Mrs. Commissioner and I had a date last night.  What was the occassion?  Thursday of course!  It was really a confluence of events...THE PHILLIES WINNING THE WORLD SERIES!!!!...having a babysitter...the night before Halloween...pick any of the above.

On the way home from work, I stopped by the local grocery store to buy a gallon of milk.  ONE ITEM!  Mrs. Commissioner normally doesn't let me go to the grocery store, because if there is going to be an apocolyptic event, it is normally going to happen to the person directly in front of me in line.  Prior to yesterday, my previous best, was standing behind a person in line, who watched the checker scan an entire shopping cart worth of groceries, then bag them, and then wait for the little girl to tell her the price, ONLY, and not until that point, walked over to the change counting machine, and dump an entire bucket of coins to be counted, only to find out 20 minutes later, that she did not have enough money to pay for her groceries, and then she had to put stuff back.  That was pleasant.

So, let me set the stage. I go into the local store to get my gallon of milk.  Of course, this is after work, so everyone else in the store too.  Of course, the express lanes are not open. Of course, the help desk is not open, of course, the self-service lines are not open.  They have exactly one register open at the grocery store at 5:30.  ONE!  Great business practice if you ask me.

So, I wait in a line of about 10 people to pay for my gallon of milk.  I'm behind a woman with a full grocery cart, but everyone else is checking out quickly, so I'm thinking, I'll be out of here in no time.  HUGE MISTAKE there.  Then, all of the sudden, red-flag number 1.  The princess is front of me puts the divider bar between HER groceries.  UH OH!  That is never good.  I'm beginning to smell the fruits of a check-out fiasco.  After the first-batch of groceries is checked, that's when it started.  Our princess presented her payroll check to the check-out girl.  Well, now we need a manager.  The manager is called "for a signature on Line 5".  The manager comes over, checks the identification, driver's license, etc., provides his signature and leaves.  The princess wants cash for her check.  Well, her check is $12.00 more than the maximum amount of cash the grocery store gives for payroll checks.  This wasn't a problem for the clerk, who suggested the brilliant idea of paying for the groceries with the proceeds of the payroll check.  That completely reasonable idea was rejected by our princess, but she did consent to pay for $13.00 worth of groceries, so she could get the balance of her cash.  Then, and only then, did the princess get out her checkbook and begin writing her check for the balance.  Of course, when she presented the check for payment, this required the second call to the manager, "for a key turn on register 5", who apparently was in the back unloading sides of beef.  The manager returns, provides the key turn, and checks the ID, again.  The register door closes, and the princess reminds the clerk, she has still not received her cash.  This required another "key turn on register 5".  By now, half the town is in line behind me, and my milk is about to expire.  The manager, even though he has been gone for 30 seconds, takes 3 minutes to return.  Perhaps he had to walk uphill to get back to the register? Well he gets back, and surprise, they didn't have enough cash in the register to pay the princess.  The manager runs to fetch the money, returns, and the princess gets paid. 

Great. Now we can check out her second batch of groceries.  The second batch of groceries, included: a dozen eggs, cake mix, cake frosting, butter, and a packet of cake decorations, which stated Happy Halloween and had little witches and stuff.  The clerk checks the stuff out, and our princess wants to pay with this batch of groceries with a food stamp card.  The princess tells the clerk casually, "my mom wanted me to pick this stuff up for her."  The clerk asks her, if the card was the princess's EBT card.  The princess stated no, it was her mother's.  The clerk stated, you can't use the card then.  The princess then stated, ok then, it's mine.  The clerk said, no, it's not.  We now had call number 4 to the manager.  After a 3 minute discussion, it is decided the princess can use the EBT card, but wait!  The cake decoration cannot be paid for with the EBT card.  The manager is called for a FIFTH time to discuss whether or not the cake decoration was edible.  I just knew someone was going to pull out a book the size of the yellow pages and try to waddle through some government food stamp regulation.  It was determined you could not use EBT card to pay for the cake decoration.  Our princess then stated well, PUT IT BACK BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE MONEY TO PAY FOR IT!  I kid you not.

