smartassnation

Enough of Jared, Already.

Am I the only one, or are you sick of seeing Jared from Subway on the Tele?  Seriously, does anyone honestly give a sh*t what this guy eats every week?  Oh really, Chicken Club, wow, that's exciting.  No, not the Spicy Meatball, are you kidding me.  You wild sandwich-eatin' motherf*cker.  It's crazy really, if you think about it.  He's made a career out of a bad commercial.  What's the draw?  He now tours the country as an inspirational speaker giving talks to high school students about why they need to eat Subway sandwiches to lose weight and feel good about themselves.  He's actually a celebrity to some.  Unbelievable.  It's what is so beautiful and at the same time so f*cked up with our culture.  Sure, you love to see the Everyman get his 15 minutes, but isn't it just a smidge ludacrous to see someone without any real value or talent become this famous.  Why is he famous?  What has he really done?  It's the perfect example of our reality-TV, rags-to-riches, extreme-makeover obsessed society.  It's all about the dramatic change, the before and after.  That's what we care about.  What about the woman who eats healthy her entire life, isn't clinically obese one day and then rail-thin 3 months later?  Sorry, our message to you Ms. Healthy Paths is, "Boring, you're life is a snoozer. No one gives a sh*t.  There's no drama, no tragedy.  You're no Jared."  Jared was an average lard*ss, he stuffed his face with donuts and deep-fried anythings and everythings.  Until one day, when he discovered the miracle of Subway, the holy land of mediocre lunch.  Then he lost over 100 lbs eating cheap sandwiches.  And as the fairy tale ending tells us, he now has those ridiculously huge pants that don't fit anymore.  They serve as a symbol, the symbol of the real American dream.  You're a f*ckin' hero Jared.  Keep munchin' and keep inspiring us all.

'Tis the Season...

Back by popular demand, the infamous "Magnificent Christmas Tree".

The Magnificent Christmas Tree. One of my favorite traditions of Christmas is picking out the tree. Growing up, the ceilings in my parents' house were only 8 ft. high, and had always been only 8 ft. high. Yet every year my mom and I managed to come home with about a 14-ft. Noble fir. I honestly don't know what happened. We'd leave the house swearing we'd get a smaller tree this year, but as soon as we'd reached the tree farm, we'd lose control. It was as if the Star of Bethlehem would shine brightly down on this one majestic, perfectly shaped tree. We were as drawn to this tree as Charlie Brown was to the little mangy one he got on his Christmas special. We were like Louie Anderson in a See's Candy Store, we'd always buy the biggest thing there because, well, it was the only thing that could satisfy the craving. My Dad would be furious with us because he'd be stuck trimming the unnecessary six feet off the base to make it fit in the living room. The extra trimmings didn't go to waste however because we'd glue them together to make another tree for the family room. Several hours and several choice words later, he'd bring the tree in from the garage to be decorated. My Mom would slip on the Bing Crosby Christmas album, and the rest of the family would gather around and decorate the tree with boxes and boxes of gaudy, ceramic ornaments that we made for her when we were in elementary school. God bless her, she could never throw that sh*t away. My father often missed out on the decoration party because he'd be too busy trying to remove the remaining tree sap from his now hairless arms with an S.O.S. pad and turpentine. Not to worry though, he'd manage to numb the pain by throwing back a few glasses of Uncle Joe's Special Eggnog. Guess we won't need to water the tree tonight.

© 2003-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Nail Clipping

Nail Clipping. Is there anything more disgusting that hearing someone else clip their nails? That unmistakable clicking sound. Click. Click. The knowledge that somewhere near you there's now a piece of dead nail on the loose. Man, that's gross when you find one. What I really don't understand are the people who do this in public...at the office, on an airplane, in a restaurant. Why? Why? Why the f*ck are you clipping your nails within earshot of other people? Has there ever been a nail clipping emergency? My nails require trimming maybe once every 2-3 weeks tops, about the same frequency as getting my hair cut. You don't see people setting up shop at the office shaving unwanted body hair do you? It cracks me up, some people carry nail clippers with them all the time. They have no qualms with wipping out the clippers at their desks at work and just going to town. Click. Click. You know, just in case they get that spontaneous hang nail that haunts us all. Click. Click. Is it an obsessive compulsive disorder? Are these people so incredibly busy that they don't have the time to groom their nails at home, in private? I have a pretty high tolerance for most things, but the nail clipping has to end. I'm starting the crusade. I'd rather hear 1,000 nails scraping on a chalkboard than hear another person clipping theirs.

Click. Click.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Hidden Charges

Hidden Charges. Why can’t things say the price that they really are? Plus tax, plus gratuity, plus shipping and handling. Why do we pay for shipping and handling? Is it possible to ship something without handling it? The shipping part I get, but what the f*ck is the handling all about? Can I just pay for shipping? Or better yet, can I just pay for handling?

