We're Talkin' Hardball 2014

I'm so excited for Opening Day of Major League Baseball—America's least polar vortex-compatible team sport! Here is my overview of the 2014 season, replete with predictions that might even be accurate. (Note: An asterisk predicts a Wild Card team.)

National League East

1. Washington Nationals: Unlike last season, the Nationals should deliver on their prodigious hype in 2014. Bryce Harper, now old enough to legally drink, seems poised to emerge as an elite outfielder. Infielders Ryan Zimmerman and Ian Desmond will likely both belt over 20 homers and get on-base often. The Nationals' clear strength, however, is their pitching staff. Between strikeout masters Stephen Strasburg and Gio Gonzalez and the crafty Jordan Zimmerman, the Nats could produce two 20-game winners.

2. * Atlanta Braves: The tomahawk chop chanters could be World Series contenders. Led by first baseman Freddie Freeman, centerfielder Justin Upton, and a well-rounded supporting cast, their offense can produce. The Braves also have depth in their five-man rotation and closer Craig Kimbrel has a knack for striking out the side in the ninth inning.

3. Philadelphia Phillies: Infielders Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, and Jimmy Rollins are all well beyond the primes they established circa 2008. At age 35, Cliff Lee can still dominate on the mound, but nevertheless, the Phillies are too old to make a playoff push as they are currently constituted. The trade deadline and a rebuilding process await.

4. New York Mets: Losing young starter Matt Harvey to Tommy John surgery will preclude them from contending in 2014. Actually, even with Harvey, the Mets wouldn't have a playoff team. Third baseman David “Captain America” Wright is a very good player with a mediocre supporting cast.

5. Florida Marlins: Pitching wunderkind Jose Fernandez and bomber Giancarlo Stanton are players worth noting on an otherwise awful team.


NL CENTRAL

1. St. Louis Cardinals: The reigning National League champs are a safe bet to win the division again. Leadoff man Matt Carpenter scored a mind-boggling 126 runs last season. He should set the table for run-producers like Matt Holiday, Allen Craig, and one of the game's best catchers, Yadier Molina. The Cardinals' rotation is led by Cy Young hopeful Adam Wainwright and aspiring phenom Michael Wacha. Like it or not, we'll probably be watching the Redbirds compete in October.

2. Cincinnati Reds: Owing to middle-tier hitting, good pitching, and a closer who throws nasty heat (Aroldis Chapman), the Reds should finish above .500. With a judicious eye for balls and strikes, first baseman Joey Votto excels at drawing walks, but his approach has become too passive and he doesn't drive in as many runs as the Reds need him to. Defensively, Brandon Phillips is the most dazzling second baseman in baseball, but he's not an ideal cleanup hitter. Expect Johnny Cueto and Mat Latos to collectively win 30 games.

3. Milwaukee Brewers: With face-of-the-franchise Ryan Braun set to return from a disgraceful suspension, the Brewers' lineup should produce oodles of runs. Centerfielder Carlos Gomez and shortstop Jean Segura are dynamic cornerstones with All-Star talent. Their starting pitching figures to be solid but not great. Crew fans are advised to hope new acquisition Matt Garza can stay healthy. Compared to 2013, they should have better fortune where injuries and embarrassing scandals are concerned, but if their bullpen remains as faulty, the Brewers won't contend for a Wild Card spot.

4. Pittsburgh Pirates: Though reigning MVP Andrew McCutchen is an outstanding ballplayer, don't expect the Pirates to duplicate the success they had in 2013. Outfielder Starling Marte and pitcher Gerrit Cole could soon become impact players, but overall, their roster is underwhelming and it's unlikely they'll overachieve to the degree that they did last season.

5. Chicago Cubs: The perennial slogan of the north side's lovable losers, “Wait until next year,” is sure to be bandied about by early May at Wrigley Field—only this time, the adage might be justified. The Cubs are loaded with promising prospects in their farm system. 2014, however, will be a woeful season. At the very least, they're hoping to see progress from core players such as young first baseman Anthony Rizzo, shortstop Starlin Castro (who regressed from being a feisty hit-machine to managing just a .245 batting average), and ace-by-process-of-elimination Jeff Samardzija.


NL WEST

1. Los Angeles Dodgers: The Dodgers would be a colossal disappointment if they didn't at least earn a playoff spot. Clayton Kershaw and Zack Greinke are probably the best tandem of starters in baseball. Their lineup features a handful of All-Star-caliber hitters such as Hanley Ramirez, Adrian Gonzalez, Yasiel Puig, and (if healthy) Matt Kemp. What's more, their closer Kenley Jansen won't surrender too many late-inning leads.

2. * San Francisco Giants: Not long ago, the Giants won the World Series twice in three years. They specialize in winning close games by means of great pitching, opportunistic hitting, and a stingy bullpen. Matt Cain and Madison Bumgarner highlight their rotation, Buster Posey and Hunter Pence drive in runs, and Sergio Romo saves leads.

3. Arizona Diamondbacks: If you remember no one else from this respectable yet innocuous team, don't forget the name Paul Goldschmidt. The All-Star first baseman is one of the game's most remarkable talents, but the roster around him needs to be upgraded before his D-Backs can contend.

4. Colorado Rockies: No surprises here. Basically every year, Colorado has a few great players like Troy Tulowitzki and Carlos Gonzalez who benefit from hitting in the thin air of the Rocky Mountains—where safety squeezes sometimes lead to accidental home runs—but their pitching is deplorable. Still, Tulowitzki and CarGo ought to have monster seasons.

5. San Diego Padres: With a middling lineup and unexceptional pitching, the Padres will be overmatched more often than not. On the odd chance you're looking for reasons to get jacked about the 2014 Padres, second baseman Jedd Gyorko possesses plenty of pop and shortstop Everth Cabrera may steal 40 bases.


American League East

1. New York Yankees: The Pinstripes failed to reach the playoffs last year, but they haven't fallen short of the postseason in consecutive (full) seasons since '92 and '93. To the tune of Darth Vader's dirge, the evil empire spent the winter distributing checks to high-priced free agents like catcher Brian McCann and outfielders Jacoby Ellsbury and the aging but still productive Carlos Beltran. In a truly obscene gesture to small-market teams, the Yankees then added Masahiro Tanaka, who was undefeated (24-0) in Japan last season. Holdovers CC Sabathia, Alfonso Soriano, and Derek Jeter are too old to perform at the level they once did, but still, the damn Yankees are built to win now.

