…well, at least a couple of them are, anyways…

As they say, every story has its beginning, which is why I should probably start by explaining that this week’s edition of The Humor Column is actually Part 2 of a story that began earlier this month regarding the trials and tribulations that revolve around buying a new car.  That said, if you haven’t read Part 1 yet, you might want to go back and read that one first – it’s ok, we’ll wait – unless, of course, you’re the kind of person who actually prefers to flip to the last page of a book and read the ending first.

I never did understand those weird kinds of people, but we can talk about that later – for now, let’s move along with today’s long-awaited finale to our story…

So anyways, when we last left our hero, he was dreading the upcoming prospect of purchasing a new car worse than riding shotgun with Louie Anderson on the way to the National Pancake Day Celebration at IHOP.  To this mild-mannered, yet impeccably-handsome genius of a man, purchasing a new automobile represented all that was evil in the world today and to set foot into that abyss again after having been savagely taken advantage of merely two and a half years ago was an unthinkable plight of epic proportions, to say the least.  But be that as it may, he was likewise unable to bear the thought of letting his fair maiden walk to the market each day’s morn for his beloved quail eggs and succulent back bacon, and thus into the dragon’s lair he ventured nonetheless to seek out his fuel efficient, hybrid prize.

“Nothing less than a city/highway combined 41 mpg, based on 2010 EPA mileage estimates!” she quipped from the front stoop as she bid him good hunting and a safe return before scurrying off to wash laundry on the rocks down by the creek.

And away I went – I’m not one to drop names, so let’s just say that I went down to my local, neighborhood Rhonda dealer to see what they could offer in terms of vehicles that didn’t moan incessantly from even the mere mention of going for a drive.  Heck, I’ll even profess that outside of that charming, not-at-all embellished medieval introduction, my lovely wife actually did accompany me as well, on account of the fact that sure, it technically was her new car that we were shopping for, and besides, she had managed to finish our creek laundry early that day anyways, so she’d earned it!   We pulled onto that lot with a make and a model already in mind, seeking only a fair price and a friendly handshake in return, and if we were really lucky, maybe a set of complimentary mud flaps when all was said and done, too…

Well, as the story goes, we immediately lucked out, not by way of mud flaps, but instead because the gentleman who helped us was named Scott, which as you may have already picked up on – his name is my name, too! … but without all of the random shouting that the song seems to always infer.  Now just between you and me, if I had it my way, I’d only interact with other people named Scott when I’m out and about … at least as far as dudes are concerned … because, well, what can I say?  We Scotts are generally among the most friendly, charismatic, and trustworthy people you’ll ever meet…

And did I mention that we’re devastatingly attractive, too?

Anyways, as his name would imply, this Scott was about as knowledgeable about Rhonda cars as I am funny about, well, everything, which worked out great because by the end of our test drive with him, we went from consumers who really liked and wanted to buy this car to consumers who absolutely, positively had to buy this car! Of course, we didn’t tell him that at the time because we still needed to buy the thing without plunking down a king’s ransom, to swing the story back to medieval times, however I am pleasantly surprised to report that this adventure was by comparison several orders of magnitude more bearable than our last dance with the devil in the pale moonlight.

Wait – wasn’t that one from Batman?! I’m pretty sure Robin Hood or King Arthur never said anything like that…

The financial negotiation portion of the experience was still a bit tense, as one tends to expect when you’re talking about moneys that are going to take a number of years to payoff, but all in all we were able to get the price down to a figure that did not include handing over my own pants, so I was pretty happy about that.  Overall, a few of the same elements from our previous buying detriment were still present, however two and a half years later they were thankfully just a bit more reasonable this time around.  I mean, they still make you race through the gauntlet of fire, of course, but at least now it’s a standard, regulation-sized gauntlet for all dealerships across the country … plus, if your credit score is high enough, they don’t make you do it blindfolded anymore, which is nice little perk for being fiscally responsible, I thought.

I also haven’t woken up shaking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, nor have we been visited by a lone messenger “reminding” us about the debt of our first born, either.  I do say with a surprising gasp that the difference was really night and day … it’s almost as if when you’re dealing with nicer, considerably less diabolical salesmen, the car buying experience as a whole can actually be … dare I say, pleasant?!

