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The Dissimilar Delineation of Dated Couches & Deceptive Coaches

March 31, 2022 / Big Joe

It was forest green.

This couch appeared even darker situated in the bowels of our partially completed basement. It owned the wall where it was centered for no other reason than it was the largest piece of usable furniture in the room. Nobody retreated downstairs to stretch out on its cushions, read a good book, or catch the big game. Its domestic placement seemed more like banishment than well-designed feng shui.

The piano rivaled it in size. Their gross weights likely teetered the scale within ounces of one another. The only thing larger was the homemade train table that sucked up the majority of basement floorspace. It least that created a desirable sensation through amusement and entertainment. “Big green” was more akin to a torture device.

This davenport of death frightened me as a child. First and foremost its thick, rough fabric caused my skin to itch within seconds of sitting down. It made wool army blankets feel like cashmere. Even as a husky child, I did not sink into its cushions. The sturdy construction manifested a sense of practicality rather than a feeling of comfort. It was like sitting on a steel gurney wrapped in 20 grit sandpaper.

In the same utilitarian vein, it also converted into a sofa bed.

I’m pretty sure its construction used more steel than the majority of modern day automobiles. Maybe as an adult, I could pull out the steel girders and springs that supported the flimsy two inch mattress. If you were not exhausted and ready to lay down before undertaking this task, you certainly needed the respite afterwards. Not that the bed was any more comfortable than the sofa.

More than once, I caught my finger inside one of its bending metal retractable brackets. You’d be safer to intentionally place a finger or a toe inside a snapping turtle’s mouth. Each moving part inside the hidden bed potentially acted as a small digit guillotine.

Amazingly I never noticed any blood stains on the metallic components.

Nobody maintained these parts and they looked mechanically safe. However, the screeching twangs of popping metallic springs and grinding bars, brackets, and bolts emitted a symphony of discord. It sounded kind of like how I feel when I crawl out of bed these days.

Closing the sofa bed back into a couch seriously took on a Herculean effort. As difficult as it was was to open, the closure more than tripled the levels of physiological output. It felt like trying to squeeze, press, and manipulate a kingsize bed inside a crib.

However, when it comes to longevity, this beastly contraption possessed the capacity to outlast lesser furniture construction designs. I think we could have dropped it off the roof of our house and it would have remained unscathed from the fall. Of course, getting it on the roof would have necessitated a crane. Still, it would have been worth the money to see the forces of nature thwarted by human craftsmanship and engineering.

When I knew him, Al Groh dressed in black and gold.

Not so much by choice, but by design. In the mid-1980’s, Coach Groh held the position and title of Head Football Coach, Wake Forest University. Black & Gold represented the university’s official school colors. Al Groh represented the embodiment of a first time division one collegiate head football coach.

I arrived on the Wake Forest campus in July 1985, ready to embark on my academic and athletic life. Yes, I earned a full athletic grant-in-aid scholarship to play football, but the recruitment process stressed the importance of education and how that translated to future success more so than playing a sport. Maybe I wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but that selling point struck a chord with me.

Like all head coaches I’d known, Al Groh represented a man to be feared and admired. Not even 18 years old yet, the last thing I wanted was to draw an angry eye from my head coach. Praise from him reigned down like gold nuggets, while his ire could emotionally impoverish you. They say you play for your teammates, but if the coach doesn’t like what he sees, playing is not an option.

Beyond the gridiron, Coach Groh spoke incessantly.

Not in a jovial, back-slapping kind of way. Not like he always had a funny story to share. He rambled more like a verbose hostage taker. Older players warned the freshman of his Friday night pregame speeches. Nothing in my life prepared me for these orations and the sense of internment they fostered.

Sitting through the talks evolved into a ritualistic rite of passage. At least as redshirt freshmen we received a captive audience reprieve since we did not travel with the team for away games. Besides having five years to complete our degrees, we understood this to be the greatest benefit of a redshirt season.

He literally blathered for well past an hour.

By the end, nobody still listened to the words spilling out of his mouth. The room filled with glazed over eyes and vacant stares. It’s difficult to understand how he didn’t realize he’d lost all of us after the first twenty minutes. Yet he stuck to the same monotonous, communicatively ineffective, droning mantra week after week. It actually became physically painful to listen.

By the end of the second semester each player met individually with Coach Groh in his office. I was not spiritually connected at the time, but I prayed it would not entail the same discomfort of the Fall’s Friday night talks. I took the meeting for its intended purpose – a chance for the head coach to talk some more and for me to nod my head and agree with whatever he said.

But he said something that I never saw coming.

With a wry, crooked smile he told me that academics had nothing to do with my attending Wake Forest University. He said, “Let’s be honest. Football is the only reason you’re here, not school.” Like a dumb 18 year old, I blankly nodded my head.

Technically he was correct. Without a football scholarship I never would have been academically competent or financially able to attend that institution. However, Al Groh sold me on the importance of education and how that would impact the rest of my life. The educational opportunity was just as much a factor in my choosing Wake Forest University as was its football team.

For the first time in my life, l recognized that an adult male I blindly trusted, who held me in subjugation, lied to me. He sold me a bill of goods as a teenager and now slyly acted as if we both always understood what he really meant. I’ll never forget his words or the smug, arrogant look on his face that day.

The couch’s design met a need and was likely a handsome piece back in the 1950’s. However, you’d think coziness would factor in on the design and implementation phase. I don’t think Al Groh is an evil or bad man. However, you’d think honesty and integrity would factor in when dealing with kids. Whether it’s dated couches or deceptive coaches, the whole thing just makes me, well, uncomfortable.

Alcohol, Olives, & Mathematics Define Maritime Success On The Potomac River

March 28, 2022 / Big Joe

Olive consumption isn’t for everyone.

Years ago I thought olives to be the foulest of food groups. Especially black olives. I defined it a vegetable turd. Then I discovered the stuffed green “cocktail” olive. Garlic, jalapeño, red pepper, and blue cheese fillings changed my perspective and palette. These little bastards are delicious! And not just on their own or in martinis.

An old friend introduced me to dropping stuffed olives into an ice cold pint of beer. I know it sounds weird, but this peaceful bombardment is actually a culinary and bartending gem. It adds a certain degree of saltiness and flavor that explodes within its sudsy confines. And bonus, there’s a snack at the bottom of the glass. I love snacks.

I feel like I might owe that old friend something for opening my eyes. However, our lives moved in separate directions. I haven’t seen him or spoken with him in years. No, I am not not an active proponent of social media interactions. If we’re not doing life together in real time, I do not want to pretend we’re still connected because I read something about you on Facebook or Instagram.

Nonetheless, I think of him as the stuffed olives topple over the rim and float to the bottom of my sweaty, frosted glass.

The standard number of olives is two. No particular reason other than I like even numbers. Pairing up is better than going solo. Plus, it’s biblical. If Noah had beer and stuffed olives on the ark, I’m certain he would have dropped two in his glass as well.

This particular night I drink a Sam Adam’s Oktoberfest. It is well past October. This beer deserves better than to be shoved in the back corner of a bar frig. And it deserves to have olives plunked into the pour.