“No. No. You’re not listening to me. I don’t want you to ship it. I just want you to handle it. You know, just have the sweaty fat guy in the back of the warehouse fondle it for awhile."

To be honest I don't need my package handled...wait, that didn't come out right.

Everywhere you look, there are hidden charges. Delivery charges, labor charges, incidentals, improvement taxes, selling costs, closing costs, down payments, atm fees, it’s getting out of control. I want to live in a world that has products and services that show exactly how much they cost. The doo-hicky shows a price tag of $10.00, I pay $10.00. It would be nice to have a price tag that already includes gratuity, tax, shipping and handling, interest rates, 25% discount, whatever the case. Our economy uses a pricing strategy that is based on our inability to do math. Businesses are banking on the fact that the majority of us hate doing percentages, fractions, multiplication and division. Look at the prices of gas, $2.25 and 9/10. What is the 9/10 all about? Those oil controlling bastards are squeezes us for an additional fraction.

If other businesses started following their lead and also used fractions, we'd all be f*cked.

“The rent for this apartment is only $550 + 9000/17 per month. I think you’ll find it very affordable. We also have a special promotion going on right now, if you sign a 2-year lease today, I’ll give it to you for $300 + 6543/11 per month. Sound good?”

“Wow, all the other apartments in this area are around $950 per month. It sounds like a good deal, I think. I’m not really sure, though. I was never really all that good with math. Are there any other expenses?

“Nothing really, just a $1,000 nonrefundable cleaning deposit, $200 application fee, $75 per month for washer and dryer, $150 per month for parking space, $50 per month water and sewage, $75 for waste disposal. You get free cable though. We’ll let you splice it off of your neighbor’s unit.”

“Any shipping and handling charges?”

“What? Of course not.”

“I’ll take it.”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Local Advertising

Local Advertising. Where is it written that every local television advertisement must be absolutely horrible? Is it in the Bill of Rights somewhere? You have the right to free speech; you have the right to bear arms; and if you own a small business you have the right to produce the most f*ckin’ ridiculous television commercials and air them on Cable. That’s the sin of Cable really, even Stumpy’s Junk Yard can afford a little air time.

“Hey Junior, Aunt Fanny just got herself one of them there fancy handicams, so I was thinkin’ we’d shoot us a commercial for the junk yard.”

“Sounds like a great idea, Pappy. Can I be an actor in it? I’ve been watching a lot of those infomercials late at night when I’m waxing the turtle. I know I could do you’s proud.”

“Ok, listen up Boy, here’s what we’s gonna do, we’ll put you and Fester in hula skirts and call it our Hawaiian Days Summer Blowout.”

“But Pa, we’s in Alabama and it’s late December.”

“I don’t care if it’s the middle of winter, Boy, you’re not understanding the marketing strategy. You see to have us a bonafide commercial, all’s we got to do is create a theme and then give the people a hearty discount. No dumb*ss I knows can resist a good deal. We’ll mark all hubcaps & fenders 40% off. Na, wait! Hell, make that 50% off...that oughta draw them in like flies to sh*t. Maybe we can even get Tawnya Harding to be our celebrity spokesperson. Wow, I’m getting more excited than a puppy with two peters. Damn, I love this cable advertising.”

Help me, I need Tivo.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Pigeon Style

Pigeon Style. The other day I was walking through Pioneer Square to grab a bite during lunch and I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Right there in broad daylight in front of hundreds of people hustling through the epicenter of downtown, I see two pigeons, completely dismissive of the rest of the world around them, just getting their dirty little groove on. Now, I've watched the Discovery Channel a few times in my life, but I had never seen anything like this before. The male pigeon was entirely perched on the back of the female pigeon. She was like a Sherpa carrying gear up Mt. Everest. It actually wasn't clear to me how this method was physically possible, but who am I to truly understand the delicate intimacy of the pigeon. As surprised as I was by what I saw, it got me thinking. You never hear anyone refer to their favorite position as "pigeon-style". It's just not something you overhear in a conversation in the locker room or at the water cooler. There's of course the classic "mission-style" that's pervasive and the hip-hop favorite "doggie style" that's popular, but little mention or props have ever been given to pigeon-style. The pigeon never gets any respect, he's cast off by society as a worthless scavenger fighting to survive on breadcrumbs and cigarette buds. He's clearly been overshadowed by the Jaybird all these years. We've underestimated the pigeon. Well, that should change. In homage to the raw passion and spontaneity those birds embody, I say we start a trend, a sexual revolution, breaking new ground in bedrooms all across the world. Sue Johanson, Dr. Ruth, Howard Stern -- you listening to me? It's time we give the pigeon his due. Viva la pigeon-style!

