Humor Me: Avoiding Thanksgiving disaster

By MATT WIXON

If you get a special feeling in your gut this Thanksgiving, it might be the overwhelming joy you feel when sharing the holiday with relatives. Or, perhaps, the overwhelming joy you feel as those relatives share a cab back to the airport.

Either way is perfectly normal, especially if your grandfather likes to tell dirty jokes, your brother-in-law is a heavy drinker and your Great Aunt Hillie smells like she collided with an aisle at Bath and Body Works. But if that special feeling in your gut doesn’t go away when they do, our friends as the U.S. Department of Agriculture pass along this reminder:

Turkeys can be Party Central for Salmonella bacteria.

That’s according to the USDA’s poultry-preparation fact sheet, which has lots of useful tips for turkey, a widely domesticated bird that is often found in areas of North America, generally between two slices of bread. Thankfully, the fact sheet also points out how to avoid Salmonella enteritidis, Staphylococcus aureus and other bacterias that sound like members of the Lithuanian National Basketball Team.

The key is to cook your turkey thoroughly, which means following these instructions closely:

1. Poke the plastic-wrap covering with a fork
2. Heat on high for three minutes
3. Stir mashed potatoes
4. Enjoy!

Well, those were the instructions on the last turkey I cooked. Actually, those were the instructions on the only kind of turkey I’ve ever cooked, and with good reason. My limited cooking skills make those four steps above challenging enough -- including Step Four.

Of course, you probably want a “real” Thanksgiving turkey. The kind that has legs and thighs and breasts and once dreamed of starring in a Disney movie. You’ll need to cook that turkey for several hours, or several days, or maybe until you wake up at 4 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving screaming, “The sales have started! I need to get to Macy’s!”

For a more specific cooking time, let’s again turn to the USDA, creator of the famous food pyramid that guides the eating habits of nearly four Americans. According to the USDA, a turkey is safe to eat if its internal temperature is heated to a minimum of 165 degrees. That means you’ll need a meat thermometer, which can be easily found at a meat-thermometer store near you. It’s a little more difficult at other stores, but if you check near the one-quart electronic yogurt makers, you’ll probably find it.

And remember, Salmonella and other bacteria can ruin a Thanksgiving faster than your sister-in-law’s Avon presentation. So you’ll want to get a good thermometer. Or maybe two, because if you get behind on your Christmas shopping, a typical 4-year-old will believe that a flashy digital meat thermometer –- with a few Elmo stickers on it –- is the very rare Take My Temperature Elmo.

But Matt, I don’t have a meat thermometer, don’t have time to buy one, and in fact, I only exist to ask a question in this column. Is there another way to know when my turkey is fully cooked?

Yes, there is.

One way is to find cooking times on the Internet, based on the weight of your turkey. Other ways include cooking the turkey until your relatives are actually hungry enough to eat the dreaded candied yams, or until the turkey looks like it has an unlimited-use pass at Planet Tan. For reference, keep a photo of George Hamilton in your pocket.

If you do that, your turkey should be a success. And your Thanksgiving will be, too, if you remember these tips:

1. Nobody needs a reminder that they’ve already had two helpings of mashed potatoes.

2. In desperate situations, it’s OK to fake an illness and hide in the bathroom. Migraines are a good choice because they can be debilitating for hours and legitimately strike without warning, like right after your mother-in-law gives you parenting advice.

3. Time spent with relatives can be uncomfortable, but they love you, and deep down, you know you love them too – and that someday they may be your only match when you need a kidney.

4. Enjoy!

***
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Humor Me: Milk, fireworks and July Fourth

For years, we’ve heard the “Got Milk?” slogan. Either brilliantly or stupidly simple, it’s easy to remember. But now milk is taking it up a notch to show how it is so much more than just a healthy beverage.

This week I saw a commercial that said, “Across America, milk brings families together.”

So, so true. I think right now there is a mother calling her son, who lives a thousand miles away and is unsure whether he should come home for the Fourth of July.

Mom: Johnny, are you going to come home this weekend? Everyone’s going to be here … your brother, sister, even Uncle Louie if his parole officer will let him.

Son: I don’t know, Mom. I’ve got work I need to catch up on, one of the kids isn’t feeling too well, and …

Mom: Well, we’re going to have milk, you know.

Son: Milk? Really? You mean like the kind that I’ve seen in the refrigerator case at the grocery store three blocks from my house? Well, OK then!

The subtle sarcasm might hint at my skepticism of milk’s claim. More likely to bring a family together: a cooler filled with beer or an unlocked liquor cabinet. Especially if Uncle Louie can get some tips from Lindsay Lohan on how to unhinge an ankle monitor bracelet.

So what really brings people together on Independence Day?

Fireworks, of course.

Yes, it’s time for another Fourth of July. It’s the annual day when U.S. citizens head to parks, throw down blankets and celebrate things truly American such as freedom, determination and the right to pay four bucks for one of those glow-in-the-dark tube things that you can wear as a headband.

That’s part of what makes America great. And that’s why, before the fireworks begin, we will proudly stand up and sing patriotic songs such as “The Star-Spangled Banner” and “God Bless America.” And then by the second verse, we’ll not-so-proudly sit back down when we realize we’re more fluent in the Black Eyed Peas than in the Rev. Samuel F. Smith.

Wait a second. The Rev. Samuel F. Smith? Who is he?

Well, you must not have seen the Jeopardy! episode with the category “Patriotic Potpourri.” But take your best guess:

A. The Rev. Samuel F. Smith was the only clergyman to sign the Declaration of Independence and composed the song, “You’re a Grand Old Flag.”

B. The Rev. Samuel F. Smith, also known as the Minister of Rap, was an 18th-century hip-hop artist who rallied revolutionaries with his hit single, “Taxation Without Representation is Funkadentally Whack.”

C. The Rev. Samuel F. Smith wrote the words to “America,” perhaps the most patriotic song ever to include the commonly used phrase, “‘tis of thee.”

