Growing Old At The DMV

Writen by Josh Greenberger

Does the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) hire extras just to make the place look busy?

They say that living to a ripe old age is a blessing. But when you do it while standing on line at the DMV, you begin to see things from an entirely different perspective. Suddenly, the expression “something to look forward to” can mean something as mundane as seeing a DMV employee get back from lunch to take care of huge line. And the emotional impact of the simple word “next” can bring tears of joy trickling down your cheeks — you’d think it was written by the poet Yusef Komunyakaa.

Probably the most frightening phrase you can hear at the DMV is, “It’s a clerical error.” This phrase can mean almost any imaginable horrible thing you can conjure up. It can mean that you’ll have to come back and waste another day. It can mean that you’ll have to retake the road test you already passed because your records have been misplaced. Or it can mean that due to a misspelling of your name, you’re now on the FBI’s most wanted list. And it’s not even proper decorum to get angry about such things. You see, it’s not really their fault — making errors is part of the system.

But things at the DMV have improved somewhat over the years. On some “lines,” instead of standing for hours, as was the case in years gone by, you now take a number, sit down on a bench and watch a large electronic board with a confusing array of numbers. Every now and then, someone yells “Bingo!”

Having spent my share of time at the DMV, I’ve found that in addition to spending about seventy percent of your time waiting on lines, you spend about ten percent looking for the right line and about fifteen percent taking directions from security personnel who couldn’t give you clear enough directions to find the ocean on a cruise ship.

My first line, on one particular occasion, was the “picture” line. That’s where everyone “fixes up” and smiles for a picture that’ll never be seen by anyone except cops. And these pictures never come out right. Anyone who actually looks like the picture on his or her driver’s license is too ill to drive.

My next line was so crowded, one guy fainted. But no one noticed it because he couldn’t fall down till six people got off.

After several hours of ruffling my forms so they wouldn’t get moldy before I reached the window, I met Cindy, who had just moved from bench six to bench seven because bench six was being radiocarbon tested by scientists to see what’s the longest anyone ever sat on it.

We found out we had a lot in common. Our licenses expired in the same month. At one point in our lives, we both received collection notices for summonses we never received. And at our last visit to the DMV, both of our faces appeared on milk containers by the time we got out.

She showed me pictures of her pets. They were the most adorable little puppies I’d ever seen. Not having pets or kids of my own, I showed her pictures of my last collision. She was impressed. She said it took a lot of talent to twist a fender into the shape of the Big Dipper at only three miles per hour. And I’m not even an astronomer.

As time wore on, we hit it off so well, we made plans to go out on a date. Where we would go was a tossup between a trendy upper East Side night spot for young singles and a downtown senior citizen’s ball, depending on when we got out.

By now our line had gotten shorter by twenty-three people. Eight had renewed their licenses, four were on the wrong line, three were in the wrong country, six died of natural causes, and one asked for political asylum.

One guy, who wasn’t too familiar with our language or customs, thought he was being picked out of a lineup when the woman behind the window looked at him and yelled “Next!” He confessed to two burglaries and a subway turnstile jumping. The man now works for the DMV, sort of — he makes license plates at an upstate correctional facility.

When I finally reached the window, the woman asked to see two forms of identification. I showed her a major credit card and a picture ID. Taking a quick look at the picture, she said, “This doesn’t look like you.”

I said, “It did when I arrived. I was younger then.”

She pointed to an eye chart and asked, “Can you read the bottom line?”

I said, “Can I read it? I know the guy. He works for a Greek car service on my block.”

Upon my passing the eye exam, she stamped my forms, saying, “Your license will be good for four years.” Then, gleefully pointing to a long cashier’s line, she added, “You can pay at the cashier.”

“Four years from when?” I asked. “From when I get on the line or from when get off the line?” If looks could kill, the look she gave me could’ve killed a Brontosaurus the size of a DMV backlog.

On the cashier’s line I wound up near a guy listening to a small radio. After two hours of eavesdropping on news reports and financial updates, I found out that in the time I’d been waiting on this line, the dollar had devaluated by about four percent on the Japanese market, our national debt had risen by about six percent, and my patients was wearing thinner by about eighteen percent.

