July 24, 2005
Bad News for the Hairless Herr
Well, crap. Here I spend all this time and money on business school, learning to say things like proactive, synergies, mission statement, and best practices with a straight face, all for one thing: the freakin' benefits you get when you land a corporate gig.
I did it all: bought the navy suit, went through the interview (if you were a small animal, what kind of animal would you be?), negotiated a salary, even got a freakin' Dingleberry (or Blackberry, or whatever they're called).
Only to find 'twas all for naught. Only to find that the non-hirsute male worker bees are once again getting shortchanged. Turns out, my lousy health insurance won't even pay for me to get a hairpiece.
At least, that's how it is in Germany, according to this story on MSNBC. Apparently it's common for German health insurance to pay for hairpieces for women who need them, but not men, the rationale being that hair loss is more traumatic for women than for men.
Not being a woman, I couldn't argue the issue authoritatively; however, I can speak from the viewpoint of a man whose own hairline has taken a turn towards the translucent in recent years. While I'm confident enough in other aspects of my rugged good looks not to be overly traumatized by the apparent migration of my hair from my head to my back (eeewww, but true), I know other men not equally blessed in the hunkiness department who go to great lengths to fight off or conceal the inevitable. For those men, this latest German ruling strikes another blow to their already poorly insulated egos.
So despite the nice plastic Blue Cross card I got from the Evil Corporate Giant for whom I toil, I guess I'm stuck taking the Gillette approach to my own less-than-prominent hairline. But that's okay with me. After all, shaving one's head is a way of taking back control of the situation. For unspoken reasons, it's far hipper to be bald than to be balding. The latter says "I'm losing the war." The former says "I meant to do that."
Yeah. That's the ticket.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Re-redux
Yes, folks - it's time once again for even more first lines of unwritten novels, coming to you from the mind of the person voted "most likely to have been dropped on his head as a baby" by his high school class:
The Daily Haiku
Recommended Reading
Fat Ollie's Book - Ed McBain
In addition to being a terrific addition to the 87th Precinct series, this is also a full-length "inside joke" for writers, offering a hilarious look at a none-too-literate cop's attempt at writing his own Great American Novel.
I did it all: bought the navy suit, went through the interview (if you were a small animal, what kind of animal would you be?), negotiated a salary, even got a freakin' Dingleberry (or Blackberry, or whatever they're called).
Only to find 'twas all for naught. Only to find that the non-hirsute male worker bees are once again getting shortchanged. Turns out, my lousy health insurance won't even pay for me to get a hairpiece.
At least, that's how it is in Germany, according to this story on MSNBC. Apparently it's common for German health insurance to pay for hairpieces for women who need them, but not men, the rationale being that hair loss is more traumatic for women than for men.
Not being a woman, I couldn't argue the issue authoritatively; however, I can speak from the viewpoint of a man whose own hairline has taken a turn towards the translucent in recent years. While I'm confident enough in other aspects of my rugged good looks not to be overly traumatized by the apparent migration of my hair from my head to my back (eeewww, but true), I know other men not equally blessed in the hunkiness department who go to great lengths to fight off or conceal the inevitable. For those men, this latest German ruling strikes another blow to their already poorly insulated egos.
So despite the nice plastic Blue Cross card I got from the Evil Corporate Giant for whom I toil, I guess I'm stuck taking the Gillette approach to my own less-than-prominent hairline. But that's okay with me. After all, shaving one's head is a way of taking back control of the situation. For unspoken reasons, it's far hipper to be bald than to be balding. The latter says "I'm losing the war." The former says "I meant to do that."
Yeah. That's the ticket.
Whose Bad Line Is It Anyway? - Re-redux
Yes, folks - it's time once again for even more first lines of unwritten novels, coming to you from the mind of the person voted "most likely to have been dropped on his head as a baby" by his high school class:
Surgically enhanced breasts look really weird in zero gravity, observed astronaut Bud Lansing as he floated past Senior Medical Officer Maribell Stone on his way to the cockpit.