The answer, of course, is that Rev. Smith wrote the lyrics to “America.” I know this because, nearly 30 years ago, a teacher in elementary school taught me that lesson. And also because, nearly 30 years after I got nothing from that lesson because I was making paper footballs and drawing pictures on my desk, I looked it up on the Internet.

I also found the lyrics. Here’s the first verse, which most of us know:

My country, ‘tis of Thee,
Sweet Land of Liberty
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims’ pride,
From every mountainside
Let Freedom ring.

Now on to the second verse. Everybody sing!

My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,
Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills,
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.

OK, I heard a lot of humming out there. I guess that’s because most of us know a lot more about rock ‘n roll than “rocks and rills.” But let’s try another patriotic favorite, “America the Beautiful.” It starts with “O beautiful for spacious skies” and then ends with “from sea to shining sea!”

It ends there for most of us, anyway. But there is a second verse:

O beautiful for pilgrim feet,
Whose stern impassioned stress,
A thoroughfare of freedom beat,
Across the wilderness!

Well, at least I can say that I knew there was something about “pilgrim feet” in there. Maybe I remember that from the last Independence Day celebration, or perhaps I have at least one remnant memory from history class at Horizon Elementary School (home of the fightin’ Panthers and disappointing test scores).

But so what if you don’t know all the words to America’s patriotic anthems. And so what if you think that pieces of an animal are the “ramparts” we watched gallantly streaming in “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Memorization isn’t required for patriotism. And neither is an intricate knowledge of history, which is good because surveys show that many Americans don’t even know what country we were declaring our independence from back in 1776. But if you don’t know the exact date when George Washington crossed the Delaware to defeat the Nazis with a nuclear bomb, that doesn’t make you any less of an American.

All we need to know is that this is the greatest country in the world. And that we have unparalleled freedoms, incredible opportunities and the right to the credit we deserve — and in some cases, no payments until 2012.

So on this Independence Day, stand tall, Americans. Watch the fireworks, and if some patriotic crooning breaks out, proudly sing the words you know. After that, just kind of hum and move your lips like Justin “Screechy” Bieber or the late, great members of Milli Vanilli. You’ll still feel the togetherness.

And make sure that nobody drives home after having too much, uh, milk.

Humor Me: Soft-serve ice cream and Wal-Mart greeters

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written a humor column. A few months, actually, but you know how it goes. You get busy, you get tired, you get to thinking about everything that needs to be done … and then you get asked by a 2-year-old to play with the trains upstairs.

With three sons, I usually have a lot to write about and little time to write. I’m also committed to finishing a novel this year -- the working title is “Novel to be Rejected by Publishers” -- and I’m still doing promotions for The Great American Staycation, which came out last year. (I’ll be interviewed next week for Fox News’ Strategy Room show. I’ll be the guy wearing a blue shirt and sweating a lot.)

All the promotion is worth it, of course, because of the financial gusher that the book has provided. In fact, a month ago I pushed forward my retirement age from 65 to 64 years, 9 months. Unfortunately, my 7-year-old then told me he would like to attend a college where “it either snows or there is a beach,” which pretty much rules out in-state tuition. So I moved retirement back to age 67.

And now the stock market has become a “Biggest Loser” spinoff. If the swan dive continues, I expect to retire at age 80. I’ll be semi-retired, anyway, because I’ll need to supplement my income by working a couple days each week as a Wal-Mart greeter.

Anyway, let’s get to the main, or at least final, topic of this column:

How to save money this summer by finding free entertainment.

The economy is still reeling, so it’s a timely subject. And with some smart financial decisions now, you’ll reap the benefits later. Most importantly, you’ll be less likely to compete with me for a Wal-Mart greeter position in 2050.

(Don’t bother competing for that job, by the way, because I’ve got it down … “Hello” … “Thanks for shopping with us” ... “Does your little one want a sticker?” … “Firearms are in the back corner, near the liquor” … “Don’t worry about the inventory-control alarm, it always goes off. You paid for that, right?”)

OK, enough with all of that. Here’s the tip for some free fun:

Do-it-yourself ice cream.

I don’t mean for you to create ice cream at home. You’ll definitely want to avoid that. My parents used to make homemade ice cream with my brother, sister and I, and although I appreciate their effort to create a family-bonding moment, it was a gawd-awful mess. Or in my dad’s words, a g-damn mess, g-dammit. The ice cream wasn’t that great, either, and ice cream cones at the nearby Thrifty drug store were about 35 cents. Oh well.

The do-it-yourself ice cream I’m talking about is the free soft-serve dessert that some restaurants now offer. You can get yourself a little treat and then sit back and watch as people attempt to pile half a gallon of ice cream into a small cone or bowl.

It’s really a great show. People try to swirl the ice cream evenly so it can rise six inches above the cone, and when the ice cream starts falling on to their hands or the floor, they give this disgusted look like, “What is wrong with this thing?” And even after the ice cream load is centered, there is work to do. The ice-cream glutton must balance his tower of dessert as he navigates back to his seat. He'll need a steady hand and the burning concentration of a tight-rope walker to keep his ice cream off the floor.

Check it out sometime. You’ll see most people go easy on the ice cream, realizing that it’s intended to be a little topper on the meal, but eventually a person will try to max out. And maybe that person has the right idea. Yes, he will sacrifice his pride by standing at the soft-serve station filling a 20-ounce drink cup with ice cream, but ...

It could be best to seize the opportunity now. After all, who knows how long the ice cream will be available? Times are tough for restaurants, too. They could take the ice cream away at any moment or start charging for it. Forty years from now, we might be talking about how great it was when restaurants offered free ice cream.

Hey, do you remember the good old days? Restaurants gave away ice cream for free, gas was less than three dollars per gallon and kids still respected their elders!

What? You just need a cart? Oh, I’m sorry about going on like that. Thanks for shopping at Wal-Mart.

Humor Me: One light goes out, they all go out

By MATT WIXON

A couple of years ago, I watched Frisco resident Jeff Trykoski stretch Christmas lights across his lawn, drape them over trees, tack them around windows and arrange them in giant snowflakes on his roof. Fifty thousand lights in all, which led me to this thought:

"So, if one light goes out, do they all go out?"

