There are still good people in this world.

http://www.grimacenyc.com/Peeps.htm

It's amazing what every-day functions have become second nature. You sniff when your nose drips. You close a drawer after you open it. You put your wallet back in your pocket after you've paid for gas.

Actually, not so much on that last one. A couple days ago I was at the gas station. I had just swiped my credit card at the pump and was thinking very seriously about running into the convenience store for a Slurpee. But I was also running really late.

I drove off without the drink. About 10 miles down the highway, I also realized I had driven off without my wallet. Apparently my mind was unable to process simultaneously the decision to not get a Slurpee and the mental effort involved in putting my wallet back in my pocket.

Immediately I began wondering what my life was going to be like over the next couple weeks. Without my wallet I would be nothing. I'd have no power to buy, no power to vote, and no power to enter night clubs and get my dance on. Essentially, I had been stripped of all my rights and reduced to the social ranking of kindergartner.

Without a drivers license on my person, I flipped a U and headed back to the gas station. I was bracing myself for the worst. I figured my identity had already been stolen and the thief had already applied for a job as a porta-potty cleaner under my name.

Not only that, I knew darn well my credit cards had been maxed out to buy car parts for illegal street-racing. Plus, I assumed the thief had already used my insurance card to get a free doctor's visit, since robbers can't have much of a health plan (but I was sure the thief would regret it after finding out that doctor's visits are only covered in full every-other new moon by doctor's that went to medical school at a university that rhymes with orange).

The only hope I had was that the thief would buy one more sandwich at Subway to get the last needed stamp for my Subway Card, and as a token of appreciation mail it back to me so I could get a free sub. Even then I'd need some money to purchase the medium drink required to claim it.

Finally, I made it back to the gas station. Just as I had figured, there was no wallet lying around the pump where I had filled up. With a skeptic heart, I wandered into the convenience store--just in case the thief was like me and had forgotten his wallet, I mean my wallet, while he purchased a quick doughnut.

My wallet was there; someone had turned it in! All the credit cards were in their place. Even the $2 cash I had was untouched. Unfortunately, I still needed one more stamp on my Subway card.

The whole ordeal was a wake-up call. The world around has made me a hard and cold cynic. I've turned into a New Yorker (yes, I'm stereotyping). But all truth be told, when I lost my wallet my first thought was that it would be stolen, not that it would be turned in. It's time for me to start seeing the sunrise in people, and not just the sunset. There's good out there.

Mr. or Ms. Wallet-Turner-Inner, if you read this please contact me. I'd like to shake your hand and buy you a Slurpee.

As a man, I don't know what look to go for.

I'd love it if I could buy clothes just once and call it good for the rest of my life. Unfortunately I'm regularly ruining my clothes, causing my wardrobe to run thin. Just the other day I was tapping on my khaki pants with an ink pen, having no idea the lid was off.

I think buying clothes is a nightmare. Most the stuff in stores now a day is made for men that aren't really men. It all looks like it's trying to be too fashionable.

With that attitude, I was recently shopping at some outlet stores with my wife and doing my best to find something worthwhile. As I wandered aimlessly from store to store, I came to realize something. All the casual-wear clothes I was sorting through, from shoes to pants to shirts to hats, fell into one of three categories:

1) The prep-school/croquet look. This all-around look covers a man whether he's docking his sailboat in a New England harbor or playing a pick-up game of Lacrosse at the park. The key to the ensemble is the neck covering; in the summer months a popped collar will do, in the winter months a scarf is a must. Solid, assertive colors rule among men of this look. Not only should their conversation be about Thoreau's works and their late father's trust fund, but their fashion should be as well. Finally, the whole outfit is for not if the hair isn't combed and a bottle of sparkling water isn't in hand.

Vendors include Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, and Gap.2) The Northwest/outdoor/organic look. While the look poses as rugged, if any guy actually showed up to a real mountain-man's cabin dressed as such he'd be beaten to tears and thrown to the wolves. Inspired by pine trees, granola, and waterproofing, the clothes in this category are ideal for walking along a forest trail while eating a yogurt. Most selections are found in earth tones. If this look was a car it would be a Subaru.

