"Introduction to Babies" by Congressman Todd Akin

EXCERPT from: "Introduction to Babies: Where You Done Came From (1st & Final edition) by Congressman Todd Akin (Missouri State Board of Education, Tea Party Press, 2012):

The way this works is that when them womens is goin' through their ovulatin' cyclicals, something God put inside their uteruseseses is able to see which sperms is wearin' white hats (good sperms) and which sperms is wearin' black hats (bad sperms).

Then there is like this pair of "divine bouncers" - each workin' a door of the flopian tube station - and these guys has like a "hat check" responsibility, and them there divine bouncers say "you go ahead" to the white-hatted sperms, but all of them there black-hatted sperms get tossed out with extreme prejudice via the vaginal canal system.

And then nine months later a baby is borned.

Or not.

It depends on whether the womens egg and a white-hatted sperm get along. You know, whether they feel comfortable with each other, or as we like to say in church: "compatiBIBLE."


[ATTENTION STUDENTS: If you find yourself wanting more information on this subject, just pray. 'Cause remember: An inquisitive mind is the devil's soil. Let your faith be your Weed-B-Gone®!]

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Tommy's Vomit

In 1986 and 1987 I was Head of the Social Sciences department of the Dayton public library.  This meant that every fourth Saturday I was in charge of the Main Library and all 18 branches.  Typically, this was not a problem.  But the threat of a serious event always kind of hung over my head like a cloud.

Early one Saturday morning, Mike, the Pinkerton guard, walked into my office and said "We got a problem."  I couldn't imagine what, since we had just opened, but Mike indicated that I should follow him.

As we headed toward the front staircase I noticed one of our regular homeless guys (I'm pretty sure his name was Tommy) sitting at a table.  He looked up at me rather sheepishly and then quickly turned away.  Tommy was a frail older guy, maybe in his mid-to-late 60s.  Tommy was also an epileptic.  When I saw that he wasn't seizing up I immediately thought that this "problem" couldn't be that bad.

Mike walked straight up to a narrow planter that ran parallel to the front staircase.  Standing directly over the planter, he pointed.  I looked and immediately saw (and smelled) a large splatter of vomit.  When I glanced back at Mike he nodded towards Tommy.  By this time Tommy had taken on the appearance of a whipped pup.  After a few seconds of us looking at him, he blurted out in a feeble attempt at self-defense: "At least most of it's in the planter."

Normally, my next move would have been a no-brainer.  Call the maintenance department.  Unfortunately, it was a Saturday morning, just after 9:00, and the maintenance guy didn't come in until 11:00.  I weighed my options and decided that rather than taking advantage of the always helpful "other duties as assigned" section that appeared at the bottom of everyone's job description, it would be simpler just to clean the mess up myself.

By the time I returned from the maintenance closet with the mop bucket and cleaning supplies, Mike and Tommy were both standing at the planter, gazing intently.  I started working on my very unexpected Saturday chore when Mike announced: "Damn, Tommy - you gotta chew your food better!  I can see everything that you ate."  Tommy explained that he was always hungry and so he usually ate pretty quickly.

I stopped mucking homeless hurl for a couple of seconds and stared at the wall - replaying the conversation that I had just heard.

As soon as I got back to cleaning up, Tommy suddenly became quite animated and indignantly asked: "Where are my green beans?!"  He then explained to Mike that he had eaten green beans at the shelter the night before and that they should be represented in his vomit.

That's right.  Tommy felt gastrointestinally short-changed. 

I guess when a person is destitute and living day-to-day the parameters of ownership are completely redefined.   

After I finished cleaning up, Mike asked me if he should kick Tommy out of the library.  I said "For vomiting?"  He just kind of shrugged.  I told him "No" that he should not kick Tommy out of the library.  But I did ask him to make sure that Tommy remained seated very close to an exit door and that he should hustle Tommy outside if he senses any sort of heaving that is not epilepsy-related.