* * *
Herb leapt out of bed with a song in his heart and a spring in his step (which turned out to be one of those little springs that makes a pushbutton ballpoint pen work), as eager to inhale the fresh morning air as a spaniel sniffing a strange beagle's butt.
* * *
The trees were a verdant canvas on which playful gods painted a dappled mosaic, some with oils, some with watercolors, whilst tiny birds chirped in the branches of the sycamores, oaks, and maples, their airborne antics caught and frozen in the streaks of sunlight that managed to poke determinedly through the foliage.
NOTE: You need to know my antipathy for description in general and for the word verdant in particular to truly comprehend how painful it was for me to write that. Jeez, now I feel like I need a freakin' shower! Unclean! Unclean!
The Daily Haiku
No Pain, Rogaine
Sadly, it would seem
my Blue Cross won't spring for an
HMO toupee.
Recommended Reading
Fat Ollie's Book - Ed McBain
In addition to being a terrific addition to the 87th Precinct series, this is also a full-length "inside joke" for writers, offering a hilarious look at a none-too-literate cop's attempt at writing his own Great American Novel.
July 18, 2005
And the Horse You Rode In On
(or, sometimes this blog writes itself, Part II)
Not really sure what to add to this Reuters story of a Seattle man who died while having sex with a horse. The person who can keep a straight face while delivering that man's eulogy is a better man than me.
Interestingly, lawmakers haven't found the need to make this activity illegal; however, one law enforcement official noted that ''If you're talking about sheep or goats, there could be some issues.''
Good to know.
Where the Hell is Hell?
In an attempt to assist my agent in the task of selling my book, I currently have to devote most of my free time to revisions, rather than serving the greater public good through my blog. I know, talk about selfish.
At any rate, for the vast hordes of you who are interested, I'll be blogging intermittently as my schedule and muse allow. Thanks for reading!
Oh, and tell MJ Rose I'll be back. This ain't over.
The Daily Haiku
Nicely Put:
Not really sure what to add to this Reuters story of a Seattle man who died while having sex with a horse. The person who can keep a straight face while delivering that man's eulogy is a better man than me.
Interestingly, lawmakers haven't found the need to make this activity illegal; however, one law enforcement official noted that ''If you're talking about sheep or goats, there could be some issues.''
Good to know.
Ric Marion comments:
Read it, took me about twenty miles in the car before I realized the article said the MAN died of a ruptured colon - which created an entirely different picture.
damned near drove off the road.
gotta love it.
Where the Hell is Hell?
In an attempt to assist my agent in the task of selling my book, I currently have to devote most of my free time to revisions, rather than serving the greater public good through my blog. I know, talk about selfish.
At any rate, for the vast hordes of you who are interested, I'll be blogging intermittently as my schedule and muse allow. Thanks for reading!
Oh, and tell MJ Rose I'll be back. This ain't over.
The Daily Haiku
A Horse is a Horse, of Course, of Course
Wilbur, I presume,
Ne'er was asked by Mr. Ed,
"Was it good for you?"
Nicely Put:
"Fuck you," he explained.
- Ed McBain (aka Evan Hunter)
In fond memory of one of my favorite authors.
July 17, 2005
But What Does It MEAN?
July 13, 2005
A reader named Joe writes:
It's very obviously a case of robbing Peter toupee Paul.
July 12, 2005
July 11, 2005
July 7, 2005
A Glimpse Inside the Hell Toupee Mailbox
Yes, folks, it's that time of the month: the time when I take a look at some of the adoring mail I receive from loyal Hell Toupee readers. I always look forward to this, eager to see the kind of probing inquiries the Great Unwashed have to make, during these special moments when I let them tap into the Literary Consciousness that is Hell Toupee.
No doubt many will have questions as to how I develop such keen literary insights. Still others may seek fashion tips. And, of course, I suspect there'll be the inevitable love letter or two - it's all part of the territory when you're a hunky public figure such as myself.
