…I’d like to congratulate you for celebrating another 4^th of July here in the USA without singeing off your own eyebrows, along with the left side of your face, the neighbor’s cat, and those three bushes that line the front walkway!  By following the safety instructions that were included with your completely legal, professionally distributed fireworks, you’ve made yourself a fine example to younger, more impressionable generations who will in years to come exhibit a similar display of precaution and common sense when observing the independence of their nation with their own friends and family.

As for the rest of you … well, what can I say?!  While I’d like to think that this is the first time your behind has gotten up close and personal with the business end of a bottle rocket, something tells me that at this point you’re on a first name basis with the fine men and women of your local emergency room, perhaps already having paid a visit or two this year for insisting on that overly-aggressive donkey for the kid’s birthday party or even simply mistaking Easter grass for another kind of grass while the good little boys and girls were out hunting for the eggs that you forgot to hide.  But never fear, for although your midnight ER runs may be mildly inconvenient because they always seem to tear you away at the height of the party, I’ve got a feeling that a guy by the name of Darwin will be catching up with you sooner or later…

Boy, this is the time of year when we really see society’s premiere idiots come out of the woodwork, now isn’t it, folks?  I guess there must be something about the prospect of not only lighting things on fire, but lighting things on fire that fly that sparks the idiot gene into action.  I mean, don’t get me wrong – I like fireworks just as much as the next guy, however my enjoyment comes more from the glorious spectacle when they burst overhead, as opposed to the drunken panic when you see one screaming towards your car.

Of course, here in the state of Florida we really like our fireworks, to the point where it’s not unexpected to see folks celebrating the 4^th of July, in all of its fiery glory, not only a week or so early, but well into August, as well!  And even then, it’s not that the nightly neighborhood fire hazard actually stops in August – they just switch over to celebrating Christmas instead of the 4^th at that point.  It’s kind of like a flammable version of how Wal-Mart swaps out its seasonal merchandise – there’s never not a reason to celebrate the savings, or in this case, celebrate one’s inevitable next trip to the emergency room!

It’s definitely something that’s taken a bit of getting used to … rockets bursting outside your window on any random Tuesday night during the spring, summer, or fall – I guess it’s just a fanaticism that I never saw nearly that much growing up in Northern Michigan.  Back in my day, we never had the massive bursts that shoot 30-feet up in the air in our neighborhood displays.  Maybe at the big, “official” town show over the lake, but the best our neighborhoods had were sparklers, those lousy tanks that shot a couple of stray sparks before catching on fire themselves, and maybe your classic smoky snake or two that just left a pile of snake-like ashes that were a pain in the ass to scrub off the sidewalk the next day.  We were limited to whatever was in that bundle you could pick up at the grocery store – nothing that cleared trees and struck terror into the hearts of family pets, that’s for sure – but for the most part, we were fine with it!  We left the big guns to the “professionals” who always seemed to have the fire department standing by, and at the end of the night I think there was something to be said for the evening passing without an ambulance whipping down the street or someone threatening to take their neighbor to small claims court over the burnt patch in their lawn the size of what used to be their golf cart…

But if you’ll excuse me, I think I just heard a bottle rocket land dangerously close to my front door, so as much as I’d like to stay and reminisce about a place in time with a little less to offer in the fire hazards department, I think for the sake of explosions I’d better get my guard up.  At least they have to sleep sometime, though … right?!

It’s getting a little crazy around here!

I mean, I know this time of year is a pretty big deal for the manliest of the men…and women…who’ve been anxiously awaiting this weekend for the past four months one Sunday afternoon at a time, but right now you can’t even walk into a grocery store without getting assaulted by ten foot tall stacks of beer cases shaped like the Lombardi trophy, surrounded at its base by enough Limited Edition Super Bowl-Sanctioned Dipping Chips to feed a small army. And that’s just in Anytown, USA – here in Tampa as the hosts of Super Bowl XXIXXIYVVI, people don’t just have Super Bowl Fever – they’ve got the full-blown Football Pneumonia with a side order of Obsession! This morning I accidentally made a right turn onto Touchdown Boulevard and was stuck in traffic for, like, a year and a half…

Of course, I know that this game is a big deal for some people, like the fans, the players, and the guys who own the strip clubs within a stone’s throw of the stadium, but just between you and me, it’s a zany good time that I, for one, have kind of a tough time embracing because frankly, I just don’t really care for football all that much.

