Inner Demons

Inner Demons.

A Visit from the OOBER

A Visit from the OOBER.

Poor August

Poor August.  Loneliest month of the year.  Trapped between July, proud owner of the 4^th, and September’s celebrated Labor Day, August sits forlorn in the corner like a wilted wallflower without a holiday to call its own.  If anything, folks point at August with derision and cry ‘Dog Days!’ without a moment’s sympathy.  Folks can be so cruel.  Even though it has a full thirty one days, poor August is treated as if it had less than February.  Even February can puff out its chest and brag about Valentine’s Day.  August has nothing to hang its hat on.

Well, if you want to be technical, you can honestly say August has holidays, but come on.  How can National Mustard Day (the first Saturday of August) compare to, say, Mother’s Day?  What chance does Bad Poetry Day (the 18^th) have against a holiday as popular as Halloween?  For cryin’ in the mud, what sort of perverted mind decided to put Wiggle Your Toes Day (the 6^th) in August?  There’s no doubt about it:  August is home to all the crazy celebrations no other month wants.

I can just see it now.  All twelve months are seated in a conference room around a huge table donated by Arbor Day.  Before them squats a potato, pleading its case.  “Everything else has a day!  What about us?  If it weren’t for potatoes, Idaho wouldn’t even exist!”  Mr. Spud glares at the months with hiss forty seven eyes.

January pipes in, “Can’t do it.  Wouldn’t be prudent.  I’m overbooked as it is.  Not only do I have to support everyone’s hangover on the 1^st and ring in the New Year, I’ve got Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and to top it off I’ve got the Chinese New Year.  Can’t do it.”  January shudders and crosses its icicles.

The other months complain that their dance cards are also full.  August keeps its mouth shut because it doesn’t really have a real holiday to its name, and knows what will happen next.  Sure enough, the other months turn and stare at August as if it had passed gas.  Unable to stand the tension, August blurts out, “Fine!  I’ll take it!  Might as well, since I’ve got nothing important on my schedule.”  So National Potato Day is given the 19^th, which also happens to be Bill Clinton and Snuffleupagus’ birthday.

I’ve been wracking my brain trying to come up with a holiday that will measure up to the likes of St. Patrick’s Day and Flag Day.  The only thing I can think of so far that hasn’t been made a national holiday is Take Your Imaginary Friend to Work Day, but even this doesn’t rate equal billing to something as benign as April Fool’s Day.  Personally, I think National Left-Handers Day (the 13^th) should at least give all us southpaws the day off work, but good luck trying to that one through Congress.

August really should go on strike until it gets a real holiday.  Just imagine going to sleep on July 31^st and waking up on September 1^st.  This would mean one less month of summer, and what an impact it would have on students and teachers!  I may be on to something here.  Between the legions of kids haranguing their parents about having to go back to school after only two months off, and the army of teachers had to face those screaming meemees one month sooner . . . why, that alone could create mass hysteria, inflame irritable bowels and incite a rash of hair pulling, not to mention all the teeth gnashing.  I bet August only has to sit out one cycle to get the respect it deserves.  Let March have Sea Serpent Day (currently August 7^th).  Give Strange Music Day (the 24^th) to November – it can handle it as long as it doesn’t interfere with the beginning of Christmas music, which happens to start one day earlier each year.  Let some other month be saddled with the moniker of Air Conditioner Appreciation week.  If the holiday makers in power don’t give August it’s just reward, I say let August take a month off to teach them all a lesson.

Those of you wonderful readers who had the misfortune to be born in August, write your Representative, contact your Senator, irritate the President with your persistence.  You of all people know how important your month is – don’t give up until August is given equal status.  Rise up with one voice and demand a holiday more sophisticated than National Trail Mix Day (the 31^st).  Remember, though, to mention me in your protests, as I am more than willing to contract with the government to create a fitting celebration worthy of the grand month of August.  Good Luck!

Dream a Little Dream

Last night I had an Army-college-work dream, and I woke up exhausted this morning.  On any given night I’m liable to dream that I’m still a uniform-wearing Combat Medic, or that I’m back in college as usual trying to get out of class, or that I’m either driving a taxi or working patients up for a doctor.  But all in one?  Remind me not to mix Rice-A-Roni with gummy bears again.

Dreams have always fascinated me.  As a child, I had this recurring dream that I was in a strange house rummaging around in an upstairs bedroom where I found a secret door, and upon opening it was able to see into a completely different world.  Once I crossed over into that world and discovered that everything was edible.  I reached up and grabbed a couple of clouds and munched them down like cotton candy.  When I awoke my pillows were gone, and from that day on have had an aversion to chicken feathers.