Vendors include L.L.Bean, Eddie Bauer, and Columbia Sportswear.3) The California-dude look. It screams cool. Maybe too cool. The letters on the shirts and sweaters are always large, usually white. Most of the garb looks faded--suggesting that the individual is often out in the California sun. Belts are key, and they come in either brown or white. Slightly wrinkled is preferred. Footwear is usually in the sandal family. Many of the suppliers, by their ads, would have you believe you'll look just as good with their shirt off as you will with it on.

Vendors include Hollister, Aeropostale, and Abercrombie & Fitch.
To be honest, I don't want to join any of those ranks. Isn't there another option for casual wear? I know if I don't join one of the above categories, I'll have to continue cherry picking the border-line items from each one. I need some common theme in my wardrobe. What about the Australian Outback look, or the Norwegian/Slavic look? Have any stores popped up supporting those?

Photo: http://www.gamespot.com/pages/forums/show_msgs.php?topic_id=26548349&page=3
Photo: http://www.guardianecostore.co.uk/guardian/product.aspx?topGroup=106&subCat=0&subGroup=2707
Photo: http://blog.nj.com/fashiontoday/2008/06/summer_stock.html

Why do I live in a place that gets cold?

It snowed last night. It was the first snow fall of the season. So today I'm wondering, "why the crap do I live somewhere that gets cold?" I usually spend the first half of every winter pondering that question.

I just don't get it. It doesn't make sense. I live in a place where for half of the year it's uncomfortable to go outside. I suppose I, like most other people, live somewhere in the vicinity of where my ancestors settled. So why did our ancestors settle in cold places?

Of the 13 original colonies, only 3 were in the south. Here's the real kicker--Florida wasn't one of the original colonies! What were those Puritans thinking? Were Florida's sandy beaches and palm trees too extravagant for them to claim it? A life by the Boston Harbor where temperatures linger in single digits for several months was more preferred?

I know Christopher Columbus landed somewhere in the Bahamas. What did he tell all the Europeans when he got back? "Oh, we found some all right places, but if you guys go north when you make your pilgrimage to the New World you won't have to deal with all the mangoes and exotic birds and lush, tropical vegetation."

Whatever the case, they did settle in cold places and so now many of us have to deal with nasty winters. However, I'm still confused/bothered by those around me that are so chipper about the winter months.

"Oh, the fresh snow is so beautiful," and "it's nice to get a break from the heat" are phrases I often hear. Snow looks OK, I guess, but the knowledge that it's cold once you walk into it turns me off fast enough. Besides, it ends up looking brown and dirty by the end of the day anyway.

And I don't see how people would rather have it cold outside than hot outside. Your fingers don't get sore and numb when it's a hot day. And I've never had to spend the first five minutes of my morning letting my car run while I scrape the windows because it was a warm day.

Furthermore, the winter optimists around me lose all credibility because they still go on vacation to warm places. In January they take off to places like Cancun, Orlando, and Las Vegas. Show me a winter enthusiast that escapes to Fargo, ND in the middle of winter and then I'll be convinced.

I understand San Diego is already jam packed with people in my line of thinking. Plus a 1/2 bedroom, 1/2 bathroom apartment there costs as much as a the whole state of Wyoming does. So one of these years I'll just have to go settle in some little corner of the Amazon or the Sahara. The heat won't bother me, but the spiders or the dust storms might take some getting used to.

Photo: http://www.silive.com/news/index.ssf/2007/12/23-week/

Rubber cement boogers vs. cell phones in school

I recently read an article in the local paper about the trouble schools are having with students and cell phones. You've got 2nd graders texting in class, 3th graders checking stock prices on the bus, and 4th graders calling the weather hotline before recess.

Apparently a lot of teachers don't know how to deal with the new distractions brought about by the cellular telephone. I guess the distractions that were around when I was in middle school have taken a back seat to the new technology.

