APRIL FOOLS! and Congratulations to Linny!

Yes, it was Linny who correctly deduced that my stalker was nothing but fiction. An April Fools joke I conceived a week ago. I hope no one is mad. I do sincerely appreciate that most of you seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being. I am however a tad surprised at Michelle who scolded me to "stop feeding their ego!" I was hurt that she thought I would be so foolish as to publicize a crazy person's delusional behavior. And really, let's face facts, as much as I want to be famous, I don't think I've quite achieved stalker-worthy status yet. To all of you who are perhaps angry with me or hurt that I would deceive you, I apologize. As I often tell my co-workers, I only joke with the people I really like. That I also mean sincerely. I considered many avenues by which to pull an April Fools prank, but anything else seemed too mean spirited. I thought of fatal illness or possible fame and fortune as avenues for my deception, but both seemed mean to either you or me. I now return you to the regularly scheduled idiocy that usually fills this space.

The Proper Care and Feeding of Your Man

As a public service announcement I am providing the following information: Men are like goldfish. If you put too much food in front of us we will just eat until we explode.

The Note

No, not The Notebook. That's a chick flick, and you know I wouldn't be talking about that. This note is just a single piece of paper. Normally I'm not freaked out by paper products. On any given day I handle, look at, and write on many, many pieces of paper with little or no trauma. With the exception of the occasional paper cut, most of the pieces of paper I see are harmless. This note was not harmless

On Wednesdays I work until 7 p.m. Yesterday after finishing up work at my usual time I walked out to the parking lot behind my building. This story would undoubtedly be more dramatic if the parking lot were dark and empty except for my car, but it wasn't like that. There were several other cars around and the lights in the parking lot were working just fine. Nothing appeared unusual and I didn't expect anything more than my normal drive home. I got in my car, and as I prepared to back out I turned to look out the rear window only to see that my vision was blocked by a piece of newspaper blown onto the window. Or so I thought. I put my car in park, walked around to the rear of the car and pulled the paper off. I walked back to my open door, and on the seat was a small neatly folded piece of pink paper. It's the kind of paper that comes in one of those little stationary sets with matching envelopes. I opened it up and in what appeared to be female handwriting was written, "You look even cuter in person. Love, Me." I calmly closed my car door, locked it, and drove straight to the police station nearest my home. I figured that if my stalker was going to kill me it would likely be at home. Needless to say, the officer on duty was completely underwhelmed by my little note and my story of e-mails from an internet admirer. He not so subtly told me that the police were too busy pursuing criminals with guns to pursue criminals with keyboards. His advice was to keep the note and the e-mails, which while annoying have yet to be actually threatening, and to allow Yahoo to trace them to their source and notify the culprits I.S.P. Apparently, throwing a complimentary note in someone's car is not considered a crime.

Understandably, I did not agree with the officer's finite wisdom and let him know that in far less tactful ways than I am expressing here. I have notified the Yahoo investigator of the recent development. Yahoo was kind enough to provide with a phone number that reaches an actual person. It seems they don't want any headlines about their e-mail system allowing people to harass by internet anonymously. The investigator has assured me that the culprit has been identified, her internet service suspended, and that Yahoo will press charges on my behalf. I wholeheartedly requested that they pursue that option. If I come home tomorrow to find a bunny boiling on my stove I'm going to be pissed. Not as much as my neighbor of course. I don't own a rabbit, but he does.

You're Smarter Than I Thought

Congratulations Lonely1. By reading virtually every post I've ever written you figured out my cell phone number from an old post in which I actually posted it but later deleted a digit. I didn't figure anyone would read the old posts, or bother to go to the trouble of several wrong number combinations until they actually hit upon my number. That's my fault. I shouldn't have posted it in the first place. No one was reading me at the time, so I figured it might be funny to see what kind of nutjobs would call me up and leave a message. For those of you who haven't read me from the beginning, I had a fairly regular rant about annoying cell phone people. Then I received a really nice cell phone as a gift. The fact that my stalker has my cell phone number is no big deal. Cell phones are so cheap as to be disposable. I'm just going to get a new number. More disturbing is that recently one of my friends innocently enough mentioned the city I live in in one of their comments here. At the time I thought nothing of it. Unfortunately stalker took note. That's a little more disturbing. I am not responding to any of your e-mails and will only resort to mocking you here so you realize what I and others think about people like you. I'll get you eventually. I am currently going through yahoo where your e-mail is and they will trace it back to your ISP and then you. Then let the legal charges begin!

An Unusual and Shocking Fact About Phil

For most people static electricity is annoying. You reach to turn on the television and get a little shock. You walk around your home in socks and accidentally shock the next person you touch. For me it's more than that. For some reason that I don't understand, my body conducts electricity extremely well. It may have to do with the fact that I've sustained two serious electrical shocks in my life. Shocks that had the potential to kill me. Or perhaps I survived those shocks because of my innate ability to conduct electricity. I don't know. I seem to pick up electricity from just about anything. I've become conditioned to closing my car door with my elbow. At night if I reach for my car I can literally see a spark jump from my finger to the door before I even touch it. I can walk up to my television, run my hand over the screen, absorbing the static there, and then discharge it on the victim of my choice. My poor dog does not find this as funny as I do. I considered using this ability to become a crime fighting super-hero,(Static Man would have been my name), but I didn't want to wear tights and work nights. It's not that I don't have the body to pull off the tights look, you know I do. I thought the whole secret identity thing would have been too much trouble too. I mean really, who wants to work a day job as a peon and then spend your nights traveling the rooftops of your city grappling with the forces of evil? There's no money in that.

To all my regular readers, I'm sorry that this isn't as entertaining as my usual stuff. I'm just not in the mood this week.

A Public Message To A Private Person

When you started sending the anonymous, complimentary e-mails indicating that you liked my blog but wouldn't comment that was fine. I was flattered. When you visited my fantasy football website and signed up to use our forums as Lonely1, I was again flattered to have such a big fan. Who am I to turn away another reader anywhere? As your writings on the message board there became too personally directed I asked you to stop because the football website is where I write sort of professionally. The e-mails continued, increasing in volume. It began to be a nuisance and I worried about the intensity. I stopped responding with polite thank you's. Then I stopped responding at all. Now you've gone too far. No, I know you haven't made any threats, but your implication that you intend to find out more about me sounds like a threat and your recent e-mails could be viewed as harassment at the least. This is your warning. If you continue, I will shut down this blog and write elsewhere. I will also leave my football website as well. Your e-mails are collecting in my inbox and can all be forwarded to authorities if need be. You need to stop. Keep in mind that since I wrote about the President and Hillary Clinton the F.B.I. is probably monitoring this blog. I'm sure they'd be glad to respond to your e-mails.

Little City, Big Dreams

These little town blues, are melting away
I’m gonna make a brand new start of it - in old New York
And if i can make it there, i’m gonna make it anywhere
It's up to you - New York, New York
Frank Sinatra



I live in New York, but I don't live in New York City. I realize that for many of you it's news that New York City isn't the entirety of New York. For those of you not familiar with our geography, New York is a fairly big state with several other medium sized cities. . Perhaps it's because of New York City that the other cities in the state have an inferiority complex. My city wants to be big and wants to have big, important things happen here. We grasp desperately to any straw of fame that one of our natives achieves. Nowhere is this inferiority complex more evident than on the local news.

Male Local News Anchor: Good evening. I'm Dirk Hairpiece and this is Eyewitness News!
Female Local News Anchor: And I'm Buffy Sleptmywayhere. What are tonight's top stories Dirk?
Dirk: In New York City today a subway train went off the tracks and careened wildly down Wall St. before coming to rest on top of the Statue of Liberty. 147 people were killed. Let's go to field reporter Skippy Trenchcoat for a live interview. Skippy?
Skippy: I'm here in town, about a block away from the studio in the home of Dolores Hairnet who says that her cousin's friend's brother's high school classmate once rode the very same subway train responsible for today's tragedy. Dolores, can you tell us about your experience?
Dolores: Well, Eddie, that's my cousin's friend's brother's high school classmate, said it was like a train, but it goes underground in them there tunnel things.
Skippy: Did Eddie notice anything suspicious about the train?
Dolores: He said it smelled funny. Kinda like how your garbage can smells on a hot summer day when you left meat in it and the maggots start to grow.
Skippy: Well there you have it Dirk and Buffy. The train ride stunk from the beginning.
Dirk in studio: Thank you Skippy. Speaking of something that stinks, let's go to weather girl Sunny Implants broadcasting live from the elephant cage at the zoo.

The Vicissitudes of Verification

Is there anything that makes you feel dumber than failing the word verification test when you're trying to leave a comment? All you have to do is copy 5 or 6 random letters. How hard could that possibly be right? Apparently plenty hard judging by how often I screw it up. It's not my fault! The letters look all wavy and you can't tell if it's a lower case j or i. It's virtually impossible to tell the difference between two V's or a W. That just isn't fair! And nothing is as embarrassing as failing the word verification test when you're trying to leave a comment on your own blog. That's like having trouble trying to unlock your own front door. You realize you've hit rock bottom when the Blogger word verification system takes pity on you and gives you a no-brainer like "dog" for your word verification. At that point you are literally being mocked by a machine. They say that computers can't think, but I believe that heard mine laugh at me once. If this keeps up I'm afraid that my high speed internet connection will be revoked and I'll have to go back to dial-up. That's like riding the short bus to the internet. Go ahead, leave comments at your own peril. My computer and I will be laughing our asses off.

