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Ah looking back on 4rth grade, it was not my favorite grade, 3erd grade was my favorite grad butt when I think about all the grades I had in school 4rth grade was not a bad grade. My teacher for 4rth grade was Mister Tony, he was a very smart and very nice teacher and he was also the biggest teacher in all my grades.

Back before he decided to be a teacher Mister Tony did some exciting stuff, he was over in Russia and he got cot by the KYB and they throwed him in this place called the doologs that was very cold and all they ever fed you was potatoes. Another time he was saline across the ocean and he got stuck in this place called the doldrums where the wind never blows and him and his friends had to paddle there boat across it and it took a long time and they ran out of food and had to eat flying fish.

Another thing that Mister Tony did that was neat was back when he was a boy he learned Kung Fu, he was over in China for a long time and this guy named Gandy tot him Kung Fu. He said he would teach Mister Tony on one condishun, that he promised never to use his Kung Fu to be a bully. Mister Tony had a black belt for Kung Fu, accept it didn’t have a big buckle or his name on the back like normal belts did.

I could talk for a long time about Mr. Tony because he had a very interesting life, accept I should probably tell you different things about my 4rth grade year.

There was my 2nd cousin Ricky in my 4rth grade class. Growing up I had 8 cousins, my 1st cousin Missy was in 6th grade that year and I can not remember what grades my other cousins was in accept I do remember that my 8th cousin little Jenny was not in school yet. Anyways Ricky had this girl friend that was a 4rth grader in my class, her name was Lisa. She was a little pretty accept she was very mean for a girl, even back then she was mean for a girl. One time she fell off the magic carpet and broke her nose, she laid there on the ground and moaned accept we couldn’t understand what she was saying because she was laying with her face in the dirt. Some of the 4rth graders laughed because she was always mean to them. Finally Mrs. Chritchunson came running up and said “I think you have broken your nose. We better get you to the hospital!” They took her to the hospital and put a cast on her nose, accept she didn’t let us sign it like Maria did when she broke her arm. Later Mrs. Christchnson came up to us that watched Lisa fall off the magic carpet and said “The next time Lisa falls off the magic carpet and breaks her nose, will you please come and tell me?” accept the way she said it was different.

I remember one morning in the 4rth grade that started out before 4rth grade started, in the morning. It was a Friday and my mom got me up at 6 am so I could watch the house while she went down to this place, I can’t remember the name but they all jumped up and down and bounced around and did stretches and such. Like my mom did every morning she said “Please just watch cartoons and don’t get into anything, I will be back at 7, if anything happens call 911″ and my mom left the number for 911 right by the phone with where we lived on a piece of paper so if something bad did happen I could call 911 and tell them where we lived.

This morning there was no good cartoons on t.v. and I didn’t want to watch t.v. so I went into the kitchen thinking to myself “there must be something fun in here” and I looked for something fun until I found a box of matches in the cupboard. Now I had used matches before to start the stoves burning, and I knew how to use matches, accept never before did I have a whole box of matches. “This could be fun” I said to myself, accept I didn’t really say this.

I don’t know why but I struck a match and watched it burn, then throwed it in the kitchen stove. I also do not know why but I did this again. I did it again, and again, and many times. Then I don’t know why but I lit 2 matches at one time, then 3 matches, and even 10 matches at one time. I had great fun lighting matches, accept it was not very long until there was no matches left. I knew this was not good because my dad would be mad if he had to by knew matches, since we did not have a money tree. Then I put the matchbox back in the cupboard and turned on cartoons and waited for my mom to come home.

When my mom came home she said “What is this smell in the kitchen?”

I said “I do not notice anything.”

She said “It smells like sulfur in here.”

I said “It does?” I was pretending that it didn’t smell in the kitchen.

“What did you do while I was gone” my mom asked me.

“Watched cartoons” I told her.

“Did you light any matches in here?” my mom asked me.

“Yes” I said.

“Why?” mom asked.

“I was trying to get the stove going” I told her.

“How many matches did you use?” my mom asked me.

“A few” I told her.

Then my mom looked in the stove at all the burnt matches, and also looked in the cupboard in the matchbox and saw there was no matches left. “You used all the matches!” she screamed at me.

“I did?” I said trying to act like I did not know I used all the matches.

“And there is no wood in the stove either!” my mom screamed at me again.

“Oh, maybe that is why it was so hard to get burning” I said still pretending that I was trying to light the stove.

My mom did not believe that I was trying light the stove and she made me sit down and she yelled at me for a long time and asked “why did you use up all the matches?” accept I did not know why I used up all the matches. My mom told me that I was in big trouble and that they was going to send me to pyromaniac school where you go for a long time and they teach you not to play with matches as much. Also my mom said I was grounded and that I could not go to Mike’s house after school.

I went to school very sad because I did not want to go to pyromaniac school, and me and Mike had important plans to do that weekend. I told Mike that I could not go to his house, and he was sad because we could not do our plans. I went home after school that day and I was feeling very sad and my mom told me I could go to Mike’s house after all, so I went to Mike’s house. Also my parents did not send me to pyromaniac school after all.

