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Animal Interspecies Dating: Sin or Civil Right?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
Just when we thought we would get a much-needed rest from moral politics, a new emotion-charged controversy has reached a fevered pitch in Provo, Utah.
According to a recent story in the Associated Press, it started when Utah resident Susan Sewell tried to adopt a kitten from the Utah County Animal Shelter. That's when they learned that Provo law prohibits a dog and a cat are not allowed to live in the same house. It's possible for two dogs or two cats to share a residence, but that's as far as the law will go. And it's raised the hackles of some Provo residents.
"This really has my back up! It's an invasion of our privacy, pure and simple," said pro-interspecies supporter Mabel Hutchinson. "Since when can the government start legislating morality for its citizens?"
Hutchinson, who has secretly owned a cat and dog for four years, shares the sentiments of many Provosians: that the city government needs to stay out of the sleeping rooms and dog houses of its citizens.
But there are two sides to every controversy, and this one is no exception.
"We're not going to let the actions of a few activist animal control officers dictate the acceptability of a such a heinous practice. The Bible is very clear on this," said Reverend Horton Jacobs, a vocal opponent of interspecies cohabitation. He has been an outspoken supporter for the city law, and has given countless sermons against the "evils of interspecies intimacy."
Gregory Polenska, president of Provosians for Animal Values (PAV), echoed Jacobs' philosophy: "We don't see why dogs and cats should be given special treatment or treated differently. And allowing this vile cohabitation is just one more item on the anti-values agenda, along with shared benefits, like shared veterinary insurance. Pretty soon they'll begin promoting this kind of behavior in the pet stores, recruiting puppies and kittens to their perverted ways."
Jacobs and Polenska joined hundreds of other pro-separation protestors outside Provo City Hall this past week. For six hours, they marched, carried signs, and chanted "God made Snowball and Fluffy, not Snowball and Scruffy."
But the pro-interspecies activists have not been silent. They held a counter-protest just a mile away, at the Provo Animal Shelter.
"It's species-phobia!" said Irene Morris, president of AIRS, Animal Interspecies Relationship Supporters. "Those anti-rights zealots need to quit sniffing around our private business. If two consenting grown animals want to live in the same house, it's no concern of theirs."
Morris and 300 other protestors then marched to City Hall, walking mixed breed couples on leashes, and chanting: "We're fixed! We're mixed! Get used to it!"
"This isn't just a question of whether two animals from different species can live together. It's much deeper than that," said Mabel Hutchinson, holding her dog Sebastian and cat Clover on a shared leash. "It's a matter of whether an animal can choose who he or she is going to share its life with. And no government should make that decision for them."
The Provo City Council has agreed to vote on the law, but neither side shows any signs of quitting when it's over.
PAV has already retained a local law firm, Alonzo, Macavity & Gus and have begun taking the necessary steps to file an injunction and an appeal to the Utah State Supreme Court if the vote does not go their way.
"I know this isn't a popular point of view among many Provosians," said Polenska. "But we're fighting for our moral values. And we'll use any means we can to make sure our way of life is protected from those who would seek to corrupt it."
The pro-interspecies supporters won't be caught by surprise either. Not only have they recruited their own law firm, Turpin, Lovett, & Todd, but plans are already underway for a Million Paw March in Salt Lake City next month.
Organizers originally had some difficulty obtaining a permit to have that many dogs and cats in a single location, but after contracting with a street cleaning crew and a promise to "bag any accidents," Salt Lake City officials finally agreed.
"When we explained that it was a million paw march, which only meant we were going to have a little over 250,000 animals – a lot of people out here own three-legged dogs – the officials were a little more agreeable. They were originally worried we were talking about a million animals," said March organizer Paul Zielinski
"We'll either be celebrating or protesting, depending on how the vote goes," said Irene Morris.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 2nd, 2004)
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Shopping Daycare for Guys
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
You know, sometimes you just have to envy England. Not only are they famous for their warm, sunny climate -- oh wait, sorry. . . Not only are they renowned for their superb gourmet food like black pudding or -- um, sorry. Let me try again. . . Not only are they known for their exciting spectator sports like Cricket and Lawn Bowling -- dangit!
Okay, here it is. England is known for its shopping. That's all, just shopping (and the Queen). Anyone who knows anything about English retail knows that Harrod's is the best place to shop.
Harrod's is a huge world famous department store on Brompton Road in London, and it's known for its quality and selection. Think of Neiman-Marcus but without all the pretentious snottiness -- crap!. . .
So Harrod's management was probably a little disappointed to find out that competing store Marks and Spencer has finally figured out a way to get men to willingly come into their stores.
According to a story in The (Glasgow) Herald, the department store chain unveiled new playpens -- also called a creche, which is British for "playpen" -- for men in six of its stores in England, Scotland, and Wales. The creches are designed to entertain men while their wives and girlfriends spend the day shopping.