Let’s talk about the meanings of dreams.  I’ve already suggested that what we eat prior to going to sleep can influence our dreams.  But that only goes so far.  You can’t blame every being-chased-while-you’re-naked-in-Times-Square dream on pizza.  There is a host of ‘experts’ who try to make a living telling you what your dreams are all about.  Buy one of those “Dreaming for Dummies” books and you’re liable to be spending your next paycheck having your palm and the bumps on your behind read by a psychic as they’re gazing at your stars and wallet.  Look, if you have a dream that your teeth are falling out, those guys will try telling you it’s all about hidden anxieties, fear of rejection or menopause.  What a bunch of hooey.  You probably forgot to brush your teeth before going to bed, or else you’re worried that jerk living next to you will catch you peeking at his girlfriend sunbathing and deliver a knuckle sandwich minus the pickles.  Bottom line is this: they’re your dreams, and they’re custom fit for you.  It’s silly to think that everyone on the planet that dreams of being naked in Times Square (ok, that’s the second time I’ve used that metaphor, but that’s the image in my head, and I’m stickin’ with it) is afraid of being exposed about something.  I may be having that dream because I left my clothes at home, or forgot to pay the laundry bill, or want everyone to see my marvelous physique.  Well, ok, that may be stretching it a little, but you get the idea.

The coolest dreams have got to be the ones where you can fly or leap tall buildings in a single bound or beat up a truckload of redneck demons with one foot tied behind your back.  If meatloaf gives me that kind of dream, I’ll take seconds.  I love it when I somersault out of a car doing eighty miles an hour, have time for a full manicure and pedicure while sailing through the air, and then land in the middle of an earthquaking tornado without messing up a single hair on my head.  Those kinds of dreams are awesome, and for the record, you should never be afraid of dying if you fall and land in your dream.  Just be afraid of where it bounces you.  Have you ever noticed that you can jump out of an airplane in your dream with no problem, but if you’re dreaming that you’re walking down a flight of stairs and trip, you jerk like you’ve just been tazed?  I hate when that happens, especially if I was headed down to the kitchen for another helping of meatloaf.

My wife says I speak in my dreams, but that I mumble so low she can’t make out what I’m saying.  What she doesn’t know is that in the dreamworld I’m proficient in mumble-speak – all fifty-four dialects.  I also know a smattering of gargleese and can snore in twenty nine different languages.  For me, the weirdest dream is the one where I know everybody and I’m familiar with my environment like I’ve lived there all my life, but the moment I wake up I have no earthly idea where I was or who those freaky people were.  Usually that sort of dream is so real I’m discombobulated for awhile upon waking.  Reminds me of Chuang Tzu when he said, “I dreamed I was a butterfly, flitting about in the sky; then I awoke.  Now I wonder: Am I a man who dreamt of being a butterfly, or am I a butterfly dreaming I am a man?”  I’m not sure, but I’d lay off the Moo Goo Gai Pan for at least an hour before you go to bed next time.

I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve got meatloaf in my dream oven and I don’t want it to overcook.  Sweet dreams!

A Plea for Help Part Two

The MAN is taking a cat nap on the couch, and the BEAST is on the floor next to him.  I am taking this opportunity to once again make an appeal to my new-found FELINE friends, as well as any sympathetic soul within the scope of this reading, urging assistance or advice on how to dispatch the BEAST once and for all.  Since my last plea for HELP the DOG has grown even larger, and I am afraid it will never stop growing.  It now has picked up the SADISTIC habit of using its weight to bowl me over so it can LICK me with its horrible, sloppy TONGUE.  I am at wits end here.  I spend the majority of my day grooming myself from head to toe, only to have the BEAST slobber on me and ruin my perfectly coiffed hair.  I HATE this MONSTER with every fiber of my being and will go to any length to DESTROY it!  I have figured out how to get the BEAST in trouble, though, and this gives me great joy!  Sometimes when the conditions are right, the MAN or WOMAN will leave papers important to them, or one of their noise-making talking things on the table in front of the couch.  When they are not looking I simply PUSH the items off the table and onto the floor.  The simple-minded DOG thinks that everything on the floor is HERS, and she CHEWS and MAULS the items until they are unrecognizable.  I LOVE to watch from afar as the MAN or WOMAN finds their possessions in the mouth of the BEAST and scolds it.  Tragically, though, the MONSTER slinks around their feet and gives them such a pathetic look that they invariably FORGIVE the DOG and pick it up and coddle it.  I CANNOT win for losing.