Anyhoo, let's get started.
A reader from Cedar Rapids writes:
A reader from New York writes:
A reader from Seattle writes:
A reader from Albuquerque writes:
A reader from Denver writes:
A reader from Santa Fe writes:
A reader from Toledo writes:
A reader from Boston writes:
A reader from Newark writes:
A reader from Dallas writes:
A reader from Connecticut writes:
A reader from Connecticut writes:
A reader from Connecticut writes:
Stay tuned for more Reader Mail in an upcoming installment of Hell Toupee!
In Other News
As mankind continues to demonstrate its obsession with turning virtually ANY activity into a competition, more and more "big-boned" people are giving serious consideration to the idea of capitalizing on their one innate skill, and possibly turning pro. We're talking about the world of competitive eating, where titans clash and molars grind as fierce competitors race to choke down the largest amount of food in the least amount of time. What could be more noble than the thrill of knowing that when it comes to attacking a box of Twinkies like a human Hoover, you're the freaking best there is? God, what a thrill that must be.
Surprisingly, these contests are not always won by behemoths. Indeed, one 98-pound woman is considered the scourge of the speed-eating circuit, regularly chewing up (so to speak) competitors four times her size.
That's all well and good, but I think the news story I've linked here misses out on the Big Picture. While it may be marginally interesting to ponder going pro on the sushi-snarfing circuit, it's the average Joe at home who really wins as these contests become more popular.
How? Picture this: you're sprawled out on the couch, having assumed a flawless Full Bundy position. Your one free hand digs deep into the Cheetos bowl when suddenly you hear a disapproving ahem from the person who up until moments ago you considered your soulmate.
In the past, that scenario spelled trouble. But now, as the newfound awareness of competitive eating sweeps the nation, you've got a built-in comeback, guaranteed to assuage the indignation being expressed by your beloved:
"Honey," you can say, "I'm not snacking - I'm training."
The Daily Haiku
Looking poetically into the mind of speed-eating champion Takeru Kobayashi as he consumed 49 hot dogs in 12 minutes.
Nicely Put:
It was like that.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby
Possibly my favorite descriptive sentence of all time, summing up in four words what some authors would take pages to describe.
No doubt many will have questions as to how I develop such keen literary insights. Still others may seek fashion tips. And, of course, I suspect there'll be the inevitable love letter or two - it's all part of the territory when you're a hunky public figure such as myself.
Anyhoo, let's get started.
A reader from Cedar Rapids writes:
I think your blog would be much better if it didn't have an obscenity in its name.
Hell Toupee responds:
Sorry, but "toupee" was the most polite word I could find for it. "Hairpiece" would be too alliterative, and "wig" lacked the rhythm I was looking for.
A reader from New York writes:
Your blog is pretty funny. It would be even funnier if you cut out the parts that, you know, aren't so funny. Or maybe if you just made the funny parts more funny, you know?
Hell Toupee responds:
You're an editor at a major publishing house, aren't you? I can always tell. When somebody so clearly identifies the issue, I know I'm dealing with a pro.
A reader from Seattle writes:
Do you really know M.J. Rose? What's she like?
Hell Toupee responds:
Yes, I know M.J. What's she like? She likes kicking my ass. Oh, you mean what IS she like? She's very nice, for somebody so fond of kicking other bloggers' asses.
A reader from Albuquerque writes:
What's it like to have already reached the top and then fallen from grace? Do you feel defeated? Do you feel like that Springsteen song "Glory Days" where you've already lived out the best times of your life, and it's all downhill from now on? Like Al Bundy on Married With Children?
Hell Toupee responds:
Are you sure you spelled Albuquerque right? It looks really weird. It must suck to grow up there - you're probably in high school before you can correctly spell the name of your own freaking city. I'm sorry - what was the question?
A reader from Denver writes:
Why are you always digressing? It really detracts from the main point of your work.
