Social Networkin'

The FooDaddy has officially joined the 21st century. He had to, you see, in order to spread his insidious propaganda more efficiently. World domination doesn't come easy these days. You need to know at least a few HTML tags, for one. Italics. Bold. Even such advanced ideas as bold italics.

Now that I'm done showing off my Internet prowess, lemme 'splain. I'm now featured on both MyFace and Spacebook. I can link to the MyFace profile (see how blue them last couple words is?) but the Spacebook one is a little more private. This allows your identity to be stolen only by those who know how to circumvent this privacy. Makes me feel better.

MyFace? Geez. I've never seen so many animated ads on one page before. There's enough of them to actually budge my laptop's processor out of its clocked-down state and run my batteries down faster.

I'm sure you're familiar with the "Poke the rabbits and get a free iPod" type ad. They're like crappy little games you can play if you're a loser! Yay! The ones that are new to me, outside of Hotmail that is, are the ones for the dating site "Trūe". There's a macron over the "u" for some reason, as if we needed help pronouncing it. If that were the case, then you're probably too stupid to be getting anywhere near the other sex for fear that you might reprodūce.

Then again, if you're stūpid enough, even that might be beyond yoū.

I don't know if the Trūe ads are gender-specific, because if they're not, they're aiming pūrely for the male/lesbian crowd. The frames are dominated by a quasi-hooker in a dress made out of the same fabric bike shorts are, but smaller. One of them is Flash animated, and rams her buttocks into the edge of her frame every time you caress her with your mouse pointer.

This is creepy.

So for months now, I've been railing against these social networking sites, ridiculing them for the shallow and ad-infested shadows of friendships that they are.

"Do you have a Spacebook profile?" a well-meaning friend would ask.

"No," I would say, and attempt a high-speed shuffle in another direction.

"You should get one!" they'd say.

"I don't have rabies either, but that's no reason to go sign up for it," I'd snort.

"On second thought, you might want to keep that attitude of yours quarantined," they'd say, tightening the straps on my straitjacket.

"I'm not crazy. It's the resta ya," I'd say. "Gimme a lollipop, and I'll lay still."

It went something like that, until I finally caved in and entered the future of networking kicking and screaming. I figure if I dilute it with enough sarcasm and goofy pictures, I'll be able to have it both ways: I can succumb to peer pressure and be aloof.

Yay internet!

My Wombat Adventure

I walked through the door and threw the wombat down on the counter. The sign above read “Wombats Is We.”

“You freaks sold me a defective wombat,” I said angrily, ill-advisedly using an adverb. “This piece of junk doesn’t even wom. And its batting average is pitiful.”

The disinterested female on the opposite side of the counter stared over my left shoulder, her obvious annoyance at my presence not nearly as maddening as the chomping sounds produced by her vigorous gum-chewing. Her bottle-blonde hair was pulled straight back and knotted at the back her head. So severe was the hair-do, it stretched her face, causing her eyes to bulge with a Lagoon Creature quality. She stamped out a spent Marlboro and lit another.

“So what?” she asked, her beady eyes staring at me through the haze of smoke around her head. “Who do I look like, Cesar Chavez?”

Because I didn’t wish to admit, even to myself, I didn’t understand the comparison, I chose instead to snarl and shove the furry creature nearer. “Listen,” I said. “I need to exchange this wombat for an operable model. My son’s birthday is tomorrow and he’s determined to have a wombat.”

“Kid’s spoiled,” the woman said. “Give ‘im a rake and let ‘im contribute to society.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I said. “Lancelot is very particular about his birthday gifts. Christmas doesn’t faze him, but his birthday present has to be right. And this year he wants—no, demands—a wombat.”

“Wombats scratch.”
“We’ll have it declawed. Assuming they have claws, of course.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then it doesn’t matter. Look, can’t you just exchange it?”
“Gotta receipt?”