My schoolmates and I used pen and paper to draw Picasso-like pictures of our teachers, the nose and eyes exaggerated to the extreme. We used Elmer's Rubber Cement to make fake boogers. We disassembled spring-loaded ball point pens and reassembled them into small rockets.

We used our calculators to text each other. We'd write secret notes by way of digital numbers; "316008," turned upside down, spells "BOOgIE." Furthermore, "07734," turned upside down, spells "hELL0." If we were looking to stir things up, we'd leave off the zero and just write ""7734."

Our digital vocabulary was about as large as our verbal vocabulary.

In high school the distractions became even greater. Once we got into trigonometry and calculus, we were given scientific calculators. That's when all 7734 broke lose. They were basically little computers intended to graph curves on an x and y axis. But with their technological capabilities, they could also store simple games. Suddenly Tetris and Space Invaders was being played during every class.

What we were doing as students is nothing compared to what's happening now. The article I read said students are using their cell phone cameras to take dirty pictures and send them to one another. I guess that provides new ammo for students to use when they're arguing with their PE teacher about not wanting to shower after PE.

Teacher: "Everyone has to shower. If you're caught getting dressed without one I'll dock you 10 points."

Student: "But Chuck lurks behind the lockers and and takes pictures with his cell phone when we do."

The article also said they're using their cell phone's video cameras to record after-school fights. Frankly, I wish we would have that technology to record some of the fights I saw in Jr. High. The one where Josh Bell got punched in the face and had his glasses broken wasn't half bad.

Or, maybe recording such fights would be helpful to some students. In 5th grade, when I got in a fight with Aaron Bean by the tetherball courts, maybe I wouldn't have gotten detention if some student had recorded it. Then it could have been proved that I was merely fighting in self defense because he wiped grasshopper guts on my arm.

My final word to today's teachers: if you take cell phones away from students, they'll just go back to making rubber cement boogers.

A depression would take some getting used to

I always wondered what life in a depression would be like. Everyone is saying that we'll be in one if the $700-million dollar bail-out plan doesn't pan out.

What's that? It's $700 billion? Well, whatever. $700 mil, bil, tril... is there a difference?

So how do the legislative negotiations work on that, anyway? When negotiating the price of a new car with the dealer, you usually start wheelin' and dealin' with $100 amounts, or so.

What amounts do you start with when you're working out a $700-billion plan? If the senator from Wyoming stands up and says "we should shave $10 million off the plan," is he laughed out of the room for pinching pennies?

If the bail-out plan ends up being $701 billion instead of $700 billion, will anybody care? When did billions become such trivial common place?

Sorry, I got off track. So back to the depression. From what I understand, everything will be very dry. Dust will swirl around and plants will shrivel. Fashions will change. All males will start looking like washed up businessmen--top button undone, wearing a dusty, gray suit. I say "gray" because color will be gone. If you're attached to reds, yellows, and blues, get over them.

Dogs will just run loose in alleys. Wendy's chicken nuggets will no longer be "all-white meat." People will regularly sleep on park benches, whether they have a home or not. It's just what people do in a depression.

"Sorry honey, but it's my turn to sleep on the bench down at Cherryhill Park. I'll see you in the morning." Not only that, but when it's your turn for the bench you can't use a blanket. Only newspapers will do. Newsprint is the only cover that will keep the dew off, especially in a depression.

Lastly, TV, Wii's, and laser tag will be gone. For entertainment we'll have to gather around an old radio and listen to nothing but the news and boxing matches.

No, a depression won't be any good for anyone. For that reason, let's root for the bail-out plan and hope the legislators don't hold things up by squabbling over just a few billion dollars here or there.

Photo: http://library.thinkquest.org/03oct/01794/pictures_page.htm

The halfway hamper

Item #47 on my wife's list of reasons why I don't deserve to be married is the statement "he can't put half his clothes in the laundry after he's worn them."

Ok, so maybe that list doesn't really exist--at least on paper.

Anyway, I've explained the issue many times, with logical reasoning. Yet she still gets upset with the dirty laundry, or so she mistakenly calls it, that piles up in front of my dresser or on the closet floor. But the problem is not with me; it's with the system.