Hell Toupee responds:
My work has a point?
A reader from Santa Fe writes:
Dear Hell Toupee -
Does this font make me look fat?
Hell Toupee responds:
No. Just big-boned.
A reader from Toledo writes:
Do you think you could get a message to M.J. Rose for me? She is SO cool. It must be awesome to know her. You must be pinching yourself.
Hell Toupee responds:
Oh yeah, I'm a regular pinchaholic. You should see all the bruises.
A reader from Boston writes:
Glad to see M.J. back on top! Keep up the great job!
Hell Toupee responds:
You mean, keep doing a great job of not being as popular as M.J? (or is it M.J.? with a period AND a question mark?)
A reader from Newark writes:
Yo, Mr. Toupee. I'm here in freakin' Newark, and I gotta tell ya - it's freakin' awful. I mean it really sucks here, bigtime. So I'm wondering, can I maybe come stay with you?
Hell Toupee responds:
It depends. Do you look like Angelina Jolie? Failing that, do you look like a six-figure book deal?
A reader from Dallas writes:
So what's the real story between you and Angelina Jolie?
Hell Toupee responds:
Sadly, we are not currently speaking to each other.
It's rather painful for me to talk about. The situation is exacerbated by the whole her not knowing I exist thing, but I have faith that we'll work our way past that.
A reader from Connecticut writes:
I think the way you handled the humiliation of being so thoroughly and utterly CRUSHED by M.J. Rose's blog was very laudable. It takes a lot of character to watch your dignity trampled on to that degree by somebody clearly so much more successful than you. Most commendable.
Hell Toupee responds:
Yeah, I got character coming out the wazoo.
A reader from Connecticut writes:
I think you shouldn't feel so bad about the fact that M.J. made you her bitch. I mean, lots of famous writers spent some time being somebody else's bitch. I can't think of any right now, but when I do, I'll be sure to write to you and send you their names.
Hell Toupee responds:
Um, great. I'll look forward to hearing from you.
A reader from Connecticut writes:
Man, that's gotta sting. But good for you, being able to get back up on the horse that threw you. Well, to put it more accurately, the horse that threw you, then held you down in the dirt and humped you, spanking you the whole time. Yeah, that had to sting.
Hell Toupee responds:
This makes three in a row from Connecticut. Wait a minute - doesn't M.J. Rose live in Connecticut?
M.J. - is that you?!?
Stay tuned for more Reader Mail in an upcoming installment of Hell Toupee!
In Other News
As mankind continues to demonstrate its obsession with turning virtually ANY activity into a competition, more and more "big-boned" people are giving serious consideration to the idea of capitalizing on their one innate skill, and possibly turning pro. We're talking about the world of competitive eating, where titans clash and molars grind as fierce competitors race to choke down the largest amount of food in the least amount of time. What could be more noble than the thrill of knowing that when it comes to attacking a box of Twinkies like a human Hoover, you're the freaking best there is? God, what a thrill that must be.
Surprisingly, these contests are not always won by behemoths. Indeed, one 98-pound woman is considered the scourge of the speed-eating circuit, regularly chewing up (so to speak) competitors four times her size.
That's all well and good, but I think the news story I've linked here misses out on the Big Picture. While it may be marginally interesting to ponder going pro on the sushi-snarfing circuit, it's the average Joe at home who really wins as these contests become more popular.
How? Picture this: you're sprawled out on the couch, having assumed a flawless Full Bundy position. Your one free hand digs deep into the Cheetos bowl when suddenly you hear a disapproving ahem from the person who up until moments ago you considered your soulmate.
In the past, that scenario spelled trouble. But now, as the newfound awareness of competitive eating sweeps the nation, you've got a built-in comeback, guaranteed to assuage the indignation being expressed by your beloved:
"Honey," you can say, "I'm not snacking - I'm training."
The Daily Haiku
Looking poetically into the mind of speed-eating champion Takeru Kobayashi as he consumed 49 hot dogs in 12 minutes.
