligator float. I still think Mickey Mouse is cool. I received a cootie shot less than a week ago.\nI shouldn't have even been allowed to turn 13.\nBut the "powers that be" (Bill Gates, Ted Turner and Spam) have decided to let me become an adult and there is nothing I can do about it.\nI can't even think of a single good thing about turning 21.\nI don't drink because frankly a drunk Joe Grace would pose a national security threat to the United States.\nI can now get into dance clubs, which only gives me a brand new way to embarrass myself on Friday evenings.\nOld Way: "Look at me! I'm by myself in the dorms watching Nick at Night!"\nNew Way: "Look at me! I'm by myself in Seymour watching Nick at Night because I got lost on the way to the dance club!"\nThe Way: Popular song by Fastball.\nAnother "benefit" to turning 21 is that I'm now allowed to gamble. Wonderful! I'm already a poor college student. Now I can be a dirt poor college student. Never underestimate the difference between poor and dirt poor. It's kind of like the difference between double-wide and "Maybe next year we can get wheels on this baby!"\nBeing 20 has been wonderful. I've loved living in this mysterious void between teenager and adult. It's like that blissful time after waking up and before getting out of bed. Or like sitting in the dentist's office with a good magazine. Or like sucking helium from a balloon. Okay, it's nothing like sucking helium from a balloon. I think I just got carried away there.\n In fact, being 20 has been so great, I think I'll be 20 for another year. I'll forego all the "extras" people get from turning 21 and spend the next year, once again, as a bright-eyed 20-year old. There's only one problem with this scenario.\n IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!\n It's also ludicrous and extremely stupid, but I liked the word "impossible" capitalized more. It has a certain pizzazz to it. PIZZAZZ. Ooh. I like that too. \nSo, once again it seems that I can't change my destiny and will be forced to become an adult like everyone else. I remember when I was five and promised by a certain talking giraffe that I didn't have to grow up because I was a Toys R' Us kid. I now know it was just a lie. Which goes to prove that you should never trust a talking giraffe. Nobody can save you from adulthood.
(06/23/02 11:33pm)
Working with the Children's Reading Program at a local library has taught me three important life lessons. One: I look like Harry Potter. Two: Kids will kill, cheat and say they like broccoli to win a paper bag filled with almost worthless coupons. Three: If I die and come back reincarnated as a three-foot-tall stuffed replica of Barney the purple dinosaur, I will know without a doubt that I must have done something terrible in this life.\nBarney sits a mere five feet away from my desk, and every day I watch children walk up to the cuddly dinosaur with their arms wide open and a huge smile. It's a deceptive ploy, though, because as soon as the kids are close enough to hug the purple beast, they proceed to smack him in the face. This is followed by a bout of hysterical giggling. After that, they calmly walk toward my desk with a similar smile, forcing me to wonder how hard a 2-year-old pigtailed girl can smack.\nLuckily, they treat me with more respect than Barney. So far, the poor animal has been bitten, had his eyes gouged, been sacked more times than Rob Johnson, been dragged across the floor and has been called Kathy Lee Gifford by one particularly mean spirited girl. \nNot even the parents can save Barney. Last week, a concerned mother watched with horror as her young son sprinted toward Barney, picked him up and then bashed him up against the wall. When she asked him why he did such a thing, the boy matter-of-factly replied that Barney asked him to. Who knew Barney was a masochist? Adds a whole new dimension to the show in my mind.\nThere is hope. Every once in awhile, a kid goes up to Barney and actually hugs him. This tender moment is then interrupted by the child's older sibling who then proceeds to smack the dinosaur in the face. All of this violence caused me to wonder if cartoons are to blame for the abuse Barney endures every day.\nSo, I asked a couple of friends what they thought about this. However, as every college student knows, there is no universal tie so strong as that of childhood memories of cartoons. Soon, the conversation degenerated into who would win a battle between the Transformers and G.I. Joe with Voltron getting the nod at the end.\nMy next idea was to plant myself in front of the television on Saturday morning to see for myself what kids are watching today. Cartoons have become pathetically toned down. People fight with cards now. It hurts my soul to imagine He-Man defeating Skeltor by throwing a card with a sword drawn on it at him.\nAfter determining that cartoons are not causing this insatiable violence, I decided to blame the government for no other reason than that's what it is there for. But, this isn't going to help Barney in the least bit. No, what Barney needs is a kid repellent. And no, I'm not suggesting the library staff wrap Barney is barbed wire. The Children's Reading Program does not condone bleeding on the carpet in front of my desk.\nOne idea is to put a sign on Barney telling the kids that they get a free paper bag if they resist trying to shove their tiny fist through Barney's face. If that doesn't work, I'll use my incredible talent of looking like Harry Potter and threaten to turn the next kid that abuses Barney into something horrible like broccoli or Regis Philbin. Anything to save Barney.