I know – big surprise from the guy who’d rather reformat hard drives or catch-up on Battlestar Galactica forums into the wee hours of the afternoon than actually go outside and do pretty much anything with a ball!

Now I probably shouldn’t say that too loud around here – I’d probably get extradited or punted or something – but the truth is that even growing up as a young lad back in the day, I really didn’t care much for football then, either, unless I was playing Tecmo Bowl on my Nintendo, and if my memory serves I really wasn’t even all that great at that, either! Sports in general were a thing that required…hmmm, how do I put it…physical ability, which being the kid who could save the princess on Super Mario Brothers in less than 27 minutes, I’m sure it’s not that much of a shock that I didn’t have more experience tossing the old pig skin around out in the backyard. Hey, somebody had to protect the fair citizens of the Mushroom Kingdom and those “guards” the princess had sure weren’t stepping up to the task…

So mind you, I suppose that certainly tends to beg the age-old question – what exactly is a totally-and-entirely-disinterested-in-football-kinda guy like me to do when he finds himself completely and utterly Gatorade-drenched in football fanatica here in the heart of it all only days before the big game? Do I hide in the house, close the curtains, and dig out my old copy of Tecmo Bowl in a vain attempt to feel at least somewhat sporty over the next three days? Maybe just tune in during halftime to watch good, old Bruce rock out American style, then catch the best of the commercials on YouTube Monday morning? I guess as a last ditch attempt, I could always just sit back, put on an old DVD or find some non-football-related reruns on TV, and quietly wait as this, too, shall eventually pass. Besides, before we know it, the celebrities and wanna-be celebrities and even the wanna-be wanna-be celebrities will have all retreated back to Hollywood, New York, and suburban Rhode Island, the massive game day potato chip displays in all of the grocery stores will be replaced with St. Patrick’s Day novelties (or Halloween candy, in Wal-Mart’s case), and finally, after what already seems like far too long, I’ll thankfully be able to walk down the cookie aisles of said grocery stores and be able to purchase Oreos that aren’t in the shape of little footballs.

Don’t let the steroids fool you this Sunday – sometimes it really is the little things that count!

Come on – a smile? A childish grin?! Gimme something – it’s Christmastime, for crying out loud…

And sadly, true to the phrase there actually has been an awful lot of crying out loud taking place around Wall Street and Main Street and pretty much any other street that features businesses who at one time were able to offer their employees a 401k with a straight face as we’ve watched our money rapidly become more worthless than those dry and flavorless Russian tea cakes that people try to pass off as “cookies” this time of year. These days when everybody and their corporate brother is begging Congress for billions of buckazoids merely to keep their heads above water for a few more months, you’d be lucky to land yourself an approval for a $5 footlong at Subway, much less any amount of actual “credit,” as we once knew it!

Which frankly, is a bit of a problem this time of year because really, who buys their Christmas presents with money that they’ve actually already earned, anyways?! The holidays are supposed to be all about credit cards and home equity lines of credit against your mortgage and other completely legitimate lendings from big, burly Italian guys with names like Jimmy the Butcher and Frankie FICO Score, so what’s a guy to do when Ye Olde River of Liquidity has done all dried up? Well, never fear, folks – for your friendly, neighborhood humor columnist is here!

No, no – I can’t actually loan you money to help put slingshots and toy kettles under the tree for your young’uns this year – what do I look like, a sucker?! But what I can do is just as good, arguably better if you happen to be my accountant who would’ve gotten stuck keeping track of something crazy like that, because what I’ve done here for you today is put together my definitive list of how to fill that otherwise empty void underneath your Christmas tree with a plethora of presents that just scream, “Hey – what did you expect?! We’re freaking broke!” Screamed with love, mind you, and during this magical, sleigh bell-filled time of year, that’s got to count for something…

…because until this economy picks up, it’s gonna have to! Nonetheless, without further ado…

Scott’s 2008 “Economy’s in the Crapper” Holiday Gift-Giving Guide…

Nuts & Berries
Although most effective if the recipient happens to be a grizzly bear or other furry, woodland creature, still, everybody’s gotta eat sometimes and Checkers just doesn’t seem to store away for the winter quite like you would expect a horribly greasy, artery-clogging sandwich of death would. Instead, show some of the folks on your list that you care about their health by giving them something they would’ve otherwise had to forage for … just watch out for real bears.

