Bad news, kids. The TSA announced Santa will fall under its jurisdiction when he enters the U.S., and he'll get the full treatment. Not surprising -- he IS an oddly dressed, widely traveled foreigner given to suspiciously jolly bursts of laughter who consorts with tiny, alien-looking humanoids and exotic animals of dubious heritage. Yes, for the TSA, he's clearly -- wait for it, wait for it -- a Claus for concern.

Please, please, people, let's keep the MAS in CHRISTMAS, too, because if they also take that away, we got nothin'

December is nigh, and Santa's not impressed. The crying and pouting are bad enough, but after he warned that he sees you when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake, you thought it was pretty funny to seek a restraining order, didn't you? Well, ho freaking ho. Not only are you on his naughty list but you're even higher than Bo (at least he repented). Less than four weeks to get your shit together, bub.

I've heard that old saw that you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I wouldn't know about that. But I can tell you that teaching a new dog old tricks is no picnic either. Despite my tireless training efforts, our puppy cannot for the life of him seem to master a simple vintage card trick without marking the cards. Idiot.

I love to get all self-righteously indignant about the rampant capitalism and out-of-control commercialism represented by the Black Friday shopping craze, but in the interest of full disclosure, I must admit I am typing this message on a laptop computer that my wife went out at 3 a.m. Friday to purchase while I slept. So, I guess I'd better hold my fire.

Behind every little engine that could is a coal car that can't, a flatbed car that won't, a refrigerator car questioning the route and speed, two container cars plotting derailment, a caboose whining "are we there yet?" and, in many cases, another engine pulling in the opposite direction. So, contrary to that cute little image from children's literature, the little engine that could is one tough, fire-breathing SOB.

I forced the last piece of leftover pecan pie down my gullet last night and it went straight to my thighs. Seriously, there's now this wedge-shaped protrusion sticking out of the right thigh. So, I guess I'm officially full after two days of nonstop consumption. I'm gonna avoid mirrors for a few days 'cause I'm terrified at the thought of what might have gone to my backside.

Nov. 24, 2010

FROM: TSA HQ
TO: TSA staff

Pursuant to multiple passenger complaints: When screening a passenger, any employee who uses a variation of the joke "is that a (blank) in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me" will be reassigned as a searchee for testing our new screening techiniques. These techniques, to be unveiled Christmas week, are still classified, but we can report they're code-named Elbow Deep.

Nov. 23, 2010

FROM: TSA Headquarters
TO: TSA Staff

These songs shall not be aired over sound systems at screening sites: "If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body Would You Hold it Against Me," "Feels So Good," "Honky-tonk Badonkadonk," "Baby Got Back," "Shake Your Booty," "You Sexy Thing," "He Touched Me," "Try a Little Tenderness," "Bend Me, Shape Me," "You Really Got a Hold on Me," "Let's Get it On" and "U Can't Touch This."

An advisory from the TSA: "For those traveling by car this Thanksgiving week, be advised that convenience store clerks are NOT authorized to perform pat-down searches, even if they're wearing what appears to be an official blue TSA shirt. Also, bus travelers should NOT enter any bus-station rooms labeled with a handmade sign that says 'Git YoUre bOdy ScanNed HeaR.' The TSA thanks you for your cooperation."

Contrary to appearances, I still can shake my groove thing. It's getting it to stop shaking that's problematic.

No mo' woe, vows po' Bo

Our football coach apologized this week and what sounded like a gust of Nebraska wind was an entire state breathing a sigh of relief.

Bo Pelini's mea culpa was Page 1 news in the two major daily newspapers in the state, not to mention grist for conversations in offices and on radio talk shows across Nebraska, conversations that presumably will continue at Thanksgiving-dinner tables on Thursday and well into Friday when the Huskers' latest Most Important Game Ever will be played.

For those not following this drama, some background (http://es.pn/i6N7yI). Basically, Bo did his Tasmanian Devil impression on national television Saturday night during Nebraska's game against Texas A&M. He berated game officials nonstop and screamed at players, including his star quarterback. His eyes popped, his neck veins bulged, the spittle and four-letter words flew. He bit the head off a graduate assistant, heaved it into the crowd, then lifted the headless corpse above him and roared mightily as the crowd scattered like a bunch of Japanese extras in a Godzilla movie. Finally, he leapt in three bounds to the top of the Aggies' stadium and shook his fist at the blimp circling overhead.