I decided not to ask because Trykoski was working hard and probably not in a joking mood. Also, he was holding a staple gun.

But anyone who put up Christmas lights in the '70s or '80s remembers when lights strings were plagued by "one light goes out, they all go out."

I actually saw my dad yelling at strings of lights several times. Sometimes he combined that with shaking the lights violently, and I think he intimidated a few sets into working.

The world was simpler back then and so were Christmas displays. Today, inspired homeowners can turn dozens of extension cords and thousands of lights into a dazzling holiday moment that is forever burned into people's memories – and retinas.

"Some people think we're crazy," said Trykoski, whose lights are synchronized to music broadcast over a low-power FM transmitter. "We think it's worth the effort considering the people who've been coming by for years who we create memories for."

I certainly appreciate the effort behind the ambitious Christmas displays. Because by the time I've untangled a dozen or so lights sets each year, and attempted to keep my kids from stepping on them, I've pretty much had it.

A few strings on the bushes, a few wrapped around a tree trunk, and I'm done. If one light goes out, even if they all go out, I am done.

And then I'm ready to see the people who really know how to decorate. The people who buy Christmas lights in crates, lug extension cords around in wheelbarrows and begin decorating a few days after Halloween. The people who put a huge, inflatable snowman in the yard and flank it with eight glowing reindeer and a 6-foot plywood cowboy that says, "Merry Christmas, y'all!" The people who are willing to reach high on a wobbly ladder and walk on the roof, which is nearly as dangerous as prolonged exposure to Madonna's version of "Santa Baby."

The displays are awe-inspiring. But can they also obscure the true meaning of Christmas?

Some people would say so. And when a display is so crowded that Rudolph's red nose appears to light the way for the wise men to find the baby Jesus, who is in a stable that includes Kermit the Frog playing a guitar, they're probably right.

But Christmas lights are one of the great highlights of the holiday season. So, for those willing to make the effort to create elaborate displays, you have my admiration and appreciation.

You can also have the string of lights in my yard that just stopped working.

Who knows? Maybe it just needs one new bulb.

***
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Humor Me: 20-year high school reunion

By MATT WIXON

Last month was my high school reunion. My 20-year high school reunion. Yeah, that’s a little sobering.

It’s hard to believe that two decades have passed since I graduated from Apollo High School, home of the fightin’ Hawks, disappointing test scores and smoke-filled teachers’ lounge. I mean, wasn’t it just yesterday when I could walk through the parking lot and see the school motto of “Pride, Class, Dignity” while avoiding the sharp edges of broken beer bottles?

No, it wasn’t yesterday. You have three kids and like two hairs left on the top of your head.

Thanks for that slap in the face, wise inner voice. I wish you had been around in 1991, when I ate that macaroni and cheese that had been in the refrigerator for more than a week. The only time I felt sicker that year was after I spent six bucks to see Hudson Hawk.

So it’s been 20 years, but is that really a long time?

Oh yes. When I graduated in ’89, the Berlin Wall had not yet come down, Whitney Houston was both talented and coherent, and a first-class stamp was 25 cents. Even more stunning was that people were still sending letters to each other via the U.S. Disgruntled Postal Service. Because, like OMG, there was no e-mail then.

There were no text messages, either. Or emoticons. Or ways to send a Twitter tweet in the middle of a world history class in which a teacher who really didn’t want to be there -- Hi Mr. Grassi! -- put on a marathon of filmstrips to fill class time. To make things worse, the Extra-Strength Clearasil of 20 years ago really didn’t do much but dry out your face and leave the pimples to thrive. It was a dark time for teenagers.

Now move forward to 2009. Teenagers are pretty much the world’s rock stars, right? They’ve got everything going for them, and they’ve got the video, uploaded to YouTube or another video-sharing site, to prove it. As for the Great Satan of oily skin, Clearasil now has something called “Rapid Action Treatment Cream” that claims to visibly reduce pimple size in four hours. And man, life can’t get much better for the greasy-haired teenage boys of today. Gorgeous women find them so attractive that they lose their minds and jump on them right in the school hallway. At least I think so, because I saw it in a commercial for TAG body spray.

(Quick sidebar: The closest I ever got to such a seductive encounter was when I was riding my bike through the school parking lot and got hit by a car driven by an older girl, perhaps a senior. She got out of the car and asked if I was okay, but had I been wearing a potent body spray, who knows what could’ve happened. Wowee!)

Anyway, the point is that a lot can change in 20 years, and that’s why I wanted to go to last month’s reunion. I can only imagine the topics of conversation about Apollo High School, home of the fightin’ Hawks, spider-filled portable buildings and many, many dedicated teachers -- including one so dedicated that he married one of my classmates.

Seriously, it’s true! One of my teachers married one of my classmates shortly after we graduated. Pride, class, dignity ... occasional inappropriate relationship.

Despite all that, I did like high school. And had I still been living in Arizona, I probably would’ve attended the reunion. It would’ve been great to hear talk of the old days, including the awesome basketball team, the dreadful football team and the occasional unsubstantiated rumor that Skinheads were going to take over the campus. I heard that rumor several times, but our campus never did have Skinheads, just a lot of bald teachers.

I probably missed out on some great conversations, but flying from Texas to Phoenix was hard to fit into the schedule. And although I had some great friends back in high school, I can find those people with Facebook, swap stories through e-mail, that sort of thing. I’m also still working on obtaining washboard abs and millions of dollars, and pulling up in my 1999 Honda C-RV with the rockin’ AM/FM cassette player wouldn’t make a great impression.

So I skipped it. But after the reunion, one of my friends gave me a report.

“Mildly enjoyable,” he said. “I chatted briefly with several people, but it tended to be the same people with whom I interacted in high school. It was kinda funny how that works.”

