My list of 10

Every year we suffer through countless Christmas songs on the radio. And I do mean suffer. Radio stations start playing Christmas music before Thanksgiving, which leaves mostly rubbish in heavy rotation. I will ignore such insignificant songs like, “I’ll Be Stoned for Christmas,” and “Daddy don’t get drunk this Christmas.” What I’m after is the traditional stuff; the kind of music we’re told is classical Yuletide fair. Here’s my list of the 10 worst Christmas songs ever.

Number 10- The Twelve Days of Christmas

This song goes back to the 16th century where it should have stayed. A laundry list of nonsense is what it is. If my true love sent me nine ladies dancing I would have to question our relationship and where it’s headed. And what is a lord a’ leaping anyway?

There have been several spinoffs to this song, Twelve Days of a Redneck Christmas, Bob and Doug’s Twelve Days, Twelve Pains of Christmas, and each one more annoying than the last. Enough, it’s not funny.

Number 9- Last Christmas

Do you know this is the most recorded Christmas song of all time? My next question is why? I can’t listen to it without thinking of George Michael and his solicitation charge in a men’s room. Please let this be the last Christmas we have to hear this song.

Number 8- Oh Christmas Tree

The problems with this song are multifold. To begin with it’s also sung as, “O Tannenbaum.” Google the lyrics and you’ll find about 15 different versions, all of them pay some sort of homage to a tree. Here’s a sample,

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your branches green delight us. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your branches green delight us. They're green when summer days are bright;
They're green when winter snow is white. O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree,
Your branches green delight us!”

Obviously the words come from a deranged environmentalist nut-job who refuses to accept the baby Jesus. While the rest of the world sings praises to the King, this clown is out in the forest snorting pine needles.

Number 7- Feliz Navidad

How many times can you repeat the words, “Feliz Navidad”? Answer, quince (15).

Number 6- Blue Christmas

Nothing gets you in the holiday mood like the blues. This song makes you want to stand under the mistletoe, pull the trigger and eat the bullet. Elvis, you should’ve been ashamed of yourself.

Number 5- Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer

Rudolph was the product of a promotional gimmick by Montgomery Ward. How is it that the department store no longer exists, but this idiot reindeer get street cred each and every Christmas? It was lame when I was 5 and nothing has changed.

Number 4- Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer

This song is what Rudolph begat. The writer was no doubt a latchkey child with mama issues. Only in America can something so stupid get mass air play. We’re a nation of knuckleheads.

Number 3- Jingle Bell Rock

The lyrics start off weak and tail off from there. The opening verse goes,

“Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock
Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring
Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun
Now the jingle hop has begun”

And I thought I wrote drivel. I could do a 500 word essay on why I hate this song. This mindless ramble gets more air play than Bing Crosby. If I had to sum it up in one word, “worthless.”


Number 2- Rockin’ Around the Christmas tree

I don’t know what drives me crazier; the lyrics or the tune? Just the first few cords of this tripe irritate me, nails on a chalkboard sound better than this ditty. This song is over 50 years old and it gets air play for reasons still unknown. The last two lines of this moronic rhyme goes.

“Everyone dancin' merrily,
in the new old-fashioned way.”

The new old-fashioned way? Spare the oxymoron, give me a barf-bag, I’m about to lose my pumpkin pie!


Number one- I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus

Let’s examine the lyrics

I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus
Underneath the mistletoe last night.
She didn't see me creep
Down the stairs to have a peep;
She thought that I was tucked up
in my bedroom fast asleep.

Then, I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus
Underneath his beard so snowy white;
Oh, what a laugh it would have been
If Daddy had only seen
Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.

You can trace the roots of our downfall to this song. The message is quite clear. It’s okay for mommy to have an affair. The kid in the song thinks it’s funny that old dad plays the sap role. Since the kid saw mommy kissing Santa, it wouldn’t be out of reach to see her kiss the milkman or some guy named uncle Mike, who’s never at any family functions.

There are several layers to this lyrical Freudian repression.
• What about Mrs. Claus?
• Is Santa the ultimate sugar daddy?
• If Santa is kissing every mom in town, is mommy nothing more than a concubine?
• Being Santa is an authority figure does sexual harassment come into play?
• What constitutes naughty and nice?

