I know you’ve been there before.  Hell, chances are you’ve probably still got the burn marks on the roof of your mouth to prove it!  How can something so delicious cause so much pain?

Ok, well maybe delicious isn’t exactly the right word … more like convenient, if anything, but nonetheless, I think we can all agree that it takes a bit of a masochist to enjoy (read: consume) one of these single-serving, microwavable infernos.  Frankly, I’m not sure I’d know what to do if I didn’t scald the inside of my mouth on molten cheese product shortly after biting into a Hot Pocket, and yet clearly I’m not the only guy who keeps buying these torturous treats.  This tells me that over the years we as a people have basically more or less just come to terms with the idea that with great convenience comes a great sacrifice of one’s taste buds for at least a week and a half … possibly more depending on the output level of the microwave involved. I don’t know about you, but that sounds like an awfully sad, flavorless world if you ask me…

Well, ladies and gentlemen … oh, who am I kidding?  Women don’t eat Hot Pockets!  At least not without some sort of fancy, French dipping broth or maybe a dollop of sour cream, they wouldn’t.  Hot Pockets are a bachelor’s food through and through … possibly because women value their taste buds more than your average guy, not to mention there aren’t nearly as many women in search of rapid sustenance so that they can rush back to their World of Warcraft guild before the group leaves to lay siege to the Great Wall of Balkazur without them!

Regardless, gentlemen – what if I told you that it actually is entirely possible to consume your favorite cheesy variety of Hot Pockets without committing hari kari on one’s own tongue and other assorted oral tissues?!  I know, I know – from the sophisticated Chicken, Broccoli & Cheddar to the sizzlingly simple Ham and Cheese, the concept of savoring these gooey treats without severing all ties with every other flavor in the known universe just seems far too good to be true, but much like a grocery trip when you manage to get through the Wal-Mart checkout in less than an hour, today is your lucky day, my friends, and over the next few minutes, I’m about to give you something that you’ve no doubt all but forgotten about since embracing these pockets of microwavable malice.

That’s right, folks – I’m about to give you your sense of taste back, and all it’s going to take is these three easy-to-follow steps…

1. Know Thy Microwave
Now before you even begin to nuke up a bit of eatin’, it’s vitally important – to your taste buds, anyways – that you fully understand the power of what you’re cooking with.  You know that guy who cooks his popcorn in the office microwave too long and leaves the place reeking of burnt kernels for the rest of the afternoon?  Well, those same incendiary forces are the very same that will push your pocket sandwich’s contents into kill mode if you’re not careful!  It may take some experimentation, but if you find that the beast runs hot, try backing your cook time off to 1:30 instead of the full two minutes – if you cook the thing so long cheese starts oozing out the side and eating away at that spinning, glass plate, you’ve gone too far…

2. Give Her Room to Breathe!
Of course, once you’ve got the old girl cooked, whether she’s smoking from both ends or if you’re lucky, just steaming a bit, you’re still going to want to take additional measures to reduce that internal temperature from scalding down to not scalding, and the best way I’ve found to do exactly that is by creating what I like to call an exhaust vent. You see, right now in addition to all of that molten, tongue-scorching cheese inside, your Hot Pocket also has a considerable amount of steam circulating that’s going to keep that cheese painful just as long as possible … which is bad. But what we can do to counteract that is to simply and carefully bite off one of the corners – just enough to give all of that gaseous heat a place to escape.

Now a word of caution here: if you’re not careful, as previously mentioned, it’s quite possible here to get your first initial tongue burn if you bite off more than you can chew, so to speak!  What you’re shooting for is an opening big enough to allow the heat to vent, but small enough that you won’t also get a mouthful of scalding cheese.

It’s really more of a trial and error thing, unfortunately…

3. Come Back Later…
Granted, I’m not saying that you’ve got to go write The Great American Novel or teach the dog how to play checkers, but seriously, a few minutes at this juncture can make all the difference between happy mouth and out of commission mouth, believe you me!  And I know that you’re a busy man, with monsters to kill and chicks on Facebook to stalk, but give it just five minutes – allow that amazing vent that we just created some time to work its magic – and before you know it, you’ll be biting into a warm and cheesy snack that doesn’t bite you back, for a change.