That’s how it would’ve worked with me. Twenty years have passed, but I’m pretty much the same. I was shy in high school, and although a journalism career has forced me out of my shell, I’m still not an effective schmoozer. I’m not a social butterfly who, at least with people I don’t know well, can flit around the room and make conversation. That’s partly why I wasn’t Mr. Popularity at Apollo High School, home of the fightin’ Hawks, mandatory P.E. outfits that bordered on child abuse, and yes ...

Some of the best times of my life.

Some of the best times, that is. But most of the best times of my life have come since the day when I was a dorky 17-year-old walking across the stage to receive my high school diploma. I don’t remember much of that graduation ceremony, but I do remember this:

We once had a mandatory assembly that was supposed to inspire us all to “get high on life, not drugs” or something like that. I remember Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” played before and after some guest speaker told us “these are the greatest days of your life!”

Maybe at the time. But 20 years later, I hope that’s not true for most people. The high school years can be great, but what a bummer if your life peaks that soon. If high school is as good as it's going to get, then what do you have to look forward to?

Your first high school reunion, I guess.

***
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Humor Me: Neiman Marcus' Christmas Book

By MATT WIXON

The 2009 Neiman Marcus Christmas Book was unveiled a few days ago, and just in time. I mean, it's just three weeks until Halloween. And then we'll only have -- try not to panic -- less than two months to race from store to store, look for gifts and beg store owners to stop playing "Last Christmas" by Wham!

So what's in this year's book?

Well, keeping in mind the state of the economy, Neiman Marcus said it made an effort to offer more affordable options this year. That's why you'll find an electric motorcycle that goes 150 mph and costs $73,000.

I believe there's one out there with a little more power, but it would've been in the $90,000 to $100,000 range. That's just too pricey.

Anyway, the book is out there for you to check out. But I don't think most of the items compare to the 2007 book, which I "reviewed" for The Dallas Morning News. Here it is ...

OK everyone, let's get busy. We need to raise $1.59 million to fund one of Neiman's greatest offerings ever:

A private holiday concert by the world-famous Kirov Orchestra.

The concert features Regis Philbin as host, but more important, piano virtuoso Lola Astanova and maestro Valery Gergiew. I'm told they are incomparable and had nothing to do with "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

Yeah, $1.59 million is a little steep. But the concert is for 500 people, and if we divvy it up, that's only $3,180 per person. Pretty cheap when compared to some of the other gifts in the Christmas Book.

For example, you'll need $110,000 to have Brazilian artist Vik Muniz create a portrait of you and a friend in chocolate syrup. A lot more, I assume, if you decide it's clothing optional. You'll also need $75,000 for the cutting-edge robot and $73,000 for the mobile phone with 7.2 carats in diamonds.

Even the front-yard dragon topiary is ridiclously expensive. At least for a topiary. It's $35,000, and that doesn't include the legal fees you'll face when you receive this letter in the mail:

"The homeowners association has decided your 100-foot dragon with brown-glass eyes, custom-welded steel frame and gold-leafed horns doesn't abide by the neighborhood covenant."

I'm guessing the HOA also will have a problem if you store your $80,000 Papalotzin ultralight plane in your back yard. Maybe you could cover it with a pair of $9,500 Lippi Cat fur coats, but note that the coats might soon be recalled because they were manufactured in China.

So who buys these fantasy gifts?

Who knows, but the gifts are actually more practical than in the past. Back in 2003, the Christmas Book offered a $555,000 motorcycle so powerful that it was NEVER intended to be driven. Fantastic! I can save a few bucks by not buying a helmet.

In 2005, there was the $3.5 million skycar. Very cool, but there was a minor problem: the skycar was a prototype and had never completed an untethered flight.

Kind of a risky gift. And an inexcusable faux pas if that gift malfunctions while holding someone hundreds of feet in the air.

This year isn't as bad, although the $2 million rocket racing franchise, including a Mark-1 X-racer with 1,500 pounds of liquid oxygen thrust, is a little out there. So is the $1.4 million two-person submarine. But at least the submarine has leather seats, which is a nice upgrade from the cloth seats you find in most two-person subs.

The submarine also comes with a two-day training program, which I'm sure is more than enough time to learn how to operate it.

Hey, who wants to take the first deep dive with me? Don't worry, I'll bring the instructions!

I'll pass on that, but the private concert does sound great. I just need to round up 499 people who want to hear the Nutcracker Suite and the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto. Actually, 500 people, because I can't afford my share.

It's expensive, I know, but what an opportunity. The world-famous Kirov musicians will even allow us to select a third masterpiece for their performance.

That means, in one magical night, you can hear the Nutcracker Suite, the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto and "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas."

Truly incomparable.

***
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Videos: Ryan's birthday and Nathan on the go

Ryan's 7th birthday. Video quality is much better on the TV!



Nathan on the go

Humor Me: Warning, this is a commercial

By MATT WIXON

My favorite commercial right now starts with an old, beat-up truck pulling up to a drive-thru. The truck stops, and suddenly a large metal claw emerges, picks up the truck and appears to peel its trashed exterior to reveal a brand-new Toyota truck. The new truck is set on the ground as this appears on the bottom of the screen:

Warning: Do not attempt.

Silly warning, you’d say, but I just think it needs some clarification. If I am able to commandeer a giant wrecking claw from some junkyard, or perhaps find a Home Depot with a really big rental operation, does the warning refer to the dangers of using the claw in such a manner? Or does “do not attempt” refer to thoughts of invoking some kind of David Copperfield magic, or perhaps evil spirits, to turn my clunker into a sweet new ride?

Car ads are the greatest for nonsensical warnings. You’ll see cars doing slalom courses on snow-packed roads, performing 90-degree slide turns, skidding on all four wheels and racing across stretches of desert like they’re part of the Saudi Arabian paparazzi.

Then we’re warned that the driving is done by a professional driver on a closed course. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. It’s an excellent point, considering many amateur drivers on open courses have yet to master getting between the parking stripes at Kroger.

Of course, when I say it’s an excellent point, I mean it’s an excellent point for an exceptionally small part of the population. The part of the population that probably believes, after seeing a Hummer ad, that the world’s most mastodon-like vehicle can orbit Earth like a space shuttle.

