Your butt is absolutely stunning in that shade of lipstick.

Good old Eddie Haskell. Lord bless his smarmy, disingenuous heart.

What words come to mind when you think of Eddie or others of similar ilk?

Kiss-ass? Suck-up? Bootlicker? Ego-stroking, backstabbing, brown-nosing weasel?

Or maybe just a guy who knows how to play the game.

Ed McMahon's nostrils seemed to consistently caress Johnny Carson's lower large intestine.

If Sean Hannity's proboscis stuck any further up Sarah Palin's tuckus, she could perform a rhinoplasty on the guy simply by consuming too many Grape Nuts.

And we're all quite aware that had Karl Rove not illegally emmigrated his entire cranium up Bush's Rio Grande, our simian commander-in-chief would never have bought into the whole "Jesus decided I should be the decider" shtick.

So why do some hop onto the Brown Nose Express while the rest of us witness its eventual derailing and explosion on the floor of Shame Canyon?

I'm not sure why, but I know it begins early.

Remember back in elementary school, when everyone plopped a Christmas gift down on the teacher's desk on the last day before winter break? And that one kid, who raised his hand all the time, recklessly scattered the small eight packs of See's Nuts and Chews to clear a space for a scale model of the teacher's house, constructed from Almond Roca, Red Vines and Magic Shell?

"Merry Christmas, Miss Prudenta," he boasted. "My mom stayed up all night making this but it was my idea. Good thing for Google Maps."

The south end smoochers seem to grow more brazen as they age. My college Accounting 451 class contained approximately twenty-three percent strokers, all seated in the front row and all vying for the professor's attention and approval. Occasionally, our instructor liked to launch into a bit of accounting humor.

"So I said to my colleague, if you capitalize that fixed asset, any amortization could lead to an extraordinary loss. Talk about a change in working capital!"

I remember sitting in the back row, puzzling over his comment, desperately mining it for any humorous content. I found none. The front line of students erupted in doubled-over throes of laughter, a couple of the more rabid bottom nuzzlers actually dabbing their tears.

Apparently, my brain's centers for pity and extreme loathing are next door to each other.

I am now employed by an American corporation, and I'd like to remain employed by this American corporation, so I shan't be delving into the amount of brown nosing which occurs in this environment. It is, however, substantial, and those who excel at it usually fare quite well in this palace of unclothed emperors.

So happy, so satisfied I am, that my DNA has withstood the temptation to prevaricate the facts, to pander for nothing but personal gain.

And I'm totally serious; those pants didn't make my wife's butt look fat.

You're driving me crazy. When are you coming home again?

Families tend to assume the form and function of businesses, and mine is no exception.

Viewed through corporate-colored spectacles, my wife would be considered the CEO and Secretary and I, the President and Lead Custodian, while my ten-year-old daughter would be the Controller.

This leaves my  fifteen-year-old daughter assuming the duties of Vice President of Public Relations. It is not a nine-to-five position. Constant vigilance must be devoted to how the company, and most notably the VP of PR, is perceived by the earth's population, and she must closely monitor her subordinates in the departments of Potential Public Embarrassment and Awkwardness.

As fate would have it, the Controller will be leaving today for a weekend girl scout camping trip. Although she performs vital functions, her absence can also prove healthy for the rest of the company, as tonight the President and CEO will be attending an off-site team building exercise, also known as date night.

I'll stop the analogies now.

Like most parents, my wife and I don't spend nearly enough time just hanging out together—just spending a couple of leisurely hours per week not devoted to planning, cleaning, organizing or reprimanding a child. Routines can be such an overwhelming portion of each day, mostly because routines are efficient, and efficiency creates time to perform additional routines.

After temporarily exiting the circus big top that is parenthood, it doesn't take long to again notice that, hey, we still have fun together. We may not have the occasion to spontaneously hop in the car and drive up to Canada for the weekend, but an afternoon at the local bistro can go a long way. Sure, the main topic of conversation is usually our children, but at least the kids aren't present to say, "I know you're talking about me. Stop talking about me. What do you mean you're not talking about me? Why aren't you talking about me?"

But, inevitably, once they've been away for an entire night, an ache slowly builds, and I begin to miss their agonizing ways. I'm again ready to grind my heel into a cheese goldfish, to lift cushions in search of the phone or to again utilize the couch as nice, cushy storage for dirty socks, backpacks and tennis rackets.

It's time for the the company executives to return.

Corporate sponsorships and the end of days

"Dad, I need some black socks to go with these shoes."
"Okay, we'll get you some at Target," I replied.
"Do they have mid-calf, black Nike socks at Target?"
"No. Why do you need Nike socks? Can't you just get some black athletic socks?"
"No way. They have to be Nike...black, midcalf, with the logo showing."

I suppose I didn't mind spending $100 for her shoes; each member of her high school basketball team decided to purchase Nike "Hyperizes." Kind of expensive, but, whatever. I understand the need for kids to accessorize themselves into anonymity.

What drove my attitude off a cliff faster than both Thelma and Louise, however, was my prolonged pursuit of those damned socks. It only consumed one lunch hour and three stores, but during that time, I obsessed over the true saturation of corporate America in our culture, especially visa vie sports.

It hasn't always been like this. Corporate sponsorships used to be confined to maybe some signage along the outfield wall of a baseball field, or the Goodyear Blimp circling high above the Superbowl. Player uniforms sported only the team logo, and only if those bikini-sized basketball shorts allowed for it. The stadiums were namesakes of either the teams who occupied them, such as Yankee, Tiger and Dodger stadiums, or a late, great, local icons, like Fenway Park, Jacobs Field or Shea Stadium.

Suddenly, as if directly ripping off the Book of Revelation, the branding beast swooped (or swooshed) in, marking everything in its destructive path. A fan sitting in the nosebleed section could easily spot the "Amway" logo across the chests of the San Jose Earthquakes of the Major Soccer League (Hopefully, fans aren't required to attend "meetings" after the games.). There's the "Rolaids Relief Pitcher of the Year", the "FedEx Orange Bowl", and the "Chevrolet Player of the Game." And, after the Astro franchise in Houston experienced a slight, multi-million-dollar public relations snafu, "Enron Field" reincarnated as "Minute Maid Park."

It's only going to get worse. Soon we'll see sluggers belt out "Home Depot Runs," or "Wendy's Triples." NFL playoff games in January will become "DQ Blizzards." I can already hear the play-by-play announcers:
"That linebacker knocked the snot out of that tight end, but not as effectively as Musinex does."
"Kobe threw that one down like a delicious Dunkin' Donut."
"Don't miss our half-time show. In fact, if you were wearing Depends right now, you'd catch every minute of it."

I realize I'm barking at the moon here, but let's just hope things don't deteriorate further. None of us need to hear that the massive skyscraper in Dubai has secured a corporate benefactor, and is now the "Viagra Tower."