I handed her the crumpled paper and she took it, sighing heavily as she opened and smoothed it on the counter.

“Looks like you got it on sale. Can’t give you the sale price, ‘cause it’s over. You’ll have to pay the difference.”

“Wait, that...”
“And you’ll have to buy another Wombat Welcome Packet.”
“But I still have the first one.”
“Tough beans.”

As eager as I was to be done with the entire process, I wasn’t about to let some blonde floozy trample my consumer rights. “I’d like to speak to a manager,” I said, as politely as I could manage.

“You’re doin’ just that,” she said.

“You’re the manager?”

“Kinda slow, ain’t you?” Taking a long drag on the cigarette, she gave a mighty cough and looked at me with what could possibly have been a look of pity. “We don’t take to your kind.”

“My…kind?”
“Morons, idiots, simpletons.”
“But…”
“Shut up.”

It was now obvious I was not going to get a wombat replacement by going through the accepted channels, so I vaulted the counter and stalked toward the back room. Blondie shrieked and started after me, her progress mercifully slowed by her high heels, which were approximately the height of the Washington Monument.

“You can’t go back there!” she screamed. “It’s my private domain!”

“Domain?” I burst through the swinging doors and found myself in a large, warehouse area. Metal shelves lined the walls and wire cages lined the shelves. Each cage contained a single wombat. “Look at this!” I said. “There must be thousands of wombats here! Why can’t you just exchange one?”

For once, Blondie was silent, so I marched over to one of the cages and withdrew a young, squirming wombat. Knowing the battle was lost, the manager watched me go as I exited purposefully through the swinging doors.

It wasn’t until I got the wombat home, placed it inside a mesh holding cage, tied a festive bow around the cage, and began singing “Happy Birthday,” that I realized I had no little boy. Feeling the effects of such an anticlimax, I sighed and peeked into the cage. The baby wombat was sitting in a corner. When he saw me, he smiled brightly and gave me a thumb up. At least…I think it was his thumb.

The Leaking Faucet Caper, Part I

The name’s Spud. Sam Spud. I’m a private eye. I was sittin’ in my shoe-horn office on a dreary Monday mornin’, when the phone by my desk did not ring. Rats. As if the word “rats” was a cue, the door slowly creaked open and a thin little guy slunk in, lookin’ for all the world like one o’ the little rodents.

“Senor Spud?”

“Yeah, rode,” I said. “Pull up a trap and sit down.”

“Ha, ha. You are funny now, amigo, but I have a banana in my pocket that will soon silence your joking.”

“Banana, eh? That’s a new one.”

“No, I’ve had it for a week now. It is all black and slimy. And please, do not joke. This is a serious matter.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is. I didn’t mean to doubt ya. Disgruntled, are we?”

“Si.”

“Why take it out on me?”

“I was working just outside the door of your office when my depression struck. You were convenient, senor.”

“Touchin’. That’s very touchin’. What do ya do for a livin’?”

“Fruit vendor, senor.”

“Hence the banana, I suppose.”

“Si. If you prefer I could substitute it for an apple or a plum.”

"No, a banana is fine. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. What nationality are ya, anyway? Mexican?”

“No, senor. Swiss. This way we don’t offend nobody.”

The little guy slithered outta the room and I peeled the banana...and he was right. I was no longer jokin’. It was as rotten as the exterior had suggested it would be. But it was lunch time and so, with an apology to my tape woim, I took a bite. Disgustin’. I took another and my teeth came down on somethin’ hard. I dug it out. It was small and shone dimly through the coatin’ o’ slimy banana.

“Hmmm,” I muttered. “A gold fillin’.”

Thinkin’ maybe the fruit vendor had somehow dropped his fillin’ into the soft banana and wantin’ no part of it in any case, I ran down the steps of my office. My instincts told me that somethin’ was wrong. I looked frantically around for the vendor. Then I spotted him. What I saw made my blood run cold. He was eatin’ some of his own fruit!

