I have The Power!!!

Well, the power to finally work our home theater system without fumbling aimlessly between eighteen different remotes, anyways, but really, at the end of a long and arduous day when all I want to do is lay around watching reruns of The Golden Girls and eating bonbons, that’s enough for me.

So the story is that recently I found myself in the market for a new remote control – the long and the short of it being that I had picked up a new Blu-Ray player at a fantastic price with the one caveat that its remote happened to be missing.  I was ok with this, as the cold, hard fact of the matter soon transformed itself into an equally fantastic opportunity to also buy one of those flashy, new remote controls that most guys dream about…

Yes, ladies – when we’re not dreaming about sex, or Lamborghinis, or sex in Lamborghinis, we dream about remote controls. We’re really not nearly as complex as Dr. Phil likes to lead you to believe.

Of course, it should probably be noted for anyone possibly living underneath some sort of rock or something who doesn’t watch their federally-mandated 4.5 hours of TV every night that we’re not talking about some ordinary, everyday “Universal Remote” that you pick up at Wal-Mart for $14.95 and then spend the better part of the next three weeks entering all sorts of “codes” into while also praying desperately that you’ll finally find the one that will magically be able to turn something … anything … on!  No, no, no – what we’re talking about here is a state of the art, customizable work of genius that in all reality, no self-respecting fan of the moving pictures should be without…

Yeah, so it was a little expensive, but can you really put a price on happiness … and digital happiness, at that?!  With the press of a single button, this magical device brings me joys that used to come at the expense of pressing many, many buttons, and sometimes the buttons on my old remote didn’t want to work even when I pressed them repeatedly, leading me to eventually resort to just banging the thing against the coffee table in frustration!  But now that this wonderfully designed, ergonomic device has wandered into my life, never again will I be forced to get up from the couch and physically turn down the volume with my own hand because it’s 8:37pm on a random Tuesday evening and the stereo has just plum decided that it doesn’t so much feel like responding to our inferior remote’s pathetic, infrared pleas at that particular moment.  Never again!

Frankly, it’s a liberating feeling – knowing that I have that much entertainment available to me with the simple press of a button.  I imagine it must be just like how God feels when he sits down to watch some TV at the end of his own otherwise boring and mundane workday!  It’s a feeling that I think every man, woman, and child should know … well, just as long as the kid’s washed his hands first, that is.  You ever try to get grape jelly out from between the buttons of a remote control?!  You might as well just give up and buy a new one right off the bat … this remote may be utterly amazing, but of the things that it’s certainly not impervious to, grape jelly is most definitely near the tippy top of that particular list…

But don’t let a little jam-based deficiency dissuade you, my friends, for much like winning the lottery or marrying a super hot chick with addictions to having sex and making her husband delicious chocolate cakes, owning this remote has been a life changer on the most grandiose of scales.  Velvet ropes have parted, I’ve been getting pelted with gumdrops falling from the skies left and right, and as for my time spent in front of the old television … well, I don’t like to kiss and tell, but just for the record, my relationship with our home theater system has never been better.

Although now that we’ve got the remote, there was this new 72” flat screen TV that I was looking at…

Let’s play a game, folks!  It’s just a little something I’ve cooked up in my spare time lately called Things You Never Want to Hear in Florida … in July, and it goes a little something like this: simply choose from the following what you think would be the worst possible thing to hear mid-summer here in the Sunshine State of Florida…

a)      ”The AC’s not working.”
b)      “We’re all out of rum.”
c)      “There’s an alligator at the front door and he looks pissed.”

If you answered A – “The AC’s not working,” you win the prize, which coincidentally is this nice box fan from Wal-Mart that sure would’ve been nice at my house a couple of days ago when tragedy struck our quaint, Floridian household here in the dead of summer!  As for those of you who opted for pina coladas or giant lizards as your answers … well, despite the stereotypes or your apparent alcoholism, let it be known that either one of those things on their own don’t even stack close to the idea of Florida living, au natural.

Maybe both of them put together might come a little closer because hey, when the Bacardi doth runneth dry, opening the door to see if the lizard on the other side came bearing fruity coconut and pineapple-flavored refills may very well sound entirely reasonable, but of course, that’s an entirely different column altogether…

But regardless, by far the worst is still having the air conditioning just mysteriously die without warning, and if it happens after business hours like mine so conveniently did recently, then all the better!  Really, there’s nothing quite like coming home at about eleven o’clock at night after a long and grueling day, only to find that it’s rapidly approaching 85 degrees inside your humble abode … and it’s still warmer outside than it is inside … and there’s no breeze outside whatsoever, even if opening up windows was a minute possibility.  If there was ever a time to call in a favor from that friendly, neighborhood repair guy whose fence you had recently helped paint, now would’ve been a wonderful time to call in said favor!