A Few Gallons of Gasoline
It may not seem like much now, but three months from today when gas is back up between $4 and $5 / gallon, suddenly your stupid gift of petroleum-based holiday delight isn’t so stupid anymore! Grab a few extra cans and put something under the tree* this year that they’ll really look forward to for months to come – perfect for soccer Moms, taxi cab drivers, and even teenagers who may otherwise never actually get to “purchase gasoline” at the rate we’re going.

* Note: Please do not actually put cans of gasoline underneath your Christmas tree – this humor column accepts no responsibility for houses, huts, trailers, or shacks burnt to the ground in a grand holiday blaze by your generous, gift-giving spirit.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving
Not sure where one might find this in the retail sector, but I just remembered that I saw it in a Garfield cartoon as a kid and it seems like it could actually be quite useful in this day and age! “Gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme gimme…”

VeggieTales Presents The Toy That Saved Christmas
A heartfelt tale in which the good citizens of Dinkletown struggle against old man capitalism before finally learning the true meaning of Christmas, this is one fun-loving digital video disc that you’ll be proud to have in your collection for … nah, just kidding! Even during the absolute worst of times, it’s never a good idea to invite talking cucumbers into one’s home because let me tell you from personal experience, it never ends with just the cucumbers…

A Dick in a Box
I can’t think of any better gift for that special lady in your life! Don’t waste her time with a diamond ring, a fancy car, or a house in the hills – just go get yourself a box and well, you know what to do…

Something Homemade
Preferably some sort of currency, realistic-looking enough to sneak by the late-night clerk of the local convenience store in exchange for some Ramen and smokes. Remember, it’s only illegal when…well, technically it’s always illegal, but then again, I’m not sure if they have recessions in jail, so it might be a worthwhile either way…

Your Heart
They say that romance booms during the recessions, pretty much because everyone suddenly finds themselves with plenty of free time on their hands on account of being too broke to go out and actually do anything! What better time to hunker down and make a little love?! Just be careful the lengths you’re willing to go with your newfound love – bathtub gin for a sudden wedding is surprisingly affordable, but bathtub breast milk for a new addition to the family … not so much.

The Gift of Song
And before the RIAA gets all up in our business, no – I’m not advocating the theft of copyrighted materials valued at a ridiculously alleged $175,000 per track. I’m talking about a simple, upbeat melody – maybe a gentle tune whistled from the beak of a songbird on a crisp, winter morning or a cheerful motivator from a Julie Andrews-type while happily pushing through an otherwise menial list of daily tasks.

Don’t worry – we’ll be sure to make it something from the public domain, just in case…

A Partridge in a Pear Tree…
What can I say – the classic Christmas hymn has more usefulness in these modern ages than we knew! Granted, some of the later gifts in the series require far too much upkeep to be worth the hassle (you ever see how much crap one goose a’laying can produce, let alone six?!), but this single bird and tree combo, on the other hand, offers the perfect collaboration of song and fruit to keep its recipient caroling right on ‘til New Years!

What’s that? “What if the recipient doesn’t like pears?!” Friends, in these harsh, recessional times, there are only two kinds of people – those who love pears, and those who will learn to love pears.

Happy shopping, and remember – if you can’t pay for it with change found between the cushions of your couch, keep dreaming, buddy!

I mean, it’s completely normal to be expected to give up sex…and smiling…and pretty much all fun in general after you’re married, right?!

Oh, I kid, I kid – in all actuality, I really can’t tell you how the whole wedding thing went because I’m posting this from the past through the magic of time travel…and also the automatic-posting feature in Wordpress, too. I mean, really, how insensitive would that be if I sat down and wrote this week’s column the night of our wedding during the time when, well, you know, other things are intended to take place? Then all that stuff about no sex and no happiness would actually probably be frighteningly accurate – who would wish that kind of malice on a newlywed couple in exchange for a few mildly amusing jokes over their morning coffee?

Besides, if we skip to that part now, what’ll we have to look forward to at our 10-year anniversary?!

That said, you’ve really got just as much of an idea how this thing went as I do at this point, so how do you think it went? Did it snow on the beach during our ceremony? Did a sweet & spicy jerk chicken fight break out in the middle of our reception?? Maybe we didn’t even show up, opting to elope to Vegas after my fourth consecutive nervous breakdown with regards to the wedding plans “all coming together nicely” (translate to: “not coming together in the slightest”). I hear the desert is wonderful this time of year.