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Toilet Phone

Toilet Phone. Have you noticed that in some hotel rooms, they offer the service of having a telephone in the bathroom? Honestly, who is really this busy? I have stayed in some guest rooms that were equipped with telephones, televisions, microwaves, coffee pots, and refrigerators all within arm’s reach of the toilet. Either these hotels assume we are extremely busy people or that we all ordered the New Orleans gumbo from room service. Who has these appliances in their bathrooms in their own homes? No one. Yet, I travel to another city and all of a sudden I find myself chilling in the bathroom watching a Cubs game, sipping on a cup of Starbucks, and talking to my friends and family from the comfort of the captain’s seat. Half of the time I don’t even have to go to the bathroom, I just do it because I can. Sh*t, why not? I’m away from home, I’m the King of this 10x10 room. I call the shots here, baby. Word of caution though, you must remember that while calling from the bathroom, the person on the other end of the line can hear where you are if you are not careful. The most important rule to follow: Never flush while on the phone. No one likes to be flushed on.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Is that the toilet? Did you just flush?”
“Huh?”
“You little bastard! You just flushed on me, didn’t you? You’re on one of those f*ckin’ toilet phones again. How dare you call me on the toilet phone. We’ve talked about this before.”
“But…but, Honey. I can’t help myself. We don’t have this at home. I’m sorry.”
“No, you listen to me, Mr. Toilet Phone Man, don’t you ever do that to me again or you’ll be spending a lot more time in a hotel room than you ever wanted. Understood?”
“Yes dear.”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Water Guns

Water Guns. Have you noticed how much the technology of waterguns have changed? I remember as a kid that we had to get within arm’s reach to shoot anyone with the waterguns we had. More water would run down your arm than would spit out the end of the gun. Today, kids have the Super Soaker Triple Aggressor that has ten times the firing power of a fire hose and I think is covered under the Brady bill. These things can shoot 100 yds, are equipped with 5-gallon backpack units, and come in your choice of automatic, semi-automatic, and sawed-off shotgun models. I was outside washing my car the other day and the kids in my neighborhood challenged me to a water fight. It was hot, so I was like, “What the hell.” I came busting out the house with my little hand-held plastic unit that I bought at the Dollar store for a nickel. Before I could even get my gun out of my retro G.I. Joe holster, I got soaked by an 8-year old sniper on the neighbor's roof four houses down. He picked me up on his infra-red scope as soon as I opened my front door. Little bastards, I never had a fighting chance.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Food for Thought

Food For Thought. Have you ever eaten spaghetti without getting some sauce on yourself? Why is it that we can eat most meals with the grace and elegance of royalty, but as soon as we serve up spaghetti it's like we're John Bulushi in Animal House. Seriously, I don't get it. I honestly can’t eat pasta without wearing some of the sauce. I can have several napkins ready, wear a bib, even dress like I’m in the front row at a Galliger Sledge-O-Matic Show, yet somehow I still walk away with those little f*ckin' orange dots on my shirt. I think it’s time we just accept that there are certain foods we love to chow, but are sloppy as hell to eat, and incredibly repulsive for others to observe. I’m convinced that you truly know you are compatible with someone when you can stand being in the same room with them when they eat a bowl of cereal or a plate of baby-back ribs. We all love to eat this stuff, but to hear and watch someone else slop it down is enough to end a relationship.

“Hey Greg, whatever happened with Melissa? She was a hotty, smart, funny. What was the deal?

“Man, we were madly in love, but then that morning came when I heard her eat a bowl of Golden Grams during The Price is Right. Let’s just say she was out of my life by the end of the show case showdown. I couldn’t stand it, the slurping, the chomping, more slurping; it was more repulsive than seeing Rush Limbaugh in a Speedo. She had to go.”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Adult Bookstores

Adult Bookstores. At what point in your life do you decide that you want to own an adult bookstore? Is it something that you dream about as a kid? Is it a life-long ambition for some second-grader right now?

“Students, today we are going to talk about dreams. I’d like for you to share with the class what you would like to be when you grow up. Let’s start with you Molly.”

“I want to be a doctor when I grow up.”

“That’s simply wonderful. Jeffrey, how about you?”

“Well Mrs. Murphy, I want to be a movie star, just like Jim Carey. He’s so funny. Look I can be funny.”

“O.K. Jeffrey that’s enough. Get down from the bookcase and stop pretending that you can talk out of your *ss; oops I mean bottom. Ok, what about you Billy, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Mrs. Murphy, I want to start my own business. I want to open a porn shop.”

“Wow! Um, I’m not sure what to say, that’s a new one for me. I was going to ask you to come up next for show-and-tell, but now I’m afraid of what you might have in the brown paper bag you brought that’s marked “Chocolate Thunder.”

How does someone get a bank loan for an adult bookstore? Is it difficult gathering the initial capital?