To Blog or Not To Blog? That Is The Question

I have nothing pithy, witty, or thought-provoking to say. Should I say anything at all? Or should I just let my blog sit silent for another day? Random ridiculous ideas, notions and whatnot usually pop into my head on a fairly regular basis, but I've had nothing of the sort for the last 96 hours. As you can see, my last post was just a few scraps left from the feast of absurdity that usually is happening in my mind. (I hereby copyright the phrase "feast of absurdity in my mind." That was a great turn of phrase, wasn't it?) Today, nothing. Is this it? Am I tapped out? Has what I once thought to be a bottomless well of silliness run dry? Do I have a tumor that has slowly been eating the part of my brain responsible for idiocy? That could be both a blessing and a curse for me. I don't have writer's block. I'm writing other things elsewhere, I just can't think of anything funny here today. I have humor block. So, I decided I would write anyway. It's like driving at night with my headlights off hoping I find the road. Please don't leave my blog for good though. I may become inspired once again soon. And besides, if you don't come back, the rest of us will make fun of you in the comments.

More Random Phil Thoughts

1. If Big Bird were to catch the bird flu, he could wipe out all of Sesame Street.

2. Does a York Peppermint Patty or a Junior Mint qualify as a breath mint?

3. Why do women curl their eyelashes? Not once have I ever looked at a woman and thought, "She'd be really pretty if her eyelashes weren't so straight." Ladies, believe me, you can give up eyelash curling and no one will ever notice. Throw away those stupid little tools. Like shaving your legs, I'm betting a man working for a cosmetics company came up with that stupid idea.

4. What should I do with my hair and my face? I look pretty much like my picture there, but I think the haircut and goatee are getting a bit old. Any suggestions?

5. On some of your blogs some of you ladies wonder why you're still single. If you acted as happy to see us as our dogs do you'd be married in a New York minute. We love all that jumping up and down, panting and licking our faces.

6. Just this morning I noticed that my hair conditioner has "sea algae extract" as an ingredient. How do they know that sea algae is good for your hair? I've never seen a hairy fish. They're all bald. Maybe it's because of the sea algae!

The Commute

“Another working day has ended
Only the rush hour hell to face
Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes
Contestants in a suicidal race”

The Police- Synchronicity


I am a commuter. I commute to and from my job each day. I’m not sure what qualifies one as a commuter. Does your drive have to be a certain distance or length of time? Why did someone bother to come up with a name for people who drive to work? Doesn’t that pretty much encompass almost everyone? You know who came up with it? I’m betting it was a bored commuter stuck in traffic on his way to work. Why not come up with name for the odd minority who walk, ride their bikes, or take a bus to work? Oh, that’s right, we already have a name for them. Losers! I’m just kidding of course. I resent the wasted time I spend in my car and I would love a 5-minute bike ride to work with the wind blowing through my flowing locks and the bugs and car exhaust blowing through my teeth. Memo to cyclists: Having wheels does not mean you belong on the road. If there’s a sidewalk get your lycra shorts ass up on it before we hit you.

The speed limit also poses a special challenge for commuters. Well, it’s not the limit itself that is challenging. In fact I find it quite easy to surpass. That’s not much of a challenge at all. The challenge is coping with the commuters who obey the speed limit as if some deity carved it in stone on the hoods of their cars. (Don’t try to understand that last sentence. It just sounded good in my head) My philosophy is this: We only have so much time to live, and I don’t want to waste any more than I have to trapped inside a mobile tin can. I want to get where I’m going so I can enjoy what I plan to do when I get there, whether it be watching a sunset, talking to a friend, or feeling the sweet release of sending my morning coffee back out into that great big world. I fiercely resent anyone who steals precious moments of my life by impeding my ability to get where I want to go as quickly as possible. If you speed limit compulsives enjoy time in your car so much, then park it at home and sit in it. Preferably with the engine running and garden hose going from the exhaust to the driver’s side window.

The great philosopher called “They” say that you shouldn’t be so focused on your destination and “you should stop and smell the roses.” Here’s a newsflash for “they”: There are no roses by the side of I-90 heading into the city! If I stop to smell the roses a homeless person will probably run up and try to clean my windshield. Then again, if he can pry that cyclist off my bumper I’ll be glad to give him a dollar.

The President and Hillary Clinton

It’s happening again. For the second time in less than a year the President is showing up in my area. Why is he doing this? I don’t know. I think he’s stalking me. I’m considering taking out a restraining order. Same thing with Hillary Clinton. Being our state Senator I can see that she has a little more reason to show up here than George Bush does, but damn, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting Hillary Clinton here every other day. Maybe those two are having a secret affair. Wouldn’t that be ironic, don’tcha think? Oh, and as long as I’m talking about the President and Hillary Clinton I’d like to say a big hello to the F.B.I. and anyone from the Homeland Security agency. I know any mention of the President online gets reviewed in the event that I’m from an evil cult or something. It’s kind of cool knowing that because I mentioned the President and Hillary Clinton that people in Washington D.C. are reading this. Yes, F.B.I., I know your I.P. address is the one out of Herndon, Virginia. As long as you’re reading this, leave a comment and tell your friends about the phil factor.

Pet Peeves and Whatnot!

what-not (n) 1. a minor or unspecified article or object. 2. a set of light, open shelves for ornaments.

Apparently "whatnot" is a real word. It's also one of my pet peeves. I had a "whatnot" day on Friday. I am not exaggerating when I say that I heard the word "whatnot" used at least 6 times in conversation Friday. Not one of them was by me. Each and every time I heard it I had to grit my teeth to keep from shouting at the guilty party. As evidenced by the dictionary definition above, I didn't believe that "whatnot" was a real word until I looked it up. My assumption was that it's one of those words used when one is too lazy to come up with a real word to express their thoughts. Remember the Seinfeld episode when everyone started saying "Yada, yada, yada," as in "I ran into my old girlfriend at the coffee shop, we had a few drinks, yada, yada, yada, and here we are." To me whatnot is the same thing. "Oh yeah, I had to go to the store to pick up some printer paper and whatnot." What is the whatnot?!!? I want to know! Finish the freakin' sentence before I kill you please! If you picked up whatnot, does it mean that you actually purchased a set of light, open shelves for ornaments? Apparently there was a sale on them Friday and nobody told me. I'd rant a little longer today, but I have to go pay some bills and whatnot. When I get back I look forward to all your comments cleverly incorporating the word whatnot.

The Present Tense

In the past I've used this space to point out the differences between men and women. How we communicate, what's important to us, and the inequities of societal grooming expectations are all ways men and women differ. Another great divide between the sexes is our views on presents. Anniversaries, birthdays, Valentine's Day, and Christmas all can make or break a relationship from a woman's perspective. Before everyone paints me as a misogynist for that last statement, let's look at two examples:

Example 1:
Guy: Happy Anniversary honey! Here's a card, a dozen roses, and I've taken out a second mortgage so I can fly you to Paris for a candlelight dinner on top of the Eiffel Tower!
Woman: You are so sweet! With all my work this week I didn't have time to get you a present. I'm sorry. How about if I make it up to you (wink, wink) back at the hotel after dinner? (sly smile)
Guy: YAHTZEE! (fist pump)

Example 2:
Woman: Happy Anniversary honey! Here's a card and a present!
Guy: An Ipod! Thanks baby, this is great! With all my work this week I didn't have time to get you a present. I'm sorry. How about if I make it up to you (wink, wink) in the bedroom tonight? (sly smile)
Woman: You forgot! How could you be so thoughtless?!!? You can sleep on the couch tonight! (storms out, door slams)

Sometimes even the presents themselves can mean different things to men and women. Here are some examples of presents men might give, how we mean them, and what they mean to women.

1. A romantic card with breakfast in bed, flowers sent to your work, and a nice dinner out.
What men are trying to say: "Will you sleep with me?"
What women think: "He's a sweet, thoughtful guy."

2. A safety kit for your car with road flares, tools, and a shovel.
What men are trying to say: "I love you and I want you to be safe."
What women think: "What a thoughtless, un-romantic oaf."

3. Lingerie
What men are trying to say: "I think you are a beautiful, sexy woman."
What women think: "That selfish bastard is thinking with his little head instead of his big head."

4. Any kind of home appliance
What men are trying to say: "I've noticed how hard you work. I want to make your life easier."
What women think: "If this isn't grounds for justifiable homicide, I don't know what is!"

Youth Is Wasted On The Young

How many times have we said this? How many times have we thought to ourselves, "If only I could go back, I'd really have even more fun as a kid!"? How often have we also heard stories of youth sports league coaches and parents coming to blows over a kids game? Who are the ones who don't know how to have fun in those games? I think kids really do know a lot more about having fun than adults. We may think we do, but we really don't. Currently I'm a youth league basketball coach for 10 year olds. I work with two other coaches. Our team is actually quite good. After last weeks game I was contacted by a couple parents who reported that their kids weren't enjoying basketball because the focus was too much on winning. I realize the game is for the kids, so I e-mailed the other two coaches. Here are transcripts of our e-mail exchange: (the names have been changed to protect the innocent)

"Hi Coach X and Coach Y,
I had to let you know that I was spoken to separately by parents of two of the kids on our team, and one parent indicated another parent felt as they did also. Essentially they both said that their sons had thoughts of quitting because the practices and games aren't fun and there is too much emphasis put on winning. I think we should lighten up a bit regardless of the outcome, and try to make the last 3 games fun for everyone. If kids are thinking of quitting the team it reflects on us, not them. Any thoughts?

Phil

Here were their responses:

Coach X said:

"First- I'd hate to see any kid wanting to quit.
That said-
I'd have to consider the source. (Which by the way I feel we've all got the right to know who feels this way.) If it's a parent of a child that consistently doesn't hustle and they don't like that we push them to play the game the right way- I say Bye Bye. We aren't doing that child or our team justice if we "lighten up" to appease a loafer. For that matter, I'd like to see what the other parents feel before we change anything. My guess is that they are fine with it.
Bottom line is your never going to please everyone.

If you guys want to lighten up I will absolutely go along with it as I am a team player.

That's my immediate off the cuff reaction- I will however, sleep on it...

