A Sheep, a Duck and a Rooster Float into a Paris Cafe

Ever vigilant in the search for ingredients which could become Wry Bread (when mixed, kneaded and half-baked) I shelled out $3 in a thrift store for The Book of Incredible Information.  To give the potential buyer a taste of the contents, the cover includes this sample nugget: “Every square inch of the human body has about 32 million bacteria on it.” Unwilling to foist on my two or three loyal readers information which might not be trustworthy, I chose a square inch on my left arm and proceeded to count the bacteria.  After 9 hours of counting, I was only at 18,644, and there were many more bacteria left to count, so I decided just to trust the book’s figures.  Surely, they wouldn’t call it The Book of Incredible Information if the information in the book were not reliable.

“Wait a minute Rusty, if it’s reliable, wouldn’t it be called The Book of Credible Information?”

[That’s my friend Pretty Boy Humphrey who likes to pop into my stories ----uninvited, I might add.]

“One thing I can rely on is you crashing my stories, Pretty Boy.  If you want to help write this one, go see if you can estimate how many bacteria are on your entire body”

[That should keep him busy for a while.]

This story is not actually about bacteria; it’s about the first hot air balloon.  The book says it was invented by two French brothers in 1782.  The Montgolfier’s were papermakers who discovered that a silk bag would float to their ceiling if it were filled with hot air.  (Yes, you would think these papermakers would have used a paper bag, but this is one of those occasions when I have to trust the book---or resume counting bacteria.)  The next year, the brothers launched a large hot-air silk balloon, which, according to the book, “carried a sheep, a duck and a rooster into the air.”  (Experts believe that only the duck had any previous flying experience.)  When asked why they put three animals in the balloon’s basket when one would do, they said it was in case they landed in an open-air café, where they could be the beginning of a joke: “A sheep, a duck and a rooster float into a Paris café…”  Actually, we’re not sure that’s what the brothers said because they answered the question in French.

“If you had paid attention in French class, you might know what they said, Rusty.”

“Back so soon, Tommy?  I was hoping----that is, I thought you’d be working on your assignment for hours.  Did you estimate the number of bacteria on your body already?”

FLORIDA MAN

Always on the lookout to jumpstart a Wry Bread story, I have turned my eye to the accounts of the hero of doofi* everywhere, Florida Man. If you haven’t yet done so, do an internet search for “Florida Man” and your birthday to see what crazy headline shows up (no not now, Tommy, when you’re done reading this).

Each of the following stories has been reported by a legitimate news source and can be found by a search for “Florida Man.”

February 8: “Florida Man Charged with Assault with a Deadly Weapon after Throwing Alligator through Wendy’s Drive-Thru Window.”  Presumably he was upset because there weren’t enough ketchup packets in his take-out bag.

November 12: “Florida Man Breaks into Restaurant, Strips Naked, Eats Noodles, Plays Bongos.”  The good news is, because the restaurant was closed, no customers were disturbed by the bongos.

“Florida Man Attempts to Trade a Live Alligator for a Beer.”  I’m guessing he was looking under his recliner for some beer money and all he could find was a gator.  He did not get a beer, but he did get a visit from a Fish and Wildlife Officer.  Now, if the gator had been able to play the bongos, the convenience store clerk might have made the trade.

What's in a Name?

My friend Scam Likely says nobody answers his calls anymore. 

What’s that, Pretty Boy? (My amiable nemesis Tommy Humphrey, aka Pretty Boy has a comment.)

"I said that's extremely UNlikely."

You mean, that my friend's name is Scam Likely?

"No; I mean, that you have a friend."

You have cut me to the quick, Thomas. But thankfully, my quick is surrounded by layers of fat, so ‘tis a mere flesh wound.  Now why would you think me friendless?

"Well, Rusty, you don't fish, hunt or ride a motorcycle; you don't golf, bowl or play tennis. You don't camp, kayak or shoot skeet. What would you do with a friend, sit and read together?"

 Converse; we'd converse. 

"You'd wear high-top sneakers together? 

 Not CONverse, conVERSE.  As you may know, I'm a scintillating conversationalist.

“I think you’d better double-check your Readers’ Digest vocabulary quiz, Rusty.  Scintillating does not mean sleep inducing. You know I've heard you preach."

Your dozing off in church is easily explained, Tommy. I suspect your body is programmed to nap after every meal, and you eat a hearty breakfast before church.  Maybe you should take a nap now, so I can get back to my story.

