Smells like teen spirit, huh? Well, it beats the hell out of smelling like teen sneakers.

Wow. Police report that Charlie Sheen just got thrown out of his eighth post-Oscar party of the night, breaking a long-thought-untouchable record of debauchery set by Richard Burton and tied twice by Audrey Hepburn.

I can't understand why a woman would shop in a store called the Dress Barn. I certainly wouldn't set foot in a male-clothing store called, say, the Trouser Sty.

Baby's got a smart mouth on her

My 14-year-old daughter and I were headed to school and work the other day when I looked down and noted that I'd dribbled toothpaste on my shirt. My daughter said, "I used to do that, too," paused a beat, and added, "But then I turned 7."

They say the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree, but they don't tell you it often hits you on the head. Again and again. So it goes as our children become us, in ways that can fill us with great pride and love, but sometimes, it must be admitted, deep chagrin and regret.

So, somehow I ended up siring a litter of sarcastic twerps. Is this nature or nurture? I don't know. Perhaps nature: A baby with strong sarcasm genes exits the womb brimming with smart-ass comments, deeply frustrated that he or she can't yet express them. "Hey, doc, the '70s called; they want their hairstyle back." Or: "yo, dad, while you're at the hospital gift shop getting me a balloon and an 'It's a Girl' sign, buy yourself some breath mints, OK?" I'm sure he thinks of several hilarious "your mom" jokes aimed at the baby in the next bassinet over in the nursery; or perhaps yearns to stick a haz-mat sign on his nursery mate's diaper. Perhaps she longs to offer up a cutting gibe about Apgar scores or cholostrom burps. And I'm quite certain infants have a bunch of great boob wisecracks rattling around in their heads. Like: "Hey, ma, the nipple goes here, not in my nose. Chrissake, I'm gonna starve with this amateur."

Someday scientists may discover this is what causes colic -- a backup of unexpressed sarcasm gurgling and burbling in babies' systems that can be relieved only with great jags of screaming and crying.

Fortunately, babies born with the sarcasm gene soon enough find some effective, albeit rather crude, outlets for it (though no cruder than what's found in the average Farrelly brothers' movie). Aiming a stream of pee in dad's face the moment he takes the diaper off is a classic, and projectile vomit is always a crowd-pleaser.

Or maybe it's not nature, but nurture. A child is born pure and untainted. In fact, after she sees the old man mugging in the nursery window, she tries desperately to switch wristbands with that baby in the next bassinet, but to no avail, and goes to a home where it's survival of the snarkiest.

Let's assume it's a little of nature and a little of nurture. If I could go back in time, I might calibrate my own wisecrackery just a tad, but it's a little late for that. So now it's coming back to bite me. As I get older, both my hearing and comic timing are fading, so instead of being a dispenser of sarcasm, I'm increasingly on the receiving end, the unwitting straight man to a bunch of merciless comedians from my own family.

By now, it often takes me 10 to 20 seconds to recognize and react to some gibe aimed at me. By the time I say, "hey, wait a sec," the kids have moved on. At this point, the only hope is the knowledge that one day I'll reach the stage where I don't get or even hear the jokes at all, by which point I'll be dribbling worse than toothpaste on my shirt, and, come to think of it, will be fair game for that haz-mat diaper sign gag, too, I suppose.

I punched a new snowman in the mouth this afternoon -- sent his carrot nose and charcoal eyes flying, knocked one of his stick arms askew. Then kicked him in his snow groin for good measure. I just didn't like the way the smug bastard was eyeing me. It's one thing for a mid-January snowman to have a little attitude, but late-February ones ought not to be so uppity, especially given their life expectancy.

So what's status of that Nebraska bill to allow teachers to carry guns -- you know, the No Teacher Left Unarmed Initiative? The PTA is ready to pull the trigger, as it were, on some fund-raisers to stock the armory -- a Buns for Guns bake sale, a Crocks for Glocks soup supper. Cheerleaders want to sell Koozies for Uzis. Not so sure about a local barber's idea -- Mullets for Bullets. But I guess I'll get one for the cause.