Mike and I were going to dig a hole at his house, we had planned it for a long time and we had Cory who was a smart 4rth grader draw up blue plans for our hole. The only thing was that we did not no where we was going to dig it, it had to be a secret place. Mike said that he knew the perfect place accept he could not tell me till morning where the secret spot was.

In the morning Mike said “we’re going to dig the hole in the chicken house, the ground is soft and no one can see us digging”.

I said “But what about when your mom gets eggs?” and Mike said not to worry about that because he had planned that out to.

Mike and I got shovels and picks and went in the chicken house and started digging our hole, just like Cory’s blue plans said to. The ground was soft and the digging was easy and it was not long before the whole was as tall as us.

“Tie the rope to the bored over there so we can climb in and out” Mike told me. And I took the rope and tied it to the bored using the best not I knowed and I through the other end in the hole.

The digging was still easy and we was having to use a bucket to get the dirt out with. It was not long before the hole was very deep, it was 12 feet deep I know because Mike’s dad measured it later on. Cory’s blue plans was for 200 feet deep, and Mike said the we had 188 feet to go, accept our hole was starting to fill up with water. This made the digging tuff and also made us cold, since it was in winter.

Mike said “we better get out of this hole and think for a while” and he grabbed the rope accept when he grabbed it all fell right in the hole with us, even the other end that was tied to the bored.

“I do not understand!” I yelled. “I used my best not and it came untied. What are we going to do?” I asked. Mike looked very worried.

We tried climbing out of the hole, I even tried jumping out of the whole and it was no use. Mike tried standing on my shoulders but we still couldn’t get out of the whole.

“The only thing that we can do now is wait for someone to come out here” Mike said, and he looked sad like he was going to cry.

“Maybe we should try screaming for your mom” I said.

Mike said “we could try that but the house is a long ways from this chicken house and she is probably in the house listening to those tapes that say you’re an OK person so I don’t think she would hear us”.

But Mike and I tried screaming for his mom sense it was our only hope. We started both screaming together but Mike said that we needed to save our energy so we started taking turns screaming at Mike’s mom. Mike would scream “MOM! MOM! MOM!” as loud as he could, then I would scream “MIKES MOM! WE ARE IN A HOLE OUT IN THE CHICKEN HOUSE AND WE NEED YOU TO COME HELP US GET OUT!” as loud as I could scream. Accept no matter how much we screamed Mike’s mom never came to get us out of the hole.

It was starting to get dark and me and Mike had been screaming for a long time and Mike looked very sad and said “There is no hope, we are never going to get out of here. They will come out here to get eggs and find the skeletons of two boys” and Mike looked very sad, and he had tears in his eye when he said this, and his lips was kind of curling up.

“I gotta go” I replied. And I did have to go, and not number one neither. I had to go really bad, except we was stuck in the hole. It always hits you at the worse time!

Then, like the voice of an angel we heard the screechy voice of Mike’s mom say “Mike! Mike! It is supper time, please come in the house!” Me and Mike started screaming, Mike was saying “MOM!” and I was just screaming I was so excited.

Then we heard Mike’s mom’s voice get closer and say “Mike, where are you?”

We both screamed “In the chicken house!”

Then right away we heard the chicken house door open and Mike’s mom said “Is you boys playing tricks on me, because I don’t see you?”

“WE’RE IN THE GROUND!” I screamed as loud as I could, accept that wasn’t very loud because I was horse from all the screaming I did that day. Then Mike’s mom came over to the hole and looked down upon us.

“What are you silly boys doing down there?” Mike’s mom asked us. Mike had a tear of joy he was so glad to see his mom.

I said “Could you please help us get out because I really gotta go”. Mike’s mom tied the rope to the bored, and I climbed out first since I had to go so bad. I ran to the house as fast as I could run and when I got to the house I did not have time to take my shoes off so I left muddy tracks all over the house, accept I did make it to the bathroom in time.

Later on Mike’s dad yelled at us for digging a whole in the chicken house. Also Mike’s mom was not happy about the tracks in the house, but we lived and that was the important thing.

About the Author

A recovering moron. I know this isn’t everyone’s style of humor, but if you got a kick out of it, feel free to drop me a line at gboethin@yahoo.com.

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I like to bark. I mean, I like to bark A LOT. So, whattya gonna do about it? Well, if you’re Amber and Terry, you’re going to do NOTHING about it. Ain’t nobody going to silence the Rubinman, you know what I’m sayin’? If you’re NOT Amber and Terry, though (i.e. you’re smart) and you want to know how to get your dog to just freakin’ shut up once in a while, here’s what you need to know…

Why is your dog barking?

I’ll be honest here: I bark because I like it. And because it gets me some attention. I’m all about the attention. Now, you coulda probably guessed about the attention thing, but the fact that we actually ENJOY it? Who knew?

It’s true, though. Sometimes I just get a kick out of it. It’s like, I start barking because I’m excited, and then after a while I’m all, “hey! This totally rocks!” So I bark some more. And then some more after that. Then I finish up with a quick round of barking. Sometimes I come back for an encore. The truth is, by this time, like Justin Timberlake, I’m lovin’ it. So, how’re you gonna stop me? (Clue: you’re not. You’ll NEVER stop the Rubinman. But you know what I mean.)