“Well, Mr. Johnson…”

“No please, call me PeeWee”

“Ok, PeeWee. We here at First Citizen’s Bank of Unsubstantiated Arrogance recognize your enthusiasm for wanting to grow your small business, but we just have a hard time, excuse me, we have a difficult time lending money to a company that reports S and M on its P and L. Sir, have you tried the Money Store?”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Total Gift Solution

The Total Gift Solution. Aren't we all just getting a little tired of the exhaustive use of the word "solution" in all the marketing you see and hear today. I mean it's everywhere. Yesterday, I saw an ad from a company who builds custom closets, they were pitching their "advanced storage solutions for the contemporary home". What? Or how about the cell phone company that wants to sell you their "sophisticated peer-to-peer nationwide mega-digital wireless telephony solutions" Huh, are you kidding me? My all time favorite has to be one I heard just a few days ago on the radio, it was for the Made in Oregon stores, their tagline was "the total gift solution". What the f*ck does that mean? Granted I've never spent a lot of time in Made in Oregon, but unless I'm missing something, all I remember seeing in their stores for sale were bags of hazelnuts, smoked salmon, and memorabilia of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Hmm, now what would make any of these things part of "the total gift solution"? I'm trying to think of someone who would want any of that sh*t as a gift. Wow, no way! Thank you so much. I totally wanted that. How did you know I was a collector of early 18th century maps of the Snake River, I'll hang it up in the living room next to the watercolor of "Sacagawea with Child" that you bought me last year for my birthday. Made in Oregon. More like "Made in Heaven". Whatever.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

The Greatest Jobs

The Greatest Jobs. Have you ever seen a job someone else had and thought, “Damn, that must be the best job in world, how do I get a job like that?” Case in point, how does one become the make-up artist in charge of moisture control for the annual Sports Illustrated Swimsuit issue? “Make-up! Heidi Klum needs some more powder on the pom-poms.” Are there special schools for this? Is there a certification program on the Internet for these jobs? My favorite is the person who conducts the Powerball drawings and pulls up the ping-pong balls with the numbers on them. This, without a doubt, has to be the best job in America. I mean, how hard can that be? Think about it, you are dealing with millions of dollars teetering on your every move; you are on national television; and for that one minute, a few million people decide you’re more exciting to watch than reruns of “The Bachelor”. You don't need a college degree. No computer skills or broadcasting experience required. No sales training, no Ivy League MBA, no CRM, no TQM, no sleeping with Hugh Hefner. None of these things are necessary to pull little numbered balls out of a machine for 60 seconds, twice a week. All this job requires really is basic motor skills. Now, what lazy*ss, unemployed, Doritos-eating American wouldn’t dream of this career? Wow, this really is the land of opportunity.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Airline Improvement

Airline Improvement. When you check-in at the airport the airline employee always asks you a few questions, "Did you pack your own bags? Have you accepted any packages or gifts for any unknown persons? Have your bags been in your possession the entire time?" blah, blah, blah... Personally, I think they’re asking the wrong questions. They should be asking questions like, “Are you a talker or non-talker while on the plane? Do you get up and use the bathroom every twenty minutes? Are you accompanied by screaming, squirming children?” They should then match you up accordingly. First class, business class, coach, they have the groupings all wrong. There should be the “Night club" section and the "Library" section. Some people want to introduce themselves and learn everything they can about you and the other complete strangers sitting around them like it was some divine intervention that they were seated next to you. These people are the "Night Club" flyers. The other type of passenger wishes to be left alone and just read or watch the movie or listen to music. These are your "Library" flyers. I definitely fit into the Library category. When I’m on a plane I become extremely nonsocial. I’m like the guy who visits the proctologist for the first time in his life. After you leave that doctor’s office, you don’t want anyone touching you, getting near you, or speaking to you for several hours after check-in and baggage inspection. You know, maybe we could all wear name tags declaring our status the next time we fly, that might help alleviate some of the tension on airplanes. “Hi, my name is John, I’m a chronic Library flyer. Please leave me the f*ck alone. Have a nice flight.”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Stop The Picking

Stop The Picking. How many times have you been on your commute to work in the morning and you glance over at the car in the lane next to you and low and behold, Captain Neanderthal over there is picking his nose like he's all alone on the Island of Boog. What are you doing, man? Don't you see me seeing you? This primitive act is getting way out of hand. This morning alone, I saw 2 different cases of it. Do these people forget that there are windows on their cars? It doesn't seem to matter, you see this all the time. Some use the rear view mirror, some use the vanity mirror, others don’t use any mirror at all and rely purely on their acute sense of touch to surgically remove their little nostril candy with great precision. The worst is when you see someone roll it in their fingers for awhile. Is it a nervous habit or are they just not sure where to dispose of it? From what I’ve seen, they almost always go under the seat which is odd because I know this isn't spelled out in any owner's manual, except for the ‘76 Pinto wagon (page 38, I googled it). Really though, do they think that their little green friends just disappear when they stick them under there? I'm honestly paranoid about it, I never drive a rental car without checking under the seats first. You don't want to reach under there to adjust the seat back and find your fingers rubbing up against one of these little petrified slugs. It’s just a hard-line policy of mine now and I think it's ready for some widespread attention. In today’s political landscape where we have candidates debating about petty issues like the economy, health care, foreign policy, blah, blah, blah... we need someone whose willing to take a stand against vehicular nose digging. You know, I've thought about taking the democratic process into my own hands by collecting signatures for a ballot measure, but that would require me to go door-to-door and to talk to a bunch of f*ckin' strangers who hate the fact that I’m at their doors at dinner time, let alone talking to them about boogers. In other words, it's a tough sell. But like all good social activists before me, I'll keep on fighting the good fight. It seems every Friday evening there is a protest about something in downtown Portland, so this Friday marks the dawn of my own protest. I'm coming armed with picketing signs, a bullhorn, and a catchy little slogan to be chanted by the crowd of supporters, "Don't skirt the issue, use a tissue!" Join the cause.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Dressing Alike

