1. No Pool. Admittedly, I didn’t expect there to be a pool for hospital guests so this is a minor complaint. I’m just thinking out loud here, but maybe if a hospital was a little more like a hotel, patients might recover quicker, and their guests wouldn’t be so bored waiting for them to recover. People that plan hospitals never think of things like this.

2. Our hospital room was apparently located in a tunnel. That’s the only explanation I can think of for why we didn’t receive cell phone service in our room. Aside from abandoned coal mines and black holes, I honestly didn’t think places existed anymore that didn’t receive cell phone service. Well, you can now officially add Sacred Heart room #2007 to that list. So, on one of the biggest spread-the-news events in my life, we had to spend our hospital stay without convenient contact to the outside world. For the record, I did notice that I had a signal at other parts of the hospital, but I refused to be one of those self-important a-holes that carries on a loud conversation in a crowded waiting room or while walking through hallways that are supposed to be quiet. Consequently, the few transmissions I was able to make actually came from the parking lot outside the hospital. Sweet one, Sacred Heart.

3. No turn-down service for the beds. Actually, I have an additional complaint that there was no turn-up service either. If you are a spouse staying in the hospital, it’s a given that you’ll be sleeping on the couch with whatever random bedding supplies that can be scrounged. And while it may seem like easy pickings, it is generally frowned upon to steal blankets off of a sleeping baby.

4. My wife controlled the TV through her hospital bed. Wow. Talk about a design flaw. While there are several problems with this arrangement, the biggest was that my wife has horrible taste in television programming, as evidenced by her love of the show “The Biggest Loser.” Or, as I like to call it, “The Fattest Loser.” I think that pretty much sums up what I had to endure for three days. And naturally, even though it was readily available, the nursing staff refused to give me any morphine for my pain and suffering.

5. Room service doesn’t understand how most people use condiments. I ordered French toast, they sent it without butter. We called for some fries, but they didn’t send ketchup. They even sent a sandwich up with just bread and meat. You don’t realize how important condiments are until you are deprived of them. Your food just doesn’t taste right, and some things are downright inedible. Even though all hospital condiments come on the side anyway, they must be specially requested, or they assume you want everything served totally plain. Evidently, their philosophy is to err on the side of disappointing 99% of their patients.

To be fair, I do have a significant level of praise for the staff at Sacred Heart. They delivered a healthy addition to the Centaur family, meet Annie Jane: (Born 3-13-08, 7lbs 1oz.)

And here I am with both kids:

Please note that some of their Centaur features haven’t developed yet, as typically their horse legs and tail don’t blossom until their senior year of high school, just like the movie Teen Wolf. And yes, since these things sometimes skip a generation, I won’t bother to tell them of their pending transformation until they are freaking out in a bathroom prior to an important high school dance.

While we’re here, I wanted to address the lack of posts over the last few months. As you know, I am a busy, busy man. And having kids not only eats up a lot of my time, but it really saps my energy as well. While my I can still zombie my way through my workday, my evenings are now devoted to providing constant discipline to my children.

So, I do appreciate the column ideas people have sent to me (there have been several good ones), but lack of ideas isn’t the problem here. I promise, things will pick up again. All in due time.

Finally, regarding item #2 above, when I was finally able to receive a cell phone signal, I had over two dozen messages from Zillionaire nation waiting to congratulating me on the birth of Annie. Thanks everyone, you guys are the best.

In essence, Krusty Force measures the comedic impact of someone accidentally destroying a functional piece of furniture through seemingly normal use. It is named after my good friend, and fellow Zillionaire, Krusty… for obvious reasons.

Here’s how it works: Krusty Force is created through the unfortunate mixture of leverage, awkward placement of body weight, and overall girth that puts undue pressure on a piece of furniture, causing it to instantly crumble into a worthless piece of garbage beneath you.

All of us have witnessed this phenomenon at one time or another. Perhaps it involved watching someone try to sit in an aluminum camping chair, only to see it immediately collapse into a twisted piece of scrap metal under their weight. Maybe you recall watching someone lean innocently against a table, forcing the legs to buckle and causing the offender to fall flat on the table while food and drinks spill onto the floor. The resulting finger pointing and laughter from onlookers is the product of Krusty Force.

