She can't help it. At least that's what the experts say. Her cerebral cortex, the section of her brain which perceives higher reasoning, logic and consequences, is disengaged. The clearinghouse for most brain activity originates within her hypothalamus, a primitive region which instructs the body to either fight, flee or freeze. She evaluates all information and then acts based upon how it affects her and her immediate needs. Any perceived threat causes her brain to completely shut down and posture for a fight. How old do you think this human might be? Six? Three? Eighteen months?
Nope. Fourteen.
My wife and I have been taking a weekly class at the local high school about all things teenager: their social and physical development, their emotional progression, methods for parents of coping with them and listening to them.
It's been really helpful, since the one of the first lessons taught is that your teen is your ally, not your adversary. Believe me, this is a highly underrated piece of advice. It allows me to look beyond some of her recent statements, such as:
1) Teenager: "Dad, what time is The Office on tonight?"
Me: "Nine o'clock."
(Ten seconds elapse)
Teenager: "Dad, what did I just ask you?"
2) Teenager: "Dad, can I drive to the store?"
Me: "No, you're fourteen."
Teenager: "That's not fair."
(I don't follow up on such statements with any sort of logical inquiry as to why it's not fair.)
3) Teenager (at school, calling me while I'm at work): "Dad, I forgot my volleyball socks. Can you bring
them to me?"
Me: "No, I'm at work."
Teenager: "That's not fair. Can't you go at lunchtime?"
Me: "No, it would take me an hour-and-a-half."
Teenager: "That's not fair."
Me: "You've made that clear."
As I mentioned a couple of months ago, I dearly love this girl. She's smart and kind and funny. The hard part is the clashes we have in between her smart, kind, funny moments, and my struggle to keep situations from escalating. Our class instructor maintains that the best way to convey requests (orders, actually), without appearing confrontational and invoking the kid's caveman brain reflex, is to swoop in, succinctly state the information, and swoop back out. Kind of like "Whack-a-Mole." Anything to avoid a face-to-face stand-off is good, and this technique does appear to be working. Any more droning on, and I sound like Charlie Brown's teacher, and nothing gets through.
Well, time to make sure the Volleyball socks are clean.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Not raisins again!
With Halloween approaching this weekend and my family's costumes all planned out, I've been thinking a little about how we dress up for Halloween, and what it indicates about us. Oh, no, it's not just an outfit—it's a personal statement. As I rode in on the 54 this morning, my own Halloween choices over the years surfaced, and I formed a few categories:
1) The well-thought-out, personality-based costume. Most of these are created with the help of a parent (usually your mom). These are extensions of our personality traits. I have been a mouse (a rather small percentage of my psyche), a tiger (again, small percentage), hippie (large portion, worn several times), a skeleton (a manifestation of my aspirational, skinny self) and a devil (not Exorcist-level, but saturated with the brat gene nonetheless). Not to sound too much like Freud, but look around at what the kids are wearing, and it may shed some light on their ongoing struggle between id, ego and superego. And hopefully, you won't see a costume relating to the Oedipus Complex.
2) The "faddish" costume. This may work for some, but usually, too many people are wearing the same thing (please see Sarah Palin, 2008). I tried this once, dressing up as "The Fonz." It was okay, but I saw about 17 other Fonzes traipsing around my neighborhood that evening. And shortly thereafter, the guy jumped the shark, rendering himself forever passé.
3) The lame, thrown-together, last minute costume. I've only used this method as an adult, and people's reactions are as lukewarm as the effort put forth in creating the look. One year, I bought a mullet wig and wore it with a rock station t-shirt. Nobody got it. The wig didn't look enough like a mullet, and I basically resembled a bank robber. Rocker guy costume thereby aborted.
Last year, I avoided any confusion about who I was by ironing the word, "Hamburglar," onto a white t-shirt. Still lame, though.
Many adults aren't so lazy about it, especially some of my co-workers, who spend hours becoming Dale Chihuly or Richard Simmons or Ugly Betty. In my opinion, however, nothing beats that slightly clueless four-year-old whom, after you open the front door, walks right into your house in search of the candy motherload. Those kids are hilarious, especially when their faces are too hot to wear that plastic Spiderman mask any longer, and the red and blue suit has to be slit in the back to accomodate the puffy jacket.
