SLiM: Did you even read At Home?

How does a writer know they have been granted access to that group of elites whose writing will be bestowed great accolades solely by virtue of the fact that said writer wrote it? Is it by getting to the #1 spot on the New York Times Bestsellers list? Is it when they must dunk their hand in ice for three days following each book signing session? Is it when they are interviewed on a total of fifty SiriusXM channels? (Considering how much space they must fill, that last qualification probably isn’t all that hard to achieve. Just call them up and tell them you’re willing to be interviewed. It doesn’t matter who you are, I’m sure they’ll leap at the opportunity.)

While all of these things are certainly enjoyable and gratifying, I think that there are two apparent ways to verify whether one is in this exclusive club: The Bryson and The Clancy.

We shall first deal with The Bryson. I’m going to take a look at some of his his books first, and we’ll see where we go from there.

   

The Lost Continent was published in 1989. If you manage to get past the overly busy cover, you may note that the author’s name is no more than a small note near the title. The Mother Tongue (not pictured) came out in 1990. Even then, the O of “Mother” is a good 33% larger than that of “Bryson”. His sequel to this was Made in America, published in 1994. Here, the title name is bigger too, so I guess we won’t blame the publisher for pumping up the size of the author’s name too. Then we get to his next published book, called Bill Bryson, authored by Notes from a Small Island. “Oh,” you say, “you just made a mistake, SLiM. I thought we were dealing with books by Bryson, not about Bryson.” To which I may likely respond (if you are kind enough to send me your comment so I can respond to your negative conclusion) “No, the publisher made a mistake.”

It continues thusly.

  

Wow, all these different guys had to write their own biography on Bryson? Maybe it’s a series; one is a short history of nearly everything about him, while one deals exclusively with tales of his domestic achievements!

Okay, probably not. More likely Mr. Bryson hit The Bryson, which makes a lot of sense if you think about it. The Bryson, as summarized by some prestigious society, is:

When an author’s name is printed larger than the title of the piece written, said writer has reached The Bryson.

Once an author accomplishes this, the doors are wide open for him, for he hath arrived. Let’s say Mr. Bryson is sitting around at home, when suddenly the idea occurs to him to write a 400-page book on the history and proper techniques of radish farming. All he has to do now is jot some random blathering on a page and send it off to the publisher, who will get back to him in a week with a cover like this:

It will then hit the shelves. CNN, ABC, and NPR will all be rushing to be the first to interview Bryson on his new book. Reviews will be gushing with “Bryson’s only flaw here is that he only covers radishes,” and “In that inimitable style, Bill has done it again!” Thirty copies of it will be in your local library within the week, and by the time you get to putting in an order for it, you will actually have to wait upwards of ten months before you can get to it. Fans will be swooning in the streets, the police will be rushing to clean up the mess left by a truck bombed while carrying 15,000 copies of Radishing Around, and hoodlums dressed as turnip-zombies roaming the streets with their shirts off will be reported by the dozen.

But ask anyone what the book is about. If they manage to get that correct, ask them if they read the whole thing. And they still respond yes, chances are they would fail to extol it under hypnosis.

Please note that I don’t mean to bash Bryson. All I’m saying is that The Bryson is a sure sign that one could get away with a Radishing Around if they wanted to. This is in contrast to The Clancy, which is in and of itself a little unethical. I’ll be getting to that soon.

Keep in mind, by the way, it doesn’t count as The Bryson if you have your name larger than the title on the cover just to say you have arrived.

SLiM: My Triumphant Return

To my dear readers who have faithfully checked this site every now and then over the last two years, hoping something would show up to support their notion that the beloved runner of this blog was not, in fact, dead, I have an announcement to make.

It would now behoove me to explain just how shocking this newsflash will be. If you have high blood pressure, or have experienced a seizure before, just take note of the fact that I have just taken the time to single you out to yourself. If you happen to be sitting next to a doctor, you may consult his opinion as to whether you ought to read on. Otherwise, just give yourself a hearty round of applause and try not to have a heart attack or seizure; because if you do, I don’t plan on holding myself responsible. This means that I will ignore any lawsuit your relatives bring up against me – and I won’t even have a guilty conscience – because your medical problems have nothing to do with me or my blog.