(06/03/02 1:04am)
A hero is needed.\nSomeone brave, strong, intelligent -- and most importantly, blessed with the ability to mercilessly destroy all the poison ivy on this planet.\nForget the endangered species list, oil drilling in Alaska and the depleting ozone layer. Poison ivy is the menace that poses the greatest threat to the survival of the human species at the moment. I'm supposed to be going to a water park tomorrow and I am positive that walking around shirtless with red, oozing bumps will ensure that my genes will never be passed on.\nI fear the worst.\nI fear that poison ivy (Rhus rudicans) will one day become smart poison ivy (Rhus rudicans doogie howserans). When this dreaded day occurs, it will be a scenario worse than Armageddon 2: Affleck Saves Tokyo. I imagine a world ruled by genius poison ivy with humans running rampant through weeds of stinging nettles covered from head to toe with red,oozing dots. A world where we are enslaved and forced to bring our poison ivy masters shiny objects like dimes and Moby's forehead. \nA world where IU basketball has been replaced by a sport in which students run through a giant trap-filled maze toward a 5 oz. bottle of calamine lotion. We need to stop the evil, itchy plant before it becomes too late. I'm calling on the entire human race to stop fighting and bickering over silly matters like territory and who ate the last Oreo so that they can join hands in a concerted effort to rid Earth of this growing peril.\nI'm asking Palestinians, Israelis, Pakistanis, Indians, Americans, Afghans, Iraqis and even Osama to take a look at the bigger picture: a giant Dali-esque portrait of a haggard-looking green plant with three leaves, a bad attitude and a thirst for human suffering.\nUntil that happens, though, it's going to be up to concerned individuals to root out poison ivy where it lurks. It's a sneaky devil, so be careful. Be sure to wear gloves when handling poison ivy as you would items bought at K-Mart. Don't burn poison ivy unless you enjoy having the insides of your lungs itch. Absolutely do not make decorative wreaths out of poison ivy unless as a gift to an ex-boyfriend, and he had better have done something seriously terrible like impregnating a one-legged lawn gnome to deserve that.\nMeanwhile, I'm still suffering from an unprovoked poison ivy attack. If this continues, I may have to look in the classifieds to see if any cat-owners are looking for a human scratching post. The reddish bumps scattered across my body are begging me to scratch myself to death. But then I would be giving in to the enemy.\n It could be worse. I could have poison ivy and chicken pox at the same time, which is what happens to little children who refuse to admit that Mister Rogers is the greatest children's television show host of all time. And don't try to tell me Captain Kangaroo was better. Never trust a man named after a marsupial, especially if he is known as Senor Koala. Take my word on this.\nWell, you all now know of the imminent danger poison ivy presents. But also remember that there are even shadier, more vile characters out there in nature. Don't even get me started on chipmunks. The nightmarish, commie rodents bent on world domination. It's a scary world.
(05/19/02 11:21pm)
My mother is not allowed to read this column.\nProbably because it is about an independent film the cast and I affectionately nicknamed "Sex, Violence, and the Word (for the sake of my grandmother's I'm going to change this word a bit) 'Quack-Quack.'" It also includes other long-held family movie traditions like smoking, consuming large amounts of alcohol and one joke involving the male genitalia and a one-eyed penguin. (Okay, the joke doesn't really involve a one-eyed penguin. For some odd reason, the director never subscribed to my script changes.)\n"Sex, Violence and the Word 'Quack-Quack'" is a film about greed, loss of innocence and me taking off my shirt...so everybody should go see it. \nShameless propaganda: Hopefully, it will be debuted sometime next winter here in Bloomington, which will give the entire student body the once in a lifetime chance to see a powerful student-made drama and more importantly, me without my shirt.\nYou also get a chance to see me drunk (please stop reading this mother!) because the director didn't know I don't drink and thus have the tolerance level of a baby chipmunk. So, when he put real alcohol in my "fake" drink, the entire cast knew something was wrong when I suddenly found the tricky word combination "I guess so" incredibly hilarious. \nEspecially since the phrase came out "I gas hoes" every time it popped out of my mouth. And that just doesn't work when your character is being asked if he thinks a certain person is dead.\nWell, after I sobered up, we moved on to my "make-out" scene. \nPathetic truth about Joe Grace time: I initially refused to do this scene because I'm a complete loser who hasn't had his first kiss yet. I'm also a complete moron who tells the student population things most people wouldn't tell their best friends, and I didn't want my first kiss to be a stage kiss. \nLuckily, the director had a back up plan. He told the actress she could do anything she wanted to me as long as she didn't kiss me on the lips and for me to react as I normally would. \nThis may be most guys' fantasy, but I was scared to death of being bitten or something. According to the director, who was laughing so hard he could barely speak, the look on my face when she started kissing me on my neck was that of utter confusion. I may have well been saying, "What is this strange thing you are doing to my neck?" The cast started calling this scene "Derek's Molestation" after a few more takes of me looking frightened to death at this girl attached to my neck (Derek being my character's name).\nNow that I had the sex part out of the way, it was time for the violence. I am still tending to the wounds afflicted to me during the "acting." Most were my own fault, though, like when I ran full speed into a fireplace poker that one of the characters was holding. That was kind of painful.\nThe best part of the fights was the fake blood capsules. I never knew spitting out blood could be so tasty. Those capsules were gourmet. I would start buying them as candy, but I'd really rather not have to explain to everybody why I chew on fake blood for fun.\nThen there was the language. Let's just say that everybody, including myself, got down with the Quack-Quack. Sorry mom.