I swear to you, the SECOND the clerk picked up my milk, the manager opened another register.

        

The New Orleans Museum of Art had their annual Japan Festival this past weekend.  Since Mrs. Commissioner and I are going to Japan in the spring, we thought we'd go to the Japan fest.  They had some Japanese drummers there, and we thought it would be a fun thing for the little deputies to check out.  Of course, about 2 minutes into the drummers, the little deputy announces he wants to go potty, and into the museum we go. 

After the requisite potty going, and the endless fascination with the automatic soap dispenser, whereby the little deputy automatically dispensed enough soap to clean all of the animal cages at the zoo, we were back in the museum.  Mrs. Commissioner decided she wanted to watch the tea ceremony.  We both decided there was no chance in hell the deputies were going to sit through that, which means, I get to go through the museum with the deputies.  That means only one thing.  We get to ride the elevator.  Does the elevator have a Picasso hanging on its walls?  No. The elevator has something better.  It has 26000 buttons that light up, and one, the alarm button, that makes a loud noise when you press it.  Fortunately, we got on the elevator with a Orleans Parish Sheriff's deputy.  He kindly explained to the little deputy, "if you touch anything in the museum, you will go to jail." 

The little deputy proudly announced, "I don't want to go to jail."  The Sheriff's deputy told him, "no, you don't."

Fast forward 2 minutes, we are walking through the Oceania exhibit.  The little deputy sees a wooden statue, about 4 feet tall.  What does little deputy do to the statue?  Does he ohh and ahh over it?  Does he look at it and tell me its art significance? Does he look at it and say, daddy what is this?  No.  He did none of those things.  He tackles it.  He flat out took it down, along with the little plate describing what it is.  Sprawled out on the floor are the little deputy, the statue and the descriptive name plate.  I pick up the deputy, the statue and the name plate, trying to put the statue and the plate back where they were.  The little deputy laid on the floor, SCREAMING "I DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAIL!"  I tried telling him to calm down. DADDY I DON'T WANT TO GO TO JAIL.  He screamed, he didn't want to go to jail for about 3 minutes.  I decided to get him out of there and go get Mrs. Commissioner out of the tea ceremony.  Once we got on the elevator, of course, he pressed the alarm button, setting off, well, the alarm.

When the elevator doors opened at the bottom, I'm holding the little deputy, he is SCREAMING, I DON'T WANT A SPANKING.  Nice touch.  Now a museum full of people think I'm a child abuser.  I would have much rather him screamed, I don't want to go to jail.  But now that we are front of 100 people, he has to scream, he doesn't want me to beat him.

They don't serve beer at the museum.  I sure needed one.

        

Yesterday was an Oh Happy Day!  My beloved Fightin' Phils are in the World Series.  This is something that has only happened three times in my life, and I enjoyed the game last night while downing SEVERAL ice cold Yuengling's.  Earlier in the week, my beloved wife made a pilgrimage to Alabama to acquire a case of Yuengling, so that I would have that frosty beverages for the games. (Disclaimer:  The Beer Commissioner is not saying Yuengling is his favorite beer, as Beer Commissioner, I advocate the drinking of all beer.  Unlike another imitation commissioner who only advocates the drinking of one beer, I advocate drinking all of them (albeit not in one night). The Beer Commissioner's consumption of Yuengling is directly related to Yuengling being served at Phillies games, and therefore, it is a lucky beverage, and the Beer Commissioner is above all else, extremely superstitious.)

Now that the Phillies are in the World Series, I HAVE to go to the games.  I called my surrogate mother in Clearwater, Florida today, who, truth be told is probably a more die-hard Phillie fan than I am, if that is possible.  I invited our family to her house for Game 1 and 2 of the World Series.  We have acquired tickets, which I really need to sell about my entire stock of t-shirts to pay for (HINT! HINT!), and have acquired the plane tickets (See comment re: t-shirts).  I contacted the right Honorable Judge I have to appear in front of next Thursday, explained my dilemma, and he granted me a continuance of my hearing, clearing me professionally to attend the game.  Mrs. Commissioner is dreaming of the white sandy beaches of Clearwater.  Me and Miss Linda are dreaming of Game 1 and 2 of the World Series.  The only thing that can upset my plans are the (Yankee fans please email me with an appropriate adjective to insert here) Boston Red Sox. 