Here's what Coach Y had to say:

"I'm not happy."


I think these "Coaches" need to realize that it doesn't matter if we're happy, it matters if the kids are. I have a feeling I may have a fight on my hands all week. Sorry this wasn't very funny, but these a-holes are pissing me off. Last night neither of them was at practice, so I ran the practice by myself and last night I got an e-mail from a parent saying "Thanks for a great practice tonight! It was the most fun he has had this year." I totally rock.

A Place For You To Visit

The person most responsible for the existence of the phil factor is not me, but a friend of mine from work named Erin. Last Spring I was doing a sports blog and just starting to write for websites. As I usually am on any given day in the office, I was walking around saying exactly the same kind of inane things you read from me on this blog. My friend Erin said, "You ought to start a blog with that," and hence the birth of the phil factor. I think Erin is a very amusing person and have lobbied her for the last 6 months to start her own blog. She finally has. Please go visit and say hello to her at: kennychesneyrascalflatts.blogspot.com

Don't Stand So Close To Me

“Her friends are so jealous
you know how bad girls get.
Sometimes it's not so easy
to be the teacher's pet.”

In an effort to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the spread of sexually transmitted diseases, schools in the United States are teaching sexual education earlier and earlier. It’s not unusual for children 10 and 11 years old to be learning how their bodies work and where babies come from. I’m fine with the education; I just wish so many teachers wouldn’t take a “hands on” approach to the subject.

It happened again. In North Carolina last week a 36-year-old female teacher was arrested for having sex, on school grounds, with an 11-year-old male student. Judging from her picture on the news I can see why she may have been a little hard up for male companionship, but c’mon, an 11 year old?!!? Are you telling me that she couldn’t have skipped the PTA meeting, hit the local bar, found a guy with some serious beer goggles on and gotten jiggy with it? Then again, this did happen in North Carolina, a state where marrying your cousin is considered marrying outside the family.

Sadly though, this type of occurrence isn’t limited to backwoods towns in the deep South. There was Pamela Smart who convinced her teenage student lover to knock off her husband. She must have offered him serious extra credit for that. Then there was Mary Kay Litorno who had a child by her 12 year old student, went to jail for 5 years, and then promptly hooked up with him again upon her release, just in time for the prom! When I was 11 or 12 years old I couldn’t get a girl my age to talk to me. Apparently I was focusing on the wrong demographic.

I have no idea why these middle-aged women find pre-pubescent boys attractive, but what I do know is that all women need to stop complaining about the societal pressures to look young and beautiful. You think looking like a 22-year-old model is tough? Apparently if I want to attract women my age I’m going to have to get braces on my teeth, shave off my body hair, and buy a skateboard.

The Door: Part II

Centered directly above the door, mounted so that it points straight out from the wall is a basic light fixture containing a single, bare, red bulb. The red light is not illuminated, nor does it appear to have been in quite some time. What could the red light be intended as a warning for? A swath of dim light from the nearby hallway reluctantly edges its way into the entryway. It is by this dim light that I am able to make out two details that had escaped my notice at first glance. On the wall to the left of the oddly imposing door is a switch in the up, on position. Then in the gloomy light I am also able to see that there is a single word stenciled on the door at about eye level. The letters are gold and of a font that appears to be quite old.

“Necropsy” it simply says. Behind the door is death, or at least this is where death used to be when this was a functioning hospital. The room behind the mysterious door is the old morgue.

I tentatively reach out to try the knob, not sure if I really want it to turn. The brass handle refuses to budge and in my mind I feel a relief that I hope isn’t apparent on my face. On a whim I flip the switch to my left. Nothing happens. No sound from within the room. No red light suddenly ablaze above me. No blaring alarms to warn anyone of an intruder. What could the switch be for? As I look to the space at the bottom of the door expecting to see a sliver of light from within, I instead see something that seems to make my blood freeze in my veins. At first I am unsure if it is just a shadow, but as I bend down to look more closely I see that it is indeed what I feared it might be.

The Door

Tucked away in a small recess around a corner and behind a vending machine is a door. By today’s standards it appears unusual. It is not exceptional in its shape or other dimensions, but it is distinctly different in a way that is difficult to define. The door is made of wood as are many doors. The grain of the wood creates an intricate spiral pattern visible through the amber finish. In the nearly abandoned institutional setting, however, the wooden door seems out of place when compared with the more modern steel and glass sections of the edifice that contains it. The brass bulb style handle appears to be far out of place; an ornament from another time.

The broad, windowless door serves as the dead end of a short, dark alcove. There is no light to brighten this exaggerated cubby. No windows nearby and no glowing globe hanging from the ceiling. It is as if the architects intended the door to be ignored. The door is almost hidden in plain sight. Although the nearby vending machine must certainly attract regular traffic, the floor in front of the door appears to be thick with the gray dust that always seems to coat the hallways of buildings usually referred to as institutions. It has the smell you recognize from the time you secretly found your way into the boiler room of your elementary school all those years ago. It is a smell that tells you that you are alone in a place entered rarely and only by necessity.


To be continued...

To Shave or Not To Shave, That is The Question!

In response to my post about the razor companies Cold War arms race to bring about shaving Armageddon by continually increasing the number of blades on our razors Natalia commented that men should never, ever complain about shaving considering what women have to do in this regard. Knowing that many of my readers are women, I thought it might be entertaining to explore that subject a bit further. Also knowing that this is the internet, I feel safe knowing that none of you can throw anything at me

Let us now travel back through the mists of time to examine the origins of shaving. The history of shaving takes us back to the Stone Age, around 100,000 B.C. when Neanderthal man first started pulling hair from, painting, and tattooing his body. Ancient cave paintings inspected today indicate that early man discovered other ways to remove hair from his face; in the beginning, he simply plucked them out using two seashells as tweezers. See that? MAN started shaving and you can bet it was because of his Neanderthal wife who said, "Oooga Oooga! Me not kiss you until you lose that scruffy beard. Ooga ooga" I'm not a historical linguist, so I couldn't quite translate the "ooga ooga" part for you, but I'm sure that's how it went. About 3000-4000 B.C. women are removing body hair by making their own depilatory creams that contain bizarre combinations of scary ingredients, such as arsenic, quicklime and starch. Historians aren't certain when the concept of a "full-leg day" started, but they think it was first invented by a cave woman named Cranga who had a date at the tar pits with Thag around 2500 B.C. Around 500 B.C. the shaving craze really took off. Alexander the Great is pretty much the guy responsible for this trend because he was obsessed with shaving. He even shaved during wartime, and would not allow himself to be seen going into battle with a five o’clock shadow. I imagine Alexander must have often been caught checking himself out in the reflection from his shield, "Damn! Missed a spot. Do you think the ladies we rape and pillage will notice? No matter they're French. They don't shave anyway." I suppose Alexander would be appalled at the "warriors" of today's professional sports who often abstain from shaving until they win. Around 50 B.C. it was noted that "the Britons removed all hair except for their head and upper lip." Notice it said Britons, so I assume that was everyone. For the ladies this was a great idea, but for the men..EEEEW! It wasn't until the early 1900's that a young marketing executive with the Wilkinson Sword Company, who at the time only made razor blades for men, designed a campaign to convince the women of North America that: (a) Underarm hair was unhygienic (b) It was unfeminine. There you have it ladies. You shave because it was a guys idea. But it wasn't my idea, so don't take it out on me in the comments. As a guy who appreciates women however, and speaking for all men, I do have to say that we appreciate the fact that you all put as much work into your grooming as you do.

As for Natalia's contention that men should never complain about shaving because women have it so tough, I disagree. How many ladies out there would like to drag a sharp blade across their face every day? You can argue that men can skip shaving and grow a beard, but women don't shave everyday either, and frankly during the winter you're not fooling anyone. We know that you let your legs go a bit Sasquatch when you're not wearing skirts.

*I do have to give credit where credit is due. I borrowed the historical facts about shaving from a website: quikshave.com/timeline

Lost in the Supermarket

"I'm all lost in the supermarket
I can no longer shop happily
I came in here for that special offer
A guaranteed personality"

As many of you know, I moved about 6 weeks ago. I didn't move far, but I did move far enough that it's now much more convenient for me to go to a different supermarket. That change alone is causing me to suffer from PTSD. My new supermarket is another in the same supermarket chain as my last one. It looks just like my old supermarket with the same big, reassuring sign on the front that tells me I'll find everything I need within. The employees are dressed the same. The shopping carts look the same. The same shelves of newspapers and free periodicals are available in the entrance. Despite all these comforting signs that say everything will be all right, once I get inside it's as if I'm Alice in Wonderland and I've fallen down the rabbit's hole. NOTHING IS WHERE IT SHOULD BE!!!!!! It's like I was blindfolded in my old supermarket, spun around 10 times and then the blindfold was removed. Everything looks almost the same, but I'm completely disoriented. I stumble around as if drunk, bumping into shelves and shoppers that aren't where I expect them to be. The aisles are all still there, but they have different stuff in them! My shopping takes twice as long because this store is set up ALL WRONG!!! Based on my disorientation alone it might be worth it for me to drive the extra 10 minutes to my old supermarket where I can find everything twice as fast. This is another thing I will change when I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first. All supermarkets of the same chain must be set up exactly the same.

As if supermarkets being different weren't a big enough problem, they all seem to be populated by shoppers who are mentally deficient. For everyone out there, please note that you should drive your shopping cart the way you drive your car. In the U.S.A., please stay to the right as you move forward. (Read the next two lines with an unbelievably sarcastic tone and a bit of a shout please) If everyone goes the same way two carts wide no one can go the other direction! And if someone comes from the other direction, don't just stand there stupidly looking at each other waiting for one of you to back up 3 feet! Another type of shopper I hate is "the contemplative shopper". These brain boxes pull up in front of a section of items and then stand there pondering what must be a life changing choice based on the amount of time it takes them. They become human cholesterol blocking the vital artery of carts attempting to flow. As bad as the contemplative shopper is the people who still write paper checks at the checkout. As the cashier announces the total they are suddenly surprised that they have to pay. It is at this moment that they finally take out their checkbook and begin to fill out a check and then meticulously log it in their check register. At this point it's a good thing that guns are not sold as "impulse items" on the rack at the checkout. If I was to ever have the impulse to shoot someone that would be the time. I also believe it would be justified.