2. * Tampa Bay Rays: The anti-Yankees have thrived on a modest budget by drafting and developing homegrown talent. This is especially true of their pitching staff. Matt Moore, David Price, and Alex Cobb are all in their 20s and poised to post winning records and low ERA's. Though less formidable, their offensive attack was strengthened last year by rookie outfielder Wil Myers. He figures to slug in the meat of the order along with Evan Longoria and the versatile Ben Zobrist. The embattled Heath Bell will vie to become their closer, which means their bullpen could be an issue.

3. * Boston Red Sox: Two seasons ago, everything went wrong for the Red Sox. Last season saw a total reversal of fortune that led to their third World Series title in a decade. In 2014, some middle-ground of luck should be established; they’ll be competitive but a repeat is doubtful. With Jacoby Ellsbury departed, their lineup probably won’t score as often. Second baseman Dustin Pedroia and DH David Ortiz are productive, veteran leaders and bona fide heroes of Boston sports. On the mound, Jon Lester is a legit number-one starter. Clay Buchholz is very good but brittle. Their bullpen should be sterling.

4. Baltimore Orioles: Their lineup is awesome, but their starting pitching could be too dubious to earn a playoff spot. Chris Tillman will get run support, and consequently wins, but he's not a certifiable number-one. That aforementioned awesome lineup is bolstered by outfielder Adam Jones, first baseman Chris Davis, and newly acquired Nelson Cruz—but Baltimore will have to trade some hitting in exchange for pitching before the deadline in order to reach the postseason.

5. Toronto Blue Jays: Shortstop Jose Reyes is an electrifying leadoff man and Edwin Encarnacion is a beast, but the Jays' weak pitching will surrender more runs than their potent offense can score. Their division is brutal, too.


AL CENTRAL

1. Detroit Tigers: The annual favorite in their subpar division, the Tigers have impact players as well as notable contributors both at the plate and on the mound. Offensively, they swapped Prince Fielder for second baseman Ian Kinsler—who seems motivated to prove the Tigers got the better end of the deal. Outfielders Austin Jackson and the ageless Torii Hunter get on base, score runs, and provide a little home run thump, too. They precede Miguel Cabrera, the most dangerous slugger in baseball. Starter Justin Verlander was shockingly hittable last season, while Max Scherzer was as masterful as—well, Justin Verlander. As a duo, my hunch is that they’ll have even more shared success in 2014.

2. Kansas City Royals: On the cusp of finally returning to the postseason for the first time since 1985, the Royals wisely acquired the underrated Norichika Aoki to kick-start a lineup that includes capable hitters such as Alex Gordon, Billy Butler, and Eric Hosmer. Their closer, Greg Holland, totaled 47 saves last season. Their Achilles' heel is their rotation, which becomes dicey when someone other than James Shields takes the mound.

3. Cleveland Indians: The Tribe has a decent lineup, a poor rotation, and a closer who blew too many saves the last two seasons (Brewers' castaway John Axford). In a stouter division, they might very well finish last. Jason Kipnis is emerging as an elite second baseman and Carlos Santana is a proven cleanup hitter, but the Indians sorely lack shutdown pitching.

4. Chicago White Sox: Aside from Cy Young hopeful Chris Sale, this team lacks impact players. First baseman Jose Abreu could win Rookie of the Year, but aside from that, all indications are that it will be a pitiful summer for baseball in The Windy City.

5. Minnesota Twins: With a feeble offense, substandard pitching, and prospects still in development, the Twins equate to the Cubs of the American League.


AL West

1. Texas Rangers: Postseason underachievement prompted Prince Fielder’s trade to Texas, but he should thrive in the hitter-friendly confines of Rangers Park. The team also added outfielders Shin-Soo Choo and Alex Rios via free agency, who should steal bases and plate runs batting in front of mashers like Fielder and All-Star Adrián Beltré. Japanese import Yu Darvish is a sensational young pitcher and my pick to win the AL Cy Young. The rest of Texas’ rotation is solid, but they have a much lower ceiling. Their bullpen is the Rangers’ X factor.

2. Oakland Athletics: Though their “Moneyball” approach so often leads to overachieving surprises, the A's can't match the Rangers' talent and the AL East is stacked. Therefore, I'm betting against a Wild Card berth, but outfielders Coco Crisp and Yoenes Cespedes, third baseman Josh Donaldson, and some promising young pitchers make them a team worth watching.

3. Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim: Outfielder Mike Trout is a virtuoso of a ballplayer, but the Angels sorely need both Albert Pujols and Josh Hamilton to redeem themselves and somehow justify their insanely lucrative contracts. Pitchers Jered Weaver and C.J. Wilson provide a steady one-two punch, but after them, the Angels don't have much pitching depth.

4. Seattle Mariners: “King” Felix Hernandez may be getting a bit more run support with the addition of slugger Robinson Cano, but the Mariners still have plenty of weaknesses in their lineup. Although Hernandez could win a Cy Young and Hisashi Iwakuma is a great second- starter, Kyle Seager and Corey Hart probably won't provide Cano with a legitimate supporting cast.

5. Houston Astros: Until the team's minor league talent makes it to the show, Houston is bound to have serious problems.

World Series: Dodgers over Rangers. I mean, Dodgers over Rangers?

Foolproof Brewers Prediction: Ryan Braun will get booed viciously when the Crew play games on the road.

Musings of Great Depth...by Nick Olig

Here's my column for April. I know, it's still March. Print is slower than the Internet, OK? It's your classic turtle vs. hare dichotomy...Only there's no way in hell the turtle is going to win this time.



If you were expecting a cohesive column about a singular topic, one that flows from beginning-to-middle-to-end, I've got a surprise for you, which I am going to state delicately, without the shock value of exclamation marks or the caps lock button: April Fool's. What follows is a collection of jokes I have posted on Facebook in the last two years—some of which even seemed to be liked by other people.


When I read something I've written online or in print, the one thing that really irks me is finding a sprelling mistake.

Bad form: I just loaded grounds into the coffee-maker and then turned it on and waited--without ever filling the pot up with water. To coffee, that's got to be like dry humping.

The toughest part of getting addicted to the drink Monster-Rehab must be dealing with all that irony.

 Identity theft is no joke. Unless a guy named Frank says yes when you ask him, "Can I be frank?"

The saying goes, "Pimpin' ain't easy," and naturally, I have no idea if that is truly the case. But I'll tell you what's got to be even harder than pimpin': Finding another job when the only experience on your resume is "Pimpin'."