I need the Rays to win.  I need the Rays to be in the World Series.  I need the Rays to go through Boston like the Crimson Tide went through the Bulldogs a couple of weeks ago.  I need the Rays to go through Boston like the Barn and Tommy Tupperware goes through Offensive Coordinators.  Don't get me wrong. I'm pulling for the Rays to win exactly one more game. After that I want them to stink and, in general, be unable to score, kinda like me in high school.

If all goes according to plan, there will be lots and lots of people saying Oh Happy Day, and I will be there to see it. 

        

Normally the Beer Commissioner is a pretty self-confident guy. I do not question alot of decisions that I make, and typically do not second guess myself. 

Today, I took a journey through my mind, and meddled in self-doubt.  I wonder do I have the dedication and committment to be the "Beer Commissioner".  I asked myself, would I go to jail for 30 years over a case of beer?  I immediately answered, "no."  Then I asked myself, well is there anyone in the world that would go to jail over a case of beer?  I then said, "well, YES THERE IS!"

Evan Lyons of Sioux City, Iowa, age 29, decided he wanted his case of Budweiser so bad, he was willing to risk 30 years in the slammer for it.  Unfortunately for Evan, he was caught, and since, he is habitually stupid, was sentenced to 30 years in jail for stealing two cases of Budweiser.  He was also ordered to pay restitution to the Kum & Go for the two cases of beer he stole.  Apparently he was able to drink the beer, which is good, because I'm not guessing they serve up beer in the Iowa State Penitentiary System.

So, this guy Evan had me thinking, is he more dedicated than me to be the beer commissioner? After all, I wouldn't spend 30 years in jail for anything, much less a couple of cases of beer.  Then, I thought I have to remain the beer commissioner.  Does Bud Selig go around gas stations stealing baseball hats?  Does Roger Goddell go to truck stops and steal a Raiders car flag? No! They don't.  And why?  Because they aren't stupid.  I don't steal beer.  I buy my beer like every other beer loving person (Note: Any breweries wishing me to sample their beer and write glowingly about it on my website need only send me free beer to do so.)

I like beer alot.  I like talking about stupid criminals too.  So, when we have a stupid criminal who gets 30 years for stealing beer, you know this has to be a no-brainer for a blog.  I've seen lots of stupid things in my life.  Representing criminals, I've seen more stupid things than most people.  But, I have never seen anything so dumb in my life, as some idiot waking up one morning and deciding you know, I'd really like to spend the next 30 years in jail, let me go knock off the Kum & Go.  Your Beer Commissioner does not have that type of dedication to his beverage, but I do have committment, and I commit to you, to not be that stupid.

        

I emailed the following story to Mrs. Commissioner this a.m:  www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/article1782932.ece

Mrs. Commissioner has a feral beast.  She actually had three feral beasts when we first met, but I have successfully talked two of them on taking their eternal reward to the big litter box in the sky.  Now, I have just one left to get rid of.  The note I put on the email including the above link, suggested I have found a job for her cat.  She has not replied yet.  Maybe, I can get 42000 angry PETA (People Eating Tasty Animals) to flood my website with complaints, and organize a boycott.  That is really the goal.  I really need to be boycotted by someone, hopefully PETA can help.

I do not like cats.  The only thing I hate worse than cats, are cats living in my house.  Cats are not just like dogs.  Cats are not cool.  Apparently people in Peru feel like they are tasty snacks.  Who knew?

I'm not sure my wife's cat would be a tasty snack.  Mrs. Commissioner and I have very few disagreements, but we have lots of them over her feral beast.  Her cat is about 9000 years old.  She claims her cat is 14.  I have built the following case against her cat being 14.  See if you disagree.