1) The well-thought-out, personality-based costume. Most of these are created with the help of a parent (usually your mom). These are extensions of our personality traits. I have been a mouse (a rather small percentage of my psyche), a tiger (again, small percentage), hippie (large portion, worn several times), a skeleton (a manifestation of my aspirational, skinny self) and a devil (not Exorcist-level, but saturated with the brat gene nonetheless). Not to sound too much like Freud, but look around at what the kids are wearing, and it may shed some light on their ongoing struggle between id, ego and superego. And hopefully, you won't see a costume relating to the Oedipus Complex.
2) The "faddish" costume. This may work for some, but usually, too many people are wearing the same thing (please see Sarah Palin, 2008). I tried this once, dressing up as "The Fonz." It was okay, but I saw about 17 other Fonzes traipsing around my neighborhood that evening. And shortly thereafter, the guy jumped the shark, rendering himself forever passé.
3) The lame, thrown-together, last minute costume. I've only used this method as an adult, and people's reactions are as lukewarm as the effort put forth in creating the look. One year, I bought a mullet wig and wore it with a rock station t-shirt. Nobody got it. The wig didn't look enough like a mullet, and I basically resembled a bank robber. Rocker guy costume thereby aborted.
Last year, I avoided any confusion about who I was by ironing the word, "Hamburglar," onto a white t-shirt. Still lame, though.
Many adults aren't so lazy about it, especially some of my co-workers, who spend hours becoming Dale Chihuly or Richard Simmons or Ugly Betty. In my opinion, however, nothing beats that slightly clueless four-year-old whom, after you open the front door, walks right into your house in search of the candy motherload. Those kids are hilarious, especially when their faces are too hot to wear that plastic Spiderman mask any longer, and the red and blue suit has to be slit in the back to accomodate the puffy jacket.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
That's not the letter "O" on their helmets, it's a zero
Purple and gold—the two most noble colors in the spectrum. Yes, I'm a Husky, born and bred. I hail from a family of UW alumni—my brother, sister, wife and me. Whenever I mention to my wife that the Huskies are playing a crucial, must-win, do-or-die game, she'll brush it off with something like, "To you, it's important. To me, it means nothing. It's a game." So, even though she's actually a "Double Husky," with both Bachelors and Masters degrees from our fine institution, she couldn't care less about the snarling dogs of Montlake.
My brother is her polar opposite. He could view, back-to-back, Schindler's List, Terms of Endearment, Brian's Song and Love Story, and shed nary a tear. But subject him to a disappointing Husky loss and he requires a good five days to re-supply his brain's serotonin levels. Such was the case yesterday.
He and I arrived at the UW campus in high spirits. It's difficult not to be excited, arriving at a beautiful college campus on a sunny Fall afternoon, the leaves swirling around the massive, gothic structures. A pilgrimage of purple-clad supporters snaked its way through campus and down to Husky Stadium, with a smattering of green-and-yellow-adorned Oregon Duck fans infiltrating the procession. I've always felt that the object found in nature which most simulates Oregon's green is a sinus infection, and it heavily clashed with the regal purple which represents Washington.
We arrived at the stadium and found our seats just as the national anthem was being belted out by the Husky Marching Band, the opening kick-off just minutes away. The cantilevered design of Husky Stadium funnels all crowd noise directly onto the field, which can prove to be distracting and intimidating to UW opponents. As usual, the roar was deafening.
The Huskies stopped the Ducks on their first possession, forcing them to punt and giving the purple and gold faithful some rightly-deserved optimism. Without droning on about what later ensued, let's just say that was the apex our football day.
Just to give some perspective to the Oregon-Washington rivalry, it dates back to 1900, with the Huskies holding a 57-39-5 advantage. Washington dominated the series up until the 1990s, and once the tables turned, Oregon felt no compunction in running up the score on its northern rival with impunity. The games are marked by frequent scuffles, both on the field among the players, and off the field among the drunken masses of college kids. A Duck fan can feel relatively safe wearing his or her school colors to the game in Seattle, but beware the consequences of wearing purple and gold as you make your way toward Autzen Stadium for a football contest in Eugene, Oregon.
The Huskies lost yesterday, 43-19, and unfortunately, the inferiority complex deep inside a lot of Duck Nation surfaced on the way out of the stadium. I heard one guy say, "We don't even care about this game anymore. We always win." I wanted to ask him why he drove 300 miles to watch something about which he didn't care.
The day was still fun. I got to hang out with my brother and take part in a ritual that never loses its luster. And Duck fans, call me when you win a Rose Bowl.
My brother is her polar opposite. He could view, back-to-back, Schindler's List, Terms of Endearment, Brian's Song and Love Story, and shed nary a tear. But subject him to a disappointing Husky loss and he requires a good five days to re-supply his brain's serotonin levels. Such was the case yesterday.