Wonderfully quiet, anyways…

Nah – I’ll put my money on the table like the quarter-slot gambling man that I am and guess that our wedding ended up turning out fantastic! The food was  served promptly , the music sounded  audible , and the flowers were all nothing short of  bouqueterrfic ! All of our guests had a great time  waiting for us to come talk to them for 30 seconds and the party didn’t end until  everyone had been tricked into doing the YMCA . At the end of the night, my bride and I were so  tired and couldn’t wait to  take a bath and go to bed over and over again. Ultimately, it was the best  way to spend $20,000 in a single evening ever.

* Humor Column Madlibs!!! Don’t think my answers were very funny? See if you can do any better yourself by filling in the blanks alove with your own hilarious answers!

I suppose really only time will tell whether or not I survived The Happiest Day of My Life, and if so, whether it also led into The Happiest Night of My Life as well … not that I’d write about that – got to keep a few things sacred, or at least held off for the special edition of my upcoming book! Then again, I’m not sure if those particular tales of bedroom wisdom and woe would help to increase or decrease sales, so in the meantime let’s just all hope that I had a swell time and leave it at that! Either way, I’ll be back next week – for real, not via time travel – and we’ll do our best to get back to poking fun at politics and pop culture and people who think it’s cute to dress up their pets, despite the clear psychological damage that’s being inflicted with every doggy-sized parka that comes off the shelf.

And just think, even better yet, this is the last time you’ll have to hear about all of the insanities that stem from weddings, their planning, and their execution … at least until my unborn daughter is…uh oh, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here…

It’s the middle of summer, it’s hotter than the surface of the sun itself here in Florida, and here I am afraid to step foot in the water for fear of being gobbled up or snarfed down or at the very least, nibbled to an uncertain death by nefarious creatures in search of an easy meal. Well, I guess I can admit that I’m still technically facing those fears and stepping foot in said water, otherwise they’d revoke my Florida Resident’s card and send me packing back to Michigan where outdoor pools are more of a burden than a luxury, but I certainly do a bit more to watch my back this time of year, and let me tell you that this alone isn’t exactly the easiest of tasks when I’m constantly fighting against these darned water wings all the time!

Yeah, that’s right – I said pool. Don’t judge me, at least not until you’ve heard my entire predicament…

I guess by now it’s not exactly any secret that I’ve got what some might call issues when it comes to self-contained aquatic recreational areas, as I first aired a bit of dirty laundry last fall expressing my concerns for pools that are either empty or otherwise under some sort of refurbishment. And I know it was the kind of thing that sounded, well, a bit silly to a select few highly insensitive meanie-heads out there, but hey – Free Willy was a sad movie, what else can I say?! But we’re not hear to revisit those nightmares, mind you, for I thought our time might better be spent here working through an entirely different oddball, pool-based fear of mine – that in which I find myself wondering if there’s any possibility that some sort of diabolical madman may have placed piranhas in my local swimming pool.

It’s usually after I’ve been in the water for a ten or fifteen minutes and started to really relax, and it might help to add that it’s almost always nighttime by the time that I finally make it down to the pool, but sometimes I’ll be floating there alone, looking up at the star-filled sky, and then my mind starts to wander back to the days of James Bond and all of the appropriate knock-offs where our strapping, young hero would find himself dangling for his life over a pool filled with ravenous sharks circling hungrily below. Sure, there weren’t any such beasts circling the pool when I first walked in – I try not to hit the cocktails under after I’ve submersed, so I like to think that I would’ve noticed something like that – but I don’t have eyes in the back of my head and I certainly don’t have any on the bottoms of my feet, so maybe it wouldn’t be all that hard to release a few hungry chompers into the water as I float there unknowingly in the pale moonlight – who knows???

The way I’ve always pictured it going down would be by releasing whatever’s going to eat me into the pool through the vents on the sides – I’m not exactly sure how something as large as a shark would fit through one of those, but I guess I’ll have plenty of time to ponder that little mystery while I’m being eaten to death! Or even an alligator, and hey, living here in Florida, that one wouldn’t even be all that far-fetched! I’ve never seen the situation in person myself, but I’ve certainly heard the stories and seen the pictures where the family randomly finds a new occupant in their pool out back only moments before diving in themselves. And granted, these are wild gators, not some sort of mutated reptiles driven to a frenzied thirst for blood by their maniacal leaders, but still – if it’s so easy for the normal variety, then maybe a visit from their genetically-altered brethren isn’t so out of the question, anyways…

