Cleaning Up Poop In Paradise

[Caution:   Squeamish?  Have good taste?  Read the title again and then don't say I didn't warn you.]

I've lived in Hawai'i for over 13 years and I love it.  There are many reasons why I enjoy it so much -- the weather, the culture, the geology, the natural beauty, the fact that our one measly Electoral College vote means we don't have to listen to very many obnoxious Presidential Election campaign ads.

However there are costs to residing in (near) Paradise.  We locals call these "Paradise Taxes," and although we gripe about them we are also glad they exist, otherwise everybody would want to live here. The most obvious one is implied in the term "cost" -- Hawai'i is an expensive place to live in terms of housing, food, energy, all of which are about 30-35% higher than on the mainland, sometimes more depending on the category.  For example, we pay about four times more for electricity per kilowatt hour here than we did on the mainland.

But there are also less obvious costs, one of which is the subject of this blog -- the trials and tribulations of cleaning up poop. 

That's right, there's a lot of poop in paradise and if you're a conscientious home owner you have to learn to deal with it way more than if you live on the mainland US.  I'm not talking about your usual pet poop, which of course is the same here as anywhere.  I'm talking about "critter crap" that is perhaps unique to our constant and benign climate.

There are at least a couple of ways to discuss the scope and characteristics of the maintenance challenge of poop. One is to examine the different categories of poop based on variations in the qualities of the target substance.  Another is to talk about the major sources of poop and how they differ in the maintenance efforts required.  I've chosen the second approach for this blog because it will more clearly contrast living here versus on the mainland since the major sources aren't likely to be encountered by mainland residents.

Source 1:  Geckos 

Culprit 1

I've written extensively about these little lizards in my blog, "More Than You Ever Wanted To Know About Geckos."  The most common type, the Gold Dust Gecko was introduced to Hawai'i from Madagascar in the 1970's and has become a common feature both outside and inside of most households.  In my earlier blog I mentioned the poop problem just briefly so now I'll explain more about it.

We tolerate geckos because they are very good natural controllers of flying insects, and because we find their intelligence and social nature very endearing. However, "bugs-in-poop-out." Given the open nature of most houses in Hawai'i, including ours, geckos are almost bound to find their way indoors and no screen door or window can prevent this.  We try to keep their numbers low by catching and re-locating as many as we can, but invariably there are a few who manage to take up residence inside -- which means we must deal with their poop until we can catch them.

Geckos are like cats in that they tend to go in the same place every time.  They prefer to do it dangling, usually choosing a high beam or a piece of corner molding to do their business, which is in the form of a small missile about the size of a grain of rice.  If these hit carpeting or a hard flat surface cleaning them up is pretty easy with a vacuum or a broom (best to let them dry first, otherwise they smear).  However, if the poop strikes the wall or the floor molding on its way down things are more difficult. Some ingredient in Gecko poop seems to allow it to bond very strongly to housepaint.  This produces dark streaks on walls or dark spots on molding that are very difficult to remove, and the longer you wait the worse it is in terms of both quantity and the tenaciousness of the bonds.  Besides the daily cleanup of the missiles, we try to go on regular "poop patrols" around the house to wash the walls and molding.  If you wait too long the only remedy is another coat of paint. We've learned that it helps to repaint with a glossier finish, but this doesn't totally eliminate the problem.

Source 2:  Myna Birds

Culprit 2

This poop source was introduced to Hawai'i from Asia in 1866 to control insects in sugar cane fields (see the Bishop Museum's authoritative account ).  Although this worked, the myna adapted very well and is now considered a nuisance by many residents due to a number of rather obnoxious traits (a nice succinct description is in the Hawai'i Nature Journal).  To the list I will now add Myna Bird Poop.

Mynas are omnivores, meaning they will eat ANYthing, including the aforementioned geckos that live outside (I suspect this is one reason geckos find living indoor environments attractive, despite less food and having to deal with irate humans).  During fledgling season mynas have discovered that geckos are a good source of protein for their chicks, and they hunt them relentlessly around our decks (lanai's).  And while they're doing that they poop.  Lots.  And sometimes while flying.

The result?  Many splatto's on the tops of the wood railings that go along our lanai's (their favorite hunting grounds), on the wooden deck surfaces below the railings, and on the flagstone around our swimming pool.  The poop-while-flying resembles something from a military plane on a strafing run -- a splat of poop that can be several inches long.  Like gecko poop, this also can bond to paint if you don't clean it quickly, and it penetrates the surface of porous sandstone making it very difficult to clean up unless you periodically seal the stone with a special (expensive) product.

Unlike our catch-and-release program with geckos, we have no control options with mynas other that shouting and clapping our hands to scare them off.  Unfortunately this doesn't work very well, and we probably look like crazy people.

