Ten Suitable Punishments for Your Disobedient Brat

I was reading an interesting story the other day about a mom who had given her son up for adoption at the age of 7 because the kid would not listen to her or do anything she told him to do. Wash the dishes, no. Clean up your room, nuh uh. Go to bed at a decent hour, not gonna happen. What happened next was especially sad, as the boy was adopted by an unsavory religious cult in the Everglades and was soon eaten by an alligator as part of a bizarre ceremony. Even sadder, the alligator turned out to be allergic to brat, and died subsequently. Adding to the misfortune, the alligator's rotting corpse polluted a small section of the swamp, causing myriad wildlife to die or relocate.

Okay, I'm not sure if I really read that story somewhere or I dreamed it, but the point remains the same. Many parents are unable to get their kids to listen, and the results can be horrifying. As the Shark Tank is due for a judicial review next week, I thought it would be nice to once again give freely of my wise advice. Here, for struggling parents everywhere, are my top ten punishments to dole out to misbehaving children, so that they may avoid causing a minor ecological disaster in the future.

#10: Refuse to allow the child to wear his or her seatbelt for a three week period.

#9: Take away Playstation 3. Replace with Atari 2600.


#8: For teenagers: Drop child off in front of school each day for a week. Make big production out of kissing and hugging them before letting them go inside.

#7: For small child: Read them the classic children's book, The Invisible Bees Who Are Everywhere. Do not alert them to its fictional nature.

#6: Gently remind them that they are the reason Dad left.



#5: Threaten to pull car over.

#4: Friend them on Facebook. Immediately post brutally honest 25 Things About Me meme.

#3: Continue regimen of haphazard, rage-driven corporal punishment.

#2: Write a starkly inappropriate love note to his teacher, signed with his name. Instruct child to give to teacher.

#1: Pay neighborhood bully $5 to teach em a lesson.

My Japanese Job Interview

Friday afternoon, I was fortunate enough to be presented with a once in a lifetime opportunity. Takiyama Inc., one of the world's largest suppliers of affordable corn syrup (as well as a moderately successful greeting card exporter) called me in for a job interview. I had submitted my resume to them on a lark a few months back, never really expecting to hear back. Still, I had gone to great lengths to emphasize my two and a half year-long employment with a telemarketing firm that had used as their "hook" free tickets to the Japanese game show, "Crazy Crazy Happy Time". Though this bit of employment history had never done me any favors in the past, I thought this time might be different. Not only had I gained a passing familiarity with the Japanese spoken language, I had enveloped myself in the spirit of their culture. What do you know? Turned out that Shep Yin, the HR director for Takiyama was a big fan of that old show, and was eager to have a look at a bright young American who could speak Japanese.

I arrived at Takiyama's West Palm Beach American headquarters a little past three in the afternoon, and was immediately whisked through the lobby and invited to sit in a rather small office, which looked out onto the back lot of Lion Country Safari. I politely declined a cup of blueberry Slusho and tried to quell my nerves. Before I had a chance to collect my thoughts, she walked into the room.

She was a Japanese woman of about 40 years of age, dressed in smart business attire. Without needing to be introduced, I recognized this lady as Michiko Suzuki, Takiyama's North American president. I stood and shook her hand and bowed a little, as I had read on the internet to do.

We both took our seats. Suzuki folded her hands on her desk and the interview commenced.

Suzuki: So glad you could come to be interviewed on such short notice.

Me: Not a problem. I wasn't really doing any--I mean--I had to move some things around in my schedule, but I was more than happy to do that for such a great opportunity.

Suzuki: I'm very impressed with your work history, particularly your time with [consults resume]. . .Tel-Ling?

Me: Yes, it was a great learning experience. It was actually a privilege to learn Japanese and immerse myself in the ways of the Orient.

Suzuki (in Japanese): We are pleased to have fish and pigs with our beds.

Me: Uhh...huh. Come again?

Suzuki (in Japanese): We are pleased to have fish and pigs with our candle sex?

Me: duuuummm...yes?

Suzuki (in English): Your resume states that you are fluent in Japanese?

