April 9th, 2010 by kruzman
We’ve all been there. You round the corner to your desk ready to start the day’s work when you are suddenly accosted by the familiar stench of a co-worker’s bad breath.
“Here we go again…”, you think. “Another ‘H’-filled tirade that won’t ever permeate my ears because I’m too busy trying to keep it from permeating my nose.”
“So anywahhhhy,” continues your co-worker, “Hhhhank Hhhhenshhhhaaw from Hhhhuman Reshhhhourcess told me ouhhhhhr 401k plahhhhn is an outstahhhhnding invehhhhhstment optiohhhhhn…”
Somehow, we’d like to think that our forced smile and wilting eyelashes might tell the offending party that there’s something less than stellar about the way they are coming across. Unfortunately, that’s simply wishful thinking. The problem is that no one knows they have a problem. We seem to be immune to our own stench, and unlike Willy Nelson’s muse, it’s never on our minds.
So how do you tell someone that their breathe is causing you to have a problem differentiating their head from their derriere? Sure, if it’s someone you know and are comfortable with, you can try honesty. Still, even honesty has it’s own set of problems. Do you play it off like it’s a one-time occurrence you just noticed and hope that mentioning it takes care of the situation for good? Do you sit them down and have a serious discussion which could ultimately embarrass them or make you look like the bad person? How will they react to either scenario? You’d want to be told if you had bad breath, wouldn’t you? Would you feel comfortable being told by this person that you have bad breath? Do you really know them well enough to be discussing this situation with them?
These are all important questions whose answers will vary with each unique situation. Still, there are some things you can avoid saying that are universal across all situations. I have taken the liberty of listing a few of them below. Remember, honesty is the best policy, but brutal honesty is often unnecessary.
# 1 Gee, is that your breath or did I blow my nose right after wiping my you know what?
# 2 And now here’s me with the weather: Thanks, me! Well it looks like there’s a stank front moving due east from wherever your mouth happens to be. We’re looking at a 100% chance of Halitosis throughout the rest of your life. Sports is next followed by today’s lottery numbers. Stay Tuned!
# 3 I don’t mean to be rude but your horrible breath is melting my face. To have to stand here and listen to you is agonizingly painful. Hey, you ever see that “Alien” movie where the alien is breathing in Sigourney Weaver’s face and she just cringes because the thing is so scary and because it’s saliva is an acid that can eat through metal? This is a lot like that because even though your saliva won’t eat through metal, I’m fairly certain your mouth-stench will and that is scaring the crap outta me, my friend. Again, I don’t mean to be rude…
So you see, dear reader, one must choose carefully when approaching a subject this sensitive. Perhaps honesty is not always the best policy. Better yet, why not just leave an anonymous note…and a breath mint.
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December 19th, 2009 by kruzman
Since the 1950s, when little although fast players had an opportunity of making it onto a professional court – such as the legendary Bob Cousy of the Boston Celtics, known for startling innovations such as dribbling and passing behind the back – the game has been dominated by ever taller athletes, starting with the arrival of Wilt, The Stilt, Chamberlain.
Today, The National Basketball Association has come to realize that the trend to tall has demoralized people of which fall within the standard array of human height and that it has positively devastated little persons.
Compared to the slam- dunking ways of the seven footers, these distressed athletes simply can’t get people interested in watching them hoop it up. Consequently, interest in the game as a participation activity has waned, and the association is concerned that, as less persons run up their excitement about playing it, fewer of them will pay to see it.
In an attempt to turn back basketball to the generally poplar place it held in the minds and hearts of the US public before it became the exclusive province of players whose moms might be suspected of stretching them as babies, the association is considering legitimizing a court simply for individuals of common height, with a special accommodation for shorter individuals. The basic plan calls for the basket to be lowered by one foot for players from 5’ 6” to 6’ 6” as well as two feet for people who are actually shorter but still picture slam- dunking the ball in addition to dangling from the hoop in a celebratory fashion.
When the new guidelines go into effect, virtually everyone can eventually be able to enjoy the game in as dramatic a style as today’s seven footers.
For now the strategy calls for limiting the innovation to beginner players, but the association confides that if fans once again take an interest in viewing common- dimension persons play the game, there is the potential to establish an entire brand new league, made up of speed merchants that may be merely eye- high to a present pro’s elbows.