By the time I reached the cashier’s window, I had a pretty solid understanding of how the world financial markets operate — but I still hadn’t the foggiest clue as to how the DMV does. Is the DMV’s system designed to make the place look busy? Is it crowded because they have no system? Or is the DMV just a stepping stone for moving up to a better career; like, if you work really slow here you can eventually move up to becoming a postal employee.

Cindy and I were reunited outside and shared a cab. I asked the cabbie to step on it. Cindy asked what the rush was. I said, “No rush, I’d just forgotten what ‘fast’ looked like.”

Growing Old At The DMV from shopndrop.com

Josh Greenberger: A computer consultant for over two decades, the author has developed software for such organizations as NASA’s Goddard Institute of Space Studies, AT&T, Charles Schwab, Bell Laboratories and Chase Manhattan Bank. Since 1984, the author’s literary works have appeared in such periodicals as The New York Post, The Daily News, The Village Voice, The Jewish Press, and others. His articles have ranged from humor to scientific to topical events. Visit his site ==>shopndrop.com

Have a Nice Day is So Pass Say

Writen by Lance Winslow

Have you ever noticed that fewer and fewer people are telling others to; Have a Nice Day! It seems that using the phrase have a nice day is to plain and ordinary, so people have stopped using it. Perhaps it was overused at one time and it is kind of funny to listen to someone tell all the customers to have a nice day over and over again. Sometimes the Wal-Mart greeters still do this and I just smile and say; You to.

If you tell everyone to have a nice day and then the last person you told overhears you telling the next person and a that person already heard you tell it to four other people ahead of them. At that point you may as well tell them instead of having a nice day simply; Go to Hell. Why do I say this? Well, simple really if you’re just telling people to have a nice day because it is something to say then it does not seem genuine or real. Perhaps you mean it in a nice way to have a nice day but that is becoming so passé.

There are other versions up have a nice day such as; have a good one or have a wonderful day. In the olden days they simply used to say; Good Day and tip their hat. Telling someone to have a nice day is a very nice thing to say, but if you’re going to say it to everyone you meet the needs of variations along the theme and that is the point of my article so Be Well. Consider this in 2006.

Lance Winslow

Escape by the ‘Skin of Teeth’ !

Writen by Ramani Iyer

My brother-in-law was a disciplined Air-Force officer serving the Zambian Air-Force based in Lusaka. He had a perennial problem of knee-joint pain in both legs and it aggravated during winter seasons. Unable to endure it any longer, he consulted a doctor in Lusaka. After series of medical examinations and X-rays, the doctor finally concluded that the pain in the knee joints was connected to his teeth and once he removed all his teeth, his knee pain would vanish ! However much my brother-in-law respected the noble medical profession, he could not yet appreciate this noble advise and came back, totally disappointed. He informed his wife that he had been ordained to suffer his knee-joint pain in addition to other pains, which his wife mistook for a symbolic reference to her continued tantrums . My brother-in-law continued to serve the Zambian Air-force for another two years, before he returned back to our country.

Even after retirement, his pains continued to torment him and he finally decided to remove all his teeth, to put an end to his knee pain, as advised by the Zambian Doctor.

He was not familiar with the locality where we lived and I volunteered to take him to the nearby dentist, who was a famous doctor as per his clients.

We were given an appointment to meet the doctor on a particular day, and I took him there as per schedule. There were other clients, sitting there and the attendant gave us a card with a serial number, denoting our sequence in the queue.

The doctor came after

Presenting Jeff Minthorn - Editor of Verge Magazine

Writen by Susanne Pacher

A little while ago I mentioned that I stumbled across Verge Magazine by accident and that I planned to interview its editor, Jeff Minthorn.

1. Tell us a little bit about your educational background.

At university, I began studying geography in the Environmental Studies faculty but after my second year, I felt like I was covering the same material over and over again. I transferred into Urban Planning and completed the required courses for the first two years, all in one year, but just before I was about to finish my second term that year, I came to the conclusion that I really wasn’t all that interested in what I was doing.