Unfortunately, though, I have no such recently painted neighbor, and even if I did, chances are *I* wouldn’t have been the first one out the door on a blisteringly hot Sunday afternoon to help him save a few bucks by painting it himself!  Remember, with the Florida heat and all?! So there I, my better half already sweaty and less than thrilled because she’d gotten home several hours prior and was clearly done with this whole no AC conundrum – the two of us destined to bear the brunt of this lack of proper household cooling for at least the next twelve hours or so, all depending – of course, on just how available the repair guy would be to come relieve us the next morning.

And the trouble is that really when you think about it, there’s not a whole lot you can do when such a disaster strikes and you find yourself sweating to the oldies, minus the spandex and a creepy Richard Simmons frolicking around on TV.  Sure, you could spend the night eating popsicles with the refrigerator door propped open, or maybe just make the best of it by falling asleep in the tub, but either is going to leave you in pretty rough shape the following morning … assuming you can actually get out of the bathtub after what I can only imagine would be one of the worst sleeping positions ever!  Nonetheless, my wife and I finally opted to endure the old-fashioned way – by opening all of the windows, turning the ceiling fan in our bedroom up to blow everything that isn’t bolted down around the room in a frenzy, and simply hope for the best.

A matter of hours later, as the sun came peeking up from behind the trees, with songbirds chirping all about, we awoke, knowing that the worst had passed.  Well, there were papers strewn in every corner of our bedroom, it was still scathingly hot, and at one point throughout the night I could’ve swore I heard a wild animal of some sort clawing at the window, but other than that, we were good to go!  Now thoroughly drenched in sweat, we waited for the repair guy to come and lend us his services, which would promptly return us to the land of the civilized.

Twelve hours, folks!  That’s how long I went without air conditioning one hot and sweaty night in July of the year 2009, and frankly, those were probably the twelve worst hours that I’ve had since I moved to Florida over five years ago.  The human body just isn’t designed to endure non-conditioned air, much less temperatures with the digits 8 and 9 in them!  It’s something that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies … well, maybe that one guy, but that’s what you get for cutting in front of me in line for It’s a Small World. No remorse!

So the moral of our story today, simply put, is this – if you live in Florida, don’t ever put yourself in a situation where you could possibly be without air conditioning for more than, oh say, four and a half minutes, max. Buy a second backup air conditioner, make a copy of your neighbor’s keys the next time they’re out of town, or even – dare I suggest it – actually help your friendly neighborhood repairman paint his fence one weekend, if for no other reason than so you can call him in the middle of the night should such an occasion as this arise in the future!  If he doesn’t have a fence, build one for him – trust me, three weeks of digging post holes and hammering boards will be time well spent if it might help you avoid spending seven or eight hours sleeping in a pool of your own sweat.  Whatever it takes, really…

Don’t let your household become just another sweaty, broken air conditioner-related statistic.

So many pink and red stuffed animals, so much chocolate…

…and yet yours truly is having an awfully hard time scrounging up the desire to dive into that heart-shaped debocle this year. I don’t know about you guys, but I’ve already got enough on my plate between shopping for replacement garbage can lids and straining to maintain unrealistic New Years resolutions and cleaning up drunken remnants from the Super Bowl off my front yard to also factor in a healthy dose of worry about taking a walk on the mushy side without also kissing my wallet a fond goodbye.

Now I’m sure that some hardcore Valentine’s Day zealots (read: women under the age of 175) will be up in arms with the fact that we’re not dedicating every fiber of our being towards making this February 14^th even more credit-score-impacting than last year, and maybe I’d have a little sympathy for y’all if us guys had our own holiday dedicated to showering us with affections of the grandest scale, although just for the record, this year’s apathy isn’t really about jealous towards this sexist day … regardless of how much we’d love a three-foot tall solid chocolate statue of Cupid, complete with real working bow and arrows and the largest glass of milk you can find…

Realistically, I think for me at least this year’s fault can more so be blamed on simply the overwhelming complexity of it all, between Valentine’s Day gifts having already dominated the shelves since roughly the day after Christmas and roughly a gajillion other stresses already bouncing around inside my head before even considering the romantic ramifications of this red-laced ritual. I mean, really, do I go with the singing alligator bearing a light-up box of chocolates or the 158-page heart-shaped diary to fill with poems of my most romantic desires or, dare I even suggest it, something that can’t be found within the confines of Wal-Mart’s seasonal Valentine’s aisles?!

