It's Monday again. How 'bout we strive to be a little more constructive and productive this week? For example, instead of rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, maybe rearrange the icebergs in the North Atlantic, OK?

Libs and lamestream historians had a cow over Tea Partier Michele Bachmann’s comments on slavery and the Founders. Wait 'til they hear her next speech, which will claim Jesus was a secret signer of the Declaration of Independence. He went by Button Gwinnett, which, you already noticed, I'm sure, is an anagram for We B Totin' Gun, TNT -- proof, she sez, that JC wrote the 2nd Amendment, too. So, suck on that, libs.

A case of insomnia, an overactive imagination, a vague sense of feeling not quite right and Internet access is a dangerous combination. That's how I decided I'm suffering from a mix of scurvy, malaria, beriberi, glaucoma, PTSD, Tourette's (&#@!, *^%&) and an imbalance of humors. So, I'm off to score a bag of lemons, some thiamine and quinine, a bucket of leeches and some medicinal weed. Gonna get well or die tryin'

Sure, she's got Bette Davis eyes. Pity then about her Ron Howard hairline, Leonid Brezhnev eyebrows, Lyndon Johnson ears, Shane MacGowan teeth, Jay Leno chin, Mark Mangino cheeks, Robin Williams hairy arms, Orson Welles belly, Kirstie Alley ass, Danny DeVito legs and Shaquille O'Neal feet. Still, look into those eyes. They ARE something, aren't they?

Nebraska is one of the few states to provide no legal protection of a woman's right to breast-feed in public, and a lawmaker has proposed a bill in this session to ensure that right. It’s hard to imagine anyone being opposed to that in this day and age, though it should be said many men prefer breasts for display purposes only, not as working models. I suppose you might call them lactose-intolerant pigs.

Yes, I fought the law. And who won, you ask. Well, I'm on the floor, forehead bloodied, a couple of ribs cracked, still suffering from some lingering Taser twitch, hands cuffed behind my back. Who do you think won, brainiac?

Man cannot live on Thin Mints alone, but for about two weeks every year I give it a shot anyway.

Driving Miss Agnes

My 14-year-old daughter -- in the interest of protecting her identity, let's call her "Agnes" -- has established very specific rules of engagement for the daily drive to school:

-- No speaking unless spoken to. Although I am chock full of relevant, often entertaining, commentary on the passing scene, I am to keep it to myself. I am permitted to speak when she initiates the conversation but must not digress or, under any circumstances, use the exchange as an entrée to talk about “when I was In high school;” ask if she’s started thinking about college yet; or discuss boys.

-- She controls the radio station selection. Usually she sets it on one of those awful, yuk-it-up, overcaffeinated morning shows that make me want to drive head-on into a light pole. I have, however, negotiated the right to listen to ESPN Radio on Mondays during football season, a major concession on her part. In exchange, I agreed not to say things like “That Justin Bieber sounds like a girl, dontcha think?,” “so, what’s the deal with that Lady Gaga anyway?” or, “You know, the Beatles did this song originally. Have you heard of the Beatles?”

-- No looking at her for more than three seconds at a time.

-- No singing or moving my upper body to the beat of the music.

-- No funny pimp driving moves.

-- No driving more than a mile and a half below the speed limit.

-- No stops that haven't been pre-authorized. If an unauthorized stop must be made, it must include a cappuccino or other treat for Agnes.

-- Finally, when we reach the school, I am to avoid eye contact with any of her friends or teachers who happen to be in the lot. If I accidentally do look one in the eye, I am to remain impassive and make no sudden movements or display any emotion whatsoever. And, obviously, no public displays of affection toward my daughter. Also, no sitting in the car watching her go into the school and hoping longingly that she’ll turn back to blow me a kiss or give me a smile or acknowledge my existence on the same planet in any way whatsoever.

You may ask why I let Agnes push me around this way. Perhaps you missed the first sentence. She is a 14-year-old girl and, truth be told, she may scare me just a little. Well, not her so much as the species in general. In fact, taken one or two at a time – OK, maybe just one – girls of this age can be quite delightful. Or at least tolerable. But where three or more are gathered, look the hell out.