Weiner Winner
This would be more fun
if the prize was not just a
year's supply of franks.
Nicely Put:
It was like that.
- F. Scott Fitzgerald: The Great Gatsby
Possibly my favorite descriptive sentence of all time, summing up in four words what some authors would take pages to describe.
July 4, 2005
Variation on a Theme by Brownsville Station
There's a scene in the movie Arthur where Dudley Moore, playing the title character, is sitting at a table silently eating dinner, when suddenly he bursts out laughing. When he sees the perplexed look on the face of his dinner guest, he explains: Sometimes I just think funny things.
I can relate. Sometimes I just think funny things, too. On a good day, it happens when I'm trying to write something funny. Like a blog entry, for instance. But that's on a good day.
I don't always have good days.
Sometimes when I'd really like to be funny - say, when I'm toasting somebody at a dinner party, or trying to write this blog - the unspeakable happens. I dig deep, only to find ... squat. Diddly. Bupkus. Any other thesaurus entry for nothing.
But that's okay. That's just writer's block, and we all get that from time to time. Er, we DO all get that from time to time, don't we? Sure we do. At least that's what I'm content with telling myself.
But - as I am often wont to do - I digress. This epistle is not about writer's block. It's not about dipping one's pen into the inkwell of humor, only to find it has run dry. It's not about swinging for the comedic fences, only to strike out. It's not about sailing a bowling ball down the alley of laughter, hoping to pick up the 3-10 split of jocularity. It's not about ... oh, hell, I think I've stretched that metaphor beyond all recognition, haven't I?
Anyway, what this is about is that special moment when I do succeed in thinking a really funny thought. At absolutely the worst time or place.
I work for an Evil Corporate Giant, generating reams of marketing copy geared at persuading you to buy products you'd buy anyway. Needless to say, it's less than scintillating work, which drives me to consume large amounts of coffee. I am not alone in this - I've noted the coffeepots in our break areas are rarely full.
They may not be full, but the bathrooms are. With hundreds of us drones on each floor of each building in the Evil Corporate Campus chugging down gallons of Joe every hour, it's standing room only (so to speak) in the restrooms. Thus, at many points during the day I'll find myself standing shoulder to shoulder with other Evil Corporate Types, lined up along a wall of urinals with our Evil Corporate Neckties slung over our shoulders - a nifty splash-avoidance trick I only learned since joining the Evil Corporate Horde - getting rid of the coffee we've only recently ingested.
And that, my friends, is when the same muse that struck Arthur at that dinner table will so often choose to strike me. That is when the dreaded Funny Thought - so elusive when I'm actually trying to write - will choose to imbed itself in my cerebellum.
That is when I'll start to giggle.
Now, I'm sorry, but even the most non-macho, comfortable-with-his-own-sexuality guy on earth will tell you, it's just not cool to giggle while standing shoulder to shoulder with other men in the act of communing with nature in this way. It just doesn't go over, violating every spoken and unspoken Code of the Urinal (a topic about which many a scholarly study has been published, my favorite being this one)
In this situation, surrounded by Evil Corporate Types with whom I have nothing in common other than a desire to earn enough money to drive a car not known as the "Dodge on a rope," not even Arthur's simple explanation would save me. If anything, admitting to "thinking funny thoughts" while my fly is unzipped would only make matters worse.
So, I do my best to do what Archie Bunker was always telling his wife Edith to do: I stifle myself.
No one knows what goes on behind closed doors
There's an even worse scenario. I know, because I've been there. As if the Code of the Urinal weren't strong enough, there's the even more rigorously enforced Statute of the Stall.
While minimal amounts of highly neutral conversation may on rare occasions be allowed between men who find themselves mutually aligned (so to speak) along a wall of urinals, the rules change drastically when one closes the door to a stall, drops trou, and assumes the position. The stall then becomes a Cone of Silence - even if the activities undertaken within its confines are far from silent (that's just nature; it can't be helped). No conversation is allowed. And certainly no giggling.