…because I’m going to be honest with you – us guys don’t necessarily enjoy purchasing all of that novelty, heart-splattered, $7.99 bargain bin crap, but at the end of an already tumultuous week where we’d just as soon come home and pass out on the couch with Leno trailing off in the background, sometimes it’s just easier to phone it in with a cheap box of chocolates and a singing hippo than it would be to spend umpteen hours on the phone booking travel arrangements for an 8-night vacation in San Juan, complete with romantic walks on the beach and confrontationally seductive waiters named Rodriguez who are working for a bit more than just a 20% tip, if you know what I’m saying. And besides, not for nothing, but realistically speaking, not every year can warrant an 11-piece orchestra playing that song from your sweet sixteen party that you kissed your first boy to under a pale moon sky … sorry ladies, but sometimes it’s just a singing hippo kind of year…

…and frankly, with the economy the way it’s been, maybe you should just be happy that the hippo is even singing at all! For there are plenty of other assorted purple and red stuffed animals in that bin and not all of them are predisposed to belting out Let’s Get It On every time you squeeze their lovable, asbestos-filled little bellies. And I know that this probably sounds like a bit of a downer for you, especially considering that many of you have been eyeing the jewelry stores ever since Santa neglected to get you those diamond earrings that you wanted for Christmas (Hey, don’t look at me – I was just as shocked as you were when jolly, old St. Nick let you down that morning!), but remember this – every surprise that you don’t get on Valentine’s Day is just one more thing that we can woo you with come our anniversary or your birthday, and unlike Valentine’s Day, you don’t have to share either of those with anyone else!

Well, it’d be nice if you could maybe split the anniversary with us 60/40 or something this year, but we can continue that discussion at a later day closer to our actual anniversary date … whenever that might happen to be. In the meantime, though, enjoy your smooth-talking hippo as a humble symbol of my undying love. Just try to keep it down, though – it’s been a long week…

…not that you’d get much for it, anyways, but hey, I suppose every little bit helps in these crazy, fossil-fuelin’ times. $3.75 a gallon, seriously?! There’s nothing quite like having to choose between buying “the most grusome, horrific video game of all-time*” or filling up the old jalopy for another week of mundane commutes to your thankless job at the stinky cheese factory, eh?

* Grand Theft Auto IV – available now from Take-Two Interactive : buy your copy today wherever fine video games are sold!

I understand that talking like this makes me sound like an angry, old man (stay off my lawn!), but I remember a time when I could fill up my gas tank for less than fifteen bucks. Granted, I shouldn’t still feel old-man-ish by saying that because it was 1996, but still… You could buy a moderately-priced CD at Wal-Mart for that price (yeah, 1996 was a little weird – people actually paid for music back then…), but nowadays it’s a whole new overpriced ballgame. When I filled up my tank earlier this week, the total came to almost $45, meaning that if it hadn’t been for my last two fill-ups, I could’ve spent my weekend running down hookers and raining down an unforgivable slew of death and carnage upon rival drug dealers and innocent bystanders alike (…in Grand Theft Auto IV, mind you. It’s a game, mind you, for those who began penning scathing letters to me in their minds after envisioning those poor, defenseless hookers wanting nothing more than to “love me long time” for a reasonable wage. Let it be known that with the exception of Foxy Boxing and Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots, I’m generally only a fan of simulated violence.)

Of course, as much as gas prices these days feel like the filling station equivalent of non-consensual sex, we might as well get the bickering out of our systems now because good luck trying to get any sympathy on this one from our grandkids!

Me: Why, back in my day, gasoline got up to $3.75 a gallon! I had to wait three extra weeks to buy Grand Theft Auto IV that summer…

Kid: Screw you, old man! We can’t even BUY “gasoline” these days because you and your irresponsible parents wasted it all!

Also, Grand Theft Auto IV was weak sauce completed to Ultra Mega Death Killers 5: Kill or Be Killed.