(04/25/02 3:33am)
Dead week is always strange for me.\nThe combination of a small break from class work and the impending doom of finals seems to really mess up the wiring in my brain. The results can be disastrous.\nLet's backtrack four months to last December. During the week before fall semester finals, I tried dying my hair blonde for the first time in my life and I asked a girl out using a stuffed shark. Strangely enough, neither one panned out the way I had planned. \nMy hair remained a muppet-like orange color for about a month, while the shark thing…well…that was just weird. (This is, once again, something I probably shouldn't have published for the entire campus to read, but it's obvious by now that I'm never going to learn that lesson.)\nSo far this week, I've already tried to give myself a mole like Enrique Iglesias using a brown dry-erase board marker (it's a well known fact that the mole on the right side of his face is the key to his success...without it, he'd be just another Cheech Marin). So far, the faux mole doesn't have Jennifer Love Hewitt pounding on my dorm room door to make a video with me (music video you sick freaks), but there's still hope. Word just hasn't gotten around yet.\nI've also taken to wearing a do-rag.\nTake a good, long look at the picture next to this column and mentally put a do-rag on the person's head. Draw one if you have artistic ability. Now pick yourself up off the floor. It's not that funny. (Note to readers: the word is pronounced doo-rag; I went around earlier calling it a doe-rag only to find out that wearing a bandanna in this style has absolutely nothing to do with the female deer.)\nThe do-rag started to bother my head, though, so I decided to wear the red bandanna ninja style instead. I peeked into the mirror to see how it looked and found myself staring at a pathetic-looking Ralph Macchio wannabe with a rapidly disintegrating brown mole on his face. The bandanna quickly came off. Yes, even I have my stopping points.\nI probably should be studying for finals instead of acting like a lunatic. But I don't get paid to study for finals, while I do get paid for acting like a lunatic and writing about it in the paper. This phenomenon is commonly known as the Big Bang Bald Monkey Theory. (I really should be studying for finals.)\nThere are still two more days left in dead week including today. This is a scary thought for the people that live on my floor. This is a scary thought for the entire IU campus because there have to be others like me. Well, maybe. Students who just have to go a little loopy during that long week before finals. Students who start dreaming up ways of how to incorporate animals that have no place being stuffed (i.e., sharks, emus, plankton, teletubbies, etc.) with dating. Students who really should be locked in their rooms during dead week.\nOkay, well I have to go because I think someone is knocking on my door and it could be Jennifer Love Hewitt. Or a lawn gnome. That would probably make more sense this week.
