You think gas is expensive now? Wait until it's 55 cents a gallon!

Time to round up the usual suspects.

Let's go ahead and settle some accounts.

We'll drag 'em in for a little come to Jesus-ing.

Last week, the United States Senate Finance Committee summoned the grand poo bahs of Big Oil, the American chairmen of Exxon-Mobile, Chevron, B.P., Conoco Phillips and Shell for a public flogging. Brooks Brothers brushed awkwardly against Armani as the five Caucasian millionaires sat abreast, facing down a legion of angry senators (who coincidentally, also happen to be millionaires).

No Mary Poppins. No spoonful of sugar. Straight medicine.

Predictably, the topic of conversation was the skyrocketing price of crude oil. The execs mostly sat quietly as the politicians took turns in the art of rhetorical query. I decided to pay close attention, to peel through the layers of rhetoric and truly grasp the core of the communication. After combing through pages of the Congressional manuscript, I've boiled it down to two key questions:

1) Sir, what the hell is wrong with you?

and 2) Seriously, sir, what the hell is wrong with you?

The rest was like listening to a teenager receiving a lecture for missing curfew...including the same amount of listening by the tongue lashee.

The oil suits presented a united front. When informed by Charles Schumer, D-New York that Congress must decide between reducing tax breaks for Big Oil and cutting funding for Medicare/Medicaid, one executive asserted that any tax increase to his company would only cause oil prices to climb further and be passed along to the consumer.

He claimed that, even though these corporations have recognized record profits recently, they reap only six cents profit to each dollar.

Let's see. What's six cents times three hundred twenty seven gazillion?

I'm not really sure what the point of this entire exercise is, anyway. These modern day robber barons have been around since early day robber barons, and in between there were medium day robber barons.

Even so, up until the early 1970s, Americans enjoyed the benefits of cheap fuel and massive automobiles. When my family traveled to New York and back twice in our 1965 Chevrolet Bel-Air station wagon, we three kids caromed comfortably and unsafely around the car's spacious back end. Gas was only about thirty-one cents a gallon, so my parents could have easily afforded to purchase another kid along the way if one of us flew out of the car or was forgotten at a Carl's Jr.

But around 1973, a group of Arab oil producers known as OPEC, decided they were a bit chapped about American and Western European support for Israel, who had been cleaning the clocks of a few oil-rich Arab nations.

I wasn't in the room for the unanimous vote, but the statements probably resembled, "Righteous. Let's do this bitch."

And stick it to us they did. OPEC created an oil embargo, thereby drastically diminishing oil exports to the West. Basically, they employed the "If you're here to see the movie, a box of Raisonettes will cost you seven dollars" approach.

Shortages ensued and prices shot up from thirty-five to fifty-five cents a gallon between 1973 and 1974. I still remember my dad grabbing an extra maple bar as he got up early to join the gas queue every Saturday morning.

I love maple bars.

Anyway, gas theft became common in my neighborhood. A mouthful of siphoned petrol became a paltry price to pay for a few free gallons from someone's topped off Gran Torino with simulated wood grain paneling. People grew angry, really angry.

Imagine someone from the 1970s looking angry, like Burt Reynolds.

And America responded. If it weren't for the greed of a few Middle Eastern aristocrats, we would never have been blessed with such fuel efficient innovations as:

The Chevrolet Vega

The AMC Gremlin

and The Ford Pinto

The Pinto had some small issues with its gas tank exploding due to a flimsy reinforcing structure between the back panel and gas tank.

Who ever said driving a car is risk free?

Our auto industry wouldn't be the Clydesdale of the American economy if it weren't for those three subcompact workhorses, bolstering the ever-expanding middle class of our great nation, seeing us through times both difficult and prosperous.

God bless our insatiable thirst for fossil fuel.

Congratulations! You've had a disease named after you!

"Hey, Dad, guess what? I know how to do the Heimlich Maneuver."

Those were my eleven-year-old daughter's first words as she climbed into our filthy minivan after having completed a six-hour babysitting training session.

"Good for you. Can you do it on kids and adults?" I was curious as to any additional value the fifty-five dollar fee may have provided.

"Maybe, but I'm not sure. I know I can do it on a baby. Plus I  can change a diaper. When can I babysit, dad?  I want to practice all the stuff I've learned, like treating bee stings, broken bones, bloody cuts and allergic reactions."

"Umm, I'm not sure. And let's hope you never have to deal with any of that stuff, let alone all of it. I don't think parents wants to come home to find their kid bloody, swollen and in an arm sling."