They have electric slot-car racing track, remote control bikes, and walkie-talkies. They also have sofas and televisions with videos like "The Best of Monty Python" and "Football's Greatest Ever Matches." However, "football" is really soccer, not American football. But you take what you can get.
There were a few important items missing, like me, for instance. I could easily spend hours in a place like this, while my wife battles the rampaging hordes of shoppers. When we go shopping, we usually split up and I spend most of my time at the bookstore. However, as nice as bookstores are, they just don't have electric slot-car racing or sofas and sofas. At least not the ones I visit.
We need these shopping daycare rooms for men -- Guys actually -- in this country. And we need to add a few things to make it complete. So if I am ever asked to design a men's creche (pronounced kresh), there are a few crucial items that I would add.
Beer - Not just any old beer though. My rule is that if it appears on the sides of race cars, has the word "Lite" in it, or is enjoyed in large quantities by people named "Billy Ray," I don't drink it. I want hearty, manly beers with flavor. Hearty, manly flavor. Some Guy wannabes think that drinking beer that rhymes with Spud or Swiller Lite makes them manly.
That is wrong. Drinking beer that is thick, heavy, and takes longer than a bottle of ketchup to pour is manly. Drinking watered-down water is not manly. So, my shopping creche must contain good beer. Anyone who asks for those others will be immediately thrown out.
Satellite dish - I don't want a satellite dish that gets every station. I only want one that gets Guy stations. That means no Home Shopping Network, no E! Entertainment Television, and certainly no Lifetime Network ("the network for women who hate men"). This satellite dish would only get woodworking shows, home improvement shows, and football. And if football wasn't on, there would be DVDs of every pro and college game. I would also allow basketball, unless NFL Europe was on.
A "No Children Allowed" sign - Don't get me wrong, I love my children. Other men love their children too. But if our kids come, then we have to actually watch them and make sure they don't break anything. This could cause us to miss the biggest play of the game. Or spill our beer. So instead, they would have their own creche, much like this one, but without the beer.
Food - This should probably be at the top of the list, but beer and TV are a little more important. Man does not live by bread alone, which is why God created TV and beer, which is like bread, but only runnier. But instead of plain bread, we would also have pizzas, sandwiches, and steaks. We would also have a nearly-empty platter of vegetables, so if our wives came in, they'll think we've been eating healthy.
Laptops and wireless Internet access - Very useful for shopping online for your wife/girlfriend while they're out in the mall. It's also useful for checking your email, looking up the stats on your favorite football team, or Instant Messaging the guy on the other end of the couch to hand you a beer.
Dozens of roses - Let's face it, Guys, you're going to be in a heap of trouble when your wife realizes how much fun you've been having in here, while she's been out there, fighting the crowds and buying Christmas presents for your family. Grab a dozen roses on your way out to show her how much you love her, and how important she is. And tell her that -- *sigh* -- if you have to, you could probably come back again next week.
Kickoff is at 1:00.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 9th, 2004)
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Have You Tried a Plunger?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
Some days I hate being a writer. Days like today. Not one of those "oh crap it's two hours before deadline, and I don't have a topic" day. That's the story of my nearly-ten year writing career. It's also how I got through college.
I mean the days where I get an overwhelming sense of writer's block. Only it's not writer's block. Writer's block is where a writer can't think of anything to write. They are literally stuck for an idea. Entire books have been written about overcoming writer's block. But that's not what I have.
I have Writer's Overflow.
Writer's Overflow is what you get when you have 10 gallons of ideas trying to get through a one quart pipe. Everything trickles slowly out, and the ideas just build up.
These moods are the bane of many writers. (By "many writers," I mean "me, but I don't want to sound like some lone weirdo.")
We ("I") get overwhelmed with the urge to write. Nothing in particular. We ("I") just want to put pen to paper and write about whatever comes to our ("my") minds.
A lot of writers go through this. It happens when we realize we've missed the best times to be a writer. Not the time in our own lives. The best times in history. The old guard. The writers who chomped on stogies and drank beer while they satisfied their urge to write, banging away on old Underwood typewriters.
Writers like Hemingway who drank heavily, traveled to exotic countries, drank some more, ran with bulls, drank more, caught giant fish in the Caribbean, and lived wild, drunken, hedonistic lives, hanging out with other wild, drunken, hedonistic writers.
Writers who glamorized the art of writing and made it a noble and romantic profession. That is, if your idea of glamour is smelly cigar-and-beer breath and hangovers that could kill a horse. In that case, my college years were the height of my glory, and I didn't even realize I was a writer.