He and I arrived at the UW campus in high spirits. It's difficult not to be excited, arriving at a beautiful college campus on a sunny Fall afternoon, the leaves swirling around the massive, gothic structures. A pilgrimage of purple-clad supporters snaked its way through campus and down to Husky Stadium, with a smattering of green-and-yellow-adorned Oregon Duck fans infiltrating the procession. I've always felt that the object found in nature which most simulates Oregon's green is a sinus infection, and it heavily clashed with the regal purple which represents Washington.
We arrived at the stadium and found our seats just as the national anthem was being belted out by the Husky Marching Band, the opening kick-off just minutes away. The cantilevered design of Husky Stadium funnels all crowd noise directly onto the field, which can prove to be distracting and intimidating to UW opponents. As usual, the roar was deafening.
The Huskies stopped the Ducks on their first possession, forcing them to punt and giving the purple and gold faithful some rightly-deserved optimism. Without droning on about what later ensued, let's just say that was the apex our football day.
Just to give some perspective to the Oregon-Washington rivalry, it dates back to 1900, with the Huskies holding a 57-39-5 advantage. Washington dominated the series up until the 1990s, and once the tables turned, Oregon felt no compunction in running up the score on its northern rival with impunity. The games are marked by frequent scuffles, both on the field among the players, and off the field among the drunken masses of college kids. A Duck fan can feel relatively safe wearing his or her school colors to the game in Seattle, but beware the consequences of wearing purple and gold as you make your way toward Autzen Stadium for a football contest in Eugene, Oregon.
The Huskies lost yesterday, 43-19, and unfortunately, the inferiority complex deep inside a lot of Duck Nation surfaced on the way out of the stadium. I heard one guy say, "We don't even care about this game anymore. We always win." I wanted to ask him why he drove 300 miles to watch something about which he didn't care.
The day was still fun. I got to hang out with my brother and take part in a ritual that never loses its luster. And Duck fans, call me when you win a Rose Bowl.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Our top story tonight
Local news. National news. They each drive me crazy...yet I've faithfully watched each since I was old enough to comprehend that a war was going on in Vietnam. Each possesses its own brand of obnoxiousness unique to its medium. Let's begin with the local brand:
1) They love logos. Whether it's "Winter Blast 2001," or "Standoff in Tukwila," or "Fender Bender at Seventh and Olive," each report is preceded by a shiny, 3D graphic treatment, combined with an ominous soundtrack.
2) They strive to make a non-story into a dramatic event. If "Winter Blast 2001" fails to materialize, they copter up to some peak in the Yukon Territory just to display the snow accumulating in the Aqua-Netted hair of some cub reporter. Their lead statement is something like, "We're here in Skagway Alaska at the front edge of a potentially devastating Arctic blast to the Puget Sound area, a mere 1200 miles from where I stand."
3) The local news anchor is compelled to banter with the weather guy at the news desk. "Hey, Steve, I hope you deal us up some sun for the weekend...heh, heh!" Just one of these times, I wish that Steve would say, "Hey, Dennis. You know what? I don't control the weather. But you, however, do control what you're wearing from your suit coat down, which today is just a Speedo and some brown socks."
4) They don't report news. They talk about fires and puppies and drinking lots of water when it's hot outside.
On to our national coverage:
1) There's so much happening on the screen. A "crawler" along the bottom tells you news that the person at the desk isn't saying, or maybe is. At the top left are stock prices; at the top right are astrological forecasts. I enjoy customizing my TV to display subtext for the hearing impaired just to provide maximum confusion and anxiety.
2) Experts who answer questions with questions. Often, especially on cable news shows, a so-called "senior analyst" is brought in to shed some light on a situation too complex for the viewer to comprehend. And more frequently than not, the expert leaves us even more confused. Here's an example:
News Anchor: "General Johnsssson, what do you feel should be the President's next strategic move in Afghanistan?"
General Johnsssson: "What do I feel the President should do? Should he scale down our troop levels and create a leaner and more mobile security force? Maybe. Should he use psychological tactics to win over the hearts and minds of the tribal elders? I don't know. Do I think the United States is part of Europe? No, I don't."
3) Experts who make a statement, only to completely rebuf that statement. Example:
"Yes, I think the president is making significant gains in attaining world peace. He's definitely on the right track and he has my full support. That said, I believe he's the lead horseman of the Apocolypse, and the world will soon drown in a lake of fire."