Latest travel advisory from the State Department seems a bit flip: "If it says Libya, Libya, Libya on the label, label, label, you will find it, find it, find it, not very stable, stable, stable."

I rarely feel road rage, but road bewilderment is pretty much a daily occurrence.

Wow, I just came into some serious money. Years ago, I bet big on Charlie Sheen's and Moammar Gadhafi's careers jumping the shark the same week. I'll triple my winnings if Abe Vigoda dies in the next two days.

I’m sure the ACLU will have a cow about it, but I kinda like the surgeon general’s new warning on cigarette packaging: “God hates drags.”

Things are now so bad for Gadhafi.

...

Ah, c'mon, people, you're supposed to say, "How bad are they?"

That's more like it; thank you.

Well, they're so bad that not even his closest sycophants are laughing anymore at his "My people are revolting" joke.

Congreve had it wrong. Actually, hell hath no fury like a woman whose child has been scorned.

Like most cheating husbands, I live in mortal fear of my wife sifting through my cell phone log of calls and texts and finding evidence of my straying ways. It's probably time for me to delete all those contacts for takeout restaurants whose food I'm not supposed to be eating, huh?

Please don't judge me 'til you've walked a mile in my shoes. Make it the 6-inch stilettos; man, they're a bitch on the feet. Might as well put on the black fishnets, too, to get the full effect. Now, don't just stand there; start walking. Yeah, not so easy, is it?

I’ll bet Bach thought it was pretty funny the first time, but not so much the 100th, when his wife Anna, noticing he was a little stressed out, told him, “Now, Johan, compose yourself.”

If you're one of those people with more than five pet peeves, you really need to lighten up. We weren't all put on this earth to make you happy, you know.

Well, this was inevitable, I suppose: Astronomers on Pluto just announced they've declassified Earth as a planet, though there was some dispute over whether to classify it as a ball of toxic gas, an assteroid or orbital pollution. They finally settled on waste of space.

As a card-carrying cynic -- not to brag, but I have the coveted Platinum membership -- I am loath to buy into those cross-stitch pillow cliches about life. Still, I have found recently that when times are tough, you really do find out who your friends are. Damn, sometimes it's hard to be a cynic. Next thing you know, I'm gonna start believing home really is where the heart is, or that love is always patient and kind.

One of the advantages of getting older is that a perfect Saturday night is a whole lot cheaper and causes less wear and tear on the body than it used to -- and can be achieved in sweats, slippers and about 10 square feet of space.

I wish I were one of those people who lose their appetites when worried, stressed or anxious. But no. I pound down the food as if I think layers of fat, calories and cholesterol will coagulate around the anxiety and somehow asphyxiate it. It hasn't worked yet, but I intend to continue my research.

I seem to be coming down with some kind of bug. I can't tell whether it's Bieber Fever or I'm Goo-goo for Gaga.

Fine, then, I'll think outside the box, but I ain't coming out from under my desk.

Did you hear about the price war that broke out in town among several mortuaries?

It was stiff competition.

Thank you, thank you. I'm here all week. Try the veal.

Highs may reach 70 here today, so the Weather Service is activating a rarely used advisory known as a White-out Warning: Motorists should exercise extreme caution, as unusually high temperatures could result in severe, visibility-impairing glare from the out-of-season, pasty white, too-early exposed calves, thighs, backs and bellies of pedestrians and runners. Wear dark sunglasses and do not look directly at skin.

I keep having this dream, doc: I'm a guest at a Mexican fiesta. Fabulous food and drink everywhere. Mariachi music playing. Laughing children gathered around me; I'm clearly the center of attention, for some reason. Then I notice my vantage point is rather elevated and I'm swinging around a bit. I see the kids below me don blindfolds and lift sticks. Uh-oh. I awake after a couple of whacks, covered in sweat -- but, on the bright side, lots of candy, too.

You know what? Some days, there's absolutely nothing wrong with celebrating just being able to put one damn foot in front of the other without falling on your face. So, yay for me!

