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First off, the Havre Daily News is a fine newspaper with a lively staff of dedicated folks who put your news needs first. I mean it! Take Tim Leeds – please! Ha Ha. Only kidding. Tim’s a deodorized, underwear-sporting reporter who’s not afraid to look Death in the face and say, “No, you’re looking for Jim Leeds. He was last seen in a yellow Vega, driving like a bat-out-of-hell on the outskirts of Malta.” Or, there’s Alice Campbell, who willingly risks life and limb relentlessly digging up the “dirt” about compelling topics like out-of-control Bear Paw Mountain snowboarders. And, of course, there’s editor John Kelleher who, supposedly without the aid of illegal narcotics, dances to work every morning just to get the paper out to you.

Come on! Hit the streets in support of the Daily News because and, I hope I’m not speaking out of turn, the staff would be really “I stepped in what?!” peeved if they had to finagle another job. But, while kudos to the Daily New folks are in order, my purpose is to warn you about an ominous demon at work in the world of classified advertising.

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Welcome back! It’s the highly acclaimed Department of the Treasury – Internal Revenue Service 2009 tax season. A time of joy, lawn fertilizing, and mini pigs-in-a-blanket made with those cute “smokies” wieners wrapped with biscuit dough. My youngest son took a basketful to a potluck once except he inserted baby carrots in some to appease the vegetarians. Silly kid.

This tax season is no different from years gone by, primarily because of rampant mathphobia. Have you every wondered why people are scared of math? Neither have I. All I know is the part of my brain that does math is broken – possibly from a head trauma when I was four caused by my sister pelting me with a bald doll (I’d yanked out all the hair – a condition eventually tied to my lower intestine).

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In the words of the immortal Paris Hilton, “I’m available and I’m cheap.” If all it takes to reach instant fame (as in one of those cardboard cutouts where the star strikes a pose resembling someone who’s had a frontal lobotomy) is for me to eat items from a fast food menu, sign me up. I’ll eat almost anything.

Now, the company that brought us the taco-craving Chihuahua and double-decker tacos claims it can help drop those extra pounds. They’re employing an ad campaign paralleling Subway’s Jared Fogle who lost tons of weight eating rabbit food laced sandwiches.

Enter Christine Dougherty, a 27-year old Home Economics dropout, who ate items from Taco Bell’s lower-calorie “Fresco menu” five to eight times a week, dropping 54 pounds. Dougherty (Who, by the way, is a lot hotter than Subway Jared) has been showing off her new body in TV commercials aimed primarily, from a marketing standpoint, for people with the IQ of a cooked radish. Read the rest of this entry »

The honorable Attorney General Eric H. Holder Jr. recently told House members if Osama bin Laden is found, “…we will be reading Miranda rights to a corpse.” A heart warming legal statement that clearly illustrates the complexity and subtle nuances of the U.S. justice system.

To test your knowledge of our legal system, where does the phrase, “by a jury of your peers” come from?

a. Standard marriage vows, right after the bride says, “…and if I catch you, you’ll be singing soprano without a trial by …”

b. Miranda rights (Chicago’s Southside version) just after, “If you cannot find an attorney, we’ll beat you with this rubber hose.”

c. In the U.S. Constitution between “Four score and seven years ago…” and “With liberty and justice for all.”

d. In the Magna Carta, arguably, the messiest examples of pre-medieval penmanship but giving us “writ of habeas corpus,” a rock group from Miami.

No, silly! Those lines are from the epic movie, “Gone With the Wind” not the U.S. Constitution! It was the Magna Carta, which, I quite honestly thought related to Christopher Columbus or possibly my microwave’s warranty. My point is, with rampant judicial system confusion, almost anyone could end up on a jury — for example, my wife. Read the rest of this entry »

Tired of struggling through power cords behind the TV, trying to nab the cat that just barfed on the kitchen rug? Don’t worry! At the 2010 Consumer Electronics Show the Chinese manufacturer, Haier, showed off a 32-inch TV set running on nothing but wireless energy. Sure, people were sterilized walking by the “receiver.” They shouldn’t have been wearing black underwear.

This groundbreaking development comes as no surprise to those of us racking our brains over the mysteries of electricity. I remember one incident where my Dad catapulted from the top of an aluminum ladder after he turned on his old, entirely metal Skill saw. Such events shape my belief that electrons were left on earth by a superior alien race.  Slimy creatures now sitting in recliners on the Mother Ship, watching a kid have his brother hold the mower’s spark plug wire while he pulls the starter rope.