Some of you might argue that these events could be explained through ordinary physics. I disagree, on the grounds that ordinary physics cannot measure the comedic impact of two objects colliding. That’s where the Krusty Force comes into play.

So how does one quantify Krusty Force? Well, mass and velocity must be taken into account, as well as four other important variables:

Quality of the Item Destroyed (Q$): Obviously, anyone can demolish a cheap piece of furniture without the use of Krusty Force. For that reason, furniture from IKEA is exempt from this analysis, as pretty much everything they sell is a rickety piece of garbage right out of the box. In fact, I believe that Saturday Night Live buys all of their prop furniture directly from IKEA, as everything they sell is basically constructed to turn to splinters under a Chris Farley belly flop right at the factory.

Timing and Irony (T&I): Just as a tree falling in the forest doesn’t make a sound, someone clumsily breaking a piece of furniture without an audience doesn’t get a laugh. Therefore, the Krusty Force is greatly increased when antiques, family heirlooms, or furniture belonging to in-laws or bosses meet their demise, especially before a significant crowd. And as you would expect, the more people present, and the more awkward the social situation, the greater the Krusty Force.

Restoration (R): Can the recently flattened piece of furniture be fixed and restored to its original condition? This is critical, and the answer must be “no.” While Krusty Force generally renders furniture completely useless, at the very least, the item must not ever be able to function as well or look right ever again. If not immediately discarded into a dumpster or set ablaze, the item must bear scars of its encounter with Krusty Force for the rest of its life. And in doing so, it will forever become more of a conversation piece than a piece of furniture.

Duplication (D): This aspect is tricky. First off, only a select few can wield the Krusty Force upon unsuspecting furniture. And those of us that can, do so unwittingly. Therefore, demonstrations of Krusty Force must happen completely by accident, causing witnesses to marvel that a piece of furniture they once thought sturdy could disintegrate so easily. In essence, the duplication factor measures how likely it would be for such a feat to inadvertently occur a second time.

To summarize, Krusty Force (KF) = (Q$ – R + T&I / D ) Mass x Velocity

Finally, as you might have guessed, my passion to study the phenomenon known as “The Krusty Force” was fueled over an episode that affected me personally.

We were playing a board game, I shifted my weight against the armrest of my chair, and it snapped instantly. This was a nice chair, made of solid pine, and it was part of our dining room set. While others laughed openly at my misfortune, I gasped in horror.

You see, I’m not particularly strong or heavy, yet I snapped the armrest like a toothpick. Knowing Krusty for 20 years, I realized that when no other known property of physics can properly explain the destruction of a piece of furniture, chalk it up to Krusty Force.

Facing the fact that I would spend the rest of my days wreaking havoc on innocent ottomans and coffee tables, I called the world’s foremost authority on the subject, hoping he could offer me some words of advice. Here’s what Krusty said:

“Well, you definitely need to pre-test every piece of furniture from now on. And you should always have a funny comeback in your head in case it does break, because people will always laugh at you.”

Fantastic. I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with it. Now that I am capable of wielding Krusty Force, the world is my China shop, and I am the bull.

At the conclusion of the game, my sister ran over to where my family was sitting.

My sister: “Did you see my four home runs!?!”

Me: “Yes I did. Well, actually, you had four singles. Because there were multiple fielding and throwing errors committed by the defense, you were able to score on each hit. Just so you know, those aren’t considered “home runs”. Technically, you had four singles and the defense committed eleven errors while you ran the bases. That’s how it should be scored.”

My sister: “Whatever, you’re just jealous.”

Me: “I can assure you that I am not.”

My Dad (glaring at me): “No, those were some great hits Sweetheart. All of them were home runs.”

And so it goes. Mercifully, that was the last girls’ softball game I ever attended.

As we left the ballpark, I thought of my parents, willfully sitting in the stands watching every single game. My dad wasn’t reading a newspaper during the game. He wasn’t sipping from a flask either. Instead, he had a pencil and a little piece of paper and was keeping track of all my sister’s at-bats. He legitimately cared about what was going on in the field. I simply couldn’t wrap my head around that.

I have a feeling that is about to change. While this episode happened almost ten years ago, I found myself thinking about it again this week. You see, we found out on Tuesday that the bun currently roasting in my wife’s oven is a female bun. In other words, we’re having a little girl.