You get the idea. I can't speak for the reaction anywhere else, but in my family room it was something like: "Damn, I hope someone there's got a Taser or some elephant tranquilizer 'cause that boy's gonna need to be put down."

By Sunday, the blogosphere was rife with rumors that the aforementioned star quarterback had quit the team. Other rumors had Bo and brother Carl being suspended for at least one game. None of this turned out to be true, which reminds one of Mark Twain's observation that a lie can make its way around the world in the time the truth is still putting on its shoes -- and that was before lies had the Internet, texting and the like as conduits. (One wonders what Twain might make of today's Internet-driven society. Actually, one has a pretty good idea what he'd make of it. For the record, though, he would have been one hell of a tweeter.)

University chancellor Harvey Perlman was mortified, issuing an unusual public rebuke on Sunday. This was significant -- the first rule of survival for university administrators is to avoid picking such fights publicly, as chancellors and presidents are much easier to replace than football coaches. (In the interest of full disclosure: I do work, at least for the time being, for the University of Nebraska.)

Which brings us to Monday's news conference, where Bo issued his apology. The chancellor didn't drag him in by the ear, plop him into the chair, and order, "now, say you're sorry," like a parent might do with a recalcitrant child. Still, that's pretty much the way it felt, though Bo did seem sincerely contrite.

Let's be clear: Most of us in Nebraska like Bo. He's a tough-as-nails, no-nonsense kind of guy, clearly a man among men, if also, on occasion, a lunatic among lunatics. More to the point, he's led the Huskers to at least nine wins in each of his three seasons here, helping wash away memories of the previous four years under a failed ex-NFL coach whose name escapes me at the moment. Most fans would just as soon see those years expunged from the record, so that 1,000 years from now, it will appear that the university simply abandoned the sport for four years. But Bo has given us the next best thing.

But for a 42-year-old coach in his first head-coaching job, the comparisons already being made to Woody Hayes and Bobby Knight are not auspicious.

Both the Lincoln and Omaha newspapers featured stories today that tried to get at the heart of What Makes Bo Tick. The Lincoln Journal-Star hardly played fair, going to the head of Nebraskans for Peace for perspective. Don't get me wrong -- it's a perfectly lovely organization but, you know, it's populated by a bunch of peaceniks; what the hell do they know about football?

It was the Omaha World-Herald that really tried to explore Bo's raging id, consulting several psychologists who surmised Bo suffers from situational anger, not an anger-management problem. If he had the latter, they explained, he'd be angry all the time, in every aspect of his life, which he's clearly not.

I can offer some perspective here. Bo's family and mine happen to worship at the same church, and I can confirm he seems no more impatient, angry or annoyed during Sunday Mass than the rest of us. Of course, there was one time I was behind him in line for the confessional and when he was done, the panic-stricken priest half-sprinted and half-stumbled out in tears, immediately dropped to his knees and said 100 Hail Marys. I don't know what that was about, but presumably Father threw a flag, if you will, for a particularly flagrant sin, and Bo lost control. Again, though, that's "situational anger."

In any case, we're rooting for Bo here in Nebraska, though nervously. "It won't happen again," he promised Monday. Many of us are skeptical.

For starters, though, we want him to just make it through Friday's game with Colorado without punching that annoying Ralphie the buffalo mascot in the mouth, a la Alex Karras and the horse in "Blazing Saddles."

Baby steps, Bo. Baby steps.

For Husker fans only -- Why the face, Bo?

You know, Ben Cotton should consider himself very lucky. In some primitive cultures -- though presumably not Texas's -- he'd now be considered married to the Aggies' No. 83. (http://bit.ly/8Z2XtH)

Be that as it may, let us pause for a moment to listen to the howls of anguished outrage filling the Nebraska air this morning and channel our inner Johnny Carson for some random observations about Coach Bo Pelini's behavior on national television last night. It might help if you insert this (http://bit.ly/3treLZ) between each paragraph.