At the atomic level, electricity is the movement of electrons, which are teensy tiny specks invisible to the naked eye unless you’ve been heavily drinking. Electrons move inside a wire like gophers through a hole except gophers will occasionally poop while scientists now believe electrons never relieve themselves. Electricians call a battery, piece of wire, and load a circuit.  And this is the best joke they know!

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I had a soggy bowl of Captain Crunch for breakfast this morning. What I was hoping my wife would crank out was my favorite: cinnamon rolls and ice cream (always start the day with a dairy serving). Unfortunately, she’s studying to be a VITA volunteer so my needs now rank with Hank the dog.

VITA stands for Volunteer Income Tax Assistance “What’s VITA all about?” you might ask. Wait and I’ll ask Gail. … Okay, what she said was, “Hey, I found wood chips all the way down into the living room this morning and I know they didn’t come off the dog. Haven’t I told you a thousand times to brush yourself off after working in the garage?” It’s the same number of times she’s told me to close the toilet lid — geeze, a couple weeks of VITA training and her sense of humor has really taken a nosedive.

Looking it up on the web, I found out that VITA volunteers provide tax return guidance and e-filing help to qualifying low- and moderate-income taxpayers. I have no doubt these services are a welcome relief because people who are fed up with trying to find section 4534b in form E9577d better get some help, by golly, before they hold all the people on the Greyhound bus hostage.

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There is an epidemic engulfing us every holiday season. Yep, Christmas newsletters. During the medieval ages, right after Gutenberg invented the crayon, people sent handmade cards crafted on flattened sheets of barley bread. Each card contained a hand-scribed note such as, “May thy season be blessed with dung-free hay and maggot-free salt pork. Say “Hi” to the family.” Times were a lot more personal back then.

Today’s newsletters don’t ooze with creative juices – often containing mundane news trying one’s insomnia. To cure this plague, below is my hypoallergenic Christmas Newsletter Creation Guide! It’s free and chucked full of valuable tips for crafting a piece of Christmas memorabilia suitable to pawn off on unsuspecting friends and relatives.

Equipment: spell check, corkscrew (optional), photos ( tif, .bif, .gif, or crayon), comfortable underwear, word processor, clean toilet, legal stimulants, bean sprouts or potato chips (Caution: Do not mix!!)

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Safety is always a concern during the Holiday Season. For example, each year intoxicated carolers subject thousands of ordinary citizens to singing that rivals the harmonious sound of the large intestines trying pass what was once a double burger with fries. So, as a public service, I’ve painstakingly prepared the following safety IQ quiz to increase your awareness about common holiday accident scenarios. Do the best you can – I won’t laugh.

1. The kid next door has lit your newly purchased Christmas tree on fire. You should:

a. Duct tape him to the nearest freight train.

b. Cram him into a shipping box bound for Barrow, Alaska.

c. Insert a Christmas wreath down his underwear.

d. Grab a bag of marshmallows.

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The Wall Street Journal reports: “Hedge funds gained 1.75% on average in November, led by macro funds and managers focused on basic materials stocks and metals, Chicago-based Hedge Fund Research (HFRI) said Monday.”

This optimistic news leads to the obvious question, “What atmosphere do the HFRI creatures live in and if they breathe oxygen, would they shrivel up like a plastic bag on a hot wood stove?” This type of cryptic terminology makes the financial world more fun that running a nude hamster farm. Begging the question, “Does anyone actually get this stuff?”

What do the HFRI aliens mean by “average?” On earth, it’s a Latin based word capable of taking on three mysterious values: mean, median, and mode. Complex? I dare say. Yet researchers kick it around like an old Basset hound (metaphorically speaking because I’m definitely not promoting the kicking of any canine – even one that methodically chews loafers to shreds). Read the rest of this entry »

I suspect my wife is having an affair with Tiger Woods. Don’t laugh — she’s one hot lady when fully clothed. I had a dream about it the other night. She and those other alleged misbehaving chicks (Rachel Uchitel, Jaimee Grubbs, Kalika Moquin, et al.) were gathered around Tiger on the 4th hole of the Niobrara Country Club golf course in Lusk, Wyoming. A splendid 9-hole course where a slice shot on the 7^th places your ball in Willy Weston’s hog pen. The gals were raking out a sand bunker or maybe drinking champagne – it’s kind of fuzzy now. But Tiger was definitely there.

This morning I asked her what was going on:

Me: So, are you having an affair with Tiger Woods?

Wife: Who? Get you toast off of the placemat.

Me: Oh don’t start with me. Pass the oatmeal. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Wife: Isn’t he the guy who … no, they had his funeral last week. What’s this guy do?

Me: He makes zillions of dollars hitting a little white ball.

Wife: The golfer? Don’t be silly. Look at the muddy tracks in that hallway. Did you let the dog in again with sloppy feet?

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