The only thing keeping 13-to-15-year-old girls from running roughshod over the rest of us is their inability to travel more than a few blocks without assistance. If they were more independently mobile, there would be no stopping them. Their communication system also is highly sophisticated and could serve as a model for special-forces military outfits, taking out all the "likes" and "OMGs," of course. Sure, you could temporarily slow them down by disabling their cell phones and Facebook accounts. But they're a resourceful lot, and pretty quickly they'd fashion a rudimentary but effective communications system comprising eye rolling and heavy sighing.

I think a helluva scary movie could be made by recasting the coming Zombie Apocalypse as a takeover of the world by 13-to-15-year-old girls.

I started to share this idea with Agnes on the way to school the other day, but the look she fixed me with made my blood run cold. I kept my mouth shut the rest of the way and, just to be on the safe side, didn’t change the radio station until about two blocks after I dropped her off.

If newspapers are, as it’s often said, the first draft of history, then the brouhaha this week surrounding NFL players' ignorant tweets about Jay Cutler is a reminder that Twitter is often the first gasp of idiocy.

Dog may be man's best friend, but when there's dirty work to be done, I turn to that surly cat of mine.

I suppose it's not nearly as much fun as it sounds, but there are days when a month or so of solitary confinement sounds pretty good.

Dallasites (Dallasians?), take heed: Hide your kids, hide your wives. Big Ben is comin' to town.

Nintendo has a new video game coming out. Pretty radical departure from the usual fare -- a very minimalist approach. You just sprawl on the couch in front of the screen and control the action, limited as it is, by rolling your eyes, sighing heavily, tilting a cigarette (pack included) between your lips this way and that, reciting Nietzsche, picking your nose, scratching yourself. Game's called Wii Ennui. Slogan: Play. Or Don't. What the Hell's the Point of It All Anyway?

Perhaps the odious Keith Olbermann's sudden, mysterious departure from MSNBC is part of an agreement among networks in response to the new Civility Now! initiative. Maybe he'll soon be followed to the TV malevolent mouths' unemployment line by Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, Nancy Grace and Al Roker (Why Al? He knows why, that bastard.)

Even the most precise wordsmiths have blind spots in their writing -- words they cannot spell without looking up every time, grammatical rules they can't for the life of them get right and so they'll painstakingly write around to avoid screwing it up, hyphenglycemia, apostrophobia, and so on. Often those old rules from English class really do still come in handy. Like the one that bails me out every time I face one of my weaknesses: The principle is your ple.

Hats off to the blood bank's ingenuity. A few of us, all men, were giving blood, "Walker: Texas Ranger" airing on the TV facing us. When the obligatory Chuck Norris ass-whuppin' scene came on, I thought they might have to switch out our tubing for ¾-inch garden hose, so quickly did the blood gush from our arms. God, it felt great! Of course, I was left so anemic I nearly collapsed in the parking lot as I left.

A Nebraska lawmaker wants to allow teachers and administrators to carry guns, and that sound you heard was the collective shudder of thousands of adults across the state remembering that one teacher -- you know the one, every school had one: stressed, bitter, rumored to have slapped a kid once, chainsmoked four cigs and gulped three cups of whiskey-laced coffee in the teacher's lounge just before heading into a stuffy, smelly room with 30 eighth-graders. Now, imagine him packing heat. Oy.

I have always depended on the kindness of neighbors with snow blowers.

It's said that God never gives you more than you can handle, but don't you sometimes wish He had a little less confidence in you?

So, do women ever outgrow the urge to tell a stylist how to cut their guys' hair, whether they're 4 or 49? I thought my stylist was going to shove a pair of shears between my wife's ribs the other day as she stood by and provided an ongoing critique of my trim. I'll admit it's the best haircut I've had in years, but had the stylist had any sense of humor at all, she would have offered me a sucker when she was done.

Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me. But could you give me 'til Feb. 1, Lord? I need to smack a few people upside the head first. After that, I'm all Yours.

I'm pretty sure I need a new life coach. My current one keeps screaming at me to turn all these lemons into apple juice.