Well, if you want to stop a dog that’s barking just for the hell of it, you’re gonna hafta get clever. Cleverer than Amber and Terry. Whatever you do, DON’T shout at me. You want to know what I think when you shout at me while I’m barking? I think, “Coooool! They’re totally barking with me! This SO rocks!” Ha! Amateurs!

No, what you need to do is, you need to distract me. You could play with me. You could feed me. (Actually, you should totally feed me. That’s the best thing to do. End of article.) But it’s better if you TRAIN me. Uh-huh. TRAIN ME.

Now, I know what y’all are thinking. You’re all, “But the Rubinman is cleverer than me! I’d NEVER train him!” Well, you’re right. You totally wouldn’t. But if you have a NORMAL dog, you can train it. Mebbe.

I am what’s called “clicker trained.” Clicker training is when you, like, get this CLICKY thing and get your dog to believe that if the thing clicks, something good happens. Could be a goodboy. Could be a big cuddle. (Note: the Rubinman is NOT a sissy. But a cuddle can be nice). Could be playing with your toys. Whatever it is, it’s GOOD. The clicker is power, and once ya got power over the dog, you’re the boss of it.* If you’re REALLY clever, you can teach your mutt to bark on command, and then stop barking on command too, using the clicker. That’s probably too advanced for you lot, though, so…

Understand why YOUR dog is barking

So, yeah, now you know why the Rubinman barks. It’s important to know why YOUR dog barks, though. Here are some possible reasons:

He is bored.
He is scared. (I mean, I’m NEVER scared, but then I WAS raised by wolves…)
He is lonely.
He has seen the postman.
Little Timmy is stuck down a well and your dog wants to lead you to that well, rescue little Timmy and get a reward. I’ll tell ya, that happens to me a LOT.

Soooooo many reasons for barking there. First thing you need to do is, you need to find out which reason is the right one. I’ll be honest here: it’s probably the postman.

A word about the postman

Most so-called “exerts” will tell you that your dog barks when he sees the postman because the postman is intruding on your property and the dog can’t tell the difference between “friend” and “foe.” What a lot of crap experts talk, no? If I talked crap like that, man, I’d be ashamed to call myself the Rubinman, I really would.

As any dog will tell you, we bark at the postman because we hate that sucker. In the wild, postmen are our natural enemies. Walking up our driveway day after day. Stuffing things through our door. Ringing the bell. I mean, honestly, do YOU think that’s acceptable behaviour?

Stopping the barking

You ain’t never gonna stop the “me against the postman” mentality. All you can do, really, is bribe your dog to stay quiet. Remember: we have no morals. (I mean, we sniff other dog’s butts IN THE STREET, do we look like we’d turn up our noses at a spot of bribery?) We won’t be offended if you bribe us.

Now, I’m not saying you should always bribe us with chocolate goodboys. (I totally AM saying that, by the way). I’m just saying the best way to get us to behave is to reward us handsomely when we behave ourselves. Goodboys. Cuddles. Rubbing our furry bellies. Do this and we will stop barking. Mebbe.

* Amber and Terry, obviously, are NOT the boss of me, though. No one’s the boss of me.

About the Author

Rubin is a wolf in Bichon Frise’s clothing. Read his blog at http://www.rubinman.co.uk

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- Stop breathing ozone immediately. You know you can if you try.

- Do not strike matches near an open nuclear power plant.

- Do not rub either your scalp or your bosom with the latest scientific breakthrough.

- Never sit next to strangers in movie theaters, churches, or hot tubs.

- Never ride with a teenager wearing a Dukes of Hazzard T-shirt.

- Do not store feminine hygiene products in a microwave oven.

- Avoid harmful fats — particularly those name Gloria.

- Never go swimming immediately after eating a day-old tuna and mayo sandwich.

- Avoid death-defying rides at amusement parks — especially those that have carried 10 million people without an accident.

- Avoid wearing tight designer jeans, since the dye used in some designer labels, when sat on by laboratory rats, caused dishpan tail.

- Avoid medical care by licensed physicians. Even if the treatment causes no harmful side-effects, the bill can prove fatal.

- Be satisfied with what you have. Stay away from pyramid parties, gurus, Nigerian email offers, and marriage counselors.

Follow the wise though goofy suggestions above and you will have an excellent chance at survival. But just in case, always wear clean underwear.

About the Author

Joe Hickman, a veteran writer for comedians and public speakers, is editor of HaLife.com

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Being a redneck means more than just being a country person. A true Redneck is a happy and caring person with a great sense of humor. Rednecks are normally not very wealthy and know how to have fun with a low budget. They care about hunting and fishing over care of their home or yards.

Washington State - 12/28/2005 - Rednecks are real and everywhere.

Rednecks are everywhere, the country, urban and big cities. The true give away is the ones in the city wearing a cowboy hat. Being a redneck is truly a honor. You are a member of folks that live a truly happy life. Enjoying the outdoors, Nascar and being with friends. You know how to save a buck and how to get by with little money.