She looked at me. "I could show them a big chunk of meat that their kid heaved up." And without pausing, she added, "They changed the name to 'abdominal thrusts.' That guy Heimlich didn't want his name associated with someone choking."

After I briefly pondered that statement's accuracy, my mind drifted to other biological terms which bear the discoverers' monikers. For instance, when I spoke of donating blood in this post, I mentioned a lengthy questionnaire which broaches the subject of exposure to Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

Who were these people named Creutzfeldt and Jakob? Were they a couple of dudes who slowly went insane after consuming bovine gray matter over a couple of Milwaukee's Bests, or were they lab-coat-wearing techies who discovered the cause of Mad Cow Disease and high-fived over a test tube full of brown, sludgy nastiness?

Thanks to the indisputable accuracy of Wikipedia, I learned that neither theory holds water, as the disease was first described by German neurologist Hans Gerhard Creutzfeldt in 1920 and shortly afterwards by Alfons Maria Jakob, giving it the name Creutzfeldt-Jakob. 

I'm not sure I'd want my name forever linked to an insipid brain-eating disorder, but hey, it is good to get your name out there. Some diseases even use a possessive tense, as if it's the property of someone, like Alzheimer's or Hodgkin's. 

If a person is unfortunate enough to contract one of these terrible illnesses, they shouldn't be further penalized: "I'm terribly sorry, ma'am, but the tests indicate that you have Parkinson's Syndrome, so we'll begin treatment immediately after Dr. Parkinson receives his royalty payment."

I've decided I'd much rather be passively tied to a body part, like Fallopian tubes, which were named after Italian anatomist, Gabriele Fallopio. Kind of cool when your name gets an "ian" at the end, like "Johnsonian" or "Kardashianian."

From a less formal standpoint, some anatomical parts, such as "Adam's Apple" are able to exist on a casual, first name basis. And "Hernia" sounds like it could be one of my aunts from North Dakota.

I'm not sure how you'd go about getting a disease or body part named after you at this point, since it appears everything has been covered. And since my name is Tim, if it weren't for a few years and some bad luck, things would be different.

It would be known as the "T Spot."

The needle and the damage done.

I gave blood at work today. Not in the metaphorical sense—literally.

Ever donated blood?

From my perspective, it's one of those things that must be so compellingly convenient and spontaneous that I have to either brush the side of a blood mobile or stumble a few steps out of my cubicle to a waiting porto-bed. No appointments, no bus rides, no effort.

Today was one of those "site sucks," or whatever they're called, where gurneys are assembled in your workplace conference room, surrounded by more rubber gloves, cookies and tomato juice than my grandma's kitchen on hair dyin' day.

The elderly volunteer sat at a makeshift reception desk, tapping a little too hard on a laptop and taking a little too long, bless her heart. I sat patiently before her, waiting for her to conjure the proper information onto the computer screen. "Well, congratulations," the kindly woman said, "today will be your forty-third pint."

Since my brain operates on the smart ass standard, I was tempted to reply, "Yes, but you have no idea where this blood has been," or "That might sound like a lot of blood, but that would barely cover the walls of your average Manson victim's living room."

I refrained.

Donating one's life liquid turns out to be a bit of a mind game, as first one must fill out a lengthy questionnaire, vowing that one has never had sex with a cow or come into contact with a gay man's brain matter.

Hang on. Reverse that.

After filling in the requisite circles, I handed my sheet to a white-coated technician who escorted me to the "on-deck circle," a small booth where more latex gloves, thermometers and blood pressure cuffs lie in wait. My blood was tested for sufficient iron content and I was again queried as to being absolutely positive that I haven't had sex, even once, with a man since 1977.

We're talking about one time over thirty-four years. That's a long time, so I needed clarification about the definitions of "man" and "sex." Not to worry, however.

Now it was time to saddle up and strap on (Sorry, still kind of thinking about that man sex thing.).

I always request that they tap the same vein on my right arm. That thing's been poked with a needle more often than Keith Richards on royalty check day. After the requisite preparations, the cute young tech initiated a healthy mainline into the Ziploc bag beneath my cot. I had counted approximately fifty-seven ceiling tiles, when I noticed her approaching bloodside.

"Oh, it looks like the needle turned a little. I'll just fix it."

I'll try to describe the subsequent sensation, but it's a little murky. Just imagine the feeling of a large needle digging around in a circular motion inside your elbow crook. It was sharp, white and scalding.