I'm aware it's already the last half of January and I have yet to act on my New Year's resolutions. See, here's the deal: While I decide on my resolutions in late December/early January, I follow the federal fiscal year schedule for implementation. So, first thing Oct. 1 I'm on it.

After a week of heightened sensitivity and controversy about violent rhetoric, I’d like to propose that every football player or coach or sports reporter who uses martial language – “warrior,” “soldier,” “this is war,” “going into battle,” etc. – to describe a stupid game should be required to spend a week in Afghanistan observing, up close and personal, what real soldiers do.

Oh, the Pageantry

Say, dear reader, did I ever tell you about the time I judged a beauty pageant? No? Well, now that I've got a news peg -- Miss Nebraska winning the Miss America Pageant last night -- it's time to tell the story, I think.

First things first: They're not beauty pageants, of course. They're scholarship pageants. I know this because in a previous life I was a newspaper reporter in North Platte, where the Miss Nebraska Pageant is held every year. And woe be to any careless reporter who used the disparaging phrase "beauty pageant" around a true believer, for his editor was likely to get an outraged call from said true believer and then said editor had to sit said reporter down and give him a little lecture about showing proper respect to events to which one was assigned no matter if he thought such puffery was hardly worthy of his considerable gifts as a reporter and certainly wasn't going to produce clips that would get him to the Washington Post where he was destined to win a Pulitzer Prize, and no matter that said reporter would rather cover, back to back, an all-day county commission road-plan meeting and a four-hour school board meeting to discuss textbook standards.

Not that I have any personal experience in such a scenario; I'm just saying it could happen.

So, it's a scholarship pageant. It just happens to not be open to ugly women.

But enough about that. You may ask how a guy like me found himself in a position to be judging the scholarly attributes of a dozen or so young women. Well, it's like this: In the early '90s, I was a newspaper editor. And being a newspaper editor, at least in the days when people read the newspaper, carried with it a certain weight in a community -- never mind that the job often goes, like many promotions, to a person who just happens to stick around long enough. That's how over the years, I ended up judging a couple of cooking contests, gave introductions for several prominent speakers and gave a few motivational talks to budding young journalists. ("You kids stay in school -- and stay the hell away from journalism," I would say. "Now, let me tell you all about a little something called the Internet that's coming." Pity no one listened.)

I even starred as Uncle Henry in a "celebrity" stage production of "The Wizard of Oz." Get enough beer in me -- one will do it -- and I'd be happy to stand up and recite my one line: "Em, Em, there's a cyclone comin'! Get to the cellar!" The review noted the unusual Al Pacino intensity I brought to the role; of course, I wrote the review.

And it was my capacity as a newspaper editor that earned me an invitation one year to serve on the panel of judges for Miss Southeast Nebraska, one of the preliminary contests leading up to the Miss Nebraska Pageant. My former editor thought this was richly hilarious karmic justice for a reporter who'd been less than respectful toward the finer points of scholarship pageants. For me, it was a reminder that God doesn't just work in mysterious ways; sometimes, he's just downright sick and twisted.

But duty called, and I answered. And I can say this: I took my responsibilities very seriously. Despite my jaded, sarcastic proclivities, I had by then learned an important lesson: To make glib fun of that which one does not understand but which is vitally important to others does not show sophistication and intelligence, but rather smug dickishness. Just as important, I also had learned by then that pageant zealots were one of two groups I did not want to cross, as there would be hell to pay. (The other group, by the way, is 4-H horse zealots.)

So, I swallowed my withering follow-up questions when several of the young women, in their interviews with judges, did in fact profess their hopes for world peace. I did not scour the backstage area for evidence of duct tape allegedly used to produce evening-gown cleavage. I effected a cool detachment when each contestant, during the swimsuit competition, paused a few feet above me on the stage and thrust her pelvis toward me.

And through it all, I took careful notes on the scoring pads I was provided: "1) Goal: world peace. 2) Cleavage quite scholarly. 3) Pelvic thrust reminiscent of Marie Curie's."

OK, so perhaps I haven't entirely learned the lesson I mentioned a few paragraphs ago after all.