Here are a few hints to identify if your a Redneck:
- Your richest relative buys a new house and calls you up to help him take the wheels off.
- Your lifetime goal is to own a fireworks stand
- You avoid property that has a lot of grass to cut
- Candy in the house is a must.

Here are some other indicators with your pets, you may be a Redneck:
- You cat eats at the table.
- You take your dog for a walk and you both use the same tree.
- You’ve ever been involved in a custody fight over a hunting dog.

Yes, it hard to hide it, but redneck are everywhere. The world would be a better place if there were more rednecks. People would all be equal, Wars would be won over quickly, since know one really can afford it. Our leaders would all be wearing overalls and speaking to us from a hunting reserve.

Yes, the true answer to world peace is rednecks. We would all measure each other by the size of our Bass Boats and the length of our uncut grass.

A site has been provided for you to understand Rednecks better at http://www.rednecksearch.com and http://www.rangerrob.com. Great knowledge and understanding of Rednecks will truly help you to be a better person.
You can also email rednecks@rangerrob.com with any of your questions.

Rangerrob of the Northwest.

A Northwest Outdoor Redneck, supporting friends and Family to enjoy the outdoor together. View Hunting, Fishing, Flyfishing, Kiting, Boating and much more at http://www.rangerrob.com.

Feel free to visit his web services at http://www.nwcustomwebs.com.

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Last week, I came across a voice chat room, which was full of impressive nicknames. From the beginning, I started to notice an Asian female because of her appealing voice and her interesting way of telling love stories. “It must be a very cute girl”, I thought.

She was a talent storyteller. I kept wondering how she could master almost everything about our male world as if she was a writer of Askmen.com, a men’s online magazine offering advices on dating, secrets of love, relationships and health. Dating tips and sex tips are perfectly transferred to her buddies.

After few minutes of listening to her lessons, I decided to chat with her individually. She was not as shy like a traditional Chinese as I supposed. She said that she lived in Boston and this prompted me to propose a date with her. However, before that, I asked her permission to see her face through the web cam. Black hair, big eyes, and a voluptuous body were what I imagined about her appearance at that moment.

“Why d’ya like to see my web cam?” she asked.
“‘Cause I like to behold a star shining in the sky”
“But I am not so attractive as you are thinking of”, she laughed.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I always believe in my senses which inform me that I’m talking with a beautiful lady”, once again I flirt with her, forgetting that she had just taught others some tips about dating.
“You’d better keep that good image in your mind”, answered she.

Finally, my endless wing words affected her and at the other end of the line, she laughed, approving to show me up. I was too eager to see an expected face.

My eyes were widely open. I could not believe in what I was watching. There was a smiling male face in the webcam. Beyond of my imagination, “she” was a very guy. Though shocked, I tried to think that she was joking. I wondered how a guy could talk in such a sweet voice. Being straight, he told me the truth. That was, he was using a software called Voice changer to disguise his voice.

Before we stopped, he did not forget to remind me not to tell others in the chat room about his identity.

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One of the best parts of a vacation is the positive outlook you derive from pleasant anticipation. Another benefit is the afterglow, allowing you to feel right with the world. A general guideline I have is to live in the present and not yearn too heavily for the past or future; but making brief exceptions for things like vacations can bring some of the benefits of the vacation itself to your daily life. Thinking briefly “Yeah that was great!” or “I am really going to enjoy this trip!” Can add to the lightness of your day, assuming you don’t lean on that as a requirement for your happiness. Going around stressed out and telling yourself “I’ll be happy in 6 weeks when I’m on a beach” really doesn’t help you live lightly in the moment, and may even create pressure for performance on your vacation and disappointment afterward. Instead don’t pack or return with emotional baggage; but view your vacations as an addition to the wonderful existence you are building. Here are some memories from my last trip.

I flew from Dayton to Baltimore with a newer airline. Nice all new jets. Their large overheads made it easy to stow my one big carryon I’m still mystified why it was so heavy. Probably my big socks… Reading Popular Science in-flight I re-visited my teenage fondness for that magazine. Oh how I now yearn for the garage of the future.

In Baltimore I rented a sharp new sedan with a Wall Street Journal on the dash. Nice touch guys but no more reading for me that day! I was on the beach at Ocean City by noon seeing the storks flop dive; watching the children advance toward the water and retreat shrieking with the waves.

I hadn’t been to the beach for a couple years and I noticed one thing was different. Used to be when walking the waterline you would be careful to walk in front of a bent over little boy digging in the beach because odds were sand would be flying out backwards between his legs when you least expected it. Now everybody has their own shovel; and not the little plastic handled ones that come with your beach pail. we’re talking wooden shafts and D grip handles. It’s very important to dig a hole when you arrive at the beach.

One of the arcade places on the boardwalk at Rehoboth beach was called Funland. A sign said “There is no smoking in Funland”. I kept imagining a parallel universe sign…”There is no fun in Smokingland”

The motel in Salisbury was an old 50’s type place. It was actually its last week of operation. The owner was friendly, happy to be retiring, and shared a few stories now and then. Next year a shopping center will be there. The wide-open spaces and driveway lamps in front provided the type stage a mockingbird prefers. One seems to be following me. I would be checking the accuracy of his repeated calls every morning as I packed the car for my day trips.