Tonight will require drinking no less than two beers. One is an odd number and this simply will not do. In short order I pour another Oktoberfest ale, add two more olives, and reminisce of another old friend, Ken. Working strictly in pairs is fun mathematics. Two friends, two beers, two olives.

I drank my first beer with Ken.

The first time I entered a strip club, he led the way. He handed me my first cigarette. Ken basically acted as my social director for all vice related activities during high school. I’m pretty sure the first time I had to explain myself to a police officer, Ken stood right next to me. Naturally, he became CPA. That’s otherwise defined as not so fun mathematics.

The floating olives remind me when Ken and I creatively acquired a canoe and tried to paddle across the Potomac River from Virginia to Maryland. Ah, larceny. Another vice to add to the list. I wonder if Ken has a juvenile corruption Excel spreadsheet listing out our antics. He probably files it in a folder named “beyond the statute of limitations”.

The two of us successfully navigate one of the Potomac River’s tributaries, Little Hunting Creek. I define success as not sinking the canoe or drowning. It’s a warm sunny day with hardly a cloud in the sky. Unfortunately it’s also March and rather windy. The creek and river water remain quite cold. I combat the elements with thick cotton sweatpants. Smart choice.

I don’t know why we picked Maryland as our destination, other than it’s there. I don’t even like Maryland. Besides, how might we know if that strange land’s inhabitants will be friendly? That debate became moot as the canoe begins to fill with water halfway across the Potomac.

It’s a mile across the Potomac River between Virginia and Maryland.

We discuss our options. Option one, we try and make it to Maryland, dump out the water, and hope we can paddle back to Virginia without sinking. As Maryland remains a foreign land, we rule out option one. This leaves us with only option two. We redirect the canoe and paddled the ill-gotten vessel back to our motherland. A certain panic level rises with each stroke.

The canoe continues to leak. Cold river water splashes over my hightop Converses. The path along the Virginia shoreline is filled with bicyclers, joggers, and those out for a leisurely walk. I really don’t want these fine people witnessing our canoe sinking and us swimming ashore in March. It would be hard to look too cool after that.

We hit the beach, drag the canoe ashore, and dump out the water.

Instead of river water filling my shoes, a wave of relief washes over me. As I lie there, I realize I’ve never seen somebody canoe across the Potomac. Alongside the shoreline yes, but never in open water amongst the boat traffic. Yet another smart choice. I’d blame Ken, but honestly it seemed like a really good idea at the time.

Such is life. I devour the garlic stuffed olives while I stroke my gray goat-tee and ponder the next beer selection. I grab a multi-colored can. It’s a sour ale. I hate sours. How did this get in my frig? There’s an outside chance that a stuffed olive could redeem its horrid taste, but I’m doubtful. Maybe I can use it to boil shrimp.

I place that can of pasteurized piss water back on the shelf and grab a Shiner Holiday brew. It’s not Christmas, but I’m feeling festive. Another pair of olives take a swim, this time in a Texas ale. It’s always good to swim with a partner. 6 olives and three beers. Mathematics is still fun.

As Ken and I soak in sunlight instead of river water, a pair of college girls begin speaking with us. They saw us paddling in the middle the Potomac. In true Ken fashion, he tells them we attend James Madison University. I don’t even have a driver’s license, much less a college major.

Fear grips me tighter now than it did in the middle of the river.

I have nothing to add to his elaborate fabrication, so I magnificently play the role of the mute friend. I’m shocked they can’t see through his story and put two and two together. I thought college kids were smarter. Mathematics can be confusing, I reason.

But that’s okay. Just like olive consumption, mathematics it isn’t for everyone.

Everything Great In This World Possesses A Nexus To Peanut Butter & Jelly

March 23, 2022 / Big Joe

Peanut butter & jelly go together.

Unless you’re in Australia. They think that’s a disgusting combination. They also believe that Vegemite tastes good. I’m uncertain how they feel about Reese’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups, but to them PB&J is about as palatable as broccoli and beet root ice cream. Disgustingly, somebody, somewhere just thought, yum.

It comes down to personal preference. I put things together that occasionally draw weird looks. This usually involves stares from my wife after getting dressed. Don’t all colors go together? Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what she says, too.

We recently saw an incompatible combo in our neighborhood while out walking our dog. A couple passed us donning clothing with personal statements printed over their chests. The man sported a t-shirt that read “Oregon”. The women wore a t-shirt that said “Peace”. As we passed by each other, my wife commented to them that their shirts didn’t go well together.

I’ve never been to Oregon, but the brochures look nice.

However, I’ve travelled to Washington state and enjoyed the scenery immensely. Nature’s scenery that is. The vagrant encampments that besiege almost every square mile of Seattle were disturbing. That and the volatility associated with so many of their protests. Flipping over cop cars, setting them ablaze, and parading about downtown with stolen police gear is not a peaceful protest.

Other Oregon cities suffered through similar urban discord. I witnessed a whole lot of civil unrest in Portland, thanks to 24/7 news media coverage. I knew a lot of law enforcement officers that responded to Portland to help maintain social order, too.

And from these two sources I know that few Portland and Seattle protests utilized “peace” as a mechanism for social change.

Too bad. Forcing systemic reinvention through random acts of violence will never effectuate positive, lasting reformation. In a nutshell, it just pisses everybody off. The instigator’s rage only increases, along with those targeted. Events spiral downward until the whole crap is flushed into a fetid sewer of brokenness and despair. It’s true. Launching homemade incendiary devices at public infrastructure and those protecting it is never a solution.

Anger begets more anger. Once you’re in the red, it’s tough to hit the brakes, whether you’re the instigator or the targeted. It evolves into a perpetuating circle of foolish, flawed behavior. I understand. I’ve started the fire and I’ve been burned by it, too. Stirring the pot and harmonious accord are at opposite ends of the spectrum. They don’t mix well.

But parents and children do go together.

It doesn’t matter if your kids are toddlers or have toddlers of their own. It doesn’t matter if your parents are active and vibrant, or declining and decrepit. There’s always a bond. Sometimes strained, but a connection still exists. Even if it’s on life support. This belief made a hospital’s recent decision all the more baffling to me.

Our 20 year old daughter underwent surgery. As parents, we both wanted to be there with her. After all, parents and children go together. The hospital only allowed one parent inside with her because she was over 18. If she was under 18, we could have both entered the facility.

Why?

Covid, of course. Due to preposterous pandemic protocols both parents are allowed entry into the hospital if the child is still a minor. If the child is a legal adult, only one parent can be admitted inside the hospital. I considered arguing that she’s still a minor when it comes to alcohol possession and consumption.

Logically, we could both be admitted inside the hospital under this specific legal definition of a minor. Unfortunately, logic had absolutely nothing to do with it. If I’d presented my case, I’m sure hospital staff may have droned on about policy and missed the whole irony of the situation. Apparently my wife and I are far more likely to carry and/or transmit Covid-19 based upon the age of our children as opposed to vaccination status, health condition, or social precautions. Who knew?

Legal professionals, probably.