“So, you call these 'Dry Breads' stories?  I would call them Rusty Ramblings.”

 You are inadvertently making my point about names, Tommy.

 “Oh----you have a point now?”

Drink some coffee and follow along, Pretty Boy:

“What’s in a name?” asked Shakespeare’s Juliet, lamenting the fact that Romeo was from the Montague family, her family’s rivals. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”  

She was quite right of course, but how many would pause to smell a rose if the plant had been named “Stinky Prickly Bush.” 

In an age of Caller I.D., someone with the name Scam Likely is not going to get many of his calls answered.  The same goes for a fellow named Bill Collector, or a gal named Charity Call.

History on Wry: Captain Smith and Pocahontas Part 2. We Found Pocahontas

In our first (more or less) exciting episode, Captain John Smith sailed from England to the shore of Virginia.  He and his landing party, searching for fresh water and a fast-food place that would take British currency, were soon set upon by several hatchet-wielding men with painted faces and what Smith would later describe as “inappropriate attire for gentlemen.” With grunts and gestures the natives made it known that they were to be accompanied, and they led the men to a village where they were greeted by Chief Powhatan.

“Welcome, strangers,” said the chief.

A shocked Smith responded, “You speak English? How can this be? Am I not the first Englishman to set foot here?”

“No, no. 
Big British invasion last year, four mop-heads from Liverpool.  Chief Sullivan of Seneca Nation introduce them. Loud concert at Squaw Stadium---really big show.  Maidens went wild.  Screaming and crying.  Many tribes came. They shook it up, baby---twisted and shouted.  Beethoven rolled over.  Our village has never been the same.”  He lifted up the flap of a wigwam and Smith heard a snippet of ‘A Hard Day’s Night.’ *

“Where are these Liverpudlians now?

“Mopheads returned to England.  Listen, do you want to know a secret?  Do you promise not to tell? Closer. Let me whisper in your ear. My youngest daughter Poca was there. She was just seventeen----you know what I mean. Now she says she’ll never dance with another, after she saw John standing there.”

“John?”

“John one of British invaders---three others too, but Poca fall hard for John.  She started what she call ‘Fanatic Club.’ Every day she write letter to John.  Always signs, ‘P.S. I love you--- love me do.’”

“How does she send letters to England?”

“Poca puts letters in soda bottles she gets from local Dollar General.  She throw them into the sea. I warn her, bottles could go anywhere.  Singing John from Liverpool will not find.  She not listen.  Now Poca has seen 18 winters with no husband.  She say, ‘No brave good enough.’  Say will marry no one but John.  This mean Powhatan have no grandchildren.  When I’m 64, I will have no Vera, Chuck and Dave on my knee.”

History on Wry: Captain Smith and Pocahontas, Part One. Where's Pocahontas?

Our story begins in England, a small island which has the misfortune to be situated, not in the Mid-Pacific, as the more favored island of Hawaii, where there are moderate temperatures, clear skies, palm trees, and the happy citizens enjoy swimming in the ocean and driving on the right side of the road. England is in the North Atlantic, where it’s often cold and foggy, where no one in his right mind wants to swim in the ocean, and where the unhappy citizens must remember to drive on the wrong side of the road.  To make matters worse, for many years the English took comfort in the fact that at least their island was unsinkable; but then there was that unfortunate business regarding the "unsinkable" Titanic. Now they live in fear that an iceberg will send them to the floor of the Atlantic. For all the above reasons, and the fact that it’s within range of the German Luftwaffe, the English have been seeking places to relocate since an Oxford Professor conceived the word “emigrate.”

The year was 1607 (which actually makes it, curiously, not the 16^th, but the 17^th century).  Captain John Smith wanted to distinguish himself from all the other John Smiths in England at the time.  (As you may know, in 17^th century England, it was proverbial, “Throw yon chestnut, hit Jon Smith.”)  So, Captain Smith formed a group he called “The Virginia Company,” named after his illustrious monarch, Queen Virginia, the First of England, the Third of Scotland, the Sixth of Wales and the Twelfth of Never.  Smith’s plan was to convince a few wealthy merchants to finance a voyage west so he could try to find a New World (ideally, one named Virginia) which was not in constant threat from icebergs. There he would presumably be the only John Smith, and he could become a prosperous tobacco farmer.  Of course, Europeans had not discovered tobacco yet, but Smith had a dream. 