Saturday I made a big rookie mistake. I had slapped on some sunscreen leaving the car and then wandered around in search of a decent cup of coffee. Looking at the menu board of basic Italian fare I asked the Russian girl behind the counter which item she thought had the best sounding name. I was delighted when she brightened up and without hesitation pronounced slowly and dramatically lengthening the oh sounds of “calzone pepperoni” A little thing like that can put a bounce in my step and make me feel pretty carefree, which is the whole point of the trip. So kicking off my shoes I headed down the beach thinking lunch at the Ocean Club a few miles away would be nice. Later I realized I hadn’t put any sunscreen on my feet.

My feet were fried of course. Out in the sun for most the day, I may as well have put them in a microwave oven for 20 minutes. The slightest brush against them the next day brought searing pain. I picked up a big bottle of Aloe Vera gel and kept slopping it on. They were so swollen if I loosened the laces and left my shoes open they were still tight. Now here is the interesting part…and really let me assure you this didn’t ruin a single day of my vacation…when I stood up there was this explosion of deep pain more severe than anything I’ve ever felt; The kind of thing that tells you to black out, fall to your knees, scream, panic, anything to make it stop. I’m thinking “I know if I sit back down it will feel better but this is the second day of my vacation and I am not going to sit in the motel all day!” Taking a step it felt better in the lifted foot. Putting weight back on it was like I’d just placed the foot under a wheel of a moving truck, so half buckling at the knees with each step I kept moving and the most incredible thing…all pain was gone after 3 or 4 steps! I guess the walking helped pump the blood back out of my already nearly exploding swollen feet.

My choice for the next few days was clear; Keep moving or stay off my feet. I kept moving, walking miles every day. If I stopped walking for even a second the pain bombs would detonate in my feet. So if I was standing in line for food or at a theme park I would appear to be really enjoying the music, bouncing around from foot to foot. At a urinal I probably looked like I really had to go, settling for the medium pain associated with shifting my weight from foot to foot standing there. The right foot was a little worse than the left and by the 3rd day I found I could stand for a half-minute on my left foot if I raised my right leg behind me. The highest absurdity occurred when I found myself balancing on my left foot right leg arched up behind me as I stood over the toilet. I imagined I must look like a clownish roman fountain. I was so focused on pushing the foot pain envelope it didn’t occur to me till then I could sit down. What can I say? We guys are weird.

I took the Lewes / Cape May Ferry north and checked out Wildwood. There was a shooting range amongst the midway type games. The sign said “Wack the Iraq”. Paint ball guns were fired on live targets wearing Saddam and Osama masks. I was so amazed at its existence I had to turn around and look again, stopping later to take a couple pictures. I’m in favor of the war on terror, but that blatant racist targeting was pretty surprising. Just a few steps down the boardwalk and the normalcy of hermit crabs and frozen custard would return. I was walking so much I didn’t worry too much about diet. Ice cream, boardwalk fries, chocolate covered strawberries, and calzOHnee pepperOHnee.

I enjoyed the landscaping at Busch Gardens on a semi rainy day, cooled my jets at the water park of Kings Dominion, and walked around Virginia Beach one evening. The main street there is populated with paid entertainers and a few were pretty good. Still unable to stand still without the kind of pain that would send me to the pavement I circled around the area where a decent jazz trio was playing, enjoying all the sights and sounds.

The 4th of July I spent at Ocean City. “The Navy Cruisers” A group of Navy musicians was performing on the beach and they were sounding pretty good. I walked through the crowd and sat down in the sand right in front of the stage. The Navy concert band followed; real music by real musicians. Anthems can really get to me; make the tears well up. They did some “Guys and Dolls” stuff and “Grease”…but when the lady singer from the Cruisers came out and sang God Bless America it was awesome. Such a strong voice…a crowd behind me on their beach blankets at twilight waiting for the fireworks. A couple kids to my right were lying in their freshly dug holes facing the band in open-mouthed amazement. To my left a Coast guard boat was rocking in the waves just offshore, keeping the pleasure boats safe from the fireworks and protecting the thousands on the beach from who knows what. She hits the peak at the end of the song high and strong with this amazing orchestration being conducted behind her, shouts whistles and applause rising up at the songs apparent end and then the phrase is repeated singing higher clearer and stronger “God Bless America” with the band rising up to the new tonality with the full range of tingling bells, strings, cymbals crashing, all trumpeting, soaring and filling thousands of souls on that beach with the depth of sound. It was beautiful.

The fireworks paled in comparison. Walking away during the beginning I found myself enjoying the way the bombs echoed in a side street. Leaning against a signpost during the finale I still had a pretty good view. A homeless looking gentleman was sitting motionless on the ground nearby. Next to me a teenage boy relaxed on his bicycle. The fireworks finale was a satisfying 5 minutes of constant multiple explosions. After a few seconds of silence following the last barrage the homeless man looked up at me and the kid on the bike, laughing maniacally. The distant cheers rising from the beach mixed with the chorus of car alarms triggered by the bombs. Everyone loves a spectacle. I smiled and walked a couple miles back to my car enjoying such spectacles as the too drunk to walk man and the amazing lady who walked almost as fast as I did…I complimented on her on her speediness.