Then Little Johnny will zip off down the road on his hoverboard while I stand in the driveway shaking my fist, “It was the best selling game of 2008! You ungrateful kids and your renewable energy – you sure are lucky that your parents came up with a new source of energy that didn’t completely bastardize the planet in its consumption…”

So enjoy those high gas prices, and any related groaning and grumbling, while you can, folks! The future will no doubt hold many new marvels and surprises – let’s just hope that they continue to contain all of the gratituitous simulated violence and mayhem to which our aging generation has grown accustomed…

No, no – not the kiddie kind that you buy for $49 at Wal-Mart on a hot summer day and then buy another one at Wal-Mart for $49 the following week because you filled the thing over the tiniest of pebbles in your backyard, which subsequently torn a whole in the bottom of your new pool roughly the size of London because the kind of swimming pools one can purchase at Wal-Mart for $49 are primarily made out of saran wrap.

I’m talking more along the lines of real pools, like what you would expect to find at a hotel or apartment complex or even in most hoity-toity, gated communities these days. You know – deep enough to almost go over your head unless you stand on your tippy-toes, “No Diving!” even though everybody does it anyways, despite the fact that they know that it’s only deep enough to almost go over their heads while standing on their tippy-toes and that given the amount of force they’ll exert when diving into said pool, it’s almost certain that they’ll end up hitting their heads on the bottom, later suing the hotel or apartment complex because clearly the “No Diving!” sign wasn’t big enough, or preferably even read out loud to them just moments before taking that ignorant, brain-rattling plunge. The things are a dime a dozen these days – I think I got a coupon for one in my box of cereal this morning, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before my fear surfaced again like a majestic beluga up for a breath of fresh air.

I don’t know what it is, but I find myself having a very love-hate relationship with devices that hold large quantities of chlorinated water because of this hang-up. It’s like the moment I see that water line dipping below normal, suddenly it’s 1993 all over again and I’m on the edge of my seat, wondering if Jesse is going to be able to get Willy to freedom before the bad guys with spear guns show up … because yes, my entire dilemma stems from watching Free Willy as a thirteen year-old boy and the subsequent trauma that has followed! And sure, our local community pool is considerably smaller than Willy’s massive 5-million gallon tank (and also much warmer!), so you might argue that the chances of walking down in my bathing suit to find Shamu fins up in our half-empty pool is somewhat slim-to-none, but you try telling that to my inner child and I can tell you from experience that he’s a very bad listener!

I think what’s even worse yet is that both this and the last apartment that I lived in just so happened to feature workout rooms that looked out onto the pool area, so whenever I see the slightest flash out of the corner of my eye while walking on the treadmill or pretending to know how to use one of the weight machines, in my mind all I see is that jerk with the torch who broke some of the bolts off of Willy’s tank and started the whole cherade of trying to move a 3-ton killer whale from here to anywhere! You can imagine how much actual exercise I get done during periods when they’ve got the pool drained for maintenance … well, actually I can understand how it might be difficult imagining me exercising at all, so let me just say that even far less ends up getting accomplished when I’ve got the proverbial weight of an orca’s well-being on my shoulders…

Unfortunately, as far as I can tell there is no real solution to particular predicament of mine, for pools tend to get rather icky smelling if they’re not cleaned on a regular basis and my ability to go back in time to prevent Willy from ever being placed into harms way in the first place in that fictional tale is probably quite limited as well, and besides, just think of all of the horrendous, free him again-based sequels that I’d be depriving the world of if I were to accomplish such a feat! I mean, I think right now they’re even working on Free Willy 2027: Whales in Space – I simply couldn’t knowingly put those hard-working idiots out of work even to save myself a meager phobia such as this.

My only other option, really, is simply to steer clear of the local swimming hole during maintenance season and hope that somebody else will step up to keep an eye out for evil-doers with regards to the plights of captive marine life are concerned. Where’s Michael Jackson when you need him?!

I’ve been having some weird dreams lately.

And no, not the kind that make your significant other go “Ewww – you pig!” before committing you to a week of sleepless nights out on the couch … although those are certainly fun, too! No, instead we’re talking more along the lines of those dreams that you try to repeat in your head over and over again as soon as you wake up because really, even in your dreams, just how many chances do you get to chase that ex-girlfriend who ripped your heart out back in ’97 through Times Square while riding on a purple dragon whose voice sounds surprisingly like Samuel L. Jackson’s, emphatic vulgarities and all?! So far I’ve gotten three of those awesomely bitter flights … well, technically four, but during one she managed to lose us by taking cover amidst the middle of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade so that one sort of ended on a sour note. It was particularly sad to see Snoopy get caught in the crossfire that night, but we all know that some breakups can be ugly…