Try telling my muse that. I'll be seated in a stall, keenly aware of the $200 Florsheims I see on either side of me - a sure indication of the presence of Evil Corporate Executives looking for reasons to torpedo my career - and that is when I'll remember the incredibly embarrassing (and thus, hilarious) thing that happened to my buddy Robert once. Or a great line from a Peter DeVries novel or a Fletch movie.
And then the giggles will start.
Despite my being surrounded by $400 worth of Executive Footwear. Despite the well-defined and universally understood rules regarding In-The-Stall conduct, of which I'm all too keenly aware. No, that is when the Humor Gods will decide that laughter is indeed the best medicine, and that our pal Keith is due for a dose.
We are not alone
The one consolation I can draw from all this is the knowledge that I am not the only one who is an Inopportune Laugher. Surely this stigma was either shared or witnessed by whatever screenwriter(s) penned the infamous episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show in which Mary burst out laughing at the funeral of coworker Chuckles the Clown.
That comedy classic was mirrored in real life many years earlier by a kid I went to school with, whom I'll call Herbie. Herbie was an extremely popular kid: handsome, charming, talented, and above all genuinely nice - a quality that prevented less fabulous people like myself from hating him for having all those other good qualities.
But Herbie had one weakness: it was incredibly easy to make him laugh. I'm talking unbelievably easy. You could make him laugh on demand, without even doing anything funny. I know this because we tested this extensively. We ultimately honed our mastery of his susceptibility to involuntary laughter to the point where you could walk up to him, holding your thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Herbie," you'd say, "when I pinch my fingers together, you will laugh." Worked every time. Slowly, excruciatingly, you'd bring your thumb and forefinger closer and closer together, while Herbie would watch helplessly, lips trembling. When your fingers inevitably connected, he would burst into laughter. Every freaking time.
It got to the point where you could just walk up to Herbie holding your thumb and forefinger in the shape of a letter C, wordlessly threatening to pinch them together. This would drive Herbie into droves of Pavlovian laughter. Again, I only know this after extensive testing. I am nothing if not scientific.
Apparently Herbie shared Arthur's capacity for thinking funny things. In the most legendary occurrence, he started cracking up at a funeral. But unlike Mary Tyler Moore, this was at a real funeral. Something - he can't remember what - struck him as funny, and he felt a volcano of laughter beginning to simmer inside him. Herbie is a good guy, I hasten to reiterate, and would never intentionally behave in a disrespectful manner. But finally he hit a boiling point. A critical mass. And there, in front of God, a dead guy, and everybody else, Herbie lost it. Starting with a giggle or two, but finally exploding into a Mount Saint Helen-like eruption of laughter.
Herbie has done well in life, first pursuing a successful career as an actor, and recently becoming a highly regarded religious leader in his community. This suggests to me that he finally got his ILS (Inopportune Laughter Syndrome) under control.
As for me, I'm still plagued by it, particularly at my new Evil Corporate Job. And I'm a big believer in Karma. So now that I've shared Herbie's most embarrassing moment with the general public, I'm guessing the next time I find myself surrounded by men in Executive Florsheims sharing a "bio break" (I swear to God that's what my Über-Corporate boss calls going to the bathroom), my mind will wander, and I'll start picturing young Herbie fruitlessly trying to control his laughter at a family funeral.
And that's when my shoulders will start to shake, my breath will come in short gasps, and there I'll be:
Giggling in the boys' room.
In Other News
Youths in China are being institutionalized to treat their addiction to the Internet. Symptoms vary, as does the treatment, which ranges from therapy and acupuncture all the way to shock treatment and medication. According to MSNBC, "Some patients receive a clear fluid through intravenous drips said to 'adjust the unbalanced status of brain secretions,' according to one nurse. Officials would not give any other details about the medication."