Dressing Alike. Have you ever been out at a shopping mall or ball game, or even just out to dinner and seen the cheesy married freaks who dress the same? You know what I'm talking about...the matching shirts, pants, and jackets. This always cracks me up. Why do they do this? Is it purely a romantic gesture letting the rest of the world know that they are uncontrollably in love? Or are they worried they might lose one another in a crowd and won’t be able to remember what the other is wearing? Maybe it's that they just have really bad f*ckin' taste. I don't know, I can't figure this one out. I'm trying to picture some guy strolling up to the woman and asking if he can buy her a drink, then realizing, “Oh sh*t, I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were taken. That must be your husband there, the dude wearing the same purple & gold velour jump suit as you. My bad.” It's ridiculous, I’ve even seen some couples go as far as wear the corny t-shirts that say, “I’m with him” and “I’m with her”. Seriously, why? What happens when these two have to go to the bathroom and get separated? It must be difficult for them being physically and psychologically detached that long. I’m trying to picture the guy, with his “I’m with Her” t-shirt on, standing shoulder-to-shoulder pissing in a trough next to ten other greasy, beer-swollen Cheeseheads in the men’s room at Lambough Field during halftime at a Packers game. How does this poor fashion-retarded bastard get out of there alive? So anyway, where I'm really headed with this is that being that since it's Valentine's Day tomorrow, I'm going to show my wife just how much I love her and buy us matching bright red "Members Only" jackets to wear to dinner tomorrow. That's a gift that's sure to surprise her. Happy Valentine's Day!

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Take-out Tipping

Take-out Tipping. The other night I was tired and didn't want to cook, so I got take out at my favorite local Thai restuarant. I called in my order, then went to pick it up. It was a simple order, just got some chicken & broccoli in oyster sauce, steamed vegetables and white rice; the order only came to $9.95. So I give the gal a $20 and anticipated she'd give me a $10 bill in return and I'd be on my merry way. She comes back from the register, hands me my food and then hands me a $5 bill and 5 $1 bills; and as she's handing me the change, all 3 of the people working there in harmony stair me down for what felt like an eternal 2-3 seconds. Then she energetically says to me, "Thank you very much, come again!" Now, I'm a decent tipper, I give 20% when I'm dining out or when food is delivered to me at my house, but I've always been confused by the protocol for tipping when it's take-out. They haven't really provided me any service...I called the order in, I drove my *ss to the restaurant, I came in and waited in line, I picked it up and then drove home. Why should a tip be expected for take-out? But obviously the tip was expected. I was given the piercing look and a special denomination of change that was cleary "tip-friendly". There's no question she wanted a few bucks in return. So, now I'm feeling a little pissed because I'm being handled, my hand is being forced. So what did I do? I left her the $5 bill instead. Ah-ha!! Bet you didn't expect that. Whose calling the shots now, b*tch!

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Receipts

Receipts. Do you save receipts? I’ve become obsessed with receipts. And to tell you the truth, I have no f*ckin' idea why. Everywhere I go, everything I buy, I must get a receipt. A pack of gum at Circle-K, a shoeshine at the airport, nephew’s school fundraiser, it doesn’t matter, “Can I get a receipt for that? Thanks.” The collection box at church, “Excuse me Father. Yeah, sorry to interrupt the flow of things here, but um, I’ll need a receipt for that. Super, thanks.” Goods, services, it doesn’t matter— receipts, receipts, receipts. I have more ATM receipts in my wallet than cash, and for some unknown reason I’m petrified to throw them away. I’m constantly asking for receipts and saving receipts, yet the truth is I don’t know what the hell to do with them. They say you need them to return an item to the store. No receipt? No problem, just take it to Nordstroms. They say you need them for taxes. Every year I sit down with my shoebox full of receipts. I take off the lid. I sort through the receipts and organize them into neat little piles. Then I feed them into a shredder and take the standard tax deduction. The next day, I start over. Of course I keep a copy of my tax return, you know as a receipt of what I filed.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Feeding The Dog