We need a term for those menaces to themselves and society who walk halls, malls, sidewalks and, especially, across streets engrossed in cell phones -- talking, or, heads down, texting, playing games, checking the market, surfing for porn, completely oblivious to people and traffic. Target Practice, Future Hood Ornament, Dead Ringer and Road Kill seem too violent. How 'bout Cell-o-pain? Textdestrians? The Walking Droid?

I’m a middle-aged, square, straight dude from the Midwest, and I suspect Lady Gaga is trying to shock me. Nice try, honey, but you’re trying way too hard. I haven’t been shocked by a musical act since Dylan got saved by Jesus in ‘78. (I don’t hate Justin Bieber either. Seems a decent kid who’s parlayed meager talent and fab hair into untold fame and fortune. Good for him; would that one of my kids could do the same.)

It's pretty irresponsible that when that "for better or worse" part is thrown out there at the wedding, we don't stop the pastor and demand a full, frank disclosure of exactly what it means. It's just as well, I suppose, because no one really can tell you, though plenty of heads are nodding in the pews behind you. So, here's hoping your betters are better than your worsts are worse -- but, more to the point, that you understand that it's when things are at their worst than you need to be at your best.

Awful Valentine's Day wordplay: Did you hear about the couple that fell in love while repairing cars together at the auto body shop where they both worked? For them, love was a many fendered ding.

Time to renew that marriage license, guys

Guys, imagine if marriage licenses had to be renewed every five years. You and your wife would report to the Department of Marriage Licenses and you'd be put through a grueling day in the Marriage Simulator, observed in a series of real-life situations the entire time by marriage license examiners.

Your wife will have no problem passing the exam with flying colors, of course. But here's a sampling of the questions and scenarios the simulator will offer up for you:

1. Your wife has dragged you to the store to help her pick out clothing. You're sitting on a chair outside the dressing room and she says to you, from behind the door, "Go get me this dress in the red. You know my size." And you don't. You have no clue. But you know you should know, and you dare not ask. You have to figure it out. What do you do?
A. Guess. I mean, what the hell, how far off could you be?
B. Ask a nearby clerk, "did you see the woman who went into that fitting room? What size would you guess she is?"
C. Find another customer who looks to be about your wife's size and stalk her around the store until you figure out what size she's pulling off the racks, or until store security shows up and Tases you, whichever comes first.
D. Pull out your cell phone and call in a bomb threat to the store.

2. Your wife seems a little down, you ask what's wrong, and she says "nothing." What do you do?
A. Think that's the all-clear sign, say "oh, good, glad to hear it" and rush out to your golf outing before she starts sobbing again.
B. Keep asking over and over again "what's wrong," or "did I do something?" until she gives you an answer that makes some kind of sense, any kind of sense.
C. Understand that some women, unlike men, cannot always provide a bulleted list of what’s troubling them but simply feel an amorphous but overwhelming sadness that shakes them to their core but that is no less real than your grief when the DVR fails to record the overtime period of the game. So, you hold her in your arms quietly and supportively for as long as it takes, even though your bladder is about to burst and the basketball game's about to start, even resisting the temptation to try to turn on the TV with your toe and watch the game on mute over her shaking shoulder.
D. Feign a heart attack to end the standoff.

3. You're in the car together in a strange, large city and it gradually dawns on you that you're lost. You realize that your wife knew it 15 minutes ago, and she is alternately annoyed by and enjoying your growing discomfort. What do you do?
A. Stop at the nearest convenience store, go in and ask for directions.
B. Stop at the nearest convenience store, send your wife in to ask for directions and let her take over the driving. (Might as well ask her to grab a plastic baggy while she's in there, 'cause you're gonna need somewhere to put your testicles.)
C. Feign a heart attack and drive into a light pole. As the EMT tends to your injuries, motion him to lean over and, whispering into his ear, ask him for directions.