Of course, it’s not always flying dragons and flaming insurance mascots that float through this warped mind in the wee hours of the night. Sometimes I find myself swimming with orcas in the Sea of Gibraltar or bungee-jumping off the Eiffel Tower during the largest fireworks display that the City of Paris has ever seen … boy, was that one to wake a guy up in a cold sweat! But as life-threatening as so many of my nighttime stories seem to be, I guess I should be fortunate that dreams tend to deviate as far from normal, everyday life as they do. As much as I could do without waking up every twenty minutes because I’m being chased through the mall by velociraptors on what began as a mild-mannered trip to buy some hazelnut-scented candles for Mother’s Day, it sure beats eight to ten hours of aimlessly wandering the aisles of my local Wal-Mart Stupid Center because they keep changing the shelf-placement of the canned beets on me! Now that’s what I call a real nightmare!

You’ve gotta admit, though, as much fun as it can be to see what sort of bizarre, candy-coated dream world your mind will send you plummeting through each night after you’ve gone through a carton and a half of Ben and Jerry’s and finally concluded that there’s absolutely nothing worth watching on TV after The Late Late, Even Almost Early Show, it would be pretty sweet to get to pick our own adventures … even just every once in a while. And not simply for those adult encounters – you know, with tax forms and liability insurance and other things that grown-ups like to do – but what if, for example, I got to pick which kind of dragon I would be chasing poor Stacey* on through the streets of Lower Manhattan (* heart-breaking ex-girlfriend’s name has been changed to leave all of my ex-girlfriends guessing … right, as if they’d start reading my columns after we broke up!). I could fly on the shoulders of Xavier, the gold dragon, whose metallic armor blinds our enemies (well, mostly traffic copters in this particular scenario) as we soar through the streets in pursuit of justice and my I Love the ‘80s CD collection that “Stacey” conveniently “forgot” to give back. Or perhaps I would choose to mount Harvey, the aggressive blue dragon who leaves a trail of death and destruction nearly as shocking as the slew of frat-bound losers that Stacey went through after tossing this Dungeons & Dragons-loving dork to the curb when she found out that we both had very different ideas of what role playing really entailed…

So maybe my dreams are simply a front to seek a fiery revenge on those members of the opposite sex who have betrayed my honor and trust in the past, but ultimately I think that’s ok because if you were to consult any of them on their own favorite dreams along those same lines, while they might involve chasing me around on unicorns with big, sharp horns on their heads (the unicorns, not the ex-girlfriends, mind you … although…), I can assure you that in none of those scenarios would it be very likely that we’re just playing tag, if you know what I mean!

Still, as far as I’m concerned, the deadliest game of tag is still considerably more inviting than that Wal-Mart dream where the only thing falling faster than the prices are the sanity levels of the happy Wal-Mart zombies. Maybe if the big blue started selling dragon food, you might be able to peak my interest for a couple of winks, but what are the chances of anyone willingly eating food that came out of a Wal-Mart Sewer Center?!

Something tells me that I’ve got to stop watching fantasy movies this close to my bedtime…

What did I ever do to you?

No – seriously, I’ll be the first to admit that I haven’t the foggiest idea what it’s like being a dog, but I’m thinking … and this is just taking a long shot out of left field (that’s a baseball analogy, if you’ve never seen the game before) … that between laying around all day, having all of your food and water served to you, and having your own personalized escort every time you have to go to the bathroom, life can’t be all that difficult for you canines in the grand scheme of things. I never see you headed off to work early in the morning or coming home late after a long day at the office, just to put food in your family’s bowl, nor do I ever run into you at Wal-Mart, cursing all of the other idiot shoppers because they wouldn’t know aisle etiquette if it hit them square in the tail. Frankly, I don’t know where all of your pent up frustration comes from because for all I can tell, you’re living on easy street and you’ve even got a guy to clean up after you!

That said, I have but one question for you on this otherwise pleasant evening – what’s with all the damn barking?!

Day in, day out – you never stop. And I don’t even mean “never” sarcastically, as in you do it an awful lot, but in the actual literal sense of the word. Your doggy vocal cords must be made out of some sort of super-advanced, space-age alloy because if I spent half of the time yelling that you do barking, I’d have the worst case of laryngitis the medical community has ever seen…

…and more importantly, I should note – I’d also be out of an apartment because my disgustingly courteous neighbors, even in their seemingly infinite kindness, still wouldn’t be able to tolerate such obnoxious, constant noise. You see, here in the human world, we’ve got this thing called etiquette that we try to live by to keep from wanting to strangle one another in our sleep. It covers everything from cleaning up after yourself when you somehow manage to spill have a gallon of ice cream in the middle of the sidewalk, not sleeping with your neighbor’s wife no matter how hot she is compared to whatever you settled for, and just between you and me, one of the big ones is also the noise factor. This means that while it would certainly be convenient for you to watch The Neverending Story on your big, manly sound system or get to work on retiling the bathroom floor at 3:00am, you would nonetheless hold off on such activities until the next day because your neighbors may very well be trying to sleep during these ungodly hours of the night.