Rappers are a confident bunch. What if people with more common jobs were so inclined to brag? We'd constantly hear boasting like: "I am the greatest Administrative Assistant alive!" "All the other whack CNA's can't match my skills." "My face belongs on the Mount Rushmore of Data Entry Clerks!" That'd be fun.

Just once I'd like to see someone approach a van that's a-rockin', ALMOST knock on it until reading the bumper sticker, and then respectfully nod and walk away.

My town is getting roundabouts. What's next?! The metric system? Soccer riots? Are we gonna have a King, Queen, AND Jack? My mind keeps turning and turning, and the worst part is, that's exactly what the roundabouts want us to do.

If scientists ever invent hover-cars, I'm OK with that, but they'd better not also invent hover-trains, 'cause then the two would still cross paths and stop the flow of traffic all over again.

I tried searching for myself online but had no luck whatsoever. What a ripoff. That's the last time I Google-search the word "myself."

Am I perfect? No. Can I give you one example? Yes. Do I sometimes present statements as questions? You get the idea.

On the 8th day of Christmas, I start to get Christmas confused with Hanukkah.

If you're unhappy about getting a Duck Dynasty Chia Pet for Christmas, here's the worst part: You can rain down tears of disappointment on it and that son-of-a-bitch will still grow a beard.

I want to pass along to my local friends that I got a sweet Jordy Nelson jersey for Christmas. Don't be fooled by it, though! If you see some pale guy in green, with #87 on his back, and maybe he's rummaging through your fridge for taco dip and beer, relax. It's not really Jordy. It's just me.

Follow-up to a recent status: I did NOT get mistaken for Jordy Nelson while wearing his jersey on Sunday. Apparently it's obvious to people that one of us is taller and more athletic than the other--and I'll leave it to you to determine who's who. But let's just say that somebody got scolded for "Bogarting" the taco dip while someone else totaled well over a hundred receiving yards before congratulating his pal Randall Cobb for scoring the game-winning touchdown at Soldier Field and leave it at that.

Today one of my favorite Packers, Donald Driver, retired with class as the franchise's leader in receptions, while one of my favorite Cubs, Mark Grace, got sentenced to a few months in jail for drunk driving—and that's a fine example of the Packers/ Cubs fan dynamic.

Sports Center just showed extensive clips from a soccer game that ended in a scoreless tie. Really, all the anchorman had to say was, “Absolutely nothing happened,” and move on.

Movie idea: "Home Alone with Zombies." A kid wakes up to an empty house, accidentally left behind by his vacationing parents. Then the zombie apocalypse happens. The kid has to booby-trap his home and behead the monsters with paint-cans swinging from ropes and so forth. Huge laughs.

Another movie idea: "Zom-Bees." It's about these bees that die only to reanimate and sting people all over again. Oh, and on the odd chance that sounds really stupid, there'd also be a whole lot of full-frontal nudity.

They probably called it "Alien vs. Predator" instead of "Alien v. Predator" so that people would know it's a movie and not a landmark Supreme Court ruling.

(During the promotion of a 2012 Tom Cruise film.) “I know how we can discourage people from making gay jokes about you: We’ll get you to play the part of a guy named ‘JACK REACHER.’” --Tom Cruise's agent.

AMC's “Steven Seagal Week” is sure to disappoint those who think Seagal movies deserve a whole month.

I can't find quality programming this afternoon. I don't want to watch Soap Oprahs, The Opry Winfrey Show, or the Grand Ole Opera. And I'm not going to read a book 'til I get the dyslexia thing checked out.

Detroit has filed for bankruptcy. I didn't know a city could do that. It's like hearing that Boston is consolidating its student loans or the Twin Cities found out they're actually adopted.

Remember those humongous TVs that were popular just before flat-screens? In 2004, it was cool to have a 400-pound TV. People were like, "This bad boy'll be in my living room 'til the day I die. I'll NEVER have to lift it again. Woo-hoo!" And a couple years later, a group of able-bodied adults had to be rounded up to lug the humongous TV out to the front porch, where a crane moved the TV to a bulldozer that rode to the city dump.

Remember those Publisher's Clearing House commercials in which the winners were surprised at their front door by Ed McMahon holding a big check? Those checks were just props. The real ones were much, much
larger.

(Not long after the Mayan calendar incorrectly prophesized the end of the world.) To add insult to injury, in the afterlife, I’ll bet some Spanish conquistadors have been pointing and laughing at some Ancient Mayans for two days straight.

“You Only Live Once”? “YOLO”?! Hey...Try telling that to a Hindu.

If you're a huge fan of Dungeons and Dragons but you're having trouble meeting new people, I don't know, maybe scale it back a bit. Make it known that you're only into Dungeons. Or Dragons, strictly Dragons. Just a thought.

Now that I've learned "Trolling" just means to heckle people on the Internet and has nothing to do with the existence of actual trolls, I'm going to be a lot more relaxed the next time I have to cross a bridge in the woods.

I'll admit it. Sometimes I post what I consider to be a funny observation and NOBODY seems to like it. And that's a feeling like offering a high-five and being shunned, only it's happening on the Internet, which somehow makes it sadder. But I just thought of an awesome safe-guard against that kind of a letdown. I'm gonna like my own status.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I sure liked that last one.

Bashing the Bitter Cold

                                                             ^Fuck that shit.^

There are two-word phrases nobody likes to hear or read—except out of spite, perhaps. For instance, it's indisputably bad when an ATM withdrawal climaxes not with cash but with the conclusion: “Insufficient Funds.” “Incurable Illness” conveys a similar sense of devastation. “Erectile Dysfunction” is arguably worse. To those dubious pairings of words, this winter has inflicted on us a new catastrophic phrase: “Polar Vortex.”      

          Earlier this winter, my mind had a loony outburst as I fled in terror from work to my icy car in the parking lot. Sometime in late-January, during a nasty resurgence of the polar vortex, I silently cursed my ancestors for choosing to settle in Wisconsin. Admittedly, this was petty and futile. Still, the bitter thought-process I had to match the bitter cold went something like this:

          “Why, this landscape doth transform our testicles into frozen grapes,” one ancestor proclaimed. “What a marvelous sensation! And it verily passes our 'so frigid we might perish test.' Yes indeed, it's a sub-zero wasteland as far as the eye can see. I declare the Oligs to be...Wisconsinites!”

          (I'm not sure why my German lineage would speak like people in a Shakespeare play, but please, just go with it.)