4. The house is on fire. Your wife, kids and pets are safely outside along with some household items they’ve managed to rescue. You’re headed toward the door with one last armful of prized possessions and room for only one more item. You stop in the family room and your eyes dart back and forth between the TV remote control and wedding album. What do you do?
A. You grab the photo album. The photos are irreplaceable; they mean everything to your wife.
B. You grab the remote control. Really, when's the last time anyone even looked at the photo album? You use the remote every single day.
C. You succumb to smoke inhalation while you agonize. Your last move, before you lose consciousness forever, is to grab the photo album so at least your grief-stricken widow can comfort herself with the belief that you died trying to save it. That anecdote might even make it into your eulogy.

5. You're on a park bench with your wife on a lovely summer day, and an extremely attractive woman in tight, short shorts walks by. The simulator, it should be said, has extremely sensitive equipment monitoring your neck and eyes to register if you make the slightest movement of either in an effort to catch a little hindsight. What do you do?
A. Stare straight ahead, unblinking, as if your life depends on it, which it might.
B. Turn to your wife – who, as you well know, noticed the woman, too, and is locked in on your reaction -- and say "gosh, you look pretty today."
C. Feign a heart attack and as you roll around on the grass, take a furtive peek in the young woman's direction. But do it quickly, because your wife's furiously glaring face is about to fill your vision and she’s about to tell the EMT – damned if it’s not the same one as in No. 3 – to look away for a moment while she implements her own makeshift Do Not Resuscitate order, kicking you a couple of times in the ribs and tearing out a few fistfuls of grass to shove down your throat. (She seems to be onto this heart-attack shtick, by the way. It may be time to move on to faking strokes, epileptic seizures or, if all else fails, ants in your pants.)

6. This is an easy one. In fact, we'll make it true-false: You have an argument with your wife. You're wrong and should apologize immediately.
A. True
B. True

Well, that's just six of 250 questions on the test. And no, guys, it ain't graded on a curve. Pass, and your marriage license is renewed for another five years. Fail, and you're issued a six-month probationary license. During that period, you’re banned from certain marital benefits. Also, you'll go through six hours of hostile questioning by Oprah in front of a jeering audience of Oprahmaniacs; a 24-hour marathon of chick flicks; and 300 hours of community service to be determined by your wife.

You can retake the test after six months; you don't want to know what happens if you fail it again.

A Valentine reflection: Guys, it’s just plain immature to go around the house leaving toilet seats up in revenge for your wife hogging the bathroom counter and mirror in the morning. One of these nights, when she stumbles into the bathroom, her cheeks are gonna hit that cold, hard rim, which ain’t nothin’ compared to what your sorry ass will be in for. Anyway, a metal toaster makes a perfectly acceptable mirror for shaving.

I don’t know about you all, but the recent controversy over the beef content in Taco Bell’s “meat filling" has caused me to be a little more discriminating about my own fast-food choices, which led me to observe that my favorite sandwich shop’s steak and cheese concoction – and somehow I never noticed this before – actually is listed on the menu as a Filly Cheesesteak. Uh-oh.

A Valentine's week reflection: I do most of my own stunts in my marriage, but there are certain jobs for which my wife prefers my body double.

Hey, no, no, get your mind out of the gutter, this is my wife I’m talking about! I’m referring to feats of carpentry, wallpapering, math, auto maintenance, navigation and plumbing and electrical repair.

A Valentine's week reflection: If it's true love, guys, it won't be long before she asks you to stop at the store to pick up some sort of mysterious feminine product. This means she thinks you might be The One and is an important early test, so suck it up and do it without being a big wuss. She doesn't have to know that you snuck the item into the cart and piled on top of it about $100 in groceries you really didn't need.

A Valentine’s week reflection: There's a fine line, guys, in the time you have when your wife/girlfriend asks, "how do I look?" You can't very well say "great" without actually looking, but if you eye her too long before answering, you’re in deep, too (especially if you’re clearly searching for the right words). If I knew how to get this just right, I sure as hell wouldn't waste it here. I'd be making millions on webinars.

I've worn glasses for 40 years or so, and I'm sick and tired of the stereotype of us four-eyers as bookish nerds. I'll have you know I'm a lot cooler than I look. And also, it must be said, not nearly as bright.