I’m writing you this evening because, while the laws of the human world don’t traditionally apply to mutts like yourselves, and I mean that in the nicest possible way, I was hoping that you might throw me a bone here and make it feasible for me to not strangle your owners in their sleep over being such inanely inconsiderate jerks. I mean, I know that you’re just a dog, but then again, Benji and Underdog were also just dogs and look at all of the amazing things that they both were able to accomplish in their own respective careers! Surely you can see where I’m coming from that after a long and arduous day of doing nothing, a nice, relaxing evening of silence would be like an everlasting supply of Beggin’ Strips or a good, long scratch right behind the ears where you just can’t quite reach yourself – simply divine, to say the very least.

Really, all I ask is for a break in the ongoing chatter every now and then. I know that you’ve still got needs when it comes to accosting the UPS delivery guy or those weird friends that the kids sometimes bring home from school, and I’m certainly not trying to step on your paws in those regards. I’m simply asking that for those lesser events, such as when the wind blows or when I change the channel on my TV across the hall, you take a pass and save up those ferocious barks of yours for a more suitable occasion. And you know what? When your owners come stumbling in stone-cold drunk at 2:00am, tripping over shoes and waking up the entire building, by all means go to town! I’m all for sticking it to those who’ve got it coming and believe you me, their intoxicated meanderings have gotten on my nerves a time or three as well…

…but in the same right, I think you can agree that you really don’t have a beef with me. I’ve never personally stepped on your tail or rubbed your nose in your own poo – I’d never do that to you. I’m sure this all probably just some sort of misunderstanding and one day in the not-so-distant future we’ll laugh about it over a bowl of toilet water and some of those fake cheese snausages that you love so much. But before we rejoice and share in such camraderie, I’ve got to get some sleep, so if you could just do me this one little favor and keep it down to a dull roar, that’d be mighty neighborly of you.

Yours from across the hall,
- Scott

P.S. This may be a tall order, but if you could also please not poop in my sandals when I leave them outside the door to dry off, I’d appreciate it…

I have a new theory that I want to run by you all today.

It’s pretty complex, so I hope you brought a pencil and something to wipe your brow off with afterwards, but just try to keep up. It’s a theory that I’ve sadly put far more research time into lately than I really care to admit, and it goes a little something like this:

“The more time people spend at Wal-Mart, the stupider they become.”
…and…
“Wal-Mart is like fly paper for stupid people.”
…so to sum things up…
“Boy, there sure are a lot of stupid people (who aren’t me) shopping at Wal-Mart!”

Ok, so it’s actually more like three theories, but maybe if I hadn’t spent an hour and a half waiting in line to buy more Cheese Doodles at Wal-Mart earlier this afternoon, I’d have caught that on the first pass! You see, if there’s one thing I’ve noticed during my experiences in and around the shopping establishments of this fine nation, it’s that there’s definitely a bit of an intellectual variance when comparing one store’s patrons to another’s. Of course, I myself don’t count in that mix, nor do any of you, my brilliant readers, but present company near and far excluded, I don’t necessarily think it would be out of line to proclaim that most of the store’s other patrons are more than a just a few bargains shy of a family dinner out at the Sizzler, if you know what I mean …

I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something about paying $7 for a pair of shoes or $1.99 for the Complete Collection of Johnny Cash’s Greatest Hits that pretty much disables any lingering possibility of cognitive thought amongst the true bargain hunters of the world, or at least that’s been the case for all of the morons, idiots, and hose heads that I’ve come across down those gloomy, smiley-face-laden aisles over the years. I mean, what other explanation could there possibly be for someone to park her shopping cart smack dab in the middle of the cereal aisle while she frantically tears the shelves apart in search of a breakfast item with 2 calories per serving and -40g of fat because she’s on a “diet,” all the while talking to her girlfriend about the pool boy’s wonderful “technique” on a cell phone earpiece that makes her look like a cyborg while her children squeal with delight as they pelt each other with boxes of Frosted Flakes at the other end of the aisle?!