• Bo may know football, but judging from some of the suggestions he was making to the game officials last night, he has little understanding of human anatomy.
• In the raving-lunatic department, Bo still isn't half the coach Mark Mangino was.
• Conspiracy theorists convinced Big 12 officials are giving the Huskers the business as they depart the conference will be happy to know that to welcome NU to the Big 10 next year, officials there not only will call no penalties on the Huskers all season, but for every moment during a game that Bo is NOT screaming, they'll award NU 15 yards for good sportsmanship. So we got that goin' for us, which is nice.

• And so opens a meeting of Bo's new 12-step support group: http://www.twitvid.com/RDKNO

• Big 10 officials announced today they will require Pelini to show proof of rabies vaccination before each conference game next year. Also, referee crews will insist Pelini be secured on a choke collar and tie-out not to exceed 12 feet in length.

• I wonder -- at one point during the game do Nebraska's assistant coaches mute their headsets? Or do they ever even turn them on?
• Someone really needs to start soaking Bo's gum in doggy downers before each game.
• LINCOLN, Neb. (AP) Nov. 26, 2010 -- Nebraska Coach Bo Pelini spontaneously combusted on the sideline of NU's game against Colorado today after receiver Niles Paul was called for illegal procedure, holding, pushing off and unsportsmanlike conduct and dropped a pass -- all on one play. Two graduate assistants suffered third-degree burns and had to be euthanized on the sideline, and Assistant Coach Ron Brown, who had fallen to his knees and begun praying in tongues over the pile of Bo's ashes, had to be forcibly removed. Meantime, Pelini's jawbone, the only part still recognizable, went through four more packs of gum and drew three unsportmanlike conduct penalties before game's end.
• Tom Osborne should require Bo to watch game film of himself -- and send him to bed without any dinner the rest of the week.
• C-SPAN is praying that Bo follows a certain predecessor into politics some day. The ratings on his congressional floor speeches would go through the roof.
• The NCAA announced it will consider rating NU's future televised games "For Mature Audiences Only."
• I'm no labor-law expert, but I'm pretty sure NU's sideline could be classified at times as a "hostile work environment."
• Yeah, yeah, Husker fans, we wuz robbed. However, that offensive effort last night was akin to leaving the door wide open, our vacation schedule posted and all our valuables right there in the entryway.
  

I have great faith in Americans' basic ingenuity, or at least their basic smartassness. So, the perfect protest for the new airport security patdowns: As the TSA screener makes his way to your naughty bits, start moaning loudly, a la Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally." Then, the person who follows you says, "I'll have what he/she had" and does the same thing. And so on. One week of this embarrassment, and the government caves.

For the non-cell phone savvy, clumsy, middle-aged man prone to chubby-fingered typos (LOL instead of LYL, IMAHO rather than IMHO), inappropriate emoticons (or, worse, too emotionally distant to use them at all), flaccid syntax and hitting send prematurely, isn't sexting just a whole new way to leave a woman frustrated and unsatisfied?

I often prefer to think inside the box, though I have learned to poke some sizable airholes in it -- because some of my ideas really do stink.

Talking turkey, and cultural sensitivities, at Thanksgiving

The preschool teacher to whom I am married stopped in the middle of Thanksgiving lesson planning one evening last week, held up drawings of Pilgrims and Indians and asked me, "Do you think these are offensive?"

I was taken aback. For one thing, I figured my days of helping with preschool holiday festivities had ended ignominiously years ago when a young woman who was supposed to play the Easter Bunny for a party canceled and -- true story -- I had to fill in at the last moment, squeezing into a fluffy pink costume about three sizes too small, donning big floppy ears on my head and, yes, hopping into the yard. One of the kids asked, "Teacher, why's the Easter Bunny so grouchy?" I can only assume that more than one parent had to break the news to his or her weeping child that night: "No, no, honey, the Easter Bunny IS real. The thing is, though, he's kind of an asshole."