(04/18/02 5:16am)
Joe Grace is busy doing homework that was due a month ago, so this week's column will be written by his very good friend Murdock Spillman, Relationship Guru.\nQ: Murdock, I really, really like this girl, but she's going back to India after school ends. I'm from Cleveland and plan on moving back after graduation. Should I tell her my feelings or just let them slide since it will be impossible for us to be together? \nA: You're from Cleveland? I'm sorry.\nQ: What's this I hear about the Top Gun technique for getting girls at parties? \nA: The Top Gun method includes having friends block possible detractors while you go after the primary target. It doesn't work. This myth is backed up by the idea that women like the movie "Top Gun" and are attracted to delusional guys who pretend to be fighter pilots. I don't care how many "wingmen" you have, yelling out "I've got a bogey on my six!" when her friend comes near is a sure-fire conversation killer.\nQ: Why are all men jerks, Murdock? \nA: Scientists are working frantically to find the answer to this daunting question and have thus far come up with two plausible solutions: \n1.) There is a chemical imbalance in men's bodies that causes them to cheat, harass, get defensive, etc.\n 2.) Something to do with a beer bong (the scientists were way too wasted at the moment to think this idea all the way through…and to call their wives to tell them they'd be home late, the jerks).\nQ: What's the best way to tell a guy/girl that you like him/her? \nA: Most people would tell you that the straightforward method works best, but I have to disagree. I've always thought the best way to reveal your feelings is through an elaborate ruse using stuffed wallabies and an electric can opener. Believe me, it works every time.\nQ: Hey, Guru, why doesn't your buddy Joe Grace have a girlfriend? \nA: Because unlike me, Joe Grace does not understand the intangible benefits of stuffed wallabies and an electric can opener. \nQ: I've figured out the stuffed wallabies part, but I'm struggling to figure out what the electric can opener is for.\nA: For opening cans, silly.\nQ: I've been dating this girl for three weeks now and I'm not sure if she's girlfriend material or not. Any ideas, Mr. Spillman? \nA: There is only one way to tell if someone is boyfriend/girlfriend material. Ask yourself this question: When I'm around (fill in blank), does it feel like Fat Albert is doing jumping jacks in the pit of my stomach? If the answer to this question is yes, please go see a doctor immediately, because I'm pretty sure Fat Albert does not belong in the pit of your stomach. Or anywhere else in your body, for that matter.\nQ: I'm madly in love with this guy and he won't have anything to do with me. How can I change to win him over?\nA: If a guy doesn't like you for who you are, then forget about him. He's not worth it. Stay your beautiful self. And then make a doll of this guy and burn it in effigy. I'm not really sure what effigy is, but I know it's absolutely great for burning stuff in. But if for some reason he internally combusts, yes, it is your fault.\nJoe Grace is most definitely not responsible for the consequences of inanely following any advice Murdock Spillman, Relationship Guru, may have given.
(04/11/02 4:50pm)
This is kind of fun.\nIt's Friday night and I'm pretending to be asleep while sitting in a hard wood chair on a stage in the IMUG surrounded by about thirty people.\nDefinitely a new experience.\nActually, I'm supposed to be hypnotized right now. Instead, my head hangs down with my eyes closed while I'm thinking, "If I had two left feet and I were a penguin, would I still be able to swim and waddle across the ice or would I be ostracized from the flock and be forced to join a less suitable group like plankton?" Somehow, I don't think these kind of thoughts are supposed to meander across your mind while hypnotized. Or any other time for that matter.\nMeanwhile, I'm faced with the daunting idea that the four people sitting in similar chairs around me REALLY are hypnotized and that everybody is going to see me for the faker I REALLY am and that I will REALLY get booed off the stage before getting REALLY fired because of my insistence to capitalize the word REALLY.\nSo what can a humor columnist do? Besides forget where the caps lock button is.\nThis humor columnist decided enough was enough. And so when the hypnotist tried to put me to sleep again, I did the first thing I could think of. (The hypnotist has a name, but I'm a horrible, horrible journalist and didn't write it down, so we'll just call him Bingo.) I stared at Bingo blankly and said, "I don't think I'm hypnotized anymore."\nBingo, who was wearing a black beret because someone obviously had beat the fashion sense out of him with a bat when he was younger, looked at me like he was amazed that someone could break out of his stupendous powers of hypnosis. \nEither that or he was dumbfounded that a seemingly intelligent college student couldn't figure out the simple game, "Quack Like a Duck When I Tell You To."\nSo, he quickly sent me back to my seat in the audience while the other four got to play all the fun hypnotized games like "Pretend You're A Butt Bongo Band" and "Yes, The Entire Audience is Naked. Enjoy."\nFor 30 glorious minutes, I could have acted like a deliriously drunk college student without even being at the Little 500. I could have rubbed random people's hair, laughed hysterically, and fallen in love with every single girl in the room. (That's right ladies, you missed your chance. I can hear the sobbing now. Or laughter. One of those two.)\n Instead, I could only sit and watch because Bingo wouldn't let poor Jo-Jo join in any reindeer games (LIKE MONOPOLY!) Sorry, but I've spent the last 30 minutes trying to figure out the inane lyrics to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and, by golly, I am using them in this column. (A big thanks to Emily from Seymour, Ind., for helping me to remember that line. See. Not everything from Seymour is bad. Just John Mellencamp.)\nSo I didn't get to be hypnotized, which was unfortunated. But I did get to learn a valuable lesson. Even if you can't be a member of a Butt Bongo band on stage, at least you can be a member of one in the privacy of your own dorm room. Now if you don't mind, you'll all have to excuse me while I leave to practice my drum solo.