"I'm gonna need you to stop doing that." I was desperately willing myself not to meow in pain.

"Sorry. Do you want me to take out the needle?"

"Umm, no. Just stop moving it around inside my arm. It hurts...a lot."

"Okay, it looks like it's working now."

Sweet Jehovah. My vision shrunk to a narrow tunnel as beads of frozen sweat peppered my temples. After three more pain-free minutes, all necessary blood had been transferred out of my person.

The technician again shuffled up to my right. "Geez, it looks like the needle turned again," she offered while peeling back several strips of tape.

"Really?" I asked. "So I guess you really didn't need to turn it in the first place?"

"Ha, I guess not!" She was laughing.

Here's what I didn't say at that point: "Yeah, well, maybe you should go back to practicing on pumpkins or Life Size Barbie, Now With Real Veins! by Mattel."

"Would you like a wrap or a Band-Aid?" As I contemplated the less conspicuous Band-Aid option, visions of spraying artery gravy crowded my thoughts.

"Better make it a wrap," I replied.

Opting not to linger in the afterglow at the "canteen" upon dismounting the gurney, I grabbed two chocolate chip cookies and a can of V8 from the snack and hydration volunteer, turned and headed for the door.

"Thanks for donating," chirped the nice, yet incompetent, laptop checker-inner lady to the back of my head.

"My pleasure."

Did I really just say that?

Tired of chump moves.

My dad refers to such acts as "Bush League."

I've also heard them coined "sucker punches" or "cheap shots" or "low blows," but I'll go with my favorite term to describe those underhanded, mean-spirited, feats of cowardice:

Chump moves.

The sports world holds claim to the preponderance of chumps, and they can be traced virtually to the origin of competitive athletics. Using his sharpened, metal spikes to disable opposing players, Ty Cobb held legendary status as a dirty player.

Throughout the ensuing decades, the ranks of the Slimeball Hall of Fame grew in numbers, with Danny Ainge, Alex Rodriguez, Bill Romanowski and Karl Malone held aloft as kings of dirty pool shooting.

Roger Clemens, one of the dimmest athletes to ever throw a round thing ninety miles per hour, claimed to be tossing a baseball at Mike Piazza during a moment of confusion at the 2000 World Series. Clemens actually was hurling a splintered bat toward the mulleted Met's carotid artery.

Chumps, all.

Yesterday, Andrew Bynum of the Los Angeles Lakers etched his name among the best of the worst when he decided to imitate a low freeway overpass to JJ Barea's unsecured load. With the game and the playoff series already locked up for the Dallas Mavericks, Bynum concluded that the Mavs' tiny Barea wasn't limboing far enough under the Laker's meaty forearm and elbow. Barea slammed to the floor after appearing to reach the end of an invisible leash.

Immediately ejected, Mr. Bynum peeled off his jersey at half court and sauntered to the locker room amid a chorus of boos. I'm not sure why he felt the need to remove any clothing; In fact, I may have asked for a few towels to catch the snot oysters raining down from the Mavricks' fan base/mob.

Plus, taking off my shirt at work is no good for anyone.

No one likes these guys, even their own supporters.

I coach eleven-year-old girls soccer, and they play with fire and intensity. No longer at the age when the goalie makes mud pies with the fullbacks while the ball is down at the other end, these kids knock each other around.

They play clean. When someone is bumped to the ground, she's helped up and asked if she's okay. When the game's over, everyone high fives and goes back to discussing cats who throw up in sister's bedrooms or the possibilities of securing a Slurpee. No revenge, no hard feelings, no cheap shots.

When is sportsmanlike behavior jettisoned in favor of tantrums and acting out? High school? College? And make no mistake; chump moves aren't confined to the sporting arena.

Politicians proposing cuts to Medicare and Medicaid while simultaneously proposing tax breaks for oil companies: chump move.

The Soviet giant who killed Apollo Creed during a seemingly harmless exhibition: chump move.

People who decide, while sitting on a standing-room-only bus, to occupy the adjacent seat with half a box of Low Salt Wheat Thins and some fingerless gloves: chump move.

"Mission Accomplished": Bush League.

Microsoft claiming that Windows had nothing to do with the Macintosh desktop: chump move.

Using a riding lawn mower on a lawn the size of a Cheescake Factory plate: chump move, in a green sense.

Cats who kill lame baby birds: chump move.