The doctors and nurses do not make up these ridiculous rules. Medicine is no longer dictated by people who actually attended medical school and blossomed as medical professionals. These things, among many others, are decided by medical corporation compliance & review personnel.

That sounds reasonable. Compliance & review. We need to make sure we’re all following the rules all of the time, right? This is not taught in medical school, though. Fortunately, it is taught in law school. Thank God we involved lawyers in the process.

Nothing against lawyers. My father went to law school. He spent the majority of his adult life working within the legal field in one capacity or another. He also spent the majority of his retired life reminiscing on his professional titles. The job defined him. It was the most treasured part of his life.

My family is the most treasured part of my life.

My wife and I just wanted to be there for our daughter. Together. Initially, we planned for me to wait inside the hospital. A good plan until momma bear had to leave her baby cub. Even if your kid is an “adult”, you want to be there. At least we did. Fortunately, the hospital allowed us to tag team. I did pre-op and my wife did post-op.

When you wake up and feel like dog excrement, mom is likely a more welcome sight than dad. I might have used some cliche youth sports adages and said something supportive like, “suck it up buttercup” or “pain is just weakness leaving your body”. I would not have scored high on the nurture scale.

Most importantly, though, we kept together what was meant to be together.

Both parents were part of the surgical process, despite the perpetuators of pandemic perpetuity. And I found a way to be more nurturing. Our daughter’s medical team directed her to fast 8 hours before surgery. I fasted as well. Solidarity, baby.

In so doing, I’ve built up a healthy appetite for dinner tonight. Luckily, my wife is an excellent cook. But maybe we’ll just whip up some peanut butter & jelly sandwiches.

If The Masculine Shoe Fits The Foolish Man

March 12, 2022 / Big Joe

I don’t run 10K’s anymore.

A hip replacement last summer put all doubt to rest. The hip doc said he occasionally allows his hardcore distance runners to jog a couple miles a day. That’s ok. I was never that class of runner and I haven’t competed in years. I miss the commemorative t-shirts more than the actual running.

I ran my first race in May 1993 in Fairfax Virginia. Dubbed the second annual Fritzbe’s Restaurant 10K, I edged my way inside the growing pre-start crowd of runners. Somewhere in front of me lies the starting line, obscured by the masses. Where I begin doesn’t matter. I do not expect to compete for a medal today or set any land speed records. I have two goals. Finish the race and do it in less than 60 minutes. The final results are all that matters.

I trained for today by myself and occasionally with my roommate Chris. Unlike me, Chris is an endurance freak. At 6’5” 240 pounds, he can outrun and out lift everybody I know. He possesses the odd combination of being able to pump iron with the meat heads and run with the marathoners. When he learned I planned to run this race, he immediately signed up and began training with me. My pace is painfully slow for him. I’m pretty sure he can walk faster.

We’re surrounded by every imaginable type of runner. Tall people, short people, skinny people, fat people, young people, and old people. Some look like professionals. Some look like they have no idea what they are doing. I own a pair of Brooks running shoes. Other than that, I look like another oafish participant hoping not to tie up my feet with some hapless runner after the starting gun fires.

As I bounce on the balls of my feet, anticipating the crack of the gun, Chris gets my attention. He asks if it’s okay to run his pace and not with me. I see the competitive look in his eyes and know that it’s not really a question, but a statement.

I prepared for this race by running 6 miles on Mondays, 4 miles on Fridays, and 2 miles for time on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Chris often ran on Mondays with me, but I’d done it alone, too. I felt prepared to finish the race with him or without him. I put in the effort and finishing in under an hour is all that matters.

I nod to him and say absolutely. No sooner do the words pass my lips, the starting gun sounds. We’re literally off and running. The first thing I see is Chris’s back as he knifes his way through the field of competitors. Within minutes he’s gone.

Apple music does not exist in 1993.

iPhones do not exist in 1993. iPods do not exist in 1993. Al Gore is still yet to invent the internet. All I hear in my head is my own breathing. I could have lugged my Walkman cassette player, but opted out since I had a partner to run with. Had is now the key word.

The crowd and I haven’t run more than half a mile and everybody seems to pass me. I feel compelled to run faster, but a coworker previously warned me not to get caught in the herd mentality of the race. I stay determined and go my pace, disregarding the competitive instinct to keep up. A 10 year old boy plods past me, wearing hightop basketball shoes. It’s early, but that visual concerns me.

A couple of months ago, I share my race plans with some married friends, Norm and Anthula. I tell Norm I want to finish the race in under an hour. He laughs and says even Anthula could run a 10K in under an hour. He doesn’t mean to be condescending to his wife. She’s not an avid runner. Norm could run like a deer. He couldn’t fathom not making it in 60 minutes. Having zero race experience, I know that going over the time is a possibility for me.

Each kilometer of the race is marked out.

However, I am not wearing a watch. I have no idea if I’m on pace to finish in under an hour. As I approach the 5K mark, I can hear distant cheering from the finish line direction. The fastest runners are completing the race. I respect them and hate them, all within the same gasping breath.

The best runners could run around a 5 minute mile pace for the 10K duration. That places the time at roughly 30 minutes. I decide there’s too much margin for error with my current pace. I slightly pick up my cadence and trudge forward. One foot after another.

Water stations are sporadically placed throughout the course. Even though I’m not thirsty, grabbing a drink seems like the thing to do. I snatch a paper cup from a jovial volunteer. Instead of rehydrating, I inhale the majority of the contents. I choke and cough up water, hoping the gag reflex doesn’t prompt a vomiting episode. I survive, but make a mental note that water is no longer my friend.

The course is covered in hills. One big incline after another. Fortunately, each hill has an equally impressive decline. But I loathe running up hills. I adopt a new strategy and begin running faster while on the incline. On the declines I slow my pace and regain composure.

Some of the people I pass on the uphills, pass me on the declines. I probably look funny, but shortening my time on the uphills psychologically motivates me. I feel like I’m conquering the hard part quicker. By the 7K mark I’m certain that Chris stands on the other side of the finish line.

As I pass the 8K mark, I see a familiar sight.

It’s hightop boy. He runs noticeably slower and he appears to be struggling. I don’t know if I ever passed any of the other early race participants that streamed by me, but this one I clearly remember. I stride by him and snicker to myself. Who’s going to finish with a better time now, I smugly think. I’m 80% done with my first race and I’m already turning into a 10K douchebag.

I pick up the pace as my adrenaline rises, knowing that the finish line is so close. I still have no idea where I sit for time, but I do recognize the need to push through. The hills are over and it’s a fairly flat course to the finish line. Once I see the end point, I run as fast as my legs will allow. Unfortunately, this is not a significant increase in speed.

I cross the line and record a time of 58 minutes and 32 seconds. From a running perspective, that sucks. But it was under my goal time, so that’s great. After all, I’m not a real runner, just somebody who owns the shoes.

The great part about a bar and grill sponsoring the race is the mass quantity of food and drinks at the end. Sure it’s only 9AM, but it’s the weekend and all of this is free for participants. Oddly I find beer does not go down well after running a 10K. But that’s fine. The bloody Mary’s were far more palatable.