My day, when not consumed with plans to KILL the DOG, is filled with all sorts of inquiry and investigation.  I do wish there were another FELINE about to bounce my questions off, because I KNOW that two CATS are better than one.  For instance, all about the house, hanging from the ceiling, are these spinning bird-wing things that serve no purpose than to stir the fur around on flat surfaces.  Here is a photograph of one:

Another mystery revealed itself to me the other day as I was following the MAN about the house.  I have noticed that on several occasions every day the MAN goes into the WATER room and closes the door behind him.  I listen through the door and hear water running, but sometimes I can hear the MAN complain about some “damned water pill”.  This has always stoked my immense curiosity.  Imagine a pill that has the power to create WATER!  Well, the other day the MAN forgot to close the door all the way and I snuck in.  Imagine my SHOCK to discover that the MAN has the ability to PRODUCE bowls FULL of WATER!  I saw a tiny spigot attached to the front of him, and he was pouring gallons of water into a giant porcelin BOWL.  I suspect that the bowl is connected to the other bowls around the house where there are metal spigots that can spout WATER.  I have a new-found respect for the MAN!  Here is a picture of the giant BOWL he filled with water:

Finally, the other day the WOMAN brought a strange object into the house that immediately caused the BEAST to go into a frothy fury.  It barked and tried to bite the object without success, and upset the DOG so much that it began to VOMIT!  I immediately went to the WOMAN and rubbed my gratitude all over her.  However, neither SHE nor the MAN were happy with the BEAST’S reaction and tried calming it down.  I am happy to report that the DOG could not be brought down from its frantic state, so the MAN had to remove the strange object from the DOG’S presence.  Now I find myself obsessed with figuring out how to bring the object out for the BEAST when none of the HUMANS are home.  Here is a photograph of it:

I shall have to end this missive here, as the MAN has stopped snoring and will soon wake up.  Again, if ANYONE has any ideas on how to REMOVE the BEAST from this house, I will be forever grateful.  Here is a picture of it asleep, the only state I can TOLERATE:

A Collection of Words

We are all collectors, whether we admit to it or not.  Men usually collect tools, fishing gear, old shoes and bent nails, because you never know when you’ll need one.  Women typically collect cosmetics, kitchen utensils, safety pins and scraps of soap.  Kids are famous for amassing toys, bugs, bottle caps and uneaten portions of dinners past (usually hidden underneath cushions and behind heavy furniture).  Even our pets accumulate stuff, like bones, hairballs and valuables we humans leave within their grasp.  This reminds me of a friend who collected dog poop in his back yard.  Every time he’d invite us over for a barbeque I felt like I was in a Vietnamese mine field, and I wasn’t even in that war.

Actually, we oftentimes use the word ‘collector’ when we really mean ‘hoarder’.  There’s a show on cable that documents the worst of us, and even supplies a psychoanalyst to help throw stuff away.  Serious hoarders are nothing to laugh at, even though there’s a part of us that want to.  There are some who are compulsive buyers and then can’t get up the nerve to return the things they didn’t need to begin with.  Usually, though, the professional hoarder is just a sophisticated pack rat, using the same logic guys have for collecting bent nails.  If society regresses into anarchy, these people will rule the roost. 

There are the garden variety collectors, who save things like state quarters, Happy Meal toys and trading cards.  This is not unlike playing the stock market.  Joe Shmo may have an autographed baseball card from some unknown backup outfielder, but if that player’s team wins the World Series, and the unknown backup outfielder happened to catch the game winning fly ball, that card may be worth something.  Chances are, the outfielder will become famous, which will go to his head, and he’ll end up blowing all his money on bling and end up in jail for trying to get his autographed cards back.  Then the card’s value will soar.  Such is the irony of life.

You’ve heard the old saying “You are what you eat”.  The same holds true regarding what we collect.  If you collect stuffed animals, you’re fluffy, cuddly and stuffed.  If you collect stamps, you tend to be small and raggedy around the edges, avoid lines whenever possible, and secretly wish you were an upside down Wright brother’s plane.  If you’re a comic book collector, you’re colorful, graphic and have balloons coming out your mouth when you talk.  Look around you and you’ll see it’s true.