Going for the Karate Kid's leg, which obviously has a bone sticking out of it: seriously chump move.

That's a few, but please share; what are some chump moves that boil your blood? It's fine if you want to talk about Danny Ainge a little more.

Are you a trusting person? I'm not sure I believe you.

In the words of any nineteenth century gold prospector, "Cinnamon and gravy, it's been an outlandish week!"

It has indeed. To top things off with a hearty dollop of bizarre, this headline graced the home page of Friday morning's Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

Al-Qaida Confirms Osama Bin Laden's Death.


Let me get this straight—our government, although opting not to release images of Bin Laden's body, nonetheless provided concrete proof of his deadness to Al-Qaida?

What did the Americans do, swing by a cave to pick up a couple of AQ higher-ups, climb into a bathysphere with a good flashlight and motor down to the bottom of the North Arabian Sea to check out Osama's new status as a Red Lobster for red lobsters?

Probably not, which makes a headline like that so much stranger and so ironic. Here's Al-Qaida, an organization which prides itself on misdirection and propaganda, yet buys off on its enemy's account of the truth.

Meanwhile, a large contingent of the non-suicide-bombing public remains skeptical of anything portrayed by anyone with a "White House" logo perched on the wall behind them. Since, in my last post, I also blathered about our mistrust in the veracity of government news releases, I won't go much further here.

Let's just say, after the Bush administration's bait and switch tactics about WMDs and Iraq's involvement in September 11, we've become one huge state of Missouri. Trust has been lacking and trust must be earned back.

As the week approaches its close, I'm left contemplating what an important role this concept of trust holds in our lives. We must either trust others or live a life of isolation.

I've decided it might help to separate trust by degrees, starting with the lowest degree and working toward the highest. Since I've so frequently mentioned the government, they'll be excluded from this exercise, so here goes:

Anyone with the word "dealer" in his or her job description—For example, used car dealers, drug dealers or unaccounted for nuclear weapons dealers aren't trustworthy at all, yet we've all dealt with at least one of these. By the way, remind me to call that guy about that plutonium he shorted me on.

Complete stranger trust—It really is amazing how often we trust someone whom we've never seen nor spoken to.

"Can you watch my beer? I'm here by myself and I really have to pee," or

"Will you take our picture after we get to the top of that forty foot rock wall? It's for our Christmas card and this new camera is really good at zooming in. Thanks."

Friend trust—This can go either way.

It can be anything from, "Dude, I'm here for you. You know I'll bail you out. Just give me until Monday because I'm bonding with a cutie over an X Files marathon," to

"Dude, I'm here for you. You know I'll bail you out if you help my Grandpa deliver calves this summer while I go to Spain."

Medical/Dental trust—We really have no choice here.

We can only pray that our doctor doesn't employ an alternative form of medicine. "Your mole tastes benign, but I'll have to perform more tests after I get over this cold." No thanks.

We also don't want a dentist who giggles and whispers his mother's name to himself while drilling.

Family trust—Ultimately, we must place unconditional trust in our families.

With children, it's always a slippery slope: "Dad, I didn't tell you about my secret hamster because I know you're scared of corn dog-sized mammals. Mom's not, and she says she's never been more unattracted to you than when you did that man scream. Can I keep him, anyway?"

Spouses must be held to the highest standard; nothing can supersede the sanctity of marital trustworthiness. And so, when she comes home as the clock glows 3:46, smelling of Old Spice, pipe tobacco and hummus, believe her when she tells you she was working the snack table at the Senior Center Easter Sock Hop. Do not let your imagination take you to her practicing the Kama Sutra with a Turkish hookah magnate.

Now that our week is at an end, let's resolve to trust each other a little more next week, and a little more the week after.

If not, the terrorists have won.

How lucky was the man who shot Bin Laden?

Do you believe in "luck?"

Is being lucky nothing more than a kiss on the cheek by the cosmic breeze of fortune, an act of blind, random chance?

Or, do you believe that we contribute to our own lucky ways, that we position ourselves, through our choices and decisions, for outcomes which may be perceived by others as simply lucky?

Neil Armstrong stepped onto the moon's surface and into history on July 20, 1969. He was pegged to be first based upon his calm demeanor, his exemplary piloting skills...and his status as a civilian. Bowing to pressure to ease American-Soviet relations at the close of a tumultuous decade, NASA  penciled in Armstrong as a gesture of non-militaristic goodwill.

Was Neil Armstrong lucky?