The trust issues will haunt this child well into his/her teenage years. This song was written in the late 50’s it’s no wonder college students of the 60’s were so angry, their mother was a tramp and daddy was a fool.


Before you think I’m a scrooge there are some great Christmas songs. Oh Holy Night sung by Michael Crawford will make your hair stand up. If you haven’t heard his version, do yourself a favor and click here.

I heard the Bells on Christmas Day is the most underrated song of all time. Several artist have covered it, my favorite is by the Jars of Clay. Click here and give it a listen.

The Little Drummer Boy never gets old. Check out this live performance by The Jars of Clay. It was recorded at the Ruth Eckerd Hall and it’s about the best I’ve seen. Click here.

Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn

“In the future everyone will be famous for 15 minutes,” Andy Warhol said in 1968.

There’s a little known website called “Common Conservative.com.” However it’s more known than this one. I came across this site via my father-in-law when he forwarded a commentary from one of their writers on this site. My father-in-law is part of this band of renegade e-mailers who load up inboxes throughout the country bombing common sense and things of interest. Every family needs a guy like this and my father-in-law fills this role nicely.

Anyway, back to me and the Common Conservative website. They actually have an editor and staff writers who, according to their website, have been published in the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Washington Times, and papers of that nature. Where I have been published, well uh, right here, and I edit myself, which is a problem that speaks for itself.

When I went to the site I noticed a place called “Guest Submissions.” Naturally being a frustrated writer (I’ve entered a few contest) I clicked and read the rules for submission. I’ve been working on a piece about George Bush (for this blog) and figured it might be something they’d be interested in.

Before I tell you the results, here was my impression of the Common Conservative headquarters. Picture 5 guys in Brooks Brothers suits all wearing power ties and spit-polished hard shoes. They’re sitting around a mahogany conference table while the Fox Business Channel plays in the background. Each man has a laptop and they’re discussing the thousands of guest submissions that pour in throughout the country. Up pops my little email with my George Bush attachment, first there’s a cringe from one of the guys. Another guy begins to giggle; soon the room fills with laughter. Between guffaws one guy says, “Is this a joke?” He hits delete and my submission lands on the trash heap of all aspiring writers.

Like I said, that was my impression of the Common Conservative headquarters.

Here’s what headquarters obviously looks like and what happened.

Some guy living in his mom’s basement rolled off his cot and went to check his email. His shirt stained from last night’s pizza and he wore boxer shorts that haven’t seen a washing machine in over a week. His two buddies, both unemployed, were waiting for him in a chat room when he sat down at his makeshift desk, (his mom’s card table.) They went back and forth about finding something to put in this months issue. They kicked around the idea of ghost writing the guest submission, like they’d always done in the past. But the truth was they were too hung-over to write anything. Up popped my little email with my George Bush attachment, “What’s this?” the basement guy said.

“Hey boys,” the basement guy typed. “We got a submission.”

“What’s it about and is it any good?” another guy typed.

“Who cares, publish it, I’m going back to bed,” the third guy typed.

“Done and done,” the basement guy typed.

Shortly after that, I received this in my email from the editor of the Common Conservative.

“Great job! You've managed to summarize the highs and lows of the Bush Administration in a respectful, yet factual way.

This will run in the December 1 issue. Nice job!”

So friends, you can view my first non-self-published work at http://commonconservative.com/

When you get to the main page, scroll down to “Guest Articles” there you’ll see an article titled, “George Bush in a nutshell, the Bush legacy, warts and all.” Click to read my brilliant take on the Bush Administration. Okay, maybe not brilliant, but I’m on a roll, and my 15 minutes start right now.

What happened to men?

I’ve often been curious as to what drives men to the Democratic Party. It’s certainly not the women; by far conservative females out class their liberal sisters in the looks department. Watch any chat show and you’ll agree that Republican women turn more than articulate points and thrilling conversation.