I decided to take a year off to think about what I did want to do. During that year I worked a lot, did some travelling, and applied for architecture school. Architecture programs are extremely demanding, but it’s also a very broadly based education. I was able to learn a bit about everything from art history to engineering. I think that’s the main reason I actually stuck it out for five years to finish the degree. Although it was demanding, it was also very engaging.

2. You have also done quite a bit of traveling. During university you took a year off to live in Rome. How was that? What were your major learning experiences?

I’ve done a bit of travelling, I guess - more than some people and a lot less than others. I was fortunate that part of my architecture degree involved studying in Rome. Definitely one of the most important lessons that I learned while I was there was about balance and priorities.

I tended to be very single minded - maybe even obsessive for the first few years in architecture school. While I was in Rome, I came to the realization that it wasn’t going to be the hours and hours that I spent holed up in the studio with the rest of my classmates that I would remember. What I would remember would be the afternoons that I spent exploring and painting and drawing the architecture that I was there to study. I made a point of getting into the studio very early in the morning - before anyone else was there - so that I could really be productive. Then I would pack up my sketch books and watercolours in the early afternoon - just when the studio was getting good and noisy - and go out exploring.

3. What other types of traveling have you done?

Part of the year that I was away from university, I spent travelling through Europe. It was the usual student-backpacking-through-Europe experience, but you know, as easy as travelling there is, it really opened my eyes and was a real confidence builder for me. Prior to that, I had never left North America.

A couple of years later, I found work in London, England and lived there for 8 months. That was a bit of an adventure. I had very little money, a working holiday-maker visa, some resum

Whats your Goal in Life?

Writen by Shailesh Gopale

“Whats your goal in life?”, the interviewer asked in my HR interview during our campus placement. I was foxed, clueless.I wanted to protest by saying that this is an out of syllabus question, but alas! that wasn’t my engineering exam, that was HR interview, the Dinner with the Devil.

“I don’t know”, I replied honestly. I was scared with the thought that he will now show me the door.

He looked at me disdainfully and uttered, “When you decide to go for a vacation , first you decide the destination and buy tickets.How will you celebrate the vacation if you don’t know the destination, your goal? If this is true for ordinary vacation then in game of life where stakes are high shouldn’t you set goal for your life? Or do you wander aimlessly for your complete life?”(He mugged this from some motivational book, I came to know later)

I was answerless, No one, neither my parents nor my ‘learned’ teachers had ever told that there should be goal for life. Still I somehow answered shylessly, “Well, I am living this life for the first time and I don’t have any past ‘life’ experience to set any lifetime goal for my this life?”

He was furious but more surprised at my audacity, still he answered, “Young man, you should think now that why do you exist?What you are going to do in your life? How do you want to be remembered when you leave this earth?”

I really didn’t understand the need of such long term thinking, I have never thought of my life beyond one semester(as most of Engineering students do). But still I thought this wise man might be right and I laughed at my ignorance.

To complete the remaining formality he asked the last question, “Do you want to ask anything about me or our company?”

I took this opportunity to turn the tables and asked shylessly “What is YOUR goal in life?”

He threw an brilliant answer at me, “I want to be HR head of of a leading MNC and eventually become CEO of the company. Also after my retirement I want to form an NGO and give the society back what I received from it, to work for poor and underprivileged. And when I leave this world I want to be known as a true person who lived his life fullest.”

What an answer!! But I thought was it well prepared and mugged up answer or did he really meant it. He concluded the interview and as expected I was shown the door.

After that I am still searching the elusive answer, should we leave life by facing day as it comes or have a lifetime goal and pursue it relentlessly.

I expect thoughts of all of you. Please help me to find the real answer. Please help The ignorant, the curious child….

About Author -

A Simple Person trying to understand this complex world. Blogs at - http://theignorant.blogspot.com

Read What is Your Goal in Life? with comments.

I see this world with eyes of a curious child, In my mind questions gallore, All why’s and how’s I want to explore , My Blog is about my endless curiosity, The way I see the world, I am not an expert, neither wise nor gifted, I am The Ignorant, a curious child.

Are All Men Fashion Train Wrecks, Or Is It Just Me?

Writen by David Holmes

When I shop for clothes, I keep it simple. I walk into the men’s store and say, “I want to look at some shirts.”

The salesperson points to the shirts and I say “I’ll take this one and that one”.