Of course, we owe an awful lot of it to our trusty salesman, Scott, who truly lived up to his name by providing the astonishing service that only someone named Scott could ever dream of providing – may his story serve not only as a reminder to other Scotts of the great responsibility that they carry, but also to inspire other men who dream of one day changing their name to Scott in order to achieve said awesomeness.

To Scott Himself – thanks again, and do rest well in knowing that my wife absolutely loves her new Rhonda.

To Everyone Else – here’s hoping that when the time comes for your next vehicular purchase of the transportation variety, you find yourself being helped by a Scott.  Don’t be afraid to ask for us by name; we’re definitely worth the wait!

With apologies to Pete Townsend and The Who…

Whew – is everybody still with us?!

Boy, has it been a rough couple of weeks around this place … I don’t know about you, but that cold was just about more than I could bear!  I mean, people move to Florida to get away from the freezing cold, and yet we just spent the better part of the last three weeks fighting off Frosty and his fiendishly freezing foes like our lives depended on it … because for people who don’t actually own coats, they did depend on it!

Fortunately it seems that global warming is finally back on our side once again and those frantic flurries are long gone in favor of temperatures more befitting of the white, sandy beaches and coconut-flavored drinks that make our state a fine place to visit and an even better place to live.  But as much as we’re all certainly basking in the warmth that had temporarily forgotten us, know that us Floridians are still feeling a world of hurt from those seemingly endless days of frost-covered windshields and blanket-laden shrubberies, and if there’s one thing that we learned from this mind (and body!)-numbing experience, it’s that frankly put – we can never allow such a frigid travesty to happen ever again.

We can’t go back, we won’t go back, and I think I speak for everyone from the Sunshine State when I say that we’re willing to do anything, and I mean anything to ensure that we never feel the unrelenting wrath of Old Man Winter and his abominable ice capades ever again!  Of course, as you would imagine, it will take a grand scheme of epic proportions to feign back such evil forces in all of their nippy nastiness, but as luck would have it one good thing that did come out of my recently being sick was that I found myself laid up with plenty of time to think about this exact issue.

Here are a few of the ideas that I’ve been kicking around so far:

• Strategically-located space heaters.
• Giant blankets, arranged over our cities and towns in an impressive, fort-like manner.  May also use giant couch cushions, as available.
• No more visitors from “up north” who always seem to “bring it with them” when they “come to visit.”
• Maybe I’m still a bit calorically hung over from Christmas, but is it just me or does the house always seem warmer while you’re baking cookies?  The mandatory baking of delicious treats every Saturday afternoon – I mean, who wouldn’t get behind that?!
• More hugging.  Well … nah, that one might get a bit awkward…
• Build a large campfire somewhere in the vicinity of Central Florida – nothing warms the body after a long day like some s’mores shared amongst friends.
• A state-sponsored, mass hibernation program – basically, the entire state of Florida just shuts down if the temperature drops below 45 degrees Fahrenheit.

Got a better idea?  Let’s hear it, folks, because time is of the essence and that jerk Winter could be back any second!  Preparations must be made; tropically-oriented lifestyles must be secured.  We can’t handle temperatures like that again, but with the right brilliant idea, we won’t have to.

Remember, we’re willing to do anything…

Boy, does time fly when you’re not on a boat, let me tell you…

And granted, I may have been just a wee bit apprehensive about my very first boat-based break from reality, what with the ever-impending threat of overly-amorous whales and other daunting suggestions, but of course, it’s important to note that all of those premonitions were manifested well before ever actually setting foot on that floating paradise of an oasis  … not to say that said allegations aren’t still entirely warranted for those other first-timers who are now themselves entertaining the notion of sailing on the open seas, of course…

That said, though, I’ve got to tell you that ever since I returned from that fabled vacation of epic proportions, it has most certainly been more than just a little difficult to reacclimate to life back here on dry land.  It’s one of those things that you really would never even notice if you didn’t spend some time away, but now that yours truly has officially seen both sides of the coin, I think it’s my duty as your favorite humor columnist to just let you know – being a landlubber sucks. All of this work and responsibility and having to actually do things for yourself – I honestly don’t know how I put up with it as long as I did!  It’s like you’re constantly expected to do stuff on a regular basis to make a worthwhile contribution to society, and frankly, after learning that there’s another option out there – one that features twice a day room cleaning and all you can eat everything – it seems like a no-brainer that I’d much rather be floating around the Caribbean any day than stuck here at home where I have to make my own bed and sing my own show tunes in the evening hours…