So what is it? The theories, issues, and policies the left subscribe too seem unmanly. By nature, men are tough, self-sufficient, and would rather drive in circles for hours instead of stopping for directions. Manhood is about competition, flexing muscles, and never giving up. Not this pseudo new-aged enlightened man. This type of man has filtered down to little league baseball where some teams no longer keep score. Apparently losing would be too painful for the little boys.

Men don’t feel your pain, heck; we don’t even feel our own pain. We keep everything bottled up until a massive coronary takes us to our just reward.

Testosterone driven ideology is void in liberal thinking. Perhaps nothing illustrates this better than this last election. I saw grown men whining about everything from healthcare to how the U.S. is perceived to the rest of the world. This may come as a shock to some of my wimpy brethren, but nationalized healthcare isn’t covered under the Constitution. However, the right to life and to own a gun is. As far as what other countries think of us the U.S. what does it matter? We’re hated no matter what we do and we should never apologize for being Americans. Nor should we feel guilty about living in the greatest country God ever created.

Go down the list, immigration, these ridiculous bailouts, taxes, domestic drilling, free markets and so forth. It’s fair to say the macho side of all these topics falls squarely on the conservatives.

Don’t get me wrong, real men are compassionate. Just the other day my son was injured playing basketball. I dropped what I was doing and ran over to him and through eyes of concern I said, “Shake it off.”

So don’t think liberal men are the only type of man that cares.

In my book you clog rational thought when you hug trees, smoke European cigarettes, or order any drink with the word, “Latte” in it. Far be it for me to judge, but if sandals are in your closet and a ponytail is on your head, I’d be willing to bet there’s a voter card with the letter “D” in your wallet, or purse. I think you guys call it a “Murse” (man-purse)

Before I’m accused of being a sexiest let me say this. In this last election the only candidate who should’ve been wearing pants… wore a dress.

Pool Daze

A few weeks ago I was minding my own business wandering around my pool. I noticed a few black spots about the size of a quarter on the bottom surface. Naturally, I did what most males do; I ignored it, thinking it would go away. And hopefully before my wife saw it, because that would mean a trip to the local pool supply house, which will go nameless, but more than a penny gets pinched every time I walk out of the place.

So a few days latter my wife says, “Have you seen those black spots in the pool?”

“Black spots?” I replied. “Our pool has black spots in it?”

“Yeah, down by the deep end,” she said.

“Huh, black spots,” I stuck my head back in the sports page.

This was the first sign of denial, but I got the unsettling feeling my wife would be fixating on the black spots.

The feeling bore true and it manifested itself during our weekly swim with our granddaughter. By this time the black spots that once looked like a few quarters, now had the appearance of two pockets full of black change scattered on the bottom of the pool floor.

My wife is a loving grandmother; however, she missed her granddaughter’s first unassisted backstroke because of her obsession with these black spots. While we were having the time of our life, swimming, diving, and doing things Michael Phelps can only dream about. Grandma has a scrubbing pad and she’s going to work on the black spots. After what seemed like a marathon (I’ve ran one so I should know) she said, “They’re not coming up.”

I was running out of options and running out fast. I know no matter what I said it would end up with a trip down to my favorite watering hole, that’s right, the pool store.

I always feel under dressed when I walk into the neighborhood pool store, because the minute I step in, I can sense their condescending glances. Oh, the staff is friendly, but I know that they know, I’m not one of them.

The store has a monthly contest for “Perfect Pools.” They give away some cheesy pool toy or bottle of chlorine, or something. To qualify for this award, one must pass the test. You can always tell which customers studied for this test. One clue is that they’re on a first name basis with the scientist behind the counter. The other clue is that their head barely fits through the door. Anyway, if your pool test perfect by the water sample you bring in, your name goes in one of those big jars and they have a drawing at the end of the month. My name has never been in the big jar.

I walked up to the counter with water sample in toe. This is always an event in itself. Customers are yucking it up with the chemical engineers behind the counter. They’re talking P.H. balances and salt ratios, while I look at my shoes waiting to be called on. The connoisseur behind the counter finishes up with Dudley Do Right, but not before he tosses Mr. Right’s test into the big jar. “Another perfect pool Dudley, see you next week,” he said. “Can I help you?” he said to me.