We all know it can’t -- yet. But the Hummer would be a pretty cool-looking spaceship. I bet if NASA added a rugged-looking chrome grille and a little more militaristic styling to the space shuttles, more Americans would consider space travel. Especially if they could tow a bass boat.

Anyway, car commercials have silly warnings. But that’s not to say warnings and disclaimers don’t have a place in commercials. Here are a few possibilities:

Disneyland commercials
“Professional actors on closed course. That’s why it looks like there are only a few people here at The Happiest Place on Earth. Under normal conditions, we are also the Most Crowded Place on Earth, and you may experience extended waits for some of our more popular areas of the park, such as Adventureland, Tomorrowland and Bathroomland.”

Commercials with celebrity endorsement
“Paid spokesman. Celebrity might not even know what our product is, but give us a break. How many Domino’s Cheeseburger Pizzas do you think Donald Trump ate? How often did Fabio spray I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter on anything? How much of that anti-constipation yogurt does Jamie Lee Curtis really eat?"

Breath freshener/chewing gum commercials
“Small point: No breath freshener can make you blow cold air that can freeze a mirror or window pane. Larger point: Our breath freshener will not make potential sexual partners lust for you, nor can it cover up every personal flaw -- whether it be physical, intellectual or a garlic-based halitosis.”

Cruise-line commercials
“Professional actors on closed cruise ship. Feel free to try, but you will not, and frankly CANNOT, be as happy as these highly caffeinated actors. Also, actors in commercial were not infected with the Norwalk virus that plagued several ships in recent years and caused passengers to suffer gastrointestinal distress. Your distress may vary.”

Weight-loss commercials
“We always include ‘weight loss not typical’ in our commercials, but seriously, your weight loss may vary. Put it this way: About 10,000 people tried our weight-loss plan last year and we only needed one for our commercial. And that person didn’t eat for five days because she went on a cruise ship that had a Norwalk virus.”

Natural male enhancement commercials
"Professional actors on a closed course, trying really hard not to laugh. Also, please don’t ask us, ‘What is natural male enhancement?’ because we can’t describe it on television. The guy takes a pill and then he can throw a football through a tire ... you figure it out, OK? If you can't, you might want to ask a friend, and a few days later, find a new circle of friends.”

***
To be on the list that is sent out when a new column in posted, e-mail mattwixon@gmail.com.

Humor Me: Public speaking nightmares

By MATT WIXON

In a recent letter to the editor in The Dallas Morning News, a 14-year-old pointed out that his high school's requirement of one semester of speech should be eliminated.

"High school is supposed to help get you ready to go into college and the business world," he wrote. "If someone's career will involve speech, then he or she can take it."

The letter was well-written, especially for a 14-year-old. But I think the requirement of a speech class should remain, and here are two reasons why:

First, no matter what you do in life, the skill of public speaking is useful if not essential. If you can look someone in the eye and deliver your thoughts with confidence, or at least without throwing up, you'll have a key ingredient to success.

And second, and nearly as important, I want other people to go through what I had to go through in high school. That's right, leaders of tomorrow, it's your turn to feel the terror of public speaking today! But don't worry. Your high school speech experience will probably be like mine, and you'll quickly learn how to stand in front of a crowd and babble randomly and nervously while nearly tipping over the lecturn with trembles of panic.

My speech I most remember from high school was on eliminating nuclear weapons. It should be noted that I’ve never had a negative opinion of nukes, but after a teacher assigned me the speech, I did had a very negative opinion of him.

Don’t be nervous, Mr. Stewart told the class before our first speaking assignment. He then passed along the well-worn strategy of picturing audience members in their underwear. Apparently, this is a popular strategy for dealing with nervousness. It was even mentioned in an episode of "The Brady Bunch," the most influential show ever to have nine people living in a house with three bathrooms. (Or was it two? Did Alice the housekeeper have her own bathroom? Hmm ... perhaps it's the subject for a high school speech.)

But the thought of picturing people in their underwear doesn’t ease my nerves. I think it would just make me feel overdressed and consider hanging out with other people. So I skipped that strategy as I took on nuclear weapons.

“Since the United States first developed an atom bomb …”

I think that’s how the speech started, but I don’t really remember. I can’t remember how it ended, either. But I do remember that when my name was called to give the speech on nuclear weapons, a part of me hoped somebody would use one to destroy the school.

Pretty selfish, I know. So many innocent people would die. But at least my classmates would be spared from seeing me trembling behind a lecturn, sifting through sweat-smeared notecards and staring down at the floor as I talked about global disarmament.

Actually, there’s no way I used the phrase “global disarmament.” It might’ve been in the notes, but when lips are frozen in fear, any words over two syllables are a struggle. I probably said something like, “all countries should seek ‘golf ball dish ornament.’”

Fortunately, my classmates weren’t listening. This was guaranteed because it took a week to finish everyone’s speeches and we didn’t know when Mr. Stewart would call on us. So while I was mumbling about “new clear pro lifter raisins” — a.k.a. nuclear proliferation — the other students were doing one of two things:

Daydreaming in a euphoria that kicked in the moment they finished stumbling through a speech on capital punishment, abortion, gun control or another controversial topic.

Praying to the heavens that they would not be next, and because God might not intervene, following up the prayer with a telepathic message to the teacher that said, “please, please, PLEASE … anyone but me.”

It was horrible. But I did learn some things from speech class. Most notably that, when giving a speech, I had a nervous habit of scratching my eyebrow every few seconds. And that even “ultra dry” antiperspirants are no match for terror sweat.

I also learned a couple of other tips. The first one sounds strange, but it’s really true: you should exercise a few minutes before the speech.

Why?

Because exercise transforms nervous energy into enthusiasm. Those smooth operators at Toastmasters International even recommend it.

They don’t however, recommend it during the speech. But if you get nervous midway through, why not? Few things liven up a dull presentation like a well-executed back handspring. Just make sure you stick the landing.

I also remember that visualization of success is important. You should try it before your next speech. Moments before zero hour, picture yourself giving a clear, effective delivery and the audience rising to give you a standing ovation.

