Internet Zillionaire

I’ve been meaning to contribute under the heading “Zillion Dollar Ideas” for some time, but I had abstained for three reasons:

1. How do you top “toilet paper gloves?” (On a side note, while this is an ingenious idea, I’d hate to see the failed prototypes…)

2. Out of sanitary, or in most cases, purely selfish reasons, there are some things I choose to keep to myself. For example, here’s a partial listing of things I don’t like to share with others: The road, my dessert, airplane legroom, leftover pizza, swimsuits, health (in a video game setting), PIN numbers, and toothbrushes. Along those lines, it just seems like brilliant ideas should be hoarded, closely guarded, and possibly used for world domination.

3. Has anyone noticed there is a major deficiency of Zillion Dollar ideas on this site? It’s embarrassing. We’ve been at this for about six months now, and we’ve come up with two. Conversely, a pair of monkeys pounding at two typewriters in the last six months could have easily churned out a few dozen Zillion dollar ideas and probably a couple Shakespearean plays as well… (And frankly, the monkeys would likely have had fewer episodes of throwing fecal matter at each other…)

As you may have guessed, I’ve dealt with this before. Fortunately, I have never been one to quit on things just because I had come to the realization that a primate could render a higher quality product and demonstrate more professionalism in the process. And on that note, I’m pleased to present the Reese’s S’more!

Now ideally, an introduction such as this would take place over a campfire, not in the cold outer reaches of cyberspace. Regrettably, due to a scheduling conflict, the Nobel Prize Committee was unable to “meet me in the woods” for a proper unveiling. I heard through the grapevine that the same thing happened to Stephen Hawking.

Anyway, for once, I won’t bore you with all the minutia about the composition of a typical S’more. It’s irrelevant. Let’s face it, the three little bars of Hershey’s milk chocolate had run its course. It was fine in the 1800’s. That’s all they had. Now, we have an endless array of candy bar options to construct a S’more with. And that line of thinking ultimately led to the Reese’s S’more…

Please understand, with most things, I am a traditionalist. For instance, I have resisted the societal pressure to order a “Pannido” at Jack in the Box. I have firmly stood my ground in opposition to satellite radio. And I have no interest in carrying around Sacajawea dollar coins instead of paper bills. But when it comes to S’mores, I tend to be a little daring. After trying several different candy bar substitutions to the standard milk chocolate, it became instantly clear that the inclusion of peanut butter was a remarkable improvement to the traditional S’more.

Admittedly, anyone can throw together an unconventional S’more recipe and win a slew of Humanitarian awards for their efforts. It’s been done. Look at Gandhi and his lentil S’more. While the ingredients are important, the true brilliance of the Reese’s S’more is derived in the preparation…

To yield the perfect distribution of chocolate, peanut butter and marshmallow within the graham crackers, the Reese’s peanut butter cup must be cut crosswise. This is pretty labor intensive, and borderline impossible to do, which is why I rely heavily on my wife during the assembly process.

First, it takes an amazingly steady (read: not intoxicated) hand to do this… Since I’m never within 20 miles of civilization or sobriety on a camping trip, I leave this delicate incision to my wife. As luck would have it, she possesses the hand-eye coordination and physical dexterity necessary in making Reese’s S’mores or dominating a game of Operation.

Also, you need to have the right knife for the job. Unfortunately, while camping, I simply don’t carry a knife with a blade less than 18 inches in length. While a knife this size is useful for chopping down saplings and performing Crocodile Dundee impersonations, it is just flat out impractical for making ultra fine slices through peanut butter cups.

Again, my wife helps remedy this situation as well. Truthfully, the Reese’s S’more could never have come to pass without my wife bringing every kitchen utensil we own on every camping trip. Only my wife could classify items like melon ballers, spoonrests and flower sifters as part of the bare necessities needed to survive a weekend in the wilderness. Thusly, when the situation calls for it, she nonchalantly removes a paring knife from our knife block and lacerates the peanut butter cup. I seriously doubt most plastic surgeons could make such a precise incision.