Me: Well, I wouldn't say fluent. I know quite a bit. Maybe I'm a little rusty.

Suzuki (in English): The position we're considering you for requires extensive knowledge of the language. I certainly can't have one of my reps "ummming" and "huh-ing" through a conference call.

Me: No, I get that, I get that. Let me give it another go. It's been a few years.

Suzuki (in Japanese): Cradle muffin can see the soul of telephone.

Me: Okay. So, did you just say, "Cradle muffin can see the soul of telephone"? Because it really just sounded like that's what you said.

Suzuki (in English): I said, "Perhaps you learned Japanese from a retarded baby."

Me: Oh. Heh ... that's not what I heard. Wow.

Silence.

Me: Sooo. . .I'm guessing that's a no on the job then?

Silence.

Me: I'll just let myself out.

Walking back to my car, I remembered something Jim Jenkins, my boss and Japanese language instructor at Tel-Ling Telemarketing had said. He had told me the Japanese dialect I was learning was only used in 1% of the world. And it wasn't even in Japan. It was a little town in southern Maine. I drove home, really wishing I had remembered that before the interview.

The HBDC Story Meme

Today's post is going to be a little different, boys and girls. Today, I'll be participating in the Humor Bloggers First Annual Story Meme, created and conceived by none other than Spaz over at The Mind of Spaz. The deal is this: There's a story. Each of the participants in the meme will contribute a small amount to the story and then pass it on. The resulting gelatinous mess will then be hoisted high in the middle of the town square and subsequently hanged for indecency and witchcraft. I think that's the basic gist of it. Ok, no, I've been told that's incorrect. The final story will be published on HumorBloggers.com. Without further ado, here is the story's humble beginnings, as written by Spaz himself:

Wanda was always confused. Not about work, because she loved what she was doing. Not about her friends or her hobbies,because her social life was great. It wasn't her looks either, because she was tall, lean and had an absolutely perfect rack, the best money could buy. No, Wanda was confused because she has a penis.

And so here we go.

It had come wrapped in several layers of newspaper, stuffed into a tube typically reserved for delivering posters. It wasn't just any penis, either. Judging from its length (11.2 inches), scent (formaldahyde and tree sap), and coloring (burnt sienna), it had belonged to T. horridus and dated back to the late Cretaceous. In layman's terms, it was the penis of a Triceratops. Standing in her driveway, watching as the UPS guy hopped back into his truck and flipped down the visor, Wanda said something she'd thought many times before, but never said aloud.

"It's smaller than I thought it would be."

Venom, of Venom, Secrets, & Lies is next up, so make sure you head over to her blog to see how she continues this timeless tale.

You WILL Acknowledge Me, Wal-Mart Greeter

Well, here I go again, on my way into Wal-Mart. Oh look, a penny. It's turned with the tail facing up. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I can't remember. I'm pretty sure it's a bad thing. I better leave it alone.

Besides, what do I need with a penny? What can you even begin to buy with a penny these days? When was the last time the penny was worth a shit? Even the motto from the Great Depression was "Brother, can you spare a dime?" A dime! Even eighty years ago, people weren't lowering themselves to ask for a penny.

Okay, I'm approaching the doors. What the hell is that lady wearing? She looks like an American buffalo stuffed into footie pajamas. Oh wait, that's exactly what it is. Fun. I wonder what a buffalo is doing outside Wal-Mart on a day like this. Did you know that "Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo." is a complete sentence? It is.

Oh crap, someone's out here asking for money for some charity or another. Avert eyes! What's that shiny thing up there? Well, there I went and looked directly at the sun again, explicitly against my eye doctor's instructions.

All right, I've passed through the gateway. I'm no longer on municipal property. I'm in the Mart. I can't see shit. It smells like a curious mixture of popcorn and grape Bubble Tape in here. Not altogether unpleasant. Do I need a cart? Why am I even here? I completely forget. Maybe I should just go back to the car before I wind up buying something I don't need. But no, I've parked too far away. Might as well trek on.