Feeding The Dog. As a young kid, how many times did you slide the lima beans, Spam, meatloaf or whatever else you didn’t like for dinner under the table to your dog when your parents weren’t looking? My mother is a great cook, but when you have as many mouths to feed as our family, she learned the word “casserole” early. Being the fifth of six children, this ploy was tough to get away with because on certain nights we finicky kids were all competing for the dog’s attention. Also, our 18-year old mutt (half Terrier, half Bulimic teenager) would later waddle into the family room where we were all gathered around the television set watching "The Waltons" and the dog would puke it all up at the base of my dad’s recliner. Since my pooch was less than reliable and often buckled under the pressure, I was forced to be creative. As a youngster I had bigger cheeks than Fat Albert, therefore my new trick was to pack my cheeks full of food and just pretend that I had to go to the bathroom a few times, and spit out the food in the toilet. This trick worked for a while until one night when I was the only one left at the dinner table. I still was facing a plate full of Hamburger Helper, and I was trying to finish fast so I could watch "The Circus of the Stars". My plan was foiled when I made more trips to the bathroom in a half-hour period than a first-time tourist to Mexico who drinks the water. I had no choice, I had to act quickly. You understand, I didn’t want to miss seeing Gary Coleman and Phyliss Diller together on the high wire. Man, those are talented people, no wonder they all ran for Governer of California.

© 1999-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Super Size

Super Size. Most of us do not have cups or glasses in our homes that are probably any larger than 12 ounces. Yet whenever we leave the house, as soon as we are outside, we all of sudden crave buckets of soda 3-4x the size of the largest cup we have in our cupboards. When is the last time you drank 64 ounces of Mr. Pibb at a dinner party? Never. Yet whenever we stop and get gas or hit a convenience store, we are convinced we need a gallon of Mountain Dew. Are we that thirsty or is it just because we can get a 124-oz cup of soda for $0.99? I rarely ever finish my bucket-o-soda, yet for some reason I would feel like less of a man if I bought the small 12 oz. cup. There's this false sense of pressure from the cashier and that f*ckin’ fat kid in the corner of the store with Butterfinger all over his face pumping hot cheese sauce on his nachos staring at you. I'm worried they'd laugh at me if I bought anything less than the Ultra-Extreme-Supreme-Super-Duper-Double-Daddy-Big*ss Gulp. Is it really a question of unit cost or just one of machismo? I think we all know the real answer.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Doodle

Doodle. When we’re on hold on the telephone, do you get that irresistable desire to doodle? Why do we do that? We doodle on a notepad of paper. We doodle on the phone book. No paper, no problem. Doodle on the wall, doodle on the table, doodle on the person next to you, Yankee freakin’ doodle dandy. We can’t control it, we have to doodle. We draw circles. We trace letters. We sign our names over and over again like we're someone famous. Uh, now that was a nice looking signature. We draw mustaches on pictures of people who have no business dawning mustaches. What brings this on? Its such a free-flowing, unconscious act. The word itself even sounds mindless, “doodle.” But what if you had an incredible breakthrough idea while doodling? You could never explain it that way to someone, it wouldn’t have any credibility.

“Dr. Quincy, I think I have the answer to our molecular design problems for the titanium polymer shell on the Mars space station modulator, it's right here on this magazine.”

“Johnson, what are you talking about? All I see is a picture of Cher with a handle-bar mustache.”
“No sir, the calculations are on the other page next to my cartoon sketches of Chelsea Clinton.”
Do you think Albert Einstein could have doodled the theory of relativity? Is it possible that Bill Gates doodled Windows? Do you think Alexander Graham Bell doodled the concept of the telephone? Wait. He couldn’t have, because first he’d need be on the phone aimlessly on hold with his f*cking credit card company. Nevermind.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Floss

Floss. Seriously, does anyone like to floss? I absolutely hate to floss. Can’t stand it. I brush two or three times a day; I went through the whole turmoil of braces and retainers; I use tartar control toothpaste with supernova whitening power; you’d think that would suffice. But no! The retched dentist reams my *ss every time I’m under his lamp for not flossing enough. You’d think with all of the technology we have today, someone would design an easier alternative to flossing. I don't know about you, but when I have a dental appointment I experience nightmares for a week before-hand. In these I’m strapped down in the chair like Hannibal Lector with Steve Martin’s character from Little Shop of Horrors leaning over me flossing my teeth with barbed wire. These nightmares have me so wet-the-bed scared, I floss my teeth religiously for the week before my appointment. That way, when the hotter-than-naughty dental hygienist asks me if I’ve been flossing, I can open my mouth, show her my bloody gums, and lie through my teeth. Along the same thread, have you ever been flossing and a piece of floss gets stuck between your teeth? What the hell are you supposed to do now? Floss is clinically designed to remove other things from between your teeth. Now, what do you do when the answer to the problem is now the f*ckin’ problem? Can you floss the floss? I wasn’t sure what else to try, so that’s what I did. I used a piece of floss to remove the floss. That’s when I realized just how ridiculous this whole flossing business was, and I just said, “To hell with it all.” I’ll just eat out more and grab a toothpick from the restaurant. (Read "Post-meal Toothpick")