Okay, there I go again—more cynicism. Do I need to halt these negative analyses? Maybe. Will I? Probably not.
1) They love logos. Whether it's "Winter Blast 2001," or "Standoff in Tukwila," or "Fender Bender at Seventh and Olive," each report is preceded by a shiny, 3D graphic treatment, combined with an ominous soundtrack.
2) They strive to make a non-story into a dramatic event. If "Winter Blast 2001" fails to materialize, they copter up to some peak in the Yukon Territory just to display the snow accumulating in the Aqua-Netted hair of some cub reporter. Their lead statement is something like, "We're here in Skagway Alaska at the front edge of a potentially devastating Arctic blast to the Puget Sound area, a mere 1200 miles from where I stand."
3) The local news anchor is compelled to banter with the weather guy at the news desk. "Hey, Steve, I hope you deal us up some sun for the weekend...heh, heh!" Just one of these times, I wish that Steve would say, "Hey, Dennis. You know what? I don't control the weather. But you, however, do control what you're wearing from your suit coat down, which today is just a Speedo and some brown socks."
4) They don't report news. They talk about fires and puppies and drinking lots of water when it's hot outside.
On to our national coverage:
1) There's so much happening on the screen. A "crawler" along the bottom tells you news that the person at the desk isn't saying, or maybe is. At the top left are stock prices; at the top right are astrological forecasts. I enjoy customizing my TV to display subtext for the hearing impaired just to provide maximum confusion and anxiety.
2) Experts who answer questions with questions. Often, especially on cable news shows, a so-called "senior analyst" is brought in to shed some light on a situation too complex for the viewer to comprehend. And more frequently than not, the expert leaves us even more confused. Here's an example:
News Anchor: "General Johnsssson, what do you feel should be the President's next strategic move in Afghanistan?"
General Johnsssson: "What do I feel the President should do? Should he scale down our troop levels and create a leaner and more mobile security force? Maybe. Should he use psychological tactics to win over the hearts and minds of the tribal elders? I don't know. Do I think the United States is part of Europe? No, I don't."
3) Experts who make a statement, only to completely rebuf that statement. Example:
"Yes, I think the president is making significant gains in attaining world peace. He's definitely on the right track and he has my full support. That said, I believe he's the lead horseman of the Apocolypse, and the world will soon drown in a lake of fire."
Okay, there I go again—more cynicism. Do I need to halt these negative analyses? Maybe. Will I? Probably not.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
How's your day going so far?
I try, I really do, but sometimes it's difficult. Cynicism tends to run in my family, so rather than fight an uphill battle, I've decided to embrace my cynicism, at least temporarily.
I realize that certain pleasantries are essential in keeping a civilized society functional. However, I also believe that conditions have gotten to the point where I feel compelled to analyze a few of these bromides to provide myself some clarity. Here are some examples:
What bank teller says: "So how's your day going?"
What bank teller means: "I need to know your mental state, so I can decide whether or not to access the exploding dye packs."
What guy at work says: "You look tired."
What guy at work means: "You look like you slept in a tub filled with gravel."
What woman at work says: "I love your new haircut. It's so cute."
What woman at work means: "Okay, it's going to take a little while to get used to working with Kate Gosselin."
What IT person at work says, in an email: "Thanks in advance for your cooperation in implementing the new system."
What IT person at work means, in an email: "Do this. You need to do this."
What co-worker says: "Your lunch smells great. What kind of fish is that?"
What co-worker means: "The stench of that rotten sea flesh gives me unbridled nausea."
What woman at park says: "Your son is so energetic. I love it."
What woman at park means: "Your son begs for that medication they administer as step one of three, during lethal injections."
What checker at Target says: "Have a great day."
What checker at Target means: "Mmm... ten more minutes until five-dollar footlong time."
What person you run into downtown says: "We should get together sometime."
What person you run into downtown means: "I'd rather eat roadkill."
I know that people can be, and are, sincere and genuine in their statements 99.9% of the time, and I realize these musings are a bit negative. For that I apologize in advance. Have a great day.
I realize that certain pleasantries are essential in keeping a civilized society functional. However, I also believe that conditions have gotten to the point where I feel compelled to analyze a few of these bromides to provide myself some clarity. Here are some examples:
What bank teller says: "So how's your day going?"
What bank teller means: "I need to know your mental state, so I can decide whether or not to access the exploding dye packs."
What guy at work says: "You look tired."
What guy at work means: "You look like you slept in a tub filled with gravel."