I started this post with the story about high school softball for a reason. I’m slowly finding out that the prospect of having a girl makes you think about things like this. It’s weird, to say the least. This is on top of the usual worries dads face, you know, about having to one day threaten a high school boy with physical violence, having to put off retirement for another year to pay for a wedding, and having to deal with a son-in-law that spends an inexorable amount of time playing video games and dressing up like Star Wars characters.

I’m not looking forward to any of these things, but they are in my immediate future. I’m starting to think that this is how my Dad was able to enjoy himself at softball games. Instead of putting asterisks next to the “home runs” being hit, he was simply happy to spend time with his daughter and put off worrying about things like the possibility of a future prom date pulling into his driveway with a windowless van. Ah, fatherhood…

With that said, here are a few answers to some FAQs:

A girl, huh?
Yes indeed.

How do you feel about that?
I’m warming up to the idea. On the one hand, it will be an entirely new experience from having a boy. I’m sure I will gain a lot of new perspective on life in general in this process. And, I think gray hair can be a dignified look on a man.

Any ideas for a name yet?
Actually, “Prudence” has a nice ring to it.

Truthfully, I haven’t given it much thought. Because we are having a girl, it likely means I won’t be able to revive the effort to name our child “Lando Calrissian Ring.”

How is your wife doing?
Excellent question. As soon as she’s done insulating the crawl space, I’ll ask her.

When is the due date?
March 17th. I’m banking that the hospital will be serving green beers in the cafeteria.

How is little Charlie taking the news?
As you would expect, Charlie is taking it like a man.

C’mon… Did you pull off a snipe?
I won’t lie, it actually took me two shots this time. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I didn’t properly account for wind direction or the humidity. Sometimes, in the murkiness of battle, miscalculations can occur. However, I made sure to track the flight path of the first round, and adjusted accordingly on my next shot. As you might expect, my second shot went dead-center through the ovum. Mission Accomplished, time for extraction.

The other day, a foreigner came up to me with a perplexed look. He was worried that he was about to lose his job over a simple breakdown in communication. The English language is complicated, and sometimes common expressions can become lost in translation for non-native speakers.

From what I gathered, his supervisor told him to deliver an “ass-load” of lumber to the construction site. It’s a simple enough request. The problem is, the foreigner showed up with a mere “butt-load.” You can imagine the frustration of the supervisor.

I chuckled as he relayed the story to me. True, confusing “ass-load” and “butt-load” is an easy misunderstanding when you think about it. As I explained to the foreigner, both terms reference tremendously large, burdensome quantities. For instance, you might say that you have an “ass-load of homework to do” or that you have a “butt-load of bills to pay.”

However, there is a distinction between the two words: an ass-load is much, much bigger than a butt-load. I elaborated further, that while it does imply a pretty massive quantity, a butt-load is still somewhat manageable. On the other hand, an ass-load is a quantity that is almost impossible to achieve.

“Think of it this way,” I told him, “if someone requests an ass-load of something, give them as much of it as is humanly possible, as there is no greater quantity of anything than an ass-load. On top of that, you can never exceed an ass-load. For instance, you’ll never hear someone say, ‘Whoa, whoa… this is way too much… I only wanted an ass-load of French fries.”

I continued on, “Now, think of a butt-load as generally one-fourth of an ass-load. Granted, it’s still a lot, but it’s somewhat doable.”

Despite this explanation, I could see the foreigner was still having a hard time understanding the concept. Then it dawned on me, in the foreigner’s native land, they used the metric system. Pulling out my TI-85, I used the conversion function to demonstrate that an ass-load was really 1.78 “arse-loads”, the corresponding unit of measure in the metric system. I could see it was starting to make sense.

I figured while I had the foreigner’s attention, it was incumbent upon me to share with him some of the other usages of the prefixes “ass” and “butt” to avoid future embarrassing mishaps. “In our culture,” I began, “the words “ass” and “butt” can be powerful modifiers of traditional words. In fact, in some circumstances, a prefix of “ass” or “butt” will make the word take on its most extreme form. Here are some examples…”

“For starters, let’s say you have to catch a flight in the wee hours of the morning. Obviously, you’d want to get up pretty early. You may even be forced to get up “ass-early”. This is the earliest possible time a person can be woken up from a full-on sleeping state. Technically speaking, the actual time of day you’d get out of bed would be the “butt-crack of dawn”. And naturally, the butt-crack of dawn is ridiculously earlier than the real crack of dawn.”

