Perhaps I am just an unusually smart person. Or especially practical. Or maybe, just maybe, I haven’t hit my head so many times that I routinely need to do stupid things.
But for most of my life, I have tried my best to not put things near my head that would make my mother panic. (I was an incredibly thoughtful child.)
I never, for example, played football. I never did bobsledding that would have me plunge head-first down an icy mountain. I will admit to skiing headfirst into a stonewall in France, but I can assure you that was unintentional.
So when I read that some genius had developed the perfect “concealed weapon” well, I had to scratch my head. And thank my lucky stars that my head was still on my shoulders while I was at it.
You see, this genius developed this gun:
Google Image
Because what could possibly go wrong with putting a cell phone/gun against your head? Perhaps that way you can answer when God calls and suggests you run for public office.
As a young woman, I dreamed of being an actress. So today/tonight, it is only fitting that I tell you this story.
You know how they say that life is what happens when you’re making other plans. It’s true. I’m living proof.
I had everything it takes to be a fine, award winning actress. I was talented, pretty, had good comedic timing, and a voice that could be heard in the cheap seats.
What I didn’t have was guts. Good guts. My GI tract erupted in high school leaving my future in the hands of jobs that offered health insurance instead of fame and glory. Damn.
Oh, and I lacked the guts to go for it anyway. Once I made a wrong exit and my acting career died in a broom closet, that is.
But even after leaving my dream in tatters with the mops and brooms, I continued to pipe-dream. That’s different than the real thing, and you don’t have to remember lines, or stage directions or what to do with props. It’s actually much easier. You get to keep your privacy, too, which is nice.
Most of my friends are aware of this fantasy of mine, and of my need to, from time to time, stand on a table (instead of a stage) and tell a story. It often involves alcoholic beverages. The table standing, not necessarily the story.
Right now I’m going to tell you about the night I received my Oscars. [Feel free to stop here if you’ve heard this one.]
It was an incredibly special night for me. An honor really. Well, actually, two honors. Two Oscars. Two Awards. But I only got to make one speech.
It was 1983, and some really fun people worked in my office that summer, one of whom, Jon, was from the area. Carol, Mike, Jon and I all went to Jon’s house one night. You see, 1983 was still in the Bronze Age, and Jon’s parents were on the cutting age of technology, because they had a VCR. And Risky Business had just come out on video.
In the middle of the movie, we took a beer/bathroom break. And guess what I spotted, casually stuck on the bookshelf in the TV room of Rob’s house.
Oscar
And Oscar
It turned out that Jon’s father was a filmmaker. Documentary films. My pals presented me with two Oscars for Documentary Filmmaking. Sadly, not one of us had a camera. Probably just as well, because not many stars accept wearing blue jeans.
Receiving Oscar, and his twin, Oscar, was a special honor to me, since I had neither made, nor been in any documentary films, nor even fetched donuts and coffee for the real filmmakers. Regardless, I got to hold Oscar and Oscar, and I got to make a speech accepting my Academy Awards. So I am in an unusual club of people who have never actually acted or contributed in any way, shape or form to a movie, who has been presented an Academy Award.
Yes, I’mthat good.
[Yeah, it’s a repeat. But one can never have too many Academy Award stories. Amirite?]
There are responsibilities that I take seriously. And giving all of you the scoop on poop is one of them.
But this week there is just too much. Too much scoop on poop, even for me.
Still, I can’t hold it all in. I must let it go. Besides, as I explained in Trifecta! all good comedy bits come in threes. So I had to, ummm, unload.
Number One: The first story is one that will, perhaps, ease your mind about all that downtime you spend at work in the bathroom. Because someone has invented a calculator to, well, calculate, how much money you make while on the pot.
Please don’t anyone tell my boss about this calculator. This image from the “Paid To Poo Calculator/Plumbworld”. I did not make that up.
***
Number Two: This one is toilet-focused as well. And really as suggested in this article, it could really save all of our asses, worldwide. I’m not just shitting you!
The article says that a British University (too embarrassed to own up to its research and identify itself) has developed:
A toilet that does not need water, a sewage system or external power but instead uses nanotechnology to treat human waste, produce clean water and keep smells at bay.
You won’t need that Brita Filter for long!
No need for this! Wikimedia Image
Seriously, though, a waterless toilet that could be developed and mass produced cheaply, and that would produce potable water, well, that would be truly wonderful for the world.
Science is pretty damn cool sometimes.
***
Number Three:
As a kid, a “Number Three” meant a fart. Usually an SBD — a “silent but deadly” one. But this number three? Far less benign.
Now as a person with serious bowel disease, I will confess that I worry that some day I will “go” the way of many famous people. That I will die literally on the loo. Those people include Elvis (who did not leave the building), Judy Garland (who did not make this list), and Catherine the Great of Russia (who may or may not have died on the toilet but her descendants have preferred the version to the one that says she died-while-having-sex-with-a-horse).
Still, if I die by poop, I’d always expected it would come from below the belt. Not above. And certainly not far above.
Shit! Now I have something new to worry about. Just what I need. Death via blue ice falling from the sky.
Wanna guess what blue ice is?
Apparently, blue ice is frozen shit falling from the sky. And pee too. Raining down from airplanes. And it is landing on and injuring unsuspecting people.
The newspaper claims that aviation scientists believe she may well have had the misfortune to become one of an incredibly rare group: people who have been hit by what the airline industry coyly calls “blue ice”.
That’s its euphemism for the frozen human waste that very occasionally forms around the overflow outlets for aeroplane toilets, and then falls to earth. “Blue” because of the chemicals added to the toilets in planes to reduce odour and break down the waste.
In it, George D. Lundberg, MD, persuasively argued that maybe the vehemence of gun owners protecting their so-called “right to bear arms” isn’t so much an intellectual argument as one fueled by addiction. And I think that Dr. Lundberg may be on to something.
He first listed the nine symptoms of substance addiction:
Availability of the agent for experimentation;
Initial use producing pleasure followed by subsequent pleasant episodes of use and positive secondary reinforcement;
Psychological dependence or habituation;
Tolerance, with need to use more to get the same effect;
Chemical physical dependence;
Withdrawal symptoms when the agent is taken away;
Drug-seeking behavior;
Continued use even when obvious harm has been experienced; and
Rationalization and denial.
Then, Dr. Lundberg states that, like addictions to gambling and sex, with an addiction to guns, there is no physical/chemical addiction. But the other symptoms? Check, check, check. Check-mate.
Here, in fact, is Dr. Lundberg’s gun addiction checklist:
Availability? Check;
Positive reinforcement? Check;
Habituation? Check;
Tolerance? Big check. Once someone becomes a gun owner, adding guns is usual; one is not enough. The average American gun-owning household includes 8.1 firearms, up from 4.1 in 1994. The NRA goes bonkers about any suggestion of limits;
Chemical dependence? No;
Withdrawal? I have not personally seen a convulsion in a gun-owning doctor when confronted with the possibility of losing his or her guns, but pretty damn close. I mean….;
Weapon-seeking behavior? Check;
Continued use despite harmful results? Check; and
Rationalization and denial? Check.
I think that Dr. Lundberg is on to something.
I think the issue of gun addiction deserves some attention today, as President Obama unveils the measures he can take towards sane gun control laws because Congress won’t.
President Obama hugged Mark Barden, whose son was killed in the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in 2012, before announcing his executive action on gun control in the East Room of the White House. Photo Credit Doug Mills/The New York Times
Thanks, Mr. President. Because 90% of Americans believe in stronger gun laws. And because 100% of us remember this:
FiftyFourandAHalf 