          At the time of that mental outburst, I was a disgruntled prisoner of the moment. Overall, when I take a moment to recall that summer will arrive in due time, I'm thankful my ancestors fled Germany long before the Third Reich rose and then chose to inhabit the half of America that could get by without owning slaves.

          Being an American descendant of both Allies and Unionists is swell, but this Northern state we're in hardly seems habitable when we read notices from the city telling us to turn our faucets on overnight to give our pipes a fighter's chance of overcoming a depth of frost that is nearing a record of five feet.

          Under these frigid conditions, I'm faring better than others. I'm handling the cold better than the guy from The Shining, at least. Unlike him, I have yet to wield an ax and chase a kid through a chilly hedge-maze. I'm not into that. Plus I can still write stories that don't devolve into the psychotic refrain, “All work and no play make me a dull boy.” Even the especially bad winters have quirks worth appreciating on some level.

          For instance, when I got inside my car on the night of the cursed ancestors, I started the wheezing engine and then I was greeted by an oldies deejay on the radio. His typical enthusiasm was subdued as he spoke forebodings of unmerciful wind chills and temperatures so negative they were downright nihilistic. The deejay then introduced the next song. He suddenly sounded chipper.

          “Now here's Foreigner with 'Hot-Blooded!'” he chirped.

          I shivered violently beneath four layers of clothing and smiled. My blood was about as chilled as that of an Icelandic walrus, but with so many viruses floating around, I suppose I could have easily had a fever of one-hundred-and-three.

          Mark my words: This warm-themed-music-on-cold-days trend has reoccurred on oldies stations during this winter. The tires of my Honda were desperate for traction as I skidded through sleet listening to the surf-rock standard “Wipe Out.” On consecutive days that progressed from cold to colder to coldest, as I drove to work, I heard “Summer of '69,” “Hollywood Nights,” and “Caribbean Queen.”

          Side-note: What the hell is “Caribbean Queen” doing on the oldies station, anyway? Billy Ocean has no association with the golden age of rock and roll. Whoever gave the “green light” to playing Billy Ocean on an oldies station deserves to go on a cruise to Jamaica and get robbed and beaten by pirates before he gets there. 

          As of early February, still shivering with gloved hands gripping the steering wheel, I've been hearing “Kokomo” with great regularity on oldies stations. “Kokomo,” my ass, Beach Boys. I'm frozen in Wisconsin.

          For good or ill, oldies deejays are subliminally sending us hopeful yet delusional messages via their playlists, and this practice could be dangerous. They're trying to inspire us to don Hawaiian shirts, Khaki shorts and sandals, but that attire could easily give a man frost bite as he rocks out to “Surfin' USA” and approaches the limbo-stick he has misguidedly set up in his snowy backyard.

          I applaud you for spinning all of CCR's hits, oldies deejays, but I have to call bull-crap on the summer-music-in-winter diversionary tactic. Your heart may plead for Foreginer's “Hot Blooded,” but the reality is “Cold as Ice.”

          Elsewhere within the main topic, I wish meteorologists would come up with a different term for “Bitter Cold.” It just sounds so—oh, I don't know...Bitter. And clearly, exposure to such language has had an adverse effect on me. If we've got to survive temperatures far below what I have coined “Regular-Ass Cold,” here are some suggestions that are at least better than “Bitter.”

          “Witch's Teat Cold”: This is a puzzling expression. While I do understand that witches are callous and unlikely to exude emotional warmth, focusing on their teats is a bit odd. What's worse, I just pictured a tongue-stuck-to-frozen-pole sort of crisis that might happen to witch babies being nursed, and now that image is yours to cope with, too. Anyway, Witch's Teat Cold is chilly, but we so often hear in slang that the thermometer can plummet even further.

          “Scary, Even for Penguins Cold”: You'll know it's colder than a Witch's Teat when it gets to be Scary, Even for Penguins Cold. Many of us have seen them march to the nurturing sound of Morgan Freeman's all-knowing voice, and I for one got awfully peeved with Mother Nature when I watched those flightless waddlers huddled and cowered over their young during a deadly Antarctic blizzard. Scary, Even for Penguins Cold is no day at the beach, but a lot of times, when we are scared, at least we come together. When we are Bitter, however, too often we push each other away.

         

          “So Cold Some of You Will Mutate into Vile, Impolite Jerks”: At face value, this designation may seem as off-putting as “Bitter Cold,” but it's really more of a public service announcement—a reminder. I read a study which ranked Wisconsin as one of the least polite states in America, and I'm convinced the prolonged cruelty of our winters factors into that discouraging report. Honestly, I prefer coldness to the rude behavior in incites in Wisconsinites. A grudge against Jack Frost is no excuse for refusing to say simple and pleasant words like “please” and “thank you” in public places. It's human to feel powerless against the weather, but it's inhumane to ignore basic courtesy even a toddler can understand. No joke.

          OK. Now let's all stay inside and watch March of the Penguins until baseball season arrives.

Online Dating Misadventures

^I try to make this face as often as possible. If you see me on the street or a random cul-de-sac and I'm my countenance looks NOTHING like this, please, be sure to ask me, "What's wrong?"^

With Valentine's Day falling on a Friday this year, work and life's other drudgeries are less likely to interfere with romantic dinners, smooching, heavy petting, a little bit of the “horizontal wink-wink,” a hasty reexamination of Position #128 in this month's copy of Cosmopolitan by the lady while her man chugs a liter of Gatorade, and the cuddling that comes afterward if you know what's good for you. Valentine's Day polarizes couples and their single counterparts, and when V.D. can be properly celebrated on a night set aside for fun, single people like me are sure to conclude that our freedom to do anything we want is overrated.


In an effort to defeat that freedom and, you know, not feel quite as lonely, I explored some online dating sites. And since I'm unsure of which one would suit me best, I decided to inspect a bunch of them. Now, my knack for research is substandard and I'm fine with acting like I am without common sense for the sake of maybe getting a laugh, so just between you and me: some of the following websites don't really relate to dating.

In the name of love, please try to make sense of it all as I chronicle the storybook beginnings and instant tragedies of online dating.

Ancestry: Here I got off to start so rough I had to abandon my plan to search in alphabetical order. Look, I know customs might be different in other, more—shall we say—southern parts of the country, but there's no way I'm going to try to hook up with one of my relatives. Case closed! (Side-note: Shortly after I wrote this, somebody gave me the scoop on Ancestry.com, and it turns out, they actually provide this amazing service that informs people of their heritage and family trees. In truth, this website achieves something much better than finding out you've got a really good-looking cousin.)

