Manchurian Stink Bug Candidate Complex

It seemed like just yesterday when the Secretary of Homeland Security Tom Ridge, had himself in a lather while imploring us to stock up on duct tape and plastic for an imminent terror attack. We worried, we fretted; and then we laughed. But all these years later, the premonitions are ringing true; we are under attack. Under attack by Stink Bugs. Or are we?


The latest poll shows that 97% of Americans are now more afraid of stink bug infestation than the government’s health care bill. But like the health care bill, I have more questions than answers.

Foremost, do they really stink? Sure, stories abound about the awful stench that is unleashed upon their demise. Rumors swirl of their odoriferous ways. Duct tape and plastic are flying off the shelf. But really, do they stink? Or, is this the most brilliant marketing campaign ever waged? Have these insects, through intrepid manipulation of the mainstream media, convinced us that their untimely death leads to odors worse than the laundry room at a senior citizen center? What a luminous scheme to insure the propagation of their species!

But I had to find out for myself. This weekend, a stink bug made its way onto the light above the island in our kitchen. Surely, it must have thought, I wouldn’t be so foolish as to kill it and unleash its hellishly scented fury. Alas, I have slaughtered many a bug in my day, and I am telling you that for the first time, there was pause in my action.

But then I thought, “What the hell?” and crunched the fucker in a paper towel. But now the moment of truth was upon me – I had to smell him. So I did. And here is my analysis. 1) There is an odor. 2) I wouldn’t classify it as “stink.” 3) I have no baseline of other insect smells so I can’t say it if is better or worse.

Therefore, I declare that the “Manchurian Stink Bug Candidate Complex” is over! But hold onto that duct tape, I understand bed bugs have been seen visiting Madison Avenue – rumor has it that when killed, they render the murderer impotent.

Flying Through the Air With the Greatest of Unease

The absolute most frightening part of air travel is the message over the public address system at the airport that says, “If anyone asks you to carry something for them onboard an aircraft, please report this immediately to airport security.” What’s frightening isn’t that someone would try this. Hell, someone convinced the underwear bomber to strap explosives to his penis. (There has to be a corporate motivational speaking tour available for anyone who can talk another human being into wearing explosives around his loins.) What’s frightening is that this announcement goes out because of the very real possibility that you are about to fly with someone stupid enough that if a total stranger walks up to them and says, “Hey, I have this package that just has to get to New York. Turns out I am not going to be able to make the flight. Be a pal and take it for me?” Someone would actually say, “Sure!”


Though the above is what I dread when flying, it is certainly not the only concern. But amazingly, air travel has seemed to position itself as the one form of transportation that has almost completed negated the risks associated with the actual “travel” portion. Basically, there are plenty of things to worry about, but the flying part does not seem to be one of them.

Common sense would dictate that the most dangerous part would be the actual flying, and that at least a modicum of rules would be in effect during the course of moving near the speed of sound at 35,000 feet. Not so. On my flights, the only rule that seemed to be in place while we were in the air was that we were forbidden to use the first class bathroom. But on the ground, all sorts of rules were in effect: belts fastened, tray tables and seat backs in the “upright and locked position”, (which is the same position you use in the airplane bathroom) no electronic devices, no getting out of your seat until the captain deems it appropriate, keep your hands and feet inside the plane, no breathing, eyes closed, living will tucked into your pocket, etc.

Another rule that is little known but widely followed is that when the plane arrives at the jet-way at the terminal, you are supposed to be infinitely surprised by this event, and only as everyone in front of you has left are you then to start gathering all of your belongings. This of course means standing in the aisle for several minutes while you check the seatback, the overhead compartment, the overhead compartment four rows back and then the pockets of your jacket. At this point, you have to fiddle with the roller bag handle since there is no sense in just carrying it off of the plane, and then stow your magazines in your carry-on after sorting them alphabetically and by publisher. Then and only then can you proceed down the aisle onto the jet-way, where you must stop to rearrange everything one more time, all the while being sure not to let anyone pass you. This is a rule for a very important reason; if you were to get off the plane too quickly, you would have to wait the full ninety minutes at baggage claim to retrieve your luggage. This reduces that wait time to only seventy-five.

Because I am generally a rule-abiding guy, I fairly respect these regulations (though I try to break the one about gathering my things). But I swear, one day I am peeing in the first-class bathroom.

Liquid Soap Opera

I haven’t used an actual bar of soap in years! Where was I when this historic transition occurred from a good, solid block of fat and lye to these multi-scented, testosterone snatching liquids? I might as well hand my kids a rotary phone as a bar of soap – they would be equally puzzled.


Does anyone else miss the Irish Spring commercial where a man slices off a piece of bar soap like he is filleting a trout? Today, we are awash (get it?) in commercials of metrosexual men frolicking in the shower under a nice soapy lather after their Pilates-Spin-Bikram Yoga class.