Finally, the speed of the cut is important too. If cut too quickly, the whole thing crumbles in your hands. Too slow and the marshmallow is stuck cooking too long, possibly catching on fire, and at that point, the whole S’more is compromised. As you have witnessed, preparation of the Reese’s S’more is a painstaking task and an artform that takes years to perfect. Attempting to master the intricate timing and cutting techniques has driven people to the brink of insanity. I can only promise that the enjoyment of this delicacy makes it all worthwhile.

The Reese’s S’more is my legacy and a gift to my fellow man. I’m disclosing this idea not for profit, but for the betterment of all mankind. I only ask that it be used for the establishment of peace, and not in the pursuit of evil. With that said, I must now begin clearing mantle space for the Nobel Prize…

Have you ever been in a situation where you somehow managed to pack everything you might need for a week long trip, including random things like Q-tips and fingernail clippers, only to get to the airport and realize that you forgot your airline tickets altogether? That’s essentially what happened with the minutes of our river float. In describing the events of that weekend, I thought I had covered everything, but there was one glaring omission…

Allow me to define the expression Julie referred to in the Comments section:

River Position: While floating down the river, it is the act of situating oneself to insure that the impact of colliding with an unseen underwater obstacle is absorbed by one’s genitals.

Now, for the record, no one intentionally floats the river in this manner. It is usually the by-product of being caught off guard, having too much to drink or simply a desperate cry for attention. Anyone that deliberately assumes River Position should be placed under clinical supervision, as genital desecration like that is found only among cult members awaiting a comet to take them to a distant planet.

Allow me to reconstruct how this ties into our river rafting trip:

Somehow, Krusty managed to spend about 98% of our river journey traveling in this fashion. This was a feat even a Fear Factor contestant wouldn’t attempt. This was largely due to his frequent acts of jumping off his tube to relieve himself as we floated downstream. While one would think this would be a private matter that would be attended to discretely, Krusty chose to advertise his moments of urinary deployment.

Of course, the rest of us, not knowing where to direct our attention, would all turn our heads and generally look away. Usually at this point, we’d notice several jagged rocks, massive tree branches, or a coil of razor wire lying at about groin-level in the water below us. Exhaling a sigh of relief, we’d think to ourselves, “It sure is fortunate that I am floating safely above those dangerous objects on this inner tube.”

A few seconds later, the sounds of frenzied flailing and splashing followed by piercing screams of pain would bring us back to reality. Instantly, we’d all whip around to check on Krusty, not out of concern for his well being, but simply to witness the spectacle of someone receiving a surprise blow to the groin. I would guess the next time Krusty floats the river he might forsake a lifejacket, but not an athletic supporter.

Now let’s face it, there is nothing funnier than watching someone get hit in the groin. Yet for some reason, the entertainment industry fails to recognize this. There are a lot of shows on TV that put forth needless effort and expense when they should really just scrap any pretense of a legitimate concept for their show and just give the audience what they really crave: More gratuitous blows to the groin…

Take a show like Punk’d for instance. Instead of filming elaborate practical jokes on celebrities, what if Ashton Kutcher just hid behind a tree, waited for Justin Timberlake to walk by, and then jumped out and kicked him in the groin! Who wouldn’t watch a show like that? Seriously, I don’t have the time or attention span to follow some drawn out prank trying to convince Justin that his car had been stolen or his family had been killed. Why not just cut to the chase, have Ashton run up like a placekicker, watch Justin double over, and cut to a final scene of him wheezing and coughing up blood on the sidewalk? I swear I would tune in every week.

Want another example? How about making floating a river in River Position an Olympic event? There are so many facets to this that would interest me. What if one country inexplicably dominated this event, like Kenyans in marathons? That could be worth talking about. And think about those mini-documentaries that showcase each athlete’s life story before they compete. Imagine seeing some footage and anecdotes about a four-year training regimen consisting solely of taking repeated blows to the groin.

And think about all the shows that were cancelled because they could never generate a proper audience. Suppose a show called “Two Guys, A Girl, A Pizza Place & Multiple Kicks to the Groin” debuted this fall. I guarantee it would be an instant sensation.