(04/04/02 4:30am)
I hate being sick.\nBut then again, who loves being sick? I've a hard time imagining anyone running around screaming "Woo hoo! I have Malaria!" or "Go me! Typhoid Fever!"\nBut I'm sure they are out there. And they're probably running the government.\nActually, I have never heard of a president being sick. Does George W. Bush get colds? Or do his super powers of logic and critical thinking prevent him from being attacked by evil viruses? Furthermore, I don't want to hear theories from any biology majors about whether or not viruses cause colds, because I don't feel like looking up their big words.\nBecause I'm sick, I don't feel like doing anything besides lying in bed and calling for my mommy to bring me soup. Unfortunately she can't, because she lives two and a half hours away. So I'm stuck looking like a crazy guy on his bed who is calling for his mommy from his dorm room.\nBut I'm allowed to do that because -- that's right -- I'm a humor columnist. Therefore, anything I do, no matter how insane it seems, is justified by the fact that I make fun of myself on a weekly basis\nAnd the fact that I'm sick.\nHonestly, I think I've blown enough snot out of my nose in the past two days to fill the Yellow River. (Yes, that was a gross image and a bad pun all rolled into one fun-filled sentence.) This concerns me because I want to know where it all comes from. \nWhat part of my body is stupid enough to create more snot when I'm consistently getting rid of it in large quantities? I'd like to say it's my clavicle, but I'm pretty sure the biology majors would have something to say about that somewhere along the lines of "I hate Joe Grace."\nI have been taking steps toward fighting the infection that is plaguing my body. Mainly by continually consuming the vast amounts of leftover Easter candy that is strewn all over my room. My room is truly an Easter candy disaster area. It's as if the Easter bunny stepped on a land mine in the middle of my dorm room. Okay, that's kind of a disturbing image and I should apologize.\nBut I'm sick, so the Easter bunny is just going to have to stay destroyed and littered across my room for the time being.\n Somehow, I don't think the chocolate bunnies and jelly beans are improving my condition. But I believe the Pez I've been snacking on out of my indispensable Winnie the Pooh Pez dispenser has a few curative properties. \n This is based solely on the fact that strawberry Pez turns my tongue pink. Or are tongues already pink? I better ask the biology majors. Or look in a mirror. I guess that would be the reasonable thing to do.\n But I'm sick, so I don't have to be reasonable. All I have to do is remind everybody that I'm sick about a million times, like some little kid reapeating a joke. As a sick person, it's allowable. And eventually, without me having to do a thing, somebody will hit me over the head with a brick.\nAnd I will have deserved it. Because nobody really wants to hear me rant about being sick. Unless, of course, I talk about an obliterated Easter bunny at the same time. Then it's okay.
(03/28/02 4:33am)
According to a decree sent to me by the opinion editor, we "opinion" columnists are explicitly not supposed to write anything pertaining to basketball. (The only "opinion" I can remember ever expressing in any of my columns is that yours truly does not mix well with dating, chimpanzees, and mutant subs, but I guess "opinion" pertains to me).\nTherefore, I'm going to write about the little tree that could.\nThis little tree started out as a mere sapling, struggling to survive in the bitter Bloomington cold. At first, no one paid it much heed. Everyone thought the young one would wither away and die. But this tree near the fountain by the IU Auditorium was determined to make it in this world and to one day provide a little shelter to the wonderful students it saw daily walking by. So, it fought through the winters, survived the occasional accidental bumps by students, and grew up to be a proud and happy member of the Indiana campus.\nThis little tree thought it could and it did.\nUntil it was mercilessly destroyed while minding its own business in an atrocious act committed last Saturday around 10 p.m.\nIt started when a group of frothing students came rampaging through the streets toward Showalter Fountain at about 9:30 that night for no apparent reason. Reports indicate, however, that it may have possibly been a pre-planned tea party.\nAnyway, the tea party included an activity that consisted of climbing up into the victimized tree and madly rocking it back and forth until it collapsed in what had to be one of the most ruthless murders I have ever witnessed.\nStudents then gathered around the felled, peace-loving organism and proceeded to brutally rip off its limbs one by one in a wild orgy of amputations. To celebrate their victory over the once strong tree, the students then paraded the sticks high above their heads like they were carrying the Olympic torch while shouting "Go Lipton Tea! Beat Earl Grey!" Or something to that extent.\nI was shocked to see this happen as I stood there helplessly (I never miss a tea party), so I did the only thing I could think of. That's right. I walked up to the tree and took a branch for myself. Now it is sitting in a pot on my desk, constantly abusing me with insults like "Tree Killer" and "Poopie Doo Doo Head." (Branches aren't the best at coming up with insults.)\n I believe reparation must be made for the tragic loss of life that happened on Saturday night. And no, I do not mean that the fish should be destroyed as well to make the tree feel better. I'm suggesting a small, graceful plaque commemorating the tree that gave its life so students could enjoy their tea party.\nI have even come up with an epitaph. "Long Live Barbara Bush." Original, classy, and it makes no sense whatsoever, so I love it. Furthermore, I think the tree would enjoy it as well because I was talking to it one day and it said my columns were great. This paragraph will soon be submitted to the Guinness Book of Records as the dumbest paragraph ever written by a non-drunk college student. Go me.\nThe next time there is a giant tea party, I think it would be wise for students to think for a second about what they are doing before taking that first step up an innocent tree. And finally, Go Lipton Tea! Beat Earl Grey!