Since the introduction of the washer and dryer into the average American home, the domestic process has dictated that once you wear something you should put it in the laundry pile to be washed. Dirty clothes go in the hamper; clean clothes go in the closet or dresser drawers.

My wife--and as she claims, the rest of civilized society--sees no middle ground between clean and dirty. However, to me it's not all black and white. I see a large gray area.

Before I found a reasonably effective deodorant, pretty much every shirt I wore was a lock for the wash. But now that I'm staying dry for longer periods of time, a few shirts come off me at the end of the day with a little more life still left in them. They may be able to go another half a day, or even more.

Where can a shirt in such a classification go? It isn't clean, so I don't want to put it back on a hanger in my closet. It isn't dirty, so I don't want to put it in the hamper. It's in the gray area, and thus it is homeless.

To my wife's frustration, it ends up on the closet floor where it will remain until I can find an appropriate time to utilize its remaining life.

That's why I created the halfway hamper. It was a large bin for me to throw gray-area clothing into. It was a pit stop for clothes halfway through their wear-and-then-wash cycle.

Unfortunately, my wife found out about my clothing's midpoint and secretly began emptying the whole thing into the wash on laundry day. It hurt; my wife was washing the clothes from my halfway hamper behind my back, despite our relationship built on trust and integrity.

Now I'm going behind her back in publishing this post. My hope is that this article will inspire the halfway hamper's use in more homes until one day I can tell my wife we're not with the times by not having one.

Until then my clothes are getting washed excessively. Please help.

Getting carded for cola

I don’t drink, so I haven’t spent a lot of time in bars. However, last week I was on a trip with a few co-workers. They all drink, so I spent a lot of time in bars and lounges.

The non-alcoholic options are quite limited in such places. If I wanted something to sip on while I chatted with my co-workers, I’d order a water. If I wanted something a bit harder, I’d order up a Coke. But if I wanted to get sloshed, I’d get a Coke on the rocks and keep the refills coming like waves on a beach (I'm only a social soda-drinker; I don't drink it alone very often).

On one particular night, in a lounge at the hotel we were staying at, I was socializing with a glass of cola (on the rocks, of course). I had drank about two when the bartender walked up to the group I was with and asked to see my ID.

“I’m only drinking a soda,” I stated defiantly. The bartender, undeterred, remained until I grudgingly pulled out my driver’s license. It was the first time I had ever needed to prove I was over 21 in order to finish up a glass of pop.

It was a good thing that bartender was there to keep me on the right track. Nobody should be able to drink a pop and watch other people get drunk unless they’re of age.

Getting carded in that lounge got me thinking. Young people should be getting carded in other settings and situations. It could do them good.

The first place to start would be plays and musicals. I know I would have liked getting carded when my mom would talk my family into attending a play. I’d read the program from start to finish about 8 times and there would still be another hour until intermission. A boy at the age of 12 does not have the judgment necessary to agree to attend one of those things.

Another place to start would be sports-card shops. When I’d walk into those places as a young buck I had no self-control. If people would have carded me at those places my savings account would currently be double what it is. You have to buy a lot of packs of cards in order to find the one rookie card you're searching for.

The same goes for firework stands. If I would have been carded by the vendors who supplied me with explosives, the field above my aunt’s house wouldn’t have caught fire and I wouldn’t have gone deaf for a week after lighting a firecracker with a wick the length of a piece of beard stubble.

Yes, if you're going to require ID for a pop in a bar, you might as well take the policy further and really do some good.

What I learned from the conventions

The good thing is, no matter who wins we’re all going to be living in a utopia.

When the candidates were narrowed down to the two idiots we’re currently left with, I was rather disappointed. As a voter, I was going to have to choose between a grouchy war Veteran that married a beer heiress and a hip baller from Hawaii who won’t throw his terrorist friend under the bus.

However, my disappointment fell short at the Democratic convention. That’s when I heard Obama tell me everything was going to be OK. If he wins the presidency, we’ll all be swimming in the love of change.