I should probably mention that this little obsessive paranoia of mine isn’t simply limited to pools, either – it also encompasses hot tubs, Jacuzzis, and wading pools – pretty much anything except open water. I know – weird, isn’t it?! The one place that legitimately does pose the threat of my toes getting nibbled on doesn’t phase me in the least, and yet dunk me in a container of highly-chlorinated liquid sunshine and it’s a whole ‘nother story! No problems with the beach, as proven by my unwavering devotion to watch the movie Jaws or any of the sequels no matter what time of day they come on TV, no problems even with pool parties, as at least in those situations I’m in the water with other people and thus I guess I feel that I’ve got some chance of survival considering that the deadly carnivores have options for their first victims – so feel free to invite away!

Just like my last aquatic column where I opened up and shared one of those less-than-flattering traits about myself, I’m sure that a few folks out there will get a good chuckle out of my plights, but I want you to know that I didn’t write this column for them. Nope, I wrote this column for those other people out there just like me – for those ruggedly handsome, hilarious guys who are great in bed and have nice, long lives ahead of themselves, whose only flaws are that they find themselves a bit cautious about stepping foot in those seemingly controlled waters where terror lurks below the bubblers. For you are not alone, my friends, and while everyone else is having a grand time playing Marco Polo, they don’t even know it, but they can enjoy their game in peace because we’ll be keeping our eyes on the grates and filter openings for everyone.

We may tread water with a bit of fear in our hearts, but as long as our watchful cowardice is around, you’ll never have to worry about not hearing that loyal reply of “Polo!” after every “Marco!” Well, at least until the first sighting, but once we’ve shrieked out in terror, we’ll be high-tailing it out of there, shouting “I told you so…” all the way to the rinsing station and beyond…

Ok, so maybe there’s one thing I hate about this time of year…

During say, seven or eight months out of the year, my nose and I are best buds. We go everywhere together, enjoying our favorite smells and generally just living the good life as only a man and his nose truly can, and all seems right with the world. Mind you, those eight or nine months typically range from March to about October, but once The Great Pumpkin is behind us and we’re nearly ready to dive headfirst into the holiday spirit, it hits me. Well, not my nose exactly, but it certainly seems to take the brunt of the damage after which we are no longer mano-e-mano, that’s for sure. Suddenly it’s a side of my nose that I’m not used to seeing – he gets all angry and inflamed, he just starts dripping all over the place out of the blue, and I don’t even know what started all of it, much less how to calm it down and make everything better! It’s like my nose is another creature altogether, I tell ya!

So from Turkey Day to Chocolates & Flowers in Hopes of Getting Laid Day, misery is pretty much my one and only pupose on this God-forsaken planet of ours. I try to stay productive and get a few things done here and there, such as writing this column and eating meals that exist only in liquid form, but anything beyond that and my sinuses put their collective feet down like Clydesdales, as if to say, “There’ll be no Ultimate Frisbee on our watch, Mister! Now get back in that house – you’re not to see the light of day again until you’ve gone through at least three boxes of kleenex … and not those tiny, travel sizes, either. We’ll have nothing less than Family Size – muhahahaha!!!”

Sometimes I have to wonder if my nose is a kleenex stockholder just for the sheer volume of tissues that I go through in a given year…

…that and the NyQuil family of products is really what helps me get through the days when I’m waging war with Old Man Sinus, let me tell you. I have a system that tends to work quite well for me – I drink a bottle of DayQuil for breakfast, another for lunch, and usually after that I’m far enough gone into the oblivion that I don’t even have to worry about eating a sensible dinner! Back that up with the heavy hitter that is NyQuil, if by some odd chance I actually do manage to awaken from my orange-induced coma, and I have an effective, although probably not approved by the Food & Drug Administration, plan for getting through the sneezy months with a minimal amount of pain and suffering.