And I don’t mean to pick on Wal-Mart because I, too, have once felt the joy of falling prices as their plummet brought that much-coveted comforter set vaguely into my financial reach, despite the fact that it would be reduced to mere threads and dust bunnies only weeks later because you can’t really expect much for “quality” out of people who get paid “six cents a day.” All I’m saying is that I’ve observed more examples than Angelina Jolie has adopted children of common sense and common courtesy being thrust swiftly out the nearest window as folks step through those automated doors to low, low prices. There’s no crime in saving a few bucks on what’s honestly a truly hideous pair of sweatpants that no one, not even the cashier, should in their right mind let you spend your hard-earned money on, but there is a crime in nearly mowing me down in the parking lot on your way to purchase said hideous sweatpants because it is true that, in fact, you are the one driver in the country who is permitted to drive literally as fast as your car can go in even the shortest of parking lot distances!

I don’t think that I ask for much – just don’t risk my life for a pair of sweatpants … and hideous sweatpants at that, ok?

So I think it’s time that Wal-Mart identify this pertinent issue of a lack of brainpower in its customers and address it in really the only truly feasible method – require IQ tests from all of your customers before they’re allowed to take advantage of those low, low prices that you covet so much. In fact, you can even take a stand and encourage education by offering different prices based on how well the shopper performed on the test!

Anything Under 80 Points (below average) - You’re paying roughly double what you would pay for items now, plus your cell phone is confiscated at the door. The extra prices help to pay for the babysitters that are provided so that your children aren’t a burden to everyone else while you’re shopping.

Scores Between 90 and 110 (average) – You get the low prices at checkout, but not quite the low, low prices that are offered to the stores brightest shoppers. Try buying a few books with those discounts to bump yourself up to the next level!

Scores Above 120 (highly intelligent, not unlike you and me) – Being brilliant has its perks as you enjoy the lowest prices in the store, checkout lanes that can be traversed without worry of growing old, and of course, special aisle enforcement that restricts anyone from the first two categories from being in the same aisle as you at the same time. This will be maintained by uniformed agents, tazers, and Tickle Me Elmo sales as necessary.

Come on, heirs of Sam Walton – it’s time to make Wal-Mart the store that you’ve always wanted … one that’s so prestigious that you’re the only ones allowed to shop there! Let the sanity of us few take precedence over the wallets and need for generic potato chips of many! Don’t let Wal-Mart become the K-Mart of the 21^st century, mainly because I need to come buy a new pair of shorts from you this weekend and so far all I’ve been able to scrape up is four dollar bills and a handful of change…

I guess Forrest Gump was right – life is like a box of chocolates.

In fact, given the upcoming holiday, I’d even go so far as to say that love is like a box of chocolates, for a number of reasons that we’re about to go through right here in our annual Comedic-Genius Tribute to Valentine’s Day: The Greatest Hustle This Side of National Arbor Day.

*pause for trumpeting fanfare*

You see, out of all of the heart-laden teddy bears and strawberry-scented bubble baths that come out of the woodwork for this quasi-romantic holiday, I tend to turn a blind eye in their general direction in favor of an alternative gift that not only shows someone just how much you care, but also does its part to help provide vital fuel for her body in the form of rich, creamy, milk-chocolaty calories! They say that the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, right? No wait, I guess that’s us guys, whereas the way to a woman’s heart passes by Tiffany’s, Bath & Body Works, and at least three of those fancy, high-end department stores where the crazy ladies try to spray perfume on you even though by now it should be painfully clear that you’re simply not a Mystique kind of guy…

Nonetheless, I’ve yet to encounter a woman who deep down couldn’t appreciate a classy box of her favorite sweets on Valentine’s Day, even if she refused to actually partake in them before retreating to her secret snack cave so that she would be well out of view of any of her girlfriends while she went to town on bonbon after bonbon of deliciousness like a herd of wild water buffalos loose in a field of whatever the heck water buffalos eat! I’ve known women who would openly kill anyone who dare get between them and their bonbons, and that’s even simply on any random Tuesday while she’s swooning over The Young and the Restless … when was the last time that you saw life being threatened over some cheap roses and a semi-cute, pink elephant plush from Wal-Mart?! On a day as important as this, guys, don’t leave the immediate future of your sex life in the paws of novelty. This is no time to get creative – old and reliable wins the race when it comes to not sleeping on the couch on February 14th.