“Now when it comes to your job, if you hit traffic you might show up late for work. However, if it has been several hours, and there is considerable doubt you will show up for work at all, that is being “ass-late” for work. Generally, that means arriving at least two hours or so later from when you were supposed to be there. Similarly, if you have an important deadline, you might find yourself working ass-late at the office. Working ass-late means that when you finally do get home from work, all you do is go straight to bed so that you can get enough sleep to handle being at work at eight a.m. the next morning.”

“Also, if someone is really worthless at their job, they might be called “ass-lazy.” For the record, ass-lazy is as lazy as someone can possibly be. Even worse, if you have no professionalism whatsoever, you might get called an “ass-clown.” As you might expect, an “ass-clown” is even more of a buffoon than a regular clown.”

“And finally, when it comes to a blind date, worst-case scenario is that your date is “butt-ugly” with “ass-breath.” If you find yourself in that situation, just tell her you have to get up “ass-early” the next day and cut the date short.”

The foreigner thanked me for my help and we parted ways. I tried to make a joke about how this should help him “ass-similate” to our culture, but he didn’t get it. I thought it was clever though, and laughed to myself as I crossed the street.

If you recall, in the summer of 2006, I gave you a total of $30 to cover gas expenses in exchange for unlimited use of your jet skis. These contributions were given on two separate occasions, one in the amount of $20 and the other for $10. In neither instance was I given a receipt.

While no formal method of accounting was ever agreed upon, I assumed that my jet ski usage was essentially prepaid not only through 2006, but through 2007 as well, and possibly covered into the beginning of 2008. You can imagine my dismay when I learned that you sold your jet skis two weeks ago.

Since then, I have been patiently waiting for the remaining balance of my jet ski gasoline contribution to be refunded.

To further complicate matters, I was never provided monthly statements showing the accrual of my jet ski usage along with the corresponding deductions to the gasoline fund. Because of this, I do not have a firm dollar figure on what my balance should be.

To remedy this, I estimated my account value utilizing the most fair and prudent assumptions possible. Using the highest possible gas price in 2006, and rounding up my hourly usage, I feel that the absolute minimum my account value should be is $7.32. As a gesture of good-faith, I am willing to settle on this amount, even though my actual balance could be well in excess of eight or nine dollars.

I believe this to be a very fair compromise. My family and I have very much enjoyed visits to your lake place in the summer, and we hope that this matter can be addressed expeditiously. Please find enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope. And as a further courtesy, we would prefer a money order to a personal check.

Thank you for your consideration,
Centaur

For starters, it’s not like water is scarce. It is actually the most abundant resource on the planet. And it’s not like drinking water is abnormal, since consuming several glasses a day is necessary for human survival.

However, the fast-food industry feels differently. And they have collectively decided that ordering water in one of their establishments will include being publicly maligned, stigmatized and hassled whenever possible. Consequently, while I myself usually do not order water at fast food places, I do enjoy watching other people order water.

Let’s be honest here, nobody orders water on the basis of taste. In fact, even though water has no taste whatsoever, it still somehow manages to taste horrible when mixed with fast food. I don’t know why, but it does. Everyone knows this. So as I see it, people choosing to order water at a Burger King generally have one of these afflictions:

1. Overt Cheapness.
2. Misplaced Health Consciousness.

Now, I can understand why the fast-food industry doesn’t want to cater to either of these demographics. As for the first group, it takes a flamboyantly cheap individual to prolong the wait in line for everyone else by deviating from the Value Meal menu and individually ordering all the components of the Value Meal, except for the soda, just to save forty cents.

Naturally, the cashiers are prepared for this trick and always have a head shake or eye roll ready. This seems to be the universal reaction to ordering water at a fast food place. I firmly believe that this is actually part of the employee training.