Well, pain and suffering for everybody around me, that is, because even with all of this stuff I still tend to feel like my head has been put in a vice, underwater, with very tiny schools of fish swimming in and out of my sinuses like my body is some sort of living playground for them. Graphic, I know, but at least I had the decency to not go with an artist’s rendition of this horrific sensation for that photo at the top of this page! See, even when I’m at the bottom of my game, barely clinging onto life by a single strip of kleenex, I’m still thinking about other people – that’s just the kind of guy that I am…

However that said, I get the feeling that dose #6 of the orange stuff today is starting to wear off, so I think it’s time to bring this way too much information-laden column to a close so that I can take another shot of green Reality Be Gone before Oprah comes on. That’s one thing about being sick – sure, it can be nice to catch up on all of the lowlifes and disgruntled best friends who sue each other every afternoon on the half a dozen people’s court shows that air from 1pm to 4pm, but when you’re nearing that four o’clock hour and you start to hear chanting of “Oprah’s on!” in the distance, it’s comforting to know that oblivion is only 2 tbsp. away.

Sorry, fans of the O, but unless she’s giving away kleenexes to everyone in her audience, there are some things that even a sick man with nothing better to do can’t endure…

‘Tis the season for nervous breakdowns, right?

If you’re anything like me, you’ve got about a brazillion things to do right now and the list just keeps getting longer and longer every day as we get closer to Christmas. In fact, I’m actually supposed to be knee-deep in gingerbread right now, but because I’m just that dedicated to you – my jolly band of loyal readers out there – I’m postponing (read: putting off) my baking responsibilities for just a little bit to bring a fresh batch of the funny just in time for the holidays! Maybe not so much Sara Lee, but I at least like to think that Santa would be proud…

Nonetheless, you’ve got to admit that it seems a bit odd for us all to be so darned stressed during what’s supposed to be the happiest time of the year. I mean, it makes complete sense because being the awesomest holiday of them all, Christmas is such an expansive and overwhelming occasion and as of course, more is better, we continue to push ourselves to do absolutely everything! Decorating, parties, greeting cards, presents, pictures with Santa, holiday flings, and even volunteering your fiancé to bake dozens upon dozens of goodies for your holiday cookie exchange at work – where does the insanity end?! Here, I can feel my blood pressure rising just thinking about all of the stuff that everybody’s out getting all stressed about!

Of course, the answer can’t possibly be to cut back on one’s holiday spirit – having to choose between Christmas lights or gingerbread cookies would be like choosing your favorite child to spoil absolutely rotten for Christmas. Unfortunately, the big guy at the North Pole pretty much has a monopoly on elf labor this time of year, so outsourcing really isn’t much of an option. Come to think of it, if ever there was an ideal time to develop a temporary case of insomnia, that might actually be your best option for making it through the holidays in one merry piece…

So much to do and so little time to do it – you could probably write a carol about it, but then again don’t you already have enough on your plate without adding musical composition to the list?! I mean, you’ve taken your time out to shoot the breeze here with me and that’s certainly been a grand bit of fun and all, but those presents aren’t going to buy themselves, much less wrap themselves, so I think it’s safe to say that it’s about time for all of us to get back to work! We’ve got halls to deck, credit cards to max out, and I know that I personally won’t be sleeping tonight until a veritable army of gingerbread men has spawned from our oven and been adorned with a armor coating of delicious milk chocolate! But it’s all worth it – happiest time of the year, right?!

Come January, I say we all go on a nice, long vacation…

Friends, I have a problem. A very delicious problem…

I’ve said before that I absolutely love this time of year, and not simply due to the presents and the giving of thanks and the Christmas decorations and the presents, but more importantly because this is the time when the diners and restaurants and other assorted eateries of our nation break free from their usual tenants to bring us some of the most delectable dishes this side of Halloween! And no, I’m not referring to dirt cake and gummy zombies and all of the other crypt-related snacks that tend to find their place at the kiddie table…

Granted, the kids might still be interested in carving this treat, but only with the proper adult supervision, of course.

And just between you and me, those kiddies can have their jack ‘o lanterns as long as I still get to keep those slimy innards that most are far too quick to discard in a crumpled mess of newspaper after their carving job has been completed! Well, let me rephrase that – I don’t personally want all of that icky stuff, but hand it off to someone a bit more experienced in the kitchen and give me a call when dinner’s on. What can I say? I love me some pumpkin!

Maybe it’s because pumpkin is a seasonal treat that only graces my plate between the months of September and November, or maybe it’s because my Mom simply raised me with a superior palate, but either way, anyone who’s spent a meal or more around me this time of year knows that there’s no such thing as too much pumpkin – at least not in my vicinity. Pumpkin for breakfast (pancakes), pumpkin for dinner (soup), and of course, a late-night pumpkin snack to help me off to slumberland (cookies, eggnog, pie – oh, the list goes on…). You wouldn’t believe the kinds of dreams you have when you’re as hopped up on pumpkin as I get this time of year!