Of course, that said, despite the classic heart-shaped box being somewhat of an easy win when it comes to Valentine’s Day, special care must still be exerted to ensure that the box of deliciousness given isn’t inadvertently filled with lemon crème or pistachio general gross-ness because while boxed chocolates can certainly be the high road to success on the day of love, said perceived victory can quickly turn to sour defeat when it is realized that your girlfriend, wife, or miscellaneous female acquaintance isn’t one of the three people on the planet who actually enjoy these truly nasty fillings! All it takes is a quick read of that little map on the back of the box, though – remember, it’s all about doing your homework when you’re trying to take the easy way out!

Just be thankful that Valentine’s Day comes but once a year because otherwise, if she could pick up a box of these chocolaty, little love morsels on any given Must-See TV Thursday night, well … I don’t think I need to tell you just how not screwed we’d all be, guys! Of course, either way there are lessons to be learned from such a simple $9.95 box of happiness – sometimes the best gifts really do come in small packages, and sometimes all a woman is really looking for is just a bit of sweetness in her life. Mind you, sometimes she’s just as apt to go off on you for buying her chocolates when in truth she’s the one self-conscious about her own looks because she’s been slacking on that New Years resolution diet that she had gotten so drunkenly excited about at roughly 3:43am on New Years day, which while technically isn’t even remotely your fault, you’ll still take the brunt of for reasons of logic and courtesy unknown…

Come to think of it, sometimes you’re better off waiting until after Valentine’s Day when you can get pretty much the same thing for merely a fraction of the cost, and whether I’m still talking about chocolates or have since moved on to a more broad topic … I’ll leave that for you to decide! Happy Valentine’s Day, good luck, and be sure to steer clear of the coconut almond ones – who thinks up some of these combinations, anyways?!

I’ve got an interesting predicament on my hands, and by “interesting,” I actually mean “lazy”…

You see, I’ve got a couple of packages that have been sitting on my counter for several weeks now – I think they’re some goofy kind of screw hooks or something that I thought I needed for a project that I was working on, but apparently I must’ve gotten by without them because they’ve never actually been opened. I need to just return them to Wal-Mart and be done with them, but therein lies my predicament of the hour – I, as a grown, certified male adult, have the memory of your average kumquat. No offense any kumquats that might happen to be reading this column, of course.

Now I know that I’m not the only guy who has this sort of problem because I see their own piles of miscellaneous junk that needs to be returned on their counters whenever I come over to do manly things (read: play video games and tell dirty jokes). But don’t get me wrong, I’m not implying that this particular issue is lumped in with the standard male behavior of forgetting all sorts of other important pieces of information (i.e. birthdays, anniversaries, children’s names) – I think this is a special case because consider this: you never really see anything of value just lying around, waiting to be returned, now do you?

If it’s a defective DVD player, an unwanted movie, or even just some random piece of sports equipment for an activity that you’ve never even played before that was bought for you by a relative who had received certain insight from your significant other that maybe you’d spend more time outside if you had, oh say, a tennis racket or something, those all manage to skirt their way to the top of the ‘ole memory list because hey, they’ve got a little value to them that we should be able to trade in for something that we actually do want! It’s been months since Christmas and I still haven’t seen the tennis court, but man, is that new King Kong game for the X-Box 360 sweet…

I’m probably going to paint myself into a proverbial corner, but I might even be so bold as to say that it’s a woman thing because in all of my years of knowing the female gender and all that they are worth, I can’t think of a single instance of where one of my lady friends ever “had something to return” because within a matter of seconds after realizing that it’s not the right shade / style / denomination, they were already waiting in line at that desk for their $1.29 back so that they could get the pink pens instead of the black ones.

It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but I assure you that I just couldn’t make this kind of stuff up – I once waited for a girlfriend for twenty minutes because she had grabbed a pack of grape gum and she was actually interested in more of a strawberry-banana concoction … that’s right, twenty minutes for a pack of gum. I didn’t want to brag, but I could’ve bought her one of every flavor in the display – that’s just how I roll – but ultimately we all know that it wouldn’t have mattered anyways. It was the principle of the thing, or something like that – I really stopped paying attention after about the twelve-minute mark…

The morale of my story is, well, I’m really not sure, but it sure killed a nice chunk of time that I could’ve otherwise wasted standing in line at the customer service desk, didn’t it? As far as when my screw hooks will actually get returned, well, your guess is as good as mine, but if anybody’s going to the store, would you mind picking me up a pack of gum? I’m in the mood for strawberry…

Wait – no, make that grape.