If you are pregnant, I wish you mazel tov and request that you finish reading this just like any other person.

If you are a nominee in this year’s presidential race, you will probably finish reading this and proceed to blame the poorly written parts on your enemies while taking credit for my good grammar and sentence structure. You will then give a speech detailing your catchphrase and your enemy’s Achilles’ heel while saying nothing of substance about yourself or your plans. (With this established, what, exactly, do you want my $25 for?) Because I know this will not change, I’m not even going to bother giving you any advice.

And if you are just a reader, I expect that my announcement will surprise you at least as much as when you heard that Newt had officially ended his incredibly powerful, Mitt-crushing campaign.

  I am returning to my post as Conversations at the Dinner Table’s writer-editor-director-coordinator-dictator!

At least for right now.

SLiM: Bloodbath day part I (Getting to know Halloween)

So that time has come and gone again–Hallow’een. Probably the most confusing and confounding “celebration” of them all. This odd reason to leave school comes with another holiday, this one All Saints Day. Okay, so we have more or less dropped the all saints day thing, and instead of decorating Wal-Mart® with angels and representations of all things good, we decided to place devils, skeletons, witches, and all other sorts of things that stops M.M. from bringing the Cutie of the Bunch with her on her shopping trips.

“Come and get a creepy skeleton costume with an ax in the head and an eyeball hanging out! After all, you must prepare for the most illogical, ludicrous, and brainless holiday in the world, and scare yourself to death every time you open a newspaper or door to a mall!”

Wow, that one makes lots of sense. Now, ponder this situation. Demon-Boy comes up to you and yells “Trick or Treat!”

You, being rational (and totally disconnected from the pathetic, sad world we live in), ask this kid, whose tongue is hanging out and has bloodstains on his shirt, “What does that mean?”

Well, Demon-Boy has never been asked this before, and looks totally bewildered. “Uhh, it means you have a civic obligation (whether or not you celebrate this holiday,) to spend plenty of your hard-earned money to give me candy.”

Ah. Well, that sounds fair to you (huh?). So you dig into your pocket, give Demon-Boy your stash of Almond Joy®, and say “Happy Bloodbath Day.”

Oh, I see. Do I run up to every door in my county on Purim telling them they must give me Mishloach Manos, or they will be -----? And even if I did, would I gleefully toss it into my bag with candy to last me 4 months, without even acknowledging that person’s existence in the world?

Let me ask you this question. Would you ever, in your right mind, get up on a table and yell, “Enough of all these celebrations about the good in the world! It’s about time we begin to celebrate the evil, dark side of the world! Let’s celebrate murder, death, doom! Yes, let’s cheer for the very idea that evil exists. Hooray, we have found yet another reason to party! For there is evil, the Devil, hell, crime, terror and all other sorts of grand stuff! And so, let us all put on costumes to see who will make 3-year-old, innocent, toddlers scream the loudest! Let us scourge the neighborhood, pulling up to each and every door to disturb the peace they most clearly desired by staying home, and vacuum out their stocks of chocolate and candy. Yea, let us ignore the good, peace, and saintlihood of man. Instead, we will make this preposterous, daft, and outrageous holiday of evil the focus of our lives for 5 weeks!”

Okay, I’ve made my point. I’m going to move on.

My good friend, whom I shall call Nate, called me (not texted!) to ask how to get Trick-or-Treaters to come to his door. You see, he lives on one of these dead-end courts, so they don’t “drive by” his house. My sister, KWBSLKM, answered the phone, and informed him of some little tips on said topic. Sadly, he never got what he was looking for. And neither did we, but we weren’t hoping they would come. Well, we did get one. Allow me.