As for the second group, there are actually people that believe that they are making a healthy decision by opting for water over a soft drink. Yes, I will admit, water is healthier than Coke. Hell, drinking paint thinner is healthier than Coke. My point is that a patron abandons any pretense of a healthy lifestyle the instant they walked through the door of a McDonald’s or Burger King. Ordering water or asking for an extra piece of lettuce on a triple Whopper won’t change that.

They’re not fooling anyone. Simply put, ordering water with a fast food meal does not make you health-conscious. It makes you health-oblivious. It’s like smoking a pack of cigarettes outside, so that you can get some fresh air while you inhale cancer.

Having to begrudgingly serve water to these types of customers ultimately inspired the fast-food industry to innovate. Since they were unable to taint or poison the water itself, they focused their efforts on the cup it was served in. They wanted to somehow make a cup that was small, inconvenient, and even subtly insulting to their customers. Soon, they invented a product borne of their collective hatred of water drinkers: the fast-food water cup.

The first step in the process involved training the cashiers. Whenever water is ordered, the cashier should slowly hand the water cup over, smirk at you in condescension, and fold his arms. This is done to draw unwanted attention to the patron in front of the other customers. Honestly, I think certain cashiers live for this moment. Let’s face it, being an employee at a fast food restaurant is generally unfulfilling, until a water order provides an opportunity of comeuppance. Since they generally don’t have real employee benefits, like health care, this is the only perk they get.

Here is a typical example of the sarcastic customer service a water drinker will receive:

Cashier: “Ok, here is your change sir. And here is your FREE water cup. Would you also like some ketchup packets or a coffee stirrer? Those items are also FREE!”

As I mentioned earlier, this is actually part of the employee training, as it seems to pervade every restaurant I’ve ever been in. It’s a tossup whether the cashier has been instructed on how to make change or operate the register, but they unfailingly have been taught how to persecute water drinkers.

Second, as further proof that fast-food places hate serving water just look at the cup they give you. In most cases, you can see the cup dispenser by the register: small, medium, large and extra large cups are waiting. This is just a tease. When water is ordered, notice that they don’t just hand you the cup used for a small soft drink. They actually go to the trouble to stock a special water cup. And as you might expect, it’s smaller than their small cup for soft drinks. It’s even smaller than their child-sized cups.

This provides a second opportunity to humiliate the consumer. Forcing a grown man to be seen with a tiny water cup is pretty emasculating. Seriously, try picking up a woman while holding a ridiculously small cup of water. I guarantee you won’t get far.

On top of that, none of the lids will fit the water cup. So not only must the consumer hassle around getting refills after every third sip, they must also do so with the risk of crotch spills from the lack of lid. And during these trips to the crowded beverage station every two minutes, there will be plenty of awkward encounters with other patrons trying to get refills for the soft drinks they actually paid money for. Ideally, a few frustrated sighs from the people behind the water drinker should help reiterate the fact that they are a second-class citizen at Burger King.

Also, it should be noted that the fast-food water cup is always completely generic and made from plain Styrofoam. They don’t even bother to print their logo on it like their other cups. It’s like the fast food companies don’t want to be associated, in any way, with water. Apparently, water is bad for their image. And the last thing they want is for their brand to be tied to the deadbeats and health-obnoxious people that order it.

Finally, if you do want water with your meal, they won’t even go to the trouble of charging you for it. Sure, even though it’s water, there are costs involved. The cup, for instance. Actually, that’s pretty much it. They could charge you for the cup. But they don’t. And they do it to insure themslelves the right to publicly humiliate the consumers that try to get free water from them.

Keep this in mind next time you dine on fast-food. I don’t know, it seems like you’d be better off just paying the 40 cents.

In fact, I think the high-five suffered mightily. In its waning years of popularity, everyone high-fived each other. Politicians high-fived their constituents. Salesmen high-fived their customers. Principals, teachers and counselors gave high-fives. Instead of being the standard greeting or congratulatory gesture of the young, it was adopted by everyone, including our parents and other authority figures. And just like that, it became uncool to high-five.

Thankfully, a successor came along. The Fist-Bump gave us all hope. It was actually more subtle and understated than a high-five, since it didn’t require a protracted arm extension and audible hand-slapping. This of course, made it cooler. Plus, the fist-bump utilized a fist instead of an open hand. Again, cooler.