Also, I am frankly unaccustomed to being asked to weigh in on questions of cultural sensitivity. After all, it was only a couple of years ago that I quit holding my legendary annual Columbus Day party -- and not out of a sudden burst of cultural awareness, but because I decided it was foolish to celebrate the legacy of some jackass who got hopelessly lost, then stubbornly refused to admit it. Which is pretty much the story of every family vacation I've ever led. "No, kids, pay no attention to the arch; this is Mt. Rushmore."

But finally, and more to the point, I was taken aback because I realized the answer to her question was: Yes, probably so. (Consider these reports of the Thanksgiving culture war from recent years: http://fxn.ws/bf6HWk and http://bit.ly/dALPjh)

So, what's new, right? We all figured out long ago that much of what we were taught as children turns out to have been a complete, propagandistic load of crap -- George Washington and the cherry tree, the single-bullet theory, algebra and, of course, the tale of the First Thanksgiving in 1621 as basically an outdoor version of the Old Country Buffet, tables groaning under the weight of an endless variety of food, the European settlers and Native Americans breaking bread together in great comity before the menfolk gathered to watch the Detroit Lions get their butts kicked, the womenfolk mapped out plans for Black Friday shopping and the childrenfolk forlornly pointed their Wii remote controls toward the forest and longed for the invention of television..

It took a little longer for many of us to be sensitized to the fact that history is, as they say, usually written by the winners, but that working into that history the perspective of the "losers" makes for a far more complete, fascinating, richer -- albeit less comfortable and sometimes downright squirm-inducing -- story. And that certainly goes for the true story of the first Thanksgiving.

I acknowledge this as a fairly typical middle-aged European-heritage white guy in 2010, I feel at least a little guilty to have been born into the conditions into which I was born, though I did nothing to deserve such a break, and guilty, too, that my place in life is built, at least in part, on the backs of others on whom my ancestors trod, or worse -- but not nearly so guilty that I'd be willing to give it up. (I know it is fashionable among some of my fellow male palefaces to whine that the world has turned on us these days, but please, guys, look around; it appears most of us still are doing all right for ourselves.)

So, millions of Americans next week will celebrate Thanksgiving in the traditional way -- food, football, perusing Christmas sales ads, a little too much wine leading to a family argument or two, then an escape to the movie theater, followed by reconciliation later that evening over turkey and stuffing sandwiches. No one seriously believes -- though some may unseriously believe -- that such celebrations are insensitive or oppressive, though our gastrointestinal systems might disagree.

I will say this, however: While I don't know how my wife will celebrate Thanksgiving with her preschoolers, I promise you it won't involve me dressing up as a Pilgrim or an Indian.

Though a grouchy turkey is a distinct possibility, I suppose.

Why it is that every time there's one of those tragic TV news reports about a woman who's missing or murdered and the husband's been arrested, my wife makes it a point of turning to me, scowling and harrumphing. Hell, she and I both know that if our marriage ends in homicide -- maritacide? -- I'll be the victim. Which reminds me, if they find me in pieces in the deep freeze, don't believe the suicide note.

There's often a fine line between falling and being unable to get up and lying down and not wanting to get up, so make sure you ask before you pull me to my feet, OK?

There could be significant health-care savings to be had if Transportation Security Administration screeners would just go ahead and provide to passengers and their personal physicians a complete report on the pap smears, prostate exams, colonoscopies and CT scans they're conducting at airports these days.

I have cleaned up my language considerably since my wild days working in a newsroom. But I admit that when things get stressful, the inside of my head often is aroar with the foulest language imaginable. When you see me grimacing and my eyebrows twitching, blame it on the nasty words bouncing around my cranium. I live in fear of the day they start coming out my mouth. That's when I start faking Tourette's.

I got my special trousers; let's eat!

Mid-November is nigh, the season's inaugural snowmen have been built and a few homeowners are sneaking Christmas decorations up already. These are sure signs it's time to start prepping for holiday festivities.