Of course, as you would expect, there are other things you can do as well – a whole lot of other things, if you really want to get into the nuts and berries of it – but all in the same, I think this is a fair representation for a three-item list to help you get started down that road towards flavor enlightenment, and besides, if I were to list out every single one of my brilliant, Hot Pocket-related secrets here today, then where would your incentive be to go out and buy my new book – Larry Rotter and the Pocket of Pain – that’s due to hit shelves later on this fall?!  It’s going to be a smash hit, for sure, and I think by the end you’ll be pleasantly surprised when you read about what our young friend learns of on-the-go lunch solutions during this, his third year at Logwarts School of Interior Decorating, Restroom Maintenance, and TV/VCR Repair!  Oh, but the shenanigans that young Larry and his good friends, Don and Shermione, get into along the way – it’s a good thing that headmaster Bumblebore is always looking out for them when hijinks ensue…

But until that fateful November Blorgteenth launch date, I leave you with these three points as a perfectly great way to begin the reclaiming of your taste buds while still enjoying (read: consuming) these quick morsels of cheese, bread, and occasionally even meats and vegetable-like products.  May all of your meals be extra cheesy, fast and fulfilling, and most importantly of all, free of first-degree burns!

I’d like to interrupt our regularly-scheduled programming for this vitally important public service announcement…

Ladies and gentlemen, snow is not your friend.

I know that this comes as a bit of a shock to some of you, given the whimsical and often times even playful manner in which this stuff is portrayed on TV and in the movies, but truth be told, snow is in all actuality a sinister, vile creation intended to chill all in its presence to the bone, enveloping entire landscapes with its mass and leaving behind a white blanket of shivery doom that has been known to stretch for miles and miles…and miles.

I’m making it a point to reach out to my audience in warning this holiday season because, especially in the northern states like Michigan and New York, it’s frighteningly commonplace for residents to become overly comfortable when it comes to snow and their interactions with it on a daily basis. Many even go so far as to enjoy the snow, looking forward to its arrival for the facilitation of activities like skiing and snowmobiling, however allow me to be perfectly clear when I say that this can be a dangerous, sometimes even deadly mistake to make!

If there’s even a remote chance that you or your loved ones could come in contact with snow during their travels this holiday season, I implore you with my utmost concern to take into consideration the following safety precautions:

1) Direct exposure of snow to one’s skin can result in frostbite, hypothermia, and even worse. Case in point – Frosty the Snowman was once a strapping, young lad from Alabama who was only visiting up north and didn’t know any better.

2) Unless driving a Sherman tank or military-grade SUV, transportation over snow-covered roads is virtually impossible. Don’t even bother…

3) Anyone you encounter who claims to “love the snow” is clearly psychotic and should be backed away from in a slow and careful manner. Do not attempt further interaction with these individuals, especially if they suggest an activity such as falling down large piles of snow as “fun.”

4) In the event that a thermometer is not available to gauge the temperature, the following can also be used of indicators that it is too cold outside:

For your unmitigated safety and to ensure a happy holiday free of any trips to the emergency room and/or an unforgiving, icy grave, please take note that snow is just one of those things that is best viewed through a window … preferably the window of television from a warm, tropical climate where every drink comes with an umbrella and the thermometers never dip below 65 degrees.

This concludes our public service announcement. Happy holidays to you and your own, and may all your Christmases be warm!

Today’s the day we’ve all been fasting for, ladies and gentlemen! Now normally you wouldn’t be reading my regularly scheduled warm, soothing words until tomorrow morning – you know, right around the time when you’ll either be surrounded by furbee-crazed bargain hunters or the cozy comforts of your own bedsheets, depending on your own personal level of sanity. And don’t you worry, I’ve most definitely got something queued up for tomorrow’s events to do my part to help awaken everyone from their turkey-induced comas, but first thing’s first – that Thanksgiving dinner of yours isn’t going to eat itself…

This is no ordinary dinner that you’re about to experience, and I really think that’s where the bulk of people who get “full” on Thanksgiving make their first and biggest mistake – inadequate preparations. Sure, all sorts of planning and forethought go into making this massive mash of a meal – Aunt Julie’s going to bring the strained peas, Uncle Howard will do that traditional cranberry crap that nobody eats, etc, etc… – but for all of the hard work and dedication that go into creating this magnificent feast, what’s really done to prepare for its consumption? If anything at all, one (or more) of your overweight relatives may loosen a button on their jeans for comedic value, but as for true, honest-to-God preparedness – nothing.