What woman at work says: "I love your new haircut. It's so cute."
What woman at work means: "Okay, it's going to take a little while to get used to working with Kate Gosselin."
What IT person at work says, in an email: "Thanks in advance for your cooperation in implementing the new system."
What IT person at work means, in an email: "Do this. You need to do this."
What co-worker says: "Your lunch smells great. What kind of fish is that?"
What co-worker means: "The stench of that rotten sea flesh gives me unbridled nausea."
What woman at park says: "Your son is so energetic. I love it."
What woman at park means: "Your son begs for that medication they administer as step one of three, during lethal injections."
What checker at Target says: "Have a great day."
What checker at Target means: "Mmm... ten more minutes until five-dollar footlong time."
What person you run into downtown says: "We should get together sometime."
What person you run into downtown means: "I'd rather eat roadkill."
I know that people can be, and are, sincere and genuine in their statements 99.9% of the time, and I realize these musings are a bit negative. For that I apologize in advance. Have a great day.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Guys don't carry girls' books anymore; it's all online
Some events roll into your life easily, like the familiar expectation of the chocolatey, Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop. Others take you a bit by surprise, like discovering that your pizza has corn on it (Sorry, I just find comfort in food analogies.).
The latter event proved to be the case this past Saturday evening. I had known for quite a while that my fourteen-year-old daughter was anticipating her high school homecoming dance. I had known that four of her friends were coming over to our house to eat frozen pizza and get ready beforehand. And, I had known that my girl had never before been to a mixer with boys as old as eighteen.
What I hadn't accounted for, outside the boundaries of this intellectual information, were the emotional reactions, most notably from my daughter and me.
This wasn't a shindig where a one guy asked one girl, or vice versa; no wrist corsages, no gunny sack dresses, no parking at Inspiration Point afterward. Sounded good to me. I was certain my girl would just frolic around in her safe gaggle of buddies, maybe chatting up the occasional guy, and then retreating back into the crowd for a juice box and some goldfish.
She and her four friends all crammed into our phone booth of a bathroom, equipped with flat irons, curling irons, maybe even waffle irons for all I knew. After about an hour of changing, re-changing and re-re-changing their tight tee shirts and skinny jeans, it was finally time to go. They piled out the door and into the mini-van, leaving a cloudy, greenhouse gas cocktail of Aerogel and hormones.
I felt some apprehension, but fortunately, my alma mater was battling Arizona State on TV, and, being a guy, I was easily distracted by such a shiny thing to watch.
My daughter finally arrived home around midnight, absolutely aglow. She said, and I quote, "I had the best time. I love high school. I slow-danced with (name redacted)...twice."
"That's great," I said, "I'm really glad you had fun. It's good to hear that you love high school. And how awesome that you slo...slo...you what?"
"I slow danced with (name redacted)."
That's when I dug really deep. Time to play it cool.
"Is he a good guy?"
"Of course, otherwise I wouldn't have danced with him. (you freakin' bonehead, Dad)."
I just let it go at that point.
"All right. I'm glad you had a good time. See you tomorrow."
I really am happy for her, and I do know that this is a natural step in the coming-of-age progression. I guess the thought of an adolescent male slow-dancing with my baby just makes me feel a little...vulnerable.
The latter event proved to be the case this past Saturday evening. I had known for quite a while that my fourteen-year-old daughter was anticipating her high school homecoming dance. I had known that four of her friends were coming over to our house to eat frozen pizza and get ready beforehand. And, I had known that my girl had never before been to a mixer with boys as old as eighteen.
What I hadn't accounted for, outside the boundaries of this intellectual information, were the emotional reactions, most notably from my daughter and me.
This wasn't a shindig where a one guy asked one girl, or vice versa; no wrist corsages, no gunny sack dresses, no parking at Inspiration Point afterward. Sounded good to me. I was certain my girl would just frolic around in her safe gaggle of buddies, maybe chatting up the occasional guy, and then retreating back into the crowd for a juice box and some goldfish.
She and her four friends all crammed into our phone booth of a bathroom, equipped with flat irons, curling irons, maybe even waffle irons for all I knew. After about an hour of changing, re-changing and re-re-changing their tight tee shirts and skinny jeans, it was finally time to go. They piled out the door and into the mini-van, leaving a cloudy, greenhouse gas cocktail of Aerogel and hormones.
I felt some apprehension, but fortunately, my alma mater was battling Arizona State on TV, and, being a guy, I was easily distracted by such a shiny thing to watch.
