The Theory of Naming Theories

ROAR! The Captive Lion is coming out of his cage! I’m tired of the psuedo-humor writing!

I have other sides of me. I have other desires. I want to write novels. I want to cure disease. I want to get Tivo! But most of all, I want to be famous for saying something really smart. Hear that world! I want to invent a theory!

First of all, it’s got to have a killer name! Most brilliant scientists get this all wrong. They come up with the theory first, and name it second. Sorry eggheads, dumb move. I’m gonna do just the opposite. I’ll come up with the name of my theory and then deal with the nitpicky details of what it proves.

Some rules for naming a theory:

  1. Got to have the word “theory” in it. This is no conjecture, point, or hypothesis. I’m gunning for the big dogs here.
  2. The name should sound tough like an action movie, aka The Bourne Identity.
  3. There needs to be a vaguely-familiar, gigantic, multisyllabic word in there so people feel smart saying it.
  4. It definitely needs to start with the word “The” so that it can stand alone as if on solid rock.
  5. It would be awesome if it wore a yellow sleeveless t-shirt with holes cut into the back so that when it entered the wrestling ring against other theories it would immediately intimidate them by ripping off the shirt and throwing it into the audience!
  6. You should be able to imagine Jeff Goldblum playing the lead role in a movie that incorporates the theory.

So I sat around for a few seconds after thinking about those rules and the name hit me. It’s intriguing. It’s slighty mysterious. It’s smart sounding. It’s shamelessly derivative. It’s the figure-four leg-lock of theories. It’s coming to a theater near you. It’s…

The Galapagos Theory

Now I just need some ideas to wrap that name around and I’m all set. Any suggestions? I’ll give you half the credit in the history books as long as my name comes first.

One-Tenth of My Thoughts On French Toast

  • I would wager that I spend, on average, more time thinking about french toast than a french person. What does that say about the public school system of France?
  • If you grew up in one of the independent African nations that was once ruled by France and wanted to get rid of all signs of your former oppressors but still wanted the comfort that only a familiar breakfast food can bring would you go so far as to serve Burkina Faso toast? Is french toast an oppressive term?
  • Mark Russell-esque timely political one-liner: Did anyone ever get locked up for skipping out on a bill for “freedom” toast?
  • I secretly hope that if I eat enough french toast one day I will get a fancy envelope in the mail from the King of France awarding me knighthood. Sir French Toast, I like the sound of that.
  • Sir French Toast says, “Don’t make me too mushy. Nobody likes me when I’m too mushy.” Then he goes back to his hotel room, calls his buddies Lord Bacon and Duke Scrambie Eggs and they party together just like every other morning in the land of Awesomebreakfastville.
  • In the movie E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial they were originally going to use french toast in the famous scene where Elliot lured out the alien with Reese’s Pieces. The plan was scrapped when Speilberg decided it would be too distracting if the first time you saw E.T. he face was covered in brown, gooey syrup and he was burping uncontrollably like how you get when you eat french toast. Adding the backstory of someone making a bunch of french toast would have wasted precious screen time as well.
  • French toast is to pancakes as Butch Cassidy is to the Sundance Kid. All four are excellent to have in a gunfight or onboard a mid-morning flight with a movie.
  • If you actually look at it, french toast is not pretty. Add a little syrup, however, and it’s like sending french toast on The Swan.
  • When I order french toast I usually expect at least of couple of slices of toast on the plate. Sometimes, places try to fool you and give you less by cutting the slices differently. But I’m good with puzzles and I’m especially good at four-to-six piece puzzles so this trick doesn’t work on me.
  • It’s fine by me if you come drizzled with powdered sugar because I like to lick my lips when they turn that sweet dusty white. But I do get a little nervous around you because I know if I sneeze, poof!
  • Would an International House of French Toast send IHOP scurrying back to the drawing board? Is there room in the dodgey-breakfasts-with-absolutely-ridiculous-names business for the both of them?

Driving My Wife’s Car

At the Centaur household, we are a two-car family. And when it comes to getting around, I prefer to drive my truck: The Man-Mobile III. It’s aptly named.

However, there are unavoidable occasions when I find myself forced to drive my wife’s car: The Grocery-Getter I. As you might expect, I try and avoid these instances at all costs.

The Grocery-Getter I is a 2000 Honda Civic. It’s about as powerful as a riding lawnmower, and due to its dark green color, actually looks like one too. If you were to somehow put a mower deck on her car, you would be hard pressed to distinguish it from a John Deere. Seriously, whenever I find myself behind the wheel, I have to fight the urge to pull over every half mile to empty the grass catcher. Needless to say, it is not cool to be seen in. I honestly feel like “The Waterboy” when driving down the freeway.

Of course, that’s only the beginning. The biggest problem I face in driving my wife’s car is simply dealing with all the unnatural seat and accessory settings in place. For instance, the first thing you notice when you get into the Grocery-Getter is that you can’t actually get in. Unless you are a circus contortionist, you’ll find that it is physically impossible to enter her low-riding car with no headroom, which has the steering wheel set so close to the seat that it crushes your pelvis upon entry.