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September 19th, 2009 by kruzman
People lie! They lie about the bliss of rural relocation. They lie about the size of fish they catch. They lie about being there for you. But, mostly, they lie about bats! Such a silly thing, yet no one can admit the ugly truth. “Bats only come into your house. It never happens to me,” friends say. Liars! Here is a story by John that shows how funny a serious situation can be. I wrote his tory in the first person to bring his story alive!
Evidence to the contrary exists. Bat visitations have occurred regularly in all three of my country homes. Each was a different style house, in a different town with different surroundings. No way am I the only person this is happening to! I’ll believe the annual summer bat inundation isn’t a part of normal life when butter is fat free and Smucky’s Electric gets back to me with that wiring estimate they promised just prior to the Mammoth die off.
One of my sisters in particular gets a kick out of telling people I am a witch attracting bats to my home like anorexics migrating to the Cannes Film Festival. She does it to be ornery – a competitive sport in my family. Of course, I could get even by pointing out right here in my very public essay that she is my OLDER sister by a DECADE. However, I am too peaceable and well centered for such adolescent behavior. Besides, you are here to learn another fine country skill – the Bat Ejection Technique (BET).
Lesson 1 – Why BET
Rural dwellers should all master BETs. Realtors will never admit to the Coloptera inundation plaguing the West. Property values would tumble! Amidst all this denial, a seamy cover-up has formed. Copies of Bat Removal for Dummies are burned at country BBQs and members of the Society of the Dead Elk deliver bat traps to farms under cover of darkness.
As my town’s resident City Idiot, I chose to break ranks. If Cidiots are not taught to deal properly with winged rodentia, both will suffer. Bats will be ‘baseballed’ into walls with brooms. If not, Cidiot homes will overflow with wiggling blankets of screeching critters. Folks will be driven back to the burbs in droves. Quite selfishly – I need newbies to stay in the country. Please don’t leave me alone out here! Take notes.
Lesson 2 – History of the BET
For whatever reasons bats enter homes in pairs. My hypothesis is; one holds the dog door open while the other flies through and vise versa. Attempts to document this behavior have been hampered by the presence of innumerable dogs kissing my eyes shut when I stake out the laundry room floor. Nonetheless, like bats to Noah’s ark, they arrive by twos.
Throughout history Novice Bat Ejectors dispelled unwanted intruders with the pacifistic Zero Interference Technique (ZIT). For a true ZIT open all windows and doors and cower on the floor waiting for the bats to fly back out. I researched the effectiveness of this method at my first country home. There are three problems with this technique:
Bats never leave as easily as they enter. A person could learn Arabic before the ZIT clears matters up.
Heat leaves houses quite quickly resulting in cold ZITs.
Bats tend to turn up in the middle of the night. Sleep deprivation is a direct side effect of ZITs.
Lesson 3 – Modernization
Athletic newbies frequently combine the open window/door approach of a ZIT with a more proactive approach. They jump around with a blanket in an attempt to herd bats outside. This is the Comforter Herding Ejection Technique (CHET). A good CHET take two people. Even then CHETs are hard.
Bats do not know they shouldn’t fly around the blanket.
The technique is rendered totally ineffective when your husband, who is suppose to hold the opposite side of the blanket, does a “stop, drop and roll” every time he spots a bat from thirty yards away.
At night neighbors can see you, but not the bat. So there you are running amuck in your PJs. The doors and windows are wide open as you spiraling over furniture with your flag-like fabric in tow. Meanwhile your underwear-clad man is having what is apparently some version of repeating epileptic seizures. And you, you cold-hearted bitch, you just keep on dancing.
Lesson 4 – BET Evolution
Bat invasion number three of year number two was a turning point for me. For some bizarre reason I was washing the morning dishes. We must have been out of coffee. Obviously I was not quick-witted enough to get out of dish duty. Suddenly, I heard the high-pitched chatter of a bat straight over my head.
The space over my cabinets is where all my gigantic jelly-making kettles are poised. Grabbing the step stool, I hovered near and listened. Something was in my stoneware – dark, like a cave, the crafty little bugger. Please, don’t let it get airborne. I have to go to town this morning, I thought. There was no time for the traditional CHET dance.
My cerebral light bulb clicked on. Hey, It’s easier to catch bats when they aren’t moving. A Nobel Prize for would be mine. Apparently washing dishes has some net value after all. I slid a plate over the stoneware rim and took my captive out side.