As I came home from Maariv, my carpooler did not know that my garage door code thing was not working, and dropped me there anyhow. This was no problem for me: I instead went to the front door. I had (woefully) forgotten that this was Bloodbath Night. So I knocked on the door, and heard scampering inside. Now, I was wondering, if they know I’m at the front door, why won’t they get it? I was rudely reminded why, when Rabbim finally opened the door, and instead of saying “hello, SLiM,” he said “happy Hallow’een,” with a small bag of M&M®s. Once he saw my face, (we had left the outside light off so that no trick-or-treaters would come,) he then said “Oh. Hi, SLiM!” I am kind of remorseful that I did not grab the bag of candy, and run off, howling, into the moonless night. That would actually have been very funny.

SLiM: Old Faithful on Father's Day

Over here, on father’s day we had some father-son bonding time. This was helpful as the rest of the clan is currently absent.
Rabbim had to pick up some stuff from “the helpful place” (Ace Hardware). I went with him, and then we went to CVS\Pharmacy. We picked up the medications that we needed from the \Pharmacy, and were generally avoiding the CVS part. As we were leaving, I spotted a pack of Mentos®, just ten feet away from a bottle of Diet Coke! I got the idea, picked up both, bought them, and went home. We quickly researched the optimal number of Mentos as well as some interesting variations and cool YouTube videos.
Finally, we went outside to get ready.

We now present SLiM’s Quick ‘n’ Easy Steps to make your own Coke and Mentos Geyser.
1. Buy package of mint Mentos (mint Mentos aren’t kosher, so don’t taste) and large bottle of a diet cola.
2. Select open area outdoors.
3. Place bottle on flat surface.
4. Make tube of paper just wide enough to hold Mentos.
5. Open Mentos roll.
6. Take entire roll or just ten Mentos, and place in stack in tube.
7. Open bottle.
8. Position tube over top of bottle, with finger pinching bottom of tube.
9. Move close to bottle (yes, move close, so all the Mentos will actually go in).
10. Move finger to release Mentos
11. Now run.

You see how easy it is. There is a delay between the first Mentos hitting the soda and the fountain of about 1 second, so be wearing a shirt that can get dirty, so you won’t be paranoid and run from the soda before all the Mentos are in. Don’t be surprised if your geyser lasts only 1-2 seconds.
Of course, you want to be videoing this. We had three video vantages; one of them failed, so you may want backup.
Remember not to drink the soda still left in the bottle. It is no longer kosher. A cleanup may or may not be necessary. Some of the Mentos may fly out of the soda with the geyser, and you might not notice this. Don’t think that some of them missed the soda.
Well, enough with the reminders and instructions.



I’m the one dropping the Mentos in; Rabbim is doing the video. Ignore the slogan on my T-shirt.
It was really fun and really cool. I want to do it again with variations someday, and also Mister Youngster probably wanted to do it himself. So you might be seeing the fountain again soon on this blog.

SLiM: About those Blizzards...

I am a very environmentally aware person. However, for reasons I will not get into, I’m not very big on this stuff about global warming.

Yeah, it sounds weird, but Al Gore probably has one of the highest carbon footprints in the world, what with his flying on his PRIVATE JET too receive his Nobel Peace Prize for helping reduce carbon footprints, paradoxically enough. But oddly, Rabbim read me something that only proved me right.

It said that a group of scientists got together to talk about the problems of the fact that global temperatures are not moving. And what to do to stimulate global temperatures. And that it’s scary that they aren’t moving. And that it’s dangerous. And all the other things that they used to say about global warming.

Just four more words.

Take that, Al Gore!

SLiM: How Sweet it isn't!

Every person on the planet knows that sugar is dreadfully bad for you, and if you eat it, you will soon shrivel up, look something like a prune, and then die.

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. This does not apply to everyone. Not everyone is accursed by this horrible thing.

Diabetics will sometimes shrivel up like a prune if they do eat sugar, and sometimes will shrivel up if they don’t.

(I may have just made up the part about shriveling up, but that is the general impression that was made on me.)

Since no one is usually in the mood for shriveling up, we invented a new substitute for sugar, so supposedly we won’t actually shrivel up when we consume trivial amounts of sugar, simply trying to make our food edible. So, instead of using the good old G-d’s sweetener (the humble cane), we instead use a mixture of chemicals, trying (and succeeding) to replicate that taste, with all its attributes.