I am happy to report that Tommy made it through the remainder of that Saturday without any type of incident. 

Bird Of Paradise

I worked at the Dayton public library Social Sciences reference desk during the mid-80s. The desk was at the end of a long hall that led to and from one of the library's main entrances. To the left of the desk, along the west window, there were several plants, including a very large bird of paradise.

In about 1983 or '84, a black man, maybe in his late 20s, took a considerable liking to both the bird of paradise plant and to me. He was a really nice guy - always polite to staff and patrons. He also was as gay as gay could be, and in both senses of the word. Political correctness and stereotypes be damned - this guy literally pranced about the building.

He would visit the library every week or so. I always knew when he had entered the building because when he got about halfway down the hall - heading straight towards the Social Sciences reference desk - he would immediately begin singing out: "Mr. Smith! . . . Oh Mr. Smith! . . . How is our bird of paradise today?!"

Naturally, I turned about eighty shades of red. But being a public servant in a public building, I was required to stand my ground and greet him as he very quickly approached the desk. For better or for worse, I was this guy's captive audience.

The only way that I could take control of the situation was to walk him away from the public reference desk and over to the greatly admired bird of paradise. He would take considerable delight in showing me how much it had grown since his last visit. Sometimes he would also do some minor hand pruning.

One time I tried to explain to him that since the library was publicly funded, the plant was technically not "our" bird of paradise, but actually belonged to the entire community. He would just gaze at me and smile - not buying any part of my public funding presentation.

I know for a fact that the bird pf paradise plant is long gone, but I often wonder what happened to that guy. He was actually pretty entertaining, and had a great sense of humor. He knew full well that he was embarrassing the hell out of me every time he came into the library, but so be it. The guy simply refused to be denied his fun, and for that, I will always respect him.

I Am One Lucky Fellow

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Much to my delight, they've opened a new Subway about a half a mile from my apartment. To celebrate this blesséd event, coupons were sent out about two weeks ago, and then identical coupons were mailed once again over the weekend. Included in each of those sets of mailers were two coupons for a *free* 6 inch sub at the new store - no purchase necessary. So that means I have four free sub coupons that do not expire until June 30th, right?

Wrong.

The three elderly folks that I share a mailbox with always pitch their junk mail into a shared trash can by the front door. Yep. That's right. I snatched up them sonsabitches and so I now have *16* coupons for a free sub. And since I drink water (no soda for this guy - how do you think I keep this ghoul-uh . . . I mean, girlish figure?) - that's 80 bucks worth of free grub!

Now that's what I call *REAL* sandwich value! 


Butt weight . . . there's more!

In case you didn't know, Tuesday is "free cookie" day at Subway. Guess where you can find me every Tuesday until July? That's right. I'll be at Subway!

But my story doesn't end here.

Today, while I was enjoying my free 6 inch BMT on wheat (not toasted) with all da trimmins, what four songs should happen to come on the in-store music station? It would be these four songs:

"I Feel Good" by James Brown "
"Kid" by The Pretenders
"Everlasting Love" by Robert Knight . . . and
"Teddy Bear" by The King himself, Elvis Presley

Oh yeah. That music station went "yard" four times . . . folks, we're talkin' four "taters" . . . back-to-back-to-back-to-back!

It don't get much better than this, people.

"You load 16 subs
And whatdya get?
Another pound bigger*
And closer to death"
(M. Travis/K. Smith)

*ED. NOTE: that would be another pound *per sub* - your poundage may vary.

My Very First Musical Listening Device

 
This is a stock photo of my very first musical listening device.

It is called a "radio" (pronounced: ray-dee-oh). 

It was part of Magnavox' 1966 line of portable transistor radios. I was 12-years-old and in the 6th grade at the time of purchase. It came w ith a fake leather protective case.