I’m out of there in less than 5 minutes. There are way too few hours in the day to be fussing over clothes

It’s a good thing that I’ve streamlined my clothes shopping to a quick and efficient science. Like most men, I have no natural fashion sense. The only real advice I ever got was “David, listen to your mother, nothing packs in a suit-case like polyester.”

Keep in mind; this advice comes from the same woman who used to make me wear a sweater over my Halloween costume.

The problem of men dressing in style is universal. There is even a television show where men of questionable orientation teach a heterosexual man how-to-dress. I’m not prepared for comment on this other than to say; “I won’t go there” (snap, snap).

You only have to stand in line at the picture show to see how bad us guys are at dressing ourselves and how much help we really need. All those beautiful young ladies lined up for the movie being escorted by young men wearing baggy shorts, t-shirts, and thread bare baseball caps. I really don’t know why these girls put up with it, unless they saw that same television show and they’re afraid a well-dressed man might be a risky choice.

In a weak attempt to solve my own clothing dilemma, I’ve done what most guys over 40 do. I wear plain khakis and a coordinating shirtno muss no fuss, I’m dressed and ready to go in about 15 minutes. The key to my fashion plan is the coordinating shirt. I learned from a saleslady at a high-end department store that “coordinating” and “matching” are two entirely different things; I don’t think guys are supposed to match. But, can you trust fashion advice from a saleslady trying balancing her integrity against a commission check?

Married guys have it easy; they place the responsibility for clothing choices on their wives. I actually know a woman who hangs her husband’s clothes in outfits; shirt, pants, socks, and underwear all on one hangerhe just grabs a hanger and runs. Nice for him, but I have been unable to get his wife to do the same for me. We did discuss the possibilities, but decided it just wouldn’t be right.

Of course, having a wife doesn’t necessarily solve problems; you especially see this at church, men wearing “matching” clothes where the coloring is perfect. You can tell their wives even matched the clothes based on skin tone. Thank goodness these men wear wedding bands or else we’d be forced to draw conclusions about them other than the truth.

I guess when it’s all said and done; it’s better I stick to my tried-and-true uniform. After turning 40 I lost interest in trying to look stylish, just being clean and neat are lofty goals for me. Besides that, plain shirts and khakis are easy to find, there’s seldom a question about my interests, and the clothing budget is perfect for a man who doesn’t work regularly.

The only thing I need now is a sweater; Halloween will be here before we know it.

Ya’ll come!

David Zack Holmes is an Inspirational/Humor writer telling his tales with a southern flair. To read more features see: http://www.davidzackholmes.com

Dog Poo - And You Thought You Had Problems

Writen by Andy Staveley

In Southern Germany in a town by the name of Bayreuth, the German police are in a quandary. The town’s dog poo is under attack. Park officials are desperate to resolve what could become an international incident. Unknown person or persons have been sticking little US flags into piles of doggie poo for over a year now.

Surprisingly the dog poo brigade has managed to target between 2,000 to 3,000 abandoned piles of excrement in Bayreuth public parks. Quite who actually counted them all and provided these statistics is debatable but the source is rumoured as coming from the Parks Administrator - Josef Oettl. And you wondered what your parkie did each day?

What was thought to have started as a protest against the Iraqi war has continued through the US election campaign and is still a regular occurrence today. Have the German’s not heard of poop a scoop? Surely all self respecting German citizens collect their doggie poo. Poop in the parks and pavements was surely just a British thing?

German police are now stepping up patrols in order to catch these offenders. However, the poo could hit the fan if they ever tried to bring them to court. It is unclear what they would actually charge them with as there is no law against using doggie poo in this way. In fact, you could fly any flag from any piece of turd you find lying around. It’s not illegal but it cannot be a pleasant task.

Surely this wouldn’t catch on over here in the UK - would it?

From Birmingham UK Com. (http://www.birminghamuk.com)

Expert of Experts: Things HE Didn’t Tell Neale About Perfection

Writen by Drew Kittinger

DK: Wherever I turn I’m running into one thing or another that tells me I’m God. Even you tell me I’m God and this is my creation. According to you, this is what you’ve been telling everyone since there was anyone.