…but just as a hint, think Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, only with way more orange and about 150% less Veruca Salt…

I’ll admit that I tend to get more than my usual share of odd looks when indulging in my pumpkin-y bliss, but anyone who’s truly been will vouch that when you find yourself up to your elbows in pumpkin French toast topped with two perfectly-square pumpkin butter pats and smothered in a rich, pumpkin syrup, you don’t really care what other people think…about pretty much anything. It’s times like these when it’s best to just sit back, take it all in, and become one with the pumpkin – kind of like zen, only you’re not really able to chant because your mouth is full of pumpkin the entire time!

And with that said, while I’d love to stay here and chat with you about pumpkin donuts and pumpkin coffee and pumpkin ice cream parfaits, but according to Mr. Calendar we’ve only got a few days left before my beloved pumpkin is swept to the wayside for candy canes and gingerbread and all sorts of other non-pumpkin-y nonsense. So take it from me, a real life pumpkin aficionado, on this cool, autumn afternoon – when life hands you pumpkins, you eat them and you eat them fast because this offer is good for a limited time only and when Pumpkin Season ’08 is still another ten months away, that’s not an offer that you can afford to pass up…

Seriously – what are you waiting for?! iHOP, Dunkin’ Donuts, Cold Stone, even Wal-Mart, for pumpkin’s sake – they’ve all got what ails ‘ya, so get out there and indulge while you still can! No worries that I’ll still be here when you get back – to the tune of holiday carols, we can go into pumpkin detox together…

Oh, the wondrous beauty of autumn.

Isn’t this a great time of year? The hot, scathing weather has slipped away for a much more manageable, cool breeze. The leaves turn the most brilliant shades of yellows and oranges and reds before finally saying sayonara and plummeting to the ground, resulting in piles upon piles of leaves with which to jump into in whimsy. Halloween is right around the corner, filled with pumpkins and ghouls and ghosts, and beyond that we’ve got the cornucopias of Thanksgiving to look forward to before the season finally departs to make way for winter.

Well, at least that’s what I remember happening around this time of year, anyways…

And you know, that’s probably one of the biggest complaints that I here from other people around here about Florida, besides “Those tourists don’t know how to drive!” and “That alligator just ate my cat!” of course. Whereas in other parts of the country, seasons are fairly distinct – fall with the leaves, winter with the snow, spring with not the snow, and then summer with somewhat tolerable daytime temperatures; Florida, on the other hand, is a completely different ballgame. Our seasons, if you even want to call ‘em that, are more along the lines of somewhat tolerable, actually pretty nice, gettin’ warmer again, and good god, why would anyone venture outside in this sweltering heat?!

Of course, I guess there are tradeoffs pretty much wherever you decide to live. Sweat your ass off or freeze your ass off – either way, your ass is going to be subject to less than optimal weather conditions at one point or another throughout the year. Unless you can maybe afford to spend your summers up there and your winters down here, then at least you’d have fairly nice weather all year round. Granted, then we’re back in the boat of not really getting to experience seasons, per say, but not to worry about that because not for nothing, but humor columnist isn’t exactly a vacation home owning-kind of job, if you know what I mean…

That said, despite the lack of seasons I think I’m fairly content with living here in Florida. Yes, the heat can be a bear, and the threat of hurricanes wiping out your very existence seven months out of every year can take a little getting used to, but in my eyes hurricanes aren’t really all that different from tornados or earthquakes or mudslides or blizzards. The only real difference is what kind of attire you get to wear while you’re weathering the storm, and if I get to chose, I’ve got to say that I’d pick shorts and a Hawaiian shirt over a snowsuit, furry hat, scarf, wool gloves, and those big, clonky boots that you can only lift three inches off the ground any day! At least when waiting out a hurricane, I can actually order a Hurricane from the bar and have it delivered to me in a tall glass with an umbrella in it; unless you prefer your drinks frozen…solid…that doesn’t work so much up north.