After woofing down a couple of burgers and pushing my vegetable intake through tomato juice and vodka, I spot hightop boy. He made it and doesn’t look too worse for wear. He probably looks better than I do. I want to go toast him and share a drink, but like I said, he’s 10 years old and his parents will likely disapprove.

Still, it’s good to see he made it. I bet he could care less about his time. For God sake, he ran a 10K in hightop basketball shoes! My feet, knees, and back ache just thinking about it. The time never really mattered. Under 60 minutes was a random goal I made up. It was more to shore up my sense of masculinity after Norm’s comment. The results were the results. The only thing that really mattered was the effort.

The Mighty, Mighty World of Ultimate Randomness

March 6, 2022 / Big Joe

Randomness is so freaking, well, random.

To counter its occurrence, I instill a defense known as routine. Routine requires preparation. Preparation reduces random events from altering my day. I convince myself this to be a truth. Truths comfort and reassure me. I’m simple like that.

This day, like most, I begin with routine. My wife, Janet, and I sit on the couch and sip hot black coffee in the predawn hours, as the sky slowly turns orange and red with the rising sun. We do this almost every morning. By 8am I’m prepared to workout at the gym, shower, and continue on to my office. This is my morning routine. It’s almost ritualistic. Randomness be damned.

10 minutes into my workout I receive a text. I usually disregard random text messages until I’m sitting in the sauna after the workout. However, this text tone belongs to my son, Cole. He is not an avid early morning communicator. Unease sets in due to this randomness. Deciding to read it now without my glasses, I squint and strain my eyes.

I feel a certain sense of trepidation.

I received a random call from Cole his senior year of high school on prom night. Some emotions and feelings ran high and by the early morning hours I picked him up from a random school parking lot. For some reason that stupid night sticks in my mind. It shouldn’t because it was such an uncharacteristic, loopy, out of the blue event. Wildly random, you might say.

Sitting on the abdominal crunch machine, I read Cole’s text. All good news. He shares his acceptance into a summer internship program with the American Bankers Association in Washington, DC. He’s pumped at the opportunity to work in economic research. I’m thrilled he will spend the summer working in a field directly related to his academic studies. I’m also elated to receive random good news.

Knowing things can happen in pairs, I ready myself for randomness to rain down more positivity.

I happily finish my exercise routine and head to the sauna. After 30 minutes in the 180 degree heat, a puddle of sweat pools between my feet on the wooden slats. I gather my shoes and step toward the sauna’s exit. As I reach the door, my phone begins to ring.

I glance down to see that my daughter is FaceTiming me. Unlike Cole, Anna is a morning communicator. I press answer, excited for more good news from my kids. Instead of her usual smiling, happy face, I see a distressed, teary-eyed daughter. Instantaneously, I feel randomness kick me in the gut.

Anna is not a frivolous crier.

I saw her cry after she launched her sled off of a retaining wall, breaking her arm. I saw her cry after her cousin died in a car accident. I saw her cry after her relationship with her first boyfriend ended. I saw her cry tears of joy when she and high school teammates won the volleyball state championship.

These are not happy tears rolling down her cheeks. I secretly hope it’s related to some silly, emotionally charged, inane topic that I can quickly dismiss. However, I know right away that this is serious. Even a semi-clueless father like me can pick up on the obvious signs.

Choking through tears, she tells me how she landed on a teammate’s foot at the end of volleyball practice. She says her left knee collapsed inward, resulting with a painful fall to the court. She says she can walk on it, but the knee is already swelling. The trainers and the team doctor fear it’s an ACL injury. They take her immediately to get an MRI. For the next several hours we all hold our collective breaths.

Not knowing is the worst.

Whoever says ignorance is bliss should be pistol whipped. Not knowing is maddening. Waiting is maddening. Thinking about how an inch or two can make such a dramatic impact is maddening. Randomness is maddening.

Volleyball players jump a gazillion times in their careers and almost never does it result in significant knee injuries. Players land next to each other’s feet all of the time, in practices and in games. This is a rare occurrence. This should not have happened. She just transferred here 6 weeks ago. It’s hard to fathom the randomness of the news.

By now I sit in my office, trying to distract myself with work. My efforts are largely unsuccessful. My wife, Janet, works from home, but starts pacing the house, worrying about her baby girl. We share the bad news with Cole, but nobody else. After enough anxiety builds, Janet decides to make a random run to a grocery store.

While sitting at a traffic light, Janet catches movement in her peripheral vision. She glances over to see a redhead wildly waiving her arms. It is Anna’s best friend, Gabrielle. Janet tells Gabrielle to follow her to the grocery store. Once they’re at the store, Janet unloads the bad news.

I believe Janet needed to share the news with somebody. She needed to vent, to hug, and shed a tear or two. Gabrielle, being Anna’s best friend, really couldn’t have been a better choice. It couldn’t have happened at a better time. And they couldn’t have met in a better place. It turns out the store sells chocolate covered almonds. Chocolate is the gold-standard stress reliever for my wife.

Funny thing, Gabrielle should have been at college in North Carolina.

However, she decided to sit out the spring semester and transfer schools in the fall. While in academic limbo, she received a random jury duty notification. Today, she appeared at the county courthouse to fulfill her random civic service. She was randomly dismissed this afternoon. Gabrielle randomly drove to the same traffic light as my wife. And she randomly spotted Janet in the car next to hers.

I want to dismiss sad news and disappointment as random acts of bad luck. When considering how absolutely random it is for Janet and Gabrielle to end up at the same location, on this particular day, at the same time, makes me say that absolutely nothing is actually random. It innately feels like an organized plan. No doubt, a plan more intricate and involved than this feeble minded father can comprehend. But that’s ok. I’ll rely on faith.

Later this night my daughter hosts a college volleyball transfer recruit. By this point, Anna received the MRI results. The injury will require surgical repair. Not what we wanted to hear, but the medical and training staff at the University of Iowa went above and beyond. The recruit is amazed how quickly and efficiently Iowa handles Anna’s injury. The recruit says that would have never happened at her current university. The recruit commits to Iowa the next day.

How random.

Or planned.

Something Broken , Something Fixed, Something Ignored, Something Nixed

February 28, 2022 / Big Joe

That annoying rattle sounded more on the passenger side of our 2013 Nissan Pathfinder.

In hindsight, maybe I should have put some personal effort into finding the source of the noise. But the car needed new tires. And the original shocks and struts still remained on the Nissan at 133,000 miles. These worn out parts were definitely the culprits behind that irritating front end noise. Did I mention that I’m not an automotive mechanic?

That didn’t really matter, though. I knew trusted automotive mechanics and they always shot me a fair price. More than once I’d run the car by their shop after a dealership quoted a litany of repair items. Almost always, my guys refuted their claims or could fix what needed repair for far less than the dealership’s inflated estimate. If it ain’t worn out or broke, don’t fix it.