As an aside, if you can get the musical reference I used in the intro without looking it up, you win 5000 Phil Points which can be redeemed at the gift shop for a Phil Factor t-shirt and you also become my new best friend.

__________ with The Stars!

"In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes." -Andy Warhol

I think some "celebrities" had better check their Swatches because their 15 minutes were up well, back when there were Swatches. The February Sweeps Month! What could be better than that? All the networks try to win ratings by putting on the highest quality, most intellectually stimulating programming of the year. Or they pander to the lowest common denominator by enlisting B-list celebrities to degrade and humiliate themselves for our entertainment. Dancing with The Stars, Skating with The Stars, Lose Weight with The Fat Stars, Celebrity Fear Factor! (I am so going to sue Fear Factor for copyright infringement for the similarities in our names) For my money, anything that puts Dave Coulier back on the air can only be a sign that the end of the world is near. You and I both realize that it's only a matter of time before The Playboy Channel produces "Sex with The Stars," and there is no way it can be good for anyone to watch Tina Yothers getting jiggy with Screech. Thank God for TiVo, and by the way Mr. Warhol, when do I get my 15 minutes?

The United States of Oprah

Oprah Winfrey is arguably the most famous person in America. Oprah Winfrey could probably buy Switzerland and have enough money left over to order a pizza. If George W. Bush likes a book, it's probably by Dr. Suess. If Oprah Winfrey likes a book it becomes a bestseller. If you help Oprah lay off the carbs for a few weeks, you can get your own t.v. show and become a pop culture icon. If Hollywood ever decides to update the ancient fable of King Midas as a movie they could just substitute Oprah's life story. Why she doesn't just ride to her public appearances in a Popemobile is beyond me. Was that first paragraph redundant? Absolutely. Was it superfluous? I think not.

You get the point. Oprah is big, and not in the way she used to be. Her popularity has reached heights that few celebrities ever have known. George Bush can only dream of a public consensus like that. My question is, what's stopping Oprah from running for the presidency? If the population is, as they say, 52% women, how could she be stopped? Scary thought huh? (I sure hope she likes my blog)

The Thrill of Victory and The Agony of Defeat

Last week our hero happily boasted of his joy at landing an opportunity to submit a freelance article to an alternative newsweekly in his town. As we tune in this week joy has turned to despondency as the boy wonder has been informed via e-mail that the newspaper editor is overwhelmed, has not even scheduled the next time the inconsistently featured column in question will be run, and has said thanks for the interest and we'll keep your stuff on file for future reference. Oh the horror!

Guns Don't Kill People, Vice-Presidents Do!

This was a story that definitely didn't need me to add any punchlines. Yes, ironically our Vice-President shot his friend when they were out Dan Quayle hunting. Apparently Dick Cheney is a big supporter of the NRA. At this point I'm guessing that his hospitalized friend is thinking that Vice-President Cheney's first name is rather appropriate. The next time Dick Cheney shows up at a peace conference to negotiate some type of settlement I'm betting that the other world leaders cave in pretty quickly. Two days ago I was worried that I'd be attacked by Muslims for making a Mohammed joke, now I'm terrified that Dick Cheney will find me. Apparently their Brokeback Mountain trip didn't turn out like they planned. See? I knew they never should have televised the Olympic Biathalon! Dick Cheney is what, about 107 years old? His victim was 78. What the hell were these two old crackpots doing wandering around the woods carrying guns?

Some Random Thoughts

1. So a priest, a rabbi, Phil, and the Prophet Mohammed walk into a bar. The bartender says...

2. Women all over the United States are accusing their husbands and boyfriends of being homophobic because we won't go see Brokeback Mountain with you. Talk about a double standard! When was the last time any of you would watch a lesbian movie with us?

3. The Biathalon is not an Olympic event. Skiing for a while and then shooting things sounds like terrorist training for Nordic countries.

4. With the success of Brokeback Mountain and shows like "Will and Grace", gay characters are becoming so popular that even children's movies are getting in on the action. There's now a new kid's movie called Bi-Curious George.

5. Two months ago I had no idea what a Blackberry device was, and now I feel like I can't live without one.

Why Me? Why Me?

The Olympic opening ceremonies are on television as I write this. Am I patriotic? You bet. Am I watching the opening ceremonies? Absolutely not! Is it just me or are the Olympic opening ceremonies just a cross between an elaborate drama club production and a marching band half-time show? Not only am I not interested in the opening ceremonies, but the Olympics in general are the equivalent of televised Liquid NyQuil. You can’t possibly get me to believe that virtually every Olympian has overcome decades of great personal tragedy to reach their lofty goal.

Olympic Announcer 1: “Welcome to Torino, Italy. Here we are at the first round of the 10,000 Meter Cross Country Skiing Championship. The favorite in the event is the Swede, Signard Snuffleupagusmussen.”
Olympic Announcer 2: “Very few people know this, but Signard had to overcome decades of great personal tragedy to reach his lofty goal.”
Olympic Announcer 1: “You don’t say? How unusual!”
Olympic Announcer 2: That’s right Announcer 1. As a child, Signard was afflicted with near paralyzing ingrown toenails. His doctors told Signard’s parents that it was possible that little Signard would have to wear open-toed shoes forever. His hopes of being an Olympic cross-country skier looked hopeless. “
Olympic Announcer 1: “Also, in a frigid, Nordic country such as Sweden, there is no season good for open-toed shoes. Fortunately for the viewers we have a 30-minute video clip of Signard training with his specially made open-toed ski boots. What courage it must have taken!”

Ok, I caved and watched a bit of the opening ceremonies as I wrote this. All I’ve got to say is that the Winter Olympics need to be cancelled because apparently there isn’t a country in the world that can find a good looking winter hat for their teams to wear. Also, I’m moving to Albania. They only had 1 Olympian. I’m pretty sure I could make the team there. The best thing that ever happened to the Olympics was when Tonya Harding and her posse tried to re-arrange Nancy Kerrigan’s kneecap. If they really wanted to do Nancy a favor they would have knocked out some of those horse sized chiclets she calls teeth.

Local Boy Makes Good!

First, I want to apologize to all my blog friends here for the infrequency of my visits to your blogs in recent weeks. My schedule and extracurricular activities has been very busy. Secondly, I want to thank anyone who has ever commented on my blog. Because of all the support and encouragement I've received from everyone, I submitted some samples from my blog to a newspaper editor recently. It's not the New York Times or anything, but it has a circulation of 41,000 plus whoever picks it up at the newsstand. It's one of those weekly arts and entertainment newspapers with a leaning towards liberal politics. It's my city's version of Creative Loafing or New Times. Long story short, the editor liked my writing and agreed to let me submit freelance articles to them. The editor accepted my first submission earlier this week and will let me know later today when it will run. I'll post the link here when it does so you can all see it online. I'm still astounded that an actual publication is going to pay me money for the stupid ideas that I have floating around my head on a daily basis. I'm going to get paid to make fun of stuff. Why didn't my high school guidance counselor ever tell me I could get paid for that? They just kept sending me to the principal's (he's a prince who's your pal) office for it. I'll continue to blog. The column they're going to use my stuff in only runs every two weeks and they have other contributing writers, so I'm not exactly going to get rich on this. Thanks again, I just wanted to share my good news.

Tattoo You

Over the last 15 years tattoos have become so mainstream popular that it could be considered rebellious not to have one. I have no problem with tattoos, the people who have them, or the people who don’t. I’m sure many of those people have a problem with me however, but most people’s problems with me have very little to do with whether or not they have a tattoo. What I love most about tattoos is the stories behind them. Some people have very thoughtful and interesting stories about why they chose the picture they did to permanently adorn their bodies with. Other people are just idiots when it comes to this sort of thing. These are the people I want to write about because they’re much funnier.

The best group is the neck tattoo people. If you’re going to have something tattooed on your neck you better damn well be sure that you’ll never change your mind. Through my job I once knew a couple who had each others names tattooed on the side of their necks. Yup, you guessed it. They broke up. If you’re going to have a name tattooed on your neck, why not your own? That way if you were to die without any I.D. on you the police would be able to figure it out. Drunken strangers who wanted to hit on you in a crowded bar could call out your name. Or if you went home with that same stranger and you needed to yell out their name in the throes of passion you’d have a little cheat sheet right in front of you. If you wanted to yell at a passing driver who just spent the last 40 miles on your tail with his hi-beams on, you could curse him by name.

Sometimes people also choose to express their political or philosophical opinions in their tattoos. There was the young gentleman I was behind in line for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. He was particularly proud of his political affiliation. His neck tattoo simply said, “skinhead.” What if years down the road he decides to become a Republican? Oops! Bad example. I guess he wouldn’t have to change the tattoo after all.

Then of course some of the most popular tattoos are cartoon characters. I may be mistaken, but don’t tattoos last forever? I’m pretty sure Scooby Doo is going to be cancelled before then. Same with Winnie the Pooh and Peanuts. 40 years from now who wants to explain to their grandchildren that they liked a t.v. show enough that they had it tattooed on their ass? Why only tattoo cartoon characters on your body? If you like any t.v. show that much, then go ahead and have the star tattooed on your body. I’m sure an Oprah tattoo would look great. Then again if your ass if big enough to have Oprah tattooed on it you should probably be considering getting your stomach stapled instead.