You can also plan to visualize the audience in their underwear if you want. But in that case, please don’t ask me to be in the audience.

***
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Humor Me: Sleeping on the job

By MATT WIXON

As your body calls out for its afternoon caffeine fix, the boss calls for a meeting. Moments later, you and your colleagues are in the conference room, daydreaming about 5 p.m. as the boss talks about the company’s new policy on Post-it notes.

Or maybe he’s talking about plans to stripe the parking lot with yellow paint instead of white. Or announcing that, after a six-month study, management has decided to change a comma to a semicolon in the company’s mission statement.

Whatever the topic, it’s one of those essential meetings. And that’s when it hits you. An elephant has landed on your eyelids and you are being pulled into the Darth Vader-like grip of sleep -– and perhaps unemployment, if the boss sees you.

You try to resist the dark side, staring hard at the boss and focusing on every word:

And furthermore, we feel we can improve our performance vector and overall synergy with the use of Helvetica 10-point bold in ALL office memos ...

You fight it, but it’s soooo difficult to keep your eyes open. You start to regret your decision to stay late at the karaoke bar to perfect the high notes on "Dream Weaver." But maybe this drowsiness isn’t your fault. Maybe it’s just the lulling hum of the fluorescent lights and the tick-tock lullaby from the clock above your head.

You open your eyes wide and blink hard. "This is ridiculous," you think to yourself. "I just need to keep my eyes open."

Sure, it sounds easy. But you’re in the gravitational pull of sweet sleep, the most powerful force in the world. That’s right: The most powerful force in the world.

Some people say it’s money that makes the world go around, and there certainly is truth to that. Lottos have a huge following, and studies have shown that the tilt of the Earth’s axis depends on the location of Donald Trump's ego.

Other people say sex is the world’s most powerful force, and yes, adult movies make a gazillion dollars a year. And of course there was Baywatch, the show lasted 12 years with about four recycled plots. Actually, Baywatch didn’t need storylines at all -- just a 60-minute loop of slow-motion beach running.

Very powerful. But the lure of the dark side, the force that can make a table in the conference room feel like a downy pillow, is much more powerful. The proof:

You’ve spent years putting in long hours to build your career. Going into work on weekends. Laughing at the boss’ bad jokes. Pretending you actually care about how he did on the back nine at his private golf club that defines you as “pond scum.”

It will all be for nothing if the boss sees your head flopping at the end of the table.

But the power of the dark side has taken over your brain. You think, maybe if I just close one eye, I’ll make it through this meeting. Maybe if I just turn my head a little toward the back wall, away from the boss, I could shut my eyes for a couple of seconds.

Just a couple of seconds, huh? Our brains are so naïve when sleep calls.

Suddenly, the boss’ voice fades into a drone mumbling that sounds like the teacher talking to Charlie Brown: “wha wha wha, bla bla, blabla.” Your head tilts downward, sucked into the vortex of dreamland. Then, just as your face is about to hit the table in front of you, your head jerks back up and you think, "What the heck just happened?"

What happened was a very close call. You’re terrified it will happen again, but you can’t stop it. Your head gets heavy, you start falling forward, and ...

OH SWEET MERCY, it sounds like the boss is finally wrapping things up.

So in conclusion, please remember to only use the yellow highlighters with internal memos and reserve the pink highlighters for highlighting faxes. We’ll discuss it more tomorrow, when we have a meeting to discuss future meetings. Thanks everyone.

You return to your cubicle, filled with relief. But you’re also shaken by the experience -- shaken by the thought that, had the meeting lasted a few more minutes, you would’ve been drooling on the conference table.

So you decide to show your dedication, at least for the last three hours of the day. You will be productive. You will do some good ol’ fashioned hard work.

Good for you. And good luck with that, because the Dark Side will never stop pulling you in. Except at about 2 a.m. tomorrow morning, when you're lying awake in bed telling yourself you need to get some sleep so you won't be a walking zombie the next day.

In that case, drink a little warm milk while reading a stack of office memos. That should knock you out.

***
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Humor Me: Vacationing with the kids

By MATT WIXON

The check-in line at Great Wolf Lodge in Grapevine has a sign that says, “Start your adventure here.”

What kind of adventure?

Well, about 50 feet from the sign are two animatronic trees that will be harmonizing with a pretend raccoon before the day is done. It’s that kind of adventure.

It’s kind of like being immersed in a Disney movie about kids taking over a hotel and building an enormous water park inside. Unlike a movie, however, Great Wolf Lodge offers the added bonus of a chance to spend $25 on a magi wand or $50 on a stuffed animal with your child’s wish sealed inside.

Bring the whole family and your credit cards. It’s that kind of adventure.

But wait … this is actually a positive review of Great Wolf. The biggest reason is that the water park, which is huge, great for all ages and kept at 84 degrees year-round, has pretty much ruined every other water park for me.

Great slides for kids and adults. Very short lines. No sweltering heat or need for me to slather SPF 150 sunblock on my pale skin. It’s so different from the experience at most water parks, where you bake in long lines while trying not to notice aging back tattoos.

(TATTOO SIDEBAR: Have you ever noticed that tattoos -- while they are pretty cool, edgy, sexy, all that on young skin – give off a very different vibe on older skin? It’s kind of like seeing a mom drive by in a minivan that’s blasting death metal. And an elderly person who is heavily tattooed? He or she looks like a dented UPS package that fell off the conveyor belt and got stamped dozens of times as it traveled the world.)

Anyway, the Great Wolf water park is definitely a winner. The staff is also pretty cheerful and helpful. Not so helpful during my visit were the elevators, which broke down in the morning as we were trying to get a stroller to our room on the fourth floor. Also not helpful was the person who swiped my wife’s sandals off the deck of the outdoor pool, leaving Janell with no shoes as we were leaving the resort.