Of course, I don’t want to know the personality of some collectors.  Consider Steve Silberberg from Hull, Massachusetts, who has over 1,600 air sickness bags and is, ironically, single.  Makes me wonder how he is as a cook.  “Ok, here’s your dinner and, just in case . . .”   Then there’s Steve Salcedo from Indiana who collects street signs and traffic lights.  Next time I get pulled over for speeding, I blame him for taking the sign.  How about Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum in Alamo Heights, Texas?  Chances are he’s got a potty mouth.  He even has one with the Egyptian Pyramids on it.  Now that’s a toilet seat only a mummy could love. 

You remember earlier when I said women collect soap scraps?  Carol Vaughn from Birmingham, England has amassed over 5,000 bars of soap.  Whatever you do, don’t cuss around her unless you like the taste of soap.  A Mr. Graham Barker from Australia holds the Guiness Book of World Record’s largest collection of navel fluff, and as weird as this sounds, I’m jealous.  My father used to keep his in a naval jelly jar tucked away in his sock drawer and tried to get the rest of us to add to it, much to my mother’s protests.  How I wish I had that jar now.  Probably the most unusual collection belongs to Deb Conant from Massachusetts (must be in the water up there) who is curator and primary contributor of the one and only Burnt Food Museum.  She even tours the country exhibiting this assortment of crispy desserts and overcooked dinners.  She became hooked when, in 1980, she forgot a pan of hot apple cider on the stove and found it was able to stand on its own.  My wife says I could burn water, so perhaps I should contact this lady and see if she needs some to add to her exhibits.

Me?  I collect words.  If we are what we collect, that means I’m informative, entertaining and best of all, free.  What are you?

When One Meaning Just Isn’t Enough

As a writer, I am constantly challenged.  This statement could be understood in two ways, which makes it a really fun figure of speech called the double entendre.  Even though I don’t speak much French, I do know that this phrase has something to do with saying two things at once.  This makes it a cousin to speaking out of both sides of the mouth, which is what politicians have to learn before they get elected.  It doesn’t necessarily involve telling a lie, which is also part of a politician’s portfolio, but can mean two contradictory things.  For instance, if I want to tell someone that I don’t buy their particular brand of malarkey, and avoid getting punched in the nose, I will say, “I couldn’t agree with you more”. This could mean I agree wholeheartedly with them, or that I’ve suddenly found it impossible to agree with them.  Of course, now that I’ve told you, I can’t use this particular double entendre again – unless I intend the statement to be interpreted only one way, which makes it okay.

Literature is chock full of double entendres, and is a favorite form of wit amongst the most intelligent authors, a class that I haven’t been invited to attend yet.  Or maybe I was but just wasn’t bright enough to catch the hidden meaning.  A classic example of the double entendre is when Mr. Cannibal arrives home after a long day of shrinking heads, and Mrs. Cannibal says to him “We’re having missionaries for dinner tonight.”  The missionaries may very well have thought they would be dining on stew when they rang the Cannibal’s doorbell, but would soon discover that they were in a stew.  The 17^th century music hall singer, Marie Lloyd, was crazy about putting two meanings in the line of a song because she loved sticking it to the Victorian prudes of the day.  One of her songs was entitled “She Sits Among the Cabbages and Peas”.  This particular type of double entendre, which is pronounced the same as another word but differs in meaning, is called a “homophone”.  The first time I heard that word I thought it was a cruel joke about a gay ET calling home, until I learned it originated from the Greek and means ‘same voice’.  Those Greeks were such sly devils, weren’t they?

Don’t confuse double entendre with a double negative, such as ‘bipartisan support’, or doublespeak, such as the person saying ‘bipartisan support’.  The double entendre usually has a naughty side to it.  The sexy actress of the early silver screen, Mae West once said “I feel like a million tonight – but only one at a time.”  My personal favorite, which I advise anyone to say to the opposite sex in a social situation, especially if they want to spend the rest of the evening playing solitaire, is “If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”  If you’re interested in the concept of double entendres without all the hassle of trying to think of one, wait until someone says something, like your friend pondering if his car will make it into a parking spot by saying “I don’t think it will fit.”  Without missing a beat, reply, “That’s what she said.”  This is what I call the ‘he said, she said’ game, and can be used in almost any circumstances.  Usually people will roll their eyes and say “Please!” to which you add “That’s what he said.”  See how fun it can be?