With all the confidence of the “Little drummer boy” I sheepishly handed him my water sample, and then mumbled, “I have black spots in my pool.” Then my eyes looked at my shoes again.

“Are they Black or green?” he said, as he snatched the bottle out of my trembling hand.

“Well uh, kinda both, mostly black with green around it,” I said.

Immediately, without hesitation some other pool specialist, I’ll call him Doctor from here on out, shouted, “Your pool has cancer!”

The words reverberated around the chlorine stocked walls. An exiting Dudley Do Right shook his head as he went out the door. I glanced at the big jar; I shifted my eyes to the doctor and then my pupils found a familiar home, my shoes.

I was not ready for those words. What about the adjoining spa or the pool deck, how would they be provided for incase of my pools untimely demise?

“Can it be saved?” I whispered.

“Chemotherapy” the doctor said with a straight face. “We’re talking black algae.”

“Well, the pool’s had mustard algae before and I got rid of it,” I said.

As soon as I said those words I knew it was a mistake. He glared at me. I looked at my shoes.

“Sir, your pool has cancer, not a cold,” the Doctor said.

“Ah, what would cause this?” I asked.

He glanced at the big jar where all the perfect pools rest and then he looked at me.

“If the chlorine drops to zero for one second then your pool can be invaded with cancer. It could come from the yard, a tree, or any foreign debris. Once in the pool, black algae will feed off any chlorine you try to replace,” the Doctor said.

About this time my bride walks up. How do I tell the woman I love this kind of news? The song “Memories” went through my head. I closed my eyes and in slow motion, I saw us splashing around poolside, laughing, frolicking, and without care. You know, “The way we were.”

I bit my lower lip and said, “Our pool has cancer.”

I may as well said, it’s going to rain today, because she looked at me with indifference. Where’s the sympathy for our dying pool? I thought.

The Doctor made his diagnoses and was gone. He left the prescription for some lackey to fill while he went about stuffing perfect pool test in the big jar.

So we left the store armed with enough chemo to remove black algae from Lake Michigan, which caused my wallet to feel the pinch. Of course, if you’re a man, like me, you forget everything the lackey told you to do. He mentioned something about a half a bottle one thing followed by a full bottle of something else, and then wait 24 hours for another item mixed with pool water, or was it the other way around?. It really doesn’t matter right? The doctor said chemotherapy and chemotherapy it will be.

I threw everything in the pool, there’s nothing like some good old shock treatment to go along with chemo. Take that cancer and take it all at once. I poured a bottle in for the doctor, I poured a bottle in for my wife, and I poured a bottle for the big jar and Dudley Do Right. Anything I ever purchased from the pool store went in regardless of how long it’s been sitting on the shelf. I went into a frenzy. Empty bottles and jugs lay like a drunken sailor after first liberty. When I reached for the toilet bowl cleaner my wife said “Enough.” And then I looked at my shoes.

Well I’m happy to report my pool is in remission, and it appears I saved it. Who knows, maybe I’ll find my name in that big jar after all.

Last week I noticed my roof had a little sag on one end. Call me a hypochondriac, but I think my house has Lou Gehrig’s disease.

Mrs. Right

The old saying, “crazy like a fox” couldn’t be truer when it comes to Gramps, unless he picked Sarah Palin for Alaska’s 3 electoral votes, then something might be wrong with him. In recent days we’ve come to know Sarah Palin, and most level headed Americans saw what Gramps did when he picked her.

Quickly the left felt threatened and immediately sent their soldiers to tear down the woman they can only dream of. I’ll try to make my case as to why the Democrats hate her.

What makes Sarah Palin special is there is nothing particularly special about her. By that I mean, she’s not a victim or if she is, she doesn’t whine about it. She didn’t climb up the political ladder by going to a prestigious law school. In the elitist left wing eye you’re nobody unless you have a law degree or at least majored in political science, example, Bill and Hillary Clinton. You want to know what really gets the liberals? Sarah Palin didn’t ride on her husband’s coattails to get where she is.