From his speech, I understood we were going to the doctor for free. There won’t be any more poor people. Someone else will pay our credit card bills. Our mortgages will be forgiven. Everyone will get a college degree. They'll come in the mail to those who don't have them now, like a stimulus check. Nobody, except evil people, will have to pay taxes.

He also informed me, in his speech, that John McCain is horrible person that eats bunnies and puts people in slums.

Then I started to worry. What if he didn’t win? I’d be left without everything he was going to give. I'd have a bunny-eater as my president! However, my worry fell short at the Republican convention.

McCain guaranteed some good things. Based on what I interpreted of his speech, if he won we'd have a fully-decorated war veteran fighting for us. He'd snuff out evil and rip up opposing countries with his bare hands. On election day he'd walk into the White House and punch all the incompetent people in the face. He'd lower taxes even though he's going to go to war with every country that his advisers tell him exists. And McCain would do all this while still maintaining his reputation of a family man.

On the other hand, he indicated, Barrack Obama would flush the country and it's economy down the drain while starring in Hollywood movies.

They sure make themselves sound good in those convention speeches. So what's a voter to do? I don't think it matters. They both said they're going to win the election:

...I intend to win this election and keep our promise alive as President of the United States. -Obama

But let there be no doubt, my friends, we’re going to win this election. -McCain

So what we'll have on our hands, fellow Americans, are two winners in November. Yes, for the first time in history we'll have two winners, two presidents. We won't have to worry about the character of the VP candidates; there won't be any room for one.

A good ol' biarchy. Except we shouldn't get too worried about the new form of government we'll face. Based on what I saw from Hillary in the presidential race, I think we experienced a biarchy from 1992 to 2000.

Big hunting trucks don't scare me

A few weeks ago my wife's cousin from France was in town. She had brought along her husband and two little boys. We took them to several local places of interest, trying to show them what amazing lives we Americans live.

However, her two little boys were never that interested in the attractions we attended. They were more intrigued by what was in the parking lot, namely the big trucks. I guess in France you don't see many Chevy Silverados with extended crew-cabs, Vortec 6-liter V8 engines, and tires the size of Paris Hilton's sunglasses.

I was so used to seeing such rides that I never saw them as unusual. So earlier this week, as I was driving on the freeway, I took note as I was passed by a beefed-out truck [truuhhk]. After the cloud of black exhaust from it's six tailpipes cleared I noticed an elk-antler silhouette on the back window. Above the antler insignia were the words "ELKOHOLIC." A couple days later I crossed paths with a similar truck, but the elk sticker on the back of it read "RACK 'EM."

Even though I come from a country town where hunting abounds and "'em" is often substituted for "them," I never remember seeing stickers like that on the back of anyone's truck. If you shot an elk or a deer you would make jerkey from its meat and turn its antlers into a lampshade, but you never put a sticker representing its head on the back of your rig.

In an attempt to understand the psychology behind such a move, I've conjured up a few reasons why the hunting dude might be inclined to paste a big elk decal on the back of his truck.

One, maybe he put it there to let everyone know he shot a really big elk. It's the only way everyone on the road will know he's the big cheese and they should watch out. But unless he wrestled the elk to death with his bare hands, I'm not impressed.

Besides, can you really be proud of shooting a big elk, especially when a little elk is a smaller, therefore more difficult target? It takes the same amount of strength to pull the trigger on either one. I want to see a truck with a decal of a young, nimble elk on the back window, then I'll give the goateed, cut-off sleeved guy in the driver's seat props.

Or maybe it isn't an ego-supporting sticker. Perhaps the elk decal adhered to the dude's back window isn't boasting about the animal he shot; maybe it's paying tribute it. A guy like that values his truck, and he won't just put anything on it. He's paying homage to his kill because once he slayed the thing it became delicious nourishment.

In that case, I should put an Otter Pop decal on the back window of my Accord. I slaughter a couple of those each day... and reap delicious nourishment each time. Above the decal I could put the words "OTTER SLAUGHTERER."