You don’t have to go any further than the newspaper headlines to catch examples of a double entendre.  “Stolen Car Found by River” “Miners Refuse to Work after Death” “Astronaut Takes Blame for Gas in Space” “Colonoscope Considered World’s Most Powerful Telescope Because it Sees Far Past Uranus”.  The list goes on.  I particularly like the headline that read: “Couple Slain: Police Suspect Homicide”.  This peculiarity isn’t confined to newspaper headlines, either.  There’s a sign down the street that warns “Slow Children Ahead”.  Or how about the sign outside a secondhand shop: “We exchange anything – bicycles, washing machines, ect.  Why not bring your wife along and get a wonderful bargain?”  Some double entendres are so cool they’re sick.  I mean, they’re broken.  Uh, they’re like my sweat pants: off the hook.  Just look around or listen carefully and you’re liable to find one.  Let me leave you with a real life example that happened not too long ago:  A female news anchor who, the day after it was supposed to have snowed and hadn’t, turned to the weatherman and asked, “So Bob, where’s that eight inches you promised me last night?”  The station had to go to a commercial because the crew was rolling around on the floor.  If you’re still hungry for more double entendres, you can always ask my friend Hugh Jass.  He’s behind me every step of the way.

The Cat’s Meow

There was an article in the news recently that said a study was done which proved that cats are in control of their owners.  This causes me to wonder if there’s a gaggle of scientists somewhere who sit around all day thinking of ways to spend money on obvious things.  I could speculate on a wide variety of subjects that would make for easy studies, such as finding out if the sun really does rise in the east, but my cat wants me to stay on topic.

The study says felines have a particular way of mixing a purr with a cry when they want something like food or your favorite shoes, and this somehow reminds their owner of a hungry baby, causing the human to stop whatever they’re doing and look for a bottle and diaper.  I’m not smart enough to make this stuff up.  My cat, Jack, makes this precise sound whenever I get up in the morning, and it works like a charm.  I toss him one of my favorite shoes so he’ll shut up and let me have a peaceful cup of coffee.  I think he’s got me trained well, because I know what will happen if I don’t give into his demands: he waits for me to get comfortable and then pounces out of thin air to use my leg as a scratching post.  I’ve tried tricking Jack by putting scratching posts where my legs should be, but it’s hard to get comfortable when you’re hiding your legs behind your back, all the while trying to cross your scratching posts.  In times like this Jack looks at me as if I’m brain damaged then sneaks around behind and shreds my bent, folded and spindled legs.

Have you ever tried to get a cat to do anything?  They know who rules the roost.  Jack will toy with me by standing in front of any closed door and making that hungry baby sound, but when I run over to open it, he just stares at me as if he has no idea why I opened the door that he’s refusing to go through.  Whenever I call him by name he acts like I must be talking to the doorknob, so I have to resort to inhaling helium and yell “Here kitty kitty kitty!”  Usually by the time he saunters over to me, I’ve forgotten what I wanted him for.  It’s no fun getting old, especially if you’re slave to a cat.

My son told me about this cartoon he saw once where this dog and cat were laying side by side and thinking.  First of all, I know it must be a cartoon, as any respectable cat will tell you that dogs don’t have the capacity to think because all they have in their cranial cavity is a huge drool gland.  Secondly, it is highly unlikely that a dog and cat would lay side by side.  The cat demands top billing and must be at least two feet in front of the dog in the event the dog’s drool gland activates.  Anyway, my son said that in the cartoon, the dog was thinking, “My human feeds me, brushes me, bathes me, plays with me.  He must be a god!”  The cat has similar thoughts.  “My human feeds me, brushes me, bathes me, plays with me.  I must be a god!”  Even though the cartoonist’s fundamental message is sound – that dogs looks up to us and cats look down on us – I would never have imagined a cat thinking such things.  Instead of thinking “my human”, the typical cat regards us more like minions created to serve.  Finally, I’m not going to mention the obvious logical flaw that a cat would think his minion bathes him.  I’ve got permanent scars on my arms from the only time I attempted to bathe Jack.  A co-worker asked me once what was up with my arms, and instead of humiliating myself with the truth, I said I had been involved with an industrial paper shredder accident.  I still haven’t figured out what to say about my legs, though.  There’s no way a paper shredder could attack both my arms and legs, unless a couple of them ganged up on me.  Now that’s a disturbing image.

The study quotes a Karen McComb of the University of Sussex who says, “Solicitation purring is probably more acceptable to humans than overt meowing, which is likely to get cats ejected from the bedroom.”  That’ a funny phrase, “solicitation purring”.  I can just imagine getting a knock on my front door and finding a cat there trying to sell me a magazine subscription.  I probably would but a subscription to Cat Fancy just to make the cat stop that sound.