It’s Splenda®, of course! Or, perhaps a smaller but similar company, Sweet’n Low®!

But wait a minute. Since we tried so hard trying to replicate the flavor of sugar, we came up with something that’s almost as unhealthy as it (and therefore has the potential to turn you into a prune just as well). But if it is just as dangerous as sugar, why use it anyway?

There are 2 reasons, I think, that enter the average person’s mind. First of all, once we mankind have toiled so hard to create that substitute, why not revel in joy over our hard-earned sweetener?

Secondly, I think one of PETA’s sister corporations has gotten into people. People think that we must conserve the sugar, as it is cruel to chop a sugar cane.

However, I, SLiM, have a brilliant refutation for these claims, and it is a very short one.

If soluble saccharin isn’t going to turn you into a prune, what will? (Who wants to eat calcium silicate, anyway?)

SLiM: Health Reform Bull

When we look upon our woes and pities nowadays, we can see quite obviously, that it is the government’s fault. I mean, no duh it’s the government who is taking the money from our pockets, who else would it be? The wise men who you see walking down the street, hunchbacked and hoarse, will tell you, "“It is your own fault, sonny boy. You were foolish enough to vote for a lad who promised change. I remember, young whippersnapper, the good ol’ days, when no politician was corrupt." If you look more deeply, however, you will realize that change is a good thing. Just look at 1763. Then America really needed change. Being taxed with no representation at all, good or bad? Come on.

However, change is usually not needed after about 8 years of something which was, in my opinion, great. (If you feel differently, my next 2 sentences are for you.) However, change is often not needed after 8 years of something bad. I mean, give more time to try it out, like you give to a food! However, I would like to point something out. On the surface, Obama is changing. If you look deeper, though, you find that in the long run, Obama is not changing anything.

If you look carefully throughout recent history, there are 2 happy little countries. One is called the U.S.A., the other U.S.S.R. If you look even more carefully, you will see that the country called the U.S.S.R. ends abruptly in 1994, leaving U.S.A. as the only happy little country left. This is due partially because of a dude called Gobachev, who simply didn’t have the heart to kill every other person he saw. Killing every other, or at least every third person you saw, was a needed quality in the wonderful little country called USSR.

The other main reason was called something called communism, based on a little idea named socialism.

Before I explain what these terms mean, I am urged to quote from a foreign ambassador of Vietnam, a communist country itself:

“We are not without achievement. We have managed to distribute poverty equally.”

So there you have it, folks. Communism is the art of distribution of poverty equally.

But wait! I just got a telephone call from Joseph Stalin, to tell me what communism really is.

Waaaaait a second. Paul has a bull and Frank doesn't?! Gasp! We must give half the bull to Frank! But wait. My trusty PETA advisor here tells me I can't kill the animal to divide its meat, so the government will have to take the bull instead. Now Paul and Frank are both happy because they both have an equal amount of money. Paul complains that the government has taken his bull, and the current prime minister shoots Paul because he is a menace to society that he won'’t share his bull with Frank. Frank complains that he has nothing, so the government gets upset that he is not satisfied with their significant charity. The current prime minister puts a bullet through Frank’s head also, and everyone is happy.

Ah. Thank you, Mr. Stalin.

Now, we must explain what socialism is. Socialism is when one person has more than another, so the government decides to stick its large nose in the way. This is done quite conveniently by something called tax. Or, to be more precise, income tax. (Einstein once remarked that one of the only things he didn't understand was income tax.) So here's the scenario, in today’s terms.

Waaaaait a second. Bill has health insurance and Richard doesn't? We have to tax Bill to pay for poor, sad, Richard’s health insurance that he doesn't really want.

As it looks like from here, U.S.A. is gonna start working on spreading poverty equally.

Let’s hope I don’t get a bull.

SLiM: Two all beef patties...

I love our country. Yes, I am a very patriotic person, whether or not you believe it.

