Compliment My Driving. Please?

Driving along today, I came upon a delivery truck. On the back of this truck was one of those "How Is My Driving?" bumper stickers. This one was different, though. Below this was written "Complaints or Compliments--Call 1-800-[insert number here]". Complaints or compliments, eh? I wonder how many people go through the trouble of calling the number to put in a compliment on the guy's driving. I was only behind the truck for a brief period. He didn't make any flagrant violations of common traffic laws in this time, but I wouldn't say he impressed me enough to put in a call to his boss.

If the phone ever rings with a compliment at this guy's delivery company, I imagine the call goes something like this:

Delivery Company Secretary: We Deliver 2 U, How can I help you?

Caller: Yeah, I just wanted to call and tell you that I'm behind one of your trucks. I just felt compelled to say, this guy can DRIVE. He's like the Neo of delivery drivers!

Secretary: I see. What's his truck number?

Caller: 85621. Whoa!

Secretary: What?

Caller: He just turned onto 16th Street. He used both his turn signal and a hand signal to alert traffic that he was turning! I haven't seen that done since the Golden Age of the Automobile.

Secretary: (Sigh) Is this Bob?

Caller: (voice going slightly deeper) What? Who's Bob? I'm just a patriotic American who appreciates the fine driving I've just seen on display here today. I wish I had one of those camera phones, I would have recorded it and sold it as a driver's instruction video.

Secretary: Are you going to be able to make it back to the shop by 5, Bob?

Caller: Yeah, I've just got to drop off this last---er, I mean, I don't know what you're talking about. Goodbye!

What's the Name of That Movie?

Arrgh, you know the one! There's this dysfunctional family, and their little daughter gets invited to come compete in the "Little Miss Sunshine" beauty pageant? I think that guy who used to host Talk Soup is in it? They take a Volkswagen van across the country to go to the pageant. And then at the end, the girl does this crazy routine at the "Little Miss Sunshine" show?

It's driving me crazy!

My Dog Is a Nudist

I've become a social recluse.

I can't have friends over, I can't go to the park, and I have to sneak around my yard in the middle of the night, hoping I don't set off any of my neighbors' motion lights. I don't know how much longer this can go on. Something has to be done about my dog, Chewy.

You see, Chewy is a nudist. He refuses to wear clothes, no matter what the occasion. Walking around the house? Nude. Eating his dinner? Nude. Going outside to relieve himself? Nude! There is no end to Chewy's exhibitionist ways.

At first, I thought the problem was a matter of style. Dog clothes are sold in limited varieties, and I thought maybe Chewy was simply setting higher standards for himself. I would put him in a pair of polka dotted shorts, a tight red Polo shirt, and a beanie cap, and he would tear it off himself in a matter of seconds. I couldn't entirely blame him. He looked like a dork. The other dogs would have certainly teased him into submission. Fair enough. I consulted a seamstress and had her design some special outfits for Chewy. A sharp tuxedo. Some baggy jeans and a hoodie. A rather dashing pinstriped suit. Every time, Chewy would wrestle his way out of the clothes and prance away, free and naked.

Shameful

I read in the paper where they're opening up a special dog park near my house. They advertised grilled food, live entertainment, and all the doggy water fountains one city could support. I read the article and sighed. It sounds like so much fun. I know Chewy would enjoy it. But it is not to be. We wouldn't be there five minutes before the shrieking started and the animal cops came and put Chewy in the back of their squad car for indecent exposure.

I guess this is just the way it has to be.

An Open Letter To The 7-11 Manager Who Added Me To The "Banned for Life" List

Dear 7-11 Manager,

You should really post a sign reading, "Do not drink directly from the nozzle" on your Slurpee machine if that is your store policy.

Thanks,

Shawn

Yahoo Chat: A Cautionary Tale

Chatrooms, sad to say, are a thing of the past. Boredom, on occassion, causes me to forget this truism, and see for myself. After about ten minutes of listening to trailer trash chatters fight over who gets to say "My kid just trahd to jump over tha cowch" I realize I would be better off with a book.