(03/21/02 5:13am)
During spring break, I discovered that the magical world of Disney's illusion of family fun is really a sinister plot to brainwash America's youth into thinking that with enough "fairy dust," they too can fly.\nAnd that's not the worst of it.\nDisney World has scary people dressed up as large animals that insist on tousling your hair every single time you get within arm's length of the hideous creatures. Call me cynical, but I am not particularly crazy about my scalp being rubbed by a giant rat in a polka dot dress. It's just not my thing. Especially when I'm trying to eat dinner. Shudder.\nThe little kids seem to love this though. And for some strange reason, the parents don't seem to mind that things I have nightmares about are touching their children. When I'm a parent, I'm going to walk around the theme park with a giant mouse trap to ward off any unwarranted pests that may feel the urge to give my children a possibly disease-infested hug.\nThere are even bigger concerns than this.\nDisney's MGM Studios displays a massive show every night, which they have decided to call Fantasmic! This word does not exist anywhere in the dictionary. At least not in the English one I looked at. For all I know, it could be German for "mouse poop," but somehow I doubt that.\nThus, the only meaning I can come up with is that it's a mixture of fantastic and orgasmic. And I know that this cannot be appropriate for children under the age of thirteen. So there I was, sitting on a bleacher getting ready to watch something which may very well belong on HBO, surrounded by throngs of tiny tykes about to have their innocence taken away by Mickey Mouse and Co. \nA sad day for the children of the world.\nLuckily for society, it turned out just to be the usual Disney fare with Sorcerer Mickey wiping out every single Disney baddy by splashing them with water. They really need to come up with some more resilient evil characters. How pathetic to be destroyed by getting wet. That was always my problem with the Wizard of Oz. The Wicked Witch of the West must have never been able to take a shower. Gross. No wonder her skin was green.\nThe grand finale had 26 Disney characters dancing along an 80-foot long replica of Steamboat Willie's steamboat. Where is an iceberg when you desperately need one? I'm forced to worry about the possible psychological problems inflicted on the actors playing these characters. I can easily imagine the guy who played Aladdin jumping off the roof of his plush condominium with a rug only to realize halfway down that he just made a big mistake. Yes, he forgot to feed Abu before taking off, the big dummy. \nYou have to remember to always take care of pets before jumping out into infinity with a rug, for no other reason than that will probably pop in your mind during the next test when you're trying to remember who won the Civil War. (The answer of course being Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.)\nThis column, like all Disney films, has a moral at the end of it. And that moral is that even though Disney World is an evil place filled with mischief, mayhem and mice, it is also expensive and crowded. And it's fantasmic too, so beware.
(03/07/02 4:25am)
In two more days, I will be lying on a sandy beach (is there any other kind?) basking in the Florida sun's glorious rays more than 1,000 miles away from Bloomington and her perpetual weather mood swings.\nThere is something seriously wrong with a city that is 70 degrees one day but can be laced with snow and filled with a wind that can completely numb a human face in five minutes the next. I went outside without a hat the other day and in response, my ears decided to go on strike until I broke down and bought a pair of earmuffs. Luckily, ears are stupid and don't have eyes so I tricked them by cupping my hands over both of them for a couple of minutes.\nStill, I wouldn't have to mess with earmuffs or any of this at all if the lovely city surrounding IU would just remain around the same temperature for more than two days in a row.\nI think I know why it refuses to do so, though.\nBloomington is pregnant. We're going to have a baby! Soon, a small, pinkish village will spring forth from B-town's womb and join the scores of other Podunk towns (definition: any city, burg, landfill, etc. that could possibly be the birthplace of John Mellencamp or Hank Williams Jr.) that litter the mighty vista of Indiana's landscape.\nAnd I fully plan on not being anywhere near this city when that terrible event happens.\nAnd this is completely ridiculous.\nI really did intend for this column to be about Spring Break, and I'm not too sure how it ended up here. I lose track of what I'm doing way too easily. I have the same problem with objects.\nFor example, last Saturday night I lost a ring that was very important to me because I was stupid enough to wear it when I went out. I knew better than to do that. The same principle applies to me and dating, because I know I'm going to do something inane like shutting the door on her coat or taking her to a pet store where she'll end up being bitten by a white ferret named Mike, just because I'll suggest that she rub his soft, furry and unfortunately incredibly sensitive belly.\nI miss my ring terribly already. When I was younger, I used to use it to pretend I was the sixth Planeteer from the ill-famed cartoon Captain Planet and the Planeteers. \n (The series came to a tragic and umtimely end after Captain Planet developed a nasty LSD habit. He was last seen in a Brazilian rain forest trying to get a buzz from licking poison dart frogs.) For fun, I would point the blue stone in my ring at friends, just like the Planeteers. \n Unfortunately, while they had cool powers like wind and fire, my ring's power seemed limited to extreme dorkiness. But at least it was highly effective.\nNow my poor ring is lying around somewhere, possibly all alone, in this weirdly pregnant city and that disconcerts me. I just hope that if I never get it back, at least it will chance into the hands of someone who will cherish it as much as I did. And may their grimy little hands rot off for stealing it from me.\nSeriously though, it's probably someplace in my room playing a fantastically fun game of hide and seek with me. At least it's not pregnant.