I met Mrs. Commissioner about 7 years ago.  When I met her, she had 3 cats, she claimed 2 of them were 14 and one was 'about' 16.  Now, 7 years later, she is still claiming the cat is 14.

I was looking at pictures of Mrs. Commissioner at her mother's house.  There is a picture of Mrs. Commissioner in pigtails, big missing gap-toothed smile, holding the cat.  I'm not going to say how old Mrs. Commissioner is, but she wasn't sporting pig-tails and a gap-toothed smile 14 years ago.

This past March, we were in New York City at the Metropolitan Museum of art.  The drawings on the pyramid walls are of her cat.

Needless to say, I have been rooting for her cat's impending doom for years.  Her cat's hobbies include shedding, vomiting on the carpet, not using the litter box, and meowing all night long while you are trying to sleep. 

She claims the cat will not die.  I'm wondering if the cat is an immortal (only one can remain)? I'm wondering if the cat really does have 9 lives, and how many does it have left?  She says the cat will die, when I decide to love and embrace it, and not until then.

As in many cases, I believe my wife is correct.  From this moment on, I love and embrace my wife's cat.  I hereby declare her cat is the most loveable, sweetest, non-litterbox using feral beast in the entire world.  To show the cat how much I love it, and care about it, I have booked a family vacation to Peru.  The cat is coming with us.  I hope he appreciates all I'm doing for him.

        

Honest to goodness, I didn't watch 2 seconds of football today, which is highly unusual for me.  Mrs. Commissioner will tell you, during football season, you will most likely find me horizontal, beer in hand, cheesy-poofs in bowl, watching football.  Doesn't matter who is playing, I'm watching.  Fantasy football has changed the way I watch football too.  The Commish is a pretty hard-core E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles fan.

Unfortunately, I involved myself in the office fantasy football pool.  Last year, I had the best record, but didn't win, because all of my players did not play the last couple of games of the year (L.T.)  This year has been an unmitigated fantasy disaster (even though my team is 3-1, it sucks).  My first round pick was Tom Brady.  My back-up quarterback was Vince Young.  Are you seeing where I'm going with this?  I was forced to basically get the dredges of the NFL quarterback pool, and I acquired Trent Edwards.  You fantasy guru's and Buffalo folks know, Mr. Edwards made it through about 3 minutes of today's game.  He got a concussion.  Some big oaf of a defensive lineman knocked him silly. The trainer came out to see the quarterback.  He asked him where he was, and Mr. Edwards responded "Thursday".

I'm beginning to wonder if there is a Beer Commissioner curse?  I had Michael Vick a couple of years ago.  Don't get me wrong, I'm sorta thinking out loud here.  Being as my t-shirts are just flying off the shelves (NOT!), I'm trying to think of ways to generate money.  I'm thinking bribery.  Perhaps a letter to every single NFL quarterback.  I'll take a royalty payment to not select you on my fantasy team.  Apparently, if the Commissioner picks you, your season is over.  You are toast.  You are horizontal on the couch with beer and cheesy poofs.  Madden and his curse have nothing on me.  At least the Madden people are getting paid, knowing they are about to have the bad juju put on them.  If I pick you, it is like the Grim Reaper coming in the night and screwing your season.  I am the stealth curse. 

I know what you are thinking.  I'm in a 10 person fantasy league.  ALL, and I do mean ALL the other NFL quarterbacks are taken, the NFL quarterbacks have nothing to worry about.  Ah, but the Commish has thought of the answer to that.  I have Michael "the Burner" Turner and I'm not afraid to use him.  As of right now, Michael Turner is trade bait.  So, if you are an NFL quarterback, and if you want to finish the season, you should think about writing me a check.  On Tuesday morning, you may be on my team, and you are doomed.

Oh, by the way, Donovan, you are safe.  I am an Eagles fan after all.  We need you. I'm not touching you.

        

The Beer Commissioner loves money.  The Beer Commissioner loves pontificating.  The Beer Commissioner loves analogies.  The current financial situation is just ripe for a blog.  I have found most people have no idea what the financial crisis is about, or what caused it, or why the bailout is or is not necessary.  So, I'm going to break down the financial crisis into an analogy that most people can understand, using Las Vegas, one of my favorite places as the example.