Some broken things should remain broken, though. I have a pair of prescription sunglasses. Well, they used to be a pair until the right arm broke off the frame. They originally broke 14 months into a 12 month warranty. After that repair, they broke again 10 months later. Repair work is not warrantied. Not for 12 months, 12 days, or 12 minutes. Go figure. Walmart Vision is not too big on their handiwork. My eyes can just squint while I drive the Pathfinder.

Some things stay broken because people learned how to benefit from it. Too often this occurs with workplace policies and procedures. There’s nothing more inspiring than listening to a seasoned manager continue to instill a dysfunctional policy, solely based on the fact that they had to go through it. Perpetuating moronic procedures despite the idiocy of a flawed standard sounds more like mental illness than leadership. Way to be brave, think outside of the box, and effectuate positive change.

Sometimes people claim brokenness when in fact everything works fine.

Just ask Joe Rogan. His podcast is a simple format. He brings in one person and talks directly with them for 2-3 hours. The conversations can go all sorts of different directions. Nobody really tries to control it or force a specific narrative. It’s literally two people shooting the breeze about whatever comes to mind. Obviously the guest brings subject matter expertise to the conversation, but they’re never restricted to speaking about just that.

A December podcast guest, Dr. Peter McCullough, made controversial comments regarding Covid-19. As Peter spoke, I caught myself thinking, “well, I don’t know if I believe that.” This happened a few times during the podcast. I listened, nonetheless, because it was interesting and a good way to break up a long car ride, whether I agreed with him or not. Even Joe Rogan questioned some of the things he mentioned.

But that’s ok. Free speech grants people the ability to speak openly about a myriad of topics and express their opinions, thoughts, or professional beliefs. That’s America at its best. But then, the bad hippies came along. First Neil Young, not surprisingly followed by Crosby, Stills, & Nash, along with Joni Mitchell. They decided to collectively silence “The Joe Rogan Experience” through threats and coercion. What happened to make love, not war? Nothing was broke, but they were determined to fix it anyway.

Why do I call them bad hippies? Because they were the tip of the spear in the 1960’s counter culture movement. It was all about the ability to express one’s beliefs, no matter what “the man” said. They wrote and sang songs about freedom and rising above governmental bureaucracies and corporate America. Everybody’s voice mattered and counted.

And now these bad hippies want to censor a man for practicing free speech and open dialogue. Nobody got hurt on “The Joe Rogan Experience”, emotionally, physically, or otherwise. And Joe Rogan never insisted his listeners believe everything his guest proclaimed. He just wanted to have an interesting conversation. Nevertheless, the bad hippies wanted to use their questionable popularity to discontinue a specific podcast. Couldn’t they just change the channel?

Hello people, that’s called censorship.

Old Neil says he doesn’t want to censor Joe, but rather ban him from Spotify. Huh? Neil, Joni, David, Stephen, and Graham might as well follow up this attack with a book burning tour. I suppose if you’re an egotistically fragile celebrity, its unsettling to have someone more popular than you permeate the airwaves with differing ideas. Funny thing, Joe Rogan’s probably a lot more liberal than he is conservative. The left has gone so far from center that Rogan and Bill Maher sound like the right.

I understand, though, getting caught up in the moment and taking it too far. Back in the day, my oldest brother jacked around with me and one of my friends while we played on the Atari. That’s defined as stone age gaming. Being large, brutish teenagers, we took acceptation to his taunts and put a beat down on him. It was intended as good old fashioned rough housing, but we cracked a few ribs. When I say we, I believe it was mostly me. Oops. Fortunately some broken things heal.

It’s not like the aftermath of divorce and broken families. When my parents divorced in 1981, my father moved to California with his new wife. I suppose even back then, people ran away to the west coast when they wanted to escape reality and live a different life. Not that I’m bitter. I’m really not. I was the forgotten last kid and still a minor at home. My mother was traded in for a younger model. Hippies did it all the time.

Not everybody “fixes” a broken marriage or broken family. My mother remained stuck. She was not a fixer. She could have done something cathartic, like pour gasoline on her wedding dress and strike a match. That didn’t happen. She could have sold it and made a few bucks. That didn’t happen either. She never even took off her wedding ring. She wore that stupid rock on the same finger for the next 35+ years. She died with it on. Broken things can debilitate when they’re not fixed.

After a few days, I got the Nissan back.

New tires, new shocks, and new struts. Thanks to oil prices, Covid-19 (the great catch-all excuse), and supply chain issues (I like that one a lot too), tires are almost double what they were a year ago. I got a rebate for the old ones, but the final bill was not cheap. However, the fixes were necessary.

As I drove away from the repair shop, I heard that same familiar front end rattle. I thought of turning around, but I knew if there was a larger mechanical issue making this sound, my guys would have found it. I went home and parked the car in the garage, unwilling to deal with the noise.

A few days later I pulled the car out of the garage. I crawled underneath and looked for anything loose or flopping around. Nothing. I looked under the hood. Nothing. Then I crammed my head into the wheel well. A plastic shroud hung askew. Three plastic clips held it in place and one was missing.

I didn’t have a similar clip and there were no threads to run a screw through it. Having no other means of securing the loose plastic shroud, I decided to try a small zip tie. I easily slid the tie through the plastic and ratcheted it tight to the frame. Everything looked secured.

I drove the Pathfinder around the neighborhood for a couple of miles, intently listening for that annoying front end rattle. I heard nothing. After spending about $2300, the initial source of my automotive concern was repaired with a .03 cent zip tie. Some fixes are so obvious, we miss them while chasing after complicated answers.

Is It All A Big Deal?

February 19, 2022 / Big Joe

The supermarket is my favorite shopping venue.

Why? Because it’s full of food and I love food. Plus, I’m a self-defined bargain grocery shopper. I love getting the best deals on my favorite culinary items. I clip paper coupons and download digital savings. I’m borderline obsessed with it. Starting Wednesday, I can buy 18 count eggs for .97 cents. That’s a good deal.

Additionally, I will dine this evening at Pizza Ranch, a highly coveted buffet. A now retired co-worker first introduced me to this gem while we temporarily worked in Sioux Falls, SD. He basically described it as the creme de la creme destination for the chronically obese and glutton obsessed. He wasn’t wrong.

One could successfully argue that buffets are all the same. Sneeze guards, semi-cleaned plates, and a growing horde of type II diabetes patrons. However, Pizza Ranch produces a wide range of choices beyond pizza. Potentially, one could eat healthy if they made the correct choices.

Until recently, no Pizza Ranches existed in Colorado. I relied solely on my memory. With limited exposure, my cravings increasingly heightened my desire to revisit the establishment. Tonight I will drive 82 miles to Pueblo just to re-experience this gastrointestinal treat. Pizza Ranch is a big deal.

Ironically, my wife and I are watching what we eat.

Starting January 2, we basically went Paleo. Our diets consist mainly of meats, fruits, and vegetables. That’s not to say that we don’t have occasional indulgences. We do, just not too often or too much. Besides dropping a few lbs, I’m shooting for better overall numbers. Things like blood pressure, cholesterol levels/ratios, blood glucose, and A1C scores. If we don’t watch our diets, we may end up looking like Pizza Ranch regulars.