In other words, maybe the "RACK 'EM" truck-dude has a chest freezer full of elk steaks, but he's not any tougher than a guy that buys his meat at the supermarket.

The night the tire won

My wife and I were on our way to dinner, celebrating our two-year anniversary. She was dressed to kill; my shoes matched my belt: all was set for a romantic evening. As I rounded the corner a block away from the restaurant, I turned my head to look at one of the stupid things I like to look at.

I turned my head back towards the road just in time to see the curb I was going to strike. A few days prior, my obsession to have one of the most fuel-efficient cars on the road led me to the gas station where I topped off all my tires at exactly 1 more psi than the manufacture recommends. Thus the air was frantically looking for a way out, and the hard edge of the curb provided an escape.

Upon my collision, my wife started to chuckle and immediately saw the moment as an opportunity to fire back for all the times I had criticized her driving. "Yeah, you'll really laugh when we have a flat tire," I said sarcastically. Just then we heard a rushing wind.

I pulled off the road quickly and parked the rig. As I stepped out, I realized I'd never before needed to fix a flat! I tried to mask my ignorance by walking around the car and grumbling about the wrench I thought I'd need.

I opened the cover at the bottom of the trunk and was delighted to find a spare. Even so, my disguise of competence withered quickly as my wife had to find the jack for me. But I recovered by using the term "undercarriage" as the we situated the jack.

Things went smoothly from there as the car was raised and the nuts were removed from the wheel. Then, just as I pulled the damaged tire from the bolts, the jack tipped over and the car leaped forward like Michael Phelps at the start of the Men's 100-meter butterfly race. My wife said "uh oh," I said "a bad word," and the bare rotor landed on the pavement. My dang car looked like a three-legged beached whale.

I guess you're supposed to set the parking brake when you change a tire.

The car was so low to the ground that the jack wouldn't fit under it any more. I needed to lift it a good inch. It would take a miracle, even an anniversary miracle. I heaved and hawed, and up went the sagging quarter of the car. My wife quickly slid the jack back into place, and I tried to put my back back into place.

On pins and needles we again got the car jacked up, the spare on, and then let the jack down. The spare was flat.

We jacked 'er up again, took the spare off, and tried to figure out where the nearest psi supplier was. I hoisted the spare into my arms and we walked about 6 blocks to a closed service station. Not interested in wandering around with the heavy spare any farther, I walked up to the front door and peered inside.

Luckily, there was some guy still in the dark place who either was a manager working late or a robber thumbing through the cash register. Based on his reaction upon seeing us, I suspected the latter, but he still opened the door and filled up our spare tire.

We trekked back to the car and put the newly-filled spare back on. We then went to dinner where I ordered my chicken curry to be made "spicy" instead of "medium" in an attempt to convince my wife I still had a measure of manhood. It took several return trips from the waitress to refill my water, but I think it worked.

Upon leaving the restaurant, I noticed the spare was looking low again. We held our breath as we raced home; I asked her to throw her jewelry out the window in order to free up some weight, but she wasn't interested in helping the situation.

Nonetheless, we made it back home where I could put the car down for the night. If the whole fiasco had happened when we were dating I probably wouldn't have been celebrating a two-year anniversary with her that night. And my shoes probably wouldn't have matched my belt.

Surviving Church

Every week I face a long, grueling battle, and the opponent has many facets. It's me against sitting for too long. It's me against hunger. It's me against boredom. Etcetera, etcetera.

Based on the medical knowledge I gained from ripping heads off grasshoppers during recess in the 4th grade, I diagnosed myself with ADHD a few years ago.

I should have been diagnosed earlier, by a physician, so I could have had an excuse when my mom and dad came home from parent-teacher conferences. Instead, they disciplined me as if I was perfectly capable of controlling myself.

School was tough to endure, but it was broken up by recesses, lunch, and pogs. The boredom found at Church, however, was impossible to overcome.