Luckily, this is the point where all you really have to do is begin profusely thanking me, for I’ve taken the liberty of coming to your rescue on this Thanksgiving morning with the following tips for taking on the biggest meal of the year without mercy. We will come hungry, we will leave happy (and slightly lethargic), we will take no prisoners and leave no serving spoon untouched! For this, my friends, is a meal worth being thankful for…

Train Your Body for the Meal It is About to Receive
Now normally I would suggest a full regiment of pre-Thanksgiving endurance dining designed to increase your eating stamina, but seeing as you’ve really only got a few hours until the bird leaves the oven, we’ve got to condense six weeks of training into about six hours. But that’s ok – seeing as they’re going to be playing the Lord of the Rings trilogy all weekend anyways, do as the hobbits would do and make the most of the next few hours ahead of you, a la 1^st Breakfast, 2^nd Breakfast, Elevensies, Luncheon, Afternoon Tea … may the sweet smells of the upcoming feast lead you to victory!

Dress Your Sunday Best
Well, those Sundays where you lay around and watch cartoons all day, anyways. Just because there’s family around doesn’t mean that this is the time to wear something that shows off that figure you’ve been working all year to perfect. The man who created elastic did so with days like Thanksgiving in mind – show some respect!

Make Careful Use of Your Plate Real Estate
Unless you’ve opted to bring your own 24” plate (…which isn’t such a bad idea…), chances are your dining area is limited to whatever plates your hosts opt to set out, but smaller than preferred plates don’t have to be the bane of your holiday cheer. Again, some simple planning can go a long way, so before you go piling on the potatoes and gravy, make sure you’ve got a place for each of your favorites … and don’t be afraid to go vertical as needed!

Use All Necessary Force
Sure, courtesy is always important in any serving line, but there’s courtesy and then there’s just being taken for a sucker, and while you’re hanging back to let all of the women and children go first, they’re laughing their way to the bank as they take the last of the sweet potato casserole! Don’t be a chump – push your way in there and get what’s rightfully yours … you can always pay them back later for Christmas or something…

Drink Lots of Fluids (specifically wine)
If you’re at all concerned about the calories, drink your worries away and put them off until New Years where they belong!

Call Dibs on the Comfiest Couch
…because let’s face it, after three platefuls of turkey, stuffing, and Grandma’s stellar mashed potatoes, you ain’t going nowhere! Besides, all of that food’s going to need time to settle if you’re to have any room left later on for pumpkin pie…

Give Thanks for What’s Important
And most of all, as the pilgrims would want it, be sure to take some time on this day to give thanks for all that you treasure in this life. Things like stretch pants, and Cool Whip, and a spouse who tolerates your acting like a gigantic pig around the holidays each and every year. What would you do on the fourth Thursday in November without these things? What would you put on your pie or other assorted Thanksgiving Day desserts?!

It’s something to think about in between bites…

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m just happy to be here at all this week!

I know, I know – I too thought that last week’s run-in with death a la acupuncture would’ve been more than enough excitement for mild-mannered, little old me, but apparently that death-defying half hour was only the tip of the iceberg when compared to how I would spend the following weekend! Folks, I’ve been places that men weren’t intended to travel, seen things that those luckiest will never see, so the least I can do is share my own plights in an effort to prevent you, my brave, brave readers from suffering the same cruel fate in the future…

This weekend I went to a bridal show.

Yeah, so the name probably should’ve been my first clue, but silly, irrational me thought that while the title itself targeted the little girls who’ve been dreaming of their wedding day since before they left their mother’s wombs, there could very well still be something to be enjoyed by us grooms as well. It was sold to me as the best place to gather information for planning a wedding because everyone is together in one place, and while those of us dudes who are actually interested in helping to plan our own weddings are sadly quite few and far between, there’d still be a place for us at the bridal show, right? We were the few, the proud, the five guys who were brave, bold … and stupid enough to step forth and strive to take an active role in the most important day of our lives, and I don’t know about all of them because I think a few have still yet to come to, but boy – I certainly didn’t see that stampede coming!