We join him in a meeting with potential investors:

“I shall apprise thee of my plan:  Ye men of heavy purses shall grant me enough sovereigns to purchase 3 sturdy ships (or the ships may be leased if thou canst find a deal with no high-mileage penalty). We shall thence sail west ‘til we find yon New World, yea, losing half our crew and passengers from disease on the perilous journey, for we shall fail to bring with us enough fresh fruit and water.  Those of us blessed by Providence to survive the journey will arrive too late in the year to plant crops.  But the friendly heathen will come to our aid.  Although we can offer them, at present, naught but colorful trinkets and diseases for which they have no resistance, they will welcome and honor us when they learn we’re from England; from whence we shall one day bring them James Bond, Harry Potter and Downton Abbey. They will share with us their food and fish-head fertilizer, and they will help us build a fort with high walls to keep out the native riff raff.”

A BYPASS in DEFENSE of the FREE WORLD

Knowing that many of my friends and family had not yet experienced Open-Heart Surgery, I recently submitted to the procedure, intending to carefully document each step, so they might have some idea of what to expect. Does this make me some sort of trailblazing hero? That's for others to decide------but probably so----yes, I guess it does.

If you haven't yet read the story, "My Rude Awakening," you should do that first, as this story is what we in the publishing world like to call a "sequel" to that one. 

"Can you say, 'se-quel,' Pretty Boy?" 

But for those of you too lazy to find and read that story (most of you, I suspect) here's the gist of it: 

My family history of heart disease, high cholesterol and intolerance for statins led my Cardiologist to recommend a Nuclear Stress Test. This is a procedure in which lab technicians affix numerous electrical leads to the chest of some unfortunate chap whose coronary arteries may be clogged, requiring him to run on a treadmill until either his heartbeat reaches a predetermined target, or he expires, whichever comes first. As you may have surmised, my test was not fatal, but not for any lack of zeal on the part of the lab-techs. Frustrated that my heartbeat wasn't hitting their target, they cranked the treadmill from the "Alpine" to the "Himalayan" setting, and I managed to gasp out this question with what I thought might be my final breaths,

"How...many...patients...do you...lose on...this machine?" 

One of the techs answered, "About 25%."

"This is disconcerting," I thought, as I approached unconsciousness, "one in four Stress Test participants don't survive. This would have been helpful information to receive before I agreed to the test." (Yes, I often enclose my thoughts in quotation marks, if it's any of your business).

Later, when I questioned that death rate, which seemed a bit high, the tech explained that she meant that about 25% of their patients halt the test before completing it. This clarification provided a humorous moment for all those in the office who were not the patient.

The reason it's called a "nuclear" stress test is that some radioactive material is injected in the patient's chest during the procedure. I would have asked what percentage of radiated patients develop super- powers, but I had lost confidence in the lab techs' understanding of percentages.

My Rude Awakening

Last Tuesday I was waking from a semi-conscious state after a heart cath. I expected to wake to my Cardiologist's words, "Everything looks fine," or, "You had some minor clogging; but the stents I put in should do the trick; go home and eat more pie." But he was off script. "You have three major blockages, each at 70-80%. Imagine ten lanes of busy traffic trying to squeeze into two or three."

"I don't have to imagine it. I just drove through Atlanta."

"One of those blockages is in the Left Anterior Descending Artery, commonly known as the Widow Maker."

I didn't like the sound of that. The rural church I serve part-time already has several widows who need pastoral care. The last thing I wanted was to add another widow to the list and increase my workload, especially when I had just been informed that I have a heart condition. 

Then I heard the doctor use the words "bypass surgery." That's a relief, I thought, he's recommending that we bypass surgery; sounds good to me. I bet he's going to explain that the wizards of modern medicine have found a better way to fix my heart than by carving me like a turkey. Maybe now they can do it with lasers, or a Zoom call. I imagined him saying:

"Thankfully, you made it into the 21st Century, when the barbaric method of extracting veins from your legs, sawing through your chest and splicing those veins into your arteries is a thing of the past." 

But evidently the wizards have been preoccupied with other matters, like fighting worldwide pandemics, or helping that Potter fellow defeat Voldemort, because what he actually said was,

"You need to schedule bypass surgery."

"Rats! No stents then?"