Eventually, the fist-bump even became a litmus test to detect who was “with it.” When someone stuck their hand up anticipating a high-five, maybe you gave them one, but you always looked over your shoulder to make sure nobody else was watching you do it. After all, better to “leave someone hanging” than be seen doing the outdated high-five. Seriously, publicly performing a high-five became the coolness equivalent of wearing a D.A.R.E. t-shirt after elementary school.

Yes, at one time it seemed like the fist-bump would carry us well into the next millennium. But that is no longer the case. Sadly, I’m here to proclaim that the fist-bump is dead. And Howie Mandel killed it.

Maybe you know Howie Mandel. He’s the host of one of the worst TV shows ever created, which is really saying something. His show “Deal or No Deal” was the first game show that clearly required no discernible skill or intelligence whatsoever to play. Of course, “National Bingo Night” debuted last month on ABC and instantly lowered the game show intelligence bar even further.

Anyway, Howie Mandel adopted the fist-bump as his way to greet and congratulate contestants on the show. The only problem is, he isn’t doing the fist-bump to be hip. He’s doing it because he is “germaphobic,” and figures that a fist-bump will spread fewer germs than a handshake. All of this is true, by the way.

To recap, let’s review what the fist-bump has now become intertwined with:

1. It is showcased nightly on a moronic game show.
2. It is being popularized by Howie Mandel.
3. It is deemed a more sanitary alternative to the traditional handshake.

Seriously, how can the fist-bump possibly survive that triumvirate of lameness?

I don’t know, I hope the fist-bump isn’t completely dead. But, I think we are safe to assume it is on life support. Frankly, after watching what the high-five endured, I think we should just pull the plug and shed a tear. It’s the humane thing to do.

Someday, I can envision a lecture with my son beginning with those words.

Like the dad from TeenWolf, I will one day be forced to council my teenage son on how to manage his superpowers. I’ll tell him that it’s ok to use these powers to excel at sports, provided he doesn’t become a ball-hog. I will say that it’s ok for him to maybe get even with a bully, as long as he doesn’t cripple the guy or something. And it’s ok to impress a girl with your powers, but just make sure she loves the real you. Finally, I will tell him to maintain his dignity, and to not be seen “surfing” or doing handstands on top of a buddy’s minivan around town. Hopefully he’ll get the message.

These are the things I’ve been thinking about since I discovered my one-year old son possesses superhuman strength.

The other day, he grabbed onto a heavy chair in our kitchen. He pulled it away from the counter, and pushed it across the floor with ease. This chair happens to be twice as tall as he is, and easily weighs twice his body weight. And then it dawned on me. There is no way I could perform a comparable feat, pushing around an object over twelve feet tall and weighing close to 400 pounds.

This is just one example. He routinely pushes, lifts, pulls and topples items around the house that are gigantic relative to his size. And being a baby, he doesn’t know that he shouldn’t be able to manhandle these items. He quite literally doesn’t know his own strength.

And I hypothesize that, as he gets older, he’ll only get stronger. Whereas now he can manipulate items twice his body weight, in a few years it will be five or six or even ten times his body weight. He’ll have full-on insect strength.

Now, as far as superpowers are concerned, insect strength is a good one to have, as it lends itself well to superhero pseudonyms. While comic book characters have already claimed the best names, there are still lots of options out there. For instance, he could craft an appropriate costume and go by the name “Locust-Man” and bring forth the ultimate famine… on crime.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, as crime fighting is years in the future. My biggest concern will be his formative years. While I initially looked at his gifts with great excitement, figuring that I will no longer have to watch “World’s Strongest Man” competitions on ESPN to witness feats of strength, I now realize the difficulties I will encounter in raising this boy.

At only one year of age, he is already physically stronger than my wife, and routinely overpowers her during bath time or diaper changes. I used to laugh at these spectacles at first, but now I have sobered up to the fact that my days as an authority figure are numbered.

If I attempt to take a toy away from him, will he instead rip my arm out of the socket? The first time I tell him to clean his room, will he hoist the family car over his head and heave it at me?

Despite these fears, I am committed to raising my son in a house of discipline. Ideally, with the right counseling, I can teach Charlie to use his gifts for the betterment of mankind, and not the pursuit of evil. I just need to find some type of Cryptonite to help maintain discipline, as I don’t think he’ll respond well to being grounded.