My daughter finally arrived home around midnight, absolutely aglow. She said, and I quote, "I had the best time. I love high school. I slow-danced with (name redacted)...twice."
"That's great," I said, "I'm really glad you had fun. It's good to hear that you love high school. And how awesome that you slo...slo...you what?"
"I slow danced with (name redacted)."
That's when I dug really deep. Time to play it cool.
"Is he a good guy?"
"Of course, otherwise I wouldn't have danced with him. (you freakin' bonehead, Dad)."
I just let it go at that point.
"All right. I'm glad you had a good time. See you tomorrow."
I really am happy for her, and I do know that this is a natural step in the coming-of-age progression. I guess the thought of an adolescent male slow-dancing with my baby just makes me feel a little...vulnerable.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Leave this stuff to the experts
A few hypothetical scenarios you might consider in pursuit of publicity, but probably shouldn't:
1) You're an amateur scientist, recently featured on the educational series, "Wife Swap." You decide to build a cool, silver balloon, prepare it for launch, attach it to the ground in your backyard, right next to the swing set, with a couple of pieces of dental floss, and then go inside to make a hot pocket. On your way into the house, you tell your three sons, between the ages of six and six-and-a-half, not to mess with the balloon, because it would be really easy to release and super fun to fly.
This is not a good publicity stunt because it can lead to serious injury or death.
2) You're a bloated, egomaniacal, narcotic-guzzling racist, with a highly inflammatory, right-wing radio show. You're wallowing in cashy goodness (rich). Your track record is littered with divisive, bigoted opinions, and the majority of Americans despise you, especially those who aren't white and male. You think to yourself, "I should purchase an NFL football team. What harm is it if 80 percent of my employees are African-American? They'll be working for me."
This is a bad idea, because it can lead to disbelief, followed by boisterous guffawing, followed by burly security guards demonstrating how your nose can actually open a large, glass door at the league office.
3) You hate your wife, and I mean with a fiery passion. You already have twin daughters. The two of you decide, since you so direly loathe each other, that she should again ingest fertility pharmaceuticals, because, hey, what are the chances of another multiple birth? And besides, if she happens to give birth to, say...sextuplets, payday is just around the corner in the form of your own TV show. And then, just a couple of years down the road, you can bag the whole thing and hook up with your wife's plastic surgeon's daughter.
This is not a good publicity gimmick, because, even though you're furnished with a lifetime supply of Ed Hardy t-shirts, the entire world bears witness to what a complete, classless tool you are.
Keep in mind, the advice I am offering is merely a courtesy, just as that picture on the cover of grape nuts, with the strawberries, toast and juice, is merely a serving suggestion.
Please follow your heart.
1) You're an amateur scientist, recently featured on the educational series, "Wife Swap." You decide to build a cool, silver balloon, prepare it for launch, attach it to the ground in your backyard, right next to the swing set, with a couple of pieces of dental floss, and then go inside to make a hot pocket. On your way into the house, you tell your three sons, between the ages of six and six-and-a-half, not to mess with the balloon, because it would be really easy to release and super fun to fly.
This is not a good publicity stunt because it can lead to serious injury or death.
2) You're a bloated, egomaniacal, narcotic-guzzling racist, with a highly inflammatory, right-wing radio show. You're wallowing in cashy goodness (rich). Your track record is littered with divisive, bigoted opinions, and the majority of Americans despise you, especially those who aren't white and male. You think to yourself, "I should purchase an NFL football team. What harm is it if 80 percent of my employees are African-American? They'll be working for me."
This is a bad idea, because it can lead to disbelief, followed by boisterous guffawing, followed by burly security guards demonstrating how your nose can actually open a large, glass door at the league office.
3) You hate your wife, and I mean with a fiery passion. You already have twin daughters. The two of you decide, since you so direly loathe each other, that she should again ingest fertility pharmaceuticals, because, hey, what are the chances of another multiple birth? And besides, if she happens to give birth to, say...sextuplets, payday is just around the corner in the form of your own TV show. And then, just a couple of years down the road, you can bag the whole thing and hook up with your wife's plastic surgeon's daughter.
This is not a good publicity gimmick, because, even though you're furnished with a lifetime supply of Ed Hardy t-shirts, the entire world bears witness to what a complete, classless tool you are.
Keep in mind, the advice I am offering is merely a courtesy, just as that picture on the cover of grape nuts, with the strawberries, toast and juice, is merely a serving suggestion.
Please follow your heart.
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