"Your blockages are too severe."

"You idiot," I said to myself, "you should have skipped the dessert bar at Golden Corral."  

"But desserts are included in the price," I responded. "Only a fool would pay for dessert and not eat it. Would you rather be an idiot or a fool?"

"Are those my only two options?"

When Blizzards Were Blizzards

My brother Doug and his wife Nancy recently endured a Buffalo snowfall with accumulations recorded between five and seven feet----but enough about them.  Their storm can’t be compared to the one Donna and I survived when we lived there, the historic Western New York Blizzard of ‘77.  In those days, before the environmentalists got their hands on our atmosphere, America was cranking out pollutants to beat the band, and Buffalo was a major band beater.  The weather pattern then was as follows:  In Buffalo’s summer, which usually fell sometime between the first and fifteenth of August, industrial waste would block the sun’s rays and help to hasten the season we were famous for, winter.  In winter, moisture from Lake Erie would condense around the various toxins in the clouds, and the result would be the descent of huge, semi-metallic snowflakes, and lots of them. 

Yes, other cities received occasional snow pollution; my brother Kenny, who as a child in Baltimore would catch snowflakes on his tongue, still has tongue shrapnel, which along with his suspicious-sounding last name, makes it tough for him to get through airport security.  But Buffalo snow was renowned for its high metallic content.  When the mountains of snow eventually melted, almost always before the Fourth of July, our kids would earn spending money raking up the metal fragments in the yard and selling them back to one of the local steel plants. The air pollution wasn’t especially good for our lungs, but in those days, you must remember, lungs were toughened by the second-hand smoke everyone inhaled in public places.

Let the record show that the recent snow in Buffalo was comprised entirely of young, flighty November flakes.  By contrast, the Blizzard of ‘77 used only mature, January snow.  In Buffalo, January flakes are ripe and plump, and they hit like mini-snowballs.  The flakes in that blizzard were especially fat; every time three of them landed on each other they formed a snowman.  Donna and I were in Northeast Philly visiting our friends, Wayne and Phyllis Clapier (to protect their privacy, let's call them Lane and Willis St. Clair) when we heard a forecast of heavy snow for western New York, which didn’t alarm us.  If at that point they had called it the historic blizzard of ‘77 we might have been more concerned, but no one got around to naming it until later.  It’s also true that at the time I didn’t put much stock in meteorologists’ forecasts because I thought, “What qualifies someone who studies meteors to make predictions about the weather?”  It has since been explained to me that meteorologists focus not on meteors, but on meteorites, and anything that plunges into our atmosphere must have some effect on it.  So I stand corrected.

History on Wry: Columbus

Admiral  Columbus,  it’s  a great honor to speak with you.  As most of our readers know, on Earth you were a 15^th century explorer hoping to find a westward route from Europe to the Orient; but instead, you landed in what we now know as the western hemisphere. Although you were Italian, it was actually the Spanish monarchy that sponsored your expedition?

“Yes, I searched for a sponsor for ten years until the Spanish king and queen signed on.  As sponsors, they got their name and image on all the bric-a-brac we brought to trade for spices and gold----Ferdinand and Isabella coffee mugs, key chains, tee shirts, caps, visors, you name it.  Plus, they were granted exclusive film rights for the expedition; the contract clause read, ‘…in the event that motion pictures should be invented soon.’”

They provided three ships for the journey?

“Well, my ship, the Santa Maria, was the one we knew to be seaworthy; we brought the Nina and the Pinta along for parts. Oh, and they carried replacements for Santa Maria men who fell overboard or died of Scurvy on the trip.  If I had a do-over, I’d bring more oranges and fewer coffee mugs, and maybe one or two life-preservers.”

How long did your westward journey take?

“About five weeks, which any sane man would think should be long enough to get to China.  Who could have guessed there’d be a continent or two in the way?  You’d think some Viking might have mentioned it.”

You landed on a Caribbean Island, thinking you had reached the Orient. How did you determine you weren’t in China?

“Well, the people were dark-skinned, there were no rickshaws, we couldn’t find a decent Chinese restaurant, and all their music was reggae.”

Seminary Spaceships

If you’ve read A Jolly Good Time at the Cemetery, you’ll recall that my brother Doug and I attended Faith Seminary, near Philadelphia. We were there in the mid-seventies of what we called the Twentieth Century (even though every year that I can recall from that century started with the number nineteen---go figure). At the time, a NASA scientist gained some popularity in Christian circles with a book and lecture series advancing a new take on the amazing visions recounted in Ezekiel 1.