(02/28/02 4:34am)
I hate photographing total strangers.\nSo, of course, that is exactly what I am doing on a nice Monday afternoon when I should be inside taking a nap. I cannot believe I am missing a nap for this.\nNaps are an integral part of my life. Even more so than getting into embarrassing situations and having to sit there while my face turns incredibly red because it is a horrible, horrible part of my body and has a vendetta against me.\nThis has happened so many times, it's not even funny.\nActually, it is funny. Like that time I told the entire student body in a column that I sleep with a stuffed animal. Boy, that was humiliating. Wait, I wrote that in a different school's paper. And now, I have just told about 20,000 new people I sleep with a cotton-filled bear.\nCrap.\nWhy? Why? Why?\nJust kidding. Hahaha. Crap.\nAnyway, back to taking snapshots of people I've never met before in my life.\nThis was not my idea. This was the idea of my visual communications professor who I would say terrible things about except for the fact that I'm still in her class; so I'll leave it at she's a very nice lady.\nWith bad taste in assignments.\nThe worst part of taking pictures of strangers is that they're strangers. Thus, they don't know who I am. Thus, when I take a photo of them, they think I'm a complete psycho who quite possibly sleeps with a stuffed animal.\nIt was getting to the point where I would hold the camera by my hip and take a shot while passing by the subject.\nI felt just like a spy. Or a complete coward. One of those two.\nThe best part of taking pictures of strangers is that I can make anybody completely stop what they're doing just by pointing a camera at them. This is a kind of power I should not have.\nMy mother is about to tell a horrible story involving me, poison ivy and places where you absolutely do not want to have poison ivy. I point the camera.\nMyles Brand is about to raise tuition…again. I point the camera.\nSomebody is about to hire Louie Anderson to host a game show. I point the camera.\nI think you get the point.\nNeedless to say, this kind of power should be in the hands of a professional, not a humor columnist.\nHowever, I still had to take a few more pictures. Unfortunately, the sun was starting to set and I only had a few minutes to finish the assignment. So, I decide to use the famous photographing technique known as the "I Just Don't Care Anymore, So I'm Going To Take a Photo of Anybody Who Moves."\nThis style of photography was developed by Mark Cuban, the former IU student and current owner of the Dallas Mavericks who, when asked about the development of this technique said, "I hate referees and sometimes burn black and white striped shirts just for fun."\nAfter six random shots, I deemed the assignment done and with a little silent thank you to Mark Cuban, I took the roll of film out of the camera. I never have to take photos of strangers again.\nHowever, I do have to live with the fact that I've just told the entire IU campus I sleep with a stuffed animal and that's just as bad.\nCrap.