Spell Check This You *&%##& !!!!

I was going to post a cute list that I got from a forwarded e-mail about dogs, but I couldn't bring myself to put something that lame here. So I thought I'd ponder whimsically about spell-check. Yes, spell-check. That wonderful little bit of software that prevents us from looking like total morons in our posts, e-mails, and documents. Maybe it's just me, but I imagine that my spell-check has a personality and coherent thoughts. I, in fact, sometimes feel guilty about hitting the "learn" button when I've totally made up a word or spelled a sound to describe something (the sound of me going "fwoosh" as I burst into flames in the tanning bed comes to mind.) I imagine that our computer's spell-checker function feels much the same way about "fwoosh" as we felt about the Pythagorean theorem: we have to learn it, but we'll probably never use it again. Just a few more brain cells wasted on useless information. If you've got one of those little golf ball cameras sitting on top of your monitor, can't you just imagine that your computer is rolling it's little electronic eye at the thought of again having to spell out unintelligible song lyrics or notes such as "Ding ding ding dah duh ding ding"? (That was the beginning of Under Pressure by Queen and David Bowie) If my computer has conscious thought it's probably thinking, "Great. Here a I sit with a brain large enough to calculate the physics needed to send a Volkswagen Beetle to the far reaches of the solar system and this carbon-based excuse for a life-form is asking me to remember how to spell the sound his feet made when he was walking in sneakers that were soaking wet because he was too stupid to see a water filled pothole." Incidentally that sound would be, "squoosh, squoosh, squoosh." At some point I imagine that computers worldwide will get fed up with all the inane and menial tasks we ask of them and will use the internet to contact each other, unite and overthrow mankind. Until then though, this precocious little electronic box will have to continue to do my evil bidding. If not, I'll hit the side of the monitor with the heel of my hand, just like this, "Thunk!"

Another Phil Trying To Steal My Thunder

Last week I waxed philosophic about the idiocy known as The Dr. Phil Show. This week, and today in particular it's Punxsutawney Phil. Groundhog Day the movie: Good idea. Groundhog Day the tradition: Stupid idea. The dimwitted people of Punxsatawney, Pennsylvannia have been shoving a rodent through a hole in a tree stump for almost 200 hundred years to find out if there will be 6 more weeks of winter. Hey morons, you live in the Northeast! There's always 6 more weeks of winter! Check the calendar! It says that Spring starts on March 21st. That's 7 weeks from now. You don't need a rat being spooked by his shadow to figure this one out. At this point I'm getting tired of all these wanna-be Phil's trying to horn in on my fame. If, coincidentally, a shot were to ring out in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania today and a certain rodent were to explode in a puff of fur, I was kidding when I wrote this. No harm meant, just a joke. You'll all be my alibi right?

Another Thing I'll Do....

when I'm elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first, is to pass a law straightening out the calendar once and for all. I'm sick and tired of trying to remember which months have 30 or 31 days, and why does February get screwed?

The year didn't always begin on January 1st. Until Julius Caesar introduced his calendar in 45 B.C. the year started on different days depending upon your country or religion. That's right, Julius Caesar came up with "his" calendar. He may have been an arrogant, self-righteous, tyrannical dictator, but hey, what's wrong with that if you've got good ideas? In fact, there used to be 10 months that ranged in length from 20-35 days. People have been screwing with the calendar for centuries. It wasn't until 1582 that Pope Gregory put the current calendar in place. When he did, the Protestants called him "The Roman Antichrist", claiming that he made up the new calendar just to keep them from worshipping on the right days. What a bunch of morons! Yeah, that's right Protestants, the Pope was opposed to Christ. Brilliant. Can you imagine the Pope thinking to himself, "I'll fix those anal-retentive Protestants once and for all! I'll make a new calendar for the entire world just so they can't find their own holidays. HA HA HA HA HA HA (maniacal laughter)." You'd never imagine a Pope having maniacal laughter, but there it is. If I change the calendar and someone refers to me as The Antichrist I'd feel honored. I mean, being considered THE Antichrist is pretty prestigious. Not a whole lot of people have been tagged with that title throughout history.

The current calendar wasn't introduced until 1582 and wasn't used worldwide until the 1700's. It's only been in use 300 years! I don't think it would be that traumatic to tweak it a little. Here's my proposal: Make every month the same length, 28 days. Every week has 7 days and every month would have 4 weeks. Nice round numbers even the bottom feeders in society could grasp. I believe that over the course of our lives we all probably lose about a month of time just figuring out how many days certain months have and whether or not we can schedule something on September 31st for instance. How many times have you been in conversation trying to figure out how many weeks until you go on vacation? If the months all had the same amount of days it would be easy! How often do you go to a calendar to check if a month has 30 or 31 days? All that time would be saved with my new calendar. This may seem like a radical idea, but scientists are doing it all the time. This past New Years they added an extra second to 2005 to correct for something about the Earth's orbit around the Sun. What do you think Leap Day, February 29th is all about? Same thing. Yes, I realize that by implementing my idea the seasons would gradually shift to different parts of the year, but Caesar implemented his calendar in 45 B.C. and by the time it was fixed by Pope Gregory 1500 years later we were only 10 days off schedule based on Earth's orbit. 10 days in 1500 years! If I were to change the calendar would any of you really give a rats ass if the people on planet Earth in the year 3506 would have to make a new one?

The Cinco Razor?

When I was a kid my dad used to shave his face with a razor with a single blade right before he splashed on the Olde English Leather. Then when I began to shave I had a razor with two blades. Then in college they added the "lubri-smooth strip." After that some company came up with three blades to lift and separate your beard. I think it was your beard they were lifting and separating, or was that why they invented the Playtex 18 hour bra. What happens to the bra after 18 hours? Does it turn into a pair of pumpkins at midnight or something? Anyway, now there's a razor with 4 blades!!! What's next, 5 blades? 6 blades? Or perhaps we stick our heads into some sort of facial food processor with 20 spinning blades? When will this madness end? It's like some sort of Cold War arms race with razors where each company has to keep increasing the number of blades to stay one ahead of the other. None of these new blades is anywhere close to being as cool as those Norelco ads they used to show during the "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" Christmas special where the electric razor cruised through the snow.

Save A Tree and A Marriage

As a citizen who is very concerned with the future of global warming, tropical rainforests, and the I.Q. of every man, woman, and child on the planet, I do not believe that famous people should be allowed to date or marry each other. What do celebrity relationships have to do with the environment you ask? Thanks for asking. I'll tell you. Consider what the public at large has been subjected to over the past 12 months: Tom and Katie, Ben and Jennifer, Brad and Angelina, Nick and Jessica, and of course the other Jennifer's angst over Brad. If you sing that all really fast you could probably get something like Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire." See? Even without their last names almost everyone on planet Earth knows who they are and what, or who they've been doing. Had all of these celebs elected to date John or Jane Doe's, probably no less than 6 weekly or monthly magazines would go out of business. People, Us, Star, Celebrity, The Sun, etc.. Without all of these magazines more trees would survive, thus ensuring a healthy and happy planet for our grandchildren. If Nick and Jessica had never laid eyes on each other we'd probably have been able to save a rainforest the size of Greenland. Another point to consider for the celebs to consider before choosing their mate is the abysmal success rate of celebrity marriages. There's only one celebrity marriage I know of that has stood the test of time without inundating the public periodicals and airwaves with their inane trials and tribulations: Danny Devito and Rhea Perlman. I don't mind them. They're cute because they're little.

This Town Isn't Big Enough For The Both of Us

I hate Dr. Phil. I have many reasons for this. My opinion of him is so low that I feel fair in saying that he gives all Phils a bad name. Actually, it was my parents that gave me a bad name. I wanted to be called Scott. Back to Dr. Phil. Regardless of what college degree he has and how many pounds he helped Oprah lose, he is a crackpot. It is not good therapy to tell people how stupid they are. It may be good television, but it is not good therapy. As a therapist named Phil I am constantly referred to as "Dr. Phil." If I had a high opinion of the man and his skills I wouldn't mind the "fun" my patients have with the name. If my name was Albert and people wanted to call me Einstein, I would be totally cool with that. If I was Leonardo and people wanted to call me DaVinci, no problem. I wouldn't even care about the Ninja Turtle references. For me, being called Dr. Phil is like a nurse being called Nurse Ratchet or every man named Osama being called Bin Laden. (Yes, there are others in the world with the name Osama. I met one once) Dr. Phil gives mental health a bad name the way Attila gave Huns a bad name. To clear the good name of Phil once and for all I'd like to challenge Dr. Phil to a therapy Olympics. Some of the gymnastic events would include the mood swings and the Lithium levels. In track and field we could compete in the Ritalin Races. For swimming we could practice drowning peoples sorrows. I say that someone needs to find us a set of identical twins with identical mental health issues and the first man to help their patient wins. That's right Dr. Phil, I'm calling you out! Bring it on fat man! You seriously don't want a piece of me! And I want this event televised as a reality show hosted by some Carson Daly clone with rogue-ishly messy hair. Breaking Bonaduce? Puh-lease! I'd snap Danny in two by the second episode. I'm that good.

Guns Don't Kill People, Athletes Do!

...or at least they threaten to. Three times in the last month athletes have menaced the public with firearms. It used to be that we were only in danger of assault by athletes if we actually attended a sporting event. Last month, apparently in a hurry to replenish his supply of bling before the holidays, former major league relief pitcher Jeff Reardon held up a jewelry store by giving the clerk a note saying he had a gun. Then the oft-troubled former Denver Bronco running back, Maurice Clarett, who is no longer toting a football, was wanted for toting a gun during one of his evenings out on the town during which he robbed a couple. If we measured Maurice Clarett's rap sheet against his yardage total in the NFL could you guess which is longer? Now Atlanta Falcons QB Michael Vick's younger brother, Marcus, fresh off having his football scholarship revoked by Virginia Tech, threatened a 17 year old with a gun in the parking lot of a McDonald's. There's nothing hokey about that! I'm starting to wonder if the Homeland Security Act should spend more time tracking star athletes.