Now if I had oversold the vacation in my anticipation the sunburn might have made me miserable. And I’d still be whining instead of looking back with amusement. But I was able to roll with it and have one of my better vacations ever. Mainly it was sand sun and waves leaving me fully recharged. I don’t have to do it again to be happy…but I probably will.

A garden center manager, writer, musician and webmaster; Lee Goins is often called on as an expert in landscaping and gardening. Residents of Shelby County Ohio have been bringing him pieces of trees, moldy leaves, and jars of bugs for 8 years in spite of the well publicized knowledge he prefers chocolate. His gardening help has been featured on TV, Radio, Newspapers and websites like http://www.shelbylandscaping.com

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We all want attention. As children we crave the attention of our parents. Later in life, we want to be seen and noticed by friends and family. And when running most any type of business, we must attract the attention of our potential customers.

But how do you get somebody’s undivided attention? When you were an infant, you got attention by screaming and crying. Then your parents knew you needed your diapers changed. As an adult, you can try using the same method to get noticed. Sure, you will get noticed - but in a negative way!

On the Internet, every website that is selling something has the need to be attention-grabbing within seconds; to make the visitors read about their offer rather than just clicking away. Some are then tempted to use the infant method of getting attention: screaming and yelling.

Popup-windows that pop up in your face and obscure the page text you’re just trying to read, is one example. Flash-generated intro’s that stop you in your tracks and say “Heeey, wait - before you read about our products I’ve got this f-a-n-t-a-s-t-i-c visual effect to show you…!” is another example of attention-grabbing contraptions that actually defeat their own purpose. They visually yell and scream at you, and draw your attention to the fact that you’d better spend your precious time somewhere else.

Then there is the type of web page that plays some sound effect the moment you arrive. Either it is a piece of music (always just the kind you hate!) or a recorded sales pitch.

Oh yes, then there is the Blinking Text… which blinks at frantic pace, just right to trigger an epileptic seizure.

One of my websites is called “The Hosting Finder”. Primarily, it offers some reviews of carefully selected web hosting companies. I am not selling anything on this website, and so I do not feel it would be appropriate to use a hard-selling jargon in my introductory headline. Right now, it reads:

“Finding a Web Hosting Provider That Will Take Good Care of Your Precious Web
Pages … Can Be Confusing“

(I then explain how I researched the web to find good hosting services based on un-biased customer ratings rather than hype.)

Recently, a marketing consultant offered to look at this website and give me some feedback at no cost. I accepted, and after checking my landing page he declared the headline to be “generic and bland”. Instead, he suggested the following:

“Want An Objective ‘Client Feedback’ Guide To Help You Find A 100% Trustworthy, Inexpensive, And Complete Web Hosting Service Provider (Based On Survey Results, Not Marketing Propaganda) — With All The Options You Need To Run Your Web Site Smoothly And Successfully?

Avoid The Hosting Nightmare Of Trying To Keep Your Site Live And Running Smoothly… Stop Wasting Time And Money In Costly Bad Service“

In my reply, I thanked him for his trouble. I also pointed out that this flood of words might not be the optimal way of building confidence in my integrity as the provider of impartial reviews on web hosting.

Maybe I am wrong, who knows. Perhaps I should start yelling and screaming just like everybody else? But I just don’t like the idea of doing that. I’d rather hypnotize people into reading my texts. Some marketing gurus advocate this approach. Here are a few examples of how you’re supposed to hypnotize people:

1. As you keep reading this ad copy, you are feeling more and more compelled to experience all the benefits of our product.

3. After you read this short ad you will feel like your problems are almost completely solved, all you will have to do is order.

Well, don’t you feel compelled to reach for your wallet right now?! These examples are not intended as a joke; they are seriously trying to persuade people. And maybe they are, although I personally find them more amusing than hypnotizing. - I’ll make a pause here; I just feel I have to go out and buy something!

OK, I am back. Time to finish this little essay on how to get attention. Oh, you have read this far? So I have managed to keep your attention then! I did it by … no, I won’t give my secret away. You’ll have to read my Special Report, which I’m selling for ONLY $97. But hurry, this exclusive limited special offer is expiring, and will always expire, at midnight; whatever day you happen to read this!

Kai Virihaur is a researcher, web developer, and artist. He runs The Hosting Finder ( http://www.thehostingfinder.com ), a web hosting directory
featuring articles and RSS feeds on web development, website promotion, and online marketing.

The article may be used freely as long as this resource box, with intact hyperlink, is included.

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Well it looks as if Al Gore is warning all of us about global warming. And it looks as if he is promoting his new movie of the same time? Must be convenient to get free advertising like that. If Al Gore wants to be in the White House and he wants to clean up the globe and all the oceans of the world maybe he needs to start a little smaller.

Maybe he can become the White House janitor in clean all the toilets. We already know he has a security clearance and he has a few Secret Service people who are watching out for him as well. I believe Al Gore could clean up the world but I’d like to see some of his work first, show us these talents and therefore I’d like to see if he can also clean the journals on Capitol Hill and toilets in the White House.