You’ve heard the term “like a deer in the headlights,” but somehow that one just doesn’t quite paint the picture of what happened in Downtown Tampa that afternoon. You remember that scene in the original Jurassic Park movie when the T-Rex first learns that he can get out of his pen? One of the first people he takes out is the lawyer that was hiding out in the port-a-john, and that’s the best way that I can think to describe it – “like getting torn in two by a Tyrannosaurus Rex when you absolutely least expect it!” Because that dude certainly didn’t see it coming, and quite frankly, neither did we…

It’s one of those things that you truly have to experience firsthand in order to grasp the magnitude of it all – maybe you had a sister or friend who was engaged, or for the truly initiated, maybe you opted to just skip out the middleman and propose to one of them yourself (not your sister, mind you…), god help your soul! You see, when that fateful engagement ring is placed upon a woman’s finger, a transformation of sorts takes place – even in the very best of them. Some, as you know, become that legendary title of Bridezilla, while others may undertake the slightly less ravishing stance of Grand Queen Over All Things Wedding-Related, but regardless, all brides big and small develop an aura known simply as Bridal Rage – a force that has been known to level small cities and bring entire populations to their knees, all over a misunderstood photography contract or an ivory chair cover that appears to be more of an off-white or a snow color under the lights at the site of the actual reception. Many of you are nodding your heads in solemn understanding, having experienced Bridal Rage yourselves when a loved one completely and utterly lost it during her own wedding planning. Those of you who are scratching your heads don’t know just how truly blissful your ignorance really is in this particular situation…

To describe the setting in the convention hall that afternoon in the most eloquent of ways – it was like locking a dozen or so rabid wolverines into a tiny broom closet and letting them duke it out, with the one exception that there’s a chance that eventually the wolverines might get bored of fighting and just call it a day. But of course, any groom will profess that this will never happen in the bridal world – not until every last flower, dress, and napkin color has been chosen, vetoed, and returned to once again. For your average bride, the “excitement” (insanity, to the rest of us) begins the moment that engagement ring settles on her finger and doesn’t cease until the plane ride back from her honeymoon in Oahu or Aruba or whatever other tropical getaway she’s been destined since birth to honeymoon at. If you’ve ever watched a dog chase its own tail for hours out in the backyard with a disturbing degree of persistence, you know the look of a bride who comes to the local bridal show ready and willing to plan her big day, at any and all costs!

I didn’t get a chance to check with the other guys (read: they weren’t allowed to talk to me), but the majority of my afternoon was pretty much spent dodging brides, their mothers and bridesmaids as they darted from booth to booth, carrying an increasingly heavy stack of pamphlets that my own bride accumulated throughout the day, and occasionally chuckling sheepishly when vendors would joke about how I’d probably rather be at home drinking beer and watching the big game than doing all of this wedding crap. Beer and sports – not so much, but don’t tempt me with sweet, sweet freedom nonetheless…

Would I do it again? [Expletive Deleted] no! And not necessarily because I’m an insensitive groom, mind you, but just like how those girls wouldn’t feel comfortable at a sci-fi convention or camping out in the woods, sometimes it’s better to simply know your place and that there are some places you just don’t go. Besides, between the Internet and the yellow pages, there are still plenty of avenues for a curious groom like me to get my proverbial planning feet wet without further endangering my own life – better off leaving the cat fights over DJs and photographers at these things to the professionals, thus doing my part to ensure that I’ll actually be physically able to attend our own little soiree!

Next week, we’ll return with a slightly less death-defying episode of The Humor Column, primarily because these old bones just can’t take it anymore! Whether you’re seeking me for a blood donation or to solicit your services as a wedding seismologist or whatever, take note that I’ll officially be on vacation until further notice. Any questions, take it up with the woman – she’ll be the one carrying roughly 83 pounds of literature about honeymooning in the Cayman Islands…

I don’t want to alarm anyone, so just try to stay calm when I tell you this…but I think we’re being watched.