“Hey, you!”
“Si, senor?”
“Did ya drop a gold fillin’ into that banana ya gave me?”
The little rat chuckled evilly. “Si, senor.”

Back in my office I studied the situation. I was stuck. I needed the ace o’ spades, but it was up my sleeve and to get it out would be cheatin’. On the other hand, if I didn’t, I’d lose. That’s the bad thing about solitaire. Losin’ to yourself is demeanin’. It’s worse than bein’ beaten off the light by an old woman in a Lincoln Towncar with a manicured poodle on the dash. I thought back to the encounter with the fillin’. Was it really the vendor’s? Then it hit me. There was nobody else in the room. Nobody would know if I cheated. Ha, ha! Suddenly another thing hit me. The fillin’ couldn’t be the vendor’s. He had no teeth!

I was pleased. I had cracked the case. Not to mention my tooth. To ease the pain, I withdrew the ace of spades from my sleeve and placed it on the table. Then somethin’ hit me like a two-by-four. When I came too, I was lyin’ on my back on my office floor, starin’ up at two of the loveliest red eyes I have ever seen. From somewhere in the dark recesses of my office, someone began playin’ a mysterious melody on a saxophone.

“Hi,” she said, her voice low and husky.
“Hi, babe," I said. "Ya look lovely.”

And she did, too. She was dressed in a way that made me glad ta be a man. Wrapped around her was a skimpy, family-sized campin' tent, complete with barbecue grill. What made her even more attractive was the dandruff that drifted gently from her hair and landed silently on my office floor. I shuddered in ecstasy.

She looked at me in a sultry manner. “What are you looking at?”
“You, gorgeous. That dandruff is captivatin’.”
“Parmesan Cheese.”
"Oops.”
“It’s all the rage, now.”
Suddenly somethin’ hit me. “Somethin’ has suddenly hit me, sweetheart.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Why did ya hit me with that two by four?”
“You were going to cheat at cards.”
“Just rehearsin’, baby.”
“Oh.”
“Ya wanna banana?”
“No."
“Drink?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Beer.”
“What kind?”
“Root.”
“Comin’ right up, sweetheart.”
“I’m going to go change into something more…comfortable.”
“Don’t be too long, baby.”

While I waited, I busied myself doin’ odds and ends around the office. I had barely had enough time to scrub the floor, take my suits to the cleaners, pay the rent, put in a concrete driveway, take a nap, and pick up my suits before she walked back in.

She looked as lovely as ever. I tell ya, the sight o’ that head stickin’ furtively out of a suit o’ concrete and supportin’ steel girders gave me chills. I came to a sudden realization. I was in love with this girl. There would never be another one for me.

She came toward me, extendin’ one manicured hand. “Where’s the money you owe me?”

Suddenly, I knew. I hated this witch. Her and those stupid outfits were startin’ to bug me. “Good-bye, sweetheart,” I said. “And no rush on the retoin trip!” After she had walked out, I stared at the door. Then I knew. I was in love with this door. There would never be another one for me.

Infomercial

Host: Hello! I’m the FooDaddy. You might remember me from such posts as “Scruffy Love 4” and that one about instant messaging! I’m here to introduce a product I’m sure you’ll all want and need. Why don’t you tell us about it, Uncle Sticky?

Uncle Sticky strides purposefully onto the stage, past the host and the product display case, and right off the other side of the stage.

Host: Wait! Over here!

Uncle Sticky: (from off screen) What? Hey! Where’s my car?

Host: Ha ha! A brilliant inventor, a dedicated servant of science and society, and a comedian on top of it all! Let’s have a hand for Uncle Sticky!

Uncle Sticky wanders back onstage and shuffles up to the host.

Sticky: Hey. You’re that one feller. That guy that…wait. Why you gots all my patented Duck Wash on that shelfa yers?

Host: Ha ha!