Suppose Las Vegas was in a bit of a recession.  New politicians got elected to office in Nevada, and they wanted to jump start the economy.  The Nevada government told the casinos of Las Vegas, they wanted to jump start tourism, and the government was going to guarantee the casinos against losses.  The casinos in turn were very excited about this vote of confidence from the government, so the casinos started offering incentives to the customers to come to Las Vegas in the form of free hotel rooms, free meals, free show tickets and free-play incentives.  The casinos started to boom.  The local businesses around the casinos started to boom from all the extra customers.  The restaurants were full with people.

At some point in time, some local government officials were worried about this fast growth, and they started asking questions related to what guarantees the state of Nevada was offering, and they started wondering what types of offers the casinos were making based upon these guarantees.  These politicians were eventually voted out of office, as being out of touch, as the casinos and associated businesses were making so much money.  Eventually casinos outside of Nevada wanted to get a piece of the action, but they were in states where there were no such incentives, so these casinos just started investing in the Las Vegas casinos.  These casinos were told their investments were rock solid, after-all, it was a casino, and Nevada was guaranteeing their money.  Well, these new investors, wanted some immediate returns on their money, so now the Las Vegas casinos were offering more and more incentives to get people to come to Las Vegas.

One such incentive involved a guy named Harry.  Harry was a hard-working fellow, and one of the casinos sent him an offer to fly him and a guest to Las Vegas for the weekend.  Harry was offered a hotel suite, all his meals, and $500.00 in free play.  Harry knew this little girl Nancy, who he had been trying to get in the rack.   Poor Nancy had just lost her job the prior week, and really had no prospects for a new job, and was in a bad mood, but she readily accepted Harry's offer for a free weekend away.  Nancy's dad warned her about the trip to Vegas, and her financial state, and didn't think it was a wise move, but Nancy went anyway.  Harry and Nancy got to Vegas and had a great time.  They enjoyed the luxurious suite, the wonderful meals, and the great shows.  Harry played all of his free-play credit, and lost another couple of hundred bucks.  The pit boss saw how upset Harry was, and he saw how disappointed Nancy looked, as it appeared they lost all their money at 8:00 p.m. on a Saturday night.  The pit boss told Harry and Nancy they could get a marker to play a lot longer, and they didn't even have to pay the marker off for 6 months.  All they had to do was give the casino a check, which they would hold.  Harry and Nancy thought this was too good to be true.  Right then and there, the pit boss gave them both a marker for $1,000.00.  Harry and Nancy actually won a little bit of money, but as they were browsing through the Forum Shops, Nancy noticed this Gucci purse she loved, and she bought the purse with her winnings, and Harry saw this framed Muhammad Ali title belt in one of the sports memorabilia stores that he had to have.  Harry and Nancy both went home, both having enjoyed themselves immensely. 

The casino was happy as well, as they had tons of visitors and tons of markers.  The casinos showed all these markers to other investors, and the investors invested even more money, as the casinos started inviting more and more Harry's and Nancy's to Las Vegas.

At the next casino board of directors meeting, the CFO gave a report, that some of the markers weren't being paid, and maybe the casino ought to implement a policy when giving out markers to new players.  The board of directors thought the CFO was 'just being conservative' and he was ignored. The casino kept operating business as usual.

Harry and Nancy's 6 months was up, and it came time for them to pay their marker.  Of course, neither of them had the money to pay their marker, so they were sued for the money due.  Harry and Nancy had judgments rendered against them, and Harry's belt and Nancy's purse were repossessed.  Unfortunately, the belt and purse which they paid thousands for, only sold for $300 at the foreclosure auction.  The casino looked to the State of Nevada to give it the additional $1700 the state had guaranteed them, but the State of Nevada said, we don't really have a procedure to pay you the money.