You always hear about the self-made man, well Sarah Palin is all of that and a bag of chips. She’s not your average politician. Instead of being given a wink and a nod, she earned her way by taking on entrenched Republicans and winning. Party affiliation doesn’t matter to Ms. Palin when it comes to corruption; she governs with integrity holding no bias towards party or sisterhood. With full knowledge that reward is earned not given, and she doesn’t see unfair at every turn. Her smile is infectious and comes naturally, which makes her jabs far more effective than a bitter radical who can find no right in the world.

To me, leftist women seem perpetual angry with forced smiles. They live in a figurative “bra burning age.” At times, their estrogen-fueled motives impede common sense. I’d like to think we’ve moved past that, the message should always be more important than gender. And that’s what drives the radical left nuts about Sarah Palin. She doesn’t wear her gender like a badge of honor. Sure she’s a woman, you can’t help but see that.

Everything about this woman bothers the left. She calls herself; “gal” and looks comfortable in a skirt. She can cradle a newborn just as easy as firing an automatic weapon. Womanhood doesn’t define her, nor hinder her. She could be your mom, sister, wife, or next door neighbor. She’s a common woman with an uncommon gift. When she speaks it comes from experiences we relate too, not preached too. No politician since Reagan can deliver a speech like the one she gave, I had tingles up my leg only Chris Matthews can dream about.

Her college degree came from the University of Idaho, of all places, fly over country to the snobbish left. I heard one self-righteous woman journalist said, “How can she be Vice-President, she didn’t have lunch with me.” Another elite woman reporter said, “Only uneducated women will vote for her.”

The double standard is out of control with this group. Imagine if someone said only uneducated blacks will vote for Obama? Remember the pass liberal women gave Bill Clinton? You might say, because of his cheating heart, Hillary was empowered. I know the rationale seems flimsily, but you explain it. Hillary is the classic example of a victim brought on by a pig of a husband, go figure.

Sarah Palin has an eighty percent approval rating in her state; I’m not sure the Pope gets those numbers in Rome. Given, we still have a lot to learn about Mrs. Right, my new name for her, but I like her so far. (If you didn’t know.)

Let’s be clear, there will never be another Ronald Reagan, he came at the right time in a country that needed leadership. However, the two do have a lot in common.
Who knows, 20 or 30 years from now, we might say, there will never be another Sarah Palin.

I’m not sure Mrs. Right will be the next Vice-President, but I’m certain she will be the first woman President… and the left know it as well, so long Hillary, there’s a new gal in town.

Grist for the mill

I like grits more ways than Bubba prepares shrimp. Before I can remember (says Mom) grits have been a staple of my diet.

Although a connoisseur, I’m not one of those high-falutin’, upper-crust, pour me another mint julep, grit eater. (Is it grit eater or grits eater?) Anyway, you know the ones. Their grits have to be old-fashioned or none at all. To those in San Francisco, old-fashioned means 20 minutes from boil to bowl.

Being raised on this hominy from heaven, I’ve had them quick, instant, and of course old-fashioned. And I love ‘um all. I’m in favor of coming up with a fourth type, when instant isn’t fast enough, how about we invent a method called, “suddenly grits.” A man can dream can’t he?

Grits, the porridge of the gods, have come a long way baby, but not far enough in my book. When my wife and I travel we often look for different places to eat. Once the conversation turns to breakfast, the first thing I say is, “Do you think they have them?” I don’t have to say what, “them” is.

She plays along, but I can feel her eyes roll, even though she’s looking straight ahead. I can’t describe the uneasiness when we pull into an unfamiliar restaurant. Stepping inside, I do a quick inventory of other patron’s plates. Fear strikes from the bottom of my belly to the tip of my taste-buds when all I see are, potatoes. Potatoes, the dumbest of all the starches!

The steps continued without a grit in view. In my mind I’m sizing up the customers, Yankee, Canadian, foreigner, and so forth, trying to give my nervous system some form of comfort and hope.

My wife could sense the agitation and gave me a reassuring glance. We sat down and I couldn't open the menu fast enough. My eyes raced to the side dishes, (a simple trick discovered in my youth.)

I saw hash browns, egg, bacon, sausage, pancake, oatmeal, cereal, and scrapple. My mouth became dry, cold sweat rolled down flush cheeks; the word scrapple said it all. I’m in a grit loathed restaurant. Suddenly, I felt naked, almost being ridiculed for who I am and what I believe in.