Of course, I know that the truth of the matter is that living on a luxury cruise ship 365 days a year would be pretty darn expensive and unfortunately based on this humor columnist’s salary, the only boat that I’d be able to live on at this point would be one that I’d have to row around myself.  Nonetheless, while I may not necessarily be able to afford a real cruise ship to live out the remainder of my 20’s in a manner to which I’ve become accustomed, it seems like a much more reasonable approach might be to do a little sprucing up around here to make my own home more closely resemble that twelve deck resort that captured both my heart and my love of letting other people do things for me little more than a month ago!

Now I’ve done some brainstorming in between watching reruns of Gilligan’s Island of some simple things that I think I could do to help recreate that cruising feeling right here at home – here’s a taste of what I’ve managed to come up with so far:

• Flood the lawn by “accidentally” leaving the sprinklers on all night to provide that breathtaking view of the open water from every window around the house.
• Partition off the shower so that there’s just barely enough room for one moderately-sized adult to stand up completely straight.
• Rid the place of any appliance or electronic device that has the ability to display the current time.  In fact, the calendars are gonna have to go, too.
• Hire a crane operator to rock the house back and forth ever so gently in a calm and relaxing manner.
• Do those Culligan water delivery guys have the option of bringing alcohol instead?  The same sized bottles that fit the dispenser will still be fine…
• Hire a guy to do nothing but cook pizzas and hotdogs twenty-four hours a day, thus ensuring that late night sustenance will never again be an issue.
• Build a basketball court on the roof, even though I probably won’t ever get around to using it.  Oh, and a mini-golf course, too!
• Try to talk the wife into cleaning our bedroom, bathroom, and any applicable linens twice a day.  This one might be tricky…
• Find someone who knows how to carve those really intricate designs into watermelons because hey, what doesn’t spruce up a buffet line like the head of an Indian Chieftain carved out of melon?
• Convert our garage into a karaoke bar – not to use myself, but just so that I can walk by once or twice a night while somebody’s belting out Don’t Stop Believing and think, “Man, even when it sounds horrible, that’s still a great song!”

Jealous already?!  Well, don’t be because with water-view rooms starting at only $249 a week per person, now’s the perfect time to come enjoy world-class amenities with virtually no fear of drowning or getting shipwrecked whatsoever!  Space may be limited, but the fun is endless, so call today to make your reservation – 1-800-SCOTT’S-HOUSE-BOAT or visit us on the web at www.scottshouse.boat!

Something tells me that we might not be getting our security deposit back after this one…

I don’t think it’s any secret at this point that I’m a big fan of pizza.  Maybe not a worldly aficionado of sorts, simply because I haven’t seen much of the world just yet, per se, but nonetheless if you were to put pizza on the menu for any given meal, chances are you’re going to make my selection pretty darn easy unless there also happens to be some sort of amazing Chinese food also featured on said menu.

Side Note: some sort of General Tso’s Pizza would probably be the awesomest dish one could ever create, however that’s a brilliant idea for another column…

Nonetheless, I certainly don’t have any problem calling myself a pizza fan of epic proportions and when it comes to us pizza fans, if there’s one thing that we’ve got down, it’s choosing a personal favorite.  You may think that it’s a pretty tough choice, what with all of the options between national chains and mom & pop establishments out there, but for me, the choice is actually pretty easy – none other than Papa John’s for the win, of course!  And definitely as their slogan says, they do use better ingredients to make better pizza that’s absolutely delicious, but what really attracted me to Papa John’s before I had ever even tasted a slice is that right from the start, I couldn’t help but notice that these folks are what I now like to call Pizza Innovators.

You see, Papa John’s was the first pizza place that allowed us to ORDER PIZZA ON THE INTERNET, and let me tell you, for a guy who spends pretty much every waking moment online, the ability to request pepperoni-laden sustenance from the same computer network that also brought us Ask a Ninja and Elf Bowling was in my not-so-humble opinion one of the greatest technological advances of mankind.  With just a few simple clicks of a mouse, your dining destiny goes zipping off through cyberspace to a kitchen of highly-trained pizza professionals, ready and waiting to bake you up a batch of awesome in 30 minutes or less.