Source 3: Turkeys

Culprit Maximus

A number of different types of turkeys have been introduced to Hawai'i over the last 200 years, but the ones that are most common now were brought from the mainland U.S. in the early 1960's.  Like the gecko and the myna bird, turkeys have increased in numbers very quickly and now are found in almost every neighborhood walking down the streets, roosting in monkey pod trees, and marauding through people's gardens (see my blog, "The Curious Case of the Kona Coyote," for more).  

Turkeys travel in flocks, leaving a swath of poop as they go that can be astonishingly nasty. Turkey poop is hands-down the worst excrement we have to deal with in terms of quantity, variety, and gag-reflex-producing olfactory and visual obnoxiousness.

Our first encounter with Turkey poop was on a rainy day not long after we moved here.  Turkeys were still a novelty to us and we found them interesting and sort of endearing.  A female turkey and one of her young offspring took refuge from the rain by roosting on one of our lanai railings.  How cute, we thought, as we took a couple of photos.  On the third shot I could see in the viewfinder a remarkable stream of brown liquid shooting first from Mama Turkey and then from Junior, both streams hitting the deck with a sound that was reminiscent of spilling brownie batter on a kitchen floor. The analogy stops there, however, as I found when gagging during the cleanup operation.

Not long after that incident I was sweeping another lanai one day when I discovered the most amazing pile of poop I have ever seen with maybe the exception of elephant droppings (which don't stink nearly as much, by the way).  Yup, a turkey had found the railing a good place to park for awhile -- long enough to repeatedly poop in the same place, building up the mound so that it resembled one of our island's volcanoes.  The magnitude of this pile was so incredible I took photos of it, but I'll spare you the sight -- let's just say it was 3-4 inches tall and really foul-smelling.  The deck surface here was flagstone and when I washed off the poop I found it had stained the stone badly and it was very difficult to remove.

I quickly rigged up a string system to keep turkeys from roosting there in the future, and I try to re-apply stone sealer regularly.  I also chase the flocks whenever I catch them in our yard, brandishing a broom as I run toward them yelling and shouting (again, crazy person?).  This seems to work, though I find they keep testing me to see if I'm still vigilant -- every once in a while I find a nice dollop in my driveway to remind me they're still around.

So there you have it.  Paradise is not perfect.  We have to struggle with homeowner problems that are perhaps unique but like elsewhere require effort, expense, and time to confront them.  Perhaps this will give you some solace as you huddle around your heat vent this winter.

Could I send you a nice holiday turkey?

"I'll Be Right Back" -- And Other Famous Last Words

I've already confessed to having a warped sense of humor in several earlier blogs (see It's A Guy Thing, Why I Hate Liver,  Geezer Olympics: Competive Complaining, or What, Me Worry?).  It's time for another installment.  Warning:  this qualifies as an addition to my TMI or Oversharing series....

Things can be funny to me even when (or maybe because) the situation ordinarily calls for somber reflection, philosophical erudition, and compassionate consolation. Take death, for example.

There is nothing inherently funny about the final proof of our mortality. In fact, it can be terrifying if it is our own end we are contemplating, and terribly sad if involves someone who died before their time or if it is accompanied by unnecessary suffering. Still, the concept of death is maybe too often treated as simply negative -- anything that is inevitable should perhaps also be seen as having a lighter side.

One source of humor about death comes from the last words someone utters, often referred to as "famous last words" even when the words aren't attributable to famous people.  One of the funniest treatments of last words of some real historical figures is by Ian Cheesman of Cracked.Com, and I make no pretense at even coming close to the humorously warped level of his presentation (see Cheeseman, part 1 and part 2).  By the way, the fact that I'm linking to Cracked.Com should tell you something about my sense of humor.  Cheesman introduces his analysis this way:

"Everyone hopes to leave a legacy. To be remembered after our passing is the closest thing humans have to immortality, at least until cryogenics figures out how to reanimate Walt Disney's head. Some people try to pull off immortality with a lifetime of achievements and noble acts. But why piss away all that energy on altruism when you can simply spout one badass quote before you take the dirt nap and live on through eternity known as a guy who needed a second casket for his ....[censored]?"  (Cheesman, 2008, part 1)

Cheesman's choices include serial killer Carl Panzram just before being executed in Indiana (Hurry up, you Hoosier bastard, I could kill ten men while you're fooling around!"), Chief Sitting Bull confronting the soldiers who killed him ("I'm not going. Do with me what you like. Come on! Come on! Take action!  Let's go!"), Joan Crawford on her death bed when someone started to pray for her ("Damn it, don't you DARE ask God to help me."), and Karl Marx when someone asked him for his last thoughts ("Go away! Last words are for fools who haven't said enough!"). Ok, I admit some of these aren't so much funny as admirably gutsy, but Cheesman's analysis that accompanies them is very funny and definitely my kind of humor -- I really recommend it.