Once a year I can unfailingly count on three things happening:
1. A sports team I openly root for all season will have a complete meltdown in the playoffs, usually in the form of a huge upset on their home court.
2. I’ll find a way to injure myself in an unlikely way with a power tool.
and 3. My friends and I will meet up for a weekend camping trip in the summer.

In other words, our annual camping trip had become an institution… (I hope everyone picked up on the foreshadowing…)

It was supposed to be the weekend of our annual camping trip, a tradition that has somehow survived for the last seven years. In the days leading up to the trip, forces beyond our control were compromising the outing altogether, and it soon became clear that camping wouldn’t be an option this year… Now, next to a worldwide beer shortage, the only way this trip could possibly be derailed was if pretty much the entire state was engulfed in flames… Thankfully, it was the latter scenario that caused us to cancel the camping trip, meaning we still had the opportunity to incorporate heavy amounts of beer drinking into our revised weekend plans.

With wildfires raging across Central Washington, our options were severely limited. In theory, we could have gone camping and adhered to the burn-ban. However, I couldn’t envision camping without a fire. Everyone knows there are only three ingredients needed for a successful camping trip: Fire, Beer and Camo. (Which, coincidentally, also happens to be Montana’s state motto.)

Anyway, on a camping trip, you rely on the fire for everything: warmth, light, entertainment… It’s like an outdoor television set without the commercials. And frankly, without fire, I didn’t even want to speculate on how our wieners would get roasted. While I hated to miss out on an opportunity to wear camo, I realized we needed to find an alternative to camping.

So, we changed the weekend plans. It was time to relive The Alamo. Allow me to discuss some history. The original Alamo took place in the summer of 2000. It was a way for those that had just graduated from Central to “make their last stand” one final time at the Ellensburg bars in truly epic fashion. The premise is simple: A small gathering of friends lines up side by side to make a guns-a-blazing run at the local bars and taverns. And just like the Alamo, we were severely outnumbered. There were shots and silver bullets flying all around. Everyone knew they’d get wasted in this suicide mission, as you can only hope to go down in a blaze of glory. And when all is said and done, the next day, nobody should be able to “Remember the Alamo.”

I spread the word, and Bailes, Krusty, Maleah, Julie, Jason and Moira were all eager to kickoff the Alamo II as a substitute to camping. The gang met Jeannette and I at The Tav, a bar with perhaps the greatest menu of bar-food in the universe. In fact, it is easily one of the best restaurants in Ellensburg. (I’m not sure if that’s a compliment to the Tav, or an insult to Ellensburg… probably a little of both.) With great food and beer available for $5 a pitcher, a few hours at the Tav lays the proper foundation for drinking the rest of the night. As is the case with most bars in Ellensburg, you pee in trough formation. If you’ve lived in Seattle your whole life, and therefore have never seen a “trough” before, picture a urinal-built-for-six. Honestly, I’m at the point in my life where if you don’t pee in a trough, I have a hard time classifying the establishment as a bar.

Our next stop was The Palace. First, allow me to translate a commonly used expression in Ellensburg. Whenever someone uses the phrase “Let’s go to The Palace,” what they really mean is: “Let’s take things up a notch.” For the record, The Palace is simply not a bar you congregate at. It’s not even a bar you sit down at. The Palace is the metaphorical fork in the road that one takes to turn a casual night of drinking into a night worthy of being called the Alamo.

When you walk into The Palace, there’s no turning back. It’s time to get down to business. I marched up to the bar and ordered a round of shots for our party. Moira ordered a second round. The eight of us each killed a couple of mixed drinks and it was done. We were officially on the well-traveled path to Ellensburg bar drunkenness.

Ultimately, the evening always climaxes at The Horseshoe. Again, allow me to offer a little history lesson… Five years ago, the Horseshoe used to be the kind of bar you’d patronize only if you found other bars were not dimly lit and smoke-filled enough for your liking. In other words, the Horseshoe had the ambiance of a vehicle emissions testing facility with roughly the same air quality. Everything about the place was flat-out depressing. It’s like they tried to translate “The Grapes of Wrath” into the theme of their bar.