Janell had to walk to the car in a pair of sandals normally worn by our 6-year-old son, Ryan. Janell was pretty ticked off as she walked to the car with her toes hanging out over the end of Nerf pool sandals, which looked ridiculous enough to become the next fashion trend. But upon further review, we decided that her sandals were probably picked up by mistake and not actually stolen. That could certainly happen in the rush to pack up a family’s pool paraphernalia. Also, although the economy has caused us all some pain, I find it unlikely that anyone would stoop so low as to swipe a pair of $8 Wal-Mart flip flops.

My wife did manage to avoid the greatest adventure of our trip to Great Wolf: staying overnight in the hotel with our two oldest sons. That was a very exciting part of the trip for Ryan and Cooper, and for me, uh … it was memorable. Here’s how it went:

After a long day of water-park fun, my wife drove home at about 8:30 p.m. with our 16-month-old son. We decided that getting Nathan to sleep in a hotel room was more adventure than we wanted. So Janell left, leaving the two double beds for Ryan (age 6), Cooper (age 4) and Dad (age well beyond that at which sleepovers are thrilling).

After a trip to the arcade and some of Cooper’s leftover birthday cake, it was time to go to sleep. Or at least it was time to discuss the sleeping situation.

First, Ryan showed me several options that would create lighting conditions like those at home. Ryan flicked lights on and off throughout the room and brought up other creative ideas. My favorite was his idea to leave the door open on the microwave because that was like having a night light in the room. We finally decided to leave the bathroom light on and crack the door.

After a bedtime story, Cooper and I climbed into one bed and Ryan got into the other. But then Ryan decided that he wanted to sleep in our bed, too, giving us three people in one double bed. Then Ryan changed his mind because it was too hot and went back to the other bed. Thank goodness.

He fell asleep pretty quickly. Cooper, on the other hand, decided that he needed to touch my arm every 30 seconds to make sure that I was still there. I’m not sure how long it took him to fall asleep, but it took me even longer. Part of the reason was a tremendously overstuffed pillow.

(PILLOW SIDEBAR: Do hotels generally use overstuffed pillows because they seem more fresh or upscale than an average pillow? I can understand that a flat, mushy pillow can seem like it’s worn out, but that’s the kind of pillow I prefer. The pillows at Great Wolf were like completed Jiffy Pop bags. They were so plump that my head felt like it was nearly at a 90-degree angle as I tried to fall asleep.)

The next morning, Ryan and Cooper both agreed that it was the best sleepover ever and that they slept really well. Apparently, they slept well despite waking up several times to go to the bathroom and get drinks of water. Each time, Ryan would tap me on the shoulder to let me know what was going on. Cooper also would tap me on the shoulder, but not to tell me he needed a drink or needed to go to the bathroom. Cooper just wanted to make sure that I hadn’t died or been replaced by a mannequin in the 10 minutes since he had last checked.

The most interesting part of the night was when I noticed Ryan sit up in the bed for a minute or so and “sleep sit.” At least that’s what I think he was doing. I said, “Ryan, are you OK?” and he just kept sitting there, looking straight ahead, his eyes opening and closing as he nodded off. He looked like my dad trying to fight off sleep in the middle of a church service or me battling the sleep monster in one of my political-science classes in college.

The day we returned from Great Wolf, I felt a lot like I did in those political science classes. I was tired, hungry and a little confused. How could the trip to Great Wolf be so much hassle – going anywhere with three kids always is -- and yet so much fun?

At this point in my life, I guess seeing my kids have fun trumps just about everything else. And I know I should enjoy any experience in which my kids still want to have fun with me because I know that won’t always be the case. The “parents are a total embarrassment” stage will be here before long.

That will be a very different kind of adventure.

***
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Wixon Boys Dance Party 2009

Not the best resolution with YouTube, but good enough to see the amazing dance moves of the Wixon boys. OK, maybe not amazing, but definitely interesting. The amazing part was that nobody was injured during the filming and nobody had to sit in our house's "timeout" spot.

My High School Yearbook Video

Twenty years ago, I graduated from high school in Glendale, Ariz. My school was Apollo, home of the mighty Hawks, the motto of "pride, class, dignity" and at least 100 cars with bumper stickers that had been altered from "IN-N-OUT BURGER" to "IN-N-OUT URGE." Apollo also featured some sweet fender benders during lunch break, when half the senior class would tear out of the parking lot hoping to make it to Burger King and back in 30 minutes.

I was thinking about this because I recently received my 20-year reunion invitation. It reminded me of the goofy video I did a couple of years ago to accompany one of my humor columns. It features some highlights from my high school yearbook that are probably similar to many yearbooks.

Here's the video, presented by the person voted "most likely to be forgotten or confused for some guy named Mike, Mark or Max." Oh yeah, and Class of '89 RULES!

Humor Me: Spelling out success

Iwrote this column a couple years ago, but since the National Spelling Bee is back on national TV this week, I decided to repost it:

Humor Me: Spelling out success

By MATT WIXON

Kids always get critized for not knowing much. And during this week of remembering our fallen soldiers, I bet someone asked, "How many American children can even locate Iraq on a map?"

Well, considering a recent survey showed that two-thirds of adults ages 18-24 couldn't find Iraq, I'm going to say not many. Unless an episode of "SpongeBob SquarePants" featured SpongeBob hanging out with Mr. Krabs on a sand dune near Baghdad.

But that's enough talk about the kids who can't find Iraq. Let's take a positive spin and talk about the kids who can spell Iraq — and nidifugous, obmutescence and docosahexaenoic acid.

Those kids take the stage this week at the Scripps National Spelling Bee, which for the first time will be broadcast live in prime time. PRIME TIME! That means kids who make it to the final rounds Thursday will have a national audience as they face spelling challenges such as "succedaneum," "hepatomegaly" and, because the competition is on ABC, "Eva Longoria."

How many people will actually tune in to see the riveting excitement of do-or-die spelling? Hmm ... that's a tough call. But I think the ratings could be as boffo as American Idol if the National Spelling Bee made a few subtle changes.

(The screen is now turning into wavy patterns as we enter fantasy mode)

Welcome to America's Spelling Idol! I'm Ryan Seacrest, America's No. 1 punchline. Now stepping to the microphone is our next contestant, who must spell this word:

"Argillaceous."