My first order of business, as it is every year, is to repair my feasting pants. I can live with the cranberry, gravy, chocolate and wine stains, all happy reminders of past repasts. But I certainly need to replace the elastic in the waistband, lest I suffer a repeat of last New Year's Eve's embarrassment when I bent over to spear an errant meatball on the floor and all hell broke loose. I did retrieve the meatball -- wrestled it away from a dog AND a toddler and from under several other partygoers' feet before I took a moment to pull my pants back up. But everyone else certainly seemed to lose their appetite. Fortunately, the fire that ensued when that Sterno can bounced off my foot and hit the drapes was doused quickly.

It really wasn't my fault. When it comes to holiday eating, the average American needs an elastic waistband with a tensile strength of at least 11 gigapascals. (Yeah, I looked up how to measure tensile strength; that's how seriously I take this.) I mean, c'mon, we can put a man on the moon but can't produce a decent pair of pants designed for heavy eating? Oh, wait a minute, we can't put a man on the moon anymore, can we? Well, maybe that explains it.

Of course, the simplest solution is a nonstarter, and for you married men out there, there's nothing to be gained by arguing, yet again, for wearing sweats to the Thanksgiving table -- even in your own home -- and to other seasonal eating events. Yes, it's an eminently reasonable idea, and I'm on your side, but we've already lost this argument. And we'll lose it again, and again, and again. Keep it up, and you may end up with a turkey baster shoved in your ear, or worse. Let's admit defeat and move on.

Besides, I have a much more elegant solution: It's a formal-looking pair of pants, fit for all occasions -- wearing to the boss's or entertaining in your own home, for a formal sit-down dinner, light hors' dourves after work or just tying on the feedbag while watching football. In addition to the elastic waistband, they'll be stain-resistant; if something, anything, spills on them, it'll just bead up, like water on a newly waterproofed deck. They'll need to stay unwrinkled, even during those impromptu naps -- on the couch, with kids and pets crawling all over you; on a bed, under an ever-growing pile of guests' coats and purses; or just collapsed in a corner in a tryptophan-and-wine-induced stupor.

But the real breakthrough in this design are the multiple hidden pockets, heavily insulated to keep hot foods hot and cold foods cold, for when you put together your own little, um, doggie bag for later. No repeat of those painful third-degree thigh burns from the fistful of stuffed mushrooms you snuck into your pocket at the office party last year or the mess from the leaking cream puffs that soaked through the other pocket. Also, they'll have a long, deep inseam pocket down each leg, suitable for spiriting away full-size cheese or sausage logs. (I'll pause briefly here for the less-mature reader to think of the obvious sausage-down-the-leg joke. Are you done? Good, let's move on.)

I'd like to figure out a way to incorporate a power source into the pants that would provide refrigerated and heated pockets, but I'm concerned a punch spill could lead to electrocution or spontaneous combustion on the spot, so the gang in R&D needs to give that more thought.

Finally, I don't want to get too graphic here, but these pants must have quick release crotch and rear flaps for those cases of sudden gastrointestinal distress that can follow overindulgence in rich foods. These also will be helpful when one is in a particular hurry to get out of the bathroom before the party hostess sets out another serving of those coconut shrimp that keep getting scooped up before you get to 'em.

You can see I've given this a lot of thought; just ask anyone who's made the mistake of sitting next to me at a holiday party as I sketch drawings and specs out on a cocktail napkin.

Maybe the J. Peterman catalog will stock these; probably call them the Buffet Trouser, or the Slack Stuffer. Pair them with Peterman's new specially designed Urban Sombero, with its hidden reservoir for stashing soup or nacho dip. And the sombrero is guaranteed not to spill, even if it falls off your head when you dive for a meatball.

I'm offering these ideas as a public service, as I probably won't get much use out of them. For some reason, I don't seem to get invited to many parties anymore.

If you're installing Christmas decorations outside and haven't yet removed political signs from your yard, your neighbors are entitled to drag you kicking and screaming from your house, strip you, wrap you with twinkly lights and stake you to the turf amid Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Re-elect Gov. Whats-his-name sign as part of the world's first campaign creche -- and there's not a jury in the land that would convict.

Finally, after decades of searching for myself, I found me today at 3:17 p.m. Damn, what a letdown. It turns out I'm not at all what I expected. Will commence losing myself again immediately.