Immediately this turned into my wife’s fault.

“It’s not on the menu,” I snap. “I don’t know why you wanted to eat here.”

She ignored this; we’ve been married a long time and she’s all too familiar with the routine.

“Ask the waitress, they might not be on the menu,” she said.

The fact that I had to lower myself and ask such a question was an insult to me and likeminded people beholden to Grits Nation.

Before the waitress came up, my eyes shifted to all the traders enjoying their potatoes. Suddenly, I’m suspicious of everyone and everything. My wife was even eying something on the menu that involved potatoes. Hallucinations set in; people were pointing at me and laughing while stuffing their mouths with potatoes. Giant potatoes rolled down the aisles. Waitresses brought out plates and plates of potatoes and potatoes. Mr. Potato Head appeared and high-five's the customers sitting across from me, all the while laughing and pointing.

A voice brought me out of this spud trance.

“Are you ready to order, sir?” the waitress said while standing over me.

Imagine how a 14 year old boy feels when asking the prettiest girl in class to his first dance. He knows the answer is no, but he has to give it a shot.

“Ah, do you… ah, I mean, ah, grits,” my wife interrupts because my voice was cracking just like the 14 year old boy.

“Do you have grits?” she said matter-of-fact, with confidence.

Silverware dropped throughout the restaurant; a busboy stuck his head around the corner. Conversations stopped and glasses fell silent on hushed tables.

“I don’t know,” the waitress said. “I’ll go ask.”

Now common sense told me, if she had to ask, she’s never served grits. But there was a chance, this could be her first day, and I could be her first customer, stranger things have happened.

I could tell by her curt walk back that the news was bad.

“We have hash browns,” she said.

My heart rate quicken, I’m ready to light into this waitress like Sherman went through Atlanta. I don’t recall my wife asking about hash browns. Was this some sort of twisted, “let them eat cake,” by the short-order cook?

Before I give her the “what for” my wife jumped in and placed her order.

“I’ll have the Junior Samples Special,” my bride said.

“You want hash browns with that,” Waitress Ratched said.

Avoiding eye contact with me, my wife of 20 years said, “Yes.”

A thousand daggers filled my soul; I’m all-alone with them. Somehow I’ve pulled into the town of Stepford and they have my wife.

I mumbled “I’ll have the pancake platter” knowing full well hash brows were not included. (Pancakes are always my backup plan to gritless grills)

“You want me to throw in a side of hash browns for ya, sweetie,” she said.

Now I knew I was being mocked. I saw the veiled smile on my wife’s face. Nothing will convince me otherwise. I tried to stay composed, but the vein in my neck told another story. Without hesitation, I calmly said, “No, just pancakes.”

Stories like the above have played out several times in my life and it’s about time this bigotry towards grits end.

Grits, the king of all carbohydrates, should never play second fiddle to the dimwitted potato. Oh, man tries to dress it up with onions and cheese, but it’s still a potato. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig.

I get so depressed when I go to the gas station. It’s not the price of gas that saddens my heart. It’s the 10% of ethanol that comes out of the hose. We kill grits by the boatload to fuel our cars. Despicable, you know it and I know it. We could easily make methanol out of potatoes. No home could be better for the tasteless tuber than inside my gas tank. If we must make ethanol, the swamp weed, sugarcane, is a better choice, not the proud corn and its gifted offspring, grits.

It’s a conspiracy I tell you. The self-righteous tater industry has hoodwinked us into believing grits are one-dimensional, only ambrosia for hayseeds and bumpkins.

I know what you’re thinking, “What idiot starts a war with Big-Potato?”

Well, this idiot does.

Grits, the sultan of corn, demands respect. Correct me if I’m wrong, I don’t recall a great grit famine. That’s right potato; you have a famine named after you.

Buy a potato and a bag of grits at the same time and then wait about six months. Would you eat the potato? Face it, grits could survive a nuclear blast and come out corn goodness every time.

Grits, the Chuck Norris of all dishes, laughs at the potato.

You say. “But Ron, I thought you loved French fries.”