Around the same time, the CFO, told the board of directors, there were more and more Harry's and Nancy's out there, and not to expect the same profits we had in the past.  The Board of Directors did not like the news, and they wanted a change, but they didn't want the change to upset or alarm the investors, so the Board of Directors gave the president of the company a bonus in the amount of 20 times his salary to 'retire'.   Eventually the amount of Harry's and Nancy's has grown so big, the CFO can't make the numbers work in the books anymore without going to jail.  All of the sudden, the biggest casino in Las Vegas files bankruptcy, then the next week, another casino files bankruptcy, and then one of the investors filed for bankruptcy.  All of the remaining investors are screaming for their money.  The casinos are looking at the State of Nevada to pay their guarantee.  The State tells the other investors, we never made a deal with you, and the State of Nevada tells the casinos, we don't have a procedure established for the guarantees.  Then Harry and Nancy tell the State of Nevada, they want them to do something, because the only thing they have left is their 401k, which was heavily invested in the casinos.

The State of Nevada then says, ok casino, we will give you 25% of your money, but in exchange for the money, you cannot give your president a raise, and you have to raise the room rate, and the food rate on Harry and Nancy if they want to come to your casino and give it to us.  If the plan works, we will give you the additional 75% of the money, but you will have to agree to let us control how you run your casino, and agree to raise the rates on Harry and Nancy even more to come to your casino, and the casino will have to give that extra money to the State of Nevada as well.  The State of Nevada also wanted to make clear to everyone and anyone who would listen, was that the entire problem was really with the CFO, and but for the CFO doing nothing, this never would have happened.

As of today, the State of Nevada voted that Harry and Nancy should not have to pay for the casino's bailout.  I'm not sure where the story will end.  As we watch this drama unfold, I have a few of recommendations, number 1, do not look at your portfolio.  It can't be good for your heart.  Number 2, stock up on your beer of choice.  In these financial times, it is about the cheapest liquid around.  Number 3, drink your beer of choice, and enjoy the baseball playoffs this October, and as the little deputy would say, 'root, root, root for the Phillies....'

        

Have you ever wondered why we drink beer?  Why because it is so yummy, of course.  Easy question.  I know that was kind of like the government spending $5 million on a study as to why prisoners want to get out of jail.

Well it turns out there is actually a scientific reason Americans drink beer.  I'm not making this up. I saw it on the History Channel.  Turns out people in the world, didn't used to drink beer.  Sad but true.  If you were a caveman, you were basically screwed.  Not only did you have to run from dinosaurs, but you had no beer.  Sucks to be them. 

The world used to be wine drinkers.  Then around the 14th century, there was, what scientists call a mini-ice age, that lasted about 200 years.  The mini-ice age killed all the grapevines throughout Northern Europe.  The people in Germany, the Netherlands, Sweden, England, Scotland, Ireland, Belgium basically went 200 years with no wine.  You see, back in the 14th Century, we didn't have shiny 18 wheelers delivering booze to our favorite watering hole.  You pretty much had to go to the booze. It didn't come to you. 

Now, these poor Northern European folks, they had no wine, so they had to make due with what they had.  And what they had was lots of wheat, and lots barley, and lots of hops, which was pretty much all they were able to grow in Northern Europe during the mini-ice age.  My friends, and what do you make from wheat, barley and hops?  You make beer and you make scotch.  And make it they did. 

Coincidentally, when the mini-ice age ended, that is right around the time, the religious persecution movement started gaining lots of steam in Europe.  That was about the same time, these Northern Europeans started coming to the United States.  Generally speaking, most of the early settlers in this country did not come from the Mediterranean area, they came from Northern Europe.  Obviously, Northern Europeans brought with them the tools and the skills they had.  Those skills included making whiskey and making beer. 

Thomas Jefferson was known to brew his own beer at Monticello.  At one point in our American history, George Washington was the largest manufacturer of whiskey in the country.  America is still not necessarily known as a wine drinking country.  Approximately 88% of the wine is drunk by approximately 11% of the population.  Far more beer and whiskey is consumed in this country.

So, next time your significant other says to you, why do you have to drink beer whenever there is a football game on....you can always say, well dear, there was this mini-ice age......I'm sure she will be more than impressed.