Although Morris Jeppson had worked for months on the electronic fusing of the atomic bomb which would detonate over Hiroshima, he was chosen as a member of the Enola Gay's thirteen-man crew over a coin flip, thereby punching his timecard in history.

Was Morris Jeppson lucky?

And now, somewhere this morning, whether on a ship or military base or at home with his family, a man has awakened, risen out of bed and looked into a mirror. As he shaves for the day ahead, he pauses. His hand drops to the sink, clanging the metal razor on the clean porcelain.

He leans forward and stares into his half-shaved face.

 "I'm the one.

I put a bullet in him.

I ended the life of Earth's most wanted criminal.

I killed Osama Bin Laden."

Lucky?

Our politicians are notorious for embellishing or even fabricating acts of valor to further their station among the public. Their exploitations of Pat Tillman and Jessica Lynch have jaded Americans to the point where we'll withhold our judgment until we can compile the facts for six months to a year. Only then will many of us decide whether or not to brush aside our cynicism.

And such a difficult exercise that is, when we occupy a society which thirsts for heroes. We manufacture American Idols and Biggest Losers because we love these stories and we can believe in the people. It's right there in front of us; no spin, no backtracking, no double talk.

And now, more than ever, America wants her hero, front and center.

I dearly  hope, in this age of Twitter, TMZ and Wikileaks, that this Navy SEAL's name never bubbles to the surface. If it does, this man's life will irrevocably, profoundly, change.

Sure, he'll never have to buy another drink; he'll be wined and dined and prodded and poked and thrown so far out of his realm, he'll wonder what his life was like when he was "nothing more" than a courageous soldier.

Lucky?

Trump: "I woulda brung him back alive."

After this past weekend, I think we know who the grownups are.

We also know whom should be sitting at the kids' table.

I'll give Donald Trump one thing: at least he had, in his vernacular, the "bwalls" to show his ruddy face at Saturday night's White House Correspondents' Association Dinner. After spending years causing a ruckus with his cacophonous pie hole, he concluded last week at the top of his game, declaring himself in a dead heat with Barack Obama in the race for the 2012 Presidency.

Sure you are, Donald, and if I could drop eighty pounds and do a little waxing, I'd be Eva Freaking Longoria.

I realize that the human ego, especially male, can be blinding. But the fact that this guy considers himself to be a short-lister for leader of the free world (countries with at least five Wal-Marts) cranks the needle up past "insane" and "megalomaniacal" to "umm...security?"

But if it wasn't difficult enough for Trump to be mercilessly skewered by our President and a few others at the dinner, he was permanently demoted to the minors Sunday night, when Mr. Obama announced the killing of Osama bin Laden.

Hey Don, next time you comb your hair, just go a little further forward and all the way down your face, mmmkay? Thanks.

During the past several days, President Obama has displayed the moxie and cool that I only hoped for upon casting my ballot. Throughout that red herring expedition sponsored by the birthers and championed by Don, the President calmly tucked the issue into bed while planning the take down of the most prolific mass murderer of our lifetimes.

Talk about a poker face.

How does he do it? How does perform the every day duties of Commander-In-Chief, let alone shoulder the heavy burdens of war, health care, the economy and racist snipe hunts by people like Trump?

I have no idea how that job doesn't completely break a person. If I try to boil pasta while unloading the dishwasher, the stress causes acid reflux and acne on my inner thighs. And that's after lying in a dark room thinking only of a Pop Tart forest.

In addition to Obama, what about his family? I'm sure they're forced to endure many unwelcome obligations. I can just hear Michelle Obama saying, "Seriously, Barack, take the Prime Minister of Luxembourg to Ruth's Chris tonight and tell his wife I've got a migraine. I know you like him, but I'd be stuck with her. Remember, she has that condition where her eyes don't blink and she smells like bacon."

And what about the Obama kids? I'm sure he's been faced with, "Come on, Dad. No way are we spending three hours with the Sarcozy kids. They say mean stuff about us in French and all they want to do is play Lite Brite."

Naturally, every President since number one, the original George W., has weathered severe emotional storms. Some handled the pressure gracefully, while others sought outlets of distraction. I've heard that our President occasionally sneaks a smoke out on the veranda. Hey, do what you must, Mr. President.

I wonder if the Presidential Seal is affixed to the rusty coffee can he uses for an ashtray.

All I know is, Barack Obama has my vote in 2012. And to all you contenders, you can go through the buffet line first.

The kids' table is back in the rec room.