It gets better. If you do happen to limbo inside, you’ll find that the rearview mirror points at the floor mats. It’s funny to think that from my wife’s perspective, this view would be considered normal. It reminds me of when you wear someone else’s glasses, and you openly marvel about the extent of their impaired vision.

Also, you can never plan on getting very far in the Grocery-Getter I. First off, it is guaranteed that the gas tank will be bone dry. It’s a good thing this car gets good gas mileage, as it pretty much has to go months between re-fillings on the occasions I actually drive it. In fact, my wife has never once bothered to put gas in her car. I’m convinced that she thinks she drives a solar-powered car.

It should also be noted that her car is generally nine months overdue for an oil change. No amount of stickers on the windshield seems to prevent this phenomenon. On top of that, it is unlikely that jumper cables, tools or a flashlight can be found in the trunk. Of course, it is not for my lack of planning. I made her a toolbox of emergency supplies to keep in her trunk at all times. Unfortunately, there was a slight misunderstanding. When I told my wife that she needed to have these items in her car “at all times,” she thought I meant “absolutely never.”

To be fair, once you finally get behind the wheel, it is actually kind of fun to drive my wife’s Civic. In fact, driving her car is the closest thing to playing MarioKart in real life. On the freeway, it feels like you could just zip underneath 18-wheelers or accelerate through oil slicks. Whenever someone passes me in the Grocery-Getter (which is often), I must always resist the impulse to hit buttons on the console hoping to shoot banana peels or turtle shells at them.

That being said, it honestly doesn’t surprise me that Honda Civics are routinely among the most commonly stolen vehicles in the country. I’m pretty sure it is mostly due to MarioKart junkies seeking the ultimate fix.

While the Grocery-Getter I has its merits, we are nevertheless in the market for a Grocery-Getter II. And of course, I will provide an update on how this progresses. Meanwhile, we are considering alternatives to simply trading in the Civic. I’m thinking about tossing the keys to my son Charlie. He’s seven months old, and next year he’ll want to drive a Big Wheel around the neighborhood. I think The Grocery-Getter I will provide roughly the same experience.

Caveman Taunts and Insults

Liar! Liar! Loin cloth on recent discovery of fire!

Your momma is so fat we had to use our stone tools to make the entrance of the cave bigger so she could get in and out.

He’s not the sharpest spearhead in the animal-hide-covered, decomposing dinosaur rib-cage hut where we store the hunting implements.

I don’t come to your job and scare away the wildebeests.

You wouldn’t know a wheel if it rolled up and helped you overcome thousands of years of prehistoric living.

What’s wrong? Sabertooth tiger got your tongue?

No shit Blarg. Dig deeper Glurg.

I wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot mammoth tusk.

I’ll shove his head so far up his caveman ass he won’t know his physical existence from his shadow cast on the cave wall by the fire.


My Online Dating Profile

About Me:

I am the cockiest chewer. I will take down anything in two bites. I’ve choked alone in my apartment dozens of times now. One time I was gagging for my life.

Etiquette wise, these circumstances have led me to actually have to consider at what point do you pound on your neighbor’s door if your life is on the line? I mean, I don’t want to interrupt someone’s afternoon soaps for a choking false alarm. I am a captive lion not a boy who cries wolf. So far I’ve managed to get myself out of all my predicaments so I’m building up this confidence that is really probably all wrong. Why am I developing a tolerance to near-death experiences out of courtesy for Days of Our Lives’ Nielson ratings? So I’ve come up with a solution.

I can either go on living in this constant state of danger or I can start dating. I can either accept the fact that I will succumb to a large bite of toast, or put myself out there a bit more. Don’t consider it an indecent proposal, it’s more of a can-you-recognize-the-international-sign-of-choking proposal.


This is where you come into the picture. Of course we would date (hang out, whatev), fall in love, and work together to find that deep, enriching love that will mutually inspire our passions, creativity, and all that good stuff. It’s a given that I would love you, cherish you, challenge you, comfort you, take care of you when you are sick (or just grumpy), and that we would explore the world and our place in it together, but you must never lose sight that your primary purpose would be to save my life in situations where I am choking.

Bear in mind that you can use whatever method is required. You are not limited to the Heimlich maneuver, despite its almost universal endorsement by the medical establishment.

You and I would definitely have to fall in love because I need close to 24 hour supervision in this area. Without the serious levels of commitment that can only be gained through the trust and complete honesty of a monogamous relationship, we would never be able to stand spending that much time together. And God knows why, but I have actually woken up at three in the morning, stumbled into the kitchen and taken down a Tofutti Cutie in a single gulp.

So what’s up ladies? Have you ever wanted a pet boa constrictor but didn’t want to deal with feeding it rats and baby pigs? Holla back.