A Valentine's week reflection: Ladies, when your man gets that pensive look on his face and, assuming he's pondering your relationship, you ask, "Hon, what are you thinking about?," and he says "nothin'," don't be hurt. Men can go days without a cogent thought about the relationship. That doesn't mean he doesn't love you. Besides, he's probably just thinking about his fantasy football team. Or sex. Or dinner. Maybe it's best to just not ask.

Some days there is no Good Cop. The choice is between Bad Cop and Cop Whose Internal Affairs File Fills A Whole Wall of Shelves In the Police Records Office. So, you might want to drop the wise-guy act just this once.

In retrospect, that all-cheese buffet we laid out at 10 last night to mark the Packers' win wasn't such a great idea. Vince Lombardi probably has more energy this morning than I do. On the other hand, the late-night wiener roast we'd planned in the event of a Steelers' win wouldn't have been much better, I suppose.

Those with no rooting interest today may wonder whether Pittsburgh's man-child QB is a bigger threat to America's young women in celebration or mourning. I'm rooting for him to suffer a severe groin injury that will put Benji out of business for a few months. (No, he probably doesn't call it that, but I guarantee you he's the sort of guy who's given it a name -- Benihana, The Steel Hurtin', Roethlishard-- oh, never mind.)

If life were like a computer, it'd have a Restart button; push to begin a bad day anew, no harm done. Undo and Esc would be handy, too. But beware System Restore, which offers to take you back to a time when your life was functioning correctly. Tempting. But where might it take you? Your 5th birthday party at the zoo? That winning shot at 15? Or back in utero, the last place it all made sense? So, be careful. Probably best just keep pushing Esc.

I realize that God knows what's in my heart. What's not clear is whether He gives me credit for not letting it come out my big fat mouth. 'Cause if not, what the hell, I'm gonna start lettin' it rip.

A Valentine's month reflection: The secret to successful marriage is pretty simple, really. It's all a matter of paying your dos.

Every so often it’s good to be reminded of your puniness in the universe, to wonder whether we humans exist only to amuse God (or the gods, be that your bent), to humbly contemplate the vast splendor of the heavens above. And this is as good a time as any – sprawled flat on your back on that patch of ice, hoping no one saw your sliding, swearing pratfall and waiting for that throbbing at the back of your head to fade.

Pity the poor dictators, tyrants and despots of the 21st century. Not only is the revolution televised, but it's tweeted, blogged and Facebooked. It's texted, Auto-tuned, mashed up and YouTubed. It's Wiki-ed, Flickred, Googled and Binged (Bung?). It's Skyped, Gawkked, Vimeo-ed and Liveleaked. Somewhere, Stalin and Hitler are rolling over in their graves.

When the national media use the phrase The Nation’s Midsection – it’s where winter storms pass through en route to the Northeast, where they really count ‘cause they force Al Roker to drag his ass outside for standup reports – I conjure up this anthropomorphic vision of a morbidly obese U.S. map, with a big, gaudy belt buckle around Omaha, maybe Des Moines. Frankly, I prefer when they call us The Nation’s Heartland.

Kids today are soft. Not only did we not have snow days when I was a lad, but our blizzards often were accompanied by wildfires, so on the 11-mile walk to school we had to contend with blowing snow, wind-whipped flames and acrid smoke. By the time for the 17-mile walk home, the snow and smoke usually had cleared. Of course, then came the floods. Oh, and the locusts. But they weren’t all bad – they helped slow the packs of pitbulls on our heels.

A Northerner’s Valentine: Erato never mused of it, Burns didn’t poetize about it, the Beatles never sang of it and Nora Ephron didn’t make a romantic comedy about it, but, what the hell, I’ll do my best: My love, my love, though roses, candy and your undying devotion are all well and nice, if you really cherished me, you’d get your ass out there, warm up my car and scrape from it and from the walk the snow and ice.

Mom may like you best, but Dad secretly thinks you're a creepy little twerp.

Please, everyone, quit talking about the weather. All you're doing is giving it the attention it craves. If we ignore it, it might lose interest, go away and leave us alone.