Plate removed, an upside-down shake and plop. The bat was on the ground. I watched for a moment making sure my son’s devil cat did not turn up. Finally, the bat orientated itself and flew off with chatter. Dam, I’m good, I mused. Then I turned and took two steps towards the door. Gasp! Leap! Curse!
Something bad hit my bare foot. Reflexes took over. I went for a field goal. Another bat had been in the jar. Curse! Hebbie Jebies! Will I never learn? Twos, always twos! Scratches, tiny claws on my foot – it was all to early. First dishes, then this.
The traumatized bat landed several feet away. It took a good five minutes before the winged menace recovered enough to fly off. Headed for town, I left a note for my son. “Finish the dishes.”
Lesson 5 – BET Mastery
I learned two things that morning. First, generic dish soap sucks. Second, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. Chasing them in flight is a fool’s game. In retrospect Samuel, my Great Pyrenees, had attempted to point this out earlier that spring.
Hearing one of the midnight riots, I ordered all my dogs out. There was no need to look for the cause. I knew by then what the combination of barking and a synchronized chase meant at 1 a.m. Ho hum, more bats in the house. The other dogs complied. Sam however stood there looking sleepy, stubborn, sad and guilty.
Anyone who owns a Pyrenees knows this is their natural state. Just as I demanded, “Samuel, go!” I spotted the diminutive little wing sticking out from under his massive front paw. Here Mom, a motionless bat is the best bat to catch. He is a genius!
BET Summary
Grab a teacup or the aquarium net and a saucer
Wait for a landing
Cup/net over the Bat
Saucer or magazine carefully slid under
Out the door it goes
Hee Haw! With practice you’ll be back in bed before the underwear-clad epileptic knows your gone. You can BET on it.
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August 23rd, 2009 by kruzman
A frantic businessman rushed into the emergency room, threw his attaché case on the reception desk, and exclaimed, “Nurse, I need help!”
The noise woke her up, and she said, “What?”
“This is an emergency!” he said.
“You’ll have to take your place in line,” she informed him.
“What line?” he replied, looking around. “The place is empty.”
“Oh,” she admitted, and held out her hand. “Can I have your insurance card?”
“Sure,” he said, “what’s that?”
“Proof that you have health insurance.”
“Oh, proof,” he said.
Just then a door flew open and a man was wheeled across the room on a table, accompanied by a doctor with a notepad.
“Relax,” the doctor told him. “It’s only a heart attack.”
“But I need help, now, or I could die,” the man informed him.
“Don’t be silly,” the doctor replied. “I already gave you aspirin. That increases survival rate by an average of 33.3%. Now, I have to ask you some questions. Up to four blood vessels in your heart may need replacement.”
“So?”
“Your insurance only covers two. I need your permission to do the others.”
“OK, OK!” the man consented.
“Good,” the doctor acknowledged. “Now, would you like anesthesia?”
“Of course,” the patient said.
“Excellent,” the surgeon went on. “Your policy is vague on that. Now, when I’m done with the bypass, would you like me to sew you back up?”
“What!?” the patient needed to know.
“Your insurance only covers the incision,” the doctor informed him.
At that point, the patient was wheeled off through the other door.
The businessman turned his attention back to the night nurse. “Nurse! I can’t wait all day. I have appointments to keep!”
“Maybe you should come back later,” she let him know.
“I would, if I could,” he told her. “But that’s my problem. I can’t remember what my appointments are.”
“Why not?”
“It’s terrible, just terrible,” he nearly cried. “I lost my memory!”
“Oh,” she noted, and handed him a form on a clipboard. “First, you have to fill this out.”
He looked it over, and said, “I’m in deep trouble.”
“Is there a problem?” the nurse asked.
“You want to know things like my name, my address, and my phone number! How can I tell you stuff like that when I lost my memory?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Everyone has to fill one of these out. If you can’t do it yourself, you’ll have to have a family member or friend do it for you.”
“But, nurse,” he explained, “if I could remember who my family and friends are, I’d still have my memory.”
“I’m sorry,” she insisted, “rules are rules.”
Just then a cute young wife hurried in, pulling her husband along. He seemed to be in pain and held a small paper bag.
“Excuse me,” she told the businessman, and addressed the nurse. “This is an emergency!”
“Oh,” the nurse said.
“We have to see a doctor right away,” the man added through his apparent agony.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” the nurse responded.
“I don’t have a minute!” the man replied.
“We have to see a doctor now!” the wife told her.