Tonight will be a test of will. I prepared my body leading up to the buffet-fest. After Super Bowl Sunday, I’m back to paleo, hitting the gym, and intermittent fasting. They say you can’t outrun a fork. I hope, short term, that’s a false claim. Besides, I don’t eat pizza with a fork.

Typically, my wife and I have each other’s back in the battle of the buffet. However, she’s out of town this week. Did I not mention that? Oh, that must have slipped my mind. Ah, the flesh is weak, especially around the midsection. Let’s just call this one of those indulgences I mentioned earlier. Not to mention, we already lost a combined 25lbs. That’s a big, fat deal.

Still, we want to set good examples for our children, dietary and otherwise.

Neither child struggles with weight issues. Plus, they kick butt in the classroom. We let them know early on that we expected A’s. Neither son nor daughter disappointed. Both graduated high school in the upper echelons of their respective classes. Both continue to excel academically at the collegiate level. Their big brains come from my wife. I’m tall. Their height comes from me. We all have our roles to play.

My daughter recently transferred universities. She followed her volleyball coach to the Big 10 conference. If you follow college volleyball at all, the Big 10 is arguably the best conference in the nation. She still kills it academically. But make no mistake, she’s passionate about her sport, too. My son plans on attending graduate school. He talks about economics, math, and computer science as if I understand what he’s saying. Fortunately, he also talks with his sister and mother about these things. Remember, the big brains came from my wife. He is tall, though. More importantly, he’s also passionate about his life’s direction. Passion is a big deal, too.

Naturally, this brings us back to Pizza Ranch.

Not because I’m passionate about pizza. Well, I can be. But I needed to deliver some post-retirement paperwork to my former coworker. He suggested meeting at Pizza Ranch. I naturally jumped at the opportunity. Not because of their Tuesday kid’s discount or senior early bird specials. There was a cause for celebration. Their 10 year old grandson made the academic honor roll for the first time in his life.

Lots of kids probably do that on a regular basis. My kids did. My wife probably did as well. I, however, was in the half of the academic class that made the first half possible. It was not until my final 3 years of college that I finally made the honor roll. It took me that long to figure out how to effectively apply myself and execute. Their grandson clearly discovered the “secret sauce” to academic success far earlier. However, there is a gigantic difference. He’s autistic. For him, making the honor roll is a huge deal.

To complicate the matter, his mother was born with some cognitive dysfunction. She’s able to live on her own and hold down a job, but it’s not easy for her. The grandson’s father is not in the picture in any capacity. And there’s a twin sister. Double the work for mom, who’s not always the best equipped to handle it.

As grandparents they really perform a great deal of the parental functions.

Interestingly the grandkids refer to my retired coworker as dad and his wife as grandma. He said he gets some funny looks at youth sporting events and school functions when other parents hear that exchange. But they just roll with it. He’s the only father figure the grandkids know. It doesn’t seem to bother him one bit. I think he likes being called dad.

If you have kids, you can appreciate the gravity of this commitment. Imagine you’re multiple years removed from raising your children. Suddenly and unexpectedly, there’s a new set of twins in the picture. The father is MIA and the mother struggles to function emotionally, socially, and, to a degree, mentally as an adult.

Your retirement plans just changed. For them, this means 8 more years. At that point, both grandchildren will hopefully graduate from high school. As I’ve learned, that doesn’t necessarily mean parenting is over, but at least the grandkids will be able to spread their wings and fly. They love the grandkids and will do whatever is necessary for them to thrive. That’s generational commitment. And it’s a humongous deal.

So I went to the supermarket this morning to capitalize on my .97 cent eggs. Oddly, they were marked at the regular price of $1.99. After perusing the weekly adds, I realized that the egg deal is not effective until tomorrow. I came early to the grocery store to avoid later crowds and snag my precious grade A extra larges before the soccer moms depleted the shelves. Such is life. I’ll come back tomorrow. They’ll still be here. It’s no big deal.

Damn You, Change…Maybe

February 12, 2022 / Big Joe

My dog is lumpy.

Not in a cancerous, on death’s doorstep kind of way, but she is old. Benign growths periodically crop up on Gigi’s aging body. She doesn’t seem to care. Our vet says they’re just ugly, nothing harmful. Still, our cute, former five pound puppy is 11 years old and five times heavier than she was in her youth. And lumpier. Things change, whether I want them to or not.

Gigi is the second pet I’ve ever owned. The first was a stray cat my brother Bill unexpectedly brought home one night. She was completely white from nose to tail, with the exception of a faint black spot in the middle of her forehead. It looked as if she crawled under a car and slightly brushed her head against a stained oil pan. We named her Cleo.

Bill wasn’t far removed from high school and I was in the latter parts of grade school. Bill was closest in age to me at 11 years older. My sister Liz was 15 years older than me and Bob, the oldest, was 18 years older. Bob and Liz no longer lived at home, while Bill remained in the house, struggling to find his place in the world. I had siblings, but I felt more of an only child.

I was clearly the only planned pregnancy of the group. Why else would my parents have a baby in their forties when the oldest was beginning college? Things change, often times unexpectedly.

As a kitten, Cleo screeched at night. During the day she peed and pooped inside the house. I took on the chores of feeding the feline and enforcing litter box usage. Not that cats need it, but I also did my best to keep her brushed and well groomed.

Cleo quickly became my pet.

This responsibility did not actually entail much effort on my part. Cleo was an outdoor cat. After eating breakfast she remained outside until dinner. After eating again, she returned to the great suburban outdoors and happily stayed there until I rattled the handle on the back screen door. Upon hearing that noise she’d eventually scamper up the back steps and stay the night for a sleepover.

Since she spent most of her day unsuccessfully chasing squirrels and birds, keeping the litter box odor free and tidy was not a monumental task. Maybe a once a month endeavor at best. My main job was to rip open the packet of foul smelling cat food twice a day and give her water. That and be her friend while she was on the “inside”. I played with her, petted her, and provided her safe refuge at night. Cleo slept on my bed, usually somewhere near my feet so she could randomly attack them when they moved under the covers. It was our ritual.

Another ritual in my house entailed my father maintaining a separate residence with his mistress.

Of course I knew nothing of the affair and only learned about it over a decade later from my oldest brother, Bob. This explained my father’s protracted domestic absences, although my mother insisted it pertained to work related travel. This made perfect sense, maybe even to her. He simply wasn’t around much. Interestingly, I never questioned why he showed up at the house on Christmas morning and then abruptly left before noon. Didn’t everybody’s dad do that on December 25th?

But at least I had Cleo. She was a constant, always there. I’m sure she occasionally ventured outside the confines of our semi-rotted split rail fence that enclosed the backyard. However, I often spotted her on our long concrete patio in the sun, lurking around the giant cedar tree for the elusive squirrel, or inquisitively eyeing the multitude of birds that perched in the back fruit trees and along the vines holding red and white grapes.

And there was also a pine tree, tucked far away in the back left corner of the property. That pine tree was special. Every first grade student at Waynewood Elementary School received a pine sapling to plant. I suppose that back corner was out of the way enough as not to deter from the apple, peach, plum, pear, and persimmon trees that populated our backyard. Cleo didn’t venture there too much, but that was just as well.