I will say this, though: New Miss America Teresa Scanlan, just 17, of Gering, Neb., sounds like she's got it together all right: Her platform is eating disorders, and good on her for that. Unlike world peace, that's something a Miss America might actually be able to address. "I never passed up a cookie on my way here," she said.

And, when asked if she had a boyfriend, she grimaced and said, “I mean, 17-year-old boys? Enough said.”

Pro-cookie and skeptical about teenaged boys? I'd be happy to have her be a role model for my daughters.

So, do proctologists, gynecologists and urologists get their degrees from institutions of lower learning?

My Cold War re-enactment group is getting together this weekend. I hope I don't get stuck playing Brezhnev again; that eyebrow glue gives me a terrible rash.

I'm counting down the time when I'll transition to a new, long-dreamed-of phase of my life as a parent: In three and a half years my youngest child will move out of the house; then I'll quit my job and be a stay-at-home dad.

Like many early risers, I love to brag that I get some of my best ideas between 4 and 6 a.m. Unfortunately, I also get some of my worst. And, sadly, by 10 a.m., I often can't tell the difference. All things considered then, I'd probably be less of a danger to myself and others if I just slept a couple of extra hours.

I heard some chirpy motivational speaker on the radio describe each new year – indeed, each new day -- as a fresh canvas on which to “paint your story.” OK, but I should mention I'm a freestyle fingerpainter who makes a pretty big mess and, on some days, just kicks a couple of cans of paint over, walks through the spill and calls it good. So, if you’re near me, you might want to drape your whole body in a drop cloth.

In the spirit of the president's moving words last night -- I've been yelling "Civility Now!" in my best Frank Costanza voice ever since -- I am pleased to report that when I flipped the bird at that driver who cut me off on South 48th Street this morning, I did so below the car window, so he didn't see it. My renewed effort at being more civil may have been for naught if the guy could read lips, but it's a start.

I think the telecommuting advances that allow us to "work from home" have pretty much played themselves out. I eagerly await the next breakthrough -- technology that will allow us to let the dog out, vacuum the family room, clean the garage and make dinner, all from work.

What do you call a 10-inch high shih tzu with about three inches of clearance squatting in seven inches of snow in zero-degree temps?

A shitzicle, of course.

Yeah, the dog thought it was pretty funny, too, when I told it to him this morning.

Shy bladder syndrome is a serviceable enough common name for paruresis, I suppose, but I sure wish someone had thought of pee-er pressure first.

I'm starting to think I might not be a people person after all. I mean, damn, they can be annoying, can't they?

The word of the day: snowdayenvy -- the jealousy one feels when the teachers and children in one's home get to stay in warm beds while one has to drag one's ass out into the single-digit cold, dark and biting wind of a January morn. Partial antidote: Dropping a couple of spoons in the garbage disposal and running it for five minutes, then turning on the bedroom lights and vacuuming before one leaves.

I wonder if Tom DeLay still will be known as The Hammer after three years in federal prison. (I'm not entirely sure what I mean by that; it may or may not be dirty -- you all be the judge.)

Once football ends, we Nebraskans move seamlessly to our other favorite second-guessing spectator sport -- pointing out how schools, universities and cities should handle winter weather. Amazingly, many of us who are such experts at X's and O's have a similarly nuanced and encyclopedic understanding of snow-removal and snow-day policies. We are truly an awesomely talented people; if only those idiots would listen.

I'm going out to shock and appall the neighbors with my traditional first-snow-of-the-year anatomically correct snowman. I take it a step farther than most: Brush the outer snow away and you'll find fully functioning heart, lungs, kidneys and even -- watch your step now -- gastrointestinal tract. And in his mouth -- the uvula? Piece of bacon. Check it out quickly as I expect the cops to show up shortly after I install the summer sausage.

I just found a snowflake that looks just like the Virgin Mary. Let's see, where did I put it? Oh, damn. OK, how about a drop of water that looks just like the Virgin Mary?

The first word of the day was snowdaycipation. The second word of the day is laundelay. Definition: When a college student waits until the last couple of hours of a two-and-a-half week semester break to wash his or her bedding and clothing before returning to the dorm.