In addition to the last words that famous people have said, there are quite a few that have been made up by some very warped minds -- kindred spirits to me.  Most of these pertain to situations where the speaker doesn't know these will be his or her last words (a key element in the humor, I suppose, and it helps to picture the situation). Here's a sample from various sources, including yours truly (for more go to Funny.com):

• "Hold my beer and watch this..."
• "Let's just keep on ignoring it and it will probably go away...."
• "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing...."
• "It doesn't look that deep to me...."
• "I know a great shortcut......"
• "They look friendly...."
• "We need something stronger to get this fire going....."
• "Did you hear something?"
• "What does this button do?"
• "I wonder where the mother bear is?"
• "Look ma! no hands!"
• "I'm sure this isn't the poisonous kind...."
• "All you have to do is connect these two wires...."
• "Stupid safety labels....
• "Lightning never hits the same spot twice"
• "Manual?  Who needs to read the dumb manual!" 

A final (pun intended) source of funny last words comes from tombstones.  Cemeteries are rich sources of information about a culture (see "My Favorite Cemeteries"), and the inscriptions on the grave markers can at times be very humorous -- in a warped kind of way.  Some of the cutest are epitaphs found on the 13 family tombstones at the Haunted Mansion attraction in Disney World and Disney Land.  The names on the markers are all actual people who worked on the design or construction of the mansion, but the nature of their passing is made up  Here's a sample: 

• Rest in Peace – Cousin Huet – We All Know – You Didn’t Do It 
• Here rests Wathel R. Bender – He rode to glory – On a Fender
• Here lies good old Fred – A great big rock – Fell on his head R.I.P. 
• In memorium Uncle Myall – You’ll lie here – for a quite a while

If you do an internet search for "funny tombstones" or something similar, you'll find most of the results repeat the same list of epitaphs and it is difficult to know if the authors actually saw the graves or are just re-posting the same list over and over.  Even so the sayings are still humorous.  Here's a few I like, taken from a great blog called My Wintersong, who is at least specific as to the location of the graves:

Memory of an accident in a Uniontown, Pennsylvania cemetery:
Here lies the body
of Jonathan Blake

Stepped on the gas
Instead of the brake.

In a Silver City, Nevada, cemetery:
Here lays Butch,
We planted him raw.

He was quick on the trigger,
But slow on the draw.

A lawyer’s epithet in England: 

Sir John Strange
Here lies an honest lawyer,
And that is Strange.

Lester Moore was a Wells, Fargo Co. station agent for Naco, Arizona in the cowboy days of the 1880′s. He’s buried in the Boot Hill Cemetery in Tombstone, Arizona:
Here lies Lester Moore
Four slugs from a .44
No Les No More.

On a grave from the 1880′s in Nantucket, Massachusetts:
Under the sod and under the trees
Lies the body of Jonathan Pease.
He is not here, there’s only the pod:
Pease shelled out and went to God.

And "finally"

In a Thurmont, Maryland, cemetery:
Here lies an Atheist
All dressed up
And no place to go

Ok, that's enough.  If you want to add your own suggestions or favorite last words, just post them as comments or email them to me and I'll include them (anonymously, in case you're still in the closet about your warpedness......)
------------------------------------------------
Update:

See the comments for some reader suggested last words.  Also, here's an anecdote and an actual newspaper obituary that a friend who researches sports fan identity collected:

• Accepting that the end was near, the funny grandfather and great-grandfather said earlier in the day there was an upside to death: at least he wouldn't have to watch another Bengals loss 
• He respectfully requests six Cleveland Browns pallbearers so the Browns can let him down one last time.

Geezer Olympics: Competitive Complaining

[Note: Yes, this is yet another blog in my Geezerhood series. I usually advise younger readers to go amuse themselves in some other way, but in this case they might find the topic pertinent.]

My blog on "Geezerhood Can Suck" got a lot of responses, including one from a long-time friend who expressed sympathy but then said he was refraining from commenting further in order to avoid "competitive complaining."  Thanks, D.P. for stimulating this little essay.

Well, my warped sense of humor was immediately tickled by the phrase "competitive complaining."  I then did what any red-blooded fading intellectual would do.  I Googled it.

Yup, there at the top of the results were links to two pages with that exact phrase.  Both of them were blogs by university students -- one at Tufts and the other at Carnegie Mellon.  The one by the Tufts blogger illustrated the phenomenon particularly well with a made-up conversation between several students approaching exam week (Student D obviously wins):

Student A: “This weekend is going to be absolute hell. I have an econ problem set and two papers to write.”
Student B: "Ugh, I know. I have three research papers and it’s gonna take hours to finish all the programming I have to do.”
Student C: “Whatever, at least your thesis isn’t due in like, three days.”
Student D: ”Oh yeah? Well four of my professors decided to schedule their finals five days in advance. Plus I have eight theses underway, I have to translate three Chinese novels into Swahili, and I’m performing in the Mongolian Culture Show for peace in the Middle East...."