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Post-meal Toothpick

Post-meal Toothpick. Why is it that whenever I eat out now, I must have a toothpick afterward? Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Italian, Cuban...it doesn’t matter, I crave the toothpick. I don’t even use it to pick my teeth, I just chew on it and play with it in my mouth for about a half-hour until it turns into a soggy mess of wood. I have no explanation for it. I don’t know when it started. It’s like so many other things that I do now as an adult that I didn’t do as a kid. I know I’m not alone with this either, I see other chumps doing the same thing all the time. What I don’t understand is that I don’t do this at home, it’s only when I’m eating out. It's like there's something finalizing about having that toothpick; it must be akin to how people used to always smoke after dinner; and since I don't smoke I have to stick something in my mouth. I guess it's a sense of closure, a sense of satisfaction. My life can now go on, to once again enjoy another meal and another toothpick at another restaurant.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Pittsburgh Smokers Club

The Pittsburgh Smokers Club. You would think that Joe Camel and the rest of the good old boys in the tobacco industry would be losing their collective *sses due to all the warnings and public awareness about the health risks related to smoking. Restaurants are non-smoking. Airplanes are non-smoking. The Boys’ room is non-smoking, as far as I know, smoking still ain’t allowed in school. Even the entire State of California is now non-smoking. Everywhere you look “No smoking Johnny Q. Public!” However, despite all of these setbacks, the tobacco industry has nothing to worry about as long as Pennsylvania remains a part of our great nation. I was at a hotel in Pittsburgh awhile back, and that place was a smoker’s heaven on Earth. It was unbelievable. There was a cigarette machine in the lobby, another machine in the bar, an additional machine in the men’s room. My room didn’t have any shampoo, but it had more matches than Love Connection, and this was a non-smoking room. I think you could even order cigarettes from room service.

“Hallo, this is room service. What can I get for you’s?”

“Hi, yeah, this is room 529. I’ll take a Philly cheese steak with no onions, a Rolling Rock, and two packs of Lucky Strikes. No wait. I’m sorry. Just make that one pack of smokes. I’ll get another pack later when I’m down in the fitness room.”

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Color Evolution

The Color Evolution. What ever happened to blue, green, red, orange? These basic colors don’t seem to exist anymore. I was flipping through a few of the millions of mail order catalogs we get at our house the other night and I was amazed by some of the names of colors these companies came up with. Banana Republic, J. Crew, Victoria Secret, Land’s End, you name it, they all do it. It must be to make the clothes sound sexier or more valuable, I’m not sure which. All I know is that it’s no longer the color “blue”, it’s “sky”. It’s not “red”, it’s “pomegranate”. Salmon, oatmeal, cinnamon, grape, pumpkin, these are the new colors we have now. If you ask me, it’s getting too complicated. I didn’t know if I was ordering take-out or sportswear. I want green, not algae. I want brown, not fudge. I want yellow, not banana. No wait, it was the yellow bananas that I wanted, sorry. (Read "Green Bananas" )

Anyway, you know who I think we can blame for this whole mess? It was Crayola, when they went to the 128 crayon pack. That’s when they introduced the yellow-green and the green-yellow in the same pack. Which one do you use? I’m convinced that’s when this color madness all started and it’s been a run-away train ever since. In fact, computer monitors now display millions of different colors. How would you like to be the poor bastard to have to come up with the new names for all those colors? Actually, now that I think about it, that might be a pretty cool job. I’m algae with envy. (Read "The Greatest Jobs")

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Green Bananas

Green Bananas. I was grocery shopping the other day at our local market and I was interested in buying some fruit. I picked up some oranges, some apples, some pears, even some kiwi made it in my cart. I went to get a few bananas and all they had were bright green bananas. Well, even as a calm and patient man, I’m sure you can understand my frustration. Needlessly to say, I was f*ckin’ pissed. I want to know Produce Joe, why the green bananas? I don’t want to buy green bananas. I’m not interested in waiting for my bananas to mature. I’m not looking for a long-term investment from my produce. No maturation, no amoritization, no depreciation, no interest-bearing fruit. Is it asking too much to have yellow bananas? I want ready-to-eat fruit. I don’t have time to wait for my bananas to come to fruition. Life’s too short, man, I want yellow bananas.