Finally, the season's first case of glorious, nerve-wracking snowdaycipation, as tens of thousands of schoolchildren alternate between eyeing the falling snow, the promising Monday forecast and that ominous backpack full of undone homework. Remember, though, kids: Those who count their snow days before they're hatched often are left out in the cold. Or something like that. I think Confucius said this, or maybe Eeyore.

Oh, to recognize those 'warning signs'

Ah, there it is, the inevitable day-after-the-day-after-the-day-after headline in Saturday's local paper: "Warning signs likely missed prior to shooting, say professionals."

Well, excuse my language, but no shit.

I'm talking about the crazy shooting at an Omaha area high school last week, by the way, not the crazy shooting in Arizona Saturday. Sometimes, it's tough to keep crazy shootings straight in this country. I know, I know: Guns don't kill people, but they certainly do make it efficient, don't they?

Don't get me wrong: I'm not anti-gun. However, I am vehemently anti-leaving guns and ammo where they can be found by kids, whether it's a 10-year-old who wants to show off to a friend or a 17-year-old driven temporarily stupid and unhinged by adrenaline, hormones and a righteous indignation at being wronged by the world who, if he hadn't known exactly where to find a gun, might have satisfied his rage by keying the principal's car or throwing a brick through the school's window.

Of course, few of us needed to hear the "professionals" weigh in to figure some "warning signs" likely were missed in the life of high school senior Robert Butler Jr., who shot his school's principal and assistant principal, killing the latter, before turning the gun on himself. By all accounts so far, though, those signs weren't very obvious. In fact, they seem to have been almost invisible, and for parents who live with a healthy dose of "there but for the grace of God go I" attitude, that's pretty damn terrifying. That terror can apply whether worrying about one's own increasingly distant, lately-seeming-edgier teen, or wondering about how many kids in your child's school might be unnoticed powderkegs, waiting for the slightest spark.

Most parents know the cliches of what we're supposed to watch for: A sudden predilection for black clothing not tied to an newfound obsession with Johnny Cash. Finding a list of names of classmates titled "hit list" in your child's backpack, or a pile of small, dead, tortured animals in the backyard. Or noticing that junior sure seems interested lately in accelerants and igniting devices.

But beyond that, well ....

If only teenagers were equipped with a color-coded warning system, like the one used by the Department of Homeland Security in the early days of the war on terror. Yellow for general sullenness, green for dismissive contempt, orange for outright hostility and red for homicidal rage.

But teenagers are often a mystery. Even the good ones. When kids are young, they wear their hearts on their sleeves, for better or worse. It's pretty easy to figure out a 5-year-old's state of mind. As kids get older, they live more of their lives inside their heads. To use an iceberg analogy, a 5-year-old is all exposed ice; the teenager is barely seen above the surface, with huge expanses of ice underwater, amid dark, cold, fiercely eddying waters.

I don't mean to be melodramatic. I have four children, three of whom are now young adults. They all turned out to be decent, well-adjusted, kind people who are well on their way to being productive members of society. But I confess there were huge periods of time during their high school years when I had almost no idea what was really going on in their heads. I thought they were doing OK, and of course they told me so when I asked, but I knew I wasn't getting the whole story. And occasional clues poked through to confirm that suspicion. My wife and I trusted that if anything truly went awry, we would see it, or they would come to us, because we're good parents and they're good kids. But we couldn't know that for certain.

So, my wife and I worried our oldest three through their teenage years, and we've just begun worrying our youngest through. Because, to paraphrase Tigger, worrying's what parents do best.

Of course, almost everyone comes through the teen years just fine, and many of us manage to transform whatever trauma, sorrow, indignity or humiliation we endured into a certain positive energy and compassion. If nothing else, it prepares those of us who go on to become parents to nurture our own children through the experience.

But it sure doesn't help us understand what Robert Butler Jr. did, or assure us that we'd recognize such impending behavior -- those "warning signs," as the professionals and media note -- in the teenagers we know, teach or love.

(I already had started writing this when I discovered I had an odd personal tie to the horrible events at Millard South High School: My mom's first cousin was the unnamed school nurse who was hit by bullet fragments. She's fine, physically anyway, but one can't help wondering whether school nurses of the future will be required to be trained in treating gunshot trauma.)