Anyone can do CPR or the Heimlich maneuver. I've moved way beyond that: I keep a plastic knife and Bic pen close at hand for emergency tracheotomies, a slightly rusted grapefruit spoon for the occasional light amputation and -- well, the less said about this the better, I suppose -- but, between you and me, a fully stocked pharmacy in my desk drawer.

Pressing matters

Every now and then one stumbles into one of the darker or dumber corners of Facebook and, before hastening back to saner, safer ground, takes a little time to explore the zeitgeist of the zany. So it was when I noticed a FB acquaintance had “liked” a group called I REALLY, REALLY HATE “PRESS ONE FOR ENGLISH, PRESS TWO FOR SPANISH”!!!

As a rule, I'm hard-pressed to endorse any cause that uses all-caps, repetitive adverbs and excessive exclamation marks to get its point across, even if the cause is cute babies, adorable puppies or chocolate.

Be that as it may, I knew what I was in for when I clicked on the page, then wandered a little farther afield to find a surprising number of other pages expressing similar resentments, ranging from garden-variety ignorance to gob-smacking stupidity to full-bore hate and bigotry. Several promoted this delightfully subtle piece of social commentary: http://bit.ly/GWXdW

A particular favorite FB page was titled: "Why do I Have to press 1 for English its my Country Bitch!!" (The creator of that page is obviously a student of history -- those last four words were Jefferson's working title for the Declaration of Independence; his original version also was replete with f-bombs and yo-mama pokes at King George. The history books always leave out the really good stuff.)

Reading some of the posts on these pages, one is tempted to hurl a cheap insult or two, but one should resist. Oh, what the hell – I can’t: It might be a little easier to take seriously some of these English Firsters if they knew how to use the language themselves; if, for example, they knew the differences between your and you’re and its and it’s, or how to use a damn apostrophe or quotation marks.

We should give the benefit of the doubt and acknowledge that perhaps one reason some are so angry about having to “press one for English” is that it’s so painful, what with the injury they sustained when, while conducting a little proboscular maintenance, their head fell forward from the sheer weight of the idiocy in it and their nose hit squarely on a table, breaking both nose and the finger plunged second-knuckle deep inside it.

But such ad hominem attacks are not very constructive, are they? These are fellow Americans, after all. Real Americans, they’ll be happy to tell you.

I think I saw one of them at the store the other day. A couple of Hispanic women in front of me in the checkout line started conversing in Spanish. I did what I always do in these situations; I sidled a little closer to eavesdrop, trying to see how much of my high school Spanish I remember. Precious little, it turns out. But a guy in the next aisle fixed them with the stinkeye, clearly offended to hear someone within his precious earshot speaking a language other than English, or at least what passes for such in a Walmart checkout aisle (sorry; I promised to quit the ad hominem insults, didn’t I?)

He continued to glare, fume and even angrily fidget as the women talked, and I assume they finally noticed because I’m pretty sure one used the word “asshole” -- though, now that I think about it, she might have been talking about me, as by this time I practically had forced myself between them to hear better. (In addition to having lousy Spanish skills, my hearing isn’t so great.)

But back to those pesky bilingual automated phone systems that seem to be such a burden to some. Rather than be less inclusive, maybe the answer is to be moreso. What if we didn't stop with English and Spanish? What if we could press 3 for pig Latin, 4 for Appalachian hillbilly, 5 for Aramaic? How about offering choices like an Irish brogue, Col. Klink-style faux German, Klingon, dolphin clicks and whistles? A whole series of celebrity-voice options would be cool. For instance, I believe I'd enjoy my banking information delivered by Samuel L. Jackson, in all his full-"Pulp Fiction" glory. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I break your concentration? Allow me to retort: Your &*%$-ing balance is $717.13."

Of course, to make things easy on our more digitally challenged fellow citizens, the default choice -- no button pressing required -- would be ignorant, bigoted nimrod-speak.

Never forget: Its their Country Bitch.

I have made it my life's work to disprove the assertion -- wherever, whenever and about whatever it is made -- that something can truly be "foolproof."

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime. But give a man a microwave and he can cook Hot Pockets, warm up leftover pizza, melt nacho cheese and say "the hell with fish."