Sticky: Seriously, son. That amounts t’burglary! I’ll have you—

Host: (cutting in) Why don’t you tell the home audience what your product can do? Uncle Sticky’s Ultra-Strength Duck Wash will have those mallards gleaming like a freshly waxed Mercedes Benz!

Sticky: That’s a load of sparrowfart! Ducks don’t gleam sir!

Host: Sparkle?

Sticky: More like it! Right then. How many times have you said to yourself, “I likes me ducks, but, blimey, they could be cleaner!”? Well, if you’re like me, it was about five to eight times a day. Then I says to m’self, I says: Uncle Sticky, you could change that! Then I sets out to make the best dang duck wash one could buy!

Host: And so you did! Let’s just take a look at Stage One here. Uncle Sticky? Why don’t you demonstrate for our audience?

Audience cheers

Sticky: Shut up, all of yer! This is a delicate process, it is! Ducks is sensitive creatures, and the last thing they need is a buncha yahoos hollerin’ and carrying on!

Audience quiets

Sticky: That’s better. Where’s me test duck?

Host: (pulling an excessively crud-covered duck from a wooden crate) Right here! This fellow is covered with dust, bits of corn and transmission fluid. Viewers, you might be saying to yourself “Why, FooDaddy! That duck’s shot! You’ll never get it back to its original shine and luster!” But you’re wrong!

Sticky: That’s because they’re a buncha thieving bums! (he shakes a couple of fists at the camera)

Host: Ha ha!

Sticky: Gimme that duck!

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: That’s enough outta you, Harold. You want your Twinkies or not?

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: ‘E’s a good test duck, FooDaddy, but y’gotta be firm with ‘em. A man can’t let the ducks tell ‘im what t’do, so ‘e can’t!

Host: Most definitely. Now, what you’re going to do now is begin the first stage of a three stage cleaning process. The first one simply removes the outer layer of grime in preparation for more in-depth cleansing.

Sticky: Right then. You take the big can with the number 1 on it, and you adds it to some warm water. Where’s me warm water?

An attractive woman lugs a washtub full of water onto the stage, smiles at the camera, and walks off again

Sticky: Whoa.

Host: (smugly) Yep.

Sticky: First, you use the included measuring scoop, and toss in some of this here Stage One whatever-it-is. (he does this) And then you slosh it about, like so. (he does this too) And when it’s good and mixy, you dunk your duck in! (he dunks the duck into the tub)

Duck: Wonk!

Host: Impressive.

Sticky: You see how the layer of cruddies just falls right off of him? Oh, yeah. It took me weeks to get this right. Lookit them suds! You don’t want to know how many ducks I went through before I got it.

Host: Probably not!

Audience laughs

Sticky: Shut up!

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: Now that the special abrasives and cleansing agents and other tomfoolery’s got him clean enough, you go to Stage Two!

Host: (lifts what appears to be a paint roller off the display shelf) This ingenious device is a combination applicator and grooming device. First you connect the bottle of Duck Polish here…

The attractive woman carries a bottle the size of a can of hairspray out onto the stage, smiles at the host, and sets it down in front of Uncle Sticky.

Sticky: Whoa.

Host: (smugly) Yep.

Sticky: Right then. As you were saying, you take this here rubber hose and connect the bottle of Duck Polish to the applicator. (he does this) The pump’s in the handle here, and only takes two D batteries.

Host: Included!

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: Then, what y’do is, you start the pump with this switch here. (he does this) Then, once it’s primed, you just roll across your duck, see, with the grain of ‘is feathers.

Uncle Sticky applies the paint roller to the duck, which immediately takes on a lustrous shine wherever the roller touches it.

Host: That’s amazing!

Audience applauds

Sticky: Quiet, all of yer!

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: See ‘ow he sparkles? I says to myself, I says, “Sticky, that there is a sparkleduck! Sparkleducks is purty, and they gains more market value cuzza they sparkleness! You, son, are a genius!”