Of course I do, its potatoes natural place, but anything taste good when it’s fried… especially grits. (touché my friend)

Like a slow poison dripping in, the potato is out to kill grits. But I say, not on my watch.
You may have noticed I can ramble on about grits, the gastronomic giant of all the grains. But time is short and the water is about to boil.

Just remember this, a grit by any other name…. Is a potato.

Up next, the plot against Krispy Kream by the evil Dunkin’ Donuts.


Click here to see my dream vacation. My bags are packed and April can’t get here soon enough.

The Assassin

I’m the official roach killer at my house. Thank you, I wear the badge proudly. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t live in a roach infested house. But about once every 6 months, I’ll be minding my own business and I’ll hear a scream, (the wife.) I’m very familiar with the roach scream, it starts with a high shrill and then gets a few octaves higher before my name is shouted throughout the house. The rainy season usually brings the first roach sighting and it’s June and we live in Florida so my bride is due for a close encounter of the flying cockroach kind.

My actions are swift and severe… I spot the invader, and then casually and coolly walk over and grab a shoe. Sometimes I whistle on my way back to the trespasser and act like I don’t see him, then WACK! Goodbye Mr. Roach, and if he’s German, I’ll say something like, “Say hello to Hitler” as he’s flushed down and into the catacombs of the sewer.

I have a talent at this and my roach killing skills are never called into question. I walk where others fear to tread. If there was a Hall of Fame for roach killers, I’d be Tiger Woods. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m known in the roach community as the assassin. Maybe that’s why we don’t have a big roach problem at our house, word gets around.

“Hey, George didn’t come home last night,” one roach said.

“You didn’t hear,” the other roach said. “Ron the assassin sent him to a watery grave.”

“No, not the assassins house, what was George thinking?”

If by chance the assassin is not home, things become more torturous for Mr. Roach. Where I slap a shoe a close range, my wife takes a more defensive approach at the roach. From about twenty paces she sprays a whole can of roach spray at the scurrying insect. Why does she use one whole can? Because she didn’t have two cans to use.

The poor fella shakes, twitches, rolls around, and coughs. It’s not a pretty sight. If I happen to come home during this death march, I can almost sense his relief that the assassin is here to finish him off.

It’s a bond among rivals that a woman with a can of spray will never understand, it’s the thrill of the chase, him trying to get under the fridge, before I spot him and grab a shoe. Weapons of mass destruction eliminate the mano-a-roacho contest that has been fought throughout the ages.

Being highly trained at this does have its advantages. I know how gladiators felt in Roman times or a sheriff in the old west after he ran the “black hats” out of Dodge.

Yes sir, after I flush the victim and give the “All clear” sign. My wife and son run up to me, and just like a scene from an old western, we walk arm and arm into the sunset… It’s good to be king.

Okay, I wanted to see if I could write 500 words on killing a roach. And I did, 525.

CHA-CHING

I’ve been racking the noodle lately thinking of “Out side the box” ways to help our government. Since the 3 current candidates, (from here on out, let’s call them The Mod Squad) yap about problems they can’t fix, I’ll help them out.

Here’s the plan.

The government needs to follow the path that rakes in billions and it’s simple. Think about this, the N.F.L. alone brings in millions of dollars. You add baseball, basketball, auto racing, golf and all the other lower tiered sports, and now you’re talking real money. What drives these events? Well first you have owners that are business men who know how to turn a buck. That’s something Washington needs, but will never have.

I honestly think if you replaced congress with the 32 owners of the National Football league, this country would be turning a profit faster than you could say “Vince Lombardi.”

Face it; this is a new world which needs a new approach.

Imagine this. The official beverage of the White House is Coca-Cola. How much would that cost? You think Pepsi would like some of that action? You bet. How about press conferences? Behind the podium just over the Presidents head is an ad for Monster.com. cha-ching. The Rose Garden sponsored by Scotts, cha-ching. Air Force One is now Jet Blue One, cha-ching. Capital Hill is now Pepperidge Farm Place, cha-ching.

We’re talking naming rights to each government building and monument. We are open for business and taking all bidders. The Lincoln Memorial and Washington Monument will sort of stay the same. They’d be the Lincoln Town Car Memorial and the Washington Mutual Monument. See it works.