Basically that’s the truth.

DK: You’re like a hooker; you tell everybody what they want to hear! We all know it’s not true but we love to hear it anyway. We all want to think we’re God. But then, when we actually do act like we’re God, we get locked up, because none of us can do that perfectly. If we could, we wouldn’t get busted. What’s going on here, anyway?

You left the computer yesterday and have been plotting this set-up all night, haven’t you? Even that cheesy “hooker” metaphor.

DK: Ummaybe, ummyes. This is wildthe best I could do was squeeze that “maybe” in. My fingers won’t lie; I’m cooked! And now I have to tell the world about it. There goes my credibility as an expert.

So this is not really as spontaneous as you claim, is it?

DK: FINE! I confess. Every minute of every day, awake or asleep, I’m obsessing about this, thisthing I’m going through, with you, with me, with Whothehell! I so much want to bust you for the fraud you are.

The fraud.

DK: What’s worse, you obviously set me up, too!

The fraud.

DK: I don’t even believe I’m banging out an argument that says if I believe you to be the fraud you are, then I, myself must be a fraud. And if you think it’s easy to enter in the code that puts these italics in while keeping the flow of this rap, you’re nuts.

You’re not doing badly.

DK: Thanks! Wait a minute, how healthy is this Good Cop/Bad Cop thing for me? Especially if I’m doing it to myself. I’m about ready to pull the plug. This is turning into a codependent relationship.

Most people think that being God means getting things done perfectly. Yet, if they did as miserable a job of this humanity thing as I seem to, they reason, they’d never be able to live with themselves. While they’re really being the best them they can be - and that means screwing up all along the way — they’re expecting me to be so much better. I very much have issues with this so-called perfect God that you created that I’m supposed to be. Just like you, I need someone to unconditionally love me as if I were the imperfectly perfect being I am.

DK: It is four-twenty, isn’t it? Be right back.(pause). Well, I gotcha nowyou said this wasn’t about therapy!

It’s not. It’s a statement of fact. You’re not giving me the breaks that you expect me to give you.

DK: Who’s getting pissy now?

Now it’s my turn to say “FINE! I confess.” I’m not doing this right, either. But you know what? Since I do know who I am, and I will admit it, you are absolutely rightthis thing your God has created has neither less nor more in quality than what you are able to create yourself.

DK: Whoa, Nellie! You’re telling me the Space Shuttle is about as God-like as we’ll get?

It’s a mirror thing. Nothing you can see does not reflect you. The flaws you have are the flaws we share. Every one of them. The most prominent flaw we share is we just have to try everything outeverything because if we don’t, then nothing happens.

DK: So, wait a minute. You’re saying that creation is all about movement. That movement is all about seeking, yet never finding the absolute perfection that simply does not exist. Not for you, not for me, not for no one.

In a negative sort of way, you’re getting there.

DK: So if everything were done so-called “perfectly” there really wouldn’t be anything. No need for it.

Good observation!

DK: And for anything to become at all, it has to come from something that was more flawed, in some way, than it was before: There’s nothing that doesn’t come from worse.

That’s accurate, but it doesn’t quite reflect the wonder and value of the doing, which is part of the equation. The important thing is that something gets done.

DK: So anything worth doing is worth doing poorly?

Spread the Word!

The Only Review You’ll Ever Need of Blade: The Series (Part 2 of 5)

Writen by Larry D. Yablow

Blade: The Series opens with the executive valet from Spago or Planet Hollywood running down the “infinite pipes” set of an old Doctor Who episode as Urkel is chasing him on a rented motorcycle. If you do not believe me, freeze the frame and look at the license plate on the bike - the plate cover says, “Rent the easy way with Avis.”

This chase scene goes on so long that we’re forced to make up our own story. The only logical reason I can imagine for Blade to be chasing a valet through the maze of infinite pipes would be to make sure he properly tipped said valet before riding off to fight crime or whatever else Blade does in his spare time. After all, anything less is ungentlemanly. Eventually the intrepid Blade does indeed manage to chase down the valet and get him to stop running. However, those Spike TV writers sure are tricky. Instead of Blade delivering the expected tip, they start a staring contest. You can tell Blade from the valet in this scene of close-up eyeballs because Blade wears super cool sunglasses even when he is inside. When the Valet blinks and loses the staring contest Blade gets confused and asks for a little script help from his fellow actor. “Do you know what happens next?” he asks.