Dates: There might be a more relevant dating site that includes the basic word “Dates,” but all I could find here was the online promotion and sale of dates—as in that weird fruit nobody likes.

Christian Mingle: Terrible. Why would I want to mingle with a bunch of dudes named 'Christian'?

E-Harmony: Maybe I got the wrong impression, but since “E” is common slang for Ecstasy, an illegal amphetamine that I'd rather avoid, I gathered that this site's devotion to matchmaking Ecstasy-users doesn't appeal to me. Honestly, choking down three pills just so you can stumble-dance with a psychotic hippie at a String Cheese Incident show is definitely not worth risking all that brain damage.

Black People Meet: While I do qualify as somebody with an interest in meeting people, apparently there was another stipulation that I couldn't fulfill. There must have been SOME reason why blackpeoplemeet.com rejected me, but it remains a mystery to me...I just can't put my white finger on it.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.

Tweets from the Future

^Stephen King's horror classic Coach Getting Hit by Soda Cans was unconscionably snubbed at the Oscars back in '87.^

When I read that Amazon was designing delivery drones, I immediately pictured the robotic flying things one day shooting death-rays at innocent people. I got rattled by that level of technology in the works. Was that just me?

Now, I realize there's got to be a sensible reality somewhere between death rays in the sky and the notion that delivery drones are going to make all our lives perfect, but I'm more intrigued by the things that could, hypothetically, go wrong. Amazon's plan is to maximize their already soaring profits by trimming delivery costs—by cutting out the middleman, so to speak. And it doesn't take a genius to see that you can't spell “middleman” without “man.” Humanity could be made less important by the machines we create. That's the anxiety that a lot of science-fiction books and movies try to express.

Of course, not all of the grim prophesies foretold in science-fiction will come to fruition. Even so, if just one of those prophesies really happens, it would be significant enough to impact somebody's day. And then, naturally, that humanoid is going to let everyone and their Foot-Rub-Bots know about it on Twitter.

While we should all hope none of the following Tweets eventually get sent, that doesn't have to stop us from looking at the funny side of what could be a future gone awry.

"I'm so glad Twitter expanded its limitations per entry! Finally, humanity is free to ramble for as many as 539 characters." #FixingAPlotHole

“At Smitty's bar with friends. Not sure which ones 'cause I haven't looked up from my phone since I got here.” #NowToPlayCandyCrush

“On-line shopping is the best! It's so convenient. And since I also work from home and then play X-Box for hours on end, I haven't had to leave the house in two months!” #Shut-InsUniteOnTheWeb

“So grateful to have survived open-heart surgery! The da Vinci Robot performed the operation perfectly. Sure, I'm not crazy about the tattoo it later etched into my chest, which reads, 'Suck it, humans,' but I guess beggars can't be choosers.” #RoboBlessed

“Amazon's delivery drones are the bomb! My Ray Bradbury paperback arrived so quickly I was able to bring it to today's book-burning fest. I got 451 problems, but a book ain't one!” #Pop-CulturePun

“Remember that cop in shiny armor who got in trouble for cracking too many skulls in Detroit? He must've been fired or demoted. We just saw him on patrol at the mall. He hassled me for littering outside of the Orange Julius. When I told him to frig off, he grabbed his gun but kept it in the holster. His lips started to tremble and then he turned his back to us, muttering. And as he shuffled away, we all had to laugh 'cause he walked like he had a carbon-rod up his butt.” #RoboMallCop

“All these decades after the album came out, I can't believe scientists have finally invented an actual Mr. Roboto. They say it's just a prototype and that someday it will serve a purpose, but for now all it does is perform a bunch of God-awful Styx songs.” #WorseThanHoveringREOSpeedwagon

“I appreciate our bomb-disarming Bot as much as anyone else on the SWAT Team, but after it's done its job, does it really have to be programmed to say, 'Suck it, humans'?” #RoboBadmouthing

“We're trying to get back to normal after a day of no electricity. Total chaos! The power outage. Transformers blown. It was tough on everyone in the neighborhood— except for the Transformers. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves.” #OptimusPrimeIsSlime

“Soda machines dispense cans so fast these days! Coach bought Cokes for our little league team, and in no time, they were zipping out of there. The only bad part is that coach got beaned in his crotch and then his head a bunch of times and the paramedic sort of mentioned that he might die or something. Not sure. At the time I was all about savoring that speedy soda!” #MaximumOverdriveClipAvailableOnYouTube

^This scene went on for a solid forty-five minutes, so you can imagine how disappointed the cast and crew were when the Academy failed to acknowledge their work.^


“What's with all this fuss about eating Soylent Green? Personally, I shrugged when they told us that Mountain Dew Kickstart was made from horse adrenaline, and now I don't care if Soylent Green is really human meat.” #YesWeCannibalsCan

“Flirting with a chick at the bar. She warned me to tread lightly since she's a Replicant. I think that means she's got a twin sister, so that's pretty hot.” #UnlessHerReplicantIsADude

“Yaaawwwnnn. Another boring night of work at Skynet HQ. I don't know why they need so many security guards to protect these fancy computers, but if it means getting paid to phone-ogle 'This Week in Cleavage,' I'll play their game. Wait a sec. A scientist, a punk-kid, a buff woman, and a Dolph Lundgren-looking biker-dude just walked into the lobby. What is this? The setup to a joke? And why do they have duffel-bags? I'll bet they're selling office supplies door-to-door. LOL, gotta go deal with some bozos.” #DefinitelyNoGunsInThoseBags

“Kinda sucks to be plucked from high-school and picked for this whole fight-to-the-death-in-the-forest thing, but at least they let me keep my phone. Gonna snap a pic of some dork perched on a tree branch aiming that stupid bow and arrow.” #Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

“Tonight's episode of The Running Man was a real letdown. I get that the show is all about gladiators hunting national disgraces, but it was way too easy for Captain Freedom to chase down Rush Limbaugh.” #HeartAttackWasVictorious

“I have a couple questions about this little outbreak of the flesh-eating undead. First off, is it OK if we call them 'zombies,' or is that a faux pas for some reason? Secondly, can our proton-packs be used to destroy them, or do they only work on ghosts? Finally, do the walking corpses ever have to go number-two?” #EverybodyPoops?