This is clearly a negative version of conversational one-upsmanship where each participant tries to outdo the others in a strategy of "bet-you-can't-top-this!"  It's also an illustration of the social psychological phenomenon of Impression Management in which we attempt to control the attributions others make of us.  Note that in the example above, the students have prepared others (and maybe themselves) to attribute their potentially poor academic performance to external circumstances rather than to low ability, bad time management, or perhaps to a lack of willpower when it comes to beer and partying. Of course this only works if the obstacles listed are plausible and not under control of the student giving them.  Student D's litany of difficulties walks a fine line between the two but does so magnificently.  Note that D has covered his/her bases very well -- a bad performance can be explained away as not the student's fault, and a good performance will suggest superior capabilities because it was achieved in the face of tremendous challenges.

As I read these two blogs by the university students I began to realize that competitive complaining is hardly the sole provenance of young people --  it also characterizes a lot of the conversations I have with other Geezers.  In fact, I'd say Geezers can complain rings around these young whippersnappers and would easily win in any competitive complaining contest. The young'ns are mere novices in this sport and getting to our Olympic level of performance will require lots more training -- years' worth, I'd say.  We Geezers have also perfected a number of specialized forms of competitive complaining, like "Prescription-Pill-Problem Parrying," "Frugality Fencing," "Travel-Woe Takedown," and the ever-popular "Politician Pummeling."

There are at least three reasons for our superior complaining ability.  First we have been doing it for a long, long time. And as they say, "practice makes perfect."  Second, we have way more serious things to complain about, like diseases, surgeries, and how inconsiderate our adult children are.

Third, we have personal historical perspectives on a very broad range of topics that give us a rich repertoire of complaints.  For example, a twenty-something complaining to a Geezer about the current state of the economy or the level of violent conflict in the world today will be buried by the Geezer's recollection of past personal experiences of depressions, recessions, and wars -- no contest at all.  And of course the coup de gras is the Geezer's comparison of each contestant's future time-line, a technique guaranteed to elicit sympathy and a concession of defeat:  "Ah, well you're young and have plenty of time to see things turn around and get your life in order.  Me?  Well..., you know how it is.  I doubt I'll live long enough to see things get much better...."  Top that, whippersnapper!

I've also been in conversations where competitive complaining has made attributions for a Geezer's positive performance even more positive, though these are less common.  Imagine the following exchange among Geezers at the gym:

A:  "Hey Guys, how's it going?  Haven't seen you for a long time. I pulled a leg muscle and haven't been working out much lately."
Geezer B:  "Oh, well I've been forcing myself to come even though I'm recuperating from my knee replacements.  Gotta do all that painful physical therapy, you know?"
Geezer C:  "Oh, boy do I.  I had both knees done, three toes amputated, a pin put in my ankle, and a hip replaced last summer.  Really slowed me down in the Fall when the wife and I scaled Kilimanjaro, hiked the Inca Trail, and trekked to Everest base camp." 

Geezers A and B have not only lost the competitive complaining contest, they are probably thinking Geezer C is some kind of Superman, which of course is C's ego-boosting payoff.  (Indeed, if he really did those things, I'd say he is.)

Don't get me wrong.  I acknowledge that Geezers have legitimate complaints about a range of difficulties that face them, particularly those involving health and finances.  But I think that competitive complaining in a group conversation may be serving functions for Geezers that are similar to those for the young university students approaching exam week described above.  By focusing on obstacles and issues that are not under our control, we Geezers prepare others to attribute our limitations and degraded performance to those factors, rather than to our lack of effort, unhealthy diet or slovenly habits.  For Geezers, competitive complaining establishes a public basis for pardoning our failure to take responsibility for doing what we can, despite the challenges of aging. Although this may be effective in managing the impression others have of us, it can be also be very dysfunctional to the extent we come to believe our own excuses -- see my blog on The Power of Negative Thinking. The irony of competitive complaining is that it may be self-fulfilling -- we may unwittingly worsen the problems about which we are complaining.

And of course the irony of this blog is that I'm complaining about competitive complaining.  Hmmm.  I may have just invented a new form of the game: "Meta-Competitive Complaining," or competitive complaining about competitive complaining.  Top that!!
___________________________________________________
The Geezerhood Series so far:

Geezerhood Can Suck
Embracing Your Inner Geezer
How to Compress Your Morbidity
The Power of Negative Thinking
Thoughts for a New Year
So, What Do You Do All Day?
Jogging the Memory of a Geezer
Decision Making In Geezerhood
Don't Go To Your 50th High School Reunion!
Taste Buds Are Wasted On The Young!

It's a Guy Thing

My sister recently forwarded me a story that has been circulating on the internet for quite some time, though I have never seen it before.   I'll quote it below, then make some comments about whether it is true or not.  Right now, though, you should know that I was gasping for breath from laughing when I read it.  In short, you have been forewarned that this is my kind of humor (see What, Me Worry? for an analysis of what makes me laugh):

Pocket Tazer Stun Gun, a great gift for the wife. A guy who purchased his lovely wife a pocket Tazer for their anniversary submitted this:
Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized Tazer.