The way I look at it, only two forces could possibly be at work. Either, A) This is a conspiracy to further the pussification of this great country by the liberal media, or B) It is driven by the holier-than-thou conservative movement under the pressure of the Liquid Soap Lobby to stuff the pockets of Liquid Soap CEO’s not unlike the oil companies. (Pick your side.)

After a quick recon of the homestead, we have the following scents: Linen (wonder if you can get a nice polyester blend?), White Citrus (it is easy to imagine some scentrified snob on Park Avenue saying, “Yes, the citrus is good, but it needs a hint of white, or maybe an off white.”) and something called, I shit you not, Dancing Waters (sounds more like a rejected Celine Dion album title than a soap).

And not only do you get these whacked out scents, you get free magic too! You pump what is most assuredly a liquid and out comes foam!

I also wonder if this shift away from bar soap has influenced the shower room in prison. You know the old joke about not dropping the soap? I think at the time we all assumed that was specific to bar soap. Do you now hear, “Don’t drop that hair and body wash – boy.”

By the way, I just looked in the basement where we have “Caribbean Escape” which smells decidedly of pot and jerk seasoning.

The Elephant Eyed Me As I Drank My Beer

I like any bar with a hand-written sign on the door that says, “Smoking Permitted.” To me, it is an emphatic statement that the owner of the establishment is much more concerned with someone’s inalienable right to smoke than their right to eat, since in Pennsylvania, it is perfectly fine to feed your patrons fried cheese stick wrapped chicken wings with extra trans-fat laden dipping sauce, but not allow them to smoke. Or, the owner always hated cooking.


So after a day of antique browsing and a devilishly good dinner, my wife and I walked into Joe’s in bucolic Ligonier, PA. You can notice many things when walking into a bar; the neatly arranged liquor bottles, the jukebox, the clientele. We noticed the giraffe and polar bear, before we noticed the elephant’s head hanging from the ceiling.

Seems that Joe (whose wife Marcy has actually owned the bar for fifty years) had a penchant for safari’s - and hunting. I don’t mean to understate this. When I say penchant, I mean it like congressmen have a penchant for spending money – which is to say, wildly and without prejudice. Imagine killing, and subsequently stuffing, every animal you have ever seen. This is the idea.

The display had more horned animals than a sales convention in Orlando. Besides the above mentioned giraffe, polar bear and elephant, there was a rhinoceros, alligator, lion, tiger and literally about one hundred more animals. All were displayed in museum like cases that took up the back room and the entire second floor. Except for the elephant, whose head was suspended in between floors sand whose legs were made into chairs – really.

The friendly bartender informed us that all the meat from the kills was given to the local people. Imagine the delight in backwoods Kenya when an American rolls into the village with a giraffe slung over his Land Rover, “Giraffe tartar! Gather round kids!”

But hey, after spending an afternoon looking at white porcelain tea sets and cases of watches that, according to one antique dealer I heard say, “None of ‘em work,” I happily shared my Yuengling with a stuffed baboon.

(Like the Grand Canyon, pictures do not do this place justice, I highly recommend a visit to this place.  You really have to see it to get a true handle on this wonderful piece of Americana.)

Male Complex with your Black Cohash?

I’m not above a few supplements, but while the debate rages over whether or not marijuana should be legalized (except in California where the debate rages over whether it should be sold in ounces or grams at Wal-Mart) I think the Feds may be overlooking a very curious phenomena taking place in local grocery stores.


While picking up some Myoplex this morning I was stopped by the large display of “herbs”, “roots”, “flowers” and apparently “candy” that is sold in the health section of my local grocery store. Neatly arranged alphabetically is row after row of pills that seem to be able to cure, fix, minimize, maximize, accentuate, relieve and cleanse any possible malady (real or imagined) that besets you.

The first one that caught my attention was “Male Complex”. I can only speak for myself, but I have enough problems without having more of a complex. Or so I thought. Upon closer examination (which is almost as embarrassing as perusing condoms) Male Complex “Promotes Sexual Health.” I guess that explains why right below that is “Dong Quai Root”.

Another interestingly named supplement is “Bladderwrack.” Is it me or does that name sound ominous? Who wants their bladder “wracked”? I mean, having the name “Fuck-Up-Your –Bladder” seems to imply the same thing.

If you want candy but not the hassle of tasting it, you can get Licorice tablets. You can also buy Black Cohash which I swear I saw an undercover cop buy on TV one time. “You got any Black Cohash?” Doesn’t it seem like you could get arrested for carrying that?

If anyone has access to empty pill capsules I plan on harvesting my yearly crop of Dandelions in my yard to sell alongside Horsetail Grass. Both of which are available in pill form…one of which sports another bad name…Horsetail Grass.

Could it be that people are so gullible there is an effort being put forth to grind up anything that grows and market it as a supplement? I’m thinking – yes. I’m also thinking that the crab grass in my yard can significantly help prevent pain, inflammation, goiter, kidney stones, hernias, ingrown toenails, impotence, hangovers, nail biting, bed wetting and is a significant source of vitamins A, B, C, D, E, F and G.