        

I'm not a terribly sentimental guy, but I'm man enough to cry at movies.  No, not chick flicks.  Real movies.  Like in Rocky II, when Adrianne is in the hospital, Rocky is sitting by her bedside, she manages to muster up enough energy to say "win".  Of course, Rocky knocks out Apollo Creed, and the world as we know it is better off.  Or, the final scene in Saving Private Ryan, when Private Ryan is standing at the Captain's grave with his family, trying to explain to Tom Hanks how he "earned it". 

I don't really have a sentimental story about meeting Mrs. Commissioner and getting married.  I can't sit here and tell you how she twirled around the pole better than all the other girls, or some other equally romantic and endearing story.  Meeting my wife was fate.  It was going to happen.  It was in the cards.  The fortune tellers in Jackson Square in New Orleans could've predicted it with a one card tarot deck.

You see my wife's family name is Chmelir.  Her people came from Czechoslovakia.

All the Czech people, who actually speak the Czech language are now sitting at their computers, reading this blog, saying, holy cow, this is the funniest blog I've ever read.  Then, when they read this entry, they will all be sitting at their computers saying, wow, it is fate! 

My friends, Chmelir in Czech, means beer hops.  Yes, the Beer Commissioner married a woman whose last name is literally beer hops.  Tell me that's not fate!  Oh, I know the cynics out there are saying, she married me for my dashing good looks, wavy hair, dazzling smile and sparkling wit.  There are other cynics saying she married me because of a cataclysmic error in judgment.  But deep down, I know the real reason: my dashing good looks....no, just kidding....really, it was fate.

So folks, this weekend, enjoy a nice cold beer, enjoy watching your favorite team win their game, unless your favorite team is the Razorbacks, in which case, you can enjoy your favorite team winning next week, and embrace fate.  If you embrace fate, and drink enough beer, you never know who you might wake up next to tomorrow morning!

 

        

Well it was time for me to go in for the annual tune up and lube job.  I actually had the appointment scheduled about 2 months ago, but the doctor canceled due to a death in his family.  I never asked him, if he was that person's doctor.  Some questions, you don't want to know the answer to.

I don't understand doctors, and I do not understand the mysteries of the human body.  I see myself as like a pick-up truck.  I know where the gas goes. I know where the exhaust comes out.  I know if the tires are bad.  If I find myself doing the green-apple quickstep to the bathroom, I can generally narrow it down to a few things, but you can never be terribly sure.

So, when we were going over my medical history, and I forgot to mention I had tubes in my ears when I was 3, I didn't quite understand the sudden agitation for letting out an important detail.  Like I take my truck into Jiffy Lube for an oil change, I'm not sure why the grocery cart dinging my door at the grocery store is important.

Some of the questions, I get....Do I smoke? No.  Do I drink?  I told him beer tops off my food pyramid.  He says, you need to change your diet.  4 years of medical school for that advice? Thanks.  We then talked about 10 minutes about my broken arm when I was 8. 

Seriously, I'm at the doctor for 3 basic reasons.   One, is the blood flowing through my arteries the consistency of toxic sludge?  Two, do I have cancer? Three, when is Mrs. Commissioner going to start spending more time with the pool boy?  That's it.  That's all I want to know. 

We talk about my broken arm.  Then with no transition he tells me to stand up and drop my drawers.  I turn left and cough, then he tells me to turn around, lay face down on the table and smile.  He then inserted his arm up my rectum to his elbow.  He takes off his rubber gloves, tells me to pull my pants up and wash my hands.  He then leaves.

Why did he tell me to wash my hands?  My hands had a death grip on the examination table...wash my hands?  While I'm contemplating that instruction, he disappeared.  Gone.  I never figured out if I had toxic sludge flowing through my veins.  I still don't know if I have cancer, and I'm not sure if I should worry that Chad the pool guy hand-delivered an invoice to my house tonight? (Seriously, Chad the pool-guy hand-delivered an invoice to my house today).

To shamefully quote KGB from Rounders, "I feel so unsatisfied."