The effects of the Tazer were supposed to be short lived, with no long term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety...??

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home... I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second) and then thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised.

Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and Tazer in another.
 The directions said that:
a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant;
a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; and
a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water.

Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries.

All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5" long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference (loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries); pretty cute really, and thinking to myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side so as to say, 'Don't do it stupid,' reasoning that a one second burst from such a tiny lil ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad.. I decided to give myself a one second burst just for heck of it.

I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and...

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION. WHAT THE... !!!

I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs! The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note:
If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a Tazer,
one note of caution:

There is NO such thing as a one second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor!
A three second burst would be considered conservative!

My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace.

My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching.

My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs.

I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I had crapped in my shorts, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone.

I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head, which I believe came from my hair.

I'm still looking for my testicles and I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return!

PS: My wife can't stop laughing about my experience, loved the gift and now regularly threatens me with it!
 

If you think education is difficult, try being stupid!!!!

This story has been circulating since 2004, and although it has never been determined for sure that it is just a wildly funny made-up tale, there are strong hints that it is just that.  Most telling is that the story has changed over the years by being updated and expanded -- for example, in the original story it was Jessie Ventura who was the pro-wrester instead of Hulk Hogan.  You can compare the version above with the original available on  Snopes.com, my favorite site for researching stuff like this.  Despite the strong possibility it didn't really happen, it is still very funny indeed.  Oh, and a little quick Googling reveals that such devices do, in fact exist.  For example,  at BestStunGun.Com you can buy one for about $70 that is the size of a pen, generates 800,000 volts, and requires just two small 3-volt CR2 batteries.

Incidents that really have happened and which showcase human (usually male) stupidity are collected and presented at another of my favorite sites, The Darwin Awards.  The Darwin Awards "...salute the improvement of the human genome by honoring those who accidentally remove themselves from it..."   Here's just one example, called Dying to Go:

Dying To Go
2009 Darwin Award Nominee
Confirmed True by Darwin

(12 April 2008, Florida) Traffic was moving slowly on southbound I-95. Shawn M. had recently left a Pompano Beach bar, and now he was stuck in traffic. As the saying goes, you don't buy beer--you just rent it, and Shawn couldn't wait another moment to relieve himself. "I need to take a leak," he told his friends. Traffic was deadlocked, so the waterlogged man climbed out, put his hand on the divider, and jumped over the low concrete wall... only to fall 65 feet to his death. "He probably thought there was a road, but there wasn't," said a Fort Lauderdale police spokesman. The car was idling on an overpass above the railroad lines. His mother shared her thoughts. "Shawn didn't do a whole lot for a living. He got along on his charm, just like his father." Though his death was tragic, Shawn's downfall proves the old adage: Look before you leak!

Definitely more of my kind of humor.

Does Your Pokemon Have Rectitude??

A regular weekly feature in the Washington Post for many years has been Style Invitational, in which readers are challenged to submit clever or humorous entries in several different word-play contests. For example, a recent challenge was to "'Spoonerize' a single word or a name by transposing different parts of the word (more than two adjacent letters), and define the resultant new term." Examples of solutions given in the column as illustrations:

• Bootlicker > Lootbicker: To argue in Congress over who gets the earmarks.
• Whappersnipper: Someone who assaults a mohel.
• Lugachug: To carry a cooler full of beer.
  

Now if you didn't find those at least mildly amusing, there's no reason to read any further, because it gets much worse.

An email widely circulating in cyberspace for over 10 years mistakenly reports the results of two of the Post's challenges as being from yearly events sponsored by Mensa, the high IQ society, and though this has been clearly denied by the author of the Post's column, the error still persists. In fact, my wife and I received a forwarded email just the other day claiming to list the winning entries of this year's contests. Even though the source is incorrectly identified, the results are legitimate and very amusing, depending on your taste in humor. The first challenge was to supply alternate meanings for common words. Here are the wacky winning entries:

1. Coffee, n. The person upon whom one coughs.


2. Flabbergasted, adj. Appalled by discovering how much weight one has gained.


3. Abdicate, v. To give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.


4. Esplanade, v. To attempt an explanation while drunk.


5. Willy-nilly, adj. Impotent.


6. Negligent, adj.. Absentmindedly answering the door when wearing only a nightgown.


7. Lymph, v. To walk with a lisp.


8. Gargoyle, n. Olive-flavored mouthwash.


9. Flatulence, n.. Emergency vehicle that picks up someone who has been run over by a steamroller.


10. Balderdash, n. A rapidly receding hairline.


11. Testicle n. A humorous question on an exam.


12. Rectitude, n. The formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.


13. Pokemon, n. A Rastafarian proctologist.


14. Oyster, n. A person who sprinkles his conversation with yiddishisms.

15. Circumvent, n. An opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men.

Ok, that was the warm-up. The second contest asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.

1. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period of time.

2. Ignoranus: A person who is both stupid and an asshole.

3. Intaxication: Euphoria at getting a tax refund, which lasts until you realize it was your money to start with.

4. Reintarnation: Coming back to life as a hillbilly.

5. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.

6. Foreploy: Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.

7. Giraffiti: Vandalism spray-painted very, very high

8. Sarchasm: The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

9. Inoculatte: To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

10. Osteopornosis: A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)

11. Karmageddon: It's like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

12. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you.

13. Glibido: All talk and no action.

14. Dopeler Effect: The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

15. Arachnoleptic Fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidental ly walked through a spider web.

16. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito, that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.

17. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a worm in the fruit you're eating.

I've written before about my sense of humor, and so I realize many of you may not share my enthusiasm for these nuggets. But if you do and you want more, go to the Washington Post and sign up for a free subscription. I did.

I Got My New GPS!

In an earlier post I wrote about why I needed a new GPS. Well, Santa dug into his toy bag and brought me a new one for Christmas. Oh, yessssss! This baby will do practically everything except maybe tie your hiking boots. Speaking of hiking boots, maybe I should get a new pair to go with the upgraded GPS?..... Anyway, my hiking buddy from Oregon and I gave the new toy...er, TOOL, a good test last week, and I'm happy to report it passed with flying colors.

My friend and I are both the same age, which is the time of life when men still have the drive to do stupid risky things but have bodies that can no longer get them out of trouble when they do. For the past couple of years we have been exploring old lava flows here in Hawai'i. This is tough hiking, because lava cools to become razor sharp rock which will shred skin at a touch, particularly skin that now seems to bruise or bleed in a strong breeze. It is also often loose, jumbly, and uneven -- a particular challenge for those with a less than perfect sense of balance.

However, it also cools in some of the most fascinating patterns you can imagine. Like stone browny batter, with drips and drops, tangles and splatters. The patterns are endless, and each flow seems to have different characteristics that make them always fascinating to explore.

One of the features of lava flows here on the island of Hawai'i is that they often form tubes -- channels of lava that are completely enclosed and can be miles long. In fact, this is how lava can travel so far from the source -- the walls of the tubes insulate the molten magma so that it stays fluid. As an eruption dies down, these tubes empty out and leave tunnels that can be a real thrill to poke around in. Of course, it is also a teensy bit dangerous, which can make it all the more attractive!

Now, back to my GPS. When I got my new model I noticed one of its features is called "geocaching." I then learned that geocaching has been around for about 10 years, and according to Wikipedia, it is "...an outdoor activity in which the participants use a Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver or other navigational techniques to hide and seek containers (called "geocaches" or "caches") anywhere in the world. A typical cache is a small waterproof container (usually a tupperware or ammo box) containing a logbook. Larger containers can also contain items for trading, usually toys or trinkets of little value. Geocaching is most often described as a "game of high-tech hide and seek", sharing many aspects with orienteering, treasure-hunting, and waymarking .... Geocaches are currently placed in over 100 countries around the world and on all seven continents, including Antarctica.^[1] As of February 8, 2010, there are over 984,900 active geocaches over the world.^[2]"

It turns out that somebody hid a geocache near an unmapped lava tub about 30 miles from where I live and published the coordinates on Geocache.Com, I downloaded the position into my new GPS and my friend and I set out to find it. Yup, the new toy guided us right to the spot, requiring a hike across open lava, of course, and in an area that we would never have thought to look for a tube. When I say it guided us to the spot, I actually mean to the coordinates. As anyone who has had a senior (or junior) moment can attest, just because you're within 15-20 feet of something doesn't mean you can see it. I must admit there was a tad bit of luck in finding the actual box containing the cache -- if we had approached from a different angle we might have stood right over it and not seen it.

We then proceeded to hike through the tube, which required flashlights (next time we have to take extra batteries!) and a smidge of stupidity. Oh yes, and just a little bit of blood.

Why I Need a New GPS

We all know the old adage about how men never ask for directions. It has something to do with the fragile male ego and being macho, and is probably rooted in some evolutionary trait left over from hunting mastedons. I recently experienced the modern version of this when my wife and I went hiking on some new trails near where we live.

I took along my trusty Garmin Etrax Topo GPS unit. GPS devices are part of the personal technology revolution, right in there with IPODs, cell phones, digital cameras, dvrs, and humongous flat screen tvs. In short, part of the golden age of guy toys. There are GPS devices for cars which make it possible for men not only to avoid asking for directions, but also to actually avoid getting lost. There are also the kind I took on my hike – small, hand-held units that show you the terrain, let you track your path, record your distance traveled, and find your way back to the starting point.