I heard many a Beatles, Rolling Stones, Monkees, and Who song (and other great bands) for *the very first time* on this little 2 1/2 x 3 1/2 inch eight transistor box 'o tuneage.

The radio went with me everywhere. I walked around the house with it. I took it outside to the front porch, to the backyard swing set, and to Highland Park - located just on the other side of the alley behind ye olde Smith estate (i.e. deepest East Dayton). I also slept with it under my pillow every night for several years.

That radio rocked.

And I rocked with it.

That radio and I made rock.

My Scariest Concert Experience

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Back in December 1978, an old girlfriend and I went to see The J. Geils Band and Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes at Hara Arena. We were down on the floor near the right edge of the stage, surrounded by these leather-clad biker dudes. Southside opened the show and almost immediately there was some serious bad blood between The Miami Horns (Southside's amazing horn section) an d these hard-core biker guys (back then The J. Geils Band had this weird biker subset in their fan base).

It was pretty obvious that something had been brewing for awhile. There was lots of shouting, finger pointing, and a bunch of crap being thrown back and forth (and I don't mean hotel keys or panties). Had the thing really blown up, I probably would've put my money on the biker guys, but the Jersey fellas in The Miami Horns were definitely no slouches (imagine five guys from "The Sopranos" with horns).

Of course, it didn't help the tension level that my girlfriend was really hot (Hi Margo!) and the biker guys had duly noted the same. I mean, I would have defended her honor (and my vested interest), but unfortunately, basic physics teaches us that throwing punches while running in the exact opposite direction can be a bit problematic, or at least highly ineffective.

I thought about crying out "C'mon people! No more Altamonts!" and then seeing if maybe the biker dudes wanted to join hands for a swaying version of "Kumbaya" (preferably the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement), but I opted to shitcan the idea. I'm pretty sure that my girlfriend was grateful for that decision - and not because she wasn't fond of the Peter, Paul, and Mary arrangement, because she was.

Unfortunately, we didn't stick around for J. Geils' set because when Southside was done more bikers started to crowd around the stage area.

I still wish that we could have all just gotten along.

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Blue Ribbon Dinner With The Big Guy

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Apparently, tonight's White House dinner for UK prime minister Cameron will be served on The White House South Lawn. The theme of the dinner is "America's Backyard." The event is intended to be a tribute to the "quintessentially American tradition" of backyards as gathering places:

"The first course will be crisped halibut with potato crust, served on a bed of braised baby kale harvested from the White House garden. Dessert will be steamed lemon pudding, prepared with huckleberry sauce from Idaho. The guests will then dine on bison Wellington -- a close relative of beef Wellington."

Oh boy - you just gotta love the great tradition of the American picnic.


["Hey - B-dawg! . . . Yo! . . . Big Guy! Over here! Yeah! Hey - any chance you could hook my bison up with a slice a cheese? . . . Huh? Yeah - pepper jack is fine. Hey! Where'd Michelle get to? Damn! I told that woman we was up next for Jarts!"]

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New Jersey Governor Chris Christie

(pictured left to right: Governor Christie, Governor Christie, Governor Christie, some chick with a phone - photo on loan from the Rutgers University Wide Angle Lens Collection)

Yesterday at a political rally, New Jersey governor Chris Christie called one of his constituents - Iraq Navy Seal veteran and current Rutgers-Camden University law student William Brown - an "idiot."

Hmmm . . . what is it about this Christie fella that makes me think that engaging in a game of name-calling might not be to his advantage?

Case in point: "Hey Governor! Is that your half-sister pictured with you? Oh - wait. I guess that technically *all* of your sisters are half of you!"

[boom-boom CHISS!]

On a separate note, if our higher education system has turned our current crop of law students into "sluts" and "idiots" then President Obama may want to re-think his hopes for every young person receiving a college education.

Just a thought.


"Damn, man, I'm governor, could you just shut up for a second?!"
(C. Christie, "explaining" himself to the crowd after William Brown was escorted from the rally site)