Yeah, I'd feel real good about getting hooked up to an IV of Clear Mystery Fluid to help me get over my Freecell addiction. Where do I sign up?
The Daily Haiku
A seventeen-syllable ode to my own control issues.
Nicely Put:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
- Thomas Jefferson: Declaration of Independence
I can relate. Sometimes I just think funny things, too. On a good day, it happens when I'm trying to write something funny. Like a blog entry, for instance. But that's on a good day.
I don't always have good days.
Sometimes when I'd really like to be funny - say, when I'm toasting somebody at a dinner party, or trying to write this blog - the unspeakable happens. I dig deep, only to find ... squat. Diddly. Bupkus. Any other thesaurus entry for nothing.
But that's okay. That's just writer's block, and we all get that from time to time. Er, we DO all get that from time to time, don't we? Sure we do. At least that's what I'm content with telling myself.
But - as I am often wont to do - I digress. This epistle is not about writer's block. It's not about dipping one's pen into the inkwell of humor, only to find it has run dry. It's not about swinging for the comedic fences, only to strike out. It's not about sailing a bowling ball down the alley of laughter, hoping to pick up the 3-10 split of jocularity. It's not about ... oh, hell, I think I've stretched that metaphor beyond all recognition, haven't I?
Anyway, what this is about is that special moment when I do succeed in thinking a really funny thought. At absolutely the worst time or place.
I work for an Evil Corporate Giant, generating reams of marketing copy geared at persuading you to buy products you'd buy anyway. Needless to say, it's less than scintillating work, which drives me to consume large amounts of coffee. I am not alone in this - I've noted the coffeepots in our break areas are rarely full.
They may not be full, but the bathrooms are. With hundreds of us drones on each floor of each building in the Evil Corporate Campus chugging down gallons of Joe every hour, it's standing room only (so to speak) in the restrooms. Thus, at many points during the day I'll find myself standing shoulder to shoulder with other Evil Corporate Types, lined up along a wall of urinals with our Evil Corporate Neckties slung over our shoulders - a nifty splash-avoidance trick I only learned since joining the Evil Corporate Horde - getting rid of the coffee we've only recently ingested.
And that, my friends, is when the same muse that struck Arthur at that dinner table will so often choose to strike me. That is when the dreaded Funny Thought - so elusive when I'm actually trying to write - will choose to imbed itself in my cerebellum.
That is when I'll start to giggle.
Now, I'm sorry, but even the most non-macho, comfortable-with-his-own-sexuality guy on earth will tell you, it's just not cool to giggle while standing shoulder to shoulder with other men in the act of communing with nature in this way. It just doesn't go over, violating every spoken and unspoken Code of the Urinal (a topic about which many a scholarly study has been published, my favorite being this one)
In this situation, surrounded by Evil Corporate Types with whom I have nothing in common other than a desire to earn enough money to drive a car not known as the "Dodge on a rope," not even Arthur's simple explanation would save me. If anything, admitting to "thinking funny thoughts" while my fly is unzipped would only make matters worse.
So, I do my best to do what Archie Bunker was always telling his wife Edith to do: I stifle myself.
No one knows what goes on behind closed doors
There's an even worse scenario. I know, because I've been there. As if the Code of the Urinal weren't strong enough, there's the even more rigorously enforced Statute of the Stall.
While minimal amounts of highly neutral conversation may on rare occasions be allowed between men who find themselves mutually aligned (so to speak) along a wall of urinals, the rules change drastically when one closes the door to a stall, drops trou, and assumes the position. The stall then becomes a Cone of Silence - even if the activities undertaken within its confines are far from silent (that's just nature; it can't be helped). No conversation is allowed. And certainly no giggling.
Try telling my muse that. I'll be seated in a stall, keenly aware of the $200 Florsheims I see on either side of me - a sure indication of the presence of Evil Corporate Executives looking for reasons to torpedo my career - and that is when I'll remember the incredibly embarrassing (and thus, hilarious) thing that happened to my buddy Robert once. Or a great line from a Peter DeVries novel or a Fletch movie.