(02/14/02 4:17am)
It's Valentine's Day, and that means thousands of guys and gals are getting their hearts broken by the romantic interest of their lives.\nI feel sorry for them, but I feel even more sorry for the teddy bears. \nThousands of poor, pitiful stuffed bears are given this day to people who don't want them, and the miserable creatures are destined to spend the rest of their nonexistent lives on the top shelf of a dark, lonely closet.\nThis is incredibly depressing.\nThe bear did nothing to deserve this. I mean, that assault and battery charge against it was totally hyped up. Some guy in the bar was talking trash to teddy and someone got hit in the head with a beer bottle and someone else got shoved through the window. A completely innocent situation.\nWow, I've discovered yet another reason why I shouldn't write my column at three in the morning.\nAnyway, no stuffed animal deserves to be unloved. Especially on Valentine's Day.\nSo, I've decided something has to be done about this. And I think I've found the solution.\nRuss Berrie® and Company, Inc., whose slogan is Make Someone Happy™, has come up with a stupendous idea that may very well end the suffering of the teddy bear.\nThe wonderful people at Russ Berrie® are now selling Grow-A-Date™: The Incredible Expanding Date That Grows in Water.\nThe possibilities of fun with this product are endless.\nYou can take Grow-A-Date™ with you to the movies. It won't talk. You can take Grow-A-Date™ on a picnic. It's non-edible. You can even just stay at home and cuddle with your Grow-A-Date™. It may be a bit soggy, though, so watch out on this last one.\nAlso, I'm not positive on this, but I'm pretty sure that Grow-A-Date™ does not need to be wooed with a cute, cuddly stuffed bear. In fact, Grow-A-Date™ probably does not need to be wooed at all. Just keep your date near water and the relationship should sail along smoothly.\nNow, what if it's not working out between you and your Grow-A-Date™? You two just aren't communicating properly. It doesn't understand your needs. It's starting to grow a funky mold on the back of his or her neck.\nIt's no problem at all.\nSimply remove Grow-A-Date™ from the water and it will slowly shrink back to its original size. All relationships should be this easy.\nAnd just in case you miss your Grow-A-Date™ and want a reconciliation, Russ Berrie® claims that its product may be used over and over.\n The teddy bear industry is aware of the emerging danger and has taken steps to revitalize sales. One of the businesses taking action is the Vermont Teddy Bear Company (motto: "Our Valentine's Day Bears Make Great Gifts." I'm guessing the same people who wrote that motto also write Sesame Street.) \n This company has come up with a whole display of sickening Valentine teddies including Don Juan Bear (the love 'em and leave 'em bear), Gangster of Love (the "we couldn't think of anything better" bear), Heart Throb (clothed in heart-shaped boxers nonetheless) and Mr. Lucky, who has to be the most pitiful looking stuffed bear I have ever seen in my life. Mr. Lucky is the first stuffed animal I have ever seen who is in desperate need of a face lift.\nUnfortunately, these acts of a deranged company are no match for Grow-A-Date™, which I predict will finally end the sad predicament of the teddy bear.
(02/07/02 4:33am)
I am happy to say that thus far, I have not caused any bowel movements in my readers.\nUnfortunately, the same cannot be said for the body's other waste removal system.\nI appreciate receiving mail as much as the next neurotic humor columnist. However, I must say that the ones concerning me causing young adults to almost "pee" their pants are starting to become disconcerting.\nFirst, I had no idea I had that kind of power. Imagine the possibilities.\nMe: One time, when I was walking, I fell down.\nGeorge W. Bush: Really? (starts becoming fidgety)\nMe: Yeah, and then another time, when I was walking, I fell down again.\nGeorge W. Bush: You don't say. (starts jumping up and down in place)\nMe: My cat likes pretzels.\nGeorge W. Bush: I gotta go. (runs to bathroom)\nSecret Service Agent: Don't you ever do that to the president again!\nOK, stop imagining the possibilities, and never imagine them again.\nI just realized I'm writing a column about "pee." I really don't care to know what that says about me. (For the rest of this column, "pee" will be replaced with "tinkle." There is no justifiable reason for this.)\nSecond, my columns are not intended to cause "tinkling." In fact, I'm seriously considering asking the editors to put a note in front of my column warning that "This Column May Just Cause You To Tinkle. Do Not Read If You Have Poor Control Of Your Tinkling System." Better safe than sorry. Or wet.\nThird, even though this may make me an insensitive guy, I really, really do not wish to know when somebody almost has to go "tinkle." It's not that I don't care. It's more along the lines of "tinkling" being kind of gross.\nNow, I don't mind receiving mail saying that I almost caused a person to hiccup. That is completely OK. However, if my columns do cause you to hiccup, I'm afraid there may be something wrong with you. It's not a bad thing. Just get that checked out. And if the doctor asks for a "tinkle" sample (I would love to hear one of the doctors on "E.R." call it "tinkle"), you can always try reading my column to help you out.\nSo, you may be wondering what exactly you can write to Joe Grace. Obviously, he doesn't want to know if you have to "tinkle." He has also just now started referring to himself in the third person, so you can mention that if you want. If nothing else, you can call him names, just please not Martha Stewart. Anything but Martha Stewart.\n I wonder if Martha Stewart can cause people to "tinkle." I've never tried one of her liquid concoctions, but I'm guessing it will pass through my system like other drinks, thus causing me to "tinkle." Oh, no! Martha Stewart can cause me to "tinkle." That is horrifying to know. I share a trait with Martha Stewart. Well, at least I don't work for K-Mart.\n"Tinkling" is a necessary part of life. We all do it. We do not, however, have to write to our local newspaper to verify that fact. Unless your "tinkle" can cure cancer or fight crime or something cool like that, then it is perfectly acceptable to write a letter about it. But it is still a tad bit weird.