After observing the way I responded to boredom, my Sunday School teachers would become fed up with me. They attempted to punish me in all sorts of ways, and finally they just started kicking me out of class. But I quickly realized I enjoyed it more on the OUTSIDE of the classroom than the INSIDE.

I went on to milk that consequence for all it was worth. I'd sit in Sunday School for about 3 minutes, get bored, raise hell, and bam!, I was a free man in an empty hallway.

Now that I'm an adult, that strategy doesn't have the same affect. Everyone just looks at me funny, and nobody kicks me out. So I have to resort to other methods. Here's my short list of ways to get through it all:

1. Bring food. Once, right before Sunday School started, I told my wife I had to go to the bathroom. I ran home and got some fruit snacks. She was really mad..., until I pulled out a pouch of them just for her.

2. Create your own hymns. Being a seasoned rapper, I often compose my own hymns while sitting on the pews. Once I've made up enough for a hymnal, I'll submit them to be published for churches in the more urban areas.

3. Draw. Whether it's a depiction of a mighty war between two pirate ships or a portrait of the bishopric, a detailed sketch can make the time move along quickly.

4. Play the "Who'd Be More Likely To... ?" game. While sitting in church, look around and ask yourself, or someone next to you that is also looking for a mental escape, "Who'd be more likely to suddenly snap and start swearing like a sailor at the next church activity, Sister Jones (the 75-year old choir director), or Brother Hammond (the 50-year old high priest that claims he saw Jesus)?"

Heaven knows any soldier will need more than four ways to make it through a 3-hour set of meetings. But this is a quick list for all of you who'd like a starter-kit of ammo for this week's battle.

My nemesis, the blender

Most father-in-laws put their son-in-law candidates through some type of mental test to ensure they're qualified to marry their daughter. Mine put me though a physical screening.

It was my first time at his house, and I had recently proposed to my wife. I woke up to find him in the kitchen, running the blender. He didn't say much, just added a few more ice cubes, pureed for a couple more moments, and then poured me a tall glass of a highly viscous concoction.

"I made you some breakfast," he said with a smirk. "I drink this every morning." Understanding the task before me (and the award ahead), I buckled down, braced my spine, and started to gulp the drink of doubt. My spine almost gave way.

It was packed with spinach, but that was the good part. I assumed the strong tang to it was some sort of fish oil, but I couldn't identify the crunchy chunks that lodged in my throat. I was hoping they were some type of nut, but I wouldn't have been surprised if he had thrown in the skull of a dead mouse.

I continued to gulp it down. As I reached the half-way point he leaned in expectantly, waiting for it all to come back up. Little did he know, I had experience with such a texture and taste. Growing up, my mom went through some health phase where she'd regularly drink a similar blended concoction for breakfast each day.

My younger brother and I called it "The Green Devil." It was named by its color, and because we figured it was the choice of drink in hell. We used to dare each other to drink the portion remaining in the blender after she poured her glass. Being the younger, he was usually forced to take the dare.

Today he suffers from regular heart burn, a condition that could likely be traced back to "The Green Devil."

I went beyond the half-way point with my future father-in-law's drink and continued on until I saw the light at the end of the tunnel (i.e., the bottom of the glass). I couldn’t see it in his face, but I could tell he was amazed. He acted nonchalant as he grabbed the blender and filled my glass once more.

Yeah, I haven’t had great experiences with blenders. My wife and I still talk about “The Fiasco of ’06.” I was trying to make some frothy chocolate milk. The lid to the blender wasn’t on correctly, and I didn’t notice as I went on to hit the “smoothie” button. Suddenly I was getting showered in Nesquick, and so was the kitchen.

And just last night, my wife and I decided to make a couple shakes with some frozen fruit and ice cream. We loaded up the blender, and I placed it on the control station. But there was an error when I docked it. The flanges of the spinny thing that turns the blades weren’t in line with the flanges of the thing on the control station.

I turned it on full power and chunks of plastic and frozen fruit began shooting off in all directions. My wife took cover in another room. I ducked behind the counter and felt my way around until I grasped the cord and yanked it from the wall outlet.

Now we're without a blender, and I think I like it that way.