Wanna Bet? Leave It To Paddy Power.

If you are a drug addled celebrity, there is a good chance you will end up on someone’s death pool at the office. If you are an endangered species, you may find yourself on paddypower.com at 4/5 odds of becoming the next animal to become extinct. If you know anything about betting, 4/5 makes you the heavy, heavy favorite (basically, a five dollar bet wins you four). Such is the fate of the Kemp’s Ridley Turtle.


The Ridley is one of three turtle species listed in the site (Leatherback at 8/1 and the Loggerhead at 12/1).

More interestingly, Elkhorn Coral (20/1) is also present on the list. Coral is an animal? Plant – okay, but animal? Who knew? Kind of like how a tomato is actually a fruit and not a vegetable – you accept it is true but still can’t wrap your head around it. Its the same way I feel about reading about Supreme Court decisions or the fact that Sarah Palin actually ran for Vice President.

In 1980, the Pennsylvania Daily Number was fixed. Masterminded by Nick Perry, the conspirators applied white latex paint to eight of the balls in each machine, making them slightly heavier than the two untouched balls, the four and the six, thus making those two the only likely candidates to get sucked up in the vacuum tube. The winning result that day was 6-6-6. Eventually, the entire scam fell apart and all interested partied went to prison. (A fate I wish would beset Congress.)

I’m not suggesting this should be the fate of the Ridley Turtle, in fact, at 4/5 the risk would not outweigh the reward. The coral though, who really cares? But if you can’t stomach the idea of wiping out a species for financial gain (insert President Bush joke) Paddy Power has a better idea.

If, according to the WWF estimates on December 31, 2011, you can “somehow” figure out a way to get the Polar Bear population “down” to between 25,001 and 30,000, you stand to collect at 5/2. Look at the upside. There are at a minimum 25,001 polar bears left which seems like plenty to me, I’m sure there are some Inuit that would gladly eat the meat, and you could make a killing (bad pun) in the black market fur trade. This shouldn’t be an issue you sick fuck since you already slaughtered polar bears.

If the idea of affecting the survival of a species turns your stomach, you can always bet on the 2012 Presidential election which currently has Obama at 8/11 – and no shit, Paris Hilton at 1000/1 (tied with Laura Bush). All that makes me hungry for a polar bear filet served in a Kemp’s Ridley Turtle shell.

(Paddy Power is a HUGE retail and online bookmaker based in Ireland and is listed on both the Irish and London stock exchanges.  Check out their website for many, MANY more interesting bets.

Because an Ordinary Moment Can Turn Romantic

“For those of you having an erection lasting longer than four hours – you’re welcome.” Stephen Colbert


If my junk mail box serves me correctly, there appears to be a huge market out there for: erectile dysfunction pills, Rolex’s, Doctorate degrees, penis elongation meds and Nigerian finance ministers with boatloads of cash to move.

I would think that in order to pursue any of these emails, you would have to jump a few hurdles that include the very real possibility that these sites are:

1. A scam to take your money.
2. A scam to steal your identity.
3. A scam to take your money and provide a bogus product.
4. A scam to infect your computer with Ebola or some other virus.
5. An opportunity to post your picture on Yahoo’s Home Page as the stupidest person on the net.

Just for fun, let’s assume that you really, really want to beat back this erectile dysfunction once and for all. You have tried all the normal courses of action including cutting back on the meth and staying away from porn for a few days before a big date. (I only heard these are the normal courses of action.)

So one night, when milfsinheat.com didn’t work (again!) you decide to go for broke and order a supply of Viagra from bighouseofhardons.com.

Now, let’s assume that the website didn’t suck down your bank account like an overweight trucker sucks down a Slurpee and your computer didn’t catch Mad Cow Disease and that a few weeks later a little box gets delivered to your house addressed to Craven Morehead (because you still haven’t lost your sense of humor). Let’s also assume the packaging of the little blue pills is suspect at best. For instance, maybe they come wrapped in the Lifestyle section of the Istanbul Daily Times.

At this point the little experiment, to me, goes from insane to downright psychotic because now you are left with only two options. One, you can chalk this up to too much Dewar’s and flush them, or, actually ingest the fucking things.

Where are you at in life when you think, as an option to achieve arousal, you are going to take pills received in the mail with the very real possibility that they were produced from dust, chemicals and some blue turpentine? Would this person hold them in their hand and think, “Fuck it, I’m going for it,” and knock them back with a sip of mescal?

Hell, I get nervous when I go to take an Advil and I don’t remember if I took the safety seal off when I opened the box a few weeks back, or if I didn’t and someone has injected the pills with badger urine.

But who am I to judge? I have to go now, my good friend in Nigeria, the Consul General of Timeliness and Monetary Bereavement is waiting for me to wire him five grand so he can send me a third-party out of country check for $58,670,250.00USD.