“Everybody does,” the businessman observed, obviously getting into the swing of things. Then, as if to himself, he lamented, “Oh, I used to have such a great memory! I mean, I could never recite The Iliad or anything like that. But, as least, I could remember my name and address!”
“You don’t understand, nurse,” the wife pressed on. “There’s not a second to spare!”
“What’s seems to be the problem?” the nurse asked.
“We had an argument,” the man sighed, and nearly fainted.
“I love him,” the wife said. “You have to believe I love him. And I’m sorry. But–“
“– What?” asked the nurse.
The man pointed to the bag, and said, “She cut off my navel.”
“Your navel?” the nurse inquired, and turned to the wife. “Why that part?”
“She said, ‘I wish you were never born,’” the husband told her. “Then she whacked it off.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” his wife said, consoling him with a pat or two.
“I need somebody to sew it back on before it’s too late,” the man said.
The nurse gave his wife a clipboard with a form on it. “Fill out this paper and have a seat.”
“We don’t have time for that!” she screeched.
“My navel is dying, dying with every passing moment!” the man wailed.
“And how would you like to be married to a man without a navel?” the wife begged to know.
“A doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse replied.
“Come on, darling. I’ll fill it out,” the wife said, leading her husband by his free hand.
They took a seat, and, dutiful wife that she was, she began to fill in the information.
The businessman observed them with an increasingly crazed expression, and told himself, “I’ve got to remember something, anything, even if it’s just something general. Plato said something. I know he did. Ah, that’s it! ‘You become what you do.’ Hey, maybe I’m a classical scholar. No, no – I have too many appointments for that. Maybe I’m a philosophy major who went into business. Oh, I don’t know, I just don’t know!” he admitted, and turned to the nurse. “I have to see a doctor, now!”
“Is your form filled out?”
“Here,” he said, and handed it to her.
“It’s blank,” she informed him.
“That’s the point!” he shouted. “It’s blank, I’m blank! Get it! I lost my memory.”
“Don’t you have a wallet?”
“Why?”
“You must have some I. D. in it,” she explained.
“Hey, why didn’t I think of that?” he said, and took out his wallet.
At that moment, an intern who seemed not to have anything to do for a split second, entered the waiting area. “Who’s next?” he dared to ask the nurse.
The businessman held up his wallet and was about to speak, when the wife rushed up with her pained husband in tow, hand with clipboard extended.
“We are! We are, doctor!” she claimed.
“She cut off my navel,” the man told the doctor, in an effort to claim precedence.
“Your navel?” the doctor asked, and said, “That’s really serious.” Then he turned to the nurse, “But who’s next?”
The nurse pointed to the businessman. “But he hasn’t filled out his form yet.”
“That’s all right,” the doctor said, and turned to him. “You can finish it while we’re talking.”
Feeling a pang of fellow feeling, the businessman replied, “No, no, doctor – I can wait. I only lost my memory. On the other hand, he–“
“– lost my navel,” the husband interrupted.
“All right,” the doctor conceded, turning to the husband and wife. “Come with me.”
“Oh, thank you!” the wife told the businessman.
“Now, tell me,” the doctor asked the husband, as the couple followed him, “how did you lose your navel?”
“She cut it off,” the husband groaned.
“Family spat?” the doctor queried.
“You could say that,” the man answered.
“I said I’m sorry, didn’t I?” the wife retold him.
When they had disappeared behind the swinging door, the businessman began to fill out his form, referring to the cards he felt fortunate to find in his wallet. “Name, address,” he mumbled to himself. “It must be me because it’s my wallet. But what about my appointments? And my wife’s name, if I have a wife? I can’t go home without knowing that!”
As he toiled, another intern entered.
“Next,” the nurse said, pointing at the businessman.
“Oh, thank you,” he told her.
“What seems to be the problem?” the intern asked.
“I lost my memory.”
“Sorry about that,” the intern said. “How did it happen – a traumatic emotional event, a knock in the head, something you ate?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” the businessman said, taking his PDA out of his attaché case. “You see, I keep everything in my electronic organizer. At first, it was a convenience. Then, over time, I became dependent on it. My own memory withered from disuse. Finally, I couldn’t remember anything without it. Nothing. Zip. Then today, it happened.”
“What?” the doctor asked.
“The worst possible thing. The battery died.”
“Oh, my,” the doctor admitted. “That’s serious. I better take notes.”
He removed a PDA from his pocket and motioned for the businessman to follow him.
As they walked toward the swinging door, he asked, “Now, tell me, when did you first notice the problem?”
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