What I want to write about here is that I am fed up with a certain song about the U.S. No, it’s not G-d Bless America. I love that song. It’s not even The Star Spangled Banner, even though I hate the way that song revolves around The Flag. No, it’s a song that many of you out there probably don’t even know that it’s a patriotic song.

It’s The Big Mac Song.

Yep, many of you don’t know it, but it officially is an American song.

Here’s why. A while ago, a group of people made a survey of how many Americans knew The Big Mac Song, versus how many Americans knew The Pledge of Allegiance. The end results were astonishing.

More Americans Knew The Big Mac Song than the Pledge of Allegiance!!!!

I, personally have never gone to McDonald’s® and never hope to, and therefore shudder to think of pledging allegiance to the big Yellow M, and starting off the day with Two all-beef patties…

Just to tell people out there: In case you didn’t think so yet, the Big Mac™ is officially an American icon now.

SLiM: Even in the chocolate box?

Some people out there don’t blog for the simple reason that they won’t be able to find ideas for their posts. Truth is, if you keep yourself aware at all times, you will find that ideas for posts are everywhere. One of the best such cases was my idea for A Chocolate what at the North Pole?

When I was allowed passed the land mines that protect the chocolate box, I took it out in order to give me time to choose.

A dear sibling of mine, whom I shall call The Shmoozer, was standing behind me as I sifted through the chocolate box. She was quite surprised when I picked something up, put it down, picked it back up again, and read the label carefully. I then lifted up my finger triumphantly, (almost piercing The Shmoozer’s nose) and yelled out “blog post!” I then ran upstairs and wrote down the words:

inspiration for bloggers is everywhere (tell how got the ideas for penguin) (“even in the chocolate box?”?)

I wrote my ideas on a piece of paper marked “SLiM Blogger Ideas #3” in my folder called “SLiM Blogger Ideas”.

The lessons to learn from this: If you are organized, jot down your ideas when you get them (if I’m away from home, I write an idea down on a piece of scrap paper and transfer them later), and keep your eyes open, you’ll find blogging is the easiest thing since sliced bread.

Sorry, wrong comparison.

SLiM: Row, Row, Row

Charles Babbage Jr was singing a song. It is a song I have heard being sung hundreds of times over my (short) life. The lyrics of the song go like this:

Row, row, row, your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

You, my reader, have probably heard this song thousands of times over your life, but yet, it got me thinking.

I’ve heard plenty of philosophy and uplifting lines. Some of my favorites:

If you feel you’re at the bottom of the world, don’t worry, the world turns around every 24 hours. (I know, scientifically it doesn’t make too much sense. It’s still pretty good, though.) Another one: Before you see the light, you’ve got to deal with the darkness. But none of these quotes are as inspiring as the last line in that nursery rhyme.

…life is but a dream.

Amazing what’s hidden in a little kid’s song, huh?

SLiM: Happy Un-Turkey Day

I am a very patriotic person. I love our country, and especially Thanksgiving, when we talk about what we are thankful for. I also love the food, and that I get out of school early. However, I want to make one thing clear.

There is substantial evidence that the pilgrims never ate turkey on the first thanksgiving. Killing such a timid bird was considered lazy, and the Native Americans would certainly have certainly refused to dine with lazy people. I’m not saying it’s for sure not, I’m saying that it’s highly unlikely, and that’s enough to stop me.

Carry on with your turkey, but I don’t think I want to join you, thank you.

Unless if the pilgrims said that the main dish was wild vulture, and the Indians believed them.

Which is unlikely.

SLiM: The Missing Whale

(Editor's Note: This post mysteriously never made the blog but was written in a timely fashion. It is still fresh and enjoyable, however.)

Now that the holiday seasons are over (I mean officially, now that we have taken down our oh-so-temporary home,) I would like to reflect.

At this time last year, I was reading a fun book, by the name of The Ear, the Eye, and the Arm. This was because of a program which involves smashing people over the head with books (sorry, I couldn’t resist).