This is where everything gets a little fuzzy. I’m sure that the Screen Actors Guild (SAG) has some pretty tough rules about membership and memorizing your lines and stuff but this Valet dude takes it way too seriously and instead of being helpful turns into a total cad by trying to beat the crap out of Blade. I know that SAG won’t let just anyone in after the Gigli Incident of 2004 but yikes! Blade being super cool and sunglassed up easily dodges the Valet and they start attacking each other all Matrix-like except Spike can’t afford the real special effect so the scene looks a little like watching two drunk guys making their own YouTube video with Hasbro lightsabers. In the end, there can only be one and the title of the show is “Blade” not “Spago’s Executive Valet” so the Valet gets the axe but not before he exposes a key plot element in the form of the secret phrase “Walter Cronkite sleeps at dawn.” Holy DaVinci Code what the heck is that supposed to mean?

Blade also carries around a big sword, which is also called “blade.” In writer’s school that’s called allegory which is supposed to mean deep things but in this context it means frequent attempts at a roundhouse kick because this is Spike TV and not some fancy pants college art festival.

Now you have to stop at this point and give those Spike writers the credit they are so richly due because they managed to save a ton of money by using the “splort” sound effects from the Spiderman pitch, most of the Punisher costume, Doctor Strange’s magic motorcycle and Nick Fury’s spare parts. That’s like getting five Marvel heroes in one show and the real genius is that they are only paying for one. I bet that made the accountant need a 6-pack of Jergen’s and a week in the intensive care burn unit after he figured that one out.

While Blade gets some needed rest, we switch an officer of the law picking up a lady of questionable virtue. We know it’s questionable because the cop has to ask her several questions about her virtue. He takes her to a high-class meatpacking establishment where she gets nabbed and pulled up into the ceiling by some spider folk like in the Lord of the Rings but without all that webbing and caves and cool stuff like Frodo’s sword and Frodo’s glowing aftershave bottle. Just for the record, Frodo’s sword was named Sting but the real Sting (the wrestler not that overly sensitive socially conscious singer) threatened to sue so they renamed it “sword” in the DVD release. Anyway, the questionable virtue lady screams real good (one assumes she got paid per scream) and we see the cop not paying attention anymore because he has cop stuff to do like counting the cash in a dead hooker’s wallet. The downside for the cop is that hookers, like most convenience stores, don’t carry more than $20 in the register and can’t open the safe. Silly cop, tricks are for kids.

Meanwhile, Blade has traded his rental motorcycle for a huge 1970’s model black crapmobile and is driving it real fast down some deserted hunk of deserted road at night. It’s the kind of car that would make Batman ride a bicycle but since its loud and has tinted windows it makes up for the fact that its a flaming piece of crap with a busted lifter arm. Come to think of it, the car has sunglasses too. The car must be too cool for the other cars the same way that Blade is too cool for everyone else. That must be some more of that fancy writing school stuff like onomottorrhea. It’s been way too long since something exploded. I can only imagine how much better this show would have been if the car talked. Darn you Anthony Daniels and your insufferable obsession with Turtle Wax.

Blade sneaks into some warehouse / rave party headquarters to find George Takei’s nephew wandering around. We quickly figure out that he must be Blade’s real estate agent and he’s highly unamused because he’s spent the whole day showing Blade low-budget subterranean lairs to haunt. Blade finally decides to move in before someone else grabs the collection of empty cardboard boxes, barrels of exploding stuff and dozens of mannequins hanging out making the place look all cozy.

While Blade is setting up his groovy bachelor pad, we are finally treated to a shot of the bad guys. You can tell that they are bad guys because they are all dressed in black but are incredibly pasty looking. The bad guys also drive around in a caravan. You can tell the lead bad guy because he always has at least one hot chick hanging around. Viola! The head bad guy shoots some nitwit in the forehead for being a tad too inquisitive. Being a typical bad guy he stops to admire his marksmanship before retreating to his three car motorcade and leaving.