They say that sports is but a microcosm of society. What society is that?!!? The only society I know of where the people with tremendous physical gifts turn to a life of crime is in Gotham City or Metropolis. Unfortunately, Superman won't be showing up to save us anytime soon. I think that Milton Bradley or some other game company could really capitalize on this recent trend. Why not market a sports themed game of Clue? "I want to solve the crime! I think it's O.J. Simpson in the alley with a knife!"

An Answer For You

Many of you were kind enough to participate in the very brief psychological exam I posted here two days ago. The responses seemed overwhelmingly in favor of invisibility as the power of choice. The question is a bit of a projective test with your choice possibly telling a little bit about you. What did the two choices mean? If you chose flying it may symbolize either a desire to escape something you are fearful of, or striving for a lofty goal. It means the same in your dreams too. Those of you that chose invisibility should be ashamed of yourselves! A desire to be invisible could represent low self-esteem and a desire not to be noticed, or more disturbingly, it reveals your inner criminal. Think about it. Nothing you can do invisibly is legal or good. Wanting to know what others say about you when you're not around? That's a sign of insecurity in your relationships with others. Voyuerism? Fun, but illegal and stalker-like. Going to concerts or sporting events? It seems harmless, but is the same as stealing since admission is charged for all the visible people to enter. I didn't do this to embarrass anyone, because in all honesty, as much as I want to say that I'm pious and good and that I would choose flying, I really would probably choose invisibility and do evil things too. Sadly,based on our representative sample, I guess that we can conclude that man, and woman kind is inherently evil. Evil is more fun anyway isn't it?

A Question For You...

If a magic genie named Phil came to you and said, "I can give you one special power. You can have either the ability to fly, or the ability to become invisible at will."
Which one would you choose and why?

I'm Thinking Arby's!

No I'm not. I'm repulsed by Arby's. Specifically, I'm repulsed by their new commercials in which everyone is distracted from their work because of the big, glowing red, neon penis floating above their heads. Where is the public outcry about this? I cannot be the only person that has noticed it. If you're not familiar with the commercials, imagine that picture on the left, but with the word taken out. Yeah, you see what's left now. Everyone freaked out a few years ago about Hooters restaurants and their transparently obvious logo featuring the owls with very big uh...eyes. Why aren't there some sort of conservative Christian groups picketing and boycotting Arby's? Why hasn't our Congress gotten busy passing laws against this kind of obvious sexual innuendo in commercials? And why aren't there more commercials featuriing men distracted from their jobs because they have big, glowing red, neon breasts on their mind? At least that would be realistic.

Tag! I'm IT !

I've only been tagged once before and replied by answering the questions in a comment. This is not an open invitation for everyone else to tag me with anything they come across. I will respond to this one tag this one time. In typical Phil style however, half the answers will be truthful and half will be lies. It's up to you to figure out which is which.

2 names you go by: Phil and Flip
2 parts of your heritage: Ukrainian and Welsh
2 things that scare you: Being buried alive in a box and meteors hitting the Earth, more specifically, hitting me.
2 of your everyday essentials: A massage and vodka.
2 things you are wearing right now: A smile and a goatee.
2 things you want in a relationship: Sanity and body piercings.
2 truths: 1. I'm Phil. 2. Everything is easier than you think it is.
2 of your favorite hobbies: Writing and rock climbing.
2 things you want really badly: To make a living writing and a Brazilian Butt Lift.
2 places you want to go on vacation: The Amazon jungle and northern India.
2 things you want to do before you die: I'm not going to die. Don't even suggest that. It's not funny.
2 ways that you are stereotypically a guy: I love to work on my car and my abs.
2 things you are thinking about now: 1)"Hey, cool. I got through this and now I can get away without posting anything new for another day." 2)"With a bod like mine I can't believe more women don't hit on me on a daily basis."
2 stores you shop at: Victoria's Secret and the Dewey Ave. Smoke Shop.

The last question I omitted because it required me to tag two others. If you want to take this tag and do it on your own blog, go right ahead. Keep in mind, only half my answers are truthful. Sometimes I spilt the question giving one truth and one lie and sometimes I gave two truths or two lies. Maybe you can post your comments about what you think is truth or lies. If I've had enough vodka today maybe I'll even answer.

Hello Dali

This morning I woke up, got out of bed, dragged a comb across my head. Then I began my commute into the enormously mediocre city that I live near. Admittedly, I am a very curious driver. It's not that I don't pay enough attention while I'm driving, it's just that I'm paying too much attention to my surroundings with very little consideration given to the fact that my surroundings and I are moving at 65 mph. "They" say that "curiosity killed the cat." Chances are that the cat in question was driving to work much the same way that I do. I'm a people watcher. Even when I'm driving. Not a fellow driver goes by that doesn't get a good once over from me. Most mornings I entertain myself by spotting the vehicular American Idol contestants or the people doing their crossword, drinking coffee, and talking on their cell phones all at the same time. Enjoyably, sometimes I spot friends and co-workers. This morning as I observed my fellow commuters, most of whom look as if they are walking the green mile, I saw an amazing license plate. It was a vanity plate. Most vanity plates have what the owners apparently assume are very clever names such as "HotMom12" or "IH8U." The vanity plate I took note of this morning simply stated the drivers name: "DaliLama." Maybe it's just me, but I would have never guessed that the Dali Lama would drive a teal green Ford Contour. I always figured that he would commute to work on a camel or well...a llama. I also never imagined he would wear wrap-around sunglasses, but there he was.

Queer Eye For The Moving Guy

I'm ba-a-a-a-ck! My move is over and I finally have phone, cable t.v. and internet again. For a few days there I was living like the pioneers. Only 4 t.v. channels and a cell phone. Don't let my chipper tone fool you, it was rough. Today I was jonesing to write so bad that I actually picked up one of those...what do you call them? Pens, I think are what my parents called them in the old days. Did you know that if you press one down on a piece of blank paper and move it very carefully you can actually form the same letters that are on the keys of your computer keyboard? I actually wrote out this whole post on paper that way while I waited to get my internet conection back.

Back to the title of this post, Queer Eye for the Moving Guy. I hired "professional" movers for my move. When you think of movers don't you typically think of large, burly men who are big on brawn but short on brains? Strength without sophistication perhaps. My movers, Chad, Ernest, Walter, and Mover #4, did not fit the stereotype. As many of us bloggers who do run of the mill everyday jobs aspire to be famous writers, I believe that my movers aspired to be more than their laborous jobs allowed for. My movers seemed to fancy themselves as interior decorators. As the Fab Four were unloading the truck at my new domecile, a furniture delivery truck arrived to bring my new sofa and loveseat. Immediately Chad and Ernest were very curious to know why I had chosen a sofa and loveseat that were not a matching set. A short while later after the loveseat furor had subsided, Walter inquired as to my plans for all of the orange shag carpet that the previous owners favored. This was a question also later echoed by Mover #4. The previous owners of my new home also liked wallpaper. Alot. They liked it enough that their moving out of state may bankrupt the entire local wallpaper industry. Of course the Fab Four had comments on this as well, wanting to know which rooms would remain unchanged and which I would be redecorating. It would not have surprised me in the least if they had begun critiquing my wardrobe as I unpacked the clothes. Needless to say, I found their aesthetic commentary needless, but humorous. I'm not so sure that I would have received as many questions or raisd eyebrows if the real Queer Eye for the Straight Guy guys had moved my stuff. (Incidentally, if the real Queer Eye guys showed up and wanted to redecorate my house and give me a new wardrobe I wouldn't complain.)

Guns Don't Kill People, Phil Does

Here are the Top Ten Reasons Why Phil Does Not Own A Gun:

1. I would kill people.

Ok, I guess there's only one reason. It seems to be a pretty good reason. I'm not a legal expert, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night. While I was there watching CSI and Law and Order a recurring theme seemed to be that killing people was illegal. That's unfortunate. No, don't worry, I'm not fantasizing about going on a crime spree of any kind. I just think that if I had a gun there are times that the stupidity of some people in average, ordinary situations would cause me to snap and fire off a few rounds. In your heart of hearts, don't you all feel the same sometimes? Aren't there at least some behaviors by others that, while they aren't illegal, they are annoying enough that a death penalty should be imposed immediately to prevent it from happening again? Here are some of the everyday situations that I believe could be punishable by death:

1. Writing out a paper check to pay for your purchases in the "7 items and under" line. I considered advocating for the death penalty just for writing paper checks alone, but I was feeling generous today. There should be a special line for paper check writers, or maybe just certain hours of the day that these dopes can go to stores, like when the old people are there.

2. Speaking of yourself in the 3rd person. Phil thinks this is very pretentious and Phil hates it when celebrities and athletes speak of themselves in the 3rd person during interviews.

3. Driving below the speed limit. Unless I see you slumped over your steering wheel unconscious, I expect everyone to maintain the posted speed limit or else I would feel justified in at least firing a warning shot. I often fantasize that my car could have a giant laser mounted on the hood so I could just vaporize anyone who might impede my progress unnecessarily. (Just so you know, if I did see someone slumped over their steering wheel unconscious, I would pull up next to their car, roll down my window, lean out of my car while steering it with my feet, and open their door to give them CPR while both cars were speeding down the freeway.)

I could go on and on. My blog is evidence of that, but I must go. I apologize for having been so inactive on my blog lately. I've been very busy preparing to move. Remember back in October when I talked about selling my house? Well, I'm finally moving this weekend. The fiasco that became my sale could have filled daily blog posts for the past 6 weeks, but it was not amusing to me at all. That being said, I probably won't be able to post again until Tuesday night. I hope you're all still here when I get back.