And then the giggles will start.
Despite my being surrounded by $400 worth of Executive Footwear. Despite the well-defined and universally understood rules regarding In-The-Stall conduct, of which I'm all too keenly aware. No, that is when the Humor Gods will decide that laughter is indeed the best medicine, and that our pal Keith is due for a dose.
We are not alone
The one consolation I can draw from all this is the knowledge that I am not the only one who is an Inopportune Laugher. Surely this stigma was either shared or witnessed by whatever screenwriter(s) penned the infamous episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show in which Mary burst out laughing at the funeral of coworker Chuckles the Clown.
That comedy classic was mirrored in real life many years earlier by a kid I went to school with, whom I'll call Herbie. Herbie was an extremely popular kid: handsome, charming, talented, and above all genuinely nice - a quality that prevented less fabulous people like myself from hating him for having all those other good qualities.
But Herbie had one weakness: it was incredibly easy to make him laugh. I'm talking unbelievably easy. You could make him laugh on demand, without even doing anything funny. I know this because we tested this extensively. We ultimately honed our mastery of his susceptibility to involuntary laughter to the point where you could walk up to him, holding your thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Herbie," you'd say, "when I pinch my fingers together, you will laugh." Worked every time. Slowly, excruciatingly, you'd bring your thumb and forefinger closer and closer together, while Herbie would watch helplessly, lips trembling. When your fingers inevitably connected, he would burst into laughter. Every freaking time.
It got to the point where you could just walk up to Herbie holding your thumb and forefinger in the shape of a letter C, wordlessly threatening to pinch them together. This would drive Herbie into droves of Pavlovian laughter. Again, I only know this after extensive testing. I am nothing if not scientific.
Apparently Herbie shared Arthur's capacity for thinking funny things. In the most legendary occurrence, he started cracking up at a funeral. But unlike Mary Tyler Moore, this was at a real funeral. Something - he can't remember what - struck him as funny, and he felt a volcano of laughter beginning to simmer inside him. Herbie is a good guy, I hasten to reiterate, and would never intentionally behave in a disrespectful manner. But finally he hit a boiling point. A critical mass. And there, in front of God, a dead guy, and everybody else, Herbie lost it. Starting with a giggle or two, but finally exploding into a Mount Saint Helen-like eruption of laughter.
Herbie has done well in life, first pursuing a successful career as an actor, and recently becoming a highly regarded religious leader in his community. This suggests to me that he finally got his ILS (Inopportune Laughter Syndrome) under control.
As for me, I'm still plagued by it, particularly at my new Evil Corporate Job. And I'm a big believer in Karma. So now that I've shared Herbie's most embarrassing moment with the general public, I'm guessing the next time I find myself surrounded by men in Executive Florsheims sharing a "bio break" (I swear to God that's what my Über-Corporate boss calls going to the bathroom), my mind will wander, and I'll start picturing young Herbie fruitlessly trying to control his laughter at a family funeral.
And that's when my shoulders will start to shake, my breath will come in short gasps, and there I'll be:
Giggling in the boys' room.
In Other News
Youths in China are being institutionalized to treat their addiction to the Internet. Symptoms vary, as does the treatment, which ranges from therapy and acupuncture all the way to shock treatment and medication. According to MSNBC, "Some patients receive a clear fluid through intravenous drips said to 'adjust the unbalanced status of brain secretions,' according to one nurse. Officials would not give any other details about the medication."
Yeah, I'd feel real good about getting hooked up to an IV of Clear Mystery Fluid to help me get over my Freecell addiction. Where do I sign up?
The Daily Haiku
A seventeen-syllable ode to my own control issues.
Stiff Upper Lip
While I love to laugh,
'twould be handy if I could
pee seriously.
Nicely Put:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
- Thomas Jefferson: Declaration of Independence