Oh boy, here we go. The Wal-Mart greeter lies ahead. The last three times I came here, he not only didn't greet me, he failed to smile or even acknowledge my existence. He just stood there, his ancient eyes looking off at some faint point in the distance. If he doesn't greet me this time, I'm going to make a scene. That's his only job, to greet me. Am I not good enough to receive a greeting? Do I need to peacock myself in order to deserve his fleeting attention? Is it not enough that I'm wearing this halter top and a multicolored beanie?

Walking, walking, walking ....

...

... and IGNORED AGAIN!

All right, Wal-Mart greeter, you're about to get a piece of my mind. Depending on your reaction to my angry tirade, we'll see if we need to get the manager involved. I don't want to have to do that--you're probably underpaid, even considering your job and your performance at said job--but I will do what I must. There's only so much disrespect one person---

BATTERIES!

That's what I need. I better go get them before I forget again. But I won't forget this, Wal-Mart Greeter.

I won't forget this.

Ouija: Let The Right One In

If you grew up in my generation, you may well have been warned about the dangers of the Ouija board when you were young. You may have been told that attempting to contact the spirit world through this Parker Brothers game was simply asking for trouble. Even inviting the possibility of demonic possession. If you were anything like me, all of this warning of foreboding meant that you would not--could not--rest until you had purchased one and tried it yourself. After all, what would liven up your dull teenage life more than suddenly being possessed by the devil?

As I've mentioned before, I know I have a lot of elementary school readers. Pre-K, even (which is why I use only the most basic of words. Yes it is too.). I'm here to tell any of my younger readers, and even some of my older ones, DO NOT MESS WITH THE POWER OF THE OUIJA! This is serious, my friends. Here is my story. After reading it, you too will know that the Ouija board is not a joke. It is not cool. It is an instrument of evil, and by using it, you are endangering your very soul.

My friend Brian and I were fourteen and sitting Indian-style (that's criss-cross-applesauce to my younger readers) on the floor. Before us on the carpet was the freshly purchased Ouija. I was looking forward to asking it a whole host of questions. When will I die? When will Brian die? What was the name of that guy who played on Greatest American Hero? Keep in mind this was before the age of the Internet. After I explained once again that it wasn't pronounced "Oy-juh", Brian and I gave each other a hesitant look and then placed our fingers on the planchette.

I took a deep breath and uttered, "Spirit world, we have urgent business with you. If you are there, please respond with 'yes'."

We waited, deep in concentration. After a moment, the planchette began to move slowly towards the big "YES" at the top of the board. I looked at Brian, immediately suspicious.

"You moved it," I said.

"No way, man," Brian said. "I think we should put it away."

I looked back at the board, the planchette resting quietly on the big YES at the top. "Hmm, maybe you're right."

I started to put the board back in the box, and that's when it leaped out of my hands. It spun itself three times on the carpet and then laid itself flat again. The planchette jumped into the air, righted itself, and then began to make words entirely independent of us. We both cowered in the corner, but unable to turn away from the horror. We watched as the words began to spell out on the board.

G-E-T ... O-F-F ... M-Y ... L-A-W-N

"Holy shit, dude, we need to get out of here," Brian said.

"Hold on," I muttered, slowly moving back towards the board. I stopped in my tracks as the planchette began to move again.

Y-O-U ... S-T-O-L-E ... M-Y ... L-A-W-N-M-O-W-E-R

"Oh for Christ's sake," I said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Mrs. Opplestein? Is that you?"

"No...way..." Brian said, finally coming away from the corner.

Mrs. Opplestein was an old hag from next door. She was always accusing us of being on her lawn and stealing her lawnmower, as well as a host of other minor infractions, none of which we were guilty of. It would be stretching it to say we threw a party when we found out she had died, but we didn't exactly mourn, either. Of all the interesting spirits we might have contacted, it figured that we would tune into her old ass frequency.

"How did you die, Mrs. Opplestein?" Brian asked, barely able to keep the tremor out of his voice.

The board came alive once again.

M-E-T-A-M-U-C-I-L
O-V-E-R-D-O-S-E

Brian nodded solemnly. "So ... are you in Hell?"

The pointer slowly moved to the YES.

"What's that like?" I asked.