I understand some of his Democratic friends wanted to put more Johns in the White House, but John Edwards and John Kerry were not elected. Perhaps all of them could form the White House janitorial crew and clean all the toilets. John Edwards could file class-action lawsuits with anybody in the White House who left to big of a turd. Of course John Kerry would probably find a lobbyist to do all his dirty work for him.

You know those lobbyist will bend over backward to do just about anything in Washington D.C. including both clean out a little crap and removing other crap, which is in their way. Let us get Al Gore to commit to cleaning up the world one toilet at a time. Consider this in 2006.

“Lance Winslow” - Online Think Tank forum board. If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; http://www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs/

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Although it may have been superceeded in recent years by more flashy forms of sporting entertainment such as football, basketball and international paint drying, the sport which I hold closest to my heart is one which has never truly been forgotten.

And although it may have faded somewhat since the glorious heyday of it’s most famous competitors, International Championship Sleeping is still a surprisingly popular event in many countries.

Invented in 1736 by the Earl of Snooze and quickly adopted throughout the fledgling British Empire, competitive sleeping was soon picked up as a popular hobby by many simply because of it’s universal nature. Indeed, throughout the 19th century, unlicensed sleeping matches took place throughout the slums of London’s East End, resulting in many arrests and a great deal more snoring fines.

It is a sport, also, that is not without it’s legends. In 1901, Charles “Snoozy” Truscott took the first officially recognised sleeping title off of Timothy Bleary. This was, of course, in the days of bare-knuckle sleeping before today’s modern safety measures had been put into practise.

In thirties America, black snoozemen like “Sleepy” Joe Gainesville and “Walking” Jack Somnus became pioneers and minor celebrities in the then-segregated Negro sleeping leagues.

(Many years later, of course, it would be revealed that “Walking” Jack Somnus’ legendary somnambulism was all and act and that he’d actually just been going about his day to day tasks with his eyes mostly closed. He was stripped of his titles by the W.S.F and died in shame in 1986.)

Sleeping is also not without it’s celebrity fans. Sure, Jack Nicholson may be a basketball fanatic and Kevin Costner has his baseball, but did you know that Gerald Ford was asleep for his entire term in office, from 1974-1977, only to finally awake triumphantly in the mid nineties?

Attempts to coerce George W. Bush into repeating this feat have, sadly, fallen short.

Of course, as with many modern sports, professional training, big name sponsorship and the hyper-competitive way of the modern world have, unavoidably, altered the modern game. Whereas in the golden era of sleeping, Babe “In the wood” Rutherford wowed fans by pointing sagely to his bed and promptly falling asleep in it for 72 years and nine months, modern super-sleepers have raised the bar to almost superhuman feats. The current world sleeping record holder, Tommy “The Doormat” King, has been asleep since four months before he was born, and turns a hundred and two next year.

Illness has also begun to dog the “World’s Favourite Sport”, as many recent scholars call into question the achievements of some of the more legendary sleepers, pointing out that, in all likelihood, it was not competitive and there was something deeply wrong with them. Many have argued, for example, that “Stumbles” McGee, the light-napping champion from 1916-1922, was in fact just an unfortunate narcoleptic, given to shouting “where am I?!” and “Who are you?!” at waiting reporters who often gathered to watch his lightning-quick changes from sleep to wakefulness and then back to the land of nod. It was, at the time, assumed that McGee was simply showboating for the crowd, but his tragic suicide whilst suffering from what were diagnosed as paranoid delusions of persecution left many unanswered questions which science is only now shedding light on.

Inevitably, drugs, too, have blighted modern sleeping, as they have so many sports. Who can forget then 1992 Barcelona Olympics when female sleeping hopeful Tong Bak Yong was caught at customs with 400 bottles of NightNurse and a syringe full of Red Bull for later? Truly a dark day for sport.

Still, International Sleeping is still with us, and many see a bright future, and a look at the current league table only goes to show why, with George Morning, Pete Noonan, and John Nyttol all poised for a blistering 2006, fighting for the World #2 spot, left open by his Holiness, the late John Paul II. I’ll keep you posted.

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My son’s birthday is coming up in a month or so. If you have a kid, there is a propensity to fondly recall the whole birthing experience as the special day draws near each year. When they hit milestonesmy son is turning twenty onethe thoughts are even more profound. I suppose at this point I could go on and on about his birth; the stirrup being shot across the room; my mistaking it for my son; the three nurses wrestling mom’s flailing leg back into its place as if they were grappling a crocodile into a sack; my son peeing like a loose garden hose over the delivery room doctor and staff. There’s more but hey, we all have our self-important stories that do little more than engross those involved and bore all others to tears.

However, in my case, it is not the birth I remember most. It might be the fondest memory but not the ‘mostest’. What I recollect the most is that I was fortunate enough to even be alive to take an active part in the whole birth ordeal. You see, there was ample reason for me to be dead. No, not from some kind of life threatening disease or terrible car accident. I was lucky to be alive because I wasn’t murdered a few weeks before the blessed day.