Host: Very true.

Sticky: I’mma put this duck on the turntable here, so that this audience of yours can see 'is sparkletude.

Host: That’s a very good idea!

He steps in front of the display and points at the slowly revolving duck as the camera zooms in on its gleaming plumage.

Sticky: Get away from me duck!

Host: Ha ha!

Sticky: Once ‘es dried off, you’re ready for what I likes to call Stage Three.

Host: Because three comes after two!

Duck: Wonk!

Sticky: Tell that strumpet of yours to bring me Duck Sealant out here!

The attractive woman strides onstage and presents the host with an aerosol can with “Stage Three” printed on it, smiles at the camera, and sashays back off again.

Sticky: Whoa.

Host: (smugly) Yep.

Sticky: This here’s the final stage, so called on account of it’s being the last one.

Host: Genius!

Sticky: Now, you might be wondering about now that you’ve got your duck all sparkly-like, how’re you gonna make sure ‘e stays that way? Well, that’s where me patented Duck Sealant comes in! You just spray the blighter liberally with it, makin’ sure you don’t gets it in ‘is eyes, and before you can say “hey you kids! Get your grubby hands off me ducks!” yer finished!

Host: And this locks in the shine?

Sticky: Sparkle.

Host: Sparkle?

Sticky: Yep! C’mon, Harold. Let’s get outta here and get us some Twinkies!

Duck: Wonk!

Uncle Sticky shuffles offstage with the duck under his arm to raucous applause.

Host: You might expect to pay upwards of a hundred dollars for such a system!

Sticky: (from offscreen) Ha!

Host: But it’s yours for only three easy payments of $33! Call the number on your screen to order Uncle Sticky’s Ultra-Strength Duck Wash! Operators are standing by.

Television powers off.

Being Funny

Edit: A big thanks to Foo for the nifty little photo of the self-conscious wombat.

Through the years, I have somehow managed to obtain a reputation as being “funny” and “entertaining.” How this happened, I have no idea, except I have always been careful to surround myself with people who find wombat jokes hilarious. This type of material comprises most of my repertoire, such as:

“Hey, that guy cut me off! What a wombat!” or
“Don’t look now, sir, but you have a wombat in your pants,” or
“Did you see that woman’s hairdo? It looked like she was wearing a wombat on her head.”

So, you can see it is a big mystery how I managed to get this reputation in the first place, much less hold on to it for years, now. My reputation also precedes me, probably because it is embarrassed to be seen lingering near someone who considers wombats to be the stuff of fine humor. Regardless, those who have never met me have expectations, because their friends, who are friends of mine, have told them certain episodes about my lunacy.

While I somewhat enjoy this reputation, it does tend to apply a certain amount of pressure to my social life. As in: “Oh, no. I’m expected to be funny…and I don’t feel funny, at all!” Those who know me are able to look past these lapses of humor and remember the good times, but newcomers have no history to reference. They leave the gathering upset at not being amused and entertained by an endless supply of wombat jokes. It’s stressful!

And then, of course, I also have those times when I attempt a bit of dazzling humor, only to discover I am in the presence of people who seem have had their Humor Detectors replaced with StareAtHimBlankly Modules. These are people who just don’t get wombat jokes and don’t care, besides.

“Hey,” I will say, “this is a great cut of meat. Is it wombat?”

*crickets*

“Guess not,” I say, while slinking off into a corner to eat my serving of wombat in oblivion.

I think the worst times, though, are when I say something I intend to be funny, but it comes out completely wrong. We’ve all experienced that, I think. You realize immediately after saying it, or even as you’re saying it, that…you shouldn’t have. But by this time, it’s far too late and there’s nothing left to do, except mumble something about needing to get home to feed Willard the Wombat. You then sprint for your car, only to remember you hitched a ride with another guest who is having a really, really good time.

Ah…..well. Maybe I should just get a life. Wanna buy a wombat?