The clan, along with some cousins, went on the average, every-chance-we-get-oh-let’s-go-there trips we usually take at this time of year. Some of my reviews from them:

The ol’ ice-skating SLiM is just as good as he ever was (namely, not all that great). It looked much worse next to my cousin, whom we shall call $cooter, who is much better than me though he looks about my age, height, and build.

Ahhh, Jeepers. What can I say? You run in, stomp on a few spiders, and get a little Thing that is supposed to resemble a horse. Presently, you lose the Thing about 25 minutes after receiving it, making your 45 minutes of spider stomping a waste of time. The Yak-Attack was fun, though, and I must’ve gone on the Python Pit 15 times.

The meals were good as always, though the conversations weren’t what I anticipated. It was chilly with rain EVERY DAY every 5 ½ minutes. Still, it wasn’t bitter cold, and there were very few bees (a few came to taste M.M.’s food).

I had a lesson on how to build a hut, if I am stranded in some place with only a few pipes, fishing wire, and bamboo. The result was quite satisfying.


And now, my main rant. Since it rained a lot, the tarp was needed very much. And as I was serving food to the rest of the clan at the table minus Rabbim, I heard Rabbim’s voice from outside, “Beware the Whale!” As I walked out, a massive sploosh of water came down from the tarp, causing my shirt to get water on it. And the water was wet.

Rabbim came in, saw my pathetic state, and said “I told you about the whale!”

Hmm. That’s strange. I didn’t see any 500 ton animal anywhere in the metropolitan area.

The next morning, I came out, only to see the tarp heavy with water and Rabbim trying to get rid of it, muttering some stuff about the troublesome whales.

Soon we came home, and I found M.M. poking the tarp with a stick, saying “we’ve got to get rid of that whale!” I was wondering if our pet whale which we don’t have was on top of our bamboo roof. It seemed odd, but perhaps I missed the memo that our family was getting a very oversized pet.

During the meal, I heard a very upset Rabbim say “I must get rid of that whale, now, once and for all.”

I was really upset now. I asked as politely as I could (which sounded something like a yell) “would you please tell what all this talk about whales is?!”

I got 3 or 4 stunned faces. 3 or 4 wide open mouths. 3 or 4 “you don’t know what a whale is?”

I wanted to say, “Yeah, duh I know what it is. It is a marine mammal, with many different species from the humpback to the blue to the northern right whale. The blue whale’s tongue is about the size of a car, and its heart weighs about as much as an elephant. Whales dine only on plankton. Whales live in many different ocean habitats, but I’ve never heard of a whale that lives on top of a TARP!” I wanted to say it, but wisely didn’t.

The answer: “Oh, a whale refers to a collection of water on top of a tarp.”

I was not amused. A friendly argument then broke out about whose side of the family it comes from.

Next time, I’m just going to get my harpoon gun and go get the whale myself.

SLiM: A Chocolate WHAT at the North Pole?

Sometimes I am a stickler for science, and sometimes I am not. This happened on one of my stickler-for-science days.

In complete privacy, I asked M.M. for something radical. I asked for a chocolate. I was granted permission into the heavily guarded, barbed wired area of the cabinet. (Okay…I’m exaggerating a little.) There I found a large chocolate sculpture of something that was supposed to resemble some sort of bird. On top of the package, there was a statement:

Chill with your north pole pals!

One minor problem for a stickler-for-science, though. Next to that line, there were 3 pictures. There was a polar bear, walrus, and (surprisingly) a penguin.

Where is the problem? I’ll tell you. Penguins live the farthest away from the North Pole that is possible. They live by the South Pole.

I chose my chocolate, and turned my back to the disgrace of knowledge of the average American chocolate eater.

SLiM: Bow Ties

Nowadays, people want to find cheap ways to look elegant. One such way is to get a cheap clip-on bow tie, and simply clip it on, instead of learning how to tie a real bow tie.

This is all okay if you put it under the collar. What really drives me crazy is if you clip it on over the collar.

We now present SLiM’s quick ‘n’ easy steps to put that bow tie back under the collar.