SPELLER: May I have the definition, please?

SIMON COWELL: (with totally affected English accent) My gaaaawd ... You're off to a dreadful start. Just begin.

SPELLER: A-R-G-I-L-L-A-C-O-U-S

SIMON COWELL: (throwing down a pencil and sighing) That ... was ... hideous. Positively aaaawful. Your ignorance of the letter "E" inflames the bile in my soul like every breath Paula takes.

PAULA ABDUL: (brushing back her hair to show a dazed look on her face): This might not have been your best performance, but you've got a great style, and I liked the way you started with the letter A. I vote "yes."

RANDY JACKSON: (leaning back in his chair) Uh, we're not voting on this show, Paula ... Oh dawg, this just wasn't your night. Come on, how could you misspell argillaceous? Don't you know that the Latin suffix "aceous" is often used in adjectives corresponding to classification names?

(We now return to reality)

As it is now, the spellers simply hear a little bell ding when they blow the spelling of a word never uttered outside a spelling bee. Then they walk off the stage, knowing that although they didn't win first place, they achieved something they can brag about while getting stuffed in a locker at school.

OK, I just reinforced a ridiculous stereotype. The truth is, not every elite speller is a total Poindexter who in 20 years will annually make more money than I will make in my lifetime. (I know this because I was a nerd in high school, and I don't make that much money now and I can't spell "succedaneum."

And the truth is, I will watch the National Spelling Bee. I like to see these sharp young minds get rewarded for their academic discipline. I like to see kids who can spell "sclerodermatous" despite growing up in a misspelled world of Froot Loops, Cheez Whiz and Beanee Weenees.

Another note on a misspelled world: Why would a manufacturer of EDUCATIONAL toys go by the name Playskool? That's like having a tutoring service called "One Plus One is Three."

It's also more reason to cheer these 275 elite spelling go-getters. So that's what I'm doing today, and that's what I'll do Thursday night. I've even decided who I'm rooting for:

The kids with an older sibling who has already competed in a National Spelling Bee.

Why?

Because it's got to be difficult to follow in the footsteps of a sibling who can call you an ignoramus and spell it correctly, too. I think the younger brothers and sisters deserve a chance for their own paradisiac moment.

With a win Thursday night, the jollification can begin.

***
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Humor Me: Signing day at Barnes & Noble

By MATT WIXON

So I was sitting there at the front of a Barnes & Noble, parked behind a table loaded up with my books. Lots of my books. More than I could ever imagine selling in one hour without appearing on Oprah or changing the title from The Great American Staycation to How to Achieve Financial Freedom and Have the Best Sex Ever.

(Although my book doesn’t directly address achieving financial freedom or having the best sex ever, those things could possibly be achieved by reading it. Reading the book might even help people solve their problem thighs. Please feel free to spread wild rumors about the book’s magical properties.)

Back to the signing day:

At Barnes & Noble, I was sitting directly in the line of sight of people walking into the store. That made sense, because it allowed everyone to see me, and when somebody was talking to me, it was great. But when I was finished talking with a potential staycationer, book-buyer, curious passerby or a lonely person looking for conversation, I was sitting at a table looking straight at the store’s entry.

When people walked in, I didn’t want to stare right into their eyes. If I was a customer, that would definitely scare me away. But I also didn’t want to be looking down, and thus appear to be disinterested, rude or a slightly overdressed member of the shoplifting-prevention team. I needed to give out a vibe somewhere between uncomfortably aloof and borderline stalker.

I’m not sure how successful I was at that, but at least I looked legit. Next to me was a sign with a picture of the book (good!), a picture of me (ugh) and an announcement that this was a Barnes & Noble “event.”

Hmm … I’m not sure I would’ve called it an “event.” Sounds a little grandiose. Sure, some people who had bought the book came out for the signing. And I met some other nice people who asked about the book and then bought it. But the book signing, the first of two this month, was kind of awkward.

Other authors had prepared me for that. If you’re not a well-known author, they said, expect some slow times. And don’t expect to sell a lot of books, either. People walking into a bookstore probably aren’t going to impulse buy a book they haven’t seen before. And how many people in this world want to start up a conversation with someone they don’t know?

The real value of a signing is that the “event” is promoted in a store for several weeks, which means potential buyers walk into the store seeing a display for your book. This is a good thing, of course, because there are currently 14 quadrillion books sitting on shelves, lost in the masses, gathering dust and getting overlooked for something like A Mother’s Gift, the novel written in 2001 by noted author Britney Spears and her mom.

Among the customer reviews for that book:

“A part of me has died after reading this book.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the best book. But I can only hope that my book will earn the sizzling sales of Spears’ novel, or perhaps sell as well as Terrell Owens’ Little T Learns to Share (surprisingly unavailable is "Little T Learns to Throw a Tantrum"). Spears and Owens would bring in some big crowds for a signing.

As I looked around me during a break in the storm of people trying to talk to me –- two at one time can count as a storm, right? -– I noticed some other books that would pack the house for a signing. Next to racks of magazines were books such as Tori Spelling’s Mommywood, James Patterson’s 8th Confession and another titled Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven. Yes, that title will sell. Maybe what I need is a title like that and one of those romance-novel covers featuring a slightly modernized Tarzan and Jane preparing to get it on.

I had lots of time to think about these things because I’m not a well-known author. But I did learn a few things from the book signing.

1. Patience pays off. After waiting through some slow times, I sold a few books when people approached me after I had found the comfy space between being uncomfortably aloof and a potential stalker.

2. When the sirens go off for a tornado warning in the area, the book signing is officially over. (I was packing up a few moments after the Cowboys’ practice facility was demolished by high winds).

3. There is a magazine called Glutes. Yes, seriously. I could see the current issue from where I was sitting, and the cover included a headline “Your Best Butt Ever!”

Coincidentally, that headline is also part of the title of my next book:

How to Get Your Best Butt Ever While Achieving Financial Freedom and Having the Best Sex Ever.

As seen on Oprah, I hope.

***
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