It used to be different. Chatrooms used to be fun. However, they can be dangerous as well. Please read the following story, which is certified 100% true by the Blogging Association of America. If you are tempted to jet back in time and join a chatroom, please remember this tale and use it to your own benefit. My thanks comes in the form of your well being.

It was a warm night, and I had just finished drinking several quarts of Mt. Dew. What was there to do besides log into Yahoo Chat and see what was goin' on? Nothing. Nothing, indeed. Before long, I was pleased to see a new window open up. A private message. Exciting! Even more exciting, it wasn't a chat-bot, enticing me to head over to a website where I could watch cam girls play for pay. It was a real person, with an interesting screenname.


Hot_TV_In_Hollywood. Now this is something worth putting the Mt. Dew down for! My brain started conjuring images of a sexy, blonde, tanned, television star, possibly having just completed work on Baywatch: The Next Generation or some other failed pilot. She wouldn't be famous--even my imagination didn't stretch that far--but she could definitely be hot. And in television. Besides, she had a better nickname then the last girl who PM'd me: Contagious_TB_in_Tampa.



What? Yeah, that's how I roll.



Hmm. Now it should be noted that I had a strong policy in place at that time. That policy was not to click on people's profiles for at least five minutes. Why? Well, I have a weak heart. I once fainted dead away after being sent one of those "Stare at this picture and find the differences and then piss yourself when a screaming zombie suddenly appears" things that were all the rage a few years ago. I found I had much the same reaction when clicking on the photos of Yahoo Chatters. It may be shallow, but I sometimes found myself completely unable to continue a conversation after having seen the wild She-Beast in what I can only assume she thought to be her best picture. Without the five minute policy in place, I would never get to chat with anyone.

However, this time I made an exception, seeing as how she was a television star. And hot. I was disappointed, however, to find a cartoon face where a picture would go. She would not be an easy nut to crack.


Oh yeah, my other policy is to not give my phone number out to psychos on the Internet.

But here I was, going for the gusto. The profile was barely filled out, providing little solid information to go on. That was fine. I would use my smooth heartbreaking sixty-nine-ing interview skills to ferret out the necessary information.

And ferret it out, I did. My question, the final one I would ask, brought a short response of "LOL, no, silly" from my new chat friend. Hmm. Didn't seem that silly. Why would you have the initials "TV" in your screenname if you didn't have something to do with...

...

...television.

I clicked back to her profile, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I zeroed in on the only piece of information she had bothered to fill out. Under "Hobbies" she had written, "working on my pole". At first glance, this had unsettled me, but I figured she was talking about a stripper pole. All the better! Now, however, the truth hit home.

TV didn't stand for television. It stood for transvestite.

I courteously ended the conversation (and by "courteously ended the conversation", I mean I hit the X button on the chat window and added Hot_TV_In_Hollywood to my long list of blocked users). Let my mistakes be a warning to everyone!

Disclaimer: I have nothing against transvestites, transsexuals, transmissions, or trains.

Art Is Fun!

My neighbor Pete and his wife, Martha, used to ask me to come over and watch their daughter, Sally, who was 8. Now, I'm not much of a babysitter, but I found I could surf the Internet as easily at their house as mine. 8 year olds require very little attention. Occasionally I would challenge Sally to some Halo on Pete's 360, but she was woefully inadequate at the game, to the point where it really wasn't fun for anyone.

Pete had been telling me for some time that he wished he and his wife could get a little more time to themselves. I could understand that. Even the best of marriages (which theirs certainly wasn't) can fall to pieces under the constant pressures of work and children. I decided to help my good friends out a little and give them a weekend all to themselves.

To that end, I surreptitiously picked Sally up from her bus stop one Friday afternoon. "Hope you like Corn Pops," I said as she got in the car. "Because that's pretty much all I have at the house."

She didn't seem too delighted with this turn of events, but since when do 8 year old girls know anything? I figured after an hour or two of watching TV, she would sleep for most of the next two days.