As if this story didn’t already have more threads than a new set of bed sheets, someone new wanders on camera. It’s some chick that is coming home from some sort of extended absence or a surprise party or something. Through the cunning use of flashback, slow motion and smoke machines we are told that the new character is home from a distant desert battlefield. Her parents are then immediately treated to a visit from the cops asking them to identify a corpse. Corpse identification used to be a favorite parlor game before the invention of Yahtzee but it is a lost art now. Most people don’t realize just how popular corpse identification was. During the depression, people would study for years to get a chance to test for the job of janitor with the Corpse Identification Association. They got to be so good at their job; they were able to identify corpses before they were corpses. That’s why they eventually went to work for the federal government. Tragically, the name had to change, but the initials live on.

Soon we see the sight of the dipstick that got shot earlier. Holy crap this plot is binding up faster than a pot of chili at a Shriner’s convention. An additional heart stopper rewards your viewing patience as the cop from Shelob’s Lair is hanging around the morgue. Needless to say, the family wins the game that night as they discover that their son was the proud recipient of .25 ounces of American lead right between the eyes. There goes that Miss Scarlet in the library theory I was working on.

Someone certainly got their money’s worth out of their college education as the script writers reach down deep into our heartstrings and pluck them like an inbred hick playing the banjo with his prehensile toes. We also learn that dipstick is not only her relative but her long lost twin brother. To make matters even more intriguing we also see a Sharpie tattoo on his neck. Extra special creepy music queued up to make sure we realize that the tattoo must be an important and vital clue.

All bummed out at not getting that 20 that her brother owed her the chick goes home to think this over.

Meanwhile, Blade must have robbed the Punisher’s storage locker since his new basement hideout is now equipped like the Batcave except Bruce Wayne didn’t have to shop at Odd Lots. Blade hops in his Blademobile and roars into town with his ex-real estate agent keeping him company through his T-Mobile headset. He quickly crashes a rave and begins working his way through the crowd with some sunglasses from the set of They Live. Not finding anything interesting, he stumbles into an underground tattoo parlor where he begins stabbing the tattoo artist in order to get information.

It would have been so much more effective as an interrogation technique if Blade had bothered to ask the guy a question before he started stabbing him. Now the guy is running around trying to get the tattoo needles out of his backside like Yosemite Sam sitting on a giant cactus. Way to go Blade.

Of course, tattoo guy has friends. Tattoo guys posse comes in and then Blade has to pimp smack them around too. Blade gets so confused he gives up trying to get information and just beats the crap out of everyone and leaves. I guess its good to have a hobby, but Blade needs to study a Sherlock Holmes novel or two and start asking questions as he’s beating the daylights out of people. So far the bad guys could be operating in a public park with a billboard advertising the address and Blade hasn’t managed to do anything more than hire his old real estate agent to keep gas in the Blademobile and a 6-pack in the mini fridge. Blade appears to have a touch of ADHD.

It’s only now dawning on me why the twin sister is so bent out of shape about her brothers’ death. Those sneaky Spike writers have snuck another Superhero into the show - the Wonder Twins. No wonder there are so many things going on. Meanwhile, the now powerless Wonder Twin is standing over her brother’s grave looking all sad. She still wants her 20 bucks. She still isn’t going to get it. She wanders around town looking all sad to eat up some film time and then gets the bright idea to go to his apartment to nab some stuff to sell on EBay. She may get her 20 bucks back yet! While wandering around the apartment she hears a noise. It’s Blade!!

Somehow, Blade has found the time to investigate this mystery murder of her brother. The lady chases Blade but he escapes by using his Bladearang and Bladerope. Bummed she tries the cops only to find out that her brother was a drug dealer. She doesn’t believe that her brother was a drug dealer because if he was a big time dealer he wouldn’t have needed to borrow 20 bucks off her. Plus, he was a Wonder Twin which means if he was dealing; Superman would zoom in and pimp smack him halfway to Utah. She steals the cops file and sets off the fire alarm for good measure.