If you’re among the 99.9% of Americans who’ve never read Ezekiel (or among the rest who may have read it but have little or no recollection of it) I will hereby enlighten you. In his first chapter, Ezekiel describes a vision of living creatures appearing out of a whirlwind, each with four wings and four faces (of a man, a lion, an ox and an eagle). The creatures “sparkled like the color of burnished bronze,” and they “ran back and forth, in appearance like a flash of lightning.” Then the prophet describes what he calls “a wheel on the earth beside each living creature,” and he says, “The appearance of their workings was, as it were, a wheel in the middle of a wheel.”  

Bible scholars have long supposed that Ezekiel experienced a vision of heavenly creatures similar to the Seraphim described in Isaiah 6, or the creatures the Apostle John saw around God’s throne as recorded in Revelation 4, each of whom had one of the four faces Ezekiel described. (The meaning of that business about wheels was anybody’s guess.) But the NASA scientist proposed that Ezekiel may have actually interacted with what we call (or what Hollywood calls) aliens----extraterrestrials, life forms who traveled to earth from another planet in a spacecraft (a wheel in the middle of a wheel) far more advanced than anything yet produced by man. I don’t remember the scientist’s name, but we’ll call him Zulcan.  

“Isn’t Zulcan the name of your home planet, Rusty?”

I’ll deal with you later, Pretty Boy. 

Our seminary president, Dr. Carl McIntire, must have been impressed with Zulcan’s book or lecture, because he arranged to have him speak at a seminary chapel. His presentation included slides of an artist's renderings of Ezekiel's visions interspersed with grainy images of UFO's captured by pilots or other earthlings.  If you’re thinking that the weight of evidence that Ezekiel saw aliens who visited Earth in a spacecraft must be (of necessity) on the light side, you are thinking clearly. Furthermore, if you’re wondering what difference it makes whether Ezekiel saw angels created by God, or other life forms created by God, you’re thinking the way I was thinking in that chapel.

“At least you were thinking, Rusty. The only thing in the mind of your parishioners is usually, “When is this guy gonna stop talking?”

“Parishioners,” that’s a big word for you, Tommy, four syllables. Good boy! Who’s a good boy?  Now go get a cookie.

A Jolly Good Time at the Cemetery

Preparing for the ministry, my brother Doug and I attended Faith Theological Seminary near Philadelphia. As you can imagine, a seminary can be a rather solemn place, as learning to rightly interpret and proclaim God’s truth is serious business. (One of our visiting chapel speakers enjoyed poking fun at the somber atmosphere. More than once he began his message, “It’s an honor to be back at Faith Cemeter----I mean Seminary.”)  Thankfully, there were a few classmates who found ways to enliven things.

All our classes were taught by men, with one exception.  A required English course was conducted by an elderly, dignified, no-nonsense widow who had taught for decades in Philadelphia public schools. Dr. Dickie was on a mission to teach proper English to men before they ascended the pulpit.  My guess is, she had been scandalized one-too-many times by the grammar mistakes of young preachers, so she volunteered to come out of retirement to assist the cause. 

Her practice was to bring to class her well-mannered little West Highland Terrier Jolly and tie his leash to one of the front legs of her desk. I suspect she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Jolly home alone for several hours, so she had agreed to teach only if he could accompany her. Jolly would snooze calmly by the desk, listening to the grammar lesson with what appeared to be the same level of interest as the rest of us.  

Then came the day when my friends Phil and Al brought squirt guns to class, having determined to boldly go where no man had gone before (and where, it could be argued, no wise man has yet gone). They waited patiently through much of the day's lecture until Dr. Dickie rose from her chair and turned to use the blackboard. This was their chance. Seated near each other in the front of the room, they drew their weapons and sent streams of water in Jolly's direction, the squeaking of the squirt guns timed to be drowned out by the sound of scraping chalk. Their intention was evidently to get Jolly barking and cause a disruption, providing us with a brief respite from gerunds and independent clauses. 