You think it sounds creepy now, but wait until I actually get around to explaining what in the heck it is that I’m whispering about and I assure you that in actuality, it’s really much, much worse. In fact, I probably only have a few minutes before they’re on to what I’m trying to do here, so we must make haste…

You see, the other day I learned that we’re not alone in this apartment, and believe you me, I wish I was talking about ghosts! Although the supernatural may come and go as they please, walking through walls and floors, and probably peeking at you while you’re on the can through an otherwise closed bathroom door, you don’t necessarily have to worry about them actually touching any of your stuff – that’s the beauty of ghost-hood, really. Ask anyone who’s ever had ghosts romping around their home if they’ve ever uttered the phrase, “Don’t use that glass – we found a ghost in the cupboard earlier this afternoon!” Unless they’re playing host to Slimer, I promise you that your answer is going to be a resounding “No.”

Ladies and gentlemen, it’s not the same with cockroaches.

Yes, that’s right – I said cockroaches, bolded and everything to imply further emphasis on the seriousness of the matter. The other day while I was unloading groceries, I came across this humble, old chap just hanging out right smack dab in the middle of my countertop. Now having written my college thesis on the not-so-common giant cockroach (the paper was titled Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Giant Cockroaches, But Were Kicked Out of the House for Being a Disgusting Idiot Before Having the Chance to Ask… – I got an A-), I can tell you that cockroaches prefer dark and dreary places (examples: garages, underneath refrigerators, the 1957 World’s Faire) as opposed to bright, lit up places, so I was more than a little miffed as to why this dude was just chilling out in the open. Ultimately, I figured that he was either: a) really stupid; or b) a clever decoy to distract me while the rest of his buddies took over the world or something.

Mind you, all of this clever deduction took place over the course of about three seconds before I started screaming like a woman who’s just seen her first spider…

After finally calming myself down from a mass hysteria comparable to that of the second Spice Girls album, I was able to determine that it was going to be necessary for me to capture and interrogate my new guest in hopes of learning the whereabouts of his tribe and what exactly they wanted from my measly, overpriced apartment. Of course, this second part didn’t really happen after I caught the little bugger (no pun intended) under a glass and realized just how God-awful big the thing was – I mean, seriously, I’m not sure how he got in here in the first place unless he brought a set of lock picks or something with him. He (or she, to be fair) was easily the biggest cockroach that I’ve ever seen, this side of that utterly disgusting special on the Discovery channel that provided to me, if anything, that there are some things better not left to HD! I was going to need a baseball bat, or possibly even a Buick to show this bug who the real boss was…and to save you all of those gory details, let’s just say that by the end of the night, I wasn’t the one wrapped up in a paper towel at the bottom of the garbage bag!

So yeah, it felt good to have my home clear of such a beast, but a little voice in the back of my head makes me wonder if I didn’t, in fact, end up doing more harm than good by manhandling their cohort in my fit of rage. I spent the rest of the night awake in bed in a cold sweat, wondering what the rest of the clan would do once they put two-and-two together and realized that Jerry hadn’t checked in yet. Maybe they didn’t really like Jerry anyways because he always cheated at Monday Night Poker and had been known to ogle the other roaches’ wives rather suggestively. Or maybe Jerry was actually the brother of the head cockroach (or President, or Team Leader, or whatever the heck they call him – my paper really didn’t get into that part…) and now I was about to become the tribe’s sworn enemy, unleashing world upon world of cockroach hate and violence against myself, and all because I had to squash first and ask questions later. As you can see, it didn’t take me too long to realize just how screwed I really am…

I pictured myself getting up in the middle of the night for a drink of water, reaching into the refrigerator and having my glass handed out to me by a form to blurry to identify without having my contacts in. Or perhaps I’d simply open the bedroom door to find an army of brown and black blanketing the tile floor of the hall leading to the rest of the apartment, much akin to the army of orcs, trolls and other assorted nastiest assembled by Sauron in the battle for Minas Tirith in Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, if you want to put a geeky spin on it. Undoubtedly, one of the roaches would end up firing before the command was given, thus leading the siege on my bedroom with the fell swoop of the hand of black. Believe me, in teetering between these scenarios, along with a third that depicted the bugs rushing my bedroom secret agent style with a fog machine and some piano wire, I really didn’t get much sleep last night.