The government prints money at the Bureau of Engraving building. Boring name right? Call it the Xerox Copy Center. Cha-ching

Most of this stuff is a no-brainer.

The Nestle Toll House of Representatives

The Pizza Hut Supreme Court

Subway Sub-Committee

Toyota Dept. of Transportation

Brinks Dept. of Homeland Security

Dr. Pepper Dept. of Health and Human Services

CHA-CHING, cha-ching, and cha-ching

Even when a congressman is arrested it could bring in revenue. With all the lawyers and bail bondsmen vying to be the official “House Legal Team,” that alone would balance the budget. CHA-CHING

Since senators work for us, they would have no say in the contract or receive any compensation for the following. You’ve seen a hearing committee on television. The senators sit high above some poor sap while grilling him about not paying health care for his employees. Each senator has a microphone and on this microphone is a little ad.

Ted Kennedy- Budweiser

Robert Byrd- Linens N Things

John Kerry- Heinz Ketchup

John McCain- Waffle House

Kay Bailey Hutchison- Little Debbie

Harry Reid- Cap’n Crunch

Hillary Clinton- Coldwater Creek Pantsuits

Joe Biden- Rogaine

The revenue is endless.

We could have Congress trading cards with full stats on the back. You know, the number of DUI’s , addictions and girlfriends each congressman has. Add a fun fact like what fetish they have, or lobby kickbacks they receive.

I can almost hear kids begging their mothers, “Please Mom, I have to get the Obama rookie card.”

Then the disappointment when the pack is opened, “Crap another Barney Frank.” Cha-ching

Then we branch out.

The space shuttle program would have to be overhauled. Make the shuttles look like they belong on a racetrack. Heck, I bet DuPont would love to paint the thing in rainbow colors and slap a 24 on it. In fact, let NASCAR take over NASA, it makes perfect sense. Blast 3 or 4 of those babies off at the same time and let em’ race to mars. The country would fall in love with the space program again and it wouldn’t cost the tax payers a cent.

There is so much we could do, like postage stamps with ads on them, Interstate signs with corporate logos, pop-up ads on government websites, and all the while, cha-ching.

Don’t forget about eBay. Are you kidding me? How much would a suit worn by the President fetch? And what if he signed it? Cha-ching I’m already ahead of you, auction off a weekend at Camp David with the President, cha-ching.

We do have to make a few things off limits. As much as Home Depot wanted to put orange aprons on Secret Service agents, we would have to draw the line. The agents would no longer be secret. But then again, how many times have you been to Home Depot and can’t find an orange apron anywhere. Hmm… maybe there’s a blend in button that you push on the apron… Note to self, start observing the help down at the home center.

Now let’s really think outside the box and into the squared circle.

How about a lights out match between Christopher Dodd and Orrin Hatch, winner gets their bill passed. On the undercard, Tom Harkin (D) vs. Chuck Grassley (R) in a loser leaves town match, with special guest referee, Ross Porot. Americans would be interested in politics, the ratings would go through the roof, and Fox would pay Super Bowl numbers to broadcast Political-Mania I.

Think about a national lottery. I bet it could fund the Social Security crises and make some millionaires along the way. Cha-ching

You may think I’m crazy, but you know I’m right. The government has to market itself like a sports franchise.

As much as The Mod Squad hates it, this country is run on the corporate dollar. It’s time to look for any source of revenue. If you’re worried about selling out, its already happened. China buys our debt…while we sleep. Let’s grab the country back with the full-force of American know-how.

Here’s the problem I see. With all this new money to spend… they will spend it, but not on the debt. No, congress would green light more social programs and we’d be left in a bigger hole than when we first started.

Of course, unlike The Mod Squad, I don’t have a Political Science or law degree. I’ve never been a community organizer or married to a former President. You know, things that make you qualified to run for the highest office in the land. Nope, I just plot along in the world of the small-brained people eating my Moon Pie and drinking RC Cola….

Moon Pie… RC Cola?

How about the Moon Pie & RC Cola Ethics Committee…. Has a nice ring doesn’t it.

That’s the way Ron sees it.