Any respectable cat slave will tell you that cats are just too smart to go around soliciting in public.  They get the humans to do that for them.  I bet behind any successful salesman sits a cat on his or her throne, pulling the strings.  Home is another matter altogether, though.  Jack does not hesitate doing his cry-purr thing whenever he wants the refrigerator door opened, for instance, or when he wants the toilet seat left up.  That reminds me of the time I found him squatting over my can of Mountain Dew one day, and when I confronted him about it, he answered with, “Well, you do that in my drink bowl.”  Since then I’ve switched to bottles.  I hope he doesn’t know how to unscrew a bottle cap.  On the other hand, any creature that can manipulate a human as much as cats do would find a bottle cap child’s play.

Time to go.  Jack’s making that purr-cry sound again, and if I know what’s good for my legs, I’d better to attend to him quickly.

A Taste For Irony (and other such metals)

The other day I noticed something unusual as I slipped some of my dinner under the table for our cat Jack and puppy Birdie: it’s easier to slip mashed potatoes under the table than trying to push a whole turkey down there.  Also, people tend to notice when the critters begin fighting for the legs.  I also noticed that Jack is a lot more selective in what he does and doesn’t eat, whereas Birdie will eat first and wonder what it was later.  It’s a known fact (I like saying that – ‘a known fact’ – as if what you say after should not be questioned) that dogs and cats have different tastes.  Dogs prefer postmen and cats prefer my bare legs.

After a bit of research I discovered that dogs have about twice the taste buds of a cat, and that’s why our feline friends tend to be cats are finicky eaters.  If I try giving him a kernel of corn he’ll look at me and say “You’ve got to be joking.  Where’s the beef?”  That’s when I remind him of the time I failed my furniture-making finals in college because the professor found a piece of corn in my stool.  Jack doesn’t appreciate the fine art of woodworking humor.  Birdie, on the other hand, will laugh at anything as long as I keep the food coming.  She doesn’t even waste time chewing.  She reminds me of a vacuum cleaner, especially between meals when she licks the dining room floor trying to get every last atom of dropped vittles.persnickety about what they eat.  Most foods taste like cardboard.  Actually, cardboard isn’t all that bad if you toss a little spaghetti sauce and parmesan cheese on it.  But try selling that to a cat.   I bet every cat owner in the world has at least once in their life gone out and bought some kind of food or treat they think their kitty will like only to have it turn into a science experiment on mold growth.  Dogs, though, will eat poop wrapped in cardboard even without the spaghetti sauce and parmesan cheese.  Well, at least Birdie will.  She doesn’t even need the cardboard.  The first time I saw her wolf down some dried number two I almost threw up.  I’m glad I didn’t because Birdie would have considered it a hot lunch.  Now I use her to keep the litter box clean.  If you see my son Adam, don’t tell him this as it may cause him to change his mind about letting Birdie lick his tonsils.  No wonder Jack considers Birdie some sort of mutant alien species.  Believe it or not, scientists even have a name for this.  It’s called ‘coprophagy’.  I don’t care what they call it.  I’m thinking of farming her out to some of the neighbors – for a fee, of course.

But then I read that humans have about twice the taste buds of a dog.  Wait just one minute here.  If that’s true, we’ll pretty much eat anything that fits in our mouths.  Now everything is starting to make sense.  There’s a reality show on TV that spotlights people with weird eating disorders.  I saw a lady who likes to chew on chalk.  Whenever she farts dust flies out her butt.  I feel sorry for her kids.  “Ok, who’d turn is it to take my cheeks out back and bang the powder off of them?”  Then I saw a man who made it into the Guinness record books for eating a freakin’ CAR!  Man, I wouldn’t want to be his plumber.  I can see how someone could consume a car, especially if they chopped it up small enough and followed with some white Zinfandel.  What would really impress me is to see the guy put the car back together again after it passes through his digestive system.  Gives new meaning to the term “piece of shit”.  That reality show has people gnawing on about everything you can imagine.  There is an actual record of this man in 1985 who had to have surgery after doctors found – get this: 212 objects in his stomach, including fifty-three toothbrushes, two razors, two radioscopic aerials and 150 handles of razors.  That’s not even the worst case!  In 1927 a 42 year old woman went to the doctor complaining of slight abdominal pain, and they eventually found 2,533 objects in her stomach, including 947 bent pins!  What a cheap date.  “Listen, you start in on the napkin holder and salt shaker while I get a salad.”  No wonder Birdie considers humans some sort of mutant alien species.  Point taken.  Now I’m starting to get a bit hungry.  I wonder how this keyboard will taste with a touch of garlic in an oil soup?