And honestly, I really don’t know where to go from here. Sure, maybe my single violent attack was just enough to force them to draw back their forces and re-strategize against a new and lesser opponent, but somehow I don’t really believe that. There was just something in that roach’s eyes that said, “We’re not backing down without a battle of epic proportions. You can kill me, but you’ll only be welcoming a world of pain that you couldn’t possibly imagine upon yourself. Viva France!” With any luck, maybe a plea bargain of sorts would be a worthwhile offering to them – I don’t really need two bedrooms here anyways…we can share, right? Or maybe I could pay some sort of additional protection fee to someone or something that could put them cockroaches in their place, so to speak – yeah, that’s the ticket!

On second thought, the Holiday Inn down the street might actually be our safest bet after all…that is, assuming they’re welcoming refugees like us. Oh, I’m sure they’d be happy to open their doors and…

Wait a minute…did you hear that? What’s that sound???

War drums?!

There’s no turning back now. It seems that the war for apartment thirteen-oh-eight has now begun. If I don’t make it out of this alive, tell my mother that I died bludgeoning a giant cockroach with a dining room chair. She’d be proud of that…

Also, if you could maybe write a little tune about my epic tales that people might hum or whistle from time to time when the going gets tough and they, too, find themselves stuck between a rock and a giant cockroach, that would be nice. I think Gordon Lightfoot would be a good choice to sing it for the album…but then again, maybe I’ve got other things that I should be worrying about right now…

So it’s official, ladies and gentlemen – I’ve now been down here residing ever-so-tropically in the ocean-front city of Tampa, Florida for an entire year. Ok, well, technically “gulf-front” if you want to suddenly get all crazy about semantics and whatnot, but let’s not kid ourselves…you knew what I meant…

And let me tell you, so far the stay here has been absolutely fabulous! The people are friendly, the scenery is divine, and unlike other cities that I’ve lived in over the past 24 years, there are actually businesses that stay open later than 8:30pm around here! I might also mention that not once have I had to spend the better part of an hour clearing snow out of my driveway after a long day, nor have I had to whip out the old tire chains to avoid going 90 mph down the freeway backwards in the middle of January. Of course, I could go on and on, but my guess is that the bulk of you already know where I’m going with this one!

If you haven’t already made the assumption, however, I ask that today we officially mark on the record that I absolutely love this newfound lack of snow in my life and, just between you and me, it wouldn’t really hurt my feelings all that much if I never encountered the stuff again another day in my life. It’s nothing personal, really, but I figure that after a couple of decodes worth of not seeing eye-to-eye, there just really isn’t much that can be done to salvage my relationship with that white, powdery doom. I hope that this perspective doesn’t make it sound like I’m out to get Jack Frost or Frosty the Snowman or anything, it’s just that I think one day my shovel finally hit its breaking point…ironically after spending most of my Saturday afternoon relieving our deck of several hundreds of pounds worth of wet snow…and I finally decided that I was going to need a warmer climate very, very soon…and we’re not just talking about the sunny paradise that we’ve all come to know and love of Ohio or Illinois, either!

Nope – an entire country’s width is what I was looking for in this massive relocation…1382 miles or so, if you’re keeping track. And the moment that I pulled into town down here, I felt the difference almost immediately. Off came the thermal underwear and away went the scarf & mittens that Mom had packed – never again would I find myself being required to wear multiple pairs of socks in an ever-so-vain attempt to “keep my toes-ies from falling off at their joints!” My ice scraper having been deposited soundly in a rest area garbage can at the Florida Welcome Center, I proudly took my place in a city that owned not a single plow truck and had never seen a snowball fight once in its existence.

Simply put: I don’t really mind so much missing out on that whole wintery season!

Of course, lest we not forget that there are many other non-blizzard-related reasons about why I’ve found my calling here in the south – palm trees and coconuts, deep-sea fishing that can produce Jew Fish bigger than your little brother, and long walks on the beach as the sun sets just to name a few…however, none are as rewarding as waking up each and every morning to think, “Eh, no snow to worry about today!” Ya gotta love living in Florida…

My name is Scott Sevener, and I’m now an official Floridian with one year under my belt and many more to come…these are my stories.