Have you ever said something kind of nasty about someone behind his or her back only to discover he or she is standing right behind your back? You know that feeling? How you kind of want to crawl away after that initial knot of dread subsides from the pit of your stomach. Well, I committed such an indiscretion except only a hundred times worse. I did something so wrong that my heart still palpitates like a Buddy Rich drum solo every time I replay a second of it in my head. As a matter of fact, it’s happening right now as I type.

The atrocity occurred about four weeks before the delivery, which was several weeks earlier than expected. So let’s set the clock at seven and half months pregnant. It was a pleasantly warm early April afternoon. Birds were chirping. Flowers were springing. Children were giggling as they skipped to and fro. All was as nicey nice as could be. With joy in the air and anticipation bursting, we decided to go to the mall to do a little diversionary shopping. Eventually, we meandered our way to the earrings glass case at Bloomingdales.

It all happened quite unexpectedly and quite quickly.

I was distracted a moment while she engaged the salesperson in a conversation about a particular set of gold hoop earrings under the case. I remember picking up on an ominous silence to the recognizable cadence of their background conversation; similar to elevator music suddenly stopping. When I turned my attention back to her, she was bent over the jewelry case, her head to the side pressed against the glass, eyes dull, glasses crooked. She formed a perfect L if you discount the bulging baby. Her breath gently pulsed a silhouette of life against the cool glass. The salesperson was crouching down to make contact with her.

At that instant, the stars and planets of male intellect were all lined up. It was time for me to execute the perfect ‘jackass of the century’ maneuver.

I looked down at her. Assured by her visible breath she was alive, I performed a reflex visual sweep of the growing number of onlookers. Having confirmed she was drawing attention, I returned my concentration back to her. With an indignant tone in my voice, bordering on a Rodney Dangerfield punch-line delivery, I callously spoke a bunch of words that would forever be regretted.

“Honey? What are ya doin’?” Pregnant pause, so to speak. “You’re embarrassing me.”

Oh yeah! You heard it right. That’s what I said.

Take a second or two to mull it over. Chew on the entire morsel for a bit. Taste the sour residue it leaves on the tongue.

As my words dissipated over the gaping mouths and popping eyes of those nearby, the salesperson looked at me as if I had just spit on her counter. In a way, I had done far worse.

I looked at the salesperson incredulously, “What?”

It snapped her out of it.

“Ma’am you need a chair?”

She yelled across the counter top to a salesperson on the floor. “Sylvia! Get this woman a chair! NOW!”

“Would you like a glass of water?” she asked the fading pregnant stranger spread across her counter.

To my credit, it had only been seconds since I uttered the sentence heard round the mall and I already knew I had done something really wrong; something severely punishable in most civilized circles. I reached over to put my arm around her and comfort her while Sylvia pushed a chair against her legs, being sure not to touch me in the process for fear of feeling Satan’s reach.

Pale and faint, she incoherently mumbled, “doh … na … ta … meh … yeh … basser”.

“What honey? Here sit down. That’s better. What are you trying to tell me dear?”

“DON’T TOUCH ME YOU BASTARD!!!”

I recoiled back and looked at the salesperson in disbelief.

“And don’t touch me either! In fact, I recommend that you just shut your big mouth up now before you kill this poor woman,” she abruptly added, her eyes dilated in disbelief.

I decided it would be wise to heed her advice.

After receiving a rather robust and ribald tongue lashing all the way home in the car that continued up the stairs and into our second floor apartment, I was immediately sentenced to nine days of the silent treatmentreal silent I might add, she was a professional. It deserved me right! Needless to say, I remained on best behavior for about twenty three months. By then her pain was pretty much over with, except for some residual humiliation I endured after public appearances I made during my confession tour; an idea I actually came up with as a way to channel the negative vibes into positive energyor something like that.

The occasional public shame though was small potatoes compared to what could have transpired. The reality is if she had a gun on her person at the time, I’d be history. If the salesperson had a gun, I’d be history. If anyone had a gun within a square mile, I’d be history. But my life was spared so that I might live to talk about it with you today.

So there you have it. An amazing story huh?

That is what I think about every time my son’s birthday arrives; a haunting memory of a moment’s indulgence in self absorption so inappropriate and so vile, it makes me wonder if I can ever fully rejoin the human race.

In closing …

I’ve been sorry about a boat load of things in my life but never more fully or sincerely as I was after that episode of unexplainable senselessness. It was all my own doing too. Couldn’t blame it on a bad day at work. Couldn’t blame it on the media. Couldn’t blame it on the weather. Couldn’t even blame it on my mom wooden spooning my sorry childhood ass. It’s one hundred percent owned by me.

And I’m just as sorry today as I was twenty one years ago! The truth is my remorse is greater, almost universal. In fact, I want to apologize to all women of all living species who were pregnant, are pregnant, trying to become pregnant, thinking about becoming pregnant, or just learning to spell ‘pregnant’. I am very sorry for the monumental insensitivity I exhibited that day at the expense of one of your sisters.

As for you men out there who plan to play a supportive role in the whole pregnancy thing some day.

Listen up!

Learn from my folly. Teach others so they may not walk in my steps. Let’s end male stupidity together.

This article was written by humorist Robert Crane. He has plenty more stories about his addiction to stupidity. Please visit his popular website for more the same;

http://www.cranelegs.com

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