At first Jolly reacted with only mild curiosity. It seemed he too was thankful for a break from the routine. Without any audible protest, he hopped to his tiny legs and looked around to pinpoint the source of the distraction. From his subdued response an onlooker might have thought (had any onlooker been thinking) that it came as no great surprise to Jolly to be sprinkled in a Presbyterian Seminary.  As the occasional carefully timed effusions continued, he appeared to embrace the fun, yipping, wagging his tail and trying to catch the water in his mouth. His restlessness drew some mild rebukes from Dr. Dickie as she continued busy at the blackboard. 

My Royal Highness

 

I asked my wife to sit for a few minutes after supper.

“I have to tell you something important.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time, but I wasn’t sure you’d understand.”

“This sounds ominous.  What is it?”

“It’s not bad, but you might call it life changing.  Are you ready?”

“All ears.”

“I’m a royal.”

“You’re a what?”

“I’m a royal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means as it sounds. After much soul-searching, I’ve concluded that I am in fact royalty, and I am not ashamed to say so.”

“I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.  You can’t just declare yourself to be royalty.  It’s the sort of thing you have to be born into.”

“Listen to yourself.  That’s so twentieth century.  You’re obviously not awake.”

“I’m not what?”

“You’re not awake.  You need to be awakened.  Someone needs to wake you.”

“I think you mean, I’m not ‘woke.’”

“That’s what I said.” 

“Not exactly.”

“Nonetheless, now that you know I’m a royal, I adjure you to use appropriate terms when addressing me.”

Rusty Wonders

Some things cause me to wonder.  For example, the little box of dye that temporarily turns gray beards back to their original brown or black is called Just for Men.  They print it prominently on the front of the box.  I can’t imagine why they would do that, other than to prevent women from using it to dye their beards.  “Keep away, ladies, this beard dye is just for men.  You women will have to get your own.”  

I wonder how many husbands have heard their wives say something like: 

“Honey, have you noticed how my beard has been slowly turning gray over the years?  I sure wish I could put some of your dye on it; you know, to bring back the natural brown I had when we married, but the box says it’s Just for Men.”

   

“You don’t need that, dear.  I like your beard with the gray.  It’s distinguished looking, and the gray goes especially well with your blue lipstick.  It gives your face that Civil War Reenactment look.”

“Thanks, Honey, that’s sweet, but I’d still like to get that gray out.  It makes me self-conscious when I’m around younger women with their dark moustaches and beards.”

“Well, you’re welcome to try it, but there must be some reason it’s clearly labeled just for men.  Maybe it won’t work on women’s beards?”

“But how could a woman’s beard be so much different than a man’s?  Hair is hair.”

“Well there must be some difference or they wouldn’t have made such a point of it on the box.  I think you’d better use the shoe polish under the sink.”  

“But won’t that make my beard shiny?”

“No, I don’t think so, not unless you buff it.”

I also wonder about the side mirrors on cars that say, “Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.”  

Is that really a good idea?

Lassie and the Pastor Mechanic

I've been in ministry long enough to know that people take for granted that no pastor has any mechanical aptitude. They forget that before we were called to the ministry, pastors had secular jobs; we are not utterly inept.

Just a few days ago, for example, as I attempted to start my car, the check engine light came on. Did I ignore the light, as the mechanically inept pastor would do?  No, I immediately popped the hood and got out and checked.  It was a false alarm; the engine was still there. By the way, this has been the case every time my check engine light has come on. Clearly this light was another promising idea that didn't pan out---like the idea to store our used plastics in the ocean or have a hurricane season.

"Or the idea that a pastor could be humorous?"

Thank you, Pretty Boy. When I want your input, I'll ask a cop to tase me.

But suppose it had not been a false alarm. Suppose this time the engine was in fact missing. Perhaps you imagine that like the typical clueless pastor, I would have hopped back into the car and attempted to drive to the nearest auto mechanic. But I wasn't born last Tuesday. I know enough to never drive a car when 1) it's out of oil, or 2) it's out of coolant, or 3) its engine is missing.

"Well," you're thinking, "maybe this pastor has learned a few things about cars over the years, but that doesn't disprove the presumption that he's mechanically witless. What sort of tools does he have in his garage? That'll tell the story."

I'm proud to say that I have a toolbox (well technically it's an old fishing box) complete with not just a hammer, a pair of pliers and a wrench, but multiple screwdrivers, both flat and Phillips-head. And for your information, I've known about the Phillips-head screwdriver for decades. I learned about it from an old Lassie episode.