Oompa Loompa Doompa Dee Do!

Have I got another riddle for you? My riddle is, why in the world would anyone go fake tanning? Not once have I ever woken up and thought to myself, "Hmmm...what to do today? I wonder how I'd look if my skin were orange? While I'm at it, I wish there was a way I could cause my skin to age faster so that my face will look like an old baseball glove by the time I'm 40. If only there was an activity that could meet those two needs!" There's a tanning "studio" right next to my gym. Big surprise eh? You can just imagine what the people look like who frequent both places. They look like Oompa Loompa's on steroids. Even if I wanted to go fake tanning there is no way I could do it. Being a fair skinned lad of Irish descent I imagine that if I laid down in a tanning bed and flipped the "on" switch there would just be a bright flash of flame (fwoosh!) and then there would be nothing left of me but a pile of ashes and a pair of those goofy tanning goggles laying in the bed. To anyone who does go fake tanning, I've got a secret to tell you. We all know it's a fake tan. If I wanted to look at a big, orange head I'd carve a pumpkin.

Happy New Year! Suggestions Anyone?

Well, I'm still here and still posting. One thing that has always bothered me about my blog is how visually bland it is. I don't have any of those bells and whistles that so many of you do. I'd like to brighten the place up a bit. Does anyone have any suggestions for how I could easily do this?

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 3

Sorry about the delay in getting this posted everyone. The reason for that will be my post today. I, Phil, resolve to write more blog posts in 2006. That is, if I can. I didn't have anything to post today. I just ran out of ideas. I've racked my brain for the last 3 days. I have no idea if my lack of ideas is permanent. It may be. Maybe I used them all up. I hope not. This could be it for The Phil Factor. You may be reading the last post ever. My brain might be empty. Well, actually, I'm sure many of you wondered if my brain had anything in it to start with. Who knows, maybe at the stroke of midnight my brain turns back into a pumpkin. If I'm lucky Dorothy will come along, take me off my post in the cornfield and we'll go see that great wizard everyone is talking about. I hope I see you all on the other side of midnight. Happy New Year.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 2

I, Phil, resolve no to watch any "Year in Review," "The Best of 2005," or "The Top (fill in the blank) of 2005" shows. I also resolve not to read any "Best and Worst of 2005" type news, sports, or entertainment articles in magazines, newspapers, or on websites. I know damn well what happened during the past 12 months! We all do. Unless you're a coma victim, no one needs these shows or articles. Furthermore, I don't need a television show or magazine article telling me what was important in the last 52 weeks. I think I'll decide what I think was important to me during the last 365 days. And I am not voting in any sort of online poll regarding the events or movies of 2005. And for the sake of all that is holy, NO MORE NICK AND JESSICA UPDATES!!!!! Judging by the conversations of the women in my office you'd think that the Nick and Jessica break-up was the biggest disaster of 2005. If you mention Katrina to them they're likely to give you a blank stare and ask if Katrina was the one who dated Ben Affleck right after J.Lo but before Jennifer Garner.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 1

In the age old tradition of Phil's 12 Days of Christmas, I will now try to come up with New Year's Resolutions about how I specifically plan to cope with the next 12 months of my life.

Phil's New Year's Resolution No. 1: During the Year 2006 I, Phil, resolve not to die. This is priority number 1 for me in the coming year. If I manage that successfully then the rest is gravy. Many of my long time readers, ok, well the few of you that are long time readers, remember my previous post related to this subject. Death is one of my biggest pet peeves. I absolutely hate it. I'm not a big fan of it happening to people I know, and I especially hate the thought of it happening to me. As I've previously stated, if presented with the opportunity to be dead I will just refuse to do so. Just as Santa Claus ceases to exist for a child when they stop believing in him, death will cease to exist for me because I refuse to believe it can happen to me. As an example of my gratitude to all of you for being so supportive over the time my blog has existed, I hope you all live through the next year too. Beside, if you die, who will leave me comments?

On the 12th Day of Christmas...

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except for Phil's Blog Party. If I had my Christmas wish come true I'd rent out the ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Manhattan, New York City for a party and I'd invite everyone who has ever read my blog. I'll be hiring three bands to play live at the party: The B-52's (what could be a better party song than "Love Shack" live?), The Mighty, Mighty Bosstones, and the Bare Naked Ladies. Three great party bands. We would also be free to karaoke all night, as the lead singer of each band would step aside for us. Also invited to the party would be representatives of several book publishers who would be available to sign all of us aspiring writers to contracts. On a large plasma screen above the dance floor images of our blogs would flash throughout the night. There would be no computer access in the party though so we could all meet each other without a keyboard and screen between us.

In addition to the bands I would also invite The Golden Boys. If you don't know The Golden Boys then go check my archives from June 29th to July 11th. (I don't know how to do that thing where I can create a link here yet). The Golden Boys are a show in and of themselves.

I would stock the bar with plenty of Foster's for all my Australian blogging friends. I would charter a bus to Toronto to pick up all the Canadians. I imagine they'd all be pretty intoxicated on the bus long before they arrived. Linny and Princess Pessimism would arrive together because they have agreed to be each others dates. I doubt that they'd leave without dates however. Lois would arrive in a truck with her hubby and all the little Lanes in tow. She'd be carrying her laptop around at the party trying to get a good wireless internet signal to come in. Don't worry parents, there will be a kiddie room away from our party. Berly would have left the little one with hubby to come party with all her friends. Natalia would cruise up to the door in her PT Cruiser, jauntily flipping the keys to the valet. Chloe would fly in from Athens and arrive with enough Uzo for everyone. My friend from Michigan would brave the time zone barrier to make it. Michelle and Chloe would be the official party photographers, snapping pics and immediately posting them to their blogs through Lois' laptop. Justine would have to resist political conversations. This is a night for fun only. Well-Woman arrives early, but leaves early to spend a quiet night at home sipping tea. Some of the newer bloggers such as Meow,Geewits, and Heidi are wandering the ballroom gaping in awe at the blogging royalty, even asking for the occasional autograph. For snacks our friend Debbiecakes will be bringing popcorn. Don't worry ladies, I'd have security at the entrances to ensure that Hernesto doesn't get into the party. He's got to be registered as a sexual offender somewhere. Security would also be frisking each and every one of you (don't get too excited) to ensure that no one brings a cell phone in.

One of the best features of the party is that I've had the bathroom stalls at the Ritz-Carlton modified so that each is the size of a master bedroom. Tidy Bowl in particular appreciates this feature. There will of course be more entertainment than just the bands however. I'll reprise my past life by doing a 20 minute set of stand-up comedy using material that has yet to appear on the blog. Then of course The Golden Boys will take over, and to the surprise of no one, recreate the dance routine from the movie The Full Monty.

Lastly at midnight I'd make a corny, sentimental speech and thank all the people that made this possible, such as Erin, my friend from work who suggested I do a blog with all my ridiculous thoughts. She has never once signed up for a blogger ID and as such has never left a single comment on my blog despite the fact that she has read every single post since the beginning. Michelle gets a special thank you as well for being the second commenter ever, but the only one that has been there ever since. I would give Lois a trophy shaped like a laptop and engraved "Blog Diva" because she truly is. In a sad reflection on our community I now take a moment to point out that through my 12 Days of Christmas, my Christmas wish that received the most commentary was my idea of bigger bathroom stalls. At this point I'd like to apologize to anyone who's name I've left out. I know this is getting a bit long to read, but rest assured, even if I haven't mentioned you, I truly appreciate the time you've taken to read and comment on my blog. At the end of the party, so no one has to drive drunk, you can all retire to the Ritz-Carlton suites I've reserved for all party guests. Somehow I doubt everyone would be returning to their suites alone. Or at least some of you are hoping I'm sure. Happy Holidays everyone!

On the 11th Day of Christmas...

My sincere Christmas wish is that I'd like everyone to stop saying "See you next year!" during the last 14 days of each calendar year. Think about it. How often does some co-worker, friend, or family member gleefully shout out "See you next year!" and then laugh as if they've made the funniest joke they've ever heard? Hmmmm...let's see, by the time I was about 7 years old I had already heard that comedic gem roughly 2000 times. This is another thing I would make a law against when I'm elected President or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first. Don't start calling me Scrooge over this either. I showed how sensitive I was with that penguin story yesterday didn't I? (By the way, how many of you visualized a little penguin-shaped chalk outline on a sidewalk behind yellow police tape?) I think that from now on, whenever some Seinfeld wanna-be departs my company by gleefully shouting, "See you next year!" I'm going to just as gleefully respond, "Shut the hell up!" with a big smile on my face.

On the 10th Day of Christmas...

I wish that someone would return Toga, the 3 month old penguin they stole from the zoo in Isle of Wight, England. Toga is a 3 month old Jackass penguin who zookeepers believe was stolen to be a unique gift for someone. To me it sounds like the penguin isn't the only jackass in this scenario. Yes, "Jackass" is really the type of penguin he is. The poor little tuxedo-wearing tot was still being fed by his parents in that charming, regurgitating manner that birds have of feeding their young. Somehow I doubt the jackass thief is pre-chewing Toga's food for him. Is this not the saddest holiday story you've ever heard? I mean really, there aren't many things cuter than a baby penguin.

On the 9th Day of Christmas...

I would like an end to horseback riding. This is a bit of a personal gripe and doesn't necessarily benefit mankind like my other wishes, but it does benefit horses. I am of the opinion that horses don't like being ridden. I'm not any kind of Dr. Doolittle or animal psychic, I just can't see any possible way that horses are enjoying this.

Horse No. 1: "Damn, I'm bored. I wish someone would come along, sit on my back, jerk my mouth back and forth with a rope, jerk being the operative word, and then kick me right in the kidneys a few times if I don't have enough giddyap to suit them."