There – I just ordered a delectable Hawaiian BBQ Chicken while I was writing this column!

But of course, that was years ago when the online ordering phenomenon first took the world by storm and since then, the Pizza Innovators at Papa John’s have cooked up an even more life-changing invention for this always-on-the-go, mobile society that we’ve become.  Say you can’t get to a computer because you’re getting ready to drive home and it sure would be great if your favorite Tuscan Six Cheese pulled into the driveway behind you.  Just send a quick text message from your cell phone to the Papa and BINGO – you’re one step closer to a complacent belly!  Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe it…

And don’t get me wrong, not every design to come out of Pizza Innovation Central has been golden.  As they say, sometimes you have to break a few eggs and these little gems from pizza’s past certainly weren’t exactly the hits that history had been hoping for…

The Papa John’s Pizza-Pult
Based on an Innovator’s obsession with medieval times, this unique attempt to revolutionize the delivery industry was a bit of a flop for reasons of both distance and accuracy.

Pizza Phone
Ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring-ring – you know, along the same lines as the classic Raffi song, but a whole lot messier…

Pizza: The Pill
Apparently somebody at Innovation Labs had been watching a little too much sci-fi when they came up with this brainchild – all of the nutritional value of a pizza in one tiny capsule … without any of the flavor.

But all in the same, from the company that first brought us the miracle that is online ordering, I can imagine that it’s only a matter of time before the next big thing makes its appearance on the pizza scene in the form of one of these amazing creations…

PoIP (Pizza Over IP)
Voice Over IP may be revolutionizing telephony by moving our phone calls over the Internet, but PoIP will push broadband to new heights by allowing subscribers to both order and receive pizza right from their own Internet connection at home or work.

Papa John’s Neural Implant™
Think it’s time for a large pepperoni with extra cheese?  Well, with this tiny transmitter implanted directly into your cerebral cortex, a simple thought is all it takes to place your order with this exciting new feature, exclusively from Papa John’s and your favorite neurosurgeon.

Papa John’s Teleportation Delivery System
A complex array of teleportation fields will deliver a piping hot pie right out of the oven to your very own kitchen, and when combined with the new Papa John’s Neural Implant™, it’s never been easier to dine on the pizza of the Gods in a fraction of the time that it takes to order and wait for delivery from other pizzerias.

I don’t know about you, but my mouth is watering already!  Fortunately, if anybody is going to skyrocket us through the 21^st century with incredible advances in the pizza industry like these, I have full confidence that the Pizza Innovators at Papa John’s will be at the helm, forever leading the way with new and exciting inventions in pursuit of better pizza.  Yes, it’s a formidable challenge, but as they say, the work of a Pizza Innovator is never done.

The future of pizza is right around the corner, folks, and take it from me – it’s going to be delicious!

Call it a slow news week. Call it an important medical issue that we’ve all been ignoring for far too long. Or simply call it my throwing in the towel too early, before an even more pressing issue to joke and haw about crosses my beloved news desk. Like it or not, you’re all here now and clearly although you’d probably like to think that you’ve got someplace better to be, you really don’t, so without further a due, let’s talk feet.

Specifically, my feet. I know, I know – most people think that us Internet celebrities are vastly too monumentally important to get intimate enough with their fans to the point where we might even consider sharing such vastly personal details about ourselves, but what the hey! I’m not like other writers on this here “Internet thing,” so let’s do it – let us boldly go where no other creative souls (or soles???) have dared to go before, albeit I do believe that they pretty much all opted out because of the smell. Well, their loss is our gain because I really do think that we’re all going to relate to one another even better after today’s little discussion…

…although you wouldn’t really think that there’s even much to be said about feet – they serve a very distinct purpose and except for a select few examples, they’re really not all that pretty to look at, so by this point there’s probably a few of you thinking, “What’s all of the fuss about?” Well, I’ll have you know exactly what the fuss was about – earlier this morning, I grated my feet. There – I said it, and now those few of you are probably feeling just a little bit sheepish about being such jerks, now aren’t you? I’m going to let it slide this time, in the name of continuity, but next time a little more civility in the name of my feet wouldn’t be too much to ask, I don’t think.