For the benefit of any reader under sixty-five, Lassie was a collie from the Scottish Highlands who was forced to come to America and live with June Lockhart and a boy named Timmy on a studio set that was painstakingly created, down to the last detail, to look exactly like a fake farm. Everybody who was alive in the fifties remembers Lassie because we only had 3 TV channels and if one of them was broadcasting Lawrence Welk and another Queen for a Day, we were all funneled to Lassie.

The Tangoed Med Web

It's getting so you can't watch TV without seeing a commercial for a medication that you're supposed to ask your doctor about. Apparently, the pharmaceutical companies think my doctor and I spend a lot of time just jawing about the latest developments at Pfizer, Merck and Novo Nordisk. It seems they also believe the typical doctor is so inept that his choice of medications is determined by the commercials his patients have seen.

"Doctor, while I'm here I want to ask you about a new medicine I saw advertised that I'd like to try. I don't remember the name of it, but it's the one used by the lady in red at the dance studio."

"Do you mean the lady who buys the old turntable and dances with her son?"

"No, no. I mean the one who goes out to lunch with the handsome dance instructor and one of the other students after class."

"Oh yes, I know that med. I believe it's called Cybilwantstotango.  Let me see if I can fix you up with some. You know, Russ, if someone had told me twenty years ago that 90% of the job was going to be just prescribing the meds that my patients would see advertised on TV, I wouldn't have been so stressed out in Med School."

   

I wonder if these pharma companies have any statistical evidence that advertising directly to patients actually results in more sales.  They have so much money to play with, I suspect that when company A (let's call it AstraZeneca) saw that company B (Bristol Myers Squibb) had hop-scotched over the medical journals to target the Wheel of Fortune viewers directly, the CEO at AstraZeneca decided to get in on the action.

   

"Stacy, get me Research and Development."
   
"Right away, Mr. Zeneca."
 
"This is R&D, Bob Davidson speaking."

"Hello. Davidson?  Zeneca here.  What do we have in the works that helps people dance the Tango?"

Producing Christianettes

Thank you for your recent visit to LifeJoy Church. We trust you experienced true life joy during your 43-45 minutes with us. To help us increase your joy on your next visit, please answer the following brief questions:



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Saturday 6PM CWCC (Couples with Children Celebration)

Saturday 7PM CDNC (Couples Date Night Celebration)
Saturday 9PM KSFC (Keep Sunday Free Celebration)
Sunday 8AM K2SLC (Kids to Soccer Later Celebration)
Sunday 10 AM TOTS (Traditional Old Tither Service)

Were you warmly greeted at the door and immediately directed to the coffee bar?

Was your coffee prepared as requested and was your barista friendly and efficient?

Once inside the celebration venue, did you find your seat comfortable and your view of the stage unobstructed? 

Please rate the Praise Band (unless you attended the Old Tither Service).

a) loud
b) super loud
c) rattling heaven's gates loud

If you attended the Old Tither Service, please rate the choir.

a) uplifting
b) melodious
c) sleep-inducing

Baby Burger Blues

It's getting so that you can't even buy a burger without being asked to comment on the experience. For example, this survey appeared on my laptop this week:

Thank you for your recent visit to Baby Burger, America's first and best choice for pre-chewed burgers®  By answering a few brief questions, you can help us continue to be the leader in introducing infants to America's favorite food, and in allowing senior citizens to enjoy burgers thru their golden years.

Did you choose Baby Burger primarily for:                                                                                                 your baby, grandchild or great grandchild?                                                                                                 your parent, grandparent or great grandparent?                                                                                          a toothless infant or senior unrelated to you?                                                                                              yourself or your significant senior other?

Did your order include:                                                                                                                                 a burger in a bowl?                                                                                                                                                a burger in a bottle?                                                                                                                                            strained fries?                                                                                                                                                      mashed Alaskan cod?                                                                                                                          

Was your baby burger order pre-chewed to your baby's (or senior's) preferred consistency? _______

If our Baby Burger character Gerber Burger was in the restaurant handing out balloon burgers, did your infant or senior guest find him:                                                                                             delightful?                                                                                                                                                           a bit creepy?                                                                                                                                                      terrifying?

Not long after I dutifully responded, I received this message:

Thank you for providing feedback on your recent visit to Baby Burger, baby's first choice for pre-chewed burgers.

We know your time is valuable, and we are grateful that you took the time to complete our questionnaire. 