I. Unclip the bow tie.
II. Fold over collar, and close button.
III. Re-clip bow tie.
IV. Fold down collar.

If you find that you can’t follow these rules, I will quote for you from a wonderful book called Tricks of the Trade, page 180. It was written by a commentator on NBC’s Today Show named Gene Shalit, who commonly wears a bow tie.

There are two sorts of bow ties. One is real: You tie it yourself. One is false: You clip it on and apply for a job as a waiter.

In my humble opinion, a clip-on bow tie looks ridiculous, even if you are a waiter.

Here’s the bottom line: If you feel a sudden urge to put on a clip-on bow tie over your collar, I don’t want to see it unless you are writing down my order at Cuisine de ____¬ (fill it in).

SLiM: Thank you Dear Readers

Something odd has happened here at the blog. No, it’s not the fact that someone actually listened to me and commented “read your post” unless if I whispered in their ear “You havta comment…”. It’s not the fact that I got more than 4 comments on a post. It’s not even one of my delightful siblings deciding “hmm… I’m bored. I know! I’ll post on the blog that I’m supposed to be posting on for the past 3 months!” No, it’s something reassuring.

1,000 hits! That’s 1,000 divided by four months of blogging, equals an average of 250 hits per month. 62(and a half; but really, why do those graphs say 45.2 out of 50 Chinese don’t blah blah blah…?) per week! 9 a day!! Once every 3 hours!!!

So, you see, my blog is read quite commonly. Granted, that is an average, and yes, I do check at least once a day to see if anyone commented, but yeah, it is great.

No baseball player has gotten an average of a home run once every 3 hours. I, on the other hand, have.

Now yes, it would be reassuring to see if you would all comment “read your post,” but I feel better already.

I expect another 1,000 comments by the end of February, but until then, keep checking.

I’m definitely not going to be happy until that average is at 2,000, and maybe then we can throw a party for my readers. So keep checking, and hope there’s still some gold somewhere in California for me.

SLiM: PETA Unleashed

You know by now how much I just love PETA. (See this post.) You also know by now that I love random facts (see random fact on sidebar). Here’s a random fact for you: In India, cows have the same rights as humans, including the right to sue. If you will, all PETA members would just love to see their cows sue.

However, this would create a lot of problems for the people in India. First of all, PETA would give the right to sue to all animals. Soon, all of the court cases will sound something like this:

Judge: what brings you to court, gentlemen?
Plaintiff: Woof bark bark yip, woof woof arooooooo!
Judge: What do you have to say for yourself, sir?
Defendant: Squeak squeak, nibble eep squeak.
Judge: I see. Jury?
Jury (you must realize, the jury is made of a combination of humans and cows): We find the defendant guilty of all charges, sir.
Judge: I hereby award the plaintiff 3.5 million dollars.
Plaintiff (triumphantly): Woof, woof, woof, yip!

I am not exactly thrilled to think of the possibility of a beetle suing for the accidental destruction of its home.

Next, PETA would allow the race of anteaters to become part of the working force, if they so wish. Truthfully, I am not aware and I don’t want to know of the quality of pencils, whose production is supervised by overweight gorillas.

Finally, PETA will allow all animals to be elected to public office, and rules will pass that all humans must be kept on leashes.

And the PETA idiots will say, “This is the way the world is meant to be.”

To end: PETA must be stopped. It must be pounded until it is literally crushed. It must be erased so our children, and our grandchildren, will be able to say “What’s PETA?” and go outside to play without having to walk on their tiptoes to avoid stepping on an innocent ant.

If we do not do this, the full force of PETA will be unleashed upon the world. We will be forced to send them to India, where they will be happy for 10 minutes.

Here’s my philosophy: Better to destroy India than to destroy the United States.

SLiM: Morning in America?

A while ago, during the Obama campaign, there were two main things that got Obama into office. They are the teleprompter and the press.

Obama himself promised much during his campaign, and invented a catchy slogan that will remind one much of his childhood days and our friend Bob and his gal, Wendy. The Obama sign, however, was quite interesting.

One day, the whole Dinner Table Clan loaded into the car for a trip to the New Detroit Science Center. As we rumbled through downtown Detroit, a shout resonated through the car, “Why does the Obama sign show a setting sun?”