Ladies and gentlemen, my apologies if I seem a bit jittery today, but I recently lived through the most traumatic experience since The Muppet Show went off the air…

Most of you know me as a different man than you see today…an astonishingly well-endowed man, at least as far as hair follicles are concerned, that is! A man whom once walked tall with pride as the cool breeze whispered through his long, flowing mane – hair that some might even say would put David Lee Roth to shame…well, more shame anyways – but nevertheless, it deeply saddens me to profess that this man, known and loved by all, is no longer with us.

You see, this man was the unfortunate victim of a horrible, new wave of crime that’s currently sweeping the nation in troves. Thriving off the luscious locks of the beautiful people of this land, these denizens of the tonsorial underground – referred to by the liberal media as “hair bandits” - make their keep not by trimming up your regular, everyday honest man for a few pence here and there, but by vehemently snatching strands…split ends and all…right out from underneath the hats of unsuspecting wanderers and then, allegedly – mind you, selling said strands on the black market. Some sources indicate that these extortionists only skim the surface of an even more sinister organization that pays the bills by pawning off human this-and-that’s of all shapes and sizes, but if you ask me, in rousting up this extraordinary evil, it’s best for us to start at the root…

My own brief, yet frightening encounter with these hair bandits still stands quite visibly in my mind…possibly because it just happened yesterday. It was a cold and rainy day in Northern Atlanta, and we were all ready to go home. Of course, the everlasting wrath of Hurricane What’s-His-Name had other plans and thus, we were forced to stay in our little home away from home another few days with little to nothing left to do to occupy our time. We ate, we slept, we played some video games and even went bowling, but when that simply wasn’t enough to fend off boredom any longer, it was suggested.

Now let it be known that I probably take to liking the phrase “hair cut” in about the same sense as “vasectomy” or “tonight’s episode of The Simpsons has been preempted to bring you the most boring-est football game known to man,” but after the soothing combination of peer pressure and insightful encouragement (i.e. “Chicks dig short hair nowadays, man!”) had a chance to thoroughly brainwash me, I figured, “Eh…what’s the worst that could happen?!” Well, let me tell you this, my fine friends – whenever a phrase such as that even inches close to crossing that beer-battered mind of yours, the topic at hand most certainly deserves a second…and in some cases even a third thought, for I did not allow for these types of variables and, well, look at me now…

It all seemed to flash by so fast – the joyous, carol-ridden trip from the hotel to the barber shop, the tantalizingly hot, young maiden who would lure me into a false sense of security with her, well, you know, and the aftermath – consisting of a brief glimpse into the mirror long enough to warrant the madam’s tip, followed by a healthy dose of stray and random compliments from my companions up until and including that moment when I looked into the mirror and saw the truth for myself. I don’t know exactly how or when they struck, or what exactly the attack itself entailed, but nonetheless I knew that very instant that I had, in fact, been violated by none other than those same hair bandits.

I chose to record my story here today to serve as a public service towards others because if I can prevent even one future ambush from these foul-mouthed cretins by making my audience both aware and cautious of their efforts, then my time here today is certainly to be considered well spent! Remember, my friends – I lost a great deal of my manhood and dignity that very morning, but some have paid an even greater cost – just look to the likes of singer and songwriter Phil Collins, actors Samuel J. Jackson and Patrick Stewart, and even his holiest of holy ones, Pope John Paul II. Each of these individuals have taken the highest toll that the hair bandits have to offer, so learn from our mistakes and watch your back…or your head, in this case.