So I guess ultimately there’s really no sense in gloating over another region’s ridiculously inane weather because when it comes down to it, we’ve all got our own problems. Now if you’ll all excuse me, I’m gonna go swimming … have fun raking leaves or shoveling snow or whatever it is that you non-southerners do this time of year…

We’ve been over this once before…

…and yet apparently my pleas have fallen upon deaf ears, possibly because those listening also happen to live next door to me and thus also find themselves plagued night after sleepless night by these insidious creatures who strive to drive us all insane with their incessant croaking and chirping into the wee hours of the night. Sadly, it seems that things have unbelievably gotten worse since we last visited this topic roughly a year ago, leading me to wonder if the frogs in question actually read the column that I wrote about them last year or even more curiously, how does a frog go about getting Internet access, anyways? I’ve had a hard enough time getting my own Internet access upgraded, and I’m a people, but I think we’re getting off track here … which is exactly what they would want us to do!

Allow me to backtrack just a tad for those joining us fresh off the street who might be too lazy to go back and read last year’s column on their own free will … slackers. Right around this time a year ago, I had a bit of a run-in with a rather large and rather boisterous amphibian that just so happened to have taken a fondness for a patch of grass just outside my bedroom window. As it turns out, this time of year also happens to be when animals of the frog variety put to use months of practicing Barry White impressions and stocking up on those fancy, red wines that their female counterparts love so much, for it is officially mating season for the frogs and if you thought it was unbearable having the moves put on you by random drunkards at the local drink hole, then you ain’t seen nothing until you’ve been serenaded by a few dozen of the horniest frogs this side of the swamp…

My problem, however, has apparently grown exponentially since last year, as while then I only found myself faced with one particularly giant and obnoxious, horny frog, clearly the word has spread because the wilderness surrounding my humble abode has been overrun with, at my best guess, no less than 10,000,000 frogs – all very horny – and all without any equivocations about announcing their frog lust for all of the world to hear … with their primary target simply being anyone in my general vicinity who ever wants to sleep again! I don’t know how they did it, whether they have an Internet mailing list that they all watch to keep up on the latest horny frog news or perhaps they carry cell phones – lord knows there can’t be any humans left on the planet for companies to market them to – but seriously, it’s like the Million Frog March outside my home once sundown hits and at this point I’m well beyond having any plausible idea of what to do … that is, besides just up and moving, although with my luck at this point I wouldn’t put it past them to follow us to our new, frog-free sanctuary, too. I’ve even considered joining up with the witness relocation program, but the lady hung up on me when I calmly explained that I was just trying to escape from 10,000,000 horny frogs so I can sleep in peace.

I think, if anything, the moral that you can hopefully take from my ear-ringing plight is this – don’t mess with a horny frog – because if you do, that horny rage is just going to get thrown back at you 10,000,000-fold and then, really, what do you do?! I’ve asked around, but nobody seems to know how to handle 10,000,000 horny frogs – the animal control people won’t touch the issue, and more and more I’m starting to understand how God came to choose frogs as one of his plagues on Egypt … horny frogs are simply not a force to be reckoned with. Mark these words – Scott 6:01:2007.

But what am I going to do, you ask because you’re all genuinely concerned about the well-being of your favorite humor columnist this side of Dave Barry? Well, clearly threats didn’t work and even if I wasn’t able to uphold my end of the ultimatum, I guess I can see how announcing that I’d like to enjoy my opponent’s legs with a side of butter could prove to be a standoffish and might provoke further actions. So this time instead of getting even more riled up and proclaiming that I won’t rest until my den is decorated with the heads of 10,000,000 horny frogs, and please note the emphasis on instead as I was just informed by my fiancée that she will have words for me if she ever comes home to find heads of any type decorating any room in our home, instead I’m going to attempt the route of the bigger man, or species in this case, and apologize.

That’s right, horny frogs of all shapes, sizes, and orientations – I’m sorry for any ill words that I may have uttered about your brethren and my desires to see them as part of an all-you-can-eat buffet. I mean you no harm and wish you the best in finding lots of hot, female frogs … or male frogs, whatever works for you … for your honorable mating season. And if you could find it in your little, froggy hearts to pipe it down just a notch so that I can get some shut-eye, too, well then that would be…

Wait, what’s that?! You did what with that cheeky, frog-shaped planter that I got this spring as a gift from my mother?! Oh, that’s just wrong, even for a bunch of surly, horned-up frogs. That’s it, I didn’t really mean the apology anyways and first thing in the morning, I’m calling that guy down at Asia’s Best Buffet to let him know where he can get enough frog legs to last him the rest of the summer! I mean it, you’ve croaked your horny croaks in the wrong guy’s backyard – this means WAR, frogs!

Ladies and gentlemen, hunting season is officially open. It’s going to be an interesting summer…