“Will everyone please chill out about this 'Matrix' hoopla? Look, ever since we found out football was a hoax after those pro wrestling refs decided that Packers-Seahawks game, is it really a big surprise that reality itself is a hoax and we're mere human batteries used to power our machine-overlords? Heck, I saw it coming.” #NowToPlayCandyCrush2

“Wow. I just glanced through this farmhouse window and saw pigs standing on two feet around the same dinner table as some men. They put their game of cards on hold, a man made a speech, a pig made a speech, and then they shared a toast in celebration. Now I've seen EVERYTHING...Just like Big Brother!” #OrwellianEnding

The Anti-Golf Club

Though I don't have much on the compliment-front where golf is concerned, it is certainly worth noting that not all golfers are jerks. Some golfers are delightful, modest people, while most of the others are at least tolerable. The main thing they all have in common and the source of my gripe, however, is that they all seem to be OK with how much land is monopolized by their beloved hobby.


The amount of scenic, verdant land that gets hogged by golf courses is a big disappointment to those who can think of at least 18 outdoor activities that unmercifully kick the living shit out of golf. Games that involve running, catching, throwing, kicking, jumping, and physical-contact are unspeakably more awesome than cranky old men barking for total silence before they putt. Lying on a blanket and feeding strawberries to the inviting mouth of your significant other is so much better than launching into a temper tantrum within the sandpit of a par 3. Silently cursing the world and everything in it because some tiny ball you just clubbed did not ultimately roll where you wanted it to a hundred yards away is decidedly sadder than a husband pushing a stroller, flanked by his wife and older child riding bicycles on a beautiful day.

Golf courses waste more space than a billion clones of Honey Boo-Boo moms. Golf courses stand as further proof that rich white guys are no good at sharing land.

Now, before any kind of a “golf is for capitalists, parks are for commies” argument can be misconstrued, I want to make it clear that I believe in a free-market economy and I fully accept the individual's right to own private property. Sure, a whole lot of selfish, compulsively greedy white snobs happen to own that property for golfing purposes, but ultimately, free market equals free will and I can deal with that.

All I'm asking is that you consider this surprisingly sane plea to convert a golf course here and there into a vast open space that could be used to please a multitude of people with a wide array of hobbies. Is that so crazy? I'm about to mention stuff like trampolines, dogs, sports that require fast movement, and French-kissing, so if I still seem crazy, I don't know...go watch the Golf Channel and rub one out for all I care.

Here are 18—COUNT 'EM—18 different outdoor activities that are quite possibly superior to one (1) game that involves little athleticism or strategy and even less teamwork.


1:) Picnics: The first portion of the overhauled course, rechristened the Outdoor Smörgåsbord, features a 35,000 square-foot expanse with picnic tables and benches running along the spine of what used to be a fairway. The gently sloped, wooded fringes lay bare for blankets to be sporadically laid out by those from the general public willing to pay a minimal fee to enter the Outdoor Smörgåsbord for the day. Socializing with other groups is encouraged but not required. Some making out is tolerated, but nudity and full-fledged humping are not. Citizens are free to bring their own food in coolers, and as a bonus, a quaint restaurant that serves burgers, ice cream, pizzas, and pastries will be placed where some shitty putting green used to be. The little hole at the far end will retain its importance as the spot where a public toilet feeds a pipe that leads underground into the sewage system.


2.) Tennis: Once you get past the fact that the absolute coolest tennis player, John McEnroe, was a winy grouch, tennis isn't all that bad. Granted, like golf, it is a tad aristocratic, but it has three qualities that make it superior. First, rapid movement is required to play tennis well. Maintaining volleys and then scoring entails speed, agility, hand-eye-coordination, and endurance. Second, it's common to play tennis with a partner, in doubles-matches, and teamwork is more rewarding than snobby individualism. Finally, tennis courts are much more judicious in their usage of land; one golf course occupies as much space as a dozen-plus tennis courts. And to reestablish the theme here: taking up all those acres in order to feel superior even though little athleticism is required of the sport is what makes golf such a bloated nuisance.


3.) Basketball: From the adjacent tennis courts, it's a short drive for the cement-mixing trucks to the basketball area. Basketball is probably the premier team sport because it won't bore you as much as baseball's lulls nor inflict all that concussive head-trauma like football. Up-tempo, smooth, alive with rhythm, and physical but not brutal, basketball poses the ultimate challenge of the athlete's ego clash with the team's success. (Excluding Michael Jordan. He's the only one who could have both.) Its lone detriment is its bias against short people like me, but hey, Spud Webb proved a 5'7” guy with genetics better than mine can still win a dunk-contest. (Odds of becoming like Sud Webb if white: Impossible.)


4.) Mini-Golf: In this area, indignant golfers who roam the Smörgåsbord in a devastated stupor can at least receive a reprieve from a golf-less abyss. The mini-golf course is placed strategically after the basketball courts so that the bigots who golf won't immediately be driven to suicide by the sight of all those high-leaping black guys. In addition to its Tetris-like ability to compartmentalize space, mini-golf caters to couples on dates with the seriously silly competitiveness it instills. It is a game rife with outlandish obstacles and gaudy scenery. If you can tell your trash-talking date to hush up before draining a putt that zips through the spinning arms of a windmill that's as big as a vending machine, you're more of a champ than the solitary grouch who wines about the untimely gust of wind that blew his tiny ball into some sandbox type of thing.


5.) Skateboarding: An individual's sport that represents golf's antithesis, skateboarding is the perfect outlet for rebellious teens who want to risk injury without all that authoritative barking from coaches. With its quarter-pipes, half-pipes, and elongated pipes used for what the kids call “grinding,” skateboarding provides plenty of overt nods to paraphernalia sure to keep teens cackling through coughing fits. A huge sign adorned with Kenny Loggins' unsmiling mug painted above the words “Danger Zone” will warn skateboarders of the need to sign a waiver denying all culpability of the Smörgåsbord for injuries incurred. Such stern litigiousness will be offset, hopefully, by granting free admissions to anyone whose Youtube clip of a “dude eating shit” on the pavement exceeds ten-thousand views.


6.) Kickball: In keeping with the juvenile theme, kickball hearkens back to grade school playgrounds smeared with chalk and buzzing with frenetic youths. For whatever reason, the day we become aware of our lost innocence is the same day we retire from kickball. The game doesn't mesh well with adulthood, but with its playful mishmash of baseball, soccer, and dodgeball, kickball excels in the fun department. Plus, when a kickball is kicked for kickball purposes, the solid thump of a sneaker into a bounding, rubbery sphere yields the sound: "Poont!" That onomatopoeia alone should be enough to make us forget about going pro in some “real sport” and give kickball a reboot.