I’m not really even sure if grating my feet would be the correct term for it, but I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about, if not from actually doing it yourselves, but from having a significant other that’s always done it and raised a few eyebrows along the way. As some of you may be aware, apparently grating your feet is actually a very necessary practice to help remove dead skin cells that haven’t otherwise opted to leave the soles of your feet through the rigorous routines that feet find themselves going through on a daily basis. I guess it’s kind of like hair or dandruff, or when you get one of those really nasty sunburns that are normally only attributed to tourists and you end up looking like a freaking lobster for the next week – you know the kind, where it’s damn near impossible to sleep and such simple acts as breathing and blinking make you do everything shy of screaming out in pain. Granted, the stuff on your feet doesn’t really hurt, but it’s still pretty gross, if you ask me…

I think I first learned about foot grating from my mother, as I remember seeing one of those patented grating thingys (pictured above) in the medicine cabinet, but needless to say, I wasn’t about to ask and she was in no rush to tell! Many, many years later, I began to wonder for myself what the story was behind those brushes, and also why it was beginning to hurt less and less when I stepped on sharp rocks while I was walking around barefoot in the yard. Eventually I learned that it wasn’t necessarily a good thing for me to have such established padding and exactly what I could do to correct the matter. I bought one of them goofy-looking cheese grater-things for the bathroom myself, but I’d never dared to actually use it before today.

It was a simple enough discussion, and before you ask – no, I wasn’t forced to grate my feet in any way. I just briefly announced to my girlfriend, “I think I’m going to grate my feet today…” and that was that. Well, actually she technically replied with, “What???” which no surprise, I’m pretty much used to at this point, but after waving the brush to show what in the world I was actually talking about, she bid me a laughable “Oh – have fun!” and we were off!

Now, you wouldn’t think that something even called grating your feet would be anything short of painful beyond all recognition, but I suppose in considering that we’re really only dealing with already dead skin anyways, there’s not a whole lot of pain to be felt anyways. In fact, it was kind of enjoyable until I came to the stunning conclusion that my feet are gross and it’s going to take forever. It was then that I began putting a man’s spin on the approach to speed things up a bit – what if the brush had larger openings, or was simply on a motor of some sorts? Could I use a belt sander and really make Tim Allen proud, or would it just land me a weekend trip to the emergency room? Would it be worth the forty bucks to follow my girlfriend’s suggestion of going in for a pedicure and letting somebody else worry about all of that dirty work, or would doing so make me remotely gay?

…not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course…

Unfortunately, my deviating was cut short when my plans were trumped by the simple suggestion to just work on the task a little each day, and it was at that point that I’d realized that I had just spent the past twenty-five minutes genuinely thinking about the past and future welfare of my feet. It was, admittedly, a tad bit disturbing, but really it can’t be any worse than the realization you’re feeling right now as it occurs to you that you’ve just spent the last five minutes reading about my considering the past and future welfare of my feet! But I say if you’ve learned a thing or two about my feet, your own feet, or even just feet in general after reading my tale, then this column wasn’t written entirely in vain. For that, we’ll have to wait and see what next week will bring…

So just what exactly have we learned here today?

• Not just Scott’s feet, but in fact most feet are pretty gross when you really get all up into their space, and as important as it might be for you to take good care of them yourself, if you’ve got the money to pay somebody else to take care of them for you, it’s worth being considered even just a little remotely gay to not have to undertake such tasks yourself.
• If you do decide to tackle such immense burdens on your own, be sure to consult the owner’s manual on your foot grater to ensure that no damage is done by overzealous grating, if you will. Also, don’t use a cheese grater, even if you think it might go a little faster…
• Don’t think that grating your feet is something that you can do in public, even if you’re one of those types who thinks it’s ok to cut your fingernails while the rest of us are all sitting around watching TV or trying to carry on good conversation. All personal grooming, and grating your feet certainly fits into this category, should be done in the privacy of your own bathroom and nowhere else!
• And finally, no matter how much you’re looking to make a given point, don’t wave your freshly used foot grater around like a magic wand, pointing it suggestively at a spouse or loved one. If you were wondering during the act just exactly where the dead skin goes while you’re grating, a good portion of it goes inside the brush and will likewise exit the brush if it is jostled like so. Just trust me on this one, folks – nothing says, “You are so sleeping on the couch!” like spraying dead skin cells from ones feet all over your newly-washed bed sheets and/or loved ones. Again, sorry about that one, honey…