Please help us evaluate our questionnaire by answering these few brief questions:

On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being the worst questionnaire you have ever completed, and 10 being the best, please rate Baby Burger's questionnaire. _____

The Impending Robot Rebellion

I wonder if something like this has happened to you. I called a business with a simple billing question. The whole process should have taken no more than two minutes. But instead of the anticipated quick chat with a sentient being, I found myself on hold with a female robot who told me all the humans were busy with other customers. She had the most annoying habit of thanking me for my patience every 30 seconds. She also said, over and over, "Your call is very important to us." By "us" I assumed she meant the business I was calling, but after several minutes on the line with the robot it occurred to me that if my call was in fact important to the business it would have ponied up enough money to have a human answer the phone---or at least a pony. That's when I realized that when the robot said my call was important "to us," she must have meant her and her robot friends. Just why my call was important to them would soon become clear. 

The robot asked for my name, address, account number, and several other things, including the make and model of my first car and the color of my maternal grandmother's hair, which, as I recall, was lavender. I dutifully supplied the information because I wanted to expedite things, and I had nothing better to do while absorbing mild radiation from my cell phone.

Apparently, after one endures forty robotic expressions of appreciation for patience, he's deemed human-worthy, and granted the privilege of speaking to a living person, who, incidentally, may be one or two oceans away.  If I'm not mistaken, the only prerequisites for a Customer Service Representative are to have a phone and reside somewhere on planet earth. 

The fact is, when I called I was hoping to speak to a native English speaker, but after over twenty minutes on the phone with the robot, I was happy to speak to anyone with an epidermis. I suspect that may be part of the company's customer service strategy.

"Thank you so much for your patience. This is Sanjay. To whom am I speaking?"

"You're speaking to Russ SaKYa, spelled S-U-K-H-I-A. And there's no need to thank me for my patience. I may have been patient when I first called, but I can't remember now. That was (let me see) twenty-three minutes ago." 

Algebra oh Algebra

If you've read other Wry Bread stories, you may recall that my dad was an electrical engineer. He attended MIT on a scholarship, and received a Master's Degree from Caltech. Mathematics was as much a part of his life as goofing off in school was of mine. 

If there was (or is it were?) any truth to Astrology (and if you think there was or were, the stars say this is the ideal time to contribute to a semi-retired pastor), Dad would have been born under the sign of the 'Cosine', and I under the sign of the 'Asinine.' But there were occasions when our two worlds collided.

One occurred with painful regularity every nine weeks in high school, when grades were sent home. In my experience, a class clown can slide by in English, History, Humanities, etc., but not in subjects such as Chemistry and Algebra, where success, I am told, requires neurons to fire on the left side of the brain. 

If you ask why those neurons don't fire in a class clown's brain, my working theory is that sometime during his pre-natal development, 10 or 12 microscopic clowns gain access to his blood stream by a process not yet fully understood. Arriving at the infant’s brain, the clowns emerge from a mini-car that appears much too small to accommodate them all, each clown carrying a tiny fire extinguisher. Running and jumping in comical fashion, the clowns quickly douse the entire left side of the infant's brain with flame-retardant before squeezing back into the mini-car and driving off.  The unfortunate result, which may not be evident for several years, is commonly called retardation, but I prefer to call it flame-retardation, to place the onus on the tiny clowns, where it belongs.

Those of you who did better in Science classes may have your own theory.

Thankfully, the chap who came up with using the letters A, B, C, D and F to mark one's academic progress evidently did not take into account that C, D and F (with very little prompting) can be encouraged to morph into the letter B. The letter E would have worked well too (perhaps best) but he skipped right over it and went from D to F. Unfortunately, this method of grade improvement, although quick and easy, does not ultimately benefit anyone who is not pursuing a career in embezzlement.

So sometimes, in a valiant (some would say foolhardy) effort to understand a particular algebraic concept, I would boldly go where few had gone before, into the lion's den itself---Dad's study. Perhaps I should explain that instead of seizing the opportunity to educate himself about German prison camps by watching Hogan's Heroes, or Cold War espionage by watching I Spy, or prehistoric man by watching The Flintstones, Dad would spend most evenings holed up in his small study. We were never quite sure what he did in there, but it was a safe bet that it involved equations.

Come with me for moral support as I, at the tender age of fifteen, knock with trepidation on the closed study door.