Now it has all been ruined by health nuts who think smoking is bad, doctors who claim we need our livers, and Ernest Hemingway who killed himself in a fit of depression. Maybe I can do without the hangovers, and I can definitely do without the suicidal tendencies, but I miss my cigars.
And I still have Writer's Overflow.
So I try to fix it by going to a bookstore. I buy books in the hopes that I'll be inspired. I want to find THE book, the one that puts me on the right path. The book that opens up the floodgates, so my ideas will come flowing out like. . . like. . . things that flow fast.
I need that book pretty badly.
I just figure out which book I want. A book about writing, or by a particular writer, or on an interesting subject. Then I spend $50, and I'm overcome with guilt and buyer's remorse, which promptly makes me forget my Writer's Overflow. Problem solved! It especially helps if I buy a journal.
I hate journals.
Journals are nothing more than fancy notebooks -- a sheaf of paper wrapped in leather You can buy them without the leather at the office supply store for $1.89, but they're $25 at a bookstore. You're supposed to record your thoughts and ideas in them. And I usually do, for a while.
I write about deep philosophical ideas ("Could Tony the Tiger beat up Smokey the Bear?"), interesting things that happen ("Dear Diary, I saw the cutest outfit at the mall!"), or raw, visceral emotions ("I really hate journals!")
And since Writer's Overflow strikes me more than I care to admit, I have purchased countless journals in countless failed attempt at the unblocking process (actually, just seven).
My real loathing of journals stems from the fact that I'm very organized. Once I start a topic in a journal, I can't change it. I can never just have a journal of random writings. It has to be about a particular topic, like daily observations or my favorite beers and cigars. But the problem is I never write in the journal more than five or six times.
And once I write start the journal, it's ruined. It can never be used for anything else. But I can't get rid of it either, because I might want to use it again. Besides, it has 149 other clean pages. I even tried tearing out the offending pages once. But then the journal was tainted, , so I still couldn't use it.
Which means I'm still stuck with the same old problem, and no way to fix it.
Maybe I'll give beer and cigars another try. They can't be any worse for me than when my wife finds out I spent another fifty bucks at the bookstore.
=====
Erik Deckers
(published week of December 16th, 2004)
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I Don't Believe In The Little Drummer Boy
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
It's getting close to Christmas, which means Erik is slumped at his desk in an eggnog-induced torpor. He barely had enough energy to send us his favorite Christmas column or to look up the correct spelling of "torpor" at Dictionary.com.
Christmas is one of my favorite times of the year. My birthday, my anniversary, and any other occasion where people give me presents are also big favorites.
To get myself into the Christmas spirit, I listen to Christmas music. I hit the department stores around August to hear "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bell Rock." But it's a wonder most sales clerks don't go postal on their customers by mid-November.
I love the classics -- "Jingle Bells," "Silent Night" or the Sex Pistols' "Have Yourself a Merry $%@&! Christmas." But the new songs are awful, and I've been known to run my radio through with a pitchfork whenever I hear them.
One of my least favorite Christmas songs ever is Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus is Coming To Town." It's nothing but 20 minutes of Bruce singing "Santa Claus is coming to town" over and over. And over. By the time Bruce has finished with his Yuletide droning, Santa is back home, slamming Upside-Down Margaritas with the elves.
But that's nothing compared to the worst Christmas song ever, the song that makes me want to sleep straight to Easter: "The Little Drummer Boy." Not only do they sing the same phrase over and over -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- but the song isn't that believable.
I realize songs about a fat guy sliding down chimneys or a flying reindeer with a halogen nose aren't so believable, but at least they're grounded in reality.
First of all, drums do not go "pa-rum pum pum pum." As any parent of a child with a toy drum knows, a drum is a loud percussive instrument. They do not make pleasant little melodies sung by children's choirs. They make headaches. Drums go "KA-WHAM WHAP WHAP WHAP!"
When the Little Drummer Boy asks Mary if he could play a song for the Baby Jesus -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- no one says, "Wait a minute! That kid is just going to pound a drum. Somebody stop him!"
Giving the gift of music is a very noble sentiment, because it comes from the heart. And most importantly, it's the thought that counts, unless you really wanted that big screen high-definition TV instead. But when your newborn baby has finally gone to sleep after screaming for 6 hours because his bed is made of straw and smells like cow poo, do you really want someone going "ka-wham whap whap whap!" at him?
And what about Mary? What did she do? According to the song, she just nodded -- pa-rum pum pum pum -- listened attentively, and smiled quietly to herself. Not being a mother, I can't speak for other mothers. But I'll wager your Christmas gifts that if you've been riding on a donkey for several days, and then spent the last 36 hours in labor, you wouldn't want some snot-nosed kid showing up to beat a drum at you. The song would be more accurate if it said "Mary leapt off her stool and chased the little brat away, pa-rum pum pum pum. "
Don't forget the ox and lambs that kept time -- pa-rum pum pum pum. Not likely. Oxen are tone deaf and lambs don't have a well-developed sense of rhythm. Besides, the drum in question was probably made out of oxen or lambskin, so they probably would not have appreciated the cosmic coincidence of the situation.