The trail we were following had been described to us but we had no map. We had to rely on rather vague explanations when we came to choice points because there were no signs indicating which way to go. And of course I had my trusty GPS. The route we were trying to follow was a loop that – theoretically – returned us to our car, which we had parked on a road at the trail head.

Things went smoothly for several miles, and my GPS indicated that we were indeed circling back toward the starting point. As we got closer and closer (and more and more tired), I was absolutely sure we were nearer and nearer our car and I knew exactly how to get there, based on the readings from the GPS. But then we came to a choice point where logic and common sense confronted male ego and male techno-worship. By this time we were on a road that was supposed to intersect the road on which we had parked the car. Going one way would take us to the car, according the GPS. However, going in the opposite direction seemed like the logical choice. I insisted on following the GPS. My wife opted for logic. After some increasingly heated exchanges I offered to let her stay while I walked to the car (my way) and then drove back to pick her up.

After I walked alone for another 1/4 mile it became clear from the GPS that the car was located in the middle of a large tree, making it somewhat difficult to drive. I backtracked and together my wife and I walked in the opposite direction, arriving in short order at the car, precisely where we had left it. The GPS was WRONG (the words stick in my throat).

There are probably good reasons why the unit was inaccurate in this situation. But the lesson isn’t simply that you should always trust your senses (common and otherwise) rather that technology – there are too many cases where people have been fooled by faulty perceptions and sensations, sometimes with disastrous results. But trusting technology too much can be problematic too, as my story illustrates. We need to temper our reliance on technology with careful, prudent analysis.

But most important, I need to buy a new GPS.

New Meaning to “The Economy is in the Dumper”

I’ve written in a couple of previous blogs that one of the revelations of the current economic meltdown is that we have created an economy that depends on ever greater spending and borrowing by consumers. Specifically, if we don’t buy more and more goods – and borrow the money to do so – the system collapses. A recent Associated Press report by James Hannah shows that we must also throw away the stuff we buy.

It seems that an unexpected negative (yes, negative) consequence of the downturn is that people are throwing away less trash, with dire economic consequences: “With consumers cutting back on new purchases, there is less packaging to throw away. The downturn in new housing means less waste from construction materials such as insulation and from discarded drywall and lumber. Restaurant waste is down because people are eating out less...Landfills in Ohio received 15 percent less waste from August to January than they did for the same period a year earlier. The waste stream at Miramar Landfill near San Diego has dropped 35 percent over the past year. Waste at Puente Hills Landfill near Los Angeles is down from 12,500 tons of trash a day to about 8,500.”

Although this might be a good thing for the environment it turns out that in our waste-based economy it’s downright tragic: “To deal with the drop-off in dropoffs, landfills are laying off workers, reducing hours of operation and hiking disposal fees, with the increases passed along to cities, businesses and consumers...About 82 temporary workers have been laid off at Puente Hills and its two sister landfills, shrinking the work force to about 280 and forcing permanent employees to take over traffic control, windy-day litter pickup and landscaping. Several landfills operated by Waste Management Inc. - which runs about 270 active landfills in 47 states - have gone from operating six days a week to five or have reduced hours of operation, said spokeswoman Lisa Kardell.”

Clearly, this may mean we will need a government bailout of the trash industry. “Waste Management's fourth-quarter profit slid 29 percent on declines in its recycling business and one-time charges. But in its earnings report, the Houston-based company also mentioned declines in the collection of industrial waste.” Companies such as Waste Management are bravely coping with this problem in a good old capitalistic way – raise prices. As Hannah explains, “Landfill operators rely on disposal fees to fund operations. If the amount of waste decreases, operators have to cut costs, dip into reserve funds or increase the fees, which are passed along to consumers. In the Columbus suburb of Grove City, the Solid Waste Authority of Central Ohio landfill- with 10 percent less waste - has raised disposal fees by $2 a ton to $35.50 and dipped into its reserve fund. The landfill also is considering accepting trash from out of the district.”

There you have it. We have economy based on consuming, borrowing, and disposing. Can this really be sustainable?

Ah, Love Those Changes of Seasons!

My wife and I lived in Ohio for over thirty years. A friend who still lives there recently forwarded the following parody of a Yuppy Diary that seems to capture part of the reason we left after retirement. You non-Ohioans just substitute whatever is appropriate given your locale for “Ohio” “fall color,” “snow,” “deer,” and “rust.”

“Dear Diary: Ohio Winters:

Aug. 12 - Moved into our new home in Ohio. It is so beautiful here.
The hills and river valleys are so picturesque. I have a beautiful
old oak tree in my front yard. Can hardly wait to see the change in
the seasons. This is truly God's Country.


Oct. 14 - Ohio is such a gorgeous place to live, one of the
real special places on Earth. The leaves are turning a
multitude of different colors. I love all of the shades of
reds, oranges and yellows, they are so bright. I want to walk
through all of the beautiful hills and spot some white tail deer.
They are so graceful; certainly they must be the most peaceful
creatures on Earth. This must be paradise.