Somehow, it all changed when Krusty began bartending there. The place became known as The ‘Shoe, and soon had almost a velvet-ropes type of exclusivity. Of course, Krusty viewed it as his civic duty to make sure every patron left inebriated, even if it meant giving away free drinks to virtually everyone that walked through the door. Every night, The ‘Shoe was a rockin’, heavy-drinkin’ party. Imagine if Cheers had been run by Norm Peterson instead of Sam Malone… That was The ‘Shoe in its heyday.

Granted, Krusty is over two years removed from transforming the ‘Shoe into a legitimate drinking establishment that a normal person would frequent. However, his legacy remains. The current bartenders still bestow upon him the kind of reception typically reserved for astronauts and Superbowl MVP’s. Being a member of Krusty’s entourage during a trip to the ‘Shoe is tantamount to touring with a rock star, as everyone in his party is completely taken care of the entire evening.

The next morning we had planned to embark on a four-hour river float. Naturally, we met at The Pilot Station, simply the greatest thing to happen to Ellensburg in my lifetime. The Pilot Station has everything. Cheap gas, a Subway, a great location… it definitely deserves proper enshrinement in our Product Endorsements section. We stocked up on Beer, Sandwiches and Gas, the standard fuels needed for any outdoor adventure.

At this point, I’d like to provide a little background on the “organization” of our rafting trip. The morning had gotten off to a rough start. First, Krusty misunderstood the hours of the tube rental agreement, causing our party to needlessly be awake about three hours earlier than needed. Keep in mind, this was the morning after The Alamo. I practically had to use an oyster knife to pry my eyelids open when the alarm went off. Fortunately, the river trip could still commence, as I wasn’t experiencing vertigo, insanity, or any other symptoms commonly associated with sleep deprivation torture.

Second, when Krusty picked up the tubes, he deliberately turned down the free life jackets provided with every tube rental. Of course, most people wouldn’t dream of attempting a four hour drunken river float without life jackets. This decision didn’t really concern me personally, as I had completed Navy SEAL Training (aka: third grade swim lessons taught by Dorothy Purser). This essentially meant I could survive being held underwater for 45 minutes by a sadistic swimming instructor. Unfortunately, not everyone in our party had these water survival skills and I couldn’t shake the feeling we’d regret not having life jackets… (More foreshadowing…)

Finally, Bailes took the lead leaving the Pilot Station, as his truck was laden with most of the inner tubes, none of which were tied down properly. You really don’t have to be Nostradamus to foresee the inevitable. Krusty’s complete lack of a tie-down job resulted in our inner tubes, not once, but twice being spilled haphazardly across both lanes of Highway 10 at over 60 miles per hour. Miraculously, we somehow avoided a 42-car pileup. We all pulled over, surveyed the scene and greeted Krusty with some synchronized headshaking. We dispersed to pick up the inner tubes, all of which had not surprisingly landed in an overgrown bramble patch, the kind that was probably home to hundreds of rattlesnakes. It’s mind-boggling to think about, but literally thousands of unwitting parents put their child’s safety in Krusty’s hands every year at summer camp.

Arriving at the launch point, Bailes volunteered for the most thankless, but most important task of all by manning the canoe that stocked our food and beer. Perhaps his greatest contribution was allowing all the girls to tie their tubes onto his vessel to prevent them from getting any exercise whatsoever. For over four hours, Bailes kept to his grueling task of paddling around a train of dead weight behind him. It was quite a physical sacrifice on Bailes’ part, and Krusty and I wondered several times if his heart would explode from exhaustion.

While on the journey, the conversation drifts as much as the river itself. Jason wore a perma-grin the whole day, marveling each time Krusty would nonchalantly start a conversation about the frequency of his bowel movements. Of course to the rest of us, it was simply old hat.