Maybe – just maybe – one day in the future, an even greater task will step forth to rid us of this horrible plague, but in the meantime all that we can really do is keep our guards up and comb each follicle like its our last…

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…

Ladies and Gentlemen, it’s that time again! Yes, that’s right – it’s time to let your hair down, let it all hang out and just let it be…sorry, I couldn’t think of a third one to finish the set… Tonight is the night when caution is thrown directly into the wind and pride is flushed back down the toilet, so dig out the most hideous clothing your wardrobe has to offer, hidden away from decades ago when life was much simpler and shinier – whether it be the platform boots, parachute pants and disco-ball shirt or just your run of the mill, vinyl-clad, vampire-slaying three-piece ensemble, rest assured that tonight you can walk the streets in strides knowing that no matter how hilariously bizarre you look, no one suspects a thing…

And that’s the beauty of Halloween! It’s not about the candy because eventually everyone will grow old enough to be able to walk into a store and buy it themselves, and it’s not about the goofy parties because people typically don’t even need a reason to get drunk and have a good/weird time anymore, so what does that leave us with? It’s pretty easy, actually – it leaves us with the idea that for one night, we’re all able to shed that little thing called dignity, throw on whatever seems the craziest at the time and just go wild, and yet there’s really nothing anybody can say about it because hey, it’s Halloween! Imagine trying to pull something like this off in any other setting:

It’s 8:05 on a Tuesday morning and already the building is bustling with life at Smultz and Zmults Financial Holdings. Today is a very important day for the firm, as they are about to complete a mammoth purchase of the second-largest accounting firm in New York City, so it’s needless to say that the tension could be cut with a knife, although it would have to be a very sharp one…

The board members of both companies are circled around a large table in the executive meeting room, waiting for one final vice president to arrive before the signing and celebrating can begin. The large, oak door to the room swings open and instantly jaws from both parties drop to the floor. Jim Hartley, the V.P. of Administrative Affairs, strolls in, quickly apologizing for the delay, but his words fall on deaf ears. Ok, maybe not deaf ears, but they’re definitely distracted – did I mention that for this career-altering meeting this morning, Jim chose to wear a breath-taking combination of fishnet stockings, black leather boots and a matching vinyl crop-top and hot pants set, complete with black lipstick and nail polish?

Had he instead been a member of KISS rather than the high-profile investment banker that he was, things may have gone a bit smoother than they actually did…

Or maybe it would go more like this:

Janette lay there on the hospital bed in terror, not knowing what to expect. She had been told a thousand times by her friends and family that the surgery was not that big of a deal anymore and that with today’s advances in medicine technologies, the chance of failure was virtually zero, but still her sheets and gown remained soaked with sweat. Janette had even been going to her same doctor for more years than she could count, so there was really nothing to worry about…right?

Her ears perked up as she heard the doorknob turn and she knew that the time had come for her to buck up and take it like a man, so to speak. Looking to the door, though, and expecting to see the charismatic face of her doctor, Janette blinked her eyes several times and then attempted to recall just how long ago her anesthetics had been applied, for the man…the creature…in the doorway certainly didn’t belong in that picture. Stepping into the full light, the figure was dressed from head-to-toe in dark green scales, with a long and massive tail that extended out the door and into the hall.

Opening its slimy, yellow teeth, an odd, crackling voice spoke, “Good morning, Jeanie! Ready to get those tonsils out for good?”

Nope, unfortunately neither dragons nor cross-dressing, gothic vampires have much position in the modern workplace, which is really a shame because if you gave that freak a calculator and a half-hour of your time, he’d have you on a fifteen-year plan to early retirement in no time! But no, because you had to judge him/her/it and scorn him/her/it, the board blew a collective gasket and now unemployed, just because he liked to suck blood and wear women’s clothing and fly by the night, he’ll never have the chance to help you save an extra three percent on your income taxes – so who’s not going to Disney World now?!

What’s my point? You’re kidding, right? Did you even read half of what I just threw down?! I never had a point to begin with, but honestly, how many Halloween-related topics for humor columnists can there really be? I mean, the candy / trick or treating one is pretty obvious, and then maybe something about the parties, but then where do you go? At this rate, by next year I could be writing my Halloween column about how I had pot roast for dinner and went to bed early because I had some sort of nasty rash, so at least we’ve got that one to look forward to – and trust me, it’ll be hilarious!

If anyone can make pot roast and rashes hilarious, it’d be Scott…

Happy Halloween! And to all the freaks and weirdoes, enjoy it while you can! Tomorrow is another day, so don’t forget to grab a bottle of nail polish remover while you’re at it…