Nov. 11 - Deer season opens this week. I can't imagine why
anyone would want to shoot these elegant animals. They are the
very symbol of peace and tranquility here in Ohio.
I hope it snows soon. I love it here!

Dec. 2 - It snowed last night. I woke to the usual wonderful sight:
everything covered in a beautiful blanket of white.
The oak tree is magnificent. It looks like a postcard.
We went out and swept the snow from the steps and driveway.
The air is so crisp, clean and refreshing. We had a snowball fight.
I won, and the snowplow came down the street. He must have gotten too
close to the driveway because we had to go out and
shovel the end of the driveway again. What a beautiful place.
Nature in harmony. I love it here!


Dec. 12 - More snow last night. I love it!
The plow did his cute little trick again. What a
rascal. A winter wonderland. I love it here!


Dec. 19 - More snow - couldn't get out of the driveway
to get to work in time. I'm exhausted from all of the
shoveling. And that snowplow!


Dec. 21 - More of that white shit coming down. I've got
blisters on my hands and a kink in my back. I think that the
snowplow driver waits around the corner until I'm done
shoveling the driveway. Asshole.


Dec. 25 - White Christmas? More freakin’ snow.
If I ever get my hands on the sonofabitch who drives that
snowplow, I swear I'll castrate him. And why don't
they use more salt on these roads to melt this crap??


Dec. 28 - It hasn't stopped snowing since Christmas. I
have been inside since then, except of course when that SOB
"Snowplow Harry" comes by. Can't go anywhere, cars are
buried up to the windows. Weather man says to
expect another 10 inches. Do you have any idea how many
shovelfuls 10 inches is??


Jan. 1 - Happy New Year? The way it’s coming down it
won't melt until the 4th of > July! The snowplow got stuck
down the road and the shithead actually had the balls to
come and ask to borrow a shovel! > I told him I'd broken 6
already this season.


Jan. 4 - Finally got out of the house. We went to the store
to get some food and a goddamn deer ran out in front of my
car and I hit the bastard. It did $3,000 in damage to the
car. Those beasts ought to be killed. The hunters should
have a longer season if you ask me.


Jan. 27 - Warmed up a little and rained today. The rain
turned the snow into ice and the weight of it broke
the main limb of the oak tree in the front yard and
it went through the roof. I should have cut that
old piece of shit into fireplace wood when I had the
chance.


March 23 - Took my car to the local garage. Would you
believe the whole underside of the car is rusted away from all of
that damn salt they dump on the road? Car looks like a
bashed up heap of rusted cow shit.


May 10 - Sold the car, the house, and moved to Florida.
I can't imagine why anyone in their freakin' mind
would ever want to live in the God forsaken State of Ohio”

There are a number of lessons in this parody, one of which is that it is not so much the world around us that changes over time, but our perception of it. As we begin to take the positive qualities of things for granted, the negative qualities (which were there all the time) begin to emerge more prominently. I’ll bet the writer of this diary was just as negative about Florida a year later.

What, Me Worry?

My wife says I have a weird, warped sense of humor. “Sick,” is the word she often uses. Although I enjoy mainstream forms of humor, I must admit I have a particular fondness for humor that cleverly exposes in an off beat way the ridiculousness of much of our world. For example, I am an avid fan of the very deranged mind of Gary Larson, creator of the comic strip Far Side , and as a substitute now that Far Side is no longer published as a regular strip, the work of Dan Piraro in Bizarro . These guys are crazy. And very, very perceptive. Satire and parody are good, too, because they can show the fundamental silliness of our culture in a humorous way, particularly those aspects of culture we hold near and dear. American television news programs are certainly deserving targets of satire and parody, both in the topics they treat and the manner in which they treat them. John Stewart’s Daily Show and Stephen Colbert’s The Colbert Report do very well at humorously exposing the shallowness and recursiveness of American media. When I watch these shows I become all the more convinced that the news coverage offered on major media sources in America is shallow, incomplete, and distorted. I thought that without watching Stewart and Colbert, but they allow me to laugh about it instead of just being depressed. One of my favorite places to get a fix of “sick” humor is The Onion . A feature of the Onion that I just recently discovered is a collection of videos that parody tv news coverage of various topics. The difference between these videos and similar features on the Daily Show and Colbert Report is that the Onion reporters play it absolutely straight and the format is exactly the same as mainstream news coverage. But boy is it funny – in a weird, warped way. Two of the videos I particularly like are the High School Tony Awards (e.g., the Award for Best Stage Lighting of a High School Gymnasium) and the report entitled “Bush Tours America to Survey Damage Caused by His Disasterous Presidency” . Hilarious... but sad, too. Some years ago my students produced some insightful analyses of how humour can illustrate certain Social Psychological principles. These analyses are still available on the web . Of course, when you analyze humor it really isn’t funny anymore.