I recall learning in junior high science that Uranus is one of the gas giants of our solar system. Hilarious in the seventh grade, still funny today. Remember, folks, you may have to grow old, but growing up is optional.

I may not be the most graceful person in the world, but I CAN walk and chew gum at the same time, for goodness' sake. Oh, aack! Shit, I just swallowed my gum. Now, wh -- (thump). Dammit, would someone give me a hand and help me up here?

Dear Lord, let me be your vessel, an instrument of your will here on Earth, your disciple to do with as you please, your servant to carry out the work you desire, whatever, whenever and wherever that may be. But please, Lord, if it's not too much trouble, could you give me multiple choice? Amen.

Being well-adjusted is not defined as having no neuroses; rather, it's about knowing what they are, owning them, celebrating them, shoving them into other peoples' faces and, whenever possible, using them as a weapon to get your way.

I, for one, welcome our new insect overlords.

I not only shot a man in Reno just to watch him die but, as long as I'm in a confessional mood, also slugged a guy in Elko just to make him cry, locked a guy in a tanning booth in Winnemucca just to smell him fry, and ended up in Vegas, where I threw a guy off the roof of the Bellagio just to watch him fly. So, even if I'd listened to mama and never played with guns, things were sure to end badly anyway.

A modest proposal to improve Election Day

I think Election Day would be enhanced if, in addition to getting the current ballot, voters also were provided every ballot they've cast in their lives and given the chance for do-overs.

This would have no practical effect, of course. Sorry, Minnesotans, there's no undoing your election of Jesse Ventura. And Larry "Wide Stance" Craig forever will be burned into the collective civic conscience of Idahoans. Ditto for South Carolinians and Mark "Walkin' the Appalachian Trail" Sanford; North Carolinians and John "There are Two Americas and I'm Gettin' Laid in Both" Edwards; and Illinoisans and Rod Blagojevich (and just about every other governor they've elected there). Democrats are stuck with their choices of Dukakis in 1988 and Kerry in 2004. And there's no removing the stain of Nixon. Or James Buchanan, for that matter.

Still, it would be cathartic to revisit and fix those votes you've come to regret, perhaps because your own politics and perspective have matured over the years, or because the candidate you helped elect turned out to be such a disaster in office, or maybe the one you didn't vote for turned out to be so terrific once elected (a shorter list, to be sure).

I'd like a do-over on the first presidential vote I cast. It was 1980, a simpler time -- Saddam Hussein was our friend, a tea party was a tea party and the Soviet Union had just sown the seeds of its ultimate dissolution by somehow getting sucked into a quagmire of war in Afghanistan. I was a wide-eyed college kid, faced with a bleak choice between the failed Jimmy Carter and doddering, dangerous Ronald Reagan (he was considered a right-winger back then, kids, but likely would be way too squishy for today's GOP, what with all his time in Hollywood). So, I voted for independent John Anderson, though he had no chance to win. I was Making A Statement, you see. I now understand that was irresponsible. I threw away the first vote I ever cast. If I had it to do over again, I'd take my duty much more seriously, probably write in Mickey Mouse's name instead.

The other vote I regret was a ballot issue -- Amendment 84 in 1988, or maybe Amendment 88 in '84. I got confused and turned every which away by all the "herewiths," "whereases," "it shall bes" and "what-fers," and I'm pretty sure I ended up casting a vote against puppies, orphans and apple pie.

No doubt, other voters have realized years later that they don't like Ike after all, or have decided that in their heart, they now know that Barry Goldwater WAS, in fact, right. Who knows, there still may be a voter or two who regrets that youthful dalliance with Teddy Roosevelt's Bull Moose party.

What I'm suggesting is a chance for voters to expiate those voting sins of the past, to make more room in their consciences for the soon-to-be-rued votes of today and the future.

The key to a successful Monday is to set realistic expectations. So, make it your goal today to put out more fires than you start, or at least finish in a tie. As for me, I wish I were only speaking metaphorically. The fire department is still pissed at me about that fiasco last Monday, and the pile of ashes that was my desk is still smoldering.