7.) Baseball: Possibly on the cusp of resurgence due to all the compounding baggage that seems poised to drag down football's dominance, baseball is the perfect sport for athletes who'd rather live longer, happier lives and not run all the time. Sure, some of the all-time greats have played the “I can't answer your steroid-question because I just forgot how to speak English” card and others were rotten-to-the-core racists who gambled their wives away in drunken poker games, but when played with true passion, persistence, and discipline—the way Hammerin' Hank, Joltin' Joe, and the nickname-less Greg Maddux played it—baseball is subtly sublime. And if that sales pitch doesn't sway you participants in Smörgåsbord baseball will be allowed to use performance enhancing drugs. Hell, if you're willing to drop hundreds of dollars on pills that will turn you into a demonic Incredible Hulk just so you can hit a ball over a fence and impress a pregnant blond on maternity leave from Hooter's, we're not going to stop you. Less leniently, however, would-be players who suggest the games should include Designated Hitters will be banished from the park just like the no-good goat that cursed decades of futility on the Chicago Cubs.


8.) Soccer: The eternal frustration of soccer is that it requires so much motion and endurance in order to achieve the bare modicum of points, but the cardiovascular exercise redeems much of the game's tedium. Two soccer fields could be placed within the confines of one hole of golf, and compared to golf, I really don't have many complaints against soccer; it's a legitimate sport that is about as watchable as a Queen Elizabeth sex tape. Players whose games end in scoreless ties will not be punished by the Smörgåsbord but they will be encouraged to seriously reassess their choices in life.


9.) Football: There are an abundance of knocks against football—especially since scientific research on the repercussions of concussions has emerged to conclude that the constant mayhem and ferocious collisions are probably bad for one's physical and mental well-being. American football—the kind which favors the use of hands for passing, carrying, and catching and disfavors the elfish men who reduce themselves to actually kicking the ball—is a gladiator-like show of swagger and brutality. But to a lot of Americans, including me, football is still awesome in spite of its obvious and glaring faults. Football is a fantasy—an unbelievable and exciting fantasy. It's the fun and irresistible vixen who pays her way through med school by pole-dancing-fantasy. It's the misunderstood bad-ass who'd make a perfect husband for one lucky lady if only he wasn't so committed to his biker-gang-fantasy. Football has so many downfalls that are overcome by its enthralling mix of athleticism, brute force, and strategy. Two football fields are to be placed consecutively within the smörgåsbord—one for flag and the other for tackle—and while I realize those who excel at the latter are undeniably more impressive virile, I'd rather swipe at flags, spin away from grabby hands, and not get my head drilled. Two decades of coolness and staggering sex appeal may not be worth an athletic afterlife burdened by violent mood swings, memory loss, and depression—but if you see otherwise and you can play football at a high level, locally or internationally, I'll get my popcorn ready, say thank you, scratch my head, and wrack my conscience all at the same time.


10.) Playgrounds: Moving right along past the cotton candy and ice cream stands on the threshold of the previous area's end-zone, playgrounds sprawl across the next plot of land. The playgrounds mark a moral threshold for those indignant golfers still stalking through the Smörgåsbord; if they can't at least stop scowling at the sight of happy children being bedazzled by swingsets and monkey-bars, they have revealed themselves to be monsters festering amongst mere everyday jerks in Polo shirts. For a fleeting moment, a cute toddler can convince just about anybody that the twisty-slide is the most awesome thing ever made. The Smörgåsbords playgrounds are also replete with merry-go-rounds, Four-square courts, bouncy castles, treehouses, fireman poles, balance beams, trampolines, sandboxes, wobbly wooden bridges, a model pirate ship, and—for the little hellraisers with steely nerves—a jungle gym. For safety purposes, that newfangled rubbery flooring will spread across much of the playgrounds—so as to convince kids that falling down never actually hurts in real life. Rubbery flooring will be provided by Playground Surface Bounce Back, not Playground Rubber Kids Kushion since the latter is but one “K” word away from being super-racist. And unlike certain golf courses, we're trying to avoid that sort of prejudice.


11.) Frisbee: These plastic discs of the anti-establishment may very well be flat because they are so often tossed by those who have had their lofty spirits flattened by power-mad aristocrats. Ironically, the same ilk of freethinkers who once challenged the accepted notion that the world is flat are also responsible for asking, “Why do we always have to throw round things?” through an exhalation of pot smoke. That mind-altered musing launched the Frisbee, and all these years later, the Smörgåsbord will thrill its players by dividing a field into thirds for games of catch, ultimate Frisbee, and for a long-range challenge, one (1) of those baskets that somewhat resembles a broken birdcage. If that seems insufficient—look—mini-golf is already available and if the layout overindulges in disc golf, too, then the golfers win, and if the golfers win...we'd be left to confoundedly wonder how the terrorists would feel about that.


12.) Washer Box and Bag Toss: These two games involve lofting small things at a bigger thing from a distance of 15 feet or whatever the hell your stoner-stickler friend keeps insisting it is, and they cater to the masses who have both limited square footage in their backyards and a drinking problem. More specifically, washer-box challenges its players to throw metallic rings into a square, wooden box with a short pipe at its core to permit extra points, while bag toss will test one's knack for softball-pitching a grainy sack onto an inclined, rectangular platform with a hole close to its far edge to permit extra points. They're both turn-based, with a pair of stationary sets straightforwardly opposed to each other, and a two-on-two format is typically employed—unlike a lot of the games' elite players. Washers and bags blur the line between loafing and competing. The ratio of beverages consumed to total steps run while playing washers and bags is something like five-trillion to zero. One hole of a (former) golf course could squeeze in dozens of both games. Arguments about which of the two is the superior game will not be tolerated—for the benefit of the Smörgåsbord as well as humankind in general. Quick footnote: Bag toss is known by another term, too, but I just couldn't think of any jokes to crack about “Corn Hole.”


13.) Paintball: If you've ever had the urge to reenact a session of Call of Duty in real-life, or, more morbidly, go on a shooting spree without all the actual consequences and carnage, paintball will splatter a red dot on the bullseye in your heart. The tougher alternative to laser-tag, the Smörgåsbord's paintball course will necessarily be confined by steep walls to preserve the eye-sockets of the other patrons. Within the walls, a vast scattering of disused theater sets, haystacks, barrels, abandoned buses, and various other hiding spots will satisfy passive bloodlust in pacifists and provoke war flashbacks in vets. Paintball is the only pseudo-sport to pair guns with balls, which is a ballsier move than anything golf has ever done—with the possible exception of allowing that incorrigible Happy Gilmore on the tour back in '96.