Fascinatingly, after four or five years, I possessed the only sapling from my class that survived and grew into an actual pine tree.

Perhaps my mother fertilized the soil or added nutrients to its base without my knowledge. Regardless, I know I did nothing but admire its perseverance and will to live. That and shake the snow from its branches in the winter.

I don’t believe Cleo ever gave that pine a second thought. Her interests lay in patrolling her domain, eating her Friskies, and sleeping on my bed. Cleo typically rose before me. I know this because she woke me almost every morning by licking my face. It was like a small, wet piece of sandpaper rubbing my cheek for 3 straight years. Sometimes things change very little, if at all.

One particular morning, I woke first and saw Cleo lift her front leg and place it over her eyes to block out the morning sunlight shining through the front bedroom dormer window. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen a dog or cat do that before or since. For a 3 year-old cat, she had personality. It made me forget about those toe bites through the blanket and sheets.

She was my cat and I was her human.

Later that same day, my brother Bill received a phone call from a neighbor that lived directly behind us. A white cat had been hit by a car and was lying in their front yard. We went to check it out and brought a bag. There were other white cats in the neighborhood. I’d never even seen Cleo cross a road. Why’d we bring a bag, again?

When we approached the cat I saw a faint black mark on the cat’s forehead. I literally felt my heart sink into my stomach. She was just lying on my bed a few hours ago with her front leg drawn over her eyes. I still had bites marks on my toes. Now Cleo lay lifeless in my neighbor’s front lawn.

All of my grandparents passed away by the time I was a toddler. I have no memory of them. This was my first taste of death. To say it sucked is woefully insufficient. I know it was just a cat, but not then. I felt like I’d lost one of my closest friends. I buried her in the one place that also meant something special to me, directly under my ever surviving pine tree. Things change, sometimes suddenly.

By the time I reached junior high school, my parents divorced. People told me that it was not my fault. I thought that was the oddest thing I’d ever heard. It never entered my mind that I was to blame. My father was hardly ever around, so divorce was just a new title on the same old thing. The house sold in the divorce and my mom and I moved to a smaller home not too far away. New place, new single mom in her fifties.

Years later I found myself back in the old neighborhood. I was in high school, it was late at night, and my friends and I had been drinking beer. Trespassing seemed like the next logical step. I cut down the side of the front yard where Bill and I found Cleo years ago. I raced through their property and hopped the fence into my former back yard.

The new owners had changed so much landscaping.

The once crowded space, now completely opened up. The majority of the fruit trees that populated the back lawn were gone. The fence with the red and white grapevines was gone. The old shed was gone. Even that big, beautiful cedar tree was gone.

And to my horror, so was my pine tree. Why did they uproot and kill the only surviving sapling from the Waynewood Elementary 1973 1st grade class? Did they not appreciate its historical context? Did they not fathom the trees ability to overcome the odds and thrive? Did they desecrate Cleo’s gravesite, as well? Things change, even when it seems wrong.

Both of my parents passed away within the last 7 years. Even Bill succumbed to lung cancer a decade ago. It’s weird to think about it, but half of my immediate family, growing up, are dead. Four, if you count Cleo.

And of course my dog, Gigi, is still lumpy. Interestingly, Gigi is mostly white with brindle spots. Cleo would have certainly approved. Lumps and all. I suggested “lumpy” as a new nickname for her, but my wife vetoed that suggestion. That particular thing will stay the same.

Prostate Panic at the Procto!

August 11, 2021 / Big Joe

An impending physical medical exam leaves little to be desired. Its draw lessens if predicated by outside forces, such as employment requirements, life insurance mandates, or a nagging spouse. Nobody wants to allow another human being to intimately explore their body without the premise it will, at least, be an enjoyable experience for oneself. Take away the happy ending possibilities and what’s left?

Perhaps patiently waiting for the violations to cease while lying naked and prostrate on a cold, steel gurney like some hapless, lone stargazer snatched away by anatomically curious space aliens, no doubt.

For some of you, that probably sounds like a fond, collegiate memory. But trust me, you are an anomaly and quite possibly a danger to yourself, although likely the life of the party in certain social circles. To each his own, c’est la vie, text me the pics, whatever.

O.K., so I’m really only talking about a routine physical exam, nothing overly invasive like a colonoscopy. I’ve never had a colonoscopy, but I hear they’re all the rage. Any procedure that involves sedation because medical professionals plan to shove the space shuttle up your rectum and your lucidity may trigger violent opposition, sounds like a riot. I’ll save that experience for my cellie during a lengthy prison sentence. I’m sure he’ll appreciate that I saved myself for him and not thrown myself at every proctologist in town, like some anal floozy.

I don’t have some mild fascination with buttholes, but the thought of a prostate exam, while nowhere near as likely to cause post-traumatic stress disorder like a colonoscopy, still ranks as the number one feared procedure for men during a physical exam. At least it does for this man.

I’m not sure if it’s driving the wrong way on a one-way road, or the person behind the wheel. I suppose a cute Asian, female doctor with small, slender fingers, ranks much higher than an intern who worked his way through medical school packing sausages, all the while sporting Rob Gronkowski sized hands. Maybe that’s just me. Gronk does have a buttload of fans.

If a doctor peers down my throat, gazes inside my ear canal, or slides a stethoscope over my chest, we’re in the green zone.

The green zone is comfortable, safe. Nobody gets too shook while living in the green zone. Your modesty is never in question. That all changes when somebody’s grandfather, draped in a coffee-stained white lab coat decides it’s time to finger your anal cavity. However, that’s two zones ahead. Please allow me to regress (I refrained from saying pullout).

The next phase is obviously the yellow zone, for those of us who drive in a post-industrial world. In the yellow zone, cautionary instincts arise and we begin to feel more vulnerable, exposed. This is mostly true for men because we’ve dropped our pants somewhere between our knees and ankles. We’re in no real danger per se, but the hairs on the back of our necks illicit our primordial attention that centers on protecting one’s reproductive junk. That and a cool breeze from the AC vents rolling over our genitalia.

I don’t know why, but it’s just fun to say genitalia. See, that was fun and I’m only typing it. Just randomly saying nipples is a close second. It might be number one for you. Let me know which you prefer. I honestly would like to know.

So, back to the yellow zone.

Do we slow down for this phase or hit the gas and fishtail our way through the intersection with reckless urgency? I mean, we’re exposing body parts normally only shared during personal, intimate moments with people specifically of our own choosing.

I would imagine a OB/GYN examine for women is a similar experience. It’s a necessary, precautionary evil, but at the end of the day how would I really know if we’re comparing apples to apples? I’m just another idiot man who keeps his eyes straight ahead, waiting to be told to turn and cough. Don’t look down. It’s generally a man fondling your nuts!

Now we enter the red zone, aka the prostate exam.