As most of us were either married or engaged, much of the journey was spent discussing married life. Krusty offered his opinion on the key to a happy marriage, saying “You’ve got to find one thing you truly love about the other person every single day.” This seemed like good advice, and prompted the obvious follow up question, “What do you love about Maleah today?” Krusty thought about this for a while, and answered, “I love her predictability… I knew she’d whine and complain this whole trip. ”

After a few hours on the river, we stopped for lunch on a quiet beach. Seeking to pass the time, Bailes, Krusty and I climbed a giant rock formation. The cliff was probably 30 feet off the ground, overlooking a deep spot in the river below. I uneasily peered over the edge of the rock much like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. Unless Tommie Lee Jones was about to point a gun at my head, I had a hard time visualizing myself willingly jumping off this edifice. Krusty jumped first, then Bailes. It was my turn, and the thought of climbing back down the rock momentarily crossed my mind. This internal conflict didn’t last long, as my laziness overwhelmed any fear of heights, and the easiest way down was to jump into the river below…

Now, the first 3 hours and 58 minutes of the river float had a pretty mild and leisurely pace, similar to the current found in the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland. This relaxed float was ideal for drinking beer and not paying attention to the natural dangers a river possesses.

However, the final two minutes of the float resembled something out of one of those river rafting movies where Kevin Bacon plays an evil river guide (there are several.) My wife hit the rapids hard and was completely bucked off her tube. Almost instantly, the undertow sucked her to the bottom of the river. Thankfully, I was in position to pull her out of the water and safely onto my tube. She was a little shaken, and her legs were cut up from crashing into the rocks, but was otherwise ok. I looked back and saw other members of our party struggling to stay afloat and avoid crashing into the rocks, and thought it fortunate that none of them looked uncool in a nerdy life jacket.

Fortunately, the only casualty in this ordeal was my wedding ring. At some point in the madness it slipped off my finger into the riverbed. There was one bright side in all of this… Since my ring had come off in the process of rescuing my wife, it was the one possible scenario that saved me from the wrath typically warranted for losing a wedding ring.

Coincidentally, last year Krusty also managed to lose his wedding ring while on a river float. At the time, it seemed unfathomable how anyone could be so careless with something so priceless. In my typical fashion, I added insult to injury. I made light of his situation, suggesting he make a bulk purchase of a 50-pack of wedding rings from Costco since it likely wouldn’t be the last time he’d lose his wedding ring. Anyway, upon hearing the news of my lost wedding ring, Krusty offered his condolences by simply extending his fist. We bumped fists in an oddly congratulatory move, and Krusty said “That makes two of us.” I’m pretty sure there are multiple lessons to be learned here…

The next stop was Roslyn, where our group met at Village Pizza after the river float. I’ll tell you right now, the lowlight of the evening was seeing Krusty order a vegetarian pizza. It was like watching Michael Jordan playing for the Washington Wizards. Krusty was simply the most prolific eater of meat Kittitas County has ever seen. This is a man who once described himself as a “meat-atarian.” This is a man who insisted on serving cocktail wieners wrapped in bacon at his wedding. Honestly, I think even their wedding cake had meat in it.

Of course, like all the great artists, his lifestyle took a heavy toll. He suffered for his art. It’s sad to see now, his stomach lining eroded, along with his legendary eating skills; he is merely a shell of the carnivore he used to be. Simply put, I’ll never get used to watching him order a spinach and tomato pizza, as the old Krusty would have simply referred to vegetarian pizza as “a dinner salad” to supercede a side of beef. I guess I should just be thankful to have witnessed him in his prime…

After dinner, we headed to The Brick, the oldest operating tavern in the state of Washington. Without my wedding ring, I worried that there would be dozens of women hitting on me all evening. Thankfully, it wasn’t a problem. The evening itself was pretty mellow, we played pool and shuffleboard, drank several more pitchers, toasted each other, and called it a weekend.

It wasn’t camping, but all in all it was a great weekend. While I hated to see a streak like that end, I’m glad we managed to consume lots of alcohol, catch up with old friends and even cheat death a few times. With the weekend over, we all went our separate ways, but vowed to start a new camping tradition next year…