I hope you’ve found this weeks adventure to be both enlightening and beneficial to you and your feet, and with any luck, perhaps you’ll be able to turn those unsightly paws into something a little more tolerable before your next trip down to the pool as well! But of course, I’m no miracle worker, for I’m just a man with a single foot grater and arguably some of the nicest footsies this side of Tampa Bay. The rest, my friends, is up to you…

Ladies and gentlemen, sound up the band, for I have an announcement of epic proportions – one that aims to skyrocket the male gender into the 21^st century, and possibly even beyond! My friends – raise your heads high, as I – Scott Sevener – am now the proud owner of foliage.

It’s a big step in the life of today’s ever-budding bachelor, let me tell you – coming to that stifling decision to bring another living dependant into the home, and not even one that comes with a tax deduction, no less! Chalk it up to the loneliness of a less-than-successful bacheloring-period or even the sheer laziness of, well, being a guy, but when it all comes down to it, if you’re looking to welcome a new change into your life (and that change can’t be fulfilled by the likes of Sony or Nintendo), then you really can’t go wrong with one of our green, leafy friends from the great outdoors…

But I do have to admit one thing as I continue to progress into the fresh, new world of being a plant owner – it certainly ain’t nearly as easy and carefree as depicted from day to day on television and in the movies! In fact, I might even go so far as to say that the job can be downright tedious at times, and it’s certainly not that I bought myself one of those fancy, Beverly Hills-type, high-maintenance plants, either. Nope, I did my research and asked plenty of questions of the nice ladies at my local superstore of choice, but there are just some things that a guy can’t prepare for!

I knew that the experience would be like no other before I even stepped out of the store, as I was gathering up the other necessary supplies for my project – soil, a stylish vessel for my new friend to call home, and even some plant food, if you will. If I had it my way, Scott’s plant would dine on nothing but the finest pizza rolls and miniature cheeseburgers that money can buy, but apparently “they don’t contain the same vital nutrients and minerals that our specialty plant foods contain,” as I was soon informed by said same nice ladies, so instead we opted to select a small box of regular, ordinary, boring plant food instead – no spicy chicken flavor or anything! Nonetheless, this wasn’t the biggest of my problems by far…

Nope – the issue that I was confronted with was even larger than a lack of tasty junk foods reserved for members of the flora family. Now mind you that this probably stems back into the concept of keeping plants as a whole, but have you ever noticed that it is virtually impossible to find a manly-looking watering can?! You can’t do it, or if you can, it certainly can’t be done shopping in any of the same places that I visited that day, and might I add that Tampa most definitely has its share of flora-friendly establishments. After literally hours upon hours of searching in vain for the water dispensing apparatus that simply did not exist, I finally decided that the only alternative to a pastel future was going to be to come up with a makeshift container myself. Of course, then my imagination began to run wide as I pondered that various liquor and beer bottles would make quite manly watering devices, indeed, but really, it would be going well out of my way to procure a bottle of whiskey merely for the purpose of watering the plants…a conundrum to say the least, that’s for certain!

Sure, I know it may not sound like much to you folks here and now, but these are the types of hard-pressing issues that I have to deal with on a day-by-day basis!

So in the end I did end up finding a nice substitute without having to leave the comforts of my own apartment – a two liter bottle previously containing soda, if you must know – and Rex (that would be my plant’s name, short for Ricardo, mind you) couldn’t be happier! He stands watch just outside the entrance to my home while I sit inside and watch television – it’s a mutual agreement that seems to work well for both of us thus far, and above it all, I can now put on my resume that I have taken the next step to living with others. I’m not anywhere near a live-in girlfriend yet, or even a roommate for that matter, but who knows – perhaps there’s room for a few more fish in this domicile, or some snails would be good…

…or maybe even a puppy – wouldn’t that make for some interesting stories…