© 2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Daytime Talk Shows

Daytime Talk Shows. I used to think that all of the day-time talk shows were just worthless dribble. How could someone really solve their deeply disturbing problems in one hour on national television? But you know, the other day while I was sitting on my *ss on the couch mindlessly watching some tele and finishing off my third box of Snackwell cookies (hey, they're fat-free), I learned a valuable lesson about this great country of ours. On The Jenny Jones Show, there was a single father of six illegitimate daughters who was unemployed, had trouble meeting women, yet had a sexual fetish with women's shoes, and was a huge sports fan. The lesson I learned that day was that there truly is a place for everyone in this special land of ours, no matter what the circumstances. This f*ckin' loser could work at Lady Footlocker. Thanks Jenny! Thanks for opening my eyes to this courageous story. I am forever grateful for the intellitectual and social stimuli your show provides. My only hope is that I will one day share an elevator with you and the truckload of crazies you have on your show. Wow, what a ride that would be! (Read "Great Wisdom of the Elevator")

© 2003-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Great Wisdom of the Elevator

The Great Wisdom of the Elevator. Have you ever noticed that a group of people can be standing in front of an elevator and the "up" button will be lit, yet each person who approaches the elevator will push the button again. Why do we do this? Do we think the elevator will move faster by pushing the button several times? I think the elevator is a reflection of our society. This behavior stems from our lack of trust and respect for each other. It's like we think the elevator won't come unless we personally push the button. No wonder there's never a good conversation on elevators, there's no trust, man. How can I build a relationship with you in this metal box of a world when you insist on pushing the button after I've all ready pushed it? The button is lit, you see that the f*ckin' button is lit. I know you see it. So, why do you push the button? Is it because I didn't shave? Is it because I have a toothpaste stain on my tie? Just because I look different or act different than you, doesn't mean the elevator respects me any less than you. The elevator doesn't discriminate. We could learn a lot from the elevator.

© 2003-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

Magnificient Christmas Tree

The Magnificent Christmas Tree. One of my favorite traditions of Christmas is picking out the tree. Growing
up, the ceilings in my parents' house were only 8 ft. high, and had always been only 8 ft. high. Yet every year my mom and I managed to come home with about a 14-ft. Noble fir. I honestly don't know what happened. We'd leave the house swearing we'd get a smaller tree this year, but as soon as we'd reached the tree farm, we'd lose control. It was as if the Star of Bethlehem would shine brightly down on this one majestic, perfectly shaped tree. We were as drawn to this tree as Charlie Brown was to the little mangy one he got on his Christmas special. We were like Louie Anderson in a See's Candy Store, we'd always buy the biggest thing there because, well, it was the only thing that could satisfy the craving. My Dad would be furious with us because he'd be stuck trimming the unnecessary six feet off the base to make it fit in the living room. The extra trimmings didn't go to waste however because we'd glue them together to make another tree for the family room. Several hours and several choice words later, he'd bring the tree in from the garage to be decorated. My Mom would slip on the Bing Crosby Christmas album, and the rest of the family would gather around and decorate the tree with boxes and boxes of gaudy, ceramic ornaments that we made for her when we were in elementary school. God bless her, she could never throw that sh*t away. My father often missed out on the decoration party because he'd be too busy trying to remove the remaining tree sap from his now hairless arms with an S.O.S. pad and turpentine. Not to worry though, he'd manage to numb the pain by throwing back a few glasses of Uncle Joe's Special Eggnog. Guess we won't need to water the tree tonight.

© 2003-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.

True Meaning of Christmas

The True Meaning of Christmas. I know of a few families that won't buy any gifts for each other before Christmas. This isn't due to their religious views or financial situations either. They go shopping at 8:00 a.m. on Dec. 26th at the outlet malls so that they can get all the left-over cr*p for 75%-90% off. They are motivated by the misperception that they believe they're out-smarting the rest of the world. In my opinion, the kids in these families are really missing out on the true meaning of Christmas. How can they ever believe in Santa Claus, or Chris Kringle, or whatever you like to call the hairy, old bastard, when they wake up to zero presents on Christmas morning? How can they believe if they don't get to experience Christmas until it's over? Christmas isn't about saving a lot of money. It's about spending a lot of money and getting a lot of unnecesary presents. It's about gorging your fat face on fudge and sugar cookies for a straight month. It's about laughing your *ss off watching Uncle Joe drink too much eggnog and passing-out as he's pissing in the Christmas tree stand. It's about falling asleep on the couch to "It's a Wonderful Life" as it's aired for the 421st time on TBS. It's about being six-years old and waking up on Christmas morning every hour beginning at 2:00am and jumping on your parents' bed crushing your Dad's giblets as you scream uncontrollably, "Presents! Santa! Presents! Candy! Presents! Presents! Presents!" Haven't we learned anything from "A Christmas Story" or "Christmas Vacation"? Before you join this overzealous band of discount-crazed holiday scrooges, stop and think about these wonderfully dysfunctional and joyous traditions you might be giving up. Don't forget the true meaning of Christmas.

© 2003-2004 John Simpson, Smart Ass Nation. All rights reserved.