14.) Volleyball: Like basketball and—well, life—the tall are favored in volleyball. But volleyball differs from basketball in that it's more readily played by unfit commoners inside a bar's annex that has a dank warehouse feel to it. Hell, I've even played some volleyball, capably enough, in a bar league, albeit as a substitute. My most vivid memory was of jogging toward a borderline serve and judiciously letting it sail out of bounds—where it smacked an onlooking little boy in the face. He bawled spasmodically and ran to a mother that suddenly hated me. She swooped him up and consoled him with assurances that they would both scowl into the depths of my wretched soul throughout the rest of my one and only stint as a volleyball scab. Hopefully the Smörgåsbord's attendees will have volleyball experiences more akin to that athletic duel among the buff pilots from Top Gun—only not necessarily as homo-erotic.

15.) Dog Park: Inserting a plot-twist into this rather thorough outline, there have been three tracks—both five yards in width—running alongside of the Smörgåsbord the entire time. The outermost one is a grassy path suited for trotting mutts leashed by the owners that love them. The path leads to an expansive dog park which features tunnels, hurdles, teeter-totters, some A-shaped ramps that the pompous pooches seem to like, and furry butts to sniff for as far as their color-blind eyes can see. Plenty of space will be alloted for the lazy dogs who just want to nap in the shade. They're my heroes. Dog-banging will only be tolerated if both pets and their respective owners reach a consensual agreement. The Smörgåsbord's policy on dog-oral is more lenient. Removal and disposal of dookie will be the duty of owners and repeat offenders from the baseball zone who lobbied for the DH rule.


16.) Running: Recalling the tracks mentioned in the previous entry, the middle one provides a less poop-littered route to a plain on which people can run around in circles if that feels awesome to them for whatever reason. The beloved sport of ectomorphs doubles as torture for the overweight, and on the Smörgåsbord, athletic marvels are free to tote around a pigskin or a glove if that makes clod-hopping seem more worthwhile to them. Honestly, there might be room for more jokes in this entry, but running is so fucking self-explanatory I'm just going to be concise here.


17.) Biking: The innermost dirt-track eventually leads to an expanse consisting of hills, curves, and roundabouts. Bikes are like motorcycles for people who enjoy exercise and feel no need to announce to the neighborhood, “Asshole comin' through!” Ever since Lance Armstrong was exposed as a deceitful cheater, the sport has reverted back to its unwatchable origins. (Lance had a similar effect on the movie Dodgeball, by the way.) But a lot of activities can be enjoyed by those involved even though they're no fun for spectators. Elderly sex, for instance. Keep that in mind the next time you go for a bike ride.


18.) Go-karts: Somewhere between the fantastical glee of Mariokart and the drive-in-a-circle-'til-you-forget-how-to-read monotony of NASCAR exists go-karting, and that's about as happy as a medium can get. On a go-kart, one can viscerally experience speed and competition on the open road, along with those winding variations and figure-8's that the NASCAR pioneers could never wrap their heads around. It's also more dangerous than sitting on a couch with cramping hands, but not so dangerous that your corpse will be treated like a hero for taking on a senseless risk. Golfers who still feel implacably furious after beholding all 18 of the Smörgåsbord's attractions are welcome to park their running go-kart in a tool-shed until their living nightmares start to fade away. Then one of the Smörgåsbord's employees will rush in and save them, maybe even treat them to a pep-talk and a free caramel apple. We don't condone malice at the Outdoor Smörgåsbord, and besides, if you think about it, parking a running go-kart inside a tool shed is really more of an indoor thing.



I remain confident that a compromise can be reached between me—a golf-hater who's clearly coping with more abnormalities than the average person, golfer or otherwise—and a small contingency of caddy-shackin' ball-whackers who'd be willing to give up a few of their less prestigious or possibly downright shitty courses. And if I live to see but one monopoly of pristine land converted into an Outdoor Smörgåsbord before I drunkenly choke on a folded slice of pizza six months from now, I'll consider the anti-golf club a success.

Down with Santa (edit)

^What a crock of shit this is.^

At the age of seven, I became a Santa-atheist. It wasn't by choice. As the youngest in a family of Catholics, I was, by consequence, the last of the true believers in Santa. Months before Christmas, my older brothers got struck by a mischievous whim; they joined forces and exposed the truth about the fat man in red to me. When my mom was called into the room and she somberly nodded that yes, what they had told me was true, I was crushed. I whimpered and wept, which was as enthralling to my older brothers as a fireworks display.


Devastated and disillusioned, my wounded imagination connected the dots to other figures of dubious existence. In no time, flying reindeer, the Tooth Fairy, and Johnny Appleseed were defrauded, too. My faith in God wavered. I put the Man Upstairs on notice. Adults forever lost a great deal of credibility.

There are other ways to learn the truth about Santa. My sister, for instance, found out while playing a home-game of Family Feud. The survey was “Make-Believe Characters.” An older cousin unassumingly guessed “Santa Claus.” Survey says? Ding! They won that round but lost their childhood innocence. Well-played, Parker Brothers.

A more common debunking occurs when kids walk in on their parents scattering presents around the tree. This can be unpleasant, too, and it can become disastrous if dad and mom also got sidetracked role-playing as horny Santa and drunk Mrs. Claus.

Since the Santa mythology pretty much ruined my whole outlook on life, I've come up with some suggestions to parents when the time comes to dispel the fib they really didn't have to tell in the first place.

Parents who love science-fiction flicks are advised to hold out their hands and offer their kids a choice between gobbling a blue Sweet-Tart or a red Sweet-Tart. Tell them that the blue Sweet-Tart, unlike the Santa-colored one, will allow them to see the true nature of life and reality. If they choose the blue candy, go Morpheus on those kids and reveal the truth about the Santa-Matrix. If they choose the red candy, consider disowning them.

Moms and dads who voted against Obama should let their children know that Santa wears red because he's a communist, a slob with a bleeding heart who dodges income tax at the North Pole and only works one day a year, a pinko who runs a not-for-profit business, and a 47-percenter whose very existence should be denied. (Truth be told, I stole this idea from Rush Limbaugh.)

More Stories, and Additional Stories is the name of that eBook.