When we got back to my house, I picked up the phone to call Pete and let him know the deal. Just as I was dialing the phone, however, I glanced over at Sally and saw her removing some "art" from her backpack. She had cut out pictures from a magazine and pasted them into a collage. Genius! I hung up the phone and went to my magazine rack. "I have a great idea," I said to Sally. "You have glue?"

She nodded.

"Excellent. Let's make a fun letter to your parents!"

I have to admit, the rest of the weekend was somewhat of a blur. At some point I got bored with making the letter and shortened it to save time. I remember dropping the letter into Pete's mailbox. Shortly after, I remember taking a nap, during which I missed approximately 44 calls, according to the display on my phone. Then the FBI showed up on my doorstep. Then the white room. My well-intentioned letter was thrown back in my face. Under the harsh white lights of the interrogation room, it didn't seem as cute as it had hours earlier.




All charges were eventually dropped, but Pete and Martha got divorced later that year. I was never asked to babysit again.

An Open Letter to the nake in my backyard

Dear nake,

I have een you in the yard, lithering through the bu he and hi ing at me when I get too clo e. It' time for you to leave, plea e.

incerely,

hawn

CC: Dell Computer , INC.

Dear Dell,

A certain letter on my keyboard no longer work . Plea e end replacement.

Thank ,

hawn

An Afternoon at Grandpa's

I was sitting on the back porch with my Grandpa, rocking back and forth in wicker chairs he had lovingly crafted with his bare hands. I was thirteen years old. The sun was setting gently in the west, casting an orange glow across Lake Kenisawa. A bird chirped in the distance and I looked at my Grandpa, and he looked at me. We shared a silent moment of appreciation and then turned back to enjoy the scenery.

"Lovely evening," Grandpa said.

"The loveliest," I agreed.

I sipped on my iced tea, which had been brewed and left to sit on the windowsill, soaking up the sun's rays on that hot July afternoon. I hoped that Grandpa would tell me a story about his days as a traveling salesman in the 40s, or maybe a tale regarding the time he and Ken McCullum tried to start that vegetable stand. I'd heard that latter one about twenty times, but it never got old.

Instead, Grandma appeared at the screen door and asked if either of us was getting hungry. I glanced over at Grandpa and, predictably, his face darkened at her interruption.

"If I was hungry, woman, I'd get something to eat, now wouldn't I?" he said, his eyes remaining steadfastly fixed on the backyard.

"You got a big mouth when the boy's here, don't you, you big man," she remarked. "That's fine. How about you, Shawn, are you hungry?"

"No, ma'am," I said. "I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Grandpa said. "He's hungry, I'm hungry, now quit wasting time and just go get us something to eat."

I sipped my tea and tried to blend into my chair.

Grandma walked back into the kitchen and there I heard her getting some plates from the cabinet. A small rabbit hopped across the backyard, stopping every so often to look around before hopping on his way. Presently, Grandma came back with two plates and handed one to each of us. On my plate was a tube of Crest toothpaste. On Grandpa's plate was a handful of pennies. I bit my lip nervously and muttered, "Thanks."

"What the hell is this, woman? Pennies?" Grandpa yelled. He tossed the plate on the wooden floor of the porch, where it did not shatter, but, improbably, turned sideways and slipped through the slats to the earth below. The pennies went everywhere.

"You eat your pennies and you LIKE IT!" Grandma screamed.

Grandpa slapped his hands down on the arms of his rocker, fetched a deep sigh, and then said simply, "Well, that's it then." He stood, grabbed the shovel that was leaning against the house, and proceeded to bludgeon his wife of forty years to death right there on the porch. I ate my toothpaste silently, a lone tear streaming down my cheek.

The point of the story is this: when someone asks for something to eat, or if you yourself are hungry, don't put pennies or toothpaste on a plate and call it a meal. Use food. Food is great for cooking, and it's great for eating. It has lots of nutrients, and plenty of calories for energy. When it comes to satisfying your hunger, nothing does the job quite like food.