Anyway, while the words “Dada” and “Mama” certainly make his parents proud, I worry about how far these words will actually take him in life. For instance, I certainly doubt the word “Dada” will impress anyone in a job interview. So, I’ve decided to start teaching him some of my favorite words that will assist him in all facets of life…

Words to use in a job interview:
Spearhead
Catalyst
Pinnacle
Veritable
Impetus

Words to use in an office meeting:
Exhaustive
Spreadsheet (use it as a verb, as in “Let me spreadsheet the proposal and get back to you.”)
Due-diligence
Sidestep
Conduit

Words to use when making a deal:
Collateral
Non-negotiable
Accountable
Dealbreaker
Timeline

Words to express dissatisfaction (I have many of these):
Outrage
Perfect (once he has mastered the use of sarcasm)
Finally (once he has mastered the use of sarcasm)
Hassle
Standard
Typical
Headache
UN-believable
UN-acceptable (Please note, I know that “unbelievable” and “unacceptable” are not spelled with multiple capital letters or hyphens. I’m trying to illustrate how they should be pronounced.)

Words to describe someone untrustworthy:
Gypsy
Charlatan
Rapscallion
Shifty-eyed
UN-reliable

Words to use to charm a lady:
Fortuitous
Indeed
Impetuous
Inquire

And there are dozens of other words that I’ll be introducing shortly. I’ve told Charlie many times that having these words as part of his vocabulary will be the catalyst to spearheading a veritable conduit to the pinnacle of success in life. Charlie agrees fully, as he always responds with an enthusiastic “Dada!” at the end of my sermon…. which, I’m pretty sure is his word for expressing approval.

However, I intend to do something about it. Here are my ideas for making my cubicle an office destination once more…

A Nerf Mini Basketball Hoop: Technically, I already have such an item in my cubicle. But, if I had a second hoop, then I could get a full-court game going.

A Magic 8-Ball: How hilarious would this be? I could pretend to consult this item whenever a coworker asks me a ‘yes or no’ question. I know, in the real world, this shtick wouldn’t be funny at all. However, in the bland and sanitized world of office comedy, this would kill.

Velvet ropes: I want my cubicle to have an air of exclusivity. In conjunction with this, I’m going to designate the area by my filing cabinet as the VIP corner.

An Ashtray: I don’t smoke, but I consider this item to have great potential as a conversation piece. When people stop by and ask why I have an ashtray on my desk, I can respond thusly: “In the ’50’s it was commonplace for people in an office to sit and smoke at their desks all day long. In the event that fad ever makes a comeback, I’m ready.”

A Shrunken Head: The novelty items above are nice, but I think it would be fun to take it a step further and transform my cubicle into a curiosity shop/freak show. Perhaps, I could supplement my income by charging admission. And while they don’t have full beards, there are numerous old ladies in the office with some degree of facial hair. I’m sure if posted an ad on the company message board I could find lots of other freaks to round out the show.

A Giant Playland with a Ball Crawl: Admittedly, I’m stealing this idea from McDonalds. If any coworkers wander through my area with their small children, the ensuing tantrum will force them to stop by and hang out for a while.

A Bread Maker: I’m going on the record here, the bread maker is my favorite kitchen appliance. It does the full damn job. Start to finish. It mixes, kneads, cooks… My involvement is minimal. Just put the ingredients in and eat the output six hours later. When people stop by, we could share a slice of bread and I could impart wisdom about how great it would be our other coworkers were as thorough and diligent as the bread maker. Or, conversely, I could say our office functions like a bread maker in that it is very costly and produces unreliable results. I like appliances that lend themselves to multiple office metaphors.

Obviously, procuring these items will be difficult. If anyone has something from the list, I’m willing to offer a trade. My tape dispenser is of absolutely no use to me. I don’t even know why I have one. Seriously, who needs tape? Not once have I ever had an office situation that required taping two things together. It’s not like we’re doing arts and crafts in the afternoons. I’m not gift-wrapping any financial reports. Let me know if you’re interested.

In the meantime, I need to get to the mail room. With his shirt off, there’s a guy that works there that could pass for an ape-man.