L-I-K-E ... L-I-V-I-N-G ... N-E-X-T-D-O-O-R ... T-O ... Y-O-U

"Sick burn," Brian said.

"Well, this sucks," I said. "Let's go see what whiskey and grape soda tastes like."

Brian agreed and we put the Oujia board away, feeling both triumphant and deflated over our brief contact with the world beyond. If only we had known then what we came to know later.

Strange things started happening.

Prunes found their way into my parents' grocery bags without them having picked them out.

The television would go to static intermittently, only to suddenly change over to Murder, She Wrote.

The family car started to smell like a mixture of Chanel No. 5 and urine.

It was happening. I was being haunted by the ghost of Mrs. Opplestein.

Three exorcisms later, we finally got rid of the poltergeist, but not without some casualties. No, no one died (well, other than Mrs. Opplestein), but Brian was never the same again. I would catch him walking down the hall at school muttering something about "should have never taken that lawnmower".

Don't play with the Ouija board kids.

And don't mix whiskey with grape soda.

The Best Baby Shower Gifts EVER!

So I've been invited to my friend Kristen's baby shower. For those not in the know, what I've been invited to has nothing at all to do with cleaning a baby, and everything to do with a bunch of girls getting together and playing games and giving presents to the expecting mother. I'm not sure why I've even been invited. I'm not a girl, and I've been getting suspicious...I dare say, annoyed...glares from some of the other shower attendees. This could be because I'm a guy getting ready to traipse all over a distinctly feminine tradition, or it could be because of what happened at Lanie's birthday party last November. I can't really go into that, but suffice to say it involved a weed wacker, four Twix bars, a baby dolphin, and two concussions.

The invitation I got informs me not only of the shower's time and place, but that the mother is registered at Target. I went to Target yesterday and asked to see their registration book. This apparently does not exist, but they did refer me to a computer where I could see all of the gifts Kristen wants her guests to buy for her. What? Wait a minute. You not only want me to come to your stupid party, but you also want me to buy you a gift, and not only that, you're telling me what gifts to buy? Hmm, okay, not doing it. If I'm buying presents for a baby (which is a retarded concept to begin with), then I'll be deciding what to buy.

I decided right away that I not only wouldn't buy from the registry, but I would buy gifts that would make the other girls at the shower green with envy. I would show them what happens when you invite a guy to a girl party. You get the goods.

Because I knew Target wouldn't have the kinds of lovely, thoughtful gifts I had in mind, I immediately left and came back home. If you can't find a decent baby gift online, then the baby doesn't need it. That's my motto. And sure enough, $300 later, I had enough baby presents to turn this baby shower into a full on baby Jacuzzi.

If you're reading this, Kristen, you may want to stop now, or you'll ruin the surprise...

...

Okay, I warned you. Here's what you're getting on Sunday!

Baby's First Book--10 Things That Fit Right In The Wall Socket!



Ride That Doberman! Baby Saddle.



Tobacco Flavored Pacifiers--with real nicotine!




Soul Eater Doll, now with backwards Hell-speak!



Broken Glass Crib Moat.




I think you'll agree that my gifts will make this baby shower one to remember!

Larry Whitson Needs Work

[Note to readers: The Shark Tank is happy to give up some space today for a friend. Larry Whitson has been hit hard by the downturn in the economy. Normally this isn't a charity blog, but Larry is a good guy and he's willing to work for his dollar. The floor is yours, my friend.]

I appreciate being given the time to write directly to you fine people. I won't lie. It took a fair bit of pride swallowing to ask for this opportunity. Normally I wouldn't come to anyone, hat in hand, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And these are desperate times. You see, about a month ago, I was laid off. I've worked at the Speak n Spell factory in downtown Houston for about 25 years. I can't say it came as a shock. A bunch of us had a feeling something was going down, on account of the economy being so bad, and on account of us not having made a single Speak n Spell since 1990. But, of course, the real problem hit when Odamna got elected. That's right, you call him Obama, but I call him Odamna. Because O damn (a), what the hell happened to my job?