Back in the Bladecave we see that Blade is an epileptic or something since he injects himself with some blue liquid called “Blade Juice” or something. It looks like Gatorade in a syringe form. His real estate agent comes in with a bag from Arby’s and sort of makes fun of Blade’s “condition.” Now given that Blade just beat the daylights out of a set of tattoo artists for no good reason, I wouldn’t be standing there with a mouth full of curly fries and a big glob of cheddar on my nappy t-shirt taunting the man while he’s having a seizure. That’s like coating your scalp with catsup and sticking it in a lion’s mouth. It just isn’t brilliant - just ask Siegfried and Roy.

Plus we can tell that real estate agent isn’t cool because he wears his stocking cap indoors. First, it’s the middle of summer and the only person that would need a stocking cap would be Mr. Freeze. Second, everyone knows that only sunglasses are cool indoors because if stocking caps were cool people like Samuel L. Jackson and Blade would be wearing them. I checked the Internet and I assure you that they are not wearing stocking caps indoors. In fact, neither of them have any hair at all.

At this point, I have to stop the TiVo and take a breather. The action is so intense that I can barely keep from ripping the cushions from the seat. I also need to pump the bilge.

Our Baby: The Grape

Writen by Tom Coffee

My wife and I are only about six weeks into this pregnancy thing and we’re still trying to wrap our heads around this whole idea of having a baby, though we have wildly different thoughts on the subject. I’m worried about whether or not we’ll be able to handle the financial and moral responsibilities of bringing a child into the world. My wife is mostly worried about passing something the size of a watermelon through her hoo-ha.

And so far the worry has been all our own. We haven’t told anyone else about our impending baby because, quite frankly, I don’t think either of us fully believes that my wife is actually pregnant.

Sure, she’s moody all the time and has had an inexplicable food cravings and she’s taken to complaining about how bloated and fat she feels, but really, that’s no different than how she’s acted for the for the five years that I’ve known her. And I still married her.

Right now our baby is not really a “he” or a “she” as much as an “it” in our minds. We’ve been reading a lot of these baby websites and a lot of these sites compare our baby’s current size to various pieces of fruit. The message eventually changes as the pregnancy moves forward, so one week the baby site will proclaim “Your baby is now the size of a sesame seed!” and a week or two later we’ll read “Your baby is now the size of a raisin!”

If these baby sites had their way we’d all measure our own size compared to various items from the produce aisle. I’d stand 8.4 carrots tall and when I stepped on the scale it would read like a slot machine and report my weight as in at 250 pumpkins, two oranges and three cherries.

So every day I check these sites and every day I’m reminded that our baby is only the size of a grape. I don’t mind telling you that it’s hard to feel very attached to a grape…and it isn’t even a fully developed grape. It’s not like my wife has a little grape-sized person in her. No, right now she has a little pink squishy thing that, really, looks kinda like a…well….a squished grape.

Our baby is only beginning to grow organs, so it’s not like we have a whole lot in common with our very, very, very little offspring. I mean, I’m a not a very complex guy but I still like to relax with a TV remote in one hand and a beer in the other. Right now our baby doesn’t have hands to hold the remote or even a liver to process the beer.

This is all still so unreal to us that my wife and I are also still trying to find the best way to even talk about the whole idea of being pregnant. The phrase “we’re pregnant” makes it sound as though we’re some sort of bisexual Siamese twin sharing one body and committing unspeakable acts of fornication on ourselves. She’s the one who’s pregnant and I’m the guy who did it (or so she claims).

We’ve struggled with ways of referring to the pregnancy situation and so far we’ve used phrases like “knocked up,” “expecting,” “got a bun in the oven,” “infiltrated,” “violated,” and even “been slimed.” I think we’ll have to filter out a few of those when it finally comes time to announce the news to our families.

So that’s where we are in this whole baby-making process. The baby has been made, but it’s still a pretty gooey, tiny thing that doesn’t really have much personality and even less mass. I’m sure this whole fatherhood thing is going to change my life, but right now I’m just not feeling it.

I have, however, sworn off eating grapes. At least until our baby grows up… to be the size of a lime.

Humorist Tom Coffee’s website http://www.SpillingCoffee.com chronicles Tom’s adventures as he struggles to escape his office job, commit random acts of home improvement, cope with becoming a father for the first time and quench his never-ending thirst for a great cup of joe. Life is funny. Have some Coffee…