Silence ensued. No answer could be found.

Look carefully at an Obama sign. Doesn’t it look more like a setting sun to you than anything?

SLiM: Radio

The radio is great, informative, and fun. It is not as dangerous as TV. It gives accurate current information, as well as very inaccurate weather information for your enjoyment\frustration. (Recently, camp was going to our grand trip, but being geniuses, we checked the weather for the next day. There were supposed to be severe thunderstorms on the morrow, so we postponed the trip. The next day, there was a torrential drizzle lasting 6 minutes that didn’t even leave puddles big enough to step in and make a splash. But I am heading away from my topic, so I digress.)

You will usually hear the traffic reporter saying something like this:
The     traffic     on     the     eastbound     highway     is     backed     up     due     to     a     rollover     in     the     left     lane.

However, you will usually hear the ending of his report like this:

I’m     traffic     manager     Robert     Crew     on     NPR     newshave     you     ever     wanted     a     car      with     cushiony     seats?

Notice how much time elapses between each word and how the ending of our pal Robert Crew’s report mysteriously ends with no spaces and a car commercial comes on. To the regular listener, it’s business as usual. For the rare listener, it sounds strange, to say the least.

I asked around about the nospaceinbetweendifferentshows thing, and I found out that they do it so stupid people won’t get freaked out that their radio isn’t working. I mean, if there are 2 seconds of blank space, it must mean that the radio is broken.

The obvious problem: If this is true, than why do the talkers actually pause for, like, 1.5 seconds between words? I really don’t get it.

SLiM: Hope this doesn't sound desperate...

M.M. loves Facebook. Rabbim loves Facebook. Now I love Facebook too, as Rabbim uses it as advertising my newest posts. Looking at Facebook, however, I noticed a gadget which belongs on Conversations at the Dinner Table.

Beneath a posting on a wall, there always 3 choices for you. They are comment, like, and, share. While comment is sometimes used on this blog, and as far as I know share is used a lot (“Hey look, SLiM posted something new!”), like is not used.

Here’s how we’re going to work on this blog from now on. If you have the decency, time, patience, and idea to comment, you must do it. If you are missing either the decency, time, patience or ideas to comment, please use a differentiated version of like. I request that you write the following on “comment”: “Read your post,” and then sign your name. If you don’t want me to know that you read my post, sign off anonymously, I don’t care here.

But remember the deal. If you could comment, please do so.

I know this sounds desperate, but I feel like no one has read my post if I have no comments.

Other people may feel this way too, but to date, I have seen no requests like my own. If you want to add it to your blog, that’s fine.

Remember, I’m expecting at least 10 “comments” on every post from now on.

SLiM: Since 1942, Indeed!

Revelations, revelations, everywhere. I was wondering about the way today’s youth are going down the drain, what with substance abuse, tattoos, alcohol, etc. It happened to be I looked a pickle jar about 30 seconds after I was thinking about this. This pickle jar was made by one of my favorite pickle companies, and that’s Vlasic®. This was a jar probably about one and a half feet tall, and 8 inches diameter. It sported a picture of the good ol’ Vlasic® Stork. He was wearing his hat, glasses and bow tie. And he was standing up, for probably the first time ever. But there was one major problem.

The Vlasic® Stork wasn’t wearing a shirt.

He wasn’t wearing pants, either.

There is an urban legend that Donald Duck was at one point banned from Finland because he didn’t wear pants. I thought it was a ridiculous claim, until I realized something. If you expect someone to wear pants, it is a shock if he isn’t.

Such is the case of the Vlasic® Stork. For all the many years that the stork has reined supreme over the pickle world, we saw him as a civilized stork, with hat, bow tie and glasses. We assumed he was a refined stork, who wore clothes as well.

I urge you all to write to Vlasic®, and tell them to change their mascot to a dignified, say, sparrow who wears pants. If that doesn’t work, a nationwide boycott will be necessary.

I hope the boycott doesn’t last too long, though. I’m sure going to miss my pickles.