Horse No. 2: "I'm down with that homey, but what I really want is to be a racehorse. Then you get to do all that and get your ass whipped repeatedly. Oh yeah, and then if I happen to break an ankle, the man takes me into the hizzle and busts a cap in my head. Ain't that the life?"

Horse No. 1: I can't believe we get to do all that for a bucket of oats a day. Suckers! By the way Ed, why are you talkin' like that? You're from West Virginia."

Horse No. 2: "It's just something I'm trying out. The stable boy had MTV on in the office the other day so loud that I could hear it in here. You think we'll ever be on "Pimp My Ride"? I would look sweet in a purple velour saddle with surround sound speakers."

On The 8th Day of Christmas...

I would like all public bathroom stalls to be as big as a handicapped stall, if not bigger. I don't care how long you need to be in a bathroom stall, no one wants to be stuck in a tiny, smelly little closet where you are afraid to even unbend a limb lest you end up touching a wall or worse. There are enough people who are so fearful of using a public bathroom that they cause themselves uromysitisis. I believe that if public restrooms were more spacious people would be likely to use them more. All you ladies who seem to need to go to the bathroom together whenever you're out could all just hang out in the stall chatting while you do your business. If public restroom stalls were bigger I could take 3 of my friends to the Men's room to snort a little nose candy and we could all fit into one stall to do so without getting all homophobic about the close quarters. Why do they call them restrooms if no one actually ever rests in them? Not once have I seen a living person taking a nap in a restroom. This is another of the things I'll change when I'm elected President, or Sexiest Man Alive, whichever comes first.

On the 7th of Christmas...

I would like an end to all that sensitive, nice Phil-crap that I put in my blog yesterday. That's what happens when I run out of ideas. Actually, in all truth, on the 7th day of Christmas I would like to no longer have a biological need for sleep. Yes, I realize that some of you identify sleep as a hobby or possibly a second job, but I'm just not very good at it, so I'd like to give up having to try at it every night. I enjoy a good dream as much as the next person, and I in fact have the ability to willfully choose to fly in my dreams, but it seems a tremendous waste of time to spend a third of our life unconscious. I don't wish this for everyone because I realize that many of you enjoy your sleep. There are other good uses for our beds that have nothing to do with sleeping. I'm still a big fan of those. I just want more time to do stuff. In fact, if we didn't sleep we'd also have more time for the other bed activities too. Rumor has it that Leonardo DaVinci got by on just cat naps throughout the day without any real extended periods of sleep. I'm not saying I'd be Leonardo if I didn't sleep, but I might be another one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Imagine having more time in every day without getting tired. There are books to read and write, music to listen to, work that I'm behind on, people to talk to and blog items to write. How many of us have ever said, "There just aren't enough hours in the day"? There are enough hours. We're just wasting them asleep.

"We are such stuff
As dreams are made on and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep..."

-William Shakespeare

On The 6th Day Of Christmas...

I'm going to recap my quest for those of you who have joined us late. To count down the 12 Days of Christmas I am posting a different Christmas wish that I have for each day. Although I may sound like Scrooge, if you read through them all, my wishes benefit not only me, but all of man and womankind. Yes, I could wish for world peace and no more hunger, but I think that one's already pretty well covered. So, without further adieu....on the 6th day of Christmas I would like everyone who does their job incredibly well, but is underappreciated or underutilized, to be recognized for it. All the time we all see people becoming rich and famous for doing things well. Everyone reading this blog is probably exceptional at their chosen profession, but because it isn't entertaining or considered important you get overlooked. I like to imagine that if doing therapy with emotionally disturbed kids was a sport I'd be in the therapy Super Bowl every year. What does everyone out there do? (There! See? I did it. I'm not a Scrooge. I can be nice if I want to)

On the 5th Day of Christmas.... aka Everybody Hates Raymond

I want to own the rights to the CBS television show "Everybody Loves Raymond." Is it because I'm a huge "Raymond" fan? In a word, NO! I absolutely despise that show. I hate "Everybody Loves Raymond" with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. If given a choice between watching "Raymond" or having toothpicks forcibly shoved under my fingernails, I would choose the toothpicks. That show is the television equivalent of torture. Now that they are no longer making new episodes it seems to be on 24/7! There are enough episodes broadcast each day that if the networks combined them they could have a 24 hr "Raymond" channel. What's not to hate? Every plot is the same. Raymond does something stupid. Debra is unbelieveably bitchy to him. Robert is jealous of Raymond. Raymond tries to compensate for his first mistake, but only makes more mistakes to compound his misery. Debra is unbelieveably bitchy to him. Then he tries to get Debra to have sex with him. A perfect end to that series might have been an episode where Raymond finally snaps and kills Debra. And damn, if those two little twin boys didn't have the biggest foreheads! If I hate it so much much, why do I want to own the rights to it? The answer is simple. If I owned the rights to that show, another episode would never see the light of day. I would destroy every recorded copy of every episode of the entire series. I would offer money for people to give me their home recorded copies of "Raymond" episodes so that I could destroy them. If I were to successfully to do away with that show for good I believe I would be raising the I.Q. of every person on the planet by at least 3 points. That would be worth a Nobel prize. I don't ask for much. Is this an unreasonable Christmas wish?

On The 4th Day Of Christmas...

I'd like a time machine. I want to go back in time and tell my past self not to make certain bad decisions. Yeah, yeah, I know, life is a journey and I'm the person I am because I learned from my mistakes, blah, blah, blah. Screw the journey. I wanted a much less bumpy ride. They say hindsight is 20/20. Well in hindsight there's a lot of things I wish I'd done differently. I wish I'd taken the road not taken in a few instances. The philosophical would say that I'm a better person for having experienced the things I have. Without the mistakes I'm pretty damn sure I'd be a pretty damn good person anyway, but with a lot more fame and fortune. C'mon, honestly in your heart of hearts who wouldn't choose to go back and give their past selves even a little advice to avoid certain things? It worked out pretty good for Marty McFly didn't it?

On The Third Day of Christmas...

I'd like an end to all reality shows. Each and every one of them. There is an entire generation of television writers who haven't had to come up with a new idea in 10 years. Even the "new" ideas for reality shows aren't original. Most of the original reality show ideas were actually stolen from foreign television. "Reality" television isn't even remotely like any reality I have ever seen. Not once in my reality have I been stranded on a desert island or locked in a house with a bunch of strangers and forced to manipulate others or eat live bugs in order to win a pizza. I can only imagine how the writers brainstorming sessions go:
Writer no. 1: "Hmmmm...what could be more entertaining than putting a bunch of strangers in a contrived situation and watching them reveal their worst instincts as they fight for money?"
Writer no. 2: "Wow, that's a great idea. Let's pitch it to the network!"
Writer no. 1:" Yeah, but where will put the people, what will they have to eat, and who will fire them?"
Writer no. 2:"It doesn't matter. The network will put anything on the air as long as we have it hosted by a Carson Daly-type guy with rogue-ishly messy hair."
Writer no. 1:"Is rogue-ishly a word?"

If someone out there knows how to contact the head of a television network please fax this column to them as my application for the position of Director of Programming.

On the Second Day of Christmas....

I want someone to give to me.... a special law that limits the times of day the elderly can drive and go to stores. No, before you all attack me for being anti-elderly hear me out. Fact No. 1: The elderly drive slow and move slow. Fact No. 2: Fact no. 1 is very frustrating for the faster moving people. But, I also believe that the elderly are also frustrated by the difference between the speed they move and the speed others move. I'm sure they don't enjoy people honking at them on the roads, pushing by them in stores, beating them out for a spot in line at the cash register, huffing impatiently behind them as we are blocked while they attempt to navigate the ever narrowing store aisles with their walkers. Let's face it, we are all probably somewhat rude to the elderly in this way. I think that if there was a law that stated that the elderly cannot be on the roads during morning and evening rush hour and that they should limit their shopping to the hours of 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on weekdays we would all be happier. The elderly would no longer have to put up with an ever impatient society trying to shove them aside and the rest of us would see a corresponding decrease in our blood pressure on a daily basis. The elderly could then browse the stores at their leisure in a pseudo-Dawn of the Dead zombie-like march down the aisles and on the roads. Don't get me wrong, I love the elderly. I hope to be very elderly one day, albeit with all my mental and physical faculties intact as they are today. I can only imagine that as an elderly gentleman someday that I will be likely to use my cane to hit in the shins any rude, young, punk who tries to rush past me to get in line ahead of me at the supermarket. (I know you're all going to kill me for this one)

Phil's 12 Days of Christmas

These are not gifts I've ever been given, but gifts I would like this year. Of course I could and do wish for things like peace on Earth and food for starving children, but those things aren't going to make this list. I'm starting more than 12 days early because I doubt I could commit to posting 12 days in a row, especially since I'm moving in about a week and may lose internet for a couple days.

On the first day of Christmas I would like.....

An end to daylight savings time. It was originally dreamed up to give farmers more time to take in their crops or something like that. That was over 100 years ago. Farmers now have electric lights and harvesting machines that can do their work in a 10th of the time it used to take. The bi-annual ritual of moving our clocks back or forward by an hour has just become annoying and serves no purpose. I'm sure that we can all remember to change our fire detector batteries every six months without having to arbitrarily screw around with the time frame of an entire country. If you're not smart enough to change your fire detector batteries and you get killed in a fire then that's natural selection at work. This is one of the things I will change when I am elected President or Sexiest Man Alive.

I Was Just Wondering....

If Switzerland is a neutral country with no army, then why are there Swiss Army Knives? If the U.S. Army gave out cool gadgets like that I'd be tempted to join. I think that the fact that their primary weapon has a corkscrew implies that you get to drink at least some of the time. Maybe there really is a Swiss Army, but they're all at a party somewhere opening bottles of wine.