Let’s be perfectly clear, here. Entering the red zone should cause a reasonable person to stop and ponder, “Do I really need to do this?” I once had a doc tell me he wasn’t going to send me flowers or call me back right before doing the old fashioned finger test. Although I was disappointed with his stated lack of followup, he was honest with his intentions. I changed doctors anyway. At the least he could have pumped in some Barry White, lit a candle, and set the mood.

There is an exit from the red zone, however. They could perform a prostate-specific antigen (PSA) test that avoids the awkward digital insertion, if you feel the relationship with your doctor isn’t quite ready to go to that next level. A lab simply analyzes your blood, looking for the protein. Easy, right?

Wrong! The test is wrought with false positives and false negatives. Plus, it costs more! So, basically it’s unreliable and hits you harder in the wallet. Maybe you should just take the hit a few inches over and know for sure.

I firmly believe that Chevy Chase epitomized the prostate exam in the iconic movie, “Fletch”.

If you haven’t seen “Fletch”, promptly exit this page and immediately download, buy, rent, or steal this movie. It’s an absolute classic and a must see, especially if you’re not sure of what to expect regarding your imminent medical probe. While you’re at it, go to iTunes and download a version of “Moon River”. Both are classics, and they meld together beautifully for one cinematic moment.

But if you can’t view “Fletch” before your Dr. Jelly Finger visit (Fletch reference), don’t worry. The medical profession knows how to set you at ease. You know, “just relax Mr. Davis and place your elbows on the exam table”. Now I can definitely relax while leaning over, maybe even resting quasi-comfortably on my elbows. However, when I’m not wearing pants and a gloved finger is getting lubed with KY directly behind me, relaxation goes out the window.

Why can’t we repeat the 1980’s drug campaign slogan and “just say no”? Well, you know what? It was actually that damn easy.

As it turns out, the doctors don’t want to perform the exam any more than we want to receive it.

I suppose a proctologist, who’s made the study of anal sphincters their life’s passion, is an eager and proactive prostate pusher. Maybe even a urologist or two. Not so much for general practitioners.

So when the doc said it was up to me, I knew I’d been granted a reprieve. I’m pretty sure I detected a fleeting expression of relief on the doctor’s face, too.

So for one more year I can avoid the awkward, post insertion exchange of tissues followed by the hasty wiping of lube from my butt cheeks. At least in a clinical setting. I’m kidding, you alien abducted perv.

How Marijuana, Money, & the Man Determine Dietary Decisions

August 9, 2021 / Big Joe

In 1970, the U.S. government classified marijuana as a scheduled I controlled substance, thereby making its manufacture, distribution, dispensation, or possession a federal crime. However, in recent years 18 states and the District of Columbia legalized recreational marijuana sales. Colorado initially pushed the envelope, while other state legislatures heard the people’s voices, and followed the Rocky Mountain state’s weed lead.

Forget red and blue political state designations. Green is the new ticket, and its popularity is blazing across the country.

But is it a good idea? Researchers from the Frito-Lay Corporation say absolutely. A recently published 357-page blast from the company, hailed empirically proven health benefits associated with marijuana consumption. Coinciding with their research publication, Frito-Lay plans to introduce “extreme” snack bag sizing to the market.

On September 15, 2021, grocery and convenience stores in Denver will begin selling 50lb Cheetos bags. By month’s end, outlets in the Pacific Northwest will offer full-sized, fully stocked Doritos disposable duffel bags, complete with carrying straps, specifically designed for their nomadic, outdoor-enthused, indigenous population.

While still considered a beta test group, Frito-Lay firmly believes in their corporate marketing paradigm.

Vivek Sankaran, president of Frito-Lay, Inc., stated, “The people in these fine states have spoken while smokin’, and we feel an obligation to fall in line with the voice of the masses. It’s our duty as Americans and dietary professionals to provide a high standard.”

While Frito-Lay is a subsidiary of PepsiCo, it is uncertain if this will spill over into other facets of the multinational food and beverage corporation or if new competitors will crop up and follow suit.

“We’ll let the free market and healthy competition discern the strong and weed out the lesser products and companies,” Sankaran commented.

On the other side of the coin, nominated U.S. Drug Czar Rahul Gupta attacked the report, questioning its merit, credibility, and grammar.

“Seriously, did anybody actually review this?” Gupta asked. “It reads like a fifth grade social studies paper. Not to mention, there’s nothing after page 7! The last 350 pages is the same pie chart, repeated with different colors.”

When queried regarding the drug czar’s accusations, Sankaran responded, “Who doesn’t like pie?”

And that’s a solid argument. Even diabetics like pie, they just can’t eat it.

When asked about their position on “extreme” snack bagging, the Obesity Action Coalition, the American Obesity Association and Shape Up America! all initially declined to comment on the issue. However, in a brief, impromptu press release, all three organizations expressed support for personal freedom of choice and two of the organizations plan to actively petition the U.S. Congress to make September 15 a national holiday.

However, critics dispute Frito-Lay’s research objectivity, raising concerns over conflict of interest with the snack company and cannabis cultivators. Although piloted in only two states, most states have some form of legal cannabis sales through adult and medical use regulated programs. If “extreme” snack bagging ignites in Colorado and Washington, their plumes will surely envelope the rest of the country, if not Canada, too.

Speaking openly, an enthusiastic, Colorado medical marijuana prescriber, anonymously known as Dr. Mary Jane, hailed Frito-Lay as wellness and marketing pioneers.

“It’s absolutely genius.” Dr. M.J. exclaimed. “I just wish we had a little more lead time on this. 50lb Cheetos bags will take up a lot of space and I’ll definitely need more shelving at my clinic. Orange and green will now be synonymous with good health!”

Even conservatives noted for their stance against the legalization of marijuana softened their hardline drug rhetoric, noting Frito-Lay’s marketing acumen and opportunistic approach to an increasing societal acceptance of legalized cannabis.

“We’ll definitely take stock of the ongoing Frito-Lay situation, no pun intended,” quipped an anonymous Wall Street analyst. “I’ve always said go after the green. Who knew?”

Colorado knew.

The state posted $2.1 billion in total cannabis sales in 2020, and sat at the $962 million mark in 2021 by the end of May. And keep this in mind; the FDIC won’t touch these proceeds, so this remains a cash business without bank and credit card company involvement.

Does this mean businesses are not fully claiming their true income to avoid higher taxation? Despite the huge profits, are the states still missing out on a large portion of taxable revenue? Absolutely not, claims the National Restaurant Association (the other NRA).

“Waiters, waitresses, and bartenders have worked for decades in a business that can rely heavily on cash. These employees diligently maintain accurate tax records and claim all cash tips to the IRS and state officials. Under-reporting cash profits simply doesn’t happen, and I’m sure the marijuana industry is no different.”

Esther George, Kansas City Federal Reserve President, recently met with Colorado bankers to discuss issues revolving around banking service access for legalized “pot shops”. Although parties presented no resolution, many see this as the next step in bringing cannabis mainstream and legitimizing an industry previously associated with criminal elements.

And what do the man and woman on the street think?

“That’s obvious,” Sankaran says. “The votes were tallied, marijuana’s legal, and the snack’s are in route. Smoke up boys and girls, and let the chips fall where they may!”