"Then He smiled at me" (pa-rum pum pum pum). I have an easier time believing the ox and lambs doffed top hats and did "Puttin' On the Ritz." How would you feel if you had been removed from a nice warm womb and stuck in a bed of itchy, smelly straw when some jerk beats a drum at you?
Here's a test. Go find a newborn baby and start pa-rum pum pum pumming on a pot with a couple of wooden spoons. If he smiles at that, he's colicky.
I'm all for the magic and wonder of Christmas. But I know mothers. And I know babies. And I know that mothers don't want anyone pounding drums around with their babies.
Gift of music or not, beating on a lambskin stretched over a hollow log is not something a new mother wants to deal with. I realize we're talking about Mary, the mother of the Messiah, but everyone has a limit to their patience. And little drummer boys are probably pushing that limit.
If the kid really wanted to be helpful, he should have given her something useful, like a set of earplugs or a gift certificate for the local day spa.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of December 23rd, 2004)
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Are You a Christmas Clothes Geek?
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2004
It's a tradition that's been handed down from generation to generation, and one that I've largely ignored for my entire life. I never wear the clothes I received for Christmas right after Christmas.
That's right. I'm an ungrateful jerk who's so unappreciative of the wonderful gifts I receive, I refuse to use them immediately.
Actually, that's not true. I'm an extremely grateful jerk, and I love the gifts I receive. I feel that money truly can buy happiness, because my sense of self-esteem is tied directly to the estimated retail value of each year's haul (pre-tax, of course).
Okay, that's not true either. Honestly, I don't know why I don't wear my Christmas clothes immediately after Christmas.
It started in elementary school, when I would return to school after our month-long Christmas break (I bring that point up merely to annoy today's students, since they think I'm such an old fuddy-duddy. At least we got an entire month off at Christmas, so nyah nyah nyah!). I could immediately tell which children got new clothes for Christmas, and which children had parents who loved them.
At the age of nine, I operated under the misguided theory that the only cool presents for kids were toys. If your parents got you clothes, this wasn't so much an act of love, as an act of indifference and an indication that you were going to be cast out into the street if you didn't start acting more like "that nice boy down the street."
So these kids -- mostly girls -- would show up in their fancy new clothes and pretend they were excited and overjoyed at receiving a brand-new "outfit" and that they had ". . . such a tough time deciding between this one or the blue one with unicorns so I'll wear it tomorrow because it really shows off the color of my eyes."
I just stared at them and thought "you poor schmuck. You can come and live at my house when your parents throw you out."
I was enlightened by my mother a few months later, when I made the mistake of sharing my theory with her. It seems, according to her, that parents buy clothes for their children out of love and devotion, since they want their children to look their best and to keep warm when they slept out in the garage which is where I was heading if I didn't show a little more gratitude.
I have since adjusted my theory accordingly. Now, as a father of three, it's important that I share and embrace these views, because buying clothes on top of toys can get extremely expensive. So my own kids better appreciate what they get, because my garage is pretty cold in the dead of winter.
Luckily, my own children have never echoed my old theory, so they are overjoyed at receiving clothes for Christmas, provided they're plastered with their favorite Disney characters. And they will proudly wear them the next day, often changing outfits three and four times in an attempt to display as many as they can.
I, on the other hand, still stick with my original practice of not wearing my Christmas clothes until a few weeks into January. However, I made a few exceptions this year. Like my Indianapolis Colts shirt I wore the very next day. Or the Indianapolis Colts hat I stuck on my head as soon as I pulled it out of the box.
But other than anything with the Colts on it, I prefer to wait and sneak it into my wardrobe rotation, rather than springing it on everyone the first moment I see them. Then, when they see me, they'll ask, "Hey, Erik, nice shirt. Is that new?"
And I'll play it real cool: "What, this? I've had this since last year."
Of course, since I work with a bunch of guys, I have better odds of being being struck by lightning while buying the winning lottery ticket than hearing one of them say "Nice shirt. Is that new?"
However, this bias against clothes does not extend to non-clothing items. Much to the consternation of my wife, I have been known to spend the last six hours of Christmas night in front of the computer, playing my new computer game. I happily broke out my new cordless drill and started tightening screws and making holes throughout the house. And whenever I receive a Barnes & Noble gift card, I can usually be found the next morning, standing in front of the store two hours before opening time.
Wearing my new Colts winter parka, Colts snow pants, and Colts electric socks, of course.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of December 30th, 2004)
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