I had some savings. Not much. The wife...well she doesn't work. She's pretty well got her hands full with the 6 kids. Together, they've just about eaten through the savings (and then some). So, yeah, I'm in a bit of a pickle. The job market...christ, don't even get me going. Anyway, this is my last stop before heading out to the side of Highway 92 with a cardboard sign. I hope at least a few of you have a heart and I also hope you understand that I'm not asking for any handouts. Not in the least bit. I refuse to take so much as a single dollar without earning it. I want to be a man of service. A contributor to society, not a drain.

With that spirit in mind, I want to lay out some monetary figures. Don't get ruffled or step back with your hands in the air...these are just off the top of my head. I'm in a real jam here so trust me, these amounts are negotiable.

For $1: I'll write you a nice little poem and have my 3 year old son Tristan put his tiny little thumbprint on it.

For $15: I'll come out to your house and walk your dogs morning, noon, and night. Limit 3 dogs.

For $25: I'll come take your trash out. Every room in the house. I'll even do it for a moderately sized business, if you don't employ a janitor.

For $30: I'll come out and mow your lawn. Front, back, and sides.

For $37: I'll come out and mow your lawn. Front, back, and sides. I'll also eat the grass clippings and any yard varmints that get caught up in the mower.

For $49: I'll put on a Tyrannosaurus Rex costume and whistle the theme from Doogie Howser M.D. and then sleep under your bed for a month.

For $55: I'll paint a picture of Adolf Hitler riding a carousel at an amusement park.

For $76: I'll put a virus on your computer (PC only), remove it, and replace your current wallpaper with a picture of myself wearing a blue Best Buy shirt and no pants.

For $85: I will smoke the latest issue of US magazine.

For $101: I'll do a book report on Huckleberry Finn, written on Hello Kitty stationary.

For $125: I'll slap you so hard you'll see stars and possibly pass out for a few moments. Then I'll put my fingers in your ears.

Again, please note that these figures are merely meant as a starting point. If you'd like to negotiate, or if you have any other tasks or services that you require, please let me know. I am very open minded and very, very broke.

Fold This!

I don't know what it's like now, but middle school/junior high for me seemed like an endless array of intricately folded paper.

First there were the notes. If passed from one to the other during class, a simple fold down the middle would typically suffice. However, if being saved to pass on at a later time, the amount of tricky folding the girls engaged in was beyond the level of most--if not all--amateur origamists. Many times I found it difficult to even open these masterworks, much less duplicate the system myself. You would be walking through the halls and all of a sudden this small triangle or square would be pressed into your hand, your name written in flowery scrawl across the front. These notes, by and large, had one purpose and one purpose only: to find out who you "liked". Sometimes the question would be direct. Sometimes it would be hinted. Sometimes it came with a convenient check box to minimize labor and conserve paper and was written to you straight from your admirer. (On a side note, what kind of a bastard did you have to be to just check "no" and give it back? Did anyone ever do that?) I remember trying to create some of these fold-a-thons, but it never worked out. After a while I gave up and just started balling up my notes and throwing them at their intended target.

Then, of course, there were the paper planes. Never figured those out either. I had friends who could have hired stewardesses and started full scale airlines with their paper jets. My feeble attempts nearly landed me in the special education classes.



The paper footballs. These could be found at each and every table in the lunchroom where sat two or more guys. Not only could I not make one of these, I was also terrible at the game itself. I was much more accomplished at the "pencil breaking" game, where one person holds a pencil horizontally between their fists, and the other person attempts to break it with another pencil. Was there strategy that involved removing the eraser and pressing the metal endpiece into a flat, sharp weapon? Yes, there was. If this is the first time you've heard of this game, you're probably thinking it's the most retarded thing you've ever heard of. You would be correct.

Finally, there were those paper games seemingly every girl in the country knew how to make. Internet research reveals they are sometimes called "Fortune Tellers" or "Cootie Catchers", but I don't remember anyone ever calling them either of those things. They were these little folded triangle contraptions that fit on your fingers, and the player would choose a color, then a number, then another number (or something, jesus, it's been a while, all right?) and then a tab would be lifted and some sort of something else would be said.





I never even tried to make one of those. One, it would have been impossible, and two, it didn't seem like the kind of achievement likely to improve my social life.